By Andrea Lingle

For he is our God, and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand. Psalm 95:1–7a

Confession. 

This afternoon I nibbled on the edges of the sheet cake we bought to commemorate my oldest son's Confirmation into the United Methodist Church. You know when someone cuts a piece of cake and leaves the edge ragged? Outrage. That just can't be left sitting. One simply must even the line. So, I nibbled on the edge of the cake that no longer reads "Congratulations Laine!" I tidied up the surface of the marbled cake. Why? Just to make it perfect. 

We are odd little creatures.

This week, the Lectionary readings are full of sheep. Lost sheep, misbehaving sheep, pitiful sheep. And the Divine voice of the universe is quoted to say, "I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will make them lie down." (Ezekiel 34:15) 

"Ok, people. Everyone stop talking for a moment. Just stop. No, don't go over there. Come back. No, you just...wait. Ok. Just lie down."

I know one could do a much better job of parsing that text, but it makes me smile to read it that way.

Last Sunday, my son stood in a blue cloth mask in front of a sanctuary, empty save for his fellow confirmands, and made a choice to confirm his baptism. He walked up the steps of our church's altar and knelt, heard his name called, felt the hand of his father on his head, and stood in the fullness of his baptism. Little sheep that he is. It has been a long road to confirmation for this boy. He struggled with each and every question they asked him. He asked me dozens of times what would happen if he couldn't say yes to joining the church. Honestly, as I watched him standing up there, so exactly my height, I watched for signs he might bolt. You see, he didn't want to say yes to something he didn't understand. 

Could he stand before God and his family and his peers and uncertainly confirm the Holy Mystery of Grace started in him at his baptism twelve years before? Because he knows in his bones that his is not something to be faked. One can never be certain. One must just stand in the gorgeous grace of uncertainty.

And what of his mother? His rational, logical, fanciful mother? It has been a long time since she stood at the altar in her church and confirmed her baptism. I have walked a deep and difficult way. I have been rigorous in my searching and questioning. What, indeed, of his dear, dear mutton-headed mother? Did she imagine she heard the familiar whistle of an unforgotten shepherd? Perhaps.

"Beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again." Paul Ricoeur