Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 29, 2007

Sermon by Pastor Joy Bussert

The Holy Gospel according to St. John. (John 10:22-30)

At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.”

The Gospel of the Lord.

Every Sunday morning, just as the sun is coming up in the east, I drive across the Ford Parkway bridge and, once past Cleveland and Fairview, I begin to pass rows of houses along the parkway, and then turn left, passing streets of more houses up and down Snelling. Many of the houses on Sunday morning at this time are still dark; the shades drawn. It is Sunday morning, after all, a morning for many to sleep in.

But as I look out and see the windows and curtains drawn in the quiet of the morning, I often wonder about the people who live behind those window shades. And I will wonder further which of those persons or people who will be drawn, for whatever reason, to a house of God of their choice on any given Sabbath morning.

I think about the people behind those window shades, and I wonder if there might be parents there in one of those houses with a newborn; they would be exempt, in my book, from being out early for any reason on any given morning. And so, knowing that it would be difficult for them to make the struggle to be out for church, I offer up a prayer to God to be with them and bless them in their new endeavor.

As I drive along, I wonder if there are parents in another one of those houses with a teenager or young adult getting ready for confirmation, or a graduation. I wonder about all of the loving preparation, not to mention the years of loving care, to even make confirmation or a graduation possible. I wonder how that young person might be feeling about the changes up ahead in their life as they look forward not just to an end but to a new beginning.

Sometimes I wonder if there might be someone in any one of those other houses waiting for a word on a biopsy from the doctor. I wonder if there might be an older person in another house facing the prospect of having to give up her home and move into assisted living. The burden of taking care of a home has become too much; it is time for living more simply, but the change is hard. Other times I wonder if there is a family there behind any of those window shades for whom it is hard to pay the bills this year. I wonder if perhaps there is a sad child with a parent struggling with addiction.

I wonder all of those things, and many more. And I know on any given street, on any given Sunday morning, in any given row of houses, it is all there.

But I am on my way to Immanuel. And I am also sure that if there might be any one thing that could sweep up all of those cares, all of those worries, oh, not take them away so much as offer them up to God, inasmuch as a single phrase could hold, if there would be any one thing that could draw all of the cares of life together—should any of those people wander into a sanctuary on a Sunday morning—it would be, above all else, the Psalms.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”

And what does the shepherd do?

“Makes me lie down in green pastures;

and leads me beside still waters,

and restores my soul.

And even though I walk through

the valley of the shadow of deep darkness,

even death,

I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

I am sure that it would be the Psalms, because the Psalms, more than anything else, tell it like it is, with honesty and integrity. The Old Testament speaks of salvation history; the Gospels tell the stories of Jesus. But the Psalms, on any given Sunday, keep the conversation with God going, saying things that maybe you would have said, but the words wouldn’t come all week. But a psalm sweeps it up in just a few phrases. It is the Psalms that capture the way life really is for you.

After all, the Psalms throughout ancient times were the worship hymns that put the longings, yearnings, troubles, and music of the human soul to words and music. Included within the 150 Psalms of a Psalter there are lament psalms, psalms of thanksgiving, psalms asking for deliverance, and psalms of comfort and confidence in a God, who restores and leads us beside still waters. All of them worship hymns, offered up to the God in the temple, or synagogue, or church, in the firm belief that God is here to listen and to hear what sometimes cannot be captured with just mere words.

One of the things that I learned while reading up on the history of the Saint Francis of Assisi service called “The Blessing of the Animals” that we had here at Immanuel last fall was that the word “dominion” in Genesis, that word that has been so badly misunderstood in the creation story, where humans are given the responsibility for dominion over the creation, the word “dominion” in the Hebrew, I learned, has nothing to do with the right to exploit or do whatever we want with the land, and the air, and the sea, and the animals. The dominion spoken of in the Hebrew is that of a shepherd who cares for, tends, and feeds the sheep. Imagine how different our world would be had “shepherd,” as it has been expressed in the most loved of the psalms, had that also been understood as the metaphor for our responsibility to care for creation, as the metaphor first appears in the creation story.

Immanuel, as a congregation, was well represented last night, thanks to Sue and Dave Klevan, at a benefit for the Ilula Health Center, east of Iringa, in Tanzania. As part of the program last evening, Don Falk told the story of how that Ilula Health Center came to be.

In 1938, two Swedish nurses opened a medical dispensary, but for almost two years in the Iringa area they saw very little activity. As it turned out, the hai hai tribal chief had told his people not to go to this modern medical facility, until one day when the chief’s own donkey developed an abscess that would not go away. Reluctantly, the chief brought his beloved animal to the two Swedish nurses, who gently cared for the animal, like a shepherd cares for sheep, over a period of several days, and lo and behold, the donkey began to heal. And then, and only then, did the chief say to his people that they, too, could go for healing. And last night they announced that the Ilula Health Center has now been granted the status of the Ilula District Hospital.

At our house, we have a cat, affectionately called “Lamb.” And the reason he is named Lamb is because of how and where we found him.

A couple of years ago, Kate and I were on our way one Sunday after church to the Humane Society to choose a new little kitty. On our way, we stopped over at another congregation, St. Paul Reformation Church, where Auntie Nell is a member, to transfer some camping equipment from our trunk to her trunk. When we pulled up in front of the church and started up the walk to the front step, there was a tiny little taupe tiger kitty, sort of whirling and twirling on the sidewalk, as kitties do when they want you to pay attention to them. The little kitty was not more than a couple of months old. And, as it turned out, someone had left the kitty in the church library, and when it was found someone had put it outside. I—thinking that perhaps some child had wandered into the church with the kitty, the owner—carried him back into the library to see if the owner could be found. As I turned to go into the library, the first thing that caught my eye was a beautiful stained-glass window of Jesus, the Good Shepherd, carrying the one little lamb.

And so, finding no owner, and standing under the care and protection of the Good Shepherd, who providentially we think bought him to us or us to him, we named our new little kitty Lamb. And Lamb he has been to us ever since.

A metaphor of ”God as Shepherd” extends as far back as Genesis, and as far forward as the metaphor for “Jesus, the Good Shepherd” that we have in the Gospel of John today. And perhaps the difference between the one who comes out from behind the window shades on a Sunday morning and one who does not is the realization that you have been found and blessed by a loving God, as loving as a Good Shepherd, whose presence and care for you throughout your life has been expressed by the phrases of the Psalms.

“Surely goodness and mercy,” the Good Shepherd Psalm concludes, “will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”

Amen.