John
10:22-30
There are some aspects of the Bible
that I confess I have trouble connecting with, and one of those is the whole
business of God as a shepherd. I am not
running down the beauty and comfort of the Twenty-Third Psalm. It’s one that I say when I really need to
lean on the Lord. I can certainly
appreciate the parable of the shepherd who had one hundred sheep and, when he
lost one of them, left the ninety-nine where they were to go and find the stray. I get all of that. I can extrapolate, too, from the way my dogs
act.
“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” [John 10:27]
That’s not so different from what I find
with the chihuahuas. On Monday, I had a
real problem with the oldest one. He
wouldn’t leave me alone. Every time I
opened my office door, he tried to slip out behind me, and he succeeded about
four or five times. It’s not that I
don’t want him around, but when the Montessori students see him, they stop
doing whatever it is that they are doing on the hallway floor – counting paper
clips or fussing with their shoes or whatever – and all start going, “Oh! Look!
So cute!” and he gets scared.
I
kind of wish I could be that kind of disciple, who wants to follow Jesus that
closely. I confess that I tend more to
be the hound-dog type who looks up and says, “Oh, here he is again. I wonder what he’s up to this time. Where did I leave that biscuit? Who keeps moving the sunny spot?” and falls
asleep again.
So
how does Jesus deal with someone like me?
This
verse actually has two parts. If I look
at just the part that says, “they follow
me”, I miss out on the reason why. I
miss out on the part that says, “I know
them.” What is it like to be known
so well by somebody that they don’t even bother with the truly unimportant
stuff? Maybe I should ask, “Who in your
life really knows how to speak your language and to cut through everything else
enough to really get through to you?”
Happy
Mothers’ Day! Here are the words to a
song by Garrison Keillor that I’m not going to try to sing, but I think we’ll
all get it.
One day a child came home from football,
Where he had fumbled, was jeered and booed,
His mother saw that his heart was breaking,
And so she made him his favorite food.
She did not make a garden salad,
She made no rolls nor beans,
It was a sandwich, on toasted white bread,
Of peanut butter creamy style.
The years went by and he was a loser,
He led a useless and wretched life,
And yet she never criticized him,
She smiled as she got out the knife.
She did not make a garden salad,
She made no rolls nor beans,
It was a sandwich, on toasted white bread,
Of peanut butter creamy style.
Then he decided on the basis,
Of a book that he read one fall,
That his problems had resulted,
From excessive cholesterol.
He had some bowls of garden salad,
He ate those rolls and beans,
He gave up sandwiches on toasted white bread,
With peanut butter creamy style.
That night his dog died, he smashed his pick-up,
His sweetheart left him, he lost his hair,
His house caught fire, he went to prison,
His dear old mother came to him there.
She did not bring a garden salad,
She brought no rolls nor beans,
She brought a sandwich on toasted white bread,
Of peanut butter creamy style,
It was a sandwich on toasted white bread,
Of peanut butter creamy style.
That, my friends, is why we pay attention to Mothers’ Day
in church. In fact, it was a holiday
that began with us.
A Methodist woman from
West Virginia named Anna Jarvis pushed for a serious recognition of the rough
ministry called motherhood, and she succeeded.
At the end of her life, though, she became disenchanted with the way it
became (and still is) commercialized. At
one point she wrote,
“A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to
write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And
candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty
sentiment.”[1]
Anna Jarvis must have
been a force of nature. She moved to
Philadelphia and before World War I she became the first female advertising
editor at Fidelity Mutual Life Insurance, down on Market St. right where the El
goes underground, and was a partner in her brother’s business, the Quaker City
Cab Company. She died in West Chester
and is buried at West Laurel Hill in Bala Cynwyd.
But I digress. Let’s get
back to the real point, which is that although not all mothers are saints (and
some who are martyrs may be the least saintly of all), still, if you want to
understand something about how the Lord both knows us and loves us, you don’t
have to look very far.
Jesus spoke about himself as a shepherd protecting his sheep. Listen to this passage, but instead of a
shepherd speaking about sheep, hear it as a mother might speak if a child is
put in jeopardy.
“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.” [John 10:28-30]
Don’t get into an
argument at a PTA meeting with that parent.
And also hear this: you are a child of God. You are the one who is known and understood,
loved and corrected, protected and challenged, guided and sent, taught and
instructed, heard and hugged. You know
the voice that speaks to you. You know
whose it is. And you know whose you are.
So, you be nice to your sisters and brothers. You watch your language. Don’t you forget to share, to say “please”
and “thank you” and to clean up after yourself.
And call home. Jesus wants
to hear from you, too.
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