Remember Your Baptism

Remember Your Baptism

Matthew 3:13-17, Ephesians 1:3-14

Like Christmas, Epiphany is more than one day. It is a season, a season celebrating Christ revealed to the world. Our first scripture lesson is another epiphany moment, a revealing of who Jesus is and whose Jesus is. As Jesus rises up from the water, the heavens are opened, and God’s Spirit descends upon him like a dove. A voice proclaims, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” This is not just a private affirmation. It is the public beginning of Jesus’ ministry.

This Sunday commemorates the baptism of our Lord and gives us an occasion to remember our own baptisms as a sign and symbol of our adoption in Christ as beloved children of God. The Apostle Paul begins his ministry in Ephesus by baptizing a small group of believers, not with a baptism of repentance, but with one of reception, acceptance, and belonging. It is a baptism that acknowledges their connection to their Creator as beloved children and their connection to one another as members of the body of Christ.

Years later, Paul writes to that diverse church of Jews and gentiles, male and female, old and young, privileged and oppressed, soldiers and rebels, conservative and progressive, citizens and immigrants. He begins by reminding them of who they are and whose they are, all destined for adoption as God’s children through Jesus Christ. All are joined together as siblings in Christ through the waters of baptism. It is the same for us.

Baptism is not a reward for faith or a badge of piety. It is an acknowledgment, an acceptance, an affirmation of something that was already true. Paul puts it this way: we are predestined by God’s grace and adopted into God’s holy family through Christ. Baptism names what God has already done. God loved us long before we loved God.

This is the good news that Paul proclaims, and I hope it is not news to you. But Paul presses us further, because with adoption comes inheritance. We are marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit, claimed as God’s own people, not just for comfort, but for the transformation of ourselves and our world.

One of the highlights of my time in Barcelona was visiting the Sagrada Familia, an enchanting and awe-inspiring church designed by the visionary Catalonian architect Antoni Gaudí. Construction began more than a century ago, in 1882, and has continued through the Spanish Civil War and two world wars, and it is still not complete. Its spires tower over the skyline, and the ornate exterior façades tell the story of Christ’s birth on the east side, his death on the west side, and his glory on the south. The scale and intricacy of the figures are incredible, but it is the inside that truly transforms you.

As you enter, your eyes are drawn upward. Tree-like columns arch toward the heavens, and stained glass windows flood the space with light. Morning and afternoon sun pours through in waves of color. You feel small, and yet deeply connected, held within something far larger than yourself.

As I sat in this sacred space, my attention shifted from the architecture to the people, visitors from all over the world. Believers and non-believers. Young and old. Some praying quietly. Some walking. Some talking in tour groups. All gathered in the same space, all bathed in the same light, all surrounded by beauty they did not create but were invited into. And it struck me. That is baptism.

Baptism is not a single moment in the past. It is a way of seeing and living in the world, a perspective shaped not by the limits and divisions of this world, but by the love revealed in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. It is a life not constrained by what separates us, our social standing, our nationality, our politics, even our religious traditions or lack thereof, but grounded in a shared inheritance as siblings, bound together by Christ, who gathers all things together in heaven and on earth.

Baptism shifts our focus from inwardness and self-concern toward care and compassion, for those we love and those no one loves, for the least, the last, and the lost. Baptism is the recognition of God’s claim on our lives and God’s promise to walk with us through flood and fire, in times of joy and in times of trial, in abundance and in uncertainty.

On the wall of his study, Martin Luther wrote these words: “A truly Christian life is nothing else than a daily baptism, once begun and ever to be continued.” That is Paul’s reminder to the church, and it is his invitation to us. We are invited to remember our baptism not as a past event, but as a living reality, one that emboldens and empowers us to live each day remembering who we are and whose we are.

In a moment, we will remember our baptism together. I will invite you to come to the font and take a marble from the water. Each marble is unique, like us. All are immersed in the same water, like us. I hope it will serve as a tangible reminder that we are all held in God’s overflowing grace.

This week, when you wash your hands, take a shower, or drink a glass of water, I invite you to remember your baptism. And even if you have not been baptized, remember this: you have already been named and claimed by your Creator. Through Christ, who gathers all things together in heaven and on earth, we are beloved children of God. May we claim this inheritance boldly and live each day in the grace and glory of God.

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God Loves Hugs

God Loves Hugs

Christmas Story 2025

It was a tradition in the church that I grew up in for the pastor to tell a story on Christmas Eve.
In that spirit I’d like to share a story with you that I wrote a long time ago when my kids where little.

It’s based loosely on the beginning to John’s gospel And it goes like this . . .

In the beginning God was alone with the Word.

Which doesn’t really sound like God was alone – but the Word was God and God was the Word and because they were one they were both alone.

And they were also cramped. They could feel something inside aching to emerge.

So through Word, God created the heavens and the earth. And the creation was splendid and beautiful.

God’s Spirit filled the cosmos.

Spirit delighted in dancing as the molten rock that rose to divide the waters.

And Spirit enjoyed crashing against those rocks in the surf.

Spirit stirred in storms and whispered in the wind.

Divine spirit roamed the world. It roared through the prairie in the southern wind.

It decorated the delicate webs in the tallgrass with the morning dew.

And cast rainbows across the roaring waterfalls.

But God was still alone. Because God and Word and Spirit were still only one.

So God made creatures and breathed God’s sweet holy spirit into every living thing.

Time went by, and God’s creation evolved. And the creatures began to sense the presence of the creator all around them.

And as they played in the forests and meadows, and danced in the heavenly moonlight they communed together with the Spirit.

And after a very long time some of the creatures learned to talk. And it wasn’t long before the creatures began trying to talk to God.

They sang songs to God and gave God gifts.

They built special places for God and told stories and said prayers.

But, somehow the more they talked and thought about God the more they disagreed. And the further away God seemed.

So, the creatures went looking for God. They looked on mountaintops and up in the sky. They looked in forests and they looked in desserts.

Sometimes the creatures would feel they had just caught a glimpse of God, but afterwards the memory was like a dream and seemed to get all mixed up.

And when they went back to tell the others about what they remembered they would quarrel and fight.

The divine Word of God came down to the creatures.

Word was known by many names, davar, Logos, Light, Wisdom, and Sophia to name a few.

She came in many forms: in the dreams of children, and through the passion of prophets, in the words of reluctant leaders and even through burning shrubs.

But even when the creatures listened they were easily confused and distracted.

They divided into tribes and the tribes into nations. And the nations fought. And each claimed God’s love by their own name.

The almighty Triune Creator was unhappy.

What could be done to show how much God loved all the creatures?

How could the creatures be reminded that they were all part of God?

And how could God show them how much they could love one another?

God thought and thought.

And God said, “I need a hug.”

Word and Spirit became flesh.

A girl gave birth to the Almighty Creator in a humble stable amid the other animals.

She cuddled God up and hugged God close.
And the Triune Creator, God the Almighty, the great ‘I Am’ – basked in the mother’s love.

And God looked up and smiled.

For God loved the world so much that God came down to show his beloved creatures how to love God by loving one another – sharing the love that comes from God.

Christmas is a time to hold the infant Christ in humble awe and wonder – knowing that the Creator of the Cosmos became flesh – (that God came down) so that we might know what God’s love looks like and share that love with the world.

Christmas is a time to cuddle that newborn babe – that divine presence of God – into our hearts and our lives.

We do this when we love one another as God first loved us.

May this Christmas inspire and embolden us to embrace the holy child of God
– in our care for ourselves, for those we love, and for those that nobody loves.

Or for the kids – just remember God loves hugs especially at Christmas time.

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Love in the Midst of Fear

Love in the Midst of Fear

Matthew 1:18-25, Isaiah 41:5-10

Of all of the characters in the Christmas story, Joseph is probably the most overlooked. He is mute in our scriptures. He never utters a word. So it is helpful to imagine what he might say and to contemplate how he might have felt. The uncertainty. The anxiety and shame. The fear of what others might think and fear for his own safety and that of his family.

This fear is demonstrated in his impulse to dismiss Mary quietly. It is acknowledged by the angel’s first words, “Do not be afraid.” It will be justified in the next chapter when Herod slaughters the male infants of Bethlehem.

Joseph’s fear is easy to overlook in his portrayal as the strong, silent type and in the narrative that highlights his lineage, his dreams, and his obedience. But his actions are risky. To stay by Mary’s side exposes him to public disgrace and religious judgment. Women suspected of adultery were to be stoned according to the law. Mary’s pregnancy was more than scandalous. It was dangerous.
Joseph could have stepped back. Instead, he steps up and steps in. Not to fix everything or make everything all right. Not to erase the risk, but to share it. He is not Mary’s savior. He is her companion.

In a world defined by empire, patriarchy, and honor, Joseph’s decision is striking. It is a quiet act of unexpected resistance to the social, legal, and religious expectations of his time. And that kind of love, the love that stays, is the love we celebrate on this fourth Sunday of Advent.

Jesus tells a story about it. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, a man is beaten and left for dead on a dangerous road. Others see him and keep their distance. But the Samaritan stops. He risks being attacked himself. He risks being blamed. He risks his own money and time. He does not ask whether the man deserves help or whether the road is safe. He steps into the danger because compassion requires proximity. Jesus tells us that this is what love looks like.

Centuries later, during World War II, Corrie ten Boom and her family demonstrated this love by hiding Jewish neighbors in their home in a hidden room behind a false wall. They helped people who were living in daily fear of arrest and deportation. The risk was real. Eventually, the family was betrayed. Corrie survived a concentration camp. Her sister did not. Later, Corrie wrote, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” Words that echo Joseph’s trust.

Closer to home, in March of 1965, pastors from across the country traveled to Selma, Alabama, to stand with Black citizens demanding the right to vote. Among them were many Presbyterian pastors who left their pulpits and walked into a city where violence was expected. They were beaten, jailed, and threatened. Some lost their jobs when they returned home. Their congregations told them, “This is not what we pay you for.” But those pastors believed something deeper. Loving their neighbor meant standing where fear was real and injustice was visible. They did not go because it was safe. They went because faith told them neutrality was not an option.

This past fall in Chicago, a group of local faith leaders, including many Presbyterians, gathered outside a federal immigration processing facility where families were being detained. They did not meet for a press photo or a comfortable prayer service. They stood in the street, in full view of vans and agents, because people were living in fear and being torn from those they love. Week after week they showed up. Some were arrested. One pastor was struck by pepper balls fired by federal agents, not for violence, but for standing in the way with prayer and presence. When they were denied access to offer spiritual care or Communion, they did not walk away. They insisted that sharing God’s love must be present when fear is strongest.

Just last Tuesday morning, federal police arrested forty-two faith leaders under a banner that read, “People of faith choose love over cruelty,” as they protested the arrest of immigrants and asylum seekers after court hearings in San Francisco.

Like Joseph, these witnesses remind us that sharing Christ’s love does not mean staying where it is safe. It means standing where people are afraid, bearing witness with our bodies and our prayers, and trusting that God’s love is stronger than fear.

The truth is, we do not have to look far to find people living in fear. They may be in our own families, in our community, or even in this room. People afraid of rejection. Afraid they are not good enough. Afraid for their physical or mental health. Afraid they cannot care for their children. Afraid of being separated from those they love. Afraid of how they will be treated because of who they are, how they present, or who they love.

Joseph’s story asks us a simple but costly question. Will you step back, or will you step up and step in. Not to save. Not to fix. But to stand beside. To support. To encourage. To share the risk of love.

This is how the light of God’s love enters the darkness. Not through spectacle, but through quiet courage. Through love that refuses to leave.

So let me ask this in a very practical way. Who is Mary in your life right now. Who is living with fear and wondering if they are alone. It might be a family member afraid to tell the truth about health issues they are facing. A teenager or young adult afraid they will not be accepted for who they are. A parent quietly overwhelmed and unsure how they will make it work. A neighbor fearful of losing housing, work, or community. Someone sitting in these pews who looks fine on the outside, but is carrying fear alone.

Joseph does not show us how to fix their situation. He shows us how to stay. How to step up and step in. That might look like making the phone call you have been avoiding. Sitting longer with someone who is grieving instead of offering quick reassurance. Walking beside someone into a hard conversation or appointment. Speaking up when silence would be easier. Letting your love be visible even when it costs you comfort, reputation, or certainty.

Some of those choices may feel risky. You might be misunderstood. You might say the wrong thing. You might be told to stay out of it. But Joseph reminds us that love is not measured by how safe it feels, but by whether it shows up when fear is real.

So the invitation today is not to be a hero. It is to be a companion. To step in, not to erase fear, but to share it. Because this is how God’s love enters the darkness, when ordinary people dare to love like Joseph did.

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Running on Empty

Running on Empty

Isaiah 43:19-21, Matthew 11:1-11

There are seasons when life feels like a long stretch of road and we’re watching the fuel gauge sink lower and lower. We tell ourselves, “I can make it a bit further,” but the truth is we’re not always sure. The holidays can bring this into sharp focus. Grief can feel heavier. Loneliness more piercing. Expectations more exhausting. Finances more strained. Schedules more crowded. And even if everything looks fine on the outside, inside we may be quietly wondering how long we can keep going. That is the moment John the Baptist is living in—and it’s the moment I want to explore through one powerful Advent story.

In December of 1943, Dietrich Bonhoeffer—pastor, theologian, and member of the resistance against Hitler—sat in a prison cell at Tegel Military Prison in Berlin. The charges against him were still murky, but he knew enough to sense the danger closing in. His days were filled with waiting: waiting for news, waiting for letters, waiting for interrogation, waiting for anything that might shift the course of his life. The guards allowed him a small stack of belongings: a few letters, a notebook, and two things he treasured most—his hymnal and his worn Bible. As Advent approached, he found himself doing what generations of the faithful have done in dark seasons: waiting and hoping and feeling the limits of his own strength. Bonhoeffer knew what it meant to run on empty. He knew what it meant to wonder what God was up to. He knew what it meant to ask, “Is this still the story I thought it was? Is Christ still the One?” Just as John the Baptist did. And it was in that prison cell that Bonhoeffer wrote one of the most profound lines about Advent ever penned: “Life in a prison cell may well be compared to Advent. One waits, hopes, and does this or that or the other—things that are really of no consequence—while the door is shut and can only be opened from the outside.” It is a line that could have been written by John himself, waiting in confinement, unable to change his circumstances, holding on to hope he wasn’t sure he still had.

Both Dietrich and John were men of conviction. Both had dedicated their lives to preparing the way for God’s kingdom. Both expected God to act with clarity and power. But instead they found themselves in situations that felt like contradiction. John expected a Messiah like Moses—someone who would confront the empire, mobilize the people, and overturn injustice. Instead, Jesus was quietly healing, teaching, lifting up the poor, restoring the broken, and preaching good news—one person at a time, one village at a time. And Bonhoeffer, committed to justice and peace, found himself watching the machinery of evil grow more brazen while he sat and waited in a cell. There is a particular kind of emptiness that comes when the world does not look the way we hoped God would shape it. The Baptist felt it. Bonhoeffer felt it. And many of us feel it at different points in our lives. The marriage that didn’t heal. The diagnosis that didn’t improve. The prayer that didn’t get the answer we longed for. The world that feels as fractured as ever. The season that brings more pressure than joy. And like John, we ask: “Lord, is this really what you promised? Is this how it’s supposed to look?”

What’s remarkable is how Jesus responds. He doesn’t shame John for doubting. He doesn’t tell him to believe harder. He doesn’t promise a sudden rescue. Instead, Jesus says: “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” Blind eyes opening. Lame legs walking. Those cast out being restored. The dead raised. The poor receiving good news. In other words: “John, look again. Hope is happening—just not in the way you expected.” Hope is not arriving like an army or a king. Hope is arriving like a healer, like a companion, like a whisper, like a seed pushing up through the soil. As Isaiah says: “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth—do you not perceive it?” The new thing God is doing is often quiet enough to miss.

In that Advent of 1943, Bonhoeffer kept a reproduction of a Nativity painting by Albrecht Altdorfer. It showed the Holy Family huddled together in a building that looked half-bombed, the roof caving in, the walls crumbling. It looked more like a wartime shelter than a stable. He sent a letter home describing it: “We can and should celebrate Christmas even among the ruins. We must do this, even more intensively, because we do not know how much longer we have.” He was running on empty, but he had learned something: hope does not require fullness. Hope requires honesty. Hope requires waiting. Hope requires paying attention to the small signs of life. And out of that emptiness he wrote words that became a hymn still sung around the world: “By gracious powers so wonderfully sheltered, we wait with confidence, befall what may. God is with us at night and in the morning and certainly on each new day.” Those words were not written by someone who felt strong. They were written by someone who felt held.

Most of us aren’t in a physical prison like the Baptist or Bonhoeffer, but many know what it feels like to be emotionally or spiritually confined—by grief, by fear, by expectations, by exhaustion, by a long season that won’t let up. Advent doesn’t ask us to pretend we’re full of joy; Advent simply asks us to wait and to be honest about what we have left in the tank. Hope that trembles is still hope. Faith that questions is still faith. Love that feels tired is still love. Jesus’ response to John shows us that doubt is not the opposite of faith; it may well be one of its most honest expressions.

Here is one simple practice for this week: each day, notice one small sign of life. Just one. Something that reminds you that God is not finished—a kindness, a moment of peace, a breath, a memory, a scripture, a sunrise, a word from a friend. Write it down. Carry it with you. That is often how God’s new thing begins—quiet, steady, persistent.

Friends, if this Advent finds you feeling tired, or worn, or quietly asking questions like John did, know this: you are not alone. You are not failing. You are not forgotten. When we are running on empty, God is not. When our hope runs thin, God’s hope does not. When our expectations collapse, God’s promises stand. And God is already doing a new thing—in our lives, in our community, and in the world—often in small signs of life that we are invited to notice. So if you are running on empty this Advent season, hear Jesus’ gentle words: “Look again. There is life here. God is nearer than you think.” May it be so.

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Hope Breaks In

Hope Breaks In

Lamentations 3:55-57, Luke 1:5-13

When we think of Advent, we usually think of candles and carols, warm light in the darkness, and hopeful anticipation. Fear is probably not the first word that comes to mind. But fear runs all through the Advent scriptures.
Every time God’s messengers appear to Zechariah, to Mary, to Joseph, to the shepherds the first words are always the same: “Do not be afraid.” Why? Because Christ was born into a fearful warld. Luke begins the story with a single weighted phrase: “In the time of Herod…”

Herod the Great was a man of astonishing achievements and equally astonishing cruelty. He rebuilt the Second Temple in magnificent fashion and filled Judea with marvels palaces extending into the Mediterranean, the desert stronghold of Masada with its aqueduct-fed water system, and the massive walls surrounding the burial place of the patriarchs and matriarchs Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and Jacob and Leah. But beneath those wonders was a ruler driven by insecurity and fear. A client of the Roman Empire, Idumean by birth, he came to power through his father’s connections with the Roman Senate and with the help of Mark Antony. And he preserved his throne through violence, executing his wife, several sons, and countless others. And as Matthew’s Gospel remembers, he even ordered the slaughter of infant boys in Bethlehem.

This is the world Luke points to with that simple phrase: “In the time of Herod…” A fearful, unstable, anxious world. The very world into which Christ chose to come. We may not live under Herod, but we live under the weight of similar fears. Recent studies confirm what many of us feel every day.

A 2025 Chapman University Survey reports that nearly 70% of Americans fear corrupt government officials. Fear of a loved one becoming seriously ill ranks second. Economic collapse has surged to third. Pew Research finds Americans overwhelmingly pessimistic about the future. The Edelman Trust Barometer reports eroding trust and deepening polarization. And surveys of teenagers reveal historic lows in well-being and optimism, with stress about the future affecting mood, sleep, motivation, and mental health. Add to this the daily anxieties close to home. Violence in our own community, divisions in our country, climate threats, rapid technological change, and the personal fears we carry for the people we love. Fear has become the background noise of our lives.

So, this Advent, we begin with a question: What do you fear? Not to shame fear, and not to amplify it, but because God speaks directly into it. “Do not be afraid” is not a dismissal; it’s an invitation. It is God’s way of saying: Your fear is real, but it is not the whole story. Christ comes into fear, into an occupied land, into a vulnerable family, into a fragile and uncertain world, to show the depth of God’s compassion and the persistence of God’s hope.

Before the angels ever spoke to Mary, before Joseph wrestled with doubt, before shepherds heard “Glory to God,” the Advent story begins with someone whose life looks far more like ours someone quietly trying to be faithful in a fearful world. It begins with Zechariah. Zechariah wasn’t a king or a prophet or a revolutionary. He was an ordinary priest in an occupied land. He had watched his nation lose independence. He longed for the Messiah. He longed for a child. He served in the Temple his whole life and perhaps no longer expected God to show up in any dramatic way.

When Luke tells us that it was his “turn by lot” to offer incense, we might wonder: Was this his lucky day? Was he excited or exhausted? Or was it just another day, another faithful act without much expectation that anything would change?

Many of us enter Advent the same way. With faith, yes. But also, with a quiet acceptance that certain hopes are past their expiration date. So, when the angel appears in the holy place, Zechariah does what most of us would do: He flinches. He is troubled. He pulls back. He recoils in fear.

The Greek word used is tarassó, to be agitated, shaken to the core. Because when hope shows up after a long silence, it can feel more frightening than comforting. Fear becomes so normal that grace feels foreign. And the first words he hears are the ones spoken throughout Advent: “Do not be afraid.” Not a dismissal, a reorientation. Your fear is real, but it is not the only truth. Your prayer has been heard. God begins not with a miracle, but with recognition of our fear.

Long after Zechariah regains his voice, long after John is born, Jesus repeats the same message to his disciples. Jesus says in John 14:27, “Let not your hearts be troubled… do not be afraid.” Because our fear tends to linger. Fear that stays. Fear can form us. Fear becomes embedded in our bodies, our relationships, our politics, our media, our families. Fear we’ve learned to live with. Fear we forget to question. But Advent tells the truth: God enters the silence, the ache, the barrenness, right where fear has taken root.

Advent begins in darkness. Advent isn’t about pretending we’re not afraid. It’s about bringing fear into the light with honesty and gentleness. Advent invites us to ask: How does fear live in me? What voices has it amplified? What longings has it silenced? Fear can actually teach us something. It signals that something matters. Something is at stake. It reveals vulnerability, not failure.

So, this Advent we ask: What are we afraid to hope for? What have we stopped praying for? Where have we shrunk back? Our scriptures this morning hold both macro and micro fears together. Lamentations cries out from national trauma. Zechariah trembles in personal disappointment. We know both. We live with political and economic anxieties and our fear for the future of our planet, while also living with the tender, private fears we barely speak aloud. Naming those fears, naming those longings, can be deeply healing. Advent gives us room to pray: “Here is where I am afraid. Here is where I still long for God.”

Zechariah’s fear does not disqualify him. It becomes the starting point of transformation. Even in silence, he participates in God’s unfolding story. Even without words, his life bears witness to a God who hears, who disrupts, who enters fearful places with grace. So, the deeper Advent question is not: How do we get rid of fear? But rather: Can we name our fear honestly and still believe God is near?

This is not just Zechariah’s story. This is our story. Where does fear shape our life together? Personal fears. Community fears. Cultural and economic anxieties. Fears about the future of the church. Fears of being disappointed again by our leaders, our friends, our family, or maybe even our church. And what longings do we bring to God this Advent? Longing for healing. Longing for reconciliation. Longing for peace. Longing for justice. Longing for restored faith. Longing for new beginnings. So here is a simple practice for the week: Name one fear, whether large or small, something that you’ve shared or something that you dare not mention. And name one longing, whether personal, communal, or global. Nothing is too big or too small. Offer both to God in prayer. And listen for the whisper spoken first to Zechariah: “Your prayer has been heard.”

Advent begins in fear, but it does not end there. Into the time of Herod, hope breaks in. Into our fear, God draws near. Into our silence, God speaks recognition before restoration. The question is not whether we can eliminate fear. The question is whether we can trust that God meets us right there and that hope is already breaking in, into our lives, into our community, and into the world.

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