Pieces of the Puzzle

When Paul writes to the Philippians, his message is not one of perfection, but of perseverance:

“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own… forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 3:12–14 (NRSV)

Paul is honest—he hasn’t arrived. He hasn’t figured it all out. But he presses on. He leans forward, letting go of what’s behind and reaching toward what’s ahead, not to prove himself, but to respond to grace.

That’s what a fresh start often looks like—not a flawless new chapter, but the choice to keep going when it would be easier to give up.

This week, I’ve been reflecting on steadfast purpose—what it means to stay on course with God, even when life is uncertain, painful, or when our efforts seem unfinished or unseen. Because fresh starts aren’t always dramatic. Sometimes, they’re quiet, gritty acts of faithfulness. They look like continuing to show up. To trust. To love. Especially when it’s hard.

Recovery, Honesty, and Grace

That reminds me of what I’ve learned through Celebrate Recovery. I entered hoping for a quick fix—a reset button. What I found instead was something slower, deeper, and far more honest.

It took time to get into the patterns that hurt me, and it would take time to walk out of them. Healing doesn’t happen overnight. A fresh start isn’t a light switch. It’s a journey: one step, one day at a time.

In our Methodist tradition, we speak of moving on toward perfection—not flawlessness, but a life increasingly shaped by grace, growing in love of God and neighbor. That’s the kind of fresh start I needed. Not control or clarity. But surrender.

“Perfection” in this sense isn’t about arriving. It’s about being open to transformation.

By definition, a fresh start is “a complete change in your way of life or the way you do things, especially after you’ve previously been unsuccessful.” But real change doesn’t happen just because we want it to. It happens when we shift our expectations. When we realign our direction. When we let go of control and trust God’s grace more than our own efforts.

The Mothering Heart of Christ

We see this kind of grace-filled purpose in Jesus, too.

In Luke 13:31–35, Jesus is warned to turn back for his own safety. But he refuses to be dissuaded. He isn’t driven by fear—he’s led by love.

“How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”
— Luke 13:34 (NRSV)

This image—Jesus as a mother hen—may not be what first comes to mind when we think of strength. But it reveals something deeply powerful about the nature of God: a love that is both tender and fierce. Protective and purposeful.

When Jesus is threatened, he doesn’t lash out or flee. He doesn’t try to save himself. He stays the course. Because his mission isn’t about proving anything—it’s about embodying love.

He grieves, not because people failed to obey, but because they refused to be gathered. This is not a distant God. This is a God who longs to gather us close—even when we resist. Even when we run.

When Falling Isn’t the End

That’s where theology meets real life.

A fresh start in Christ rarely looks like a triumphant reset. More often, it looks like pressing forward through pain. Releasing control. Trusting in grace.

That’s what Paul models in Philippians. He doesn’t claim to have all the answers. He doesn’t speak as someone who has “arrived.” He speaks as someone in process. Someone who is growing, learning, and being continually reshaped by grace.

This reminds me of a scene from Chariots of Fire, the film about Olympic runner and missionary Eric Liddell. In one race, Liddell is knocked down and falls hard. For a moment, it seems like the race is lost. But then he gets back up. And not only does he run—he runs harder. He catches up. He wins.

That’s what Paul is saying:
Press on. Get back up. Keep going.
Not because you’re strong, but because Christ has already taken hold of you (Philippians 3:12).

A fresh start isn’t about perfection. It’s about holy persistence—rooted in grace and shaped by hope.

Are You Ready to Be Gathered?

So where does that leave us?

If Jesus refuses to turn back—even in the face of danger—what does that mean for those of us just trying to get through the day? What does it mean to press on when we’re exhausted, unsure, or afraid?

What might it look like to let ourselves be gathered—when we’ve spent so long trying to hold everything together on our own?

That brings me back to my own recovery journey. I thought righteousness meant self-sufficiency. That following Jesus meant having it all together. But when I heard the Serenity Prayer spoken aloud in a room full of people still in the mess, I realized something important:
I didn’t need to be fixed to belong. I didn’t need to be healed to start healing.
I just needed to be honest.

That was my fresh start. Not control. Not clarity. Just surrender.

Choosing, over and over again, to trust that Jesus wasn’t waiting for me to measure up—Jesus was already reaching for me. Like a mother hen with open wings.

That choice—to surrender, to stay, to be gathered—is one I still have to make. Often.

Making Room Under God’s Wings

If Jesus is still reaching out in compassion, then that must shape how we live—not just as individuals, but as the church.

Because Jesus didn’t speak these words in private. He spoke them in public:
To the faithful. To the skeptical. To the ones on the margins.

This call to love and surrender isn’t for the spiritually elite. It’s for all of us.

So we must ask ourselves:
Are we making room under God’s wings?
Are we welcoming those who’ve been hurt, silenced, or forgotten?
Are we a church for the already-put-together—or for those still falling apart?

If we take Jesus at his word, then the ones most often excluded are exactly the ones God longs to gather.

Following Jesus isn’t just about beliefs. It’s about bearing crosses. Extending compassion. Living courageously. Offering the kind of love that costs something—but reflects Jesus completely.

A fresh start isn’t just something we receive. It’s something we extend. Again and again. Together.

Final Reflections

Following Jesus may not look the way we imagined.
It doesn’t always make life easier. But it does make life deeper.

Even when we fall, the race isn’t over.
Even when we resist being gathered, God’s wings are still open.
Even when healing is slow, God is still at work.

This is the Fresh Start Jesus offers—not just once, but again and again.

And the good news?
We don’t walk this road alone.
Jesus goes before us. Grace holds us. And we journey forward as a people shaped by compassion, where fresh starts happen not just for us—but for all those God is still gathering.

May we be the kind of people—and the kind of church—who say yes.
Yes to pressing on.
Yes to being gathered.
Yes to the slow, courageous, beautiful work of love.

My Journey with the Serenity Prayer

The first time I saw the Serenity Prayer, I was about ten years old.

It hung on the wall near our kitchen table — a year-long calendar with those words printed across the top. Every time we sat down for a meal, my eyes — always drawn to words — would land on that prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

I didn’t fully understand it then, but something deep inside me resonated with it. Because even as a child, my life already felt a little out of control. I longed for peace — for order, for safety — for someone to step in and make sense of the chaos.

“I’ve seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment has no bounds.”
— Psalm 119:96 (CEB)

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My Name Is Jennifer…

…and I am a grateful believer in Jesus Christ who struggles daily with trying to order the chaos around me.

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My parents married young — not unusually young for their time, but still young. Within the first year, my mother became pregnant with me. My biological father didn’t want a child. He didn’t want me.

Still, my mother chose to carry the pregnancy. She went to every appointment alone, cared for me without emotional support, and did what she could with what she had. When I was born, it was my grandmother who brought us home from the hospital.

“Even if my father and mother left me all alone, the Lord would take me in.”
— Psalm 27:10

One night, holding me in a bar where my father was drinking, my mother’s spirit stirred. She heard it clearly:

“This is not the life I want for my daughter.”

By the time I was one, she was divorced, and we had moved in with my grandparents. Eventually, she met the man I now call Dad — the man who chose to love me, adopted me when I was three, and has never left my side.

“This is my commandment: love each other just as I have loved you.”
— John 15:12

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Loss and Love in the Same Breath

I do not know my biological father. His absence has always been part of my story — a quiet ache. But also present was the steady love of a man who chose me. I’ve learned that both loss and love can live side by side.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he saves those whose spirits are crushed.”
— Psalm 34:18

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I Grew Up Watching People and Hiding Myself

I’ve always been a reflective person — someone who processes life on the inside. As a child, I didn’t know what to do with the abandonment I felt. And I didn’t feel I had permission to grieve, because I had an adoptive father who loved me well.

That tension stayed buried — unspeakable, but heavy.

“You have kept track of my every toss and turn. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. Are they not listed in your scroll?”
— Psalm 56:8

I became very good at tuning in to other people’s needs and emotions, even when I couldn’t name my own. I learned to avoid conflict, keep quiet, and maintain peace — even at the cost of myself.

What started as survival eventually turned into silence. I lost my ability to ask for what I needed or to even recognize when I was hurting. Over time, that became a kind of brokenness: poor boundaries, silent suffering, emotional exhaustion.

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Drowning in the Silence

Twenty years later, I was drowning — not just sad, but unable to function. My emotions were numb. My thoughts were foggy. My prayers had no words.

“My God, my God, why have you left me all alone? Why are you so far from saving me?”
— Psalm 22:1

In that silence, I had just enough clarity to recognize that life wasn’t working. I wanted to be a better mom. I wanted to live. But I didn’t know where to begin.

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A Small Retreat and a Crack of Light

I wasn’t expecting a breakthrough at a church retreat. I just needed a quiet place to feel close to God.

But during a small group conversation, two women gently invited me to begin naming what I was feeling — even if I didn’t yet understand it. They didn’t try to fix me or offer shallow advice. They simply held space for me to be honest.

“Carry each other’s burdens and so you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2

One woman, in particular, shared her own story. She spoke of codependency — a word I had never heard — and how Celebrate Recovery had given her the tools to find healing, boundaries, and a deeper walk with God.

At first, I thought: That’s not me. I’m just tired.

But her story stayed with me. The words she used gave shape to my pain. And I knew deep down: I could not keep living the way I had been.

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Walking into the Unknown

I didn’t know a soul the first time I walked into Celebrate Recovery at Cokesbury, in Knoxville TN.

I slipped in quietly, hoping not to be noticed — and yet hoping to be understood.

“Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

As a preacher’s kid, I rarely felt free to be my full self — especially in church. I felt watched, labeled, expected to perform. But in Celebrate Recovery, I could simply be. No more pretending. No more polished image. Just me — broken and beloved.

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Finding My Voice

The first gift CR gave me was freedom: freedom to stop performing and just be real. Over time, my husband and children began to come with me. We worshiped together — as we were, not as people expected us to be.

The second gift was my voice. In my women’s share group, I listened first. Then slowly, I began to speak. I started to name what I felt. I learned how to set boundaries — not out of fear or anger, but from a place of love and wisdom.

“Speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ.”
— Ephesians 4:15

And I learned something critical: I didn’t get here overnight. I wouldn’t climb out overnight either. Healing came slowly, but it came.

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Letting Go of What I Cannot Fix

Part of me had hoped that if I got help, my family would too. That if I healed, they might follow.

But I learned a hard and beautiful truth:

“Each of us will have to give an account of ourselves to God.”
— Romans 14:12

I can love people. I can encourage them. But I cannot fix them. That role belongs to God.

“Salvation comes from the Lord!”
— Jonah 2:9

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The Prayer Comes Full Circle

Looking back, I can see it: God was working in me long before I ever knew what recovery meant. That Serenity Prayer I read as a child? It was a seed.

When I heard the full version of the prayer at Celebrate Recovery, I was ready — not just to recite it, but to live it.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; don’t rely on your own intelligence. Know God in all your paths, and God will keep your ways straight.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

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The Full Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time,
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace;
taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will;
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

“I am confident of this: the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

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Your Story Matters Too

If any part of my story echoes in you — the silence, the sorrow, the search for peace — please know this:

You are not alone.
You are not beyond hope.
And you don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine.

There is grace enough for your story — not just the polished parts, but the broken ones too. There is a God who sees, who heals, and who walks with us from chaos to peace — one step at a time.

You may have read Psalm 25 recently—or perhaps it’s new to you—but its prayer is striking: a soul opening wide to God in trust and vulnerability. It’s not just a cry for rescue; it’s a plea for direction. Psalm 25 rises out of fear and uncertainty, yet it boldly declares, “Even though I don’t know what’s coming next, I choose to trust you anyway” (Psalm 25:4–5).

That’s the posture of someone ready for a fresh start. Not just a spiritual tune-up, but a complete reorientation—of priorities, direction, and identity.

The Courage to Begin Again

We usually think of fresh starts as exciting: a new job, a new relationship, a new season. But the kind of fresh start that truly changes us often begins when we realize we can’t continue on as we are. When what once worked no longer does. And that takes more than enthusiasm. It takes courage (Ephesians 4:22–24).

I remember the first time I saw the Serenity Prayer. I was about ten years old. It hung on a kitchen calendar—quiet, but unforgettable:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.

Even as a child, my world already felt unpredictable. That prayer settled into my spirit like a seed.

Years later, emotionally shut down and exhausted, I heard it again—spoken aloud in a room full of people seeking healing through Celebrate Recovery. That was the beginning of my own fresh start. Not because everything magically improved, but because I stopped trying to hold it all together on my own (Matthew 11:28).

Healing, I learned, wasn’t about control. It was about surrender. And courage. And showing up—again and again—to let God change me from the inside out (Romans 12:2).

That kind of transformation required me to lay something down—pride, assumptions, control—before I could pick up something better (1 Peter 5:6–7).

Are You Sure You’re Up for This?

That’s the question I’m holding out today: Are you sure you’re up for this?

Not because following Jesus is some kind of trap—but because it’s not always what we expect.

Sometimes the fresh start God offers doesn’t make life easier. It makes it deeper (John 10:10). It calls us to release what we think we know—and take hold of something that may be heavier, but far more life-giving.

That’s what the disciples encounter in Mark 8:27–38. Jesus asks them, “Who do you say that I am?” (v. 29). Peter gets the words right: “You are the Messiah”. But he misses the meaning.

Like many of us, Peter assumed the Messiah would come in power, in victory, in a way that avoids pain and sidesteps loss. He believed—but misunderstood. And Jesus rebukes him (v. 33), not because Peter is foolish, but because misunderstanding the nature of Jesus’ mission is dangerous.

The heart of the Gospel is not about control or conquest, but about self-giving love. About the cross.

A Fresh Start on God’s Terms

Jesus doesn’t fit anyone’s expectations. In Mark 8:31, he says:

“The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected… and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

This is a fresh start on God’s terms—not ours. It redefines what power looks like, what leadership means, and how new life is born (Isaiah 53:3–5).

Throughout the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is already breaking boundaries—healing Gentiles, feeding outsiders, touching the untouchable (Mark 7–8). That kind of compassion was risky. Even offensive. But it was the shape of his mission.

“Those who are well have no need of a physician… I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” (Mark 2:17).

He didn’t come just to be admired. He came to invite us to join him. That’s why he says:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34).

Not suffer for suffering’s sake. But suffer for love’s sake. For the sake of healing. For the sake of those still on the outside.

Discipleship is not about denying your worth. It’s about loosening your grip on control—over your image, your outcomes, even your spirituality—and re-centering your life on Christ (Philippians 2:5–8).

“Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it” (Mark 8:35).

That’s not a theory. It’s a lived reality.

The Paradox of Surrender

When I walked into that Celebrate Recovery gathering, I was spiritually dry and emotionally exhausted. I didn’t know what I needed. I just knew I couldn’t keep going the way I was.

I had always been the one trying to hold everything together. But recovery taught me that my perfectionism wasn’t strength—it was fear. And that fear was slowly destroying me.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight.” (Proverbs 3:5)

Denying myself didn’t mean erasing my identity. It meant surrendering my fear-driven need to manage everything. It meant trusting God with my life—one day at a time.

That’s the Fresh Start Jesus offers. Not once. But daily (Lamentations 3:22–23).

And yes, it comes with risk—because it requires vulnerability. But it also comes with resurrection. The slow, beautiful work of becoming whole again.

Where Might God Be Inviting You to a Fresh Start?

Maybe you’ve had a picture of what following Jesus should look like—and that picture didn’t include struggle, or loss, or letting go.

Maybe you’ve assumed faith would make things easier or more certain. But Jesus never promised comfort—Jesus promised life. And often, that life begins where our self-reliance ends (2 Corinthians 12:9).

So where might you be resisting the kind of fresh start Jesus is offering?

Where are you still holding on—to your image, your fear, your control?

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.” (Psalm 51:10)

You don’t have to be at rock bottom to begin again. But you do have to be honest.

Honest about your expectations of God. Honest about what’s no longer working. Honest about what you need to surrender.

That’s the beginning of discipleship. That’s the beginning of healing. That’s the beginning of a Fresh Start.

What Kind of Church Will We Be?

A fresh start isn’t just personal—it’s communal.

Jesus didn’t just call the disciples—he called the crowd too (Mark 8:34). This path of surrender and self-giving love isn’t just for the spiritual elite. It’s for all of us. Together.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)

So what does it mean for us, as a church, to take up our cross?

What do we need to lay down—maybe old assumptions or cherished comfort—for the sake of those Jesus loves who aren’t here yet?

How can we make space for people who are carrying shame, grief, addiction—those who feel unwelcome or unseen?

“Welcome one another… just as Christ has welcomed you.” (Romans 15:7)

A church that follows Jesus won’t be known only for Sunday mornings. It will be known by the crosses we bear on behalf of others. It will be a place where fresh starts are possible.

Are You Sure You’re Up for This?

So I’ll ask you again: Are you sure you’re up for this?

Not because Jesus wants to scare you off—but because Jesus wants you to know what’s at stake.

Following him means surrender. It means risk. It means letting go of what we thought would save us—and trusting that real life begins at the foot of the cross.

“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

You don’t walk this path alone. Jesus goes before you. And you walk in community—with grace, with honesty, with room for as many fresh starts as you need.

May we be the kind of people—and the kind of church—who say yes.

(Matthew 3:13–17; Isaiah 42:1–9)

Christmas came with light and song, angels and shepherds, wonder and warmth.
But now, the decorations are packed away. The sanctuary feels quieter. Many of us feel a bit tired—spiritually or otherwise. The joy of Christmas fades quickly into the long stretch of ordinary time.

But the Gospel does not fade.

After all the glory of Bethlehem, we might expect Jesus to step into the spotlight with majesty and might. Instead, he shows up at the river (Matthew 3:13).
There is no throne, no crown—just water, dust, and a prophet waist-deep in the Jordan.

This moment may seem quiet, even understated. But it is, in fact, a moment of deep power and abiding presence.
Here, Jesus steps into his calling.
Here, heaven opens.
Here, a new creation begins (Matthew 3:16–17; cf. Genesis 1:2).

We’ve just heard from Isaiah about a servant filled with the Spirit, called to bring justice—not with violence, but with gentle persistence (Isaiah 42:1–4).
That vision now takes shape in the person of Jesus.

As we turn to the Gospel reading, listen for what God is doing—through water, through Spirit, through the Word spoken from heaven.

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The Gospel Reading: Matthew 3:13–17

¹³ At that time Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan River so that John would baptize him. ¹⁴ John tried to stop him and said, “I need to be baptized by you, yet you come to me?”
¹⁵ Jesus answered, “Allow me to be baptized now. This is necessary to fulfill all righteousness.”
So John agreed to baptize Jesus. ¹⁶ When Jesus was baptized, he immediately came up out of the water. Heaven was opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God coming down like a dove and resting on him. ¹⁷ A voice from heaven said, “This is my Son whom I dearly love; I find happiness in him.”

Here is where we begin.

Jesus steps into the water—not because he needs to repent, but because he is choosing to stand with us (Matthew 3:14–15).
He identifies not with power as the world defines it, but with those longing for a new beginning.

And in that act of humility, the heavens open, the Spirit descends, and a voice speaks:

“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3:17)

It’s a moment that reveals something essential—not just about Jesus, but about God.
About what power really looks like. About where God chooses to be present.
And about who we are called to be, as people who have passed through the waters ourselves (Romans 6:3–4).

So today, in the quiet after Christmas, in the cold days of winter, in a world that still aches for justice and hope—we turn our attention to the water. And we ask:

What does Jesus’ baptism tell us about the power and presence of God?
And what does it mean for us to live as a baptized people in a world like this one?

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The Polar Plunge

I’m not one of those people who thinks jumping into freezing water is a good way to start a new year.

But every January, without fail, people line up for what they call the polar plunge.
And they don’t just survive it—they love it.
They come out shivering and soaking wet, but also strangely joyful.
They talk about it like it’s a baptism: “You’ve got to try it. It’s exhilarating. It changes you.”

To most of us, that sounds like madness.
Why would anyone choose that? Why would someone walk willingly into something so cold, so uncomfortable?

And yet—that’s exactly the question the Gospel invites us to ask.

Why would Jesus step into that water?
Why would he stand in a muddy river, shoulder to shoulder with a crowd of people confessing their sins (Matthew 3:6, 14)?

He didn’t need to repent. He had nothing to prove.
Even John tries to stop him: “I need to be baptized by you.” (Matthew 3:14)

But Jesus insists:

“Allow it now, for this is proper to fulfill all righteousness.” (Matthew 3:15)

It may look like foolishness—just like that freezing plunge.
But it’s something more.

This is Jesus choosing to fully identify with us.
Not from the safety of the shore, but from within the water.
Not in power as the world defines it—but in presence, in humility, in solidarity.

This is what the power of God looks like: not distant, not detached, but entering the water with us (Philippians 2:6–8).

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The Baptism of Jesus: A Revelation of Power

Jesus steps into the water—not to be cleansed, but to fully identify with God’s kingdom (Matthew 3:13–15).
John prepares the way, and Jesus joins the movement—not from above, but from within.

This act isn’t just symbolic. It reveals what true power looks like in God’s reign.
It looks like humility, solidarity, and resistance.

• Humility – Jesus submits not only to God’s will but to John’s hands. He allows himself to be led.
• Solidarity – He stands with the crowd—those seeking healing and hope (Isaiah 61:1; Luke 4:18–19).
• Resistance – He turns from the world’s systems of control, signaling God’s justice is coming—and it won’t look like Caesar’s (Matthew 4:8–10; Luke 1:52–53).

And then:
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.” (Matthew 3:17; cf. Isaiah 42:1)

That’s the moment. That’s the shift.
That’s where power and presence meet.

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Power Redefined: Righteousness as Restoration

When Jesus says, “Let it be so now… to fulfill all righteousness,” (Matthew 3:15),
he’s not talking about religious formality.
He’s talking about restoration—about putting things back in right relationship.

In Matthew’s Gospel, righteousness is never just personal morality.
It’s about justice, mercy, healing, and reconciliation—God’s vision for the world lived out among us (Matthew 5:6, 10, 20; 6:33).

Jesus’ baptism is:

• Personal – yes.
• But also public, political, and prophetic (Luke 3:18–20).

It marks the beginning of a new creation (Genesis 1:2; Matthew 3:16–17),
a new exodus (Exodus 14:21–22; Matthew 4:1),
a new covenant (Jeremiah 31:31–34)—embodied in a person.

Righteousness is not perfection—but participation.
Not retreat, but restoration.
Not escaping the world, but entering it—as Jesus did—to make it whole.

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Our Baptism: Marked by the Same Spirit

Jesus’ baptism isn’t just something we remember.
It’s something we share (Romans 6:3–4).

When we are baptized, we are drawn into his story—into that same power and presence.

Baptism is not just being washed clean (Acts 22:16).
It’s being called.
Not just joining a church—but joining a kingdom (Mark 1:15).

It’s a “no” to what wounds us—
and a bold, courageous “yes” to the life God intends (Ephesians 4:22–24).

The Spirit that rested on Jesus is the same Spirit poured out on us (Acts 2:38; Galatians 4:6).
And that Spirit doesn’t just comfort us—it commissions us (Matthew 28:19–20).

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Isaiah’s Servant and the Church’s Vocation

Isaiah 42 shows us what a Spirit-filled life looks like:

“A light to the nations… opening the eyes of the blind… setting captives free.” (Isaiah 42:6–7)

That’s Jesus’ calling.
And through baptism—it becomes ours (1 Peter 2:9).

We are baptized not into comfort or status—
but into service, into justice, into compassion (Micah 6:8).

The power of baptism isn’t found in privilege, but in purpose.

We are not spectators.
We are servants.
Not to keep the light to ourselves—but to carry it into the darkness (Matthew 5:14–16).

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A Baptismal People in a Broken World

The world is fractured.
Divided. Despairing.

But the baptized carry a different power.

• The power of presence—choosing to show up, even when it’s hard.
• The power of peace—not passivity, but courageous compassion (James 3:17–18).
• The power of justice—not to crush, but to lift and heal (Isaiah 42:3–4).

To fulfill all righteousness means shaping our lives—and our world—to reflect God’s love.

We are not just baptized into belief.
We are baptized into mission (John 20:21).

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Come On In—The Water Is Holy

At the beginning of this message, we talked about those bold (or slightly crazy) folks who plunge into icy water each New Year’s Day.

Why? Because something in them longs to feel awake, alive, renewed.

And maybe that’s what baptism invites us into too.

Jesus steps into the water—not because he needed to, but because we do.
He shows us power that doesn’t stand above us, but walks with us.
A presence that meets us in the mess and says:

“You are not alone.” (Isaiah 43:2)

That same water is still calling.

Not a polar plunge—but a kingdom plunge.
A call to humility, justice, and hope.

So whether your baptism was decades ago or still to come…
Whether you remember it or not…
Today is a chance to say yes again.

To step off the shore.
To stand with Christ.
To live as a beloved child of God in a broken world.

The water is cold sometimes.
The work is hard.
But it’s holy.

And Christ is already in it.

Come on in.
The water is filled with power and presence.
And it is more than fine—
It is sacred.

One of my favorite things about Advent is that it’s a story of when God came to walk among us. Not in a palace, but in the middle of real life – among the tired, the hurting, and the waiting.

The Advent story is not a tale of polished perfection. It’s not a story of people who had everything together. It’s a story of people who were faithful, and still found themselves grieving, or confused, or afraid.
That makes it our story too.

Advent reminds us that even when we try hard, even when we do everything “right,” we can still find ourselves facing disappointment, loss, unanswered questions.

You and I, we know what it’s like to live in the tension – to see a family divided,
a community at odds, people we love turning away. And some of us have been the ones who stayed behind – carrying the weight, holding everything together, still showing up, still believing – sometimes with joy, and sometimes with just enough strength for one more step.

Wherever you find yourself right now, this is an invitation to renewal.
A reminder that you are not alone – not in your grief, not in your rebuilding, not in your questions.
God is still with you – right here, right now.

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This Is Where Advent Begins

And this is where Advent begins—and where it makes room for each of us. It begins in grief, with questions, with a deep longing. It begins with someone who has waited too long and heard nothing in return.

Zechariah represents not only the people of Israel – who had long awaited a Messiah (Luke 1) – but also all of us who have waited for something and been met with silence. Those who have hoped… and eventually stopped hoping.

Zechariah was a priest. Righteous. Faithful. Devoted.
He had prayed for a child… and waited. And waited. And at some point, quietly, painfully… he stopped expecting an answer.
But even in that silence, God was not absent.

In the very heart of Zechariah’s sacred duties, God showed up – with a message he could barely believe:
“Your prayer has been heard.” (Luke 1:13)

Not just any prayer – but the one he may have stopped praying, buried under years of disappointment. And suddenly, the silence breaks.

Maybe you’ve carried prayers too heavy to speak anymore. Prayers for healing… reconciliation… strength to just keep going.
And maybe, like Zechariah, you’ve stopped getting your hopes up.

Advent is a story that reminds us: God even hears the prayers we’ve stopped saying out loud. Silence is not the same as absence. Delay is not denial.

And sometimes, God answers not just with a gift – but with a calling.
Zechariah didn’t just receive a child – he received a prophet (Luke 1:16–17). He didn’t just get what he prayed for – he became part of what God was doing in the world.
And with this gift, his skepticism was transformed into a song (Luke 1:67–79).

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Joseph: Quiet Courage

Zechariah is not the only devoted character in our Advent story. The story also gives us Joseph – a man known for his righteousness (Matthew 1:19).
In other words, Joseph was steady and honorable – he could be trusted to do the right thing.

And yet, despite doing everything right, Joseph found himself caught in a scandal he didn’t create.
Mary, the one he is pledged to marry, is found to be pregnant. Not by him (Matthew 1:18).
Everything he had planned – his life, his marriage, his future – suddenly falls apart.

He has every legal and moral right to walk away.
But Joseph does something extraordinary: He chooses mercy.
He decides to release Mary quietly, protect her dignity, spare her shame (Matthew 1:19).

And that’s when the angel comes – in a dream:
“Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child within her is from the Holy Spirit.” (Matthew 1:20)

And Joseph obeys. Not because it’s easy. Not because he has all the answers.
But because he’s willing to risk that this might be from God.

Joseph’s story reminds us: Obedience isn’t always about certainty – it’s about courage. It’s about saying yes to God even when the road is unclear.

Maybe you’ve stayed when others didn’t. Maybe you chose compassion when it would’ve been easier to turn away.
Maybe you have said yes, knowing full well how hard it would be to stay.

Like Joseph, your faith may not always come with clarity – but it comes with quiet courage. And that matters.
Quiet faithfulness may go unnoticed, but it is never small or unimportant.

Joseph never speaks a word in Scripture, and he never stands in the spotlight – yet his quiet actions help carry the story of salvation forward (Matthew 1:24–25).
He shows us that faith can be both tender and strong, that mercy takes strength, and that doing the next right thing – quietly and faithfully – is holy work.

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Mary: Willingness Over Readiness

And then… we come to Mary.
We’ve heard from Zechariah – a devoted priest, shaped by years of service and sacred routine.
We’ve walked with Joseph – a man of righteousness and quiet strength.

But Mary?
Mary is young. Unmarried. Unimportant by the world’s standards.
She was quietly living the life expected of her—when God showed up.
And that’s where God meets her.

The angel greets her,
“Greetings, favored one. The Lord is with you,” (Luke 1:28)
and Mary is troubled – not by doubt, but by the cost of defying the life expected of her.

She doesn’t question if it’s true – only how it could be (Luke 1:34).
Her response isn’t rejection, but wonder and trembling trust.

The message is impossible: a young girl from an overlooked town will carry the Messiah, God’s promise to the world (Luke 1:31–33).
And this child will change everything.

Mary had every reason to resist – no clarity, no safety, no promise of how it would end.
But still she said:
“Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38)

It wasn’t passive surrender – it was courage.

Mary reminds us that faithfulness doesn’t always look like confidence.
Sometimes it just looks like trust – trust that says yes, even when the path ahead is unknown.
It looks like openness, even when it costs something.

Here’s the truth: Faithfulness doesn’t wait for ideal conditions – it begins in obscurity, in uncertainty, in real life.
Mary didn’t say, “I have a plan.” She said, “I’m willing.”

And maybe you’ve been there too.
Maybe you’ve felt called into something that didn’t come with clarity.
Maybe you’ve sensed God asking you to carry something – not a child, but a calling… not a title, but a burden, a quiet responsibility.
And maybe, like Mary, you didn’t feel ready. But you were open.

Zechariah needed a sign (Luke 1:18).
Joseph needed a dream (Matthew 1:20).
Mary needed a word (Luke 1:38).
And all three – eventually – said yes.

Each one responded in the only way they could, with the faith they had.
And so can we.

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The Shepherds: Good News on the Margins

And then, finally, it’s time for Jesus to be born, and the news of Christ’s birth goes out (Luke 2:1–7).

Shepherds – ordinary, overlooked people – were the first to hear the news (Luke 2:8).
They are out in the fields. Watching over sheep. Doing what they always do. Working the night shift. Staying awake while the rest of the world sleeps.

In their time, shepherds weren’t just overlooked – they were dismissed as unclean, unable to fully participate in worship, and pushed to the margins both socially and spiritually.

And maybe this is your part in the story.
Maybe you’ve felt like a shepherd – not because you’ve herded sheep, but because you know what it is to stand just outside the circle.
Present, but unseen. Necessary, but unrecognized.
Doing what needs to be done – without much applause.

Maybe you’ve wondered if the good news is really meant for someone like you.
If that’s where you find yourself, hear what the angel said:

“To you is born this day a Savior…” (Luke 2:11)

To you.
Not just to the righteous or the spiritually confident – but to the tired, the unsure, the overlooked.
To those whose names may be forgotten by others, but whose quiet faithfulness is never unnoticed by God.

Maybe you’ve been showing up quietly – doing unseen work, caring for others, holding things together.
Maybe you’re carrying the weight of quiet prayers, late nights, or a return to faith after a long time, wondering if there’s still room for you.
Maybe you’ve been wounded – pushed out or made to feel like you didn’t belong.
Or maybe your story has convinced you that the message is for someone else.

Maybe you’ve learned to stay in the background, believing your place is at the edge of the story.
But the Gospel says otherwise.

Because the God who chose Zechariah in the temple (Luke 1:8–12), and Joseph in the middle of a scandal (Matthew 1:18–21), and Mary in her obscurity (Luke 1:26–27)…
also chose shepherds in the night (Luke 2:8–14).

People on the margins. People outside the walls of the sanctuary.
People who didn’t ask for a sign – but received one anyway.

Because this is what the Gospel does:
It finds the forgotten.
It lifts the overlooked.
It brings those on the edge right into the center of the story.

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There Is Room for You

These four Advent witnesses – Zechariah, Joseph, Mary, and the Shepherds – could not have been more different.
A priest. A craftsman. A young girl. And a group of field workers.

They came from different walks of life.
They stood in different places in society.
They responded to God in different ways.

And yet, each of them became part of the same story.
Each of them was drawn into the unfolding of God’s promise.
And so are we.

Because this story – the story of Emmanuel, God with us (Matthew 1:23) – isn’t just something we hear.
It’s something we are invited to enter.

And maybe this is what we need to hear as we step into this season again:

• Zechariah shows us that silence is not the end. That God hears even the prayers we’ve stopped saying out loud (Luke 1:13–17).
• Joseph shows us that obedience doesn’t need the spotlight. That doing the next right thing – quietly, faithfully – is a holy act (Matthew 1:24–25).
• Mary shows us that courage can be quiet and open-handed. That God doesn’t always call the ready – God calls the willing (Luke 1:38).
• The shepherds show us that grace reaches even the forgotten. That the good news really is for you, even when you’ve been made to feel otherwise (Luke 2:8–11).

Each of them said yes in their own way.
And each reminds us that God comes – not to perfect people, but to open ones.
Not to those who have it all together, but to those who are tired, uncertain… still showing up.

So say yes – not perfectly, just honestly.
Even if you’re hurting.
Even if you’re still waiting.
Even if your faith feels small.

Because when we say yes – like Zechariah, like Joseph, like Mary, like the shepherds – we don’t just remember the Gospel.
We become part of it.

The Advent story is still unfolding – in the middle of real life, among the grieving, the questioning, the still-believing.
…And there is room in it for you.

 

It’s not an enemy that is insulting me— I could handle that. It’s not someone who hates me who is exalted over me— I could hide from them. No. It’s you, my equal, my close companion, my good friend! ~Psalm 55:12-13 (CEB)

There is nothing worse in the world than to be betrayed by a friend. A friend, a close friend is someone you trust, someone you expect to be there for you in good times and bad. No one can hurt you more than a dear friend. When you have been betrayed by a friend the hurt goes so deep that you feel like you could never trust anyone ever again. You feel so alone with your feelings of hurt and betrayal. No one could ever know what you are going through.

But you are not alone. Jesus was sold out by a kiss. His betrayal led him to the cross. Peter, one of his closest friends, denied him not just once but three times. All the disciples fled in fear. Jesus was left alone. At the moment he needed a friend the most he found himself without even the dearest friends. They were all gone.

I don’t think I have ever been in a place where I have felt such complete abandonment. I have felt the sting of losing a friend that I thought I could trust but once the pain subsided some I realize that I was not as alone as I thought. But for Jesus, there was no one. The hardest thing for me about this story of betrayal and abandonment is that Jesus foreknew what was to come. He did not walk into this situation blindly. He chose to die on the cross to save me even when those dearest to him had left him to fend for himself. If I had been in his shoes I imagine I would have said well if even my closest friends can’t appreciate what I am about to do for the world then why bother! But thankfully I am not the Messiah.

It brings great comfort to me when I realize that there is nothing in the world that Jesus hasn’t been through. If I need an understanding ear he is the best choice. Jesus will never abandon me. Romans 8: 38-39 says, “I’m convinced that nothing can separate us from God’s love in Christ Jesus our Lord: not death or life, not angels or rulers, not present things or future things, not powers or height or depth, or any other thing that is created.” There is NOTHING that can separate me from the love of God. Even though I might find myself alone, Jesus will always be with me. The Bible tells me so.

I am thankful that I have a friend in You Jesus. There is nothing that I go through that You have not also been through as well. I know I can trust You and turn to You for guidance in all I do this day. Amen

O give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever! ~Psalm 118:1

For many people of faith, one of the first things we want to do in uncertain times is to gather together to pray. As orders to shelter at home and for the doors of the church building to close for the health safety of its members we are left wondering where God is in all of this. With each passing day, things feel more uncertain, more and more fearful, causing tensions to rise. In our panic, we begin trying to seek out things that we can control in a time that everything feels so out of our control. One thing I keep hearing is that none of us have ever seen anything like this in our lifetime. We have to look back into history to the Spanish flu in the 1920s and Choera of the 1800s to find anything of comparison.

I read a post this morning where a question was asked of a Rabbi during a natural disaster to explain such a tragic act of God. The rabbi answered that the disaster was an act of nature. The act of God happened when people stepped us to help each other.

Where is God in all of this? What is the Good News in the midst of all our uncertainties? Where is the Light of God in the Midst of our Darkness?

The answer comes to us through the words of Psalm 118. “Hosanna! Save us! Blessed is the one that comes in the name of the Lord!” This is a reminder that God has acted in the past, has saved us from ourselves in the past, and God will save us again!

Even in our distance from each other, we can still come together as a community united in prayer. We can find comfort, peace and even moments of joy.

In its ancient context, Psalm 118 was most likely an entrance liturgy to the Temple, used at the festival of the Passover. It proclaimed God’s deliverance from Egypt and, later on, from the Exile.

Sine New Testament times, Psalm 118 evokes for Christians the story of Easter.

“Out of my distress I called on the Lord;
the Lord answered me and set me in a broad place.
With the Lord on my side I do not fear.
What can mortals do to me?” (118:5-6).

New Testament writers used Psalm 118 “as a means of understanding and articulating the significance of Jesus.” (See Matthew 21:42; Acts 4:11; 1 Peter 2:7.) Christians have long read this Psalm with Jesus in mind.

“The stone that the builders rejected
has become the chief cornerstone.
This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.

Today, the words of Psalm 118 gives us hope as people of faith to celebrate God’s faithfulness. God was with us in the beginning. God is with us now. God will be with us always. The words in this Psalm remind us that God’s love is steadfast and endures forever. They remind us that God gave us God’s Light to shine in and through the darkness and that God’s light will never go away! The very words of Psalm 118 give us hope and stir our hearts and our souls to celebrate! They unify us! They remind us that we are God’s children! And remember being God’s children means that we are never alone.

Even in our anxiety and fear, we can celebrate that our God is still working.

We celebrate the hope, the security, the trust that we have as people of faith because we know that in the midst of our darkness, we find the Light of God. Because the Light of God never goes away.

If you listen to the news, they tell us to brace for a rough week ahead. I want to remind you that the churches may stand empty today, they may stand empty on Easter morning, but remember so is Christ’s tomb. This epidemic will not cancel Easter. Easter has already happened.

So we still celebrate because our God’s saving grace is steadfast and endures forever. The Light of God shines in this darkness, giving us strength and courage for the journey ahead. The Light of God is for all of God’s children, bringing peace, bringing hope, bringing grace. The Light of God fills us, renews us, lifts us up, and connects as one. Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Our God has answered our pleas and has given us salvation!

Dear God, even in these days, help us to remember your promises. Help us be unified in our prayers, even when COVID-19 seems to keep us separated. Fill our homes with your Holy Spirit in such a way that we know you are near. Restore us to health, God, restore us to life and give us hope. Amen.

Let’s not get tired of doing good, because in time we’ll have a harvest if we don’t give up. ~Galatians 6:9 (CEB)

No matter what is going on in our lives we must never give up. In the scripture on God’s Armor (Eph 6:10-18) it ends the section with “no matter what, persevere.” This is easy to throw around but how do you even begin to persevere in a world that we have never seen before? How do we persevere when each day seems to be darker than the last?

I persevere by my diligence in prayer, resolving to stay the course, unwavering faith, and determination to stand firmly on God’s Words and His promises for me.

Even so, it gets frustrating how slowly things seem to be moving sometimes. Every time I turn on the news, I feel like our “safer at home orders” get extended even further out. I no longer know what to say to my son when he asks me how much longer do you think COVID-19 will disrupt our lives? My heart breaks for him as this should be one of his golden times as a senior in High School. There should be celebrations, rewards for a good job done, a senior trip to Disney, a musical production with his high school theater group… and who knows yet about graduation ceremonies? Instead, he meets with his friends online as they try to distract each other between their lessons at home.

It is easy to think that God isn’t dealing with the situation, but I have to remember that God is doing some of his greatest work even if I can’t see what He is doing. This pandemic did not catch him off guard. Also, I need to keep in mind if the problem didn’t occur overnight it also will take time to correctly resolve it. There may be more going on than the “virus” we see.

No matter what is going on in our lives the victory is in not giving up. I think that is a good definition of perseverance. Not giving up. When the road ahead is full of bumps and I feel like I am acting out one of my son’s ninja shows he watched when he was little as I try to dodge trouble, I need to keep assured that the good that I am trying to do is noticed by God and time will bring fruition to my diligence.

Sometimes God, I get tired of doing the right thing. Give me courage to stay the course give me strength to do your will. Most especially God, help me to remember that as I child of God, I do not walk this journey alone. Amen.