A homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, April 30, 2023
Acts 2:14a, 36-41, 1 Pt 2:20b-25, Jn 10:1-10
The genius Bill Watterson, father of the long-missed “Calvin and Hobbes” comic strip, had his characters invent Calvinball after mischievous boy Calvin grew tired of so-called organized sports. Instead, Calvin cobbled together the first truly disorganized or unorganized sport, a sport with only one rule and a mishmash of sporting goods that may or may not be suitable for use.
The one permanent rule in Calvinball dictated that players could not play it the same way twice. The game involved croquet wickets and mallets, volleyballs, basketballs, gloves, bare hands, goggles, and anything else that seemed remotely sporty or otherwise preposterous.
In a game of Calvinball, you could never be sure you were winning or even that you were playing it correctly, unless, of course, you repeated a move you made the last time you played. And then you lost.
Calvinball never quite caught on (except at colleges, briefly), and definitely never became an Olympic or professional sport.
In a sport where the only rule, in essence, was that there are no rules, where my only teammates were me, myself and I, and where no players had coaches, you and I might’ve had fun for a little while, but not for long.
We humans seem to have a need for structure, or at least a strong desire for it in certain circumstances. Calvinball? Not hardly.
Social scientists have long observed that children — real ones — may spend more time setting up rules for a game they’re about to play than playing the game itself. The kids will ensure that there are no questions about infields and outfields and bases and goals and scoring and permanent pitchers and catchers and and and…
Some games, like some aspects of life, need clearly defined rules.
Coaches and referees teach those rules and enforce them.
Shepherds do, too.
Which is why the imagery of sheepherders in Scripture remains vivid and relatable to us, millennia after the New Testament was written and decades after seeing a flock of sheep was a routine occurrence for many of us.
Shepherd or coach or loving parent or caregiver: All of these people prioritize the greatest good of the greatest number of people (or critters) in their care. All of these people would lay down their lives to protect and defend.
All of these people have Jesus as their model.
All of these people, chronicled in Scripture centuries ago or walking through the local park the other day, have the rules Jesus gave us to enforce. They have the gentle rules, the easy yoke and burden that involve our hearts and minds and consciences:
Love God.
Love our neighbors as ourselves.
These simple yet comprehensive rules, coupled with our powers of observation and our critical thinking skills, will ensure we act for the good of the flock.
If we obey.
When we hear these commands from our loving shepherd, we know where and when to walk and how to follow.
All of us are sheep in the Lord’s flock. We are challenged to follow when he calls.
And, because nothing ever is truly simple…
All of us must act as shepherds, too, on Christ’s behalf: finding lost or stray lambs and caring for them, bringing them home to the Good Shepherd over us all.
A quick note…
In two weeks I’ll celebrate 12 years since my ordination as a permanent deacon. I think 12 years is the Plastic Spoon in Cherry Vanilla Ice Cream anniversary, but I’ve been mistaken before.
This isn’t advance warning that I want dessert on May 14, just a remembrance of my Thanksgiving Mass on May 15 and the first homily I ever formally preached, which focused on this Gospel.
My goodness, I was such a rookie.
A lot has happened in the last dozen years; much has changed and much has remained constant, thank God. Chief among the constants is how grateful I always am whenever one of my quirky observations about God’s Word touches someone.
The Lord bless you and keep you!
The Lord let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you!
The Lord look upon you kindly and give you peace!
