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.

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:

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. 

 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.”

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. 

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.

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.