I had been reading and reflecting on the image of God's Spirit as breath. God breathed life into humanity. God's Spirit breathed new life in Ezekiel's vision of the dry bones. One of Job's friends said it this way: the breath of the Almighty gives me life (Job 33:4).

And that idea is not just in the Old Testament. The Spirit is at work in the life of Jesus and fills the early church with power and renewal.

That same Spirit is with us, too!

Maybe that's why one word stood out to me during a recent men's Bible study. We were reflecting on Jesus' parable of the farmer who sowed seed in the field. Different obstacles kept three out of the four seeds from bearing fruit. Only one seed grew as the farmer would have wanted. The word that caught my attention was choke. Jesus said the cares of the world choked some of the seed.

And there's the tension of our life with God. God is always breathing life into us. But we let other things choke it out.

Again, I don't think I can say it enough: God is still breathing life into God's people. The question is whether we're making room for that breath. If you were choking at the dinner table, you'd want to someone to clear your airway so you can breathe again. Well, let this be a chance for you to pay attention to your spiritual breathing.

In a patriarchal society, barrenness carried deep shame, a failure to continue the husband's family name. It was also seen as a kind of divine punishment. Today, most of us don't think of barrenness in the same way. But that doesn't mean we haven't found new ways for shame to mark our lives, name us, and follow us around.

You may not relate to the Bible's concept of barrenness, chances are, though, you know shame. In Isaiah 54, the barrenness of the people was their exile. It was their suffering, their displacement, and being cut off. As a pastor, I can tell you many of us feel like the things we go through are too embarrassing, too heavy, or too complicated to share. So, yes, we know shame well.

That's why God's promise in Isaiah 54 remains such a beautiful reflection point. God told the people that their past humiliation would not define their future. At one point in the chapter, God says "You will forget the shame of your youth." Even in their confinement, God was building and preparing a new home for them, and gave them permission to envision a new life. And that gives us permission to rethink our shame as well.

When we're in the hard moments, everything feels bigger than it really is. That doesn't mean what we're facing isn't real. It's just that our perspective about it is often skewed by the urgency of what's happening. Our worldview shrinks to the size of whatever's in front of us.

That's why faithful hindsight is important.

For many of us, it's after we've gone through it all that we are able to say that we were not abandoned. We may have been overwhelmed, but we were not left alone. That hindsight helps us reinterpret the stories we may have misread in the moment.

Have you noticed how quick we are to usually focus on all that went wrong? Psalm 124 teaches us to pay attention to what didn't happen. The trap didn't hold us. The waters didn't sweep us away. Sometimes God's greatest mercies are the troubles we never had to face.

And when the dust settles, God's deliverance becomes clearer. Fear or adrenaline may get the best of us in a crisis, but looking back helps our faith grow as we notice where God was at work for our good. Then we can say with the psalmist, "If the Lord hadn't been for us!"

I'm not sure I've ever thought too much about Noah's raven. Most of us remember the dove and the olive leaf. After sending the dove out again, it never came back. That was the sign the great flood was over, for sure.

But before that, Noah initially sent out a raven.

Now, there's no consensus on why there are two birds in the story. That's often a part of Bible study. We don't get answers to every question. There is much we are left to reflect on and wonder about and muse over.

Today, I'm reflecting on the idea that ravens are known to be scavengers. Maybe Noah expects the raven to return with a piece of carcass, suggesting where he was wasn't going to be a good place for him to live after leaving the ark. But a dove brings back an olive leaf. And that was a small enough sign of life.

Ravens can live off what's dead. They hover over old losses and old wreckage. I wonder if we sometimes do the same. We circle old pain and replay old hurts, expecting something good to come out of it. Often, that only leads to resentment, bitterness, hostility, or prolonged grief. It's understandable why we do it, but it's not healing and it traps us to the pain of yesterday.

Genesis 6 has one of those stories that most of us would probably rather skip. "Sons of God" and Nephilim read like a strange ancient myth tangled in God's word we're not ready for.

One common interpretation of the "sons of God" says that they were angelic beings who crossed boundaries with women they were never meant to cross. That added to the wickedness God saw in humanity that preludes the story of Noah. And that idea works, in part, because it's distant and dramatic, nothing like our everyday lives.

But another perspective says the "sons of God" were sons of the powerful, men in authority taking advantage of women because no one could stop them. Now, that reading isn't as outlandish or otherworldly. And maybe that's why it's harder.

It's easy to condemn things we'll never be tempted by. We shake our heads at the extremes of violence, drugs, scandals, and corruption in far-off places. But what about the quiet injustices that hide inside our policies, our systems, our workplaces, or our communities? What about the legal things we do that still cause others harm? What about the decisions powerful people make every day that leave someone else struggling?

Why is it harder to call those out?

It's easy to see how divided our world can be. People separate themselves into categories, labels, and sides. We draw lines that distinguish ourselves from others in subtle and bold ways. And then we defend those lines with all our strength.

So, let's reflect on something God desires for our world.

Listen again to the psalmist say, "Praise the Lord, all you nations! Worship him, all you people!"

Everyone is included in the call to worship.

This short psalm refuses to let us shrivel God down to fit inside our boundaries. We can't read it and assume God’s love is only for people who look like us, think like us, vote like us, worship like us, or agree with us. Instead, it widens the circle until we can’t see the edges anymore.

Recently, Pope Leo XIV released an apostolic letter titled "In the Unity of Faith" to commemorate the 1,700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. He emphasized that the creed isn't just about rules or doctrine but about one God who draws near to all people. Now, in his letter, the pope omitted the filioque clause. Ask Google if you're not sure what that is. I'll say that he wasn't pretending doctrinal convictions don't exist. But symbolically, he was prioritizing what unites Christians worldwide over what divides them. It's was a small gesture that reflects the inclusive spirit of Psalm 117.

It amazes me how other people can reflect theologically on things that I would not have considered on my own. There are endless ideas to explore when it comes to understanding theology, biblical studies, and religious studies. For me, studying these kinds of things is a form of worship of the loving God who gives us insight and wisdom. And I always encourage others to learn how to think through them, too.

At the same time, I've also learned we can overcomplicate faith. Or at least, we make it harder than it needs to be. We pile on expectations, rules, church politics, spiritual checklists, and the pressure to "get it right." Of course, those have their place, usually a good place, but they can also distract us.

Then two simple verses remind us that the foundations of faith don't have to be complicated. Psalm 117 is just 17 words in Hebrew. Those few words, though, hold what we need to know about God and our relation to God.

The psalm is a call to worship and a simple explanation of why we worship. God is steadfast love, and so we praise God. There is certainly more to say about faith and discipleship. But so much of it hinges on who we understand God to be and what our lives are in response. So, Psalm 117 brings us back to that center.

Don't we all have some picture of what the future looks like? And what fills our vision of the future might be something like longing for a day when life becomes a little easier, relationships become healthier, or things at least become a little less chaotic. You might also imagine a day when you feel more whole and at peace.

The book of Revelation is a future vision. Not in a predictive way, laying out a cosmic schedule of events that will take place. Revelation is not a crystal ball view of the future. But it is a vision meant to inspire us and pull us forward to God's future.

For all its enigmatic qualities, Revelation shows us a day when light doesn't come from temporary sources. Instead, it shines from God, radiating with goodness. There will be no locked gates or fear of who might come in. There will be no systems of power that dominate or harm people. The revelation of Christ shows us a day when humanity finally lives the way we were meant to: open, healed, and unafraid.

That's more than the survival mode that wears on us today. And it's something we can all long for. A world not run by fear or pretense.

Revelation gives us that kind of picture, not as an escape from reality, but to reshape how we live in it today. A hopeful future doesn’t make us passive. It makes us courageous. It steadies our souls, and it invites us to live today as if tomorrow really can be better.

Joy and grief really can live in the same house. In 1 Peter 1, the apostle doesn’t pretend we’re above life’s pain. Peter never says, “Rejoice instead of suffering,” or “Rejoice once the suffering ends.” He helps us understand what we probably already know to be true: that joy and sorrow often show up at the same time.

Many of us feel pressure to choose between the two. If you’re hurting, you wonder if your faith is weak. If you’re hopeful, you wonder if you’re avoiding reality. But the Bible gives you permission to hold both with honesty. Faith isn’t pretending the pain isn't anything less than it is. Instead, faith teaches us to trust God even while the pain is still present.

In the Bible, joy isn’t a mood. It’s a deep confidence in who God is and how God stays with us. God is with you, God is working, and God is not done.

And grief is not a spiritual failure. It’s the honest acknowledgment that life hurts and losses matter. You don’t have to silence your joy to honor your grief, or silence your grief to prove your joy.

Many of us are familiar with the words of Psalm 46. It's those hopeful words: "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."

Notice that the psalmist doesn't say that God will keep trouble away from us. Instead, God will be with us in the middle of it. So, we don't need to deny the reality of our fears or the chaos around us. We simply decide that those things don't get to define us.

When everything feels like it's falling apart, it can be easy to suppose that God is far away. Life isn't cooperating with us, and we're sure God isn't either. But Psalm 46 says the opposite. God becomes our hiding place, our sure and steady source of strength. Now, refuge doesn't mean escape. It means that God draws near to us, even before we know how to turn toward God.

Many of us know how this psalm opens, and many also know its other great line: "Be still and know that I am God."

Today, I'm reflecting on how the Common English Bible translates that. It says, "That's enough! Now know that I am God!"

Since we know the story well, you can imagine some of the feelings Jesus had when he said, “You will not see me again, until you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”

Of course, Jesus is talking about physical vision. The people would see him parade into town on a donkey. At the same time, Luke demonstrates that the people in Jerusalem could not see what was right in front of them. They saw a teacher but not truth. They saw miracles but missed God's kingdom. And they missed God's presence because of their desire for power.

Their misunderstanding gives us pause enough to ask, What do we see?

As we consider how a passage like this speaks to our hearts, we realize there is also a vision of the heart. A recognition of God’s presence in a way that transforms how we live. As such, when Jesus speaks of seeing again, maybe we can take that as an invitation to a different kind of awareness. One that begins with the humility to acknowledge that we don’t always recognize God’s movement, even when it stands right in our path.

The phrase Jesus uses, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” isn’t a cute thing to hear our children recite on Palm Sunday. It's a psalm (118:26), and also a posture of the heart. If we welcome the One who comes in the name of the Lord, we learn to see whatever God is doing, even if it looks different from what we expected.

In Ezekiel 40, God gives the prophet a vision of the future after twenty-five long years in exile. For more than two decades, the people of Israel had been living with the memory of what they lost. Their homeland was gone. Their temple was destroyed. Their identity and even their sense of God's nearness were taken away from them. If anyone felt like their hope as God's beloved was permanently broken, it was them.

But this was precisely when God spoke a new word of hope. Their story wasn’t over. They just couldn’t see the next chapter yet.

Sometimes we struggle with our long seasons of waiting, silence, or struggle. We seem them as proof that God has stopped working or that we have failed so badly that God is done with us. We assume the best pages have already been written, and, thus, that we have lost our purpose. But Ezekiel reminds us that God’s plans are not limited by our circumstances or our feelings. The Lord did not wait until the people returned home to speak hope. God gave vision in the midst of their turmoil. Their future was announced at a time when they still felt powerless.

What if the delay you’re experiencing is not wasted time, but holy preparation? What if what feels like exile is part of how God is building clarity, maturity, and deeper trust?

Let's rethink peace. For many of us, peace is something to achieve. In that sense, it's like an award you get for pulling through your hard situations or putting up with more than you thought you could. To be sure, you can have peace in those moments. But let's think of peace not as something we arrive at but something that guides us.

Isaiah 60:17 offers a hopeful promise: “I will make peace your governor." At first, that may seem more poetic, but it is actually really practical. Remember Israel's history. God's people had long been shaped by instability. They had been led by foreign kings and ruled by fear. God promised their exile would not last forever, and told of a future where God's people would no longer be governed by threats or scarcity. Instead, they would be led by peace and well-being.

One of the joys of serving as a pastor is getting to see the small, steady ways God is at work in people's lives. The apostle Paul begins 2 Thessalonians with gratitude for the church. It's not that things were perfect among the congregation. But he could see their faith growing. And when faith grows, even just a little, it is a reason to give thanks to God.

I know we often think of spiritual growth as big, impactful, or dramatic moments. But I see faith growing in the simple choices people make. Things like deciding to participate in worship on a regular basis. Showing up to serve even when things are hectic. Praying again or for the first time. When someone forgives when it would feel easier to hold a grudge. These aren't the kinds of things people automatically notice. But they matter deeply because they are signs of God shaping and reshaping our lives from the inside out.

As a pastor, I often get to see these things happen in conversations after worship, through tears no one else sees, or through courage that doesn't want to draw attention to itself. Like Paul, I feel a deep sense of gratitude because I am a witness to the Spirit's work among the people I serve. There's no denying the evidence of God's grace at work!

What is accomplished by God’s power is often accomplished through God’s people. God’s love doesn’t just stay inside us. It moves through us toward others. John Wesley once said that love for our neighbor is the proof that we’ve “passed from death to life.” In other words, real faith always shows up in real relationships.

Holiness is not just about having kind feelings or private devotion. It grows as we live together in love. Wesley called this _social holiness_. That is the idea that we become more like Jesus not in isolation, but in community. We learn patience, forgiveness, compassion, and service when we walk with one another.

For Wesley, this wasn’t theory. Early Methodists visited prisons, cared for the poor, and taught children. Their love for God naturally overflowed into action. But their acts of mercy weren’t separate from their spiritual growth. They were part of it. As they served, prayed, confessed, and encouraged one another in small groups, they discovered that holiness was something they shared.

That’s why Wesley said, “The gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.” Our faith can’t remain private if it’s going to stay alive. The Christian life is meant to be lived together around tables, in prayer circles, through service projects, and in the everyday encouragement of one another within the community.

John Wesley once said that holiness is “the end of all ordinances of God.” In other words, everything God gives us, prayer, Scripture, worship, community, is meant to draw us toward one goal: love made complete within us. Holiness begins in God’s heart and finds its fulfillment when God's love transforms ours.

Wesley’s idea of Christian perfection wasn’t about being sinless. It was about being made whole in love. It’s the renewal of our hearts in God’s image, where Christ’s Spirit so fills us that love becomes our motive, our joy, and our way of life. Holiness is not something we achieve through our own efforts. It is the gracious work of God within us.

Wesley once asked, “Who would oppose loving God in such a way?” His question reminds us that holiness isn’t a burden. It's an invitation that shows us that God desires to renew our hearts so completely that we live in a steady flow of love for God and for others.

My pastoral journey began more than twenty years ago. In those early years, I was fortunate to have been blessed with mentors who taught me how to plan, budget, lead, and resolve conflicts. Their lessons were practical and helped me understand how to guide people and build ministries with care and purpose. As the years went on, another question began to stir in me: What is all this leadership really for?

That question has changed how I see ministry. Leadership in the church is not just about managing programs or growing churches. It is about shaping lives. It is about helping people learn how to follow Jesus in real, everyday ways. Many models of church leadership seem to assume that discipleship will happen naturally as people participate in church activities. But I’ve learned that discipleship must be intentional. If we’re not careful, we end up focusing more on keeping the church running than on helping the church become holy.

When I look at our Wesleyan heritage, I see that John Wesley didn’t assume discipleship. He organized it. He knew that holiness was not achieved in isolation but formed through community, through small groups, prayer, and accountability. Wesley understood that grace shapes us, holiness refines us, and community sustains us.

In Acts 24, Felix listened to Paul's defense. The text tells us that the governor "was rather well informed about the Way." We know his wife was Jewish. So, she could have let Felix in on the information she had heard about this growing movement. As a political leader, he may have already been aware of the events that had been taking place. He may have investigated for himself what all the fuss was about.

It seems like something he knew about the Way impacted what he was willing to do for Paul.

I'd be curious to find out what he knew. I'm always somewhat curious to sense what people know about our faith. Sometimes, people who are not Christian may know more about the Christian faith than those who are. In our modern world, a simple web search can teach us far more about anything than Felix could ever think possible.

But I want to reflect on what we show the world about Christianity. Today's passage reminds us of the Way. That label pointed people to Jesus and identified his followers as those who followed his way. I'm all for bringing that ID and expectation back! Learning about a religion's background and history is one thing. But showing the world the Way with our daily lives is something different.

Some people say, “The next generation just isn’t listening.” Let's assume that's right. Well, what if they're not listening because we’ve stopped talking about God? Oh, we talk about God stuff. Church. Church programs. Church budges. Church attendance.

We talk much about what's wrong with the world and all that used to be right. There's room for that, by the way. But when was the last time we told our children what God has done for us? When was the last time we shared how God brought us through, not in some general sense, but in if-it-hadn't-been-for-God detail?

Listen to the psalmist's loud praise. He says, "I will lift you up high, my God, the true king. I will bless your name forever and always.” Not, “I’ll keep a low profile and hope that's enough for someone to notice.” That's not bold enough for the psalmist. He refuses to let silence erase the story of God’s goodness.