It can be so tempting to fantasize about the changes we would make if we but had the power to do so. Today’s reflection, though, reminds us that power, for the follower of Jesus, is never about getting what we want, and instead about giving of ourselves for the good of others. In a world (and a church) where power is so often exercised for the good of the powerful, knowing Jesus’ as the Good Shepherd may be more important than ever.

July 21, 2024: Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle B

Jeremiah 23:1-6

Psalm 23:1-6

Ephesians 2:13-18

Mark 6:30-34

Breath of the Spirit enriches readers through weekly reflections that nurture the integration of faith, sexuality, and gender identity—fostering connections between lived experiences and the richness of Catholic spirituality.

Shepherds

“Everything’s gone to hell in a handbasket.”

When I consider the state of our world, it’s my grandmother’s quaint phrase which springs to mind. When humanity’s lot seems to be characterized increasingly by strife, suffering, and a shattered moral compass, it is hard to take the Twenty-third Psalm seriously; it’s hard to hear it at all. Its assertions of “nothing but goodness and kindness” for the rest of our lives can sound much more like obscenity than comfort. To the starving child, to the victim of abuse, or to the citizens of a totalitarian regime, how bitter and ironic they must seem. For such individuals, it is cruel indeed to insist that they feel blessed.

In such a world, what are we to make of today’s readings, replete with the imagery of benevolent, sensitive, fearless authority which anticipates every need of those in its care? Even in a democratic society, the leaders we choose often seem to present themselves in an antithetical manner - people who confuse authority and the exercise of power. Yet it is exactly because we find ourselves in such straits (particularly in an election year), that the readings of Good Shepherd Sunday are the words we need most to hear, and act upon.

Seen in isolation, the psalm’s most familiar association is with funerals, where it is offered as a balm to the grief-stricken; the message is that even when things happen, like death, that we don’t wish for ourselves and don’t understand, we have to trust that God really does have it all under control, and is making certain that everything - even our sorrows - works to the good. Taken together with the other readings, however, the perspective shifts away from that of the sheep to that of the shepherd. As such, they provide a masterclass in leadership.

In the ancient Middle East, the image of king as shepherd was not uncommon, and used chiefly to emphasize the need for subjects to follow the guidance of the monarch as sheep follow their guardian, even if most of the time they have only a dim idea why. Anyway - what other choice do sheep, or pre modern subjects, really have? Shepherds, at least, are not wolves. It’s better to have someone in charge, so the rationale goes, for whom your value exceeds that of a quick meal. Shepherds, like ancient kings, have an interest in keeping well-behaved subjects alive. If David, with all his shepherding experience, actually wrote the twenty-third psalm (which is not at all certain), this is probably something along the lines of what he was hoping to convey - God is like that good sort of king, who looks out for you in tough times, keeps the granaries stocked, and the barbarians outside the walls where they belong.

Yet the first reading from Jeremiah has a decisively different focus: what happens when God’s representatives on earth don’t live up to this balmy ideal? Known as “the weeping prophet,” Jeremiah was writing on the razor’s edge of disaster, crying out to his people - and their leaders - to change their ways before it was too late. Of course, none of the people who most needed to hear this message were listening, and all the bad things he was worried about happened. Here, God is no longer the hired hand, but the owner of the flock who’s fed up with the mismanagement of his hirelings. “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pasture,” who have been uncaring and faithless in their charge. For such, the flock’s owner has little pity and vengeance will be swift and absolute.

One of the earliest depictions of Jesus was as a Good Shepherd - not the familiar bearded figure, but a fresh-faced, bare-legged Roman youth with a lamb across his shoulders. Unsurprising, since Jesus took upon this characterization for himself in the gospels: the faithful servant, laying down his life for the flock. It is interesting that this image was the one which early Christians found so compelling that they wanted it painted on the walls of their house churches and their tombs, to remind them not only who is in charge, but the cost of true leadership.

These people found the idea of shepherd so attractive, and so indicative of what one needs in a leader, that the word was applied to their own: episkopos. These first bishops, the elected heads of Christian communities, were far removed from the “princes of the Church,” they were later to become. To be an episkopos in the mold of St. Peter, or St. Clement, or St. Ignatius of Antioch was first and foremost to live the life of a shepherd; that is to say, the life that Christ lived, and which, according to the rationale of earthly justice, earned him crucifixion.

What does it mean to be a shepherd, in that time, in our own? The metaphor is carefully and precisely chosen to illustrate Christ’s message - to provide us with an example of how to live, to guide, to lead, on our own. Jesus experienced God’s goodness as a shepherding figure, and it is that goodness that is recommended to us.

In Jesus’ interpretation, the shepherd is not the boss. They don’t make major decisions; they follow the directives of the flock’s owner. This means that shepherds are only in control of so much, not everything, and so their leadership consists chiefly of working within the parameters set by others: the flock’s owner, the weather, wolves, God.

This means that shepherds are vulnerable. They are tied to an existence that is lonely, separate from the comfortable majority in the towns who have no such responsibilities. They live a poor life, hand to mouth, with many of the same sufferings as their sheep: heat, cold, hunger, disease. As Pope Francis suggested, inevitably shepherds of any standing come to identify with their sheep, they aren’t just some outsider calling the shots. They are part of the flock. They are guardians of the weak, the frightened, the hunted and defenseless because in a certain sense, shepherds too share in all those things.

Early bishops lived similar lives: also marginalized, frequently in danger by the very fact that they had identified with a group marked for violence. They were to keep the flock alive; it was not a job that one would angle for as a prize. It was a job one might take on because there didn’t seem any other choice, when the life of the flock, of each member, seemed to be inextricably linked to one’s own. It is only this kind of leadership amongst both clerics and laypeople in the early church that can explain the enormous sacrifices many were willing to make on behalf of the whole. This kind of identification of shepherd and flock means that each, in a certain way, takes their raison d’etre from the other. A flock without a good shepherd becomes prey; a shepherd separated from his flock is just a lonely man in the hills.

But what, you might ask, has all this to do with the present situation? Are we shepherds, or sheep?
The answer, as Jesus knew, is both. In the cosmic sense we are all God’s flock; we trust in a God who sent us so good a shepherd. But the second part of who we are is equally important. Jesus never just taught; he acted. His actions were his greatest lessons, and through modeling what true leadership means, he gives us the mandate to be the guardians of those who are weak, needy, vulnerable, confused, and without any other recourse. This is what it means to be the body of Christ: that we become the one whose job description is not charity, or management, but courage, self-effacement, and sharing in the suffering of those we are meant to protect. After all, shepherds aren’t commuters; their work is their home.

Jesus knew that a shepherd’s life is risky; his certainly was. Shepherds don’t get bonuses or raises or accolades for keeping their sheep alive; nobody except the sheep cares about shepherds. Out of sight, out of mind. Yet undertaking such a poorly paid, despised, misunderstood position can also afford the shepherd a singular satisfaction. Every night when they lay down at the entrance of the sheepfold, every morning when they count the flock and find them all there - they can say, “I have fulfilled my purpose; I’ve kept them safe.” A shepherd can only care for their own flock; they can’t decide what happens to every sheep in the world, and they certainly can’t eliminate all the wolves, or keep the snow from falling, or bring the stillborn lamb back to life. However, the shepherd can answer for the ones in their care. Just so, none of us can stop all the wars, or keep the earth from hurtling toward some unseen catastrophe, or raise our beloved dead. But we can look out for the ones who need us, who have no rod and staff of their own. We can go in search of the lost ones, rather than writing them off the way an investor would. For a shepherd, sheep have individual dignity and worth, not simply product value.

That in itself can be a source of meaning in what so often can feel like a cruel and meaningless world. We can’t do everything, as the shepherd knows, but we can do something. Meister Eckhart wrote that if he were to go into the desert, he would like to take a small animal with him. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the benefits of companionship - as the shepherd plays the flute, even sheep are a better audience than nobody. But also, Eckhart’s recommendation is this:  even, or especially, in the wilderness, to take on responsibility for another being weaker and smaller than oneself, is to defy despair. Alone, we might begin to fancy ourselves gods, or devils, the sort of beings with power that answers to no one. Conversely, it is the humble shepherd who models authority without power, and whose domain extends only as far as the flock’s well-being, and whose only palace is the sky full of stars.

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Lori Frey Ranner is a New Orleans native. She holds a double B.A. in History and Classics from Loyola University New Orleans and an M.Phil. in Byzantine Studies from the University of Oxford (Keble 1996) with a concentration in Ecclesiastical History.

‍Her area of academic specialization is Latin and Greek ecumenical relations in the period following the Fourth Crusade. Between 1999-2014 she held the post of lecturer at Loyola New Orleans in the Departments of History and Classics. She currently teaches Latin Ancient Greek and World Religions at Ursuline Academy.

She is married and mother to three children. In her random bits of free time she is writing one novel editing a second and turning a third into a podcast.