Sermon | The Rev. Peter Sipple | May 11, 2025
SERMON – Easter IV – 5/11/25
Phyllis, Lysander, and I had already been part of the Border Flock for some months at the time of his coming. As sheep in the Border Flock, we had known danger many times during those months. Little noises from the woods kept our nerve ends tingling. We never knew a night of solid sleep, for even though a shepherd was about somewhere and the bellwether and his group were patrolling, nervous energy stored up during the day kept us twitching at night. You have no idea how difficult it is to survive in a border flock. It still scares the fleece off me to think how familiar danger was to us then.
Not that there weren’t other shepherds, you understand, before the Great Shepherd came. There were, and we learned—or had to learn—to put some element of trust in them. But somehow you could tell those others didn’t like being close to the woods any more than we did. It was the way they moved around the edge of the flock, avoiding the side closest to the woods. At night, their pipes had a mournful tone, and the vibrato they used seemed to have a non-musical inspiration. No, the whole business was bad: we didn’t have the proper feeling for those shepherds.
I suppose we could have managed if that one fellow hadn’t run at the first real sign of danger. I remember the evening well; Phyllis and I had been playing nibble-the-daisy on the safe side of the flock when we felt a great weight of sheep bearing down on us. Bleating and squealing noises pierced the air and the head of a wolf could be seen in the distance as it dashed toward one sheep after another, waiting for the plumpest and silliest of us to falter so that he might set in and kill. But suddenly to our instinctive fear was added a wave of dread, for we realized our shepherd was nowhere in sight. Later, after the killing was over and the wolves had had their fill, some kind of quiet was restored to the flock. It was then we learned that the shepherd had dropped his crook and run off wildly at the first sign of danger.
The Border Flock received another shepherd but that one just increased our anxiety all the more. We lived with fear as a constant companion for there was no one to help us feel easier about our status as sheep in the Border Flock.
But then, the Great Shepherd came. I can’t tell you why he came, or precisely what the difference was or even why we felt more secure within a matter of a few days. But things were different. Little by little we realized we could relax and munch grass practically in the shadow of his crook. It always seemed to be there. Without any indication from him, we knew somehow that if danger approached he would address it. Sensing a new odor or sound, we no longer had to draw ourselves up, tense and ready for flight. We rested comfortably at night to the soothing melodies of his flute and the sound of his voice.
Very soon now, Phyllis, Lysander and I will be removed from the flock and taken to the barn. Our lives will end, and this we knew was coming; it has always had a certainty about it. That new certainty isn’t anything like the feeling of danger I’ve been talking about, you understand. But because our return to the barn is close at hand, I’ve been thinking again about the time when the Great Shepherd joined us, and especially about what he did for us. It somehow makes me feel all right about being a silly sheep in the first place. This is what happened:
One night, after the Great Shepherd had been with us for a few months and we’d gotten to know him well, a new and very great danger—previously unknown to us—grew slowly out of the deep woods. I was by this time the bellwether for the flock, so that, being on patrol duty on the woods-side, I was the first to see the dark presence emerge. It was not one wolf that came towards us but a large pack, too numerous to count. Instinctively I turned to catch sight of that now-familiar crook. It was there immediately, moving out to meet the wolves ahead of the Great Shepherd. He moved resolutely toward the loping beasts, gathering us behind him as he went forward. At first the wolves stopped, unable to comprehend the shepherd’s movements. They looked baffled and nearly broke rank. The shepherd walked steadily forward, shortening the distance between his figure and the surprised creatures. Had there been one wolf or even two or three, they would have retreated hastily to the woods, recognizing the shepherd’s determination. But the pack of them stayed together, their tongues lolling back and forth in their mouths and their matted gray hair bouncing on their backs as they ran forward. Closer and closer to the shepherd they came, now with teeth barred. Their appearance filled us sheep with terror and dread previously unknown. What would happen? The shepherd was heading for certain death if he advanced closer to the hungry beasts, yet on he continued, not even waiving his crook in the air to frighten them. And so the inevitable happened: the wolves leapt on the shepherd, pulling him to pieces.
As you might well imagine, we sheep were never the same. For the Great Shepherd had, resolutely and without hesitation, faced a mortal threat on our behalf, given himself for us, silly and fearsome sheep that we were. He had marched toward danger without concern for his own welfare because he was our shepherd. What he did has changed our understanding of sheep, shepherds, and life itself.