Jesus, Not Jesús: Finding The Divine In The Space Between Us.
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Adopted

6/8/2025

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Pentecost is the Spirit lifting us into the arms of God. Not because we’re worthy, but because this is where we belong.

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Today is Pentecost—what we often call the “birthday of the Church.”

But it’s not the kind of celebration with cupcakes and piñata’s. It’s the kind like we find in the book of Acts.

The windows blow open. Everyone starts speaking different languages. And nobody really knows what’s going on except that something holy is happening (Acts 2:1-41).

It’s wild. Chaotic. And completely unexpected. Yet at the same…it is also divine and beautiful.

As my good friend Rev. Dawn once said, "Pentecost is the Holy Spirit doing some of her best work."

​Indeed.
​
Today, however, instead of preaching again from that same wild story, I thought we’d look at Pentecost through the lens of Paul’s letter to the Romans.
Tucked inside this epic masterpiece is an unassuming moment where the Holy Spirit shows up to do her thing.  To surprise us. And draw us into something just as powerful, just as holy. Just as she did in that first house church in Jerusalem.
For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.              Romans 8:14-17
I've called this lesson “Adopted” because, at its core, that's what Pentecost is. A great act of divine adoption. The day the Spirit says: I got you. You’re mine.

October 28th is Cali’s “gotcha day.” Meaning, it was the day we adopted her and she joined our family. The day she got not just a new name. But a new life. That’s Pentecost. Where those who are led by the Spirit of God become a beloved child of God.

Today is the day that your wealth or poverty, your social status or family name, your birthplace or political affiliation no longer define who you are, or where you belong. God has claimed you. And God has named you: beloved.

Another reason I wanted to focus on this adoption metaphor, it turns out that caring for the widows and orphans is pretty important to God. In fact, it’s one the clearest ethical through-lines in Scripture. There are over 40 passages where God calls us to care for those left without family or support.

In Isaiah, God says, “Learn to do good; seek justice. Rescue the oppressed. Defend the orphan; plead for the widow” (Is.1:17).

And in the gospel of Luke, Jesus raises a widow’s son who has died, not just to show compassion for the grieving mother, but to restore her social and economic security in the community (Luke 7:11-17).

Back then, adoption wasn’t a backup plan for people who couldn’t have children. It was a holy act of saving grace. It kept kids off the streets where they often sold themselves to survive. When children were adopted, their family debts were erased. Their future secured - with full rights and full access to the inheritance. Adoptees got a new name, a new future, a new place at the table.

Pentecost isn’t just about a Spirit who showed up like a holy hurricane, twisting tongues and lighting the sky on fire. She continues to show up, day-after-day; roaring in and gathering us all together while God boldly declares, “Gotcha. You are mine.”

It doesn’t matter what we do, what we have, or what others think of us. We are God’s beloved now, fellow heirs with Christ. Which makes Paul’s declaration both bold and shocking good news. He’s telling us, the same Spirit given to Jesus, the very one that breathed life into the lungs of those first believers, is the same Spirit given to us by God to whom we cry,  “Abba, Father.”

Which leads us to another thing I love about this passage.

There’s a certain tenderness in Paul’s use of the word “Abba.” It’s the word Jesus used to describe his relationship with God. The same word he spoke from the cross at this death.

In Aramaic it means, “Dada” or “Daddy.” But really, it’s less of a word. And more of a sound, like one an infant makes. Think: Ah-bah

Abba is marked with trust and belonging. When my kids were small and couldn’t speak full words they’d reach up with their sticky little hands and babble, “abba.” To me, it sounded like they were saying “up.” But what they were really saying was, “Hold me.”

Pentecost is the Spirit lifting us into the arms of God. Not because we’re worthy, but because this is where we belong.

When family and friends knock you down, your Abba is there to lift you up. When the world crucifies you, Abba cradles you through death into everlasting life.  This is what Divine Love does. It clings to us and never lets us go.

There’s a heartwarming story about a young girl who had spent pretty much her entire life in foster care. The only constant in her life was the case worker assigned to her when she started high school. As she bounced from house-to-house, this case worker never gave up on her.

At her graduation, she showed up and handed the girl an envelope. But instead of a letter releasing her from the system, the young graduate found an official document—signed by a judge—that said she’d been adopted by the one person who had walked through hell with her all those years.

Pentecost is like God handing us a document saying, “You’re not on probation. You’re not being evaluated. You’re not temporary. You are mine forever.”

Today, we celebrate the certification of our belonging to God’s family. A family Jesus describes like this when he’s told his mom and brothers are outside waiting for him.

He looks at the crowd in the room and asks, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Then, pointing to the group, he says, you are. “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my family” (Mt. 12:50).

It might seem like Jesus is dismissing his biological family. But really, he’s expanding it. He’s blowing open the windows and walls of familiar bonds so the Spirit can to do her thing.

Pentecost reminds us that we are to work together with the Spirit, welcoming others into God’s family.

This is the work of the church. The work of God’s Spirit moving through the world. Like St. Irenaeus, one of the early Church Fathers, said,  “Where the Spirit of God is, there is the Church, and every kind of grace.”

Because here’s the thing I’ve learned, as the Spirit move in us, grace flows through us. Like a child muttering “abba,” this flow is something anyone can do because everyone belongs to it.

Now, one last thing worth pointing out is that in both the Greek and Hebrew the word used for Spirit is the same word used for breath. A reminder for us all, that when we breathe in God’s Spirit, we also breathe it out into Anamesa. It’s probably the most basic and most natural way to participate with the Spirit or Breath of God here in the kingdom of heaven.

Unfortunately, not everyone sees themself in this divine partnership. Some of us have what’s called the “orphan spirit.” A gnawing sense that they don’t belong anywhere.

You might think you’re not good enough, or faithful enough to be on God’s team. You might think there’s something you did, or didn’t do, that makes you unworthy of such a position.

Maybe you think you doubt too much, or pray too little, or say the wrong things, or never get it right.

But Pentecost says otherwise.

God’s Spirit is your social worker who never gives up or abandons you. She adopts you, just as you are. The faithful and faithless alike. Because the Spirit doesn’t exclude anyone from the guest list. In fact, she expands it until everyone is seated at God’s table.

Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The Spirit of God is gentle. She does not push or force. She invites and waits…She opens us up to a new world, of community, and of love.”

This is the kind of church Pentecost gives birth to. The community of love that lives into our adoption—loving God, loving others, and serving both.

Like I said at the beginning, I believe the world is aching for this kind of Church. A true sanctuary where all are welcome. A sacred space where our diversity makes us better and kinder, not more fearful and meaner.

We are not gatekeepers of God’s grace, but greeters of God’s love. We are not holy bouncers who determine who’s in and who’s out. We are the red carpet that welcomes everyone in.

Perhaps that’s why the liturgical color for Pentecost is red. It represents the fire that God’s Spirit has ignited within us. The kind that warms and invites. And lights up the way for others to find their divine inheritance.

Pentecost wasn’t a one and done holy act. God’s Spirit continues to breathe wildly and mysteriously all around us.

With this sacred breath, the same breath that filled the lungs of creation, she’s constantly building something beautiful within us and all around us: A community of love in the space between inhaling and exhaling.

This is the space where God finds us and whispers, “Gotcha.”

We are God’s beloved. We are Christ’s body.

And we are filled with holy breath of love that says, “You belong.”  And “You belong.” And so do you.

“For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.”

Always, and forever.
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A Shepherd's Advice

6/1/2025

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Yesterday, our son walked across the stage in his cap and gown, and said good-bye to high school. It is a bittersweet moment to say the least. Fraught with joyous anxiety.
 
I remember taking that journey when I was his age. The possibilities seemed endless. I discovered, as I am sure our son will too, that diploma wasn’t just proof that I could finish something.

It
’s a passport into the sacred unknown, a launching pad into the next becoming.
 
But let’s be honest—new beginnings, even joyful ones, can be both beautiful and disorienting.  

​
I’d like to say it gets easier with age, but it doesn’t. Yet, if you pay careful attention, remain present right here, right now you’ll begin to see and embrace the challenges you will face knowing they don’t set you back but advance you forward across many different stages, earning all sorts of degrees.
So, if I were to give any advice, it would be simply this…keep your eye on the one who leads you. Which takes us to our reading today. An ancient poem, whispered across centuries, that offers us hope and courage, for every stage of life.
Psalm 23.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

   He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
    he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
    for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
    I fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    my whole life long.
While waiting for my flight out of  Seattle last week, I saw a someone wearing a shirt that said, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

And not far behind this person was someone else wearing a shirt that said, “Good luck, you’re on your own.” It seemed to be the Holy Spirit’s way of telling what scripture to teach on today.
 
More than a funeral favorite, Psalm 23 is a traveler’s song—a shepherd’s poem for people figuring it out as they go.

It opens with a quiet, profound truth: that we are never alone or on our own. We have a Shepherd with us. One who knows our names. Our anxious heartbeats. A shepherd who is behind us, picking up the pieces. And who
’s two steps ahead, preparing the path and lighting the way.
 
If you ask me, that’s all the good luck we need. Whether you’re heading off to college or on your way to work, God is always with you because, like scripture tells us, God is in you.

You have God
’s divine image etched on your heart, and that’s enough to navigate this messy, sacred thing called life.
There’s an old Hasidic story that says God is like a flame hidden in coal… that’s waiting for our breath to burn bright. When the road ahead feels uncertain, don’t panic. Just breathe. And remember who’s leading you. A Good Shepherd who “leads you to still waters; restores your soul.”
 
Let’s not skip past that too quickly. The world will always demand a lot from us: move faster, work harder, prove your worth. It even offers ladders that don’t always lead somewhere.
 
We need rest. Deep rest. Not as a reward for our effort, but as a necessity for our souls.

These green pastures and still waters are how your soul breathes. How your heart remains present. How you stay grounded and human in a world that keeps asking us to be machines.

 
Jesus often steps away from the crowds to rest, to pray, to simply be. He invites us to do the same. He says, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.” Or as my dad likes to say, “At my age, happy hour is a nap.”
 
This is sacred time spent, not being lazy but being restored and refreshed by God. We what Anamesa to be a sanctuary for the weary. A holy, in-between space where God meets us, tends to us, and restores us. I call that salvation.
 
Whether you’re a student or sojourner or something in between, always seek places and people that offer refreshment for your spirit. And restoration for your soul.It could be the woods or a beach. A class outside your major or interest. It could be just catching up with a friend you like being around. These are your green pastures. Return to them often. Because when your soul is at rest, your light burns brighter.
 
You might recall in John’s gospel Christ is called “the light of the world.” Jesus says the same to us. He says, “You are the light of the world.” 

Rest is recharging your spiritual battery so you can do what Jesus needs you to do: Be the light who guides others home to God
’s heart.
 
The desert fathers left us with this advice: “Do not follow someone who points the way but does not walk it.” Jesus, the one John calls “the Good Shepherd” doesn’t just show us the way to live. He is the way that “leads us in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”
 
Out in the world you will see there are many paths to take. Eventually you will come to a fork and will have to figure out which way to go. The popular path crowded with people and distractions. Or the quieter, less traveled path filled with depth and meaning.

​We are free to walk down either one. But when we follow Jesus, we know the path we
’re on will always lead to goodness, grace, and God’s own glory.
 
This is the narrow way, Jesus talks about. A way of humility, kindness, and mercy. A way that isn’t about perfection but presence. Take my advice and follow the Shepherd, whose rod and staff will guide you safely to where you’re needed. It might not always be the place you want to go, but with him leading the way we can “walk through the darkest valley,” fearlessly.
 
And trust me, there will be dark valleys. Days when plans unravel, when friends ghost you, when your heart aches in places no one else can see. But take it from me… these dark valleys don’t destroy you, they deepen you.
 
St. John of the Cross calls these moments “the dark night of the soul” An invitation to find your true self, deepen your faith, and ignite that light of God flickering within you. So when you find yourself in these dark places, don’t try to fake your way through it. Don’t numb the ache or pretend you’re fine, when clearly you’re not. Just keep walking. Keep breathing. Keep trusting. If you feel lost along the way, remember that Jesus said the Shepherd will leave the ninety-nine to find the one. And when you’re found, a party is thrown in your honor!
 
The Shepherd preparing a table “in the presence of my enemies.” Talk about radical hospitality. That’s the way of Jesus. The way the kingdom of heaven comes to life right before our eyes. And this table God prepares for you isn’t some exclusive dinner where you gloat while others watch from afar. God isn’t that petty. Or small. Everyone is invited: friends, strangers, even those who judged or excluded you.
 
More than a table, this is a joyful feast of mercy and grace—where even those you once feared or resented are seated beside you. This table, God’s table, is where bread is broken, feet are washed, heads anointed with oil, and cups overflow. This is where everyone belongs. And no one is left empty.
 
So, just as God has made room for you, make sure you make room for others—friend and foe alike. And pay special attention to those the world has pushed aside or kicked to the curb. Because Jesus tells these are the one’s who will be served first. We are all invaluable to God.
And not because of what you do. Your value comes from who you are. Henri Nouwen said it plainly: “You are the Beloved. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.”
 
When we live into our belovedness, life begins to overflow—not with stuff, but with joy. With gratitude. With an awareness that even in an imperfect world, we are being held by a perfect, deeply personal, divine love. Wherever you are on this journey—be it miles down the road or just stepping off the curb—the Shepherd walks with you.
 
You don’t need luck, because God knows you. God has you. God loves you just as you are. And out of this great love, “goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life…”
 
So go, rejoice, and rejoice often. This is how to celebrate life and honor God. This is how “we dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” You will get a lot of advice and opinions on how to find this house. But here’s what I hope you will remember after you leave here today. You’ll know this house, God’s house, by its welcome and embrace. By its generous grace and tender forgiveness. By its light and by its love.
 
Somewhere I once read, “The house of the Lord is wherever love has the final word.” (Someone should put that on a shirt.) Love always has the final word. Not judgement, not shame or guilt, just love. The kind that builds a community together in the space between loving  God and others, as we serve both. This isn’t something we just say, or have printed on the back of our church t-shirts. It’s something we must live, even when it’s hard to do at times.
 
Love is who Jesus is. And the very soul of who we are. Let us take this invitation to be who God made us to be - holy and beloved. And follow the Shepherd who believes in us more than we believe in ourselves.
 
As we take the next step forward, let us walk together with forgiveness and grace, to build God’s house together with love. And let us live together in such a way that goodness and mercy will overflow all the days long.  
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One Thing

5/25/2025

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Jesus is patient. Jesus is kind. Jesus isn’t selfish or rude. He doesn’t keep score. He never gives up. The greatest of these is Jesus. If we want to know how to embody agape, we don’t have to look any further than him.

For the past month and a half, we’ve journeyed through Paul’s pastoral letter to the young, and struggling church in Corinth.

Along the way, I hope it
’s invited you to reimagine what it truly means to build a community of love in the space between us— not just here in church. But in your heart and out there in the real world where love is the antidote to all the mess we are finding ourselves in these days.
 
Someone told me last week, “You talk about love a lot.” I do. Because at its core, that’s what this is all about—life, faith, worship—they’re all rooted in love.

And so are we.mI imagine I
’ll keep talking about it until we all begin to live it—fearlessly and faithfully.
 
We might fail along the way but that’s okay. One of the sweetest fruits of love is grace. The kind of gentle mercy and forgiveness that starts and ends with the One who created all this beauty for us. So as we bring this series to a close, we return to the center of it all. Ending where it all beings: with Love.
 If I give away all my possessions and if I hand over my body so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. 

                                                                                                                               1 Corinthians 13:3-8

Theologian Adolf Harnack described  this chapter as, “the greatest, strongest, deepest thing Paul ever wrote.” And G. Campbell Morgan, wrote “If one examined this chapter, it would be like dissecting a flower to understand it.  In the process, one would tear the flower apart and lose its beauty.”

My goal here isn
’t to dissect Paul’s perfectly penned words, but to find our place—and God’s power—within them. To the person who said all I talk about it love,  this chapter is for you.
 
But let me just say it’s not about the kind of love I have for donuts, or even the deep affection I hold for my family and friends. Paul uses a very particular word here: agape. A rarely used Greek term for a kind of love that’s altruistic, undeserved, and entirely unearned.
 
The ancient Greeks believed agape was divine because it was too pure, too selfless for humans to pull off. Maybe that’s why Paul chose to use it. Remember, the young church in Corinth was cracking under the weight of ego and comparison. Some folks were using their spiritual gifts to climb higher on the holiness ladder.
 
As Paul taught us, love isn’t about puffing yourself up. It’s about building each other up—together—as one body. Paul says the way to do this is Agape. It sounds simple, but we now, it ain’t easy. Agape requires letting go of the things that stop us from truly embracing and embodying a deep and divine way of life.
 
As scripture tells us, this life and love begins with God. The Apostle John wrote, those who live in love, live in God. And God in them. This love, like Paul writes,  never ends. It’s woven and connected to everything.

To see this, just replace the word love, with God: For example, God is patient and kind. God is never jealous or envious, boastful or proud. God is not selfish or rude. God rejoices in the truth. God never fails.

 
It’s a stunning portrait of who God is—unshakable, steady, and always leaning toward love of the other, and not self. And yet, if you’re anything like me, you might hear this and think, “How could I ever live up to that?” How could anyone?
 
Like Paul reminded us at the beginning of this poetic letter, that’s the beautiful, upside-down nature of God’s love. It’s full of grace. And this grace isn’t something  we earn. It’s given to us freely so we can stop worrying about perfecting things and be more present reflecting this image of God in the space between.

God doesn
’t love us because we’re good. God loves us because God is good.
 
Like Richard Rohr always like to say, “God cannot not love what God has made.” That’s our assurance—our sacred anchor—that no matter how far we wander, we are never beyond the reach of God’s love. A love that comes to us in the flesh and blood of Jesus.
 
While the primacy of agape comes from God, the character of agape is Jesus… who shows us how to set God’s love in motion. 
 
And again, the best way to illustrate this is by replacing the word love with Jesus: Jesus is patient. Jesus is kind. Jesus isn’t selfish or rude. He doesn’t keep score. He never gives up. The greatest of these is Jesus. If we want to know how to embody agape, we don’t have to look any further than him.
 
The gospels give us story after story of how Jesus reveals God’s love in every day life. He touches the untouchables, eats with the uninvited, forgives the unforgivable. He stands up against injustice, and practices equality. He goes to margins and brings those society has pushed away back into the center, back in to community.

This is what agape does. Like Jesus shows us, wherever such love is practiced, God is present.

 
While love like Eros, or Philia is more of a feeling or emotional thing, agape is love in action …more of a verb than anything else. It comes alive through our connection and presence with others. Which is why it’s always needed - today as it was back when Paul wrote this letter.
 
Today, the body of Christ seems so fractured and divided - over politics, dogma, and the like. We seemed to have exchanged agape for things like pettiness, power, and greed. We keep making it about us, demanding to be right, instead of welcoming the other, and the gifts that they offer. Gifts that reveal God to us.

This is especially true about the one
’s Jesus calls the least of these. Love is “not a feeling we fall into—it’s a practice we rise into.” When we give ourselves freely to others, not only do we continue the mission of Jesus, but we give the world a glimpse into God’s heart.
 
While the character of agape is Jesus, the enduring presence of agape is us. Here’s the thing. Not only are we loved,… but we’re called to love. To quote Thomas Merton, “Love is our true destiny.”
 
Agape is more than just saying, “I love you.” It’s a relational wholeness, grounded in presence. It’s a reflection of God moving through us. The other night my wife and I were enjoying a glass of wine. Out of the blue, she said, “I love you.”

I looked at her lovingly and asked,
“Is that you or the wine talking?” 

She said,
“It’s me. But I was talking to the wine.”
 
I fear that we throw the L word around so much that it has lost its depth and beauty. Which is why I want to end this sermon series with this chapter. We need to really embody these words, and make them apart of who we are. Both as a community and as people.
 
I learned a great way to do this, when I read a post from a mother whose daughter had a habit of falling hard and fast for every new boyfriend. When her daughter was getting involved with someone she wasn’t sure about, she handed her a copy of this reading. And wherever love was written, she wrote the boy’s name. Jason is patient. Jason is kind. And so on…She told her daughter, “If he can live up to this, he’s worthy of your heart.” Long story short, Jason didn’t pass.
 
Imagine reading your name in the passage. How might it change the way you view yourself, or how you show up for others? Jesus didn’t say worship me. He says, “follow me.” His is an invitation to participate in heaven right here, right now.  He invites us to be the living, breathing embodiment of God’s love in the flesh.
 
Jesus made love the first and last commandment. The kind of love that kneels to wash the feet of others. The kind of love that stays when betrayal’s in the air. That bleeds sacrificially, not symbolically. Love defines who we are. And reveals who God is. To practice love, even when it’s hard, even if we suck at it, is one of the greatest acts of worship we could offer God.
 
John of the Cross wrote, “Where there is no love, put love—and you will draw love out.” This is our call. It’s who we are to be in a world where such love seems foolish. It’s in this holy space - between us and them - where Jesus walks, and love never fails. It’s a sacred invitation to put your name in this scripture. Embody it. Live it. Be patient. Be kind. Be agape.
 
Because God is love. Jesus is love. Together, we can build a community where love endures, now and forever. Amen.
 
Let us pray:
 
 
 
 
 
Work cited:
Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1. (Westminster John Knox: 2009) pp. 302-306.
Garish, Jim. Word of God Today. http://www.wordofgodtoday.com/1-corinthians-13 (accessed Oct. 23, 2019)
God Vine. My Daughter’s Boyfriend Test.  https://www.godvine.com/read/love-verse-insert-boyfriend-name-test-relationship-951.html (accessed Oct. 23, 2019).
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A Better Body

5/18/2025

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Jesus didn’t ask us to build a community that looks like the world. He sends us into the world to build a body that looks and acts and loves like him. We are his sacred body. His living, breathing, resurrected love.

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A friend of mine recently moved from federal prison to a halfway house as a way to reintegrate into life again. This is not his first time doing something like this.
 
When we first met in Michigan, he was standing nervously in the back of our church.

​I invited him to come in and make himself at home, but he said something to the effect of not wanting to get struck by lightning.

 
Have you ever felt that way before? Like you didn’t belong in the very space you were standing in?
Along with a criminal past, Robert carried shame like a backpack full of bricks. But, to his credit, he stayed in the back until the end of service. So, I invited him to join us for coffee hour. And again, he stood away from everyone trying not to be seen.
 
I’m not sure what triggered it, but every Sunday Robert just kept showing up. Slowly moving forward, row by row, week by week. Pretty soon, he was pouring coffee, passing out cookies, and laughing with the same folks he once tried to avoid. And not once did lightning ever strike.
 
Robert is a wonderful example of what Paul means when he talks about the body of Christ — how every part matters, especially the ones who think they don’t.
 For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit. Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot would say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. . . . . If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? . . . . As it is, there are many members yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.”  On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable . . . . But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.                                                   1 Corinthians 12:12-26
Paul could’ve chosen a thousand metaphors. A team. A temple. A family. But he goes with a body to describe the church. Something that’s “made up of many parts” but is one thing. He imagines this holy body not just as a physical unit, but as an interconnected machine. One that is so perfectly in sync that if the head hurts, the whole thing aches.
 
Now, the human body has 206 bones, 639 muscles, and around 6 pounds of skin. Of course, there’s also tendons, ligaments, blood vessels, nerves, organs, and tissue. In fact, your foot alone has 26 bones, 33 joints and more than 100 other parts all working together with precision and grace. Every step we take, is a mechanical feat (no pun intended).
 
This is how the church is supposed to work. Together, in unity, with no one part being better than the other. The toenail is just as important as the brain. Yet, somewhere along the way we created a hierarchy, elevating some over others. This seems to contradict exactly what this letter is all about.
 
Paul asks, “If we were all the eye, how would we hear? Or if we were all ears, how would we smell anything?” The way I see it, God has given us each a unique roll and purpose in this sacred body. If the foot feels cut off, it doesn’t matter what the hand says.
 
Like the human body, this holy body works best when the different parts bring their different gifts, their quirks and callings, their scars and stories; trusting that even the ones who stand in the back believe they belong.

This is what made the early Christian church stand out above the other religions.

 
Jews and Greeks, free and slave, male and female, many people making one body where the greatest honor is given to least likely member. In a world that honors the greatest (often at the expense of the least) this was a radical and completely subversive approach. But such is the way of Jesus.
 
You might feel like a foot in a hand-shaped world because you have doubts, or an unflattering past. But Jesus shows us this doesn’t stop God from loving you. So why then does it stop us?
 
When Jesus says, “love one another, just as God has love you,” he’s not just teaching spiritual humility. He is calling us to practice radical hospitality. Paul understands this to mean the lowliest are the ones who get priority.
 
Jesus, the very incarnation of God’s love in the flesh, shows us what this way of life looks like every time he goes to the margins and brings those the world has tossed aside, back into the community. Back into the center of God’s heart.

This is what divine healing and redemption looks like. Jesus even pushes this notion further, telling his disciple, and us, that whatever we do to the least of these, we do also to him.

 
To welcome the ex-con standing nervously out of place, we’re welcoming Jesus who offers the best seats at the table to tax collectors and street workers. Whenever we treat a trans teen with honor, or see the undocumented as a neighbor, we see Jesus in the flesh. And understand what his sacred body is all about.
 
Remember, Paul is writing to a young church, located in a multicultural, highly competitive city where status is currency. So, the Body of Christ must be a safe and welcoming space for all - especially for those the world wants to hurt.

This is true today as well. Because when something as petty as politics stops us from loving our enemy, we
’re no longer the Body of Christ. But a social club with decent coffee.
 
Our goal is to take all our unique parts and build a better body together. A community of love in the space between those on the inside and those on the outside. This is where real love is worked out in real time.
 
And this body, like the human body, has a face. One that looks like you and me. One that smiles with ease—because we now know it takes twice as many muscles and effort to frown. Likewise, the body has to work harder to hold onto anger and a grudge than letting go of it.

This body also has a heart. One that faithfully beats over 100,000 times a day. Each time we show up; send a text checking on someone; stay up late caring for a broken soul; offer an invitation to church; or share this message with a hurting friend, the heartbeat of this community pulses in perfect rhythm with God’s love.
 
Again, we each play a unique and vital role in Anamesa. We need eyes to help us see, but without ears, we miss the gentle voice asking, “How can I pray for you?”   We need hands that wave and serve. And feet to move our mission forward. Working together, in unison, we love God, love others, and serve both.
 
Paul picked the perfect metaphor for the church because in God’s kingdom everything is interconnected - you and me, heaven and earth, Christ and Jesus and this community of love we call Anamesa. Every part belongs because every part is important to the greater mission at hand (again, no pun intended).
 
When one of us rejoices, we all rejoice. When one hurts, we hold that pain together.
 
As amazing as the human body is, we must not forget it’s also very vulnerable. The pandemic reminded us how quickly something from the outside can disrupt everything within. I know someone who’s dealing with an autoimmune disease. Her own body has begun to mistake healthy parts as threats—and is turning against itself.
 
The same is happening in the Body of Christ. We are attacking ourselves by allowing fear, judgment, and division in. Some believe their theology, rituals and rites are better in the church across the street. When we label people, communities, or identities as “not holy enough” or “not one of us,” we’re attacking the Body of Christ.
 
Jesus says, “Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand” (Matthew 12:25). When the disciples wanted to stop someone from casting out demons because he wasn’t one of them, Jesus tells the Twelve to back off, “whoever isn’t against us is with us” (Mark 9:38).
 
Just as a misaligned spine can cause pain throughout the entire body when we’re not aligned with the heart of Christ—when his love is no longer the center of everything we do, then it all gets thrown out of whack. 
 
Jesus says, “I am the vine, you are the branches. Dwell in me… apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). Like he showed us with his own life, the body only moves well when it’s rooted in the source of love. And not just any love, but God’s divine, steadfast love. Where grace, mercy and forgiveness are the antidote to the pain we inflict on this sacred body.
 
Jesus embodies God’s love perfectly. He uses it to welcome, heal, and redeem the world. Not some of it, but all of it. The good, the bad, the faithful and faithless alike.
 
When the body of Christ is aligned in God’s love, and honors every part like Jesus did, then something beautiful is created: a holy community where the least are at the center.

A space where folks like Robert are elevated and blessed. And love is the skin that not only holds us all tightly together, but it helps others identify who we are: God
’s beloved.
 
Jesus didn’t ask us to build a community that looks like the world. He sends us into the world to build a body that looks and acts and loves like him. We are his sacred body. His living, breathing, resurrected love.
 
Where every scar is honored, every soul is held, and the least among us are seen not as strangers, but as Christ himself, whose love and presence here is so radiant, heaven can’t help but break through.
 
May we all be like him - rejoicing and radiating together as one, Now and forever, amen.
 
Let us pray:
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Love Builds

5/11/2025

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This is what it’s all about. Love is what holds this body up. Not opinions. Not arguments. Not knowledge. Just Love.

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When I was in seminary, one of our assignments was to visit another religious institution and observe how they worshipped. I chose to visit a Hindu temple nearby that was in an old Methodist church.
 
With its red brick exterior, and a huge rose window over the entrance it didn’t look like a Hindu temple you see in books.

​But inside, the sanctuary had been completely reimagined, making space for a massive icon of the god that particular temple honored.

I arrived for a mid-day prayer service where it was just me and the officiant priest that day. He was kind, soft-spoken, and deeply hospitable. As he led me through the ritual, I was struck by the familiar smell of incense, the cadence of his chant, and the careful offerings made at the altar.
​

When the service ended, he invited me to try the food that had been blessed and offered in worship. As he handed me the plate, I found myself at an uncomfortable crossroad. Would eating this food dishonor my Christian faith—or would it be an expression of it?

I had the theological knowledge. I knew my identity in Christ wouldn’t unravel by a meal. But still, I felt the weight of the moment. I could hear voices from my past telling me I’ll burn in hell for even being there in the first place.
 
Today’s reading invites us into that same kind of tension about freedom, food, idols, and what love looks like in a complicated, pluralistic world.
Now concerning food sacrificed to idols: we know that “all of us possess knowledge.” Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge, but anyone who loves God is known by him. Hence, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that “no idol in the world really exists” and that “there is no God but one.” . . . .  It is not everyone, however, who has this knowledge. Since some have become so accustomed to idols until now, they still think of the food they eat as food offered to an idol, and their conscience, being weak, is defiled. .. . . But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak.  Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never again eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall.                                                                                                                                                                                                                             1 Corinthians 8:1-13
In all my years of preaching, I’ve never attempted to preach on this passage. It always seemed kind of niche. I mean, eating meat sacrificed to idols doesn’t exactly scream “urgent spiritual crisis.” But when I reread this letter, I realized it’s about so much more than one’s diet.
 
Remember, this church was deeply divided—by politics, class, and status. Folks with a more educated and mature faith looked down on those who were newer to the church. Those who were less “in the know.” Think about how some people roll their eyes at those who have “less informed” political views. This is what’s happening in Corinth. And Paul isn’t having it.
 
He reminds them—and us—that being right is not the same thing as being loving. “Knowledge puffs up,” he writes. “But love builds up.”

This is important for us to pay attention to because it was the way they loved that set this young church apart from the other religions. Christianity, believe it or not, was founded on radical, extreme inclusion. Everyone was welcomed, because everyone was loved.
 
It’s worth noting Corinth was destroyed and the do rebuilt by Rome. It became an important multinational pluralistic city. Worshipping idols was part of the cultural DNA. Temples to Aphrodite, Apollo, Isis, and even the emperor himself lined the streets.
 
In those temples, animal sacrifice was common. And the meat from those sacrifices was sold in marketplaces. And that meat that was being sold in the marketplace was being served at the dinner parties hosted by the wealthy. Some who just so happen to be the Christians Paul is writing to.
 
To some in the church it was only meat. Like Paul, they knew there was only one real God so buying meat offered to an illegitimate deity was like buying steak at Whole Foods. But to those newer to faith, that meat was seen as tainted, even dangerous. To eat it felt like a betrayal to their newfound faith; a slippery slope to the life they left behind.
 
Whichever side you’re on in this debate, Paul essentially says, “You’re right. But what good is your knowledge if it isn’t building each other up in love?” Being “right” means very little if it causes someone to stumble in their faith.
 
Now, just before America invaded Iraq, my knowledge had me convinced there were no weapons of mass destruction there. But my dad, not so much. He towed the party line.

​The harder I pushed back, the deeper he would dig in. Our arguments started to drive us apart.
I had to ask myself—was being right worth losing my dad? Guess what? It wasn’t.

Knowledge puffs up. But love builds up. And I chose to take the difficult path of love because that’s what Jesus taught me to do.
 
Surrounded by the smartest religious minds of his day, Jesus often challenged their interpretation of the scriptures they were quoting but not necessarily abiding by.

He says, “Whoa to you,” for being like whitewashed tombs looking good on the outside but full of darkness and death on the inside.
 
When they question his follower’s cleanliness, Jesus says it’s not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person but what comes out of it.
 
Jesus wasn’t looking to win arguments. His goal was to reveal the heart of scripture: love, mercy, and justice.

Jesus calls out “those in the know” for treating Scripture as a textbook instead of living out the words as a testimony to God's love. 
 
Being right isn’t the goal. The goal is being the presence of God’s love in the space between heaven and earth. Paul said he wouldn’t eat meat again if it meant hurting someone in the body of Christ.

This begs the hard question: What am I willing to give up so others can experience God’s love through me?
 
We know what Jesus was willing to give. He always prioritizes people over principles and traditions. When a bleeding woman pushes through a crowd of men to be healed, Jesus doesn’t rebuke her for breaking purity laws, he calls her “daughter” and heals her immediately.

​The same with the blind, the weak, the poor, the ones pushed aside and forgotten. Jesus doesn’t just make room for them, he re-centers the entire community around them so everyone is welcomed and loved.
 
St. Teresa of Ávila taught “It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” And this begs another question: What good is our faith if we’re not showing up: loving, healing, forgiving?

What good is knowing, or following, or worshiping the one who gave his life to make room for us if we won’t give up our seat or make room for someone else at God’s table?
 
This is what Paul calls freedom. Let’s not confuse this with the lack of oversight or laws, but to letting go of oneself and embracing cruciform love. Jesus didn’t use the power of his freedom to protect himself. He used it to serve. To lift up those around him. But are we willing to do the same?
 
Today, the church is divided over issues like same sex marriage, or using inclusive language for God. Whatever side of the arguments you’re on, I’m sure you’re convinced that your team is right. Again, the goal isn’t to win. It’s about loving God, loving others, and serving both.
 
This doesn’t mean truth doesn’t matter.  It does. But people matter more. The nosey neighbors, the offensive co-worker, the drag queens who read books to children, the angry protestors and the politically ignorant, all matter more to God than our theological correctness or denominational divisions.
 
What good is our faith, our worship, our Scripture, if we don’t embody the very love and grace of the God these things reveal? Paul calls us the body of Christ to remind us that like Christ, we must lay down our lives – our pride and ego – so others can rise.

​This is how we build a community of love together in the space that separates us.
 
I’d like to close with a story about our old neighbor Tom Wolfe, who was a carpenter and built his own house, doing most of the work himself. But someone poured the foundation. Another ran the pipes. And a few of his friends helped frame the roof.
 
Did they voted the same way or rooted for the same team? It didn’t matter. They worked together to create something bigger than themselves. A literal house of love.
 
That’s what Paul’s getting at. We’re all builders raising each other up on the foundation of God’s love in Christ. This is what it’s all about. Love is what holds this body up. Not opinions. Not arguments. Not knowledge. Just Love.
 
“Without love,” writes Paul, “I am nothing.”  And Jesus tells us, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another.”
 
You can know how to frame a wall or shingle a roof. But if you don’t show up to build—what good is that knowledge? So, let’s rise up for each other in love. If you are strong, be the first to kneel. If you are wise, be the first to listen. If you are free, let that freedom be someone else’s healing.
 
“For whatever you do to the least of these, your brothers and sisters,” says Jesus, “You do also to me.” Now that you know, go and live that. For love is the greatest form of worship done in his name. 
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Wise Foolishness

4/27/2025

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​When we live in such foolishness, death actually loses its sting. Fear loses its grip. And God’s love rises up victorious.

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These last few weeks, we have been walking in the long light of Easter. We have been looking at the cross not as an ending, but as the surprising beginning of everything.

In this great story, we get the divine imperative – Go, and share the Easter story!

But like Mary, Mary, and Salome discover, that
’s not such an easy thing to do. A man dead three days... walks out of a grave?

It sounds a little… foolish. And foolish doesn’t sit well in a world obsessed with being right, being strong, being in control.

​In his letter to the Corinthians—Paul confronts a community puffed up with their own wisdom and need to be right. He shares this which I
’m sure didn’t make a lot of sense to them either.
For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scholar? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of the proclamation, to save those who believe. For Jews ask for signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.                                                                   (1 Corinthians 1:18-25)

 Before we get into this, I want to share a true story about a guy named Carl who thought he was clever and wise. Thought he could pull a fast one, dating two women at the same time. 
 
He even created a foolproof system, so they’d never find out. Go to the same restaurant and order the same thing. See the same movie. Buy same concessions. He even bought the same cards and scribble the same sappy words into them so he wouldn’t slip up.
 
Clever, right? Until it wasn’t.
 
Because one of the women was actually wise. She eventually caught on. When she found the other woman, she didn’t get mad. She got clever. Together, the two hatched a  plan to catch Carl red handed.

They meet him at the airport as he returned home from a business trip. Each one holding up a sign that said, I love you, Carl. 
 
Right there, in terminal B, Gate 4, all of his wisdom was exposed for what it really was. Foolishness.
 
Turns out, sometimes what looks wise can collapse under its own weight. But sometimes what feels foolish, can end up saving lives.

Take vaccines as an example. Who would have thought it wise to inject themselves with a little bit of the very disease they’re trying to prevent catching? It sounds crazy but it works. It saves lives.
 
Paul reminds us that it’s the same with the Cross of Christ. Who would have thought an instrument of death would be the very thing that saves you. But that’s the wisdom of God, whose “foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and whose weakness is stronger than human strength.”
 
Only God could strip the cross of all its power. Only God could take Rome’s most brutal symbol of death and transform into the world’s greatest sign of hope. It sounds foolish to some, but to us being saved by it, it’s the power of God at work in our lives.
 
We might be scratching our heads wondering where Paul came from with such logic. He got it from Jesus who turns the world upside down in the most right-side-up way possible.
 
He said things like, “Whoever wants to save their life must lose it.”
 
“The first will be last, and the last will be first.”
 
“The greatest among you must be a servant.”
 
Jesus never said, “Win at all costs.” Or “Get revenge.” He flips that script and says, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”
 
That was pure foolishness to those in power. But to everyone suffering under poverty and oppression… the things Jesus said brought them hope.
 
In fact, Jesus’ own life was, and still is, a holy paradox. A king born into poverty. A savior who doesn’t slay enemies but forgives them. A God who doesn’t demand sacrifice but becomes the sacrifice. This doesn’t make sense to the Romans, or to the religious leaders, or to the crowd shouting “crucify him.”
 
It doesn’t always make sense to us, either. The cross still looks like weakness in a world obsessed with power. But to us who are being saved by it? It’s the very wisdom of God.

And the way I see it…this wise foolishness is our proof of just how far God is willing to go to rescue, redeem, and love us. This love, God’s love, is stronger than death, wiser than empires, deeper than our logic.
 
So, Paul tells us not to boast in our intelligence, brilliance, or strength. Instead, boast in the Lord. Boast in the cross. Boast in this beautiful, upside-down love that chooses mercy over might, forgiveness over revenge, and community over division.
 
Love is the foolishness of God. Love the wisdom of the cross. And with this cruciform Love we can build a community of hope together in a world drowning in despair.
 
Paul calls us to see the world according to God’s logic. Where our weakness is God’s strength. Where our confusion is God’s wisdom. Where in Anamesa, God’s love isn’t a joke…but the very heartbeat of all we are. And what we are called to proclaim.
 
In God’s love, we build this community not with brilliance or bravado, but with foolish things. Kindness when someone is cruel. Forgiveness when it’s easier to stay mad. Showing up when we want to turn away.

​When we live in such foolishness, death actually loses its sting. Fear loses its grip. And God’s love rises up victorious.
 
It shouldn’t surprise any of us then to know that the foolishness of love is the cross Jesus calls us to pick up. It’s how we are to follow him - loving God, loving others, and serving both. This is Christ crucified. The very good news we’re sent to proclaim. But how do we share this news if we don’t quite have the words formed?
 
Let me share another true story that happened back in 2006, in Pennsylvania when an angry young man walked into a one-room Amish schoolhouse and executed five schoolgirls and wounded seven others before turning the gun on himself.
 
Instead of responding to his violence and anger with more of the same, the grieving community chose to show the world the wise foolishness of cruciform love. 

While the blood of their children was still wet on the floor, members of that Amish community walked to the shooter’s home, holding their own grief in one hand and grace in the other.
 
They went there not to retaliate, but to forgive and embrace his family who were also in shock, and suffering loss. And if that wasn’t enough, the entire community showed up at this man’s funeral. They even took up a collection to support his widow and children.
 
Foolish, the world said. But to us being saved, it looked an awful lot like Jesus. Because what seems foolish, God makes wise. What seems weak, God makes strong. Through suffering and pain, God’s hope and glory is revealed and proclaimed.
 
As we leave here today, may we all be wise enough to do such foolishness, in the name of the One who walked out of a tomb and into our lives, still bearing the wounds of love. And may we carry that love into every space we enter, and every soul we encounter.
 
It might sound foolish to some. But to us who are being saved it’s the power of God’s love that comes alive, made manifest in us. With it, we have hope.

As Paul will write later in this letter, “Faith, hope, and love abide; these three. And the greatest of these is love.”
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Welcome

4/26/2025

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While walking my dog in the park last weekend, I caught a glimpse of young couple talking seriously to their son, who was all geared up for his first day of T-Ball.

It seemed pretty clear to me that their child was nervous, the way kids often are when everything’s new.

​And these young parents were doing their best to reassure him.
Then, out of the blue, another kid comes up to him. No hesitation, just walks right over with a smile and strikes up a chat. Just like that, the nervous kid’s face lit up, and they’re off—chatting like old pals as they began to toss a ball to each other.

Talk about a sacred and holy Anamesa moment. Leaning into that space between the unknown with open arms and an open heart.

As I walked away I began to think about that famous passage in Hebrews that reminds us why welcoming others is so important. It says, “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Hebrews 13:2).

Joy always starts with a welcome invitation.

Recently, a man I met in the same park, accepted my invite and join us for church service in my backyard. Michael, as I would learn, is a "walker." Or what some would call a "vagrant" or the latest coloquial version, "unhoused." He and I had spent a bit of time getting to know one another after my dog began sniffing him while he was sitting and praying. 
Now, I'm not going to lie but I was surprised Michael showed up for church. But I wasn’t surprised at how quickly he became one of us. When I asked after service what he thought about our community, he told me, “I’ve never felt more welcomed anywhere, especially in a church.”

This is how a community of love grows in the space between.
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Michael has come a few more times. And every morning he and I (and my dog) meet in the park to chat about life, discuss scripture, teach one another, and as he likes to call it, "just gaze in the same direction."  Welcoming and entertaining angels. A holy and sacred moment in the space between.

Mother Teresa once said, "If you want to see the face of God, look no further than the person next to you."

Welcome is vital power we all possess. It has the ability to unlock doors, flip on light switches, make friends, build communities, create peace, end wars, and so on. Whenever we show it, or step into it, the presence of God comes into focus. No longer are their Jews and Greeks, men and women, slave and free, rich and poor. Just one body, Christ's body, revealing God's glory in the flesh.


Because my dog fearlessly walked up to a stranger and showed him love, I met a friend. Because I took the time to sit with him, others in the park began to take notice. They too began to get to know Michael. And more began to notice.

Soon, someone began bringing him breakfast in the morning. Others, a cold beer in the afternoon. Many more, offering a smile wave, a quick hello, and even an invitation to join church. Because we welcomed him, Michael is telling everyone at the park about his experience at Anamesa.  

He doesn't like the term "evangelical" but he does giggle when I call him my own "John the Baptist." And that makes sense. They both live in the wilderness, on the fringes of life, relying on the providence of God, who shows up for him in the face of so many. Just like God shows up for me in him.

Like his archangel namesake, Michael truly is a blessed child of God. 

I have no idea how well that T-Ball team did, but I suspect that new friendship has continued. I would confidently bet those two boys are still talking, still tossing the ball, and still welcoming new friends onto their team. That's how it works in the space between.

Every handshake, every smile, every “good morning” become the very building blocks of fellowship and love - the very community we are seeking to build.

But more importantly, when strangers become friends, the gospel is lived out. It's in these sacred moments between the seconds of our life, the heart of Christ beats. And the life of his Body comes alive.  

It begins with welcome. It begins with us. When our willing heart takes the first step to make someone feel welcomed to experience God’s endearing love in the flesh. Whether it’s an angel or a beloved child of God, by breaking through that space between
nervous uncertainty and welcome, hearts grow. And so does Anamesa.
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Birth

4/20/2025

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Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection. A mini-Easter moment that gives birth to something new, and transformational.

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Easter is a special day here. Eight years ago, we gathered as New Church Sherman Oaks, for the very first time.
 
We had no idea what we were doing when we planted this church. But we imagined what it could grow into. And step out boldly to produce its fruit.

We didn’t have funding. But we had faith. And we had each other.

 
Since that first Easter, our little church has weathered storms, navigated uncertainties— and yes, even a global pandemic. We’re still here. Still showing up. Still holding on.

​Still daring to believe - clinging to this gentle, persistent hope that God
’s quietly crafting something beautiful, even if it's beyond our seeing or understanding right now.

But that
’s Easter, isn't it? That great, beautiful mystery wrapped in awe, that not even Jesus’ closest friends saw coming. In the quiet darkness, God was already at work, breaking through sorrow. Giving birth to new life.
For nearly 2,000 years, we’ve talked about this day. We’ve argued over it, debated it, and some still deny it ever happened. I can’t even imagine how many sermons Easter has inspired. Today will be my 14th attempt to make sense of how God transforms our sorrow into new life. Our reading today comes from the Gospel of Mark.
When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  
Of the four gospel accounts, Mark is the only one that comes to a screeching halt. No heavenly choir, no seaside breakfast, no grand entrance shouting “Here I am!” Just an empty tomb, three bewildered women, and a powerful invitation: Go and let the others know.
 
For Mark, that’s enough. Resurrection doesn’t need fanfare. It just needs to be lived. That’s exactly what Mary, Mary, and Salome do. Before the sun rises, they make their way through the dark to prepare Jesus' body for his final burial. Finding an open tomb and no body inside, they react just like any of us might. “They fled, trembling and bewildered, and said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”
 
That’s Mark’s big finish. His story doesn’t end with clarity or certainty. But with the author pushing his pen our way as if to say, “Go and finish the story.”

 Because here’s the thing: Easter isn’t the end of the story. It’s the birth of something radically new. Resurrection is a birth announcement. A new life, a new way of living, born in the space between our messy, ordinary, sacred lives.
 
I’ve been fortunate enough to have witnessed the birth of each one of our kids. I've also been called to sit by bedsides at the end of life. Neither events are neat and tidy. They’re full of sweat and tears. Grit and groaning. Both deeply human, deeply holy. Painful in their own ways.
 
And that’s Easter – life conceived from death. Profound love born out of deep, raw anguish. It turns everything we know upside down. Leaving us to make sense of it.

This is how John Chrysostom, the great preacher of the early church, describes it: “Hell took a body, and met God face to face. It took earth and encountered heaven. It took what it saw and was overcome by what it did not see.”
 
While disciples locked themselves away in fear and despair, death desperately strained for the last word. But God spoke louder. And love won. Because, you see, in God’s kingdom, love wins every single time. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
 
How then, do we rejoice in a world that still honors death? And perceives love as a weakness.

St. Augustine gently reminds us, “We are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song.” You see, we don’t just come together to celebrate Easter—we are called to embody it.

We are resurrection people, called out of the tombs and hidden spaces to be the good news, to quote St. Francis, “using words only when necessary.”
 
We are called to walk gently through confusion and fear, bringing the light of Christ into the darkness. That’s the call of the church. That’s Anamesa. To take what God has given to us and do likewise to one another in every space we enter.
 
My favorite 13th Century German mystic, Meister Eckhart teaches us that “We are all meant to be mothers of God… for God is always waiting to be born.”
 
Again, Easter is the birth of something new. Something holy, something beautiful, something brimming and bursting with life.

God is always waiting to be born. And we, the Church, are the midwives. A community brave enough to sit in the messiness, breathing deeply, pushing bravely, delivering love into the world that tries to destroy it.
 
I call this resurrection work. The quiet, unfinished story of God’s endless love that transforms the world around us moving us closer and closer to God’s Kingdom. This is the work we are called to do in the space between us and them, me and you, life and death.
 
You see, with every offer of love given to someone, the Easter story continues. Like Howard Thurman wrote, “There must always remain in every life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful.”

That place, for me, is Anamesa.
 
I can’t promise you we will ever be polished or perfect, or if we’ll ever sing like angels. But in the last eight years, we’ve become a breathless and beautiful space. A place where love outshines fear. Hope overwhelms in welcome and joy.

We aren't here to fix yesterday, but to simply show up to bear witness to what God is doing now. Because Easter isn’t confined to the past. It’s unfolding right now. In you. In me. In Anamesa.

Each act of quiet kindness, gentle forgiveness, simple compassion, is Christ coming alive.Each time we feed someone who’s hungry, resurrection happens. Each time we comfort someone grieving, or listen to someone who’s hurting, or welcome someone who’s lonely Christ is born again and again. And so are we.
 
Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection – a mini-Easter moment. It gives birth to something new, and transformational.
 
Which is why I think Marks ends his gospel so abruptly. There’s no time to linger around an empty tomb. We have to go, picking up where Jesus left off, stepping into the mystery and being the presence of his awe.
 
Jesus doesn’t just call us to the cross he sends us out beyond it, into new life marked by grace and love. His destiny is our destiny. His mission, now ours. We are his body. Easter is our birth.
 
Eight years ago, we asked, “What if we built a community rooted not in doctrine, but delight? A community that isn’t seeking power, but presence? One that’s not about perfection, but people?”
 
Today, we affirm it’s possible. We are building a community of love in the space between. It’s happening here. Right now. Every time we show up in awe…trusting love…becoming midwives of resurrection.
 
So let’s not tame this Easter story. Or rush past the trembling and tears. Instead, let's live joyously, fearlessly, knowing the tomb is empty. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. Over and over again, in all that we do.
 
This is the day the Lord has made. Life endures. Hope prevails. Love wins. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
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Maundy

4/17/2025

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Picture
Tonight is holy. Not because of scripture or ancient liturgies. But because we gather around a table that stretches back in time. To an upper room in Jerusalem, where Jesus shared his last meal with his friends. I say “friends” because that’s what he calls them. Not students. Not servants. Friends.

While the other gospels focus on the bread and the cup—the Last Supper, John’s gospel gives us a front-row seat to what might just be the most tender and human night of Jesus’ life.
Unlike Mark who hurries to Easter, John lingers in this space for a while. He slows the camera down, zooms in on the quiet, more intimate moments. The washing of feet. The honest confessions. The prayers that stretch out like arms trying to embrace the world.

More than a gospel, or timeline of events John’
s writing a love story. One that begins in a rented room in a stranger’s home. One that invites us to sit down beside Jesus and feel what he’s feeling.

​Because this night, Maundy Thursday, is about the kind of love that doesn
’t just feel Jesus’ compassion. It offers it. It kneels. It serves. It feeds. It speaks truth and grace.

This is how John begins…
Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. ... And during supper Jesus, ... got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” ... After he had washed their feet, ... he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am.  So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.  Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. ... Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me. 
​                                                                                                John 13:3-20
The night begins with an act so stunning, it catches everyone off guard. Jesus gets up from the table, wraps a towel around his waist, pours water into a basin—and starts washing the calloused, cracked, dusty feet of those who he has spent three years walking beside.

This lesson he is teaching is not symbolic. Unlike his parables, it’s not a metaphor for anything. It’s just the way Jesus invites us to follow him as he wipes grime off the ones who still don’t fully get who he is.

Peter, as Peter often does, protests. He states rather boldly, “No, Lord. You’re not washing my feet.” He can’t stand the idea that Jesus—their Teacher, their Lord—would do the work of the lowliest servant. But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

Jesus could have taught them a theology on servanthood. But instead He says, “Let me show you how it’s done.”  This is what love does. It stoops. It serves. It gets close enough to smell the sweat. And see inside the cracks in your heels.

When he is done, Jesus turns to them—and to us— and says, “Just as I have done for you, go and do for one another.” If you want to makes the kingdom of heaven come alive go and live your life, as Paul describes, “in imitation of Christ.”

Right after Jesus does this humble act, something holy happens. They eat. Not just bread and wine, but the fullness of a shared meal. A Passover supper, rich in memory and meaning.

Somewhere between the dipping of bread and the drinking of the cup, Jesus tells them something extraordinary. He says, “I do not call you servants any longer… I have called you friends.” Friends. That word should stop us in our tracks.

The very idea that Jesus, the Son of God, who walked on water and raised the dead, pulls us close and says: “You’re my beloved friend.” To be a friend of Jesus is to be not just seen, but known. Fully and completely. The good and the bad. And still be welcomed at the table

Jesus calls them friends, even though he knows betrayal is coming. Peter will deny him. The rest will scatter. And Judas is already reaching for the bread with treachery in his heart.

Still, Jesus doesn’t hold back his love for them all. He leans in. He gives the bread as a symbol of his body. He offers the wine as a reminder of God’s covenant and the blood he is about to shed. And, most importantly, he loves them to the very end. Nothing will ever be the same again.

That’s the power of love. Real Love. The kind that comes from God. The kind that’s not transactional, but transformational. Not based on our worthiness, but rooted in God’s mercy and grace.

So, in this room, around this table with his friends, Jesus gives them what is called the mandatum novum—a Latin phrase that means “new mandate” or “new commandment.” It’s where we get the word “Maundy”

Jesus says: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)

Love as I have loved you. That’s the commandment that still hangs in the air every Maundy Thursday. It’s the one thing death cannot contain. Jesus says, Love is the greatest and second greatest commandment. All the other ones hang on this truth - Love God. Love One Another.

Be the kind of love that shows up with a towel and a basin. That sets a table for both enemies and friends alike. That prays even for those who do you wrong.

St. Augustine once said, “What does love look like? It has the hands to help others, the feet to hasten to the poor and needy, the eyes to see misery and want, and the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of others. That is what love looks like.”

Jesus could have stopped there. And it would have been enough. But he gets up from the table, knowing what is coming and what he has to do. He leaves the room, and his friends follow.
Together they walk to a garden to pray under the moon and stars. Yes, they pray.

Jesus' prayer is a deep, aching, heartfelt prayer too. it's a prayer for his strength. His faithfulness. His courage. He also prays for his friends. For those of us who will come after. For you and me.

He prays, “That they may all be one… that the love with which you have loved me may be in them” (John 17: 21, 26).

On the brink of his own suffering, Jesus stops to pray for us. For our unity. For our love. And Peace. He prays for our capacity to live in the space between as a people who reflect the love of God.

That kind of love isn’t soft or sentimental. It’s fiercely hopeful. It believes that even in a fractured world, even when betrayal is close and the cross is looming, we can still be a people who love each other well.

Which brings us to this space where thousands of years later, we still gather at the table, still trying to live into that new commandment.

But it seems ever more apparent to me that Christ’s body is more fractured and broken than ever. How we have forgotten the point of Maundy Thursday. It’s not to reenact a moment, but to reimagine what it means to love like Jesus in the here and now.

To build a community of love, together, in the space between—between success and failure, between certainty and doubt, between your good days and your worst ones. That’s Anamesa.

The sacred ground where God kneels with a towel, where Jesus calls us, “Friend.”

Yes, this is a holy night. It’s holy because it teaches us how to be church. Not by programs or perfect theology, but by proximity and presence.

By washing the feet of the ones who are hard to love.

By opening the door for those who feel left out. Setting a table for the ones we’ve shut out.

And by daring to call someone “friend” even when they don’t deserve it. Because that’s how Jesus loved. And he says, “Go do likewise.”

As the mystic Julian of Norwich said, “The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love.”


Let us go and rejoice together, washing, eating, sharing, praying, and showing up for each other in all the different ways we love God, love others, and serve both.
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Hope

4/13/2025

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That’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t always feel like hope when you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like disappointment. Or silence. Or plain old grief. Sometimes it greets you as loneliness. Sometimes, despair.

Picture
So, here we are—Palm Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week. The week where everything gets turned upside down before it gets put back together in a new way.

For five weeks now, Lent has been slowly walking us to this space. And now we stand on the edge of the story that will take us not just to the cross, but into the tomb, and then to Easter.

What better way to celebrate than with a parade.

​Not one with floats and marching bands. But one that attracts people’s attention, and gets others to notice God's glory in their midst.
The next day the great crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem.  So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord-- the King of Israel!” Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it, as it is written: “Do not be afraid, daughter of Zion. Look, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt!” His disciples did not understand these things at first, but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him. So the crowd that had been with him when he called Lazarus out of the tomb and raised him from the dead continued to testify. It was also because they heard that he had performed this sign that the crowd went to meet him. The Pharisees then said to one another, “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!”                                                                                                                                       ​John 12:12-19
 I have preached this story well over a dozen times. And still my favorite part is how Jesus chooses to rolls into Jerusalem on a borrowed donkey, because why not. He’s really not attached to owning things. They weigh him down. Of course, he’s also not into great fanfare and applause. But still the people give it to him - throwing him a parade. 
 
Which is really more of a lampoon of another parade happening downtown. A Roman general, on a mighty warhorse, marches his soldiers through the Main Street of Jerusalem. Their uniforms covered in blood from an uprising nearby.

More than a victory parade, it was a warning to anyone thinking about challenging Rome
’s elite power. And then there’s Jesus in juxtaposition, quietly riding in without swagger or flex. He has no need to impress, because that’s not what love does.
 
Still, the people, his people, wave palm branches, shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord – the king of Israel.” You could say it was a snub at Herod, the local king in Caesar’s pocket. But really this was a desperate cry for help. Hosannah literally means “God, help us!”

They know the risk of shouting this in public. They know Rome is watching. 
But they are at the end of their rope. They’re tired of being occupied. Tired of the crushing grip on their throats. They’re tired of being tired.

So, they show up. And wave Jesus in. Not because they
’re certain he’s the one. But because they’re hopeful.
 
Yet, what they hope for isn’t exactly what they get, is it? They want a powerful leader. Not powerless servant. They want a general on his warhorse. Not a pacifist on a borrowed donkey. They want Game of Thrones. But get Golgotha.
 
The thing is, Jesus doesn’t come wielding power - but peace. His eyes are focused on a cross no one else can see yet. No one along that parade route gets it. Neither do his disciples. Or the Pharisees. No one gets it until after the resurrection, when the broken pieces start to form a picture of hope.
 
That’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t always feel like hope when you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like disappointment. Or silence. Or plain old grief. Sometimes it greets you as loneliness. Sometimes, despair.
 
Maybe you know this feeling when the job didn’t come through, the healing didn’t happen, the prayers get swallowed in silence. I’ve had those periods where it felt like God had ghosted me. It’s in these moments all I wanted to do was chuck my faith to the curb and walk away.

It's in these times, when I
’m tired and broken, I find myself at the end of my rope joining that holy choir screaming, “Hosannah!” And on a borrowed donkey, through darkness and chaos, hope unexpectedly comes.
 
Because that’s what hope does. It always shows up. Because of that, we can rejoice.
 
I got a friend who, since the pandemic, has had a rough go at life. He lost his job. But was able to find an addiction. And this led him to be estranged to his kids, it also brought him closer to his regrets and pain. When I asked him how he’s holding on. He said, “All I got left is hope, but that’s enough.”
 
This optimism reminded me of something St. Augustine wrote: “Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage. Anger at the way things are. And courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”
 
Whether it comes in loud and large, or silently in the dark shadows, hope always shows up - so we can show up to life transformed, made new again.

Jesus doesn’t need a parade to prove anything or to threaten anyone. What he brings with him is something that
’s more powerful than any promise given by any earthly king. That’s hope.
 
To borrow from the psalmist, “Where does my hope come from? It comes from the Lord.” Knowing this and believing this Jesus is able to see the world with the eyes of a compassionate heart…the very heart of Christ.
 
Through him, God hears our cries and comes to us, in the flesh, carrying peace instead of a sword. Offering grace instead of retribution. Forgiveness instead of revenge. In Christ, God pours love upon us whether we deserve it or not.

This is what salvation looks like in God
’s Kingdom. A hope that leads to healing. A love that moves us from death to life.
 
This love, God’s love, has the power to change and transform everything. From the Roman centurion who watched Jesus die to Mary Magdalene who wept in the garden at the empty tomb. It even transformed Peter’s understanding of everything. And made him the rock Jesus said he would become.

As
Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The resurrection is God’s way of revealing to us that nothing that belongs to God will ever go to waste.”
 
Sometimes this is hard to see or remember as we stare at the cross. But as I’ve been saying throughout lent…we don’t get Easter without Good Friday. The tomb can’t be emptied until the cross is occupied.

The way to resurrection is through the cross we are called to carry. But under its weight, we have hope.

 

If we’re going to follow this donkey-riding, cross-carrying, table-flipping Christ— then we have to step into that space between Palm Sunday and Easter where hope and heartbreak hold hands.

This is what a community of love looks like. One that continues the journey Jesus began. A community that knows the cross isn't just something Jesus dies on—it
’s something he calls us to pick up so we can participate in the salvation of the kingdom of heaven, here and now.
 
To paraphrase Richard Rohr, “The kingdom of heaven isn’t a place you go to later—it’s a place you enter now. It’s a new way of seeing, acting, and being in the world.”
 
Jesus says, “Let your light shine.” And, according to him, the way we do that, is to “Love one another.” And he tells us “There’s no greater love than to lay one’s life down for a friend.”

To follow Jesus is to embody God
’s love like he did. And become the living, breathing, walking “hosanna” to someone crying out in pain so they don’t give up hope.
 
And let me tell you this, you won’t have to look very hard. Just as Jesus saw the faces of the broken and blessed who lined those backstreets of Jerusalem, if we open the eyes of our hearts, we will see people aching for salvation and healing.
 
Queer folks and the marginalized tired of being oppressed and pushed down by power. Men and women, trapped in the various hells they’ve made for themselves. Brothers and sisters, neighbors and strangers, weary of the lies, worn down by the greed and selfishness that is suffocating so many of God’s children.

This world is tired of being tired. It
’s aching for the kingdom that Christ ushers in. A kingdom where "the first will be last, and the last will be first." Where the poor, the meek, the peacekeepers, the merciful, and pure at heart are called blessed.
 
This is our call - our mission - as we build a community of love together in the space between what is and what can be.

It
’s not a call to be perfect, but to just be willing to participate – knowing the resurrection isn’t just a onetime event. It’s an on-going way of life. The Way of Jesus, who is the Christ.
 
We can stand on the sidelines, waving palm branches. Or we can go out and love God, love others, and serve both. We can cheer Jesus on. Or we can embody his Christlikeness, making hope come alive all around us.
 
If we can be such an intentional community – a place where hope is deeply rooted in Christ – then maybe, just maybe, the world will come to see what we already know.

That God
’s love has the last word. And that last word is resurrection.

With this word, we have hope.

When we have hope, we have all the power we need to transform death into everlasting life.

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    Ian Macdonald

    An ex-copywriter turned punk rock pastor and peacemaker who dedicates his life to making the world a better place for all humanity. 

    "that they all might be one"  ~John 17:21


    “Prius vita quam doctrina.”
    ​~ S
    t. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274)​
    * “Life is more important than doctrine.”

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