October 4, 2026 Exodus 14:5-7, 10-14, 21-29 & Matthew 2:13-15 - One Possible Past Closing + the Future Not Yet Visible

God Makes A Way

There is something remarkably fitting about reading Exodus 14 in a week when the end of more-or-less my daily radiation treatments is coming into sight, and when loved ones, like my wife and son, who are driving patients and who have been collaborating with other loved ones, found themselves completing a jigsaw puzzle they pieced together with one another.

At its heart, the Exodus story is about being caught between what has been and what will come next. The Israelites look behind them and see Pharaoh's army. Ahead of them is the sea. They are caught in a place where no obvious way forward seems possible. Moses tells them, “Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance of the LORD.” Then comes that extraordinary command: 

“Go forward.”

I find that is as interesting as the spectacular parting of the sea. The miracle is not simply that the waters divide. It is that a people who cannot yet see the road are invited to take the next step anyway. 

That seems especially resonant at the end of my series of radiation treatments. For weeks, the family's calendar has been filled with appointments, drives, waiting rooms, machines, treatments, trips home, and the accumulating effects of one treatment following another. 

The routine becomes almost like a landscape of its own. I talked to the doctor today to confirm what will happen next. The hormone treatments will continue, and I have ten more sessions (two sessions to the originally scheduled that were missed). So, I'm more than 2/3rds of the way through. A handful of treatments remain. There is an end to a tiresome fatigue in sight.

But the end isn't quite the same thing as arriving. The Israelites didn't cross the sea and find everything finished. They enter a wilderness. Uncertainty, hunger, fear, wandering, manna, arguments, discoveries, and unexpected gifts will follow. The crossing marks a transition, not the end of the journey.

It makes the jigsaw puzzle feel like more than a charming coincidence. You complete a puzzle one piece at a time. No single piece tells you what the finished picture will be. Some pieces seem useless until you discover where they belong. Some pieces are almost indistinguishable from one another. Sometimes you try a piece and discover that it doesn't fit, so you set it aside and try again.

Eventually, you look down and realize something has emerged that wasn't visible when you began. Perhaps that is one way to think about these weeks of treatment.

There have been pieces that seemed ordinary: a ride to an appointment, someone opening a door, a conversation in a waiting room, a card, a gifted quilt from the community, someone making homemade muffins or providing materials to construct a paper chain where each link represents a treatment, sharing mysteries and musicals with the Radiation Therapists Sarah & Jackie, the doctors overseeing, encountering companions like Sarai and Marcia who are on journeys of their own, a person remembering your name, someone sitting with you quietly, or your family driving you home.

None of those things, by itself, looks like a miracle. Yet together they become a picture.

This is a quieter meaning of Exodus 14 for me today. God's work isn't necessarily confined to the spectacular moment when the sea opens. That work can also be found in the people who stand beside us as we wait for a way through.

There is even something beautiful about the fact that the people driving patients completed the puzzle pieces. Their job might be transportation: getting someone from here to there. But the Exodus story reminds us that getting people across difficult places is never merely transportation. It is companionship.

They aren't simply moving bodies along a route. They help people make a crossing.

That's what has been happening throughout these treatments. People have helped make the crossing possible, not by removing the sea, but by helping get to the edge of it, through it, and eventually toward whatever comes next.

I'm struck by the contrast between Moses' words and the Israelites' fear. Moses says:

“Do not be afraid.”

The people are afraid anyway. That matters. Faith isn't necessarily the absence of fear. The Israelites don't become courageous because someone gives them a convincing explanation. They are frightened people who nevertheless discover that they can move forward.

Perhaps faith sometimes looks less like “I know everything will be fine” and more like: “I don't know exactly what comes next, but I'll take the next step.”

And now, as the weekly treatments approach their anticipated end, another kind of crossing lies ahead.

The familiar rhythm will disappear. There may be relief. There is a vague uncertainty. Fatigue may not disappear just because the appointments stop. A strange emptiness may set in when something that has occupied so much of life suddenly isn't on the calendar anymore.

So perhaps the invitation of Exodus isn't to rush toward the other shore. It is simply:

Go forward. 

One piece. One day. One step. People are there beside you. Small acts of kindness. Ordinary moments in which the picture becomes a little clearer. When you finally look back, you discover that the story wasn't only about getting through treatments. It was also about discovering who was there with you while you crossed.

The puzzle is finished. The sea is opening. The road is appearing. And there is still a road ahead; not because we can see its whole shape, but because seeing the whole path isn't necessary to take the next step.

September 29, 2026 Feast of St. Michael and All Angels

Michaelmas, celebrated on September 29, is one of those Christian observances that feels especially rich at the turning of the seasons. It is the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels, honoring Michael the archangel and, more broadly, the ministry of angels as God's messengers, protectors, and servants. 

The name comes from Michael + Mass: the Mass/feast of Michael. Although Michael is the focus, the feast isn't really about one supernatural figure. It celebrates Michael and all the angels, the whole biblical vision of God's creation being larger than what human beings can see.

Michael appears particularly in Daniel, Jude, and Revelation. In Revelation 12, Michael and his angels battle the dragon. In Daniel, Michael is described as a protector of God's people. The biblical Michael is therefore associated especially with courage, protection, justice, and the defeat of forces that oppose God's purposes.

But the feast has another side that is just as important: angels are messengers.

The Greek word angelos means "messenger." Angels frequently appear in Scripture at moments when the boundary between ordinary human life and God's presence seems especially thin.

Michaelmas therefore invites a question: Where might God's messengers be appearing in our ordinary lives?

Michael's name in Hebrew is מִיכָאֵל (Mikha'el), traditionally translated:

"Who is like God?"

That isn't really a request for an answer. It challenges human arrogance.

Who is like God? Michael's very name becomes a theological statement: God is God, and the powers that terrify us are not.

That makes Michaelmas surprisingly relevant to the biblical story of the Exodus.

Pharaoh looks enormously powerful in Exodus 14. His army is pursuing a vulnerable people who appear trapped between the Egyptian military and the sea.

And Moses says:

"The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to keep still."

Michaelmas carries something of that same spiritual imagination: there are powers at work in God's creation that are larger than the powers immediately visible to us. But Michaelmas is not solely about dramatic supernatural intervention.

One of the most beautiful things about angels in Scripture is that people sometimes don't recognize what they have encountered until afterward.

Hebrews says:

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it."

That gives Michaelmas a wonderfully earthy meaning. We don't necessarily have to decide that these people are literally angels. The biblical metaphor allows something more beautiful: God's care can arrive through ordinary human beings.

And that connects beautifully with the Teresa of Ávila words we heard Pastor Jan quote:

"Christ has no body now on earth but yours."

Michaelmas extends that thought: God's messengers don't always look like angels. Sometimes they look like us. 

September 29 also has a fascinating place in the calendar. Michaelmas falls close to the autumnal equinox, when daylight and darkness are roughly balanced. Historically, it became an important marker in the agricultural and civic year in Europe: a time for harvest, hiring, rents, school terms, and changing seasons.

So Michaelmas carries a sense of threshold. Summer is giving way to autumn. Light is beginning to diminish. The harvest is being gathered. One season is ending and another beginning. And that makes the feast particularly poignant as a spiritual observance.

There is something almost startling about Michaelmas arriving as I approach the anticipated end of my weeks of radiation treatments. It reminds me I have not been traveling alone.

See this Sunday's blog entry. Candidates who have become, in the language of Michaelmas, messengers of God's presence.

And perhaps that is one reason the feast is called Michael and All the Angels rather than simply Michael. The Christian imagination isn't only about the great archangel battling the dragon. It is also about the "all."

All those unseen and seen ways that love keeps arriving. All those people who become bearers of grace.All those moments when, like Jacob waking from his dream, we discover that the ordinary place where we thought we were simply passing through was somehow holy.

A Michaelmas prayer

God of Michael and all the angels,

As one season turns toward another,
remind us that we are never as alone
as we sometimes imagine.

Give us Michael's courage
when fear seems larger than hope.
Give us the angels' attentiveness
to your messages hidden in ordinary things.

Open our eyes to the messengers
you place along our roads—
the friend, the stranger,
the caregiver, the driver,
the person who brings food,
the person who sends a card,
the person who simply stays.

And make us messengers too.
Give us eyes that notice,
hands that help,
feet that carry compassion,
and hearts willing to say yes
when love asks something of us.

As darkness gathers earlier around us,
teach us not to mistake darkness for abandonment.

Who is like God?

The question is enough.

We do not need to see the whole road.
We only need to take the next step,
trusting that we do not take it alone.

Amen.

 

September 27, 2026 Genesis 39:1-23 Matthew 5:11-12 The Outsider Who Survives

There is something haunting about the fact that Joseph gets a name while she remains “Potiphar’s wife.”  Joseph will eventually receive a new identity in Egypt, but she remains attached to someone else's name.

That makes her an intriguing counterpoint to Joseph and perhaps even to Sarai, whose identity eventually changes to Sarah.  She shows how we, as humans, struggle to see each other as beloved children of God.

Genesis repeatedly asks who gets to name us, who gets to tell our story, and whether the identity imposed on us is the identity we finally inhabit. Zuleika is the traditional name given her in later Islamic and Persian literature, but she is also unnamed in the Qur'an.

We can ask about perspective: who is telling her story? Before we reduce someone to the role they were told they played in a particular tale, perhaps we should remember that they were living a story of their own.

Joseph is carried away from his family and becomes a stranger in Egypt. He does not choose his displacement. Yet Genesis repeatedly tells us that “the LORD was with Joseph.” That phrase becomes almost startling when Joseph is falsely accused and imprisoned. Given the importance of names, the capitalization means God's proper name Yahweh is being used in this passage. 

If God's presence is measured by comfort or success, Joseph's circumstances would seem to suggest that God has disappeared. But Genesis tells us precisely the opposite. God is with Joseph in the prison as surely as God was with Joseph in Potiphar's house.

Matthew's Jesus takes this even further: “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.” Jesus does not promise that faithfulness will protect us from rejection or misunderstanding. He seems to know that sometimes the consequence of remaining faithful is becoming an outsider.

Ishmaelites are referenced. The biblical Ishmael is an outsider: Abraham's son, but not Sarah's; part of the family, yet eventually sent away. His story is about survival, wilderness, and displacement. Yet Genesis does not portray God as indifferent. God hears the boy crying in the wilderness. Hagar discovers a God who sees. The outsider is not invisible to God. Once again the question comes: who finally tells his particular story and its details?

That makes Melville's choice of the name Ishmael for the narrator of Moby-Dick especially poignant. Ishmael begins as a wanderer who goes to sea because he feels alienated from ordinary life. He becomes an observer among outsiders, Queequeg, Pip, Tashtego, Daggoo, Fedallah, and others occupy different places at the edges of conventional society. And when the Pequod is destroyed, Ishmael survives.

He becomes the one who remains to tell the story. That gives us another way of hearing the Joseph and Zuleika story. Joseph does not know, while sitting in prison, how this story will end. He cannot see the larger pattern. He only knows the circumstances immediately around him. He has been faithful, yet he has been misunderstood. He has done what is right, yet he has suffered for it.

Ishmael likewise does not know that he will survive the Pequod's destruction. He cannot know, as the ship goes down, that he will someday be the voice telling us what happened.

Perhaps this is one of the great spiritual lessons hidden in these stories: We do not have to know the ending in order to live faithfully in the middle. That is particularly difficult when we feel displaced, misunderstood, or separated from the life we once knew. We naturally want an explanation. We want to know why this happened, where it is going, and when it will end.

But Joseph's story doesn't give Joseph that knowledge in the prison. Jesus doesn't promise his disciples that persecution will make sense immediately.Ishmael doesn't know he is the survivor while he is fighting to stay alive. They simply keep going.

And perhaps that is where the word “blessed' in Matthew becomes more mysterious. Blessed does not necessarily mean comfortable. It doesn't mean everything is going well. It may mean that even when circumstances tell us we are abandoned,  

Joseph's gift is real. His faithfulness is real. But notice that his extraordinary ability to serve those in power is itself part of the story. He doesn't merely survive Egypt; he becomes remarkably effective within its structures of power. So when we read: “The LORD was with Joseph” we shouldn't reduce that to Joseph was morally perfect and therefore God rewarded him.

The biblical story is stranger than that. We are not abandoned. The outsider can still be held. The falsely accused can still possess integrity. The person in the wilderness can still be seen. The survivor can still tell the story.

Ishmael's identity is also liberating. He doesn't begin the novel by explaining himself. He says simply, “Call me Ishmael.” He gives us a name without fully explaining who he is.

Perhaps we can learn something from that, too. There are seasons when we cannot explain ourselves completely. We may be changing. We may be discovering something about ourselves that we didn't understand before. We may be walking through circumstances that have disrupted the story we thought we were living.

We don't have to have the whole explanation. We can simply say: This is where I am. This is who I am becoming. This is the road I am walking. And perhaps God meets us there.

Joseph's prison, Ishmael's wilderness, and Jesus' persecuted disciples all remind us that the margins are not places where God ceases to work. Sometimes they become the very places where we discover God's presence most profoundly. Joseph remains faithful in the prison and Ishmael survives the wreck.

Jesus tells his disciples to “rejoice and be glad.” Not because suffering is good. Not because rejection doesn't hurt. Not because the future is guaranteed to unfold as we wish. Rather, suffering, exclusion, misunderstanding, and even apparent defeat do not necessarily have the final word.

We may not get to choose whether we become outsiders. We may not get to choose the wilderness. We may not get to choose the storm. But we can choose how we inhabit those places.

We can remain open, keep listening for the voice of God, and we can keep walking even when we cannot yet see where the road leads. Sometimes faith is not knowing that we will survive. Sometimes faith is simply continuing to live faithfully enough that, if we do survive, we will still have a story worth telling.

September 20, 2026 Genesis 12:1-9 Sarai: The Hope of Becoming

 “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” 

God does not tell Abram where he is going, which may be one of the most honest things the Bible says about faith. 

Abram is given a command, but not a map. A promise, but not an itinerary. He is asked to leave what he knows and begin moving toward something he cannot yet see. And he goes.

I have been thinking about Abram since last week because of someone I have encountered during my radiation treatments for cancer. Her name is Sarai. Something about that name has stayed with me.

In Genesis, Sarai is the woman who sets out with Abram. She is already on the journey before her name is changed to Sarah. Her story reminds me that sometimes we encounter people not at the end of their story, but in the middle of their becoming.

That seems especially significant to me during my cancer treatment. Radiation has a peculiar way of making life feel measured. One treatment. Then another. Then another. Each day becomes a small movement toward something that cannot yet be seen. There is a schedule, but there is also uncertainty. There is treatment, but there is no immediate visible proof of what the treatment is accomplishing.

You simply keep going. One day. One appointment. One step. One more morning. And perhaps that is part of what Abram teaches us. We don't have to know exactly where the journey will end to take the next faithful step.

Sarai's name has come to represent something to me: transformation that is still unfolding. Becoming. Not arriving. Not having everything resolved.

Becoming. There is tremendous hope in that word. We sometimes imagine hope as certainty about the future: I know everything will turn out exactly as I want. But Biblical hope can be something quieter. Hope can mean: I don't know what comes next, but I will take the next step. Or I cannot see the destination, but I will keep walking.

 Or I cannot control the outcome, but I can remain open to what is becoming. That is Abram's faith. He goes. And when he arrives at Shechem, God says, “To your offspring I will give this land.” Abram responds by building an altar. He has barely begun the journey, and yet he stops to acknowledge God's presence. Altars - there to mark the way for future sojourners. Perhaps we need those altars along our own journeys. Not necessarily monuments of stone. Sometimes an altar is a person whose name we remember.

Or a conversation that unexpectedly gives us courage. A hand held at the right moment. A card tucked away and reread. A friend who calls. A nurse or receptionist who speaks kindly. A stranger encountered in a treatment center whose name suddenly becomes meaningful. These moments tell us that even when we are traveling through uncertainty, we are not traveling through it alone, although sometimes the worship is solitary. We are all potential altars or builders of them,

And then Abram moves again, which is important. He does not build the altar and stay there forever. He worships, and then he goes. The invitation of Genesis 12 for us may be: notice the holy moments, receive the promise, and keep moving. Even through the beauty of that moment,

I don't know what my Sarai's journey looks like beyond the moments in which our paths have crossed each morning. Her name, however, has given me a way of thinking that I am still becoming. We all are.

The diagnosis isn't the final word on who we are, nor is uncertainty or any diminished abilities. There is still a road. There are still people to meet, conversations to have, and things to notice. There is still beauty to encounter and love to give and receive.

There is still becoming. And so perhaps the question God asks is not, “Do you know where this is going? Perhaps the question is the simpler: “Will you go?” Will you take the next step while remaining open? Will you look for the places where grace appears unexpectedly? Will you recognize that even in a season of treatment, waiting, limitation, and change, you are still being formed?

Following Abram's call has implications. Pastor Emillie mentioned its implications for immigration. Blessing and curse are bound up with this call. Blessing being open to life flourishing and cursed as diminishing life's future.

Sarai. A name that calls to mind a person in the midst of becoming. A person encountered on a road I never expected to travel. A reminder that none of us knows the whole story while we are living it.

Abram goes because God calls. Sarai goes with him. And somewhere along the way, a promise begins to take shape. A covenant. Isn't that what hope really is? Not knowing exactly what we are becoming, but trusting that becoming is still possible.

So I keep walking. And building little altars of gratitude along the way. While I cannot see very far ahead, I remember Abram and Sarai, who have the simple courage of taking the next step.

"Go" God says. Not because the road is certain, but because I am with you on the road. For today, that is enough. Perhaps it is more than enough.

Perhaps it is a hope to hold onto.

September 13, 2026 Genesis 6:5-22; 8:6-12; 9:8-17 and Matthew 28:19-20 When the Waters Rise: Noah, Jesus, and Hope in Troubled Times

We are studying Genesis again and, like before, this is another moment when Scripture seems to look directly into our own moment.

Genesis describes a world in which violence and corruption have become so pervasive that God grieves over the creation God has made.

That connection is important. Jesus is not simply telling his disciples to watch for dramatic signs. He is reminding them of what happened in Noah's generation. People went about their ordinary lives, making everyday plans while Noah faithfully prepared for something they could not yet see.

The problem was not simply that people were living ordinary lives. It was that they were living without consequence to that way of living. Genesis tells us that the earth had become filled with violence. Matthew reminds us that people did not recognize what was happening until the flood came.

And perhaps that is one of the most sobering connections for our own time. We live in a country experiencing deep political division, fear, anger and uncertainty. We hear constant arguments about immigration, democracy and the future of our nation. Every day brings another headline capable of making us angry or afraid.

Yet it is possible to become so accustomed to crisis that we stop asking what it is doing to our souls. We can become accustomed to hostility and cruelty. We hear dehumanizing language and see people who disagree with us as enemies rather than neighbors.

The story of Noah asks us to stop and notice what happens when a society becomes saturated with violence. And Jesus asks us to notice something else: Do not be deceived.

Jesus calls us toward. Faithfulness rather than prediction. The days of Noah were not characterized by everyone sitting around waiting for the flood. Life continued. People made plans. People ate and drank. People married. The ordinary rhythms of life continued right up until the moment when the waters came.

Jesus' warning, therefore, is not simply, “Look for signs that the end is near.” It is almost the opposite: Do not become so absorbed in ordinary life, fear, politics, or competing voices that you fail to recognize what faithfulness requires of you now. Noah's calling was not to predict the flood; it was to build the ark.

Our calling is not to predict exactly when or how God will act. It is to build lives and communities that are faithful to God in the middle of uncertainty. And then Genesis gives us a beautiful picture of what happens after judgment.

The waters begin to recede. Noah sends out the dove and the first time, the dove comes back. There is nowhere yet for it to rest. Noah waits. He sends it out again, and this time the dove returns carrying a freshly plucked olive leaf. That tiny leaf becomes a sign that the world is beginning to heal. This is where Genesis gives us something that Matthew's warning might otherwise leave us without: hope.

Jesus speaks about the suddenness of God's intervention, but Genesis reminds us that God's purposes do not end with judgment, and the flood is not the end of the story. The dove is still coming. The earth becomes habitable and life returns.

And then God places the rainbow in the sky. The God who judged the violence of the old creation now makes a covenant with Noah, his descendants, and every living creature. The rainbow is God's declaration that creation will not be abandoned and is why the connection between Genesis and Matthew matters so deeply.

Jesus invokes Noah not simply to frighten us about the future, but to call us to faithful watchfulness. Genesis shows us what faithful watchfulness looks like: Noah listens when others do not and prepares when others continue as usual. Noah waits when he cannot see the outcome and sends out the dove again when the first attempt produces no answer.

And Noah recognizes hope when it arrives in the form of something as small as an olive leaf. That may be exactly what our country needs from people of faith today. Not more people claiming to know precisely what God is about to do. or turning political leaders into messiahs. Not more fear disguised as prophecy, but people who are willing to create communities of mercy, hospitality, courage, and peace.

People who refuse to participate in the violence of the culture around them. People who can disagree without dehumanizing and can defend what they believe without hating those who believe differently. People who remember that no president, political party, movement, or nation is the Messiah.

Jesus tells us that his coming will be like lightning, visible, and impossible to control or contain. Genesis tells us what faithfulness looks like when the waters rise:

Listen. Wait. Watch. Trust. Send out the dove. And when the dove returns with an olive leaf, don't overlook it because it seems too small. A nation healing one relationship at a time may be an olive leaf. A church becoming a place where people with different political convictions can still worship together may be an olive leaf.

These things may not make the headlines, but they matter because the story of Noah teaches us that God's work of renewal often begins quietly.

And then comes the rainbow.

God's promise is still larger than our fear.  God's covenant is still wider than our divisions and God's future is still greater than anything we can see from where we stand today.

Let us keep looking toward the horizon for somewhere beyond the waters, the dove is flying and in its beak may already be the first small sign that God makes and is making all things new.

September 6, 2926 Exodus 20:17; Psalm 119:33-40 & Luke 12:14-21 When Is Enough Enough?

Luke 12:14–21 and Exodus 20:17 meet at a surprisingly deep place: understanding when possessions possess us. 

Exodus says:

“You shall not covet…”

In Luke, Jesus tells the story of a man who has so much that he no longer knows what to do with it. His barns are too small, so he builds bigger ones. And then comes the haunting line: “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you.”

The two texts ask essentially the same question: When is enough enough? Coveting is often misunderstood as simply wanting what belongs to someone else. But the final commandments expose the restless human imagination that says: If only I had a little more…

And the remarkable thing about “more” is that it never tells us when to stop. The rich man in Jesus' parable never says, “I have enough.” Instead, his prosperity creates a new problem: How can I store everything I have? His barns become monuments not to gratitude but to anxiety, which has become a burden.

The man's question moves from farming. It is about the future. What will I do with all this? How can I make certain that I will be secure?  This is where coveting and anxiety touch one another. Sometimes we covet not because we are greedy, but because we are afraid.

We imagine that if we possess enough, save enough, accomplish enough, control enough, or prepare enough, we can finally make ourselves safe. Jesus' parable reveals the illusion. There is no barn big enough to contain our fear of tomorrow.

Luther's explanation of the Ninth and Tenth Commandments is especially helpful here. For Luther, “You shall not covet” is not merely a prohibition against wanting something that belongs to another person. It is a call to resist the schemes of the heart that seek to acquire what is not ours.

And positively, the commandments teach us to act with generosity rather than manipulation, and to be content with what God has entrusted to us.

That gives Jesus' parable another dimension. The rich man's failure is not simply that he has wealth. It is that his wealth has narrowed his imagination to the point that he can see only himself.

There is no neighbor in what he says. There is no community, gratitude or God. There is only I, me, and mine.

Jesus ends with an extraordinary contrast:

“So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

Jesus doesn't condemn having treasure. He questions where our treasure is directed. We can accumulate things, or we can accumulate relationships. We can build bigger barns or wider tables.

We can spend our lives protecting what we have, or we can spend them giving thanks for what we have been given. Being “rich toward God” means recognizing that everything ultimately comes to us as a gift.

And gifts are meant to be received with gratitude and shared with joy.

At the end, the man says:

“Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.”

But he has confused having enough to live with having enough to guarantee life. He cannot possess eternity. That is why the Tenth Commandment is ultimately spiritual. It asks us to examine the appetite beneath our appetites.

What do we believe will finally make us enough? And what if the gospel answer is: Nothing you acquire will make you enough, because, in Christ, you already are enough.

Perhaps the opposite of coveting is not simply contentment but trust. Trust that there will be enough, that we are more than what we own, and that God's abundance is greater than our scarcity. We can trust that the life God desires for us is not a life spent building ever-larger barns, but a life in which what we have becomes a blessing for someone else.

So Exodus whispers: Do not covet. Jesus asks: What are you storing up? And instead of answering this question tallying how we have, we are free to ask “What am I doing with what I have been given?”

August 30, 2026 Exodus 20:12-16; Psalm 15 & Luke 10:25-37 My Neighbor’s Best Life: Commandments as a Calling to Love

There is a deep wisdom tradition that Pastor Emillie centered her last Sunday's sermon around. The Old Testament offers a beautiful way of understanding the Ten Words given by God: they are not meant to be merely rules that restrain us; they are gifts that teach us how to seek out our neighbor’s well-being. They are a vocabulary of love.

Jesus summarized the law in two great commandments: love God and love your neighbor. The commandments in Exodus 20 show us what that love looks like in everyday life.

To honor father and mother is to build communities where generations care for one another, where wisdom is shared, and where no one is forgotten because of age or frailty.

To refrain from murder is not only to avoid violence but to actively protect life, to feed the hungry, comfort the lonely, welcome the stranger, and work for peace.

To avoid adultery is to cherish trust, fidelity, and relationships that help families and communities remain strong. To refrain from stealing is to ensure that others have what they need for a dignified life and to resist systems that deprive people of opportunity, justice, or hope.

To refuse false witness is to defend truth, speak honestly, and stand beside those whose voices are ignored or distorted. To resist coveting is perhaps one of the most difficult callings of all: learning to rejoice in our neighbor’s blessings rather than seeing another person’s life as something we deserve for ourselves.

We encounter this profound question to ponder: “What would it mean for my neighbor to have their best life now?” A question that transforms commandments from restrictions into a vocation. And perhaps it also transforms our evangelism.

Too often, evangelism has been understood primarily as persuading others to accept a set of beliefs. Yet the gospel spreads most powerfully when people experience communities that seek their flourishing. The early church grew when people saw lives marked by generosity, truthfulness, hospitality, and care for the vulnerable.

What if evangelism first asks: Who is not yet experiencing abundant life? Who is lonely, overlooked, burdened, or excluded? Who needs friendship, encouragement, practical help, or a listening ear?

Creator often shows this. When we seek our neighbor’s best life, our understanding of “neighbor” expands. It includes family members and longtime friends, but also newcomers, refugees, people of different backgrounds, those struggling financially, those carrying grief, young people searching for purpose, and older adults who long to remain connected. It includes people who agree with us and people who do not.

The church becomes a witness to Christ not only through what it proclaims, but through the lives it nurtures and the relationships it builds. In a world shaped by competition and comparison, Christians are called to become people who quietly ask, every day:

What does my neighbor need to flourish?

For in seeking the good of our neighbor, we discover the heart of God, a God who desires life, abundance, and hope for all people.

And perhaps this is one of the deepest forms of evangelism: living in such a way that others can glimpse, through us, the love of Christ and begin to imagine that God desires their best life too.