"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.