Fourth Sunday of Easter

One of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen was a glimpse out a window on a train.  When I was a student, I had a chance to go to Paris—ostensibly to do some research, but, really, just to go to Paris. One day when I tired of libraries and all the grandeur of the “City of Light,” I got on a train and went to Chartres. Less than an hour out of Paris, in the middle of cultivated farmland, is the ancient city.  At least at that time there were no high rises, just the gentle swell of the ridge on which the town sits, and in the middle of it all, the grand gothic cathedral. Stately yet homely, with it mismatched towers, it has been accurately described as a great hen roosting at the center of the town, with the low buildings of shops and market and homes clustered under its wings. It’s that image, of the city from a distance, as much as the intense memory of its ancient stained glass washing the limestone walls and gothic carvings with prismatic colors, that I treasure.  The church sitting in the midst of the world, like a mother hen gathering her chicks around her.

Every year on the fourth Sunday of Easter, we hear a gospel text about Jesus as the good shepherd. It’s one of the greatest of Christian metaphors, but I have to confess that I don’t have any good shepherd stories.  I’m an urban being, and the pastoral experience of the hills of Judea is a long way from my experience. Maybe that’s why the vision of the Cathedral at Chartres still resonates in my memory.  Jesus gathers the lost lambs, yes; but the church, “Holy Mother Church” we call her, don’t we, sits in the midst of us like a mother hen.  She isn’t strong, really; she doesn’t have dogs to protect her little ones or chase away the wolves. Rather, she gathers them to herself, feet scratching through the muck and trash of the street, and does the best she can, her beautiful yet stained feathers fluffed out to make a warm if insecure place for her chicks.

I reflect on that image in light of what has happened this past week or so.  On April 8, Pope Francis published “The Joy of Love,” a long and nuanced document on family life, the result of two synods, and deep pastoral and theological reflection. For some it goes too far; for others, not far enough.  We can argue about that another day.  Let me, rather, point you to three paragraphs that appear near the end of the document, that invite us yet again to hear the call and accept the invitation to receive the mercy of God. This is what our shepherd Francis says:

“The Church knows that Jesus is the shepherd of the hundred, [including the one who is lost], as well as the ninety-nine. He loves them all.  On the basis of this revelation, it will become possible for the balm of mercy to reach everyone, believers and those who are far away, a sign that the kingdom of God is already present in our midst.

“The gospel itself tells us not to judge or condemn.  Jesus expects us to stop looking for those personal or communal niches which shelter us from the maelstrom of human misfortune, and instead enter into the reality of other people’s lives and to know the power of tenderness.  Whenever we do so,” he says with remarkable wisdom, “our lives become wonderfully complicated.”

“I understand those who prefer a more rigorous pastoral care which leaves no room for confusion.   But I sincerely believe that Jesus wants a Church attentive to the goodness that the Holy Spirit sows in the midst of human weakness, a Mother who while clearly expressing her objective teaching, always does what good she can, even if in the process her shoes get soiled by the mud of the street.”

Doing what good she can, soiled by the mud of the street.  

How I wish my parents had lived to hear those words. They separated in the 1950s when good Catholic people didn’t do things like that; each of them, in their own ways, was deeply wounded by their treatment at the hands of the church they loved. They were shamed by the Church, blamed, made to feel excluded because of the failure of their marriage. How I wish they had lived to hear those tender words, to have received the balm of mercy rather than rebukes.  

Actions, we all know, speak louder than words. Yesterday, returning from a meeting with Syrian refugees and the leaders of the Orthodox Churches on the island of Lesbos in the Aegean Sea,

the papal plane opened its wings to accept 12 refugees, three Syrian families who are Muslims. They came with Francis to the Vatican as its guests, its newest citizens. Careful diplomat that he is, Francis’ guests they were carefully vetted, and their papers were in order.

Asked why no Christian families were chosen to be housed at the Vatican, the pope said they had considered two Christian families but that they did not have their documents in order.  He, no less than anyone else, fhas to obey the protocols of international law.  Yet listen to what he said:

"It is not a privilege," said Francis. "All twelve are children of God. The privilege [is being] children of God."

Later in the flight, the pontiff quoted Mother Teresa of Calcutta in describing the move. Teresa, he said, called her work like "a drop of water in the sea.” "But after this drop, the sea will not be the same," the pope quoted. "It is a small gesture," said Francis. "It is these small gestures that all men and women must do to take into hand whoever has need.”

If you want to understand the Good Shepherd, look to the small gestures of the man in white who opens his arms, his muddied wings, to enfold a broken world.

Fr. Thomas Lucas, S.J.