What My Sheep Taught Me

After I retired from the military, I had grand visions of what life on our little homestead would look like. I imagined cattle, pigs, goats, chickens—the whole works.

I say grand visions. In hindsight, pipe dream might be a little more accurate.

But we did have sheep.

It started with an American Blackbelly ram that we received from two teenage girls. They had purchased him after being told he was a goat. It did not take them long to discover that he was, in fact, very far from being a goat. So we welcomed him to our little place and named him Joe.

Joe grew into a handsome young ram, and naturally, a handsome guy like Joe needed a girlfriend—or three.

First came a pretty little ewe named Jill, because every Joe needs a Jill. Not long afterward, three more young ladies joined the flock: Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy.

The Golden Girls. It was a great time.

We had a lot of fun with those sheep, but looking back, they taught me more than I realized then. Some of those lessons are still becoming clear to me as I endeavor to become the pastor that God has called me to be.

There probably isn’t anything particularly profound in what follows. These are simply lessons learned in a pasture that have shaped the way I look at ministry.

Lesson #1: The sick sheep demanded the most attention.

When the sun was shining, the temperature was a balmy seventy degrees, and a cool breeze was blowing across the pasture, the sheep required very little from me. They wandered around their area, nibbled on whatever caught their attention, showed affection toward one another, and, more often than not, spent a good portion of the day lying around and napping.

But when one of them got sick, everything changed. Suddenly, I became the resident veterinarian on call.

I would check on them throughout the night. I gave shots, medications, and vitamins. I kept protein booster packs that could be mixed with water to help jump-start a sheep that had stopped eating and needed extra strength. Shelves in my barn were filled with supplies for emergencies that inevitably came.

Sometimes they would get their ears caught in the fencing and yank out an ear tag. Sometimes they ate too much of something they shouldn’t have. Other times their digestive systems would go haywire, leaving them weak and dehydrated.

Whatever the problem, one thing was always true:

The sick sheep required more of my time than the healthy ones.

As a shepherd, you need to understand that before you ever pick up the staff.

A calling to care for people will consume some Friday nights. It will interrupt Saturdays. It will occasionally wake you in the middle of the night and rearrange what you thought would be a perfectly normal day.

There will almost always be a sheep somewhere in the flock who is struggling, hurting, wandering, confused, or simply requiring a little more shepherding than everyone else.

Certainly, there is a balance to be found. Shepherds are human too, and we cannot minister effectively if we destroy ourselves in the process. But we must never forget what we were called to do.

We were called to care for sheep.

Not merely the healthy sheep.

Not merely the easy sheep.

Not merely the sheep who require very little from us.

Sometimes the sheep who require the most from the shepherd are the very ones who need the shepherd the most.

Be a shepherd to the whole flock.

Lesson #2: As the shepherd, I was most valued when they were hungry or thirsty.

Sheep are unashamedly selfish creatures.

Their world revolves largely around themselves.

I cannot remember a single time when I called one of them by name, and they came running toward me, ears flopping and faces filled with excitement, simply because they were overwhelmed with joy that I had entered their pasture.

If it were somehow possible to survey sheep and ask them to rank their priorities, I am fairly certain food would occupy the top spot.

Actually, food would probably occupy the top three or four spots.

I watched those sheep literally stand on one another’s backs trying to get better access to the hay rack.

I gave them as much room as I could to roam. I cared for them. I watched over them. And I bought them some very expensive hay. I alternated between buying hay from a man who raised champion racehorses and stocked only the best hay he could find, and another dealer who specialized in high-end alfalfa and hay.

I wasn’t buying five-dollar bales. I rarely purchased anything under seventeen dollars a bale.

Yet if I really wanted the sheep to come running, there was one sure way to make it happen:

Show up with breakfast or supper.

Man, was I ever loved twice a day.

Ministry can sometimes feel remarkably similar.

As a pastor, I have discovered that some of my greatest doors of opportunity open during people’s greatest times of need.

I don’t receive nearly as many phone calls saying, “Pastor, everything is wonderful! I just thought you ought to know.”

But when the doctor gives bad news, the phone rings.

When there has been a car accident, the text comes.

When someone loses a job, there is a knock on the office door.

When a marriage is struggling, a child is hurting, a loved one is dying, or life has suddenly fallen apart, the shepherd becomes important.

I have learned to be thankful for those moments.

That is why I am here.

Matthew 9:36 says that when Jesus saw the multitudes, He was moved with compassion because they were weary and scattered, “like sheep having no shepherd.”

What a picture.

Jesus looked at a large group of broken, confused, hurting, needy people and didn’t see an inconvenience.

He saw sheep who needed a shepherd.

That changes the way I look at ministry.

I am supposed to be there when the sheep are hungry.

I am supposed to be there when they are hurting.

I am supposed to be there when life has left them thirsty, confused, or afraid.

That’s what shepherds do.

Lesson #3: Most of the time, they cared very little about me.

It didn’t matter to my sheep if I pulled into the driveway in a brand-new Ford F-250.

They didn’t care if I walked into the pasture wearing a suit and tie.

Military uniform with rank on my chest?

Who cares?

Not once did they ask about my education, my life experiences, or my political views. My French-language skills went completely unappreciated. I don’t remember a single occasion when they asked about my philosophy of life or the God I served.

They didn’t care.

They weren’t impressed with who I was or what I could bring to the table.

For the most part, ours was a one-way relationship.

It wasn’t about me.

Sometimes ministry is like that too.

People can develop tunnel vision. It’s part of being human. We naturally see our needs, our hurts, our problems, our families, and whatever happens to be directly in front of us.

Truthfully, every one of us has had the mindset of a sheep at one time or another.

As a pastor, I have learned not to take that personally.

My goal as a shepherd isn’t to become another member of the flock or to spend my life trying to convince the sheep to appreciate me.

My calling is to provide the nurture, care, protection, guidance, and love necessary to help the sheep live vibrant and spiritually healthy lives.

It isn’t about me. It is about them.

When our identity begins to depend upon people’s acceptance, recognition, or appreciation, it may be time to revisit our calling.

We are called to shepherd, not to live in some imaginary leadership utopia where everyone understands us, appreciates us, agrees with us, and regularly thanks us for everything we do.

That place doesn’t exist.

There is a reason not everyone is called to be a shepherd.

Sometimes shepherding is difficult.

Sometimes it is lonely.

Sometimes you pour into people who never realize how much you have poured.

But if God has called you to shepherd, then shepherd well.

Do it faithfully.

Do it joyfully.

And do it without keeping score.

Lesson #4: At the end of the day, they knew who I was.

I didn’t truly understand John 10:27 until one dark fall night.

Jesus said:

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”

We lived well out in the country. Our nearest neighbor was some distance away, and the light near his barn looked like little more than a dot on the horizon.

Belinda and I had been out that evening. When we returned home, we pulled into the driveway, got out of the truck, and stepped into the darkness.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft, solitary:

“Baaahhh.”

Feeling somewhat ridiculous—but also knowing there wasn’t another soul around to hear me—I answered from across the property:

“Baaahhh.”

Suddenly, it was as though I had awakened a hidden choir.

From the darkness, all of them began calling back at once.

It was Old MacDonald’s farm come to life.

Here a baaahhh.

There a baaahhh.

Everywhere a baaahh-baaahh.

And standing there in the darkness, something became very clear to me.

They knew their shepherd.

Some of the most meaningful words I have ever heard in ministry have come during similarly dark moments.

I have walked into hospital rooms and heard someone tell the medical staff:

“That’s my Pastor. I knew he would come.”

I once stood beside someone from my congregation who was nearing the doorstep of eternity. She could no longer speak, so she communicated by writing on a small whiteboard.

She wrote: “Thank you for being my friend.”

There aren’t many titles, awards, degrees, positions, or accolades that can compete with words like those.

So, in those moments when I find myself wanting validation, recognition, or respect, I try to remember that night in the pasture.

The sheep didn’t know my résumé.

They didn’t understand my education.

They weren’t impressed by my accomplishments.

But they knew my voice.

And maybe, for a shepherd, that is enough.

So, in closing, this is more of a rambling reminder to myself than a word of encouragement for you.

Perhaps it’s both.

There will be sick sheep who require more of you.

There will be hungry sheep who seem to notice you only when they need something.

There will be sheep who rarely understand or appreciate what you do.

But if you stay long enough, love deeply enough, and shepherd faithfully enough, something beautiful begins to happen:

They learn the voice of the true shepherd.

So don’t grow weary in doing good.

Don’t measure your calling by applause.

Don’t abandon the flock because shepherding became harder than you imagined.

Keep showing up.

Keep loving.

Keep caring.

Keep shepherding.

And take good care of the flock God has entrusted to you.

After all, that’s what shepherds do.