Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

We Know Who We Are: Beloved of God

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 3, 2026, the fifth Sunday of Easter. “We Know Who We Are”series.

Texts: Isaiah 43:1-4; Romans 8:14–17; 31-39

A while back a friend reached out with a question. He had seen a pastor online passionately teaching about the transformative power of God’s love. My friend asked simply, “How does God’s love really change anything? Is focusing on God’s love really the most important thing?”

I was struck by the question—and have come back to it any number of times over the past weeks as, together with many of you, I’ve grappled with loss and grief…with worry about loved ones ill or injured…with the continued assault of this corrupt administration on civil rights and constitutional law, on black and brown law-abiding citizens, on refugees and asylum seekers, on the environment itself.

What difference does the love of God make when so much feels painful and messed up? My friend asks a fair question. Because if we’re honest, “God loves you” can sound thin in the face of the world as it actually is.

But, as we begin this new series, “We Know Who We Are: A Counter-Testimony of Faith, United Methodism, and the Work of the Church,” I want to suggest that everything begins here.

Before we talk about United Methodism. Before we talk about the work of the church. Before we talk about witness or justice or discipleship or mission. Everything begins with the love of God. And if we get this wrong, everything else eventually falls apart. Let’s look at our texts for today to understand why.

Isaiah 43 is found in the section of the book often called Second Isaiah—chapters 40-55—and the context is the Babylonian Exile. Walter Brueggemann points out that throughout this section, God’s words of care and presence interrupt the despair of the people again and again. And that’s what we receive in our text today. The people are displaced and grieving countless losses. They are a people living under the crushing weight of empire. Babylon has named them defeated, forgotten, insignificant, abandoned.

But God counters with a wholly different word. A word of relationship, a word of covenant, saying, “I have called you by name. You are mine.”

The text beautifully describes God’s loving activity, moving from
creation—“I created you”—to redemption—“I redeemed you”—to naming—“I have called you by name”—to accompaniment —“When you pass through the waters…”

And notice what God does not say. God doesn’t say, “You will never pass through deep waters.” God doesn’t say, “You will never walk through fire.”
God doesn’t say, “Nothing hard will ever happen to you.” God says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”

And then these astonishing words: “You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.” The Hebrew here is unusually intimate and tender. God loves God’s people not because they are strong or successful. Not because they have earned restoration. But because God freely chooses covenant love. Because they are precious in God’s sight…honored…loved.

Babylon—and empires across the ages—measure worth through military dominance and status and wealth and appearance and productivity. And honestly, our world still does.

We are constantly being told who we are: You are what you produce. You are what you achieve. You are your failures. You are your fears. You are your appearance. You are your politics. You are your usefulness…People carry those names around every day. And we call ourselves things we would likely never call anyone else: We tell ourselves we’re Not enough. Too much. Failure. Weak. Unseen. Disposable.

But into all of those voices comes the voice of God: “You are mine.” “You are precious.” “I love you.” This—this!—is where everything begins.

It is the beginning of our freedom and the ground of our true identity. And if we can stay connected to it, it allows us to live in the furnace of this world without losing our soul. Without becoming consumed by fear. Without surrendering to hatred of self or others. Without forgetting our own humanity or the humanity of other people. This is at the heart of what we call sacred resistance.

And sacred resistance begins in the heart of God. It is, in fact, God’s consistent stance toward the world. Out of an overflowing love desiring to be shared, God creates the world and all that is. Out of love, God seeks relationship with humankind. Out of love, God provides everything we need to live in peace, joy, and wholeness. And when we, God’s children, turn away and our love fails, God’s love remains steadfast. God resists abandoning us.

Think about that. God resists abandoning us. What a mess we the people have made and yet God resists abandoning us. We wander off. We get distracted. We cling to idols. We organize our lives around fear and power and scarcity. We wound one another. We betray one another. We fail to love. And over and over again, God refuses to check out. God chooses to stay with us. To keep calling us. To keep loving us. To keep drawing us back toward the image that is our birthright. God loves us with an everlasting, stubborn love.

In this Easter season, we remember that the power of God’s love is stronger than death. In our Baptism, we remember that God adopts us, that God’s love enfolds us into the family of God—the Beloved Clan—without our having to understand or earn that amazing grace. Throughout our lives with God, we learn that God’s love and mercy have the power to release us from the chains of guilt and despair. And our Wesleyan theology teaches us that as we open our hearts and lives to God’s love, that love fills us and overflows from us as we participate in God’s work of peace, justice, and mending in the world.

Do you see? This divine love from our good God is the model and the fuel for our counter-testimony, our sacred resistance, in this beautiful, broken world.

When you are able to stay connected to the love of God who holds you, calls you by name, forgives you, and empowers you to be your full authentic self, you will be better equipped to act in the world with sacred resistance. Because you will know first-hand what sacred resistance is really about. It’s about love.

Love that looks upon each person with a desire for their wellbeing. Love that looks upon human community with a desire for healing and peace with justice. Love that looks into all creation with a desire for mending and reverence. Love that is compassionate and merciful. Love that is stubborn and sacrificial.

This is how God loves the world. This is how God loves you. This is how God created you to love.

Everything flows from this love. Our courage flows from this love. Our resistance flows from this love. Our mercy flows from this love. Our hope flows from this love. It is our guardrail and our guide as we seek to counter the perversions of the Gospel so prevalent in our world today. Because if love is truly the first principle of the Christian life, then any version of Christianity rooted primarily in fear, cruelty, domination, exclusion, or the hunger for power has already lost its way. If our faith leads us to dehumanize people made in the image of God, something has gone terribly wrong. If our theology produces contempt more than compassion, suspicion more than mercy, condemnation more than healing, then we are no longer moving in the Spirit of Christ. The love of God revealed in Jesus consistently moves toward people—not away from them. Toward the wounded. Toward the vulnerable. Toward the outsider. Toward the sinner. Toward the suffering. That kind of love is not weak. It is the deepest power in the world. It is our strength and our comfort in the storms of life. It is our fuel as we live with freedom and power and the joy that comes with living in our truest identity. And there is nothing that will ever be able to separate us from this love.

From ancient of days this is God’s word to us: I am your God and you are my Beloved.

And Paul asks the rhetorical question whose answer he already knows:
“Who will separate us from the love of Christ?”

And then comes this breathtaking proclamation:

“I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Nothing can separate us from God’s love in Christ.

What difference does God’s love make?

Every difference in the world.

So this week, I invite you to start at the beginning and practice remembering who you are. When your inner voice starts trash-talking you, interrupt that old story with these true words: “I am God’s beloved.”

Or pray this breath prayer:
Breathing in I know I am loved…
Breathing out, I am loved…
I know I am held…
I am held…
I know I am protected…
I am safe…

God says:
“You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

And nothing in all creation can separate you from that love. And that, beloveds, makes all the difference.

Amen.

Richmond Way in the Valley

A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC, April 26, 2026.

If there is one truth I want us to carry today, it is this: God’s presence in suffering is our courage, but it is never an excuse to accept suffering as normal. That is the tension these texts hold. Psalm 23 gives us one of the most beloved images in all of scripture: the Lord as shepherd. First Peter gives us Christ as the shepherd and guardian of our souls. Both texts offer comfort. Both texts speak to people who know pain. But neither text tells us to make peace with injustice. Neither text tells us to baptize suffering. Instead, these texts tell the truth. There are green pastures and still waters and restoration, yes. But there are also dark valleys, enemies, unjust suffering, and wounds. And in the middle of that truth, scripture makes a defiant claim: we are not alone.

Psalm 23 is so familiar that we can miss how honest it really is. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” can sound soft in our ears, but this is not a psalm written from a safe and easy life. It is the prayer of someone who knows danger, fear, and threat. It is the testimony of someone who knows what it means to walk through what the NRSV calls the darkest valley. And that matters, because Psalm 23 is not beautiful because it denies suffering. It is beautiful because it refuses to let suffering speak the final word. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me.”

And it is worth pausing to say a brief word about the psalm itself. The superscription says, “A Psalm of David,” and for generations that has connected the psalm to David the shepherd-king. But most modern scholars are cautious about treating that as proof that David personally wrote it. Like many psalms, Psalm 23 is difficult to date with precision. It does not give us firm historical markers. So it is often understood as part of Israel’s worship tradition, preserved and prayed over time, shaped by a people who had learned to trust God through danger, worship, memory, and hope. That deepens the psalm for me. It means these words endured not because they belonged only to one famous person, but because generations of God’s people found them true.

Notice what the psalm does not say. It does not say, “I will never enter the valley.” It does not say, “If my faith is strong enough, I can avoid the valley.” It does not say, “The valley is secretly good.” It says, even there, even in the darkness, even in the fear, even in the threat: you are with me. That is the center of it. The courage of the psalm is not that life is easy. The courage of the psalm is not that the valley disappears. The courage of the psalm is the presence of God in the valley.

That distinction matters, because Christians have not always handled suffering well. Too often, people have taken texts about endurance and presence and turned them into permission slips for oppression. Too often, religion has told people to quietly bear what should have been confronted. Too often, the suffering have been told to be patient while the powerful remain comfortable. Too often, faith has been used not to heal wounds but to explain them away. But Psalm 23 does not glorify the valley. It does not bless the darkness. It does not say that enemies are acceptable because God can still set a table. It says that God remains God even there, and that the Shepherd does not abandon the flock even there.

And that shepherd image matters more than we sometimes realize. A shepherd is not just a sweet religious metaphor. A shepherd protects. A shepherd guides. A shepherd goes looking. A shepherd defends the vulnerable. A shepherd takes responsibility for lives that can be easily harmed. That is why the psalm says, “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Those are not decorative objects. The rod is for protection. The staff is for guidance and rescue. So the comfort here is not vague spirituality. The comfort is active care. The comfort is the nearness of a God who is not detached from danger and not indifferent to fear.

Then the psalm says something almost startling: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Not after the enemies are gone. Not once the danger has passed. Not once everything is tidy and resolved. In the presence of my enemies. In other words, God does not wait for perfect conditions to sustain life. God nourishes in hostile places. God restores in wounded places. God anoints in threatened places. But let us be clear: that is not the same thing as saying hostile conditions are acceptable. God’s presence in suffering is not God’s approval of suffering.

And that is where First Peter needs careful handling. “If, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly…” Those words have too often been used badly. They have been used to tell people to remain in abuse, to stay silent under domination, to take the hit and call it holiness. But that is not good news, and that is not what this text should mean for the church. First Peter is speaking to vulnerable communities under pressure. It is trying to encourage people already suffering because the world is not arranged according to the justice of God. It is not praising the injustice. It is not calling suffering good. It is speaking to wounded people about how not to lose their souls in a wounded world.

And then it points to Jesus: “When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly.” That is not weakness. That is not surrender to evil. It is Jesus refusing to become what the world is. He refuses to let violence dictate the shape of his spirit. He refuses to answer domination with domination. But hear this clearly: the suffering of Jesus is not God saying suffering is good. The cross is not heaven’s endorsement of violence. The cross reveals what human sin does when confronted with divine love. And the resurrection is God’s refusal to let that violence be final.

So when First Peter says Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, it does not mean Christians should seek pain. It does not mean people should stay in dangerous situations for the sake of appearing faithful. It means that when righteousness is costly, Christ has already gone ahead of us. It means that when suffering comes, we do not meet it alone. It means the Shepherd knows the valley from the inside.

That is where these two readings reach toward one another in a powerful way. Psalm 23 says, “The Lord is my shepherd.” First Peter says we have now returned “to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.” The Shepherd of Psalm 23 is not far away. The Shepherd of Psalm 23 is not abstract. In the light of Christ, the Shepherd has scars. The Shepherd has known abuse. The Shepherd has known grief. The Shepherd has known the machinery of injustice. So when we say God is with us in suffering, we do not mean that in some thin, sentimental way. We mean that in Jesus Christ, God has entered the full reality of human pain. God knows what it is to be wounded. God knows what it is to be abandoned. God knows what it is to be crushed by the powers of this world. God knows.

So yes, there is courage here. Real courage. Because some people in this room know what it is to walk through the valley. Some are carrying grief. Some are carrying fear. Some are exhausted. Some are dealing with illness. Some are trying to keep going under burdens no one else can quite see. Some are watching the pain of the world pile up and wondering how much more human hearts are supposed to bear. And the good news is not that none of it is real. The good news is that none of it is faced alone.

But now let me say the other half of what must be said. God’s presence in suffering must never be turned into permission to tolerate suffering. It must never become an excuse for passivity. It must never become a way of spiritualizing injustice. It must never become a reason to tell the suffering to stay quiet.

There is a scene in Ted Lasso where Ted Lasso, the coach of AFC Richmond, is being underestimated during a game of darts. He recalls a line he says he once saw painted on a wall while driving his son to school: “Be curious, not judgmental.” In the scene he attributes the line to Walt Whitman. Whether or not Whitman actually said it, the point lands. Ted realizes that the people who dismissed him never asked real questions. They assumed they already knew who he was, and so they judged him instead of trying to understand him. The church has too often done the same thing with suffering. We have judged where we should have listened. We have explained pain where we should have shown up. We have sometimes treated suffering like a spiritual test instead of a human crisis. But the Shepherd of Psalm 23 does not stand at a distance judging the sheep in the valley. The Shepherd enters the valley.

Because if God is with the suffering, then suffering should matter to us. Human suffering anywhere should trouble the conscience of the church. Poverty should trouble us. War should trouble us. Racism should trouble us. Displacement should trouble us. Abuse should trouble us. Systems that crush people while blessing the already secure should trouble us. The church cannot say, “Well, God is with them,” as a substitute for justice. Yes, God is with them. And that is exactly why suffering can never be treated as normal, holy, or acceptable.

And when Psalm 23 says, “I shall not want,” that is not a promise of luxury. It is trust that the Shepherd will sustain. Trust that what is necessary for life with God will not be withheld. Trust that the valley does not cancel the care of God. And when First Peter says, “By his wounds you have been healed,” that is not cheap denial either. It does not mean every hurt is instantly repaired. It means that Christ’s love breaks open the power of sin and violence. It means there is healing deeper than domination. It means restoration is possible even in a world that knows how to harm.

So what do we do with all of this? We take courage, and we tell the truth. We take courage because we are not alone, because the Shepherd is in the valley, because Christ is not a distant savior offering advice from safety, because goodness and mercy are still moving even when the road is hard. And we tell the truth that suffering is real, that injustice is real, and that pain should never be romanticized. It is never God’s plan for people to suffer. It is God’s will that people be comforted and protected in suffering. That is what the Shepherd does. The Shepherd leads, guards, restores, and stays near.

So let me leave you here. If you are in the valley, hear this: the Shepherd is with you now. If you are wounded, hear this: Christ knows woundedness from the inside. If you are weary, hear this: goodness and mercy are still on the move. And if these texts teach us anything about the Richmond way in the valley, it may be this: be curious, not judgmental. Be curious enough to listen to pain instead of explaining it away. Curious enough to see suffering instead of spiritualizing it. Curious enough to trust that it is never God’s plan for people to suffer, but always God’s will to meet people with comfort, protection, and mercy in the midst of it. Because the Shepherd does not abandon the valley. The Shepherd enters it, stays with us there, and leads us toward life.

Amen.

Hearts on Fire, Fully Perceiving

A sermon preached by Ed Crump with Foundry UMC, April 19, 2026, the second Sunday of Easter.

 

Texts: Isaiah 51:1–6; Luke 24:13–35

April 19, 2026

Good morning.

Will you pray with me,

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be pleasing to you God, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

 

There are moments in life when everything you thought was solid…

suddenly isn’t.

Plans collapse. The future you trusted no longer exists.

Many of us have had those moments since January 20, 2025.

Some of us are dealing with illness or a sick loved one.

Some of us have experienced heartbreak.

Some of us are lonely.

Some of us are feeling financial insecurity.

And when we experience those things, usually all we can do is put one foot in front of another.

 

In our text from Luke this morning, that’s where we meet the disciples:

Not triumphant. 

Not celebrating resurrection. 

Not even waiting in hope.

They are walking away from Jerusalem.

Away from the place where everything fell apart.

Away from the cross.

Away from hope.

Two friends walking away together.

They say, “We had hoped…” 

And note they use the past tense.

“We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.”

 

Not just grief, but disorientation.

 

Their understanding of God, of justice, of the future has all unraveled.

The Jesus they were presented with did not meet their expectations, so they had difficulty recognizing and accepting him.

And if we’re honest, many of us know that road. We know what it is to say, “I had hoped…”

And for some communities, that sense of “we had hoped” is not just a moment or a season, but a painfully long history. A history of displacement, of promises broken, of identity challenged or erased.

 

Today, as we mark Native American Ministries Sunday, we remember that Indigenous peoples across this land are not abstract names from a history book. They are living communities, with real histories, sacred languages, deep wisdom, and enduring resilience with cultures that existed for thousands of years before their land was taken from them. And many carry stories of disruption and loss that echo, in their own way, that same cry: “we had hoped.”

On this special Sunday during Easter Season, I want to read Foundry’s WE ARE ON NATIVE LAND statement:

When we gather for worship and ministry on the corner of 16th and P, we do so upon the sacred, traditional, and unceded lands of the Anacostan, Massawomack, Susquehannock, Piscataway, and Pomunkey peoples, who were forcibly removed from this area to allow for English settlement. As occupiers of their territory, we recognize them as the original and perpetual stewards of this land and gratefully acknowledge our responsibility for a more honest recounting of our history that empowers us to work for the thriving of all people!

 

 

Now hold that ugly, inconvenient reality alongside the voice from the prophet Isaiah we read this morning:

“Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness… look to the rock from which you were hewn.”

Isaiah is speaking to a people who are also disoriented. They are exiled, displaced, unsure of who they are anymore.

In the wake of the Babylonian Exile, everything that once defined them: land, temple, nation, has been stripped away.

They are not just geographically displaced; they are spiritually disoriented, wondering if they are still God’s people at all.

And into that uncertainty, God does not begin with explanation but with invitation: “Look to the rock from which you were [cut].”

Isaiah says to remember Abraham and Sarah, how God brought life out of barrenness, promise out of impossibility.

In other words, Isaiah is saying, your identity is not determined by your present loss, but by God’s enduring faithfulness.

Scripture tells us that every human being is made in the image of God.

That’s why we proclaim that truth in rainbows and banners right out front:  “No matter anything, you are welcome here to be met by our God, who knows you by name, and who loves you, and who wants to have an ever deepening relationship with you. Welcome.”

That means no people, no culture, no community is less-than.

 

Even now, God says, salvation is on the way, not just for you, but as a light for all nations.

What feels like an ending is, in God’s hands, still unfolding.

The prophet Isaiah says:

“For the Lord will comfort Zion… will make her wilderness like Eden.”

What looks barren is not the end of the story.

But here’s the tension between our texts from Isaiah and Luke today:

On the road to Emmaus, the disciples know the story.

They know the Scriptures.

They know the promises.

And still…they’re walking away. They really don’t understand what’s going on.

And then, all of the sudden, without announcement, Jesus comes alongside them.

And they don’t recognize him. He’s not what they expected. Not what they had “hoped for.”

Luke tells us, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

The risen Christ is right there walking beside them, and they don’t recognize him.

[PAUSE]

 

Why don’t they know it’s Jesus?

I don’t think it’s because they’re actually foolish.

And I don’t think it’s because they completely lack faith.

Rather, I suspect it’s because sometimes grief closes our vision.

Sometimes disappointment narrows what we can imagine God doing; or loved ones doing; or our ability to persevere.

 

And what does Jesus do when the disciples don’t recognize him? 

…and I think this is one of the most instructive parts of this passage…

Jesus listens.

He lets them tell the story.

Cleopas basically says, ‘Are you the only one in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard what happened to Jesus?’ …to Jesus.

…and what’s really amazing is, Jesus lets them tell HIS OWN story and he just listens…he doesn’t jump in and say, well of course I know the story, it’s about me!

He keeps quiet. He lets them name their grief. He lets them speak their dashed hopes out loud.

And only then does he begin to reframe things.

“Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?”

Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he reframes the story.

Not as failure.

Not as defeat.

But as part of a larger unfolding, where suffering and glory are somehow, mysteriously intertwined.

This is where Luke and Isaiah meet.

Isaiah says: Do not trust only what you see.

God’s future is bigger than your present reality.

Jesus says: You are reading the story too narrowly.

 

But even after this incredible moment of teaching…the Disciples still don’t recognize Jesus!

Not yet.

It’s not until they reach the village.

Not until there’s an invitation.

Not until they sit down.

Not until they share a meal.

In a text clearly designed to evoke the image of the Eucharist it says,

“He took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them.”

Then, and only then, do they recognize him.

Not in the explanation.

Not in the argument.

But in the breaking of the bread.

In the shared table. In an act of community.

And this is exactly why John Wesley refers to Holy Communion as a “means of grace.” An opportunity to have a real encounter with God and Spirit.

 

According to the UMC website, a “means of grace” in the Methodist and Wesleyan tradition is:

“...an ordinary channel—such as prayer, Scripture, or Communion—through  which God invisibly works to strengthen, sanctify, and convey [God’s] love to believers. These practices, categorized as works of piety and devotion; mercy and compassion, are not meritorious acts but instruments for receiving grace and cultivating personal and communal holiness.”

And in our tradition we celebrate the Eucharist in an “open table” where we invite all who desire to be Christlike—regardless of denomination, membership, or baptismal status—to partake in Holy Communion.

And that tells us something about how we understand God’s vision.

In the Interpretation Bible Commentary on Luke, Fred Craddock notes something profound, 

“...Luke here tells us that the living Christ is both the key to our understanding the Scriptures and the very present Lord who is revealed to us in the breaking of bread. His presence at the table makes all believers first-generation Christians and every meeting place Emmaus.”

The table is not a place where difference disappears. It is a place where difference is honored, and still, there is room for everyone. 

The Gospel is Good News precisely because it declares this inclusiveness and abundance.  There is more than enough in God’s economy.

And then, just as suddenly, just at the moment they recognize who Jesus is, he vanishes.

But something is different. Something has changed in them:

“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

The recognition was not just about realizing it was Jesus. It was about becoming people who can fully understand who Jesus is.

People whose hearts are awake.

People who remember who they are called to be and act accordingly. 

And what do they do after they recognize Jesus?

They get up, immediately, and go back.

Back to Jerusalem.

Back to the place they had fled.

Because resurrection doesn’t just comfort us. It sends us. It calls us to service in the priesthood of all believers.

And when it sends us, it sends us not just with ideas, but with action.

 

The question for us is: 

How do we recognize Jesus like the disciples did?

How do we live into the love of Christ we are called to embody?

 

 

The Wesleyan answer to that question is — of course — through various “means of grace” like prayer and Holy Communion.

Let me give a specific example…

 

One of the most helpful practices I’ve found to help me improve my conscious contact with God, allowing me to more fully perceive God’s presence is Centering Prayer.

 

Centering Prayer is a simple form of silent, contemplative prayer that invites us to rest in God, not through lots of words or scripted prayers, but through quiet consent to God’s presence. 

 

The practice is to choose a “sacred word” like peace, love, grace, or Jesus, and use the word to pray with and connect to God, gently returning to the word whenever our mind wanders.

 

So the practice is to sit in silence, letting thoughts come and go, always returning to our sacred word as a way of opening ourselves to God.

 

I want to invite everyone to try Centering Prayer now for a couple minutes to get a taste for the practice:

 

Sit up straight - comfortable and alert

Choose a “sacred word”

Take a deep breath in and out

And silently introduce your sacred word as a simple prayer. 

This is like “placing yourself” in God’s presence without effort or expectations.

 

[2 MINUTES OF SILENCE]

 

 

What many people discover is that, over time, this practice makes God’s presence more accessible—especially in difficult moments. The sacred word becomes “top of mind” and can readily remind us that God is always here.

 

What I most of all want to do this morning is encourage all of us to explore various means of grace as we journey through life. To find practices that help us improve our regular conscious contact with God. 

 

[PAUSE]

So what does this all mean for us today?

It means:

Christ meets us on the road we didn’t plan to walk.

Christ listens to the stories we tell, even when they are full of disappointment.

Christ reinterprets our lives in light of a larger hope.

And Christ is made known, not just in grand moments, but I think mostly in simple acts:

Breaking bread.

Sharing space.

Welcoming one another.

In quiet moments of prayer, meditation, and contemplation.

And it also means this:

We are ALL invited to be part of what God is doing in the world.

Not just as charity.

But as a partnership.

Not as rescuers.

But as people willing to listen, to learn, and to walk alongside.

 

So if you find yourself today somewhere on that road—

Carrying grief…

Holding disappointment…

Wondering where God is in all of it…

…or walking alongside someone who is struggling…

Pay attention.

Because today’s Scriptures tell us we do not walk the road alone.

Who is representing Christ to you on your journey? 

As we begin to fully perceive, we may also begin to see Christ in one another: in acts of compassion; in truth-telling; in shared table; in repaired relationships.

May we, with God’s help, not only recognize Christ walking with us,

but also be willing to imitate Christ in lives of love, compassion, justice, humility, and shared humanity.

Amen.

The First Day

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 12, 2026, the second Sunday of Easter.

Text:  John 20:19-31

 

This Sunday, the second Sunday of Easter, the church traditionally calls, “Low Sunday.”  And that is quite often how it feels.  Easter Sunday was great.  But now, just a few days have gone by and we find ourselves at some distance from the Easter joy.  And we may wonder—was it all a dream?  Did God really defeat death in the resurrection of Jesus?  Is God’s love stronger than the forces of despair?  These questions are Easter questions and how we answer them really does have life or death consequences.  

 

For if death has the last word, if the forces of injustice, despair, and defeat are all there is, then we might as well hunker down, get by as best we can and make do with what we have.

 

We have heard the story that Jesus is risen from the dead.  And like Thomas, even though we’ve heard the witnesses who swear that it’s true, we may not be buying it.  Or maybe we figure—“Ok, Jesus might have been resurrected…so what does that have to do with me?”  What does the resurrection of Jesus mean for us and the way we live—not someday, but today?  Is change, “newness of life,” possible for folks like us?  Can we hope for change, slaves that we are to habit, routine, the predictable and the patterned?  

 

The stories and scriptures of the Bible teach us that there is a difference between knowing about something and being changed by something.  There is a difference between having heard that Jesus is raised and to be changed by that reality.  As one religious scholar has put it:  there is a difference between knowing a doctrine of salvation and being saved.  

 

In our Gospel stories of Easter and in the story we get this week of the disciples and Thomas there are folks who are told that Jesus is raised from the dead—and pretty much they don’t believe it just from hearing the words.  Certainly we don’t see an immediate change in them.  

 

In our Gospel today, the disciples have been told that Jesus is raised and that Mary Magdalene has seen him and spoken to him—and there the disciples sit:  locked up in fear.  And when Thomas is told that Jesus has appeared to the other disciples, he comes right out and says that he needs proof or he will not believe.  We can hear something again and again, we can understand it on an intellectual level, but that’s not the same thing as being changed and formed by that thing.  We don’t really know something until it changes our lives.  

 

// All of us know what that’s like—knowing something in our head but not being able to translate it into any meaningful action. Paul makes this abundantly clear in his own struggle with “knowing” the good, but being unable to “do” the good that he knows and wants to do. So if understanding what Easter is about, understanding it intellectually, will not affect our lives in any significant way, then what are the alternatives?

 

What if, based on our hearing of the story, we tried to ease our way into new life?  This, in most cases, is much more realistic and, frankly, a bit less intimidating than thinking that we’re supposed to be transformed all in one bright flash of light.  Harvard psychologist Jermone Brunner says that persons more normally act their way into a manner of thinking than think their way into a manner of acting.  In other words—we don’t usually change because we figured something out.

We change because we started doing something new.

Easter isn’t something you think your way into.

It’s something you live your way into.

So how might we “act our way into new life –into Easter?”

I once heard about a guy who often dragged in to work after his “play hard” weekends.  He was asked one Monday morning what he’d done over the weekend.  The guy replied, “I did a favor for a buddy of mine…some construction work.”  

 

The next Monday, the guy was asked again about his weekend.  He replied, “I helped my friend out again on that building project.  I guess it is some kind of charity his church is working on.”  

 

The next Monday, when asked about how his weekend was, the guy said, “I bonded with a guy named Leonard while we figured out how to install a toilet.”  

The next Monday, the reply was “I helped build a house so that this family—Maria and John and their three kids—would finally have a real home to live in.”  

 

The next week, he said “I spent the weekend making a difference with my friends from Trinity UMC.”  

And the next Monday, when asked what had happened over the weekend, the guy replied, “God has changed my life!”  

 

Often times, we know how far we need to travel to reach any place of wholeness, we look at our lives and at our communities, at our habits and at our struggles, and the sheer immensity or uncertainty of the road ahead is enough to keep us from taking a single step.  It’s like those moments of life when there is so much to attend to that, in thinking about it all at once, you grow so overwhelmed, that you attend to nothing, which in turn, makes you feel even more overwhelmed.  

 

What if you took things one small step at a time, tackling the smaller challenges first, or putting your energy into one very important piece of what is on your plate?  Just get your foot on the path, just take one small step toward that vision of wholeness that is God’s vision for you.  Take a step.  Install a toilet.  Join a team.  Play with your children.  Make a friend.  Forgive someone.  Organize that pile.  Make a donation.  Live in the needs of the day.

 

I got to thinking about the fact that the story of those disciples in that locked room happened when it was still the first day of the week…it was still Easter day…still resurrection day. It was also the first day of the rest of their lives… They weren’t doing anything. They hadn’t yet been changed by the astonishing truth of God’s power over sin and fear and death. They had heard about it, but then the risen Jesus showed up.  Everything changed after that.  Jesus came speaking words of peace.  He let Thomas “act his way into new life,” by drawing close and touching his broken body. And that made all the difference. And then he sent them out to live, to act, to proclaim, to heal, to love, to build the Kindom of God.  

 

Today is the first day of the week…the first day of the rest of your life.  Even if you’re here today feeling far away from Easter joy, wondering whether change is really possible in your life, doubting God’s presence or that any of what we proclaim is really true—even if you find yourself in one of those places today, we are all given an opportunity to act our way toward Easter together.  We don’t see the human Jesus here today. But again, just as he did over 2000 years ago, the risen Christ comes to his gathered disciples on the first day of the rest of our lives. Jesus meets us right here, wherever we are in our lives of faith and questioning, and offers us peace, offers us his broken body, breathes life into us. Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” and then blesses us with the Holy Spirit.  And the Holy Spirit won’t let you sit still for long… 

 

So don’t wait to feel ready. Don’t wait to be certain. Don’t wait to believe perfectly. Take a step. Live your way into Easter. Because today—

is still the first day.

Light Breaks In

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC April 5,2026. “Ignite the Light” series. Easter Sunday.

​​​      ​       Text: Matthew 28:1-10​​​​​

 

I remember lying on the floor of our living room when I was a child. Not doing anything in particular—just stretched out on the blue shag carpet, near my dad’s chair. And I remember noticing something I had never seen before.

There was a beam of light coming through the window…and in it these tiny particles floating, moving, shimmering. Just… dancing. I didn’t have a name for it.It didn’t occur to me that it was dust, or dirt, or anything undesirable. It felt like magic. Like something had always been there—but I had never seen it before. And suddenly, because of the light, I could.

The light didn’t create it. It revealed it. It held it before my eyes. And I remember just lying there…watching.

And I think about that sometimes—the way light reveals what we couldn’t see before. The way it catches our attention… draws our eye…

Think about how light breaks through clouds… through a canopy of trees…

How light refracts through water to make rainbows.

How light finds its way through windows—or even cracks in walls—
sending a beam of light in which you can see dust dance.

It’s beautiful. It’s delicate. And yet—it is so powerful. Because light finds its way in. It beckons. It invites. And if you follow it, it will show you more than you expected to see.

I think about that moment in The Lord of the Rings when Galadriel gives Frodo a small vial of light and says: “May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

A fragile thing. A small thing. And yet—enough to guide him when everything else fails.

And it seems to me that Easter—the reality of it, the story of it, the promise of it—is like that gift. But not small. Not contained. Easter is that kind of light magnified beyond measure.

Because there are moments in our lives, in the life of a nation, in the life of the world when it feels like all the lights have gone out. When truth feels buried. When cruelty seems to spread like a virus. When violence feels pervasive. When fear and despair run in packs claiming more and more ground.

And into that kind of world, Matthew tells us, the light breaks in. And when it does, it’s not only beautiful. It’s disruptive. The earth shakes. An angel descends.

A stone is rolled away—not to let Jesus out—but to let the light in.

What was sealed is opened. What was guarded is broken through. What was declared final is no longer final, not just for one life, but for life itself.

Because Easter is not consolation after tragedy.

It is God interrupting the apparent finality of death, empire, and violence—and revealing how empty their power really is.

And Matthew tells the story in a way that makes it unmistakable. This is not a private miracle. This is a public reversal.

The guards—sent by empire to secure the tomb—become like dead men. And the one who was dead—executed, sealed, silenced—is alive. Those who represent control collapse. The one who was crushed rises. The whole thing turns upside down. And if you’ve been paying attention, you realize—this is how it’s been all along.

Herod tries to kill the child. The child lives. The powerful condemn the innocent.Truth refuses to stay buried. Rome executes the Messiah. And God reverses the verdict. Because resurrection is God saying: The systems that declared this death final—were wrong.

And then the disruption continues as God entrusts this breaking news to women, to those who were grieving and heartbroken, those whose testimony would not be trusted in the world. These women, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary become the first to hear, the first to see, the first to carry the truth that overturns the world.And they leave the tomb—Matthew says—with fear and great joy. Both.

Because the world has not suddenly become safe. The empire is still in power.
The cross is still fresh. The risk is still real. And yet something has happened
that cannot be undone.

And so they run.

Not because they understand everything, but because they have seen enough light
to start moving. And as they go, Jesus meets them. On the road. And he says, “Greetings”—a word that also means: Rejoice.

Not as a command to feel something—but as an invitation to step further into what God has done. Because the news they are carrying is not just that the tomb is empty. It is that the light has broken in—and nothing will ever be the same.

And Jesus meets them right there on the road to confirm it. To embody it. To send them on.

Rejoice. Even now. Even here.

And I think about how hard that may be for us to hear. Because the news we encounter most lights up our phones at all hours. It is breaking, urgent, relentless—and almost always…heavy. Another act of violence. Another abuse of power.Another reminder of how much is still broken. And it can start to feel like that is the truest story— like that’s the world we live in—like nothing really changes.

But what the women are carrying—running with, breathless—is a different kind of breaking news. Not news that traps us in fear. But news that breaks something open. That calls for rejoicing. Because something has broken.

Death—which seemed final—is not.

The seal—which seemed permanent—is not.

The power—that seemed untouchable—is not.

And when something like that shifts—when what we thought was final isn’t—it creates a crack in the story we’ve been living inside.

And once there’s a crack—the light starts to get in.

And what breaks in…is also what breaks us open. Because not all breaking is destruction. Some breaking is liberation. A seed has to break for new life to grow.Light has to break to become color. The sky has to break open for rain to fall.Sometimes what we call breaking is the beginning of mending.

Because there are things in this world—and in us—that hold life captive. Cages we didn’t build but learned how to live inside. Systems that confine and then convince us they are necessary. Stories that tell us this is just the way things are, this is just the way we are. This is just the way I am.

But Easter reveals a different kind of power. Not domination. Not control. A power that gently beckons us toward life—and breaks open whatever keeps that life contained. The same light that draws us in…
is the power that sets us free.

The stone is rolled away. The seal is broken. The grip of death is broken. And when that happens—the cages don’t hold the same way anymore. It’s like something loosens—not all at once, but enough to change what’s possible.

The poet Hafiz puts it this way:

The small man
builds cages for everyone he knows.

While the sage

who has to duck his head

when the moon is low,
keeps dropping keys all night long
for the beautiful, rowdy prisoners.

And that’s what resurrection feels like. Not everything suddenly fixed—but keys
appearing. Openings where there were none. A loosening of what we thought would hold forever.

Because the one they thought they had broken and banished from this world—breaks in. Not untouched. Not unmarked. But bearing the wounds. Carrying the scars and yet somehow making all things whole. Because God does not erase brokenness. God transfigures it. The light doesn’t avoid the cracks. It comes through them.

Like that beam of light in a living room long ago finding its way in…holding something before our eyes that we didn’t even know was there.

And this—this is the breaking news:

The crucified one is alive.
And those sent to guard the tomb are like dead men.

The verdict has been reversed.

Death has lost its claim.
Empire has lost its certainty.
Violence has lost its final word.

And life—deeper than death—is rising. //

And that means whatever feels sealed is not final.

Whatever feels broken is not beyond mending.

Whatever feels dark is not beyond the reach of light.

Because Easter is the day God in Christ
breaks the power of canceled sin and sets the prisoner free…

breaks the power of death and cruelty…

breaks the lie that this is just the way things have to be…

and breaks into confusion and fear with hope and solidarity.

Easter is the day the light of Christ began to beckon us—

to see what—before—we could not see…

and to live like it’s real. //

Like the stone has already been rolled away.

Like the seal has already been broken.

Like the cages don’t hold the same way anymore.

Like even now—even here—the light is finding its way in.

Like even the smallest beam can change what we see.

Like… even the dust…

can begin to dance.

And the light—

still—

breaks in.