Thoughts after communion

The place I grew up was an anomaly, a desert basin filled with water and all the wild life that accompanies it. The mountains were covered in cactus but the valley itself was crisscrossed by canals that provided the little bit of dry land on which people lived…everything else was swamp. The land itself was alkali, so that the people of the valley scratched out a living of beans, corn and sheep. It was the sheep that most interested me; the sheep that are a living metaphor, created in anticipation of One who would come and be the Lamb of God.

In my few years of life I have had the privilege of being part of numerous agricultural endeavors, including the killing of various types of livestock. We raised rabbits, pigs and chickens and I was able to have a hand in killing all of them at one time or another. Rabbits were easiest, a smack on the back of the head and they were ready to be skinned and dressed for the table. Pigs, on the other hand, squealed and fought like mad unless they were tied up and held still. I can still picture five guys tackling a pig while someone waited to get the knife in its throat. But in all the slaughters I helped with or watched the sheep were different, they were special and horrible in a unique way.

We only kept sheep once because they were more work than the other livestock. The place I grew up in, Hidalgo, has a traditional barbecue that is different from any other. Sheep are slaughtered and skinned, and the carcasses are placed in a hole in the ground where hot rocks and cactus leaves have been laid. The whole thingh cooks in the ground for a day or so until it is tender and juicy. The Bible School we worked at was celebrating a graduation and the installment of a new director, and it was a celebration requiring a barbecue.

We bought the sheep a few weeks before the celebration. There were three of them, their little black faces peeping out of their fluffy wool coats. Of the three sheep one in particular stood out, for it was taller and whiter than the others. It was beautiful and very loving. If you walked up to the corral in which they were kept it would run to greet you and press its little black face against you and tell you how wonderful it was to see you again. It would smile up at you begging for you to run your hand through its fleece and over its little round head.

When the day came to slaughter the sheep, Hermano Agustine, who had cared for the sheep over the last couple of weeks, took a handful of hay and opened the gate of the corral. Out came the sheep, so excited to be out and about, all happy and contented and ready to play. They pranced along behind their friend nibbling at his hand and bumping against his legs. He took them down the path behind the canal and over to the shed behind which we would kill them. He tied them up and then took the prize sheep, the one that was so beautiful and snowy white. He led it behind the shed to where our friend from the sierra, who was doing the slaughtering, waited. Our friend took the lambs head in his hands and pulled it against his leg…and then slipped the knife into its throat.

At the piercing of the knife the lambs eyes widened, not in fear but with an expression of confusion and hurt. “Why? What happened? Why are you doing this?” The blood stained its coat and pooled at its feet…but it remained silent, its eyes begging answers but its mouth shut tight. The hurt in its wide eyes and the expression of confusion were so clear they screamed. “I’ve been your friend. I loved you and I loved it when you came to visit me and ran out hand through my coat. I loved nuzzling you… What happened...? Why…? Wh…?” It’s legs gave way and it sank toward the ground, its eyes blinking as it sank to its knees in the grass. Finally, its head dropped to its side and it lay still. Only a few moments had passed since the knife had pierced its throat, but in those moments a fluffy lamb was slain, a lamb who had done no harm. An innocent lamb whose blood now stained the grass behind the shed.

It is an image I’ll never forget.