Fourth Sunday of Easter (Good Shepherd Sunday) 2026

 

I recently came across this story in the news about a man in Wisconsin.  Not long ago he was walking through a scrapyard—just doing his job—when something caught his eye. 

Sticking out of a pile of scrap metal was a golden shepherd’s staff… a bishop’s crosier. And the first thing he said was, “That doesn’t belong here.”

And he was right.

That crosier didn’t belong in a scrapyard. It belonged in the hands of a shepherd—guiding, protecting, leading.

But there’s something even deeper in that moment. When he saw it, he didn’t just realize it was out of place… he knew it belonged to someone.

A shepherd.
A bishop.
Someone entrusted with caring for God’s people.

And he didn’t just admire it… he tracked down a bishop and returned it.
Because he knew—it had to be back where it belonged.

And maybe that’s what makes the story so powerful. Not only was something sacred in the wrong place… there was also a sense that someone was missing.

And here’s what makes the story even more powerful: that same man had been away from the Church for decades. And somehow, finding that shepherd’s staff became the beginning of his journey back.

Almost as if the Shepherd had gone looking for him.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel.

“My sheep hear my voice… I know them, and they follow me.”

The Good Shepherd doesn’t just lead a flock. He knows each sheep. He calls each one by name. And when one goes astray, He doesn’t give up. He goes looking.

In the second reading, we heard:
“You had gone astray like sheep, but you have now returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.”

That’s the story of every one of us.

Because all of us, at some point, drift. Maybe slowly, maybe quietly—but we find ourselves in places we were never meant to be.

And maybe, in those moments, God looks at us and says:

That doesn’t belong here.

Not in anger. Not in condemnation.
But in love.

You don’t belong in that anger.
You don’t belong in that guilt.
You don’t belong so far from me.

You belong with me.

That’s the voice of the Good Shepherd.

And the question is: do we recognize that voice?

Because there are so many other voices competing for our attention—voices that promise happiness, success, fulfillment… but never quite deliver.

But the voice of the Shepherd is different. It’s personal. It calls us by name. And when we hear it, something in us knows: that’s the voice I can trust.

In the first reading, the people hear Peter preach and they are “cut to the heart.” And they ask, “What are we to do?”

That’s what happens when we truly hear the Shepherd’s voice. Something shifts. And we begin to respond.

Today is also the World Day of Prayer for Vocations.

And that connects right back to that crosier in the scrapyard.

Because a shepherd’s staff isn’t meant to sit unused.
It’s meant to be held.
It’s meant to be carried.
It’s meant to guide the flock.

And the truth is—that’s still needed today.

The Good Shepherd is still calling men to be priests… to be shepherds after His own heart. And when that call isn’t heard, or isn’t answered, something is missing.

Sometimes we look at the Church and wonder what’s missing. Maybe part of the answer is simple:

A shepherd’s staff is waiting… for someone to pick it up.

But this isn’t only about priesthood. God calls each of us. Each of us has a vocation—a way of loving, serving, giving our lives. And when we don’t live that call, something in the world is missing.

Because someone is missing.

So maybe today, the Good Shepherd is calling you.

Maybe calling you back.
Maybe calling you deeper.
Maybe calling you to something you haven’t yet had the courage to consider.

And if there is even the faintest sense of that call in your heart—don’t ignore it.

Because that’s how it begins.

Not with certainty.
Not with clarity.
But with a voice… calling your name.

A shepherd’s staff in a scrapyard.
A moment that makes you stop and say:
Something isn’t right… something doesn’t belong here.

And maybe today, the Good Shepherd is saying that about you.

Not to condemn you.
But to call you home.

Because you were never meant for the scrapyard.

You were made to walk with the Shepherd.