One Sunday morning, a few months ago, I was engaged in my usual routine prior to Sung Mass. At that point, before the arrival of our new livestreaming equipment, I was setting up my iPhone on a tripod in the nave and then starting the livestream on Facebook. When I returned to the sacristy, I would open my laptop and drop in the Mass leaflet. This practice had become tiresome because it was one more thing to do, and I found it hard to shift from tech management to prayer.
As I recall, this particular Sunday morning was during the difficult time when our doors were closed to public worship, and so it was just me, the musicians, and a server. It was a lonely time, and I longed to see people in the pews again.
And so, that Sunday morning, I was especially struck as I dropped the leaflet into the comment feed. Suddenly, I noticed people “logging in” to Mass. I hadn’t really paid attention to this much before. The people logging onto Facebook were not just numbers in the view panel; they were comments. Personal interaction was beginning to happen. “Good morning from Texas.” “Good morning from Chestnut Hill.” Each person would designate their respective locations.
And then one of the newest members of our parish logged in: “Good morning from Bryn Mawr.” It was a seemingly small thing, but I was extremely touched. I realized that I was watching community form before my eyes. There was a brief break in the cloud of loneliness created by a pandemic. I had been struggling, too, with the difficulty of building relationships during a pandemic and with the knowledge of the many challenges this parish had faced and would face. But I realized in that moment, that all was going to be just fine. I knew that I had experienced an acute moment of God’s grace. This is how God speaks—not always directly but clearly if we heed his voice. And God was saying, “I have not let you go.”
Hearing God’s voice may seem like one of the most intangible things we could imagine. I would guess that very few people have had experiences wherein they have heard God speaking to them as if in a distinctly audible voice. For most, it’s not so simple.
The world is noisy, and its perpetual din clamors above the still, small voice of God. The difficulty in hearing God’s voice can be witnessed in the large numbers of people who give up on hearing it. They look for affirmation in their work, hobbies, or social relationships. God’s voice seems to be absent to them in the face of loss or in the mundane. What then are we to make of St. John’s assertion that Jesus the Good Shepherd cares for sheep who know him, and who don’t simply know him but also know his voice? What does this voice sound like? How can we heed it if we do not recognize it? Is it possible that we don’t recognize the Good Shepherd’s voice because we can’t comprehend what it means to be a Good Shepherd?
When Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd, he draws on a rich Scriptural tradition of describing God as Shepherd. But this ancient tradition usually defines God as a benevolent, caring Shepherd over and against the numerous bad shepherds who are destroying or taking advantage of the sheep. Have we known too many bad shepherds to be able to recognize a good one? And is this why the voice of our Good Shepherd seems so absent at times?
Perhaps, then, we can take a cue from some other words of Jesus, this time from Matthew’s Gospel. Jesus tells his disciples that they will be able to tell true from false prophets by the results of what they do. A good tree does not bear bad fruit. The false prophets are the ones who come deceitfully in sheep’s clothing, but they are really wolves. If this is true and we can tell good from bad by looking at the visible signs of fruit, then we might begin to discern the Good Shepherd’s voice.
The Good Shepherd’s sheep know him by his voice. He is the Good Shepherd because of what he does. He gathers and doesn’t divide. He sacrifices his own life for the sake of his sheep. He visibly demonstrates that he intimately knows his flock. He does not behave as a mercenary but as one invested in his sheep. The sheep only follow when they hear his voice because they associate his voice with certain behavior.
We know from John that the Good Shepherd sticks with his sheep; he does not flee. The hireling, by contrast, is mercenary. The hireling phones it in. The hired hand is not invested in the sheep and runs away without a second thought when things go wrong. The Good Shepherd does not sacrifice the sheep to get what he wants; he sacrifices himself so that the sheep may have fullness of life.
The relationship between Jesus the Good Shepherd and his flock is rooted in Jesus’ own relationship with his Father. That relationship is not hoarded within the life of the Trinity, but the love Jesus experiences with the Father is extended to his sheep. And Jesus does not hoard that intimacy with his own sheep, but he shares that with sheep from other folds. The gesture is always one of openness and of overflowing love.
This might be the most recognizable fruit of the Shepherd’s voice: that no one is unworthy, small, neglected, or broken enough to be considered outside the fold. And not only that: those sheep in other folds are not simply worthy of the Shepherd’s care; they are quite capable of hearing and recognizing his voice.
We know the voice of our Good Shepherd by what he does among us. We see the fruits of his presence. And what our Good Shepherd does is gather his entire flock, from all corners of the earth, into his loving care. When we see the opposite of that, we can trust that the Good Shepherd is not behind it.
When we see dividing and scattering instead of gathering, then we can be certain that the Good Shepherd is not doing it. When we see exclusive folds that hoard their own truths or special relationships, then we can be assured that the Good Shepherd is not responsible for this.
But the opposite is true as well. When we see sheep in different folds who seem bereft of leadership and vulnerable to wild wolves, we can be certain that the Good Shepherd is present among them, reaching his arms out to put them on his shoulders. He will bring them home. His voice is there, even if lost amid the baying of wolves.
When we see sheep who are lost and exposed to great danger on their own, even when others have fled them in the face of difficulties, we can trust that the Good Shepherd is searching desperately for them. He is calling their names. And one day, we pray that they will hear his voice.
The Good Shepherd’s sheep know him by his voice. But he is the Good Shepherd because of what he does. He seeks the lost one among the ninety-nine because he cannot rest until all his sheep have made it back to the fold.
And this is why I was certain that I was hearing the voice of the Good Shepherd on that lonely Sunday morning some months ago. I didn’t hear an audible voice, but I saw what he was doing among us. I heard the Good Shepherd’s voice in its own complex way. I wasn’t looking for it in the presence of a vast crowd of people or in hundreds of people logging onto Facebook for Mass. I wasn’t trying to find it in prosperity or wealth or in flashy testimonials. I recognized the voice in community stirring into action. It was being formed from various folds and in the midst of looming challenges and from a difficult past.
I recognized the Good Shepherd’s voice because he gathers his flock and doesn’t scatter them. Gathering is associated with his name because his flock instinctively know his voice, even if they aren’t even aware of it. And there they were being gathered into his loving arms that Sunday morning, even on the internet.
And most of all, I knew the Good Shepherd was calling to me and to others because he does not let us go. He is no mercenary Savior. He has already paid the ultimate price by laying down his life for us. He has never let us go, even when we have fled from him. Even when the world tells us that the sheepfold is an anachronism, the Good Shepherd does not give up on us. He tends the gate of that fold and continues to open it for all his sheep. He sticks with us, and it is precisely when we feel lonely, lost, or helpless, that he is most fervently searching for us.
The Good Shepherd’s sheep know him by his voice. But he is the Good Shepherd because of what he does. And it is precisely when we have reached the valley of darkness and despair that Jesus does something more for us: he stoops down lower than we can even imagine, hoists us on his shoulders, and brings us home because he loves us.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday of Easter
April 25, 2021