The Good Shepherd
A couple days ago, after a long day in the garden, I came down to the sheep pasture to check on them again for the afternoon. The older lambs--the ones born this winter--gamboled among the rocks and trees of their paddock while the newer ones followed close behind their mothers, wiggling their tails as they suckled. I felt that gnawing joy in my heart, the kind that's almost painful, as I watched them. There was the little one who'd been born the night before, now hopping awkwardly over the tall grass. Just that morning, I'd held her in my arms and carried her into the new paddock (newborn lambs haven't quite mastered the art of being herded) followed by her bleating dam. And not far from that newborn was another ewe. The afterbirth still dangled from her back and beside her upon the ground knelt another lamb, barely a few hours old but, for the most part, pure of blood and water (a ewe will lick her newborn clean, and all the tissue that she swallows helps strengthen the bond between mother and lamb). A few feet from this pair stood another ewe, her backside bloody as well. At first, I thought she was still in labor until I noticed a dark mass at her feet. I'd thought it was one of the many holes dug in the hillside, but it was a black lamb--the only one in our flock of white sheep. And then it hit me: I loved these creatures. If anything threatened them, I would obliterate it.
I came out the next morning thrilled to see how the newborns were doing. They bleated softly and took a few halfhearted steps from me when I entered the paddock, but gently I caught them, weighed them, marked them with chalk, and noted down on a sheet of paper the number of their mums, their weight, their sex, and the color I'd marked them with (we usually give them a few days on the planet before tagging them, which requires piercing their ears; you don't want to add an immediate trauma to the trauma of birth). Then, I opened the gate, and the flock eagerly ran through into the next paddock. The newborn lambs disappeared in the tall grass, as yet untrodden by the flock. But down the low hillside, in a small hollow, one ewe remained. I stepped closer towards her, thinking that she would quickly follow the flock. But, she stood her ground, and at her feet was a newborn lamb, still a little bloody, on faltering feet. His neck was brown, and all the rest of him was white and curly. I moved forward. The ewe stepped back and bleated angrily. Carefully, I picked up the lamb and held him for the ewe to see. She followed, eying me warily, and up the hill we went. Through the gate in the electric fence and into the next paddock. I set the lamb down on a bare, rocky patch where I hoped the ewe would see him, but she ran on past, not recognizing her own young. The lamb wandered about feebly like a sailor on shore for the first time in months, and failing to find his mother, he began to trail along behind me as I went about my chores--filling their water trough, adding more minerals to the feeder (our grass is deficient in selenium which, apparently, sheep need to be healthy...). Eventually, the child and his dam were reunited (and I lost my very adorable shadow), but the incident stayed with me throughout the day. I could still smell the soft, damp warmth of the lamb, still feel the strong pulse of his heart, still hear the feeble bleating, and I started to understand.
I started to understand why shepherds in art bear such a tender countenance when they carry their lambs, why Meliboeus is so grieved to give up his ancient way of life. But, most importantly, I started to understand why Our Lord chose the good shepherd as an image of himself.
In the past when I read the passage in Matthew 18:12-14, I always took Jesus' image as hyperbolic. He says:
But, Thrasymachus is ignorant, and so was I. No shepherd cares for his sheep simply out of self-interest. Of course, I know that the sheep I tend are destined for slaughter, and in an indirect way they are what supports my livelihood right now (there is certainly cognitive dissonance in loving a creature and knowing it will become food, but I intend to talk about that at length later). Self-interest, however, is the last thing I am thinking about when I am with my sheep. I want them to be happy, to be themselves, to be the best versions of sheep they can be--fat, healthy, disease-free. I love my sheep, and if I noticed one of them was missing, I would absolutely leave the flock behind and wander over the mountains until I found it. You see, sheep are naturally sociable creatures; they hate to be alone. If a single sheep has separated itself from the flock, it is not a mark of independence or strength; it is a sure sign the creature is in dire need of help. In our flock, only the ewes in labor or those who have recently given birth stand off from the group. Within the safety of our fences, they can't really get into much trouble. But, out on the mountains, ranging free, as shepherding used to be practiced (and in many parts of Greece and the Mediterranean still is practiced), a sheep who gets separated could easily be lost, killed, or could injure itself. That one sheep in the parable is not just wandering; she is in distress. Ninety-nine sheep, though? They'll be fine; they'll stick together, defend each other from threats, and be rather easy to find again.
Thus, Jesus (making use of a future more vivid condition, thereby affirming the likelihood of his question) says that the man "πορευθεὶς ζητεῖ τὸ πλανῶμενον [having set out searches for the one who has strayed", and his listeners nod knowingly their agreement. "πορευθεὶς," says Our Lord. The same verb he uses in Mark 16:15 (see the previous blog post for context) when he exhorts the disciples to set out for the entire cosmos and preach the good news. The good shepherd sets out. We, in imitation of him, set out. And where? In search of those in distress, those in deepest need. The good shepherd "ἀφήσει τὰ ἐνενήκοντα ἐννέα [will leave the ninety-nine]". ἀφίημι, from ἀπό and ἵημι, literally means "to throw away". The shepherd throws away the other sheep and searches for the lost one. I like to think about what this means for God. If one single human being is the lost sheep, then the entirety of creation must be the ninety-nine. God throws away the creation that he loved so much, that he saw was so good, he forfeits all of it for each of us. That is a momentous thought. And, cradling the lamb in my arms, it makes a little more sense than it did before.
I came out the next morning thrilled to see how the newborns were doing. They bleated softly and took a few halfhearted steps from me when I entered the paddock, but gently I caught them, weighed them, marked them with chalk, and noted down on a sheet of paper the number of their mums, their weight, their sex, and the color I'd marked them with (we usually give them a few days on the planet before tagging them, which requires piercing their ears; you don't want to add an immediate trauma to the trauma of birth). Then, I opened the gate, and the flock eagerly ran through into the next paddock. The newborn lambs disappeared in the tall grass, as yet untrodden by the flock. But down the low hillside, in a small hollow, one ewe remained. I stepped closer towards her, thinking that she would quickly follow the flock. But, she stood her ground, and at her feet was a newborn lamb, still a little bloody, on faltering feet. His neck was brown, and all the rest of him was white and curly. I moved forward. The ewe stepped back and bleated angrily. Carefully, I picked up the lamb and held him for the ewe to see. She followed, eying me warily, and up the hill we went. Through the gate in the electric fence and into the next paddock. I set the lamb down on a bare, rocky patch where I hoped the ewe would see him, but she ran on past, not recognizing her own young. The lamb wandered about feebly like a sailor on shore for the first time in months, and failing to find his mother, he began to trail along behind me as I went about my chores--filling their water trough, adding more minerals to the feeder (our grass is deficient in selenium which, apparently, sheep need to be healthy...). Eventually, the child and his dam were reunited (and I lost my very adorable shadow), but the incident stayed with me throughout the day. I could still smell the soft, damp warmth of the lamb, still feel the strong pulse of his heart, still hear the feeble bleating, and I started to understand.
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| His neck was brown and all the rest of him was white and curly. |
In the past when I read the passage in Matthew 18:12-14, I always took Jesus' image as hyperbolic. He says:
Τί ὑμῖν δοκεῖ; ἐὰν γένηται τινι ἀνθρώπῳ ἑκατὸν πρόβατα καὶ πλανηθῇ ἓν ἐξ αὐτῶν, οὐχὶ ἀφήσει τὰ ἐνενήκοντα ἐννέα ἐπὶ τὰ ὄρη καὶ πορευθεὶς ζητεῖ τὸ πλανῶμενον; καὶ ἐὰν γένηται εὑρεῖν αὐτό, ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι χαίρει ἐπ᾽αὐτῷ μᾶλλον ἢ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἐνενήκοντα ἐννέα τοῖς μὴ πεπλανημένοις. οὕτως οὐκ ἔστιν θέλημα ἔμπροσθεν τοῦ πατρὸς ὑμῶν τοῦ ἐν οὐρανοῖς ἵνα ἀπόληται ἕν τῶν μικρῶν τούτων.
[How does it seem to you? If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them strays, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and having set out search for the one who has strayed? And if he happens to find it, amen I say to you, he rejoices more over it than over the ninety-nine who did not stray. Thus, it is not the will of your father in heaven that one of these little ones perish.]"How does it seem to me, my Lord? It seems ridiculous! Of course no one would risk losing his entire flock for one roving sheep!" That is how my cynical modern mind answered Jesus' question. I assumed the parable was to illustrate just how insane is God's love for sinful man. To quote W.H. Auden, "It never crossed our minds He meant / Exactly what He said" ("Friday's Child"). But, as I spend more time caring for animals, I begin to see how wrong I was. My first response to Jesus' parable is much like Thrasymachus' response to Socrates' metaphor of the shepherd in Republic I. A shepherd does not actually care for his sheep, says Thrasymachus; he cares for his own profit; the sheep are a means to this end. Thus, Christ's (and Socrates') good shepherd stands in stark contrast to the merely human way of doing things, and that, I thought, is the whole point.
But, Thrasymachus is ignorant, and so was I. No shepherd cares for his sheep simply out of self-interest. Of course, I know that the sheep I tend are destined for slaughter, and in an indirect way they are what supports my livelihood right now (there is certainly cognitive dissonance in loving a creature and knowing it will become food, but I intend to talk about that at length later). Self-interest, however, is the last thing I am thinking about when I am with my sheep. I want them to be happy, to be themselves, to be the best versions of sheep they can be--fat, healthy, disease-free. I love my sheep, and if I noticed one of them was missing, I would absolutely leave the flock behind and wander over the mountains until I found it. You see, sheep are naturally sociable creatures; they hate to be alone. If a single sheep has separated itself from the flock, it is not a mark of independence or strength; it is a sure sign the creature is in dire need of help. In our flock, only the ewes in labor or those who have recently given birth stand off from the group. Within the safety of our fences, they can't really get into much trouble. But, out on the mountains, ranging free, as shepherding used to be practiced (and in many parts of Greece and the Mediterranean still is practiced), a sheep who gets separated could easily be lost, killed, or could injure itself. That one sheep in the parable is not just wandering; she is in distress. Ninety-nine sheep, though? They'll be fine; they'll stick together, defend each other from threats, and be rather easy to find again.
Thus, Jesus (making use of a future more vivid condition, thereby affirming the likelihood of his question) says that the man "πορευθεὶς ζητεῖ τὸ πλανῶμενον [having set out searches for the one who has strayed", and his listeners nod knowingly their agreement. "πορευθεὶς," says Our Lord. The same verb he uses in Mark 16:15 (see the previous blog post for context) when he exhorts the disciples to set out for the entire cosmos and preach the good news. The good shepherd sets out. We, in imitation of him, set out. And where? In search of those in distress, those in deepest need. The good shepherd "ἀφήσει τὰ ἐνενήκοντα ἐννέα [will leave the ninety-nine]". ἀφίημι, from ἀπό and ἵημι, literally means "to throw away". The shepherd throws away the other sheep and searches for the lost one. I like to think about what this means for God. If one single human being is the lost sheep, then the entirety of creation must be the ninety-nine. God throws away the creation that he loved so much, that he saw was so good, he forfeits all of it for each of us. That is a momentous thought. And, cradling the lamb in my arms, it makes a little more sense than it did before.
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