Sheep in the Middle East are a rough bunch. I’ve hung with some herds and you’d better be on your toes. If they smell water nearby—they might trample you! Happened to me once in the Judean Desert—a near miss!
I scrambled to safety up the bank of a wadi, a seasonal river bed which had recently filled with rain.
It suddenly filled with sheep as a shepherd pointed them in the right direction. Talk about a stampede!
These are not the Little Bo Peep caricatures of white, fluffy sheep in the quaint countryside. No, these are survivor sheep who travel long and dusty distances to get to water. Muddy distances in the winter. Their fleece is often filthy, which is another reason why the shepherd led them to the riverbed. He grabbed each one and did a little dunking of his own, washing out the dirt and prepping them for shearing.
Wash me, Lord, and I will be white as snow.
But only if I allow you to get your hands on me. Only if I follow your voice.
The shepherds frequently travel with several flocks together for companionship, for safety, for the simple fact that there are only so many grazing areas. When they retire to their own tents at night, they call to their sheep, a sort of singing call, if you’ve ever heard it.
And each. sheep. knows. its. shepherd’s. voice.
And they follow.
They cannot be misled.
Thank you, Lord! Clean me up, care for me, provide for me—I will listen for your voice and I will follow.
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