Sunday, April 21, 2024
1.
The Jesus we meet in John’s Gospel is in some ways a very different cat from the one we meet in Matthew, Mark and Luke. He’s kind of one part mystic, one part rabbi and one part beat poet. Think Jack Kerouac, Mary Oliver and Maimonides wrapped up into one. It’s not so much the one-liners with John’s Jesus—as it is the way he gets to his point, his breathtaking audacity, even the metaphors that cause us to say, “Huh?” “What was that?” To get this Jesus, to really hear this Jesus, you want to find a corner table in a smoky pub and get comfortable, or a poetry slam in a coffee house, or a storefront church at the intersection of hope and holy cow.
“I am the bread of life / the bread of life / the bread of life,” he raps in the corner, and then he riffs on the multiplication of mercy, and the nourishment found in community, his community. The immediacy of God. “I am the resurrection / I said the resurrection / I said the resurrection and the life,” he whistles to a coffee house crowd, and then he riffs on the kind of power they receive in prayer and purpose together. One part mystic, one part rabbi, and one part beat poet. And, this morning, in our own reading, we get “I am the Good Shepherd.” “I am the Good Shepherd.” And then he riffs on the difference between the shepherd who knows his sheep, who loves his sheep—and the hired one who runs for the fences when trouble comes, who leaves the sheep to face the wolves alone.
And this is a big deal for us, urgently important to the church today. Jesus is not one to run for the fences when trouble comes. Jesus is not one to pick and choose who gets God’s love, who gets God’s care, who gets the gentle and generous protection of God’s hand. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the doubters and the believers. For the lost and the found. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the transgender servants of God, and the cis-gender servants of God. For the migrants and the sons and daughters of migrants. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says.
So the cadence of John’s Gospel is different. The rhythm of John shakes things up. Causes us to wonder and moves us to care. This Jesus, the Jesus we meet in John’s Gospel, is far more likely to take over a room with his poetry, with his mysticism, and with his “I am’s.” “I am the Light of the World.” And then, “I am the Door to Mercy and Meaning.” And then, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.” His intention, it seems, Jesus’ intention, is as much bewilderment and curiosity, as it is clarity and devotion. He wants us to ask, “How?” He hopes we’ll ask, “Why?”
This Jesus is determined to build a community, a church, vulnerable to amazement, befuddled by their teacher, willing to wonder what in the world he’s doing and where in the world he’s going. He’s not interested in a bunch of theological parrots, after all, but in a church of sisters and siblings, brothers and lovers. And those are different things.
2.
Now let’s talk about these “I AMs” a little bit. Jesus’ preoccupation with “I AM” statements is particularly important to John, but also to us, and how we lean into the mysteries of the gospel. We are not to take Jesus for granted. Jesus didn’t want that. We are not to assume we always know or understand. Jesus resists our expectations, even our convictions. In fact, all these “I AM” statements stoke more fires than they put out. And that may well be the point. I am. I am. I am. They harken back, of course, to the great narrative of the Exodus itself, and to the divine name revealed to Moses at the burning bush. Jesus aims to surprise us in the same way the unknowable is known to Moses in the desert.
Remember how that goes? “I am who I am,” says the shimmering light to the shepherd. Yahweh! “I will be who I will be,” says the presence to the prophet. Yahweh! And then to Moses: “This is what you are to say to the Israelites suffering in Egypt: I AM has sent me to you. I AM has sent me to you. I AM has heard your cry.” Yahweh! The unsayable name of God. Yahweh. “I am who I am.” The unknowable, known now in compassion and love.
So when Jesus says to us, “I am the Good Shepherd”; when he says, “The Good Shepherd puts the sheep before himself”; he’s affirming God’s immeasurable grace, God’s undivided heart, God’s passion for the wholeness and wellness of the flock. And when Jesus says to us, “I am the Good Shepherd”; when he says, “I know my sheep and my sheep know me;” he’s making to us a commitment that will not be broken; he’s promising to us lovingkindness and mercy beyond imagining. The unknowable, known now in compassion and love.
At the very heart of our lives, at the very center of our being—whether we feel it or not—is the power and peace that brings light out of darkness and love from despair. Here, in Jesus, is the mystery of being, of existence itself. Yahweh. I am who I am. Here, in Jesus, is the creativity of the creator—seeking out friends, partners, collaborators, co-conspirators. Yahweh. I will be who I will be. Here, in Jesus, is the unsayable, but tantalizingly imminent presence of God. Yahweh. And this God will not abandon the sheep. Not a single one of them. And this God will always stay close. To the whole flock. And this God calls us by name. Yours, mine, all of us.
3.
And isn’t it significant, friends, isn’t it delightful, isn’t it important to recognize the next piece of this? That Jesus goes on to say: “You need to know,” and he’s talking to Christians today as much as believers in any other age. “You need to know that I have other sheep in addition to those in this field.” Just let this settle in a bit. “You need to know that I have other sheep in addition to those in this field.” This is God’s way. This is God’s heart. This is God’s Good Shepherd. He’s liberal and lavish in his loving. He’s global and universal in his gathering. “And I need to gather and bring them too,” he says. “I need to gather and bring them too.”
He doesn’t say: “I need to go out and threaten them if they don’t believe in me.” He doesn’t say: “I need to go out and change everything about their cultures and beliefs and ways of praying.” He simply and lovingly says: “I need to gather them and bring them too.” So everything Jesus comes to do, and everything Jesus comes to say, and all the sacrifices Jesus makes—he makes for us all. For agnostics and believers. For atheists and mystics. For Christians and Jews and Muslims and Hindu and Buddhists and indigenous practitioners on every continent speaking a thousand languages. The point of this Good Shepherd’s loving is not to divide and conquer! Of course not, the point of this Good Shepherd’s sacrifice is gathering, gathering, gathering and uniting. One flock, one Shepherd. I am who I am. I will be who I will be. One flock, one life, one planet, one breath. And no mistakes!
I ran into a friend at the Freedom Café the other day, as I was draining the last drips from a cup of dark roast; and (of all things) he was surprisingly eager to talk about our steeple. Not my latest Op Ed in the Concord Monitor. And not the really cool Immigration Timeline downstairs. But our steeple. He’s not a church-going friend, this fellow, but a curious and appreciative neighbor in every way. And he’d seen the banner out front here, and even followed the link, and he was curious about the campaign to repair and even save the steeple: whether there was any risk of losing it, whether others were stepping forward to contribute, that kind of thing. I’m not sure I’d ever encountered anyone so eager, even so zealous, to talk about a church steeple. But so he was. And I’ve learned, over many years, to go with the flow!
So he told me that often, as he’s driving into town early in the morning, he catches the sun’s light—the early glow of a sunrise—glancing off our steeple and shimmering like the embers of some kind of cosmic fire. He said it mesmerizes him, this shimmering, this transfiguration of place and time. And he said it just fills his soul with wonder and hope—as a kind of reminder that there will be light in the deep dark, and there will be beauty in the hard work of a day, and there will be grace in all kinds of people he’ll meet.
He's an activist, this particular friend, and a hard-working one at that. And he feels the world’s vulnerability in his bones, he worries for its cruelty and the madness of war. I'm rather confident he goes to sleep every night worrying whether it’ll all be here in the morning. I never really thought of him as a steeple kind of a guy. But he went on and on. Somehow, somehow, what he sees through his windshield is a church and a promise: that there is a Spirit in the world that will not abandon us, that there is a Spirit in our lives that will reveal purpose beyond our fearfulness, that there is a Spirit in the sunrise that desires our wholeness and seeks out our joy.
He said all that, or something like it, as we’re standing with coffee cups, at the counter. I have to say, it was kind of cool. Reminded me of Jesus—the mystic, the rabbi, the beat poet in a Durham café!
4.
Friends, what we have in the gospel, and what we offer to the world is God’s passion for wonder, for connection and for mercy. Again and again, that passion intends to delight us, aims to amaze us, and promises to flip old notions of religion and faith upside down. What the Good Shepherd desires is the gathering of a flock—not to agree on all the details, not to mimic one another’s ways and habits—but to rejoice in being a flock. To cherish the strange gifts of human community. To follow through on commitments to justice, liberation and equity. To recognize in one another the wonders of creation and the presence of its Creator. A diverse flock, a strange one, and wildly unpredictable—but a flock just the same. Gathered by a shepherd who will sacrifice everything to bring us together.
So as we go out into the world this week, let’s go out as emissaries of this good news, as ambassadors of this grace. Don’t fall, friends, for the jeering threats of shepherds who say they care but certainly do not. Don’t give in to the anxious nattering of shepherds who promise protection but are in it only for themselves. Know that the Good Shepherd calls to you. You will recognize his voice. The Good Shepherd calls you by name. Trust in the world of wonders that opens to you by the light of his countenance, by the sound of his breath. Trust in the Shepherd who sacrifices everything to bring us, all of us, every last one of us, together.
Amen and Ashe!
“I am the bread of life / the bread of life / the bread of life,” he raps in the corner, and then he riffs on the multiplication of mercy, and the nourishment found in community, his community. The immediacy of God. “I am the resurrection / I said the resurrection / I said the resurrection and the life,” he whistles to a coffee house crowd, and then he riffs on the kind of power they receive in prayer and purpose together. One part mystic, one part rabbi, and one part beat poet. And, this morning, in our own reading, we get “I am the Good Shepherd.” “I am the Good Shepherd.” And then he riffs on the difference between the shepherd who knows his sheep, who loves his sheep—and the hired one who runs for the fences when trouble comes, who leaves the sheep to face the wolves alone.
And this is a big deal for us, urgently important to the church today. Jesus is not one to run for the fences when trouble comes. Jesus is not one to pick and choose who gets God’s love, who gets God’s care, who gets the gentle and generous protection of God’s hand. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the doubters and the believers. For the lost and the found. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the transgender servants of God, and the cis-gender servants of God. For the migrants and the sons and daughters of migrants. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says.
So the cadence of John’s Gospel is different. The rhythm of John shakes things up. Causes us to wonder and moves us to care. This Jesus, the Jesus we meet in John’s Gospel, is far more likely to take over a room with his poetry, with his mysticism, and with his “I am’s.” “I am the Light of the World.” And then, “I am the Door to Mercy and Meaning.” And then, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.” His intention, it seems, Jesus’ intention, is as much bewilderment and curiosity, as it is clarity and devotion. He wants us to ask, “How?” He hopes we’ll ask, “Why?”
This Jesus is determined to build a community, a church, vulnerable to amazement, befuddled by their teacher, willing to wonder what in the world he’s doing and where in the world he’s going. He’s not interested in a bunch of theological parrots, after all, but in a church of sisters and siblings, brothers and lovers. And those are different things.
2.
Now let’s talk about these “I AMs” a little bit. Jesus’ preoccupation with “I AM” statements is particularly important to John, but also to us, and how we lean into the mysteries of the gospel. We are not to take Jesus for granted. Jesus didn’t want that. We are not to assume we always know or understand. Jesus resists our expectations, even our convictions. In fact, all these “I AM” statements stoke more fires than they put out. And that may well be the point. I am. I am. I am. They harken back, of course, to the great narrative of the Exodus itself, and to the divine name revealed to Moses at the burning bush. Jesus aims to surprise us in the same way the unknowable is known to Moses in the desert.
Remember how that goes? “I am who I am,” says the shimmering light to the shepherd. Yahweh! “I will be who I will be,” says the presence to the prophet. Yahweh! And then to Moses: “This is what you are to say to the Israelites suffering in Egypt: I AM has sent me to you. I AM has sent me to you. I AM has heard your cry.” Yahweh! The unsayable name of God. Yahweh. “I am who I am.” The unknowable, known now in compassion and love.
At the very heart of our lives, at the very center of our being—whether we feel it or not—is the power and peace that brings light out of darkness and love from despair. Here, in Jesus, is the mystery of being, of existence itself. Yahweh. I am who I am. Here, in Jesus, is the creativity of the creator—seeking out friends, partners, collaborators, co-conspirators. Yahweh. I will be who I will be. Here, in Jesus, is the unsayable, but tantalizingly imminent presence of God. Yahweh. And this God will not abandon the sheep. Not a single one of them. And this God will always stay close. To the whole flock. And this God calls us by name. Yours, mine, all of us.
3.
And isn’t it significant, friends, isn’t it delightful, isn’t it important to recognize the next piece of this? That Jesus goes on to say: “You need to know,” and he’s talking to Christians today as much as believers in any other age. “You need to know that I have other sheep in addition to those in this field.” Just let this settle in a bit. “You need to know that I have other sheep in addition to those in this field.” This is God’s way. This is God’s heart. This is God’s Good Shepherd. He’s liberal and lavish in his loving. He’s global and universal in his gathering. “And I need to gather and bring them too,” he says. “I need to gather and bring them too.”
He doesn’t say: “I need to go out and threaten them if they don’t believe in me.” He doesn’t say: “I need to go out and change everything about their cultures and beliefs and ways of praying.” He simply and lovingly says: “I need to gather them and bring them too.” So everything Jesus comes to do, and everything Jesus comes to say, and all the sacrifices Jesus makes—he makes for us all. For agnostics and believers. For atheists and mystics. For Christians and Jews and Muslims and Hindu and Buddhists and indigenous practitioners on every continent speaking a thousand languages. The point of this Good Shepherd’s loving is not to divide and conquer! Of course not, the point of this Good Shepherd’s sacrifice is gathering, gathering, gathering and uniting. One flock, one Shepherd. I am who I am. I will be who I will be. One flock, one life, one planet, one breath. And no mistakes!
I ran into a friend at the Freedom Café the other day, as I was draining the last drips from a cup of dark roast; and (of all things) he was surprisingly eager to talk about our steeple. Not my latest Op Ed in the Concord Monitor. And not the really cool Immigration Timeline downstairs. But our steeple. He’s not a church-going friend, this fellow, but a curious and appreciative neighbor in every way. And he’d seen the banner out front here, and even followed the link, and he was curious about the campaign to repair and even save the steeple: whether there was any risk of losing it, whether others were stepping forward to contribute, that kind of thing. I’m not sure I’d ever encountered anyone so eager, even so zealous, to talk about a church steeple. But so he was. And I’ve learned, over many years, to go with the flow!
So he told me that often, as he’s driving into town early in the morning, he catches the sun’s light—the early glow of a sunrise—glancing off our steeple and shimmering like the embers of some kind of cosmic fire. He said it mesmerizes him, this shimmering, this transfiguration of place and time. And he said it just fills his soul with wonder and hope—as a kind of reminder that there will be light in the deep dark, and there will be beauty in the hard work of a day, and there will be grace in all kinds of people he’ll meet.
He's an activist, this particular friend, and a hard-working one at that. And he feels the world’s vulnerability in his bones, he worries for its cruelty and the madness of war. I'm rather confident he goes to sleep every night worrying whether it’ll all be here in the morning. I never really thought of him as a steeple kind of a guy. But he went on and on. Somehow, somehow, what he sees through his windshield is a church and a promise: that there is a Spirit in the world that will not abandon us, that there is a Spirit in our lives that will reveal purpose beyond our fearfulness, that there is a Spirit in the sunrise that desires our wholeness and seeks out our joy.
He said all that, or something like it, as we’re standing with coffee cups, at the counter. I have to say, it was kind of cool. Reminded me of Jesus—the mystic, the rabbi, the beat poet in a Durham café!
4.
Friends, what we have in the gospel, and what we offer to the world is God’s passion for wonder, for connection and for mercy. Again and again, that passion intends to delight us, aims to amaze us, and promises to flip old notions of religion and faith upside down. What the Good Shepherd desires is the gathering of a flock—not to agree on all the details, not to mimic one another’s ways and habits—but to rejoice in being a flock. To cherish the strange gifts of human community. To follow through on commitments to justice, liberation and equity. To recognize in one another the wonders of creation and the presence of its Creator. A diverse flock, a strange one, and wildly unpredictable—but a flock just the same. Gathered by a shepherd who will sacrifice everything to bring us together.
So as we go out into the world this week, let’s go out as emissaries of this good news, as ambassadors of this grace. Don’t fall, friends, for the jeering threats of shepherds who say they care but certainly do not. Don’t give in to the anxious nattering of shepherds who promise protection but are in it only for themselves. Know that the Good Shepherd calls to you. You will recognize his voice. The Good Shepherd calls you by name. Trust in the world of wonders that opens to you by the light of his countenance, by the sound of his breath. Trust in the Shepherd who sacrifices everything to bring us, all of us, every last one of us, together.
Amen and Ashe!
