Easter 4: “The Call of the Shepherd”

John 10.22-30

April 29, 2007

I was chatting recently with a young man, the son of a friend of mine, who has been attending one of our Lutheran seminaries, though he is not yet sure he wants to be ordained. I always enjoy conversations like that—listening to young people who are wrestling with the question of call, or vocation, trying to discern what God wants of them.

Of course that is not something only young people do. The entire Christian life, one might say, is about vocation, calling. It isn’t just about one’s profession, but it is listening for the voice of Christ the Good Shepherd, and following him. It’s what our gospel lesson is about today: Jesus says “My sheep hear my voice, I know them, and they follow me.” My young friend is struggling with that in his own life, but then if we are truly Christ’s sheep, we are always doing the same thing.

This conversation got me to thinking about my own call to ministry. There were, of course, lots of points along the way, but one moment I remember very clearly. I was in high school, and had been invited by my bishop to attend a weekend event for young men—and we were all young men in those days—whom their pastors had identified as perhaps being called to ordained ministry. I don’t remember much about the weekend, but I remember a hymn that we sang. It was not one I knew, but it touched me deeply. Written by Frances Havergal, it is based on the story of the call of Samuel in the Old Testament—though I think it has a lot connections to our gospel lesson this morning. It started out like this:

Master, speak, thy servant heareth,

Waiting for thy gracious word,

Longing for thy voice that cheereth;

Master, let it now be heard.

I am listening, Lord, for thee:

What hast thou to say to me?

Hearing the voice of the Shepherd is not always an easy thing. It requires careful and deliberate listening. To my mind, that’s a really important aspect of prayer. We so often, in our praying, do most of the talking—telling God one thing and another, presenting our list of all our needs almost as if we thought God didn’t already know them! But prayer is even more about listening, opening our hearts to hear the voice of the Shepherd.

But it isn’t easy. The world is a very noisy place, and listening is a difficult skill to learn. I was on an airplane one night, flying home from someplace, and I wanted to pray my evening prayers. The airline had apparently decided that we all wanted to listen to some loud, inane music, and so it was blasting over the speakers. Hard to pray in the midst of such noise! How do you hear that still, small voice, when the world is so possessed by other sounds?

But the other sounds are often in our own hearts and minds, of course. One of the night time prayers I love contains the words, “In the silent hours of the night, praise the Lord.” But often even the silent hours of the night are filled with the internal noise of worry, of fear, of anxiety or guilt. That noise can drown out the voice of the Shepherd just as effectively as the Muzak that blares out of every speaker.

Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice”—and you know, that could also be translated, “My sheep listen to my voice.” Often hearing the voice of the Shepherd means listening, carefully trying to screen out the other voices, focusing our attention on what Christ is saying to us. It’s part of the discipline of prayer—not just speaking, but listening.

Speak to me by name, O Master,

Let me know it is to me;

Speak, that I may follow faster,

With a step more firm and free,

Where the Shepherd leads the flock,

In the shadow of the rock.

It always amazes me how our dog Phoebe responds to our voices. Of course we talk incessantly to Phoebe, tell her all kinds of things—if you’re a dog person, you know what I mean. Maybe you’ve seen that cartoon that shows the master blabbing away to the dog—let’s call him “Spot”—and it also shows what the dog is hearing: “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, Spot, blah, blah, blah!” The point is that the poor dumb beast recognizes his name, but that’s about it. Our Phoebe is a lot smarter than that, of course; she understands every word we say!

But the beginning of it all if you’re a dog is learning to recognize your name—recognizing when the master is speaking to you. It’s like that in our relationship with Christ, it seems to me. Sometimes we hear his voice, or think we do, but we don’t quite know if he’s really addressing us.

And perhaps that is because sometimes we don’t want to follow where he leads. The Shepherd always ultimately leads his sheep to green pastures—but sometimes getting there involves walking through the valley of the shadow. And that we do not want to do.

Do you remember this line from last week’s gospel lesson? Jesus is talking to Peter and he says “When you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone . . . will . . . take you where you do not wish to go.” That’s a verse I’ve never preached on, and never heard anyone else preach on it. It’s a hard verse. Listening to the Shepherd, following the Shepherd, sometimes means going places we don’t really want to go. But when we are determined to follow, we don’t get to dictate the route.

Master, speak! Though least and lowest,

Let me not unheard depart;

Master, speak! For O, thou knowest

All the yearning of my heart,

Knowest all its truest need:

Speak! And make me blest indeed.

Jesus says, in this morning’s gospel, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them.” His knowledge of us is what makes everything worthwhile. When you are troubled about something, to whom do you want to talk about it? Sometimes maybe an expert, sometimes maybe a disinterested third party. But I think for most of us, when we are troubled we want to talk to someone who knows us in a deep and intimate way—our spouse, a friend, a family member. Someone to whom we don’t have to explain ourselves. Someone we can trust to love us and support us, no matter what. Someone, perhaps, who knows us better than we know ourselves.

My favorite Psalm is 139, the one that begins, “O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me” and then later, “Wonderful are thy works! Thou knowest me right well.” The Good Shepherd, you see, is the one who knows us right well, knows all the yearnings of our heart. That’s why we can trust what he tells us, and follow where he leads us.

Master, speak! And make me ready,

When thy voice is truly heard,

With obedience glad and steady

Still to follow every word.

I am listening, Lord, for thee:

Master, speak! O speak to me!

In the end, it’s about obedience. That’s not such a popular word these days; we think of obedience as something that is good in small children and pet dogs, but for the rest of us, we’d rather be in charge of things ourselves, thank you very much.

That is not the way of faith. The way of faith invites us to let somebody else take charge, to give up the worries and the stresses of being in control and put our lives into the hands of the Good Shepherd: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” “Make me ready, when thy voice is truly heard, with obedience glad and steady still to follow.”

Every day, if we are faithful, we wrestle with that same old question: What does God want of me? Where does the Shepherd want to lead me? It comes to us in all the little decisions of life, and then sometimes in the big ones as well. There’s a wonderful prayer in the Evening Prayer liturgy in the Lutheran Book of Worship, written by the English clergyman Eric Milner-White: “Lord God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” That’s the unceasing prayer, you see, of those who listen for the voice of the Shepherd. They hear his voice. He knows them. They follow him.