It May Be Earth Day But We Don’t Have to Be Sheep
by Elizabeth Kaeton

I recently confessed that Luke’s gospel story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus was one of my favorites. As much as I love that story, I have even greater difficulty with John’s account of Jesus as the Good Shepherd.

It seems strange, on the one hand, that on a day when we remember to celebrate our connection to all of God’s creation and creatures, the gospel seems so pointedly exclusive. When read after what we know as the Holocaust, and after the events of 9/11, and especially in light of what is happening even as we speak in Israel and Palestine, John’s gospel is often embarrassingly anti-Semitic.

John was, of course, writing at a time in history when the shifts and changes in Judaism came in constant clash with the Jesus Movement. The gospel message, "I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved," seem to be aimed directly at those Jews who did not accept Jesus as the Messiah, the Christ.

On the other hand, Jesus as the Good Shepherd seems a most appropriate image for the celebration of the Earth, or Earth Day, as April 22^nd has come to be known. Were I a marketing person, I would have the graphic art department come up with an image of Jesus standing on the Round Blue Globe of Planet Earth, arms appropriately outstretched, his mother Mary at his side, with Jesus saying, "Take care of your mother."

The problem is that I have a very difficult time with the whole notion of Jesus as the Good Shepherd… if Jesus is the Good Shepherd, then guess what that makes you and me? Right! Sheep! Dumb, smelly, monosyllabic creatures whose only positive contribution to the universe is the wool that we use to keep ourselves warm.

The problem is that I have a very difficult time with the whole notion of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. Oh, I understand. Ancient Palestine was an agrarian culture, so this image is a very appropriate one for the age and time. My problem, however, is this: if Jesus is the Good Shepherd, then guess what that makes you and me? Right! Sheep! Dumb, smelly, monosyllabic creatures whose only positive contribution to the universe is the wool that we use to keep ourselves warm.

That being said, it has also been noted that no one can wring more out of a metaphor than an Episcopal priest, so I’m not about to let the metaphor of the Good Shepherd go gently into that good night. (I know. I’m shameless.)

Actually, it’s something about the voice of the Good Shepherd which attracts my imagination. "And the sheep will follow him because they know his voice." There’s something in that which speaks less about exclusivity and more about relationship.

Knowing the sound of another’s voice speaks volumes about how we know and how we are known. I still shutter, for example, when my memory takes me back to my 3^rd grade class with Mrs. Muggleton who would screech at you if you didn’t recite your multiplication table correctly. To this day, I can’t multiply by 9 without hearing the voice of Mrs. Muggleton yelling, "NO FINGERS! Take your fingers from behind your back and out where I can see them, young lady."

Nothing brings me greater joy, however, than to hear the voice of our new granddaughter, MacKenna Jane, in response to hearing my voice on the phone. "Hi Mackie!" I said into the telephone. "Ha, Ha, Ha," came Mackie’s tiny voice in a pretty good imitation of my play laughter. Could there be a sweeter sound in all the world than to know that the one you love recognizes your voice and responds with love?

I think there are sounds that are primal, indeed, primordial. Have you ever noticed how, sometimes, it is difficult to tell the difference between the sound of laughter and the sound of wailing? Have you noticed that some people laugh as soundlessly as others cry.

I think there are sounds that are primal, indeed, primordial. Have you ever noticed how, sometimes, it is difficult to tell the difference between the sound of laughter and the sound of wailing? Have you noticed that some people laugh as soundlessly as others cry — and, looking on both is sometimes hard to detect the difference unless you know the context in which the person is responding. I think these are the sounds that come from the center of the cosmos — in the middle of the middle of creation — which have their commonality among all of God’s creatures.

Those of you who have pets know exactly what I am saying. You know when your dog is sad or your cat is distressed, just by the sound of their growl or meow. You hear your pet whine or cry and you know instantly that something is wrong. You know by the sound of their voice — and you would know THAT voice even in the midst of a kennel full of cats and dogs.

On Mother’s Day, May 10, 1981, composer Edgar Winter first performed his Mass in Celebration of Mother Earth at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC. In that Mass setting, known as the Misa Gaia, there is a most remarkable Kyrie eleison — or, "Lord, have mercy." The piece begins with the sound of a female wolf calling out in the frozen Alaskan tundra. Her voice is plaintive, haunting, and deeply moving.

You understand, suddenly, the call of the wolf over the frozen tundra as prayer — primordial, primitive, powerful prayer. Perhaps you have cried out like that yourself in those moments of heart breaking, bone-crushing loneliness and despair.

About the third time her call is heard, the composer superimposes the sound of monks chanting an ancient version of the Kyrie and a sudden chill of recognition surges through your body. You understand, suddenly, the call of the wolf over the frozen tundra as prayer — primordial, primitive, powerful prayer. Perhaps you have cried out like that yourself in those moments of heart breaking, bone-crushing loneliness and despair. Mothers and fathers who have, too soon, lost a daughter or son know well that cry.

Perhaps humankind has learned to give voice to the spirituality that is in the middle of the middle of all of God’s creation by first listening to the sounds of other creatures. Sometimes, the only responsive prayer is the first and primitive prayer, "Lord, have mercy." Perhaps, when we consider our place in the cosmos and the awesome power of our Creator God, the only appropriate response is, "Lord, have mercy." Kyrie eleison.

I remember one occasion which convinced me of the power of sound as prayer. I was a newly ordained priest in Baltimore, MD. It was shortly after midnight when the phone call came into my bedroom, interrupting a particularly deep sleep. There was no mistaking the distressed voice of a woman who said, "My 18 year old son, Matt, has been in a terrible motorcycle accident. There’s been a great deal of head trauma. The doctors say he’s in a deep coma and might not make it. We haven’t been to church in a while, so I have no right to ask, but, would you come?"

Of course I went, driving out to Mt. Sinai Hospital at the other end of the city with the sound of that mother’s cry awakening a very deep responsive cord in me. It was the middle of the night, yet I was fully awake. When I arrived, I was not prepared for what I saw, even though I had had many years of nursing experience.

In the midst of the mangle of tubes and machinery, he lay on the special ICU bed, under the harsh glare of the hospital lights, his young body still muscular and strong under the hospital sheet. His arms were strapped to boards to support the IV tubing, which made him look cruciform and sacrificial. His head was wrapped in bandages, and a tube was in his throat which was connected to a ventilator. His parents and siblings stood off to the corner, holding each other tightly as they watched the doctors and nurses work.

I explained the Prayer Book Office of the Ministration at the Time of Death and the Anointing to them (which some have misnamed "Last Rites") and, when we got clearance from the medical staff, gathered the family around Matt’s bedside. I explained to the family that while Matt was not able to respond, he might just be able to hear us, and so I bent over and spoke quietly in Matt’s ear my name, and what we were about to do and who was there. "Hi, Matty," his parents and family said, "We love you."

Matt was very still as I began the litany prayer and response, "God the Father — Have mercy on your servant." "Jesus, Lamb of God: Have mercy on him." "Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy." The only sound in the ICU room was the "shh-shh-shh" of the ventilator, which was punctuated occasionally by the quiet sobbing of his parents and family.

Before we began to say the Lord’s Prayer, I spoke softly again in Matt’s ear, "Matt, your mom tells me that you haven’t been to church in a while and, in fact, you hated to go to church. That’s okay, Matt. I think sometimes God is not too happy about some of what goes on in some churches, too. The important thing to know is this: God loves you very, very much. Matt, I’ll bet you do remember some of your prayers, so, if you want, you can pray along with us as we pray, "Our Father, who art in heaven…"

His family began to join into the prayer, weeping and holding his hand. As we got to "…thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…" a remarkable thing happened. Matt’s lips began to move around the tube that went down his throat. There was no mistaking it! Matt was praying. By the time we finished the prayer, Matt opened his eyes and began to look around. When he saw his mother’s face, his own brightened, and he squeezed her hand tight enough to cause her to yelp, half in pain, half in joy.

I don’t think it was the sound of my voice that woke Matt out of his coma. I believe that it was the sound of prayer which reached deep into his coma and made Matt remember life… I believe that our souls recognize authentic prayer just as quickly as they dismiss "performance prayer."

I don’t think it was the sound of my voice that woke Matt out of his coma. I believe that it was the sound of prayer which reached deep into his coma and made Matt remember life. I believe that the power of the ancient prayers of our church is nothing less than the power of God as it is powerfully known in the communion of saints. I believe that our souls recognize authentic prayer just as quickly as they dismiss "performance prayer."

Because, I believe, the sound of authentic prayer is the sound of creation calling to its Creator. All of nature knows the sound of it and is in awe of it. Even dumb sheep recognize it and respond to its sound — which is more than we can say for some humans, given the condition of our environment. The pollution of our earth and the growing hole in the ozone layer are powerful messages that Mother Earth is in danger. Yet, we refuse to hear her voice.

The psalmist in Psalm 19 tells us that:

"One day tells its tale to another,
and one night imparts knowledge to another.
Although they have no words or language,
and their voices are not heard,
Their sound has gone out into all lands,
and their message to the ends of the world."

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, calls to us that we may have life, and have it abundantly. It’s not an exclusive call. It is extended throughout the universe, knowing no boundaries of space or time, person or place, creature or creation.

That’s not the question. The question on this Earth Day 2002 is: Will you listen to the sound of it? More importantly: Will you heed the sound of it and care for God’s creatures and creation the way you are so abundantly cared for by them?

The Rev. Canon Elizabeth Kaeton is a regular contributor to A Globe of Witnesses. Her monthly column is Another Word for Justice. Elizabeth may be reached by email at EMKaeton@aol.com