Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, July 5, 2026, sixth Sunday after Pentecost. “We Know Who We Are”series.

Texts: Jeremiah 22:13–16; Luke 14:12–24

 

This weekend our nation marks 250 years since the Declaration of Independence. This is an occasion for celebration. It’s also an invitation to reflection. Moments like this invite us to look backward with gratitude, to look honestly at who we have become, and to consider what kind of future is still possible. This year those reflections seem incredibly important.

Ours is a nation of extraordinary gifts and extraordinary contradictions. We inherit remarkable democratic ideals alongside a history that has too often failed to live up to them. We are living through another season when many of us are deeply concerned about our common life.

Because our nation is broken. We see division deepen, neighbors dehumanized, militarism, cruelty and violence normalized, power abused for personal gain, and disregard for the rule of law. Perhaps you’d describe our situation differently, but I can’t imagine anyone would argue that everything’s OK.

And while it doesn’t make it any better, I think it’s helpful to remember that what’s happening in our nation and world right now has happened many times before. If the prophet Jeremiah were to wander into our capital city he would feel right at home—surely to his dismay.

Let me explain by telling you a story.

Jeremiah is preaching in the final decades before Jerusalem falls to Babylon. Assyria has collapsed. Egypt and Babylon are competing for power. Judah is caught in the middle. The world order is shifting dramatically and it is a time of profound national anxiety—about security, identity, economic stability, and the future.

In our text, Jeremiah is speaking not to the people, but specifically to the king, Jehoiakim. And he’s none too pleased with what is happening. But to understand why you need some backstory.

Jehoiakim’s father, Josiah, had been one of Judah’s finest kings. He wasn’t perfect, but he loved God, took the covenant and the laws established during Moses’ time seriously, and sought to govern with justice. As Jeremiah remembers him, he “judged the cause of the poor and needy.” Then Josiah died unexpectedly on the battlefield. It was a devastating national loss. The future suddenly felt uncertain.

Egypt quickly asserted control over Judah, deposing one of Josiah’s sons and installing another—Eliakim, whose name Pharaoh changed to Jehoiakim (a classic power play). Jehoiakim wasn’t in an enviable position. He was set up to do the bidding of Pharoah, required to pay tribute, and anxious about survival for himself and his people.

Maybe it was the pressure or maybe it was pure opportunism, but Jehoiakim made a choice. Rather than “judging the cause of the poor an needy,” he consolidated power, exploited labor, and built a magnificent cedar palace as a symbol of royal prestige.

Jeremiah looked at that palace and didn’t celebrate its magnificence but instead says, “Woe to him who builds his house by unrighteousness...” He asked a different question than everyone else. Not, “Isn't it impressive?” but, “How did it get built? Who paid the price? Who was harmed in the process?”

And then this: “Did not your father eat and drink and do justice and righteousness?” This may seem a random question, but it reveals that Jeremiah’s critique isn’t about having wealth or a comfortable life. In other words, Josiah wasn’t a monk. He enjoyed the ordinary gifts of life. The difference isn’t that one king denied himself while the other indulged himself. The difference is that one understood leadership as doing justice and practicing right relationship, while the other understood leadership as entitlement. One king governed as someone who knew God, while the other governed as though power itself could save him.

Jeremiah continues, clarifying his critique: “Your father judged the cause of the poor and needy; then it was well. ‘Is not this to know me?’ says the Lord.  But your eyes and heart are only on your dishonest gain, for shedding innocent blood, and for practicing oppression and violence.”

Again, the question Jeremiah asks it key: “Is not this to know me?”

If someone asked you to finish the sentence, “To know God is...” what would you say? To worship regularly? To believe the right things? To pray? I imagine all of those can be valid answers. But Jeremiah offers this: to know God is to set your eyes and your heart on what God cares about; to attend to the needs of the most vulnerable, to use power wisely, generously, and compassionately, to treat workers with fairness, to do justice.

Is not this to know me?

In every age there is a dominant story about what will make things in your life “well.” There are temptations and pressures to sacrifice the good of the “we” for the benefit of only “me.” And in every age, God’s faithful are called to offer a counter-testimony.

And just to finish storytelling time, Jehoiakim made his choice. He went to a lot of trouble to try to make himself and Judah look strong. He builds his palace, projects confidence, accumulates wealth, uses forced labor. But within about twenty years, Jerusalem is destroyed. His dishonest gain and self-serving choices did not make things well.

The palace doesn’t save anybody—not the nation and certainly not the people. Jeremiah saw that writing on the wall. And his message to the king is one we need to hear again and again: A society cannot create security—a nation will never be great—while abandoning God’s call to compassion and justice. There is no separating our love of God from care of our common life.

John Wesley would agree wholeheartedly. He insisted there is no holiness but social holiness. He didn’t mean that we’re saved by activism. He meant what we discussed last week: that grace blesses me AND creates “we,” forgives me and sends “us.” Ours is not a private practice. Grace always creates community, reshapes relationships, and spills over into the way we use money, exercise power, welcome neighbors, and seek the common good. Personal holiness overflows into public holiness.

That’s one of the gifts of being United Methodist. Our tradition has never imagined that following Jesus ends at the sanctuary door. For more than fifty years we’ve had something called the Social Principles—not as a substitute for Scripture or as a party platform, but as a guide for Christian moral discernment. They are our denomination’s attempt to ask, together, “What does faithful discipleship look like in the complexities of modern life?”

And in 2024, our worldwide church thoroughly revised them. That revision wasn’t simply updating language. It reflects the wisdom of the faithful from our whole denomination—disciples from Africa, Europe, the Philippines, the United States, and beyond—asking together how the Gospel speaks into economics, creation care, technology, war and peace, migration, human dignity, and public life.

The principles guide our action and advocacy, but we don’t pretend every faithful Christian will reach identical conclusions about every public question. We also refuse to pretend that the Gospel has nothing to say about public life. Our United Methodist Social Principles remind us we don’t have to figure all this out alone. We inherit Scripture. We inherit tradition. We inherit the wisdom of Christians around the world. All helping us answer Jeremiah’s question:

What does it mean to know God?

Jeremiah says that to know God is to care about what and who God cares about.

Again and again Jesus shows us how to live that.

He sits down at tables with all kinds of people. And in today’ Gospel, while dining with a prominent Pharisee, he quietly begins rearranging everyone’s assumptions about belonging. “Don't invite only the people who can return the favor,” he says. “Invite those who cannot repay you.” Then he tells a story about a banquet where the invitation keeps widening until there is room for everyone God longs to gather. ...the invitation keeps widening until there is room for everyone God longs to gather. The table is big enough. Grace is abundant enough. And everyone—from the richest to the poorest, from stranger to friend—is invited to be filled. And then things are well.

As we celebrate our nation’s birthday, the question before us is not simply what kind of nation we want to be, but what kind of people God is calling us to become. Christians have always loved their country best not by confusing it with God’s reign, but by measuring every nation—including our own—against God’s justice, God’s compassion, and God’s welcome. So we keep listening for Jeremiah's question, “Is not this to know me?” And we keep allowing Jesus to reshape our imagination around his table where there is always another place and the invitation keeps reaching farther than anyone expected.

Friends, we’re about to come to that table. Every time we gather here, we embody a different story from the one our world tells. The world teaches us to ask: Who deserves a place? Who has earned it? Who belongs?

Jesus asks different questions: Who still needs an invitation? How can we make more room? And then he places bread in our hands and sends us back into the world to live the answer. Amen.

 

+ + +

Sending:

This week, take one faithful public step. Maybe it is serving. Maybe it is giving. Maybe it is speaking up for someone whose voice is overlooked. Maybe it’s inviting someone who wouldn’t expect an invitation. Maybe it is reading a section of the Social Principles and asking where they challenge or deepen your own thinking. Not because the church is trying to tell you what to think, but because discipleship asks us to think faithfully about the world God loves.

Just take one step. Because that’s where holiness always begins.

God in peace and power…

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, June 28, 2026, fifth Sunday after Pentecost. “We Know Who We Are” series.

​​​ Texts: Romans 6:3-11; Luke 24:28-35​​​​

 

Humans are storytelling creatures. Our stories help us understand who we are and how life works. They teach us how people have lived and thought and loved and struggled through the ages. They give us a framework for how to be in relationship.

Humans are also ritual-making creatures. Just as the stories we tell shape our sense of identity and reality, so too rituals shape our actions and the way we embody our values.

Every culture has stories that shape human imagination and understanding. Every culture has rituals that shape human desires and loyalties. While powerful, formative, and often positive, we know stories can be told in ways that distort truth and do harm. And rituals can include habits that are unhealthy or destructive to persons or communities.

Consumerism tells a certain story and has its rituals. White Christian Nationalism tells a certain story and has its rituals. Political tribes tell their own stories and have their rituals. Social media…well…

All these things and more tell us who we are and what matters most.

Christians also tell a story and practice rituals—it’s a story of God’s grace, mercy, and liberating love. And the rituals? Water. Bread. Cup.

A few weeks ago, as we began focusing on the United Methodist way of living the Christian story, we thought together about the means of grace and the practices that shape us. We reflected on how we are all being formed by something. The question is: What is forming us? What stories, rituals, and practices are shaping our imagination, our desires, and our values?

The sacraments are among the primary ways God shapes us into the people we are called to be. And because these rituals are so familiar, it is easy to participate in them without ever stopping to ask what they mean. Why do we call themsacraments? What do United Methodists actually believe is happening when we baptize someone or come to the Lord’s Table?

These are important questions to ask. Because if we are going to know who we are, then we need to understand the practices that have formed Christians for centuries and the theology that stands behind them.

Let’s begin with the word sacrament itself. United Methodists define a sacrament as “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.” In other words, sacraments are the places where the invisible grace of God takes visible form. I could reasonably argue that, with that definition, every act of beauty, love, tenderness, and justice are sacramental acts. But the two liturgical sacraments recognized by our tradition are those Jesus specifically commanded his followers to practice in the stories recorded in scripture: baptism and communion.

Here again, our rituals are embedded in our stories and our stories are embedded in our rituals. Stories and rituals belong together.

In many cultures, stories are not merely told. They are enacted. Danced. Sung. The story becomes part of the people through repeated actions that connect memory to the body.

Christians do something similar. We do not merely tell the story of God’s grace.We enact it. We embody it.

In baptism, we tell not just one story, but many: the story of dying and rising with Christ, of being washed by grace and mercy, and of being claimed and named as God’s beloved and part of the Body of Christ. The beauty of sacrament is that it can hold multiple meanings at once. And we don’t simply talk about those things. We pour water. We listen for the sound of the flow. We feel the water on our skin.

In communion, we tell the stories of Christ’s sacrificial, self-giving love, of God’s provision and faithfulness; we reaffirm the story of God's mercy—of forgiveness, reconciliation, and belonging. But we do not simply describe those things. We break bread. We share the cup.

The story is embedded in these rituals. The rituals carry the story. And over time, the story carried by the ritual shapes the people who practice it.

One United Methodist resource describes the sacraments as God’s “show and tell.” I love that image. If you’ve ever watched a child during show and tell, you know that simply describing something isn’t the same as holding it in your hands. God doesn’t simply tell us that grace is real. God shows us.

Think about it: God showed us by drawing near in flesh, in Jesus of Nazareth. Andthat is just the most extraordinary way God has revealed a willingness to work through physical things. The God who came to us in a body still meets us through tangible signs: Water. Bread. Cup.

So let’s linger with some of the stories our sacraments tell.

First, baptism tells the story of grace that comes before our response. In many churches, baptism is understood primarily as a public declaration of faith—as a person’s decision to accept God’s love and to follow Christ. There is truth in that. But United Methodists begin somewhere else. We begin with God’s action. Before we choose God, God chooses us. Before we respond to grace, grace is already at work in our lives. Before we seek God, God is seeking us.

That conviction lies behind one of the practices that often raises questions: infant baptism. Why do we baptize babies who cannot yet profess faith for themselves?Because baptism is first and foremost a story about God’s grace, not our achievement. It is a visible reminder that grace comes first. Before a child can speak a word, God has already spoken a word over them: Beloved.

Of course, each person must eventually respond to God’s grace for themselves. But regardless of age, baptism reminds us that the first move always belongs to God.

Baptism also tells the story of belonging—to God and to one another. In baptism, God claims me. And God joins us. When we baptize someone, we are not simply celebrating an individual spiritual experience or handing someone a ticket to heaven. We are welcoming a new member into the Body of Christ. That is why the congregation makes promises. We promise to nurture, encourage, teach, pray, and journey alongside one another. Baptism tells us who we are—beloved children of God. And baptism tells us who we are together—a people, a community, a body, a family bound together by grace and by a shared story.

Baptism also tells the stories of forgiveness and liberation. The waters are a sign of God’s mercy and cleansing, assuring us that nothing we have done or will do lies beyond God’s capacity to forgive, that we are not bound to the worst things in our past or present, but freed for better things in our future.

And the waters tell yet another story. Paul tells us in Romans that in baptism we are united with Christ in his death and resurrection. We die to an old way of being.We are raised into new life. Baptism is not simply about where we have been. It is about who we are becoming. It’s about claiming the freedom and power God gives us to live a new kind of life.

So baptism is the sacrament that initiates us into the Christian life both as persons and community. And Communion is the sacrament that nourishes us along the wayand continually reconnects us to Christ, to one another, and to our neighbors.

We call it the Lord’s Supper because Christ is the host. We call it Holy Communion because we are united with God and one another. We call it Eucharist (from the Greek word for thanksgiving) because it is an act of thanksgiving.

But perhaps the most important thing to understand is that communion is more than remembering a dead prophet. It is being present with a living Christ.

Certainly, we remember Jesus at the table. But United Methodists believe something more is happening—that communion is more than merely symbolic. We believe Christ is truly present. We call it a holy mystery precisely because we don’t claim to fully understand how. But we trust that Christ meets us here and offers grace through the sacramental meal.

Once again, as with Baptism, the sacrament is both personal and communal. At thetable Christ invites, forgives, and nourishes me. At the table Christ forms, nourishes, and sends us. Personally, we come seeking grace, forgiveness, strength, comfort, courage, and renewal. But communion is never merely about “me and Jesus.” Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 10 that because there is one bread, we who are many are one body.

At the table we practice belonging to one another. We remember that our lives are bound together. We learn gratitude, humility, reconciliation, and love. The table does not simply feed individuals. It forms a community.

This conviction also helps explain why United Methodists practice an open table.You do not have to be a member of this church, or a United Methodist, or to have everything figured out, or even to be baptized. The invitation belongs to Christ our host. And because grace comes before worthiness, Christ’s table remains open.

I will never forget the moment when a committed atheist who had been attendingthe congregation I served with her fiancé for more than a year, presented herself in line to receive the elements saying, “I have no idea why I am here, but I just felt that I needed to come.” People might encounter Christ for the first time in the midst of the gathered Body of Christ around the Table. Because sometimes people are moved to respond before they have language for what is happening. Sometimes grace reaches us before we understand it.

John Wesley strongly encouraged frequent communion because he believed it was one of God’s most powerful means of grace. Early American Methodists often received communion only quarterly because circuit-riding preachers and ordained elders were scarce. What began as necessity became habit. The church I grew up in still practiced quarterly communion! But in recent decades we have reclaimed Wesley’s conviction that we need all the sacramental grace we can get!

And so we return again and again to water, bread, and cup. Simple, ordinary things.Yet through them the story of God’s grace is told, embodied, and practiced.Through them God reminds us who we are. Through them God reminds us whose we are. And through them God continues to shape us—both as individuals and as a community—into the likeness of Christ. Because over time, the stories embodied in our rituals become the lives we learn to lead. Thanks be to God.

Thanks be to God.

A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC, June 21, 2026. “We Know Who We Are” series.

A sermon preached by Abby Steele with Foundry UMC, June 14, 2026, 3rd Sunday after Pentecost. "We Know Who We Are" series.

Texts: 1 Corinthians 13:8-12; Acts 17:10-15

 

Good morning! Thank you for coming to Youth Sunday. I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to be here with you all. My name is Abby Steele, and I have been attending Foundry since I was a little kid, and became a member of the church in 2022. I recently graduated from Thomas Jefferson High School. For those of you that don't know, TJ is a regional science and technology public magnet school in Northern Virginia. Many students at my school put emphasis on fact and certainty, which has made navigating my life as both a scientist and a devout Christian a bit challenging. However, throughout my time in high school, I have learned a strong lesson as to how these two identities can coexist together, and I would love to share this with you all.

When I was around ten years old, my nana and I were sitting in her 2010 Toyota Camry waiting in the kiss-and-ride line to pick up my younger cousin from school. She always believed there is no such thing as being too young for intense philosophical discussion, so that became the topic of conversation during our wait.

I told her, "I read The Great Emergence, like you recommended." This book was a challenging read for my ten-year-old self, filled with words too long for me to interpret and sayings too old for me to comprehend. Nevertheless, I read it with determination. Our conversation centered on the trustworthiness of the Bible—something I never could have imagined discussing with my grandmother, who grew up in a conservative Christian household. However, she had experienced a complete religious transformation later in life, which sparked a new tradition of elaborate spiritual car talks.

 

We discussed our shared struggle to believe certain biblical stories. Together, we came to see many of them as metaphors rather than historical accounts. I wasn't sure whether they were accurate or not, but I began to realize that the purpose of stories was not necessarily the factual evidence they contained, but the lessons they taught.

That ordinary Monday afternoon completely changed the trajectory of my religious life. The conversation left me unafraid to be curious. If we can question and interpret God's word, why not view every experience through the same lens?

When I look back on that conversation, I think of the passage from Corinthians we just heard. Paul describes the transition from childhood into adulthood, and he reminds us that, for now, our understanding is only partial as we can only see a reflection in a mirror. We do not see the whole picture.

 

I've often encountered people in religious contexts that really fear doubt and uncertainty. They worry that asking too many questions will make them appear as being unfaithful and disloyal, but the conversations I've had with my grandmother beg to differ. My faith has been profoundly deepened by allowing myself the space to question and decipher every aspect of Christianity and the bible. I've come to understand that Paul is right - we are only capable of seeing a reflection of our reality. But by learning about and accepting multiple interpretations of religious texts and messages rather than turning a blind eye to the parts that we may disagree with or not fully comprehend, we are capable of conjuring a far greater picture and understanding of our faith.

Since childhood, I have struggled with my faith in God, the afterlife, and sometimes even science. How can I know something is true without ever seeing it? I couldn't comprehend how anyone could take the Bible, a collection of ancient texts that have undergone numerous translations, and swear their interpretation was the only truth.

Similarly, I found it difficult to believe the science I learned in school was entirely accurate. In my neurobiology class, I found myself staring at diagrams of neurons, wondering how we could know that consciousness comes from neural pathways when we're only inferring from electrical patterns.

 

I came to recognize that belief in something unseen wasn't limited to faith; science asks for it too. The further I studied science and religion, the more openly acknowledged this uncertainty became.

One example came from my physics class, where we learned about Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, which states that we cannot know both the position and speed of a particle with perfect accuracy.

That night, I was led down an internet rabbit hole on the limits of quantum mechanics, driven by my disbelief that academia could acknowledge doubt so openly.

 

At first, I saw this principle as a reason to distrust science. But with each new article I read, I realized my perspective on this principle actually mirrored how I like to approach religion.

Uncertainty isn't a weakness - It's the beginning of understanding.

Scientists do not stop asking questions because they are worried about appearing not knowledgeable or unqualified. They keep investigating. They keep learning. They keep seeking truth.

 

And that reminds me of the passage from Acts we heard this morning.

For some context, Acts 17 details the persecution Paul and Silas faced in Thessalonica and their subsequent escape to Berea, where receptive crowds carefully evaluated their teachings. What stands out so significantly to me about the Bereans is that they didn't completely reject Paul's teachings like in Thessalonica, but they didn't simply accept Paul's words at face value either.

They examined the Scriptures for themselves. They researched. They investigated. Not just once, but daily to test whether Paul's teachings were correct. They asked questions. And through that process, many came to believe on their own terms.

 

Their faith was not built on blind acceptance. It was strengthened through curiosity and discovery.

I think this is exactly what I had learned with my nana in that car all those years ago. Faith does not forbid us from thinking critically and investigating what we are receiving. God is not threatened by our questions. He accepts them.

I first saw uncertainty as something that threatened both science and faith. Now, I see it as something that connects them.

 

Even though there is vast unknown knowledge in both religion and science, for me, they are tied together by an innate desire to understand and discover the truth, regardless. So whether you're studying for a test, struggling through a difficult season, wrestling with a Bible verse, or praying a prayer that feels unanswered, remember this: We do not need complete certainty to keep moving forward. We can trust God while still asking questions. We can have faith while still seeking understanding. And sometimes the greatest growth happens not when everything is clear, but when we have the courage to step into the unknown.

Thank you, and happy Youth Sunday.

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.