Near the end of the Gospel of John, Jesus says to his disciples, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

Consider where the Father sent him. Not into isolation. Not into a life removed from ordinary people. Yes, Jesus prayed. Yes, he withdrew at times. But he did not remain on the mountaintop. He stepped fully into the fabric of daily life.

He worked with his hands. He walked dusty roads. He shared meals in crowded homes. He attended weddings and festivals. He touched lepers. He spoke with outsiders. He entered grief-stricken houses and celebratory gatherings alike. The Son of God did not hover above the world — he moved toward it.

And now he says, “As the Father sent me, so I send you.”

That means your neighborhood matters. Your workplace matters. Your family table 

matters. The ordinary rhythms of your week are not interruptions to your faith; they are the very places you are sent.

You may not preach a sermon or perform a miracle. But you can listen with compassion. You can act with integrity. You can forgive. You can show up. And in quiet, faithful ways, the love of Christ takes flesh again in the world.

So where is he sending you this week? Into what conversation? What challenge? What opportunity to serve?

Wherever it is, may your faith be steady, your hope contagious, and your love courageous — instruments through which God turns hatred toward love, conflict toward peace, and brokenness toward new life.

Let us pray: Loving God, you call us and you send us. Fill us with your Spirit — with courage, compassion, and conviction. Help us to care about what you care about. Shape our lives so that they bear witness to your grace in our homes, our work, our community, and this world you so love. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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In The Promise of Listening, Keith Wagner tells a poignant parable:

A young mother, just after her baby boy’s baptism, is approached by a ragged old man who offers to grant one wish for her son. Wanting only the best, she wishes that her son would always be loved by everyone he meets. “So be it,” the old man replies.

And so it happens. The boy grows into a young man adored by all. He never lacks for anything. Doors open. Needs are met before he can voice them. Yet something is wrong. Surrounded by admiration, he is starved for connection. Because everyone gives to him, he never learns to give. Because he is always affirmed, he never grows. He becomes empty — cynical and restless — discovering that being loved by everyone is not the same as truly living.

When his mother dies, the old man reappears and offers the son one wish of his own. This time, the young man asks not to be loved by all, but to love all. And in that turning — from receiving to giving, from being the center to pouring himself out — he finally finds joy.

There is deep gospel truth there. Jesus tells us that those who try to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for his sake will find it. The way of Christ is not grasping but giving. Not securing admiration, but extending love. Not arranging life around ourselves, but offering ourselves for others.

We live in a world that teaches us to ask, “Am I appreciated? Am I admired? Am I getting what I deserve?” The kingdom of God asks a different question: “How can I love?”

And in that shift — quiet, costly, and Christlike — we discover what life was meant to be.

Let us pray: Lord, bless us with

Enough tears to keep us human,

Enough humor to keep us wise,

Enough setbacks to keep us humble,

Enough accomplishments to keep us confident,

Enough patience to teach us endurance,

Enough hope to teach us trust,

Enough friends to give us love,

Enough memories to give us comfort,

And enough faith to keep us giving ourselves away in love;

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Over the last couple of days, we’ve reflected on the importance of lament and grief. We know that if we bury it, if we hold it all inside, it often comes back to hurt us worse later on. So it is important to grieve.

But it is also important not to get stuck in our grief.

A number of years ago, there was a woman in the church I was serving who lost her husband. They had been married 50-some years. And at first, I didn’t think she was going to survive the loss. For well over a year, she rarely went out. Whenever I’d see her, it was like the world was coming to an end. I can only imagine the loss after 50-some years, the hole that must remain.

But at some point — I think it was close to the second anniversary of her husband’s death — she made a turning point. She got involved in the Stephen Ministry program at our church. She received 50 hours of training in lay pastoral ministry and became someone I relied on to walk with other recent widows.

I don’t know what changed inside her. But she told me about this scripture in the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” She related that the word “comfort” in English comes from two Latin words, “cum fortis” — meaning “with strength.”

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be with strength.

I saw that in her. She had mourned, maybe too long. But because she had been through it, she was with strength. And it was the kind of strength that she could use to help others through it.

My prayer for you today is this: when loss comes and you find yourself gathering the pieces, take the time you need to grieve. Do not rush it. But also trust that God does not leave you there. In Christ, mourning is not the end of the story. The Spirit meets us in our sorrow and, over time, weaves strength into the very places that once felt shattered. And when that strength comes, may you receive it — not only for yourself, but as a quiet gift you can offer to others who are just beginning their own journey through the valley.

Let us pray: Heal us, O God, that we might be instruments of healing. We ask in Christ’s name. Amen.

Yesterday we reflected on tears. We’ll continue on that theme today.

The great American writer Frederick Buechner once said that whenever you find tears in your eyes, you should pay close attention. Tears, he suggests, are not only windows into the secret places of our own hearts — they are often moments when God is speaking, summoning us toward what comes next.

That is a profound thought. Our tears may reveal what we truly love. They may uncover what we fear. They may expose what we have ignored for too long. And sometimes, they may be God’s gentle nudge — or holy disruption — redirecting our steps.

At the end of Scripture, in the Book of Revelation, we are given a promise: one day God will wipe every tear from our eyes. Mourning and crying and pain will be no more. That is our hope.

Reflecting on this passage, Pastor Leonard Sweet wrote, “Until that day, it is our job, our joy, to wipe the eyes of those who weep, especially those who cannot wipe the tears away for themselves. And it is our job, our joy, to help those who are too hungry, too thirsty, too dehydrated for tears to form in their own eyes.”

So perhaps tears are both teachers and commissions. They teach us where our hearts are tender. And they send us toward those whose tears need tending.

May we not rush past them — our own or others’. May we listen for the voice of God within them. And may we follow where that voice leads.

Let us pray: Gracious God, you promise comfort to those who mourn. Meet us in our tears, and make us attentive to what they reveal. Open our eyes to the tears of others, and give us tender courage to respond. Comfort us, challenge us, and guide us; through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The books of Ezra and Nehemiah tell the story of a small band of exiles returning home after seventy years in Babylon. What they found was not the Jerusalem of memory, but a city in ruins. Those old enough to remember its former glory wept when they saw what remained.

Under Nehemiah’s leadership, the people begin again — stone by stone, gate by gate, prayer by prayer. It is a story of rebuilding, but it begins with grief.

Starting over is rarely neat or triumphant. When life as we knew it lies in pieces — after the death of someone we love, the unraveling of a marriage, the loss of work, or even a long-anticipated transition like retirement — we are vulnerable. There is a time to rebuild. But first, there is a time to weep.

Scripture never asks us to skip lament. In fact, it gives us language for it. When grief is buried, it does not disappear; it settles deeper. But when it is brought before God, it becomes prayer.

Pastor Leonard Sweet tells of an ancient Jewish commentary imagining that when Adam and Eve were sent out of Eden, God gave them one final gift: tears. And where their tears touched the soil, new life sprang forth. The image is powerful — that sorrow itself, offered to God, can become the seedbed of hope.

Sweet writes, “Our tears are liquid prayers.” They cleanse, they release, they renew.

As Christians, we do not grieve as those without hope. We believe in the God who brings life out of death, who rebuilt a people from ruins, and who raised Jesus from the grave. Our tears are not signs of failure; they are signs of love. And in God’s hands, even tears can water the ground for new beginnings.

May you receive your tears as a gift. And may the Lord who makes all things new bring forth, in time, a garden in your life, where the ruins once stood.

Let us pray: Help us to grieve, O God, but not to remain stuck in despair. Receive our tears as prayer, and plant within us the seeds of new life; through Christ our Lord. Amen.

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