Lectionary Commentaries for May 11, 2025
Fourth Sunday of Easter

The author of John is skilled at weaving layers of themes into the Gospel’s stories. In order to tease out these layers, it is important for interpreters to keep the big-picture view of the literary structure in mind. Fortunately, this passage gives us clues as to how it fits into the big picture. Verse 22 announces that the setting for this passage is during the Festival of Dedication. If you have been paying attention to the setting thus far, you will notice that this is the fourth episode that revolves around Jewish festivals and Jesus’ identity.

First, in John 5, Jesus heals a man on the Sabbath and connects God’s ceaseless work with the work Jesus does even on the day of rest. Then, in John 6, Jesus becomes the bread of life, the true manna from heaven, as he feeds the crowds during the festival of Passover. John 7:1–10:21 takes place during the festival of Tabernacles, and John compares Jesus to the water and light involved in the temple rituals, calling on imagery from the exodus that ensured God’s presence with the people.

And then we have our passage in John 10:22–30 (part of the larger 10:22–39), which takes place during the Festival of Dedication, or Hanukkah, that holiday celebrating the rededication of the temple in 164 BCE. This passage completes the festival theme by presenting Jesus as one who, like the heroes of Hanukkah, might renew Israel and redeem them from their oppression.¹

But that’s not the only theme playing out here. John also continues the theme of Jesus’ identity, offering some divine imagery for Jesus: as a shepherd, and as someone who is one with the Father. Scholars consider the shepherd allusions here, which carry over from the Good Shepherd discourse in 10:1–18, to be divine imagery from the Old Testament. Throughout the Psalms, we read about God as the shepherd of Israel and Israel as sheep, and the extended metaphor as it appears in John 10 has strong parallels with Ezekiel 34.

Another Johannine theme that finds expression in this passage is that of testifying or being a witness (marturia). Beginning with the prologue of the Gospel, John places importance on the idea of giving witness to the truth of who Jesus is.

First, John the Baptist testifies to the light of the Word (1:7), and later in John 5:39, the Scriptures serve as a witness to Jesus. Jesus bears witness to himself in 8:14, and God the Father testifies to Jesus’ identity in 8:18. When Jesus speaks about the Paraclete in John 15, he says the Advocate or Spirit will be a witness when Jesus sends it (verse 26), and the disciples will also testify (verse 27). Others who follow Jesus witness about him, although the word marturia does not always appear in these passages. The Samaritan woman witnesses about Jesus to her village (4:29), and the man born blind testifies to what Jesus did for him (9:25).

Our passage falls right in the middle of these important witnesses and shows the readers that Jesus’ own works done in the name of the Father bear witness to him.

Another Johannine theme woven into this brief passage is belonging. John makes use of dualistic themes throughout his Gospel—light and dark, life and death, flesh and spirit, from above and from below or “of the world.” The contrast that appears in the Shepherd-and-sheep metaphor follows in line with this last one: those who belong to Jesus’ sheep and those who don’t (10:26). Those who belong to Jesus hear his voice and follow him; they will not be snatched out of Jesus’ hand or the hand of the Father. It’s comforting and beautiful imagery, and it pops up throughout the rest of the Gospel in subtle ways. When Jesus calls Mary’s name at the tomb, she hears him and finally recognizes him (20:16), and in the epilogue of the Gospel, Jesus encourages Peter not only to feed his sheep but to follow him (21:15–23).

The final theme John has masterfully stitched into this passage is the most identifiable of the Gospel and the most misinterpreted. When Jesus says of his sheep, “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish” (10:28), he is elaborating on the theme of life and eternal life that saturates John. Folks in the pews may imagine that the opposing concepts here—eternal life and perishing—refer to heaven and hell, but that is an anachronistic interpretation. In the first century, hearers of the Gospel did not have developed concepts of heaven and hell (as places where people go when they die). Instead, they would more likely think of “perishing” as the present, evil age they lived in and “eternal life” as an image for the age to come, or what the Synoptic Gospels call the kingdom of God. Jesus is speaking of the kind of life believers lead now as they hear the Shepherd’s voice and follow him. This is a quality of life, not a place in the clouds where we go when we die.

Notes

1. Dorothy Lee, “The Parable of the Sheepfold: A Narrative Reading of John 10,” in Come and Read: Interpretive Approaches to the Gospel of John, ed. Alicia D. Myers and Lindsey S. Jodrey (Lanham, MD: Fortress Academic, 2020): 81–95.

Miracles are extraordinary events.¹ In this text Peter performs the miracle par excellence—the raising of the dead. With the notable exception of Jesus’ resurrection, there are three other occasions in the Luke-Acts corpus where we find this type of miracle: the widow of Nain’s son (Luke 7:11–17), Jairus’s daughter (Luke 8:49–56), and Eutychus, a young man who Paul literally bored to death (Acts 20:7–12). Here in Acts, it is Tabitha (Dorcas is her Greek name) who falls ill and dies, and then is miraculously brought back to life.

In the gospels, miracles are signs. They are demonstrations of the power of God (and by extension, they also signify a relationship between the one performing the miracle and God; only a few had the privilege of raising the dead). Like road signs, miracles in the text also act as guideposts, leading people to God. Moreover, miracles are intended to serve as fuel for our faith; they compel witnesses to believe—to believe in a powerful God who is able and willing to intervene on their behalf.

The story of Tabitha’s miracle is told within the context of another miracle. As the progression of the narrative would tell us, while in Lydda, Peter found Aeneas, a paralyzed man who had been bed-ridden for eight years. Peter tells Aeneas, “Jesus Christ heals you; get up and make up your bed” (Acts 9:34). As a result of this miracle, all the residents of the town turn to the Lord.

Lydda is close to Joppa, so it seems logical that the disciples in Joppa would send for Peter. Though they had requested that Peter come quickly, Tabitha was already dead. Given the proximity of the two towns, it is likely that the believers in Joppa would have heard about what had happened in Lydda. Doesn’t the request for Peter’s presence indicate that the disciples in Joppa anticipated that there was something he could do to help Tabitha? It is an atmosphere of anticipation that facilitates the miraculous.

When Peter arrives in Joppa he is greeted by mourners. They are weeping and showing him all of the things Tabitha had made for them. Peter puts them out of the house and then prays. His taking the time to pray reminds the audience that Peter is not acting on his own accord. He turns to the body and commands Tabitha to get up. Anastethi is the same command that Peter had given Aeneas in Lydda—Arise! Get up! Stand up! This verb, in some form, is found over 100 times in the New Testament. Peter’s command to the dead woman was really no different from the statement we may hear or say on a daily basis. Wake up! Arise! Stand up! On the basis of this miracle, many in Joppa come to believe in the Lord.

Tabitha’s awakening may be further illuminated by exploring how a change in our state of being can result in altering the lives of many people. We do not know much about Tabitha. We know that she has a Greek name, Dorcas. She is described as a disciple. The text informs us that she was “devoted to good works and acts of charity.” These acts of charity can be characterized as almsgiving. It is likely she was giving money to the poor and/or to the synagogue for ministry.

We can assume that the community of which Tabitha was a part loved her and valued her based on the way they mourned for her loss. Her brief obituary, perhaps, tells us all that we need to know. Although she may not have been famous or well-known, she was important to those who did know her. It is clear that she loved and that she was loved. They did not want to lose her. She was a disciple who was giving and faithful—would that we all might be described as such.

The command to get up or wake up is associated with both action and belief. It should be noted that these are, in fact, imperatives. Peter does not ask or beg Tabitha to please get up. She is not given a choice. She is told to arise and then is taken out of the house for all of her friends, family, and neighbors to see. Miracles may be performed secretly but they are not hidden away. They are publicly displayed. As a result, many come to believe. The implication of Tabitha’s extended life is that she will continue to do what she had been doing. She will remain devoted to doing good works.

In our contemporary society, the notion of being awake or being aware is similarly associated with a state of consciousness. For example, “Stay woke,” a motto often associated with the Black Lives Matter movement, was a rallying cry to those who were unaware of police brutality in the Black community. The term is not simply meant to invoke a state of awareness but is also an indication of vigilance—one must not simply awake from their slumber, but one must also stand up or stand against injustice. To “be woke” extends beyond the Black Lives Matter movement and is a term used more generally in other instances of injustice and means to have an acute awareness and be moved to corrective action.

It is not enough to simply know. Once we become aware, it is imperative that we, too, act to improve the conditions of those who are suffering. Our actions can be the difference between life and death.

In the first-century context, this miracle was a demonstration of the power of life over death. I think that power still exists today. It is this power that gives Christians hope, a blessed assurance that we live to live again. But perhaps even more so than the hereafter, this resurrecting power should flame the fire of our desire to create a more loving and just world. Like Tabitha, we devote our lives to good works and acts of charity. We should live a life that sounds the alarm, alerting the world that there is a God who is willing and able to act on our behalf. This loving and just God continues to resurrect dead “things.” For as long as we are here in this realm, we must get up and stand up and bear witness to the kingdom of God here on earth.

Notes

1. Commentary published previously on this website for May 12, 2019.

The ubiquitous Psalm 23 has enriched the lives of believers, both Jews and Christians.¹ It is so frequently recited in Christian funeral and memorial services (whereas Psalm 90 is more commonly used in the Jewish services) that many may imagine it is a Christian prayer. The first line, which also serves as the title, says it all: “The LORD is my shepherd.” 

We may imagine a shepherd of the Middle East, who pays undivided attention to the well-being of the sheep. Such care preempts any sense of scarcity. “I shall not want” creates a gateway to superabundance, leading to the next scene of the sheep lying down in “lush meadows” (verse 2, Eugene Peterson’s The Message).

Ordinarily, we think of people lying down on our backs, but most animals do not do that. Some animals may sleep standing or kneeling, but most of them sprawl. Perhaps we have a picture of exhaustion here—alternatively, a posture of repose. Thanks to the good shepherd, the sheep finds rest, sustenance, and confidence in the green pastures next to the water, where everything that the sheep may need or want has been provided.

In the next scene the poet is “beside still waters” (verse 2). For ancient Hebrews, water is often an image of primordial chaotic powers (see also Psalms 33:7; 74:13). Instead of the water that is a scare, Psalm 23:2 depicts quiet waters that present no threat. The poet has not come upon this place of peace by accident. The Lord’s gentle guidance (see also Isaiah 40:11) made possible what would have been impossible otherwise.

The poet continues dwelling on the shepherd, who leads the flock “in right paths” (verse 3b). Often, many of us assume that a right path is straight, but there are not many roads with no bend in nature. Even in urban settings planned by civil engineers, the straight street is more uncommon than common. Apart from the shape or condition of the track, a right path leads the flock where they need to be. Physically, the path may be crooked, but it is the right path for me. The poet recognizes that God does that for the divine name’s sake, making each crooked turn into a moment when God’s gracious involvement is recognized.

The poet makes no mistake about life that can take us to a dark time and place. The King James Version has made the “darkest valley” famous by calling it “the valley of the shadow of death”—one of the most memorable examples of the early modern English Bible. Danger lurks in the dark, but the psalmist declares, “I fear no evil.”

Difficult situations cannot be avoided, and fear comes with a double punch: one with the threat of evil, and the other with the fear of it. With the Lord, the poet is confident that neither will grab him. The poet has no fear, not because of courage or a strong heart but because of the Lord’s accompanying presence. The proposition of divine companionship echoes the same in the name Immanuel.

The shepherd that walks with the sheep carries a rod and a staff. The former is a weapon to fight off hostile beasts and others. The latter guides the sheep that tend to go astray. The implements provide comfort—a word that conveys not only relief but also recovery from grief (see Genesis 38:12; Jeremiah 31:15).

In the midst of the specter of terror, the poet imagines a feast. As long as one can eat, one can endure anything. Of course, one would not ordinarily plan to have a meal while facing those who may have hostile intent. Nor should one refuse to eat in comfortable situations. All provision one may get is what the Lord has provided.

Even in harm’s way, the poet names God’s anointing—the gift of abundance like the precious oil dripping down on Aaron’s beard and garment in Psalm 133:2. And the cup overflows freely. The overage is not a picture of wastefulness, although celebration and frugality do not always make a fitting couple. Instead, it evokes an image of superabundance. Besides, the surplus may quench the thirst of someone random.

The poet concludes with a declaration of faith. In Hebrew, the adverb that heads the sentence (“surely”) speaks not only of certitude but also of confidence. The Hebrew can also translate as “only,” with which the poem anticipates nothing but “goodness and mercy” in the days ahead. Troubles may come and go, but God will always accompany us for all seasons.

Most modern translations state that God’s goodness and mercy “follow” the poet. This traditional translation is tolerable, but it hardly does justice to the drift of the poetry, for the Hebrew literally means “pursue.” The same verb is found in the description of Pharaoh’s army pursuing the people of Israel in Exodus 14:8, 9, 23.

In other words, the poet speaks of God’s goodness and mercy in a vigorous pursuit, like enemy forces pursuing their target. In Psalm 23, God comes after us and will not rest until we find goodness and mercy.

The dynamic life of being pursued is paired with one of settling down (literally, sitting down). The latter state of serenity comes with the fantastic time stamps “all the days of my life” and “my whole life long.” The poet wants to live all the time in the house of the Lord. One may be tempted to imagine that the poet goes to the temple in Jerusalem every day. Since the poet imagines being a sheep in the Lord’s fold, however, the poet probably means it metaphorically, referring to the house of the Lord as the location of God’s presence. There is no conflict here.

Some early church itineraries to the Holy Land invite one to wonder whether the pilgrimage was imaginary or virtual. Many cannot make the trip but still can be in a state of worship before God for life. In a comparable manner, the poet of Psalm 23 also imagines being in the house of the Lord, even when the temple may have been beyond reach. After all, we can always be in the presence of God the good shepherd, no matter where we may be physically.

Notes

1. Commentary published previously on this website for May 8, 2022.

To enter the book of Revelation is to step into a “meandering river,” as Lynn R. Huber suggests in the Wisdom Commentary Series. With all the numbers—seven messages, seven seals, seven trumpets, seven plagues—there seems to be some sense of order or progress being made in the narrative. But these numerical series are often interrupted by other images or scenes (such as in our pericope today), requiring the reader to resist the urge for strict order and to take in the view as the journey unfolds. Huber further suggests, “Revelation’s nonlinear structure hints at a queer sense of time, promising to resist the standard ordering of events in linear and predictable fashion.”¹

These descriptions of the heavenly visions of John of Patmos are steeped in biblical references and imagery (though there is not a single scriptural quotation in the entirety of the book). As Michelle Fletcher suggests, these “textual shadows” are not pieces of evidence for some sustained argument. Instead, readers are invited to engage Revelation “as a pastiche,” a work of art where “imitation and combination” of past images, voices, and texts might come together into something new.² So, with Revelation we are not invited into a cohesive narrative but welcomed into a world of imagery and reference that opens new imagination for what God is doing and will do.

The vision offered in the pericope for this fourth week of Easter is no exception; it is filled with descriptions of something new grounded in familiar texts and faith imagery and stories:

• Verse 9 begins with a “great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages,” streaming in and standing before the throne—a nod to the postexilic imagery of Isaiah 65.
• The multitude waving palm branches before the throne can be understood as a sign of victory but is also reminiscent of the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles or the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem (what Christians now call Palm Sunday).
• The image of white robes worn by all around the throne similarly nods to Jewish purification rites or Christian baptismal rites.
• The song of praise sung before the throne by the multitude (“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne and to the Lamb!”) carries echoes of Psalm 118, the “Hosanna” of the Palm Sunday chant, or even the language of John the Baptizer from John 1:29.
• Even the interaction between the elder and John of Patmos (verses 13–14) is reminiscent of the vision of Ezekiel and the valley of dry bones when the elder asks, “Who are these robed in white, and where have they come from?” and John replies, “Sir, you are the one that knows.”

However, even amid all these nebulously familiar images and references, or “textual shadows,” as Fletcher names them, there are some striking and powerful promises made to the people who have gathered around the throne. Coming out of “the great ordeal,” these people are now promised to be in God’s presence and protected. We are told they will no longer hunger or thirst, they will not be oppressed by the sun or the heat, they will have unlimited access to living water, they will be guided by the Lord as a Shepherd, and there will be no more mourning or weeping. It’s a stunning set of promises when you pause to think about it.

In a time marked by excessive hunger and thirst, by war and worry, by violence and vitriol, by climate change and corporate corruption, by acts of hate and hurt done by one child of God to another, these images and promises might feel like a fantasy. In such formidable days, we, even as people of faith, may find our imagination limited. It is sometimes hard to have any kind of imagination for something beyond our present circumstances.

In fact, we may fall prey to believing that God’s future is just our present, but a little better. We may buy into the idea that God’s future is just a little less violence or a few more people getting along or a few more hours in the day for rest or work or play. In times like these that are challenging and filled with uncertainty, we have remarkably low expectations for what God can and will do. We lose our capacity for holy imagination.

However, this pastiche of images, songs, and textual references invites us toward renewed and reinvigorated imagination. This text reminds us that while God works in our historical time and shows up in recognizable forms, God’s future is not bound by our limited imaginations. On the contrary, God continually invites us into expanded visions and glimpses of the Kingdom already coming toward us.

For so many reasons, these are challenging days for cultivating holy imagination. In the midst of the mayhem and uncertainty, in the middle of the barrage of news alerts and social media feeds, in the midst of division and disagreement, in the midst of the bombardment of everyday life, we can too easily lose sight of who we are, of who God is, and of who we are called to be.

Yet this text, in all its strangeness and mish-mash of imagery and references, gives us a taste—even if a fleeting one—of a world redeemed and made right, an existence saturated by God’s grace, protection, sustenance, generosity, and love. It uses the language and references we know to push the bounds of our communal imagination, inviting us to dream of God’s abundance and presence beyond our expectations.

Notes

1. Lynn R. Huber and Gail R. O’Day, Revelation, Wisdom Commentary Series 58 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023), 109.
2. Michelle Fletcher, Reading Revelation as Pastiche: Imitating the Past (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2017), 1–4.