Title: He calls us to die to ourselves
Intro: The fable of the wolf and the lamb that we heard is not just an ancient story.
Scripture: Isaiah 11:6-9
Reflection
My dear friends, let me tell you about something I witnessed last week that broke my heart. A young mother came to see me, tears streaming down her face. Her teenage son had been bullied at school for months because his family could not afford the expensive shoes the other children wore. “Father,” she whispered, “why does one child have to diminish another to feel big?” I had no easy answer for her. But I held her hand, and together we sat in that sacred silence where human pain meets divine mystery.
This morning, as I read Isaiah’s vision of the wolf living with the lamb, I thought of that mother. I thought of her son. I thought of all of us, really, because if we are honest with ourselves, we have all been both the wolf and the lamb at different moments in our lives. We have all felt the teeth sink in. We have all, perhaps, been the teeth.
The fable of the wolf and the lamb that we heard today is not just an ancient story. It is playing out right now in our homes, our offices, our places of worship, and our schools. The wolf does not need a reason to devour the lamb. He makes up reasons, flimsy excuses that crumble under the slightest scrutiny. “You insulted me.” “You graze in my pasture.” “You drink from my well.” None of it matters. The wolf has already decided. Power does not need justice. Power only needs opportunity.
I see this in the father who silences his daughter’s dreams because he believes sons are more valuable. I see it in the employer who pays different wages for the same work based on caste or religion. I see it in the neighbour who spreads rumours to elevate himself by lowering another. We are Aesop’s wolves, dressed in human clothing, creating elaborate justifications for why we deserve more and others deserve less.
Thomas Hobbes was right when he said man is wolf to man. The Igbo proverb speaks truth when it says a fish must eat other fish to grow. But, my friends, this is not the end of the story. This is not the world God dreamed when He breathed life into the first human being. This is not the kingdom Jesus proclaimed when He stood on that mountain and said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5).
Isaiah saw something different. He saw something impossible. He saw the wolf lying down with the lamb, not in death, but in peace. He saw the leopard resting beside the young goat. He saw the calf and the lion sharing the same ground, and a little child—innocent, trusting, unafraid—leading them all (Isaiah 11:6).
When I first read this as a young seminarian, I dismissed it as beautiful poetry, nothing more. How could natural enemies become friends? How could the strong give up their advantage? How could the weak ever trust again after so much violence? It seemed like wishful thinking, like a children’s story we tell to make ourselves feel better about the brutal reality of life.
But I was wrong. I was wrong because I was thinking with human logic, and God’s grace does not follow human logic. Grace transforms nature, yes, but more radically than we can imagine. Grace does not just modify behaviour. It changes the very heart.
Let me tell you about Ramesh and Prakash. They grew up in the same village but in different worlds. Ramesh was from a wealthy family. Prakash was a daily wage labourer’s son. Throughout school, Ramesh made Prakash’s life miserable. He mocked his torn uniform. He ensured Prakash was excluded from games and gatherings. He was the wolf. Prakash was the lamb.
Years passed. Both men grew up. Ramesh built a successful business. Prakash worked hard and educated himself through night classes. Then came the pandemic. Ramesh’s business collapsed. He lost everything. He was on the verge of losing his home. One morning, there was a knock on his door. It was Prakash. Without a word, Prakash handed him an envelope containing enough money to cover three months of rent. “I remember what it feels like to have nothing,” Prakash said quietly. “I will not let you go through that alone.”
Something broke open in Ramesh that day. Something hard and calcified in his heart cracked. He wept. He asked for forgiveness. And Prakash, with tears in his own eyes, embraced him. “We are brothers now,” he said. “Brothers eat at the same table.”
This is what Isaiah saw. This is what grace makes possible. The lion eating straw like the ox (Isaiah 11:7). Not because lions naturally prefer straw, but because grace transforms the hunger itself. The powerful learning to live without dominating. The privileged choosing to share rather than hoard. The strong discovering that true strength lies in lifting others, not in pushing them down.
Saint Paul understood this when he wrote to the Galatians, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). This is not just theological language. This is revolutionary truth. In God’s kingdom, the categories that divide us become meaningless. The hierarchies that define our world dissolve.
But here is what we must understand: this transformation requires something from us. It requires us to give up our “natural privileges”, as the reading says. For those of us who are wolves—and most of us are wolves in some area of our lives—we must learn to eat grass. We must voluntarily relinquish the advantages we’ve claimed as our birthright.
If you are a man in a patriarchal culture, it means listening to women’s voices with the same seriousness you give to men. If you are wealthy, it means examining how your comfort might be built on someone else’s exploitation. If you are from the dominant caste or religion, it means recognising how the system favours you unfairly. If you are a parent, it means letting your children be who they are, not forcing them into the mold you have designed.
This is hard. Oh my friends, this is so hard. Our egos resist. Our pride protests. We want to believe we earned everything we have, that we deserve our position. We create elaborate justifications, just like Aesop’s wolf. But Jesus calls us to something different. He calls us to die to ourselves so that new life can emerge. “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit” (John 12:24).
And for those of us who have been lambs—who have been trampled, dismissed, diminished—the transformation is equally profound. We must learn to trust again. We must learn to forgive. Not because those who hurt us deserve forgiveness, but because carrying hatred is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Forgiveness is how we set ourselves free.
The nursing child playing over the cobra’s hole (Isaiah 11:8)—this is the image of complete trust. This is what becomes possible when grace transforms both predator and prey. The vulnerable no longer need to fear. The powerful no longer need to dominate. We can all simply be.
My friends, as we leave this place today, let us carry Isaiah’s vision in our hearts. Let us ask ourselves: Where am I the wolf? Where have I justified my cruelty with empty excuses? Where have I consumed someone else’s dignity to feed my own ego? And let us pray for the grace to eat grass, to give up the taste for blood, and to discover that true satisfaction comes not from winning at someone else’s expense but from building a table where everyone can feast.
The kingdom of God is not coming someday far away. It begins now, in this moment, with you and me choosing to be different. It begins when we decide that we can all be winners, that for me to rise, you do not have to fall. It begins with grace. It continues with grace. It will be completed by grace.
And yes, my dear friends, the wolf and the lamb will live happily ever after. Not in a fairy tale, but in the reality that God is even now bringing to birth. May we have the courage to be part of that birth.
May the heart of Jesus live in the hearts of all. Amen...
