So today, we have come here with our backpacks, and computer bags, and special items that help us turn towards this changing of the seasons, the beginning of school and new routines. In them, we carry the practical things we may need: notebooks, pencils, water bottles. We also carry things that are harder to define or see—hope, or worry, fear or excitement. We all carry these things in some way. Teachers and students begin new rhythms. Families get back into routines. College

Let love be genuine. Our letter from Paul opens with this phrase today. A beautiful sentiment, and a surprisingly challenging one. Because most of us would like to imagine that our love is genuine. We don't wake up in the morning thinking, “Today I am going to practice a very convincing but actually kind of fake love.” And yet Paul seems to know something about us: It is possible to have very good ideas about love without always being very good at loving the people who are ac

O God, who knows and names every created thing, We come together because we need you, We need each other, And we need to hear your word. And if we hear it here, May we be so possessed by it That we become servants of it out in your world. In Christ who was and is and is to come. Amen Whatever else our faith is, it is a challenge. Wherever the Way of Christ leads, there is challenge. In his letter to the Romans, the Apostle Paul frames this reality as concisely as is possi

In seminary when we were learning embodiment of celebrating the Eucharist, we were taught --with the same bread that I make for our communion here-- that every crumb of the broken bread should be carefully picked up. Should be eaten or given back to the earth reverently as it is a holy and complete piece of the loaf that we have shared together that just didn’t make it to someone’s hands. There is a lot of bread in the Gospel of Matthew. Just before today's story, Jesus has f

Earlier this summer, you may know that a group of parishioners, inspired particularly by the sparkly outfits of some of our youth, began scheming about a Sunday when everyone could be invited to wear their sparkliest get-up. I mentioned that the Transfiguration happens on August 6th, but that we could celebrate it on the Sunday following. So here we are, on a particularly sparkly Sunday, to celebrate the Transfiguration. In the Gospel today, Luke tells us that Jesus went up a

God who is all reality and all identity, We come together because we need you, We need each other, And we need to hear your word. And if we hear it hear, may we be so possessed by it That we become servants of it out in your world. In Christ who was and is and is to come. Amen Our scripture readings today show us three miracles. One is that great scene in which Jesus serves lunch to a hillside congregation, somehow stretching a few loaves and fishes to satisfy the hunger of

God, Source of all that is, We come together because we need you, We need each other, And we need to hear your word. And if we hear it here, May we be so possessed by it That we become servants of it out in your world. In Christ who was and is and is to come. Amen This past Tuesday, I was driving home from the Soo. I had gone there for some outdoor work in air that was merely “unhealthy” while the air here was “hazardous.” I stopped for gas in Newberry. I filled the tank an

Last week we talked about a sower who gave without checking first who deserved it. Seed on the path, the rocks, the thorns, the good soil. No holding back. No deciding who was worth the seed. Just an open hand. Whether or not Jesus meant us to picture the same field, I can't help imagining it that way. Last week the sower scattered seed with an open hand. Today we return to that same imagined field. Only now, it's a little later in the growing season. A man sowed good seed. W

I want us to think of how a sensible person plants a garden… You don't just fling seed wherever your arm happens to swing. You clear the ground first. You pull the rocks out. You test the soil, maybe adjust it. You plant in rows, in beds, in the places you have every reason to believe will produce something. Seed costs something — in money, in labor, in hope. You don't waste it on a footpath. You don't bother with the gravel patch. You don't plant in the middle of a bramble t

There is a curious thing about the people Jesus is speaking to in today's Gospel. He says, "To what will I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another, 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn.'" It sounds almost playful at first—a group of children frustrated because no one else is playing the game the way they want. But Jesus isn't really talking about children. He's talking

There is a feast in Genesis 21, and it does not stay a feast for long. Abraham throws a celebration for Isaac — the impossible child, the laugh made flesh. And in the middle of that celebration, Sarah sees Ishmael playing. Abraham’s other son. Hagar’s son. And something that looks like fear moves through her — fear for her son’s place, his inheritance, the future she has only just been given. “Cast out this slave woman with her son.” I want to say this plainly: this is not an

Last Sunday we began with a promise. “In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” We explored how extravagant that promise is—how quickly human beings begin drawing boundaries around promises that God seems determined to keep expanding. We followed that promise to the woman who had spent twelve years at the edge of her community, reaching through a crowd to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment. We watched Jesus stop. We watched him turn. We heard him call her daughter

There is a sentence in our Genesis 12 reading today that our faith often falls short of. God is asking Abram to leave everything — his country, his kindred, his father’s house — and walk toward a land he cannot see. The call is dramatic. The obedience is immediate. Abram packs up his household and goes. Altars get built. The story moves. But before any of that — before a single step is taken, before any structure exists to carry or contain what is beginning — God says this: “

There is a kind of thirst that water doesn’t fix. You may know what I mean. It’s the feeling of longing, of searching, of seeking. Like something is missing. Like you keep returning to the same familiar wells and leaving still wanting. We do not often name that kind of thirst. But it is exactly the condition Jesus speaks to when he stands up in the Temple and cries out: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.” And where he says this ma

So this week, on Thursday, marked the feast of the Ascension. We hear the Acts account of this experience today. The piece of this story that I want to explore today is not the ascension itself — though that is plenty to sit with. Instead, I want to begin with what happens just before. Jesus has just been lifted into the sky. A cloud has taken him out of sight. And the disciples are standing there, staring up. Just… standing there. Necks craned. Mouths probably open. And then

The fourth Sunday of Easter is known as Good Shepherd Sunday—you may notice many of the readings have to do with this idea of God as shepherd. But the season after Easter is also a time that we are given snippets of the Book of Acts to wade thru. Acts opens a window into the life of the very first Christian communities: ordinary people figuring things out as they go after the resurrection. What unfolds is not just a story of belief, but of a community being reshaped into a p

I want to start by sharing that for most of this week, I had an entirely different sermon planned. You’ll know this to be true because of the printed out labyrinths in your bulletin today. I was planning to invite you to use them as I preached on the road to Emmaus being like a labyrinth—full of twists and turns, with an ability to see the center, not a maze but not always a clear path—and how we could see this in the story from Luke today. And that is still likely true and y

Good morning! It’s good to be back with you all. I’m honestly glad to be here on this second Sunday of Easter. This Sunday doesn’t always get a preacher’s best work—we’re tired after Holy Week, sometimes even away—but even in a different kind of exhaustion, I’m grateful to sit with this text and wonder what it has to say as we begin the Easter season. What strikes me about this moment for the disciples after the resurrection is how different it is from how Easter is celebrate

You may recall that I love the poet Mary Oliver. I love the way she tells the truth about the world—its beauty, its ache, its ordinary holiness. She had this gift of looking directly at what is real and still finding, tucked somewhere inside it, a glimmer of wonder. There’s a poem of hers called Don’t Hesitate , that is fitting for Advent. It begins: If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. And she goes on: Joy is not made to be a crumb. Joy i

There is something about Advent that asks us to sit with holy discomfort. While the world is already singing carols, stringing lights, and racing through to-do lists, here in the church the tone is different. Advent is slower. Advent is spacious. Advent is honest. It asks us not only to remember that Christ came long ago, but to prepare our lives and hearts for Christ’s coming now — and Christ’s coming again. Last week, we heard Jesus in Matthew 24 speak unsettling words: Two