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Living Water: Returning to God with Our Whole Heart

Posted on by Fr. Peter / 0 Comment

John 4:5–42

I am not sure how many times I have preached from this passage from the Gospel of John we heard this morning, but I learned something new this week in my preparation. I guess you can teach old dog new tricks.

And that is the beauty of Scripture: just when you believe you have understood everything, it reveals a new message to you. This reminds us that its core invitation is always unfolding.

But, before we get that, I want us to go back to Ash Wednesday, back to the start of Lent just 3 weeks ago, for on that day we heard one of the great invitations of Lent, and it comes to us from the prophet Joel:

“Return to me with all your heart.”

That simple phrase echoes through the whole season of Lent. It is not merely a call to repentance in the narrow sense of feeling sorry for what we have done and the things we have not done. It is something much deeper. Joel is calling us to return, to turn our whole lives back toward God.

Not halfway. Not cautiously. But with everything.

And that invitation comes alive for us in today’s Gospel from the fourth chapter of John. This is a long passage rich with theological and spiritual understanding, and I wish there was more time to dig in, to go deeper, to spend a little more time just listening to what God is trying to tell us.

Jesus travels through Samaria and stops at a well in Sychar at noon. A Samaritan woman comes alone to draw water, which is unusual, since women normally come together in the morning or evening. Her solitude suggests some isolation from her community.

And then, in this unexpected setting, Jesus does something remarkable. He speaks to her.

Now we should not miss how shocking this moment would have been. A rabbi speaking publicly with a Samaritan woman crossed several cultural boundaries at once. Jews and Samaritans lived with centuries of mistrust and hostility. Men rarely initiated public conversation with women they did not know. Yet here is Jesus, sitting at a well, asking her for a drink.

But as is often the case, Jesus turns things on their heads.

The conversation that follows becomes one of the longest theological dialogues in the entire Gospel. Jesus tells her:

“If you knew the gift of God… you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

At first, she misunderstands. Maybe she is taken aback because a Jewish man is speaking to her. But she thinks Jesus is speaking about ordinary water, the water just there in the well.  After all, the well is deep, and Jesus has nothing with which to draw from it. But Jesus is pointing to something deeper.

He is speaking about the thirst that lives inside every human heart.

We know this thirst: a longing for meaning, belonging, love, peace, to matter, and not feel alone.

We try to satisfy this thirst with success, possessions, recognition, relationships, or distractions. Some are good but don’t satisfy the soul’s deeper thirst.

Jesus says:

“Those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty.”

He is speaking about the life of God flowing within us.

But before the woman can receive this living water, something else must happen. Jesus gently brings her face-to-face with the truth of her own life.

“Go, call your husband.”

What follows reveals the complexity of her story. She has had five husbands, and the man she now lives with is not her husband.

This, for me, is where I noticed something new.

In John’s eyes, she is a nobody; he does not even give her a name. Her gender, religious orientation, social standing, and personal habits distance her from Jesus and from her community. When reading this story, one understands that people in her own community try to avoid her. No one comes to draw water in the heat of the day!

And based on very little information, we judge her and her life.

For centuries, preachers and others have used this moment to shame her, but the Gospel does not invite us to judge her. In fact, in the world of the first century, a woman rarely had the power to initiate divorce. Her situation may say more about the instability and vulnerability of her life than about moral failure.

For centuries, this woman has been judged, and we do not even know her name. The focus is on her so-called sin, even though we have no idea what the backstory is. What about her other husbands? Where are they? Do they face the same shame that she does? My guess is no.

She lives in a male-dominated society, with no rights, as property of her father, then her husband. She cannot escape a bad situation or choose her fate. Marriages were arranged, with little role for love.

But here we sit, in a long line of people who have prejudged this woman. We know nothing about her; we do not even know her name. Yet, because she is a woman, she is considered expendable.

But this story, this passage, is good news for anyone who may have felt humiliation of stigmatization or the pain of being judged by people who only see what they want to see.

What Jesus does here is not condemnation but recognition. He sees her—her pain, history, and truth. He does not turn away but engages and continues speaking, revealing himself. He takes her seriously, maybe for the first time. Her community and welfare matter a lot to Jesus.

Jesus does not see her for what she has done; Jesus sees her for who she is, a beloved child of God.

This is the moment where the connection to the prophet Joel becomes clear.

“Return to me with all your heart.”

Returning to God means bringing our whole selves into the presence of God, not the polished version we show the world, but the real story of our lives. The broken bits. The complicated relationships. The doubts and wounds we would rather hide. All the stuff we do not want anyone to know about.

Notice what happens next: the Samaritan woman brings her whole story into this encounter. The conversation shifts to questions of worship—whether God should be worshipped on Mount Gerizim or in Jerusalem—and Jesus responds with words that still echo in Christian faith today:

“The hour is coming when true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth.”

Spirit and truth. Truth means honesty before God. Spirit means openness to the transforming presence of God.

And then comes the most astonishing moment in the story. The woman speaks about the coming Messiah, and Jesus tells her plainly:

“I am he.”

In the Gospel of John, this is one of the earliest and clearest revelations of Jesus’ identity, given not to a religious leader or a disciple, but to a Samaritan woman drawing water at a well. She becomes, in that moment, the first evangelist to her town.

I am not sure we understand how astonishing that is. Jesus revealed himself to a nobody, a person shunned by society because of her past. There is an echo here of his own story through his mother. Mary had nothing and, at great personal risk, said yes to God.

The Woman at the well had nothing, and Jesus gave her everything.

She leaves her water jar behind and runs back to the city, saying, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done.”

Notice the unfinishedness of that statement, especially knowing what we know about her. “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did… and loved me anyway!” She does not need to say the last part; however, her action implies those words, as she is filled with joy and runs back to town.

“Everything she ever did” is a long list; it is common knowledge in her village, it is always before her, in every judgmental glance or knowing stare from her neighbors. Jesus, knowing this is not extraordinary, but Jesus knowing this and loving her anyway, is the remarkable part. The one who knew “everything she ever did” and loved her anyway, saved her life.

And notice one very important thing, Jesus never asked her to confess, to turn back from her “sinful ways,” and he never offers her a word of forgiveness, just nonjudgmental love and acceptance, that’s it.

As she gets up, she leaves her jar behind. She came to draw water to sustain her life, but she left with water that would give her eternal life. She is now the jar that will bring that same water to others.

She no longer hides her story. The very thing that once isolated her becomes the doorway through which others encounter Christ. And many believe because of her testimony. Many are drawn to him and come to hear more; they want the water, too.

That is what happens when someone truly returns to God with their whole heart: shame gives way to freedom, isolation gives way to community, and thirst gives way to living water. The key message is clear—God desires the authentic, entire self we bring, not just the polished parts.

Lent offers us this same invitation. Like the woman at the well, we’re being called to sit with Christ and let him speak truth into our lives—not to condemn, but to transform.

The good news of the Gospel is that God already knows our story and still offers us living water.

So, the question Lent places before us is simple and direct: What would it mean for us to return to God with everything, holding nothing back? This is the heart of today’s message.

Not just the parts of our lives we are proud of. But the whole story.

Because it is there, at the well of honesty and grace, that Christ is waiting to meet us.

Amen

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Blessed are the peacemakers

Posted on by Fr. Peter / 0 Comment

Well, here we are. Another Sunday and another hastily rewritten sermon because of a catastrophic world event. I cannot count the number of times I have had to rewrite sermons based on changes in the world but, here we are. Bombs are dropping, human beings are dying, and, some people are rejoicing.

It appears a man who perpetrated evil on an immense scale has been killed. However, as followers of the Prince of Peace, we cannot rejoice in the death of another human. Rather, let us say, “May his name and memory be blotted out.”

But let us not forget the words from Jesus we heard this morning from the Gospel of Matthew, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

Those words are short. Simple. Almost gentle.

But do not mistake their gentleness for weakness.

In these deeply troubling days, as violence escalates in this new war involving Iran and others in the region, Jesus’ words land with sharp urgency. They are not abstract spirituality. They are not poetic sentiment. They are a summons.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Not blessed are the powerful.
Not blessed are the warmongers.
Not blessed are the victorious.
Not blessed are those who dominate the battlefield.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

When Jesus speaks these words in the Sermon on the Mount, he is not addressing emperors or generals. He is speaking to ordinary people living under Roman occupation. People who knew military presence in their streets. People who understood that decisions made in distant halls of power could disrupt, wound, or even end their lives.

They knew what it meant to live beneath empire. And to them, to people without armies, without influence in imperial courts, Jesus says: you are blessed when you make peace. That alone should unsettle us.

Because in our world, blessing is often equated with strength, leverage, dominance, and victory. But Jesus redefines blessing as he does with so many thngs. He locates it not in conquest, but in reconciliation.

We must be clear: peacemaking is not passive. It is not pretending that injustice does not exist. It is not moral equivalence. It is not naïve optimism.

Peacemaking is active. It is courageous. It is costly. It is easier to escalate than to de-escalate. It is easier to retaliate than to restrain. It is easier to wrap violence in patriotic or ideological language than to do the patient, frustrating, fragile work of diplomacy.

War promises clarity. It promises resolution through force. It promises strength.

History teaches us otherwise.

War spreads. It destabilizes. It wounds generations. The cost is borne not only by leaders and governments, but by families, by children, by the vulnerable, by those whose names we will never know but whose lives are precious to God.

The Rev. Karen Georgia Thompson, General Minister and President of the United Church of Christ, spoke words that name this moral reality with clarity: “We call for an end to the abuse of government might that is poured out on people who are not the ones making decisions yet bear the brunt of the ensuing violence, casualties of actions they do not support.”

That is not partisan speech. That is prophetic truth.

Too often, those who suffer most are not those who decide. Civilians become casualties. Infrastructure collapses. Children inherit trauma. Entire communities are destabilized by forces far beyond their control.

And the Gospel insists that those lives matter.

And what happens next? What is our responsibility as the ones who caused the destabilization of another country? What is our obligation to the people we say we just freed from a mad man? What will the cost be in human lives, in tax dollars, in moral certainty? Dropping the bombs is the easy part, cleaning up the mess created by those bombs is hard and costly.

When Jesus calls peacemakers blessed, he is not offering a political slogan. He is revealing the character of God.

Children resemble their parents. To be called children of God is to reflect God’s heart. And the heart of God is not bent toward destruction, but toward reconciliation.

Throughout Scripture, we encounter a God who hears the cry of the oppressed. A God who sends prophets to interrupt violence. A God who calls nations to account. A God who declares that swords shall be beaten into plowshares.

And in Jesus Christ, we see that heart embodied. We follow the One who told Peter to put away the sword. We follow the One who wept over Jerusalem’s coming violence. We follow the One who forgave even from the cross.

If we claim his name, we cannot treat peacemaking as optional.

Now, let us be honest: this is not simple.

There are real threats in our world. There are dangerous regimes. There are injustices that must be confronted. Peacemaking does not mean ignoring evil. It does not mean abandoning accountability. It does not mean leaving the vulnerable unprotected.

But neither does it mean baptizing every escalation as righteousness.

Peacemaking asks deeper questions.

What will actually protect the innocent? What will actually preserve life? What will interrupt the cycle rather than intensify it?

And perhaps most importantly: who bears the cost?

If the cost is poured out upon people who are not making decisions, if it falls upon families, upon children, upon the elderly, upon those simply trying to live, then we must ask whether we are reflecting the heart of God.

Jesus does not say, “Blessed are those who win.” He says, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

The Greek word suggests those who actively create peace, who forge it, who build it, who labor for it. Peace is not merely the absence of war. It is the presence of justice, dignity, and right relationship.

Shalom. Wholeness. Flourishing.

That kind of peace requires imagination, the imagination to believe enemies can become neighbors, that diplomacy is not weakness, that restraint can be strength. It requires humility, the humility to admit that no nation is ultimate. No ideology is sovereign. No military is redemptive.

Only God is sovereign.

But here is the harder truth.

Peacemaking does not begin in foreign policy. It begins in the human heart.

Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount moves from interior transformation to outward action. Anger, contempt, lust for domination, these are seeds. The seeds of violence are planted long before armies mobilize.

They are planted in narratives of fear. In language that strips others of humanity. In the slow erosion of empathy.

Are we cultivating peace in our own lives? Or are we nurturing resentment? Are we quick to demonize entire peoples? Quick to assume the worst? Quick to reduce complex human beings into caricatures?

The Church must resist that erosion.

We must insist that every life, Iranian, Israeli, American, Palestinian, every life is held within the love of God. We must insist that no child is expendable, and that includes those sexually abused by the privileged class. We must insist that no bomb carries righteousness within it.

The Sanskrit word “Namaste” is often translated as the phrase, “the spirit in me recognizes the spirit in you.” This is a profound translation as it signifies that a shared divine light, or soul exists within all individuals, transcending physical differences to foster mutual respect, equality, and connection.

As a follower of Jesus, commanded to love everyone including our enemies, we must see that divine light in the other person and we must foster mutual respect, equality, and connection.

And we must pray, not as an afterthought, not to avoid engagement, but as a discipline that shapes our hearts toward compassion rather than vengeance.

To pray for peace is to allow God to rearrange our instincts. To be peacemakers is to live in tension. It is to refuse simplistic binaries. It is to acknowledge complexity without surrendering to cynicism.

It is to speak when silence would be easier.

It may cost us. It may cost us popularity. It may cost us comfort. It may cost us the ease of aligning uncritically with national narratives. But Jesus never promised that blessing and ease were the same thing. He promised that those who resemble the heart of God would be called God’s children.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Blessed are those who defend the innocent who bear the brunt of decisions they did not make. Blessed are those who advocate restraint when the drums of war grow loud. Blessed are those who insist that diplomacy is not weakness but wisdom. Blessed are those who believe that love is stronger than fear.

They shall be called children of God. Not because they fix every geopolitical crisis. Not because they eliminate conflict overnight. But because in their lives, the family resemblance becomes visible.

The Church may not control governments. But we shape consciences. We form hearts. We proclaim another way. And in times like these, that witness matters profoundly.

So, what does peacemaking look like for us?

It looks like praying for leaders, that they will pursue de-escalation and dialogue with courage equal to the courage required for war. It looks like refusing dehumanizing rhetoric. It looks like educating ourselves beyond slogans. It looks like supporting humanitarian efforts that care for those caught in conflict. It looks like forming our children not in hatred, but in empathy.

It looks like examining our own hearts and asking ourselves questions. Where am I harboring contempt and for whom? Where have I grown numb to suffering because it feels distant? Where have I confused strength with aggression?

Peacemaking begins there. And then it radiates outward.

In a world trembling under the weight of violence, perhaps the most radical act of faith is to believe that peace is still possible. Not inevitable. But possible.

Because the resurrection tells us that violence does not have the final word. Because the cross reveals that love is willing to absorb hatred rather than perpetuate it. Because the Spirit continues to work in hearts and in history.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

May we live so that the name fits. May our words reflect mercy. May our advocacy reflect justice. May our prayers reflect courage.

And may our lives, in ways large and small, bear witness to the God whose deepest desire is not destruction — but reconciliation.

Amen.

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What to Give Up for Lent: A Rule of Life for the Season

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Lent is not about proving spiritual discipline or earning God’s favor. It is about honest self-examination, repentance that leads to repair, and practices that restore right relationship, with God, with others, and with ourselves. What we give up should serve love, not ego.

1. Give Up Certainty

Release the need to have every theological, moral, or political question resolved. Lent invites humility, the recognition that God is always larger than our conclusions.

“Now we see in a mirror, dimly.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

2. Give Up Moral Superiority

Let go of the comfort that comes from being “right.” Righteousness in the Gospel is not about winning arguments but about practicing mercy.

3. Give Up Indifference

Especially toward the suffering of the poor, the marginalized, the imprisoned, the sick, and the forgotten. Lent asks us not merely to feel compassion, but to act.

“Let justice roll down like waters.” (Amos 5:24)

4. Give Up Performative Faith

Step away from public displays of piety meant to reassure others, or ourselves, of our holiness. God is encountered in the quiet work of love and integrity.

5. Give Up Despair Disguised as Realism

Cynicism often masquerades as wisdom. Lent calls us to stubborn hope, even when the world gives us every reason to give up.

6. Give Up the Rush

Resist the culture of constant productivity and urgency. Make space for prayer, silence, rest, and unstructured time—trusting that God works beyond our schedules.

7. Give Up Easy Enemies

Stop reducing complex people and systems to villains. Lent asks us to see even those we oppose as human beings, without surrendering our moral convictions.

8. Give Up Silence in the Face of Injustice

While Lent calls us to silence before God, it also calls us to speech when others are harmed. Discern when quiet becomes complicity.

9. Give Up Cheap Forgiveness

Forgiveness without truth is not healing. Lent invites us to practice reconciliation that includes accountability, repair, and changed behavior.

10. Give Up the Illusion of Self-Sufficiency

We are not meant to save ourselves. Lent reminds us that grace is received, not achieved.

“My grace is sufficient for you.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

11. Give Up Dehumanizing Language

Refuse speech that reduces people to labels, ideologies, or stereotypes. Lent is a season for restoring dignity through words.

12. Give Up Fear-Based Faith

Let go of theology rooted primarily in punishment, exclusion, or anxiety. The Gospel begins and ends in love.

“Perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18)

To give something up for Lent is not to become smaller, harsher, or more austere. It is to become more human, more honest, and more available to the Spirit of God who is always making all things new.

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Pastoral Letter for the Beginning of Lent 2026

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Dear Friends in Christ,

Lent is upon us once again.

Each year, this season arrives quietly, almost gently, inviting us to slow our pace and listen more deeply. And yet, the world around us does not slow down. The noise persists. The urgency of headlines continues. The divisions remain sharp. The suffering of the vulnerable is not theoretical but painfully real.

It is into this very world, not apart from it, that Lent speaks.

On Ash Wednesday we hear the ancient cry from the prophet Book of Joel: “Return to me with all your heart.” That call is not thundered in anger. It is spoken in longing. It is the voice of a God who does not abandon, but beckons.

Lent is not about spiritual theatrics. It is not about performative piety or public displays of righteousness. Jesus warns us in the Gospel of Matthew to beware of practicing our faith “in order to be seen.” Instead, Lent draws us inward, toward honesty, humility, and renewed clarity.

We begin with ashes. Ashes remind us of our mortality. They confront our illusion of control. They level every hierarchy. The powerful and the powerless alike are dust. The wealthy and the poor alike are dust. The certain and the uncertain alike are dust.

And yet, the ashes are traced in the shape of a cross.

We are dust, but beloved dust.

This season is not about self-condemnation. It is about self-examination. It is about asking difficult questions with courage:

Where have I grown complacent?
Where have I participated in systems that wound others?
Where have I allowed fear to shape my choices more than love?
Where is God inviting me to deeper trust?

Lent gives us the ancient practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. These are not spiritual punishments. They are spiritual recalibrations.

Prayer recenters us.
Fasting clarifies our hunger.
Generosity loosens fear’s grip.

In a culture driven by consumption and speed, fasting teaches restraint. In a political climate fueled by outrage, prayer teaches stillness. In an economy shaped by scarcity thinking, generosity proclaims abundance.

Lent is resistance to everything that dehumanizes.

As we move through these forty days, the lectionary will guide us through wilderness, thirst, blindness, and even the valley of dry bones. We will encounter a woman at a well who dares to ask questions. A man born blind who learns to see. A grieving family called to roll away a stone.

These stories are not merely ancient narratives. They are mirrors.

The wilderness is not only a desert in Judea. It is any season where we feel disoriented or tested.

The thirst is not only physical. It is the longing for meaning and connection.

The blindness is not merely about sight. It is about perception, about learning to see the image of God in those we have overlooked.

Lent prepares us for Holy Week, where the contradictions of human power and divine love are laid bare. We will walk from palm branches to betrayal, from a shared meal to a lonely cross. And we will sit in the silence of Holy Saturday, that most honest of days, when hope feels hidden and God seems absent.

But Lent does not end in silence.

It ends in resurrection.

And resurrection is not simply an event to be remembered. It is a reality to be embodied. Resurrection is God’s refusal to let violence have the last word. It is love’s quiet but unstoppable insistence that death does not win.

I invite you into this season with intention. Choose a practice that stretches you. Engage Scripture not as obligation but as conversation. Participate in worship not as routine but as encounter. Seek reconciliation where it is possible. Stand with those who are vulnerable. Let Lent make you braver in love.

Above all, remember this: the call to return is never a call into shame. It is a call into relationship.

God does not wait at the end of Lent with a ledger. God walks with us through it.

May these forty days soften what has hardened, awaken what has grown dull, and strengthen what has grown weary. May they deepen our compassion and steady our courage. May they prepare us not only to celebrate Easter, but to live as Easter people in a Good Friday world.

I look forward to walking this holy road with you.

Blessings and Peace,

+Peter

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Changed by the Light, Sent for the World

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Several weeks ago, we began a study of the United Church of Christ’s Statement of Faith. This study has taken us through a discussion about God the creator, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. We touched briefly on the Sacraments of Baptism and Communion. We learned about the nature and mission of the Church, and today, we bring it all to a close with a promise and a call.

I know I have learned a lot from preparing these teachings and the subsequent discussions we had after Church, but there is so much more to learn. The two things I want us to take away from this are that the statement is not a creed, it is not an all-or-nothing proposition. The statement is just that, a statement of not just what we believe but what we have faith in.

The second takeaway is that without action, these words mean nothing. Today is the last Sunday of the Epiphany season, and on Wednesday, we begin the journey of Lent. Today, the Church focuses on the story of the Transfiguration. We begin with Moses, coming down from his mountain-top experience after hearing God’s voice. Exodus tells us his appearance had changed, but that was not all.

We heard from Matthew about Jesus’ trip up the mountain with Peter, James, and John, and how he changed in appearance. Encounters with the Divine are supposed to transform us not just on the outside but deep inside, in the very core of our being, in our soul.

About a year after my ordination, I began writing a blog online. The tagline I began with was to “form, inform, and transform.” For me, the entire spiritual life is about transformation, about coming into the presence of the Divine, not just on that mountain top but down here, in the valleys of life in the food pantry, soup kitchen, and protest. I checked this morning, and I have written 3, 532 essays about the spiritual life, some good, most well, not so good. But there they are.

Today, we come to the last part of our study of the Statement, the final words which are both promise and call, covenant and action.

“He promises to all who trust him forgiveness of sins and fullness of grace, courage in the struggle for justice and peace, his presence in trial and rejoicing, and eternal life in his kingdom which has no end.”

These sentences do more than inform; they form us, and I hope, they transform us. These words, if we dare to take them seriously, will rearrange how we live. These are not sentimental religious words. They are revolutionary claims. They are sacramental claims. They are promises that reach into the core of our lives and into the structures of our common life.

These last words of the Statement begin where the Gospel always begins: with mercy.

“He promises… forgiveness of sins and fullness of grace.”

This is a reminder that in a world that keeps score, God does not. In a culture that brands people by their worst mistake, God does not. In a society that monetizes shame and weaponizes failure, Christ speaks of forgiveness.

But forgiveness is not divine amnesia. It is divine restoration. It is God’s refusal to let our brokenness have the final word. Forgiveness is not pretending sin does not matter; it is declaring that grace matters more.

And grace is not thin sentimentality. Grace is the power of God to remake a human heart.

When we trust Jesus, we are not merely excused. We are reclaimed. We are told that beneath our fear, beneath our selfishness, beneath our complicity in unjust systems, there remains the indelible image of God.

Grace does not simply comfort us. Grace calls us higher because forgiven people cannot remain unchanged.

If we have received mercy, we must become merciful. If we have been restored, we must become agents of restoration. If we have been freed from shame, we must refuse to shame others—forgiveness births responsibility.

But we cannot stop at personal redemption. It moves immediately outward:

“He promises… courage in the struggle for justice and peace.”

Struggle. Not comfort. Not passivity. Not spiritual escape. Struggle.

Justice and peace do not descend gently from the heavens. They are struggling for. They require courage. And here is the truth we do not always want to name: courage is necessary because injustice is real.

Some systems crush. Some policies wound. There are habits of indifference that allow suffering to continue unchallenged. The Gospel does not deny this reality. It confronts it.

But we do not enter that struggle alone or empty-handed. We enter it forgiven. We enter it graced. We enter it sustained by Christ.

The courage promised here is not boasting. It is not anger masquerading as righteousness. It is the quiet, steady resolve that comes from knowing that we belong to something larger than any empire and to a love stronger than any fear.

Justice, in our tradition, is not partisan. It is biblical. It is sacramental. If every human being bears the image of God, then every system that denies that dignity must be challenged.

Peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of the right relationship. And a right relationship requires repair.

To trust Jesus is to be given courage, courage to speak, courage to stand, courage to persist, courage to love even when love costs something. And boy, does love cost.

But we must go deeper; we are being called into relationship with the world and with one another, and we will not be left alone.

“He promises… his presence in trial and rejoicing.”

Notice what is not promised. We are not promised immunity from suffering. We are not promised ease. We are not promised that faith will shield us from loss. Jesus says, ” If the world hates you, remember, they hated me first.”

We are promised presence. Not an easy life. And that changes everything.

Because a trial will come, illness will come. Grief will come. Doubt will come. There will be seasons when prayer feels thin, and God feels silent. There will be days when the struggle for justice feels overwhelming, and the work seems endless.

But Jesus promises presence, and that should bring us comfort. This is not a distant observation. Not detached sympathy. But presence.

The Incarnation, the Word becoming flesh and dwelling with us, is proof of this promise. God does not remain far from human pain. God entered it. Walks within it. Suffers it. Transforms it from within.

And rejoicing, too, is holy ground. Celebration is not frivolous. Joy is not naïve. Rejoicing is a foretaste of the kingdom. When we gather in love, when we celebrate milestones, when we sing with full hearts, Jesus is present there as well.

Our faith is not only cross; it is resurrection. Not only lament, it is song.

Jesus meets us in hospital rooms and at wedding receptions. In gravesides and in baptisms. In protest marches and at kitchen tables.

Presence is the promise that holds us steady.

As you know, I work as a hospice chaplain, and for the last few months, I have had the privilege of working at our hospice house. This residence can accommodate 12 people on their final journey. We offer them comfort, companionship, and dignity in their final days.

This week, I have had the honor of accompanying three people and their families as they have taken their last breaths. Some were religious, most were not. In every room, I felt God’s presence. It’s hard to describe what that is, but I felt it, and it made the journey that much sweeter. Presence is important.

Then the Statement opens our vision and broadens our horizon:

“He promises… eternal life in his kingdom which has no end.”

Eternal life is not merely longevity. It is participation in the life of God. It is communion that death cannot sever.

The kingdom without end is not an escape from this world; it is the fulfillment of God’s intention for this world. We are called not to wait for God’s kingdom but to bring God’s kingdom right here, right now.

A kingdom where justice rolls down like waters. A kingdom where peace is not fragile. A kingdom where no child is hungry. A kingdom where swords are beaten into plowshares. A kingdom where love is the final architecture of reality.

That kingdom begins now. Here. Not on some distant cloud but right here, outside those doors and inside.

Every act of forgiveness participates in it. Every step toward justice reflects it. Every courageous stand anticipates it. Every moment of presence embodies it.

We do not build the kingdom by our own strength. But we witness it. We align ourselves with it. We live as though it is already breaking into our world, because in Jesus, it is.

The words from the Statement of Faith today begin with trust: “He promises to all who trust him…”

Trust is not intellectual assent alone. It is entrusting our lives to Christ’s way.

It is trusting forgiveness enough to let go of bitterness. It is trusting grace enough to risk transformation. It is trusting courage enough to enter the struggle. It is trusting presence enough to endure trial. It is trusting eternal life enough to resist despair.

Trust reshapes priorities. It reorders allegiances. It redefines success.

If Jesus’ promises are true, and I believe they are, then fear does not get to rule us. Cynicism does not get to define us. Despair does not get to silence us.

We are a forgiven people. We are a courageous people. We are an accompanied people. We are a hopeful people.

Beloved, these are not merely words to recite. They are promises to inhabit.

The world does not need a Church fluent in religious language. The world needs a Church formed by these promises.

The world needs a Church that forgives boldly. Struggles for justice steadily. Remains present in suffering faithfully. And a Church that lives in hope defiantly. The world needs a Church less concerned about self-preservation and more about action.

This is not easy discipleship. But it is faithful discipleship.

Jesus has promised. And because Jesus has promised, we can live differently. We can love differently. We can struggle differently. We can hope differently.

For we belong to a kingdom that has no end.

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

Amen.

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Standing in the Light: Transfiguration as Invitation and Transformation

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Sunday is the Last Sunday before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. Since the end of the Christmas/Epiphany season, we have been hanging out in this liminal space, this space in-between. We have been waiting for something to happen. Our gaze has slowly turned from the manger to the cross, and now, it confronts us.

This last Sunday before Lent begins is also known as Transfiguration Sunday and recalls not only Jesus on the mountain but also Moses on the mountain. These are special moments that are meant to remind us that God is present in the world, but not on some distant mountain top, but rather, right here with us in our everyday lives.

There are moments in life when the veil seems too thin, the veil that separates the ordinary from the holy. The stories of Moses on the mountain and Jesus at the Transfiguration speak to these sacred moments.

In the Exodus story, Moses is invited up the mountain into the cloud of God’s presence. In Scripture, the cloud is a powerful image. It reveals that God is there, yet it also reminds us that God cannot be fully explained or contained. Moses remains in that sacred space for forty days, dwelling in the mystery of divine encounter. When he descends the mountain, he is not the same person who ascended it. He carries with him the imprint of holiness and the responsibility to guide others toward covenant and faithfulness.

In the Gospel account of the Transfiguration in Matthew, we see another sacred encounter. Jesus takes his friends, Peter, James, and John with him, and there his appearance is transformed before them. Matthew says that Jesus’ face shines, his clothing becomes radiant, and for a moment the disciples see Jesus in unveiled glory. They witness a glimpse of divine light shining through human life.

Seeing this, the disciples feel overwhelmed and fall to their knees. Awe often comes with fear when we encounter something beyond our understanding. But through this awe and fear, Jesus brings comfort. He touches them and tells them not to be afraid. The divine light is meant to draw us closer, to remind us that God’s presence is both majestic and tender.

Where do we encounter mountaintop moments in our own lives? They may come through prayer, through worship, through receiving the sacraments, or through quiet moments of reflection. Sometimes they come in unexpected ways, in a conversation that brings healing, in the beauty of creation, or in acts of compassion that remind us that love is still alive in the world.

Yet the mountaintop is never the end. The disciples wanted to stay on that mountain top, and who can blame them? Both Moses and the disciples must come down the mountain. They return to their struggling, imperfect, and often fearful communities. We are reminded that spiritual experiences are not meant to separate us from what the world needs but to strengthen us for service within it. The light we encounter is meant to travel with us into the valleys of daily living.

There is also something deeply hopeful about the Transfiguration. It reveals that transformation is possible. The disciples see in Jesus a glimpse of divine glory that exists alongside human vulnerability. This reminds us that God is not waiting for us to become perfect before drawing near to us. Instead, God meets us where we are and gently invites us into deeper growth and healing.

In these uncertain times, many of us carry burdens: worries about our families, anxieties about the state of the world, grief over losses we have endured, and concerns about what lies ahead. The Transfiguration reminds us that these burdens do not prevent us from encountering divine light. In fact, it is often amid our vulnerability that we become most open to God’s presence.

The Transfiguration also reminds us that we are not alone in our journey. Just as the disciples experienced this moment together, we are called to walk the path of transformation in community. We support one another, pray for one another, and remind one another of God’s presence when it feels hidden behind clouds of doubt or fear.

The Transfiguration assures us that such “mountain top” moments are not illusions or wishful thinking. They are reminders that God’s presence continues to shine through our world and through our lives. The light revealed on the mountain is the same light that accompanies us in the ordinary and sometimes challenging realities of daily living.

We may not always stand on mountaintops, but we are always invited to carry the memory of divine light within us. As we walk through our days, we can become reflections of that light, through acts of love, words of encouragement, and gestures of compassion that quietly transform the spaces we inhabit.

In the end, the Transfiguration is not simply a story about what happened long ago. It is a living invitation. It calls us to trust that God continues to meet us, to transform us, and to send us back into the world bearing light for others. And in that sacred rhythm of encounter and return, we discover that transformation is not a single moment, but a lifelong journey into the radiance of divine love.

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Called into Cost and Joy

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Matthew 5:13-20

This morning, I would like to begin with an explanation. As I have stated before, I feel I have an obligation to speak, to speak truth in love, and to speak truth to power. For much of the last 15 years or so, the Gospel imperative to love God and love neighbor has been central in my preaching, teaching, and ministry, so much so that sometimes I think people get sick of hearing me say it. But say it I do because I must.

Earlier this week, a minister and theologian I respect posted an essay with the title, “You’re right to hate him. Good People do.” The subject of the essay is the President of the United States, and it came out shortly after the disgusting, racist post by him overnight.

Just to clarify, the person who wrote the essay makes a living off their writing, so the more sensational the headline, the more people will click on the article. We call that “clickbait.” This is an important point because you get paid by the click and not for the substance. And I will confess that, although I do not get paid for any of my writings or videos, getting your “click count” up is all part of the game.

In response to his essay, I posted that as a follower of Jesus Christ, I am commanded to love everyone, including my enemies. As one who considers himself a progressive-leaning liberal theologian, everyone means everyone, and that is the usual position my other progressive and liberal leaning friends take. We say things like “it does not matter what their sexual orientation or immigration status is, we have to love them.” We speak about human dignity, and we wring our hands at how divisive our country has become in “this political climate.” And then he posts an essay saying it is okay to hate. I’m sorry, but that makes you a hypocrite.

But what was more shocking was the response I received to my comment.

So let me say this as clearly as I can: Jesus commanded that we love God, we love our neighbors, and we love our enemies, PERIOD! We cannot speak about loving the immigrant with one breath and with another say it is okay to hate the President because we don’t like what he is doing. That is the textbook definition of a hypocrite.

Look, I don’t think it is any secret that I stand in direct opposition to almost everything this administration has done and probably will do. I have repeatedly condemned the excessive use of force, the constant name-calling, the taking of benefits, and all the rest. I do not believe the man is a nice person, but that does not give me the right to hate him.

To put a fine point on it, hate is what got us all here.

I have been struggling with the answer to the question: how did we get here? We got here because we allowed ourselves to hate the other for no other reason than that they are different. When we hate another person, we remove their humanity and dignity, and it gives us license to do what we want. Hate is destructive, hate injures, hate causes violence, hate prevents us from seeing the divine image in the other person, and hate kills. Hate rage posts racist videos in the middle of the night, hate is what makes us feel the laws do not apply to us, and hate is what allows us to use a five-year-old as bait so we can arrest his father. As a follower of Jesus, I am not allowed to hate.

I can hate everything someone stands for. I can take to the streets in peaceful protest dressed as a dinosaur and carrying signs. I can speak up and speak out against policies. I can call my elected officials and voice my opposition. I can do all of that, but I cannot allow myself to hate.

Now, I will confess that I did not always think this way, and it has taken me many years of deep soul searching to get to this place. It has taken me a long time to realize that I cannot let hate win the day; I cannot let hate eat away at me like a cancer, because that is what it is.

My friends, hate is the easiest thing to do, and it gives us a pass for how we react. Love takes work, and it costs a lot.

In the Gospel we heard this morning, Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:13–16

Jesus does not say, “You should try to become salt.” He does not say, “You might someday become light if you are faithful enough.” He says, “You are.”

This ties in with the portion of the Statement of Faith we have today, Christ “calls us into his church to accept the cost and joy of discipleship, to be his servants in the service of humanity, to proclaim the gospel to all the world and resist the powers of evil, to share in Christ’s baptism and eat at his table, to join him in his passion and victory.”

These are strong words. This is not only who we are, but what we are called to be!

We often prefer joy without cost. We would like resurrection without Good Friday—transformation without sacrifice. I would much rather stand here and preach the love of God without having to rely on references to recent events. But that is not where we are, and there is a cost associated with preaching a constant message of love.

Jesus never disguises the reality of discipleship. He tells us plainly, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” (Luke 9:23)

Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke prophetically about the danger of what he called cheap grace. Writing during the rise of Nazi Germany, he warned the church that faith stripped of discipleship becomes spiritually hollow and morally dangerous. He wrote:

“Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession, grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ.”

Cheap grace allows us to admire Jesus without following him. It allows us to speak of faith while avoiding the demands of love. Cheap grace allows us to be concerned about ourselves and our so-called “personal relationship with Jesus” while ignoring what is happening to our siblings in Christ.

But Bonhoeffer reminds us that the Gospel offers costly grace. Costly grace calls us to follow Christ into places where compassion demands courage. It calls us to embody love not as sentiment, but as lived commitment.

And yet, costly grace is not grim. It is filled with joy. The joy of discovering that when we lose our lives for love’s sake, we find them renewed. The joy of living with purpose shaped by God’s dream for creation. I cannot walk around filled with hate and being required to hate people just because they are different; life is too short for that.

I want that Joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart, down in my heart, down in my heart, I want that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart, down in my heart to stay!

The Statement of Faith reminds us that Christ calls us “to be his servants in the service of humanity.”

In a culture obsessed with power and visibility, servanthood appears weak. Yet Jesus consistently redefines power. He kneels before his disciples and washes their feet. I need us to really think about this: God made flesh, ties an apron around his waist, kneels, and washes his friends’ feet. Washing someone’s feet was considered the lowest job in the household, and the God who created all there is knelt and washed feet.

Sure, we like to think of the strong, manly Jesus, the one who flipped over the tables in the temple, but there is also this Jesus, the servant who washes feet, binds wounds, and feeds people. And after he washes the feet of his friends, he says, “I have set you an example.” (John 13:15)

Servanthood is not a weakness. It is holy strength.

Bonhoeffer warned that the church must not merely bandage wounds beneath the wheels of injustice but must sometimes jam a spoke into the wheel itself. Discipleship calls us beyond charity into solidarity.

This is where Matthew’s Gospel pushes us even further. After naming us salt and light, Jesus says:

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” (Matthew 5:17)

Jesus is not dismantling moral responsibility. He is deepening it. He is calling us beyond external compliance into transformed hearts. He tells his followers that their righteousness must exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees, not by becoming more rigid, but by becoming more compassionate, more faithful, more rooted in love.

True righteousness is not about rule-keeping. It is about love embodied in daily life. It is justice lived out in relationships, policies, and community life. It is holiness expressed through mercy.

The Statement of Faith calls us “to proclaim the gospel to all the world and resist the powers of evil.”

To proclaim the Gospel is to announce that in Jesus Christ, love is stronger than hatred, mercy stronger than judgment, and life stronger than death.

But a proclamation requires visibility. Light hidden under a basket cannot guide anyone home.

The powers of evil often appear quietly, in systems that deny dignity, in policies that abandon the vulnerable, in narratives that teach us to fear difference or ignore suffering. Cheap grace tells us to remain silent for comfort’s sake. Costly grace calls us to faithful resistance grounded in love.

One of the comments on my post asked, “Are we not supposed to hate the anti-Christ?”  I replied that we have to get past thinking the Anti-Christ is a person, the Anti-Christ is anything that stands in opposition to Jesus, and if we hate, we have become the Anti-Christ. Sometimes it is difficult to look in the mirror.

The church must never confuse peace with silence. The Gospel is good news, but good news is not always easy news. It challenges every structure that diminishes the sacred worth of God’s children.

The Statement of Faith reminds us that we are called “to join him in his passion and victory.”

The Christian life invites us to walk with Christ not only in resurrection triumph but also in sacrificial love. To join Christ in his passion is to stand beside those who suffer, those who mourn, those pushed to the margins of society.

Bonhoeffer ultimately lived this truth. He trusted that costly grace leads not to despair but to resurrection hope.

The risen Christ still bears the wounds of Good Friday, reminders that suffering does not have the final word in God’s economy of grace.

Friends, the church is called to be a sacramental community, a people through whom invisible grace becomes visible love.

The temptation toward cheap grace remains strong. It whispers that faith should remain comfortable and safely removed from the world’s pain. But Christ calls us into costly grace, grace that transforms us, stretches us, and sends us into the world as agents of healing and justice.

We will not live this calling perfectly. We will stumble. We will grow weary. We will sometimes fail. And yes, we will hate.

Yet God remains faithful.

Christ continues to gather us at water and table. Christ continues to call us to shine with love in a world hungry for hope.

So let us remember our baptism. Let us come to the table hungry for grace. Let us reject cheap grace and embrace the costly grace that leads to an abundant life.

Let us be salt that preserves dignity.

Let us be the light that reveals hope.

Let us serve boldly. Proclaim courageously. Resist faithfully. Love extravagantly.

For the One who calls us is the One who sustains us. And the One who invites us into discipleship is the One who leads us from death into life, from fear into hope, and from isolation into beloved community.

Amen.

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Salt, Light, and the Courage to Speak

Posted on by Fr. Peter

This week’s Scripture is taken from the Sermon on the Mount. Here, Jesus offers images that are simple and yet profoundly challenging. “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world” (Matthew 5:13–14). These are not suggestions. They are declarations. Jesus does not say we should try to become salt and light. He tells us that this is already who we are. The deeper question is whether we are willing to live into that identity.

In the ancient world, salt was essential. It preserved food, prevented decay, and enhanced flavor. Without salt, things spoil. Without salt, nourishment loses its vitality. To be called the salt of the earth is to be entrusted with the sacred responsibility of preserving what is good, protecting what is vulnerable, and ensuring that the dignity of every human life does not erode under the pressures of fear, indifference, or injustice.

Light is not merely decorative. Light reveals what is hidden. Light provides direction. Light offers safety and hope in places of uncertainty and fear. When Jesus says that a city set on a hill cannot be hidden, he reminds us that faith is not meant to be private comfort alone. Faith is meant to be visible in the way we live, the way we treat others, and the way we respond to the suffering of our neighbors.

These words from Jesus arrive with urgency in our present moment. Across our nation, we are witnessing growing anxiety, deep division, and very real struggles affecting the lives of vulnerable people. Families face uncertainty about healthcare and economic stability. Immigrant communities live with fear about their safety and future. Children and marginalized populations often become invisible in policy debates. The rhetoric of public discourse can sometimes drown out the voices of those who most need to be heard.

To be salt and light in such times means embracing our sacred calling to become advocates for human dignity. It means remembering that Christian discipleship is not simply about personal piety but about public compassion. Jesus consistently sided with those whom society overlooked, the poor, the sick, the outsider, the sinner, and the forgotten. He gave voice to those who were silenced by systems of power or social exclusion.

Being the voice for the voiceless does not mean speaking over others or assuming we understand every experience. Rather, it means using whatever influence, privilege, or platform we possess to amplify the stories and struggles of those whose dignity is threatened. It means listening deeply, standing alongside those who suffer, and refusing to allow indifference to become the norm.

Jesus continues his teaching by declaring that he has not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it. In this statement, Jesus shifts the focus from legalistic rule-keeping to the deeper spirit of the law, love of God and love of neighbor. The righteousness Jesus describes is not measured by outward compliance alone but by inward transformation that expresses itself through justice, mercy, and compassion.

In our current national climate, it can be tempting to retreat into silence or to withdraw from difficult conversations. Yet salt that loses its flavor ceases to serve its purpose. Light hidden under a basket cannot guide anyone through darkness. Discipleship requires moral courage, the courage to speak when silence would be easier, the courage to defend human dignity when it is politically inconvenient, and the courage to build bridges in a culture that often rewards division.

This does not mean adopting anger or hostility as tools of witness. Jesus never calls us to mirror the harshness we encounter. Instead, he calls us to embody a different way of being. Salt preserves quietly. Light shines steadily. Both operate not through force but through presence and persistence. Our witness becomes most powerful when it is rooted in humility, compassion, and steadfast love.

There is also a deeply sacramental dimension to these teachings. Just as salt transforms food and light transforms darkness, disciples are called to participate in God’s transforming grace within the world. In baptism, we are marked as bearers of Christ’s presence. In communion, we are nourished by Christ’s self-giving love so that we might become nourishment for others. These sacraments remind us that we do not carry this calling alone. We are strengthened by grace and sustained by community.

Being salt and light does not require perfection. It requires faithfulness. It asks us to notice suffering, to refuse to ignore injustice, and to trust that even small acts of courage and compassion participate in God’s larger work of redemption.

In times of uncertainty, the Church is called not to withdraw from the world but to stand within it as a witness to hope. We are called to be people who protect the vulnerable, who speak truth with love, and who shine with the quiet but persistent light of Christ.

Jesus’ words remain both invitation and challenge. The world does not need more noise or more division. It needs communities of faith willing to preserve compassion, illuminate truth, and speak for those who cannot safely speak for themselves.

“You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” May we have the courage to live as who Christ says we already are.

Be Salty. Stay Lit.

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Candlemas, Imbolc, and St. Brigid the Convergence of Light

Posted on by Fr. Peter

A few weeks ago, our lights went out because of a downed powerline. Our town has a generator system that is supposed to bring the power back while repairs are being made but they had difficulty getting those generators started. It was a bit of an inconvenience while the sun was but, as the sun began to set, darkness started to cover the house, and it started to get cold.

We are not used to not having light when darkness comes. We flip a switch, and the light returns. As darkness started to take over, we scrambled to find candles and flashlights that would provide the basic light needed for safety. Light in the darkness was becoming a necessity.

As our country plunges deeper and deeper into moral darkness, shining light is becoming very important. People filming law enforcement, standing shoulder to shoulder with neighbors to protect them, marching in the streets, painting protest signs all bring light. People gathered quietly on town commons and street corners holding candles in silent vigil after another of our neighbors was murdered by armed agents of our government bring the flickering light to our national conscious.

It is into that darkness that Candlemas arrives quietly on the church calendar. Forty days after Christmas the Church pauses to bless light. We gather candles, speak ancient words, and remember a moment so ordinary it might have been overlooked: a young family bringing their child to the Temple, fulfilling the law, offering what little they had. Yet the Church insists that here glory appears.

Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to Jerusalem, offering “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons” (Luke 2:24), the sacrifice of the poor. There is no spectacle. Instead, there is recognition. The old man Simeon takes the child into his arms and names him “a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:32). Anna, an elder and a prophet, adds her voice. Redemption is glimpsed not through power, but through faithfulness.

The Church calls this day Candlemas because it dares to say what Simeon sees: light. Not the blinding glare of empire or triumph, but the fragile flame of promise. Divine light does not hover above the world untouched; it is placed into human hands, it stands on street corners and city parks, entrusted to bodies, bound to history. The Divine light takes on human form and stands in solidarity with the vulnerable among us.

But this idea of light did not begin with Candlemas or even with the birth of Jesus. These days of midwinter is where Candlemas quietly meets the ancient rhythms of the earth.

Long before this feast had a Christian name, early February was marked across the northern world as a threshold season. Imbolc, an ancient Celtic festival, celebrated the returning light, the quickening of the land, the first signs that winter’s grip would not last forever. It was a time of lambing, of milk returning to the fields, of hope held gently rather than declared boldly. Darkness was not denied; it was simply no longer final.

Christian faith did not erase these rhythms, it embraced them, it baptized them.

In the liberal catholic imagination, this is not syncretism but sacramentality. God has always spoken through seasons, through land and body, through longing and labor. Candlemas does not compete with Imbolc; it fulfills its deepest intuition. The light we bless is not abstract salvation, but embodied hope, hope that grows slowly, quietly, and at cost.

Nowhere is this convergence more beautifully held than in the figure of St. Brigid.

Brigid of Kildare, whose feast is celebrated on February 1, stands at the meeting place of ancient reverence and Christian witness. Whether she is understood her as a Christian saint who inherited the symbolism of an earlier goddess, or as a singular figure whose life gathered many streams, Brigid embodies what the Church often forgets: holiness rooted in hospitality, justice, and care for the earth.

Brigid is remembered as a woman of fire and generosity, a protector of the poor, a healer, a poet, and a keeper of sacred flame. At Kildare, her community tended to a perpetual fire, a sign not of domination, but of vigilance and nurture. This is Candlemas theology. Light is not seized; it is tended. It is kept alive through attention, humility, and shared responsibility.

Simeon’s song is often heard as triumphal, but it is not naïve. He names the cost: “This child is destined for the falling and rising of many… and a sword will pierce your own soul too” he says to Mary (Luke 2:34–35). Candlemas light does not deny suffering; it illuminates it. As St. Brigid’s work reminds us, light expressed through compassion exposes injustice. Fire warms, but it also reveals.

This is why Candlemas stands as a hinge in the liturgical year. Christmas joy gives way to vocational resolve. The shadow of the cross already stretches across the church floor. Faith here is not sentiment, but courage. As Rowan Williams has written, Christian hope is not escape from suffering, but trust that suffering does not have the final word.

The blessing of candles, then, is not decorative. It is formative. When we lift light and ask God’s blessing, we are asking to become bearers of that light in a world still shaped by fear, violence, and scarcity. Like Brigid, we are called to tend what is fragile, to shelter what is vulnerable, to believe that generosity is stronger than hoarding.

Candlemas is also a feast of elders and edges. Simeon and Anna remind us that revelation belongs not only to the young or the powerful, but to those who have waited long enough to recognize it. Imbolc, too, honors thresholds, neither winter nor spring, neither death nor full bloom. This is faith lived between certainty and fulfillment.

In blessing candles, we bless time itself, past promises fulfilled, present faith sustained, future hope entrusted. Candlemas teaches us to notice God not only in beginnings, but in transitions; not only in birth, but in dedication; not only in joy, but in resolve.

The light of Candlemas does not banish the dark. It teaches us how to walk within it, patiently, faithfully, together. A small flame. A steady hand. And the quiet assurance that God’s light, once given, will not be taken back.

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Bound in Covenant by the Returning Light

Posted on by Fr. Peter

The United Church of Christ dares to confess something both ancient and urgently contemporary:

“He bestows upon us his Holy Spirit, creating and renewing the church of Jesus Christ, binding in covenant faithful people of all ages, tongues, and races.”

These words are not a summary of belief; they are a vision of the Church as God intends it to be. It tells us who acts, how the Church comes into being, what holds us together, and why our differences are not an accident but a gift. It is, in many ways, a Candlemas confession, a statement meant to be held up to the light and trusted even when the world still feels cold.

We gather in a season shaped by thresholds. Candlemas marks the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple. Imbolc marks the stirring of life beneath winter’s surface. And the witness of St. Brigid stands between them, holding fire in one hand and bread in the other. These are not competing traditions. They are converging testimonies to a God who works slowly, bodily, and relationally.

We begin where the Statement of Faith begins, not with us, but with God.

“He bestows upon us his Holy Spirit.”

The Church does not create itself. We do not vote the Spirit into existence, manage it through committees, or confine it to buildings or doctrines. The Spirit is bestowed, given freely, unpredictably, generously. Like breath. Like fire. Like light.

At Candlemas, we see this bestowal clearly. Mary and Joseph do not arrive at the Temple with answers or influence. They arrive with a child, with obedience, with poverty. And yet Simeon recognizes what others miss. He sees that the Spirit has already been at work, guiding him to this moment. He takes the child in his arms and speaks words that still shape the Church’s imagination: “My eyes have seen your salvation… a light for revelation to the Gentiles” (Luke 2:30–32).

This light is not seized; it is received just as the Spirit is not earned, but bestowed.

This is where Imbolc quietly deepens our understanding. Imbolc names the truth that life begins before it is visible. The land does not announce its readiness. Milk returns to the fields before spring arrives. Lambs are born while snow still covers the ground. The Spirit works like that, bestowed beneath the surface, stirring what cannot yet be proven.

The Church, then, is not built on certainty. It is born of trust.

The Statement of Faith continues:

“…creating and renewing the church of Jesus Christ.”

Creation and renewal are not the same thing, and the Spirit does both.

Creation is about origins: Pentecost, baptism, the first yes to faith. Renewal is about what happens when the Church grows tired, compromised, or afraid. Renewal is what God does when we have lost our way but not our calling.

Candlemas reminds us that renewal begins early. Jesus has barely been born, and already his life is being oriented toward purpose, sacrifice, and promise. Simeon’s blessing contains both praise and warning. Light is named, but so is the cost. “A sword will pierce your own soul too.”

Renewal is never sentimental.

Here, St. Brigid becomes essential to our understanding. Brigid’s faith was not abstract or protected from the world. It was embodied, expressed through hospitality, healing, and justice. She renewed the Church not by consolidating power, but by tending flame. The perpetual fire at Kildare was not a symbol of domination; it was a sign of vigilance. Fire kept alive by care.

This is how renewal happens. Not through force, but through faithfulness. Not through spectacle, but through attention.

The Spirit creates the Church, but the Spirit also renews it when it forgets why it exists.

Then the Statement of Faith gives us one of its most radical claims:

“…binding in covenant faithful people…”

Not organizing. Not controlling. Binding.

Covenant is not a contract. A contract is conditional and transactional. A covenant is relational and enduring. It holds even when one party falters. Covenant assumes difference and commits anyway.

At Candlemas, covenant looks like elders and infants sharing the same space. Simeon and Anna recognize what the parents cannot yet fully understand. Faith passes across generations not as certainty, but as trust.

Imbolc teaches the same truth. The land does not hurry itself. It trusts the rhythm it has been given. Covenant is patience sanctified.

Brigid lived covenant by refusing to separate prayer from justice, spirituality from material need. Her generosity, sometimes legendary, sometimes inconvenient, was not recklessness. It was covenantal confidence. A belief that God’s abundance is not diminished by sharing.

This has consequences for how we understand the Church.

The Statement of Faith does not say the Spirit binds like-minded people. It says:

“…faithful people of all ages, tongues, and races.”

This is not aspirational language. It is descriptive. This is what the Church looks like when the Spirit is allowed to lead.

In the New Testament, the Greek term pneuma continues this theme of divine breath and movement.

Pentecost (Acts 2) is foundational for a Christian understanding of the Spirit. The Spirit is poured out universally, crossing linguistic and cultural boundaries. With this in mind, theologians often emphasize Pentecost as a symbol of radical inclusion and pluralism.

Theologian Luke Timothy Johnson writes:

“Pentecost represents not uniformity but Spirit-enabled diversity within community.” —Johnson, The Acts of the Apostles (1992)

The Johannine tradition highlights the Spirit as Paraclete, comforter, advocate, and teacher (John 14–16). The Spirit guides believers into evolving truth rather than static doctrinal finality.

Difference is not a problem to be solved; it is a sign of the Spirit’s presence. Pentecost did not eliminate language. It made understanding possible. Communion does not erase bodies. It makes them one without making them the same.

In a world that confuses unity with uniformity, this confession matters deeply.

Racism, nationalism, and exclusion are not merely social failures; they are theological failures. They deny the Spirit’s work. They fracture the covenant. They extinguish light rather than tending it.

St. Brigid’s life stands as a rebuke to such distortions. She did not ask who deserved warmth before lighting the fire. She did not calculate worthiness before sharing bread. She trusted that holiness expressed through mercy reveals the truth of God.

Candlemas light exposes the Church’s temptation to control who belongs. Simeon’s words stretch beyond Israel. The light is for the nations. The Spirit’s work is always wider than our comfort.

Imbolc reminds us that such widening happens slowly. Hearts change before structures do. Renewal stirs beneath resistance.

So, what does this mean for us, here and now?

It means the Church is constantly being created and continually being renewed. Always being bound together, sometimes despite itself. The Church is not and cannot be static, for God is still speaking.

It means we are not called to preserve an institution, but to tend a flame. It means our task is not to dominate the darkness, but to walk faithfully within it, trusting that light returns.

It means the Spirit is already at work, in the young and the old, in familiar voices and unsettling ones, in places we would rather avoid.

Beloved, the Statement of Faith is not something we recite and move past. It is something we live into.

The Spirit has been bestowed. The Church is still being created and renewed.
The covenant still binds us—across difference, across fear, across time.

The question is not whether the light is real. The question is whether we will tend it.

Candlemas places the light in our hands.
Imbolc teaches us to trust what is becoming.
Brigid shows us how to live as keepers of the flame.

May we have the courage to be that Church, patient enough to wait, bold enough to love, and faithful enough to believe that God is not finished with us yet. Amen.

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