Many years ago, a Korean pastor in our Presbytery approached me about the possibility of his new church development sharing space within the church I was serving. He further broached the idea of shared ministry, shared worship, and potentially even a shared leadership board. Initially, my thoughts were a little territorial. We need that space! And then I focused on logistics: How would that ever work? Culturally, we are so different. Language barriers… 

As we were talking this over, I raised my concerns. In response, he asked me, “Joe, what do you imagine the kingdom of God looks like?”  

“Well, in theory…,” I started. 

“No. In the Bible, they will come from east and west. They will come from north and south. There will be people from every nation, speaking every language, from every race…”

“Is that just in heaven?” 

“Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done. On earth, as it is in heaven.”

Oh. That’s true, isn’t it?

I wonder what you think about when you think about the Kingdom of God. I wonder what glimpses you have seen throughout your life. I wonder when you have noticed the in-breaking of God’s reign here on earth. And then I wonder, how you respond…

Let us pray: Holy God, draw us closer. Renew us and heal us. And then grant us eyes to see, and hearts to follow. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen. 

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I am reminded that Mr. Rogers used to say that when tragedy struck, his mother always said, “Look for the helpers.” I think that is powerful in and of itself. But we might also ask ourselves, “How can I help?” 

There may very well be times when all I can do to help is to pray. But there are plenty of other times when I can jump in and do something. There are times when I know I can make a contribution, and times I know I can actually make a difference. 

What if we were to hold this mantra lightly throughout the day? Think about how this might change the way we see the world, and how it might change the way we see problems, conflict, and everyday need. 

How can I help?

John Wesley once wrote, “Do all the good you can; by all the means you can; in all the ways you can; at all the times you can; to all the people you can; as long as ever you can.”

Let us pray: Loving God, in this world with so much suffering and need, there is still much goodness and love. We do need you. And today we ask for your healing and grace in our lives and in the life of the world. Fill us again with your Spirit, that even as we are being healed and made whole, you would use us as instruments of healing for others. We ask in Jesus' name. Amen.

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Within T.S. Eliot’s poem East Coker, one stanza has long resonated with me:

"Old men ought to be explorers.

Here and there does not matter.

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For another union, a deeper communion."

I love the thought that even as we grow older, we are still called to exploration. Though that exploration might not look like it did at a younger age, it is nonetheless a calling. “Still and still moving” is the way of spiritual life: patient, persistent, attentive, and open - open to discover new depths of God’s presence in us and around us.

Jesus once told his disciples, “Abide in me, and I in you.” (John 15:4). To abide in Christ is not passivity. It is a continual opening of ourselves to God’s presence, a conscious willingness to be shaped, nurtured, and guided. Like Eliot’s explorers, we remain in motion—spiritually curious, searching for a deeper union with God—even as we learn to move with stillness, attentiveness, and trust.

These days, when change happens at lightning speed, when information constantly bombards us, and the demands of daily life can feel overwhelming, it is worth pausing to ask ourselves:

* Where in your life today might God be inviting you into “another intensity” or “a deeper communion”?

* Where might you be called to move gently, with attentiveness, while also being still enough to notice God’s presence?

* What ordinary moments or relationships could become holy spaces if you opened them to Christ’s abiding love?

Exploration is not only for the young or the restless. It is for anyone willing to remain open, to pay attention, and to let God lead us ever deeper into life and communion. Even in the quiet, even in the ordinary, God continues to meet us, calling us into fuller presence, awareness, and grace.

Let us pray:  God of hope and grace, we pause even for a moment now in your presence, asking you to guide us in a deeper communion with you. Help us to know you, to love you, and to abide with you; in Christ and through Christ. Amen.

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Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters… Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?”

—Isaiah 55:1–2

Thomas Merton once wrote, “In Christ, we die to the letter of the law so that our conscience can no longer see things in the dead light of formalism and exterior observance. Our hearts refused the dry husks of literal abstraction and hunger for the living bread and eternal waters of the Spirit, which spring up to life everlasting.”

What Merton calls “the dry husks of literal abstraction” are the things that once carried life but now only imitate it. The heart, he says, refuses such fare. It hungers for living bread and eternal waters.

Isaiah speaks directly to that hunger. God does not address the faithful as disciplined or accomplished, but as those who hunger and thirst. “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?” God asks—not in judgment, but in compassion. Why exhaust yourself on what cannot give life? Why settle for substitutes when abundance is freely offered?

The invitation is simple and radical: Come. Come without money. Come without credentials. Come not because you have done everything right, but because you are hungry. The living Word of God is not earned through perfect observance or religious performance. It is received by those willing to admit their need.

“Listen carefully,” Isaiah says, “and eat what is good… and delight yourselves in rich food.”

As we move through this Lenten season, the living Word is still speaking. The table is still set. The only requirement is hunger—and the courage to come.

Let us pray: God of living water and daily bread, awaken our hunger for what truly gives life. Draw us away from what cannot satisfy and teach us to come—empty, trusting, and open. Feed us with your Word, and grant us new life.  Amen.

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It is an old story, but it is true, and it is good. The famous British author John Ruskin, one night in his later years, sat watching a lamplighter who, with a torch in his hand, was lighting the lamps on a distant hill. The man himself could not be seen, but the lights would gleam as each one was lighted. Ruskin said to a friend, "That is what I mean by a real Christian. You can trace their course by the lights they leave burning." 

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, "You are the light of the world... let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in Heaven." (Matthew 5:14-16). Friend of Dial Hope, make today a masterpiece with your contagious enthusiasm, the light of your joy and hope. 

Let us pray: O God of china blue skies and dazzling sunrises, with each new day, your promise of hope is restored. Each day is like the Day of Resurrection, filled with new life and hope. Grant us the boldness to move out of comfortable security to the risk of faith, the joy of service, the laughter of love. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.