Tag Archives: Good Shepherd

Sermon – Acts 9.36-43, E4, YC, May 11, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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A couple of weeks ago I was at a dinner with some new friends, one of whom had brought his wife to the dinner.  As we made our introductions, the wife told me, “Actually I have met you before.”  I immediately started scanning my brain for a recollection of our previous meeting when she told me a story.  She said, “Many years ago, I was at the library with my young daughter.  She can be a bit much sometimes, and most of the other kids were uncomfortable engaging her in play.  But then she found your two girls building with some big blocks.  Your girls had built a tall wall with the blocks, and my daughter knocked the wall down, giggling with joy.  I sat and watched your girls rebuild the wall just so she could knock it down over and over again.  They were such a gift to my daughter and me that day.”

I was shocked by this woman’s story because I only vaguely remember that day at the library.  The thing I remember most distinctly is one of my daughters looking to me with a question in her eyes – as if she knew this was not the “normal” way we play with others, but also subtly seeking affirmation to engage in play in a way that might be normal for this specific girl.  The moment was so infinitesimally small that I almost forgot the moment – until this mom described how incredibly momentous the moment was for her and her child.

We never hear Tabitha (or Dorcas) speak in the reading from Acts today.  But we do learn a lot about her.  We know that she is labeled as a disciple – the only time the feminine form of the word “disciple” is used in the New Testament.[i]  We know that she is named – with not one name but two names – possibly denoting the breadth of her ministry to people who speak different languages.  People being named in scripture, especially women, demonstrates their significance in the biblical narrative.  Usually women are just called, “the woman at the well” or the “the hemorrhaging woman.”  We also learn that she made tunics for the widows in town.  Most people in this time-period only had one or two tunics at a time in their wardrobe – they were handmade, custom fit to bodies, and a symbol of the deeply personal, intimate care Tabitha offered to these widows[ii] – women who were the “least of these” in their town.  As the weeping widows show Peter these tunics, we come to know that Tabitha was a deeply faithful servant – a disciple and leader – in her community.  We can only imagine this tremendous servanthood is why the disciples send two men to get Peter and tell him to come to them without delay.

The fourth Sunday in Eastertide is traditionally called Good Shepherd Sunday.  We pull that language from the gospel of John.  Over the course of three years, we hear the three parts of John’s Gospel that talk about Jesus being the Good Shepherd – today’s being the least obvious one, as Jesus talks about his sheep who hear his voice and follow him.  But if you recall last week’s gospel, Jesus commissioned Peter three time to feed his sheep – basically telling Peter that he is passing the mantle of being a shepherd to Peter.  And now, we find Peter acknowledging another disciple who has been carrying that same mantle as shepherd, and whom he raises from the dead so that she can continue the good work God has begun in her. 

This is where things get a little heavy for me in scripture today.  What we see in the passing of the baton (or maybe the passing of the shepherd’s staff) is that in our baptism into the faithful, in our claiming of ourselves as Christians, or maybe just in our tiptoeing into the waters of Christian community, we are each given staffs of shepherds too.  While being a part of Christian community is one of the most affirming, life-giving, and supportive experiences we will find, being a part of Christian community is also one of commission.  We become disciples – regardless of gender, or age, or location – disciples with a commission to show forth the love of the Good Shepherd we have experienced.  The ministries will not look the same:  we may be sewers of tunics, or builders of cardboard walls for community play with other children, or developers of process-management worksheets, or singers of life-giving song, or feeders of lambs. 

Now, you might not know what ministry you will be called to do and how that ministry will likely bloom and evolve over time.  But you will be called by name.  Peter last week was called to feed Jesus’s sheep three times by name.  Tabitha or Dorcas was called by her name in two languages by grieving widows.  And you are called by name too.  Sometimes that call will be from a Vestry or clergy member who will literally call you on the phone and ask you to help.  Sometimes you will hear God speaking something to your heart – even if you are uncomfortable with that kind of spiritual expression or label that calling as “self-talk.”  And sometimes, the people whose lives you will touch through your Christ-like love and service will call you by name – occasionally by nasty names but more often by loving descriptions – even years later than your acts of love and grace, and sometimes not to you, but about you in your absence.  Our invitation this week is to pick up our shepherding staffs, to listen to the Good Shepherd’s voice, and then to go feed Jesus’ sheep.  You are called – by name.  Because you can go and feed God’s sheep.  Amen. 

[i] Robert W. Wall, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 429.

[ii] Matt Skinner and Rolf Jacobson, “Sermon Brainwave:  #1022: Fourth Sunday of Easter – May 11, 2025,” April 29, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/1022-fourth-sunday-of-easter-may-11-2025 on May 7, 2025.

Sermon – 2 Samuel 11.26-12.13a, P13, YB, August 4, 2024

28 Wednesday Aug 2024

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One of the most powerful offerings at Hickory Neck is our Godly Play program.  Our youngest children engage in Godly Play in Sunday School, we broadcast Godly Play stories on Facebook every Sunday, our children use Godly Play in Children’s Chapel at the 10:00 am service, and we use Godly Play at The Kensington School for over 20 children each week.  Several of us got to witness Godly Play this week at Vacation Bible School, and I have to tell you, Mr. Z. told one of the more powerful stories this week.  He started out with wooden figurines – a man with a staff, a fence, and lots of little sheep.  As he told the story, the kids came up with names for the sheep:  Rufus, Bob, and Cookie, to name a few.  And then very quietly and dramatically, Mr. Z said, “Look what happens now.”  The fence for the sheep that the Good Shepherd was protecting was taken away and replaced with a little wooden table.  Then the sheep were replaced one by one with little wooden figures of people.  And then the Good Shepherd shed his staff, and assumed the role of serving bread and wine at the table.  The transformation had all the adults in the room stunned – not to mention all our kids.  Suddenly the Good Shepherd (i.e. Jesus and his sheep – or followers), was found in modern day, consecrating a meal among similarly named people, or followers of Jesus.  I made sure Mr. Z clarified that the priest at the table was not actually Jesus but a representative of Jesus, but as one who breaks bread with you weekly, my senses were totally disoriented by those powerful little pieces of wood.

The same thing happens to David today.  We did not talk about it last week, but our Hebrew Scripture reading last week told one of the more awful stories in our Scriptures – the sainted King David acting very un-saintly:  coveting what was not his, acting violently against a woman and impregnating her, attempting to cover his sin through trickery, and when that did not work, having the woman’s husband killed so he could have her as his own.  In today’s lesson, Nathan takes on the role of Mr. Z, entering the narrative with a story.  Nathan spends a great deal of time describing this poor man who has only one ewe lamb, whom he feeds with his own meager food, and loves like a daughter – and a rich man who, although he has more than enough of his own lambs, takes the poor man’s beloved little lamb and kills it for food.  The story is so pitiful that even David gets in a rage and says this man deserves to die and should restore the lamb fourfold.  And here is where Nathan pulls a Mr. Z switch.  “You are the man!” Nathan says.

Now in the whole of this sordid story of David there are three instances of characters speaking two simple words in the original Hebrew.  The first happens in the last chapter of second Samuel when Bathsheba sends word, translated as “I am pregnant” or harah ‘anoki.  The second instance of two simple Hebrew words comes from Nathan “’atah ha’ish,” translated as “You are the man.”  The final two words will come at the end of the story, when David realizing his grave sins, confesses “hata’ti lyhwh,” translated as “I have sinned against Yahweh.”  In these three short phrases, David is indicted, David is identified, and David submits and turns to God.  None of these phrases is easy to say by any of the characters, and yet all are needed for powerful transformation to happen before God.[i] 

But most of those words could never have emerged without the gift of story.  Just like Mr. Z transformed sheep named Rufus, Bob, and Cookie into parishioners named Sue, David, and Linda, so God uses Nathan to transform human sinfulness into faithful living.  As one scholar describes, Nathan’s parable, “…engaged a side of David that is totally different from the man who forces sex upon Bathsheba and orders the death of her husband Uriah.  David is no longer the absolutist king acting from the prerogatives of power and authority.  Nathan’s parable has touched the moral sensibilities of David’s humanity.”[ii] 

One of the more troubling realities of our day is that we have lost the ability to really talk to one another.  The seductive power of “us versus them” in the world has put us in seemingly impenetrable bubbles that keep us divided, full of hate (or at least extreme dislike), and surrounded by people who always agree with us instead of challenging us to be better followers of Christ.  Into this troubling reality, Nathan and Mr. Z remind us of the power of story to transform us into the faithful community that God calls us to be – not divided, hateful, monolithic groups – but united, loving, diverse groups of truth and love.  Nathan teaches us that our work is to reframe narrative and the message of Jesus so that we all stand on common ground.  Though we and others may need judgment, our invitation is not to condemn, but to invite others into fresh eyes through the power of reframing story – to find ways to tell the story of Jesus in alternative ways that lead to new insight and behavior.[iii]  The promise in our commitment to that work is that we can fulfill God’s deepest desire – that we turn from our sinful ways and return to God.  We can do that work as long as we work to do that work together – sinners united in loving storytelling and turning to God.  Amen.

[i] Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel:  Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 282-283.

[ii] Thomas H. Troeger, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Proper 13, Year B, Supplemental Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 4.

[iii] Shawnthea Monroe, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Proper 13, Year B, Supplemental Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 5.

Sermon – John 10.11-18, E4, YB, April 21, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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In a few moments, we will baptize Abby and Laela, sisters who are ages 6 and 7 respectively.  What’s interesting about a baptism for candidates who are not infants is there is much more cognition, curiosity, and craving.  In a sense, Abby and Laela understand more profoundly that their baptism is a sacrament of belonging – a welcoming into full membership in the body of Christ.  One of Hickory Neck’s strongest gifts is the powerful gift of welcome.  You talk to any newer or longer-term member, and they will likely tell you that Hickory Neck’s warm welcome was what drew them in and made them linger.  There was a sense of inclusion and care that made them want to stay.

For a community so skilled in welcoming and especially as a community who will be welcoming Abby and Laela today, we hear a powerful word from John’s gospel about life with the Good Shepherd.  For people familiar with the lectionary, the fourth Sunday of Easter, affectionally known as Good Shepherd Sunday, is a favorite Sunday.  Every year on this Sunday we hear about Jesus’ proclamation of being the Good Shepherd.  This year’s text from John tells us how Jesus the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep; how Jesus will protect the sheep; how he knows the sheep and the sheep know him; and that there are other sheep that do not even belong to the fold that Jesus will bring into the beloved fold.  When we hear a text like this, we get a warm-fuzzy feeling[i] – the kind of feeling of protected belonging that we want Abby and Laela to always feel with Jesus and the church community.  That feeling of care and belonging has inspired artwork, song, liturgies, and sermon alike.  This Good Shepherd Sunday reminds all of us of what inspired us to keep coming back to this modern incarnation of the Good Shepherd’s fold here at Hickory Neck.

The challenge about the warm-fuzzies that come with belonging is that chasing a sense of belonging can become consumeristic:  a pursuing of a feeling that is received without any expectation of reciprocity.  The pursuit of belonging makes sense.  As one scholar suggests, “Forming authentic and holistic community is hard work – we dole out parts of ourselves in stingy bits and pieces, avoid being vulnerable with each other, hold back our feelings and thoughts, are afraid to confront each other, judge each other without mercy, hold grudges, set impossibly high standards for ourselves and each other…We have a difficult time trusting each other,” making real and life-giving community hard.[ii]  But belonging with Jesus and within the faith community is not something that is just received.  Belonging comes with obligation.  No longer are we individuals feeling alone – now we are a part of a larger whole.  Though beautiful, that whole does not work without each of its members.  Receiving the warm-fuzzy feeling of belonging results in the action of giving:  of contributing in your own right to the community.[iii]    

The good news is that although we use language about welcome at Hickory Neck, we actually mean belonging.  Yes, we were likely greeted warmly, maybe given a welcome gift or sent a greeting by mail soon after our first visit, and often we were recognized and engaged after the service or at Coffee Hour.  But I cannot tell you the number of people at Hickory Neck who have also told me about how accessible involvement and even leadership are here.  From stories of being recruited to lead Fall Festivals within the first year of membership, to hopping in as an usher or reader, to being invited to a Bible Study, service opportunity, or a Foyer Group, to becoming a financial supporter of programming:  you are not just welcomed here – you are invited into belonging here.  Though we may not use the strong word of “obligation” or “responsibility,” we teach through our behavior that warm welcome means full membership in the body of Christ.  We join in not because we have to, but because the warmth of the Good Shepherd’s inclusion of all overwhelms us into wanting to give back – both here inside these walls and outside these walls in the wider community.

And that is what we have been teaching Abby and Laela about baptism.  Today, as the water is poured over their heads and the oil rubbed into their foreheads, they will be welcomed into full membership in the body of Christ.  And even though age six and seven might seem too young for the “obligations of membership in the body,” we need their gifts just as much as they need the gift of belonging.  So, when they bring forward the communion elements, or participate in Godly Play, or join in singing and song, they make our community complete.  They remind us of the broadness of God’s inclusion, the power of being known, and the resultant discipleship that springs out of all of us – no matter size, age, or ability.  Today, the Good Shepherd welcomes Abby and Laela into the fold – into the body of Christ.  Today, Abby and Laela invite us to renew our sense of belonging in that same fold and all that belonging entails.  And for that, we give thanks to God.  Amen.

[i] As described by Matt Skinner, on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#961: Fourth Sunday of Easter – April 21, 2024,” April 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/961-fourth-sunday-of-easter-april-21-2024 on April 18, 2024.

[ii] Barbara J. Essex, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 451.

[iii] As described by Karoline Lewis, on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#961: Fourth Sunday of Easter – April 21, 2024,” April 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/961-fourth-sunday-of-easter-april-21-2024 on April 18, 2024.

Sermon – John 10.1-10, Acts 2.2.42-47, E4, YA, April 30, 2023

30 Tuesday May 2023

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As a parent of young children, I often found that I mourned when certain stages ended.  One of the harder transitions was when I was no longer physically able to manhandle my children.  Before then, if a kid was refusing to move, or was throwing an epic tantrum, I could just swoop them up and manage their outburst physically.  But once I could not long hold their weight or battle those strong little arms, I realized my parenting technique was going to need a dramatic change – I was going to have to give up some control and figure out how to help both of us verbally work through what was going on in the moment.  Of course, that probably was the way I should have been parenting from the beginning, but sometimes a good swoop sure did feel good and gave me the illusion of control.

When I see images of Jesus the Good Shepherd – the biblical image we celebrate today – I find a similar sense of disappointment.  If Jesus is the Good Shepherd, I am metaphorically that helpless, probably not too bright, albeit cuddly sheep draped over Jesus’ shoulders.  That kind of image has always made me feel a little disempowered.  But this week I stumbled on a Byzantine icon[i] of Jesus Christ the Good Shepherd which shifted things for me.  Instead of a sheep draped over Jesus’ shoulders, the icon has a person draped over Jesus’ shoulders.  Their eyes are closed, their body is limp, but Jesus, complete with the nail scars in his hands and feet, seems to effortlessly be carrying this person out of the wilderness.  The image did not necessarily make me feel empowered, but the image did humanize this metaphor for me.  I could easily imagine an adult who has been walking through the valley of the shadow of death, exhausted from suffering or grief.  Or I could imagine a protective Jesus who has swooped someone out of harm’s way.  And I can definitely imagine an adult who has worn themselves out with their own tantrum.

In John’s Gospel today, Jesus is shepherding the crowd through all those scenarios.  You may remember back in Lent we got that long story from John’s gospel about the blind man Jesus heals, only to have the religious community freak out about Jesus healing on the sabbath and not believing the man had actually been blind in the first place.  Well after the blind man proclaims his desire to follow Jesus, Jesus then turns back to the community of faith and offers this explanation of his healing the blind man.  His teaching in John is actually much longer than what we hear today – in fact, Chapter 10 of John’s gospel is usually divided into three sections – all about the Good Shepherd – but a different section is appointed for each liturgical year.  In year A, we get the “I am the gate,” or door, portion of Chapter 10.  We are told that when we pass through the gate, the “good shepherd,” tends to us so that we will have life, and have life abundantly.

This passage is the “so what” of Easter.  If you remember, people have been running around, demanding proof of Jesus’ resurrection, taking whole walks with Jesus before realizing who the resurrected Jesus is.  And so, Eastertide is a celebration of the resurrection, and we spend seven weeks trying to figure out what resurrection means.  The “so what” today then is that Jesus came, died, and rose again so that we might have life, and have that life abundantly.  And if that abundant life means Jesus has to carry us out of trouble, hold us when we cannot walk on our own, or haul us over his shoulder when we are just too stubborn to accept his gift of abundant life, that is what Jesus the Good Shepherd will do.  Jesus’ resurrection matters because his resurrection reminds us of the gift of abundant life.

But that story is only part one of our “so what” today.  The rest of the “so what” of resurrection happens in our lesson from Acts today.  Since Easter we have been reading in Acts about the beginnings of the church community.  We have heard two parts of Peter’s sermon after the great day of Pentecost, where he gathers the first mega church of over 3000 people.  Now we hear the “so what” of Jesus being the gate.  You see, when Jesus becomes the gate, the door through which we pass into the protected sheepfold, you know what that gathering of the sheep looks like?  We are not disempowered, limp bodies, lying under protection.  When we pass through Jesus’ resurrection, we join a community – a community of action.[ii]  The text from Acts says of that growing body, “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”[iii]  As the community grows, they share in economic justice, sharing their wealth and caring for all equally.  They spend time together, eating with glad, generous hearts, praising God, and tending to the goodwill of all.  Jesus doesn’t just carry our limp, weary selves, and then deposit us into the world to try again.  Jesus brings us into a fold – a community of study, fellowship, communion, and prayer.

That is the beginning of your “so what” of Easter today.  We are an Easter people because Jesus gave his life so that we might have life and have that life abundantly.  As Easter people we are gifted that abundantly life so that we can enter the sheepfold of faithful community.  Your invitation today is hop off Jesus’ shoulders, walk through the gate of Jesus, and come into to a community of faith where we will study God’s word, develop meaningful relationships, come together around the common table, and pray.  When we gather in that kind of community, when we are fed mentally, physically, and spiritually, then we fueled for the rest of the “so what” of Easter.  Once nurtured in that generous, abundant community, we are led back out through the gate that is Jesus, better able to love and serve the Lord out in the world.  Thanks be to God!

[i] As found at https://www.etsy.com/listing/856250878/hand-painted-byzantine-icon-of-jesus?gpla=1&gao=1&&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=shopping_us_a-home_and_living-spirituality_and_religion-other&utm_custom1=_k_Cj0KCQjwgLOiBhC7ARIsAIeetVDhfiQo66BpPPH4Bg02sff293o0Q8_YqIhIUuxfVbEDRA8-6wbArd0aAg3OEALw_wcB_k_&utm_content=go_12559942249_120251207180_506897847531_pla-302895540136_c__856250878_122003557&utm_custom2=12559942249&gclid=Cj0KCQjwgLOiBhC7ARIsAIeetVDhfiQo66BpPPH4Bg02sff293o0Q8_YqIhIUuxfVbEDRA8-6wbArd0aAg3OEALw_wcB on April 29, 2023.

[ii] The idea of what life is like in the sheepfold is articulated by Matt Skinner in “Sermon Brainwave:  #901: Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year A) – April 30, 2023,” April 23, 2023, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/901-fourth-sunday-of-easter-year-a-april-30-2023 on April 29, 2023.

[iii] Acts 2.42-47.

Sermon – Acts 9.36-43, John 10.22-30, E4, YC, May 8, 2022

25 Wednesday May 2022

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The imagery from scripture today is so powerful that the fourth Sunday in Easter – in all three years of the lectionary cycle – is unofficially called “Good Shepherd Sunday.”  The metaphor of God as our shepherd is strong in the church; most of us know the image from the twenty-third psalm we heard (sang) today, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”  Jesus refers to himself as the shepherd in John’s gospel three times in chapter ten alone, including in today’s text.  The Good Shepherd text from John is often read at funerals.  The Good Shepherd lesson in Godly Play is one of the most popular – and likely what our children are hearing today in Children’s Chapel.  Even the National Cathedral has a Good Shepherd Chapel.  The carving of Jesus holding a sheep in the Chapel is so beloved the hands and arms of Jesus are a different color stone because so many people have laid their hands on the statue as part of their private devotions in the Chapel.[i]

Countless artists have rendered paintings, sculpture, and stained glass of Jesus with a lamb over his shoulder or cradled in his arms.  But the vulnerability of the sheep Jesus holds makes me uncomfortable, not comforted.  I know this confession says WAY more about me and my extreme desire for independence and control.  Lord knows we all have seasons in life when we need to be scooped up by the shepherd – the last two years of pandemic and national turmoil being a classic example.  But I would much rather be a shepherd for others than to be shepherded. 

I think that is why I liked last week’s gospel so much.  Over the charcoal fire, Jesus offered Peter reconciliation asking him three times whether Peter loved Jesus, and then telling Peter to feed his sheep.  As we talked about last week, Jesus told Peter he would have to reimagine discipleship, and become the I AM, the good shepherd, for Jesus in the world when Jesus could no longer play that role.  As much as we independently minded disciples might prefer this commission, feeling a sense of empowerment over vulnerability, this new role will not be easy.  Anyone who has raised a child or watched a child grow over time knows there’s a point in their development where we can no longer scoop them up when they are in the middle of a meltdown.  No longer able to physically overpower them (or throw them over your shoulder like those beautiful paintings show Jesus doing), we must find other ways to get through the meltdown to the other side of wholeness.

That is why I am so grateful for our story from the Acts of the Apostles today.  If we Jesus is inviting us to be the good shepherd in his stead, and if that does not mean literally wrestling sheep (or toddlers…or people who act like toddlers), what does being shepherds mean?  Peter shows us through his encounter with Dorcas, also known as Tabitha – depending on whether you were using the Greek or Aramaic of her name.[ii]  The reading from Acts tells us Tabitha is a disciple of Jesus – in fact, she is the only woman in scripture to be labeled a disciple.[iii]  We are also told she devotes her life to good works and acts of charity.  Her shepherding discipleship is so powerful that when she dies, disciples send for Peter and tell him to come at once.  Widows – the most vulnerable of society – regale Peter with stories of Tabitha’s faithful leadership, showing him the garments Tabitha had made for them – garments they are literally wearing today!  Peter, understanding that Joppa needed Tabitha’s ministry a bit longer, raises her from the dead so that she can continue her work of shepherding a little longer.[iv] 

Now I know some of you may be thinking, “I don’t want to do so good of a job of discipleship that I can’t be left to die in peace when my time comes!”  Fortunately, most of us will not be that good!  But what our scripture lessons today are inviting us to do is to consider where the world’s (or even our immediate community’s) greatest needs and our greatest gifts intersect – and then how can we use that intersection to be Christ’s disciple, or shepherd, for those around us.  How can James City County or even how can Hickory Neck, use our help to show the love of Jesus to a world that would really rather not be scooped up in loving arms?  The work is not likely to be glamourous – manhandling sheep and making clothes for those who need them is not glamourous work.  But shepherding done well is the kind of work that builds up others, that makes them so whole and full of love they are willing to testify to that love – and hopefully become shepherds themselves.  Being a shepherd is not about control or power, but instead about mutual journey and care.  If that statue in the National Cathedral is any evidence, we all long for loving shepherds in our lives.  Our invitation this week is to see how God can use us to walk through the valley of the shadow of death with others and help them, and consequently ourselves, find refreshment.  Amen.

[i] As explained by the Rev. Patrick Keyser in the Cathedral’s video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=263&v=ERQAL9j6xvQ&feature=emb_logo, April 29, 2020.

[ii] Robert Wall, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 429.

[iii] Wall, 429.

[iv] Stephen D. Jones, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 431.

Sermon – John 10.11-18, Psalm 23, E4, YB, April 25, 2021

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

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As a new parent, I struggled during the toddler years – those years when the child is first asserting their will, realizing they want to be in control too.  And so, after trying calm coaxing and verbal reasoning, I eventually honed the art of muscling:  I realized I was stronger than my toddler, so I could just sweep them up and carry on doing what I knew we needed to do anyway.  Sometimes the swooping was playful, swinging the child around or letting them hang upside-down.  But more often, it was just a strong, steady sweep – getting us out of the grocery store during a meltdown, getting us out of the house and into the car for an appointment, getting us away from the television.  But that kind of parenting only works for so long – approximately as long as you can physically lift a flailing child, which for me, was not that long.  That is when parenting gets real.

I have been thinking a lot about the Good Shepherd this week, and the similarities between shepherding and parenting.  As children, or more aptly, as sheep, we want a shepherd who will take care of us.  The words from today’s psalm and John’s gospel lay out the idealized caregiver:  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want[i]; the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.[ii]  When we think about what we want from God, especially after a long year-plus of a pandemic, of political divisiveness, of struggling with the institution of racism, we want a God who will cradle us in, and love and protect us unconditionally.  I suspect that is why so many churches have paintings, stained glass windows, and statues of Jesus carrying a perfectly clean, cute little lamb on his shoulder.

I confess, I do not know enough about shepherding, but even from watching the lambs in Colonial Williamsburg, I can assure you, those lambs are not perfectly clean and well-behaved.  There is something about our saccharine-filled images of the Good Shepherd that feel unrealistic to me.  As much as I want to crawl in the lap of a loving, protective Jesus, something about our images of the Good Shepherd does not quite capture reality.  This week, I watched a YouTube video of a man trying to rescue a sheep.  There was this long narrow ditch alongside a road, and the sheep’s hind end was hanging out of the ditch.  A man, carefully using his strength, managed to grasp the sheep’s legs and pull the sheep free.  The freed sheep bounded away from him, bouncing gracefully toward freedom – of course until he bounded back over the ditch toward the other side of the road, jumping head-first, right back into the ditch.  In your imagination, you can almost hear the deep, audible sigh of frustration by the man who had just helped him.

I think that is why I like verse 14 of John’s gospel so much, “I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me.”  The shepherd knows how to love unconditionally; but the shepherd also knows all our “conditions”:  the times when we stubbornly do things our way, the times when we refuse wisdom and jump right back into trouble, the times when we project our anger and frustration on others.  And the sheep know the shepherd:  the times when the shepherd will try to reason with us instead of muscling us to do the shepherd’s will, the times when the shepherd forgives us when we confess our sins, the times when the shepherd sighs deeply in disappointment at our refusal to lie down in green pastures.  There is an intimacy to that relationship, as one scholar describes, a “mutual recognition and a mutual belonging together.”[iii] 

Our invitation this week is an invitation into that mutuality and intimacy.  The invitation is not an invitation into a snowy-white, paternalistic, cradling love.  The invitation is into a messy, complicated, but respectfully intimate relationship where we are known, and we know our shepherd.  Through this real, honest, vulnerable place we find strength to then go back out into the world, allowing “the Shepherd’s voice to speak through us as we reach out to the lost and hurting we encounter on the way,”[iv] sharing the love of the risen, shepherding Jesus that has saved us from many a ditch!  Amen.

[i] Psalm 23.1

[ii] John 10.11

[iii] Stephen A. Cooper, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 448.

[iv] Nancy R. Blakely, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 452.

Sermon – John 10.1-10, Acts 2.42-47, E4, YA, May 3, 2020

07 Thursday May 2020

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It could be that having been ordered to stay in our homes for almost two months, with no real end in sight, has made me a bit cranky.  It could be that the tidal wave of illness, death, and suffering bearing down on us has birthed rising anxiety and fear.  It could be the slow realization that having lived in this “new normal” will mean our old “normal” will be forever tainted and will never fully be restored has brought a sense of grief or despair.  Whatever the feelings and emotional responses we are having to this pandemic, they are creating a lens or a filter through which we interpret everything – including Holy Scripture.

For me, the initial lens or filter through which I have been reading Holy Scripture has been one of bitterness, resentment, and grief.  Take today’s lessons.  This Sunday, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is colloquially known as Good Shepherd Sunday.  The lessons on this Sunday every year give us images of pasture, protection, and pastoring.  And yet, this year, my initial response to the readings were resistance.  I am not emotionally ready to be cradled in the arms of a Good Shepherd.  I am not mentally ready to hear that Jesus wants us to have life, and have life abundantly.  I am not spiritually ready to hear about the post-Pentecost community gathered, breaking bread, spending time together in person in the temple and in homes, growing in numbers day by day.  I am not emotionally, mentally, or spiritually ready because hearing those wonderfully affirming things makes me realize how far from reality those things feel right now.

Of course, Church has not always been that way.  In fact, Church used to be exactly those things.  Throughout my life, Church has been the place where the Good Shepherd, where Jesus, has been the comforting figure who brings me into the fold, who knows me by name, whose voice brings assurance and confidence.  Church has been the place where I have found a community of people who make my life whole – a people who teach me about love, about calling, and about what family really looks like.  A little over a week ago, when over thirty of us gathered around our cars, seeing each other’s faces for the first time in months, as we prepared to drive to parishioners’ homes to sing Happy Birthday wishes, I was stunned at how powerful the feelings were of just seeing those beautiful faces, of having a glimpse of why this community has been so incredibly meaningful in my life, of remembering the comfort of being together.  The experience was a shock of love, care, and affection that opened up the gaping hole in my life I had so carefully covered up to protect myself from thinking about what I was missing in this pandemic.

So, does Scripture have any chance with us to be redeeming, restorative, and refreshing when our emotions are so raw?  Is there Good News today?  I have begun to realize in order to allow Scripture to have that power for me, I have needed to switch glasses.  On the Fourth Sunday of Easter in almost every year in memory, this Sunday has been about rose-colored glasses.  We talk about the Good Shepherd romantically and abundance superficially, we sing our favorite psalm, and we gather round and cozy up together.  But today, I hear Jesus inviting us to take off those rose-colored glasses (which he would have hated anyway), and slip on some clear glasses.  In those clear glasses, we can look at the community gathered in Acts and not imagine a loving community gathered and growing and peacefully breaking bread together.  Instead, scholars remind us the post-Pentecost community represents “different regions, speaking different dialects.  Some may not have shared the native languages of others, in spite of a shared Jewish faith.  There would have been distinct food preferences and different levels of financial security.  There would have been different prejudices to navigate, different interpretations of Torah and different political proclivities.”  And for those in charge of making the bread, those numbers growing day by day represented increased stress and strain, not jubilant joy.[i]  I imagine the chaos of that time was not unlike the chaos of sheep gathered into a fold – a noisy, messy, resistant bunch that the loving Shepherd had to prod, yank, and shove into said fold.

With new glasses, we no longer look with jealousy on that early gathered Christian community or that chaotic, smelly sheep fold, but instead begin to see commonality.  Just like the early Christian community trying to make her way through the chaos, we too are making our way through chaos.  We are overcoming technological hurdles, welcoming strangers from all over the community and the globe in our worship, and finding community even in our isolation.  Our gathering now is weird and awkward and frustrating.  But our gathering is also encouraging and life-giving and hope-making.  And as we watch people’s names pop up on the screen and as we see comments of reassurance, we see beauty in this particular community, we see hope percolating up despite us, and we see that even as life feels stripped of all goodness, the Good Shepherd is indeed offering us life in abundance.  This week, the Good Shepherd is not some picture-perfect stained-glass version of a Shepherd with a lamb gently hanging over his shoulder.  This week, the Good Shepherd is standing beside us, his arm cocked over our shoulder, shaking his head with us at the immensity of this crazy reality, and simply giving us a reassuring, unspoken smile, and a nudge into some abundant life this week.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Jerusha Matsen Neal, “Commentary on Acts 2:42-47,” May 3, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4443 on May 1, 2020.

Sermon – John 10.22-30, Psalm 23, E4, YC, May 12, 2019

16 Thursday May 2019

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One of my good friends is enamored with the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd.  She can describe the chapel of the Good Shepherd at the National Cathedral in minute, passionate detail.  In her office are images of Christ the Good Shepherd.   I suspect that if you asked her who Jesus is to her, she would say he is the Good Shepherd.  And she would not be alone.  The verses of John immediately before the text we heard today about Jesus being the Good Shepherd is a favorite when planning funerals.  The 23rd Psalm, which says “The Lord is my Shepherd,” is perhaps the most well-know scripture passage of all time – known even by people who have not attended church in ages.  The passage from John we hear today talks about the intimacy between Jesus and Jesus’ followers being like sheep who know their shepherd’s voice.  The fourth Sunday of Easter is even called “Good Shepherd Sunday,” in the liturgical year.  We probably should have all worn those awesome sheep hats the Praise Band wears during the Epiphany pageant to show our sheep solidarity.

Despite all that – despite the familiarity, the wide-spread popularity, and the commitment of an entire day in the church calendar to shepherd imagery – I must confess something I have told very few people in life:  I do not really like the imagery of Christ as the Good Shepherd.  Now I know some of you may be shocked – how can a priest not like one of the most popular biblical metaphors?  Some of you may be perplexed – what’s not to like about the image of a good shepherd?  Some of you may be downright offended – how can I not relate to the metaphor that has sustained you countless times?

Let me break my dislike down for us.  I do not like the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd primarily because I do not like the idea of being sheep.  Now I know we have the Fiber Festival coming up this weekend, and I like wool as much as anybody, but sheep are not the brightest animals.  They are easily spooked, they tend to be a little clueless, they seem to lack individual intelligence, and they make a horrible bleating noise that sounds nothing like the “baa” of nursery rhymes.  Sheep are easily corralled – dogs are used to herd them in simply by nudging them all back together.  That rod and staff the 23rd Psalm talks about is used to physically push and prod sheep into uniformity.  And let’s not forget they are notorious for getting lost.  I mean, of all images to conjure up and celebrate on a given Sunday, we get to be sheep?!?

But as you and I both know, the things that make us the most uncomfortable are usually the things that are the most true.  Take for example the question and request of Jesus by those gathered around him in the temple, in the portico of Solomon.  They say to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense?  If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”  Jesus responds, “I have told you, and you do not believe.”  I cannot count the number of times we have asked Jesus this same question.  Sometimes the question is the exact same question as the one the people of faith ask today – are you the Messiah?  Can we believe in you?  Should we believe in you?  For anyone who has struggled with their faith – worried like those gathered at the tomb whether any of this Jesus stuff is true – the question and request today are not unfamiliar.  But we often ask this question in other ways.  As one writer confesses, there are countless times that we petition God with, “‘If you are.’  If you are good.  If you are powerful.  If you are loving.  If you are real.  If you are the Messiah, then stop talking in riddles.  Stop hiding when I long for your presence.  Stop awakening in me holy hungers you won’t satisfy.  Show up, speak plainly, act decisively.  Take this world of swirling, dubious gray, and turn it black and white, once and for all.”[i]  To all those questions, to all those longings, the response from Jesus to us is the same response of Jesus to the people of faith in our scripture lesson:  I have, but you do not believe.

Now here is where the text gets even more uncomfortable.  Jesus’ full words are, “I have told you, and you do not believe…because you do not belong to my sheep.”  Now there are all kinds of awful things that have been said historically about this text – the supersessionism of Christians over Jews, predestination, you name it![ii]  But I do not think Jesus was trying to exclude one group, or say, only one group will ever belong and everyone else is out.  I think what Jesus is trying to do is challenge people like me who do not like the idea of being sheep.  Jesus is saying today – I know you do not like being sheep, I know you do not like submitting control to me, I know that you do not like admitting that you do not have things all figured out.  When Jesus says, you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep, I think Jesus is saying, we do not belong because we are unwilling to belong.  In other words, we do not belong not because Jesus excludes – we do not belong because we actively fight belonging.  And because we fight belonging, we also struggle with believing.

One of my favorite church welcome videos features a series of concerns that often keep people away from church:  feeling like they do not lead lives that are good enough, worrying about unfamiliar or even weird cultural practices that might be uncomfortable, concern they might not fit in because of what they wear, or a sense that they could never belong to a group that has shown a history of hypocrisy.  To each concern, the church-goers have response.  Not sure what to wear?  Wear clothes.  Not sure your past sins will make you worthy?  We all have pasts that make us unworthy.  Worried about secret handshakes or stiff worship?  You’ll just find love and affirmation here.  Know the church is full of hypocrites?  Aren’t we all hypocrites?  What I love about the video is that belonging is more natural that belonging seems – and the more you spend time belonging, the more you realize your belonging helps you believe.  Belief does not come first.  It cannot come first.  Belonging comes first.

Author Debie Thomas says knowing belonging comes first is where our hope is today.  “According to this text, whatever belief I arrive at in this life will not come from the ups and downs of my own emotional life. It will not come from a creed, a doctrine, or a cleverly worded sermon.  Rather it will come from the daily, hourly business of belonging to Jesus’s flock — of walking in the footsteps of the Shepherd, living in the company of fellow sheep, and listening in real time for the voice of the one whose classroom is rocky hills, hidden pastures, and deeply shadowed valleys.  If I won’t follow him into those layered places — places of both tranquility and treachery, trust and doubt — I will never belong to him at all.”[iii]

For the longest time, I have resisted the metaphor of Jesus as our Good Shepherd because I did not like what being a sheep implied about my character and intellect.  But what I forgot in my resistance is that there are a whole lot of sheep around when I simply consent to belong.  Bumping into fellow sheep reminds me that I have companions along the journey who are also sometimes resistant to the guidance of Christ.  Bumping into fellow sheep reminds me that I am not alone in the things of life and faith I do not understand.  Bumping into fellow sheep reminds me going solo often leads to peril.  Bumping into fellow sheep really is not all that bad.  Not only do we have a shepherd who loves us unconditionally and irrationally, we also have a community where all our weakness, foibles, and sins are held in common, and forgiven.

Our invitation is to remember what John is actually saying today in his gospel.  As one scholar reminds us, “God is the one who initiates a relationship to us.  God seeks us out long before we seek God.  Christ makes us his sheep; we do not make him our shepherd.”[iv]  That is why we have long said as a people of faith, “The Lord is my shepherd…He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside still waters.”  I mean, if you want to keep fighting the invitation to belong, by all means.  Lord knows, I have tried that route.  But on this Good Shepherd Sunday, your invitation is to consider another way:  to lean into the sheep all around you today, to trust that the Shepherd actually is good; and to know that wherever you are in your belief journey, belonging is the easiest step to get you there.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Tell Us Plainly,” May 5, 2019, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2201 on May 8, 2019.

[ii] Thomas H. Troeger, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 447.

[iii] Thomas.

[iv] Troeger, 449.

Sermon – Psalm 23, E4, YB, April 22, 2018

25 Wednesday Apr 2018

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Many years ago, I was planning the funeral of a longtime, beloved church member.  We had visited on multiple occasions, and I knew all the stories about her children, including the son who was no longer going to church.  We talked about Jesus and her faith walk, and I always looked forward to sassy, witty, heartfelt stories.  When I sat down with her children to plan her funeral, I had an idea of what I could expect.  As we chose the lessons for the funeral, I shared with them that many people appreciate hearing the 23rd Psalm.  “Oh, no, we can’t do the 23rd Psalm,” the family protested.  A bit taken aback, since the parishioner I knew would have loved the psalm, they explained to me what had happened in her last days.  Her daughter had been comforting her one afternoon and decided to start reading scripture with her mom.  She started with the 23rd Psalm, and the mother snapped at her, saying, “Don’t read that one!  I’m not dead yet!”

Every year, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, we hear the 23rd Psalm.  Though many of us are more familiar with the King James Version, the words of Psalm 23 are words that are familiar even to those who do not attend church regularly.  Whether we have heard the psalm at a funeral, or read the psalm at someone’s deathbed, or seen the psalm on someone’s wall, the 23rd Psalm is one of the most well-known psalms in our culture.  Even in surveys, when asked about their favorite piece of scripture in times of trouble, many respondents name Psalm 23.[i]

In some respect, this familiarity and preference is a blessing and something to be celebrated.  But in other ways, this familiarity can be a tremendous hindrance to hearing these sacred words with fresh ears.  For example, most of us hear the psalm’s words as words of comfort for the dying.  We hear the words, “the valley of the shadow of death,” and we assume the whole psalm is about death.  Lying down in green pastures, remaining by still waters, gathering at a table, and having goodness and mercy follow us all sound like end of life images.  We envision the peaceful, beautiful resting place, gathered around the heavenly banquet table, and we take home the promise that no matter what happens in life, at least the ending will be a place of respite and relief.  And in some ways, that is true.  But I am not sure that is what this psalm is ultimately about; this is a psalm not about death, but about life.

The 23rd Psalm is a psalm on the move.[ii]  Throughout the psalm, we hear the activity of life.  Those green pastures we are going to lie down in are the places where we will find rest after a long day.  Those still waters are the sources of water we will need to drink in this earthly life.  Those righteous pathways we will be on are the paths of ethical living, those paths where we will seek and serve Christ, loving our neighbor as ourselves.  That rod and staff that will comfort us because those are God’s tools that will push and pull us toward our vocations and the purposes God gives us.  The dwelling we do in the house of the Lord is not the eternal dwelling place, but the earthly church where we find renewal for the journey.  That valley of the shadow of death is not the valley of death, but those shadowy places in our lives where we are reminded of the darkness of death:  times of illness, divorce, unemployment, loneliness.  The 23rd Psalm is not ultimately about a promise in death, but about the promise we are given in life – the promise of refreshment, restoration, reinvigoration for the journey of life.

This winter Charlie and I attended a training on church development.  One of the first images from the presentation was that of a base camp on a mountain.  We talked about the purpose of a base camp – what people need from and do at a base camp.  Ideas included rest, refreshment, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  No one mentioned making a permanent home or using base camp as a place of escape.  Our instructor then asked us how a base camp is similar to Church.  We began to talk about how Church does the same thing – is a place of refreshment, rest, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  Church is not a place to escape the real world or to hide away from hurt and pain.  Instead, Church is the place where we refill our tanks so that we can go out into the world – gathering the strength we need for the journey.  Church is not the house of the Lord where we will dwell forever.  In fact, that translation, “to dwell” is not helpful.  The word in Hebrew that is translated as “dwell” is better translated as “return.”[iii]  So instead of talking about a place where we will hide out from the world or imagining the heavenly kingdom where we will dwell, the psalmist is talking about the place we will keep returning – the base camp, the Church, where we will keep returning for strength so that we can get back into the world doing the activity of discipleship – the life where we will rest, drink, walk, be righteous, commune, and serve.[iv]

So just in case I have ruined Psalm 23 for you forever, making the psalm feel more like a psalm of work and labor as opposed to a psalm for rest and relief, have no fear.  There is one more line that similarly gets mistranslated which may open this text for you in another way.  In verse six, the psalmist says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”  Again, understanding the original Hebrew is helpful.  The word translated as “follow” is better translated as “pursue” or “chase down,”  Goodness and mercy shall chase me down all the days of my life.[v]  Shifting that word does a similar thing as the rest of the verbs in this text.  When goodness and mercy follow us, we often think of hindsight.  Bad things happen to us, but when we look back, we will see goodness and mercy came out of the bad things.  But the psalmist says something more powerful than that.  The psalmist says that goodness and mercy will pursue us – will hunt us down and knock us over with their power.  We will feel threatened by that valley of the shadow of death, or we will worry about places to lie or drink or walk.  But the psalmist tells us those worries are futile because even in the midst of those stresses, God’s goodness and mercy is constantly seeking to bowl us over.

Scholar Gary Simpson says this about God’s goodness, “The goodness of God is in every place before we ever arrive at any particular place.  The good things that happen to us along life’s journey do not happen because we have arrived.  God’s goodness has already been where we are planning to go.  The goodness of God is so present that every direction that we turn to look, wherever we are, we bump into goodness again.  It is perhaps egocentric and arrogant to think that goodness follows us.  The goodness of God goes ahead of us, clearing out new ground, pulling us to new terrain, lighting a pathway in the dark places of new possibility, opening doors that no one can shut.”[vi]

I think that parishioner resisted hearing the 23rd Psalm in her last days of life because like many of us, she had trapped the psalm in the land of the dying.  But the 23rd Psalm is a psalm for the land of the living – a psalm that commissions us to continue our work of discipleship, to move out into the world with the promise of the essentials we will need, to keep returning to God’s house for sustenance and refueling, and to remember that no matter what we face, God’s goodness is already there, chasing us down.  On this Good Shepherd Sunday, perhaps you were hoping to hear a few words of comfort, longing to dwell in this house for longer than an hour today.  But today, that Good Shepherd is prodding you with a staff, filling up your tank so that you can go out into the world, serving as God’s disciple in all the green pastures and right paths where God leads.  You can do your work because no matter how much those shadows linger, God’s goodness will chase you down – all the days of your life.  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” March 30, 2014, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2004 as found on April 19, 2018.

[ii] Joel LeMon, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” April 25, 2015, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3646 on April 19, 2018.

[iii] LeMon.

[iv] Cameron B.R. Howard, “#602 – Fourth Sunday of Easter,” April 14, 2018, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1008 on April 17, 2018.

[v] Gary V. Simpson “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 438.

[vi] Simpson, 440.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YA, April 16, 2017

27 Thursday Apr 2017

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Every generation has a baby name that is popular.  In my generation, that name was Jennifer.  As I was growing up, every grade had tons of Jennifers.  I became quite accustomed to the experience of eagerly looking up when someone called my name, only to be disappointed to see they were calling out to someone else.  The name was so common that by the time I got to college, I learned to ignore people calling out my name because more likely than not, they were not actually calling me.  They were calling one of the other twenty Jennifers nearby.  Although the practice helped me save face, the practice was a bit of a hindrance when someone actually was trying to get my attention.

The solution, of course, was a nickname – something to distinguish me from the sea of other Jennifers.  So in college, most of my buddies just started calling me “Andrews.”  It may sound silly, but having a name that was distinct, that when called, I knew I could answer, gave me a sense of belonging and identity.  When someone shouted, “Andrews” across the quad, I knew a friendly face would be looking for me when I raised my eyes.  Though seemingly simple, that nickname made me feel known, especially at a time when everyone is trying to figure out their new identity, where they belong, and who they will be.

I suspect that Mary was the common name in Jesus’ generation.  All we need to do is read through the New Testament to know that there are more Marys than we can count.  Sometimes I even have to look back when I come across a Mary to be sure I am thinking of the right one.  So when Jesus calls Mary Magdalene by name, I imagine there must have been some way she knows not only that this is Jesus, but also that he is talking to her.

Easter morning has been a rough morning for Mary.  She comes in the tomb before the first light of dawn has broken.  She is probably still a bit bleary eyed – that kind of haze one has in the days after a death of a beloved one.  She comes to halt before she gets all the way to the tomb though.  The stone that is supposed to be covering the tomb, protecting Jesus’ body, is gone.  Before even going in to assess the situation, Mary runs – runs hard to find the disciples, demanding that they get up and help her.  Two of them, the beloved disciple and Peter, sprint ahead of Mary.  She is too tired from her first run to keep up.  By the time she reaches the tomb, the two disciples are already stepping out of the tomb, Peter looking perplexed and the other disciple with an enigmatic smile.  And without so much as a word to her, they leave – just like they left Jesus on that fateful day.[i]  Mary, overcome with the memories of Jesus’ crucifixion and the continued emotion of this morning, breaks into tears.  When she finally checks inside the tomb herself, she not only sees two angels, she also has an encounter with a supposed gardener.  Frustrated by their insensitive questions, she exasperatedly asks the gardener to just tell her where the body is.

That is when the big news today happens.  The supposed gardener calls her by name.  Not the common name that everyone has.  The supposed gardener calls her by the name that only Jesus calls her.  The haze dissipates.  The tears halt.  The cloud of despair vanishes.  And she calls Jesus by the name that only a few call him, “Rabbouni!”  This is a tremendous moment in our text today.  In the flurry of running, and confusion, and questions, and tears, and despair, two people see each other crystal clearly.  Mary is called by her name – Jesus communicates to Mary that she is known, the she is beloved, that she has an identity and a purpose unique to her.  She is his sheep who knows and recognizes the voice of the shepherd – the Good Shepherd.[ii]  Her relief is palpable.  The return of her confidence is immediate.  Her sense of celebration is ready to explode!

When I was in high school, I had a summer where I attended both a short conference and then a long summer program.  Both were residential.  The conference was the Hugh O’Brian Youth Leadership conference, or HOBY for short.  I made a few fast friends, but was there just a few days.  A week or so later, I was off to a six-week residential program.  It was my first time staying away from home that long, and I was admittedly a bit nervous since no one else from my high school was going.  After I unloaded my bags, and was getting ready to say goodbye to my parents, someone behind my shouted, “Hey, HOBY!”  Without even looking at who it was, I knew I did not need to worry about belonging.  I was already known here.  I had a place here.  I could have a purpose for those six weeks.

We have all had those moments of clarity around identity, belonging, and purpose.  Whether we are returning to our home town after a long time away, whether we develop good friends at school or in a civic group, and whether that happens at a reunion, we all know the deep, profoundly affirming feeling that comes from being known.  For those of you with a church home, and especially for those of you who have found a home here at Hickory Neck, you most likely found that feeling here.  Perhaps the liturgy was what brought you a sense of identity – either the liturgy reminded you of a practice from your earlier life, or the liturgy offered something to you that you did not even know you were missing.  Perhaps a ministry at church brought you a sense of identity – those little sacred moments that come when you realize that you are actually really good at inspiring people to serve the world, making beautiful music, or teaching children about the love of God.  Or perhaps the community brought you a sense of identity – that first time when someone remembered your name or a part of your story, when someone came to you for expert advice, or when someone knew just by looking at you that you were hurting – and then offered to take you to lunch or coffee.  The church is a place where both Christ and the community call you by name.

Now I would love to tell you that the wonderfully affirming and life-giving feeling of being known is an end unto itself.  I would love to send you home on this beautiful Easter Day with simply a sense of love and affirmation.  And that is certainly part of the gift I am giving you today – to tell you that you can be known and loved here.  But something else happens to Mary at that tomb.  After that profound moment of affirmation, Jesus tells her to go and be a witness to the disciples.  Jesus always gives his beloved homework.  He is that teacher that even on a Friday will give you an assignment for the weekend!  But Mary does not see this as a burden.  Even though Jesus will not let her cling to him – cling to the way things used to be, Jesus’ affirmation this day propels her to go out and share the good news of the risen Lord with the disciples.  In this way, Jesus not only recognizes and honors her identity; Jesus also gives her purpose – a call.

That is your homework on this Easter Sunday.  I know you want to go eat those big Easter meals ,go find those Easter eggs, and find what Easter chocolate awaits at home.  But remember that while this place is a place that calls you by name and affirms your beautiful identity, this is also a place that commissions you to go out and share the good news.  That wonderful sense of affirmation is not for you to bottle up and keep for yourself.  That sense of affirmation is meant to embolden you to share that affirmation with others – to meet people where they are, to hear their stories, and to share how this day of resurrection, love, and affirmation is for them too.  In the same way that you have a vocation, a call on your life, you also are to affirm vocation and call in others.  So this week, as you bask in the warmth and beauty of this day, go out and share that good news with others.  Someone may be waiting for you to call them by name.  Amen.

[i] Richard B. Hays, “Do Not Cling to Me,” Christian Century, vol. 109, no. 10, March 18-25, 1992, 299.

[ii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 241.