A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, July 12, 2026

A reflection for the journey of faith — sometimes we all need a little light for the way.

What do you do with a bunch of old sermons? Turn them into a blog – refined, condensed, made for today’s world – I pray that it will speak to you today! Or feel free to use it as a little inspiration for your own message. It’s FOR YOU! (Scroll down for previous posts)

Sunday July 12 – Seventh Sunday after Pentecost/ Lectionary 15
Isaiah 55:10-13
Psalm 65:[1-8] 9-13
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

Never Underestimate the Seed

One of my favorite things about this time of year is that Jesus starts talking about gardens, fields, seeds, and soil.

After spending much of my ministry serving rural congregations, I learned that farmers and gardeners have a way of looking at the world that teaches patience. You can’t hurry a seed. You can’t demand rain. You can’t pull on a young plant to make it grow faster.

Growth takes time.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus so often spoke about the kingdom of God through stories of planting.

The Parable of the Sower is one of the best-known stories in the Gospels. Most of us remember the four kinds of soil.

Some seed falls on the hard path.

Some lands among rocks.

Some is choked by weeds.

Some falls into rich soil and produces an abundant harvest.

For years, I assumed the point of the parable was simple:

“What kind of soil am I?”

It’s a worthwhile question.

There are certainly seasons when my heart has felt hard. Times when disappointment or grief made it difficult to hear God’s promises. There have been moments when faith sprang up quickly, only to struggle when life became difficult. And there have been plenty of seasons when worry, busyness, and endless distractions crowded out the quiet work God was trying to do in me.

Maybe you’ve experienced that too.

But the older I get, the more another question captures my attention.

What kind of farmer throws seed around like this?

No experienced farmer would scatter valuable seed on a footpath or among thorn bushes.

It’s wasteful.

Inefficient.

Almost reckless.

Yet that’s exactly what Jesus describes.

The sower doesn’t stop to test the soil first.

The seed is scattered everywhere.

Perhaps that’s the point.

God’s grace has never been reserved for people who already have everything together.

God doesn’t wait until our hearts are perfectly prepared before speaking words of hope.

God keeps planting.

Even in hearts that seem closed.

Even in people who have wandered away.

Even in lives tangled with fear, addiction, regret, grief, doubt, or disappointment.

The seed keeps coming.

I’ve seen that happen more times than I can count.

Years ago, while working in addiction recovery, I met people who had every reason to believe their lives were beyond repair. Yet somewhere along the way, a tiny seed of hope took root. Sometimes it came through Scripture. Sometimes through another person’s kindness. Sometimes through someone who simply refused to give up on them.

I’ve seen the same thing in congregations.

People who hadn’t entered a church for decades.

People who insisted they didn’t believe anymore.

People who thought they had nothing left to offer after retirement.

People carrying grief so heavy they weren’t sure they could pray.

And then, almost unexpectedly, something began to grow.

A conversation.

A hymn.

A Bible verse remembered from childhood.

A simple invitation.

A quiet assurance that they were still loved by God.

Never underestimate a seed.

One of the gifts of growing older is realizing that our hearts don’t stay the same forever.

The hard path can soften.

Rocky ground can deepen.

Thorns can be cleared away.

Good soil doesn’t happen because we’ve become perfect. It happens because God patiently keeps working the ground, season after season.

Perhaps that’s why this parable gives me hope.

The story isn’t ultimately about how successful we are at believing.

It’s about a God who refuses to stop sowing grace.

Every day God scatters forgiveness.

Every day God plants mercy.

Every day God speaks words of hope into weary hearts.

Not because we’ve earned it.

Not because we’re finally “good soil.”

But because that’s simply who God is.

So if you’re feeling spiritually dry today…

If your faith feels buried beneath worry…

If life has left your heart feeling more like hard-packed ground than a flourishing garden…

Don’t assume the story is over.

The Divine Sower is still walking through the field.

And the next seed of grace may be the one that changes everything.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, July 5, 2026

A reflection for the journey of faith — sometimes we all need a little light for the way.

Based on Sunday, July 5 – Sixth Sunday after Pentecost Scripture Readings
Zechariah 9:9-12
Psalm 145:8-14
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

The Consequences of Never Resting

There is one word I have never forgotten from my years working as a chemical dependency counselor at a housing shelter in Minneapolis.

It came from one of the custodians who worked in the shelter. We would occasionally visit, and one day he smiled and said, “I’ve got one word for you—consequences.”

He told me he reminded the residents of that word every day.

“Before you decide what you’re going to do today,” he would say, “think about the consequences.”

Simple – direct – and surprisingly wise!

The longer I worked in recovery ministry, the more I realized he was right. Every choice has consequences. Some choices bring healing, while others slowly wear away at our relationships, our bodies, our spirits, and our communities.

But lately I’ve been wondering if there is another consequence many of us rarely think about.

What are the consequences of never resting?

A Culture That Doesn’t Know How to Stop

If someone asks how you’re doing, what are the most common responses?

“Busy.”

“Tired.”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“Just trying to keep up.”

Those words have become almost a badge of honor. We celebrate productivity. We admire people who always seem to be accomplishing more. We carry our calendars in our pockets, answer emails late into the evening, scroll long after we’re ready for bed, and somehow convince ourselves that slowing down feels irresponsible.

The result isn’t simply physical exhaustion.

Many of us are emotionally depleted. Spiritually distracted. Mentally overwhelmed.

We’re connected to everything—and often present to nothing.

The consequences show up in our relationships, our health, our patience, our anxiety, and even in our ability to notice God’s presence.

Perhaps that’s one reason Jesus’ invitation in Matthew 11 continues to sound so refreshing:

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

Those words feel like cool water in a world that never stops moving.

Sabbath Was Never About Following Rules

For years I thought this passage was simply about finding comfort in Jesus.

It certainly is that—but I think it’s even more than that.

Jesus is speaking in the middle of ongoing debates about the Sabbath. Religious leaders had surrounded God’s gift with countless rules and expectations until the day that was meant to bring freedom had become another burden to carry.

Jesus redirects everyone’s attention back to God’s original intention.

The Hebrew Scriptures actually use two beautiful words for rest.

One is Shabbat—the kind of rest that means to stop working. To cease. To lay down our labor. Like clocking out at the end of the day.

The other is Nuakh—to settle, dwell, or abide. This is deeper than simply taking a break. It is the rest that comes from feeling at home in God’s presence. It is the peace of sitting with people you love, walking quietly in nature, praying without rushing, or simply being still enough to remember that your worth doesn’t depend on what you’ve accomplished today.

Both kinds of rest are woven into God’s design from the very beginning. God rests after creation. Then God settles humanity into the garden—not merely to work, but to live in relationship with the Creator.

Sabbath has always been about both stopping and abiding.

Jesus Is Our Sabbath

One insight has stayed with me ever since I first encountered it.

Jesus doesn’t simply teach about Sabbath.

In many ways, Jesus becomes our Sabbath.

He invites exhausted people not merely to observe a day, but to enter into a relationship.

Rest is no longer something we have to earn.

It is something we receive.

That doesn’t mean we no longer need rhythms of Sabbath. Quite the opposite. Setting aside time to worship, to unplug, to breathe deeply, to enjoy creation, and to be fully present with the people we love are still holy practices.

But those practices aren’t another item for our spiritual to-do list.

They become ways of responding to the grace we’ve already been given.

Learning to Live Differently

The older I get, the more I realize that Sabbath isn’t laziness.

It’s trust.

Every time we stop working—even briefly—we are quietly confessing that the world does not depend entirely on us.

God is still God.

Creation continues.

Grace continues.

Love continues.

Perhaps one of the most faithful things we can do this week is simply to pause.

Turn off the phone for a while.

Take a walk without earbuds (or at least listen to something other than the news!)

Sit on the porch.

Read Scripture slowly.

Pray.

Share a meal without distractions.

Notice the beauty that has been there all along.

These aren’t escapes from the real world.

They are reminders of what is most real.

When Jesus says, “Come to me,” he isn’t offering one more obligation. He’s offering freedom from the endless striving that leaves our souls exhausted.

Perhaps the greatest consequence of never resting isn’t simply that we become tired. It’s that we forget who we are. We begin to believe our value comes from what we accomplish instead of remembering that, before we ever do anything, we are already God’s beloved children. Sabbath gently reminds us that our identity is a gift of grace, not something we earn.

The world will always urge us to keep producing, achieving, consuming, and hurrying.

Jesus offers something entirely different.

Rest.

And perhaps that is exactly what so many of us have been longing for all along.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, June 28, 2026

A reflection for the journey of faith — sometimes we all need a little light for 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. (Scroll down for previous posts)

Sunday June 28 – Fifth Sunday after Pentecost/Lectionary 13
Jeremiah 28:5-9
Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18
Romans 6:12-23
Matthew 10:40-42

The Welcome That Changes Everything: Finding the Yellow Ribbons of God’s Grace

One of the words we hear a lot in Christian communities is welcome.

“Welcome to worship.” “Everyone is welcome.” “You are welcome here.”

It is a good word. A necessary word. A word that reflects the heart of the gospel.

But I wonder sometimes if “welcome” has become a little too familiar — a word we say so often that we forget to ask what it really means.

What does it mean to truly welcome someone?

The dictionary definition tells us that to welcome means “to greet hospitably and with courtesy or cordiality” or “to accept with pleasure the presence of someone or something.”

That is a good beginning. But I think biblical welcome goes deeper than simply being polite or friendly.

There is a difference between being greeted at the door and being made to feel that you truly belong.

Most of us can remember a time when someone welcomed us in a way that went beyond ordinary kindness — a time when someone’s actions communicated, “We are glad you are here. We have been waiting for you.”

That kind of welcome has the power to change us.

There is a story that captures that kind of welcome. It became the inspiration for the 1973 song “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Ole Oak Tree.”

The story tells of a man returning home after serving time in prison. He wasn’t sure if his wife would still want him back. He had written to her, telling her he understood if she had moved on, but if she still wanted him, she should tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree near their home.

As the bus approached his town, he didn’t know what he would find. He was prepared for disappointment. He was prepared to keep riding.

But when the bus reached the tree, he and the other passengers saw not one yellow ribbon — but hundreds of them.

She wasn’t simply saying, “You can come home.”

She was saying, “You belong here.”

That is the kind of welcome Jesus is talking about in Matthew 10.

Jesus has been preparing and sending his disciples out into the world. He has warned them that their message will not always be received. There will be rejection. There will be challenges. There will be times when following Jesus is difficult.

But then Jesus says:

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”
— Matthew 10:40

Jesus connects welcome with the very presence of God.

When we welcome others, we are not simply being nice. We are participating in God’s work in the world.

And then Jesus says something that is both comforting and challenging:

“Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones … will not lose their reward.”

A cup of cold water.

Not a grand gesture. Not a perfect act of faith. Not something that will make headlines.

Just a simple act of kindness offered in love.

This is important because sometimes we think God’s work requires extraordinary things from extraordinary people. We imagine that making a difference requires a large platform, a special gift, or a life-changing sacrifice.

But Jesus reminds us that the kingdom of God is often revealed in small acts of love.

A conversation with someone who feels forgotten. A meal shared with someone who is hungry. A listening ear offered to someone who is hurting. A word of encouragement at just the right moment.

Small acts of welcome can become signs of God’s extravagant love.

And that brings us to the deeper question:

Why are we able to offer that kind of welcome to others?

Because first, we have received it ourselves.

Before we can truly extend God’s love, we need to know — deep within our own hearts — that we are loved by God.

Not because we have earned it. Not because we have gotten everything right. Not because we have somehow become worthy enough.

God’s love comes first.

The apostle Paul writes:

“But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.”
— Romans 5:8

While we were still sinners.

Before we had everything figured out. Before we had cleaned up our mistakes. Before we had become the people we hoped we would be.

God loved us.

God placed the yellow ribbons around the tree.

All of them.

That is the extravagant welcome of God.

And yet, so many of us struggle to believe it.

We carry regrets. We carry shame. We carry memories we wish we could erase. We carry those things that wake us up in the middle of the night and whisper, “Surely God cannot really love you after that.”

But the message of the gospel is this:

Yes. God does.

You are loved by God. You are forgiven by God. You are welcomed by God.

Not someday when you become a better version of yourself.

Today.

Right now.

Exactly where you are.

And when we begin to trust that truth, something changes. We become people who can offer that same welcome to others.

We begin to see people not as strangers, problems, or outsiders — but as beloved children of God.

Maybe the question for us this week is not simply, “How welcoming is my church?” or “How welcoming is my community?”

Maybe the deeper question is:

Have I truly received God’s welcome for myself?

Because when we know we are already embraced by God’s grace, we become people who can open our arms wider to the world around us.

The world needs more yellow ribbons.

More reminders that people are loved. More places where people belong. More communities where grace is stronger than judgment.

And the good news is that God has already tied the ribbon around the tree.

We are invited home.

May you know this week that you are deeply loved, fully welcomed, and held in the grace of God.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, June 21, 2026

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

Sunday June 21 – Fourth Sunday after Pentecost/Lectionary 12
Jeremiah 20:7-13
Psalm 69:7-10 [11-15] 16-18 (16)
Romans 6:1b-11
Matthew 10:24-39

Prayer of the Day
Teach us, good Lord God, to serve you as you deserve, to give and not to count the cost, to fight and not to heed the wounds, to toil and not to seek for rest, to labor and not to ask for reward, except that of knowing that we do your will, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen.

What Needs to Die So New Life Can Grow?

One of the first things I heard in seminary was a statement that caught me completely off guard. A professor stood before our class and said, “God wants to kill you.”

I remember thinking, “Excuse me? Did I come to the right place? Isn’t this where we are supposed to learn about a loving God, a gracious God, a God who came to give us life and life abundantly?”

But as the semester continued, I began to understand what my professor meant. He wasn’t talking about God wanting to destroy us. He was talking about the ways God’s love transforms us. God’s work in our lives often involves putting to death the things that keep us from becoming the people God created us to be.

The Bible uses the language of death and new life often. But when Scripture speaks about death, it is not only talking about the end of our physical lives.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I am not minimizing the pain of physical death. Many of us have lost loved ones, and it is one of the hardest experiences of this life. Jesus knew that. But he also knew that our souls—our faith, our spirituality, and our desire for God’s presence—matter most of all.

God’s desire is not to take life away from us. God’s desire is to free us from everything that prevents us from living fully.

That is an important message for us as we hear today’s readings, because the life of faith is not always easy. Following God’s call does not always lead to comfort, popularity, or approval.

The prophet Jeremiah knew this firsthand.

Jeremiah had been called by God to speak a difficult truth to the people of Judah. He warned them that their choices were leading them away from God. He challenged leaders who were more concerned with power than with faithfulness. He spoke words that people did not want to hear.

And what happened?

He was beaten and placed in the stocks by the priest Pashhur.

Jeremiah was doing exactly what God called him to do, and yet he suffered because of it.

Sometimes we imagine that if we are faithful, everything will fall into place. We assume that following God means our lives will become easier, our problems will disappear, and people will always appreciate what we say and do.

But Jeremiah reminds us that faithfulness can be costly.

Jesus knew this too.

In today’s Gospel reading from Luke, Jesus speaks strong words against those who use religion as a way to hide the truth. The religious leaders were angry because Jesus challenged their assumptions and exposed the ways they had lost sight of God’s compassion and justice.

Jesus warns that what is hidden will eventually be revealed. The things we try to cover up—the things we avoid naming, the ways we fail to love God and neighbor—God sees clearly.

But this is not a message meant to frighten us. It is an invitation to honesty. God already knows us completely, and still God loves us completely.

Psalm 69 gives voice to someone who feels abandoned and overwhelmed. The psalmist cries out, “Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.”

Maybe you have felt that way at some point in your life.

Maybe you have felt overwhelmed by grief, uncertainty, family struggles, health concerns, loneliness, or the painful divisions we see in our communities and our world.

The good news of Scripture is that God does not stand far away from those moments. God meets us there!

The God who was present with Jeremiah in his suffering, the God who heard the cries of the psalmist, the God who walked with Jesus through rejection and the cross—that same God walks with us.

And that brings us back to what my seminary professor was trying to teach us.

God wants to put to death the things that keep us from experiencing the fullness of life in Christ.

God wants to put to death our need to always be right.

God wants to put to death our fear that there will never be enough.

God wants to put to death the bitterness that separates us from one another.

God wants to put to death the voices that tell us we are only as valuable as our accomplishments, our possessions, or our status.

God wants to put to death the walls we build between ourselves and our neighbors.

Because when those things begin to die, something new begins to grow.

A deeper compassion.

A stronger faith.

A greater trust in God.

A more generous love for the world around us.

The Christian life is not about becoming perfect. It is about being continually transformed by God’s grace. It is about allowing God to shape us into people who reflect Christ’s love more fully.

And sometimes that transformation is uncomfortable. Sometimes God calls us to let go of things we have held onto for a long time. Sometimes God calls us to speak when silence would be easier. Sometimes God calls us to trust when we cannot see the way ahead.

But we never walk that path alone.

The same God who called Jeremiah, the same Christ who stood with those who were rejected and hurting, the same Spirit who gives courage to God’s people today is with us.

So this week, I invite you to reflect on these questions:

What is God inviting you to let go of?

What needs to be put to death so that something new and life-giving can grow?

Where might God be calling you to speak a word of compassion, justice, or hope?

Because God’s goal is not to diminish our lives. God’s goal is to make us fully alive.

The God who calls us into transformation is also the God who carries us through it.

Let us pray:

Life-giving God, you know us completely and love us completely. Help us release the things that keep us from you and from one another. Give us courage like Jeremiah, honesty like the psalmist, and the compassion of Jesus. Shape us into people who reflect your love in a world that desperately needs hope. May we trust that even when something in us must die, you are always bringing forth new life. In the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer. Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, June 14, 2026

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

Sunday June 14 – Third Sunday after Pentecost/Lectionary 11

Readings
Exodus 19:2-8a
Psalm 100 (3)
Romans 5:1-8
Matthew 9:35—10:8 [9-23]

Hope That Does Not Disappoint

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

Let me ask you something: did any of you get up early this morning for a cardio workout? Did you spring out of bed, lace up your running shoes, and head out for a five-mile run? Maybe lift some weights? Or hop on your bike and ride all the way to the next town over and back?

Yeah, me neither. I keep telling myself I’m going to get started, but if I’m honest, I’m not a big fan of sweating—or of the suffering that sometimes comes with getting in shape. And I’ll admit it: trading buttery popcorn for celery sticks, or a thick chocolate malt for a fruit smoothie, does not sound like my idea of a good time.

Still, we know there is some truth to it: if we want to be healthy, some discomfort is part of the journey. Doctors, dieticians, nutritionists, and health coaches remind us that exercise and discipline can help us live healthier, less painful lives. And yes, they may even help the clothes in our closet fit a little more kindly.

That may be why I always feel a little uneasy when I hear Apostle Paul’s words in today’s second reading from Romans. In verse 3, Paul says, “we also boast in our sufferings.” Other translations say we “glory” or “rejoice” in our sufferings. And if you are anything like me, you may hear that and think, “Really, Paul? Rejoice in suffering?” Maybe that is one reason heaven sounds so wonderful—I am fairly sure there are no Pelotons in the heavenly realms.

But Paul does not stop there. He goes on to say that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope—a hope that does not disappoint. In other words, Paul is pointing us toward a deeper kind of strength, the kind God forms in us over time.

Of course, Paul is not talking about becoming America’s next top model, surviving “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” or finishing a 5K or 10K race.

Paul is talking about the suffering that comes with life itself—the trials, losses, disappointments, and hardships we all face sooner or later. Those struggles do not test only our bodies. They test our hearts, our minds, our spirits, and sometimes even our faith.

But Paul is not standing over us like a drill sergeant at spiritual boot camp. He is not adding more weight to weary shoulders. He is not saying, “Try harder. Push more. Suffer longer.” No—Paul is offering us comfort.

He is reminding us that we endure by faith, not by proving ourselves strong enough. That is the heart of the gospel. We are justified—made right with God—not because we have earned it, achieved it, or suffered well enough, but because of Jesus Christ. We stand in grace as a gift. We do not carry suffering by our own strength alone. God’s LOVE has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given—GIVEN—freely to us.

And friends, that grace-filled love is at the heart of it all. Have you noticed that? When we know we are loved—not because we have it all together, but simply because we are held by God and by one another—the heavy things can feel a little easier to bear. In baptism, God has already claimed us as beloved children, and that promise holds even when life feels uncertain.

Even exercise and dieting can be easier when someone walks that road with us. Love helps us go the extra mile. Love moves us to step outside ourselves for the sake of someone else. In Lutheran language, that is vocation: God working through ordinary people in ordinary places to care for the neighbor. And when love asks something of us—even something hard—the burden is lighter because we are not alone.

That is the love of God—the love that carries us through the hardest seasons. It is love for every one of us, even in our sin and weakness. This is not cheap optimism or a command to smile through pain. It is gospel promise: because God’s love has been poured into us through the Holy Spirit, suffering does not get the final word. Christ does. God can meet us in the struggle, form endurance in us, and grow in us a hope that will never disappoint.

And we need that kind of love in our world right now, don’t we?

Here is the good news: I still see that love of Christ at work in people. We see painful things on television and social media, and we hear plenty about the anger, division, and hurt that seem to mark so much of life these days. That is real. We do not need to deny it. But thanks be to God, there are still countless people quietly living out the gospel by choosing mercy, compassion, and love of neighbor.

They are the people who see suffering and refuse to look away. They do what they can, where they can, not to earn God’s love, but because God’s love has already been given. They become, by grace, little signs of Christ’s presence in a hurting world.

Fred Rogers—Mr. Rogers—called them “the helpers.” He once said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”

Prayer: Gracious God, source of mercy and hope, we give you thanks today for the people through whom your love becomes visible—the helpers, the neighbors, the servants, the quiet witnesses to your grace. Thank you for working through ordinary hands, ordinary feet, ordinary words, and ordinary acts of compassion. Renew us in the promise of our baptism, Lord, and send us out in faith to be signs of your love, instruments of your peace, and bearers of your hope in a world that needs your mercy so deeply. We pray this in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, and all of God’s children say, Amen!

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, June 7, 2026

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

Sunday June 7 – Second Sunday after Pentecost/Lectionary 10
Hosea 5:15—6:6
Psalm 50:7-15
Romans 4:13-25
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

The Jesus Kind of Healing

Grace and peace to you in the name of the One who makes us whole—our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

A few years ago, my daughter called to tell me that my grandson, who was about three at the time, had been running down the hallway at their church, tripped, and hurt his foot. At first, they weren’t sure what was wrong. He wouldn’t put any weight on it, so after calling urgent care, they were told to take him to the ER.

After several X-rays and more than one diagnosis, they finally got a clear answer from a specialist: he had broken his foot.

Not long after that, my daughter tried to get him to take a nap one afternoon. He was not interested. She told him, “If you rest, it will help your foot heal.” He replied, “I don’t need a nap—Jesus will heal my foot.”

I don’t remember exactly how she answered, but she still made him take the nap!

Jesus will heal it. Maybe he was just playing the “Jesus card” to avoid a nap. But I heard him say it more than once, with simple confidence, while I was there helping. While the adults were focused on diagnoses, treatment, and next steps, my grandson—usually busy coloring or building with Legos—kept calmly reminding us that God would heal his foot.

What a gift that kind of childlike faith is— the kind of faith Jesus tells us to have, yet the kind we often struggle to hold onto as we grow older and more skeptical.

In the next few weeks, we’ll hear several healing stories from Matthew’s Gospel.

Today’s passage is no exception: Jesus is healing people. A religious leader’s daughter is near death, or perhaps already gone. A woman has lived with a bleeding disorder for twelve years.

To be honest, when I read these healing stories, my thoughts and emotions pull in different directions. I’m inspired, but I’m also puzzled. These stories give me hope, yet they can also leave me with questions.

Most of us have seen people experience healing—sometimes in ways that feel remarkable, even miraculous.

And most of us have seen the opposite too: people who were not healed in the ways we hoped or prayed for.

So, what are we supposed to do with that? Does it really come down to faith, as Jesus seems to suggest when he tells the woman, “Your faith has made you well”?

Let’s pause there for a moment.

I’ve seen people recover from illness who did not seem to have much faith in Jesus at all.

And I’ve seen faithful people suffer illness without receiving the healing they longed for.

So again, what do we make of that?

That is the question before us.

As I prayed and reflected on these stories, I sensed God saying, “Don’t get stuck trying to define healing too narrowly. Focus on being made well.”

Don’t focus only on physical healing, as if that were the whole story. Jesus seems to say, “You do not understand healing the way I do. Look at who I am healing.” It is everyone: tax collectors and sinners, the child of a religious leader, and a woman who had been labeled unclean for years. It is people with very little faith and people with such bold faith that they reach out just to touch the hem of his garment.

And in one way or another, God brings healing to them all.

We do not have to prove our worthiness, and we do not have to measure where we fall on some scale of faith.

We are simply invited to trust that in Christ we are being made well. The Greek word used in this passage is sozo, a word that can mean healed, saved, made whole, or delivered. In other words, Jesus is doing more than restoring bodies. He is restoring lives.

He is making us whole.

That is the kind of healing we are called to trust. Will that trust always bring the exact outcome we think we need? No. But it can hold us steady. It can carry us when our strength gives out. It can surround us with a peace that passes understanding when we can no longer make sense of what is happening.

God’s healing comes in many forms. Sometimes it looks like recovery. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like comfort, courage, or the strength to take the next breath and the next step. Sometimes it looks like letting go of our own understanding and leaning on God’s ways.

Sometimes what does not look like healing at first becomes a deeper kind of healing than we ever expected. I have heard people say, “I would never have chosen what I went through, but in the middle of it I came to know God’s presence and love more deeply than ever before.” And that, too, is holy. That, too, is healing. That too, is being made well.

So whatever healing looks like in your life right now, hear this good news: God has not abandoned you.

God is with you in the waiting.

God is with you in the grief.

God is with you in the unanswered questions.

And God is with you in the hope that still flickers in the dark.

The One who makes us whole is still at work—gently, faithfully, lovingly—making you well, making you whole. So, hold on. Trust the journey God has you on. And when your faith feels small, trust that Christ is still holding on to you. Trust that your healing is coming. Better and more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, May 31, 2026

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

Sunday May 31 – The Holy Trinity
First Sunday After Pentecost
Genesis 1:1–2:4a
Psalm 8
2 Corinthians 13:11-13
Matthew 28:16-20

WHY?

Grace and peace to you in the name of our Triune God — Creator, Christ, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Why?”

If you’ve ever spent time with a child, you know exactly how that goes.

Why is the sky blue?
Why do people get sick?
Why can’t I stay up later?
Why do bad things happen?
Why do I have to eat vegetables?
Why? Why? Why?

And usually, parents and grandparents do their best to answer those questions thoughtfully and patiently… until eventually, exhausted and out of answers, they say something like:
“Because I said so!”

Honestly, sometimes faith feels a little like that.

Today is Holy Trinity Sunday — the one Sunday every year when pastors everywhere collectively sigh and think:
“Now how exactly are we supposed to explain this?”

One God.
Three persons.
Creator, Son, Holy Spirit.
Three in one and one in three.

And to make things even more interesting, the word “Trinity” never actually appears in scripture.

So naturally, people ask:
Why do we believe this?
Why does it matter?
And how can something this mysterious possibly connect to real life?

Truthfully, Christians have been wrestling with those questions for centuries. Some of the greatest theologians in history have tried to explain the Trinity with diagrams and metaphors and complicated language — and most of them eventually fall apart if you push them too far.

This week, as I was preparing for today, I found myself asking God those same questions again:
Why do we keep trying to explain something that seems impossible to explain?

And in that quiet way God so often speaks — not loudly, but persistently — the answer that came was quick and simple:

“Just tell them that I love them.”

And I thought:
Well… that can’t possibly be enough for Trinity Sunday.

But think about it for a bit. Because, maybe it is just right for Trinity Sunday.

Because maybe love is exactly what the Trinity is about.

When we open the scriptures, we don’t meet a distant God disconnected from the world. We meet a God who is constantly reaching outward in relationship.

In Genesis, God creates.
God speaks light into darkness.
God brings life where there was emptiness.
God calls creation “very good.”

And honestly, we need that reminder right now.

Because we live in a world where it can feel like everything is unraveling:
wars that never seem to end,
politics built on fear and outrage,
communities divided,
people anxious about the future,
creation itself groaning under climate disasters and destruction.

Some days it becomes hard to believe the world is still “very good.”

And yet Genesis reminds us:
before there was fear,
before there was violence,
before there was hatred or greed,
there was love.

Creation itself began in love.

The Triune God creates not out of loneliness or power, but out of relationship and abundance and grace.

And then, when humanity wandered away — when violence and selfishness and sin entered the story — God did not walk away from creation.

God came closer.

That’s who Jesus is.

Not God standing at a distance.
Not God condemning the world.
But God stepping directly into human life.

Into joy and grief.
Into celebration and suffering.
Into broken systems and wounded hearts.

Jesus touched people others avoided.
Jesus crossed boundaries society enforced.
Jesus welcomed people religion often excluded.
Jesus reminded people that they belonged to God long before the world told them otherwise.

And ultimately, Jesus showed us that God’s love is stronger than fear, stronger than sin, even stronger than death itself.

That is the work of the Son.

And then comes the Spirit.

Jesus tells the disciples:
“I will not leave you orphaned.”

Because God’s presence did not end with resurrection or ascension.

The Holy Spirit is still moving.

Still comforting.
Still challenging.
Still disrupting.
Still breathing life into weary hearts and tired churches and divided communities.

The Spirit shows up whenever courage rises in the face of hatred.
Whenever compassion wins over cruelty.
Whenever people choose justice instead of indifference.
Whenever forgiveness breaks cycles of shame.
Whenever people gather around tables where everyone is welcome.

The Spirit keeps reminding us:
You are not alone.
God is still here.
Love still has power.

Maybe that is the mystery of the Trinity.

Not a math problem to solve.
Not a doctrine to perfectly explain.

But a relationship to live inside of.

A God who creates us,
redeems us,
and stays with us.

A God who continually reaches toward the world in love.

And maybe that matters now more than ever.

Because we are living in a time when people are hungry for connection.
Hungry for belonging.
Hungry for hope that is deeper than outrage and stronger than fear.

The Trinity reminds us that relationship is at the center of who God is.
And if relationship is at the center of who God is, then relationship should also be at the center of who we are.

We were created for community.
For compassion.
For caring for one another and for this earth.
For reminding each other that every human being bears the image of God.

Even when the world forgets it.

Even when we forget it ourselves.

So if someone asks you this week:
“Can you explain the Trinity?”

You can certainly try.

But maybe the better answer is this:

The Trinity is how Christians describe a God who never stops loving the world.

A Creator who brings life.
A Savior who walks beside us.
A Spirit who refuses to abandon us.

Why?

Because God says so.

And because, somehow against all odds, God keeps showing it.

Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, May 24, 2026

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

Day of Pentecost
Acts 2:1-21
Psalm 104:24-34, 35b
1 Corinthians 12:3b-13
John 20:19-23

The Way Home

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

A while after I retired from full-time ministry, I found myself looking forward to something I never seemed to have enough time for before—reading. Over the years I had accumulated hundreds and hundreds of books on my Kindle. One evening I decided it was finally time to see what treasures were hiding in that digital library.

I came across a book by Christian author Max Lucado called God’s Story, Your Story. One chapter grabbed my attention immediately because it told the story of a man named Carl McCunn. It was such an unbelievable story that I later looked it up to make sure it was true. It was.

Carl McCunn loved wildlife photography. In 1981, after spending a year planning an Alaskan wilderness adventure, he hired a bush pilot to fly him into a remote area northeast of Fort Yukon. He brought rifles, food, supplies, and hundreds of rolls of film. He was prepared for months of isolation.

There was only one problem.

He never arranged for anyone to come back and get him.

For months he photographed wildlife and enjoyed the wilderness. Then reality began to set in. Summer turned to fall. Food supplies dwindled. Temperatures dropped. He realized no rescue plane was coming because he had never scheduled one.

Among the diary entries later recovered near his body was this heartbreaking understatement: “I think I should have used more foresight about arranging for my departure.”

After all of that planning, all of that preparation, he had forgotten the most important part—the way home.

It is a tragic story. And it raises an important question:

How often do we live as though we can make it on our own?

We plan. We organize. We work hard. We strive to be independent and self-sufficient. We create calendars and budgets and retirement plans. We try to control outcomes and manage uncertainties.

Yet sooner or later we discover that there are things we cannot handle by ourselves.

Grief.

Fear.

Broken relationships.

Illness.

The divisions that wound communities.

The uncertainty of what comes next.

The disciples discovered this too.

On the day of Pentecost, they were still trying to figure out life after Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension. They were uncertain about the future. They didn’t know what the church would become or whether they were capable of carrying on Jesus’ mission.

And then God showed up.

Not through careful planning.

Not through human strength.

But through wind and fire and Spirit.

The rushing wind filled the house. Tongues of fire rested upon them. And ordinary people suddenly found themselves speaking words of hope that crossed barriers of language, culture, and experience.

Pentecost is God’s reminder that we were never meant to do this alone.

God’s plan was never simply to forgive us and then leave us to figure out the rest by ourselves. God’s plan was to remain with us. To dwell within us. To empower us. To guide us.

Jesus promised an Advocate, a Helper, the Holy Spirit. And on Pentecost that promise became reality.

The Spirit is God’s own breath filling God’s people.

The Spirit comforts us when we are grieving.

The Spirit challenges us when we become complacent.

The Spirit gives courage when we are afraid.

The Spirit creates community where division threatens to pull us apart.

And perhaps we need that reminder today more than ever.

Our world can feel exhausting.

Every day we are bombarded by angry voices competing for our attention. Social media often rewards outrage more than understanding. Political disagreements fracture friendships and families. Wars continue around the globe. Many people carry deep anxiety about finances, health, or the future. Others struggle with loneliness and wonder if anyone truly sees them.

It is easy to become discouraged.

It is easy to retreat.

It is easy to believe that fear, division, and hatred are stronger than love.

But Pentecost tells a different story.

The Holy Spirit does not erase our differences. Instead, the Spirit enables people from different backgrounds and experiences to hear the good news together.

The Spirit does not create uniformity. Spirit creates unity.

The Spirit does not teach us whom to fear. Spirit teaches us how to love.

The Spirit does not build walls. Spirit opens doors.

That day of Pentecost was not about people speaking the same language. It was about people understanding one another through the power of God.

Imagine how much our communities, our nation, and even our churches need that gift today.

We need the Spirit of wisdom more than our certainty.

We need the Spirit of compassion more than our judgment.

We need the Spirit of courage more than our fear.

And we need the Holy Spirit’s peace and presence.

After the resurrection, Jesus repeatedly greeted his disciples with the same words:

“Peace be with you.”

Not because everything was fine.

Not because all their questions had been answered.

Not because the world had suddenly become safe and predictable.

But because Christ was present with them.

The same is true for us.

The Spirit does not promise a life free from hardship. The Spirit promises that God will never abandon us in the midst of it.

Unlike Carl McCunn, we are not stranded and forgotten.

We have not been left without a way home.

God has already made that plan.

Through Christ’s death and resurrection, through the gift of the Holy Spirit, God continues to guide us, strengthen us, and lead us toward the home God has prepared.

So, when the future feels uncertain…

When the world feels chaotic…

When hope feels difficult to find…

Listen again to the promise of Pentecost:

You are not alone.

God’s Spirit is with you.

God’s peace is within you.

God’s love is still at work in this world.

Come, Holy Spirit.

Fill our hearts.

Renew your church.

Give us courage to love, wisdom to listen, and strength to follow Christ wherever you lead.

For we have been sealed by your Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, May 17, 2026

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

Sunday May 17 – Seventh Sunday of Easter
Acts 1:6-14
Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35
1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
John 17:1-11

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

How many of you would say you are at least a little superstitious? My first instinct is to say no. I do not believe in those things anymore, though I did when I was younger. I remember someone giving me a rabbit’s foot for good luck. I kept it in a small box in my closet for years and forgot all about it until I moved out of my parents’ house. When I found it again, I laughed and threw it away.

Still, I think I remain a little superstitious about certain things, and I suspect most of us do. I remember once booking a flight on Friday the 13th and hesitating for a moment, wondering whether I really wanted to travel that day. (I booked it and had a wonderful flight!)

Out of curiosity, I looked up some common superstitions:

Friday the 13: Bad Luck.
Itchy Palm: Good Luck.
Walking Under a Ladder: Bad Luck.
Breaking a Mirror: Bad Luck.
Finding a Horseshoe: Good Luck.
Opening an Umbrella Inside: Bad Luck.
Knock Twice on Wood: Reverse Bad Luck.
Tossing Spilled Salt Over Your Shoulder: Good Luck.
Finding a penny – “find a penny, pick it up all day long you’ll have good luck!”
Black Cats: Bad Luck.
Saying “God Bless You”: Good Luck.

Even in the church, we can slip into superstition. A cross necklace can become more than a symbol of faith and start to feel like a good-luck charm. We may even think prayers work only if we say them in exactly the right way. One theory about the superstition of walking under a ladder is that it comes from the Christian idea of the Holy Trinity, since a ladder against a wall forms a triangle and breaking that shape was seen as blasphemous. It is interesting how easily faith and superstition can become mixed together.

In today’s first reading from Acts, we hear about Jesus’ ascension into heaven. At this point in the church year, we have celebrated Christ’s resurrection on Easter and read about his appearances to the disciples and other followers during the forty days that followed. Jesus has promised to send an advocate, the Holy Spirit, to be with us and guide us, and in today’s reading he is lifted up and taken out of their sight. The scene feels deeply supernatural.

We do not always place much emphasis on Jesus’ ascension. In fact, on the seventh Sunday of Easter, the lectionary even gives us a choice: focus on the Ascension or on Jesus’ prayer for his followers in today’s Gospel from John.

I think there is a reason for that. In our modern world, many people struggle to believe that Jesus’ ascension could really have happened.

For many people, a rabbit’s foot or avoiding a black cat may seem more believable than the idea of Jesus physically ascending into heaven to be with God. Perhaps it feels too fantastical to us—almost like science fiction.

Even the disciples struggled to take it in. They stood there staring into the sky, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Was he really gone? Was he coming back?

Do we do the same today? Do we find ourselves looking upward, searching for God, wondering where God is amid political unrest, war, financial stress, rising prices, and so much uncertainty about tomorrow?

At last, with the help of the angels, the disciples stopped staring into the sky. They understood what Jesus had been telling them all along: although he was leaving, he was not leaving them alone. God would remain with them through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Perhaps we need to do the same. We may need to stop looking to the sky—or to our televisions, phones, and computers—for the peace, wholeness, and answers we long for. In these chaotic and confusing times, perhaps we are called to do exactly what the disciples did in their own unsettling moment.

Those same disciples had doubted, speculated, worried, and at times even abandoned Jesus. Yet they finally understood. They stopped staring into the sky, returned to Jerusalem, and devoted themselves to prayer. They devoted themselves to God.

And it changed them completely—and it changed the world. God’s abiding presence, and trust in the power of the Holy Spirit, can do the same for us.

God does not abandon us in our time of need. Trust God’s Word and God’s promise to be with you in all that you are facing right now. Cast all your anxiety on the one who cares deeply for you—our Redeemer, our Lord, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

A Little Light for the Way – Sunday, April 26, 2026

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

Sunday, April 19 – Fourth Sunday of Easter
Acts 2:42-47
Psalm 23
1 Peter 2:19-25
John 10:1-10

The Shepherd’s Voice

Grace and peace to you in the name of the Good Shepherd—our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

This Fourth Sunday of Easter is often called Good Shepherd Sunday—and you can hear why in our worship today: our prayers, our hymns, and our readings keep returning to the image of God as the One who leads, feeds, protects, and restores.

We pray Psalm 23, that beloved confession that the Lord is our shepherd—providing what we need, leading us beside still waters, giving rest in green pastures, and walking with us even through the darkest valley.

And in the Gospel reading, Jesus uses that same shepherd image—not as a sentimental picture, but as a promise: his voice leads away from what destroys and toward the life God intends.

Sheila Walsh grew up on the west coast of Scotland with sheep all around her, so she learned their ways up close. From her book entitled: Loved Back to Life: How I Found the Courage to Live Free, she tells a story about the “Bummer Lamb”:

Of all the lessons I have learned from these defenseless, gentle animals, the most profound is also the most painful. Every now and then, a ewe will give birth to a lamb and immediately reject it. Sometimes the lamb is rejected because it is one of twins and the mother doesn’t have enough milk, or because she is old and frankly quite tired of the whole business. They call those lambs bummer lambs.

If the lamb is returned to the ewe, the mother may even kick the poor animal away. Once a ewe rejects one of her lambs, she will never change her mind. These little lambs will hang their heads so low that it looks like something is wrong with their necks. Their spirit is broken.

Unless the shepherd intervenes, that lamb will die—rejected and alone. So, do you know what the shepherd does?

They take that rejected little one into their home, hand-feed it, and keep it warm by the fire. They wrap it in blankets and hold it to their own chest so the bummer lamb can hear their heartbeat. Once the lamb is strong enough, the shepherd places it back in the field with the rest of the flock.

But that sheep never forgets how the shepherd cared for him when his mother rejected him. When the shepherd calls for the flock, guess who runs to them first?

That’s right—the bummer sheep. He knows the shepherd’s voice intimately.

It’s not that the bummer lamb is loved more; it’s that the lamb has experienced that love up close—and so it trusts it.

Walsh concludes, “I am so grateful that Christ calls himself the Good Shepherd.”

I don’t know about you, but there are days I feel like that bummer lamb. (My mom loved me.) But some days it feels like the world has no patience, no tenderness, and no room for our own struggles – especially when we’re carrying heavy loads or when we’re barely holding it together.

There are so many voices competing for our attention now—news alerts that never stop, social media feeds that measure worth in numbers, “hustle” culture that says rest is laziness, economic anxiety that says you are only as safe as your savings, and even new technologies that can imitate a voice so convincingly you start to wonder what is real. And I’ve noticed something: when I live by those voices, that’s when I start to feel like the bummer lamb—like I’m never going to be enough.

But notice what the voice of the Good Shepherd does—and does not do. Jesus doesn’t begin with a list of hoops to jump through. The Shepherd begins with a promise: “You are mine. You are known. You are loved.”

The Good Shepherd tells us that no matter how complicated, stressful, or frightening life gets—no matter how rejected, overlooked, or worn down we feel—God chooses us. God holds us. God will not let us go.

So the Shepherd keeps calling us back—not to denial, but to discernment. Not every loud voice deserves your trust. Not every demand deserves your life. Jesus says it plainly: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

And because he is our Shepherd, Jesus can say to us: “Breathe. Let me lead you beside still waters. Let me restore your soul. Let me give you the kind of rest the world cannot manufacture.” He guides us, protects us, and holds on to us through this life—and into the promised life to come.

That little bummer lamb learns the shepherd’s heartbeat and trusts the shepherd’s voice. On Good Shepherd Sunday, we’re invited to learn that voice again—especially when everything else is loud.

PRAY: God, our Good Shepherd, can I place my trust in you? Will you guide me as you promise? Lead me out of negativity, despair, worry, and fear—and into your security, peace, and comfort. When other voices crowd in, help me recognize yours. Give me courage to follow where you lead, and grace to rest when you say, “Come.” In Jesus’ name we pray, and all of God’s children say: AMEN!