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

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

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

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

• “Too blessed to be stressed.”

• “Faith over fear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text: Matthew 11:1-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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