Gregory Hansen writes, “If the second chapter of Acts portrays the best response ever given to someone’s first sermon, here Steven receives the worst response imaginable to what was definitely his last.”

How did we get here so fast? One minute the community is filled with the Spirit and sharing everything in love; the next, stones are flying.

A lot has happened in the space between.The authorities have already beaten and jailed Peter and the Apostles for preaching about Jesus. Yet despite the threats, thousands of lives were still being transformed by their testimony. Including Stephen, a man full of faith and Spirit.

He was caring for the vulnerable at the local food bank when he’s cornered by an angry mob. When this triggers a fiery and passionate testimony, their response was swift. And deadly.

This wasn’t a one off event. People reject the Gospel all the time, especially when it attacks their way of life. In Bryan, Ohio last year, city officials arrested a minister who kept the church doors opened around the clock to provide food and shelter to the homeless. They criminally charged him, essentially arguing that church was for Sunday worship, not daily survival.

There are modern Stephens everywhere being arrested and fined for doing what Jesus calls us all to do: care for the poor, feed the hungry, challenge injustice and inequality, offer sanctuary to immigrants. It’s crazy that these practices still upset the status quo.

So here’s the thing, if testifying to God’s love and mercy gets legal stones thrown at you, well, then maybe it’s time for all of us here to get stoned.

Stephen might be remembered as the church’s first martyr. But he’s certainly not the last. In fact, it should be a moniker we all strive for.

You see, in the Greek, martyr doesn’t mean “victim.”  It means “witness.” More than just a tragedy, Stephen’s story is a testimony that teaches us how to follow the call of Christ Jesus who sends us out into the world, “like lambs into the midst of wolves,” to bear witness to the good news of God’s love, mercy, and grace. No matter the cost.

There will always be people who’ll throw stones. Which means, there will always be a need for our witness.

Stephen didn’t stop testifying as they pelted him with rocks. Instead, he prayed, “Lord, don’t hold this against them.” His words echoed another execution of another innocent man whose witness the world rejected. Both Jesus and Stephen’s stories teach us an important lesson.

A love that refuses to return a stone is the only force that can break the heart of the one throwing it. The stones we face might not be literal anymore, but they’re just as real when they’re hurled through words, policies, silence, or indifference.

Which leaves the church in a tough spot because it begs the question: Are we the one’s getting stoned, or are we the ones holding the rocks?

Here’s why this still matters. People look at organized religion and see more hypocrisy than hope. They see power grabs instead of servitude. Certainty instead of humility.

The Acts church shows us a different kind of community, one that pushed back against the “way things are always done.” A community that isn't obsessed with preserving its own institution, but is willing to pour itself out for others. It doesn't cozy up to the rich and powerful, but choses to stand with the poor and the powerless.

Our goal isn’t to shout louder than the world, but to live in such a way that the world has to stop and ask why. Like Jesus, Stephen didn’t just preach the gospel. He became it; embodying the love of Christ, even as he faced death.

What does this say about us? What does it look like to become the gospel right now? How do we bear witness in a world of "stones"? I think the answer is simple.

We don't need grand theological statements; we just need a love that shows up where it’s least expected.

In the fields, where Jesus fed the people. Along the side of the road, where Jesus touched the leper and healed the sick. We all know that Jesus could have commanded and claimed power for himself, but instead chose to humbled himself, even to the point of death on a cross.

By his actions, Jesus taught us that love isn't just a private feeling we have in our hearts. It’s the public policy of God’s Kingdom. How we treat and love our neighbors is the politics of Jesus who insisted that the poor, not the powerful, belonged at the center of our lives.

Today, when churches help abolish millions of dollars in medical debt for their neighbors, or choose to build tiny homes for the unhoused instead of bigger parking lots, they’re not just "doing charity"—they are practicing the politics of Jesus. And getting stoned for doing so.

Though some have warned me not to talk about politics from the pulpit, it’s kind of hard not to if I am going to follow Jesus.

Choosing compassion over control is a political act. Standing for human dignity isn't about being "woke"; it’s about being faithful.

Jesus said, "Love one another as I have loved you." In plain English that means: Don’t just pity the hungry—feed them. Don’t just watch the sick suffer—care for them. Don’t curse your enemy as they throw stones, forgive them, pray for them, love them to the very end.

I know how  tempting it is to soften the gospel, to keep things safe and comfortable. But Stephen shows us that the Way of Jesus was anything but that. Jesus calls us to step out  of our comfort zones, to be liberal and vulnerable with our love. Because love is the power that transforms the heart from the inside out.

At the end of the day, if our faith doesn't cost us something, then it probably isn't changing anything. And if that’s the case, if we’re not being transformed by Jesus, then why bother following his Way?

This is a serious question. Because there’s a "quiet revival" happening. One being led by a generation that isn’t, looking to be entertained. They’re hungry for something real. They’re searching for and gravitating towards communities where love is not just a word, but a way of life.

There’s a reason why parks have more people in them on Sunday then churches do. Right now, there’s someone out there who want to know if this story we tell is actually true. They’re watching to see how we love God, love others, and serve both. They’re not looking for perfection; but honesty and authenticity. They want to know if we’re willing to get stoned for them.

How will we answer? What will we say? How does our love testify to the God we worship? Or invite people to meet the Christ in the flesh?

As we go out into the world, let us remember that we are Easter people, called to use our life as living testimonies of God’s glory. Every time we choose love over fear. Every time we forgive when we could retaliate. Every time we refuse to pick up stones, the gospel is preached.

So, let’s stop just talking about a love that once happened a long time ago and start being a love that transforms life today. Because the world doesn’t need another church; it just needs a bigger heart to be held in.

Before we continue on in Acts, I want to take today to talk about a different church. One that’s been around for a long time. I do this every few years or so, to remind us of who we are and what our calling is at Anamesa.

You see, like so many mainline churches today, this particular church struggled to find relevance in our new and changing world. But that’s not how their story began.

Planted in the center of a growing town, this church, with its classic colonial design, quickly became a centerpiece in the community. As the city grew, so too did the church. And its presence.

One year, one of its many wealthy members commissioned a well-know artist to create a sculpture that would best describe the church and her mission. And so, inspired by the calling Peter and Andrew, the artist created a beautiful statue of Jesus, looking fondly outward with his arms wide open, inviting all to come and follow.

There was a kindness to the face, a certain gentleness in his smile. Though the statue was made of cold, lifeless marble, it was impossible to ignore the tender warmth that seemed to glow from Jesus’ eyes. Even his body language was  gentle and inviting.

The actual figure itself stood about six feet tall. But because it was elevated up above a long rectangular reflecting pool, Jesus came off as much larger than life. And if you stood in the right place, and looked at your reflection, it seemed as if Jesus was reaching out to embrace you. 

At Easter, volunteers adorned the edges of the reflecting pool with beautiful and fragrant Easter lilies. During the sunrise service, the congregation gathered around as the rising sun made the silhouette of Christ seem both blinding and alive. 

Needless to say it was a magnificent work of art that quickly became the church’s pride and joy. Whenever the secretary gave people directions to the church, she always said, “Be sure to look for Jesus welcoming you home.”  

But as the years went on, and the town began to grow into a larger, metropolitan city, the statue became less prominent, almost invisible. Same with the church. Yet, when people called the office, the secretary still said, “Be sure to look for Jesus welcoming you home.”

Beautiful as it was, the statue could not stop the effects of time. Smog stains, tree sap, bird poop, the dirt and grim of modern life could only hide the cracks for so long. When the homeless claimed the pool as their own personal bath, the trustees voted to let the water evaporate until the grand reflecting pool was nothing more than a swallow box that collected trash, graffiti, and the occasional puddles of rainwater. 

Then one day – and sadly no ones exactly when – a terrible thing happened. Someone took a hammer to Jesus, smashing off both of his hands and part of his right arm.

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the city, this heartbroken community held a prayer vigil around that empty pool. They lit candles and sang hymns, mourning not just the vandalism but something deeper.

But the only one who seemed to notice their tears was the humble face of Jesus looking down on them. They couldn’t see that grace still lingered in his smile. Tenderness radiated from his eyes. All they saw was his broken outstretched arms that gave Jesus the cold appearance of a homeless man seeking alms.

And, although it was never spoken out loud, the congregation itself felt broken and defeated. They knew this church wasn’t the same. The large crowds had dwindled long ago. Those who still showed up, were aging. And the church was a empty shell of what it once was.

Little did they know that the statue that had once defined the heart and soul of who they were, would soon redefine them.

You see, someone in the congregation had the idea to hold a fundraiser to fix the statue. And everyone got on board. They were going to save Jesus, no matter the cost. For the next month or so, volunteers spent hours preparing for the event. They made flyers and posters; gathered donations from the local business for a silent auction. They even convinced a well-known caterer to donate her talents as a way to attract people from the community.

A fiery spirit of church life began to return. There was joy and laughter in their souls, as a renewed sense of hope and purpose filled the air. And then something else happened.

A week before the big event, their minister, who had been mostly silent on this issue, stood at the pulpit and told the congregation the fundraiser was off, and the necessary repairs would not be made. “Instead,” he said, “We will become the hands of Christ.”

From that moment on, in each weekly message he reminded them that they are not defined by who they once were, but by who they  are still called to be. The hands and heart of Christ. A new spirit was ignited that day. Just as it was in that first church in Jerusalem.

This is my hope for us as well. To be the hands of Christ in the space between, where God meets us in the flesh. To be the incarnate, visible presence of God’s love, filling Anamesa with God’s tender mercy and grace. That’s our call. That’s our mission. That’s our purpose. The reason we are woven together in love.

The church is not a building, any more than it is a statue. The church is the people. It’s you and me. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. We all have gifts and talents to bring. We are part of one holy body, the body of Christ. We all share the same holy heartbeat…that wild, fiery Spirit that God breathed into creation in the very beginning.

What we do with each breath matters, not just to ourself but to those we love and serve. Because, if we want the world to notice us, then Jesus must be the centerpiece, the pride and joy of this community. Not as a cold, lifeless statue. But as a living, breathing, welcoming, loving presence, right here, right now.

In this passage, we get the perfect portrait of community, as I believe Jesus intended. People sharing meals and holding space for one another. They’re reading and praying together, and actually doing the will of God. It kinda makes me wonder what happened?

What was the thought behind replacing this model for what we have today: institutionalized religion.

Walk into almost any church building, and I doubt you’ll find what Luke just described. Yes, there are similarities. But where’s the awe?Where are the people being blown away by what God is doing? Church has become more of a routine than a revolutionary movement. We come and go through the motions. But are we really being transformed? I’m not saying we’re doing it wrong.  But asking, “can we do it better?”

In the early days, people weren't in awe because of a polished sermon or praise band. They were in awe because of what they were seeing. You had slaves and free people, Jews and Gentiles, the wealthy and the broke, all sitting at the same table, sharing the same bread.

There was no judgment or "cancel culture." Just Christ-like love where no one was without because everyone gave. Shane Claiborne writes, "The church was never meant to be a building you go to; it was always meant to be a movement you belong to. A living, breathing, risky, messy movement of people following Jesus."

That’s what Rev. Dawn and I set out to do with Anamesa. We wanted to build the kind of community that leaves the world in awe despite our physical distance. We wanted to create a sacred ecosystem where the only rule is the rule of love. A space where we care for one another, welcome the stranger, and offer the kind of grace that keeps Jesus’ wisdom alive.

I think we are slowly moving closer to realizing that vision. But we can’t settle if we want to be like this Acts 2 community.

In this passage, Luke uses the Greek word ‘koinonia’ which is usually translated as "fellowship." Today, that sounds like drinking bad coffee in a basement hall after service. But it actually means, "participation in a shared life." That is, everyone showed up to share life, to love God, love each other, and serve both.

They didn't just preach the gospel; they lived it out loud. They believed Jesus meant what he said, even though most had learned about him second hand. They didn’t need to see Jesus, or touch his scared hands to be sure. They knew him because they could recognize his Way, his love and compassion, in those they shared life with.

As I’ve said before, which often gets me labeled a heretic, Jesus didn’t come to get us into heaven when we die. He came to get heaven into us, so we can live. He said “the Kingdom of Heaven is within you” (Luke 17:21).

His disciples actually believed him, taking him at face value and living ‘Kingdom lives’ centered on what God wanted rather than what their egos wanted. They practiced the Way of Jesus so deeply that the Kingdom of God became a reality, and God added to their lives.

This is not a matter of devotion, but a matter of practice. As I noted last week, the gospel isn’t a script to recite—it is a testimony of the heart carried out by our hands. Unless it moves from our lips to our lives, it isn't truly preached. Our call is to practice the Way of Jesus over and over again until people are left in awe of the way we live, not just the things we say.

We are the Body of Christ. A living, breathing, thriving organism. Our call is to be the visible and tangible part of God’s love just as Jesus was.

Think about his teachings. Jesus never used stagnant metaphors. He told us to be seeds that grow. Stones that build. Yeast that makes the whole loaf rise.  Salt that brings out the flavor in others. Light that illuminates the world.

This isn’t about being a religion or institution. This is about being little Christs building up God’s kingdom in every space we enter.  At the end of the day, a church’s success isn't about how many people are sitting in the pews; it’s about how many people we’ve blow away with love.

An authentic church is an ethic that loves the unlovable and forgive the unforgivable.  It’s an economy feeds the hungry and heals the sick. It’s a culture that welcomes the stranger and stands with the marginalized.

It’s not about pettiness, or politics, or positions of power. It’s about taking the name Christ seriously. To believe Jesus meant it when he said: "If you love me, love one another."

Love is the math of God. Love begets more love. It never divides, it multiplies.

So when everyone else is busy dividing, we have to be bridges that unite. When others are hoarding, we have to open up our hearts and share what we have. When the world is being rude and hateful, we have to be compassionate and respectful; lifting others up when they’ve been knocked down.

As Rainn Wilson once pointed out, this first house church movement was the first time in human history where people from all different races, nations, classes, and genders all gathered together to share a common purpose: to worship God and remember the legacy of Jesus.

To live this way is still dangerous, and to some, it seems heretical. But in our current, hyper-divided world, the church must stay revolutionary. We have to be a people who realize that if we can’t find Christ in the person struggling at our front door, then we aren't going to find him in our pews or pulpits.

The first church changed the world because they opened their hearts to the people the rest of the world had left for dead. In doing so, they proved to us that it’s actually possible to live like Jesus, in accordance with the will of God, right here and now.

So, the question is: Can we do that? Can we reclaim the spark that set the first church on fire and be revolutionary again? I think the answer is deceptively simple.

First, we must remember that God is not a set of beliefs. God is the love that happens between us.

Second, spread that love by creating joy, waging peace, and serving the poor. To be a people who don’t offer "answers," but sit in the uncomfortable silence with a neighbor who is grieving. Be the voice online that chooses grace instead outrage. Live with a heart so open that your life becomes a sanctuary for the ignored.

In other words, just imitate Christ. Remember what Jesus did, and go and do that. Be the living, breathing incarnation of God’s love right where you are.

Because when the Gospel moves from our lips into our lives, the world won’t just hear the message—they will stand in absolute awe of the One who first ignited this revolution.

This is "Pentecost Peter." He and 120 other believers have just been doused in the promised power of the Holy Spirit. And they cannot contain it at all. The atmosphere is a strange, beautiful cocktail of joy and utter confusion. People are speaking in a kaleidoscope of languages, yet every listener hears the message in their mother tongue.

The cynics are there, too. They see the ecstasy and assume it’s just a morning bender. But Peter stands up, debunks the insult, and lays out the cornerstone of our Christian faith. He wasn't the first to tell the story, though.

Last week, we watched the prequel. The story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb, where, in the final scene, Jesus tells her to go and let the others know what she has witnessed. And her testimony—“The one who was dead is now alive; where there was weeping, there is now joy”—would launch a great franchise. And set the foundation of the church for Peter and the others to build upon.

In our "movie," the camera now pans across the faces in the crowd. It’s a sea of humanity. Men, women, young and old. All awe-struck. You have pilgrims from every corner of the Roman Empire.

Some are hearing the name "Jesus of Nazareth" for the very first time. Others were there on Friday; they saw the cross, they heard the rumors of an empty tomb, but they haven't connected the dots.

To all of them, Peter gives an Oscar-worthy monologue: "Listen! This Jesus—the one you crucified—is more than a teacher. He is the Messiah. He is the Holy One promised by the prophets."

As he speaks, there is a mixture of emotions in the crowd. But filled with the Holy Spirit, Peter continues to profess: “We are witnesses to this truth that this Jesus we are talking about … God has raised up from the dead …everyone here today is now a witness to this truth.”

Scripture says the Holy Spirit “pierced their hearts” with his words.

Then from the crowd, a  voice cries out from the back: "Brothers, what do we do?"

Peter’s face softens as the camera pushes in for his close up. He answers, "Change your direction. Return to God. Be baptized. Let Christ be your Lord. And let His grace be your joy."

​More than a 5-step plan; Peter gives them the way to a whole, new life. The crowd erupts in a loud, riotous roar.

From this one impromptu sermon, we are told three thousand people were baptized that day. Let’s pause the film for a moment. Think about what that says to the power of testimony?

From Peter’s public proclamation, the Church and her faith was established.

How, then, can your story help change the direction of someone’s life? You might think you have nothing important to say. But here’s what I’ve learned.

The most powerful testimony you can offer, isn’t your words. It comes through your heart and hands. For compassion always speaks louder than doctrine. Tenderness lasts longer than platitudes. The way you show love has the power to change someone’s life forever.

Now, back to the movie.

The film transitions to a montage: this crowd moves toward the Jordan River in numbers so vast they seem to stop the flow of the water. With hearts aglow, these pilgrim people return to their homes in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Crete, Arabia, all over the Roman empire, carrying the message of Christ with them to their communities.

The opening credits roll over a montage of the unlikely: rich and poor, free and enslaved, Jew and Gentile. It’s a visceral reminder that God’s love is a wildfire that refuses to be contained by a single city, a single building, or a single heart.

We know from our journey through Lent that Jesus started with twelve ordinary people to build a Kingdom. Those twelve—plus a few hundred "extras"—rose above their own flaws to become not just the voice of God, but the hands and feet as well. This is important for us to remember, today, as we face deep divisions within the church.

This story in Acts, reminds us that with our powerful testimony, we are given a great responsibility to carry the gospel out into the world - not just with our words, but in our deeds as well. We are called to manifest God’s love in all that we say and do.

The cynics are out there. People are watching us. But what do they see? Christians in name only? Or Christ followers? A community who intentionally live the Way of Jesus? People who will put aside their ego, and care for the least of these, so no one is without.

It doesn’t matter what we say on Sunday, if our actions are silent the rest of the week.

I’ve spent decades speaking in front of people. That might seem terrifying to you. I get that. But my words don’t mean anything if I don’t practice what I preach.

You may not have the right words, but you’re willing to sit with a friend going through a break up. That says more than any sermon I could give.

You might not understand church doctrine, but that doesn’t stop you from organizing a clothing drive to help single mom’s who are struggling to make ends meet. That’s testifying.

Like Meister Eckhart famously said: Go preach the gospel, using words only when necessary.

Scripture tells us that Peter eventually steps down from the pulpit to serve others, just as Jesus did. He shared the good news by loving God, loving others, and serving both…just as we are called to do. This is how the first church lived out the gospel. Their way would go on to inspire others to do the same.

Think about St. Francis who gave up his family fortune to care for the poor. Or St. Catherine of Siena who risked her life caring for victims of the plague. And St. Teresa of Calcutta loved those the world had left for dead.

Then there are the "Everyday Saints" in our communities. My friend Kerry shows up every Monday at the food pantry to handout groceries to those suffering with food insecurity. Julie Garcia, a great-grand mother who walks the hallways of her retirement home, praying for her neighbors.

God uses ordinary people like you and me to be everyday saints. To proclaim Christ’s glory and love.

One of the last things Jesus taught his disciples was, “Love one another as I have loved you.”That’s the gospel. That’s it. Two thousand years later, love still remains the best way to proclaim Jesus as Lord and Christ. But we have to be willing to do it.

After the opening credits and montage of people having their lives transformed, the camera settles in a great room of a private home where many have gathered for a meal. The camera focuses on a Roman soldier. His eyes are wet with tears. He unbuckles his sword, hands it to Peter, and falls to his knees. Peter doesn't look down on his former enemy; he reaches down, pulls him up, into a loving embrace.

Here the gospel is proclaimed without a single word spoken.

In that hug, Peter shows him what the resurrection looks like in real-time. He repeats the message of the empty tomb. "The one who was dead is now alive. Where there was weeping, there is now joy."

In that sacred space—somewhere between mercy and grace—the Church comes alive.

Outside of my own family, nearly everyone from that first Sunday is gone. According to the books on church growth, that might look like failure. But what if this church was meant to grow exactly like the garden it was planted in? Always evolving, always shifting from one season to the next.

​In our garden, some plants bloom for a season then die off, leaving behind nutrients for whatever comes next. Others scatter seeds in the wind, that take root in fields we may never see.

​There’s a sacred truth found in the soil beneath our feet. A holy reminder of our Easter hope: In the darkness of the earth, God is constantly bringing new life from seeds buried long ago.

Our Easter reading comes from the gospel of John. This is the second part of the story. The stone has already been rolled away. Peter and John have already raced to the tomb and discovered their friend’s body is gone.

When everyone else returns home, one brave soul stays behind in the garden searching for answers to a mystery that has echoed throughout time.

​Of course we were just as surprised as he was because, again, the party wasn't until Friday and it was Tuesday. He was three days early. 

​Since he made the trip, and it was St. Patrick’s Day, we invited him in, poured him a Guinness and fed him a late dinner. That's what good hosts and good friends are supposed to do, right?

Over the last month, Psalm 23 has been our roadmap for Lent. We’ve rested in "green pastures" and navigated the "dark valley." And, of course, leaned on God’s guidance every step of the way. 

Today, the scenery shifts. The metaphor matures. God stops being just a Shepherd, and becomes a Host. We aren't just sheep anymore; we are Honored Guests. Instead of leading us places, God welcomes us home, cracks open a Guinness, and invites us to sit at the table.

But here’s the thing, God’s banquet isn't happening in the back deck with friends. Here's what the fifth verse has to tell us:

As I’ve been saying all along this Psalm is intensely personal. Any one of us could write our name into. It could be talking about the person in the casket or the pews, and the weight of this promise holds true.

I believe the power and beauty of this psalm is that it offers us a bridge of hope when the ground beneath us has completely given way.


Now, some translations call this space, the “valley of the shadow of death” while others call it, “the darkest valley.” Either way the geography is familiar. We’ve all hiked that terrain. The dark night of the soul where the shadows feel more substantial than the shepherd.

The landscape the poet describes is the wadi. This is an Aramaic word for the narrow ravines that cut through the Judean wilderness where the rock walls tower so high they literally squeeze the light out. If you’ve ever hiked "The Narrows" in Zion National Park, you know what I’m talking about.

The Narrows (pictured above)  is a cold, meandering canyon where the shadows are heavy and the footing is treacherous even for a skilled hiker.

That’s the wadi. A dark, narrow, dangerous space the Shepherd takes us to on purpose.  Not as a detour or divine mistake. It’s part of the right path to the next pasture.

So when the shadows are pressing in on you, remember: you’re not lost. You’re exactly where the Shepherd is leading you.

Now, despite the countless times I’ve read this at a funeral, it wasn’t until this week that I noticed a grammatical shift that occurs. The first three verses talk about God.“He makes me lie down…He leads me…He restores my soul…”

When the darkness fall, the grammar shifts. The poet starts talking to God. “For you are with me.”

In the sunny green pasture, God is a caretaker. But in the dark valley, God becomes my closest companion.

The shift from “He” to “You” is the heartbeat of this psalm. You might be tempted to argue this poem was pointing to Jesus. I don’t know about that, but I suspect it was not the intent of the poet.

But there’s something comforting to know that “You” takes on flesh and blood. It becomes incarnate. And walks among us, leading us down the right path, home to where we first came.

That’s what love does. It comes to us, and walks with us. It cares for us, and protects us.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus uses this metaphor. He says,“I am the good shepherd…who has come so you might have life, and have it abundantly.” He tells his disciples, “My sheep know my voice, and they follow me.”

You see, Jesus knows the terrain of human suffering. He knows betrayal. He knows grief. He knows fear. But he also knows the way.

When we walk through the darkest valley, we walk a narrow path worn smooth by the feet of the One who says, “I am the light of the world, whoever walks with me will not walk in darkness.”

Now, here’s the thing about shadows. They only exist because there is a light source nearby. They are created when that light is being blocked by the very thing that scares you.

We can let all the darkness in our world today paralyze us. The fear of war, the fear of gun violence in our schools, the fear of losing all our savings because the lunatics have taken over the asylum.

We can give into the fear. Or we can trust to follow the right path of the Good Shepherd, who is our guiding light, whose rod and staff protect and lead the way.

Which brings up another, more personal reason I have avoided this psalm until now.

When I was young, this particular verse was used against me by teachers who believed corporal punishment was somehow holy. They used it as a license to hit me and other students for simply being kids. It was an abusive 'spare the rod' mentality that twisted a beautiful promise into a source of fear.

For most of my life, this verse didn’t bring comfort; it brought anxiety.

Maybe you know that feeling. Maybe you still carry the scars of a harsh, celestial headmaster waiting for you to mess up. I think it’s time we take back its original intent.

You see, a shepherd’s rod was used for defending the flock from threats. And his staff wasn’t for striking sheep. The curved hook was used to gently pull them back from danger.

The rod protects. The staff guides. These are tools of care, not punishment. They are part of God’s grace, not wrath.

Which means the Shepherd’s power is about protection, guidance, and a love strong enough to keep us safe and close. A love so powerful we can all declare, “I will fear no evil.”

I have my shepherd. And I have my flock. These two things matter. They give us hope. And remind us that we are never alone.

When the dark shadows creep over you, it’s easy to feel isolated, like you’re the only one suffering. I know what that’s like. I've walked that wadi more than once.

Remember the parable about the lost sheep?

How the shepherd goes looking for it, even if it means leaving the others on their own, in the wilderness. Jesus reminds us that the Shepherd never leaves a single sheep behind. But the parable also tells us that we have a flock to lean on.

Isn’t that the whole point of church?

You see, when the wadi gets narrow, sheep huddle so closely that one’s strength becomes another’s stability.

When your faith feels thin, someone else’s faith carries you. When I’m tired or my strength gives out, someone else steadies me as “I walk through the valley…”

We don’t walk into the wadi. We walk through it. These long, dark shadows aren’t our final destination. We don’t stay here.

Which is why I chose this psalm for Lent. A season where we willingly enter the valley to examine the parts of ourselves that need healing or transformation.

But we don’t dwell in the wilderness. The shepherd is leading us to where a table and feast await.

So, if you find yourself in a dark valley, whether it’s a personal crisis, spiritual drought, or emotional shadow—don’t fear. You’re not alone. God is with you. And so is this flock.

​So lean into the wool of the person beside you. Let their prayers and presence hold you up when the ground below gives out.

I know this trek is daunting. The walls of the canyon are high. The path can feel restrictive.

​But God isn’t just watching you from a safe distance.

Our Shepherd is right here in the ravine with you, leading you safely home to a table that has been prepared just for you.

As we finally made our way home in the fading twilight, I took notice of the giant redwood that towers beside our house (pictured above). In its silhouette, I noticed a couple of its massive branches had grown outward.

If you squint your eyes a little, the tree seems to be in the shape of a cross. How apropos for a house church! This was another startling reminder that the symbols of our faith are not just cold artifacts. They’re woven into the very fabric of creation.

Moving slowly through the wilderness of Lent, we are able to remember that we are also moving closer to the cross of Good Friday. That cross, considered to be one of the most brutal ways the Roman Empire controlled their subjects, tells us something remarkable about how God, humans, and nature are interconnected.

Think about it, one beam is rooted in the earth as it reaches up to heaven. The other beam stretches outward across the horizon, holding that space between you and me. In the middle is Jesus with his arms wide open, pouring God’s love out upon all of creation.

While you might want to rush through your 40 day fast and feast, I hope that you’ll give yourself permission to slow down a little. Spend some time out in nature, in what I like to call “God’s therapy room.”

​Step outside. Wiggle your feet in the grass. Dig your fingers into the soil. Sit back and notice the sky, the trees, the small holy moments happening all around you. Listen to the birds, the wind, and the sweet, soft voice that whispers, “This is for you.”