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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Who Do You Serve?

Who Do You Serve?

Psalm 45, Colossians 1:11-19

Earlier this week, before I had even published the sermon title—“Who Do You Serve?”—one of our members sent me a message with a link to a song they thought I might appreciate. It was Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody.” And if you know the song, you know exactly why they sent it.

Dylan goes down this long, poetic list of possibilities—ambassadors and gamblers, rock ’n’ roll stars and state troopers, doctors and thieves, preachers and city council members, socialites with pearls and folks sleeping on the floor. But the refrain keeps coming back, like a hammer hitting the same nail: “You’re gonna have to serve somebody.”

No matter who you are. No matter what name you go by—Timmy, Zimmy, Terry, or Ray. No matter what your life looks like from the outside—mansions, domes, tanks, or barbershops. The same truth rings out: You’re gonna have to serve somebody.

Now, I’m not here to preach Bob Dylan—but I will say this: Dylan understood something Paul and the psalmist understood long before him. Every one of us bends our life around something. Every one of us gives our allegiance to something—whether that’s fear, success, security, chaos, or Christ. And the question for Christ the King Sunday isn’t whether you serve something. It’s who do you serve?

But here’s where the psalmist adds a beautiful twist: before we’re asked to choose whom we serve, we’re reminded what kind of God we’re being invited to trust. Not a tyrant. Not one more clamoring ruler demanding our attention. Not just another voice in an already chaotic world. The psalmist points us to a God who is a refuge. A strength. A very present help in trouble.

Much like the Colossians—who lived under pressure from all sides—the people of Jerusalem who first prayed Psalm 46 were literally besieged. The Assyrian army surrounded their city. Destruction seemed moments away. Fear was the air they breathed. We may not be living in a walled city under siege, but the world around us is shaking too.

War continues in Ukraine, Sudan, Yemen, and the West Bank. Millions live each day with the terror of falling bombs and the loss of homes, families, futures. And here in Wichita, we are not untouched by violence. A steady rhythm of shootings has marked our year. Our police chief has warned of the sharp rise in minors carrying illegal firearms—94 arrests already in 2025, surpassing the total for all of last year. Our public discourse has grown harsher; our divisions deeper. And many live with the quiet fear that they might be singled out because of their accent, their skin, their identity, or simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In that kind of world, Psalm 46 doesn’t offer denial. It offers direction. It proclaims a God who: “makes wars cease to the ends of the earth… breaks the bow… shatters the spear… burns the shields with fire.” It is a song meant to reorient the faithful—a reminder of who is truly in charge.

So how do we reorient ourselves amid the clamor and chaos of our own lives? The psalmist gives us the same invitation God spoke to ancient Israel: “Be still, and know that I am God.” The Hebrew word for “still” is rafah. It means to stop, to let go, to loosen your grip, to relax—to “chillax,” as the kids said a few decades ago.
It means recognizing you are not in control—and that this is good news. Because the One who created all things, the One who holds all things together, the One exalted among the nations and in the earth—that One is with you.

Christ, the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, the beginning and the head of the church, is with us now. God’s steadfast love reaches into every shaking place—where there is violence, where there is pain, where there is fear—and whispers: “Be still. Rafah. Let go. Know that I am God. I’ve got you.”

But what does being still actually look like in daily life? It doesn’t mean ignoring the news or pretending everything is fine. It means choosing—intentionally—to anchor ourselves in God’s presence rather than the world’s panic.

Being still might look like: Pausing before reacting—a deep breath prayed as, “Lord, be my strength.” Turning off the noise—even five minutes of silence to remember who holds you. Letting go of what you cannot control—naming aloud the things you’re carrying and placing them into God’s hands. Praying Scripture—whispering “Be still… God is our refuge” while driving or washing dishes. Serving others—because nothing quiets fear like practicing love.

Being still isn’t about inaction. It’s about reorientation. It’s about remembering whom you serve—and who serves you with steadfast love.

Last month, after our Reformation Sunday service, I received an email from a member lamenting that we did not sing A Mighty Fortress, the hymn traditionally sung on that occasion. Honestly, this was a miss on my part, and I promised we would sing it soon—especially knowing that Psalm 46 was coming up in the lectionary.

You see, Psalm 46 is the very psalm that inspired Martin Luther to write A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Luther didn’t write that hymn during a peaceful season of life. He wrote it under the threat of violence, political pressure, and deep personal fear. The Reformation had shaken the foundations of Europe. His writings had been condemned. A price had been placed on his head. He was excommunicated by the church he loved, hunted by the empire he lived under, and burdened by the suffering of his friends.
And in the middle of that turmoil, Luther kept returning to Psalm 46. Biographers say he would often turn to those around him and say: “Come, let us sing the Forty-Sixth Psalm, and let the devil do his worst.”

“God is our refuge and strength… Though the mountains shake… Though the nations rage… The Lord of hosts is with us.”

Out of that conviction—not out of comfort—Luther wrote: A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. He wasn’t writing a triumphant march. He was writing a confession of trust—a reorienting of his heart toward the One he served above all others. A song to remind him—and us—that even if the world falls apart around us, Christ holds all things together.

So the question Paul asks the Colossians, the question the psalmist asks Jerusalem, the question Bob Dylan asks in his own poetic way, is the question Christ asks us today: Who—or what—do you serve?

Because you will serve something. Fear or faith. Chaos or Christ. The trembling world or the One who holds it.

Christ the King Sunday doesn’t demand blind obedience. It doesn’t threaten us into loyalty. It doesn’t ask us to ignore the world’s pain. Instead, it invites us to remember:
There is only One whose authority brings peace. Only One whose power is love. Only One who can steady your shaking soul and speak into your chaos: “Be still. Rafah. Let go. I am with you. I will not let you go.”

This week, you will hear many voices calling for your allegiance—news cycles, anxieties, deadlines, demands. But only one voice will call you by your true name. Only one voice will lead you toward life. Only one voice has already laid down everything—everything—to bring you home.

So, beloved in Christ, as this church year ends and the new one begins, choose again the One who has already chosen you. Serve the One who first served you. Trust the One who is your refuge, your strength, your mighty fortress—now and forever.
May it be so in your life, in your family, in this congregation, and in the whole church of Jesus Christ.

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Resurrection Now!

Resurrection Now!

Luke 20:27-38

People say, “There’s no such thing as a dumb question.” And that’s mostly true, mostly. But then someone asks me: If vegetarians only eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat? Or, if God wanted us to eat vegetables, why did God make bacon taste so good? Or, how long is eternity, exactly? Longer than this sermon? All that is to say, sometimes people ask questions not because they want to learn anything, but because they want to stump you, trap you, or prove a point.

In today’s scripture lesson, the Sadducees bring Jesus a question that is less about curiosity and more about cornering him. Earlier in the chapter, Luke tells us that the religious authorities were watching Jesus and sent spies pretending to be honest in order to trap him by what he said and hand him over to the Roman authorities. They begin by asking, “By what authority are you doing these things? Who is it who gave you this authority?” A few verses later they ask, “Is it lawful for us to pay tribute to Caesar or not?” Jesus responds, “Give Caesar what is Caesar’s and give God what is God’s,” and of course everything belongs to God.

Now it is the Sadducees’ turn. They come to Jesus with a question meant to make resurrection seem absurd. They tell a story about a woman who marries seven brothers, each one dying childless. “In the resurrection,” they ask, “whose wife will she be?” This is not a sincere question. It is a trap.

The Sadducees were the religious establishment of Jesus’ day, the priestly families and wealthy elites with political influence and plenty of social capital. They ran the Temple, held seats on the Sanhedrin, and had a great deal invested in keeping things as they were. They accepted only the Torah, the first five books of Scripture, and because of this they rejected any belief in resurrection, angels, or an afterlife. For them, this life was all there was, and for them, this life was quite good.

Jesus refuses to be boxed in by their logic puzzle. Instead, he flips the whole thing around and essentially says, “You are asking the wrong question.” Resurrection life is not a continuation of this life with all its categories, claims, and cultural structures. It is not about whose wife she will be or who belongs to whom.

Jesus calls us “children of the resurrection,” a distinction he uses only here. It is a big one. It means we are not defined by roles, relationships, status, or privilege. We are not simply husbands or wives, successes or failures, insiders or outsiders. Children of the resurrection belong to God first. Children of the resurrection are held by a love that cannot be taken away. Children of the resurrection live in a different kind of reality, one shaped by God’s future breaking into our present.
One of my favorite theologians, Jürgen Moltmann, puts it this way: “[Faith] sees in the resurrection of Christ not the eternity of heaven, but the future of the very earth on which his cross stands.”

Jesus is not talking about someday. He is not talking about what happens after we die. He is talking about now. The resurrection life is already happening. The risen Christ is already loose in the world, and that means our lives can look different now.
When we believe that God’s love is inseparable and unconquerable, when we trust that we are held by a steadfast love that will not let us go, when we live like resurrection is not just our destination but our identity, it changes us. It opens us to love more deeply. It makes us a little braver, a little freer, a little more generous. It shapes not just what we believe but how we live, and yes, even how we commit our resources. Resurrection people understand that our lives are not small. What we give, what we offer, what we pour out can ripple far beyond us.

Which brings us to Pledge Dedication Sunday. When we bring our pledges forward, we are committing them to the ministry and mission of Christ’s church. This is not just a financial act. It is an act that lives into the resurrection. It is our way of saying, “We believe that God’s future is breaking into this world.” “We believe we are called to live as resurrection people here and now.” “We believe our giving can be a glimpse of the kingdom in ways both ordinary and extraordinary.”

Our pledges are symbols of trust that God’s love is at work in us, that God’s kingdom is coming through us, and that our lives can reflect the steadfast love that holds us, claims us, and will never let us go. This is what children of the resurrection do. This is what resurrection life looks like. We step into God’s future. We live like love wins. And we offer ourselves fully and joyfully, recognizing that the resurrection life has already begun.

So maybe there are such things as dumb questions, the ones meant to corner or confuse or distract, the same kind the Sadducees bring to Jesus. Questions that stay small, questions that miss the point, questions that keep us focused on the wrong things. But Jesus invites us out of all that, out of the traps, out of the narrow frames, out of the debates that do not lead anywhere. He calls us to ask bigger questions, resurrection questions.

Questions like: How is God calling me to live today? How can my life reflect God’s steadfast love in real ways? What does it look like to trust that the resurrection is already at work in me? These are the questions that open us up, stretch our hearts, and draw us deeper into God’s life. And today, as we offer our pledges, we are answering those questions with our lives. We are saying we want to be part of what God is doing here and now. We want to be children of the resurrection, living, loving, and giving in ways that point beyond the world’s worries to God’s wide, welcoming future.
May our questions and our gifts reflect that hope.

Let us pray:
God of the living, you call us your children, born not only into this world but into the wide promise of resurrection life. Open our eyes to the ways your future is already breaking in, quiet as mercy, bold as hope, steady as your love that never lets us go. Set us free from the small, anxious questions that keep us stuck in fear or scarcity. Lift our hearts to the bigger questions that draw us into your life: How can we love more generously? How can we live more faithfully? How can we give ourselves to the work of your kingdom here and now? Make us true children of the resurrection, people who trust your grace, who embody your compassion, who reflect your steadfast love in everything we do. May the power of Christ’s resurrection shape our steps, guide our choices, and renew our lives this day and every day. Amen.

 

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