Lectionary 16 (B) — Jeremiah 23:1–6
One way to work with a Bible story is to ask yourself which character fits you best. In today’s Old Testament readings, we are the sheep, obviously. Right?
Jeremiah’s prophecy begins with woe. The shepherds who shepherd my people make me miserable, God says. Jeremiah writes during a national disaster. Some of the prophets promise that destruction is coming, and others afterward to bring hope, but Jeremiah is right in the middle of it. The armies of Babylon have torn down the gate, the city is burning, and people are being torn away from their lives. Whole communities fled to foreign lands, hoping to escape the terror that’s now at the door.
It is the shepherds’ fault, Jeremiah declares, the kings and leaders of the nation. A shepherd should care for sheep, a strong leader to make sure they have what they need, to drive away wild animals and protect them. But these leaders only cared about themselves. They ignored people, and only filled their own pockets. Their power and riches have increased, while poverty and despair spread. These false shepherds have brought destruction upon all.
So, it’s enticing to see ourselves as the sheep. Perhaps now more than ever. The storms lately have been nearly as bad as the heat, and landslides kill as much as heat exhaustion. The delta variant of the pandemic spreads, while poorer countries haven’t finished fighting the first. There are dangerous enemy countries, immigration crises, economic instability. If our leaders, old and new, were better shepherds, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
Except our faith teaches the “Priesthood of All Believers.” We don’t just rely powerlessly on our leaders. Jesus makes us leaders ourselves. All of us, no exceptions. It reacted, originally, to the idea that priests were qualitatively different. Catholics and Protestants alike were guilty of elevating pastors onto a pedestal. But pastors, like everyone else, are perfectly human. We have many faults.
Sometimes, I get thinking about past mistakes, failures I can’t forgive myself. Ben was five, and his father decided he was going to be an acolyte. There was no reason he couldn’t. So I said we should schedule time to go through it, so Ben could feel comfortable. Evidently, dad decided training wasn’t necessary. Suddenly, one Sunday, Ben appeared on the schedule.
Two minutes before worship, the three of us were standing in a classroom, being miserable at each other. Ben was in the far corner, crying. His dad only told him in the car on the way to church that morning. He’d had no preparation, and was terrified. His father was angry; Benjamin you are embarrassing me you are good at this kind of thing now come over here immediately and put on this robe. And I—?
I was doing what I do, moving quietly toward Ben in the space, asking what was frightening, trying to talk him down. Finally, I said what I wanted to from the start: “You don’t have to do this today.” His father shouted, “YES HE DOES.”
I don’t like to be a strong, authoritative leader. I see my job as empowering others. But occasionally, I should wield my power. That day, I did not. After worship, after watching him light candles and sob miserably, his father announced that Ben had done so well. The congregation applauded. Dad beamed with pride. Ben turned and faced the wall in shame. I failed him, and me.
We all do. God makes us leaders, and we fail utterly to lead for the gospel. We lead for ourselves. Or we lead out of fear. Or we simply underestimate our leadership’s results. Even if you’re a follower, your back-seat driving can frustrate and fail. We are not perfect, we are human, we are not God.
My announcement this morning may cause some of you to worry about the future of your church. Our congregation is smallish, its resources, at least in creativity, are few and tired.
There always seem to be people around to get things done. But there are too few people with great ideas for what to do. It’s not 1960 anymore. Soup sales are great, but they’re not going to sustain our congregation.
And yet we manage to get good things done. We still come together, and love one another, and proclaim the gospel in word and song and work. We still DO sell soup, and more than ever, as a ministry of civic participation. Berks Encore isn’t open yet, but we don’t need to wait for them, and now seniors are revitalizing their lives here. We still can to take creative steps forward, trying new things even when the world is closed, willing to fail for the chance we might succeed.
One of Martin Luther’s sayings is that we should “Sin Boldly.” He didn’t mean sinning is good. He meant we don’t need to be fear failure. If we act, and we accidently sin, we will be forgiven. So take action! Give it a try! You might fail, but you also might glimpse the glory of God.
Alex was five. He was one of the very few participants in an experimental “Sing and Play” worship service for young children. It failed, by the numbers. We did it faithfully, every Sunday, for a whole year, and then decided to call it quits.
But numbers sometimes lie. We may not have reached a huge number of children. But I did count it a success to sit on the floor, on a big quilt, with Alex and his father, watching as he cuddled into his father’s side and looked over his shoulder as Dad read the Bible story for the day. Alex was drawn to the words, to the book, to sharing these stories with the people he loved.
And even more, to sharing God with the people he loved. When it came time for communion, he eagerly took the loaf of bread. Out of excitement, yes, because he knew what we were doing. So reverently, feeling the Sacrament’s power, he placed bread in his father’s hands, proclaiming that this was the body of Christ. He knew, better than I did, what was in this meal. And for all my failings, in those moments, God succeeded.
If we are worried for our future, we are in good company. Our whole world is in the same social boat; our whole church is in the same religious boat. But then, Jesus knows how to sail. Jeremiah didn’t just condemn the leaders of his time. He promised there would be a new shepherd for the sheep. One who truly was good, who would lead them beside still waters, and restore their strength. One who would lay out a banquet table, and feed them in safety. One who was greater than any human shepherd. God himself, who we know in Jesus, would bring them justice and righteousness, and lead them into new, unexpected life.
We are the sheep after all. There is nothing to fear. God will tend to us, with love.