The Fourth Sunday Sunday of Easter: May 11, 2025 | Laura Meyers

Readings: Acts 9:36–43 | Psalm 23 | Revelation 7:9–17 | John 10:22–30

(image: Twenty-Third Psalm, by Frank Wesley)

There is something profoundly intimate about being called by name.

Not by title.
Not by role.
Not by reputation.

But by name —
The tender word spoken by the One who knows you fully and loves you still.

We live in a world that names us in other ways.
Names us by what we produce.
By who we please.
By what we’ve survived.
By what we’ve lost.

But the Shepherd speaks a different name.

And on this day — Good Shepherd Sunday, Mother’s Day — the naming feels even closer to the bone.

Because today, we honor the ones who have mothered us — by birth, by adoption, by choice, by community.
And we remember, too, the ones we have lost.
We carry the names of our mothers.
We carry the names of children who are no longer here.
We carry the ache of longing, the pain of estrangement, the grief of miscarriage, the complexity of relationships that never lived into what we hoped.

For some, today brings joy.
For others, today is heavy.
And for most of us, it’s both.

Into that mix — of love and loss, of celebration and silence — God speaks.

And God speaks by name.

We hear it in Acts, when Peter enters the room of the beloved disciple who has died.

Her name is Tabitha.
She was a seamstress of compassion, a weaver of dignity.
She clothed the widows, not just with fabric, but with care.
She stitched hope into a world that so often comes undone.

And when she dies, her people gather in grief.
They hold out the garments she made, as if to say,
“She saw us. She remembered us. She made us feel whole.”

And Peter enters that room, and he kneels down to pray.
Then he turns to the still body and says, “Tabitha, get up.”

He calls her by name.

Not the widow helper.
Not the charitable woman.
Not the disciple who served.

Just—Tabitha.

Because in the Kingdom of God, we are not defined solely by what we do.
We are named in love before we ever act in service.

Belovedness comes first.
Everything else flows from that.

And even death cannot erase the name that God speaks over us.

Psalm 23 reminds us:
The Lord is our shepherd — not just in theory, but in presence.
In green pastures. In shadowed valleys.
In hospital rooms and empty nurseries.
In sleepless nights and sacred silences.

This shepherd does not abandon us when the road gets hard.
This shepherd leads, restores, anoints, stays.
And at the end, we do not fall into a void.
We are gathered —
We return.
We dwell.
We come home.

But what names do we carry when we return?

Some of us have names shaped by joy:
Beloved. Artist. Seeker.

Some carry names carved by sorrow:
Griever. Wanderer. Widow. Estranged.

Others bear names of resilience:
Caregiver. Survivor. Advocate.

Still others are haunted by false names:
Failure. Worthless. Undesirable.

But the voice of the Shepherd does not echo the world’s distortions.
The voice of the Shepherd calls us by our true name.
The name that no grief can steal.
The name that no injustice can silence.
 The name that was ours before we ever learned the language of fear.

And in Revelation, we see what it looks like when every false name is stripped away.

A great multitude — too many to count — stands before the Lamb.
Every nation. Every language. Every wound.

And still they stand.
Clothed in white.
Not because they were flawless,
But because they were washed in grace.

The Lamb is their shepherd.
The Lamb is their home.

And God will wipe away every tear.

Every tear from the mother who buried her child.
Every tear from the child who never knew their mother.
Every tear from the caregiver, the refugee, the one who wondered if they’d ever be called by their true name again.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus is asked for certainty.
“Are you the Messiah? Tell us plainly.”

But Jesus doesn’t give them a title.
He gives them a relationship.

“My sheep hear my voice,” he says.
“I know them. And they follow me.”

Not: I command them.
Not: I demand from them.
But: I know them.

The voice of the Shepherd is not always loud.
 It is not always obvious.
 But it is always near.

It calls to us in the quiet.
In the ache.
In the moment we think we are unseen, unknown, unloved.

And the Shepherd says:

You are mine.
You are safe in my hand.
No one will snatch you away.
Not grief.
Not fear.
Not shame.

And if you’re wondering today what names God might be whispering to you,
Listen:

Beloved, when shame tells you otherwise.
Child of Light, when the valley feels long.
Peacemaker, when anger rages.
Witness, when the world forgets.
Healer, even when your own wounds still ache.

And just as we are named in love, we are also sent —
To help others hear their names, too.

Especially those the world tries to forget.

The migrant at the border.
The trans teen without safe space.
The woman overlooked.
 The man dismissed.
 The child abandoned.
 The elder left alone.

To be called by name is to be seen.
To be seen is to be known.
To be known is to be loved.
And to be loved — truly — is to be made new.

Tabitha was not resurrected because she earned it.
 She was raised because she was known.
And so are you.

You are not your productivity.
You are not your pain.
You are not your past.

You are God’s own.

And even now, the Shepherd is calling your name.

So may we listen.
May we rise.
May we help others hear their names too —
Until every weary soul
Finds their way home.

Amen.