John 10:1-21 · The Shepherd and His Flock
Pursued by Mercy
John 10:11-18 · Psalm 23
Sermon
by Will Willimon
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"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

How pleasant to come to church on a Spring Sunday and encounter an old friend. Sometimes Sunday can be a jarring, discordant experience. You settle down into the pew only to be hit over the head by some unfamiliar idea, some alien biblical text, poked in the ribs by a pushy preacher peddling an even pushier biblical passage.

Not this Sunday. The Fourth Sunday in Easter is known, in the church's year, as "Shepherd Sunday." All the texts have to do with sheep and shepherds, all appointed on behalf of Jesus, the Good Shepherd. This day the Psalm simply had to be Twenty-Three, the Shepherd Psalm.

"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." I cannot remember when I did not know this Psalm. Can you? Even if a person knows no scripture by heart, can't find a verse when he needs it, he knows this. I see the faded pastel picture from my third grade Sunday School class. Jesus, the Good Shepherd. It is the Psalm of children, expressing a childlike trust in God's ability to protect us, just like a shepherd.

"He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside the still waters." Restful, reassuring. Sheep don't drink from dangerous, swift flowing rivers. This Shepherd finds just the right spot for the sheep to rest, to be restored. "He leads me in right paths for his name's sake."

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley." The pleasant mornings of childhood fade, we look down a gradually darkening corridor toward the end of life, and there to meet us is not a dark abyss of death, but the Shepherd. "I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff comfort me."

And one of the most comforting aspects of friendship is that which lasts throughout life. "We have been friends since grammar school," someone says. As a pastor, I have been impressed, when life draws to a close for someone and it is their turn to walk through the valley, that they inevitably reach out for this old friend, Psalm 23. It isn't simply because they know it by heart. It is because it dares to speak about the end, that dark valley, and names it as a place where the Good Shepherd comforts us. So here is Scripture for the beginning of life, and for the end. It's a rare funeral where Psalm Twenty-Three has not been invited to speak a word or two over the grave.

"I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever." Whenever, in this life, we have been forced into some dry desert or had to sail tossed and turned in a raging torrent, it was this old friend who reminded us of the green pastures and still waters, and thereby restored our souls. When we wander, without direction or meaning, there was good old Twenty-Three to point out the right paths for his name's sake.

When life made us wonder if God was there for us, if God cared, it was Twenty-Three who put comforting arms around us and reassured us of a God who makes, leads, restores, comforts, prepares, anoints; so that in darkness or light, life or death, we might dwell with God.

Good old, familiar-since-childhood, reassuring Psalm Twenty-Three, who speaks of still waters and green pastures.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

But wait. A closer look at our old friend reveals something I had not seen before. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all my days." But a look at the Hebrew reveals that, as is so often in the Bible, a word can be translated more than one way. Goodness? The word has many nuances in the Old Testament. Goodness names all those benefits of God's presence. Even in the valley, it is good to know that God stands with us. Mercy? This is that beloved Hebrew word, Hesed. The prophets loved that word. Hesed. Often translated "steadfast love." Mercy is the word for kindness, fidelity of God, even when we are not faithful. God's goodness and kindness follow us.

But the word that surprises is that word translated as "follow." Goodness and kindness follow me. The Hebrew can also be translated as "pursue" me. Goodness and mercy pursue me.

Pharaoh’s chariots pursued the Children of Israel to the sea (Exodus 14:8). "I pursued my enemies and overtook them," sang David after he had triumphed (Psalm 18:37). "Our pursuers were swifter than the vultures...they chased us on the mountains, they lay in wait for us in the wilderness" (Lamentations 4:19). Surely goodness and mercy pursue me, all the days of my life.

And for me, even in the presence of an old friend about whom I thought I knew everything, there is a ripple upon still waters. Pursue me. Here we are, plodding through life, and, oh yes, whose that behind me? Oh, that's goodness and mercy. They're following me. Tagging along. Hmm. Looks to me as if they may be pursuing you. Follow or pursue? You make the call.

"I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him,...
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after."
- Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven

I don't care how well you think you know the Good Shepherd of Psalm Twenty-Three, you don't know him until you've realized that he is a pursuer. There's a difference between being "followed" and "pursued." There's a difference between looking back over your shoulder and finding dear old, predictable, goodness with mercy in tow, trudging up the hill behind you, and being jumped by a breathless goodness and mercy.

I met them, one sixteen years ago, the other, two years later.

Met one in a maternity ward in North Myrtle Beach, the other at Durham County General. Being a parent isn't always a picnic. Responsibilities! Got to get money for college. Got to be a good example. Plans to be made, conflicts to be managed, hurdles to get over. Teenagers are no picnic.

Yet, the other day, when the two walked toward me and a friend, and I was asked, by my friend, "What are the names of your children?" without a moment's hesitation, I was able to answer, "Well, the tall one, that's Goodness, and the girl with the blonde hair, we call Mercy."

"The Lord is my shepherd," we say. The shepherd leads us down to the quiet, level pasture, knows where to find the quiet, restful brook whereby we can rest and be refreshed. But then Jesus told us about the Shepherd who, when just one stupid sheep strayed from the fold, left the ninety-and-nine out in the wilderness (Luke 15:3-7) and pursued the one lost sheep until he found it. The Shepherd pursued until he found the lost.

"You've done all you can do for that boy," friends told them.

"There are limits to what parents can do. He's an adult now. It's time for him to stand or fall on his own. Let him go."

No. The Shepherd pursued until he found the one who was lost. Most sheep are content with an occasional green pasture, a quiet brook here and there. "But there are other sheep," said the Good Shepherd, ''who are not of this fold. I go to seek them as well." (John 10:16). And when this pursuing pastor finds the lost, he puts that sheep on his shoulders, and breathlessly returns to the fold. "I found my sheep who was lost!

Rejoice with me."

"I lay down my life for the sheep." Is there no limit to his pursuit?

We knew him as a mean old man. Resentful. Bitter. Someone said that his bitterness was justified. His beloved wife died giving birth to their one child. The child died shortly thereafter from complications. "He has reason to be bitter," they said in town.

Never went to church. Never had anything to do with anyone. When, in his late sixties, they carried him out of his apartment and over to the hospital to die, no one visited, no flowers were sent. He went there to die alone.

There was this nurse. Well, she wasn't actually a nurse yet, just a student nurse. She was in training and because she was in training she didn't know everything that they teach you in school about the necessity for detachment, the need for distance with your patients. She befriended the old man. It had been so long since he had friends, he didn't know how to act with one. He told her, "Go away! Leave me alone!"

She would smile. Try to coax him to eat his Jello. At night, she would tuck him in. "Don't need nobody to help me," he would growl.

Soon, he grew so weak he had not the strength to resist her kindness. Late at night, after her duties were done, she would pull up a chair and sit by his bed and sing to him as she held his old, gnarled hand. And he looked up at her in the dim lamp light and wondered if he saw the face of a little one whom he never got to see as an adult. And a tear formed in his eye when she kissed him goodnight. And for the first time in forty, maybe fifty years, he said, "God bless you."

And as she left the room, two others remained, breathless, whispering softly in the old man's ear the last word he heard before slipping away into the dark valley. The word was "Gotcha!", whispered in unison by Goodness and Mercy.

"I have other sheep, that are not of this fold; I must bring them also...So there shall be one flock, one shepherd" (John 10:16).

This Shepherd is always out seeking, pursuing. We wander down crooked paths, bob like jetsam down some raging river, he has met us there, pursued us, even into the valley, "Gotcha!"

After Good Friday, we had about lost our taste for discipleship. The world had its way with Jesus, treated him as it treated all prophets before him, nailing him to the cross, sealing him shut in the tomb. Alone, bereft now, "like sheep without a shepherd," we gathered behind locked doors, so fearful were we.

"It was a good campaign -- while it lasted."

"We almost got him elected Messiah. But what can you do? Can't fight City Hall. Caesar had the guns. What can you do?"

We were eating, but nobody felt like eating at our funeral meal for Jesus. Then there was a knock at the door. "Who's there?" The door was cracked open, just a little bit. Thomas stared into the darkness, words were exchanged, then he threw open the door and said to the rest of us, "We're gonna' need more wine. Turn up the music. Set two more places at the table."

Duke University, Duke Chapel Sermons, by Will Willimon