This sermon was given by David C. Jones on March 1, 2026.

The heart of the last 20 years of my teaching university graduates was The Company of the Good.  And that Company exists to this day ten years later.  It is, after all, eternal and invaluable.

Sometimes in the Company I would do something different.  I would tell the listeners something like this….

I am going to offer some comments and questions, then give a relevant quotation, without telling you who said it. Names sometimes interfere with Truth and understanding.  If known, they can prompt judgements on the validity of what is said; if they are not known, but given, they can spur annoyance and irritation.  Who in the world is that!  When judgements or annoyances occur, the message is often lost. So today, we will leave out the names.

Truth comes from many sources, some strange.   Someone, unnamed, said, “A parrot in the house screamed at 2 am—‘The house is on fire!  The house is on fire!’   Now is this the time to say, ‘I’m going back to sleep. The parrot doesn’t know what he is saying!’”

So, focus only and totally on what is said.  Ask inwardly to discern what is true and meaningful, and perhaps helpful for you.      

First thought: Do you smile very often?  Perhaps at a little child, or at someone you don’t know as you pass by?

Now the quotation: “Whatever lifts the corners of your mouth, trust that.”

Second thought:  Have you ever raced though life, even its beautiful parts?  Have you ever sped through a magnificent garden, or through a holy place?  Just glanced as you tore by?

Now the quotation:  “Tortoises can tell you more about the road than hares.”  Turtles can tell you more about the road than rabbits.  They see more than a blur, which is really not seeing at all.

Next thought:  In a world that increasingly cannot tell true from false,  it is imperative to know what Love is and what not.  Many are confused.

Now the quotation: “Whenever we manage to love without expectations, calculations, negotiations, we are indeed in Heaven.”

The quotation again: “Whenever we manage to love without expectations, [Expectations… That’s not love… a list of requirements or services]… whenever we manage to love without calculations [Calculations… that’s not love either… love is spontaneous; it doesn’t calculate]… Whenever we manage to love without negotiations [love doesn’t negotiate; it doesn’t settle for a C plus… or a 30% tariff; that’s not Love and its not Heaven].

Next thought:  We all have to say a last goodbye at times in this world. Goodbye, mom or goodbye dad, or son or daughter.

Now, the quotation: “Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes, because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.”

Next thought:  You have noticed the virtual omnipresence of discord and conflict in this world….  The horrific enmity, hostility, malice, malignance, bitterness, resentment, revenge, venom….

Now the quotation: “The holiest of all the spots on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a present love.”

Next thought: We are all God’s children.  We are part of a Oneness that is unbreakable, inseparable, and eternal. And Oneness is not here today and gone tomorrow.

Now the quotation one Remembrance Day: “Let us never forget the solemn truth that the nation is not constituted of the living alone.”  It’s bigger than that. The dead are part of it, and they always will be. This is a deeper, more profound inclusion that the word Nation implies.

Next thought: We admire and adulate heroes in this world, but not all of them.  Some are left out.   And only a kind heart has the sight to notice them.

Now the quotation: “[Humanity’s] greatest actions are performed in minor struggles.  Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment and poverty are battlefields which have their heroes—obscure heroes who are at times greater than illustrious heroes.”

The world is full of these little people. I doubt if there is a single soul here who does not know one of these heroes, perhaps many. 

Now let me tell a story of the rescue of beauty. We have lost the importance of the virtues.  They have flittered away, along with their beauty.  But their beauty will be rediscovered and rescued.  There are, of course, things that never look beautiful. And things that generally don’t—the criminal justice system, for example.  But even that can be beautified.

Joe Serna, an American, was a retired army sergeant first class who did three tours in Afghanistan and was twice wounded.  One night he and three other soldiers were driving along a creek when the road suddenly gave way and the truck careened into the creek.  Slowly it filled with water, and Serna, unable to extricate himself, knew the end was near.  The water rose past his legs, his waist, his chest, his neck, and stopped at his chin.  He was the only survivor.

Later, back in the States, he was arrested for drunk driving, [part of post traumatic stress syndrome… war tears you to pieces] and as part of his probation, he was not permitted to drink.  Then he lied about a urine test and was caught.

“I knew what Joe was going through, and I knew Joe’s history,” said Judge Olivera, himself a picture of kindness and empathy, for he was a veteran too.  “But he had to be held accountable, so I sentenced him to one night in jail.”

As Joe entered the cell, terrifying flashbacks of being trapped in Afghanistan hit him.  A moment later, Judge Olivera surprised him and joined him in that cell for the whole night.  They ate meat loaf and talked of everything including family.  And the frightful walls of Joe’s nightmare seemed to open and then vanish.  “He brought me back to North Carolina from being in a truck in Afghanistan,” said Joe.

The beautiful video of Judge Olivera and Joe then fades to a scene of the two in court, hugging.  And Joe, deeply moved, says quietly, “I won’t let you down, ever.”

Steve Hartman, narrator of the story, said, “Sometimes jail is not what a man needs.  Sometimes the best sentence is compassion.”

As Joe and Judge Olivera embrace in mutual respect in the last scene, Joe says, “I love you…. Thanks for believing in me.”[i]

The crucial key in Judge Olivera’s blessing is in not just knowing how to help, but doing it, putting it into practice.  “When the word ‘Lamp’ is uttered, darkness does not vanish; when a patient is told of the properties of a drug, his illness is not cured by attentive listening; when a man suffering from the agonies of poverty is told of the various ways in which funds can help him to overcome it, he does not feel a bit relieved; a hungry [soul] is hungry, even after hearing a tasty description of a magnificent banquet.”[ii]  He gets the description, but nothing to eat.  If a beautiful teaching is only heard and not applied, it is useless.  If it is not extolled out of the depth of one’s experience it is valueless.

The great Judge Olivera acted.  He acted.  That is the good news of the Company of the Good.

One act of kindness infinitely outweighs a thousand intentions.  Amen.

Draft 10, March 2, 2026

[i] https://www.cbsnews.com/video/judge-spends-night-in-jail-with-man-he-sentenced/

[ii] David C. Jones, “God, Love, Service and Practice—The Curriculum of Sathya Sai Baba and the Re-vitalization of Our Schools,” Journal of Modern Educational Review, vol. 3 # 5, 339-346.

Young at Heart Message

As most of you know, I have been sick for the past couple weeks.

I’m feeling much better now, but sometimes illness can linger for quite some time and things can take a long time to fully heal.

About a week ago, I was having a little pity party for myself because I was feeling so miserable.

I took my dogs for a walk, but I didn’t have a lot of energy to go very far.
 
I was feeling guilty that I didn’t have enough energy to take them on our usual route.

Usually, I walk my dogs on the paved biked path along the river until we reach a bridge. We cross the bridge and walk through a huge dog park.

But this time, as I walked along the paved path, I realized I wasn’t going to have energy to make it to the dog park.

I pondered briefly just turning around and taking the same paved path back to my apartment.
 
But I noticed a little unpaved footpath that winds along even closer to the river.

I decided to take the dogs on that path because at least it would give them something new and different to sniff.

I quickly realized as we walked along this new path that it was like a sanctuary in the middle of the city.

Suddenly, I could no longer hear the hum of Deerfoot or the noise of construction.

All I could hear was the river.
 
As often happens when I walk my dogs, I was having a conversation with God and was lamenting about being sick.

Now, God doesn’t usually talk back to me, at least not in the way a person would.

But on this day, I suddenly realized that God was right there – in the silence, in the running of the river, in the muddy path, and in the joy of my dogs exploring something new to them.

Despite my feeling crummy, I was able to notice God in something quite mundane.
 
Even though the reason I ended up on that path in the first place was because I wasn’t feeling well and needed to shorten my walk, it ended up being exactly what I needed in that moment.

And, I think it ended up being exactly what my dogs needed in that moment, too.

God caught me completely by surprise that day.

Like the tiny mustard seed that grows unexpectedly into the largest plant, God often catches us by surprise.
 
The Message

It also may catch us by surprise to hear the reading from the Gospel of John today about Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding.

The other three Gospels all have Jesus’s ministry beginning not with a miracle like this, but with a temptation story instead.

So it’s surprising that we are starting on the first Sunday of Lent with this story of Jesus at a wedding – a place of joy, rowdiness, and exuberance.
 
This story is another example of the ways in which God can catch us by surprise.

Jesus doesn’t seem to plan for this to be his first miracle.

In fact, he initially says to his mother when she tells him they have no more wine, “Mother, my time hasn’t yet come!”

I wonder if even Jesus was caught by surprise?

He didn’t plan for this, so why does he change his mind?
 
Of course, in true biblical fashion, the passage doesn’t really give us this level of detail into why Jesus does what he does.

But perhaps he realized that it’s worth demonstrating that God works in ways we least expect.

Jesus could have said to himself, “these people don’t need more wine – they are already having enough fun. Too much fun, if you know what I mean…”
 
But he didn’t. Instead he provided so much wine that the attendees at the party could likely have enjoyed it for days.

There were six stone water jars, and the passage tells us that they each held about 100 liters.

That’s a tremendous amount of wine. 600 liters of wine!

Jesus could have just turned one of those jars into wine and it would have been plenty.

Again, he catches us completely by surprise.
 
It’s also surprising to think about Jesus enjoying a party – letting loose, maybe dancing, maybe being silly or even drinking wine himself.

But this story reminds us to find God in the everyday happenings of life.

It can be easy to forget that God is present at a wedding reception, on a walk with our dogs, on the couch with us when we’re sick, and in all the other everyday aspects of life.

But Jesus reminds us in this moment. In a moment that we might think Jesus doesn’t approve of.
 
But he does. He keeps the fun going, and he proves who he is at the same time.

He earns himself some “street cred,” in a manner of speaking.

And in doing so, he reminds us that we can find God in all things.

He encourages us to see God in the mundane, in our joy, and in our discouragement. In little moments and in big moments. In the stars in the sky and the dirt under our feet.
 
In the tiny mustard seed, full of potential to spring forth new life and in the fully grown plant that produces life-giving nourishment.

He encourages us to see God not just in the peace and tranquility of the footpath where all we can hear is the river, but also along the paved path where we can hear the city noises and encounter other people, too.

This passage about a miracle offers Good News that surprises and delights.
 
So, may you notice God in all things, in all moments of your life – the big, the small, the mundane, and the extraordinary.

May you find joy and potential in the tiniest mustard seed and the heartiest plant.
​
And may you see the Good News all around you, even as it catches you by surprise. Amen.
 
Let us pray:
God of delight, we are so grateful for the reminder that you often catch us by surprise. We take great joy in noticing your divine work in our lives when we least expect it. You continue to work in mysterious and delightful ways, and we pray that you would help us to see your beauty and your presence in the small things on a daily basis. In your Holy and loving name, we pray. Amen.

Good morning, church. I am Pastor Matt Gillard, and I hope I am familiar to many of you worshiping today. For those who may not know me, I had the joy of serving the Moravian congregations of Heimtal from 2009 to 2020, and Good Shepherd from 2020 to 2021. I now serve in the Lutheran Church in Hanna, Alberta, and it is truly an honour to share a pastoral word with my sisters and brothers across the Canadian District.

Today is Transfiguration Sunday—the day we remember Jesus going up the mountain with three of his closest disciples to pray. And while they are there, something extraordinary happens. Jesus is transfigured before them. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. And suddenly Moses and Elijah appear, speaking with him.

It is a moment of holy revelation—of clarity, presence, and divine nearness.

 But it is also a moment of formation. Because what happens on the mountain is not meant to stay on the mountain. It is meant to shape how the disciples live when they come back down.

And that story made me think about the Moravian Church in the 1720s—about a kind of transfiguration of our own.

After years of exile following the Thirty Years’ War, Moravian refugees from Prague found refuge on the land of Count Nicholas von Zinzendorf. Herrnhut, as we now remember it, was not born as a peaceful or unified community. It was full of tension, clashing personalities, theological differences, and deep conflict. Spiritual wanderers and displaced people lived together, but unity did not come easily.

So deep were the divisions that one Moravian leader went up a hill overlooking the settlement, convinced God was about to destroy the community like Sodom and Gomorrah. That didn’t happen—but it tells us something important: things were not well.

What changed everything was prayer.

Zinzendorf began gathering leaders for disciplined, intentional communal prayer. They prayed for hours a day. They read Scripture together. They fasted. They sang. They listened. They sought reconciliation. And slowly, something shifted. Differences lost their power. Division loosened its grip. And out of that spiritual transformation came mission. Out of prayer came movement. Out of communion came calling.

For three hundred years, Moravians have understood themselves as a missional church. And that matters. But I don’t believe the future of the Moravian Church in Canada is simply to recreate the mission structures of the past.

I believe the future of the Moravian Church in Canada is to become a people formed in communal prayer, shaped in shared discernment, and grounded in spiritual accompaniment—a church that teaches one another how to listen for God together.

The problem is not that we don’t pray.

 The problem is that we no longer pray together.

We have privatized prayer. Individualized it. Minimized it. Reduced it to devotionals, quick words before meals, and whispered pleas in moments of fear. All of those matter—but they are not the same as a community learning to seek God together.

We have forgotten the discipline of shared spiritual formation.

And I want to invite you to dream bigger than that.

Not louder. Not flashier.

Deeper. Slower. Rooted. Communal.

I want you to look around in worship today. In every congregation listening, there are two or three people who are known—quietly, humbly—as faithful people of prayer. And I guarantee you they don’t think of themselves that way. But they are gifted. They are called. And God has already been forming them for this moment.

So here is my invitation:

Take a piece of paper. A corner of your bulletin. Anything you have.

 Write this sentence:

 “I consider you to be a faithful person of prayer in the life of our church.”

Give it to someone.

If someone gives you one, tell your pastor that some foolish person thinks you’re spiritually gifted—and that you’ve been identified as a prayerful leader in the church.

And then let your pastors gather those people—not to create hierarchy, but to create formation. Not to create power, but to create discipleship. Let them begin praying together. And from that circle, let smaller circles form. Groups of two, three, four people. Thirty minutes. An hour. Nothing complicated. Nothing fancy. Just prayer. Presence. Listening. Accountability. Discernment. Learn to pray together, and for others.

Because the church does not need better programs.

 The church needs deeper roots.

 The church does not need louder voices.

 The church needs clearer listening.

 The church does not need more activity.

 The church needs more alignment with the Holy Spirit.

And everything we’ve heard in this sermon series points us there.

From Pastor Mark, we were reminded that human dignity is not earned—it is given. That prayer must be shaped by belovedness, not shame.

From Pastor Jamie, we were invited into “come and see” faith—learning to pray with open eyes toward what the Spirit is already doing in the world.

From Pastor Aaron, we learned to seek unexpected hope, especially in places of grief and struggle—prayer that forms compassion, not distance.

From Pastor James, we were given a vision of expansive grace and subversive hope—prayer that holds grief and courage at the same time.

From Pastor Michael, we were reminded that being salt and light is a communal calling—prayer that says, “Not my will, but yours be done, O God.”

This is not nostalgia.

 This is not survival.

 This is not institutional preservation.

This is transformation.

We don’t need to become the church we were 300 years ago.

 We need to become the church God is forming us to be now.

The question before us is not whether the Moravian Church in Canada will change.

It will.

The question is whether we will allow the Triune God to shape that change…

 through prayer,
 through humility,
 through listening,
 through community,
 through shared spiritual courage.

Will we go up the mountain together?

Will we learn to listen together?

Will we come back down transformed?

May we have the courage to become a praying church again…
 not in fear,
 not in control,
 not in anxiety,
 but in trust,
 in unity,
 and in hope.

"Our Lamb has conquered. Let us follow him.”
​
Amen.

Hello, and welcome to this fifth message in our 2026 Epiphany Series, Manifesting Hope in Darkness. Today our theme is Hope Found in Community.

Most of you won’t know me. My name is Michael Ward, a retired United Church of Canada pastor currently serving Christ Moravian Church in Calgary as interim pastor.

Today’s Gospel picks up right where we left off last week. Jesus has just proclaimed the Beatitudes - those surprising blessings that describe the character of God’s Kingdom or Reign. They paint a picture of what a Jesus-shaped life looks like. And immediately after blessing His followers, Jesus turns from blessing to identity. He looks at this ordinary crowd - fishermen, farmers, mothers, labourers, the weary and the hopeful - and He says:

“You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.”

Not a list of ideals to strive for, but a way of being in the world that reveals God’s presence and purpose.
Jesus begins with salt. And He speaks in terms of how He already sees us.

He doesn’t say, “Go be salty.” He says, “You are salt.”

In the ancient world, salt wasn’t the pure white table salt we know today. It was mined - full of minerals and attached trace elements that gave each grain its own texture and taste. Every handful was different. And no single grain changed anything on its own. It was the collective that seasoned.

Salt works by drawing out what is already present. It awakens flavours hidden within the food - makes it richer, more savoury.

And Jesus says: That’s you.

Your calling is not to impose something on the world. Your calling is to draw out the God‑given goodness already embedded in others and in creation.

When you listen deeply to someone who feels unseen… When you encourage another gently… When you stand with someone in their pain… When you help someone notice the grace already at work in their life…

You are bringing out God‑flavours. You are awakening what God has already placed there.

Then Jesus shifts the image:

“You are the light of the world.”

Light doesn’t create what it reveals. It simply makes visible what darkness hides.

And here’s something beautiful: white light is not one colour. It is the blending of many wavelengths - many colours.
Likewise, the church’s witness is communal. Diverse gifts, personalities, and stories forming one radiant presence.
Light is not meant to be admired. Light is meant to help others see.

When you act with compassion… When you speak truth with gentleness… When you choose justice over convenience… When you forgive when it would be easier to hold a grudge…

You illuminate possibilities others couldn’t see. Your life becomes a window through which God’s grace is glimpsed.
It’s important to notice that Jesus speaks to the crowd. The “you” is plural.

You all are the salt. You all are the light.

Salt works in combination. Light shines in spectrum.

A single grain of salt is tasteless. A single colour band is limited.

But together? Together they transform the environment.

The church’s witness is strongest when we blend our strengths and weaknesses, our stories and scars. We don’t have to be everything. We simply bring our part. God uses the whole community to season and illuminate the world.

Salt and Light Fulfill Their Purpose by Giving Themselves Away

Salt does its work quietly. It dissolves into the food and disappears, yet its presence is unmistakable in the flavour it brings out. Light works the same way. We don’t admire light for its own sake - we value it because it helps us see what is really there. Its purpose is fulfilled when it reveals what would otherwise remain hidden.

In the same way, Kingdom influence is not about being noticed. It’s not about drawing attention to ourselves. It’s about the quiet, steady transformation that happens when God’s love works through us. When we offer kindness without needing credit… when we serve without applause… when we forgive without fanfare… we are giving ourselves away in love. And in that giving, we become most fully who Christ says we already are.

Salt disappears into the meal. Light gives itself to the room. And disciples of Jesus give themselves to the world - not to be recognized, but so that others might taste grace and see hope.

Quiet acts of kindness. Faithful presence in difficult places. Courageous truth spoken gently. Forgiveness offered freely. Hope held on behalf of someone who can’t hold it for themselves.

These are the ways we “lose ourselves” and yet become who we truly are in Christ.

I believe Eugene Peterson captures the heart of Jesus’ words in his paraphrase of the Bible - The Message:

“Bring out the God‑flavours of the earth.” “Bring out the God‑colours in the world.”

God has already seeded the world with goodness, beauty, and possibility. Our calling is to help reveal it - to help others taste and see the goodness of God.

Salt and light are not about superiority. They are about service. They are not about drawing attention to ourselves. They are about drawing attention to God’s presence already shimmering beneath the surface of things.

So hear this good news:

You are already salt. You are already light.

Not because of your perfection, but because Christ has named you so.

Go into your homes, your workplaces, your neighbourhoods with confidence -  drawing out God‑flavours, revealing God‑colours, trusting that God uses ordinary people - people like you and me - to season and illuminate the world.
​
May we live in such a way that others taste grace, see hope, and glimpse the God who is already at work in every corner of creation. Amen.

Today's sermon is offered by Rev. James Lavoy who serves our sister churches, Rio Terrace and Heimtal in Edmonton. If you would like to share this video or watch it again later, you can also access it on YouTube by clicking here.​
​
We are living through a moment that feels heavy with history.

Many of us are watching the news from our neighbors to the south, or perhaps looking at shifts in our own political landscape, and we are feeling a specific kind of dread. It is the dread of recognition. We are seeing a crisis unfold that parallels the great horrors we learned about in school. We are witnessing the fascist use of power—the calculated dehumanization of migrants, the expansion of ICE, the brutality of enforcement, and the suspension of civil liberties to achieve control at any cost.

For many of us in this room, part of our distress comes from a sense of betrayal. We are people of privilege. We are used to having agency. We have spent our lives trusting institutions—government, law, corporations—believing they were, at best, benevolent, or at least stable. But right now, we feel powerless to help the vulnerable because the very institutions we trusted are the ones using this dehumanization to achieve their own goals. That which we once felt was trustworthy is no longer trustworthy.

And we don’t know what to do.

This dilemma causes us to ask serious questions of ourselves. It impacts our identity. Who are we, if the structures that hold us up are crumbling? It is into this exact feeling of displacement—this political and spiritual vertigo—that we must read the Beatitudes.

The Beatitudes are often read as a list of "be-attitudes," sweet platitudes for a quiet life. But contextually, they are the thesis for Matthew’s entire Gospel. And Matthew’s Gospel does not begin in a vacuum; it begins in horror.

Remember the prologue. Jesus is born into a world of state-sponsored violence. He is a child refugee fleeing a jealous king. He grows up under occupation. And just as he emerges into adulthood, his teacher, his cousin, his confidante—John the Baptist—is arrested and executed by the state as a political prop.

This tragedy motivates Jesus to turn to the wilderness. And we must remember, the wilderness wasn’t empty. It was full. It was the place where people went when they weren't welcome in the circles of power in Jerusalem or Rome. It was full of the marginalized, the resistance, the sick, and the poor. Jesus had to reconcile with these encounters. Through his own spiritual practices of prayer and fasting, he found this great insight: that when we draw lines in the sand, the Divine is on the side of the oppressed.

From that wilderness, he went to Galilee—not the capital, but the margins—and climbed a mountain to deliver his thesis.

He looks at this crowd of "nobodies" and he calls them "Blessed."

Now, the Greek word Matthew uses here is Makarios. We often translate this as "happy," but that is too small a word. If we look at the etymology, we find something far more robust. Ma means to "lengthen" or "expand." Kar is short for charis—grace, gift.

So, blessing, in this context, means "a lengthened grace." Or perhaps, "expansive grace."

I like to think that Jesus, sitting atop that mountain with the exiles and the gentiles, felt at home with them, just as he did in the desert. He looked at people who had been objectified by the Empire, people whose backs were the stepping stones for the powerful, and he said: You have a right to experience expansive grace. You have a right to take up space.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit... Blessed are those who mourn."

Think about how subversive that is. In our culture, and certainly in the Roman Empire, grief is a weakness. Meekness is a liability. But Jesus reframes them.

Liberation theologians like James Cone remind us that God is found among the lynched, the incarcerated, the detainee. When Jesus blesses those who mourn, he is not romanticizing sadness; he is validating the grief that comes from seeing the world as it really is. As Cone might say, to be "blessed" is to be located where the Divine is located—and the Divine is located with the victims of the state.

"Blessed are the meek."

The Womanist theologian Delores Williams challenges us here. She warns us against glorifying suffering, against acting as "surrogates" who carry the cross for others merely to be crushed by it. She reminds us that Jesus came to show us how to live, how to survive. In this light, "meekness" isn't about being a doormat. It is about a refusal to play the Empire’s game of violence. It is a "survival strategy"—a way of maintaining one’s humanity in the face of a system that wants to turn you into a monster.

To have "expansive grace" when you are being crushed is the ultimate act of resistance. It is saying: You may take my civil liberties, you may threaten my safety, but you cannot shrink my soul.

We know how this story plays out. Jesus leaves that mountain, challenges the powers in Jerusalem, and is executed. But I want to turn your attention to the very last paragraph of Matthew’s Gospel. If the birth is the prologue, and the Beatitudes are the thesis, this is the conclusion.

In Matthew 28:10, the resurrected Jesus tells Mary and Mary Magdalene, "Go and tell my brothers and sisters to go to Galilee. There, they will see me."

Note the location. Not Jerusalem, the seat of power. But Galilee. Back to the start. Back to the margins. Back to the mountain where he preached that formative sermon.

So the disciples go. And Matthew 28:16-17 says: "Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted."

That word, "doubted." In Greek, it is distazo.

It doesn’t mean skepticism. It isn't an intellectual refusal to believe. Di means two. Stasis means standing. Distazo means "standing in two places." It means holding two postures.

The disciples stood on that mountain holding their grief, their trauma, their meekness, and their fears of the Roman state. But simultaneously, they stood there with their Makarios—their expansive grace, their comfort, their fulfillment, their awareness that the Community of God had come near.

They were not just hearing the Beatitudes anymore; they were the embodiment of them. They were a living Distazo.
This is where we find ourselves today.

We are watching a world that looks like it is falling apart. We are watching the rise of forces that want to shrink grace, that want to hoard space for the powerful and deny it to the vulnerable. And we are asked to question our own identity.

Are we products of a broken political system that relies on exploitation to wield power? Or are we children of the Divine, full human beings, capable of carrying our grief along with our hope?

What are we to do with this Distazo—this double posture—in this time of crisis?

First, we must be aware of our privilege. We have to admit that, historically, we likely wouldn't have been the people on that mountainside with Jesus. We would have been the citizens in the city, safe behind the walls. But now, we have heard the message. We have been called to the mountain.

To practice "Subversive Hope" is to inhabit our Distazo.

It means we do not deny the horror. We do not look away from the ICE detention centers or the erosion of democracy. We stand fully in the reality of that grief. We mourn. We hunger for righteousness.

But, at the exact same time, we stand in our Makarios. We claim our expansive grace. We refuse to let fear make us small. We refuse to let cynicism make us brittle. We use our privilege, our voices, and our agency to say that everyone—the migrant, the queer person, the poor, the outcast—has a right to take up space.

We must use our whole selves—grief and hope—to show up to that mountain. We go there to be healed of our complicity. We go there to find the Divine in the face of the other. And then, we go on our way, in the community of God, inviting others to follow.

May you be blessed with expansive grace. May you have the strength to stand in two places. And may you take up space for the sake of love.
​
Amen.

To watch the recording of this sermon, click here: https://youtu.be/f4iHbRuvOYA.

Sermon by Rev. Aaron Linville

Hi everyone, For those of you who have not met me, my name is Aaron Linville. It has been my joy and privilege to serve as the pastor of Millwoods Community Church for the last seven years.

It is also my joy to share our third epistle with you on manifesting hope in the darkness. Today, we focus on the beginning of Jesus’ ministry in the gospel of Matthew and hope in unexpected places.

There's lots of hope in unexpected places in the story of Jesus. For the second week in a row, we hear Jesus calling fisherman to be his disciples. Most of us don't think about fisherman as sources of hope. We think about them as essential for coastal societies to function, but not a source of hope.

The occupation of fisherman reminds me that Jesus was a craftsman, a skilled worker. Again, very important and essential for a functional society, but we don't think of them as sources of hope. When we look at the occupations of the core group of disciples Jesus is beginning to collect they include day laborers, professional fishermen, and tax collectors. This is not a hope inspiring group, and yet Christians would say that Jesus is the hope of the world, and these core disciples were incredibly influential in that hope surviving the death of Jesus. They are all unexpected sources of hope.

And when we dig into this passage about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry in Matthew, the unexpectedness of hope increases.

Jesus’ ministry begins when he hears John the Baptizer has been arrested. His ministry begins not in a moment of hope but a moment of chaos and crisis. Also, we would expect his ministry would begin with something public, but it begins by Jesus withdrawing. That's not a very hopeful action.

And, that only increases when we pay attention to where Jesus withdrew to. The territory of Zebulun and Naphtali is the land of two of the Northern Tribes of Israel who were lost and presumably destroyed 700 years before Jesus walked this earth. Jesus withdrew to a place of cultural grief and loss. It wasn’t really Jewish, but neither was it really gentile. The Jewish people would have expected hope to come from Jerusalem or Judea, not the land of Zebulun and Naphtali.

I've often wondered why these fisherman were so ready to leave their livelihoods to follow Jesus. In the gospel of Luke it makes sense because there is a miraculous catch a fish, but there is no miraculous catch a fish in the gospel of Matthew. Why were they so willing to leave and follow Jesus? What unexpected hope did they see to justify such drastic action?

Maybe it was the fact that they really were not fishing for themselves, but for the empire that occupied their land. Yes, they were earning their daily bread by fishing, but every fish they caught was more food for Roman officials and armies. Every fish was more tax paid to Rome. They weren't really fishing for themselves, but for Cesar. Maybe the unexpected hope they saw in Jesus was getting out of that self defeating cycle and the hope of fishing for people, not just to support the economics of an occupying empire.

The story of Jesus is filled with unexpected hope from the nativity, the calling of the first disciples, and the start of his ministry all the way through to the unexpected hope that death does not have the last word. All of these moments of hope accumulate and then spread beyond this unexpected place of origin to the surrounding areas. This hope spread to Jerusalem, Rome, and then the ends of the world.

And even two millennia later that hope continues to show up and we continue to find hope in unexpected places if we have eyes and hearts to see and feel.

For me, I found unexpected hope in the consistent observations and encouragement in the first two sermons of this series. I don't think Mark and Jamie coordinated that. It just happened. It is hopeful to me that our clergy lift up the message that you are God’s beloved. Full stop. No disclaimers. That’s hopeful.

Another moment of unexpected hope for me in these last few months is the recent Knives Out movie. We typically look to Hollywood for entertainment, not hope, but, I found unexpected hope in Wake Up Dead Man.

It does not shy away from the fact that the church has and does cause harm, and yet is hopeful. Neither does it shy away from the fact that it feels like the church is getting pulled in two incompatible directions.

One is to fight the world and everything about it; to insist on it is the Church's way or no way, even if a lot of people get hurt in the process. On the other end of the spectrum, the church is being pulled to reach out and hold and love the world, to embrace and forgive, and to help us all be the people God has created, and called us to be not through force, but by love, peace, and grace. Wake up Dead man even has a very a hopeful depiction of a complete rejection of spirituality and religion. It is a wonderfully hopeful movie for me as a disciple of Jesus even though it’s an entirely secular ‘Who done it’ movie. It is unexpected hope for me and for the church we so dearly love.

After Jamie’s sermon last week, I commented to Millwoods that we need to choose what we are looking for, because we tend to to find what we look for whether it’s bitterness or compassion. Today I encourage all of you to look for hope, especially in unexpected places.

Without trying, we encounter more than enough reasons to despair, so choose to seek out hope. Choose to look for hope, and you will find it, even in unexpected places. And, when you find it, proclaim it and share it.

Our world seems more full of despair and uncertainty than hope right now. That is cause for concern, but it also means that hope shines brighter when it is found. It's the same as lighting a candle and a dark room. A candle may not be all that bright, but it shines in the darkness. Even a little hope shines brightly when there is so much anxiety.
​
Choose to look for hope. Choose to share hope and be a lights to those in darkness. Choose to be a light of hope to yourself, to your neighbor, and in doing so, you'll be the unexpected hope someone else finds. Choose to look for hope, and be a light to the world.

If you would like to view the recording of this sermon, click here.

​Young at Heart Message
 
Good morning! I am Pastor Jamie Almquist and I serve Good Shepherd Moravian Church in Calgary.
 
I am delighted to be a part of this 6-week sermon series on the theme “Manifesting Hope in Darkness.”
 
Today, we heard John the Baptist testifying to and affirming that Jesus is indeed the Chosen One. We follow this with the Gospel of John’s version of Jesus’s first disciples.
 
These disciples have been following John the Baptist, but when they hear John speaking so highly of Jesus, they choose to follow Jesus, seemingly out of curiosity.
 
Jesus asks them what they are looking for, and then he extends an invitation: come and see.
 
Today, we’ll be talking about seeking and finding hope in a world where the shadow of darkness seems to be looming ever larger and more ominously.
 
And as I thought about the theme for today’s sermon, my mind rested on a book I am in the process of reading. The book is called Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle.
 
The back of the book describes Gregory Boyle as “a Jesuit priest and the founder and executive director of Homeboy Industries.”
 
The beginning of his book introduces us to Homeboy Industries and describes Greg’s work with gang members in Los Angeles.
 
The book is beautiful and has brought tears to my eyes multiple times already, and I’m only three and half chapters in.
 
But in the first chapter of his book, Greg (lovingly called G by the Homeboys) shares a story of a dying man and his son.
 
In this story, the son reads every night to his dying father, and the arrangement is supposed to be that the son reading to his father would encourage his father to fall asleep.
 
However, each night, the father repeatedly opens his eyes to gaze lovingly at his son. G writes that “this evening ritual was really a short story of a father who just couldn’t take his eyes off his kid.”
 
There are few things that, I think, could describe our relationship with God better.
 
It is easy for us to imagine a new mother or father, lying their new baby down to sleep at night and being unable to leave the room because they simply cannot cease gazing at the miracle before them.
 
When I was much younger and my father was still alive, I began writing a blog as part of the work I did for a company called Patheos.
 
I shared the blog with my parents because I was excited about the work I was doing. I sent them the link to look at it, not expecting that they would read it.
 
I simply wanted to show them.
 
After I wrote a handful of times, I got busy and admittedly lost interest in the blog.
 
One day, a couple weeks after I had stopped writing, my Dad called to say hi and check in, and he asked me why I hadn’t posted anything on my blog lately.
 
I was shocked to learn that he was following the blog. He read every single post I made.
 
It fascinated him. I was honoured that he was interested in my life in this way - so much so that it still brings tears to my eyes today.
 
And, looking back on that moment, I realize that my Dad was lovingly gazing upon his daughter with pride and joy and a tremendous amount of love.
 
After sharing the story of the father and son in his book, G drops this golden nugget for the reader.
 
He says, “God would seem to be too occupied in being unable to take Her eyes off of us to spend any time raising an eyebrow in disapproval. What’s true of Jesus is true for us, and so this voice breaks through the clouds and comes straight at us.
 
‘You are my beloved, in whom I am wonderfully pleased.’”
 
As the Homeboys would say, “Damn, G.”
 
The Message
 
So, when we meet the disciples in today’s Gospel passage, they are not entirely sure what they are seeking, and they certainly don’t feel this loving gaze falling on them from anywhere.
 
When Jesus asks them what they are looking for, all they can muster is “where are you staying?”
 
It’s as though they desire to know so much more about Jesus, but they are awe-struck and uncertain.
 
When I shared my blog with my Dad, he could have said “great job!” and then never thought about it again.
 
When these disciples start following Jesus, he could have said “nice to meet you. Best of luck to you.”
 
But instead, my Dad read every post. And Jesus extends an invitation. He doesn’t judge them for their question about where he’s staying. Instead, he invites them to “come and see.”
 
And so it is with us.
 
We often find that we are seeking something, but we do not know what that something might be.
 
Perhaps we are seeking reassurance that we are on the right path, or we are seeking affirmation of our gifts. Maybe we are seeking people to make us feel loved, or perhaps we are seeking something that might ease our shame, regret, or hopelessness.
 
Jesus reminds us that it does not actually matter what we seek.
 
We will find it in him, if only we are open to accepting his invitation.
 
“Come and see” – these are not empty words. These are the words of a door opening for us.
 
“Come and see” reminds us that we are worthy, and Jesus beckons us. Jesus is like the father who gazes lovingly and with awe on his children.
 
In him, we find hope. In him, we find a love deeper than the ocean and as vast as the universe.
 
This hope we seek is not beyond our reach. It is easily accessible.
 
Jesus invites us to come close, abandon our fears, and follow his beacon of light as we navigate darkness.
 
He invites us to respond to his question, “what are you looking for?”
 
He does not judge or condemn. He merely sets his gaze upon us and loves us unconditionally.
 
Greg Boyle says the following about God’s love:
 
“I was brought up and educated to give assent to certain propositions. God is love, for example. You concede “God loves us,” and yet there is this lurking sense that perhaps you aren’t fully part of the ‘us.’
 
“The arms of God reach to embrace, and somehow you feel yourself just outside God’s fingertips. Then you have no choice but to consider that ‘God loves me,’ yet you spend much of your life unable to shake off what feels like God only embracing you begrudgingly and reluctantly.”
 
What if, instead, it has been God’s absolute joy to love you all along?
 
What if, in Jesus’s invitation to “come and see,” he is actually inviting us to experience God’s love on a much deeper level?
 
What if Jesus is inviting us to see that when God looks lovingly on his Son, he also looks lovingly on each one of us who was also created to be here in this very time and place?
 
We spend our entire lives seeking, and Jesus tells us “hey, come and see. I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.”
 
Suddenly, with a jolt, you realize that you’ve found it.
 
God is gazing upon you with an unimaginable, unchangeable love. A love that is capable of bringing us out of the deepest caves and darkest nights. A love that shines upon us brighter than the brightest star in the sky.
 
So, may you accept God’s loving gaze. May you look upon yourself the way God sees you – brilliantly and beautifully made.
 
You are God’s beloved, in whom God is wonderfully pleased.
 
Come and see. Amen.

Today's sermon is offered by Pastor Mark Guevarra from Edmonton Moravian Church. This sermon was pre-recorded for our service, so the link is provided below along with the manuscript. We hope you enjoy this new sermon series and we hope that hearing the voices of our clergy from around Alberta will provide some new insights and opportunities to worship God.

Here is the link to Mark's recorded sermon: https://youtu.be/JN9T3Y8ApDY.

And here is the manuscript if you wish to read it:

​Sermon by Mark Guevarra
Good morning.
My name is Mark and I’m the pastor at Edmonton Moravian Church.
I am honoured to share my message with you today.
I am also eager to hear the messages from my fellow pastors from our sister churches over the course of the next several weeks in our epiphany series titled “Manifesting Hope in Darkness.”
 
We’ve just heard Matthew’s account of Jesus’ baptism.
For me, the central message is not just about who Jesus is, but who we are, and
where our dignity truly comes from.
 
Many people today struggle with dignity.
We live in a world that constantly measures our worth--
by appearance, influence, productivity, success, or failure.
From a young age, we learn that love often feels conditional:
You are valued if you perform well.
You are accepted if you fit in.
You matter if you prove yourself.
Over time, this can shape how we see ourselves and even how we imagine God sees us.
 
Among those who struggle with dignity are 2SLGBTQ+ people.
We grow up in a world where the norms are heterosexual.
From a young age, many 2SLGBTQ+ people feel less than since they are not like most people.
For me, I was careful about acting masculine to fit in.
This caused me to look down upon men who acted feminine.
Besides being gay, I’m a person of colour.
While I grew up in a multicultural context in Canada, I was also deeply aware about how different I was, particularly in contrast to the white standard and norm.
Growing up in the 80’s and 90’s there wasn’t as much representation in the media of people of colour.
This hyperawareness of my difference caused me to hate my ethnicity.
 
In time, I came to accept every part of me.
Much of that had to do with education, theological formation, but most importantly spiritual direction.
 
I recall going on a spiritual retreat in my 20’s and taking a full day reflecting on today’s gospel.
I learned to hear the words “You are my beloved child” not only directed at Jesus, but directed to me.
This forever changed my perspective on things.
Rather than seeing myself as other,
I saw my wonderful individuality as a gift given by God,
and that enabled me to see others as beautifully unique individuals, and
siblings in one human family.
 
In the gospel, we hear that Jesus comes from Galilee to the Jordan River to be baptized by John.
John is hesitant. He knows Jesus’ goodness, his authority, his holiness.
John says, in effect, “This doesn’t make sense. You should be baptizing me.”
But Jesus insists, not because he needs repentance, but because he chooses solidarity.
He chooses to step into the waters of human brokenness to be with us, and to make things right and whole.
 
When Jesus comes up from the water, we know what happens, the heavens open,
the Spirit of God descends like a dove, and a voice says:
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
 
Notice something important.
At this point in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has not yet performed a miracle.
He has not preached a sermon, healed the sick, or fed the crowds.
He has not proven anything.
And yet God declares love, delight, and identity.
The love comes first.
And then Jesus’ mission flows from it.
 
This moment reveals a foundational truth about dignity: our worth is not earned; it is given. Jesus is named “beloved” not because of what he has done, but
because of who he is in relationship to the one he called Father.
 
I hope you come to hear the words “You are my beloved in whom I am well pleased” as directed to you.
I hope you believe that you are beloved not because of what you’ve done but simply because you are a child of God.
 
I was baptized on December 25th 1980 and according to my parents, there was not dove descending upon me or a voice from heaven.
It was just the priest, my parents, my 3 year old brother, my godparents, and relatives, all witnessing the ritual and called to raise me to believing that I am God’s beloved child.
I was blessed to have so many faithful people in my life to teach me that truth, but even still I doubted it, as I’m sure you all have.
 
But claiming our dignity begins with believing this truth - not just up here in our heads, but deeply, personally, and courageously.
I recently presided at a funeral of a man who had a strong faith.
I believe that faith was rooted in him knowing in his heart of hearts that he was loved by God unconditionally.
He wasn’t perfect, but even in those time of weakness, he remained faithful to God.
 
Too often, we allow other voices to define us.
Voices of comparison tell us we are not enough.
Voices of shame tell us we are our mistakes.
Voices of fear tell us we must earn love or risk losing it.
Social media has become both a blessing some ways but also a curse by intensifying these voices.
 
But the baptism of Jesus reveals a God who loves first.
A God who names dignity before achievement.
A God whose love is unconditional, faithful, and unshakeable.
 
To claim our dignity, then, is not an act of pride; it is an act of faith.
It means choosing to believe God’s word over every other word that tries to define us.
It means saying, “I am not what I produce. I am not what I lack. I am not what others say about me. I am God’s beloved.”
 
This claiming of dignity has consequences.
When we know we are beloved, we are freed from the exhausting need to prove ourselves.
We can risk compassion instead of competition.
We can serve others not to earn worth, but because we already have it.
And we can manifest hope even amidst uncertainty, darkness, and even death.
 
Jesus’ own ministry flows from this identity.
After his baptism, he is led into the wilderness, where his identity is immediately challenged.
“If you are the Son of God…” the tempter says.
But Jesus does not argue. He does not perform. He stands firm –
rooted in the truth spoken over him at the Jordan.
Knowing who he is allows him to resist lies and walk faithfully into his mission.
 
The same is true for us.
When we claim our dignity as God’s beloved, we become more resilient.
We are less easily defined by failure or success.
We are better able to love others without fear,
because we are not operating from emptiness, but from abundance.
 
This dignity is not private or individualistic.
It shapes how we see others as well.
If our dignity comes from God’s unconditional love, then so does everyone else’s.
Every person we encounter—regardless of gender, ethnicity, ability, sexual orientation, or belief—is someone over whom God delights.
To claim our own dignity is also to honor the dignity of others.
 
At the Jordan River, God does not whisper love; God proclaims it. Publicly. Boldly. Without qualification.
And that same love continues to be spoken over us, again and again, even when we forget, even when we doubt, even when we struggle to believe we are worthy.
 
So today, the invitation is simple, but profound: listen again to the voice of God.
Let it speak louder than your fears. Let it interrupt your self-criticism. Let it heal what has been wounded.
 
You are God’s beloved. Not someday. Not if you succeed. Not if you get it all right.
Now. Always.
 
May we have the courage to claim that dignity, to live from it, and to reflect it to a world desperate to know it is loved.
 
Amen.

​Young at Heart Message
 
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. From a young age, I adored my dad and I wanted to be just like him.
 
When I was four or five years old, I wanted so badly to learn to ride a bike so I could ride with my dad.
 
My parents started me on training wheels, but I hated them. They scared me.
 
Yes, I was afraid of falling, but I was far more afraid of those training wheels.
 
The training wheels created a level of uncertainty and surprise that I couldn’t stand.
 
You’re riding along and then all the sudden you start leaning to one side. Yes, the training wheels catch you, but before they do, you feel like you’re falling.
 
Then, you’re stuck riding off to the side, and you’re too afraid to try to right yourself for fear of leaning too far to the other side and then waiting for the other training wheel to catch you.
 
No thank you.
 
But, I also didn’t want to fall and skin my knees.
 
So, my ingenious solution was to practice in the grass. That way, when I inevitably fell, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
 
It also forced me to learn quickly because I didn’t want to keep falling, even in the grass. But more importantly, I wanted to be able to ride on the sidewalk or the road with my dad.
 
It did not take me long at all to learn to ride a bike. Soon, my dad and I were riding around the block, to the cemetery down the street, and to church.
 
Eventually, I was able to ride by myself on our street. I wasn’t afraid of falling anymore, and I loved being outdoors.
 
One day, I was riding along, just about back to my house from down the street, when I felt my shoelaces get caught up in the pedals.
 
Kids bikes have the brakes on the pedals, or at least they did at that time. You pedal backward to brake, so you couldn’t pedal backward to unloop your shoelaces from the pedals.
 
I had no choice. I had to fall because both my feet were stuck to the pedals. I was scared.
 
I pulled over to the side of the road, found what I thought would be the softest grassy area along the curb, and I fell. Disgraced, I took my shoes off and got the laces free.
 
I was afraid of that happening again, so I learned how to tuck my laces into my shoes so they couldn’t get wrapped up in the pedals. Problem solved, and fear abated.
 
When my family moved to a new house in a rural area, our house was the second one built on our street, which was a cul-de-sac.
 
Unfortunately for me, the cul-de-sac met up with a busy rural road, and I was still young, so I was only allowed to ride my bike on our short street.
 
I was riding one day, and my dad came home from work and drove into the cul-de-sac. The road was newly paved, and they hadn’t built the gravel shoulder up yet, so there was about a 5-inch drop-off from the road to the gravel shoulder.
 
As my dad pulled in, I tried to move over to make sure I gave him plenty of room on the road, and my back tire slid off the pavement.
 
I went down hard. I skinned my knees and I had a huge scrape on my chin.
 
I was distraught, not just because it hurt but because the next day I had my very first day of school at a brand new school. I was starting third grade.
 
This felt like the end of the world. I was afraid of what the other kids would think about this new girl with a huge band-aid on her chin.
 
Weirdly though, I don’t remember being afraid to get back on my bike. I loved riding so much, and I just learned to steer clear of high shoulders.
 
As I got older, my dad and I started to ride together on the busier rural roads.
 
I was afraid to ride alone, and I am sure my parents were afraid to let me.
 
One day, my dad asked if I wanted to ride and I must have said no because he left without me.
 
But then, I must have changed my mind. I hopped on my bike and followed him.
 
But, my dad was too far ahead. The wind was in his ears, and he couldn’t hear me yelling at him.
 
I pedaled harder than I’d ever pedaled, but I couldn’t catch up to him. My bike was smaller than his, and even though by this time I had a bike with gears and handlebar brakes, it still wasn’t big enough and didn’t have enough gears for me to be able to catch him.
 
I rode the entire way with him about half a mile ahead of me, no idea I was behind him.
 
My fear of riding alone on the rural streets was dissipated because, after all, I could see my dad ahead of me. (If anything happened to me though, he never would have known, but that didn’t occur to me.)
 
We got home and I pulled into the driveway after him, out of breath and sweaty.
 
Surprised, he said well, I guess we don’t need to be afraid of you riding alone anymore!
 
As I got older, I rode more and more, and most often I rode alone.
 
In university, I decided I needed to buy myself a decent bike if I was going to take riding seriously.
 
I bought myself a Giant brand road bike. This thing was fancy, and it was expensive.
 
It had the curved handlebars, 21 gears, and… it had pedals that I needed special shoes for so I could clip my feet to them.
 
I hadn’t had my feet stuck to bike pedals since my shoelaces got wrapped around my pedals as a kid.
 
I was scared to try these new shoes. I mean, who wants to be stuck to their pedals when something comes up and you need to take your feet off the pedals unexpectedly?
 
But, this bike was SO cool, and I was so excited to ride it. I set aside my fear and I practiced clipping and unclipping each foot.
 
Then I rode around large parking lots, practicing clipping and unclipping while I was riding.
 
Soon enough, I was riding and I wasn’t scared of getting my feet stuck.
 
Until one day, it happened. I took a turn wrong, couldn’t get my feet unclipped, and took a huge fall.
 
I don’t know if you know this, but falling as an adult hurts a lot more than falling as a kid.
 
You’re a lot farther off the ground, and I was moving fairly fast.
 
But, the fall didn’t stop me, and fear of falling again didn’t keep me from getting back on the bike.
 
Now that it had happened once, I guess I figured I knew what it felt like. I had learned more about the clips and how to use them, and I loved riding so much that I didn’t want to give it up.
 
I have a million more examples of the fear that has come along with riding my bike.
 
People would often ask me, “aren’t you afraid of getting hit by a car riding on the road?”
 
My response would be sure, if I think about it, I should be scared. A lot of bad things could happen when you mix bikes and cars on the road.
 
But I don’t think about it. Because if I think about it too much, I would never do it again.
 
And that’s where the lesson in this small story lies. There are many, many things that, if we think too hard about all the bad things that could happen, we would never do them.
 
But if we let fear overwhelm us, we would never do anything in our lives, either.
 
Fear can paralyze us. Fear can consume us.
 
And often, we can let other people’s fear become our fear.
 
The Message
 
And this is where we find ourselves in scripture today.
 
Once again, today’s passage starts with a reminder that Herod was king at the time Jesus was born.
 
Sharing this is like asking me “aren’t you afraid of getting hit by a car on your bike?”
 
Everyone knows that Herod is dangerous, violent, and paranoid.
 
Just offering that reminder would fill anyone living in that era with fear.
 
Meanwhile, the magi hear about the birth of Jesus, king of the Jews, and wish to worship him.
 
When Herod hears about this “king of the Jews,” he becomes worried – not because he’s worried for the child, but because he’s worried about the threat to his own reign of power.
 
So Herod calls these magi to him.
 
He lies to the magi and tells them that the reason he wants to know as soon as they find him is so that he can worship him, too.
 
Luckily, the magi were warned in a dream not to take the news of Jesus’s location back to Herod.
 
The scripture doesn’t speak of their fear, but they must have been filled with fear.
 
They were defying the orders of Herod, a ruler known for violence and vengeance.
 
The magi couldn’t possibly have known what was coming next.
 
They could not have known that their act of defiance would cause Herod to order the murder of all the young boys living in or near Bethlehem.
 
And yet, they had to have known that there would be consequences to their actions.
 
And they bravely chose love over fear nonetheless.
 
Their choice could have been the end of Jesus’s life. His life could have ended before it began if they had chosen to give in to their fear.
 
Instead, they chose love. Instead, they chose hope for a better world.
 
They did not allow their fear to stop them from doing what the angel in their dream told them to do.
 
They did not allow fear to paralyze them.
 
And really, when it comes down to it, they did not allow Herod’s fear to become their fear.
 
Herod’s actions – his violence and paranoia – also stemmed from fear. Fear of losing power and control. Fear of someone who may one day be able to turn people against him.
 
Fear of loss of control or power is a major driving force for those who oppress others. It is a contributing factor in many, if not most wars.
 
The magi were certainly afraid, but they did not allow their fear to paralyze them, and they did not allow Herod’s fear to influence them.
 
This is the power of epiphany: the beginning of a new path.
 
The magi do what Herod and his allies refuse to do: they seek, they kneel, and they listen.
 
So, on this Epiphany Sunday, may we wonder how the story of the magi might guide us in our own lives.
 
Like the magi, let us kneel in awe, not before the powerful, but before the powerless Christ, whose birth marks the beginning of God’s peace campaign.
 
Let us believe, with trembling hope, that fear does not have the last word.
 
Because we cannot allow fear to stop us. We cannot allow the fear of others to become our fear.
 
Instead, may love lead us forward. May love lead. Amen.
 
Let us pray:
 
God of the Stars, like the magi, we come to this place searching for you. So today, just like every day, we ask that you would remove any barriers that keep us from your Spirit. Clear out the distractions. Wipe away the doubt. Open up our hearts.  
 
And as you do, help us to keep walking. As you do, help us to move toward you. With hope we pray. Amen.

​Meditation
 
Those of you who know me know that I used to own a business. And here is what I know to be true:
 
One hundred people could tell me in one day how much they loved my business.
 
And still, if one person left a bad review or complained or said we were horrible, it was a lot easier to believe that one person than it was to believe the 100 others who loved us.
 
Studies show that it takes five positive messages to outweigh one negative message.
 
And yet, what do we get when we turn on our TV, or open social media, or glance at the news headlines?
 
Usually, it’s negative messages. Often, it’s not just negative messages, but it is messages of fear rather than hope or positivity.
 
In today’s world, it’s easy to believe that fear is louder than good news.
 
Fearful messages spread quickly, echo loudly, and linger longer than positive messages.
 
In a media world driven by algorithms and attention, fear thrives because it sells. It taps into our survival instincts.
 
We want to share fearful news because it makes us feel better to know that others are seeing it, too.
 
We cling to fear, whether we know it or not, and certainly whether we like it or not.
 
So, when the angel says to the shepherds in their field on that night long ago, “Do not be afraid,” and then declares, “good news of great joy for all people,” it’s not merely a sentimental moment.
 
It’s a revolutionary moment.
 
Here, good news is not Caesar’s victory, but God's vulnerability—made flesh in a newborn wrapped in bands of cloth and laid in a manger.
 
Good news may not always seem like it is louder than fear. But that’s the tension that we live in.
 
Like Mary—young, uncertain, and asked to carry more than she could have imagined.
 
Like Joseph—choosing to show up, even when it costs him reputation and comfort.
 
Like the shepherds—shaken awake in the night by glory and confusion.
 
The fear was real, and the risk was real.
 
The circumstances of Jesus’ birth—poverty, displacement, estrangement—are not erased by the angel’s song.
 
And yet, the good news comes anyway.
 
It comes with sound—loud and full of light.
 
It comes with bodies—angels taking up space in the sky, shepherds running through streets proclaiming glory, and Mary holding pain and promise in her arms.
 
It comes through fear, not after it.
 
Luke’s story insists that the good news of God
has weight and presence.
 
But it needs to be amplified. Proclaimed.
 
In a world where fear is curated and fed to us, proclaiming good news is a countercultural act.
 
In a world that tells marginalized communities to be quiet, that punishes joy and rage alike, joy becomes resistance.
 
The shepherds returned glorifying and praising God—they essentially became the first evangelists.
 
They tell anyone who will listen.
 
And the good news spreads—not through Caesar’s decrees, but through trembling, joyful witnesses.
 
Tonight, we are invited to do the same.
 
Not because our fear is gone—but because good news still breaks in.
 
Even when it’s quiet. Even when it’s messy. Even when it feels like the darkness will never end.
 
So let us proclaim the good news loudly.
 
Let us make space for joy that shakes the walls.
 
Let us resist fear’s domination by bearing witness to light, to peace, to Christ among us.
 
Because tonight, we remember:
 
Fear may be loud, but love is louder.
 
Violence may be strong, but hope is stronger.
 
And the good news—God is here—will not be silenced. Amen.
 
God of yesterday, today and tomorrow, we long to catch a glimpse of your Spirit. We cup our ears to hear the sound of the angel chorus. We turn our eyes toward the sky to see if we can find your star. We lean forward in our seat to see if we can feel your presence in our midst.  
 
We long to catch a glimpse of your Spirit, O God. So on this quiet night, on this holy night, on this joyful night, thank you for revealing yourself to us once more. Thank you for speaking to us through the music and the children.
 
Thank you for speaking to us through starlight and candlelight.
 
With gratitude, we catch a glimpse of you tonight and we feel your love. Amen.