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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