The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers. –John 10:2-51
The word “pastor” is one that was transliterated rather than translated as it finally moved into English.2 We should call those called to serve our congregations shepherds, because in most other languages that’s exactly what the word for pastor means: The word for the person who cares for a flock of sheep and the word for the person who preaches and gives spiritual care for a worship community are one and the same word. (For the additional languages sometimes used in our worship at West Charleston, that’s pastor/a in Spanish; in Swahili, mchungaji.)
Simply using the word “shepherd” for both would make a lot of sense in English also: we clearly look back to Jesus’ words in John 10 as we adopt that title for the role of spiritual leaders in a community. Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd and explains that his sheep know his voice and follow him with trust because he calls them by name. Who hasn’t heard that tender image lifted up and praised? It hearkens back to favorites like Psalm 23 and brings to mind positive pastoral scenes of peace.
But in John 10, Jesus’ “Good Shepherd Speech” has elements that we can often gloss over: rhetorically, the purpose is to sharpen the contrast in identity between himself as the good shepherd, and two categories presented as foils. Jesus is the good shepherd, not the thief or bandit; Jesus is the good shepherd, not the hired hand. His intimate knowledge and transparent identity as their caretaker prove he is no thief; his willingness to lay down his life for the sheep proves he is no mere hired hand.
For the purpose of this article, there is another contrast that I wish that Jesus had drawn out for adaptation of the shepherd metaphor in my own context: the difference between a shepherd in Jesus’ culture and the shepherds of Western culture. That difference is present, implicit, in the text that we have of John 10, but not fully developed: In Jesus’ time, the only canines mentioned in relation to sheep are wolves, and they simply represent danger and death. In contrast, our Western culture has found canines to be quite useful, and deliberately bred lines of sheepdogs as tools that a shepherd could use to have control over the flock.
I had the opportunity in college to study for a semester with the Creation Care Study Program in Kaikoura, New Zealand, and watch firsthand as a shepherd there was moving sheep from pasture to pasture. His dogs were very well trained and could move hundreds of sheep very efficiently. Some dogs had only been trained to drive the flock–moving it away or in the same direction the shepherd was moving. Others would primarily “away to me”–running out and around the flock and bringing them all back toward the shepherd. The smartest and best-trained dogs could take either role and heed far more commands besides: splitting or sorting the flock to head into two separate pastures, or leaving the main bunch to focus on any few that had wandered off. All in all, it was impressive to watch.
And yet I never had really contrasted that with the shepherding described in scripture until a few years later, in class with Professor Dan Ulrich, at Bethany Theological Seminary. When I made a passing comment praising the kind of shepherding I had seen in New Zealand, he made very clear that the Hebrew culture of shepherding would never have relied on dogs: they really did lead the sheep by the shepherd’s voice, and not by fear.
For the purpose of literally watching sheep, this is probably less efficient. One shepherd alone, leading by voice, could not keep together as many sheep as one shepherd with several well-trained dogs. Inserting our Western shepherding into the parable of the lost sheep, and imagining that the 99 are left with a few dogs who have been commanded to keep them in place, the shepherd sounds more responsible than leaving them completely alone. But moving the flock with dogs, the shepherd does not have anywhere near the personal connection to the sheep.
For the purpose of guiding and influencing groups of people, fear also seems to be more efficient. It is much easier to stoke widespread fear about something than to generate a widespread hope or interest in a common thing. Fear works, it is a powerful motivator, and our broader culture turns to it time and again, ever more so as our political identities in the U.S. continue to polarize and increase in salience.3 Every warning is dire, it seems, and whether it is logical to refuse the COVID vaccine, or to continue masking at all times even when fully vaccinated, is almost beside the point: Either action is really a demonstration of one’s fears and distrust–of which dogs one is heeding.
One additional way that the metaphor of shepherding continues to play out in our society deserves a mention, though it also strays far from Jesus’ model of leadership: In one highly problematic form of police training, developed by former army officer and “killologist” David Grossman, officers are actively invited to consider themselves “sheepdogs,” drawing a stark contrast between civilians (sheep) and criminals (wolves) and blurring or erasing the distinction between policing and warfare. This false binary between good guys and bad guys–and the invitation for officers to imagine themselves as though entirely set apart from the community they serve–leads to derision for the supposed stupidity and naiveté of the “sheep,” while achieving the explicit goal of making officers more ready to kill the “wolves.” The end result is no surprise: police readily demonstrate the “will to kill” that was praised in their training, with brutality expressed disproportionately against people of color that they more rapidly assume to be “wolves.”
It is in this, our modern American context–in a landscape full of the dogs of false shepherds trying to exert their influence on the flock–that we in the church ask faithful shepherds to guide their congregations by their voice alone. Shepherds are called to train believers to heed Christ the Good Shepherd’s voice and follow him–despite the dogs of many fears pushing and pulling them in so many other directions. It’s no wonder that conflict seems to be on the rise in congregations: fears have kept our flocks from being able to focus on the voice of their Good Shepherd. If a shepherd from New Zealand showed up with his dogs alongside a shepherd of Jesus’ time trying to lead the flock by voice alone, to see which method would have more influence over the flock, I doubt it would be very difficult for the dogs to scare a good portion of them away from their shepherd–unless that shepherd deals with the dogs first.
For those of us trying to serve as congregational shepherds in his way, Jesus’ response to canine threats in John 10 isn’t exactly comforting: How many of us are eager to “lay down our lives for the sheep”? Our Heavenly Father has not given nor promised each of us the power to lay down our own lives and to take them up again like Jesus (John 10:18), so in a culture full of dogs, it doesn’t seem wise to ask our shepherds to all be martyrs. In the past year, I’ve known four good friends, peers from Bethany Seminary (in my state alone), to resign from congregations that they served without necessarily even knowing what was next. These weren’t ‘hired hands’ running away to save themselves; they are shepherds trying to be faithful, and yet they had to draw a line and decide they’ve had enough when the flock decides to mimic the dogs, and turns against them, against one another, and/or against the call of the Good Shepherd for their context. Each was a painful and difficult decision, made from the recognition that their voice as the congregational shepherd, trying to speak on behalf of our Good Shepherd, was not being heeded and serving that community any longer.
Long before Jesus claimed his mantle as the Good Shepherd, however, the scriptures had described another Shepherd for the people. In Ezekiel 34, after pronouncing judgment on the shepherds of Israel (the political and religious leaders) who have abused their position for gain, God personally takes up the mantle of shepherd in their place. And while the Lord will indeed rescue the scattered exiles and bind up their wounds, God is also direct about the intention to judge between the sheep themselves: “I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice” (Ezekiel 34:16). Among the promises that follow are that God will “banish wild animals from the land” (v25) and that “no one shall make them afraid” (v28). Although this passage may come across as one of the most tender chapters in Ezekiel because of our connotations attached to the entire metaphor of “shepherding,” allowing the rest of the prophet’s writing to inform our interpretation of God as Shepherd paints a picture that is more fierce than we typically imagine for Jesus the Good Shepherd.
Think back to that imagined contest between the different modes of shepherding: If the one shepherd first forcefully “banishes” the other’s dogs, so that the sheep cannot be made afraid…then it would be a simple matter for the true shepherd to call the sheep by voice alone, right? Unfortunately, banishing the fears that swirl in our broader culture is much easier said than done.
A noble first thought might be that “perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). ¡Ojalá! If only we could inspire the perfect love of God in our congregations–then everything would be solved! Building one another up in love for God will always be one of the most important dimensions of our spiritual formation and discipleship, but it is unrealistic for this alone to serve as an answer to the fears that also animate the flock. Though Jesus commands us to imitate God by the perfection of our love (Matt 5:48), I don’t know any shepherds who would claim they have achieved such love in themselves, much less been able to cultivate the same in their congregation. On the contrary, as I have written recently,4 it has been my experience that some congregants will express their clear dislike for the very things that we as shepherds have been trying to teach them to love.
We could also consider whether it would be possible to banish the dogs of fear by literally putting things beyond our observation. That would require either such total restriction of engagement with the world that the flock remains blissfully ignorant of the fears of the world, or near-total control over media and culture. Neither route is appealing in the slightest, even if somehow possible. We don’t have the power in any practical sense to shape the world such that our congregations cannot be made afraid.
As a complete contrast, shepherds could decide it’s time to get their own dogs, and simply “scare the Hell out of ‘em” by preaching something that is an even greater fear. But what fears are going to motivate in the right direction? Speaking personally, traditional fire and brimstone sermons are so far beyond my wheelhouse that I’m not even sure I could convincingly deliver one even if I wanted to. Channeling any of the broadly available fears invoked in our culture wars isn’t going to do much for the Kingdom of God; it’s just going to reinforce the ideological camps that have already crept far beyond the political sphere they started in. And it’s hard to imagine preachers successfully using fear like the “away to me” command that signals sheepdogs to bring the flock back toward the shepherd. Emphasizing fears about declining attendance or decreased offerings won’t naturally lead to increased attendance or giving; it would be quite likely to generate a host of unhealthy responses instead or as well.
More realistically, we have to learn how to shepherd by voice even in a culture of dogs. I am still developing my thoughts and hoping this piece can help begin a conversation that I would like to learn from myself. Simple searches for resources weren’t the most helpful, though I did chuckle at the irony of one early 2019 article describing that time as the “Church on Pause,” and even discussing the historical impact of the 1918 pandemic while addressing church response to fear…all while unaware of the coming 21st-century pandemic.5 However, I’ll offer several thoughts that might help congregational shepherds lead our faithful to follow the Good Shepherd’s voice, even as we are going to be surrounded by dogs these days.
First, we need to practice some awareness and self-reflection as we work to earnestly discern our Good Shepherd’s voice. On a surface level, it seems that it should be obvious to tell the difference between the barking dogs of the false shepherds and the calm, confident voice of the Good Shepherd. But it’s worth asking: Are we truly aware of all the ways in which we are motivated by fear? Do we sometimes cover over our fear by expressing anger or other emotions? When we are afraid, have we considered whether our response is governed by our fear (or anger), or by the voice of our Good Shepherd? In writing this article, I am thankful for conversations with Nancy Sollenberger Heishman, who has been a mentor to me, that remind me how simple and profound this first step is: to continue discerning ever more deeply the call of Christ, and to center and ground ourselves in response to that call.
With that point of reference, we who are called to shepherd congregations might then be able to name the dogs–the fears that we and our parishioners face–only in the same breath as we also name the Good Shepherd’s call. In the generic congregational example, “It may feel scary to let go of the church as we have known it in the past, but that fear is distracting us from Jesus’ call to take up this new ministry.” However that sentence might then be fleshed out in the specific reality of a congregation’s context, it allows for acknowledging fear while ultimately putting a focus on something hopeful–and making a claim about Jesus’ call. Or, in one-on-one counseling, “It seems that your fear about … is pushing you away from … , even though you sense God may be calling you there.” This approach does not depend on banishing that which threatens but aims to practice awareness of that influence while remaining focused on the voice of the Good Shepherd.
If we remain unaware of our underlying motivations, negative influences like fear will usually overpower positive intentions like our stated values. This is why dogs have an easier time moving sheep, and also why it’s worthwhile to acknowledge and practice awareness of our implicit biases. It’s not entirely different from the reality observed by classroom teachers that a bad example influences peers more easily than a good example, or by marriage counselors that one negative comment or experience can stick in one’s memory far longer than even multiple positive ones. But by practicing awareness of our influences, or even making them explicit for others’ awareness–like lifting a good example for the class, or repeating our partner’s positive comment so that we truly hear it and believe it–we have a more honest perspective.
We can similarly help our congregations acknowledge their fears (individually and collectively), and then quickly place alongside them our best discernment of the Good Shepherd’s life-giving call. It just might be that the juxtaposition helps disempower our fears, and allows us to act with greater faithfulness. When we don’t realize that we’re choosing between a response of fear and one of love for or hope in Christ, fear has a greater chance of winning the day. When given an explicit choice between the two, we’ll more often choose Jesus’ way.
Finally, building upon both previous thoughts, it may be helpful to practice some boldness and claim a more direct relationship at times between our voice as congregational shepherds and the voice of our Good Shepherd. It just may be appropriate from time to time to say, without equivocation, “And the Lord says to us…” and continue with words lifted from scripture and yet adapted and crafted specifically for the congregation. Prophesy!
In good Brethren fashion, our humility will often cut against this: what if we are mistaken when we claim to speak for God?! Perhaps sometimes we will be; if we practice this often enough, we’re bound to make some mistakes. Paired with healthy teaching and practice of discernment in community, however, even those mistakes might do more good than harm. If I should prophesy from my best understanding of the Spirit’s call for the community, and the congregation responds in disagreement, testing what I have said with the words of Scripture and what we have known of Jesus, then have we not come a long way from being captive to fear? We’re back to the healthy practice of discerning our Good Shepherd’s true voice, even if I might have garbled some words along the way–and the dogs aren’t running the show.
As I preached from Ezekiel 37 and the valley of dry bones as a text for this Advent (according to the Narrative Lectionary for this year), I spoke about the difference between the prophet’s call to speak life into the community, and the way that the voices of fear so often project a future of death instead. The latter is intended as a means of manipulation, scaring the body into taking certain actions; the former is a gift of freedom, inspiring the body to breathe deeply and come alive. I took the risk to end with words of prophecy, claiming in my voice the voice of our Good Shepherd for the congregation generally, and even touching on the particular story of a beloved member who had passed away suddenly in that week.
It did not banish our fears, or mean that we would live in perfect love from then on. But it seemed to be one of the best-received sermons that I have ever preached, and I pray that it will help us continue to navigate amidst the dogs that others would use to animate us with fear, as we focus on following our Good Shepherd’s call instead.
Caleb Kragt is a minister 2/3 time and 1/3 stay-at-home Dad. He and his wife Allie have just moved into their first house with kids age 3 and 6. Caleb and Irvin Heishman are co-pastors for the West Charleston Church of the Brethren in Tipp City, Ohio.
- Biblical quotations from the NRSV here and following.
- This puts “pastor” in the same category alongside words like “baptize” and “angel” that sound misleadingly religious, when they would have been completely ordinary words in their original contexts. In the Church of the Brethren, once called Dunkards, we should ask people, “Are you ready to be dunked?” instead of “Are you ready for baptism?” And texts like 1 Kings 19 hold meaning that is lost when there’s not even a footnote reminding us that the messenger from Jezebel is followed by another messenger (angel) who speaks with Elijah, introduced with the same word.
- I often hear folks lament that “there used to be a time when we had lifelong Republicans and Democrats, and we all got along in the church!” Yet in recent years, I have watched far more people walk away from church attendance on account of conflict with beliefs they share with their political camp than walk away from their political affiliation on account of beliefs shared with their church community.
- https://www.brethrenlifeandthought.org/2021/11/09/are-we-ready-for-heaven-or-might-we-not-even-like-it-yet-an-exposition-by-caleb-kragt/
- Newman, Michael W. 2019. “Fear or Faithfulness, Burial or Boldness?: Charting the Course for Today’s Church on Pause.” Lutheran Mission Matters 27 (1): 14–25.