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

 Fourth Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Breen-Philips Hall.

Press play, and you hear Antonio Cipriani sing in a beautiful yet subdued way, “That I would be good, even if I did nothing.” Then the melody passes to Celia Rose Gooding, who responds, “That I would be good, even if I got the thumbs down.” They continue alternating lines: “That I would be good, even if I got resentful; that I would be good, even if I gained ten pounds.” Lauren Patten then comes in with this plaintiff descant, “why won’t you accept who I need to be?,” as Antonio and Celia keep on alternating, before Lauren takes the melody and turns it up to eleven, coming in and belting out: “I need to know that I would be loved, even if I am my true self; that I would be good, even when I am overwhelmed.”

 

And at that point, I’m overwhelmed, with “this is just such a gorgeous arrangement of this song.” The song is “That I Would be Good” by Alanis Morrissette, and the version I’ve been obsessed with since I first heard it a few weeks ago is from the jukebox musical, “Jagged Little Pill,” that draws on her music. And the reason that song is so powerful, that it has over 75,000 views on YouTube (and really, less that 100 of those are me, I swear), is partly the talent of the singers and the skill of the arranger who turned a solo song into a trio; it’s partly the nostalgia of people around my age, who relied on Alanis to sing some of our emotions for us during High School; but it’s mainly that the emotions it conveys are so universal: in the mid-90’s; now; 2,000 years ago. The fear of rejection, the need to belong, the anxiety that we’re not enough.

 

God responds to this. In our first reading today we hear that Christ knew rejection. That doesn’t make rejection somehow easy to handle. Jesus didn’t limit his love to only doing facile things for us. But when rejection stings, we know Christ is with us, that Christ took the fullness of that on. And that can give us courage, the courage to do the risky things, the things that we worry might bring rejection, because we know we’ll never be alone even if the world does give us the thumbs down. We know that we are good, good enough for Christ to risk rejection for.

 

In the gospel, we hear that Christ, the Good Shepherd, commits to us. He knows us fully, and he still commits: we are His, and He is ours. We don’t need to be held back by anxiety; 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. 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.

 

And we need that shepherding, we need that care and concern, because there are things to be feared 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.