Sheep and Shepherds

By Thomas Murphy, Seminarian Intern

It's hard to believe that it's the Fourth Sunday of Easter already. It was a wonderful Easter celebration here at St. George's. I missed Maundy Thursday, but Good Friday was a powerful service and it was an amazing experience to enter the darkened church for the Easter Vigil. On Easter Sunday morning, I think the family service was my favorite with a very convincing Roman centurion outside telling all of us there was nothing to see here -- and then letting us in on some surprising information -- the tomb of Jesus of Nazareth was empty. And don't get me started on the release of the "Alleluia Bugs"! It was a wonderful, joyous time.

But then the weeks roll by and pretty quickly things get back to normal -- the usual challenges, messes and small joys of life. And even in church, although it's still the Easter season we can easily shift into cruise control and not pay much attention to what's happening week after week. And so it would be very easy for us to roll past Good Shepherd Sunday and not give it a second thought.

What we celebrate today is profound, beautiful and challenging. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. And so are we. We are both sheep and shepherd.

I have to admit that much of the shepherd/sheep imagery in the Bible is a real problem for me. First of all, I find it difficult to relate. Having lived in the city my whole life, my encounters with sheep have been few and far between -- maybe just a couple of trips to the Turtle Back Zoo when I was a kid. Cats, squirrels, and pigeons I know -- sheep not so much. And I'm pretty sure I've never seen a shepherd in person.

Second, from the little I do know, sheep are inoffensive but not the brightest of animals in God's creation. Somehow, it seems a little insulting to be compared to a sheep. Just the other night I was flipping through the channels and came across a documentary about dogs. Part of the show focused on sheepdogs in England who have learned dozens of commands whistled by the shepherd. These clever dogs are able to move and corral the seemingly mindless sheep without a bit of trouble.

But, the sheep/shepherd imagery pops up throughout the Bible and is found all over Christianity. Obviously, it lives on in bishops' staffs and the title "pastor." Over at General Seminary for the past three years I have sat in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd and looked at the statue of Jesus the Good Shepherd which stands just behind the altar. In the statue, Jesus looks down lovingly at the little lamb that he holds in his arms. I've tried to warm up to the image, but even after three years it still seems too saccharine for my tastes. I don't like to think of myself as a little lamb or a dumb sheep.

So what's a seminarian to do? What's a Christian to do? Well, if like me, you struggle with the sheep image today's lessons powerfully show us that there's nothing saccharine about it. The author of Revelation writes "For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd." If we're not paying attention, it's easy to miss what's being said here. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. Jesus gives his life on the cross and Jesus leads us into eternal life. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. And the truth is, whether we like it or not, we're sheep all right -- but we are also called to be shepherds.

In last Sunday's gospel lesson we heard, "Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep."

And now today's reading from the Acts of the Apostles is sort of a sequel to last week's gospel lesson. Acts records a very powerful, miraculous way that Peter took up the work of feeding Jesus' sheep -- the raising of the disciple Tabitha from the dead. Peter has been a sheep, all right. We've seen Peter have trouble understanding Jesus' message. Most painfully, we've seen Peter abandon the Lord and deny him three times. And yet, Jesus the Good Shepherd never gives up on Peter, despite his stumbling and despite his failures. Finally, although Peter will indeed remain a sheep all his life, yet he is also called to be a shepherd. And the same is true for us -- you and I are both sheep and shepherds.

It is our arrogance that leads us to deny our sheep-like quality. Too often we like to think we're smarter than we are. We like to think that we've pretty much got everything figured out. Some of that fades as we mature -- but not all of it. Especially in our own time when science continues to push the boundaries of our knowledge, it's all too easy to fall into the arrogant trap of thinking we've pretty much got everything figured out -- that we're in charge. I would guess that sheep don't much consider that there is a big world beyond their own pasture -- to them they know all that's really worth knowing. They've got it all figured out. I suspect we're not so different- although we should be. This arrogance and sinfulness usually leads to at least embarrassment and at worst disaster.

I'm reminded of how in the 19th Century supposedly there was a proposal to close up the US Patent Office because, well, pretty much everything had been invented. That kind of arrogance and short-sightedness is just funny now, but as we think about our own lives how many times has our own arrogance led us to embarrassment or led us to hurt others and ultimately hurt ourselves? The ancient Greek philosophers and writers understood this very well when they described how hubris -- excessive pride -- led to the downfall of so many.

But it's not just the idea that we've figured everything out -- many of us also suffer under the illusion of control. If you've been around a while you've probably learned that actually we have very little control, but we still seem to forget. Quite a few times I've visited people in the hospital who express great anger and shock that they have lost so much control of their lives. But really they've just been forced to recognize what's been true all along.

For me the road to ordination has been a vivid example of a lack of control. Step by step Chris Carroll, myself, all of us in the ordination process, have been at the mercy of others who say yes or no about our futures. No control, not always fun, often stressful, but a good lesson to remember. We sheep are not in control.

But, fellow sheep, the good news this morning is that the Lord is our shepherd. The 23rd Psalm -- which has comforted so many -- affirms that God is with us in our distress. God is with in the times that our stupidity and arrogance get us into trouble. God's rod and staff comfort us. The Good Shepherd's goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives. So maybe it's not so bad to be a sheep after all!

But, we are not just sheep. We are also called to be shepherds. Peter was commanded by Jesus to feed and tend the sheep, and so too we are expected to feed and look after one another. In the Episcopal Church this is actually fairly easy to remember because we have become so centered in baptism and the Baptismal Covenant. During a baptism everyone assembled promises to support the newly baptized in their life in Christ. We promise to be shepherds.

In the Baptismal Covenant we promise to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. We promise to seek and serve God in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves. We promise to strive for justice sand peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being. We promise to be shepherds.

In our baptism we -- lowly sheep that we are -- are called to be shepherds. All of us -- not just bishops with their staffs -- not just people with the title pastor -- all of us sheep are also called to be shepherds. We are all called to take part in the work of Jesus Christ in the world. We are called to tend our fellow sheep. It is a daunting task, but we know that the Good Shepherd, the One Shepherd of All, is guiding our work and walking with us all the days of our life.

As this sheep gets ready to move on to a new, yet-to-be-known pasture, I've been reflecting on my too brief time here at St. George's. I've been in an interesting position of being part of the community -- you've been wonderfully welcoming -- but also still something of an outsider. And so maybe I can see you a little more clearly than you can see yourselves.

I have seen wonderful sheep-shepherds all over this church. One of the reasons I came here was to get a sense of suburban life. I could go on about all the things I've observed and learned in these past few months but most of all I've been impressed by your diversity -- in all sorts of ways. But, considering the disagreements that are causing so much pain in the Episcopal Church, I have been deeply moved and comforted by the bonds of care between straight and gay people here. Sexual orientation seems to make little difference -- the people of St. George's are all sheep-shepherds trying to serve God and take care of one another. The genuine care for one another in this place has been a joy and inspiration to experience. I am very grateful.

So on this joyous Fourth Sunday of Easter let us all pray that we open ourselves to the saving truth that we are all sheep cared for and loved by the Good Shepherd. And let us pray that we will open ourselves to the truth that we are all shepherds called to care and love one another.

Amen.

© 2007 Thomas Murphy

Good Friday

By Thomas Murphy, Seminarian Intern

Over the past week a few people from our diocese have been exchanging emails on the topic of salvation. It's been a very interesting conversation. The discussion really boils down to the question, how exactly are we saved? How does Jesus save us? A very appropriate topic for Holy Week! I've been following the emails back and forth and thinking about the question.

In the discussion, some people have supported the traditional understanding that God requires Jesus to pay for our sins on the Cross. Since we could never redeem ourselves, God sent his only Son to substitute for us, to take on our sin. In other words, Jesus was a blood sacrifice -- the Lamb of God -- that sets things right between God and us. Jesus pays our debt to God and we are saved.

Others reject that explanation, saying it turns God into a bloodthirsty monster, willing to brutally sacrifice his own innocent Son. Instead, they suggest that we are saved by the example of Jesus' life. They argue that in Jesus we see who we are supposed to be and how we are supposed to live. Jesus lived his life in loving self-giving and so we are made, we are called, to be like Jesus.

As I've thought and prayed about this I've decided that neither description of our salvation is satisfactory. It is wrong to select one moment or one element of Jesus' life as the cause of our salvation. We are saved by Jesus -- we are saved by God becoming fully present in Jesus -- we are saved by the entire sweep of Jesus' life -- from the manger in Bethlehem to the Cross on Calvary to the empty tomb on Easter morning. We are saved by this life of perfect love, this life of perfect self-giving, this perfect sacrifice for the whole world.

And in our church we are blessed indeed to have liturgies that reflect the indivisible mystery that is Jesus Christ. Over these three holy days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter we live into the truth that there is no separation between death and resurrection. There is no separation between suffering and salvation. From the washing of the apostles' feet on Maundy Thursday to the empty tomb on Easter morning we celebrate the one great act of love that is Jesus Christ. The love of God poured out for the world in Jesus Christ. We are saved.

The earliest church understood this indivisible mystery so they celebrated Christ's life, death and resurrection all at once. Although a nightmare for the Altar Guild, there's something to be said for that, because the danger for us is that we skip over the suffering. The danger is that we skip over the suffering and move right on to salvation. And that's why we have Good Friday. That's why we're here today.

We gather not to get ourselves worked up over the suffering of one man who lived two-thousand years ago, especially if we're not worked up by the many thousands of people suffering in even worse ways right now. No, we gather today and remember the death of Jesus on the Cross because the Cross is the end result of loving service to the world. The Cross is part of the great sweep of Christ's life. The Cross is part of the great act of love that is Jesus Christ. Jesus -- and we -- can't separate suffering from salvation. And so even though we know how the story ends, we must not skip over the suffering.

I have to admit that in the past I have been impatient with Good Friday. I remember my first Good Friday at the seminary when it came time for the veneration of the cross. I hadn't seen that done before, and I thought it was a little… excessive. The service was long already and one by one seminarians and faculty knelt before the cross, heads bowed in prayer. I remember thinking this is a bit much -- can't we move it along a little? I have to get back to Jersey City! And, let's stop pretending. After all, we know that this story has a happy ending!

Last year, though, I had no choice but to stop and venerate the cross. I had no choice but to reflect in a tangible way on Christ's suffering. Some of you know that each year the churches along Broad Street in downtown Newark participate in a Good Friday walk. The crowd stops in each church where a member of the clergy gives a homily on one of the seven last words. The walk begins at my former field placement parish, House of Prayer.

Anyway, last year I just barely got from the seminary to House of Prayer on time. I was wet from the rain. I had had enough of Good Friday and was ready to move on to Easter. After all, we know how the story ends. Just as the service was beginning someone leaned over and told me that I was going to carry the cross from House of Prayer to the next church a few blocks away. No one had warned me. I hadn't had a chance to lift the cross. How heavy was it anyway? Was there a certain way I was supposed to carry it? I looked at the Stations of the Cross on the wall of the church and saw how the artist depicted Jesus carrying the cross over his shoulder and I thought, well, that's what I'll do too.

The time came and I led the congregation out of House of Prayer and onto Broad Street. The cross was heavy enough that I could feel its weight on my shoulder. I could feel its rough texture on my hands. As I made my way through the drizzle and down Broad Street people stopped in their tracks and looked at the cross on my shoulder. Cars slowed and drivers and passengers stared. Their expressions were a strange mix of curiosity, sadness, and understanding.

Finally we arrived at the next church and I handed off the cross. I can't say that I remember much of the homilies I heard that day but I vividly recall the feel of the cross on my shoulder and in my hands. It was the most powerful Good Friday of my life. In some small way I understood the real, physical suffering of Christ -- suffering that was the end result of loving service to the world. Suffering that was the end result of healing the sick, forgiving sinners and challenging hypocrites. We cannot separate suffering and salvation. We cannot separate death and resurrection.

So, what about us here today? What does Good Friday mean for us? We are called to take up the work of Jesus Christ. In a real sense the Church is born at the foot of the Cross. We are called to live our lives in loving service. We are called -- in our own way -- to be like Jesus -- to be broken and poured out for the world. Listen to the prayers that are next in the service. You'll hear that we are now taking up the work of Jesus Christ. In his life, death and resurrection Jesus has shown us the way. We are called to love and called to serve. We know that a life of love and service means that, like Jesus, we too will experience suffering. But we need not be afraid. After all, we know what happens next. Thanks to the one great act of love that is Jesus Christ -- we are saved.

Amen.

© 2007 Thomas Murphy

The Unexpected

By Thomas Murphy, Seminarian Intern

These past few months I've been writing a thesis on Ignatius of Loyola, who's probably best known as the founder of the Jesuits. Before entering seminary I taught at a Jesuit high school -- the same school that I had attended. It's been wonderful getting reacquainted with Ignatius. (Let's get the shameless plug out of the way: this Saturday morning I'll be leading a mini-retreat on Ignatian Spirituality -- I hope you'll be able to join us.) Anyway, as I have read about Ignatius and reflected on his life, I have been deeply moved by how over and over things did not work out quite the way that Ignatius expected.

Growing up in the Basque region of Spain at the end of the 15th and beginning of the 16th Centuries, Ignatius -- like many young men of his time -- dreamed of the glories of battle. That romantic dream came to an abrupt end when both of his legs were shattered by a cannonball. During his long, painful -- and never really complete -- recovery he came to the conclusion that God was calling him to a different kind of glory -- he was to go to the Holy Land and convert the Muslims. He actually got to Jerusalem but was quickly sent back home. Back to the drawing board! Then he decided that God was calling him to get more education. To begin he had to learn Latin -- so this once proud and vain man sat in the same class with little boys and struggled to master the ancient language. And finally, Ignatius, who had dreamed of adventure, ended up his last years sitting behind a desk writing letters - managing his worldwide religious order, the Society of Jesus.

Ignatius came to realize in profound ways that God does the unexpected. And really his whole spirituality was focused on paying close attention to the unexpected things God is doing in our lives -- the unexpected ways that God is at work in our lives. Now I suspect that all of us have learned one way or another that God does the unexpected. Over the past few weeks I have been moved to hear some of your stories -- how you found this warm and dynamic community of St. George's -- sometimes just when you were ready to give up on God or to give up on the Church. Your stories have reminded me of my own story -- I was a Roman Catholic teaching in a Roman Catholic high school who one Sunday went to St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Jersey City, mostly out of curiosity to see what the inside of the church looked like. And for one of the few times in my life, I knew that this was exactly right. And, talk about unexpected, somehow I'm here standing in your pulpit today!

So God does the unexpected, and yet I think we often forget that fact. Or maybe we'd like to forget it. God doing the unexpected makes us uneasy. Most of us are usually not too crazy about change or about surprises. We like to think that we've got God all figured out. This usually, of course, means that we think God is pretty much just like us.

It seems appropriate that during Lent we take some time for humility. We can use these days of sacrifice to remind ourselves that we do not control God. We can remind ourselves that our ways are not God's ways. We can pay extra attention and be open to God working in our lives -- especially to be open to God doing the unexpected. So it's helpful that in each of today's readings we are reminded that our ways are not God's ways. We are reminded that God acts in unexpected ways.

The prophet Isaiah is writing to an Israelite community that has suffered through the Babylonian exile. They suffered the shock of seeing the Temple desecrated, Jerusalem destroyed, and spending decades exiled in Babylon -- desperately trying to hold on to their faith and their identity in the midst of so much pain and suffering. It seemed like all was lost. But now Isaiah describes God as doing the unexpected. God says through Isaiah, "I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" What is this new thing? Something unexpected - God anoints Cyrus, a Persian -- not a Jew -- to free the Jews from their bondage and allow them to return to their homeland. By choosing Cyrus as the "anointed one" God once again does the unexpected.

In the passage from the letter to the Philippians, we find Paul again defending his credentials. This must have gotten very frustrating after a while! We can assume Paul is defending himself because there were others preaching a different gospel to the Philippians -- a gospel probably based on rituals such as circumcision. Paul defends himself by saying in Christ God has done the unexpected. Oh sure, Paul has all the traditional qualifications -- circumcised on the eighth day, a son of Israel, a Pharisee, a scrupulous follower of the Law.

But Paul has come to realize that God has done the unexpected. The purity codes gave people so much comfort and certainty -- I'm in with God because of my rituals and my heritage. Yet, in Christ, God reveals that purity and birthright are not the things that really matter. Over and over, Jesus crosses boundaries, eating with sinners and teaching both Jews and non-Jews -- and even women! In Christ, God has done the unexpected -- opening salvation to all people -- to people in Philippi and to people in Maplewood.

Finally we come to today's reading from the Gospel of John -- the anointing at Bethany. It's a strange and mysterious scene isn't it? Lazarus -- recently raised from the dead -- is there, as are his sisters Mary and Martha. The sisters are true to their characters -- Martha is working away and Mary is at Jesus' feet. Judas is there as well. The strangest part of the story, of course, is when Mary anoints Jesus' feet with very expensive perfume. And then she wipes his feet with her hair. Talk about crossing boundaries! Talk about the unexpected! Judas has seen enough and erupts -- pointing out that the money they could have gotten for the perfume would have helped a lot of poor people.

And then we get one more dose of the unexpected, when Jesus responds with the famous sentence, "You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." Doesn't really sound very much like Jesus, does it?

So, what to make of this strange passage? One of the techniques that Ignatius used is what is known as the fantasy meditation. Essentially, one reads or hears a passage of Scripture and then imagines being there – actually seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling what's going on.

It's a powerful way of approaching Scripture and prayer. But in the case of the anointing at Bethany I have a little problem. You can probably guess where I am going with this. Here I am two months shy of ordination and I find myself strongly identifying with Judas Iscariot -- that can't be good! Now John clearly stacks the deck against Judas claiming that he didn't really care about the poor. He was angry about the waste because he was stealing from the common purse. Maybe so. But doesn't Judas have a point? I mean, what's going on here? We have this very valuable perfume and Mary is pouring it on Jesus' feet -- what a waste in dusty Palestine. Meanwhile we know about the grinding poverty that people faced -- that people face -- every day.

I would expect Jesus to stand up for the poor -- wouldn't you? Didn't Jesus tell us to give up all our possessions and follow him? Didn't Jesus tell us that we must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned? Sure he did -- Judas knows this and we know it too. So now we're just going to literally pour this wealth away? And to add insult to injury we have Jesus saying "You always have the poor with you."

You know how that line has been interpreted, right? For centuries Christians have agreed, sure we should do everything we can to help the poor, but we shouldn't think that we can ever create a society without poverty. After all, you know what Jesus said, right?

I have even heard people criticize the Episcopal Church's commitment to the Millennium Development Goals -- which have the ultimate goal of actually eradicating poverty. Some people criticize the church for giving these material goals so much emphasis, because … you know what Jesus said, "You always have the poor with you."

Can you see why I'm with Judas on this? Here's a concrete example of sympathizing with Judas: My seminary class has sold scarves to raise money for our senior class gift. We raised over $20,000! That's a lot of scarves and a lot of cash. On our senior retreat we began to discuss what kind of gift we might give to the seminary. One suggestion was to spend the money on outreach. The seminary has been having trouble with the neighbors and one of the frequent accusations has been that the seminary is disconnected from the surrounding community. So some people thought that was a good idea -- maybe we could support an after-school program, or a homeless shelter, or the like.

Then someone pointed out that the green vestments in the chapel were getting a little frayed and so maybe we should consider buying new vestments. And you can be sure that these wouldn't be some machine-washable polyester vestments, but the best -- ideally imported from England, of course. So I had my Judas moment -- I thought of the parable of the talents. I could imagine God asking, so what did you do with the $20,000? And our answer: we bought new green vestments for the chapel. I felt righteous indignation building up in my chest.

And yet, Jesus approves of Mary anointing his feet with the costly perfume. Our ways are not God's ways. God does the unexpected.

A few months ago I read the book God's Politics by Jim Wallis, who's the editor of Sojourners magazine. Have any of you read it? It's a powerful book with the basic premise that the Church has to be involved in politics -- but that God is not a Democrat or a Republican. Wallis insists that Christ's Church must be committed to social justice and to the poor. But Wallis admits that, unfortunately, Jesus' best-known words about poverty are, "You always have the poor with you."

Wallis claims that when we hear fatalism or apathy we are misinterpreting Jesus' words. Wallis says Jesus is really saying -- you've been with me, you've seen who I eat with, who I spend time with. You know my teaching. So if you are going to follow me then you -- the church -- will always be close to the poor. And if you're close to the poor, then it is OK to be like Mary, it's OK to be extravagant with worship and celebration. If we're close to the poor, then it's OK to buy the new green vestments!

In my short time here, it seems to me that St. George's really gets that. I've been really impressed by your outreach efforts and your abundant generosity to those in need close by and far away. And of course the worship here is beautiful. But Lent is a good time for all of us to pause and reflect and to make sure that our spiritual life -- our life of service and praise -- is balanced and healthy.

So maybe sometime later today we can do a little Ignatian meditation. Let's imagine we're in a corner of the room watching as Mary anoints Jesus. It's a strange and mysterious scene. We hear and see Judas get angry. We hear Jesus' say something unexpected, "You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." We get it. We understand what Jesus means. And so from our corner we speak up and promise Jesus that we will open our hearts to God's unexpected ways. And we also promise to both keep the poor close to us and to worship God with joy and extravagance.

Now let us prepare for the feast.

Amen.

© 2007 Thomas Murphy