On Being Truly “Blessed”: Reflections From a Pastor’s Heart

Yesterday I preached the opening lines of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:1–6). Today I’m still sitting with them, and honestly, they won’t let me go.

From a pastor’s perspective, it’s easy to talk about “blessing” in ways that line up neatly with our culture: stable job, healthy family, answered prayers, a sense that life is “up and to the right.” But as we listened to Jesus’ words together, I was reminded how thoroughly He redefines what it means to be blessed.

The Beatitudes don’t just tweak our definition; they overturn it.

The Bible as a Mirror, Not a Trophy Case
One thing I emphasized yesterday—and that I have to keep reminding myself of—is this:

We do not read the Bible to feel good about ourselves.

We read the Bible like a mirror:

to see where our lives align with God’s will and character
and where they don’t.
As a pastor, I don’t stand above Jesus’ words, explaining them to everyone else as if I’ve mastered them. I stand under His words with you. There are parts of the Sermon on the Mount that genuinely unsettle me—because they’re so direct, so searching, and so honest about the things I still wrestle with.

But this is where discipleship begins: letting Jesus hold up the mirror and refusing to look away.

“Blessed” Does Not Mean What We Think It Means
The word Jesus uses—makarios—is often translated “blessed.” It can mean “happy” or “highly favored,” but not in the shallow, circumstance-dependent way we usually think of happiness.

It’s not:

“I got the promotion—blessed.”
“Our vacation pictures look amazing—blessed.”
“Everything is working out—blessed.”
Instead, Jesus speaks of a deeper, sturdier joy rooted in something eternal. Blessedness in the kingdom is:

an infinitely higher and better thing than mere happiness.

And then He starts naming the blessed ones:

the poor in spirit
those who mourn
the gentle (or meek)
those who hunger and thirst for righteousness
If we’re honest, none of these sound like the people we’d put on a “Most Blessed” brochure. They sound like the people we’d pity—or avoid.

And that’s the point.

Communion and the Beatitudes: The Same Posture
In our service, before we read Jesus’ words, we came to the Lord’s Table.

At communion we:

confess that we have sinned
admit that we are hopeless without God’s grace
remember that only through Jesus’ death and resurrection are we made right with God
We don’t bring trophies to the table. We don’t bring spiritual résumés. We come with empty hands and open need.

And Jesus says:

That is what blessing looks like.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

The doorway into the “good life” in God’s kingdom is not strength but honesty. It’s not arrival; it’s admission of need.

Facing Reality: Poor in Spirit & Those Who Mourn
When Jesus says, “poor in spirit,” He’s not talking about low self-esteem. He’s describing people who finally tell the truth:

“I don’t have what it takes. I need God. More than breath in my lungs, I need Him.”

Scripture tells a story that explains why this is so hard for us. In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve decide to define good and evil for themselves. They stop trusting God’s word and start trusting their own judgment. That’s the moment sin fractures everything.

We’ve been doing the same thing ever since:

“I know what’s best.”
“I can handle it.”
“I can go my own way.”
Being poor in spirit means rejecting that lie. It’s spiritual clarity: Something is broken in me. I can’t fix it myself.

And then Jesus blesses those who mourn—who look at the effects of sin (in their own lives and in the world) and don’t look away, don’t numb out, don’t pretend. They grieve what is not as it should be.

As a pastor, I sit often with people who are mourning:

broken relationships
failing health
prodigal children
deep loneliness
the death of someone they love
And I’m reminded that Jesus doesn’t call mourning a detour from blessing. He names it as a place of blessing—not because loss is good, but because it’s often in that honest, painful, undistracted place that we finally reach for God with both hands.

The World Says “Climb”; Jesus Says “Be Gentle”
Here’s where the Sermon on the Mount cuts right across our instincts:

“Blessed are the gentle (meek), for they shall inherit the earth.”

In the world’s system, the gentle don’t inherit anything. They get stepped on. Overlooked. Outpaced. We’re taught—subtly and constantly—that you must:

get ahead before someone else does
prove yourself
secure your position
protect your interests
And without realizing it, many of us baptize that attitude in Christian language:

“I’m just being a good steward of my opportunities.”
“I’m just trying to lead.”
“I’m just trying to protect my family.”
But if I’m honest with myself, much of my striving is not stewardship—it’s fear. It’s self-preservation cloaked in religious language.

Biblically, meekness is not weakness. It’s:

strength under God’s control
power that refuses to serve self first
a posture that says, “I could push my weight around—but I won’t. Not my will, but Yours be done.”
And here’s the surprise: it’s the gentle who inherit the earth.

Not the loudest.
Not the most aggressive.
Not the flashiest.

Those who entrust themselves to a good Father, who knows what they need and will provide it in His time.

As a pastor, I feel this tension. Part of me whispers:

“If you don’t assert yourself, you’ll be ignored. If you don’t push, nothing will happen.”

But Jesus is calling me—and you—to trust that the way of the cross is wiser than the way of control.

What Are You Hungry For, Really?
Jesus continues:

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.”

Everyone is hungry for something:

security
validation
comfort
distraction
achievement
control
And we go to whatever is most available to us:

more work
more entertainment
more possessions
more affirmation
more religious activity (yes, even that can be a substitute)
The problem isn’t our hunger. Hunger is a gift. Hunger tells us we were made for more.

The problem is where we go to satisfy it.

Righteousness, in Matthew’s gospel, is not just rule-keeping. It’s:

right relationship with God
right relationship with others
life aligned with God’s heart and ways
Jesus is describing people whose deepest longing is:

“I want to be right with God. I want my life to line up with His will. I want what’s broken—between me and Him, and between me and others—to be healed.”

And He promises:

“They shall be satisfied.”

Not entertained.
Not briefly distracted.
Satisfied.

Satisfaction Has a Name
That word “satisfied” is easy to misunderstand. It doesn’t mean:

you’ll always get the outcomes you want
God will smooth out every hardship
life will suddenly be free of discomfort
When Jesus talks about living water in John 4, He’s talking to a woman who’s been going from relationship to relationship, well to well, trying to find something that lasts. He doesn’t rebuke her hunger—He redirects it.

“Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,
but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever.” (John 4:13–14)

He’s saying: I am the satisfaction you’re looking for.

So when He says, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” He’s not saying, “Try harder to be good.” He’s inviting us to find our deepest fulfillment in Him—in:

being reconciled to God
living in step with His Spirit
allowing Him to define what’s good, true, and beautiful
Over time, as we come to Him again and again, other “satisfactions” start to lose their hold.
The things that once ruled us become exposed for what they are: temporary, shallow, unable to bear the weight of our souls.

A Different Way of Being Human
If you put these Beatitudes together, you don’t just get a list of spiritual sayings—you get a new way of being human:

Poor in spirit: honest about our need for God
Those who mourn: honest about the brokenness of sin
Gentle/meek: surrendering strength to God instead of using it for self
Hungering and thirsting for righteousness: deeply desiring God’s will and presence more than anything else
This is not how our culture works. If you live this way, you will feel out of step sometimes. You might feel “behind” according to the world’s scorecard.

But from Jesus’ perspective, you’re not behind at all. You’re actually becoming more fully alive.

So What Do We Do With This?
From my perspective as a pastor, I don’t want you to walk away from the Beatitudes thinking:

“I need to try harder to be poor in spirit.”
“I need to push myself to mourn more.”
“I need to force myself to be meek.”
“I need to generate a hunger for righteousness.”
The invitation is simpler and deeper:

Come to Jesus with what is actually true of you right now.

If you feel strong and self-sufficient—honestly tell Him that, and ask Him to show you your need.
If you are mourning—bring your grief to Him and let Him meet you there.
If you recognize your tendency to control—confess it and ask Him to teach you gentleness.
If your hunger has been poured into a dozen other things—name them, lay them down, and ask Him to awaken in you a real hunger for His righteousness.
We practiced this at the communion table, but that invitation is open every moment of your life.

Right in the place where you feel most:

needy
ashamed
confused
tired
empty
He meets you. Not when you’ve cleaned things up, not when you’ve “become” the Beatitudes, but when you come honestly with your lack.

That, according to Jesus, is where blessing truly begins.

A Pastoral Blessing for You
Let me end with a simple pastoral benediction, echoing what I spoke over our church:

May you be a person who:

recognizes your need
grieves what is broken
surrenders your strength to Jesus
and hungers and thirsts for the righteousness that only He can give
And may you discover—in ways that surprise you—that this is where true blessing, true joy, and true life really begin.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Ryan

He Is Risen… Now What?
Reflections on Hearing – Really Hearing – the Sermon on the Mount

Yesterday, as I stood in front of our church family and said, “He is risen,” I could feel the weight and wonder of those words in the room. Some of you came in full of joy. Others came in heavy, grieving, anxious, or numb. And yet the same invitation of the risen Christ was extended to each of us:

“Come boldly to the throne of grace. Bring all of it. I’m alive, and I’ve already won the victory.”

That’s the starting point for everything we talked about yesterday, and it’s the only way to honestly approach what came next: hearing the Sermon on the Mount.

Why We Started Our Series This Way

For months, as a teaching team, we’ve been talking about how to handle Matthew 5–7. The Sermon on the Mount is often called “the greatest sermon ever preached,” but it’s more than that. It’s Jesus describing:

what His kingdom is like,
what life looks like for His disciples here and now,
what it actually means to belong to Him and bear fruit for Him.
We decided to begin this “mini-series” within Matthew by doing something very simple and very counter-cultural: we just listened.

Before explaining.
Before dissecting.
Before debating.
Before asking, “What does this mean for me?”

We asked a prior question:

Am I willing to hear Jesus speak?

So we read Matthew 5:3–7:27 straight through—Jesus’ own words, without commentary. That in itself is an act of surrender.

A Hillside, a Rabbi, and a Crowd Like Us

Matthew sets the scene like this:

“Now when Jesus saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them.” (Matt. 5:1–2)

Jesus wasn’t in a classroom or a church building. He was on a hillside. The crowd around Him was a mix:

the curious,
the desperate,
the skeptical,
the hungry,
the broken.
Not that different from a Sunday morning crowd in our sanctuary.

His disciples drew close—not because they understood everything, but because they wanted to be near Him. He was their rabbi. They wanted to learn how to see, think, love, and live like Him.

And then Jesus began to teach—not just about “religion,” but about life:

anger,
lust,
marriage and divorce,
enemies,
giving,
prayer,
fasting,
money,
worry,
judgment,
discernment,
obedience.
He painted a picture of a kind of life that is actually good—a life that reflects the heart of God and stands firm when the storms hit.

Hearing the Sermon on the Mount Hurts (and Heals)

If you listened carefully yesterday, you likely felt a mix of things. I did too.

Some of Jesus’ words are deeply comforting:

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.”
“Do not worry about tomorrow.”
“Ask… seek… knock…”
Other words are confronting and unsettling:

“Anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment.”
“Anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
“Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven…”
There are phrases that almost make you want to say, “Jesus, I can’t do that. That feels impossible.”

And in a very real way, that reaction is the point. The Sermon on the Mount is not a cozy inspirational quote for your wall; it’s a radical invitation into a new life that we cannot live apart from the grace and power of Jesus.

Discipleship: More Than Agreeing With Jesus

As a church, we’ve defined a disciple this way:

A disciple is one who surrenders to Jesus, obeys His commands, reflects His goodness, and makes other disciples.

Notice what’s missing:

“A disciple is someone who knows a lot about the Bible.”
“A disciple is someone who agrees with Christian doctrine.”
“A disciple is someone who goes to church.”
Those things have value, but Jesus ends His sermon with a far sharper distinction:

“Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock…
Everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand.” (Matt. 7:24–27)

Both people heard.
Both people “knew.”
The difference was obedience.

It’s uncomfortable to say this out loud, but I need to:
My life is not built on what I know or agree with. It’s built on what I actually obey.

That’s confronting for me as a pastor, not just for you as a congregant. I can preach sermons about loving enemies and still avoid the difficult person in my life. I can teach about worry and still stay up at night rehearsing worst-case scenarios.

The Sermon on the Mount exposes that gap between what we profess and how we actually live.

And yet—it does so as an act of love.

The Loving Confrontation of Jesus

I confessed yesterday that there are sections of this teaching that I would honestly like to skip. They cut too close. They expose my own sin, my own self-righteousness, my own comfort.

But the very places where we bristle are often the places where Jesus is doing His most loving work.

Why? Because the things He confronts in us—lust, anger, contempt, hypocrisy, greed, worry, judgment—are not small quirks. They are destructive. They destroy marriages, families, churches, communities, souls.

It is not unloving for Jesus to say, “Beloved, that way leads to death. Come out of it. I have something better for you.”

It may feel harsh at first, but underneath is the heart of a Savior who looks at us in all our brokenness and says:

“You’re a mess.
You’re My mess.
And I love you.
I want to make you whole.”

The Question for This Week: Will I Listen?

Over the next several weeks, we’re going to move slowly through the Sermon on the Mount. We’ll take it section by section and ask together:

What is Jesus actually saying here?
Where does this confront my current way of living?
How is He inviting me to change, repent, or trust Him more?
What would obedience look like in my real life?
But before all of that, we have to begin with a simpler, deeper question:

Will I listen to Jesus and begin to build my life on His words?

Not: “Will I admire His teaching?”
Not: “Will I debate the finer points?”
Not: “Will I apply this to other people who really need to hear it?”

Will I listen?
Will you listen?

Will we let His words have authority over:

our anger,
our sexuality,
our marriages and singleness,
our money and possessions,
our anxieties,
our relationships,
our enemies,
our secret lives?
That is the real fork in the road between the house on the rock and the house on the sand.

A Simple Practice: Pay Attention to Where You Bristle

One practical step for this week:

As you reread Matthew 5–7 (and I strongly encourage you to do that), notice your internal reactions.

Where do you feel comforted?
Where do you feel convicted?
Where do you feel defensive, cynical, or overwhelmed?
Where are you tempted to say, “That can’t possibly be what He means,” simply because you don’t want it to be?
Instead of running from those places, bring them to Jesus in prayer:

“Lord, this part makes me bristle.
I don’t like it. It feels impossible.
If this really is Your word, I need Your grace.
Change my heart. Show me what obedience looks like here.
Help me trust that Your way is better than mine.”

That honest, humble posture is where transformation begins.

Building on the Firm Foundation of His Love

We ended our gathering by singing, “I will build my life upon Your love, it is a firm foundation.” That line is not sentimental. It’s deeply connected to Jesus’ closing image in the Sermon on the Mount.

We don’t build our lives on:

our own willpower,
our performance,
our spiritual résumé,
our theological precision.
We build on His love—demonstrated at the cross and proven in the empty tomb.

The same Jesus who says, “Love your enemies,” is the One who loved His enemies all the way to death.
The same Jesus who says, “Do not worry,” is the One who holds your future in His pierced hands.
The same Jesus who says, “Be perfect,” is the One who gives you His righteousness as a gift.

Obedience to the Sermon on the Mount is not the ladder we climb to earn God’s love; it is the response of people who have already been radically loved and rescued.

As Your Pastor

Let me end this the way I ended yesterday:

You and I are, in many ways, broken messes.
And Jesus looks at us and says, “You’re Mine. I love you. I want to make you whole.”
So as we walk through the Sermon on the Mount in the coming weeks:

Don’t run from the hard parts.
Press into them.
Take them to the Lord.
Ask for grace to obey, not just to understand.
My prayer for you—and for myself—is that we would be people who don’t just admire the words of Jesus, but actually build our lives on them. That when the rains come, the streams rise, and the winds beat against our lives (and they will), we would stand— not because we are strong, but because our foundation is.

He is risen.
He is alive.
His words are still speaking.

Let’s listen. And let’s build.

Easter Sunday is always full.

Full of music, full of color, full of familiar words and faces. Full of visitors who said “yes” to an invitation and are now wondering quietly if it was a good idea. Full of long-time believers who know the rhythms of this day by heart.

But underneath all of that, it’s full of something else too.

Questions.

You can feel it in the room—especially on a day like Easter—this quiet, honest wondering that lives underneath our schedules, our smiles, and even our songs:

Does any of this actually matter?
Is there anything more than this—this life I’m living right now?
Is there any help here? Any healing here—for me?
As a pastor, I carry my own version of those questions too. I’ve had more than one season where the quiet title for my life could have been something like, “This Is Not How It Was Supposed to Go.” From the heavy things—losing loved ones, walking through my mom’s strokes—to the “ordinary” disappointments and frustrations that stack up over time, I know that sense of:

“This isn’t how I thought it would be by now.” “This is not the way it was supposed to be.”

If you’ve ever thought that, you are not alone—and you’re not wrong.

When We Feel the Weight of “Not Supposed to Be”
What’s surprising is how the big things and the small things often sit in the same place inside us. The medical diagnosis and the unending to-do list. The grief that lingers and the habit we thought we’d outgrow by now. The broken relationship and the quiet anxiety that won’t turn off.

They all leave us with that same ache: something is off; something is unfinished.

Then Easter comes.

We get dressed, we show up, we sing the songs, maybe we take communion, maybe our kids hunt for eggs. And for many people—maybe for you—the question remains on the car ride home:

“Does anything actually change because of this? Or is this just a meaningful moment in an otherwise unchanged life?”

If all Easter is, is a yearly tradition, then eventually we just walk back into the same unresolved stories we brought in with us. That’s true whether you’re new to church or you’ve been around church your whole life.

But that’s not the whole story.

Jesus Felt It Too
You are not crazy for feeling like the world is not the way it’s supposed to be.

Jesus felt that too.

There’s a moment in the Gospels where Jesus looks over Jerusalem and He weeps. He sees the brokenness, the lostness, the confusion, the pain. And He feels it deeply. It’s as if He’s saying, “This is not the way it was meant to be.”

But He did more than feel it.

He entered into it. He carried it. He allowed it to crush Him on the cross.

And then—He walked out of the grave.

When Jesus rose from the dead, it proved something decisive:

Physical death does not have the final word.
Emotional death does not have the final word.
The death of hope does not have the final word.
The death of expectations—of the way we thought life would go—does not have the final word.
If death does not have the final word, then neither does brokenness. Neither does the diagnosis. Neither does the failed marriage, the anxiety, the addiction, the grief or the long, quiet ache you can’t quite name.

That’s not wishful thinking. That’s resurrection reality.

But it doesn’t always feel that way, does it?

And that’s where Mary Magdalene’s story becomes so important.

Mary at the Tomb: Standing in the “In-Between”
John 20 gives us a front-row seat to the first Easter morning.

Mary comes to the tomb early, “while it was still dark.” That’s not just a time-stamp; it’s a description of where her heart is. She loved Jesus deeply. He had set her free. Her life had been completely changed by Him.

And now, as far as she knows, the story is over.

Jesus is dead. Hope is buried. The best part of her life is behind her.

So she comes to the tomb not expecting resurrection, but to deal with reality as she understands it. She’s grieving. She’s trying to make sense of what’s left.

When she sees the stone rolled away, she doesn’t think, “He’s alive!” She thinks, “Something else has gone wrong.” She runs to Peter and John: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve put him.”

Peter and John race to the tomb, see the grave clothes, and then… they go home.

Mary stays.

And there she is—standing in that space so many of us know:

The space between what God has done and what we can see.
The space between resurrection being true and resurrection being experienced.

She is standing in front of an empty tomb, and it still feels like nothing has changed.

That’s where some of us live:

We’ve prayed, we’ve hoped, maybe we’ve even believed…and we open our eyes and nothing looks different.
We’re trying to do the “right things,” and we still quietly ask, “God, are you doing anything here?”
Mary weeps at the tomb. She bends down, sees two angels, and they ask her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

Her answer is very human, very familiar:

“They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they put him.”

She’s still trying to solve it. She’s still trying to explain the empty tomb. She is not looking for a risen Savior. She is looking for an explanation.

Again, that’s us. We want to make sense of a life that doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to be this way.

Then, everything changes—quietly, personally.

The Moment Jesus Says Her Name
Mary turns around and sees Jesus, but she doesn’t recognize Him. She thinks He’s the gardener. That’s not a bad guess; who else would be there this early?

Even standing face to face with the risen Christ, she doesn’t see Him for who He is.

Because resurrection is simply beyond her imagination.

So Jesus does something incredibly simple and incredibly profound.

He calls her by name.

“Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’”

Not “Ma’am.”
Not “Follower.”
Not “Faithful disciple.”

Mary.

The same voice that once called her out of darkness now calls her again. The same voice that knew her story—her whole story—speaks directly to her.

And in that moment, everything that was abstract becomes personal.
Everything that was unimaginable becomes undeniable.

Her circumstances haven’t suddenly rearranged. Rome is still in power. The religious leaders who orchestrated the crucifixion are still free. The disciples are still fearful and scattered.

But Mary has encountered the risen Jesus. She has heard Him say her name.

That’s when she recognizes Him: “Rabboni!” (Teacher).

This is how resurrection becomes real. Not first as an idea we fully understand, but as a Person who meets us and calls us by name—even while our grief and confusion are still very much present.

This is how Jesus still meets people.

Resurrection Is Not Just a Story, It’s an Encounter
Mary doesn’t then sit down and work out a complete theology of resurrection. Jesus doesn’t give her a detailed explanation. He gives her a mission.

“Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them…”

The one who came in grief now goes out in witness:

“I’ve seen the Lord.”

She doesn’t go because she has all the answers.
She goes because she has met Him.

That’s the pattern:

Jesus meets us in the middle of our “this isn’t how it was supposed to be.”
He calls us by name.
He changes the direction of our life—not always our circumstances, at least not right away—but our trajectory.
And then He sends us back into the same world, the same city, the same relationships, the same job… as people who have encountered the risen Christ.

What Easter Means for Your Story
This is why Easter matters for the questions you’re carrying right now.

Easter is not just the announcement that Jesus rose from the dead back then.

Easter is the declaration that:

This is not the end of your story.

The grief you carry is not the last chapter.
The anxiety you can’t shake is not the last chapter.
The failure that haunts you is not the last chapter.
The diagnosis, the loneliness, the confusion, the “I thought I’d be further along by now”—none of that is the last chapter.
Because Jesus is alive, what feels final is not final.
What feels hopeless is not hopeless.
What feels beyond repair is not beyond redemption.

And maybe most importantly:

You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

God Loves You. Really.
I know that can sound like a cliché, especially on Easter Sunday. But sit with it for a moment:

God.
Loves.
You.

Not the cleaned-up future version of you.
Not the religiously polished version of you.
You—as you are today.

Jesus knows your name.
He knows your story.
He knows what you walked in with, what you cried about this week, what you’re afraid to say out loud.

And He moves toward you, not away from you.

He died for you.
He rose for you.

As a pastor, that’s not just a line I’m supposed to say. It is the only hope I have for my own life and the lives of the people I shepherd.

Because if Jesus is not alive, then honestly, all we have is tradition and sentiment. But if He is alive, then everything—everything—is different.

If You’ve Never Surrendered to Jesus
If you’ve never actually surrendered your life to Jesus—beyond just liking the idea of Him—Easter is a beautiful time to turn toward Him.

I won’t sugarcoat it: following Jesus is not a quick fix.

It doesn’t mean everything in your life will suddenly fall into place.
It doesn’t mean your questions will instantly disappear.
It does mean a new direction.
A new center.
A new way to live, not alone but with Him.

It means learning to bring your real life—your fears, sins, hopes, and hurts—to a real Savior again and again. And you don’t do it alone. You do it in community, with other imperfect people trying to follow Him too.

You don’t need perfect words.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You can turn to Him today—honestly, simply:

“Jesus, I need you.
I can’t fix myself.
I believe you died for me and rose again.
Forgive me.
Lead me.
Make me new.”

If that’s where you are, reach out to someone who follows Jesus. Talk to a pastor, a friend, someone in your church. Don’t carry it alone.

If You Already Belong to Him
If you already belong to Jesus, Easter is an invitation to bring again to Him what you’re carrying:

The thing that still hasn’t changed, even after years of prayer.
The ache that whispers, “This is not how it was supposed to be.”
The areas you’ve quietly taken back control and tried to manage without Him.
You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to be “strong.” You don’t have to act like you’ve figured it all out.

Bring it into the presence of the risen Christ.

Like Mary, you may not walk away with everything solved, but you can walk away having encountered Him again. And that changes how you carry what you carry.

A Moment of Stillness
One of the small but important things we try to do in our services is to create a moment of silence. Just a breath in the middle of the noise. A chance to ask:

“Lord, what am I carrying right now that feels like it’s not the way it’s supposed to be—and that I need to bring to you?”

You don’t need to wait for Sunday to do that.

You can pause even now, as you read this. Name that thing before Him. Picture yourself like Mary, standing at the tomb with tears in your eyes, grief in your chest, confusion in your mind—and then hear Him say your name.

He is not far. He is not indifferent. He is not done.

Communion and the Empty Tomb
Every time we come to the Lord’s table, we remember:

His body, given for us.
His blood, shed for the forgiveness of sins.
But we also remember:
The tomb is empty.

The One who said, “This is my body…this is my blood” is not a memory. He is not a concept. He is alive, and by His Spirit He meets us—even now.

We come to the table not because we’ve been good enough, but because He has been faithful enough.

“You who truly and earnestly repent of your sins…draw near with faith…”

That invitation is as real on a random weekday as it is on Easter Sunday.

As We Go
At the end of our Easter services, we said it again and again:

“He is risen.”
“He is risen indeed.”

Because He is alive:

What feels hopeless is not hopeless.
What feels final is not final.
What feels beyond repair is not beyond redemption.
You may walk back into the same circumstances this week. But you do not walk back as the same person—or with the same resources.

You go with the risen Christ.
You go with the One who calls you by name.
You go with the One who promises, “I am with you always.”

So whatever you are carrying today, you don’t have to carry it the same way you did yesterday.

Not because everything is instantly fixed.
But because Jesus is alive.

And that changes everything.

He is risen.
He is risen indeed.

Palm Sunday is one of those days in the church calendar that we can easily reduce to crafts, palm branches, and maybe a childhood memory of a flannelgraph Jesus sliding off a felt donkey.

For some of us, it’s memories of sword-fighting in fifth grade with palm branches. For others, it’s just “that Sunday before Easter” when we sing a couple of extra upbeat songs.

But the first Palm Sunday was far more than a cute story or a children’s object lesson. It was the trigger event that started the most important week in human history since creation.

And it all began with a donkey, a parade, and a weeping King.

The Week That Changed the World

When you read the Gospels, Jesus’ entire public ministry is covered in 61 chapters of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

But his final week?
That one week fills 29 chapters.

God clearly wants us to notice this week.

In that week:

Jesus turned over the tables in the temple.
He washed His disciples’ feet.
He shared the Last Supper and instituted communion.
He was betrayed, abandoned, falsely accused, convicted of blasphemy.
He was beaten nearly to death and nailed to a cross.
He died for the sins of the world.
And on the first day of the week, He rose from the dead, defeating sin and death.
Palm Sunday is the doorway into all of that. And it starts with a very strange command:

“Go get a donkey.”

1. Doing What Jesus Says (Even When It Doesn’t Make Sense)

Matthew 21:1–3 tells us:

As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives,
Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them,
“Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her.
Untie them and bring them to me.
If anyone says anything to you, say that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away.”

We aren’t told which two disciples He sent. And that might be the point. It could have been any two.

Can you imagine the conversation between them on the way?

“So… we’re just going to untie a stranger’s donkey and walk off with it?”
“Yep.”
“This sounds like stealing, right?”
“Kind of.”
“And our explanation is… ‘The Lord needs it’?”

Imagine trying that with someone’s car:

“Hey, why are you taking my car?”
“The Lord needs it.”

They didn’t understand everything—but they obeyed.

Matthew pauses the story to explain why the donkey mattered:

This took place to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet:
“Say to Daughter Zion,
‘See, your king comes to you,
gentle and riding on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’”
—Zechariah 9:9 (written ~500 years earlier)

God had said “donkey” centuries before. So “donkey” it was.

The disciples didn’t know they were helping fulfill ancient prophecy. John later admits:

At first his disciples did not understand all this.
Only after Jesus was glorified did they realize that these things had been written about him and that these things had been done to him.
—John 12:16

They understood after, not before.

That’s often how obedience works. Understanding is not a prerequisite to obedience.

Sometimes, Jesus simply says, “Go get the donkey.”
Our job is to go get it—even when:

It feels odd.
It doesn’t seem “important.”
We’re not sure how it’ll turn out.
In your life, it probably won’t be an actual donkey. But you already know some of the things He’s said:

“Do to others as you would have them do to you.”
“Forgive.”
“Give, and it will be given to you.”
The question isn’t whether we know these things. The question is whether we’re doing them.

Palm Sunday invites us to ask:
Will I do what Jesus says, even before I fully understand why?

2. Seeing What Jesus Sees

Palm Sunday is noisy in our imaginations:

People shouting “Hosanna!”
Palm branches waving like national flags.
Coats spread on the road like a first-century red carpet.
It feels like a victory parade. In our day, we might compare it to a championship parade after the Super Bowl—crowds everywhere, many of them not entirely sure what they’re celebrating, just caught up in the moment.

But something happened during that parade that most of the crowd didn’t see.

Matthew, Mark, and John don’t mention it.
Only Luke records it:

As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said,
“If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes.
The days will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment against you and encircle you and hem you in on every side.
They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls.
They will not leave one stone on another, because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.”
—Luke 19:41–44

While the crowd is cheering, Jesus is weeping.

And not polite, quiet tears. The Greek word used here describes gut-wrenching, sobbing grief—the kind of weeping people do at the grave of someone they deeply love.

Why is He weeping?

Not because of the cross that awaits Him.
Not because of His own suffering.

He weeps over Jerusalem—over people who:

Don’t know what would truly bring them peace.
Don’t recognize that God Himself is visiting them.
Are about 40 years away from a horrific destruction (which came in A.D. 70 when the Romans leveled the city and the temple).
They wanted freedom from Rome.
He came to bring freedom from sin.

They wanted lower taxes.
He came to give them peace with God.

They were shouting, “Hosanna!” which means “Save us!”—but they had no idea what kind of salvation they really needed.

That’s not just ancient Jerusalem. That’s our world today.

People around us are:

Hurting.
Angry.
Numb.
Searching (even if they don’t realize they’re searching).
Life isn’t working very well for a lot of people. And since they don’t know who to blame, they blame everyone.

It’s easier for us to get frustrated and ask, “What’s wrong with those people?” than it is to weep for them like Jesus did.

Palm Sunday asks us:

Will I ask Jesus to help me see what He sees?

To see the brokenness behind the behavior.
To see the fear behind the anger.
To see people not as “enemies” or “idiots,” but as precious souls who don’t recognize the time of God’s coming to them.
If we begin to see like Jesus, we won’t just join the parade.
We’ll also share His compassion.

3. Telling People Who Jesus Is

In Matthew 21:8–11, we read:

A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road,
while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.
The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted,
“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked,
“Who is this?”

The crowds answered,
“This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.”

That question is still echoing today:

“Who is this?”

A good teacher?
A religious figure?
A moral example?
A political revolutionary?
The crowds on Palm Sunday wanted a political Messiah, a national Savior, “the Son of David” in the sense of restoring Israel to its golden age.

They wanted someone to topple Rome.
He came to topple sin and death.

They expected to crown Him.
He knew they would soon crucify Him.

Yet in the middle of all that confusion, people still answered the question, however incomplete their answers were:

“This is Jesus…”

And that’s our role too.

Palm Sunday reminds us that:

Our world is still asking, “Who is this Jesus?”
Our neighbors still wonder what the big deal is about Easter.
Many still think it’s mainly about eggs, candy, and a cute family photo.
Some will come to church out of tradition, curiosity, or because someone invited them. Underneath that, whether they know it or not, they are asking:

“Who is this, really? And what does He have to do with my life?”

We get to answer:
He is the King who came humbly.
He is the Lamb who died sacrificially.
He is the Lord who rose victoriously.
He is the Savior who still hears the cry, “Hosanna—save us!”

Becoming the Donkey

Corrie ten Boom once wrote about that first Palm Sunday:

“When Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey,
and everyone was waving palm branches and throwing garments on the road and singing praises,
do you think for one moment it ever entered the head of that donkey that all that praise was for him?”

She continued:

“If I can be the donkey on which Jesus Christ rides in His glory,
I give Him all the praise and all the honor.”

That’s it, isn’t it?

The donkey’s job was simple: bring Jesus to the people.

That’s our job too.

If He could ordain that a donkey would be waiting in the next village, He certainly knows what’s down the road for you and me:

He knows the outcome of the medical test you’re worried about.
He knows the job situation you’re unsure of.
He knows the family tension that keeps you up at night.
Understanding that Jesus knows all things gives us confidence to follow His directions, even when we don’t see the whole picture.

So What About You—This Palm Sunday?

I don’t think it’s an accident when you find yourself in church on Palm Sunday—or even reading a blog like this.

I believe God sets appointments with us.

So let me put a few questions before you, the same ones I’m asking myself:

Will you do what Jesus says?
Not just what you understand, or agree with, or find convenient—but what He actually says.
Even if it feels as strange as “Go get a donkey”?

Will you ask Him to help you see what He sees?
To break your heart for the things that break His—especially for people who are far from Him and don’t know it?

Will you tell others who Jesus is?
Not with pressure or arrogance, but with humility and clarity:
“This is Jesus…”

As we move into Holy Week and prepare for Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday, consider praying something like this:

“Lord, help me to obey what You’ve already told me.
Help me see people the way You see them.
And give me the courage and love to tell others who You really are.”

If all we remember from Palm Sunday is “Jesus and the donkey,” we’ve missed the heart of it.

But if we learn to obey like those two unnamed disciples,
to weep and care like Jesus,
and to carry Him into our world like that humble donkey,
then Palm Sunday becomes more than a story.

It becomes a pattern for how we live.

Hosanna.
Save us now, Lord—and then send us out, for Your glory.

If you’re anything like me, your days run on a kind of autopilot rhythm.

You wake up at a certain time.  
Maybe you make coffee a very particular way (I may or may not have an embarrassingly detailed brew routine…).  
You head to work or school, move through your meetings or classes, come home, navigate dinner, family, bedtime, and then you do it again the next day.

We live by rhythms — morning routines, weekly schedules, school calendars, sports seasons, even the way we spend our evenings.

The question isn’t, “Do I have rhythms?”  
The question is, “What are my rhythms *forming* in me?”

Because our rhythms are never neutral. They are shaping us — our desires, our priorities, our attention, our loves.

And here’s where Matthew, in just three short verses (Matthew 4:23–25), quietly does something brilliant: he pulls back the curtain on the *rhythm* of Jesus’ ministry.

If someone asked you, “What did Jesus actually *do* every day?” how would you answer?

He taught?  
He healed?  
He preached?

Matthew says: yes. All of that. But let me show you the *pattern*.

> “Jesus went throughout all Galilee, **teaching** in their synagogues and **proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom** and **healing** every disease and every affliction among the people.”  
> — Matthew 4:23

From a pastor’s perspective, this passage feels like Matthew pressing pause and saying, “Before we go any further, *notice this.* This is the daily rhythm of Jesus.”

Jesus:
1. **Teaches truth**  
2. **Announces good news**  
3. **Brings healing**

That’s the pattern. That’s the heartbeat of his ministry. And if we follow him, that rhythm is meant to shape us too.

---

## 1. Jesus Teaches Truth: Letting God Define God

Matthew tells us Jesus went from synagogue to synagogue, *teaching*.

In the first century, the synagogue was the center of spiritual life. It was where Scripture was read, explained, and applied. Jesus steps right into that space and begins teaching — but not like anyone they’d heard before.

He isn’t adding complexity.  
He’s cutting through it.

He’s revealing what God is really like.

As a pastor, I see this tension all the time — not just in others, but in myself. We all carry assumptions about God:

- “God basically agrees with my politics.”
- “God wants for my life exactly what I want.”
- “God is distant and mostly disappointed.”
- “God is safe and predictable and never really interferes.”

If we’re not careful, we start shaping *God* into *our* image — someone who affirms what we already think, want, and prefer.

But Jesus’ teaching does the opposite. It disrupts that.

He shows us:
- A God who is **holy** *and* **compassionate**
- **Just** *and* **merciful**
- Who moves **toward** sinners, not away from them

We don’t come to Jesus to get confirmation that we were right all along.  
We come to be changed.

That means discipleship always involves truth — a growing, sometimes uncomfortable, always beautiful understanding of who God is and what He’s like.

We don’t define Him.  
He reveals Himself.

And the primary way He does that?  
Through His Word, illuminated by His Spirit.

As a pastor, this is why I care so deeply about you actually *hearing* Scripture and learning to live in it — not just on Sundays, but in the rhythms of your week. Jesus is still teaching. The question is whether we’re letting His truth actually form us.

---

## 2. Jesus Announces Good News: Not Advice, Not a System

Matthew doesn’t only say Jesus was *teaching*.

He says Jesus was:

> “proclaiming the **good news** of the kingdom” (4:23)

That word “proclaiming” or “announcing” really matters. Announcements are about something that’s *happened*.

I never sat in a math class and had my teacher say, “I have an announcement: today… algebra!” That’s *teaching*.

But:

- “We’re engaged!”
- “We’re expecting a child.”
- “I got the job.”
- “The test results came back… and they’re clear.”

Those are *announcements* — declarations that reality has changed.

Jesus is not walking around Galilee saying, “Here are seven tips for a better life,” or “Here’s a new religious system for you to try out.”

He is announcing **news**:

> The kingdom of God is here.  
> God has come near.  
> Emmanuel — God with us.

That means:
- You are **not alone** in what you’re walking through.
- You are **not unseen**.
- You are **not forgotten**.
- You are **beloved**.

As a pastor, I wish I could sit across from every person reading this and say that sentence slowly:

**You are beloved of God.**

Not because you’ve earned it.  
Not because you’ve figured life out.  
But because this is the announcement Jesus brings: God has moved *toward* you in love.

Christianity, at its core, is not first:
- a moral code,
- a philosophy,
- or a set of spiritual techniques.

It is **good news** about what **God has done** in Christ to restore what sin has broken.

We don’t start by trying harder.  
We start by responding to what God has already started.

---

## 3. Jesus Brings Healing: The Kingdom Made Visible

If Jesus had only *taught* and *announced*, we might still be tempted to keep this all in the realm of theory.

But Matthew won’t let us.

> “They brought him all the sick, those afflicted with various diseases and pains, those oppressed by demons, those having seizures, and paralytics, and **he healed them**.”  
> — Matthew 4:24

“Whatever their sickness… He healed them.”

This is not random. It isn’t Jesus doing party tricks to get a following. This is what it looks like when God’s kingdom collides with our broken reality.

Where:
- bodies are broken, He brings healing  
- minds are tormented, He brings peace  
- lives are crushed under the weight of suffering, He brings relief and restoration  

This is the heart of Jesus on display.

He doesn’t stand at a distance and explain suffering.  
He *moves toward* it.

He moves toward *them*.  
He moves toward *you*.

As a pastor, I need this to correct my own defaults. It’s so easy to turn Jesus into mostly a teacher of ideas and principles. But Matthew insists: He is also the Healer. The Restorer. The One who carries real power into real pain.

Does He always heal exactly as we ask, and when we ask? No. Scripture and experience tell us that sometimes He heals immediately, sometimes gradually, sometimes ultimately in His presence.

But the point here is: healing *is* part of His kingdom. It’s not foreign to His character. He is not indifferent to brokenness. He steps right into it.

---

## Crowds vs. Disciples: Near Jesus vs. Following Jesus

When Jesus lives in this rhythm — teaching truth, announcing good news, bringing healing — word spreads. Fast.

> “And great crowds followed him…” (4:25)

From everywhere. Every direction. People come.

Some are desperate.  
Some are curious.  
Some are hopeful.  
Some are skeptical.

As a pastor, this is where I feel both encouraged and sobered.

Encouraged, because when people truly encounter the real Jesus — His truth, His good news, His compassion — they do come. They’re drawn.

Sobered, because the Gospels make something else clear:  
Not everyone in the crowd becomes a disciple.

It is possible to:
- be around Jesus,
- listen to His words,
- appreciate His teaching,
- admire His kindness,
- even participate in religious activity around Him,

and *never actually surrender* to Him.

It is possible to confuse **proximity** with **discipleship**.

To be “near” Him, but still cling tightly to control over your life.  
To keep your habits, your secret sins, your deepest fears and idols off-limits.  
To enjoy the spiritual environment without ever inviting Him to actually rearrange your heart.

From a pastor’s perspective, this is one of my greatest concerns — and one of the reasons I preached this passage the way I did:

Not to guilt anyone, but to ask an honest question:

> **Am I following Jesus, or have I settled for just staying near Him?**

You can:
- attend church regularly,
- sing the songs,
- know the answers,
- nod along with the sermons,

and still hold Jesus at arm’s length when it comes to your actual decisions, your relationships, your forgiveness, your finances, your sexuality, your future.

I’m not talking about perfection. None of us are there.  
I’m talking about *surrender*.

---

## So What Does Following Look Like?

Here’s the good news: following Jesus doesn’t begin with you having everything figured out.

It doesn’t start with:
- cleaning yourself up,
- fixing all your habits,
- untangling every doubt.

It starts with a **yes**.

A real, honest, often trembling yes:

- Yes, Jesus, I trust You more than I trust myself.
- Yes, I will let You define who God is and who I am.
- Yes, I will let Your Word confront and reshape my assumptions.
- Yes, I will bring my pain, my sin, my past, my confusion to You instead of hiding it.
- Yes, I’m done settling for just being “around” You. I want to follow You.

From there, His rhythm becomes ours:

- We let His **truth** confront and form us.  
- We live in and share His **good news**, not just good advice.  
- We participate in His **healing work** — in prayer, in presence, in compassion extended to others.

Not perfectly.  
But honestly.

---

## Where Are You in the Crowd?

If you’ve read this far, you’re somewhere in that Galilean crowd Matthew described.

Maybe you’re:
- Hungry and hurting, just hoping Jesus *might* actually help.  
- Curious, still figuring out what you believe.  
- Long-time churchgoing, but quietly aware you’ve mostly stayed near Him, not truly surrendered.  
- Deeply committed, but in need of fresh encouragement and realignment to His rhythm.

Wherever you are, hear this:

The same Jesus who:
- taught in synagogues,
- announced the good news,
- and healed every kind of brokenness brought to Him,

is the Jesus who is present with you **right now**.

He has already moved toward you.  
He’s not asking you to clean up before you come.

He is inviting you:
- out of mere proximity,
- out of spectatorship,
- and into a life of actual followership.

Not into a crowd.  
Into relationship.

Into a daily, ordinary-life rhythm of:
- listening to His voice,  
- trusting His good news,  
- and letting His healing and compassion flow *to you* and *through you*.

From a pastor’s heart, my prayer for you is simple:

That you would not settle for just being near Him.

That you would follow.

And that in following, you would discover — in the very real details of your week — that His truth is good, His news is better than you imagined, and His healing reaches farther than you thought possible.

 
(A Pastor’s Reflections on Matthew 4:18–22)

Every week I climb into a semi truck and drive Washington’s highways. I’ve done it for over 30 years. It’s big, it’s loud, and there are moments when it’s genuinely scary—but it’s familiar. I know what I’m doing.

Stepping onto the platform on Sunday mornings is the opposite.

My hands don’t smell like diesel, but my heart pounds a little harder. I don’t fear public speaking. What I fear is getting in God’s way. I feel the weight of knowing that, in some mysterious way, God wants to use my very ordinary words and very ordinary life to do something in your very real one.

And most weeks, if I’m honest, I don’t feel ready.

Which is exactly why Matthew 4:18–22 has gripped me recently.

> “While walking by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon (who is called Peter) and Andrew his brother… And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.’ Immediately they left their nets and followed him…  
> Immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.”  
> (Matthew 4:18–22, ESV)

When Jesus Walks Into an Ordinary Workday

We tend to imagine “spiritual moments” happening in obviously spiritual places: church, retreats, prayer nights, worship services.

But Peter and Andrew weren’t on a retreat.  
James and John weren’t in a prayer meeting.

They were at work.  
Smelling like fish.  
Doing what they did every single day.

No one had advertised an opening: “Disciple of Messiah – Apply Within.”  
They weren’t seeking him. Jesus sought them.

As a pastor, I need to remember this just as much as anyone else: most of what God wants to do in us will happen in the middle of ordinary life, not just in “spiritual environments.”

- In the office, mid-email.  
- In the kitchen, making lunch.  
- In the truck, on the highway.  
- In the classroom, or the shop, or the fields.

Jesus walks into ordinary Tuesdays and says, “Follow me.”

Jesus Chooses Before We’re “Qualified”

In the first century, rabbis didn’t usually recruit. Students applied. Only the best of the best were accepted to follow a rabbi—like a competitive apprenticeship program.

These fishermen had already washed out of that track. They were in the family business. Which, in that culture, almost certainly meant, “You’re good kids, but you’re not rabbi material.”

And yet Jesus walks up to *them*.

He doesn’t say:

- “Show me your qualifications.”  
- “Fix your life, then come back.”  
- “Clean up your theology first.”  

He simply says, “Follow me.”

This is incredibly important:  
Discipleship does *not* begin with us proving ourselves. It begins with Jesus choosing and inviting.

As a pastor, I see so many people stalled right here. They think:

- “Once I beat this sin habit…”  
- “Once I learn more Bible…”  
- “Once I’m more consistent…”  

…*then* I’ll really follow Jesus.

But Jesus didn’t wait for Peter to finish cussing, or for James and John to overcome their temper and pride. He called them mid-process. And he does the same with us.

 Immediately… and Costly

Twice Matthew uses the same word:

> “Immediately they left their nets…”  
> “Immediately they left the boat and their father…”

He wants us to see the urgency of their response.

That doesn’t mean they were reckless or irresponsible. It means Jesus’ call brought clarity. Not clarity about the future, but clarity about *who* was now at the center of their future.

They left:

- Nets (their income)  
- Boats (their business)  
- Father (their expectations and security)  

Not because those things were bad, but because Jesus now took priority over all of them.

We need to be clear on this:  
Following Jesus is free, but it is not cheap.

Grace is a gift. You cannot earn it.  
But grace always leads to surrender. It rearranges priorities.

For some, that will mean:

- Changing how you work, not necessarily *where* you work.  
- Reordering your schedule.  
- Letting go of a habit or relationship you know is pulling you away from Christ.  
- Saying “yes” to something you’ve been resisting because it’s uncomfortable.

Following Jesus doesn’t always mean leaving your job.  
But it *always* means reordering your life.

“Follow Me, and I Will Make You…”

This is the line that undoes me as a pastor:

> “Follow me, and **I will make you** fishers of men.”

Notice the order:

- He does *not* say, “Make yourself into something, then follow me.”  
- He does *not* say, “Prove you’re ready, then I’ll use you.”  
- He says, “Follow me, and I will make you…”

Discipleship begins with response, not readiness.

My temptation—maybe yours too—is to treat discipleship like spiritual self-improvement:

- read more  
- pray harder  
- serve more  
- try better  
- clean up faster  

But Jesus frames it differently. Discipleship is not primarily about self-improvement. It’s about *formation through relationship*.

They became like Jesus by:

- walking with him  
- watching him  
- listening to him  
- obeying him (imperfectly, often slowly)

No 12-week course. No quick certificate. No instant maturity.

Just time with Jesus, over time.

### Slow Growth, Real Formation

Peter didn’t become “Peter” overnight.  
John didn’t become “the apostle of love” in a weekend.

Read the Gospels and you’ll find:

- misunderstandings  
- bad questions  
- pride  
- fear  
- jealousy  

If they’d been part of our church, we’d have been tempted to say, “I don’t think they’re ready to lead anything yet.”

And Jesus kept walking with them.

As a pastor, I cling to that. Because I see my own slowness, my own blind spots, my own failures. And if I’m watching your life even a little closely, I see yours too. We’re all in process.

Jesus is not surprised by slow growth.  
He is committed to faithful formation.

Which is why we keep inviting each other into discipleship pathways—real relationships where we walk with Jesus together, not as a program to finish, but as a life to live.

 An “I See in You” Conversation From Jesus

One of the first times I served in church leadership, I was 26, taking over as treasurer from a man who had done it longer than I’d been alive. I was intimidated, convinced someone would ask a question that exposed how much I didn’t know.

I didn’t feel ready. Others saw something in me I didn’t see. They had an “I see in you…” conversation with me—long before I imagined ever standing in a pulpit.

Matthew 4 is Jesus having an “I see in you” conversation with fishermen.

- Peter just sees nets and fish. Jesus sees a preacher at Pentecost.  
- John just sees a boat and his dad. Jesus sees a man who will one day write, “For God so loved the world…”  

Jesus sees what we can become long before we do.

He sees you fully—what you show people and what you never say out loud.  
Your history. Your sin. Your fear. Your desire to change. Your reluctance.  

And he still says, “Follow me. I will make you.”

Not, “Make yourself.”  
Not, “Prove yourself.”  
“Follow me, and I will make you.”

So What Is Your Next Step?

The real question isn’t, “Am I ready?”

The real question is, “What is my *next* step of following Jesus?”

Not the whole journey. Just the next step.

For you, that might look like:

- Finally surrendering your life to Jesus for the first time.  
- Coming back after drifting or running.  
- Letting go of a habit you know is sin but you’ve been excusing.  
- Stepping into community instead of following Jesus alone.  
- Serving in a way that scares you a bit.  
- Opening your Bible daily and actually listening.  
- Having a hard conversation in obedience to him.

You may not feel ready.  
You may not know how it will turn out.  
You almost certainly will not have all the answers.

But you *do* know who is inviting you.

The same Jesus who walked along the Sea of Galilee and called fishermen is still walking into ordinary Tuesdays and calling people like you and me.

And his invitation is the same:

“Follow me… and I will make you.”

Not when you’ve cleaned up.  
Not when you’ve arrived.  
Now.

So from one ordinary person to another, from a pastor who often feels unready himself:

Don’t wait until you feel qualified.

Ask him, honestly:

“Jesus, what is my next step of following you?”

And when he brings something to mind, don’t overcomplicate it.

Take it.

Immediately.

This past Sunday I had the privilege of walking our church family through Matthew 4:12–17, a short but absolutely pivotal passage in the Gospel of Matthew. It marks the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry, and in many ways, it’s the moment the alarm clock goes off for the world.

I opened with a story from my college days, when the fire alarm went off in my dorm at two or three in the morning. You know that jarring, shrill sound you simply can’t ignore? Everyone shot out of bed, stumbled outside, and started looking for smoke and flames. Thankfully it turned out to be a false alarm. But even though there was no fire, no one treated the alarm like a joke. When the alarm sounds, you move.

In Matthew 4, Jesus sounds an alarm that is far more significant—and it absolutely demands a response.

Where Jesus Chose to Begin

Matthew tells us:

“Now when Jesus heard that John had been taken into custody, He withdrew into Galilee; and leaving Nazareth, He came and settled in Capernaum, which is by the sea, in the region of Zebulun and Naphtali. This was to fulfill what was spoken through Isaiah the prophet:

‘The land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali,
By the way of the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—
The people who were sitting in darkness saw a great light,
And those who were sitting in the land and shadow of death,
Upon them a light dawned.’

From that time Jesus began to preach and say, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.’” (Matthew 4:12–17)

Before Matthew talks about what Jesus said, he tells us where Jesus chose to base His ministry: Capernaum, in Galilee.

If you look at a map of Israel in Jesus’ time, you’ll see Galilee in the north and Jerusalem way down in the south. Jerusalem was the religious, cultural, and political heart of Judaism. It was where the temple stood, where sacrifices were made, where festivals were celebrated, and where the most respected religious teachers lived and worked.

Galilee, on the other hand, was out on the edge. It was surrounded by non-Jewish territories and cut through by trade routes. It was ethnically and culturally mixed—so much so that it had a nickname: “Galilee of the Gentiles.”

In other words, if Jerusalem was the polished, “proper” religious center, Galilee was… not that.

Many in Jerusalem looked at Galilee as compromised, less pure, less serious, less “right.” Still Jewish, yes—but not like us.

And that’s exactly where Jesus chose to plant Himself.

He did not head straight for the temple. He didn’t build His ministry around the powerful, the influential, the respected. Instead, He settled in the region that many viewed as dark, compromised, and second-rate.

In doing this, Jesus made a statement: the light of God’s kingdom does not first shine in the brightest, most polished places. It shines in the dark ones.

Fulfillment, Not a New Story

Matthew points out—again—that this is not random. For the seventh time in just four chapters, he says something like, “This happened to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet.”

He quotes Isaiah 9:

“Galilee of the Gentiles—
The people who were sitting in darkness saw a great light…”

Jesus’ movements are not detached from the Old Testament story. They are the continuation and fulfillment of it.

This is important for us. Our faith isn’t a New Testament idea stapled onto the back of an old religious book. The gospel is the climax of one continuous story God has been writing from the beginning. Matthew wants us to see: the God who spoke through Isaiah is the God who steps into Galilee in the person of Jesus.

And where does He step?

Into “Galilee of the Gentiles.” Into the region many would have written off. Into the place that was viewed as spiritually dim and culturally compromised.

The light goes there first.

The Fire Alarm Message: “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven Is at Hand”

Once Matthew has located us in Galilee, he finally gives us Jesus’ first recorded message:

“From that time Jesus began to preach and say, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.’”

That’s the alarm.

Those words would have landed with tremendous force on first-century Jewish ears. For generations, Israel had lived under foreign powers—Babylonian, Persian, Greek, and now Roman. They longed for the day God would come as King and set the world right: overthrow evil, restore justice, bring peace and healing.

That day had a name: the “kingdom of God” or, in Matthew’s Jewish way of speaking, the “kingdom of heaven.” Not “heaven” as in “the place you go when you die,” but “the rule and reign of God breaking in.”

When Jesus said, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand,” He was saying:

The moment you’ve been waiting for is here.
God is stepping in as King.
He is bringing His reign into human history in a new and decisive way.

That is fire-alarm language.

It means the status quo is over. You can’t hear that and just roll over and go back to sleep.

But notice how Jesus begins the sentence:

“Repent…”

Not, “Try harder.”
Not, “Be a better person.”
Not, “Fix yourself up first.”

Repent.

What Repentance Really Is (and Isn’t)

“Repent” is one of those church words we can say for years without really unpacking.

Many of us hear “repent” and think, “feel bad about your sin.” Maybe even “feel really bad”—like guilt and shame turned up to eleven.

But biblically, repentance is far more than a feeling.

The Greek word Matthew uses—metanoeo—literally means “to change your mind.” Not just a small opinion shift, but a deep, whole-person change of direction. A reorientation of how you see God, yourself, and the world—and then actually living differently because of it.

New Testament scholar N.T. Wright puts it this way:

“They have thought it means feeling bad about yourself. It doesn’t. It means change direction, turn around and go the other way and stop what you’re doing and do the opposite instead. How you feel about it isn’t the really important thing. It’s what you do that matters.”

Repentance is not just turning from something; it is turning to Someone.

It’s turning from sin, self-rule, and darkness, and turning to Jesus as King.

It’s leaving one kingdom—one way of being human—and stepping into another.

And because the “kingdom of heaven is at hand,” repentance is urgent. If the King Himself is standing in front of you, continuing life as usual is no longer a real option.

A Kingdom That Doesn’t Play by Our Rules

Part of what makes this so challenging is that Jesus’ kingdom does not operate the way ours does.

Our world runs on payback. You hit me, I hit you harder. You attack me with words, I fire back with something sharper. You hurt me, I hold on to bitterness and make sure you feel it.

We “fight fire with fire” and are surprised that we just end up with… more fire.

That’s the cycle of darkness. It’s the way of the kingdoms of this world.

Jesus steps into Galilee and announces a different kind of kingdom—one that breaks that cycle instead of perpetuating it. As we’ll see even more clearly in the Sermon on the Mount, this kingdom is built on:

Repentance and forgiveness
Healing and restoration
Grace and mercy
Love for enemies
Humility instead of self-promotion
Sacrificial love instead of retaliation
From the world’s perspective, that all looks weak or foolish. But from the perspective of Jesus’ kingdom, it’s reality. It’s sanity. It’s life in the light.

When Jesus calls us to repent because His kingdom is at hand, He’s not just asking us to clean up the rough edges of our lives. He’s inviting us to step out of one system—the dark, self-protective, revenge-soaked way of life—and into another.

Repentance as a Way of Life

One thing I stressed Sunday, and I want to stress again here: repentance is not a one-time box you check when you first come to Jesus.

Repentance is a posture. It’s an ongoing way of walking with God.

We are all, as that old hymn says, “prone to wander.” We drift. We get tired, stressed, hurt, distracted. Old habits resurface. Old lies start sounding true again.

Sometimes we find ourselves tolerating sin we know is wrong—making peace with attitudes or behaviors that slowly pull us away from God. Other times, our repentance gets stuck at the level of words and rituals, while our hearts stay mostly unchanged.

This has been a problem for God’s people for a long time. In the Old Testament, Israel would sometimes “repent” nationally—fasting, weeping, going through the motions—while their hearts and daily practices stayed the same. The prophets called them out for this. God wasn’t just after public displays of sorrow; He wanted hearts and lives realigned with His ways.

That’s the kind of repentance Jesus calls us to still.

Not perfection. Not sinless performance.

Reorientation.

Turning our whole selves—heart, mind, body, will—toward God’s rule and away from the darkness.

Where Might God Be Calling You to Turn?

During the service, we sat quietly and asked the Holy Spirit a simple question:

“Lord, is there anywhere in my life you’re calling me to turn toward You today?
What do I need to repent of today?”

I’m not the Holy Spirit, but as a pastor I see some common places where repentance becomes necessary for many of us:

Control – You sense that your need to control people, outcomes, or your own image is actually pulling you away from trusting God. Repentance looks like opening your hands and surrendering outcomes to Him.

Tolerated sin – There may be something you’ve decided to live with—an unseen habit, a secret pattern, a way of speaking or reacting—that you know is wrong, but you’ve given it a pass. Repentance looks like naming it before God, bringing it into the light, and taking concrete steps to turn from it.

Relationships – Maybe there is a relationship that needs repairing. Repentance might mean offering forgiveness where you’ve been withholding it, or humbling yourself to ask for forgiveness where you’ve caused harm.

Spiritual apathy – Perhaps you’ve been content with checking the bare-minimum religious boxes—showing up on Sundays, maybe praying when you remember—but keeping God at arm’s length from the rest of your life. Repentance might look like choosing to really follow: opening Scripture consistently, stepping into community, serving, actually doing what Jesus says.

Whatever the specifics, repentance always begins in the same place: humility and honesty before God.

“Lord, You are my King. I want my life to align with Your kingdom. Show me where I’m out of step, and give me the grace to turn back to You.”

Met by Grace, Not Condemnation

One of the most important things I wanted our church to hear—and I want you to hear—is this:

When you turn from darkness and turn toward Jesus, you are met with grace.

The alarm Jesus sounds is urgent, yes. It is serious. But it is not the shriek of a harsh judge waiting to crush you. It is the loving, insistent call of a King who has come to rescue.

He does not meet true repentance with rejection. He meets it with:

Forgiveness
Cleansing
Healing
Restoration
A fresh start
He has something far better for you than the sin that entangles you and the darkness that drains you.

If, as you read this, the Lord is bringing something to mind—a habit, a relationship, an attitude, a corner of your life—don’t push it away. That’s not condemnation; that’s invitation.

The kingdom of heaven is at hand.
The King is present and at work.

You don’t have to stay where you are.

Walking as Citizens of His Kingdom

As you go about your week—in your home, your workplace, your school, your neighborhood—remember this:

If you belong to Jesus, you are already a citizen of His kingdom. You are learning, day by day, to live under His good rule.

And that learning process will always include repentance: a thousand small (and sometimes big) turnings from darkness to light, from self-rule to Christ’s rule, from the old way of life to the new.

My prayer for you echoes Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 13:14:

“May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ,
and the love of God,
and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit
be with you all.”

May His grace meet you wherever you need to turn.
May His love assure you that you are not turned away.
May His Spirit empower you to walk as a citizen of His kingdom, in the light of Christ.

And if the Lord is stirring something specific in you and you need someone to pray with you or walk alongside you, please reach out. Repentance is deeply personal, but it was never meant to be solitary. We are the church; we help each other turn toward the King.

Spring in the Wilderness: Why Feeling “Off” Doesn’t Mean God Is Gone
Reflections from the Pastor’s Chair

This past weekend, my wife Ruth and I slipped away for a short retreat.

Nothing dramatic, nothing exotic—just a needed pause.

The last season has been a bit heavy and complicated, and we needed space to reconnect, to breathe, to remember who we are and whose we are.

You probably know that feeling.

You get a weekend away where the pace slows down.

You finally go on that retreat.

You have a meaningful moment in worship or a deep conversation in your discipleship group.

For a brief window, things feel clear.

You feel grounded, hopeful, even light.

And then Monday arrives.

The trip home ends.

The inbox fills.

The diagnosis comes.

Your mom is suddenly in the hospital.

A friend calls with bad news.

Or maybe it’s nothing dramatic at all—the ordinary just returns with all of its weight.

And the question comes:

What happened?

Where did that peace go?

Did something shift between me and God?

Did I lose something?

As I’ve been sitting with Matthew 4—the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness—I’m becoming more convinced that we misread these moments in our lives.

We tend to see them as proof that something has gone wrong.

Scripture seems to tell a different story.

From the Waters to the Wilderness

In Matthew 3, Jesus is baptized.
He comes up out of the water, and the heavens open.

The Spirit descends like a dove and the Father declares:

“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

It’s hard to imagine a higher moment: identity, love, affirmation, clarity.

Then Matthew 4 begins:

“Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted there by the devil.”

Same Spirit.

New setting.

No sin in between.

No failure.

No drifting.

No rebellion.

The same Spirit who descended at Jesus’ baptism is the One who leads Him into the wilderness.

That matters.

Because it tells us this:

Being loved by God does not mean being spared from difficulty.

The wilderness is not evidence of God’s absence.

Sometimes, it’s a place of formation.

We tend to assume:

If life is calm and clear: “God must be pleased with me.”
If life is confusing or hard: “Something must be wrong—either with me or with God.”
But Jesus moves from the waters of affirmation to the wilderness of temptation, and nothing has gone off the rails.

He has not lost the Father’s love.

He has not lost His identity.

He is led.

Not away from love.

Deeper into it.

The Enemy Starts Where God Just Spoke

There’s another detail that stands out every time I read this passage:
Every temptation from the devil starts the same way:

“If you are the Son of God…”

God has just declared from heaven, “This is my beloved Son.”

The very next voice Jesus hears says, “If you really are…”

The enemy doesn’t start with behavior.

He starts with identity.

Because if identity becomes shaky, obedience becomes negotiable.

I see this as a pastor all the time—and honestly, I see it in myself.

Temptation often doesn’t sound like:
“Do something wildly sinful right now.”

It sounds more like:

“Prove that you matter.”
“Protect yourself—no one else will.”
“You’re on your own. Fix this.”
“You deserve this.”
It’s a whisper that questions our belovedness.

And once that gets fuzzy, we begin to grasp for control, for comfort, for shortcuts.

Three Familiar Shortcuts

Jesus faces three temptations in the wilderness, and every one of them is a shortcut—around trust, around suffering, around the slow path of obedience.

They’re not just His temptations.

They’re ours.

1. Stones to Bread: Meeting Legitimate Needs in Illegitimate Ways
Jesus is physically exhausted.

Forty days of fasting.

The devil says:

“If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become loaves of bread.”

On the surface, this seems reasonable.

He’s hungry.

He has power.

Why not use it?

This is the temptation to meet a legitimate need in an illegitimate way—to step out of dependence and into self-reliance.

Not always through dramatic sin, but through quiet control:

“I’ll handle this.”
“I’ll make this happen.”
“I’ll secure my own comfort, my own future.”

We do this with money, relationships, work, even ministry.

When we start to believe that what sustains us is our ability to provide, organize, manage, or produce, our core identity shifts.

Instead of “beloved,” we become “capable.”

Instead of resting, we begin grasping.

Jesus replies:

“People do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

Needs aren’t the problem.
Hunger isn’t the problem.
Food isn’t the problem.

The question is:

What do I believe truly sustains me?

We are not meant to live on yesterday’s retreat, or last week’s worship service, or our own strengths and skills.

We live on daily dependence.

On the word and presence of God.

Bread fills for a moment.

The word of God forms us for a lifetime.

2. Jump from the Temple: Performing Faith Instead of Living It
Next, the enemy takes Jesus to the highest point of the temple:

“If you are the Son of God, jump off. For the Scriptures say…”

Now the enemy is quoting Scripture.

This temptation sounds spiritual.

It sounds bold.

“Make God’s protection visible. Make it obvious. Make it impressive.”

This is the temptation to turn trust into a performance.

To force God’s hand.

To demand that faith be dramatic, seen, validated.

We do versions of this too:

“God, if you’re really here, show me.”
“If this is really your will, open this door exactly this way.”
“If you really love me, remove this struggle.”
Most of the time, those prayers don’t come from rebellion; they come from fear.

But they slide us from trusting God to testing God.

From resting to controlling, in religious clothing.

Jesus refuses:

“You must not test the Lord your God.”

Because real trust doesn’t demand a spectacle.

It walks.

It rests.

It obeys—often quietly, without fireworks.

So much of discipleship is not dramatic.

It’s choosing patience again.

Opening the Scriptures again.

Praying again.

Forgiving again.

Serving again.

Not leaping from temples.

Just taking the next faithful step.

And this matters deeply:
Jesus does not need to manufacture a moment to confirm His identity.

The Father has already spoken.

And neither do we.

3. The Kingdoms of the World: Influence Without Formation
The third temptation is the most direct.

The enemy shows Jesus all the kingdoms of the world and their glory:

“I will give it all to you… if you will kneel down and worship me.”

In other words:

“You can have the outcome without the path.
Power without suffering.
Glory without the cross.”

This is the temptation to grasp influence without formation, impact without surrender, results without obedience.

It sounds like:

“There has to be an easier way to get what I want.”
“Surely I can have control and still call it faith.”
“I’ll bow just a little, compromise just a bit, to get to the ‘good’ result faster.”

Jesus knows what’s being offered: a real shortcut.

Authority and glory—just without the Father’s way.

He answers:

“Get out of here, Satan. For the Scriptures say,
‘You must worship the Lord your God and serve only him.’”

Because worship is not just what we sing on Sunday.

Worship is whatever shapes our direction.

Whatever we bow to—even internally—begins to steer our life.

When worship is misplaced, our lives drift toward control.

When worship is rightly placed, our lives move toward surrender.

And that runs straight against the grain of our culture.

We’re discipled every day by messages that say: faster, bigger, more visible, more control.

But Jesus chooses faithfulness over immediacy.

Trust over control.

Surrender over shortcuts.

The Wilderness Reveals, It Doesn’t Define

After the temptations, Matthew writes:

“Then the devil went away, and angels came and took care of Jesus.”

The wilderness does not last forever.

And it is rarely wasted.

In Jesus’ case, the wilderness doesn’t create His identity.

It simply reveals it.

Nothing new is added to Him there.

Nothing is taken away.

What is already true becomes visible:

He trusts the Father.
He lives from the Word.
He refuses shortcuts.
For us, it’s a bit different.

Our wilderness seasons do shape us.

Not to earn God’s love, but to deepen our roots in it.

Hard seasons can strip away the illusion that we’re in control.

They can reveal what we’ve been relying on.

They can strengthen what is real.

But hear this carefully:

Temptation and hardship are not signs that God has abandoned you.

They are not automatic indicators that you’ve failed.

Sometimes, they are places where God is quietly, patiently, forming you.

Not “Try Harder,” but “Trust Deeper”

It’s easy to read this story and walk away with a moral:
“Be stronger. Memorize more Scripture. Resist like Jesus.”

And yes—Scripture matters. Resistance matters.

But Matthew is not just offering a model.

He’s presenting a Savior.

Jesus stands firm in the wilderness where Israel failed.

Where humanity failed.

Where I fail.

Where you fail.

He does this not only as an example to copy, but as the One who now stands in our place and with us.

That means my identity as a disciple is not anchored in how perfectly I handle my wilderness, but in how faithfully He handled His.

So this is not fundamentally a call to try harder.

It’s an invitation to trust deeper.

To return—again and again—to the One who overcame temptation without sin and now walks with us in our own.

What This Might Look Like Today

In real life, outside the sermon and the sanctuary, this will often look quite ordinary.

It might look like:

Returning to Scripture when your emotions are loud and confusing.
Choosing patience when you really want to grab control.
Letting your faith shape your politics and worldview, instead of the other way around.
Refusing to perform spirituality for others, and instead choosing a quiet, honest walk with God.
Trusting God’s timing, even when you could force a quicker outcome.
Most discipleship happens in these small, undramatic moments.

In the space between the retreat and the next crisis.

Between Sunday and Monday.

Between the waters and the wilderness.

Maybe the crucial question is not, “How do I defeat every temptation I face?”

Maybe it’s:

“Where is God inviting me to trust Him today, instead of proving myself?”

You Begin as Beloved

Before Jesus ever preaches a sermon, calls a disciple, or performs a miracle, the Father says:

“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

That’s the starting point.

Not the reward for good behavior.

The starting point.

And in Christ, that same word is spoken over you.

Not:

“This is my successful one…”
“This is my impressive one…”
“This is my perfectly-disciplined one…”

But:

“This is my beloved child.”

You don’t obey to become beloved.
You obey because you already are.

So if you’re reading this in a season where life feels more like wilderness than baptism—where clarity feels far away, where temptation and exhaustion are loud—hear this:

You have not been abandoned.
You have not lost what matters most.
You are not outside the reach of God’s care.

You are beloved.

The Spirit who leads you into hard places does not leave you there alone.

He is forming you.

Deepening you.

Rooting you.

One quiet step of trust at a time.

Grace and peace to you,

Christ Is Risen: Clearing the Path, Not Adding the Weight
A pastor’s reflection on Matthew 3 and a week of “turning”

“Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.”

We say those words a lot in our church—on Easter, yes, but also on ordinary Sundays like this past one. I keep coming back to that declaration because it’s the foundation under everything else we talk about: repentance, discipleship, confession, communion, spiritual growth—none of it makes sense unless Jesus is actually alive.

If Christ is risen, then what we’re doing together is not self‑help, self‑improvement, or religious performance. We’re learning how to live with a living Savior. That’s the lens I carried into Matthew 3 this week, and it completely shaped how I approached a passage that can easily feel heavy.

When “Repentance” Feels Like a Loaded Word
The main word in Matthew 3 is one most of us don’t love: repentance.

For a lot of people, “repent” feels like:

Try harder.
Feel worse.
Prove yourself.
Fix everything now.
But as I sat with Matthew 3, I was struck again that repentance is not about God piling more weight on our shoulders. It’s about clearing what’s already weighing us down.

John the Baptist appears in the wilderness proclaiming:

“Repent of your sins and turn to God, for the kingdom of heaven is near.” (Matthew 3:2)

That last part is everything: “for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

Repentance is not punishment.
It’s preparation for presence.

It’s not, “Do better so God might come near to you,” but, “God is already drawing near—will you turn toward Him?”

A Turning, Not a Beating‑Yourself‑Up
One of the clearest ways I can picture repentance is that story I shared about my wife driving from SeaTac.

We’ve driven the Quincy–Portland route so many times we could do it in our sleep. Years ago, Ruth drove to SeaTac to pick up her sister. On the way back, they were so absorbed in conversation that muscle memory took over—and suddenly they realized they were heading toward Yakima, not Quincy.

What did she do?

She didn’t pull over to sit in shame.
She didn’t stubbornly keep going in the wrong direction.
She didn’t wait for some mysterious “sign” to fix it for her.
She turned around.

That’s repentance in Scripture: the realization, “I’m going the wrong way,” followed by a simple but costly action—turning the wheel.

Repentance is less about beating yourself up and more about waking up. Less about self‑condemnation and more about reorientation.

And it’s not just “turn away from something bad.” It’s “turn to Someone good.” Turn to God. Turn toward life with Jesus.

Why the Wilderness?
Matthew makes a point of telling us that John shows up “in the Judean wilderness,” not in the city, not in the religious centers, not in the culturally comfortable places.

The modern equivalent I used in the sermon was this: instead of setting up shop downtown, in schools or at the grocery store, it’s like he goes out to Quincy Lakes and just lives there—simple clothes, simple food, simple message.

It’s inconvenient.

And yet, people went anyway.

They weren’t drawn to polish. The text doesn’t tell us John had great branding, a tight band, and compelling video packages.

They were drawn to truth.

That’s been part of our conviction as a church. We want to be intentionally non‑attractional in all the ways that compete with real discipleship. Not because there’s something inherently wrong with “flash,” but because transformation rarely happens in the flash. It happens in the quiet, the ordinary, the unspectacular places where we are finally still enough to hear God.

That’s why we keep pushing you toward:

Small discipling relationships
Sitting with Scripture together
Praying with and for each other
Actually obeying what Jesus says
You won’t always get something “polished.” But our aim is that you’ll always get something true.

Two Ways to Come to the Wilderness
In Matthew 3, everyone ends up out in the wilderness, but they don’t all come with the same posture.

The crowds come confessing.
They’re honest. They know they need to turn. They respond to the Spirit’s nudge.

The Pharisees and Sadducees come “to watch.”
They’re not there to turn; they’re there to evaluate. They trust in:

Their heritage (“We’re descendants of Abraham”)
Their knowledge
Their status
Their certainty
And John’s tone changes dramatically when they arrive:

“You brood of snakes! Who warned you to flee the coming wrath?
Prove by the way you live that you have repented of your sins and turned to God.” (Matthew 3:7–8)

The issue is not that they’re religious. It’s that they’re unrepentant.

Repentance becomes hardest when we think we’re already fine. When we’re secure in our own certainty, sure we can “manage” our sin, sure our perspectives are obviously right.

That posture hardens our hearts. It makes us defensive instead of receptive, proud instead of surrendered.

The fruit of that is telling. Instead of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, and self‑control, we get:

Self‑protection
Self‑importance
Self‑justification
Self‑centeredness
John’s call is not: “Perform for God.”
His call is: “Let your life show the true direction of your heart.”

The Axe That’s Poised, Not Swinging
Verse 10 is one of those passages that can sound terrifying if you only hear it in a certain tone:

“Even now the axe of God’s judgment is poised, ready to sever the roots of the trees.”

It’s important that Matthew says poised, not swinging.

That imagery isn’t about random divine anger; it’s about urgency.

It’s John saying, “Don’t waste this moment. Don’t assume you can put off responding to God forever. He’s serious about real transformation.”

But again, it’s invitation, not fatalism. The axe is poised. There is still time to turn.

God warns before He judges because His heart is restoration, not destruction.

John Prepares. Jesus Transforms.
John is so clear about his role:

“I baptize with water those who repent of their sins and turn to God. But someone is coming soon who is greater than I am…

From my perspective as a pastor, one of the most important things we did this past Sunday happened right at the beginning of the service:

“Christ is risen.”
“He is risen indeed.”

We usually reserve that call-and-response for Easter, but the early church used it constantly. It was their way of saying, “This is the center. This is what everything else hangs on.” Before we opened our Bibles, before a single word of the sermon was preached, we reminded ourselves that our hope is in a risen Savior, not in a set of religious techniques, not in self-improvement, and certainly not in our own perfection.

That truth shaped everything we did next, especially as we opened to Matthew 3 and met John the Baptist in the wilderness.

Heavy Words, Lightened Hearts
I’m aware that I have a reputation for preaching “heavy” sermons. Sometimes that’s fair. The Bible doesn’t always whisper. It speaks plainly, sometimes sharply. Matthew 3 is one of those passages that comes at us with strong language:

“Repent…”
“You brood of snakes…”
“The axe of God’s judgment is poised…”
Those are not coffee-mug verses.

So before I even got into the text, I wanted our church to hear this clearly: this passage is not about piling more weight on your shoulders. It’s about clearing a path. It’s about God removing what’s already weighing you down so you can actually live in the freedom Jesus offers.

If you were tired, guarded, or bracing yourself the moment you saw I had the mic—this sermon was meant to let you exhale, not tense up.

Why John the Baptist Matters for Us
In Matthew’s biography of Jesus, chapter 2 focused on Joseph and all the disruption, danger, and unexpected changes his little family faced. The question there was:

Will you trust God when the plan keeps changing?

In chapter 3, the camera shifts away from Joseph and Mary and lands on a strange figure in a strange place—John the Baptist, in the wilderness. And now the question becomes:

Will you let God change you so you’re ready for what He is doing next?

John is not a side character. He’s the one who prepares the way for Jesus to step into public ministry. He’s a prophet after 400 years of silence from God. He’s simple, blunt, and very aware that he is not the point. His whole life and ministry exist to point away from himself and toward Jesus.

I need that reminder as a pastor.

It is dangerously easy for any of us in ministry to become the center of attention: to be “the voice,” the one with the microphone, the one people look to. John shows us a better way. He lives and speaks in such a way that Jesus becomes clearer, not John.

That’s the posture I want for myself and for our church: not to build a brand, but to clear a path.

An Inconvenient Location, a Simple Message
Matthew tells us John preached in the Judean wilderness. To put that in our local terms, it’s as if God called him not to downtown, but to set up camp at Quincy Lakes—out of the way, not convenient, not polished, not optimized for “maximum reach.”

Yet verse 5 says people came from:

Jerusalem
All over Judea
The whole Jordan Valley
Why?

Because there was truth in what he was saying. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t attractional. It wasn’t comfortable. But it was real.

We’re used to polished presentations: high production value, smooth transitions, curated branding. A lot of church culture has adopted that same assumption: “If we make it attractive enough, people will come. And if they come, maybe some of Jesus will rub off.”

That’s not what we’re trying to do here.

We are intentionally pursuing a stripped-down, non-program-based discipleship:

Open Bibles.
Honest conversations.
Real relationships.
Ordinary obedience.
We don’t want to hook people with flash and then hope to slip Jesus in quietly on the side. We want Jesus—His Word, His ways, His presence—to be the unmistakable center.

John was not Instagram-ready. Camel hair and locusts won’t trend. But God used him anyway—precisely because the message mattered more than the packaging.

Repentance: Not Punishment, but Preparation
John’s central message is simple and disruptive:

“Repent of your sins and turn to God, for the kingdom of heaven is near.” (Matthew 3:2)

For many of us, the word repent is tangled up with shame, fear, or the sense that we’ve never done enough. But biblically, repentance isn’t about groveling. It isn’t about beating yourself up or promising God you’ll never mess up again.

Repentance is about turning.

I told the story of Ruth driving back from SeaTac. She and her sister were in such deep conversation that muscle memory took over and she found herself on the road to Yakima instead of Quincy. Once she realized it, she didn’t:

Keep driving in the wrong direction out of stubbornness.
Pull over and sit in shame.
Pretend it wasn’t really a problem.
She turned around.

That’s repentance in everyday language: realizing I am headed in the wrong direction and turning the wheel.

Repentance is not about God saying, “If you fix yourself, I might come close.” It’s God saying, “I am already drawing near; turn toward Me and live.”

This is why I phrased it this way on Sunday:

Repentance isn’t punishment.
Repentance is preparation for presence.

We’re not repenting to earn grace. We’re repenting because grace has already arrived and is knocking on the door.

The First Step: Honesty, Not Perfection
As people came out to John, they confessed their sins, repented, and were baptized.

That first step is not performance. It’s honesty.

Confession is not humiliation. It’s relief. It’s the end of pretending. It’s saying to God, “Here’s where I really am. Here’s the direction I’m actually going.”

And it’s important to say this: we are not called to do this alone. Real repentance, real turning, is hard work. Addictions, habits, relational patterns, anger, pride, thought patterns—we all have something that feels costly to turn away from.

That’s why I keep pointing our church back to discipling relationships, to actually being with other followers of Jesus in the Word, in prayer, in honest conversation. Repentance is personal, but it is not meant to be private. We help one another turn and keep turning.

When Repentance Feels Unnecessary
Not everyone came to John in humility. The Pharisees and Sadducees came to watch, not to confess. They were religious experts, confident that they were already in the right. They had heritage, position, influence, and a deep certainty in their own perspective.

That’s when John’s tone sharpens:

“You brood of snakes… Prove by the way you live that you have repented of your sins and turned to God.” (Matthew 3:7–8)

Repentance becomes hardest when we are most certain we don’t really need it. When we’re sure we can manage our sin, manage our image, and keep control of our lives, our hearts quietly harden.

The fruit of that isn’t love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, and self-control. The fruit becomes a life subtly (or not so subtly) centered on:

My preferences
My timeline
My agenda
My sense of how things should be
John’s not saying, “Perform better for God.” He’s saying, “Let your life tell the truth about where your heart is facing.”

That’s a word for me as a pastor too. It’s possible to preach well, lead well, “do ministry well,” and still be living largely for myself. The question is not, “Do I look spiritual?” The question is, “Is my life actually facing Jesus?”

The Axe, the Fire, and the Invitation
The imagery of the axe and the fire in this passage can be unsettling:

“Even now the axe of God’s judgment is poised…”
“He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

This is not about a short-tempered God waiting gleefully to swing. The axe is poised, not yet falling. It’s a picture of urgency, not random rage.

Before God judges, He warns. That warning is an act of mercy.

And the fire? Fire in Scripture isn’t only destructive. It also refines and purifies. It burns away what doesn’t belong so what is real can remain. The same presence of God that exposes and removes what is false is the presence that heals what is true.

John says, “I baptize with water for repentance. I’m preparing you. But someone greater is coming—Someone whose baptism is not just outward but inward. Someone who can actually transform you.”

Water prepares.
The Holy Spirit transforms.

John points.
Jesus fulfills.

So What Is God Asking of Us?
Across Matthew 2 and 3, the questions we’ve wrestled with are:

Will we trust God when our plans keep changing?
Will we let God change us so we’re ready for what He wants to do next?
Notice what those questions are not:

“Will you fix yourself?”
“Will you become spiritually impressive?”
“Will you clean up your life so God will finally accept you?”
Instead, the invitation is about direction and surrender:

Where is God inviting me to turn away from what leads me away from Him—sin, distraction, misplaced hope, stubborn self-reliance?
Where is God inviting me to turn toward life with Jesus—life as a disciple, not just an occasional religious consumer?
Before Jesus steps into the water in the next passage—though He has no need to repent—John calls us to prepare the way. Not by becoming perfect, but by becoming honest.

Repentance is not the end of the story.
Repentance is how we make room for the One who writes the story.

Meeting Grace in the Middle of the Turn
This is why we moved from a moment of silence straight into communion.

That silence wasn’t a space to fix yourself. It was space to be honest. The simple prayer I invited us to pray was:

“Jesus, prepare the way in me.”

If you prayed that, even haltingly, even with a mixture of desire and fear, Jesus hears that.

Communion, then, is not a reward for the already-arrived. It’s where grace meets us while we are still turning. We don’t come to the table with our act together. We come as people in process—people facing Jesus, even if our steps are shaky.

John prepared people with water; we come now to Jesus’ table, trusting that by His Spirit He is truly with us, feeding us, forgiving us, forming us.

A Cleared Path, Not Added Weight
If you remember nothing else from this Sunday, remember this:

This is not about weight being added. This is a path being cleared.

Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed.

That means the One calling you to repent is the same One who died for you, rose for you, and now lives to intercede for you. He is not standing at a distance with crossed arms. He is already moving toward you.

So this week, my encouragement to you—as your pastor and as a fellow disciple—is simple:

Take one honest look at your direction.
Name, before God, where you need to turn.
Don’t do it alone—invite another believer into that process.
Take one faithful next step with Jesus.
Not perfection.
Turning.

Not crushing weight.
A cleared path.

Walk that path in grace and peace, as a beloved child of God, a citizen of heaven, and a disciple of Jesus—just one faithful step at a time.

On Super Bowl Sunday, I stood up to preach in the same shirt I’d worn two weeks earlier.

That wasn’t the plan.

In fact, very little in the last few weeks has gone “according to plan.”

Our church lost a dear sister, Glenda, who went home to be with the Lord. Some of you walked into worship full of joy; others walked in just trying to make it through the week. And somewhere between Seahawks chatter and jalapeño poppers, we found ourselves opening Matthew 2 and sitting again with Joseph—the quiet man in the Christmas story we usually move past by January.

But this time, we didn’t meet Joseph at the manger.

We met him on the run.

And as I’ve sat with this passage as a pastor and as a fellow disciple, I’ve realized: Joseph’s story has a lot to say to people whose plans keep changing, whose hearts are breaking, and who are just tired of having to adjust… again.

Which, if I’m honest, is most of us.

“I wasn’t looking for any of this.”

Joseph didn’t go looking to become a Bible character.

He wanted a normal life: a trade, a home, a wife, a future. Instead, he gets an unexpected pregnancy, a visit from an angel, a radical call to trust God, and the responsibility of raising the Son of God in a world that is anything but safe.

Two weeks ago, we talked about how Joseph responded rather than reacted when Mary’s pregnancy came to light. Instead of anger, revenge, or self-protection, Joseph chose gentleness, trust, and obedience.

But in Matthew 2:13–23, we see something that we don’t usually say out loud:

Sometimes obedience doesn’t make life calmer.
Sometimes obedience makes life more complicated.

“After the wise men were gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. ‘Get up! Flee to Egypt with the child and his mother…’” (Matthew 2:13)

No comforting preamble this time. No “don’t be afraid.” Just: Get up. Flee. Go now.

Imagine waking your spouse in the middle of the night:

“Hey… we need to pack up and leave the country. Now.”

That’s not a devotional moment. That’s panic, adrenaline, and a thousand unanswered questions.

Yet Joseph obeys. Again.

And his obedience doesn’t remove the danger; it moves him through it.

That distinction matters. Because many of us carry a quiet assumption: If I follow God, life should get more stable. And when it doesn’t, we wonder if we’ve done something wrong—or if God has.

Matthew gently tells us: no. Sometimes obedience puts us right in the middle of disruption.

A world that is not safe—and a God who doesn’t look away

After Joseph and Mary flee to Egypt, Matthew shows us one of the hardest scenes in the Gospels:

“Herod was furious… He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under…” (Matthew 2:16)

Innocent children are murdered. Families are shattered. Grief floods the region.

Matthew doesn’t try to explain it away. He doesn’t soften the horror. Instead, he reaches back to Jeremiah and lets lament have its full voice:

“A cry was heard in Ramah—
weeping and great mourning.
Rachel weeps for her children,
refusing to be comforted,
for they are dead.” (Matthew 2:18)

Scripture refuses to pretend the world is safer than it really is.

And as a pastor, I am deeply grateful for that.

Because I sit in rooms where diagnoses are given, jobs are lost, marriages fracture, and caskets are closed. I hear the “this isn’t how it was supposed to be” that lives behind a lot of our polite Sunday greetings.

Matthew doesn’t tell us why every tragedy happens. He does something different: he shows us where God is when it does.

Not distant. Not indifferent. Not caught off guard.

Present. Guiding. Speaking. Staying.

One dream at a time

If you trace Joseph’s story in Matthew, you see a pattern:

First dream: Take Mary as your wife.
Second dream: Flee to Egypt. Go now.
Third dream: Return to Israel. Herod is dead.
Fourth dream: Don’t stay in Judea; go to Galilee.
Here’s what stands out to me:

God never gives Joseph the full blueprint.

No master plan. No timeline. No “Here’s how this will all work out; here’s how many years you’ll be in Egypt; here’s the political situation you’ll face next.”

Just the next faithful step.

Take Mary.
Get up and flee.
Go back.
Actually, go here instead.
As a guy who would love a detailed spreadsheet from heaven, that is both frustrating and freeing.

Because it means this:

God’s guidance is often incremental.
He gives enough light for the next step, not the entire journey.

God’s presence is constant.
Emmanuel—God with us—is not a Christmas-season slogan. It’s the ongoing reality of a God who doesn’t wait for life to settle down before He draws close.

Faithfulness doesn’t require certainty.
It requires trust and obedience in the present moment.

Joseph doesn’t know he’s fulfilling ancient prophecies. He’s not thinking, “Well, this will really help Matthew 2 come together.” He’s just trying to protect his family and obey God, step by step, in a dangerous world.

That’s discipleship.

Nazareth: Ordinary, unstrategic, and exactly where God led

The last detail in this passage is so easy to skip:

“So the family went and lived in a town called Nazareth. This fulfilled what the prophets had said: ‘He will be called a Nazarene.’” (Matthew 2:23)

Nazareth is not glamorous. It’s not strategic. It’s not Jerusalem. It’s not Rome. It’s a small, ordinary town.

And that’s where Jesus grows up.

Sometimes God leads us forward into things that look big, impressive, or clearly “impactful.”

But often, God leads us back into what is ordinary, familiar, and seemingly small:

Back to the same marriage that needs slow, faithful work.
Back to the same job where you’re trying to be a light.
Back to the same neighborhood, the same town, the same daily routines.
Not as punishment.

As formation.

Nazareth is where Jesus is formed. Ordinary places are where Christ is formed in us.

Where this touches us: disruption, uncertainty, and fear

As I look out over our congregation—and as I look at my own life—I see most of us living in one (or more) of three spaces:

A place of disruption
Something changed that you didn’t choose. You’re thinking, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Illness, loss, a broken relationship, a financial crisis, a shattered expectation.

A place of uncertainty
You’re trying to be faithful, but you don’t have the clarity you want. You don’t know what’s next. You’re waiting on answers, and they’re not coming quickly.

A place of fear
You’re either afraid of what might happen, or you already sense what the next step is—and you’re afraid of what it will cost: your comfort, your reputation, your control, your opinions about how things “should” work.

If that’s you, Joseph’s story speaks a steady word:

God may not give you the full plan.
God will give you the next step.
And He will not leave you alone while you take it.
Emmanuel is not a stationary promise.

God is with you:

In disruption.
In uncertainty.
In fear.
In grief.
And in the very next step of obedience He is asking you to take.
The question I’m asking our church (and myself)

At the end of the sermon, we sat in silence around a single question. It’s the question that’s been working on me as a pastor, a husband, a dad, and simply a follower of Jesus:

What is the next faithful step God is asking me to take right now?

Not the ten-year vision.
Not the five-point plan.
Not the outcome you can’t control.

Just the next faithful step:

A conversation you need to have.
An apology you’ve been resisting.
A habit you need to release—or one you need to begin.
A call to serve, give, forgive, reconcile, or risk.
A willingness to move—or a willingness to stay.
Often, that next step will feel simple.
That doesn’t mean it will be easy.

And if you genuinely don’t know what your next step is, that’s okay too. Sometimes God reveals it over time as we keep walking with Him, listening, seeking wise counsel, soaking ourselves in Scripture, and showing up in community.

My encouragement to you—as your pastor and as your fellow traveler—is this:

Don’t underestimate the power of one small act of obedience.

Joseph’s story in Matthew 2 is not glamorous. It’s not a highlight reel. It’s a series of hard, costly, ordinary acts of trust in the middle of danger, grief, and constant change.

And through that quiet, steady obedience, God was doing more than Joseph could see.

He still is.

Wherever you find yourself today—in disruption, uncertainty, or fear—may you know:

God does not promise an easy path.
He does not promise a path that aligns with our expectations.

But He does promise His peace.
He does promise His provision.
And He does promise His presence.

Emmanuel.
God with us.
Right here. Right now.
All the way through.

And as we walk together as a church, my prayer is simple:

That we would not be people of quick reactions, but people of deep response.
That we would not be people who demand clarity before we obey, but people who trust the One who walks with us.
That we would take, together, the next faithful step He sets before us.

One dream at a time.
One decision at a time.
One ordinary “yes” at a time.

Good morning, dear friends,

As I stood before you this past Sunday, I was struck once again by the beauty and depth of God's Word. Our journey through the Gospel of Matthew brought us face-to-face with the story of the Magi, a story that is often wrapped in myth but rooted deeply in truth. Today, I'd like to share some reflections from that message, as we explored the important question: What do we do when Jesus is revealed as King?

As we traversed Matthew 2:1-12, we encountered King Herod, the Jewish scholars, and the Magi—three distinct characters offering three varied responses to Jesus’ birth. Each response serves as a mirror, challenging us to examine our own hearts.

Herod, a man driven by fear and a thirst for control, reacted with paranoia, scheming to eliminate a perceived threat to his throne. His story is a cautionary tale about the dangers of clinging to power and the facade of religious piety. It reminds us that even we can fall into the trap of saying the right words without genuine intent. How often do we hold onto control, masking it with spiritual language?

The scribes and religious leaders, on the other hand, had knowledge at their fingertips. They knew the scriptures well—so well, in fact, that they could immediately pinpoint Bethlehem as the birthplace of the Messiah. Yet, their knowledge didn’t move them. They stayed put, allowing indifference to overtake what should have been a holy curiosity. This is another familiar trap. In an age where information is abundant, we too can become informed yet unmoved. Does our knowledge of God’s word prompt us to action, or are we content merely knowing the facts?

Then, there are the Magi—wise men from the East, seekers of truth who ventured hundreds of miles, driven by faith sparked by a star. They understood that true worship requires movement. Their journey was costly, filled with risks, yet their response was one of humility and generosity. They opened their treasures and offered precious gifts to Jesus. Most importantly, they left changed, heeding God’s warning not to return to Herod, a testament to the transformative power of encountering Christ.

The question for us today is: Which response do we see in our lives? Are we clinging to control like Herod, indifferent like the scribes, or are we earnestly seeking Jesus like the Magi, ready to worship and be transformed by His grace?

The heart of true worship is recognizing Jesus as King and responding with our whole selves. It’s about seeking Him, surrendering to Him, offering our best, and leaving His presence changed. As we ponder how we will respond to God’s incredible revelation through Christ, let us remember that our journey of faith involves movement. May our lives be marked by a worship that moves us closer to the heart of God and out into the world, changed and ready to act.

Thank you for joining this journey through Matthew. I pray that as we continue, we remain open to the transformative work of God in our lives, responding with hearts full of worship and lives marked by change.

In Christ’s love,

Hello, friends,

I hope this message finds you in good spirits and full of hope. Today, I want to share some reflections inspired by our recent sermon on Joseph's story from Matthew 1. This story resonates deeply with me, and I suspect it might with you as well, especially if you're navigating through life's uncertainties without a clear roadmap.

Joseph's narrative is one of ordinary human experience disrupted by divine intervention. He wasn't a king or a prophet, but a simple carpenter, engaged and planning his future. Suddenly, his plans were turned upside down by circumstances beyond his control. Mary, his betrothed, was found to be pregnant, and not through him. Imagine the whirlwind of emotions—confusion, fear, maybe even betrayal. Yet, amidst this turmoil, Joseph's story is marked by righteousness, gentleness, and trust in God's whispered promises rather than loud declarations.

Over the past few weeks, I've found myself reflecting on this idea of trust. Like many of us, I often wish God would provide a clear, detailed roadmap. But faith, I'm learning, usually doesn't come with a complete itinerary. It comes with the next step—the next faithful, obedient move.

What truly stands out for me in Joseph's story is his response in a moment of uncertainty. He didn't react impulsively or out of anger. Instead, he paused, considered his options carefully, and an angel of the Lord met him in his pondering. God came not with a full explanation, but with comfort and a single step forward: "Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife."

Isn't that astonishingly beautiful? In a world that often demands quick solutions and clear outcomes, God invites us into a gentler, quieter process of trust and obedience, assuring us of His presence—Emmanuel, God with us.

Perhaps you are in a season where you feel like Joseph did—uncertain, grappling with unexpected changes, or waiting for clarity. If so, I encourage you to pause and remember that God's ways are deeply kind. He often meets us not with the answers we crave, but with His reassuring presence. He doesn't always alleviate the immediate tension but assures us He is with us in it.

So, I ask you to consider: What is the next step of trust that God is putting in front of you right now? Perhaps it involves courage for a difficult conversation, honesty in a confession, or surrendering control over circumstances you cannot change. It might feel small, but it is significant. Obedience isn't always loud; sometimes, it's found in the quiet determination to take the next step, trusting that God holds the rest.

As you reflect on this, remember, you're not asked to take leaps without knowing. You’re simply asked to take the next step in faith. May you find peace in knowing that God walks with you—just as He did with Joseph—guiding you gently forward.

If you find yourself needing prayer or support, don't hesitate to reach out. We are here to walk with you on this journey of faith.

Blessings,

As I stood before the congregation this past Sunday, fresh from a trip to Peru that barely gave my family and me 36 hours to adjust in Quincy, I found profound joy in worshiping with our community once more. Reflecting on this new year, I invited everyone to adopt a posture of openness to God's will—open-handed and open-hearted to the miracles He might reveal to us.

Our journey through the Gospel of Matthew took another pivotal step, focusing on an aspect often overlooked: the genealogy of Jesus. It might seem dry at first, this list of names, yet buried within it are incredible tales of God’s grace and mercy towards the most unlikely of individuals.

The genealogy of Jesus is more than historical trivia; it echoes God’s message of grace that resonates throughout history. We see figures like Rahab, whose past as a Canaanite prostitute earned her a nickname that no one would forget. But God’s grace extended beyond her past—Rahab’s faith saved her and, astonishingly, wove her into the lineage of the Messiah. Likewise, King David, celebrated yet flawed, teaches us that even the weightiest sins do not sever the promises God makes.

Why highlight these stories? Because they embody the very reason Jesus came. Outsiders, lawbreakers, and those with infamous pasts are all part of the Gospel story. They are, quite literally, the point of the Gospel story. Jesus came to seek and save the lost—that includes each of us, no matter our past.

As we welcomed the new year, I urged everyone to embrace the joy and peace God promises. These aren’t mere concepts; they are promises that God fulfills in our lives when we accept His forgiveness through Jesus Christ. The angels proclaimed it on that first Christmas: great joy for all people and peace for those on whom His favor rests.

In the busyness of our lives, it’s easy to negotiate with our past, to make excuses, to replay our failures. But the truth of the Gospel is that we are never too far gone for redemption. God's promise of peace does not waver. It invites us to lay down our burdens, to cease our negotiations, and to simply accept the forgiveness offered to us through Jesus' sacrifice.

As we took communion, we remembered that sacrifice—a reminder not just of Jesus' death, but of the doors to joy and peace His resurrection opened for all of us. This new year, my hope for our community is to live in this truth, allowing God's promises to transform us.

Let us strive to reflect His light in the world, to embody joy and peace through our actions and words, drawing others to the transformative power of Christ. No matter our past, let's embrace our roles in God's ongoing story of grace.

May God bless you all abundantly this year as we continue this journey together.

In His grace,

Greetings, dear friends and fellow believers,

I hope this message finds you well as we embark upon another year of exploring the profound depths of scripture together. Today, I want to invite you to journey with me into the life of an unexpected biblical figure, someone whose story resonates deeply with the core of the Gospel message: Judah.

In our sermon this past weekend, we dove into the genealogy of Jesus as recorded by Matthew. At first glance, we might wonder why Matthew began his Gospel account in such a unique way, listing the lineage of Christ in a manner that includes some rather messy figures. Among these was Judah, a man with a past that was anything but exemplary.

Judah's Story: A Narrative of Redemption Judah's life was not marked by perfection. Far from it, he was an individual who made choices driven by jealousy, betrayal, and deceit. Selling his brother Joseph into slavery and lying to his own father about it showed his flawed character. Yet, his story is important to us because it highlights a profound truth: God's grace is not withheld because of our imperfections.

As we reflect on Judah, we're reminded that Jesus came not for the righteous, but for sinners. We see this truth not just in Judah's redemption, but in the very genealogy that led to the birth of our Savior. The inclusion of people with checkered pasts in Jesus' lineage serves as a testament to God's ability to use anyone—regardless of their past—to fulfill His divine purposes.

Grace Greater Than Our Sin The conversation surrounding why God chose Judah instead of the more virtuous Joseph to be part of Jesus's lineage could go on endlessly. But perhaps the answer lies in the very essence of the Gospel itself. By choosing Judah, God emphasizes that grace is greater than our sin. It was Judah, not the righteous Joseph, through whom the lineage of Jesus continued—a lineage ultimately culminating in salvation for all.

This narrative reminds us of our own stories. We are, at times, like Judah—making choices we're not proud of, harboring secrets that haunt us, and living in ways that don't always align with God’s will. Yet, it is precisely for people like us that Christ came to Earth, lived a sinless life, and offered Himself as a sacrifice.

An Invitation to Live Out the Gospel As we move forward in this series on Matthew, my hope for you is to embrace the message of grace that permeates through each word of the Gospel. If you've been walking in the weight of your past, know that Jesus offers you the gift of a new beginning. If you've already embraced this grace, I encourage you to extend it to those around you. There are many in our lives—maybe someone who seems like Judah to you—who are in desperate need of the grace that only Jesus can provide.

Let us be a community that lives out the Gospel, sharing the mercy and grace that Judah witnessed firsthand. May Quincy Free Methodist be a beacon of hope where all find love, forgiveness, and a place to draw near to God.

In closing, I urge you to take a moment to reflect on what action God is calling you to take. Whether it is accepting His grace or extending it to another, know that you are responding to the greatest story ever told—the story of Jesus Christ, our Redeemer.

May God bless you abundantly in this new year.

As we step into the New Year, there’s a palpable excitement within our congregation. It’s not merely about turning the pages of the calendar. It’s about embarking on a journey through the Gospel of Matthew—a journey I believe God is calling us to take, and one that promises deep transformation for our church community and individual lives.

Many of us are familiar with the concept of a New Year’s resolution. We set goals, some lofty and others practical. However, as a church, we’re not stepping into 2023 with resolutions in the traditional sense. Our focus isn’t on doing more for Jesus but rather being with Him, knowing Him more deeply, and following Him more fully.

This journey through Matthew represents more than just another sermon series; it’s an open-ended invitation to walk slowly and attentively with Jesus. It’s about allowing ourselves to be shaped and molded by His life and teachings, which Matthew beautifully captures not merely as instructions, but as a biography of Jesus—a rich narrative inviting us to see the world through His eyes.

Discipleship is about surrendering to Jesus, obeying His commands, reflecting His goodness, and making other disciples. It's about transforming our lives around His presence—not trying to fit Him into our schedules but letting Him reshape our priorities and values.

In our opening services, reflecting on the passages of Matthew 4, where Jesus calls His first disciples, I've been reminded of the simplicity yet profound depth of His invitation: "Come, follow me." This isn’t about adding a new hobby or aligning with a political stance. It’s about a radical reordering of our lives around Him and His kingdom.

Throughout this journey, we’re going to take as much time as needed. We’re not rushing through chapters or seeking to conclude this study within a set timeframe because spiritual formation doesn’t conform to our schedules. Some weeks, we might focus on learning something new; other weeks, we might find ourselves challenged or comforted by the Scriptures. Each scripture will not only invite us to agree with Jesus but ask us a more profound question—will you follow?

By following this path, as a community, we are poised to see change—not just a more religious demeanor but an authentic likeness to Jesus that stems from understanding and inviting His spirit into every aspect of our being.

This is a journey through the Gospel of Matthew that will not just inform us but transform us. And as we gather Sunday after Sunday, pondering critical questions and engaging with Jesus's life, I am confident that He will surprise us, challenge us, and bless us in ways we never expected.

So, whether you are a seasoned believer or new to the faith, unsure and exploring, or someone who feels exhausted and overburdened, this invitation to "Come, follow Me" is extended to you. It’s an invitation to enter a life where Jesus is at the center—a life redefined by His love and grace.

Let us move forward with open hearts and ready spirits, embracing the journey ahead and trusting in the faithfulness of Jesus who has already gone before us.

Blessings,

As I sat down to prepare for today's service, I found myself grappling with an unexpected tension. It’s Advent week focused on joy—a theme that typically brings vibrant songs and messages of celebration. Yet, amid the preparations, we faced the sorrowful departure of a beloved member of our community, Merle Royer, who went to be with our Lord. It felt almost contradictory to speak of joy with such a fresh experience of loss.

In wrestling with this paradox, I was reminded of a profound truth: joy and grief are not opposites. Rather, they coexist in the Christian journey, each deepening our understanding of the other. Our joy does not ignore death; instead, it is deeply rooted in the truth that Christ overcame death. Our joy thrives in the promise that those who have gone before us are tasting a joy we can scarcely imagine.

The Advent season beautifully encapsulates this tension. We celebrate Christ’s first coming and eagerly await His second, acknowledging the "already but not yet" reality of our faith. Our joy is both present and future, rooted in Jesus’ birth and triumph over sin and death, even as we long for the complete fulfillment of His promises.

Isaiah 35 offers a poignant vision of this joy, one that resonates deeply with me in this season. It speaks of deserts blossoming into lush fields, of the weak strengthened, and of a highway called the Way of Holiness where the redeemed walk without fear. It promises that everlasting joy will crown our heads, a joy that is not contingent on our circumstances but grounded in the presence of God with us, Immanuel.

In reflecting on this, I am reminded of the incredible transformation we've witnessed right here in our community. The Columbia Basin once a parched desert, became a lush, fruitful land through the gift of water—a powerful metaphor for God’s renewing presence in our lives. Just as the dry land rejoices with new life, so too can our weary souls find renewed strength and hope when we embrace the joy that God offers.

As we gathered this morning, sang the joyous hymns, and lit the candle of joy, it was not an act of ignoring our sorrow but rather acknowledging that joy is present even here. It is a global song, a deep, everlasting joy that knows we are loved, that God is making a way for us.

For those of us feeling the weight of grief or the exhaustion of life’s trials, take heart. Our God comes with strength and salvation. Jesus brings healing, renewal, and the promise of a future where every tear is wiped away. Even in this tension of sorrow and joy, we find hope.

Let us carry this joy into our lives and our communities, standing as beacons of hope in a weary world eagerly awaiting the full coming of our King. May you find in this Advent season the peace and assurance that God walks with you in every circumstance, and may His joy overflow in your heart, despite the circumstances.

As I stood before our congregation this past Sunday, the second week of Advent, reflecting on the significance of peace, I couldn't help but feel a profound gratitude for this time of year. The Advent season is a powerful reminder of Jesus's first coming and the anticipation of His return. It’s a season bursting with hope, joy, and love, anchored by a message of transformative peace brought by the Prince of Peace Himself.

In our gathering, we sang timeless carols that reverberated with longing and joy, inviting Jesus to dwell in our hearts anew. We reflected on the prophecy from Isaiah about the "Root of Jesse"—a promise of hope and harmony not just for Israel, but for all of creation. Even in a world fraught with division and conflict, the imagery of the wolf lying with the lamb offers a glimpse of God's ultimate vision for us.

This moment in the church calendar also invites us to be peacemakers, as passionately voiced by the young ones who lit the Advent candles during our service. Christians are called to be signals of peace, active not just in personal sanctity but extending universally across homes, communities, and even distant nations. This peace is not passive; it demands boldness and is rooted in the knowledge and love of Christ.

During the sermon, I challenged the congregation with a simple yet profound question: "What do you want for Christmas?" While the world might offer a myriad of answers centered around material desires, for many, the true longing is for peace—peace with God, peace within ourselves, and peace with others.

Achieving peace with God begins with acknowledging our inherent need for reconciliation, a concept Billy Graham poignantly laid out in his writings. Our estrangement from God is remedied through Jesus's sacrificial love, offering us a pathway to spiritual wholeness—a peace that transcends understanding.

Internally, the peace of God becomes a gift that soothes our troubled hearts and minds. It's a divine tranquility that doesn’t waver, even when external circumstances seem dire. This peace enables us to face life's challenges with a spirit of calm and hope.

Equally important is the peace we extend to others. As followers of Christ, embodying His peace means actively working to resolve conflicts and foster harmony. The call to "Love God and love people" is not only our greatest commandment but our greatest opportunity to mirror the kingdom of God here on earth.

This Sunday, as we concluded with communion, the symbolism was clear: Jesus's blood and body, given for us, was the ultimate peace offering. His sacrifice is the glue that holds us together, transforming our brokenness into a testimony of divine grace.

As we continue journeying through Advent, may the peace of Christ fill your hearts to overflowing. In all the midst of holiday busyness and preparations, I encourage you to pause, reflect, and be still, allowing the Prince of Peace to fully inhabit your spirit.

I pray you find solace in His promise and purpose, and that this Christmas season, you’ll be inspired to share His peace with those around you. Whether through a simple act of kindness, a heartfelt prayer, or a courageous conversation, let us be peacemakers reflecting God’s loving light.

May the Lord, our source of true peace, be with you always, filling your hearts now and throughout the year. Blessings and peace to you all this Christmas.

Greetings, friends!

As I reflect on our recent service, I'm deeply moved by the advent of the Advent season and the role it plays in our journey of faith. It's a time when we pause to remember the miraculous birth of Jesus, a defining moment in history that marks the intersection of divine love and human experience. It's a season of hope, anticipation, and an invitation to step out in faith.

During Sunday's service, we explored the rich tapestry of scripture, beginning with Isaiah's prophetic vision in Chapter 2. Isaiah paints a breathtaking picture where the mountain of the Lord rises above all others, drawing every nation to its peace and wisdom. This isn't just a utopian ideal; it's a living reality we're called to embody as the Church, the modern-day mountain of God.

Reflecting on this, I am reminded that our journey is not one we undertake alone. We're part of a grand narrative that began long before us and will continue into the eternity of God's plan. The Church, empowered by the Holy Spirit, is entrusted with a mission—to be a beacon of hope and love in a world desperately seeking direction.

Jesus’ words in Matthew 28 resonate: "Go and make disciples of all nations." This great commission is not merely an instruction; it’s a call to action. It's our privilege and responsibility to share the transformative power of the gospel, not through obligation but through the overflow of joy and gratitude for what we've been given.

During service, we discussed how mountaintop experiences in the Bible symbolize divine encounters with God, moments of revelation and transformation. Whether it's Abraham's radical trust in God's provision, Moses receiving the law, or Jesus' sermon on the Mount, each instance reminds us that our relationship with God requires us to ascend—to reach beyond the mundane and encounter the divine truth that refines, restores, and renews.

Yet, as we highlighted on Sunday, these encounters are never meant to keep us on the mountaintop. They are to prepare us for the journey back down—to the valleys, to our daily lives, and into the communities. It’s here, in the everyday moments, where our faith is truly lived out and where God's love flows through us to others.

One of the most compelling aspects of Isaiah's vision is the transformation of weapons into tools for cultivation—swords into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks. This imagery is powerful because it illustrates not only the peace God intends for the world but the personal transformation He desires for each of us. Before we can be agents of change in the world, we must first allow God to change us, shaping us into people who reflect His love, justice, and mercy.

This transformative journey starts with us, in our hearts, homes, and communities. It expands outward, like ripples in a pond, reaching the ends of the earth. We are called to love God and love our neighbors, engaging in this mission with courage and joy.

As we continue through Advent, I encourage you to embrace this season as an opportunity for both reflection and action. Seek out those mountaintop moments with God, allow Him to teach and transform you, and then boldly step down into the world bearing His light. In doing so, we collectively become the Church that Isaiah prophesied—a community where hope, peace, and love flourish and extend to all corners of the earth.

Let us walk together, empowered by God's spirit, as we bring His light to a world in need.

Blessings

Greetings, beloved church family,

As I stand back and reflect on our recently concluded series, "The Way of a Disciple," my heart swells with gratitude and anticipation for what God is doing in our lives. Over the past ten weeks, we've embarked on a profound journey together, exploring what it truly means to live as disciples of Jesus. It's been a season of challenge, growth, and renewal, and I'm both humbled and excited by the path ahead of us.

In this series, we delved into the call to surrender to Jesus, obey His commands, reflect His goodness, and make other disciples. These aren't just concepts to be understood; they are the essence of our mission as followers of Christ and as a church. When the world tells us to focus on self-interest and immediate gratification, Jesus invites us to a deeper, richer life—a life that thrives in the ebb and flow of surrender and service.

What strikes me as particularly powerful is the idea that discipleship is a lifelong journey. Like a hike with its ups and downs, it's not just about reaching a destination but about the path we're walking—step by step, day by day. It requires perseverance, humility, and a constant willingness to look up from the rocks and roots that could trip us.

Paul's words in Philippians 3 resonate deeply with me, especially his admission that he has not yet achieved perfection. If someone as faithful and influential as Paul was still in process, then surely we, too, are called to embrace the ongoing transformation that comes from walking with Jesus. It's a journey of becoming that never truly ends—at least not in this life.

One crucial aspect of our walk as disciples is influencing others towards Jesus. Discipleship isn't solitary; it's communal. It's about multiplication, not merely addition. We must move beyond just being receivers of the Word to becoming transmitters of it. Whether through a triad, a band, or another relational form of discipleship, our call is to invest in the lives of others, to plant seeds, and to watch as God brings growth.

As we transition into the Advent season, I encourage you to consider how you might influence someone towards Jesus during this special time. Advent is a season of expectation and wonder—a perfect backdrop to invite others into the story of hope and redemption. Who has God placed in your life to walk alongside on this journey?

I am reminded of a simple yet profound truth: We are in partnership with God, not to take on burdens we are not meant to carry, but to faithfully walk with Him and others. Let's lean into this partnership, knowing that the Holy Spirit is the one who saves and transforms. We merely need to be obedient and willing—willing to influence, to pray, and to invite.

As we wrap up this series, let us not view it as an end but as a launching pad for our ongoing journey of faith. May we focus on forgetting what is behind and pressing forward to what lies ahead, keeping our eyes fixed on the heavenly prize.

Let's continue to walk this road together, influencing others towards Jesus, and trusting in the beauty of the journey He has set before us.

In His love and grace,

As I sit down to write this reflection, my heart is full from our recent discussions on cultivating intentionality in our walk with Jesus. If there’s one thing that continually resonates with me, it’s the idea that our spiritual growth must be intentional. Growth doesn’t happen by accident or mere proximity to religious practices. Rather, it thrives through practiced, intentional rhythms that keep us deeply connected to Christ.

In our recent sermons, we’ve been exploring the concept of a "Way of Life", a contemporary adaptation of what was historically known as a "Rule of Life". This is not about adding more rules to your life or succumbing to legalistic pressures. Instead, it’s about creating a spiritual trellis—a supportive structure that holds us up and aligns our hearts with Jesus amid life's chaos.

I’m reminded of how a garden thrives. Without a sturdy trellis, even the healthiest plants can struggle to stand firm under their own weight. Similarly, without intentional spiritual rhythms, our good intentions can falter, leaving us spiritually unsteady and unfruitful.

Our proposed way of life involves four key components: Abide, Become, Belong, and Bear Fruit. Each post of this trellis serves a unique purpose:

Abide – This is all about being with Jesus. Practices include prayer, scripture reading, and Sabbath rest. It’s about eliminating hurry and choosing to be present with God. Let’s remind ourselves that being with Jesus is the foundation from which all else flows.

Become – Here we seek to be formed by Jesus. Confession, forgiveness, and humility are practices that transform us. Remember, we are all being formed by something; why not choose Christ as our shaper?

Belong – This involves being rooted in community. Discipleship isn't a solo journey. Seek out groups and relationships that challenge and support you spiritually. Whether it’s through a discipleship band, triad, or a simple fellowship gathering, plant yourself among others who are seeking Christ just as you are.

Bear Fruit – This is the outward expression of our faith. We live generously, serve others, and show hospitality because bearing fruit is not for our benefit alone; it’s how we impact the world.

Developing this way of life isn't about making drastic changes overnight. It starts with small steps, such as identifying which part of your life currently feels unsupported or disconnected from Jesus. Choose one area to focus on. Maybe it's spending dedicated time in silence this week or reaching out to form a small fellowship group.

I am committed to walking this journey with you. Let us not become overwhelmed by striving, but instead, find peace in abiding. May we together cultivate a deeply rooted life, one that truly reflects the presence of Jesus to the world around us.

Blessings to each of you as we continue to grow together in grace and truth.

 Embracing the Call: Becoming Disciples Who Make Disciples

Hello Church Family,

As we gather each week amid the busyness of our daily lives, I am continually reminded of the unique opportunity we have to come together as a community to foster genuine, life-changing relationships with God and one another. This past Sunday, we discussed an idea that's close to my heart and very much at the center of God's mission for us: discipleship. Not merely the act of following but stepping up to the call of becoming disciples who make disciples.

Rediscovering the Purpose of Worship and Connection

We started our time together by considering a feeling many of us encounter—when something becomes so routine that we might forget its significance. I confessed a moment of wrestling with this feeling during worship, viewing it through the eyes of someone new to church life. Yet, it was in this questioning that I found a deeper truth: worship isn't something strange; it's an extension of the love song humanity has been singing throughout history—a love song directed at our Creator.

More Than Words: A Commitment to Action

While shared definitions and vision are vital, there's a critical distinction we must make: knowing is not enough. We've laid out our mission to belong, believe, and bear fruit, with a clear understanding of what a disciple means at QFMC—surrendering to Jesus, obeying His commands, reflecting His goodness, and making disciples. But let us not be trapped in the illusion of progress simply by knowing these terms. Just as Jesus emphasized in Luke 6, it's those who hear and put His words into action who stand on solid ground.

Introducing Simple, Transformational Tools

It's in this spirit that we introduced some simple, yet profound tools designed to guide us on our discipleship journey: the Discovery Bible Study (DBS), Discipleship Triads/Quads, and Discipleship Bands. These are not just programs; they're pathways for deep, relational growth, allowing us to engage intentionally with Scripture and with each other.

The beauty of these tools lies in their simplicity and accessibility. You don't need advanced theological training; you just need a willing heart, a few friends, and an openness to where the Holy Spirit leads. We envision these methods becoming part of the daily rhythm of our community life—a means by which we truly live out our mission and see real transformation take place.

Stepping Out in Faith Like Philip

We took inspiration from Philip's experience in Acts 8—a genuine moment of divine appointment where Philip, guided by the Spirit, shared the good news with the Ethiopian eunuch. It's a beautiful illustration of stepping into the opportunities God places before us, even on the desert roads of our daily lives. My own recent experience bore witness to this truth: a seemingly routine morning turned into a transformative opportunity to invite others into the journey of faith.

The Question Before Us

So, as we continue this journey together, I encourage each of us to ask: who is God placing on our hearts? Who might we invite into a deeper exploration of faith? Perhaps it's a friend, a colleague, or someone you’ve never considered before. Let’s listen attentively for the Spirit’s guidance and courageously step into those moments.

These tools and pathways are designed for everyone at QFMC, and they hold the potential for significant impact in our lives and our community. Let us unite in this mission—not just as individuals, but as a body committed to growing, serving, and glorifying God together.

As you go forth this week, may you listen for His voice, ready to walk the paths He sets before you. Let our lives be testimonies of surrendered obedience, bearing fruit that lasts, bringing glory to God in every interaction.

Greetings, dear friends,

As I reflect on our recent gathering, I feel compelled to share some thoughts from my heart—themes that resonate deeply as we explore what it means to truly live as disciples of Jesus Christ in today's fast-paced world.

During our time together, we delved into an intriguing notion: that hurry is the great enemy of spiritual life in our day. This idea, credited to Dallas Willard, offers a profound insight into the hustle and bustle that often accompany our daily lives—a restless, anxious posture that can keep us from being present with God and one another.

In our scripture discussion, we explored John 15, where Jesus speaks so beautifully about remaining in Him, like branches connected to a vine. This image isn't merely about staying close; it's a call to deep union and connection with our Savior, emphasizing that apart from Him, we can do nothing.

But how easily we can become disconnected, swept away by the currents of achievement and productivity. The societal norm celebrates busyness, yet Jesus invites us to an entirely different rhythm—one unhurried and deeply connected with Him. Jesus' life serves as our example. Stillness before Father, seeking solitude amid crowds, choosing to withdraw to pray—each is a reminder that our souls desperately need this pace.

Today, I challenge each of us to embrace three spiritual practices: Sabbath, silence and solitude, and prayerful reflection. These aren't merely religious obligations; they are pathways to staying connected to the vine. Sabbath invites us to cease from our labors, to declare that God, and not our efforts, sustains the world. Silence and solitude carve out space for the whispers of God's voice to reach us above life’s noise. Prayerful reflection invites us to discern God’s presence and activity in our daily routines.

Let us lovingly assess our hurried lives, asking where we can say no to lesser things to say yes to being with Jesus. Such choices pave the way for transformation, inviting His peace and presence into the core of our being. After all, as we reminded ourselves, the life of a disciple is about presence, not performance.

In this journey with you, I am also learning to untangle the web of hurry from my life. Please know I walk alongside you—not as one who has mastered these disciplines—but as a fellow traveler desiring a deeper, unhurried walk with our Lord.

As we venture forward this week, may we cling to the invitation of Psalm 46:10: "Be still, and know that I am God." For in this stillness, we find our true selves in Him.

Blessings and grace

As a pastor, I often find myself reflecting on the incredible ways God works within our lives, calling us into deeper relationship and transformation. This past Sunday was a poignant reminder of that transformative journey, both for me and for our congregation at QFMC.

We began our service with an invitation to "make a joyful noise," and it was the perfect way to set the stage for celebrating the vibrant, living faith that we cherish. Worship is not just about singing hymns; it's about aligning our hearts with the divine purpose God has for each of us. This alignment requires us to delve deeper than mere ritual or routine; it calls for genuine transformation.

One of the highlights of our service was exploring a treasured scripture that has captured my heart—Romans 12:1-2. Here, the Apostle Paul encourages us to offer our bodies as a living sacrifice, to be transformed by renewing our minds. This is true worship. It reminded me that being a disciple of Christ is not just about what we do on the surface, but who we become beneath it. Transformation is not merely a shift in behavior but a profound change of heart and mind, guided by the Holy Spirit.

The reflection led us to consider how our world tends to shape us superficially, pushing us toward shallow conformity. But Jesus calls us to be deeply transformed, to let His life be formed within us. It's not an easy path, and it challenges our natural tendencies, but the reward is a life that truly reflects Christ.

A particularly moving moment was witnessing the baptism of Molly Richardson. Her testimony was a powerful reminder of God's relentless love and transformative power. Watching her publicly declare her faith and celebrate her new life was a living testament to the very themes we are exploring—surrender, transformation, and renewal.

As we continue this journey together, I am reminded of the importance of intentional practices like Sabbath and prayerful reflection. These are not mere luxuries but vital rhythms that ground us in our faith, allowing God to do His deep work within us. They teach us the art of listening, of pausing long enough for God's spirit to shape us into His likeness.

As we move forward, may we each strive to embrace our spiritual formation with intentionality. Let us seek to be with Jesus more deeply and allow Him to transform us from the inside out. Our mission goes beyond just doing good works; it lies in becoming Christ-like so that His love can shine through us to the world.

I invite you to continue with us in this journey, to explore the depths of what it means to have Christ formed in you—so that together, our lives become living stories of His grace and power.

Blessings,

Greetings, dear friends!

As I stood before you on Sunday morning, I was struck once again by the beauty of our community, gathering together to worship, sing, and reflect on the profound truths of our faith. It’s a privilege to walk this journey of faith with each of you, and I was particularly moved by the depth of connection that worship brings, as evidenced in our heartfelt singing of songs like "Hosanna" and "His Mercy is More."

During our time together, I shared about the importance of keeping the main thing the main thing—an idea so critical to our personal and communal faith journey. It's a guiding principle that holds everything together, yet can sometimes be overshadowed by the busyness of life. The main thing, as we discussed, is to love God and love people, a mandate so powerfully encapsulated in Jesus' teachings.

Reflecting on the Great Commission, I am reminded of the task Jesus left us—to make disciples. It's easy sometimes to separate evangelism and discipleship, as history and tradition might suggest, but at the core, they're inseparable. Making disciples is about inviting others into this life-changing relationship with Christ, embedding His love into our everyday interactions, and growing together.

One might wonder about the simplicity and, yet, the complexity of this task—to go, baptize, teach, and to carry this out with the authority and presence of Jesus Himself. It’s an assurance that we’re not alone in this endeavor; He promises to be with us—all authority, all the time, as I fondly like to call it, our "authority sandwich."

Discipleship isn’t about reaching a finish line or completing a checklist. It’s a lifelong journey. As Paul admonished, we are to follow Christ’s example, living each day more attuned to His purpose and presence in our lives. Jesus’ resurrection wasn't just a miraculous event; it was a clarion call reminding us of what really matters—loving God, loving people, making disciples.

For those who met Chris Moore, her 38 years with us exemplified this kind of life—quietly powerful, deeply impacting, always encouraging. As we bid her farewell, we remember not just her presence, but the way she lived out her faith, a reminder of what it means to be a disciple.

I urge you to reflect on how God might be calling you in your everyday life. Is there a neighbor you could reach out to? A colleague to pray for? Perhaps a family member who might need your guidance and love? And let's not overlook our own spiritual growth. Engage in prayer first, invite God into every aspect of your life, seeking His wisdom and direction.

And let’s not forget—living out our faith is not done in isolation. We have each other. We have this beautiful community. I encourage you to participate in our prayer gatherings or simply reach out to someone in our church family this week. Share your burdens, celebrate your blessings, and continue to make Christ’s love known.

May we never grow weary of the calling to be disciples who make disciples. Together, let's keep the main thing the main thing and carry the light of Christ into every part of our world.