God's Yes + My Amen

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, March 1, 2026

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

What do you do with a bunch of old sermons? Turn them into a blog – refined, condensed, made for today’s world – feel free to use as written, or as fodder for your own message. It’s For you! No permission needed or credit given. (Please scroll down for previous posts)

Sunday, March 1 – Second Sunday in Lent
Readings
Genesis 12:1-4a
Psalm 121 (1, 2)
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17

Radical Grace

Grace and peace to you in the name of the One whose life gives us eternal life—Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.

A while back, a pastor posted a question online:
“What are some places or moments that feel special—maybe even sacred—and make you think, ‘It’s good to be here’?”

My first thought was simple: being with my daughter and her family. Sitting around the table. Playing with the grandkids. No big agenda. No production. Just being present. Those moments feel sacred to me.

But then I asked myself—where else do I feel that?

And I thought of something I haven’t done in a long time: sailing.

There’s something about being in a sailboat on a lake—the sun warm on your face, the quiet splash of water against the hull. And here’s the thing about sailing: you are not in control. The wind is. If you fight the wind, you go nowhere. If you learn to work with it, you move—sometimes in ways you didn’t expect.

The wind blows where it will.

And that’s exactly the image Jesus uses in our Gospel today.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night. He’s a religious leader. Educated. Devout. Careful. He knows the rules. He’s built his life on understanding and following the law faithfully. And yet, something in him is unsettled enough that he seeks Jesus out—in the dark.

I’ve always appreciated Nicodemus. He’s not hostile. He’s curious. He says, “Rabbi, we know you’re from God.” But he’s cautious. He doesn’t want to risk too much.

And Jesus tells him something that shakes his whole framework:
“You must be born from above.”

Nicodemus hears that literally. Jesus means it spiritually.

Being right with God, Jesus says, is not about mastering religious rules. It’s not about controlling outcomes. It’s not about checking every doctrinal box. It’s about being born of water and Spirit.

And then Jesus says this:
“The wind blows where it chooses. You hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

In other words: God is not something you manage.

That might be one of the hardest truths for us—especially in a culture that prizes control. We plan our futures. We track our steps. We manage our investments. We monitor our news feeds. We try to anticipate what’s coming next in our nation, our communities, our families.

We want certainty.

Nicodemus wanted certainty too.

But Jesus offers something different: trust.

Trust that God’s Spirit is already at work.
Trust that faith is not about securing God’s approval but receiving God’s love.
Trust that new life doesn’t come from clinging tighter—but from opening ourselves to something bigger.

Paul echoes this in Romans when he talks about Abraham. Abraham didn’t earn God’s promise by perfect performance. He trusted. And that trust was counted as righteousness.

That matters, especially in a time when so many voices—religious and political alike—try to define faith by who’s in and who’s out, who’s right and who’s wrong.

Jesus says something far more expansive:
“For God so loved the world…”

Not a political party.
Not a nation alone.
Not a select few.
The world.

And not to condemn it—but to save it.

That’s radical grace.

And maybe that’s where sailing comes back in.

When you sail, you raise the sails and adjust them to catch the wind. You don’t create the wind. You don’t control it. You respond to it.

Being born of the Spirit is something like that.

We lift the sails of our lives—through prayer, through worship, through acts of justice and mercy, through simple presence with one another—and we trust that God’s Spirit will move us. Sometimes into conversations we didn’t expect. Sometimes into compassion we didn’t know we had. Sometimes, into courage we didn’t think was possible.

The Spirit may blow us toward deeper love of neighbor.
Toward standing with those on the margins.
Toward repairing what is broken.
Toward reconciling relationships.
Toward hope when cynicism feels easier.

Psalm 121 says, “I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord.”

Not from perfect systems.
Not from flawless leaders.
Not from our own strength alone.
But from the One who made heaven and earth.

And here’s the good news: eternal life isn’t just something that begins after we die. In John’s Gospel, eternal life begins now—when we trust that we are already loved by God.

When we stop striving to earn what has already been given.
When we let the Spirit breathe life into weary places.
When we realize that even in uncertain times, God’s love is not uncertain.

So let me ask you:

Where are the moments in your life when you sense, “It’s good to be here”?

What if those moments are small hints of being born from above?
What if the Spirit is already moving there—quietly, gently, faithfully?

This Lent, maybe the invitation is simply this:

Lift your sails.

Be open.
Be curious like Nicodemus.
Be willing to let the wind of God move you—not into fear, but into love.

Receive God’s breath.
Receive God’s grace.
And trust that the Spirit is still blowing—still creating new life—even now.

Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, February 15, 2026

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

Sunday Feb 15 – Transfiguration of Our Lord
Last Sunday after Epiphany
Readings: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 2 (7) or Psalm 99 (9); 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

Holy, Sacred Moments

Grace and peace to you, in the name of our beloved Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Many years ago, before seminary, I worked at a Methodist church as a financial coordinator. I started at about the same time as several new staff members, including a pastor named Jim Stiles. Whenever there was a funeral—or sometimes even a Sunday sermon—he would come into my office and read his message out loud.

And there was one line he used often:
“This is a special moment. This is a holy moment. This is a sacred moment.”

At the time, I’ll admit—I used to smile a little and think, There it is. There’s the line.
But then I went to seminary. And then I became a pastor. And over time, I started to understand what he meant.

Because when you really begin paying attention to God’s presence—to the story of Jesus, to the movement of the Spirit—you start to realize how often holy moments are happening all around us. Not just in church. Not just in worship. But in ordinary life.

And today’s Gospel reading gives us one of the most powerful holy moments in all of Scripture.

Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain. And there, right before their eyes, Jesus is transfigured. His face shines. His clothes become dazzling white—brighter than anything on earth could produce. And then Moses and Elijah appear. And then a voice from the cloud says: “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.”

It is overwhelming. Awe-filled. Terrifying and beautiful all at once.

And Peter does what many of us would probably do—he wants to stay there. He says, essentially, Let’s build shelters. Let’s stay in this moment. Let’s hold onto this feeling forever.

And honestly—who could blame him?

Because mountaintop moments are powerful. Moments when God feels close. Moments when things suddenly make sense. Moments when hope feels stronger than fear.

But here’s the truth the Transfiguration shows us:
We are not meant to live on the mountain.

Jesus leads them back down.

Back into real life.
Back into a world that is complicated and messy and often painful.
Back into a world where people are sick and hungry and divided and afraid.

And that feels very familiar right now, doesn’t it?

We live in a time when many people feel overwhelmed—by constant news, political division, violence, uncertainty about the future, concerns about the economy, about health, about what kind of world our children and grandchildren are inheriting. It can feel like we are constantly living in the valley, not on the mountain.

And yet, the Transfiguration reminds us that even if we don’t stay on the mountain, the mountain changes us.

Jesus tells the disciples not to go talking about it yet—but I don’t think it’s because the experience didn’t matter. I think it’s because what really mattered was how it would shape them going forward.

They saw who Jesus truly is.
And once you see that—you can’t help but live differently.

There’s a quote from Oswald Chambers that still speaks powerfully:
“We cannot stay forever on the Mount of Transfiguration… but we must obey the light we saw there.”

In other words, holy moments aren’t meant to be souvenirs.
They are meant to be fuel.

Fuel for loving harder.
For serving more deeply.
For standing with people who are hurting.
For choosing compassion in a world that often rewards cruelty.
For working toward justice, mercy, and healing—especially for those pushed to the margins.

That’s very much in line with who we are called to be as church—living out God’s love in real, tangible ways.

And maybe that’s especially important as we stand right on the edge of Lent.

Lent invites us to slow down.
To listen.
To notice God’s presence—not just in dramatic moments—but in quiet ones.

In a conversation with a friend.
In caring for a spouse or parent.
In laughing with a grandchild.
In sitting in silence.
In walking outside.
In showing kindness when it would be easier not to.

We are so often “human doings.”
Lent reminds us we are also called to be “human beings.”
People who pause long enough to notice that God is already here.

God is speaking—sometimes in ways that are loud and unmistakable.
And sometimes in ways that are quiet, almost easy to miss—but still very real.

Every moment can hold the possibility of being sacred.
Not because life is perfect.
But because God is present.

So maybe the invitation of Transfiguration Sunday is this:

Pay attention.
Listen to Jesus.
Let the light you have seen shape how you live in the world.

And trust that even when you are back down in the valley—God has not left you.
The light still shines.
And nothing—not fear, not division, not uncertainty—can overcome it.

Let us pray.

Open our eyes, Lord,
So we may see what you are revealing to us.
Prepare us for those holy moments—big and small.
And help us respond to them with faith, courage, and love for one another.
In the name of Jesus, we pray.
Amen.

A Little Light for the Way Sunday, February 8, 2026

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

Sunday Feb 8 – Fifth Sunday after Epiphany / Lectionary 5: Isaiah 58:1-9a [9b-12];
Psalm 112:1-9 10; 1 Corinthians 2:1-12 [13-16]; Matthew 5:13-20

Grace and peace to you, in the name of the One who is our light and our salvation—Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am a “bit” of a salt lover.

I like salt on just about everything. Sometimes I joke that I add a little popcorn to my salt. And every time I read an article or watch the news, I’m reminded that too much salt isn’t great for us—blood pressure, heart issues, all of that.

So, it’s always amused me that right in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us that we are the salt of the earth. And according to Jesus—that’s a good thing.

In biblical times, salt was incredibly valuable. It preserved food. It brought out flavor. It was even tied to wages—our word “salary” comes from the Latin word “salarium” which is connected to salt. Salt meant life. Stability. Value.

And honestly, it still does. Salt preserves. Salt heals. Salt makes things better.

But here’s what fascinates me: it’s actually very hard for salt to lose its flavor on its own. What usually happens is that it gets diluted—mixed with other things until you can’t taste it anymore.

Hold onto that idea.

Because Jesus isn’t just talking about table salt. He’s talking about identity.

He doesn’t say, “Try to be salt.”
He doesn’t say, “Work hard enough and maybe you’ll become salt.”
He says: You are the salt of the earth.

And then he says something just as bold:
You are the light of the world.

Not “you could be.”
Not “you should be if you try harder.”
You already are.

And that matters in the world we’re living in right now.

A lot of people feel like the world is getting darker — more divided, more anxious, more uncertain. We carry concerns about our communities, our country, and the future for the next generation. Many people feel overwhelmed by constant information, constant conflict, constant noise.

And into that kind of world, Jesus says:
You are salt.
You are light.

Salt preserves what is good.
Light makes it possible to see clearly.
Salt brings out what is life-giving.
Light pushes back against fear and confusion.

Notice — Jesus is not saying we have to fix everything. He is saying we have a role to play in reflecting God’s presence in the middle of it.

Our reading from Isaiah today makes this very concrete. God says: If you want to honor me, don’t just perform religion. Feed the hungry. Shelter the unhoused. Care for the vulnerable. Repair what is broken. Speak truth. Practice mercy.

And then — then — your light will break forth like the dawn.

Not because you were perfect.
But because you were faithful.

Paul says something similar in Corinthians. He reminds us that faith isn’t about impressive speeches or having all the right words. It’s about showing up with humility and trusting God to work through us—even in weakness, even when we feel unsure.

That is really good news for people like us.

Because most of us don’t feel like we’re changing the world in huge, dramatic ways, as much as we want to, or think we should. But we are changing the world – in ordinary, but very effective ways! We show up. We care for family. We volunteer. We check on neighbors. We vote. We give. We pray. We simply try to do the next right thing.

That’s salt and light work.

I don’t think that the biggest danger for our lives and our world today is that we all suddenly become terrible, hateful people. I think the bigger danger is dilution — letting fear, cynicism, anger, or exhaustion slowly water down who God created us to be.

When we stop believing compassion matters.
When we decide division is normal.
When we assume nothing can change.
When we hide our light because it feels easier or safer.

Jesus says: Don’t hide the light.
Not because God needs attention.
But because the world needs hope.

And I love that this connects so deeply to baptism—the promise that God’s light is already in us. Not because we earned it. Because God claimed us.

There’s a quote often attributed to Teresa of Ávila that still speaks powerfully today:

Christ has no body now but yours.
No hands, no feet on earth but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which Christ looks with compassion on this world.
Yours are the feet with which Christ walks to do good.
Yours are the hands through which Christ blesses the world.

That isn’t pressure.
That’s purpose.

So maybe this week the invitation is simple:

Remember who you are.
You are salt—meant to preserve goodness and bring out life.
You are light—meant to help others see hope, mercy, and truth.

And sometimes being salt and light is not dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet faithfulness. A phone call. A kind word. Standing up for someone. Refusing to give in to despair.

Jesus says:
“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Not so people will admire you.
But so they will see what God’s love looks like in real life.

Let’s pray:

Gracious God,
Thank you for calling us your salt and your light—not because we are perfect, but because you are at work in us. Help us reflect your compassion, your justice, and your mercy in a world that needs it. Keep our faith from being diluted by fear or despair, and help us shine with the quiet, steady light of Christ.
Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, February 1, 2026

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

Reflection for Sunday, February 1, 2026 using the Revised Common Lectionary readings: Fourth Sunday after Epiphany / Lectionary 4: Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 15; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31, and Matthew 5:1-12

Resilient Hope

Grace, peace, and blessings be yours in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

With this week’s scripture readings, my head has been full of songs again. Along with that song from “The Lion King” – Hakuna Matata—“no worries for the rest of your days”—I’ve also had that old Bobby McFerrin tune looping in my mind:
🎶 Don’t worry… be happy. 🎶 (If you’re as old as me – you’ll definitely remember it!)
It came out in 1988, and it was catchy then—and honestly, it still is!

But let’s be real: if it were that easy, none of us would be here this morning carrying what we carry.

“In every life we have some trouble,” the song says—and that part is true. Jesus says it too. But “don’t worry, be happy”? That feels a lot harder these days. Worry seems almost unavoidable. We worry about our health, our finances, our kids and grandkids, the state of our nation, the divisions in our communities, the violence in the world, the future of the planet. Worry has become part of the air we breathe.

And yet, Scripture really does repeat one phrase over and over: Do not fear. Do not be afraid.

That doesn’t mean “pretend everything is fine.” And it certainly doesn’t mean plastering on a smile and denying reality. In fact, one of the biggest challenges of our time is what many people call performative happiness—the pressure to look okay even when we’re not.

Social media has only amplified that. We scroll past smiling faces, vacations, family photos, celebrations, and we quietly think, “Everyone else seems to be doing better than I am.” We compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel. And it leaves us feeling isolated, inadequate, or broken.

Even in these dark times, social media has us “doom-scrolling” those who appear to be so confident, and strong – fearlessly and readily sharing their beliefs and opinions on current events and arguing with those who don’t agree with them. We spend hours wondering – should we argue with them? Should we do the same? Is it truly helping, or is it just giving me a momentary sense of power?

Truthfully, it’s exhausting, trying to keep up.

Jesus offers something very different in today’s Gospel.

In Matthew’ gosepl, Jesus climbs a hillside, sits down, and teaches—not the crowds, but his disciples. And what he teaches them is surprising, even unsettling. We call these words the Beatitudes, but they don’t sound like instructions for success or happiness as the world defines it.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
“Blessed are those who mourn.”
“Blessed are the meek.”
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.”
“Blessed are the merciful… the peacemakers… those who are persecuted.”

None of that sounds like Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

The word Jesus uses — Makarios — doesn’t mean cheerful or carefree. It means deeply grounded. It describes a joy that isn’t dependent on circumstances, a joy that doesn’t evaporate when life gets hard. It’s not fake happiness. It’s resilient hope.

So let’s try this exercise honestly.
“I’m happy when __________.”

We might say: when I’m with my family. When I’m healthy. When I feel secure. When I’m needed. When winter ends. When things finally settle down.

Those things matter. They’re gifts. But they’re also fragile. Life changes. Bodies fail. Relationships strain. Seasons turn. And if our happiness depends entirely on those things, it will always be vulnerable.

Jesus isn’t dismissing happiness—he’s redefining it.

He’s saying blessed are you when you know you don’t have it all together. Blessed are you when your heart is broken. Blessed are you when you care deeply about justice and mercy, even when it costs you something. Blessed are you when you choose compassion in a world that rewards cruelty. Blessed are you when you keep showing up, loving, and hoping—even when it would be easier to harden your heart.

That kind of blessedness doesn’t come from pretending the world isn’t broken. It comes from trusting God within the brokenness.

Micah tells us today that God doesn’t ask for grand religious performances. God asks us to “do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly.” Paul reminds us that God’s wisdom looks foolish to the world. And Jesus shows us that real joy isn’t found in power, control, or certainty — but in grace.

The cross stands at the center of all of this. Not as a symbol of denial, but of honesty. The world is broken enough to crucify love itself. And yet, God meets us there — not with condemnation, but with redemption.

At the cross, Jesus takes seriously our pain, our fear, our grief. And at the cross, God says: You are not alone. This is not the end.

So blessed are the poor in spirit—those who know they need God.
Blessed are those who mourn—because God meets them with comfort.
Blessed are the peacemakers—because in a divided world, their work matters.

This isn’t a call to fake happiness or shallow optimism. It’s a promise of deep, durable hope.

Not “don’t worry.”
But God is with you.
Not “be happy.”
But you are held, even here.

Rejoice and be glad—not because life is easy, but because God’s grace is stronger than anything that threatens to undo us.

For yours — yes, even now — is the kingdom of heaven.

Amen.

A Little Light for the Way

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

What do you do with a bunch of old sermons? Turn them into a blog – refined, condensed, made for today’s world – feel free to use as written, or as fodder for your own message. It’s For you! No permission needed or credit given. (Please scroll down for previous posts)

Sermon for Sunday, January 25, 2026 Follow Me Third Sunday after Epiphany / Lectionary 3
Readings for the Day: Isaiah 9:1-4, Psalm 27:1, 4-9 (1), 1 Corinthians 1:10-18, Matthew 4:12-23

Grace and peace to you, in the name of the One who is our light and our salvation—Jesus Christ. Amen.

Some of you will recognize this right away:
🎶 Rocky Mountain High… Take Me Home, Country Roads… Thank God I’m a Country Boy! 🎶
John Denver.

While some of my friends were listening to hard rock and heavy metal, my soundtrack leaned more toward John Denver, Carole King, the Carpenters—music that told stories, music that lingered. And ever since then, whenever I hear Jesus say to Simon Peter and Andrew, “Follow me,” my mind still drifts to that old John Denver song:
🎶 Follow me where I go, what I do and who I know… 🎶

If we’re honest, hearing those lyrics now, decades later, they sound a little… intense. Maybe even needy. A bit clingy.
And that raises a fair question for today’s gospel:
When Jesus says, “Follow me,” does that sound demanding? Intrusive? Unrealistic?

If those words came from just another human being, we might be right to hesitate. But this invitation doesn’t come from just anyone. It comes from Jesus—God-with-us. The light that shines in the darkness. The Word made flesh.

This is God saying, “Follow me.”

And that matters.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus shows up along the Sea of Galilee and calls working people—fishermen, laborers, folks with calloused hands and responsibilities—to leave what they know and follow him. And remarkably, they do. They put down their nets and walk away.

We tend to romanticize that moment, but let’s slow it down. Those nets weren’t hobbies. They were livelihoods. Security. Identity. Putting them down meant risk. Uncertainty. Change.

What if they had said no?
What if they had said, “Not now”?
What if fear had won?

History would look very different.

But here’s the thing: history isn’t finished. God is still calling. And I’d argue that in our moment—this complicated, divided, anxious time—Jesus’ call to follow may be more urgent than ever.

“Follow me” doesn’t mean abandoning common sense or responsibility. It means re-centering our lives around God’s purposes rather than our fears.

Isaiah speaks today about light breaking into deep darkness. Paul pleads with the Corinthians to stop tearing each other apart. Jesus proclaims good news and healing in a hurting world. All of these readings point to the same truth: God is calling people not just to believe something, but to live differently.

So what are the “nets” we’re being asked to put down?

For many of us, they’re not literal. They’re emotional. Spiritual. Cultural.

Nets of fear—fear of scarcity, fear of change, fear of the future.
Nets of anxiety—constant worry fueled by headlines and 24-hour news cycles.
Nets of resentment—old hurts that harden into bitterness and division.
Nets of “we’ve always done it this way”—that keep us from imagining what God might be doing now.

And Paul reminds us today that these nets don’t just entangle individuals—they fracture communities. “Be united,” he says. Not uniform. Not identical. But grounded in Christ, not in competition or fear.

Following Jesus means trusting that God is at work beyond our comfort zones.

Notice that Jesus doesn’t call the fishermen to become someone else. He says, “I will make you fish for people.” In other words: You already have what you need. I’ll show you how to use it.

That’s good news for us.

You don’t have to be younger, louder, or more tech-savvy to follow Jesus.
You don’t have to have all the answers.
You don’t have to start over.

God has already shaped you—through your experiences, your joys, your losses, your faithfulness. Jesus simply invites you to let those gifts serve love, justice, healing, and hope.

And maybe that old John Denver song gets it right after all—not as a demand, but as a longing born of love:

“I’d like to share my life with you and show you things I’ve seen…
To have you there beside me and never be alone.”

That doesn’t sound needy.
That sounds like grace.

So hear Jesus’ words today not as pressure, but as invitation.
Not as guilt, but as possibility.

“Follow me.”
Lay down what binds you.
Trust the light.
Walk toward love.

Let us pray.

God of light and life,
You call us to follow—not away from the world, but deeper into it, carrying your hope. Help us put down the nets that weigh us down and take up the life you offer. Teach us to trust, to love, and to walk faithfully in your way.
In Jesus’ name we pray.
Amen.

A Little Light for the Way

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

(Please scroll down for previous posts)

Sunday, January 18, 2026 – Second Sunday after Epiphany

Grace and peace to you, in the name of Jesus Christ—the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Amen.

If you’ve ever lived with a dog or a cat, you know how closely they can follow you. Not just from room to room, but everywhere. To the kitchen. To the bedroom. Even—yes—to the bathroom. They trail behind you as if whatever you’re doing must be the most important thing in the world. And if they could talk, you might finally turn around and ask, “What do you want? What are you looking for?”

That’s not a bad place to begin today, because in our Gospel reading, something very similar happens.

John the Baptist is standing with two of his disciples when Jesus walks by. John points him out and says, “Look, here is the Lamb of God.” And that’s it. That’s all it takes. The two disciples leave John and begin following Jesus.

They don’t say anything. They just walk behind him.

Finally, Jesus turns around and asks them a question that is simple, but also searching:
“What are you looking for?”

This isn’t small talk. It’s not a trick question. And it’s not just for those two disciples long ago. It’s a question Jesus keeps asking—across centuries, across cultures, and right into our lives today.

What are you looking for?

The Greek translation here is deeper than our English suggests. Jesus isn’t asking, “What do you want right now?” He’s asking, “What are you seeking? What are you hoping for? What is it that has stirred your heart enough to make you follow?”

That question feels especially honest in our time. Many of us are still sorting out what life looks like – even after years of disruption, uncertainty, and loss. Our bodies remind us of that. And even for those who are still on the younger side – our world right now just feels less predictable. The news is heavy. Relationships are changing. Churches are changing. Communities are changing. And somewhere beneath all of that, Jesus turns and asks us:
What are you looking for?

Some of us are looking for healing—of bodies that ache or aren’t doing what we want them to do – or of minds that are tired, or hearts that often carry grief.
Some of us are looking for relief—from anxiety, from fear about the future, from the sense that everything feels harder than it used to.
Some of us are looking for stability—financial security, a sense of safety, or reassurance that we’ll be okay.
Some of us are looking for connection—less loneliness, deeper friendships, a reminder that we matter to someone.
Some of us are looking for meaning—especially in seasons of transition, or major life events, or loss — wondering, “What is God calling me to now?”
And some of us, if we’re honest, don’t quite know what we’re looking for—we just know that something in us keeps reaching for God.

Jesus doesn’t scold the disciples for not having a clear answer. He doesn’t demand a statement of faith or a five-point plan. He simply says, “Come and see.”

Come and see where I am staying.
Come and see what life with God looks like up close.
Come and see what love looks like when it takes on flesh and walks alongside you.

And that invitation still stands.

Come and see what it means to live rooted in grace rather than fear.
Come and see a peace that doesn’t erase trouble, but carries you through it.
Come and see a God who meets you not when you have it all figured out, but precisely when you don’t.
Come and see a life shaped not by striving or perfection, but by mercy, forgiveness, and hope.

And notice what happens next in the story. The disciples don’t just stay with Jesus for themselves. Andrew goes and finds his brother Simon and says, “We have found the Messiah!”

Encounter leads to witness! Relationship leads to sharing! Not because they have all the answers—but because they’ve experienced something worth telling.

That’s Epiphany faith. Not flashy. Not loud. But steady. Light spreading from one person to another.

So today, hear Jesus’ question not as pressure, but as invitation:
What are you looking for?

And hear his response not as a demand, but as a beautiful promise:
Come and see.

Come and see that God is already at work in your life.
Come and see that you are not alone.
Come and see that grace has a way of meeting us exactly where we are—and gently leading us forward.

Thanks be to God.
Amen.

A Little Light for the Way

Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.

What do you do with a bunch of old sermons? Turn them into a blog – refined, condensed, made for today’s world – feel free to use as written, or as fodder for your own message. For you! No permission needed or credit given. (I mean, it’s not that great…) 😀

Sunday, January 11, 2026 – Baptism of Our Lord.

Grace and peace to you in the name of our Beloved Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Have you ever had that moment when you’re in a group—maybe in a meeting, or a class, or even worship—and the person speaking seems to be looking right at you? At first, you think, They’re just making eye contact. Then it keeps happening. And suddenly you’re uncomfortable. Who, me?

And then—of course—while you’re busy wondering if you’re being singled out, the speaker asks a question, still looking in your direction, and you realize you have no idea what they were talking about because you were too busy wondering whether they were talking to you in the first place. Awkward!

I imagine John the Baptist having a moment like that today.

We are a couple of weeks past Christmas now, and the lectionary moves us quickly from manger to river. Jesus is grown—around thirty years old—and ready to begin his public ministry. And the way he begins is not with a sermon or a miracle, but by showing up at the Jordan River and asking his cousin John to baptize him.

John is not comfortable with this at all. You can almost hear him say, “Who, me? No, Jesus—you should be baptizing me.” John knows who Jesus is. He’s already told the crowds that the one coming after him is more powerful, more holy, more worthy. And now that very one is standing in front of him, asking to be baptized.

It doesn’t make sense to John. It feels backwards. Awkward.

And yet, Jesus insists. “This is necessary,” he says, “to fulfill all righteousness.” Not because Jesus needs to be made worthy—but because Jesus is choosing to stand fully with us. To step into the water of human life, vulnerability and all.

And when Jesus comes up out of the water, the heavens open. The Spirit descends like a dove. And a voice speaks:
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Before Jesus heals anyone.
Before he teaches a parable.
Before he feeds the hungry or challenges the powerful.

God names him Beloved. Before he’s done a single thing in his ministry here on earth.

That matters.

Because our understanding of baptism is rooted right here. In baptism, by grace, we are drawn into this same declaration. We stand alongside Jesus, and the words spoken over him are spoken over us.

You are God’s beloved.
And God is pleased with you.

Sit with that for a moment.

So often, we hear—or imply—that God’s love comes with conditions. Yes, God loves you… now go prove it. Go serve more. Go believe harder. Go fix yourself.

But notice this: Jesus hadn’t done anything yet. He simply showed up. And that was enough.

In baptism, we are claimed before we accomplish anything at all.

“Child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.”

Forever.

Nothing—nothing—can separate you from the love of God. Not failure. Not doubt. Not grief. Not death itself.

Rev. Vicki Flippin once wrote that baptism reminds us that no one determines our worth in this world or the next other than God. To the imprisoned, it says: you do not belong to your chains. To the addicted: you do not belong to what grips you. To the depressed: you do not belong to your sadness. To the exhausted and overworked: you do not belong to what demands everything from you.

You belong to God.

And even when it feels like you belong to fear, or shame, or loss—as sure as water is wet and God is good—a voice still speaks: You are my beloved.

Who, me?

Yes. You.

Walk in that love. Rest in that love. Bask in it.
Jesus loves you—and there is nothing you can do about it.

Amen.

For such a time…

“But then, I’m reminded not of the why – but of the Who — God.“

When do you feel God speaking to you the loudest?? I believe that God can come to us with a message anytime of the day or night, but I often feel/see/hear God’s voice the loudest very early in the morning. Often before I’ve even opened my eyes!

And yes, God is speaking to us all! (Matthew 13:9 – “Whoever has ears, let them hear.”)

Sometimes it even wakes me up out of a good sleep. It’s what prompted me to start a Facebook page: “Together – with Pastor Jane” in order to read from the Bible every day. I awoke to a strong voice (I honestly don’t know if it was actually an audible voice, or something that just shook me awake on the inside!) But the message was clear, “Read the Bible – Read it out loud – For a year.”

My first thought was – “Uh… no way. That’s not possible and it would be so boring, and I NEVER stick to anything like that more than a week.”

And I dismissed it. (Or so I thought – seems that when it comes from God, it’s difficult to do…)

Long story short – I am reading through the Bible – out loud – every day on my Facebook page. It’s not professional, or perfect, and boy, do I struggle with those Bible names! I often wonder if anyone else is even looking at it, and I keep asking God, ”WHY??” But then, I’m reminded not of the why – but of the Who — God. Trust and obey. So, trust and obey, I will.

This morning I awoke with these words – “For such a time as this.” It’s from the Bible! Esther 4:14 – “…For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this.” (Emphasis mine)

God’s message to me was to tell people that we all need to draw as close as we can to the Word of God, to pay attention! If you’re reading this, it’s for that reason. Don’t put it off! FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS. Get into a good Bible study, read God’s word, PRAY! Meditate on devotions that reflect God’s word, go to a Gospel-centered church that focuses on the life, ministry, death AND resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Messiah and our Savior. Grab a few friends and start discussing the Word.

YOU were made for a time such as this – God needs you. Rise up!