We spend so much of our lives waiting for things to finally come together—waiting for clarity, for control, for the moment when everything feels the way it’s supposed to feel.

But Ascension doesn’t point us to a future where Jesus will be Lord. It reveals the reality we are already living in: Jesus is Lord—here, now, everywhere. And the Spirit is given not so we can take control of the world, but so we can finally see it clearly… and tell the truth about it.

Peter’s words do not sit easily with us: “If you suffer for doing good, you are blessed.”

We often assume goodness should make life easier. But Peter writes to people whose faithfulness has placed them in the way of resistance. Their lives have become a quiet contradiction to the world as it is.

This sermon asks what it means for 8th Street to remain committed to the good of the neighborhood—not just as an idea, but as a costly way of life.

Because it may be that we have learned how to be good in a way that costs us very little.

Most of us know what it feels like to stand in the dark—unsure, grieving, trying to make sense of what’s been lost.

But what if those places aren’t the end of the story?

What if they’re the very places where God is already at work, bringing new life?

Good Friday asks a different question.

Not, “What will you do with your life?”
But, “What do you do when everything falls apart?”

This sermon walks through five movements of the cross—inviting us to look honestly at power, violence, and the systems we trust… and to see, in the middle of it all, a different kind of power.

A power that does not dominate.
A power that does not retaliate.
A power that stays.

Because in the end, Good Friday is “good” not because of what happens to Jesus—but because of what God reveals through it.

Maundy Thursday is not neat.

It’s not triumphant. It’s not resolved. It’s a night of tension—of betrayal, confusion, and love that refuses to walk away.

And right in the middle of that moment, Jesus says something startling: “Now the Son of Man has been glorified.”

Not later. Not after the resurrection.

Now.

This sermon explores how Jesus redefines glory—not through power or victory, but through a towel, a table, and a love that gives itself away.

And then he does something even more unsettling:

He commands us to live the same way.

Palm Sunday begins not with a parade—but with a moment: “When they had come near Jerusalem…”

It is the edge of the event, the place where everything is about to change. And instead of moving toward victory, Jesus moves toward love—costly, sacrificial love. What if the moments we are nearing are not about winning, but about loving like him?

Sometimes you think you know exactly how a conversation is going to go.

But in John 4, Jesus turns a simple request—“Give me a drink”—into something far deeper. What begins as an ordinary encounter becomes a moment of grace, belonging, and unexpected friendship. This is a story about thirst, vulnerability, and the kind of conversations that can change everything.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night—curious, cautious, not ready for his life to change.

And Jesus tells him something unsettling: the Spirit moves like the wind. You can’t control it. You can’t contain it. You can only decide whether to follow where it’s going.

And where is it going?

Toward the cross.

This sermon explores the uncomfortable truth at the heart of Lent: that the Spirit of God is always moving us toward costly, self-giving love—and that most of us spend our lives trying to avoid it.

Why would the Spirit lead Jesus into the wilderness to be tempted?

It’s a question that unsettles us—because it challenges the idea that God always leads us toward comfort.

But what if the wilderness isn’t punishment?

What if it’s the place where the deepest truth finally takes root?

This sermon explores the three temptations of Jesus not as random tests, but as invitations to prove something already declared at his baptism: You are beloved.

And maybe that same truth is what we’re being invited to trust this Lent—not earn, not prove, but receive.

Ash Wednesday begins with a jarring image: locusts devouring everything in their path.

It’s not poetic. It’s not tidy. It’s loss—layer upon layer.

And yet, right in the middle of that devastation, Joel offers an invitation:

“Even now… return to me.”

This sermon explores what it means to resist becoming “locusts” in a world shaped by fear and overconsumption—and how practices like fasting are not about punishment, but alignment.

Alignment with our limits.
Alignment with our neighbors.
And ultimately, alignment with a God who does not stand far from ash—but enters it.

Jeremiah is known as the weeping prophet.
Which is why Jeremiah 31 is so surprising.

Right in the middle of devastation, the prophet commands joy—singing, dancing, feasting.

Not because suffering is gone, but because God refuses to let it define the story.

Christmas didn’t make life easier.

It made us singers.

In a world that feels out of tune, Psalm 148 reminds us that we are part of something bigger—a song of joy, hope, and restoration that began long before us and will continue long after. And the good news? We don’t sing alone.

Joseph doesn’t say a word in the Christmas story—and that may be exactly the point. While Mary sings, Joseph listens. While others receive clarity, Joseph gets a dream and a choice. His faith isn’t loud or certain—it’s quiet, steady, and costly. In a season that often celebrates big moments, Advent reminds us that God often works through ordinary obedience. Sometimes, discipleship looks like nothing more—and nothing less—than doing the next right thing.

Advent doesn’t begin with comfort—it begins with a confrontation.

John the Baptist steps into the wilderness with a single message: repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near. Not a small adjustment, but a complete reorientation. In a world that tells us we can fix everything, Advent tells the truth—we are not the solution. But that’s not bad news. It’s freedom. Because the kingdom comes not through our effort, but through God’s rescue.

Advent refuses to rush past the truth. It looks at a world full of division, exhaustion, and quiet grief and says, “Not yet.” Before the joy of Christmas arrives, Advent invites us to pause, to see clearly, and to hope honestly. It is the season where we stand on our tiptoes—awake, expectant, and looking for the God who comes not in the way we expect, but in the way we need.