“Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day... You are witnesses of these things. And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised...’ Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them... While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.”
—Luke 24:45–51

There’s something powerful about a blessing.

Not a rushed goodbye or a polite “take care,” but a real, heartfelt moment where someone speaks words of love and hope over your life. That’s what Jesus does here. As he prepares to return to heaven, he doesn’t leave his disciples in confusion or fear—he leaves them with a blessing.

Let’s be honest: most of us don’t love change. Even good changes can feel a little scary. Transitions—such as graduations, retirements, new jobs, and loved ones passing—can leave us wondering what comes next and if we’re truly ready for it.

And here’s Jesus, standing with his friends on a hillside, lifting his hands not to wave goodbye but to bless them. And while he’s still blessing them—right in the middle of that holy moment—he rises into heaven.

And the disciples? They don’t panic. They don’t fall apart. They head back to Jerusalem filled with joy. That part always amazes me.

Why joy? Because Jesus reminded them that the story wasn’t ending—it was just beginning. He had opened their hearts and minds to everything they had lived through together, and he promised they wouldn’t be alone. The Spirit was coming. They were ready, even if they didn’t feel ready.

And maybe that’s a word for us, too.

You might be standing on the edge of something new today—something exciting or something bittersweet. You might be carrying questions, fears, or just that ache that comes with change. But hear this: Jesus doesn’t just send us out—he blesses us forward. He goes with us. And what’s ahead? It may be unknown, but it’s not empty. The Spirit is still coming. The promise still holds.

Jesus,
Sometimes, change is hard.
Help me remember that you don’t send me out alone.
Thank you for the blessing you speak over my life.
When I feel unsure, please fill me with your peace.
And when I step into something new, remind me you’re already there.
Amen.

​Grace and Peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
When I was a kid, my friend Heather and I spent hours playing by the creek on her family's farm. It was one of those winding, shaded streams where your boots always got stuck in the mud no matter how careful you were. We'd build dams with sticks and rocks, race leaf boats, and dig our fingers into the wet clay along the banks.
But what I remember most was what lived underneath.

If you sat still long enough and let the water settle, you could start to see it if you were patient. Fish darting between stones. Crawdads scooting backward under the shadows. Tiny tadpoles, slow and wiggly, like little commas in the water. There was a whole world under the surface, alive and moving, even when it looked still at first glance.

And I remember thinking, "How much of life is like that?" How much is hidden? How much is happening beneath the surface, even when we can't see it?

That memory came rushing back to me this week as I sat with today's Gospel from John. Because that's what Jesus is telling us, too. Listen. Watch. Trust. Even when you can't see everything.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled."

That's how the chapter began. In today's reading, we hear Jesus continuing his farewell message to the disciples. The Last Supper is ending. The cross is near. The world is about to be turned upside down. And yet, Jesus says: "Peace I leave with you; the Peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives." I'm not sure about you, but I find that sentence both beautiful and utterly perplexing. What does it mean that Jesus gives peace "not as the world gives"?

Let's be honest: the world gives Peace conditionally.

• Peace is negotiated.
• Peace is earned.
• Peace is bought.
• Peace is temporary.

We see it in our politics, relationships, and even our hearts. The world's Peace is often just the absence of conflict, not the presence of wholeness. But the Peace Jesus gives? It's not the kind you can broker or bargain for. It's not dependent on circumstances. It doesn't require everything to be OK. It arrives most powerfully when everything is not OK.

Jesus is preparing his disciples for chaos. And yet, what does he promise? Not a plan. Not a guarantee. It's not a road map. He promises his presence.

"Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them."

Home. Make our home with them. What a powerful image. Jesus knows that soon, the Temple curtain will be torn. That the physical place of worship will be eclipsed by something more profound. That God will not dwell in buildings made of stone but in the fragile, faithful hearts of ordinary people. In you. In me.

Florence was a member of one of my first congregations. She had thinning white hair, the kindest blue eyes, and a laugh that always came with a hand squeeze. She lived alone in a small house just outside of town. Every week, I brought her communion, and every time I walked in, she'd smile and say, "Pastor, come in and sit a spell. I've got a story and some cookies with your name on them."

On one visit, I found Florence sitting silently in her chair. No cookies. No smile. Just tears. Her memory was beginning to slip. She'd forgotten the names of her grandchildren. She was scared. Angry. And she no longer felt that God was far away. I sat next to her, and we read today's passage together. When I got to the part that says, "We will come and make our home with them," she stopped me. They looked right at me with surprising clarity and said, "You mean Jesus still wants to live here—in me? Even if I can't remember Him?" And I said, "Yes. Exactly that." She closed her eyes and whispered, "Then I'm not alone."

Jesus promises the Holy Spirit—the Advocate. The Comforter. The Teacher. The Reminder. He doesn't leave us orphaned, even when we feel like we've lost everything else. Sometimes, we think the Holy Spirit only shows up in significant ways—tongues of fire, dramatic conversions, dazzling miracles. But most of the time, the Spirit is the still, small breath reminding us we are not forgotten. Jesus is still at home in us, even when the windows are cracked, the roof leaks and the walls feel shaky.

Peace I leave with you. My Peace I give to you.
Not the world's Peace. Not Peace based on performance or perfection.
But Peace is rooted in presence. A Savior who stays. A Spirit who whispers, "You are mine."

Beloved, this world is full of anxious hearts and troubled minds. We don't always get to choose what storms come our way. But we do get to choose what we hold onto.
So listen. Watch. Trust.
Something is happening beneath the surface.
Jesus is still rowing the boat.
Still making his home with you.
Still whispering, "Do not be afraid."

Ever had that friend who tries to fill every quiet moment with chatter? You know, the one who treats silence like it's a horror movie villain? (Spoiler alert: in grief support, silence is more like the unsung superhero.)

Let's talk about the art of keeping quiet or as I like to call it, "How to Not Fill the Air with Words When Someone's Heart is Already Full."

Picture this: You're sitting with a friend who's just experienced a loss. Your brain is frantically scrolling through its internal Rolodex of "Things People Say in Sad Movies." Meanwhile, your friend is sitting there, tissues in hand, in complete silence. And you know what? That's perfectly okay! In fact, it might be exactly what they need.

 Why Silence is Golden (And Not Just Because You're Tired of Talking):

• It creates space for genuine feelings
• It shows respect for the weight of the moment
• It says "I'm strong enough to hold this with you"
• It prevents those dreaded "I can't believe I just said that" moments

The Ministry of Presence (AKA How to Be There Without Using Your Words):

1. The Silent Sit: Just being there, maybe with coffee
2. The Gentle Nod: Acknowledging without interrupting
3. The Tissue Pass: Practical support without commentary
4. The Comfortable Quiet: Because sometimes grief needs breathing room

When to Break the Silence:

• When they ask a direct question
• If they explicitly request conversation
• To offer practical help ("Would you like some water?")
• To validate their feelings ("This is really hard")

Remember: Silence isn't awkward unless we make it awkward. Think of it like a warm blanket – sometimes the most comforting thing is just wrapping yourself in it and being still.
Fun fact: Research shows that humans get uncomfortable with silence after just 4 seconds. But guess what? We're not here for our comfort, we're here for theirs. So let's practice being comfortable with the uncomfortable. Think of it as emotional yoga, minus the stretchy pants.
Pro Tip: If you feel the urgent need to fill the silence, try:

• Taking a sip of water
• Breathing deeply
• Mentally reciting your grocery list
• Literally sitting on your hands (hey, whatever works!)

Remember: Sometimes the most profound ministry happens in the spaces between words. And if all else fails, just channel your inner mime (minus the face paint and invisible box routine).
​

You know that moment when someone says exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time? Like when your well-meaning aunt Barbara suggests that "everything happens for a reason" while you're trying not to cry into your coffee? Yeah, we've all been there, on both sides of that conversation.

Welcome to our "Helpful vs. Hurtful Words" series, where we're going to navigate the sometimes-awkward, always-important world of speaking to those who are grieving. Think of this as your friendly guide to not putting your foot in your mouth (we've all done it) while actually being the support person you want to be.

First things first: Let's address the elephant in the room. Words are tricky little creatures. They can be like warm hugs or like stepping on Legos – and nobody likes stepping on Legos.

The Hall of Fame of Well-Intentioned but Ouch-Worthy Comments:

• "God needed another angel" (Pretty sure God has plenty, thanks)
• "Everything happens for a reason" (Even if true, not helpful right now)
• "At least..." (Let's just put this phrase in time-out indefinitely)

 Instead, Try These Gems:

• "I'm here with you"
• "This really stinks" (Yes, sometimes simple validation works wonders)
• "I remember when [share a gentle memory if you have one]"
• Silent hug (Sometimes the best words are no words)

Here's the thing: We're all human, trying our best to support each other through life's toughest moments. And sometimes, we're going to mess up. That's okay! The key is learning and growing together.

Think of supporting a grieving person like learning to dance. You might step on some toes at first, but with practice and awareness, you'll learn the rhythm of grief support. And no, you don't need to perfect the grief support cha-cha – just being present and mindful is enough.

Remember: You don't need to have all the answers. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is simply, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here."
​

(John 21:1-19)
We’ve All Been Peter (Yes, Even When We Blow Up)
Let’s be honest—we’ve all had Peter moments.
Moments as a parent when we said the wrong thing.
When we lost our temper even though we promised we’d be calm this time.
When we let fear, exhaustion, or pressure call the shots instead of faith.
And then there are those moments we just lost it.
You know the ones I’m talking about--
When you stepped on the 47th toy of the day.
When the toddler screamed through your Zoom meeting.
When the teenager rolled their eyes and you felt the sting deep in your chest.
When you were running on 3 hours of sleep and someone spilled the cereal again.
And we blew up.
We yelled.
We slammed the cabinet.
We said something sharp we wish we could take back.
We walked away—not because we didn’t love our kids, but because we didn’t trust ourselves to speak with love in that moment.
And then that creeping voice shows up:
“Well, that’s it. You’ve messed it up now.”
“Good parents don’t do that.”
“Jesus is probably disappointed in you too.”
If that voice sounds familiar--
if you’ve ever sat on the edge of your child’s bed with tears in your eyes and regret in your heart--
I want you to know something:
You are exactly the kind of person Jesus builds His Kingdom with.
Not the perfect parent. Not the always-patient, always-together one.
But the one who messes up and keeps coming back.
The one who loves deeply, even when it’s messy.
The one who says, “I’m sorry,” and tries again.
Jesus doesn’t build His church with flawless people.
He builds it with people like Peter.
Like you.
Like me.
And just like He met Peter by the water and fed him breakfast, He meets you in the kitchen mess, in the laundry piles, in the carline chaos.
Because His specialty is messy, emotional, imperfect people--
especially the ones who love their children enough to start fresh, again and again.
So when you’re tempted to believe you’ve disqualified yourself,
Look at Peter.
And remember—Jesus still said, “Feed my sheep.”


Peter’s Story: From Denial… to Breakfast
Peter wasn’t some quiet, background disciple.
He was bold. Passionate. A little reckless.
The guy who walked on water--
And then he sank.
The guy who declared, “I’ll never leave You, Jesus!”
And then denied Him three times the night Jesus needed him most.
Imagine the shame Peter carried after that.
How do you come back from publicly disowning your best friend, your Savior?
So, Peter does what a lot of us do after we fail--
He goes back to what’s familiar.
Fishing.
And that’s where Jesus finds him.
Not in a synagogue.
Not in a moment of repentance.
But on a boat, probably still replaying every mistake in his head.
And what does Jesus do?
He doesn’t stand on the shore with crossed arms and a disappointed look.
He makes breakfast.
He creates space—not for shame, but for forgiveness.


Grace Doesn’t Rub It In—It Lifts You Up
Around that fire, Jesus asks Peter one question, three times:
“Do you love me?”
Notice what Jesus doesn’t say:

• He doesn’t say, “Peter, why did you fail me?”
• He doesn’t say, “Can I trust you again?”
• He doesn’t say, “Are you sorry enough?”

Just:
"Do you love me?"
Because Jesus isn’t interested in rubbing Peter’s face in failure.
He’s interested in lifting him out of it.
For every denial, Jesus gives Peter a chance to say,
"Yes, Lord, You know I love You."
Grace is rewriting Peter’s story right there on that beach.
And friends, that’s precisely what grace does for us.


God Uses Messy People to Build the Kingdom
Here’s what I love most about this story--
Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter and send him on his way.
He gives him a job:
“Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.”
In other words:
"Peter, I’m not done with you. I still trust you. I still choose you."
Peter—the emotional, impulsive, loud, mistake-prone disciple--
became a leader in the early Church.
Not because he cleaned himself up.
Not because he figured it all out.
But God delights in using messy people
to show the world what grace looks like.
So if you’ve ever thought,
"God can’t use someone like me..."
Remember Peter.
And remember this:
Your worst moment doesn’t cancel God’s calling on your life.


Follow Me—Again
Jesus ends the conversation with two simple words Peter had heard before:
“Follow me.”
It’s the same call, but now Peter knows--
This journey isn’t about being perfect.
It’s about saying "yes," even after falling flat on your face.
That’s the invitation for you today, too.
If you’ve been sitting in regret…
If you’ve returned to “fishing” because you thought God was done with you…
Hear Jesus speaking to you:
"Do you love me?"
If the answer is yes--
no matter how shaky, how unsure, how tired you feel--
Then, grace is already moving.
And Jesus is saying,
"Good. Now get up. We’ve got work to do. Follow Me."
Because he still calls messy people.
People like Peter.
People like us.


Go knowing that God doesn’t call the flawless—He calls the willing.
Your failures don’t disqualify you.
Your temper, your doubts, your missteps--
They’re just reminders of why grace is so necessary.
You are loved.
You are forgiven.
And you are still called.
So get up from that fire.
Lift your head.
And follow Jesus into a world that needs people just like you--
Messy, redeemed, and ready to build the Kingdom.​