Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

Where the Light Falls

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 29, 2026. “Ignite the Light” series. Palm Sunday.

           Text: Matthew 21:1-17

 

Before the tables are turned; before the coins scatter; before the system is exposed…there is a procession.

Crowds gather around Jesus, filling the streets as he makes his way into Jerusalem—waving palm branches, spreading their cloaks on the road, shouting “Hosanna!”

But this moment does not begin with the crowd. It begins with Jesus. Everything about the way he enters the city is carefully chosen. He comes from the Mount of Olives—and that isn’t a random detail. Because the prophet Zechariah had long promised that when God finally showed up to set things right, God would arrive from that very place. The Mount of Olives was not just a location—it was a signal.

And then there’s the donkey. Not a warhorse. Not a chariot. A donkey. Again, Zechariah: “Look, your king is coming to you; humble, and mounted on a donkey.” This is not accidental. Jesus is enacting the prophecy.

And the people respond. They start waving palm branches—which, to us, might just feel festive—but to them meant something more.

Palm branches were part of the Festival of Booths—Sukkot—a time when the people remembered how God had delivered them from slavery in Egypt. They built shelters from the branches and lived in them for a week, remembering what it meant to depend on God in the wilderness. And they waved branches in joy—a sign of hope that God would do it again.

So when the crowds wave palms at Jesus, they are recognizing what he is doing. “This is the one who will set us free, the one we can depend on.” And then they take off their cloaks and lay them on the road—a sign that they receive Jesus as king.

But here’s the thing. Jesus lets them do all that—and then immediately begins to redefine what kingship means. Because he doesn’t go to the palace. He doesn’t go to seize the seat of government. He goes to the Temple, the center of religious life, economic life, the place where faith and money and power are all tangled together. And that’s where the light falls.

Because when Jesus gets there, he doesn’t bless the system. He disrupts it. Tables get flipped. Coins get scattered. “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” he says, “but you have made it a den of robbers.”

It’s important to understand this wasn’t just about a few corrupt individuals. The people changing money and selling doves—they weren’t rogue operators. They were the system.

Pilgrims had to exchange their currency into Temple currency. Animals had to be purchased for sacrifice. The whole thing was structured, normalized, accepted. It worked. Unless you were poor. Because doves—the ones Jesus specifically names—were the offering of the poor. Which means the system was set up in such a way that even the most vulnerable had to pay into it. 

And Jesus walks in and shines a light on all of this. Not just on individual behavior—but on the whole arrangement. Because when the light falls…you start to see things differently. What looks like devotion can actually be exploitation. What looks like order can actually be injustice. 

When the light hits the money, you start to see what’s really going on.

And that pattern doesn’t stay in the Temple. It follows Jesus all the way through the week. A disciple slips away and asks, “What will you give me if I betray him?”

Thirty pieces of silver. (Mt 26:14-16)

And later—after the cross, after the tomb is found empty—more money changes hands. Coins given to soldiers to keep quiet. To bury the truth. To protect the story that those in power want told. (Mt 28:11-15)

Again and again in this story—money is used to control, to betray, to silence.

And every time, Jesus shines a light on it.

And if we’re honest we recognize that these dynamics don’t just live in this old story. Because Lord knows we are still living in a world where money and power are tangled together in ways that distort truth and burden the most vulnerable.

We are living in a moment where those who already have extraordinary wealth

are given even more advantage—where access and influence can mean getting a heads-up, an inside track, a chance to profit before anyone else even knows what’s coming.

We are living in a moment where war is not only a tragedy—it is also an industry.

Where violence can drive markets, and suffering becomes someone else’s gain.

We are living in a moment where proximity to power—family ties, loyalty, allegiance—can open doors and secure advantage, while others are told to tighten their belts and make do with less.

And all of it has consequences—rising costs, disappearing jobs, communities carrying burdens they did not create.

And we know this is not new. We have long lived with systems where incarceration becomes profit, where human beings are turned into revenue streams.

And we are seeing new forms even now—where enforcement is incentivized,

where brutal force is rewarded over care, often without the accountability justice requires.

If we are willing to let the light fall here—to really see it—then we have to admit: this is not just about a few bad actors. It is about systems. Systems that reward extraction over equity. Systems that protect power instead of people. Systems that make it easier to profit from vulnerability than to alleviate it. And all of it is being baptized by a perverse version of white, so-called “Christian” nationalism.

And on this Palm Sunday weekend people have again taken to the streets.

Not with palm branches, but with signs. Not shouting “Hosanna,” but crying out for justice, for sanity, for peace.

There is still a deep human longing to resist systems where power concentrates, privilege protects itself, and the many are burdened for the gain of the few. But Palm Sunday pushes us deeper than the clever slogans on our signs.

The crowd in Jerusalem had a slogan. And within days, many turned away.

Because Jesus did not become the kind of king they expected. He didn’t overthrow the empire. He didn’t seize control or immediately relieve their suffering. He didn’t play the game. Instead he exposed it. And that is far more threatening than simply replacing one ruler with another.

And the question I always want us to ask of ourselves is this: if Jesus rode into our city, our institutions, our economy, our own lives today, where would the light fall?

Where have we accepted what we know is not aligned with the heart of God?

Where do we benefit from systems that harm others?

Where have we told ourselves, “That’s just how it works”?

Because the Temple system felt inevitable, too. Until Jesus came in and turned over the tables. //

But while that part of the story often gets most of the attention, what happens next is really the turning point. Because once the tables are overturned—once the system is disrupted—something else happens. //

People who had been pushed to the edges come forward. Matthew tells us that those who were living with physical disabilities—people who had not been granted full access, full participation, full belonging in the life of the Temple—come to Jesus. And in that kind of system—he heals them. Right there. In the Temple.

And that is significant. Because the Temple wasn’t just one open space.

It was structured in layers, each one marking who could come closer.

There was the outer court, where Gentiles could gather—but no further.

Then the court of women—closer, but still limited.

Then the court of Israel—for men.

Then the court of priests.

And at the very center, the Holy of Holies, where only the high priest could enter, and only once a year.

Every step inward came with restriction—conditions, boundaries about who belonged where. And those boundaries weren’t just architectural—they were social and economic, too.

Some were kept at a distance because of where they were from.

Some because of their gender.

Some because the system defined their bodies as lacking purity or wholeness. Some because they simply could not afford the cost of participation.

And some—like children—because their voices didn’t count.

So when Jesus walks into that space, he is not just entering a building. He is stepping into a whole system of managed access to God.

And now, in the very place where exclusion had been normalized, Jesus does not reinforce the boundaries. He removes them. He collapses the distance. He restores people not just to health, but to community, dignity, and full participation in the life of God’s people.

And then—while the religious leaders are indignant—children start shouting: “Hosanna to the Son of David!” The ones with no status. No authority. No voice in the system. They are the ones who recognize what is happening. And Jesus affirms them, quoting Psalm 8, “Out of the mouths of infants… God has prepared praise.” (Ps 8:2)

Which means the scene has completely turned.

The powerful are outraged.

The excluded are restored.

The least expected voices tell the truth.

This is what the Temple was always meant to be: not a place of transaction, but restoration; not a system that restricts access, but a community where people are brought fully in; not ordered around power, but reordered around mercy. Where value is no longer measured by what can be extracted, but by what can be restored.

That is the alternative. Not just tables turned over, but lives turned back toward wholeness. An economy of grace. A community shaped not by profit, but by love.

Palm Sunday is not just a parade. It is a confrontation. A moment when Jesus walks straight into the center of power and shines a light on what everyone else has learned to live with.

And once the light falls—you can’t unsee it. 

But the story does not end with exposure. It moves toward restoration. Because following the light doesn’t just mean seeing more clearly. It means moving differently. It means loosening our grip on what benefits us when it harms someone else. It means refusing to call something “normal” when it is wounding our neighbors. It means becoming part of God’s work of restoration, not just naming what is broken.

We’ve been taught: if you want to understand the system, follow the money.

But here—if you want to see the kin-dom—follow what happens when the light falls.

Follow the people being brought in. Follow the people being restored. Follow the voices that are finally being heard.

Because where the light of Christ falls, the margins begin to disappear, and what was structured around power and greed is reshaped around love.

May we have the courage to follow where the light falls—and to take our place in God’s restorative work.

Light in the Depths

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 22 2026. “Ignite the Light” series. 

Text: John 11:1-45

 

It is Women’s History Month.

And right now, there are real reminders that the struggle for women’s full dignity—in society and in the church—is not behind us.

Legislation like the SAVE Act (being debated this very weekend in the Senate) threatens to create new barriers to voting, not just for women, but most certainly barriers that will disproportionately affect women, especially those whose legal names no longer match their birth certificates.

At the same time, there is a growing movement in some corners of Christianity to restrict women from preaching and leadership. And I know this part isn’t abstract. In the clips of my sermons regularly getting posted these days on social media, it’s common to receive comments discrediting anything I say only because I’m a woman saying it.

Arguments against women in church leadership are often justified by appeals to scripture—some reflecting the norms of the time, others drawn from how women show up (or don’t) in the Gospel stories. You know the ones: “All the disciples were men!” //

Today, our Gospel story has a lot going on in it. Yes, the big reveal is Lazarus coming out of that tomb. But there is so much more: There is a political crisis. A theological crisis. And—if we look closely—a buried story. A buried female story. Because at the heart of this story is a question about who gets to speak the truth about who Jesus is—and what happens when that truth comes from a voice some would rather not hear.

John’s Gospel is organized around seven astonishing “signs.” The raising of Lazarus is the seventh.

And it is the one that gets Jesus killed. Right after Lazarus is raised, the religious authorities decide: “He must die.” Which makes me wonder—Jesus has healed before. Fed thousands. Turned water into wine. Why is this sign the turning point? 

To understand that, we look back to the prophet Ezekiel. In chapter 37, he sees a valley of dry bones—an image of a defeated people. God speaks, breath enters them, and they rise. God says, “I will open your graves… and bring you back to your land.” This is not just about individual resurrection. It is about national restoration. Liberation. The defeat of oppression.

Now imagine living under brutal Roman occupation. And then hearing about a man who has just… opened a grave.

Do you see the connection?

This would not just look like a miracle. It would look like Ezekiel’s vision coming true. A sign that God is about to overturn the order of things. And hope—especially hope among the oppressed—is always dangerous.

So when the authorities say, “If we let him go on like this… the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation,” they are not being irrational. They’re being realistic. They’re thinking of how to keep the crowds from “poking the bear” of the empire. Because if the crowds start mobilizing around Jesus as the one who will raise Israel from the dead—Rome will respond with violence. Better, they think, for one man to die than for the whole nation to be destroyed. (John 11:50)

This is the political crisis. But there is another layer to this story. Another kind of burial. 

New Testament scholar Elizabeth Schrader Polczer has spent years studying the earliest manuscripts of John’s Gospel—especially this chapter. And what she noticed is that in many of the texts, there are signs of disturbance. In more than one of our oldest copies, there are edits—visible ones. Names changed. Words scratched out. Singular turned into plural.

In particular, the name Mary appears to have been altered to Martha.

And in some places, what was once a single woman becomes “the sisters.” 

Schrader Polczer’s careful reconstruction of the text from the most ancient copies suggests that Lazarus had one sister—Mary. One sister, not two.

Now, that might sound like a technical detail. A scholarly footnote. But stay with me—because this matters.

Schrader Polczer’s claim is this: that the Mary in John 11 may actually be Mary Magdalene—and that her role was later divided by introducing Martha into the story. Not invented out of thin air, but imported—brought in, she suggests, from the Gospel of Luke, where a different Mary and her sister Martha (no mention of Lazarus) appear in a completely different story in a completely different place—Galilee in the north, not Bethany near Jerusalem in the south.

In Luke 10, this Mary sits at Jesus’ feet as a disciple while Martha is busy serving. It’s a well-known scene. Early scribes would have known it well. And so, over time, it seems possible that this familiar pair—Mary and Martha—was inserted into John 11. And here’s what that does: It takes one central woman, Mary Magdalene, sister of Lazarus, and turns her into two. It diffuses her presence. It redistributes her voice.

Because if you read John 11 without Martha—if you imagine the earlier version of the text—Mary becomes the central figure. And not just any Mary. Mary Magdalene—Mary “the Tower”—a name that already suggests strength, presence, witness.

And suddenly, connections begin to emerge. 

Mary is the one at Lazarus’s tomb in chapter 11.

And in chapter 20, Mary Magdalene is the one at the tomb again.

Mary weeps at the tombs of Lazarus and in the garden.

Mary encounters the power of life over death. In both places.

Mary anoints Jesus for his burial. (John 12)

Mary stands at the cross. (John 19)

Mary is the first witness to the resurrection. (John 20)

Mary is the first sent to proclaim the good news.

And if Mary not Martha is also the one who makes the great confession—then the implications are profound. Because in John 11:27, the one who says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” is making one of the central declarations of the entire Gospel. 

And if that confession originally belonged to Mary Magdalene then the first to confess who Jesus is and the first to witness his resurrection are the same person.

A woman. A central apostolic voice.

And here’s where things get tense. Because that kind of authority—in the voice and witness of a woman—has not always been easy for the church to hold. //

Polczer’s argument is not uncontested. This is real scholarship—debated, tested, ongoing. And it’s not about claiming certainty of intent. But it does suggest that the text may have been shaped in ways that had the effect of softening Mary Magdalene’s prominence, shaping a story in a world not yet ready to center a woman’s authority.

Polczer calls it a “wound in the text.” Not something that destroys the Gospel, but something that reveals its vulnerability.

And I want to be really clear here: This is not about discrediting scripture. It’s about taking it seriously enough to study it closely, to notice what is happening, to ask why it matters. Because what’s at stake is not just who was in the room in John 11. What is at stake is the theological issue of who gets to speak, who gets to lead, who gets to bear witness to the truth of who Jesus is.

And when you place that alongside the fear we see in the authorities—the fear that Jesus is stirring up too much hope, too much possibility, too much disruption—you begin to see a pattern. Because just as the raising of Lazarus threatens political systems, the elevation of Mary threatens religious ones.

But here is the good news. The Gospel of John tells us: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Not will not. Did not.

Which means that even if something was buried in the past, even if something was obscured, the light is still there, still shining, still waiting to be seen.

So what does all of this mean for us right now in this Women’s History Month. In a time when laws are being debated that could make it harder for women to fully participate in our democracy. In a time when some are still arguing that a woman’s voice in the pulpit is somehow less faithful, less authoritative, less true.

It means that we have seen this before. When voices that carry truth and possibility begin to disrupt the status quo, those voices are sometimes resisted outright. And sometimes, more subtly, they’re… adjusted. Edited. Qualified. Split in two. Not erased completely—but reshaped into something easier to manage.

This is not just about Mary.

This is about all the ways God’s truth has been buried. And the question is not simply, “Did this happen in the text?” The question is: Where is it happening now?

Because the call of the Gospel is not just to notice the light, the call is to join it.

The same Jesus who stood at Lazarus’ tomb and called life out of death is still standing at the places where truth has been buried—and saying:

“Come out.”

“Unbind them.”

“Let them go.”

So this Women’s History Month, hear this clearly: The work is not finished.

But neither is the story. Because the light that shone in Mary Magdalene—a light that could be obscured but not extinguished—is still shining. And the darkness has not overcome it. So when you see something buried—a voice dismissed, a calling denied, a truth diminished—do not look away.

Call it forth.

Unbind it.

Let it go.

Because in the end, what God brings to life—a body, a truth, a voice—will not stay in the grave. Amen.

 

References

https://nwlc.org/press-release/house-passes-save-act-2-0-to-suppress-millions-of-eligible-voters/

https://www.christiancentury.org/interviews/signs-mary-magdalene-john-11#:~:text=Polczer%20has%20also%20studied%20John%2011%2C%20where,Martha%20was%20not%20a%20sister%20of%20Lazarus.

https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/mary-in-john-11

When You Look...

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 15, 2026. “Ignite The Light” series.

The Woman at The Well

3.8.2026 – Rev. Ben Roberts for Foundry UMC, Washington DC

The author has wasted no time being extra scandalous here. It's not just that Jesus is meeting with the Samaritan woman but also that he's doing it at a well. Other biblical narratives of men meeting with women at the well usually ends with some sort of marriage; Isaac and Rebecca.  Jacob and Rachel.  Moses and Zipporah.  These are all encounters at wells. So the overtones for the original audience of this story hint at courtship. 

If you've encountered this story before maybe you've heard it sad that this woman social standing should be questioned because of the marriage history that’s presented. But Dr. Laura Holmes at Wesley Theological seminary invites us to remember that permission to divorce would have been handed down by male family member it would not have been possible for a poor woman. She couldn’t have chosen to get divorced. So the multiple husbands noted in this story likely are “related to tragedies either death or being divorced or both.” So it would be inappropriate to make those sorts of conclusion about here moral or social standing. She also notes for us that we should pay attention to the way that the community responds to this woman's testimony, that many people receive it and believe because of her. If she were ostracized, it is unlikely they would have even listened to what she had to say. 

This story also follows closely to that of Nicodemus’ the story we heard last week. The contrast being that the Nicodemus story takes place in the middle of the night, but Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well in the middle of the day. Their stories present a series of opposites:

“They embody gender, class and status, and ethnic and religious differences. The setup for each encounter also differs: Nicodemus initiates the conversation with Jesus, while Jesus initiates the conversation with the Samaritan woman, and the former is at night (3:2) while the latter is at noon (4:6).” 

In both stories, Jesus’s answers are interpreted literally causing confusion; when talking of being born again or drinking living water. As Pastor Ginger said last week, very unhelpful answers provided by Jesus. But we see different responses within the confusion. Nicodemus’s story somewhat ends after a couple of follow-up questions; he the learned teacher doesn’t continue the conversation. While the Samaritan woman asks for the living water and goes and tells others about what she has encountered. So we get some of the feeling that they learned teacher Nicodemus who is inside the community doesn't quite get it what this random Samaritan outsider woman stays engaged and curious. 

After the woman asks for the living water, Jesus does something that reveals and points to himself as Messiah. He knows things that haven’t be said yet. He tells her about her husbands and current situation, nothing she had shared with him. This, him knowing something that hasn’t been reveled,  is enough to begin this revelation and journey for her. 

Let’s note they have this discussion on worship. Localities are brought up as she says “this mountain” and then says, “but you (y’all) say the place where people MUST worship is Jerusalem.”  We’ll talk some more about this, but suffice it to say for the moment the Jewish tradition is telling them that worship must be in Jerusalem, while the Samaritan tradition says it should be on Mt. Gerizim (or this mountain).  She points to this dogmatic divide between their communities and Jesus’ response is to say neither Jerusalem nor this mountain. A time is coming when true worship will be in spirit and in truth. Worship that is born not from obligation to ritual but love of heart and active in the world as Jesus was active (mercy, service, justice, compassion).

She goes from there and tells others in her community and it’s said that many listened to her, came to see Jesus for themselves, and also believed. The woman becomes one of our traditions’ first theologians discussing proper worship, first preachers telling her community what Jesus had done, and is every bit a disciple/apostle as those other…guys. And that is lovely. 

There are few major stories where the Samaritans were mentioned in the New Testament. We have this story of the Samaritan woman at the well. We have the story of a thankful Samaritan leper. And we have probably the best-known story of the Good Samaritan parable. In each of these cases a person who is Samaritan is held up as an example of someone who did the “right” thing where the more faithful person or the Jewish person in this story does the wrong thing or is just slower at…the thing. For example, in the Good Samaritan parable this is the Samaritan who stops to help the injured person after some priests and Levites had passed by on the other side. Or in the case of the leper the Samaritan is the one who gives thanks and tells the story where the other nine just leave.

I'll note that in the other two cases a person is in some ways reduced to being an object lesson, that is they are just held up to teach us something about the ways we're supposed to act. There's not a bunch of character development. We don't learn about the actual people or their communities through these stories. They're just being used to show us something. By comparison, today’s story is rather robust for the Samaritan character; despite not being given a name.

Last fall (2025) as part of our foundations of sacred resistance series, we did a Bible study that included talking about the Good Samaritan. Someone brought up that it would be helpful for us to expand on who the Samaritans were. Usually we (and the Bible) just note there is animosity between the Jewish community and the Samaritan community.

There was one Kingdom and a united monarchy until the time after King Solomon. So we have one Kingdom under David and then under his son Solomon, but after Solomon, the kingdoms and the tribes split. Ten tribes remain in the north, which becomes the Kingdom of Israel, and two remain in the South, which becomes the Kingdom of Judah. The reason for that split is often characterized as a continuation of tax policy and harsh leadership. This would have been around or between 975 and 930 BCE. Whatever the day-to-day on the ground specifics, we end up with two groups where there had previously been one.

Differences begin to emerge for a variety of reasons. But we'll start with something that's common, and that is that both groups followed the Torah or the fist 5 books of what we would call the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament (Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy). For portions of this Northern Kingdom that eventually become the Samaritan community, the scriptures stop there without additions of prophetic texts, Psalms or others that Christian circles are familiar with from the Hebrew Bible or Old testament. 

And within that holy text of those first five books, there are differences between the Torah used by the Samaritans and the Torah used by the Jews. There are 6,000 differences: half of which are grammatical or small changes for flow, and the other half are larger ones like entire conversations (missing/not included) between characters like Moses and Aaron with Pharaoh and a difference in the 10 commandments. Where we might be familiar with the 10th commandment being “thou shalt not covet,” the Samaritan version has the 10th commandment as an instruction to build and alter at Mount Gerizim (believed to be the place Abraham was going to sacrifice Isacc for this tradition rather than Mount Moriah/The Temple Mount in Jerusalem). So differing scriptures (yet the same), differing instructions, differing locations claiming to be central to the faith if not the center of the world. These realties come together over time.

The distinct group of the Samaritans does not really emerge however until after the Assyrian conquest in 722 BCE.  The Assyrians come through and take over the Northern Kingdom (Israel). When the northern Kingdom fell some of the members of the 10 tribes are deported throughout Assyrian territory.  Some remained. But the Assyrians also send colonists and other deported people from other places into the region of the northern Kingdom. And the population that remained from the 10 tribes begins to intermix culturally, religiously, and socially. 

Differences are magnified  because of the experience of the Southern Kingdom with the Babylonian exile. Where the Assyrian conquest of the Northern Kingdome sends the people away. The Babylonian conquest takes the people of the southern kingdom in to exile in Babylon (this where books of the prophets come from) but there’s an end exile (where there wasn’t for the northern kingdom) 200 years later, Persians allow the southern kingdom Judean’s to return. This has a big impact on the development of Judaism. And upon their return, while it’s said in the book of Ezra, the Samaritans were willing to welcome back these cousins and work with them to rebuild. Those returning did not want to mix because of the ways the Samaritans had mixed with other cultures over the centuries.

At some point during the Assyrian conquest and the people being deported. Some lions showed up, killed some people, it was a big mess. It was a whole thing. The Assyrians said, you know, those people we sent into that land don’t know how to worship the God of that land. So we need to send a priest back to teach them (2 Kings), because we can’t have lions running around killing people. So our tradition, from the start says, those people who remain, those Samaritans who have been mixing, they don’t know what they’re doing when it comes to worship when it comes to being faithful. They’re doing it wrong and need to be fixed. That becomes the one-sided story we inherit.

This experience of exile, return and non-return becomes a big divergence for the two groups. The returning Judeans don’t want to mix with those people who are doing it wrong. They reject the Samaritan’s help. And as the returning Judeans begin to do things like rebuild Jerusalem and the temple after rejecting the Samaritans’ help. The Samaritans in turn find ways to oppose its construction by lobbying the Persians. 

Laws and prohibitions around mixing and inter-marrying are put in place. The marriage prohibitions persist to this day. Animosity and separation continue to grow over hundreds of years by the time the Jesus story begins. In 128 BCE the Hasmonean’s (Judea/Southern Kingdom) destroyed the Samaritan Temple at Mt. Gerizim. Little more than a century later (6-9 AD) around the time of Jesus’ birth, the Samaritans dump human bones throughout the temple in Jerusalem, rendering it unclean and unavailable for the Passover celebration. There is long-range tit for tat going on.

And at roughly the same time as Jesus’ life and ministry and the budding of the early Christian church, the Samaritans were essentially in collaboration with the occupying Romans; collecting taxes and helping keep order compared to the rebellious Jewish community.

Samaritan community still exists. By all accounts there are 8-900 people left in the community. The population is mainly split between Tel-Aviv, Israel and Nablus near Mount Gerizim in Palestine/West Bank. There was a NYT article from 2021 called “The World’s Last Samaritans – Straddling the Israeli-Palestinian Divide.”

So with all of that, recent desecrations and destructions of temples, differing yet the same scripture, vastly differing experiences, prohibitions on marriages and sharing food, and hundreds of years of growing divide; Jesus talks with a Samaritan woman at a well.

No shortage of old divides on display for us in the world right now. No shortage of one-sided stories about how awful the other side is, right now. No shortage of stories about how awful we are. No shortage of conflict and suffering because of it.

I think I very much like the idea today of Jesus stepping into and interrupting old, entrenched conflict. I like the idea that people, like the woman, are still curious and willing not be held by old tropes and dogmas; social, political, or religious. I like Jesus stepping in and saying not your mountain or ours; it’s not what matters and they’re not worth staying divided over. 

If we keep drinking from these old wells; of nationalism, Christian nationalism, Christian Zionism, racism. Drinking from wells of sexism misogyny, racism, or homophobia. Drinking from the wells of ethnic conflict the wells of polarization.

Drinking from these old wells of division and violence will just keep us coming back to these old wells of division and violence. Four years from now, 100 years from now, 200, 700, 3000 years from now.

Instead, we’re invited to the living water that can satisfy and move us into relationship. And for those who would step into that relationship, having experienced the living water, within them a spring would form and other could experience it too. Through that expansion may  we (with God’s help) somehow move closer to the days of Spirit and Truth; changed hearts and just action in the world.

A Spark in the Dark

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 1, 2026. “Ignite the Light” series. 

Text: John 3:1-17

 

Some seasons feel like one long night. Not the gentle kind with a crescent moon and a few bright stars. But the kind where you can’t quite see what’s coming next.

Where the news feels relentless. Where the future feels uncertain. Where the questions get louder than the answers.

Questions like:

What kind of God creates a world with cancer and deadly storms?

Why is there so much cruelty and violence?

Why am I so lonely?

How can I stop being so afraid?

Where is God in all of this?

Night has a way of stripping us of pretense. It quiets the noise. It makes us honest—honest about our questions, and honest about our need for Light.

And it is there, in that kind of night, that we meet Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a learned man, a scholar of the Jewish faith, a respected religious leader, a man who knew his scripture and his tradition.

And still, he comes to Jesus confused and curious, full of questions.

That alone should ignite some light for us.

Because somewhere along the way many people were taught that questions don’t belong in church. That faith means certainty. That belief means signing on the dotted line of a doctrinal checklist.

And yet here, in one of the most famous chapters in the Bible, we find a scholar and seeker stumbling through the dark saying: How can this be?

Questions are not the opposite of faith. They are often the spark where faith begins.

Nicodemus is not given answers. He is given invitation.

Invitation to trust.

Invitation to step toward Light.

“The wind blows where it chooses…”

You can feel it, even when you cannot control it.

And that is what Jesus is offering Nicodemus—not certainty, but relationship.

“For God so loved the world…”

This verse from Gospel of John 3:16 has too often been reduced to a slogan—or worse, weaponized as a boundary marker of who is in and who is out. But listen carefully. It does not say: “God so loved the worthy.”

It does not say: “God so loved the certain.”

It does not say: “God so loved those who figured it all out.”

It says: God so loved the world. The whole world.

And the word translated “believe,” pisteuo, is not primarily about intellectual agreement. It is about trust. Relational trust. Entrusting yourself to another. There is a world of difference between believing a statement and believing in a person.

To say “I believe in you” is not to claim you understand everything about a person. It is to say: I trust you. I will step toward you. Even, perhaps, I will follow your lead.

That is the spark.

Faith is not having all the answers. Faith is daring to trust the Light of God while still standing in the dark. You only need enough light to take the next step.

Not a floodlight. Just a spark.

Friends, we are not only people who talk about light. We are people who have seen it.

We saw it when neighborhoods in Minneapolis organized to care for one another in the aftermath of unrest and uncertainty. When stores were vulnerable and systems strained, neighbors brought whatever gifts they had—organizing skills, grills, baked goods, bottled water, medical supplies. Some patrolled streets to protect small businesses and vulnerable neighbors—immigrant families, people of color, anyone who felt unsafe. Some accompanied elders to the grocery store and children to school. Some simply showed up and stood watch so others could worship or sleep in peace.

No one person solved the darkness.

But together, they became light.

We have seen it in the quiet, steady witness of Buddhist monks walking for peace—a simple, embodied prayer moving through public streets. Their steps did not shout. They did not argue. They simply walked, reminding everyone watching that love does not have to be loud to be powerful.

We have seen it in the long, luminous ministry of Jesse Jackson, who reminded a weary nation again and again: it gets dark sometimes, but morning always comes. He showed up in hospital rooms, on picket lines, in forgotten neighborhoods, listening to people’s questions, dignifying their pain, calling them to embodied love. Hope, in his hands, was not naïve optimism. It was disciplined, stubborn carrying of the Light into the dark.

These are not abstract ideas.

They are sparks in real darkness.

And here is the good news: the same Spirit that moved in Nicodemus’ night, the same love that sent Jesus into the world, is moving still.

Ignite the Light does not mean we deny the darkness. It means we refuse to surrender to it.

Nicodemus does not leave Jesus with all his questions answered. But get this beautiful twist: his story doesn’t end in chapter three.

Near the end of John’s Gospel, after Jesus has been crucified, Nicodemus appears again—this time in daylight—bringing spices to help prepare Jesus’ body for burial.

He moves from academic speculation to embodied love. From confusion to courageous tenderness. From questions to action.

Not because all his questions were resolved. But because somewhere along the way, trust took root. The spark caught.

That is what trust looks like. Not certainty—but movement. The spark becomes action.

God does not wait for us to stop asking questions before God loves us.

God meets us in the questions.

God meets us in the dark.

God meets us and keeps the spark of hope and faith and life burning in us.

That is the gospel.

And that is why we come to this Table.

We do not come to Communion because we have resolved every theological tension. We come because we are hungry for light. We come because we need trust rekindled. We come because love has already moved toward us.

“For God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world…”

No condemnation here.

Only invitation.

At this table, Christ does not hand us a doctrinal list with boxes to check. He hands us bread. And in that simple act, light passes from hand to hand.

Maybe you feel strong today. Maybe you feel barely glowing. It doesn’t matter. A spark is enough.

Enough to check on a neighbor.

Enough to show up.

Enough to listen.

Enough to bake bread or walk for peace or stand beside someone who is afraid.

Enough to believe that morning will come as we keep working together for what is good.

Nicodemus came at night.

But he kept moving… all the way to the tomb. And if he was there at the tomb, then he was already on his way to resurrection morning.

And the Spirit who moved him is moving us still.

Because the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

So come to the table.

Bring your questions.

Bring your weariness.

Bring your small, flickering hope.

Receive the love of God who believes in you.

And then go —

and be a spark in someone else’s dark.