Hope Is Unfolding

 “Hope Is Unfolding” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA in our virtual worship service on January 25, 2026.

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 24:10.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:
Isaiah 9:1-4
Matthew 4:12-25

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Please take a moment and prayerfully consider what is happening in our country and world. Pay attention to your body as you do. What do you feel? What do you carry? 

Take a moment now. 

Although this may not be true for everyone, taking a moment to really reflect might lead us into a moment of heaviness.

Sometimes all of this settles in our bodies quietly, like background noise we learn to live with. But sometimes it presses in more sharply. And it’s not just our country or world. It can show up daily. It shows up in worry about finances, in the tension of navigating strained relationships, in concern for parents or children or grandchildren, in health scares, in exhaustion, in uncertainty, or really, in the steady stream of bad news that never seems to pause. 

Even when life is good, this heaviness can still linger, shaping how we move through the world, how we hold our bodies, how we sleep, how we hope…

And often, we don’t even realize how much we’re carrying until we pause long enough to notice it…

Our reading from Isaiah is found in the first of three sections in the book of Isaiah, which means we are standing inside a moment when destruction is unfolding right before the people’s eyes.

Assyria is building a vast empire driven by power and control. It their demand to have absolute dominance over every region they conquer. The northern kingdom of Israel sits directly in their path, small and vulnerable, yet agriculturally rich and strategically positioned along key trade routes.

So Assyria moves in, and it is their intention to break the spirit of the entire population.

One of Assyria’s most powerful weapons they will use is deportation. People will be forced to march hundreds of miles away, families will be separated, and communities will be scattered across foreign lands. This is intentional dismantling. Assyria understands that if they divide the community and uproot people from their land, their resistance collapses. Their very identity begins to fracture.

The first regions to experience this devastation are Zebulun and Naphtali, the northern borderlands that will later be known as Galilee.  But Assyria is not yet finished.

At this moment in the book of Isaiah, the capital city of the northern kingdom, Samaria, still stands. But within about ten years, Assyria will completely destroy Samaria, dismantle the northern kingdom, and deport most of its remaining people. They will effectively erase the northern kingdom’s identity. 

Isaiah 9 is speaking before the northern kingdom has fallen, even though it is coming. 

And it is in that moment Isaiah dares to proclaim, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

This is hope unfolding in the middle of trauma.

The Gospel of Matthew brings us back to very same area; the very same fragile region where Isaiah once dared to proclaim that hope was already unfolding.

We are brought back to Galilee. To the land of Zebulun and Naphtali, and this area is still living in the shadow of empire. Only now, instead of Assyria, it is Rome that rules. 

And then the Gospel tells us something else. Jesus begins his ministry after John the Baptist is arrested. The consequences have already been made clear. Danger will come to anyone who opposes the empire.

Once again, hope is unfolding in the middle of trauma.

But this time, hope does not come only as prophetic words spoken into the darkness.

This time Hope will soon walk the dusty roads, visit people and communities, heal wounded bodies, and speak directly to their fear and despair. 

Hope is unfolding in the middle of trauma. But now, hope has a body. The Word made Flesh. The incarnate Christ. Jesus, Emmanuel. 

This past week I was in Chicago for a training event through Vibrant Faith, as our congregation begins a year-long, grant-funded research project on raising faithful children, especially within the context of worship. There will be many exciting announcements about that in the weeks and months to come, and I am deeply grateful for the ways our congregation continues to lift up faith formation across generations. This event was a gathering of ten churches from across the country who are all beginning this journey together.

And it was there that I met The Rev. Sarah Anderson, a pastor at Christ the King Lutheran Church in New Brighton, Minnesota, a suburb of the Twin Cities, in a located just minutes from the neighborhoods where Renée Nicole Good and George Floyd were killed. During one of our sessions, Rev. Anderson was invited to share what is happening in her congregation’s surrounding neighborhoods.

She shared ICE agents are circling schools and hospitals, monitoring entrances and exits. Families are afraid to leave their homes, and agents are going door to door, detaining parents in front of their children, and in some cases, holding children so that their parents will surrender. As a result, more than two hundred students from local schools have been reported absent because families are terrified of what might happen if their children leave the house.

You might have seen the recent news that ICE agents detained a five-year-old boy, Liam, and his father as they were arriving home from preschool. Witnesses say and video footage shows the agents used Liam to knock on the door of his own home, in an attempt to draw out other family members. When another adult begged officers to let her take Liam so he would not have to be frightened and alone, they refused. Instead, Liam and his father were taken into custody and transported to a detention center in Texas.

Five years old.

Still small enough to need help tying his shoes. Still young enough to carry a backpack that nearly swallows his shoulders. Still learning how to read. Still learning how to trust.

And now, learning fear by being grabbed by masked agents. 

And these agents are overwhelmingly targeting brown and black communities, which means we are not simply talking about immigration policy. We are talking about racial profiling, agents targeting specific people, neighborhoods, and schools. Entire communities shaped by intimidation.

This is trauma.

And in the middle of that unfolding trauma, Rev. Anderson described how her church has responded. Christ the King has organized a community care chain, where members bring food, supplies, and other necessities for families across the entire neighborhood. They have become a lifeline of support. They are the hands and feet of Jesus. This is embodied hope. 

In this kind of lived witness, we hear the same call from Jesus.

When Jesus walked along the Sea of Galilee and called Peter, Andrew, James, and John; he finds them at work, in the middle of their routines, with their hands in the nets and their feet in the boats. They are young men trying to make a living and feed their families

But Jesus calls on them. And they follow. They drop their nets. They leave their boats.  They loosen their grip on what has become the primary source of their security and identity. It is about trusting that their lives can be more than survival, more than routine, more than simply getting through another day.

And when Jesus tells them they will become fishers of people, he is asking them to join him in his care for all of God’s beloved. He calls them to join him into the slow and sacred work of drawing people out of danger and despair.

This is what discipleship looks like when hope has a body.

This is what Christ the King Lutheran Church is doing. Ordinary people. 

They are loosening their grip on safety. They are stepping out of their boats of comfort. They are letting go of control. And they are following Jesus into uncertain and costly spaces, trusting that God’s light is already there.

Embodied hope continues wherever ordinary people dare to carry light of Christ into dark places.

This is what it means to be the body of Christ in the world, not that we replace Jesus or become saviors ourselves, but that we become vessels of grace, mercy, love, healing. We become vessels of hope… 

Following Jesus is an invitation to step into the light God places before us, trusting that even small acts of love can ripple outward in ways we may never fully see.

Faithfulness often begins in paying attention, in compassion, in courage, and in presence. It begins in the commitment to show up for others when danger makes hiding away safer.

Hope unfolds as people choose love again and again in the middle of a world that so often makes silence and ignoring injustice so much easier. But when we take the bold enough step to be a vessel of hope in this world, we find ourselves part of a long and holy procession of people who have trusted across centuries and cultures that light is still stronger than darkness. We too can be embodied hope. 

Once again, hope is unfolding in the middle of trauma.

And hope has a body.

And because we are the body of Christ, that hope now shines through us. 

Amen.

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Photo Credit: Fibonacci Blue / CC BY 4.0 — Minneapolis ICE protests, January 2026

Everything [in] Between: Shouting & Silence

“Everything [in] Between: Shouting & Silence” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on April 13, 2025.

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 45:30. 
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:
Psalm 24:1-6
Luke 19:28-44

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Eight years ago, I stood in front of the community of faith that raised me and was ordained into ministry. It was on a Palm Sunday. And this passage – Luke’s telling of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem – was the Scripture we read together at that ordination service. Ever since then, I’ve had the blessing, and the challenge, of preaching nearly every Palm Sunday.

Now, I know there are probably some folks here who, with enthusiastic curiosity, wonder every Christmas and Easter: “How is the lead pastor going to preach something new every year? It’s the same story, right?”

But I can guarantee you that no one is asking, “How does the associate pastor do it every year for Palm Sunday?”

And to be honest… I don’t mind. In fact, Stephanie, I’m going to look right at you and say it: I wouldn’t trade this for the world. I mean it. I won’t trade this.

Because the truth is, even though it’s the same story every year, just like Christmas and Easter, Palm Sunday keeps finding new ways to speak. This text continues to unfold something new each time I return to it. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it shouts. But it always says something I hadn’t heard before.

Now the Triumphant Entry is found in all four Gospels, but each give us a slightly different perspective. Like four windows into the same moment, each one framing Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem in a slightly different light.

And Luke? Luke’s version feels more grounded. More focused. More… prophetic.

There are no palm branches in Luke. No “Hosannas” either. Instead, the crowd lays down their cloaks, what they have with them, and they shout words that echo all the way back to Christmas:

“Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

It’s a callback to the angels in Luke 2: “Glory to God in the highest heaven!” The crowd is continuing the angels’ joyous song!

The crowd shouts with joy as Jesus rides into the city. The is another characteristic unique to the Gospel of Luke. The crowds are shouting with joy. These aren’t the powerful or the privileged. These are the ones who’ve seen what Jesus can do: who’ve been healed, welcomed, fed, and forgiven by him. They’ve been lifted up by their Savior when the rest of the world pushed them aside. Of course they’re shouting! This parade is for them. And it’s more than a parade! It’s a declaration of faith. It’s a fulfillment of a promise.

This moment must have been filled with noise! But in between the shouts and cries of praise, there’s moments of silence pushing their way forward. 

Because even as the crowds are shouting, the Pharisees try to shut it down. “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” Stop the parade. Stop the shouting. Stop the praise. 

And Jesus refuses.

He says, “If these were silent, the stones would shout out.” The stones! 

And then another moment. We continue the Palm Sunday text with additional verses this year. Right after the joyful noise and public praise: Jesus turns a corner, look over the city, and laments: “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace.”

He looks over the city that is about to betray him, reject him, and crucify him… and he weeps.

Because he knows. He knows how hard it is to live in the in between, in the tension of humanity. In between the shouts of praise and the horror of calvary that is to come. Jesus knows the cost of standing for peace in a world that prefers power. He knows the ache of giving everything… and still not being understood.

And maybe that’s the tension we live in too. The tension of knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to stand up and when to step back, when to shout for justice… and when to weep over what’s been lost. The tension of also giving everything… and feeling like it’s still not enough.

But I can’t help but continue to hear a thread that gently guides and navigates that tension, that holds the tension tenderly and with care and value. It’s the same thread that Jesus shares with the disciples to share with the owner of the colt: “If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying [the colt]?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’”

“The Lord needs it.”

That’s it. No grand explanation. No backup plan. Just those four words: “The Lord needs it.”

And whoever the owner is, he lets the colt go. Just like that. Maybe because he knew the Lord. Maybe because he trusted the disciples. Or maybe because the Spirit moved in him, and those words were enough. “The Lord needs it.”

It’s such a small phrase. But when Jesus says it, it’s not just about borrowing a young colt. It’s about how God works. It’s about trust. Partnership. Human participation in divine purpose.

And I wonder: What if that phrase is more than just a line in the story?

What if it’s the heartbeat of discipleship? What if it’s what Jesus says to every single one of us who’s ever asked: “What do I have to offer? What could God possibly use me for?”

“The Lord needs it.” 

Because we do live in the in-between. We live in the space where speaking up can feel risky, and staying silent can feel like a betrayal. Where loving others is beautiful, and exhausting. Where doing the right thing sometimes leaves us bruised, beat down, lying on the floor wondering: Did it even matter? Where doing what is good and holy is this world can still lead us to the cross. 

That’s where this story gets real.

Because Jesus doesn’t just ride into celebration. He rides into sorrow. He rides in knowing the ones who cheer are the ones who will soon walk away. He rides toward the cross. He rides to his death. And he does it anyway. Palm Sunday in Luke is not a triumphant march toward power; it’s a heartbreak. A lament. A procession toward sacrifice.

Which means maybe the Lord needs that too.

Not just the colt. Not just the parade. But the shouting. The silence. The tears. The tenderness. The truth.

The Lord needs all of it. The Lords needs the collective witness of communities. 

When Jesus says, “If these were silent, the stones would shout out,” maybe he means that nothing will stop the witness. He is telling the Pharisees and all who will listen: “This moment is too important to be stopped.” 

But also, because the stones didn’t shout out in the passage, maybe God doesn’t need the stones. Maybe not even today. 

Because there are already communities, like this one, doing the work.

People who are loving fiercely. People who are already choosing compassion. People who are showing up. Speaking up. Lifting up. People who are living out the Gospel every single day.

Maybe God doesn’t need the stones. But then again. Maybe God is using them anyway.

Maybe the stones that shout today don’t sound like thunder or earthquake or whatever we might think stones sound like. 

Maybe the stones that cry out are the moments when you are at your most defeated. When your voice is gone. When you’re exhausted. When you feel like you’ve got nothing left to offer.

And then, God shines a light onto a moment, usually it’s a person. A glimpse of grace that reflects back to you the goodness you’ve planted in the world. A reminder that your love mattered. That your faithfulness made a difference. And in that moment, when you think no one sees, God leans in close and whispers: “If for no other reason… the Lord needs you for this.”

And maybe, maybe that whisper is just another echo of what Jesus said before the parade ever started: “The Lord needs it.”

Because even when your strength is gone… even when your hope is faint…

God is still moving. God is still speaking. God will not be stopped.

So today, we return to those four simple words at the start of the story: “The Lord needs it.”

The disciples didn’t need to explain it. They didn’t need to justify it. That sentiment was enough.

And maybe it still is.

Maybe that’s the phrase echoing through the stones today. Maybe that’s the whisper you’re meant to hear when your heart is heavy and your strength is gone.

“The Lord needs it.”

Not just the colt. Not just the parade. Not just the moment of praise.

The Lord needs you.

The Lord needs your compassion. The Lord needs your courage. The Lord needs your tears. The Lord needs your faithfulness. The Lord needs your tired, aching heart that still shows up anyway.

Because this is how resurrection works. Not always in grand gestures or loud victories but in the quiet, powerful witness of people who choose to keep going. People who carry hope through heartbreak. People who believe, even when they’re not sure how.

“If for no other reason,” God whispers, “the Lord needs you for this.”

And that is enough. It’s enough to keep moving forward. It’s enough to navigate the tension of the in between. It’s enough to walk into Holy Week as our full authentic selves. It’s enough to trust that love is still stronger than death.

Because the Lord needs it. The Lord needs you.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.

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Graphic design by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org

Let Fear Fuel a Fire for Justice

“Let Fear Fuel a Fire for Justice” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on December 28, 2025.

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 36:45.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture text:
Matthew 2:13-23

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The first Sunday after Christmas is always a little… barren.

Let’s be honest about that. We were just here a few days ago. We lit candles on Christmas Eve. We sang Silent Night. We heard the angels, the shepherds, the good news of great joy. Some of us are still tired from hosting, traveling, cooking, or simply being around people for an extended period of time. 

And so I think a question crosses each of our minds: Do we really need to come back again to a worship service so soon? I’m glad you all said yes, but as we can see with the low attendance this Sunday, like we do every First Sunday after Christmas, most of us would say no. We do not need to come back so soon. 

Which is exactly why most of us miss the story that we heard today.

Because while Christmas Eve gives us the part of the story we know and love, the first Sunday after Christmas gives us a story we rarely tell. It’s still Christmastide and we are still in the season of celebrating the incarnation, but this story is different. And it shifts quickly.  

Our passage for today – found only in the Gospel of Matthew – is another story about the Christ Child, but it’s not gentle or nostalgic or easy to wrap up with a bow but instead it’s brutally and terribly honest about the world Jesus is born into.

An angel appears again but not to announce joy. This time the message is terrifying: Get up. Take the child. And run. 

In just a few short verses, the Gospel of Matthew tells us that after Jesus is born, Joseph is warned in a dream that Herod is searching for the child in order to kill him. Joseph takes Mary and Jesus and flees to Egypt under the cover of night, staying there until Herod dies. They leave their homeland. They cross borders. They seek refuge in a foreign land because staying where they are would put their child’s life in danger. During that time, Herod orders the slaughter of children in and around Bethlehem. When it finally seems safe to return, Joseph is warned again, and so the family moves once more, settling in Nazareth instead of Judea.

The Holy Family are refugees: people who are displaced by political violence because the fear for their own safety has forced them to migrate. This is a story about real danger and a family doing whatever they must to survive.

Biblical scholars regularly point out that the Gospel of Matthew presents Jesus as one who embodies the history of God’s people, living that story again in his own body. Egypt is the place where Israel once fled for survival, the place where survival turned into oppression, and the place from which God eventually brought them out. That’s why the Gospel of Matthew quotes the prophet Hosea: “Out of Egypt I have called my son.” In Hosea, that line originally refers to Israel itself. But here it’s making the claim: Jesus embodies the story of God’s people. 

Just as Israel escaped a murderous ruler in Pharaoh, Jesus escapes a murderous ruler in Herod. Just as Israel’s story begins with children in danger, so does Jesus’ story. And just as Israel’s salvation unfolds through exile and return, so does the life of Christ. This reoccurring message teaches us that God’s saving work has always moved through real danger and oppression.

Jesus enters the world and almost immediately the world tries to kill him. The incarnation did not happen in a safe nor just world. God takes on flesh in the middle of threat, and that threat is not even vague. It has a face. It has a ruler. It has policies. It has armed power behind it. Herod is not just “a bad guy.” He is a political leader who uses fear to protect his rule and his fear becomes lethal. He demands the slaughter of children. 

And if that is the world Jesus is born into and if Jesus embodies the story of God’s people, let’s be honest about the world we are living in now.

We are watching the rise of Christian nationalism, and it is not “politics” or “culture wars.” This is a movement that corruptly fuses Christian identity with national identity, and then insists that real belonging, real safety, and real power should be reserved for a narrow kind of people. It takes Christian symbols and language as pretty wrapping and a pretty bow on domination and power. It claims the name of Christ while preaching a gospel of control.

Christian nationalism is built on fear: fear of losing power and fear of cultural change and fear of no longer being centered and fear of sharing a country with people who are different. And because it is fear shaped by holding onto power, it uses that fear to oppress others. It becomes rhetoric and policies and threats and violence. That fear becomes lethal.

And we do not have to guess who are being targeted.

Christian nationalism consistently targets immigrants and refugees, and it frames their presence as danger. It targets Black and Brown communities through narratives of crime and disorder to justify policing and punishment. It targets queer and trans people, especially young people, with a fixation that is both political and spiritual, as if their existence is a threat to the moral order. It targets women’s bodies and their autonomy. It targets religious minorities and anyone who does not fit the vision of a Christian nation. It targets educators, libraries, and truth-tellers. It trains hearts to harden by narrowing dignity to only a small circle of those in power.

The Holy Family are exactly the kind of people Christian nationalism would reject: a brown family fleeing from violence, crossing borders out of necessity, dependent on refuge in a foreign land… all because their child is in danger. 

I was listening to a podcast and The Rev. Dr. Rolf Jacobson, a professor at Luther Seminary, said something along the lines of: Christian faith is a serious witness to God’s response to the horrors of the human condition. In other words, Christianity is not a denial of what is terrifying and brutal and unjust in the world. It tells the truth about it and then insists that God still enters into it.

And that’s what this story in the Gospel of Matthew is showing us.

This story is not safe for anybody. Not for Mary and Joseph. Not for Jesus. Not for the children in Bethlehem. Not for anyone living under corrupt power. 

But Jacobson continued to reflect and said what is at stake is worth God becoming human anyway. Worth vulnerability and risk and suffering and death. The same corrupt power, the same empire of domination and violence that threatens Jesus at the beginning is the same corrupt power that will kill him at the end. But this power does not get the final word. It is not the empire, but the Spirit of God who raises Jesus and defeats death. 

Christian nationalism wants a Christ who blesses the empire. It wants a country built upon corrupted religion that makes people feel justified in oppressing others. It wants a church and a country that calls control “wisdom” when it leads to exclusion and calls cruelty “strength” when it oppresses marginalized people and communities. 

But yet we have a God who enters danger, identifies with the oppressed, and confronts corrupt power not by joining it, but by enduring it and overcoming it through the life-giving and life-raising power of God. What is at stake is the very life we have been promised. 

The world is still dangerous. And Christ still willingly enters into it. 

Is love worth it?
Is justice worth it?
Is solidarity worth it?
Is protecting life worth it?

The incarnation tells us that God believes it is. It is all worth it! 

Following this sermon, please listen to this spoken word piece by Micah Bournes titled “Is Justice Worth It?”

Faith looks like witnessing the horrors of humanity as fuel to ignite love— until that love moves us and justice becomes more than an idea. Justice is the very incarnation of Christ because the presence of God becomes visible again, right in the middle of a world still trembling.

Is justice worth it? Yes! 

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.

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Graphic design by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org

Even in Our Fear, We Are Called Forward

 “Even in Our Fear, We Are Called Forward” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on December 21, 2025.

You can listen to the podcast of the sermon here.

 

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Scripture texts:

Jeremiah 1:4-10

Luke 1:26-38

 

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Many of us might have learned that fear is a problem that must be overcome. Or that feeling fear is a negative emotion that we are supposed to push down. Or maybe we feel something along the lines of if we were truly faithful, truly trusting God; we would feel calmer, steadier, more certain, less afraid. Somewhere along the way we’ve been taught that the answer to fear is courage, as if courage and fear are opposites, standing on two sides of the spectrum. You’re either afraid or you’re courageous.

 

But that way of thinking doesn’t actually match how faith works or how scripture works or even how being human works.

 

Because courage is not the opposite of fear.

 

If courage were the opposite of fear, then the people God calls in scripture would have already failed before they’ve even begun. It would mean that fear disqualifies them (or us) from faithfulness and following the call given to anyone as a disciple of Christ.

 

The people God calls are often filled with fear. Mary felt fear. Jeremiah felt fear. John the Baptist felt fear. The prophets and the disciples felt fear. Fear shows up again and again in the stories where God is doing something new.

 

So before we go any further, we must all be on the same page about fear. Fear is not a negative emotion.

 

This past summer, many of our children spent a week learning about emotions – fear, sadness, joy, anger, and love – at our Vacation Bible School. One of the core messages they heard was that all of these emotions are part of being human. God’s people throughout the Bible felt them. Jesus felt them too.

 

Jesus felt fear! That was the very first message to our children on Day 1. That if they were scared being at VBS or afraid being away from their parents, it was okay because Jesus knows that fear too.

 

Very often fear shows up because something matters to us. Fear often rises when something we care deeply about is at risk. To say that fear is something we shouldn’t feel actually contradicts the faith we’ve been trying to form: not just in our children but in ourselves.

 

So as we continue our Advent journey today, we’re not asking how to become fearless. Instead we’re asking a more honest and more faithful question: what does it look like to move forward when we are afraid?

 

Because again and again, fear is often the place where calling begins.

 

Bcecause of that, I want to focus on our Jeremiah passage. Jeremiah is not the prophet we turn to in Advent because the book of Jeremiah is rooted in sadness and anger and protest and grief. All of this is wrapped up in a deep ongoing lament to God.

Jeremiah is actually nicknamed “The Weeping Prophet” by some biblical scholars and theologians. He feels deeply, and he speaks from that place of deep feeling, even when it costs him dearly. Jeremiah‘s nickname actually inspired the name of my own blog, The Weeping Christian, that I named when I was 22 and in seminary. And if you think that name is bad, you should hear the name of my first email account. But that’s a story for another time.

 

In today’s reading Jeremiah responds to God’s call with doubt, excuses, and fear. Jeremiah is not just making an excuse that he feels he is too young, he is honestly assessing his risk. Jeremiah understands that answering this call will place him in danger. He will be asked to speak words people do not want to hear. He will confront kings, priests, and systems of power. He will name injustice, violence, and betrayal at a time when denial and silence would have been far safer.

 

And as Jeremiah’s story unfolds, his fear proves well-founded. His life does not get easier once he says yes. He is mocked and ridiculed. He is beaten and imprisoned. At one point, he is thrown into a cistern and left to die. He watches his beloved city of Jerusalem fall. He witnesses exile, devastation, and loss on a scale that overwhelms him. Repeatedly Jeremiah cries out to God in grief, sometimes wishing he had never been born.

 

Jeremiah knows fear. He knows sadness. He knows anger. He knows despair. His book is filled with lament and unresolved grief. And yet for all of that emotional intensity, something never happens.

 

Jeremiah never stops feeling.

 

Even when he is exhausted, even when he is angry with God, even when his hope is barely there, he remains deeply engaged with God, with his people, and with the world as it actually is.

 

And that distinction matters.

 

That distinction matters because fear does not automatically lead us toward faithfulness or away from it. Fear, on its own, is not the deciding factor. What shapes us is what we do with fear once it arrives, and whether we are willing to stay in relationship with it rather than letting it take over or shut us down.

 

Earlier this Advent, many of our small groups read an article from Psychology Today titled “Making Friends with Fear,” written by Denise Fournier, a psychologist who writes about emotional health and resilience. In that article, Fournier suggests that fear becomes less destructive when we approach it intentionally rather than instinctively. She names three postures that help keep fear from hardening: curiosity, compassion, and courage.

 

These postures offer a way of staying present to fear without being ruled by it. They don’t remove fear, and they don’t deny its reality. Instead they create space for fear to be understood and engaged in ways that keep us connected.

 

We begin with curiosity. Curiosity slows us down enough to notice what fear is actually pointing toward. Rather than reacting immediately or trying to silence fear, curiosity asks why this moment feels different, what feels at risk, and what might be asking for our attention. Being curious about our fear can also reveal what we value most, both as individuals and as a community. We tend to fear losing what we love.

 

Alongside curiosity comes compassion. Without compassion, fear quickly turns inward and becomes shame. Compassion reminds us that fear is a human response to uncertainty and risk but not as a failure or a lack of faith. We are not only called to extend compassion to others when they are afraid; we are also called to offer ourselves compassion and grace when fear shows up in our own lives.

 

And then there is courage, not as the opposite of fear, but as the willingness to remain responsive while fear is still present. Courage is the decision to take the next faithful step even when we are afraid. Courage does not require fear to be resolved before we act; it refuses to let fear make all the decisions for us.

 

But when fear is not met with curiosity, compassion, and courage; it begins to harden. Untended fear often collapses inward, becoming numbness, where we stop feeling because feeling hurts too much. Or it spreads outward into apathy, where caring for anything beyond ourselves begins to feel pointless. Fear does not disappear in these moments; it changes shape. And that change is where danger enters.

 

Courage is not the opposite of fear. The opposite of fear, as seen in the stories throughout scripture, is a hardened heart.

 

Scripture understands this distinction well. One of the clearest examples appears in the book of Exodus, in the figure we know as Pharaoh. The Pharaoh of Exodus is never named in the text, which in itself is telling. He becomes less a historical individual and more a symbol of hardened power. In Exodus we hear several times that Pharaoh’s heart was hardened.

 

Pharaoh witnesses suffering up close. He hears the cries of the enslaved. He sees the consequences of his decisions. And still nothing breaks through. Pharoah’s hardened heart causes violence and oppression to continue.

 

Another example is King Saul. Or more relevant to our Advent series, King Herod. Even the disciples become hardened as named in the Gospel of Mark, but fortunately their hardened hearts are healed.

 

That is the danger scripture warns us about. Fear becomes dangerous only when it is left unattended; when it hardens inward into numbness or turns outward into apathy, both cutting us off from hope.

 

This brings us finally to Mary.

 

When the angel Gabriel comes to Mary she asks real questions. She takes in what is being said to her. And then her response is thoughtful, embodied, and courageous. She says yes, but her yes does not come from certainty; it comes from trust formed in the midst of fear.

 

Mary and Jeremiah echo one another here. Both are called into something that will cost them deeply. Both respond with fear. Both ask questions. Both move forward anyway. It is the courage to keep responding to God’s call while fear remains part of their story. And the worst of Mary’s fears will happen; Mary will see her baby boy as a young man executed on the cross.

 

Many of us are carrying fear about the future. Fear about our own lives and the roads we might take. Fear about our children and the world they are inheriting. Fear about our country and our democracy and our climate and our communities, and the direction all of these things seem to be moving.

 

But here is something important to notice. When we are afraid for the future – our future, our country’s future, the world’s future – that fear is not empty. It means there is still something in us that cares deeply about what could be. It means we still carry hope, even if that hope feels fragile or exhausted. Fear for the future often reveals longing for a better future filled with authenticity, joy, love, and relationships. We do not fear losing what we have already given up on. We fear losing what we believe still matters.

 

Friends, the danger is not that we are afraid. The danger is that we might allow fear to harden our hearts. The danger is allowing fear to make us give up on hope.

 

God’s work does not depend on our fearlessness but on our willingness to keep responding even though we are afraid.

 

So when you find yourself afraid, let that fear tell you something true. Let it name what you value. Let it remind you that you are still connected, still invested, and still hoping. And then, with fear and courage walking hand-in-hand, take the next faithful step forward.

 

Because even in our fear, we are still being called. And even now, God is still at work. Amen.

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Graphic design by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org

Good News in the Fire

 “Good News in the Fire” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on November 16, 2025.

You can listen to the podcast of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:
Psalm 98
Malachi 4:1-3

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Of course, there are some passages in Scripture that are pretty intense, sometimes so much so that it causes us to fidget a little or sit up a little straighter when we hear them. Malachi gives us one of those moments, which is why I think it’s worth reading the passage again. These three verses from Malachi:

1 See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. 2 But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall. 3 And you shall tread down the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet, on the day when I act, says the Lord of hosts.

I don’t think these words would be the ones stitched on a decorative pillow. I don’t think any of these verses are used in greeting cards. 

“Thinking of you… you shall tread down the wicked.” 

Somehow I don’t think Hallmark is rushing to create that one. Although now that I think about it, I can think of several people who would LOVE to buy that kind of card. 

This passage seems intense because it almost sounds like the kind of fire-and-brimstone message that are found in angry pulpits. The imagery is big and forceful. It feels like wrath. And most of us instinctively brace ourselves, myself included, when we hear scripture that sounds like this. 

But these words were written to give hope – hope – to a community that desperately needed it.

We are now in the very last book of the Older Testament.  Like the other minor prophets, Malachi is a short book spoken to a specific moment in the life of God’s people. If you remember our text from last week, Haggai was prophesying to the people after they returned from exile and gave them the command to rebuild the temple. Fast forward to the next generation in the same community. Roughly sixty to eighty years have passed, which is long enough for the people who rebuilt the second temple to have grown old, and most of the people never knew exile or even the rebuilding of the temple. And this new generation began struggling with corruption among leaders and a widening economic inequality.

Through this short book of 4 chapters, we hear a kind of dialogue between God and the people. God names the places their life together has become corrupt and the people respond with confusion or defensiveness because they do not understand how they drifted from the faithfulness they intended.

The book of Malachi opens with the people questioning God’s love, and in the second chapter, the people ask, “Where is the God of justice?”. Then in chapter 3, when speaking about the corrupt leaders in the community, Malachi describes God as a refiner’s fire like when purifying silver or gold. The fire never destroys the metal but instead heats the metal until the impurities rise to the surface and can be removed so the beauty beneath is revealed. 

By the time we reach the passage we heard today in the fourth chapter, the imagery widens. Instead of focusing on just the leaders, Malachi describes a fire that sweeps across the whole landscape of injustice. The refining flame of chapter 3 becomes the cleansing flame we just read a moment ago.  

For Malachi’s listeners, this carried the meaning of clearing away what harms the community, this time like a field that must be burned to make way for new growth. 

And then right after the image of burning, in the middle of our three verses, we are given an image of a sunrise: “The sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.” 

And here’s a special fascinating connection that makes my nerdy Bible heart sing: Malachi, the last book of the Older Testament, Malachi which means “the messenger” ends with the promise of a messenger (Elijah). And then the Gospel of Mark, which most scholars believe was the first of the four Gospels written, opens with a messenger (John the Baptist) saying there is one coming after him who will baptize the people with the Holy Spirit, which is further expanded on in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew saying the one who is to come (Jesus) will baptize the people with the Holy Spirit and fire.  

This is a cleansing fire that will heal the people! 

Last Sunday after our worship services, I went to a lecture hosted at Muhlenberg College, where Dr. Damon Berry spoke about the social patterns that can draw people toward acts of extreme violence or terrorism. He described a “staircase,” five steps that lead a person from ordinary frustration all the way to violent extremism. 

But before he explained the steps, he asked a simple question: “How many of you believe there is injustice in the world right now?”

And by a show of hands right now, how many of you believe there in injustice in the world? 

The entire room like ours raised their hands. And he explained that most people remain at this level: aware that the world is not just. But after moving past steps one and two, the third step is when people begin aligning themselves with groups that share their anger or amplify their grievances. And then the fourth step is leaning into an us-versus-them mentality. That it is the job of the “us” to fix the “them”. The fifth step is the final step: committing the act of extreme violence against the “them”. 

While the staircase Dr. Berry was speaking on is specifically on the steps that lead people to violent extremism, I can see those same steps happening in the everyday life of society. 

Scroll through social media. Listen to political rhetoric. Watch how quickly people sort one another into camps: 

“Those people are the problem.”
“People like them are ruining the world.”
“We’re the righteous ones; they’re the wicked ones.”

People can begin with a longing for justice and slowly find their world narrowing until they come to believe that goodness only exists within their own group. And by doing so, we lose sight of the shared hope that binds communities together. 

But Malachi is prophesying to the entire community. He is inviting the entire community to trust that God’s refining work is directed toward the injustice that wounds people, rather than toward the people themselves. God’s judgment is aimed at removing the harm, not the person, so that what remains is the possibility of restored life for everyone. 

When God brings restoration, God brings it with a generosity that does not mirror our own divisions or our own us-versus-them. The sunrise falls on everyone, and the healing is meant for everyone.

Psalm 98 echoes that same vision. The psalmist describes creation responding to God’s justice with music, as though the rivers and hills can sense when things are finally beginning to be set right. When the psalm ends with saying God “judges the world with righteousness and the peoples with equity,” it is naming that God’s judgment is a promise that God’s justice will be great enough to heal what is broken.

God’s judgement in the world is a source of joy rather than anxiety, not because life is simple or pain is absent, but because God’s judgement is rooted in healing. 

When Malachi describes the joy of calves running free, he is a painting a picture of what healed life can feel like for people who have carried heaviness for a long time. It is joyful! And God says all of this “shall” come. Not might or can. “Shall”. This is God’s unwavering promise.

And the promise continues. The messenger prepares the way. John baptizes in the wilderness. Christ enters the world carrying the fullness of God’s healing. And then Christ baptizes us with the Holy Spirit and fire. 

Each step invites us to believe that God’s healing is part of our journey; our collective journey as the people of God. 

There is injustice in this world. And it is tempting to name a group of others as a “them”. But there is no ‘them.’ There is injustice but there is no ‘them,” not in God’s healing. 

So we pray: Burn away the injustice, O God, and let us – all of us – find healing in you.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen. 

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Halloween Gets It Right

“Halloween Gets It Right” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on November 9, 2025.

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 23:50.

You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:

Psalm 145:1-5, 13b-21

Haggai 1:15b-2:9

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There’s usually a moment in big project when we stop and look around and wonder if it’s worth continuing. We begin with hope and excitement, with energy and vision, imagining the finished goal. But somewhere along the way, the excitement dulls or the frustration kicks in. And whatever we are working toward becomes harder to see. 

Maybe it’s a home renovation that’s half-done or a project at work that keeps stalling. Anyone here know what I’m talking about? Any of us currently in the middle of an unfinished project?

Or maybe it’s a whole church community, like ours, learning how to rebuild and reimagine ministry together after a global pandemic. It’s in those unfinished places we long for God to meet us with a reminder that the story isn’t over yet. Well that is if we haven’t given up already. 

It is too tempting to believe that unfinished work will never come to completion, that maybe we shouldn’t try because what’s even the point.

That’s exactly what the people of God are navigating in today’s passage from Haggai. Before this part of the story, 86 years before this part of this story, Babylon invaded Jerusalem, tore down its walls, burned homes, and destroyed the temple, which was the sacred center of their life with God and a symbol of God’s presence among the people. When Babylon conquered the city, everything that held their community together seemed to be destroyed and the people were exiled. 

For seventy years, they lived as strangers away from their city. Then under a new ruler, King Cyrus of Persia, they were finally set free and sent home. And they returned home to a land scarred by war with fields overgrown, homes in ruins, and a constant reminder of all that was lost. And so the people began rebuilding.

But each focused on their own survival. The people repaired their own homes, replanted their own crops, and built up their own families.  Rebuilding the temple communally almost seemed like a luxury they couldn’t afford. And I don’t blame them. Destruction was all around them When resources felt scarce, their instinct was to protect what little they had, turning inward rather than toward the shared work of rebuilding as a community. For sixteen years this went on. 

God sends the prophet Haggai to remind the people that that the temple’s restoration wasn’t just about the building itself; it was about restoring relationship and trust in God’s presence. Or really, in God’s abundance. And so God calls them to begin again as a community, not because they felt have enough, but because God is enough and God will provide. 

When the people finally began the work, the temple that rose from the dust was not what anyone expected. It was smaller, simpler, and humbler than Solomon’s grand temple of gold and cedar. 

In fact, the book of Ezra tells us that some of the older priests and leaders, who remembered the original temple, wept with grief when they saw the foundation of this new one being laid. 

Think about this. You mean there were people in the church who missed how things used to be? Who longed for the “good old days”? Who thought the new thing didn’t quite measure up to the old this? Hard to imagine, right? Surely that kind of thing never happens anymore!

But in all seriousness, that kind of longing isn’t a flaw; it’s part of being human. It’s what happens when we meet change. The people who wept did so because they remembered the beauty of what had been. And honestly, that’s something the people of God have always done. Across generations and across centuries, we grieve what’s been lost even as we try to build what’s next.

And yet, it was this new temple God called greater. This temple was a glimpse of the world God promised, a place where presence mattered more than grandeur. The people learned again how to live as if there would be enough because there was.

The people, people who had been broken and scattered, were now learning to trust again. It was in their courage to build when they still felt small. It was in their willingness to believe that God’s Spirit still dwelled among them.

The new temple was greater because it was born out of faith rather than fear. 

We know something of that fear too, though maybe not in the same way. These last few weeks have brought headlines and stories that have left so many of us uneasy: news of delayed or reduced SNAP benefits, families wondering how to stretch what’s left in the pantry, parents facing impossible choices about how to feed their children.

And while we might feel anxious when we read those stories about those families that we think we’ll never meet, we also know our fear doesn’t compare to the fear of a parent looking into the eyes of their hungry child. That fear is deeper and heavier.

Their fear is greater than ours. And our hearts ache because we recognize that no one should have to feel that kind of fear. That ache is just another way the Spirit is stirring us, reminding us that we are part of the better future that God has promised. 

And we experience that future in holy moments here and now. 

A couple of weeks ago, our neighborhoods looked a little different. Kids (and adults) dressed as superheroes and princesses and ghosts were running from door to door, laughing and shouting “trick or treat.” 

Now I know not everyone celebrates Halloween. and that’s okay. But I can’t help but notice that, for one night on Halloween, we live out something the church has been trying to get right for thousands of years. 

Children come to a door: they knock, they ask, and they receive.

No one is turned away. No one has to prove they deserve it. No one is asked whether they’re really from that neighborhood. No one has to qualify, show papers, or prove hardship. There are no tests or hoops to jump through. 

They ask and they receive.

And the people are prepared to give: happily and abundantly, without holding anything back.

For one evening, we act as if abundance is the norm… when for most of us, abundance is the norm. 

Friends, most days we live as though generosity might leave us empty. But on Halloween, we remember: giving feels good. Generosity builds community. Joy multiplies when it’s shared.

And when I watch children at those doors, asking and receiving, laughing and trusting that good things are coming, I can’t help but think of Jesus’ words from the Gospel of Matthew:

“Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8)

On Halloween, we catch a small glimpse of what those words look like in real life

It’s a glimpse of the better future God promised through Haggai. It the same promise born in the rebuilding of the temple made by the same God. This promise is a world where fear gives way to trust and where scarcity yields to abundance. 

When we move from fear of scarcity to trusting in abundance, the world begins to look different. Scarcity leads to isolation while abundance builds community.

And if we can catch even these small glimpses of God’s abundance in the rebuilding of a community, in a people who share what we has, in porch lights that stay on and doors that stay open; then what’s stopping us from building toward that better future now?

If we believe these glimpses are possible, then maybe the next faithful step is to look honestly at where our time, energy, and resources go. Are we helping build the kind of world God is building? Or are we individually rebuilding our own smaller temples of control and comfort?

These glimpses of abundance matter because they show us what God is still doing… and what God is still inviting us to join. The temple, the open door, the open hand; they’re all signs of a kin-dom already breaking in.

So take courage in the breaking in and keep building. Keep your hands and hearts open. Because God is already here, and the peace that God promises is coming. Maybe not all at once, but through us, together, as we live and work toward the future God has promised.

Amen.

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BOLD Proclamation

 “BOLD Proclamation” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on October 19, 2025.

Youcan hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 30:55.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture texts:
Genesis 32:22-31
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5

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When Paul writes his second letter to Timothy, he’s nearing the end of his journey. He’s tired, imprisoned, and uncertain how much time he has left. This work has cost him everything, but his faith is still alive and his ministry is still not over, even if it is coming to an end.

So he writes one last message to his young protégé named Timothy, who is trying to lead a weary and divided church in Ephesus. Some have walked away from the gospel. Others are twisting it to fit their own desires. Timothy is doing his best to promote togetherness and unity, but it’s hard.

In his letter, Paul offers Timothy some encouragement: “Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it.”

Remember, Paul says. Remember the people who taught you. Remember your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice. Remember their voices, their love, and their faith. Remember that “all Scripture is God-breathed.” Remember.

Paul is reminding Timothy that the Word of God is still alive and is still speaking. The same Spirit that breathed creation into being still moves through these words, shaping and guiding the Church. It’s a living voice that equips us to keep proclaiming the good news: past, present, and future.

That’s stewardship too. Not just of resources but of memory. Of faith. Of this living Word that has been entrusted to us.

We are stewards of a story that began long before us… and, by God’s grace, will continue long after us.

And that’s what our stewardship theme, BOLD Generosity, is really about. Each week we’ve been exploring: how do we live boldly with the gifts God has given us? This week’s focus is BOLD Proclamation: letting our lives speak the good news of the Gospel through what we do, what we say, and who we are.

Every act of generosity, every word of truth, every note of a hymn, every moment of prayer: it all becomes proclamation. The living Word of God breathing through us, proclaiming grace to a world that still needs to hear it.

This is how the story continues. It’s how God’s breath keeps moving through this community: teaching, blessing, shaping, and calling. It’s a remembrance of the past and it’s also a call to move forward.

Because after reminding Timothy of where he came from, Paul points him forward.

“I solemnly urge you,” Paul writes, “proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable.”

Ironic enough, Paul is writing these words in a Roman cell, facing execution. And he knows that proclamation – the faithful, persistent telling of God’s truth – will meet resistance.

Proclamation, in Paul’s sense, isn’t just preaching. It’s living as if the gospel is true. It’s letting our words, priorities, and love tell the story of Christ.

That’s bold proclamation: the decision to live and speak love even when it’s not popular, even when it’s costly.

And yes, sometimes proclamation upsets us. Sometimes it challenges what we’ve grown comfortable with. A pastor preaches a sermon that pushes us a little too far. Or the session makes a decision we don’t agree with. Or we try to live out our faith publicly and speak for justice; and some of the people we love pull away. Sometimes, even in the church, we wound one another. Sometimes, we get it wrong.

And yet, still with great urgency, we are called to proclaim the message. We proclaim compassion when the world feels divided. We proclaim hope when others give up. We proclaim grace when the last thing we want to do is forgive.

And when in doubt, we proclaim God’s love. Because that’s what it means to be the Church: to hold on, even when it’s hard, and to trust that love will still have the last word; that the story we are stewards of still continues. When we boldly proclaim this message, we do so because we believe this story and our faith is changing lives and this world for the better.

I think we can all name a time where the church and its message changed our life for the better.

Fifteen years ago, I was a senior in college studying finance. I didn’t know much about what I wanted in life, but I did know one thing for sure; that wasn’t it. I was on a path that didn’t feel right, and I couldn’t shake the sense that something inside me was searching for something else.

So feeling discouraged about the present and anxious about the future, I went home for the weekend to visit my parents. And like any parents of a college student, they were thrilled when I said I’d go to church with them on Sunday morning. (For any youth or young adults in the room: if you ever want to make your parents really happy, go to church with them when you’re visiting. It works every time.)

That Sunday, the sermon was about the wounds we carry as disciples. It began by naming the struggles we all face and the ways we wrestle with ourselves, with others, and sometimes with God. And then it turned to the struggles that come from faith itself: the moments when being a Christian doesn’t protect us from pain but sometimes opens us up to it.

The preacher said that following Jesus doesn’t mean we won’t be wounded. Sometimes it means we’ll carry those wounds as reminders of where grace has met us. And maybe, she said, those wounds can still become blessings; maybe they can teach us something or even become the way God brings healing into someone else’s life.

That sermon has stayed with me for years: not because it answered all my questions but because it gave me permission to wrestle.

That’s the story of Jacob.  And that’s where we find Jacob today.

By the time we reach this moment in Genesis, Jacob has been running for most of his life.

He was born grasping his brother’s heel, already trying to get ahead before he even took his first breath. His name, Jacob, means “the one who grabs.” And that’s how he’s lived: always scheming to secure what he wants, no matter who gets hurt.

He tricked his brother Esau out of his birthright, deceived his father into giving him a blessing meant for someone else, and then fled to escape the consequences.

Now years later Jacob has built a new life with wives, children, wealth, and reputation; but he knows he’s standing on borrowed peace. Word comes that Esau is approaching with four hundred men. So Jacob does what he’s always done: he plans. He divides his camp, sends gifts ahead, prays a little prayer, and then finally sends his family and possessions across the river. And suddenly, for the first time in his life, he’s alone.

And that’s when it happens: a mysterious figure wrestles with him all night long.

We never find out who this opponent is. Jacob believes it is God, but the point isn’t who Jacob wrestles; it’s that he doesn’t let go.

All night long, he struggles. Exhausted. Hurting. Clinging with everything he has. “I will not let you go,” he says, “unless you bless me.”

Oh what a stubborn, holy persistence that refuses to let go of the God who refuses to let go of us.

But because of it, Jacob walks away limping, wounded from the struggle. Bold proclamation is holding on through the night, through the shadows and the valleys, trusting that God’s blessing will come. Through our living and our giving, we are proclaiming the good news is still worth holding onto.

And that’s what bold generosity looks like too.

We give and serve and love because we trust that God is still at work. That God is still blessing whatever we offer, even if it’s small or when the night is long.

Yesterday I attended the ordination and installation of the Rev. Ruth Amadio, who is now serving as pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Catasauqua. During the sermon, the preacher reminded us that the call of every disciple is to practice love in everything we say and everything we do.

She continued by saying despite all our flaws and imperfections, the Church actually does this quite well. Only in the Church do you have more people promising to love a child than in baptism. Only in the Church are more hands held in seasons of grief.

That, she said, is what proclamation looks like. From the beginning to the end, from birth to death, the Church proclaims love. We proclaim love to a child in baptism, and in time, that child grows and proclaims love to our children and our children’s children. We proclaim love to a person in death, and in time, when God calls us home to the Church Triumphant, that same love will be proclaimed to us.

Those words felt especially true this week. We celebrate the sacrament of baptism today, and earlier in the week, I held the hand of a church member as she said goodbye to this life and joined the saints in glory.

In both moments, at the font and at the bedside, I felt the same thing: the bold, unbroken proclamation of love. Love that begins in the promises of baptism and continues through every joy and sorrow of this life until God finally welcomes us home.

Friends, this is what your giving, your presence, your service, and your prayers make possible: the proclamation of love from one generation to the next.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.

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Moyers, Mike. Israel, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57141 [retrieved October 20, 2025]. Original source: Mike Moyers, https://www.mikemoyersfineart.com/