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.
