John 10:11-18; 1 John 3:16-24
Presented May 7th, 2006, by J.D. Kline
The Fourth Sunday of Easter
Not long into my first pastorate I picked up a book by Morton Kelsey, Episcopal priest and counselor. Entitled The Other Side of Silence: A Guide to Christian Meditation, Kelsey’s book begins with a personal confession. Writes Kelsey, “The first years of my ministry showed me one thing more and more clearly. If I wanted to go on speaking as a pastor—or even as a Christian—about the reality of the Christian life, I needed to have some experience of what I spoke; otherwise I could not live with myself.” It was as if Kelsey was putting down on paper my own yearnings for a deeper spiritual life. It was not that I didn’t believe in God, not even that I didn’t have the rudiments of a relationship with God. But it was becoming increasingly clear to me at that stage of my life that I needed to be far more intentional in nurturing and deepening a sense of connectedness with the Holy One. I needed to pay attention to the deep yearnings within me, to my hunger for the kind of relationship with God that would sustain me through the changing experiences of life.
It does not come naturally or easily for many of us to develop a level of intimacy with God, the kind of intimacy that even begins to approach the quality of relationship Jesus shared with God. Many of us are far better at recognizing and responding to the needs of others than we are at acknowledging our own needs. As I have been seeking to come to terms with grief in the days since Janice’s death, I have had to acknowledge anew how difficult it is to face my own limitations, to give voice to my own needs. And yet something critical is missing when we resist placing ourselves in the hands of God and allowing others to provide us with support and encouragement, strength and challenge.
It’s all too easy—isn’t it?—to talk about the love of God and about commitment to embracing the ways of Jesus. But it’s something quite different to experience relationship with God in a vital and personal way, and then to act upon it. Unless we develop the more personal dimensions of faith, unless we take the risk of trusting God and seeking to put our faith into action, our relationship with God remains little more than formality. Maxie Dunnam, former editor of The Upper Room, reminds us, “Few things are as hollow as a relationship intended for passion that instead is marked by mere duty.” And perhaps one of the greatest tragedies facing the contemporary church is the number of its ranks who settle for an experience of faith as little more than duty and obligation, rather than finding in our faith a sense of passion and purpose.
In my younger years, I was far more drawn to the activist side of the faith—the call to do justice, witness for peace, confront oppression, embody Christ’s compassion. But I was not long in ministry before it began to dawn on me that, without a rootedness in relationship with God, the activist life quickly loses its power. In one of his earliest books, Henri Nouwen reminds us that discipleship involves both a mystical side—nurturing our own connection with God—and the activist side, expressing our faith in our daily living and daily interactions.
Nouwen refers to the activist as a “revolutionary,” one whose faith prods him or her to pose critical questions to the society in which we live, one who endeavors to live by the vision of God’s realm of justice, peace, servanthood, and self-giving love. Writes Nouwen,
Every real revolutionary is challenged to be a mystic at heart…. No mystics can prevent themselves from becoming social critics, since in self-reflection they will discover the roots of a sick society. Similarly, no real revolutionaries can avoid facing their own human condition, since in the midst of their struggle for a new world they will find they are also fighting their own reactionary fears and false ambitions…. Changing human heart and changing human society are not separate tasks, but are as interconnected as the two beams of the cross.
Problem is, we often allow our fears to keep us from experiencing the fullness of relationship with God. So much of contemporary living creates suspicion and fear; we live in fear of the stranger, fear of anything new or different, fear of the unknown. It is Nouwen who once again speaks forcefully to us, reminding us that the very “invitation of Christ is the invitation to move out of the house of fear and into the house of love.” Nouwen goes on to suggest that living in the house of love is at the heart of discipleship—most especially, the call to be peacemakers in a broken and divided world. Peacemaking, asserts Nouwen, “starts every time we move out of the house of fear and into the house of love.”
The first letter of John apparently was written to a church facing its own fears, its own struggles with how seriously those early believers would take their faith. Apparently it was a divided church, for why else would this early church pastor feel compelled to talk so much about love, if there were not a problem with putting that love into practice. Perhaps the people of that day, not unlike us, had a tendency to conceive of love primarily as emotion, as a matter of feelings. But the writer of 1 John speaks instead of love as a decision, a commitment one makes, something you and I decide to do.
United Methodist bishop William Willimon reminds us,
Christians are those who are determined to love. First, we are determined by love. As Paul said elsewhere, “The love of Christ controls us.” Second, having been recipients of the great love of God in Jesus Christ, we are to love. We are not told to feel love, we are not to think about love, we are simply told here to love.
“Little children,” writes the author of 1 John, “let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action” (v. 18). The Message paraphrases it simply, “My dear children, let’s not just talk about love; let’s practice real love.” So how is it that we practice real love, but by letting go of our fears and embracing the model of Jesus—taking on the heart of a servant, seeking the best for others. “If you see some brother or sister in need,” according to 1 John, “and have the means to do something about it but turn a cold shoulder and do nothing, what happens to God’s love? It disappears. And you made it disappear” (3:17, The Message).
It’s a high calling. A calling that urges us to take some risk. In their book Resident Aliens Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon tell the story of a pastor serving some years ago in a small Southern town, back in the days when school desegregation was first being mandated by the courts. A white citizens’ group had been formed in the town to resist the desegregation order, creating a tense and frightening situation. The group held a public meeting at the local high school to discuss their resistance tactics, and speaker after speaker condemned the court order and called for confrontation.
Well into the tension-filled evening the pastor of the local Baptist church slipped in and, after listening for a while, stood to speak. Because he had served in the community for decades, people were anxious to hear what he had to say. But they were little prepared for his courageous words. Said that Baptist pastor, “I am ashamed. I have labored here for many years. I have baptized, preached to, and counseled with many in this room. I might have thought my preaching of the gospel had done some good. But tonight I think differently. I cannot speak to those who are not of my congregation, but to those who are, I can only say that I am hurt and ashamed of you and might have expected more.”
After speaking, the pastor left the auditorium. The meeting resumed, but one by one, most of the members of the Baptist Church quietly left the room until the auditorium was half empty. The meeting dribbled off into adjournment with no action taken. The following month, the schools integrated without incident.
It took courage to act in a way that ran contrary to the predominant mood of the evening. The pastor took a risk. Rather than acquiescing to fear instilled by racism, the pastor spoke out of a conviction that his primary calling was to encourage his congregation to put their faith into action, to live their lives in the light of the gospel of Jesus. Demonstrating a willingness to lay down his own life, the pastor prodded many to consider what it means to make decisions informed, not by fear, but by the light and love of the faith we proclaim.
Today’s Gospel lesson is a familiar one, describing Jesus as the good shepherd. Talk of shepherds may well draw forth images of passive, rural scenes, much disconnected from our urban, often frantically paced living. But there is power in the shepherding image, as Jesus draws contrast between the good shepherd and the hireling who does not have the best interests of the sheep at heart, who is not willing to risk much, if anything, for the well-being of the sheep. Jesus’ words are reminiscent of the prophet Ezekiel, who draws sharp contrast between false shepherds and God, the true shepherd. The prophet accuses the false shepherds, “You have not strengthened the weak, you have not healed the sick, you have not bound up the injured, you have not brought back the strayed, you have not sought the lost, but with force and harshness you have ruled them” (Ezekiel 34:4). In contrast, when speaking for God, Ezekiel asserts, “I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak…. I will feed them with justice” (34:16).
As followers of Jesus, we are led from the house of fear into the house of love. Why? Because we are connected to the One who loves us with a love that will not let us go, the One who binds up our wounds and strengthens us in our times of weakness. Touched by God’s love, we are set free. We find within ourselves a deepened faith based, not upon obligation and hollow relationship, but upon the joy of knowing the good shepherd. Rooted in Christ, we find the freedom to put our faith into action, to make love our practice. We become both mystics and activists, grounded in relationship with the risen Christ, the One who plants within us new levels of courage, peace, hope, and self-giving love.
This is our calling. This is our privilege. Amen.