The Sheep Don’t Know

A cliff rises above the sea, jagged, wild, immovable. The waves, far below, break against it with noisy violence. This is where the ocean ends and the patchwork fields begin, suddenly. In the fields, there are sheep. As I walk past, one of them looks up at me as he chews a disinterested mouthful of grass. He has eyes, so he can see the same view I see. He has ears, so he can hear the waves, and the gulls crying out above him.

I am only visiting, and part of me envies this sheep his home and his everyday sights and sounds. I look up and wonder what the gull’s eyes are seeing as he soars over all of this on the power of the wind. I wonder if I were a gull, could I ever get used to that feeling enough to focus on feeding myself? I think I might be a skinny gull. But I think I would be filled with the thrill of wonder.

The gull I see is fat, and the sheep is, too. Both are good at surviving. Both have eyes, and they see food clearly. They have ears, and hear danger coming. But neither of them sees the beauty of their surroundings or understands how their own presence adds to it. Neither of them is comforted by the rhythmic sound of the waves like I am, or astonished by the power of the wind—not even the gull, who has wings to harness it. They live, they survive, and I do think they genuinely enjoy the comforts of soft grass and warm sunshine. But when the sun sets, they do not see the artistry in the sky—even when they look at it. They are not curious about the science of how grass seeds grow into living plants and provide food for living animals. They are not moved by the mysteries of the sea to contemplate the mysteries of existence or write poetic verses or blog posts.

I’ve heard people say that humans are simply animals, surviving. If that were true, we’d never know it. We would survive, but we would never travel long distances to see where the ocean ends, hear its waves, and soak in its majestic immensity. We do these things because we are convinced that there is more to living than mere survival. There is art and beauty and meaning, mystery and discovery and wonder. The sheep doesn’t see it. The gull doesn’t see it, even with a bird’s eye view. God gave them eyes like the ones he gave you and me, but behind our eyes he gave us something more: a soul, created in his own image. The animals see and eat and live like we do, but they are not consciously aware of and able to respond and relate to the one who made these scenes and gave this life. That’s our job. That’s our privilege.