The Voice That Knows Your Name: Rethinking the Good Shepherd

I hope this finds you well—or at least, honestly wherever you are.

Spring has a way of demanding we notice it, even when we’re tired. So if you’re noticing it, even just a little—that counts.

This Sunday brings us to what the church calendar calls the Fourth Sunday of Easter—often known as Shepherd Sunday.

The lectionary leads us to John 10 and its familiar image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. It’s an ancient metaphor, worn smooth by centuries of use. You’ve probably seen it in paintings—quiet landscapes, sheep gathered close, a calm and watchful figure at the center.

And I’ll be honest with you: I’ve had a complicated relationship with this image.

Part of that comes from how the metaphor has sometimes been used—to keep people in line. To suggest that faithfulness means quiet compliance. That the mark of a “good” follower is not asking questions.

That version of the Shepherd has done real harm.
And if you’ve experienced that kind of leadership, you probably don’t need me to explain it.

But what if we let ourselves read it differently?

What if the Shepherd in John 10 isn’t about control at all—but about recognition?

Jesus says, “I know my own and my own know me.”

That’s not hierarchy.
That’s relationship.

It’s mutual.
It’s intimate.

It’s the kind of knowing that doesn’t require you to perform or prove yourself first.

And what if the voice of the Shepherd is less about commanding and more about calling?

Calling toward abundance.

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

Not barely enough.
Not life contingent on getting everything right.

Abundance.
For everyone. Full stop.

This week, I’ve been thinking about what that kind of abundance actually looks like in practice.

And I keep coming back to the table.

Next week, several of us will head to First United Methodist Church to serve at the Open Door Ministry Supper—a community meal for our neighbors.

I want to name this clearly:

This is not charity.
This is Kindom work.

The table at Open Door isn’t a place where we hand things down from a distance. It’s a place where we show up alongside.

Where abundance looks like real food, shared space, and someone refilling your water glass—and meaning it.

The earliest Christians were known by their tables.

By who was welcomed.
By who was fed.

That hasn’t changed as much as we might think.

The question of who gets fed—physically, spiritually, emotionally—remains one of the most theological questions we can ask.

There’s something about Shepherd Sunday landing in the same week as that meal that feels exactly right.

The voice that calls us by name
is the same voice that calls us toward one another.

To notice.
To show up.
To share the table.

You don’t have to have it all figured out to do that.

Wherever you find yourself this week, I hope you hear something that calls you by name—and that you recognize it as good.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Travis