There is a particular kind of popular evangelical end-times theology that has done enormous damage to the Church’s witness. It thrives on charts and timelines. It fuels bestselling novels and “blockbuster” movies. It turns complex apocalyptic literature into a secret codebook for modern geopolitics. And it is, quite frankly, an adventure in missing the point.

The moment someone refers to “Revelations” as a roadmap for predicting current wars, identifying modern political figures as the Beast, or mapping military strategy onto Armageddon, I’ve already drawn a quiet conclusion: we are no longer dealing with careful biblical interpretation. We are dealing with projection.

In what may be shocking to some, the Book of Revelation was not written in or for twenty-first century America. It was written in the first century to seven very real churches living under the crushing weight of the Roman Empire. It was apocalyptic literature, which is a genre full of symbols, coded resistance, cosmic imagery, and prophetic imagination. It was written to suffering Christians tempted either to compromise with the empire or despair under its violence.

It was not written to help Americans decode the United Nations, modern microchips, or Middle Eastern military campaigns.

When we treat Revelation as a literal script for contemporary politics, we do violence to the text itself. We rip it from its historical and cultural context and force it to answer questions it was never asking or trying to answer.

Fear-based end-times theology has been profitable. It creates anxiety and fear. It sells books. It fills conferences. It generates clicks. But fear does not produce the fruits of the Spirit.

Instead, fear often produces suspicion, tribalism, and a dangerous “good vs. evil” narrative that flattens entire nations and turns people into caricatures. The irony is striking (well, at least to me)…in the name of fighting evil, Christians sometimes mirror the very characteristics Revelation warns against: coercion, domination, violence, idolatry.

Revelation is not primarily about predicting the end of the world. It is about unmasking the empire.

Rome claimed to be eternal. Rome claimed to bring peace through violence. Rome demanded allegiance. Revelation dares to say, “that is not the way of the Lamb.”

The central image of Revelation is not a war machine. It is a slaughtered Lamb.

One verse in one chapter of one book features one symbolic image that has helped elevate much of the fear-based theology surrounding Revelation…“Armageddon” (see Revelation 16:16).

Now political and military leaders claim their wars are prophetically necessary. Military aggression becomes “God’s plan.” Violence is sanctified. Entire populations are collateral damage in an apocalyptic script. And, if we are good Christians (and better Americans), we aren’t supposed to question it!

When Scripture is used to baptize war, we should tremble. When leaders speak of geopolitical conflict as divinely mandated, we should ask whether we are witnessing faithfulness or idolatry.

We should remember, Revelation was written to resist the empire, not to justify it.

In our current moment, we are watching something profoundly troubling. We are witnessing the hijacking of Christian faith by political idols. When national identity becomes synonymous with God’s purposes, we have crossed into idolatry.

Some strands of evangelical theology have elevated the modern nation-state of Israel into an untouchable prophetic centerpiece. This has led to near-blind political loyalty, where actions in places like Gaza and the West Bank are shielded from moral critique because of a particular reading of prophecy. But biblical Israel and a modern secular nation-state are not the same thing.

A theology that grants any nation unchecked moral immunity is not biblical. The prophets of Israel never gave Israel a free pass. They called them to justice, mercy, and humility. Why would modern political entities be exempt?

When theology removes our capacity to critique violence or injustice, it is no longer Christian theology. It is propaganda.

One of the great tragedies of shallow end-times theology is how easily it draws lines between “us” and “them.” History and Scripture remind us that evil rarely wears a name tag. Many who loudly claim to stand for “good” exhibit none of the fruit of the Spirit. Where is love? Where is kindness? Where is gentleness? Where is self-control?

If our theology excuses cruelty toward immigrants, shrugs at the suffering of civilians, demeans political opponents, or celebrates domination, then it is not shaped by the Lamb of Revelation. It is shaped by the Beast. And Revelation is crystal clear about which one wins.

A more faithful reading of Revelation sees it as a book of hope. It tells suffering believers that God sees and knows. The empire does not get the final word. In the end, it is the Lamb who reigns. 

The final vision is not annihilation. It is restoration. The ending vision is a new heaven and a new earth coming down. It speaks of God dwelling with humanity. Tears will be wiped away and death will be defeated.

Revelation is not an escape plan. It is a resistance manual wrapped in worship. It calls us to endure, to refuse allegiance to violent systems, to worship God alone, and to embody the way of the Lamb in the middle of empire.

That is profoundly different from using Revelation as a justification for militarism.

Years ago, I found myself in a heated debate among pastors from a variety of theological perspectives about premillennialism, postmillennialism, and amillennialism. People were referencing charts and timelines. Greek verbs were being dissected and voices were rising.

Then a wise elder, Eldon Morehouse, quietly ended the debate. He simply said, “You can argue all you want. But I believe in panism. It will all pan out in the end.”

Mic drop.

There is deep wisdom there. The Christian hope is not in getting the timeline right. It is in trusting that God is faithful.

When I read the headlines that US troops are being told that the war with Iran is “part of God’s plan” to “bring about biblical end times,” I found myself being reminded that lazy theology is not harmless.

When we read apocalyptic texts shallowly, we easily justify war. We excuse inhumane treatment of our neighbors. We sanctify political leaders who bear no resemblance to Christ. We numb ourselves to injustice because, well, “it’s all part of the plan.”

But the plan of God revealed in Jesus is not domination. It is self-giving love. The end of the story is not a Christian empire crushing its enemies. It is a Lamb who conquers by being slain. The question is not whether we can decode the timeline. The question is whether we will follow the Lamb now.

If Revelation teaches us anything, it is this: God is with us. God is for us. The empire will fall. Love will endure. In the end, God wins. Yes, Saint Eldon, it will all pan out!

As I continue to think through the Sunday message at First Wayne Street, I decided to share some additional thoughts here.

Somewhere along the way, we began to confuse conviction with contempt.

Political and religious differences are not new. The early church navigated empire, persecution, and deep internal disagreements. What feels different (to me) in this moment is the speed and scale of dehumanization. Social media rewards outrage. News cycles monetize division. Leadership at the highest levels model name-calling, belittling, and distortion (or flat out lies). As a result, we are being discipled into suspicion.

It is especially disheartening when those proclaiming the name of Jesus participate in mockery, dismissal, or cruelty. It is not Christlike to hate. It is not Christlike to belittle. It is not Christlike to bully. The One we follow told us plainly to love…even our enemies.

In the Gospel of Matthew 25, Jesus identifies himself with the thirsty, the vulnerable, the overlooked. “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.” In Romans 12, Paul stretches us further: “If your enemies are thirsty, give them something to drink…Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

That is not sentimental spirituality. In many ways, that is a call to moral resistance.

We have grown comfortable labeling those with whom we disagree as “the enemy.” We reduce people to voting records, theological stances, party affiliation, or even a single opinion. Once labeled, it’s easier to dismiss and ignore. It becomes easier to justify our hatred and contempt once someone is named an enemy.

I believe that contempt is corrosive. It doesn’t just wound its target; it reshapes the soul of the one who carries it.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. warned us about this. One of the principles of nonviolence he taught was simple and piercing: Attack forces of evil, not persons doing evil. Dr. King understood that the goal of justice is not humiliation but reconciliation. Dr. King encouraged us towards the creation of the beloved community.

Dr. Cornel West has said that justice is what love looks like in public. If that is true, then dehumanization is what fear looks like in public. And fear is a powerful political tool. Fear is often what political candidates and religious leaders alike use to get us to vote and believe as they do. 

The question for Christians is not whether we will resist injustice. As a follower of Jesus in the United Methodist tradition, my baptismal vows call me to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. This is important work for all followers of Jesus. As we do this work, we are called to resist without surrendering to hatred. There is a difference between opposing harmful systems and despising human beings.

Some dismiss calls for civility as “being soft.” They argue that strong convictions require sharp rhetoric. But the gospel offers a different imagination.

Walter Brueggemann often spoke about the “prophetic imagination,” the capacity to envision a world beyond domination and fear. The prophets did not mince words about injustice, but their fire was directed at systems that crushed dignity, not at the denial of humanity itself.

Stanley Hauerwas has insisted that the church’s primary political task is to be the church. The Church should embody a different way, a better way of living together that tells the truth about Jesus. If our congregations mirror cable news hostility more than Christlike love, what story are we telling?

Civility is not pretending disagreements do not matter. It is choosing to treat the person in front of us as someone bearing the image of God, even when (or especially when) we believe they are deeply wrong.

The Gospel is not about winning arguments, it’s about love. Maybe the best witness of the Church isn’t how loud we can be regarding our strongly held convictions that are often more political than biblical. Maybe the best witness of the Church is in how faithfully we love God, neighbor and enemy. 

When Christians participate in ridicule and conspiracy, when we amplify false narratives, when we slander, the watching world notices. And not in the way we hope.

Jesus said the world would know us by our love. Not by our volume. Not by our dominance. Not by our ability to “own” someone online.

By our love.

Love is not passive. Love confronts injustice. Love tells the truth. Love protects the vulnerable. Love refuses to dehumanize.

In Romans 12, Paul writes, “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Notice the realism: if it is possible. Not every conflict resolves. Not every relationship heals. But as far as it depends on us, we are not to let hatred dictate our character.

In a culture that monetizes outrage, civility is countercultural. In an environment addicted to mockery, kindness is disruptive. In a society that labels enemies quickly, refusing to reduce a person to their worst view is radical.

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus said that those who give a cup of water to those who thirst will be among those who inherit the Kingdom. Giving a cup of water to an enemy in the ancient world was not weakness; it was a refusal to let vengeance define you. Today, it might look like refusing to share demeaning memes; listening before reacting; verifying before amplifying; praying for someone whose worldview unsettles you; advocating for policies that protect even those you disagree with. This does not mean abandoning convictions. It means anchoring our convictions in love.

Lent asks us to examine our desires. Are we thirsty for righteousness or for being right? Are we seeking the flourishing of all or the humiliation of some?

When Jesus says, “I was thirsty,” perhaps he is also asking: What kind of people will you become in a dry and divided world? Will we allow political affiliations to shape our tone more than the way of Jesus? Will we let cable news discipleship trump Jesus? Or will we practice a deeper allegiance?

Returning to civility is not naïve nostalgia. I believe it is a faithful act of discipleship. It is choosing to see the image of God in every face. It is resisting evil without surrendering to contempt. It is remembering that Christ died not only for those who agree with us, but even for those we are tempted to label “enemies.”

Perhaps the call before us is simple and profound: become people who refuse to let hatred dry up compassion. Become communities where disagreement does not equal dehumanization. Become Christians whose public witness looks like Jesus.

In a culture of contempt, may we be the kind of people who offer a cup of water to our enemies.

In this Lenten series, Last Words, we are doing a deep dive into the final teachings of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew 25. These are not casual remarks. They are words that reveal what matters most in the kingdom of God. Jesus is speaking about the inheritance of the Kingdom and how those who meet the needs of the vulnerable in practical ways will be the ones who receive the Kingdom – and those who ignore the needs of the vulnerable inherit an alternate ending. 

Today, we narrow in on one simple sentence: “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.”

It sounds so ordinary, so small, so trivial, so easy. A cup of water. While water seems basic, it is necessary and life-giving. 

In the ancient world, water was not a convenience, it was survival. In first-century Palestine, access to clean water meant the difference between life and death. This is still an unfortunate reality in places of our world today. In the first century, hospitality laws were strong because survival depended on mutual care. To refuse someone water in a dry climate was not just rude, it was dangerous as it threatened the well-being of one’s guest.

When Jesus says, “I was thirsty,” he is speaking about real bodies, real deprivation, real urgency. We also know that thirst is not only physical. There is thirst for dignity. Thirst for belonging. Thirst for justice. Thirst for peace in a violent and divided world.

In Matthew 25, Jesus does something unsettling. He identifies himself not with the powerful, not with the comfortable, not with those who already have full cups, but with “the least of these.” The thirsty one is Jesus. That alone stretches us. 

Then we turn to Romans 12:18–21, and things stretch even further. Paul writes to the church in Rome: “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all…If your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink…Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” This is radical!

Paul is writing to a small, vulnerable Christian community living in the heart of the Roman Empire. Rome was not neutral ground. It was the center of imperial power, a system that enforced peace through domination, crucifixion, and fear.

The early Christians had no political power. They were misunderstood and sometimes persecuted.

Paul does not tell them to withdraw into safety. He does not tell them to retaliate. He does not tell them to “win.” He says: feed your enemies and give them something to drink.

That line comes directly from Proverbs 25. In Hebrew wisdom tradition, giving food or water to your enemy was not weakness, it was a refusal to let hatred define you. It was a radical act of moral resistance.

Paul says feeding our enemies and giving them something to drink will “Heap burning coals on their heads!” Whew! That’s pretty intense! But this was not an act of revenge, but a metaphor that displays the practical application of Jesus’ call to love God, love our neighbor and to love our enemies. In the ancient world, fire symbolized purification and conviction. In other words, kindness has the power to awaken conscience. Goodness exposes evil by refusing to mirror it. This is not passive faith. It is courageous faith. This is revolutionary discipleship. Our enemies expect us to utilize the same, or more extreme force, in retaliation to their actions – but Jesus and Paul call us towards love and goodness.

Here’s where Matthew 25 and Romans 12 meet. In Matthew 25, Jesus says we meet him in the thirsty stranger. In Romans 12, Paul says we give water not just to friends, but also to enemies. Put them together, and the call becomes clear: Our faith becomes real when we quench thirst beyond our comfort zones.

It is one thing to give water to someone who thinks like us, votes like us, worships like us. It is another thing to extend goodness toward someone who has hurt us. Or dismissed us. Or represents a system we oppose.

But this is where our United Methodist theology helps anchor us. John Wesley taught that holiness is not just personal, it is social. We do not grow in faith alone. Grace transforms both hearts and systems. Personal piety and social justice belong together.

We have a reputation as the water bottle church. When we hand out water bottles at the Barr Street Farmers Market every summer, we are not just being nice. We are participating in what Wesley would call works of mercy, those tangible expressions of grace.

But here’s the deeper question: Are we only offering water to those who feel safe? Or are we becoming people who refuse to let division dictate our compassion?

Romans 12:18 says, “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Let’s notice what Paul does there. He is realistic. “If it is possible.” Not every conflict resolves. Not every relationship heals. There are times we must shake the dust from our sandals and move on. So Paul says as far as it depends on you. We cannot control the other person’s thirst. But we can control whether we withhold water.

Then comes the line that feels almost impossible: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

As United Methodists, we promise in our baptismal vows: To resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.

Notice the object of resistance: Evil. Injustice. Oppression. Not people.

We resist systems that crush dignity. We resist policies that harm the vulnerable. We resist ideologies that dehumanize. But we do not surrender to hatred of human beings.

That distinction matters. Because in polarized times, it is very easy to blur the line. We tell ourselves we are fighting injustice. But sometimes we are just nurturing contempt. It’s much easier to belittle, demean, and call our perceived enemies names.

This is where the wisdom of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. becomes essential. One of the Kingian principles of nonviolence says: Attack forces of evil, not persons doing evil.

Dr. King understood something deeply essential to our Christian faith: People are often shaped by systems. Fear distorts judgment. Power corrupts imagination. Sin entangles. But no one is beyond the reach of grace.

King did not ignore injustice. He confronted it boldly, whether segregation, racist laws, or economic exploitation. But he refused to dehumanize those upholding those systems.

He believed the goal of nonviolence was not the humiliation of the opponent, but the creation of the beloved community.

And that is straight out of Romans 12. “Do not be overcome by evil.” Here is the danger: When we fight dehumanization with dehumanization, evil wins twice.

The Roman Empire overcame enemies with force. Scripture calls us to overcomes enemies with a cup of water. The cross itself is God’s refusal to retaliate. This is not naïve idealism. It is costly discipleship. So, what might this look like for us?

First, we continue to meet real, physical thirst. Support clean water initiatives. Advocate for equitable infrastructure. Show up this summer and hand out water bottles with joy. When we hand someone a bottle of water, we are saying: You matter. 

Second, and this may be harder: practice enemy-directed grace. Romans 12 does not ask us to pretend enemies don’t exist. Paul is not naïve. He knows harm is real. He knows injustice wounds real bodies. But he insists that evil does not get the last word in shaping who we become.

Here is where the gospel presses even deeper: When we look into the face of an enemy, we are not looking at a monster. We are looking at someone who is deeply and radically loved by Jesus. Someone for whom Christ died. Someone bearing the image of God, even if that image feels distorted. Someone who is, in ways we may not understand, our brother. Our sister.

This does not excuse harm. It does not erase accountability. It does not mean we stop resisting evil and injustice. As United Methodists, we are committed to renouncing evil and resisting injustice, oppression, and racism in whatever form they appear. We don’t stop that work. But viewing even our enemies as someone Jesus loves does mean we refuse to deny their humanity.

In Matthew 25, Jesus says, “When you did it to the least of these, you did it to me.” What if that includes the people we would rather avoid? What if Christ stands not only with those who suffer under injustice, but also with those trapped in systems of fear, misinformation, or hatred?

If Wesley was right that grace is always going before us, then even our enemies are already being pursued by God. If that is true, then when we give water, literal or metaphorical, we are cooperating with grace already at work.

To serve an enemy is to say: I will not reduce you to your worst action or opinion. I will not let the loudest division define your worth. I will not deny that you, too, are someone Christ loves.

That is not weakness. That is resurrection power. That is countercultural. That is radical. That is the opposite of what we see at the highest levels of leadership in our world today. As followers of Jesus, we recognize that evil thrives on dehumanization. The kingdom of this world thrives on recognition.

When we see our enemies as brothers and sisters, however estranged, we are not surrendering justice. We are anchoring justice in love. That is the only kind of justice that leads to peace.

We must refuse to dehumanize. Maybe it looks like refusing to mock someone online. Maybe it looks like listening before reacting. Maybe it looks like praying for someone whose worldview feels threatening. Maybe it looks like supporting policies that ensure even those we disagree with have access to healthcare, housing, clean water, and safety.

Matthew 25 whispers to us: The thirsty person might be Christ…and our enemy might be too. When we give water, we are not endorsing harm. We are embodying the kingdom. The kingdom looks like mercy, not domination; justice rooted in love, not vengeance.

Lent is a season of examining our thirst. Are we thirsty for being right? Or are we thirsty for righteousness? Are we thirsty for winning? Or are we thirsty for wholeness?

Jesus is still saying, “I was thirsty.” May we be a church that notices. May we be a church that gives. May we be a church that refuses to let hatred dry up our compassion. Because when we give water, even to an enemy, we are not just quenching thirst. We are participating in the life of Christ.

Throughout the season of Lent, I’ll be sharing my Sunday messages on this blog. You can view the full service on the First Wayne Street UMC YouTube page.

Today is the first Sunday of the season of Lent. Lent is a season of reflection, repentance, and renewal. For forty days, we walk with Jesus toward the cross. We slow down. We tell the truth about ourselves. We examine our lives. We return to God. And each Sunday is intended to be a day of celebration, like a mini-Easter! 

Historically, Lent has been marked by fasting. Fasting is not about spiritual performance. It is not about proving how disciplined we are. Fasting is about making space. We give something up so that we can become more aware of our dependence on God, aware of our habits, aware of the needs around us. 

When we feel hunger during a fast, it reminds us that we are not self-sufficient. We rely on daily bread. We rely on grace. It might even awaken us to another kind of hunger.

Because Lent is not only reflection. It is not only repentance. It is not only renewal. Lent is also a call to action.

Before Jesus went to the cross, He gave words that reveal what truly matters. In Matthew 25:31–46, Jesus pulls back the curtain on the Kingdom and tells us what discipleship looks like when it is real.

He says: “I was hungry and you gave me food.”

Later in the passage, we find the key verse that grounds our whole Lenten series: “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these, who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40)

This Lent, we are asking: What if every act of mercy is an act of worship? What if every gesture of compassion draws us closer to the heart of God? What if feeding someone isn’t just charity, but communion?

Let’s look at what Jesus does here. He does not say, “I was powerful.” He does not say, “I was impressive.” He does not say, “I was morally superior.”

He says, “I was hungry.” Jesus identifies Himself with physical hunger. That means hunger is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is not someone else’s issue. Hunger is where Christ locates Himself. 

And hunger is real. It is real in our world. It is real in our nation. It is real in our community.

Children go to bed without enough food. Seniors stretch medication because groceries and medication cost too much. Parents skip meals so their kids can eat.

But there is also spiritual hunger. People hunger for hope. They hunger for dignity. They hunger to be seen. They hunger to matter.

And Jesus says that when we respond to that hunger, when we feed, when we nourish, when we care, we are responding to Jesus.

Serving the least matters because it is where we meet Christ.

Let’s be honest about something. In these United States, we often have polarizing conversations about which political party cares most, or the least, about the vulnerable. We debate platforms. We argue policies. We draw lines. 

But Jesus does not ask which party we belong to. He asks whether we fed Him.

Hunger was never intended to be a political matter. It is a faith matter. A spiritual matter. A Kingdom matter.

Jesus invites us to be the ones who respond to the needs of the most vulnerable around us. Not to post about it. Not to argue about it. Not to assign responsibility to someone else. Not to blame the party who presents legislation that cuts funding to food assistance programs. Jesus invites us to respond.

If we want to inherit the Kingdom, if we want to live inside the reality of Matthew 25, then we must be the ones who feed the hungry.

Not because it wins elections. Not because it proves moral superiority. But because it reveals whether Christ truly reigns in our hearts.

When allegiance to party replaces allegiance to Christ, we have drifted. When protecting power matters more than protecting people, we have lost our way.

The Kingdom of God is not built on domination. It is revealed in bread shared, dignity restored, and hunger relieved.

In our Wesleyan, United Methodist tradition, we call this personal and social holiness, where we commit to loving God and loving neighbor in concrete, embodied ways. We do not separate piety from mercy. We do not separate worship from justice. Feeding the hungry is not a side ministry of the church. It is central to discipleship.

While Jesus states that those who feed the hungry will inherit the Kingdom, this is not about earning salvation. It is about revealing discipleship. Jesus makes it clear: true faith shows up in tangible love. Love that moves. Love that gives. Love that feeds.

Serving the least matters because it aligns our hearts with God’s heart. Throughout Scripture, God consistently sides with the vulnerable. When we serve the hungry, we step into the flow of God’s own compassion.

It dismantles our illusion of separation. When we serve someone who is hungry, we realize how interconnected we are. Their need is not distant. It touches our lives. It changes us.

It forms us spiritually. Generosity reshapes our souls. Compassion softens our hearts. Action deepens our faith. In feeding others, we are fed. In giving bread, we receive grace. We are not called to admire compassion. We are called to practice it.

So here is one concrete way we can respond right now:

Our Food Cart Ministry: Next week, bring at least one item. A can of soup. Peanut butter. Cereal. Pasta. Don’t bring the can that’s been sitting in the back of your pantry since you moved into your home 25 years ago. Bring something you would eat. 

One item may feel small, but collectively, it becomes abundance. It becomes bread in someone’s hands. It becomes Christ present in our community. These gifts will support our partnership with Associated Churches and the East Wayne Street Center. 

What if fasting from one luxury this week allowed us to purchase one extra item for someone else? 

When we give to the East Wayne Street Center, we are not outsourcing compassion, we are participating in it.

While this collection will help address physical hunger, we all might be hungering for something. Lent asks us to consider: What are we hungry for?

Comfort? Control? Convenience? Or righteousness? Justice? Compassion?

When we fast, we retrain our appetites.
When we serve, we redirect our desires.

Instead of consuming more, we begin giving more.
Instead of ignoring hunger, we begin responding to it.

This is what it means to live out Matthew 25. 

Imagine standing before Christ at the end of all things. And He says, “I was hungry.” And you realize: That person at the food pantry, that person standing on the corner, that neighbor quietly struggling…that was Him.

The beauty of this passage is not fear. It is invitation. Christ is not hiding from us. Christ is revealing where He can be found. He is found in bread lines. He is found in food carts. He is found in acts of mercy.

Every time we feed someone, we step closer to the heart of God.

So this week: Bring one item and take one step. Because love expressed through action is what matters most.

Lent is a season of reflection, repentance, and renewal, but it is also a call to action. When we feed the hungry, when we embody compassion, when we practice mercy, we are not just helping someone else. We are worshiping.

Jesus said, “I was hungry.”  May we be the kind of people and church that answers, “Lord, here’s some food!”