Courageous Compassion

Esther 4:12-17, Acts:23-31

Can you think of a time in your life when you were called to be courageous? Maybe it was taking a leap of faith: starting a new job, moving to a new city, beginning again after loss or heartbreak. Maybe it was standing up for something you believed in, standing up for someone else, or having a difficult conversation you knew you could no longer avoid.

For me, times like that rarely feel brave in the moment. Usually, they come with anxiety. I can feel the tension and stress in my body. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. My mind races through every possible outcome and every possible thing that could go wrong. Have you ever felt that way? Because courage seems much easier looking backward than looking forward.

We love stories about courage. We celebrate courageous people. But courage rarely feels heroic while you are living it. Usually, it feels frightening. Usually, it feels risky. Usually, it involves the possibility of losing something. That is exactly where Esther finds herself in our first scripture lesson this morning.

Esther is queen, but she is also hiding her Jewish identity. Haman has threatened genocide against her people, and Mordecai asks Esther to intervene. But approaching the king unsummoned could mean her death. Esther has much to lose: her status, her security, her privilege, perhaps even her very life. Mordecai tells her, “Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this.” And suddenly the question before Esther becomes painfully clear: Will she remain silent in order to protect herself? Or will she risk herself for the sake of others?

That is the nature of courage. Courage always costs something. We often imagine courage as fearlessness, but scripture tells a different story. Esther is not fearless. She is terrified. The apostles in Acts are not fearless either. They have already been arrested, threatened, warned not to speak again in the name of Jesus. They know what happened to Jesus. They know what could happen to them.

And yet, when they gather to pray, they do not ask God to remove the danger. They do not pray for safety. They do not pray for comfort. They pray for boldness. That strikes me every time I read this passage, because if I am honest, most of my prayers sound different than that. I usually pray for the difficult thing to go away. I pray for certainty. I pray for clarity. I pray for things to become easier.

But the apostles pray, “Lord, grant your servants to speak your word with all boldness.” Not because they are unafraid, but because they have decided that faithfulness matters more than fear. That is what connects these two stories. Both Esther and the apostles discover that there are moments when silence itself becomes a choice. Esther could remain safe in the palace. The apostles could remain quiet behind locked doors. Both had understandable reasons to stay silent. Both had much to lose.

But there comes a moment in every generation when God’s people must decide whether preserving comfort is more important than protecting vulnerable people. That is not just an ancient question. It is the question of the church in every age.

There have been moments throughout history when Christians had to decide whether to remain silent or speak, whether to stay comfortable or take risks for the sake of others, whether to protect institutions or protect people. And faithful Christians have not always gotten it right. There were churches that defended slavery, churches that remained silent during segregation, and churches that looked away while vulnerable people suffered because speaking up felt too costly, too divisive, too dangerous.

But there have also been Christians who chose courage. There were pastors and congregations who marched during the Civil Rights Movement knowing they could be threatened, arrested, or attacked. There were churches that opened their doors to refugees and immigrants because they believed the gospel demanded hospitality even when it was unpopular.

In our own denomination, there were pastors, elders, and congregations who spent years praying, studying scripture, discerning together, and ultimately affirming the full participation of LGBTQ+ people in the life and leadership of the church. That was not without cost. Congregations split. Membership was lost. Relationships were strained. But many came to believe that the Spirit was calling the church to widen the table rather than guard it.

And today there are pastors and congregations accompanying immigrants facing detention and deportation, not because it is politically advantageous, but because they see frightened families and vulnerable neighbors made in the image of God. There are Christians speaking out against cycles of violence and war because they believe peacemaking is not weakness, but part of the gospel itself.

Now I want to say something important here. These actions are not simply political positions. At least they should not be. Because biblical courage is not reckless outrage. It is not self-righteousness. It is not performative anger. In scripture, courage emerges from prayer, from discernment, from community, from wrestling honestly before God.

Before Esther acts, she calls the people to fast and pray. Before the apostles speak boldly, they gather together in prayer. The goal is not winning arguments. The goal is faithfulness. And faithful people may still disagree sometimes about what courage requires in a particular moment. But Esther reminds us that there are moments when silence itself becomes a moral decision.

Mordecai’s words still echo: “Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this.” I do not think that verse means God carefully orchestrates every crisis or tragedy. But I do think it asks a deeper question: What if the position we occupy, the voice we have, the influence we carry, the resources we possess, are not merely for our own benefit? What if they are gifts entrusted to us for the sake of others?

What if courage is not about feeling strong? What if courage is simply deciding that someone else’s dignity matters more than our comfort? And that kind of courage does not always look dramatic. Sometimes courage looks like speaking up when someone is being dehumanized. Sometimes it looks like protecting someone everyone else ignores. Sometimes it looks like having an honest conversation. Sometimes it looks like refusing to participate in cruelty. Sometimes it looks like standing beside someone who is afraid. Sometimes it looks like staying at the table when division would be easier.

And sometimes courage simply means telling the truth: the truth that every person bears the image of God, the truth that fear and hatred do not have the final word, and the truth that Christ calls us not merely to preserve ourselves, but to love our neighbors boldly.

The beautiful thing in both Esther and Acts is that nobody faces these moments alone. Esther says, “Fast with me.” The apostles gather together in prayer. Courage is communal. That matters because there are moments when our courage fails, moments when fear overwhelms us, moments when the risk feels too great. And in those moments, the community carries us. The Spirit strengthens us. God meets us in our fear.

I love that detail at the end of our passage from Acts: “When they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken.” Not because the danger disappeared. The threats were still real. But because the Spirit gave them courage to keep going anyway.

Friends, that Spirit is still at work in our midst, shaking us awake, calling us beyond silence, beyond fear, beyond self-protection. The question is not whether courage will cost us something. It always does. The question is whether the gospel is worth the risk. Whether welcoming the excluded is worth the risk. Whether protecting vulnerable neighbors is worth the risk. Whether peacemaking is worth the risk. Whether telling the truth is worth the risk.

Esther answered that question. The apostles answered that question. And now the question comes to us. Perhaps we too have been called for such a time as this.

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The Faith That Formed Us

2 Kings 22:14-20, 2 Timothy 1:3-7

Over the past several weeks, we have been doing some work in the church library. After the roof leak, which thankfully has now been repaired, we realized some renovations and cleanup were needed. So Martin and Randy have spent many long hours sorting through shelves, boxing up books, and preparing the room for the work ahead. Now, I should tell you, they did not discover any lost books of the Bible hidden in the back corner of the library. But the whole thing did make me think about our story from 2 Kings this morning.
King Josiah has ordered repairs to the temple in Jerusalem. Workers are clearing debris, repairing walls, restoring what had been neglected for generations. And somewhere in the middle of all that work, they find something unexpected. A scroll. The Book of the Law. Torah. The sacred story and covenant that once shaped the people of God.

But here is the tragedy of the story: the scroll had been lost for so long that the people no longer seemed to recognize it. The words that once shaped the nation had faded from memory. The covenant had been neglected. Worship had drifted. The people had forgotten who they were and whose they were.

So the king’s officials go searching for someone who remembers. And surprisingly, they do not go to Jeremiah, who was preaching in the markets of Jerusalem. They do not go to Zephaniah, who was warning of coming judgment. Instead, they go to the prophet Huldah.

And you might be asking the same questions that rabbis have pondered for millennia. Why Huldah?

Rabbinic tradition says Huldah taught near the gates of the city, welcoming the weary and teaching women who gathered there. Huldah was not simply someone who knew the law. She embodied it. She lived it. While the nation’s leaders had forgotten the covenant, Huldah had continued shaping her life around it.

The nation lost the scroll. But the faith survived in the life of a prophet. Before the words of scripture were rediscovered in the temple, they were already alive in Huldah.

And I think that is important for us to hear. Because faith is not merely something we learn from a book, even when that book is scripture. Faith is something shared, modeled, and practiced. It is lived out in relationship and community. The faith that forms us is embodied before it is fully understood.

That is what Paul is talking about in our second reading from 2 Timothy. Paul writes to the young pastor Timothy and says, “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”

Lois and Eunice were not famous prophets or rulers. They were women who faithfully formed the faith of a young man who would become a leader in the early church. Timothy inherited faith not simply from a text, but from people who lived it in front of him.
And honestly, I think many of us know exactly what Paul means.

I remember seeing faith lived out. I saw my mother serve faithfully as a deacon and elder. I saw her help start a preschool at the church because she believed faith formation mattered. Later in life, I saw her go to seminary, become ordained as a Teaching Elder, and serve a small congregation in Cottonwood Falls for nearly twenty years.

And this faith did not begin with her. Her faith was shaped by my grandmother, whose faith carried her through profound grief after losing her husband far too soon, and later through her own battle with cancer. Through all of it, she would repeat the words of Paul’s letter to the Romans like a prayer, almost a mantra: “We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”

Not as denial. Not as easy optimism. But as a deep trust that somehow, even in sorrow and uncertainty, God would not abandon her.
Because, as Billy Graham preached, “our God is the God of love.”

And that faith shaped my mother. And through her, that faith shaped me.

She gently nudged me toward my own call. Opportunities to preach. Invitations to serve a little congregation in Americus, Kansas.

Encouragement to take the big and honestly terrifying step of going to seminary myself.

Now, I say all of that not simply to talk about my family this morning. I say it because this is how faith is formed.

Someone lives it in front of us. Someone teaches us how to pray. Someone makes space for our questions. Someone shows us what courage and compassion look like. Someone keeps the faith alive for the next generation.
And this congregation is filled with people who have done exactly that.

This church has been shaped by disciples who quietly and faithfully formed the faith of others for decades. Sunday school teachers. Choir members. Preschool teachers. Nursery volunteers. Elders and deacons. Parents and grandparents. People who showed up week after week to teach, to serve, to pray, to sing, to encourage, and to love.

Long before many of us could articulate faith for ourselves, someone here was already embodying it for us. That is holy work.
And much of that work often happens quietly. Around dinner tables. In classrooms. In fellowship halls. In hospital rooms. In ordinary acts of compassion and service that rarely receive recognition.

This is how faith is formed and passed on. This is how faith survives and thrives. This is how the church endures. Not simply because words are written down, but because someone continues to live them, teach them, remember them, and pass them on.
Huldah reminds us that when a community forgets who it is, God raises up people who remember. And Paul reminds us that faith lives on when it is shared from one life to another.

The faith that formed us did not begin with us. And it is not meant to end with us.

Which means this sermon is not only about gratitude. It is also about responsibility.

Because now we are the ones shaping faith for others. Now we are the ones teaching children how to pray. Now we are the ones deciding whether faith will merely sit on a shelf or come alive in the way we live, serve, speak, forgive, and love. Now we are the ones called to embody the gospel for the next generation.

I want to take a moment now to invite you to think about someone who formed your faith. Someone who lived the gospel in front of you. Someone who welcomed your questions. Someone who taught you how to pray. Someone who showed you what faithful love looked like.

Perhaps they are still with you today. Perhaps they now belong to that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us still.
Offer a silent prayer of gratitude for them.

And if you are able, take the opportunity to thank them. Tell them what their witness has meant to you. Because the faith that formed us is a gift, and gifts like that should never go unspoken.

Thanks be to God for the faith that formed us.

Amen.

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Prophetic Peace

1 Samuel 25:30-35, Matthew 5:1-9

This morning, we continue our sermon series, Still Speaking, lifting up the unexpected prophetic voices of the Hebrew Scriptures. We began with Miriam, whose song proclaimed God’s liberating power, bringing freedom to a people in bondage. We learned from Deborah, whose leadership emerged from the in-between, gathering people to act with courage and conviction. Last week, we heard Hannah’s song, a song of hope, reminding us that God lifts up the least, the last, and the lost. And today, we come to Abigail, a prophetic peacemaker.

Abigail’s story begins on the edge of violence. David is not yet king, more like a bandit, living in the wilderness, leading his men, trying to survive. After claiming to protect the flocks of a wealthy landowner named Nabal, David asks for provisions in return. But Nabal refuses and insults him, and David snaps. With four hundred men at his back, he sets out for revenge. What began as an insult is about to become a massacre.

And into that moment, Abigail steps in. With courage, wisdom, and urgency, she acts to prevent bloodshed. She brings food. She speaks truth. She interrupts violence. Abigail is a prophetic peacemaker. She discerns, she acts, she risks. She sees clearly what others do not, that David is on the brink of becoming the very kind of leader he is called not to be. And so she tells the truth. She warns him of the consequence of bloodguilt, the shedding of innocent blood. She calls him back to who he is. She reminds him of the future God has for him.

And David listens. In that moment, Abigail becomes more than a voice of reason. She becomes a prophet of peace, helping David choose a path that preserves not only lives, but his future. Abigail tells the truth. She interrupts the violence. She calls David into God’s future. That is prophetic peacemaking. Not avoiding conflict but stepping into it. Not keeping things quiet but telling the truth. Not settling for what is but reaching for what God is still doing.

Because peace, in the language of Scripture, is more than the absence of conflict. It is shalom. It is wholeness. It is reconciliation. It is restoration. It is life as God intends it to be.

And this remains true today. Here in Wichita, we have witnessed the cost of violence in our community. Lives lost, too many of them young. Families carrying fear. But here in Wichita there are also many doing the work of prophetic peacemaking through efforts like Cure Violence ICT, a partnership between the City of Wichita and Wichita State University. These are people who step into conflict before it turns deadly, who build relationships, who notice tensions others miss, who interrupt cycles before they spiral. They understand something important. Violence does not just happen in places. It moves through relationships, through networks, through influence.

And so they step into those same networks, into those conflicts, to change the story and make another future possible, just like Abigail. That is the work of shalom.

And this is where that insight from Miroslav Volf that Kelly shared becomes so important. Evil needs two victories, not one. The first when harm is done. The second when harm is returned. That is exactly the moment David is in. The insult has already happened. The harm is real. But Abigail refuses to give evil its second victory. She steps in and breaks the cycle of violence.

That is what Jesus is talking about when he says, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Not the peacekeepers. Not the ones who look away. But the ones who refuse to let violence be returned with more violence, the ones who interrupt the cycle, the ones working with Cure Violence ICT, prophetic people like Abigail, the ones who make space for shalom.

So, what does this look like for us? It may not be as dramatic as stopping gun violence, but it begins in our own lives. Where is tension building in your relationships? Where have you felt broken or hurt? What conversation are you avoiding? Where is anger taking root? What would it look like this week to step in, not to win, but to tell the truth with grace?

And it does not stop there. It continues in the work we do to make people whole. Through our participation in Justice Together, working for housing, stability, dignity, and an end to gun violence. Through the Good Neighbor Team and Family Promise, working to restore what is broken. Through partnerships that seek to interrupt harm and build something better. This is prophetic peacemaking.

So, the question for us today is, where is God calling you to step in instead of staying silent? Where is God calling us to stand up against violence and brokenness in our relationships, in our community, in our world?

Because peacemaking is not abstract. It is a decision to tell the truth, to step in, to trust that God can do something new, to refuse to let violence have the final word, to make space for shalom.

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

And when we live this way, not perfectly but faithfully, we bear the family resemblance as children of God.

May it be so in your lives, in the life of your family, in the life of this congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church. Amen.

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Hannah’s Hope

1 Samuel 2:2-8, Luke 2:36-38

Has there been a time in your life when hope has been hard to find? A season when grief felt heavier than you could carry? A season of uncertainty, when the future felt fragile? A season of scarcity, when there never seemed to be enough? A season of deep hurt? A season when helplessness pulled you into the mire of despair?

Maybe it came after the loss of someone you loved. Maybe it came after a diagnosis. Maybe it came after a fractured relationship.

Maybe it came from watching the news and wondering what kind of world we have become.

War continues in the Middle East. Families are displaced. Children suffer unimaginable violence. Here at home, homelessness continues to rise. Violence continues to wound our neighborhoods. Systems meant to care for the vulnerable are being weakened.

Many people are working harder and falling further behind.

And beneath all of this is a quiet question many people are carrying: What can I do?

And sometimes that question becomes even more honest: God, where are you? Why does justice seem delayed? Why does healing take so long? Why does hope feel so hard to find?

Sometimes all we can do in those moments is cry out. Sometimes all we can do is lament. And that is exactly where Hannah’s story begins.

Our scripture today begins with Hannah’s song in chapter 2 of 1 Samuel. But before there was a song, there were tears. Hannah lived in a world that measured women by their ability to bear children. She was unable to conceive, and another woman in her household mocked her relentlessly. Year after year she carried grief, shame, and heartbreak until she finally reached a breaking point.

She goes to the temple and prays with such anguish that Eli mistakes her silent prayers for drunkenness. But Hannah responds, “I am a woman deeply troubled… I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord.”
That is where hope begins.

Not in denial. Not in pretending everything is fine. Not in shallow positivity. Hope begins with telling the truth.
Biblical scholar and theologian Walter Brueggemann says one of the central tasks of prophets is to break denial through grief. Prophets help communities tell the truth about what is broken. Hannah does exactly that. Her lament is prophetic because she refuses silence.

But Hannah does not stay in lament. Her prayer becomes a song. And her song becomes a vision.
“The bows of the mighty are broken.”
“The hungry are filled.”
“The poor are lifted from the dust.”
“The needy are raised from the ash heap.”

This is not simply gratitude for a child. This is prophetic imagination. It is Hannah declaring that the world as it is will not be the world as God intends it to be.

That is what prophets do.

Brueggemann suggests that prophets have three tasks. They expose false systems. They break denial through grief. And they speak hope in the face of despair.

Hannah does all three.

This week Pastor Anier, from our Presbyterian partners in Placetas, Cuba, shared a poem from his Easter message. As many of you know, our siblings in Cuba are facing increasing scarcity, power outages, and deep uncertainty.

Pastor Anier wrote:
The city that gazes at the sky, gazes at the sea, at the infinite, asking itself deep down… what will our destiny be? Hiding its answer in the breath of a sigh and waiting for time to pass… like bored fish.

Politics, incapable of resolving any conflict. Government taxes that enrich the very same few. Officials who squander the fruits of hard labor. Workers rising at dawn, pouring their souls out for their children.

Everything will change. Someday it will change. Everything will change. I have faith that it will change.

The poisoned lies that fanaticism preaches. The “you can’t,” the “speak softly or you’ll get me in trouble.” The pressure to market a paradise to the outside world. The reasons given for stripping away my rights and principles. Those who ignore your problems just to uphold the status quo. Who point fingers at you simply for thinking differently. Causing families to miss out on life’s most beautiful moments. A solitude that isn’t just a name, but a truly broken feeling.

Todo cambiará. Algún día cambiará. Todo cambiará. Tengo fe en que cambiará.

The city that gazes at the sky, gazes at the sea, at the infinite, asking itself deep down… what will our destiny be?
It is the anguish of silence, of wondering if we are truly alive. Sacrifices left unanswered at the end of this road.

Everything will change. Someday it will change. Everything will change. I have faith that it will change.
Pastor Anier’s poem exemplifies prophetic hope. It exposes false systems. “Officials who squander the fruits of hard labor.” “The poisoned lies that fanaticism preaches.”

It breaks denial through grief and lament. “It is the anguish of silence, of wondering if we are truly alive.”
And it repeatedly speaks hope in the face of despair.

Todo cambiará. Algún día cambiará. Todo cambiará. Tengo fe en que cambiará.
Everything will change. Someday it will change. Everything will change. I have faith that it will change.

This is what prophetic hope sounds like.

Prophetic hope is not optimism. Optimism says things will probably work out. Prophetic hope says even when things are not working out, God is not finished.

Optimism depends on circumstances. Hope depends on resurrection.

One of my favorite theologians, Jürgen Moltmann, wrote in Theology of Hope, “Those who hope in Christ can no longer put up with reality as it is, but begin to suffer under it, to contradict it.”

And he writes, “Faith sees in the resurrection of Christ… the future of the very earth on which his cross stands.”
That is Christian hope.

Christian hope does not ignore suffering. Christian hope confronts suffering because resurrection has already broken into the world. Christian hope refuses to let what is determine what will be.

That is what Anna the prophet reminds us of in our second scripture reading.

Anna had waited decades. We often imagine her waiting peacefully. But I suspect there were seasons when hope felt thin. Seasons of grief. Seasons of silence. Seasons of wondering whether God had forgotten God’s people.
And then she sees Jesus.

And in that child, she sees God’s promised future. Her hope is renewed.

And that same Christ has been raised from the dead. As Easter people, we believe and witness to that same risen Christ at work in our lives and in our world, still lifting up the least, still welcoming the lost, still raising up the last, still bringing life where others only see death.

And we are called to join that work in what Eleanor Roosevelt described as “small places, close to home, so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world.”

Every time we feed hungry neighbors with donations to this month’s Yellow Bag ministry, we live into prophetic hope. Every time we support refugees through the IRC, we live into prophetic hope. Every time we care for children through Jacob’s Learning Ladder, we live into prophetic hope. Every time we show up for someone in grief, we live into prophetic hope. Every time we choose generosity over fear, we live into prophetic hope.

When we gather with people of faith from across Wichita through Justice Together and dare to believe that homelessness can be reduced, that affordable housing can be increased, and that gun violence can be prevented, we live into prophetic hope.
That is what Christian prophetic hope looks like. It rejects cynicism. It is the antidote to despair. It is believing Christ’s resurrection still has something to say about this world.

So when hope feels hard to find, cry out to God. Tell the truth about what is broken. Sing anyway. Act anyway. Hope anyway.

Hannah sang it. Anna saw it. Eleanor pointed to it. Pastor Anier believes it. And the risen Christ is still making it true.

Thanks be to God.

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Leading from the In-Between

Judges 4:2-10, Luke 24:13-27

In 2003, in the midst of a brutal civil war in Liberia, a group of women began gathering in a public market to pray for peace. They came from different backgrounds, Christian women and Muslim women, market women, mothers, and students, women from communities that had been divided by violence and fear. They dressed in white as a sign of peace. They gathered day after day. They prayed. They protested. They refused to accept the assumption that violence was inevitable.

The leader of this movement was a social worker named Leymah Gbowee. Gbowee was not a general. She was not a politician. She did not hold formal power. But she believed that collective courage could change the future. She helped organize what became known as the Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace, a nonviolent movement that helped bring an end to the Second Liberian Civil War.

Over 250,000 people had been killed. Families had been displaced. Children had been recruited as soldiers. Sexual violence had been used as a weapon of war. For many, peace seemed impossible. But Leymah helped people imagine another way forward.

The women gathered in public places where they could not be ignored. They prayed together. They marched together. They spoke together. Their message was simple. The people want peace now. When peace negotiations stalled, Leymah and other women traveled to Ghana, where talks were taking place. They blocked the doors and refused to allow delegates to leave until progress was made. Soon after, a peace agreement was signed. The war ended.

Leymah later said, “Leadership is standing with your people. People say you have to live to fight another day, but sometimes you have to show you are a true leader.” Leymah’s leadership was not about control. It was about gathering. She gathered people from different traditions, different communities, different experiences of suffering. She helped people recognize their shared stake in the future. She helped them discover that they were not alone. And when people realized they were not alone, courage became possible.
In our first scripture reading today, we encounter another leader who gathered people together in a time of fear and uncertainty. Deborah is introduced as both a judge and a prophet. She is the only judge in the book of Judges specifically identified as a prophet, one who listens for God’s voice and helps the community understand where God is at work in the world. Even her name is suggestive. Deborah means bee, a symbol associated with wisdom, industry, and the sweetness that comes from shared labor. The text tells us she is the wife of Lappidoth, which can also be translated woman of torches, or woman of flames, a woman of light, a woman whose life gives illumination.

And from where does she lead? Not from a palace. Not from a fortress. Not from a temple. She sits under a palm tree. The palm tree itself carries symbolic meaning in scripture, a sign of flourishing, righteousness, and justice. The psalmist writes, “The righteous flourish like the palm tree.” But perhaps even more significant is where this palm tree is located, between Ramah and Bethel. Ramah means height. Bethel means house of God. Deborah leads from a place between transcendence and dwelling, between aspiration and presence, between human community and divine encounter, between tribes, between identities, between certainty and risk.

She does not summon people into elite space. People come to her. They gather in the in-between place. Deborah does more than decide disputes. She gathers a fragmented people. She reminds them that God is still at work among them. She calls them toward courage. The story itself is shaped by conflict and violence, a reminder that the world Deborah inhabits is complicated and difficult. But Deborah’s leadership shows us something essential about prophetic leadership. Prophetic leaders help people see possibility where fear has taken root. They help communities imagine that another future is possible. They gather people across difference and call them toward shared purpose.

The church, at its best, lives in this same space. The church is called to be a place of in-between, a place where people from different backgrounds gather, old and young, rich and poor, certain and searching, progressive and conservative, people who would not otherwise find themselves in the same room. And yet here we are, gathered, not because we agree on everything, but because we believe God is still at work among us. We believe resurrection is not only something that happened long ago. It is something that continues to happen now.

The risen Christ meets people on the road, between Jerusalem and Emmaus, between grief and hope, between confusion and understanding, between what has been and what might yet be. Christ meets people in the in-between places of life, and the church is called to do the same.

Like Deborah, we are called to lead from the in-between. We are called to meet people where they are, in grief, in uncertainty, in struggle, in hope, in longing for belonging. We are called to create spaces where people can gather honestly, spaces where courage becomes possible, spaces where people can discover they are not alone.

Grace lives into this calling in many ways. Each Wednesday evening, young people from across our community gather here for food, fellowship, and devotion. Different schools, different backgrounds, different experiences, gathered into community. This week, more than 380 bus passes were distributed through our bus ticket ministry, helping neighbors reach work, medical care, and daily needs.

People from across our city come through these doors.

Later this month, people from congregations across Wichita will gather for the Justice Together Nehemiah Assembly, a gathering of people of faith seeking practical solutions to challenges facing our community, affordable housing, homelessness, and gun violence. Different congregations, different traditions, different neighborhoods, gathered in common cause.

This is what prophetic leadership looks like. People gathered from different places, different experiences, different perspectives, finding solidarity in shared purpose and working together for the flourishing of the community.

Deborah reminds us that leadership does not always come from the center of power. Sometimes leadership emerges under a tree, on a road, in a public square, in a church fellowship hall, in a conversation that helps people imagine something new. As resurrection people, we are called to lead from the in-between, to gather, to listen, to encourage courage, to trust that God is still forming a people, still building community, still bringing life out of what feels uncertain, still meeting us on the road, and still calling us forward together.

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