So what do we know about the new Pope? That was the question echoing everywhere within minutes of his election Thursday afternoon. All those carefully crafted lists—the so-called ‘Papabili,’ the supposed “favorites”—suddenly didn’t matter. Instead, reporters were scrambling for details about a man who hadn’t even been at the center of all the speculation. Robert Cardinal Prevost—what do we actually know about him?
He’s an American! He’s from Chicago! He’s a White Sox fan! He graduated from Villanova! He plays Wordle!
Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for FOURTH SUNDAY OF EASTER (May 11, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.
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Almost instantly, people started inventing new ways to connect with someone from our own country now leading the Church. News crews tracked down his brothers for interviews. Some went digging through his social media, hoping a stray tweet might reveal exactly how he feels about every hot-button issue of the day. Headlines sprang up overnight: “We know what he thinks about politics!” “We know where he stands on morality!” As if a handful of fun facts or a quick Google search could really tell us who someone is.
It’s understandable, isn’t it? The election of a new pope always sparks worldwide fascination—and lately, even a bit of wild disinformation, as that recent (and, let’s be honest, pretty awful) film reminded us. Think about it: the leader of 1.5 billion Catholics, chosen from among 133 cardinals—many of whom had never even met before last week—coming from every corner of the earth, speaking different languages, shaped by entirely different cultures and life experiences. In a world obsessed with polls, pundits, and instant opinions, it almost seems impossible that such a decision could happen at all—let alone in silence and prayer, behind closed doors in a matter of a few days.
So, we reach for what feels familiar. We want to know: Is he like us? Does he share our background, our opinions, our tastes? We long to feel close to the shepherd who will guide the flock.
And providentially, right in the midst of all that curiosity and speculation swirling around the globe, we land here, with this short Gospel passage today. Every year on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, we celebrate “Good Shepherd Sunday”—the day we hear these words from John’s Gospel, where Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd. We might picture gentle scenes: Jesus in flowing robes, petting lambs on a sunny hillside. That’s part of it, but it’s only the surface.
To Jesus’ first listeners, a shepherd was something much more. He was a hard-working man, willing to get dirty and tired for the sake of his flock. He was a fighter, ready to stand between his sheep and any danger. He was someone who knew every animal in his care, not just by sight but by heart.
And today, Jesus adds something even more striking: “I know them.” Not the shallow kind of knowing that comes from headlines, social media, or Wikipedia pages. Not trivia or rumor. He means a deep, personal knowing—a knowledge that goes beneath the surface, that sees us as we truly are.
This deep, personal knowing—being truly seen and loved by Christ—is at the heart of our faith. It’s also at the heart of today’s other readings. In the Acts of the Apostles, Paul and Barnabas are on the move. They’re preaching the Good News in new places, sharing the message that Jesus, the Good Shepherd, knows and calls not just a chosen few, but all who will listen to his voice.
There’s something beautiful—and challenging—about the way Paul and Barnabas respond when they face rejection. The first people they speak to want nothing to do with this news. So what do Paul and Barnabas do? They keep going. They turn outward, proclaiming the message to the Gentiles, to those who had always been considered outsiders. The Good Shepherd’s voice, it turns out, doesn’t just echo in safe, familiar places. It calls across boundaries, inviting everyone—no matter their background, their history, or even their willingness to listen—to be part of the flock.
That brings us to the vision in Revelation. John describes a great multitude, countless people from “every nation, race, people, and tongue,” standing before the throne of God. These are the ones who have endured hardship and suffering, who have persevered in faith. What unites them? It’s not where they’re from, or what language they speak. It’s not their resumes or any of the things the world uses to divide or define us. What unites them is the Shepherd—Jesus—who has led them, cared for them, and, above all, known them.
How fitting, then, that as the Church welcomes a new shepherd, Pope Leo XIV’s very first words echoed the voice of Jesus, the Good Shepherd: “Peace be with all of you! Dearest brothers and sisters, this is the first greeting of the Risen Christ, the good shepherd who gave his life for God’s flock. I too would like this greeting of peace to enter your heart, to reach your families, to all people, wherever they are, to all peoples, to the whole earth.”
He continued: “God loves us, all of us, evil will not prevail. We are all in the hands of God. Without fear, united, hand in hand with God and among ourselves, we will go forward. We are disciples of Christ, Christ goes before us, and the world needs his light.”
These are not just words of comfort, but a call to remember what’s most true: We are not unknown or forgotten. In every age, and especially in moments of uncertainty, God provides shepherds for his flock—leaders who remind us that Christ’s care is personal, concrete, and unceasing. The election of a new pope isn’t merely a headline; it’s a living sign that God is still at work, still guiding, still calling each of us by name.
So let’s take heart. Let’s listen for the Shepherd’s voice—the one who knows us better than we know ourselves, and who leads us forward with courage and hope. May we thank God for the gift of our new Holy Father, for the ways God draws near and holds us close, and may we answer the call to carry Christ’s peace and light into a world that is longing to be known and loved. We never walk alone.
