Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year C): The Shepherd Has No Face

The Gospel tells us: I am the Good Shepherd. I know mine and mine know me.

It’s a beautiful image—one that evokes care, intimacy, and guidance. But let us not be too quick to soften it into comfort. Because if Christ is the Good Shepherd, then we must ask: who—or what—is this Christ?

Let us say clearly: Christ is not a man from the past to be remembered or admired. Christ is not a moral example, not a legend wrapped in holiness. Christ is not someone we can possess or define.

Christ is the Word—the living Word that addresses us, here and now. A voice that speaks not from a distance, but directly into our lives. A voice that does not simply inform us, but claims us. It cuts through our illusions, calls us by name, and demands a response—not in theory, but in how we live, in what we trust, in whom we follow.

We do not invent this Word. We do not summon it with piety or tradition. It comes to us. And it comes whether we are ready or not.

And this is what we mean when we say Christ. Christ is the name we give to that Word that meets us in our brokenness and still speaks. Whether we answer or turn away, that call is real. The Shepherd has no face—no image we can cling to—but his voice still calls.

The resurrection, too, must be understood in this way. It is not a magical reversal of death, not a historical puzzle to be solved. It is this: that the one who died is not silenced. The Word lives. The voice speaks. The Good Shepherd calls us into life that no grave can hold.

But let us be honest: the Shepherd does not lead us into comfort. He leads us out—out of certainty, out of control, out of the selves we’ve constructed. He calls us into trust. Into surrender. Into a future we cannot predict.

This is what it means to follow: not to walk behind a figure in robes, but to live from the call that will not let us go.

The church has often tried to tame this Shepherd, to dress him in doctrine, to domesticate his voice. But the real Shepherd is not safe. He leaves the ninety-nine. He speaks from the margins. He disrupts the systems we build—even the religious ones.

And still—he calls. Not in thunder, but in the quiet moment when something inside us shifts. When a word pierces the soul. When we realize we are not our own.

That is the voice of the Good Shepherd.

And if you have heard it—truly heard it—you already know: we name that voice Christ.

Amen.