Devoted in Every Season

 “Devoted in Every Season” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on September 7, 2025. 

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 51:50.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:
Matthew 10:26-39
Acts 2:42-47

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Welcome home.

What a joy it is to gather here today – old friends, new friends, members, visitors – all of us together as one body. This is our Homecoming or Rally Day or Fall Kick-off; whatever we want to call it. But this is the Sunday when we celebrate the gift of being Christ’s community and the start of a new season of life together.

I love this day! I love every day when the church feels especially alive like today. One worship service with all of our voices together, children laughing and running around, food and fellowship waiting for us after worship. It’s a reminder of the joy that come when God’s people gather.

I think of the people in this room and why we come together at all. Because the truth is, every one of us carries stories of both joy and sorrow. Some of us are celebrating new beginnings. And some of us are carrying grief that feels too heavy. Most of us are carrying some combination of both.

Yet no matter what we are carrying, we come and go from this place together in search of life and hope. And although at times it can be painstakingly difficult, we trust and we know that we find that life and hope again and again, even in seasons of loss. 

When Jesus speaks to his disciples in Matthew 10, he doesn’t sugarcoat it. He doesn’t say, “Follow me and everything will be fine.” Jesus says, “Do not be afraid,” three times in one breath. And he says that because there will be plenty of reasons to be afraid.

To the disciples of Christ, he tells them the truth: following him will be disruptive. It will test loyalties. It may even bring division. Jesus says to them, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” But he doesn’t mean violence; he means that the gospel unsettles the world’s order of things. It shifts the priorities we have in life. It confronts the allegiances that compete with Christ. And that it confusing and scary and requires something of us. 

And in this bizarre understanding, Jesus gives us a paradox at the heart of discipleship: “Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

I first heard that line as a teenager at a huge evangelical youth conference; something like Acquire the Fire. Picture a stadium of thousands of kids, lights flashing, music pumping. The preacher shouted that Jesus was calling us to be proud to be “losers for Christ.” And he made it sound heroic, even rebellious. At the merch table, they were even selling these black t-shirts with LOSER in big bold white letters. 

And I wanted to be a loser. Because at that point in my life, being a “loser for Christ” sounded inspiring. It sounded cool. It sounded like it was a calling bigger than myself.

But now, with some years and some real experiences of loss behind me, that word feels different. Because we know what it feels like to lose in ways that aren’t heroic at all. Loss is isolating, painful, sometimes devastating. Relationships fall apart. Dreams dissolve. Hope slips away. Most of us in this room know exactly what loss feels like. And some of those losses; we carry with us every day. 

So what is Jesus really asking here? Must we all be “losers”?

I love how John Calvin put it when he read this. In his commentary on this passage, Calvin wrote: “Christ does not call us to destruction, but that by his cross he may conform us to himself. When he calls us to bear our cross, he means that each of us, when pressed by afflictions and troubles, should rely on him, and thus be prepared to endure.”

Calvin is saying that loss will come (it’s part of being human) but when we rely on Christ in those moments, our lives are being shaped, even conformed, to his. Jesus is not glorifying loss here. He is naming that loss is part of life, and discipleship doesn’t spare us from it. Jesus’ promise: when loss comes, we are not abandoned. There is still life to be found. 

And if the Gospel of Matthew names the reality of loss, the book of Acts shows us how God provides this life for us in the midst of it.

Right after Pentecost, after the Spirit is poured out, Acts describes the very first Christian community. It began with disciples who “devoted themselves” to four things: the apostles’ teachings, fellowship, the breaking of bread, and prayers.

Teaching. Fellowship. Meals. Prayer.

Four simple practices that were enough to hold the new church together.

The church devoted themselves to the teaching of the apostles: words that told the truth about God and about the way of Jesus. In a world of competing voices, they clung to the story that gave life.

The church devoted themselves to fellowship: koinonia. More than just friendship, this meant sharing life and burdens and even possessions. If someone had a need, someone else responded. Nobody was isolated from one another.

The church devoted themselves to the breaking of bread: ordinary meals, yes, but also meals that became extraordinary. They offered meals where everyone had a place and the presence of Christ was remembered and celebrated.

And the church devoted themselves to prayers: trusting that God was with them, listening to them, and sustaining their community when their own strength ran out.

The Greek word for “devoted” is proskartereō. It means to hold fast; to persevere; to cling with stubborn faithfulness. To be devoted was to show commitment to God and to one another.

Through these ordinary practices, God did something extraordinary. And day by day, the community grew.

In other words, these simple acts of devotion became the very means through which the Spirit formed the church. 

Acts isn’t painting a picture of the perfect church with the perfect people where nobody struggles. It’s telling of a Spirit-filled church where nobody struggles alone.

As we start this new year, we remember who we are called to be. We are not a perfect people; we’re so much better at being an imperfect people anyway. We are an imperfect, devoted people. Devoted in every season, so that when loss comes, as it always does, we are already rooted, connected, and held by God and one another.

And this isn’t just about us as individuals. It’s about the generations that follow us. What will our children and grandchildren learn from us about where to turn when they face loss? Will they know that this is a community that can carry them? Will they know that here they can hear the Word of life, share the fellowship of love, sit at the table of Christ, and be lifted up in prayer?

Today is the day we prayerfully make this community of faith a priority in our lives.  Today is the day we devote ourselves to God and the relationships we have with one another. 

God gives us a way to live through our losses. In a community that teaches, prays, breaks bread, and shares life together; nobody goes through this journey alone.

Because when – not if, but when – loss comes, this is the place where Christ will meet us and we will find life once again. 

So welcome! Welcome to the place where the Spirit is still forming an imperfect people. Welcome to the table where Christ still breaks the bread and shares the cup. Welcome to the fellowship where our joys are multiplied and our sorrows are carried together. Welcome to this community of faith who holds you in our prayers. Welcome home! 

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. 

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Hill of Crosses, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55873 [retrieved September 8, 2025]. Original source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/benbeiske/2436563279.

An Everlasting Name

 “An Everlasting Name” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on August 17, 2025. 

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 32:30.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here. 

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Scripture texts:
Isaiah 56:1-8
Matthew 7:15-20

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A few weeks ago, our high school youth went on our trip to Presbyterian Youth Triennium. In the weeks, and even the hours, leading up to the trip, there was plenty of excitement. But most of our youth were also pretty honest with me: they were nervous. They were anxious about being away from home. They were unsure about spending a week with kids they didn’t know that well even within our own group… only to have to meet even more kids from across the country and around the world.

But something started to shift as the week went on. Our youth began learning each other’s names. They started saving seats for each other, making room at meals and next to each other in worship. They were constantly calling out to each other, inviting their newfound friends to join them in whatever they were doing. 

By the end of the week, that nervousness had turned into something else entirely. There was laughter, inside jokes, and the kind of comfort that comes from knowing that you belong. It’s almost funny that in less than a week, a group of individuals truly becomes a community rooted in belonging. 

And that’s the thing: we all hunger for belonging. Like a child standing at the edge of a playground waiting to see if anyone invites them into the game. Or a teenager sitting in a crowded cafeteria wondering if the seat next to them will stay empty. Or even an adult in the middle of church fellowship holding a cup of coffee but not sure if anyone will come talk to them.  

And sometimes I think we forget the damage that is done when a community like a church preaches belonging and acceptance and says, “All are welcome here!” while actively telling people and groups of people that they don’t belong, that they aren’t accepted, and yes, that they are “Welcome” but as long as they look, act, speak, and be just like the rest of us. 

That hunger for belonging is exactly what’s at the heart of Isaiah 56. These verses open what scholars call “Third Isaiah,” a prophecy spoken to God’s people after the exile in Babylon. They had come home to a city in ruins. The temple had to be rebuilt. The walls of Jerusalem were rising again… but so were the invisible walls between the people.

Some leaders began defining belonging in narrower and narrower ways. Only those with the right ancestry. Only those who conformed to the purity laws. Only those whose lives fit cultural expectations. Everyone else? They needed to be kept at a distance.

But the word God gives is shocking:

“Do not let the foreigner joined to the Lord say, ‘The Lord will surely separate me from his people,’ and do not let the eunuch say, ‘I am just a dry tree.’”

God is speaking directly about two groups of people – the foreigners and the eunuchs – both outsiders who had been told, by law and by culture, that they do not belong. Eunuchs in particular occupied a space outside the male/female binary. In the ancient world, that made them permanent outsiders. But here, God reverses the verdict, a verdict that was actually unfortunately stated in Deuteronomy.

Isaiah’s vision tears down the walls that God’s people had built. God promises these same outsiders not just welcome but “a name better than sons and daughters… an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.”

It’s an audacious thing for God to say: because God is not just saying these outsiders now belong, but the name that God gives them is greater than the very categories they were told they could never fit into.

That name – that everlasting name – is grounded in the Imago Dei. If every human being bears the image of God, then every human being bears the worth, dignity, and love of God.

Amy Oden puts it beautifully: “God’s covenant is defined by behavior, not biology; by moral and ethical commitment, not race or ethnicity or gender identity.”

Imago Dei is not partial. It is not dependent on gender conformity, sexual orientation, ethnicity, citizenship status, or any label our culture uses to divide us. It is the bedrock truth that before we were anything else, we were God’s image-bearer.

Genesis tells us “God created humankind in God’s image… in the image of God God created them, male and female God created them." In Hebrew, the way “male and female” is written is called a merism, or two ends of a spectrum meant to express the whole. But even if that wasn’t the case, Isaiah shows us God’s love doesn’t stop at the binary: “a name better than sons and daughters”. And even Paul wrote to the Galatians, “There is no longer Jew or Greek; there is no longer slave or free; there is no longer male and female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” 

When we call this day Imago Dei Sunday on the day our greater community is celebrating Lehigh Valley LGBTQIA+ Pride, we are claiming that today is not a departure from God’s Word; it is a celebration of it. And today is not just a celebration; it’s a public witness to the truth that God has said from the beginning: that those who have been excluded, shamed, or erased are, in fact, beloved image-bearers of God. That God’s welcome extends to every corner of humanity.

And that is good news for everyone, even straight and cisgender people. Because if God’s welcome can stretch wide enough to include those the world has pushed away, then there will always be room for you. If God’s love is strong enough to give an everlasting name to people who have been told they have no name, then you can trust you have also been given this same name too.

As a community, we have the opportunity to share God’s expansive and inclusive love. We must if we want to bear good fruit!  

In Matthew 7, Jesus says, “You will know them by their fruits.” And you don’t need to be an arborist to understand: healthy trees bear good fruit and diseased trees bear bad fruit.

And the kind of fruit we bear depends on what’s rooted deep inside us.

If our life together is rooted in God’s justice and welcome – the kind of welcome Isaiah describes – then the fruit will look like that: joy, mercy, hospitality, courage, compassion, peacemaking.

But if our life together is rooted in fear, or in the need to protect ourselves by shutting others out, or by using Scripture to wound instead of heal: then the fruit will look like that too: bitterness, division, suspicion, exclusion, hate.

Jesus’ explanation is simple: look at the outcomes. If our faith lifts people up, helps them claim the name God has given them, and affirms the image of God in others, then that’s good fruit. If our faith withholds love, diminishes someone’s dignity, or ignores the image of God in them, then it’s rotten fruit… no matter how religious it looks.

Six years ago, on the day you called me as one of your pastors, I stood here in this pulpit I preached my first sermon to you called Recovering Image-Bearers. I told you then that God’s mission is to seek and to find the ones who have been told they are not part of the flock. And that when God finds them, it’s not just the recovery of a person; it’s the recovery of God’s own image.

In that same sermon, I told you my story as a queer youth in the church. One of my youth leaders told me that God punishes people for loving someone of the same gender. I was already wrestling with my own identity, already carrying the fear of being different, and now I was questioning whether this part of me was loveable. And when I heard those words spoken as if they were God’s truth, I believed them. I believed the lie that God was against people like me. And as a 12-year-old, I began to hate this part of myself.

It took years for God to undo that lie. Years to believe again that my identity, my whole self, is made in the image of God. But God did it. Through family and friends who loved me unconditionally, through mentors who spoke blessings over me, through strangers who offered hospitality, and eventually through communities of faith that said with their words and their actions: that people like me belong. They gave me back the name I had forgotten – my everlasting name: Beloved.

Over the past five years here, I have seen us become that kind of community for others. Together we have worked to make our life together match the wideness of God’s welcome.

We’ve welcomed children and youth into worship leadership, mission work, and service. We’ve baptized babies and adults alike, calling each by name and marking them as beloved. We’ve opened our doors to immigrants and refugees, walking alongside them in resettlement and friendship. We’ve partnered with organizations to shelter families experiencing homelessness. We’ve prayed publicly for the marginalized, we’ve named injustice from this pulpit, and we’ve displayed banners that declare God’s love for all. We’ve sent youth and adults into the community and across the country to serve and learn. We’ve stood with neighbors after acts of violence and hate. 

And maybe most importantly: we’ve made room for people to arrive as they are. We’ve seen those who came here uncertain if they belonged…. find a home in this community. We’ve watched people who were wary of the church discover that here, they are seen, valued, and loved. 

I have seen you call one another by God’s everlasting name: Beloved. 

This is what it looks like to recover image-bearers. This is what it looks like to bear good fruit. And so today on Imago Dei Sunday we proclaim it again:

You are Beloved.

The foreigner is Beloved.

The immigrant is Beloved.

The refugee is Beloved.

The eunuch is Beloved.

The queer child is Beloved.

The trans teenager is Beloved.

The nonbinary neighbor is Beloved.

The person who has been told they don’t belong is Beloved.

The one who is still searching for a home is Beloved.

And the one sitting here today wondering if they are even loved at all is Beloved.

Every single one of us bears the image of God. And over every single one of us, God speaks that everlasting name: Beloved.

Friends, the world is still full of people hungry for belonging. There are people in our community wondering if there is a place for them in God’s house. There are people who question every day if they are loved. But you and I have the chance – or really the calling – to look them in the eye and remind them of their everlasting name: Beloved. 

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer; in the one who names us Beloved. Amen.

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Through Him, All Things by Lauren Wright Pittman | Block print with oil-based ink over gouache painting | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org

Existing for Others

 “Existing for Others” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on July 20, 2025. You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 36:35.

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Scripture text:
Amos 8:1-12

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I begin with a quote I came across online that has been echoing in my heart all week; words from a Christian pastor and theologian who practiced what he preached even when it cost him everything. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was German pastor during the rise of Nazi Germany when the church was under tremendous pressure to conform to injustice. Bonhoeffer opposed the tyranny and violence, and because of that, he was imprisoned and eventually killed.

From his prison cell, Bonhoeffer wrote:

“The Church is the Church only when it exists for others… not dominating, but helping and serving. It must tell [humans] of every calling what it means to live in Christ, to exist for others.”

Bonhoeffer reminds us that the very heart of a church, a community of faith, has to do with what we do with our faith when we gather and worship God, and when we leave this place and act as disciples of Christ in this world. It is not our calling to dominate or to accumulate power or status or to even see ourselves above another, because our calling is to help and to serve.

The prophet Amos was speaking to a people who had forgotten what it means to be God’s people for others. They were busy with religion with ritual and routine, but their faith was missing.

But before we dive into the unsettling words of the prophet, I think it’s worth getting to know Amos a little better. Amos isn’t someone who would have felt comfortable at a pulpit, let alone in a palace or temple. He wasn’t born into a priestly family. He didn’t come from a line of prophets or scholars. Amos tells us himself that he was a shepherd and a “dresser of sycamore fig trees.” In other words, he was a farmer. He lived in the little village of Tekoa, down in the southern kingdom of Judah.

Yet it was Amos whom God called to speak an uncomfortable truth and not to his neighbors in Judah, but to the powerful, wealthy northern kingdom of Israel.

The people of Israel at this time were doing well, at least on the surface. Their economy was booming. There was peace and prosperity. The religious life of the nation seemed vibrant, with festivals and sacrifices happening just as they should. But beneath this, there was a widening gap between the rich and the poor. The powerful found ways to make themselves even more wealthy, often at the expense of the most vulnerable. It was a society that looked good from the outside but was beginning to rot from within. That’s the kingdom Amos was called into, even though he was an outsider in every sense.

Our passage for today begins with Amos’ vision from God.

“¹ This is what the Lord God showed me: a basket of summer fruit. ² He said, ‘Amos, what do you see?’ And I said, ‘A basket of summer fruit.’ Then the Lord said to me, ‘The end has come upon my people Israel; I will spare them no longer.’” (Amos 8:1-2)

The first part of it sounds pleasant enough. We might imagine something fresh and sweet, the kind of gift you’d bring to a neighbor or friend. Who doesn’t love a good fruit basket?! But in the language of Amos’s day, this vision is a wordplay that would have sounded ominous to his listeners. The Hebrew word for “summer fruit” is qayits, and the Hebrew word for “end” is qets. The prophet uses similar-sounding words to give a warning.

Just as ripe fruit will ultimately spoil and come to an end, the kingdom of Israel is at its end. The time of judgment has arrived. To be clear, the end imagined here is not the end of the world. It’s the end of the kingdom of Israel, and it’s the people’s ignorance to the injustice around them that is leading to the kingdom’s fall.

After showing us the basket of fruit, Amos turns his attention to the ways people are being exploited.  Listen to his words:

“‘⁴ Hear this, you who trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, ⁵ saying, ‘When will the new moon be over so that we may sell grain, and the Sabbath, so that we may offer wheat for sale? We will make the ephah smaller and the shekel heavier and practice deceit with false balances, ⁶ buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals and selling the sweepings of the wheat.’” (Amos 8:4-6)

Amos is addressing the merchants and business owners who can’t wait for the Sabbath to end so they can get back to making money. He describes those who rig the scales, who shortchange their customers, who sell even the sweepings from the grain (every last crumb!) for a profit. And he exposes the reality: people are being treated as objects bought and sold, their lives devalued for the sake of someone else’s gain.

This isn’t just about ancient history. The warning Amos gives feels just as timely now. We see economic systems that benefit a few while leaving many behind. We see wages that don’t keep up with the cost of living, communities priced out of homes, families struggling to put food on the table while corporate profits soar, and more.

Right here in the Lehigh Valley, the crisis is real and growing. According to Family Promise, one of our church’s mission partners, over five hundred households in our community are experiencing homelessness right now. More than one thousand school-aged children in Lehigh County have been identified as homeless this past year. These are families and children living among us, attending school, working jobs, trying to survive, and keep hope alive through it all.

And yet, so much of this suffering is hidden from view. Many families, carrying the heavy weight of stigma, do all they can to hide their struggles. Some live out of their cars or share crowded motel rooms. Others move from one relative’s home to another, never letting on just how unstable things have become. There’s a deep reluctance to ask for help, often because they fear being judged or shamed.

And somewhere along the way, we’ve allowed ourselves as a society to accept this suffering as normal.

This is exactly what the late Walter Brueggemann, a prophetic voice in the Reformed tradition who died just last month and whose memorial service was yesterday, spoke about so often. He insisted that God’s call to compassion is a radical challenge. He wrote in his book The Prophetic Imagination, “Compassion constitutes a radical form of criticism, for it announces that the hurt is to be taken seriously, that the hurt is not to be accepted as normal and natural but is an abnormal and unacceptable condition for humanness.”

What Brueggemann means: true compassion refuses to accept another person’s suffering as “just the way things are.” It interrupts our comfort and demands that we pay attention. It tells us that a family living in their car, or a child showing up at school without a place to sleep, is not simply unfortunate, it’s unacceptable. We, collectively as God’s beloved people, have failed to be there for that family. It’s unacceptable for humanness.

God’s anger in Amos is not the anger of a tyrant, but the grief of a parent who sees their children hurting each other and can’t look away. God’s heart breaks.

The consequences of such injustice go deeper still, reaching into the life of the entire community, as Amos describes in the next part of his prophecy. He proclaims:

“⁷ The Lord has sworn by the pride of Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds... ¹¹ The time is surely coming, says the Lord God, when I will send a famine on the land, not a famine of bread or a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord. ¹² They shall wander from sea to sea and from north to east; they shall run to and fro, seeking the word of the Lord, but they shall not find it.” (Amos 8:7, 11-12)

When we persist in ignoring the cries of the vulnerable and when we allow rituals & routines to cover up injustice instead of confronting it, we risk losing touch with God’s voice altogether. We can fill our lives with worship and praise, but if we turn a blind eye to suffering, even our prayers begin to ring hollow.

When a society decides the pain of its people doesn’t matter, it loses more than its sense of justice. It loses its connection to God.

But here’s the good news: God sends prophets, again and again, not to shame us, but to call us back. Amos’ warning of summer fruit is an invitation to take hurt seriously and to listen for God’s voice not just in worship but in the cries of the those hurting. We come here to worship not just for comfort and inspiration, but so that our hearts are tuned to God’s grace.

Authentic worship always leads us outward. We are sent from this place to notice the systems that are unfair, to challenge practices that harm the vulnerable, and to use our voices and resources so that others might flourish too. We are called to stand with those who are denied dignity, whether it’s in the headlines across the country or right here in Lehigh Valley.

This brings us back to the quote we started with, echoing Bonhoeffer’s words and pointing us toward the true calling of the church.

“The Church is the Church only when it exists for others… not dominating, but helping and serving. It must tell [humans] of every calling what it means to live in Christ, to exist for others.”

Bonhoeffer believed this so deeply he staked his life on it. The Church, at its best, is not an institution for itself but a community of people called to serve, to lift up, to advocate, and to love. We do because God has claimed us, called us, and shown us through prophets and through Jesus Christ himself that the heart of true faith is always for the sake of the neighbor.

This is what Amos was crying out for: that worship without justice is empty, and ritual without compassion misses the mark. The “basket of summer fruit” is a sign that faith which only looks good on the outside, but ignores those in need, cannot be the faith God desires. The prophet insists, and our own community’s reality reminds us, that real faith is measured by how aware we are of the suffering around us, and how far we will walk with someone through that suffering.

We must remember what it means to be the Church in the world God loves: To exist for others. To serve and not dominate. To build a community where compassion is not the exception but the gift freely given.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Decamps, Alexandre-Gabriel, 1803-1860. Young Beggars, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=50303 [retrieved July 21, 2025]. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alexandre_Gabriel_Decamps_-_Young_Beggars_-_23.508_-_Museum_of_Fine_Arts.jpg.

Resurrection: Right Here, Right Now

 “Resurrection: Right Here, Right Now” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on May 11, 2025. You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 29:40.

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Scripture texts:
Psalm 23
John 10:22-30

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It was winter in Jerusalem. The people had gathered at the temple to celebrate the Festival of Dedication.

On this Sunday in Eastertide, the lectionary sends us back to the middle of the Gospel of John, before Jesus’ death and resurrection. Here, he is wandering around the temple during a time set apart each year to remember a moment of Jewish history and faith.

Roughly two centuries before Jesus, the temple had been seized by King Antiochus IV. Jewish practices were outlawed. Sabbath observance was banned. Scrolls were burned. And the altar in the temple, once the center of their worship, was desecrated with offerings to other gods. Those who resisted were met with violence, imprisonment, and death.

Eventually, a group of the faithful, led by Judah Maccabee, rose up and reclaimed what had been lost. They purified the temple, rebuilt the altar, relit the menorah, and rededicated the space to God. That act of resistance and restoration became a story the community would tell again and again during the Festival of Dedication.

This festival, today known as Hannukah, was a reminder that even when faith is threatened, God’s presence and the people’s perseverance endure.

So when Jesus enters the temple during the Festival of the Dedication, it’s not just a passing detail. The people around Jesus aren’t simply curious about who he is; they are standing in the middle of a time that remembers how easily dignity and humanity can be stripped away and how much courage it takes to reclaim what is holy. They ask him, “How long will you keep us in suspense?”, which, in the original Greek, reads more like, “How long will you keep holding our lives in your hand?”

The people gather around Jesus and ask him to tell them if he is the Messiah. But they’re not seeking a title so much as they’re seeking a promise. They want to know whether he is the one who will finally see them, protect them, and restore what’s been lost.  

Jesus, being Jesus, answers them like this. He says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

In the Jewish tradition, shepherding was a symbol of kingship. King David was literally called from tending sheep to rule over Israel. In 2 Samuel, we hear God’s words: “You shall shepherd my people Israel.” This shepherd – this king – knows the sheep, lead them gently, protect them from harm, and bring them home.

But Israel’s leaders hadn’t always lived up to that calling. That’s why the prophet Ezekiel condemned the false shepherds who had abused their power and left the people scattered and vulnerable. And so out of that comes a promise from God through Ezekiel, “I myself will search for my sheep. I will seek them out.”

So when Jesus picks up this language and speaks as a shepherd, one who knows his sheep and whose voice they recognize, he is stepping into that understanding. This is a fulfillment of a promise.

Where leadership has failed, Jesus will not. Where others have scattered, Jesus will gather. Where the world has treated them as disposable, Jesus will claim them as his.

This’s the Shepherd Jesus is.

Then, Jesus makes another promise during the festival: "I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand."

For us, eternal life has been understood as life after death. But in Jesus’ time, that’s not how it would have been understood.

His listeners, first-century Jews living under Roman occupation, weren’t primarily thinking about a place beyond this earthly life that we might now refer to as heaven. They were thinking about liberation, restoration, and the long-awaited arrival of God’s kin-dom in the here and now. Eternal life wasn’t about leaving earth but more so about seeing the world made right.

Jesus knowing his sheep is the beginning of eternal life; not rules or status or perfection, but simply recognition, intimacy, and belonging. For people who had been pushed to the margins, for people living under empire, for people wondering whether God still saw them; it was everything.

To say that no one can snatch them out of his hand wasn’t just comforting. It was defiant. It meant that no ruler, no oppressor, no religious gatekeeper had the final say. If they belonged to the Shepherd, they were safe and secure.

And that’s still true.

Eternal life isn’t something we wait for after death. It’s the life we begin to live when we trust the voice that calls us by name.  It’s life in the presence of the Shepherd who gathers us, holds us, and does not let go.

I believe we saw a glimpse of that just last Saturday, right here in our own Presbytery.

As part of a denomination-wide vote, our Presbytery joined many others across the country in voting to approve an amendment to the Book of Order that adds sexual orientation and gender identity to the list of identities protected from discrimination in the life of the Church. And our Presbytery was not alone. In fact, a majority of Presbyteries have already voted in favor of this change, which means the amendment will be officially added to our Book of Order at next summer’s General Assembly.

It may look, on the surface, like a minor decision. But it is more than that. It is a witness. A visible sign of what it means for the Church to listen for the voice of the Shepherd and then to respond faithfully to that voice.

At a time when LGBTQIA+ people are being singled out in harmful and dehumanizing ways through legislation, rhetoric, and fear; here is the Church saying something different.

And that message matters! Not just for LGBTQIA+ community, but for everyone who has ever wondered if they truly belong. Everyone who has questioned whether they have a place in God’s Church. Everyone who has hoped that God’s love might be deeper than they’ve been taught to believe.

In our tradition, we trust that the will of God is discerned through the prayerful, gathered life of the Church. And so when Presbyteries across the country make decisions and those decisions are in the majority, we are bearing witness to the Spirit still at work among us.

We are leaning into the promise that eternal life is not reserved for the future. It’s something we’re called to live into now.

And it’s one thing to believe that resurrection is possible out in the world.

It’s another thing to believe that resurrection is possible for you.

That you, in whatever valley you’re walking through, whatever grief or uncertainty you carry, whatever ache still feels unanswered; you are still being held by the Shepherd’s hand.

Nothing will remove us from God’s grasp. Not doubt. Not exhaustion. Not fear. Not failure. Not grief. Nothing!

We don’t always feel that.  There are days it’s hard to hear the Shepherd’s voice.  There are seasons when it feels like we’re wandering and lost, not sure what’s next and whether goodness and mercy will follow.

But Jesus doesn’t wait for our certainty before claiming us. Jesus doesn’t wait for us to have it all figured out before offering eternal life. The promise rests not on how firmly we can hold on, but on how firmly Jesus refuses to let go.

The Shepherd who gathers the Church is the same Shepherd who gathers you.

The same voice that calls communities into belonging is the voice that still calls your name when you need to know that you too are part of God’s kin-dom.   The same hand that holds the community in love is the hand that holds you when everything feels uncertain.

Eternal life is not the absence of pain. It’s the presence of God in the midst of it.  It’s the promise that even now, resurrection is unfolding in you.

You are not forgotten. You are not outside the reach of grace.  You are not too far gone, too lost, or too late. You are known. And you are valued. And the Shepherd who claims, gathers, provides, protects, and holds is still here.

It’s easy to think of resurrection as a single, dazzling moment: a stone rolled away, an empty tomb, a sudden flood of joy after so much pain. And sometimes it is!

And resurrection looks more subtle then that. It looks like a small act of courage. Inclusion with compassion. A room where people are finally seen. A table set for someone who never thought they’d be invited.

Sometimes resurrection looks like being reminded that you are still held. That your life is not a mistake. That even when you feel forgotten or afraid or filled with regret, there is a Shepherd who knows you. A Shepherd who has already claimed you. A Shepherd who will not let go.

Not just that there will be life after death.  But that there is eternal life right here, right now, in this messy and beautiful and complicated world. 

And so wherever you find yourself today, whether you feel close to the Shepherd or far away, whether you are walking in green pastures or stumbling through the valley, know this:

You are known. You are loved. You are already being gathered into the promise of resurrection. The promise is not far off. It’s unfolding. Right here. Right now. And no one, no thing, no injustice will ever take that from you. Nothing will remove you from God’s tender care.

In a time of where it feels like dignity and humanity can be stripped away so easily, Christ our Shepherd gives us the hope and the promise that God’s Church is different.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Swanson, John August. Psalm 23, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56560 [retrieved May 11, 2025]. Original source: Estate of John August Swanson, https://www.johnaugustswanson.com/.

Divine Encounters

“Divine Encounters” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on March 2, 2025. You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 31:35.

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Scripture texts:
Exodus 34:29-35
Luke 9:28-36
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2

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Have you ever had an experience that changed you forever? A moment where you saw the world or yourself differently? Maybe it was standing in the mountains, looking out at a vast horizon that made you feel both small and deeply connected to something greater. Maybe it was holding a newborn baby, realizing the weight of love and responsibility in a way you had never understood before. Maybe it was a hard conversation, one that shook you but also woke you up to a truth you could no longer ignore.

Moments like these change us. They open our eyes, shift our perspective, and mark us in ways that cannot be undone. Encounters with the divine are like that except even more so. When we truly encounter God, we do not remain the same. We are transformed. And that transformation is both beautiful and costly.

In today’s scripture, we see people encountering God in powerful ways: Moses, whose face shines so brightly after speaking with God that the people around him are afraid. Jesus, transfigured on the mountaintop, his divine radiance revealed to his disciples. And Paul, reminding us that we, too, are being transformed into God’s image with unveiled faces. But here’s the thing about these encounters: they are not just moments of glory. They are moments that call these people deeper into the struggle of faith. Moses comes down from the mountain into a people who will resist him. Jesus walks off the mountain straight toward Jerusalem and the cross. Paul, blinded by divine light, is reshaped for a mission that will lead him into suffering and sacrifice.

Friends, we live in a time when the light of truth is shining, and yet many would rather turn away. We see movements for justice, cries for dignity, and the truth of human worth shining brightly in every day moments. And yet, how often do also we see efforts to shut them down? Laws that seek to erase history. Policies that push people back into the shadows. Fearmongering that tells us to silence those who are crying out for justice, bullying that is supposed to convince us that the oppressed are the enemy.

But if we have encountered the living God, if we have truly been transformed by Christ’s love, then we cannot turn away. We cannot veil our faces in fear or retreat into comfort. Instead, we are called to step forward: to shine, to be refined, to stand with those who are being cast aside. Because transformation is not just about us. It is about how God is transforming us for the sake of the world.

Look at Moses! 

Moses comes down from Mount Sinai, carrying the stone tablets, the covenant of God written in his hands. But something else about him is different. His face is shining; radiant with the glory of God. He doesn’t even realize it at first, but the people around him do. And they are afraid.

This is the same Moses who once doubted whether he was the right person for the job. The same Moses who trembled before the burning bush and tried to talk his way out of God’s call. And yet, here he is now, his very body bearing the evidence of God’s presence. He has been changed. Transfigured. And the people don’t know what to do with it.

So Moses veils his face. Not because he is ashamed, not because he wants to hide, but because the people cannot handle the fullness of what they see. The divine glory on his face is too much for them. His transformation makes them uncomfortable.

Centuries later, Jesus ascends another mountain, and this time, it is not just his face but his entire being that shines with divine radiance. Peter, James, and John witness something extraordinary: Jesus transfigured before their eyes, his clothes dazzling white, his glory revealed.

Moses and Elijah, representatives of the law and the prophets, are there talking with Jesus about what is to come. The Gospel of Luke tells us something striking about the Transfiguration: the three are speaking about Jesus’ departure, his exodus, the journey he is about to take through suffering, rejection, and the cross.

The disciples are overwhelmed. They don’t know what to say. Peter, desperate to hold onto the moment, suggests building tents to stay there. But the voice of God interrupts him: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

Just as with Moses, the divine encounter brings both glory and burden. Jesus is revealed in brilliant light, but that light points toward the cross. The Transfiguration is not an escape from suffering; it is preparation for it. Transformation in God’s presence does not shield us from struggle; it strengthens us for it.

This is what Peter doesn’t yet understand. He wants the glory without the suffering, the light without the cost. But true transformation; true encounters with God; always leads us back down the mountain, back into the world, back into the hard work of love and justice.

Then there’s Paul. Paul had his own mountaintop moment, though his was not bathed in light but in blinding truth. On the road to Damascus, he was struck down by a vision of Jesus. The light of Christ didn’t just illuminate his path; it exposed his. Paul, once a persecutor of the church, found himself blind, helpless, and completely undone. His transformation was not just about glory; it was about reckoning with the truth. And it changed everything.

Years later, Paul writes to the Corinthians in his second letter about transformation, about unveiled faces, about what it means to be changed by God’s presence. He tells them, “All of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord… are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.” (2 Cor. 3:18) Paul is saying, No longer do we need to hide behind a veil, as Moses did. No longer do we need to be afraid of the light. We are called to live in it, to reflect it, to embody it.

But – and here’s the part we cannot forget – Paul immediately follows this image of transformation with a reality check later in chapter 4: “We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake… We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.” (2 Cor. 4:5, 8-9)

In other words, to be transformed by God is not just to shine. It is to suffer. It is to pour out one’s life for the sake of others.

Will we embrace the kind of transformation that does not just inspire but convicts? The kind that does not just comfort but disrupts? The kind that does not just illuminate but burns away all that keeps us from loving as God loves?

Because transformation is not just about personal faith. 

It is about how we live in the world. It is about taking our unveiled faces into places where the light is most needed… into the struggles for justice, into the places where suffering is real, into the work of healing and liberation.

Moses came down the mountain shining. Jesus came down the mountain walking toward the cross. Paul, blinded and then restored, spent the rest of his life proclaiming the gospel, no matter the cost.

And now it is our turn.

The light of God is not given to us to keep to ourselves. It is not meant to be locked away behind church walls. It is meant to shine in the world: to challenge, to transform, to heal. But let’s not be mistaken: that light will change us first. And that change, that transformation, may come with a cost.

But it is a cost worth bearing. 

This is why Paul speaks of living with unveiled faces, with boldness, with courage. It is why Jesus tells his disciples not to build tents on the mountain but to follow him back down into the valleys of the world’s suffering. It is why Dietrich Bonhoeffer, seeing the horrors of Nazi Germany, could not turn away, but declared, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” 

But when we stand in the light, when we refuse to veil our faces, we bear witness to something greater than ourselves. We bear witness to the glory of a God who does not stand far off, but who comes close, who walks with us, who suffers with us, and who leads us into new life.

And here, today, in this moment, we must ask ourselves: what will we do with the light we have seen?

Because the world is still trying to veil the truth. The world is still trying to silence the voices of justice. We see it in the relentless attacks against the most vulnerable: against victims of war, against LGBTQIA+ siblings, against immigrants and refugees, against those living in poverty, against anyone who dares to stand in the light and demand that God’s justice be done. The world does not welcome transformation. It prefers things as they are. It tells us to be quiet, to be cautious, to be careful. It tells us that faith should be private, that love should have limits, that justice should be slow.

But we have seen the glory of God. And we cannot go back.

We stand as a transfigured people: bold in love, courageous in justice, steadfast in hope. We refuse to veil our faces or soften the truth. We are the ones who walk back down the mountain, ready to follow Jesus into the hard and holy work of healing the world.

And when we grow weary, when the cost feels too great, when the suffering feels too heavy; we remember this: the same God who transformed Moses, who transfigured Jesus, who blinded and called Paul, is still at work in us. That same glory, that same light, that same love: it shines in us too.

We rise, unveiled and unafraid, transfigured and called. We go into the world, bearing the light of Christ. Amen. 

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Theophanes the Greek and workshop. Transfiguration, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59721 [retrieved March 3, 2025]. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Transfiguration_by_Feofan_Grek_from_Spaso-Preobrazhensky_Cathedral_in_Pereslavl-Zalessky_(15th_c,_Tretyakov_gallery).jpeg.

Love That Disrupts

 “Love That Disrupts” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on February 23, 2025. You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 48:45.

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Scripture text:
Luke 6:27-36

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Is there anything you don’t like about Jesus?

When asking this question to our youth or to our eldest of members, when asking Jesus’ most committed of disciples to those who still on the fence, when asking a more traditional style of worshipper or a more contemporary style of worshipper, there seems to be a similar reoccurring answer.

Is there anything you don’t like about Jesus? Yeah, he tells us to love our enemies!

I get it. Because if we’re being honest, this is one of Jesus’ hardest teachings: loving our enemies.

Because Jesus isn’t just talking about the people who frustrate us. He’s not just saying, “Love the person who cut you off in traffic” or “Love the neighbor who doesn’t shovel their sidewalk.” No, Jesus is speaking to people who have been deeply harmed. People who know what it is to suffer under systems of injustice. People who have been insulted, humiliated, and oppressed.

It’s to them, Jesus says: Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who mistreat you.

And if we’re looking at the state of our country and our world right now; we’re feeling exhausted. We are a community that cares deeply about people. We stand with the marginalized. We speak up for the voiceless. And yet, in times like these, it feels like no matter how much we do, the forces of hatred and fear keep pushing back. I know many of us are struggling right now.

And so it’s also to us, Jesus says: Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who mistreat you.

And that’s where this teaching starts to feel impossible. Because when we’ve been wounded, when we see injustice running rampant in the world, when we feel overwhelmed by the hatred and division that seem to define our time, love is not our first instinct. We want justice. We want things to be made right. And sometimes, if we’re honest, we just want to see our enemies fall.

So what do we do with this command? What does it really mean to love our enemies in a world that feels so broken?

And I don’t need to define who your enemies are for you. As a member of the LGTBQIA+ community, I have my people who have harmed me and continue to harm people like me in this country and world. I’m confident you have people who have harmed you. While our “enemies” may differ, the ways in which we are called to love them remains the same. So let’s talk about that.  

The love we’re exploring today isn’t some passive type of love. It sure isn’t weak. In fact, it’s the most powerful force in the world as it’s the same love that God has for humankind.

The Gospel of Luke, like most other books in the Newer Testament, was written in koine Greek, or Common Greek; Greek that used at the time when Christ came to us as the Word made flesh. While the word “love” in English can describe many different types of relationship, each type of love had a different word in Greek. We know of at least four that were used during Christ’s time on earth.

First, there is Eros: a romantic, passionate love between two spouses.  

Second, we hear of Storge: a familial type of love between parents, siblings, children, etc.

Third, there is Phillia: the type of warm, affectionate love between friends with shared values and mutual respect. Think of Philadelphia, which translates to “the city of brotherly love”. An example of is when Mary and Martha send a message to Jesus letting him know: “Lord, he whom you love, your friend!, is ill.”

And fourth, there is Agape: unconditional, selfless love that extends beyond oneself. Agape is used over 100 times in the Newer Testament, most often used to describe God’s love for us… but also the love we should have for God and neighbor… and enemy.

Here is why this distinction of love is important. When Jesus is telling us to love our enemies, it is not romantic, familial, or even warm and affectionate between two friends. Love is not always friendly! But the love we have for our enemies is selfless.

What do we mean by that? This isn’t a sentimental type of love. It’s not the kind of love that ignores injustice or pretends that harm hasn’t been done. It’s not about keeping the peace at all costs or tolerating abuse. The love Jesus commands is something far more disruptive than that.

This love – this agape love, this selfless love that disrupts – is also the love Paul is describing in 1 Corinthians 13. I’m sure we’ve all heard this passage before, “Love is patient; love is kind…” and so on.

We often hear this passage at weddings, and while it can speak to the love shared between two people, Paul wasn’t writing about eros romantic love. He was writing about agape love to a divided church. A church where people were fighting for power, where some felt superior to others, where resentment and self-interest were tearing the community apart. Those who were already oppressed were the greatest recipients of the further harm being done.

So Paul encourages them to practice a love that is patient in the face of hostility, a love that is kind even when kindness is not returned, a love that does not dishonor others, even when others have dishonored them, a love that does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth, standing firm against injustice while refusing to return hate for hate, and a love that always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

This is not a love that ignores oppression. It is a love that refuses to let oppression define us.

And that brings us back to Jesus’ command. Because when he tells us to love our enemies, he is not telling us to accept injustice. He is telling us to refuse to let injustice turn us into people of hate.

Jesus is calling his followers to love in a way that refuses to play by the world’s rules. The world teaches us that when someone hurts us, we hurt them back. When someone curses us, we curse them in return. When someone takes from us, we take from them. We see this cycle of retribution everywhere—on the world stage, in our communities, even in our personal relationships.

But Jesus looks at that cycle of hate and says, No more.

Look at the examples Jesus gives:

·       If someone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also. This isn’t about being passive—it’s about reclaiming dignity. In Jesus’ time, a slap wasn’t just an act of violence; it was an act of humiliation. To turn the other cheek is to refuse to be humiliated—it forces the oppressor to see you as an equal.

·       If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt. Again, this isn’t about rolling over—it’s about exposing the injustice. Imagine someone in court suing you for your coat, and instead of fighting back, you hand them your shirt, standing there with nothing left. It makes their greed and cruelty undeniable.

·       Give to everyone who asks of you. Do to others as you would have them do to you. This kind of generosity goes beyond what is fair. It reflects a world that is shaped not by power and control, but by God’s abundance.

Jesus isn’t saying, “Let people walk all over you.” He’s saying, “Do not let their hatred define you. Do not let them dictate the terms of your response.” That’s what makes this love so radical. It is not passive: it is active resistance against the forces of hate and fear. It is a love that refuses to play by the enemy’s rules.

And that’s where it gets personal for us. Because we live in a time where hate is loud. Where fear is being used as a weapon. Where injustice is being justified in the name of power. And we, as disciples of Christ in the world today, have to decide: Will we respond in the way the world expects us to? Or will we disrupt the cycle?

I believe, in my heart of hearts, we will live out a love that disrupts.

It will challenge the world’s way of doing things. It will force people to see the humanity even in those they have dehumanized. It will break the cycles of fear and hate.

This love means speaking truth—but doing so without cruelty. It means standing firm—but doing so without losing our compassion. It means confronting injustice—but doing so in a way that offers an alternative, rather than just another version of the same broken system.

And that’s what makes it so hard. Because loving like this is costly. It requires something of us. It means choosing a different way when the world gives us every reason to lash out. But Jesus never said it would be easy—only that it would be worth it. A better world filled with more agape love will be worth it.

First Presbyterian Church of Allentown is called to embody this love. We are a community that welcomes the outsider, that refuses to demonize, that works for justice not out of bitterness but out of a deep and abiding love for all of God’s children. Because when we live this way—when we love this way—we disrupt the patterns of the world. We refuse to let hate and fear have the final word. And in doing so, we bear witness to a kin-dom that is not built on power or revenge, but on the radical, transformative love of Christ.

Because here’s the truth: people are watching.

In an age of division, people are watching to see how those who are hurt respond. In a time of fear, people are watching to see if we will choose courage. In a culture of retaliation, people are watching to see if we will love differently.

So what will we show them?

Will we mirror the hatred that surrounds us, or will we disrupt it?

Will we let fear dictate our actions, or will we trust that love is still the most powerful force in the world?

Will we be a people who love boldly, courageously, prophetically; people who refuse to let the world’s brokenness dictate our response?

That is the challenge before us. That is the call of Christ.

When we live this way—when we love this way—we don’t just endure the world as it is. We help transform it.

This is the love that heals wounds. This is the love that builds bridges. This is the love that brings the kin-dom of God near.

So may we go from this place ready to love—not with a love that is weak or easy, but with a love that disrupts, that challenges, that refuses to let hate and fear have the final word.

May we love in a way that changes hearts, changes communities, and, by the grace of God, even changes the world.

Amen.

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Love Your Enemies, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=58810 [retrieved February 23, 2025]. Original source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/boojee/2929823056/.

Words for the Beginning: The Road Isn’t Straight

 “Words for the Beginning: The Road Isn’t Straight” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on January 5, 2025. You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 38:45.

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Scripture texts:
Isaiah 43:16-21
Matthew 2:1-12

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Standing at the threshold of a new year and a new chapter, many of us might feel a sense of anticipation. I sure do! We make plans, set resolutions, and chart our paths forward.

But if we’re honest, how often do those plans unfold exactly as we imagine? Life’s road, as we know, is rarely a straight one. It twists and turns, surprises us with detours, and sometimes feels completely uncharted. This truth echoes across time and space, from the journeys of own modern wanderings to those of ancient seekers.

Look to the journey of the Magi. Matthew’s account gives us few details about the Magi’s identities, but we know they were outsiders—likely astrologers, scholars, or priests from Persia. They were people of wisdom, people of questions, and most importantly, people willing to leave the comfort of the known to pursue the divine light breaking into the world.

Nothing about their road was straightforward. They traveled through foreign lands, navigated political tensions, and encountered the deceptive schemes of King Herod. Yet they persevered, guided by the star…

And upon reaching their destination, the Magi’s response was one of awe and joy. When they found the Christ child, they knelt in worship, offering gifts that reflected their reverence: gold for a king, frankincense for a priest, and myrrh, a foretaste of the suffering this child would one day bear. These gifts spoke to the identity of Jesus, but also think of the gifts that came of the Magi’s journey—the courage to seek, the wisdom to listen, and the faith to follow.

And the Magi’s story speaks to us because it mirrors our own.

Too often, we’re told that a successful life is a straight line—a clear trajectory from one milestone to the next. But the Magi remind us of a liberating truth: the road isn’t straight, and it was never meant to be. Life, faith, and God’s purposes unfold through unexpected twists, turns, and detours. What if we embraced this truth? What if, instead of fearing life’s twists and turns, we saw them as invitations to trust God more deeply and follow the light wherever it leads?

This brings us to Isaiah’s prophetic words: “Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters… I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

Isaiah spoke to a people in exile—a people whose straight road had been shattered. Their lives had been uprooted, and their future was uncertain. Yet, God promised something extraordinary: not a return to the past but a new way forward.

The wilderness is not an easy place, but Isaiah assures us that even there, God is at work. God makes paths where none seem to exist and brings life to even the most barren of places.

As a congregation, we know this wilderness well. When our previous lead pastor left, we entered a season of uncertainty. We didn’t know what the future would hold, and at times the road felt long and unclear. We’ve faced detours, challenges, and even hurt.  

For nearly five years, we’ve navigated the uncertainty of leadership transitions and the challenges of ministry in a rapidly changing world. Yet, through it all, God made a way for us, guiding us through every twist and turn and step by step, we moved forward. We deepened our faith, strengthened our community, and discerned God’s vision for our church. Like the Magi, we trusted the light we were given—and God has been faithful through it all.

Going back to the magi, their journey home became a testament to their courage. After meeting Jesus, they were warned in a dream not to return to Herod, so in an act of bold defiance, the Magi chose a different path home. Imagine that moment: their journey, already long and winding, suddenly took another turn. They abandoned the clear, expected route and charted a new, unknown course.

Now, as we prepare to meet the candidate for our next lead pastor next week, we stand at another turning point in our journey. It’s a moment filled with excitement, anticipation, and maybe a little fear.

And yet, life often calls us to take leaps of faith. Sometimes the light we follow leads us into unexpected places, and so we are invited to trust that God is with us. As we prepare for this next chapter in our congregation’s journey, we are asked to trust the light God has given us and take that next step forward, even when the path ahead isn’t perfectly clear. But it is hopeful!

God specializes in making a way where there is no way. Just as God guided the Magi to Jesus and then sent them home by another road, God guides us, making paths in our wilderness and bringing life to the desert places of our souls.  God is faithful.

Today, as we gather at the Lord’s Table, we are reminded that this meal is for travelers. The bread and cup sustain us on the journey, no matter how uncertain or winding the road may be. In this sacrament today, we will also receive our star words. The practice of Star Words mirrors the Magi’s journey of following the light. The Magi’s journey wasn’t linear, but it was illuminated. These words are an invitation to listen for God’s voice in the twists and turns of our journeys. It’s another tool we add to our belt to prepare ourselves and reflect on both the journey ahead and the journey we’ve already traveled.

Receiving a star word is an act of trust and an invitation to discern God's presence. Star words are not chosen by us, as much as we would like to, but are received, reminding us that we are not in control of our journeys, as much as we would like them to be.

Like the Magi, who had to trust the star’s light, we are invited to trust that God’s guidance is woven into the word we draw and the lives we live. The word may challenge, comfort, or surprise us. It will also invite us to reflect on how God is at work in our lives.

Last year, my word was “approve.” At first, I didn’t like it. It felt vague and uninspiring. I wondered, “What does this word have to do with me?” But over the year, it became a touchstone. One moment stands out: a sixth grader in our middle school group asked me, “What if God just wants you to know that we approve of you as our pastor?”

Star words can reveal God's intention. I can speak to this! That question stayed with me through the rest of the year, especially in moments of doubt. It reminded me that God’s approval isn’t conditional. It’s not about walking the “straight and narrow” or avoiding mistakes. God’s love and because of my word, approval, God’s love and approval are constants, grounding me – grounding us – even when the road isn’t straight.

This practice is not about perfection or linear growth; it is about attentiveness. Place your star word somewhere you will see it regularly—in your Bible, on your mirror, or at your desk. Just as the Magi had to look up at the sky to see the star’s light, we are called to remain open to the ways God through a Star or a Star Word can illuminate our path and draw us closer to Christ.

As we take communion and receive our star words, we remember that the road isn’t straight, and that’s okay because God is with us, making a way in the wilderness and if needed, guiding us home by another road.

May we, as a community, continue to trust that God who has been faithful to us through every twist and turn is still making a way, bringing streams of hope and life in the desert places. May your star word guide and challenge you, drawing you closer to God and illuminating God’s presence among your journeys. And may you remember that the love of Christ—the love that knows your name—goes before you, beside you, and within you every step of the way.

To conclude, we turn now to a poem—a prayer, really—that speaks to the winding roads we all walk. It echoes the journey of the Magi, the words of Isaiah, and perhaps even our own stories. Hear these words as an invitation to see God’s presence on every path, even the ones you never planned to take:

 

Field Notes by Sarah Speed

With tears in your eyes,
you name all the bumps
and zigzags your life has taken.
With clenched teeth
and a hummingbird pulse,
you wake up
and wonder—how did I get here?
In the last 40 days of
desert wandering, you say
you haven’t heard God’s voice once.
You say you miss when God was close,
when God used to sing the harmony line.
So you yell at the sky,
begging God to drop a pin,
to name the road,
to draw you a map.
You lament the way this life isn’t easy.
You ask me—was the road ever straight and narrow,
or was that all a lie?
But then you crest the mountain,
and I don’t hear from you for a while,
because God was growing
in the lilac field
on the other side of the hill.
God was scattered
among the pebbles
of the road you never planned to take.
Isn’t it amazing, you say,
there are a million roads home
and God walks every single one of them.

As you go from this place, may you trust that truth: God walks every road, even the ones you’d rather avoid, the ones you never planned for, and the ones that feel like wilderness. God is with you, in every zigzag, every climb, and every unexpected turn. And no matter where the journey leads, there is always a way home in Christ. The road isn’t straight, but it is sacred. Thanks be to God. Amen.