by Father Justin Wylie
Homily from Good Shepherd Sunday, May 3, at the Cathedral of the Risen Christ in Lincoln. While liturgies have been closed to the public, Father Wylie has been sharing his homilies with parishioners.
One of the favorite passages of Scripture, for most people, is Psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd” – many people choose it for the day of their funerals. What does it mean for me to say that the Lord is my Shepherd? Evidently, the image resounds deeply with many.
On the front of my favorite chasuble is embroidered an image of the “Pastor bonus” (the Good Shepherd), an image so beloved of our Christian faith that it emerged as one of the first themes depicted in the earliest catacomb art – and which gives its name both to your priest (pastor) and the work of the Church (pastoral). In English, we have retained its root in in the word ‘pasture.’
Those of the European agricultural tradition, however, picture a pasture as a verdant enclosure, where the shepherd drives his sheep from behind through coercion (using dogs or cracking the whip). Unfortunately, much of the power of the Gospel’s imagery is lost when the context of this Sunday’s Gospel is thus transposed. We should, rather picture this scene: An oasis in a desert, vultures soaring overhead, a couple of camels reclining in the shade of a palm tree beside a lone watering-hole, some Arabic looking men in loose-fitting robes, squatting on their haunches. Mixed together around the oasis, their flocks: scores of sheep, competing around its muddy perimeter for a precious sip of water. Nothing else for miles around but baking sand under a blistering sun. Some thorny shrubs and dangerous ravines. After nightfall, wolves and other predators.
All of a sudden, one of the men stands up, utters a few sounds in an incomprehensible language, and on cue, some of the sheep respond, separating themselves from the others and setting out after him into the daunting desert. This is the familiar pastoral scene of Middle Eastern shepherds. They’re nomadic, so their sheep can’t be contained within neat paddocks, but must always remain on the move.
Resources are scarce, so it isn’t feasible to segregate the flocks at watering holes. To keep his sheep together as a flock, the shepherd can’t make use of wire or other constraints but has to make sure he knows his sheep and they know his voice.
He doesn’t drive them from the back, as we do, with horses and hounds yapping at their heels; rather, he must call out to them and they must follow him. He leads them from the front, not through coercion, but rather: affection and trust. To the early Christians and to those writing our Scriptures, there was much in this scene to recommend itself as a metaphor for our lives as Christians in the world: concerning how we relate to God, how we relate to each other, how we interact with other communities, other flocks.
Let us focus our attentions, for a moment, then, on this pastoral imagery of the shepherd and his sheep to better appreciate how it is that Jesus is given to us to save us. Let’s start with the shepherd, himself. What distinguishes the true shepherd from a mere hireling is a quality implied by the word itself: a hireling does it for hire, for money – like a mercenary, as some translations have it, who is distinguished from the true soldier in that the former does it for filthy lucre, not for love. The key quality being identified here is love. Sacrificial love: a love willing to give itself up for the other. The true shepherd stays with his flock and defends it from the wolves, letting them rip at his own flesh rather than allow a single one of the sheep to be touched. This is what Christ, the Good Shepherd par excellence, is doing on the Cross.
A true shepherd loves the sheep entrusted to him. Those of us (we priests) who are entrusted at this time and in this place with a share in Christ’s pastoral role, must make sure that we make love the measure of our pastoral vocation. Also, those of you who participate in some way in Christ’s shepherding role in society – be it as parents, teachers, police, the military, health and social services – even if a labourer may earn his just wages – make sure you do it in the first place for love.
To love his sheep, in the first place, the shepherd must know his sheep. It should really be a cause for amazement and wonder in us to pause and consider that the Lord God knows each of His sheep personally, intimately, by name … and that He loves each one of us sufficiently to leave the rest of the flock in search of us – that what He carried on His shoulders, that day up Calvary, was actually the lost sheep, who is me.
The shepherd must know his sheep: certainly, this is his fundamental duty. And where better does the priest learn the true weight and measure of their real condition – their strengths, their weaknesses, their needs – than in the confessional?
But there is a corresponding obligation, then, also, on the sheep: to know the voice of their shepherd. Middle Eastern shepherds lead from the front not the back, not by coercion but by bonds of affection. We, His flock, must make sure that we know how to discern Christ’s voice, because there are also other shepherds and other flocks in the deserts of this world, where we necessarily congregate together at its watering holes. There are also other voices beckoning us: often, wolves in sheep’s clothing.
It is the same in the world today. We do not have a pristine sheepfold uniquely for our flock: in our neighbourhoods, at our workplaces (even in our families) – there are no Catholic “ghettos.” Perforce, we mingle like sheep of many flocks (and those who belong to no flocks). Are our ears attuned to listening for the voice of our true Shepherd? Do we spend enough time in daily prayer refining our inner ear (our consciences) to the unique cadences of the voice of our true Shepherd? Can we discern it from other voices, which may even mimic His, but which lead us to our ruin?
We cannot call Christ our Shepherd if we have not learned to know, to trust and to love His voice – which is acquired only through time spent with Him in prayer, listening. In many dioceses, vocation Sunday is observed on Good Shepherd Sunday, and the faithful pray especially for new vocations to the priesthood (as well as for those in priestly formation). It is on Good Shepherd Sunday that the pope ordains new priests for the Diocese of Rome. The pastoral connection is obvious – to impress on new priests the deeper meaning of the word “pastor.”
I will give you shepherds (pastores dabo vobis), the Lord promises Jeremiah of old. The Lord appoints shepherds to tend His flock, not functionaries or hirelings. In this diocese, our new deacons and priests will be ordained in this cathedral in just a few weeks. Please, pray for them. And pray that the Lord sends more laborers to reap the harvest!
The Church holds up for our reflection the very model and pattern of leadership in the Church: the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd is recognizable because He is the one who sacrifices His life for the sake of His sheep, and much else besides. As Jesus discloses to His disciples: all that the Father has entrusted to Him, He keeps safe. With Him and close to Him, not one of us ever needs to be lost; if only we be willing to follow and grow accustomed to hearing and responding to the call of His voice with instinctive trust and generosity. May the Good Shepherd protect, unite and guide us all!
Father Justin Wylie is rector of the Cathedral of the Risen Christ in Lincoln. A native of South Africa, he practiced as a trial attorney, an assistant DA and a Supreme Court Judge’s clerk. He received his priestly formation in Rome and was ordained a priest in 2009. He also completed a degree in canon law in Rome and, among other assignments, worked for the Holy See at the Permanent Observer Mission to the United Nations in New York. Since 2017, Father Wylie has served in the Diocese of Lincoln.
