A Shepherd or a
Sheep?
In the ancient Near East, the shepherd was a metaphor for a king. The people believed that a good king was like a shepherd. A shepherd looked out for the weakest in the flock. A shepherd took care of the injured in the flock. A king would do likewise with his people.
Israel had a number of bad kings. Consequently, corruption and injustice had flourished, and society had become lopsided, divided between the very rich and the desperately poor. The fabric of society wore so thin that eventually the people were overtaken by the neighboring kingdom of Babylon. In today’s scripture, God promises a better future. God promises to be Israel’s king. “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep” (Ezek 34:15). God explains how this will happen: “I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David”—which is to say, a descendant of David—“and he shall feed them” (Ezek 34:23).
For us followers of Christ, the identity of this promised shepherd is obvious: Jesus! We believe that Jesus is the shepherd whom God had promised Israel.
And yet I’m perplexed this morning. Why is it that God’s shepherd is continually identified as a sheep? Not only is there John the baptizer’s familiar proclamation, “Behold, the lamb of God!” (John 1:29, 36) and Revelation’s repeated identification of Jesus as the lamb, but also Jesus himself identifies as a sheep. In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus tells a parable in which he identifies himself as the least among the people, the weakest of the sheep (Matt 25:31-46). I tried to capture this paradox in our call to worship.[1] In Ezekiel, God had promised to bring back the strayed and care for the injured and the strengthen the weak. In Jesus’ parable, he is the stranger; he is the injured; he is the weak.
What is the meaning of this reversal? Why does God’s promised shepherd look more like a sheep?
On the Side of the
Wounded
Recently I was talking with a friend who has struggled for the last ten years with undiagnosed chronic pain. Doctors have explored many different angles, but so far there has been no diagnosis to explain all she has suffered. She shared with me that, although she doesn’t like to acknowledge it, she bears some serious resentment toward God.
In years past, my kneejerk reaction would have been to defend God. But who am I kidding? God doesn’t need me to defend him.
In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if what God needs is the opposite. Not for me to attack God, but rather for me to place myself on the side of the wounded rather than on the side of God. Because what I read in today’s scriptural paradox, is that God himself is on the side of the wounded. God looks more like a sheep than its shepherd.
If I could imagine another verse added to today’s gospel text, it would be Jesus saying this, “I was aggrieved and resentful, and you listened to me.”
A Parable
In response to the question, “Why does God’s promised king look more like a sheep than a shepherd?”—which could also be asked in this way, “How can a sheep be a shepherd?”—I’d like to conclude with a parable. I’m reminded that Jesus himself, when he was asked questions, would often respond with a story. It is almost as though Jesus refuses the final word. He wants us to keep asking, to keep thinking, to keep seeking.
…
There once lived a strange prince. He was the king’s only son, but people had grave doubts about his suitability for the throne because this prince seemed awfully forgetful of his own royalty. He commonly neglected the imperial customs. He forgot to wear his princely coat when he attended royal events. He used the wrong silverware at banquets. He would stand he was meant to sit and sit when he was meant to stand.
Some people said he was just a dreamer. His head was in the clouds. Others questioned his sanity. “Something seems off,” they said. A few commented that it was as though he were living with one foot in another world—as though his “kingdom not from this world” (John 18:36).
When the king finally died and the strange prince became king himself, he inherited a kingdom that was falling apart. There were numerous land disputes among the nobles. Crime was on the rise in the cities. And border skirmishes happened more and more frequently, as neighboring kingdoms sensed weakness and sought retaliation for past offenses. The people all looked to the king for solutions, but they had their doubts.
As it was, the king himself had doubts. He lamented to his trusted advisor that there was nothing he could do to solve the problems of the kingdom as long as people were looking for a strongman to swoop in and secure their desires. He said that even if he had enough swords in the kingdom to do just that, the people would never be happy. “In the end, force does not fix things,” he said. “It only fractures us. It is not control that will make us whole. Only care can do that.”
Then one day the king left his palace, never to return. At first, the people thought he had abdicated his throne and fled. But then there were reported sightings of him throughout the kingdom. One day a noble said he had seen a man wandering his orchard, eating an apple. He mistook him for a homeless man, but when he came near to reproach the drifter, he recognized him as the king. “What delicious apples!” the king said. “Would you like one? The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it. What a gift we have! God has been so rich toward us, hasn’t he?” This same noble had been involved in several land disputes. But that encounter planted a new seed in his mind. Was the land really his?
Another day the king was spotted in one of the poorer districts, eating and drinking with men and women who were known to be criminals. The passerby who spotted the king drew near and eavesdropped. The king was asking the others about their lives, and listening with interest and compassion as they shared stories of tragic upbringings, of poverty and abandonment and shame. The strange thing was, at the end of the gathering, their faces almost glowed with the acceptance they had found. As they departed, there was no whispered plotting of plans to steal or deceive. The only talk was of when they would meet next.
Yet another day the king was spotted near the border. He was surrounded by a small band of warriors from a neighboring kingdom. Their swords were drawn but had fallen down to the side. They stood with rapt attention as the king, who was unarmed, asked for forgiveness on behalf of his kingdom. “I know what your families have suffered. I know about your children who have been lost to war. Nothing can bring them back. Please, know that my heart is broken for you. I cannot speak for others, but on their behalf I beg your forgiveness. Our violence toward you has left an unspeakable wound.”
As you can probably imagine, it was not long before some of the more ambitious nobles in the kingdom had conspired together. They arrested the king on charges of treason and imprisoned him for the rest of his life. But even in prison, he went on living as he had before, sharing what little he had, receiving what others had to give, and seeking companionship with all he encountered. Some citizens visited him in prison, bringing him clothes, food, and drink.
To this day, some citizens in the kingdom still refer to him as “our true king, whose kingdom will never end.” The good news they proclaim baffles the leaders around them. The good news they proclaim is not that God is in control, but that God cares—and so do they.
Prayer
Who comes not with a fix
But with friendship—
Grant us the courage
To accept what we cannot control
…
And to discover your reign
In care shown to others
And to ourselves.
In Christ, the lamb of God: Amen.
[1] God,
the shepherd, says: “I will bring back the strayed.” / Christ, the lamb, says:
“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will
strengthen the weak.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was hungry and you gave me
food.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will bind up the injured.” / Christ, the
lamb, says: “I was sick and you took care of me.”
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