A fews years ago, to help me get out of a rut, I challenged myself to meet 30 people in 30 days. In order to accomplish this, I had to approach a lot of strangers. Of course, Jesus was the O.G. of this kind of radical outreach. He walks up to a stranger and says "Follow me." And just like that, they do. Including a tax-collector named Matthew. But he’s not alone.

As the story goes many “tax collectors and sinners” are invited by Jesus to a special dinner party. We don’t know who threw it, or why, but not everyone is happy about it.

Now dinner parties back then weren’t like they are today. People didn't sit at tables with high backed chairs and place settings.

Instead, they reclined on the floor, propped up on pillows, eating from shared bowls with their hands. It was up-close and intimate. Your elbows and thighs touched. You leaned into one another. If your neighbor spilt his wine, you’d feel it.

Of course, there were some similarities. Like so many wedding receptions today, the host would fret over the seating chart, because who you sat next to was important. This is where deals were made.

For example, a brick maker would want to sit next to a home builder. A wine merchant would want to be next to a distributor who could expand his reach.

Trust me when I say, no one would want to sit next to a tax collector, society’s ultimate pariah. Yet, here’s Jesus, reclining, eating, and laughing with them.

When the Pharisees saw this, they were outraged. No Jew worth his salt would be caught dead in company like that. But had the Pharisees been able to see what Jesus was teaching, they would have seen how God is always within reach, as close to us as the person next to us, regardless of one’s social status or perceived sin.

So, when his critics complain, Jesus reminds them of what their own scripture declares, that “God desires mercy, not sacrifice." In other words, kindness and hospitality are more important than rules and rituals.

I think that has been foundational to the life of Anamesa. But as a community woven together in Love, we must remember that we’re not the one’s weaving the tapestry. God is. And God doesn’t discard any thread. Every strand is woven into the design, regardless of its color or quality.

I think that’s why Jesus sits with the one’s no one else will. He sees their sacred worth and weaves their story into his. He gets up close to others just to be closer to God.

While we may be separated by miles and time zones, we’ve actually found a way to get up close and personal. By being a community willing to show up and be present for each other. But this doesn’t mean we aren’t susceptible to problems.

Although we have the technology to remain hyper-connected, it’s way too easy for us to retreat into our private silos. That’s one of the greatest problems the church, and our country, face today. We have algorithms to ensure we only hear what we already believe. We curate our lives to make sure we never have to encounter a worldview that challenges our own.

But here’s the thing about silos: they don’t just keep others out, they also keep God’s presence from getting in. It’s easy to hate a faceless group on the nightly news. It is much harder to hate someone when you are sharing a meal or hearing the tremor in their voice as they talk about a problem their child is going through.

When we get close enough to see our shared humanity, judgment fades, and we discover that our differences—skin color, nationality, social status, job title—are just surface-level stuff. Beneath it all, we’re crafted by from the same unconditional love, made in the same divine image. Each one of us carries the presence of God, which makes every encounter  holy and sacred.

Of course, our proximity to someone doesn’t require us to agree. But it does force us to acknowledge that the person standing in front of us (even the one who makes our blood boil)… is a vessel of God’s presence that needs to be honored.

Jesus always gets up close and personal with others, always seeing and acknowledging those the world considers less than. If we follow his lead, meet one another with his vulnerability, the harder it will be for us to ignore one’s pain or the injustice causing it.

This is why Jesus calls us out of our silos. And sends us to where God is needed the most, to bring healing and salvation to the person sitting right next to you. This is where bridges are built, and faith flourishes. Where real connection and deep transformation take shape.

So next time you’re tempted to write someone off for one reason or another, remember who’s there with you. Move closer to that person and welcome God’s presence in them. It might be hard to find it in some, but that only means you have to try a little harder. They might be broken, or in your view, dead wrong. But they still possess a part of God within them.

By rejecting someone, you’re not only rejecting God, but you’re also denying the one truth that holds us all together: that God’s love is boundless, limitless, steadfast, and truly unconditional.

With this love, God knits us all together.

A dinner party may not seem like a Pentecost moment. But there among the lamb, olives, bread and wine, the Holy Spirit does her quiet work, binding our fragmented lives together, and breathing life into a grace-filled existence.

Like Pentecost, this story reminds us that God isn’t distant, somewhere out there. In Jesus, God moves right into the neighborhood to live with us. From this holy proximity, our community takes shape. We become people who don’t just talk about love, but actually practice it in real life.

God’s love isn’t a solitary act. It’s communal. And is measured by the distance between you and person right beside you. The closer we get to one another, the closer we get to God.

So, to welcome the stranger, to sit with societies outcasts, to be present for someone crying out, is to open the door for God’s love to enter Anamesa.

Jesus teaches the Pharisees that the gospel isn’t a set of rules or rituals. It’s the living, breath of God that moves through our love, mercy, and compassion.

Jesus says, “Follow me.” This is an invitation to see with his eyes, to serve with his hands, to love with the same reckless, boundless courage he showed us. It’s a call to look past the labels and stereotypes, and recognize the inherent worth of every person we meet.

By the power of God, whose Spirit knows no distance, we are invited, like Matthew, to trade empty rituals for the radical, beautiful work of Christ. Your heart was never meant to be a fortress.

It’s a gift meant to be shared. As we learn to give love away, we begin to see the handiwork of God’s glory, up close and personal, right here in the space between us.

So let me say it one more time, if you want to get close to God there’s no better place to start than right here with one another.

 Three years ago, on Pentecost, I was giving my sermon from a hospital parking lot. My dad was intubated in the ICU after a series of massive seizures.

The dark irony didn’t escape me. While he had tubes in his lungs to help him breathe, I was in his car talking about how the Holy Spirit “filled everyone to the gills with God’s breath.” (Taylor).

I was just getting started when my feed cut out. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get back online. It was like a holy nudge. As I frantically tried to log back on, my sister sent a text telling me dad was breathing on his own. Like Rev. Dawn used to say, Holly doesn’t do subtle very well.

We’ve spent the last five weeks of Eastertide watching the Holy Spirit whip up the early church like a holy hurricane. But today, she sneaks in, in an ordinary, single breath that no one saw coming.

As John’s story goes, it’s the day after Easter. The Apostles are locked away in a house, afraid of getting blamed for stealing their teacher’s body.

Then, from out of no where, Jesus appears among them. And the first thing he says is, “Peace be with you.”  I suppose that’s the right thing to say to folks who, just a few days ago, watched you die. After they poke and prod him to see if this is real, Jesus breathes on them. Not to prove he’s alive, but to fill their lungs with the very breath of God.     

From this subtle, ordinary action their lives will never be the same again. Richard Rohr writes, “To span the infinite gap between Divine and human, God plants a little bit of God—the Holy Spirit—right inside us.”

John’s story shows us that Holy Spirit doesn't need a storm to transform a person’s life; she simply needs to be present to move through that space between the giver and receiver.

So in those moments when you’re paralyzed by grief, or locked away with anxiety, or hiding from your past failures, remember how God is able to come in and give you a new life, a new kind of breath that will empower you to do anything.

Think about it, the same life force that animated Jesus, the same divine breath he passed to his friends, is ours as well.

So let’s all take a deep breath. Hold it in and let it rest in your soul. Hold it. Hold it. Here’s the thing about breath you can’t hold it in forever. Eventually, you have to let it out, blend it with everyone else’s.

The Church was born the day it took what Jesus offered, and then turned and gave it to others.  As Jesus commanded his followers, “Love one another as God first loved you.” That’s the mission. To offer the life-giving breath of the Spirit back into the world.

Jesus makes this very clear. Once the Apostles receive the Spirit, Jesus commissions them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” This is a massive invitation.

I don’t know what’s more terrifying? Seeing a friend you watched die show up in your living room? Or being sent out, into the same world that killed him, to continue what he started? We know what the Apostles did. They went out and risked their lives to love God, love others, and serve both.

That’s what Holly does. She drives us out. Sends us to places we may not want to go, simply because that’s where God’s love is needed. Just as she pushed Jesus from his baptismal waters to the noisy streets of Israel, she’s thrusting us into a world that is gasping for something far deeper than the hollow noise of politicians and pundits can offer.

To follow Jesus literally means to follow his Way; to continue what he began. To inhale his life, and exhale it, over and over again. We all take our first breath when we enter this world. And we all give up our last when we leave it. But what will we do with all the other ones in the space between those two life markers?

In John’s story, Jesus offers us a few clues. First, we must bring peace into the world. Just a few days earlier, Jesus told these guys,  “My peace I give to you; not as the world gives but as I give to you.” The world gives noise; Jesus gives breath. With breath comes life.

Thomas Merton once observed that everyone is trying to be something, “but very few are trying to be at peace.”

The world is chaotic enough, why add more static? When you feel the urge to judge or react with hostility, pause. Take in the Spirit with a deep, intentional breath and remember: You cannot be a sanctuary for others until you let yourself be filled by God.

Second, we must be the air the world inhales. We practice our faith by stepping into places where people are hurting, divisions are deep, and hearts remain locked in fear; go breathe God’s glory into it.

​Jesus said “You are the light of the world.” He wants us to shine brightly by showing up as he did, exhaling peace and extending our scarred hands for others to see and encounter God’s grace and mercy in the flesh.

Fredrick Buechner famously said, "They may forget what you said—but they will never forget how you made them feel." So, let your presence be the sacred breath that quiets the storm of an anxious world.

And lastly, we must live as a community woven together in love. We must use our breath to help one another get by. The mission of Anamesa has always been to make love as common as breathing.

Because every breath an opportunity to bear the good fruits of God’s Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I believe Paul puts love first, because "Nothing shows the presence of the Spirit in human life as well as love does." (Boff)

You see, love is more than a sensation we feel if we’re lucky enough. Love is the divine presence that ignites the world and gets ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

It is a sacred part of God given to us by the Spirit for the sole purpose of continuing the work of Christ in the space between.

This can’t happen when it stays hidden and locked away inside us. Love must be given away, especially, as Jesus states, through acts of mercy and forgiveness. And the other things we’d rather not do: like crossing the street to help someone in need.

But here’s the thing, as long as we have the Spirit of God filling our lungs, we have what we need to forgive those who hurt us. And to be kind to those who hate us. We can welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, care for the sick.

Jesus calls you out from behind your locked doors to be the giver of God’s love and peace. He sends you into the troubled, real-time messy beautiful lives of your neighbors where his light and love are needed the most.

Tomorrow we will celebrate Memorial Day remembering those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. But today, let us rejoin our hearts to Christ by breathing in his Spirit.

​And may we be remembered for all the ways we exhale his life-giving breath, the very peace and love of God, that this world is so desperately gasping for.

Memorial Day always arrives carrying tension between gratitude and grief.  On one hand, we’re grateful for those who gave everything for our country. On the other hand, we grieve what that sacrifice actually cost.
This Sunday we’re also celebrating Pentecost. And I think these two holy days have a lot to say to each other.
As followers of Jesus, we know a little something about that kind of sacrificial love. Jesus didn’t walk onto a literal battlefield, but he showed us exactly what it means to pour your life out for other people. He did it by washing feet, by showing up for the outcasts, and by breathing love all the way to the cross.
When we talk about Pentecost, we’re celebrating the gift of the Holy Spirit, who empowers and sends us out into the mission field. We’re grateful for the power the Spirit gives us to go out and do the work of Jesus, but we also have to admit it can be a little scary to realize what that work actually asks of us. To empty ourselves, just like he did.

It’s pretty wild to think that the same breath that moved over the world at the very beginning is the same breath that moves through us today. A breath that finds us in our own messy, wounded lives and pushes us back out the door, not as soldiers but as healers and peacemakers.
Although it’s rare these two holy days fall on the same weekend, I think it’s a perfect reminder that our freedom isn’t just a gift for us to keep. It’s an invitation to show up for each other to love our neighbors, welcome the strangers, and help lift people up when they’re struggling.

Maybe the best way we can honor those who gave their lives is by giving our own lives away—not in some massive, movie-style sacrifice, but in the small, everyday ways we show mercy and kindness.

“Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.””    (John 20:21-23)

It’s not my best joke, but it reveals how we’re aways trying to shrink God to fit into our tiny little boxes. When we insist God is exclusively "ours," it makes me wonder if we’re worshipping competing team mascots instead of the Divine Creator.

As we continue to look at how we can model Anamesa like the early church, we reconnect with Saul whom we briefly met last week during the stoning of Stephen. Saul is now Paul. He has gone from hunting Jesus freaks to becoming one.

​Today, we find him in Athens, trading stones for a sermon that will blow the roof off every narrow, tribal definition of God we’ve ever held.

Paul steps into the Areopagus for what feels like a high-stakes TED Talk. Surrounded by the city’s most powerful "movers and shakers," he’s invited to stand on the very ground where Socrates was executed for introducing “foreign gods.” Which seems crazy, considering Athens is absolutely filled with altars to various deities.

Even though Paul’s is who he is, he doesn’t come out full of fire and brimstone. He doesn’t condemn people to hell, or critique their "pagan" ways. Instead, he finds a bridge. An altar to an “Unknown God.” And crosses it.

Paul tells them, "I see that you're religious people. But it looks like you’re still seeking. You have an altar for the God you don’t know yet. And I’m here to tell you that One you’re reaching for is closer than you think.”

This God, as Paul points out, can’t fit in a box, or be trapped in a statue, or contained in a temple. Because this God is the source of all life. A God whose fingerprint is on every thing ever created. In all his letters, Paul names this universal life source “Christ.”

You might think Christ is Jesus’ last name. Like he’s from the Christ family of Nazareth. According to Paul, Christ is the  divine, cosmic power. The universal heart beat of all life. Or as Richard Rohr describes, “Christ is another name for everything.” A part of God etched in every atom of existence.

It’s why Paul can say things like, “It’s no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20). He’s not talking about a historical figure taking up residence in his brain. He’s talking about the divine light within us all that Jesus says darkness cannot overcome.

The way I see it, Christ isn’t a person we can claim to own. Instead, it’s something that  belongs to God, who claims us all. And if that is true, then Christ is the great unifier who levels the playing field, redeeming us and returning everyone to our true nature as God’s beloved.

We are all in Christ. And Christ is in all of us. Which means we all share the same spark of divinity, so we can share our humanity together - in peace, in harmony, in Christ.

So why then do we continue to divide our ourselves between “us” and “them”? That’s what "small g" gods do.  They tear us apart because they thrive on polarization.

When our vision of God requires us to pick a side we created a small, petty deity who needs “losers” to feel like a “winner.” That’s just the same old dualism that has plagued humanity since the ancient world. It’s the same poison currently tearing Christians apart.

But here’s the thing Jesus reveals to us, God didn’t come in the flesh to draw more boundary lines, God came to erase them. Nadia Bolz-Weber reminds us, Jesus was constantly "violating boundaries of decency" just to get to the people on the other side. He didn’t see us as enemies to keep apart, because he knew we’re all part of the same sacred body.

Thus, Paul declares the eye can’t look at the hand and say, “I don’t need you” (1 Cor. 12:21). Yet, that’s exactly what we do when we look at someone on the other side  of a political line or border wall and say, “I have no need of you.”  When we try to cut someone else out of our community, we’re just amputating a piece of ourselves.

The church must stop dividing itself from one another. Following Jesus means embracing a worldview that is radically inclusive as well as relentlessly compassionate.  To those on the inside and outside. Because the moment we draw a line to keep someone out, we inevitably look up and see Jesus standing on the opposite side.

We made it our mission to love God, love others, and serve both. Nowhere does that say love only those who are worthy, or only serve those we agree with. Love, true Christlike love, doesn’t discriminate by race, gender, nationality, politics, or social status. To love God is to love all people. And to be caretakers of everything made in the image of God.

Instead of drawing people out of the game, it’s time to draw them in. And the way to do that, as Jesus teaches, is by the way we welcome everyone in love.

Six centuries ago, the mystic Julian of Norwich realized we all are inextricably linked because God is so deeply present in every soul. She wrote, “In God’s sight, all humanity is one person, and all people are a single humanity.” 

To welcome another is to invite God into the space to bless it. But when we push someone out, or keep our doors shut, we do the same to God.

As Jesus said, “What you do to the least of these, you do also to me” (Matthew 25:40).

Paul’s words to the Athenians is echoed in other letters. He wrote, "Your body, is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you" (1 Cor. 6:19). This is important to remember that you are a holy shrine that God dwells in. But here’s the thing, that’s true for everyone. Including those you disagree with, and those you despise the most.

We are all living temples of Divine love. Which means, every Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Agnostic, and Atheist is a holy place to meet God in the flesh.

As we prepare to go out into the world, let us remember Christ has "broken down the wall, that is, the hostility between us" (Ephesians 2:14).

If God has already torn down the walls, why do we work so hard to build them back up with our rhetoric and division? Why do spend so much energy forcing God to wear our team jersey, or fit into our small god boxes?

In Christ, there is no "us and them." There’s only one holy body, redeemed and held together by a God who refuses to play favorites. 

​Mother Teresa captured this truth perfectly when she said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

We must stop trying to win a turf war for a God who already owns the entire field. Instead, let us humble ourselves to welcome and serve one another in love.

Jesus doesn’t send us out there to police who’s "in" and who’s "out." We’re sent to shine the light of Christ into the darkest places, offering God’s love as a bridge that brings us together as one. Love is how a “Big G” God becomes visible through us, erasing the lines that tether us to those “small g” deities who make love conditional.

In Christ we are living temples where a weary world can meet God in the flesh, and find unconditional love. In Christ, let us welcome one another with the heart of Jesus, knowing every single person we meet is drinking from the same divine breath.

May the Christ in you love the Christ in me, and everyone, everywhere. “For in Him, we live and move and have our being.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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