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Easter 4C
Loving God of overflowing grace, who knows us each by name: you know us well and love us anyway. Place your name on our lips and in our hearts. Help us to know the love that can only be known by knowing you. Amen.
Yesterday the Vestry had its annual retreat, and as one of our “getting acquainted” exercises, I asked everyone to tell the story of their name. How did you get your name? Or maybe, what does it mean? Whatever you think of as the story of your name…
So I’ll tell you the story of my name.
My name is Jon Mark Richardson. Being a southerner, throughout much of my life I had a two-name name: Jon Mark. When I started to learn cursive, however, I had a very hard time writing the capital M in cursive, so I mostly dropped the “Mark”. But my family still called me Jon Mark for a long time – and some still do. Later, even though I still don’t really like writing capital M’s in cursive, I ended up adding my middle initial back in when my name is in print, because I learned that if you Google Jon Richardson – with Jon spelled the way I spell it – without an H – the top result is for a British comedian. So, I became Jon M. Richardson.
The way I got my middle name is sort of the fun part. As the story has been told to me, I was originally supposed to have been Jon Paul. But I was born on October 11, 1978, and near the end of August in 1978 a papal conclave ended with the papacy of Pope John Paul I. You may recall, his papacy was very short. He died only 33 days after taking office, just two weeks before I would be born. So, as it was told to me, my parents, Methodists who were deep in the heart of heavily Roman Catholic South Louisiana, were concerned that people might think they’d decided to name me after the late Pope. So, family discussions began about what my name should be instead. My brother, Charles David, who was four years old at the time, suggested Mark, and so, that’s how I became Jon Mark.
That’s the story of my name. At least one of them. There are more… But the point is, it not only tells you who I am, as a classification, but it also tells you a bit about who I am in a deeper, more descriptive way. Names have meaning, and those meanings can be pretty powerful.
Today is the Sunday in the church year, each year, that has often been known as “Good Shepherd Sunday,” because the Collect of the Day reminds us of the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, and the 23rd Psalm is read: “The Lord is my Shepherd”. And in the Gospel reading, we hear Jesus speak of his followers as “his sheep” – the ones under his care and protection.
It’s an image that tugs at the heartstrings. The Good Shepherd. The one who is tasked with caring for the vulnerable. The one who finds the lost. The one who protects the weak.
But, as meaningful as the image of Christ as Shepherd is for many people, for me, what really strikes me about the liturgy this day is the idea of naming. To name is, at least to some degree, to know. The Collect prays, “Grant that when we hear Christ’s voice, we may know the one who knows us each by name…”
Naming is powerful. Naming is knowing – at least as opposed to being unknown.
In one of the stories of creation found in the book of Genesis, God endows Adam with responsibility for the care of all of creation by giving him the power to name the creatures. In Exodus, as Moses is called to lead the Hebrew people out of the bonds of slavery, one of his first thoughts is of his inadequacy for the task. So, to support his call, he asks to have God’s name revealed to him, because knowing that name would prove his authority. And even in our own lives, I’ve heard it said that we are each more attuned to hear our own names than anything else. Even when spoken very softly, or in a crowded and noisy room, if our name is spoken we’re more likely to hear it, even if we can’t hear anything else that’s said.
Names mean something.
But as much as naming is critical to our focus here today, it really seems like that’s just a means to an end. To name is to know. And really, what we’re about today, is knowing.
In the Temple, the people crowded around Jesus and said, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you really are the Messiah,” if you really are who they say you are, “tell us plainly.” Let us know.
One of the things I like most about being an Episcopalian is that, at least in theory, we are people who are more comfortable than most with gray areas. This is a community of faith that doesn’t mind questions. And we even often recognize that the questions are very often the point. As a community, we generally welcome questions – not just for their answers – but for the value of the questions themselves. We don’t depend on knowing, necessarily. Of course, that doesn’t mean that we don’t value education and study. It just means that we know that while education and study start with facts, it almost never ends there. Even in a field as empirical as science, facts are critical, but the most valuable facts inform better questions.
But that does sometimes put us at odds with our wider culture. And frankly, it can even put us at odds with our own initial proclivities. It feels good to know. It makes us feel more secure.
And yes, even in matters of faith, I sometimes catch myself thinking, I wish I could just know. I’ll be tasked with preaching about some particularly challenging passage of scripture, and struggling to find peace in it, and I’ll think, I just want to know what it means. Just clear it up. I plead with God, just tell me plainly.
And when I’m dealing with pastoral matters – I almost never know what to say. What I want to say is something that will bring fast healing to deep hurt. I want to find words that can erase the pain – words that can fix it. But those words don’t exist. And what I do know is that whatever words I do find, they won’t be good enough. And what I also know is that in times of pain and grief presence is more important than words – prayers are more important than what they say. But in the moment, all I can do is pray that God will show me those words that aren’t there.
So, as much as we may strive for knowing, knowing isn’t enough. Sometimes it’s not even real.
When I was first starting out in ministry, and when my main work was mostly with youth and young adults, one of the bits of advice that I would often offer was, if someone comes at you with complete certainty on just about any matter of faith, that’s someone that you can pretty much just count on being wrong. Faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about faith.
And knowing, and even naming, can deceive us.
You know, I stand before you as a Christian. I was baptized as an infant and I made a mature statement of faith years later when I was confirmed. I was ordained a deacon and then later as a priest in Christ’s one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church. I have certificates hanging on my office wall with wax seals and the signatures of a bishop attesting to my preparation for and fitness for this ministry in Christ’s name. And still, far too often, when I hear someone identify themselves as a Christian; when I see those little fish affixed to the backs of people’s cars; when people want to tell me about their faith; far too often I encounter these things and I cringe.
The naming of a person or an organization as Christian very often doesn’t mean what I mean when I say Christian. Far too often, in my experience, as I’m sure is the case in the experiences of many of you, the name “Christian” hasn’t meant love. It hasn’t meant acceptance. It hasn’t meant the protection and care of a shepherd – certainly not a good shepherd. For a lot of us, when we hear the name “Christian” it inspires at least a measure of apprehension, if not actual fear. So, while names give us insight into truth, they aren’t the whole truth. And as important as naming can be – as powerful as it can be – it’s not everything.
So, when the people say to Jesus, “tell us plainly,” his response is: I have – and not just with my words, but with my actions. I have told you in the signs I have shown. I have told you in the teachings I have taught. I have told you in the company that I have kept – the people you have called outcasts and sinners and foreigners and unworthy – I have shown you that I am from God because I have shown you that God, who created them, loves them. And I have shown you that God loves you. And the ones who know – the ones who have not just heard, but who have seen who I am – they follow me as instinctively as the sheep follow their shepherd.
You know, there’s a really beautiful choral anthem by Isaac Watts that’s a paraphrase of the 23rd Psalm called “My shepherd will supply my need.” Its reimagining of those familiar, beautiful, and comforting words is incredible throughout, but the climax of the song comes at the very end.
The Psalm itself ends by saying, “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” But Watts’ reimagining says, “O may Thy house be mine abode, and all my work be praise! There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come; no more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home.”
To me, that’s what a Christian church looks like. It’s not about saying it the loudest. It’s not about having the most crosses scattered around or the most fish stuck to the backs of the cars in the parking lot. It’s certainly not about making sure you exclude all the people you want God to exclude. It’s about letting our lives speak the way Jesus let his life speak. It’s about creating a community where everyone can say that they are no more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home. Not even welcomed. Not even included. But like a child at home. Safe. Secure. Wanted. And most of all, beloved in such a way that we never even think to question it. It’s just natural and automatic. Like a child at home.
So that’s our job. Not just to say we’re Christian; not just to embrace the name, but to show the love of Christ the way it’s been shown to us. To show the love of Christ where everyone else in the world says it can’t be. That’s how Christ loved us. That’s how Christ has welcomed us. That’s how we are called to welcome and love God’s people. Amen.
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