September 4, 2026
Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Relationships Can Be Complicated
I have learned some things about relationships the hard way. I have said things I wish I could take back. I have made assumptions about people without knowing the whole story. I have let my own hurt or frustration affect how I see someone else. And there have been times when it was a whole lot easier to talk about someone than to actually talk to them.
This is one of the reasons this week’s Gospel speaks to me. Jesus seems to understand that relationships are complicated. Even in the church. Even among people who love one another. We hurt each other. We misunderstand each other. We carry old wounds. Sometimes a small disagreement grows into something much bigger simply because nobody stops long enough to have a vulnerable conversation.
Jesus says, “If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.” That sounds simple enough. But we all know it isn’t. It is much easier to talk about someone than to sit down with the person who has hurt us and say, “This is what happened. This is how it has affected me.”
And then Jesus says something I find really interesting. If the person listens, Jesus says, “you have regained that one.” Regained. That word matters. Jesus doesn’t say the goal is to win the argument or prove who was right. The goal is to regain the relationship.
That doesn’t mean pretending that hurt doesn’t matter. Sometimes boundaries are necessary. Sometimes reconciliation takes time – sometimes a very long time. Sometimes a relationship cannot return to what it once was. But grace leaves room for God grace to keep working. Just because we cannot see a way forward doesn’t mean God cannot.
Jesus says, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” We often hear those words as a comforting reminder that Jesus is with us whenever we gather. And they are. But in this passage, Jesus is talking about people who are struggling to stay in a relationship. And right in the middle of all that, Jesus says, “I am here with you.” What a promise.
Jesus doesn’t promise us perfect relationships. He promises his presence in the middle of our imperfect relationships. That is grace. Grace gives us the courage to have difficult conversations. Grace gives us the humility to listen. Grace gives us the strength to forgive. Grace reminds us that another person’s failure does not erase their identity as a beloved child of God. And grace reminds us that our failures do not erase ours either.
Grace means our failures do not have to have the final word. Neither does our hurt. Neither does our anger. Neither does the distance that may have grown between us. God is still at work. There is still room for forgiveness, healing and reconciliation. And, by the grace of God, there is always room to begin anew.
August 28, 2026
Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
The Way of the Cross… Costly Love, Abundant Grace
From Deacon Lisa
This Sunday’s Gospel gives us a striking moment in the life of Peter. Just last week, Peter boldly confessed Jesus as the Messiah. This week, he turns around and rebukes Jesus for speaking about suffering and the cross. Jesus responds with words that are jarring, saying, “Get behind me, Satan.” It is not a rejection of Peter himself, but a sharp reminder that Peter’s well‑intentioned ideas are pulling him away from God’s purposes. Peter is still learning what it means to follow a Messiah in discipleship.
Jesus then teaches what discipleship truly looks like, denying ourselves, taking up our cross, and following him. These words have often been misunderstood. They are not a call to seek suffering or to pursue extreme spiritual discipline. They are a call to let Christ’s self‑giving love shape our lives, to choose compassion, mercy, and truth even when it costs something.
Jesus also promises that some will glimpse the kingdom of God breaking into the world. The kingdom is revealed in ordinary life, through everyday acts of love, courage, and faithfulness. This is abundant grace, because God meets us right where we are, and then shapes us to meet others with that same love.
As we gather this Sunday, may we remember that Christ meets us in the ordinary places of our lives, shaping us in love and calling us into a discipleship that is both challenging and full of grace.
August 21, 2026
Thirteenth Sunday of Pentecost
“Who do you say that I am?”
In our Gospel this week, Jesus asks his disciples a simple but profound question: “Who do you say that I am?” Peter answers, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is a beautiful confession of faith – one that I, too, echo. But there is something important about Peter’s confession that we can easily miss. Peter confesses who Jesus is, but Peter’s confession does not create Jesus’ identity. Jesus is the Messiah whether Peter understands it perfectly or not. Peter’s words do not make Jesus the Messiah. They simply name something that is already true.
I think there is something deeply comforting about that. God’s truth does not depend on our ability to understand it perfectly. Jesus does not become the Messiah because Peter gets the answer right. Jesus is the Messiah because that is who Jesus is. Peter’s faith recognizes something that God has already done and already revealed.
That same truth is at the heart of baptism, which makes this Gospel especially meaningful for us this Sunday as we baptize two children. In the Lutheran Church, we baptize people of all ages because baptism begins with God’s grace, not with our ability to understand, believe, or earn it. These children cannot yet answer Jesus’ question for themselves. They cannot explain who Jesus is or understand what baptism means. And they don’t need to. Baptism is a means of Grace.
Before these children can say anything about God, God is already saying something to them: “You are mine. You are my beloved. I love you. I will be with you.” Their baptism does not create God’s love for them. It names and celebrates a love that is already there. God’s grace comes first.
And perhaps that is something we all need to remember. Most of us were baptized years ago. We may not remember the water or the promises made on our behalf, but God remembers. Our baptism reminds us that God’s grace does not have an expiration date. We belong to God not because we have perfectly understood our faith, but because God has already claimed us as beloved.
Peter is also a reminder that we do not have to have everything figured out. He gets Jesus’ identity right, but he does not yet understand everything that being the Messiah will mean. His confession is true, even though his understanding is incomplete. And perhaps that is true for us as well. We can trust Jesus even while we still have questions. We can confess our faith even while our understanding continues to grow.
So perhaps Jesus’ question, “Who do you say that I am?” is not a test to see whether we can give the right answer. It is an invitation to recognize what is already true. Jesus is the Messiah. Jesus is the Son of the living God. Our confession does not make it so. Our faith does not make it so. Our understanding does not make it so. We simply receive the gift of naming what God has already revealed.
This Sunday, as we celebrate these two baptisms, may we remember that God’s grace always comes first. Before we understand, before we believe perfectly, before we get our lives together, God is already there. God’s love is already true. We belong to God. And we spend our whole lives discovering what that means.
August 14, 2026
Twelfth Sunday of Pentecost
Being Curious vs. Closed Off
The Story of Jesus and the Canaanite Woman
Matthew 15:10-28
One of the clearest signs of God’s grace at work in my life is that God has softened my heart. And as my heart has become softer, I have become significantly less judgmental.
I haven’t outgrown judgment entirely. I still make quick assumptions. I still form opinions before I know someone’s story. I am very much a work in progress. But I have noticed a change in myself. I am more willing to pause, listen, and wonder if there is something I don’t yet understand. I am learning to choose curiosity over being closed off. And perhaps most importantly, the people I am willing to welcome around my table have simply increased. The circle has grown.
People I might once have kept at a distance have become people whose stories I want to hear. People I might once have reduced to a category have become people with names, faces, hopes, fears, struggles, and stories. The more God softens my heart, the more room I seem to have for people who are different from me. That is part of what I hear in the story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman.
This woman was someone who stood outside the boundaries of Jesus’ religious and cultural world. She was an outsider. She did not fit neatly into the categories of the people Jesus and his disciples were accustomed to welcoming. And yet she persisted. She spoke. She refused to be ignored. She challenged Jesus to see her – not simply as a Canaanite woman, but as a mom whose daughter was suffering. And Jesus listened. From this point on, Jesus’ ministry was broadened to include the Gentiles. Her persistence changed him…
That matters because sometimes God’s grace comes to us through the people who challenge us. Sometimes another person becomes the means through which God softens our hearts and opens our eyes.
Grace doesn’t simply tell us what to do. Grace transforms us.
It softens the places in us that have become hard. It challenges our assumptions. It loosens our need to always be right. It creates room for compassion. And it teaches us to see people rather than categories. That transformation means having a bigger table.
Maybe that is what it means to live by grace: to remain open to God’s continuing work within us – to stay curious, keep listening, and allow ourselves to be challenged and changed. We are all still learning and becoming. And we can be grateful that God’s grace is not finished with any of us yet.
August 7, 2026
Eleventh Sunday of Pentecost
Life Has a Way of Bringing Storms We Never Expected
None of us anticipates that life will be disrupted by challenges like illness, grief, broken relationships, financial uncertainty, anxiety, or disappointment. Yet, eventually, we all find ourselves struggling against adversity, wondering how we will endure. This is why this Sunday’s Gospel is so meaningful; it describes the disciples trapped in a storm on the Sea of Galilee, overwhelmed by relentless winds, waves, and fear.
What I find most helpful is that Jesus never pretends the storm isn’t real. He doesn’t tell the disciples to think more positively or this is God’s plan for you. Instead, he comes to them in the midst of the wind and waves. He meets them where they are.
When Peter steps out of the boat and begins to sink, Matthew tells us, “Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.” There is no hesitation, no lecture, no reminder that Peter should have trusted more. There is simply the grace of an outstretched hand.
Martin Luther understood that this is the very heart of the Christian faith. Faith is not our ability to climb our way to God. Faith is receiving the God who first comes to us. Grace always comes first. Before we seek God, God is already seeking us. Before we call out for help, Jesus is already reaching toward us with mercy and love. Before we understand grace, grace finds us.
That is good news because life has a way of bringing storms we never expected. There will be days when our faith feels strong and days when it barely feels like faith at all. Yet our hope has never rested in the strength of our faith. It rests in the faithfulness of Jesus, whose grip on us is stronger than our grip on him.
Whatever storm you may be facing, remember that you are not facing it alone. Emmanuel – God with us – still comes to us in the middle of the “wind and waves”, still reaches out his hand, and still speaks the words we most need to hear: “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.”
July 31, 2026
Tenth Sunday of Pentecost
Before We Understood Grace, Grace Found Us.
This week’s Gospel invites us to see Holy Communion in a way that is both beautiful and, for some, challenging.
Jesus has crossed the lake, hoping for a quiet place to rest with his disciples. Instead, thousands of people meet him there. The people are searching for something. Some have various illnesses. Others are carrying burdens no one else can see. As evening approaches, the disciples begin to worry. “Send the crowds away,” they say. But Jesus has something different in mind.
He takes five loaves and the two fish, looks up to heaven, blesses them, breaks them, and gives them to the disciples. The bread is shared and everyone eats until they are satisfied. In Jesus’ presence the bread and fish simply multiplied. Not only are 5000 plus people fed, there are twelve baskets of food left over. All are fed without exception. No one is asked where they have come from. No one is questioned about their faith. No one is required to prove they belong. They are simply welcomed and fed. I find that both beautiful and challenging to commonly held beliefs.
For many of us, we were raised with certain expectations about who could receive Holy Communion. Some of us were taught that confirmation had to come first. Others were told we needed to intellectually understand what Holy Communion means before we could come forward. I remember my grandparents speaking about a time when they were required to meet privately with the pastor on the Saturday before Communion to confess their sins. Without that conversation, they would not come to the Lord’s Table. Others have been taught that baptism must always precede Communion.
I understand where these practices came from. They were born out of a deep reverence for the sacrament and a sincere desire to honour Christ’s presence among us. Yet without intending to, they can leave us believing that God’s grace is something we must qualify for rather than something that is freely given.
When I look at Jesus in this Gospel story, I see something different. The crowd does not fully understand who he is. They have not completed a class. They have not made a confession of faith. They are simply hungry. And Jesus feeds them. That is how God’s grace works.
Long before we could respond, God called us by name. Before we understood grace, grace found us. Before we loved God, God loved us. Grace has never been a reward for getting it right. Grace is God’s first gift.
Perhaps that is why I find such comfort at the Lord’s Table. Every time we gather for Holy Communion, we come not because we have earned a place there, but because Christ has invited us. We come with faith and doubt, with joy and grief, with confidence and questions. We come hungry… And once again, Jesus takes, blesses, breaks, and gives. Grace comes first. It always has. It always will.
July 24, 2026
Nineth Sunday of Pentecost
There Is Nowhere God Cannot Reach
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:39)
I want to begin with a quote I once heard in a sermon that has stayed with me: “There are many fears that haunt the human heart, but perhaps one of the deepest is this: What if I end up somewhere God cannot reach?”
As I have reflected on Paul’s words in Romans 8 this week, I have found myself returning to one simple yet life-giving truth: there is nowhere we can fall that God cannot reach. It is a promise that speaks into every season of life, especially those moments when we wonder if we have wandered too far, failed too often, or are carrying more than we can bear. The good news of the Gospel is not that life will always unfold as we hope. The good news is that God’s love never stops pursuing us, even when we have given up on ourselves.
That promise changes the way we see both ourselves and God. There is no darkness so deep that God’s light cannot enter. There is no grief so heavy that God’s love cannot carry it. There is no mistake you have made that is beyond God’s ability to repair and redeem. We cannot rewrite the past, but God is never finished writing our story. Again and again throughout Scripture, we encounter people whose failures became the very places where God’s grace was most clearly revealed. Grace does not overlook our brokenness; it enters into it, heals it, and begins something new.
This is why Paul can declare with such confidence “that nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Our hope has never rested on the strength of our faith or our ability to hold on to God. Our hope rests in the God who refuses to let go of us. When our prayers become little more than tears or silence, the Holy Spirit intercedes for us. When we feel lost, Jesus comes searching for us. When we cannot see the way forward, God continues to walk beside us.
As you journey through this week, I pray you will hold fast to this promise. Whatever challenges lie ahead, remember that there is nowhere you can go where God has not already gone before you. There is nowhere you can fall that God cannot reach, no burden too heavy for God’s love to carry, and no chapter of your life that grace cannot redeem. That is the hope we hold onto. That is the confidence by which we live. And that is the Good News of Jesus the Christ.
July 17, 2026
Eighth Sunday of Pentecost
The “Weeds of Life” Do Not Get the Last Word
There are seasons when life feels like a field where wheat and weeds somehow grow side by side. We celebrate the birth of a grandchild while grieving the loss of someone we love. We experience deep joy in one part of life while another part feels painfully uncertain. We watch some prayers answered while others seem to linger in silence. Jesus understood that this is often what life looks like. In this Sunday’s Gospel, he tells the parable of the wheat and the weeds—not to explain why suffering exists, but to remind us that God’s presence remains even when life is marked by heartbreak and brokenness. In other words, our pain is never evidence that God has abandoned us.
I have long believed this theologically, but life eventually taught me what it looks like in practice. That lesson came in 2005. I can still picture the bailiff arriving at our family farm and hauling everything away. The land was foreclosed on. The natural gas was disconnected. My off-farm employment came to an end. One by one, every piece of the life my family and I had worked so hard to build seemed to disappear.
In the midst of it all, well-meaning religious people offered religious phrases: “God has a plan for this.” “Everything happens for a reason.” Or, the one I most internally revolve against: “God never gives you more than you can handle.” I know they were trying to comfort me. I know they wanted to make sense of the weeds. But their words only deepened my pain. I found myself wondering why God would ever plan such devastation for a family simply trying to survive.
Then one day, someone asked a very different question. They didn’t try to explain my suffering or justify the weeds. They didn’t try to defend God. They simply looked at me and asked, “How can I support your children through this?” I have never forgotten that question. In that moment, they stopped trying to explain the weeds and instead chose to care for the wheat.
Looking back, I realize that person understood something at the heart of Jesus’ parable. Rather than becoming consumed with explaining the weeds, they devoted themselves to nurturing the wheat. They met me with compassion instead of explanations, with presence instead of platitudes.
Over the years, I have become convinced that when suffering enters our lives, God is not the author of our suffering. When I look at Jesus, I see someone who always moves toward those who are hurting. He heals, restores, forgives, feeds, comforts, and walks alongside people whose lives have been shattered. Jesus reveals a God who enters into our suffering – not a God who causes it.
If someone you know is walking through a season of weeds, they do not need an explanation. They simply need someone willing to ask, “How can I support you through this?” Sometimes that simple question becomes the very place where God’s love takes root, nurturing hope and new life until, in God’s time, the wheat has the final word.
July 10, 2026
Seventh Sunday of Pentecost
The Parable of the Sower
Last week, I was asked, “Do your children go to church?” Donna was asked the very same question just two weeks earlier. Beneath those simple words often lies a deep ache. More often than not, the question is followed by another: “How is it that I raised all my children in the church, taught them the faith, prayed with them, and showed them the importance of church, yet only one still comes to church? Or perhaps none of them do” Then comes the most painful question: “What did I do wrong?”
Every time I hear those words, my heart aches. Many have come to believe that if their children no longer attend church, then somehow they must have failed. I do not believe that is a burden Jesus ever intended parents to carry.
The truth is, faith has never been something that can simply be passed from one generation to the next like a treasured family heirloom. Faith is always a relationship, and every relationship must eventually become personal. As children grow into adults, they begin asking their own questions, facing their own struggles, and making sense of a world that is often very different from the one their parents knew. For some, that journey includes seasons of doubt, disappointment, anger, or even stepping away from the church altogether. That journey can be painful for everyone involved, but it is not necessarily a rejection of everything they were taught, nor is it evidence that their parents somehow failed.
This Sunday’s Gospel reminds us that God is like a sower who scatters seed everywhere with astonishing generosity. God’s grace is unlimited abundance. The seed falls on every kind of soil because God’s grace is never withheld until the conditions are perfect. That is the heart of the Gospel. God’s grace is God’s steady, undeserved nearness that meets us exactly where we are – not where we should be, but where we actually are. It is not a reward for getting life right, but God’s loving presence in the midst of our uncertainty, our failures, and our need. Grace is God holding us when we cannot hold ourselves together, forgiving us before we know how to ask, and loving us without condition.
That promise is as true for your children as it is for you. Long before you ever held them in your arms, God was already holding them in love, and God has never let go. Even when you cannot see it, even when their path seems to lead far from the church, God is still at work. The Sower never stops sowing. God’s love never grows weary. God’s grace never reaches its limit.
July 3, 2026
Sixth Sunday of Pentecost
“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)
One of the privileges of pastoral ministry is being invited into people’s lives. Over the years, I have stood beside hospital beds, sat around kitchen tables, gathered with families at gravesides, and sat in my office where hearts were quietly breaking under the weight of grief, illness, uncertainty, or loss. In those sacred moments, I have noticed something that continues to shape my own faith. The people who seem to carry suffering with the deepest courage are rarely those whose lives have been the easiest. More often, they are the ones who have learned to trust God most deeply.
That does not mean they never struggle. They still weep. They still wrestle with difficult questions. They still experience moments of fear and uncertainty. Yet beneath all of that rests a quiet confidence – not confidence in themselves, but confidence that God remains present. They have discovered a truth that cannot be learned from a book alone: God does not remove the valley before us, but he never asks us to walk through it alone.
There is something profoundly transforming about that kind of trust. It softens the heart. People who have learned to depend on God’s faithfulness often become gentler because they know what it is to receive grace. They become more patient because they have learned that waiting is not wasted time. They become less concerned with proving themselves because they know their worth rests in God’s love, not in their achievements. Their compassion grows because suffering has enlarged their hearts, making room for the pain of others. And they become people of peace because they have surrendered the exhausting task of trying to save themselves.
Perhaps this is one of the great reversals at the heart of the Gospel. Our world celebrates independence, while Jesus invites us into dependence. Our culture admires self-sufficiency, but Jesus blesses those who know they need grace. We are encouraged to become stronger, while Jesus gently teaches us the strength that is found in humility and trust.
As we journey through another week, may we remember that faith is not the absence of hardship. Faith is the quiet confidence that wherever the path may lead, Jesus is already there, walking beside us – yoking himself to us – carrying us with a love that will never let us go.
June 26, 2026
Fifth Sunday of Pentecost
A Cup of Cold Water
This week’s Gospel contains one of Jesus’ simplest teachings: “Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones… none of these will lose their reward.”
What strikes me about these words is where they appear. Jesus has been speaking about the cost of discipleship, about taking up our cross and following him. These are challenging and demanding teachings. Then, suddenly, Jesus turns our attention to something as ordinary as a cup of cold water. At first glance, it feels almost too simple.
Yet perhaps that is precisely the point.
We often assume that God’s work must be dramatic to be significant. We imagine that faithfulness is measured by extraordinary accomplishments, heroic sacrifices, or life-changing moments. But Jesus reminds us that the kingdom of God often comes to us through ordinary acts of kindness and care. A cup of cold water is not remarkable. What makes it remarkable is that someone noticed another person’s need and responded.
Someone was thirsty. Someone was struggling. Someone needed to know they mattered. And another person paid attention.
I wonder if much of discipleship is simply learning to notice. To notice the neighbour who is carrying a heavy burden. To notice the friend whose smile hides a deeper struggle. To notice the newcomer who feels uncertain and alone. To notice the person who needs encouragement, compassion, or simply someone willing to listen.
The good news is that most of us will never be asked to do something extraordinary. But every day we are given opportunities to offer kindness, generosity, welcome, and care. Every day we are given opportunities to offer our own version of a cup of cold water.
The beautiful promise Jesus gives is that none of these acts are ever wasted. We may never know the impact of our words, our prayers, our visits, or our small gestures of compassion. We may never see the ripple effects they create. But God does.
In a world that often celebrates the spectacular, Jesus points us toward the ordinary. He reminds us that God’s love is made visible through simple acts of faithfulness. The kingdom of God often grows quietly, one act of compassion at a time, one word of encouragement at a time, one gesture of welcome at a time.
May God help us this week to notice. To see the people around us through the eyes of Jesus. To respond with kindness and generosity. And to trust that even the smallest act of love can become part of God’s work of healing and hope.
June 19, 2026
Fourth Sunday of Pentecost
Father’s Day
“Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life because of me will find it.” (Matthew 10:39)
When I hear Jesus say those words, I am taken back to a moment from my younger years that has stayed with me for decades.
I was in my twenties, farming with my dad. One day, I overheard him talking to my uncle. With more than a little frustration in his voice, he said, “Yeah, Colin is a know-it-all. You can’t tell him anything. He is not teachable.” It was not a compliment. It was the honest observation of a father who was finding it difficult to work alongside a son who believed he already had all of the answers.
At the time, I dismissed his assessment. I thought I knew a lot. I was confident in my opinions, convinced of my understanding, and not particularly interested in being corrected. I was not teachable. Looking back now, I can see that my dad was seeing something in me that I could not yet see in myself.
Life has a way of teaching lessons that pride cannot learn on its own.
This realization became a recurring theme throughout my life. In my thirties, I looked back at my younger self and saw how little I actually understood. Yet, even with that newfound experience, I convinced myself once more that I had the answers. By the time I reached my forties, and again in my fifties, the pattern repeated: each decade served to humble me, exposing the fragility of what I had once considered certain.
With age, the lesson my father was subtly conveying became clear: that true insight only begins when we allow ourselves to be teachable.
I believe this reflects one way we “lose our life” for the sake of Jesus. We choose to surrender the part of ourselves that is obsessed with being right. We abandon the ego that claims it already knows everything and let go of the false hope that we are the masters of our life.
Losing our life for Jesus means surrendering the self-sufficiency and certainty that leave no room for God. In exchange, we find a life of humility and openness, willing to learn and trust God more than our own conclusions.
The longer I live, the more I discover how vast life is, how complex people are, and how mysterious God remains. Every year seems to uncover new questions rather than final answers. Yet perhaps that is not a problem to solve. Perhaps that is grace.
And perhaps that is what Jesus meant all along. Those who cling tightly to the life they have constructed for themselves – their certainty, their pride, their need to be right – will eventually discover how fragile that life is.
But those who are willing to let go, who are willing to be humbled, who are willing to become learners again, will discover a deeper life waiting for them. Not because we have found all the answers, but because we learn to trust the One who does.
June 12, 2026
Third Sunday of Pentecost
As I reflect on this Sunday’s Gospel, I find myself drawn to a simple yet powerful image:
Jesus seeing the crowds.
It would have been easy for Jesus to see only a mass of people. It would have been easy to focus on the demands, the interruptions, and the endless needs surrounding him. Instead, Matthew tells us that Jesus looked upon the crowds and had compassion for them because they were
“harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”
Jesus saw what others may have missed. He saw the burdens people were carrying. He saw their exhaustion, their fears, their loneliness, and their longing for hope. His response was not frustration or judgment.
His response was compassion.
That same compassion lies at the heart of our calling as disciples. Before Jesus sends the twelve apostles out into the world, he invites them to see people as he sees them. Their mission is not about power or prestige.
It is about bringing healing where there is brokenness, hope where there is despair, and peace where there is fear.
What strikes me most is the group Jesus chooses. Fishermen, a tax collector, zealots, doubters, and imperfect followers are all gathered together and sent out in his name. They are not chosen because they are flawless. They are chosen because they are willing to follow.
Perhaps that is good news for us. We do not need to have all the answers before God can use us. We simply need hearts open to God’s compassion and hands willing to serve.
In a world that often feels divided and weary, perhaps our calling is simpler than we imagine. We are invited to see people as Jesus sees them, to respond with compassion rather than judgment, and to offer peace wherever we go.
The Kingdom of God comes near whenever love overcomes fear and mercy triumphs over indifference.
June 5, 2026
Second Sunday of Pentecost
As I reflected on this week’s Gospel, one thought kept returning to me: Jesus sees what we often forget. Every person is more than the worst thing they have done. Every person is more than the labels placed upon them. Every person is more than the wounds or traumas they carry. At their core, every person is a beloved child of God, created with dignity, worth, and possibility.
This truth lies at the heart of Jesus’ ministry. When Jesus calls Matthew to be a disciple, he sees beyond the label of “tax collector.” When he stops for the woman who had suffered for twelve years, he sees beyond her illness and calls her “daughter,” restoring her identity. When he enters the home of a grieving family, he sees beyond what appears to be the end of the story and speaks words of new life.
Again and again, Jesus refuses to define people by what others see. He looks beyond reputation, beyond failure, beyond suffering, and beyond sin. He sees belovedness where others see brokenness. He sees possibility where others see limitation. He sees the image of God where others see only labels.
The challenge is that we often operate in the opposite way. We live in a world quick to categorize, judge, and dismiss. Labels can become a shorthand for understanding people, but they can also blind us to their humanity. Even more challenging, we can begin to define ourselves by our mistakes, disappointments, wounds, or the painful stories we carry.
The Gospel offers a different vision. Jesus looks beyond our failures and fears. He sees beyond what has happened to us and beyond what we have done. He sees who we truly are and who we are still becoming.
Imagine how our relationships, our communities, and our churches might change if we learned to see one another through those same eyes. Imagine the healing that could begin if we remembered that every person we meet is more than their worst day, more than their deepest wound, and more than any label ever placed upon them.
That is how Jesus sees us. And perhaps that is how he is calling us to see one another.
May 29, 2026
Holy Trinity Sunday
One of the things I have been reflecting on this week is the power of promises. This week, Donna and I refinanced our mortgage, and very clear promises were written into the contract. When I think about it, so much of life and so many of our relationships are built upon them. Some promises are spoken out loud in wedding vows or baptismal promises. Others are quieter and woven into everyday life: “I’ll be there.” “You can count on me.” “We’ll get through this together.”
Promises create relationships.
This coming Sunday we hear the closing words of Matthew’s Gospel, often called the Great Commission: Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. Jesus sends the disciples out into the world with purpose and responsibility, but what strikes me most is how he ends: “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Before the disciples go anywhere or do anything, Jesus gives them a promise.
I think many of us need to hear that promise again. Life has a way of making people feel isolated and overwhelmed. Some are carrying grief, others uncertainty, others exhaustion or anxiety about what lies ahead. And yet Jesus’ promise remains: “I am with you.” Not only in moments when faith feels strong or life feels manageable, but always.
Perhaps that is also part of what Trinity Sunday points us toward. At the heart of God is relationship — shared love, presence, and communion. And we are invited to reflect that same love in how we care for one another as a community.
I continue to be grateful for the many ways I see that lived out among us: meals shared, prayers offered, burdens carried together, kindness extended quietly and faithfully. These small acts matter more than we often realize. They remind people they are not alone.
Promises create relationships. And perhaps that is exactly the kind of hope our world – and us – needs right now…
May 22, 2026
Pentecost Sunday!
One of the phrases I find myself returning to often is this: “We are all in this together.” I hear myself saying it to council members. I hear it while sitting in my office listening to life stories. I hear it while planning funerals, or working with space users. Over the years I have come to understand that this phrase is not simply a reassurance; it is a confession. It is an acknowledgment that none of us are truly self-sufficient, none of us see clearly all the time, and none of us make it through life untouched by pain, failure, or vulnerability. This confession forces us to confront our dependence on one another, acknowledging that beneath all the identities we carry, we remain fragile human beings longing to be known, heard, forgiven, and loved.
That is why Pentecost speaks so powerfully.
The miracle of Pentecost is not that everyone suddenly became the same. The miracle is that people from vastly different backgrounds discovered they belonged to one another. The Spirit did not erase their languages, cultures, or identities. Instead, the Spirit created understanding in the midst of difference.
In a world that constantly pushes us toward division and fear, Pentecost reminds us of our shared humanity. The miracle was not sameness – it was understanding, it was connection. It was the sudden realization that God’s love could reach across every boundary humanity had created. That day, they all experienced the presence of God.
And perhaps that is the miracle we still need most today – a recognition of our shared vulnerability and our common need for God’s grace. Because in the end, Pentecost reminds us of something both beautiful and demanding: we are all in this together.
May 15, 2026
Seventh Sunday of Easter
In the Gospel of John chapter 17, Jesus offers a profound prayer: “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one.” It is a humbling thought to realize that as Jesus spoke those words, he held us – you and me – in his mind. Yet, for this vision of oneness to move from prayer into reality, we are called into the challenging practice of reconciliation. Yet, the longer I live, the more I come to understand just how demanding and complex that sacred work truly is.
It is one thing to speak about love in the abstract; it is another thing entirely to remain at the table when relationships become strained, when hurt settles deeply into our chests, or when misunderstanding slowly hardens into distance. Families know this reality. Churches know it too. Communities certainly do. Reconciliation is holy work, but it is rarely easy work.
That is why Jesus’ prayer moves me so deeply. On the night before his arrest, with betrayal and violence already drawing near, Jesus does not pray for power or victory, he prays for unity: “That they may be one.” In the shadow of the cross, while fear and grief are gathering around the disciples, Jesus chooses vulnerability, reconciliation, and love.
What strikes me is that Jesus embodies the very thing he asks of his followers. He refuses to meet violence with violence. Peter will soon reach for a sword. The empire of the day will soon be reaching for nails. Fear will erupt into denial and abandonment. Yet Jesus continues walking the path of compassion. He remains rooted in love even as the world around him turns toward fear and cruelty.
That feels especially important in our own moment. We live in a culture shaped increasingly by outrage, division, and uncertainty. It has become easier to dismiss one another than to truly listen. Easier to retreat into our own corners than to remain at the table together. Despite this, Jesus still calls for reconciliation – not because unity is easy, but because love requires it.
Perhaps that is our challenge before us this week: to resist contempt, to listen more carefully, to forgive with greater courage, and to remember that vulnerable love is not weakness. It is, in fact, the essential core of the Christian life.
May 8, 2026
Sixth Sunday of Easter
There is a quiet exhaustion many people are carrying right now.
We live in a world overflowing with information, opinions, commentary, and noise, yet so many of us deeply desire wisdom, peace, and genuine human connection. Every day our attention is pulled in countless directions. News feeds, algorithms, advertisements, political parties, and social media endlessly speak to us, shaping how we think, how we see ourselves and how we see one another. Much of it is designed to stir outrage, amplify fear, or convince us that we are somehow lacking.
We are also living in what is now called a “post-truth” age. Facts themselves often seem negotiable. Truth is reduced to opinion, ideology, or personal preference. We hear phrases like “my truth” and “your truth,” while trust in institutions, leaders, and even one another continues to erode. Rumours spread faster than wisdom. Outrage travels faster than compassion. In such a climate, people can begin to feel untethered, unsure what is real, what is trustworthy, or who they can believe – who they can trust.
It is little wonder so many of us are feeling weary.
Yet into this weary and fragmented world, Jesus speaks words of tenderness: “I will not leave you orphaned.” Jesus promises the presence of the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Truth, the Companion who remains with us and reminds us who we truly are. The Spirit of Truth speaks a different message than the voices of fear and shame surrounding us. The Spirit reminds us that our worth is not determined by popularity, achievement, productivity, or public approval. Our worth begins with the simple truth that we are beloved children of God.
Perhaps part of the church’s calling in this moment is to become communities of holy presence and truthful compassion. Places where people are reminded they are not alone. Places where listening matters more than winning, where mercy speaks louder than outrage, and where love is not merely spoken but lived.
In a world starving for truth, perhaps the holiest offering we can make is simply to remain present. To be present to the One who is our Companion is to tune our hearts to the Holy Spirit, allowing the Spirit of Truth to drown out the noise of outrage and fear with the steady reminder of our belovedness.
Simultaneously, being present to one another means embodying compassion; it is the act of slowing down to truly see each other, choosing mercy over judgment, and creating a space where the fragmentation of the world is healed through genuine, loving connection.
May 1, 2026
Fifth Sunday of Easter
There is something deeply human in our Gospel story for this Sunday. Jesus speaks words meant to steady the heart—“do not let your hearts be troubled”—and yet the hearts before him are already heavy, already aching. The disciples do what we so often do when life feels uncertain or overwhelming: they ask questions. Honest, unfiltered, searching questions. Where are you going? How can we know the way? Show us the Father.
Beneath those questions lies a deeper one we all carry: Why?
Why this loss? Why this change? Why this path we did not choose?
And yet, Jesus does something unexpected. He does not offer an explanation. He does not unravel the mystery or resolve the tension. Instead, he offers himself. I am the way… Not a map, not a set of answers, but a relationship.
It is a quiet but profound shift—from why to who.
Because the truth is, answers can be elusive. They rarely satisfy the deeper ache. But relationship—presence, trust, love—has a way of holding us even when understanding escapes us. We know this in our own lives. We may not fully grasp why someone loves us or sacrifices for us, but we know that they do—and that knowing changes everything.
Faith often lives in that space. Not in certainty, but in companionship.
So this week, we are invited to bring our questions honestly, without needing to resolve them. And in the midst of them, to encounter again the One who does not turn away from our troubled hearts, but comes near—offering not explanations, but himself.
April 24, 2026
Fourth Sunday of Easter
Good Shepherd Sunday
In this week’s Gospel story, Jesus uses the image of the shepherd whose sheep are able to recognize his voice, as an analogy for Christian faith. It is a simple picture, drawn from everyday life, yet it reveals something profound about the nature of faith. The sheep are not guided by force or driven by fear. They move in response to a voice they have come to know – one that has proven, over time, to lead them toward what sustains their life.
Faith unfolds in much the same way. As Christians – as followers of Jesus – we are invited into a life of listening. Not simply believing certain things about him, but learning to recognize his voice and allowing that voice to guide and shape the direction of our lives.
In the Gospel image of the shepherd, the sheep respond because they know the voice that calls them. It is familiar, trusted, and life-giving. But for many of us, that raises an interesting question: what does it actually mean to hear Jesus’ voice?
For me, it has never been something audible or clearly defined. I cannot point to moments where I have heard words spoken out loud. Instead, it is something I have come to recognize as a kind of sensing – a quiet awareness that emerges within. It is less like a sound entering from the outside, and more like a gentle movement – an inner knowing.
At times, it comes as a nudge toward compassion when it would be easier to turn away. At other times, it feels like a steadying presence in the midst of anxiety, or a quiet clarity that rises when I am faced with a difficult decision. There are moments when it unsettles me – inviting me to see someone differently, to let go of assumptions, or to move toward reconciliation when I would rather remain distant.
This sensing does not arrive with force or urgency. It does not shame or pressure. Instead, it carries a certain tone – one that is consistent with the life of Jesus himself. A tone of compassion. A tone of truth. A tone that leads toward life, even when the path feels uncertain.
And like the sheep in the Gospel, this recognition is not immediate. It is formed over time. Through prayer, through study, through reflection, through lived experience, we begin to notice the difference between the many voices that surround us and the one that leads us toward something deeper.
Even when that sense of direction feels faint or distant, the invitation to listen remains. The Shepherd is still calling – not always in a way that can be heard with our ears, but in a way that can be deeply known within our hearts.
April 17, 2026
Third Sunday of Easter
“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”
There’s a quiet honesty in this week’s Gospel story that often meets us right where we are. Two disciples walk away from Jerusalem carrying the weight of disappointment, speaking words that feel all too familiar: “We had hoped…” It’s the language of something that seems finished, a future that didn’t unfold the way they had imagined. And yet, this moment takes place on the first Easter Sunday. Resurrection has already happened, even if they cannot yet see it.
What unfolds on that road is not a dramatic miracle at first, but something far more gentle. Jesus comes alongside them, unrecognized. He listens before he speaks. He invites them to name their pain, to tell their story – he holds space for them. There is something very meaningful in that – before offering answers, Jesus makes space for their pain and confusion.
Even when Jesus begins to speak, clarity does not come all at once. Understanding grows slowly, quietly, like a small fire being rekindled. It is only later, in the simple act of breaking bread, that their eyes are opened. And in that moment, they realize he had been with them all along. And then, express: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”
This story reminds us that faith is not always about immediate recognition or certainty. Often, it is about trusting that Jesus is present even when we cannot see him. It is about discovering, sometimes in hindsight, that we were not alone in our confusion, our questions, or our grief.
For many of us, there are places in our lives where the words “we had hoped” still linger. The Gospel does not dismiss those places – it enters into them. And it gently offers this promise: the story is not over. The risen Jesus is still walking with us, still meeting us in ordinary moments, still bringing hope where we thought there was none left.
April 10, 2026
Second Sunday of Easter
In Jesus, even wounds can become places where grace is revealed, where life begins again in ways we could not have imagined.
That is the quiet, surprising heart of this week’s gospel.
The disciples are still behind locked doors, carrying fear, regret, and uncertainty. Nothing about their situation has suddenly become easier. And yet Jesus comes and stands among them, not with judgment, but with peace. Then he shows them his hands and his side. The wounds are still there.
Which tells us something we often struggle to believe: resurrection does not erase what has been broken. It transforms it.
So much of our lives are shaped by wounds—those we have received and those we carry the weight of having caused. We often live as though these are the truest things about us, as though they define the story. But Jesus reveals something deeper. His wounds remain, but they no longer speak of defeat. They have become the place where love is made visible.
And that changes how we begin to see our own lives.
It does not mean the pain disappears or that healing comes quickly. It does not mean we deny what has happened. But it does mean that these places we would rather hide or forget are not beyond the reach of grace. In Christ, they can become the very places where new life begins to take shape—quietly, slowly, often in ways we could not have imagined.
Thomas struggles to believe this, and honestly, so do we. Yet Jesus meets him there, not by removing the wounds, but by inviting him into them. “Come and see.” It is the same invitation given to us.
And so we live into this truth, one moment at a time. Trusting that even here—within what still aches—grace is at work. And that the story is not over.
April 2, 2026
An Invitation to Holy Week Services
Holy Week reminds us that even in uncertainty and loss, God’s grace is already at work, moving gently beneath the surface of our lives. It is a quiet promise that we are not left on our own, but are being carried – often in ways we cannot yet see, in ways we do not always recognize.
Maundy Thursday, (6:30pm) invites us into something personal and communal. We remember the final meal Jesus shared with his disciples – a table marked not by perfection, but by vulnerability. Around that table sat those who loved him, those who would deny him, and even the one who would betray him. And still, Jesus offered himself fully.
This night we are not simply remembering something that once happened. We are being drawn into it. As we share in this meal, we are held by his mercy and shaped by his grace. At the end of the service we will strip the sanctuary bare and leave this space in silence, not as an empty silence, but as a holy one…
This Good Friday (11am) service will focus on the unconditional love of God, radical empathy, and restorative mercy revealed through Jesus’s suffering, reflecting on the Seven Last Words from the cross. At the heart of the service will be the work of James Tissot, “an artist who devoted the later years of his life to visually narrating the life of Christ. His paintings do not idealize the story – they ground it. Faces are weary, crowds are complex, and Jesus moves through it all with a quiet, steady presence. Tissot helps us encounter the Gospel not as distant history, but as something textured, human, and near.”
Together, through word, song, image, and prayer, this service reminds us that God’s grace is not removed from the realities of life, but meets us within them. Just as Jesus walks through the uncertainty and sorrow of that first Holy Week, so too does he meet us in our own places of waiting, loss, and longing.
At the end of this service, you will be all invited to hammer a nail into a wooden cross. Bring whatever you are holding like: regrets, fears, failings, addictions, wounds, sin – whatever weighs you down. This time is held in silence except for the echoes of the sound of nails being driven into the wood. We will leave this service in silence…
The Easter Sunday (10am) service will begin with the joyful proclamation, “Christ is Risen, He is Risen Indeed.” Through song, scripture, and prayer, we will rehear the story of that first morning, standing with the women at the tomb – held between fear and joy, grief and astonishment.
At the heart of the service is the placing of white carnations on the cross. On Good Friday, nails marked all that separates us from trusting God’s presence. On Easter morning, those nails are removed, and in their place, flowers are added. Each person will receive a flower and one by one will place their flower in the netting around the cross.
Each white carnation becomes a sign of new life – representing hope and new beginnings. By the end, the cross stands covered in white, no longer a symbol of suffering, but a visible proclamation of resurrection: that even now, God is bringing life out of what once seemed lost.
March 27, 2026
Palm Sunday
Palm Sunday invites us into a question beneath the celebration: why do we admire Jesus? While faith calls us to worship and follow, admiration is often where the journey begins. It is the recognition that there is something profoundly true and beautiful in who Jesus is and how he lives.
We admire the way Jesus sees people – not by labels, past mistakes, or outward appearances, but as God sees them: whole, beloved, and redeemable. His love is unconditional and deeply compelling, drawing people in because it is real and transformative. We admire his courage – his willingness to stand firm in the face of opposition without shrinking back. We admire his faithfulness, rooted in prayer and his deep connection to the Father. And we admire his resolve to stand for truth and love, even knowing it would lead to suffering and the cross.
On Palm Sunday, the crowd gathers in admiration, celebrating Jesus as king. Yet their expectations are shaped by a desire for power and victory. Jesus enters differently – on a donkey, embodying humility, not dominance. His path is not one of force, but of self-giving love.
This moment reveals a profound truth: Jesus does not simply fulfill expectations; he transforms them. His courage is expressed through servanthood, his authority through surrender.
Palm Sunday challenges us to reflect not only on why we admire Jesus, but whether we are willing to follow him. It invites us to move beyond admiration into imitation – embracing humility, practicing self-giving love, and walking the difficult but life-giving path of faithful obedience.
March 20, 2026
Fifth Sunday of Lent
This Sunday, we welcome Pastor Kristian Wold, Director of Camp Kuriakos, along with members of the Kuriakos team: Sarah and Ruben who will be taking part in leading worship. Their presence among us will bring a spirit of energy, creativity, and lived faith as we gather together.
On this fifth Sunday of Lent, our service will carry us into one of the central movements of Lent: from dryness to life, from weariness to renewal, from isolation into community. The service is being shaped to help us not just hear that promise, but experience it together.
For the children’s story, the Kuriakos team will lead a creative retelling of the story of the valley of dry bones – bringing the story “alive.” From there, they will move into a version of the Thanksgiving for Baptism that the camp uses. This will again involve our children, inviting all of us to remember who we are and whose we are – calling us into life.
The Gospel story – the raising of Lazarus from death to life…Jesus calling him to life, will form the foundation of the sermon. Pr. Kristen will talk about how baptism is not only something that has happened in the past, but something we continue to live into. In particular, he will reflect on how outdoor ministry becomes a place where this new life is experienced in real and tangible ways; proclaiming the assurance that the God who brings life out of dry bones continues to meet us where we are – and leads us forward into new life.
Pr. Kristian and I studied together at our seminary in Saskatoon and we served together at Bethel Lutheran in Camrose. I am looking forward to once again leading worship alongside my friend.
March 13, 2026
Fourth Sunday of Lent
In the Gospel reading this week from John chapter 9, Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has been blind since birth. When the disciples see him, they ask a question that has echoed through human history: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
It is a question rooted in a very human instinct. When we encounter suffering, we want to explain it. Because if suffering has a clear cause, then perhaps it can be controlled. Perhaps it can be prevented. Perhaps we can avoid it. So we ask questions. What went wrong? Who is responsible? What did they do? Why did this happen? In the face of suffering our impulse is to point fingers.
You can hear that instinct in the disciples’ question. In their worldview, suffering had to be connected to sin somehow. If a man was born blind, someone must have done something to deserve it. Either the man himself had sinned in some mysterious way, or perhaps his parents had done something wrong and the consequences had fallen on him. It was an attempt to make sense of the world. And if we are honest, that instinct has never disappeared.
The Gospel does not pretend that the world is perfectly ordered or fair. It recognizes something we know deep down to be true: life does not always unfold the way it should. Bodies fail. Relationships fracture. Circumstances change in ways we never expected. Brokenness is part of the human condition. But the presence of brokenness does not mean someone is to blame.
Parents blame themselves for their children’s struggles. People facing illness may wonder if they somehow caused it. When life unravels in ways we never expected, it is easy to assume that someone – including ourselves – must be at fault. But Jesus refuses the entire framework of that question.
He responds simply: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.” In other words, suffering is not always the result of moral failure. Not every hardship can be traced back to someone’s wrongdoing. Sometimes suffering exists simply because we live in a broken world.
Jesus reminds us that the presence of brokenness in the world does not mean someone is to blame – and it certainly does not mean that God is punishing us, or for that matter, suffering is part of God’s plan. Instead, the ministry of Jesus consistently shows something else: whenever he encounters suffering, he moves toward it with compassion, healing, and mercy.
God is not the author of human suffering. God is the one who meets us within it.
And that means that even in the midst of life’s hardest moments, we are not abandoned. God’s presence remains – working quietly, patiently, bringing healing, hope, and grace into places where we thought only suffering existed.
March 6, 2026
Third Sunday of Lent
She must risk believing that she is more than her past
This Sunday we encounter the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4:5–42). It is a story many of us know well. Yet beneath the surface of the conversation about water and worship lies something deeply personal: identity.
The woman’s history is complicated. Five marriages. A current relationship that leaves her socially vulnerable. Whatever the reasons – death or divorce – her life has been marked by instability. And instability has a way of shaping how we see ourselves. Over time, what happens to us can quietly become who we believe we are. It was 21 years ago this week that a bailiff showed up at our family farm and as I sat at our kitchen table, I watched everything that could be…hauled away; and then, sold off at “fire-sale” prices. That put the family farm into bankruptcy, an event that did and continues to shape my identity… I deeply resonate with this Gospel story.
When Jesus names her past, he does not shame her, guilt her, or condemn her. He sees her. Fully. Honestly. And without turning away. That is the turning point. Because being seen without being reduced to your history is transformative. Jesus speaks of living water as if she is capable of receiving it. He entrusts her with theological truth. He reveals himself to her as the Messiah. In doing so, he disrupts the identity her past may have constructed.
She must risk believing that she is more than her worst chapters of her life. And so must we. And so must I…
Lent is not about denying our histories. It is about placing them inside a larger story – one where God’s grace has the final word. The woman leaves her jar and returns to her village not as a figure of shame, but as a witness. A witness to what it is like when we are touched by God’s grace and mercy… I too resonate with this…
May this season invite us to hear God’s grace and mercy speak into our own stories. And may we risk believing that what defines us most deeply is not what has happened to us – but the One who sees us, knows us, and calls us beloved.
February 27, 2026
Second Sunday of Lent
There have been times in my life when life’s struggles forced the questions I would have preferred not to ask.
Not academic questions. Not abstract theological ones. But real ones born out of real life. Grief that didn’t make sense. Situations that didn’t resolve the way I prayed they would. Experiencing things that overwhelmed my capacity to cope. Questions shaped by disappointment. Questions whispered in prayer when the silence was all there was. Walking with others through heartbreak and injustice and wondering, “God, where are you in this?”
And Lent has a way of bringing those questions closer to the surface.
Lent is not a season of easy answers. It is a season of honesty. A season where we admit we are dust. A season where we confront our limits, our frailty, our hunger for something more than what we can manufacture on our own.
In this week’s Gospel reading, Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night. He comes with questions. He comes with confusion. He comes with a sincere desire to understand what God is doing. I resonate with him.
Because there have been nights in my own life when the struggles I was carrying pushed me into deeper questioning. And for a time, I thought that meant my faith was weakening. I thought strong faith required strong answers. But life pressed harder than my explanations could withstand.
It was in those Lenten-like seasons – stripped down, uncertain, humbled – that I discovered something deeper than answers. Grace has held me in seasons when answers could not.
Nicodemus asks, “How can these things be?” And Jesus does not shame him. He invites him into mystery. Into new birth “from above.” Into a life animated by the Spirit who blows where it chooses. That is not an answer to solve. It is grace to receive. Grace has steadied me when certainty wavered.
Lent reminds us that we are not saved by mastering theology or eliminating doubt. We are drawn into life by a love that does not condemn but saves. And grace has reminded me that I am loved not because my theology is flawless, but because God so loves the world. Including me. Including you.
If life’s struggles have pushed you into questioning this season, you are not failing at faith. You may be entering it more deeply. Lent gives us permission to come at night, like Nicodemus – to bring our questions honestly before Jesus.
And there, in the dark, we may discover what I have learned slowly over time: when answers fall short, grace remains.
And grace is enough.
February 20, 2026
First Sunday of Lent
Lent begins in the wilderness.
Every year, on this first Sunday, we hear the story of Jesus being led by the Spirit into a barren place of hunger, testing, and temptation. It is not an accident. It is not a detour. It comes immediately after his baptism – immediately after the voice from heaven declares,
“You are my Son, the Beloved.”
Beloved… and then wilderness. That order matters. Too often we assume that if we are faithful, life will become smoother, clearer, more secure. But the Gospel reminds us that even the Beloved is led into hard places.
Baptism does not prevent struggle. It grounds us within it.
In the wilderness, Jesus is tempted in ways that still feel familiar. Turn stones into bread – secure yourself. Throw yourself down – prove yourself. Bow to power – align yourself with what seems strongest. These are not ancient temptations alone; they are living ones. We feel them in our own lives, and we feel them as a church navigating uncertainty and change.
What steadies Jesus is not spectacle or force. It is identity. He remembers whose he is.
And because he knows he is God’s Beloved, he does not need to grasp at control, prove his worth, or trade faithfulness for influence. He chooses trust. He chooses worship. He chooses love over domination.
That is the invitation of Lent for us.
This season is not about spiritual perfection. It is about clarity. It is about returning to the waters of baptism and remembering that before we achieve, before we fix, before we secure anything –
we are already named Beloved.
When we know whose we are, we can face the wilderness without panic. We can resist the temptation to grasp at power or cling to fear. We can choose faithfulness over spectacle.
Lent begins not with shame, but with identity.
You are God’s beloved. And that is enough to carry you through the wilderness – the hard stuff of life.
February 13, 2026
Transfiguration Sunday
Our Gospel story recalls the Transfiguration Story of Jesus. Peter, James, and John followed Jesus up the mountain expecting prayer or a new teaching. What they did not expect was to be overwhelmed – left face down on the ground, afraid. And that fear feels familiar.
They didn’t fall because they were weak. They fell because the moment was too much. The light. The voice. The sudden nearness of God. Fear doesn’t only come from danger. Sometimes it comes from clarity. From realizing how little control we actually have.
The Gospel story tells us the disciples fell on their faces, filled with fear. Not awe. Not confidence. Fear. And then Jesus moved toward them. He didn’t explain the moment.
He didn’t correct their response. He didn’t wait for fear to pass. He touched them. The fear did not disappear. But the touch steadied them inside their fear. It grounded them. It reminded them where strength actually comes from – not from certainty, not from courage, not from having everything figured out, but from being accompanied.
This is the kind of strength faith offers. Not the strength of answers, but the strength of presence. Not fearlessness, but nearness. Then Jesus spoke: “Get up. Do not be afraid.” Not because fear was gone – but because they were no longer alone in it.
They rose – not fearless, not certain, not suddenly brave – but steadied. Grounded. Able to take the next step. And together, they walked back down the mountain.
This is how faith often works. We don’t wait for fear to disappear before we move. We move because we discover we are accompanied. Because Jesus comes close – not to remove fear, but to steady us within it. “Get up,” he says. And held by love, we find we can.
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!