Sunday, April 22, 2018

The rejected Jesus commits to us – Acts 4:8-12, John 10:11-18

4th Sunday of Easter, Year B; Holy Infant parish.


Rejection is never something that’s entirely pleasant. I remember chairing a search committee at my old parish, getting about 30 resumes for a new director of maintenance, making what we thought was a great hire, then realizing we had to make 29 rejections. I also taught the confirmation class to our 8th graders at the parish school, and I learnt from them that rejection was one of the things they feared the most. The first essay they had to write for me was to talk about what virtue they most wanted to grow in as they prepared for and received the sacrament, and the first time I did this exercise, I was surprised that a full half of them chose courage. This pattern continued each year, and consistently as they wrote about courage, they didn’t write about the courage to rescue kids from burning buildings, or whatever, but to do the right thing in the face of peer pressure, to stand up for the unpopular truth, despite the pressing fear that this would lead to social rejection.


And I don’t think it’s just 14 year olds who have these kinds of fears.  People fear not belonging, because the senses of belonging we have can feel so fragile.  Hand in hand with this, strangely, is the fear of seeking to commit to something, I think partly because of the real risk of rejection in that, and partly fear of making a commitment that will inevitably involvement sacrifice, heartache and grief, but is the only route to finding that deep, intimate belonging.  This is vocation Sunday, and that’s a lot of what vocation Sunday celebrates: it celebrates that we still have people that sacrificially and lovingly commit to belong: to a spouse in marriage, to a community through religious vows, to priesthood.  And we need a Sunday celebrating and praying for more of it, because it’s become rare!  Fears about belonging emerge with along with a crisis of commitment.

God responds to this. In our first reading today we hear that Christ knew rejection. That doesn’t make rejection pleasant. Jesus didn’t limit his love to only doing pleasant things with us. But when rejection stings, we know Christ is with us, that Christ took the fullness of that on.  And that’s not all God does. In the gospel, we hear that Christ, the Good Shepherd, commits to us. Jesus doesn’t half-heartedly care for us, like a hireling who cares for sheep only if exercising the care is less hassle than losing the paycheck.  Jesus doesn’t care for us as a means to some reward.  Jesus cares for us as the Good Shepherd, as the shepherd who cares because he’s committed to his sheep.  We belong.  We are the sheep of his pasture.  He has claimed us, and we are His.  His embrace of us in baptism, His calling out – “Look!  My beloved daughter, my beloved son!” – His indwelling in us with His own Spirit… all of that is His claiming of us, His shepherding of us, intimately known and invited into intimate knowing.

And we need that shepherding, we need that care and concern, because there are things we fear in the world. The world, created aflame with God’s love, has grown cold, let darkness seep in.  Our world knows so much isolation, hatred, violence, sin and sorrow.  Shepherds in the ancient world really did sometimes have to make huge sacrifices for their sheep, and some were actually killed by wolves and thieves.  Where the hireling abandons, the good shepherd stays.  Our wounded warring world grieves God as much as it does us, because of how deeply committed He is to us. And that deep commitment is a promise, never to give up on us.  Instead, in Christ, our good shepherd enters into the reality of rejection, of sin and death, absorbs it and transforms it.  Transforms us. 

Because His shepherding isn’t something static.  He won’t leave us surrounded by wolves and thieves, fighting off first one, then another, leaving us to always fear the next attack, to fear that we might be tempted into attack ourselves.  No, the good shepherd leads.  The good shepherd acts to lead us, his flock, transforming us as we go, so that we might be able to live lives confident in our belonging, living out our true vocation, daring to offer ourselves self-sacrificially, lovingly, courageously as witnesses against sin and selfishness.  He leads us home, to that place where we can live wholly and holily in harmony with our flock, and with our shepherd.

[At Mass with baptism, now turn to font: “And now, let us give thanks for the blessed water in which God will commit to shepherd N.” At other Mass, continue…]

As humans, fallible forgetful humans, we need tangible, embodied, humane reminders of our belonging, of the confidence we can have, that can give us to courage to follow where our Master trod.  Marriage and family life is certainly one beautiful way of incarnating that reality.  For me, it’s come through religious profession, taking vows in my religious family, the Congregation of Holy Cross.  By our vow of poverty, we share all possessions in common, and help each other learn to trust in God as provider.  By our vow of obedience, we share all decisions in common, and help each other learn to listen for the Good Shepherd’s voice.  By our vow of chastity, we share brotherhood in common, and help each other learn to seek single-hearted intimacy with Christ.

When I made my final profession of vows, professing to live forever what I’d been living a year at a time for the previous few years, it was an amazing experience of acceptance and belonging.  It made real in my heart what I knew was already true in baptism, but enfleshed that reality.  And, as someone who felt securely held, I gained the courage to reach out.  Which I needed because the very next day I was ordained deacon, and then nine months later, priest.  Later this week, I’ll turn four-years old as priest. Committing to this way of living has opened up an amazing journey, and I’m excited to see how the Good Shepherd continues to lead me through it. He has a calling for each of us, to participate in that work of shepherding. Come, let us follow Him.

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