On this Good Shepherd Sunday, what is your image of a shepherd?
Growing up in South St. Louis county, the closest I ever got to a farm was looking out the window of Our Lady of Providence school when the Clydesdales were at the near end of the fields near the fence line. Because of that, my images of shepherds were reduced to the Holy Card variety. The clean robes, the delicate sheep draped comfortably over the shoulders, the sun tan. Everything you’d expect of a shepherd who grew up in Southern California. If you remember that iconic picture that I sometimes call the Malibu Jesus by the artist Richard Hook – tan, flowing hair, as if he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ – surely that is what any shepherd had to look like from my sheltered, suburbia background. Then, one year, when I was hiking in Ireland, above the town of Dingle, I ran into an actual shepherd. He was nothing like what my suburban upbringing pictured.
I was warned of his approach by some guttural cries, a pounding sound, and the barking of a dog. Then there came around the corner of mountain the first of the sheep. And then, with more pounding noises, came the shepherd. He seemed a huge man. Wiry. Hair unkempt. With huge biceps. And he was carrying this ‘staff’ – though the word club or cudgel or mallet would be more accurate. He’d pound on the ground, get the dogs attention, and with a whistle and pointing of this ‘mallet’ – he’d guide the sheep. Did I mention he had huge biceps? He eyed me across the distance, figured I was no threat in my shorts, camera and tennis shoes, and continued about his business. And suddenly, I understood the line “No one can take them from my hand” in a way that I never did before. Did I mention how big his arms were? No one was going to take anything away from this guy that this guy didn’t want to get rid of.
Ever since that afternoon in Ireland, that has been my “Go To” image of a shepherd – the strong, rough and tough, “don’t mess with me” image of a Shepherd. And when I struggle in my sinfulness, when I am tempted to selfishness in my choices; in those moments of frustration when I just want to chuck the whole Christian enterprise out the window – it is this image that I fall back upon. Jesus, not letting go of MY hand. Jesus with that club, ready to protect me. Jesus, guiding me with his strong arm. Jesus pounding on the ground, directing my next steps with a shout and a whistle.
I confess, I need this image more than I need the cuddly, Malibu Jesus. That one makes no demands of me, just allows me to rest in the closeness of God. Though there are times when that is exactly what I want to do – to rest in the closeness of God, the truth is, more often, I need this wild man shepherd. I need a shepherd – to watch over me and guide me when I don’t know the way, who will protect me when I falter, who will call me to task when I want to take a pass, who will kick me out of my complacency to get busy about the work of the kingdom. (Did I mention how HUGE his biceps are?)
So moms, the next time you feel like a mistake you’ve made in raising your children will effect them negatively forever – remember! there is no snatching from the shepherd’s hand. College students – the next time you’re struggling with a class or a choice you’ve made that seems ruinous – remember the biceps – it’s under control. Seniors, when the aches and pains of aging start creeping and creaking, and when you feel down – your mood is as gray as the weather – we’ve a shepherd who is there for us, and who will not let us out of his caring grasp. Let your prayer place yourself in his hands.
My image of a shepherd was forever transformed on that mountainside in Ireland. May our experience of Jesus – and his outstretched arms, nailed upon for us upon the cross, inspire us to TRUST in his mercy, to listen to his voice and follow him, the good shepherd, all the days of our lives. Amen. Alleluia!