There is a scene at the end of the film Places in the Heart that I have never forgotten.

The film is set in Depression-era Texas. A young widow struggles to save her farm. A black man named Moses helps her bring in the cotton crop — and is later run out of town by the Klan. A marriage is torn apart by infidelity. There is loss and injustice and grief woven through every story.

And then the film ends in a church. The pastor reads from 1 Corinthians 13 — love is patient, love is kind — and the elements of the Lord's Supper are passed through the congregation. The camera moves slowly across the faces. And you begin to realize this is no ordinary gathering.

The widow is there. And Moses, who was driven away. The widow's husband — who was killed earlier in the film — is there. And so is the young man who shot him and was lynched for it. The banker who tried to foreclose on the farm, and the couple whose marriage fractured are there together.

All of them. At the same table.

This feels like a glimpse of something larger, something still coming…

I think again about Paul on the road to Damascus — the life he lived before, and the grace that found him there. And I'm reminded that it was not just Paul who is in need of God’s grace. It was not just Paul who was broken, blind, and restored.

Writing about that scene, the pastor David Hall said: "This is the place where there is room for everybody who will come by way of the cross — regardless of how great their past sins may be. In the shadow of the cross, we all stand on the same level ground."

That is the table we gather around. Not because we have earned our place — but because we have all been given one. 

Prayer: Remind us, O God, what kind of table this is — and who else is seated here. Make us a community where all who come by way of the cross find room. May we never forget that we are all standing on the same level ground. Here and now, may we experience your healing grace; through Jesus Christ. Amen.

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Today’s message was written by my friend, Roger Kunkel, founder of Dial Hope.

Psalm 121 is one of my favorites. "l will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth." In THE MESSAGE, Eugene Peterson translates Psalm 121 this way: "l look up to the mountains. Does my strength come from the mountains? No, my strength comes from God, who made heaven and earth, and mountains." 

The young boy sat in the waiting lounge of the airport. When the flight was called the boy was ushered on first. When I boarded the plane I was pleased to discover that he had the seat next to mine. He was polite in his greeting and then went on coloring one of those coloring books airlines provide for child passengers. Humming happily, he didn't seem to have a care in the world. During the flight, we ran into some turbulence that bounced the jetliner around like a kite in the wind. A woman seated across the aisle from the young man became very frightened. When she spoke to the boy, her voice was agitated. "Little boy, aren't you scared?" "No, Ma'am," he replied, briefly looking up from his coloring book. "My dad's the pilot." I leaned back in my seat and thought about this little boy who trusted his dad. Did I trust God that way to get me through the storms of life? Yes, and I silently thanked him. He'll get you through today and onto his plan for you. Trust him. Trust his plan for your life. E. Stanley Jones reminds us, "l don't know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future." Friend of Dial Hope, that is the good news for today. TA-DA! 

Let us pray: God of love, help us to say with the Psalmist, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." In times of need, you are always there. Thank you. We love you. In Jesus' name. Amen. 

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Pastor Max Lucado tells a story about the day his wife brought home a monkey. His daughters were delighted. He was not. He had questions. Where would it eat? At the table, his wife said, just like everyone else. Where would it sleep? In their bed. And what about the smell?

She looked at him and said: "Oh, he'll get used to you. I did."

Lucado's point was simple and a little uncomfortable: before you comment on someone else's odor, check your own first.

Jesus made the same point with slightly different imagery. "Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye but do not notice the log in your own?" (Matthew 7:3) It is one of those lines that makes you smile — and then wince. Because most of us are considerably more aware of other people's failings than our own.

There is something almost instinctive about it. We notice the sharpness in someone else's tone while forgetting our own. We catalog another person's selfishness while remaining largely unaware of ours. We are, as a rule, much harder on others than we are on ourselves — and much easier on ourselves than we are on others.

The invitation here is not to beat ourselves up. It is simply honest self-awareness — the willingness to pause before the verdict on someone else.

The poet John O'Donohue offers this as a suggested morning prayer: Lord, help me be gracious in awareness.

It’s a simple prayer. But it can change a conversation, a relationship, even a life.

Prayer: Lord, give us the grace to see ourselves clearly — not to condemn ourselves, but to stay honest. Before we judge, help us to pause. Before we criticize, help us to reflect. Keep us humble enough to check our own odor first. Amen.

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The year I lived in Jamaica, a faith-based medical mission team came down from Florida to the part of the island where I was living. It was a small group — doctors, dentists, nurses — but the impact was extraordinary. People lined up for nearly a mile to be seen.

One Monday morning after the team's first day, I noticed a seventh-grade student who had come to school wearing a enormous pair of red glasses — way too big for his small face. He was smiling from ear to ear. For the first time, he could see the blackboard.

I thought about all the people in that town whose lives were quietly different that week. Teeth that no longer ached. Eyes that could finally focus. Bodies that felt better.

But here is what struck me most. At lunch near the end of the team's stay, I heard the same thing from almost every person on that medical team: "I received far more from this experience than I ever gave."

Over the last several days we’ve been reflection on the story in the Gospel of John, where the disciples fish all night and come up empty. In the early morning light, a figure on the shore called out: "Cast the net on the right side." They didn't know it was Jesus. But they followed the direction anyway — and suddenly the net was so full they couldn't haul it in. One hundred and fifty-three fish. Then fellowship around a charcoal fire. Breakfast on the beach with the risen Christ.

The abundance that followed obedience was not only material. It spilled over into fellowship, into presence, into a meal shared with someone they had thought was gone forever. It flowed in directions no one expected.

It still does. The ones who show up to give almost always leave having received something they didn't anticipate. That is not a coincidence. That is the shape of the kingdom.

Prayer: Gracious God, thank you for the surprising economy of your kingdom — where giving leads to receiving, and serving leads to abundance. Make us willing to cast the net where you direct. And open our eyes to the blessings that flow back to us when we do. Amen.

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A writer for the satirical website The Onion once published a fake press release for an imaginary snack food. The product, he wrote, was designed to ease what he called "the hideously bleak emptiness of modern life." Participants in taste tests, the release claimed, testified that "the satisfying crunch distracted them from the parade of tears that is life."

The fictional spokesperson summed it up: "We're selling the salty, unctuous illusions of happiness."

It is satire. But it is sharp satire — because most of us recognize the impulse. We reach for something to fill the emptiness. It might not be a snack cracker. It might be another hour of scrolling, another drink, another purchase, another distraction. Anything to quiet the ache for a little while.

The disciples had their own version of this in the Gospel of John. After the resurrection — after everything — they went back to fishing. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of aimlessness. Maybe just because the familiar felt safer than the unknown. We learn that they fished all night and caught nothing.

Jesus met them in that emptiness and offered something real: "Come and have breakfast." Bread and fish on a charcoal fire. Simple, nourishing, present. Not a solution to their confusion. Not an explanation for the empty nets. Just presence — warm, unhurried, enough.

That is worth some reflection. Because most of us, when we are empty, are looking for answers. Jesus tends to offer something different — not an answer but a presence. Not a resolution but an invitation. Come. Sit with me. You are not alone in this.

Most of us already know, somewhere deep down, that the things we reach for in our emptiness won't ultimately fill it. We know. And yet we reach anyway. The invitation is simply to reach in a different direction.

Peace, genuine peace, is not found in the salty unctuous illusions. It is found in the presence of the one who meets us in our emptiness and says — simply, quietly — come.

Prayer: Holy God, we confess that we reach for the wrong things when we are empty. Forgive us for the illusions we pursue. Draw us back to the one thing that actually satisfies — your presence, your peace, your voice saying come. Come. Amen.

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