Finding safety in the call of the wild
Commentary
There are two themes that run through the passages for today. On the one hand there is the "Call of the Wild" (like Jack London's 1903 novel), in which we are commanded to follow our Shepherd Jesus through what might be trackless wastes and difficult places in responding to the great challenge of faith. On the other hand, there is the "Call of the Safe" (like Larry Crabb's great book on small groups, The Safest Place on Earth [Word, 1999]), which places us in the middle of a community of care and grace.
George MacDonald helps us understand both of these homing calls in his children's tale, "Papa's Story." Papa tells of a shepherd who brings his flock home late on a stormy evening. One lamb is missing, however. So, after supper, the shepherd calls for Jumper the dog, and the two of them brace for the cold and wind and rain. Out in the hills they roam, calling for the wee lamb.
Young Nellie is snug in her bed at home, but every moaning of the breeze echoes with her father's distant voice. She is frightened for him, for Jumper, and for the little lamb they seek. But suddenly, father is home, and Jumper, too! They have found the little lamb, and have returned it to safety in the fold. The tests of the night have taken their toll on father. How weary he looks, and how torn, cut, dirty, and bleeding is Jumper!
When little Nellie returns to bed, she dreams that she is Jumper, and that the little lamb is her lost brother Willie. A year earlier, young Willie left home. He wanted to get away. Now Willie lives in Edinburgh and never writes. Nellie and her parents know from the scuttlebutt of traders and friends that Willie has become only a shadow of himself, cruel and greedy, filthy of body and mind, constantly drunk, and lost in a mad world of sex.
In Nellie's dream she is Jumper, searching through the storms of Edinburgh's wilder haunts for the little lamb with Willie's face. When she wakes the next morning Nellie acts on her dream and goes to find her brother. After hours of struggle and pain, Nellie finally reaches him. Surrounded by his jeering and taunting pals, he laughs at his sister's foolish begging. Nellie weeps at his harshness. She tells him of his mother's broken heart. She gives him a letter of love, written in his father's hand. The scenes of home wash young Willie's mind, and the disease of wantonness sickens him. Before long, says Papa, Willie is led back home by his little sister.
The children enjoy Papa's nice story, as always. But there are two footnotes we need to know. First, the story Papa tells his children that night is actually the story of his own life. His name is Willie, and it was his own dear sister Nellie who, one day, years before, came looking for him in the shadowed dens of Edinburgh. Second, George MacDonald gives the tale a subtitle. He calls it "A Scot's Christmas Story." And so it is, for the story of Jesus is not first of all a bland tale of pious peace or a study in theological ethics. Rather, it is a rescue story always told best in the first person. Jesus, the Good Shepherd, came from home looking through the streets and alleys of earth's slums for me! For you!
Acts 2:42-47
Margaret Mead said the first sign of civilization was found where archaeologists uncovered human skeletons with broken femur bones that had healed. The law of the jungle is, "If you fall, you die." Anyone who broke a femur had fallen and could not get away. If a skeleton displayed a healed femur it meant that someone stood between this crippled person and the danger that threatened, took this person to a place of safety, and cared for this person during a time of healing, bringing food and water, and providing protection. A healed femur, said Mead, was the telltale sign of a community that had learned to value life, care for others, and build a network of supportive relationships.
That powerful image could well be the visualization of this passage. The first evidence of Jesus' resurrection power shaping a community of the future kingdom of God is seen here at the close of Peter's Pentecost sermon. It is a strong church that breathes with God's redemptive life in Jesus. It honors the diversity of God's family, expresses optimistic faith, draws others with magnetic love, and celebrates the great King and his kingdom.
Seven themes emerge from Luke's terse description. First, this was a community of humility, living under the authority of the apostles and the guidance of their teaching. Second, this was a community of mutual care, building relationships that were deeper than a puddle after an overnight rain. Third, this was a community that rooted itself in the rituals of Jesus, remembering through sacramental rites the essentials of redemptive history. Fourth, this was a community of spiritual passion, wrestling with God in prayer for themselves and their neighbors and world. Fifth, this was a community of generosity, giving and sharing and ensuring that the poor were constantly resourced. Sixth, this was a community of worship, which amounted to a public declaration of loyalty to God and allegiance to a particular interpretation of the divine cause. Seventh, this was a missionary community, seeking constantly to bring neighbors and co-workers into the fellowship through evangelistic outreach.
Whether Luke's description of the early church is merely factual reporting or somewhat idealized in its expression, the qualities he notes are those which Jesus and the apostles constantly hold up as virtuous. Most congregations need to be reminded of these spiritual characteristics over and over again. Sometimes, however, in times of revival or unusual stress, they seem to leap to the surface.
In his book To End All Wars (Zondervan, 2002), Ernest Gordon tells of what he and others experienced in the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp made famous by the movie The Bridge over the River Kwai. The camp stood at the end of the Bataan death march that brought Allied soldiers deep into the jungles of Asia. Few would survive, and everyone knew it. In order to make the best of a terrible situation they teamed up in pairs, each watching out for a buddy. One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron, but his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker, and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness, so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a "hot house" until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems. The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night his buddy braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to tell about it. His buddy, however -- the strong man all thought invincible -- died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend. The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp, with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday, and the death toll was far lower than any expected. All this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death, and the realization that apart from Jesus' forgiving grace that develops God's new humanity, we devolve into mere animals. We need a divine Shepherd to create community and guide us home.
1 Peter 2:19-25
Peter's letter appears to be a teaching handbook primarily addressed to those recently baptized into the Christian church. Persecution faced these new believers, and suffering is a constant theme of the letter (see 1:6-7; 3:14-17; 4:1; 4:12-19; 5:1; 5:8-10). Here Peter calls for moral strength through suffering, patterned after Jesus' own response to his walk of pain toward the cross. The theme verse that jumps out as a badge to be worn by believers is verse 21. It was used effectively by Charles Sheldon to shape his classic Christian novel In His Steps, where a town is transformed by people who begin to ask themselves, "What would Jesus do?" (The WWJD bracelets made popular a decade or so ago emerged from a second "revival" of this creed.)
Peter points to Jesus as the Shepherd who leads through trial, and offers an example for others who struggle with life. One story from our recent history comes to mind. A young woman stared in disbelief as the Queen of England, Elizabeth II, approached her in open sight of thousands of people and hundreds of television cameras, and crowned her tennis champion of the world. It was the culmination of a powerful story of perseverance, since young Althea Gibson was born in poverty and suffered crushing childhood illnesses that left her muscles weak and her limbs twisted. It was the perseverance of Althea's mother that made the difference. Mrs. Gibson one day pointed to a rock across the yard that looked like an overgrown potato. "I want you to go down there and bring it up to the house," said her mother, "so we can use it as a step by the kitchen door."
The girl sobbed and protested. "Mommy!" she lamented, "I'm so weak that I can hardly even walk down there! How can I possibly move a stone that big?"
Her mother persisted, and simply said, "You can do it! I have confidence in you! You'll figure something out."
Indeed, inch by inch, rolling and tugging and pushing, the young lass moved that rock to the house. It took her two months to do what a healthy child would have accomplished in fifteen minutes, but as she tussled with the stone Althea's muscles strengthened and her limbs straightened. Surprised by her new energy, she began a rigorous training program that led to tennis and ultimately to Wimbledon. It was there that Althea Gibson was crowned victor by the Queen of England before an awestruck world.
In Althea's view the story revolved not around her own ability to see things through, but rather focused on her mother's steadfast presence. Perseverance was, for her, not so much the confidence of winning at Wimbledon or inventing something new or succeeding in business. Rather, it was being able to count on a relationship that would never let her down, even if she did not accomplish great things.
That is what Peter has in mind as well when he writes about developing perseverance in faith. Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to celebrate our dreams come true. Yet whether we win or lose in life, faith's perseverance reminds us that Jesus our Shepherd will always be there for us. That is reward enough for both time and eternity.
John 10:1-10
While this passage stops just short of Jesus' multiple declarations, "I am the good shepherd" (verses 11 and 14), it breathes with the essence of that testimony (see vv. 2-4). Coming between stories of spiritual blindness (ch. 9) and antagonistic unbelief (10:22-39), Jesus' words about thieves, robbers, and strangers who lead Jesus' sheep to destruction are very pointed. They may even have caused some of the backlash in 10:22-39 (see vv. 26-27).
Though the sheep pen (v. 1) where the sheep belong may refer to many things (general well-being, the church community, eternal life, and the like), there is good reason to view it primarily as the realm of the dead. Bad shepherds, thieves, and strangers seek to bring the sheep into a twilight world of pain and judgment at death, but Jesus brings his sheep into the eternal kingdom of life (v. 10). Confirmation for this interpretation comes from the story of the raising of Lazarus in chapter 11. Lazarus has been stolen away by death, but Jesus stands in the cemetery and calls his name (11:43), and from the sheep pen of the great thief, Lazarus hears his name and comes out to follow his true Shepherd!
Among the representations of Jesus found carved above the burial niches in the catacombs of Rome are pictures of Jesus as Orpheus. The legend of Orpheus told of his journey into the underworld to reclaim his loved Eurydice. While early Christians did not believe in the myths of Rome and Greece, they did see in this story a meaningful way to summarize the truths of John 10 -- Jesus alone is the Good Shepherd who can go into the underworld where the thief has stolen away Jesus' sheep; Jesus alone has the power to challenge the thief, call his sheep by name, bring them back to LIFE, and lead them into eternal pastures of grace, mercy, and peace.
Application
In Christopher Fry's play, The Lady's Not for Burning, Margaret and Nicholas are talking about a woman who seems to be acting strangely. Margaret says, "She must be lost."
Nicholas responds, wistfully, "Who isn't? The best thing we can do is to make whatever we're lost in look as much like home as we can."
That is what we do with our lives, isn't it? We have so many goals and dreams and hopes in life, yet so few of them turn out. We get old before we have done half of what we wanted. Somehow we never become what we thought we might. We make a few mistakes along the way. We disappoint some people, and they disappoint us. Even our best times have an edge of bitterness attached to them -- when they end we walk away nursing our nostalgia. We are always a little bit away from home -- from the home we remember, or the home we desire; from the dream we miss, or the dream we are still looking for. That is what Nicholas is saying to Margaret in Christopher Fry's play. We are all a bit lost in life. We are all a bit away from home. The best we can do is make what we have look as much as possible like what we think "home" should be, until we can finally see our true home, and, like James says, bring our friends along with us.
No matter where we go, no matter what we do, there must live in each of us a touch of that homesickness, or we die a horrible death. Our trips "home" are only a pale imitation of the place we belong, and merely a wayside rest stop on a restless journey to the real home of God's love, and God's eternity. More than we know, that is where we all truly want to go, and only in finding Jesus and the coming of God's kingdom will our desires find fulfillment, and our longings be satisfied. Only then will our homesickness end.
This is what Acts 2:42-47 pictures. This is the pilgrimage to which Peter calls us. This is the assurance that Jesus communicates when he stands and speaks as our Shepherd. In him alone we find safety, even as we respond to his call into the wilds.
An Alternative Application
The picture of the church in Acts 2:24-27 is such a powerful picture that it makes a great stand-alone text for a message. In addition to the seven characteristics noted above, this passage can be used to reflect on how we can be, and become, more faithful in the expressions of these qualities.
One of my favorite parables related to this picture of the church is one in which the abbot of a dying monastery and a local Jewish rabbi meet regularly in the woods to commune and commiserate. Both are discouraged with the lack of faith and practice in their worlds. The elderly abbot complains about the crusty feistiness of the remaining four monks under his care -- all old, all crotchety, all difficult. On one of these meetings the Jewish rabbi brings a prophetic message that he himself is mystified by. He tells the abbot that he doesn't know why, but he feels compelled to inform his friend that one among those at the monastery is the Messiah. Both feel embarrassed by this obviously inappropriate declaration, and soon part to return to their homes.
At supper that evening, the abbot hesitantly tells of the rabbi's strange message. All five men laugh self-consciously and quickly move on to other conversation. But in the days that follow, the atmosphere in the monastery begins to change. Could Brother John be the Messiah? Does Brother Elred speak with divine wisdom? Is the tenacious care that the abbot gives a reflection of his holy office?
Within a month the quality of life in the monastery has changed. Those who live in the neighborhood notice it, and begin attending worship services in the monastery chapel. Families enjoy picnics on the lawns of the monastery, just to be near the older men who are wiser and kinder than any seemed to remember. Then several young men asked to take vows to join the monastery, and before long, the monastery became the thriving center of a new city. They no longer call it a monastery. Instead, they have posted signs at every entrance, welcoming all to come and join "Christ's Community." Indeed, Messiah is among them!
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 23
(Editor's note: Another discussion of Psalm 23 may be found on p. 15.)
It's a several-times-daily task in our household: walking the dog. Hera is a mature Sheltie, whom we inherited from my late mother-in-law. She obtained her from an animal-welfare organization, who had rescued her from a puppy farm, where she was being used (and abused) for breeding purposes. The ritual begins with clipping Hera's leash onto her collar. As we walk slowly around the block -- with this old dog, progress is always slow -- the leash hangs loose and limp. It's barely necessary, because Hera is such a gentle spirit.
"Your rod and your staff, they comfort me," writes the psalmist. Hera doesn't really need the leash, though neither she nor I would ever think of crossing the threshold without it. It's part of our relationship. It defines who we are. Maybe in her frisky, young puppy days (such as they were, amidst the horrors of the industrial-style breeding farm) the leash might have served a purpose. But now, it's just part of the obligatory equipment -- as well as a signal to other pedestrians that here is no ravenous beast to be feared.
Martin Luther wrote of two principal uses of the law: 1) a social use, to restrain, and 2) a pedagogic use, to instruct. John Calvin and others added a third use: 3) to guide, acting as a rule of life for those who gratefully respond to Christ's offer of salvation. We usually think of Psalm 23 as a song of comfort, but let us not forget that in the shepherd's hands are also instruments of control and guidance. The shepherd is also the lawgiver. The shepherd's staff -- the familiar "crook" -- is a walking stick, a tool of locomotion, but it can also be used to pull a wayward lamb back from danger. The rod is an instrument of discipline, useful for delivering a sharp blow to the hindquarters when it's time to leave a particularly satisfying patch of grass -- although we get the distinct sense, from this psalm, that this shepherd is more inclined than most to "spare the rod."
There once was a busload of tourists traveling through Israel. Their Arab guide had just finished telling the visitors about how the Palestinian shepherd typically walks ahead of the flock, when one of them looked out the window and saw a man driving a herd of sheep, brandishing a large, menacing-looking stick. Delighted with the opportunity to one-up the guide, he pointed out what he saw.
The guide immediately stopped the bus, bounded down the steps and ran over to the man with the stick. The passengers could see the two men talking, gesticulating with their hands in animated Middle Eastern fashion. Finally, their guide turned and walked back to the bus, a big grin on his face.
Back aboard, the guide turned to the tourists and proclaimed in triumph, "I have just spoken to the man. Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to know that he is not the shepherd. He is the butcher."
"The Lord is our shepherd. We shall not want."
George MacDonald helps us understand both of these homing calls in his children's tale, "Papa's Story." Papa tells of a shepherd who brings his flock home late on a stormy evening. One lamb is missing, however. So, after supper, the shepherd calls for Jumper the dog, and the two of them brace for the cold and wind and rain. Out in the hills they roam, calling for the wee lamb.
Young Nellie is snug in her bed at home, but every moaning of the breeze echoes with her father's distant voice. She is frightened for him, for Jumper, and for the little lamb they seek. But suddenly, father is home, and Jumper, too! They have found the little lamb, and have returned it to safety in the fold. The tests of the night have taken their toll on father. How weary he looks, and how torn, cut, dirty, and bleeding is Jumper!
When little Nellie returns to bed, she dreams that she is Jumper, and that the little lamb is her lost brother Willie. A year earlier, young Willie left home. He wanted to get away. Now Willie lives in Edinburgh and never writes. Nellie and her parents know from the scuttlebutt of traders and friends that Willie has become only a shadow of himself, cruel and greedy, filthy of body and mind, constantly drunk, and lost in a mad world of sex.
In Nellie's dream she is Jumper, searching through the storms of Edinburgh's wilder haunts for the little lamb with Willie's face. When she wakes the next morning Nellie acts on her dream and goes to find her brother. After hours of struggle and pain, Nellie finally reaches him. Surrounded by his jeering and taunting pals, he laughs at his sister's foolish begging. Nellie weeps at his harshness. She tells him of his mother's broken heart. She gives him a letter of love, written in his father's hand. The scenes of home wash young Willie's mind, and the disease of wantonness sickens him. Before long, says Papa, Willie is led back home by his little sister.
The children enjoy Papa's nice story, as always. But there are two footnotes we need to know. First, the story Papa tells his children that night is actually the story of his own life. His name is Willie, and it was his own dear sister Nellie who, one day, years before, came looking for him in the shadowed dens of Edinburgh. Second, George MacDonald gives the tale a subtitle. He calls it "A Scot's Christmas Story." And so it is, for the story of Jesus is not first of all a bland tale of pious peace or a study in theological ethics. Rather, it is a rescue story always told best in the first person. Jesus, the Good Shepherd, came from home looking through the streets and alleys of earth's slums for me! For you!
Acts 2:42-47
Margaret Mead said the first sign of civilization was found where archaeologists uncovered human skeletons with broken femur bones that had healed. The law of the jungle is, "If you fall, you die." Anyone who broke a femur had fallen and could not get away. If a skeleton displayed a healed femur it meant that someone stood between this crippled person and the danger that threatened, took this person to a place of safety, and cared for this person during a time of healing, bringing food and water, and providing protection. A healed femur, said Mead, was the telltale sign of a community that had learned to value life, care for others, and build a network of supportive relationships.
That powerful image could well be the visualization of this passage. The first evidence of Jesus' resurrection power shaping a community of the future kingdom of God is seen here at the close of Peter's Pentecost sermon. It is a strong church that breathes with God's redemptive life in Jesus. It honors the diversity of God's family, expresses optimistic faith, draws others with magnetic love, and celebrates the great King and his kingdom.
Seven themes emerge from Luke's terse description. First, this was a community of humility, living under the authority of the apostles and the guidance of their teaching. Second, this was a community of mutual care, building relationships that were deeper than a puddle after an overnight rain. Third, this was a community that rooted itself in the rituals of Jesus, remembering through sacramental rites the essentials of redemptive history. Fourth, this was a community of spiritual passion, wrestling with God in prayer for themselves and their neighbors and world. Fifth, this was a community of generosity, giving and sharing and ensuring that the poor were constantly resourced. Sixth, this was a community of worship, which amounted to a public declaration of loyalty to God and allegiance to a particular interpretation of the divine cause. Seventh, this was a missionary community, seeking constantly to bring neighbors and co-workers into the fellowship through evangelistic outreach.
Whether Luke's description of the early church is merely factual reporting or somewhat idealized in its expression, the qualities he notes are those which Jesus and the apostles constantly hold up as virtuous. Most congregations need to be reminded of these spiritual characteristics over and over again. Sometimes, however, in times of revival or unusual stress, they seem to leap to the surface.
In his book To End All Wars (Zondervan, 2002), Ernest Gordon tells of what he and others experienced in the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp made famous by the movie The Bridge over the River Kwai. The camp stood at the end of the Bataan death march that brought Allied soldiers deep into the jungles of Asia. Few would survive, and everyone knew it. In order to make the best of a terrible situation they teamed up in pairs, each watching out for a buddy. One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron, but his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker, and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness, so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a "hot house" until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems. The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night his buddy braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to tell about it. His buddy, however -- the strong man all thought invincible -- died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend. The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp, with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday, and the death toll was far lower than any expected. All this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death, and the realization that apart from Jesus' forgiving grace that develops God's new humanity, we devolve into mere animals. We need a divine Shepherd to create community and guide us home.
1 Peter 2:19-25
Peter's letter appears to be a teaching handbook primarily addressed to those recently baptized into the Christian church. Persecution faced these new believers, and suffering is a constant theme of the letter (see 1:6-7; 3:14-17; 4:1; 4:12-19; 5:1; 5:8-10). Here Peter calls for moral strength through suffering, patterned after Jesus' own response to his walk of pain toward the cross. The theme verse that jumps out as a badge to be worn by believers is verse 21. It was used effectively by Charles Sheldon to shape his classic Christian novel In His Steps, where a town is transformed by people who begin to ask themselves, "What would Jesus do?" (The WWJD bracelets made popular a decade or so ago emerged from a second "revival" of this creed.)
Peter points to Jesus as the Shepherd who leads through trial, and offers an example for others who struggle with life. One story from our recent history comes to mind. A young woman stared in disbelief as the Queen of England, Elizabeth II, approached her in open sight of thousands of people and hundreds of television cameras, and crowned her tennis champion of the world. It was the culmination of a powerful story of perseverance, since young Althea Gibson was born in poverty and suffered crushing childhood illnesses that left her muscles weak and her limbs twisted. It was the perseverance of Althea's mother that made the difference. Mrs. Gibson one day pointed to a rock across the yard that looked like an overgrown potato. "I want you to go down there and bring it up to the house," said her mother, "so we can use it as a step by the kitchen door."
The girl sobbed and protested. "Mommy!" she lamented, "I'm so weak that I can hardly even walk down there! How can I possibly move a stone that big?"
Her mother persisted, and simply said, "You can do it! I have confidence in you! You'll figure something out."
Indeed, inch by inch, rolling and tugging and pushing, the young lass moved that rock to the house. It took her two months to do what a healthy child would have accomplished in fifteen minutes, but as she tussled with the stone Althea's muscles strengthened and her limbs straightened. Surprised by her new energy, she began a rigorous training program that led to tennis and ultimately to Wimbledon. It was there that Althea Gibson was crowned victor by the Queen of England before an awestruck world.
In Althea's view the story revolved not around her own ability to see things through, but rather focused on her mother's steadfast presence. Perseverance was, for her, not so much the confidence of winning at Wimbledon or inventing something new or succeeding in business. Rather, it was being able to count on a relationship that would never let her down, even if she did not accomplish great things.
That is what Peter has in mind as well when he writes about developing perseverance in faith. Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to celebrate our dreams come true. Yet whether we win or lose in life, faith's perseverance reminds us that Jesus our Shepherd will always be there for us. That is reward enough for both time and eternity.
John 10:1-10
While this passage stops just short of Jesus' multiple declarations, "I am the good shepherd" (verses 11 and 14), it breathes with the essence of that testimony (see vv. 2-4). Coming between stories of spiritual blindness (ch. 9) and antagonistic unbelief (10:22-39), Jesus' words about thieves, robbers, and strangers who lead Jesus' sheep to destruction are very pointed. They may even have caused some of the backlash in 10:22-39 (see vv. 26-27).
Though the sheep pen (v. 1) where the sheep belong may refer to many things (general well-being, the church community, eternal life, and the like), there is good reason to view it primarily as the realm of the dead. Bad shepherds, thieves, and strangers seek to bring the sheep into a twilight world of pain and judgment at death, but Jesus brings his sheep into the eternal kingdom of life (v. 10). Confirmation for this interpretation comes from the story of the raising of Lazarus in chapter 11. Lazarus has been stolen away by death, but Jesus stands in the cemetery and calls his name (11:43), and from the sheep pen of the great thief, Lazarus hears his name and comes out to follow his true Shepherd!
Among the representations of Jesus found carved above the burial niches in the catacombs of Rome are pictures of Jesus as Orpheus. The legend of Orpheus told of his journey into the underworld to reclaim his loved Eurydice. While early Christians did not believe in the myths of Rome and Greece, they did see in this story a meaningful way to summarize the truths of John 10 -- Jesus alone is the Good Shepherd who can go into the underworld where the thief has stolen away Jesus' sheep; Jesus alone has the power to challenge the thief, call his sheep by name, bring them back to LIFE, and lead them into eternal pastures of grace, mercy, and peace.
Application
In Christopher Fry's play, The Lady's Not for Burning, Margaret and Nicholas are talking about a woman who seems to be acting strangely. Margaret says, "She must be lost."
Nicholas responds, wistfully, "Who isn't? The best thing we can do is to make whatever we're lost in look as much like home as we can."
That is what we do with our lives, isn't it? We have so many goals and dreams and hopes in life, yet so few of them turn out. We get old before we have done half of what we wanted. Somehow we never become what we thought we might. We make a few mistakes along the way. We disappoint some people, and they disappoint us. Even our best times have an edge of bitterness attached to them -- when they end we walk away nursing our nostalgia. We are always a little bit away from home -- from the home we remember, or the home we desire; from the dream we miss, or the dream we are still looking for. That is what Nicholas is saying to Margaret in Christopher Fry's play. We are all a bit lost in life. We are all a bit away from home. The best we can do is make what we have look as much as possible like what we think "home" should be, until we can finally see our true home, and, like James says, bring our friends along with us.
No matter where we go, no matter what we do, there must live in each of us a touch of that homesickness, or we die a horrible death. Our trips "home" are only a pale imitation of the place we belong, and merely a wayside rest stop on a restless journey to the real home of God's love, and God's eternity. More than we know, that is where we all truly want to go, and only in finding Jesus and the coming of God's kingdom will our desires find fulfillment, and our longings be satisfied. Only then will our homesickness end.
This is what Acts 2:42-47 pictures. This is the pilgrimage to which Peter calls us. This is the assurance that Jesus communicates when he stands and speaks as our Shepherd. In him alone we find safety, even as we respond to his call into the wilds.
An Alternative Application
The picture of the church in Acts 2:24-27 is such a powerful picture that it makes a great stand-alone text for a message. In addition to the seven characteristics noted above, this passage can be used to reflect on how we can be, and become, more faithful in the expressions of these qualities.
One of my favorite parables related to this picture of the church is one in which the abbot of a dying monastery and a local Jewish rabbi meet regularly in the woods to commune and commiserate. Both are discouraged with the lack of faith and practice in their worlds. The elderly abbot complains about the crusty feistiness of the remaining four monks under his care -- all old, all crotchety, all difficult. On one of these meetings the Jewish rabbi brings a prophetic message that he himself is mystified by. He tells the abbot that he doesn't know why, but he feels compelled to inform his friend that one among those at the monastery is the Messiah. Both feel embarrassed by this obviously inappropriate declaration, and soon part to return to their homes.
At supper that evening, the abbot hesitantly tells of the rabbi's strange message. All five men laugh self-consciously and quickly move on to other conversation. But in the days that follow, the atmosphere in the monastery begins to change. Could Brother John be the Messiah? Does Brother Elred speak with divine wisdom? Is the tenacious care that the abbot gives a reflection of his holy office?
Within a month the quality of life in the monastery has changed. Those who live in the neighborhood notice it, and begin attending worship services in the monastery chapel. Families enjoy picnics on the lawns of the monastery, just to be near the older men who are wiser and kinder than any seemed to remember. Then several young men asked to take vows to join the monastery, and before long, the monastery became the thriving center of a new city. They no longer call it a monastery. Instead, they have posted signs at every entrance, welcoming all to come and join "Christ's Community." Indeed, Messiah is among them!
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 23
(Editor's note: Another discussion of Psalm 23 may be found on p. 15.)
It's a several-times-daily task in our household: walking the dog. Hera is a mature Sheltie, whom we inherited from my late mother-in-law. She obtained her from an animal-welfare organization, who had rescued her from a puppy farm, where she was being used (and abused) for breeding purposes. The ritual begins with clipping Hera's leash onto her collar. As we walk slowly around the block -- with this old dog, progress is always slow -- the leash hangs loose and limp. It's barely necessary, because Hera is such a gentle spirit.
"Your rod and your staff, they comfort me," writes the psalmist. Hera doesn't really need the leash, though neither she nor I would ever think of crossing the threshold without it. It's part of our relationship. It defines who we are. Maybe in her frisky, young puppy days (such as they were, amidst the horrors of the industrial-style breeding farm) the leash might have served a purpose. But now, it's just part of the obligatory equipment -- as well as a signal to other pedestrians that here is no ravenous beast to be feared.
Martin Luther wrote of two principal uses of the law: 1) a social use, to restrain, and 2) a pedagogic use, to instruct. John Calvin and others added a third use: 3) to guide, acting as a rule of life for those who gratefully respond to Christ's offer of salvation. We usually think of Psalm 23 as a song of comfort, but let us not forget that in the shepherd's hands are also instruments of control and guidance. The shepherd is also the lawgiver. The shepherd's staff -- the familiar "crook" -- is a walking stick, a tool of locomotion, but it can also be used to pull a wayward lamb back from danger. The rod is an instrument of discipline, useful for delivering a sharp blow to the hindquarters when it's time to leave a particularly satisfying patch of grass -- although we get the distinct sense, from this psalm, that this shepherd is more inclined than most to "spare the rod."
There once was a busload of tourists traveling through Israel. Their Arab guide had just finished telling the visitors about how the Palestinian shepherd typically walks ahead of the flock, when one of them looked out the window and saw a man driving a herd of sheep, brandishing a large, menacing-looking stick. Delighted with the opportunity to one-up the guide, he pointed out what he saw.
The guide immediately stopped the bus, bounded down the steps and ran over to the man with the stick. The passengers could see the two men talking, gesticulating with their hands in animated Middle Eastern fashion. Finally, their guide turned and walked back to the bus, a big grin on his face.
Back aboard, the guide turned to the tourists and proclaimed in triumph, "I have just spoken to the man. Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to know that he is not the shepherd. He is the butcher."
"The Lord is our shepherd. We shall not want."
