Andrew and I have made the dubious choice these past seventeen years to be the caretakers of dogs who belong to the noble but challenging dog breed of Shiba Inu. One optimistic website calls them “small, fox-like, happy dogs!” In their sunny description of the breed, that website under-reports the vexing dimensions of the Shiba personality.
One fine day in 2005, we took our first Shiba, Stella, to our friends’ house for a few hours. They had a fenced yard and Stella explored her new green paradise. But the gate was open. We spent nearly an hour running through that whole neighborhood, chasing Stella and strategizing in real time about how best to corner and catch her.
When she was safely back in the fenced yard, the gate firmly closed, we then felt a senseless, raw surge of anger at her, for her foolishness, for her perfect disregard for her own safety, let alone our anxiety. Shibas are headstrong runners, and in a world filled with cars, their life expectancy plunges sharply when they are not kept leashed or fenced.
Like Stella, I am a mere creature: I am not the God figure in any story of faith. But having Shiba Inu dogs helps me explore the metaphor of God as shepherd in a visceral way. I keenly feel the responsibility shepherds must feel, as they work largely in solitude to safeguard the wayward creatures in their care. If God is the Shepherd—and if Jesus is the Good Shepherd—then what this says about God is revealing, insightful, even poignant. We are far removed from the forbidding rural landscapes of the ancient Near East, but I think the image of God as Shepherd can still exert power over our hearts and imaginations. And I think it says something true about God. Shepherd is not simply a vivid image.
Our holy book returns consistently and often to the image of God as Shepherd. The patriarchs, the prophets, the singers of psalms, the apostles of the Jesus Movement, and Jesus himself: all of them agree with confidence and pastoral reassurance that God is our Shepherd. Jesus in John directly adopts the name of God—the I AM—and says, “I AM the Good Shepherd.” We are meant to be awestruck by this startling claim of Jesus, this brazen use of God’s Name, and this confident appropriation of the time-honored divine title of Shepherd.
But again, for me, when I am told that God is my Shepherd, I can’t help but think not of God but of sweet, wild Stella, of happy memory: she was a beloved and beautiful creature lovingly made by God, but she heedlessly ran into harm’s way, just for the sport of it. If God is our Shepherd, then perhaps we are, each of us in turn, God’s Shiba Inu runaways.
(I should pause here to reassure you: Stella lived out all of her days and died in the safety and serenity of old age.)
But back to God as Shepherd. Shepherd, the image, does not immediately come across as impressive or daunting. This is not a decorated warrior, or a queen regnant, or a thunderous potentate. Surely the Creator of the universe could be revealed to us in far grander fashion than a humble Palestinian field hand who anxiously guards the sheep gate, counting and recounting her flock of wild—if beautiful—creatures.
God is humble: this is an intriguing and sometimes troubling truth. But true it remains. God is all-powerful; God is all-knowing, God is Power and Knowledge as such. But in all of this God also is Humility, the Humble One. The Humble One does not seal the universe hermetically, warding off all threats, forestalling all change, looming above us in obvious dominance: God does not even close the gate that would save the life of a reckless Shiba. God knows all and is even Knowledge itself, but God does not catalogue data like some sort of humorless cosmic librarian, or abuse the privilege of knowledge the way nefarious online observers do. The Humble One, God the Shepherd, tends and encourages life; remains faithful no matter how far we stray; and reaches out gracefully to count and collect us, to guide and teach us, to be our humble companion while we rest beneath the stars.
The Humble One flings earth and light before the path of the Shiba Inu, filling her with power and effervescent energy, even as she runs headlong into the path of automobiles. (The Humble One would also have been there with us that day even if our greatest fear had been realized.) The Humble One dwells meekly in the anxious hearts of the Shiba’s owners, running breathlessly after her: we ran with no hope of pacing her, but God blessed us with greater tactical skill in the dreadful chase. The Humble One hears my angry prayer of relief and thanksgiving, understanding fully the adrenaline-fueled rage that erupts once the beloved creature has been saved from death. The Humble One, the Good Shepherd: She understands all these things, all these feelings, all these creatures. This good world is her sheepfold. She guards it with humility, even laying down her own life so that life here can flourish.
We are creatures, not the Creator, and so simple analogies don’t really work: our feeble attempts at shepherding do not compare to the cosmic work of the Good Shepherd, who truly hears our voices, and truly calls us by name. The lesson of Good Shepherd Sunday is not that we should be little good shepherds in imitation of Christ. The world is helped better by our honest recognition of our own need for shepherding.
And yet, in springtime we set aside one-seventh of every year to celebrate something truly new that emerges on the face of the earth. We spend seven weeks responding with awe, relief, and gladness to the resurrection of the Good Shepherd. Every season of Easter, we remember as usual our need for the help of the Good Shepherd, yes. But we also celebrate, and we join, a growing throng of people who learn from the Good Shepherd how to care for one another. The Good Shepherd calls us by name, and we in turn learn the ways of this gentle, humble, yet also fierce Shepherd: we learn how to tend to the needs, concerns, and hopes of all the people we encounter. We learn how to truly love all living beings, and—inspired by the Humble One—we get better at the spiritual practice of pointing beyond ourselves to others, and particularly those who live in fear.
The Good Shepherd fills us with true humility and gentleness, enlightens us with skill, and sends us into this dangerous but beautiful world with fierce joy, and faithful love.
This is the free gift and the grace of God, the Good Shepherd, the Humble One.
***
Preached on the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year B), April 25, 2021, at Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Acts 4:5-12
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
John 10:11-18
Photo: Stella Papagena, November 2009, by Jenny Jimenez.