Sermon for May 11, 2025 - The Fourth Sunday of Easter

What If…?

Today, our Gospel reading invites us into a different kind of reflection. For the past few weeks of Eastertide, we’ve been walking with the disciples in the aftermath of the resurrection. We stood with Mary and Peter at the empty tomb. We heard Thomas wrestle with doubt. We joined the disciples they shared a simple meal on the very shores upon which they were called to follow Jesus just three years earlier. These were stories of encountering the risen Christ—intimate, surprising, and filled with hope.

But today’s Gospel reading from John 10 shifts the tone and timeline. It takes us back—before the crucifixion, before the resurrection—to a moment of confrontation and tension in Jesus’ public ministry.

John tells us it was the Festival of the Dedication in Jerusalem—what we know today as Hanukkah. It was winter. Jesus was walking in the temple, in Solomon’s portico, when the people surrounded him and asked:

“How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” (John 10:24)

This isn’t a casual inquiry. The Greek phrase here literally means, “How long will you take away our life?”—a question filled with urgency and frustration. They wanted clarity. Certainty. Proof.

And Jesus answers them:

“I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.” (vv. 25–26)

This is where the Good Shepherd image comes into focus.

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.” (vv. 27–28)

It’s a moment of deep theological revelation. Jesus is not just claiming to be a good teacher, a prophet, or even a political saviour. He is claiming unity with God the Father. “The Father and I are one,” he says in verse 30. And that changes everything.

That question— “How long will you keep us in suspense?”—echoes something we’ve all asked at one point or another:

What if I never know what God is doing?

What if this is all there is?

What if I’m not who I used to be?

What if…?

Earlier this week, I was reminded of those questions when I came across a blog post from a friend back in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He and his wife are both writers, and in his post, he shared a deeply vulnerable moment. He had just returned from a trip, and his wife, nearing forty, told him she didn’t recognize herself anymore. She couldn’t find the person she used to be—the woman who loved writing, who filled lined notebooks with stories at age eight. She was asking, in her own way, “What if this is it? What if this is life?”

That question struck me. What if?

It made me think about my own journey—about the seasons of loss and growth, about identity and calling. As a teenager, I felt confident that God was calling me into ordained ministry. It felt so clear, so certain. But life rarely follows a straight path.

When I left my first undergraduate program, I returned to Boston feeling lost. I knew the requirements—no degree, no ordination. I thought everything I had hoped for was gone. My dream had crumbled. I asked myself: What if this was it?

I tried to keep the dream alive, reapplying to schools and getting in, only to repeat the cycle and spectacularly crash out. In that painful season, I began to understand that sometimes, in order to see where God is leading us, we have to let go of the story we were writing for ourselves. I had to stop clinging to the future I imagined and become present to what was unfolding. God was there, even in the letting go.

Years later, but not too long ago, I faced another moment of surrender when I heard the word “cancer” in my doctor’s office. Even with hope and treatment options, that word changed everything. The life I had built—my calling, my parenting, my routine—was suddenly under threat. And once again, I had to let go.

Treatment was successful, thanks be to God. My body handled it well, aside from losing my hair and my beard that have thankfully grown back. But in that crucible, something deeper was happening: I was being reshaped. My identity in Christ was being reforged. I saw Jesus in the nurses and doctors who cared for me. I heard his voice in the silence of prayer. I felt his strength in the companionship of loved ones and parishioners.

Yes, cancer is now part of my identity. But so is healing. So is hope. So is survival.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus says that his sheep “know his voice.” That’s not about theological precision or religious certainty. It’s about relationship. “I know them,” he says, “and they follow me.”

When we go through transitions—grief, illness, a new job, retirement, or even just the passing of time—we often feel like we’re losing ourselves. We look in the mirror and wonder: “Where did I go? What if this is it? What if…”

But Jesus says: “I know you.” Even when you don’t know yourself. Even when your identity feels cracked or unrecognizable, the Shepherd never loses track of his sheep. You are held. You are not forgotten. “No one will snatch them out of my hand.”

So where do we find our footing in the midst of change?

We find it in Jesus—the one who holds us when everything else feels uncertain.

We find it in our baptism, where our identity is forever rooted in Christ’s love.

And we find it in this community, this flock, where we are reminded again and again that we are not alone.

The psalmist says, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” That’s not a sentimental comfort. It’s a radical claim of trust. Even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we do not walk alone.

Jesus isn’t just offering comfort—he’s offering identity. Eternal belonging. He’s saying:

“You are mine. I know you. I hold you. I give you life, and no one can take you from me.”

That is our answer to the “what if” questions.

What if life doesn’t turn out the way we planned?

What if we lose parts of ourselves along the way?

What if we’re asked to begin again?

Even then—we are still known. Still held. Still loved.

And perhaps especially then, we hear the Shepherd’s voice most clearly.

Each of us is facing some kind of change—large or small. The death of a spouse. A shift in health. A move. Retirement. A new calling. Three years ago, I moved here to serve this parish, and that was a major transition for me and my family. In every change, we are asked to let go of something and to grow into something new.

But hear this truth: You are not alone in your letting go. You are not alone in your becoming.

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, walks with you every step of the way.

And we, this church, this flock—walk with you too.

No matter what you’re experiencing this week, this month, or these past few years—your place is here. You are loved. Not for who you used to be. Not for who you might become. But for who you are—right now.

And in that love, we will be transformed.

And through that love, we will help transform the world. Amen.