The Good Shepherd Knows Your Name
In this Sunday’s Gospel, it’s not May—it’s December.
It’s not spring—it’s winter.
It’s Hanukkah: a feast of light and rededication.
Menorahs glow against the cold.
The Temple echoes with old Psalms of deliverance.
And there, beneath Solomon’s portico, stands the one everyone’s been talking about.
The crowds press in, urgent and impatient:
“How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”
But Jesus doesn’t respond with a title.
He’s already shown who he is in word and deed.
He knows no label will satisfy them.
Instead, he answers with a relationship:
“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”
The Good Shepherd is one of the oldest and most beloved images of Christ—gentle, comforting, pastoral.
But here, Jesus isn’t just offering comfort.
He’s making a claim.
Because to know the Messiah isn’t just to get the right answer.
It’s to be brought into an unbreakable relationship.
He names himself as the one who calls us—not by category, but by name.
And he makes a promise:
That those who belong to him are known.
That they hear his voice.
And that nothing—no hardship, no darkness, not even death—can snatch them from his hand.
He doesn’t shout demands or lay out prerequisites.
His voice comes as a promise: you already belong.
No achievement, no checklist, no “measure of merit” can remove you from his care.
Amid a thousand other voices that demand or condemn, the Good Shepherd’s voice sets us free.
This isn’t a riddle to solve.
It’s a gift to receive.
Still, I understand the people pressing in, hungry for clarity.
Sometimes I want the same thing.
Perhaps you do too.
I want God’s voice to be obvious and audible.
I want certainty. Proof. A divine headline.
I want to know I’m in the fold—that I belong.
So I try to muster the right feelings, pray the right prayers, follow the right steps—like maybe then I’ll finally crack the code and know for sure that I’m hearing from God.
But instead of a formula, Jesus offers something far simpler.
He doesn’t tell us to strive.
He tells us to be still.
We don’t hear the Shepherd because we’re good at searching.
We hear him because he’s already come looking for us.
And he still does.
He comes in Scripture.
In silence.
In service.
In the sacrament that places grace in your hands.
In the voice of the One who loves you when you least deserve it.
The promise of his voice isn’t a test of our spirituality.
It’s a sign of his faithfulness.
That’s what makes me glad to be Christian.
Not because I’ve solved life’s great mystery,
but because the Shepherd already knows my name.
Already walks beside me.
Already calls out in every month and every season: “Follow me.”
And though my own steps may falter, though I don’t always heed his call,
I’m promised that even my confusion, neglect, and resistance can’t snatch me from his hand.
So if you’re tired of trying to earn your place, come rest.
If you’re unsure where you stand, come listen.
His voice is not a test.
It’s a promise.
The Good Shepherd is still speaking.
Still calling you by name.
Even here.
Even now.
Into grace.
Into belonging.
Into home.
And once you’re in his hands,
nothing—and no one—can take you out.
These midweek reflections are a preview of Sunday’s sermon—but not the sermon itself.
You can find the full sermon here after it’s preached.
Amen......
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Such a comforting Note. Thank you!