“Christ the King Sunday isn’t strange because it competes with democracy — it’s strange because it competes with despair. Our world is full of strongmen and cynicism, people who fear kings and people who long for them. But the Gospel points us to a different kind of King. One who meets us in our suffering, one who remembers us in our worst moments, one who says to a dying man — and to us — ‘Today you will be with me.’”
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When the world shakes and the headlines tighten our chest, Jesus doesn’t hand out escape routes—He hands out purpose. He says that this moment, this pressure, this chaos is our opportunity to testify: with calm in the noise, courage in the fear, compassion in the division, truth in the confusion, and endurance when others give up. And over all of it, beneath all of it, Jesus whispers, “I will give you the words.” Once that promise settles into your bones, you can face a shaking world with a soul that will not be shaken.
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Resurrection isn’t a theory. It’s God breaking into the world we think is finished.
Just like those hikers who stopped asking, ‘How do we get back?’ and asked a brand-new question—‘Where’s the sun?’—faith turns when our questions do.
Where you see a dead end, God is already clearing the path. Where you feel stuck, Christ is already moving. Resurrection is not someday. It’s now.”
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The temple must’ve been busy that day — sandals scuffing stone, prayers murmured in the air, incense curling toward heaven. Two men walk in. One stands tall and prays about all the things he’s done right. The other can’t even lift his head. He just whispers seven words: “God, make atonement for me, a sinner.”
And Jesus says that man — the honest one — went home right with God.
Because mercy isn’t something we earn. It’s what meets us when the pretending stops.
We live in a world that rewards performance — say the right thing, post the right cause, look like you’ve got it together. But mercy doesn’t live on the stage. It lives in the quiet places where we tell the truth and discover we’re still loved.
That’s what grace does. It finds us — Pharisee hearts and tax-collector hearts alike — and sends us home lighter, forgiven, and free.
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“A widow stands before a judge who doesn’t care. But her voice becomes a prayer — steady as breath, relentless as love. This is a story about faith that won’t quit, and a God who never grows weary of compassion.”
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“Most days, life feels more like that muddy river than a mountaintop.
We pack the lunches, pay the bills, keep the routines going — and somewhere in between, we wonder when faith got so quiet.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe faith isn’t about escaping the ordinary; maybe it’s about discovering that God hasn’t left it.
Grace shows up wearing work clothes instead of wings —
in nurses who keep showing up, in neighbors who still check in, in the friend who prays when we can’t.
The miracle isn’t in the Jordan.
The miracle is that any water will do when God is in it.”
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Text: Habakkuk 1:1–4; 2:1–4
“Faith doesn’t always look like certainty.
Sometimes it looks like standing your post—
weary but still watching, hurt but still listening.
Habakkuk stood in the watchtower and said,
‘I will wait to see what God will say.’
Maybe that’s what we’re called to be:
a watchtower people in a restless world.
People who keep hope visible—
who act as if mercy still matters,
who speak as if peace is still possible,
who believe that grace is still stronger than hate. Because it is.
“When the disciples asked Jesus how to pray, he didn’t give them a formula for getting what they wanted. He gave them a prayer that begins by saying, ‘God, you are God — and I am not.’ It’s a prayer of surrender.
Think of Florence Nightingale on the battlefields of the Crimean War. Every night she prayed, ‘Use me for your work, Lord, not mine.’ Or think of Desmond Doss, praying, ‘Lord, help me get one more,’ as he carried wounded soldiers to safety.
The Lord’s Prayer calls us to let go — to open our empty hands for daily bread, to release our grudges, to trust God with the trials ahead. Because prayer isn’t just about changing our circumstances. It’s about being changed — about letting God’s grace rise up in us like a song.”
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“Maybe it starts small. Ten minutes on the porch. A deep breath before a hard conversation. One moment of stillness in the chaos.
But these small moments matter.
They become seeds of peace in a restless world. They soften the ground where grace can grow.
Because when Christ is in the house — there is bread for the hungry, rest for the weary, peace for the anxious, joy for the brokenhearted… and power for the road ahead.”
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“The truth is: We’re not just the priest who hurries by. We’re not just the Samaritan who stops. We are — every one of us — the person in the ditch. But here’s the good news: the story doesn’t leave us there. Jesus comes — without fear, without hesitation — binds up our wounds with his own hands, lifts us onto his own shoulders, takes on the cost of our healing. This is the gospel:
Not that we go out to save the world, but that the Savior of the world comes for us, pours out mercy for us, does the impossible for us.”
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“Sometimes, peace isn’t a feeling — it’s a decision.
It’s what we choose to hold onto when respect gives way to resentment,
when the people we once stood beside become distant.
Even if you can’t fix the world — you can still be faithful in it.
And that may be the truest peace of all.”
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Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem—and everything changes. The road ahead is urgent. Costly. No time for goodbyes. No room for looking back. It sounds harsh—until we realize: he’s not raising the bar. He’s telling the truth about how hard it already is. Because when love is urgent, we don’t wait. Jesus walked into suffering—not to prove a point, but to pour out grace. And now he calls us forward. Not in our strength, but in his. Eyes forward. Hands open. Hearts on fire. Jesus is on the move—and we are going with him.
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In this Pentecost sermon, Rev. Dr. Alix D. Pridgen contrasts the grasping pride of Babel with the outpouring grace of Pentecost. Where Babel was about reaching upward to make a name, Pentecost is about opening outward to make space for the Spirit. Through vivid storytelling—from a dusty plain in Shinar to a peeling church porch in Kansas—Pridgen shows that the Holy Spirit doesn’t rush into towers of power, but into places of humility, hospitality, and hope. She weaves together scripture, small-town witness, and the historic election of Bishop Donna Simon to proclaim that Pentecost isn’t a one-time spectacle. It’s God’s ongoing pattern of grace—blowing through mismatched chairs and open hearts, making not just movements, but community.
Jesus introduces another New Math to us. He gives us a formula, an equation, really: 1 + 1 + 1 = One. God’s strange arithmetic is not as a call to uniformity or conformity, but to embrace our differences in a harmony of gracious purpose.
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Someone’s heard something. There’s a bit of buzz. Not outrage—just concern. A few thoughtful folks bring it up: “Did you hear what Peter did?” No accusations yet, just questions: “Is it true he went into a Gentile's house? Sat down and ate with them?” Now, it might not sound like much to us—but imagine someone you deeply respect suddenly doing the one thing your faith told you not to do. Not just questionable. Not just “pushing the envelope.” But crossing a line. The kind of thing that makes you wonder, “Has he gone soft on the Scriptures? Has he forgotten where we come from?” Or could God be doing something new?
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*“What are you carrying this morning that God doesn’t mean for you to carry?
The women left their spices at the tomb.
Peter left his guilt behind.
You can leave your burdens, too.
Because Easter isn’t just about something that happened 2,000 years ago.
It’s about what’s happening now—
when mercy replaces shame,
when fear gives way to peace,
when resurrection breaks into your life and says:
You are forgiven.
You are free.
You are loved.”*
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Jesus visits the home of Lazarus, Martha and Mary on his way to Jerusalem just days before his death. While is there, Mary pours a jar of very expensive perfume over his feet. He interprets it as an “anointing for his burial.” In Jerusalem, Jesus will be arrested and crucified— pouring his life out in love for us.
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Jesus tells a story about a family broken by resentment and selfishness, and a father who comes to reconcile his children.
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We are God’s children, and it is God’s job to protect us… but too often we refuse to listen.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!
Like Jerusalem… we wanted to go our own way… do our own thing…Sometimes we got distracted by the shiny things…
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