Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Yesterday, my family attended the annual Pride celebration in Hull. Hull is an interestingly diverse community that has learned to accept lots of different people. Like other places, there are those who only appreciate people of a certain race, religion, or sexual identity, but somehow, it works.

June has become known as Pride Month. For some, that name immediately evokes celebration. For others, it evokes controversy. For still others, it raises questions about what place Pride has in the life of the Church.

But before we speak about Pride, we should speak about something even more fundamental: the astonishing diversity of God’s creation.

I know diversity is not something we are supposed to talk about or celebrate, but Scripture is full of diversity and acceptance. The opening chapters of Genesis tell us that God looked upon creation and declared it good. Not uniform. Not identical. Not monochrome. Good.

God creates oceans and deserts, mountains and valleys. God creates countless species of plants and animals. No two fingerprints are alike. No two snowflakes are identical. Diversity is woven into creation itself. Difference is not a flaw in God’s design. Difference is part of God’s design.

And if that is true of creation, it is certainly true of humanity.

Every person bears the image of God. Every person. Not some. Not most. All.

The challenge for the Church has often been that we prefer sameness to diversity. We find comfort in people who look like us, think like us, worship like us, vote like us, and live like us. But the Gospel consistently disrupts our desire for sameness and calls us into a larger vision of God’s Kingdom.

That larger vision appears throughout Scripture, but nowhere more clearly than in today’s Gospel.

Jesus walks by and sees Matthew sitting at the tax booth. Now we hear that story so often that we miss how shocking it would have been.

Matthew was not merely disliked. He was considered a collaborator with an occupying empire. He represented everything faithful religious people were supposed to avoid. Yet Jesus sees him.

Not his label. Not his reputation. Not the assumptions others had made about him. Jesus sees a child of God. And Jesus says simply, “Follow me.”

Then Jesus goes further. He sits at the table with tax collectors and sinners. The religious authorities are scandalized. Why? Because Jesus is crossing boundaries. He is refusing to divide the world into insiders and outsiders. He is refusing to create categories of people who are beyond God’s grace.

And when challenged, Jesus responds: “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” Mercy. Not exclusion. Mercy. Not gatekeeping. Mercy. Not fear.

The ministry of Jesus is one long story of expanding the circle. Again and again, Jesus moves toward those whom society has pushed aside. Again and again, he reminds us that the Kingdom of God is bigger than our prejudices. That is one reason Pride Month matters—not only for LGBTQ people but for all people.

Pride Month invites us to celebrate the sacred truth that every human being possesses inherent dignity. It reminds us that diversity is not something to tolerate. It is something to celebrate. Not because diversity itself saves us. Christ saves us. But because diversity reveals something beautiful about the God who created us.

If we want to understand diversity, perhaps the best place to begin is not with society at all. Perhaps we should begin with the Trinity.

Our faith proclaims one God in three Persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Unity without uniformity. Distinctiveness without division. Difference without hierarchy. Perfect communion.

The Father is not the Son. The Son is not the Spirit. The Spirit is not the Father. Yet they remain one. At the very heart of reality is relationship. At the very heart of God is holy diversity. The Trinity teaches us that unity does not require sameness. In fact, true unity often depends upon difference.

Our modern world frequently confuses unity with conformity. We imagine peace comes when everyone becomes alike. But God reveals another way.

The Trinity shows us that difference can strengthen communion rather than weaken it. Difference can deepen love. Difference can enrich the community. Difference can reveal new dimensions of truth.

The same pattern appears in the calling of the Apostles. Think about that group for a moment. Matthew the tax collector. Simon the Zealot, who likely opposed Roman rule. Fishermen. Laborers. Ordinary people. People with different experiences, backgrounds, personalities, and political viewpoints.

If Jesus were building an organization according to modern management principles, this would seem like a terrible plan. These people should not have worked together. Yet Jesus called them all.

Not because they were alike. But because they were needed. The Kingdom required every one of them. Their differences became strengths. Their varied gifts became instruments of God’s mission. The Church has always been strongest when it embraces this truth.

Saint Paul understood this when he wrote that the Body of Christ has many members. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you.” The foot cannot say to the ear, “You do not belong.” Every member matters. Every gift matters. Every voice matters.

Perhaps nowhere is this truth displayed more dramatically than at Pentecost.

Today we stand in the season of Pentecost. The Holy Spirit descends upon the disciples. Tongues of fire appear. And then something remarkable happens. The disciples begin speaking in many languages.

Notice what God does not do. God does not erase linguistic differences. God does not force everyone into one language. God does not demand cultural conformity. Instead, the Spirit speaks through diversity.

People hear the Gospel in their own language. Their own culture. Their own experience. Pentecost is not the destruction of diversity. Pentecost is the sanctification of diversity.

It is God’s declaration that every language, every culture, and every people have a place in the unfolding story of redemption.

If Pentecost teaches us that diversity is holy, the Incarnation teaches us that humanity itself is holy. The eternal Word became flesh. Not an abstraction. Not an idea. Flesh. Human flesh. God entered fully into the human experience. Jesus laughed. Jesus wept. Jesus felt hunger and fatigue. Jesus knew friendship and loss.

In the Incarnation, God embraces humanity in all its complexity. The Incarnation tells us that our bodies matter. Our lives matter. Our stories matter. Our identities matter. Because God chose to dwell among us.

This is why Pride Month can be understood not merely as a celebration of one community but as a broader reminder of human dignity. Pride has particular significance for LGBTQ people whose histories have often been marked by exclusion, rejection, violence, and misunderstanding.

That history should matter to Christians. Because Christians are called to stand wherever human dignity is threatened. Christians are called to defend the image of God wherever it appears. Christians are called to love as Christ loved.

But Pride also reminds all of us that God’s Kingdom is wide enough to embrace human diversity in all its forms. Different races. Different cultures. Different backgrounds. Different abilities. Different experiences. Different stories.

The Church is strongest when everyone knows they belong. Not because we agree about everything. But because we recognize Christ in one another.

The great temptation of every age is fear. Fear of difference. Fear of change. Fear of those we do not understand. Yet Scripture repeatedly tells us: “Do not be afraid.”

The opposite of fear is not certainty. The opposite of fear is love. And perfect love casts out fear.

The Gospel invites us to move beyond fear and toward relationship. Beyond suspicion and toward understanding. Beyond exclusion and toward hospitality.

That is what Jesus did. He crossed boundaries. He sat at unexpected tables. He touched those considered untouchable. He restored those whom society had cast aside. He widened the circle. And he calls us to do the same.

So this June, as conversations about Pride unfold around us, the Church has an opportunity. An opportunity not merely to take a position, but to bear witness. To bear witness to a God whose very nature is relational. To bear witness to a Savior who welcomed outsiders. To bear witness to a Spirit who speaks through diversity. To bear witness to the truth that every person is created in the image and likeness of God.

And to proclaim that diversity is not a weakness to fear but a gift to embrace.

For when we learn to see one another as God sees us, we begin to glimpse the Kingdom: a Kingdom where every tribe and nation gather together, where differences are not erased but redeemed, where all are welcomed at the table of grace, and where life reflects the very God who made us.

May we have the courage to build that Kingdom here and now, and to live as witnesses to its welcome.

Amen.

Acts 2:1–21 & John 7:37–39

I will admit this is an odd title for a sermon, especially in a church that was destroyed by fire in December of 1903. I understand the fire broke out shortly after the service ended on Sunday morning. I would be interested in knowing which sermon the pastor preached!

Fire can be devastating, but it can also produce life. The forest management folx will say that a forest fire should be allowed to burn, as the forest becomes healthier after the fire burns off dead material, making room for new growth. A lesson the church should learn as well.

There are moments in history when something old finally realizes it cannot survive by pretending everything is fine.

A company that refuses to innovate eventually collapses. A government that stops listening to the people eventually fractures. A family that refuses to talk honestly eventually grows distant.

And yes, even the Church, when it becomes more concerned with preservation than with proclamation, risks becoming a museum rather than a movement.

Pentecost arrives as a holy disruption—challenging complacency and calling us to renewal.

Disruption is not always a bad thing. 250 years ago, a bunch of farmers gathered and decided they had had enough and wanted a different life for themselves and their children. Through disruption of the status quo and a war, they changed the course of history and brought forth a new nation that aspired to the holy notion that everyone, man, woman, white, black, English, French, was created equal and had certain rights not given to them by a government, but given to them by their creator.

The disciples were about to learn about holy disruption. They are gathered behind closed doors. They are fearful, uncertain, unsure of what comes next. Jesus has ascended. The world around them is unstable. Rome still rules. Violence still exists. Poverty still exists. Corruption still exists. Fear still exists.

And then the Spirit comes. Not politely. Not quietly. Not cautiously. The Spirit arrives like wind and fire, disrupting complacency and igniting change. Jesus came to change how people interacted with each other on an individual level, not on a corporate level. Jesus came to reform worship and the way religion was being practiced. I don’t believe Jesus came to create an institution but rather to initiate a movement of holy disruption. The Spirit empowers this movement by transforming fear into boldness and sparking new beginnings within the Church.

Pentecost is not just the Church’s “birthday.” It is when God moves the Church beyond stagnation.

And perhaps that is the word we need to hear today.

Because if we are honest, many parts of the modern Church are exhausted. We are watching denominations shrink. We are watching sanctuaries empty. Left, right, and center, religious leaders are falling prey to a bad spirit. We are watching Christians become more known for outrage than compassion, more committed to ideology than the Gospel, more interested in winning arguments than healing wounds. More interested in keeping people out than welcoming them in.

Meanwhile, outside the walls of the Church, the world is aching. People are lonely. People are anxious. People are drowning in division and misinformation. Young people, especially, are searching for meaning in a world of endless scrolling and very little hope.

Pentecost enters not as nostalgia or mere tradition, but as an invitation to real renewal and transformation.

In our reading from Acts, the Spirit descends, and suddenly people from every nation hear the Gospel in their own language. That detail matters deeply.

The miracle of Pentecost is not that everyone suddenly spoke the same language. The miracle is that God spoke in ways people could actually understand. The message of the Gospel is simple: just love everyone. We have made it difficult.

The Spirit does not erase difference; the Spirit bridges it. The Spirit welcomes everyone, regardless of origin, skin color, or who they love. The Spirit assures that all are loved and invites everyone—not only those deemed worthy—to come and find rest.

And perhaps that is one of the great failures of the Church in our own time. Too often, we expect people to learn our language and act a certain way rather than asking whether we are speaking the language of love, justice, mercy, and hope that the world desperately needs.

One of the clearest examples of what true repentance and renewal can look like came last week when the Church of Scotland formally apologized for its historic involvement in and benefit from slavery. By the way, we are not immune to this.

The Church confessed that some of its leaders used theology to justify the unjustifiable and acknowledged that the legacy of slavery still shapes systems of inequality today. In the words of the apology, the Church said it was “grieved beyond telling” and committed itself to “changing course and bearing fruit worthy of repentance.” That is not weakness. That is what the Gospel looks like when a church is brave enough to tell the truth about itself.

Because renewal in the Church, renewal in anything, does not begin with pretending we have always been right. Renewal begins with honesty. With confession and repentance, with the courage to say, “We got this wrong, and by the grace of God, we want to do better.”

We have become fluent in institutional survival, but sometimes forget how to speak human.

Pentecost reminds us that the Gospel must always be translated, not changed, but translated, into the realities people are actually living. If we are preaching a message that’s not relevant to the people we are trying to reach, no one will listen. The Church, as an institution, has become irrelevant in people’s lives, and we need to change that.

The early Church did not survive because it clung to comfort. It survived because it adapted while remaining rooted in Christ.

That is reformation. And reformation is not a dirty word in the Church. The Church has always needed renewal. Always.

The Protestant Reformation happened because the Church had become too entangled with power and wealth. The Civil Rights Movement forced many churches to confront the sin of racism embedded in their theology and practice. Even now, we are being called to reckon with nationalism masquerading as Christianity, with fear being preached as faith, with political tribalism replacing the radical inclusiveness of Jesus.

And before anyone becomes uncomfortable, let me say this clearly: the Gospel should make us uncomfortable. When I first arrived, I told you that my calling is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. That is what the Gospel does.

Because Jesus consistently crossed boundaries that everyone else wanted to preserve. He spoke with Samaritans. He touched lepers. He welcomed outsiders. He challenged religious leaders. He confronted the empire. He proclaimed good news to the poor and liberty to the oppressed.

The Spirit did not descend at Pentecost so the Church could become safe and respectable. The Spirit descended to energize, renew, and motivate the Church to become bold again. The Spirit’s purpose was to transform the Church into a Holy Disruption, empowering believers to act courageously and break through barriers.

And boldness is not cruelty. Boldness is not arrogance. Boldness is not culture war.

Biblical boldness is telling the truth in love. Biblical boldness is defending the dignity of every human being because each bears the image of God. Biblical boldness is feeding the hungry while others debate whether they deserve food. Biblical boldness is standing beside the marginalized even when it costs us something. Biblical boldness is proclaiming hope in a cynical age.

That is the fire and purpose of Pentecost: bold renewal that keeps the Church alive.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus stands up during the festival and cries out: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and let the one who believes in me drink.” And then John tells us Jesus is speaking about the Spirit.

Thirst.

What a perfect image for our moment. We are spiritually dehydrated. We live in the wealthiest society in human history, and yet people are starving for meaning. We have more technology than ever before, yet many people have never felt more isolated. We are constantly connected and rarely commune. We binge entertainment but hunger for joy. We consume outrage but thirst for peace.

And the Church has too often responded by offering performance instead of transformation, skirting the truth to avoid upsetting anyone. We reach out rather than draw in, replace traditional worship with rock concert-like services, dismiss anything traditional as “old-fashioned,” and transform sanctuaries into multipurpose auditoriums where we preach comfortable messages.

But Jesus does not offer spectacle. Jesus offers living water. Living water flows. Living water moves. Living water refreshes, cleanses, and nourishes. And all that costs. Not in dollars and cents but in dying to self and living in the spirit.

And stagnant water? It dies.

Look around and see how many churches are closing their doors. All the mainline protestant denominations have recorded losses over the last 20 years. Churches that were once thriving have diminished, consolidated with other congregations, or disappeared altogether.

But I can honestly say that our future looks bright. Sure, we could just add a few more people in the pews. But even with less, you are doing more. You are feeding your neighbors. You welcome all to the table. We may not always agree, but we get the job done.

Perhaps one of the questions Pentecost asks us is this: Where have we become stagnant? And we all get stagnant, personally, congregationally, and nationally. Where have we mistaken routine for faithfulness? Where have we confused maintaining the institution with participating in God’s mission?

Because the Spirit has never been particularly interested in preserving the status quo. Just ask Peter—he was transformed by the Spirit’s prompting to move beyond tradition and embrace new ways of embodying God’s mission.

Before Pentecost, Peter is frightened and denies Jesus around a charcoal fire. After Pentecost, Peter stands in the streets proclaiming resurrection with courage. The same Peter. The same flaws. The same humanity. But now filled with the Spirit.

And that matters because Pentecost is not about perfect people becoming holy superheroes. It is about ordinary people becoming open to God’s transforming presence.

The Spirit still does that. The Spirit still takes fearful people and makes them courageous. The Spirit still takes divided communities and creates reconciliation. The Spirit still breaks open hardened hearts.

I think about some of the movements we have witnessed in recent years. Communities organizing after tragedy. Young people are demanding action on climate change because they understand they will inherit the consequences of our inaction. Churches are opening their doors as shelters and food pantries, while others insist faith should remain “private.”

That, too, is Spirit work. Because the Spirit is never just emotional. The Spirit is transformational. And transformation always produces movement.

Notice that at Pentecost the disciples do not stay inside the room. The Spirit pushes them outward. Out into the streets. Out into the public square. Out into the messiness of real life. Out of comfort and into uncomfortableness.

The Church cannot fulfill its mission by hiding from the world. We are called into the world, not to dominate it, not to condemn it, but to love it as Christ loves it. And most importantly, to offer hope.

And that may mean the Church itself must change in some important ways.

We may need to spend less energy on getting people into church and more on bringing the love of Christ to where people already are. We may need fewer celebrity pastors and more authentic communities. We may need less obsession with numbers and more concern for neighbors. We may need less fear of difficult conversations and more trust that truth and grace can coexist.

Because renewal is rarely comfortable. Ask anyone who has gone through recovery. Ask anyone who has rebuilt their life after loss. Ask any congregation that has truly reinvented itself. Renewal requires honesty.

The Spirit first disrupts before the Spirit rebuilds. Wind before fire. Fire before proclamation. Proclamation before transformation.

And maybe that is why Pentecost can feel unsettling. Because if we truly pray, “Come, Holy Spirit,” we are not praying for business as usual. We are asking God to change us. To burn away our complacency. To loosen our grip on fear. To open our eyes to our neighbors. To renew the Church not as a fortress of certainty but as a community of hope.

The prophet Joel’s words, quoted by Peter, still echo today: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.”

All flesh. Not just the powerful. Not just the wealthy. Not just the people who look like us or vote like us or worship like us.

All flesh. Pentecost is radically inclusive because God’s Spirit is radically generous.

And maybe the greatest sign of renewal in the Church will not be larger buildings or bigger budgets. Maybe the true sign of renewal will be whether people encounter Christ in us.

Will they find compassion? Will they find welcome? Will they find justice? Will they find hope? Will they find living water? Will they be transformed?

Because the world is thirsty. And the Spirit is still being poured out. The question is whether we are willing to be renewed by it.

Whether we are willing to let the wind blow through the dusty rooms of our hearts and our institutions. Whether we are willing to stop clinging to what is familiar long enough for God to create something new.

Pentecost is not about preserving ashes. It is about carrying fire.

So Church, perhaps it is time to stop asking how we survive and start asking how we burn brightly again. Not with anger. Not with fear. But with love so alive, so courageous, so Spirit-filled that the world cannot help but notice.

O Heavenly King, the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere and fillest all things; Treasury of Blessings, and Giver of Life – come and abide in us, and cleanse us from every impurity, and save our souls, O Good One.

Amen.

There are some Sundays in the life of the Church that come wrapped in joy and tenderness, and Mother’s Day is certainly one of them. But if we are honest, it is also one of the more complicated days we observe.

There are certain days in history that are seared into our minds, and for me, one of those days is the day my mother died. On the 8th of February 2018, my mother suddenly died. It was early in the morning, and the phone rang. My sister-in-law was calling to give us the news. When Nicky told me what had happened, I lost it and could not move.

My mother was my strength and my rock. She was my biggest supporter and my loudest critic. That day in February left a big hole in my heart and in my life. I miss my mother’s presence every day, but I feel her spirit and know she is with me in everything I do.

For some, this day is filled with gratitude and warm memories. For others, it carries grief—grief for mothers who have died, for relationships strained or broken, for children longed for but never born, and for hopes that did not unfold the way we imagined. Still, throughout these different experiences, many women have raised children not born to them and nurtured generations through teaching, caregiving, mentoring, healing, counseling, or by simple presence. Some women have carried communities on their backs while no one thought to thank them.

With all of this in mind, I want to not only celebrate mothers in the narrow sense of the word, but also honor the sacred vocation of women—women whose lives reveal strength, compassion, wisdom, courage, sacrifice, endurance, and grace.

This honoring has deep roots. Throughout Scripture, whenever God is preparing to change the world, very often a woman is already there.

Before Moses could lead, there was Jochebed, his mother, who hid him among the reeds to save his life. Before Israel had a king, there was Hannah praying with tears in the temple. Before the resurrection was proclaimed, there was Mary Magdalene, one of the most maligned women in history, standing faithfully at the tomb when others had fled.

And before the salvation of the world entered history in flesh and blood, there was Mary.

Mary of Nazareth. The mother of Jesus.

I am a theologian of the Reformed tradition. I firmly believe that the church needed and continues to need reform. As I have said in the past, God is still speaking, and Revelation is still happening.

At the same time, I feel the reformers discarded more than they should have, including devotion to the mother of Jesus. I refer not to worship, but to honoring the woman chosen by God above all others to be the mother of the Word Made Flesh.

Mary is a young woman from an unremarkable village. Poor. Unknown. Living under Roman occupation. Yet when the angel appeared and spoke impossible words, “Greetings, favored one,” she answered not with power or certainty, but with questions, and courage.

“Let it be with me according to your word.”

We often soften Mary into stained-glass gentleness, but there was steel in her faith. Mary said yes to a calling that would place her in danger, invite misunderstanding, and ultimately lead her to stand beneath a cross watching her son die.

And yet she remained.

Mary teaches us that holiness is not weakness. Holiness is endurance. Holiness is showing up when love becomes costly.

At times, the Church underestimates women because the world often equates gentleness with fragility. Yet Scripture never does.

The Bible is filled with strong women.

Deborah stood as judge and leader over Israel when the nation lacked courage. Esther risked her life before the king for the sake of her people. Ruth crossed borders and built a new future out of loss and uncertainty. The Samaritan woman at the well became one of the first evangelists after an encounter with Jesus. Lydia opened her home and helped establish the early Church. Phoebe was a deacon.

These women were not background characters in God’s story. They were central to it.

And perhaps that should not surprise us, because from the very beginning, Scripture tells us that women and men alike are created in the image of God.

Not one reflecting God more than the other. Both bear a divine imprint. Both necessary. Both beloved.

And yet, many women move through life carrying burdens largely unseen. Expectations. Exhaustion. Caregiving. Emotional labor. Quiet sacrifices no one applauds.

Women are often the ones who hold families together, remember birthdays, sit through hospital nights, offer comfort at funerals, teach children to pray, and somehow continue giving even when they themselves are weary.

There is a holy resilience in that.

But today should not merely be about thanking women for what they do. Shifting our focus, it should also be about affirming who they are.

Beloved children of God.

Not valuable only because they nurture others. Not worthy only because they sacrifice. Not holy only because they serve. Women are sacred simply because God created them, called them good, and affirmed their inherent dignity and worth.

One of the tragedies of our modern culture is that we have learned to measure people by productivity instead of presence. Too often, we find ourselves asking, “What do you contribute?” before we ask, “How is your soul?”

Jesus never did that.

Look carefully at the women around Jesus. He spoke to women publicly when others thought it improper. He listened to them. He healed them. He defended them. He welcomed them among his followers.

In a world that often pushed women to the margins, Jesus consistently brought them to the center.

That matters. It mattered then, and it matters now because affirming women’s dignity and equality is central to our faith and community.

Because there are still too many voices in our world, including voices in the Church, that try to diminish women, silence women, objectify women, dismiss women, or define women too narrowly.

But the Gospel speaks a different word.

The Gospel declares women as bearers of wisdom, strength, prophecy, leadership, compassion, and faith. It proclaims women as first to announce resurrection and as essential—not secondary—to God’s plan of redemption.

And so today, we honor all women.

We honor mothers raising children in exhausting and beautiful circumstances. We honor grandmothers whose prayers still echo through generations. We honor adoptive mothers, foster mothers, godmothers, spiritual mothers, teachers, nurses, counselors, chaplains, mentors, caregivers, and friends.

We honor women who have buried children and women who never had the chance to hold one. We honor women who live quietly faithful lives no one sees except God. We honor women who have fought battles others know nothing about.

We honor women who are healing. Women who are grieving. Women who are searching. Women who are surviving. And women who still dare to hope.

Because hope itself is holy.

Mary knew that.

When she sang the Magnificat, she sang not as a passive observer but as a prophet proclaiming a God who lifts the lowly, fills the hungry, and overturns injustice.

Mary believed God was doing something new in the world.

And perhaps that is the invitation for us today as well.

Let us build a Church where women are not only appreciated one Sunday a year but continually honored, heard, encouraged, and empowered. This is our calling: to recognize the sacred dignity in every woman, every day.

To teach our daughters that their voices matter. To teach our sons to honor and respect the image of God reflected in women.

To become a community shaped not by domination but by mutual love.

At the foot of the cross, as Jesus breathed his last, he looked at his mother and made sure she would not be alone. Even in suffering, he saw her.

Perhaps that is one of the holiest things we can do as Christians: truly see one another. See the burdens. See the gifts. See the grief. See the strength. See the sacred image of God shining in lives that too often go unnoticed.

Today, we give thanks for the women who carried us, taught us, challenged us, comforted us, prayed for us, and loved us into becoming who we are.

And for those carrying sorrow today, we remember that God also sees your tears.

The God who called Mary. The God who strengthened Deborah. The God who walked with Ruth. The God who appeared first to Mary Magdalene in the garden.

That same God walks beside you still.

And so may this day become more than sentimentality.

May it become gratitude. May it become healing. May it become recognition. May it become a blessing.

And may we leave this place remembering that whenever courage, compassion, wisdom, resilience, and love appear in this world, the Spirit of God is already at work.

John 10:1-10

There is something deeply intimate about a voice we know well. You can be in a crowded room, filled with noise and distraction. Still, when that one familiar voice calls your name, you hear it. You turn. You recognize. You respond.

As a kid playing on the street, I could always hear my mother’s voice when she would call me to come home at the end of the day. Of course, I could always hear that voice when I had done something wrong, and she called me by all my names.

In the Gospel passage we heard today, Jesus speaks directly into that kind of knowing. “My sheep hear my voice,” he says. “I know them, and they follow me.” It is a simple image: shepherd and sheep. But beneath its simplicity lies a profound truth about trust, belonging, and discernment in a world overflowing with competing voices.

Good Shepherd Sunday invites us into this metaphor. We are not passive listeners to a quaint pastoral scene, but active participants in a relationship that demands attention. This shift asks us: the question is not simply whether the shepherd speaks. Do we recognize the voice?

And perhaps, to bring that closer to our own time, we must ask: how do we tell the difference between the voice of the shepherd and all the others?

We live in an age of amplified voices—shouting across social media, cable news, pulpits, and platforms. These voices promise certainty, security, identity, and belonging if we follow them. Some are persuasive or comforting in their simplicity. And yet, Jesus warns: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.”

That’s strong language. It should make us pause.

Because not every voice that claims authority speaks life, nor does every leader who gathers a following lead people toward abundance. Some voices divide, manipulate fear, or reduce the complexity of human life to slogans and enemies. Some claim to protect the flock while quietly feeding off it.

Here, the image of the shepherd becomes more than a comforting pastoral metaphor. It becomes a lens for discernment, sharpening our perception as we navigate the many voices around us.

The shepherd, Jesus tells us, does not climb over the fence or sneak in by another way. The shepherd enters through the gate. The shepherd calls the sheep by name. The shepherd leads, rather than drives. And most importantly, the sheep follow not because they are coerced, but because they recognize the voice.

Recognition is formed through relationship. You don’t recognize a voice you’ve never taken time to hear.

There is a powerful idea offered by Bishop Yvette Flunder, fellow UCC Pastor and presiding bishop of the Fellowship of Affirming Ministries, which she calls the “Third Testament.” She uses this phrase to describe the ongoing revelation of God in the present moment—God’s action and voice continuing in our lives here and now. The “Third Testament” is not a replacement for scripture, nor an addition to the biblical canon. Instead, Flunder suggests it is a way of recognizing that God’s story didn’t end with the Hebrew Scriptures, which bear witness to God’s covenant with a people, or with the New Testament, which reveals God through Jesus. The “Third Testament” refers to the living testimony of God, still speaking, still acting, in and through our lives today. It means that the story of God is ongoing, continuing in us, among us, and around us.

If, as I believe, God is still speaking, then the voice of the Good Shepherd is not confined to the past. It is not locked in ancient text or memory. It is alive, present, and still calling us. We must listen carefully, because not every voice that claims divine authority reflects the heart of God. The “Third Testament” is written not in ink, but in lives shaped by love, justice, mercy, and truth. It is revealed whenever the vulnerable are lifted, the excluded are welcomed, and the dignity of every human being is honored. In those moments, the voice of the Shepherd breaks through the noise, and we can recognize and follow it.

And so, the spiritual life, at its core, is not about blind obedience. It is about cultivated awareness. It is about learning, over time, what the voice of Christ sounds like amid everything else.

What does that voice sound like? It is a voice that calls people by name, not by category. It moves toward the margins, not away from them. It refuses to weaponize fear. It tells the truth, even when the truth is costly. It leads toward life, abundant life—not just survival, not just comfort, but fullness.

“I came that they may have life,” Jesus says, “and have it abundantly.”

Now let’s be honest: abundance is not a word that always matches our lived experience. Many people today are anxious, economically stretched, and spiritually weary—watching a world that feels increasingly fractured: politically, socially, even religiously. The voices around us often reinforce scarcity: not enough resources, safety, or belonging.

Into that anxiety—the reality of our world—comes the voice of the shepherd. This voice does not deny hardship, but refuses to let scarcity have the final word.

Abundance, in the kingdom of God, is not about accumulation, but about communion. A life so deeply rooted in God that fear no longer dictates our decisions; communities shaped by radical hospitality; justice that restores rather than punishes—these mark the abundance we are invited to embrace.

And we see glimpses of that abundance even now.

We see it in communities that open their doors to migrants and refugees. They treat them not as threats but as neighbors. We see it in churches that are choosing courage over comfort. They stand publicly for dignity and inclusion, even when it costs them members or influence.

We see it in young people who are demanding a more just and sustainable world, not settling for the narratives they’ve inherited, but asking deeper questions about what it means to live truthfully and compassionately.

These are not abstract ideals. These are signs of the shepherd’s voice still calling.

Yet, even in those spaces, we encounter competing voices. Some claim compassion is weakness. Some insist justice is dangerous. Some argue that some people simply don’t belong.

We return, then, to the central question: which voice are we following? Following the Good Shepherd is not just about personal comfort; it is about communal responsibility.

When we claim to follow Jesus, we shape the environment in which others try to discern that voice. Our words, our actions, and even our silence all play a part. They can either clarify or distort what that voice sounds like in the world.

If our communities sound more like fear than love… more like exclusion than welcome… more like certainty than humility… then we have to ask ourselves whether we are truly echoing the shepherd or simply amplifying another voice altogether.

Jesus says, “I am the gate.”

That is a powerful image. It is not a barrier meant to keep people out. It is a point of passage, a place of movement between safety and freedom. “Whoever enters by me will be saved,” he says. They “will come in and go out and find pasture.”

Notice that rhythm: in and out—shelter and openness, security and exploration. The Christian life is not meant to be lived behind locked doors, nor to wander aimlessly. Instead, it is a life guided and held by a presence leading us into deeper, shared freedom—not an individualistic one.

A flock moves together. When one sheep is missing, the whole flock is affected. When one voice is silenced, the harmony is diminished. When one person is excluded, the body is wounded. The Good Shepherd does not lead a fragmented people. The Good Shepherd gathers.

So, what might it look like, in this moment, to be a people who truly recognize and follow that voice?

It might mean slowing down to really listen, beyond the noise; questioning voices we’ve grown comfortable with, especially when they lead us toward fear or division; choosing relationship over ideology, presence over performance; and trusting that the voice calling us toward love, justice, and mercy is not naïve, but profoundly real.

Because here is the promise at the heart of this passage: the shepherd knows us. Not as a mass. Not as a statistic. Not as a problem to be solved. But by name.

And to be known like that, to be called like that, is to be invited into a life that is both grounded and expansive. A life where we are not defined by the loudest voice in the room, but by the truest one.

So, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, the invitation is simple, but not easy:

Listen. Listen for the voice that calls you by name. Listen for the voice that leads toward life. Listen for the voice that gathers rather than scatters.

And when you hear it, follow. Not because you are forced. But because, deep down, you recognize that it is the voice of the one who has been calling you all along.

May we have the courage to listen—and to follow the voice that calls us by name, leading us beyond comfort into life that is bold, abundant, and true.

Amen.