Yesterday afternoon I watched a shepherd in my own front yard. He didn’t look much like the picture we’ve all seen so many times. You know the one—the blue-eyed shepherd dressed all in white—the guy with the sweet smile, holding his crook in one hand, with the little lamb draped over his shoulder and all the other fluffy little white sheep milling gently around at his feet. This shepherd was dressed in jeans and a black tee-shirt with a corporate logo on the chest. He wasn’t holding a crook, but he was smiling as he watched his eleven year old son mowing through the collection of weeds that we call my front lawn.
Jeff is the third in a succession of middle schoolers who have been in charge of mowing my yard over the last five years. This is the second time a child has aged out of the job. The transition process has been almost identical each time. The incumbent tells me that life is getting too busy, that he needs to move on and that someone else will do the job. The next week, a younger neighborhood child rings my doorbell, identifying himself as my new yard person. We discuss the particulars and a new venture begins. Jeff’s father is the third in a succession of parents who have watched their children grow into the job. As I’ve talked with him, his perspective on this business venture has been very clear to me. He wants his son to grow in accountability and responsibility. He wants him to learn that most of us work for what we have. He wants him to learn how to do what he’s promised he will do in the way he’s promised he will do it. I know these things because of our conversations. Yesterday, another thing was obvious. As he works, Jeff wears ear coverings to protect him from the sound of the mower. And as he works, his father never takes his eyes off him. Yesterday was only the fifth time Jeff has dealt with the mower, and he’s still learning how to handle its power. He’s still learning how to be in control of the machine that could do him harm. As I watched yesterday, it was very clear to me that his father’s first priority is to bring Jeff safely home again.
I doubt if the folks of Jesus’ time would have seen Jeff and his father as sheep and shepherd.
Those folks knew that sheep are dirty and smelly and have a talent for getting themselves into difficult situations. They knew about the treacherous Palestinian countryside, filled with wild animals ready to pounce on any sheep that strayed from the flock. They knew about the brambles that ensnared wandering sheep and of the craggy hillsides that challenged their steps. They knew about the shepherd’s lonely life, with long days spent far from the sight of other people, long days filled with dirty, sometimes dangerous, often frustrating work. They knew the task of the shepherd—careful guarding of the young and the weak, defending against the dangers of the countryside, knowing the right time to move the herd forward to greener pasture. They knew that the life of a shepherd had one purpose—to lead the flock safely from the fold into the land where they would grow and flourish and then to bring them home safely again. The purpose of a shepherd’s life was to bring every single sheep home safely again.
Being a shepherd is not an easy job. It’s not a glamorous job. It’s certainly not the job that people expected the Messiah to do. It’s not what they expected Jesus to do. But he tells them—and us—again and again that it is exactly what he was born to do. To bring each of his sheep safely home again.
Some years ago, a friend told me about her trip to New Zealand. She and her husband met a shepherd while they were on a hiking trip, and as they were talking with him, she heard a plaintive bleat coming from the hills behind them. As they talked and the bleating continued, she got more and more uncomfortable. Finally she could bear it no longer. She said to the shepherd, “Sounds like you’ve got a sheep in trouble.” The shepherd smiled. “I hear her,” he said. “That one’s always getting herself in a bind. I’ll bring her in safe enough.”
These days a lot of us are feeling like we’ve gotten ourselves in a bind. In his press conference last week, President Obama listed all the things we are grappling with these days—including swine flu—the latest blow to our shaky equilibrium. Many of us can relate to those sheep in the Palestinian or New Zealand hillsides. It’s easy these days to feel somewhat the worse for wear, caught in the brambles and on uncertain ground. There are days when I’d welcome the sight of the shepherd coming my way—someone who knows exactly what to do to get us out of the mess we’re in. There are days when I’m right there with the disciples, wanting Jesus to straighten out the world—to set everything right—to clean house and make everything new again. I’m right there with the disciples, wanting Jesus to take care of everything, but that’s not the way it happens. There’s not going to be a shazam moment when everything turns around and the Disney birds come to sing around our heads. That’s not the way it is with our shepherd.
Instead of changing the world, our shepherd does something even more difficult. He changes us—each of us. The Good Shepherd, the one who calls each of us by name, calls us out of the quiet comfortable places we’ve always known into the wild of the world where we can grow and flourish and become strong. He knows our voices, and he hears us when we call. He supports us and nurtures us and, like the shepherd of our psalm, he comes to us when we’re frightened or in pain. He pulls us along with his crook when we stray off the path to abundant life, and he protects us from the danger of temptation with his staff. He comes to us in all the difficult moments of our lives, and he stays with us—strengthening and comforting us as we learn how to live in those moments we hoped never to see. And then, at the last day, he brings us safely home again.
Thanks be to God.