As I ponder the grand words “New Year” and “New Millennium,” I find myself searching for a magnificent hope to hang upon the wall of this year’s life. But strangely, no new word rises to meet the moment. Instead, an old dream from childhood quietly returns.

It was in my third year of elementary school. My homeroom teacher, filling out a personal profile, asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Without hesitation, I replied, “A shepherd.” “A shepherd?” She peered over her glasses, puzzled, then suddenly burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. The whole class looked on, bewildered. To this day, I still don’t understand why she laughed so hard. But my dream—then and now—remains unchanged: I want to be a shepherd.

The desire was born in childhood, during the days when the song “Danny Boy” was popular. Its lyrics sang, “Oh, the pipes of shepherds echo through the mountain valleys…” Those words opened my eyes to the call of nature. And my young girl’s dream flew straight into the hills and made its nest there. Even now, on the morning of a new millennium, I find myself returning to that small, unwavering wish— and in it, I rediscover myself.

Long ago, before the Israelites conquered Canaan, the native religions of the land held a ritual: once a year, they would send a goat into the wilderness, bearing the sins and injustices of the people, to drive away evil spirits. Ten days later, they would retrieve the goat, believing peace and blessing had been restored. After Moses led the conquest, a similar ritual was recorded in Leviticus 16:20–22.

Today, in immigrant churches, this “scapegoat ritual” continues— and the older the church, the more serious the condition. Though believers come to hear God’s Word, to be renewed in joy and filled with the Spirit, many leave burdened with more pain than they arrived with. The spiritual body of the church is sick, searching for someone to bear the blame, to cast out the evil.

Even though Jesus was offered as the eternal sacrifice two thousand years ago, modern churches still wander, seeking scapegoats in others instead of themselves. In this pinnacle of 21st-century civilization, how long will this ritual continue? How long will theologians and sociologists remain silent?

Truthfully, the work of a shepherd is not glamorous. Imagine a person wandering hills and valleys, herding goats that drop black droppings like scattered pearls, bleating “maaa, maaa” in voices far from beautiful. It’s not exactly a pleasant life. So why do I still dream of being a shepherd?

Perhaps my teacher laughed at the foolishness of a young girl who didn’t know what she was saying.

But through years of singing that song, I discovered that the sacred joy and peace I longed for could be found in Scripture— and in nature.

The sound of birds, the patter of rain, the wind wandering through snowy valleys, the babble of brooks, the crack of ice, the song of spring sprouts rising from the earth— in all these, I found myself within the image of a shepherd.

Perhaps my teacher imagined a poor girl living among the smells of cows and dung, rising before dawn to boil feed, chasing goats and flies. But I imagined something else.

In nature, my soul opens endlessly. When the sunset blushes with sorrow, when ducks splash in lakes with joy and freedom, when squirrels climb trees with nimble steps— I meet another facet of God’s character. I remember the times I laughed, hating schoolwork, sensitive to colors, loving to cut paper, tie ribbons, but dreading math and engineering symbols that made my head ache.

In this new millennium, I pray that all people may be united with God, who dwells everywhere. May peace cover the earth, may justice reign in Korea, may poverty disappear from this planet in harmony with nature, and may every home be filled with love.

— Wan‑Hee Yoon, January 4, 2000