I’ve heard it from the beginning of my childhood years, when I could understand the story: the Good Shepherd loves His sheep so much, He will leave his flock of 99 to find that one lost, lone, and bleating sheep.
While the 99 wait patiently and obediently to welcome their little-sheep-brother back into the fold and they all celebrate and they all move along… until, once again, a lost sheep is in need of his Shepherd.
There’s a part of a book series I’ve been reading that continues to echo in my heart because of its extravagant rescue and pantomime. I don’t know how much it logically applies to the Good Shepherd lesson except that, for me and in my mind, it entwines as naturally as two vines of the same plant.
In this particular part that I’ve included, you should know that the character, Claire, has been kidnapped and gang-raped. Her husband and the men of her family have been tracking the bandits and are at the point of rescuing Claire.
“I CAME OUT of sleep again sometime later. Instantly, fully conscious, heart pounding. But it wasn’t my heart—it was a drum. Sounds of startlement came from the direction of the fire, men rousing in alarm from sleep. “Indians!” someone shouted, and the light broke and flared, as someone kicked at the fire to scatter it. It wasn’t an Indian drum. I sat up, listening hard. It was a drum with a sound like a beating heart, slow and rhythmic, then trip-hammer fast, like the frantic surge of a hunted beast. I could have told them that Indians never used drums as weapons; Celts did. It was the sound of a bodhran. What next? I thought, a trifle hysterically, bagpipes? It was Roger, certainly; only he could make a drum talk like that. It was Roger, and Jamie was nearby. I scrambled to my feet, wanting, needing urgently to move. I jerked at the rope around my waist in a frenzy of impatience, but I was going nowhere. Another drum began, slower, less skilled, but equally menacing. The sound seemed to move—it was moving. Fading, coming back full force. “A third drum began, and now the thumping seemed to come from everywhere, fast, slow, mocking. Someone fired a gun into the forest, panicked. “Hold, there!” Hodgepile’s voice came, loud and furious, but to no avail; there was a popcorn rattle of gunfire, nearly drowned by the sound of the drums. I heard a snick near my head, and a cluster of needles brushed past me as it fell. It dawned on me that standing upright while guns were blindly fired all round me was a dangerous strategy, and I promptly fell flat, burrowing into the dead needles, trying to keep the trunk of the tree betwixt me and the main body of men. The drums were weaving, now closer, now farther, the sound unnerving even to one who knew what it was. They were circling the camp, or so it seemed. Should I call out, if they came near enough? I was saved from the agony of decision; the men were making so much noise round the campfire that I couldn’t have been heard if I’d screamed myself hoarse. They were calling out in alarm, shouting questions, bellowing orders—which apparently went ignored, judging from the ongoing sounds of confusion. Someone blundered through the brush nearby, running from the drums. One, two more—the sound of gasping breath and crunching footsteps. The drums stopped abruptly. Chaos reigned around the fire, though I could hear Hodgepile trying to get his men in order, yelling and threatening, nasal voice raised above the rest. Then the drums began again—much closer. They were drawing in, drawing together, somewhere out in the forest on my left, and the mocking tip-tap-tip-tap beating had changed. They were thundering now. No skill, just menace. Coming closer. Guns fired wildly, close enough for me to see the muzzle flash and smell the smoke, thick and hot on the air. The faggots of the fire had been scattered, but still burned, making a muted glow through the trees. “There they are! I see ’em!” someone yelled from the fire, and there was another burst of musket-fire, toward the drums. Then the most unearthly howl rose out of the dark to my right. I’d heard Scots scream going into battle before, but that particular Highland shriek made the hairs on my body prickle from tailbone to nape. Jamie. Despite my fears, I sat bolt upright and peered round my sheltering tree, in time to see demons boil out of the wood. I knew them—knew I knew them—but cowered back at sight of them, blackened with soot and shrieking with the madness of hell, firelight red on the blades of knives and axes. The drums had stopped abruptly, with the first scream, and now another set of howls broke out to the left, the drummers racing in to the kill. I pressed myself flat back against the tree, heart chokingly huge in my throat, petrified for fear the blades would strike at any random movement in the shadows….”
“There are some left still alive,” he said, and I felt something cold and hard touch my hand. “Will ye have your vengeance now upon them, a bana-mhaighistear?” I looked down and found that he was offering me a dirk, hilt-first. I had stood up, but couldn’t remember rising. I couldn’t speak, and couldn’t move—and yet my fingers curled without my willing them to, my hand rising up to take the knife as I watched it, faintly curious. Then Jamie’s hand came down upon the dirk, snatching it away, and I saw as from a great distance that the light fell on his hand, gleaming wet with blood smeared past the wrist. Random drops shone red, dark jewels glowing, caught in the curly hairs of his arm. “There is an oath upon her,” he said to Arch, and I realized dimly that he was still speaking in Gaelic, though I understood him clearly. “She may not kill, save it is for mercy or her life. It is myself who kills for her.” – Excerpt From A Breath of Snow and Ashes by Diana Gabaldon
After this moment, in the book, Jamie takes Claire around to show her the men who victimized her are dead by his hand. He showed her this bloody scene so she would always know that the ones who hurt her were forever removed from being able to victimize her again.
On Sunday, we sang the song Reckless Love during worship and all I could do was stand there, allowing the words and the music to flow through me, to cleanse my soul and this scene replayed itself over and over as the bridge of the song was sung over and over:
There’s no shadow You won’t light up
Mountain You won’t climb up
Coming after me
There’s no wall You won’t kick down
No lie You won’t tear down
Coming after me
The absolute jealousy, the complete pursuit, the final say of conquered enemies, they all surrounded me with these words. The mountains that stand before me or separate me from where I want to be; the lies that I’m trying to wade through; the shadows that conceal me. They are nothing, nothing, when it comes to the pursuit of my safety by the One Who Loves Me.
And when we sang about The 99, I realized, for my entire life, I assumed I was part of the 99. Always rightly in the fold, being a good Jesus-follower, an obedient and faithful sheep. I was never the object of that extra attention; I was left alone and forgotten as my shepherd sought after that special, desired One. The One who had all His attention was never me. Because the 99.
But, whispered to me, you don’t have to be Lost to be the one. You are the one. I’m climbing this mountain for you. I’m tearing down these lies to find you. I’m kicking down these walls to find you. I am relentlessly and ardently pursuing you in the camp of the enemy and not one of them will be left to hurt you again.
You are The One.