Luke 15: 1-32
What sort of shepherd would leave behind the whole flock to go after just one? Doesn't that sound a little irresponsible, a bit neglectful of the ninety-nine? Can any single sheep be worth so much to the shepherd that he would risk the safety of the others? Can any one of us be worth that much to God, the True Pastor?
Fiona Powell, a professional storyteller in Pennsylvania who happens to have worked for a time as a shepherd in the West Country of England says, Yes, shepherds do really act that way. Then she tells this story.
- It was on a cool October day when Fiona walked with head shepherd far into
the hills to mend fences and to check on the fifty ewes pasturing on a
fenced-in hilltop. Fiona went with Robert, as she did every day, to see that
the sheep were all right, that the fence was secure, that none were missing,
and especially to make sure none of the sheep was lying on her side. When a
sheep rolls onto her side she can't get up; she gets "bloat," and dies. It
was important work, to check on the sheep, as well as cause for a pleasant
hike. The Mendip hills rolled of to one side and the great Cheddar Gorge
opened off to the other, making for a spectacular view. But it was not the
beauty of the view that caught the attention of the head shepherd.
Something was bothering Robert about the sheep. He was not a sentimental man. Nor was he inclined to feel compassion for his animals, as many other farmers are. Truth be told he was a bit of a hard case, a real bottom-line man. When he saw the sheep dotting a hillside, Robert didn't think of fluffy little bundles of wool adding character to the scenery. He thought of profit and loss. But Robert was a good shepherd, with terrific instincts that had been honed over many years in the field. And he wasn't happy. Something was not right.
He told Fiona to count the sheep. She walked through and counted them. Forty-nine. The head shepherd also counted them. Forty-nine. "What does that mean?" asked Fiona, who was new to the job.
"One's missing," Robert replied.
"What does that mean?" Fiona asked again.
"We've got to find it."
They looked around the hilltop paddock, and Robert spotted a break in the fence. Peering beyond, he saw a steep limestone slope. The terrain was rocky and covered with small, scrubby trees, blocking their view to the bottom.
"I'll bet she's gone down there," Robert muttered. The younger shepherd looked warily down the forbidding slope.
"If she's fallen down there, she's probably died," Fiona offered.
"Maybe she has, but we can't just leave her," Robert replied.
All told, there were a thousand ewes on that farm and forty rams. It was a big flock. But even in a flock of a thousand sheep, there are no throwaways.
"We certainly can't just leave her. She's a valuable animal," Robert said. That was a phrase he would repeat several times that day: she's a valuable animal.
So down the slope they clambered, making sure that the forty-nine were secure in the field. They took with them that indispensable ally of every shepherd, the sheepdog. Fiona slipped and slid down the muddy slope, walking from rock to rock when she could and hanging onto trees as she passed them.
At the bottom of the slope they spotted the ewe, lying behind some brush. Running to her, they found her to be hurt but still alive. Clearly she had fallen down the hill and could not get to her feet. She was suffering, but not so much that she might not recover.
The sheep could not walk, and she was far too heavy to be lifted, let alone be carried. Robert quickly laid out a plan. Fiona would stay with the ewe and keep her from rolling onto her side, to prevent her from dying of bloat. Robert would walk back along the base of the slope, call the veterinarian, and return with a small tractor and trailer to fetch the sheep.
"But what about the fencing, and the other chores we had planned for today?" Fiona asked.
"All other work on the farm stops. She's a valuable animal," Robert replied.
Robert set off along the base of the slope, clearing a path for the tractor as he went. Fiona set about bracing the sheep up with her back. She was cold, and muddy and sore from the day's exertions, and the sheep was so heavy the young shepherd had to brace her own feet against a tree so she could hold up the ewe. The dog sat next to Fiona and kept her company.
For about two hours Fiona spoke cheerfully to the ewe, telling her not to worry, she would be all right. Meanwhile, as the day lengthened, Fiona cast a wary eye skyward. It was England in October. Over and over she made a silent wish, "Don't rain."
Finally Robert returned on the tractor, with an extra shepherd to help life the ewe onto the trailer. They hefted the ewe on, and Fiona climbed on behind, "to keep her happy, keep her encouraged," she says now.
They arrived at the barnyard to find the owners and all the hands gathered, cheering them home.
"We were treated like heroes," Fiona says now. "Anyone would think we had done something magnificent, other than missing our lunch."
The people kept congratulating Robert on finding the ewe and bringing her back, saying over and over, "She's very valuable to us, very valuable." The tough head shepherd even almost smiled. Fiona went off to eat her lunch and nurse her sore back. When she saw Robert again, he gave her the highest praise she had heard from him thus far: "That was a good morning's work," he said. [i]
The lost coin story tells us how important the poor woman who lost the coin feels. Although it is night, and she has to get a lamp to look for it, when she finds it she calls in the neighbors and throws a celebration. In fact, she probably spent more on that celebration than the coin was worth. In fact, all three stories end in a celebration. This highlights how joy-filled God is when we sinners come back to him and are saved.
We've always been mostly fascinated by the Prodigal Son story, though, and the almost impossible love of this almost impossible father and runs down the road to greet the prodigal son. What a father. No rancor at all in his soul. Only concern and love for the ungrateful son who was forced to return because he had been reduced to eating with the pigs, an unheard of penalty for an Israelite.
- She was once the light of their lives, full of giggles and jokes and always
ready to lend a helping hand. But during her junior year of high school, she
had become hostile and angry; she would hole up in her room for hours; she
lied and stole; she ridiculed her parents and ignored them, their values and
rules.
One day she declared, "This place is a hole and I can't stand I here anymore," and she was gone. She went to live with a friend whose parents never seemed to be around. They thought she would be back in a day or two . but the days soon stretched into weeks. One day her mom called and she answered the telephone. She sounded far away and groggy, spaced out as if she were floating. A shiver went through her mother: Her daughter was using drugs. It all made horrible sense.
Her parents met with counselors and experts in substance abuse. Their advice: Do whatever you can to get her to a treatment center - but she has to want help. Confront her, tell her you will get her help, but that you still and always will love her.
Predictably, the first confrontation went badly. "I don't believe you think that!" and she stormed from the house. But over time, her defenses began to crumble. Mom and Dad remained calm and compassionate in the face of the storm of her anger and hostility. Of course, she never saw her parents' tears, self-doubting and hurt. But they came to the hard realization that their daughter was no longer a child, that they were no longer in charge of this new adult person. All they could do was let go, love and pray, and be there for her when she was ready.
And they discovered that the more they let go of her, the closer she returned. And finally the distance between them disappeared altogether. [ii]
We have to understand that forgiveness is not a static act but a journey. We actually move from here to there - someone acts and we react. There is a real human encounter - someone leaves home and comes back. Otherwise, forgiveness is merely a head trip: We keep going back and forth thinking, "I am not worthy, she will not forgive, I am bad, he is good, I am not sorry enough, she does or doesn't understand." On and on.
To forgive is not to say that nothing happened, or that it doesn't matter. Who am I to say that your actions don't mean anything? Who are you to tell me that I did as well as I could? Forgiveness foregoes judgment. It does not change the past or control the future - it is a present grace.
Forgiveness is a gift of grace, not our possession: We merely pass it on from God. Unfortunately, there are few things harder for us than to accept something for nothing with grace - and to pass it on freely. [iii] Jesus' parables leave us dizzy. The Good Samaritan parable convicts us, as the fundamentalists would say. We know we don't act like the Good Samaritan. Are we supposed to? The Prodigal Son parable boggles our mind. Are we to forgive like this loving father? Get real. But Jesus fixes us with gentle and understanding eyes, nods his head and says, "Yes."
[i] Arthur Olsen, "The Searchers," Markings, Readings - 132, Twenty-fourth
Sunday in Ordinary Time, (The Thomas More Association, 205 West Monroe
St. -- Sixth Floor, Chicago IL 60606-5097) Sept. 2001.
[ii] Based on a story by Janet Mason in Guideposts as summarized in Connections,
24 Sunday of the year, (MediaWorks, 7 Lantern Lane, Londonderry, N.H.
03053-3905) Sept. 2001.
[iii] Fr. James Smith, "The gift of forgiveness," Celebration 30 (9): 411
(Celebration, 115 East Armour Boulevard, Kansas City, MO 64111-1203) Sept.
2001.
(Comments to Jerry at padre@tri-lakes.net. Jerry's book, Stories For All Seasons, is available at a discount through the Homiletic Resource Center.)