Fourth Sunday of Easter Reflection
READING: John 10: 1-10
“He calls his own sheep by name.”
In a crowded room, full of conversation and background noise, there are certain voices we recognise instantly. A loved one. A close friend. Even if we cannot see them, something in us turns. We know that voice—not because we were instructed to, but because, over time, we have come to trust it and recognise it.
Jesus’ words in John 10 speak into that deep human experience: “The sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name.” This is not a picture of control, but of relationship. Not command, but recognition.
And yet, if we are honest, recognising that voice today feels harder than ever.
We live in a world saturated with sound. News alerts ping on our phones. Social media feeds scroll endlessly, offering opinion after opinion, often urgent, often conflicting. There are voices telling us what to fear, what to desire, what to believe, what to reject. Some are loud. Some are polished. Some are persuasive precisely because they are repeated so often. Not surprising that so many people now admit to not listening to world news at all.
In that landscape, Jesus’ words become both more challenging and more necessary: “They follow him because they know his voice.”
But how do we know that voice?…the voice of God
Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury , suggests that faith is not about having perfect certainty, but about learning, slowly and patiently, to recognise the voice of Christ among many competing voices. It is less like solving a puzzle and more like developing an ear—an attentiveness shaped over time.
And crucially, the authentic voice is not always the loudest.
It is not necessarily the most confident, the most dramatic, or the most widely shared. Often, the voice of truth is quieter. It carries a different weight—not because of how it sounds, but because of what it does. It is a voice that is consistent with acts of care, patience, and integrity. A voice whose authority comes not from performance, but from presence amongst the people they are with
Take for example a dairy farmer standing amongst a herd in a field
There is nothing dramatic about it. No headlines, no urgency. Just a person among a herd, looking, noticing. To an outsider, the cows may seem indistinguishable. But the farmer knows them. He can see when one is not quite right—when it is limping slightly, or standing apart, or not feeding as it should. There is a familiarity, a quiet attentiveness, born of time spent together..and his herd trust him when he offers support.
You see, real care and real offering advice or a perspective on something is not about control. It is about knowing.
That image comes close to what Jesus is describing in the reading we heard today. . The shepherd calls the sheep by name, and they follow—not because they are driven, but because they recognise something or someone trustworthy.
There is a similar dynamic in the film The Intern. The older character, played by Robert De Niro, does not dominate the room. He is not the loudest voice in the fast-paced office around him. In fact, he spends much of his time simply observing—watching how people behave, noticing what is needed, quietly offering support. And over time, people begin to seek him out. Not because he demands attention, but because his presence carries wisdom. His voice has weight because it is grounded in care.
This begins to show us something important about the voice of the shepherd….the leader…or the voice of God. It is not manipulative. It does not overwhelm. It does not need to shout.
It is recognised because it is consistent with life.
Jesus, in this story, contrasts this voice with another: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.” I think that this is not about labelling particular groups as outsiders. It is about naming the forces—personal, social, political—that diminish life. Voices that generate fear, division, or despair. Systems that reduce people to numbers or commodities. Narratives that tell us we are not enough, or that others are less worthy.
Against all of that, Jesus offers something different: “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
Abundant life here is not about having more. It is about being more fully alive—more connected, more rooted, more capable of relationship with God, with others, and with the world around us.
Sam Wells , vicar of St Martin’s in London , often describes this as the difference between living for something and living with. Abundance is found not in accumulation, but in shared life.
But to hear that voice, God’s voice- often spoken though another individual, —to begin to recognise it—we need space.
We need, quite deliberately, to step back from the constant noise and busyness of our overcrowded lives just to listen to, to take stock .
This is where the tradition of contemplative prayer, a time for silence in a busy day, becomes not a luxury, but a necessity.
The Desert Fathers and Mothers understood this deeply. Anthony the Great is remembered as saying that just as fish die if they stay out of water, so the soul withers if it is constantly exposed to distraction. Silence, for them, was not emptiness. It was a way of returning to what is real.
Contemplative prayer is not about achieving a particular feeling or insight. It is about learning to listen. To sit in stillness. To notice what rises within us. To become aware of which voices bring peace, and which bring agitation or fear.
Over time, this kind of prayer forms us. It sharpens our discernment. It helps us recognise the difference between a voice that demands and a voice that invites.
Because the voice of the shepherd does not coerce.
It calls.
And perhaps this is where the image of the gate becomes important. Jesus says, “I am the gate… Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.”
Notice the movement: coming in and going out. This is not confinement. It is freedom. A rhythm of rest and action, belonging and sending.
The voice we are learning to recognise is one that leads us into that kind of life—life that is spacious, relational, and grounded.
So the question this Gospel leaves us with is not simply, “Do you believe?”
It is something more searching, and perhaps more gentle:
Which voices are shaping your life?
And beneath that:
Where do you hear a voice that leads not to fear or diminishment, but to life?
Because that voice—however quiet, however unassuming—is the one that calls you by name.
Image: Adolfo Felix (Unsplash.com)
