This Sunday Isn't the Sermon You Think It Is

Every year on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, the lectionary hands us the same gift — and we open it the same way. Green pastures. Still waters. Jesus the gentle shepherd, leading his flock. It's Good Shepherd Sunday, and we know exactly what to expect. Except this year I kept reading.

Here's what John 10 actually says. Jesus does not call himself the shepherd in this passage. He calls himself the gate. "I am the gate for the sheep." Verse seven. And then again in verse nine, in case we missed it: "I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved." The Good Shepherd is in John 10 — but not yet. We're not there. What we have this Sunday is something different, and something worth sitting with.

A gate is a threshold. It's not a destination, not a shelter, not a resting place. It's the thing you pass through to get somewhere. And what Jesus says you enter into — what's waiting on the other side — is this: abundant life.

Not uncomplicated life. Not safe life. Abundant life.

Which raises the question Psalm 23 answers in a line we tend to read past at funerals: "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies." Not after the enemies are gone. Not in a protected enclosure where nothing can reach you. In their presence. The table is set in contested territory. The cup overflows anyway. The feast happens anyway. That's what the gate opens onto. Not escape. Not ease. A table, already set, with your name on it — right in the middle of whatever is pressing in on you. This Sunday we're going to look at what that actually means. What it looks like to pass through the gate and find, not safety, but something more durable than safety.

I hope you'll join us.

Grace and Peace,

Lee+