"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!

"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.