On the dirt trail in the country side they were walking together. The sprawling fields all around filled the fresh air with a faint aroma of vintage wine.
- So what do you do?
- I am a priest. How about you?
- (hesitantly) Me? Oh, I am … a pastor.
- Sheep herder, that is?
- Kind of… So, what does a priest do?
- Let me think. We do a lot of things. But the most important thing is that we are the ones who make the offerings on behalf of all the people.
- What kind of offerings?
- (laughing) Oh, don’t worry. We are not going to kill the lambs you shepherd.
- (irritated) You cannot kill the lambs I shepherd… (Thinking for a moment) on second thought, I think you can. Actually some of you did.
- That was in the past__/
- (interrupted) Not quite. Very recently this happened. Killing does not always involve a knife.
- I see. You are very protective. But you are talking about a small number of priests who belong to an old cult that no longer exists.
- I know that even today, there are priests in the Christian church, there are priests in Buddhist temples, and there are priests even in the satanic cults. And numerous other kinds of belief systems. Not to mention that even in the most noble of these, there are old and new systems that have different traditions.
- Are you trying to be sarcastic? So how many kinds of sheep herders are there?
- Well, that is the problem. There is only one kind. The kind that would sacrifice themselves for the safety of their flock. After all that is the real meaning of the word pastor.
- Bingo. There are priests who do just that… that is the kind I am talking about.
- Are you serious? You mean priests who shepherd their flocks as pastors?
- Yes, as a matter of fact the Lord and Master of those priests, is called the Good Shepherd. He did sacrifice himself for his flocks.
- Amazing. You are talking about OUR Lord and Master. We seem to have a mix up here.
- No mix up, sheep herder. A smart guy by the name of Shakespeare once said, “A rose by any other name would still smell sweet.”
- Now you remind me. Our Lord and Master himself once said, “A tree is known by its fruit.” So, an orange tree cannot produce olives for example.
- You got it. That is why only the kind of priest who will be happy to sacrifice himself for his flock and always leads them to the green pastures of truth, love and grace will be called A Christian Priest. Never mind the imitations. Some wear the same clothes and speak the same lingo and even smile just like the original ones. But you know, this is like the fig tree dressed up to look like an orange tree.
It was high noon. They were approaching the farm House called Gethsemane*. When suddenly five men with machine guns seemed to come from nowhere and surrounded them. They had their heads and faces wrapped in black scarves, leaving only their bloody red eyes glaring down at them. They stopped.
“Where are you heading Christians?” barked one of the gunmen. They looked at each other, and then the priest answered calmly, “Home. We are heading home.” The gang moved in a little closer, while their leader spoke again, “where is this…home? On these grounds? Or may be … underground?” he laughed with his friends, and when he did not get an answer, he fired a few shots on the ground near their feet shouting, “Cat bite your tongues?”
Then the pastor said, “What do you want?”
“What do I want? Yeah, what do I want? Well, I am a very kind and generous man; I always like to give your likes a choice first. You can abandon your unholy religion and join us…”
When he stopped, the priest prodded, “Or?” the brute walked towards him until he was inches away…. He pulled his scarf off his face as they locked eyes. The Pastor screamed as he recognized the man,
“You? I cannot believe it…Aren’t you…?”
“Yes I am. Just because you gave me some food last week, you thought you could buy me?” the thug retorted. He walked away from them. When he was back in line with his friends, he turned and yelled, “Say it now. You will join us, or you shall join the fools we just killed in the farm house?” Both pastor and priest were horrified. The priest fell on his knees sobbing while the pastor raised his arms towards heaven, “murderers…murderers.”
In a few moments they were both sprayed with bullets among the joyous shouts of the villains. A little river of blood ran to water the plants in the fields around. With his dying breath, the priest whispered, “Olives had to be pressed for the precious oil.” The pastor smiled and said, “And the grapes… had to be pressed for… wine.” As they closed their eyes to see heaven, their cut up blessed bodies became a reminder that Saints also had to be pressed so that their holy blood bears witness of the life giving faith in their Lord…the Good Shepherd.
John 10:12
But he that is an hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth: and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep.
*Gethsemane means oil press.
