Why sheep? As a small boy, that thought sometimes occurred to me after a Church of Scotland service. In a Presbyterian dies irae, the Minister would have proclaimed the Son of Man’s intention to divide mankind into sheep and goats on the Day of Judgment. Afterwards, my parents explained that the goats were the bad guys. That struck me as odd. Goats were much more interesting than sheep. I often found it hard to get my head around the pastoral elements of Christianity. Most children are made to wriggle with embarrassment as their elders re-tell some charming incident from earlier years. In my case, it was an aunt trying to explain about the Good Shepherd. I had thought that she was talking about shepherd’s pie. Not an anima naturaliter Christiana.
Whatever the status of the Lamb of God, we have a pastoral duty to eat as many lambs as possible, to rescue them from the indignity of becoming sheep. That said, we also need a fair few sheep, to turn into mutton. Hardly anyone eats enough of it. Cold mutton — has there ever been a greater contrast between such a discouraging name and so delicious a taste?
Lambs can create sentimental issues. As a little boy, a friend of mine, who became a fierce and formidable soldier, helped to look after a couple of motherless lambs. Although it was a touching spectacle, original sin was on the march. Those lambs had already been christened: saddle and chops. One day, they were gone. It was explained to James that they had skipped off to play with the other lambs, but that he could wave to them in the field. Cruel elder siblings disillusioned him. He would be meeting his lambs again — at lunchtime on Sunday.
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