We Are Members of One Another (Acts 11:27-12:25)
We Are Members of One Another
May 3, 2026
Acts 11:27—12:25
By Pastor Mike Conner
***
We are continuing to explore the relationship between two of the first Christian congregations: the church in Jerusalem, where the Holy Spirit was first poured out upon the disciples, and the church in Antioch, about 300 miles north of Jerusalem in Turkey. Luke tells us this story in chapters 11 through 15 of the Book of Acts, the sequel to his Gospel. Antioch was a cosmopolitan hub in the ancient Mediterranean world. People from all over the known world lived and worked there. Many of them responded to the Gospel when it was first preached by a few unnamed, ordinary believers who had escaped persecution in Jerusalem and come north.
The church in Antioch was a radical community not only because of its multiculturalism, which was and is always significant, but also because Gentiles were as prominently a part of it as Jews. Gentiles, those long considered outside the scope of God’s favor and covenant, were now drawing near to Christ as beloved ones. The church in Antioch was living a question perfectly articulated by theologian Willie James Jennings in his commentary on Acts: “What will you do if I join you at the body of Jesus and fall in love with your God and with you?” Their boldness in living this question is why Antioch was the place where, as Luke tell us, “the disciples were first called Christians” (Acts 11:26).
When the leaders in the Jerusalem church—people like the apostles Peter, James, and John—heard about what was happening in Antioch, they Barnabas, another trusted leader whose name means Son of Encouragement, to go and nurture what was happening there.
After going and seeing and joyfully encouraging the Christians in Antioch, Barnabas went to another city, Tarsus, to find Saul (who we know as Paul). Barnabas brought Saul to Antioch and involved him in the work of God there for a year.
The Holy Spirit kept drawing the circle wider. Ordinary, unnamed believers carried the Gospel spark to the Jews and Gentiles of Antioch. Barnabas blew encouragement on this fire and brought Saul, a murder-turned-disciple, to work it into a blaze. All the while, two communities of Christians, one in Jerusalem and one in Antioch, were being brought into deeper partnership and solidarity with each other.
The great American poet Mary Oliver has a very early poem called “Beyond the Snow Bank.” The poem describes a snowstorm that, in one county, is mild and lovely, but two counties north is fierce and devastating. People admire the picturesque snowfall in the one place, sending children out to play and skate. Meanwhile: “Two counties north the storm has taken lives.”
The poem is about the limits of human compassion, how we can only really grieve for someone or something that we have let touch us, that we in some way know and feel a sense of belonging toward. Mary Oliver ends the poem with these lines: “I only say, except as we have loved, / All news arrives as from a distant land.”
The question the poem leaves us with is this: How to expand the heart and bridge the distance between us our neighbors, so that their pain becomes our pain, their burden our burden?
Two counties north was, in the poet’s words, “A wild place never visited, so we / forget with each ease far mortality.”
What does it look like when Christian communities in different places get entangled with each other, not only in a mystical sense as members of Christ’s Body, but in practice?
This is on my heart this week, and not only because of Pastor Deepak coming from Bangalore, India to Pocatello, Idaho in a few months, bridging the world in his own story and body. It’s also on my heart because of Dr. Boe’s presentation to our youth group last Sunday about his many experiences of medical mission work, connecting Christians around the world in shared concern and service. And because of the ISU campus ministry board meeting we had this past Wednesday night, which for the first time in five years had members from Pocatello, Blackfoot, and Idaho Falls in attendance, as well as multiple students.
There is a real sense in which Christiain life is not only personal, between me and God, and not only social, between me and my neighbor, but also ecclesial, or as the Methodists like to say, connectional, between communities of faith. We are members of one another. And the Apostle Paul, who learned how to do ministry in Antioch, tells us as much in the book of Ephesians: “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all” (4:4-6).
Prophets came from the Jerusalem church to the Antiochian church. They reported that a famine would hit Judea in the near future. The Christians in Antioch began a financial collection to help provide for the Jerusalem church. To them, 300 miles south might be a distant land in fact, but it was not a distant land to the heart. They belonged to the other Christians there; they felt that belonging strongly. They wanted to help. The way Luke tells this story, there’s a feeling of immediacy to their actions. There’s no long deliberation or argument about whether they have enough resources to care for themselves and send help to the Christians in Judea. They simply decide that everyone according to their own ability will put some money in the pot.
Let’s notice that it’s not the larger, established community in Jerusalem that is helping Antioch this time, but the smaller, newer community in Antioch that steps up to help Jerusalem. In the Body of Christ, what determines who helps who is nothing other than need. Antioch needed leaders and teachers, so Jerusalem sent Barnabas. Jerusalem is going to need food, so Antioch sends money. I’m reminded of when we were raising money to reroof our church two years ago, and about a dozen other churches, rural and urban, near and far, Methodist and non-Methodist, chipped in. At that time, we promised to do the same, should they ever need help. Naturally, Barnabas and Saul were the bearers of the Antioch church’s gift. Luke tells us, about a chapter later, that they were successful: “After they had completed their relief mission, Barnabas and Saul returned from Jerusalem, taking along John who was called Mark” (12:25).
Barnabas and Saul came to Jerusalem during a tender time, a time marked by both profound hardship and resilient joy. King Herod had recently “attacked some who belonged to the church,” killing John, one of the original twelve apostles. He had also imprisoned Peter, the chief apostle, intending to make public sport of him by executing him after the Passover Festival. But “the church was praying fervently to God for [Peter]” (12:5) in the home of a woman named Mary, the mother of John Mark. And God, through an angel, responded to their prayers, rescuing Peter from his prison cell and restoring him to the community.
James’ death and Peter’s freedom were signs that the church would be both a persecuted and a praying community, a community marked by both death and resurrection. Through it all, God’s providence was at work. God had not abandoned the believers; they could continue to trust in the Spirit.
Either during or shortly after the Jerusalem Christians were living through the ups and downs of that moment, Saul and Barnabas arrived with the gifts of Antioch. Peter and the others could rejoice that, even as they were enduring the violent whims of Herod, the Spirit was taking care of them for what would be a future challenge, the famine. They had partners in ministry, siblings in Christ, 300 miles away who had given generously to take care of them. Angels met them in their present, and angels me them for their future. They would have a future, Herod or no Herod, and they wouldn’t be alone in it.
And, of course, beloved Barnabas was back! The Son of Encouragement. The one who had a special gift for caring for the person right in front of him. I have to think that Barnabas would’ve heard about what had happened to James, and would have taken John aside for conversation, tears, and prayer.
What would Barnabas and Saul take back with them to Antioch after delivering the collection.? They would have fresh stories of God’s faithfulness, like Peter’s prison-break. They returned to Antioch with another new ministry colleague, John Mark, whose home was the site of the church’s intercessory prayer. They would bring to the church in Antioch a renewed realism and hope: yes, persecution would come from the powers and personalities that are opposed to the radical love of Christ, and yet God would take care of them.
Luke caps off this part of the story with short verse that is bursting with energy: “But the word of God spread and multiplied” (12:24). The Greek word for “word” – logos – can also be translated as message, report, news. So Luke, I think, wants us to see multiple meanings here. The actual Gospel is spreading, the proclamation about Jesus Messiah. More and more people are trusting in his name and in his love. And also, reports of God’s faithfulness in different communities are circulating. As more people in more places come to faith and have their lives woven together, there is a proliferation of stories. Stories of hardship and prayer, of faith, and freedom in the midst of pain. Stories of liberation from prison, provision for famine.
The early Christians shared material resources like money, food, and people, as well as spiritual resources like prayer and stories. It is good for us to reflect on our own understanding and practice of Christian fellowship. Do we feel ourselves connected to, responsible toward, and grateful for Christians in other parts of our town, our state, and our world? What does the movement of God among the Methodists of Pocatello have to do with the movement of God in other congregations and communities? What is God doing in other parts of our state or our world that we should learn from, incorporate, join in? What does it mean, in a political climate like ours where many Christians are behaving badly by aligning themselves with nationalistic fear and aggression, to still open outward, getting to know other of people faith and weaving a wider web of love?
And, on a more individual level, each of us ought to ask: God how are you calling me, like Barnabas and Saul, to be the bridge between your people here and your people in other places? What are you asking me to do to strengthen the whole family of faith?
These are some of the questions that Jerusalem and Antioch prompt us to ask. There’s no single right answer but may beautiful possibilities of partnership. In a season when much is changing for us here, perhaps we can see the cycling of people and stories and prayers and resources as a good and holy part of being the Church. The Spirit is always drawing the circle wider. Our anxieties cause us to narrow our vision; our hope causes us to expand it.
Friends, for five years, God has raised you from the ashes of the pandemic, and we have all learned how to be a church again.
Who knows what God will ask you to do next? Who will join us in this place? To whom will be sent?
Thanks be to God for the questions. Amen.
Living in a Both/And Time with Freedom (Acts 11:19-26)
Living in a Both/And Time with Freedom
April 26, 2026
Acts 11:19-26
By Pastor Mike Conner
***
After meditating on the dual nature of light, the poet Lia Purpura asks: “why wouldn’t / other things or states / present as / both/and?” Light, after all, is foundational to the cosmos—to life itself. Purpura’s insight, born of poetic wonder, is a key ingredient in wisdom. Wisdom calls us away from black-and-white, either-or thinking and toward an acceptance of life’s complexity, and into a reverent, curious posture toward all that we cannot fully understand or control.
We have entered a “both/and” season as a congregation. The upcoming weeks are going to be strongly marked by different energies coexisting in our bodies, and therefore in the spaces, moments, and words that we share together. There will be both grief and joy as you and I begin to say goodbye to each other and as you anticipate your partnership with Pastor Deepak. There will be deep gratitude for what has been, as well as a mixture of anxiety and hope about what is coming. These are days of departures and arrivals, of releasing and receiving with pure and open hearts. And who knows, whenever something in our lives changes in a significant way, there is the possibility that some other desire and regret that is highly personal and has nothing directly to do with the situation at hand will surface in the heart and ask us to listen. This is a tender time.
I’ll confess it is challenging for me to honor this “wobble” that the poet suggests we “take seriously / as a stance.” I don’t always get it right, welcoming the fullness of reality and not just the parts I’m naturally more comfortable with. And yet, I know it’s absolutely crucial that I try. It’s important not to repress some aspect of this experience or overindulge another—whether worry or sadness or even positivity—because that will only block the flow of love. And love is how we honor one another in the Spirit.
A “both/and” time invites us to be a “both/and” people. I am so grateful that I can ask for help from a “both/and” Savior. Jesus is both God and human, crucified and risen. When we lean on him, he doesn’t keep us from the wobble but gives us spiritual capacity to find peace in all things. As Paul puts it in Colossians, “in Him all things hold together” (1:17). I know that the Spirit of Christ will hold you and me and all of us together.
***
Over the next month, I will be preaching a series of sermons that explore a narrative arc from the book of Acts which has a lot to show us about how a “both/and” church can respond to the movements of the Holy Spirit with spiritual freedom, creativity, and joy. Acts chapters 11 through 15 primarily tell the story of the Apostle Paul’s first missionary journey around the Mediterranean world, planting churches in a variety of cultural contexts. (On the front page of your bulletin there’s a map of this journey which you can reference as we go along.) There is no doubt that Paul’s missionary activity and the pastoral letters he later wrote to those congregations changed the world. And yet what I want to focus on with you is not so much the journey of Paul itself but the circumstances surrounding it. You see, there would be no Paul without Barnabas, or the church in Antioch, or the church in Jerusalem, or the power and presence of the Holy Spirit. These stories remind us of some of the essential characteristics of being a church. After all, it was in Antioch that the believers were first called “Christians.” Why?
Today I need to offer a good bit of background to get us started, but here’s the overriding question of the series: What is the Holy Spirit wanting to do with our creative freedom and our will?
Acts is the fifth book in the New Testament. The first four books are all Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—which tell the story of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Acts follows these up as a continuation of the story, telling about the birth of the Christian community and the earliest days of the Church.
After his resurrection, Jesus spent about forty days appearing to his disciples, and then he ascended into heaven and poured out the Holy Spirit upon the believers who were gathered together in Jerusalem. The Holy Spirit shares the risen life of Jesus, the strong love of God, with each one of us. Jesus’ life and ministry continue here on earth through the Church that is his Body. And they don’t just continue—they expand, reaching new people and places through the hearts and bodies and words of those who bear his radical love. That’s the story that Acts tells, the story of that expansion. With each turn of the page, more and more people are drawn to the goodness of God through the preaching, teaching, and generosity of the Church.
The two “giants” of the Book of Acts are Peter and Paul. Peter was one of Jesus’ original twelve disciples, and after Pentecost he became a leader in the Jerusalem church along with the apostle John and James, the brother of Jesus. Remember, Jesus himself and nearly all his first followers were Jews, so when we talk about the “birth of the Church” we’re talking about something that had roots in Judaism and was largely a Jewish Messianic movement. Peter’s ministry in Jerusalem was primarily, though not exclusively, focused on Jewish Christians.
Paul’s ministry was itinerant; he traveled all over the Mediterranean world preaching both to Jews and to Gentiles. Gentiles are also referred to as Greeks of pagans. Basically, they are people outside the covenant relationship between God and Israel. Yet, over time, it became clear to the apostles that the salvation procured by Christ in his death and resurrection was for the whole world, for all people. The Holy Spirit was on the move, ready to bring people of very different backgrounds and worldviews and languages into radical fellowship with one another.
In Christ, God had reconciled the whole world to himself. Now, that reconciling power was at work in the Christian community, dissolving hierarchies and borders and divisions at the congregational level. Paul and Barnabas and Peter and the other apostles were all caught up in this ever-expanding movement of love. Their hearts were continually being cracked open to make room for more people.
This didn’t happen without struggle and controversy and debate, but it did happen. The church was and is always trying to catch up with the Holy Spirit, who is always already at work out there drawing the circle wider. Grace always outpaces the system. God is Love itself, and God desires to share Love with all creation, with every single person. To profess faith in Christ means you will get swept up in that movement. It’s just a matter of when.
During those first days in Jerusalem, Barnabas came on the scene. He was a property-owning Levite with Cyprian roots, which means he was already living that mixture of Jew and Gentile. When the first Christians, under the direction of the apostles, were holding all their possession in common and selling what they didn’t need to support the poor, Barnabas came and participated in that. He sold a field and laid the proceeds at the apostles feet. His real name was Joseph, but they gave him the nickname Bar-Nabas, which means “Son of Encouragement.” That Greek word for Encouragement could also be translated as Son of Advocacy, or Son of Comfort. Barnabas quickly became a leader, lifting from the bottom, with gifts for seeing the importance of the one in reaching the many.
Saul and Paul are the same person. Saul is the Jewish version of his name, and Paul is the Greco-Roman version. So Luke will refer to him with whichever name best fits wherever he happens to be at the time. Saul was originally a persecutor of the early Christian community. He was a zealous and ambitious Jewish leader who wanted to eliminate the Jesus movement. He authorized the arrest and torture of several of the first Christians, and he presided over the stoning of Stephen. So when today’s passage talks about the persecution that began with Stephen, it’s referring to something that started because of Saul’s violence.
Yet shortly after the killing of Stephen, Saul was on his way to Damascus to arrest more Christians when God struck him down on the road, blinding him and commanding him to no longer do violence. This was a direct encounter with Jesus. Saul repented. He converted. He was filled with grace. A murderer-turned-disciple. After regaining his sight he traveled back to Jerusalem to present himself to Peter and the others and ask for forgiveness and inclusion in the ministry. When he got there, they were all afraid of him and refused to meet with him. But Barnabas, the Son of Encouragement, brought Saul in. He advocated for Saul with the Jerusalem leaders and ended up convincing them that Saul really had been transformed by grace. After testifying about his conversion in Jerusalem to the amazement of the believers there, Saul traveled north to the city of Tarsus and disappears from the scene.
Then something unexpected began to happen in Antioch. The persecution of Christians that Saul had initiated caused the community in Jerusalem to disperse. What was intended for evil God used for good. People carried the Gospel into new places and began to tell more people about Jesus. Some of these folks ended up in Antioch where they began preaching to both Jews and Gentiles. Antioch was one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the ancient Mediterranean world. There were people living there from many different cultures. And many different kinds of people responded to the message of Christ and began to share their lives and resources with one another. There had been suggestions of this kind of thing in Jerusalem, but in Antioch the cross-cultural, interreligious joining was the main event. It was new and beautiful. Word of what was happening there made its way down to the church in Jerusalem.
To understand what was happening there, and perhaps to help nurture it, the Jerusalem church sent none other than Barnabas, the Son of Encouragement. The scripture says, “When he arrived and saw the grace of God, he was glad and encouraged all of them to remain true to the Lord with devoted hearts, for he was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith” (11:23-24). Barnabas got to Antioch and had eyes to see that what was happening there was good and holy, in sync with the Spirit. Here was grace that he didn’t bring with him. It was already at work. It preceded him and would outlast him and he would contribute to it and serve it, but at the end of the day it was all grace. He was filled with joy, and he encouraged the Christians there to keep going. What’s more, he became a part of what was happening there, establishing himself as one of the primary teachers in the Antiochian congregation.
The Spirit had started working in a new way in a new place, and the established church had sent a worker to see and assess and help. That leader, Barnabas, then exercised his own creative freedom. He did something the Jerusalem church had not asked him to do. He left Antioch to go to Tarsus. He went to look or Saul. Something about what was happening in Antioch triggered Barnabas’s memory of and affection for Saul. He wanted Saul to be a part of this ministry. He brought Saul inside the new thing God was doing. And it was in Antioch that Saul cut his teeth for preaching and teaching. Eventually, this congregation, where Jews and Gentiles and people from all over the known world prayed and served together, would send Barnabas and Saul out on mission.
Who does the work of ministry and makes it fruitful? Is it us or is it the Holy Spirit? Yes. Who holds authority in the Christian community? Is it “the system,” represented by Jerusalem? Or is it the local churches, like Antioch? Or is it individuals like Barnabas and Saul? Yes. Is ministry about responding to what God is already up to before we get there or about helping to create conditions for a fresh movement of the Spirit? Yes.
These are some of the things we learn from Antioch. They were a “both/and” people living in a “both/and” time. And they were thriving, because, for them, everything came down to saying Yes to the Spirit, which surprises us, widens our embrace, and does it all in a way that is so kind, so joyful, and so wise.
With our partnership here in Pocatello, God did a new thing. And God is preparing the ground for another new thing during these months of transition. God did a new thing in Bangalore, India many years ago when Pastor Deepak came back from his studies in the US to pastor his people. God is preparing the ground in Woodinville, Washington for a new thing that will emerge through my partnership with a new congregation.
In all these places, and over and over again, it’s all grace. It’s all Holy Spirit. And we bring our unique stamp to it. We dance with the Lord, though we can never know what it’s going to look like ahead of time. For some of us, the task is to go and see and rejoice and serve with joy. For others of us, the task is to receive new partners and be changed.
What it comes down to for each of us is this: In each new season, is my zest for love growing? Is my heart becoming more spacious? Am I offering all that I have and all that I am up to the embrace of the Holy Spirit, recognizing that I am one small part of the whole? Am I experiencing the joy of being in a kind of community with others that only the Spirit could knit together? I believe that we have done this, that we are doing it, and that we will continue to do it, so long as our prayer continues to be: “Lord, may your will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.”
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Children Are Listening
Children Are Listening
April 19, 2026
By: Elle Mann
***
I have to say this before I begin. Pastor Mike asked me to give the message for today over a month ago, and I honestly couldn’t figure out what I wanted to talk about up until Palm Sunday. As we’ve done so many times before, we had a number of members of our congregation come up and tell the story of the crucifixion and burial of Jesus, as found in scripture. It truly is one of the most powerful stories in the entire Bible. I was assigned to read the part of the story that started where Jesus is mocked and scorned by the people. My part of storytelling ended as the Son of God takes his final breath. As usual, that part struck me, right in the chest. I could feel this ache, tugging at my heart. However, this time it was for an entirely different reason than in past years.
As I read the scripture, I thought about the people, ridiculing Jesus, mocking him, taking away his clothes, spitting on him as they moved him through the streets on the way to be executed. All of that hate on display, for someone they didn’t actually know. For someone who was nothing but himself, the Son of God, manifested as a good man, just trying to help others. It’s a pretty awful thing to think about. But my mind wasn’t just on the people screaming in the streets. It was the ones who weren’t necessarily there, or perhaps they were there, but we never really hear of them or their reactions in this story.
When we’re young, we’re learning a lot of new things. We learn how to walk, how to ride a bike, we learn how to read and write, and for better or for worse, we learn the basics of math. But some of the most important lessons that we learn aren't always the most obvious. And a lot of the time, the people teaching those lessons may not even be aware of it.
How many people in this room have heard of the famous Stephan Sondheim? Alright, now how many people are familiar with his musical hit: Into The Woods? Great. The reason I bring that up is because there’s a line from this show, right at the end, that I believe sums up the exact point I want to get across. “Careful the things you say/children will listen/careful the things you do/Children will see and learn.”
So, as I said before: the pain I felt in my heart on Palm Sunday was more focused on the unseen participants. The children. The kids who were witness to their parents and/or parental figures degrading and demeaning a man that they hated. What were they thinking? What was their reaction to this? Were they in support of this? Or did they just go along with it because they didn’t understand exactly what was going on?
Growing up, I was very lucky that my parents taught me to love. Whatever form that it came in, that was their number one rule. And as I’ve gotten older, none of that has changed. And I’m grateful for it. Now, this isn’t to say that I don’t have moments when I let my anger or distaste get the best of me. I’m a rather emotional person, I feel things in big amounts, and sometimes what I say doesn’t exactly follow that rule. Especially with all of the unrest going on around the world.
But then I wonder: How did we even get here in the first place? What brought us to the point where it feels as though every part of the earth is on fire? Why can’t we go a day without terrible things taking place? I know I couldn’t possibly answer that loaded question in a short amount of time: as there are many reasons and it would take hours, if not days or years to answer it. And I know you all have things you need to do, so I just want to focus on one of the potential reasons.
One of my favorite movies is 42, the true story of the life of the first black man to play Major League Baseball: Jackie Robinson. Before him, every single player in the highest professional league was white. That was until the Brooklyn Dodgers signed Jackie in 1947. A bunch of stuff goes on in the movie, but this is what has always stood out to me as someone who watches it at least once a year.
A lot of Jackie’s teammates aren’t kind to him, and many of the fans and players all over the league, spout racist statements to him during games. Sometimes Robinson would receive life-threatening letters at his family home. In fact at one point, his own teammates started a petition to try and kick Jackie off of the Dodgers because they didn’t want to play with him. Now why is this? All because of the color of his skin. Why do we treat other human beings like this? Again, that is a loaded question, but when you get down to the root of it, it starts with what we’re taught as children. Many of Jackie’s teammates were most likely taught by their parents that anyone who wasn’t white was lesser than.
Imagine that.
Hatred towards other people doesn’t just pop into our head out of the blue, it's repeated to us until we start to believe in it. When we’re children, our brains are still in the early stages of development. So when we hear something, we tend to run with it because we don’t know any better. So when the players and fans say those terrible things, it is truly horrifying, but it all starts to make sense. There’s even a scene where a father and son go to a game, and the son watches and listens as his father yells racist slurs at Jackie. You can see the troubling dilemma going on in the young boy's mind as his father does this, but then he follows suit and yells similar words at Jackie. If the father hadn’t done any of that, would his son have?
Towards the end of the movie, a good amount of the players come around and start to support Jackie. This serves as a lesson about how hatred can be unlearned just as well as we can learn it. But when we see or hear things over and over again while we’re growing up, it can take awhile to move past it. It also takes the will to want to change.
So when those men and women were spitting at Jesus, yelling awful names at him and insulting him as he was dragged through the streets, it is a possibility that the children of these people were paying attention, and the animosity and violence could have become an image that was stuck in their brain about how to treat Jesus when they saw him.
Of course this thought of mine is completely and one hundred percent hypothetical, as we don’t really have any evidence to support it. But I just can’t get this thought out of my head.
I have experienced what it’s like for my friends to be hateful towards others. When I was in sixth grade, my friends and I were having lunch when I brought up that my family and I were fans of the television show “Glee.” A couple of friends agreed, saying they loved that show. But everyone else at the table started rambling about how the show was disgusting because it featured characters who were openly gay.
Before I could even begin to argue, one of my friends at the time said “Anyone who’s gay is going to hell.” An eleven year old said this. And one of my other friends reached across the table and gave them a high five. I remember going home to my parents in tears, telling them about what had happened. I told them I was worried for my Uncle Matt and Uncle Mike, who I had known and loved my whole life. And who were two of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known. How could anyone think such a horrendous thing was true? That’s when my parents told me that my friends had probably been taught that by the parental figures in their lives. The people who were teaching them “right and wrong” were telling them that someone was dangerous just because of who they were in love with.
Which makes me even more grateful to have the parents I have.
This is just another example of why what we teach children is important. What we place emphasis on when we are helping the kids of this world learn; is what they’re going to bring with them into adulthood as a core value. So maybe as a society, it’s better to teach love, instead of judgement and hatred.
After all, isn’t that what Jesus wanted us to do?
To love our enemies as we love our friends.
There are so many examples in the world today that show what happens when we marginalize and ridicule certain communities. The genocide in Palestine, Russia’s war on The Ukraine, the conflict in the Sudan. Here in the United States, where we have a president who villainizes anyone who doesn’t think, talk, or act like him. A president who is trying to turn the military against the people they’re supposed to protect. It makes it really difficult to look at the ones who continue to support him with grace. And there are often times where I want to tear my hair out or climb a mountain and scream in the open air because I cannot believe that there are people that even swear by these hateful ideologies.
But then I remember: this wasn’t something they were inherently born with. These people that are stuck on this train, they didn’t just appear there out of thin air. They were fed these ideas, just as their parents were. And they were by their parents, and so on and so forth.
Now, recognizing this doesn’t necessarily make me feel any better. And it doesn’t have to. But at least I can offer them some grace. Even if they refuse to walk a mile in my shoes. Even if they refuse to do anything but scorn me for my moral beliefs; at least I can offer them a bit of grace.
A lot of things we learn as kids don’t necessarily stick with us. But the important things, such as morals, such as the way we treat other people, the way we treat animals and the world around us, those things we learn early on. And the ones we watch while we’re growing up…that’s who we are most likely going to become in some way.
There’s a song by the all-women’s country group The Chicks, called “I Hope,” which is on their Grammy winning record “Taking The Long Way.” Some of you may remember that I sang this song a few years ago with the help of the choir. There’s a line in the pre-chorus where the lead singer Natalie Maines sings one of my all-time favorite lyrics. It goes like this: “Our children are watching us, they put their trust in us, they’re going to be like us.” Which, like the Sondheim lyric, tells us to pay attention to our children. And our grandchildren. Our nieces and nephews. It’s reminding us to teach them. So, if you’re going to teach them anything, let it be this. Teach them kindness and understanding. Teach them that it’s okay to make mistakes. That expressing themselves is important, no matter how they do it. Whether it’s through playing sports, doing theater, writing stories, singing songs. Teach them that just because someone has different beliefs or lifestyles, it doesn’t make them lesser than. Teach them to fight for what they believe in, and to stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Teach them to listen. Teach them to ask for help when they need it. To share their feelings. Teach them about empathy. About sympathy. Teach them to apologize when they hurt someone.
All of these things are rooted in love. So if you teach them these things. You’re helping them to learn about and live by God’s number one rule. You’re helping them learn to love. And there are much worse things to learn.
“Careful the things you say, children will listen. Careful the things you do, children will see and learn.”
Amen.
Peace be With You (1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:19-31)
Peace Be With You
1Peter 1:3-9
John 20: 19-31
By: Melody Briggs
****
Good morning… Thank you all for this opportunity to join together in worship and praise after such a bustling and busy final sprint through Holy Week, last week full of emotional twists and turns…as well as the all-encompassing journeying through the Lenten desert these past 40 plus days of reflection… sometimes the Lenten season is often full and intuitional pivots, pulls, and realizations as each one of us in our various ways has hopefully connected… grounded and reconnected and reground to various parts of ourselves along this awaited celebration into Easter… Last week we traversed through Maundy Thursday and the spiritual welcoming gatherings and witnessing that happened here around this very table of grace and communion, not only in witnessing and nurturing our spirits with bread and body, but also our hearts and the communion amongst our community in love… To the bearing witness of Good Friday… and its sometimes reverently comforting ritual of knowing that through darkness and encompassing tombs, there can also be light waiting on the other side.
To last Sunday when we so beautifully came together in celebration and witness last week as individuals, and a community celebrating life renewed … the ever blooming and renewal of our spirits and those around us… as well as the Easter lightness that often breathes within us as a continued acknowledged joyful spirit… and a continued promise of presently living in hope.
To today the 2nd Sunday of this Easter season. The scripture readings shared today are examples of the re accounts from John and Peter’s versions of what they witnessed, felt, and perceived. I felt called to reference both accounts within our readings this morning for their intertwining intricacies as well as the beauty and differences between their accounts of Jesus’s sending and individual perceptions. For each of them sheds light into their exchanges not only with Jesus but also each other.
John 20: 19 starts off describing Easter evening with the disciples hiding, gathered in the Upper room from fear of the Jewish leaders.
Can you imagine Easter evening hiding in a dark room in the mist of grieving… praying… weeping… reflecting on the events of witnessing the cruelty of man and the crucifixion of Jesus in fear for not only your own life, but also the lives of those alongside you?
And then in the mist of such life altering pivotal moments. Breathes of stillness. And what must have felt like endless minutes in the darkness in a place of sanctuary where you were asked to faithfully wait… Jesus just happens to appear plain as day. And in his appearance and states. In John's version of the sending. That we just heard. Jesus appeared and stood among them and said. “Peace Be With You!” “Peace be with you!” Showing him his hands... And his wounds ... Then again Jesus said, “Peace be with you!”
“As the Father has sent me - I am sending you.”
“As the father has sent me- I am sending you.” You ... I am sending you! You... being the extension of Christ life. Jesus witnessing to John and the disciples to continue on in the mist of overwhelming grief. in love… in spirit. In faith. And in action… and then as John reaccounts in his version here. Jesus breathed on them and said, "Receive the Holy Spirit.”
The word Spirit in Hebrew is often translated as a wind… a breath. Jesus breathed on them… receive..the Holy Spirit,. Re-creation with breath is a new creation. A soul consciousness so to speak.
A soul consciousness tends to be defined as the spiritual awareness that we have as individuals that is an eternal.. Non physical being of light. A soul. Jesus breathing into us the Holy Spirit and saying to his disciples and to us … Go Forth. Be present for as John reaccounts within his writings the word became flesh … make flesh the word. Make flesh the word… the living out of our faith.
Within Peter and his version here of the sending he acknowledges that Jesus through his mercy has given us a new birth.. A breath of renewal .. a new birth into a living hope. 1Peter 1 verse 8 states Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy. 9 For you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls.
A soul, rather than just a physical body or being. A soul can be known to be defined as an inner self, and is often characterized by qualities such as peace, purity, love, light, and bliss. These words are powerful. So are our words when we exchange the passing of the peace here… Within our community of each other.. Just as we did a little bit ago .
The passing of peace within ourselves and the passing of peace that we extend to strangers.. Loved ones.. And the prayers of peace that can extend beyond ourselves through our inner light.. Our love..
Sitting at the sound booth each Sunday here, I have the opportunity and beautiful viewpoint to witness each of you pass the peace with each other… as you reach out your hands as an extension of yourself and inner state “Peace be with you!” “ Peace be with you.” just as Jesus stated in John’s reaccounts to his disciples as the first words he satiated as he appeared through darkness.. and as Peter described as the genuineness of our faith.. A praise for a living hope.. For you are renewed and filled with inexpressible joy. A breath made flesh… our words made flesh. An extension of our souls, our spirits.. Our truths.. And inner light.
What do you all spiritually believe happens in the exchanging of peace here and in your day to day encounters? How does John or Peter’s perspective speak to you or sit with you? Do we as individuals tend to navigate our internal and external worlds boldly, bravely and openly and if so how does that affect us? How do we tend to express our peace in exchange with each other and ourselves outside of these walls? Do we tend to pull back at times…due to fears.. Shame.. Guilt.. And grief as we navigate conflicts within our head.. Our hearts .. our spirits? And what do we honestly believe is happening could or could not be happening in these spiritual moments of exchange with each other? Our peace… our out reach of hands in greeting one another .. our peace shared in eye contact and a smile with a stranger… Peace be with you…. And also with you… Is our peace within us tied to our forgiveness and the forgiveness of others? Is our internal peace tied to grace? Is our peace tied to the accounts of a resurrected place? Is our peace breathed into us? Into our spirits.. Our souls.. Our inner light..?
I would like for all of us to take a little time and explore some of these expressions and questions of peace within ourselves and our souls... Here .. in this space.. In this moment in the presence of each other.. If the form of a Breath Prayer. Breath prayers are prayers that tend to be aligned with the rhythm of our breaths.. Often the first half will be prayed during inhalation and the second half is prayed during exhalation. Often in repetition for the purpose of meditating on God’s words by actively processing the words and reflecting on them. So if you feel so called to just take a few deep breaths as we center our hearts.. Our minds.. And our souls…within our inhalations and exhalations in your own rhythm and timing.. Adjusting into your seat… and your body as you relax… and acknowledge your rhythm consciously becoming aware of your body… and your mind and your presence within this time.. This space.. and closing your eyes or relaxing your gaze if that feels comfortable… and safe to you and within you.
I would like to invite us all to breathe in peace ... and as you breathe in and fill your lungs, just notice how it feels to inhale peace… inhale peace and the resurrection of peace… inhaling peace in spite of all wounding… inhaling peace in the mist of physical pain… and as you continue to breathe in just notice the feelings.. Sensations.. The wondering of your mind.. Inhale the peace of forgiveness… the peace of the breath of the spirit within you..
And now we are going to shift our attention to our exhalations.. As the breathing out of the peace through us and within us.. As we have just breathed peace in … we will breath peace out… notice how it feels to exhale peace.. We exhale peace ..dispite all of our woundings… our fears… our shame and our grieving… exhale peace in the midst of any physical pain you may have or have noticed as your body and mind have quieted… to exhale peace in the renewal of our spirits… and exhale peace as we extend hope to ourselves and eachother…. And when you are ready.. I invite you to come back to our space here .. to your surroundings.. And to open your eyes as you need to..
Jesus breathed into them The Holy Spirit. And stood among and said Peace be with you! For as the father sent me. I am sending you. How is it with your soul today? How does the passing of peace on a Sunday morning ignite an inner light in you.. I have to say it is one of my favorite parts of worship to witness each week.. It always fills me to see each of you sharing this sacred space with eachother.. The smiles you all interchange and exchange with each other… the lightness in the air after you greet each other's spirits in warmth, renewal and comfort..
The smiles and the giggles of joy from our youth and children .. the lightness in your voices in prayer and thanksgiving as we usually join in song after…And knowing that as you may have entered this space feeling unseen and heard in a world that doesn't offer much comfort these days.. That just for a brief second… the inner light of your neighbor.. A friend.. A stranger touched you.. Just as you have touched them. Shared peace in passing. Peace Be with you and in you.
I don't know if passing the peace speaks to all of us here in these ways or not.. Or if you all hold a passion for it .. But I do find it beautiful and comforting that it usually comes in our worship services each Sunday after our prayer of confession. After we hold space for our confessions and our needs and welcome them, just as John and Peter and the disciples held space in the upper room amongst a plethora of emotions and fears as well as the need for sanctuary from the outer world.. Jesus appeared and his first words were soothing .. comforting.. And full of love just as yours have been here today within yourselves and with each other within your breaths and attentiveness to your physical and spiritual needs.
Does taking a moment to breathe in peace affirm your inner light .. nourish your soul?
That may have felt a bit heavy and weary traveling here to church today even in the midst of the celebration of Easter as well as this overcast Sunday. There happens to be a fairly early John Wesleyan practice, Methodists used when meeting in small groups as a deep self examine the growth of living our faith, rather than just accepting it. The question he often asked those he encountered was .. How is it with your soul?
So as we continue through this Easter season acknowledging the celebration of resurrection and life renewal, practicing living in hope renewed I would like for us to consider not only our peace within us .. but also the nourishing and watering of our souls on our journeys. Jesus appeared, and said For as the father has sent me I am sending you. My hope for you today is that you can all take refuge and sanctuary in rest in the knowing of Christ's peace. Go in Peace!
Community Vigil for Victor Perez
Community Vigil for Victor Perez
April 4, 2026
By: Pastor Mike Conner
Opening Prayer
A reading from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 5:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Let us pray:
Loving Creator, we gather in your presence today trusting that you are always ready to receive us just as we are. As we hold vigil on this sacred ground—ground marked by love and loyalty, bullets and blood—we remember your cherished child, Victor Perez. We seek to honor Victor and those who love him through our presence, our stories, and our tears. We rest in your words of blessing, knowing that even in our grief and poverty of spirit, you are at work in us.
During this hour, may you comfort our hearts and keep the memory of Victor clear and alive in us, so that all that we think and feel may be purified and made useful by love. Help us to renew our commitment to the pursuit of justice and peace—for Victor and his family, throughout the City of Pocatello, and in all of life.
We continue to lament that Victor’s life was taken from us so quickly, so needlessly, and so brutally. For many it has been a long year of sorrow, frustration, and unsatisfying answers. Thank you for sharing our grief, outrage, and pain. Thank you, too, for embracing Victor’s spirit in the light and peace of your eternal presence.
Though you have created us through love and for love, we confess that we often fail to honor the inherent dignity of our neighbors. We are driven by the fear of what we don’t understand and the anger that clouds our judgments. We struggle to address our cultural addiction to violence and to fully acknowledge the harm perpetrated by our practices of policing.
Lead us into your truth, and bless those who are working for accountability and change on behalf of Victor and his family. Give all of us good work to do—the work of building real relationships with those in our neighborhoods, the work of advocating for policies and practices that minimize harm. Guide us onto your path of forgiveness, humility, and renewal.
We ask that your great mercy will have the final word in this story. And may our efforts in love be one way that we carry Victor forward into our shared future.
Lord, in you mercy, hear our prayer.
Amen.
The Good News of God is Meant to Be Sung (Zephaniah 3:14-20)
The Good News of God is Meant to Be Sung
Trinity Episcopal Church
Holy Saturday Easter Vigil
April 4, 2026
Zephaniah 3:14-20
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
I have two kids, ages 5 and 3, at home, and they have this quirky bedtime habit of asking me or my wife for a story and then, after the story is finished, asking for what they call“the song of the story.” I’m not sure how this got started, but basically what they want is for us to take the story we just told them and retell it by setting the words to an improvised melody. Mostly I think they’re trying to delay bedtime, and yet, there’s a kernel of wisdom in their request. For as long as there have been humans telling stories, there have been humans singing songs, often singing the stories as the primary means of telling them. We learn our letters, numbers, colors, days of the week, and animals through song. In seminary, I memorized the Greek and Hebrew alphabets and the many different forms of verbs by setting them to simple tunes. Our hymns embed theology and biblical narrative in our hearts more effectively than even the best sermons.
God’s good news is meant to be sung. When God’s grace touches our lives, one of the most natural things we can do is to sing about it: “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea” (Exodus 15:21). With tambourine in hand, this is how Miriam, the sister of Moses and Aaron, gave glory to the God who had freed her people from slavery.
“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” sang the young unwed Mary when Elizabeth affirmed the presence of God in her womb. And after that holy child was born, the angelic army filled the skies above Bethlehem with song: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom God’s favor rests.”
God’s good news is meant to be sung.
If we were to survey all the songs drawn from the human heart by the love and power of God, we would have to speak of Deborah’s praise of Ja’el, and the theological poetry of the Philippian hymn and the Johannine prologue, and the heavenly ecstasies of John the Revelator’s angels, martyrs, and strange creatures. We couldn’t leave out Zechariah’s Benedictus or Simeon’s Nunc Dimittis or the songs that shook the very foundations of Paul and Timothy’s Philippian prison cell.
The good news of God is meant to be sung.
Oh, there are the Psalms, chanted by Jews and Christians for thousands of years. There are the Eucharistic liturgies, the Gregorian chants, and the compositions of Bach, Beethoven, and Handel. There are the African American spirituals, those freedom songs by which the Nobodies of the world were uplifted as Somebodies to God. And yes, if I may, we couldn’t forget that great poet from our shared tradition, Charles Wesley, whose many hymns include “Come, thou long expected Jesus,” and “Hark! the herald angels sing,” and even tomorrow morning’s “Christ the Lord is risen today, Alleluia!” And just as there are rests in every piece of music, so even our sacred silences and contemplations have their place in our love song to God.
In every age and culture, in every language and artistic form, the good news of God is meant to be sung.
Zephaniah’s prophecy brought this home to me. Not much is known about him. The Bible says he prophesied during the reign of Josiah of Judah in the 7th century before Christ. Zephaniah’s three chapters of doom, which end with this sudden, stunning passage of joy, seem to fit the religious renewal and political reforms accomplished by Josiah when he came of age. Yet some scholars think these prophecies reflect, instead, Israel’s painful exile in Babylon, and the joy of their return. Others doubt Zephaniah ever existed at all.
What matters to me tonight is not historical exactitude but rather Zephaniah’s response to the movement of God—even if that movement was yet to come, experienced now only as a promise. “Sing aloud, O daughter Zion,” he urges. “Shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem!” (3:14). In a single verse we have four imperatives all basically saying the same thing: that God’s good news is meant to be sung. Singing is way to thank and tell the story of a God who removes our fear and our shame, who gathers in the outcasts and saves those who cannot save themselves.
But then, in verse 17, something unexpected happens. Zephaniah’s message shifts from what we do in response to God to what God does in response to us. The prophet says, “[God] will rejoice over you with gladness; [God] will renew you in [God’s] love; [God] will exult over you with loud singing!” And then the speech shifts into the first person, and we hear a stanza of God’s own love song for us.
Wait, God singing about us? To us? Over us?
What a mystery that we would bring such joy to our Creator!
And yet this is the good news of our faith, that through God’s faithfulness to the covenant, and through Christ’s death and resurrection, we have been made children of God, and who doesn’t love singing lullabies, happy birthdays, and loves songs to their children? Perhaps all our songs are reflections of, or small distillations of, God’s eternal song. Perhaps when we sing God’s good news we are participating in God’s song that is always already flowing through us. After all, to be inspired means to be filled with breath, and we have in our lungs the breath of the God whose word, whose melody, to us is love.
As John Wesley once wrote in an early Methodist hymnbook: “See that you join with the congregation [to sing] as frequently as you can. Let not a slight degree of weakness or weariness hinder you. If it is a cross to you, take it up and you will find a blessing… Sing lustily and with good courage. Beware of singing as if you were half dead, or half asleep; but lift up your voice with strength ...Above all sing spiritually. Have an eye to God in every word you sing.”
The good news of God is meant to be sung.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
For the Forgiveness of Sins (Matthew 26:17-30)
For the Forgiveness of Sins
Maundy Thursday
April 2, 2026
Matthew 26:17-30
***
Maundy Thursday receives its name from the Latin word for “commandment,” mandatum. That language comes from John’s Gospel, in which Jesus spends the night before his crucifixion celebrating the Passover meal with his disciples. After the meal, he washes their feet like a household servant and then gives them what he calls a “new commandment:” “love one another,” he says, “as I have loved you” (John 13:34). The love commandment is unique to John’s version of the story. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, Jesus also celebrates the Passover meal with his disciples on the night of his betrayal and arrest. But in place of the foot washing, Jesus instead blesses the bread and the cup, identifying them with his own body and blood and creating the sacrament of Communion. In Luke’s story, this moment also comes with a commandment: “Do this in remembrance of me” (22:19).
Tonight I’d like to focus our attention on the table. It has been a little over a year since we transitioned from a monthly to a weekly practice of Communion, a little over a year since we made the intentional decision to center the table in our worship space. Yet maybe we still wonder from time to time: Why is this so important? What’s really going on when we gather around Christ’s table? How, and for what, am I being formed week after week?
In a sermon called “The Duty of Constant Communion,” John Wesley, one of the founders of Methodism, set out “to show that it is the duty of every Christian to receive the Lord’s Supper as often as [they] can.” He took about six paragraphs to make his initial argument and then twenty-two more paragraphs to answer the anticipated objections of his readers, including the objection that, in his words, “constant communion…abates our reverence for the sacrament.” That is, that coming to the table more often makes it less special. Wesley deftly distinguishes between two kinds of reverence, the natural excitement we feel for anything that is new or occasional enough to feel fresh, and the slow accumulation of what he calls “true religious reverence,” which comes from being blessed by faithful practice over time.[1]
Along with prayer and scripture reading, Wesley considered Communion to be one of the three chief “means of grace,” which he defines as practices ‘ordained of God as the ordinary channels of conveying [God’s] grace to the souls of [people].”[2] Because Jesus promised us explicitly that he would be present to us in this practice—‘This is my Body… Do this in remembrance of me’—we can trust that each time we come to the Table, something grace-filled will occur in us and between us. Why wouldn’t we want to experience that as often as we can?
Gustavo Guttiérez, the great Peruvian Catholic writer who helped develop liberation theology in Latin America, once wrote that “the breaking of the bread is at once the point of departure and the point of arrival of the Christian community.”[3]
Here’s what I think he meant by that. As a point of departure, the table confronts us with our foundational responsibilities as students of Jesus. It teaches us that, with God, everyone is welcomed, valued, and fed. We are sent out to declare God’s love for all people, to dissolve all hierarchies of status, power, and wealth, and to ensure that everyone receives their daily bread. This is a difficult calling that requires sacrifice and patience. From one perspective, we celebrate Communion under the sign of the cross, for the kingdom of heaven is not yet.
But as a point of arrival, the table offers us a glimpse, and a taste, of our destiny. There is deep joy here. One day, Christ will return to judge the nations, heal the earth’s wounds, wipe away every tear, and throw an eternal feast for the poor and the outcast, for every sinner saved by grace. Today is that day! if only, it seems, for a moment. Just as the disciples on the road to Emmaus knew the presence of the risen Christ when he broke bread with them at the end of a long day, so we too can encounter the real heart of God here. From this perspective we celebrate Communion under the sign of the resurrection, for the kingdom of heaven is already here.
In our Christian tradition there are three primary names for the sacrament: the Lord’s Supper, Holy Communion, and the Eucharist. They refer to the same thing, but each label produces its own spiritual mood and gifts.
The Lord’s Supper is the most solemn of the three. When we call breaking the bread the Lord’s Supper, we actively recall this as the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples. We meditate on the bread and cup as signs of his broken body and shed blood. In Christ, God has participated fully in our human condition, in our brokenness and vulnerability. In Christ, the Son of God gave up his life for us and for all creation. The Lord’s Supper invites reflection on the cross and calls us to consider Jesus’ solidarity with our pain, his love that outlasts and redeems our wounds, and his invitation to take up our own crosses and follow him.
When we call what we do here Holy Communion we place the most emphasis on our mystical belonging to one another in and as the Body of Christ. This is a feast, a banquet, a party! This is a time to regard one another with reverence, and to commit ourselves to each other in love. At this table we are reminded of God’s own Triune life, the eternal and perfectly unified community that is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. When God created humankind in God’s image, God was making us for one another. “It is not good for the man to be alone,” God said when there was only Adam. We need each other to show the fullness of God. Giving and receiving love in perfect freedom is one thing that Communion shows us how to do.
Finally, the name Eucharist comes from the Greek verb eucharisteo, which means “I give thanks.” When we call Communion the Eucharist, we emphasize our gratitude. Just as we say grace before our daily meals, here at God’s table we lift up a prayer of thanksgiving. We say thank you for the whole story of creation and redemption—for God’s faithful love which was, is, and is to come. We say thank you for the goodness of the earth; thank you for God’s covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; thank you for Christ’s life, death, and resurrection; thank you for the Church’s mission; thank you for our hope in the eventual healing of all creation. Great stories are told and retold at the family table. Great toasts are given at wedding banquets. At Christ’s table, we take the long view and rehearse the story of God’s love for creation.
Each time we break bread, we meditate on Jesus’ sacrificial life and death, relish the interweaving of our lives, and express our gratitude. Another way of putting this is that, as Lord’s Supper, the table helps us look inward to the purity of our hearts; as Holy Communion, the table helps us look outward at each other; and as the Eucharist, the table helps us look up in open-armed and open-hearted love for God. Even if we’re not feeling very spiritual some days when we come forward to receive his body and blood, we can be sure that the table is doing its work in, between, and upon us.
The great spiritual writer Henri Nouwen has a beautiful little book called Life of the Beloved. In it he explores how Jesus’ four actions with the bread at the last supper can be seen as a metaphor for the Christian life. Jesus took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread. In the same way, God takes, blesses, breaks, and gives each of us.
When we walk with God, there is a sense in which we all are taken, we are called and claimed by God’s grace. We belong to God. Then we are blessed, affirmed as God’s beloved in the context of a community. Then we are free to experience the reality and the surprising giftedness of brokenness. Life and love humble us. Our self-sufficiency or narrow affections have to be challenged by Christ’s radical love. We wake up to the suffering of others. Finally, we are ready to be turned outward in compassion and given to others. Through each of us, Christ offers himself as bread for the world.
As I consider Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Supper, here’s what strikes me. At the beginning of the meal, Jesus acknowledges that a betrayer sits among the group of disciples. At the end of the meal, Jesus predicts that Peter, the leader of the Twelve, will deny Jesus three times, and that all the disciples will desert Jesus by the end of the night. Even so, he passes the cup around to each of them and says, “Drink from it, all of you” (Matt 26:27, emphasis mine). All of you. All of us. Betrayers, deniers, deserters—we will all be forgiven of our sins. Not because we deserve it, but because Jesus freely poured out his life and love for us all. Like the twelve, we have all been caught up in the reconciliation of heaven and earth which Jesus has accomplished on the cross. And like eleven of them, we will be met by Christ at the table on the day of resurrection. No matter what disappointments, regrets, wounds, or failures we carry, there is forgiveness with God. Even when we fail him, he does not fail us.
As the liturgy says, “Christ our Lord invites to his table all who love him, who earnestly repent of their sins, and who seek to live in peace with one another.”
May we each hear and respond to that invitation as the Spirit leads.
Amen.
A New Day (Matthew 28:1-10)
The New Day
April 5, 2026
Matthew 28:1-10
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
This past Wednesday, NASA launched its first crewed spacecraft beyond low-earth orbit since 1972. Right now, there are four astronauts, three Americans and one Canadian, traveling closer and closer to moon. The goal of the Artemis II mission is to circumnavigate the moon, seeing even its dark side.
I had no idea that this was in the works, and it was only by mere luck that my family and I watched the launch live. I had just brought the kids home from preschool, and they wanted to watch one of their favorite shows on the Disney+ app. So, we got out the screen, clicked open the app, and discovered the live coverage. In less than 20 minutes the rocket would be blasting off from the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. I explained what was happening, and the kids chose to watch it instead. (Yay!)
The rocket steamed on its platform, and the faces of the astronauts flashed across the screen. A voice from NASA led the final ten-second countdown; the rocket ascended into the sky and shed its boosters; the crowds around Cape Canaveral cheered. Sitting there on our couch, we were all captivated: four human beings hurtling toward their dreams, and a gleaming, ingenious technological apparatus supporting them.
I wrote my first ever research paper in the 7th grade. The topic I chose was the Space Race between the United States and the USSR. As a kid, I liked that there was a competitive aspect to it, two nations racing toward the moon. But more than that, I remember the magic of it: people accomplishing something, and going somewhere, utterly unprecedented.
In more recent years, my views have been complicated by an author named Loren Eiseley, our son Loren’s namesake. Professionally, Eiseley was a twentieth-century evolutionary anthropologist. That means he studied human bones and human prehistory, piecing together out of the ancient evidence some picture of the emergence of Homo sapiens as a species. But in his several books of essays written for a nonscientific audience, he ponders the mysteries of human consciousness, spirituality, and love.
One of the themes that Eiseley returns to over and over again in his writings is the deep craving in humanity to follow its curiosity, to expand outward, to visit unknown places and seek answers to the most cryptic aspects of nature. We have a need, a drive, to push the boundaries of what is possible. Eiseley often talks about this in the context of the space craze of the 1960s and 1970s, when that longing to sail among the stars and get at the origin of all things, to settle some faraway planet where we might give ourselves a second shot at Paradise, was at its cultural peak.
But then Eiseley says, in effect, ‘Hmm, this is curious. We seem so eager to blast ourselves into the heights of the cosmos, and yet so reticent to presence ourselves into the depths of soul.’ What does it mean, this mystical scientist ponders, that we who are constantly at war, and ravaging planet Earth, and largely failing to care for the poor and vulnerable, what does it mean that we will spend millions to enter the frontier of space but not spend a moment plumbing the human heart’s capacity for love?
These aren’t questions I recommend pulling out at your next dinner party, but let me assure you that they weren’t academic for Eiseley, who lived through both World Wars, Vietnam, the Cold War, and the cultural turbulence of the ‘60s and ‘70s. I’ll admit that I was brooding on them myself this past Wednesday afternoon while watching Artemis II hurtle into the sky.
Don’t get me wrong, I also got teary in that moment. The bravery of those astronauts is remarkable, and I still have that childlike reverence for space. But even so, the on-air reporting felt like it was trafficking in some out-of-touch and tired commentary. On the ground and in the studio, the commentators were saying this like this: ‘Even though millions of American’s struggle to pay their rent, funding expeditions like Artemis II will lead us toward a better collective future.’ And: ‘This mission has the power to unite our country during a time of division and war just like the first moon landing did in 1969 during the Vietnam War. And: ‘This mission marks a new day for America, a new day for humanity.’
A new day for humanity. That’s the one that really unsettled me.
And I think it unsettled me because I agree with Loren Eiseley, who says that the key to a better world is not out there among the stars but actually in here, in this soft, mysterious organ beating in our chests. It’s because I trust the words of Jesus, who says in the Gospel of Luke, “the Kingdom of God is already among you” (17:21 NLT). As a person of Christian faith, I am confronted this Easter morning with startling news that the ‘new day for humanity’ is already here. It has already dawned. In fact, it began dawning more than 2 millennia ago, when the earth was thought to be flat, and set at the very center of an unchanging universe.
The new day! – Matthew speaks of it right here in his Easter story: “After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb” (Matt 28:1 NRSV, emphasis mine). With these words, Matthew transports us back to the first pages of scripture, to the ancient Hebrew poem of creation. God spoke the universe into being, beginning with the creation of light and the separation of light from darkness, the inauguration of time. God worked for six days, crafting the glories of creation, and then rested from labor on the seventh day, enjoying the “very-goodness” of everything that had been made.
Mary Magdalene and the other Mary had also rested on a Sabbath day. Jesus’s body, dead and sealed away in Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb, had rested on the Sabbath day. That Sabbath day, a day of strange, aching silence for both people and God, was a hinge. It was the fulfilment of an old day and the dawning of a new day. As the women set off for the tomb in the early morning hours they entered the new day, not only in the sense of the turning of the calendar, but in the transformed relationship between creation and God. This was the beginning of what scripture calls the new creation, the new birth, the kingdom of heaven.
Paul says, “[We] were dead through the trespasses and sins in which [we] once lived… [But] God has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of our sins” (Eph 2:1; Col 1:13).
Peter says: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading” (1 Peter 1:3-4).
And Mary Magdalene, who rushed to tell the disciples on that first Easter morning, testifies, “I have seen the Lord!” (John 20:18).
And Jesus himself, welcomes not only the women but all of us into the dawning of the day with that single, playful word, “Greetings!”
The key to our happiness and our holiness, the secret to our friendship with God and our love of others, is ready to be poured into our hearts through faith. It is the very life of Jesus. It is his Spirit, his grace. His resurrection proves that nothing, not even the cruelty of the cross, could snuff out that grace. His life and love outlast and overcome condemnation, injustice, and death. Jesus promises to greet us in the new day that is right here and right now, not in some far-off time on a planet not our own.
If there is a mission that we are called to make as Christians, it is first and foremost for the discovery of our spiritual capacities: learning to forgive, to love, to make peace, to be patient, to serve without expectation of reward. If, as Paul puts it in Romans 5, “God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit” (Rom 5:5), what is possible for us? What is the daily adventure of prayer and love that we are called to live? That’s the question that all our ingenuity and resources ought to be aimed at answering. At the very least, that’s the question that the Church should be seeking to answer to the astonishment and delight of others.
Using Matthew’s resurrection story, I’d like to name three truths about what it means for us to live in God’s ‘new day.’
First, we are free to experience the powers of this world, the powers of deception and intimidation, as having been disarmed by the crucified and risen Christ. Out of the four Gospel writers, only Matthew tells the story of the religious and political authorities’ attempt to guard against, and then cover up, Jesus’ resurrection. With Pontius Pilate’s blessing, the chief priests and Pharisees had “sealed the tomb and posted guards to protect it” (Matt 27:66). And after the earthquake and angelic appearance at the empty tomb, some of the guards went back to the city to report what happened to the priests. The priests, conferring with the elders, decided to pay the soldiers to lie about what happened.
Yet in between the sealing and the scheming, God’s angel comes. “For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men,” Matthew says (28:4). Like dead men. There is poetry here! At the site of death, at the tomb, Jesus is announced as alive, while the armed guard is revealed for what it really is—an empty instrument of death.
In God’s “new day,” we have nothing to fear. Though oil prices might spike in result to a thoughtless war, though the market may convulse at the whims of AI developers and Silicon Valley billionaires, though the Idaho legislature may continue to make life harder for women, children, immigrants, LGBTQ folk, and the working poor, we are called to trust the Christ who says, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).
This doesn’t mean that we will always be able to protect ourselves or the ones we love from harm. Jesus never promises us victory in a material or political sense. But he does promise vitality and integrity in every circumstance. By his Spirit we can announce the truth of every person’s worth. Because he lives, we can suffer for the sake of love with hope.
A second part of living in the ‘new day’ is that our sense of belonging to one another continually expands. Sometimes Christians get this very wrong. We think we need to circle the wagons, enforce boundaries, get really clear about who’s in and who’s out. We can get to thinking that being faithful means not asking questions or taking risks or caring about what happens in the world around us. But these are habits of the old day.
The angel tells the women to “go and tell” the disciples about the resurrection (28:7). And it is in their going that Jesus meets them, that his living presence is confirmed as a reality. He then repeats the angel’s order: “go and tell” (28:10). And what are they supposed to tell the disciples? That they, the disicples, need to get up and go—go to Galilee, because it will be in their going that they will see Jesus.
This theme of going and telling, and of being met by God in the going, is confirmed as the pattern of Christian life at the end of Matthew’s Gospel when Jesus meets the disciples on the mountain in Galilee and gives the Great Commission: “Go therefore,” Jesus tells them, “and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you” (28:18-19).
Jesus is always going ahead of us; the minute we’re settled into something comfortable and routine he goes a little farther down the road and asks us to follow him. There is no limit to how much we can experience his grace and share his love with others. To be a person of faith means being a person who takes risks, who embraces change without fear, who wants to know where the call will lead next. The reality of the risen life of Jesus can’t be comprehended from the sidelines; it can only be known from within—by going and telling, and being met by Christ along the way.
The new day promises a widening circle of belonging. As John Wesley once put it, “all the world is [our] parish.” We are free to experience everyone as a neighbor, and each dimension of our lives as the arena of discipleship. With Christ, our world doesn’t get smaller but bigger, because our hearts are asked to hold the infinity of God’s love.
Finally, in this resurrection day, we can expect that God’s messengers will foil our expectations. The people God chooses to teach us of love will expose our pride and humble us. All four Gospels agree that the first witnesses of the resurrection were women. In ancient Jewish culture, the testimony of a woman would not stand in court; it had no authority. If the earliest Christians wanted to spread a convincing story about Jesus’ resurrection, they might have chosen more reputable first witnesses: men, maybe someone like the rich man Joseph of Arimathea, whose tomb Jesus had been laid in. But no, it was the women who were the first to see, believe, and testify.
The next group of witnesses is hardly better than the first. Jesus returns to the eleven disciples who, in the hour when he needed them most, had deserted and denied him. Jesus is committed to this ordinary, fallible group. He promises to renew their life of witness; their faithfulness will draw strength from his love and forgiveness, from his power over death.
There is a subtle shift in language here. The angel tells Mary and Mary to “go quickly and tell his disciples” (28:7); when Jesus meets them on the road and essentially repeats this command, he says “go and tell my brothers” (28:10).
My brothers. Still disciples in the new day, but also brothers. Siblings of Christ! Children of God! Think of the shift in understanding taking place in the women as they run to find the eleven. They would not only announce good news to students who had let down their teacher and were being given another shot. They would also announce good news to men claimed by the risen Christ as family. They would tell them, “Don’t be hung up on your failures. He called you brothers! There is forgiveness and love with him. You belong to him unconditionally. Go to Galilee!”
In the new day of the resurrection, Jesus gives us eyes to see everyone as a potential witness. Even and especially those granted the least authority in our systems, even and especially those who have failed and been humbled by their failures. God can work through anyone; no one is beyond the reach of redemption. And those who know the rejection and humiliation of the cross are perhaps most able to convince us that we have been reconciled to God, that the new day has dawned.
Friends, on this Easter morning, we are called to discover the wisdom, compassion, humility, and love that Jesus makes possible in us through his Spirit, through his life which is greater than sin and death. He has procured a new humanity for us in his resurrection. We do not have to wait for the next great technological achievement or feat of human brilliance to bring about the new day. It is already dawning; may it come to a blaze in our hearts as we live without fear, as we draw the circle of our love wider, and as trust the testimony of those whom God chooses to send to us. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Come To Me (Matthew 1:11, 25-30)
Come To Me
March 22, 2026
Matthew 11:1, 25-30
By: Pastor Mike Conner
I want to express my gratitude for the many people who preached, led worship, and worked with the youth Sunday School class the past two Sundays: Marlys McCurdy, John Gribas, April Mills, Trudy Pink, and others. It continues to be a source of joy and humility that I am able to lean on and learn from others. When other people lead and share their prayerful perspective on God’s Word all of us get to see and to hear the Gospel refracted through the prism of our community. That diversity gives us a fuller sense of who God is, how God works, and what God is up to in our world. So, thank you.
Thank you. Expressing gratitude is transformative. If we do it regularly as a practice, saying ‘Thank you’ can rewire our neural pathways. Our minds can learn to sift for the good even as we take in disheartening news or move through challenging experiences. Over time, we start to anticipate that, even in the midst of failure or opposition or the unfolding of scary events beyond our control, we will catch the glimmer of God’s goodness in our daily lives.
That’s what Jesus is doing here in Matthew chapter 11. He is deep into his Galilean ministry. He has passed through many of its major towns and smaller villages, healing, preaching, and performing miracles. But in verse 20 of this chapter, Matthew writes, “Then [Jesus] began to reproach the cities in which most of his deeds of power had been done because they did not repent” (11:20, emphasis mine).
He reproached them… Even though Jesus had done great things for the people, he was not seeing the change of heart that he wanted to see.
Instead of growing bitter about this apparent failure, Jesus sensed that God was mysteriously at work. Surprisingly, he says ‘Thank you.’ And we would do well to listen, because this is one of the moments in the Gospels where we are brought inside the prayer life of Jesus and get to hear him as he communes and communicates with his Source.
Here’s verse 25 in the New Revised Standard Version: “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants.” Here’s that same verse in the New Living Translation: “O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, thank you for hiding these things from those who think themselves wise and clever, and for revealing them to the childlike.” And here’s how Eugene Peterson’s puts it in The Message: “Thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth. You’ve concealed your ways from sophisticates and know-it-alls, but spelled them out clearly to ordinary people.”
Infants, the childlike, ordinary people—Jesus thanks God for presenting the things of salvation to them. But the wise, the intelligent, and the clever; sophisticates and know-it-alls? Well, Jesus thanks God for hiding the things of salvation from them.
Jesus saw the prevailing arrangements of power remaining fixed. Gripped by an addiction to the status quo, the dominant culture would not embrace the gentleness and justice of the kingdom of God that Jesus was revealing. Maybe they were afraid of Roman retribution. Maybe they preferred a vision of God that was domesticated and aligned with “the way things had always been.” Maybe it was something else. Either way, this is the first real indication in Matthew’s Gospel that the masses are going to eventually turn their back on Jesus at the cross.
Yet there were a few, a very few, whose hearts were in alignment with the movements of the Spirit, including the twelve apostles. So Jesus thanked the Lord of heaven and earth, whose thoughts are higher than our thoughts and whose ways are higher than our ways, for foiling expectations for worldly success and for overturning the value systems of the world.
God’s work of overturning the world’s value systems is a thread that runs throughout all of scripture. God initiated salvation history by calling Abraham and Sarah, an elderly couple, to leave their homeland and travel in faith to a land yet to be revealed, where they would start a family. God took Moses, a reclusive outcast, and made him the liberator of the Hebrews. God took David, the youngest son of a shepherd, and made him King.
In Mary’s Magnificat, the mother of God sings: “[God] has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly / [God] has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.” And in the opening chapters of Matthew’s Gospel, we’ve seen how Jesus’ ministry incarnated this great reversal. He, a poor carpenter’s son was revealed to be the Son of God. He welcomed and healed everyone who came to him. He revealed God’s universal love for all people. He saw through externals to the intentions of the heart.
There is a scene in the New Testament book of Acts in which two of Jesus’ apostles, Peter and John, are arrested for preaching about Jesus in the Jerusalem Temple. This happens after Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension. They are brought before the “rules, elders, and scribes,” including some of the individuals who had a direct hand in Jesus’ crucifixion, and are asked, “By what power or by what name did you do this?”
“Then Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, said to them, ‘Rulers of the people and elders, if we are being questioned today because of a good deed done to someone who was sick and are being asked how this man has been healed, let it be known to all of you, and to all the people of Israel, that this man is standing before you in good health by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead.’
“…Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and John and realized that they were uneducated and ordinary men, they were amazed and recognized them as companions of Jesus” (from Acts 4, emphasis mine).
Notice the reversal: boldness and joy and moral integrity from those who had no social privilege. Surely this was a sign of their fellowship with Jesus, the one who was crucified and who yet lives. Those who had arrested Peter and John had nothing to say in response to this. As the Apostle Paul writes in First Corinthians, “God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.”
“Consider your own call, brothers and sisters,” Paul urges, “not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to abolish things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God” (1:25-29 NRSV).
It is God’s will that the good news be the pearl of great price hidden in the field, the narrow way that leads to life, the invisible salt seasoning the world. The only condition to finding it, and living it, is that we come to Jesus as the ordinary people that we are, in need of grace. God has revealed these things to infants. Infants don’t work to distinguish themselves from others. They don’t compete. They don’t manage their image in the eyes of others. They don’t possess anything other than the will to live and the need to be cared for. And they are bold in making their needs known.
Jesus says, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
And anyone, any of us, can do this.
You are never too young, and you are never too old to come to him.
You do not need to be self-sufficient, a straight-A student, or a standalone success to come to him.
You do not need to have it all together or have clean record to come to him.
You do not need to be wealthy or witty, perfect or popular.
You do not need to have white skin or American citizenship, or speak English perfectly, or at all.
You don’t need to know ahead of time where the journey is going to take you.
You don’t need to have achieved all the things you thought you were setting out to achieve at the beginning.
You don’t need to be able to do all things today that you used to be able to do yesterday.
You don’t need to be understood or to understand.
All Jesus asks is that you come to him, really come to him, to his presence, to his humility and lowliness, and that you experience his delight in showing you the source of pure Love at the center of everything, the Love that knows and wants you, the Love that wants magnify itself in the world through you. The Love that Jesus called Father.
What good news! – that to inherit the kingdom of God we simply need to be honest with Jesus about being weary and burdened. We only must feel our need for him and receive his rest.
Friends, whether for the first or the thousandth time, may each of us come to him, trusting it is precisely through our imperfections and false starts and emptiness that the kindness, the mercy, and the pure of love of God are revealed.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
The Bad News Good News (Matthew 10:16-42)
Sermon: The Bad News Good News
March 15, 2026
Matthew 10:16-42
By: John Gribas
When Pastor Mike initially asked if I would be open to preparing a message for today, he seemed a little hesitant. Apparently, hesitant about this particular section of Matthew he would be asking me to explore.
I thought that hesitation was a little odd, to be honest. I mean…it’s scripture. And it’s a very familiar part of New Testament scripture. Not some weird Old Testament passage, sharing about God drowning almost all of humanity, or seemingly directing his chosen people to engage in child sacrifice or genocide, or a talking donkey, or a guy getting swallowed by a big fish, or mind-numbing genealogies, or bizarre purity rules and rituals.
No, this was straightforward New Testament stuff. And not some baffling cosmic fantasy epic scene from the Book of Revelation. This was gospel material. Matthew’s gospel.
No problem, Mike. Piece of cake.
But after I read it and spent a bit of time with it, I started to see why this passage—Matthew 10:16-42—could be a little tricky.
“Tricky, how?” you might ask. Well, I’d say tricky because something I know about preaching—something I recall Mike really emphasizing himself when I was part of his preaching class—is that, whatever you do in a sermon message, whatever approach you take—it is essential that you find a way to share “good news.” That’s the point.
“Gospel” means “good news.” So sharing on this particular section from Matthew’s gospel should automatically mean I am sharing some good news, right?
Last week, Marlys did such a wonderful job of sharing good news. And the scripture she drew from comes right before the scripture for today. Jesus is sending the twelve to cast out unclean spirits and heal every kind of disease and sickness. And Marlys reminded us all that we, like these disciples, can consider our calling and play our part in ministering to a hurting world. To follow in the footsteps of the good shepherd who takes good care of the sheep. That sounds like good news to me.
Also, if we look back to the portion of Matthew 10 from last week, we can see that, in sending out the twelve, Jesus offers quite a bit of reassurance.
He tells them they are to focus on those who are familiar. Fellow Israelites. No need to get uncomfortable by engaging Samaritans or Gentiles.
He tells them they get to do a lot of awesome things. Share the good news. Heal sick people. Even raise the dead!
He tells them they don’t have to worry about payment or budgets or schedules. They can pack very light. People will take care of them. And if they meet anyone who isn’t keen on offering hospitality…no problem. No need to haggle or debate. Just move on to someone else who is keen.
For the twelve being sent out to do something likely a bit out of their comfort zone, and for us here today maybe feeling called to do likewise as Jesus followers, that is a lot of good news.
But there is a definite “turn” after that, starting in verse 16. Suddenly, it stops sounding much like good news. For example, Jesus says…
You are sheep, and there are going to be wolves.
Get ready for some flogging.
You will have audience with rulers and authorities, though you will be anything but the invited guest of honor.
Your own dear friends and family will hate you and betray you.
They call me “devil.” As my student, don’t expect anything different.
If you thought I came to bring peace, think again.
If you want to be considered worthy, love me more than father, mother, brother, sister. And this work comes at a cost. A cross. Your cross. Your very life.
I don’t know about you, but, to me, this all sounds like bad news. Very, very bad news.
And I understand why Mike was hesitant.
But don’t worry. Despite the promise of wolves and flogging and betrayal, there is actually good news here. More than first meets the eye. I guess we could call it the “bad news good news.”
To begin, we need to remember that, in this passage, Jesus was talking to a specific group of individuals in a particular place and time. This group was “the twelve.” Those we know as apostles. The listing and naming of the individual members of this group to start Matthew 10 emphasizes who the chapter is about. Jesus summoned these twelve individual human beings. This message is to them in preparation of their being sent out. If the message includes some bad news…well…it is their bad news.
That might sound rather selfish. I don’t mean it to be. I’m not suggesting that we—we who are not apostles—should read this and think, “Wow. Those guys had it tough. That was some really bad news. Glad that wasn’t me.”
What I am suggesting is that, whether it is bad news or good news, we need to be careful not to just read scripture, note what Jesus said to specific people in a specific situation and place and time, and assume Jesus is saying that same thing to us today, in our specific situation and place and time.
One reason it doesn’t make sense to do this is because Jesus didn’t do it in his own time. That is, he didn’t go around making statements to people with the assumption that what he was saying had some kind of universal application to everyone. Not even to everyone who considered themselves his follower.
For example, consider the gospel story of the man in the land of the Gerasines who was filled with many demons—a “legion” in fact. Jesus cast out those demons, sending them into a heard of pigs. The healed man begged to be allowed to go along with Jesus as part of his ministry. But Jesus’ message and mission for this man was, “Go home and tell the people there how much God has done for you.”
No wolves. No flogging. Just home and a chance to share an unbelievable blessing.
But Jesus’ calling and sending is certainly not always warm and fuzzy, and it was not only the twelve whose calling included some “bad news.” A bit later in Matthew, in chapter 19, a very rich young man engaged with Jesus, seemingly interested in learning more about what it meant to follow. Jesus didn’t promise wolves or flogging. But he also didn’t say, “Go home and share how you have been blessed.”
Nope. He said, “Sell everything you have and give it to the poor. Then come follow me.”
I can’t help but wonder if that rich young man would have preferred a flogging.
When Jesus calls and sends, he calls and sends individuals. He calls and sends them at particular times and in particular ways…because he knows them. Because he knows us. He knows you! That is the point. And that is reflected here in Matthew 10. And that, I am suggesting, is good news.
I noticed something really strange here in Matthew 10. And I think this strange thing actually reinforces the point I am making—the idea that when Jesus calls and sends, he does so from a place of deep knowing and understanding. Here is the start of today’s passage:
“See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Beware of them, for they will hand you over to councils and flog you in their synagogues; and you will be dragged before governors and kings because of me.”
So…wolves, flogging, being dragged before authorities. Bad news.
But then Jesus shares something. It appears to be a kind of reassurance. A consoling message to ease their fears. Jesus says, “Do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time; for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.”
Okay, I’m a communication professor. I’ve taught my share of public speaking classes. I know that speech anxiety is a real thing. But if I were one of those disciples, I think what I would have wanted to hear for consolation is something like, “Yes, there will be wolves, but I’ll make sure they are toothless,” or, “You will be flogged, but don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
Come on, does Jesus really think these disciples are concerned about what they are going to say more than being flogged and dragged unceremoniously in front of a group of angry ruler-wolves?
Yes. He does. And he’s right. Because he knows.
He knows these men. He called them. These were fishermen. They knew the daily pain of hard, back-breaking work. Their hands that bore a thousand scars from the rope and netting that cut into their flesh as they dragged fish in were simply the price of making a living. They were common folk. Poor. Laborers. Lower class. Being powerless and even abused by those privileged and in authority was an unchangeable reality.
What they were not is eloquent. They were not orators. I think it makes all the sense in the world that their top-of-the-list worry was, “What will I say?”
And Jesus knew, and he offered them some peace. Some “good news.”
“Don’t worry,” Jesus told them. “The Holy Spirit will be with you and will show you what to say.”
In fact, Jesus actually offered them quite a bit more bad news good news.
He told them that it is possible to be wise like serpents and still remain innocent like doves. That embracing the vulnerability of the call to love did not mean they had to throw out critical thinking or common sense.
He told them that their choice to follow may cause others, even their dearest friends and family, to react in surprising ways. Sometimes very surprising. As hard as that might be, they were not responsible for those reactions. It was not their job to find some kind of ministry “success” with all and that all would understand and appreciate but, instead, to persevere and endure. To keep loving. And sometimes loving means knowing when it is time to move on. And it is okay to do that—to move on to a new opportunity for ministering.
He told them that, as overwhelming and dangerous as the lies and deception and cover-ups of this world seem, the truth of the way of love will prevail. So they should just continue to proclaim that truth. And in that proclaiming, they need to remember their ultimate value to their creator.
He told them to keep their eyes on him, their teacher. Their mentor and model and master. It is tempting to look at broader circumstances—others’ negative reactions, the threat of opposition or penalty, even persecution—and to measure and question the rightness of our efforts in light of these circumstances.
But Jesus seems to be saying, “Look to me. Note the circumstances stemming from my work and ministry. Sadly, this is what happens sometimes when the way of love clashes with brokenness in the world. The rightness of your efforts will be revealed when the love you share is then shared with another—when what you do leads to a cup of water being shared with a little one who needs it.”
I have suggested to you that we should not read this scripture passage and assume that what Jesus said to the twelve is what he is saying to us here, now, and today. And that is true.
But…I do think there are still valuable things we can take away from this passage. Perhaps the most important one is this: Listen for the voice of Christ. Listen for your calling and sending. If and when you are called, trust that it will come from a deep understanding of who you are.
It is quite possible that, somewhere along the way, the calling will come with some bad news. Your efforts aren’t appreciated as you would have liked. Those who were with you at the beginning have lost heart or lost interest. It seems to be requiring more time and effort and giving than you first expected. The impact you hoped for…you are just not seeing it. Maybe the pastor who inspired you and supported you and helped equip you for this calling is suddenly called elsewhere to inspire and support and equip others.
If along the way your calling seems to come with a bit of bad news, remember Matthew 10 and keep listening. I think the voice of Christ will also offer the reassurance and consolation you need.
And that, dear friends, is good news.
Amen.
Send Out Workers (Matthew 9:9-38)
Send Out Workers
March 1, 2026
Matthew 9:9-38
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
“Jesus continued going around to all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and every sickness” (9:35 CSB). Matthew gave us a nearly verbatim summary of Jesus’ ministry back in chapter 4, but there is one subtle yet significant development here at the end of chapter 9. In chapter 4, Jesus began to go throughout Galilee; now, he continues going. This is important because everywhere that he has gone in Galilee, the crowds have been waiting for him, following him, pressing in upon him.
Day after day, the people have come to him carrying the heavy burdens of their need for truth, healing, and acceptance: men with leprosy, a Roman soldier pleading for his sick slave, two demon-possessed men in the graveyards of Gadarene, a dead little girl, a woman who has bled for 12 years, two blind men. They all began as faces in the crowd, yet they were people to Jesus, people worth the gift of attention and care. It would’ve been so easy for him to stop going from town to town once he had experienced the cost of being so open and receptive to the pain of the crowd, of choosing to treat each one as a unique child of God. Yet he was willing. His love was and is always ready to say Yes. He continues going, revealing to us the steadfast commitment and compassion of God.
Now, here’s the thing: If every person in the crowd is indeed a person to Jesus, if being an instrument of healing requires a willingness to be redirected (the leader the sick daughter) or interrupted (the bleeding woman) or imposed upon (the two blind men), then Jesus, by himself, was never going to be enough.
Now, that might sound strange. How could Jesus, the Son of God, who reconciled the world to God through his death and resurrection, not be enough?
Yes, Jesus is the firstborn, the font, the cornerstone of a new humanity, but for his gifts to be offered in history, in every moment and in every place, Jesus needs companions. He needs those around him through whom and in whom he could extend his own life and love. And so, with a tender and fierce love for the world, he said to his disciples, “The harvest is abundant, but the workers are few. Therefore, pray to the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into his harvest” (9:38).
It brought Jesus immense pleasure to share his life and ministry with others. His joy really comes through in John’s Gospel, where he says to his disciples, “As the Father has loved me, I have also loved you. Remain in my love. …You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants anymore, because a servant doesn’t know what his master is doing. I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me, but I chose you. I appointed you to go and produce fruit.”
To be a worker in the fields of God is to be a friend of Jesus, and it’s to do what he did—what he never stops doing through those who share his Spirit. Giving away time and attention, receiving people and their mess without judgment, calling forth the truth of who they are as beloveds made in the image of God.
One of the things I’ve learned about ministry while serving here in Pocatello is that the burdens and the joys are meant to be shared. I can’t do it on my own; none of you can do it on your own. We need one another, and we need God to raise up more workers! This has been on my mind recently for a number of reasons.
Most of you know that our tenant daycare center, Tender Loving Care, has been struggling to make ends meet in recent years, and that things really came to a head in January. When I got the phone call that their board had voted to close the center, I was afraid and overwhelmed by the needs of everyone involved: the teachers who would be losing jobs, the families who would be losing care, the children who would be losing community, and our church, which would be losing a source of necessary income.
But luckily I’m a little wiser now than I was five years ago, and instead of sitting in that panic and anxiety by myself I started making calls, and within a few days, I had the most remarkable people coming alongside me share in the work, the work of the harvest, which, remember, is not about bringing souls in to conversion but about being sent into the crowd to be sources of divine attention and care. As of today, TLC is still open, and they’re even opening up an infant room.
We had a parent town hall meeting on Thursday night, and I got to see someone from the United Way educate parents about the systemic challenges to childcare in Idaho, got to see several parents with grant writing experience meeting with one another for the first time. There are simply more workers in the room than there were even two months ago, and I credit that to God for raising them up. All I did was ask for them: God, if you want this to happen, if you want this center to be saved, send me the next right person, because I can’t do this on my own.
You’re going to hear later about some staffing changes at the church. About a year and a half ago, we welcomed Renzo as our new Office Manager; this month we hired a new Custodian and Caretaker; now we’re searching for a new Bookkeeper, and through each transition, I pray, “God send us the next right person to help us rise to the opportunity and privilege of working in your harvest, of sharing your grace with the world around us.”
And God has been faithful to raise up and send out the workers. Think about our 2023 process to become a Reconciling congregation, our 2024 campaign to put a new roof on our building, or the steady daily needs for leaders to offer care and education to others. Right now, we’re struggling to bring together enough adults and elders to sustainably serve our church’s young people and children, so I’m continuing to pray, “God, send workers into your harvest.”
Because there is a harvest to be had. Kids are growing up in a scary world with failing institutions, a culture at war with itself, a planet careening toward climate disaster. Not to mention all the normal hard parts of childhood and adolescence: difficulties at school and at home, feeling powerless to protect yourself from the hardest changes, keeping alive the spark of your authentic self. We don’t have to address this need on our own; we can pray for more workers. If every face in the crowd is a unique person with a unique set of stories and needs who is worthy, in God’s eyes, of care and attention, then we must do what Jesus tells us to do and pray, “God, send out more workers!”
What would a church be like that prays that prayer over and over and over again?
Well, first, it would be a church that leans into the world and not away from it. It would be a church rooted in the compassion of Jesus, that sees the crowd and doesn’t run away or complain or turn them away but wants to receive and help each person. It would be a church that sees the harvest not as a tally of souls to bring in and convert but as a field of potential relationships to go out and explore. You can only pray to God for more workers if you care in the first place.
A church would also be humble. We can’t do everything alone. Praying every day for God to send out more workers would give us eyes to see the potential for partnerships with other members of our community. Because God will raise up whoever God chooses to raise up. They don’t have to look or sound or believe like us. And that humility would extend to how we see each other. We can be curious about the trajectories of service and call that each of us is on, wondering where and to whom each of us is being sent. We don’t determine this for other people, because God is the one who sends people out, but we can anticipate with joy, and we can speak the truth of what we see in others, we can invite and we can affirm.
So a church that prays for more workers to be sent out into God’s harvest would be a church that loves people fiercely, lives in joyful anticipation of the good works prepared for us beforehand, to borrow a phrase from Paul, and yet doesn’t grasp or control its members. I think we do a pretty good job at this. I see the joy you take in one another.
We would also be, I think, a grateful church, humbled by the power of prayer. If we pray for God to raise up workers for works of healing and love, couldn’t we flip that idea around and recognize ourselves as, at least in part, the fruit of others’ prayers? I think of this in terms of my upcoming ordination as an elder in the Methodist church. I am going to take literal vows this summer to be one who is sent out wherever God calls, but my journey is the fruit of so many other peoples’ prayers—beginning with my grandparents through pastors and youth leaders to friends and colleagues and even all of you. I’ve exercised my own freedom in my story, to both participate and resist God’s call, but maybe one way that grace flows is that someone out there looked out on a crowd of people full of sickness and fear and shame and prayed, “God, send workers into your harvest” – and here I am, and here you are.
Our lives are not our own. The prayers of the saints have sown their own seeds in us. And if God has raised us up to be workers in the harvest, then God will surely trust God to provide for us.
Disciples go out. They—we—disperse. We are sent among the people to be peacemakers, to be merciful. In John’s Gospel, Jesus actually says that we’ll do “greater works” than his (14:12 CSB), which is pretty wild if you think about it. That word “greater” might be understood a few ways, but there’s at least, I think, a sense of doing greater things by a property of multiplication.
It is God’s harvest – the Spirit prepares, gives growth. God’s harvest needs workers, so we pray for them to be raised up and sent. And sometimes, perhaps, we recognize ourselves as the worker that someone else has prayed for, and we get to work. With that frame of mind, we can be a humble, joyful, expectant, and grateful church. And think of what can happen!
Jesus saw Matthew sitting in his tax booth and said to him, “Follow me.” Running a tax booth on a public road would have set Matthew at odds with most members of his community. He was working the occupying empire, for Rome. Matthew was sitting in the isolation of his work, with questionable integrity. But he got up, left that situation, and walked with Jesus. And then in the very next verse we see Jessus sitting down in Matthew’s house, surrounded by tax-collectors and so-called “sinners,” having a dinner party. Matthew goes from being solitary to being communal. Matthew goes from being seated—stuck—in a booth that separates him from his neighbor to being seated—joined—at a table that creates fellowship. By the end of the day, a whole posse of tax collectors and other social pariahs had dropped in to spend time with him and with Jesus. Matthew went from being on the fringes to the very center of the gospel’s movement in the world. God raised him up and sent him out, and through him God would raise up others and send them out.
Greater by multiplication. And it can be so with us.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
He Is Our Peace (Matthew 8:18-9:1)
He Is Our Peace
First Sunday of Lent
February 22, 2026
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
In these three scenes, Matthew describes Jesus’ first journey back and forth across the Sea of Galilee. As a writer, Matthew gives us a clue that we should hold them together in our reflection, seeing them as a unified journey. “Now when Jesus saw great crowds around him, he gave orders to go over to the other side [of the sea],” says chapter 8 verse 18. A few paragraphs later comes chapter nine verse 1: “And after getting into a boat he crossed the sea [again] and came to his own town.” From the region of Galilee to the region of the Gadarenes and back again. And in between those narrative bookends, a lot of drama unfolds—storms at sea, demon-possessed men in graveyards, pigs racing off cliffs to fall to their death.
This is the first open-water journey described by Matthew. Throughout the whole Bible, water is both a symbol and a literal means of creation and re-creation. We might think of Genesis chapter 1, when God separates the waters below from the waters above in the creation of the earth. We might think of Noah’s great flood, or the Israelites’ freedom march through the Red Sea, or the many prophetic visions of fresh springs bubbling up in the dry desert as signs of salvation. In water, old realities are dissolved and new realities are born.
Jesus’ journey across the Sea reveals new things about who he is and what it means to walk the road with him. He leads members of the crowd outside their comfort zones, not only onto the great lake known for its unpredictable tempests, but also into a region where people of strange customs worship other gods. And it is precisely because this journey is unsettling that the growth the disciples experience is deep and profound. When we go where we’ve never gone before, we tend to be more receptive to new insights about God, the world, and ourselves.
Jesus’ order “to go to the other side” sparks conversations with two of his followers. The first, an overly enthusiastic scribe, pledges to follow Jesus anywhere. Jesus responds with a word of sobering caution: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (8:20). After this, a disciple comes and asks Jesus to delay the journey across the sea so that he can return home and attend to a need in his family. Jesus, perhaps not to our liking, responds, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead.” Jesus slows the first man down. Jesus hurries the second man up. He knows exactly how to work with each one of us, no matter what the pitfalls in our personalities might be. And that is a mark of spiritual maturity, being able to receive and counsel others right where they are, not as we think they ought to be.
The story continues: “And when he got into the boat, his disciples followed him” (8:23). Those who board the boat after him are—or become—his disciples. Remember, at this point in Matthew we don’t yet have the twelve chosen apostles. We have the crowds who come to hear him speak and receive his healing, and we have people called “disciples” who’ve started to travel with him from place to place in a more committed sense, as students. The boundary between these two groups is rather fluid at this moment in Jesus’ ministry. At any time, someone from the crowd might become a disciple, and a disciple might fade back into the crowd. That is, until this moment, when shoving off from familiar shores forms a real threshold. Who will get in and go? Who will follow? It’s a moment of decision, and disciples are forged in moments of decision.
Once they are out on the sea, a storm blows in and threatens to sink their boat. Jesus sleeps, so the others wake him up and cry out for help. He asks why they have so little faith, why they are so afraid. Then he gets up and rebukes the storm and it ceases. There is language play in the original Greek that is lost in the NRSV’s translation. Matthew describes the tempest as a seismos megas, “a great storm,” and the peace that follows Jesus’ rebuke of it he calls a galēnē megalē , “a great calm.” (We’ll come back to that “great storm / great calm” piece later.) The people in the boat are stunned: “What sort of man is this?” they ask each other.
The boat scrapes ashore in Gadarene. They have landed near a local graveyard. And out of that graveyard two demon-possessed men, fierce and violent, come running. They confront Jesus, asking him what he wants to do with them. With a word Jesus casts the demons out of the men, and the evils spirits enter a nearby herd of pigs, sending the animals into a frenzy that ends when they fall from cliffs into the water. The pig herders run into town to tell about the men, now free from their demons, and the pigs, now drowned in the sea. Everyone seems less impressed by that miracle of healing and more disturbed by the fact that their local economy was disrupted. They ask Jesus to leave at once, which he does. He sails back across the sea to Capernaum.
I believe that this journey “to the other side” and back again is here to shift our definition of security, to redefine peace—what it is and where we find it. God’s people have never been promised wealth, social influence, cultural popularity, or political power. God’s people have never been promised stasis, equilibrium, or an absence of suffering as a reward for their faith. But we are tempted to seek security and peace through these means, through resisting change or gathering material assets.
“Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (8:20). Yes, but what does it mean that the one who said this about himself then lays his little head down in the boat and sleeps through the storm? The man who said there wouldn’t be a place for him to rest immediately finds rest in the most unlikely situation!
Starting all the way back with Abraham in the Book of Genesis, the biblical writers emphasize departure and change and the journey as deeply characteristic of faith. God came to Abraham and said, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Gen 12:1). Abraham faith boils down to his willingness to respond to a promise and to be led by a faithful God, even though he does not know where he will end up or how he will get there. “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” says the Book of Hebrews. “By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance, and he set out, not knowing where he was going” (Heb 11:1, 8).
Our security is found in the one who calls us. Our peace is found in the person of Christ. This is why Jesus calls the disciples “you of little faith.” Faith is trust, trust in the presence and provision of the God who accompanies us in all things, who is closer to us than we are to ourselves. They didn’t trust that, because he was with them in that boat, they would be okay. They might be tossed and shaken, soaked through and worried, but they would not be overcome. True peace is not found by staying behind on the safe beaches of Galilee. True peace is not to be identified with smooth waters. “The peace that surpasses all understanding” (Phil 4:7) comes from trusting God to go with us everywhere that God has called us to go.
Following Jesus means embracing the departures and crossings—both internal and external—that God initiates, sometimes directly with a word and sometimes through the shifting tides of our circumstances. Following Christ means releasing our grip on ourselves or on the way things have supposedly always been. It means setting out to grow and change into the persons and the community that God intends for us to be.
This new definition of security is absolutely essential for what follows—in the story and in our ow lives—because Jesus has come so that he might take us to the graveyards of the world. Jesus has been sent to seek and save the lost, to encounter those in every time and place who have no place to lay their heads: refugees and houseless neighbors, the hungry and the sick, the incarcerated and undocumented, those troubled in mind and spirit who have no rest for their souls. He’s can’t wait for the disciple who wants to delay the journey in order to bury his father when there are two men over “on the other side” desperate to be brought back to life right now.
Jesus is all about reaching the unreachable, all about undoing the powers of death. And here I mean death as a force that reaches into life and grips us. Death as addiction, death as systemic injustice, death as the failure of the community to care for its most difficult or vulnerable members. Perhaps those who have no place to lay their heads have had some failures in life; without question, they have been failed—and many times over!
When we follow Jesus, the one who has no place to lay his head, we will be led to encounter others who have no place to lay their heads, those outcasts with whom he establishes divine solidarity. And when we work with him, through the power of his Holy Spirit, to announce the kingdom of light and life in those spaces of death, we will be asked to leave! We will become people who have, so to speak, no place to lay our heads. The powers that are invested in the status quo, that are held in the grip of the past and the present, they won’t like the fact that helping people escape the tombs sends the pigs off the cliff, shakes up the local economy, demonstrates their own failure, their own acquiescence to death. Institutional religions, Home Owners Associations, city councils, state and federal policy-makers—they usually won’t like it!
But the disciples endured the storm on the sea for the sake of those two men in the Gadarene graveyard.
And Jesus endured rejection in that place for the sake of those two men.
If we are going to follow a God who endures the humiliation of having no place to lay his head, if we are going to become little-Christ’s who have no place to lay our heads, if we are going to love those who have no place to lay their heads—then we must learn to receive the gift of his peace, his “great calm” anywhere and everywhere, to experience that peace in him, with him, through him.
This is the work. Jesus is in the business of turning the great storms of life—both within us (signified by demon possession) and without (signified by the storm)—into great calm. The great calm is not a possession, not a set of circumstances, not a masterful spiritual achievement, but a simple fact of trust. We trust the one who gives orders to cross into the unknown, we trust the one with us in the storm, we trust the one who reaches out to touch the wounds and wounded ones of the world.
I’ll conclude with a few more verses from Hebrews that celebrate the essence of faith:
“All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better homeland, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them.” (11:13-16)
May we claim the person of Christ as our peace, carrying the cross of his rejection, so that we might see the dead brought back to life, the written off written back in to the great story of God’s love.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
One New Humanity (Ez. 36:22-28, Ephs. 2:8-22, Matt. 5:43-48)
One New Humanity
February 18, 2026
Ash Wednesday
By: Pastor Mike
***
Each of these scriptures testifies to the renewing of our human condition that God’s grace makes possible. During the days of Israel’s exile in Babylon, the prophet Ezekiel declared that the scattered ones would be gathered, and that those who were unclean would be cleansed. A new spirit would be given to the people in place of the old spirit, and a heart of cold stone would be replaced with a heart of warm, beating flesh.
In the days of the early Church, the Apostle Paul expressed what renewal in God would mean for our relationships with one another. Those who are far off are brought near, because God in Christ embraces all people. Hostility is replaced by peace. Strangers become fellow members of God’s household. The fundamental division in Paul’s mind was between Israel, God’s chosen covenant people, and the gentile nations, “strangers to the covenants of promise.” That these two groups could be brought together as one united people through the death and resurrection of Christ means that all brokenness in our social relations can be overcome.
Finally, Jesus calls us away from a practice of love based on merit (I love you because you love me) to a practice of love based on unconditional mercy and forgiveness: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.
Each of these transformations, from the internal experience of a new heart to the external experience of a new community, are implied in Jesus’ command, Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. The word that is translated here as perfection means being mature, complete, whole; it means realizing the purpose for which we are made, just as God can ever only be what God is, which is love.
I have brought these words from Ezekiel, Paul, and Jesus together because they produce a rich and colorful vision of what it means to live as an Easter people, a people filled with the Spirit of resurrection:
From being scattered to being gathered. Instead of living a life of disordered desires, pulled this way and that by things that ultimately distract from what we most deeply want, we can be drawn into our deep personal center, where God’s spirit meets us and tells us who we are.
From a heart of stone to a heart of flesh. Where we have been hardened to the wonders of life or numb to the suffering of others, we can experience a new freedom for connection and joy.
From hostility to peace. Where we have been obsessed with patrolling the boundaries in church or country or neighborhood between insider and outsider, worthy and unworthy, or where these boundaries have been used to push us away, we can experience a radical new openness and sense of belonging to one another.
From love based on merit to the love that is God himself. Where we have reached an impasse with our own anger over the daily violence, deception, and injustice of our times, we can learn to give that anger expression in lament, and be filled with a divine compassionate love that even extends to our enemies.
Who would I be, who would you be, who would we be if our humanity was remade in this way?
Lent is a season to ask that question. It is a season to hunger and thirst for the new humanity which Jesus inaugurated and opened to us.
Lent grew out of the early Church’s sense that the celebration of Easter Sunday required spiritual preparation. That preparation was framed around the movements of baptism. By reminding ourselves of all that God wants to do in us, through us, and for us, we become aware of the things standing in the way of that work, how we resist, domesticate, or sabotage our own remaking.
Which is why Lent is a season, not only of hunger—hunger for God’s will to be done in us—but of self-examination and repentance. Sometimes this takes the form of a decluttering, letting something go so that we can embrace something else, even if what we embrace is a felt lack, a sense of need, that sweetens over the forty days into solitude and silence.
Sometimes this repentance takes the form of commitment, engaging in a spiritual practice or stepping into a vein of service that challenges our resistance to grace.
Through it all, we notice—personally and collectively, Where am I, where are we, being ruled by fear, anger, or greed? By pride, envy, or apathy? We don’t notice those false spirits because God wants us to be ashamed. No, they are instead revealed by an infusion of light, a meditation on the perfection to which Jesus has summoned us. We see what we need to be freed from in the light of what we’ve been freed for.
Scattered to gathered. Unclean to clean. Old spirit to new spirit. Stoney heart to living heart. Strangers to friends. Enemies to siblings. Calculating love to unbounded love.
For freedom to come, our posture during Lent must be one of openness to change and consent to the movements of grace within us. Both Ezekiel and Paul describe the work of conversion as fundamentally the work of God. God says, I will sanctify my great name. …I will take you from the nations and gather you…I will sprinkle clean water upon you. …A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you. For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God. Jesus has made both [Jews and Gentiles] into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility, between us. He creates in himself one new humanity.
God takes the initiative. God does the heavy lifting. God works the miracle.
It is all gift: the remaking of our humanity, the disarming of our resistance. It is all gift, all grace. It comes to those who seek it, ask for it, hunger for it, wait for it. It comes to those who give themselves into God’s hands and say with the old hymn, “Have thine own way, Lord / Have thine own way. / Thou art the potter, I am the clay.”
In a way, Lent intensifies for a season the daily rhythms and tensions of living in Christ and growing in love. We have to have some sense of where God wants to take us. We have to catch a vision for the new creation and begin to long for it, to hope for it, to hunger after it. And then we have to be honest with ourselves about our own inability or unwillingness to embrace it fully. And when we reach that place of hungering for what only God can give, we are ripe for prayer, ready for the outpouring of grace:
Help me, God. Help me to release what I need to release. Help me to take on what I need to take on. Help me to embrace necessary changes for the sake of my soul. Help me to relinquish my efforts to earn or achieve worthiness. Help me to rest in Christ and what he’s already achieved for me. Create in me a new heart. Renew a right spirit within me.
And then, when God arrives to give us the miracle—of a new heart, of a new humanity—we shall live in the land. We shall be God’s people. And God will be our God.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Playdough Sermon (2nd Timothy)
The Playdough Sermon
2nd Timothy
10.19.2025
By: Melody Briggs
Lord, please continue to open our hearts and minds to be used as an instrument of peace, vessels of grace and lights of unwavering love that continually breaks through darkness.
I would like to thank you all for this opportunity of growth today. Sharing in my understanding, and passions discerned from 2nd Timothy.
Believed to be a letter The Apostle Paul wrote to Timothy not only as his mentor and friend, but also from a nurturing father figure type role within Timothy’s spiritual development.
Paul's words of wisdom speak from a very nurturing and loving place. And speak volumes to the changing of seasons we all might experience within our own walks or journeys of faith.
This letter reads.. as it continues on speaks and leans into the valued connection Paul had with Timothy as he has watched and walked alongside him transition not only his understanding and teachings, but also to his depth of transition as he has grown from a welcomed child of God much like we all do into now young adulthood and the continued transition of becoming a man. Leading to the end of the passage where all the knowledge and understanding Paul hopes that Timothy will continue to nurture and fulfill within his own heart as he ages and grows into the testament of his faith.
2nd Timothy roughly states…
Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you have learned it.
Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you have learned it.
From childhood you have known the sacred …
you have been instructed through faith.
And inspired by God. (hmmm)
As children we tend to learn from and experience life from the firmly believed values and teachings of those that love and nurture our upbringings/rearing, as well as our faith and the faith-based practices of those closest to us whether at home or within our communities. Thus, molding and shaping us as we meander… learn. And grow.
Is there a time that you can think back to some of those values… experiences, rearing’s…teachings… and or faith-based practices ….
Something so deeply swelled within you that has tended to stay with you since childhood?
Taking you back in time to those child-like curiosities of the world around us…
Experiences and nuances that tend to still engulf our senses.
My most memorable time of sense filled wonder and awe in the world that I can relate to or grasp from my past… starts roughly around five years of age. Is there an age or memory that has caught your attention?
I was often filled with a wide sense of wonder at that age… a real-life explorer so to speak. Every day was unknown … not knowing if it was banana pancake day or not… And I tended to be amazed and inspired by events like tea parties. Outings... Blanket forts… as well as environments that often felt magical or inspired by a spirit, God like vastness. Leaves swirling all around you in the fall… Rain puddles calling my name through the crisp air just to splash and leap upon… primary church songs about letting my light shine and hiding it under bushels... As well as other songs where we were dancing like crazed warriors.
You all have been provided with a small playdough. At this time, I would like for you if you feel so called to open it… and as you do… maybe you will take the time to open your senses within this moment…
And as you sit there you might start to
To smell it…
To roll some of it across your fingertips. And feel the reminisce of a child like wonder. As you experience its texture. The memories that may be coming to mind…
Now if you will take some or all of the dough and roll it into a ball or a shape…. Possibly rubbing it between your palms into a tube or a worm…. And as you do take time to notice
To Feel.
To Explore. And as you do… think back to maybe some of the values… teachings… and faith-based practices you witnessed as a child.
As you do, I would like to continue on with Paul's letter.
As Paul has described within this letter we as children often need
Reproof
Correction
Training
Reproof:
Reproof biblically is known to be value guided from acts of love. That can identify errors but ultimately promote wisdom and understanding. of consistent teachings, practices… and shared experiences helping to guide within us a sense of purpose.
Correction:
A purposeful and loving process to guide. Reform... Remold us … into a direction and or lean into behaviors of God's will. The meat and potatoes aligning us and our teachable moldable faith driven spirits.
Training:
Deliberate and disciplined practices that often lead to sustainable change and growth. Rooted in truths and the stretching of capacity to be a foundational force through all seasons.
Not only do we need these values as children, but we also need these throughout different seasons of life and within our experiences that challenge not only us but our capacity to seek the truth… to navigate corrections … and define our purpose as well as the vastness and darkness of emotions such as Grief. Shame. Guilt... And Debilitating Fear… The training of not only our minds but also our hearts as we learn to lean into the molding of ourselves, our environments, and the experiences of the world around us.
If you are still molding your playdough… How does it feel now?
Has the smell changed?
Or deepened... maybe?
Is the texture more malleable?
warmer to the touch?
Or are you starting to have sensory overwhelm and possibly needing or wanting a wet wipe due to the chalky texture now coating your palms?
Much like the deepening of the second half of the letter ...Paul leans into the evolution of change that often occurs on not only our journeys of faith. But also, life as we age, evolve, change, remold, and ultimately grow. Paul continues to extend his invitation to be insightfully aware of our need to be open and aware of our minds and hearts amidst our life's seasons.
They are the values and or lessons of:
Convince
Rebuke
Encourage
Convince:
Convince biblically involves relation to the personal experiences, discernments, or the invocation of the Holy Spirit within the openness of the listener and the external actions of the believer. Believers in this context reference those who are gentle in spirit, respectful, and often pray for change and or understanding. Convince the ability to relate with all senses.
Rebuke:
Rebuke is an expression to at times sharply course correct… often with purpose and a way to reflect and bring about repentance and restoration. Utilizing love as a motivator for change.
Encourage:
Support driven given with confidence and a genuine heart. A building up of our scaffolding so to speak either internally and or with the guidance of communal support living as a reminder of God’s truth and grace.
Now as you check into your senses. Your surroundings… your heart and your mind … as it may have wondered…
into thought...
Possibly the openness of curiosity ...
or even more questions…
My hope is that just as Paul has written to Timothy from his heart that you also have had the opportunity within our setting today to tap into your internal wisdom. knowledge ... and change not only in the shaping and molding of your playdough but also to the growth in your own journeys and seasons of change.
When I took time earlier this week to connect to my growth, repurpose, corrections, and remolding if you will … I found myself wanting to lead into the convictions and truth of repair.
This letter from Paul to Timothy feels as if Paul was also speaking to my journey and molding not only from my child like faith of bravely singing songs of biblical warriors or the enveloping softness of worshiping within a community. But deeply to the depth of change I have encountered, and insightful truths I have uncovered and rediscovered as I have transitioned in growth within my current season but also into my changes in adulthood. Oftentimes within our journeys of faith and life we tend to want to skip to the complexities of resolve and or repair. I know I do! It feels good. It's rewarding... It's proof of life's validity. So much so that standing firmly in our truths of knowledge, training, and correction can continue to guide us…
But maybe just maybe Paul’s insights were valid and can speak to us now as relatable insights and a reminder that Repair is possibly the universal truth of the biblical word Encourage: the scaffolding of the internal and the external as a welcoming guiding light for us to lean into the welcoming arms of God’s Love … and Grace in the midst of a convincing world in the middle of a remolding.
So, I hope today is for all of you to continue to connect in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you have learned it. From what you have lived through in the seasons of change… and Encouragement of God’s love and hope that fills all of you as you sit here to be instruments of peace ...lights of unwavering love… amidst the changing and remolding of seasons.
My Spiritual Journey
My Spiritual Journey
February 15, 2026
By: Melody Briggs
Good morning, I would like to thank you all for this opportunity to share a little about myself, my spiritual journey of sorts, and some of the lessons I have learned along the way. Some of you may have known me for the few years I have been attending, some of you may even or recall me as a youth attending many years ago, and others of you, have possibly seen me when I have had the opportunity to greet you each Sunday from behind the sound board or busily setting up for church services. In the past few years under Pastor Mike’s direction we have had the opportunity to witness some pretty powerful testimonies from many of us gracing these pews this morning, and their words have bravely impacted my heart and soul. I feel very honored to have the same opportunity today to share a little of me with you. When Pastor Mike approached me about this almost three years ago now… I couldn't even fathom having the bravery or the capacity to one let alone write down my spiritual journey and two even having the skills and tools to share my voice.. My thoughts.. And my experiences, but with some growth … spiritual discernment, and a loving community I am here today to connect with you all on more of a deeper and personal level as I lean into
My spiritual journey started pretty young with strong Methodist roots when I was baptized at Hillcrest Methodist in Boise, Idaho 1981 as a baby. My dad was a band director now retired, hence the name Melody. Growing up our family often moved for new job opportunities in and around Idaho, so did my coloring spots under the pews of the church choirs my dad directed. I attended church on and off in my youth; I was led, and heavily encouraged by my parents as a teen to attend local churches, rallies, the ever growing christian rock band trend of the 90’s … if you know… then you know…Throughout my life experiences at home, and within the church I tend to navigate my world at times as a bit of a tormented spirit. Not just from the torments, laments, and pains that often plague our souls such as self discovery, shame, guilt, and overwhelming fears… Don't get me wrong I have many depths and seasons of all of those too. I tend to have vivid realizations of times and encounters when my actions, words, emotions have impacted others in ways when I was a not so great daughter, sister, partner, mother, friend, neighbor… aquaintence…. And the like. Often those interactions of what are or are not… often ruminate many days.. Months.. And even year… they tend to haunt me in ways that are oftentimes hard to explain, to express, to feel, and to utterly eventually accept. As I am sure such experiences and living can and do at times haunt all of us. Such experiences, expressions, and seasons of pain tend to tether and bind at our spirits weaving intricate shackling webs that act like knotted ropes… or chains.. That can impact and tether our emotions… our behaviors… our ruminating thoughts… and ultimately our outward expressions. They tether us in ways that feel ultimately insurmountable. Utterly hopeless.
For me personally, I started gathering information at a pretty young formidable age from narratives told to me by my mother, from her own moral code, biblical understandings, mental torment, and her values of what christian practices should and should not look like. I was held accountable as a young child for the many looks and expressions that I displayed as often being considered demonic, evil. And the realization that my sheer presence at times invoked a fear in others that would have them leaving a room in formidable pain and disgust. I have been held accountable for the multiple demonic behaviors I tended to exude during my childhood in various ways, while questioning morals, convictions, and conflicts of intrest… These experiences, narratives, behaviors lasted well into my late teens when I randomly brought home a psychedelic poster of creation from a local outing. That devious teen act fueled my mothers convictions of how demonic I truly had grown to be. With increased narratives and consequences. Sometimes increased narratives from unhealed spirits, even those we are blessed to call our parents …can bind to us event tighter …than we could imagine… and can there come a time when those tethers … strangle us and entrap us in ways that surmount far greater than what we think is possible here. It was at this time in my spiritual journey that I attempted to diminish my spirit and my life from pain… from the pain I was causing others ..
And pain I thought I was causing God by existing… by coming into this world as demonic… not as a soul full of unwavering grace .. of compassion… and ultimately love. At this time in my journey I couldn't understand how a loving ominous God who created miracles … worldly beauties…. Parted seas… fed thousands in need… who guided people to mountain tops … and ultimately died for our sins …. Could and would have his hand in the creation and existence of me. My mothers response to my almost successful attempt at my own life… was not seen as an outcry of insurmountable pain that had accrued over time, but rather a means for me finally be held accountable again to right my wrong doings of guilt and shame by publicly insisting that I give a testimony of my sins from a written expression in my personal journal in front of my peers at a youth rally she deemed fit …at the very pulpit in this church.
It wasn't until my exploration of college that I attended a few classes in Austin,Texas at a church conference held in 2000. Where I felt the pull to deep self exploration of connection and ministry might be even worth exploring… It did however take a few many nudges from my local pastor and the Campus Wesley House Coordinator at the time, who thought I might enjoy further exploration in a calling in ministry. I then helped eagerly to create a few foundational classes such as a children's puppet ministry and spruced up a children's area and nursery for youth at Chubuck United Methodist Church at the time after attending. Still trying to navigate and explore if my actions in helping and serving others could outweigh the sins and narratives of my past.
Later. ..as college ended, so did my interest in the church community. As my life took a different route for a job opportunity and personal growth. Life has a way of leading us away in many directions and worldly discoveries…. if we aren't intentional with nurturing a spiritual component in. As I have now realized within my growth as a human. Sometimes there is an underlying pull to spiritual depths of discovery whether we recognize it in the moment or not…. Life kept leading me like a flooded river … flowing in new directions with ever changing currents and times…. New time lines…and fast paced living… Sometimes you just go where the river takes you…I suppose. I got married in 2002 and started raising a family briefly and unexpectedly after in 2004…. Ultimately life led us, my now family of four in 2007 from Idaho to Corvallis, Oregon to help support my husband through graduate school at Oregon State University, and continue with child rearing and the familial support and function of the household. It was a beautiful unexpected opportunity, when a local mom asked if I wanted to join the church choir. I was hesitant at first. But ultimately decided that choirs and church pews do have a way of nourishing the soul, they surely did have a lasting impact from my younger years.. And my love of music. I gave it a go and got more involved within the family ministries of the church there in the early 2000 years from 2007-2009. Near the end of 2010 I got divorced and moved back home to Idaho. I did enroll the kiddos into our local Lutheran Preschool in American Falls, Idaho and helped out some off and on at church there from 2011-2013.
Life threw a couple more curve balls my way and being forced to pivot in new directions as beautiful as is … oftentimes makes it a bit tough to sit and worship with others in a small town. Sometimes even attempting to try and leave the burdens we carry outside of church doesn't always work… they have a way of binding to us as we attempt to heal. Needless to say I didn't attend church much after unexpectedly losing my children in an unexpected custody battle six years after my divorce across state lines. The small town politics within the church and the community started to reiterate some of the deep harbored narratives my mom instilled within me when I was younger of my demonic nature… and fear I instilled in others… as they didn't see me fit to be near their children… If mine were considered better off in another state. It became increasingly harder to be seen as a part of their community… in and outside of church with harsh remarks and unexpected excuses as to my unwelcomeness. This deep longing.. Accumulation of greif.. Shame.. And ever growing fears… and relentless past narratives abruptly embed my curiosity for my spiritual development or even acknowledgement if you will.
My spiritual exploration was at a bypass for seven years, I filled my time with work… working multiple jobs… such as firefighting.. Ambulance runs as an EMT…m numerous college classes… lifeguarding.. Community service … on a journey to possibly attempt to prove to myself if the narratives of my evil nature were in fact truths… was I even capable of love? Or would I just have this deep fear of myself inside of me always… even if I pushed myself physically into socially acceptable heroic acts… it wasn't until I randomly decided one day to try and see how it would feel again to try and walk into a church in 2023 and see if it would or wouldn't fuel the narrative again of unwelcomeness. Here…
I kept pushing myself and attending .. trying to allow myself to feel safe in a community of like minded people again… that the narratives I have tried to run from most of my life in the past might just be the past. By Christmas of that year you all were in need of an added sound board volunteer to pull off the Christmas service for our Interfaith Fellowship here and Pastor Mike asked if I was available to help. I of course said yes and have been trying to pass the sound baton to another soul since, I don't know if you all know this, but us Methodists and christians have a way of seeing someone's spiritual gifts and possible talents even before they do.. Not sure if that is why we have so many committees and gatherings… as just to soak up and learn from each other? I honestly have enjoyed reviving old skills, and sharing in acts of service with you all since. After a little more gentle nudging I have had the opportunity to attend numerous classes Pastor Mike has provided as outreach for our congregation because of my attendance here.
In May of 2024 I was approached by Pastor Mike and our District Superintendent to discern if deeper ministry was a calling for two local churches whom I have frequented over the years. I was grateful for the consideration, and due to various factors physically, emotionally, and spiritually I felt it wasn't where I felt called at that time. This past year due to gentle nudges and support I have had the opportunity to attend Pastor Mike’s six plus week sermon writing course and various book studies, as well as had hard conversations, faith based inquires, and the capacity to hold space for others testimonies and stories which in turn have helped to create and build a cultural shift within my spirit, that it needed to say yes, to try adding a voice and a body to our worship design team.
I then gave my first sermon at the start of Advent last December in 2024 and have been trying to explore my depth… my behavior… my pain… my wandering spirit and soul a little more openly than before. Discerning if there is still a spark for any expanded spiritual enrichment involvement or not? Am I still even a worthy specimen of sharing my voice… Am I as demonic as I was led to believe these past 40 years? Needless to say I am very grateful for the opportunity to be here. To be welcomed.. To be seen.. To be heard and to grow. And to try to ultimately lean in to nurturing my voice within my writing and my heart connecting to others.
It hasn't been until the last two years that I have even remotely had the capacity, the tools, the time, the space, and the unwavering community support to even attempt to face my inner demons so to speak… to the tethering and binding suffocating embrace that they have had on me, while holding me hostage in more ways than I care to spiritually and verbally admit. A deep seated spiritual narrative such as this… hard and deeply wired… isn't something I have been able to completely rewire or run from in the past… no matter how many good deeds I have attempted over the years … no matter how many times I have tried to repent… on this earth.. When you lose sight of your internal worth… your purpose… your navigational moral compass and values you tend to view the world and most interactions differently.. I was taught in life that you are valuable when you are a mother.. When you are a wife… when you are a capable provider…. When you are capable of nurturing love.. Compassion… and connection… And throughout my spiritual and life journey I have lost grips, opportunities, and experiences in some of those spaces… But if I hold onto what I thought was the truth in the narrative that I am evil… at my spiritual core and being…That impacts the way I view myself… my interactions and behaviors with others… Does that make me incapable of ever connecting? In a loving passing way on a Sunday morning to you?
Just as was shared with us in the scripture passage this morning, the journey up mountains and valleys and to the top where the clouds envelope us.. can lead and direct us to have different views …There are some spiritual foundational truths I have learned along my journey… In having the opportunity to worship and discern within my self discoveries with you all … and some metaphors that have helped shape my spiritual understandings and experiences for example … church pews …. Yes the very pews you are sitting in… tend to be essentially forgotten and and often overlooked structural pillars of the church… their craftsmanship and purpose have helped generations of bodies… with their support and function….and have welcomed new views to the souls of their congregants and members through their supported invitation… to such gatherings as choir practices.. Baptisms, worship services, funerals, and the revivals/ renewals of lost and unwatered wandering spirits, unanswered prayers and ….. And ultimately the foundational support they give our bodies and our tears that tend to hold us captive when our words may fail us… literal pieces of wood that support us when we aren't sure we should even be sitting in the presence of our neighbors… let alone a community that just might have the capacity or capability of loving us. Our church building that welcomes each week can at times act like a welcoming home does to our family when they visit. A safe place with a beautiful new roof to shelter us that can be used to protect us and guide us. These very walls openly embrace us in prayer, spiritual growth and connection if we let and allow it. Just as a parent would when nurturing a child in need. …We can and do create a space here each Sunday that can shelter us from harsh storms externally and internally. We may not always be able to take away the pain or harm that has happened … whether at home or at church ..behind closed doors, or corridors and in hallways ... .as It is an inevitable to the human experience to witness harsh realities at times... But this space is sacred …for it is a place where we can have and hold hard conversations .. to lay down our troubles.. Torments.. Frears… and laments … To bravely allow safety .. repair.. And love .. to be welcomed… and to ultimately hold onto hope.
You all have taught me that crowded tables matter. The tables that we have within our church for hard conversations and potlucks matter…They matter because the spiritual narratives … we teach our children.. Ourselves.. Our neighbors… and those that cross our paths have lasting impacts on our spirits and souls whether we like to admit it or not… I still don't honestly and truthfully know if I am evil.. Or if I have committed demonic treacherous spiritual and physical acts that I will try to spend a lifetime trying to reconcile… but what I do know is that by facing those fears and the deep seated binding beliefs and stigmas that we can water and nourish our souls if that's something we chose to do… and that does matter… it impacts the way we believe…the growth of bravely evolving… the way we live.. As actively kind individuals.. The way we give and receive…. it gives us hope as individuals… it fuels our faith in prayerfully serving… and it also adds a beautiful capacity to our lives in ways we otherwise may not have had the courage to face alone.
And finally the biggest spiritual truth I know to be true that I hold deeply every Sunday is that first breath you tend to take as you open a church door to worship and commune in fellowship with each other is truly a testament within itself.. For we do not know what necessarily guides each of us here each sunday… or the depths, journeys, mountains and valleys that each one of us is facing in silence and discernment, but I do know that once your hand touches the handle to walk into a church so does the threshold of your soul… in search of something to nourish it .. whether that is spiritual growth.. A sense of community… the smile of a neighbor to greet you… this very church pew to hold you for just a bit because your legs are too weary from the weight of the past that you carry… or just the comfort of the sound of an old hymn …to ease your cluttered mind.
I do believe in being brave enough to profoundly explore one's spirit. Whether that is weekly in acts of service … diving deeper into spiritual exploration… or just the added support of a sense of community and a warm meal … your spirit wherever it leads you just might have the capacity to grow… to travel up a high mountain top… to hear God’s voice… or to just to hope that you too might be able to experience the warm arms of a stranger in a hugging embrace and warm welcome.
I can honestly say I don't know the depths of my spirit… or my soul… nor do I know if I ever will… I don't even even know if these words of my spiritual journey and life … in thoughts..truths.. And experiences that have shaped and molded me for years …. that I have attempted to put onto paper … and clumsily utter to you.. In an act of repentance of spiritual untether my spirit of sorts … even matters. But I sure hope they do! I hope these words.. This time can be a reminder to you when your spirit is tired… when your soul is longing for something more … that repair is a possibility… that healing has depths and seasons.... Twists.. Turns… knots..and pivots… but that it can happen.. It is possible!… even in the midst of insurmountable pain.. And unwavering depths of grief… and especially amidst the ever hollow void of shame…
That narratives whether our own… or others… have a tendency to be our compass or our beacon in darnkess… through harsh experiences.. They have a way of shaping and restructuring our now present narratives that oftentimes become our truths we live by… Those seasons of uncertainty and unknowns… can be just the realization that we needed that change.. That change and shifting in one's spirit can be a possibility. If we can we can have the capacity to hold on to … and through… to allow ourselves the grace to feel… to connect… to pray.. To discern… to sit in pews… with neighbors and friends and to hold conversations.. Under sacred roofs whether at home or here…That the very walls that hold pain… can also hold peace.. That if we are brave enough to step off the door mat.. Turn the church door handle… and breathe through the confining thresholds of this world.. To our inner worlds.. And the dialogues and narratives that tend to hold us hostage… that we might know for a brief moment… as stated in the scripture.. Verse four.. It is good to be here! if you wish! And know with truth, conviction, and understanding that our spirits are capable of great things… of great transformation.. If we take the time to nurture them.. And allow them opportunities .. to be seen… to be felt… and heard no matter the circumstance. For who knows you might just feel touched as the disciples did by Jesus as stated in Matthew.. For some people are indispensable companions on this journey of life and just as the narratives that shape us so do our companions and community… and they just might surprise you … and have the capacity to touch you..and guide you.. Do not be afraid.. Even if you don't recognize them just as the disciples did not recognize John the Baptist after descending the high mountain. Thank you all for your companionship and guidance on my spiritual journey.
Please Bless us to continue to open our hearts and minds to be used as an instruments of peace, vessels of grace and lights of unwavering love, that continually break through darkness.
Stand With Minnesota (Southeast Idaho Citizens for Democracy Rally)
Stand With Minnesota
Southeast Idaho Citizens for Democracy rally
Caldwell Park, Pocatello, Idaho
January 31, 2026
By Pastor Mike Conner
***
I want to thank Elmer and Iris for the opportunity to speak to you about the moral moment that we find ourselves in. And, as always, it is humbling and inspiring whenever I get to share a platform with Reverend Haydie.
Friends, we’ve heard the call to stand with our neighbors in Minnesota by first standing among them, seeing what they see, and not being afraid to tell the truth about what we see. It is a call to be awakened, moved, even claimed by the suffering of some our most vulnerable neighbors.
If what we read and watch and hear directly about the situation on the ground in Minnesota twists our guts or causes tears to fall, we must listen to our bodies as they call us to respond. Grief is a good teacher.
I would suggest to you that another way for us stand with our neighbors in Minnesota is by standing behind them. We have an opportunity, I would even say a responsibility, to learn from their example and apply their spirit and tactics of moral resistance in our own community.
In my religious tradition, we talk a lot about something called discipleship. Being a disciple means following behind a teacher, learning to say what they say and do what they do. In my case, it is the Christ whose life forms the pattern. I am not permitted to determine my own way in the world like those in this country who, even from pulpits, claim that “might makes right.” Instead I walk behind a Teacher who says, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” and “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart.”
The spotlight has been on Minneapolis these past weeks, but the struggle of ordinary people against the brutalities of ICE has been playing out in places like Lancaster, Pennsylvania; in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina; in Portland and Seattle. Everywhere we see the resilience of neighbors who have set aside superficial differences to stand united against harm, who have sacrificed their time, resources, and comfort to stand in the gap for those living in fear of sudden arrest.
We are not short on teachers for this moment, and there is no reason for our community to be unprepared on that sad day when authoritarianism comes knocking on the doors of our most vulnerable neighbors. We can stand with Minnesota by having a teachable spirit as we engage in our own collective resistance.
Here are some things we might learn as we stand with by standing behind:
Today is the day to forge mutual relationships of care with one another, and to enlarge our sense of belonging to one another. We each might ask ourselves, ‘In a typical week, where does my body literally go? What parts of town, what kinds of people do I just never see? When I imagine who my community is, does it include both the socially privileged and the socially vulnerable? Do I see people of many faiths and worldviews, from different generations? Do I know where the schools or daycares or bus stops, courts or factories or business are where I would need to take my body in a moment’s notice to stand in the gap for someone else? Do I feel a living thread of connection between the Temple and the trainyard, the University and the warming shelter, Amy’s Kitchen and the Boys and Girls club. And then, based on that honest self-reflection, we ought to challenge ourselves to bring new neighbors into our awareness and new concerns into our heart. To borrow words from one of Rev. Haydie’s bishops, we stand with Minnesota by weaving “a rich web of underground care.”
Today is the day to resist every false narrative that says immigrants or refugees do not have a place in our common life. To reject every suggestion that those who protest peacefully are domestic terrorists, while those who force their way into homes without warrants are protectors of the peace. To decline stories that say we need to circle up and pursue the interests of our own group, and to champion stories that say we have more to gain when we all stand together. Our hearts are not so small nor our resources so scarce that we cannot make more room, and then more room, and then more room. We stand with Minnesota by telling the better story of our shared flourishing.
Today is also the day for each of us to do the hard inner work of learning to feel the surge of our own anger, of our own impulses toward hatred and violence, without being overcome by them. To learn, through prayer or meditation or training in nonviolent resistance, how to harness that energy and turn it toward acts of compassion and care. We stand with Minnesota by breaking the cycle of harm, and sometimes that starts with our own hearts and imaginations.
And, friends, if we are serious about resisting ideologies that divide us, serious about saying No to policy violence that’s been given the cheap stamp of divine approval, then today is the day to stand with our neighbors in Minnesota by resisting the forces of injustice here in Idaho. There is so much work for us to do right here, right now. The sacred worth and inherent dignity of our LGBTQ siblings and friends is again under threat. We have opportunities right now to restore reproductive freedoms, to resist cuts to education and healthcare funding. Every day we can choose to feed the hungry, house the houseless, and visit the lonely, the sick, the incarcerated. Let us raise our voice not only in solidarity with those who are far away but for the sake of those who are near. Today is the day.
There is a chant being lifted up by crowds across the country that says, We’re not cold, we’re not afraid, Minnesota taught us to be brave.
Today is the day to embrace that stirring to be brave, to say Yes to getting engaged.
The teacher I follow once said, “I tell you the truth, if you had faith even as small as a mustard seed, you could say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it would move. Nothing would be impossible.”
Every one of you has a place in this struggle. With each of us taking up the work that we are called to do, no matter how small or it might feel when we consider ourselves alone, together nothing will be impossible for us.
Let us stand behind Minnesota—keep working, start walking.
God bless you.
Lead Us Not Into Temptation (Matthew 4:1-11)
Lead Us Not Into Temptation
January 18, 2026
Matthew 4:1-11
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
The very Spirit that came down from heaven in the form of a dove and anointed Jesus at his baptism now leads him into the wilderness to be tested, challenged. There, Jesus fasts for forty days and forty nights. His body wastes away in its extraordinary hunger. When he is at his weakest, the enemy of God comes and speaks deceitfully to him. This is the diabolos, the devil. This is the peiradzon, the tempter. This is satana, Satan. Three names for this cruel, cunning spirit in Matthew’s passage; three temptations. At the waters of baptism, God the Father had said, “This is my Son.” In the wilderness, the devil says, “If you are the Son of God.” What God speaks as a blessing to be enjoyed, the tempter twists into a reason for self-determination. Before he can step into public ministry, Jesus must answer a fundamental question: Will he, the Son of God, the Beloved, use his privilege and power to seek his own will and preservation, or will he, to borrow words from John’s Gospel, “do only what he sees his Father doing” (John 5:19 NIV)?
This is one of those passages of scripture that is endlessly fascinating. As I sat with it this week, it seemed as if every word opened up lines of inquiry. After all, there are parallel tellings of this story in Luke and Mark to compare it to; there are layers upon layers of Old Testament reference; there are word choices, images, and themes that connect it to other key moments in Matthew. Most sermons eventually require a severe process of selection. The preacher can’t say everything of interest or tell about all the false starts or rabbit trails or fugitive flashes of insight that were a part of study and prayer. I’m standing before you with a lot more that I might say about the Temptation, and with a lot of my own questions left unanswered. But my prayer has been that God would nevertheless use this one sermon as a means of daily bread.
And, you know, that feels like the resonance worth exploring this morning: the connection between the devil’s suggestion, “command these stones to become bread” (Matt 4:3) and Jesus’ teaching: “Pray, then, in this way: …Give us today our daily bread” (Matt 6:9, 11). Between Jesus’ necessary encounter with the tempter and the prayer we are to pray, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” That is, the connection between the temptation and the Lord’s Prayer.
The Lord’s Prayer appears twice in the New Testament. In Matthew 6, it is a part of Jesus’ famous Sermon on the Mount. In Luke 11, Jesus offers it to his disciples after they come and ask him to teach them to pray. Many of us learned it when we were very young in this way:
Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name.
Your kingdom come. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.
For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.
Or like that, but maybe with some Thee’s and Thou’s.
If you’ve participated in our worship recently, you’ve perhaps noticed that we aren’t praying the same version or translation of this great prayer from week to week. This is a relatively new practice for us. Last winter, I preached a series on prayer and thought it would be beneficial for us to experience a fresh relationship with Jesus’ words. My hope was—and is—that variety would help us notice new things, ask fresh questions, and appreciate the substance and usefulness of the prayer. I don’t think Jesus gave us this prayer primarily to comfort us or even to unite us; certainly it is not meant to get stuck as a rote exercise or a source of nostalgia.
You know, it has never occurred to me to wonder before about where this prayer came from. I mean, of course Jesus composed it and taught it—but why, and where? I guess I’ve assumed that he always knew it, or that it leapt spontaneously from his mouth when he sat down to give the Sermon on the Mount. But today I’m hearing all the connections between it and these days Jesus spent in the wilderness:
Our Father, who art in heaven. Well, Jesus encountered God as his Father during his baptism by John, when the heavens were opened the voice declared “Beloved.” Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Here we have the language of kingdoms, which the Deceiver offered Jesus in exchange for his allegiance. Jesus rejected this offer by saying, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only Him.” Give us this day our daily bread. In the wilderness Satan suggests that Jesus access his power to care for himself, to turn stones in to bread. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil one. A prayer of protection from what Jesus endured for us and in our place.
I want to suggest this morning that it is worthwhile to consider the wilderness as the place that this wonderful prayer was composed. That it was forged not in contemplative stillness but through the fire of extreme deprivation and testing. What if the Lord’s prayer is a tool of resistance, a wilderness resource, a way of enduring our own weakness and limitations, our long days and nights of pain; a shield for holding off despair and desperation; a sword for cutting through the lies that tell us it is time to trust in something or someone other than God. I imagine that Jesus prayed this in the first-person singular “My Father… Give me today… Forgive me… Deliver me…” And by the time he was ready to pass it on to others, he had transposed it out of the singular and into the plural: we, us, our. Not only to unify you and me in our praying of it but to join us to his own voice, his own incorruptible integrity, his own unfailing trust.
What is at stake for Jesus in these three temptations—to provide for himself unnaturally, to entertain oblivion, to seek power and glory for himself? In his commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, a Catholic Bible scholar named George T Montague says this: “Unspoken, of course, is the assumption that Jesus should use whatever divine power he might have in his own interest, and should he do so in the matter of food, he would in effect withdraw himself from solidarity with his people of old and the people of his day who do not have it in their power to do such things…”[1]
His solidarity with us is what’s at stake. His commitment to be with us in our weakness, with us in our seasons of spiritual or physical hunger. To open for us, in the midst of them, a space where we can trust in God’s love, provision, and protection; a place where we won’t force our own way or sully our integrity out of desperation. And that place is his heart, expressed, I would argue, in this prayer.
If Jesus would have turned stones into bread—and he could have; he and Satan both know this—he would have stepped out of his communion with God the Father, making a move toward self-preservation before receiving a word from God. He would have abandoned his solidarity with our hunger; we can’t magically turn stones into bread, so he keeps himself from that human impossibility, though it means remaining in his hunger.
Jesus goes without food for 40 days and forty nights and then faces down the very heart of evil. Those were his temptations; they are not ours. The Spirit led him into that task; we are taught to pray for exactly the opposite, to not be led into temptation.
And yet, in our own way, don’t we often feel like this is this situation we are in?
Don’t we sometimes feel like we’ve been out here, in our own personal wildernesses, for almost too long? It may not be forty days and forty nights of total fasting, but maybe it’s been a long night of grief, a long year of being in and out of the hospital. Forty days of not being able to pay down your credit card. Endless days of chronic pain. A season of unemployment. Logging on for another day of watching what madness the Idaho Legislature will do next. Logging on to be pierced by the stories of pain: in Minneapolis, in Portland, in Gaza, in Sudan, in the polar regions. Our wilderness might be a dark night of soul, when God’s voice has gone silent. It might be a displacement from community, where we’ve been rejected, or where our own growth in faith and love drives us away from systems of harm.
And as if these wildernesses were not enough, in the midst of them we know who Jesus has called us to become: persons of no-strings-attached love, of costly generosity, of patient trust and continual forgiveness; humble people who seek no glory for ourselves; simple people who don’t participate in exploitation; people of hospitality who are more ready to give than to receive. If we consider all this and how often we “miss the mark,” how easy it is for us to abandon our trust in God because we feel that we’ve been out in the wilderness too long, we ought to rush to take up Jesus’ prayer again and cry out “ Our Father,” know that he is with us in that “Our,” and that he will help us remain steadfast through every testing, because he has already won the victory.
If we are going to persist in feeding people who are hungry, we have to be people whose own hunger for justice does not grow impatient and try to wrestle bread out of stones, but is instead sustained by that prayer, “Give us today our daily bread.”
If we are going to persist in advocating for affordable, quality childcare in a State where 25,000 parents left the workforce last year due to a loss or change in childcare, we have to be people who make our home in the prayer, “May your kingdom come, may your will be done.”
If we are going to persist in building the beloved community that Martin Luther King Jr. believed in; in eliminating the widespread poverty in America that broke his heart; in learning to see beyond what divides us to the promise of our solidarity with others, we have to be people who say, “Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”
With this prayer forged in the wilderness, we deal not with a comforting token or a rote religious exercise but with a channel of communion, a place where we, in our hunger, are met and sustained by the Christ who hungers but is not overcome by impatience, fear, or resentment. With this prayer forged in the wilderness, we will not force our own way. We will not sell our birthright as children of God. We will not sully our hands with the Master’s tools as we seek to deconstruct the Master’s house. We will not live in fear, or entertain oblivion, or numb our compassion by living as avatars in the simulacrum.
Instead, we will abide there, in the condition that so much of humanity lives so much of the time, hungry for bread and for justice in the wilderness, and make of our lives, right there, an offering, an opening, through which God’s power for love can flow.
If the Kingdom of God were to depend on our largesse or our wisdom, our creativity or our readiness to endure discomfort, we would be lost. But thanks be to God that the coming of the Love’s reign does not depend on our natural strengths but on our spiritual humility, our trust in Jesus’ victory over every demonic suggestion.
“For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin” (Heb 4:15 NKJV), scripture proclaims.
So let us, through the solidarity and the prayer of Jesus, abide in him, and answer his call to never cease hungering and thirsting for righteousness. “Weeping may endure for a night,” maybe forty long nights, “but joy,” we know, “cometh in the morning” (Ps 30:5 KJV). And “all who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure” (1 John 3:3 NIV).
In the name of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Amen.
[1] George T. Montague, S.M., Companion God: A Cross-Cultural Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1989), 42.
The Shape and Power of Repentance (Matthew 3:1-17)
The Shape and Power of Repentance
January 11, 2026
Matthew 3:1-17
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
One of my favorite American poets, James Longenbach, has a poem that starts with this question: “How do you imagine the shape of one lifetime? / A circle, a tangle of lines?” The poet is reminding us that life’s journey does not feel the same to each of us. Depending on our personalities and what we’ve been through, a lifetime might feel like a unified whole, a journey that has brought about a kind of return to or reconciliation with the major themes of our early years. Others of us might feel more fragmented, experiencing life like a “tangle of lines.” And the many forays we’ve made into becoming this or that, loving this and that, don’t harmonize neatly but nevertheless comprise who we are. Surprising symmetry or creative chaos? It depends! And on a morning when we hear in Matthew’s Gospel this good old word repentance repeated three times, I want to modify the poet’s questions to ask:
How do you imagine the shape of change?
Change. That’s what repentance fundamentally means: change at a deep and lasting level. The Greek word for it, metanoia, literally means a transformation of the mind, a shift in how we perceive, understand, and tell stories about God’s world and our place in it. In verse 1 of this chapter, John the Baptist preaches, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” In verse 8, as John criticizes the Pharisees and Sadducees for their religious posturing, he calls them to “bear fruit worthy of repentance.” And to clarify his role as the forerunner to a more powerful preacher who is soon to come, he says in verse 11, “I baptize you with water for repentance, but the one who is coming after me…will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” John’s baptism of repentance is connected to immersion in water, the confession of sins, and the call to bear fruit that aligns with God’s justice. These all speak to cleansing, fresh commitment, and new beginnings. And lest we over-associate this call to radical change with John’s ministry, Matthew places the very same sermon on Jesus’ lips when he emerges in Galilee for the beginning of his public ministry after his baptism and temptation in the wilderness: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” (Matt 4:17).
So, again, the question: If we are all called to change in order to begin again with God, how do you imagine the shape that change?
Perhaps this change is like a sharp turning—we’re going one way and then God intervenes and we have to pivot to go another way. That’s the visual I was always given as a kid in youth group. Repentance as a kind of U-turn. What I like about that shape is the way it emphasizes a turning point, a moment when everything was different. It also reveals that we are always moving toward a goal, and if the goal is knowing God and loving God then I have to pursue that with intention even if it means letting those other destinations go.
Or perhaps the shape of change is like open hands, open cup, something like a closed circle that’s been broken open. Maybe where we once experienced ourselves as isolated, self-sufficient, complete, safe in our bubbles or masters of our little universes, a kind of rupture is required. And with that cracking open comes a rush of freedom to release old things and be filled with new things. Maybe repentance feels like release, embrace, waking up to new love. Others can suddenly find a way in, and we can suddenly find a way out.
Or perhaps we’d chart out change as a pair of glasses, as a kind of lens. This is change at our capacity to be present to our lives. Maybe we’re right where we need to be, but we’ve lost the joy of our commitments, lost sight of the beauty around us; we’re rushing past our neighbors, struggling to see our kids or spouses or friends or coworkers as the three-dimensional humans that they are. Perhaps repentance is like the sudden refining of vision, making vivid and beautiful and worthy of renewed devotion what was always already there. We cook dinner, or we take a minute to consider the stars, as if these acts might change the world. Change as a light that illuminates and wakes us up.
A fourth possibility, if I may. Perhaps the shape of change is like a V, going down in order to come up again. This is the choreography of baptism: immersed in the water. Repentance might mean a humbling descent: returning to the earth, seeking solidarity with the poor who are trodden down, giving away our stuff or choosing not to operate out of our privileges, laying aside activity to seek God in silence, serving the visions of others. This is change as a kind of stripping away, a return to simplicity. The trees yielding to the cold air, letting the outer splendor of their leaves go, and trusting the strength of their roots.
And finally, perhaps the shape of change is like the poet’s “a tangle of lines,” a confused and meandering squiggle, that suddenly straightens itself out. This is what the prophet Isaiah envisioned when he proclaimed, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight’” (Matt 3:3). This is change experienced at the level of desire and commitment. I’ve wanted so many things that I’ve gone nowhere. Not knowing who I am, I’ve been stuck in place, or I’ve been running to this and that with no real intention. This is repentance that “seeks first the kingdom of God.” It is “purity of heart.” The gift of a singleness of desire. It’s as if all our confused and congested energy suddenly has an open channel. It doesn’t resolve all the tensions but transcends them. The heart is fixed on God alone.
How do you imagine the shape of change?
Going a different direction? Cracking open? Seeing clearly? Descending? Straightening?
It’s important that we each find our way into the meaning of repentance for ourselves, because it’s not meant to be one of those churchy words that is either overly familiar and safe or overly strange and off-putting. Repentance is a vital reality to be lived, an inescapable part of our life with God.
Notice that there are two voices crying out in this story from Mathew. There is the voice in the wilderness, and there is the voice “from the heavens” (Matt 3:17). Every one of us is created to hear that voice from the heavens as personally addressed to us. We are God’s Beloveds, with whom God is well pleased. We are destined to know ourselves in Christ as God’s most precious children. But to hear the “voice from the heavens” (3:17) in trust and security, we must first respond to “the voice of one crying out in the wilderness” (3:3). We must first prepare the way of the Lord. We must welcome change.
There is so much that keeps us from resting securely in our identity as beloved creatures of the Great Creator. Our own mistakes and regrets, things we’ve done and left undone. The insecurities or harsh words and actions that filled our childhoods. The great losses we’ve endured that don’t make any rational sense. The daily onslaught of the world’s pain: countries at war, children hungry, cross-wearing politicians cutting away the social safety net, climate change.
Given the harsh realities of life, no matter the shape of our repentance, the power of it has to be immense if it is to achieve a lasting rootedness in God, a lasting commitment to grow in love and justice. The power at work in repentance, like the power at work in faith, far exceeds what we can muster through our own will and conviction. This isn’t change that comes by reading a book or listening to a podcast or making a New Year’s resolution. This is change that comes by way of a miracle!
And God has given us the miracle! God has given us Jesus!
Jesus, who has come to bring us inside his Belovedness, who has come to set his way of justice and generosity before us; Jesus, whose privilege it is as the eternally begotten Son of the Father to the hear the voice of heaven – he comes and stands among us and for us in response to the voice of the wilderness. He takes his place among the repentant. He goes where all broken humanity must go before it can put down roots in its belovedness. He comes to the water that cleans, strips, purifies, and claims.
And this is precisely what John the Baptist has such a hard time accepting at first. He cannot understand why Jesus would submit to a baptism of repentance. John sees things very clearly: he needs Jesus’ baptism. Yes—and: Jesus came to redeem us from the inside out, to infuse every crevice of our experience with the light and power of God, to leave no need in us unmet by his grace. So he says to John: “Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness” (v 15). Oh, the kindness of God—that before any of us is ever fully ready for or capable of change, Jesus has already gone ahead of us into the water.
Friends, if God has drawn near to you for the first or the thousandth time, and you stand at the shoreline of a necessary change that is far beyond your capacity or courage, Jesus is there, and he will help you to make that new beginning. Jesus is there, bringing about the miracle of a fresh start, a new commitment, of clear vision, of humbling descent.
As Paul writes in Philippians 2:13, “For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases him” (NLT). We can yield to the shape of change, because Jesus’ grace has gone before us.
Hear the voice of the wilderness! The voice of the wilderness says, “Come and be stripped of what isn’t working for you. Come and face why the good fruit is growing. Come and be broken open. Come and see things for what they really are. Come and stand on equal footing with everyone else, with equal need. Come and say I want God to be first in my heart.”
Hear it, and know that Christ is also hearing it; in his faithful response, you will discover your own faithful response.
Ask for his help, and he will help you.
Abide in him, and he will carry you.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Power to Become Children of God (John 1:1-18)
Power to Become Children of God
January 4, 2026
John 1:1-18
By Pastor Mike Conner
***
Here at the starting line of another year, I want to return to speak of something very fundamental, this great gift that John speaks of in the poetic prologue to his gospel: “But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God” (1:12).
He gave power to become children of God.
He.
That is, Jesus. The eternal Word, the Second Person of the Holy Trinity, through whom all things have come into existence. He is Emanuel, God with us. Jesus has been born into our flesh and blood and bone. Jesus has entered into our vulnerability and weakness. Full of grace and truth, of life and light, he wants nothing more than to be here, to be close to you and me, no matter how sullen, distracted, anxious, or arrogant he finds us at first. As the book of Hebrews puts it, “The Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God” (1:3 NLT). He does this in a baby’s body swaddled in cloth, in a man’s body suffering on the cross. He has come so that each of us might rise to be with him where he is, “close to the Father’s heart” (John 1:18). He.
He gave.
Yes, Jesus is the pre-eminent giver: “From his fullness,” John writes, “we have all received, grace upon grace” (1:16). This is what he does with who he is and what he has: he gives it all to us. His kindness and his compassion, his creativity and his patience. Jesus’ earthly ministry was a ministry of gifts: turning water into wine, feeding the crowds, healing the sick, forgiving sins, calling the disciples into their purpose, and even receiving the love others desired to show him. “Though he was in the form of God,” Paul writes in Philippians, “he did consider equality with God as something to be grasped for himself, but emptied himself…” Jesus pours himself out to bless us and enrich us with love. He is with us in every experience of doubt and abandonment, in every moment of healing and beauty. He is not one who grasps, possesses, or hoards. His openness to us, no matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done, is definitive. He gave his very life away in order to redeem us, and now he gives us to one another in a community of gifts. He gave.
He gave power.
This is the gift for us to linger with today: Jesus gives power. This word in the New Testament, exousia, is about freedom and privilege. There are other words that indicate physical strength, personal ability, or social charisma. One of them is dunamis, which enters English as ‘dynamic.’ But this word, exousia, is about authority, capacity, choice. Later in John’s Gospel, Jesus will say, “I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again” (10:17-18). Herod thinks he has authority over Jesus. Pilate thinks he has authority over Jesus. The crowd thinks it has authority over Jesus. But any authority they have to determine Jesus’ fate comes because it has been first given to them by the One who has chosen to humble himself unto death on a cross. The Son of God throws the full weight of his divine privilege into the sacrifice of his life. What mystery is this, that the one through whom all things have come into existence would use power to give away power, and in that gift establish himself as the one worthy to receive “all authority in heaven and on earth,” as Matthew puts it in the closing words of his own Gospel. Jesus freely sacrificed himself for us, died our death, and now meets us in the moments and places of our God-forsakenness. He gave power.
He gave power to become.
This is the power he gives us: the freedom to become—to grow, unfold, heal. None of us is ever “finished” in this life. God is boundless and infinite. With God there is grace upon grace. Which means that our desire for God is never fully quenched, and our spiritual ripening can never be considered a done deal. So he gives us power to become.
Power to become! One of the greatest gifts that any of us can give to another person is the time and space, the affirmation and patience, for them to discover their own identity and purpose in God’s love. The power to become has made all the difference for me. I have had people come alongside me in every season of my life who have seen potential gifts in me and wanted to help me grow. The power to become is what I want to give my kids: the trust, self-compassion, curiosity, and sensitivity they need to receive whoever God has created them to be. As a pastor in Pocatello, I see that the power to become is a gift denied to so many of our neighbors, who, in order to be worthy of acceptance in their faith communities, must foreclose on certain possibilities of self-expression and relationship, certain lines of doubt and exploration.
Jesus does not give us power for conformity. He does not give us power to control others, or to manipulate our circumstances, or to be important and talented, or to depose the leaders of foreign lands with a word. He does not give us power to get things right all the time, to have masterful recall of the scriptures or to spin eloquent theological arguments. No, he gives us power to live our questions, to receive each day as fresh and full of mercy, to embrace new people and ideas and callings, that we might say with the poet Rilke, “I want to unfold. / Let no place in me hold itself closed, / for where I am closed, I am false. / I want to stay clear in your sight.” He gave power to become.
He gave power to become children of God.
Children of God. Power to become…a child! A child of God. We are given the authority that we need to abide in Christ and experience ourselves in him as the Beloved of God—together. Children are dependent on others; children need help; children are impressionable, voracious learners, attuned to wonder. Children raise their arms to be lifted up; they throw themselves fully into whatever it is they are doing. They feel all their feelings intensely. By coming to us as the Word-made-flesh, the Son of God has given us the power to become spiritual children. As John writes elsewhere in the New Testament, “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God, and that is what we are (1 John 3:1). As children, we are destined for joy in God. As children, we pray “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” As children, we are seen, provided for, never alone, no never alone.
As the first theologians affirmed so very long ago, God became a human being so that human beings might become God. He descended to us that we might ascend with him. By uniting humanity and divinity in the body and history of Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God has opened up the possibility for each of us to have a vibrant, intimate, faithful relationship with our Creator. He gave power to become children of God.
Friends, this is the essence of the Gospel. The power to become a child of God is available to each of us right here, right now. In the words of John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist revival in 18th century England, “[I]t is a present salvation. It is something attainable, yea, actually attained on earth, by those who are partakers of the faith.” To partake of this faith, the Gospel invites us to receive him, and to believe in his name.
To receive him means opening the door of your heart to him when he comes knocking, when you sense that he wants something to do with you.
To receive him means being like Mary, and the Shepherds, and the Magi, and the Stable, saying Yes, come, Lord Jesus, I will give you room in my heart and in all my life.
To receive him means setting out to meet him in the places where he has promised to wait for us: in the Scriptures and at the Table, in the company of other believers, and in the face of every despised, rejected, vulnerable, or destitute person in our world.
And to believe in his name?
This simply means to trust him. To trust that Christ is the one who the scriptures and the saints and your deepest longings say that he is: God with us in love and unconditional acceptance and perfect justice. He is the Messiah, the Christ, who died our death, raises us to new life, and gives us the power to be children of God, “close to the Father’s heart.”
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Called to Remember (Matthew 2:13-23)
Called to Remember
December 28, 2025
Matthew 2:13-23
By: Pastor Mike Conner
***
According to the liturgical calendar that is used to organize worship and discipleship in many Christian traditions, Christmas is not simply a day but a twelve-day season, running from December 25th, the Feast of the Nativity, to January 6th, the Feast of Epiphany. For twelve days the Church’s calendar invites us to meditate on the mystery of the Incarnation, and reflect on how this gift of God coming to be with us in the Christ Child ought to shape our lives. In Catholic, Lutheran, and Anglican tradition, the fourth day of the Christmas season, December 28th, is the Feast of the Holy Innocents. It is a day set apart for remembering the little boys of Bethlehem, two years old and younger, whom King Herod had killed in a sweeping effort to extinguish the Christ.
The Eastern Magi, astrologers sometimes called Wise Men or the Three Kings, had tricked Herod. In faraway lands, they had observed the rising of the Christmas star, had understood it to be a sign that in the land of Israel a King had been born for the Jewish people. The Magi came to Herod’s court in Jerusalem, asking him where the newborn king was to be found. Herod had no idea; he had missed the sign. Afraid of a challenge to his own power over the Jews, Herod asked the Magi to continue their search for the child, and to return to him after finding it, so that he also could go and worship him. This, of course, was a lie. He planned to kill the child. The Magi left Herod’s palace and continued to follow the star, which rested over a humble home in Bethlehem. Entering that home, they bowed before Jesus and blessed him with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. That night, God warned them in a dream not to return to Herod, so they left the land of Israel by another road.
Herod, pacing around his palace and waiting for their return, slowly realized that they weren’t coming back, that he’d been lied to—and he was furious. There is hardly a breath between the eruption of his anger and its devastating consequences. “He became greatly enraged,” Matthew writes, “and he sent to kill all the little boys in Bethlehem in all its surrounding territory two years old and under” (Matt 2:16, my translation).
On Christmas Eve, I preached about Caesar Augustus’ census and the ways that the powers in our world are always trying to reduce our rich, singular lives to data, to names and numbers. The same impulse shows up here in Matthew’s Christmas story. Enraged by his lack of control over the situation, Herod gives an order: ‘Boys two and under in and around Bethlehem. Round them up, and get rid of them.’ But each of these was a singular child with a name, with a family. For Herod, an easy, impersonal order brings about the most painful, personal of griefs—and many times over. And it doesn’t even work. Little Jesus, carried through the darkness of that night by Joseph, slips through Herod’s fingers.
Joseph was warned by an angel in a dream to flee Israel, taking Mary and Jesus to Egypt before Herod’s soldiers arrived. The Holy Family became refugees, forced by the envious violence of their local ruler to leave behind their home and make do on the road, to live for a time as strangers in a strange land. They remained in Egypt until Herod’s death, at which time Joseph was again instructed in a dream by an angel; it was time to return to their homeland. But this was no triumphant return. They came back to live in silence and obscurity in the backwater town of Nazareth in Galilee. And yet, if one listened closely enough, there was still this: “A sound of weeping and wailing is heard in Ramah. Rachel is shedding tears for her children. No one can bring her peace, because her children have been taken from the land of the living” (2:17-18, First Nations Version).
You know, as a pastor I feel a lot of pressure to bring some razzle-dazzle to the Christmas season every year, to use language and ritual to try and help us all connect with the joy and hope and mystery of it. And this story makes me deeply uncomfortable. The massacre of the Holy Innocents is a terrible moment in the Gospels, and it feels so at odds with the spirit of the season. I resisted committing to this text when I saw that December 28th fell on a Sunday this year. But Matthew found it important to include this story in his Gospel, to bring it inside the good news of Jesus. And down through the ages the Church has seen fit to honor these children with a feast day, so that they would not be forgotten. I felt convicted. Maybe I should take the time to really remember them, too.
If Jesus came to bring salvation to our world, if he came to redeem the cosmos, then we need to be honest about the condition of the world. Perhaps we are bummed – or more, wrecked – by this story, and want to keep it at arm’s length, not really even look at it directly, because of all the Christmas stories in the Gospels it is actually the most relatable one, the one that hits closest to home, and we think Christmas ought to bring us some reprieve from the sharp edges of reality. And yet, in 2025 Nigerian children are kidnapped. Gazan children are bombed and starved. American children are hungry and sick with Measles. And the list of avoidable atrocities goes on.
And in every one of these situations there are people playing the role of Herod behind the violence, trying to control the narrative, seeking to stifle our remembering. But the mothers and fathers remember. The community remembers. The soil remembers. God remembers. Should not the Church also remember? And, by its remembering, be liberated from the propaganda and feel-good illusions thrown at us? By its remembering be pressed toward the least of these?
The Incarnation is a profound act of divine remembering. In Christ, God has said to us, “I have not forgotten you. I will never forget you. I will come to be with you, as you are, and bind our destinies together.” And that act of solidarity becomes an example for us to live by in the power of the Spirit.
The Holy Innocents. They were killed by an angry, fearful King. They were killed as a consequence of the Magi listening to divine direction. They were killed to bring to fulfillment a Hebrew word spoken by Jeremiah, the weeping prophet. Matthew effectively gives us all three explanations, and not a single one of them would relieve the heart of a mother or father of Bethlehem. So we keep remembering—and we let that remembering do its work in us and in the world. Remembering is a political act, by which I mean it has to do with power and how we relate to one another. And remembering is a spiritual act, something Jesus tells us to do every time we gather in his name. Do this in remembrance of me. Remembering the hard things is important, too. Keeping the channel open, the energy of grief has somewhere to go, and it can make us more committed to love.
So we remember. We remember that those little boys in Bethlehem are members of the cosmos that Jesus has redeemed, and will be vindicated in the last days and raised to resurrected life. We remember that Jesus himself shared the fate of his playmates, sentenced to death on a cross by a sickening collusion of political and religious powers. We remember Mary was there at the cross, crying her tears. Jesus did not, in the end, escape the suffering of the Holy Innocents. To remember them is to remember him, and vice versa. To remember them is to remember all those whose worldly fate he came to share.
A 16th-century painter from the Netherlands named Pieter Bruegel the Elder once painted the Holy Innocents scene. He painted a scene of soldiers raiding a small town and putting its little children to death. Yet Bruegel translated the scene to a 16th-century Dutch village, where the villagers were attacked by Spanish soldiers and German mercenaries. The soldiers in Bruegel’s painting carry the imperial symbols of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II, who ruled in Bruegel’s lifetime. Bruegel did what all good biblical interpretation does: it bridges the gap between the world of scripture and the world of the present moment. It says, Look, we are still living inside these stories today!
Emperor Rudolph disliked the painting so much that he purchased it in Prague around 1600. After purchasing it, he had the children in the graphic scene painted over with food items and animals, “so that it became a scene of plunder not a massacre of babies.” You can look at this online. In the center of the painting there is a group of ironclad soldiers all stabbing downward at…a group of chickens! We know that these were not Pieter Bruegel’s original details because his son, Pieter Breugel the Younger, made a copy of his father’s painting before it was whitewashed by the Emperor. The son’s copy, discovered in Vienna, “shows the original details of the massacre.” In our own moment, I’m sure we can think of times when those in high places have reshaped the narratives of war and poverty and human suffering to make them seem less devastating, more palatable or reasonable. The Gospel writer asks us to remember. The Church asks us to remember. The artists ask us to remember. The Herods and Holy Emperors and political pundits ask us to forget.
Christmas doesn’t mean that we escape the world. It means that we are met by a God who enters into complete fellowship with us in the world to bring about a reign of peace from the inside out. So, this Christmas I think God would have each of us remember a person, a family, an other-than human species, or a community that is at risk of being forgotten, that has suffered at the hands of power, but that Jesus came to hold in eternal love and remembrance.
This Christmas, remember someone who has not escaped the world’s sharp edges, who is grieving, who is hurt by the intolerance and violence of the world. Weep for them. Pray for them. Tell about them.
And may the hope of our faith be true for us all. As the Apostle Paul says, We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed (2 Cor 4:8-11 NIV).
And elsewhere: What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? …Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written:
“For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Rom 8:31-39 NIV).
Amen.