Today I would like to say a special word of thanks to those of you who have supported the Dial Hope Foundation with a financial donation. Your gifts make this ministry possible!

I remember hearing about a woman who made it a habit to buy her stamps at the post office counter — even though there was a stamp machine right there in the lobby. One year, just before Christmas, the lines were especially long. Someone pointed out she could skip the wait entirely.

"I know," she said. "But the machine won't ask me about my arthritis."

That line has stayed with me.

Because in a world where nearly everything can be done faster, more efficiently, without any human contact at all — what that woman was standing in line for wasn't stamps. It was someone who knew her name. Someone who noticed her. Someone who asked.

We were made for that. Not as a preference, not as a personality type — but as a basic human need. We need real voices. We need to be seen. We need, sometimes, simply to be touched.

I am struck, reading through the Gospels, by how physical Jesus is. How often he reaches out and actually touches the people he heals. He didn't have to. But he did. Because he understood something about what it means to be human. That love, to be real, has to be incarnate. It has to show up in a body.

Today — not online, but in the actual world you move through — look for the person who might be standing in a long line just hoping someone will ask.

Make eye contact with the store clerk. Hold the hand of an elderly friend. Smile at the stranger. Hug someone who needs it.

And as you do, pay attention. Because that, too, is where God shows up.

Prayer: God of Love, in Jesus Christ you walked among us — flesh and blood. You ate with sinners. You touched the lonely and the sick. You laughed and cried and suffered. Thank you for your incarnate love. Teach us to love others as you have loved us. Amen.

Before his death, economist Robert Heilbroner offered a simple exercise. He asked his readers to imagine the following:

Take all the furniture out of your home — except one table and two chairs. Use blankets on the floor for beds.

Remove all your clothing except your oldest outfit. One pair of shoes.

Empty the refrigerator and pantry. Leave only a small bag of flour, some sugar and salt, a few potatoes, some onions, a dish of dried beans.

Shut off the water. Remove the electricity. Then take away the house itself and move the family into the tool shed. Place that shed in a shantytown.

Cancel all subscriptions — not that it matters, because now no one in the family can read. There is one radio for the entire neighborhood.

The nearest hospital is ten miles away. The family has ten dollars to its name. The head of the household farms a few acres, but a third of what he earns goes to the landlord, and a tenth to the money lender.

And life expectancy? Twenty-five years shorter than yours.

This, Heilbroner noted, is daily life for as many as a billion people in the world.

I find it hard to read that without feeling two things at once — genuine gratitude, and a quiet unease. By comparison, I have so much. Most of us do.

And our faith is not silent about what that means.

God said to Abraham: I will bless you… so that you will be a blessing.

The gift was always meant to flow through, not simply to collect.

Jesus put it plainly: To those whom much is given, much will be required.

Not as a burden. As an invitation. Because here is what I have found to be true — and maybe you have too — that a life oriented around generosity is a richer life. More meaningful. More alive. We can’t do everything. But we can do something. The blessing, it turns out, flows both ways.

Prayer: Loving God, you have blessed us so richly - more than we often stop to recognize. May we never mistake the blessing for the point. You blessed us to make us a blessing. Send us out today with open hands and open hearts. Amen.

‍

Today, a special word of thanks to those of you who have supported the Dial Hope Foundation with a financial donation. Your gifts make this ministry possible. Thank you!

There is an ancient Jewish commentary on the book of Genesis — a midrash — that has stayed with me.

It tells the story of Adam and Eve's expulsion from Eden, but adds a detail not found in the original text. As the condemned couple left the garden, God gave them one final gift.

The gift of tears.

So that, the midrash says, when grief overtakes you, and your heart aches beyond enduring, and great anguish grips your soul — then there will fall from your eyes this tiny tear. And your burden will grow lighter.

And then the midrash goes further. When Adam and Eve's first tears fell to the ground outside Eden, the first garden beyond paradise sprang forth. The tears of anguish and abandonment became, quite literally, the seeds of new life.

Pastor Leonard Sweet called tears liquid prayers.

I think he's right.

There is something that happens when we weep — really weep — that goes beyond emotion. Something releases. Something that had been locked tight in the chest finds a way out. Grief that has been carried in silence begins, somehow, to lighten.

The Psalms are full of this. David weeps. He rages. He cries out from the depths. And again and again, something shifts. Not because the circumstances change — but because the anguish has been brought into the presence of God rather than held alone in the dark.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They are not something to be managed or apologized for. They are, in their own way, a form of prayer. An honest, wordless opening of the soul toward God.

Maybe you are carrying something today that has not yet found its way to tears. Maybe you have been holding it together for a long time — for yourself, for others — and the grief has gone quiet but not gone away.

Or maybe you have wept recently, and wondered whether it meant anything at all.

It does.

When you weep over your own anguish, or over the suffering of the world, or when you sit with someone else in their pain and let it move you — those tears are not wasted. They are, in the oldest and truest sense, a prayer.

And if the midrash is right, they may also be the beginning of something new.

Prayer: Loving God, we thank you for the gift of tears — for the ability to feel what is true, to grieve what is lost, to be moved by the pain of others. We bring you today what we have been carrying. We do not always have words. But you know what lies beneath. Receive our tears as prayers. And in your mercy, let them become — in your time — the seeds of something new. Amen.

‍

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

I thank God for my Scottish grandmother who urged me to preach my first sermon on the story of the ten lepers found in Luke 17:11-19. Ten lepers were healed but only one returned to say, “Thank you.”

Thanks may be the most valuable word in any language. It is said when Mark Twain was at the peak of his career, his writing was valued at $5 per word. Some prankster wrote Twain a letter saying, “Dear Mr. Twain: enclosed is $5. Please send me your best word.” Shortly a reply came. It simply said, “Thanks!”

Thanks is an important word of affirmation and appreciation. Thank you, are healing and kind words. Most of us know how good it feels to receive gratitude. This week take a few moments and write two or three short notes of gratitude to a few unthanked contributors to your spiritual pilgrimage… to those who have left footprints on your heart.

Let us pray. O God of all precious things, who hears our pain even when tears block our words, create in us a heart of laughter and hope and gratitude. Help us to face each day with joy, O God, for each day comes as a fresh page. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.  

‍

The book of Nehemiah tells the story of a people returning home after years of exile. Everything they had known had been taken from them — their city, their temple, their way of life. And now, slowly, painstakingly, they were rebuilding.

When the wall around Jerusalem was finally complete, they didn't quietly move on to the next task. They stopped. They gathered. They celebrated with everything they had.

The scripture says: The joy of Jerusalem was heard far away.

I love that image. A joy so full, so uncontained, that it carried beyond the city walls. A people who had been through the wilderness — who knew what it was to lose everything — and who now could not help but overflow.

There is something in that story that I think we need right now.

Not manufactured cheerfulness. Not the pretense that everything is fine. But the kind of joy that comes from stopping long enough to actually notice what we have been given. The kind that requires us to look back before we can look forward.

I want to offer you a simple exercise that I came across recently in my own morning devotions. It comes from the Spiritual Formation Bible, built around this very passage from Nehemiah.

Grab a pen and paper. Set a timer for two minutes.

And write down every way that God has given you joy.

Don't edit. Don't rate. Just write — small things and large things, recent things and distant ones. Family, friends, faith, creation, work, memory. The cup of coffee that was exactly right. The phone call that came at the perfect moment. The person who has loved you longer than you deserved. The morning you woke up and, just for a moment, everything felt okay.

When the timer goes off, read back what you wrote.

I tried this myself. And what surprised me was not the length of the list — though it was longer than I expected. What surprised me was what happened in my chest as I read it back. Something that had been tight began to loosen. Something that had gone quiet began to stir.

Perspective, I think, is the word. The noise of everything pressing and urgent and worrying receded, just slightly. And what was left was something closer to gratitude. Something closer to joy.

The people of Jerusalem had been through exile. They knew darkness and loss and the long road home. And yet — when they stopped to recognize what God had done, the joy was heard far away.

Maybe yours can be too.

Prayer: God of hope, you have filled our lives with more blessing than we often stop to name. Today we name them. For the small graces and the large ones, for the people who have loved us and the moments that have held us — we give you thanks. Lift our eyes today to all that is good and true and worth celebrating. May our joy, like Jerusalem's, overflow. Amen.

‍