Day 17—Monday, March 9

John 10:25-30

Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, in regard to what he has given me, is greater than all,[ and no one can snatch them out of the Father’s hand.  The Father and I are one.”

The world is a noisy place. Beyond the din of traffic and troubling news reports, our interconnected digital world constantly delivers messages suggesting who I should be, what I should want, and where I belong. Algorithms reflect my habits, predict my fears, and curate my outrage. I am constantly "shepherded" by data and influencers, herded toward the next crisis or purchase.

Amid this cacophony, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice.”

Do I? If His voice is supposed to cut through the digital noise and the anxiety in my chest, I’m not sure I’m hearing it. I look for a feeling, some clarity, a sign, a divine notification ping. But we are people of the Book, people of the Covenant, people of the slow, ordinary means of grace. Even so, as I sit in the pew on Sundays, often tired, distracted, worried, I often feel like a lost sheep, unable to hear anything over my own desperate bleats.

Maybe following comes before hearing. I need not to feel "spiritual" or even well rested to drive to church, to sit down, to sing, to confess my sins, and to walk forward and partake of the bread and the cup. I can take that walk without hearing His voice. Maybe the walking is the hearing. My feet are doing what my ears can't confirm or my mind comprehend. I can follow our liturgy, an ancient path worn by millions of sheep before, trusting that the Shepherd is at the head of the line, even when he can’t be heard or seen through the fog.

Maybe I’m listening the wrong way. I wait for a blessed algorithm to deliver a voice that sounds like mine: my internal monologue, only holier. But Jesus’ voice is more likely to sound like things outside of me. It sounds like Andrew, Isabella, or Leigh reading Scripture, or the choir singing an anthem. It sounds like the unexpected encouragement of a friend in the fellowship hall. It sounds like the silence after the Benediction. It sounds like the cries of a neighbor, calling me to love when I’d rather doomscroll.

But in spite of my inability to hear, this is the anchor - “I know them.” Jesus claimed me before I was formed in the womb, and I cannot be snatched from His hand. Jesus reminds that it is His knowledge of me that saves. He knows my doubts, my distracted mind, my weary heart. He knows I struggle to hear, and He calls me His sheep anyway.

So I stay in the fold. I show up at the Table. I keep reciting the Creed even when my voice shakes. Maybe that will be enough for today.

Prayer: Lord, I'm yours, help me to hear you. And when I can't hear you, help me to trust that you're still holding on to me, even when I can't feel your grip.

-Christopher Ptomey