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Let me tell you why I have the honor of standing here. Posy and I met as entering students at the Episcopal Seminary of the Southwest in the fall of 1998--both refugees from the art world. For nearly six years we have been fast friends, partners in mischief, and spiritual companions on this wondrous, winding road.
It is fitting that Posy’s long-awaited ordination should happen in one of the church year’s times of waiting. Here we are, between Jesus’ Ascension and the Descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples at the feast of Pentecost. It is an odd time, as Presiding Bishop Frank Griswold pointed out in his sermon at the seminary commencement last week. At first glance it seems curiously inefficient that God did not give Jesus’ disciples the Holy Spirit immediately as Jesus ascended, while his feet disappeared into the clouds. After all, the disciples were gathered there, heartened by the resurrection, buoyed by their encounters with the risen Christ, and—presumably--ready to be sent out. But no. Instead, after the Ascension, God left the disciples in Jerusalem waiting for a destiny that Jesus had only hinted at. There they stayed for 10 days, according to our source, the author of Luke/Acts. They waited in suspense and loss.
That time was crucial, Griswold preached, because it gave the disciples a profound sense of their own powerlessness. Had the Spirit come right away they might have rushed off to preach the Gospel filled with delusions of their own power and competence. They needed to know before they went out to face opposition and persecution that they were utterly dependent on God’s grace.
And they needed to learn patience.
Dear Posy, you know a lot about both of those things—patience and a radical dependence on God’s Grace. You learned them well in 2001-2003, while you worked in the diocese and waited patiently for us to recognize and receive the many gifts you bring us. That desert time was deeply fruitful--as they all are in retrospect—and it equipped you in ways beyond the scope of this homily to be who you need to be to do what you are called to do here. But on behalf of myself and the many people to whom you have ministered and the many, many more to whom you will in the coming years, let me thank you. Thank you for choosing us. Thank you for waiting for us.
In a few minutes, Bishop Wimberly will tell us that you have been called by God to be a pastor, priest, and teacher. Posy, you are well into your work as teacher, training chaplains through the Community of Hope, and your work as chaplain at UTMB. In the coming months and years you will discover your ministry as priest at the altar. On this occasion, I would like to offer some reflections on the role and the challenges of the pastor. What is your work as a pastor? Whom are you to serve?
We no longer use the word "pastor" for the shepherds in the field, but instead as Jesus did--by metaphorical extension—for the shepherd of God’s flocks. In the gospel text, Jesus tells us that the main difference between the true shepherd, the good shepherd, and the pretender or the hired hand, is one of commitment. The true shepherd, the good shepherd, is faithful unto death.
Jesus was, Jesus is the Good Shepherd. Jesus is our model—the ultimate example of faithfulness. But Jesus is the savior. Jesus is our shepherd. Jesus is the true shepherd. As pastors in the church we are not the shepherd, nor can we merely be the sheep. Who, then are we?
Let me tell a story, drawn from our seminary experience, about this conundrum at work. Many priests, like me, can busy ourselves serving the 99 fluffy, obedient, attractive sheep who remain in the flock—you know, the little lambs that you can throw over your shoulders like the early images of Jesus. Posy, on the other hand, goes to out to find the 100th, the one on the margins, the one who may be scruffy and difficult, the one far from the safety of the fold. Here’s a case in point. Everyone at ETSS in our day will remember a woman called Jeannie. She lived with her partner Jim very near the seminary in Austin. In fact, they lived under the bridge on Dean Keeton road. They were "homeless". Jeannie was as dangerously dependent on Jim as they both were on alcohol. When they first appeared at a seminary chapel eucharist, having heard the bagpipes of St. Andrew’s feast, Jeannie wore a black patch over one eye. Though she was tiny, she looked fearsome. She never told us, but eventually we realized that Jim had put that eye out in a drunken rage.
In fact, Jeannie was charming—and a great story teller. She taught us many things about the adventure of homelessness. Dealing with her also taught us about boundaries and our own limitations in helping others. Most of us gave Jeannie a bit of time and a smile. Posy gave her too much time, perhaps. She gave her friendship, and love. She also gave Jeannie back her dignity: Posy found a physician who gave Jeannie a prosthesis for her eye. Did Posy bring Jeannie into the fold? Not really. Did her ministering help save Jeannie from her addictions? Maybe. Maybe not. We pray. But we likely will never know.
Our ministries are full of people like Jeannie. They teach us that no matter how much time, material and spiritual assistance we can give to others, only God can give them what they truly need—the living water of salvation, of healing and wholeness. We can and we must do what we can in ministry. But we also recognize that we are not the true shepherd. Jesus is the shepherd. We return to the question: who then, as priests, are we?
Christopher Cocksworth and Rosalind Brown in their fine new book On Being a Priest Today, suggest that the priest is really akin to the sheepdog. They quote a trainer of border collies: "The sheepdog possesses two all-consuming attractions: the sheep and her master. Her eye stays focused always on the sheep; her ear listens ceaselessly to the shepherd’s call. She is held into a triangular relationship with the shepherd and sheep; her wild, compulsive instincts are only kept in check by her unswerving attention to her master."
So far, so good. Now we get to the part I really like: "Sheepdogs lie about a lot. They are capable of putting every fiber of their being to work when required to do so, but they are instantly at ease, able to leave the sheep to get on with their lives….The sheepdog does not interfere or interrupt the life and work of the flock. The sheep are always the focus, the dog is merely an instrument which exists for their welfare and a tool that is usable by the shepherd in his/her own care of them."
As priests we must learn the humility and servanthood of the sheepdog: to be an instrument for the welfare of the sheep, a tool that is used by the shepherd. Learning not to interfere, learning really to be at ease while the sheep get on with their own lives and work. Above all: trusting the shepherd, and listening for the shepherd’s command, waiting to act until we have heard it clearly. This certainly includes going out to find the errant, when guided by the shepherd’s command, but knowing that it is the shepherd alone who can satisfy their needs and bring them into the fold.
Jesus is the shepherd. And—if you will--we priests are the sheepdogs. That brings us to the definition of the flock. Posy is being ordained not for a parish, but as one in charge of a ministry to UTMB. We used to call priests in university ministry "Chaplains", because they served students who had grown up in the church. We now know that universities are a mission field. Fewer and fewer students have any experience of the church. Furthermore, this medical school with its global base, has people of many faiths--more Muslims than Episcopalians. More than most priests, Posy’s job is that of a missioner.
But mission fields tend to expand. Jesus thought he was called to the children of Israel. Then the Gentiles came, and he knew they were sheep without a shepherd. He had compassion on them. Without exception, he healed them and he fed them; he embodied the good news of God’s redeeming love that he was preaching.
The island of Galveston is a vast and needy mission field. One of the richest cities in 19th-century America (as the surviving historic houses suggest), it is now among the poorest. Resources for public assistance provide for fewer than half the people living in poverty here. A heart-breaking 63% of Galveston’s children are economically disadvantaged.
The root meaning of the word pastor is "to feed". After his resurrection, Jesus told Peter "feed my sheep". Hearing that same word from God shortly after arriving here, Posy joined her Baptist neighbor Bill Ritter and Mark Davis in founding Galveston’s own food bank, Gleanings.
Now nearly two years here, Posy has embraced her new island home. She has already entered whole-heartedly into her pastoral ministry to the people of UTMB and of Galveston. She has listened well, and--hearing her shepherd’s voice--she has reached out to feed God’s sheep in different ways.
The sermon to the ordinand traditionally ends with a charge. That time has come; so Posy, please rise.
My charge to you is to seek a balance between the engagement that you do instinctively and the disengagement that you must have to engage well and over a long period of time.
Richard Rohr wrote: "We have to...learn the great art of detachment, which is the purifying of attachment." There, of course, Jesus is our model, because he served whole heartedly, and then he detached---he went away to pray, and probably to play, too.
For some priests, Jesus' command to visit the sick and feed the hungry is a challenge. For you it is a daily joy. Your generosity is as lavish as it is often anonymous. Your challenge, my friend, is tending to yourself. Visit the people and places you love. Feed your own dear spirit. Be lavishly generous with yourself--whatever that may mean. Figure it out and do it. This is a serious assignment.
Labrador-lover that you are, I hope you will take to the sheepdog analogy. Learn to lie around more! You are a creative person: make things. You are playful--famous for flamingoes and over-the-top Christmas decorations--have fun! Do all of that so that you can come back to serve others truly refreshed.
As Rohr said: "Our religion is not pure detachment nor pure attachment: it's a dance between the two.
So, dear one, always remember to live as our friend here Cynthia taught us to sing: "Dance, dance, dance".
