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!