Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story goes one way.

But God…

That little phrase shows up all over scripture.

Human beings build a tower to heaven. But God.

Sarah is too old. But God.

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

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

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

Mary Magdalene despaired at the tomb. But God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story was going one way. But God.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

+ + +

Keep a daily grace log.

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Text: 1 Corinthians 12:4-14, 27

May 17, 2026

Foundry United Methodist Church – Washington, DC

Rev. T.C. Morrow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Rev. Jonathan Brown

05/11/2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.