Looking into the lectionary — Good Shepherd Sunday

SUBSCRIBE \ ABOUT \ DONATE \ CONTACT John 10:11-18; Psalm 23 — April 25, 2021 4th Sunday of Easter John 10 presents one of the New Testament’s most beloved images of Jesus and his relationship with his followers: "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. … I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me."  The Old Testament background music is palpable, especially Ezekiel 34, where shepherd imagery conveys God’s genuine care for the well-being of God’s sheep, in marked contrast to that of false shepherds. Psalm 23, the most beloved of the psalms and another text for the fourth Sunday of Easter, also comes to mind. Its depiction of the Lord as our shepherd, who supplies our needs by leading us beside still waters and into green pastures, provides profound words of assurance that we are well-cared-for sheep! In John 10, Jesus draws such imagery to himself, describing himself as the kind of shepherd the Old Testament says only God can be — as one who conveys God’s pastoral care to the sheep. Two distinctive aspects of Jesus’ shepherding practice receive particular emphasis. One is his intimate knowledge of his sheep, whom he knows by name and who recognize his voice. He speaks not of head knowledge, but of intimate, relational knowledge between shepherd and sheep. The other distinctive emphasis is his willingness, as the good shepherd, even to lay down his life for his sheep. These are not words of self-sacrifice, but of self-giving and radical commitment: “No one takes [my life] from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again.” The good shepherd protects the sheep from danger, whatever the cost, calling to mind Psalm 23’s affirmation of the shepherd’s accompaniment in the midst of dark valleys and the presence of enemies: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff — they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Together, Psalm 23 and John 10 convey God in Christ’s deep solidarity with the flock, whatever the circumstances. This powerful imagery of deep solidarity and intimate relationship in Jesus’ description of his own shepherding practice is explicitly contrasted in John 10 with the unreliable oversight of “the hired hand” who does not truly care for the sheep and so runs away at the first sign of trouble: “The hired hand … sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away — and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep.” The marked contrast drawn between the two invites reflection on the presence of false shepherds in our own time and place — imposters who would claim the shepherd’s mantle, promising security of various kinds that they cannot deliver. In our own context, John 10 also invites reflection on the antithesis between deeply relational notions of shepherding and transactional notions exemplified by hired hands.   In our Reformed heritage, John’s Christological image of the good shepherd and his sheep is captured in the deeply relational notion of covenant — a concept of profound solidarity. Covenant is the divine pattern for relationships – one that willingly risks danger in solidarity with others – reflected in the Noahic covenant between God and the earth and the Abrahamic covenant between God and Abraham’s descendants. Both entail a deeply relational pattern of life in which God willingly enters into the darkest valleys in order to liberate and redeem. This pattern of life stands in marked contrast to the dominant symbol for most modern relationships: the “contract.”     A contract is based in negotiation and prescribes conditional relations with the other — “you do this, and I’ll do that.” In a contract, the meeting of stipulations is the sole basis for continuing the relationship. The contract is deeply transactional, and without staying power. As Scott Greer, a professor of sociology and urban studies, has noted, transactional patterns of life find communal expression in what he calls a “community of limited liability.” In “The Emerging City: Myth and Reality,” Greer describes relationships in urban areas like this: "The individual's investment is relatively small in the interactional network that constitutes the locality group, and if his losses are too great he can cut them by getting out — the community cannot hold him. … Even the most deeply involved can withdraw from the local community and satisfy all needs elsewhere." This sobering concept of “communities of limited liability” is one that churches need to ponder — perhaps especially those located in neighborhoods in which many of their members do not reside, where relationships with the community surrounding the congregation may be tenuous at best.      Covenantal patterns of life, like transactional ones, also find communal expression. Indeed “flock and shepherd” is an ecclesial image in John, and the covenantal pattern of life the good shepherd embodies is to be reflected in the church’s life and mission as it gives expression to its love for Jesus by “tending” and “feeding” his sheep (John 21:15-19). The demands of biblical covenants are right relations with God and others, especially vulnerable others: the oppressed, the brokenhearted, the captive and the prisoner. Right relation to others thus entails solidarity, accompanying them through dark valleys. Jesus’ shepherding ministry is to be a model for our own, for the risen Lord asks of us, “Do you love me?” Then “tend my sheep.”  On the other side of Easter, the risen Lord also invites us to attend to wounds. In John, when the risen Jesus appears to his disciples behind locked doors, the wounds of crucifixion are still on him and he directs their attention to them (John 20:19-29). In “Resurrecting Wounds,” theologian Shelly Rambo finds in this story an additional paradigm for the church’s life and ministry, contending that the real power of the resurrection is attending to wounds, with a readiness “to hold pain and to stay with difficult truths” about the wounds that remain in our own lives and in our world. Attending to such wounds, like tending and feeding Jesus’ sheep, is a deeply relational, covenantal practice, that creates spaces in which liberation and new life can emerge. As your wounds connect to my wounds – and your suffering to my suffering – a communal, covenantal life can emerge in which we walk with one another through dark valleys and gather together at a table prepared for us even in the midst of all that threatens us. The Good Shepherd is leading the way. This week: 1.     What is your experience of Psalm 23 and the shepherd who supplies our needs by leading us beside still waters and into green pastures? 2.     How has the shepherd’s accompaniment in the midst of dark valleys found expression in your life? 3.     In our context, where do you see the antithesis between deeply relational notions of shepherding and transactional notions exemplified by hired hands? 4.     How is your church related to community surrounding the congregation?  And does Scott Greer’s notion of “community of limited liability” resonate with the church’s relationship to its community?   5.     The biblical notion of covenant demands right relations with God and others, especially vulnerable others: the oppressed, the brokenhearted, the captive and the prisoner. How has the church embraced this notion of covenant? 6.     As we attend to one another’s wounds, we walk with one another through dark valleys and gather together at a table prepared for us even in the midst of all that threatens us.  How have you experienced this in your community? Over the last five months, “Looking into the Lectionary” has been written by Roger Gench, theologian in residence at Second Presbyterian Church in Richmond, Virginia. Roger is the author of “The Cross Examen,” a book that finds nodes of connection between rich spiritual reflection and profound engagement in public life. Thank you, Roger, for weaving these intersections into our study of Scripture each week!  Now, as Roger turns to the classroom and other work, the Outlook's “Looking into the Lectionary” column will carry on with guest contributors. We will continue to present thoughtful commentary on the lectionary week by week. — Jay Blossom, Presbyterian Outlook interim editor Fruit of the Spirit: The result of the transforming power and presence of God's own Spirit The next 3 issues of the Outlook explore each fruit of the spirit in turn. Frances Gench provides an introduction, looking at the concepts that frame Paul's discussion in Galatians 5.  Read the full article by Frances Taylor Gench Editorial Life in the Spirit Book review Beguiled by Beauty Outlook news Outlook wins ACP awards  ‌  ‌  ‌  ‌

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Looking into the lectionary — 2nd Sunday of Easter

SUBSCRIBE \ ABOUT \ DONATE \ CONTACT John 20:19-31 — April11, 2021 2nd Sunday of Easter Over the last several years, I have been significantly influenced by the thought-provoking work of theologian Shelly Rambo whose study of trauma has challenged the traditional paradigm of redemption – one that moves from death to life without remainder.  Or, put another way, the notion that salvation moves in a linear fashion from brokenness toward victory over death, evil and suffering, and glosses over the way the trauma of death continues, or “remains,” in the midst of life. In “Spirit and Trauma,” Rambo observes that traditional understandings of redemption advise people to “get over it” or to move on, but those who have suffered trauma find any such counsel unhelpful. For some, the reality of death continues to impinge on life, and there is no clean break with the trauma of the past. In other words, some people find it difficult to move directly from Good Friday to Easter. Some of us get stuck in Holy Saturday and are not sure what Easter means when wounds remain. How can we sing “Hallelujah” when wounds remain?  Moreover, such questions about trauma coincide with a perennial quandary of the Christian faith: If salvation has been accomplished in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, why is there so little peace on earth? Why do we live in the grip of so much anger, evoked by conflicts that mar our family, work and communal environments, or by the interminable warfare that marks our era? Why do we find ourselves paralyzed by fears and chronic anxieties that deflate our sense of worth, making simple acts of compassion – of connection with others – enormously difficult? Why do such debilitating realities remain, even as we proclaim that Christ has been raised, that death has been defeated and that victory has been won?   For me, Rambo’s deep theological reflection on trauma can help us address these questions. In her most recent book, “Resurrecting Wounds: Living in the Afterlife of Trauma,” she highlights a crucial feature of the lectionary text before us on the 2nd Sunday of Easter: the Gospel of John’s account of the risen Lord’s appearance to his disciples, in which the wounds of crucifixion are on full display. They are not erased by resurrection. Indeed, Jesus directs the disciples’ attention to the wounds: “He showed them his hands and side” (John 20:20; for further reflection on this text, see my recent editorial). In light of Jesus’ attention to wounds, Rambo reenvisions the meaning of resurrection by locating its power in confronting, attending to and mindfully transforming – rather than erasing – wounds.   In our current context, wounds in need of attention are myriad. Think of the staggering number of people who have lost loved ones to a deadly pandemic and the grief engulfing them, compounded by the pain of separation and isolation. Moreover, the pandemic has exposed deep racial wounds in the fabric of our lives, as well as an ever-widening socioeconomic gap between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” Think also of the recurring trauma of mass shootings, often the result of racialized violence, that continues to terrorize our nation. Facing into such wounds is essential if we are to be an Easter people who engage, rather than ignore, the death-tending realities of our world and bear witness to resurrection life.  Lately, I have been gleaning much wisdom about facing into wounds such as racism from Resmaa Menakem’s highly acclaimed book, “My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies.” Menakem helpfully distinguishes between dirty pain and clean pain. Dirty pain entails avoidance, blame and denial when confronted with realities such as racism. As Menakem observes, “When people respond from their most wounded parts, become cruel or violent, or physically or emotionally run away, they experience dirty pain.” Clean pain, by contrast, entails facing into trauma. With respect to addressing racism, clean pain enables our bodies to heal and find the means to address white-body supremacy. “Accepting clean pain,” Menakem contends, “will allow white Americans to confront their longtime collective disassociation and silence. It will enable African Americans to confront their internalization of defectiveness and self-hate. And it will help public safety professionals in many localities to confront the recent metamorphosis of their role from serving the community to serving as soldiers and prison guards.”  Surely Christian communities, following Menakem’s counsel, can be places of resurrection where clean pain replaces the dirty pain of avoidance — places where these and other wounds are touched, attended to, released, liberated and redeemed. Places where anger, fear, agitation, grief and loss are acknowledged and addressed, where anger is transformed into compassion for those who are hurting and where energies are refocused to address injustice. Places where fear is transformed into interconnection that enables us to see that where one is wounded, are all wounded, and that injustice to one is injustice to all. Grief and loss can forge communities of care and compassion, tenderness and courage. In all of these respects, the church is a place of respite, not because we retreat there to ignore wounds, but because it is a place where a risen Lord directs our attention to them, and breathes his Spirit into us, empowering us for healing ministries in his name. This week: 1.     Would you agree with the contention that far too often we skip from Good Friday to Easter, glossing over the way that death continues or remains in the midst of life? Why, or why not? 2.     Have you ever found yourself perplexed by the perennial quandary that if salvation has already occurred, why is there so little peace on earth?  3.     In light of Jesus’ direction of his disciples’ attention to his wounds, what do you think of Rambo’s notion oflocating the power of resurrection in confronting, attending to and mindfully transforming – rather than erasing – wounds?  4.     What would you identify as wounds in need of attention in your community? In our nation? In our world? 5.     What do you think about Menakem’s distinction between dirty pain and clean pain? 6.     How can churches be the place where wounds are touched, attended to, released, liberated and redeemed? Six lessons learned about faith formation in the midst of a pandemic Christian educators make the bold claim that the Spirit calls us all to a life of learning and growing. So even as we look with hopeful anticipation to a time when we can gather together in person, what are some lessons we have learned thus far about faith formation in the midst of a pandemic? Read the full article by Rodger Nishioka Commentary Well-being support for ministers from the Board of Pensions Book review Speaking Peace in a Climate of Conflict What's right? First Presbyterian Church Sweetwater, Texas  ‌  ‌  ‌  ‌

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