A reflection on the Gate and the Good Shepherd - Ash Wednesday 2026

John 10: 1 - 18          

There’s a moment in John’s gospel when Jesus tries – again – to help the Pharisees see what they cannot quite see. He has just restored sight to a man born blind, an act that should have sparked wonder, maybe gratitude. Instead, the Pharisees get tangled up in Sabbath rules because Jesus mixed dirt and water to make mud. A technicality, really. But technicalities can make us blind.

And so Jesus turns to them with a series of images that loop and circle, almost as though he’s walking a fence line, checking for weak spots. “I am the gate,” he says. “I am the good shepherd.” 

It’s not linear or tidy…more like steppingstones than a straight road. But maybe that’s exactly the point. Sometimes the truth of who Jesus is needs to be approached slowly, from different angles, until our eyes adjust. 

Tonight, on this Ash Wednesday, we begin our own slow journey – forty days of noticing where we have wandered, where we have hardened, where we have forgotten who leads us. Lent asks us to pause long enough to see what has cracked in us or around us, and to remember that repentance is not punishment but turning – turning back toward love, toward alignment with God’s heart. 

This year we take up the metaphor of mending—the holy, patient work of acknowledging what is torn and leaning, stitch by stitch, toward repair. Fences came to mind as I prayed through this passage. Ranchers walk their fences regularly, scanning for breaks because broken fences let wildlife in and livestock out—out into terrain that is unfamiliar, wild, unsheltered. 

And I wonder:
What is the state of our fences?
Where have gaps formed in our attention, our prayer life, our compassion, our courage?
What voices have slipped in, confusing or distracting us?
Which habits or patterns have led us farther from the Shepherd’s voice than we meant to wander?

Jesus as the gate reminds us that he is the threshold where belonging happens—the place we enter for safety and are sent out for purpose. Jesus as the Good Shepherd reminds us that we are meant to know his voice, even when the world gets loud. 

And the truth is: the world is loud right now. There are plenty of voices ready to tell us who we are, what we should fear, whom we should distrust. But the Shepherd calls us each by name—not generically, not collectively, but tenderly, directly, with the clarity of someone who knows us fully and loves us still.

So tonight, as ashes mark our brows and we remember our fragility, may we also remember our belonging. Dust we are, yes—but dust held in the hands of a Shepherd who never loses track of a single sheep.

As we step into these forty days, may we take up the quiet, faithful work of tending and mending—our relationships, our habits, our hopes, our sense of purpose—so that the small breaks don’t grow into gaping losses. Let us walk the fence lines of our lives with honesty and care, trusting that every repaired place draws us closer to the One who leads us, protects us, and calls us forward.

May our mending keep us close to the Good Shepherd.