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