July 5, 2026 Ruth 1: Finding Home: The Stories of Ruth and Odysseus

Bearden:  A Black Odyssey

In the book bearing her name, Ruth arrives in Bethlehem with nothing at all. She is a foreign widow carrying no promise except the one she has made to Naomi. Yet in giving herself away, she receives what she never sought: a family, a community, and a place in the lineage of David and ultimately in the genealogy of Jesus.

She begins her journey not by returning to her homeland but by leaving it. Every practical reason tells her to stay in Moab. Her future would be safer there. Her language, culture, and family are there. Bethlehem holds only uncertainty, poverty, and the possibility of rejection.

Unlike Orpah, Ruth chooses another path.  She says, in following her mother-in-law Naomi, "Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people and your God my God. Naomi blesses her daughters-in-law:

"May the LORD deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead and with me."

The word translated "kindly" is ḥesed. Naomi recognizes that Ruth and Orpah have already shown extraordinary covenant loyalty. Those words are often heard as a declaration of loyalty, but they are also a radical redefinition of home. Ruth understands that home is not first a geography. It is a relationship. Home is found wherever faithful love, hesed, is practiced.

Naomi's name means "Pleasant," "Delightful," or "Sweet". When she returns to Bethlehem, she says, "Do not call me Naomi; call me Mara." She believes pleasantness has become bitterness. Yet the narrative never adopts "Mara." It continues calling her Naomi, hinting that God is not finished restoring her joy. Ruth will be part of that restoration.  

For several weeks now I have been rereading The Odyssey to prepare for watching Christopher Nolan's upcoming film this month. Today I am imagining Odysseus' journey if he had shared Ruth's understanding of hesed.

Throughout The Odyssey, Odysseus measures every place against Ithaca. Even the paradise of Calypso cannot satisfy him because it is not home. The Lotus-Eaters threaten him because they erase the memory of home. Every adventure is judged by whether it delays or advances his return.

Ruth would ask a different question regarding destination on her map. Not "How do I get back to where I once belonged?" Instead, she would have set another home destination: "With whom and where will I practice faithful love?"  Her compass is not nostalgia but covenant. This difference changes everything for Ruth.

Odysseus spends years trying to recover the life he once had. Greek society sought ἀρετή (aretē) in life to build their reputations. In contrast, Ruth walks toward a life she cannot yet imagine. Odysseus is pulled by memory. Ruth is drawn by faith. Ironically, both stories end in restoration, but by different roads.

Odysseus finally reaches Ithaca only after he has been stripped of pride, certainty, and power. He arrives disguised as a beggar. He discovers that home cannot simply be reclaimed by force; it must be recognized and renewed through relationships with Telemachus, Penelope, and those who remained faithful.

Perhaps the deepest lesson both stories teach is that home is never exactly what we left behind. Time changes us, loss changes us, and the journey changes us. The home to which Odysseus returns must be rebuilt. The home Ruth enters must be created.

This is where Ruth's story speaks powerfully to me. Many of us have spent years trying to get back, to a happier season, a healthier body, a thriving church, a beloved relationship, longing for a past America, maybe a younger version of ourselves. Like Odysseus, I have longed for my own Ithacas of memory.

Ruth gently invites me to release that impossible task. Home is not simply where we came from. Home is where we choose to love faithfully today.

It is found in keeping promises when the future is uncertain. It is discovered when you walk beside another person, rather than being intimidated or distrustful. It grows wherever strangers become neighbors, enemies become friends, and grief slowly gives way to hope.

The gospel deepens this vision still further. Jesus rarely speaks of home as a destination to be reclaimed. Instead, he creates homes wherever people gather in love, forgiveness, and welcome. He leaves heaven to dwell among strangers, making God's home with humanity. Through Christ, home becomes less about arriving at a place than participating in God's reconciling presence.

In that light, Ruth's journey becomes more than the story of one faithful woman. It becomes a parable for every disciple. Faith is not merely finding our way back. Instead, it is discovering that wherever God's steadfast love is lived, we are already on holy ground. Perhaps that is the most satisfying homecoming of all.

Not returning to the life we once knew, but discovering that God has been quietly building a home for us all along, not merely in a place, but in a people; not merely in our memories, but in our acts of faithful love. Like Ruth, we may find that home is not behind us waiting to be recovered. It is before us, waiting to be created, one covenant of love at a time.

When we think of homecoming, our imaginations often turn to Odysseus. For twenty years, he has longed for Ithaca. He survives storms, monsters, temptations, and wars, sustained by a single hope: to return to the place where he belongs. Home is his destination. It is the fixed point by which he navigates every danger. Home is something he has lost and must recover.

Ruth offers us a profoundly different understanding of home that I share. My soul urgently longs for a promised hesed, the northern star that will guide as it is found.

June 28, 2026 Matthew 10:40–42 The Holy Ministry of Cold Water

Most of us imagine that if Jesus ever showed up at our door, we'd want to do something impressive. Perhaps we'd prepare a banquet, compose a hymn, or perhaps build a small cathedral in the backyard.

Jesus has a different idea in Matthew 10:40–42. He says that welcoming one of his followers is like welcoming him. Then he lowers the bar further and simultaneously raises it at the same time. He says that even giving a cup of cold water to one of "these little ones" matters to God.

A cup of cold water?

Not a theological dissertation. Not a miracle. Not a fundraising campaign honoring his most fervent followers.

Just water.

Jesus seems remarkably fond of ordinary things. Bread. Fish. Seeds. Lamps. Sparrows. And here, a cup of water.

Perhaps because most of life feels so ordinary. Few of us part seas or preach to thousands. Most of us spend our days answering emails, doing routine chores, washing dishes, holding doors, making phone calls, listening to friends, and offering small kindnesses that seem to disappear as quickly as they happen.

Yet Jesus insists they don't disappear.

The kingdom often arrives disguised as simple hospitality. A welcoming smile. A patient conversation. A casserole thoughtfully delivered to a grieving neighbor. A note of encouragement. A cup of cold water on a hot day.

The world celebrates many grand achievements. Jesus notices small acts of mercy, which is good news for us.

Because most of us have cold water available.

And according to Jesus, that's enough to begin changing the world.

Today, we may not encounter prophets or apostles. But we will almost certainly encounter thirsty people, people who are thirsty for kindness, attention, encouragement, dignity, or hope.

Jesus invites us to offer what we can and apparently, heaven keeps track of cups of water.

Perhaps the humor in this text is that while we worry about accomplishing great things for God, Jesus is standing by the water cooler saying, "Let's start here." Sometimes the smallest gestures become the clearest signs of God's presence.

June 21, 2026 A Reflection on Romans 6:1b–11 and Matthew 10:24–39 Dying to Fear, Rising to Hope

At first glance, today's readings seem to pull in opposite directions. Paul speaks of dying and rising with Christ. Jesus speaks of division, crosses, and losing one's life.

Neither text sounds particularly comforting. Yet beneath both readings lies a profound promise. We have God's promise to create a future that is not controlled by fear.

In Romans 6, Paul reminds believers that through baptism they have been united with Christ in both his death and resurrection. The old ways of living in violence and fear do not have the final word. "If we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him." The resurrection is not merely something that happened to Jesus. We are assured it is God's ongoing declaration that new life is possible even where death seems to reign.

Jesus' words in Matthew are equally challenging. He tells his disciples not to be afraid of those who oppose them. He acknowledges that faithfulness may create conflict because the values of God's kingdom often challenge the world's assumptions. Yet at the heart of his teaching is a repeated invitation: "Do not be afraid."

That invitation feels especially relevant whenever we look at the headlines. The Middle East has long been a place where fear, grief, retaliation, and mistrust have shaped generations. Every new conflict seems to awaken old wounds. Yet whenever leaders choose dialogue over destruction, restraint over revenge, or negotiation over escalation, we catch a glimpse of something different. The possibility of cooperation among the United States, Israel, Arab nations, and others in the region reminds us that history is not locked into endless cycles of hostility. Peace remains fragile and imperfect, but even small steps toward understanding testify that another future is possible.

Neither Paul nor Jesus promises an easy path. Resurrection comes after crucifixion. Reconciliation requires courage. Peace demands sacrifices from all sides. Yet the gospel insists that fear is not destiny.

The world often teaches us to protect ourselves first, to cling tightly to what we have, and to view others as threats. Jesus points in another direction. Those who lose their lives for his sake discover a deeper life. Those who dare to love beyond fear find unexpected freedom. Those who refuse to surrender to hatred become witnesses to God's new creation.

This is why Christians can remain hopeful even amid uncertainty. Our confidence does not rest in political agreements, military strength, or human wisdom alone. It rests in the God who raised Jesus from the dead. The same God who brought life from a tomb continues to work in broken hearts, divided communities, and troubled nations.

Every act of reconciliation, every gesture of mercy, every choice to seek understanding rather than vengeance participates in that resurrection work. We may not see the final outcome, but we can live as people who already belong to God's future.

And God's future is not ruled by fear. It is shaped by the promise of new life.

June 14, 2026 Romans 5:1–8 Matthew 9:35–10:8 - Both Humble and Vulnerable Locked in God's Image

Romans 5:1–8 and Matthew 9:35–10:8 come from different times and authors, yet they remain united by a remarkable theme: God acts first in love toward people who are vulnerable, lost, and unable to save themselves. 

Last week two foundational Hebrew words describing God: ḥesed (חֶסֶד) and shema (שְׁמַע) were introduced in our Wednesday group. This week, I personally started reading Pope Leo XIV's first encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas. His words offer a different historical and scriptural lens for evaluating headlines. This is particularly valuable in a period when people are tempted to forget that there is more to life than politics and tribes.

Pope Leo's encyclical repeatedly asks humanity to consider what kind of future we are building and whether our technological, economic, and political choices serve human dignity and the common good. The Pope argues that technology must remain at the service of the human person rather than reducing people to data, efficiency, or instruments of power.

In Romans, Paul reminds us that Christ died for us while we were still sinners. Obviously, God's love is not conditional. It is ḥesed, a steadfast and covenant-based love that refuses to abandon humanity.

In Matthew, Jesus looks upon the crowds and sees people who are weary and vulnerable. His first response is compassion. That may be one of the most important spiritual disciplines for our time: learning to see people as Jesus sees them.

Jesus sees human beings, and the Pope's encyclical emphasizes this. As technology grows more powerful, we must not lose sight of the dignity of actual persons. Human beings are not problems to be optimized or obstacles to be managed. They are persons created in the image of God.

How is Shema achieved in what has become an Age of Noise? The Shema begins: "Hear, O Israel..." Today, whose voice, besides Walt Whitman or Allen Ginsberg, would begin by proclaining "Hear, O America..."?

We are surrounded by news, social media feeds, advertising, targeted algorithms, and endless commentary. Yet shema is not achieved by merely hearing sounds. It is listening deeply enough to some content of worth that changes our core lives.

The question for the Church moves best from: "What are we saying?" to "What does God want?" Jesus tells the disciples to notice the harvest and pray for workers. Before they are sent, they must learn to see and hear.

Perhaps one of God's invitations today is for communities to recover practices of listening. Both Romans and Matthew push against fear. Paul writes that suffering can produce character when God's love has been poured into our hearts.

Jesus sees a troubled world but does not despair. Instead, he sends disciples into it. Likewise, Pope Leo's encyclical is not fundamentally anti-technology. Rather, it is a call for responsibility together with moral courage in shaping the future. The question is not whether change will come, but whether change will serve human flourishing and the common good.

If these readings and teachings are heard together, several invitations emerge that I see this congregation involved in. We have practiced tangible acts of mercy and cared for the elderly and marginalized. I've seen members who have built relationships that resist isolation and instead form people who can discern truth amid confusion.  

As Christians I've witnessed those who receive God's love before trying to fix the world and become workers in Christ's harvest. They practice shema by listening for and following God's voice.

Can we pray for God to continue to challenge us to teach and model ḥesed? To help us learn shema, that we may hear God's call amid the noise of our age. To give us eyes to see the crowds as Jesus saw them: not as strangers or adversaries, but as beloved people in need of hope. 

May God continue to form all of us into a beloved community.

June 7, 2026 Romans 4: Matthew 9: Learning the Hebrew word ḥesed (חֶסֶד)

The great theme that links Romans 4, Matthew 9, and the Hebrew word ḥesed (חֶסֶד) is this:

God remains faithful when circumstances suggest otherwise.

In Romans 4, Paul points to Abraham, who "hoped against hope." Abraham looked at his aging body and Sarah's barrenness and saw every reason to conclude that God's promise was impossible. Yet he trusted not in the evidence before him but in the character of the One who made the promise.

In Matthew 9, we encounter the same pattern. Matthew the tax collector receives a call he does not deserve. A woman suffering for twelve years reaches for healing when all conventional hope has failed. A grieving father comes to Jesus after his daughter has died. In every case, Jesus acts where others see impossibility, impurity, failure, or finality.

I learned the thread connecting these stories is ḥesed, one of the richest words in Scripture.

There is no single English equivalent. It means steadfast love, covenant faithfulness, lovingkindness, mercy, loyalty, and enduring commitment all at once. It is God's refusal to abandon the relationship God has established. It is love that keeps showing up through action.

When Jesus tells the Pharisees, "Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice,'" he is echoing the prophet Hosea's use of ḥesed. God is not primarily looking for religious performance. God seeks hearts shaped by covenant love. It is like the Hebrew word for hear, shema (שְׁמַע), which incorporates what is being heard by the listener into what the listener does. There, again, is no English-language equivalent.

That word has particular relevance as Americans watch the ongoing tensions involving Iran. News reports this week describe a fragile and uncertain situation marked by military exchanges, cease-fire negotiations, diplomatic efforts, and fears of wider escalation throughout the region. At the same time, there are signs that diplomatic channels remain active and that leaders continue searching for a path away from prolonged conflict.

In moments like this, the public conversation often swings between fear and certainty. Some voices predict disaster; others promise easy solutions. Scripture offers neither. Instead, Abraham teaches faith. Matthew teaches mercy. Ḥesed teaches faithfulness.

Faith does not require pretending dangers are unreal. Abraham acknowledged reality. The woman with the hemorrhage knew her suffering. The ruler knew his daughter had died. Yet none of them believed that present circumstances had the final word.

Likewise, Christians are called neither to panic nor complacency. We are called to hope responsibly, pray earnestly, and remember that every Iranian civilian, every American service member, every Israeli family, and every innocent person caught in the shadow of conflict bears the image of God.

Romans 4 reminds us that God's future is often born in situations that appear hopeless. Matthew 9 reminds us that mercy is stronger than exclusion. Ḥesed reminds us that God's covenant love does not fail when human wisdom reaches its limits. Perhaps the question before the church today is not simply, "What will happen with Iran?" but "What kind of people will we become while facing uncertainty?"

Will we become people of fear, suspicion, and vengeance, or will we become people formed by ḥesed, people who pray for peace, seek truth rather than propaganda, refuse to dehumanize enemies, care for those who suffer, and trust that God is still at work even when the future is unclear?

Abraham's story says that hope can survive impossible circumstances. Matthew's Gospel says that mercy can cross every boundary. Ḥesed says that God's faithfulness endures even through war, anxiety, political division, and international crises.

And that may be the deepest promise of all: not that history will unfold exactly as we wish, but that the God who called Abraham, healed the woman, raised the girl, and welcomed Matthew still accompanies humanity through every uncertain chapter. In a season of geopolitical tension, the church's vocation is to bear witness to that steadfast love and to embody it.

 

May 31, 2026 Trinity Sunday

Pastor Emillie included a Children's sermon on this Holy Trinity Sunday. 

One of the enduring challenges of Christian formation is recognizing that people learn in different ways and at different stages of life. A child encountering the doctrine of the Trinity for the first time may need a concrete image, while an adult may be ready to wrestle with mystery and paradox.

For generations, Christian teachers have used the familiar illustration of water existing as ice, liquid, and steam to help young people begin thinking about the Trinity. The image has obvious strengths. It starts with something tangible and familiar. Children can hold ice, pour water, and watch steam rise from a kettle. The analogy communicates that there is a unity beneath apparent differences and helps young Christians take their first steps into a doctrine that can otherwise seem impossibly abstract.

Obviously, many see that the analogy is imperfect. Water changes from one state to another, while Christians confess that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are simultaneously and eternally distinct persons. Yet in the context of faith formation, the goal is often not to provide a flawless explanation but to create a doorway into wonder. A child who learns that God is somehow both one and three is already beginning to stretch beyond ordinary categories of thought.

As believers mature, however, they often discover that the Trinity cannot be reduced to any single illustration. Adults may benefit from more nuanced approaches that emphasize the relationship rather than the substance. They may explore how the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit exist in eternal communion and mutual love. They may encounter the writings of figures such as Augustine of Hippo, who searched for traces of the Trinity within the human mind, or Gregory of Nazianzus, who spoke of the Trinity with profound reverence for divine mystery.

Some are drawn to philosophical arguments about unity and diversity. Others find meaning in the relational language of the New Testament, where the Father sends the Son and the Spirit empowers the church. Still others encounter the Trinity through worship, discovering that theology is not merely an intellectual puzzle but an invitation into the life of God.

Good Christian formation recognizes the value of both approaches. The water analogy may not be the final word, but it can be an important first word. The mistake is not in using simple illustrations; the mistake is treating them as complete explanations. Just as children eventually move from picture books to literature, Christians often move from concrete analogies to deeper theological reflection.

The goal is not simply to master a doctrine but to grow in faith. Whether through ice, water, and steam, through careful theological reasoning, or through the experience of prayer and worship, believers are being led toward the same reality: the mystery of the Triune God who is beyond complete comprehension yet continually invites us into relationship. In that sense, the child's simple illustration and the theologian's subtle argument are not competitors. They are different steps along the same journey of faith.

May 31, 2026 Philippians 2:1-13 "Be Of The Same Mind"

Our scripture reading once again is timed appropriately, coinciding with what our congregation's vote this Sunday on a mission statement. In Philippians 2:1–13, Paul calls the church to “be of the same mind,”

 

On their face, those words may sound like a demand for conformity or the erasure of individuality. For those of us who have carved out identities that didn’t always fit cultural norms of past generations, our first reaction is to disagree with what Paul's words imply, 

Yes, they may seem to suggest an unsettling nod to conformity at first glance. Yet the deeper we enter the passage, the clearer it becomes that Paul is not asking people to become identical. He is asking them to become loving.

I loved my parents, and my wife, Mary, loves her family. Yet our generation lived different lives from theirs, following our own norms and values. We mapped a different script for honoring marriage, family, and showing our love. We sought our own freedom and authenticity. We honored our Lutheran heritage and pursued God both passionately and differently from our parents. I imagine the same will be true for our son. 

There is something holy in that passion that all of us have fully tried to explore. Human beings are not mass-produced souls. God delights in particularity. I always believed the body of Christ was never meant to be monochrome.

Paul points toward something even more radical than self-expression. He points toward self-emptying love with the astonishing center of this passage, which is the Christ: $\text{Though he was in the form of God, he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.}$

Jesus does not cling to status. Christ moves downward into vulnerability, humility, suffering, and service. In a world obsessed with protecting the self, Jesus chooses surrender. Jesus makes this a truly counterintuitive act.

And maybe that is what Paul means by “the one mind.” Not identical personalities.
Not uniform opinions. Not flattened individuality, but a shared willingness to love beyond instinct.

"The mind of Christ” often appears in the smallest, quietest rebellions against the norms of our culture. The world teaches anger; Christ invites empathy. The world trains us to criticize; Christ teaches us to understand. The world nurtures resentment; Christ opens the possibility of gratitude even amid suffering.

Paul’s words become especially powerful when we realize that Christ’s humility was not weakness. It was courage. Jesus did not empty himself because he lacked worth. He emptied himself because love mattered more than protecting status. The cross was not in conformity to the world; it was a defiance of the world’s entire value system.

Defying norms may be more than a valued personality trait. Rather, it may be better labeled a calling. This is defiance of tradition on behalf of compassion. It is choosing connection over contempt and mercy over superiority. 

And perhaps that is where Philippians 2 meets us most personally. This means that following Christ may indeed require becoming “a fool for Christ.”

A fool who forgives when revenge would feel better. A fool who listens instead of winning arguments.A fool who risks tenderness in cynical times.  A fool who keeps creating beauty in a world addicted to despair. A fool who keeps loving when love seems inefficient, impractical, or naïve.

Most of us aren't called to dramatic acts of heroism today. We may, however, be called to small, counterintuitive acts: to soften instead of harden, to understand instead of dismiss, to encourage instead of compete, to notice the lonely person, to apologize first, to remain gentle in a harsh moment. Two weeks ago, Pastor Emillie encouraged us to notice and lean into these smaller moments, and she prayed that faithfully in her sermon that Sunday.

These small acts may seem foolish in a culture built on self-protection. Paul insists they are actually the shape of divine life itself.

The final words of the passage hold both challenge and promise: “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you.” The burden does not rest entirely on us. God is already at work within us, loosening our grip on ego, certainty, resentment, and fear. God is quietly forming in us the mind of Christ.

And so perhaps the goal is not becoming less ourselves, but becoming more fully ourselves through love without losing individuality, but rather surrendering the need to place ourselves at the center.

Maybe that is just holy foolishness. Daring to believe that tenderness is stronger than power and that love stronger than fear. And maybe following that foolishness is a true paths to heaven.