Let’s Practice Resurrection

Reflection on John 10:22-30

When my friend Melinda was in early junior high, her parents encouraged her to help with a vacation bible school (VBS) on the beach. I’m quite sure they wanted a few nights by themselves, and Melinda helping with VBS was one of the ways they could manage two stones with one bird. But Melinda was an Episcopalian, born and raised, and so when the VBS crew taught her the song “What can wash away my sins?” with the answer “nothing but the blood of Jesus,” she refused to help at all. Melinda called her parents and insisted they come and pick her up that instant. They did not. They waited until the next morning, but Melinda didn’t end up helping with VBS that year. 

I love this story. I love how my friend resisted and how her parents were willing to come and pick her up, but not until the next morning. And I feel a little thing about the whole blood thing in our Revelation text, being a good Episcopalian and all, yet I think it might be me who has the problem, and all of us who need a re-framing of this text. We spent a minute on the blood thing this week in lectionary group, and my colleagues reminded me of the saving and protecting nature of blood, like in the Passover story in Exodus, or the Prince of Egypt where they painted the door lintels with blood and the angel of death passed over their home. That’s only a detour. I don’t think the blood thing is even close to the point of this Revelation narrative, even as it tripped me up. 

Because we’re still in the Easter season, contemplating the mysteries of resurrection and we’re seeing a glimpse of what is and what will be when God will be all in all. 

This is the way that it’s supposed to be, the way it was always supposed to be, where there are no tears, where our robes will be white, where we will hear the voice of God and follow it, there is no hunger or thirst, no scorching sun, where the great multitude knows right from wrong, where the lamb is both the Lamb of God and shepherd, and where God is at the center of the world. 

But our world is not like this so much of the time. 

In our world, sometimes the wanting and the hope feels like a waste of time. 

In our world, God isn’t pulling the strings, at least not in a way that I would like. 

In our world, people we love so much are dying. 

In our world, war seems like a better answer than peace. The hawks win, the lambs loose. 

My mom’s friend used to say that she felt sorry for anyone who had to live. I understood her, especially in those angst-filled teenage years. Life can be so hard. Yet even though she’s right so much of the time, she’s also so very wrong. 

Because we know another way, we know another way with our bodies and with our spirits. Because I don’t know about you, but I’m so very glad I get to live, to be here, in community with all of you, living during this spring with the leaves unfurling in front of our eyes, yet still hoping and yearning for that time when all of us are drinking from the water of life and there are no more tears. 

In this here and this now, there are so many joys. 

The very first image of Jesus that we know of is the one we see on the front of our bulletin this morning. It’s Jesus the boy shepherd, holding the one sheep on his shoulders, inviting more sheep to join him with an open arm. It’s not an image at the front of a church, or on a fresco on a wall in a dining room or a sitting room. This image was in the catacombs of Rome, the graves under the city where the Romans buried their dead. And because the ancient Romans were afraid of the dead – they understood the dead to become ghosts – the Christians could gather in the never-never land, where no one else wanted to go, worship, and make images of the boy shepherd Jesus and escape persecution. 

This boy shepherd isn’t a king who routs his enemies, although I wish he did. This isn’t a king who brings everyone who is dead back to life, although I wish he did. This isn’t a king who is the most powerful and everyone knows it, although I wish he was. This is the king whose name is love. This is the king, the good shepherd. This is the king who knows each of us by name, who walks with us in the shadow of death so we are not alone. This is the boy shepherd who shows us the still waters because heaven knows, we’re all afraid of the moving water. This is the king who finds green pastures for us to lay down, because it’s comfy and hopeful and good to eat. This is God who spreads a table for us to eat, right by our enemies, who are watching and judging God for God’s bad taste in loving us. This is God whose whole relationship with us – with the people of this world. This is God, the very one whose relationship with humans reminded another human of the relationship between sheep and shepherd, and thus Psalm 23, one of our primary and most beautiful ways of understanding God and God’s love for all of us creatures. 

The good shepherd reminds us that God knows us and loves us. God is our home, the place we come when we’re feeling tired and battered and full of questions, frustrated and full of grief. But we’re not called to live in the sheepfold forever. 

In the time of the ancient shepherds in Israel, most sheepfolds were built in a circle. It was easier than making corners; you used less stone. There was also no door – the shepherd slept in the door so that nothing could come in or get out. And it wasn’t like today’s barns. There weren't enough provisions for the sheep. They had to leave to eat, to get fresh water and food. They had to leave. 

Just like us. We can’t live covered with bubble wrap, refusing to leave our home comforts. No. We must be the ones to point towards what could be, to show our world that there is another way, even if we’ve only caught a glimpse of it, that place where God will be all in all. In that place, all humans can thrive. In that place, like the shores of Lake Michigan, the waters of life are there for the healing of the nations, and being pro-human doesn’t mean you’re anti anything. In that place, there is no hunger. In that place, all creatures can live without fear. In that place, all people live out their years, enjoying their children and their grandchildren, justice prevails and won’t come unraveled, but it will continue forever and ever. 

It’s not the hope that kills us, although it feels like that sometimes. 

Resurrection reminds us, shows us, pulls us, tugs us in another way because where we are right now isn’t enough. The Good Shepherd’s love fills us up, and it is this very love that propels us, calls us, reminds us that what we have right now isn’t enough, not near enough. And we all know it. 

Two Fridays ago the dog, my two adult children, and I took a walk by Lake Michigan. It was brisk and cold, the little dog had to spend some time nestled in the second born’s coat because he was shaking. But it was also incredibly beautiful. The beach was open and windswept and we found a little place in the dunes where we could see the water yet we were out of the wind. For a minute, I couldn’t remember the heavy things, my worries or obsessions. For a minute, I could catch that glimpse of that other time, the one we all yearn and hope for, the one that is calling us all today. 

Some would say that it was only a vision, only a dream. But isn’t that the way that all good things begin? With a dream, a vision, a hope? I belong to a community of dreamers, solid as the ground we walk on, with as much potential as the tomatoes so many of us planted this week. We aren’t the only ones — we stand on the shoulders of prophets and prophetesses, men and women who hoped, believed, and yearned, looking forward to what will be because of our hands and feet. 

So let’s join together. Let’s practice resurrection.