Known and Led

The Sacred Work of Being Known and Knowing Others

The following is a sermon I gave on May 11, 2025. The text for this sermon comes from John 10:11-18.

Not long ago, I was at one of the open house nights for Empty Spools—multiple week-long quilting workshops at Asilomar. I was walking around with some of my quilt guild friends, admiring everyone’s work, chatting with teachers, and generally having a lovely, fabric-filled evening.

And then, out of nowhere, I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear this very quiet, very timid voice say, “Are you the Quilting Rev?”

Which is…not usually how I get greeted at church—or anywhere, for that matter.

I turned around, and it was Veruschka—an incredibly talented quilter I’ve admired for years. She had just won Best in Show at QuiltCon, the biggest modern quilt show in the world, and was about to teach at Empty Spools the following week.

And there we were—talking about quilting, yes—but also ministry. Calling. Creativity as something holy and sacred. It was wild to be recognized by my Instagram name, but somehow, in that moment, I also felt really seen. Not just as “the Quilting Rev.” But as James.

That kind of moment is rare. And sacred. And it’s exactly what we’re leaning into today.

There’s something tender, vulnerable, and powerful about being truly known.

Not “what you do for a living” known. Not “I saw your post on Instagram” known. Not even “I see you every Sunday” known. But the kind of knowing where someone sees all of you—your story, your sadness, your sass, your stubbornness—and stays close. The kind of knowing where you don’t have to explain yourself, and you don’t have to earn love.

In today’s passage, Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd. I know my own sheep and they know me.” It’s such a gentle sentence. But it carries weight. And it speaks directly into a world, and a church, where a whole lot of us are feeling overextended, burned out, or quietly lonely—sometimes even when we’re surrounded by people.

When Jesus calls himself the good shepherd, he’s not just describing a role. He’s casting a vision for how we’re meant to live in relationship—with God and with one another. And that vision is not transactional. It’s not “show up, smile, serve.” It’s intimate. Committed. Relational. Mutual.

“I know my own sheep,” he says, “and my own sheep know me.” It’s not just about Jesus knowing us. It’s about us knowing him. And in that reciprocal knowing, there’s safety. There’s identity. There’s transformation.

But let’s be honest: knowing and being known is not easy work. It’s beautiful, yes—and it also takes time, vulnerability, and sometimes a willingness to risk something. That’s especially hard in a culture that encourages us to stay busy, look polished, keep our guard up, and be self-sufficient. And it’s even harder in seasons like this—when political fatigue, emotional exhaustion, and everyday chaos leave us hanging on by a thread. We’re tired. We’re overloaded. Some of us are quietly grieving. Some are waiting for someone to just notice.

And that’s why this passage matters so much. Because the Good Shepherd doesn’t just notice. The Good Shepherd knows us. Calls us. Stays with us. Shows up for us.

I’ll never forget one of the moments I felt most deeply known. It was the day of my ordination. I was walking around the sanctuary, greeting people as they arrived. I turned around and saw my piano teacher, Glee. We locked eyes, and immediately—without a word—we both burst into tears. Glee was one of the very first people I came out to. She never flinched. Never made it a thing. She just received me, completely, as I was. She had walked alongside me through years of discernment and growth, and in that moment at my ordination, her presence felt like the finish line of a long, holy marathon. That’s what being known can feel like. A quiet, tearful homecoming. A spiritual exhale.

That’s the kind of knowing Jesus offers us. That’s the kind of knowing we are invited to offer one another.

Jesus says, “I lay down my life for the sheep.” Not just “I care for them” or “I like them” or “I feed them.” He lays down his life. That’s the depth of love we’re working with here. It’s the kind of love that stitches us together—patch by patch, piece by piece. It’s the thread of grace that runs through us, binding us not just to God, but to one another, in a holy, hand-sewn kind of way.

And then he goes even further: “I have other sheep that don’t belong to this sheep pen. I must lead them too.” He’s expanding the circle. Breaking the boundaries. Tearing down assumptions. Jesus is telling us that God’s vision is always wider than ours. That being part of his flock means living with open arms, not just familiar routines.

And that wide, generous vision? It doesn’t just apply to who’s included—it applies to how we worship, too. If Jesus is always inviting more people in, then surely we’re being invited to expand our comfort zones, even in the ways we connect with God.

If I’m honest, I used to be one of those people who wouldn’t have connected well in a contemporary worship service. Not because I thought it was “bad”—it just didn’t match the musical language I was raised with. But since being part of this community, and showing up regularly to both services, I’ve had these moments where the Spirit has moved through a praise song in ways that caught me completely off guard. The way the music, liturgy, and scripture all work together—whether it’s in the soaring notes of the pipe organ or the raw simplicity of a guitar chord progression—has taught me that God doesn’t play favorites with worship styles. And neither should we.

Because when we stretch into unfamiliar territory, we make space for transformation. And that’s not just true for worship. It’s true for every part of our church life. From who we sit next to… to whether or not we say yes.

And let me tell you: I’m someone who hesitates to say yes. To just about everything.

But the moments I have said yes—especially to things I didn’t feel fully prepared for—those are the moments that have changed me. I’ve had the chance to work on curriculum and projects in the wider denomination that brought me into friendship and collaboration with people I’d admired from afar for years. Saying yes opened doors to new relationships, new growth, even the path I’m on now with my doctorate. Saying yes has made me a better pastor, educator, friend, and honestly, a better version of myself. Not because it was easy. But because I was willing to be led.

That’s what being known does—it leads us. Into more life. Into deeper connection.

And sometimes, it’s the smallest gesture that unlocks something profound.

In my last church, I remember asking a 94-year-old widow if she’d like to do the Advent candle lighting one Sunday. Her eyes filled with tears. She told me that in all her years there, no one had ever asked her to do that before. She ultimately didn’t read, but she told me afterward how meaningful it was to be invited. To be seen.

I’ve also seen youth light up when I showed up to their school play or a game. Not because I did anything extraordinary. I just showed up. But that showing up said, “You matter. I see you.” That’s shepherding, too.

And yes, there are moments in ministry where shepherding costs something. Where you have to show up even when you know someone might not be excited to see you. At a previous church, many people knew and loved people in the LGBTQ+ community—but having a gay pastor challenged them. I knew that. And I still showed up. I showed up at hospital bedsides. I prayed with people who probably didn’t know what to do with me. But I didn’t go to prove anything—I went to be present. And in some of those quiet moments, walls came down. I saw grace open up space between us. And we both walked away changed.

That’s the invitation of the Good Shepherd. Not just to be comforted, but to be led. To be stretched. To be known—and to help others feel known, too.

So let me ask you—where are you being led?

Maybe it’s saying yes to a ministry team.
Maybe it’s trying out the “other” service.
Maybe it’s sitting with someone new in a different pew.
Maybe it’s talking with someone new during coffee hour.
Maybe it’s stepping out of the “I’ll wait to be asked” mindset and into the bold space of invitation—either receiving it, or offering it.

Because friends, this church is full of potential. We have so much already, and yet God is not done with us. And I wonder what might happen if we let ourselves be led into something just slightly uncomfortable—where we’re not just attending, but engaging. Not just showing up, but showing up for each other.

Because that’s the flock Jesus is gathering. Not just sheep who know his voice—but sheep who know each other’s names. Who hear the call of compassion. Who walk through the gates of grace with open eyes and open hearts.

So if you’re weary, you’re not alone. If you’re hungry for connection, you’re not alone. If you’re afraid of being too much or not enough—you are not alone.

You are known.
And you are being led.

By a Shepherd who shows up.
By a Shepherd who names you.
By a Shepherd who sees all of you—and still draws close.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Benediction for the Known and the Led

Go now in the care of the Good Shepherd—
who sees you, knows you, and calls you by name.

May you be led beyond what is comfortable
into what is holy.

May you risk being known—
and dare to know others in return.

May the Spirit move you to say yes
to the unexpected invitation,
to the unfamiliar song,
to the quiet face that longs to be seen.

And when you feel weary,
may you remember:
you do not walk alone.

You are part of the flock.
You are part of the story.
You are part of God’s love—
woven into grace,
and led by a Shepherd who never lets go.

Amen.