If I were to translate this into dad advice, I’d say, “Trust God’s lead, and you’ll always find your way.”

When King Solomon tells us to, “Trust in the Lord”,  he uses a Hebrew word that means far more than simple confidence. Bāṭach isn’t about trusting your parent’s advice, or believing the bridge can hold the weight of your car.

The word is way more physical. Bāṭach means to fling yourself or to slump helpless yet completely secure, like an infant resting against her mother’s shoulder. And  Solomon says this kind of pure trust requires your lēb—your whole heart.

In ancient Hebrew, the lēb wasn’t just an organ pumping blood or a feelings factory.  It was considered to be the command center of the entire person. The seat of reason, decision-making, memory, and the human will.

To “trust God with all your heart,” is a call to completely surrender everything, to place your entire mind, body, and spirit at God's feet. It’s the kind of trust you can bet your life on because it relies on God’s complete faithfulness to us, even when we struggle to be faithful to God.

This leads me to wonder, do I trust the faith of God enough to surrender everything? Can I actually let go of control and let God lead the way? It’s easy for me to think so, until it’s put to the test.

Every morning, while we were in Lake Tahoe, Cali and I would go for these wonderful hikes in the mountains. One day, perhaps a little overly confident, I decided to try a new trail.  

An hour in, I began feeling anxious because it seemed we were moving further away from where I thought we should be.

When I pulled out my phone to check the map, I didn’t have a signal. That’s when fear crept in. And I began to convince myself we were hopelessly lost.

As my mind raced to all kinds of situations, Cali was completely unbothered. She just kept trotting ahead without a care in the world.

When I stopped to try to get my bearings, it dawned on me that I was trying to manage an entire mountain on my limited knowledge. I’d become too reliant on my phone to get me to where I wanted to go.

It took being completely helpless for me to realize I was leaning on myself and not God. That’s when I remembered my favorite proverb and surrendered my path to the One who made the mountain for me.

As you can see, it worked. I made it back safely.

So often, our frantic attempt to control the outcome is the very thing blocking the path God is clearing for us. Again, “Trust God’s lead, and you’ll always find your way.”

No one practiced this better than Jesus. He leaned on God in the wilderness after his baptism. When crowds mobbed Him and critics attacked him, he didn't defend his ego, but relied on God to provide the words to say. 

At every single turn, Jesus refused to lean on His own understanding, declaring, "The Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees the Father doing."

I know it’s easy to trust God when your job is going well, when your relationships are strong, and everything seems under control.

But what about when you lose a loved one to cancer? Or your job to someone less competent? Or your a home to the bank? Jesus shows us, the ultimate test of trust happens where all hope seems lost.

We call these moments “The dark night of the soul.” This is the place where all our comfortable illusions of control are stripped away, and we’re for forced to rely on God's guiding hand as we walk completely in the dark.

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus trusted God knowing the physical and spiritual agony he was about to face. Every human instinct urged Him to retreat, to find a way out.

Instead, He surrendered His will completely praying, "Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will."

On the cross,  feeling the weight of abandonment and enduring the taunts of the crowd, Jesus slumped over into God’s arms knowing, believing, and trusting God knew what God was doing. And God did not disappoint.

To this day, the resurrection stands as definitive proof of what God is capable of doing for us all. When you trust God with your whole heart through the darkest valley, even a dead-end tomb becomes a pathway to new life.

So, why is it so hard for us to let go of the need to be in control, and to trust God with all the big and little things we face every day?

What mountainside are you climbing right now? How has your anxiety convinced you’re lost? Where is fear whispering you’ll never find your way back?

For most of us, the honest answer is that we feel like we're failing at this. We hear Paul famously say, "we all fall short of the glory of God," (Rom.3:23) and we quickly interpret it through a lens of shame—like we’re flawed and will never measure up.

But what if Paul is giving us permission to stop trying to control and manipulate the situation?Or dare I say, to stop trying to be God?

What if "falling short" is an invitation to step aside, stop forcing the outcome, and just let God do what God does best?

Most of us don’t wake up intending to turn our backs on God. We just default to micromanaging, because being in control has always been the way we cope. But that only gets us so far.

It’s funny how we willingly trust God with our eternal salvation because it feels so far away.

Yet, when it comes to our bank accounts, our children’s decisions, or a medical diagnosis, our go-to is to lean squarely on our own understanding. And that go-to always leaves us lost in the woods—anxious and exhausted.

But trusting God with your whole mind, body, and spirit brings an internal peace that surpasses all understanding.

Having suffered her own dark night of the soul in a German concentration camp, Corrie ten Boom famously asked, "Is prayer your steering wheel or your spare tire?"

In other words, are we only leaning on God in times of crisis? Or are we allowing God to take the helm every day, in every situation?

This is something each one of us has to answer on our own. We can either treat God as emergency roadside assistance. Or trust that the One navigating the road has never once lost the way.

As Jesus taught us from a Galilean hillside, we don't need to figure out tomorrow, or next month, or five years from now. We just need to trust God with right now. 

You might recall, Jesus says, if God feeds the birds of the air and clothes the lilies of the field, then God will surely take care of you (Matthew 6:25-26).

“Trust God’s lead, and you’ll always find your way.” Because in the space between your footsteps, God is there, clearing the path forward.
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So here’s your fortune cookie challenge this week:Identify area in your life where you’re losing control, maybe a place where fear has you paralyzed, or anxiety has you convinced you’ve lost your way.

Grab an index card and write it down. Then below it, write, “God, I give this to You.” Place it somewhere you will see it every morning.

Every time the world tempts you to tighten your fists and try to control what you cannot fix, let that card be your permission to stop. Open your hands. Let it go. And trust that the God who holds the cosmos is more than capable of holding you.

Trust God’s lead. And you will see that you are always exactly where you’re supposed to be. Right here in that sacred space called life, where God holds you and loves on you, today, tomorrow and throughout all eternity.

What makes this Proverb a perfect fortune cookie, is that it doesn’t demand much more of us then to "be good people."

But to those who first heard it, this wasn’t just a spiritual dessert that comes with the bill. … This was the whole meal. Back then, sacrifice wasn’t a metaphor for giving up chocolate for Lent; it was deeply embedded into the economy of their worship and daily life.

If you broke a commandment, sinned against a neighbor, or felt a deep need to reconnect with God, the prescription was clear: buy an animal, bring it to the Temple, and offer God a blood sacrifice.

It sounds archaic, but it  was the culturally approved, highly visible, and very expensive way to show your piety and devotion is right here without having to change your heart.

Although, it was a lawful requirement, handed down to Moses from God, these sacrifices had become transactional, not relational.

But as this proverb reminds us, God’s ledger is balanced by how we treat our neighbor on Monday, not by what we burn on the altar on Sunday.

The same is true for us today. If we are actively harming others—or just sitting idly by while it happens—then what good is our faith, or this space we call Anamesa? God isn't looking at our attendance record. God is looking at how we show up with our hearts and hands open wide. Scripture is loaded with such warnings.

The prophet Isaiah warned the religious elite that God was turning away from their prayers, and was deeply offended by their rituals, their incense, and pageant, all because they were ignoring the very people God watches the closest: the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the immigrant.

King David wisely confessed, "My sacrifice, O God, is a contrite heart..."

And even Jesus quotes the prophet Hosea, who famously declared that God desires mercy, not sacrifice.

The goal isn’t to look religious, or to play church. God wants us to be the church, the embodiment of Christ, that stands for righteousness and justice, just like Jesus did.

True worship of God isn’t just what we do in here. It’s what we do out there. As Cornel West put it, "Justice is what love looks like in public." That outward expression begins inside, in our hearts where God kissed each one of us into existence. 

I suspect the depth of this passage gets lost because it’s been translated into English too simply.

Take the Hebrew word, Tzedakah (צְדָקָה), which is translated as "righteousness." As I’ve said before, we tend to associate righteousness with individual, moral perfection. But to the ancient Hebrew mind, it meant  being in a "right relationship" with God and the people around you.

By the time Jesus came into the picture, the word had shifted into a rigid, performance-based religion. It was completely losing that ethical heartbeat that kept the community healthy and whole. And the system itself, fair and just.

It’s no surprise Jesus called the Pharisees “whitewashed tombs.” Turns out they were completely consumed with how they looked on the outside, checking off every little box of the law, while totally ignoring the very people the law was written to protect.

Jesus reminds us that being in a right relationship with God isn't about appearance; it's about opening our hearts to care for one another so that everyone has a seat at God's table.

Think of it like a jigsaw puzzle. You've got all these random, scattered pieces that only make sense once they’re locked together. Tzedakah means being beautifully connected to the people right next to you. Because a puzzle, or life, can never be complete if some of the pieces are left out.

Which takes us to the word, Mishpat (מִשְׁפָּט), or what’s translated as "justice." This isn’t eye-for-an-eye retaliatory justice Sean was trying to throw down to justify a hit.

Mishpat is almost always paired with Tzedek (righteousness) or Tzedakah (charity/justice). Together, they form the foundation of a moral society. It's the concrete action we take to correct a wrong, specifically defending the one who is weak, vulnerable, or about to be crushed by her little brother.

Look, it’s one thing to feel bad about an injustice you see while scrolling through Instagram. I mean, you can post a comment and move on feeling like you did something helpful.

But it’s a completely different thing to get up, and go out to change the game so that injustice doesn't happen again to someone else. We could say Mishpat is the kind of DEI style justice that levels the playing field so all people get a shot at goal.

We can come to church every single week. We can read our bibles and pray every day. We can call ourselves “believers” all we want. But if our hearts aren’t in it for others, then how can they be in it for God?

The true benchmark of faith will always be revealed in how we love and serve BOTH God and each other.

Paul said, “It’s not the hearers of the law who are righteous before God, but the doers of the law who will be justified” (Rom. 2:13).

Simply put, we can’t worship Jesus while ignoring him in the person of the poor. We can’t say we love Jesus, and then turn around and hate a brother. And we certainly can’t call him our savior, and support a system that harms our sisters.

Jesus knew healing a broken person on the Sabbath was infinitely more pleasing to God than keeping a religious rule while a human being was suffering.

Like Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, "The righteous person is not one who merely avoids doing wrong, but one who actively restores community where it has been broken."

That’s the true mission and ministry of the church. Jesus consistently showed us that true righteousness and justice are measured by how close we are willing to get to the marginalized just to return them to the fold.

We all must take an honest, uncomfortable inventory of our spiritual lives. Attending services and making a financial contribution are the modern-day “sacrifice” we make. But they become empty rituals the second they’re divorced from how we love and care for others.

So, here is your Fortune Cookie Challenge for this week. Go out and intentionally perform one quiet mishpah or relational tzedakah before you come back to worship next Sunday. How you do that is up to you. But the bible offers us many ideas.

Psalm 146 tells us God upholds the cause of the oppressed, gives food to the hungry, sets prisoners free, and lifts up those who have been pushed down. If that’s what God is doing out there, then it’s pretty clear to me that’s where we have to show up. Like Jesus puts it, “What you do to the least of these, your brothers and sisters, you do also to me.”

This could mean putting your body in the way of an ICE agent to protect an immigrant. Or showing up at a court hearing to stand up for a foster child being abused in the system. It could simply be refusing to throw gas on a heated family argument. Or making amends with a sibling you hurt.

At the end of the day, the ultimate proof of a God-aligned heart is how we show up, and treat the person standing right in front of us. A person, like you, who hold’s the very divine image of the One we are here to worship today.

So let’s stop playing church. Let’s get up off the couch, run toward the brokenness, and go be the body of Christ in the world.

Because at the end of the day, that’s still the greatest form of worship we can ever offer God.

On the surface, AI is remarkable. It can gather more information in a second than any of us could process in a lifetime. I can use it to draft a tricky email, plan a weekend getaway, or even use it to punch up this sermon.

AI is a fantastic tool, until it isn’t.

Yes, it threatens the livelihood of millions of workers who are being replaced by its technology. But what really worries me is how we've started treating AI less like a helpful librarian and more like an sacred Oracle.

​More and more people are turning to it for the kind of existential guidance that used to drive us to our knees in prayer. But I’m afraid it is here to stay, which means the onus is on us.

So, what will we do with it? And how can we use AI to grow the Kingdom of Heaven?

Well, as I was getting ready to write the next installment of Fortune Cookie Theology, I asked Gemini to write a fortune about itself, this is what I got. “Information can be generated instantly. Wisdom takes time.”

When I pushed it to make it more theological, it replied, “It’s one thing to outsource your data and another to outsource your soul.”

Long before we started outsourcing our intelligence to algorithms, ancient human intelligence taught us this:

The Book of Proverbs has always reminded me of that annoying friend who always has something to say on any given subject. The difference is Proverbs mostly offers timeless guidance worth listening to. It’s practical, grounded, and deeply concerned with helping us live faithfully here and now.

But in order to get the true depth of this passage, we have to let go of the notion that wisdom means “being smart.” This wisdom isn't about earning a Ph.D. for your mind; it's more like beginning an apprenticeship for your soul.

When Solomon compiled these sayings, he wasn't writing some abstract philosophy for scholars to argue about long after he was gone. Solomon was creating something more like a handbook for us to use to master everyday life.

In this verse, he uses the Hebrew word chochmah (חָכְמָה), which is commonly translated as wisdom. In Jewish mystical texts, chochmah is described as the primordial point of divine wisdom, which shines forth from the will of God.

But as we have learned from other passages in traditional scripture, the word is about having expertise, like a master craftsman.

We see it used in Exodus to describe the artisans who built the Tabernacle. They had the technical expertise to weave, carve, design, and build something beautiful and sacred for God.

While information can tell us what something is, wisdom teaches us how life actually works.

This is an important distinction to make, especially when it comes to following the Way of Jesus who shows us how to wisely live a righteous and faithful life.

According to scripture, to be righteous in the eyes of God isn’t just about being perfectly obedient to God’s law.

It’s more about being willing to embody the spirit of the law; to ensure everyone is cared for, that your neighbor has access to basic needs, to demand justice and equality for all people. And it’s our faithfulness that keeps us achieving these goals when the world makes it impossible to do.

The beginning of wisdom is to know that you cannot separate what you believe from how you behave. Which is why we must constantly discern our faith because it bridges the gap between what we know and how we actually live.

You can have all the right facts stored in your brain, or on your phone, and still build a fractured life.

At the end of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells a story about two men who build two houses. One builds on rock. The other on sand.
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The difference between the two wasn’t their access to the data. They both had the identical information, and ability to build. The difference wasn’t knowledge. It was application. The wise builder took what he heard Jesus say, and practiced it. He built his life upon it, and was able to withstand the storms when they came.

Knowledge can populate the mind. But wisdom always positions the heart.

That’s what Jesus is all about, repositioning our hearts back to God. For faith and righteousness is relational, with God and with one another. That’s the insight wisdom offers us.


The early church understood this. They weren’t interested in collecting clever ideas. Their goal was to be like Christ, who Paul explicitly called, "the wisdom of God."

They looked at Jesus, copied his craftsmanship, and used it to build a community that loves God, loves others, and serves both.

Following this blueprint, what can we do with the wisdom of Jesus? How can we copy his craftsmanship to become more Christlike?

Do you remember the gospel story of the woman caught in adultery? When the religious leaders dragged her out into the dirt, she was nothing more than a prop to trap Jesus. They wanted a legal ruling. They wanted information. But instead, Jesus offered wisdom saying, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.”

A foolish leader would have reacted defensively or slipped into an academic argument. Not Jesus, he was wise enough to let them decide their own fate. With one sentence, He fulfilled God’s call to righteousness, faithfully standing up for justice by extending mercy to protected a vulnerable soul.

And isn’t this exactly the kind of wisdom we need today?

We’re currently living in the most informed age in human history. We have a mountain of knowledge and endless opinions, with around the clock digital noise telling us what to think, who to blame, who to fear, and who to hate.

We have mastered the art of reacting, but have completely forgotten the art of loving people.

If we want to be a community that actually follows the Way of Jesus, we have to recognize that his wisdom is the way of our spiritual survival.

To apply his wisdom means having the courage to pause before we react. And the humility to listen before we speak. It means choosing restoration over retaliation.

It means recognizing that our faithfulness to God isn’t measured by how loudly we defend our opinions online.But how deeply we love our neighbors in real life.

The world has enough angry people reposting information. It needs people who can take raw knowledge, filter it through the heart of Christ, and love others liberally.

So here’s your fortune cookie challenge: stop consuming noise and start radiating wisdom.

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, don’t simply ask God for an easy day. Do what Solomon did and ask for a wise heart. Ask for the grace to see Christ in people who don’t look like you, think like you, or vote like you. Ask God to make your righteousness a force that heals a wound rather than inflicting one.

The digital prophets of our age promise that the ultimate answer is just one click away. But they are selling a shortcut. Our God offers something infinitely deeper. Wisdom.

This is what I think Jesus describes as “the truth, the life, and the Way.” He doesn’t say it’s going to fast, or easy, or without it’s challenges. He just says, “Follow me.”

So let’s go and “Get wisdom.”

The slow, beautiful craftsmanship that builds communities with people, like you and me, to mirror the life and love of Jesus. Because that should always be our heart’s desire. Not wealth. Not status. Not influence or clout. Just wisdom.

The very word of God made flesh, that teaches us how to love; how to forgive; how to build a life on a solid foundation that can withstand any storm throughout eternity.

We don’t often spend time in this ancient Hebrew book. In fact, outside of funerals, this is the only time I have ever preached a sermon from Ecclesiastes.

As I was searching for fortunes to offer for this series, this passage jumped out as one that seems less like a vague prediction about the future, and more like a divine path for the present.

The author boldly states, "…for God has already approved what you do."

I am not going to lie but that’s something I have always struggled with. Or so my therapist liked point out. If you're like me, then consider how much time you've wasted by constantly seeking approval from your peers, your social circles, your political party, your religion, and even from your own high standards.

The problem extends well beyond our nation's borders. This, I dare to say, is a global issue simply because it's a human issue. 

A quote often attributed to the American Trappist monk Thomas Merton, though popularized by Stephen Covey, warns, "People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that their ladder is leaning against the wrong wall."

Why do we constantly chase after things, like the approval of others, that drain the life right out of us?

Instead, we ought to embrace the tangible, life-giving gifts that God has placed right here before us. The bread on your plate, the company at your table, and the laughter shared.

This verse invites us to stop climbing and start living in the grace that is already ours. The only approval we need is God’s, which has already been granted. 

The way I see it, when you choose joy over someone else’s opinion, you’re essentially saying, "I trust that God is bigger than the division around me, and I’m going to live like it."

Now, verse seven begins with the command to "Go” which comes from the Hebrew verb hãlak (הָלַךְ) which occurs over 1,500 times in the Old Testament.

"Beyond simple walking, it is heavily used as a metaphor for spiritual conduct, daily behavior, and one's "lifestyle" or "manner of life" before God. . . . In Jewish tradition, this root verb forms the basis of Halakhah (often translated as "The Way"), which encompasses the broad body of religious observances and practical laws that dictate daily Jewish life and conduct." (1)

This is much more than mere action of movement, hãlak is a call to walk, to journey, and to actively engage with the life in front of you. It’s an invitation to go and participate in the world.

That is to say, it's not a solitary walk through life, but a call to walk together, learning from and leaning on, each other. And the place we are sent to is the table, to eat bread and drink wine as one big family.

In ancient culture, bread and wine were the primary symbols of shared life and community. If we read further, we’d see how the author speaks of wearing white garments and using oil, both of which are symbols of celebration and health, which stands in direct contrast to the worry and stress that weigh us down.

If we were to sum this verse up on a tea-towel, we might simply say, “Life is short.”

Yes, i know, it's a bit cliché, but it packs a powerful message. If you knew you had a limited time in this life, why would you ever waste a second of it being miserable, or angry, or in fear or worry?

In this incredible playground called life, God is offering us a seat at the table; where we sit with our family, and friends, and neighbors even those we find difficult. It’s here we look each other in the eye and truly share the messiness of life together.

In a culture driven by outrage and tribalism, choosing to sit at a table with someone you fundamentally disagree with is an act of quiet defiance. I think that’s the American way. If not, it’s the Way of Jesus.

These days, it’s a rare and radical choice to prioritize humanity over ideology.

We often fall into the trap of thinking that unity means everyone has to sign off on our personal opinions. But our faith calls us to something much deeper. To love and serve God and one another, no matter what.

If we are going to truly follow the Way of Jesus, then we must make the kingdom of heaven come alive on every path we walk, and every table we sit.

Remember, our theme for the year is "Knitted together in Love." This should be a theme for our nation to embrace because it reminds us  we are just individuals threads in a massive, complex tapestry. We don’t have to be the same color, texture, or pattern to belong to the same garment.

It also reminds us that we are not the weaver.  God is.  But if we start yanking on the other threads, the whole thing is going to lose its shape.

I know how tempting it is to draw lines and retreat into our own private tables because, let’s be honest, we don’t like facing someone who might challenge us.

But the way to peace isn't through winning the argument or getting the last word. It comes through finding our shared humanity. And embracing our diversity.

Jesus gave us this simple rule of life: if you want to be a peacemaker in a divided land, … you have to be willing to be a neighbor.  He says, “Love one another, like I love you.”

In other words, go, hãlak, be the thread of love that weaves people together.  Show up in your actual community instead of just your digital echo chamber. Listen to someone different than you, without mapping out your rebuttal while they’re still talking.

Go celebrate together the common ground we have, like our shared desire to keep our families safe, to eat good food, and to live with a sense of purpose.

We are called to be the ones who move toward others, even when it’s uncomfortable, because that is where the real work of living happens. It’s where real peace, and deep joy is found.

So let’s keep this week’s "Fortune Cookie Challenge" simple: Go set a table that you wouldn’t normally set.

Invite a neighbor you haven't spoken to in a while, or a coworker who gets under your skin, or a family member you’ve been avoiding. Invite them to "eat bread" with you.

Don't go in with an agenda to change them. Instead, go in ready to be changed yourself by the simple, radical act of being human together.

After all, the heart of our faith is trusting that God’s table is big enough for everyone.

Jesus built a ministry out of sitting down with people he disagreed with. By breaking bread with tax collectors, outcasts, religious zealots, and weary fishermen, he wasn’t just feeding his hunger, he was offering everyone there a taste of heaven.

At the table, Jesus dismantled walls of hostility, not by ignoring our differences or pretending they didn't exist, but by loving people right through them.

He didn’t do this for his own comfort. He did it because he knew that the only way to heal a fractured world was to knit us tightly together in a love that actually lasts.

To paraphrase Henri Nouwen, when we show hospitality, we create a space "where the stranger can enter and become a friend." Jesus sends us out to build tables, not divisions.

So, let’s commit to being that kind of people. Let’s be the ones who bring the bread, who choose joy over outrage, and who prioritize conversation over condemnation.

When you reach across the divide, you aren't just having dinner—you are participating in building up the kingdom of heaven, right here for everyone to see.

God has already approved the work of loving your neighbor, so go, hãlak, in all the different ways you love one another.

As Jesus showed us with his own life, there is no higher calling than that.


Work Cited:
Covey, Stephen R. The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change. Simon & Schuster, 2020.
Nouwen, Henri J. M. Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life. Doubleday, 1966. [1, 2, 3]
Precious Seed. Word for Today. https://www.preciousseed.org/articles/a-word-for-today-step-walk-heb-halak/

Watching our kids experience life by trying new things and sharing their joy with us has always been the highlight of parenting.

​Now they are in the season of adulting, I thought this would be a great relief for them. Little did I know the panic that would secretly ensue.

I will find out soon enough if it was the best or worst “advice” I ever gave them. Either way, I still believe their story will be infinitely better than receiving another coffee mug with a religious pun printed on it.

Speaking of dad advice, there is plenty I’ve shared with them that probably shouldn’t be repeated from a pulpit. However, this one is practically made for a fortune cookie: “When you’re unsure what to do, go for the story.”

And if you're looking for the ultimate source of both adventure and wisdom, there’s no better place to find it than the Bible. Which takes us to our reading:

While you might have a favorite bible verse, what about a favorite fortune? I have one tucked in my wallet that says, “The possibility of a career change is near.” It’s vague about when that change will happen, but I keep it as a small token of hope.

My other favorite fortune is taped to our wedding book. Kathleen and I received it just hours after we got engaged. It reads: “You will marry your present lover and be happy.” Talk about specific, and spot on.
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The bible is full of verses, packed with profound wisdom. Jesus equates them as precious pearls. Today’s pearl of wisdom is Psalm 100. May it be a good fortune for your soul.
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That came earlier, in third grade, when my teacher Mrs. Miller handed me a mimeographed sheet with these five verses typed in purple ink. I had been selected to read it at the Thanksgiving pageant in front of a gym full of parents, students, and my three siblings. I was given clear instructions. I had to recite the psalm by memory.

This was my first foray into public speaking. Had I known it would be something I’d do for the rest of my life, I would’ve memorized it or at least practiced. Instead, I winged it, with joyful glee.

I may not have said all the words, or even the same verses you heard today. But I didn’t let that stop me from fearlessly shouting into a microphone with all the volume an eight-year-old boy could muster.

​It’s been said those ancient words are still echoing off the rafters of that old gymnasium.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord!  That’s worship at it’s best. Yet, if you were like me, you were  taught to stay quiet in church. Squeals and noises were for the playground, not worship. Psalm 100 is our hall pass, our permission slip, signed by God to shout with joy in every space you’re in.

But this is no ordinary celebration. The Hebrew word used here is rua (רוּעַ), which means a triumphant battle cry or holy uproar! It shares a similar root to ruach—which means wind, breath, and spirit. Although they’re different words, they both require the exact same thing: a massive, unconstrained surge of joyful breath from your lungs.

Rua is the sound of raw energy that explodes in an arena when the game-winning shot goes through the net.

It’s the song your heart unleashes when you realize that you belong to God and you have been flooded with unearned generosity and grace. When that happens, the only logical response is to sing joyfully out loud.

When was the last time you just sang out loud? Maybe you were belting out a song in the car on the way over here. Or giving a live performance in your shower this morning. Now, full disclosure: I am not a good singer. At all. But as my kids can attest, that has never stopped me. I sing all the time. I always have.

In seventh grade I had a math teacher named Mr. Short. It was an appropriate name for someone who had an incredibly short fuse for a kid like me who insisted on answering his questions with song lyrics.

Once he asked me if I had to answer all my questions that way? Without missing a beat, I sang, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing.” Apparently, that was the wrong answer, and it earned me a detention.

But isn’t that what this psalm is suggesting? It calls us to enter Anamesa singing joyfully simply because this is how we serve the Lord with gladness! We belong to God. “We are his people; the sheep of his pasture.” And every noise we make is a testimony to this. A love song in God’s heart.

So let us enter God’s gates with thanksgiving. Let us enter God’s presence with praise! With a new song on our lips.

It’s okay to sing as loudly and off-key as you want, because God is good, and loves us just as we are. And as this nugget of wisdom reminds us, that love of God’s endures forever.

More over, we can sing proudly with grateful hearts, knowing God is faithful to us. We are God’s beloved sheep. Which means we are completely provided for.

As we’ve learned from looking at other psalms, the pasture is a place of God’s provision. God is our Shepherd who is always working ahead of us—clearing paths, finding water, and keeping watch.

Simply put, God has liberated us from the exhausting burden of having to run the world. That alone should make us ecstatic, to shout and sing joyful songs of thanksgiving and praise. Which leads me to ask, how are you using your rua to sing God’s praises?

As a community knitted together in love,  I believe if we can follow the lead of this psalm, we can be a space that radiates hope to a world that is exhausted by cynicism.

​We can be a people who offer grace and mercy to those who don’t expect it.

We can be a Christ-centered community that fully welcomes and embraces everyone into this holy celebration. Thus, our joyful noises cannot remain an echo inside an empty gymnasium. Our voice has to become the soundtrack of the streets.

So, here is your fortune cookie challenge for this week: take your rua, and turn it into a song of service.

It could be something as simple as checking in on a friend, or smiling at everyone you see. Think about it, when someone smiles at you, it’s hard not to smile back. When someone shows you kindness, it can change the direction of your day. This is how one small gesture can grow into a holy chorus of praise and worship.

We have a friend whose mom used to pay the toll for the car behind her every time she crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. She never forgot what it was like to worry about having enough money to get to work.

Her one, small song of goodwill often got repeated by the next car and the next, until that gift reached that person who needed it the most.

I think this is what Léon Bloy meant when he said, “The only tragedy in life is not to be a saint."

You might not see yourself, or your small gifts as saint-worthy. But all the kindness, mercy and grace you put into this world is a testimony to God’s glory.

John writes: "Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth"(1 John 4:11).

This is a refrain of what Jesus had told his friends, “If you love me, you will love one another”(John 13:34).

Love is a concert, and your heart is the instrument. But none of us are singing a solo. We are part of a sacred community, a choir of angels.

Don't leave your song in church. Take it into the streets, loving God, loving others, serving both.

Go and make a holy uproar. Be a joyful noise. And sing with a grateful heart. As Teilhard de Chardin so eloquently stated, it’s "the most infallible sign of the presence of God."

There are a millions of hymnals filled with millions of hymns that testify to God’s glory. You, my friend, are one of those hymns. You are a psalm, a song of praise.

So, go and make a joyful noise, unto the Lord. And may your song echo throughout eternity for all of creation to join in.

A fews years ago, to help me get out of a rut, I challenged myself to meet 30 people in 30 days. In order to accomplish this, I had to approach a lot of strangers. Of course, Jesus was the O.G. of this kind of radical outreach. He walks up to a stranger and says "Follow me." And just like that, they do. Including a tax-collector named Matthew. But he’s not alone.

As the story goes many “tax collectors and sinners” are invited by Jesus to a special dinner party. We don’t know who threw it, or why, but not everyone is happy about it.

Now dinner parties back then weren’t like they are today. People didn't sit at tables with high backed chairs and place settings.

Instead, they reclined on the floor, propped up on pillows, eating from shared bowls with their hands. It was up-close and intimate. Your elbows and thighs touched. You leaned into one another. If your neighbor spilt his wine, you’d feel it.

Of course, there were some similarities. Like so many wedding receptions today, the host would fret over the seating chart, because who you sat next to was important. This is where deals were made.

For example, a brick maker would want to sit next to a home builder. A wine merchant would want to be next to a distributor who could expand his reach.

Trust me when I say, no one would want to sit next to a tax collector, society’s ultimate pariah. Yet, here’s Jesus, reclining, eating, and laughing with them.

When the Pharisees saw this, they were outraged. No Jew worth his salt would be caught dead in company like that. But had the Pharisees been able to see what Jesus was teaching, they would have seen how God is always within reach, as close to us as the person next to us, regardless of one’s social status or perceived sin.

So, when his critics complain, Jesus reminds them of what their own scripture declares, that “God desires mercy, not sacrifice." In other words, kindness and hospitality are more important than rules and rituals.

I think that has been foundational to the life of Anamesa. But as a community woven together in Love, we must remember that we’re not the one’s weaving the tapestry. God is. And God doesn’t discard any thread. Every strand is woven into the design, regardless of its color or quality.

I think that’s why Jesus sits with the one’s no one else will. He sees their sacred worth and weaves their story into his. He gets up close to others just to be closer to God.

While we may be separated by miles and time zones, we’ve actually found a way to get up close and personal. By being a community willing to show up and be present for each other. But this doesn’t mean we aren’t susceptible to problems.

Although we have the technology to remain hyper-connected, it’s way too easy for us to retreat into our private silos. That’s one of the greatest problems the church, and our country, face today. We have algorithms to ensure we only hear what we already believe. We curate our lives to make sure we never have to encounter a worldview that challenges our own.

But here’s the thing about silos: they don’t just keep others out, they also keep God’s presence from getting in. It’s easy to hate a faceless group on the nightly news. It is much harder to hate someone when you are sharing a meal or hearing the tremor in their voice as they talk about a problem their child is going through.

When we get close enough to see our shared humanity, judgment fades, and we discover that our differences—skin color, nationality, social status, job title—are just surface-level stuff. Beneath it all, we’re crafted by from the same unconditional love, made in the same divine image. Each one of us carries the presence of God, which makes every encounter  holy and sacred.

Of course, our proximity to someone doesn’t require us to agree. But it does force us to acknowledge that the person standing in front of us (even the one who makes our blood boil)… is a vessel of God’s presence that needs to be honored.

Jesus always gets up close and personal with others, always seeing and acknowledging those the world considers less than. If we follow his lead, meet one another with his vulnerability, the harder it will be for us to ignore one’s pain or the injustice causing it.

This is why Jesus calls us out of our silos. And sends us to where God is needed the most, to bring healing and salvation to the person sitting right next to you. This is where bridges are built, and faith flourishes. Where real connection and deep transformation take shape.

So next time you’re tempted to write someone off for one reason or another, remember who’s there with you. Move closer to that person and welcome God’s presence in them. It might be hard to find it in some, but that only means you have to try a little harder. They might be broken, or in your view, dead wrong. But they still possess a part of God within them.

By rejecting someone, you’re not only rejecting God, but you’re also denying the one truth that holds us all together: that God’s love is boundless, limitless, steadfast, and truly unconditional.

With this love, God knits us all together.

A dinner party may not seem like a Pentecost moment. But there among the lamb, olives, bread and wine, the Holy Spirit does her quiet work, binding our fragmented lives together, and breathing life into a grace-filled existence.

Like Pentecost, this story reminds us that God isn’t distant, somewhere out there. In Jesus, God moves right into the neighborhood to live with us. From this holy proximity, our community takes shape. We become people who don’t just talk about love, but actually practice it in real life.

God’s love isn’t a solitary act. It’s communal. And is measured by the distance between you and person right beside you. The closer we get to one another, the closer we get to God.

So, to welcome the stranger, to sit with societies outcasts, to be present for someone crying out, is to open the door for God’s love to enter Anamesa.

Jesus teaches the Pharisees that the gospel isn’t a set of rules or rituals. It’s the living, breath of God that moves through our love, mercy, and compassion.

Jesus says, “Follow me.” This is an invitation to see with his eyes, to serve with his hands, to love with the same reckless, boundless courage he showed us. It’s a call to look past the labels and stereotypes, and recognize the inherent worth of every person we meet.

By the power of God, whose Spirit knows no distance, we are invited, like Matthew, to trade empty rituals for the radical, beautiful work of Christ. Your heart was never meant to be a fortress.

It’s a gift meant to be shared. As we learn to give love away, we begin to see the handiwork of God’s glory, up close and personal, right here in the space between us.

So let me say it one more time, if you want to get close to God there’s no better place to start than right here with one another.

 Three years ago, on Pentecost, I was giving my sermon from a hospital parking lot. My dad was intubated in the ICU after a series of massive seizures.

The dark irony didn’t escape me. While he had tubes in his lungs to help him breathe, I was in his car talking about how the Holy Spirit “filled everyone to the gills with God’s breath.” (Taylor).

I was just getting started when my feed cut out. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get back online. It was like a holy nudge. As I frantically tried to log back on, my sister sent a text telling me dad was breathing on his own. Like Rev. Dawn used to say, Holly doesn’t do subtle very well.

We’ve spent the last five weeks of Eastertide watching the Holy Spirit whip up the early church like a holy hurricane. But today, she sneaks in, in an ordinary, single breath that no one saw coming.

As John’s story goes, it’s the day after Easter. The Apostles are locked away in a house, afraid of getting blamed for stealing their teacher’s body.

Then, from out of no where, Jesus appears among them. And the first thing he says is, “Peace be with you.”  I suppose that’s the right thing to say to folks who, just a few days ago, watched you die. After they poke and prod him to see if this is real, Jesus breathes on them. Not to prove he’s alive, but to fill their lungs with the very breath of God.     

From this subtle, ordinary action their lives will never be the same again. Richard Rohr writes, “To span the infinite gap between Divine and human, God plants a little bit of God—the Holy Spirit—right inside us.”

John’s story shows us that Holy Spirit doesn't need a storm to transform a person’s life; she simply needs to be present to move through that space between the giver and receiver.

So in those moments when you’re paralyzed by grief, or locked away with anxiety, or hiding from your past failures, remember how God is able to come in and give you a new life, a new kind of breath that will empower you to do anything.

Think about it, the same life force that animated Jesus, the same divine breath he passed to his friends, is ours as well.

So let’s all take a deep breath. Hold it in and let it rest in your soul. Hold it. Hold it. Here’s the thing about breath you can’t hold it in forever. Eventually, you have to let it out, blend it with everyone else’s.

The Church was born the day it took what Jesus offered, and then turned and gave it to others.  As Jesus commanded his followers, “Love one another as God first loved you.” That’s the mission. To offer the life-giving breath of the Spirit back into the world.

Jesus makes this very clear. Once the Apostles receive the Spirit, Jesus commissions them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” This is a massive invitation.

I don’t know what’s more terrifying? Seeing a friend you watched die show up in your living room? Or being sent out, into the same world that killed him, to continue what he started? We know what the Apostles did. They went out and risked their lives to love God, love others, and serve both.

That’s what Holly does. She drives us out. Sends us to places we may not want to go, simply because that’s where God’s love is needed. Just as she pushed Jesus from his baptismal waters to the noisy streets of Israel, she’s thrusting us into a world that is gasping for something far deeper than the hollow noise of politicians and pundits can offer.

To follow Jesus literally means to follow his Way; to continue what he began. To inhale his life, and exhale it, over and over again. We all take our first breath when we enter this world. And we all give up our last when we leave it. But what will we do with all the other ones in the space between those two life markers?

In John’s story, Jesus offers us a few clues. First, we must bring peace into the world. Just a few days earlier, Jesus told these guys,  “My peace I give to you; not as the world gives but as I give to you.” The world gives noise; Jesus gives breath. With breath comes life.

Thomas Merton once observed that everyone is trying to be something, “but very few are trying to be at peace.”

The world is chaotic enough, why add more static? When you feel the urge to judge or react with hostility, pause. Take in the Spirit with a deep, intentional breath and remember: You cannot be a sanctuary for others until you let yourself be filled by God.

Second, we must be the air the world inhales. We practice our faith by stepping into places where people are hurting, divisions are deep, and hearts remain locked in fear; go breathe God’s glory into it.

​Jesus said “You are the light of the world.” He wants us to shine brightly by showing up as he did, exhaling peace and extending our scarred hands for others to see and encounter God’s grace and mercy in the flesh.

Fredrick Buechner famously said, "They may forget what you said—but they will never forget how you made them feel." So, let your presence be the sacred breath that quiets the storm of an anxious world.

And lastly, we must live as a community woven together in love. We must use our breath to help one another get by. The mission of Anamesa has always been to make love as common as breathing.

Because every breath an opportunity to bear the good fruits of God’s Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I believe Paul puts love first, because "Nothing shows the presence of the Spirit in human life as well as love does." (Boff)

You see, love is more than a sensation we feel if we’re lucky enough. Love is the divine presence that ignites the world and gets ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

It is a sacred part of God given to us by the Spirit for the sole purpose of continuing the work of Christ in the space between.

This can’t happen when it stays hidden and locked away inside us. Love must be given away, especially, as Jesus states, through acts of mercy and forgiveness. And the other things we’d rather not do: like crossing the street to help someone in need.

But here’s the thing, as long as we have the Spirit of God filling our lungs, we have what we need to forgive those who hurt us. And to be kind to those who hate us. We can welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, care for the sick.

Jesus calls you out from behind your locked doors to be the giver of God’s love and peace. He sends you into the troubled, real-time messy beautiful lives of your neighbors where his light and love are needed the most.

Tomorrow we will celebrate Memorial Day remembering those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. But today, let us rejoin our hearts to Christ by breathing in his Spirit.

​And may we be remembered for all the ways we exhale his life-giving breath, the very peace and love of God, that this world is so desperately gasping for.

Memorial Day always arrives carrying tension between gratitude and grief.  On one hand, we’re grateful for those who gave everything for our country. On the other hand, we grieve what that sacrifice actually cost.
This Sunday we’re also celebrating Pentecost. And I think these two holy days have a lot to say to each other.
As followers of Jesus, we know a little something about that kind of sacrificial love. Jesus didn’t walk onto a literal battlefield, but he showed us exactly what it means to pour your life out for other people. He did it by washing feet, by showing up for the outcasts, and by breathing love all the way to the cross.
When we talk about Pentecost, we’re celebrating the gift of the Holy Spirit, who empowers and sends us out into the mission field. We’re grateful for the power the Spirit gives us to go out and do the work of Jesus, but we also have to admit it can be a little scary to realize what that work actually asks of us. To empty ourselves, just like he did.

It’s pretty wild to think that the same breath that moved over the world at the very beginning is the same breath that moves through us today. A breath that finds us in our own messy, wounded lives and pushes us back out the door, not as soldiers but as healers and peacemakers.
Although it’s rare these two holy days fall on the same weekend, I think it’s a perfect reminder that our freedom isn’t just a gift for us to keep. It’s an invitation to show up for each other to love our neighbors, welcome the strangers, and help lift people up when they’re struggling.

Maybe the best way we can honor those who gave their lives is by giving our own lives away—not in some massive, movie-style sacrifice, but in the small, everyday ways we show mercy and kindness.

“Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.””    (John 20:21-23)