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.”

Of all the Ten Commandments, taking a day of Sabbath rest is one most of us break with little remorse. We are a culture of workaholics. We tell ourselves if you’re not busy, you’re not important.

I am guilty of working on my days off. We all do, because you got to get things done while you got the time.

I’m not complaining but I actually spent my birthday cleaning the house and doing some serious yard work to get everything ready for our party. It didn’t seem like a lot, until the next morning I woke up with a back ache. I could chalk it up to age. But really, I should’ve jus taken the day off and chill like I had planned.

We live in a world that treats exhaustion as a status symbol. It’s that “No pain, no gain” mentality we’ve built ourselves on.

I think there’s a part of all of us that’s addicted to the grind; even when it’s grinding us into dust. I wonder what this poet was going through to write this psalm about a shepherd whose job is to make sure the sheep are cared for.

Was he inspired by the Belgian Shepherd, a breed used by Navy SEALs … because their drive never shuts off. 

Commonly known as a Malinois, this dog doesn't just "go for a walk"; it patrols. It doesn't "play fetch"; it executes a mission. Left to their own devices, these dogs will run until their heart explodes believing world will collapse if they aren't on high alert.

I have a friend who has a Malinois  named Bree. When she gets too wound up, they have to put her in her crate and cover it with a blanket to calm her down. They call it “enforced rest.” Which feels like what this psalm is talking about.

Notice it doesn’t say God’s sending us a calendar invite to kick it in green pastures. It says God leads us there. And makes us lie down. Enforced rest! Without it, we’d work ourselves to death.

Now there are four conditions that must be met before a sheep will lie down:

• They must be free from fear.
• Free from friction with others in the flock.
• Free from nagging pests and parasites.
• And free from hunger.

If even one of those is off, the sheep will stay on its feet—tense, alert, and eventually exhausted. Does that sound familiar?

Many of us have trouble sleeping because the news has you constantly on-edge. Maybe there’s unresolved anger keeping your up at night. Or maybe you’re being eaten alive by those small but relentless pests; like the constant buzzing of notifications, the biting fear of missing out. Maybe you’re physically hungry because food is becoming too expensive.

The Shepherd knows an exhausted sheep is a vulnerable sheep. So, God makes us lie down. Enforced rest.

I’m starting to believe God uses our “stressors" to bring us to the end of ourselves, until the only thing left to do is collapse into the pasture of God’s peace. And be refreshed in the still waters of God’s grace.

In Hebrew, that phrase, still waters, literally means, "waters of rest." Growing up around water, I learned to swim at an early age. Part of that training was learning not to panic if you accidently fall in. Not so with sheep. If you’ve ever gone swimming fully dressed, you’d know why. Wool soaks up water like a sponge. So sheep avoid the rapids and fast moving water, because if they accidentally fell in, they could drown within minutes.

Sheep know their limits. They need the water to be calm and the space to still before they will kneel down to drink. We, on the other hand, are always trying to drink from a firehose. And we wonder why we’re always thirsty!

Here’s the thing, there will always be strong rapids and white-water trying to pull us down. God doesn’t promise us a storm-free life. Even Jesus faced the wilderness, temptation, and chaos.

But when we find ourselves at the end of our rope, when we can no longer keep our heads above the white-water, our Shepherd leads us to rest, makes us lie down by the quiet pools where we can safely be refreshed without being swept away.

Now, there’s one more thing I want to mention about sheep. A danger they face called “casting.”

This happens when they nestle into a little hollow in the ground. As they move around to relax, their center of gravity shifts. And it’s common for them to roll onto their backs and unable to get up. The weight of their own wool traps them. If the shepherd doesn't find them and physically flip them over, they will  suffocate themselves and die.

Have you ever felt spiritually cast? We settle into our hollows of achievements, approval, or addictions then suddenly find ourselves stuck, looking at the sky, paralyzed. And like sheep, all we can do is cry out for help, hoping the Shepherd hears us before it’s too late.

Maybe you’re in one right now, wondering if God hears you, or  paying attention to your distress.

Jesus tells a parable about a shepherd who owns a hundred sheep. When one goes astray, this shepherd leaves the 99 to find it. Upon finding it, he rejoices.

Like Psalm 23, this parable highlights God’s immense love, care, and willingness to seek us out and bring us home. But there’s something more amazing hidden in this parable. The shepherd leaves the others in the wilderness, on their own,  trusting the sheep are exactly where they need to be.

The wilderness is where God leads those who dare to follow. It’s a time we spend in the grace and mercy of the Shepherd. That is the season of Lent, the 40 days we spend being refreshed and renewed.

Now the Judean wilderness isn’t like the lush, rolling green pastures of Scotland. The place is more like small patches of grass hidden in rocky shadows. The only way a sheep will know how to find them is to follow someone who knows where they are.

Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd. My sheep know my voice. They follow me.” This is still true today. To follow Jesus, is to learn to trust the One who went before us, who knows how God provides for us, and where true rest actually exist.

So, if you’re in a season of distress right now, feeling the weight of all that you carry, if your heart is pounding and your soul feels waterlogged, remember this: God isn’t asking you to "tough it out." God is inviting you to lie down. And when we ignore that invitation, God will find ways to make us rest.

We might think we can keep pushing ourselves to achieve more, to keep moving and keep straying out on our own until we drop. When we are only focused on proving our worth to others, we can’t hear God saying, "Stop. Rest. You’re just a thirsty sheep in a wet sweater. Lie down before you fall down and never get up."

Now one last thing about rest that is important for us to remember. When you allow yourself to be refreshed and restored by God, you become someone who can lead others to these green pastures and still waters. We become living testimonies to God’s goodness and glory. That’s the goal.

The Church shouldn't be another rushing torrent of noise or busyness. We are meant to be a place where people can come and actually lie down and find rest for their souls.

To quote Henri Nouwen, “Without solitude it is virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.” We need it. And we the church should be the first place to provide an oasis in the wilderness that God leads others to.

This week, I invite you to identify one area in your life where you are overwhelmed or anxious. Then imagine the Shepherd’s hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you down into the grass.

Don't fight or resist it or make an excuse to stay busy. Just accept God’s tender embrace, and lean into mercy and grace.

I think this is what Jesus means when he says, “Come to me, all who are weary, and you will find rest.”

​May you go to him, our Good Shepherd, The one who lays down his life for his sheep.