Towards the Center

So I am grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space. As a church we want to do some things. We want to learn how to live in God's unfolding story. We want to be transformed by Jesus, learning to truly belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, into joy, and into boundless generosity. We pray whether this is your first time with us or you've been a part of our community for a while that you would feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with us in this vision. And if you happen to be new this morning and you're looking for a church home, you're in the right place because we would love for you to be a part of our fellowship. Pastor Hannah and I would love to become some of your pastors.

Alright, so this morning I want to do something a little different. I don't want to rush into a new idea. I actually want to pause, and I want to try to name something. I want to try to put words to what I think God has been doing among us over these last several weeks. Because for six weeks now we have been walking through our vision as a church, and I've noticed something. I've noticed that every week, whether it was me or Hannah, there has been this thread running underneath all of it. And I want to pull on that thread this morning because I think it's important for where we're going.

But first, let's hear from the prophet Isaiah. We're in Isaiah chapter forty-three, verses sixteen through twenty-one.

I love this passage. I love it because Isaiah is doing something here that is so helpful for us. He's speaking to a people who are stuck between two realities. They know what was. They have this memory of God's power, God parted the sea, God drowned the army, God made a way when there was no way. That's the story they've been telling themselves. That's what they hold on to. And God says to them through the prophet, and this is surprising, God says forget it. Don't dwell on it. Because I'm doing something new. And God says I'm doing this new thing where? Not in the temple. Not in the palace. Not in the places you'd expect. God says I am making a way in the wilderness.

Now saints, I need you to sit with that for a moment. Because the wilderness is not the place where you expect God to build a road. The wilderness is the place you're trying to get out of. The wilderness is the place that makes you anxious. It's the in-between. It's the place where the old thing has ended but the new thing hasn't fully arrived yet. And God says that's exactly where I'm working.

Where We've Been

Let me take you back six weeks. On Epiphany Sunday we started with the Magi. Remember? These outsiders who noticed a light in the sky and decided to follow it. They didn't have a map. They didn't have a plan. They didn't even know where the road would lead. All they had was a light and a willingness to move. And I said to you that morning, if you take nothing else away, take this: live in God's world with curiosity and expectation. That was week one.

Then we turned to John's gospel. Jesus says, "When I am lifted up, I will draw all people to myself." Not sort. Not filter. Not force. Draw. And we started to talk about what it means to be a centered-set community — a community where faith isn't about how close you are to the boundary but about what direction your life is moving in. Hannah came back the following week and deepened that, she walked us through Luke and showed us how Jesus actually formed community. He sat at table with tax collectors and Pharisees, with insiders and outsiders, with people who had no business being in the same room. And she said the entry point is desire. If you want to be with Jesus, you're welcome.

Then I came back and we wrestled with the hard part. Because belonging across our differences, real differences, not just preferences, that's difficult theological work. We talked about human dignity. We talked about the difference between disagreements that can be held in tension around a shared table and positions that deny someone's right to be at the table at all. And I said curiosity over judgment. That's what I asked of you. Curiosity over judgment.

And then last week Hannah took us to Galatians and she talked about freedom. Real freedom. Not freedom as doing whatever you want — that's tyranny. Freedom as being unstuck. Freedom as operating the way you were designed to operate. And Sarah stood up here and told us about buying a dumb phone and reading the Bible every day and how those simple acts of surrender opened up joy and generosity she didn't expect.

Six weeks. God's unfolding story. Centered-set faith. Belonging across difference. Freedom, joy, generosity. Do you see the thread? I'm going to name it for you.

Where We Are: The Wilderness

Here's what I've come to understand, and Hannah and I have talked about this a lot, as a church, we are in a wilderness season.

Now when I say wilderness I don't mean we're lost. I don't mean God has abandoned us. I don't mean something has gone wrong. I mean something very specific. A few years ago I preached on this and I've returned to it many times since. Change, real change, deep change, doesn't come all at once. It comes in three phases.

The first phase is endings. Transition starts with an ending. Something that was familiar comes to a close. Maybe it's a way of doing things. Maybe it's a season of life. Maybe it's an assumption about how the world works. And you have to grieve it. You have to say goodbye to it before you can move forward. Some of you walked in here today carrying endings. Some of you are still processing endings from years ago.

The second phase is what I call the wilderness zone. It's the neutral zone. It's the in-between. The old thing has ended but the new thing isn't fully operational. This is the hard part. This is the place where you're tempted to go back. Things aren't working the way you expected. You don't have all the answers yet. You can't see the whole road. And if I'm being honest, this is where our church is right now.

We've been through some things. We've had transitions in leadership. We've had seasons where the ground under us felt like it was shifting. We've had to let go of some things that were familiar and comfortable. And we haven't fully arrived at the new thing yet. We're in the middle. We're in the wilderness.

And here's what I want you to hear because this is the most important thing I'm going to say this morning, the third phase is new beginnings. Beginnings involve the activating of new habits, new values, and a change in how we see ourselves and the world. New beginnings are coming. But, and here's the thing about new beginnings, you can't rush them. You can't manufacture them. They emerge as we trust God in the wilderness.

Now I preached a sermon a few years back at a leadership conference about Moses. Some of you have heard me tell parts of this story. Moses had to process that his time in Egypt had come to an end. He had to sit in the wilderness — and the text says he was there for a long time. We don't know exactly how long. Some scholars say forty years. But here's what I said then and I'll say it again: it was long enough for Moses to develop the internal world he needed in order to become aware of God's active presence.

And when Moses finally encounters God in the burning bush, he's in his wilderness zone. There's continuity from the past, the ending. He's in the middle, the neutral zone. And he's about to transition into the new beginning. And what does God say? God doesn't hand him a strategic plan. God doesn't give him a five-year forecast. God says, "I will be with you."

Saints, that's the same thing God is saying to us. I will be with you.

The presence of God covers all of the phases of transition. All of them. Endings, wilderness, and new beginnings. God doesn't just show up when things are clear. God doesn't only work when we have it figured out. God is present in the confusion. God is present in the uncertainty. God is present in the in-between.

And here's what Isaiah adds to that because Isaiah is writing to people in their own wilderness, people in exile, people who are between what was and what will be, God says, "See, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it?"

Do you not perceive it?

That's a real question. It's not rhetorical. God is asking, are you paying attention? Remember what we said in week one? Attentiveness. Curiosity. Are you looking for what God is doing? Because God isn't waiting for everything to be settled before God starts working. God is making a way in the wilderness right now.

Where We're Going

So where are we going? I want to be careful here. I want to be careful because I've seen what happens when pastors stand up and cast vision as though they've received a divine download of exactly what God is going to do. I don't have that. And I'm suspicious of anyone who says they do.

But here's what I do have. I have a conviction. And my conviction is this: God has called this church to be a place where the wilderness isn't something to escape from but something to walk through together.

Think about what we've been building over these six weeks. We've said we want to live in God's unfolding story, not our own manufactured story, but the story God is telling. We've said that faith is about direction, about orientation toward Jesus, not about having arrived. We've said that we want to belong to each other across our differences, real belonging, not just tolerance, not just politeness, but the kind of belonging that costs you something. And we've said that God invites us into freedom and joy and generosity, not as a reward for getting it right, but as the birthright of anyone who is willing to be unstuck by Jesus.

That's the church I want to be a part of. That's the church I believe God is forming us into. And here's the thing, we don't have to be finished to be faithful. We don't have to have it all figured out. We just have to be willing to walk.

Now in ten days we enter Lent. And Lent is a wilderness season. It's forty days. It mirrors Jesus' forty days in the wilderness after his baptism. And I don't think that's a coincidence, that we've spent these weeks naming who we are as a church and now we're about to enter the church's wilderness season together. Because Lent isn't punishment. Lent isn't about feeling bad about yourself. Lent is about paying attention. It's about stripping away the noise so that you can perceive what God is doing.

And I want to invite you into Lent this year not with dread but with trust. Trust that the God who made a way through the sea can make a way in the wilderness. Trust that the same God who said to Moses, "I will be with you," is saying it to you right now.

The Invitation

So here's what I want to ask of you this morning. Two things.

First, and I don't say this lightly, I want to invite you to membership. Now I know that word carries weight. For some of you, membership sounds institutional. It sounds like paperwork and obligations. That's not what I mean. What I mean is this: if you've been walking with us, if you've been drawn to what God is doing here, if you've been sitting in these seats week after week and something in you says I want to be a part of this, then I'm asking you to say it out loud. Membership at our church isn't about checking a box. It's about saying I'm in. I'm in this wilderness with you. I'm willing to walk this road. I want to belong, not just attend, but belong. Pastor Hannah and I would love to talk with you about that. Come to the Meet and Eat. Grab one of us after the service. Send us an email. However you want to do it. But don't let another week go by where you're sitting on the edges of something God is inviting you into the center of.

Second, we've put together a church survey. It's going to come up on the screen. You can scan the QR code. And I want you to fill it out today. Not because we need data, although we do, but because this is your chance to tell us what you're seeing. Remember what we said? God often speaks through the community. The Magi noticed the star. The outsiders often perceive what the insiders miss. So we want to hear from you. What are you experiencing? What do you need? What do you see God doing? This survey is an act of participation. It's you saying I'm paying attention too.

What's Next

Saints, I want to close with this. We are in the wilderness. And the wilderness can feel disorienting. It can feel uncertain. But Isaiah tells us that even the wild animals in the wilderness honor God — the jackals and the owls — because God provides water in the wasteland. Streams in the desert.

If God can make streams in the wasteland, God can sustain this church. If God can make a way in the wilderness, God can make a way for you. If God can say to a people in exile, "I am doing a new thing," then God can say it to us.

And here's the part that gets me every time. God says, "Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it?"

It's already happening. The new thing is already emerging. It's in the way you showed up this morning. It's in the way Sarah stood up last week and told us about her dumb phone and her daily Bible reading. It's in the conversations you're having over donuts. It's in the risks you're taking to get to know someone who's different from you. It's in the fact that you keep coming back, week after week, to a church that asks you to hold tension, to practice curiosity, and to trust that God is at work even when you can't see the whole picture.

The new thing is springing up. Do you not perceive it?

As we come to the table this morning, I want you to come with open hands. Come with whatever endings you're carrying. Come with the uncertainty of your wilderness. Come with whatever new thing is just beginning to stir inside of you. And trust that the God who sets the table is the same God who makes a way in the wilderness.

You are not alone. We are walking this road together. And the presence of God covers all of it.

Amen.

"True freedom is freedom from myself and from the cramping tyranny of my own self-centeredness, in order to live in love for God and others. The cross opened the gates to freedom by overthrowing powers that held nations captive.”

NT Wright | The Day the Revolution Began: Reconsidering the Meaning of Jesus's Crucifixion

“Love for God that doesn't pursue holiness misunderstands the freedom from sin inherent in the gospel.”

Esau McCaulley | Reading While Black

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm then, and don’t get tied up again in slavery to the law

For you have been called to live in freedom, my brothers and sisters. But don’t use your freedom to satisfy your sinful nature. Instead, use your freedom to serve one another in love. For the whole law can be summed up in this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Galatians 5:1, 13-14

Jesus’ death and resurrection secured some things for all who’d chose to enter into relationship with him–

A secure identity: God’s beloved child

A new purpose: Living in union with God and loving people

Freedom is the believer’s birthright.

The belief that what I do is what justifies me before God is still alive and well today. That belief has always been and always will be totally opposed to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Wherever that belief exists in us, we are not yet as free as God means for us to be.

Paul is saying: I can imagine a world where you aren’t stuck. I can imagine a world where you are truly free, secure in your beloved identity and divine purpose to love and serve, not earn, compare or strive for the belovedness and purpose you already have. I can imagine a world where you operate in the freedom, joy and generosity that you were made for because of who Jesus is and because of his death and resurrection on the cross.

Where are you stuck in a destructive belief, attitude, or pattern? Where are you unable to imagine a life that is truly as free as God means for you to be?

Prayer Practice to Stand Firm

1. Close your eyes, take 3 deep breaths

2. Call to mind an area where you feel “stuck”. A false belief, destructive attitude or behavior that you cannot change on your own. Perhaps a way you try to control someone or something.

3. Clench your fists in a way that mimics how stuck you feel.

Wonder: What has this belief or behavior cost you?

4. If/when ready: Open your hands as a symbol of surrendering this area to God, ask for God’s help to live in freedom.

5. Close: imagine God’s loving gaze & ask if there’s anything God wants to say to you

Learning to Belong to One Another - Luke 5, 6, 7, 15, 23

We’re grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space.

As a church, we want to live in God's unfolding story, being transformed by Jesus, learning to belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, joy, and boundless generosity.

We pray that whether this is your first time with us this morning, or you've been a part of our community for a while, that you will feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with our vision.

If you are looking for a church home, we would love to become your church home, and I in particular, would love to become one of your pastors.

This morning I want us to sit with a question that I think Jesus forces upon us every time he gathers people around himself: How do we learn to belong to one another?

I emphasize learn because I've become convinced that belonging across difference isn't a personality trait some people have and others lack. It's a spiritual practice. It's a discipline. And it's one that most of us need serious training in—including me.

But I also want to be honest with you from the start: this sermon isn't going to pretend that all differences are the same, or that every disagreement can be bridged with goodwill and a shared meal. Some can. Some can't. And part of learning to belong to one another is learning to tell the difference.

The Strangest Dinner Party

Let's start in Luke chapter 5. Jesus has just called Levi, a tax collector, to follow him. And Levi does something remarkable—he throws a party.

Then Levi held a great banquet for Jesus at his house, and a large crowd of tax collectors and others were eating with them. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law who belonged to their sect complained to his disciples, "Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?" Jesus answered them, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." (Luke 5:29-32)

This first meal of Jesus's public ministry was a dismantling of the old world order. There was a systematic table etiquette that governed the social lives of first-century Palestinian Jews. You were either in or out.

Everyone knew their place.

But Jesus reclines at table with Levi and his friends. Dining with a known sinner was a risk for Jesus. It would mark him, ruin his reputation, cause those around him to question his standing before God. Is he righteous? Is he holy? Can we trust him?

And the Pharisees aren't being unreasonable here. Their intense focus on Torah was tied to their belief that God wouldn't act until the people were ready. If the people remained unholy, how could God come and restore them?

But Jesus was signaling that the Kingdom of God was breaking into the present age with welcome, space, forgiveness, and reconciliation. He was enacting a new world order. The table says something about who's in and who's out—and Jesus was redrawing the lines.

The Disciples Nobody Would Put Together

Now turn with me to Luke 6. Jesus is about to select his twelve closest followers.

One of those days Jesus went out to a mountainside to pray, and spent the night praying to God. When morning came, he called his disciples to him and chose twelve of them, whom he also designated apostles: Simon (whom he named Peter), his brother Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James son of Alphaeus, Simon who was called the Zealot, Judas son of James, and Judas Iscariot, who became a traitor. (Luke 6:12-16)

Do you see what Jesus did here? Read that list again slowly. Matthew and Simon the Zealot. These two men would have considered each other enemies. Matthew was a traitor. Simon was a revolutionary.And yet Jesus called them both.

But let's be careful here. Let's not romanticize this too quickly. Matthew and Simon had profound differences—but their differences were compatible with human dignity. Simon didn't think Matthew was subhuman. Matthew didn't think Simon had no right to exist. They disagreed fiercely about tactics, about politics, about how God would restore peace to them again. But they both believed God was faithful to God’s people.

Their differences were the kind that could be held in tension around a shared table, because neither man's presence at the table was a denial of the other's right to be there.

This distinction matters. Because not all differences are like this.

When Desire Becomes the Entry Point

Let's turn to one of the most startling scenes in Luke's Gospel—chapter 7.

When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee's house and reclined at the table. A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them. (Luke 7:36-38)

She shreds the social-political construct of the dinner party in her desire to get to Jesus. She's there for a reason. She's on a mission. And she doesn't care what it costs her.

Simon the Pharisee watches this unfold and mutters to himself: "If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

And here's where Jesus does something we need to pay attention to. He turns toward the woman—not Simon, but the woman—and says to Simon:

"Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet." (Luke 7:44-46)

Jesus doesn't broker a compromise between Simon and this woman. He doesn't help Simon "understand her perspective." He protects her. He honors her. He lets Simon sit there with his judgment exposed. Simon doesn't have a conversion moment in the text. He's just... there. His hostility isn't resolved; it's simply overruled by Jesus's declaration: "Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

This is different from the trite narrative where everybody learns to get along. Jesus makes space for the vulnerable by confronting the powerful—not by brokering mutual understanding.

The entry point to belonging is desire. This woman came with nothing but her longing for Jesus, and that was enough. It's not about whether we think we are worthy. It's about whether we are willing.

The Table Has a Shape

But here's where we have to do some harder theological work. Because someone might hear what I've said so far and conclude that Jesus's table has no boundaries at all. That belonging across difference means anything goes. That we just need to be nicer to each other and everything will work out.

That's not what Jesus teaches. And it's not what Paul teaches either.

In 1 Corinthians 5, Paul confronts a situation where a man in the church is sleeping with his father's wife. And Paul doesn't say, "Let's be curious about his perspective." He doesn't say, "We need to make space for people in different places on their journey." He says: Put him out. Hand him over to Satan. Don't even eat with such a person.

Why? Because some behaviors are incompatible with the community Jesus forms.

And in Galatians 2, when Peter withdraws from table fellowship with Gentile believers because Jewish Christians from Jerusalem showed up, Paul doesn't say, "Let's dialogue about our different convictions." He says Peter stands condemned—because Peter's withdrawal denied the humanity and belonging of Gentile believers.

Here's the thing: the table Jesus sets is radically inclusive. But radical inclusion has a shape. It has non-negotiables.

What are they? Let me name three: Human dignity. Every person is created in God's image. No exceptions. The universal scope of God's love. God's favor is available to everyone. Not just some people. The conviction that no one is beyond redemption. Everyone can turn toward Jesus. If your position denies any of these, you've put yourself outside the community.

Curiosity Within the Boundaries

So where does that leave us? With a community that has both radical welcome and real boundaries. And within those boundaries—within a community committed to human dignity—we practice something hard: curiosity over judgment.

The grumbling in Luke 15 reveals something: "This man welcomes sinners and eats with them." Grumbling is what we do when we're unwilling to ask an honest question. It's what we do when we've already decided we know the answer.

But curiosity is more spiritually significant than we realize. When we choose curiosity over judgment, we create space for the Holy Spirit to work. When we choose judgment, we close off that space—not just for others, but for ourselves.

Within the community that has said yes to human dignity, yes to the universal scope of God's love, yes to the possibility of redemption for everyone—within that community, we will still have differences. Real ones. Hard ones. Differences about worship style and political priorities and how to read Scripture and what faithfulness looks like in a complicated world.

And those differences require us to stay present. To ask questions. To get curious. What life experiences shaped that conviction? Where do you see Jesus in your position? Help me understand.

This is slow work. It requires patience, humility, the willingness to be wrong, the capacity to live with tension without rushing to resolution. It means trusting that the Holy Spirit is at work in the person whose perspective confuses you.

But this isn't naive tolerance. It's disciplined love practiced among people who have all agreed that everyone at the table is fully human.

The Long Arc of Transformation

One more thing. Jesus-centered belonging makes space for the long arc of transformation. We don't have to be finished to belong. We have to be willing to begin.

Look at the disciples. When Jesus calls them, they're a mess. Right up until the crucifixion, they're arguing about who's the greatest. Peter denies Jesus. Thomas doubts the resurrection.

But Jesus doesn't wait for them to be mature before he calls them disciples. He invites them into relationship and lets the transformation happen over time, through belonging to him and to each other.

The thief on the cross didn't have time to demonstrate his transformation. He just had time to want. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." And Jesus said: "Today you will be with me in paradise."

Not someday. Not when you've earned it. Today.

This gives me hope for our life together. We're all works in progress. We're all being drawn toward Jesus from different starting points. And we need each other for transformation to happen.

We’re grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space.

As a church, we want to live in God's unfolding story, being transformed by Jesus, learning to belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, joy, and boundless generosity.

We pray that whether this is your first time with us this morning, or you've been a part of our community for a while, that you will feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with our vision.

If you are looking for a church home, we would love to become your church home, and I in particular, would love to become one of your pastors.

Last week, we talked about Epiphany as an invitation—not to certainty, not to control, but to attentiveness. We talked about the Magi, who did not begin their journey with answers, but with curiosity. They noticed a light. They trusted that God was already at work. And they moved toward what they were given, even without knowing exactly where the road would lead.

Today, we take the next step. Because if last week was about noticing that God’s story is already moving, this week is about what holds that story together. It’s about the center that gives the movement its meaning.

So let’s listen again to the Gospel—this time from John, chapter 12.

Operator, please start the audio.

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

That single sentence carries more weight than we often allow it to.

Jesus does not say, “I will sort all people.” He does not say, “I will filter all people.” He does not say, “I will force all people.” He says, “I will draw.” Which tells us something essential about how God works. God does not organize the world primarily through exclusion, but through attraction. God does not coerce faith; God awakens desire. God does not begin with boundaries; God begins with presence.

John places this moment late in Jesus’ ministry. Jesus has already taught, healed, confronted power, and unsettled religious certainty. And now something remarkable happens. Some Greeks—outsiders—come looking for him. They are not part of the covenant people. They are not insiders. They are God-fearers at best, standing at the edge of Israel’s faith. And John wants us to notice that this is the moment when Jesus says, “The hour has come.”

They don’t arrive with credentials. They don’t arrive with perfect theology. They don’t arrive with certainty. What they arrive with is a desire that they don’t yet know how to name. “Sir,” they say, “we wish to see Jesus.” It is a simple request, but it is a deeply honest one. They are not asking for explanations or arguments. They are not asking to be let in or told where they belong. They are asking to see.

And it matters that they are Greeks. John could have told this story without naming them, but he doesn’t. He wants us to notice that these are people who stand just outside the story as it has been told so far. They are close enough to be curious, close enough to be drawn, but not close enough to feel secure. They represent anyone who feels a pull toward Jesus without yet knowing what that pull will cost or where it might lead.

In other words, they represent many of us.

They come during a festival meant to remember liberation, yet they themselves live at the edges of the promise. They are seekers who sense that something is happening, that something in Jesus matters, even if they cannot yet articulate why. And instead of treating their seeking as a problem to be solved, Jesus treats it as a sign. Their desire becomes the moment when he names what his life is truly about.

Jesus does not answer their request directly. He doesn’t say, “Here I am.” Instead, he speaks about his lifting up, his death, and his promise to draw all people to himself. Which tells us that to truly see Jesus is not first to understand him, but to be drawn into the shape of his love. The Greeks come seeking sight, and Jesus offers them orientation. Not answers, but a center.

This is the center. Not an idea. Not a rule set. Not a culture. Not even a church. The center is a crucified and lifted-up person. Jesus himself, giving his life in love.

And this matters deeply for how we understand faith.

Many of us were formed—often unintentionally—in a version of Christianity where faith was measured by proximity to boundaries. Who’s in. Who’s out. Who’s right. Who’s suspect. Over time, faith became something like a map of lines you were supposed to stay inside. And the closer you stayed to the center of those lines, the safer you felt. The farther you drifted, the more anxious you became. For some of us, faith turned into constant self-monitoring. Am I believing the right things? Am I doing enough? Am I crossing a line without realizing it?

And the problem with that way of imagining faith is not that boundaries never matter, but that they slowly replace the living center. When boundaries become primary, fear takes over. Fear of being wrong. Fear of being excluded. Fear of asking the wrong questions. Fear of becoming the wrong kind of person. And instead of being drawn toward God, we end up managing ourselves.

But Jesus describes something different. He describes a life oriented toward a center that is strong enough, beautiful enough, and true enough to draw people toward it over time. Not a system that needs constant guarding, but a person who can be trusted. Not a faith sustained by fear, but a faith sustained by love.

In this vision, faith is no longer about how close you are to the edges or how well you are performing. It is about direction. About what has your heart. About what your life is slowly, sometimes imperfectly, leaning toward. Not everyone arrives at the same pace. Not everyone approaches from the same direction. Some move confidently, others cautiously. Some take long detours. But the movement matters—because what matters most is not just that we are moving, but what is drawing us.

This is what we mean by a centered faith. Not a faith defined by how close you are to the edges, but a faith defined by whether your life is moving—however imperfectly—toward Christ.

And here is the good news. You don’t have to be finished to be faithful. You don’t have to be certain to be sincere. You don’t have to have it all together to be drawn toward Jesus. You simply have to be willing to move.

That’s what we see in the Gospels again and again. Fishermen who barely understand what they’re being called into. Tax collectors who bring their mess with them. Religious leaders who struggle to let go of control. Outsiders who recognize Jesus before insiders do. All of them are somewhere on the road. And Jesus keeps drawing.

What’s striking is that even here, Jesus himself is not untroubled. Just a few verses later he says, “Now my soul is troubled.” Which is a surprising thing to hear at this moment in the story. This is the same Jesus who has just spoken with clarity about his mission, the same Jesus who knows what is coming, the same Jesus who trusts the Father completely. And still, his soul is troubled.

John doesn’t hide that from us. He doesn’t rush past it. He lets us see that the one who draws us toward himself does not do so from emotional distance or spiritual detachment, but from within struggle. Jesus does not move toward the cross with ease or false confidence. He moves toward it honestly, carrying fear, weight, and cost in his own body.

And that matters, because many of us assume that faith only counts when it feels calm, resolved, or clear. We tell ourselves that if we were really faithful, we wouldn’t feel so conflicted, so unsure, so tired. But Jesus shows us something else. He shows us that faithfulness is not the absence of trouble, but the direction we choose in the midst of it.

Jesus does not resolve his troubled soul before moving forward. He doesn’t wait for perfect emotional alignment. He prays, “Father, glorify your name,” and keeps walking. Which means that being drawn toward God does not require emotional certainty or spiritual composure. It requires trust expressed in motion.

That tells us something about the kind of drawing Jesus is talking about. It is patient enough to hold our fear. It is strong enough to carry our hesitation. And it is honest enough to meet us where faith and doubt coexist, without shaming us for either.

This changes how we understand the church.

The church is not a checkpoint. It is not a border crossing. It is not a holding pen for the already convinced. The church is a community of people being drawn—sometimes confidently, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with real resistance—toward the living Christ. Which means our job is not to police the edges. Our job is to keep the center clear.

To lift Jesus up—not ourselves, not our preferences, not our fears—and to trust that he will do what he promised to do. To draw.

So here is the question worth sitting with this week. Not, “Am I good enough?” Not, “Am I doing this right?” But simply, “In what direction is my life moving?

Because Jesus is not asking for perfection. He is asking for orientation. And if you find yourself—even slowly, even haltingly—being drawn toward love, toward truth, toward mercy, toward justice, toward humility, then you are already responding to the center.

And that is grace.

Amen.

Epiphany • God’s Story Is Already Moving — Follow the Light • Matthew 2:1–12

We’re grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space.

As a church, we want to live in God's unfolding story, being transformed by Jesus, learning to belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, joy, and boundless generosity.

We pray that whether this is your first time with us this morning, or you've been a part of our community for a while, that you will feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with our vision.

If you are looking for a church home, we would love to become your church home, and I in particular, would love to become one of your pastors.

This morning, as we begin a new year together, we also begin a new series—one that is not primarily about programs or plans, but about orientation. About how we understand what God is doing in the world, and how we understand our place within that work.

So let’s listen together to Matthew 2:1–12.

Matthew tells us that after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the East arrived in Jerusalem asking a question that immediately unsettled the city.

Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.

That question alone tells us something essential about how God so often works.

The first people to notice that something new was happening were not the religious experts. They were not the temple authorities. They were not the ones with institutional responsibility for interpreting Scripture and watching for the Messiah.

They were outsiders.

Foreigners.

Travelers.

People who paid attention to the world with curiosity and expectation.

Somehow, from far away, they had noticed a sign—a light breaking into the ordinary pattern of things—and they trusted that this sign, a light, was worth following, even though they could not yet explain it fully or control where it might lead.

God is often already at work before institutions are ready to notice what God is doing.

And Matthew wants us to feel the tension their arrival creates.

“When King Herod heard this, he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him.” — Matthew 2:3

That reaction makes sense, because Herod represents a way of being in the world that depends on certainty, control, and power. Herod understands the world in terms of boundaries and threats, insiders and outsiders, stability and danger. Anything that disrupts that system feels dangerous.

We have to talk about power here, because fear is doing a lot of work beneath the surface of this story.

Herod is afraid because power, in his imagination, is always a zero-sum game. If there is a new king, then someone has to lose. If someone else rises, he must fall. And so his instinct is preemptive: take them out before they take you out. That is how his world works.

But what if Herod is mistaken about the nature of power altogether? What if God is not threatened by Herod in the first place? What if Herod poses no real danger to God’s purposes at all?

Still, Herod responds the way people in power so often do when they feel their grip slipping. He gathers information. He consults the experts. He quotes Scripture. He asks where the Messiah is supposed to be born. And once he has the answer, he sends the Magi on their way—asking them to report back to him.

Not because he wants to worship.

But because he wants to remain in control.

What Matthew places before us, very gently but very clearly, is a contrast between two ways of responding to God’s activity in the world.

On one side, we see Herod—close to the center of religious knowledge, armed with certainty, surrounded by experts, and yet deeply resistant to actually moving toward God.

On the other side, we see the Magi—people who are far from the center, who do not have certainty, but who are willing to move in the direction of the light they have been given.

The Magi do not receive a detailed plan. They are not handed a map. They are not told how long the journey will take or what it will cost them. What they are given is direction. And that turns out to be enough.

After leaving Herod, they set out again, and Matthew tells us that the star they had seen when it rose goes ahead of them until it stops over the place where the child is.

And when they see the star, Matthew says, they are overwhelmed with joy. That detail matters.

Their joy does not come from having all their questions answered. It does not come from certainty or control. It comes from recognizing that they are participating in something real—that the light they trusted has not misled them.

When they enter the house, they see the child with Mary his mother, and they fall down and worship him. They open their treasures and offer gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

These are not practical gifts. They are symbolic gifts. They are gifts that say, “We may not yet understand the full story, but we recognize that this child belongs to a story much larger than our own.”

Gold for a king.

Frankincense for worship.

Myrrh, foreshadowing suffering and death.

Even here, at the beginning, Matthew is telling us that God’s unfolding story will not move in a straight line toward comfort and ease, but toward love that is willing to give itself fully.

Then Matthew adds one final, easily overlooked detail.

After being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the Magi go home by another road.

An encounter with Jesus does that. It reorients us. It changes the way we move through the world, even when our destination remains the same.

The Magi return to their own country, but they do not return unchanged. They have seen something. They have trusted the light. And they have learned that God’s work cannot be contained or controlled by the powers of the world.

This is why Epiphany matters for us at the beginning of a new year.

Because Epiphany reminds us that God’s story is already moving, often ahead of our plans, often outside our expectations, and frequently beyond the boundaries we would prefer.

Some of us are entering this year with excitement and hope. Some of us are carrying uncertainty, fatigue, or anxiety about what lies ahead. Some of us feel the ground shifting beneath us, and we would very much like a clear roadmap before taking another step.

But the story of the Magi tells us that faith does not begin with clarity. It begins with attentiveness. With noticing where the light is showing up. With trusting that God is already at work, even when we cannot yet see the whole picture.

As a church, we are committing ourselves this year to paying attention—to watching for where God is moving, to lifting up Jesus clearly and faithfully, and to trusting that when he is lifted up, he will draw people to himself.

In the weeks ahead, we will talk together about what it means to follow Jesus in a complex world, about how transformation actually happens, about what belonging looks like when we are honest about our differences, and about how freedom, joy, and generosity grow in us over time.

But today, we begin here.

With a star.

With a journey.

With a reminder that God does not wait for everything to be settled before inviting us forward.

The Magi did not know the whole road. They knew enough to take the next step.

So as we stand at the beginning of this year, the invitation is simple, and it is demanding.

Lift your eyes.

Pay attention.

Notice where God is already at work.

And when you see the light—

Follow it.

Amen.