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.