#anabaptist — Public Fediverse posts

And It Was Good

A Sermon on the Character of God

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Today we are starting a 3-part series on the Goodness of God. Our theme verse for this series comes from Psalm 27:13:

“I remain confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.”

That verse will guide us through these weeks as we reflect on the goodness of God: what it means that God is good, how we have experienced God’s goodness, and how we are called to share God’s goodness with others.

Today, we begin at the beginning.

When I was a boy growing up on ten acres of wooded land in rural Mississippi, I used to climb the mimosa trees near our house. I would get sap on my knees and elbows and see ruby-throated hummingbirds seeking out the fragrant flowers around my head. I was not thinking in theological language then, but I was learning something. I was learning that I was stuck to something bigger than myself, and that something was rather wonderful.

We know about the Good Book, the Bible. We read it, study it, preach from it, and seek to live by it. But there is also what I call The Other Good Book: the book of Creation. Not a replacement for Scripture, but a witness alongside it. A book written in wind, soil, birdsong, tree bark, creek water, deer tracks, ant hills, and the breath of living things.

Creation has a way of teaching us if we are willing to listen. And one of the first things creation teaches us is this:

Dios es bueno.

God is good.

And because God is good, what God creates is good.

That is where Genesis begins.

Not with sin.
Not with shame.

But with God creating, God seeing, and God calling creation good.

Let us pray,

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our Rock, and our Redeemer. Amen

Homily

In the beginning, God speaks, and light comes into being. God gathers the waters and brings forth dry land. God fills the sky, sea, and earth with life. And again and again, after God creates, the same refrain appears:

And God saw that it was good.

Then God creates humankind in the image of God, blessed by God and given responsibility within creation.

And then Genesis says:

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.”

That is where the story begins.

The first word over creation is not “broken,” “sinful,” or “condemned.”

The first word is good.

Before there is a fall, there is blessing. Before there is exile, there is a garden. Before there is shame, there is delight. Before there is sin, there is goodness.

That matters because we often begin the story in the wrong place. We begin with what is wrong: human failure, guilt, sin, and everything that has gone bad in the world.

We shouldn’t ignore those things. The world is wounded. Creation groans. Bodies suffer. Relationships break. Violence, poverty, and despair are real.

But Genesis does not begin there.

Genesis begins with the goodness of God overflowing into the goodness of creation.

The repeated phrase “and it was good” is not filler. It is a deeply theological claim. The created world is not a mistake. The earth is not trash. The body is not shameful. Human life is not an accident.

God looks at what God has made and calls it good.

Dios mira lo que ha hecho y lo llama bueno.

The world is good because God is good. Creation reflects the character of the Creator.

Thomas Aquinas said God is not merely one good being among others. God is goodness itself. God does not simply have goodness the way we might have a good day or do a good deed. God is good in God’s very being. God is the source from which all true goodness flows.

That is why I love this phrase:

God is good all the time.
All the time, God is good.

It may sound like a simple phrase. A church litany. A call and response.

But if we really hear it, it is one of the deepest confessions of faith we can make.

God is good.

Not merely when life is going well. Not merely when prayers are answered the way we hoped. Not merely when healing comes quickly.

But all the time.

That does not mean everything that happens is good. It does not mean suffering is good.

It means God is good.

That is an important distinction. If we confuse everything that happens with the will of God, we may begin to call evil good. We may begin to think suffering, poverty, despair, abuse, and violence somehow come from the heart of God.

Scripture tells us something different.

The Psalmist, in addressing God, says:

“You are good, and what you do is good; teach me your decrees.” (Psalm 119:68)

God’s actions flow from God’s character. God’s commands, teaching, correction, guidance, and wisdom all come from goodness.

God’s ways are trustworthy because God is good.

But this raises an honest question.

Do we really believe God is good?

¿Realmente creemos que Dios es bueno?

Not just in what we say out loud. Not just in our hymns. Not just in our theology. But deep down, what kind of God do we imagine?

Some of us may carry an image of God as a disappointed parent, standing over us with crossed arms, waiting for us to mess up. Some of us may imagine God keeping a record of every one of our failures. Some of us may imagine God as mainly angry, cold, distant, or impossible to please.

Some of us may say “God is good,” but inwardly live as though God is out to get us.

Nuestra imagen de Dios importa porque la forma en que vemos a Dios moldea la forma en que vemos todo lo demás.

Our image of God matters because how we see God shapes how we see everything else.

If we believe God is mainly punitive, then every hardship feels like punishment. If we believe God is always disappointed, then we may never rest in grace. If we believe God is looking for reasons to condemn us, then we may become fearful, anxious, defensive, or ashamed.

But what if God is better than that?

What if God is not the author of cruelty? What if there is no evil in God? What if humanity, not God, is to blame for poverty, despair, abuse, and violence? What if God is not waiting to catch us in something wrong, but is always working to call us back into life?

To say God is good does not mean God ignores evil.

God’s goodness is not weakness or sentimentality. Because God is good, God opposes everything that destroys life.

Porque Dios es bueno, Dios se opone a todo lo que destruye la vida.

God’s judgment, rightly understood, is not the opposite of God’s goodness. God’s judgment is what goodness looks like when it confronts evil.

A good doctor does not ignore disease. A good shepherd does not ignore wolves. A good parent does not ignore harm being done to their child.

Goodness acts. Goodness protects. Goodness tells the truth. Goodness heals. Goodness restores.

So when we say there is no evil in God, we are not saying God does not care about evil. We are saying evil does not exist in nor come from God’s heart.

God is not secretly cruel. God is not secretly malicious. God is not secretly against us.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

And if God is good, then wherever life is being restored, God is at work.

Julian of Norwich lived in a time of great suffering, illness, plague, and uncertainty. She did not deny suffering or pretend pain was unreal. But she believed that God’s love was deeper than suffering, and that in the end God’s goodness would be stronger than all that wounds and destroys.

Her famous words were, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

That is not shallow optimism. That is deep trust that God’s goodness is not defeated by brokenness,

Perhaps this is why Psalm 23 speaks so deeply to us.

Green pastures, still waters, restored souls, God’s presence in the valley of the shades[RS1] , a table prepared in the presence of enemies, and a cup that overflows.

And then comes this promise:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

“Ciertamente la bondad y la misericordia me seguirán todos los días de mi vida.”

Goodness and mercy.

Not guilt and condemnation. Not shame and fear. Not wrath and suspicion. Not despair and punishment.

Goodness and mercy.

The word “follow” can carry the sense of pursuit. God’s goodness and mercy do not simply trail behind us at a distance. They pursue us. They come after us. They seek us.

We may often imagine the things following us are more sinister than that: regret, failure, the past, shame, fear.

And yes, sometimes those things can feel close behind us.

But Psalm 23 promises that there is something deeper pursuing the people of God.

Goodness and mercy.

(song)

The hounds of heaven are not guilt and condemnation. They are more like our blue tick coon hound Belle, who is sure that anyone and everyone is a friend and/or wants to be her friend too. Our pursuers are goodness and mercy.

And when sin wounds what is good, God does not abandon creation. God works to redeem it.

In Jesus, we see the goodness of God most clearly.

If our image of God does not look like Jesus blessing children, touching lepers, forgiving enemies, feeding the hungry, welcoming the outcast, forgiving enemies, and laying down his life in love, then our image of God needs to be redeemed.

Jesus does not reveal a God who is eager to condemn. Jesus reveals a God who seeks the lost, touches the untouchable, welcomes children, eats with sinners, heals the sick, lifts the shamed, and lays down life in love.

If you want to know whether God is good, look at Jesus.

Jesús es cómo se ve la bondad de Dios hecha carne.

Jesus is what the goodness of God looks like in the flesh.

So perhaps the invitation today is for each of us to look within and examine the image of God we carry.

When you think of God, what rises in you first?

Fear? Shame? Suspicion? Condemnation?

Or goodness?

Do you believe God is good? Do you believe God’s desire for you is life abundantly? Do you believe goodness and mercy are following you?

For some of us, the answers to these questions may surprise us. Distorted images of God do not always disappear in a moment.

But God is not limited by our distortions.

God is bigger than our fears. God is kinder than our shame. God is more merciful than our guilt. God is more faithful than our anxiety.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

And because God is good, we can trust God with the truth. We can bring our pain, questions, anger, grief, failures, our whole selves.

No tenemos que escondernos de un Dios bueno.

We do not have to hide from a good God. We do not have to pretend before a good God. We do not have to earn the goodness of a good God.

We receive it. We trust it. We live out of it. And by grace, we reflect it.

Genesis says God saw everything God had made, and indeed, it was very good.

Psalm 119 says, “You are good, and what you do is good.”

Psalm 23 says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

So let us begin here.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

Not sometimes. Not reluctantly. Not only to the deserving. Not only when life makes sense.

God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good.

Amen

Benediction:

Go forth trusting the goodness of God.

Go forth seeing the goodness already written into the world God loves.

Go forth becoming people who reflect the goodness of God.

And may goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives.

Go in Peace.

Visual Art Interpretation – My Hopes and Dreams for the Next Year

This feels less like a list of resolutions than a marquee-map of my identity and desire: a radiant, hand-made 2027 filled not so much with tasks to accomplish as with the people, callings, loves, and practices that make my life feel alive.

The bright red border and repeated golden lights give it the appearance of a theater sign, a carnival ride, or an illuminated road. It seems to announce the year joyfully: Here is what I hope will shine. But inside that celebratory outline, the words do not sit neatly in straight lines. They curve, turn, reverse, overlap, and require the eye to travel. That seems important. My hopes are not separate boxes. Pastor, husband, author, musician, PeaceGrooves creator, friend, artist, woodworker, child of God—all of these identities wind through and around one another.

The words I placed inside the year—Sing, Play, Memories, God, Laugh, Journey, Pastor, Author, Husband, PeaceGrooves, Friends, Art, Church, Love, Woodcraft—are striking to me because so many of them are relational or creative. Even the roles are not primarily about achievement. Author is near Husband. Pastor winds along the same road as Journey. PeaceGrooves circles alongside Friends, Church, Love, and creativity. I did not imagine the coming year as productivity alone. I imagined it as belonging, expression, vocation, joy, and connection.

The Word I Did Not Write

After finishing the piece, I realized that I did not write health or healing anywhere inside it. Those things matter deeply to me, especially in light of some of the physical concerns and uncertainties I have been carrying. And yet, perhaps their absence does not mean they were forgotten. Perhaps I instinctively wrote the life I hope healing will allow me to continue inhabiting.

I did not write healing, but I wrote Sing-Play: the hope that my body and spirit can still release themselves into music.

I wrote Laugh: the hope for lightness, delight, and joy.

I wrote Journey: the hope that I can continue moving forward.

I wrote Husband and Friends: the hope of remaining present in love and relationship rather than retreating into worry or isolation.

I wrote Pastor and Church: the hope that I can continue serving meaningfully among people.

I wrote Art, Author, Woodcraft, and PeaceGrooves: the hope that creativity will continue flowing through me rather than being swallowed up by discouragement, exhaustion, or fear.

Perhaps healing is everywhere in this drawing without having been named. It is hidden beneath almost every word: Let me be well enough, free enough, encouraged enough, and alive enough to keep inhabiting these loves.

But perhaps the omission also tells me something tender and difficult about myself. When I think about the future, I often think first about what I can give, create, serve, love, and build. I may not always think first about what I need. This picture invites me to remember that somewhere in the glowing year ahead, there must also be room for my own care. I am not only the husband, pastor, artist, author, musician, friend, and creator. I am also a person who needs healing, rest, gentleness, and grace.

The Smear Between Author and Husband

One of the small accidents in the piece occurred in the space between Author and Husband. Water smeared the color there, and I had to cover it as best I could. I was mostly able to hide the mistake, though I know it happened. I know that beneath the finished surface there is a place where the colors once ran together in a way I did not intend.

That accidental smear now feels strangely meaningful. Author and Husband are two of my most intimate identities: the part of me that creates worlds and gives language to inner experience, and the part of me that shares an actual life in love and covenant with another person. Perhaps those two identities were never meant to be sharply separated. My writing rises from my lived relationships, from tenderness, memory, fear, faith, longing, disappointment, and love. And my creative life inevitably spills into the life I share with my wife.

The water touched the border between those words, and I tried to repair it. That is not a failure of the picture. It may be one of the most honest parts of it. Life does not remain perfectly inside the lines. The roles I care most about do not remain untouched by mess, vulnerability, or accident. Sometimes the colors run together. Sometimes I try to cover what went wrong. Sometimes a trace remains, visible mostly to me.

Yet I did not throw the picture away. I continued working on it. I allowed the imperfection to become part of the finished whole.

Perhaps that is an image of grace. A life of grace is not a life where nothing ever gets smeared. It is a life in which even the smeared places can be incorporated into the beauty.

Church: Almost Illegible

I also noticed that Church almost looks like “Churgh.” It is there, but it is not the clearest or most immediately readable word. That, too, feels symbolic.

Church is deeply present in my hopes for the coming year. It is part of who I am, part of my calling, part of my relationship with God and with community. But church is not always simple or perfectly clear. It can be difficult to read. It can be beautiful and messy, life-giving and exhausting, sacred and profoundly human all at once.

In this picture, church does not appear by itself in a clean, isolated space. It is crowded into a circling path alongside other words: Love, Friends, Art, perhaps even the movements of creativity and ministry surrounding it. That seems truthful. For me, church is not separate from love, friendship, art, imagination, service, or reconciliation. It is entangled with them.

The fact that the word is only almost clear may express something I feel: church is something I continue to believe in and belong to, while also still trying to see clearly. It is present. It matters. It is part of the year I hope to live. But it is not polished or uncomplicated.

Perhaps that is what makes it real.

The Shape of the Year

The large number itself is not simply filled in. It becomes a winding course. The words curve around turns and corners; some appear upright from one angle and upside down from another. To read the whole image, I almost have to rotate it, follow it, and let my eyes travel through it.

That feels like an honest representation of the year ahead. I do not know exactly how it will unfold. My hopes do not form a straight road or a neatly numbered plan. They form a brightly lit labyrinth. Something that appears upside down from one position may look different once I travel farther along the curve. Something that seems peripheral now may become central. Something disappointing may redirect me toward an unexpected opening.

This drawing does not say, Here is my plan to master the next year.

It says, Here is the glowing path I hope to inhabit.

That is truer to my life. Music feeds ministry. Woodcraft feeds contemplation. Writing feeds faith. PeaceGrooves gathers together my imagination, my longing for peace, my love of play, and my desire to offer something meaningful to others. Marriage and friendship keep my creative life from becoming merely solitary. Church places my personal dreams within a larger body. God is not outside all these things, looking down upon them from a distance, but present among them.

My life is not a ladder climbing toward a single success. It is a winding, illuminated journey through many loves.

The Lights Around the Border

The repeated yellow bulbs around the border give the piece a vintage, celebratory feeling. They make the year look like something being announced: a show beginning, a stage opening, a bright invitation to enter.

There is something almost exuberant about it. I did not draw a quiet little calendar page or a restrained list of intentions. I drew the year as a spectacle of hope. These dreams are not small to me. They are worthy of light. Music, laughter, love, friendship, art, faith, craft, writing, church, PeaceGrooves—these are not hobbies or decorative extras around the edge of life. They are among the things that make life worth living.

And yet the lights are not machine-perfect. They are hand-drawn. Each one is slightly different. Some are rounder, some rougher, some more irregular. That matters too. The brightness of this coming year is not a slick commercial promise that everything will be perfect. It is the brightness I have carefully drawn around my hopes with my own imperfect hand.

Most moving of all, the lights continue around the bends. They do not shine only along the smooth or impressive stretches. They follow the narrow turns, the dips, the places where the shape curls inward. The light does not abandon the complicated places.

What This Picture Says to Me

This is a picture of my hope not merely to survive another year, but to remain fully myself within it.

I want to sing and play.

I want to laugh.

I want to remember.

I want to journey.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to remain a husband, a pastor, an author, an artist, a craftsman, a musician, a friend, and a dreamer.

I want PeaceGrooves not merely to exist as a project, but to become an expression of something deep within me: my longing to imagine, create, and make peace.

I want God not as an abstract religious idea floating somewhere outside my life, but as a living presence woven among music, love, creativity, friendship, church, memory, laughter, and journey.

And perhaps beneath the entire picture is the word I did not write: wholeness.

Wholeness includes health. It includes healing. But it is larger than both. It is the hope that all these different names for myself will not compete with one another, break apart, or fade away, but somehow curve together into a single radiant life.

The smear between Author and Husband, the almost-illegible Church, the reversed words, the crowded pathways, the uneven bulbs, and the wandering design do not lessen the picture. They make it more truthful.

My hopes for the next year are not cleanly arranged or perfectly protected from mistakes. They are handmade. They are entangled. They are vulnerable. They are colorful. They are imperfect.

And they are still shining.

Visual Art Interpretation – My Hopes and Dreams for the Next Year

This feels less like a list of resolutions than a marquee-map of my identity and desire: a radiant, hand-made 2027 filled not so much with tasks to accomplish as with the people, callings, loves, and practices that make my life feel alive.

The bright red border and repeated golden lights give it the appearance of a theater sign, a carnival ride, or an illuminated road. It seems to announce the year joyfully: Here is what I hope will shine. But inside that celebratory outline, the words do not sit neatly in straight lines. They curve, turn, reverse, overlap, and require the eye to travel. That seems important. My hopes are not separate boxes. Pastor, husband, author, musician, PeaceGrooves creator, friend, artist, woodworker, child of God—all of these identities wind through and around one another.

The words I placed inside the year—Sing, Play, Memories, God, Laugh, Journey, Pastor, Author, Husband, PeaceGrooves, Friends, Art, Church, Love, Woodcraft—are striking to me because so many of them are relational or creative. Even the roles are not primarily about achievement. Author is near Husband. Pastor winds along the same road as Journey. PeaceGrooves circles alongside Friends, Church, Love, and creativity. I did not imagine the coming year as productivity alone. I imagined it as belonging, expression, vocation, joy, and connection.

The Word I Did Not Write

After finishing the piece, I realized that I did not write health or healing anywhere inside it. Those things matter deeply to me, especially in light of some of the physical concerns and uncertainties I have been carrying. And yet, perhaps their absence does not mean they were forgotten. Perhaps I instinctively wrote the life I hope healing will allow me to continue inhabiting.

I did not write healing, but I wrote Sing-Play: the hope that my body and spirit can still release themselves into music.

I wrote Laugh: the hope for lightness, delight, and joy.

I wrote Journey: the hope that I can continue moving forward.

I wrote Husband and Friends: the hope of remaining present in love and relationship rather than retreating into worry or isolation.

I wrote Pastor and Church: the hope that I can continue serving meaningfully among people.

I wrote Art, Author, Woodcraft, and PeaceGrooves: the hope that creativity will continue flowing through me rather than being swallowed up by discouragement, exhaustion, or fear.

Perhaps healing is everywhere in this drawing without having been named. It is hidden beneath almost every word: Let me be well enough, free enough, encouraged enough, and alive enough to keep inhabiting these loves.

But perhaps the omission also tells me something tender and difficult about myself. When I think about the future, I often think first about what I can give, create, serve, love, and build. I may not always think first about what I need. This picture invites me to remember that somewhere in the glowing year ahead, there must also be room for my own care. I am not only the husband, pastor, artist, author, musician, friend, and creator. I am also a person who needs healing, rest, gentleness, and grace.

The Smear Between Author and Husband

One of the small accidents in the piece occurred in the space between Author and Husband. Water smeared the color there, and I had to cover it as best I could. I was mostly able to hide the mistake, though I know it happened. I know that beneath the finished surface there is a place where the colors once ran together in a way I did not intend.

That accidental smear now feels strangely meaningful. Author and Husband are two of my most intimate identities: the part of me that creates worlds and gives language to inner experience, and the part of me that shares an actual life in love and covenant with another person. Perhaps those two identities were never meant to be sharply separated. My writing rises from my lived relationships, from tenderness, memory, fear, faith, longing, disappointment, and love. And my creative life inevitably spills into the life I share with my wife.

The water touched the border between those words, and I tried to repair it. That is not a failure of the picture. It may be one of the most honest parts of it. Life does not remain perfectly inside the lines. The roles I care most about do not remain untouched by mess, vulnerability, or accident. Sometimes the colors run together. Sometimes I try to cover what went wrong. Sometimes a trace remains, visible mostly to me.

Yet I did not throw the picture away. I continued working on it. I allowed the imperfection to become part of the finished whole.

Perhaps that is an image of grace. A life of grace is not a life where nothing ever gets smeared. It is a life in which even the smeared places can be incorporated into the beauty.

Church: Almost Illegible

I also noticed that Church almost looks like “Churgh.” It is there, but it is not the clearest or most immediately readable word. That, too, feels symbolic.

Church is deeply present in my hopes for the coming year. It is part of who I am, part of my calling, part of my relationship with God and with community. But church is not always simple or perfectly clear. It can be difficult to read. It can be beautiful and messy, life-giving and exhausting, sacred and profoundly human all at once.

In this picture, church does not appear by itself in a clean, isolated space. It is crowded into a circling path alongside other words: Love, Friends, Art, perhaps even the movements of creativity and ministry surrounding it. That seems truthful. For me, church is not separate from love, friendship, art, imagination, service, or reconciliation. It is entangled with them.

The fact that the word is only almost clear may express something I feel: church is something I continue to believe in and belong to, while also still trying to see clearly. It is present. It matters. It is part of the year I hope to live. But it is not polished or uncomplicated.

Perhaps that is what makes it real.

The Shape of the Year

The large number itself is not simply filled in. It becomes a winding course. The words curve around turns and corners; some appear upright from one angle and upside down from another. To read the whole image, I almost have to rotate it, follow it, and let my eyes travel through it.

That feels like an honest representation of the year ahead. I do not know exactly how it will unfold. My hopes do not form a straight road or a neatly numbered plan. They form a brightly lit labyrinth. Something that appears upside down from one position may look different once I travel farther along the curve. Something that seems peripheral now may become central. Something disappointing may redirect me toward an unexpected opening.

This drawing does not say, Here is my plan to master the next year.

It says, Here is the glowing path I hope to inhabit.

That is truer to my life. Music feeds ministry. Woodcraft feeds contemplation. Writing feeds faith. PeaceGrooves gathers together my imagination, my longing for peace, my love of play, and my desire to offer something meaningful to others. Marriage and friendship keep my creative life from becoming merely solitary. Church places my personal dreams within a larger body. God is not outside all these things, looking down upon them from a distance, but present among them.

My life is not a ladder climbing toward a single success. It is a winding, illuminated journey through many loves.

The Lights Around the Border

The repeated yellow bulbs around the border give the piece a vintage, celebratory feeling. They make the year look like something being announced: a show beginning, a stage opening, a bright invitation to enter.

There is something almost exuberant about it. I did not draw a quiet little calendar page or a restrained list of intentions. I drew the year as a spectacle of hope. These dreams are not small to me. They are worthy of light. Music, laughter, love, friendship, art, faith, craft, writing, church, PeaceGrooves—these are not hobbies or decorative extras around the edge of life. They are among the things that make life worth living.

And yet the lights are not machine-perfect. They are hand-drawn. Each one is slightly different. Some are rounder, some rougher, some more irregular. That matters too. The brightness of this coming year is not a slick commercial promise that everything will be perfect. It is the brightness I have carefully drawn around my hopes with my own imperfect hand.

Most moving of all, the lights continue around the bends. They do not shine only along the smooth or impressive stretches. They follow the narrow turns, the dips, the places where the shape curls inward. The light does not abandon the complicated places.

What This Picture Says to Me

This is a picture of my hope not merely to survive another year, but to remain fully myself within it.

I want to sing and play.

I want to laugh.

I want to remember.

I want to journey.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to remain a husband, a pastor, an author, an artist, a craftsman, a musician, a friend, and a dreamer.

I want PeaceGrooves not merely to exist as a project, but to become an expression of something deep within me: my longing to imagine, create, and make peace.

I want God not as an abstract religious idea floating somewhere outside my life, but as a living presence woven among music, love, creativity, friendship, church, memory, laughter, and journey.

And perhaps beneath the entire picture is the word I did not write: wholeness.

Wholeness includes health. It includes healing. But it is larger than both. It is the hope that all these different names for myself will not compete with one another, break apart, or fade away, but somehow curve together into a single radiant life.

The smear between Author and Husband, the almost-illegible Church, the reversed words, the crowded pathways, the uneven bulbs, and the wandering design do not lessen the picture. They make it more truthful.

My hopes for the next year are not cleanly arranged or perfectly protected from mistakes. They are handmade. They are entangled. They are vulnerable. They are colorful. They are imperfect.

And they are still shining.

Visual Art Interpretation – My Hopes and Dreams for the Next Year

I began with an idea of drawing my age and it gradually morphed into a radiant, hand-made number filled not so much with tasks to accomplish as with the people, callings, loves, and practices that give me joy.

The bright red border and repeated golden lights give it the appearance of a theater sign or a carnival ride. They are a remnant of posters I used to make when I was a boy. Inside that celebratory outline, the words curve, turn, reverse, overlap, and require the eye to travel.

The words I placed inside my age—Sing, Play, Memories, God, Laugh, Journey, Pastor, Author, Husband, PeaceGrooves, Friends, Art, Church, Love, Woodcraft—are striking to me because so many of them are relational or creative. Author is near Husband. Pastor winds along the same road as Journey. PeaceGrooves circles alongside Friends, Church, and Love.

The Word I Did Not Write

After finishing the piece, I realized that I did not write health or healing anywhere inside it. Those things matter deeply to me, especially in light of some of the recent physical concerns and uncertainties I have been carrying. And yet, perhaps their absence does not mean they were forgotten. Perhaps I instinctively wrote the life I hope healing will allow me to continue inhabiting.

I did not write healing, but I wrote Sing-Play: the hope that my body and spirit can still release themselves into music.

I wrote Laugh: the hope for lightness, delight, and joy.

I wrote Journey: the hope that I can continue moving forward.

I wrote Husband and Friends: the hope of remaining present in love and relationship rather than retreating into worry or isolation.

I wrote Pastor and Church: the hope that I can continue serving meaningfully among people.

I wrote Art, Author, Woodcraft, and PeaceGrooves: the hope that creativity will continue flowing through me rather than being swallowed up by discouragement, exhaustion, or fear.

Perhaps healing is everywhere in this drawing without being visible. It is hidden beneath almost every word: Let me be wekHzll enough, free enough, encouraged enough, and alive enough to keep inhabiting these loves.

But perhaps the omission also tells me something tender and difficult about myself. When I think about the future, I often think first about what I can give, create, serve, love, and build. I may not always think first about what I need. This picture invites me to remember that somewhere in the glowing year ahead, there must also be room for my own care. I am not only the husband, pastor, artist, author, musician, friend, and creator. I am also a person who needs healing, rest, gentleness, and grace.

The Smear Between Author and Husband

One of the small accidents in the piece occurred in the space between Author and Husband. Water smeared the color there, and I had to cover it as best I could. I was mostly able to hide the mistake, though I know it happened.

That accidental smear now feels strangely meaningful. Author and Husband are two of my most intimate identities: the part of me that creates worlds and gives language to inner experience, and the part of me that shares an actual life in love and covenant with another person. Perhaps those two identities were never meant to be sharply separated. My writing rises from my lived relationships, from tenderness, memory, fear, faith, longing, disappointment, and love. And my creative life inevitably spills into the life I share with my wife.

The water touched the border between those words, and I tried to repair it. That is not a failure of the picture. It may be one of the most honest parts of it. Life does not remain perfectly inside the lines. The roles I care most about do not remain untouched by mess, vulnerability, or accident. Sometimes the colors run together. Sometimes I try to cover what went wrong. Sometimes a trace remains, visible mostly to me.

Yet I did not throw the picture away. I continued working on it. I allowed the imperfection to dry and become part of the finished whole.

Perhaps that is an image of grace. A life of grace is not a life where nothing ever gets smeared. It is a life in which even the smeared places can be incorporated into the beauty.

Church: Almost Illegible

I also noticed that Church almost looks like “Churgh.” It is there, but it is not the clearest or most immediately readable word. That, too, feels symbolic.

Church is deeply present in my hopes for the coming year. It is part of who I am, part of my calling, part of my relationship with God and with community. But church is not always simple or perfectly clear. It can be difficult to read. It can be beautiful and messy, life-giving and exhausting, sacred and profoundly human all at once.

In this picture, church does not appear by itself in a clean, isolated space. It is crowded into a circling path alongside other words: Love, Friends, Art, the movements of creativity and ministry surrounding it. That seems truthful. For me, church is not separate from love, friendship, art, imagination, service, or reconciliation. It is beautifully entangled with them.

The fact that the word may be hard to dicipher signifies that church is something I continue to believe in and belong to, though at times, it may be difficult to see clearly its formation.

The Shape of the Year

The large number itself is not simply filled in. It becomes a winding course. The words curve around turns and corners; some appear upright from one angle and upside down from another. To read the whole image, I almost have to rotate it, follow it, and let my eyes travel through it.

I do not know exactly how it will unfold. My hopes do not form a straight road or a neatly numbered plan. They form a brightly lit labyrinth. Something that appears upside down from one position may look different once I travel farther along the curve. Something that seems peripheral now may become central. Something disappointing may redirect me toward an unexpected opening.

This drawing does not say, Here is my plan to master the next year.

It says, Here is the glowing path I hope to traverse.

Music feeds ministry. Woodcraft feeds contemplation. Writing feeds faith. PeaceGrooves gathers together my imagination, my longing for peace, my love of play, and my desire to offer something meaningful to others. Marriage and friendship keep my creative life from becoming merely solitary. Church places my personal dreams within a larger body. God is not outside all these things, looking down upon them from a distance, but present among them.

My life is not a ladder climbing toward a single success. It is a winding, illuminated journey through many loves.

The Lights Around the Border

The repeated yellow bulbs around the border give the piece a vintage, celebratory feeling. They make the year look like something grounded in the past yet being announced: a show beginning, a stage opening, a bright invitation to enter.

There is something almost exuberant about it. I did not draw a quiet little calendar page or a restrained list of intentions. I drew my age as a symbol of hope. Music, laughter, love, friendship, art, faith, craft, writing, church, PeaceGrooves—these are not hobbies or decorative extras around the edge of life. They are among the things that make life worth living.

And yet the lights are not machine-perfect. They are hand-drawn. Each one is slightly different. Some are rounder, some rougher, some more irregular. The brightness of this coming year is not a slick commercial promise that everything will be perfect. It is the brightness I have carefully drawn around my hopes with my own imperfect hand.

The lights continue around the bends. They do not shine only along the smooth or impressive stretches. They follow the narrow turns, the dips, the places where the shape curls inward. The light does not abandon the complicated places.

What This Picture Says to Me

This is a picture of my hope not merely to survive another year but to remain fully myself within it.

I want to sing and play.

I want to laugh.

I want to remember.

I want to journey.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to remain a husband, a pastor, an author, an artist, a craftsman, a musician, a friend, and a dreamer.

I want PeaceGrooves not merely to exist as a project, but to become an expression of something deep within me: my longing to imagine, create, and make peace.

I want God not as an abstract religious idea floating somewhere outside my life but as a living presence woven among music, love, creativity, friendship, church, memory, laughter, and journey.

And perhaps beneath the entire picture is the word I did not write: wholeness.

Wholeness includes health. It includes healing. But it is larger than both. It is the hope that all these different names for myself will not compete with one another, break apart, or fade away, but somehow curve together into a single radiant life.

The smear between Author and Husband, the almost-illegible Church, the reversed words, the crowded pathways, the uneven bulbs, and the wandering design do not lessen the picture. They make it more honest.

My hopes for the next year are not cleanly arranged or perfectly protected from mistakes. They are handmade. They are entangled. They are vulnerable. They are colorful. They are imperfect.

And, Oh Yes!, they are still shining.

Visual Art Interpretation – My Hopes and Dreams for the Next Year

This feels less like a list of resolutions than a marquee-map of my identity and desire: a radiant, hand-made 2027 filled not so much with tasks to accomplish as with the people, callings, loves, and practices that make my life feel alive.

The bright red border and repeated golden lights give it the appearance of a theater sign, a carnival ride, or an illuminated road. It seems to announce the year joyfully: Here is what I hope will shine. But inside that celebratory outline, the words do not sit neatly in straight lines. They curve, turn, reverse, overlap, and require the eye to travel. That seems important. My hopes are not separate boxes. Pastor, husband, author, musician, PeaceGrooves creator, friend, artist, woodworker, child of God—all of these identities wind through and around one another.

The words I placed inside the year—Sing, Play, Memories, God, Laugh, Journey, Pastor, Author, Husband, PeaceGrooves, Friends, Art, Church, Love, Woodcraft—are striking to me because so many of them are relational or creative. Even the roles are not primarily about achievement. Author is near Husband. Pastor winds along the same road as Journey. PeaceGrooves circles alongside Friends, Church, Love, and creativity. I did not imagine the coming year as productivity alone. I imagined it as belonging, expression, vocation, joy, and connection.

The Word I Did Not Write

After finishing the piece, I realized that I did not write health or healing anywhere inside it. Those things matter deeply to me, especially in light of some of the physical concerns and uncertainties I have been carrying. And yet, perhaps their absence does not mean they were forgotten. Perhaps I instinctively wrote the life I hope healing will allow me to continue inhabiting.

I did not write healing, but I wrote Sing-Play: the hope that my body and spirit can still release themselves into music.

I wrote Laugh: the hope for lightness, delight, and joy.

I wrote Journey: the hope that I can continue moving forward.

I wrote Husband and Friends: the hope of remaining present in love and relationship rather than retreating into worry or isolation.

I wrote Pastor and Church: the hope that I can continue serving meaningfully among people.

I wrote Art, Author, Woodcraft, and PeaceGrooves: the hope that creativity will continue flowing through me rather than being swallowed up by discouragement, exhaustion, or fear.

Perhaps healing is everywhere in this drawing without having been named. It is hidden beneath almost every word: Let me be well enough, free enough, encouraged enough, and alive enough to keep inhabiting these loves.

But perhaps the omission also tells me something tender and difficult about myself. When I think about the future, I often think first about what I can give, create, serve, love, and build. I may not always think first about what I need. This picture invites me to remember that somewhere in the glowing year ahead, there must also be room for my own care. I am not only the husband, pastor, artist, author, musician, friend, and creator. I am also a person who needs healing, rest, gentleness, and grace.

The Smear Between Author and Husband

One of the small accidents in the piece occurred in the space between Author and Husband. Water smeared the color there, and I had to cover it as best I could. I was mostly able to hide the mistake, though I know it happened. I know that beneath the finished surface there is a place where the colors once ran together in a way I did not intend.

That accidental smear now feels strangely meaningful. Author and Husband are two of my most intimate identities: the part of me that creates worlds and gives language to inner experience, and the part of me that shares an actual life in love and covenant with another person. Perhaps those two identities were never meant to be sharply separated. My writing rises from my lived relationships, from tenderness, memory, fear, faith, longing, disappointment, and love. And my creative life inevitably spills into the life I share with my wife.

The water touched the border between those words, and I tried to repair it. That is not a failure of the picture. It may be one of the most honest parts of it. Life does not remain perfectly inside the lines. The roles I care most about do not remain untouched by mess, vulnerability, or accident. Sometimes the colors run together. Sometimes I try to cover what went wrong. Sometimes a trace remains, visible mostly to me.

Yet I did not throw the picture away. I continued working on it. I allowed the imperfection to become part of the finished whole.

Perhaps that is an image of grace. A life of grace is not a life where nothing ever gets smeared. It is a life in which even the smeared places can be incorporated into the beauty.

Church: Almost Illegible

I also noticed that Church almost looks like “Churgh.” It is there, but it is not the clearest or most immediately readable word. That, too, feels symbolic.

Church is deeply present in my hopes for the coming year. It is part of who I am, part of my calling, part of my relationship with God and with community. But church is not always simple or perfectly clear. It can be difficult to read. It can be beautiful and messy, life-giving and exhausting, sacred and profoundly human all at once.

In this picture, church does not appear by itself in a clean, isolated space. It is crowded into a circling path alongside other words: Love, Friends, Art, perhaps even the movements of creativity and ministry surrounding it. That seems truthful. For me, church is not separate from love, friendship, art, imagination, service, or reconciliation. It is entangled with them.

The fact that the word is only almost clear may express something I feel: church is something I continue to believe in and belong to, while also still trying to see clearly. It is present. It matters. It is part of the year I hope to live. But it is not polished or uncomplicated.

Perhaps that is what makes it real.

The Shape of the Year

The large number itself is not simply filled in. It becomes a winding course. The words curve around turns and corners; some appear upright from one angle and upside down from another. To read the whole image, I almost have to rotate it, follow it, and let my eyes travel through it.

That feels like an honest representation of the year ahead. I do not know exactly how it will unfold. My hopes do not form a straight road or a neatly numbered plan. They form a brightly lit labyrinth. Something that appears upside down from one position may look different once I travel farther along the curve. Something that seems peripheral now may become central. Something disappointing may redirect me toward an unexpected opening.

This drawing does not say, Here is my plan to master the next year.

It says, Here is the glowing path I hope to inhabit.

That is truer to my life. Music feeds ministry. Woodcraft feeds contemplation. Writing feeds faith. PeaceGrooves gathers together my imagination, my longing for peace, my love of play, and my desire to offer something meaningful to others. Marriage and friendship keep my creative life from becoming merely solitary. Church places my personal dreams within a larger body. God is not outside all these things, looking down upon them from a distance, but present among them.

My life is not a ladder climbing toward a single success. It is a winding, illuminated journey through many loves.

The Lights Around the Border

The repeated yellow bulbs around the border give the piece a vintage, celebratory feeling. They make the year look like something being announced: a show beginning, a stage opening, a bright invitation to enter.

There is something almost exuberant about it. I did not draw a quiet little calendar page or a restrained list of intentions. I drew the year as a spectacle of hope. These dreams are not small to me. They are worthy of light. Music, laughter, love, friendship, art, faith, craft, writing, church, PeaceGrooves—these are not hobbies or decorative extras around the edge of life. They are among the things that make life worth living.

And yet the lights are not machine-perfect. They are hand-drawn. Each one is slightly different. Some are rounder, some rougher, some more irregular. That matters too. The brightness of this coming year is not a slick commercial promise that everything will be perfect. It is the brightness I have carefully drawn around my hopes with my own imperfect hand.

Most moving of all, the lights continue around the bends. They do not shine only along the smooth or impressive stretches. They follow the narrow turns, the dips, the places where the shape curls inward. The light does not abandon the complicated places.

What This Picture Says to Me

This is a picture of my hope not merely to survive another year, but to remain fully myself within it.

I want to sing and play.

I want to laugh.

I want to remember.

I want to journey.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to remain a husband, a pastor, an author, an artist, a craftsman, a musician, a friend, and a dreamer.

I want PeaceGrooves not merely to exist as a project, but to become an expression of something deep within me: my longing to imagine, create, and make peace.

I want God not as an abstract religious idea floating somewhere outside my life, but as a living presence woven among music, love, creativity, friendship, church, memory, laughter, and journey.

And perhaps beneath the entire picture is the word I did not write: wholeness.

Wholeness includes health. It includes healing. But it is larger than both. It is the hope that all these different names for myself will not compete with one another, break apart, or fade away, but somehow curve together into a single radiant life.

The smear between Author and Husband, the almost-illegible Church, the reversed words, the crowded pathways, the uneven bulbs, and the wandering design do not lessen the picture. They make it more truthful.

My hopes for the next year are not cleanly arranged or perfectly protected from mistakes. They are handmade. They are entangled. They are vulnerable. They are colorful. They are imperfect.

And they are still shining.

Visual Art Interpretation – My Hopes and Dreams for the Next Year

This feels less like a list of resolutions than a marquee-map of my identity and desire: a radiant, hand-made 2027 filled not so much with tasks to accomplish as with the people, callings, loves, and practices that make my life feel alive.

The bright red border and repeated golden lights give it the appearance of a theater sign, a carnival ride, or an illuminated road. It seems to announce the year joyfully: Here is what I hope will shine. But inside that celebratory outline, the words do not sit neatly in straight lines. They curve, turn, reverse, overlap, and require the eye to travel. That seems important. My hopes are not separate boxes. Pastor, husband, author, musician, PeaceGrooves creator, friend, artist, woodworker, child of God—all of these identities wind through and around one another.

The words I placed inside the year—Sing, Play, Memories, God, Laugh, Journey, Pastor, Author, Husband, PeaceGrooves, Friends, Art, Church, Love, Woodcraft—are striking to me because so many of them are relational or creative. Even the roles are not primarily about achievement. Author is near Husband. Pastor winds along the same road as Journey. PeaceGrooves circles alongside Friends, Church, Love, and creativity. I did not imagine the coming year as productivity alone. I imagined it as belonging, expression, vocation, joy, and connection.

The Word I Did Not Write

After finishing the piece, I realized that I did not write health or healing anywhere inside it. Those things matter deeply to me, especially in light of some of the physical concerns and uncertainties I have been carrying. And yet, perhaps their absence does not mean they were forgotten. Perhaps I instinctively wrote the life I hope healing will allow me to continue inhabiting.

I did not write healing, but I wrote Sing-Play: the hope that my body and spirit can still release themselves into music.

I wrote Laugh: the hope for lightness, delight, and joy.

I wrote Journey: the hope that I can continue moving forward.

I wrote Husband and Friends: the hope of remaining present in love and relationship rather than retreating into worry or isolation.

I wrote Pastor and Church: the hope that I can continue serving meaningfully among people.

I wrote Art, Author, Woodcraft, and PeaceGrooves: the hope that creativity will continue flowing through me rather than being swallowed up by discouragement, exhaustion, or fear.

Perhaps healing is everywhere in this drawing without having been named. It is hidden beneath almost every word: Let me be well enough, free enough, encouraged enough, and alive enough to keep inhabiting these loves.

But perhaps the omission also tells me something tender and difficult about myself. When I think about the future, I often think first about what I can give, create, serve, love, and build. I may not always think first about what I need. This picture invites me to remember that somewhere in the glowing year ahead, there must also be room for my own care. I am not only the husband, pastor, artist, author, musician, friend, and creator. I am also a person who needs healing, rest, gentleness, and grace.

The Smear Between Author and Husband

One of the small accidents in the piece occurred in the space between Author and Husband. Water smeared the color there, and I had to cover it as best I could. I was mostly able to hide the mistake, though I know it happened. I know that beneath the finished surface there is a place where the colors once ran together in a way I did not intend.

That accidental smear now feels strangely meaningful. Author and Husband are two of my most intimate identities: the part of me that creates worlds and gives language to inner experience, and the part of me that shares an actual life in love and covenant with another person. Perhaps those two identities were never meant to be sharply separated. My writing rises from my lived relationships, from tenderness, memory, fear, faith, longing, disappointment, and love. And my creative life inevitably spills into the life I share with my wife.

The water touched the border between those words, and I tried to repair it. That is not a failure of the picture. It may be one of the most honest parts of it. Life does not remain perfectly inside the lines. The roles I care most about do not remain untouched by mess, vulnerability, or accident. Sometimes the colors run together. Sometimes I try to cover what went wrong. Sometimes a trace remains, visible mostly to me.

Yet I did not throw the picture away. I continued working on it. I allowed the imperfection to become part of the finished whole.

Perhaps that is an image of grace. A life of grace is not a life where nothing ever gets smeared. It is a life in which even the smeared places can be incorporated into the beauty.

Church: Almost Illegible

I also noticed that Church almost looks like “Churgh.” It is there, but it is not the clearest or most immediately readable word. That, too, feels symbolic.

Church is deeply present in my hopes for the coming year. It is part of who I am, part of my calling, part of my relationship with God and with community. But church is not always simple or perfectly clear. It can be difficult to read. It can be beautiful and messy, life-giving and exhausting, sacred and profoundly human all at once.

In this picture, church does not appear by itself in a clean, isolated space. It is crowded into a circling path alongside other words: Love, Friends, Art, perhaps even the movements of creativity and ministry surrounding it. That seems truthful. For me, church is not separate from love, friendship, art, imagination, service, or reconciliation. It is entangled with them.

The fact that the word is only almost clear may express something I feel: church is something I continue to believe in and belong to, while also still trying to see clearly. It is present. It matters. It is part of the year I hope to live. But it is not polished or uncomplicated.

Perhaps that is what makes it real.

The Shape of the Year

The large number itself is not simply filled in. It becomes a winding course. The words curve around turns and corners; some appear upright from one angle and upside down from another. To read the whole image, I almost have to rotate it, follow it, and let my eyes travel through it.

That feels like an honest representation of the year ahead. I do not know exactly how it will unfold. My hopes do not form a straight road or a neatly numbered plan. They form a brightly lit labyrinth. Something that appears upside down from one position may look different once I travel farther along the curve. Something that seems peripheral now may become central. Something disappointing may redirect me toward an unexpected opening.

This drawing does not say, Here is my plan to master the next year.

It says, Here is the glowing path I hope to inhabit.

That is truer to my life. Music feeds ministry. Woodcraft feeds contemplation. Writing feeds faith. PeaceGrooves gathers together my imagination, my longing for peace, my love of play, and my desire to offer something meaningful to others. Marriage and friendship keep my creative life from becoming merely solitary. Church places my personal dreams within a larger body. God is not outside all these things, looking down upon them from a distance, but present among them.

My life is not a ladder climbing toward a single success. It is a winding, illuminated journey through many loves.

The Lights Around the Border

The repeated yellow bulbs around the border give the piece a vintage, celebratory feeling. They make the year look like something being announced: a show beginning, a stage opening, a bright invitation to enter.

There is something almost exuberant about it. I did not draw a quiet little calendar page or a restrained list of intentions. I drew the year as a spectacle of hope. These dreams are not small to me. They are worthy of light. Music, laughter, love, friendship, art, faith, craft, writing, church, PeaceGrooves—these are not hobbies or decorative extras around the edge of life. They are among the things that make life worth living.

And yet the lights are not machine-perfect. They are hand-drawn. Each one is slightly different. Some are rounder, some rougher, some more irregular. That matters too. The brightness of this coming year is not a slick commercial promise that everything will be perfect. It is the brightness I have carefully drawn around my hopes with my own imperfect hand.

Most moving of all, the lights continue around the bends. They do not shine only along the smooth or impressive stretches. They follow the narrow turns, the dips, the places where the shape curls inward. The light does not abandon the complicated places.

What This Picture Says to Me

This is a picture of my hope not merely to survive another year, but to remain fully myself within it.

I want to sing and play.

I want to laugh.

I want to remember.

I want to journey.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to remain a husband, a pastor, an author, an artist, a craftsman, a musician, a friend, and a dreamer.

I want PeaceGrooves not merely to exist as a project, but to become an expression of something deep within me: my longing to imagine, create, and make peace.

I want God not as an abstract religious idea floating somewhere outside my life, but as a living presence woven among music, love, creativity, friendship, church, memory, laughter, and journey.

And perhaps beneath the entire picture is the word I did not write: wholeness.

Wholeness includes health. It includes healing. But it is larger than both. It is the hope that all these different names for myself will not compete with one another, break apart, or fade away, but somehow curve together into a single radiant life.

The smear between Author and Husband, the almost-illegible Church, the reversed words, the crowded pathways, the uneven bulbs, and the wandering design do not lessen the picture. They make it more truthful.

My hopes for the next year are not cleanly arranged or perfectly protected from mistakes. They are handmade. They are entangled. They are vulnerable. They are colorful. They are imperfect.

And they are still shining.

Becoming Zero

A Sermon on Our Value in Christ

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Philippians 2:1–13

Introduction

There is a strange kind of math at the heart of Christian faith.

Most of us are taught to become something: successful, respected, secure, noticed. We want a place, a voice, a purpose. There is nothing wrong with wanting life to matter. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be seen and loved.

And today, as we honor our graduates, we give thanks for real accomplishment, for effort, growth, perseverance, and the doors that now open before them. But I also want to bless them with this deeper challenge: do not let the world’s calculations of what counts for success be the measure for your life.

The world often teaches us an anxious kind of success. It teaches us to add and add and add: accomplishments, things, recognition, possessions, influence, control, certainty, proof that we are right, evidence that we matter.

Then Paul gives us the mathematics of Jesus.
Jesus, who had equality with God, did not use it for his own advantage.
Jesus emptied himself.
Jesus took the form of a servant.
Jesus became obedient, even to death on a cross.

Jesus became zero.

Not worthless. Not meaningless. Not erased. But emptied of grasping for power. Emptied of the need to dominate. Emptied of the need to stand above others. Emptied so completely that the love of God could be witnessed without obstruction.

Let us pray:

Que las palabras de mi boca y las meditaciones de nuestros corazones sean agradables a tus ojos, oh Dios, roca nuestra y redentor nuestro. Amén.

Homily

Becoming zero does not mean believing we have no value. It does not mean allowing ourselves or others to be diminished or abused in the name of humility. That is not the way of Christ. The humility of Jesus does not protect oppression; it exposes it. The self-emptying of Christ is not self-destruction.

To become zero is not to become nothing.

To become zero is to become free.

I once wrote a short poem called “Becoming Zero,” subtitled “The Mathematics of the Divine.” It begins:

“It is where
I need to be
not past the center
into negativity
but more of others
and less of me”

That is the distinction we need. Becoming zero is not moving past the center into despair, shame, worthlessness, or self-hatred. It is the place where my needs, preferences, anxieties, opinions, and desires are no longer the measure of everything.

It is, as the poem says, “more of others / and less of me.”

And then the poem continues:

“What were gains
I now consider loss
for where the axes
meet at zero
they make a cross”

Where the axes meet at zero, they make a cross.

That is Philippians 2. The vertical line: love of God. The horizontal line: love of neighbor. And at the center: Christ, emptied, humbled, crucified, and yet revealing the very heart of God.

So when Paul says, “Value others above yourselves,” he is not asking us to wander into negativity. He is asking us to come to the cross-shaped center.

Paul writes:

No hagan nada por ambición egoísta ni por vanidad.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.”

That sentence alone could transform the church.

Imagine if it became not just a verse we admire, but a practice we live. Imagine if every time we entered a room we asked, “Whose good am I seeking?” Imagine a disagreement where people asked, “How can I understand the interest of the other before defending my own?” Imagine life lived where the question was not, “How do I get my way?” but “How do we become more faithful to Christ together?”

That is the community Paul is describing.

“If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion…”

Paul is appealing to what the church at Phillipi has already received. If Christ has encouraged us, if love has comforted us, if the Spirit has drawn us into fellowship, then those gifts should become visible in the way we treat one another.

La vida de la iglesia debe ser el desbordamiento de la gracia de Dios.

Church life should be the overflow of God’s grace.

If we have been comforted by Christ, we become comforting people.
If we have been forgiven by Christ, we become forgiving people.
If we have been welcomed by Christ, we become welcoming people.
If we have been served by Christ, we become servants of all.

Paul says, “Be like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind.”

That does not mean everyone in the church must have the same personality, opinions, politics, beliefs, preferences, background, or tastes. Christian unity is not sameness. The church is a body, not a wall of identical bricks.

La unidad significa que nuestras diferencias se reúnen bajo el señorío de Cristo.

Unity means our differences are gathered under the lordship of Christ.

We can disagree and still ask, “How do I love you?” We can see things differently and still ask, “How do I honor Christ in how I speak to you?” We can have strong convictions and still refuse selfish ambition and vain conceit.

That phrase “selfish ambition” matters. Paul is not condemning all ambition. There are holy ambitions: to serve well, love deeply, seek justice, create beauty, build peace, preach truth, care for the suffering.

He is naming the ambition that curves inward.

Selfish ambition says: I must win. I must be seen. I must be right. I must get credit. I must protect my place. I must not become less.

Then Paul names “vain conceit”: empty glory, hollow importance, the need to appear larger than we are.

Against all of that, Paul says: humility.

But humility is often misunderstood. Humility is not pretending our gifts are not real. Humility is not saying, “I am terrible at everything,” when God has given us abilities. True humility is living in the truth:

I am deeply loved, but I am not the center.
I have gifts, but they are not mine to hoard.
I have needs, but so do others.
I have a voice, but so does my neighbor.
I have interests, but they are not the only interests that matter.

Paul says:

“Not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.”

He does not say we have no interests. He does not say our needs do not matter. He does not command a community where some are always sacrificed for the comfort of others. In a healthy body, every member matters. En un cuerpo sano, cada miembro importa.

This is where John the Baptist helps us.

In the Gospel of John, John’s disciples come to him worried. Jesus is baptizing. Crowds are going to Jesus. John’s influence is decreasing. His ministry is no longer at the center.

And John says:

“He must become greater; I must become less.”

That is becoming zero.

John does not say it with bitterness. He does not say, “Well, I guess I failed.”

John fundamentally understands his calling. John is not the bridegroom. He is the friend of the bridegroom. John is not the light. He bears witness to the light. John’s joy is not in being central. His joy is in pointing to Christ.

John is free because he knows who he is and whose he is. He can decrease because his identity is not threatened by Christ’s increase.

Ministry is not about us. It’s about Jesus. Our identity and value are rooted in Christ. Like John, we are free because we know who we are and whose we are. And that manifests itself in our relationships with others. As Paul says:

En vuestras relaciones entre vosotros, tened la misma mentalidad que Cristo Jesús.

“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

“In your relationships.” At home. At church. In disagreement. In conflict. In leadership. In service. In community. Have the mind of Christ there.

And what is the mind of Christ?

Jesus does not humble himself from a place of lowliness. He humbles himself from the highest place. He does not become servant because he has no power. He becomes servant because this is what divine love does with power.

The world uses power to dominate. Jesus uses power to serve.
The world uses status to separate. Jesus uses status to kneel.
The world uses authority to command attention. Jesus uses authority to wash feet.

This is why “Becoming Zero” is not just an individual spiritual idea. It is the shape of the church.

A zero-shaped church is a church where people make room.

It is where the strong do not use their strength to get their way, but to support the weak. It is where her members do not say, “This church belongs to us,” but, “How can we welcome those God is bringing among us?” It is where leaders do not ask, “How can I be important?” but, “How can I help others flourish?”

A zero-shaped church is where people in conflict do not rush to defend themselves first, but pause long enough to ask, “What burden, wound, hope, loss, care might my brother or sister be carrying?”

And this is where we must be honest: valuing others above ourselves is hard.

It sounds beautiful until someone else’s interests inconvenience us. It sounds holy until someone else’s needs require us to change. It sounds inspiring until valuing another person means listening longer than we wanted, apologizing more honestly than we planned, giving up a preference we cherished, or making room for a voice we would rather not hear.

There is a kind of mathematics that says: If someone else gains, I lose.

But Christ gives us different math. I call it The Geometry of Grace.

In Christ, another person’s dignity does not SUBTRACT from mine. Another person’s voice does not erase mine. Another person’s gift does not make mine meaningless.

God loved us 100% before we even learned to loved God 1%. My friends, that’s the Geometry of Grace.

Division disappears and the church grows like in Acts where people were ADDED to their number every day. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The dignity of all of us is multiplied to become a sum greater than its parts. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The first become last, the negative becomes positive, the least of these become Christ, and King of kings chooses to become zero….

“Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name…”

This is not a strategy for self-promotion. We do not humble ourselves in order to get applause later. We do not become servants as a clever way to become masters. That would just be selfish ambition wearing religious clothing.

But Paul wants us to know that self-emptying is not annihilation. The humbled Christ is exalted. The crucified one is Lord. God vindicates self-giving love.

Paul ends:

“Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.”

Work out your salvation. Ocupaos de vuestra salvación.

Not work for your salvation because God is at work in you. The you here is plural. Do you believe that God is working in you? Do you believe that God is working in your sisters and brothers here? Do you believe that God is at work in our community, nation, and the world?

The mindset of Christ is being formed within us. God is working in us to will and to act according to God’s good purpose.

So yes, we practice. Yes, we choose. Yes, we repent. Yes, we listen. Yes, we serve. Yes, we learn to lay down selfish ambition and vain conceit.

But underneath our work is God’s work.

God is making us into the kind of people who can love like this. God is making us into the kind of church where people do not have to compete for worth. God is making us into a body where Christ is made visible more and more each and every day.

The text today is an invitation, but it also raises some hard questions. Let’s reflect on these together:

What do you need to let go? ¿Qué necesitas liberar?

Are you clinging to status, preference, control, resentment, recognition, or the need to be right?

Where is Christ inviting you to become less, not because you do not matter, but because Christ matters more?

Where is Christ inviting you to value another person’s interests above your own?

¿En qué momento te invita Cristo a valorar los intereses de otra persona por encima de los tuyos?

Maybe it is in your family. Maybe it is in this congregation. Maybe it is with someone you are avoiding. Maybe it is in a disagreement where you have been preparing your defense rather than your compassion. Maybe it is in a ministry where you need to rejoice that someone else is now carrying what you once carried. Maybe it is simply in the daily hidden work of making room.

John said, “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

Paul said, “Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

Jesus said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”

This is the way of the kingdom.

Not upward grasping, but downward love.
Not selfish ambition, but shared joy.
Not vain conceit, but holy humility.
Not my interests alone, but the interests of others.
Not becoming nothing, but becoming free in everything.

So let us become zero.

Let us become empty enough for Christ to fill us.
Low enough for Christ to lift us.
Humble enough for Christ to be seen in and through us.
Free enough to value one another above ourselves.
Loving enough to make room for all God’s children.

And may the same mind be in us that is in Christ Jesus.

Let us pray:

Prayer (Less of Me by Glen Campbell)

Let me be a little kinder
Let me be a little blinder
To the faults of those about me
Let me praise a little more

Let me be when I am weary
Just a little bit more cheery
Think a little more of others
And a little less of me

Let me be a little braver
When temptation bids me waver
Let me strive a little harder
To be all that I should be

Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker
Let me think more of my neighbor
And a little less of me

May it be so

In the name of our Servant King, Jesus the Christ.

Amen

The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

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

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

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

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

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

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

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

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

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

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

The Unknown God

A Sermon about the Idols of Yesterday and Today

Acts 17:16–31

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

In our scripture this morning, Paul walks into Athens, a city overflowing with religion, beauty, ideas, temples, shrines, altars, arguments, and gods.

Athens is not empty.

Athens is crowded.

And Paul is deeply troubled.

Paul is not troubled because Athens is secular. He is troubled because Athens is religious in all the wrong ways. The city is full of worship, but empty of surrender. Full of gods, but not the living God. Full of altars but still haunted by absence.

For among all those altars, Paul notices one inscription:

To an unknown god.

What a haunting phrase.

In the middle of all the Athenians’ certainty, there is still this admission: we may have missed something. We may not know as much as we think. There may still be a God we have not recognized.

And I wonder if that is not where many people are right now.

Not atheists necessarily. Not even irreligious. But uncertain. Searching. Guarded. Spiritual, yet suspicious of certainty. Curious yet afraid of being closed off or closed in. Open and yet not really able to surrender to truth. Religious and yet still missing God.

La Atenas de Pablo no es solamente historia antigua; también describe nuestro mundo de hoy.

So Athens is not just ancient history.

Athens is now.

Let us pray.

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Homily

Like the Athens of Paul’s day, our world today is full of altars too.

Altars to nation. Altars to wealth. Altars to image. Altars to safety. Altars to tribe. Altars to ideology. Altars to the market. Altars to the screen. Altars to the self.

We, like the Athenians, have all kinds of gods.

One reason I think our public discourse feels so fractured is that we are not just arguing about small things. We are bringing completely different belief systems into the room.

In Athens there were Jews who worshiped the one living God; God-fearing Greeks drawn toward that God but not fully committed; Epicureans who sought calm and freedom from fear; Stoics who valued reason, virtue, order, and discipline; and this strange altar to an unknown god, an altar that says, “We do not want to miss the divine. We know there is more than we can name.”

Paul proclaims a God who is not vague, not distant, not merely a principle, not one more option in the marketplace of ideas. Paul proclaims the God who made the world and everything in it, the God who gives life and breath to all, the God who cannot be reduced to shrines or captured in gold or silver or stone or circuitry, the God who is near to all, the God who now calls all people everywhere to repent because God has raised Jesus from the dead.

Pablo anuncia que Dios no es una idea vaga ni un ídolo más, sino el Creador que da vida, aliento y resurrección.

Some may believe truth is revealed and binding. Others are spiritual, but indefinite. Others have been wounded by the church and do not know whether the word “God” is invitation or threat.

And into all of that, Christian witness says: the world belongs to its Creator, and history has turned in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

When Paul is brought to the Areopagus, we might imagine a cozy invitation. Maybe there is curiosity there, but there is also something more serious. Paul is being examined. Tested. Weighed. Asked to explain himself in public.

Paul is heard, but under suspicion.

And how does he respond?

Not with coercion. Not with panic. Not with silence. Not with flattery. Not with domination.

He responds with witness.

Paul pays attention. He listens. He observes. He starts where the people are.

Pablo no responde con poder o miedo, sino con atención, humildad y testimonio.

Paul does not begin by quoting Moses. He does not begin where he is most comfortable. He begins with what his hearers can recognize: their altar, their poets, their longing, their language of divine nearness.

My friends, that is not compromise. That is faithful witness.

And this matters for us, because our witness cannot always sound exactly the same in every place, in every room, in every forum.

The gospel does not change. “Jesus Christ is Lord” – that doesn’t change either. The call to repentance, reconciliation, mercy, justice, truth, and abundant life this side of the resurrection does not change.

But the way we bear witness may depend on where we are and who is in front of us.

El evangelio no cambia, pero la manera de dar testimonio puede cambiar según el lugar y las personas.

When Paul is in the synagogue, he reasons from the scriptures. But when Paul is in Athens, among philosophers, idolaters, seekers, and skeptics, he begins somewhere else. He begins with creation. He begins with breath. He begins with longing. He begins with the altar they already have. He begins with the poetry they already know.

Paul does not start by asking them to enter his world. He first enters theirs.

That is not watering down the faith. That is speaking the truth in love. That is incarnation-shaped witness.

Pablo entra en el mundo de sus oyentes para poder anunciarles fielmente al Dios vivo.

Paul does not introduce Athens to a God who was absent until Paul arrived. Paul reveals the presence of a God they have already been brushing up against.

The God they called unknown has been waiting to be revealed.

Paul says this God gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. Paul says this God is not far from each one of us. Paul says, “In him we live and move and have our being.”

So maybe the question is not simply, “Will God show up?”

Maybe the deeper question is, “Will we recognize how God is already showing up?”

Which brings us to a question worth asking every day:

God, how are you going to show up today?

Not, “God, are you going to show up?”

But, “God, how are you going to show up?”

La pregunta no es solo si Dios aparecerá, sino si tendremos ojos para reconocer cómo Dios ya está presente.

Because Acts 17 reveals to us that God may already be present before people have the right language. God may already be at work before someone has the right doctrine. God may already be stirring longing before anyone knows how to name that longing.

God may already be there in the question. God may already be there in the difference. God may already be there in the ache. God may already be there in the crack in someone’s certainty.

Paul sees an altar to an unknown god, and he does not only see idolatry. He also sees longing. He sees an opening. He sees a place where witness can begin.

Dios puede estar obrando en la pregunta, en el dolor, en el anhelo, aun antes de que sepamos nombrarlo.

And then Paul does something just as important:

He does not stay there.

He builds a bridge, yes. But he also tells the truth.

He says, in effect, “The God you do not know is the God who made you. The God you have not recognized is the God who gives you breath. The God you have left unnamed is not contained in your temples. The God you seek cannot be reduced to your idols.”

Because idolatry is not just about statues.

Idolatry is whenever we try to bind God to our own systems of power and belief.

Idolatry is when nation becomes ultimate. Idolatry is when wealth becomes sacred. Idolatry is when violence is blessed. Idolatry is when “they” usurps “us.” Idolatry is when “my people” become more important than “humanity.” Idolatry is when our beliefs matter more than relationships. Idolatry is when our politics, grievances, fears, and identities begin to function as gods.

And let us be honest: the church is not exempt.

Athens is not only out there.

Athens is in here.

Athens is in us whenever we want a manageable god. Athens is in us whenever we want a useful god. Athens is in us whenever we want a god who blesses our side, confirms our assumptions, secures our system, and God forbid, never ever, disrupts our loyalties.

But Paul says the living God does not dwell in temples made by human hands.

That means God is not mine, yours, ours to manage.

Dios no pertenece a nuestros sistemas; nosotros pertenecemos al Dios vivo.

Which begs the question:

God, how are you going to show up?

Because we often want God to show up in familiar ways. Predictable ways. Comfortable ways. Worshipful, yes, but also manageable.

But what if the living God shows up in ways that unsettle us?

What if God shows up in the person we dismissed? What if God shows up in the hard conversation? What if God shows up in the exposure of an idol? What if God shows up in a call to repentance? What if God shows up not to decorate our little altars, but to overturn them?

There are some places where our witness begins with Scripture. Some where it begins with service. Some with silence. Some with apology. Some with saying, “Tell me more.”

There are some places where our witness begins not by answering a question no one is asking, but by noticing the altar in the room, the longing in the room, the wound in the room, the fear in the room, the unknown god in the room.

And yet, Christian witness does not end with vague spirituality.

Paul does not say, “Well, you have your gods, and I have mine, and maybe underneath it all we mean the same thing.”

No.

He moves to repentance.

He moves to judgment.

He moves to resurrection.

Because resurrection means God has shown up in Jesus Christ.

The unknown God is unknown no longer.

Not because we figured God out, but because God has acted. Because Christ has been raised.

El Dios desconocido se ha dado a conocer en Jesucristo, crucificado y resucitado.

Because death is not lord. Caesar is not lord. The economy is not lord. Violence is not lord. Fear is not lord. (Fill in the blank) is not lord. Like we say down South, those dogs don’t hunt.

Jesus Christ is Lord. Jesus Christ is Lord. Jesus Christ is Lord!

The Cosmic Christ is more than just our own personal Jesus. And that means resurrection is not just good news for me, or my private soul. Or you and your private soul.  It is the announcement of a new humanity under a new Lord. A new community. A new allegiance. A new public witness.

La resurrección anuncia una nueva humanidad bajo el señorío de Cristo.

That is who the church is meant to be.

Not simply a chaplain to the culture. Not another little religious booth in the marketplace of ideas. Not a baptizer of empire. Not a slave to ideology.

The church is the gathering of a resurrection people.

A people who do not only say, “God, show up.”

But a people who say,

God, help us recognize how you are showing up.

La iglesia existe para reconocer y encarnar la presencia del Cristo resucitado en el mundo.

So ask the question.

Ask it every morning. Ask it before worship. Ask it before the meeting. Ask it before the conversation. Ask it before you enter the room.

God, how are you going to show up?

And then ask the next question:

God, how are you calling me to show up?

To show up in worship, to show up in our community, to show up in the public square, to show up in the hard conversation, to show up in the awkward silence, and to show up in the uncomfortable moment when it would be easier to walk away.

My friends, we are the church of God. We are resurrection people, and resurrection people do not hide behind rose-colored stained-glass windows.

We show up because God first showed up.

We show up not because we are fearless, but because we are faithful. We show up not because every moment is easy, but because love is present. We show up not because we control the outcome, but because Christ is Lord. We show up not to dominate, not to coerce, not to win, but to bear witness.

Nos presentamos no para dominar, sino para dar testimonio con fidelidad, amor, humildad y paz.

And our witness may look different depending on where we are.

In worship, we show up with praise. In the neighborhood, with service. In conflict, with humility. In public life, with truth and peace. Among the wounded, with gentleness. Among the arrogant, with courage. Among the uncertain, with patience. Among the idols, with discernment.

Paul showed up in Athens.

He showed up in a city full of idols, in misunderstanding, under scrutiny, in the awkwardness of difference.

He showed up with a witness shaped by the place he was in.

He did not abandon the gospel.

He embodied it.

He trusted that God was already there ahead of him.

Pablo confió en que Dios ya estaba presente antes de que él hablara.

Maybe that is our calling too.

Not to have every answer. Not to control every room. Not to force belief.

But to show up with courage, humility, truth, and love, because the God who seemed unknown has already come near.

So this week, before you enter the room, begin the conversation, make the assumption, or speak the word, ask:

God, how are you going to show up here, in this moment, today?

And then ask:

Lord Jesus, how are you calling me to show up, here, in this moment, today, with you?

Because the God who was unknown has been made known, and the God who has been made known is still showing up, in us and in the people around us, in our homes and in the homes next door, in our neighborhood and in the communities down the road, in our nation and in all the nations of the world.

May God grant us open eyes and willing hearts to see and serve.

Let us pray.

https://anabaptistworld.org/u-s-defense-bill-calls-for-automatic-draft-registration/

#Conscription #Draft #SelectiveService #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ConscientiousObjection

Tagging: @MilitaryLawTaskForce @ehasbrouck

https://anabaptistworld.org/u-s-defense-bill-calls-for-automatic-draft-registration/

#Conscription #Draft #SelectiveService #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ConscientiousObjection

Tagging: @MilitaryLawTaskForce @ehasbrouck

https://anabaptistworld.org/u-s-defense-bill-calls-for-automatic-draft-registration/

#Conscription #Draft #SelectiveService #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ConscientiousObjection

Tagging: @MilitaryLawTaskForce @ehasbrouck

https://anabaptistworld.org/u-s-defense-bill-calls-for-automatic-draft-registration/

#Conscription #Draft #SelectiveService #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ConscientiousObjection

Tagging: @MilitaryLawTaskForce @ehasbrouck

https://anabaptistworld.org/u-s-defense-bill-calls-for-automatic-draft-registration/

#Conscription #Draft #SelectiveService #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ConscientiousObjection

Tagging: @MilitaryLawTaskForce @ehasbrouck

Hype for the Future 40C: Southeastern Pennsylvania

https://novatopflex.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/hype-for-the-future-40c-southeastern-pennsylvania/

Hype for the Future 40C: Southeastern Pennsylvania

https://novatopflex.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/hype-for-the-future-40c-southeastern-pennsylvania/

Hype for the Future 40C: Southeastern Pennsylvania

https://novatopflex.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/hype-for-the-future-40c-southeastern-pennsylvania/

Hype for the Future 40C: Southeastern Pennsylvania

https://novatopflex.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/hype-for-the-future-40c-southeastern-pennsylvania/

Hype for the Future 40C: Southeastern Pennsylvania

https://novatopflex.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/hype-for-the-future-40c-southeastern-pennsylvania/

https://anabaptistworld.org/whistles-a-nonviolent-way-to-resist/

#Mennonite #Anabaptist #ResistFascism #Fascism #Whistles #Ice

https://anabaptistworld.org/whistles-a-nonviolent-way-to-resist/

#Mennonite #Anabaptist #ResistFascism #Fascism #Whistles #Ice

https://anabaptistworld.org/whistles-a-nonviolent-way-to-resist/

#Mennonite #Anabaptist #ResistFascism #Fascism #Whistles #Ice

https://anabaptistworld.org/whistles-a-nonviolent-way-to-resist/

#Mennonite #Anabaptist #ResistFascism #Fascism #Whistles #Ice

https://anabaptistworld.org/whistles-a-nonviolent-way-to-resist/

#Mennonite #Anabaptist #ResistFascism #Fascism #Whistles #Ice

Sharing this from another Social media platform:

#MennoniteAction is turning two, and it's a sobering anniversary. We wish to see a free #Palestine, and see our work become obsolete. And yet, we're encouraged by two years of faithful expression of #solidarity, two years of learning, training, taking bold public action, and experiencing unity together in this movement. We invite all in our community of #Mennonites 4Ceasefire
to join us on November 20th for our Anniversary Call, this month's Mass Call oriented to reflection, remembering, and recommitting to the work that still lies ahead. RSVP to join here: https://www.mennoniteaction.org/call

#Palestine #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ShalomSalaam

Sharing this from another Social media platform:

#MennoniteAction is turning two, and it's a sobering anniversary. We wish to see a free #Palestine, and see our work become obsolete. And yet, we're encouraged by two years of faithful expression of #solidarity, two years of learning, training, taking bold public action, and experiencing unity together in this movement. We invite all in our community of #Mennonites 4Ceasefire
to join us on November 20th for our Anniversary Call, this month's Mass Call oriented to reflection, remembering, and recommitting to the work that still lies ahead. RSVP to join here: https://www.mennoniteaction.org/call

#Palestine #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ShalomSalaam

Sharing this from another Social media platform:

#MennoniteAction is turning two, and it's a sobering anniversary. We wish to see a free #Palestine, and see our work become obsolete. And yet, we're encouraged by two years of faithful expression of #solidarity, two years of learning, training, taking bold public action, and experiencing unity together in this movement. We invite all in our community of #Mennonites 4Ceasefire
to join us on November 20th for our Anniversary Call, this month's Mass Call oriented to reflection, remembering, and recommitting to the work that still lies ahead. RSVP to join here: https://www.mennoniteaction.org/call

#Palestine #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ShalomSalaam

Sharing this from another Social media platform:

#MennoniteAction is turning two, and it's a sobering anniversary. We wish to see a free #Palestine, and see our work become obsolete. And yet, we're encouraged by two years of faithful expression of #solidarity, two years of learning, training, taking bold public action, and experiencing unity together in this movement. We invite all in our community of #Mennonites 4Ceasefire
to join us on November 20th for our Anniversary Call, this month's Mass Call oriented to reflection, remembering, and recommitting to the work that still lies ahead. RSVP to join here: https://www.mennoniteaction.org/call

#Palestine #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ShalomSalaam

Sharing this from another Social media platform:

#MennoniteAction is turning two, and it's a sobering anniversary. We wish to see a free #Palestine, and see our work become obsolete. And yet, we're encouraged by two years of faithful expression of #solidarity, two years of learning, training, taking bold public action, and experiencing unity together in this movement. We invite all in our community of #Mennonites 4Ceasefire
to join us on November 20th for our Anniversary Call, this month's Mass Call oriented to reflection, remembering, and recommitting to the work that still lies ahead. RSVP to join here: https://www.mennoniteaction.org/call

#Palestine #Mennonite #Anabaptist #Peace #ShalomSalaam

My interests and hobbies are quite varied!
You may not want to sign up for all of it?
These are some of my common topics that you may wish to follow or mute:

⚽️ football/soccer (#fedifc) particularly #USWNT, #USMNT, #IXI (#USL), #CFC (#championsleague), and now #Bundesliga
🎶 music, particularly electronic, metal, and genre crossover things like industrial, darkjazz, trip-hop, etc.
🎲 table games, especially #ttrpg games
🚲 cycling and alternate transportation #waroncars
🕊️ faith with an #anabaptist and #mennonite perspective
🗳️🏴 politics with a left-libertarian, pacifist (see above) and anarchist perspective
🛡️ product and cyber security
🔎♻️ wildlife and watershed discipleship
🛶🥾 outdoor activities

This 500th anniversary of the founding of the #Anabaptist movement (from which the Mennonites, Brethern, Amish, and realted traditions sprung forth --- and that were theological cousins of the early Baptists) is all the more important to me this year, because of what happened yesterday in this nation. I'm grateful that the Anabaptist tradition is very clear that we do not kiss the ring, we do not bow the knee to the empire, ever.

This is one of the reasons I treasure my connections to this tradition.

One detail of my religious journey that many do not know, is that I chose to become Jewish through the Humanistic movement primarily because it was (and as far as I know still is), the only Jewish movement that is open to biereligous converts (those who are seeking to become Jewish, while still maintaining connections to another tradition). I had fallen in love with #Judaism (thankfully a passion that still is with me 10 years later), but I also loved the Mennonites, particularly its strong belief in the moral imperative of peace (or rather the Hebrew concept of Shalom which is far more than the cessation of hostility but also has the connotations of harmony, equity, and wholeness), a belief that #nationalism is just another form of idolatry, and the power of simple living (even though I do a lousy job of living this out). In other words, at its best moments, the #Mennonite / Anabaptist tradition provides a critical witness against the values of the American Empire through its focus on the ethical earthly teachings of Jesus.

I am grateful that I was able to find a path to embracing Judaism that did not require me to leave my Mennonite values out.

And so I say, Happy 500th birthday to the Anabaptist movement! And thank you to #HumanisticJudaism for giving me a way to be true to my #bireligoius values.

(graphic from Druhart on FB)

#Anabaptism500 #Theology #AntiNationalism

This 500th anniversary of the founding of the #Anabaptist movement (from which the Mennonites, Brethern, Amish, and realted traditions sprung forth --- and that were theological cousins of the early Baptists) is all the more important to me this year, because of what happened yesterday in this nation. I'm grateful that the Anabaptist tradition is very clear that we do not kiss the ring, we do not bow the knee to the empire, ever.

This is one of the reasons I treasure my connections to this tradition.

One detail of my religious journey that many do not know, is that I chose to become Jewish through the Humanistic movement primarily because it was (and as far as I know still is), the only Jewish movement that is open to biereligous converts (those who are seeking to become Jewish, while still maintaining connections to another tradition). I had fallen in love with #Judaism (thankfully a passion that still is with me 10 years later), but I also loved the Mennonites, particularly its strong belief in the moral imperative of peace (or rather the Hebrew concept of Shalom which is far more than the cessation of hostility but also has the connotations of harmony, equity, and wholeness), a belief that #nationalism is just another form of idolatry, and the power of simple living (even though I do a lousy job of living this out). In other words, at its best moments, the #Mennonite / Anabaptist tradition provides a critical witness against the values of the American Empire through its focus on the ethical earthly teachings of Jesus.

I am grateful that I was able to find a path to embracing Judaism that did not require me to leave my Mennonite values out.

And so I say, Happy 500th birthday to the Anabaptist movement! And thank you to #HumanisticJudaism for giving me a way to be true to my #bireligoius values.

(graphic from Druhart on FB)

#Anabaptism500 #Theology #AntiNationalism

This 500th anniversary of the founding of the #Anabaptist movement (from which the Mennonites, Brethern, Amish, and realted traditions sprung forth --- and that were theological cousins of the early Baptists) is all the more important to me this year, because of what happened yesterday in this nation. I'm grateful that the Anabaptist tradition is very clear that we do not kiss the ring, we do not bow the knee to the empire, ever.

This is one of the reasons I treasure my connections to this tradition.

One detail of my religious journey that many do not know, is that I chose to become Jewish through the Humanistic movement primarily because it was (and as far as I know still is), the only Jewish movement that is open to biereligous converts (those who are seeking to become Jewish, while still maintaining connections to another tradition). I had fallen in love with #Judaism (thankfully a passion that still is with me 10 years later), but I also loved the Mennonites, particularly its strong belief in the moral imperative of peace (or rather the Hebrew concept of Shalom which is far more than the cessation of hostility but also has the connotations of harmony, equity, and wholeness), a belief that #nationalism is just another form of idolatry, and the power of simple living (even though I do a lousy job of living this out). In other words, at its best moments, the #Mennonite / Anabaptist tradition provides a critical witness against the values of the American Empire through its focus on the ethical earthly teachings of Jesus.

I am grateful that I was able to find a path to embracing Judaism that did not require me to leave my Mennonite values out.

And so I say, Happy 500th birthday to the Anabaptist movement! And thank you to #HumanisticJudaism for giving me a way to be true to my #bireligoius values.

(graphic from Druhart on FB)

#Anabaptism500 #Theology #AntiNationalism

This 500th anniversary of the founding of the #Anabaptist movement (from which the Mennonites, Brethern, Amish, and realted traditions sprung forth --- and that were theological cousins of the early Baptists) is all the more important to me this year, because of what happened yesterday in this nation. I'm grateful that the Anabaptist tradition is very clear that we do not kiss the ring, we do not bow the knee to the empire, ever.

This is one of the reasons I treasure my connections to this tradition.

One detail of my religious journey that many do not know, is that I chose to become Jewish through the Humanistic movement primarily because it was (and as far as I know still is), the only Jewish movement that is open to biereligous converts (those who are seeking to become Jewish, while still maintaining connections to another tradition). I had fallen in love with #Judaism (thankfully a passion that still is with me 10 years later), but I also loved the Mennonites, particularly its strong belief in the moral imperative of peace (or rather the Hebrew concept of Shalom which is far more than the cessation of hostility but also has the connotations of harmony, equity, and wholeness), a belief that #nationalism is just another form of idolatry, and the power of simple living (even though I do a lousy job of living this out). In other words, at its best moments, the #Mennonite / Anabaptist tradition provides a critical witness against the values of the American Empire through its focus on the ethical earthly teachings of Jesus.

I am grateful that I was able to find a path to embracing Judaism that did not require me to leave my Mennonite values out.

And so I say, Happy 500th birthday to the Anabaptist movement! And thank you to #HumanisticJudaism for giving me a way to be true to my #bireligoius values.

(graphic from Druhart on FB)

#Anabaptism500 #Theology #AntiNationalism

This 500th anniversary of the founding of the #Anabaptist movement (from which the Mennonites, Brethern, Amish, and realted traditions sprung forth --- and that were theological cousins of the early Baptists) is all the more important to me this year, because of what happened yesterday in this nation. I'm grateful that the Anabaptist tradition is very clear that we do not kiss the ring, we do not bow the knee to the empire, ever.

This is one of the reasons I treasure my connections to this tradition.

One detail of my religious journey that many do not know, is that I chose to become Jewish through the Humanistic movement primarily because it was (and as far as I know still is), the only Jewish movement that is open to biereligous converts (those who are seeking to become Jewish, while still maintaining connections to another tradition). I had fallen in love with #Judaism (thankfully a passion that still is with me 10 years later), but I also loved the Mennonites, particularly its strong belief in the moral imperative of peace (or rather the Hebrew concept of Shalom which is far more than the cessation of hostility but also has the connotations of harmony, equity, and wholeness), a belief that #nationalism is just another form of idolatry, and the power of simple living (even though I do a lousy job of living this out). In other words, at its best moments, the #Mennonite / Anabaptist tradition provides a critical witness against the values of the American Empire through its focus on the ethical earthly teachings of Jesus.

I am grateful that I was able to find a path to embracing Judaism that did not require me to leave my Mennonite values out.

And so I say, Happy 500th birthday to the Anabaptist movement! And thank you to #HumanisticJudaism for giving me a way to be true to my #bireligoius values.

(graphic from Druhart on FB)

#Anabaptism500 #Theology #AntiNationalism

Followed hashtags don't migrate, and weirdly you can't find a hashtag to manually follow it if you haven't federated with enough instances yet for those hashtags to have been used.

So I'm writing a post with some of my hashtags so I can click on them and follow them.

#Kitchener #Waterloo #WatReg #WaterlooRegion #RTZ #WeTheNorth #WNBA #Drupal #PHP #WordPress #Mennonite #Anabaptist #H5P #CarryShitOlympics #Bloomscrolling #WRAwesome #KWAwesome #PowerPlatform #Microsoft365 #SharePoint

Followed hashtags don't migrate, and weirdly you can't find a hashtag to manually follow it if you haven't federated with enough instances yet for those hashtags to have been used.

So I'm writing a post with some of my hashtags so I can click on them and follow them.

#Kitchener #Waterloo #WatReg #WaterlooRegion #RTZ #WeTheNorth #WNBA #Drupal #PHP #WordPress #Mennonite #Anabaptist #H5P #CarryShitOlympics #Bloomscrolling #WRAwesome #KWAwesome #PowerPlatform #Microsoft365 #SharePoint

Followed hashtags don't migrate, and weirdly you can't find a hashtag to manually follow it if you haven't federated with enough instances yet for those hashtags to have been used.

So I'm writing a post with some of my hashtags so I can click on them and follow them.

#Kitchener #Waterloo #WatReg #WaterlooRegion #RTZ #WeTheNorth #WNBA #Drupal #PHP #WordPress #Mennonite #Anabaptist #H5P #CarryShitOlympics #Bloomscrolling #WRAwesome #KWAwesome #PowerPlatform #Microsoft365 #SharePoint

Followed hashtags don't migrate, and weirdly you can't find a hashtag to manually follow it if you haven't federated with enough instances yet for those hashtags to have been used.

So I'm writing a post with some of my hashtags so I can click on them and follow them.

#Kitchener #Waterloo #WatReg #WaterlooRegion #RTZ #WeTheNorth #WNBA #Drupal #PHP #WordPress #Mennonite #Anabaptist #H5P #CarryShitOlympics #Bloomscrolling #WRAwesome #KWAwesome #PowerPlatform #Microsoft365 #SharePoint

Followed hashtags don't migrate, and weirdly you can't find a hashtag to manually follow it if you haven't federated with enough instances yet for those hashtags to have been used.

So I'm writing a post with some of my hashtags so I can click on them and follow them.

#Kitchener #Waterloo #WatReg #WaterlooRegion #RTZ #WeTheNorth #WNBA #Drupal #PHP #WordPress #Mennonite #Anabaptist #H5P #CarryShitOlympics #Bloomscrolling #WRAwesome #KWAwesome #PowerPlatform #Microsoft365 #SharePoint

#mennonite #amish #anabaptist #TheSimpsons

#mennonite #amish #anabaptist #TheSimpsons

'The Mennonite and Amish communities consider #sorghum syrup not only a practical and reliable sugar crop—resilient even amidst drought and other environmental extremes—but also a link to family and community far and near, past and present.' https://www.saveur.com/culture/anabaptist-sorghum-harvest/ #foodhistory #Anabaptist

'The Mennonite and Amish communities consider #sorghum syrup not only a practical and reliable sugar crop—resilient even amidst drought and other environmental extremes—but also a link to family and community far and near, past and present.' https://www.saveur.com/culture/anabaptist-sorghum-harvest/ #foodhistory #Anabaptist

'The Mennonite and Amish communities consider #sorghum syrup not only a practical and reliable sugar crop—resilient even amidst drought and other environmental extremes—but also a link to family and community far and near, past and present.' https://www.saveur.com/culture/anabaptist-sorghum-harvest/ #foodhistory #Anabaptist