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/

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