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.
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“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?
Halfway down the hill, I saw a group of guys in a heated argument. I could see that fist were clenched and could tell something bad was about to go down. There was literally nowhere we could go, no alternative route but the one we were on, to avoid stepping into the fray. My heart started racing imagining at what Fiona might see unfold. But then something surprisingly happened. One of the guys spotted us and warned the others. And just like that there was a pause in their disagreement. They stepped aside to let us safely pass. As we did, my amazing daughter, in her pink princess dress and white gloves, waved and said “Hello” to each one as if she knew them. For just one brief moment, anger was transformed into peace. There’s an old saying: your eyes see what your heart wants to see. I saw danger. But Fiona saw something more beautiful. That’s the invitation I believe we find in our reading today. ...And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Chosen One.” AnamesaBelieve it or not, we’re given another baptism story to ponder. But John’s is different. It’s more of an eye-witness recount of what happened. His story picks up the next day, after the fact, with Jesus passing by. Seeing him John points and proclaims, “Look. There’s the Lamb of God.” Now, we don’t know if Jesus is coming or going, but when two of John’s disciples hear this, they rush off to follow. And what they find will forever change them. It's what Jesus calls, "a way, a truth, a life" (John 14:6) that will bring them back into the center of God’s heart. When Jesus sees them following behind, he stops and asks a simple, yet tender question: “What are you looking for?” But Andrew answers with a question of his own. “Rabbi, where are you staying?” Then Jesus says three little words that have echoed through centuries of longing hearts. “Come and see.” We live in an age where artificial intelligence makes it harder to believe what you see. News clips and people’s voices can be easily altered. Like I said, our eyes see what our heart wants to see. But people have been skeptical long before AI. But Jesus isn’t out to prove anything to Andrew or his friend. And still, his response reveals something beautiful about God. That’s to say, God doesn’t try to convince us or coerce us through fear or force. God just invites. “Come and see.” Now, in the Greek, this phrase implies movement. Not just observing something with the eyes but discovering its depth through experience. Jesus doesn’t hand them a doctrine. He offers them an invitation - to step closer; to walk with him; to stay awhile. When they accept it, something changes in them. We know this because the next morning Andrew runs and tells his brother, “We have found the Messiah.” Then he brings him to Jesus, who in turn sees Simon not just for who he is, … but who he’s becoming. “You are Simon… you will be called Peter.” You see, following Jesus isn’t just about belonging, it’s about becoming. His invitation is about transformation. I would argue that’s what Jesus’ mission is all about. That’s what he means when he says, “Repent, for the kingdom of God is here.” Metanoia, the Greek word translated as repent means turn around. Change direction. See differently. It’s a call to look at yourself and the world with a new set of eyes. When your heart starts to see like Jesus sees, it transforms. And begins to love like Jesus loves. I call that salvation. The transformation of your old life into something new. For Andrew and the other Disciples, they immediately leave their old life behind and follow Jesus. But for most of us, transformation rarely happens that quickly. Sure, some have had a profound experience that quickly changed their life for the better. More often than not, it takes many conversations, shared moments, and growing trust before most of us allow ourselves to change or evolve. Despite however long it takes, Jesus keeps saying, keeps inviting, “Come and see.” Which can be hard to do when the eyes of your heart are closed. Thirty years ago, I was walking through one of the hardest seasons of my life. The kind that doesn’t just challenge you—but reshapes you. A neighbor, who knew my story, was curious and asked me how I was able to stay so positive through it? Like Andrew, I answered her question with one of my own. “What are you doing Sunday morning?” Looking back, that was my own little come and see moment. I was inviting her be a part of me. Not just my pain or struggle, but into my healing and becoming. And she accepted. That next Sunday we didn’t just walk to church; we started walking together in a new life. A friendship transformed into something greater. All because Kathleen accepted my invitation to come and see. That's the funny thing we often forget. Love always invites. It always brings. And it always evolves into something better. This is imperative for us to remember as our country becomes more divided and frayed. There are some who throw gas on flames of hatred and bigotry in a poor attempt to stay in power. But Jesus says there’s a different, more powerful way that doesn’t harm, but heals. That doesn’t kill but gives life. “Come and see” isn’t about winning arguments or dominating people. It’s not about drawing a line in the sand. It’s about love and acceptance; drawing a circle wide enough for everyone to belong. It’s about opening our hearts so our eyes can truly see not strangers to hate but friends to call family. That’s where our real power lies. Henri Nouwen once wrote, “Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place.” That’s what Jesus is doing when he invites us to come and see. When we come closer to him, we find a space that is holy, a place for relationships to grow inside of. Instead of shouting across the divide, Jesus says, “Walk with me.” Instead of demonizing others, Jesus says, “Come to me and let’s see what we can do together.” But this requires one to accept his invitation. Yet, who among us will? Who is willing to walk away from the old and truly step into this new way, new truth and life? Jesus makes it very clear: “Anyone who wishes to be my disciple must pick up your cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24) What many Christians have forgotten these days is that we don’t meet Jesus by climbing over one another. We meet him by going deeper—into our communities and relationships, into the places where love is needed most. This isn’t just a call to see the world through his eyes, but to actually see him in the world. In your immigrant neighbor, in the exhausted teacher, and overworked nurse. In the single parent struggling hold it together, or a kid trying to figure out who they are in a complicated world. Jesus’ invitation isn’t just to come to church and see. He calls us out to go and be. Go to the streets and struggles to be his light and love. Go to the places and people we’d rather avoid and try to overlook to be his healing presence. This is how we are truly transformed. How we move from our old self into something new. This is how we bring salvation into the world, in his name. In God’s glory. Redemption and transformation don’t happen in theory. They happen in relationships. In the hard work of taking Jesus for his word and applying it to our lives. Jesus calls us to walk together, to wonder together, and work side-by-side as we love God, love others, and serve both together. Andrew and the others don’t just find the Messiah, they find a community. Jesus doesn’t offer them certainty. But gives them a way that opens the eyes of a compassionate heart. That’s our invitation too. As we go out into the world, I invite you to look for Christ in one another. When you see with the eyes of a compassionate heart, you will see Jesus is still walking. Jesus is still inviting. So let us go from this place not as people with all the answers, but as people who see with the eyes of Christ’s heart, loving one another unconditionally and dangerously. For it’s in this love that God weaves us together - thread by thread, heart by heart - bringing transformation and salvation into Anamesa.
Because when it comes to Jesus, how much do we actually know? We come here every week to learn about him, to pray in his name, and even try to live like him. And yet, so much of his life remains a holy mystery. Last week as we entered the season of Epiphany, we talked about who we are — beloved children of God, named and claimed by divine love. Today, I want to take us one step deeper into that revelation. Not just who we are, but what we learn about ourselves by watching Jesus. I have a feeling he wouldn’t mind us sharing what we know about him because it reveals something beautiful about us as well.
For some reason we get this baptism story numerous times in the church calendar. And every time we get it, I wonder what went on in Jesus’ life that led up to this moment. Given the historical data, most scholars agree this event happened roughly 30 years after his birth. So what happened in between? The gospel of Luke gives us a birth story and one quick glance of a precocious 12-year-old holding an intense Q&A session with the Rabbis in the Temple. That’s it. Matthew skips over this stuff. The most he offers us is a visit from some stargazers a year or two after his birth. There’s nothing about a teenage Jesus having weird emotional mood swings. Or him dealing with pimples and peer pressure. There are no stories about him trying to find the words to ask someone on a date. Or of him sulking in his bedroom wishing that “someone would just understand him.” And that’s probably a good thing. I think if we knew those stories, Jesus might come off as a little too human for our comfort. But he was human. And yet he was more than just a man. As Jesus will discover, he’s God’s beloved son. And he’ll spend his short life revealing to himself and his community what that means. In his book “Lamb. The gospel according to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal” author Christopher Moore offers us a playful, satirical look at a young, recently bar-mitzvahed Joshua--a.k.a Jesus—trying to figure out who he really is and what his life is meant to be about. The young man is convinced the answers might lie with those mysterious Magi who showed up when he was a baby. So, he and his best friend Biff head out on a spiritual road trip to find them. Not long into their journey, the two pals come across Joshua’s crazy cousin John, who, as far as they can tell, is drowning people in the river. They try to stay clear of him. But John sees and seizes his cousin, shoving him underwater. Right there, in the middle of the splashing and the gasping for air, heaven opens. And voice speaks, revealing him to the world: “This is my Son, the beloved, in whom I am well pleased.” When he comes up from the water, everyone is starring at Joshua, but no one will tell him why. And so his mission continues. Although it’s satire, it does remind us that Jesus is like us. Which suggests to me that we can be like him. Which means on any given day, God can reveal to the world who we really are: Beloved children. In whom, God is well pleased. Again, we have no idea what Jesus did up to this point to earn that title. But what it would take for God to say that about one of us? Or does it take anything? Maybe we’re born beloved. And maybe we just need to go out into the world to discover this truth for ourselves. Christine Chakoian suggests, we’d do better starting off the new year not with resolutions we quickly abandon but by recommitting ourselves to our baptismal vows. To trust in the mercy of God, to renounce evil and turn away from sin, to walk with Christ, obeying his word and showing his love. In other words, maybe this is the year to actually live faithfully to what we proclaim: That God is love. After all, “Jesus’ baptism didn’t end with him. It was only the beginning of the fulfillment of God’s promise to the world—a promise we are called to carry on in his name.” (Chakoian) Like those standing on the banks of the Jordan, we are a part of his story. Perhaps the gospel writers jump over the early years to point us to the water, so we’re not fixated on Jesus’ human side, but focus instead on his divinity. That's the part of him which awakens us to our truth and reveals our purpose, our calling: to be the human manifestation of God’s divine grace and love in all that we do. And we do this not just by proclaiming Jesus’ story but by living our own life in imitation of him. As John the Evangelist put it, “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him” (1 John 4:9 ESV). To live through Christ is to live into our own baptism where God affirms us, commissions us, and tells us to go and be fruitful. It’s here, in the space between the baptismal font and heaven, God sends us into the world to make a difference. To stand up to the injustices that are being committed on our streets. To place ourselves between those who are being cruelly persecuted and their abusers. To humble ourselves before others, to serve and not be served. This is the call of the church. This is what it means to be, in the flesh, the kind of love that transforms foes into friends, that turns weapons of war into tools for peace and prosperity for all. It might sound impossible given the darkness that has come over this world. But Christ came in as the light and the darkness could not overcome it. The thing is, God doesn’t need us to be perfect. But we have to be willing to participate. To accept our baptism and put it to good use, ministering and manifesting God’s glory in all the ways we love God, love others, and serve both. We set this as our vision for the church from day one because we believe this is the most important thing we are called to do. And we do it, knowing and trusting faithfully that God is leading us, watching over us, caring for us always. Because the way I see it, God needs humans like you and me, just like God needed a very human Jesus to put flesh and blood on God’s divine glory for all the world to see and receive. Jesus’ baptism is an epiphany moment in that it tells the world he belongs to God. This is the same truth about us. Our baptism is our reminder of who we are and to whom we belong. Jesus said it like this, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another.” Love is our outward sign of our baptismal promise. Our way of becoming a divine revelation in the world of the God who has knitted us together in love. As we reconnect with our own baptisms, we remember that we too are anointed and sealed into the body of Christ. Each one of us is a thread in this divine tapestry God is weaving. No one string is better than the other. We are all given the same relationship with the Father that Jesus had. We are all given the same power of the Holy Spirit that emboldened Jesus to enter into our pain and enlighten us with truth. And we are all called to bear the same responsibility giving ourselves completely, just as Jesus gave his life for you and me. So, let’s go out into the world as God’s beloved sons and daughters, to continue Jesus’ earthly ministry; longing for the day we can hear him say to us: “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world… When I was hungry you fed me. When I was thirsty you gave me drink. When I was a stranger, you let me in. When I was naked you clothed me. When I was sick you comforted me. And when I was in prison you visited me. For every time you do stuff like this in my name, I am well pleased.” |
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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“Prius vita quam doctrina.”
~ St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) * “Life is more important than doctrine.”
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