Good morning, church! It is always a joy to be with you in worship, and I'm delighted we're diving into this passage today from John's Gospel. It's one of those sections of Scripture that seems so simple at first glance—Jesus talking about sheep and shepherds again. But if we slow down a bit and really listen, I think something profound here speaks right into the heart of where many of us are living these days.
I don't know about you, but sometimes life can feel noisy, can't it? Loud. Confusing. It's hard to know who to listen to or what to believe. It's hard to feel safe, secure, and steady when there's so much uncertainty in the world. And yet, in the middle of that noise, Jesus says something so clear, so grounding. He says, "My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me."
The first thing I want us to notice in this passage—maybe the most foundational truth—is that Jesus is speaking, but not everyone hears him.
Let's look again at what's happening in the story. It's the Festival of Dedication, what we now know as Hanukkah, and Jesus is walking through Solomon's Colonnade in the temple courts. It's winter, and the people—specifically the religious leaders—gather around him and ask, "How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly!"
If I were Jesus, I might have rolled my eyes a little. By this point in John's Gospel, Jesus has been healing the sick, raising the dead, feeding the hungry, forgiving sins, and teaching with the kind of authority that could only come from heaven. He has already shown them and told them exactly who he is—just not in the way they wanted him to. But still, they say, "Come on. Just say it. Are you the one or not?" And what does Jesus say in return? He says, "I have told you. But you don't believe me."
You see, their issue wasn't that Jesus was being unclear. The issue wasn't that Jesus was being evasive. The problem wasn't on his end at all. The problem was with their reception. They had already made up their minds about what the Messiah was supposed to look like, what he was supposed to do, and how he was supposed to sound. And because Jesus didn't fit their preconceived mold, they tuned him out. It wasn't that Jesus wasn't speaking; they weren't listening.
Now, I want to sit with that for a minute because I think we can be just like them if we're honest. Can't we?
We say things like, "God, just tell me what to do! Please show me the path. Open the door. Write it in the sky. Speak to me in a dream. Just something!"
We want clarity. We want direction. We want a roadmap. We want answers.
And God says, "I am speaking. I've been speaking. But you've got to slow down enough to listen."
The issue for most of us isn't that God has gone silent. It's not that God has suddenly stopped communicating with his people. The real problem is that we've got so much noise in our lives that it's hard to distinguish the voice of the Shepherd from everything else that's shouting for our attention.
Let me tell you, friends—our world is loud. We are drowning in a sea of voices—social media, email alerts, text messages, the news, political commentary, advertising, YouTube, Spotify, TikTok, Netflix, and all the internal noise of our anxious minds. We live in a culture that rewards hustle, glorifies busyness, and rarely—if ever—permits us to be still.
We are constantly being pulled in a thousand directions. And in the middle of that whirlwind, we cry out to God for a word, a sign, some divine interruption. But we often haven't created any space to hear him speak.
It reminds me of something I learned growing up in southern Indiana. Some of you have heard me talk about my childhood. We lived out in the country, in a farming community where the roads were gravel, and the neighbors were cows. And one of my favorite things to do was to walk early in the morning to feed the horses. We'd head out just before sunrise while the world was still waking up.
I remember those walks so vividly. The stillness of the morning. The dew on the grass. The crunch of gravel under my boots. And you know what I noticed? You could hear everything. The birds waking up. The frogs chirp down by the creek. The wind rustled through the cornfields. You could even hear a deer moving through the woods if you were quiet and paying attention.
But here's the thing—if you were talking the whole time or were distracted, stomping around, or checking your phone (not that we had phones in our pockets back then!), you'd miss it all. You'd walk right past the wonder and not even notice. God's voice is like that sometimes. Gentle. Persistent. Present. But not always loud.
Do you remember the story of Elijah, when he's hiding out in the cave, feeling discouraged and alone? God tells him to stand on the mountain because the Lord is about to pass by. And then comes a powerful wind—but God's not in the wind. Then, an earthquake—but God's not in the earthquake. Then a fire—but God's not in the fire either. And finally, after all that, comes a still, small voice—a gentle whisper. That's where God was in the whisper.
That's how God still speaks. Not always in the spectacular but in the subtle. Not in the chaos but in the calm. Not in the noise but in the stillness.
And so the question becomes: have we made room to hear that voice?
Because Jesus says, "My sheep listen to my voice." It's a beautiful image—sheep learning to recognize the unique voice of their Shepherd. In first-century Israel, shepherds often bring their flocks together at night into one big fold for safety. In the morning, each Shepherd would call out to their sheep. And guess what? The sheep knew which voice to follow. They didn't go with the wrong Shepherd. They had learned the voice that led them to green pastures and clean water. They had come to trust it. So let me ask you—whose voice are you following?
Are you tuned in to the Shepherd? Or are you being led by the loudest voice in the room? The most persuasive headline? The most polished influencer? The most emotionally charged comment section?
Jesus is speaking. Through Scripture. Through prayer. Through people. Through creation. Through the Spirit stirring in your heart. The problem is rarely with God's communication. The problem is usually with our calibration.
So what do we do? How do we get better at listening? We make space. We get quiet. We slow down.
We carve out moments in our day where we turn off the noise and tune in to God. That might mean five minutes of silence in the morning before the kids wake up. It might mean a walk around the block without your phone. It might mean praying with your Bible on your lap, saying, "Lord, I'm listening."
It's not complicated. But it is intentional.
The next part of our Scripture passage is just as powerful—maybe even more so. In verse 27, Jesus says, "I know them. "Talking about his sheep—his followers, his people—Jesus says, "I know them."
Now, I want to invite you to pause with me right there. Don't rush past this. Let that truth soak in for a minute. Jesus knows you. That can be one of the most comforting, soul-settling truths in the entire Bible. But if we're being honest, it can also feel a little terrifying—depending on how you think about it.
The kind of "knowing" that Jesus talks about here is not surface-level. It's not like the way we know someone from church or someone we follow on social media. It's not head knowledge—it's heart knowledge. In the Bible, to know someone is to be deeply familiar with them. To be intimately aware of who they are. Their character. Their heart. Their habits. Their pain. Their story.
The knowing sees through the masks we wear and the walls we build.
When Jesus says, "I know my sheep," he's saying, "I know you. The real you. The unfiltered, unguarded, unpolished version of you."
He knows your name.
He knows your story.
He knows what keeps you up at night.
He knows the tears you cry when no one's around.
He knows the dreams you're holding close to your chest.
He knows the burdens you carry but hasn't dared to share.
He knows the battles you've fought and the ones you're still in the middle of.
He knows the things you've done that you wish you could undo.
He knows the things that have been done to you that you're still trying to heal from.
And here's the miracle—he loves you anyway.
Not reluctantly. Not out of obligation. But fully. Completely. Without hesitation.
Jesus isn't shocked by your story. Your brokenness does not put him off. He's not annoyed by your doubts or tired of your questions. You don't have to clean yourself up to be worthy of his attention. You don't have to have it all together to be counted among his sheep.
He knows everything there is to know about you—and he still chooses you.
Let that sink in: You are not a stranger to God. You are not a number. You are not invisible. You are known.
One of the deepest longings of the human heart is to be fully known and fully loved. That's what we're all looking for, isn't it? From the time we're children, we're scanning the world, searching for someone who sees us—sees us—and says, "You're enough. You're wanted. You belong."
But here's the catch—so many of us go through life with the feeling that if people knew us… they wouldn't stick around. So we perform. We put on a mask.
We smile when we're hurting. We downplay our struggles. We hide our flaws.
We try to be the version of ourselves that we think the world will accept.
Even in church—maybe especially in church—we can fall into the trap of putting on our "Sunday best," not just in our clothes but in our demeanor. We smile. We say "I'm fine" when someone asks how we're doing, even when we barely hold it together. We carry the pressure to look spiritual, sound holy, and seem like we've got everything under control.
But with Jesus, we don't have to do that. We don't have to pretend. We don't have to hide. We don't have to filter ourselves. Jesus already knows what's behind the curtain. And here's the breathtaking truth: he doesn't walk away. He stays.
That's what makes Christianity different from every other faith system worldwide. We don't climb a ladder up to God. God comes to us. In Jesus, the Shepherd comes looking for the sheep. He finds us in our lostness. He meets us in our mess. He calls us by name and says, "You're mine."
And maybe—just maybe—that's what someone needs to hear today.
Maybe today you've been feeling unseen. Unknown. Perhaps you've been wondering if anyone gets you. Maybe you've felt like just another face in the crowd, another name on a list, another cog in the machine.
But hear this: Jesus sees you. Jesus knows you. Jesus delights in you.
You're not overlooked. You're not forgotten. You're not too much. You're not too broken. You're not a lost cause. He sees the real you beneath the masks, behind the walls, beyond the public image, and says, "I love you. I choose you. I'm not going anywhere."
And get this! When you know that you are fully known and fully loved by Jesus—it changes everything. It frees you to stop performing. It frees you to stop comparing. It frees you to start healing. It frees you to be honest. It frees you to let others in. Because if the Savior of the world sees you and loves you, you don't have to chase that approval from anyone else.
So today, if you've been carrying the weight of hiding…If you've been struggling with shame or loneliness…If you've been wondering whether God is distant or disinterested…Let this be the voice that cuts through all that noise:
"I know you," Jesus says. "And I still want you." You belong to him.
Today's final part of our Scripture is not just a statement—it's a promise. And what a promise it is. Jesus says, "I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand." Take a moment. Breathe that in. Let it settle in your bones.
This is not a half-hearted offer. This is not a conditional contract. This is a holy guarantee straight from the lips of our Savior: "I've got you—and nothing, absolutely nothing, can take you away from me." Friends, we live in a world where so much feels uncertain. We've all experienced just how quickly things can fall apart. You can be healthy one day and sitting in a doctor's office the next, staring at a scan that changes everything.
You can be employed, stable, and planning your next vacation—only to get laid off without warning or a backup plan. You can be in a strong marriage, and then suddenly, years of quiet distance catch up, and things start unraveling.
Or maybe you've been in a long season of exhaustion—spiritual, emotional, mental—and you're wondering if you're even holding it all together.
It doesn't take much to remind us that life is fragile. Unsteady. Unpredictable.
The ground beneath us can feel like shifting sand.
But here's the good news—we are not standing alone. Jesus looks right into that fear, right into that fragility, and says, "You are in my hand. And I'm not letting go."
Now, let's talk about what that means. First, Jesus says, "I give them eternal life." Not "I offer them a tryout." Not "I might reward them if they're good enough." Not "I'll see how they do and decide later." No—"I give." Present tense. Active voice. Certain outcome. This is what theologians call assurance—not arrogance, but assurance—the settled confidence that your life is eternally secure in Christ, not because of your perfection, but because of his promises.
Eternal life isn't just a future destination—it's a present reality. It begins now. It means that even in this life—with all its pain and uncertainty—you are already living in the unshakeable kingdom of God.
Then Jesus continues: "They shall never perish." This is more than just physical survival. Jesus says, "Even death can't undo what I'm doing in you."
In a world where everything fades—money, fame, beauty, health—Jesus offers something that lasts forever. A life that outlasts the grave. A future that suffering can't cancel and the enemy can't steal.
And then comes the line that gives me chills every time I read it: "No one will snatch them out of my hand." Friends, that is the language of divine security. That is the language of covenant love. That language of grace grips us tighter than our doubts, failures, or even our shaky faith.
Let me be honest with you for a moment. There have been seasons in my life where I've wondered if I could hang on. Times when I felt like I was dangling by a thread. Spiritually exhausted. Emotionally drained. Disappointed. Questioning.
Maybe you've been there too.
But here's what I've realized: it's not about how tightly I can cling to Jesus. It's about how tightly he's holding me. Jesus says, "You are in my hand." And when he says that, he doesn't mean he's holding us loosely, like a coin you could accidentally drop. No—he means firmly, securely, lovingly. You are in the grip of the one who calmed the seas, healed the sick, walked on water, and conquered death.
And if that weren't enough, Jesus doubles down. He says:
"My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father's hand." So, we are not only in Jesus' hand but also in the Father's.
This is not the flimsy kind of security the world offers—this is the steel-strong, storm-tested, grace-soaked security of the Almighty God.
And then Jesus seals it all with this stunning declaration: "I and the Father are one." This isn't just a poetic flourish. This is Jesus claiming unity with God the Father. He's saying, "When I promise to hold you, it's not just me talking. The full power of heaven backs me up."
The same power that created the stars and carved the oceans… The same power that parted the Red Sea and led Israel out of Egypt… The same power that raised Jesus from the dead… That power is holding you. Right now. Not someday. Not if you earn it. Not if you clean up your act. Now.
In your fear. In your confusion. In your sin. In your struggle.
You are held. Let me say this clearly because someone needs to hear it:
You can't be dropped. You can't be disqualified. You can't be disowned.
Not by the One who has nailed your name into his hands.
The security Jesus offers doesn't depend on your feelings. It doesn't disappear when you doubt. It doesn't dissolve when you stumble. It is rooted in who he is, not in what you do. You are secure in the grip of God's grace—not because you are strong, but because He is.
And friends, Jesus never promised that this life would be easy. He never said we wouldn't face hardship, heartbreak, or disappointment. He was always honest about that—"In this world, you will have trouble," he said. But what was the following line? "Take heart—I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)
So when the storm comes, the waves crash, and it feels like the ground is shaking beneath your feet, you can still stand. Because you are not alone. Because you are not powerless. Because you are not unprotected.
Because the God who holds galaxies is holding you.
So if you're weary today… If you're walking through something heavy…
If you're wondering if you're going to make it… Hear this, and hold onto it like your life depends on it—because, in a way, it does: Jesus holds you.
When the diagnosis comes—Jesus holds you.
When the grief doesn't lift—Jesus holds you.
When the marriage is strained—Jesus holds you.
When the kids are wandering—Jesus holds you.
When the depression creeps back in—Jesus holds you.
When your faith feels like it's barely hanging on—Jesus holds you.
And he will not let go.
This is the promise of the Gospel:
Not a life free from pain, but a Savior who stays with you in it.
Not a God who shouts from far away, but a Shepherd who walks beside you.
Not a maybe—but a certainty.
Not a hope-so—but a know-so.
You are in his hand.
And no one—no power, no person, no mistake, no circumstance—can snatch you out.
So what do we do with all this?
If Jesus speaks—we listen.
If Jesus knows us—we stop hiding.
If Jesus holds us—we stop living in fear.
This isn't just theology. It's life. It's peace for your soul.
So I want to invite you this week to do three things:
1. Find a quiet space. Just 5–10 minutes a day. Put away the phone, turn off the noise, and ask God to speak. He might not give you a neon sign, but he will speak—in Scripture, in nature, in a still small voice. Just listen.
2. Get honest. Bring your real self to Jesus. Not the polished-up version. Not the Facebook version. The real you. Tell him what's on your heart. The joy and the grief. The faith and the doubt.
3. Trust the grip. Whatever you're facing—financial stress, family drama, health scares, uncertainty about the future—trust that you are not alone. You are in his hand, and nothing can snatch you away.
Let me close with a story.
There's a shepherd in the Middle East who once explained how he trains his sheep to know his voice. He said that every morning, he walks through the hills and calls out—not shouting, just his normal voice. At first, the sheep don't respond. But over time, they learn that his voice leads them to green pastures, to water, to safety. And eventually, they come running when they hear it.
That's what Jesus wants for you and for me.
To learn his voice.
To trust that he knows us.
To rest in the truth that nothing—not even death—can separate us from his love.
So today, may you know this:
You are loved.
You are known.
You are held.
And the Shepherd is calling.
Can you hear him?
Amen.
