From today’s amazing Old Testament reading,
we might think our friend Isaiah got a little more clarity than he wanted. Imagine the hem of God’s robe filling this temple,
and giant flying cobras hovering in the rafters singing the Sanctus. We might well join Isaiah in saying, “Woe is
me!” (6:5) – or something more colorful. Certainly, we’d agree that “I am lost, for I am
a person of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips” (6:5). And we unclean people are supposed to drop
dead when we see God face to face. But still,
Isaiah says, “My eyes have seen the king, the Lord of Hosts!” (6:5).
Brittany, David, Ryan, and Ryan, I have no
doubt that’s happened for each of you, in God’s own unique ways. Maybe it was a knock-your-socks-off moment
like Isaiah had. Or maybe, as it was for
me, it was more a progressive, persistent knock on the door, a divine dripping
of the faucet you can’t ignore. But they
all count. Regardless of how it
happened, it happened to you. Somehow,
the sovereign of the universe looked you in the eye and in the heart and said, “Whom
shall I send, and who will go for us?” And
you had the fierce fearlessness to say, “Here am I. Send me.” (Isaiah 6:8)
Remember that. Always remember that. Whatever is your story of crazy risk-taking, your
moment of stretching out over your spiritual skis; whatever gave you the
temerity to think you’re good enough to take on God’s mission – remember it,
because it’s true. Bind it on your forehead,
and write it on your heart, because the fierce fearlessness of your trust in
God is precisely what will empower you for your divine mission. And because it’s God’s mission, and not yours,
you will not fail.
And … that truth doesn’t mean you’ll fully
understand your mission or how to accomplish it. We are most assuredly sent by God, so by
definition we’re apostles, missionaries deployed as our Lord directs. And yet, look back at that story of Isaiah’s
call. The reading conveniently ends on
an inspiring note – “Here am I; send me!” But if you keep reading, God’s call immediately
gets very messy. God tells Isaiah, “Go,
and say to this people, ‘Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but
do not understand.’ Make the mind of
this people dull,” God says, “and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that
they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and
comprehend with their minds, and turn and be healed.” (Isaiah 6:9-10) Wait – what? As God’s spokesperson, Isaiah’s first
assignment is to make the mind of the people dull so they won’t understand. OK, well, then I guess the preacher’s bar for
success is set pretty low, right? – just keep ’em confused. Now there’s an assignment I can
succeed at. Seriously, though – what kind
of inaugural prophetic call is this?
Well, in Isaiah’s case, his call is to set
the stage for God’s judgment of the people of Judah. God knows they aren’t going to follow the lead
of the people of Nineveh, who heard Jonah’s whiny call and responded with full
and faithful hearts anyway. Instead, God
sees a tough trajectory for Judah, that things aren’t going to end well, regardless
of the quality of the prophet’s work.
But here’s the thing: Isaiah doesn’t
know that. How must he feel, his first assignment
from the Lord of Hosts being to go out there and fail to turn people’s hearts?
The bigger story isn’t clear to him yet
because he’s just begun exploring this call of his. He has years, and several national political crises,
awaiting him along his journey as God’s spokesperson. And to start off, he’s being sent to people
who don’t want to hear about radical allegiance to God’s sovereignty; ministry “success”
isn’t even on the table. Rather than
being sent to succeed, Isaiah’s being sent to learn, to be a pilgrim every bit as
much as a preacher. Hmmmm.
Also in the category of dubious ordination
readings is our selection from the Psalms, at least the first few verses. In the New International Study Bible, Psalm
43 is identified as a “prayer to God in time of trouble,” so maybe the compilers
of the ordination rite were a bit more self-aware than we might have guessed. Of course, the verses on which the four of you
will hang your birettas are verses 3 and 4, the prayer asking God to “send out your
light and your truth, that they may lead me, and bring me to your holy hill and
to your dwelling; that I may go to the altar of God, to the God of my joy and gladness…”
(43:3-4 BCP).
Yeah, that’s pretty great. But think about why the psalmist is
offering this prayer. It’s because the
writer has looked around and seen “an ungodly people,” the “deceitful and the
wicked” (43:1 BCP). This is a plea for God’s
help – for light and truth and direction to cast out darkness and deceit and
confusion. And we’re hearing it at an
ordination because the motto of the priesthood is not, “Let the good times roll.”
Plenty often, you’ll wonder instead, “Why
are you so full of heaviness, O my soul? And why are you so disquieted within me?”
(43:5 BCP).
Well, when those stops come along your
journey, remember the psalm’s next line: “Put your trust in God” (43:6 BCP), even
when your rector or your vestry or your own heart heavily oppresses you. Because that will happen, and not just when
you’re newly ordained. God is sending you
on this lifetime journey, whose stops are not scripted, in order to help you
remember, “Oh, yeah. That’s right. First, always – trust.” Because if your trust is well-placed, the
journey’s end is guaranteed, regardless of the “deceitful and the wicked” who assail
you along the way (43:1 BCP).
So, as if that weren’t enough realism and
irony on this high and holy morning, we come next to the first letter of Peter.
There, the presbyters of the Church –
the folks we now call priests – are being called to oversee the people in their
charge “not under compulsion but willingly, as God would have you do it,” by
being “examples to the flock” (5:2-3). The
writer is dead-on here: As you offer yourself
in one act of “send me” after another, the folks you serve will respond in
kind.
But, as we’ve seen before, the omitted
verses following today’s gentle reading underscore what you’re truly up
against. They call you to “discipline yourselves
[and] keep alert,” because “like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls
around, looking for someone to devour. Resist
him,” the writer says, “steadfast in your faith.” (5:8-9) Yes, you are called to be a shepherd, but that’s
not someone who sits on a rock playing a Pan flute in the sunshine. It’s someone who stands between the sheep and
the lions. And the only defense you can
rely on is trusting that your own Good Shepherd is standing right beside you.
Which brings us to the Gospel reading, about
Jesus as the Good Shepherd. Talk about a
tough act for a new priest to follow. The poor model of sheep-tending here is
the “hired hand” (John 10:12) – the one who’s supposed to be looking out
for the sheep but really is looking out for Number 1. He skedaddles when the wolves circle, leaving the
sheep to be poached and scattered.
For a long time now, this image has struck
close to home for me. Some of you know
this, but for my first call after seminary, Bishop Howe sent me to be vicar of Church
of the Good Shepherd in Springfield. If you
visit its address on Primrose Street in south Springfield now, across from
Kickapoo High School, you’ll find a sea of condos for seniors. But before that, there was a metal building
with a steeple set on top of it and a playground that several of us built with
our own hands. And more than that, there
were 50 or 60 faithful souls who wanted a shepherd like the good one, like
Jesus.
I was sent to that congregation with a
mission either to grow it or to close it, and we had three years of decreasing diocesan
funding to work with. Long story short,
we didn’t grow enough to support my salary. And I felt like the hired hand, who skedaddled
north to the big city while the church closed, its members scattered to other congregations.
Was it failure? Or was it what needed to happen? That’s a good conversation for a beer, later,
but I can tell you this much: It was an
opportunity for all of us to grow deeper in trusting God. In the end, all the congregation’s leaders and
most of the members thought closing it was the right thing to do, and we joyfully
celebrated the Sunday of the Resurrection as our last service together. They found their ways to other churches, and I
found the remarkable truth that “failing” in your first gig can be a deeply holy
thing – and that Jesus will be there to walk with you to your next stop.
Brittany, David, Ryan, and Ryan: You don’t need to stand yet, but just listen. As you begin this high and holy calling of
priestly ministry, ordained to follow in the missional footsteps of the
apostles themselves, know that you will always be disciples, too – pilgrims led
to meet our Lord in ways you might expect and ways you’d never choose. That both/and of being apostle and
disciple, missionary and pilgrim, it can drive you crazy sometimes. “I know you’re sending me, Lord – so, how
about shining some light on the path?” Well,
here’s the dirty little secret our discernment processes don’t always share: When you say, “Here am I; send me,” you’re committing
to a life of saying it over and over again. It’s actually, “Here am I; keep sending
me” – but into what, you won’t exactly know.
So that’s why you have to see yourselves not just as apostles but as disciples, not just as missionaries but as pilgrims. Because when the call isn’t as clear as you’d like, when the niggling questions keep you up at night, you’ll need to remember that Jesus is always there, walking right alongside you. Our hope is not in finding the best assignment, as good as your assignments will be. Our hope is in remembering what the writer and preacher John Bunyan taught us centuries ago, after spending 12 years locked in an Anglican jail. So, as you’re able, please stand with our ordinands. Please turn to page 9 in the service booklet, and sing the fierce fearlessness that equips us pilgrims for the journey of a lifetime.
Who would true valor see,
let them come hither.
They here will constant be,
come wind, come weather.
There’s no discouragement
shall make them once relent
their first avowed intent
to be a pilgrim.
Whoso beset them ’round
with dismal stories
do but themselves confound;
God’s strength the more is.
No lion can them fright;
they’ll with a giant fight.
But they will have the right
to be a pilgrim.
Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
can daunt their spirit;
they know they at the end
shall life inherit.
Then, fancies fly away;
they’ll fear not what folks
say;
they’ll labor night and day
to be a pilgrim.
