Shepherds Terrible and Good

Sermon for July 21, 2024
Jeremiah 23:1-6; Psalm 23; Mark 6:30-34,53-56; Ephesians 2:11-22

Hearing the Old Testament reading, the Psalm, and the Gospel this morning, you may have noticed a theme – the idea of God caring for us the way a shepherd cares for the sheep.  That notion of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is kind of a stock image for us.  If you picture Jesus in your mind, there’s a good chance you’ll see him with a little lamb on his shoulders, having searched out the lost one and brought it back to join the other 99.  It’s warm and fuzzy and comforting … and it’s true.  Jesus does exactly that, going out to find us when we’ve wandered away, sure we can stand up to the wolves and the bears on our own. 

But that image of Jesus as a shepherd would have meant more for the people of biblical times than it probably does for us.  That’s because the Hebrew scriptures – including Jeremiah this morning – had a lot to say about shepherds, both good and bad.  A “good shepherd” was a metaphor for the very best leader you could imagine – a king who ruled as God’s representative on earth, the viceroy of the heavenly King.  In ancient Israel, the king wasn’t just the next in line in a royal family.  When he was crowned – and it was definitely a “he” then – when he was crowned, the new ruler was understood to be adopted as a son of God, a deputy of the heavenly king (see Psalm 2:7).  So, it wasn’t just political power but God’s own authority the king was wielding.

Of course, if that’s true, you also hold the king to God’s standard of faithfulness.  Beyond simply ruling, the king was responsible for leading the people along Yahweh’s path, keeping them from straying into the worship of other gods.  The king was responsible for the just treatment of those who were poor and alone.  So, a king who loved God and loved his people enough to offer divine servant leadership – that king was a good shepherd.

Unfortunately, over their history, the people of Israel didn’t get many good shepherds.  King David was the best, the gold standard … even with the adultery and the murder.  King Solomon was pretty good … other than the slavery and the thousand wives and concubines.  And, for the most part, it went downhill from there, until finally God’s people were conquered and taken into exile, Scripture says, because of the faithlessness of their kings. 

And the trend kept going downhill, even after the people returned from exile, even up to Jesus’ time.  Remember last week’s Gospel reading, about King Herod and his execution of God’s prophet, John the Baptist.  Herod, who was Jewish, liked to listen to John preach, but he wasn’t interested in the kingdom John was proclaiming.  Herod’s interest was in himself, his status and power as the Roman emperor’s lackey in Galilee.  So, because John was criticizing Herod, Herod had John killed just to keep from looking weak.  Herod is the prototype of the terrible shepherd because, for him, power is all about … him.

So, onto the scene comes Jesus, the Good Shepherd.  He’s the fulfillment of the kind of leader Jeremiah was talking about, one who will bring about justice and righteousness – but not in the role of a secular ruler.  Instead, he’s bringing God’s kingdom into being on earth.

And in today’s reading, he does that first by offering his disciples something they really needed – some time off.  By this point in the story, Jesus has cast out demons, and healed people, and taught in village after village, and stilled the storm, and raised the dead.  And the disciples have gotten into the act, too, going out themselves to cast out demons, and heal people, and call them to turn their lives in a new direction.  Now they’ve all come back together, and Jesus tells them it’s time to get away “to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while” (Mark 6:31).

By the way, that “deserted place” is the same Greek word as “wilderness” – the place where Jesus stands up to Satan at the start of his ministry and the place where Jesus goes off by himself to pray.  We probably don’t associate a desert wilderness with rest, but Jesus does.  It’s a place to reset, to face down whatever tempts you, to remember who you are … and to connect with your true ruler.

But instead of a retreat, what awaits the Good Shepherd are … more sheep.  He and the disciples come to the shore and find another huge crowd waiting for them.  And Jesus has “compassion for them,” the story says, “because they were like sheep without a shepherd” (6:34).  Now, his spiritual director would have told him to set better boundaries, and turn off his phone, and take his day off.  But instead, Jesus chooses to teach the lost sheep about God’s kingdom and to feed them all from five loaves and two fish (part of the story that today’s reading cuts out, oddly enough).  Then, Jesus and his friends cross the lake to another village … where the same thing happens:  The crowd again presses in; and the true king comes through, healing everyone with broken bodies or broken lives.  It’s royal shepherding like no one had ever seen before.

OK.  It's tempting to think, “Well, that was a long time ago.  And, by the way, the Good Shepherd got himself killed for all his trouble.”  What are we supposed to do with this contrast model of power and authority 2,000 years later?

Well, sometimes verb tense matters.  Go back to the familiar words of our psalm this morning about the ideal shepherd, the Lord God.  Psalm 23 is deeply comforting; I mean, there’s a reason it’s read so often at funerals.  And I think part of the reason it’s so comforting is that the God it describes is so personal and so present.  This is no historical reflection; this is a prayer for whatever is challenging you right now, this morning, because Psalm 23 reminds us that God’s always got your back.  “The Lord is my shepherd,” the psalm says.  “He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters.”  “He revives my soul and guides me along right pathways.”  In the worst that life dishes out, “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me … and my cup is running over.” (23:1-5 BCP)  The psalm wraps up looking to the future in hope, certain that God’s “goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life” (23:6).  In fact, in the Hebrew, it’s more like God’s goodness and mercy will pursue me and chase me down.  This God goes after us, protects us, restores us, leads us into right relationship, provides for us, and dwells with us – all present tense. 

That’s pretty good news – that the Good Shepherd cares enough for you – specifically you – to provide what you need, and come after you when you’re lost, and bring you home. 

But the good news doesn’t stop on the personal level.  As we look around at our world today, I think we see a lot more of Herod in the headlines than we do Jesus.  The terrible shepherds tend to get the press in our political culture.  But that doesn’t mean the Good Shepherd has abdicated the throne.  The deep mystery of our time, of any time really, is this: that, despite everything we bemoan about the world around us, despite feeling like we’re out in the desert wilderness on our own, Jesus the Good Shepherd is still there.  The cosmic CEO is still in charge, still guiding all creation toward the goal of God’s reign and rule that casts out the brokenness in which we dwell.  Down the road, the faith of the Church tells us, Jesus the king will return in glory, remaking earth back into the oneness it shared with heaven “in the beginning” (Genesis 1:1).  As far as I’m concerned:  Bring it on, Lord.  How about this afternoon?  We’ll have BLTs to celebrate.  But even if the kingdom doesn’t come in all its fullness this afternoon, Christ is still at work, ruling both in heaven and through the body he inhabits now on earth in this in-between time – the Body of Christ right here, right now.  That’s us.  We disciples are Christ’s body now.  And we must choose to act that way.

We get a glimpse of that in the letter to the Ephesians this morning.  Part of Jesus’ project in this in-between time is bringing us together, across the worldly differences that divide us, uniting us as we follow the shepherd who brings all good to life.  Those who’ve been “aliens” and “strangers … have been brought near” by Jesus’ work to reconcile us with God and each other (2:12).  “For he is our peace,” Paul writes; “in his flesh, he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us” (2:14). 

The work’s already been done – on the cross and at the empty tomb.  From there, the risen Christ sent the Holy Spirit to empower us to live as his broken body made whole.  And our Good Shepherd keeps chasing us down even now to walk alongside us, protect us, provide for us, restore us, and lead us into right relationship. 

What we have to do is follow.  What does that look like?  It means doing what you can to heal the breach.  Given the chance to tear down, build up.  Given the chance to dismiss, respect.  Given the chance to advance your own interest, serve someone else.  And insist that the people who represent you in our common life do the same.  For, despite all the pretenders to the throne, there is only one truly Good Shepherd, and his way of Love is the only path that leads to life.

Temper Your Temptations, and Vote for a Better Country

Sermon for Independence Day, transferred
July 7, 2024
Deuteronomy 10:17-21; Hebrews 11:8-16; Matthew 5:43-48

As we celebrate our nation this morning and seek God’s blessings upon it, I’d like to tour a few documents I see as fundamental to our identity.  Now, on Independence Day weekend, you might imagine all these would be documents from American history, and two of them are.  But, you know, as followers of Jesus Christ, we hold sort of a dual citizenship, pledging our allegiance to both a temporal and a spiritual country.  So, I would argue we understand who we are through both civil and sacred sources.

First off, this weekend, we have to look to the Declaration of Independence.  I wonder how many of us have read it – or at least have read it since high-school civics class.  I think we remember the declaration more for what it symbolizes than for what it says, but it’s worth remembering the argument that Thomas Jefferson (with his bevy of editors) makes there.  Jefferson says human beings – at least in the inadequate scope he ascribed to humanity – human beings have been divinely created and thus are equal.  And because of that, they have rights to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that take precedence over the power of any human ruler.  Then, after articulating his principles, Jefferson outlines an indictment against King George III.  He begins by stating the charge:  “The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States.”  After listing the king’s offenses, Jefferson concludes:  “A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.”¹  Jefferson’s foundational document is a call for us to cast off autocracy, to temper the temptation to power by working for the common good of people made by God to dwell in equality and freedom.

From Jefferson, my patriot heart next goes to Abraham Lincoln.  To me, his most penetrating document is not his most famous.  As much as I love the poetry and power of the Gettysburg Address, it’s Lincoln’s Second Inaugural that lays out our accountability for our nation.  Like the Biblical prophets he emulates, Lincoln both takes his nation to task and calls it to a holier future. 

Looking back on the four bloodiest years in our history, Lincoln seeks to answer the question haunting the Republic and every soul who’d lost a husband or a son.  It’s the same question that haunts us in every tragedy: Why?  Why has God allowed such horror?  Lincoln the prophet sets the responsibility with the nation’s original sin.  Bear with me for an extended excerpt:  

If we shall suppose that American Slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South, this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a Living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope – fervently do we pray – that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bond-man’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said “the judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether.”² 

Then, having indicted the nation for the evil of slavery, Lincoln the prophet calls us to a righteous new birth that yet can spring from the ashes of God’s judgment:  

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan – to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.² 

Remember, this speech came just weeks before the end of the war. As the Union was nearing its victory, Lincoln could have called for the persecution of his enemies.  Instead, he called us to temper our temptation to seek vengeance and instead bind up the nation’s wounds.

For us dual citizens of earthly and heavenly countries, the documents of our identity go back much further than Lincoln and Jefferson.  Our readings this morning, appointed for The Episcopal Church’s feast of Independence Day, give us the words of the original prophet, God’s first spokesperson – Moses.  And here, Moses calls God’s people to provide for “the stranger” (Deuteronomy 10:19) – the “alien [who] resides with you in your land” (Leviticus 19:33).  Now, God’s people had been struggling to make their way through 40 years in the wilderness, feeling threatened at every turn.  But Moses names their need to embrace those who might seem threatening, those who aren’t like them.  And so, thousands of years later, Moses still calls us to temper our temptation to see some people as the other and instead embrace those we might try to keep at arm’s length.

Of course, the documents of our identity must include the words of Jesus.  And for Independence Day, the Church chooses a moment from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, his ultimate teaching about God’s reign and rule in day-to-day life.  You know the Sermon on the Mount.  It’s where we find the Beatitudes:  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God” (Matt 5:9).  It’s where Jesus critiques the religious leaders for their failures of righteousness (5:20).  It includes the Golden Rule, to treat others as you want them to treat you (7:12).  Well, from this hard and holy exhortation, we hear today what may be Jesus’ hardest teaching ever:  “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (5:44).  Like Lincoln at the end of the Civil War, Jesus calls us to temper our temptation to hate those who stand against us, instead walking in Love to overcome evil with good.

And finally this morning, I want to raise up our reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, maybe the source of our sense of dual citizenship.  The writer of Hebrews names some heroes of the faith – Abraham and Sarah, Isaac, and Jacob – who understood themselves as sojourners through hard and broken times, waiting in faith for God to complete their journey of redemption.  They’d believed in God’s promises, trying to live faithfully while also trusting that the present was pointing toward God’s purposes to come.  As Hebrews puts it, these ancestors “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them” (11:13).  This hope allowed them to see themselves not bound by the fears and failings of the present day but instead to seek the life of “a better country, that is, a heavenly one” (11:16).  Hebrews calls us to temper our temptation to despair, pointing us past the present darkness to follow the torch of Jesus, “the pioneer and perfecter of our faith” (12:2).

Today, in this fraught and anxious national moment, it’s easy to give in to our temptations.  And for me, at least, the first of those temptations is to be politely quiet in the face of sin and evil.  As I said a few weeks ago, the power of “not God,” at individual and corporate levels, still threatens us, and it knows no political boundaries.  Sin and evil visit us dressed in the rhetoric of simplistic answers, and we’re tempted to buy in.  We’re tempted to reward leaders who villainize others and manipulate the truth.  We’re tempted to reward leaders who refuse to name the long-term costs of popular proposals.  We’re tempted to reward leaders who deep down seek their own interest at the expense of the nation’s interest.  We’re tempted to choose the easy path ourselves and back the policy that asks the least of us.  We’re tempted to believe that darkness is inevitable, that only the strong and self-interested survive.  We’re tempted to turn away from the power of Love.  And when we give in to those temptations, we get leaders who do the same.

As we approach this election season, our nation may seem to be teetering on the edge.  But our hope lies in following Jesus’ way of Love by calling our leaders to follow “the better angels of our nature,” as Lincoln said.³  If American democracy means anything, it means our national life hangs on “the consent of the governed,” as Jefferson put it.¹  And if being a follower of Jesus in this democracy means anything, it means giving our consent to that which aligns with our Savior’s way of Love.  As political leaders seek to manipulate us into powerlessness and despair, we must remember that our nation is “we, the people,” empowered to give or withhold our consent.

I can’t change our politics.  But I can speak.  I can write to legislators and to the president, which I’ve done, by the way.  And I can vote.  In fact, I must vote.  To help us with that, as we approach the primaries and general election to come, I want to leave you with the last thing you expected to take home today – a voter’s guide.  We Episcopalians don’t do that, right?  Well, you can find this voter’s guide in the prayer book.  As Episcopalians, one of the documents of our identity is the set of promises we make when we commit ourselves to Jesus’ way of Love.  It’s the Baptismal Covenant, a Christian’s job description.  In addition to guiding our personal discipleship, it provides a roadmap for offering the consent of the governed.  So, for each office and each question, I encourage you to ask yourself:

·         What choice best represents the apostles’ teaching and fellowship?

·         What choice best resists evil?

·         What choice best proclaims the Good News of God in Christ?

·         What choice best serves Christ in all people and loves our neighbors?

·         What choice best strives for justice and peace and respects the dignity of every human being?

Our democracy depends on us.  In a national moment when the powers of darkness seek to convince us we can’t change a thing, we must remind them that our nation follows a different narrative.  Our votes, guided by our faith, can make our nation “a better country,” something more like the one to which we aspire.  So don’t let governing happen without your consent.  Temper your temptation to despair, and cast your vote for “a better country, that is, a heavenly one.” 

1.       “Declaration of Independence: A Transcription.” National Archives. Available at: https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript. Accessed July 6, 2024.

2.       “Image 1 of Abraham Lincoln papers: Series 3. General Correspondence. 1837-1897: Abraham Lincoln, [March 4, 1865] (Second Inaugural Address; endorsed by Lincoln, April 10, 1865).” Library of Congress. Available at: https://www.loc.gov/resource/mal.4361300/?sp=1&st=text. Accessed July 6, 2024.

3.       Image 1 of Abraham Lincoln papers: Series 1. General Correspondence. 1833-1916: Abraham Lincoln, [March 1861] (First Inaugural Address, Final Version).” Library of Congress. Available at: https://www.loc.gov/resource/mal.0773800/?st=text. Accessed July 6, 2024.

Don't Look Down

Sermon for June 30, 2024
Year B, Proper 8
Mark 5:21-43

When I was a kid, every Saturday, I would wake up in time to watch The Bugs Bunny Show.  (Yes, some of us are old enough to remember a time when you couldn’t watch shows on demand but had to schedule your life around TV networks instead.)  Among those amazing cartoons was the ongoing pursuit of the Roadrunner by Wile E. Coyote.  And a recurring gag in those Roadrunner cartoons was a moment that, surprisingly, offers a lesson in following Jesus.  Hang with me.

Actually, “hang with me” captures that recurring moment in the cartoon precisely.  Over and over again, Wile E. Coyote would manage to run off the cliffs of the American Southwest in pursuit of the Roadrunner.  And over and over again, the coyote was just fine hovering there in mid-air, continuing to do whatever he’d been doing … until he looked down.  Once he looked down, of course, the magical suspension of physics was broken, and Wile E. Coyote would plummet to the rocks below.

Now, you might think I’ve messed up and written a sermon for the wrong Gospel reading.  Wile E. Coyote is a perfect illustration to go with the story of Jesus walking on the water on the Sea of Galilee and inviting Peter to step out of the boat to join him.  Well, it turns out that story isn’t in the Gospel of Mark, which is the source for most of our Gospel readings in this liturgical year.  Matthew is the only Gospel writer who includes Peter walking on the water.  But I think Wile E. Coyote can help us with today’s reading, too, these interwoven stories of Jesus healing a woman and a little girl – because in these stories, people are definitely stepping off the cliff toward Jesus.

First, I think it’s worth noting how strange this Gospel reading is.  This is a weird way to tell these stories, one healing coming in the middle of another.  It’s a miracle sandwich, the healing of the woman with the hemorrhage interrupting the story of the little girl’s healing.  So, it’s worth looking at these stories more closely to see what ties them together.

The reading opens with one of the leaders of the local synagogue falling at Jesus’ feet, begging him to heal his daughter who’s “at the point of death” (5:23).  The synagogue leader is named Jairus, but it’s interesting that the story only uses his name once.  Don’t you wonder why?  Why give him a name and then refer to him by his role all through the story – “the leader of the synagogue” (5:36)? 

I think it’s intentional, as a way to highlight the power differential here.  In each local synagogue, there was a person or two who was seen as the leader – not a rabbi but more like the top donor, a wealthy person “who could afford to provide or maintain the building as well as plan activities there.”¹  Without this guy, the life of the synagogue wouldn’t happen – so he called the shots.  And it’s this guy, the synagogue VIP, who’s seeking out the wandering rabbi, and bowing down before him, and begging for his help.  The synagogue leader has already pulled all the strings he could pull to cure his daughter.  He’s tried all his own resources, and now Jesus is his only hope.

So, Jesus agrees to go with the synagogue leader to help his daughter.  As they head off, the crowd follows, with everybody jockeying for position to be close to the miracle worker.  Among the crowd is this woman, who’s been struggling with hemorrhages for 12 years.  Now, if you, or someone you love, deal with a chronic health condition, you can identify with this woman’s situation:  “She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better but rather grew worse” (Mark 5:26).  Since Jewish healers hadn’t panned out for her, she might have even tried the Roman treatment of choice, offering money in the temples of healing gods.²  Either way, she’s out of cash and out of options.  But she’s heard about Jesus and the 10 healing episodes that have already happened by this point in Mark’s Gospel.  After doing everything she could through her own resources, she realizes Jesus is her only hope.  So, she reaches out and touches his cloak.

No one’s more surprised than Jesus by what happens next.  He feels divine power flowing out of him, but he doesn’t know where it’s gone.  “Who touched me?” he says (5:31), confusing the disciples who see all sorts of people bumping up against him.  But the woman knows the jig is up.  “In fear and trembling,” she falls down before Jesus and makes her confession (5:33).  But Jesus hears her words as a confession of faith.  He says, “Your faith has made you well” (5:34).

And now, the spotlight swings back to the synagogue leader.  People from his house have come to give him the bad news:  It’s too late for his daughter.  But Jesus catches his eye.  Maybe pointing at the woman, he says to the synagogue leader:  Hey – look what happens when you “do not fear [but] only believe” (5:36).

So Jesus, the synagogue leader, and a few disciples head off to find the girl.  As far as the people at the house are concerned, she’s clearly dead – and when Jesus says otherwise, they laugh at him.  But he presses on, leads the small group to the girl’s room, takes her hand, and speaks what sounds to us like a magical incantation – “Talitha, cum,” he says (5:41).  They would have sounded like magic words to the people hearing Mark’s Gospel back in the day, too – these words in Aramaic dropped into the Greek text.  But the irony is, those words were simply the language of the people who lived there, the everyday talk of the Son of God.  And the girl comes back to life. 

For both the synagogue leader and the bleeding woman, what happened wasn’t about magic.  It was about trust.  With the woman, Jesus wasn’t even trying to heal her.  With the little girl, the incantation was just Jesus inviting her to get out of bed and have lunch.  What mattered wasn’t Jesus’ skills as a miracle worker.  What mattered was that people like us turned to him and believed he’d provide the thing they needed most.

And, it mattered how they turned to him.  Literally and figuratively, both the woman and the synagogue leader got down on their knees.  They bowed down before him and said, Look, you’re the only one who’s got what I need.  Both of them had already done everything in their own power to bring about healing – spent the money, made the contacts, worked the system, all to no avail.  Now, they’ve let go of managing the situation themselves and stepped off the cliff – without looking down.  Instead, they’re looking Jesus in the eye.

And as they do, it’s good to note exactly what it is they’re looking for.  Interestingly, the Greek word translated in this reading as “healing” could just as well be translated as “saving.”  The woman and the synagogue leader aren’t just looking for Jesus to make them feel better.  The woman needs to be brought back into the society that for 12 years has excluded her as being ritually unclean.  The synagogue leader needs life itself restored for his beloved child.  They’ve got everything on the line.  They don’t just need healing; they need saving.  So, they’re stepping off the cliff and refusing to look down.

It turns out, this is the same image my spiritual director uses when we talk about trusting God with everything you’ve got.  Sometimes, you’ve got to walk off the cliff – especially when what you’ve tried on your own, maybe for years and years, just isn’t working for you. 

          For what it’s worth, that’s equally true for people in clerical collars as it is for anyone else.  You may have seen reports from The Episcopal Church’s General Convention this past week about the election of our new presiding bishop, the Rt. Rev. Sean Rowe, who’s currently doing two jobs – serving as bishop of Northwest Pennsylvania and, simultaneously, provisional bishop of Western New York.  If he thought that was a lot, I think he realizes he’s just stepped off the cliff into something way beyond what he can manage on his own.  There was a picture of Bishop Rowe on social media the morning of the election – him walking to the convention center with a look on his face that seemed to say, “Oh, my God, what if they actually elect me…?”  But I think he knew precisely what power he’d need to draw on, because minutes before the balloting began, there was a Facebook post from one of the deputies from Northwest Pennsylvania – a photo of Bishop Rowe down on his knees, surrounded by his deputation.  The folks from Northwest Pennsylvania were gathered around him, laying hands on him, praying for him – all of them stepping right off the cliff, together. 

It is right, and a good, if not always a joyful, thing to set your trust on the living God.  For when we do – when we look Jesus in the eye and refuse to look down, when we walk out in mid-air, across the gap – we find ourselves following Jesus right on to the next piece of solid ground.  We find ourselves standing there alongside the synagogue leader and the woman with the hemorrhage – healed, and saved, and ready for the next time Jesus asks us to step off the cliff.

1.      New Interpreter’s Study Bible. Nashville: Abingdon, 2003. 1817 (note).

2.      New Interpreter’s Study Bible. Nashville: Abingdon, 2003. 1817 (note).