LAMBS DON’T LAST LONG

A sermon by the Rev. Dr. Marie Sheldon

Harundale Presbyterian Church

Glen Burnie, Maryland

January 20, 2002

Text: “. . . Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29b)

Scripture Passage: John 1: 29-42

Animal symbols are an important part of our culture. When the National Football League announced that a new team would be coming to Charlotte, North Carolina, there was a lot of curiosity about the team’s mascot and name. The chosen name is an awesome one – “The Carolina Panthers.” The logo shows a fierce-looking cat with snarling lips – a real threat to competitors. It’s obvious that power and strength would give the team a winning image.

Countries also use animals as their symbols. For the British Empire, it’s the lion. Russia uses the bear. We, of course, have the American Eagle. All of these animals project authority and force. How ironic that the animal symbol for Jesus is the lamb. Early in his ministry Jesus is called the Lamb of God by his cousin John the Baptist. “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world!” John called out. Oh, there’s a lot of biblical significance to the symbol of the lamb – especially for people in the Jewish tradition, of which Jesus was a part. Remember the Passover lamb, whose blood was put on the doorposts of the Israelites hoping to flee from Egypt? Isaiah talks about a lamb, too, when he foretells the coming of the Messiah, who is described as being “Like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.” And when John writes his gospel, he tells the story of Jesus’ crucifixion as happening on the afternoon before the Passover, when ritual lambs were slaughtered as part of the Jewish holiday.

A lamb. Can you imagine some sports team calling themselves “The Lambs?” It’s a joke. Lambs are little, dependent and not very strong. And as someone is quoted as saying: “Lambs just don’t last long; they either turn into sheep or lamb chops very quickly.”

No – lambs don’t last long. Jesus didn’t last very long either. He lived only about 33 years – and his ministry lasted only about three years. The average length of a Presbyterian minister’s stay in a local church is between four and five years. Perhaps the key phrase about lambs is that they’re vulnerable. And when we think about Jesus at the end of his life, vulnerability certainly comes to mind. He was beaten bloody, weak, and left without the support of his friends. He died a wretched death on a degrading instrument called the cross. Not exactly a power statement – until the resurrection, that is. For a while, everything was OK again. Jesus appeared here and there, now and then to his disciples – and life seemed almost normal. But Jesus was preparing to leave again – this time for heaven. And before he ascended there, he brought up the subject of lambs again. To Peter, he said, “Feed my lambs.” (John 21:15b) Feed my lambs. Look out for my vulnerable ones. They are everywhere.

The disciples themselves were the vulnerable ones for a while. After Jesus ascended to heaven, they hovered around in a room, hiding, afraid that they would be the next ones heading to an execution. But then the Holy Spirit came, and Peter and the others went about their business of feeding the lambs – preaching the Gospel message, healing, baptizing, teaching, caring for widows and orphans – and other vulnerable people.

Our society doesn’t like to talk about vulnerability, and yet every single one of us is vulnerable – whether we’re willing to admit it or not. We’re like the lambs Jesus told Peter about. Lambs don’t last long. We don’t stay the same. We lose things and situations and people who made us happy. The happiness never lasts long enough. It could be a child who dies young. It could be a good marriage ended by death after several years or several decades. It could be a job that made us feel useful and productive. When these and other losses beset us, we feel vulnerable.

Some of us keep our vulnerability inside for fear of judgment. We mask our insecurities or express them with inappropriate anger or judgmental criticism of others. But that doesn’t make the vulnerability go away. What can we do about it?

Henri Nouwen wrote a book called The Wounded Healer. Its premise is that broken people can best heal other people who are broken. Vulnerability doesn’t have to be a detriment. It can be an asset, if it is used in a positive life-altering way.

Let me share a story with you about a woman named Carol, who was a nurse in a large hospital. One day, while she was on her lunch break in the hospital cafeteria, Carol was looking for a place to set down her tray. As she glanced around the room, she saw a woman sitting alone at a table that was meant to seat a large group of people. The woman’s head was bent low and her shoulders were drooping. Carol stared in her direction for a while, and then began to approach her table. Without knowing why, Carol asked, “May I join you?” The woman nodded, but didn’t say anything. Carol wondered if she’d been too bold because it seemed that the woman really preferred to be alone. After some uncomfortable attempts at conversation, the woman began to tell Carol what was going on. Her name was Barb, and her 55-year-old husband was lying in the hospital – dying. Both she and her husband were only children with deceased parents. They had no children or other close family. Barb’s work had been limited to her home. And now that her husband was dying, Barb wanted to die, too.

Carol sensed that Barb was one of God’s lambs, and so she told Barb she’d come down at her afternoon break and meet Barb at that same table. This twice-a-day meeting continued for the rest of the week. Their friendship was beginning to take root. At the end of the week, Carol said, “I won’t be here tomorrow, but I’ll be going to church with my family. Why don’t you meet me there?” Many years later, as Barb thought about Carol’s kindness, she said, “I saw God’s Spirit resting on you. I knew that God was answering my prayer to die by sending me a reason to live.”

It’s a gentle story, but in many ways, it’s much more powerful than the images presented to us of panthers, lions, bears and eagles. Gentleness, caring, looking out for one who is vulnerable even when we feel vulnerable ourselves cannot only change lives. It can save them.

Tomorrow our country celebrates the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr. who preached non-violence and love as the core of his message. This is one thing he said: “We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people.”

We have much to learn from Dr. King’s words. Most of us do not intentionally set out to do harm to another – but many of us sit back and say or do nothing when we are faced with the vulnerable people in our lives. Why? We excuse ourselves because of our own vulnerability. I’m too busy. I’m on overload. I can’t take it in. I don’t have the skills. I don’t know what to say. I. I. I. And so the broken person remains broken because healing help has been withheld.

What would Jesus, the Lamb of God, do? He, too, was tired – on overload – aggravated with his friends and followers. But he cared for his lambs – healing them, listening to their stories, trying to give them hope. That’s why the title “Good Shepherd” stuck with Jesus. He moved beyond his own vulnerability to help others.

From the end of the Gospel of John: “When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, Son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” (John 21:15)

How can you feed the lambs in your life? Who is hurting? Who needs your time? Don’t fall under the category of “appalling silence” that Dr. King spoke about. Let’s pray that we all escape from the prison of our self-focus so that we can show the Lamb of God that we love him – for being one of us, for caring for us and for leaving us the hope-filled legacy of life everlasting. Lambs don’t last long. Let’s care for them while we can.

Amen and thanks be to God.