February 6, 2026
Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Whether you feel particularly faithful this week or not,
God has already been at work through you.
That may be hard to believe. Many of us measure faith by how strong we feel, how confident we are, or how well we think we’re doing. When we’re tired, distracted, doubtful, or overwhelmed, it’s easy to assume that God must be waiting for us to catch up before anything meaningful can happen.
But Jesus doesn’t speak that way.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus looks at his disciples and says, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” He does not say, “Try harder to become.” He does not wait until they feel ready or faithful enough.
He names who they already are.
That promise matters, especially in weeks when faith feels thin. Whether you feel particularly faithful this week or not, God has already been at work through you—quietly, gently, often without you even noticing. God has been at work through your presence when someone needed to be seen. Through your patience when it would have been easier to withdraw. Through the responsibilities you carried, the care you offered, the prayers you whispered.
God has been at work even in your weariness, even in your uncertainty.
Salt does not announce itself. Light does not demand attention. They simply do what they do by being what they are. In the same way, God often works through the small, ordinary moments of our lives – the ones that don’t feel spiritual enough to count.
This is good news, because many of us are feeling heavy. The world is anxious. The news is relentless. Conversations are strained. And in the midst of it all, we may wonder whether anything we do makes a difference.
Jesus’ promise speaks directly into that fear. Whether you feel particularly faithful this week or not, God has already been at work through you. Not because you have everything figured out, but because God delights in working through ordinary people, exactly where they are.
So if this week you feel strong in your faith – give thanks. And if you feel uncertain, tired, or discouraged, hear this promise again:
God has already been at work through you. You are loved. You are blessed. You are salt and light – already.
January 30 2026
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
As we come to the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, the season of revelation continues to draw us more deeply into the heart of Jesus’ message. This week’s Gospel places us on the mountain as Jesus begins the Sermon on the Mount with the Beatitudes – words that are familiar, yet radical.
It is important to hear what Jesus is not doing here. He is not offering instructions for how to live well, nor laying out spiritual goals we must strive to achieve. The Beatitudes are not a checklist for faithful living or a pathway to earning God’s blessing. Instead, Jesus is revealing something essential about the nature of God’s kingdom.
He is naming where God is already present and at work.
Again and again, Jesus points to places the world rarely associates with blessing: among the grieving, the weary, the humble, those feeling hopeless, those who hunger and thirst for justice, those who show mercy and make peace. In these lives and experiences, Jesus says, the kingdom of heaven is already breaking in.
God’s reign is not something we build through effort or virtue; it is something we learn to recognize, receive, and trust.
Epiphany is a season that invites us to see more clearly where God’s light is shining. In the Beatitudes, that light appears not in strength or success, but in vulnerability, dependence, and compassion.
What often feels like weakness or failure becomes, in Jesus’ telling, a sign of God’s nearness.
This Sunday invites us to listen carefully and ask not, “How do I live up to these words?” but rather, “Where do I see them already taking shape?”
May we have eyes to notice where God’s kingdom is already among us—and hearts open enough to believe that it is closer than we think.
January 23, 2026
Third Sunday after Epiphany
You Are Included in God’s Call
This week’s Gospel reading moves quickly: John is arrested, Jesus relocates, The kingdom of heaven is announced, and disciples are called. In just a few short verses, everything seems to shift. And yet, beneath all that movement, there is a thread holding it together: God’s call.
When Jesus begins his ministry in Galilee, he does not start with a list of tasks or expectations. He begins with an invitation: “Follow me.” Before anyone knows what obedience will require or where the path will lead, they are simply called into relationship. They are called to be his disciples.
That detail matters. We often think of calling as something we do – a job, a role, a responsibility. And for many people it can be hard to see how daily work and ordinary life connect to faith at all. But our Biblical story reminds us that our calling begins somewhere deeper.
Before God calls us to do anything, God calls us to be something: beloved children.
The fishermen by the sea don’t yet understand what it means to be “fishers of people.” John the Baptist surely could not have imagined where his calling would lead. What they share is not clarity about outcomes, but trust in the One who calls them. Their identity comes first; the action follows.
The same is true for us. We are called – not because we have everything figured out, but because God names us as loved and worthy. From that place of belonging, our lives begin to take shape. Our work, our relationships, our service all become responses to God’s grace rather than attempts to earn it.
This calling is not only personal; it is communal. God calls our faith community to be a place of welcome, healing, and hope – a gathering of God’s beloved children. If we can begin there, the rest will follow…
January 16, 2026
In John’s Gospel, the first words Jesus speaks are not a command or a proclamation, but a gentle, searching question: “What are you looking for?” It’s a question that reaches beyond curiosity and goes straight to the heart. What do we long for? What do we need?
What are we really seeking beneath the noise and demands of daily life?
The world around us is quick to offer answers – usually things we can buy or achieve. But Jesus responds differently. When the disciples ask where he is staying, he doesn’t give directions or explanations. He offers an invitation: “Come and see.”
Faith, in this telling, is not primarily about having the right answers, but about relationship. It’s about spending time with Jesus, staying close, and discovering life as it unfolds in his presence.
That invitation still stands. Jesus continues to meet us in our questions, our doubts, and our hopes, inviting us not to certainty but to trust. And he invites us, in turn, to extend that same simple, gracious welcome to others.
Come and see. It may be the most honest and hopeful words we have to offer – this week and always.
January 9, 2026
On New Year’s Eve, I officiated a wedding back in my hometown of Camrose. I lived 56 years in that area, alongside my dad, Oliver, who lived his entire life there. Camrose is more than a place for me – it is layered with people who knew my family along with myself.
As I walked into the rehearsal, I noticed the groom’s grandfather, Harold. He was a man I remembered from childhood, when my dad and Harold would visit. As I approached him, he looked up and said, “Hello, Oliver.” Then he added, “You look just like your dad.” I replied, “Harold, there are no better words you could have said.”
Folks, I love hearing: “You look like your dad. You sound like him. You’re as kind and caring as he was.”
My father and I were farming partners until his sudden and untimely death when I was 35. Our shared work tied us closely together, but our relationship was deeply strained. Oliver was a man shaped by his generation – a time when emotional expression was restrained and outright discouraged in the family. As a result, genuine emotional closeness between us was rare.
And yet, over time, something surprising began to happen. I noticed that those very qualities – the best parts of him – were showing up in me. Not because I worked at them deliberately, but because they were already there. I came to a quiet but powerful realization: if I want to know who my dad truly was in the world, I don’t look backward at my limited experience. I look at how I now show up. The kindness I extend. The compassion I offer. The care I bring into relationships. These are not solely my own creations. They are a living inheritance.
My dad lives on in me – not as the pain of a complicated relationship, but as the expression of his truest self.
So when Harold called me – named me – “Oliver,” it did not feel like a mix-up. It felt like recognition. Like a naming.
Names matter.
The names we’re given. The names we answer to. The names that shape how we see ourselves. So let me ask you: What are the names you carry? Not the one on your ID – but the one that whispers when the room is quiet. The name that rises when you fail. The name that demands perfection or reminds you of pain.
Some names have carried us. Some have wounded us.
That’s why Jesus’ baptism matters so deeply. When Jesus steps into the Jordan, he isn’t being fixed or made worthy. He’s being named. The heavens open, the Spirit descends, and a voice speaks – not with instruction or correction, but with identity: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
Before Jesus teaches, heals, or suffers, he is named Beloved.
Baptism, at its heart, is not about earning God’s approval. It’s about remembering who we are. It’s about stepping into the water and hearing a truer name spoken over us – one louder than shame, fear, or failure.
Beloved.
And the question that remains for all of us is this: Which name will we choose to live from?
Names matter; names form our identity; names shape our self-worth.
January 2, 2026
As we step into a new year, our faith tradition invites us to look back before we rush ahead.
On Christmas Eve, we stood with Luke. We listened to angels and shepherds. We heard the story of a young mother and a newborn child laid gently in a manger. Luke gave us a story of tenderness—of God choosing vulnerability, poverty, and quiet trust. God came softly, asking to be held.
Then, last Sunday, Matthew told the truth we might rather avoid. His birth story is full with fear. Dreams warn. Power feels threatened. Families flee. Love does not arrive to applause, but to danger. Matthew reminds us that from the very beginning, God enters a world that resists being changed.
And now this Sunday, at the threshold of a new year, John takes us even deeper. “In the beginning was the Word.” Before the manger. Before the journey into exile. Before the mess and the miracle alike—there was God. The child born in Luke and the refugee of Matthew are not afterthoughts.
This is who God has always been.
Luke shows us how God comes.
Matthew shows us what it costs.
John tells us what it means.
The Word becomes flesh. God moves into the neighbourhood. Light shines in the darkness—and the darkness does not extinguish it.
In a world that often feels dominated by shadow, noise, and uncertainty, it is easy to forget the steady presence of God’s grace – Light.
To trust that this light is already among us is an act of faith. It means releasing the anxious search for a future sign or a miracle, and instead, resting in the blessed assurance that the hope of God’s kingdom is not merely a distant promise, but a current reality woven into the very fabric of our lives and community.
A new year does not erase what came before. It does not magically fix what is broken. But it does remind us where the story is rooted. Not in our strength. Not in our certainty. But in a God who enters fully, stays faithfully, and continues to shine.
My prayer for this year is simple: that we notice the Light—quiet, persistent, real—and trust that it is already among us, with us, and for us.
Blessed New Year!