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Starting
Point Then
I get the divine joke
By MARY VINEYARD
A few months ago I moved from
Albuquerque, N.M., to a rural setting in eastern Maine. I live alone in a small
cabin nestled among tall firs, cedars and birches a few hundred yards from the
ocean. It is my intention to practice a life of simplicity and quiet, to drop
out of the frenzied pace of contemporary American urban culture long enough to
remember what is essential to the soul.
After daily Mass at the Catholic parish in the nearest small town,
I often sit for an hour or so in the empty church, with its stained glass
windows and dark woodwork, and as the old building whispers and shifts around
me, I explore the Bible as one would search through an elderly
grandmothers trunk. I rediscover things not thought of in years, finding
old, beloved treasures, dear memories and even some wonders never seen
before.
An image that has been appearing frequently in these explorations
is the idea of God as shepherd. The psalms, the prophets, the gospels say it
again and again, words Ive heard since childhood. But now those words
mean something entirely new to me. Because here, just a few miles from my
cabin, my sister lives, and she keeps as a hobby a small flock of sheep.
They are, to put it mildly, a nuisance. They must be put into a
barn at night to protect them from coyotes and bears. They must be moved from
one pasture to another every few months since they are veritable eating
machines, consuming grass at an alarming rate. They have a stupid look about
them, and yet they are astonishingly clever when it comes to finding their way
through a faulty fence to reach more appealing grass on the other side.
And yet my sister loves them. Perhaps in the same way in which an
ancient shepherd might have loved them, except that she has no economic
dependence on them. She will occasionally sell a lamb, but the wool from the
spring shearing mostly just accumulates in her basement until some local
artisan comes by in search of wool for spinning, weaving or felt-making.
Otherwise, the sheep have no monetary value. She simply loves them because they
are sheep and they are hers. When she issues a high-pitched two-note call, they
come running to her. She has named them all. She likes to sit in the grass in
the pasture with a book, with sheep grazing around her.
So suddenly I get the divine joke. Yes, we are laborers in the
vineyard, we are disciples, we are the light of the world, we are the salt of
the earth, we are saints and sometimes martyrs, we wash one anothers
feet, we preach the Good News, we are co-creators of the kingdom. But
sometimes, even a lot of the time, we are just sheep.
A great deal of our daily existence is spent just surviving,
grazing on the events in front of us, not necessarily mindlessly or
purposelessly, but doing what needs to be done. And much of Gods work in
relation to us is simply watching over us, making sure there is reality for us
to munch on, keeping the bears and coyotes away and bringing us back when we
become too lost or confused.
Maybe most important is that God not only takes care of and guides
and protects us, but that God also, beyond all logic, likes us. Even
when we are helpless, clueless, obstinate and troublesome, God hangs out with
us. Our existence is valuable, even when we are not thinking deep thoughts or
accomplishing great works. To God, we all have names. God made us capable of
joy and contentment, and delights in our pleasure.
Acknowledging our sheephood does not absolve us from our moral
responsibility to care about the world, to oppose injustice and to serve the
suffering. But sometimes the effort to be sophisticated, postmodern,
intelligent, radical and effective must be laid aside.
After casting out whatever demons we can, Jesus invites us to come
away to a quiet place. Sometimes the only thing he wants us to do is trust, to
be simple creatures in need of him. Sometimes our shepherd wants nothing but to
be with his sheep.
Mary Vineyard is a massage therapist living in Downeast, Maine.
Her e-mail address is mkvine@aol.com
National Catholic Reporter, September 15,
2000
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