sheep – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

April 27, 2023

Green Pastures

Well, what do you know!

The expression of mild astonishment is common. What may not be so common is the understanding of ‘know’.

In Bible language to know speaks routinely of intimate interpersonal nearness. Adam knew his wife and she conceived and bore a son.

We know Jesus, not in his material form but by the Spirit who dwells within us. This level of knowing carries more depth and richness than the ‘tightest’ of human relations.

Rather than overthinking the language of “I never knew you”, what if we caught the reality that Jesus is actually calling us straight from his heart to the exact opposite.

As beloved sheep of his pasture, we turn our gaze away from ourselves and simply choose moving nearer the heart of our good Shepherd. His disciples (his sheep) grow to recognize, then relish, his words,

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them. They follow me”.*

The shepherd and sheep image offers up a good picture of what “abiding in Christ” is to look like.

Good Shepherd-Jesus initiates the relationship, “I have come to seek and to rescue wandering sheep. They are lost”. He lifts us from whatever pit we’ve plummeted into in our strayings. Having come to our rescue, he begins tenderly strengthening the bond between himself and us. This journey into routine closeness moves forward to the measure we respond to his Spirit’s promptings, “They hear my voice. They follow me”.

Every ‘yes’ to the good shepherd’s promptings (in prayer, in sitting with scripture, in worship) fosters more knowing. Intimacy, by its nature requires both parties to engage. Our Lord calls, we lean in to listen. He counsels, we respond as best we know to. We worship, he draws nearer yet.

By such means we find ourselves being changed from within. Our connection with God has shifted. The superficial level of knowing him recedes as he ushers us step by obedient step toward and into to his ‘green pastures’. Our knowledge of Jesus grows at the interior level and we can’t help but savor the fragrance of his nearness. We are certain we will never be content with anything less than his close, shepherding companionship.

October 15, 2015August 28, 2017

Big Sky

At sixty miles per hour, cold pummeled my face. The mountain air continued its assault as Cody, Wyoming receded back of me to the south. I had left before Seven a.m. My destination this Labor Day Sunday was Billings, Montana. To lessen my discomfort I dialed the throttle back a notch with my right hand. I was shivering.

This was ranch-land in the raw. Clusters of sheep – like huddling athletes in white jerseys – congregated in tight groups. My bike took me past similar groupings of cattle in the open range. An occasional head rose among them, nostrils emitting puffs of steam.

I crossed the state line. Minutes into Big Sky Country I slowed. Surveying the quiet main street of small-town Belfry I hoped for an open diner with hot food. I must dismount this bike and catch a break from this cold.

Ah. Seems like a cozy cafe. Indeed, and at my journeys’ half-way point – a refuge. I requested my standard. . . two eggs over-easy, bacon, toast – black coffee. I smacked my gloved palms together and circled in short steps before a wood-burning stove. Beyond the effects of frigid conditions common to most people, my polio episodes seemed to hinder blood flow still more. Despite attempts at thawing my fingers, once my food came another two minutes passed before they held a fork with any ease.

It’ll be nice seeing Brother Fred and his family again. My thoughts anticipated Montana’s largest city as I spread strawberry jam on my toast.

Fred. The third man of the Creason brothers intersecting my world. I suppose I should have let them know I would come see them today.

The waitress extended a navy blue coffee pot – steam levitating above its spout. More coffee? I nodded gratefully.

Fred Creason, his German wife Erica and their two young boys, had till recently lived in my home town, Okmulgee. They were part of our church family. Fred, in the insurance business, moved his family to Billings on what could be thought by some, a whim. But a mystery dream, believed to be God-sent, played a role.

An thought interrupted my reflections – tightening my eyebrows.

Never one to fuss very much over planning ahead, I realized now I lacked some important information. Quite important.

I had no Billings address for the Creason family. Nor a Creason telephone number. Further, I only assumed they knew that I now resided in Cody – a hundred miles near.

Wow. They could be off someplace on vacation for all I know. And, the Creasons are my only reason for visiting Billings. I don’t know another soul in all Montana. Wow. Well – something will work out I guess. . .

Stretching, I pushed back from the breakfast table and reviewed my road map. Then took up my wool coat, thick scarf and rabbit-hair gloves. I glanced at a wall clock. It was just past 8:00 a.m. when I stepped from the diner.

My first breakfast in Montana. Nice, I mused, cinching my helmet strap. I eyed the northward highway and wondered of the town called Billings. And the Creason family’s whereabouts.

Something lay before me I could have never foreseen. Within hours I would meet someone. From this another journey would spring. A larger, life-impacting one.

Of callings. Of dreams. Of covenant.

July 23, 2015August 28, 2017

Shepherd Find

George’s old sedan churned dust as it entered the meadow. Dad’s hay-baling equipment broke down occasionally and he called on the hired fix-it man to lend aid. These and many other details converged in the haying enterprise – centering on one aim. Feeding our small herd of cattle through the winter months.

To my knowledge, nothing of the sheep family ever grazed on our property. Perhaps the nearest to that happening was my purchase of a goat years later. I fattened it up on the old property in advance of my son and his bride’s wedding. Their rehearsal dinner featured nyama choma (Swahili for ‘roasted meat’).

The terms sheep and shepherd found their way into our thoughts, however. And often. Even into our prayers. My family’s church culture introduced intriguing words and images like this. Stories to do with sheep and their shepherds drew our family to fondly consider attributes of God. We learned of his nature and of his disposition to us his children. In view of these things, our dad reflected on the blessings that came his way, his good fortune.

A principled man, Clyde Baxter labored for the well-being of his family. The dream of securing employment drove him to ride the freight cars westward. Clyde married Thelma only after establishing himself as a steady wage earner with a stable future. Life carried uncertainties as in every generation. He understood this and stayed focused.

Linking his work ethic to his modest ten grades of schooling, Clyde excelled in the plumbing craft. In the late 50’s he launched a business in Okmulgee. City Plumbing.

His love for rural life stirred. What if? So dad moved his shop to our eighty acre place a mile from town.

Get up, boys. Time for Sunday School and Church. Throughout the busy years Dad did the best he knew to do in affording us a moral and spiritual footing.

Doing so he sensed that his abilities to labor, to plan and to provide rose out of a greater influence. He knew he was not a self-made man. He entered into and drew from a source far greater than his human ingenuity could supply.

The grown-up orphan was humbled. He knew he was fathered. And shepherded.

Dad was reserved. His prayers were private. In my growing-up years it was sounds of my mother’s intercessions that drifted from their room. Mother petitioned the shepherd. When we gathered at mealtime, it was always mother praying our food.

My child imagination resonated with images of a good shepherd. I saw Jesus as shepherd. But more. Jesus was good shepherd – giving his life for the sheep. From my earliest years exploits of a giant-slaying, lion-crippling shepherd boy grabbed me. Then each October Sister Opaline selected Christmas Play characters. I thrilled at arriving for practice one or two seasons cast as a shepherd. A long crook staff in hand I saw myself as a kind but commanding presence. Protector of the defenseless.

Shepherds watching their sheep by night. Wow.

Through vivid Bible scenes I saw Jesus walking away from a gathering of safely-kept lambs and ewes. In the dark it was me the good shepherd went looking for. I was the strayed sheep. I saw myself lying helpless in a distant ravine, wolves prowling nearby.

One Sunday morning in a Bible story time I was invited to welcome the good shepherd into my life. He laid down his life for me, a helpless sheep. Guided into a simple prayer by my teacher I eagerly opened my heart’s door.

Jesus came. His Spirit entered me in his mysterious way. Through simple faith. God was my shepherd. The good shepherd.

Today I know him in a wider range of wonderful titles – Savior. Friend. Teacher. Brother. Comforter. King. Father. Naming a few.

As a limping, sometimes straying sheep, I cherish him still as I first came to know him.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want Psalm 23