"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!

"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.