Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

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

Text: John 3:1-17

 

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

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

Questions like:

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

Why is there so much cruelty and violence?

Why am I so lonely?

How can I stop being so afraid?

Where is God in all of this?

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

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

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

That alone should ignite some light for us.

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

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

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

Nicodemus is not given answers. He is given invitation.

Invitation to trust.

Invitation to step toward Light.

“The wind blows where it chooses…”

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

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

“For God so loved the world…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is the spark.

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

Not a floodlight. Just a spark.

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

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

No one person solved the darkness.

But together, they became light.

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

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

These are not abstract ideas.

They are sparks in real darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God meets us in the questions.

God meets us in the dark.

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

That is the gospel.

And that is why we come to this Table.

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

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

No condemnation here.

Only invitation.

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

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

Enough to check on a neighbor.

Enough to show up.

Enough to listen.

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

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

Nicodemus came at night.

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

And the Spirit who moved him is moving us still.

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

So come to the table.

Bring your questions.

Bring your weariness.

Bring your small, flickering hope.

Receive the love of God who believes in you.

And then go —

and be a spark in someone else’s dark.

A sermon preached by Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC February 22, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC February 15, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC February 8, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.

Texts: Isaiah 58:1-12; Matthew 5:17-20

Our guest preacher last week invited us into the ancient wisdom of Micah 6:8—to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God. In response to that sermon, someone commented online: “Sad when preachers preach from the old fallen Old Testament. God speaks through Jesus and Jesus said he was to be our only teacher.”

I had to hold back from replying with a bit of pastoral snark: I guess you missed the day in class when Jesus said, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.”

Jesus’ whole life is an embodiment of the righteousness the law seeks to teach and the justice the prophets longed to proclaim and enact. In Scripture, “law” isn’t a cold rulebook or a list of religious regulations. It’s God’s teaching for how a community actually lives—how neighbors treat one another, how power is exercised, how workers are paid, how the vulnerable are protected.

Jesus does not stand over the law and the prophets, correcting them. He stands within them, holding together what has too often been pulled apart—faith and life, prayer and practice, belief and behavior. Jesus does not discard the law and the prophets; he pieces them together, aligns them with flesh and breath and human relationships, and shows us what they look like when lived fully. Jesus comes to help us align our lives with the deep purposes of God so that peace with justice—what Dr. King called the Beloved Community—can begin to take shape among us.

That is why Isaiah 58 lands so powerfully today. Isaiah and Jesus are speaking the same theological language, even as they speak in different moments. And Isaiah does not ease into the message. He comes out of the gate strong:

“Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their sins. Yet day after day they seek me and delight to know my ways, as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness and did not forsake the ordinance of their God; they ask of me righteous judgments; they want God on their side.”

That little phrase—“as if”—is a doozy.

Isaiah is describing a people who are deeply religious: faithful in worship, earnest in prayer, fluent in the rituals and language of faith—as if they were practicing righteousness, as if they had not forsaken God’s ordinances. This is not hypocrisy in the cheap sense. It is being faithful in form, but disconnected in practice. They want God near. They want God responsive. They want God on their side. But even as they do all the religious things—fasting, sackcloth, ashes—they forsake God’s ordinances—the Hebrew word is mishpat: meaning justice that treats people fairly and equitably. They are acting religious without making God choices, without doing justice.

In our current context, it would be very easy to take that “as if” and aim it outward. To point fingers at national leaders who wear big crosses around their necks, hold Bibles for photo ops, show up at public prayer services and then post vile, racist images, enact cruel policies, and unleash violent overreach. It would be easy for me, especially after what I’ve seen and heard recently, to let my anger form words that strike like a fist.

I recently returned from Minneapolis. I heard firsthand stories of families targeted by ICE—stories of fear that lives in bodies and homes, stories of trauma caused by aggressive and dehumanizing enforcement. I’ve stood at the sites where neighbors lost their lives as they sought to defend and protect others. I also heard anger—anger rooted not only in what is happening now, but in decades of suffering that has gone unseen, unheard, and unaddressed: unmet needs, unacknowledged harm, voices crying out long before the rest of us were paying attention.

Isaiah would tell the truth about all of that. Jesus would too. Truth-telling is part of faithfulness. But Scripture is equally clear that how we tell the truth matters.

Neither Isaiah nor Jesus believes that mockery creates peace. Neither believes that humiliation heals wounds. Isaiah is clear: the fast God chooses is not one that strikes with the fist or points the finger.

Walter Brueggemann reminds us that to be prophetic is not simply to condemn wrongdoing, but to name pain, to let suffering be seen and heard. That happens when we listen to stories we would rather avoid, when we allow another person’s fear or anger to interrupt our assumptions, when we allow the realities of human suffering to disrupt the status quo. Brueggemann writes, “The replacing of numbness with compassion… signals a social revolution.” Healing—personal or communal—does not begin with denial. It begins when pain is clearly named and acknowledged.

In Minneapolis, I had the opportunity to practice listening to stories I would have preferred to avoid. I heard how African American, African, and other immigrant communities struggle to maintain trust and true solidarity. As one of the few white people in the room, I heard stories of perhaps well-meaning, mostly white progressives who alienate Black communities over ideological issues while ignoring the chronic poverty and violent injustice they face every day. “They talk about unity, but want uniformity,” someone said. “They turn out in record numbers in this moment—but can they say the names of the young people in our community who are shot in the back on a regular basis?”

I found myself thinking about how the intersections of race, class, ideology, and power I encountered in Minneapolis echo right here in Washington, DC. And all I could do—and all I can do right now—is ask God to keep me open and available: open to listen, open to learn how my own heart and practice need to change, and open to receive guidance about how to lead us, as a congregation, in faithful response both locally and nationally.

That is what Isaiah calls for. And that is what Jesus fulfills.

Jesus does not abolish the law and the prophets; he embodies them. Grace, in Jesus’ life, is not God letting us off the hook. Grace is God drawing near—giving us strength to change, courage to repair, and patience to stay in relationship when walking away would be easier.

Righteousness, in Scripture, is not moral superiority. It is right relationship—with God and with one another. Justice is not an abstract ideal. It is fair and equitable treatment that restores dignity and life. Grace does not replace these. Grace makes them possible in real life.

Isaiah makes this concrete. The work of justice and righteousness he describes is not lofty or abstract. It looks like ordinary—and costly—faithfulness: loosening the bonds of injustice, undoing heavy yokes, letting the oppressed go free, sharing bread with the hungry, sheltering the unhoused poor, clothing the naked, and—this one cuts close—not hiding from your own kin.

Right now, there are many who have every right and reason to hide. Because if they leave their driveway, they risk being stopped, dragged from their car, and taken to a detention center without due process—or even a question about their citizenship. Because if they go to school, they might be used as bait to lure a parent into detention. Because if they go to worship, they may be rounded up simply for having brown skin or wearing a hijab.

But for many of us, hiding takes a different form. We hide when we scroll past suffering because it overwhelms us. When we tell ourselves someone else is better equipped to respond. When we protect our comfort instead of risking connection. When we retreat because we are not the ones being targeted.

Isaiah refuses to bless that retreat. And Jesus fulfills that refusal by drawing the circle of kinship wider and wider, putting his own life on the line in true solidarity and love.

Peace—real peace—does not come from choosing the right side or going through the motions of religion or shallow relationships that avoid telling the truth. It comes from aligning our lives with the way of God’s love as embodied in Jesus.

And that alignment is not abstract. It looks like courage without cruelty. Truth-telling without humiliation. Resistance without dehumanization.

In Minneapolis, I was struck by stories of people who are embodying exactly that. The resistance in that city right now is overwhelmingly nonviolent, creative, organized, and relentlessly resolute in defense of their neighbors. And my heart aches as I reflect on Renee Good’s last words: “I’m not mad at you.” And Alex Pretti’s… “Are you okay?”—spoken while trying to help a woman who had just been pepper-sprayed during an encounter with immigration agents. In moments of grave danger, these siblings resisted harm without surrendering their humanity—or anyone else’s.

That is strength shaped by love.

That is what we are called to embody. Isaiah dares to imagine what becomes possible when lives are aligned with God’s way of love: light breaking forth like the dawn, wounds healing, guidance emerging, communities rebuilt, streets restored for living. We—even we—can become repairers of the breach, restorers of what violence has torn apart.

Most of us won’t do this in grand gestures, but in daily choices. So maybe this week, we—all of us—can be intentional about our choices: to listen before reacting, to stay present when retreat feels safer, to use our resources—time, money, influence—to stand with neighbors rather than hide from them. Not selective solidarity, but embodied faithfulness.

These are the pieces that make for peace. And by God’s grace, they are the pieces Christ is still fitting together—in us, among us, and through us—for the healing of the world.

A sermon preached by Bishop Julius Trimble with Foundry UMC February 1, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series