P.O. Box 53055    
Los Angeles, CA 90053   

BECAUSE MARGARET LOVES HER SON; THAT’S WHY

It does not make sense, economically, to leave 99 sheep alone and go chasing over hill and dale after ONE. It does not make sense, in World War II, to risk the lives of eight guys, just to go fetch one lowly private from Peyton, Iowa, and make his mama happy.

“Is this mission worth it?” I guess those five words sum up one of the most wrenching war stories of all time. Maybe you’re aware of it.

A Private Robert Reiben, 24 years old, from Brooklyn, New York, asks the question all the men are inwardly thinking. “You know, Captain,” he says, “this little expedition goes against everything the Army taught me. The math of it. Maybe you could explain it to me. Strictly just talking arithmetic here, what’s the sense, the strategy, in risking eight lives to save one? I mean, it’s not like we’re goin’ in to save Eisenhower or Patton or something. The guy’s a [lowly] private, sir.”

Captain John Miller — if you’ve read the book by Max Allan Collins or seen the Spielberg film, Saving Private Ryan — has been assigned, along with seven other soldiers, to go directly into the war zone and bring this kid, Mama’s fourth and only surviving son, home from World War II. And so the private from New York asks the obvious: Why risk eight guys to possibly — and only possibly — save one? Ryan might already be KIA – killed in action. Why hike through ambush territory, why go across enemy lines, why risk hiking directly into the gunsights of German snipers, to save a soldier you’ve never met? And who’s probably dead already?

Early on in the expedition, when they get to Neuville-au-Plain, a German sniper named Wolfgang Gottberg picks off Caparzo, one of Miller’s boys, who slowly bleeds to death in the rain. Later, as the remaining seven men encounter another sniper’s nest out in a field, and wipe it out, they lose another man — Wade, their medic. He dies in their arms, a wrenching, agonizing loss. And at one point, Captain Miller says to one of his fellow officers, “This Private James Francis Ryan better be pretty special. He better get home and cure cancer or invent a lightbulb that never burns out or a car that runs on water. Because the truth is, I wouldn’t trade ten Ryans for one Caparzo.”

And finally, in Ramelle, when they find Private Ryan and insist that he leave his post and return home with them — which he devotedly refuses to do — this Private Reiben screams at him in anger: “Hey! Two of us died buyin’ you this ticket home! Take it! I would.” And the farm boy from Peyton, Iowa, is staggered by the news. “You lost two men just coming to save me?” He can hardly believe it.

Well, friend, those are the horrors of war. Eight men dying to rescue one. One man giving his life that another might live. Greater love hath no man than this . . . and so on. And threading its way through all such stories is an old Bible parable told by Jesus. You can find this story in both Matthew and Luke, and as we explore it together, we’ll move back and forth between the two. Not just because the details are slightly different, but also because the context is different — and we learn new lessons from both settings. For now, here’s the way an army medic — in this case Dr. Luke — would tell the story:

“If you owned a hundred sheep, wouldn’t you be concerned if one of them were missing?” Jesus asks.

Remember that Jesus told stories that were beautifully designed to be received by the audience of His day. Who was out there in the crowd listening? Shepherds, of course. And it’s been pointed out that the listeners that afternoon might also include wealthier men who had financially invested in flocks and herds. So these people knew about the value of one lost sheep. One Bible commentary made this point about the seemingly insignificant one-out-of-a-hundred math involved here:

“The loss of one might seem a comparatively small matter, but to the owner of the flock the loss of even one occasioned serious concern. The Eastern shepherd commonly knew each sheep personally and cared for it not only as one of the flock but for its own sake.”

Now that He has their interest, Jesus asks the question:

“Wouldn’t you leave the ninety-nine who are peacefully grazing in someone else’s care and go looking for that one lost sheep until you found it? When you found it, what would you do? You would lay it across your shoulders and come back singing. Then you would tell your friends and neighbors that you had found the lost sheep, and they would celebrate with you.”

And there you have it. The Good Shepherd in this story ignores the normal math of OUR lives: that having 99% of your inventory safely in the barn is typically enough. Most guys who look after flocks would be delighted to have all but one sheep safely home. I mean, any merchant in town who opens up his shop knows that he’s going to sacrifice 2.5% on every single sale just for letting people swipe their VISAs and their MasterCards through his slot. Those losses are part of the game. Shoplifters are going to rip you off for two or three percent; you order fries at McDonalds, and a few of them always fall on the floor. Early on in Saving Private Ryan, as the men at Normandy are getting ready to storm Omaha Beach in their LCVPs, they’re openly predicting that two-thirds of them won’t come out of it alive. Those are the fixed costs of waging war. And here a shepherd is worried about one lost sheep? With all due respect to the nomadic sheepherders of Jesus’ day, come on. Let’s get real.

But I keep going back to that text note by the Bible commentators:

“The Eastern shepherd commonly knew each sheep personally.”

You see, this particular Shepherd knows this particular sheep. Knows it by name. Has taken care of it from the moment of its birth. Has had an interest in it from the very beginning. “I have called you by name; you are Mine,” He tells us in Isaiah 43. As God counts up His sheep at the close of the day, He instantly knows that this particular lamb is missing.

And then this dilemma: what to do? We’ve always painted a graphic picture of that decision: a delicious meal at home, a warm bath, and comfortable bed . . . or a night of searching out in the cold, lonely hills? We updated our story yesterday with this line:

“Most shepherds with ninety-and-nine sheep safely in the fold would call it a good day’s work and head for the ranchhouse, a hot bubble bath, and a date with Monday Night Football. But this unique Farmer goes out in search of the one lost sheep.”

You know, maybe we think of this story as little more than metaphor. Ninety-nine sheep in the fold. One missing. What to do? But this fierce dilemma was faced by Jesus Christ, up in the comfortable splendor of heaven’s courts centuries before this little story in Luke ever got written. God had so many worlds . . . and then one got away from Him. One planet spun itself out of God’s orbit, and found itself out in the galactic wilderness of sin. Just one soiled little planet in an otherwise pristine, perfect universe. And heaven was a warm, elegant place for the Son of God to live. Why go where it was cold? And dirty? And hostile? Why go out among the briars of Lucifer’s tiny domain to rescue just one insignificant world? Better to stay home where the ninety-nine billion unfallen worlds are bowing low and singing your praises.

In her marvelous 19th-century bestseller, Christ’s Object Lessons, author E. G. White paints the picture for us:

“This world is but an atom in the vast dominions over which God presides,” she writes, “yet this little fallen world — the one lost sheep — is more precious in His sight than are the ninety and nine that went not astray from the fold. Christ, the loved Commander in the heavenly courts, stooped from His high estate, laid aside the glory that He had with the Father, in order to save the one lost world. For this He left the sinless worlds on high, the ninety and nine that loved Him, and came to this world, to be ‘wounded for our transgressions’ and ‘bruised for our iniquities.’”

So listen. Jesus didn’t just tell this cute story to describe — in theory — how much God cares. He was living right in this story AT THIS MOMENT. He doesn’t make a big deal about it in the telling, but He could so easily have said right then: “Folks, this is where we are right now! I’m clawing My way through the ravines of Satan’s territory this very moment as I speak to you, trying to reclaim for My Dad this one planet that slipped away.”

You know, in that Saving Private Ryan story, this kid, Reiben, would be right. Do you spend eight guys to save one? Of course not. Don’t be stupid. You don’t win wars that way. A man is a man is a man, and you don’t trade a Caparzo AND a Wade for one Ryan. It’d be like sacrificing both rooks, a bishop, and a queen . . . all for one pawn.

The only telling factor, then, to upset the normal math of the battlefield, is this: back home in Peyton, Iowa . . . is Mom. Mrs. Margaret Ryan loves her son. Mrs. Bixby of Boston, if you remember the letter from Abe Lincoln to a grieving mother . . . loved her five sons. And when a parent’s love is involved, you can take all the math in the universe and just throw it out. Love beats numbers every time.