There is a story told in all four Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, one that may already sound familiar. Tired and grieving, Jesus withdrew by boat to a deserted place to be alone. But word spread, and the crowds followed on foot, gathering along the shore. Seeing them, Jesus felt compassion, went to them, and healed their sick.

As evening fell, the people still lingered, eager to hear his teaching. The disciples suggested sending them into the surrounding villages to buy food. Instead, Jesus replied, “You give them something to eat.” After first protesting about the cost of feeding such a crowd, they found five loaves and two fish. Jesus took the meager offering, blessed it, and gave it to the disciples to distribute. All were fed, about 5,000 men, plus women and children, and there was plenty left over: twelve baskets full.

The feeding of the multitude is one of the few stories found in all four Gospels. The details vary slightly in each account, but each writer considered this event essential for understanding Jesus. Perhaps that is why Christians have returned to it for centuries, finding new meaning each time they hear it.

One possible lesson is the power and compassion of God. Jesus takes what seems impossibly small and makes it enough for a crowd. When we reach our limit, when there does not seem to be enough time, money, energy, or hope, this story shows God has the power to change everything.

John’s Gospel adds another detail: a young boy offers his lunch of five loaves and two fish. Some wonder whether the miracle is not only about multiplication, but about transformation. As people see the boy’s willingness to share what he has, others begin to open their own supplies and share as well. In that view, the miracle is not only in the food that is given, but in the way one act of generosity sparks another, awakening a chain of sharing among the people.

A third interpretation sees this moment as an inkling of God’s grace, a glimpse of the world as God intends it to be: a place where no one is hungry, no one is excluded, and everyone has enough. What happens on that hillside is not only a miracle of provision, but a preview of God’s coming kingdom, when all creation is gathered into God’s care.

Perhaps each of these interpretations contains some truth. Taken together, they bring us back to Jesus’ simple command to the disciples: “You give them something to eat.”

Jesus calls us into the work of feeding the multitude and sharing the good news of God’s kingdom. Like the disciples, we worry, is what we have to offer enough? Do we have enough time, money, skill, or energy to make a difference? But this story suggests that God works with what we are willing to share. God rarely asks us to provide everything, just to offer what we have: a few loaves, a couple of fish, a kind word, a helping hand, a small act of generosity.

In our hands, such gifts may seem small. Yet as one act of generosity and love awakens another, we are reminded that in God’s hands they become more than we ever imagined, as God calls us to be part of that miracle.

The book of Proverbs in the Old Testament is a collection of short, memorable sayings, meant to be carried into everyday life. Rather than long letters or detailed stories, it offers sharp observations about how the world tends to work and how a faithful life is shaped.
It speaks in contrasts: wisdom and foolishness, patience and impulse, integrity and corruption. And it draws us to ask a simple but uncomfortable question: which path have we chosen?

In Proverbs 24, the writer begins with a timeless warning: “Do not envy evil people, because their minds plot violence, and their lips talk trouble.” Even when their lives appear successful, even when they seem to get ahead through force or manipulation, we are told not to wish we were in their place. Because what they are building is not what it appears to be.

Instead, Proverbs offers a different image: “With wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established.” A life that lasts is not constructed quickly or carelessly. It is built over time, with attention, patience, and care. And it is filled, not merely with possessions, but with what the proverb calls “precious and pleasant riches,” the deeper qualities that give life stability and meaning: trust, clarity, and purpose.

That is set against lives shaped by harmful intent, troubled speech, and schemes that damage rather than build.

The proverb also reframes what we think of as strength. Real strength is not just power, it is judgement, restraint, and timing
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After all, we live in a time when words travel quickly and actions have immediate effect, while wisdom often travels slowly and takes time to show itself. That means not every response, in words or in actions, needs to be immediate, because what we say or do in one moment cannot simply be undone in the next.

And wisdom is rarely a solo achievement. “With many advisers there is victory,” the proverb says. Those who listen, learn, and receive guidance tend to walk more securely than those who insist on going alone. Stubbornness isolates a person, while wisdom opens the door to insight.

So how does a person actually live wisely in a time like ours? Proverbs suggests it is not complicated, but it is intentional. Wisdom is a way of life shaped by patience in our reactions, humility in our listening, care in our words, and clarity in what we choose to value.

Because a life built on wisdom, lived patiently and with integrity, does more than succeed for a moment. It stands for a lifetime.

It is springtime, which means it is time for the annual broadcast of The Ten Commandments, starring Charlton Heston.

As I was thinking about what to write for this week’s article, I found myself watching the scene of Moses at the burning bush. In the movie, as in the Bible, Moses, while tending his sheep, comes upon a bush engulfed in flames yet not consumed. From it, he hears a voice calling his name and is given a daunting task: to return to Egypt and lead his people out of slavery.

In the movie, he returns home where his friend Joshua and his wife are waiting. Joshua says, “Look at his face.” Moses’ wife replies, “He has seen the Lord.” Then she continues, “Moses, your hair.”  He had gone up the mountain with dark hair and returned with gray.
As parents, maybe a few conversations with teenagers have added gray hair of your own. But this was different. Moses hadn’t just had a difficult conversation. He had encountered God, and it showed. He was no longer a simple shepherd; his robes were long, his hair distinguished, and he moved with quiet confidence.

This scene isn’t in Scripture, but director DeMille’s symbolic vision shows how God’s encounter might have changed Moses—and I can’t help but wonder: what would be different about a person who has truly “seen the Lord”?

For Christians, we see the answer begin to unfold in the Easter story. On Easter morning, Mary met Jesus in the garden, and when he called her name, she recognized him. That evening, Jesus appeared to his disciples as they hid in fear behind locked doors, and they were overjoyed. And for each of these, seeing the risen Christ changed them.

Whether in a single moment or gradually over time, encountering the Lord leaves a mark. Moses returned with confidence and faith and went on to do God’s bidding. Mary’s grief turned to joy and she ran to share the news. The disciples left fear behind and began preaching and healing in God’s name. In every case, the encounter with God shaped them, and the change was visible to others.

We too are invited to live in ways that reflect what we have encountered. Small, ordinary acts - like forgiveness, kindness, calmness under stress, encouragement, listening instead of arguing, or standing up for those who cannot stand for themselves - reveal that something profound has touched our lives. These are the marks of hope, courage, and patience.
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Others may notice something in us—not always a dramatic change, and not in outward signs like gray hair or robes, but in a steadiness, a care, a quiet strength. Whether newly formed or long present, these qualities can reflect a life shaped by an encounter with God. And what others see in us may inspire them to live with greater care and compassion—building a stronger, more compassionate world, one life at a time.

We are now entering that time when spring teases us. One day, we see it peek around the corner; the next day, it disappears. Still, we know the time is coming, and so we begin to prepare.

You might find yourself sorting through winter clothes, deciding what belongs in the trash or donation pile, what needs a trip to the dry cleaners, and what simply needs a little cleaning or repair before being tucked away. Before long, your attention turns to spring clothes, shaking out the wrinkles and choosing what you want ready for that next bright, warm day. There’s a quiet anticipation in it all, a sense that something new is on its way.

Perhaps this is also a good time to do the same with our lives. With a spirit of honesty and grace, we can look at old habits and patterns and ask what is ready to be let go, what might be set aside for a season, and what simply needs a bit of care to be used again.

We might find that old grudges and lingering bitterness are ready for the trash bin. This may be a time to tend more intentionally to our relationships, to speak with greater care, and even to refresh the ways we show up in everyday spaces, like our conversations or our presence online, with words that are thoughtful and kind. These small acts of care can quietly shape not only our own hearts, but the life of our community.

It doesn’t take much to notice that we are living in a time when conversations can feel strained and patience can wear thin. In seasons like this, it becomes easy to grow defensive or quick to judge. And yet, perhaps this, too, is something we are invited to lay down. What might it look like to “clean up” not only our closets, but our words; to speak with gentleness, to listen with openness, and to choose kindness even when we do not see eye to eye?

For Christians, this kind of reflection is at the heart of the season of Lent: a time to pause, to take stock, and to turn again toward what matters most. It is a season of preparing the heart, making room for the hope and new life that Easter proclaims.

And yet, even beyond the Christian tradition, this time of year seems to carry its own quiet invitation. As the world around us begins to awaken, many feel a pull to begin again, to clear away what feels heavy, to make space for what brings life, and to step forward with renewed intention.
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However we name it, the invitation remains: to live a little lighter, to love a little more freely, and to enter this new season with open hearts and a renewed sense of hope.

Every day, we hear a lot of voices. We hear them on the street, on social media, on the news, and on television and radio. Some voices encourage us. Others stir fear, anger, or doubt. And then there are the voices inside our own heads, the ones that remind us of our mistakes and whisper that we’re not quite enough. We are surrounded by voices almost everywhere we go.

But there is one voice that matters more than all the rest. God’s voice is always rooted in love, even when it challenges or guides us.

We hear that voice clearly in the story of Jesus’ baptism. As Jesus comes up from the water, the heavens open and God speaks: “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”  (Matthew 3:17)

What matters is when this happens. God speaks these words before Jesus teaches, heals, or does anything remarkable. Before Jesus ever does a thing, God makes sure he knows he is loved.

Anyone who has loved a child understands this kind of language. When we say, “This is my child,” we are expressing love, pride, and joy, simply because they are part of our lives and our hearts, and no matter what else happens, that love doesn’t go away. God’s voice speaks in that same way, with love, pride, and a deep sense of belonging.

But this moment is not just about Jesus. It tells us something about how God speaks to all of God’s children. Long before we get life figured out, before success or failure, before confidence or doubt, God’s love is already there. We are not loved because of what we do, but because love is who God is.

That voice has been speaking this way for a long time. In the Old Testament book of Jeremiah, God speaks to people who have messed up, who have known failure, loss, and uncertainty. Into that moment, God does not begin with demands, criticism, or correction. Instead, God speaks first with love:  “I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.”  (Jeremiah 31:3)

These words are not spoken after people have proven themselves or gotten everything right. Love comes first—and everything else flows from it.

In a world full of noise and judgment, a voice that speaks love is worth listening for. God’s voice tells us who we already are—loved, claimed, and never alone.
 

In the Gospel of Mark, the Scriptures tell a story many people recognize. A group of parents bring their children to Jesus, hoping he will bless them. As the children approach, the disciples step in and tell them to stop. They probably think they are being helpful by protecting Jesus’ time and maintaining order. But Jesus responds simply: “Let the children come to me.” What the disciples believe is responsible behavior has become a barrier.

Later in the same gospel, a blind man hears that Jesus is nearby and cries out for help. The crowd tries to silence him, telling him to be quiet and not cause trouble. They are likely trying to avoid disruption, but instead they become a stumbling block, deciding for him that his need isn’t worth the interruption. Jesus responds to the blind man and gives him sight.

You may also remember the story of the “wee little man,” Zacchaeus. The crowd surrounding Jesus blocks his view, so he climbs a tree just to see him. The people in the crowd aren’t trying to exclude Zacchaeus - they simply don’t notice that he cannot see. Jesus stops, calls Zacchaeus by name, and goes to his home. That moment changes Zacchaeus’ life.

These stories raise an important question: Are we getting in someone’s way so that they cannot see Jesus?

In a letter to early Christians in Rome, the apostle Paul addresses disagreements over everyday issues like food choices and religious practices. Rather than settling the arguments, Paul urges believers to stop judging one another and to pay attention to how their actions affect others. He recognizes that people grow at different speeds and carry different convictions. When we rush, shame, or pressure others, we become stumbling blocks. Our words, actions, or attitudes may shut down curiosity and trust instead of encouraging growth.

We become stumbling blocks more often than we realize - usually without bad intentions. We do it when we speak more than we listen or assume our personal experience is universal. We get in the way when we dismiss questioning as weakness or prioritize order and tradition over people themselves. We do it when we insist on being right instead of being kind or decide for ourselves who is “ready” or “worthy.”

Most of the people in the gospel stories weren’t trying to be cruel. They thought they were being responsible. But even with good intentions, we can still get in the way, keeping people from recognizing that they matter to God.

Our role is to point to Christ, not replace him. When we insist on our way, our preferences, or our certainty, we risk standing where only Christ should stand. Our task is not to control outcomes, but to keep the path clear so others can encounter Jesus for themselves.

Yes, we hope people will grow in faith. Yes, we hope they will find a path to goodness. But first and always, we are called to not get in the way; to make sure our words, attitudes, and convictions don’t block someone’s view of Christ.

Jesus can and does see around barriers, just as he did with the children, the blind man, and Zacchaeus.  But people often can’t - and love asks us not to build them in the first place.

As the year winds down and winter settles in, you may have noticed something in the air: twinkling lights, bustling stores, and festive music. Christmas energy is already building around us, but in the Church, another season has quietly begun as well. November 30th marked the start of Advent—a season the Church has observed for more than 1,600 years. It’s a time set apart to prepare for the coming of Christ: remembering His birth in Bethlehem and looking forward with hope to His promised return.

But unlike the frantic kind of preparation that sends us digging through closets for wrapping paper or realizing that we’ve somehow agreed to bring dessert to three different Christmas parties, Advent preparation has a different rhythm. It invites us to slow down, breathe, and make room—not in our schedules, but in our hearts.

In the early centuries of the Church, believers would pray, reflect, and ready themselves to welcome Christ in a fresh way. Those ancient practices have blossomed into familiar traditions: the lighting of Advent wreaths, weekly themes of hope, peace, joy, and love, and Scripture readings that point us toward God’s long-promised redemption.

Today, we prepare for Christmas in both secular and sacred ways. We decorate our homes, send cards, shop for gifts, and gather with friends and family. These are good and joyful preparations. But Advent invites us to something deeper. It asks us to look inward: Where do I need Christ’s peace? Where am I longing for His light? What new beginning might God be offering me?

This blend of outward celebration and inward transformation—is captured beautifully in Scripture. Isaiah 40:3 declares, “A voice cries: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God.’” Preparing the way is both practical and spiritual: clearing obstacles, smoothing rough places, and opening ourselves to God’s renewing work.

Advent isn’t just nostalgia or tradition; it’s an invitation. It reminds us that God has entered this world before—into real struggle, real darkness, real human need— and that God still steps into our world with hope and light. Advent teaches us to leave room for God to work.
You don’t have to walk through Advent alone. Sharing the season with others—in a church community, with friends, or with family—can deepen the experience. When we gather to pray, sing, reflect, or worship, we’re reminded that hope, love, and joy grow when they’re shared.

Christmas may be in the air, but Advent helps us slow down and remember why it matters.

If God were your friend on Facebook, what would you share?  Smiling pictures, family milestones, maybe a few words of thanks? Most of us only share the good things on social media. We want to look okay—even when we’re not.

Sometimes we treat prayer like social media. We come to God with our “best posts”—thank-yous, polite confessions, and carefully worded requests. We pray about the good things, the things we think we should say: gratitude, petitions for others, prayers for peace, justice, courage, or strength to face a personal struggle.

All of these are wonderful ways to communicate with God—and the kinds of prayers we might even feel comfortable sharing on social media. But prayer isn’t about impressing God or managing appearances. It’s about relationship—real, honest, sometimes messy relationship.

And some days you’re just so angry, hurt, frightened or disappointed that you don’t think you can pray. Maybe you haven’t been there yet—but chances are, someday you will be.

Here’s the good news: you can still pray.

Prayer doesn’t have to be neat, polite, or perfectly worded. Some of the most faithful prayers in Scripture are raw, honest, and even desperate – sometimes angry or questioning.  “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13) and “Why have you forgotten me?” (Psalm 44) are as much prayers as “The Lord is my shepherd.”

Psalm 44 pours out grief and frustration over suffering and defeat; Psalm 73 wrestles with envy and doubt; Moses, called by God to lead a people who constantly grumbled, cried in frustration “Lord, why have you sent me?”; Job, in the midst of unimaginable loss, questioned God boldly and painfully. And even Christ Himself, as he suffered on the cross, cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”. 

God hears our doubts, our anger, our sorrow, and our fear, just as much as the songs of praise and thanksgiving. Your honesty, no matter how messy or raw, is exactly what God wants in a relationship with you.

So, whatever you need to say to God, say it. God can take it. And the best part? God won’t unfriend you. God knows the photos that have been touched up and those didn’t get posted, the words you didn’t say, the tears you didn’t show. There is no anger or honesty that will drive God away. And there is nothing you can say that will make God stop loving you. You are that deeply and steadfastly loved.

And right there, in the middle of the mess, God listens, and God stays.

Here’s a story from the Gospel of Mark, chapter 9, that feels like it could have happened just today. John, one of Jesus’ disciples, ran to him with a complaint. Someone was helping others—what people then described as driving out demons—and doing it in Jesus’ name.  The problem was that this person wasn’t part of Jesus’ group, so John and his friends tried to stop them. “They’re not one of us,” they said.

Expecting Jesus to praise them for protecting “the brand”, they were surprised when, instead, Jesus told them to let it go. After all, Jesus said, someone acting in his name couldn’t turn right around and speak against him. Then he said words that have echoed for centuries: “Whoever is not against us is for us.”

This story challenges us today. How do we respond to people who care for others, work for justice, or live out their faith—but do it differently than we do? Do we ignore them, compete with them, or try to stop them? Jesus’ answer is simple but radical: recognize the good in others, even when it comes from outside your circle. 

And we’re not just talking about faith communities. Conflicts in families, neighborhoods, nations, and around the world often start just because we draw strict lines between “us” and “them.” Yet Jesus calls us to focus on what we share rather than what separates us.

The theologian William Barclay once said that true tolerance comes from recognizing that we can never fully know God’s truth. Our perspective is limited; our understanding always incomplete. Accepting our limits frees us to celebrate the good we see in others —­ even when it flows from a different path, a different denomination, or even a different faith.

Barclay’s insight invites us to hold our convictions firmly, but never arrogantly. It reminds us that God’s truth is larger than any one of us can contain. When we realize that, we begin to see allies where we once saw rivals, and partners where we once drew boundaries.

This story reminds us that doing good together matters more than who belongs to which group. It challenges us to act with humility and openness, to see God’s work in unexpected places, and to appreciate the ways people—inside and outside our circles—bring love into the world.
Whose side are you on?  Turns out goodness itself knows no sides.