Sermon by Father Alistair So-Schoos
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
In recent years, researchers who study religion and society have confirmed what many of us already sense in our bones. Religious life is not simply declining or reviving; it is being reshaped. In the United States today, nearly three in ten adults now describe themselves as religiously unaffiliated, the highest proportion ever recorded. And yet, at the very same time, most of those people still say they believe in God or some form of higher power. Many still pray. Many are searching.
The pandemic did not create this reality, but it exposed it. When gathering became impossible, routines were broken, and assumptions were stripped away, people did not simply drift from church; they re‑evaluated whom they trusted, what voices they listened to, and where they believed life could truly be found. Even now, as some patterns have returned, communal religious life remains fragile, and uncertainty lingers about authority, commitment, and belonging.
We are living, then, in a world crowded with voices. Voices that promise meaning, identity, safety, fulfillment. Voices amplified by fear, outrage, certainty, and speed. Voices that do not ask to be tested, only followed. And many people—inside the Church as well as outside it—are listening carefully, because they know that not every voice leads toward life.
And into that kind of world, today’s readings do not whisper. They speak with remarkable clarity.
Today is also the Feast of Title for this parish: Good Shepherd Sunday. That matters. Because the Church does not merely use this image—it lives under it.
In the Gospel, Jesus reaches for one of the most familiar images in Scripture: sheep and shepherd. But this is not simply a calming pastoral scene. It is a word of discernment. Jesus speaks of thieves and bandits, of strangers whose voices the sheep do not recognize, of those who climb in by another way. And then he says something both simple and radical:
“I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture… I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
In a world of competing voices, Jesus is saying that not every voice deserves our trust. Some voices scatter. Some exploit. Some promise freedom and deliver anxiety instead. Some offer belonging but require fear as the price of admission. But the voice of the shepherd gathers. The gate that is Christ leads not to confinement but to life—life with room to breathe, space to grow, and pasture enough for all.
That image is deepened by the words of Psalm 23:
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want… He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.”
This is not a psalm of ease; it is a psalm of trust. Even in the valley of the shadow of death, the shepherd is present. The promise is not escape from danger, but companionship through it.
But the readings today do not end with reassurance. They show us what life under the Good Shepherd actually looks like. And for that, we turn to the Book of Acts.
Acts gives us one of the clearest pictures we have of the earliest Christian community:
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers… All who believed were together and had all things in common… They ate with glad and generous hearts.”
This is what a flock gathered by the Good Shepherd looks like. Not a loose association of individuals who share opinions, but a community shaped by worship, teaching, generosity, and joy. They prayed together. They shared meals. They supported one another. They held their possessions lightly. And their shared life became a visible witness. Acts tells us that “day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.”
The Church grew not because it successfully competed with the noise of the world, but because it offered something different: a way of life marked by generosity instead of fear, fellowship instead of isolation, and hope instead of scarcity.
That speaks directly to our moment. Many people today are not rejecting God; they are unsure where to find God. They hear many voices. They encounter many claims. But when they see a community shaped by love, forgiveness, and generosity—when they see people living under the care of the Good Shepherd—they begin to recognize that voice.
The Epistle from 1 Peter deepens the picture. It reminds us that following the shepherd does not mean a life without suffering. “If you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God’s approval… Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps.”
The Good Shepherd is not defined by control, but by sacrifice. Not by domination, but by self‑giving love. And Peter tells us that the flock is shaped by that same pattern: patience, humility, trust in God’s justice rather than our own retaliation.
“When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten.”
This is the voice the sheep learn to recognize.
And then Peter concludes:
“For you were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.”
That is the heart of today’s message—especially on this feast. We were scattered. We were wandering. We listened to many voices. But in Christ, we are gathered. We are given not only a shepherd, but a flock. Not only guidance, but a community.
And that community does not exist for itself. The Church grows when it lives as pasture instead of pressure. When it becomes a place where burdens are shared, forgiveness is practiced, and generosity becomes normal. A place where tired souls can rest and searching hearts can listen.
Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” That abundance is not merely personal; it is communal. It is experienced when we devote ourselves to teaching and fellowship, to breaking bread and prayers. It is experienced when we live with glad and generous hearts.
On this Feast of the Good Shepherd—this feast of your parish’s very name—we are reminded who we belong to, whose voice we follow, and what kind of community we are called to be.
The Good Shepherd calls us by name. He leads us. He protects us. He restores our souls. And when we listen for his voice and live as his flock, others will recognize that voice too.
And day by day, as in the early Church, the Lord will add to the number of those who are being saved.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Fourth Sunday of Easter (Feast of Title): Good Shepherd Sunday
April 26, 2026