Eventually, the grass will be eaten down. The sun will move. The season will change. And like Brian, we need to know when it’s time to move on. During Lent, we spend 40 days in the wilderness. And just as we’re getting the hang of things, the wind blows. Our Shepherd taps his staff on the ground and says, "Time to move." This brings us to the third verse of Psalm 23:
The painting was still there, but its essence and beauty was buried. To bring back the color, the restorers carefully and meticulously peeled back the grime until its original brilliance returned. No paint was necessary. Just the removal of what didn’t belong. The poet declares, "He restores my soul." The Hebrew word, shub, literally means "to return,” and “to bring home." The shepherd brings my soul home. Returning me to God who restores me back to my original beauty. Isn’t that our intent for our Lent fasts? To remove what isn’t needed. I think God uses this time to restore us back into the masterpiece we were created to be. But what makes restoration so difficult isn’t the years of grime we’ve collected. It’s our ego that refuses to let those layers go. We get comfortable in our muted grays; forgetting how vibrant we are in living color. We might think God adds a little extra paint to restore our beauty. But really, all God does is gently peel away what’s unnecessary. The shame, the guilt, the burdens we carry with us. And that’s the pattern. The Shepherd doesn’t return us home until the soul is restored. So many of us try to walked the right paths, hoping God will fix us. As if God needs a down payment and a signed contract before committing to care for us. That’s not how grace works. Just as mercy is the Shepherd’s decision not to leave us in our comfortable mess, God’s grace is the gift of being made whole when we’ve done nothing to earn it. Grace is the solvent God uses to peel back the grime of shame and guilt that linger over us. Once the soot is cleared, we can see where to step. The path of righteousness. The psalmist calls this path a magal—a word that bears no resemblance to a paved sidewalk or a manicured trail. A magal is a "well-worn track" or a "circuit." A small, narrow path carved into the limestone by the weight of a thousand steady sheep. Magals often hug the steep sides of mountains, holding the space between the rocks and ravines. But the Shepherd knows they’re the way to the next green pasture. While the poet Robert Frost invites down this “road less traveled,” we tend to take, or make, a different kind of trail. Urban planners call them ‘desire paths.’ These are those diagonal dirt tracks cut into the grass by people taking shortcuts to where they want to go. We make them because we’re always in a hurry. Always rushing without a care of where we’re stepping, or who we’re stepping on, until we find ourselves stuck in a dark ravine. We create these 'desire paths' in our spiritual journeys all the time. We want the shortcut to success. The quickest route to happiness. We want to bypass the pain. And go directly to inner peace. We don’t want to do the hard work of restoration. We want the easy way, not the righteous way. I mean, let’s be real, how far does being morally upright get you these days? But here’s the thing, to the psalmist, a 'path of righteousness' isn’t about being a good Boy Scout. It simply means “the right path.” This isn't always the fastest way, and it’s rarely the easiest. But it’s the only one that actually leads you to where your heart belongs. That space in God’s presence where you find your rest and restoration. Jesus says, "I am the way" (John 14:6). Not just because knows the right path back to God’s heart. But because He fully embodies God’s heart. Whenever we’ve lost our way, or have no idea where we’re going or how we got into the mess we’re in all we have to do is look at Jesus. And follow the way of our Good Shepherd, whose “yoke is easy” and whose “burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). During his time in the wilderness, Jesus traded his own 'desire paths' for God’s narrow magal. He allowed God to strip him of the layers of grime that naturally come with being human in an inhumane world. Jesus says, “Anyone who wants to follow me must deny themselves, and pick up your cross, and follow.” But do you trust him enough to do the hard work of letting go of your ego, and allowing God to restore you back to the Divine essence you were created from. If we are honest with ourselves, we know our own shortcuts have only led us into a briar patch of exhaustion and anxiety. They have trapped us in dark shadows of fear and shame. But here’s the good news. Our Shepherd never abandons the sheep. With a patient nudge of the staff, we are moved back onto the right path 'for his name’s sake.' We must not forget that as personal as this psalm is, it’s not about us. It’s about the shepherd. In the ancient world, a shepherd’s reputation was tied entirely to the condition of the flock. A shepherd with thin, diseased, or lost sheep was a failure. But the one with a healthy and safe flock was honored. This Psalm tells us that God doesn't tend to us because we are good. God does all this because God is good. It’s not our reputation on the line. It’s God’s. Which should take the pressure off us entirely. We don't have to perform or prove our way into righteousness. We simply have to stay close to the One whose name is at stake. Jesus spent his entire ministry showing us how to do this. But he warns us that the way is narrow and the path is hard. Because genuine, sacrificial love will always challenge us. Our ego will always seek the 'desire path' of least resistance. If we are to believe the gospel—to truly trust the path it reveals—then we must take the difficult steps forward, knowing the Shepherd walks beside us down this well-worn track of grace. This week, I want you to look at the magals in your life—those small, repetitive tracks you walk every day. Ask yourself: Where are they leading me? When you choose to pause before a sharp retort, you are stepping onto the magal of peace. When you choose to give from your "enough" rather than your "extra," you are following the track of generosity. Every time you refuse to justify a shortcut at someone else's expense, you are resisting the 'desire path' of the ego and trusting the Shepherd’s slower, surer route. Don't wait for a grand invitation to change your life. Restoration happens in the steps you take, in the tight turns, when the ledge feels narrow between the rocks and ravines. You do not walk this path alone. We walk it together. Not as sheep but as a community knitted together in love. The track is already there, carved by the One who knows exactly where the green pastures lie. Let’s walk it. Let’s trust the groove instead of trying to out-walk the One who created it. Because the Shepherd’s name is on the line. And so far, He has never lost a single sheep.
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Originally, the plan was to take twenty minutes of intentional, silent rest every day. Instead, I replaced that with forty push-ups and forty sit-ups. I literally turned a command to be still into a military-grade calisthenics routine. What’s that old saying? “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” I’m not so sure God thinks that’s such a good idea. Which takes us to our reading from the 23rd Psalm.
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:
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.
A rich tapestry of stories all knitted together in love by a Master Weaver who never drops a stitch.
I think it’s taken six decades for the colors to truly start harmonizing and for the patterns to reveal their beauty. The loose threads of my youth (the mistakes, the sudden pivots, and the unexpected joys) are being pulled into a deliberate design of family and amazing friends like you. While contemplating this day with a friend, I was told, “We’re not getting older, just more refined.” Just as any precious metal has to endure a refining fire, so must we. The years know what they’re doing, melting away what doesn’t belong or is no longer needed, until what remains is love, mercy, and a deeper tenderness for the world. The Early Church Father, St. Gregory of Nyssa, once wrote: "For he who climbs never stops going from beginning to beginning, through beginnings that have no end." I love that idea. At sixty, I’m not reaching a "finish line"; I’m just standing at a new beginning. I plan on climbing some more, listening more, and leaning more into the heart and hands of God to be woven into this amazing story of life. As I have discovered, our stitches don't end with us. We are woven into something far greater than ourselves. Whether you are sixteen, sixty, or ninety-six, the yarn is still moving and the pattern is still unfolding. And God is still loving us with beauty and grace. “The Lord is my shepherd” wasn’t just personal—it was political. It was a quiet refusal to let any empire, ruler, or system claim ultimate authority over your life.
There’s only one church on the island. No minister. No regular services. Just an old stone building that’s been standing there for hundreds of years, quietly weathering wind and rain. On this trip my mother announced we will be worshiping there. And I would lead service. Well Sunday came, I noticed the church was locked up with an iron gate blocking the front door. When I pointed this out to my mother, she shrugged it off saying, “That’s just to keep the sheep out.” Apparently, these free-ranged fluffers figured out how to turn the doorknob and get inside whenever the weather turned rough. However, they hadn’t figured out how to remove the lock and chain from the gate, which wasn’t even secured. The sanctuary was literally a place of shelter and rest for these sheep. Which I found ironic because I was preaching from John’s Gospel where Jesus calls himself “the good shepherd.” As soon as I read the part where Jesus says, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me,” the sky opened up. A howling gale pounded the old slate roof. And outside the window I saw them. Thirty or so sheep pressed up against the glass, looking for a shepherd to invite them in. Which leads me to the passage I want to talk about today:
For the next six weeks, we’re going to walk with these six verses of this well-known psalm. Beginning with this first one. I chose this path for our Lenten journey because this season is more than white knuckling it through chocolate withdrawals or social media fasts, or whatever small pleasure we imagine God might want us to suffer without. The point of fasting isn’t to prove our spiritual toughness. It’s to find clarity and to grow closer to God. It's about detoxing the soul long enough to ask honest questions, like who is shepherding my life right now? Let’s face it, we’re all chasing after something, or being led by someone promising us safety, success and belonging. More often than not, that voice isn’t God. It’s our ego whispering, “Follow me. Because only I take care of you.” Psalm 23 shatters that voice. It boldly declares, “The Lord is my Shepherd.” The poet speaks in first person, because it’s personal and relational. It offers us a shepherd who walks with us, providing comfort and courage in difficult times. A shepherd who gives us restoration, nourishment, and a place to belong. In the ancient world, kings were often called shepherds. To say “God is my shepherd” wasn’t just personal—it was political. It was a quiet refusal to let any empire, ruler, or system claim ultimate authority over your life. When Jesus later stands up and says, “I am the good shepherd,” he’s giving this promise a human face, reminding us that we belong to God, not Caesar. In a commentary of this passage, Nicky Gumble tells a story about two ministers who met a young shepherd deep in the moors of the Welsh highlands. As the story goes, the ministers tell the boy how Jesus wanted to be his shepherd—the one who would watch over him, just as he watched over his sheep. Realizing the shepherd boy was uneducated and couldn’t read, they took his right hand and taught him this verse, using each finger to help him remember these five words: “The Lord is my shepherd.” When they reached the fourth word—my—they told him to squeeze his finger tightly and pause because this psalm was meant for him. Years later, after a terrible winter storm, the boy was found up in the hills buried beneath the snow. When they discovered his body, his left hand was curled around his fourth finger. Squeeze your finger and say: the Lord is my shepherd. How does that feel? Did you notice it doesn't say the Lord is a shepherd, or the shepherd? It says the Lord is my shepherd. That one word—my—changes everything. It tells me that my shepherd isn’t family. It’s not my job. Or political tribe, bank account, or reputation. It certainly isn’t my fear or constant anxiety about being enough. “The Lord is my shepherd,” the poet declares, “I shall not want.” We live in a culture built on wanting. Our entire economy depends on it. If we all woke up tomorrow convinced that we had enough, things would fall apart fast. I spent years in advertising tapping into that deep desire to want more by exploiting an insecurity in us all, that lie we tell ourselves, “I don’t have enough.” So, I can understand why you might hesitate when I tell you trust God’s provision and providence. It’s even hard for me to imagine surviving on only the basic necessities of life: food, drink, shelter, protection. Still, Scripture invites us to: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not into your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your path (Prov. 3:5-6). That may sound hopelessly naïve by our greed over need mentality, but let’s not forget it was Jesus who said: “Don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or wear; isn’t life more than food and drink, and the body more than clothing? Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (c.f. Matthew 6:25-33) Both of these passages hold a special place in my heart. They have led me to a place where I can now see how my desire for more is the engine that drives my anxiety and that dreadful feeling of “being less than” when I can’t achieve it. They have helped quiet that voice of my ego saying, “Just a little more and then ...” Have you ever made that plea to God? I did before accepting my call to ministry. “Just two more years of work, of money and security, and then I will go to seminary.” In another twist of irony, it was in seminary I learned the Hebrew word translated as “want” doesn’t mean desire in the casual sense. It means “to lack” or “to be diminished.” The psalmist isn’t saying, “I don’t want anything.” He’s saying, “I am not less than” to my Shepherd. Because I belong to God, I am complete. In John’s gospel, Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd.” He finds his wholeness in God’s grace and love. It becomes his being, who he is, and what he offers to us. In the same way, Jesus describes himself as the bread that satisfies. Water that quenches. Life that’s abundant. He isn’t offering us more stuff. Jesus is giving us his wholeness, his life, his way to find our divine essence. This is good to remember as you move through Lent. Because in the wilderness of life, even the best sheep can wander off and end up in dark ravines. If that’s you—if you struggle to be faithful, if you find yourself lost, or simply feeling overlooked or forgotten, this Good Shepherd is calling you by name inviting you to walk with him through the darkness, guided by his light. I think this matters because it’s not the wilderness God changes, it’s us. We are transformed when lean into Christ and walk in his sacred presence. But here’s the thing I’ve discovered by following the Way of Jesus. He doesn’t just give us care, he shows us, and calls us, to be caretakers of one another. To be both sheep and shepherds. Standing in that little stone church, with the rain pounding and sheep bleating, I was reminded that the church isn’t supposed to keep sheep out. It exists because sheep need shelter. A sanctuary where God’s providence will always be present. As the Body of Christ, our job is to be very presence of God’s love. Which means we are to be shepherds that lead others to peaceful pastures and gentle waters. We are to open our hearts as refuge, and our hands as a space for healing and rest. And we must refuse to lock the doors and keep others out when the storms come. Today our Lenten journey begins in a time when the world seems fragile. We are sent to walk amid people who are barely holding on by a thread. But as we go, let us go knowing and trusting that God is using those threads to knit us tightly together in love. For it is out of great love that God comes to us, to walk and to care for all who dare to follow.
But the reasoning goes deeper than mere tradition. When we receive the ashes, we are participating in a visible "leveling." Whether we are rich or poor, young or old, we all come from the same stardust and the same Divine breath. As we are reminded of our connectedness with God and Creation, these ashes are a holy reminder that we are finite. On Ash Wednesday, we often hear the refrain from Genesis: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Ashes have played a major role through scripture as a sign of mourning and repentance. In the book of Joel, the prophet cries out,
This is an invitation inward, to make room in our hearts for God, who “is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” These ashes not only remind of us of where we come from, but to whom we belong. This is why Ash Wednesday doesn’t stand alone. It opens the door to Lent—marking the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness after his baptism, to empty himself of his ego, that part of his humanity that often gets in the way of really embracing one’s divinity. This is why we are called to also fast, to spend time giving up something that keeps us from being closer to God. It’s about loosening our grip on the things that numb us, distract us, or convince us we are self-sufficient. Barbara Brown Taylor believes the practice of fasting is a spiritual discipline that helps us see what we are actually hungry for. When we quiet the ego craves, we often find a deeper hunger for justice, peace, and connection. But Lent is never only about fasting. It is always paired with feasting. It’s not yet the full feast of Easter. It’s more like small bites. Daily tastes of joy, clarity, and connection that remind us why we’re doing this in the first place. Like the psalmist wrote, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4) Lent teaches us both restraint and delight, training us to recognize that the spiritual life isn't about denial for denial's sake—it is about finding what your heart truly desires. To be close to the One who created you from stardust. But here’s the hard truth about all this that I discovered. Internal changes don’t just automatically happen overnight. Those things always takes time, patience. They require an open heart and open eyes to really see and understand. Like Advent before Christmas, Lent is also a time of waiting. And how we wait matters. We can use our time passively waiting, believing that Easter is just around the corner. Or we can wait actively, knowing that Easter has already come. Even as we struggle to keep our Lenten fast, remember resurrection is here. And it happens every day through our acts of love, justice, and forgiveness. Jesus showed us the way, to move from the old into a new way of being. Which is why we call it Lent. And why it happens in springtime. The word Itself actually comes from the Old English word for "lengthening days" that moves us from darkness to light. It’s considered to be the "springtime" of the spiritual life. It is a season of light, of growth, of promise. A season where the "dust" of our lives becomes the fertile soil for something new to bloom. You are part of a grand, cosmic story. You are made of the same elements as the stars and the soil. Shaped by a Creator who calls you beloved and names you good. And animates you with a Love that refuses to let you go. From dust you are made. And unto dust you shall return. As you feel the earth against your skin, remember that you are a beloved child of God. Made of the same stuff as the hills, the trees, and the stars—and God looked at it all and called it 'good.'
We’re seeing a similar pursuit today as the world’s greatest athletes gather in Milan. These Olympians have invested millions of combined hours toning and perfecting their crafts, all for a chance to be the best in the world. All but a few will go home empty handed. Their own excellence erased by a mere 1/100th of a second.
As Edwin Bliss notes, while excellence is healthy, the pursuit of perfection is "neurotic and a terrible waste of time." Case in point, a perfectionist who walks into a bar and immediately leaves because the bar wasn’t high enough. What was great for Lexus, often paralyzes humans with anxiety and stops us from actually living honestly and authentically. And when we bring this performance trap into our faith, we can lose the heart of the Gospel. Except, this is what Jesus had to say: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven, for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. As we enter the season of Lent, many of us will spend the next 40 days fasting from something we love or need to change. This is a powerful spiritual discipline for everyone to practice—unless, of course, you’re a perfectionist. Because in Lent, failure isn’t just inevitable, it’s the point. Lent is a season to learn from our mistakes. It is that soft and painful reminder that we grow in God’s grace through our imperfections. And yet, it sound like a total set-up when Jesus tells us to be perfect as God is perfect. I mean, how well are we loving and praying for our enemies these days? Are we actually giving to everyone who begs? Or turning the other cheek? I suspect your answer is similar to my own: No. I think we see it this way because the problem lies in our perception. We see the road to perfection is arduous. It entails a lot of messing up in order to get better. And we do like to mess up. It exposes our our vulnerability we we often view as a weakness. But Jesus sees our vulnerability as a strength. Which might be why it rubs us like this. I mean, it is certainly not the "American Way" where we have to be the best, gold medal winners at everything. In our world, by definition, to be "perfect" means being the best possible version of something. It’s literally what the Olympics are all about. But is that what Jesus means? I believe Kobe Bryant is the greatest basketball player of all time, and truly one who must be considered the Greatest (Athlete) Of All Time. He constantly refined his game, pursing excellence in his training, discipline, and mentality. And he proved it on the court. But if I am being honest, I know Kobe was just outdoing what Michael Jordan had already perfected. LeBron did it to Kobe; SGA is doing it to LeBron. It’s truly a relentless pursuit. But, by definition, there can only be one at the top. Jesus reminds us who the real GOAT is. “Be perfect as your Heavenly Father is perfect.” Thomas Merton once said, “People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall.” While we spend our lives climbing upward, we often forget that it is God who comes down to us. In my own relentless pursuit, I try to curate the perfect life—to be the flawless parent, the dutiful child, the ideal spouse. Even at my best, I haven’t mastered any of it. And the tragedy isn't just that I don’t succeed; it’s that I beat myself up for failing. Self-reproach is a thief—it pulls my eyes off of God’s grace, which is the perfection of love itself. As Andrea Brandt writes, “If you expect always to succeed, life will always disappoint you.” Like I said, we live in a culture where being perfect isn’t good enough anymore. And that lie is exhausting. After years of buying into the hype my daughter Fiona has finally admitted that “Outside of Harry Stiles, perfection isn’t real.” So let me ask you, what does perfection look like? A perfect score? A high-status career? Being the "GOAT" of your industry? Jesus boils it down to one word: love. Not the Hallmark kind. But God’s radical, unconditional love for us. And I believe we’re given God’s love with the expectation of perfecting it in all the ways we give it away. Our theme this year is being a community knitted together by God’s love. It’s not our love, but God’s love. Which tells me that it’s not our perfection we need to pursue. It’s God’s perfection that moves through us. In that sacred space between our struggle and success we find God at work, perfecting us not from our imperfections, but through them. Which brings me to another commercial that’s airing during the Olympics right now. It’s a series of vignettes featuring people who feel crushed by the standards of a "perfect" society. A young boy in boxing gloves, watching his father train his older brother, feeling the pressure to “be an alpha.” An older man vying for a job against a room of twenty-somethings, desperate to “be relevant.” A teenager smashing his phone against a mirror, exhausted by the struggle to “be enough.” After a few more like these, the screen reveals this simple truth: “Being human shouldn’t be this hard.” Then comes the invitation: “What if Jesus shows us a new way?” (Watch commercial here) I love this, because it invites us to take another look at the One who reveals the true heart of God. If we want to understand what it means to be "perfect," all we need to do is look to Jesus—the One who loves, heals, and redeems without condition. In Christ, God became one of us to show us a different way. A way back to God’s heart where perfect love awaits. This is kind of love you don’t need a gold metal to earn. You don’t even need to qualify. Just show up. To be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect isn’t about performance. It’s about a willingness to be present in this moment; letting go and trusting God’s perfect lead. You’ve heard me say, Jesus’ entire ministry was designed to reorient our vision, because when we see differently, we act differently. And how does God want us to act? The prophet Micah states “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). In other words, to live in perfect harmony with God and one another, means paying attention to those who are vulnerable and using your power to protect them. It means choosing fairness over favoritism, and truth over convenience. It means practicing kindness—leaving room in our lives for generosity, forgiveness, and second chances. It means walking through our communities rooted in love; trusting that faith isn’t proven by what we offer God, but by how faithfully we love God and one another along the way. This Way that Jesus offers is a way that moves perfectly in sync with God. And here's where I find hope and grace for myself. “God never called any perfect people because there aren’t any perfect people. God only ever calls flawed, wounded, limited, scared, and imperfect people because that’s the only kind there are. So, don’t be discouraged, you’re actually a pretty good company.” (Mabry) Jesus calls us to be a visible community of grace. This doesn’t require perfection; but a willingness to be present where God needs you the most. My challenge to you this week is this: Be present. Be available. Be God’s love in the flesh. Notice what’s broken and choose to help mend it. Use your voice and power, however small, to stand up for the weak. Tell the truth. Treat strangers like neighbors. Learn names. Make eye contact. Offer dignity. Forgive more than feels reasonable. Let love get specific. Tangible. Real. This is how we perfect presence. Faith isn’t about performance or looking spiritual--it’s about being awake to the holy that’s already unfolding around you. As the world invites you into a relentless pursuit that will only leave you exhausted, Jesus invites you to pursuit another way. A way grounded in love. The kind of perfect love where everyone wins gold. Work Cited Adapted from a sermon I’mperfect on February 23, 2020. Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word, Year A Vol. 1. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010) pp. 38-385. Brandt, Andrea. The Dangers of Perfectionism. April 1, 2019 (https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/mindful-anger/201904/the-dangers-perfectionism?amp). Accessed on February 21, 2020. Mabry, John. Growing into God: a Beginners Guide to Mysticism. (Wheaton, IL: Quest 2012) p. 120.
As we enter the season of Lent, at a time when our country is more divided than ever, this image feels particularly poignant.
Lent is often framed as a solitary journey of giving something up or taking something on. But at its heart, Lent is communal. It’s a season meant to be walked together. Just like those interlocking letters, faith is something we solve side by side. Next Wednesday, we kick off Lent by marking our foreheads with ashes. This ritual itself can seem archaic. But I find its message is still very relevant: "We are all human, we all make mistakes, and we are all in this together." No matter who you are, you start the season on the same foot as everyone else. Ash Wednesday is the ultimate "starting square" of a forty-day journey toward Easter—a journey we take as a community knitted together in love. When someone among us gets stuck on a hard clue—be it grief, doubt, exhaustion, loss—the gift of church is that someone else may be holding the missing letters. We remind each other that no one is meant to solve the puzzle of life alone. Lent invites us to slow down and ask how we might interlock more intentionally with our family, friends, and community. It's a time not only to fast and feast but a time to show up with your presence and love. So, this Lent may we be a bridge for one another. May we walk toward the light of Easter not as scattered pieces, but as a people being lovingly fitted together—one beautiful, grace-filled picture.
But most of what shapes us isn’t instinct. It’s learned behavior. We’re taught at an early age which team to root for. And how to stay alert when walking around at night. Or don’t tempt fate and eat chicken prepared in a questionable food truck. Which brings us to our reading today from Matthew’s gospel.
Coming on the heels of blessing everyone, Jesus turns his attention to the disciples and teaches them what those blessings are meant for. He uses two simple, earthly images to describe who they are called to be. Like I said last week, once we receive God’s blessing we must become that blessing for others if it’s going to mean anything. Jesus tells us to be the salt. And calls us the light of the world. Now, anyone with basic science knowledge knows it’s essential to life. It plays a vital role in staying hydrated by maintaining the balance of electrolytes in the body. Without salt, we’d die. Whenever I had a sore throat as a kid, my dad made me gargle with warm saltwater. Sounds gross, but this magical elixir is a well-known healing agent. If you’ve ever soaked sore muscles or tired feet in a salt bath, you know how it reduces inflammation. So I can understand why Jesus describes us like this. It’s like he’s telling us that we play a vital role in the healing and restoration of the world. Be the salt. I have an entire chapter about this in my book. I talk about my wife’s obsession with salt. And the endless varieties that fill our pantry shelves. In some households, salt can be a secret weapon that can make a bland meal tolerable. It doesn’t replace the dish, but it can enhances the flavor and reveal the hidden goodness. Maybe Jesus is telling us to bring out the best in people. Help them get a taste who they already are. Salt was also crucial to the development of civilization. It preserved food for storage or travel. A thick coat of this precious mineral could keep meat from going bad. Is Jesus calling us to be a spiritual agent that preserves all that is good? Or perhaps he’s saying be "worth your salt." A phrase we have from long ago, when salt was given as part of a person’s salary. All-in-all, I think Jesus is reminding us that we are blessed, and have value in the kingdom of heaven. So know your worth. And use it for the good of all things. Because salt also has a shadow side. Too much of it can spike your blood pressure or cause kidney disease. There’s even a story in the Bible where salt was weaponized. King Abimelech spread it over an enemy’s field to make the land barren. I think that’s why Jesus warns us not to lose our saltiness, so we don’t harm ourselves or others. We all run the risk of becoming unsavory – a worthless commodity that does more damage than good. This is true for you and me, and for the Church as a whole. You may have noticed Christian ministers are not the only clergy out on the streets protesting the injustice and abuse that’s being inflicted on our neighbors. Clergy from every religious traditions are unifying. They are locked arm-in-arm, full of flavor, enhancing the goodness of humanity. That’s the salt Jesus is talking about. But we lose our saltiness when we stay silent in times like these. When our churches trade compassion for compliance. When our faith becomes more about protecting power than practicing peace and love. When we lose our courage and commitment to doing the right thing, how will the world ever taste what God’s grace is like? Which is why Jesus also calls us to shine! To be the light of the world that illuminates all the goodness of God. Like salt, light is essential to life. It’s the primary source of energy for nearly every living organism on the planet. Without it, we’d literally be nothing more than mold or mushrooms. In John’s gospel, Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness...” In Matthew, Jesus makes us light-bearers. He tells us not to hide our light, but to illuminate, to shine. Sure, some of us might shine brighter than others, but that’s okay. The nightlight in our hallway isn’t the brightest, but it keeps me from stubbing my toe when I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It’s like Jesus is saying, use what you have to help others see what God is doing in their life. Again, you might think you’re not bright enough. But remember this: it’s not your light. It’s Christ’s light that shines through you. We’re like the moon, which has no light of its own. It just reflects the light of the sun. Yet its reflective glow is just enough to safely guide travelers through the dark night. When we allow Christ to reflect through us, we can provide what others might need to get through what St. John of the Cross described, “the dark night of the soul.” Which is probably why Jesus gives us this image to reflect God’s blessings for the world to see. Like salt, some light can be more harmful than good. Artificial light—like screens and glowing clocks—disrupts our circadian rhythm which can alter hormone production, and contribute to our depression, obesity, cardiovascular disease, and insomnia. In the same way, artificial faith can damage our spiritual health. Faith that’s performative, hollow, or disconnected from love may look bright and shiny, but it can do more harm than good. Real faith, like real light, gives life. And you’ll recognize the difference by the way it illuminates non-judgmental, all-inclusive love. That’s why Jesus says don’t hide your light. Place it where it can be seen. Or to say it another way, if you hide your love, then how will you reflect God’s love for you? We have a lamp that connected to a smart plug. It turns on and off with a verbal command. Yet no matter what I say, it won’t work if it’s unplugged. Which is why it’s important for us to be plugged into Christ. Jesus blesses us, but those blessings are just words.They only come to life when we allow them to shine in us; even in the places we’d rather keep dark. By truly embracing our own blessing, we are able to show others what it means to be salt that heals, light that guides. Our words will mean something. Our actions will show integrity. We will love without fearing how others might retaliate. My charge to you today is simple. Go into those dark places where bigotry, hatred, and rage fester, and be the salt and light of Christ. Help people see their value. Help them know their worth. Help them see and believe how God’s glory shines in them too. As Irenaeus of Lyons once said, “The glory of God is a human fully alive.” This is how Jesus fulfilled God’s righteousness, and blessed the world with God’s love and grace. And this is how we, his followers, are able to abide the same – loving God, loving others, and serving both. Go and be fully alive in the way of Jesus. As salt. As light. As a little Christ … becoming the blessing that you are. Work Cited Adapted from Salt-N-Light by Ian Macdonald (February 9, 2020) Bartlett, David L and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting On The Word, Year A, Vol 1. (Louisville: Westminser John Knox, 2010) pp. 332-337. Lockyer, Herbert. All The Parables of the Bible. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1963) pp. 146-147.
You might feel blessed to have a job right now, or a little money in the bank. Maybe you feel blessed to have a car that starts when you want it to. A full tummy, or heat in your home, or heck, just a roof over your head. I overheard a guy in the park tell someone, “I didn’t know I was poor until I had socks that didn’t fit.” Can poverty be a blessing? What about being persecuted unjustly? Or having the world as you know it turned upside down? Jesus seems to think so. No matter what you’re going through, how tough this moment might seem, Jesus says you’re blessed. Leave up to him, to reorient the way we see and describe blessings, but to also show us how to truly embody them no matter how they appear to others. And it all begins on the side of a mountain, where Jesus takes his new students to teach them a new way to see themselves and the world around them. The Sermon on the Mount, as it's commonly referred to, is a masterclass in how to live a good life. But before Jesus gets into it, he sets the rhythm of the Kingdom of Heaven by blessing those who are there. This introduction is called The Beatitudes, a word that comes from the Latin beatus—meaning blessed or deeply well. Yet, these words are more than just being happy or having good fortune. Jesus uses them to describe a way of life rooted in God’s belonging and grace. This is the kingdom he has ushered in (Matthew 4:17). Still, they’re not the kind of blessings we’re used to. They’re not given to the rich and powerful. Or handed to those who are successful and admired. Sorry, not sorry. Jesus speaks these blessings over the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the merciful. Jesus sees those the world overlooks and ignores, and then blesses them. From his lips to their ears, they discover that they belong in this heavenly kingdom. He’s also nodding to us, to let us know that we’ll always find God hiding out not at the center of power but with the one’s abused by it. This was good news for those who have gathered there. For the first time, someone with real authority is looking them in the eye and saying, “I see you. I bless you.” Not one day, but now. He tells them you are a child of God, now. You will receive mercy and be filled, now. The kingdom of heaven is yours now. Nadia Bolz-Weber beautifully describes the scene with Jesus “extravagantly throwing around blessings as though they grew on trees.” And again, these blessing are hitting those considered nobodies to the rich and powerful. Folks who knew they were small cogs inside a big system. They’re used to being unseen, stretched thin, living in uncertainty. And now, this new Rabbi says, “You will inherit the earth.” That was probably hard to swallow, simply because being poor, gentle, or meek doesn’t get you very far in a competitive culture that believes winning is proof God loves you more. But Jesus—who sees the world with God’s eyes and loves others with God’s heart—breaks that paradigm. And blesses those who don’t make it to the top of the ladder. Remember, Jesus did not come to create a new religion. He came to us, to awaken us to a new way of seeing everything. Especially how we see ourselves. His words to give us hope, just as they did on that mountainside. While we’ve been trained to associate blessings with strength, success, certainty, and control, Jesus reorients our focus—pointing to another direction. He says you are blessed because you are stripped of power. You are blessed not because you know everything. But because you are gentle. And hunger for something more than what the world offers. As Eugene Peterson translates this in the Message, “You are blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there’s more of God.” The beatitudes awaken us to see God in our lives, in both the suffering and in the joy. This isn’t to say suffering is good. Jesus is saying, you’re blessed because God refuses to abandon you there. This is the hope-filled promise of our faith. God isn’t waiting for us to get through our mess. Instead God’s in it with us—blessing us right in the middle of it. To paraphrase Barbara Brown Taylor, this is “where God works without applause.” As we look around at all that is happening on our streets and all over the world, it’s hard to believe this mess is blessed. And yet Jesus insists that it is. Seeing that you’re a part of this world, officially makes you a participant in this blessing. You are a beatitude all because God loves you. But here's something to consider. Jesus blesses you not to make you better than everyone else. Jesus offers us his blessings, so we will go out into the streets of our communities and be a blessing to others. This is how "thy kingdom comes, thy will be done" happens. Immediately following the beatitudes, Jesus begins to teach us how to participate in the kingdom of heaven right now. Be the salt and the light. Turn the other cheek. Go the extra mile. Uphold the heart of the laws, and not merely the letter of them. You see, his blessings aren’t about possession. They’re about taking a posture, in the way you love God, love others, and serve both. This is how the kingdom comes alive in real ways, in real time. I hope this speaks to your heart. Because most of us are carrying more than we let on. We've got anxiety about money. Our relationships are being strained by politics and ethics. The shear exhaustion of trying to stay human in systems that reward our numbness. Jesus still turns our world upside down. He offers us a kingdom where God stands on the side of compassion, with those who still feel deeply for their neighbors; with those who refuse to give up on love, even when love feels costly. In these nine blessings, Jesus reveals a kingdom where grace is not rationed but scattered—like seed flung wide across every kind of soil, without fear of waste or loss or who is worthy to receive it. “Grace isn’t about being worthy. It’s about being included.” (Bolz-Weber) That’s what these beatitudes do, they include those who have never been blessed. The kingdom of heaven has come near, and it’s for everyone and anyone who wants it. That’s the promise of God who sees your true worth beyond money, status, or achievement. A God who comes to us, in whatever state we’re in, to meet us in the richness of love. Jesus shows how love is the way God’s Kingdom breaks into the world and flips the script we’ve written for ourselves. A Kingdom where the last are first. The hungry are fed. The merciful receive mercy. The world powers push back on this notion. They try to silence us, and tell us to comply. It's here, as you move through this world in the name of Christ, where these blessings Jesus throws at you hit our heart, that we must remember they don’t stop with you and me. They spread through us. They’re meant to be shared—scattered like seeds. So whenever someone chooses mercy over might, love can take root. Whenever someone stays in a hard conversation instead of walking away, love can grow bigger. Whenever grief opens a heart instead of closing it, … more love begins to bloom. So this week, don’t ask whether you’re blessed. Ask Jesus to show where you can be a blessing. At work. With a friend. In the quiet courage of choosing compassion and mercy, even when no one is watching. Better yet, look where Jesus is blessing the world—and step there. Because wherever he stands, the kingdom of heaven comes near. Work Cited: Adapted from How Blessed Are We (Really) by Ian Macdonald on Feb 5, 2023. Bartlett, David. L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011). Bolz-Weber, Nadia. Accidental Saints: Finding God In All The Wrong People. (New York: Convergent, 2015). Macdonald, Ian. $h!t Jesus Says: Reclaiming Love in the Kingdom of Heaven. (New York: Apocryphile Press, 2025)
Change is a natural part of evolution. Sometimes it’s as simple as a change in weather. Or getting a new car when your old one dies. But then there are those changes that cost dearly. Right now, in the country that I know and love … life as we know has changed. Depending on where you’re morals and ethics stand, it’s either for better or worse. History will attest; empires fall. And all kings die. What they leave behind in their wake, will always create something new. So, if all this insanity that is happening around our country has left you feeling distraught or hopeless, consider this. Jesus’ entire ministry is rooted in change, moving us from our smaller ego-centered selves into full divine beings. As I stated last week, such transformation is a part of salvation. And as Jesus will show with his own life, … such salvation comes with a cost. From that time Jesus began to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” Jesus doesn’t say it’s coming, but that it has come. And he says the only way to see it is to repent. For many of us, this word carries a lot of baggage. Stuffed with shame, guilt, and fear. I was taught it meant clean up your act, to stop sinning or else. And it was that “or else” part they loved to focus their attention on. But is that what Jesus meant? Most scholars agree the problem began when the Bible went from Greek into Latin. St. Jerome translated the word “Metanoia” as “due penance” which eventually evolved into the word repent. As I mentioned briefly last week, if we parse metanoia, we’d see meta means “beyond.” And noia means “mind.” So the most literal way to translate the word would be to say, “to go beyond your mind.” Change the way you see things. Think different. That doesn’t sound like condemnation, but liberation, transformation. Which seems to keep in line with Jesus’ teachings and ministry. For those of you who don’t like change, bear in mind that our minds are changing every day. By algorithms that reward outrage. By headlines designed to provoke fear. By comment sections that reduce friends to enemies. Social media has rewired us to react before we reflect. But still, Jesus offers us a new way. He calls for metanoia—a fundamental reorientation of how we think. Because it’s how we think that will change the way our heart and hands react. Jesus uses metanoia not just to get us to stop certain behaviors, but to re-center our focus away from the self and toward the kingdom he inaugurates. It’s a call to move beyond the ego and align the heart with God. Which brings us to the shoreline—and to two brothers we met last week. Only this time, Andrew and Simon aren’t searching for enlightenment. They’re working. Doing what they’ve always done. Casting nets. Catching fish. This was a family business, something they could probably do with their eyes closed. But still, it took skill. It took balancing on boats. Tossing large, heavy nets that required many hands working together in sync. Right there, in the middle of an ordinary workday, Jesus interrupts their routine and calls out, “Follow me, and I will show you how to fish for people.” On the surface, it sounds like a joke. And yet, for some reason they trust his word, drop their nets, and reorient their lives to follow him. You might not fish for a living, but we all have nets. Schedules. Expectations. The quiet belief that our worth is measured by how busy or productive, or successful we appear to be. So we keep casting—more hours, more output, more proof that we matter. Then Jesus walks into the middle of all that and says, “Follow me. I will teach you a new way of seeing yourself and others.” Which raises a real question for us all: Are we willing to take Jesus seriously? Are we willing to let go of what we think makes us who we are, to become like him? I’m not asking a rhetorical question. You follow Jesus. Or you don’t. Which takes us from the shoreline to the sidewalk. Things are happening in our country—done in his name—that are antithetical to his teachings. Human beings, beloved children made in God’s image, are being murdered, kidnapped, oppressed, starve, and terrorized at the hands of many who call themselves Christian. Do they not know what that word means, what responsibility it carries? If you claim to be Christian and use Jesus’ words to promote cruelty, brutality, and suffering than you are not Christ but anti-Christ. That’s the literal definition of the word. Case in point, the Department of War (as they call it now) created propaganda using the beatitudes to recruit soldiers to fight wars both abroad and at home. The freaking Beatitudes! The sacred blessings Jesus offers those hurt the hardest by the Empire. Is this what Jesus meant when he said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” The line is pretty clear. Jesus does not mince his words: You cannot serve two masters. You can’t call yourself Christian and ignore all that Christ is about. Which means, you can’t follow Jesus and march in step with Rome at the same time. So, where does that leave us? Richard Rohr writes, “Those who respond to the call and agree to carry and love what God loves—which is both the good and the bad—and to pay the price for its reconciliation within themselves, these are the followers of Jesus Christ.” In other words, to say yes to this life-changing invitation is to carry God’s love within you, at all times, for the salvation and healing of the world. Not pain, not suffering, not war, or murder. But life. And life abundant in the sacred name of Christ Jesus. History is full of people who’ve acted beyond their self-interest, for the good of others and the world. Gandhi, Oscar Schindler, Martin Luther King Jr. to name a few. Then there’s Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, Cesar Chavez; each of whom were considered a threat to the state because of how they loved “the least of these.” Then there’s Renee Good and Alex Pretti, and all the other citizens who’ve been murdered at the hands of our own government. Why? For exercising their constitutionally protected rights? Or for exposing the sin that’s infecting our communities like the horrific cancer it is? There are countless unsung heroes who bear witness to the Way of Jesus every day. Ordinary people who responded to his call saying, “Here I am.” Men and women, who pick up their cross and follow Jesus, knowing the cost that comes with it. If you want to know who they are, just look at who they love. Our immigrant neighbors, our queer children, and yes, even our loudmouth, bigoted relatives blinded by their own privilege and rage. Following Jesus isn’t about amassing power or being right. It’s about being humble and vulnerable. It’s about being like him. Loving God. Loving others. Serving both. Love finds its strength, in unity and partnership with Christ Jesus, who shows us with his own life, how to stand with the powerless and hold up those who others avoid. Love refuses to dehumanize. It doesn’t turn a blind eye to injustice or ignore inequality. It speaks up for truth no matter the cost. Jesus was very clear, that this kind of love can be risky. Uncomfortable. And self-emptying. But he also said, it’s this kind of love that sets his followers apart from the status quo. Following Jesus has always meant choosing a different way. A way that changes us, reorients our way of seeing and being. When our eyes are open like his, our hearts and minds can become his. And that’s the point. To be like him. No matter how hard one tries to weaponize it, the word Christian will always mean being a follower of Christ. His way. His truth. His life. His love. Like Rohr points out, Christian faith has “little to do with believing the right things about God beyond the fact that God is love itself.” If it’s not love, it can’t be God. This can be difficult to recognize when our eyes are fixed on the world’s way of seeing rather than God’s. So in closing, I want to leave you with Paul’s encouraging words written to the church in Rome. “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12:2). Jesus reorients our hearts, so that we will do God’s will, in this sacred kingdom called life. This change starts with call: Metanoia. And follow. This invitation isn’t for a select few who say a sinner’s prayer and profess a list of doctrine. Jesus still offers this invitation to everyone. And anyone who is willing and brave enough to drop their nets and follow him. So where do you stand? |
Ian MacdonaldAn ex-copywriter turned punk rock pastor and peacemaker who dedicates his life to making the world a better place for all humanity. "that they all might be one" ~John 17:21Get the Book
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~ St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) * “Life is more important than doctrine.”
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