Good Shepherd Sunday

Sermon by Jamie Howison on Psalm 23 and John 10:1-10

This is the fourth Sunday in Eastertide, which the lectionary marks as “Good Shepherd Sunday,” with a reading from the 10th chapter of the Gospel according to John in all three years of the cycle. I have a particular affection for this Sunday, thanks to the eight years I spent working for the Sisters of the Good Shepherd at Marymound, a treatment centre for adolescent girls. The first two of those years were at the end of my bachelor’s degree, and then after three years at theological college and two working as an assistant priest in a parish, I was invited by Sr. Monica to return to Marymound to serve there as chaplain. In so many ways it was a splendid time for me, in part because I got to work alongside those sisters and learn from them something of what it meant to model one’s life and ministry after the Good Shepherd.

I know that people often hold a set of stereotypes about people in religious orders, whether nuns or monks. They must be terribly serious, one imagines, or maybe emotionally repressed. And of course there are accounts of some people—children in residential schools, for instance—experiencing abuse at the hands of people in religious orders, which is simply tragic. But what I saw in those sisters at Marymound was the Shepherd’s heart, which is probably why they were drawn to that order in the first place. In their statement of values they hold individual worth, mercy, reconciliation, and zeal—the passionate giving of their time and talents for the sake of others—as sitting at the heart of their work. The founder of the order, Mary Euphrasia, was a French woman who lived in the 1800s, who was passionate about the caring for the most vulnerable women and girls in that society. She coined a phrase that stands as the motto for the Order, “One person is of more value than the world,” which stood as a call to care for each person with love and commitment… because their worth is inestimable!

And part of what made that community so good and grounded was its embrace of earthiness and humour. I well remember sitting in our group meetings during my days as a youth care worker, with Sr. Brigid talking to the ten girls in our unit, going over the ups and downs of the week, scolding when necessary, challenging when that’s what was needed, and generally tuning up the group for the week. And then as soon as she was finished out would come cards for a magic trick, her latest brainteaser puzzle, or some endlessly corny set of jokes, all of which those kids—street tough and troubled—adored.

And they adored her, because at all of 4’10”, wearing her simple white habit and her Good Shepherd cross, they knew they were in the presence of a strong, loving, capable, good shepherd. None of the hired staff had anything even close to the connection—and authority—that Sr. Brigid had with those kids. And she worked with them in that place from the age of about 20 when she entered the order until her age and health put her into retirement… which was well past the usual age of retirement!

So in this Gospel tonight, when I hear Jesus talk about shepherding, I know that I saw some of that in Sr. Brigid.

The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice.

The sheep know the shepherd’s voice and because they trust that shepherd, they will follow. “They will not follow a stranger,” Jesus continues, “but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” And if you know anything at all about sheep, that’s absolutely true. My aunt and uncle had a sheep farm in Scotland, and when I visited with them for two weeks back when I was fifteen, I tried time and again to get close to the sheep; to maybe pat one or feed it some grass. Not a chance. But my uncle? He could walk into the pasture and be greeted by that flock, so familiar and known to them was he.

And that’s precisely the relationship that Jesus wants to cultivate with us. He wants us to know him and trust him; to follow his path and his ways, confident that we’re not being led into wrong territory.

That, of course, is all there in the 23rd Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” I shall not want, because he has taken me into green pastures, by the still waters, where he restores my soul. It is along right pathways that he leads me, and I am called to trust that. And then comes probably the most critical portion of the psalm—and here I’ll switch over to the King James Version, which is the one from which I first heard this psalm as a child—in which the writer says,

This painting was done by Helen Lyons for Good Shepherd Sunday, 2004

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Of this verse the biblical scholar James Limburg comments,

With verse 4, the tranquil mood is shattered. The psalmist refers to going through dangerous places and reports, surprisingly, that even then, ‘I fear no evil.’ The reason for this absence of fear follows immediately, as the psalmist switches from talking about the Lord, the Shepherd, to speaking to the Lord: ‘for you are with me.’ (Limburg, Psalms)

I really like that distinction between speaking about the Lord and speaking to the Lord. The former is doing a bit of theological talk, while the latter is more akin to prayer; an almost stubborn prayer. You, Lord, are with me, right through the darkest and hardest of times. You, Lord, please be with me.

Limburg then comments on this rod and staff, saying that the rod was a short wooden club used to defend the sheep against animal or human enemies, while “the staff was longer and could be used to help sheep struggling up a difficult path or through whatever darkness and wilderness they must pass.”

While Limburg stops there, I’d also say that the staff could be used to give a lazy or perhaps stubborn sheep a good whack on the flank to keep it moving. And you know, there are times when lazy or stubborn or just plain stuck humans need a bit of a whack with the divine staff to get us moving! Not that our Good Shepherd has a literal staff with which to get us moving, but there are other ways in which Jesus can give us a good shake—think of St Paul being struck blind on the road to Damascus, for instance—which might feel tough, but is ultimately born only of love.

But back briefly to the Sisters at Marymound. One of the sisters who had lived there even longer than Sr. Brigid was Sr. Eustelle. If Brigid was 4’10”, Sr. Eustelle might have been 4’7”, having shrunken in height during her 90 plus years, a good 70 of them as a sister at Marymound. Among other things, she had been a music teacher in the school, which she continued to do well into her 80s, but in her 90s she had officially retired from all duties. Not that she wasn’t visible; in fact she was always around, visiting with staff, chatting with the girls, and just generally being a lovely presence in the place. One morning I was working in my office by the chapel, and she walked in, said hello, knelt down on the prayer desk I had beside where I was sitting, and said she wanted to make her confession. Now I knew that her memory was slipping a bit, and thought that perhaps she had forgotten that I was not a Roman Catholic priest, so I said, “Now sister, you do remember that I’m an Anglican priest?” “Of course I know that,” she replied. “There is only one God, so what does that matter?” And then, “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” and into her confession we went. At the end I pronounced absolution, and then she said, “What is my penance?” which was something I’d not expected! “Say a prayer for me, and for all of the girls I will talk to today,” I answered. “That’s a good one,” she said, and back out into the chapel she wandered.

And truly, that was a lovely, memorable, significant shepherding moment that Sr. Eustelle offered to a very young Anglican priest.