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The "I Am" Statements of Jesus
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Connected by scripture or shared themes.
The "I Am" Statements of Jesus
Continue exploring
Connected by scripture or shared themes.
We're in the New Testament, in the Gospel according to John—a firsthand biography of Jesus written by one of his closest friends. In it, John records seven iconic "I am" statements that Jesus made: seven metaphors, seven self-portraits of the living God.
This week, Jesus says, "I am the good shepherd."
I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He who is a hired hand and not a shepherd, who does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees. And the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.
This is the final week of our series, and it's been one of my favorites. Jesus says things like, "I am the bread of life. I am the resurrection. I am the light of the world." And I've noticed something as we've gone through these statements: Jesus often said them in moments where he wanted to elicit a response. There's a question under each statement, and it's the same question for us today—do we really believe him?
In fact, John tells us in chapter 20 that this is exactly why he wrote his gospel: to ask, do you believe this is who Jesus is? So today we'll look at what Jesus meant when he said, "I am the good shepherd"—and whether our lives look like we believe him.
When I say "I am the good shepherd," it sounds like one of the softer, nicer ones. Around church, when people say the word shepherd, it comes out soft and sweet—usually accompanied by what my friend calls "Christian mooing." Ohhh, he's such a shepherd.
But that's not even close to how the original listeners would have responded. This was actually a controversial moment. And I think the emphasis wasn't really on the word shepherd at all. Listen again to how Jesus may have said it:
I am the good shepherd—as in, not the bad one.
The word that would have caused the most controversy is good, because of who Jesus was primarily talking to.
If you go back a few verses, you learn that Jesus' most direct listeners here were the Pharisees—the spiritual leaders of Israel. Jesus looks right at them and says, "I am the good shepherd," contrasting himself with what he calls the "hired hand."
Shepherd was a very common metaphor for leaders of all kinds—not just religious ones. Military leaders, leaders at home, teachers, religious leaders—all could be called shepherds. So when Jesus looks at the leaders of Israel and calls himself the good shepherd, he automatically puts them on the hook as the bad ones.
It gets worse. Jesus knew the "background music" playing behind this metaphor would be a passage from the prophet Ezekiel—a passage the Pharisees knew intimately. In Ezekiel 34, God had grown tired of bad leaders:
Ah, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep? You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the fat ones, but you do not feed the sheep. The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought, and with force and harshness you have ruled them... Behold, I am against the shepherds. I will rescue my sheep from their mouths, that they may not be food for them.
This is the context Jesus steps into. His statement isn't only a heavy indictment on Israel's leaders—it's also a proclamation of his own identity. In Ezekiel, God says, "I will rescue my sheep." Jesus is saying, Here I am. I am the good shepherd, the contrast to the shepherds of Israel—including you.
This was not a friendly moment. It's around this time that the religious leaders begin plotting to kill him. They clearly answered the question under the statement: We don't believe him—to the extent that we hate him.
The same question is on the table for us. Do we believe him? What would our lives, our prayers, our living say?
Jesus says it twice. The first time: "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."
You may have heard "lay down his life" in relation to the cross—but that hasn't happened yet. Jesus is calling up the picture of a real shepherd.
Real shepherds absolutely laid down their lives. They lived with the sheep, slept with the sheep, fed the sheep 365 days a year. This wasn't an eight-to-five job; it was an all-day, everyday lifestyle. And they laid down their physical safety too. Middle Eastern shepherding wasn't rolling green hills—it was scarce food, hard-to-find water, dusty and confusing pathways, caves where sheep had to be secured at night, and constant predators.
I listened to a shepherd describe going into a cave to prepare it for the sheep, knowing there was recent evidence of hyenas—a top predator. He went in fully understanding he might not come out again. That's what shepherding was.
That same shepherd said something fascinating. He had sons who technically could inherit the sheep, but he said he would not leave the sheep to them—because "they don't have the heart for my sheep. I'm looking for a man who has the heart for my sheep."
Let me ask you: Do you think this is how Jesus feels about you? A full-body, full-hearted, lay-everything-on-the-line commitment. Do you think he owns you like that?
This week, with "good shepherd" on the brain, I caught myself praying about some life changes—forks in the road that weren't coming as quickly as I wanted. And I heard myself say things like:
These are questions you would never ask a good shepherd. It would be impossible to describe someone as a good shepherd who didn't know where he was leading his sheep, who didn't wake up with a plan for how to feed and water them. When I put that lens over my own prayer, I realized: I don't think Jesus is mad at me. But my prayer betrayed a belief that isn't quite all the way in there yet. It just doesn't fit with a good shepherd.
And here's the literal good news: when Jesus calls himself the good shepherd, the rest of his story shows he goes to the cross to quite literally lay down his life for us—to seek us when we're lost, scattered, and far from God. Then he rises out of the grave, having faced down every predator of our lives, including death itself, with the power to bind up any injury and heal any disease. That's the God we have—and yet we still pray, "Do you even see me?"
We get to wake up every day and live like this is true.
So why can't we get this through our heads? There's a shepherding concept that helped me understand: the bummer lamb.
When a bummer lamb is born into a flock, it is rejected by its own mother—not partially, but fully. The lamb can't be with its mother or eat from her, and in many cases the mother will try to hurt or even kill it. Without outside intervention, the bummer lamb will not survive.
A woman in our community who raises sheep was experiencing exactly this. She found a tiny, fragile lamb crying in a corner, rejected by its mother. Every time she tried to reunite them, the mother butted the baby away. So she decided to keep the lamb alive—feeding it from a bottle day and night, keeping it warm, protecting it from the other animals. She said that because of this, the lamb will always be connected to her. When she calls, that lamb will always respond to her voice.
This is why we can hear "I am the good shepherd" but struggle to receive it. Many of us carry the hurt of rejection we didn't ask for—people who abandoned us, a death that left us alone, a core betrayal that left a hole where care was supposed to be. And we walk around like that little bummer lamb.
Let me be clear: that lamb has no chance of survival if it walks around still governed by its rejection. But the shepherd stepped in and paid the extra cost—far outside her daily routine—with only one motive: to see that little lamb live, rejoin the herd, and be made whole.
That's what happens when we begin to receive the care of a good shepherd. When we welcome Jesus into the space of our hurts, we begin to understand, Oh—this is what it was supposed to feel like.
But most of us don't like to feel like a project. We don't want to expose that level of need. Yet the best possible outcome comes from it—because the sheep that was cared for so intimately comes to know the shepherd's voice in a way the others don't.
This fits perfectly with the second time Jesus says it:
I am the good shepherd. I know my sheep and my sheep know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.
A good shepherd knows his own. Think of a mom on a playground—when fifty kids yell "Mom," she knows instantly which one is hers. A babysitter can't do that. There's something about the connection formed through caring for someone.
Sheep know their shepherd in a way that's highly unusual among animals. Sheep are one of the few herding animals led from the front rather than driven from behind. They learn the shepherd's gait, his profile, his voice, his whistle, his tone—and they watch for it.
Multiple shepherds can mingle their flocks overnight, and in the morning each shepherd simply calls, and the flocks separate to their own shepherd because they know him. And guess who's at the front? The bummer lambs—the ones who received the most hands-on care.
The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.
This is what Jesus means: I want to know you to the extent that I can lead and you will follow, because we are that connected.
This is why I can't hate my own messy story. In my twenties, I basically tried to burn my whole life to the ground—my job, my marriage, my character, my friendships. The one thing I did right during that time was call out to Jesus: Will you come into my mess? Will you take care of me? Will you receive me when everyone else thinks I'm the worst person they've ever met?
I had no idea I was setting myself on the trajectory of a bummer lamb. Twenty-some years later, I still rely on the intimacy and knowledge we built during that time. You can't unknow that. And yet—here I am this week, still catching myself praying like he doesn't know where he's taking me.
This is our struggle. It's easy to say, "Yeah, Jesus is my shepherd—thumbs up." It's hard to live like it's true.
If you're feeling like a bit of a project for Jesus right now—a little extra, a little "a lot," unsure God can unwind all the stuff in your life—let me give you the good news first: you are in the best possible position to become the one who knows him best. You are so close to the kind of intimacy only a bummer lamb gets to experience.
And if that's not you—please don't wait until you burn your life to the ground to receive the good shepherd. You can jump out of bed every day and say, He knows me. He's got me. We're doing this together, and I trust him.
When my kids were little, my husband got in the habit of keeping snacks in the trunk of his car—Gatorades, granola bars, always. I used to give him a hard time (I'm more the "your tummy growls, you'll be fine" type). It became a family joke.
But over time I watched something happen. At first it was, Oh, surprise—Dad's got something. Then it became, He probably does. And now, if you ask my kids, they have rock-solid confidence: I know if I lift the trunk, there will be water and Gatorades waiting, because my dad thought about me. My dad knows me. My dad anticipates I won't have what I need, and he's the answer.
That trajectory—from joke to confident expectation—is exactly what it looks like to walk in the assurance that someone has thought about you, provided for you, already knows what you need. That's the kind of shepherd we have. It's just not the one we tend to live like we have. And that kind of care changes you deeply over time.
If you never ask Jesus to be this shepherd, you will end up receiving the care of a bad one—because we are wired as sheep to be led. That's the contrast Jesus draws:
The hired hand is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.
The core quality of a hired hand is this: it will not come through for you. You don't belong to it, it doesn't own you, and at some point it will walk away.
Most of the time, the hired hand in our lives works—maybe eighty percent of the time. That's the trouble. It keeps leading us because it seems to deliver. But Jesus says: when the wolf comes—when trouble hits, when you need extra care, protection, or nourishment—that's when the hired hand shows itself for what it is.
Out of college, mine was career success. My eyes were locked on it, and it dictated my time, my priorities, the state of my marriage and friendships, what I did with my weekends and my evenings. A hired hand demands that of us—and then, when we become inconvenient or find ourselves at our worst, it's out.
What are the hired hands in the room?
Some of these aren't wrong in themselves—they're fine, until the wolf comes, until there's something more you need. As Ezekiel said, the bad shepherd shows itself when you're weak and injured and sick:
The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought.
When you are down, the hired hand is out.
I thought this series would start in the head—rich Old Testament connections, interesting contexts. But every single week we've landed in a deep, personal, pastoral place instead, because that's who Jesus is: passionate about you, brave enough to come after you, and gentle, lowly, and kindhearted. He wants to lead your life as the good shepherd.
I want to give you a chance to have a moment with him. There's likely something out front in your life—a hired hand—leading where he should be.
Close your eyes. First, just name it for him: Jesus, this is the hired hand that's been in your space. And if you're ready—maybe you were brought here today just for this—tell him, I'm done. That's not who's running my life anymore. Invite him into that space instead.
Now turn your palms up on your lap, because the posture of a sheep is to receive. Ask him: Good Shepherd, would you lead me? Would you feed me? Would you find me? Would you heal me? Even if it feels like extra—he's the good one. He delights in the care of you. He delights in the outcome. Remember, he says, "I know my sheep, and my sheep know me."
You are not too much of a project for him. You are not too extra for him.
Lord, thank you that you are a good shepherd. Would you teach us to believe you? Would you teach us to live like it's true—to leave behind the things that are not good and to come to you, the good shepherd? In your beautiful name I pray. Amen.
We're in the New Testament, in the Gospel according to John—a firsthand biography of Jesus written by one of his closest friends. In it, John records seven iconic "I am" statements that Jesus made: seven metaphors, seven self-portraits of the living God.
This week, Jesus says, "I am the good shepherd."
I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He who is a hired hand and not a shepherd, who does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees. And the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.
This is the final week of our series, and it's been one of my favorites. Jesus says things like, "I am the bread of life. I am the resurrection. I am the light of the world." And I've noticed something as we've gone through these statements: Jesus often said them in moments where he wanted to elicit a response. There's a question under each statement, and it's the same question for us today—do we really believe him?
In fact, John tells us in chapter 20 that this is exactly why he wrote his gospel: to ask, do you believe this is who Jesus is? So today we'll look at what Jesus meant when he said, "I am the good shepherd"—and whether our lives look like we believe him.
When I say "I am the good shepherd," it sounds like one of the softer, nicer ones. Around church, when people say the word shepherd, it comes out soft and sweet—usually accompanied by what my friend calls "Christian mooing." Ohhh, he's such a shepherd.
But that's not even close to how the original listeners would have responded. This was actually a controversial moment. And I think the emphasis wasn't really on the word shepherd at all. Listen again to how Jesus may have said it:
I am the good shepherd—as in, not the bad one.
The word that would have caused the most controversy is good, because of who Jesus was primarily talking to.
If you go back a few verses, you learn that Jesus' most direct listeners here were the Pharisees—the spiritual leaders of Israel. Jesus looks right at them and says, "I am the good shepherd," contrasting himself with what he calls the "hired hand."
Shepherd was a very common metaphor for leaders of all kinds—not just religious ones. Military leaders, leaders at home, teachers, religious leaders—all could be called shepherds. So when Jesus looks at the leaders of Israel and calls himself the good shepherd, he automatically puts them on the hook as the bad ones.
It gets worse. Jesus knew the "background music" playing behind this metaphor would be a passage from the prophet Ezekiel—a passage the Pharisees knew intimately. In Ezekiel 34, God had grown tired of bad leaders:
Ah, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep? You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the fat ones, but you do not feed the sheep. The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought, and with force and harshness you have ruled them... Behold, I am against the shepherds. I will rescue my sheep from their mouths, that they may not be food for them.
This is the context Jesus steps into. His statement isn't only a heavy indictment on Israel's leaders—it's also a proclamation of his own identity. In Ezekiel, God says, "I will rescue my sheep." Jesus is saying, Here I am. I am the good shepherd, the contrast to the shepherds of Israel—including you.
This was not a friendly moment. It's around this time that the religious leaders begin plotting to kill him. They clearly answered the question under the statement: We don't believe him—to the extent that we hate him.
The same question is on the table for us. Do we believe him? What would our lives, our prayers, our living say?
Jesus says it twice. The first time: "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."
You may have heard "lay down his life" in relation to the cross—but that hasn't happened yet. Jesus is calling up the picture of a real shepherd.
Real shepherds absolutely laid down their lives. They lived with the sheep, slept with the sheep, fed the sheep 365 days a year. This wasn't an eight-to-five job; it was an all-day, everyday lifestyle. And they laid down their physical safety too. Middle Eastern shepherding wasn't rolling green hills—it was scarce food, hard-to-find water, dusty and confusing pathways, caves where sheep had to be secured at night, and constant predators.
I listened to a shepherd describe going into a cave to prepare it for the sheep, knowing there was recent evidence of hyenas—a top predator. He went in fully understanding he might not come out again. That's what shepherding was.
That same shepherd said something fascinating. He had sons who technically could inherit the sheep, but he said he would not leave the sheep to them—because "they don't have the heart for my sheep. I'm looking for a man who has the heart for my sheep."
Let me ask you: Do you think this is how Jesus feels about you? A full-body, full-hearted, lay-everything-on-the-line commitment. Do you think he owns you like that?
This week, with "good shepherd" on the brain, I caught myself praying about some life changes—forks in the road that weren't coming as quickly as I wanted. And I heard myself say things like:
These are questions you would never ask a good shepherd. It would be impossible to describe someone as a good shepherd who didn't know where he was leading his sheep, who didn't wake up with a plan for how to feed and water them. When I put that lens over my own prayer, I realized: I don't think Jesus is mad at me. But my prayer betrayed a belief that isn't quite all the way in there yet. It just doesn't fit with a good shepherd.
And here's the literal good news: when Jesus calls himself the good shepherd, the rest of his story shows he goes to the cross to quite literally lay down his life for us—to seek us when we're lost, scattered, and far from God. Then he rises out of the grave, having faced down every predator of our lives, including death itself, with the power to bind up any injury and heal any disease. That's the God we have—and yet we still pray, "Do you even see me?"
We get to wake up every day and live like this is true.
So why can't we get this through our heads? There's a shepherding concept that helped me understand: the bummer lamb.
When a bummer lamb is born into a flock, it is rejected by its own mother—not partially, but fully. The lamb can't be with its mother or eat from her, and in many cases the mother will try to hurt or even kill it. Without outside intervention, the bummer lamb will not survive.
A woman in our community who raises sheep was experiencing exactly this. She found a tiny, fragile lamb crying in a corner, rejected by its mother. Every time she tried to reunite them, the mother butted the baby away. So she decided to keep the lamb alive—feeding it from a bottle day and night, keeping it warm, protecting it from the other animals. She said that because of this, the lamb will always be connected to her. When she calls, that lamb will always respond to her voice.
This is why we can hear "I am the good shepherd" but struggle to receive it. Many of us carry the hurt of rejection we didn't ask for—people who abandoned us, a death that left us alone, a core betrayal that left a hole where care was supposed to be. And we walk around like that little bummer lamb.
Let me be clear: that lamb has no chance of survival if it walks around still governed by its rejection. But the shepherd stepped in and paid the extra cost—far outside her daily routine—with only one motive: to see that little lamb live, rejoin the herd, and be made whole.
That's what happens when we begin to receive the care of a good shepherd. When we welcome Jesus into the space of our hurts, we begin to understand, Oh—this is what it was supposed to feel like.
But most of us don't like to feel like a project. We don't want to expose that level of need. Yet the best possible outcome comes from it—because the sheep that was cared for so intimately comes to know the shepherd's voice in a way the others don't.
This fits perfectly with the second time Jesus says it:
I am the good shepherd. I know my sheep and my sheep know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.
A good shepherd knows his own. Think of a mom on a playground—when fifty kids yell "Mom," she knows instantly which one is hers. A babysitter can't do that. There's something about the connection formed through caring for someone.
Sheep know their shepherd in a way that's highly unusual among animals. Sheep are one of the few herding animals led from the front rather than driven from behind. They learn the shepherd's gait, his profile, his voice, his whistle, his tone—and they watch for it.
Multiple shepherds can mingle their flocks overnight, and in the morning each shepherd simply calls, and the flocks separate to their own shepherd because they know him. And guess who's at the front? The bummer lambs—the ones who received the most hands-on care.
The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.
This is what Jesus means: I want to know you to the extent that I can lead and you will follow, because we are that connected.
This is why I can't hate my own messy story. In my twenties, I basically tried to burn my whole life to the ground—my job, my marriage, my character, my friendships. The one thing I did right during that time was call out to Jesus: Will you come into my mess? Will you take care of me? Will you receive me when everyone else thinks I'm the worst person they've ever met?
I had no idea I was setting myself on the trajectory of a bummer lamb. Twenty-some years later, I still rely on the intimacy and knowledge we built during that time. You can't unknow that. And yet—here I am this week, still catching myself praying like he doesn't know where he's taking me.
This is our struggle. It's easy to say, "Yeah, Jesus is my shepherd—thumbs up." It's hard to live like it's true.
If you're feeling like a bit of a project for Jesus right now—a little extra, a little "a lot," unsure God can unwind all the stuff in your life—let me give you the good news first: you are in the best possible position to become the one who knows him best. You are so close to the kind of intimacy only a bummer lamb gets to experience.
And if that's not you—please don't wait until you burn your life to the ground to receive the good shepherd. You can jump out of bed every day and say, He knows me. He's got me. We're doing this together, and I trust him.
When my kids were little, my husband got in the habit of keeping snacks in the trunk of his car—Gatorades, granola bars, always. I used to give him a hard time (I'm more the "your tummy growls, you'll be fine" type). It became a family joke.
But over time I watched something happen. At first it was, Oh, surprise—Dad's got something. Then it became, He probably does. And now, if you ask my kids, they have rock-solid confidence: I know if I lift the trunk, there will be water and Gatorades waiting, because my dad thought about me. My dad knows me. My dad anticipates I won't have what I need, and he's the answer.
That trajectory—from joke to confident expectation—is exactly what it looks like to walk in the assurance that someone has thought about you, provided for you, already knows what you need. That's the kind of shepherd we have. It's just not the one we tend to live like we have. And that kind of care changes you deeply over time.
If you never ask Jesus to be this shepherd, you will end up receiving the care of a bad one—because we are wired as sheep to be led. That's the contrast Jesus draws:
The hired hand is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.
The core quality of a hired hand is this: it will not come through for you. You don't belong to it, it doesn't own you, and at some point it will walk away.
Most of the time, the hired hand in our lives works—maybe eighty percent of the time. That's the trouble. It keeps leading us because it seems to deliver. But Jesus says: when the wolf comes—when trouble hits, when you need extra care, protection, or nourishment—that's when the hired hand shows itself for what it is.
Out of college, mine was career success. My eyes were locked on it, and it dictated my time, my priorities, the state of my marriage and friendships, what I did with my weekends and my evenings. A hired hand demands that of us—and then, when we become inconvenient or find ourselves at our worst, it's out.
What are the hired hands in the room?
Some of these aren't wrong in themselves—they're fine, until the wolf comes, until there's something more you need. As Ezekiel said, the bad shepherd shows itself when you're weak and injured and sick:
The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought.
When you are down, the hired hand is out.
I thought this series would start in the head—rich Old Testament connections, interesting contexts. But every single week we've landed in a deep, personal, pastoral place instead, because that's who Jesus is: passionate about you, brave enough to come after you, and gentle, lowly, and kindhearted. He wants to lead your life as the good shepherd.
I want to give you a chance to have a moment with him. There's likely something out front in your life—a hired hand—leading where he should be.
Close your eyes. First, just name it for him: Jesus, this is the hired hand that's been in your space. And if you're ready—maybe you were brought here today just for this—tell him, I'm done. That's not who's running my life anymore. Invite him into that space instead.
Now turn your palms up on your lap, because the posture of a sheep is to receive. Ask him: Good Shepherd, would you lead me? Would you feed me? Would you find me? Would you heal me? Even if it feels like extra—he's the good one. He delights in the care of you. He delights in the outcome. Remember, he says, "I know my sheep, and my sheep know me."
You are not too much of a project for him. You are not too extra for him.
Lord, thank you that you are a good shepherd. Would you teach us to believe you? Would you teach us to live like it's true—to leave behind the things that are not good and to come to you, the good shepherd? In your beautiful name I pray. Amen.
