On a trip to Ireland over twenty years ago, I took a bus journey through the countryside of the Connemara mountains in the late dusk hours. Although it was June, the temperature outside was damp and chilly. On that bus ride, I experienced one of the coziest views I’ve ever seen in my life. In the deepening darkness, I spotted simple country homes dotting the countryside. Warm light radiated from their windows, and smoke curled from the chimneys. Or, at the least, the smoke was there in my imagination! I noticed the lights first, and then the houses. And although I was perfectly content and warm on the bus, I had the distinct feeling that I wanted to be in one of those homes.
I could imagine a fire crackling in the grate and a family gathering around it, perhaps reading or knitting or sharing a round of beverages. However, romantic and inaccurate my picture of the interior of those country homes was, the presence of light in the darkness and the prospect of a warm, safe abode tapped into an instinctual longing within me. I wanted to be near the warmth I envisioned in those little rural homes.
Do you feel the warmth in this church? After Mass, I stand at the Tower doors, waiting to greet people as they leave. But even after the last notes of the organ voluntary have ceased to sound, I’m usually still waiting. It’s as if people don’t want to leave the church. It’s as if everyone at Mass has been drawn to this sacred space as a moth to the light or as a shivering Irish farmer to the warmth of a fireside grate.
Five minutes after the Mass ends, there are more people in the pews than those who have exited. And while this could seem like mere clubbiness or exclusive fellowship, it’s not. There’s something deeper here. There is a warmth radiating within the room, and if we were to take the temperature of the inside of this church, it would register as a warm fireside amber. But outside the doors of the church, that color might fade into an icy cold blue.
Inside, close to Jesus’s presence in the Blessed Sacrament, we’re being warmed by an eternal fire.[1] Inside, close to the living Word proclaimed, we’re energized by the Holy Spirit’s comforting presence. Inside, in close company as members of one Body and one Spirit, any coldness in our hearts and bodies is warmed into life again.
It was so in Jesus’s earthly life. Wherever he went, warmth pervaded the atmosphere. The injured and sick were healed. The cold loneliness of human lives cast out of elite circles was warmed by Jesus seeking them out. The coldness of hungry stomachs was warmed by abundant feeding. The darkness of lives without hope was illumined by Christ’s presence giving them a future when all seemed lost. Jesus attracted people to himself like humans to a cozy fireside, although not everyone was receptive to the warmth, as we see in John’s Gospel today.
In John’s Gospel, nothing is coincidental. No unusual detail is haphazard, and so we must wonder why John redundantly tells us that at the time of the Feast of the Dedication, otherwise known as Hanukkah, it’s winter. Of course, it’s winter, Jesus. Tell me something I don’t know! It’s the time of shortening days, but it’s also another kind of winter. It’s a winter of the soul. Or as St. Augustine of Hippo, put it, “the winter before Christ’s passion.” In this winter, stubborn hearts refuse to acknowledge Jesus’s works as works of God. Cold, hard authoritarianism is the bane of the lowly person’s existence. Ossified hearts are unaffected by the warmth of this reconciler and healer, true man and true God.
Those who acknowledge Jesus’s works and those who would be healed by him are drawn to him as to a cozy fireside, longing to be warmed by him. But others, as St. Augustine said, are “slow to approach that divine fire.”[2] It’s winter, and although some approach Jesus, they yet ask Jesus to prove himself. Jesus must prove himself in their terms. But Jesus has only explained himself through his works.
To know Jesus, to become close to him, to be thawed by his warmth, is to be in relationship with him. We can tell whether people are truly disciples by how close they are to Jesus. Just as Jesus is close to the Father, so our proximity to Jesus puts us closer to the Father. We can only know the Shepherd’s voice when we are close to him.
But we know all too well that outside the doors of this church, winter persists. The days may be lengthening, the flowers may be blooming, and it may be getting warmer, but winter is relentless. There’s an icy distancing in the air, which divides and scatters rather than unites. There’s a cold estrangement among the human family that is predicated on fear and prejudice. There’s a fragmentation of community that is fueled by competition and jealousy. And while the obvious solution should be to run towards the warmth of the Church’s life to be fed, so many resist it.
There’s a danger in the Church perceived as a sheepfold. She can so easily become an exclusive club or her own cold company of like members. She can become an instrument of unrelenting judgment that pits herself against the world rather than seeking to warm its iciness. But a Church gathered around her true Shepherd, around the One who heals, reconciles, and unites, is not a Church gathered merely around herself. A Church gathered around her Good Shepherd is a Church that recognizes that she’s always lost until she’s found by Jesus the Christ. And in that recognition, the Body of Christ becomes a warm fire of humble welcome, drawing others to the Good Shepherd.
To follow Jesus our Good Shepherd is to put ourselves as close to him as we possibly can. To come close to the Good Shepherd is to be here, nestled against his living Word proclaimed in community and close to his altar where he’s known to us in the breaking of bread. To come close to Jesus is to draw near to him with our sins and seek his forgiveness and mercy. To be close to him is to align every movement of our lives with his. To be close to him is to put him at the center of all that we do. He’s our North Star, not a convenient add-on to our busy lives. To be close to Jesus is to be close to each other, to affirm our different gifts and to encourage one another to good works and service. To be close to Jesus is to know that the only cure to the icy coldness of our worldly lives is the warmth of the Good Shepherd.
If we keep our distance, his voice will become unrecognizable to us. To know Christ is not simply to know him intellectually, it’s to know him in relationship. To know him is to know him in our neighbor, in the poor, in the sick, and in the suffering among us. To know him is to know that we’re lost and that he has found us, that is, if we wish to be found.
And this brings us to an incredible mystery of finding the Good Shepherd. Jesus tells us that the Father has given the sheep into his care. And this may be the most humbling realization of all as the modern Church. No matter what we do and no matter who we are and no matter what projects we undertake, all the sheep who find Jesus by coming to this particular fold come because God sends them here. We often don’t know how and why. But we do know that the Father will constantly send us sheep. We know that there are other sheep not yet of this fold who one day will find their way here. And although we can’t control it, we can do one thing: we can be as close to Jesus as possible. In that proximity, our cold bodies will be warmed by his warmth and light. And that warmth and light will radiate from our bodies to all whom we meet.
We can celebrate the warmth of a community gathered around the worship of God in Word and Sacrament, a community that seeks constantly to be near our Lord, and we can celebrate it not as institutional narcissism but as the gift of almighty God. And we can continue to pray for those sheep whom we don’t yet know but whom God the Father will draw to his Son by bringing them here.
For now, it’s enough to be here, week after week. There’s no more important thing we can do than to come here in all the icy moments of life, and in the warm ones, too. Come and let your cold bodies be warmed by the presence of Christ’s care and love. Follow close to him, and let his grace heal the brokenness of your lives. Come and let Christ’s love thaw your frozen hearts of stone. Come and find your way to the warmth, and get close to Christ. And when you get close to Christ, rejoice that you have found eternal life and that you are God’s child. And no one, not even the devil himself, can snatch you out of his hand.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday of Easter (Feast of Title)
May 11, 2025
[1] This image comes from St. Augustine of Hippo. See John 1–10, vol. 4A, Ancient Commentary on Christian Scripture, eds. Joel Elowsky and Thomas Oden (Lisle, IL: IVP Press, 2019), 355-56.
[2] Ibid.