Persistent Resistance

Persistent Resistance

Matthew 17:1-9, Ephesians 6:10-20

Think for a moment about a mountaintop experience in your own life. Maybe it really was on a mountain, standing at the summit after a long climb, the air thinner and the horizon wider than you imagined. Or maybe it was not a mountain at all. Maybe it was a moment of clarity, an event, an accomplishment, a birth, a calling, a reconciliation, a prayer that shifted something in you, a moment when everything came into focus and you knew deeply that God was present.

Scripture has many mountaintop moments. Moses climbs the mountain and receives the law, a revelation that shapes a people. Elijah stands on the mountain and encounters God not in wind or fire but in the sound of sheer silence. Mountaintops are places of unveiling, clarity, and encounter. In our Gospel lesson this morning Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain, and there for just a moment the veil is pulled back. His face shines like the sun. His clothes blaze with light. Moses and Elijah appear beside him, and a voice from above declares, “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.” It is breathtaking, overwhelming, unmistakably holy. Peter says what any of us would say, “It is good for us to be here.” Of course it is. But no one lives on the mountaintop. We all have to come back down.

The mountaintop is not an escape from the world but an anchor for what awaits us in the valley. When the storm begins to blow, and it will, you do not fight the wind. You plant your feet, you remember what you saw, and you stand with persistent resistance. The disciples come down the mountain with the image of Christ’s glory still burning in their memory, but in the valley there is darkness, confusion, suffering, opposition, and the road to Jerusalem darkened by the shadow of empire. The mountain does not remove the storm. It prepares them for it.

That is how Paul concludes his letter to the church in Ephesus, this sweeping letter about grace and unity and new life in Christ. Paul knows the reality they face. They live under Roman rule. They worship in the shadow of the great Temple of Artemis. They are small and vulnerable, pressured from every side. The storm is real. So Paul does not say, “Charge.” He does not say, “Conquer.” He does not say, “Take control.” He says, “Be made strong in the Lord… and stand.” Stand against the forces that would distort the truth. Stand against the darkness that would divide the body. Stand against the fear that would shrink your love. The mountain gives revelation. The armor gives resilience.

At the end of his letter Paul says something that should stop us in our tracks, “Our struggle is not against flesh and blood.” Not against people, neighbors, political opponents, or those who think differently, worship differently, vote differently, or frustrate us deeply. Paul names something larger, rulers, authorities, cosmic powers of this present darkness, spiritual forces of evil. We do not need to imagine demons hiding behind every disagreement, but Paul is clear that evil is real and bigger than any one person. Evil twists good gifts into instruments of harm, turns difference into division, convinces us fear is safer than love, and whispers that power matters more than compassion. Evil is not a person, it is a force. If we get that wrong and turn flesh and blood into the enemy, we have already laid down the armor of God and picked up something else entirely. Once a person becomes the enemy, love becomes optional, and that is never the way of Christ. The struggle is against anything, outside us or inside us, that resists God’s persistent, reconciling love.

So when Paul tells the church to put on the whole armor of God we have to ask what kind of armor this is. Because if our struggle is not against flesh and blood, this is not gear for attacking people. Every piece Paul names has already appeared earlier in the letter. This is not new equipment. This is what being rooted in grace looks like under pressure.

The belt of truth means speaking the truth in love so the body might grow into Christ. Truth is not ammunition but integrity, refusing to let lies about God, ourselves, or one another tear the community apart.

The breastplate of righteousness is not self-righteousness or moral superiority but the new self-created according to the likeness of God, a life shaped not by ego but by grace.

Our shoes are fitted with the readiness to spread the gospel of peace, not boots for marching into battle but sandals ready to move toward reconciliation. The gospel mobilizes us for peace.

The shield of faith is not certainty but trust that God is at work even when the storm is loud, faith that extinguishes despair, shame, and fear.

The helmet of salvation is not something we achieve but something given, guarding the mind when anxiety takes control.

The sword of the Spirit, the word of God, is not for wounding others but for cutting away illusion, exposing falsehood, and freeing captives beginning with us. This armor does not help us conquer the world. It helps us remain faithful within it. The armor of God is not about aggression but transformation. It keeps us from being shaped by fear and allows us to stand rooted in grace.

Persistent resistance is not combative, it is standing firm even when it feels like we are in the midst of the storm, in the violence that fills headlines, the rancor that fills conversations, the division that fractures communities, the steady drip of outrage and fear, and the constant temptation to sort the world into us and them. Those are real storms, but the deeper danger is that the storms outside us seep inside us. Violence hardens the heart. Division grows into contempt. Hatred becomes resentment. Othering becomes self-righteousness. That is where sin does its quiet work. Sin is not just behavior but disconnection from God, from one another, and from the truth of who we are in Christ. The darkness Paul names is not only out there but any force resisting God’s reconciling love. The armor matters because it guards the heart and keeps the storm from rewriting who we are.

Paul encourages us to take up the sword of the Spirit, the word of God, not to slash at opponents but to cut through deception. The Word reminds us every human being bears God’s image, confronts injustice so we hunger for righteousness, exposes hypocrisy especially our own, names violence as sin even when it benefits us, and interrupts our self-justifying narratives. It tells the truth about the world and about us. Sometimes the most radical act of resistance is letting Scripture cut away whatever in us has been shaped more by the storm than by Christ. Scripture reshapes us by revealing Christ because we are not meant to stay on the mountaintop. Through the Word we are transformed for the descent.

The disciples saw Christ’s glory on the mountain and then they came down. They did not stay in the light. They carried it back into confusion, fear, and a world shaped by violence and misunderstanding. The mountain did not remove the storm. It revealed who stood with them in it. That is where we stand. We have seen Christ revealed in Scripture, at the Font and the Table, in the love we share for each other and for the least and the lost, and in grace that found us before we reached for it. We are rooted in grace, and because we are rooted we can stand with persistent resistance.

Persistent resistance stands firm. It refuses to let the storm dictate who we become, refuses to surrender truth to lies, peace to anger, compassion to fear, and hope to cynicism. It stands firm in love when love feels costly, prays when despair feels easier, speaks truth without contempt, and moves toward reconciliation when retreat would be simpler. If the world is going to have extremists, let the church be extremists of love. If the world is going to have people who stand firm, let us stand firm in grace. Our struggle is not against flesh and blood and our strength is not our own. We are being made strong in the Lord, anchored in Christ’s glory and standing firm in the storm. When the wind rises and the storms surge, we remember what we have seen and we stand together, persistent, resistant, rooted in grace.

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

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Seasoned to Shine

Seasoned to Shine

Matthew 5:13-16, Ephesians 4:1-16

In our first scripture lesson, when Jesus calls his followers the salt of the earth, we might hear it as faint praise. Today, when we describe someone as “salt of the earth,” we usually mean they are good, honest, dependable, down to earth people. It is a compliment, but not exactly a flashy one. Salt feels plain, ordinary, easy to overlook. But in the ancient world, salt was anything but ordinary.

Salt was valuable, so valuable that Roman soldiers were sometimes paid with it. In fact, the word salary comes from the Latin word sal, meaning salt. If a soldier was not doing their job well, their pay might be reduced, giving rise to the phrase “not worth their salt.” Salt was also used in religious rituals for purification, blessing, and protection. And unlike most things, salt never goes bad. So when Jesus looks at a gathered crowd of ordinary people and says, “You are the salt of the earth,” he is not calling them bland or forgettable. He is calling them precious, essential, enduring. He is saying that what God has placed in them matters, for the sake of the world.

That same movement, from identity to calling, is echoed in our reading from Ephesians. Paul begins not with instructions about programs or structure, but with a plea: “I beg you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called.” Notice where Paul starts. He does not say, earn your calling. He does not say, prove your worth. He says, you already have a calling. Now live into it. And that calling, Paul says, is never a solo act. We are called to work collectively, to act as one body in Christ. There is one body and one Spirit, one hope, one faith, one baptism. Unity, yes, but not uniformity.

Paul goes on to name the different ways that calling takes shape in the life of the church: apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers. These are not job titles reserved for a few professionals. They are functions, ways the Spirit equips ordinary people to build up the body of Christ.

Apostles are pioneers and connectors. They are energized by starting things, building bridges, and imagining what the church could be beyond its walls. They see possibilities others miss and help turn vision into action. They connect the church to the wider world and help others step into their callings.

Prophets are truth tellers and discerners. They ask hard questions. They name what others sense but hesitate to say. Prophets help the church listen for God’s voice, especially when it is uncomfortable. They call us back to our values, name injustice, and help us notice where God may be nudging us next.

Evangelists are story sharers and welcomers. They love connecting with people and sharing why faith matters to them. Evangelists translate the good news into everyday language. They practice hospitality, build relationships, invite others in, and help people feel seen and included.

Pastors are shepherds and caregivers. They show up. They listen. They pray. They walk with people through grief, joy, illness, and uncertainty. Pastors help people feel known, supported, and cared for within the community.

Teachers are guides and interpreters. They love helping others make sense of faith. They ask “why” and “how.” Teachers invite curiosity, reflection, and growth, helping people see how scripture and belief shape daily life. Paul’s point is not that everyone must do all of these things. Paul’s point is that the church needs all of them.

All of these gifts are given “to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ.” Saints. That is all of us. In our Bible studies this week and at the officer training yesterday, we spent time discerning which of these roles we felt most drawn to, most equipped for, or most comfortable as. I will be honest, it was not easy. It required reflection, honesty, and a willingness to name gifts without minimizing them or comparing them to others. But it is empowering, because we cannot walk in a manner worthy of our calling if we never stop to ask what that calling might look like in our own lives.

So I want to invite you to try that same practice now. In a moment, I am going to invite you to turn to someone nearby, preferably someone you do not know well, and introduce yourself. Share your name and one way you believe you help bring flavor or light to the life of this church. One way you serve, as an apostle who connects and builds, as a prophet who sees and speaks truth, as an evangelist who invites and welcomes, as a pastor who cares and shepherds, or as a teacher who guides and interprets. This is not about bragging. It is about bearing witness to grace. So take a moment, turn to a neighbor, introduce yourself, and claim the gifts that you have been given.

Friends, what you just did was not small talk. You practiced naming grace and gratitude for the gifts you have been given. Gifts are meant to be shared for the building up of the body, to do Christ’s work here in our congregation, in our community here in Wichita, with our sister congregation in Placetas, Cuba, and throughout the world. You reminded one another that the church shines not because everyone is the same, but because everyone brings what God has already given, walking in a manner worthy of our calling.
And that brings us back to Jesus’ sermon on the mount, when he told that group of ordinary people something extraordinary: “You are the light of the world.” Not you should be. Not someday you might be. You are the light of the world. Light is meant to be seen. Gifts are meant to be shared. Faith is meant to be lived out loud. So do not hide your light. Do not tuck your gifts away. Do not underestimate what God can do through the gifts the Spirit has already placed within you. You are seasoned to shine, for the building up of the body and for the blessing of the world. May it be so in your life, in the life of your family, in the life of our congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church. Amen.

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Bonded by Bread

Bonded by Bread

John 17:17-24, Ephesians 2:8-10, 14-22

On the night before his arrest, Jesus prays. Not a quick prayer. Not a safe prayer. Not a prayer for comfort or protection. Jesus prays for unity.

Our reading from John’s Gospel comes from Jesus’ farewell prayer, spoken on the edge of betrayal and crucifixion. In that moment, Jesus does not pray that the disciples will all agree, and Jesus does not pray that they will avoid conflict. Jesus prays that they may all be one.

Jesus prays to God,
“As you are in me, and I am in you, may they also be in us. I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know.”

This is not a call to sameness. It is a prayer for relationship, a unity rooted in our life in Christ. And Jesus names why this matters: “so that the world may know God’s love.” Unity, for Jesus, is not about internal harmony for its own sake. It is about witness.
That matters, because we live in a world shaped by division.

We live in a country where disagreement is often experienced not simply as difference, but as threat, where political, cultural, and social divides are reinforced by fear. Our choice of news channels and the algorithms of our news feeds heighten this apprehension, making us prone to confirmation bias, paying attention to what confirms what we already believe and dismissing what challenges those beliefs. Over time, this does not just shape opinions. It builds walls.

And the church is not immune.

Christians are divided over theology and scripture, over worship and culture, over gender, sexuality, and identity, over politics, and still, painfully, over race. Sadly, “Sunday morning is still the most segregated hour in America.” The church does not stand outside these tensions. We live inside them.

I saw a small but meaningful example of this just this week.

After consulting with our Session, I shared a denominational call to prayerful action in response to the recent violence in Minneapolis. The next day, a member of our congregation came to my office with questions. We did not agree about how the situation should be understood or where responsibility should fall, but we sat together and talked, not with anger or suspicion, but as people of faith trying to follow Christ.

We listened.

We spoke honestly.

We disagreed.

And we left that conversation still united in our love for our church and our commitment to one another.
I walked away grateful, grateful for the courage of the conversation, for its sincerity, and for what felt like a holy moment. The Spirit was at work, not erasing difference, but holding us together. That conversation helped me hear Paul’s words to the church in Ephesus with fresh clarity.

Paul writes to a community deeply divided between Jews and Gentiles, people shaped by different histories, cultures, and fears. Jews understood themselves as God’s chosen people, formed by laws meant to preserve identity in the face of oppression. Gentiles did not share those practices or that story, and many viewed Jews as barbarians. Each group saw the other as a threat.

Paul names this reality honestly, and then he makes one of the boldest claims in the New Testament:
“Christ is our peace. In his flesh he has made both into one and has broken down the dividing wall of hostility.”
Christ does not simply manage conflict. Christ does not ask one group to absorb the other. Christ creates something new, one new humanity.

In Christ, difference is not erased, but hostility is. Notice how Paul speaks about this reconciliation. It happens in the flesh. It costs something. The wall is not negotiated away; it is put to death.

Paul also shifts his grammar as he writes. He speaks in the past tense: you have been saved by grace; the wall has been broken down. Then he moves into the present perfect: through Christ, we both have access in one Spirit.

Reconciliation is ongoing.
Unity is still being forged, even now.

“So then,” Paul writes, “you are no longer strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.”

Not strangers.
Not outsiders.
Family, all adopted in Christ, all beloved children of God.Built together. Joined together. With Christ as the cornerstone.

This is what unity looks like in God’s kingdom, not uniformity but belonging, not sameness but shared life. Peace for those who are far off and peace for those who are near, for those who feel at home in the church and for those who never have.
This matters for us, because it is often easier, even comforting, to divide the world into “us” and “them,” to see the other through the lens of fear, to assume the worst, and to let suspicion become habit. But the gospel insists that God’s household is larger than our comfort zones and sturdier than our divisions.

Throughout Scripture, God consistently works through those we least expect: through Joseph, a brother betrayed and sold into slavery, who becomes the one who saves his family and a nation; through Ruth, an immigrant widow, an illegal alien, who becomes the great-great-great-great-great grandmother of Jesus; through Matthew, a tax collector, a despised enforcement officer of the empire, who becomes a disciple of Jesus. Over and over again, God transforms outsiders into bearers of grace.
Which brings us to the Table, where we are transformed and made one, bonded by bread.

When reconciliation feels impossible, when fear feels louder than faith, when the dividing wall feels too high, we return to the Table. We do not come because we agree. We come because Christ invites each and every one of us, no matter who we are, or what we have done, or what we carry, citizen and immigrant, documented and undocumented, saints and sinners, those who are far off and those who are near.

Here, we are united with God through Christ and bonded to one another as Christ’s body.
Bonded by bread.

The bread is broken, but not divided. Shared, not earned. As we share it, we are reminded that closeness to God is not achieved by conformity or control, but by grace. By this bread, we are being built together into a dwelling place for God’s Spirit, so that the world may witness and experience God’s love.

So we come to the Table again today, not because we are worthy, but because Christ is faithful. Not to erase difference, but to bear witness that Christ’s peace is stronger than the walls that divide us.

“That we may all be one, so that the world may know.”

May it be so in your life, in the life of your families, in the life of our congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church.

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Rooted, Renewed, and Restored

Rooted, Renewed, and Restored

John 14:25-27, Ephesians 3:14-21

Have you ever eavesdropped on a prayer? When I was in seminary, I once came upon a classmate fervently praying out loud in an empty room next door to the classroom where we were gathering to take our final exam in biblical Hebrew. This was not a quiet, murmured prayer, but a full voiced, impassioned appeal. He was asking the Holy Spirit to give him knowledge, confidence, and clarity so that he might pass the exam. I confess that I lingered outside the door longer than I should have. I listened, and as I did, I realized I was holding two conflicting feelings at once. On the one hand, I was a little judgmental of what I thought was a rather bold petition. On the other hand, I was envious, envious of his confidence, his freedom, his expectation that God’s Spirit might actually show up and help. When he finished, I told him, “I wish I could pray like that.” And he replied, without hesitation, “It’s not me. It’s the Holy Spirit.”

There’s an old joke among pastors about a preacher who neglected to prepare a sermon, telling colleagues that he would simply rely on the Spirit to give him the words. On Sunday morning, during the prelude, he prayed fervently, “Come, Holy Spirit. Place your wisdom on my tongue, that I might preach your good word this morning.” And as the final strains of the organ faded into the back of the sanctuary, he heard a voice say, “You should have prepared a sermon.” At the time, I thought the joke exposed something pretentious, treating the Spirit as if God were on call, ready to provide inspiration on demand. But looking back, I wonder if the greater danger isn’t presumption, but modesty, expecting far too little of the Spirit at work in our lives and in the life of the church.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve often discounted the power of the Spirit in my prayers and in my expectations. I’ve tended to think of prayer primarily as a spiritual discipline, a way to grow closer to God, a way to reflect, a way to become more centered and attentive. All of that is true and good, but I didn’t often expect much in the way of response. Perhaps that was immaturity. Perhaps I’m still growing. I grew up in the Presbyterian tradition. I learned how to pray, beautiful prayers, thoughtful prayers, but I don’t remember much connection being made between prayer and the active, empowering work of the Holy Spirit. I believed in the Spirit. Sometimes I even felt the Spirit in an emotional way. But I didn’t really know what it meant to be strengthened by the Spirit, or transformed by the Spirit, or carried by the Spirit when faith felt thin. Looking back, I realize that what I was missing wasn’t faith, but expectation. I believed in God, but I had a fairly modest vision of what God’s Spirit actually does among us, how the Spirit roots us when we feel unsteady, renews us when we are weary, and restores us when love has frayed.

In many ways, that is exactly what Paul is praying for in his letter to the church in Ephesus. And that’s what we get to listen for today as we overhear Paul’s prayer. Paul is writing from prison. He is confined, uncertain of his future, and yet he is on his knees, praying not for his own release, but for the church. He prays that they do not lose heart. He prays before the God who has named and claimed every family on earth. And in overhearing Paul’s prayer, we discover something important about ourselves and about what prayer is meant to do.

The first thing Paul’s prayer reveals is this. Our life with God is inseparable from our life with one another. Experiencing fellowship with God is tangled up with being bound to each other. Christians are blessed with one another and stuck with one another. Charles Schulz captured this tension well through the great theologian Snoopy, who once admitted, “I love humanity; it’s people I can’t stand.” We need community. We depend on it, even when it’s difficult, even when it’s messy, even when disagreement turns sharp or relationships strain.

So Paul prays that the Creator of every people would strengthen the church in their inner being with power through the Spirit. The word translated as power is dunamis. It means potential, capacity, possibility. And the you in this prayer is plural. Paul is not praying for individual spiritual toughness. He is praying for power at work in the whole community. If Paul were in Texas, he might say, “I pray y’all have the gumption to see all the ways that God is in your life.” Our life together is anchored not in certainty or agreement, but in love. Theology matters. Doctrine matters. But only love reconciles.

At the heart of Paul’s prayer are several intertwined hopes, not abstract virtues, but realities meant to take shape in the life of the church through the work of the Trinity. First, Paul prays that the church would be strengthened by the Spirit. This strengthening is not about individual resolve or personal grit. It is something that happens together. We are strengthened by the witness of those alongside us in worship, by the faith of those who sing even when their hearts are heavy, by prayers spoken aloud and prayers quietly carried, by acts of courage and generosity that remind us who we are. We are strengthened by those we remember, saints who have gone before us, whose faith still steadies us. And we are strengthened when we gather in hymns, in Scripture, in preaching and teaching, in the shared rhythms of worship that hold us when we feel unsteady.

Second, Paul prays that Christ would dwell in the hearts of the congregation. Not as an idea. Not as a story from the past. Not as a memory. But as the living, risen Christ who comes to us in Word and Sacrament and seeks a home among us. Where Christ dwells, love is produced, love that is patient, love that bears with one another, love that refuses to let fear or resentment have the final word.
Third, Paul prays that together we might comprehend the breadth and length and height and depth of God’s love. This is not a private insight. It is something we discover together with all the saints, through listening to one another’s stories, through paying attention to prayers that are not our own, through witnessing acts of kindness and generosity that widen our vision of what God is doing. Through one another, we encounter new dimensions of grace, dimensions we could never discover on our own. Paul prays that we would come to know a love that surpasses knowledge. This is the great paradox of faith. There is a knowing that goes beyond information. Christ becomes the lens through which all other knowing is measured. In worship and in community, we are reminded again and again that God’s love exceeds our expectations.

Paul ends his prayer with praise. “Now to the one who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to God be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus.” God is glorified not in isolated spirituality, but in the life of the church. The power Paul describes is already at work within us, not around us, not someday, but within us right here and now. So if you could overhear my prayers for you, if you stood quietly outside the door and listened, I think they might sound something like this.

I would pray that we would be rooted, rooted in the love of Christ that holds us fast when the world feels unsteady and our footing unsure. Rooted not in fear or certainty, but in the grace that has named and claimed us as God’s own.
I would pray that we would be renewed, strengthened in our inner being by your Spirit at work among us. Renewed through worship and word, through song and silence, through the faith we borrow from one another when our own feels thin.

I would pray that Christ would dwell among us, not as an idea or a memory, but as a living presence shaping how we love, producing patience where there is frustration, compassion where there is pain, and courage where there is fear.

nd I would pray that we would be restored, restored in our life together as your people. That we would come to know, together with all the saints, how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ. A love that reconciles what knowledge cannot, that heals what has been wounded, and that opens us to one another and to the world you so love.

Give us courage to confront division with grace, to tend grief with gentleness, to welcome those who are lonely, searching, or in need of belonging.

Restore us as a community of peace and hope. I pray all this with confidence, trusting that the power at work within us can do more than we ask or imagine.

To you, O God, be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus, now and forever. Amen.

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Eyes of the Heart

Eyes of the Heart

John 1:35-42, Ephesians 1:15-23

So, why do Presbyterians with presbyopia love responsive readings? Because if they cannot quite see their line, they are confident someone else will read it for them, decently and in order. And what is the difference between presbyopia and Presbyterian polity? Presbyopia makes it hard to see things up close. Presbyterian polity makes sure at least three committees study the problem before anyone admits it. Presbyopia is the age related loss of the eye’s ability to focus on close objects. It is caused by the hardening of the lens. For me, it meant starting with reading glasses and eventually wearing glasses most of the time.

But the truth is, we do not need corrective lenses to see what is happening in our world. We can see the political turmoil and violence that saturate our news feeds. We can see the deepening division and rancor, the abuse and oppression of those who are marginalized and vulnerable, from recent immigrants, to day care workers, to trans kids. We hear government leaders declare that there is no such thing as international law, that might makes right. We grieve lives lost to gun violence, including the recent killing of Renée Nicole Good, a mother, a youth mission worker, the widow of a veteran, and the child of a Presbyterian pastor, now living in Valley Falls, Kansas, who described her as relentlessly hopeful and optimistic, with a seemingly infinite capacity for love. It is all too easy to see these things and become bitter, cynical, angry, or simply exhausted. It is tempting to turn away, to numb ourselves, or to tune it all out. Into that reality, the apostle Paul offers a prayer, and with it, another way of seeing.

Paul begins by giving thanks for the faith and love of the church in Ephesus. He then prays that God would continue to deepen that faith, not simply by giving them more information, but by giving them what he calls a spirit of wisdom and revelation. This is more than intellectual knowledge. It is knowing with our heart, the way we know a best friend, a sibling, or a spouse. At the heart of the prayer is this striking phrase, that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, literally to let the light of your heart illuminate your vision. Paul prays that with enlightened hearts they may perceive three things: the hope to which God has called them, the richness of their shared inheritance, and the immeasurable greatness of God’s power at work in Christ and also at work among them as the church.

What does it mean to see with the eyes of the heart? It is not the denial of what is broken or painful in the world. Paul is not naïve about suffering, injustice, or fear. Rather, seeing with the eyes of the heart means perceiving reality through the lens of God’s love. To see with the eyes of the heart is to look at every person and recognize a beloved child of God. It is to notice not only the violence and cruelty around us, but also the quiet, persistent power of God’s love still at work in the midst of it all. It is to hold on to hope, not optimism and not denial, but hope grounded in God’s faithfulness.

Paul roots that hope in God’s power, a power that is deeper and stronger than the self proclaimed power of rulers, empires, and principalities. Paul uses two different Greek words for power in this passage. The first is dunamis, which refers to potential power, latent energy, like a stick of dynamite before it is lit. The second is kratos, which refers to forceful, exercised power, the explosion of that dynamite, the raw force often associated with earthly rulers and systems of domination. Paul proclaims that God’s kratos power is revealed in Christ’s resurrection and exaltation. Christ is raised above every rule, authority, and dominion. No empire, ideology, or violent force has the final word.

And yet, and this is crucial, the church is entrusted not with Christ’s coercive power, but with Christ’s dunamis, the living, potential power of God’s love at work in the world. As the body of Christ, we bear that power in our shared life and witness. Christ continues to call the church, just as he called the first disciples, saying, “come and see.” To see with the eyes of your heart enlightened. To see Christ’s love alive in the world. To be a witness to its transformative power in our lives, in the life of this church, and in our community.

Martin Luther King Jr. spoke directly to this tension between love and power. He rejected the idea that they are opposites. In his 1967 address to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, he said, “Power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic.” True power, he argued, is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice is power correcting everything that stands against love. King believed not in brute force, but in moral power, the power that transforms hearts, redirects human longing, and bends history toward justice. That is the power Paul is pointing to, not domination, but love that acts, not withdrawal, but courageous and compassionate engagement.

A similar insight comes from the fourteenth century Christian mystic Marguerite Porete. In her book The Mirror of Simple Souls, she imagines a dialogue between Reason and Love about the life of the soul. At one point, Love says to Reason, “Ah, Reason, you will always see with one eye only.” Reason matters. Thought matters. Theology matters. But if we rely on intellect alone, our vision is incomplete. We are called to see with our hearts as well, to allow love to illuminate what fear, cynicism, and calculation alone cannot see.

Paul ends his prayer by reminding the church then and now that we are the body of Christ, the fullness, the plērōma in Greek, the complement and abundance of the One who fills all in all. In his paraphrase of Paul’s letter in The Message, Eugene Peterson puts it this way: “The church, you see, is not peripheral to the world; the world is peripheral to the church. The church is Christ’s body, in which he speaks and acts, by which he fills everything with his presence.”

The church is called to be Christ’s body in the world, not just on Sundays and not just in the glow of stained glass windows, but in the world amid division, rancor, pain, and violence. To be the church is to live in that world with hearts enlightened by the abundance of God’s love. It is to let our ministry, our mission, our protest, our service, and even our grief bear witness to the love first shown to us in Christ. It is to live in the faith and trust that God’s power of love and life is greater than the earthly powers claimed in hatred and violence. It is to see the world with the eyes of our heart.

Seeing with the eyes of the heart does not mean looking away from suffering. It means refusing to let fear have the final word. It means trusting that God’s love is still at work and that, by grace, we are part of that work.

Paul’s prayer for the church in Ephesus is also a prayer for us, that the eyes of our hearts may be enlightened. May we see one another as beloved. May we recognize the quiet but resilient power of love at work among us. And may we live as a church worthy of our calling, grounded in hope, shaped by love, and sustained by the power of God made known in Christ. May it be so in your life, in the life of your family, in the life of our congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church.

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