Easter 4

April 13, 2008

Year A - RCL

The Rev'd Lloyd Prator

New York City

Today's gospel contains two images from John's gospel, Jesus as the Good Shepherd—in which Jesus identifies himself as the one who cares for the sheep, and in the second image, Jesus as the Door. In that Image, Jesus seems to say that he is the door to the sheepfold, where the sheep are kept.

That's a little odd, isn't it? He is the door? How can that be? In order to understand that, you need to know a little more about ovine management in first century Palestine, a subject that may not be at the front of your mind. The sheepfold was a pen with low walls, perhaps just high enough to keep the sheep in and to keep out wolves, which might have a taste for lamb chops. There was an opening in the wall through which the sheep passed to go in and out, but the opening had no door. So, at night, the shepherd would sleep with his own body across the door to the sheepfold. In this way, his body protected the sheep.

So, maybe you see the point: Like the good shepherd who protected the sheep with his body, Jesus gave up his life to protect his sheep, his own people.

The value Jesus holds up for us today is costly caring. And, in fact the idea of costly caring runs through all the readings. In the first reading, we read about the formation of early religious communities, in which people shared all their possessions. In the reading from First Peter, the writer describes Jesus as the one whose suffering heals us.

Peter was probably writing his letter as a part of baptismal instruction. He was not preparing people to be bishops, priests or deacons; he was preparing people to be part of the body of Christ the church. The ministry of costly caring belongs to all Christian people, to all the baptized.

So, when it gets right down to it, today's readings are about the vocation which we all have to be good shepherds, to be like the one who puts his body down across the door of the sheepfold.

So, how does one become a shepherd? Let me tell you two stories, one a happy one, one not so happy.

I once served a parish where there were a few shuts-ins, the congregation was mostly younger people, so there weren't many, but there was this one lady who could only get out to church very occasionally. Every time I would go so see this lady to bring her Holy Communion, I would find an interesting thing. Tucked into the frame on the mirror on her dressing table, there would be palm fronds left over from Palm Sunday, on her bedside table, there would be copies of service leaflets from the Sunday liturgy, and by the telephone, there was a well-worn copy of the parish directory, all marked up with her notes.

But something was not quite right. On the way back to my car (this was California, so we drove everywhere…) I thought about what I had seen. It dawned on me. How could she have palm branches when she had not been to Palm Sunday in years? What I had seen on her desk was last Sundays leaflet, and she had not been able to come to Church for months.

I sat there for a moment in the car and suddenly realized what I had seen. I had seen the trail left by a string of good shepherds. There were a handful of ladies in that parish who came to see her almost every week. Those who did not come called. In response to their baptism, these people tended to her needs, cared about her, kept her in contact with the parish, and were, in summary, good shepherds to her.

The next story is an unhappy one. One year, we engaged in a self-study project about how newcomers were incorporated into the parish. Part of the study involved members of the class interviewing various members of the parish about how they came to be there, why they stayed, or in some cases, whey they had left. That last part, talking to those who had left, was the hardest part, as you might imagine.

In each case, the interviewer was to ask the departing parishioner if anyone noticed she had left, if anyone called her to see what was wrong, and if the person felt she was missed. In about 80% of the cases, the answer to all the questions was “no.” No one called, she did not think her departure was noticed and did not feel that anyone cared.

Then we got a real shock. The clergy sat down and looked at the list of the departed folks and made a discovery. In each case, a member of the clergy had called on that person. But that didn't seem to matter much. What people seemed to want was caring from the body of the faithful, from the community. And in that case, the parish learned that it had some areas where work was needed to improve their community life.

So what might we conclude? First, we can do marvelous things when we do simple things. Simple things like calling one another, asking about those we haven't seen, assuring them of our prayers, and doing little symbolic things like delivering a service leaflet. Second, we can do even better things when we pay attention to the door. When we pay attention to who has not walked through it for a while.

The crying need of this city—and I think every city—is a need for community, for a group of people who care, who are bound to one another in love, and who put that love into concrete, incarnate action. When we pay attention to those things we are really raising up the body of Christ, and that's not a bad thing to think about and read about and hear about in this Eastertide.