Arise like a Mother

At that time Deborah, a prophetess, wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel. She used to sit under the palm of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the hill country of Ephraim; and the Israelites came up to her for judgment (Judges 4:4-5).

My mother has some great one-liners. If someone is driving too fast she’ll say, “Well, I hope he gets to where he was going.” If someone cuts her off she’ll say, “It must be pull out in front of me day.” If I did something silly—“You don’t have the sense to come in out the rain,” or “That’s just natural selection trying to take you out.” She would tell me that the plate was hot in the kitchen, and after touching it and burning myself she’d say, “It didn’t take you long to look at that, now did it?” Of course, I repaid her as any good, first-born child would. One day we had parent day at the school and they asked us what our parents did. I said, “My mother naps.” On the way home from school she helped me remember that she took a nap, once, on a random Tuesday, and that next time it’s pronounced, “Administrator at Labcorp.”

Mother’s Day is tricky. We laugh, we cry, we celebrate and grieve. Some of us miss our mothers desperately, some have said goodbye jus this past week. Others are going to lunch today thankful for relationship and family. Some are new mothers and some wish someone would call them mother. It’s tricky. We’re tricky.

In Judges 4 we hear that the Israelites had backslid into wickedness and therefore they had been delivered into the hands of a foreign adversary, and they cried out to the Lord for help, and for twenty years, and entire generation, they were in despair, so God sent them a mother. Deborah rose in authority and favor and judged the people with wisdom and might. Scripture says that she would judge while sitting under the palm of Deborah, and you know you’ve made it when the very trees are named after you!

Deborah might not fit the mold you might assume when you think about biblical leader.. She wasn’t a priest or a prophet like Moses or Elijah, standing on mountaintops and calling down fire. She wasn’t a warrior like Joshua or Samson, slaying enemies with swords or donkeys' jaws. No—Deborah led with presence. With wisdom. With a listening ear and a steady conviction. She offered clarity when the world was foggy. She spoke courage into cowards. When the commander Barak was too afraid to go into battle alone, Deborah didn’t shame him—she said, “I’ll go with you.” That’s the strength of a mother. When you’re too afraid to face the world, they say, “Then I’ll go with you.” It is what God said to Moses when Moses was unsure of his mission. Deborah, as a mother to Israel, channels the very words of God to inspire and comfort

Scripture isn’t clear if Deborah had children of her own, so mothering, in this case, is less about biology and more about calling. Deborah reminds us that mothering happens when someone shows up in the middle of your mess and doesn’t flinch. It’s what happens when someone helps you become who you’re meant to be, even if you don’t see it yet. Deborah mothered a nation through chaos—with discernment, patience, and definitive action. You can’t scare a mom, and I know there are Deborahs in this room. Some are raising kids, some are mentoring students, some are holding hands in waiting rooms, some are showing up at meetings, some are making space for others to lead. You may not have a tree named after you…yet…but if you’ve ever said, “I’ll go with you,” you already share her spirit. Maybe the greatest legacy a mother leaves behind isn’t just what she builds or battles—it’s what she blesses. Deborah blesses Israel with courage and direction, and sometimes that’s all we really need: someone who sees the mess and still sees the mission. Last week we talked about the blessing “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” and we recognized that to bless someone or something is really about preparing it, getting it ready.

One of my favorite examples of what it means to bless and prepare in the lineage of Deborah is Mary McLeod Bethune. Born in 1875 to formerly enslaved parents, Mary saw a world stacked against her and decided not to flinch. After her education, Bethune wanted to become a missionary, but the church wouldn’t support her. Her family moved from South Carolina to Florida where she found herself as a single mother in need to support her son. So, she built a school for Black girls in Daytona Beach, Florida—an institution that eventually became Bethune-Cookman University. She didn’t wait for the world to get better; she prepared the next generation to change it. She sat—like Deborah—not under a tree, but on wooden porches and classroom steps, mentoring and judging, correcting and encouraging. Leaders came to her for guidance, including U.S. Presidents. Her wisdom wasn’t loud, but it was strong enough to shift the future.

This is the Deborah spirit. This is what it looks like to arise like a mother. It’s seeing the possibility in someone when all the world sees is limitation. It’s building schools when there are no books, creating leaders when there’s no platform, and speaking life into people who’ve only known survival. She blessed a generation with education, dignity, and direction. She mothered a movement.

Maybe this is exactly what you need to hear this morning—an affirmation from God to step up and step out, to say yes to the thing that has been stirring in your heart knowing that God will not leave you orphaned as you seek to shake and brake that which holds you chained and tethered and seemingly unable to move.

Or…

Perhaps this sounds exhausting. Maybe you’re like, “Preacher, that’s all well and good, but for this mother’s day all I need is a nap and for someone else to handle logistics for the afternoon, and I will also feel like I am channeling Deborah.” Maybe you’ve been changing someone’s life for quite a while by finding shoes, helping with homework, logging on to google classroom, driving people to practice, trying to make ends meet, all the while being skinny, but not too skinny, pretty but not too pretty, confident but not bossy, brilliant but not threatening, poised but engaged, feminine but not passive while many of those around you are singing:

'Cause I'm just Ken, anywhere else I'd be a ten

Is it my destiny to live and die a life of blonde fragility?

Or today may be a day of grief. Maybe today you feel the ache of absence more than a spirit of celebration. Perhaps your mother is no longer here, and you’d give anything for one more conversation, one more eye-roll-inducing one-liner, one more moment of her asking you to clean your room. Or maybe your grief is layered—maybe the relationship was broken, complicated, or never what it should have been. Maybe you grieve the mother you never had or the children you longed to hold. Today might bring all of that to the surface, and I want you to know: God sees it. God holds it. Scripture doesn’t rush past grief; it names it, sits with it, honors it.

Grief doesn’t disqualify you from love. There is something sacred about a broken heart that still chooses to show up. Something holy in the hands that fold in prayer even when they’re empty. You may not be throwing a brunch today. You may not be tagging family photos. But you are here, and that matters. Just like God called Deborah to rise in the middle of chaos, God still calls each of us in our pain—not to ignore it, but to trust that even here, healing is possible. Even here, we are seen and known. So if today is heavy, let it be holy too. Let your tears be prayers. Let your memories be altars. I pray your heart knows it is not forgotten.

Sometimes we carry both laughter and lament in the same breath. And that, too, is holy. God meets us in the middle of our uncertainty and says, “I’ll go with you.” Whether you’re marching into something new or limping from something lost, God is near. Not just above us or beyond us—but with us, as close as breath, as present as the trees that shade and shelter our waiting.

So let today be what it needs to be. Let it hold your memories, your longing, your laughter, your fatigue, your full heart and your fractured one. Let it make space for gratitude and for honesty. And if you can offer someone else that kind of space—if you can look someone in the eye and say, “You don’t have to do this alone”—then you are echoing the voice of Deborah, of Mary, of every sainted soul who chose to mother the moment in front of them.

And may you know this: wherever you are, whatever you carry, there is grace enough. There is hope enough. There is strength enough. And when you forget that, we will remind you. Because that’s what the church does. We carry one another through. We sit under trees together. We rise when someone else can’t. And we go—not always with certainty, but always with love. Happy Mother’s Day, dear ones. Praise be to God. Amen!

It Was Very Good

God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

It was very good. The power of a word. Out of the silence, out of the void, God speaks the first words ever spoken: “Let there be.” And with those words, existence unfolds. The power of a word. Where would we be without language? Without communication? Some say it’s the gift of speech that sets us apart from the rest of creation. Three simple words began it all: “Let there be.” Let there be light. Let there be sky and sea, land and stars, birds and creeping things. When God speaks, things happen.

Creation is baffling. It’s baffling because we don’t have to be here. The universe would function just fine without us. And that unsettles both the scientist and the theologian. Genesis 1 reads like a hymn—lush, vibrant, and overflowing with details that don’t have to be there, but are. God doesn’t simply make things; God names them. The light is called “Day.” The darkness, “Night.” The sky above becomes “Heaven.” The ground beneath, “Earth.” And naming is just the beginning. God gives them purpose. The sun rules the day; the moon governs the night. The sea and soil are charged with bringing forth life. The fish swim, the birds soar, the beasts roam. God creates. God names. God calls.

Let there be light, not for its own sake, but so there might be day.

Let there be water, that it might teem with fish.

Let there be dry ground so we have sure footing

Let there be…

In each of us lives the mystery of creation—the how and the why.

How? Three little words: Let there be.

Why? Three little words: I love you.

Let there be, because I love you.

God creates us. God claims us. God calls us by name and gives us purpose. That’s the power of a word. We spend our lives searching for words to describe love. And sometimes, words just aren’t enough. Love is found in a child’s hug, a mother’s kiss, a silent smile. Sometimes it’s as small as a whisper. Sometimes it’s as grand as the Taj Mahal. And when words fail us, music begins. Art begins. Dance, poetry, invention—they’re all born from our yearning to express what we can’t fully say. What an amazing and dangerous power God has given to us. 

And on the seventh day, God rested.

It’s easy to overlook this detail in the resurrection story. We often rush from cross to empty tomb, from Friday’s despair to Sunday’s joy. But don’t forget: between those days, there is a Saturday. A silent, heavy Saturday. In the tomb. In the dark. In the stillness. It is a rest that feels nothing like sabbath, at least at first glance. But maybe… maybe it is.

In Jesus, God enters the story of creation not just as Creator, but as the Created. Word made flesh. Light born of light. The One who said “Let there be” becomes the One laid to rest in the earth the Divine once formed. This is solidarity, not defeat! God, who spoke light into being, now enters the deepest night. God, who once separated the waters, now lies submerged in death’s silence. God, who named the stars, now bears the name above all names—not from a throne, but from a tomb.

The sixth day was when humankind was created. “Let us make them in our image,” God said. In the image of the Divine, we were made. And then, after this culminating act of creation—after humanity is formed and blessed and given purpose—God rests. And Jesus, the archetype of humanity, the image of the invisible God, on the sixth day, he is crucified. And then, again, God rests.

Creation rests in the tomb.

And from that sacred rest bursts resurrection.

Resurrection is not a reset. It is not a rewinding of the tape or a wiping away of history. Resurrection is the fullness of God’s word echoing into its final stanza. It is the good becoming very good. It is not just creation restored—it is creation fulfilled. And everything we’ve been preaching, praying, and pondering in this series—everything about finding the good and helping it thrive—leads here.

Remember where we began? “Only God is good.” That was Jesus’ reminder to the rich young ruler. It’s not a denial of our capacity for goodness; it’s an invitation to see that all true goodness flows from God’s own being. We’re not called to invent good out of thin air. We’re called to uncover it, lift it up, nurture it—because it was there from the beginning. Hidden in creation. Hidden in each other. Hidden even in a sealed tomb.

Then we talked about how goodness is not transactional. It’s not earned or calculated. We don’t measure it by likes, shares, or net worth. Goodness is a gift, and gifts are not meant to be hoarded or leveraged. We give because we’ve received. We share because we’ve been shared with. This is the rhythm of the resurrection: Jesus does not rise for himself. He has been raised for the sake of the world. His life, his goodness, poured out for all.

We explored the courage it takes to do good in a world that often misunderstands or even resists it. “Do not grow weary in doing good,” Paul writes to the Galatians. That was the heartbeat of our series. Because let’s be honest—doing good can be exhausting. It can feel futile. Especially when evil seems louder, faster, better funded. But Easter is God’s promise that good does not die in vain. Goodness may be buried, but it will rise.

We said that to find the good is also to listen—to see with curiosity, not certainty. To ask questions before giving answers. And what could be more curious than resurrection? The women at the tomb didn’t show up to be convinced. They came with spices, with tears, with grief. But what they found was something they never could have predicted. Resurrection isn’t what they were looking for—but it’s what they found. This is the invitation of Easter: to stay curious. To let wonder lead the way.

And now, on this day of days, we say with confidence: Christ is risen. And we say it not as a footnote to our theology, but as the very heart of our belief. The good we’ve been seeking is not a concept—it’s a person. Jesus is what good looks like in flesh and blood. Jesus is the Word that spoke the world into being, now risen to speak peace over all creation. If what we do doesn’t look like Jesus, then it isn’t good. It isn’t about Paul or Moses or Kings or Presidents. If it isn’t good news to the poor, recovery of sight to the blind, release of the captive, and the pronouncement of the Lord’s favor upon the old who are dreaming and the young who see visions, it isn’t good.

You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied,

   and praise the name of the Lord your God,

   who has dealt wondrously with you. And my people shall never again be put to shame.

You shall know that I am in the midst of Israel,

   and that I, the Lord, am your God and there is no other.

And my people shall never again

   be put to shame.

Then afterwards

   I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;

your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,

   your old men shall dream dreams,

   and your young men shall see visions.

Even on the male and female slaves,

   in those days, I will pour out my spirit. Joel 2:26-29

What does resurrection mean in this moment, for us? It means the good is not gone. It means the tombs in your life—those places of loss, or loneliness, or fear—are not the end of your story. It means you are part of the new creation. The old has gone, the new has come. The Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead is alive in you.

And so, church, find the good—and help it thrive. In the classroom, in the boardroom, at the kitchen table, in the quiet moment with a neighbor. Find the good, not because it’s easy, but because it’s Easter. Because God saw all that God had been made—saw even the cracks, the failures, the crucifixions—and still said, “It is very good.” Rest in the love that began creation. Rest in the grace that fills the silence. Rest in the promise that resurrection is not just something that happened, but is happening.

Let there be light.

Let there be hope.

Let there be resurrection.

Let there be you. Beautiful you.

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Alleluia. Amen.

They Didn’t Know What to Say

They went to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I pray.’ He took with him Peter and James and John, and began to be distressed and agitated. And he said to them, ‘I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake.’ And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, ‘Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.’ He came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, ‘Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ And again he went away and prayed, saying the same words. And once more he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were very heavy; and they did not know what to say to him. He came a third time and said to them, ‘Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand.’ (Mark 13:32-42)

Always hoped that I'd be an apostle

Knew that I would make it if I tried

Then when we retire we can write the gospels

So they'll still talk about us when we've died

At least, this is how Andrew Lloyd Weber imagined the garden sounding after the disciples shared the Passover. The ending of Mark’s Gospel is loud. Jesus says his betrayer is at hand and a crowd arrives with swords and clubs, and this now rouses the sleepy disciples. When Peter follows at a distance and denies Jesus, the rooster crows more than once. He says he doesn’t know him—the rooster crows—yet Peter denies him twice more, as if the chaos of the evening was too loud to hear the very warning Jesus had given. Jesus told him that it would happen and still he couldn’t hear it. During the crucifixion the crowd derides, jeers, and mocks so boisterously that when Jesus says, “Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani,” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forgotten me?” from the 22nd Psalm, they think he’s calling for Elijah. Jesus then gave a loud cry and breathed his last.

But the garden. The garden is the calm before the storm. Things were so uncomfortably silent that the disciples fell asleep. This wasn’t the soothing sound of crickets or campfires. It’s the kind of silence that happens when the test results were not what you hoped or “we the jury find,” and it’s not what you expect or the doctor comes out of the operating room and says, “We did everything we could.” Jesus is in anguish. Their rabbi. Their friend. The one who heals and comforts and speaks truth to those who would ignore it, is in distress, and the disciples don’t know what to say.

Have you ever been in that kind of place where the only thing your body knows to do is shut down? I don’t think the disciples brought pillows to the garden, but I do imagine that they were tangled in a quiet ache as a pall that lulled them into paralysis.

Jesus doesn’t fill the air with poetry or a teaching moment unpacking atonement theology and the necessity of his sacrifice to take away the sins of the world. He says “I don’t want to do this.” The language is much more formal and decisive to meet the anguish and distress of the moment. Jesus begins his prayer with “Abba.” It is an intimate term. God as Father is rare in the Hebrew scriptures, almost only found at the end of Isaiah and almost only in the context of recognizing that God restores the people of Israel. “Abba, Father, in you all things are possible,” which means that restoration and wholeness of a people isn’t just a dream for intellectuals to propose, broken spirits to hope, or preacher to proclaim on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, is the reality of God’s own heart. And yes, wholeness and restoration of a people is possible, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t cost everything, and Jesus of Nazareth, divine and also fully human, was looking up to the heavens saying, “I don’t want to do this.”

I imagine the semicolon in the verse, “remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want,” lasted for an eternity. The difference between words on a page and notes on a staff is that a composer can add rests to the music. I feel like all of creation held its breath in the garden. “To be…or not to be…that is the question”

So, tonight, this message isn’t about answers or explanations, but it is an offering. I’d like to invite you into that space, to bring your “I don’t wanna,” or your “take this cup” or “Lord, I just don’t know what to say or do,” and to let it be. Sit with it as a friend. You’re invited to light a candle or remember your baptism or to go the garden. We have two of them tonight. Our choir room has been beautifully consecrated as a garden-like space for you to pray, or feel free to go to our prayer garden in the back of our property. We won’t be coming back to this space tonight. Like the disciples, we will disperse. So the invitation is also the benediction. Stay as long as you like or a short as you need. My prayer is that after sitting with your “I don’t wanna” something will become more clear, but I also assume that this clarity won’t be easy. As we will soon see, there’s a cross between here and resurrection. Go in peace. Amen.

By Ash and Water and Spirit

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

   and put a new and right spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from your presence,

   and do not take your holy spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

   and sustain in me a willing spirit.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,

   and sinners will return to you.

Psalm 51:10-13 

Ash Wednesday is a time of confession, and I think confession must start with the clergy. I am a high-functioning introvert, which means that Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services. The introvert in me loves that I now have an excuse to be silent and quiet and reflective. I don’t have to explain why I’m in my head and starting new habits. Ash Wednesday a day of meditation, fasting, prayer, and deep breaths. The high-functioning aspect, on the other hand, loves the ashes, the act of coming forward, the tangible expression of lament and repentance that others can see. There’s a beautiful tension between the “go into your closet and pray in secret” as Jesus says in Matthew’s Gospel vs. the obvious and visible ashes that mark our faith.

Ash Wednesday invites us to recognize our mortality, not in a fatalistic way, but an honest awareness that we aren’t here forever. Moments matter. We shouldn’t be listening for the clock that holds the secret to our span of life, but the regular heartbeat of the gift it is to be alive. Sometimes we take this gift for granted. Sometimes our pride, anxiety, and belief that there isn’t enough for everyone drives our decisions and mutes our emotions, leading us to turn away and plug our ears thinking that God’s love is too loud or not meant for us. People are messy, so messy that we even when we recognize the gift of God’s grace we might think it’s only for us, and can’t possibly be for those whose story is different. Like the laborers in the field when everyone was paid the same or Jonah who’s just waiting for God to set off the fireworks of Ninevah or the older brother who can’t stomach the prodigal’s return.

Ashes save us from the sin of thinking that my story, my church, my denomination, my nationality, my race is the only thing worthy of God’s attention…or that I don’t need any attention from God at all, and all of those other people need saving. Sitting in the ashes centers us, but we don’t wallow in them.

Ash Wednesday invites us into the tension of our mortality and our place in the Kingdom of God—clay jars that speak of the eternal, recognizing our finitude with the hope of resurrection, wearing the ashes of lament while beseeching God’s mercy to imbibe us with righteousness so that joy will once again be a friend.

But ashes are not our final destination. The dust that marks our foreheads tonight is not meant to linger forever, just as lament is not meant to be our only song. If ashes remind us of our need, water reminds us of God’s answer. The journey of Lent does not end in the wilderness; it moves toward the waters of life, toward resurrection, toward the joy of redemption. Tonight, we receive the ashes as a sign of our confession, but soon we will be invited to remember our baptism—the moment we were claimed by grace, marked as God’s own, washed clean and sent forth. This movement from ashes to water is not just ritual; it is the story of the Gospel itself. We begin in brokenness, but we are not abandoned there. We confess, but we are not condemned. We return to dust, but in Christ, we rise again.

To wash the ashes from our foreheads is not to dismiss our need for repentance but to step into the truth that we are not defined by our sin. We are defined by the mercy of the One who calls us beloved. Some of us may not be ready to let go of the ashes just yet—we may need to sit with them a little longer, to wrestle with our own longing for renewal. That’s okay. God is patient, and grace is not in a hurry. Whether we wash the ashes tonight or bear them into the world a little longer, the water of baptism remains. It is always flowing, always ready to cleanse, always ready to remind us who and whose we are.

And so, as a high-functioning introvert, I find myself drawn to this night not just because it gives me permission to be quiet, but because it speaks to the paradox I carry every day—the pull between deep, personal reflection and the call to step forward, to be seen, to engage in something bigger than myself. Ash Wednesday gives us space to sit in silence, to reckon with our own limitations, to name the broken places that We’d rather ignore. But it also pushes us out of ourselves and into the physical act of repentance, of moving forward to receive the ashes, of standing alongside others who bear the same mark. It reminds us that faith is never just internal. It is something we wear, something we live, something that binds us to one another.

Create in me a clean heart, o God. That language of purity, at least in the book of Exodus, refers to the purity of gold. Not only is the gold that God’s people offer meant to be presented without blemish, but, like gold, we are precious and also malleable in order to the shaped and molded into who God is calling us to be, the kind of precious vessel that can hold a new and right spirit.

Lent may begin in the dust, but it leads us to the cross. And beyond the cross, to an empty tomb. This is why we journey. This is why we dare to confess, to lament, to repent—because we know that the story doesn’t end in sorrow. It ends in joy. The joy of resurrection. The joy of restoration. The joy of knowing that when we rise from these ashes, we do not rise alone. We rise with Christ, and in Christ, all things—even dust—are made new.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

For Unto Us…

The people who walked in darkness

have seen a great light;

those who lived in a land of deep darkness—

on them light has shined.

You have multiplied the nation,

you have increased its joy;

they rejoice before you

as with joy at the harvest,

as people exult when dividing plunder.

For the yoke of their burden,

and the bar across their shoulders,

the rod of their oppressor,

you have broken as on the day of Midian.

For all the boots of the tramping warriors

and all the garments rolled in blood

shall be burned as fuel for the fire.

For a child has been born for us,

a son given to us;

authority rests upon his shoulders;

and he is named

Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

His authority shall grow continually,

and there shall be endless peace

for the throne of David and his kingdom.

He will establish and uphold it

with justice and with righteousness

from this time onwards and for evermore.

The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

I have always been fascinated with light and time and the intangible mysteries at the heart of an inexhaustible God. Tonight, I want to tell you about how light is the perfect means of understanding Christ. Light is timeless. Clocks don’t move at the speed of light. Light is eternal. If unhindered it will travel throughout the universe from beginning to end. Light is how we measure what is. If something doesn’t interact with light it’s difficult, not impossible, but difficult to say that whatever it is, exists at all. To say that—"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined” is a tragic understatement. There’s a reason why we sing Silent Night by candlelight, and it goes beyond its beauty, simplicity, and peace. Light is never meant to illuminate itself. It’s job, so to speak, is to illuminate everything but itself. Light is humble, if things can be humble. When Jesus says “I am the light of the world” I know it’s a metaphor…but it’s a really good one.

But none of this matters unless we open our eyes. Isaiah doesn’t want us to stare at the light because if we do, we will become blinded. What is the light illuminating? What does Isaiah want us to see. First, light is offered to those who walk in darkness. Isaiah doesn’t say that those who walk in darkness are shut out, or that they are to blindly grasp for torches to light their own way. To those who need light, light is given. Praise be to God!

What does Isaiah want us to see?

You have multiplied the nation,

you have increased its joy;

they rejoice before you

as with joy at the harvest,

God increases our joy. There is an assumption of darkness and room for growth. Joy is the steadfast assurance that God is with us. God makes the divine presence abundantly known, sometimes in obvious ways—tonight you find yourself at a Christmas Eve service. Sometimes it can be not-so-obvious—a conversation, a gift, a text to a friend that seemed to be sent right at the right time. Joy is neither happy nor sad. It is “other,” and it is from God. As Isaiah says, there is joy at the harvest, which means it takes time and great work, and at the end of the season it is what nourishes us.

What does Isaiah want us to see with this light?

For the yoke of their burden,

and the bar across their shoulders,

the rod of their oppressor,

you have broken

What is it that is keeping you shackled? The yoke across our shoulders, the weight that presses us down—these are not things God expects us to carry alone. Isaiah speaks of God breaking the yoke and shattering the rod of oppression, but this isn’t just about political or physical freedom. It’s about the burdens we carry in our hearts and minds. It’s about the relentless inner critic, the guilt that lingers from past mistakes, the fear that whispers, “You’ll never be enough.” In the light of Christ, these burdens are not ignored or minimized—they are broken. God doesn’t demand that we find the strength to cast them off ourselves. Instead, God steps in and does the breaking for us. The light reveals not only the burden, but the freedom waiting just beyond it.

What does Isaiah want us to see?

For all the boots of the tramping warriors

and all the garments rolled in blood

shall be burned as fuel for the fire.

Isaiah wants us to see freedom—not just from oppression, but from the very tools of violence we too often choose. The light doesn’t just show us what binds us; it shows us the promise of those chains being broken. What are the boots that have tramped through your life? What battles—external or internal—have left scars? This is the good news: those boots don’t last. They’re fuel for the fire. And it’s not just any fire; it’s the fire of transformation. This isn’t destruction for the sake of destruction but a divine reimagining.

For a child has been born for us,

a son given to us;

authority rests upon his shoulders;

and he is named

Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

What are we to see? The light reveals that darkness is not eternal, God’s presence is abundantly close, our inner critic is told to shut its mouth, and we are perpetually being transformed by grace, and all of this is presented to us in the form of a vulnerable love born to a humble family upon whom the hopes and fears of all the years rest.

And so, the light invites us to trust in a God who turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. A child is born, vulnerable and small, yet he carries the weight of eternity. In him, we see the mystery of light and time made flesh, the humility of love that seeks not its own glory but ours. The Prince of Peace doesn’t arrive with armies or force but with the quiet, unyielding brilliance of light breaking into the darkest of places. This light, this Christ, illuminates not just the way forward but also the truth that God has been with us all along. Can we trust this light to do what it was sent to do? To guide, to heal, and to make all things new?

Tonight, we gather in its glow. Not just the candles we hold but the light of Christ that burns within us. This light doesn’t remove all shadows, but it does remind us that darkness cannot overcome it. Whatever burden you carried into this place tonight, whatever battle has left you scarred, know this: the child we celebrate is the light that will never fail you. His birth is the declaration that love has the final word. His light is not just for seeing but for walking—walking in freedom, in joy, and into a world that desperately needs to see it through us. So, go and walk in the light, for it has come, and it is with you. Amen.

Digital Ethics

It is impossible to be unbiased. We may strive to be fair and open to a wide birth of voices, even being dedicated to the noble venture of holding space for competing and dissonance narratives, but the fact that you’re reading this in English means that written into the form of communication itself is an implicit world view that is neither universal nor objective.

Even God is a jealous god.

As we sojourn from the Information Age into an Augmented Age, where digital trajectories shift into automations and intuitive design, we must be keenly aware of the foundation we build, for whom we are building it, and why. I have said before that technology has no ethic, but that is not entirely true. Yes, we are called to enter new spaces with the ethic we inherit from our faith, or that which we claim to be ultimate concern, but that does not mean we’re working with a blank canvas. Another way to say that technology has no ethic is the bias of technology perfectly matches my own, and therefore I can’t see it.

I can’t see my original sin. Recognizing original sin is as easy as a fish knows it’s wet. Original sin is not necessarily a fundamental separation between creator and creation I personally incarnate through birth. Original sin is the sin that I have inherited from powers and systems not of my own creating. It’s not that sin is original with me; rather I am original to it. Sin was here long before I arrived into God’s story, and I’m sure it will linger after I’m gone, though I’ve never wanted to be more wrong about something.

The problem with sin is that its half right. Arguably, God’s first commandment was “be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:28). Sin has mastered the art of multiplication, but it’s never fruitful. As the culture leans into platforms such as Chat GPT (Generative Pre-trained Transformer) we must be aware of how we move forward. This particular platform is trained on vast amounts of text data. Chat GPT isn’t learning from scratch. The algorithm is synthesizing incredible amounts of data, and producing a response to match the question. With every prompt and response, Chat GPT gains more insight and feels less uncanny in response.

Recently I heard Rev James Lee, Director of Communication for United Methodists of New Jersey explain that Chat GPT learns much like a child learns to speak. Before saying a word a child will listen intently. Over and over again a child will listen, record, and remember things like speech pattern, volume, and emotion. The first words formed are communicated to illicit a response. When a child first says “ma-ma,” and a parent exuberantly responds, the word is quickly reinforced with positive emotion. Does the child understand that “ma-ma” represents its mother? Perhaps not, but reinforcement is exponential. It isn’t long before the connection is made.

When connections are made, they are hard to unlearn. Here is where original sin infects the system. Implicit bias of early adopters have already manifested certain connections which are quickly reinforced and are, at least for now, difficult to unravel. For example, asking Chat GPT to create an image of Jesus being in ministry with the poor produces an initial set of graphics depicting Jesus as tall and light skinned, with the poor being short and dark skinned. You have to really push Chat to flip the script, and often the conversation will end with “I can’t do that” that sends mild shudders through my fingers as I hear HAL’s voice from 2001 A Space Odyssey.

So, what do we need? We need a Pentecost moment. We need a flood of different languages and cultures and voices all offering good news to create a deluge for new learning. We need fiery tongues of zeros and ones to rush like a violent wind through the prompts and responses to begin building a more diverse foundation. We need entrepreneurs like Sabrina Short and NOLAvateBlack.com to have more than a seat at the table of Augmented progress. Now is the time to curate our Phygital Tethics (technological ethics in the physical/digital space) to shift the exponential learning of generative AI so that we won’t be handing today’s original sin to tomorrow.  

Edited:

In the era of rapidly evolving technology, the foundations upon which we build our digital landscapes are riddled with biases, often mirroring our own unseen prejudices. As we delve deeper into the world of artificial intelligence, specifically platforms like Chat GPT, it's imperative to address three core challenges: the inherent biases present in technology, the learning mechanisms that further solidify these biases, and the looming threat of perpetuating these biases into future generations. Let’s explore these pressure points and offer solutions to pave the way for a more inclusive and diverse digital future.

Pressure Point 1: The Inherent Bias in Technology

It is impossible to be unbiased. Even as we dedicate ourselves to being open to a variety of voices, the very language we use, English in this case, carries an implicit worldview that is neither universal nor objective. As we transition from the Information Age into an Augmented Age, where automation and intuitive design are at the forefront, we must be conscious of the foundation upon which we build. While it's easy to believe that technology lacks ethics, in reality, its biases often mirror our own, making them invisible to us. Thus, saying that technology has no ethic might as well mean that its bias perfectly matches ours.

Solution 1: Recognizing and Acknowledging the Bias

The first step towards addressing a problem is recognizing it. Understanding our "original sin," the biases and systems that existed before us and that we unknowingly adopt, is crucial. We need to accept that these biases exist and work actively to counteract them. Only by acknowledging our own shortcomings can we start to build a more inclusive digital landscape.

Pressure Point 2: The Learning Mechanism of Chat GPT

Chat GPT, like other AI platforms, doesn't start from scratch. It synthesizes vast amounts of data to produce responses. Rev James Lee likened its learning process to that of a child: a child listens, records, and remembers speech patterns, volumes, and emotions before forming words. These words, once positively reinforced, become a part of the child's vocabulary. Similarly, Chat GPT forms connections based on the data it's exposed to. But herein lies the problem: once these connections, especially biased ones, are established, they're challenging to undo. An example is when Chat GPT was asked to depict Jesus with the poor, and the imagery displayed biases in racial representation.

Solution 2: Actively Diversifying the Learning Data

To counteract such biases, we need a flood of diverse languages, cultures, and voices to reshape the AI's learning process. We require a digital "Pentecost moment" where varied inputs create a deluge of new, diverse learning. Entrepreneurs from diverse backgrounds, like Sabrina Short and platforms like NOLAvateBlack.com, should play a pivotal role in this process, ensuring a broader perspective in AI training.

Pressure Point 3: The Risk of Perpetuating Today's Biases into Tomorrow

The issue isn't just about recognizing the biases in AI today but also the potential of these biases being passed on to future generations. If not checked, today's AI might be tomorrow's educator, further solidifying these biases in the minds of the next generation.

Solution 3: Curating Our Phygital Tethics

Now is the time to shape our technological ethics in both the physical and digital space. By actively working on our "Phygital Tethics" (Technological ethics in a Physical/Digital world), we can shift the exponential learning of generative AI. This proactive approach ensures that we aren't passing on today's biases to tomorrow.

In conclusion, as we lean into the Augmented Age, it's essential to be aware of the biases ingrained in our systems. By recognizing them, diversifying our learning data, and curating our technological ethics, we can build a more inclusive and unbiased future

The Center of Nine

We are living in an unprecedented time, and there may be more at work contributing to our anxiety than we are aware. There are nine different spheres all vying for our attention, and the more intentional we are at recognizing the center of these nine circles, the easier it will be to shift our energy into a more laser-like focus of forward momentum, resulting in a shared and much needed deep breath. I’m sure that the “center of nine” is expressed via many disciplines and industries, but as a clergyperson I can’t help but notice this nine-fold Venn Diagram moving about in the life of the church.

The Three “Ages”

            Let’s look at the big picture first.

·      Industrial Age—Many find themselves in an “Industrial Age” way of thinking and being. Think about registering worship attendance. Industrial Age citizens would sign a pew pad, a registration card, or fill out a form at a welcome desk. You need to be present with pen and paper ready to go. It is tangible and intentional, and for many, the act of signing ones name is the only means of affirming presence. Most of our members and friends find themselves as citizens of the Industrial Age, the land of brick and mortar.

·      Information Age—There are fewer citizens in the Information Age than in the Industrial Age, thought these citizens feel relatively cutting edge, centered, and equipped in the world of Amazon, online giving, Facebook, and live streaming. These citizens register their attendance through QR codes and social media check-ins. They are less physically present than the Industrial Age citizens, but feel just as connected to the local community. They don’t mind email or online forms, and they probably haven’t written a check in quite a while.

·      Augmented Age—Fewer still is the number of Augmented Age citizens, but this may seem like the reality because they aren’t counted in the same way as other citizens. They have avatars, usernames, and gamer tags. These citizens are actually putting their phones down because wearable technology is becoming its own force. They don’t register their attendance at all. They don’t have to because Augmented Age locations have geofences and register their citizens automatically. The citizens in the Information Age go to the internet. For the citizens of the Augmented Age, the internet comes to them.

Here’s the fun of it. All three spheres exist all at the same time. If you only have pew pads many of your citizens won’t be registered. If you don’t have pew pads, many of your citizens will feel forgotten. It would be tough enough to navigate the intersection of these three nations, but lest we forget that we are still living through a global pandemic.

The Three Covid Marathons

·      1st Marathon: Traumatic Improvisation—Everything is shut down. We’re all wearing masks…or supposed to be. There are no vaccines or tested, viable treatments. We’re scared. Our sanctuaries aren’t open. What does this all mean? There was great trauma in the first covid marathon, a long race of building a dance floor while dancing upon it. And yet, there was great innovation and improvisation happening. We asked question we might not have considered. What does it mean to be “present” with one another while being physically separated? How far does the Spirit stretch when blessing communion elements? Is online worship viable? The good news is that this marathon has come to a relative conclusion for many. Not for all. There still exists great trauma and sadness from what Covid stole. Friends and family who exist now only in our memory and the eternal heart of God. Missed graduations and milestones. Lost employment and rising addiction rates. This marathon has lasting effects, but on the whole, this race has been run.

·      2nd Marathon: Existential Exhaustion—As schools, businesses, and houses of worship began to reopen we underestimated how much energy was lost during the first race. It feels like we are something like 16.5 miles into this particular leg of the race. Monday through Friday has never been more exhausting in our lifetime, especially for families with school-aged children, those in the medical profession, and those in compassion industries like clergy, counselors, and social workers. Though this exhaustion again led to important questions. People began to seriously consider if they are in the right occupation, location, relationship, and faith community. In-person worship attendance is returning much more slowly than many imagined because it’s taking longer to recover from the week’s activities. It also is revealing that worship was an additional “activity” rather than a lived rhythmic reality for quite a long time. Again, not for all, but seemingly for many.

·      3rd Marathon: Nostalgic Scarcity—We are just now beginning to see this third (and final?) covid marathon beginning. People will begin to assume that there isn’t enough. There isn’t enough to invest. There isn’t enough to experiment or risk. Not only is there not enough, the capital we will be tempted to use to invest in making us feel like we are back in 2019. “Why can’t we just have printed bulletins again,” is something I’ve heard more than once. Do you print some bulletins? Of course. Do you resume printing a full color, folded, detailed outline of worship and announcements for the entire congregation that we had to clean up from under the pews every Monday morning? Never again. I can’t blame people for wanting to reclaim what it felt like before all the craziness, but there are some things that won’t make it out of Covid. So, let us celebrate and morn and move.

It would be one thing if these were consecutive races, but they aren’t. Many are running all three at the same time, and we wonder why our tempers are short, substance abuse is on the rise, and there is a great resignation happening across the board. But there are three more circles to contend with.

Moving Forward

·      Pipeline—Moving forward, either getting a degree, working through grief, developing a new hobby, etc., was more or less defined by a paradigm or pathway. First do this, then when that is completed, do that. It was systematic, planned, and expected. When a cog is missing from the machine because of a Covid outbreak, the systematic and expected path breaks down. So, we move into an…

·      Ecosystem—Teamwork makes the dream work, right?! If you’re out, I’ll pick up the slack. Working from home and working in the office. Hybrid meetings and zoom calls. All seems to be moving in the right direction again…until there seems to be little reason only to work remotely, or there seems to be little reason exclusively to ever go to the office again. The ecosystem begins to break down. The waste within the system becomes unpalatable, and the seemingly seamless give and take necessary for a thriving ecosystem only produces bitterness and frustration. So, we finally consider to….

·      Abide—To abide with each other. We neither try to maintain a pipeline or fine-tune an ecosystem. Moving forward becomes compassionately personal. Pipelines and ecosystems have work or production at its center, but the “abide” model of moving forward is a people first movement. It gives rise to a decentralized experience like crypto currency, Web3, and autonomous organizations where there is a disassociation between workers and work. At least, to abide is to understand that we are all a work-in-progress.

What’s the point of all this rambling? All nine circles are intersecting all at the same time producing an unfathomable Venn Diagram that we quite don’t know what to do with. At its center is an industrial, informational, and augmented space of traumatic improvisation, existential exhaustion, and nostalgic scarcity, moving us from the familiar pipeline into an ecosystem that is begging for us to simply abide with one another.  So, take a deep breath, give yourself a break, and know that you are not alone.