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“I am the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. I gave them eternal life, and they shall never perish. Neither shall anyone snatch them out of my hand.”

~ Jesus of Nazareth

John 10:11&28

Sherman the sheep lived with his father, Bertram, his mother, Eunice, and his Uncle Billy in a far-away land called God’s Country. Have you ever been there? If so, then you know that it’s a rugged place, where life is seldom easy. Yet Sherman and his family were really quite content. In fact, they considered themselves blessed—for they all belonged to the little flock of the Good Shepherd.

Let me tell you a little about their life together.

Each spring, in the time of the wildflowers and the turtledoves, the Shepherd left His Father’s house and took the family flock to the high country. Their destination was a lonely valley deep in the hills and an ancient sheepfold with four high walls of stone. This became their home away from home, the place where all their journeys began and ended.

Early in the year, when grass was plentiful, their travels were short, hardly more than outings. At dawn the Shepherd would open the gate of the fold, whistle for the sheep, and lead His flock to a nearby meadow with a pool of fresh spring water to drink. Then at dusk they would all return to the safety of the fold’s strong walls.

But as spring gave way to summer, and summer to fall, the journeys grew longer and more difficult. They’d be gone for many days, camping beneath the stars or in caves. The meadows grew fewer and the water more scarce—and to find them the flock had often to follow their Shepherd through dark, narrow canyons, where wolves or lions might be lurking in the shadows.

Yes, this was the dangerous time of year, a time when sheep could get hungry, thirsty, or even hurt. Needless to say, the Shepherd took such dangers very seriously. But as for the sheep, they simply trusted in their Master’s care. They knew that sooner or later He would give them rest, just as He always had.

And as for Sherman—well, for him danger was just another word for adventure; and adventure was the one thing Sherman loved best!

Here, then, was how they lived—ever journeying through a land both rich and barren, beautiful and deadly. The older sheep stayed close by the Shepherd’s side, while the younger ones frolicked to the

left and right. But all knew their Master’s voice and all followed Him wherever He went. They knew He cared for them, and they were very glad to belong to Him.

Late one fall afternoon as the sheep began to gather around the Shepherd (at evening-time He would play His harp and sing for them), Bertram suddenly missed Sherman. He raised himself up on his hind legs, leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree, and looked around in a big circle.

“Hmm,” said Bertram, searching the flock. “He’s not grazing with his brothers, and he’s not playing with the lambs.” Then he saw him. On the far side of the meadow, in the shadows of a thick grove of trees, Sherman was talking with some strangers.

Now to understand what was happening, you need to know more about Sherman. Among the “little ones” of the flock, he was the oldest. Until recently this had posed no problem. He’d been content to eat and play with the other lambs who loved him and regarded him as their leader.

Lately, though, he had grown strangely restless. The lambs’ games were not as fun. Their explorations grew stale and routine. The company of the little ones was somehow not enough. For Sherman, it was all quite puzzling. But his father Bertram understood very well: unlike his younger friends, Sherman the sheep was a lamb no more.

Bertram hoped that those young rams across the meadow could be true friends to his son. But his heart warned him to be careful. Over the years Bertram had learned much about strangers. He had found that few of them loved the ways of the Good Shepherd. Usually, they preferred their own ways—ways that seemed new and exciting, but which in fact could get a young ram in big trouble.

Pondering these things, Bertram made a decision. He would go to the grove and introduce himself to Sherman’s new friends. He would get acquainted with them and find out more about them. Perhaps, he thought, they will be just the companions my son needs.

Feeling good about his plan, Bertram set out across the meadow. Soon, however, he noticed something happening, something disappointing. One by one the young rams were nodding “good-bye” to his son and heading for a large flock camped in the distance. Bertram wondered, Have they seen me? Are they slipping away because of me? If so, why?

When Bertram finally reached the grove, Sherman was alone. For a long time Bertram stood silently behind his son, who was gazing through the shadows towards the strangers’ flock. Just behind that flock there rose a huge, dark mountain. Sherman stared, having no idea his father stood near.

Looking at the distant, looming mountain, Bertram realized that his fears were well-founded. A sad, worried look crept across his face. Then, as quietly as he could, he spoke.

“So here you are.”

Sherman jumped and spun around. “Father! I didn’t know you were here!”

“Sorry to startle you, Son. But it was time for the campfire, and we couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Sherman glanced about nervously. He fumbled for words. “Oh, well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll skip the campfire tonight.” He stared at his hoofs.

Sherman’s words pierced his father’s heart. After a long pause Bertram asked, “What were those young rams saying to you, Sherman? I’m curious to know what could keep you from the evening music you’ve always loved.”

“Oh, nothing … nothing special, I mean,” answered Sherman, who still could not look his father in the eyes. Then he lifted his head. With a trace of impatience in his voice, he said, “Father, there’s nothing wrong with them. They’re just some rams I met this morning and we started talking—”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with them, Son. But tell me, did they speak to you about that mountain?”

“The mountain?” asked Sherman nervously.

“Yes, Sin Mountain. Did they speak to you about Sin Mountain?”

“They didn’t say anything about any Sin Mountain, Father.” Sherman turned his head and looked across the barren field towards the strangers’ flock. “But they did tell me about their flock, and about Pleasure Mountain, where their shepherds pasture them nearly all the time.”

At the sound of these words Bertram stood very still and said nothing at all. He considered carefully the crucial words he knew he must now speak.

“Well, have any of your new friends ever been up on this ‘Pleasure Mountain’?”

“Oh yes, they all have. Some of them have gone up quite a ways!” Sherman could not conceal his excitement.

“And did they enjoy it?”

“They said it was fantastic,” replied Sherman triumphantly.

“I see. And now that they’ve been up there, are they happy?”

“Happy?”

“Yes, happy—content, at rest in their hearts?”

“Father, they’re more than happy, they’re excited! They can’t wait to go back up there. Only, next time they want to go up even farther!”

Bertram thought for a moment. “It sounds to me like they feel the need to keep going back, farther and farther up. Am I right?”

The question irritated Sherman. “Father, I don’t know what they feel they need. All I know is that they want to go back. They’re excited about it.”

“It seems they told you quite a bit about the mountain,” observed Bertram.

“Well, to be honest Father, that’s pretty much all they talked about.”

“Then let me ask you something, Sherman. Was there any room for God in their thoughts? Did they speak at all about God, as we do in our flock?”

Sherman wished he could say “yes.” But since he couldn’t, he just stood there in silence.

After an uncomfortable moment, Bertram spoke again. “One more question, Sherman, and then I’ll go back to the campfire. Did any of your new friends ever reach the top of that mountain?”

Sherman reflected for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. But that’s what they’re all trying to do.”

“Did any of their friends ever reach it?”

A strange uneasiness came over Sherman and he answered, “Well, no. One almost did.”

“And what became of him?”

“Nobody knows. I guess he’s still up on the mountain. He hasn’t come back yet.”

Bertram took a step or two towards his son, and looked intently into his eyes. “I will tell you why that sheep hasn’t come home, Sherman. Only remember, these are not my words but the words of our Shepherd, who cannot lie.

“The true name of that place is Sin Mountain, for all that is seen and done there is displeasing to God. Your friends call it Pleasure Mountain. Sad to say, that is partly true. Those who climb it do find pleasure … for a while. But your friends didn’t tell you that the pleasures soon fade away, leaving only guilt and shame. And they didn’t tell you that such pleasures leave a restless craving for more pleasure. That’s why they want to go higher and higher on the mountain: they think they’ll find satisfaction at the top. But they never will. Shall I tell you why?”

Sherman didn’t want to hear the answer, but he nodded “yes” anyway.

“It’s because our enemies live up there, enemies you’ve never seen and can barely imagine. And they have just one purpose—to steal, kill, and destroy.”

Bertram took another step forward. Then he spoke from the very depths of his heart. “Many sheep have tried to reach the top, Sherman. But long before they ever did, they found their enemies waiting for them. Believe me, Son, the only thing you’ll discover on the heights of Sin Mountain is trouble. Big trouble. Maybe even death.”

With these words an awkward silence fell upon them both. Sherman dared not speak. His father had nothing more to say.

The sun had set. The twilight was fast dwindling. And now, through the cool night air, they could hear the faint but lovely sound of the Shepherd’s music. Looking across the field, they saw the light of a fire and the Shepherd seated on a rock, with all the flock gathered round.

“The singing has begun, Sherman. Let’s join them.” With that, Bertram turned and walked towards the light.

Sherman watched his father go. He looked again at the fire, imagining the smiles on every face. He remembered how just yesterday he had been among them. Yes, he had to admit that the campfires were fun. But now he had met new friends and learned about new kinds of fun. A whole new world was opening up before him. With pictures of Pleasure Mountain filling his mind, the former joys of the campfire just seemed (Sherman felt bad about thinking this) well … boring; boring and even downright lambish.

As soon as Bertram realized that Sherman was not following, he turned around and looked at his son. Light from the fire twinkled in Sherman’s eyes, and draped his fluffy coat with hues of gold. How handsome he looked! But there, rising threateningly behind him, was the great, tempting form of Sin Mountain.

If only Sherman knew the dangers of that mountain! Bertram was angry—angry with those foolish young rams and their careless shepherds and the evil mountain where they camped. But mostly he was sad. Why was there so much evil and danger in this world? Why must his son learn of these things, and why must he learn to fear them all his life? Tears gathered in Bertram’s eyes.

“Sherman, the time has come for you to choose for yourself whether you will come to the fire. But you need to understand this: In the end, you really have only two choices.” Bertram looked longingly at the fire. “You can choose the Shepherd’s way.” Then he turned sadly toward the mountain. “Or you can choose the way of our enemies.”

The old ram sighed wearily. “That’s the hardest part of being an adult, Sherman: choosing—all the time choosing.” Then, after a short pause, he suddenly straightened his head, looked sternly at his son and said, “But that’s the way the Lord has arranged it, and He never makes a mistake. Now, I’m going to the campfire; and you, young ram, are going to bed. And one last thing: Don’t go near that mountain!”

Bertram turned and trotted briskly back to the flock. And Sherman, sullenly dragging his hoofs, went to bed.

Long after the rest of the flock had retired for the night, Sherman lay wide awake. The moon had come up, and in its milky light the distant mountain glowed eerily. Sherman stared at it as he thought about today’s meeting with his new friends.

How he wanted to be like them, so grown up, so independent, so knowledgeable! And how curious he was about the secret adventures they’d discussed in whispers among themselves.

Sherman, wanting to fit in, had tried telling them about his adventures with the Good Shepherd—how He had rescued the flock from lions, sheltered them in caves, and pastured them in hidden mountain valleys which neither man nor ram had ever seen before. But they just laughed at him as though he were a silly lamb, then went on talking about the pleasures of “The Mountain.” Poor Sherman! What did he know about all that? He felt totally left out.

So, after much thought, Sherman decided there was only one way to win their respect. It was a bold plan—and, in his humble opinion, a shrewd one. Now all he had to do was persuade himself that it was right.

“Father has his own friends, so why can’t I have mine? All day long, nothing but lambs, lambs, lambs follow me around everywhere I go! I’m sick of them.” Sherman chose to forget how much fun he always had playing with the lambs, and how important it made him feel when they looked up to him as their leader.

“And all that talk about ‘Sin Mountain’ and ‘displeasing God’ and ‘meeting our enemies.’ I bet Father just wants to scare me so I’ll stay around this boring old flock all the time.”

But once again Sherman was only fooling himself. For life with the Good Shepherd was actually quite full of adventure, as he himself had tried to tell the strangers. Yes, things got dreary from time to time, but even then there were many simple pleasures to enjoy—daily food, close friends, gatherings around the campfire, and fearless rest under the Shepherd’s watchful eye. But, beneath the shadow of Sin Mountain, Sherman had somehow forgotten these things as well.

“Anyway,” said Sherman aloud to himself, triumphantly concluding his train of thought, “I’ll just go up the mountain one time. Surely there’s no harm in that. The flock will spend the day grazing, so Father won’t expect to see me till evening. And if I could just make it to the top ... why, then those guys would have to let me be their friend!”

Sherman had made up his mind. And though a still, small voice deep in his heart warned him against making this decision, Sherman rose bravely to his feet. “Silly fears,” he said to himself. “A young ram has got to have friends. Surely the Lord wants a ram to have friends.”

And having thus convinced himself, Sherman the sheep slipped quietly away from the flock, and headed through the darkness for Sin Mountain.

It was still dark when Sherman reached the foot of the mountain, though the eastern horizon now grew pale with the coming dawn. The walk had been more difficult than Sherman expected. Groping in the darkness, he had stumbled and fallen several times. At one point he lost his bearings and wandered too near his friends’ flock. The dogs heard him and barked loudly. Had it not been for a strong night wind, they would surely have caught his scent—and Sherman, too!

But now, resting at the foot of the mountain, he watched in awe as the huge greenish-brown form emerged from the shadows in the growing light. Sherman soon forgot the perils of the previous night, as his mind filled with visions of conquest.

“That doesn’t look so big,” said Sherman. And to a self-confident, inexperienced sheep, it really didn’t.

“And what did Father mean, saying our enemies live up on top? The top is completely barren. Why, nothing could live up there!”

Now this was not quite true. The upper slopes were indeed rocky and barren, but the top itself was covered by a thick, grey cloud. All Sherman could really see was the cloud—and a few birds (he thought they were eagles) flying in and out of it. Sherman assumed the terrain beneath the cloud was rocky, barren and lifeless, like all the rest. But—as he would soon find out—his assumption was wrong … dangerously wrong.

“Father must have been thinking about some other mountain,” he happily concluded. “No enemies up there!” Emboldened by his own words, he eagerly arose and headed out for the beckoning slopes nearby.

It wasn’t long before Sherman spotted a wide, well-worn trail leading upwards to the top. Though he saw no one else, he was comforted to realize how many other sheep had gone before him.

“If it was really dangerous,” he reasoned, “folks would have found out by now! There would be signs and everything! Boy, Father was sure wrong this time!”

This conclusion left Sherman feeling positively chipper, so much so that he stepped up his pace and danced up the trail. It wasn’t long, however, before he saw before him a thick forest. And what he found there slowed him down soon enough.

“There’s something funny about this place,” said a puzzled Sherman, shortly after entering the shadowed woods. Looking around pensively, he tried to determine just what it was that made him feel so odd. Then it struck him. The forest was completely silent ... silent and still. There were no signs of animal life anywhere—no birds, no squirrels, no rabbits or foxes—not even insects!

Now that’s strange, thought Sherman. Not a single critter. Oh well, maybe it’s too early. When the sun’s farther up, I bet I’ll see some animals.

Unfortunately for Sherman’s theory, the sun had long since risen, as Sherman could easily have seen from the thin shafts of light filtering down through the tangled trees. It was, however, a light he preferred to ignore.

As Sherman pressed more deeply into the woods, he noticed that the shapes of the trees were changing. Yes, it was just as his friends had said. Down in the plains, the trees stood tall and strong like cedars or bushy and playful like myrtles. But here they grew like corkscrews—low, bent and twisted, as if struggling painfully against some invisible force pulling them down to the ground. They were impressive all right, just as the rams had told him. But the impression left on Sherman by the grotesque trees was not one of excitement. No, he felt sorry for the trees and wished he could somehow help them.

“Get ahold of yourself, ram,” said Sherman. “Trees can’t feel pain.” But the more he looked at their twisted trunks, the more compassion he felt. So as Sherman trotted on, he tried to keep his thoughts on his mission and his eyes to the ground.

The strategy worked well. Soon he emerged from the dark wood and caught a fresh view of the clouded peak above. It was twice as big and twice as near (or so it seemed)! A surge of optimism coursed through his body, scattering every trace of gloom.

Excited, Sherman surveyed the great slopes ahead. He could see that the upward trail circled the mountain several times. It would not be an easy climb. “But,” he declared aloud, “I can make it by noon. No food and no rests. Just keep on going, and I will make it by noon!”

And thus resolved, he set off eagerly on the next leg of the journey.

Sherman had, of course, every intention of sticking to his plan. But after little more than an hour of difficult climbing, even his most fervent intentions began yielding to a persistent knot that was forming in the pit of his stomach. Sherman was getting hungry.

His pace began to slow, and his eyes began to wander. The mountain, which from below had looked so lush and appealing, offered no help. There’s gotta be some food out there somewhere, thought Sherman. But wherever he looked, he saw only scrubby green bushes covering the drab slopes as far as the eye could see.

As Sherman pressed on, however, he began to notice on some of the bushes an occasional cluster of berries. At first, he paid them scant attention, figuring they were too few, too small, and too tough to reach. But as he went farther, the clusters increased, and the bright red berries seemed to beckon him to

turn aside. Well, reasoned Sherman, casting a backward glance down the mountain, I’ve come pretty far pretty fast. Maybe a little break wouldn’t hurt. How wrong he was.

Sherman left the trail and approached one of the bushes. It was loaded with big bunches of berries, inside and out. Cautiously, he reached his mouth around a tiny cluster, bit off three or four berries, and chewed slowly.

“Hmmmm,” said Sherman, “not bad.” The berries were hard, but when pressed between his teeth they released a thick, sweet syrup that flowed like honey down his throat.

“Not bad at all,” he said, eating a second, larger cluster. The second led to a third, and the third to a fourth.

“Ram alive!” exclaimed the enthusiastic convert, beginning to feast on the bigger bunches, “these things are great!”

And great they were—to the taste. But had Sherman been a little more observant, he would have noticed that, unlike the food the Shepherd gave him, the berries did nothing to relieve his hunger.

In fact, had you been there to watch, you might have thought he was getting more hungry, rather than less. For, to put it mildly, Sherman was quickly forgetting his manners. No sooner would he swallow one bite, than he would attack the bush for another. Alas, it wasn’t long before he was gulping, grunting, and even groveling beneath the bush. This was not the Sherman his parents had raised, nor was this a Sherman his parents would ever want to see.

“Ow!” cried Sherman, coming upon an unexpected obstacle. Having eaten all the berries on the outside of the bush, he was now going for the smaller ones deep inside. But much to his surprise, the berries on the inner branches were protected by sharp thorns. And no nose—however clever or determined—could avoid them.

“Owwwwww!” he screamed again, this time louder. “You stupid thorns—get outta my way!”

Poor Sherman! When he angrily thrust his face in again, the uncooperative thorns refused to budge. An agonized yowl echoed across the mountain, as the crazed ram violently tore his wounded nose from the branches.

If only he could have stopped! But Sherman’s uncontrollable desire for the strange berries was now much stronger than his common sense, stronger even than his fear of pain. So, for the sake of a few berries, Sherman kept wounding himself on the thorns, over and over and over again.

In the end, however, the pain won out. Sherman finally got the message that his mouth, his nose, even his eyes, were now in real danger. In a sudden panic, he tore himself from the bush, leaped onto the path and ran up the mountain for dear life.

It was not a pretty sight, our fine young friend with a bloody face, cursing and screaming at the top of his voice, “You stupid thorns—I hate you, I HATE YOU!” But at least he was free. And in days ahead he would learn to be grateful for the “stupid thorns.” If they had not stopped him from devouring berries, he might well have eaten himself to death.

Out on the open slopes again, and comforted by the warm morning sun, the shaky traveler slowly returned to his old, easy-going self.

“Ram-o-ram! The guys shoulda warned me about those berries,” said Sherman, feeling slightly betrayed.

And so, striving to look on the bright side, Sherman pressed on, half hoping that his “adventures” on Pleasure Mountain were now over.

They definitely were not.

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