Sermon: I am the Good Shepherd - Rev. Dr. Brett Pardue

The Good Shepherd: Called by Name | Rev. Dr. Brett Pardue | North Raleigh UMC

What does it really mean when Jesus says, "I am the Good Shepherd"?

In this thoughtful message from John 9-10, Rev. Dr. Brett Pardue explores one of Jesus' most beloved "I Am" statements through the story of the man born blind. Before Jesus speaks about the Good Shepherd, He seeks out someone who has been questioned, judged, and cast aside by religious leaders. Through this powerful connection, we discover that the Good Shepherd is not simply a comforting image. It is a declaration of God's relentless grace, mercy, and commitment to seek those whom others overlook.

Drawing on the rich themes of John's Gospel, Psalm 23, Ezekiel 34, and United Methodist theology, Brett reflects on God's prevenient grace, belonging before believing, the church's calling to embody Christ's compassion, and the hope found in being known and called by name. Rather than offering easy answers, this sermon invites us to consider how Jesus continues to pursue people with mercy, healing, and love.

Whether you've experienced rejection, are searching for a deeper understanding of God's grace, or want to explore Wesleyan theology through Scripture, this message offers encouragement and a fresh perspective on the Good Shepherd who never loses track of His sheep.

Scripture: John 10:11-30 (with John 9), Psalm 23, Ezekiel 34

North Raleigh United Methodist Church (NRUMC) is a welcoming United Methodist congregation in Raleigh, North Carolina, committed to helping people encounter Jesus Christ, grow in faith, build authentic community, and serve the world.

Topics: Good Shepherd, John 10, John 9, Psalm 23, Ezekiel 34, United Methodist Church, Wesleyan theology, prevenient grace, grace, belonging, discipleship, inclusion, mercy, compassion, healing, identity, faith, Christian living, sermon, Bible study, Raleigh NC, North Raleigh UMC.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:02

Thank you, Krista, for that message. I'm reminded of growing up in church, and I once asked my mom, why don't we have to pray so much in church? And she looked at me and said, Because you need it. And she's here with me this morning, so that's a great gift to have her in worship this morning. And before we begin, I just want to um thank Kevin and Jen and Laura. Thank you for entrusting me with the ministry of the word this morning. Allison grew up in this church, and we were uh she and I were married in this room, so this is not just a pulpit for me. This is a room with with love and memory in the walls, and it's a gift to be to be back, even if Kevin is convinced I'm uh just a recovering Baptist. And I've discovered over my years in the pulpit that you can't take yourself too seriously one Sunday after worship. A man came up uh to me and shook my hand and said, Son, that was a good sermon. I just want to thank you for that sermon. And I said, Well, don't thank me. Thank God. I was trying to act pious, you know. And he said, Well, it wasn't that good. There's an I am statement in John's gospel that you'll probably never find in a church series like ours, Jesus doesn't say it, which is, I guess, maybe the first surprise. A man everybody has been talking about finally speaks for himself. I am the man, he says. So the passage listed in our bulletin is John 10, and we'll get there, but John 10 is a new is not a new subject. These verses don't just fall out of the sky. The passage we'll read today has mud on its shoes. This man from John 9 is still standing in the doorway of chapter 10, the argument warm in the air. So this morning, before we hear Jesus say, I am the good shepherd, we need to stand for a moment beside this man who has just been treated like sheep that nobody wants to claim. But before you picture him, listen. Because he can hear them talking about him. The disciples, good people, faithful people. They're talking about his body, his circumstances in the open air. Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his father, that he was born blind? Notice they do not ask his name. They don't ask what it was like for him to sit there all those years with the world passing him by. They make him a case study while he's right in front of them. Church people can do that. Not here, of course, just every other church I've ever served. And usually not because we're cruel. It's usually because we're concerned. We can stand in the Narthex with coffee in our hands and turn illness into an update, turn absence into a theory. We can share a prayer request with just enough detail for it to travel. And here in the South, we even have a little liturgy to baptize all this. Three words that can just erase all the things you said before them. If you know these words, say them with me. Bless her heart. Meanwhile, the person we're talking about is six feet away, trying to decide, is there really room for me here? Jesus refuses to make this man's life somebody else's prayer request. And then he spits on the ground. That verse never seems to make it into a bulletin cover. The disciples ask for a theory. Jesus starts making mud, spit and dust, fingers and earth. He works the ground until it becomes paste, and then he places mud on eyes that have never seen. The disciples turn this man's body into a question. Jesus turns toward it with mercy. There's a difference between standing in the hallway wondering why someone has not been back and crossing the aisle to say, I've missed you. Can I give you a hug? There's a difference between having a theory about someone's pain and asking where it hurts, so to speak. Jesus comes close enough to touch what everybody else tries to explain. In John, the word becomes flesh. Grace gets under your fingernails. A church that follows this shepherd can't keep its hands clean. Then Jesus tells him to wash. The man comes back seeing, I so wish John told us what he saw first. A face, a tree, his own hands in front of him. Unfortunately, he hardly gets back into town before the neighbors start talking about him, assessing him. Somehow he can finally see them. Ironically, they've become less able to see him. Communities have long memories, don't they? And churches do too. Sometimes that memory is holy, sometimes it is not. We can remember who someone used to be so clearly that we miss who they are becoming. I can look at my niece Ainsley and still see the little girl. She's a teenager now. I can still look at a couple and see their divorce, or I can see someone's addiction, the argument. And because of that, this miracle that happens gets sent to the DMV, basically. This isn't the correct paperwork, sir. You brought the two forms of identification, but we still need a note from the mud maker. Finally, the man speaks. I am the man. I am the one you were talking about. I am still here. That ought to settle it, but it doesn't. He goes through another round of mud, washing, sight. The jury isn't listening. They're just looking for ways to prove him wrong. They say, however, it happened, let us give God the glory. We know one thing. This man Jesus is a sinner. You hear that? They're using religious language, worship language, to baptize putting a muzzle on this man. You were born entirely in sin, they shout. Some of you know that feeling. You know what it's like when God is giving you a new name, but people keep holding on to your old one. The life Jesus changed becomes a problem to be managed, and they drive him out. It's one of the tenderest sentences in the gospel here. Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, that might be the best sentence some of us hear all week. There are people who can tell you the exact day they feel like they stopped belonging. The embarrassment, the shame, the sudden silence where their name used to be. John says something too beautiful to hurry past. Jesus heard. Jesus went looking. Jesus found him. God does not lose track of people, not even when the people of God do. And it's with this man before us, newly sighted, newly driven out, and already found, that I'd like to share with you the gospel according to John chapter 10, verses 11 through 30. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away. And the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own, and my own know me. Just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father. Again the Jews were divided because of these words. Many of them were saying, He has a demon, and is out of his mind. Why listen to him? Others were saying, These are not the words of one who has a demon. Can a demon open the eyes of the blind? At that time the festival of the dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly. Jesus answered, 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. 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. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father's hand. The Father and I are one. This is the word of God for us, the people of God. When Jesus says, I am the good shepherd, he's not changing the subject. The first face still before us is not a shepherd's face, Church. It's the face of a man religious people have left outside. So when Jesus says, I know my own, there's nothing sentimental about it. This is not flowery shepherd language for a greeting card. This is Ezekiel 34, embodied, marching down the road. In Ezekiel, God has had enough of shepherds who feed themselves while the lamb goes untended. Enough of leaders who enjoy the title but abandon the flock. And God makes a promise. I myself will search for my sheep. Here he is, outside, looking, going where he's needed most. This passage this week has reminded me of the time Allison and I have spent over the years in Farmville, Virginia. Some of you may have gone. There's a nice little antique store there called Greenfront, and we like to stay in a little boutique hotel. It's an old renovated dorm. It's a nice little weekend getaway. And as you go to the antique store, you can walk everywhere in town. There's Farmville United Methodists there, downtown. And every year they have this beautiful nativity scene. It's lovely. Mary looks serene. Joseph looks, you know, sturdy. I said earlier the animals look more well behaved than our chancel choir. Not saying much. The bar is low. Every year without fail, someone steals the baby Jesus. That's the only problem. It's vandalism. I guess, you know, there are two college campuses there, and maybe one of the college kids or something. Maybe it's a bold interpretation of take Christ into all the world. One year the church decided enough was enough. We're gonna chain him. And sure enough, there's this little tiny delicate chain from the ankle of Baby Jesus to the manger. Nothing, it wasn't intense. It was nothing Herod would have ordered. It was just a very delicate little chain. Allison and I walk around the corner, and sure enough, the chain is swinging below the manger. Baby Jesus is nowhere to be seen. I look at her and in the spur of the moment said, I guess Jesus goes where he's needed most. And that's charming when the Jesus in question is a plastic baby Jesus in a Christmas display. But it is less charming when he leaves the places where I have carefully arranged him. I like a Jesus who stays put in the manger, in the hymns I like, in the theology that agrees with me, near the people I know how to love. Not across from me, not correcting me, not challenging me, beside me, preferably nodding, saying, Yes, Brett, no notes. I fasten him there with a little chain and call it faithfulness. And the grace is this, Jesus keeps breaking free and finding the people I have not yet learned to love. Maybe that's why the longer I sit with John 10, the stranger the old psalm sounds to me. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. That psalm has done holy work at gravesides and bedsides, prayed through tears, carried by people that had no words of their own. But I think there's a danger to knowing it by heart. We can love it so much that we tame it, we smooth it down until it becomes religious scenery, a green pasture, still water, soft lighting, gentle Jesus with perfectly conditioned hair. But Psalm 23 is not decorative church. It has enemies, it has a valley. And whatever has been trying to swallow you whole this week is sitting close enough to watch you eat. This is a passage that ought to open our eyes. It moves. The Lord leads, he restores, he prepares. Goodness and mercy aren't admiring from a distance. They follow, they pursue, they stay on your trail. And notice the grammar. In the pasture, God is He. He leads me, He restores my soul. But in the valley, God becomes you. You are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalmist stops talking about God and starts talking to God. The shepherd is not promised a life no harm can enter. But in the dark, the psalmist finally sees that he's not walking unattended. I think of our church fellowship hall, after funerals, casseroles, sweet tea. Somebody can make ham biscuits, because in the South we can't fix grief, but we can fix biscuits. And there you are standing in the doorway, a little awkward, not sure where to sit. My face, maybe still puffy from the eulogy. Then Miss Ruby or Elender or any one of our church saints here, with mercy in her face, pulls out a chair and pats the table. I saved you a place right here, honey. And I made you a plate. Grief is still grief. Death is hanging in the air. But there's a place at the table. Jesus says, I know my own, and they follow me. I've got to do better at remembering that order. I do not, he does not say they find the right fold and then I'll learn their names. He does not say they'll get themselves sorted out and then I'll claim them. He says, I know my own and they follow me. Anyone who who's ever taken a church group on the road knows the holy terror of a head count when you come up one short. You keep counting louder and louder as though volume might fix your math, and after two or three minutes of holy pandemonium, the missing child appears with you know a slushie and a bag of gummy worms. What's the big deal? I have not asked Jen's procedure, but I suspect it is this. Don't just count heads, call names. Jesus says, I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also. He's thinking about who's missing. Now I will admit, as a minister, I am tempted to hear that as a recruitment strategy. Please bring these sheep into our fold and quickly before we count attendance. But Jesus says, No, they are already mine. There will be one flock, and the unity is the shepherd, not the fence. And then Jesus shows us how far this open-handed love will go. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. Please stay with me. For years I heard that sentence. I did not see a pastor. I saw a courtroom. I saw a judge, sentence, guilt, punishment. I inherited that theology and I know what it's trying to protect. There's something holy in it. Evil is real, sin destroys, grace is costly, we do not save ourselves. All of that is true. But John will not let us confuse the violence that kills Jesus with the heart of the God revealed in Jesus. We've just watched a healed man endure an identity hearing. Soon Jesus will too. In John 19, Pilate brings him out wearing the crown of thorns and says, Behold the man. There it is again, I am the man. Blasphemer, pretender, problem. The powers of this world cannot imagine what to do with his body except make an example of it. I used to tell the story of the cross in a way that made the verdict sound too much like God's own voice. As though the deepest danger in the room were the Father, but listen to Jesus. The Father loves me. I and the Father are one. No one takes my life from me. I lay it down. The Father is not the wolf. The cross does not make God merciful. The cross reveals mercy going all the way down. Reveals God and Christ entering the courtroom where fear calls the question, where accusation passes the sentence, where shame writes the name tag. Not because suffering makes God happy. Not because violence is God's nature. He goes there because the sheep are there. That's what a good shepherd does. No one will snatch them out of my hand. Now that doesn't mean nothing can hurt us. Some of us in this room have lived too much life to believe that. But it does mean nothing that hurts us gets the last word about whose we are. Not the diagnosis, not the failure, not the institution or the person that put you out. Not the thing you did or the thing they did to you. Sometimes I think about that little chain in Farmville. At Christmas, the figure is missing from the manger. At Easter, the body's missing from the tomb. We keep thinking Jesus has gone missing. John keeps showing us whom is looking for whom. Mary Magdalene stands outside a tomb weeping. She came for his body. Now even that is gone. They've taken my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him. He's standing right there. She just doesn't recognize him. Sir, tell me tell me where you've laid him, and I will take him away. That makes no sense. How will she carry him? Where would she take him? But grief doesn't calculate. Grief is love, looking for one more thing to do. And Jesus doesn't explain resurrection. He doesn't tell Mary where he's been. He doesn't answer the question she asked. What does he do? He says her name. That is often how mercy begins, not by making us explain ourselves or asking us to prove ourselves, but by calling us back to the truth no record can erase. I'd like to close with sharing this story with you. One Easter morning I had the privilege of standing at the font with a man I'll call James. He had a coat that was two or three sizes too large, and pants that were too long and frayed and they were mismatched, his hands in his pockets sort of stood there out of place, like he didn't know what to really do with himself. But he had shared enough of his story with me to know, for me to know it wasn't one I would share in church. So I just asked him the old questions. Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness? I do. Do you reject the evil powers of this world? I do. Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression? And then I turned to the church. Will you surround James with a community of love and forgiveness? They vowed, we will. And then I said his name before anything else. James. I baptize you in the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Only later, as he walked back to the pew, did his pant leg rise enough from me to see the ankle monitor on his leg. It had been there the whole time. While he renounced wickedness, rejected evil, accepted freedom. While the church promised love. The monitor told the court where he was, but it could not tell the truth about who he was. The accuser had a record. The shepherd had his name. The good news this morning is not that Mary finds Jesus. The good news is that Jesus never lost track of Mary. The good news is not that the man born blind found his way back in. Jesus finds him outside. Good news is not that James stood there with no chain on his ankle. The good news is that the shepherd called him by name while the chain was still there. The good shepherd is not calling out numbers, not calling out a case. And when every grave has learned it cannot keep attendance, listen. Listen. And he hasn't forgotten yours.