In Acts 19, we meet Demetrius. He was a silversmith who made a good living crafting silver shrines of the goddess Artemis. For Demetrius and his colleagues, business was booming.

Until it wasn’t.

The gospel began spreading and people started turning from idol worship and toward The Way. Suddenly, idolatry was losing its profitability. Demetrius, worried about losing income and, perhaps, influence, stirred up the city. His no little protest against Paul quickly led to a riot.

To our ears, Paul's message may not sound controversial. For us, faith is a matter of choice. But don't miss how irrational and disruptive his message was to a poly-theistic world. To reject the gods of the Roman world would be to reject Roman civil life itself. You can hear that nervousness when Demetrius acknowledged that Artemis' reputation might suffer.

But the real trouble for Demetrius happened when people began living differently. That’s what I appreciate most about this moment. The problem wasn’t so much the preacher and his sermons but the response of the people. Panic didn’t set in when the word was in the pulpit but when faith got real.

As a preacher, that's something I pray for. Not good sermons, but real faith. Faith that reshapes priorities. Discipleship that impacts more than Sunday mornings.

When people follow Jesus with intention, things shift. Hearts change. Families change. Whole communities can change. Acts 19 shows us that even profit margins can tremble at the name of Jesus.

That's the kind of change we long for. A world where industries built on insecurity, exploitation or illusion feel pressure to change, too.

Sometimes it feels like the world doesn't just ignore the poor. It runs right over them.

The people with the most power or platform seem to have the loudest and more important voice. Meanwhile, those carrying the heaviest burdens get pushed further to the margins. And far too often, we not only overlook this reality, we participate in it. We let it happen. We might even benefit from it. 

But the psalmist doesn’t say, “I hope the Lord will help.” He says, “I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy and executes justice for the poor.” That’s faith rooted in trust and experience. That’s someone who has seen God act before and expects God to act again in a particular way with a particular alignment.

God defends the vulnerable. God notices when others overlook. God doesn’t take a that's-too-bad approach. God upholds their cause. That means God is involved, not distant. Active, not passive. "So you say you love the poor? What are their names," Gustavo Gutiérrez asked. God knows their name. Do we?

God secures justice and takes up the cause of the needy. And if that’s who God is, then we should resist anything that harms, silences or exploits the most vulnerable among us. As we do, we know we don’t carry the burden alone. We don’t have to fix everything ourselves. This already matters to the Lord.

In my tradition, when someone is baptized, they’re asked: “Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?” In my years of pastoral ministry, I’ve never heard anyone answer “no.” I’ve also never met anyone who said they doubt those things are real.

But I do wonder if we keep some of those words up on a high shelf. As mere lofty ideals, that freedom and power stay there out of our normal use and away from our everyday convictions. We believe in justice in theory, but we don’t always know what to do with it when evil hides behind systems, status or even religion.

As a kid, TV shaped my images of good and evil. God looked like a white-bearded man in the sky. The devil wore red, had horns and carried a pitchfork. But real evil is sneakier than that. It doesn’t always come with a costume. It shows up quietly, clothed in lies, inequality, pride and power grabs. It breaks peace. It divides community. And worst of all, it often wins.

Evil, injustice and oppression can even veil as right as they lie, cheat and hurt people. As peace makers, what's more frustrating and discouraging than watching evil prosper?

So, when you feel discouraged by what evil gets away with, pray. Pray like the psalmist. Is there other tangible work to do in the fight against injustice and evil? Of course. Some call that good trouble. But our willingness to pray in earnest and honesty shapes how we respond. Praying like the psalmist reminds me that when the wicked seems to win, God isn't done yet.

Stay blessed...john

Some days, it feels like everything is coming at you.

How many unkind words can you really take all at once? How many times does a simple misunderstanding spiral into something overblown? When have you felt the weight of someone else’s agenda pressing in on you? Even if it’s not full-on spiritual warfare, you can can feel like you’re under attack. From people, from life's pressures and even from past wounds that haven’t fully healed.

Psalm 140 gives us a way to pray in those moments.

First, start with who God is. “You are my God,” the psalmist says (v.6). That’s not just theology. That's a relationship. A life lived in communion with the Lord. When you feel cornered or overwhelmed, that reminder grounds you. It tells you my God is near. My God is listening. My God is mine.

Then the psalm offers a vivid image. Your God that loves you and is with you, is your shield. Sometimes we just need God to cover us. Our heads are where thoughts can linger, fears can grow and plans may form. When the day feels like a battle, ask God to guard not just your body, but your mind and your motives.

We've all heard the saying: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Wouldn’t it be nice if more people lived by that? It’s simple, practical wisdom. And we’d do well to encourage it more often.

But I like to add a follow-up question: "If you don't have anything nice to say, why not?" What’s going on in the heart that makes bitterness or venom feel like the only option?

I’ve lived in some great places. Each town or city we’ve called home has shaped our family, our story and our ministry in unique ways. Every place offers its own kind of beauty, opportunity, or culture.

Of course, no place is perfect. As great as these cities are, each has its needs. Some have more needs than others.

In 2 Kings 2, the people of Jericho tell Elisha, “The location of this city is good.” They probably didn't know how right they were. Jericho is one of the oldest cities in the world today. But not everything's good. There's a great need in the city. The people say, “The water is bad, and the land is unfruitful.” There's an idea that the unfruitfulness of the land is akin to loosing a child or being barren. That represents a great loss.

Having bad water is no small issue. Think of the people in Flint, MI. They've been fighting for ten years for water justice. Contaminated water means poor health, failed crops, struggling livestock and hunger. It touches every part of life: physical, economic and emotional.

When the residents of Jericho bring this concern to Elisha, the prophet responds. He acts. He trusts. He puts salt in a bowl, throws it in the spring and declares, “This is what the Lord says: I have healed this water.” To be sure, the healing didn’t come from a bowl, the salt or even the prophet. It came from God. But it still required Elisha’s faithful obedience.

I assume James and John had Elijah on their minds. In Luke 9, Jesus sends messengers ahead of him into a Samaritan village. It probably didn't surprise the disciples when the people do not welcome him. To them, those were Samaritans, after all. Their rejection stirred a memory of how others rejected God's word and power.

"Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?"

That's something Elijah did. Twice.

Now, they wanted to defend Jesus with that same divine force they thought they could control. But Jesus rebuked the brothers.

In scripture, fire coming down from heaven is a sign of God's power and approval. Fire came down on Elijah's drenched offering to show that "you are God in Israel, and that I am your servant, and that I have done all things at your word" (I Kings 18). Later, the Lord directed Elijah to speak against King Ahaziah. The king sent men up to Elijah and commanded him to come down. Notice the up and down play on words. But Elijah anticipated that fire would come down again.

And it did.

By the way, the king was in Samaria.

James and John remind me how so many times we want to put people in their place. Especially when they reject what we believe. But Jesus didn't call down fire. He called his disciples to follow a different way.

Remember that Jesus said his followers would do greater works than he did. And after his resurrection, they did. In Acts 8, Philip preaches in a Samaritan city and the people receive the good news. As a result, "There was great joy in that city."

Some researchers say your personality is pretty much set by age three. And, by first grade, you've already got a pretty good glimpse of the kind of adult you'll become.

But that doesn’t mean nothing ever changes. You’re always becoming something. The question is what.

Maybe you’re becoming more generous, more patient. Or maybe you’re growing more bitter, more impatient or more distracted. To think you're the same person you've always been may ignore the way life shapes you. It doesn't take into account how your experiences of culture, community, pain and joy, for example, have all played their part in what you're becoming.

Evagrius Ponticus was a well known theologian of the church in the fourth century. His theological insight led him to the position of Archdeacon in Constantinople. With that position came power, status and reputation. But the weight of that life began to pull at him. He recognized what that influence was doing to him, and he made a bold move. He left it all behind. Went out to the desert. Traded the noise of the city for the stillness of the monastic life.

He wrote extensively on spiritual development. One of his reflections says: "A man in chains cannot run; nor can the mind enslaved by worldly attachments ascend to God."

The prophet Elijah spoke judgment against Ahab and Jezebel. They would both die, and the dogs would take care of what remained. Ahab died about three years before Jezebel. Her death was as gruesome as prophesied. 2 Kings 9 tells this story.

I assume she knew what was coming. But she didn't run away or even ask for mercy. She stood at her window after "she painted her eyes and adorned her head." She glared outside and called out to her accuser, not as a victim, but as a queen. It was a final performance. A defiant, composed image she chose to show everyone.

And then she fell.

As I'm reflecting on that story today, I keep thinking about that image: Jezebel fixing herself up. It’s so like us. When things fall apart, we reach for whatever helps us feel in control. We can't help it. For some of us it might be makeup, a sharp outfit, the perfect social media post or even religious language. But it’s all a mask. It helps us look composed on the outside without actually being made whole.

This isn’t faith. That's managing an image. Some might call it "playing church."

But God isn't asking us to put on a show. None of us need more performances. We need God's presence. We need a Savior who meets us with grace when we’re undone. And the good news is that's exactly who Jesus is.

As an eleven-year-old, I didn’t understand what I was watching in November 1989. I saw crowds of people standing around and on a wall. They cheered as they chipped away at it with hammers and pickaxes. Then a big chunk of it fell to the ground. I remember how excited a TV announcer was in a commercial later on. He was selling pieces of the Berlin Wall.

But I didn’t know the history or the tension that wall represented. So, the joy of destroying such a powerful symbol of division went over my head. It doesn’t anymore. The Berlin Wall was more than just concrete. It stood for years of hostility, separation, and fear. When it came down, people celebrated freedom, unity, and the hope of something better.

That’s the same kind of hope scripture points to in Ephesians 2. Jesus tore down the wall of hostility between Jews and Gentiles, making peace where there had been only division.

Unfortunately, we’re still surrounded by walls today. Walls stand between races, classes, political camps and even pews. But Christ didn’t just tear down spiritual walls; he calls us to keep swinging our hammers of love, mercy, and justice in real, practical ways.

Pay attention to the walls around you today. You might be surprised at who’s on the other side of a wall you didn’t even know existed. What bias, fear, or even long-held tradition has kept you from crossing over and making peace? Ask God to show you one wall you can help bring down today. Maybe you can do that through a conversation, an apology, or even a simple invitation.

I like to tease a local lawyer every time I catch his TV commercial. To reassure potential clients that he really cares, he says, “Nobody’s a nobody.” Yes, I agree. That's a little cheesy.

But it's also a great, gospel-oriented line. Because in the kingdom of God, that’s not marketing. It’s truth.

The lawyer wants you to believe that your case matters. God wants you to believe that you matter. Not because of your résumé, your reputation, or your reach, but because of how deeply you are loved. You don’t earn that kind of worth. You receive it.

It’s not just that nobody’s a nobody. It’s that everybody is beloved. 

We often talk about when we decided to follow Jesus. What led us, what changed in us. Of course, that’s an important part of our story. But 1 Corinthians 1 reminds us of another important part: "It is because of God that you are in Christ Jesus."

Yes, you chose to follow. Yes, you’re walking the walk. But God was already walking toward you before you took your first step. In Wesleyan terms, that’s called prevenient grace— God moving first, choosing us before we even knew we had a choice to make.

Why were the Titanic's lifeboat drills cancelled the very day she sank? No one really knows. But in hindsight, it's hard not to see that as a missed moment. A miss that cost many people their lives.

Of course, no one boards a ship expecting it to sink. No one wakes up thinking this will be the day that unravels everything. Everything is always fine until it's not. In some way, then, we all live with a bit of a "tomorrow will be fine" mentality. We take for granted things will work out the way we plan them. That there's always more time.

Now, to be sure, I'm not an alarmist. But I have learned how fragile life is. And not just life, but the societal systems around it we think will always hold. They don't always. And the don't hold for everyone.

I am a hopeful person. Mainly because of what I believe about the promises of God. But real hope doesn't mean ignoring the realities of the world around us. Tomorrow will be fine is a privileged position. Please recognize that. As someone wisely said: "Just because it's not happening to you doesn't mean it's not happening." For many, tomorrow doesn't feel fine. It feels heavy, uncertain and already like a fight that began today.

No one's ever accused me of being a picky eater. But even I can appreciate Daniel's choice to refuse a royal spread.

Most likely, the food offered to Daniel and his friends was the same King Nebuchadnezzar enjoyed at his table. Taste and variety aside, there were good reasons for Daniel's refusal to "defile himself with the royal rations of food and wine." Namely, the food likely didn't meet kosher laws, and it may have been used in pagan worship.

Interestingly, Daniel was willing to learn the "literature and language." He even took on a new name from his oppressors. He served in the king's court. But he drew a line at food. In exile, Daniel held onto something that kept him connected to who he was. His diet became a powerful, quiet act of resistance.

A friend of mine move to the U.S. for a few years for school. When he returned home, his family and friends immediately noticed how his eating habits had changed. American food had shaped him more than he realized. That's because the way we eat, dress, speak and behave tell a story about where we belong and who we are. Daniel's choice reminds us that faithfulness often requires us to pay attention to those kinds of little things. It means setting spiritual boundaries that keep us connected to our identity in Jesus.

I only know this because I've watched Interstellar several times and take to Google after every viewing. In physics, time dilation means that time doesn't move the same for everyone. It moves differently depending on your speed and gravitational pull. So, astronauts moving super fast in space age slightly slower than people who remain on Earth. The faster you move, the slower time seems to pass.

That sounds strange, but we already know what that feels like. Think about how time crawls when you're bored. Or how time flies when you're having fun. And don't some days feel like a blur while others just seem to go on and on?

We experience time differently depending on what we’re doing and how we’re moving.

Reflect on that as we consider some of the words of Ephesians 5. The apostle Paul says, because the days are evil, to make the most of the time. He's not telling us to cram more into our schedules. This isn't about filling up every second.

Beloved, we are a people who have been delivered. The word Hebrew is thought to mean "from the other side." That might point to a geographical beginning, ancestors who crossed rivers and borders. But it also stirs memories of God delivering Moses and the people from Pharaoh across the other side of the sea. In that sense, God's deliverance means we were there and now we're here.

And the people of God have long seen deliverance as part of their identity. You see it repeatedly throughout the psalms. God parted seas, broke chains and made the impossible possible. Thankfully, that story doesn't stop with the Old Testament.

God's beloved today live in deliverance. In Jesus, God has broken our captivity. We are freed from our sin, shame, fear and even the sting of death itself. As our liturgy affirms, Jesus frees us for joyful obedience. So, we may not call ourselves Hebrew, but God has brought us from the other side.