“To him the gatekeeper
opens; the sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads
them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the
sheep follow him, for they know his voice” (Jn 10:3-4).
Just kidding: no one can kill pastoral elegy. Also, in case you’re wondering, I do not belong to a church that only observed Good Shepherd Sunday today, I am just running incredibly behind. Please don’t tell anyone.
Anyway, a really eensy part of the sermon was about how we, the parishioners, aren’t actually sheep. We’re not supposed to blindly expect the clergy (and / or Church) to tell us what to think and believe, to fix our lives for us; we’re not to docilely follow instructions without taking the time to think about it. Something about how that’s not what Jesus would have wanted, and also is not a reflection of the universal priesthood of all believers into which we are baptized.
Speak for yourself! Baaaaa!
In all seriousness, the question of authority and obedience is one I find difficult. Last year, maybe even a few months ago, I would have said there was no problem at all: my defiance of church authority was something that almost defined me. Maybe that was also a problem, but not the same one J.
It was obvious that I did not expect the church to lead me in a sense that I would blindly follow. I ultimately left Roman Catholicism because I couldn’t bring myself to consent with doctrines I found false or restrictive, like Papal Infallibility or Transubstantiation. People might agree that I was a bad Roman Catholic: I went off to theology school with some of my community believing I would become a great defender of the Catholic faith, like Newman or something, and I left the church instead. Sorry. In their defence, that is kind of like Newman, only in reverse. Anyway, it was easy to believe I’d somehow managed to dodge the tendency to loyally follow clerical authority that the church tries to instill.
It was pretty easy to believe I was free of it in the local Anglican church I attended for the last few years as well. I disagreed with their bad liturgy, with the flawed and phobic ideas that were sometimes preached, with the way power was distributed (or wasn’t). It was easy, while my personal faith was still largely shaped by a sense of rebellion against my own community, to believe that I was living out my faith in a non-sheeplike way.
But now, in the church community I find myself, I am experiencing something like a space of calm where I’ve found a place to worship that feels right, that feels like I don’t have to think about or analyze or struggle against. That maybe one day I will really participate in and belong to. And I’m starting to realize how much growing up in a faith of obedience has shaped and continues to define me, in ways I’m not comfortable with but don’t really know how to change.
Growing up, I tried to change myself to fit into the way my church told me I should be. I wrestled with vocation from a young age, (which is pretty much old-news to my few readers, I apologize), and somewhere around puberty and through early adulthood I attempted a painful compromise which is probably all-too-familiar to girls like me. The church told me, and so many others like me, that the path for our passion and dedication to the service of Christ was probably in religious life. I prayed for a vocation to religious life. Other people prayed for it for me. I felt wrong, but I wanted so badly to be able to fulfill my desire in some real and radical way. Most of the discussion of religious life is based on pre-Vatican II conceptualizations that isn’t even adequate to the realities of the modern church. And so you learn that the old self has to be burned away to make room for the vocation of religious life, that you must be modest and self-effacing in all things. You learn to look at the ground, to look away, to follow quietly behind people. You learn to suppress your reaction to worship. You learn not to look around you at the churches, to see without seeing.
Mostly, I was really bad at it. And ultimately I couldn’t follow that path, although there’s a lot that attracts me about religious life. But there was also the wrenching pain of trying to fit into something that never felt right. I’ve noticed recently it hasn’t left me completely unscathed. I have a tendency to physically retreat in church, to try and seem invisible. To follow behind people, to look at the ground. And I can’t tell you what the stained glass above the altar depicts even though presumably I’ve been looking at it for months.
In the past, I found myself seeking out my parish priest as a source of counsel, a guide through my uncertainty. I did it uncritically and without reflection, and ultimately it was not the best decision. I had certain beliefs about church and clergy that I held without ever thinking about it.
I still have those thoughts from my youth: that I am inadequate before God; that I should in some way become smaller, silent, less in order to receive Him and that I am failing; that I have recklessly lost and discarded the one virtue I had to give Him.
But now I’ve gotten over my blind trust of clergy in favour of fear and distrust. Win?
I guess what I’m trying to decide is am I sheep or am I not sheep? Who is my Shepherd and how do I recognize Him? How much has what I grew up believing impacted my ability to hopefully grow into a more mature Christian? I don’t know. I’m just beginning to unravel it.
Oh look, grass!
“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (Jn 10:10).
