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Hearing the Shepherd’s Voice
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13 April 2008 Those of you who have read my journal or spotted the picture of me on a camel know that my trip to Spain included an un-anticipated weekend foray to Morocco, where we visited Tetouan, Tangier, and ChefChouen. Each of those cities has grown up around—and outgrown—its original marketplace, called a medina. The medinas make downtown Frederick look positively modern. They are centuries old—dating back to sometime before the 1400’s. Without exception, the medinas are characterized by narrow, twisting paths that rival a rabbit’s warren. The paths themselves are lined by two-story white-washed homes and shops, like a very dense version of the stores with homes above them that we see here in the United States. Within the medina’s labyrinth are multiple places where the path widens, giving up enough space for vendors and shopkeepers to spread their wares. Each of the medinas still have sections of fortress walls that bear testimony to the days when townspeople sheltered their sheep and goats within their confines at night. And that is the source of one of the images that stays with me from my brief visit. Every one of the medinas had a few homes with front doors painted in an oxblood red, studded with large silver nail heads in varying patterns. But even though the patterns on the door differed, the lintel was always the same. Carvings that look to me like stylized mountains go across the entire width of the lintel, except for in the very center, where the symbol looks more like a scallop shell. These doors and lintels mark homes that gave shelter to refugees. First to the Jews who were expelled from Spain in 1492—yes, that 1492—and then to the Muslims, who were expelled ten years later. That’s more than 500 years ago. Not only are the doors still standing, but the story they tell endures as well. We know that part of that story is one of unbelievable brutality and arrogant self-righteousness. But it also is a story of extravagant welcome, a story of hospitality extended even when it meant that one in four persons was a refugee, seeking a place of safety and of shelter. Those lintels in Morocco remind us that the same shepherd of whom the psalmist speaks so tenderly didn’t speak just in Hebrew or Latin or Aramic or Greek. This same shepherd speaks to others, and over the ages, the message is the same: be a people of extravagant welcome for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free. This same shepherd reminds us that no matter who we are or where we are on life’s journey, we are called to be a people of welcome, a voice for justice, a beacon of hope. When Quakers put candles in their windows to shine the light of safe haven to tired and frightened slaves, they were listening to the shepherd’s voice. When the Danes followed the lead of their Christian king and sewed the Star of David on every Christian shirt, they were listening to the shepherd’s voice. When we in the United Church of Christ of Seneca Valley affirm that people of every race and ethnic group, people of every sexual preference and orientation not only are made in the image of God, but also are welcome here, we are listening to the shepherd’s voice. But here comes the tricky part. Ferdinand and Isabella, who are known in Spain as “the Catholic Monarchs,” were absolutely, chillingly convinced that they were listening to the shepherd’s voice as well. Monuments everywhere attest to their piety, and to their commissioning of Columbus. At least some find it impressive that in spite of the ornate Royal Chapel these monarchs commissioned adjacent to Granada’s cathedral as the site of their burial, the couple actually are entombed in simple, lead-lined caskets beneath huge, larger-than-life marble sarcophagi bearing their images. The simple caskets are supposed to symbolize their humility. But even though there is no question in my mind that power was the voice to which they listened most attentively, Ferdinand and Isabella convinced themselves and their church leaders that the shepherd called them to sanction what we now term ‘ethnic cleansing.’ The model of wrapping a thirst for power in the mantle of their faith did not begin with, and sadly, did not end with their reign. The old hymn, Once to Every Man and Nation, continues: “comes the moment to decide, in the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side.” As Shakespeare would have it, therein lies the rub. Not only does the moment to decide come more than once, it comes in a number of ways. Jesus wasn’t tempted in the wilderness just one time, but several. Each time the temptation wore a different face, but the underlying message was the same: listen to this voice, the voice of power, or fear, or greed. Don’t listen to the voice of the shepherd. We have just commemorated the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Maybe you saw one of the tributes to him on television or attended an event in his honor. And now that we are a safe distance from his prophetic, disturbing, loving presence, perhaps for the first time in a very long time, we really are able to hear his challenge to war and his connection between war and poverty and racism. Dr. King is a moral and spiritual giant on any number of counts, but one of the most profound was his attentiveness to the shepherd’s voice, even when so many other voices did their utmost to drown it out. How do we know the voice of the shepherd? The image the writer of John uses is profound. The shepherd cares for the sheep, but the sheep must also discern their shepherd’s voice from the voices of other shepherds. In the morning when the sheep are led out to pasture, the shepherds stand scattered beyond the door of the fold and call their sheep by name. The sheep trot out one by one and gather around their shepherd. How do we know the voice of the shepherd? We look for the expressions of kindness and grace; we listen for voices calling for the care of those who are without resources to help themselves; we share what we have with those in need. We treat God’s children and God’s creation with respect, and practice forgiveness. We gather in community, we share our stories of our great and loving God. St. Francis says it is in giving that we receive. It is also in practicing the role of shepherd that we hear the shepherd’s voice. |