Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

We Have Practices: The Means of Grace

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, June 7, 2026, Second Sunday after Pentecost. “We Know Who We Are”series.

Texts: Romans 12:1-2, 9-13; Acts 2:41-47

 

Last week we reflected on grace. We remembered that God’s grace comes before we ever think about God, before we ever do anything right, before we ever earn anything. Grace comes first. Grace comes last. Grace is always the ground beneath our feet. This week the question is: If grace comes first, how does grace actually change us?

 

I grew up before car seats were common. Heck—I regularly rode in the back of my dad’s or grandpa’s pickup truck to get ice cream or drive out to the lake. Looking back, it feels like I was raised in the Wild West!?  As a teenager, I’d been driving a year or so when a new law was passed that required seatbelts. We started hearing about studies showing how seatbelts saved lives. There were those crash-test dummy commercials—remember those? But putting on a seatbelt wasn’t something I thought about.  And so every time I got into the car, I had to remind myself: Put on your seatbelt. Sometimes I’d forget. Sometimes I’d remember halfway down the road. But I kept doing it. And then one day I noticed something. I was driving somewhere and realized I already had my seatbelt on. I hadn’t thought about it. I hadn’t reminded myself. I had just done it. What had once felt awkward and inconvenient had become a habit. It had become instinct. I had practiced and learned a new thing.

 

Most of us understand this when it comes to driving. Or learning an instrument. Or speaking a language. Or playing a sport. Or exercising.

 

A friend once told me, “Nobody likes running when they first start. You have to just do it. After a while you’ll reap the benefits.” I never forgot the wisdom. You may not start out loving the practice. But you practice because of what the practice is shaping you to become.

 

And I’ve been thinking this week that much of the Christian life works the same way. Many of us want to become more loving, more patient, more generous, more courageous. We want to respond to conflict with grace. We want to be less fearful and more trusting. We want our lives to reflect the love of Christ. But how does that happen?

 

John Wesley believed that the goal of the Christian life was what he called “Christian perfection.” Unfortunately, that phrase has caused confusion for generations. Wesley wasn’t talking about becoming flawless. He wasn’t talking about never making mistakes. He wasn’t talking about acting like we’ve got it all together. He was talking about becoming so filled with the love of God that God’s love begins to overflow from our lives.

 

I often picture it like a pitcher being filled with water. As we open ourselves to receive God’s love and mercy—God’s grace!—we are filled. And just as a pitcher overflows once it becomes full, so God’s love begins to overflow in our lives. Love spills over. Mercy spills over. Compassion spills over. Generosity spills over.

Wesley believed that this could happen. In fact, he believed it was the goal of those who would follow Christ.

 

Or as the hymn puts it: “Take my hands and let them move at the impulse of thy love.” I love that phrase. The impulse of thy love. Because it suggests a life in which love becomes our first instinct. A life in which generosity and mercy become as natural as breathing. A life in which our hands move at the impulse of God's love. Wouldn’t that be something?

 

The question is: How do we become those people? And Wesley’s answer was surprisingly practical. We practice. We train. We place ourselves again and again in the flow of God’s grace. Wesley called these practices “means of grace.” Prayer.

Scripture. Worship. Holy Communion. Christian conversation and accountability. Small groups. Acts of mercy and service.

 

And this week, I want to invite you to choose one. Not all of them. Just one.

Spend a few minutes each day reading scripture. Or pray each morning before you reach for your phone. Or read a daily devotion. Or intentionally perform one act of kindness or service each day. Choose one way to place yourself in the flow of God's grace and practice it every day this week.

 

These are means of grace not because they are things that earn God’s love or make God love us more. They are not means of grace because checking enough religious boxes gets us into heaven. But because these practices place us where God’s transforming grace can reach us. God’s grace is always present—whether we’re practicing the means of grace or not. But these practices have been shown over the centuries to place us in the flow of God’s grace in a very concentrated way.

 

There is a distinction between trying and training. Anyone can try to run a marathon. But only someone who trains will actually finish one. The same is true of the Christian life. Anybody can try to be more loving. Anybody can try to be more patient. Anybody can try to forgive. But becoming Christlike requires more than trying. It requires training in grace.

 

This is why Methodists became Methodists. John Wesley was nothing if not methodical. The early Methodists became known for their methods—the practices and habits that helped them grow in love of God and neighbor. And that brings us to Romans 12.

 

After eleven chapters proclaiming the mercy and grace of God, Paul writes:

“I appeal to you therefore...on the basis of God’s mercy...” Paul doesn’t begin with an appeal based on obligation or guilt or fear, but rather an appeal on the basis of God’s mercy. Grace comes first. Then Paul says, “Present your bodies as a living sacrifice.” Notice that he doesn’t say, “Present your beliefs.” He says, “Present your bodies.” The Christian life isn’t simply a set of ideas we agree with. It is a way of life. It is embodied. It is practiced.

 

Then Paul says: “Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.” This is such a perennial call—true in every age! It is easy to become conformed to the things of this world. All of us are being formed by something. The news forms us. Social media forms us. Fear forms us. Our families, culture, and education form us. The question is not whether we are being formed. The question is: By what?

 

Paul doesn’t tell us to transform ourselves. He says, “Be transformed.”

God is the one doing the transforming. Our work is to place ourselves where God’s grace can do its work. And then Paul immediately shows us what a transformed life looks like: Let love be genuine. Love one another. Rejoice in hope. Be patient in suffering. Persevere in prayer. Practice hospitality.

 

These things are not feelings. They are practices. They are things we do again and again until they begin to shape who we are. Nobody wakes up one day naturally hospitable. Nobody wakes up instinctively patient. Nobody wakes up automatically generous. These things are formed through grace and practice.

 

And then our reading from Acts shows us what that formation looks like in community. The Spirit comes at Pentecost. Thousands are baptized. A movement is born. And what do they do next?

 

Luke says: “They devoted themselves.” That may be the most important phrase in the whole passage. They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. They devoted themselves.

Not occasionally or when it was convenient or when they felt inspired. They devoted themselves. They showed up again and again. They listened to the story of Jesus. They prayed together. They shared meals. They worshiped together. They cared for one another. And over time something happened. They became a different kind of people.

 

Their possessions became less important than their neighbors’ needs. Their tables became larger. Their hearts became more generous. Their lives became more joyful. Their witness became more compelling. The Pentecost miracle of Acts 2 is not only that the Spirit came in a wondrous way and moved previously fearful disciples to do wondrous things. The miracle is also that people kept showing up. They devoted themselves to practices that opened them to God’s grace. And God’s grace formed them into a community that looked different from the world around them. They were not conformed to their age, but were transformed by the saving grace and love of God in Christ Jesus.

 

Friends, this is part of who we are as United Methodists. We have practices.

We have rhythms. We have a path: prayer, presence, gifts, service, and witness,

and all the means of grace handed down through generations. They’re not handed down because God needs them, but because we do. Not because they earn us salvation, but because they help open us to receive the grace that is already being offered.

 

And over time, through worship and prayer, through scripture and communion, through service and generosity, God does what only God can do. God transforms us. God fills us. And little by little, sometimes so gradually we hardly notice, our lives begin to move at a different impulse. The impulse of love. The impulse of mercy. The impulse of grace.

 

“Take my hands and let them move at the impulse of thy love.” That is the goal.

It’s not about perfectionism. The goal is perfect love—lives so shaped by God’s grace that one day we discover we are no longer merely trying to love. By the grace of God, we have begun to move at the impulse of God’s love. This week, choose one way to place yourself in the flow of God’s grace. Not because God needs it. Because you do.

 

Grace Is Bigger Than You Think

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 31, 2026, First Sunday after Pentecost, Confirmation Sunday. "We Know Who We Are"series.

Texts: Genesis 1:26-2:3; Ephesians 2:4–10

There are some words in scripture that change everything. Not because they're long or unusual. But because they turn the whole story in a different direction. Today’s passage contains two of those words: “But God.”

Before we can appreciate those words, we need to know what precedes them. In the first 3 verses of Ephesians 2, Paul reminds the church in Ephesus of their old ways of being. The direct translation from the Greek is convoluted and confusing, but Eugene Peterson’s interpretation from The Message helps us get the point: “It wasn’t so long ago that you were mired in that old stagnant life of sin. You let the world, which doesn’t know the first thing about living, tell you how to live…We all did it, all of us doing what we felt like doing, when we felt like doing it, all of us in the same boat. It’s a wonder God didn’t lose his temper and do away with the whole lot of us.”

And then…. “But God…” The old story gets interrupted. It moves in a new direction.

Which is good news because most of us know something about stories that seem stuck in a rut. Maybe you’ve carried shame for something you did years ago. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that some part of your life is beyond repair. Maybe you’ve spent so long trying to prove your worth that you’ve forgotten who you are underneath all the striving. Maybe you’ve watched the news lately and wondered whether cruelty and greed and fear are simply winning.

The story goes one way.

But God…

That little phrase shows up all over scripture.

Human beings build a tower to heaven. But God.

Sarah is too old. But God.

The sea is in front of them. Pharaohs army is behind them. But God.

The disciples lock themselves in a room because they are terrified. But God.

The cross stands on a hill outside Jerusalem. But God.

Mary Magdalene despaired at the tomb. But God.

Again and again, scripture insists that God is never limited by the stories we tell ourselves about what is possible. What a gift. Because one of the stories many of us carry is the story that we have to earn our way. This is so ingrained in our culture and mindset.

We learn that story early. We learn it from grades and report cards. From performance reviews. From comparisons. From all the subtle ways the world teaches us to keep score. We absorb these lessons so deeply that eventually we begin to assume that God works this way too. God helps those who help themselves. God rewards the faithful. God blesses the deserving. God keeps score.

But this is precisely the story Paul is trying to undo.

Our temptation to slide into the world’s quid pro quo economy isn’t new. And in these few verses, Paul takes pains to refute it—not with an abstract argument, but by showing us, phrase by phrase, who God is and how grace works.

So let’s move through the text together and listen deeply to the word.

Notice where Paul begins. “But God, who is rich in mercy...” Rich in mercy.

Before Paul says anything about us, he says something about God.

After describing the sorry, lost state of humanity, Paul doesn’t say, “But we finally figured it out.” He doesn’t say, “But we repented.” He doesn’t say, “But we became more faithful.” He doesn’t say, “But we got serious about our spiritual lives.” He says, “But God.”

The turning point of the story is not a change in us. It is a revelation of who God is.

“But God, who is rich in mercy...” Paul could have said simply, “God is merciful.” He doesn’t. He says God is plousios (πλούσιος)—in the Greek: rich, abundant, lavish—in mercy. Possessing more mercy than we can imagine.

This is so important! Because most of us have been trained to think in terms of scarcity. There’s never enough time or money or security or opportunity. There is not enough to go around. There are only so many slices of any pie.

And if we’re not careful, we start to imagine that God’s resources are limited too.

Limited patience. Limited forgiveness. Limited love. Limited welcome. Only so many second chances. As though mercy were something God has to budget carefully. As though grace might run out. As though God were standing over us with a ledger, keeping score, calculating whether we’ve finally earned another chance.

But Paul says, “Nope. That's not who God is.”

Mercy is not scarce in God. Mercy is abundant in God. God’s mercy is not pie—and there’s not limited supply! Mercy flows from God as naturally as light from the sun.

And lest we miss the point, Paul piles on another phrase: “Out of the great love with which God loved us.” It’s almost as though he can’t find enough words—mercy, love, grace, kindness. The language keeps overflowing because Paul is trying to describe a reality that exceeds ordinary human calculation.

The world understands transaction. But God operates through grace. And perhaps that is why grace is so difficult for us to receive. We know how to earn. We know what it takes to achieve. We know the way to keep score. Many of us have spent our entire lives trying to prove that we are worthy of love, worthy of belonging, worthy of respect, worthy of a place at the table. And some versions of Christianity have reinforced exactly that impulse. Behave yourself and God will bless you. Believe the right things and God will reward you. Get your life together and God will finally accept you. Or the flip side: Mess up and God will punish you. Doubt and God will reject you. Fail and God will turn away.

But Paul will have none of it. “By grace you have been saved.”

Grace! We are not saved by following the rules or checking the boxes or through achievement or merit. The story isn’t about keeping score or about earned interest and love averages. “By grace you have been saved.” Grace.

One of the most beautiful insights of the United Methodist movement is that grace starts earlier than we think it does. We tend to imagine that grace begins the moment we become aware of God. But John Wesley said no. Grace was already there.

We think grace begins when we decide to follow Jesus. Wesley said no. Grace was already there.

We think grace begins when we repent. Wesley said no. Grace was already there.

Before faith, grace. Before understanding, grace. Before discipleship, grace. Before baptism, grace. Before confirmation, grace.

Long before we know how to pray, grace is already making a way toward us. Long before we know God’s name, God knows ours.

United Methodists call this prevenient grace—the grace that goes before. The grace that is always preceding us, drawing us, inviting us, wooing us toward life. And I don't know about you, but I find that to be astonishingly good news. Because it means that the story of faith begins not with our searching for God, but with God’s refusal to stop searching for us.

But Paul isn’t finished. He goes further, saying God “made us alive together with Christ.”

Alive—not merely forgiven or a little nicer. Alive. This is resurrection language. It is creation language. It’s the language of new possibility. This strikes me as especially powerful in a world where so many people are exhausted and carrying grief. Where so many people are overwhelmed by the state of the world and struggling simply to keep their hearts open.

Paul speaks a pastoral word into our lives, assuring us that grace is not merely about doing more today to get into heaven someday. Grace is the power that makes us alive right now. Alive to God. Alive to beauty. Alive to joy. Alive to compassion. Alive to possibility and hope.

And there is something else here that often gets lost in translation. Paul doesn’t say that God made me alive. He says God made us alive. The language throughout this passage is communal. Every “you” in the text is plural. It’s not about me; it’s about we. Which means the story is not simply about God saving isolated individuals. It is about God creating a people. A community. A new humanity. People shaped not by fear, scarcity, or competition, but rather shaped by grace, abundance, and love.

Today, a group of young people will stand before us to profess their faith. And what moves me every year is that confirmation is not fundamentally about private belief. It is about belonging. These young people are not simply saying, “I believe.”

They are saying, “This is my people. This is the community in which I will learn what it means to follow Jesus.”

And we are saying, “We need you. Your voice, your gifts, your questions, your presence will continue to shape who we become.”

Because grace doesn’t merely gather individuals. Grace creates a people.

Paul addresses this in what he says next. “We are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works...” The Greek word translated here as “what God has made” is poiēma (ποίημα). It’s where we get the word poem. You could translate it: We are God’s handiwork. God’s artistry. God’s creative work.

And suddenly the echo of Genesis comes into view. The God who formed creation, breathed life into dust, and called it good is still creating, still forming, still calling beauty forth from chaos and light from darkness.

We spend so much of our lives trying to make ourselves. Trying to prove ourselves. Trying to justify ourselves. Trying to become enough. Paul says we are not self-made. We are God-made. We are God’s handiwork, God’s poem. God’s art. God’s ongoing project. And we are already enough—even as we keep learning and growing.

Now, at this point, some people get nervous. If grace is this abundant, if salvation is truly a gift, if God’s love comes before we earn it and before we deserve it, then what keeps us from simply doing whatever we want?

Paul is clear that we don’t earn our salvation. And he is equally clear that God created us for good works. Good works are not the cause of salvation, they are the fruit of salvation, evidence that grace is alive and active within us. Or to put it another way: God doesn’t love us because we do good things. We begin to do good things because we have encountered the love of God.

Grace is not an excuse to do nothing. Grace is an invitation to participate in what God is doing in the world.

Grace is bigger than we think. It is not merely a drop of help when we’re struggling or a nudge of encouragement when we’re discouraged. It is not a small boost for the spiritual journey. It is the power of God's mercy and love constantly interrupting the stories that diminish life and opening up new possibilities we could never create on our own.

And because grace is bigger than we think, it keeps interrupting the stories that tell us life can only go one way. The world says there isn’t enough. But God is rich in mercy.

The world says you have to earn your place. But God saves by grace.

The world says shame gets the last word. But God is great in love.

The world says what is dead is dead. But God makes us alive.

The world says you’re on your own. But God makes us alive together.

The world says this is all there is. But God is still creating.

Still shaping. Still calling life from dust. Still making all things new.

The story was going one way. But God.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

+ + +

Keep a daily grace log.

At the end of each day, ask: Where did I experience a “But God” moment today?

Where did grace go before me? Where did mercy, love, beauty, hope, community, or possibility interrupt the story I expected?

We Know Why We Are Sent: The Mission Of God

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 24, 2026, Pentecost Sunday. “We Know Who We Are” series.

​​​​Texts: Acts 2:1-21; John 20:19-22​​​​

 

Last Tuesday evening, I found myself seated at a table listening to live jazz in the nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC. The occasion was the celebration for my mentor, Rev. Dr. Serene Jones upon her retirement as president of Union Theological Seminary after an extraordinary 18-year tenure. It was such a gift not only to be in the room with and for Serene, but to reflect on her influence upon my life through her words, actions, and friendship. And when she rose at the end of the evening to address the crowd, she urged all of us to pay attention to the prompting of Spirit and to follow God’s call on our life.

 

It was a gift to receive this charge: to ponder, remember, and honor God’s call upon my life and how Spirit has been falling afresh on me at every age and stage of my journey. Sometimes Spirit’s meddling and God’s call have felt aggravating, disruptive, heavy, and even painful. But, with every twist and turn along the way, God has brought me through and Spirit has stirred me to keep going.

 

And the truth is, I didn’t always recognize Spirit’s presence while it was happening. Sometimes it was only later, looking back, that I could see how God had been nudging and guiding and sustaining me all along.

Maybe you know something about that too. Maybe Spirit has shown up in your life in ways you didn’t fully recognize at the time—in a relationship that changed you…a burden you couldn’t shake…a moment of courage you didn’t know you had…a conviction that kept growing in you…a grief that opened your heart…or a persistent tug toward compassion, justice, mercy, or love.

 

And it makes me think about how we focus just one day of the liturgical year on the miraculous story of Spirit blowing into the community of Jesus’s disciples and setting them on fire to move out into the streets to tell God’s deeds of power. But, really, Spirit is at work in all sorts of ways all the time.

 

I get it, though, why we make a whole day out of Pentecost. It is a powerful story, the church’s origin story really, of the moment when the disciples realized that Jesus’ promises would be kept—that the Holy Spirit would baptize them and empower them to continue the saving work of God in the world. That very day they did things that seemed impossible—they spoke in ways that people from all over the known world could understand. And in that moment Peter recognized and proclaimed the fulfillment not only of the promise of Jesus, but the prophecy of Joel. That God would pour out Spirit upon all flesh, empowering all to have visions and dream dreams and prophesy.

It’s very dramatic—like a sci-fi movie that brings unlikely people together acrossunimaginable odds to do extraordinary things—with the bonus of great special effects. And I love it! But I also recognize that Pentecost wasn’t the first time Spirit showed up among the disciples. Maybe it was the first time they recognized so clearly the Spirit who had been carrying them all along.

 

How else were they able to have the courage to leave their familiar lives to follow Jesus? How else were they able to go into villages and tell the good news and care for the sick and those struggling with their demons? How, apart from Holy Spirit, did they feed the five thousand? How did they stay together after the trauma and terror of crucifixion?

 

And maybe that’s why I love the quieter story in John chapter 20 so much.

The disciples have had the wind knocked out of them. By grief, fear, trauma.
By watching everything they thought was going to happen collapse before their eyes. They are huddled behind locked doors, trying to figure out what comes next.

 

And then Jesus comes among them—not first with demands or instructions, but with peace. “Peace be with you.” And then he breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” And honestly, I need to receive this right now and am pretty sure I’m not alone. I believe many people have had the wind knocked out of them. By grief. By fear. By the cruelty and chaos of this moment. By exhaustion. By disillusionment with the church. By watching Christianity so often get presented as domination instead of service, exclusion instead of welcome, certainty instead of compassion.

 

And on this Memorial Day weekend, many of us are carrying grief not only for lives lost in service, but also for the deep fractures in the country those lives sought to protect.

 

Many of us wonder whether the church can still mean something beautiful. Whether faith can still sound like Jesus.

 

We need the story we tell today! John and Acts tell it differently—but perhaps they are showing us two movements of the same Spirit. In John, Spirit comes like breath in a fearful room—restoring peace, courage, and life to weary people. In Acts, Spirit comes like wind in the streets—pushing those same people beyond fear and beyond every barrier to bear witness in a broken world.

 

But it is the same Spirit. The Spirit who restores breath to weary people. The Spirit who revives people who have had the life knocked out of them. The Spirit who reminds fearful people who they are.

 

And only then comes the sending. Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you…” Notice that Jesus does not come into the room and say, “Once you’ve resolved all your fear…once you feel confident…once you fully understand everything…THEN I’ll send you.”

 

No. The doors are still locked. The disciples are still afraid. And yet Jesus breathes Spirit into them anyway. God’s mission doesn’t wait for us to feel ready. Spirit meets us in the midst of fear, uncertainty, grief, and confusion—and sends us anyway.

 

What does it mean to be sent by Jesus as Jesus is sent by his Father? If the accounts of Jesus’ life are our guide, then it means that we, like Jesus, are sent into the world to bring healing into places of suffering, hope into places of despair, mercy and forgiveness into places of sin, comfort into places of grief, peace into places of violence, love into places of hatred. To be sent as Jesus is sent is to be bearers of God’s life in the world, to put our lives on the line for the sake of justice, and to stand in solidarity with those who are hurt by the systems of the day.

 

As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are a people who are not only gathered into the family of God—those who “go to church”—but we are also, inherently, a sent people, called to BE the church all the time and in every place we are.

 

Think for a moment of the life-giving rhythm of our bodies breathing in and breathing out. A healthy body needs to do both. The in-breath of the Body of Christ—the church—is the Spirit gathering us in to be loved, supported, fed, strengthened, and given purpose through sacrament and worship and study and community. Every Sunday or whenever we gather, the Body breathes in, takes in God’s grace and power. And the out-breath is like the Spirit of God blowing out across the chaos of the world at the very beginning, bringing peace and new life. The “sent-ness” of the church is like that—the church moving out into the chaos and brokenness of the world to bring love, mercy, healing, and hope. Every day between Sundays the Body exhales, breathing the Spirit into places thirsty for life and hope and kindness.

 

As the founder of the Methodist movement, John Wesley, famously said:
Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can.

 

I remember during the painful debates and divisions of the United Methodist General Conferences of 2016 and 2019, one of the pieces of legislation brought to the floor proposed changing the United Methodist mission statement—which is “To make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world”—by dropping the second half: “for the transformation of the world.”

 

I was aghast at the idea. It felt like a vision of discipleship focused only inwardly, as if Jesus followers were meant to crowd back into locked rooms and focus only on their personal “disciple” ticket. It sounded like a church withdrawing its prophets from proximity to the powers and principalities that so desperately need their voice. It sounded like a church trying to hold its breath.

I’m happy to say the legislation didn’t pass. Because the story of this day—the story of Pentecost, the story of the work of Holy Spirit in and through disciples across the ages—is clear: Spirit always exhales—sending us into the world to embody the love and justice of Christ. The way we say it at Foundry is “Love God. Love each other. Change the world.”

 

And so I want to extend to you the same charge I received from Serene: pay attention to the prompting of Spirit who is always at work and respond to God’s call on your life. Every day. In all the ways and places and by whatever means you can.

And if you aren’t sure where to begin, I invite you to decide right now on one act of service or outreach you will do this week, even small, for the wider community. Just do one concrete act of service beyond your usual routine. It could be running an errand for a friend who needs a hand. Or calling your state or federal representatives. Or paying for someone’s meal. Or any other thing that Spirit prompts.

 

Because Spirit has been nearer than you realized all along. And Spirit will keep giving you breath—and wind at your back—to move beyond yourself and into the wondrous, love-fueled mission of God.

We Know Where We Belong: The Church

Text: 1 Corinthians 12:4-14, 27

May 17, 2026

Foundry United Methodist Church – Washington, DC

Rev. T.C. Morrow

Good morning! My name is Rev. T.C. Morrow. For the last twenty-four years I have been blessed to be a part of the Foundry community - first while finishing seminary, then like many of you serving in a variety of ways through the years, and when I formally became a clergyperson in the United Methodist Church, on the extended clergy team.

In July, I will be starting as Senior Pastor at The United Church, a joint United Methodist and United Church of Christ congregation in Foggy Bottom.

I am looking forward to my next adventures, but I am going to miss this Foundry community. I cannot start naming individuals or that will take all of my time, but I give my thanks to the three senior pastors during my time here: Rev. Dr. Phil Wogaman, Rev. Dean Snyder, and Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli. I give thanks to God for their leadership, their guidance, their solidarity, and so much more.

Today we are in the third week of a sermon series exploring foundations of Christian identity and discipleship. In a world full of competing messages about who we are, our purpose, and how we should live, we are returning to some of the core aspects of Christianity. We’ve already looked at our identity as beloved of God and how we are called to follow Jesus into a way of life shaped by God’s love and grace. Today we’re exploring the church and our belonging in it, the gathering in community of those seeking to grow in love of God and neighbor.

Will you join me in prayer: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable to you O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

As the U.S. nears its 250th anniversary, I’ve been thinking about some of the myths, like manifest destiny, that have shaped - or distorted – the direction of the country.

As we gather this morning, not far from us, on the National Mall, others are gathering in what is ostensibly a day of prayer as part of activities marking the anniversary of the country. I looked at the speakers list. By all appearances, it is a Christian nationalist rally seeking to further solidify the myth that Christianity – a particular type of Christianity – is the only thing that will “save America.”

I agree there is need for repentance in this country, but I think it is safe to say we deviate on specifics. I know that I do not need to repent for who I am as a lesbian and a beloved child of God. I do not need to repent for supporting my fellow trans Americans, and others who are being demonized and treated cruelly.

But we do need repentance as a nation. Repentance from instilling fear and division. Repentance from greed and lies. Repentance from war mongering and violence. Repentance from the scapegoating of trans people, immigrants, non-Christians, and anyone who may be deemed “other.” Repentance from failing to uphold the common good.

In today’s scripture lesson, Paul names the reality of the diversity of the identities and the spiritual gifts of the community of Jesus followers in Corinth. Uniformity is not the goal; faithful interdependence is. Paul insists that there are indeed differences, and that it is only together, it is only collectively, that we are the body of Christ. Paul does not only acknowledge differences, he goes on to describe that we need the differences: “If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be?” Paul describes the need for robust diversity for the fullness of the church. Honoring diversity is biblical.

Twenty-four years ago, a young lesbian couple – two cradle United Methodists with parents very involved in the church – decided to find a church home together.

Logan and I wanted a church home where we could belong, as our full selves. We looked at a few options, and decided we wanted it to be a United Methodist Church, and with only a few Reconciling congregations at the time – churches that have gone on the record in support of LGBTQ+ inclusion – we ended up at Foundry.

Logan quickly joined Jubilate, the choir at the then-9:30 service. Logan went to the Women’s Retreat in the first year or two after we started attending, and Peggy Simpson was assigned as her roommate. It was fitting when a few years later the law changed in DC and same-sex couples could get married that Peggy graciously opened her home for our legal wedding, and then we had a celebration at Foundry with a service led by Rev. Dean Snyder.

I attended the 2012 General Conference of The United Methodist Church with Rev. Snyder and several other members from Foundry. When there was no forward movement on LGBTQ inclusion through legislative change, LGBTQ+ people and allies sang in peaceful demonstration to the denomination they love and to themselves from Micah 6:8: “What does the Lord require of you?”

We walked around the communion table and sang. A table that symbolizes God’s reconciling activity through Jesus Christ. In one of the loops around the table, this non-musical child of God standing before you heard a word amidst the cacophony of sounds in the Tampa convention center: Stop waiting for the denominations rules to change. Put yourself forward as a candidate for ordained ministry.

We are here today, by the grace of God, with different rules on the books thanks to the tireless work of advocates including several who are in this room today.

And after a roadblock or two, a Judicial Council ruling or two, I was commissioned in 2019 and ordained in 2022. While it was my name in deliberations by the Annual Conference or in news stories, I was there as the visible representative of this community that kept saying over and over to the broader church that it was getting it wrong on the treatment of gay and lesbian and bi and trans and other queer people. It was only through the support, love, strength, and organizing work of this community that I was able to go on the journey that was my ordination candidacy process in The United Methodist Church.

Christianity is meant to be practiced in community. Some make a theological case for this based on the relational aspect of God in the doctrine of the trinity. Some point to Paul’s articulation of the church as the “body of Christ,” where no one body part is sufficient on its own and each part depends on the others.

I personally wonder – how are you going to have a potluck by yourself? You can make yourself a dozen deviled-eggs or the best jello salad, but the whole point of a potluck is that no one brings everything, NO ONE HAS TO DO EVERYTHING. Each person does their part.

There are certainly spiritual disciplines that are done individually: personal prayer, scripture reading, meditation, reflection, individual acts of compassion and advocacy. But Christianity is not a solo spiritual self-improvement project. Christianity is meant to be practiced in community. There are spiritual practices that we undertake together: worship, sacraments of baptism and communion, serving together, learning together, mutual care, accountability, sharing joys, being there for each other in the tough times.

In the midst of a culture that too often celebrates self-sufficiency and radical individualism, the church is a place of interdependence.

Paul says to the church in Corinth: “Now there are varieties of gifts but the same Spirit, and there are varieties of services but the same Lord, and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.”

For the common good. Not only for our personal betterment, but we are each given spiritual gifts for the common good.

The interdependence is part of how God forms us. We learn generosity by sharing what we have, from a friendly greeting to our time to our resources. We learn humility by recognizing wisdom in unexpected places, including from a six-year-old giving a really good answer to Ms. Natalie during the children’s message. We learn patience by working through differences and disagreements. Christian community is not always easy, but it is where we belong.

This week I invite you to reach out to someone in the church – someone here at Foundry if you are a part of this community or of your own church community if you are visiting from another. I invite you to reach out to someone to check in with them. Maybe someone who you know has been having a particularly hard time lately, or someone you haven’t seen at church in a few weeks or months. You might arrange a time for coffee or a meal, take a walk, or have a phone conversation. Plan brunch, schedule time for your kids to play together at the park, go to coffee hour with the intention of asking at least one person a few questions beyond the polite “how are you?”

We live in a culture of curated images, quick fixes, and too often shallow connections. We need to make spaces where we can be our authentic selves. Where we can tell the truth about our lives. Where we can grow in love of God and neighbor. You might reach out to someone thinking that you are “helping” them, but I encourage you to be open to how God may be at work in that connection in ways you did not expect, shaping both of you.

In the midst of increasing militarism and authoritarianism, in the midst of greed and lies, in the midst of racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia and so much more – our way through is together. There are days where we might want to do it alone. And rest and renewal are certainly important. And individual spiritual practices are important.

But as Christians we belong together in community with other Christians to learn, to serve, to celebrate, to grieve, to remind each other that we are beloved children of God, no matter what anyone says. The body of Christ is not a collection of isolated spiritual consumers. It is a people learning how to belong to one another.

I am looking forward to the next part of my adventure, but I am going to miss this community. I will carry with me so much and I give thanks to God for helping be a community that affirmed that I belong in the church, and that we all belong in the church.

So #KeepShowingUp for each other. Give a wide welcome to those looking for a safe space to explore big questions and bring their full selves. Teach the children that God loves them. Let others care for you, and give that same care in return. Try out being an usher, or singing with the choir, or joining the prayer team, or helping out with Children’s Worship. Join a small group. Participate in one of the ministries of care and justice. Be a vessel of hope in a world that desperately needs it.

Remind each other that #GodIsYetAtWork in you and through you, Foundry United Methodist Church. And may it continue to be so.

Amen.

We Know Who We Follow: Jesus

Rev. Jonathan Brown

05/11/2026

Sometimes the things that become central to who we are begin as a surprise. They do not always arrive with a clear plan, a perfect explanation, or a sense that we understand exactly what we are saying yes to. Sometimes a door opens, an invitation comes, a possibility appears, and only later do we realize that something important in us began to take shape there.

When Francis came to us at eleven, he spoke very little English. I spoke no Spanish. Katy knew a bit. And DC Child and Family Services seemed to consider a person bilingual if they had Google Translate on their phone. Every day, I thank God because his young mind has been able to adapt to our language, while I still find myself cursing Duolingo.

And since Francis became part of our family, he has also become an accomplished cyclist. He has won two Under 19 series championships, and he spends his free time training to get better. At our local bike shop, someone told us he was a unicorn because he fell in love with cycling even though his parents were not already obsessed with it. This was not a family culture he simply inherited. It became his.

One day after a race, I was kind of in awe of him and all he had accomplished, and I asked him, “Francis, how did this happen? How did cycling become your thing?” And he said, “Do you remember when I first moved in with you, and you asked if I wanted a bike?” I said, “Yes.” And he said, “I did not know what you were saying, and I did not want to be rude, so I just said yes. Then I fell in love with it.”

I love that. Because so much of life is like that. One day, seemingly out of the blue, something comes into our lives that we did not plan for and could not have predicted. At first, it may feel random. It may feel small. It may feel like a simple yes to a simple question. But over time, that unexpected beginning can become a practice, then a passion, then a major part of who we are. A bike becomes more than a bike. A first ride becomes a rhythm. A rhythm becomes a love. A love becomes part of someone’s identity.

And that helps me hear Mark’s story with fresh ears. Simon and Andrew do not wake up that morning knowing they are about to become disciples. James and John do not begin the day expecting their lives to turn in a new direction. They are working. They are casting nets. They are mending nets. They are living the life they know. Then, seemingly out of the blue, Jesus walks by and says, “Follow me.” What may have felt sudden in the moment becomes the beginning of their identity. They will come to be known as disciples, apostles, witnesses, people whose lives are forever shaped by Jesus. One ordinary day becomes the day they discover the call that will define them.

In this first movement of our series, we are asking one of the most basic and important questions Christians can ask: Who are we? In a culture that often tells us our worth depends on success, power, control, or fear, the gospel speaks a deeper truth. We are beloved. We are called. We are connected. We are sent. And today, we begin with this: we know who we are because we know who we follow. We follow Jesus.

Mark tells the story with striking simplicity. Jesus passes along the Sea of Galilee and sees Simon and Andrew casting a net into the sea, because they are fishers. Jesus says to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.” Immediately, they leave their nets and follow him. Then Jesus goes a little farther and sees James and John, the sons of Zebedee, mending nets in their boat. He calls them too, and they leave their father in the boat with the hired men and follow him.

That whole scene unfolds with surprising simplicity. Jesus walks along the water and sees ordinary people in the middle of their ordinary work. The call of Jesus meets them right there, in the texture of daily life, among boats, nets, family, labor, and responsibility. Before they have time to prepare themselves, before they know where the road will lead, Jesus invites them into a new life. He finds them in the routines they know and calls them toward a future they cannot yet imagine.

That is good news, because many of us assume that if God is going to call us, we need to be somewhere else first. We need to become more faithful, more prepared, more certain, more spiritually mature. But Mark tells us Jesus calls people in the middle of life. Jesus calls them as they are, but he does not leave them as they are.

“Follow me,” he says, “and I will make you fishers of people.” That phrase can sound strange to us, especially when it has been used in ways that feel manipulative or aggressive. But Jesus is calling them into a way of life that gathers people into the nearness of God. He is calling them to participate in healing, mercy, liberation, forgiveness, and beloved community.

Jesus calls these first disciples to walk with him until his way becomes their way. That is discipleship. Discipleship is the lifelong practice of being shaped by the one we follow.

That is why this sermon title matters: “We Know Who We Follow: Jesus.” The church is always tempted to forget. We are tempted to follow success, fear, nostalgia, outrage, or whatever gives us belonging without transformation. But Christians belong to Jesus Christ.

And Jesus shows us who God is. As we follow Jesus through Mark, we see what God’s life looks like in the world. We see Jesus announcing good news, healing bodies, restoring people to community, touching those others refuse to touch, feeding hungry people, welcoming children, challenging religious hypocrisy, confronting oppressive powers, and refusing to abandon the vulnerable. We see him going to the cross rather than returning violence for violence. We see him raised by God, with the promise that death and empire and abandonment do not get the final word.

So when we say, “We follow Jesus,” we are saying our lives are being reoriented around the crucified and risen Christ. We are saying that the clearest picture we have of God’s character is Jesus eating with sinners, touching the untouchable, forgiving enemies, blessing the poor, challenging the powerful, and giving himself in love. That is not ideology. That is a way of life.

This is where our United Methodist tradition helps us. Methodism began as a renewal movement of people who wanted to follow Jesus with their whole lives. Early Methodists gathered in societies, classes, and bands. They prayed together. They confessed sin together. They studied scripture together. They gave money to the poor. They visited the sick and imprisoned. They held one another accountable in love.

As the movement grew, John Wesley gave the people called Methodists what became known as the General Rules: first, do no harm; second, do good; third, attend upon all the ordinances of God. In more recent years, Bishop Rueben P. Job helped many United Methodists recover the power of these rules in his book Three Simple Rules: A Wesleyan Way of Living . Job summarized Wesley’s General Rules in language that has become familiar across our tradition: do no harm, do good, and stay in love with God.

These rules are a way of asking, every day, “What does it mean to follow Jesus here?” What does it mean to follow Jesus in this conversation, this conflict, this family, this workplace, this church, this neighborhood, this moment?

There is a sitcom called The Good Place that, beneath all the jokes, bright colors, frozen yogurt shops, and absurd afterlife architecture, is really about moral formation. The show begins with Eleanor Shellstrop waking up after death and being told that she has made it into “the Good Place.” But Eleanor quickly realizes she does not belong there. In life, she had been selfish, rude, careless, and often cruel. So at first, her moral project is not really about becoming good. It is about passing as good.

That is part of what makes the show so funny and so honest. Eleanor wants to learn enough ethics to blend in. She wants goodness as a disguise. And if we are honest, that is not always far from how people can treat religion too. We can learn the language, the gestures, and the right answers. We can learn how to pass as good. But Jesus does not call us to pass as faithful. Jesus calls us to follow.

And this is where Chidi becomes so important. Chidi Anagonye is a moral philosophy professor. He knows the ethical theories. He can explain Kant, Aristotle, utilitarianism, virtue ethics, and moral duty. If anyone should know how to be good, it should be Chidi. But Chidi’s problem is that knowing about goodness does not automatically make him free to live it. He is so afraid of making the wrong choice that he struggles to make any choice at all. His knowledge is real, but it has not yet become courage. His ethics are serious, but they have not yet become love in motion.

That makes Eleanor and Chidi surprisingly helpful for the church. Eleanor reminds us that faith is not about passing as good. Chidi reminds us that faith is not only about knowing what is good. Knowledge matters, but knowledge alone is not discipleship. Discipleship is when what we know becomes a life. Discipleship is when truth becomes practice. Discipleship is when grace becomes courage, mercy, forgiveness, service, and love.

Over time, Eleanor and Chidi both change because they are drawn into a deeper kind of formation. Eleanor has to practice honesty, compassion, and care for someone beyond herself. Chidi has to practice trust, courage, and choosing love even when he cannot calculate every possible consequence. In other words, both of them have to be discipled beyond appearance and beyond certainty into faithfulness.

That is what makes The Good Place surprisingly Wesleyan. The characters become different not because they master one idea or earn enough points, but because they keep practicing a better way of being human. Christian faith is not self improvement with hymns. The gospel is grace. It is God meeting us before we are ready, loving us before we are worthy, and calling us before we fully understand where the road will lead. But grace does not leave us unchanged. Grace begins to form us.

That is why the Methodist tradition has always cared about practices. We practice faith because practice keeps us open to the love that is already working on us. We practice doing no harm. We practice doing good. We practice staying in love with God. And over time, through the mercy of God, those practices begin to shape us into people who look a little more like the one we follow.

The first rule is: do no harm. Harm is not only physical violence. Harm can come through words, neglect, silence, systems, assumptions, jokes, posts, grudges, and the people we refuse to see. To follow Jesus is to ask: Is my life causing harm? Are my words causing harm? Are my habits causing harm? Are my comforts causing harm? Most of us are not being asked to leave literal nets on the shore, but we may need to ask what nets we are holding. What old ways of being keep catching us? What habits make us feel safe but keep us from love?

The second rule is: do good. Christian faith is about participating in God’s healing of the world. “Follow me,” Jesus says, “and I will make you fishers of people.” In other words, your life is going to become part of God’s work of gathering, healing, feeding, forgiving, restoring, and liberating. Sometimes doing good is serving someone who cannot repay you. Sometimes it is telling the truth when silence would be easier. Sometimes it is forgiving someone, apologizing, showing up, or acting with courage at work or at home.

The third rule is: stay in love with God. Wesley’s original language was “attend upon all the ordinances of God,” meaning the practices that keep us open to grace: public worship, prayer, searching the scriptures, receiving communion, fasting, Christian conversation, and works of mercy. In other words, stay close to the practices that remind you who you are and whose you are.

Because we cannot follow Jesus for long on outrage, willpower, or guilt alone. We need grace. We need prayer. We need worship. We need scripture. We need communion. We need community. We need people who help us remember when we forget.

And we do forget. The disciples forgot. Peter left his nets immediately, but later denied Jesus three times. James and John followed Jesus, but later argued about greatness. They followed, but they stumbled. They were called, but they were not instantly complete. And that should comfort us. Following Jesus does not mean we never fail. It means that when we fail, grace calls us again.

This matters because the world is full of rival formations. Every day, something is trying to disciple us. Fear disciples us. Consumerism disciples us. Nationalism disciples us. Algorithms disciple us. Anger disciples us. Anxiety disciples us. The endless need to prove ourselves disciples us. The endless need to belong by having an enemy disciples us. So the question is not whether we are being formed. The question is: Who is forming us?

So when we talk about discipleship, we are talking about formation. We are talking about what shapes our loves, habits, reflexes, speech, courage, compassion, and imagination. The world is constantly discipling us into anxiety, resentment, consumption, suspicion, and fear. But Jesus calls us into another formation. Jesus says, “Follow me,” and then teaches us the way of mercy, justice, courage, humility, forgiveness, and love.

And when Jesus says, “Follow me,” he is giving us both a command and a promise. “Follow me, and I will make you…” The making belongs to Jesus. The transformation belongs to grace. Jesus calls us as we are, and then grace begins its work. Grace teaches us to do no harm. Grace strengthens us to do good. Grace draws us deeper into love with God. Grace makes us into people who can bear witness to another way of life.

So this week, choose one small way to follow Jesus intentionally. Serve someone. Forgive someone. Act with courage in your work or home. Do no harm. Do good. Stay in love with God. Not because these practices save us by our own effort, but because they open our lives to the grace that is already calling us.

Because somewhere, even now, Jesus is walking along the shoreline of our ordinary lives. He sees us. He knows us. He calls us. And his invitation is still the same: “Follow me.”

May we have the grace to leave behind what binds us. May we have the courage to walk in his way. May we have the humility to be made new. And may our lives become a clear witness to the truth we proclaim: we know who we follow. We follow Jesus. Amen.