Easter 4 Year A

Psalm 23, John 10:1-10

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O God our Strength and our Redeemer.

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The words of Psalm 23, the Shepherd Psalm, are words that have settled deeply into most of our hearts over many years. And we’re all familiar with those gentle, sentimental images of Jesus as a shepherd, sitting peacefully with lambs gathered around him.

In our tradition, this psalm is always read on this fourth Sunday in the Easter season – Good Shepherd Sunday. And in John’s gospel, we hear Jesus echo that same image, speaking about himself as the shepherd. For his first listeners, this was an unmistakable and even shocking claim, because they knew that ‘the shepherd’ was God. The Hebrew scriptures are full of references to God as shepherd, and Israel’s kings were also described as shepherds.

So when Jesus speaks like this, he is drawing on a very ancient and powerful image for his people. And those first hearers would not have heard it as something soft or sentimental, but as something strong – something about guidance, protection, and survival.

In the ancient Near East, shepherds lived with their sheep day and night. The sheep knew their shepherd’s voice and followed him everywhere. He was their constant guide and companion – their source of safety and sustenance.

This was how the people of Israel understood the presence of God: not distant, but close at hand – guiding them even in the midst of uncertainty, struggle, and exile. They knew what it was to walk through the valley of shadow. They knew the reality of fear and danger. And still they held onto these words – words of strength, of courage, of trust.

Jesus is drawing on all of this, even though his listeners don’t immediately recognise what he is saying.

There’s a story told of a traveller in the Middle East who once watched several shepherds whose flocks had mingled while drinking from a stream. One shepherd called, and immediately his sheep separated themselves and followed him. Another did the same, and his sheep too came out from the group.

Curious, the traveller asked to try. He put on the shepherd’s cloak and stepped out and called the sheep – but not one moved.

“Will they ever follow someone else?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” the shepherd replied. “Sometimes a sheep gets sick – and then it will follow anyone.”

There is a deep relationship here – a bond between the sheep and their shepherd. And for the sheep, it is the voice that matters. It is the voice they learn to recognise and trust.

In our gospel reading, the image shifts slightly. Jesus speaks of himself not only as the shepherd, but as the gate – the one through whom the sheep pass to find safety and life.

“I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture… I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

There are many voices in this world that can lead us astray – not least our own, at times. Voices that come to steal and kill and destroy.

Especially in a time when so much is feeling uncertain, and the ground seems less steady than it once was, those voices can become louder.

I think of the powerful voices that shape our world – economic pressures, the constant demand to produce more and consume more, systems that are straining our environment and deepening inequality.

I think of the voices in our public life that divide people, that reduce others to categories, that make it easier not to see one another clearly.

And then there are the quieter, inner voices – the ones that tell us we’re not good enough, or not secure enough, or not doing enough.

None of these is the voice of Christ, who came so that we might have life – and have it abundantly.

This is not a promise of a life without difficulty or pain. But it is a promise of a life in which we know we are loved, that we are not alone, that we are held in the loving regard of God.

The challenge for us is learning, again and again, to choose which voice we will listen to. It is a lifelong task.

Benedict of Nursia, in the sixth century, wrote a guide for his community which became known as The Rule of Benedict. Over the centuries, it has become one of the great classics of Christian spirituality.

And its opening line is very simple:

“Listen… with the ear of your heart.”

“Listen… with the ear of your heart.”

It is a call to pause, to attend, to listen – not just with our minds, but with our whole selves. And as we practice that kind of listening, we begin to recognise more clearly which voices are at work within us – and to turn away from those which are not life-giving.

But even when we are uncertain of the way, the Shepherd is always with us – always calling, always seeking us out when we are lost or hurt.

So perhaps the invitation today is simply this: to listen again – with the ear of the heart – for the voice that calls us by name.

And in that spirit, I pray the words of the shepherd psalm again – a prayer not of sentiment, but of strength, of courage, and of trust:

God is our shepherd, we shall not want…
Even though we walk through the darkest valley,
we will fear no evil, for God is with us…
Surely goodness and mercy will follow us
all the days of our lives,
and we shall dwell in the house of God
our whole life long.

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia, alleluia.

Amen.