Years ago, at First Presbyterian Church in Sarasota, we would occasionally celebrate a Passover Seder together as a congregation. A dear friend of mine, Cy Wofsy, who was Jewish, would help me lead it. It was one of the most meaningful things we did all year.

What Cy helped us see was something easy to miss: that the Last Supper — the night Jesus gathered with his disciples before he was arrested — was itself a Passover Seder. Jesus was not creating something entirely new that night. He was standing inside a story his people had been telling for over a thousand years. And he was saying: this story is about me. And now it is about you.

The connections between Passover and communion run deep — too many to trace here. But one thread connects them both at the root.

Remember.

In both, the people of God are invited not merely to know what happened, but to enact it. To tell the story again. To sing the songs. To say the prayers. To taste the bread and the cup and let the body remember what the mind sometimes forgets.

There is profound wisdom in this. Because in the hardest moments of life — when we are frightened, or grieving, or lost — it is easy to forget. To lose the thread. To wonder whether God has been present at all.

And the ritual says: look back. Remember how you got here. Remember who has carried you.

The story of God's faithfulness does not begin today. It stretches back further than we can see. And we are standing inside it.

Prayer: Holy God, on this night we remember. We remember the Passover — your people delivered from bondage, carried through the wilderness, brought home. We remember Jesus at the table with his friends, taking the bread and the cup and giving himself. We remember the ways you have carried us through our own hard places — though we do not always stop to name them. Today we name them. We are grateful. And we trust that the grace that has carried us this far will carry us still. Amen.

‍

There is an old story about a man who fell off a cliff and managed to grab an outcrop on the way down. Hanging there, he looks up and calls out: Is anyone up there?

A voice booms down. I am here. I am the Lord. Do you believe in me?

Yes, Lord. I believe. I really believe. But I can't hang on much longer.

You have nothing to worry about. I will save you. Just let go.

A long pause. Then: Is there anyone else up there?

It's a funny story. And it's also uncomfortably true.

Most of us believe — in some sense. But letting go? That's a different thing entirely.

Somewhere along the way, life has a way of making this unavoidably clear: there is far more going on than we can see or control. We don't know what tomorrow holds. We barely know what the next hour holds. And no matter how hard we grip — how much we plan, manage, strategize, worry — so much remains completely out of our hands.

And at some point, most of us arrive at the same place. If there is a way forward, we are going to have to trust something — or Someone — larger than ourselves.

That's not weakness. That's honesty.

The Psalmist puts it simply: Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.

Prayer: O God, we want to trust you. We know we can't make it on our own for very long. We need you. So help us today — help us loosen our grip, and trust that our lives are held in your hands. Give us hearts that are open to your leading. Help us trust. And in trusting, follow. Through Jesus Christ, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Something a pastor named Ann Hallstein wrote about her childhood really struck me. When she was six years old, her mother was expecting another baby. Her whole world was about to change. One day, her grandmother came home with a book from the library listing Christian names and their meanings. Her grandmother found Ann’s name, picked her up, and sat her down in her lap. She told her that the name Ann came from the Hebrew name Hannah, which means, “God has favored me.” Ann writes, “Imagine telling a 6-year-old she is favored by God? It has never left me.”

I remember when I was in seminary we were introduced to a theologian named Karl Barth. He wrote 13 volumes of Christian Dogmatics, among many other hefty works. His writing is so dense I could spend an hour reading a single paragraph.

Not too many years before his death, he was asked if he could summarize his theology. He responded, in all seriousness, using the words of a well-loved children’s song: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” It’s beautiful that years of research, writing, and study could lead him to a simple but profound truth. It is in fact the basis of our faith.

My prayer today is that you would know God’s love for you in Christ in the very deepest part of your being. And may you share that love with a world desperately in need.

Let us pray: Gracious God, even in the midst of the challenges of everyday life, we thank you for your love for us. Help us to accept this love and this grace. May it flow into our lives, change our worldviews, animate our actions, and overflow back into the world around us. Help us to be healers and peacemakers. We ask in Christ’s name. Amen.

‍

Years ago, a friend told me about a man she met who had just been released from prison. He had found his way into recovery from addiction while behind bars. She said that at his first recovery meeting, an older, wizened man asked him, “How is your gratitude?” He told my friend the question brought him up short. He didn’t know how to answer. However, ever since that first meeting, every morning he asks himself this same question upon waking: “How is your gratitude?”

Life for ex-convicts is not easy. Even when their lives are turned around and straightened out, few people are willing to hire them for jobs. There forever seems to be a lack of trust and acceptance. I have to imagine it is not easy to carve out a new life.

For this man, a gratitude check every morning is essential for life. It puts things in perspective and allows him to visualize grace.

This same question could be a huge blessing for our lives as well. I invite you to try it for a week. Each day, as you wake up, before you get out of bed, ask yourself the question, “How is my gratitude today? What do I have to be thankful for?” In your mind, list several things, people, events, or places. As you do, notice your perspective widen and your spirits lift.

Let us pray: Loving God, today I thank you for much-needed rain. I thank you for the laughter of children and the love I receive from my family. I also thank you for the shelter of a warm home and for food enough to share. You have blessed each of us so richly. Keep us mindful of these blessings and help us to be attentive to and responsive to the needs of those around us. Amen.

‍

Friend of Dial Hope, I have a confession to make. Are you ready for this? I am an incurable hoper and I want you to follow suit. I have a bias that no problem on earth is ever truly insoluble; problems are opportunities filled with possibilities. I do everything in my power to solve problems rather than create them. And I firmly believe that hope is our sustaining friend. It keeps us going through the good times and the restless nights of our souls.

To be sure, you will be sorely tempted to despair at times. Some of you listening to or reading this message are terminally ill, some of you are lonely and depressed, some of you are learning how to live with physical and emotional pain. I advise you: ward off cynicism and cultivate hopefulness. It is a choice you will be called to make daily.

The cynic says, “Blessed are they who believe in nothing, for they shall not be disappointed.” The hopeful person says, “Despite all of life’s ills, pains, and problems, it is still a beautiful world.” Such an attitude will make all the difference in your world. For the hoper, unlike the wishful thinker, is willing to work his or her head off that it might just come to be. We live as we hope. Good friends Kathy and Harry Dodge reminded me that Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.”

Let us pray: Loving God, it’s morning again… another day knocks. The tide of light rises, slides down the walls, across the ceiling, into my eyes, purging the darkness, slowly smoothing the crinkles of sleep. A particle of light has pierced our hearts reminding us to begin again, to get up and go. You promise to bless us so we may be a blessing to others. You give us contagious enthusiasm, so we can go on limping, hoping — on every step a testament of gratitude. We scratch the ears of dogs, laugh at the ballet of cats and pelicans, and dolphins. Help us this day to hear the cry and gurgle of the newborn, to learn from hundreds of teachers, some of them homeless, poor, and uneducated.

Awaken us to the beauty of the mockingbirds, the Milky Way. For you alone, O Lord, are our hope. You alone are our safety, our strength. May we — even with our fears and anxieties, our insecurities and uncertainties — trust, totally trust in your loving care and plan for our lives. Thank you for hearing this prayer. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

‍