Glory Revealed

Excerpt of “Glory Revealed” preached on March 15, 2026

John 9:1-41

Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to be the man born blind?  He essentially becomes the object lesson of people he had never met or interacted with before.  The disciples see him as they are passing by and ask the question, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”  It’s a stunning question that begins the trajectory of instances that change everything.

This is a narrative that many people hear and learn from a young age.  I was struck by what Augustine of Hippo wrote in his sermon he delivered on this passage from the 4th century.  Augustine was a champion of theology that surrounded original sin and the need for grace, so of course when sin is introduced in a passage such as John 9, he would certainly be interested.  Augustine makes the claim that Jesus essentially annoints the man as he spit on the ground to make mud and put it on the man’s eyes.  The same breath that breathed life into Adam, breathed life into this man.  Yet, this anointing did not allow the man to see.  Augustin goes further to explain that the man was told to go to the water at that pool of Siloam (which means Sent).  And it was there that the man was essentially baptized and was able to see for the first time.

Anointing and baptism are something I had never thought much about when it comes to the man born blind.  Yet, the man had to trust enough to go and wash in a place he may have never been before, which is not an easy task for someone who cannot see.  His faith began to be formed from that experience, although it is not fully formed.

Most healing stories in scripture involve being cured from an impairment and being healed or restored back to the community.  I’ve preached in the past that I read and interpret Zacchaeus as a healing story that did not need to be cured.  I also read and interpret the man born blind as a curing story that did not need to be healed.  The man begins in isolation.  Although he was in proximity with his community and had neighbors, and even parents – he was not restored back into community with them.  The neighbors doubted and even his parents didn’t want much to do with the situation at hand and just let him deal with it on his own when the pharisees questioned it all.  Typically healing allows relationships to be restored.  What do we do with someone who was blind, but now sees, yet lacks the restoration of relationships?

Sometimes we forget that John 9 connects to John 10 – it is easy to think that 41 verses is enough to read and study when a new chapter begins.  However, understanding that the theological gospel writer intentionally has Jesus addressing the Pharisees, which allows this to be a continuation of the narrative.  We often forget that when the scriptures were written, there weren’t chapters or verses.  Jesus used the imagery of the Good Shepherd for them to understand that the sheep who are in his flock hear his voice and follow him.  John 10:16 enhances this, “I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen.  I must bring them also.  They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd.”  It’s encouraging to know that Jesus brings not only the man born blind into the fold, but us too.

We may feel isolated in the world, in our community, perhaps in our own family.  Yet, we hear Jesus’ voice and follow and he brings us in also.  For there shall be one flock and one shepherd.  This man understood this as he trusted Jesus not only to go to the pool of Siloam and wash, but to trust Jesus and call him Lord.  Yet, the Pharisees did not understand it well.  And the community was really divided on what happened.  Apparently they remained divided even as Jesus shares the imagery of the Good Shepherd with them as they debated whether Jesus was demon-possessed and raving mad.  John 10:21 explains, “But others said, ‘These are not the sayings of a man possessed by a demon.  Can a demon open the eyes of the blind?’”  Thus coming full circle and reflecting one last time on the narrative of the man born blind.

The tragedy of this narrative for us is not blindness.  The tragedy for us is believing that we already see.  We claim we understand, yet fail to trust enough to go and wash in order that we may see that the kingdom of God is so vast and wide to include us all.  May we follow the Shepherd’s voice, wherever he leads.  Amen.

Living Water

Excerpt of “Living Water” preached on March 8, 2026

John 4:5-42

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the Healing & Hospitality arm of our Strategic Vision this week.  There has been such overlap between the story of the woman at the well and finding a sense of healing and hospitality within the narrative.  The idea of this for us is to become a people of refuge, care, and belonging – being formed to include others well.  The woman at the well experienced Jesus at the well in such a unique and powerful way, her life was changed forever as a result.

We have been reading and studying the book “Reading John for Dear Life” by Jaime Clark-Soles and she highlights the contrast between this woman and Nicodemus.  There is this contrast between light and darkness.  She does not come in the night as Nicodemus does, but at the noon hour – complete opposite of him.  She’s also not confused as he was, but fully begins to understand.  There is a cultural disconnect between her and Jesus, where not only should they not be talking from a cultural perspective, but she does not hold the same views Nicodemus did as she is a Samaritan and he was a Pharisee.  Yet, Jesus somehow breaks through the barriers that try to keep them separate.

Can you imagine encountering Jesus at the well, only to discover he knows everything about you?  And yet at the end of the encounter, you leave with grace rather than shame.  Everything about her is exposed in the daylight and for many of us, this is terrifying.  Exposure too often leaves us feeling burdened, rather than free.  How would we approach her?  What would our posture be?  Would we be judgmental or share everything we know?  Exposure can be uncomfortable, but Jesus was open and transparent and this led to a deeply sacred encounter. 

We hear of how the woman responded to Jesus in John 4:28-30, “Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, ‘Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did.  Could this be the Messiah?’  They came out of the town and made their way toward him.”

There are times when I read scripture and it is as if I’m reading a story of a fictional character in a story.  This woman Jesus encounters is not named in John’s gospel and it would be easy enough just to pass her off as just a character.  I was surprised to learn that she had a name, Photini, and she is recognized as the first evangelist.  The Eastern Orthodox tradition holds her in high regard and she is a saint in both the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic traditions.  She led many to believe the gospel through her testimony.  St. Photini was later killed under the reign of Nero.  This is a reminder that the Spirit is at work in ways that we never notice or even forget the rich history that can blossom from just a single moment with Christ.

Photini’s legacy begins with John 4:39, “Many of the Samitans from the town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, ‘He told me everything I ever did.’  So when the Samaritans came to him, they urged him to stay with them, and he stayed two days.  And because of his words many more became believers.  They said to the woman, ‘We no longer believe just because of what you said; now we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this man really is the Savior of the world.’”

What will our legacy be as we are shaped by Christ?  I believe that stories of grace carry a particular weight for the gospel to be shared and carried forward through us.  Grace is able to create belonging; belonging leads to testimony; testimony becomes invitation.  What are the stories of our lives that lead with grace?  May we be people who experience the transformative power of the grace of God.  Amen.

Born from Above

Except of ”Born from Above” preached on March 1, 2026

Romans 4:1-5, 13-17   |   John 3:1-17

There are certain categories of questions or topics that we think of and at times even catch ourselves and wonder both to ourselves and to others about what we believe.  I think the topic of rebirth was something that Nicodemus had not given much thought to, but it didn’t persuade Jesus to change the subject.  Instead, Jesus used it as a teaching lesson beyond the topic of rebirth.  We see this play  out a bit when Jesus replies to Nicodemus’ claim that Jesus came from God when Jesus replies in verse 3, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.”  And this certainly piqued the curiosity of Nicodemus, “How can a man be born when he is old?  Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother’s womb to be born!”

It was as if Jesus used the phrase born again or born from above as a way to teach on something much more profound than anything Nicodemus or any other Pharisee could comprehend.  Jesus answered in verse 5, “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the spirit.  Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the spirit gives birth to the spirit.  You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again’  The wind blows wherever it pleases.  You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.  So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”  And Nicodemus prods more, “How can this be?”

Jesus answers again in verse 10, “You are Israel’s teacher, and do you not understand these things?  I tell you the truth, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony.  I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things?  No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven — the Son of Man.  Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.  For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.  For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”  That’s right, all of this stemmed from a simple introduction on what it means to be born again and I think we can all rest easy knowing that Jesus taught Nicodemus pretty effectively.

As I’ve studied this passage, it has been difficult for me to understand how Jesus had so much depth to his teaching from a single question in verse 2, “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God.  For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him.”  There were a number of ways that Jesus could have responded, and yet he chose to explain the roles of God — Father, Son, and Spirit.  This must have been important to teach not only Nicodemus, but those who Nicodemus would interact with as well.

Nicodemus knew scripture well, he was a Pharisee after all, yet he still had questions.  The Gospel writer sets the stage with Nicodemus appearing at night.  But, if we’re being honest with ourselves, isn’t night when we have some of the richest conversations with Jesus — moving us from what we think we know well as if we were experts to feeling like we are simply human and barely know anything about some of the most important things in our lives?  We are no different approaching Jesus at night with some of the most vulnerable moments of our lives — seeking guidance, wisdom, curiosity, and truth.

Paul spoke of similar things when he wrote about Abraham and Sarah.  The faith of Abraham is what sustained him through so much uncertainty.  Romans 4:16 states it plainly, “Therefore, the promise comes by faith, so that it may be by grace and may be guaranteed to all Abraham’s offspring — not only to those who are of the law but also to those who have the faith of Abraham.  He is the father of us all.”  It’s wild to me how closely patience and faith are intertwined.  Can you imagine conversing and understanding the vision that God gives you, but you never fully see it unfold this side of heaven?  He’s granted generations and nations to be the father of, but I’m sure there are days when his wife could have been a cynic and at times, we all would have been asking questions — are you sure you heard God correctly?  Yet, he was faithful to his calling.

Something that I have found interesting about Abraham when we understand him in close proximity to Nicodemus is that God also spoke to him at night.  Genesis 15:5 reads, “He [God] took him outside and said, ‘Look up at the sky and count the stars — if indeed you can count them.’  Then he said to him, ‘So shall your offspring be.’  Abram believed the Lord, and he credited it to him as righteousness.  There’s something about the way God can move even in the midst of the night to create something new again.

Abram is promised a lineage that begins with and runs through Isaac, Jacob, David, and eventually Jesus.  It took generation after generation to reach the Messiah, who would transform the world.  For Nicodemus is not promised a lineage of his own, but perhaps the thing that is extended not just to him, but to us all: grace.  Neither of these are things we can produce, earn, or even inherit on our own.  Grace is what is given — freely from God that renews us, sustains, and helps us expand the kingdom of God for all.  For Jesus did not die for some or many, but for all.

This is probably why we as Presbyterians don’t have fancy altar calls or even long lengthy hymns where we play that seventh verse a few more extra times because someone is coming forward.  Instead, we believe that God is sovereign, and is working through the Spirit, even in our midst.  We may not have it laid out all before us as Abram received the vision from the Lord.  We may be a bit more like Nicodemus who kept coming back to Jesus with more questions, more formation, yet had faith to know who to go to in the end.

Our faith doesn’t point to reincarnation or karma or even some dark void where hope is no longer present.  Instead, our faith points us towards being born from above.  When we change from who we were before to who we are in Christ.  Peter was no longer Simon, Paul was no longer Saul.  The sins of our past no longer weigh us down because the grace of God is abundant.  We all have our thoughts and ideas on what it could mean to be born again, but if it’s not rooted in the grace of God, we likely need to reexamine our belief.

On this Lenten journey, may we be reminded that as people who are born from above, our identity is no longer our own, but found in Jesus Christ.  The beautiful thing about the grace of God is that even at our darkest hour of night, when we call on Jesus’ name to just have a conversation, he shows up.  Next week we will also see that he also shows up when it’s the brightest part of the day.  As we continue on this Lenten journey, may we be people who have the confidence to know that we are born from above, where our identity is not rooted in ourselves, but that we are formed in the ways of Jesus in all we do.  Amen.

Truth Tested in the Wilderness

Excerpt of “Truth Tested in the Wilderness” preached on February 22, 2026

Romans 5:12-19 | Matthew 4:1-11

“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’” We studied this passage about a month ago and heard the refrain again this past Sunday with the transfiguration. As we begin this morning, it’s important to know the backdrop of the text. Before Jesus took Peter, James, and John up on the mountain, before he preached from the side of the mount to the crowds below, before he ever called any of the disciples, he was led into the wilderness. And he was led into the wilderness by the same Spirit who descended on him at his baptism. Right after we hear the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased,” he’s led into the wilderness to be tempted.

I’m not sure about you, but this causes me to have a lot of questions that just stir within me: Why would God send Jesus into that? Why would Jesus have to go through that at all? And why right after something so good, so holy, is he put in this position? So many questions! And the truth is, no matter how we examine the gospel text this morning, there is mystery here that resists easy answers. Because there’s something so profound that is happening in that wilderness that we can only catch a glimpse of.

Jesus’ time in the wilderness was an intense time where his identity is tested and embodied after it was declared at his baptism. He shows his power and strength while also showing how powerful his restraint truly is. After forty days, of course he’s hungry.  After forty days, of course he’d like to be rescued and comforted. After forty days, of course he feels like he deserves just a little more than what he had before. Somehow, he doesn’t fall for the deceit Satan brings him.

Jesus — the one who turned water to wine — had the power to turn rocks into bread. I have no doubt it wasn’t a matter of if Jesus could do it. The point was never about his capability, it was about whether he should. And to be clear, there is nothing wrong with bread. Jesus would be the first to tell you that — for he is the bread of life. Just as in the garden, there is nothing wrong with the fruit, the problem was the deceit that rotted the core of the substance. Just as the piece of fruit became a vehicle for distrust, the rock was no longer just a rock with Jesus. It represented a much deeper narrative at play.

The apostle Paul helps us, not because he gives us a complicated theological system to figure out, but because he helps us understand why this moment in the wilderness matters so much. In his letter to the Romans, Paul reminds us that sin entered the world through one man. He’s talking about Adam. In the garden, Adam was surrounded by abundance. He didn’t lack anything and I’d assume he was satisfied since he wasn’t even hungry. He wasn’t abandoned and had everything he could possibly want. And yet when doubt was introduced, when the question of trust was raised, Adam reached out and jumped at the opportunity. He took the one thing that had not been given. The issue was never simply the fruit itself; it was the distrust underneath it. Paul tells us that through that disobedience something fractured the relationship between humanity and God, and that fracture did not stay contained to one moment in the garden.

Paul goes on to say that through one man’s obedience many will be made righteous. In other words, if Adam’s choice had consequences beyond himself, then so does Jesus’ obedience. When this is read alongside Jesus in the wilderness, the contrast is stark. Adam stood in the garden full of food and still reached. Jesus stands in a wilderness with absolutely nothing, and when he is tempted to use his power for himself, he does not reach for what so many of us would think we wouldn’t just want, but need in such a desperate situation. He does not exploit what has been declared over him at his baptism. Instead, he trusts.

What we are witnessing in the wilderness is not simply a private spiritual victory; it is Jesus being faithful where humanity has not been faithful. It is Jesus responding to temptation not by taking control, but by remaining obedient to the Father. And according to Paul, that obedience is not just admirable, it’s life-giving. And that kind of obedience can be hard for us to picture, because we often associate strength with action and power with visible force. But sometimes the deepest strength is not in what is done — it is in what is deliberately withheld.

The wilderness exposes things. It exposes what we depend on. It exposes what we reach for when we feel tired or uncertain. It exposes how quickly we try to take control when something feels out of our hands. In Adam, exposure led to grasping. In Job, exposure led to wrestling. In Jesus, exposure revealed trust. And that is where this Lenten season meets us. Lent is not about pretending that we are less fragile than we are. It is not about managing appearances or tightening up or behavior for forty days. It is about allowing what is already there to come into the light. It is about living truthfully before God.

When we are exposed — when impatience surfaces, when fear drives our decisions, when we realize how often we use the power we have to secure what we want — we have a choice.  Jesus does not scramble to prove himself. He does not manipulate the moment. He does not secure comfort at the expense of obedience. He lives from the voice that already named him beloved. And because he did, exposure is no longer something we have to fear. It becomes an invitation: An invitation to loosen our grip, an invitation to honestly name what is being revealed, and an invitation to trust that we do not have to seize what God has not given.

As we enter these forty days, perhaps the most honest question we can ask is not, “How strong am I?” But, “What is being exposed in me?” And when it is exposed, will I reach — or will I rest in the One who has already trusted perfectly on my behalf? That is where Lent begins. Not with performance, not with proving, but with truth. May we learn, day by day, to trust the voice that calls us beloved rather than grasp for what we think will secure us. And may the faithfulness of Christ steady us, so that even in our exposure, we find ourselves held by grace. Amen.

The Light that Transforms Us

Excerpt of “The Light that Transforms Us” preached on February 15, 2026

Exodus 24:12-18 | Matthew 17:1-9

Have you ever thought about climbing Mount Everest — tallest mountain in the entire world? The first ones to achieve it were Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay in 1953. What an incredible feat this was — climbing the tallest mountain in the world and surviving! There’s something about being up on the mountain that changes you. On mountains, perspective becomes clearer. Scripture tells us that when God calls someone up a mountain, it’s not just to see the world around from a different height — it is to be changed. Our texts this morning, on this Transfiguration Sunday, are both from the mountain. The first is Moses receiving the Ten Commandments, with so many parallels to the transfiguration of Jesus. 

It’s only Moses who makes it to the top of Mt. Sinai, where the cloud covered it. I’d like to read again Exodus 24:16, “and the glory of the Lord settled on Mount Sinai. For six days the cloud covered the mountain, and on the seventh day the Lord called to Moses from within the cloud. To the Israelites the glory of the Lord looked like a consuming fire on top of the mountain. Then Moses entered the cloud as he went on up the mountain. And he stayed on the mountain forty days and forty nights.”

Can you imagine looking up at the top of this mountain, not able to see your leader but only to see a consuming fire? The fear, the doubt, the worry. All they see is a cloud and then fire. The Israelites’ perspective is quite different from that of the elders, and even Joshua. But, it’s even more different than the perspective of Moses. Here he was waiting for six days — on the top of a mountain. This wasn’t him just sitting there doing nothing. Waiting is an act of patience, of perseverance, or preparation, and of faithfulness. And on the seventh day the Lord called Moses into his presence and he stayed there for forty days and forty nights. It’s a moment that only Moses encountered first hand, his experience was completely different from those who were on the outside looking in. The gap between them is a great divide.

Jesus also waited six days between taking Peter, James, and John with him up on the mountain. As Jesus was transfigured, the cloud is present, even Moses makes an appearance along with Elijah. Even the emotion of fear is present for those who witnessed it. At Sinai, God reveals a covenant — who the people are and how they are to live. On the mountain with Peter, James, and John, God reveals identity — who Jesus is and why we must follow. The cloud isn’t there to frighten, it’s there to frame the moment. And the fire that appears with Moses isn’t there to consume, it’s there to declare holiness. These mountains are not about a place or even the height of power, the mountains are about bringing clarity.

I think for many of us, we lose sight of what it means to go into the unknown. We can see pictures or videos and know what to expect in almost any situation, removing the obstacle of fear. And for many of us, that helps deal with the reality of the anxiety we carry. But, I’m not sure it offers us the clarity we need experience being on the mountain.

Recently I found myself in a room full of church leaders facing change.  None of us had certainty.  But we had clarity about who we were called to serve — and courage to move forward without melting our anxiety into something easier.  Something that I heard when I was there that kept coming up again and again was the scripture of the Israelites and the Golden Calf. While Moses is on the mountain, in the cloud, in the very presence of God, the people down at the bottom grow restless. He’s up there for forty days and forty nights. The fire that once inspired awe and wonder, reignites anxiety. Their waiting isn’t preparation like it was for Moses, it becomes a burden, unbearable for them. And so in Exodus 32, they gather their gold — the very treasure God helped them carry out of Egypt — and they melt it down into something they can see, something they can manage, something they can control. The Golden Calf was not simply rebellion; it was fear they could see. It was impatience with a shape. It was the baggage they carried with them out of Egypt — the need for certainty, the need for something visible, the need to secure themselves when God felt distant. And when Moses descends the mountain carrying the covenant written on stone, it shatters at the base — not because God failed, but because the people were still holding on too much. Sometimes those sacred cows that we hold onto, keep us from experiencing God and the vastness of the kingdom. Perhaps the reason we struggle on the mountain is not that God is unclear, but that we bring too much with us.

The context of these sacred cows came up because there are so many churches who hold onto everything and in doing so, they fail to make room to experience God to do something new. Too many memories tied to a space, too many traditions to release, too many structures that help us feel in control when God is leading us into something we cannot yet see. When you’re climbing a mountain, there is of course supplies you carry with you to sustain you over the course of your journey. But there comes a time when you use what you have, you have to discard what is left behind somewhere. Otherwise, it’s even harder to continue climbing.

It’s often tempting to recreate what we are familiar with rather than leaning towards the unknown. Even looking at what is holy can induce fear. But praise God that we are not alone. Our Creator continues to create. The God who brought forth light from darkness is the same God who is incarnate among us. Sometimes we just have to let go of the baggage we carry to reach the top of the mountain and experience God’s goodness that sustains us.

But we don’t stay on that mountain long. Moses may have stayed for forty days, but he eventually came down. And when he did, he was carrying stone tablets — the very word of God written by God’s own hand. And before they were ever fully received, they were broken at the base of the mountain. Not because the law was flawed or because God failed, but because the people were still holding onto their fear.

At the Transfiguration, the Law and the Prophets (Moses and Elijah) stand beside Jesus. And then they fade as the voice says, “Listen to him.” That is not accidental. The clarity of the mountain is not about instructions. The clarity is a person.

We do not descend from this mountain trying harder to preserve what we can manage. We descend following Christ into places we cannot manage. That’s the difference.

The Israelites built something they could see when God felt distant. And the disciples are told to trust someone they cannot fully understand. One path leads to control and the other leads to obedience.

As we step into Lent in just a few days, I don’t want the question for us to be what programs we resurrect or what memories we protect. That’s what has shaped us to get to this point in the journey. Instead, the question is simple, but so difficult: will we listen to Jesus? Will we loosen our grip on what gives us visible reassurance long enough to follow where he leads? Because the mountain was never about staying in the cloud. It was about being clear enough about who Jesus is that we can walk back down without needing a sacred cow to hold onto.

May we experience God up on the mountain. May we release what we cling to out of anxiety. And may we listen to Jesus who leads us forward. Amen.

The Light that Shines Through Us

Excerpt of “The Light that Shines Through Us” preached on February 8, 2026

1 Corinthians 2:1-12 | Matthew 5:13-20

Last week we studied the Beatitudes — that upside sermon on the mount that Jesus preached. Where humility reigned. It was a passage we knew well and our scripture this morning follows it — it’s a continuation of the same sermon Jesus preached, same setting, even the same audience. It’s important for us to remember this because as Jesus lifted up the marginalized, giving them the promise of the kingdom of heaven, Jesus is now telling them, “You are the salt of the earth; you are the light of the world.” He moves from a prophetic promise to that of the here and now. And that shift is a powerful force for us today.

That same movement — from promise to embodiment — is exactly what Paul is wrestling with in our text from 1 Corinthians. He is writing to a church surrounded by prestige, philosophy, and cultural influence and he is careful to say what the gospel is not. It is not rooted in eloquence, institutional power, or human wisdom. Instead, Paul insists that faith rests on something far less impressive and far more demanding: the quiet, revelatory work of the Spirit.

This last week I spent time in our nation’s capital and prior to the start of the conference I was able to visit and tour some of the museums and even the Capitol and Supreme Court. Washington DC is a city of great power as well as enormous influence. On the plane ride there I read part of a magazine that I took with me called Comment that gathers essays around a particular theme.  The irony of this is that the theme for this quarter’s edition was titled, “An Institutional Reckoning.” Here I was on my way to the home of some of the nation's highest institutions, reading how they have less significance today than they had 25, 100, or even 200 years ago — the same year our nation is celebrating 250 years since our founding. And it’s not just institutions in the government that are having trouble. It’s also schools and universities, hospitals and medical centers, even the institution of marriage is in a stage of decline with people getting married later in life compared to a decade ago.

The church is another institution that is not immune from this trend. Over the last two decades many denominations have been in the spotlight for a variety of reasons, whether it was heavy debate regarding changes in polity to abuse. Trust in the institution of churches has taken quite a hit, and to be honest, rightfully so. If there was one institution that should be scrutinized and held to the highest standard, it should be the church. And when that standard is not met, we should take a step back and evaluate things.

What I’ve found fascinating in recent conversations I’ve had with clergy from our Presbytery and a cohort I’m in with other pastors in our denomination is that even though there is a decline in church membership, there’s an increase in baptisms.

That tells me something important. It suggests that people may be wary of institutions, but they have not lost their hunger for meaning, for formation, or for a life shaped by something deeper than the culture around them. Baptism is not simply about affiliating with an organization; it is about being claimed by God — incorporated into the body of Christ, formed in faith, and sent into the world. And when the church leans into that calling — when it centers its life on shaping people in faithfulness rather than preserving itself — the possibility of healing begins to emerge. It’s not healing that happens quickly or even easily, but it is sacred healing.

And that kind of healing does not begin with rebuilding trust through words alone. It begins when the church remembers what it is for — not to preserve itself, but to form people in faithfulness. When baptism is taken seriously as a lifelong vocation, when formation matters more than attendance, and when faith is practiced quietly in daily life, the church becomes less about something to defend and more about something that gives life. That work is slower than we’d like, but it is truer. And it is exactly the kind of work the Spirit continues to do among us.

Paul would not be surprised by this. In fact, he names it in 1 Corinthians 2:9, “‘What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived’ — the things God has prepared for those who love him — these are the things God has revealed to us by his Spirit.” When institutions lose their ability to command trust, the gospel is not weakened — because the gospel was never dependent on institutions alone to begin with. The Spirit reveals God’s wisdom not through dominance or certainty, but through lives willing to be shaped, entrusted, and sent. What we may be witnessing is not the failure of faith, but a re-centering of it — away from performance and toward embodied trust.

If the Spirit reveals God’s wisdom not through dominance or display, but through lives shaped over time, then the question becomes: How are people actually formed to carry that kind of light? Not in moments of spectacle, but through habits, values, and practices that quietly shape who we are becoming long before we are ever called upon to act.

This is precisely what Paul is pointing toward when he says that God’s wisdom is revealed by the Spirit. It is not situational brilliance or quick thinking — it is a way of life formed over time. And it is what Jesus means when he looks at an ordinary crowd and says, “You are the light of the world.”  And this raises a question that Jesus himself anticipates in the Sermon on the Mount. There’s another shift that happens in verse 17, in which Jesus begins to make a pivot as if he seems to anticipate the confusion in the crowd. So Jesus pauses and says, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them.” To put it simply, Jesus is not tearing everything down. He is not rejecting the institutions that formed God’s people. He is saying that they only make sense when they are oriented toward their true purpose.

The Pharisees and teachers of the law represented the most trusted religious institutions of their day. They preserved Scripture, they maintained tradition, they even shaped community life. And yet, over time, the law had become less about forming people in faithfulness and more about measuring who was doing it right and who was falling short.

So when Jesus says in verse 20, “For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven,” he is not calling for better rule-keeping or higher religious performance. He is saying that righteousness is not about managing an institution or protecting a system — it is about living a life that is aligned with God. To put it another way, Jesus is not dismissing the law, he is calling it back to life.

In a world where institutions struggle to hold trust and where certainty feels harder to come by, Jesus does not point us to a system to defend or a performance to perfect. He points us to a way of life — one shaped slowly, quietly, and faithfully.  Salt that preserves and light that helps others see.

So we don’t leave here with more pressure, or more to prove. We leave shaped — by the Spirit, by grace, and by the steady work of God among ordinary people.  May we trust the slow work of God in us. May we live lives formed by faithfulness rather than fear. May we be salt and light — forming trust where it has been worn thin. Amen.

The Light the World Does Not Expect

Excerpt of “The Light the World Does Not Expect” preached January 25, 2026

1 Corinthians 1:18-31 | Matthew 5:1-12

Have you ever considered the concept of paradox? It’s a word that we are aware of, but rarely reflect on. The Oxford dictionary defines paradox as “a seemingly absurd or self-contradictory statement or proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well founded or true.” There are many paradoxes throughout scripture. Scripture often speaks truth in ways that initially sound impossible, precisely because God’s ways refuse to fit neatly within human logic. This past Wednesday, discussing “Reading John for Dear Life,” Nicodemus was highlighted with the paradox of being born again, but not from your mother’s womb. In Nicodemus’ perspective, it was absurd to be born again and he couldn’t fathom. Yet, Jesus’ words to him were right and true.

Jesus often used paradox as a way of opening his listeners to the deeper realities of the kingdom of heaven. He wanted to show a new way forward, a way that was not like what they imagined or believed prior. And through this method, people appeared to have hung onto his every word. Or it at least created a crowd who wanted to hear.

What Jesus proclaims on the mountainside is the same truth he lives out through his entire ministry. What is valuable in the kingdom of heaven is not valued here. Yet, he pursued to change the narrative by living his life in the way that he did. He showed compassion, humility, mercy, peace, and even restraint. When Jesus knew the time had come to face crucifixion and death head-on, it wasn’t that he was not afraid. In fact, it’s in this same Gospel that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” Jesus understood the gravity of the situation and the pain he would endure. But, he also understood how the cost of this world weighs on humanity.

Jesus knew what it was like to be tempted, tired, even famished. He spent time in the wilderness prior to his sermon on the mount and before he even called the disciples to follow him. Yet, he knew deep down that when you are stripped of everything you have, everything you work towards, everything you once possessed — you are able to see what is really valued in life. Perhaps that is the reason he began his sermon on the mount with the beatitudes because he knew the people needed to hear that the values of the kingdom of heaven are paradoxical to the values of this world.

Paul picks up this same paradoxical vision when he writes to the church in Corinth, now centered not on a hillside, but on the cross. He wanted to recenter them on the theology of the crucifixion. In fact, this comes directly after a call for unity among them. Could there be anything that would unite them more than the crucifixion? In Charles Campbell’s commentary on 1 Corinthians, he explains how the crucifixion is paradoxical in nearly every aspect: theological, political, and cultural. He writes, “It was a scandalous, even blasphemous paradox. It was, in short, foolishness. Indeed, according to some scholars, the translation, ‘foolishness,’ is actually too tame. It was, rather, ‘madness.’”

There’s a sense of irony in the fact that Jesus does not shy away from the dangers they will face — even in the form of persecution. In fact, he calls them to rejoice and be glad. Paul made a similar claim, reminding them that, “the one who boasts boast in the Lord.”

What both Jesus and Paul seem to be pressing upon us is this: the paradox of the kingdom is not meant to be admired from a distance, but lived into. The Beatitudes are not poetic observations about someone else’s spiritual life; they are an invitation into a way of seeing the world — and ourselves — through the lens of God’s grace rather than human achievement. Likewise, the cross is not simply a theological concept to be affirmed, but a reorientation of what we trust, what we pursue, and where we place our hope.

This is where the paradox becomes personal. Because everything in us resists this way of life. We are conditioned to value strength, competence, productivity, and control. We are taught that blessing looks like security, success, and self-sufficiency. Yet Jesus stands on the mountainside and declares blessing upon the poor in spirit, the grieving, the meek, and the persecuted. Paul stands before a fractured church and proclaims that God has chosen what the world calls foolish to reveal what is truly wise.

The question, then, is not whether we understand the paradox, but whether we are willing to trust it. To trust this paradox is to believe that humility, mercy, and peacemaking are not signs of weakness, but marks of God’s kingdom.

It means that God is most at work not when we are impressive, but when we are honest; not when we are strong, but when we are dependent; not when we boast in ourselves, but when we boast in the Lord. It means allowing the cross — not success, not fear, not power — to shape our imagination for what faithfulness looks like.

For the Corinthians, this meant laying down their divisions and their claims to superiority. For the crowds on the mountain, it meant reimagining what it meant to be blessed. And for us, it means asking where we have allowed the values of the world to quietly replace the values of the kingdom. Where have we equated God’s favor with comfort? Where have we confused wisdom with winning? Where have we avoided the vulnerability that the gospel requires?

The good news is that the paradox does not leave us empty-handed. Jesus does not call the poor in spirit blessed and then abandon them. Paul does not proclaim the foolishness of the cross without also proclaiming Christ as our righteousness, holiness, and redemption. The paradox is not a trick — it is a promise. That when we loosen our grip on what the world calls strength, we discover the grace of God already holding us.

And so, like those gathered on the hillside, and like that divided church in Corinth, we are invited not to resolve the paradox, but to live within it. To rejoice and be glad — not because life is easy, but because God is faithful. So, may we boast — not in ourselves, but in the Lord. And may we trust that what looks foolish in the eyes of the world may, in fact, be the very wisdom that leads us into life. Amen.

Light that Reorders our Lives

Adapted from “Light that Reorders our Lives”

1 Corinthians 1:10-18 | Matthew 4:12-23

As Presbyterians, we’ve never been the loud and rambunctious group that typically preaches repentance in crowds we do not know well. Instead, we view evangelism through a much more relational and holistic approach. Yet, Jesus wasn’t subtle. After coming out of the wilderness, the gospel writer quotes Isaiah, laying the groundwork of what Jesus is fulfilling:

“Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali,

the Way of the Sea, beyond the Jordan,

Galilee of the Gentiles—

the people living in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of the shadow of death

a light has dawned.” (Matthew 4:15-16, NIV)

In a world full of darkness, people are drawn into the light. Perhaps this is why it didn’t take much for Simon and Andrew to begin to fish for people as they followed Jesus. Perhaps that’s also the reason James and John left their boat and their father to follow Jesus. But going from darkness into the light takes some adjustment.

Repentance is turning from our own ways and turning towards the ways of Jesus. It’s leaving our baggage behind, trusting that Jesus will provide everything we need for a new journey. When Jesus began to preach, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near,” he was up front and clear about what the disciples were getting themselves into: something new — not only repentance, but the pursuit of the kingdom of heaven itself. The concept of the Kingdom of heaven was nothing new in Judaism, for many Psalms and prophets spoke of the Kingdom of God or the reign of the Lord. However, the ways in which Jesus spoke about the kingdom of heaven were a new construct.

For Jesus, the kingdom of heaven is centering our lives on something other than ourselves, which is difficult to do. Thus, we need repentance to make that turn from selfish desires to those of compassion, service, healing, wholeness, and so much more.

Paul understood that the values found in the kingdom of heaven were what it would take for the church in Corinth to begin to heal. In fact, after giving thanks, he moved directly toward unity, seeking to bind them as one. If they were going to be the church, they needed to clearly know who the head of the church was — it was not Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas. Christ is the head of the church. Paul didn’t mince his words when he wrote to them, “For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel—not with wisdom and eloquence, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power.” (1 Corinthians 1:17, NIV).

Jesus calls us out of darkness, not just to believe differently, but to live differently together. May we live into values that are of the kingdom of heaven and be united as a church. As we enter this new season of the church, may we move in a unified way towards Christ as the Spirit continues to guide and work among us. Amen.

Light that Calls Us Forward

Excerpt of “The Light that Calls Us Forward” preached January 18, 2026

1 Corinthians 1:1-9 | John 1:29-42

Teresa of Avila was a sixteenth-century Spanish mystic, who in her later years composed a poem that has become a foundational piece of theology centered around the incarnation of Christ — Christ among us. I’d like to read for us this morning as we begin:

“Christ has no body but yours, no hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes with which he looks with compassion on this world, yours are the feet with which he walks to do good yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now but yours, no hands, no feet on earth but yours, yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.”

It’s a poem that encourages the church to continue the work of Christ. Typically this poem would be read during Eastertide, or perhaps in the season after Pentecost — focusing on the Holy Spirit working among God’s people to be the hands and feet of Jesus. And I’ll be honest, it’s a wild idea for me to read it just two weeks into the season after Epiphany. As I’ve been studying these passages and reading this week, I came across this poem again. And in the context of both scriptures this morning, I think this poem sets the stage quite well for us.

In our first passage, we have Paul writing to the church at Corinth that is not doing well — there are factions among the people and the church is splintering.  And then we have the Gospel of John where John the Baptist saw Jesus describe the moment of baptism that we celebrated and remembered last week, “I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. And I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptism with water told me, ‘The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is the one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ I have seen and I testify that this is God’s Chosen One.” And then Jesus begins his journey in the Gospel of John — not in the wilderness, but among the people and in the process, two disciples began following Jesus and then they invited Simon by simply telling him, they had found the Messiah.

It’s interesting that the two following Jesus called him, “Rabbi” which means teacher. But, Jesus didn’t invite them into some deeper conversation or even preach to them to give them wisdom. Instead, Jesus invited them to experience life with him, inviting them on a much deeper and more intimate journey.

With this in mind, I think a question for us to wrestle with this morning is, what was the Spirit up to? Because something was happening to pique the curiosity and courage that was stirring among the people for three men — grown men with families, jobs, responsibilities — to drop everything and follow Jesus simply because he said, “Come and see.” Going with Christ to see where he was staying and how he was living — acting on that invitation of Christ, was something they felt deep within their bones that they must do because the Spirit was at work. It was the grace of God that called them forward.

The opening line in our text from 1 Corinthians is how Paul begins his first letter to the church in Corinth. And his first phrase, right out of the gate, holds so much depth: “Paul, called to be an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God.” The irony — the pure irony of this phrase can only be summarized by the work of the Holy Spirit. At that time, Paul was known as Saul, and was the one who hated Christians, hated them so much that he persecuted and killed them. Paul’s conversion story is one of the most dynamic stories of perhaps the entire New Testament.

Paul not only sees the literal light of Christ, but is blinded by the light, relying solely on Christ for his journey ahead. Paul knows the significance and power of the Christian community because it is through that community with Ananias that he was able to see and gain strength again. He went from the one who persecuted Christians to leading the churches all over: encouraging them, strengthening them, correcting them, and giving thanks for them.

I share Paul’s conversion with you because it’s the backdrop behind everything he does and in everything he believes. It’s a pretty bold claim to make that they did not lack any spiritual gift as they await Christ to be revealed to them. In fact, there’s a lot of bold claims that Paul makes to them — they have been enriched with speech and knowledge, for example. However, Paul wasn’t making this up as he went. He wasn’t making generalizations or trying to puff them up a bit only to tear them down and correct them a few paragraphs later. He knew that through Christ, we have all we ever need. Perhaps this is the same truth that Simon, Andrew, and the other disciple knew deep in their bones that Christ was all they needed because grace is that abundant.

Which brings us back to where we began. Teresa of Avila’s words are not a motivational slogan for the church to try harder or to do more. They are a confession of what happens when Christ is revealed and people respond. When the Spirit rests, when grace calls, when lives are reoriented toward Jesus, Christ’s life takes shape again in the world.

The disciples did not set out to become the body of Christ. They simply followed the invitation to “Come and see.” Paul certainly did not set out to build the church. He was claimed by grace, blinded by light, and sent into community where the Spirit did the work. And the church in Corinth — fractured, imperfect, and struggling — was still told: you do not lack any spiritual gift. God is faithful. You have been called into fellowship with his Son.

Epiphany reminds us that Christ is revealed not only in a moment long ago, but again and again through ordinary people who have been called by grace and shaped by the Spirit. The light that drew disciples to follow is the same light that still moves among us — inviting, calling, revealing. May Teresa of Avila’s words not be a burden we carry, but a wonder we live into. Amen.

The Light that Calls Our Name

Excerpt of “The Light that Speaks Our Name” preached January 11, 2026

Psalm 29 | Matthew 3:14-17

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.  And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.  God saw that the light was good, and he separated it from the darkness.  God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.”  And there was evening, and there was morning — the first day.”  I think it’s safe to say we’ve heard the first five verses of Scripture before.  There are times, however, I think we get so focused on the idea that the great accomplishment was that God spoke light into existence, “Let there be light,” and there was light, that we miss the fact that in the very beginning before God spoke — back when the earth was formless and empty, the waters were present.  Not only were they present, the waters were where the Spirit of God was hovering and moving.

The waters are so foundational and significant to our faith not because they are the sign of change or completion, but the substance of a beginning.  The waters are what move us into a new chapter and are a powerful force.  It’s in the waters we experience the flood, setting the beginning of something new to unfold — not the result of completion, but the beginning of creation once more.  It’s in the parting of the Red Sea that Moses leads the Israelites to pass through on dry ground.  And the Israelites didn’t have it all figured out as they passed through, it was simply another starting place for their journey to begin.  When Jesus is at the well with the woman from Samaria and he knows everything about her — remember that story, where she ends up leaving the jar there at the well with Jesus?  The water was not a sign of her life well lived, but the beginning point of God creating something new within her.  Water is often a sign of a new creation, not the completion of it all.

In Matthew, this is evident in Jesus’ baptism.  Have you ever noticed that in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is not baptized how we are baptized?  I’m not talking about whether he’s immersed, sprinkled, or something in between.  I’m talking about the idea that Jesus is not baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?  To be honest, I’m not sure even if John had his theology and beliefs completely figured out by this point that he would even have a chance to do so.  Because as soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water.  And at that very moment, heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.  And a voice from heaven, who I could only imagine to be God the Father, said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”

And let me remind you that at this point, Jesus had not done anything.  Nothing.  He hadn’t healed the sick, he hadn’t performed miracles, he hadn’t preached from a boat, he hadn’t called James or John — not even Peter.  Jesus hadn’t done anything.  This wasn’t a moment of great accomplishment where the heavens open and the Spirit descends and the Father says, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”  The waters are the place of a new beginning, a creation or commissioning in a way, for Jesus to start his ministry.

Each week I fill the font with water and I say, “Remember your baptism, and be thankful.”  Have you ever noticed the context of when I do that?  It follows our confession and is right before our Assurance of Pardon.  And the thing we do immediately after the Assurance of Pardon — those words proclaimed, where we know that our completion is found through the forgiveness of Christ, we sing a refrain many of us have heard our entire lives: “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.”  It is difficult to see the glory of God without the water.  It’s a visual reminder that we are made new again and again and again through Christ.

Perhaps that’s why baptism is one of our two sacraments of the Presbyterian faith.  As we believe we are reformed and ever reforming, we understand that God continues to create because we are the body of Christ and the Spirit of God hovers over the water creating anew with every moment.

Through the waters of baptism, we are not only named — we are gathered.  We are invited into the life of the church, the body of Christ, where Jesus is not simply an example to follow, but the head who holds us together.  The church is not a collection of finished saints, but a community of new beginnings — people learning, over a lifetime, how to live from the grace they have already received.

That is why we return to the water.  Not because God forgets who we are — but because we do.  We remember that our lives are not held together by our certainty, our faithfulness, or our strength.  They are held together by Christ.

When Light Finds Us

Excerpt of “When Light Finds Us,” preached on January 4, 2026

Isaiah 60:1-6 | John 1:10-18

The story of the Magi is one of those biblical stories that feels both richly told and intentionally spacious.  Scripture gives us just enough to know this journey mattered — wise travelers setting out across hundreds of miles, carrying provisions and costly gifts, moving slowly on animals through unfamiliar land — yet it leaves wide space for our imagination.  We are told they followed a star that would not stay still, leading them forward without revealing the destination.  They did not know where they would end up, whom they could trust, or what awaited them when they arrived.  Even their encounter with King Herod only deepens the uncertainty, placing fear and political power alongside hope and promise.  The Magi’s journey is not driven by certainty or control, but by wonder — the willingness to keep moving toward a light they could not yet explain.

The Gospel of John explains this light in its opening verses, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning.  Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.  In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  Written with theology at the heart of the Gospel, John’s prologue also leaves us with that same tone of a story that is richly told and intentionally spacious.  Darkness tried to take root, Herod held the power, yet the light of Christ did not wane and guided the Magi for their journey to meet him and worship.

But John does not stop with cosmic poetry.  He presses the mystery all the way into human life.  “He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.”  The light does not hover above creation; it enters it.  “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”  Not as an idea, not as an explanation, but as a life we could see and touch.  Epiphany is not simply the revelation of divine light — it is the astonishing claim that God chose to meet us from the inside of our world, sharing our limits, our vulnerability, our humanity.  That is why recognition matters.  The light comes close enough to be missed.

What Epiphany often teaches us is that God’s light does not always arrive in the ways we expect or recognize.  It is not loud or obvious.  It does not follow the usual scripts of power or beauty.  The Magi were not guided by a throne or an army, but a star.  John tells us the light shines in the darkness — not that it overwhelms it instantly, but that it persists within it.  Epiphany trains us to see differently, to notice the kind of radiance that often goes unnamed and unrewarded, yet is no less real.  And that way of seeing is not limited to Scripture; it is something we must relearn in our own lives as well.

Earlier this week, I read an essay by Brandon Vaidyanathan titled “My Mother’s Hidden Radiance.”  In reflecting on his relationship with his mother, he offers language that helps name what Epiphany invites us to practice — not just noticing what is obvious, but learning how to see what often goes unrecognized.  He describes beauty not as a single thing, but as something that can be encountered in different ways.

Some forms of beauty, he suggests, are familiar and widely celebrated.  They follow cultural expectations and shared standards — the kinds of beauty we are trained to recognize, reward, and pursue.  These forms of beauty can carry meaning and longing, but they can also become limiting when we assume they tell the whole story.  Other forms of beauty are quieter and less visible.  They often remain hidden beneath the surface of ordinary life and are revealed only in unexpected moments of recognition, when something true and luminous breaks through.

The danger, he notes, is that when we confuse beauty with conformity, we fail to see the full worth of people and lives that do not fit our scripts.  We overlook dignity that cannot be measured at a glance and miss the deeper radiance that does not announce itself.  Learning to recognize this kind of beauty requires a different way of seeing — one that slows down, pays attention, and remains open to surprise.

The prophet Isaiah gives us insight into this revealed beauty that discloses itself when we learn how to see.  And that movement — from hidden radiance to recognized light — is precisely the movement Isaiah describes.  Isaiah 60 is not written in a moment of strength or triumph, but in the long shadow of exile.  The city is still broken.  The people are weary.  Hope feels fragile.  And yet, into that context, the prophet does not say, “Fix yourselves,” or even “Create the light.”  Instead, he says, “Arise, shine; for your light has come.”  The light is already present and the command is not to produce radiance, but to respond to it.

That’s what Epiphany is all about — to awaken our wonder by responding to the light.  This is what this series is all about: Light That Wakes Our Wonder.  Over the next several weeks we will be returning to this question again and again: What happens when God’s light meets us in places we are not yet looking?  It is an invitation to learn how to see — and respond — more faithfully.

This sermon draws on ideas from Brandon Vaidyanathan’s essay “My Mother’s Hidden Radiance.”

Give Me Your Hand

Excerpt of “Give Me Your Hand,” preached on December 21, 2025

Matthew 1:18-25 | Isaiah 41:5-10

Commitment, it’s a word that not only has weight, but carries a bit of a punch to it. It’s a word some generations take pretty lightly and others view it with the highest regard.  The word commitment is not used in either of our passages this morning.  However, I think it is the one word that could easily summarize both, for it’s at the very heart of it all.

The unique thing about the gospel of Matthew is that not only does it begin with genealogy — the thing most people would prefer to skip right over — the verse that bridges Christ’s genealogy is Matthew 1:17 which reads, “Thus there were fourteen generations in all from Abraham to David, fourteen from David to the exile to Babylon, and fourteen from the exile to the Messiah.”  Ensuring us that Jesus’ birth was perfectly timed.  And then the very next thing that the gospel writer does is not to talk about Zechariah or Elizabeth, nor John the Baptist or even Mary.  Instead, the focus is on Joseph.

It sets the stage with another angel — with the similar refrain of “Do not be afraid” — but the purpose is different; the tone of the angel is different. It’s more direct: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife.”  It was spoken with the power of using his name — Joseph son of David.  Perhaps that’s why Matthew begins with genealogy, because the angel began with genealogy that gives the narrative forward momentum and shifts to legacy.  And Joseph has a part in this story.

Matthew 1:19 explains, “Because Joseph, her husband, was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.”  What’s interesting is that we enter the gospel of Matthew where things appear to be already in place.  Joseph is not referred to as her fiancé, but husband.  There’s no more waiting, but doubt and even skepticism is not only present — it’s prevalent.  So much so that in order to protect her from public humiliation, the best solution in Joseph’s mind would be a quiet divorce.

He could not handle the pressure, the uncertainty, the many questions of his own, and he was scared.  This wasn’t just a scandalous pregnancy, it was a dangerous one.  If the public shame was not enough, Mary could have been stoned to death because of this.  Yet, God knew what he was feeling and intervened with the angel speaking life into him directly and effectively.  He needed that because the stakes were great, the odds were stacked against him, and I’m sure he felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

Yet, Joseph’s perspective changed after the visit from the angel, giving him not only purpose, but a responsibility.  “When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him.”  Joseph’s commitment to raise Jesus as his own son was taken seriously — teaching him a trade, providing for them, protecting him enough to go to Egypt to escape Herod’s persecution.  This was no small task and Joseph did it with his entire being.  And Joseph didn’t make grand gestures of his commitment; he did it largely in the background.  Joseph had a renewed sense of commitment because he was honest with his fear.

The way forward is not to traverse the journey alone, but in community. And that’s where Isaiah helps us.  The prophet Isaiah gives us this image of islands — those pieces of land that are similar but are completely separate and cut off from one another.  The islands are fearful. And so what do they do? They find a way to come forward together: “They help each other and say to their companions, ‘Be strong!’”  It’s such a beautiful way of understanding the diversity and significance of everyone — each role is vital to the overall success.  The thing I love most about this passage is that it begins with fear and ends with community.

Isaiah explains this with verse 10: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.”  It’s not a command that is shouted from a distance, but a promise that is spoken up close.

And then the prophecy is fulfilled through Christ incarnate. Jesus comes and refuses to let that promise stay abstract.  Jesus entered the world through this fragile and vulnerable way and through a couple who had no idea how things would unfold.  From the very start, the shadow of the cross stretches all the way back to the manger.  God’s commitment does not weaken over time — it is complete from the moment Christ enters the world.

The question for us is, are we committed in our doubts, in our questioning, and even in our fear?  Joseph didn’t know how the story would unfold.  What he knew was that God had spoken, and that somehow staying close was better than walking away.  And that’s often where faith begins — not with certainty, but with trust.  Not with answers, but with presence.

Faith is choosing who we reach for when fear shows up.  And we don’t reach alone. God does not scold fear; God responds to it. God does not abandon the frightened; God draws near.  And in Jesus, God comes close enough to be touched.

When we are afraid of the road ahead, when commitment feels costly, when doubt creeps in quietly, the answer is not found in isolation.  The answer is proximity.  Walking together and giving one another permission to be honest about fear while still choosing faith.  So when you’re afraid, give me your hand.

We are Called Forward

Excerpt of “We are Called Forward,” preached on December 14, 2025

Luke 1:26-39 | Jeremiah 1:4-10

One of my favorite parts of this time of year as we draw closer to the Incarnate coming are gatherings — large and small.  Some of them I love going to and others we do out of obligation.  There’s always a balance of the two and typically a fine line between them at times.  The Advent season can be a lonely season — full of darkness, with little hope to break through.  It can also be this festive season where joy is visible everywhere we look, and then we’re left feeling disconnected in some way — where we’d be okay with one less thing to do in order to sip some hot tea while we work on a puzzle. 

It’s also a season that is full of interruption.  Plans get canceled at the last minute due to weather or illness, the phone rings and our day changes in an instant, or we deal with traffic delays and miss the family dinner completely.  There are so many dynamics in such a short window of time.  It’s chaos in so many ways — and year after year, we arrive at Advent and there’s something about it that draws us in, and so we enter into it.

Our scripture readings this morning were two call stories that are paired together in a unique way.  Mary and Jeremiah are not the typical pairing that I would have anticipated.  Yet, they are two young people who are called to do something daunting and rather than God giving in and moving on to someone else. Instead, the promise is given: “Do not be afraid, for I am with you.”  I believe God’s presence and God’s promise is what it is that invites us into this season year after year after year.  Don’t we long for that?  Isn’t God’s presence worth the wait?  That’s what makes Advent so special, the promise of being present with Christ incarnate.

What Mary teaches us in this moment is not simply how to say yes to God, but where to go after we say yes.  As soon as the angel leaves, Mary does not stay alone with her fear.  She does not try to manage it privately.  She does not retreat into isolation or shame.  Scripture tells us she hurries to Elizabeth.  She moves toward someone who can hold the weight of her story, someone who will not minimize her fear or question her calling, but will meet her with blessing.

That raises an important question for us — not just as individuals, but as a congregation: who is our Elizabeth?  When fear unsettles us, when God’s call feels too large or too costly, who do we run to?  Who is the person — or the place — where our fear is met not with skepticism or fixing, but with blessing?  Who recognizes the holy thing God is doing in us even when we are still trembling?

For some of us, the hardest part of all of this is admitting that we do not currently have an Elizabeth.  We have learned to be self-reliant.  We carry our fear quietly.  We assume we need clarity before we seek community.  But the gospel tells a different story.  The prodigal son practices his speech, convinced he must earn his way back — but before he can finish a sentence, he is embraced.  Blessing comes before explanation.  Welcome comes before worthiness.

So hear this clearly: If you do not have a place you can run when you are afraid, may this church be that place for you.

And for those who call this church home, may we have the spirit of Elizabeth within us — the wisdom to recognize when God is at work in someone else’s trembling yes, and the courage to speak blessing before certainty.

Advent reminds us that fear is not the opposite of faith.  Often, fear is the very place where faith begins.  Mary’s fear was not something to overcome; it was the sacred space where heaven met humanity, where divine calm encountered human frailty, and something new was born. That is still how God works, and that is how God works in us.

So as we move forward — into another week of Advent, into another year of calling, into a world that often feels uncertain and frightening — we do not go alone.  We go together.  We go toward blessing.  We trust that even in our fear, God is calling us forward.  May your fear not be dismissed, but transformed into holy attentiveness.  May we recognize those moments when heaven meets our humanity, and may we have the courage to take the next faithful step.  And when you are afraid, may you know where to run, and may we be the kind of people others can run to — to find welcome, blessing, and the promise that no word from God will ever fail.  Amen.