With the Smell of Sheep
John 10:11-18
11 “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. 12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. 13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. 14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, 15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. 17 For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. 18 No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”
The stories we tell in order to make sense of our lives matter a great deal. Each of us have imagined ourselves as characters in some particular story, specifically a story that gives meaning and purpose to our existence. Our goals, desires, and convictions shape the contours of a narrative that reassure us that what we do and who we are is good and beautiful. We often capture the meditations of our hearts by assigning titles or labels to ourselves as identity markers, a simple way to inform others of the story, or stories, that are dictating what kind of characters we hope to be. For instance, I inherited a story in the form of a name. In naming me “Hunter,” my parents were simply passing along a generational narrative of family (The Taylor’s and Greene’s), traditions (like fighting eggs at Easter), and place (the beautiful mountains of Appalachia). My name serves as my own identity marker that indicates to others that I have not appeared in a vacuum but rather from other stories that have converged into my own.
Another example is found in my vocational identity as a minister. When I identify as a minister, I am, of course, signaling that I have certain professional duties and obligations, but my title also serves to communicate that my own life story is only intelligible within the story of a particular church, in my case Jubilee Baptist, whose story is only intelligible within the story of Christianity and the universal church, whose story is only intelligible within the story of Jesus, whose story is only intelligible within the story of Israel, whose story is only intelligible within the story of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. All this is to say that we aren’t just random individuals flying around performing random acts. Rather, we are characters who learn to be and act in the world only by adopting shared stories that tie us to other characters in a community such that we are able to discern who we are individually.
So when Jesus self-identifies as “I am the good shepherd,” what story is he telling in order to make sense of his own life and ministry? It’s at least probable that Jesus is reinterpreting the story of Israel, particularly the story of Israel’s shepherds, in order to make a claim about who he is and what he came to do. Such a reference can be found in Ezekiel 34:1-4, which reads, “The word of the Lord came to me: 2 Mortal, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel: prophesy, and say to them—to the shepherds: Thus says the Lord God: Ah, you shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep? 3 You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the fatlings; but you do not feed the sheep. 4 You have not strengthened the weak, you have not healed the sick, you have not bound up the injured, you have not brought back the strayed, you have not sought the lost, but with force and harshness you have ruled them.”
Not all stories generate meaning or purpose for us. Some stories serve as counter narratives through which we understand what kind of characters we don’t want to be. So when Jesus says he is the “Good Shepherd,” he is making the claim that he is the one who will fulfill the narrative expectations placed upon the shepherds of Israel. Unlike those of the past, Jesus will be a shepherd who will not only feed the sheep and tend to their wounds, but he is the one who will even lay down his own life for the sheep. The passage from Ezekiel portrays an image of shepherding rooted in the exploitive practices of extracting value and resources from the sheep for personal gain, perhaps not all that different from the ways that many pastors are trained today to extract money, emotions, and social capital from their congregants. However, Jesus challenges the very notion that such practices should even be considered remotely pastoral by identifying as the Good Shepherd. In other words, Jesus seems to be arguing that one cannot identify as a good shepherd unless they are willing to lay down their own life in solidarity with the sheep.
Before we go any further, it is important to note just how much influence this particular story about sacrifice can have on other stories we tell to make sense of God, our faith, and justice. For instance, when Nancy Pelosi held a press conference after Derek Chauvin’s guilty verdict to thank George Floyd for “sacrificing [his] life for justice,” she is attempting to tell a particular story of justice in which lives need to be sacrificed for the greater good. Rather than admit that George Floyd was senselessly murdered by a government employee paid to protect and serve the citizenry, Pelosi elected to reframe Floyd’s death as an atoning sacrifice gifted to the public for the advancement of American justice and equality.
As outlandish as Pelosi’s comments were, they derive from the same stories of atonement that Christians often tell about Jesus and his willingness to lay down his life for the sheep. For many in Western Christianity, when they read that Jesus has willingly died on his own accord for the sake of the Father, they immediately construct a salvific story about how we are saved from God’s wrath by Jesus’ sacrificial death. This particular atonement story argues that the crucifixion, in all its gory brutality, fulfilled the proportionate punishment Christ must endure from God in order to save humanity. Within this understanding of atonement and salvation, Christ is our substitution, who receives the full weight of God’s wrathful vengeance so we don’t have to.
The stories we tell in order to make sense of our lives matter a great deal because there are consequences for believing some stories and not others. It is important we realize that the story we tell about Jesus and his death has all sorts of implications for how we live in the world as well as for what we are willing to accept as normative. Historically, the story of Jesus laying down his life for the sheep has been used to justify all kinds of violence and suffering. I mean if God is willing to kill God’s own son as a means of securing eternal salvation for all humanity, then what atrocity couldn’t be justified as an advancement of the common good? There is a reason many Americans are okay asking their 18-year-olds to “pay the ultimate price” for the sake of a greater cause. There is a reason many accept the death penalty as a means of protecting the wider public from dangerous threats. There is a reason people justify slavery, genocide, and inhumane working conditions as long as it develops the American economy. All these examples reveal that we are far too comfortable tolerating the suffering of others as long as some greater good is accomplished.
However, if we look at today’s text closely, I think we will see that Jesus’ willingness to lay down his life for the sheep reveals that an alternative story of sacrifice and salvation is at work here, at least it is an alternative to American justice usually defined by retribution, prisons, executions, and militarized policing. First, we must note that Jesus says he has the power to lay down his life and take it up again. He is no powerless victim. He is God who has chosen the vulnerability, fragility, and weakness of human existence. He is sure to remind us that whatever death he dies for the sheep, he does so of his own accord. Thus, we must reject any interpretation of this passage that justifies the suffering and death of those who truly are victims of powerlessness in the name of some greater good. In other words, this is not a passage encouraging the sheep to accept their place on sacrificial tables. It is a passage that affirms the power of the Good Shepherd to overcome those who seek to devour the sheep.
Second, we can observe that Jesus is willing to lay down his life for the sheep because of his proximity and compassion for the sheep. It is the hired hand, whose only concern in shepherding is compensation, who runs at the first sight of trouble. But the Good Shepherd sticks with the sheep to ward off danger. In a world that rewards the greedy appetites of lions, tigers, and bears, the Good Shepherd assumes the vulnerability of the sheep, not to die in their place, but rather to suffer with them if need be. I think a good way to label this risky behavior is compassionate solidarity. The Shepherd does not feed himself to the wolves as a sacrifice because that would leave the sheep defenseless. Instead, the Shepherd stands in solidarity with the powerless sheep, willingly accepting the consequences of positioning himself in a place of weakness. Yet, it is precisely because of the Good Shepherd’s power and privilege, not his weakness and victimization, that he is able to assume the place of weakness with the sheep in order to fend off the vicious wolves. Jesus is teaching us that we have no right to demand the lives or sacrifice of those who already live in a state of marginalization. If anyone is expected to risk their life, it should be those whose social location enables them to do so without fear of social obliteration. In other words, the Good Shepherd is willing to die for the sheep precisely because he is also the Lion of Judah.
This image of Shepherd becoming sheep, of power becoming weakness, of God becoming flesh is what, I think, the salvific work of Jesus is all about. Our atonement story is not one of sacrifice but one of solidarity. Julian of Norwich explains this beautifully in her work Revelations of Divine Love. She writes, “When Adam fell, God’s son fell, because of the true union made in heaven, God’s son could not leave Adam, for by Adam I understand all men. Adam fell from life to death into the valley of this wretched world, and after that into hell. God’s son fell with Adam into the valley of the Virgin’s womb, in order to free Adam from guilt in heaven and in earth; and with his great power he fetched him out of hell.” As humanity falls towards death, Christ falls into Mary’s womb so that he may be with us. Similarly, as the sheep fall into danger, the Good Shepherd falls to our defense. Suffering is not a virtuous good or a noble goal, but it is often the result of compassionate solidarity. This is the salvific message of the cross.
Jesus is the Good Shepherd because he lives and dies, in the words of Pope Francis, “with the smell of the sheep.” Christ offers us a picture of justice that is not punitive but compassionate. Justice, which I define as the right ordering of relationships, is accomplished when we live in solidarity with those who are marginalized, oppressed, and rejected…when we live with the “smell of the sheep.” 1 John 3:16-18 tells us as much. It reads, “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us – and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s good and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”
In this moment of history, I think we have failed if we are not asking how we may use our good, our resources, and our privilege to help our neighbors in need. I’ve noticed that Divinity School has taught me much about analyzing and theologizing about the plight of sheep, but if I may be honest, it has done very little in teaching me how to contract the smell of sheep. I suspect this is because institutions that were built off the backs of the marginalized, institutions like Duke, much of Western Christianity, and the United States of America, have a hard time imagining what their life would look like if they chose solidarity over sacrifice. If it is true that we protect what we value and police what we don’t, then it isn’t unreasonable to assume that we don’t have a clue what our country would look like if it was ordered to prioritize people rather than sacrifice them for profits. Realizing the aspirations of this country, aspirations of justice and equality, becomes more and more unlikely as it seems the powers that be are entirely willing and ready to deploy the National Guard against its own citizens but completely unwilling to feed, clothe, and shelter them.
Such neglect of vulnerable populations is what we call institutional violence. Not all enemies of the sheep come showing their teeth and growling like wolves. Sometimes, the sheep’s enemies are the very systems that make it easier for wolves to devour them, and here in the US, the cards are not exactly stacked in favor of those who live under the constant threat of violence. While we celebrate the fact that institutional violence no longer manifests itself as chattel slavery, public lynchings, and the like, we must also lament the fact that institutional violence will always adapt and mutate to accommodate whatever social prejudices and fears that remain.
In her observations of the culture that enabled and encouraged public lynchings, Womanist theologian Angela Sims helps us consider why racism, patriarchy, homophobia, and xenophobia are able to persist today, although they take varying forms. She writes, “In these lynchings, men gathered with boys at the foot of the cross to participate in a tradition that reflected that their sense of personhood was shaped by learned behavior that was intricately connected to the vile dehumanization of someone deemed less than human…White males gathered to participate in a sacrificial ritual condoned by members of the respective communities. Lynching spectators gathered to perpetuate a practice whose existence depended on the passing down of hatred from one generation to the next. They lynched because they could, without fear of retaliation, kill at will.”
When the stories of our identities are birthed from the cultural stories of insecurity and fear, we necessarily dehumanize others in order to secure our own sense of self-worth. But what does social insecurity have to do with the Good Shepherd? I would argue that the Good Shepherd, through his solidarity with powerless sheep, exposed the social fears and insecurities of his own day, ultimately leading to his crucifixion. Similarly, because people of color force white people to deal with their own self-hatred, because women force men to deal with their feelings of inadequacy, because LGBTQ folks force homophobes to deal with their fear of vulnerability, because the poor force the rich to deal with their loneliness, the sheep continue to face the brute force of an insecure empire. Although we perhaps see crucifixion and public lynchings as barbaric practices of the past, we would do well to recognize that the very fears and insecurities that crucified Christ and normalized lynchings are still the same motivations behind the disproportionate killing of black and brown bodies at the hands of police officers, behind the increase of anti-trans legislation, behind the efforts of powerful corporations to squash workers’ attempts at unionizing, and behind the campaign donations to politicians who knowingly resist the fight for better wages, healthcare, or education.
In the words of James Cone, “[Christ] was crucified by the same principalities and powers that lynched black people in America. Because God was present with Jesus on the cross and thereby refused to let Satan and death have the last word about his meaning, God was also present at every lynching in the United States… Every time a white mob lynched a black person, they lynched Jesus. The lynching tree is the cross in America. When American Christians realize that they can meet Jesus only in the crucified bodies in our midst, they will encounter the real scandal of the cross.”
If it is true, as I believe it is, that we can only meet Jesus in the crucified bodies in our midst, then we can’t expect to follow the Good Shepherd unless we emit the smell of sheep, which is perhaps more unpleasant than we’d like to admit. But we don’t really love the oppressed until we stand in solidarity with them. We don’t really stand in solidarity with the oppressed until we are proximate with them. And we aren’t proximate with the oppressed until we suffer with them.
Friends, what if Jesus died, not as an atoning sacrifice for a God thirsty for blood, but rather because God will always run to the places where the sheep are hurting or in danger? What if Jesus was crucified as a lamb led to the slaughter because that’s exactly where he could be with his sheep? Good shepherds lay down their lives for the sheep, even if the sheep are nailed to crosses. We do not carry our crosses because suffering is good or noble or respectable. Rather, we carry our crosses, laying down our lives by our own accord, because that is the only way we can be with those who are exploited, neglected, and forgotten. Our crosses are simply the result of our solidarity with the hurting. Solidarity may lead to suffering, but if we suffer in Christ’s name, we know that our lives are marked by the love and justice of God’s beloved community. In a world that routinely sacrifices sheep for political power and economic expansion, to reek of sheep is the work of God. Thus, to lay down our lives in abandonment of social respectability, security, and power is to take it up again with Christ, who will wipe away our every tear.