Brian Doyle’s novel, Martin Marten, tells the stories of two creatures growing into adulthood. A teen boy, Dave, and a pine marten, Martin, both live in the remote wilderness of Wy’east (the name given to Oregon’s Mount Hood by tribal peoples). In their first chance encounter in the woods, Martin and Dave simply stare at each other for a long instant. After that, their mutual curiosity continues to draw them together. One summer they meet up daily. As Dave does his training runs through the woods by the river, Martin joins him, flying through the tree branches above. Doyle describes the way they greet each other each morning:
Their two or three seconds of absorbed acknowledgement is something gentle and wild and mysterious and beyond any words we can find in our dictionaries and translation software. They attend, they see, they witness. The young man nods, he inclines his head, an ancient human-animal gesture of respect and peace and even reverence. The marten stares, he twitches an ear, he shifts his grip on the branch. The young man sets his watch, and then away they go. (pp. 244–45)
Throughout the novel Brian Doyle describes the enmeshment of Martin and Dave in a living community that encompasses all creatures, human and more than human. It reminds me of the imagery in both the Psalm and Gospel of the shepherd and the flock, bound together by the green meadows, the still waters, the dark valleys, the abundant tables. In the teaching that comes right before this passage, Jesus draws on classic biblical imagery. King David is a shepherd boy who became the King of Israel, the model for all future rulers, and a key ancestor in Jesus’ family tree. And of course we have the Divine Shepherd depicted in Psalm 23, who provides God’s people with safety, sustenance and belonging. Jesus declares: “I am the good shepherd.” “I am the gate for the sheep.” “I know my own and my own know me.” “The sheep follow because they know [my] voice.” “I lay down my life for the sheep.” This teaching provokes a debate among the religious leaders. Is Jesus the long-awaited Messiah, sent by God, or is he a false prophet possessed demons?
Today’s scripture addresses this conflict. “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly,” the religious leaders demand. And Jesus’ reply points to the relational quality of his ministry. Those who belong to Jesus’ community (to his flock) do so because they hear his voice and find it trustworthy. The ones who experience Jesus’ works of love, healing and nourishment also find God revealed in them. Being deeply known by the shepherd leads to unity with him and to a willingness to follow him. Conversely, among those without a connection to Jesus, he has no credibility. There is nothing Jesus could say or do to prove himself to them.
Near the end of Doyle’s novel, boy and marten unintentionally converge. “In a sense,” Doyle muses,
This whole book has been working toward this moment, hasn’t it? Two animals contemplating each other with the fullest and most piercing attention they could possibly bring to this moment. Two creatures, two beings, two unique consciousnesses unlike any that ever were or ever will be. Neither prey nor predator, hunter nor hunted, not mates or cousins, enemies or teammates. . . . Here are two beings on a tiny ledge of rock on a vaulting mountain on a brilliant afternoon, and no labels apply.
How can we get all the way to this moment and run out of words? But you know, deep in your own bones, what they feel, though we cannot find the word. They see each other—and having seen and knowing the alp of the moment, each is . . . changed. Could it be that moments like this are windows through which we see the endless possibility of deeper moments? . . . Could it be that moments like this are the moments that tilt the universe and make possible new ways and means and manners of being? Could it be that moments like this are why we invented religions and dream of peace in the bruised world and write books and music, trying to find the right sounds and stories for the thing we know but cannot say? (pp. 281–2)
Our Gospel texts in this Easter season so far have also centered around indescribable moments, around a struggle to recognize the risen Jesus and make sense of the new life he brings. Even though today’s text is not on its surface a resurrection appearance, it continues to probe the deep mystery of the Easter life we are invited to live in community with the flock of our Good Shepherd. This “eternal life” that flows from relationship with Jesus is not an escape, not a transaction, not a denial of death or a ticket to heaven. It’s a totally fresh experience; it’s life of a different quality entirely. Like the experiences of second chances we’ve been sharing with each other in this Easter season, Jesus’ gift of eternal life is a deepening, an enrichment, an awakening.
In Martin Marten, it is Dave’s enmeshment in community that allows a death of sorts to also bring a new quality of life. While Martin is recovering from a near-fatal encounter with an owl, Dave is navigating an extended period of teenage surliness. He’s just not his usual cheerful, friendly, helpful self. He tells his beloved (and wise) little sister that he feels like he has a “flu in his soul.” Confronted by a teacher about the change in his behavior,
[Dave] opened his mouth and closed it and opened it again and closed it and sat there simmering. What could he say? He had nothing to say. He was angry and ashamed and annoyed and angry. He just wanted to be who he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be what anyone else wanted him to be. Everyone had an idea of him and he was none of those Daves. That evening, when [Maria] said “What’s the matter,” he told her, and she got out of her bed and padded over to his and hung her face an in inch over his face and said ,“Be tender,” and then she padded back to her bed.
Doyle goes on, asking the reader,
You know how when you are going one way in a river, and you stick your paddle in and hold it in the right spot for a second, and the whole boat turns? It was like that for Dave after that. Years later, he would tell his own kids about those two words from their aunt Maria at that exact moment and how those two words woke him up and cracked something. (pp. 179–181)
Our church board met yesterday for a retreat to work on our new mission statement. We are pondering the input from all of you, the work we’re doing to increase building use and be better neighbors to the campus, and our own deeply personal perspectives about why this congregation is here, what possibilities we seek to make space for in the world. We are on the hunt for a few words that resonate, that hint at the indescribable spirit of this community; that invite others into the web of relationship we foster with God and Jesus, each other and creation; that honor and celebrate the moments in which we experience eternal life—life that is new, fresh, and abundant—because of the way we belong here. Pray for this process, and stay tuned. We’ll be looking for your feedback on a draft soon!
In today’s political climate, the crisis of identity that swirls around Jesus continues, and culminates. We know that the church is vulnerable to being co-opted by demonic influences. One painful example of this is the incident in Rochester this week, in which a woman not only engaged openly in race-based bullying of a child, but then also used the name of Christianity and a faith-based network of influence and relationship to turn a profit from her hate. This example is one among so many that showcases an utterly morally bankrupt version of Christianity. And it illustrates why it is so important that we find our voice as a congregation. Among so many voices that want to say what Christianity is, may we speak out of an authentic willingness to be transformed in relationship with the one who knows us each intimately, who feeds and nurtures us in community, and who meets us in our valleys of death, supporting and guiding us as we walk toward the new life that waits on the other side. Amen.