"The Good News Is...Alive in the World" (April 5, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Alive in the World

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Easter Sunday — Sunday, April 5, 2026

Text: Matthew 28:1-10

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An Easter Word of Astonishment

Hear, friends, these words from the poet, Mary Oliver:

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Easter is not a day for answers; it’s a day for astonishment. It’s a day to say, “Look! He is not here!” It’s a day to listen to an angel perched almost casually upon a stone that until recently seemed to seal off any hope of newness. The women came that Easter morning to keep watch, to love, to mourn, and to stay near. In their minds, perhaps, death had answered the question of power, and they came expecting to keep company with their grief. But instead, they are met by a heavenly messenger whose very presence strikes fear into the Roman guards, who shake and, Matthew says, ‘become like dead men.’ While the guards lie sprawled on the ground, the women stand trembling, trying to find their footing on resurrection ground. The guards have resigned themselves to death, while the women, startled, remain open to life. The guards are immobilized by fear. The women are afraid too — but fear does not keep them from hearing, moving, and bearing witness. Easter does not wait for them to become fearless; it meets them in their trembling and sends them on their way.

The Angel’s Instructions

And so they listen. The angel gives them their marching orders: do not be afraid, come and see, go quickly, and tell.

Do not be afraid — because Easter addresses frightened people, not fearless ones. “Do not be afraid” does not mean, “Nothing scary has happened.” It means, “What scares you is not the truest thing anymore.” Death is real. Grief is real. Empire is real. But none of them are ultimate.

Come and see — “Look,” Mary Oliver said, and laugh with astonishment and bow your head. “Come and see,” the messenger says, “and look where he lay.” All Lent long, we have been trying not to look away — from suffering, betrayal, injustice, vulnerability, even death itself. And now Easter says: yes, come and see. Look honestly. And look again. Because what we’ve seen isn’t the end of the story.

Go quickly — because resurrection does not leave us standing still. The good news is too alive to remain at the tomb. It sends us back into the world — back to the places where fear still lingers, where grief still aches, where love is still needed, where hope still must be practiced.

Tell — because news this good cannot be kept to ourselves. The women came as mourners, but Easter makes them witnesses. To tell is not to solve the mystery. It is to say, with astonishment, ‘Look. He is not here. Christ is alive — and already ahead of us.’

Back Into the World

The tomb is not where the story ends. Galilee is where resurrection starts traveling — back into the ordinary places where people live, work, grieve, love, and learn to follow once more. And that matters because Galilee is where so much of it first started. Galilee is where water became wine. Galilee is where ordinary lives were touched by abundance. Galilee is where the disciples first began to see who Jesus truly was. And now, on Easter morning, the risen Christ is already ahead of them there. Resurrection sends them not away from the world but back into it—back to the very places where good news first took shape and where it must now be lived.

And that’s what Easter does. It doesn’t offer us an escape from the world; it sends us back into it, because death, violence, and despair do not get the last word. And you and I go back into the world as disciples equipped by the training ground of this Lenten journey. Today, we conclude our “Tell Me Something Good” sermon series, where we’ve followed Mary Oliver’s advice to “Look, and laugh in astonishment” at places in the world where Good News comes in unexpected ways.

Where We’ve Seen Good News

This Lent, we’ve seen good news breaking out in many places: at a table where everyone is invited and no one is beyond the reach of grace; at a wedding in Cana where joy overflowed and scarcity did not get the last word; in the tearful hospitality of a woman whose love flowed from her hair and her hands; in a hungry crowd where Christ taught us that there is enough when a community puts what it has into God’s hands; in the faces of children and all the vulnerable who Jesus reminds us are closest to the heart of the kingdom; in the expanding mercy of a Savior who invites us to lay down our stones; in the humble procession of Palm Sunday, where power arrived not through domination but with borrowed cloaks, leafy branches, and cries of hosanna; and even at the basin on Maundy Thursday, where Jesus knelt to wash feet — even Judas’ feet — and showed us that love is demonstrated not by what it says, but by what it does.

And maybe that is what this whole Lenten journey has been trying to teach us: how to look for good news not only in scripture, but in the ordinary, fragile, holy moments of our own lives. I saw a glimpse of that good news this week.

A Glimpse of Resurrection

Many of you know that Tricia’s grandmother, Myra, died last week at the age of 90. She had fallen recently, and Tricia’s parents called us after we got home from worship last Sunday to let us know she had entered hospice care. So, with heavy hearts, we threw the girls in the car and drove the three-and-a-half hours to Richmond, VA, to say our goodbyes. Myra, or “Gaga” as she was known to her family (or, more specifically, “Lady Gaga” as I lovingly called her), died peacefully surrounded by her loved ones. It was our girls’ first experience with death, and somehow, even in our grief, the moment felt sacred. Winnie held Gaga’s hand, and we all told her how much we loved her. I thanked her for all the times she told me how proud she was of me. After we said our goodbyes, Myra Dawn Garrett, child of the covenant, took her final breath, and we took the girls to our hotel.

As we checked into our room, one of the hotel’s housekeepers noticed the girls looked quite sad. Tricia explained the reason for our trip. The housekeeper then asked if she could give the girls a hug, and she embraced each of us. After a few hours of sleep, we woke in the morning to head to Gaga’s apartment to grieve as a family and begin going through her things. It was a long day. And when we returned that evening, we entered our hotel room to put the girls to sleep, and we found this letter waiting for us:

“Dear Hazel Grace and Winnie, I know your hearts are heavy right now, and it’s hard not to wonder why your grandmother had to go. There may be days when you feel sad and miss her smile more than anything. But just remember, today, you gained an angel. On the days that feel the hardest, hold onto all the joy and laughter you shared with her. Those memories don’t go anywhere…they stay with you, always. She’ll always have a place in your hearts, and her love doesn’t stop here. She loved you both so much more than words can say - and that love carries on now and beyond. And one day, you’ll see her again. Keeping you all in my thoughts during this time. Your housekeeper, Nora B.” And next to the letter was a gift basket of snacks for the girls and us.

In that moment, in the middle of our grief, I thought: this is what it looks like when the good news is alive in the world. Sometimes, that good news arrives with the shock of an earthquake. But other times, it comes with the tenderness of a kind note from a stranger, accompanied by a sacrament of granola bars, apples, and blueberry muffins. Sometimes, water turns into wine. Other times, grief becomes a bond between complete strangers. Sometimes, five loaves and two fish feed five thousand. Other times, a small gift basket changes everything.

Truly, friends, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.

And so, with Mary Oliver, with Mary Magdalene, with the other Mary, and with all those who have caught a glimpse of grace in the middle of grief, let us keep company with those who say, “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.

For Christ is risen. He is alive in the world. Look.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed" (April 2, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Combined Maundy Thursday Service with Fellowship Presbyterian Church

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Text: John 13:1-35

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Scripture Reading

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already decided that Judas son of Simon Iscariot would betray Jesus. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. I am not speaking of all of you; I know whom I have chosen. But it is to fulfill the scripture, 'The one who ate my bread has lifted his heel against me.' I tell you this now, before it occurs, so that when it does occur you may believe that I am he. Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me."

After saying this Jesus was troubled in spirit and declared, "Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me." The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples—the one whom Jesus loved—was reclining close to his heart; Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So while reclining next to Jesus, he asked him, "Lord, who is it?" Jesus answered, "It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish." So when he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot. After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to him, "Do quickly what you are going to do." Now no one knew why he said this to him. Some thought that, because Judas had the common purse, Jesus was telling him, "Buy what we need for the festival," or that he should give something to the poor. So, after receiving the piece of bread, he immediately went out. And it was night.

When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

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The Scandal of Grace

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. That world doesn't make sense to me. It's a decidedly inconvenient scandal that just rubs me the wrong way. Because Judas deserves to be canceled. He deserves condemnation. He deserves the scorn we've thrown at him these past two thousand years. Or does he? Nearly twenty-two years ago, Guilford Park's own Tim Peck preached a sermon questioning Judas' exclusion from the twelve stained-glass windows that decorate the front of our sanctuary. He's been stripped of his discipleship credentials, Tim noted, replaced by Paul as the twelfth disciple.

But then Tim reminds us that one scandal replaces another. We pat ourselves on the back for relegating Judas to his rightful place in history's penalty box. But in his place, we lift up another who did no less harm to the very man he would later proclaim. And round and round we go, preferring hands full of stones to hands outstretched and open to the scandal of grace. I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too... but I want to.

Seeing Judas in Ourselves

I want to because I see more of Judas inside me than I care to admit. In Judas, I see the part of me that is sick and tired of the wicked prospering while the righteous wane and wither. In Judas, I see the part of me that is impatient with Jesus' non-coercive way of changing the world. In Judas, I see the part of me that loves as long as loving pays off. In Judas, I see the part of me that would rather explain people than love them, condemn them rather than pray for them, and reduce them to their worst act while asking everyone else not to do the same to me.

I want to know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too, because like him, I need Jesus to kneel before the worst parts of me without turning away. I need the basin. I need the towel. I need a mercy I did not earn and cannot control.

I hope that this evening we can hold Judas and his actions uncomfortably close to us. Because it's easy to villainize him and, in so doing, stay at a safe distance ourselves. But Jesus doesn't keep his distance from Judas; neither should we. Jesus kneels before Judas, fully aware of what he is about to do. Jesus kneels before Judas and lovingly washes his dirty feet. Jesus kneels before Judas, our brother, whose kinship with us is closer than we often realize.

Mercy That Unsettles Us

Or perhaps it's not Judas and his actions that unsettle us. Perhaps it's Jesus and his actions that do. In a culture that mistakes mercy for weakness and gentleness for surrender, what Jesus does here seems…absurd. He kneels before the one who will betray him. He does not shame him. He does not humiliate him. He does not crush him. He loves him. And to people like us, schooled in vengeance and baptized in scorekeeping, that kind of mercy feels not beautiful, but foolish.

A Broadway Parable of Grace

Many of y'all know I love a good Broadway metaphor in my sermons! In the musical Les Misérables, the French guard Javert lives a life of strict legalism. In his view, mercy threatens justice. After his former prison inmate, Jean Valjean, is released after serving 19 years of hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread, Javert makes it his mission to hunt him down and return him to prison once he breaks his parole. For most of the play, the two play a cat-and-mouse game, with the protagonist eluding Javert's grasp. Then, famously, in a twist of fate, the tables turn, and Jean Valjean gains the upper hand, finding himself in a position where he could end everything by taking Javert's life. But he famously raises his pistol, fires a shot into the sky, and spares Javert's life. The prison guard then faces a moral crisis. His whole life, he's believed in moral absolutes: criminals are bad, the law is good, and justice means strict enforcement. But Jean Valjean's mercy disrupts everything. Javert doesn't know what to do with grace. He doesn't know how to live in a world where his feet get washed, too. He sings these words in despair and disgust: "All it would take was a flick of his knife / Vengeance was his and he gave me back my life / Damned if I'll live in the debt of a thief / Damned if I'll yield at the end of the chase." As he finishes his lament, he takes his own life by jumping off a bridge.

A Step Away from Retribution

As a nation right now, we stand with Javert on the edge of a bridge, just before the fall. We can choose to keep repeating endless cycles of retribution, or we can step back from the edge and move toward something else: the kingdom Jesus proclaims, where mercy reigns. To be sure, reconciliation cannot happen without accountability, and grace does not erase harm. But endless cycles of retribution help neither the oppressor nor the oppressed. And yet sometimes, a simple, beautiful, humble, silent act of kneeling and washing feet can interrupt the patterns we have constructed for ourselves, patterns we have been tempted to think are inevitable.

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. But I want to. And Maundy Thursday calls me to take a step toward that kind of world. When I do, I take a step away from Javert's bridge—away from acts of retribution that hurt not only my neighbor but also myself. Because retribution stands in opposition to the humanity we see in Jesus Christ. And when I choose to hate my neighbor instead of washing his feet, I become less human. That is not who I want to be, and I suspect it is not who you want to be either.

Come to the Basin

Tonight, Jesus invites us to take a step into that world: a world where mercy interrupts vengeance, where grace gets down on its knees, and where love is known not by what it says, but by what it does. So come to the basin. Come to the towel. Come to the table. And let the love with which Christ has loved us become the love by which we learn, at long last, to love one another.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act" (March 29, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Palm Sunday — Sunday, March 29, 2026

Text: Mark 11:1-11

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Scripture Reading

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this: ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’ ” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said, and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,

“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple, and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.

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Recognizing What We Miss

Sometimes, I just don’t recognize the things I should. I don’t recognize grace when it’s right in front of me. I don’t see beauty when I’m overwhelmed by the world’s brokenness. I don’t notice my body telling me to rest because I’ve been conditioned to live in a constant state of productivity. Sometimes, I just don’t recognize the things I should.

But God’s Spirit has a funny way of tapping me on the shoulder in unexpected moments—moments when the Holy disturbs my stubborn, sterile routine.

Throughout Mark’s Gospel, the disciples consistently fail to recognize Jesus for who he is, despite his parables, his sermons, and his miracles. After Jesus calms the storm in chapter 4, they ask, “Who then is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?” In chapter 6, after Jesus feeds the multitudes, Mark tells us they did not understand what had happened, and that their hearts were hardened. In chapter 8, Peter comes close when he says, “You are the Messiah,” only to recoil when Jesus makes clear that this Messiah must suffer, be rejected, and die. Again and again, they miss it. They argue about who is greatest. They shrink back from Jesus’ predictions of suffering. They even try to stop someone casting out demons in Jesus’ name because he wasn’t “one of them.” Sometimes, the disciples just don’t recognize the things they should.

But after all these missteps, Mark gives us a recognition scene, a moment that invites the disciples—and us—to see what has been in front of us all along. Because we, too, often prefer a Messiah who comes with drones instead of a donkey. Palm Sunday asks whether we know how to recognize power when it arrives wrapped in humility, service, and borrowed things—cloaks, colts, and leafy branches.

A Different Kind of Power

In previous Palm Sunday sermons, I’ve mentioned that this ritual would have been easily recognizable to any inhabitant of Jerusalem. Such pageantry was common when the Romans celebrated another military victory. In those familiar scenes, the acclamations of occupied people may have been more coerced than celebratory; a hosanna, if you will, with a scowl when the Roman guards looked the other way. But the hosannas in today’s text are full-throated; hosannas that came from a deep place of longing for an alternative to the fear-fueled domination of their Roman oppressors.

So, on one hand, this pageantry would have been easily recognizable. However, Jesus puts his unique spin on the act of political theater. Instead of a horse, he uses a donkey. Instead of soldiers, he’s followed by a ragtag group of outcasts. Instead of marching to a victory by the standards of common thought, he’s marching toward death. He recognizes what’s about to happen. But did the disciples? Do we? We still miss him when he shows up in service instead of spectacle, in mercy instead of might, in courage without cruelty. This begs the question: can we recognize Jesus when he does not look like the kind of power we’ve been taught to trust? Because Palm Sunday is not just a parade to admire. It is the moment when Jesus shows us what kind of king he is—and asks whether we are ready to follow a Lord who rides toward the cross instead of around it.

The Verbs of Palm Sunday

Mark asks us to follow Jesus in order that we may recognize him. On Palm Sunday, no one gets to stay in the bleachers. The text gives us a feast of verbs that pull us into the story: go, untie, bring, throw, spread, shout, follow. Mark’s Gospel does not hand us a static portrait to admire from a distance. It gives us stage directions. It invites us to move.

I began this sermon with a confession: sometimes, I fail to recognize the things I should. Grace, beauty, and rest were the three things I named. And Palm Sunday reminds me that I am more likely to recognize Jesus when I step into those verbs myself. I am more likely to recognize grace when I extend it. I am more likely to recognize beauty when I help make it. I am more likely to recognize the holiness of rest when I refuse a life ordered only by urgency, and help make Sabbath possible for somebody else.

So what does it mean for us, here and now, to join the procession of Palm Sunday?

It means we make the verbs of this story our own.

Go

It means we go where Jesus sends us, even when the path is inconvenient, even when discipleship asks something of us.

Untie

It means we untie what has been bound. We help each other free ourselves from the habits and patterns that continue to cause chaos in our communities—fear, isolation, prejudice, indifference, the lie that someone else’s pain isn't our concern. We untie what has been chained down by despair, and we do this by showing up, speaking out, and becoming vocal advocates for justice in this city and beyond.

Bring

It means we bring what we have. The disciples brought a colt. We bring our real lives. We bring our time, attention, courage, tables, prayers, bodies, and witness. We bring casseroles to grieving families. We bring meals to Greensboro Urban Ministry. We bring comfort to the bedside, tenderness to the hurting, and steadfast love to those who feel forgotten.

Spread

It means we spread mercy. In the story, they spread cloaks on the road. Now, we spread mercy along the paths people walk every day. We spread it through the meals we share, in the care we give, in the ways we protect each other during illness and hardship, and in the quiet acts of compassion that make the road gentler for someone else to travel.

Shout Hosanna

It means we shout Hosanna. Not just with our lips, but with our lives. Our hosannas become a public witness. Our cries of “save us” turn into a refusal to accept a world ruled by cruelty, domination, and us-versus-them thinking. Our hosannas transform into advocacy for a shared life where justice is not partisan, mercy is not weakness, and the common good is still worth fighting for.

Follow

It means we follow Jesus in ways that challenge the usual political ideas of power. Because Jesus does not come with the tools of domination. He enters with humility. He arrives in vulnerability. He brings peace. And if we follow him, we may sometimes seem strange to a world that has linked strength with aggression and leadership with control.

Retrieve

And perhaps it also means we retrieve something. The disciples retrieved a colt, but we are called to retrieve the truest parts of ourselves—the parts buried beneath resentment, numbed by rage, or hidden under the weight of toxic individualism. Palm Sunday invites us to rediscover the selves God made us to be: merciful, courageous, communal, and alive to grace.

From Recognition to Action

Sometimes, I don’t recognize the things I should. But when I hear scripture call me into these verbs of recognition—go, untie, bring, spread, shout, follow—I find myself changed. Not always in big, dramatic ways. More often, it happens in subtle ways that are no less holy.

Grace finds my attention because I am learning to look for it in concrete places. Beauty catches me off guard, and suddenly I have a hosanna to offer. Rest becomes less a luxury and more a gift—one that makes me a better disciple, a better father, a better pastor, a better neighbor.

So, as we begin Holy Week, maybe the question before us is: Where will you recognize Jesus? What will be your hosanna? What will be the moment, the nudge, the holy interruption that moves you from recognition to action? Because Palm Sunday is not just about waving branches for a Savior long ago. It is about recognizing the One who is still in our midst, still coming toward us in humility, still calling us to follow.

And when we do—when we go, untie, bring, spread, shout, and follow—we just may discover that the Jesus we almost missed is the very one who has been leading us all along.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness" (March 22, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing
Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 22nd, 2026
5th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture Readings

Matthew 23:23

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others.”

John 8:2-11

Early in the morning he came again to the temple. All the people came to him, and he sat down and began to teach them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and, making her stand before all of them, they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, sir.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

Sermon Manuscript

To state the obvious, our world is currently filled with pain and division. As a pastor married to a therapist, Tricia and I often reflect on why this is and what role we should play—as parents, faith and mental health professionals, and followers of Jesus—in helping to repair the breach. I’m especially grateful for a common refrain she shares with me, which both saddens and challenges me to do better: she often laments that, as a society, we seem to have lost interest in and the ability for nuance in nearly every situation. Social media algorithms lure us into rage and then reward us for sharing it with others. Growing partisan hostility discourages any form of compromise for the common good. Preachers are accused of being “too political” just for sharing the basic tenets of Christianity. Our culture favors those who are deliberately combative in their tone, extreme in their beliefs, and callous with their words. Amid all of this, there is enormous human collateral damage. Why? Because nuance has left the building. We’re too busy arguing why we’re right and everyone else is wrong that we fail to see who suffers in the wake.

Sadly, you and I do not know the name of the collateral damage in today’s passage from John’s Gospel. She is an unnamed woman whose identity is of little use to the people who have thrust her before Jesus in contempt and rage. It was early in a morning, perhaps not unlike the one we are gathered on today. He had sat down and was teaching near the temple to those who would listen. But his tutelage is interrupted by scribes and Pharisees who have allegedly caught this woman in the very act of adultery. “Teacher,” they muse, “the law says we should stone her. What say you?”

Jesus could have instantly jumped into the argument, escalated the situation, and turned his response into a viral rage-bait video that I’m sure would have gained him a large following on social media. But instead, he does something quite rare in our culture: he practices the pause. Quite literally, as it turns out. Without saying a word, he bends to the ground and doodles in the sand. I can only imagine how much this must have angered those who came to argue, or at least puzzled them immensely. What on earth was he thinking? The text doesn’t tell us how long he wrote in the sand, but I like to think it was for an obnoxiously awkward amount of time.

Eventually, the scribes and Pharisees continue to press the issue. So, Jesus straightens up and calmly, gently, but firmly says the words we all know well: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Earlier this week, I thought that if I had to recall that verse from memory, I would forget the last two words. Notice, Jesus doesn’t say, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” No, he says, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” It’s as if Jesus, through both his silence and measured response, is refusing to allow the people trying to trap him to look away from the woman, whose life could very well end in bloodshed.

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

And then he does it again! Slowly, he lowers himself back to the ground and continues his sand art.

Nearly three and a half years ago, I preached on this very passage at the first worship service I ever led among you as your new pastor. In that sermon, I lamented, as so many have before me, that we don’t know what Jesus wrote in the sand that day. I ultimately concluded that it doesn’t matter what he wrote; what was most important was the deliberate act of pausing to gather his thoughts and craft a thoughtful, faithful response. I still believe that. However, I also think it’s a helpful spiritual exercise to make some educated guesses. Jesus might have been simply drawing something of no great consequence. Perhaps he just drew a line in the sand, as a visual reminder of the choices we face in a loud and complex world.

But today I like to think that Jesus drew a few questions in the sand as if to invite nuance back into the conversation. Perhaps he wrote down questions like those Tanya Denise Anderson poses in her artist statement in our Lenten devotional. How was she “caught” in the act? Was she allowed to explain herself? Was this a loving relationship? Was it even consensual? Or, perhaps most damning of all: if she was, in fact, caught in the act, as her accusers say, then where on God’s good green earth is man? As the saying goes, it takes two to tango!

Whether he wrote those questions in the sand or not, Jesus’s intentional choice to pause and invite space into a tense and charged situation adds nuance to the discussion. That’s good news for those caught in the crossfire of whatever current hot-button issue is. Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other. One of the biblical mandates Jesus knew well was the threefold command of Micah 6:8: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. He also knew all too well that we often unintentionally let our zeal for the first part of that equation to diminish our focus on the other two.

Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other.

Now, neighbors, hear me on this important note. While Jesus is condemning the harsh legalism of the scribes and Pharisees, we must never cast all Jewish law as inherently legalistic or rigid. As my friend Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity reminded me this week, Judaism has a rich history of holding Written and Oral Torah together to interpret and reevaluate the law. In this passage, Jesus isn’t telling the scribes and the Pharisees to abandon their Jewish beliefs. In fact, one could argue that Jesus is actually calling them to return to their Jewish beliefs. Because Judaism is built on a deep appreciation for the law of God, the Torah, and the intentional and faithful interpretations of that law that protect the most vulnerable among us. And that’s not just good news; that’s great news.

It’s great news because, as the Church of Jesus Christ, we have the opportunity to model a different way of living where we invite nuance to guide us toward discipleship. This leads us to a place where we are more aware of the stones we cast: stones like shame, certainty, social media contempt, political caricatures, church gossip, the need to win, or always be right. Because following Jesus means letting go of the stones we have come to hold dear. When we lay down those stones, we might discover that in a world that turns people into issues, Jesus restores personhood. In a world eager to condemn, Jesus creates space for repentance without humiliation. And in a world that loves spectacle, Jesus chooses mercy, and so should we.

Concluding Invitation

Perhaps a good way to start this work is to put down stones and pick up hymnals! What Jesus reveals in this story is what we are about to sing: there is a wideness in God’s mercy, and there is a kindness in God’s justice. I invite you to turn to hymn number 435 as together we conclude this sermon by rising in song:

[sing “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy"]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

www.stephenmichaelfearing.com   |   www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Protection and Care for the Vulnerable" (March 15, 2026 Sermon)

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Protection and Care for the Vulnerable

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 15, 2026
4th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture

Deuteronomy 24:17-22

“You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this.

“When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings. When you beat your olive trees, do not strip what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow.

“When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.

Matthew 19:13-15

Then children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them, but Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” And he laid his hands on them and went on his way.

“You were a child once, too.”

You were a child once, too. That's what Mister Rogers said, that's what he wrote down, once upon a time, for the doctors. The doctors were ophthalmologists. An ophthalmologist is a doctor who takes care of the eyes. Sometimes, ophthalmologists have to take care of the eyes of children, and some children get very scared, because children know that their world disappears when their eyes close, and they can be afraid that the ophthalmologists will make their eyes close forever. The ophthalmologists did not want to scare children, so they asked Mister Rogers for help, and Mister Rogers agreed to write a chapter for a book the ophthalmologists were putting together—a chapter about what other ophthalmologists could do to calm the children who came to their offices. Because Mister Rogers is such a busy man, however, he could not write the chapter himself, and he asked a woman who worked for him to write it instead. She worked very hard at writing the chapter, until one day she showed what she had written to Mister Rogers, who read it and crossed it all out and wrote a sentence addressed directly to the doctors who would be reading it: "You were a child once, too.” And that's how the chapter began.^[1]

My friend Tom wrote those words about his friend Fred back in 1998 for Esquire Magazine. You see, Tom made a mistake, a mistake he would later regret. He wrote an article about a very famous person, and in that article, he insinuated something very hurtful, something that wasn’t his story to tell. And it got him into trouble. Tom had developed a reputation for being a ruthless journalist. Ruthlessness is something someone does when they care more about themselves than others.

And so, as he feared that his career had stalled because of his ruthlessness, his editor gave him a new assignment. He called him into his office and told him he wanted him to interview Fred Rogers. “You mean, Mister Rogers? The kid’s show guy?” Tom scoffed. “Yes,” his editor replied, “We’re doing an issue on heroes, and I want you to write a profile on him.” And so, the invulnerable journalist called up the cardigan-wearing Presbyterian minister. “Invulnerable” is a word that means you feel like nothing can touch you, challenge you, or change you. Magical things happen when the invulnerable meet a person like Fred Rogers.

I wonder if the disciples felt invulnerable. “Disciples” is a word for people who want to follow Jesus. If I were his disciple, I would be tempted to feel invulnerable. How does one not feel that way when your teacher is a man who feeds thousands with table scraps, or resists Satan’s seduction, or calms a tempest, or summons the very dead from their slumber? Hang around with stuff like that long enough, and it goes to your head. Which is why, of course, when the children came to Jesus, they shooed them away. “This is grown-up business,” they tell them with the sort of condescension little ones are all too familiar with. “Condescension” is a word for when grown-ups think they always know better.

But Jesus bristles. He bristles because the disciples haven’t been listening. Just a few days earlier, he had placed a child on his knee and reminded them that whoever welcomes such a child in his name welcomes him. Now they are telling children that this is “grown-up business.” This is, of course, a silly notion, because the Kingdom of Heaven is neither “for” grown-ups nor a business.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable.”

The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable. The kingdom is open to all, of course, but again and again Jesus insists that it is the vulnerable, the overlooked, the little ones, who are nearest its center. And this is good news for kids, especially for those whom Jesus welcomed in today’s passage. Being a kid back then was no easy thing. According to Michael Joseph Brown in his book True to Our Native Land, “Fifty percent of children died before the age of five. They were the weakest members of society. They were fed last and received the smallest and least desirable portions of food. They were the first to suffer from famine, war, disease, and natural disasters. Many, some say more than 70 percent, would have lost one or more parents before reaching puberty. A minor had the same status as an enslaved person, and it was not until adulthood that they would be considered a free person.”^[2]

And being a child here and now, for many, is a similar kind of struggle. My work with A Simple Gesture has made me more aware of the scandal of child hunger right here in Guilford County. Close to one in four children here is food-insecure. In many parts of our county, families live in food deserts, far from a grocery store, dependent on public transportation just to buy food. And if you ride the bus in Greensboro, you are allowed only two bags. If you carry a purse, that counts as one. It should not be this hard to feed a child.

“Let the children come to me,” Jesus said. “You were a child once, too,” Fred Rogers said. Too often, our nation’s policies and priorities tell children and their families: your hunger is not urgent enough.

I began this sermon with an anecdote from Mr. Rogers for several reasons. First of all, this upcoming Friday would have been Mr. Rogers' 98th birthday, and as such, our denomination has designated that day in his honor, celebrating his memory and his message of neighborliness. Second, Fred Rogers was someone who had an innate gift for seeing the world through children’s eyes, to remember what it was like to be a little kid navigating a very big world. And that’s a spiritual gift that we all could do more with these days.

Last night, Tricia and I went to the Tanger Center to see The Sound of Music. It had been quite a while since I last saw the show, so I had forgotten several parts. One of those was how funny “Uncle Max” is. He is Captain von Trapp’s friend and a music agent and producer trying to get the von Trapp Family to perform at an upcoming festival. But beneath Uncle Max’s comic relief is a much more dangerous motive. Time and again, he tries to convince Captain von Trapp to adopt a stance of neutrality (at best) or tacit support (at worst) of the German annexation of Austria. “What’s going to happen is going to happen,” he tells Georg von Trapp at one point, “just make sure it doesn’t happen…to you.” In other words, he implies that von Trapp has the power and privilege to stay out of the mess and let the worst happen to others.

However, I trust you know how the story goes. His heart is hardened for good reason. He is devastated by the death of his wife, the children’s mother, and the sound of music has been verboten from his home. Maria and the children soften the Captain’s hardened heart. Together, they bring melody and joy back to his life, and he learns to see the world as his children do. And, indeed, see himself as his children see him. It is this softening that leads the “invulnerable” Captain to open his eyes to how the fascists are preying on the vulnerability of those around him. And he refuses to be complicit. With the help of the nuns, he defies Berlin’s “invitation” (i.e., command) to join the Navy of the Third Reich.

“Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too.”

“You were once a slave in Egypt, too,” God says to the Israelites. “You were once a child, too,” Fred Rogers says to each of us (not just the ophthalmologists).

You see, the gospel is asking us to remember:

Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too. Remember what fear feels like. Remember what hunger feels like. Remember what it is to need gentleness from a world that can be so hard.

And then let that remembering soften you:

Soften you enough to leave grain in the field. Soften you enough to make room for children. Soften you enough to resist every voice that says, “What’s going to happen is going to happen—just make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” No. Not for those who follow Jesus. For those who follow Jesus, the vulnerable are not interruptions. They are where the kingdom shows up first.

So let the children come. Let the stranger come. Let the hungry come. And may they find, in us, not a closed hand or a hardened heart, but the welcome of Christ himself.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

Notes

[1] Junod, Tom. “Can You Say...Hero?” Esquire, November, 1998.

[2] True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian K. Blount, Gay L. Byron, and Emerson B. Powery, (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2024). 120.

www.stephenmfearing.com | www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Together, the Impossible Is Possible" (March 8, 2026 Sermon)

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

The Good News Is… Together, the Impossible Is Possible

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

March 8, 2026 · Third Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Ephesians 3:20–21
“Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

Mark 6:32–44
The feeding of the five thousand

The Worship Committee is currently considering using memorial funds to replace our aging audio equipment here. Our soundboard and speakers, for example, have dutifully served this space for decades, but it’s time to dismiss them with thanks. So I’ve been thinking a lot about amplification, you could say.

As I reflected on these scriptures with several of you this past week, a simple truth came to mind—one that is, honestly, quite obvious but no less profound: Jesus didn’t have a microphone. At least not like the one that carries my voice now. He didn’t have electricity, soundboards, or amplifiers. Instead, his amplifiers were his followers, in a very real sense.

“Before there was amplification, there was community.”

In The Word This Week, we gathered in the library and watched part of an episode of The Chosen that depicts today’s story from Mark’s gospel. There’s a small detail I really appreciated: as you hear Jesus teaching the crowd, you can hear others in the background repeating his words, carrying his message to those in the back.

A space can be designed to help one voice carry a long way, but a crowd of more than 5,000—especially outdoors—would still make hearing Jesus a shared act, not just an individual one. We aren’t told exactly how Jesus’ teaching reached the edges of such a large crowd. But I can’t help imagining it this way: a word spoken here, repeated there; a phrase caught by one set of ears and carried to another; a murmur of mercy rippling outward through human voices.

Participants, Not Spectators

Now, it stands to reason that if Jesus could miraculously feed thousands with just two fish and five loaves, he also could have easily amplified his voice through divine means. But he chose not to. The good news is that in Christ, God’s abundance becomes real not only through divine power from above but also through shared human participation below: voices carrying the word, hands passing the bread, communities discovering together that the impossible is possible.

Jesus could have snapped his fingers and had a four-course meal literally fall from the heavens into the people’s laps, but he chose not to. Jesus is fully capable of acting alone, but he doesn’t, because the kingdom he proclaims always makes people participants, not spectators.

“The kingdom Jesus proclaims always makes people participants, not spectators.”

In Mark’s gospel, Jesus does not treat the crowd as passive consumers of a religious experience. He draws disciples and, in a sense, the entire gathered community into the work. The word is shared collectively. The food is enjoyed together. The abundance is found together. The good news is that with Christ, and with one another, the impossible becomes possible.

From Scarcity to Abundance

The disciples’ instinctual posture is one of scarcity. There are too many people; it’s too late in the day; we have too little money; we have too little food. Jesus doesn’t deny the size of the need; he simply rejects their conclusion. The disciples see the need and believe it’s impossible. Jesus looks at the same need and sees a community that hasn’t yet realized what is possible when they come together.

Exactly one year ago, this congregation faced the question of whether to convert the youth lounge into a temporary homeless shelter for about a dozen women over the summer. What started as a simple January coffee meeting between the CEO of Greenboro Urban Ministry and me grew into a Mission Committee discussion in February, a Session meeting in March, and then numerous conversations across this church and beyond.

At every stage, the same concerns kept resurfacing: Do we have enough space? Enough volunteers? Enough money? Enough security? Enough emotional energy? Enough flexibility in our building and our life together to host roughly a dozen women for three months? These weren’t foolish questions, and they weren’t necessarily unfaithful ones. But they also reflected scarcity.

Beneath each practical concern was a deeper fear: if we open what we have to others, will there still be enough left for us?

“Bring what you have, offer it together, and trust that in God’s hands, shared gifts will become more than enough.”

And that is exactly the kind of question that lingers during the feeding of the five thousand. The disciples look at the crowd and see the math of insufficiency: not enough food, not enough money, not enough capacity—just not enough. But Jesus invites them to see things differently.

He does not dismiss the reality of the challenge, but he also refuses to let scarcity have the final say. “You give them something to eat,” he says. In other words: bring what you have, offer it together, and trust that in God’s hands, shared gifts will become more than enough.

That is what this church wrestled with a year ago. Not just whether we had enough resources, but whether we were willing to believe that God can do abundant things when a community stops clutching what it has and begins putting it in Christ’s hands. And by God’s grace, we took that leap of faith. We opened our doors, welcomed our neighbors, and discovered that when we placed what we had into Christ’s hands, God provided every space, volunteer, resource, and every bit of courage we needed to share good news with women seeking both shelter and a path toward work and stability.

And this was possible because we trusted in the God who, by the power at work within us, is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.

Food as Gift

Did you know that there’s a farm in upstate New York where nothing is for sale? In a small town in the Adirondacks called Keeseville, there’s a place called the Sand River Community Farm. On the surface it looks like any other farm: people digging potatoes, peeling garlic, chopping wood, making stew, tending animals. But there is one remarkable difference: the food is grown and shared as a gift.

No wages. No prices. Nothing bought or bartered. Just neighbors showing up, working together, and feeding one another.

It’s run by a farmer named Adam Wilson. One of his neighbors unexpectedly came into some money and wrote him a $500,000 check to take a local abandoned farmhouse off the market. He started growing food and giving it away. Then some of the people he gave food to began showing up to assist him in tending the farm so they could grow more food. A community began to form—neighbor feeding neighbor. A place where everyone was welcome, and the only requirement was to come hungry.

Not only did those who helped form this community find their stomachs filled, but their spirits filled as well.

“This food is our gift… a responsibility to consider: What are my gifts? And how might I join hands with others to sustain the whole?”

Adam Wilson noticed a shift when giving food as a gift. The Sand River Community doesn’t call it “free” food; they call it “food as a gift.” Because, in his words, the word “free” implies that something doesn’t have value. Instead, they use the phrase “gifted” food to emphasize the value of food grown and harvested by a community of volunteers who do that sacred work simply because everyone deserves food, with no exceptions.

If you enter Sand River Community Farm, you’ll find a sign that invites people to trade transaction for relationship, commerce for community, and to consider how their own gifts might help sustain the whole.

What if we stopped believing the lie of scarcity? What if we saw food less as a commodity purchased by consumers and more as a gift shared among neighbors?

Passing the Good News Along

But Jesus said to them, “You give them something to eat.” Not just you watch. Not just you admire. You give. You carry. You pass it along.

Friends, the good news of this story isn’t just that Jesus once fed a hungry crowd long ago. It’s that Christ still confronts our fear of not-enough by teaching communities to speak and share a different word. A word of gift. A word of mercy. A word of enough.

And that word doesn’t travel by magic. It travels through people. Through voices. Through bodies. Through neighbors.

So I want to invite us, for just a moment, to become what this story says the church is: a people through whom good news is passed along.

There is enough for all:

enough food…
enough housing…
enough healthcare…
enough mercy…

Together, the impossible is possible.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

www.stephenmfearing.com  |  www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Great Love for God and Neighbor"

Some of the most powerful scenes in Luke’s Gospel involve little to no dialogue. It’s as if a recurring theme in his account of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry is that actions speak much louder than words. For example, Luke 5 describes a paralyzed man being lowered through a house’s roof by his friends. Without speaking a word, the man’s companions demonstrate a faithfulness that impresses Jesus. Time and again, Luke’s Gospel shows that those considered models of discipleship are often not the insiders but those on the margins. And more often than not, the outsiders show their faithfulness not through words but through prophetic actions that embody great love for God and neighbor.

Another similar scene happens two chapters later in Luke’s Gospel, when the story of the unnamed woman of ill repute unfolds as she quietly enters a house where Jesus is eating with some Pharisees. They were probably debating the subtle details of the law, which was their usual practice. They were gathered for a meal where status, purity, and propriety all matter—where you can feel the invisible rules in the room. I imagine that was the part of the conversation Jesus liked the least. And so, I think he was intrigued when a woman entered the scene.

There must have been quite an awkward silence. She approached Jesus with an alabaster jar and sat at his feet. She doesn’t argue her worthiness. She just comes—carrying what she has, carrying what she is—and risks being seen. The text simply states that she was “a sinner.” Luke could have been more specific, but he didn’t want us to focus on her sinfulness, only her faithfulness. So while Simon and his fellow Pharisees clutch their pearls, she lowers her gaze to his feet, bathes them in her tears, dries them with her hair, and anoints his feet with precious oil. Simon is doing ethical calculations in his head. He’s tallying purity and propriety while she’s pouring out gratitude. Notice that the text tells us his initial question was something he said to himself. But Jesus must have read his heart, because he tells Simon he has something to say to him.

He shares a simple parable. One person was forgiven for a missed $25 co-payment. Another received a letter from the billing department at Wesley Long Hospital informing them that their $40,000 surgery bill had been forgiven with no strings attached. Who, he mused, do you think will be more grateful? Simon knows the answer and, being no fool, must have realized that Jesus has him trapped in confession. “The one forgiven $40,000,” he says.“Right you are,” Jesus replies. Jesus then reminds Simon that this woman has shown him hospitality that Simon failed to offer—forms of hospitality that a host like Simon would have been socially expected to fulfill.

And so, without saying a single word, this woman delivers a homily of hospitality.  And it is far from the only one in Luke’s Gospel. In fact, her actions are echoed in another story that occurs just a few chapters after today’s reading. It’s a story I’m sure you know: the story of the Good Samaritan. Like the woman, the Good Samaritan doesn’t speak at all—at least not until the very end of the story. He says very little—almost all of the mercy happens before any words do. You know the story: he finds a man beaten and robbed, having already been abandoned by a priest and a Levite, both of whom were known for their sacred words and litanies. Yet, the Good Samaritan, much like the woman in Luke 7, understands intuitively that some moments don’t call for words; they call for action. And that’s exactly what he does. He cares for the man and, like the woman in today’s text, anoints him with oil—silently, lovingly, faithfully.

And so, friends, remember this: love for Jesus at the Table must become mercy for the neighbor in the ditch. That mercy shows up in calendars and casseroles, in who gets invited, and what we do with our money. The woman’s faithfulness becomes a continuous refrain, a song of mercy that calls the Samaritan to set aside words for a moment and pick up some oil to soothe the broken body and broken heart.

In Luke, the gospel goes beyond polite beliefs or correct talk; it becomes visible at tables, on roads, and in homes. The unnamed woman in Luke 7 demonstrates that true hospitality isn’t about social status but about humble love—drawing near to Jesus, honoring him, and receiving forgiveness that makes someone new. After showing us love poured out at Jesus’ feet, Luke sends us into the world where neighbor-love looks like oil and bandages, restitution and repair, gratitude and witness, and a community that refuses to exploit the vulnerable. The real question isn’t just about saying the right things about grace, but whether our bodies, budgets, tables, and time will live out that grace—until the forgiven become forgiving, the welcomed become welcoming, and love of neighbor becomes the church’s most credible confession.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...So Good It Catches Us By Surprise"

Texts: John 2:1-11 & Matthew 13:31-32

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? For me, it was about a week or two ago during an argument with our five-year-old. Before sharing this story, I need to clarify two things. First, Hazel Grace, as many of you know, is in kindergarten in the Spanish Immersion Program at Jones Elementary School. Second, I asked her for her permission to tell this story, and she kindly agreed.

A week or two ago, Tricia, Hazel Grace, and I had an argument. I don’t remember what it was about - probably something life-or-death, like shoes or snacks. All I remember is that Hazel Grace was throwing down; whatever boundary Tricia and I had imposed in that moment was not to her liking. Voices were raised. Blood pressure was going up. Our four-year-old, Winnie, was in the next room watching Bluey without a worry in the world.  But the other three of us were having it out.

And then something changed suddenly. All at once, Tricia and I realized that Hazel Grace was no longer speaking English. Almost imperceptibly, Hazel Grace had switched from English to Spanish. Tricia and I stood stunned in front of our bilingual kindergartener. She was on a roll! Tricia and I couldn’t understand very much, but we did catch “Mamá y papá no son buenos!”

Tricia and I really wanted to be angry at Hazel Grace, but we couldn’t help but be impressed! The two of us stifled a laugh, not wanting Hazel Grace to think we were laughing at her. When I asked her yesterday if I could share this story with y’all, she laughed and said, “Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn't it?”

That was the last time I remember being surprised by something truly holy. Because I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning a language spoken by 50 million people in this country, and she’s getting the chance to learn it much earlier than her mother or I ever did. I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning, at such an early age, that English isn’t the official language of the Kingdom of God. It’s a holy thing that she is growing up in a learning environment much more diverse than the one I grew up in. It’s a holy thing that God has given us such a smart child and that our public school system is teaching her to be creative, kind, and bilingual. Now, I’m sure there will come a moment when I’m less thrilled about the fact that my child can argue with me in Spanish, but for now, Tricia and I are grateful, surprised, and delighted.

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? We start this season of Lent with that question to shake things up a bit. Usually, we begin Lent with stories from Matthew, Mark, or Luke about Jesus being tempted in the wilderness by Satan. But this year, our Lenten theme is “Tell Me Something Good,” so we’re kicking off Lent with a party and a mustard seed. The Wedding at Cana, which one of our college students, Hannah Moore, read, is how John’s Gospel introduces Jesus’ ministry. Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail introduces the passage perfectly in her commentary on it: “People didn’t think Jesus could boogie like that. It took them by surprise—his dance moves, undoubtedly, but also how much Jesus, Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God… loves a good ol’ fashioned Electric Slide.” I love how John introduces us to Jesus through the most ordinary event, a normal wedding. A wedding with ordinary people just like you and me, celebrating love in a way that really hasn’t changed much over the two millennia since.

Therefore, I want us to pause today and acknowledge that the Good News of the Gospel is, above all, about joy. The joy God finds in us. The joy we find in each other. The joy that surprises us when the wine runs out, the party may suddenly come to a halt, and the myth of scarcity rears its ugly head. I, for one, am grateful for this different perspective on Lent this year because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to it. So together, you and I will spend this Lent following Mary Oliver’s advice in her poem “Instructions for Living a Life: Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About It.”

And so, this story reminds us that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a joyful, perhaps even playful, thing. In her artist statement for the liturgical art inspired by this passage, Rev. Tanya Denise Anderson says: “The Wedding at Cana is my favorite text because there is a lot of humor in it. There’s humor in a mother approaching her son and telling him to do something without ever actually telling him to do it. There’s his pouty resistance to his mother’s non-demand while she completely ignores him and paints him in a corner. There is humor in a raucous wedding reception where the people are so “lit” that the wine has run out. And, for me, it’s particularly humorous that there’s this huge, beautiful secret of which only a few people are aware.”

You and I are stewards of this “huge, beautiful secret” in today’s texts. A secret, admittedly, that we don’t (or shouldn’t) hide. This secret is summarized in two stories, one about a wedding and another about a mustard seed. It’s a secret that makes us laugh, brings some lightness and relief in a world that sometimes feels less like a dance at a wedding and more like a dirge at a funeral.  The huge, beautiful secret in both Cana and the mustard seed is this: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance.

Evil, you see, is ultimately predictable. We have become quite accustomed to the voices in our culture that try their best to drive a wedge between us and our neighbors. Evil’s predictability is, ultimately, its greatest weakness.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ, on the other hand, is filled with upended expectations and a disturbed status quo.  In a world that says there’s not enough, Jesus says, “Here’s more joy.”  In a world that tells us that “might makes right,” Jesus says, “Here’s a mustard seed; it’s enough.”  In a world that teaches us to fear the stranger, hoard what we have, and brace for the worst, Jesus says, “Come to the table. There is room. There is enough. Stay for the celebration.” That is why the Gospel remains forever holy and forever surprising: evil may be predictable, but grace never is.

Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail puts it this way: “Because this… this is who Jesus is. Jesus doesn’t have to begin with defeating evil because he knows ultimately evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who loves disco and his mother. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who is not only not afraid of scarcity, but laughs in the face of it. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who will never let an empty cistern or full tomb have the final word. Evil is predictable. But our God loves a surprise because God knows the plot twist is the same every time: God’s goodness will overflow. Every single time.”

Therefore, this Lent, I hope we begin by laughing together. Because you and I are midwives of a story of salvation by a Prince of Peace who isn’t afraid to make his debut at a lively wedding celebration. Such a story is subversive and dangerous to those who benefit from the current system. A Jesus who stays within the halls of power and privilege can be twisted to justify any form of state-sponsored violence and terror. But a Jesus revealed to us at an ordinary wedding? That’s a disturbing truth for those who want to keep us divided. Because a joy like that is nothing less than an act of nonviolent resistance in a callous culture.

And I want to be clear, friends: practicing joy isn’t a selfish act. Our consumerist culture has taught us that joy, and its close cousin, rest, is a luxury reserved only for those who can afford it, or those who have “earned” it, or those who “deserve” it. Joy is a renewable resource that reorients us toward new possibilities when the voices around us say all is lost, or, at least, that all is not new. Yes, there is suffering in the world. Yes, our neighbors are being terrorized in the streets. Yes, there is much that needs our faithful work. But taking joy out of that recipe makes for a bad dish that nourishes no one.

Mary Oliver once famously said, “Joy is not meant to be a crumb.”

And thanks be to God for that. Because at Cana, Jesus does not hand out crumbs. He fills jars to the brim. In the parable, God does not despise small things. God grows a mustard seed into shelter. And in our own lives, the Holy Spirit keeps interrupting our fear, our frustration, and our scarcity with flashes of grace we did not see coming.

So, no, joy is not denial. Joy does not pretend that suffering is not real. Joy does not erase grief. Joy does not ignore injustice. But joy does refuse to let evil have the final word. Joy refuses to surrender our imagination to fear. Joy refuses to believe that scarcity is the truest thing about the world.

This Lent, then, let us practice joy as a form of discipleship. Let us pay attention to the jars being filled. Let us pay attention to the tiny seeds in the soil. Let us pay attention to the moments when laughter breaks through in the middle of a hard day, reminding us that grace is still alive.

And maybe that is one answer to the question we began with: When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? Maybe it was not in a sanctuary at all. Maybe it was in your kitchen. In the middle of a family argument. With blood pressure rising, Bluey playing in the next room, and a five-year-old suddenly switching to Spanish to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that mamá y papá no son buenos.

And somehow, right there — in the frustration, in the laughter, in the love, in the surprise — grace broke in.

That is the kind of thing Cana teaches us to look for. That is the kind of thing the mustard seed trains us to trust. The holy does not always arrive in the places we expect, and it rarely arrives on our schedule. But it does arrive — in ordinary rooms, in ordinary people, in moments that seem too small to matter, until suddenly they are filled to the brim.

And when the world tells us to hoard, to harden, to despair, may we hear Mary’s words at Cana: “Do whatever he tells you.” Fill the jars. Make room at the table. Plant the seed. Stay for the celebration.

Because the huge, beautiful secret is still true: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance. So, church — when was the last time you were surprised by something holy? This Lent, pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...All Are Invited"

Text: Luke 14:15-24

Ash Wednesday has long signaled the start of a solemn season. Lent has traditionally been a time of quiet self-reflection, penitence, and somber study of scripture. We mark ourselves with ashes to remind us of our mortality. Some of us give up something to practice restraint, creating more space for communion with God and spiritual growth. Psalm 51 has often been the psalm chosen for Ash Wednesday, famously attributed to David admitting his sin in sexually assaulting Bathsheba and having her husband, Uriah, killed when he failed to cover his tracks after getting her pregnant. As I mentioned, the beginning of a solemn season, indeed!

But we’re approaching this Lent a little differently this year. This doesn’t mean there’s no spiritual value in solemn introspection, fasting from certain vices, or contemplating our mortality and our consequent total reliance on God’s mercy. However, as you might have seen from the title of our Lenten Sermon series, we’re viewing Lent this year as an invitation—an invitation to Good News—good news that keeps us grounded when much of the world feels so broken. Together, we’ll listen to the Spirit and let her “tell us something good.” This will be our focus this Lent because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to the load.

And so, we begin this Season of Lent with an invitation that is quite fitting. It’s fitting because the Season of Lent was originally a call for new converts to learn the basics of Christianity in order to prepare for their baptism on Easter Sunday.  And so, let us go together to the mailbox and see what RSVP might be waiting for us!

Our RSVP takes the form of a parable of Jesus. A parable, for the record, which he shares while sitting at the dinner table in the home of a local Pharisee. As a reminder of the context (because it’s always important): on the way to this Pharisee’s house, Jesus healed a man with a skin condition on the Sabbath, challenging their obsession with strictly following the letter of the law instead of its spirit. Then, when they arrive at the Pharisee’s house, Jesus notices how everyone is vying for the seat of honor next to the host. He reminds them that the kingdom of heaven operates according to an opposite social logic. No, he tells them, choose the lower place so that the host will invite you to move up. Because Jesus reminds them, those who humble themselves will be exalted, and those who exalt themselves will be humbled.

And then we have this parable that Donna read for us today. A host is preparing a party and sending out the VIP invitations first, as one does. However, the three invitations don’t exactly get positive responses from the A-list celebrities his slave hunts down on his behalf. Each of them has an excuse that, at best, is half-hearted, and, at worst, downright pathetic.

The first has bought a piece of land and has to go see it (as if he didn’t already see it before buying it?).

The second has bought five oxen and has to go see them (again, as if one wouldn’t have already done that before the purchase!).

The third person's excuse diverges from the economic tone of the first two. This third guy is married and claims, I suppose, that the missus is expecting him.

All of these ridiculous excuses can be summed up by a famous quote from the popular TV series, Friends. In the first episode of the first season, which premiered more than 30 years ago, Phoebe is invited to join Joey, Ross, and Chandler to help assemble furniture in Ross’s new apartment. Phoebe, without missing a beat, simply replies: “I wish I could, but I don’t want to!”

This is the response from the three original invitees to the host’s party, at least according to this millennial’s Friends-inspired paraphrase of Luke 14. “Thanks,” they each say; “wish we could, but we don’t want to!” The host, humiliated by rejection, realizes that the usual social expectations aren’t working for him. Usually, someone hosting a party hopes that people higher up the social ladder will attend. If those at the “top” come first, then those at the “bottom” will often find their place in the end, if at all. But this host makes a strange and countercultural move: he begins to focus on the “bottom up,” at least in the eyes of those who initially rejected his invitation.

“Go,” he tells his slave. “Get the poor. Get the disabled. Get the blind. Get the lame. Go grab Phil, who pandhandes across the street between Panera Bread and City BBQ. Go get Denice, who camps out under the canopy of the closed store next to Scuppernong Books downtown. Go find Don, the Harris Teeter worker who moonlights as a Lyft driver to feed his family because his SNAP benefits are about to run out. Go get them all and bring them here.” The slave goes and does as he is told. And the masses come. But there’s still more room. The host sends the slave out again, saying, grab literally whoever you can. Because there’s still more room, and there is no stranger at my table.

And, thus, the feast begins. Phil isn’t seen as an eyesore by those who just want to get home with their groceries. Denice can now feel her fingers and toes again. Don gets a much-needed break from the rat race that consumes his life just to keep his kids from starving. Choice wine is poured. Fresh bread is broken. Grapes are rolling on the floor because there’s no more room on the table to contain all the food that has been prepared. Laughter flows as freely as the drinks. For a moment, the social order is reversed, and the kingdom of heaven has disturbed the status quo just enough to remind everyone present that the way things are isn’t the way things have to be.  And they are indeed not the way God has promised them to be.

That is how we begin Lent this year.  With an open invitation that is ours to receive.  Who wouldn’t want to say yes to a party like that?  Well, as it turns out, there will always be some who would find such a gathering an abomination.

A few months ago, our Theology on Tap group read C.S. Lewis’ novel, The Great Divorce.  In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis doesn’t picture heaven and hell as two static destinations where people are permanently “assigned.” Instead, he imagines them as ends of a spectrum—and the real drama is the direction a person chooses to move. Again and again, the book suggests that the boundary between heaven and hell is traced less by God’s refusal than by our resistance: God keeps offering invitation, mercy, and transformation, but we can cling to the resentments, fears, and self-protective illusions that make joy unbearable. In Lewis’s telling, then, the question of heaven or hell isn’t finally about God sorting people into categories; it’s about whether we accept the offered invitation and step toward the light, or insist on turning away.

And, he would also offer, there are plenty of people who, given the choice between heaven or hell, choose “the bad place.” In one of my favorite chapters, a very self-righteous man is well on his way to “the good place.” He prides himself on all the good he has done in his life. He did the right things. Checked the appropriate boxes on his moral inventory. But as he heads toward heaven, he is introduced to a man named Len, who murdered an innocent man back on earth. “What are you doing here?” the self-righteous man asks. “I’ve gone straight all my life. I don’t say I was a religious man and I don’t say I had no faults, far from it. But I’ve done my best all my life, see? I’ve done my best by everyone, that’s the kind of chap I was. I never asked for anything that wasn’t mine by rights. If I wanted a drink, I paid for it, and if I took my wages, I done my job, see? That’s the kind of guy I was, and I don’t care who knows it! I’m not asking for anyone’s bleeding charity!”

To this, Len, responds, “Ask for the Bleeding Charity.  Everything is here for the asking, and nothing can be bought.”

To this, the righteous man indignantly responds, “I’d rather be damned than go along with you!”  And he turns around and heads toward hell.

“We wish we could,” the well-to-do folks in today’s parable said, “but we just don’t want to.”

I wish I could stand before you today and honestly say that there’s nothing in God’s invitation to the kingdom of heaven that doesn’t rub me the wrong way. Of course, it does! Because I’ve been taught that righteousness is a solo act—something I do for myself, something I earn. But that’s not how God’s math works. It’s not about me. And it’s not about you. It’s about us. And that’s the invitation we receive this evening as we mark our foreheads with ashes and remind ourselves that none of this is a solo act, and everything we do and everything we are depends on God’s grace and God’s invitation. You and I aren’t called to “reinvent” grace (as if it were ever a creation of our own!). We’re simply meant to rest in the truth that we’re invited to the table not because we’ve earned it, but because God has made space. And after we’ve rested in that truth, then comes the time to share it!  Because that’s all this party has ever been about, really.

And some people will never accept that. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the immigrant. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the refugee, or the incarcerated, or the homeless, or the anxious, or the disabled, or the political enemy, or the neighbor whose yard sign makes your blood pressure rise. There will always be those voices, but those voices aren’t the ones we listen to today. On Ash Wednesday, we will hear a voice say, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We can see that promise as a warning or as an invitation to humility, grace, and a different perspective—away from the voices that claim might is right and influence is the only currency worth pursuing.

Instead, I hope we all hear that voice declaring our dustiness as a voice that will forever be God’s voice; a voice with an unending invitation for you - yes, you. An invitation that’s freely available to you right here, right now. And if you can’t accept it now, it will be available to you again. Because the Good News is…everyone is invited.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson died a few days ago at the age of 84.  And in 1972, the 31-year-old civil rights activist visited the most magical place in the world, an address known as 123 Sesame Street.  And there, he met with a diverse group of children and led them in a liturgy for which he became well known.  The call and response went as such, with him as the liturgist and the children the chorus of the many:

I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I may be poor…I MAY BE POOR…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be young…I MAY BE YOUNG…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be on welfare…I MAY BE ON WELFARE…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be small…I MAY BE SMALL…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may make a mistake…I MAY MAKE A MISTAKE…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
My clothes are different…MY CLOTHES ARE DIFFERENT…
My face is different…MY FACE IS DIFFERENT…
My hair is different…MY HAIR IS DIFFERENT…
But I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I am black…BLACK…brown…BROWN…white…WHITE…
I speak a different language…I SPEAK A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE
But I must be respected…RESPECTED…protected…PROTECTED…
and never rejected…AND NEVER REJECTED.
I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!

So friends, say it with me, I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.  There’s room for me….THERE’S ROOM FOR ME…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE…there’s room for my neighbor…THERE’S ROOM FOR MY NEIGHBOR…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE.  And no one and nothing can change that!  AND NO ONE AND NOTHING CAN CHANGE THAT.

And may all of us, God’s beloveds, say: Amen.

"Rest for Your Soul: Embracing God's Invitation" (January 18, 2026 Sermon)

Texts: Jeremiah 6:16 & Matthew 11:28-30

Do you remember the movie Cast Away? Tom Hanks plays Chuck Noland, a FedEx employee obsessed with productivity, efficiency, and the bottom line. His obsession makes him a great troubleshooter for FedEx, but his workaholic tendencies threaten his relationships. Spoiler alert: he gets stranded alone on a small tropical island for about five years, where deadlines, efficiency reports, and the rat race of corporate America become a thing of the past. The movie ends when Chuck is rescued and travels to Texas to deliver a package he kept with him, unopened, throughout his ordeal. He leaves a note on the recipient's porch saying the package saved his life. As he drives away, he stops at a crossroads, looking in the different directions he can take. I suppose he could go back to the endless rat race of his former corporate life, or he could choose another path—a quieter, more introspective one. The scene fades to black as a gentle smile appears on Chuck’s face while he looks down the road toward the house where he just delivered the package.

I believe many of us are at a crossroads right now regarding the rhythm and pace of our lives, especially when it comes to our news consumption, social media use, and the increasingly unavoidable presence of artificial intelligence. For many, life has become so fast-paced and chaotic, and our reliance on technology and social media so overwhelming, that it’s hard to find balance and meaningful connections. That’s the focus of this three-week sermon series called “Stop the Scroll.” In conversations with my own therapist, my wife who is also a therapist, and with many of you, I’m hearing a recurring theme. We’re tired. We’re overwhelmed. We’re disconnected. Our spirits, our bodies, feel, as Bilbo Baggins once famously said, “like too little butter scraped over too much bread.”

I suppose I should confess that this sermon series is personal for me: I’m in a chapter of my life where finding rest has never been more difficult. But one certainly doesn’t need to be a parent like me to understand that feeling. I know many of you, who are in different stages of life, also feel burdened and weary. Caring for aging parents. Worrying about the world our children and grandchildren will inherit. Struggling to find employment. Wrestling with difficult relationships and trying to help family and friends battling addiction.

I’m not going to stand before you, wagging my finger and offering a simplistic, callous message that suggests finding rest these days is easy or straightforward. We all know it’s not. But I do hope that you and I can use the next few weeks to examine our relationship with technology, news, and social media, because all three are major factors in our collective struggle to balance responsibility and rest, advocacy and sabbath, action with stillness. Together, let’s stand at this crossroads and listen for God’s voice inviting us, as Matthew’s gospel says, to find rest for our weary and burdened souls.

As a millennial who grew up in the 90s, I remember the days before the internet. I remember flipping through card catalogs at the library. I remember when our family cell phone had to be physically installed in our minivan, complete with a literal antenna (I seem to recall the phone worked about 25% of the time). I remember getting my first cell phone in high school; it was a flip phone that was almost indestructible. I also remember getting in trouble often with my parents because a single text message cost ten cents and my parents’ phone bill suffered as a result.  I remember my mom going through a big scrapbooking phase long before we started creating digital photo albums. And I remember 8-tracks—okay, I’m joking about that one; I’ve never used an 8-track in my life.

And then things sped up.  Fast.  I remember when we first got dial-up internet.  And the drama that was caused when one of us picked up the phone - you know, with a cord and all that - and that Backstreet Boys song I had been so carefully ripping off of Napster disappeared mid-download.  I remember getting my first “smart phone” when I went to seminary and iPhones had just come out.  I could, of course, go on and on about all the technological advances that have happened since but it would take forever.

Now, we’re glued to our devices. Artificial intelligence is in almost everything we do (I can’t even refill my prescriptions these days without using AI). Gone are the days when politics was boring and we weren’t at each other’s throats. Gone are the days when news consumption was limited to the paper newspaper at breakfast, NPR in the car, or watching CNN or Fox on the treadmill at the gym. Now, notifications about the latest shooting, political cage match, or natural disaster are so frequent they become white noise, a constant source of both addiction and exhaustion. The nonstop flow of alerts and updates has changed how we relate to information, making it feel both urgent and trivial at once. We scroll mindlessly through headlines, often desensitized to the seriousness of events, yet still pushed to debate and discuss, often escalating quickly. Our social media feeds serve as battlegrounds for opinions, where nuance gets lost in the chaos, and empathy is scarce. In this chaotic landscape, we are both connected and isolated, craving meaningful interactions while sinking in a sea of digital noise.

And here’s the problem. Our brains were never designed to handle the enormous amount of noise we face today. From an evolutionary perspective, our brains tend to favor bad news because our Neanderthal ancestors who were more hyperaware of threats were more likely to survive and pass on their genes. But it’s not just the type of news we consume; it’s the sheer volume. In an article on Psychology Today, psychologist Dr. Charles R. Chaffin states: “Beyond the brain’s natural inclination toward negative information, the sheer volume of content we consume also affects our ability to process it effectively. The constant flow of news can create a numbing effect, where people either become desensitized to tragedies or experience heightened anxiety because they feel powerless to change the situation. This paradox—being both overwhelmed and disengaged—can lead to decision fatigue, stress, and an overall sense of helplessness (Chaffin, 2021). The rise of doomscrolling—mindlessly scrolling through bad news for extended periods—exacerbates this problem. Studies show that excessive news consumption is linked to increased anxiety and depression (Holman et al., 2020). The more we consume distressing information, the harder it becomes to put it into context, leading to a skewed perception of reality.

Friends, that’s the paradox you and I face. That is the crossroads at which we find ourselves. And it’s a crossroads that’s mentioned in today’s verse from Jeremiah: “Stand at the crossroads and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.” Together, we stand at a crossroads between our obligation to be informed and active citizens of our democracy, on the one hand, and the need to protect our own rest, on the other hand. But the good news is that those aren’t necessarily two divergent paths. Nowhere in the Gospels do I see Jesus expecting his followers to avoid the messiness of the world, bury their heads in the sand, and pretend everything is perfect. No, he expected his followers to be active participants in creation, bending that moral arc of the universe, sharing the good news of the Gospel with those who need rest, who need a break from the oppressive powers that assail them. But Jesus also slept in a storm. The Son also took time to rest, pray, and be with the Father. Christ got tired. Christ was overwhelmed. Christ needed Sabbath. And, in turn, he offered himself as sabbath to us.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens,” Jesus said, “and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

We have heard those words spoken today.  We’ve heard those words sung today.  Taking them to heart is one of the ancient paths that the Jeremiah passage harkens, the paths where the good way lies, where we find rest for our souls.

The problem is that you and I too often only rest “when we get around to it.”  We wait to rest until the to-do list is finished (is it ever?).  We wait to rest “until things calm down” (spoiler alert: they never do).  We wait to rest after we feel we’ve pleased the gods of productivity (hint: those are greedy idols whose appetite for our souls is never satisfied!).

At some point, I’ve had to accept that rest isn’t just something my body does out of necessity, but also something my spirit does to honor God and accept my limitations. Even Jesus accepted his limitations. Satan tried to tempt Jesus with more - more power, more security, more satisfaction - and each time Jesus responded, “Nah, I’m good. I don’t need to be more than I already am to be who God is calling me to be. My baptism is sufficient.” What a radical statement, y’all!

Perhaps if we channeled that voice, that vibe, that sense of vocation, you and I might be better able to strike that healthy balance between having "the newspaper in one hand and the Bible in the other," as Karl Barth once famously said.

No matter what you need to rest from - social media, technology, news consumption, or always saying “yes” - whatever it is, remember this week that practicing rest is a way to acknowledge our limitations and honor God and the way God made us. But as we’ve said, it’s hard. There are many reasons why we find it difficult to rest, and it occurs to me that rest is not necessarily always a solo activity. In fact, it’s often a group effort (kind of like what we’re doing right now). This was a recurring theme when about eight of us gathered last Tuesday for the Word This Week. And I’ve thought of two examples to show that truth.

The first example comes from my frequent inspiration, Brené Brown. In a podcast from some years ago, she talked about marriage and said that whoever first suggested that a healthy marriage is 50/50 didn’t know what they were talking about. She and her husband check in with each other when they get home from work each day. They rate themselves on their energy and patience levels. Steve, her husband, might come home after a particularly tough day at work and admit he’s only at a “20.” Brené might respond, “Good to know. Don’t worry, I’ve got the other 80 covered.” On other days, it might be the opposite. Brené may come home saying she only has 10, and Steve will say he can cover the other 90. Some days, they might not even add up to 100. Sometimes, they come home and only total 50 between them. That’s when they make a conscious effort to sit down and talk about how they can be kind, compassionate, and gentle with each other despite their energy or patience being low. I love this example because it isn’t just about romantic relationships (though it’s great advice for any couple!). I wonder how you and I might find more rest if we normalize having those honest and vulnerable conversations.

The second example of how rest is a group effort involves meerkats. How many of y’all have seen the meerkat exhibit right up the road at the science center? If you have, then you know the drill. Meerkats live in clans of about 20-50 members, and at the science center, there’s a tall central pillar where you'll always find a single meerkat standing watch, looking for danger. This meerkat is called the sentinel. It constantly scans the horizon for potential threats. You can think of it like your brain when you’re doomscrolling and constantly on the lookout for things to worry about, or be angry about, or argue about. But here’s the thing: the meerkats take turns. Every member of the clan takes shifts so the rest of the group can rest.

Y’all, let’s be each others meerkats!

Let’s be each other’s meerkats because I believe, like Chuck Noland in Cast Away, we are at a crossroads as a society. We’ve been through so much, and like Chuck, we’re struggling to practice rest after such a long period of disconnection and disorientation. I hope that you and I can be one another’s meerkats — to watch out for each other, check in, and advocate for our neighbors, family, and friends when rest is needed for our weary souls and tired bodies. Because in doing so, we honor God, acknowledge our limitations, and accept Jesus’ invitation to rest. So this week, try to step away - even briefly - from the news, the doomscroll, or whatever it is that drains you, and be a sentinel meerkat or allow someone else to be a sentinel meerkat for you. And then, we get back to work bending that moral arc of the universe toward the place God has promised us it’s heading!

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s meerkats, say: Amen!

"Fear Doesn't Stop Us" (January 4, 2026 Sermon)

“In the time of King Herod…”

This sermon series ends with the same words with which it began: a frank acknowledgment that Christ is born and Herod still looms large. “Silent Night” has been sung, candles have been lit and raised in defiance during the final verse, shepherds have quaked, glories have streamed from heaven afar, and heavenly hosts have sung “Alleluia.” And Herod still reigns.

From his perch in Jerusalem, far from the peaceful hills of Bethlehem, Herod hears whispers about the birth of a child who will be called “King of the Jews.” The text tells us that this frightened him. It’s comical, really, to think of a big, mighty man like Herod being afraid of a helpless little baby. But Herod probably knew of a particular story about another baby, one who floated down the Nile in a homemade basket, and that didn’t turn out very well for the man in power in that story. So he lets his fear bring out the worst in him. But it also says that Herod wasn’t the only one scared at that moment. Matthew tells us that all of Jerusalem was afraid along with him. I have to admit, I’ve often been confused by that statement. Why would all of Jerusalem, a subjugated Jewish community, also fear the birth of a child who was supposed to be their savior? It doesn’t seem to make sense. But if we look closely, the text doesn’t say that the people of Jerusalem shared Herod’s fear; it only says they were frightened as well. Maybe they weren’t scared of the baby, but of Herod’s likely reaction to his birth. Because men like Herod rarely respond to fear with curiosity. No, they usually respond with some combination of violence, retaliation, and paranoia. They shoot first and ask questions later. The people of Jerusalem were not afraid of Jesus' birth itself, but of the violent response they knew would follow, and they weren’t wrong.

I trust the story is familiar to most of us.  The Magi are sent by Herod on a mission to investigate the birth of the prophesied child, under the laughably false pretense that he wants to "pay him homage." The Magi follow their instructions... until they don’t. They check their charts and follow the star. In the end, they find the child.

Here, I want to share two observations that I hope won’t spoil Epiphany for everyone. First, the text doesn’t specify the number of Magi, nor does it call them “kings.” It’s only later that Christian traditions assign the number “three” to them. Second, the text also doesn’t specify the gender of the magi. The term for Magi comes from the Greek word “magoi,” which generally referred to a variety of Zoroastrian mystics, most likely of Persian ethnicity. Since there are at least two of them, the Greek word in Matthew’s gospel is a gender-neutral plural pronoun. It’s well-known that both men and women were called magi in those days. So, it’s plausible that the magi, whatever their number, could have been women.

Although we don’t have textual proof of the gender of the magi, I like to think of them as women because, if they were indeed women, it would place them in the company of other women and girls who stood up to men like Herod elsewhere in the Biblical narrative. Last summer, we did a sermon series on the women and girls of the Hebrew Scriptures, and you may recall a group of them who saved Moses’ skin on more than one occasion before, during, and after his conflicts with Pharaoh.

Although the Magi may or may not have known that specific story, they embody the rebellious spirit of those women and girls when they choose, after finding the baby Jesus, to blatantly disobey Herod and “return home by another way.” Their “epiphany,” if you will, leads them to literally change course. Instead of allowing fear to make them part of Herod’s murderous rage, they hold fear and curiosity together as they decide to tread the path of peace.

We know, as Steve Harvey would frequently say on the radio, “the rest of the story.” Herod learns of the magi’s disobedience and goes on a killing spree. Because men like Herod will do all sorts of violent things in the name of “peace.” Subjugate this group of people. Bomb this country. Force regime change in the name of “democracy.” Stoke racial tensions to distract from gross incompetence. Herods love to think of themselves as unique, special, and innovative, when in fact they follow a tired playbook that relies on violence instead of bringing people together to help one another and serve the common good.

And so, on this Epiphany, we stand on familiar ground with stark parallels between the violence of those days and our current circumstances. It may be a new year, but we see a painfully familiar pattern of those in power using fear to drive us apart repeating itself. However, we won’t let that happen. Because you and I know “the rest of the story.” We know that Jesus survived Herod’s order of infanticide. He survived because Mary and Joseph fled to Egypt to escape the danger. Jesus, therefore, began his life as a refugee on the run.

But the story continued.  Jesus returned and continued to challenge the Roman Empire by providing a alternative to one driven by fear run wild.  Instead, he showed us what it looked like when love run wilds.  And that’s the work that we continue in his name to this very day.

As we begin a new year, we affirm that fear won’t stop us from letting love run wild.  As we begin a new year, we will join the Magi by going home by another road.  You know, some thirteen centuries after the Magi went home by another road, another Persian mystic by the name of Rumi wrote this poem called, "Keep Walking.”

Keep walking, though there’s no place to get to.
Don’t try to see through the distances.
That’s not for human beings.
Move within, but don’t move the way fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Friends, I invite you to holy curiosity this day.  In this new year, as that Persian poet preached, how will you let the beauty you love be what you do?  How will we, as a church, let the beauty we love be what we do?  For there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.  And there are hundreds of ways for us to kneel and give the Christ-child homage.  And when we rise again to our feet, we can choose to return to the Herods of the world, or we can go home by another way.  And we do that by holding curiosity along with our fear.

In that spirit, I’ll close this day with the following words from Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee, who wrote much of the commentary that undergirded this sermon series.  In her reflection for this week, she wrote the following and I commend these words to each of you:

Who are the magi among us today—
those willing to cross borders for truth and love?

Who are the Marys,
holding the Christ child in fragile arms,
waiting for a knock at the door?

Who are the Herods,
terrified their illegitimate power
might be exposed by the light?

In the face of fear, let us travel together.
Let us defy empire not with swords,
but with solidarity.

Let us kneel in awe,
not before the powerful,
but before the powerless Christ,
whose birth marks the beginning of
God’s peace campaign.

Let us believe, with trembling hope,
that fear does not have the last word.

Because fear doesn’t stop us.
Love leads us forward.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.

"Good News Is Louder Than Fear" (December 24, 2025 Sermon)

My therapist told me that we all have at least two voices inside our heads.  One is a wise owl. It goes by many names: “grace,” “gentleness,” or “wisdom.” The Psalmist would call this owl the voice that reminds us to be still and know that God is God. This wise owl whispers words into our ears that encourage, affirm, and comfort us. It speaks words of encouragement when we need them. For example, my wise owl gently hoots into my ear that I am a beloved child of God whenever the world tries to tell me otherwise. When I feel like a failure, a bad parent, or any other shameful label, my wise owl assures me that I don’t need to do anything to earn God’s love and that nothing in life or death can ever separate me from God’s grace and forgiveness. When I feel overwhelmed by the brokenness in the world around me, this wise owl reminds me that my job isn’t to fix everything, but simply to do justice now, love kindness now, and walk humbly now. My wise owl isn’t always as loud as I wish it was, because its strength lies in its gentle quietness, cultivated through years of experience, mistakes, and grace received. The voice of our wise owl is always present, but sometimes it can be drowned out by another voice.

My therapist tells me this other voice we all hear is like a loud, obnoxious, endlessly barking dog. And this dog’s name is “fear” (or, if you prefer, its cousin, “anxiety”). Sometimes, this dog acts on its own. Over the years, it has learned specific signals, like a doorbell or a notification on our phone about the latest upsetting headline. At times, this dog can go wild when we’re surrounded by fears weaponized against us; fears that more often than not drive us apart instead of bringing us together. Quite often, the quiet voice of our wise owl doesn’t stand a chance when our fears bark up a storm, creating a maelstrom of misery, some of which is thrust upon us and some of which we create ourselves. These two voices are always in our heads, and a good therapist can be a helpful conversation partner, helping us distinguish which voice is which and which voice is healthy to listen to.

Because, friends, sometimes that dog is a helpful voice!  Tricia and I are teaching our two young girls that it’s dangerous to cross a street or a parking lot without an adult.  When in that situation, we want Hazel Grace and Windsor to listen to the barking dog in their head, saying, “woof, woof! There’s a car coming!”

But there are other times when the barking dogs of our fears think that they are the alpha dog of the household of our minds.  The poet Mary Oliver speaks of her “barking dog” in one of my favorite poems, called “I Worried:”

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

My suspicion is that you know exactly what it feels like to fret that like.  And perhaps you also know the peace of precious moments when we’re able to let go and take our old bodies out into the morning and sing.

And that’s what we’ve done this evening. We’ve taken our bodies—some older and some younger—and brought ourselves to this place of worship, where we will soon light candles and listen to our wise old owl selves sing 'Silent Night' in a world that is often far from silent. Perhaps you’ve come here out of tradition because this is your church and you don’t know where else to be. Perhaps you’ve come because of family obligation, because it’s what must be done to keep everyone happy. Maybe you’re here for the flickering light of the candle in your hand and the peaceful feeling of singing songs you’ve known since childhood. Or perhaps you’re here for a mix of all those reasons or perhaps you don't know why you’re here at all!

But no matter your reason for being here, God has brought you here this evening—whether gathered in this space or worshiping with us through our livestream—hoping for some small voice to remind you that if all is not well, then all is not over. Perhaps, like me, you have a deep, deep longing for something to cut through the chaos and clamor, the noise and the nastiness, to remind you that God is still at work in the world and that that barking dog of your fears won’t have the final word.

So, if you’re eager for that reminder, as I am, we need to confront the following paradox. In a sermon titled “Good news is louder than fear,” we must acknowledge that good news isn’t always louder than fear, but it is stronger. For example, consider the world into which Christ was born. He was born into an occupied land controlled as a colony of the Roman Empire. The Empire took up all the oxygen in the room. Its rulers, like Herod who governed Judea, made sure they were the loudest voice in the room. And more often than not, their goal was to instill fear that kept a marginalized people “in their place.” The logic of figures like his, I suppose, is that “might makes right,” and he who makes the most noise controls the narrative.

But sometimes men like Herod learn the hard way that narratives can be lost in rather surprising, unforeseen ways.  Pharaoh was brought to his knees by a God who sent a group of women and girls to save a baby in a basket floating down a river.  Herod, likewise, heard tell of an infant born to fulfill some prophecy, and he sent the Magi to hunt this kid down so he could kill him.  Compared to the noise of an empire that counted on the sound of clanging armor and weapons to instill fear, the birth of a baby in some backwoods town under their jurisdiction must have seemed a harmless whisper.

But some whispers don't stay harmless or quiet for long. “Do not be afraid” is a whisper that can inspire a young girl to stand up for herself in a world that tells her to be quiet. “Peace among those who God favors” is a whisper that has mobilized people across our country to protect our immigrant and refugee neighbors from harassment and predatory incarceration. “I am bringing you good news” is a message that started as a whisper earlier this year in this very congregation, leading us to open our doors to a dozen women this summer to provide overnight shelter and food while they sought steady employment and affordable housing. “You will find a child” is a whisper that has unsettled Pharaohs and Herods for more than 2,000 years because the Kingdom this infant has brought operates from a kind of math that confounds those who live by the sword.

Because the Kingdom of Heaven, born in a manger on that still, silent night, has never depended on brute strength or the bully pulpit to accomplish its work. Instead, it relies on the whispers of the faithful who remind each other that although the loud forces of violence have always claimed to be the final authority, such talk is built on a throne of lies. In truth, the Savior born to us needs no earthly throne. God doesn’t observe our definitions of power to bring salvation. Christ delivers his own power, but not in the way men like Herod expect.

Still, the truth remains: Christ is born, and Herod still rules. Christ is born, and the Empire’s violence persists. In the years to come, Christ will grow, inch by inch. He will be like any other baby, spitting up and giggling, crying and burping. He will learn to roll over, then crawl, then couch surf, and eventually take his first uncertain, wobbly steps by himself. Throughout all this, the Empire will continue to roar and rage, while Jesus gently coos in Mary and Joseph’s arms. But that whisper will grow, that coo will turn to courage, and those wobbly first steps will carry him all over a world full of fear, no less than the one we currently inhabit.

And so tonight, we rest in this good news: though Herods come and go, Christ remains. Though this year, in many ways, has seemed to be a victory for the barking dogs of fear over the wise owls of belovedness, compassion, and justice, Christ whispers hope into our weary ears. And you and I get to choose what to do with that whisper. We can let it flicker out like a candle in the wind or use the light of the whisper to ignite someone else’s candle. Then that person can carry the light on, and in Christ’s name, we keep sharing that light until it's no longer a whisper spoken in fear but a song sung in defiance.

As one commentator I read this week puts it: “It’s easy to believe that fear is louder than good news.  Just turn on the TV, scroll your feed, glance at the headlines, fear dominates…but on this night - this holy, trembling night - Luke dares to tell us otherwise.  Into a world defined by Empire, surveillance, and oppression, a birth breaks in.  Not in a palace, not under protection, but in the shadows of census and displacement…Luke isn’t writing a neutral tale; he's offering a counter-narrative to Roman propaganda.”

So let us not be swayed by loud, fear-mongering propaganda in its many forms. Yes, let us listen to the barking dogs of fear when their voices literally keep us safe. But let us not be swayed by the barks that tell us to fear one another. Let us not be seduced by the barks of division, violence, and enmity. Instead, let the whispers of this “silent night” grow into a steady drumbeat of hope. Not some empty hope that remains in the abstract. Let us practice a hope that feeds the hungry, houses the homeless, cares for the uninsured, protects the refugee, and sees empathy not as a weakness but as what keeps us human.

That, friends, is the kind of hope that may start as a whisper but never stays a whisper.  That’s a kind of hope that may begin as a helpless infant, but grows into a kingdom that will outlast the Herods who claim total authority in our lives.  That’s a kind of hope, that keeps us coming back to this timeless story, year after year, to proclaim together that, yes, indeed, good news is louder than fear.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"When You're Afraid, Give Me Your Hand" (December 21, 2025 Sermon)

Friends, today's theme and sub-theme in our ‘What Do You Fear, Insisting on Hope' Advent sermon series is 'When you're afraid, give me your hands.' Both of the passages Doug and I read are about solidarity. In the first passage, from Isaiah 41, God speaks to a very fearful people in exile, saying, 'Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. I will help you. I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.' The second passage, from Matthew, shows another act of solidarity between Joseph and Mary. Joseph, described as a righteous man, planned to avoid making a scene about the situation with Mary and decided to divorce her quietly. But in a dream—something that often happens in Matthew's gospel—an angel appears and tells Joseph, 'No, I'm calling you to be in solidarity with Mary.' The angel knew they needed each other, and, in truth, we all need each other. I love that even before Jesus takes his first breath, people are already working together to bring him into the world.

And that is the message of Christmas. My brief remarks today are simply to express gratitude and wonder for the many ways I have seen you all, as your pastor, take each other's hands and link arms in solidarity. I get a bird's eye view of how, both in big and small ways, this congregation has come together to support one another and our neighbors. Earlier this year, you supported me by holding my hand when I was about to lose my mind writing my thesis, but I got through it with your help, prayers, and blessings. You held my hand, and we linked arms together. This summer, our congregation came together to take the hands and link the arms of a dozen or so women experiencing homelessness who were sheltered in the floor right beneath where we sit today. You all prepared the space, organized and served meals, and showed acts of hospitality, and my heart bursts to see how your hearts overflowed with love for our neighbors. We collected over a thousand pounds of food just a few months ago when SNAP benefits were in question. You all also came together this summer during a difficult time marked by the deaths of longtime members of this congregation. That was a tough period, and I saw how we held each other together in Christ's name. As we enter the fourth year of my time as your pastor, I am deeply grateful for the ways you all have come together in Christ's name.

And the ways I mentioned today were quite significant and very public. But the good news of the gospel, every Advent, is that God enters our lives, sometimes in small, subtle, yet equally beautiful ways. There was no grand celebration when Joseph was visited by the angel in his dream, yet what he and Mary chose to do together initiated the process of healing and reconciliation that you and I carry on to this day. So, friends, keep doing good work, because whenever we do, we join Mary and Joseph in welcoming Christ into a fearful and broken world. But that fear and brokenness will not have the final word.

And so I’ll close today with words I share every Christmas from Howard Thurman called “The Work of Christmas.” He once wrote, "When the song of the angels is stilled, when the star in the sky is gone, when the kings and princes are home, when the shepherds are back with their flock, the work of Christmas begins. To find the lost, to heal the broken, to feed the hungry, to release the prisoner, to rebuild the nations, to bring peace among others, and to make music in the heart." Friends, in the name of God, the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us God's beloved children say.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Even in Our Fear, We Are Called Forward - (December 14, 2025 Sermon)

I invite you to raise your hand if you’ve ever heard the following statements:

• “God never gives you more than you can handle.”

• “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called.”

• “Too blessed to be stressed.”

• “Faith over fear.”

Your snarky pastor calls these phrases, and others like them, “bumper sticker theology.” Although they may be well-meaning, these phrases oversimplify complex theology into a few words slapped on a fender or embroidered on a pillow, or patched onto a t-shirt. No matter how altruistic the intent, the effect these phrases have on someone going through life can be hurtful. “Too blessed to be stressed,” probably isn’t a helpful or healing phrase when the recipient is a stressed-out mother juggling a full-time job and a side hustle, worried about skyrocketing healthcare premiums starting next month while trying to figure out if she can afford to buy her children Christmas gifts. “God never gives you more than you can handle” is a slap in the face to the man whose husband of decades dies of prostate cancer. “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called” isn’t a helpful phrase to a teenager struggling with anxiety and depression, who doesn't know if it’s okay to say “no” to something to attend to their own self-care.

And finally, “faith over fear” creates an unhealthy binary, as though faith and fear are at war and we’re helplessly caught in the middle. When my five-year-old came to me a few days ago, saying she was scared to go to bed because she had a nightmare the night before, I didn’t tell her to “have more faith” or to “not be scared.” No, I got down on her level, put my arm around her, and said, “It’s OK to be scared, sweetheart. Nightmares are no fun.” Then we discussed what nightmares are and what they aren’t. We talked about how they're not real (even though they certainly feel real in the moment!). We discussed how mommy and daddy are right next door, and she can come get us if she gets scared. I hugged her and said, “It’s OK to be scared. Mommy, Daddy, and Sissy are here, and we’ll keep you safe. You are not alone.”

Though I suppose “It’s okay to be scared. I’m here” doesn’t quite have the same “ring” as “faith over fear,” it is definitely a much healthier way to talk about fear in relation to our faith. Both of the characters in today’s scripture readings, Jeremiah and Mary, had good reason to fear. Jeremiah was called to prophesy to Israelites as the Babylonians were gaining political influence and threatening the sovereignty of the Davidic monarchy. Prophets often face the tough task of telling people things they don’t want to hear, and because of that, their messages are rarely received with gratitude. “I am just a boy,” he says, “I don't know how to speak.” God replies to Jeremiah by telling him that he once knew a man named Moses who had the same excuses. “But never mind that,” God says to the young man, “I formed you, consecrated you, and appointed you. I’ve been with you since the beginning and I’m not leaving you now.”

Fast forward some 500+ years, and a different voice of reluctance is heard, “But I’m a virgin!” Mary was “perplexed,” the text tells us.  I’m here to tell you today that that is an unfortunately tame rendering of a Greek word that means something far more dramatic than mere puzzlement or confusion.  The Greek word is tarassō, which means troubled, agitated, or unsettled.  In fact, the specific word that Luke uses is diatarassō, where the first portion (“dia”) serves as an intensifier.  If tarassō means troubled, diatarassō means you’ve missed the exit for “troubled” and are barreling down the freeway of anxiety and fear.

The Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee explains it this way: “Mary is not simply puzzled - she is shaken, thrown off balance, possibly afraid for her life. And with good reason. Mary was young, unmarried, and living under the weight of imperial and patriarchal control. To be told - without warning - that she would bear a child by divine initiative wasn’t just a spiritual shock; it was a profound social and bodily risk.”

When was the last time you felt unsettled, unqualified, and overwhelmed? In those moments, we often respond with fight, flight, or freeze. In Mary’s case, it could be said she chose 'flight.' To be clear, she had said “yes.' She was not fleeing from God or the call bestowed upon her. Instead, she was perhaps running from people who might have stoned her for being an unmarried pregnant woman, which was legally permissible. Maybe her survival instinct led her to seek comfort with her much older cousin, Elizabeth. Or perhaps she was driven by a need to protect herself in a society that would have viewed her with suspicion and disdain under those extraordinary circumstances.

My suspicion is that God knew Mary would be scared, which is why I imagine God instructed the angel to tell Mary about Elizabeth. This, of course, aligns with God’s encounters with previous Biblical characters. God gave Aaron to Moses to help him confront Pharaoh (later, Moses would forget that he was not called to lead alone, and his father-in-law Jethro would lovingly say to him, “What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out… for the task is too heavy for you”). God gave Mordecai to Esther when she needed courage to confront King Ahasuerus and Haman. When Elijah was feeling overwhelmed, God gave him Elisha to help bear the burden. Saul’s son, Jonathan, became a beloved and trusted advisor for, and protector to, King David once he took the throne.

The biblical story is full of God calling people to work together, serve together, and advocate for one another and their neighbors. Ultimately, God’s people gathered in Christ’s name and called this “Church.” The Greek word for “church” is “ecclesia.” For Spanish speakers, you might recognize the Spanish word for church, “iglesia.” This word also comes from the Greek “ecclesia,” and it literally means “to be called out” or “to be sent out.” The very word “church” is therefore outwardly focused. It’s not about a group of people who stay in, but about people who are sent out. “Ecclesia” describes a group working together, linking arms, and stepping boldly into the world to share the Gospel—despite a culture that often dismisses the very idea.

But before the first “ecclesia” formed, there was another who was “called out,” and her name was Mary. On the screen, you’ll see our liturgical art for the week, created by Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity of A Sanctified Art. It’s called “Mary’s Yes.” Today’s passage makes two references to Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, being six months pregnant with John the Baptist. Coincidentally, Rev. Garrity herself was six months pregnant with her second daughter when she created this piece. Regarding this art, she says: “Mary’s willingness to say “yes” is also fortified by the assurance that she is not stepping forward alone. Even as fears surely surround her, Mary will go to Elizabeth for protection and comfort. She won’t fulfill her calling without support. Her hope will be strengthened in solidarity.”

None of us, friends, are called to fulfill our calling without support. Our hope grows stronger through solidarity. Together, we channel our “inner Mary” and step forward into a weary world to do the blessed, messy, life-giving, and sometimes downright scary work of discipleship. I want to draw your attention to the writing on Mary’s clothing. If you look closely, you’ll notice that Mary’s headdress has the words “do not fear” written over and over and over again.  Likewise, embroidered around her neckline are the words “Here I am” repeated over and over. “Do not fear” and “here I am.” We hold our fears in one hand, recognizing them without allowing them to stop us, and in the other, we hold trust, saying “here I am” to the God who promises to be with us.

It’s not faith over fear so much as it’s faith with fear. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Want to know a secret? I did the math this week and I’ve preached at least 500 sermons in the past decade. And you know what? I still get scared when I step into the pulpit. I get scared because, like all preachers, I wonder: will I say too much? Will I say too little? Will this message be received in love? What if I hurt someone? What if I say something wrong? I still get scared, and I hope I always do. Fear is a friend that’s misunderstood, John Mayer once sang. Fear makes me a better preacher because the moment I lose that fear, it’s probably the moment I forget how important this task really is.

And you certainly don’t have to be a preacher to know this truth. The surgeon with a scalpel in her hand. The professor wondering if they’ll be denied tenure for teaching the unvarnished truth of our nation’s history. The teenager who is gathering the courage to come out of the closet to their friends and family. The couple who wonder if trying again to have a child will only bring more heartbreak. The son who finally decides that it’s time to go to an AA meeting. Friends, fear can push us to do really brave things.

So let us move forward in faith and fear. I don’t think Mary left her fear behind when she went to see her cousin Elizabeth. And God doesn’t expect us to leave fear behind. Fear is what makes discipleship so beautiful. Fear is what makes courage and vulnerability the stuff of hope. Fear, perhaps, is a holy thing—if only we remember that it’s part of our story but never the end of it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"When We're Running Out of Hope, God is at Work" (December 7, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Matthew 11:1-11

We all have moments when our souls shrink, our spirits sag, and our hearts ache under the weight of the world. Sometimes, we can't help but wonder, “Have all my efforts been worth it? Did I do it right? Will justice truly prevail? What if this was all for nothing?” The Bible is full of characters who likely wrestled with similar anxious questions: Jonah in the belly of the fish, Daniel in the lion’s den, Vashti banished outside the city gates, Mary Magdalene at the foot of the cross.

And to that list, we could add John the Baptist. Usually, on the second Sunday of Advent, the lectionary presents us with the story of John’s introduction in the gospels, when he calls the people to “repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” However, our sermon series this time focuses on a very different stage of John’s life. In fact, it draws us to the end of his life, when he is imprisoned for challenging a different Herod from the one we mentioned in last week’s sermon. This Herod was Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great, whose reign we explored last week. John the Baptist criticized this Herod because of his decision to marry his half-brother’s wife, Herodias, who also happened to be his biological niece — both of which are illegal according to Jewish law. The historian Josephus records that this drama may have been a smokescreen for Herod’s real motive for imprisoning John, which was that his public influence made Herod worry about a rebellion.

And so, we see John in shackles. Facing almost certain execution, we hear doubt in his voice in today’s passage. He sends word to his cousin Jesus, asking him, “Are you the one, or are we (I?) to wait for another?” On one hand, it’s a remarkable shift from the beginning of John’s ministry when he enthusiastically and earnestly pointed the way to Jesus, whom he saw as the unquestioned Messiah he had preached about for so many years. On the other hand, it’s not surprising that John would have a moment of despair given his circumstances. Could any of us honestly say that we wouldn’t have such doubts if we trusted someone as a Savior only to find ourselves facing execution for speaking truth to power?

News of his despair reaches Jesus, and he responds to his cousin by emphasizing how God continues to work in the world despite his imprisonment. The blind see. The lame walk. Those with skin diseases are healed. The deaf hear. The dead are raised. And the poor have received good news.

This piece of art, created by my seminary colleague Lauren Wright Pittman, depicts her imagining of John the Baptist receiving Jesus’ response. She titled this piece “Hope Like a Dancer." John is in his prison cell, but it isn’t a cold, dark, damp place; it is warmed by the light of a lamp. A halo glows around John’s head. ON his clothes, birds fly beside empty cages with open doors. His head is tilted to the side and propped up by his arm, and a smile is on his face. When I first saw the artwork earlier last week, I immediately recognized John’s expression and body language. It’s the same look I have when I marvel at something Winnie or Hazel Grace has done that causes my heart to burst with joy and gratitude. It’s a look of wonder, curiosity, and a kind of laughter we share when we’re reminded that we are each a small part of a larger, ongoing march toward justice.

Surrounding John, we see figures in various poses, dancing in the light from the lamp.  Lauren Wright Pittman says the following about her artistic choice:  “I decided to image this good news [that Jesus sends to John] through the dancing light of a lantern in John’s prison cell. I chose dancing figures because dancing feels like a primal response to the radical healing taking place outside the prison walls. As these six dancers illuminate the cell, I imagine John, even if for a moment, breaking into a bit of laughter at the magnitude of Jesus’ ministry. Jesus was quite literally doing the unimaginable. He was removing barriers so that the marginalized were no longer reduced to begging and sitting on mats, shoved to the edges of society. He was not only healing physical ailments; perhaps more importantly, he was restoring people to community.”

I love the image of dancing as a sacred reminder for John that God is still active in the world, even during his brief moments of cynicism and possibly despair. I am not a great dancer myself. Having attended school in South Carolina, I can do a decent shag, but that’s the extent of my dance skills. Still, I have a friend and colleague who is an Episcopal priest in Colorado and is passionate about salsa dancing. She has dedicated her ministry to advocacy and justice work, which is especially heavy these days.  One of the ways that she “keeps her head where the light is” is to go to a monthly salsa dance with another group of young mothers.  Her name is Rev. Lauren Grubaugh Thomas and she wrote the following in blog post on the topic:

“I’ve discovered over the years that when I am regularly dancing, I am happier, clearer-headed, and more imaginative in the way I respond to life’s most pressing problems. And I’ve found I’m not alone in this. I have met many people in caring professions and social change-oriented vocations for whom dance is a vital form of contemplation and collective care. I know a swing-dancing hospital chaplain, more salsa-dancing school teachers than I can count, and a psychologist whose dance talents include (but are not limited to) lindy hop, salsa, ballroom and hip hop!”

Lauren interviewed a fellow colleague who does work in trauma healing through dance named Gabrielle Rivero who said the following about her use of dance as self-care: “When we move, we can engage with the world in a way that actually makes us feel better, in a way that actually makes us feel whole, in a way that actually brings back memories to the brain. That movement allows us to engage with the world in ways that we haven't even processed yet, in ways we haven't even engaged with yet.”

Now, maybe dance is your thing.  Maybe, like me, it’s not.  But this is all to say that we each need to spend plenty of holy time these days caring for our spirits so that we might not lose sight of the fact that God is still in control, that God still opens new doors and new possibilities, and that all is not lost.  We all need self-care practices that remind us of what Jesus reminds John from his prison cell: that if all is not well, then all is not over.

As I’ve mentioned before, one of my favorite parts of my work week is gathering with our The Word This Week group on Tuesday mornings.  And I posed the question to them: what do you do when you feel you are running out of hope and need to be reminded that God is still at work in the world.  And one of them said something quite prolific.  They said something to this effect: “We worship a God of creation.  So when I feel the tug of despair, I try to create something.”  For this person, it was working with fabric.  For others, it was getting out in nature, or practicing meditation, or cooking.

I invite each of us to take a pause this week from the holiday grind, the shuffling of kids from one event to the next, the cleaning, the shopping, the endless rat race that is the month of December, and do something that fills your spirit.

In closing, I’ll share something that has been nourishing my weary spirit lately. For Christmas this year, Tricia and I decided to give each other a new family gift. It’s the ancient piece of magic known as a “record player.” Imagine a magical box that spins shiny discs while producing music that feels like a warm hug from the past. It's like a DJ from the 70s decided to party in your living room, but instead of swiping a screen, you flip a switch and carefully place a needle on a groove. It’s the ultimate retro vibe machine—perfect for impressing your friends with your “old-school” taste or just pretending you’re in a black-and-white movie!

This “record player” thing has amazed our three-year-old and five-year-old daughters. Hazel Grace and Winnie are obsessed. Their current favorite is a Dave Matthews Band vinyl I have of their 1996 album, Crash, which, in hindsight, has some lyrics that are far from age-appropriate for them!

I have, of course, used a record player before, but it has been a long, long time. I remember listening to my father's old Rush, Sting, James Taylor, Elton John, Steely Dan, and Toto albums in his home office. This week, as I reconnected with analog nostalgia, I was reminded of how physical the process is. There’s no app. No wifi. No screen. With love and care, I remove the vinyl from the sleeve, place it on the turntable, and put the needle on the outside of the disc, enjoying the small crackles and pops as I anticipate the warm sound soon to come. I sit down and listen while I eat or read. After a few songs, I get up, flip the record, and start over. What my millennial mind tempts me to think of as inconvenience, I instead call liturgy, ritual, and embodiment. It’s an act of love that can’t be delegated to an algorithm or software. It’s just me, some electricity, and intentionality.

And, though it may sound silly, it has reminded me that this life is beautiful and full of possibilities, even and especially when I feel that it’s all gone to you-know-where in a handbasket. After coming home after a long day of pastoral care, sermon writing, driving the kids to extracurricular activities, and cooking dinner for Tricia and the girls, there are few things that calm my spirit more than playing Miles Davis’ 1959 album “Kind of Blue” and listening to the piano and bass draw me into the first section of “So What.” It occurred to me this week that part of the reason Hazel Grace and Winnie might be so captivated by the ritual is that they see how much joy it brings me. Which reminds me that when we find what it is that gives us life in a culture that often seems to drain the life right out of us, it’s important to share with others the ways God shows up to remind us that God isn’t finished working.

You might have heard me quote one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems before, where she shares three instructions for living a good life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

That is how we build a healthier relationship with our fears. That is how we cling to hope when it seems like fear has closed every door. That’s how we make room for Christ to be born, because Christ’s birth is the ultimate challenge to any status quo ways weighing on your heavy heart.

John the Baptist may never have left that jail cell. But I have to believe that Jesus’ words of encouragement to him reminded him in his final moments that his story was only a part of a larger narrative of truth, justice, healing, and hope. Because ultimately, we are each a part of that story, but never the end of it. The end of that story belongs to God, and we’ve been told that it will be good.

So, in that spirit, I will close this sermon with the following quote from civil rights icon John Lewis, which were the last words he gave before he died in the summer of 2020. These are words that I have written on display in my office here at the church.

"Though I may not be here with you, I urge you to answer the highest calling of your heart and stand up for what you truly believe. In my life I have done all I can to demonstrate that the way of peace, the way of love and nonviolence is the more excellent way. Now it is your turn to let freedom ring.

When historians pick up their pens to write the story of the 21st century, let them say that it was your generation who laid down the heavy burdens of hate at last and that peace finally triumphed over violence, aggression and war. So I say to you, walk with the wind, brothers and sisters, and let the spirit of peace and the power of everlasting love be your guide.”

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"In the Time of Herod, We Long for God to Break In" (November 30, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 1:5-13

“Fear is a friend that’s misunderstood.” John Mayer sang this in his 2006 song, “The Heart of Life.”  Fifty years earlier, Martin Luther King, Jr. put it this way: “Normal fear protects us; abnormal fear paralyzes us. Normal fear is a friend that motivates us to improve our individual and collective welfare; abnormal fear is an enemy that constantly poisons and distorts our inner lives. So our problem is not to get rid of fear but to harness and master it.” Most of us, I suppose, consider fear not friend but foe.  We all try in our own ways to escape our fears.  Many of you will recall a sermon series we did on the Enneagram a year or two ago, which gives us, among other things, a helpful framework for exploring how we all, in different ways, try to cope with our fears.

• Type 1’s fear of being wrong leads them to overcompensate by constantly striving for perfection.

• Type 2’s fear of rejection causes them to seek validation through helping others.

• Type 3’s fear of failure drives them to pursue success and recognition.

• Type 4’s fear of insignificance pushes them to escape into creativity and emotional depth.

• Type 5’s fear of incompetence makes them seek knowledge as a form of security.

• Type 6’s fear of uncertainty and abandonment leads them to seek stability through relationships and systems.

• Type 7’s fear of pain causes them to escape into a world of possibilities, plans, and distractions.

• Type 8’s fear of vulnerability prompts them to assert control and take charge of everything.

• Type 9’s fear of conflict makes them engage in social gymnastics to avoid confrontation.

Understanding our fears and how they motivate us is a vital spiritual practice. Without acknowledging our relationship with fear, growth becomes impossible—whether as disciples, parents, lovers, or friends. Ignoring our fears only results in denial and the slow burn of repressed anxiety and stress, which will eventually surface in other ways, often causing no small amount of collateral damage along the way. But the good news is that if you’re looking for a powerful remedy to fear, there is one: curiosity. This is the foundation of this sermon series. As we bring to God “the hopes and fears of all the years,” we look forward to Christ’s birth dab-smack in the middle of a fearful world.

If you appreciate meticulous details, then Luke's gospel is perfect for you. Luke based his account of Jesus’ life on the gospel of Mark but, like many of us, he was likely frustrated with Mark’s lack of detail in describing Jesus’ earthly ministry. As a result, he adds many details that Mark didn’t consider important. Today’s passage from Luke features an often-overlooked but crucial detail in its opening words: “In the days of King Herod of Judea.”

King Herod was a controversial figure; some people loved him, while others hated him. He was the Roman-appointed king of Judea, and his only job was to funnel as much money and power as possible to the Empire. That money and power came at a steep price, in the form of heavy taxes and brutal oppression of those who suffered the most to feed the Empire's greed. Herod branded himself as a master builder. He had many costly vanity projects, such as the hippodrome, which Herod built in honor of Emperor Augustus about 10 years before Jesus was born. These projects boosted Herod’s ego and, of course, pleased the Romans, but they came at a cost. Economic disparity was increasing, and many hoped that Herod would spend less time on vanity projects and more on serving his constituents.

Historians differ on Herod’s reputation as a brutal tyrant. Although the Bible states that Herod had all infants murdered in an attempt to kill baby Jesus, some historians dispute this fact. However, it is widely accepted that Herod executed one of his wives and at least three of his own children. Some believe that Herod may have started as a somewhat well-meaning ruler, but as the saying goes, “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” At some point, Herod’s slide into tyranny became undeniable, and the people of Judah lived in constant fear of where his lust for power would lead them.

Amid this climate of societal unrest was a man named Zechariah. Zechariah was a priest who, like all of us, faced both macro and micro fears. Macro fears involved the socio-political and economic situations we’ve just discussed. But he also experienced micro fears, which were more personal to him and his wife, Elizabeth. Like some undoubtedly among us, they longed for a child who had so far eluded them. Luke’s mention of their righteousness adds to the fears surrounding their situation, mainly because of the common belief that infertility was a sign of divine disapproval. Zechariah and Elizabeth must have been affected by the socio-political unrest of their society, but their fears were also deeply personal because they lacked children:

• Fear of social ostracism in a world where women were valued only to the extent that they could bear children.

• Fear of losing the legacy of their family name in a world where lineage was an important marker of social status.

• Fear of growing old in a world where children were the primary caregivers of elderly parents.

And so, like each of us, Zechariah and Elizabeth were hungry for God to “break in” and disrupt the painful reality of their fears, both macro and micro.

Where do you long for God to “break in?”  What fears do you have that call out for God’s intervention?  Maybe you know the acute pain of longing for a child.  Maybe you know the ache of some other unfilled dream? Maybe like Zechariah, you know what it’s like to sit in the house of God, giving thanks in one breath and voicing lament in the next. In that messy, fearful space, God breaks in.

Zechariah is alone with his thoughts.  The people are outside praying. In this quiet moment, the angel appears. Zechariah’s response is familiar to those of us who know the stories of scripture.  Never in the Bible does someone greet an angel casually, like, “Hey, dude. What’s up?” Instead, the response is predictable—probably including a four-letter curse word that a scribe at some point in history thought it best to scratch out. The text says Zechariah is terrified and overwhelmed by fear. The Greek word here is tarassó. This isn’t just a temporary jump scare where he clutches his heart and laughs it off. No, tarassó means disturbed, agitated, unsettled. Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee describes the word: “This is no fleeting startle. It evokes deep inner shaking, a disruption of body and spirit. Tarassó is the soul’s recoil from the unexpected, the mind’s clamor in the face of uncertainty, the body’s trembling at the threshold of something it cannot control.”

She goes on to say the following: “Like Zechariah, we may grow so used to disappointment that when hope finally arrives, it startles us. When God interrupts, we flinch.”

But the good news of this passage is that fear doesn’t have to be the final word; in fact, it never is (though our anxiety tells us otherwise). Fear sees itself as a brick wall, but sometimes it’s a doorway to new possibilities if we respond with curiosity.  And so, the angel opens the door and beckons Zechariah to take a stroll on a path God has meticulously curated for him and Elizabeth.  “The dead end you’ve decided for yourself is your narrative and not mine,” God says to Zechariah through this divine messenger.

And here, I want us to remember that Elizabeth and Zechariah’s lack of a child is a symbol for a larger story of scarcity that Advent challenges with its message of hope. The child to come, whose name will be John, will point to another, whose name will be Jesus. This child, this Messiah, presents an existential threat to the Herods of the world, whose brands are built on selfishness, greed, and an insatiable appetite for domination. God’s promise to the unsettled priest speaks to both his “macro” and his “micro” fears.  And we, too, are recipients of that message.  But what will you and I do with it?

We can choose to let our fears drive us inward. If we do, our echo chambers will only grow louder.  The Herods of history, past and present, delight when that happens!  Because when the people below Herod focus more on using their fears as weapons against each other instead of working together to hold leaders like him accountable, he gets an endlessly renewable get-out-of-jail-free pass.  It’s one of the best-kept secrets in the handbook of oppression.

But we can choose a different response to our fear. We can let it push us outward. That’s what curiosity does; it opens doors that the Herods of the world claim are forever closed. Every Advent, we walk through the door opened by Zechariah and Elizabeth’s angel. Each new liturgical year, we pass through the door that the Herods among us, driven by paranoia, have locked and bolted multiple times to keep us from breaking through. But, friends, God specializes in smashing the doors we build to keep us apart. And the one who does this chaotic good is named Jesus. And there’s a reason Herod wanted him dead.

So, friends, as we begin Advent, rest in this good news: God’s beloved thief is breaking in. And this thief we need not fear unless, of course, your name is Herod. The rest of us should welcome him. “Come,” we will sing to him, “thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free, from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee.”  Friends, our fears may have a firm grip, but they’re no match for God’s embrace.  There is a rest to be found in the one who is “born a child and yet a king.”

And so, friends, let us see fear as a misunderstood friend. As we continue this sermon series, we will open ourselves to God's curiosity, who sits with us in our fear and guides us toward new possibilities. Yes, fear can be paralyzing if we allow it. But fear is also an important biological response that signals when something significant is at stake. This means that God’s beloved thief arrives when his message of hope is most needed.  And so, with our fears in one hand and our curiosity in the other, let us sing to the One who is born to set us, his people, free. Together, let us end this sermon by song.

[sing “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus”]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Give Their Ultimate Allegiance to Christ" (November 23, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Colossians 1:11-20

“If I ever lose my faith in you, there’d be nothing left for me to do.”

Such sings the chorus of Sting’s 1993 single, “If I Ever Lose My Faith In You.”  In between the choruses, Sting uses the verses to list off things around him that inevitably disappoint:

You could say I lost my faith in science and progress
You could say I lost my belief in the holy Church
You could say I lost my sense of direction
You could say all of this and worse, but
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

Some would say I was a lost man in a lost world
You could say I lost my faith in the people on TV
You could say I'd lost my belief in our politicians
They all seemed like game show hosts to me
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

Today is Christ the King Sunday, which always falls on the final Sunday of the liturgical year, the Sunday before Advent. In a way, Christ the King Sunday (or “Reign of Christ” Sunday as it is also called) is the Church telling the Cosmic Christ, “if we ever lose our faith in you, there’d be nothing left for us to do.”

I suppose if we were to rewrite Sting’s song for ourselves, we could list things we’re tempted to give our allegiance to that ultimately disappoint. With the approval ratings of our elected representatives at an all-time low (on both sides of the aisle), there’s certainly no shortage of cynicism in our body politic these days. History is replete with examples of powerful men with messianic promises and over-inflated egos. Kings who chose misogyny over dignity, chaos over progress, and power over the basic tenets of human decency. Yes, history is full of kings and wannabe kings who are remarkably consistent in their ability to disappoint.

Or maybe, like me, you’ve encountered things outside the realm of politics that inevitably disappoint. I’ve trusted my own sense of self-righteousness, only to be reminded that I certainly don’t have all the answers. I’ve trusted my doctrinal beliefs, only to be reminded that my understanding of God is hopelessly susceptible to fallibility. I’ve relied on my own ability to do things for myself, only to be reminded that discipleship is a group project. You could say I’ve lost faith in all of these things, but if I ever lose faith in the Risen Christ, there’d be nothing left for me to do.

Whether our idol of choice is political, personal, or some combination thereof, I have good news: the Risen Christ comes before all of them.  Full stop. Hear again these words from Paul letter to the Colossians:

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

Do you hear the totality of that statement?  In just two sentences, Paul uses the word “all” four times.  It’s as if he’s lighting an obnoxiously colored neon sign with the following statement: “Christ is king and there are no exceptions.  Not a one.”  But the Church has sometimes forgotten that pillar of our faithfulness.

In the 1930s, many Christians in Germany considered Hitler to be such an exception. Nazi flags appeared in German churches. German nationalism claimed to align with Christianity, though its fruits were hardly recognizable from those produced by the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Gradually, in small steps at first almost imperceptible but increasingly startling, the Nazis infiltrated the German churches to justify their fascist inclinations.

But a German pastor named Martin Niemoller grew disillusioned with Hitler’s regime and the many Christians who pledged their allegiance to him. He had, at one point, supported Hitler, but his faith in Christ ultimately led him to denounce him and lead other German Christians in faithful resistance. “There is but one head of the church,” Niemoller said, “and his name isn’t Hitler.”

Unfortunately, not all German Christians shared the same view. That’s why one of the declarations in our denomination’s Book of Confessions, the Theological Declaration of Barmen, was written specifically to affirm the church's opposition to any and all forms of authoritarianism. One piece of evidence that such an anti-fascist statement was needed was a 1941 German hymnal called “Großer Gott, wir loben dich,” which you might know by its English translation: “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name.” The hymnal took its name from the hymn by the same title that we still sing today (it’s in our purple hymnal). It was written in 1774 by a German Catholic priest and is, in its original form, a beautiful song of praise and thanksgiving to God. However, the so-called German Christians published it as the flagship hymn in their 1941 hymnal, which included a verse praising Hitler, including the words “Lord God, guide our füehrer!”

Sadly, that hymn was far from the only one changed to support nationalist ideology. The rest of the hymnal removed any references to Jesus Christ being Jewish. All mentions of the Old Testament were omitted. Non-German phrases such as “Alleluia” or “Kyrie Eleison” were eliminated. It downplayed Trinitarian theology and highlighted nationalistic themes of military strength and victory. Awkward, warmongering lyrics were added to well-known hymns, like the shocking line: “We praise the fight, and the shriek of death.” As for the Psalms, those were ripped out because any good citizen of the Aryan nation couldn’t possibly sing songs written by that Jewish king, David.

Yes, friends, hymns can be holy. But in the context of German Christians embracing Nazi ideology through corporate worship, this hymnal, “Großer Gott, wir loben dich,” made singing a decidedly unholy act. I bring this up to make a broader point: throughout history, the Church has sometimes veered into idolatry when it forgets that Christ alone is King, that Christ alone is the head of the church, and that Christ alone is the lord of our conscience.

But long before German Christians sang those unholy hymns, there was another hymn the Church sang, one that, by contrast, was crystal clear in its affirmation of Christ as the head of the church. And, we’ve already heard it today! It is the Colossians passage that comes to us today from the Revised Common Lectionary. Appropriately, it is often called the “Christ Hymn” of the New Testament because scholars believe Paul adapted it from a popular hymn in the early Church.

Again, these are the words of the hymn in the prose of Paul: [Christ] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Friends, the hymns we sing matter.  This preacher will openly admit that, for most of us, hymns have a greater impact on our embedded theology than any single sermon can. I could preach a dozen sermons on Christ the King, but none, no matter how much I try, will have the same impact as singing “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” which we will sing together at the end of this service.  In these days, when we see powers and principality compete for our allegiance - vying for our loyalty, our attention, and our obedience - it is more important now than ever that we sing songs to our “Sure Redeemer,” “our only trust,” “Savior of our heart,” “the King of mercy and grace,” “the life by which alone we live,” and “our true and perfect gentleness.”  Those acclamations are all affirmations of Christ that we will sing in the hymn right after this sermon, “I Greet Thee, Who My Sure Redeemer Art.”

We sing these affirmations because we reserve them for Christ and Christ alone. On this Christ the King Sunday, we worship a King who does not rely on political power, which was often imposed on him by his followers. On this Christ the King Sunday, we worship a King who rejects any attempts to use his name to dominate, intimidate, or manipulate. On this Christ the King Sunday, we worship a King who never demeaned women by calling them “piggies,” nor encouraged violence of any kind, nor sought to divide neighbor from neighbor. No, friends, we worship a different kind of King: one who is the firstborn of all creation, the image of the invisible God, through whom all things in heaven and on earth were created. We worship Christ who is alone the head of the body, the church. The beginning, the end, and everything in between. We worship a Christ in whom the fullness of God was pleased to dwell. We worship a King of reconciliation, not division. We worship a King of peace, not vitriol. We worship a King who is worthy of our praise, and not any earthly throne, dominion, ruler, or power that claims to be the ultimate authority in our lives.

Friends, this is the King we worship. For if we ever lost faith in him, there’d be nothing left for us to do.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Live By Faith" (November 9, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Job 19:23-27a

“Why does wickedness happen?" This question—part philosophical, part theological—is the one posed to Galinda the Good Witch at the beginning of the musical Wicked.  It comes in the midst of the show’s opening number, “No One Mourns the Wicked,” in which the people of Munchkinland rejoice that Elphaba, the so-called “Wicked Witch of the West,” has met her demise.  The play then goes on to recount how Elphaba and Galinda became unlikely roommates at the University of Shiz where the two of them become conversation partners in answering for themselves - and for us - the question: “Why does wickedness happen?”

But long before that existential question brought those two characters together like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun, another screenplay, a collection of poems you and I know as the Book of Job, wrestled with the same profound inquiry. Job, of course, wasn’t wicked. On the contrary, he was about as far from wicked as it gets. A man of integrity. Mr. Rogers on steroids. Mother Theresa to the max. He was the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back.  Job was as righteous as they come.  But a life of integrity does not shield one from suffering (my apologies to the Enneagram Ones among us, for that’s a particularly tough pill to swallow for perfectionists!).  Job loses everything: his family, his health, and his wealth.

Friedrich Nietzsche once famously said, “To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” The Book of Job is a collection of poems describing one righteous man’s search for meaning amid his suffering. When we seek meaning in the midst of wickedness, we all need conversation partners. We need these partners because answering the question of “why do bad things happen to good people?” is an existential inquiry that’s far too big for one person. No, Galinda needed Elphaba and vice versa. And Job, too, needed conversation partners as he wrestled with his plight. Today’s scripture appears in the middle of the largest section of the Book of Job (chapters four through twenty-five), where Job’s three friends (Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar) share their thoughts on the matter, each failing to convince Job of their arguments.  In response to the second of those conversation partners, Job says the following:

For I know that my vindicator lives
    and that in the end he will stand upon the earth;
and after my skin has been destroyed,
    then in my flesh I shall see God,
whom I shall see on my side,
    and my eyes shall behold, and not another.

While the NRSVue translates verse 25 as “for I know that my vindicator lives,” I suspect you’re more familiar with the translation, “for I know that my redeemer lives.” That was the title of a beloved hymn written by English Baptist minister Samuel Medley exactly 250 years ago. Coincidentally, it was originally sung to the tune DUKE STREET, which is the same tune we’ll use to sing our closing hymn today as well as the postlude Dr. Bill will play from the organ, a piece he arranged himself back in 1988. In 1775, Samuel Medley wrote this hymn which some of y’all might recognize.

I know that my Redeemer lives;
what comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, He lives, who once was dead;
He lives, my everlasting Head.

It’s remarkable, really, that this triumphant text was first inspired by the words of a man who had every reason to despair. Job had done everything right. But he still lost. Years later, in a galaxy far, far away, Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise would express this messy reality with this proverb: “It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.” Job knew this reality all too well, although it took him quite a while to accept it. Who among us doesn’t struggle to hold the reality of wickedness in one hand and the existence of a God who’s both all-powerful and all-good in the other?

Remarkably, Job was able to stay faithful amid wickedness. We might be amazed by his perseverance, but I hope we don’t do so to the point that we forget that we are doing the same thing right now! You and I are gathered today because we know that our Redeemer lives. That’s what worship is all about. Yes, evil surrounds us, and our Redeemer lives. Yes, SNAP benefits are being denied to our neighbors, and our Redeemer lives. Yes, as Job said just a few chapters later in the book, “the wicked live on, reach old age, and grow mighty in power,” and our Redeemer lives. So, the question then becomes: how did Job keep the faith, and how might we do the same in these hectic times?  How do disciples live by faith when all seems so unstable, unkind, uneasy?

Well, let’s start with what the Book of Job has to teach us about what faithfulness is not.

First, faithfulness in the midst of wickedness is not about denying reality. Job doesn’t deny his suffering or pretend that everything is okay. Faith isn’t about burying your head in the sand or ignoring the messiness of the world and the complex reality of wickedness. Don’t get me wrong, friends; optimism isn’t a bad thing! But optimism is not the same as faith. Faith diminishes when it’s separated from reality. Conversely, faith is strengthened when it is clear-eyed and focused on the broken places in the world where Christ is calling us to serve our neighbor.

Secondly, faithfulness in the midst of wickedness is not about withholding our pain from God.  The character of Job is a master class in maintaining open communication with God, even when we might be tempted to turn inward and shut down. You see, Job’s three friends offer him overly simple arguments to explain his suffering. Each suggests a form of retributive theology, which holds that suffering is a direct result of one’s actions, good or bad. Job’s wife, on the other hand, maintains her husband’s innocence and instead encourages Job to curse God. Caught between these two arguments, Job eventually decides to confront God with no small amount of audacity.  Job sues God, asserts his continued innocence, and demands an explanation from the Almighty. Job doesn’t passively accept his circumstances. Faith, then, is being honest with God in both our praise and our despair.

As it turns out, today is the 87th anniversary of Kristallnacht, or the night of Broken Glass, the evening of riots in 1938 in Germany when more than 1,400 synagogues and prayer rooms throughout Germany, Austria, and the Sudetenland were destroyed.  7,000 jewish businesses were demolished and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and incarcerated.  Kristallnacht is widely regarded as the official transition to open violence against the Jewish people.

The noted Jewish scholar, Nobel laureate, and Holocaust survivor Ellie Weisel once recounted a poignant moment as described by Martin Thielen: “A group of men in his barracks decided to have a trial - a trial unlike any trial you’ve ever heard of before. These men decided to try God for the horrors of the Holocaust.  They had been men of faith, but their faith had profoundly disappointed them. So they decided to put God on trial for abandoning the Jewish people. Young Wiesel was asked to witness the proceedings.  The charges were brought; the prosecutor listed them one by one: God’s people had been torn from their homes, separated from their families, beaten, abused, murdered, and burned in incinerators. A defense was attempted. But in the end God was found guilty of abandoning his people, maybe even guilty of not existing.  When the trial was over, a dark and profound silence fell on the room. A few moments later the men realized it was time for the sacred ritual of evening prayer. At this point in the story, Wiesel recounted a remarkable fact. These men who had just found God guilty of abandoning them - these same men began to pray their evening prayer.”

Friends, that’s faith. Faith doesn’t sugarcoat the horrors of the world. Sometimes, faith means putting God on trial and demanding answers to the unanswerable. But then it picks itself back up and keeps enduring, trusting that the silence of God isn't a permanent verdict.

What faithfulness is, in the context of the Book of Job, is amazement.  When God receives Job’s summons and takes the witness stand, Job makes the prosecution’s case. "I’ve been righteous and you’ve been cruel,” Job asserts. "Answer yourself, God of Creation!" Now here, we wish God would “come clean” and finally explain to Job the reason for his suffering. But God provides no simple explanation; for there is none to be had.  Instead, God invites Job to the spiritual practice of amazement.  Famously, God says in chapter 38, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?”  God goes on to describe various aspects of nature, from the creation of the earth to the behavior of wild animals.  “Who provides food for the raven when its young cry out to God and wander about for lack of food?”  God reminds Job of both the complexity and majesty of the world and the limits of human perspective.

Some of us, I’m sure, may find such a response inadequate, and I respect those feelings because there are times when I also share that sentiment. I hold that thought in one hand, and in the other, I choose to hold amazement and wonder.  When I myself am daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief, I take the wisdom of the Book of Job and take Mary Olivers “Instructions for living a life: pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.”  Ultimately, Walter Brueggemann asserts, Job’s journey of faith is about surrendering his moral certitude and understanding that his integrity and righteousness doesn’t save him.  God saves him.

This is what Brueggemann had to say on the topic on a sermon he gave at Columbia Theological Seminary, my alma mater:

The battle to be fought in the church now, in our society generally, is for speech and faith that will sustain us. Job, and even more his friends, are models of ideological certitude.

That kind of moral certitude, however, does not matter ultimately, because we are not saved by our virtue. No one can stand in the face of the whirlwind on a soap-box of virtue. Virtue has many ideological faces in our society-and they all kill. It may be the over scrupulousness about sexuality and piety and all those treasured old-fashioned virtues. Or it may be the ideological agenda of the right, getting things settled about prayer in the public schools or homosexuality or the Panama Canal. Or it may be the strident programs of the left and being correct about abortion and welfare and divestment. Whichever party we belong to, we hold it all dear and precious, and we brood in our virtue, confident that the others are without credibility.

Job learned what we all learn sooner or later. Virtue does not suffice. Integrity does not give life. Being right is no substitute for being amazed.

Being right is no substitute for being amazed. If you remember nothing else from this sermon, remember these words:  Being right is no substitute for being amazed.  That is what faith is about, especially when wickedness tries to suffocate our theological imagination. We keep returning, time and time again, to amazement. And if we think this is some meaningless, abstract theological exercise that’s a waste of time when people are concerned about basic needs like food, remember this: amazement inevitably leads to gratitude. And gratitude, in turn, inevitably leads to generosity. And generosity is what heals our world. It is what feeds our neighbors. It is the fierce gentleness that stands fearlessly between those who suffer and the violent ideologies that assail them.

So friends, let us be faithful practitioners of wonder in a broken world.  Because that’s what disciples do.

I’ll close by returning to our wickedness conversation partners, Elphaba and Galinda.  At the end of the musical, the two enemies-turned-friends sing the number “For Good,” in which they say goodbye to one another, ask for forgiveness for the times they’ve hurt the other, and stand in awe and wonder at what they’ve learned from each other.

Like a ship blown from its mooring by a wind off the sea,
Like a seed dropped by a skybird in a distant wood,
who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

Friends, together we are disciples—imperfect and generous, capable of both great good and deep wickedness—on this journey of life. And perhaps we can learn from Elphaba, Galinda, and all those who open themselves to the spiritual disciplines of wonder and gratitude that being right is no substitute for being amazed.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Affirm Resurrection Hope" (November 2, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Ephesians 1:11-23

Content Warning: Suicide

“Pastor Stephen, where can I find hope?” If there's a common theme in my pastoral conversations with many of you over the past year, that’s it. "Where can I find hope?" As we gather on this All Saints Sunday, we mourn those we've lost over the past year. In a few minutes, we will ring bells to honor ten members of this church who have died in the last 12 months. We will ring bells for Peg Lukens, Bobbe Jackson, Ed Hendricks, Nat Bingaman, Carolyn Sherrick, Doris Mengel, Edith Phillips, Burl Hull, Rick Cromer, and Vernon Mull. Each of these beloveds was a saint who has joined the heavenly chorus, and is now the cloud of witnesses cheering us on as we run this race of faith. So today, we sing a requiem for them. But requiems are complex things. They are no simple matter when many of us feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the world’s grief.

It makes me think of one of my favorite musicals, Dear Evan Hansen. The story revolves around a socially isolated young man in high school who becomes entangled in a lie that inadvertently helps him connect with others in a way he has longed for. One of my favorite songs from the musical is called “Requiem,” mainly sung by Evan Hansen’s love interest, Zoe, as she processes her grief after her brother Connor’s tragic suicide. In the song, she and her two parents sing a requiem for Connor. Notably, they sing this separately, in different parts of the stage, which beautifully highlights the isolating nature of grief. Ironically, each family member sings “Requiem” by expressing that they cannot sing a requiem due to their complex feelings following Connor’s death. Zoe talks about struggling with mourning Connor while also feeling anger over the harm he caused her. Her parents, Cynthia and Larry, express their anger at Connor for throwing away everything they gave him through their love. So together, yet apart, these three family members sing their requiem with the refrain, “I will sing no requiem tonight.”

I believe most of us understand that feeling. The sensation of being overwhelmed by grief and yet simultaneously numb. I’ve seen this recurring theme in many pastoral conversations I’ve had with many of you over the past year or so. “Pastor Stephen, where can I find hope? I feel so numb. I feel so helplessly overwhelmed by my own personal losses, and at the same time, I feel numb because of the larger societal grieving happening because of [gestures vaguely] all the things.” So, we gather on this day to mourn those who have been lost, but we also gather on every All Saints Sunday to hold that grief in one hand and the hope of the resurrection in the other. Holding those two things together is messy business, y’all, make no mistake about it. But it’s part of what it means to live as a Christian.

In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul speaks of this hope that we have “on” Christ. That preposition is a curious thing. Notice, he doesn’t speak of the hope we have ‘in” Christ, but the hope we have on Christ. It’s as if Christ is the “sure” foundation upon which everything depends. “On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand,” Edward Mote once wrote in his 1834 hymn, “My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less.” Yes, friends, as Christians, we don’t place our hope “on” the grieving circumstances of the world. Not on any power or principality. Not on a political ideology or any person who comes along promising that he alone can fix things. Not on money, or privilege, or success, or followers on social media. Those things are fleeting, friends, and each one, in time, will disappoint.

No, we gather to declare Christ as the sure foundation of our faith. And the key to that foundation is something remarkable called the Resurrection. Paul describes it this way: “God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule, authority, power, and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.”

You hear that, y’all? “Far above all rule, authority, power, and dominion, above every name that is named.”  That’s the totality of Christ’s resurrection.  And that’s where we find our hope.  Not in you.  Not in me.  Not in any earthly person who promises salvation in return for unquestioned loyalty (and there have been many of them throughout history!).  No, friends, our loyalty is to Christ, the sure foundation.  And that loyalty gives us the courage to preach resurrection in a world that preaches violence.  It provides us with the audacity to sing about that “sure foundation” when so much of the world around us feels so…unstable.

And so, with every bell we ring today, with the reading of each of the ten names we’ll surrender to God, along with the many others no doubt on our minds, we sing a requiem. A messy, complicated requiem. For no simple requiem can be sung in a world as broken as ours. But requiems aren’t just about expressing grief. Requiems are also about surrendering our loved ones into the story of Christ’s resurrection, a story promised to each and every one of us.

Most classic sung requiems end with a section called “In Paridisum,” which is the Latin phrase for “in paradise.” It sings as such in the Latin,

In Paradisum deducant Angeli in tuo adventu suscipiant te Martyres et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. Chorus Angelorum te suscipit et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.

In English, it reads: May the angels receive them in Paradise, at thy coming may the martyrs receive thee and bring thee into the holy city Jerusalem. There may the chorus of angels receive thee, and with Lazarus, once a beggar, may thou have eternal rest.

And so, friends, remember this day—whether you can sing a requiem unfettered or whether the words get stuck in your throat—that eternal rest is promised to each of us and is, indeed, fulfilled today for all whose loss we mourn. Through the power of Christ’s resurrection, may God grant them eternal rest, and may we hold onto hope on the Risen One, who “has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.”

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Don't Judge" (October 26, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 18:9-14

I used to be a lifeguard. During college and graduate school, I spent several summers working as a camp counselor at my Presbytery’s summer camp on Lake Allatoona in Northwest Georgia. For a poor college student, earning an extra $1,000 each summer was too good to pass up, so I got certified as a lifeguard and completed the necessary training. If you’ve never been a lifeguard, you might think that the first response to someone in water distress—arms flailing, struggling to stay afloat, yelling for help—is to jump in immediately, grab them, and bring them to safety. But that’s actually the last thing you should do if you know what you’re doing. The reason is that someone in distress in the water can be extremely dangerous. In fact, a lifeguard should try every other option before physically entering the water themselves. The common phrase taught to lifeguards is “Reach and Throw. Don’t go!” When someone is in trouble, you first call for help, look for hazards, throw a flotation device, or reach out with a rescue pole. You try all alternatives before jumping in because, as a lifeguard, you should not become a second victim. When someone is drowning, they will pull you under with them.

Brené Brown uses this as the perfect metaphor to explain what happens when we judge one another and why we do it. When we judge each other, we pull each other down, and we all drown together! It’s a harmful cycle that Jesus expects his disciples to break. And I get it, y’all, it’s hard. Like, really hard. The Apostle Paul expresses this frustrating reality when he writes in the letter to the Romans: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” Indeed, we too often fail to do what we want, but we end up doing the very things we hate (or say we hate). I don’t think many of us wake up every morning thinking gleefully, “I can’t wait to judge people today.” Indeed, it’s dangerously instinctual. But I do believe we can understand why we do it. It’s quite simple: we are only as hard on others as we are on ourselves.

Brené Brown emphasizes this point in her book “Daring Greatly,” which I recommend to all of you. She argues that when we judge others, we are actually acting from a deep sense of shame and insecurity about ourselves. She states: “What's ironic (or perhaps natural) is that research tells us that we judge people in areas where we're vulnerable to shame, especially picking folks who are doing worse than we're doing. If I feel good about my parenting, I have no interest in judging other people's choices. If I feel good about my body, I don't go around making fun of other people's weight or appearance. We're hard on each other because we're using each other as a launching pad out of our own perceived shaming deficiency.”

When we’re drowning in the waters of our own self-judgment, we try to judge others to find safer ground. But it doesn’t work. It might give us a quick moment of self-righteousness or a fleeting feeling of superiority, but when it’s over, our insecurities are still there. Judging others by projecting our shame onto them only fuels disconnection.

And here’s the thing, friends: judging others fuels disconnection because it lowers our ability to regulate emotions on a neurological level, which directly impacts our capacity to treat ourselves and those around us with the kindness, generosity, and respect I hope we all strive for. I’ll use myself as an example to illustrate this. When I sat down with some of you last Tuesday to discuss this passage, I asked what situations most often make you tempted to judge others. One of the most common answers, of course, was when we’re driving. One of my favorite places to judge people is at the godforsaken intersection not far from where most of us are at the moment: where Lawndale, Battleground, Cornwallis, and Westover Terrace intersect (collide?). It is a place of lawlessness, reckless abandon, and deep, deep depravity. No one uses their turn signals. People run red lights all the time. Drivers block the intersection despite clear signage that says NOT to block it. And I love judging people for doing all those things. It makes me feel good…for a moment. Then I start heading east on Wendover, and I judge the people who do U-turns where it’s clearly forbidden. Then I turn south on US-29, and I judge the idiots who drive 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane. And then I take the exit to Martin Luther King and turn on Liberty Road to go to my house, judging the person in front of me who either doesn’t use their turn signal or, worse, turns it on only after they’ve already slowed down and are turning! All these things make me feel good…for a moment.

But then I get home and feel my adrenaline rush. My self-righteous judgment has increased my cortisol, the stress hormone that makes us feel anxious, short-tempered, and “on edge." I’ve spent the last 15-20 minutes judging other people’s driving habits while cleverly neglecting to take responsibility for my own bad driving habits, and suddenly I’m a grouchy you-know-what. I yell at my kids. I’m short with my spouse. I’m so focused on my own stress that I struggle to be present with my family, whom I haven’t seen all day. In those precious few hours I get with them before the kids go to bed and we start the rat race again the next day, I feel like a terrible father, a grumpy spouse, and certainly not the Fred Rogers-esque pastor I try to be.

Now, listen up, church: none of us can be Mr. Rogers all the time. Heck, even Fred Rogers wasn’t “Mr. Rogers’ nonstop. It’s okay to get angry. It’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to be human. We can’t prevent ourselves from sinking into shame if we swim in the waters of unreasonable expectations. Eleanor Roosevelt once said that “comparison is the thief of joy.” No, friends, it’s okay to be human. I believe Jesus expects us to have honest talks about, and a healthy respect for, the fact that unchecked judgment is the root of all kinds of hypocrisy, cruelty, and suffering.

To illustrate this point, he shares a story everyone can relate to. The scene would be familiar to many in Jesus’ audience. The setting was the Court of the Gentiles in the Temple, an open-air space where anyone could gather to pray. In this Court, we see two characters with two very different kinds of prayers. The first is the Pharisee, who is praying a form of Jewish prayer called the berakah, which comes from the Hebrew word for “praise,” “blessing,” or “thanksgiving.” It is, above all, a prayer of gratitude, often spoken before eating a meal or making a sacrifice. It’s important to note that this is not the first berakah prayer in Luke’s gospel. Notably, two berakah prayers appear early in Luke’s gospel. First, Zechariah, the husband of Elizabeth and soon-to-be father of John the Baptist, prays a berakah prayer thanking God for raising up a Savior who will save us. Similarly, Mary offers her own berakah prayer, thanking God for blessing her by “looking with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”

Next, after about 17 chapters, this Pharisee’s prayer of blessing appears. However, his prayer contrasts with Zechariah’s and Mary’s because his expression of thanks is for what—or rather, who—he is not. “Thank you, God,” he says, “that I am not like those people.” I won’t ask who among us has prayed that prayer before, so I’ll raise my hand and admit that I have, and I suspect I’m not the only one. The Pharisee begins with a clear posture of self-righteousness. Notice, too, his physical stance: he is standing and praying “up.” It’s also worth mentioning that not all of what he prays is, in itself, problematic; rather, it’s how he delivers it. For example, he thanks God for two spiritual practices he embodies: fasting and tithing.  Friends, there’s nothing wrong with expressing gratitude for God giving you the ability to do things that strengthen your faith and bring you closer to God and neighbor.  I frequently ask God to soften my heart to those I judge and I also express gratitude when I’m able to do just that (with a healthy dose of help from the Holy Spirit!). Fasting and tithing can be wonderful ways to practice the generosity that God has first given to us.  In turn, they can be powerful ways to remind us of our need for God's mercy and our mandate to share that same mercy with others.

Where the Pharisee gets tripped up, of course, is how he frames his gratitude. His gratitude isn’t really directed to God; it’s directed to himself. Sure, he aims his gratitude at God, but you and I know better, as did the first hearers of this parable.

We understand better because Jesus immediately directs our attention to one of the very people the Pharisee is glad he’s not: the tax collector. In contrast to the Pharisee’s “upward” prayer, the tax collector can’t even bring himself to look up to the heavens. Instead, he bows his head in shame, beats his chest, and simply asks for mercy. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Now, I have a theory about who this tax collector was. And I’ll openly admit that there is absolutely no proof that my theory is correct, but my sanctified imagination begs it to be true. Earlier in Luke’s Gospel, John the Baptist is preaching to anyone who will listen, and three different groups ask him specific questions for guidance in their spiritual lives. The “crowds” ask what they should do, and he tells them that anyone with two coats should share with someone who has none, and those with food should do the same. The soldiers then ask what they should do, and he advises them not to extort money from anyone through threats or false accusations, and to be content with their wages. Finally, a group of tax collectors ask what they should do, and he tells them to collect no more than what is prescribed for them.

My theory, friends, is that the very tax collector in today’s parable was part of that crowd back in the third chapter of Luke’s gospel. No, I can’t prove it. But it would make sense. It seems likely that this man heard that edict from John the Baptist and is now struggling with what it means for him as he tries to stay faithful. We talked a bit about “wrestling” last week with the story of Jacob in Genesis 32. This tax collector is in his own wrestling match; he’s limping before God because he recognizes his need for forgiveness and, like Jacob, he understands his need for God’s blessing.

Now, to return to Brené Brown's drowning metaphor, in this parable the Pharisee is drowning (though he would never admit it), but he thinks he can rescue himself.  By contrast, the tax collector knows full well that he's drowning, and he recognizes that he needs a flotation device.  The tax collector knew all too well what we are reminded of on this Reformation Sunday, that we are saved by grace through faith.  We are not saved by ourselves.

Now, a couple of things to remember as we interpret this passage.

First, it’s important to remember that withholding judgment does not mean avoiding accountability. Withholding judgment does not imply ignoring the harm caused when someone hurts another person, whether through personal wrongdoing or systemic injustice. Jesus is not saying, “live and let live” or “just worry about yourself.” Those are overly simplified interpretations that, if left unchecked, can justify any kind of evil behavior. No, we can withhold judgment and protest injustice. We can withhold judgment and stand up for what is right. We can withhold judgment and hold one another accountable in our collective journey to embody God’s kingdom of righteousness and peace. None of these things are mutually exclusive.

Secondly, judging not only harms the person it targets, but also harms the person doing the judging. I mentioned earlier that judging others raises our cortisol levels, which, in the short term, increases our anxiety and, over the long term, can raise the risk of heart disease, depression, obesity, and various other health problems. I also want to frame this “self-harm” within a theological perspective. When we judge others, we diminish our own humanity. If we are to be fully human as God initially created us to be, part of that humanity involves recognizing our complete dependence on God’s mercies and living our lives as a grateful response to that mercy, which is freely given. Therefore, I don’t think the tax collector is the only character in this story we should feel pity for. Yes, he is lost in his own sinfulness, but the Pharisee is no less lost in his own self-righteousness.

And finally, I don’t believe the point of this parable is that God finds joy or satisfaction when we beat ourselves up like the tax collector. Let me be clear: beating ourselves up mercilessly to prove to God that we’re worthy of mercy is just trading one form of works righteousness for another. Yes, God calls us to repent, but that doesn’t mean we turn our hatred inward. Instead, God calls us to direct our love outward. That’s what repentance is all about.  I think that’s an important distinction to make.

So, if you want to join me in training ourselves not to drown each other in harmful cycles of judgment and shame, I suggest a simple spiritual practice I’ve been trying lately. I find that when I try to give up a bad habit or at least cut back on it, it’s helpful to replace it with something else. Tricia is trying to cut down on her social media use, so she has taken up cross-stitching. I’m also working on reducing my social media time, so I’ve started spending more time on the DuoLingo app to improve my Spanish, especially since our five-year-old is learning the language rapidly in her Spanish immersion kindergarten at Jones Elementary. And so, this week I thought, “how can I apply that to my desire to judge people less?”  And so, this week I’m trying something new.  Whenever I catch myself in the posture of the Pharisee, hurling judgment at someone else, I’m going to do three things in rapid succession.

• Unlike the Pharisee, I'm going to acknowledge my judgment.

• Unlike the Tax Collector, I’m not going to beat myself up over it.

• Finally, I’m going to redirect my judgment to gratitude. 
  

And I’ll give you an example of how I did that. Yesterday, I was driving back from a wedding in Pinehurst, and I witnessed not just one but two people in front of me who blatantly ran a red light. My self-righteousness boiled up. I could feel the tension in my arms as my cortisol level increased. I white-knuckled the steering wheel and thought a rather uncharitable thing about those drivers. Then I chuckled to myself. I had one of those preacher moments when you have to laugh at yourself and remind yourself that you're literally preaching on this very thing in less than 24 hours! Afterward, I prayed a prayer of gratitude to God. No, I didn’t pray a berakah prayer thanking God that I wasn't like those drivers, tempting though that prayer might have been. Instead, I prayed a simple and brief prayer thanking God that I had a car I could use to safely get around, visit family, and do my job. Then I went about the rest of my day.

Did that make a difference?  I don’t know yet, but I’m gonna keep on trying.  And I think, ultimately, that’s exactly what Jesus is asking his disciples to do.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.