​Because when it comes to Jesus, how much do we actually know?

​We come here every week to learn about him, to pray in his name, and even try to live like him. And yet, so much of his life remains a holy mystery.

Last week as we entered the season of Epiphany, we talked about who we are — beloved children of God, named and claimed by divine love. Today, I want to take us one step deeper into that revelation. Not just who we are, but what we learn about ourselves by watching Jesus.

I have a feeling he wouldn’t mind us sharing what we know about him because it reveals something beautiful about us as well.

For some reason we get this baptism story numerous times in the church calendar. And every time we get it, I wonder what went on in Jesus’ life that led up to this moment. Given the historical data, most scholars agree this event happened roughly 30 years after his birth. So what happened in between?

The gospel of Luke gives us a birth story and one quick glance of a precocious 12-year-old holding an intense Q&A session with the Rabbis in the Temple. That’s it. Matthew skips over this stuff. The most he offers us is a visit from some stargazers a year or two after his birth.

There’s nothing about a teenage Jesus having weird emotional mood swings. Or him dealing with pimples and peer pressure. There are no stories about him trying to find the words to ask someone on a date. Or of him sulking in his bedroom wishing that “someone would just understand him.” And that’s probably a good thing.

I think if we knew those stories, Jesus might come off as a little too human for our comfort. But he was human. And yet he was more than just a man. As Jesus will discover, he’s God’s beloved son. And he’ll spend his short life revealing to himself and his community what that means.

In his book “Lamb. The gospel according to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal” author Christopher Moore offers us a playful, satirical look at a young, recently bar-mitzvahed Joshua--a.k.a Jesus—trying to figure out who he really is and what his life is meant to be about.

The young man is convinced the answers might lie with those mysterious Magi who showed up when he was a baby. So, he and his best friend Biff head out on a spiritual road trip to find them.

Not long into their journey, the two pals come across Joshua’s crazy cousin John, who, as far as they can tell, is drowning people in the river. They try to stay clear of him. But John sees and seizes his cousin, shoving him underwater.

Right there, in the middle of the splashing and the gasping for air, heaven opens. And voice speaks, revealing him to the world: “This is my Son, the beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

When he comes up from the water, everyone is starring at Joshua, but no one will tell him why. And so his mission continues.

Although it’s satire, it does remind us that Jesus is like us. Which suggests to me that we can be like him. Which means on any given day, God can reveal to the world who we really are: Beloved children. In whom, God is well pleased.

Again, we have no idea what Jesus did up to this point to earn that title. But what it would take for God to say that about one of us?

Or does it take anything? Maybe we’re born beloved. And maybe we just need to go out into the world to discover this truth for ourselves.

Christine Chakoian suggests, we’d do better starting off the new year not with resolutions we quickly abandon but by recommitting ourselves to our baptismal vows. To trust in the mercy of God, to renounce evil and turn away from sin, to walk with Christ, obeying his word and showing his love.

In other words, maybe this is the year to actually live faithfully to what we proclaim: That God is love. After all, “Jesus’ baptism didn’t end with him. It was only the beginning of the fulfillment of God’s promise to the world—a promise we are called to carry on in his name.” (Chakoian)

Like those standing on the banks of the Jordan, we are a part of his story. Perhaps the gospel writers jump over the early years to point us to the water, so we’re not fixated on Jesus’ human side, but focus instead on his divinity.

That's the part of him which awakens us to our truth and reveals our purpose, our calling: to be the human manifestation of God’s divine grace and love in all that we do. And we do this not just by proclaiming Jesus’ story but by living our own life in imitation of him.

As John the Evangelist put it, “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him” (1 John 4:9 ESV).

To live through Christ is to live into our own baptism where God affirms us, commissions us, and tells us to go and be fruitful.

It’s here, in the space between the baptismal font and heaven, God sends us into the world to make a difference.

To stand up to the injustices that are being committed on our streets. To place ourselves between those who are being cruelly persecuted and their abusers. To humble ourselves before others, to serve and not be served.

This is the call of the church.

This is what it means to be, in the flesh, the kind of love that transforms foes into friends, that turns weapons of war into tools for peace and prosperity for all.

It might sound impossible given the darkness that has come over this world. But Christ came in as the light and the darkness could not overcome it. 

The thing is, God doesn’t need us to be perfect. But we have to be willing to participate. To accept our baptism and put it to good use, ministering and manifesting God’s glory in all the ways we love God, love others, and serve both.

We set this as our vision for the church from day one because we believe this is the most important thing we are called to do. And we do it, knowing and trusting faithfully that God is leading us, watching over us, caring for us always.

Because the way I see it, God needs humans like you and me, just like God needed a very human Jesus to put flesh and blood on God’s divine glory for all the world to see and receive.

Jesus’ baptism is an epiphany moment in that it tells the world he belongs to God. This is the same truth about us. Our baptism is our reminder of who we are and to whom we belong.

Jesus said it like this, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another.”

Love is our outward sign of our baptismal promise. Our way of becoming a divine revelation in the world of the God who has knitted us together in love. As we reconnect with our own baptisms, we remember that we too are anointed and sealed into the body of Christ.

Each one of us is a thread in this divine tapestry God is weaving. No one string is better than the other.

We are all given the same relationship with the Father that Jesus had. We are all given the same power of the Holy Spirit that emboldened Jesus to enter into our pain and enlighten us with truth.

And we are all called to bear the same responsibility giving ourselves completely, just as Jesus gave his life for you and me. 

So, let’s go out into the world as God’s beloved sons and daughters, to continue Jesus’ earthly ministry; longing for the day we can hear him say to us:

“Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world…

When I was hungry you fed me. When I was thirsty you gave me drink.

When I was a stranger, you let me in. When I was naked you clothed me.

When I was sick you comforted me. And when I was in prison you visited me.

​For every time you do stuff like this in my name, I am well pleased.”

Ephesians is a letter written as a call to Christian unity and wholeness. It was sent to the churches in Ephesus to remind them of their identity and who they are to God. That identity, as Paul notes, is this holy adoption that God did.
 
I can still remember that time I really read these verses and had an epiphany of my own. One that was divine, profound, life changing. And yet, embarrassingly simple: For whatever reason, God chose me.
 
I am loved. I am valued. I am blessed all because God adopted me as a child in Christ. And what’s true for me, is also true for you. And everyone else. Here’s just one reason why that matters. When I feel alone, or when I beat myself up, these words remind me that I have been chosen by God; redeemed by Christ; and anointed by the Holy Spirit.
 
This isn’t something I invented to make myself feel better when I mess up. As Paul points out, this was God’s idea, built into the foundation of world. And that idea wasn’t a concept. It was and still is Christ. This epiphany was Paul’s biggest message.
 
The phrase “en Christo”—in Christ—appears 216 times in his letters alone. Richard Rohr calls it “Paul’s codeword for the gracious, participatory experience of salvation.”

This isn’t to suggest Christ was something God had to create to fix a mistake in universe…(that idea we call original sin). Christ is a part of the original design that keep us connected and close to God.
 
My great epiphany taught me that God chose us long before we chose God. We are all in Christ, whether we know or not.

Again, this is less about being rescued from our sins, and more about waking up to what Paul already knew—that God has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing, so sin longer has the final word. God does. God choses us to bless us in it.
 
Like I have said before, spiritual blessings are not material ones. A person can have great wealth and still be spiritually bankrupt, lacking joy, peace, wisdom, contentment, or a right relationship with God.
 
We are living in a moment when the stock market can surge, bank accounts can grow, and homes can be fill with the latest upgrades and still depression and anxiety are still at an all-time high. We have never had more access to information and convenience, and yet so many people remain exhausted, lonely, and spiritually undernourished.
 
The thing is, God isn’t offering us better possessions. God is offering us deeper participation and connection with the entire universe. A life rooted not in what we accumulate, but in who we belong to.

Henri Nouwen described, “The great struggle of the spiritual life is to accept that we are loved.” Why does that seem so hard to grasp?
 
I think too many of us spend our lives chasing things worth far less than the spiritual blessings already given to us in Christ. We chase status, approval, likes, followers. We blend in to stand out. We shrink ourselves just to belong.

Obtaining wealth, being a part of things and enjoying a good life isn’t inherently wrong. But God’s dream for us is so much bigger.
 
Before the foundations of the earth were laid, God settled on you as the one to love. God didn’t just choose you for the team. God built the team around you.

You are not a surprise to God. No matter what you’ve done, you are still and always will be God’s beloved.
 
Instead of throwing in the towel and giving up on us, God came to be with us, as one of us, in Christ…in a small, vulnerable baby born in occupied land and threatened since day one, just to love us.

Like Nouwen pointed out, “If you dare to believe that you are beloved before you are born, you may suddenly realize that your life is very, very special.”

All because we are in Christ, we are redeemed—made holy, blameless, and whole.
 
Which leads me to the last part of my epiphany: Because I am in Christ means I no longer need to live trapped by guilt or shame. And neither do you need to live that way as well.

British journalist and atheist Marghanita Laski made an amazing confession on live TV. She said, “What I envy most about you Christians is your forgiveness. I have no one to forgive me.”
 
In her words sits Paul’s great epiphany: That in Christ, God has already done this—for her, for us, for everyone—“according to the riches of grace that God has lavished upon us all.”

This grace is the most valuable blessing of all. It’s not to fix a problem, but to create something better than what we find ourselves faced with.
 
Grace is the main thread that is woven throughout the entire scriptures. And it’s just as important today as it was when Israel rejected God. Or when Jesus hung on the cross and said, “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they’re doing.”
 
I like to think about it this way: without grace, sick days wouldn’t exist. Being late to an appointment would be unforgivable sin. And every bad thing you ever did would forever define who you perceive yourself to be. 

Yet, because of grace, we can experience true Christlike transformation. And become, as I love to say, little Christs in the world.
 
That is our calling, our role in this holy family.
 
Years ago, I gave our church a mantra for the new year. Today, I’d like to give it to you again to take with you into 2026. Say this out loud: I am a beloved child of God, and I am worth more than any earthly treasure.
 
God doesn’t just choose to love us, God loves us for a purpose. That purpose is to be the sacred gift of Christ to one another.

​We have to carry love and bring redemption into every situation and space we find ourselves. And this is where our faith plays an important role.
 
As Christians, I believe our reason to have faith in Christ is so we can produce the faith of Christ. Faith that allows us to see others with his eyes, to love with his heart. Jesus taught us how to see an enemy as a friend, a stranger as family. When our eyes are on Jesus, our hands and hearts are quick to imitate his.
 
Jesus, like Paul, reveals this important truth: we are God’s beloved children, knitted together by love in this great tapestry of life. Which means we are a family of forgiveness and reconciliation.

A people called to heal wounds and tear down walls; to seek peace and stop wars; stand with the oppressed and demand justice and fairness for everyone.
 
I think this is what it means to live in Christ as Christ lives in us. And if or when that seems hard to do, whisper to yourself: I am a beloved child of God. I am worth more than any earthly treasure.
 
Hopefully that will remind you and empower you like it does me, to do the hard and necessary work of life.

So as we move into the New Year, don’t worry so much about what you’ve done. Focus instead on what you can do…starting right now, knowing what God has already done for you in Christ.

From that grateful place, I believe God will keep transforming you in the most unexpected ways—awakening epiphanies in you, so that others might discover who they are…in Christ. 
 
 
Work Cited:
Nouwen, Henri. You Are The Beloved: Daily Meditations for Spiritual Living. Convergent Books: 2017.
Rohr, Richard. The Universal Christ: How A Forgotten Reality Can Change Everything We See, Hope For, and Believe. Convergent Books: 2019.

Three days ago, we celebrated the birth of Jesus—a holy act that didn’t just mark a moment in history, but it inaugurated a whole new movement. A movement where God begins reshaping the very nature of what it means to be human. And with that new life, Paul says, comes a new wardrobe.
 
Now, as I was having coffee with my dad this morning, he kept saying he had to go get dressed for church. Apparently, they do things differently than Anamesa where pajamas are an acceptable part of the dress code. Still, this isn't the wardrobe that Paul’s writing about. He paints a vivid picture of what it looks like to live as someone who is fully clothed in Christ.
 
It’s not what we wear, but how we wear it out.
 
Like many of you, I unwrapped a few new clothing items this Christmas. New shirts. New styles. Including this cardigan. I love it. It’s a new fit for me, but I think I actually pull it off. Or so my wife tells me.

But if I wore it out to dinner, I doubt anyone would notice anything different about me. That’s the thing about material changes—they rarely leave a lasting impression.
 
Paul isn’t asking us to put on a new sweater or upgrade our look. He’s inviting us to make an inward change—to put on the heart of Christ and then wear it out into the world.

He uses clothing as a metaphor for a transformed life. One that sheds old habits and takes on a new way of being—marked not by vices, but by virtues.
 
Now, I have no idea what kind of clothes Jesus wore. Outside of being swaddled as a baby and having his tunic gambled over at his death, the gospels tend to focus on his inner life.

When I read Paul’s list—compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience—it’s impossible not to see Jesus in each word. You won’t find this list of the things in fashion magazines. But you will see Jesus modeling each one in public.
 
We know the stories. Jesus hears the cries of the people—and he’s moved with compassion. He meets people right where they are. He heals the sick. Restores the broken. Casts out demons. Feeds the hungry. Gives sight to the blind. And as far-fetched as it sounds, he even raises the dead.

If we want to live into Christ—Jesus shows us the way. If we wear his heart —his compassion will be ours as well.

What I have learned, and wrote extensively in my book, Shit Jesus Says, once we really begin to know Jesus, and walk his Way, our old ways stop fitting.
 
I think that is the main point of salvation. If we’re going to follow Christ, we have to put on his tunic. Wear his sandals. Walk his walk. Paul urges the church to be intentional about this—to set our minds on the way of Christ rather than the way of the world.
 
Years ago, it was popular in Christian Evangelical circles to wear those colorful rubber bracelets stamped with—What Would Jesus Do? Given what’s happening these days within the church, it’s clear these bracelets have fallen out of fashion. But the truth behind them remains.
 
If we could actually do what Jesus did, then maybe children wouldn’t go hungry or be afraid to go to school. The health and well-being of the community might take priority over more tax cuts for the wealthy. Paul seems to agree.
 
It’s hard to look at this list and not shake your head at where we have strayed. I think we could all benefit from asking ourselves, Am I doing what Jesus has done for me?  This is true for individuals as well as the church as a whole.
 
Because Jesus has shown you compassion—be compassionate. Because Jesus has forgiven you—be generous with your forgiveness. Because Jesus has borne your burdens—help carry someone else’s.

Or to say it differently, if you want a more peaceful world—be peace. If you want healthier relationships—initiate harmony. If someone you know is struggling, don’t leave them stranded because God didn’t leave you stranded.
 
You might know of this common practice in Alaska where people pick up hitchhikers—no matter what because being stranded in that environment is often more dangerous than helping a stranger.

In a vast wilderness that is sparsely populated, you might be the only car that comes by in a day. People stop and help because they know on any given day, they too could need a ride.
 
Some people call that karma. In the church we call it Christlikeness. To take the blessing of God that is in you, to be a blessing for others.
 
In his 15th-century classic The Imitation of Christ, Thomas à Kempis argued true spiritual clothing is found in inner transformation, prioritizing God’s approval over worldly status.

I agree with this simply because I’ve been criticized for some of the things I have worn. Shirts mostly. From novelty t-shirts to my clerical wardrobe, my fashion choices always seem to offend someone somewhere.
 
But again, it’s not what we wear on the outside that matters. Or how righteous we wish to be seen. It’s our response to the criticism, which begins in the heart.
 
Jesus had no problem pointing out religious hypocrisy. Calling them white-washed tombs that appear beautiful on the outside but inside are filled with death and decay. He didn’t do it to be judgmental or mean.

​Jesus wants us all to be more mindful of our hearts, to look within ourselves as a way to change for the better. And so, he directs our attention inward before we look outward. Jesus knows that when our hearts are changed, everything else will follow.
 
Clothing ourselves in Christ is not about personal piety or political posture. It’s about how we relate to one another. These virtues—compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience—are communal virtues. They shape life together. They are the strings God uses to weave us all together.
 
The church is called the Body of Christ for a reason. We are part of him. His heart becomes our heart. His hands become our hands. We may not always be the best dressed, but when we live in imitation of Christ—when we wear his love into the world—we become part of God’s blessing to others.
 
Here in Anamesa, we are called to be the visible presence of Christ’s love. To wear it as naturally as our own skin. Perhaps this is what it means for the word of Christ to dwell in us richly—to let love shape who we are, inside and out, so that harmony becomes possible.
 
Jesus calls us into the space between us and them and invites us to fill it with God’s glory. So, as Paul writes: “Whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus.” That’s not a burden. It’s an invitation. An invitation to take inventory of our lives and ask: Is my life a blessing to someone else?
 
If you don’t know the answer—when you’re unsure—just look to Jesus. Are you doing what he did for you?  Is God’s love becoming incarnate in you, given flesh and blood for the care of others? Just as God has blessed the world through him—God continues to bless the world through us.
 
So let’s go in his name with the peace of Christ adorning your heart. And be thankful. Because God’s love—one size fits all—still wears beautifully on anyone willing to put it on.

The fourth gospel describes this gift like this: “The Word became flesh and lived among us.”  What shows up, on Christmas, in Jesus, isn’t a new religion or a tidy set of beliefs to memorize. It’s life itself. Breathing, wiggling, stubbornly hopeful life.

The kind of life that wakes us up from the inside out.

When Jesus enters the story, God’s life enters with him— with a light spilling into the darkest corners. It’s not reserved for a few or fenced in by belief systems. It’s offered to everyone. Everywhere. Right here. Right now.  That’s the gift. God isn’t distant and abstract. Instead, God comes to us, moved into the neighborhood. In a vulnerable, small and swaddled baby.

Now let that sink in. God comes to us, needing care, needing arms. God trusts us, the goodness of our hearts, to do what’s being asked.

And what are we being asked to do? To be the gift of presence.

This is important to me. You see, I’m not a great shopper when it comes to buying gifts for my wife. She knows it, and as long as Macy’s takes returns, she has accepted that in me.

The nativity story reminds me that my taste in sweaters doesn’t matter. The most meaningful gifts aren’t the ones in the box, but the person who is holding it. They come wrapped in fleece jackets and scuffed shoes. They come labelled with calloused hands and gentle eyes. Inside them, you’ll find wounds and wisdom and a willingness to show up again and again, day-after-day.

We often think our gifts need to be something big and impressive or at least Instagram-worthy. But the presence God tends to trust are the quiet ones we often overlook in ourselves.

Your patience. Your gentleness. Your way of noticing who’s being left out. Your humor that shows up right when things feel heavy. Your courage to sit with someone in pain without trying to fix them. These aren’t talents. These are pieces of your heart. Parts of you that only you carry.

The ancient poet Hafiz wrote, “I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.” This sounds exactly like what I hear God whispering to us, “I trust you with my light. Let it shine.”

So as we stand on the edge of Christmas morning, I invite you to ask yourself: What is the gift only I can offer?

Like I mentioned, it might be your laughter—or the way you listen, or how you sit with someone until they feel seen. Maybe it’s your faithfulness—the way you keep showing up, even when your own life feels heavy. Maybe it’s your creativity, your wisdom, your kindness, your grit. We all have a gift that can be unwrapped every day. God isn’t asking us to be impressive or perfect. Just present. And willing to be here now with a heart open to love.

When we look at the manger, we see the pattern for our lives. God could have come in power, in glory. But instead, God came small. And God came close. God came as a presence that heals, holds, redeems, and loves no matter what.

When we show up offering our gifts—our presence—we become a holy and sacred space for each other. A place where love can show up because you keep showing up.

As Jesus will grow up to show us most of God’s work happens in ordinary people, in the places where no one is taking pictures. That’s where Jesus sends us—into life itself. Taking a slow walk with someone who’s grieving. Leaving a bag of groceries at a doorstep. Offering a prayer on someone’s behalf. Choosing to forgive when you could have chosen something else.

These are the small openings where Christmas sneaks in. Where Christ is born in us for the healing and salvation of the world.

We all play a part in the nativity story. God has called us to be like Mary, giving birth to God’s incarnate love. And to be like Joseph, whose quiet obedience makes room for peace to enter the world. And God has called us to be like Jesus, giving flesh and blood to Christ’s light.

You are God’s gift. Not because of what you do. But because God’s love chose to take shape in you, too.

So may this holy night invite you to unwrap the gift of your own life.

May you offer your tenderness where the world is aching. May you offer your courage where someone feels small. And may you step out into the night—with the light of hope, love, joy, peace, and Christ breaking through the darkness; so the world can see that our Emmanuel isn’t just a promise. It’s a practice. And presence.

It’s God with us and God within us becoming gifts to one another. Merry Christmas, beloveds. May love be born in you again tonight.

Merry Christmas

​Like his Old Testament namesake, Joseph is a dreamer.

But his dreams are anything but comforting. The first one he has we learn he’s going to be a father to a kid who isn’t his. Now, Matthew gives us three more dreams. They're less visions of hope and more  like nightmares to dread.
 
In the first, he’s told that King Herod wants his child dead. And Joseph knows Herod has the power—and the cruelty—to make it happen. What this dream tells us is that the Christmas story isn’t all shiny and sentimental. It’s political. It’s dangerous. It’s soaked in fear, risk, and courage.
 
Joseph isn’t given visions of sugarplums. He’s given commands and escape routes. “Get up. Take the child and his mother and flee…”

​And that’s exactly what he does. And just like that, the Holy Family becomes a refugee family, fleeing those who want to harm them.
 
Now, put yourself in Joseph’s sandals. You’re young, poor, and responsible for two more lives. You hustle to grab whatever supplies you can get your hands on before anyone discovers what you’re doing.
 
The mother of your newborn is sleep deprived, postpartum, terrified. And your son is restless, defenseless, and vulnerable born into a world where kings harm children just to protect their own power.
 
Frightened, confused, and scared, your body tenses every time a soldier passes by.  You don’t know who you can trust, or who will turn you in. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder: where’s this peace the angels had promised?
 
Scholar Robert Gundry suggests it’s already on its way—because the one who will usher peace into the world has escaped. Peace is coming from the most unlikely place, and the most unlikely king but we will have to wait.
 
Now, put yourself in Mary’s shoes. You’re a young girl who doesn’t have her family around to teach you how to be a mother but instinctively you know you will do anything to protect your child.

Imagine waiting for peace to come, while having to hide in a foreign land, where you don’t know anyone and you don’t speak the language. Yet Mary trusts God—just as she did the night she learned she was pregnant. In that trust, she will find hope, love, joy—and peace.
 
When Mary says yes, she might not know where the road will lead, but she knows who walks with her as she carries God’s incarnate love close to her breast. Somehow, that is enough to steady her heart as they seek refuge in Egypt.
 
Advent is a time we look within our darkest moments for faith that will see us safely through.
 
The faith we see in the Holy Family is the same carried by so many families today who are forced to flee their homeland because staying has become more dangerous than leaving.

​Thankfully for us, Egypt doesn’t turn them away. Their role in Israel’s history is redeemed for a moment, fulfilling what the prophet Hosea had said, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
 
Advent reminds us that God doesn’t abandon people in their fear, but God meets us there with an open heart and hands. Jesus calls us to do the same for each other. To see families fleeing violence and war not as strangers to hate, but as neighbors to love and care for while we wait for the peace the angels promised.
 
Jesus knows what it is like to be displaced. To be hunted. To be unwelcome. He knows the cruelty humans are capable of inflicting on one another.

And yet, through it all, he embodies God’s peace—not by taking up the sword, but by choosing love and mercy; by practicing compassion and kindness; by welcoming the poor, the oppressed, and the aliens residing in the land.
 
Fr. Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries, says, “There is no force in the world better able to alter anything from its course than love.”  Fear won’t do it. Neither will domination, outrage, or violence. Just love.

While king’s like Herod transmitted fear through violence. Jesus transforms it through love. And by his love, God’s shalom—God’s perfect wholeness, healing, restoration—is woven into life, into us.
 
Joseph will go on to have two more dreams—one leading the family back toward Israel. And another that sends them farther north, into Galilee, to a small, overlooked town called Nazareth.

 For nearly thirty years, the world will wait, while God hides the Prince of Peace in obscurity. Scripture is almost silent about those years, but the silence itself tells us something important. God continues to work in places that seem hidden to us.
 
This story tells us, if God can protect this child through danger, displacement, and even obscurity, then God can meet you in whatever mess you’re carrying today.

Peace doesn’t always arrive all at once. Sometimes it grows quietly, beneath the surface, while we wait. But again, this is where we find our faith hiding in the deepest, darkest depths of our soul.
 
We are given candles to lite at Advent, so we can see in the darkness, and find the truth that through the birth of Jesus, peace has come. And through the mystery of his resurrection, peace will come again. But it’s in the space between Christmas and Easter that we find ourselves still longing for what the angels promised.
 
Joseph reminds us that faith doesn’t always come with clarity. He receives dreams, not a map or plan. And like Mary, he trusts God enough to act before everything makes sense.

Joseph never speaks a recorded word in Scripture, yet he keeps responding. He listens. He trusts. And he moves. He just keeps saying yes. And somehow, his quiet obedience makes room for peace to enter the world.
 
Joseph isn’t asked to save the world. He’s just called to protect the One who will; the one God has placed in his care. By his faithfulness, peace is preserved. And God’s Shalom keeps moving forward—shaping the world into God’s kingdom.
 
That’s the gift Jesus names when he says, “My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).

The world’s peace is temporary, conditional, transactional. It depends on circumstances lining up just right. Jesus’ peace is relational. Durable. Resurrection-shaped. It doesn’t depend on everything going right. It depends on staying rooted in love, and protecting that love, even when the worldly kings say otherwise. 

So, we ought not look to the world for God’s shalom—the world cannot give us this kind of peace. But Jesus can. And Jesus does.
 
And here’s the thing to remember: Jesus shows us this peace not by escaping the world, but by loving it fiercely, generously, inclusively, without conditions.

Jesus calls us to be people who choose love when fear is easier. And to welcome others and make room for them as neighbors and family no matter who they are or where they’re from.
 
As we face the chaos in our world, our communities and homes, let us remember it was Jesus who said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9).

If we want God’s peace in our lives, let us faithfully follow the One who blesses it.
 
By saying yes, our response allows us to become the light of God’s glory. And to shine brightly, even into the darkness spaces, so others can find hope, experience love, express joy, and be filled with peace that surpasses all understanding.
 
As you head back, out into the noise and the rush and the unfinished list of things to get done, may these words from Paul steady your steps: “Rejoice. Be made complete. Be comforted. Live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you” (c.f. 2 Cor. 13:11). 

We first meet John at the beginning of Advent—the long-awaited miracle child of Zechariah and Elizabeth. Like his father, John becomes a priest.

But his ministry isn’t inside the Temple. It’s outside—in the wilderness, of all places. There among the wanderers, the wounded, and the ones society writes off, John calls people to repent— to wake up and be cleansed of their old ways of thinking and doing — and step into something new.
 
Now we find him somewhere completely different—in prison. Because a deeply insecure king, didn’t appreciate John’s critique of him, so he was arrested.
 
When John’s disciples visit him, they share news about Jesus. We don’t know what they said, but whatever it was, it shook John’s faith. The same man who had publicly pointed at Jesus and said, “This is the One,” now sits in the darkness not so sure.

This can happen when your joy feels like it’s been stuffed in a sack and dragged away by the Grinch.
 
But it shouldn’t surprise us how easy it can be to miss the Messiah. I mean, God slipped into the world as a baby unnoticed. And we still have trouble seeing the divine among us.

But in all fairness, if I sent you to find the Messiah, what would you look for? A miracle worker? A warrior? A TED-talking influencer with millions of followers?
 
I think one of the problems is Jesus doesn’t fit the job description. We often miss Christ among us because we’re usually looking for the wrong messiah. (Rohr) We want one who blesses our plans and spites our enemies. But Jesus isn’t that kind of Savior.
 
So when John’s disciples ask him, “Are you the One?” Jesus doesn’t tweet his accomplishments or send out his press secretary to embellish the truth. He just says, “Look around. And go tell John what you’ve seen.”

And the list is extensive: The blind are seeing. The lame are walking. The outcasts are coming back. The dead are living. And the poor are finally receiving good news.
 
Jesus is basically telling them, wherever life is being stitched back together, wherever love is shared—you’ll see who Jesus is, what salvation is about. And wherever Christ is, joy abounds.
 
Scripture is full of examples: all those folks who ran off rejoicing after Jesus healed them, disobeying his orders not to tell anyone; the numerous psalms that talk about creation rejoicing all around us; the prophet Isaiah wrote, “The mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

All this tells me that in the space between our suffering and healing, there is joy because God is here with us; even in the darkness that always seems to come before the dawn.
 
Now, another reason I think we miss seeing joy around us is we tend to confuse it with happiness. They might look similar, but they’re woven from two very different threads. The Bible speak about happiness less than a dozen times. But joy, in one form or another, appears over 430 times.

Happiness is a mood; joy is a presence. Happiness visits. It comes and goes. But Joy abides even when we can’t see it or feel it.
 
Jesus asks, “What are you looking for? What were you hoping to find? Someone who bends with the wind? Someone wrapped in soft robes living the good life?”

The thing is, we tend to look for Jesus, and joy, in all the wrong places: like among the rich and famous; and politicians whose opinions shift with whatever’s trending.
 
If you want to find Jesus, Rohr says, “Don’t look up. Look down.” Look at the lowly. Not the wealthy. Look at the one’s you try to avoid, not the one’s you want to emulate. This is where Jesus keeps relocating himself. And wherever Jesus is you will find joy.

Saint Francis knew this. Mother Teresa knew this. Dr. King knew this. They didn’t show up for the poor out of guilt. They showed up because that’s where Christ keeps showing up.
 
Christ’s joy is in the immigrant looking for a safe place to land. In the addict begging for one more chance. You’ll find Christ’s joy is in the LGBTQ+ teen who wants to dance without fear. And in the neighbor whose politics piss you off. Christ’s joy is in you, even when it seems fleeting.
 
Which brings to another problem. I think we spend too much time looking inward to find our joy. And when we can’t easily find it, we’re left feeling empty, or like the Grinch who wants to rob others of their joy.
 
Jesus says, look outward. Pay attention. What do you see? He wants us to rejoice together like the Whos did in Whoville. Joy was never meant to be a solo act. It’s a part of God that runs through everything. But it often hides in the very places we resist, waiting to rise whenever love gets a chance. Which tells me that whenever love becomes visible, joy becomes tangible, within our reach.
 
Facing his own darkness, Jesus tells his followers, “I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be complete” (John 15:11).

This isn’t something we manufacture. Joy is the Christ Light within us, illuminating from us. And all around us. But this can be hard to see when our light is dimmed, imprisoned in our darkness. And I think this is why we’re given this reading for our Advent message.
 
In the days when life doesn’t seem so merry and bright, when we find ourselves questioning our faith or wondering if we have what it takes to make it to Christmas, Jesus offers, us this assurance: While John was the most blessed among those born, “even the least in the kingdom is greater than he.”
 
Joy is in you because joy is a part of God …who is a part of you. All of creation can rejoice because everything God creates carries divine DNA. 
 
Which is why the Grinch couldn’t steal Christmas. Or rob The Who’s of their joy. They knew it wasn’t about decorations and delicacies. It’s about the One who weaves us together in love. And that love isn’t something you can swipe from a house. Or steal from someone. Because joy, like love, resides in a heart divinely stitched into God’s own.
 
As we look at these lights, let us remember that we’re a part of God’s heart. The one that gives life and purpose to Christ’s body. As parts of that body, we aren’t just called to sing “Joy to the World.” We are called to bring joy into the world in all the ways we love God, love others and serve both.
 
As we wait for Christmas to come, we can rejoice, no matter what, because Christ has already come. 
 
So let’s take our light out into the world to illuminate the darkness until even the grinchiest Grinches around us rejoice. And their voices join ours in a heavenly choir that sings “Let earth receive her king.”
 

​Work Cited:
Bartlett, David L., Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word: Year A, Vol. 1. (Westminster John Knox: 2010)
Maliaman, Irene. Expectations. December 5, 2011 (Accessed on December 10, 2022).
Rohr, Richard. The Qualities To Look For. December 14, 2012  (Accessed on December 10, 2022).

Luke begins his Christmas story, not with shepherds or a virgin host, but with two elderly folks named Zechariah and Elizabeth. Luke tells us they are “righteous before God.” Meaning they’re good people; faithful souls trying to hold it together while the world around them rips apart at the seams.

For decades these two have been praying for a child. And for decades God has been silent. And not just in their home. It seems God has been silent everywhere. Even the prophets have gone quiet as Rome’s voice grows louder. The people pray for help. But God seems to be missing in action. I’m sure some of us here know what that feels like.

There’s a story of a widow who prayed every day for some kind of sign that would tell her God still saw her. Yet nothing ever happened—no angels, no booming voice, just silence day-after-day.

Then one morning she opened her mailbox and found a piece of junk mail with “You are loved” scribbled in Sharpie on the front. Whether it was from God or the mail man, those three little words completely renewed a faith she had all but abandoned.

Maybe you know that feeling of praying for something for so long that you stop expecting it to ever happen. Which makes this story of Zechariah and Elizabeth a perfect launch for Advent. Where in the quiet we remember hope takes root in our dark space, long before we notice its light.

This story is also a great way to kick off our theme for the year—Woven Together by God. It reminds us that even while it seems like nothing is happening, God’s working, stitching something together beneath the surface. 

Now, Zechariah’s been carrying a heavy ache, wondering if God is even listening anymore. He takes this longing with him to work, where his job as a priest in the temple has become as routine and predictable as opening a record store each morning.

He’s not expecting anything different on this day, when he’s chosen “by lot” to enter the sanctuary to offer incense to God. To a priest, this is like winning the lottery. It’s considered to be one of the holiest of tasks. But for Zechariah, he’s probably thinking what’s the point. God’s not listening.

Maybe you know this weight, of feeling ignored, or let down by God. You’ve all but given up. As it so often is with hope, it’s in these unexpected spaces God breaks through the silence and everything changes. You might not get an angel showing up and freaking you out, but the message is still the same: “Your prayer has been heard.”

This story reminds us that we always have hope because God has already heard every prayer Zechariah ever prayed. And God hears every one of ours as well. The uncomfortable silence isn’t God ghosting us. It’s God moving in the shadows, clearing space so hope has a place to take root.

After all, before we get Jesus, we get John…a messenger who prepares the way. Likewise, before we get the bright lights and joy of Christmas we get a season of quiet darkness. This is our time to wait faithfully even though we can’t see what’s happening.

Richard Rohr teaches us that: “Hope is not a passive waiting for the future. It’s the active trust that the holiness planted in the silence will blossom in its time.” Rohr echoes something I said last week—that where we tend to see nothing more than a bag of tangled, mismatched string,
God sees the pattern. And God is quietly knitting us into it.

The way I see it, hope is the thing that holds us, and binds us, and pulls us towards one another. Hope is shared. It’s communal. It’s what keeps us connected in this season of waiting where God keeps stitching saints, doubters, and misfits into a beautiful tapestry called Anamesa.

Hope is the light that invites us to trust that God is working even when we can’t spot a single sign. Wherever you feel stuck or abandoned, Advent leans in and whispers: “It’s not over. God’s still weaving.”

Hope becomes the light that keeps us showing up. It invites us - like Zachariah in the temple - to keep doing the next faithful thing, even when nothing feels different. To paraphrase Anne Lamott, hope is that quiet, stubborn belief that from darkness, dawn will come.

The way we show up doesn’t need to be fancy or dramatic. Sometimes it’s as small as checking in on a hurting friend. Or scribbling you are loved on your neighbor’s junk mail. Small acts become quiet lights that remind the world dawn is on the way.

And lastly, hope invites us into the redemption God is already unfolding. I’m not suggesting this is a call to fix the world. But we can use our small light of hope to reveal the glory of the One who is already mending it.

That light shines brightest when we are woven together in all the ways we love God, love others, and serve both. Through our love, our showing up, God’s light shines brightly in the darkness so others can find their way home. 

Madeleine L’Engle reminds us, “We draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, but by showing them a light that is so lovely they want with all their hearts to know the source.”

Hope is the light we are called to bring into our homes, our communities, and into the world. And so we wait in the quiet silence, with our little light shining as best as we can manage. Because some truths need quiet before they can grow brighter.

And that’s the rhythm of Advent: Silence. Listening. Receiving. And then—when the time is right—shining brightly.

So here’s my invitation for you this week: Find one quiet moment each day. Enter it without an agenda or some eloquent prayer. Just take a few minutes where you can breathe and remember: God is listening. God is weaving. God is always preparing the way. And where God is, there is hope.

When you’re ready, ask yourself, “How can I carry hope to someone today?” A phone call? A kind word? A moment of forgiveness? Or choosing kindness when cynicism would be a much easier route.

Hope is the first candle of Advent. It’s not loud or flashy or always immediate. But it’s the small, steady, stubborn light that interrupts the dark and changes the way we see.

And as it flickers, it whispers what Teilhard de Chardin wrote long ago, “Trust in the slow work of God.”

Because hope is the quiet truth that we’re not just drifting through life—we’re being woven, thread by thread, into something beautiful.

As we begin this Advent journey, remember: Zechariah’s story isn’t just ancient history. It’s our story, too. A story of God listening in the silence, working behind the scenes, and calling us to participate in the small, unseen beginnings of redemption.

So may this first candle of Advent, that is alive and stirring weave us together. May we keep showing up like Zechariah—trusting the One who hears every sigh and every prayer.

And may we prepare the way for Jesus by letting love slip into our ordinary lives and take on flesh again, one quiet act at a time.