Shepherding Us Home

A sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 11
July 21, 2024, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs

Readings: Mark 6:30-34, 53-56; Psalm 23

In today’s reading from Mark, Jesus and his disciples are trying to get away. Since the beginning of Mark, Jesus has been going at a breakneck speed. He’s baptized by John, sent off to the wilderness, calls his disciples, heals and teaches and debates with religious authorities, stills a storm. In this chapter alone he has gone to his hometown to preach, been rejected, and commissioned his disciples to go out to preach ahead of him, fed the 5,000 and walked on the water. Jesus has been busy and he needs a break. But try as he might, he can’t get away, not quite yet. He’s met by crowds of people on the shore seeking him out. And when he sees them, he cannot help but have compassion. The crowds need Jesus, and he’s there. He shows up. 

I once met someone named Courtney. Courtney was in college in Little Rock. She was a single mother with two kids, a full-time job and class schedule. She was tired a lot. One weekend around midterms exams she loaded her children in the car and took off driving. She liked doing that when she was overwhelmed with anxiety and fears of not being good enough. She would go on a drive to get away, clear away the cobwebs, recharge. The kids fell asleep. Courtney turned on the radio and her mental autopilot. And she drove. The city gave way to pines and then to fields. And she drove. A couple of hours later she found herself at the Arkansas-Louisiana border, a little unsure how she had driven so far in what seemed like 10 or 15 minutes. 

The crowds today find out where Jesus is going, and when he comes ashore, he is met with multitudes. He’s met by people like Courtney. He is met by people who are overwhelmed and need a word of peace, by those who are sick and need healing, by those who need to hear his teaching about the Kingdom of God, by those who are looking for a shepherd. Like sheep without a shepherd, Jesus calls them. Wandering, directionless, unsure of where to go or what to do, finding themselves suddenly at the Arkansas-Louisiana border with two sleeping kids in the backseat and a plate full of worries and concerns and fears and what-ifs. 

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,” says Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel. Come to Jesus and find rest for your soul. 

Sometimes we’re like sheep without a shepherd, or like sheep who have forgotten about their shepherd. How many times do we find ourselves in one of those crowds on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, peeking between people’s heads, trying to catch a glimpse of an approaching boat, hoping the answer might be aboard? How many times do we find ourselves creeping down one of those dark places in life, one of those valleys of the shadow of death, enemies lurking all around, afraid we are alone and abandoned? How many times have we turned on the autopilot in our life, looked up suddenly and wondered how we got here, at the border of I’m-Spinning-Out-of-Control and Lord-Where-Am-I?

It’s really no wonder that Courtney found herself at the Arkansas-Louisiana border. She had driven that highway countless times before. That’s where she grew up, and her family still lived in Monroe. When she turned on the autopilot, she went home.

When is the last time we went home? For us, home is not a place, but a person. Home is the Shepherd. I wonder when was the last time we looked around for our shepherd in our lives? Take a look. You’ll find the Shepherd has always been there, and is there still, taking you through, guiding you home, sometimes without you even knowing it. 

It’s not easy being a sheep. That’s where we tend to mess up; we forget that we’re sheep and try to be something else–our own shepherds usually. We try until one day we wake up suddenly, look around, and find ourselves out of control, unsure of where we are. But the Shepherd is there. The Shepherd was always there: guiding us to those green pastures; leading us through dark valleys; holding us in grace and love; taking us home, to himself.