There is a particular look that some Christians have perfected.

You know the one.

The slightly furrowed brow. The solemn expression. The carefully calibrated nod during the sermon. The kind of face that says, “I am currently contemplating the weight of eternity, so please do not make me laugh.”

It is the face of someone who understands that church is serious business.

And, to be fair, it is. Jesus did die for our sins. So obviously, we should look like it. No smiling too broadly. No spontaneous laughter. Certainly, no inappropriate enthusiasm. Keep the volume down. Keep the emotions in check. And whatever you do, do not clap during worship…especially if you can’t clap on 2 & 4! 

We don’t want to get carried away or someone might think we’re having fun. And we can’t have that. After all, we’re Christians.

We are supposed to be serious, reverent, appropriate, thoughtful, intellectually respectable and just a little bit uncomfortable. Especially during worship.

If the sermon is funny, we should probably resist laughing too loudly. 

If the music is upbeat, we should probably stand there politely.

If someone gets excited, we should look at them with a look that firmly communicates, “lock it up!”

And if someone actually raises their hands? Well…we should probably have a meeting about that.

Here’s the problem with all of this: While, yes, Jesus died for our sins, sometimes we look like we have forgotten that Jesus rose from the dead.

That’s kind of a big deal. The Christian story does not end at Good Friday. We don’t gather every Sunday to commemorate the tragic death of a really nice religious teacher. We gather because the tomb is empty. We gather because death didn’t get the last word. We gather because sin doesn’t get the last word. We gather because despair doesn’t get the last word. We gather because Jesus is alive!

And yet sometimes one would think the defining theological statement of the Christian faith was: “Please remain calm throughout the gathering.”

Somewhere along the way, we’ve confused reverence with solemnity and depth with seriousness. But those aren’t the same things.

There is a time for silence. There is a time for lament. There is a time to grieve, to repent, to confess, to sit quietly in the presence of suffering.

Christianity has room for all of that.

But Christianity also has room for laughter. For celebration. For music that makes you want to move. For stories that make you laugh until you cry. For children making noise. For people singing badly but enthusiastically. For spontaneous applause. For mistakes. For warmth. For joy.

Consider the Jesus we actually encounter in the Gospels. Jesus went to dinner parties. He ate with people respectable religious folks didn’t think he should be eating with. He told stories. He used exaggeration. He talked about camels going through the eyes of needles and people swallowing camels while straining gnats. He called Herod a fox. He compared religious leaders to whitewashed tombs. He told stories about prodigal sons, lost coins, runaway sheep, dishonest managers and people throwing parties. He touched unclean people. He laughed. He cried. He celebrated.

And, apparently, when a wedding ran out of wine, Jesus decided the appropriate response was not a lecture on responsible event planning. He turned water into wine…to keep the hosts from being embarrassed AND to keep the party going. Not only that, his mother made him do it!

Now, do a little research and you’ll discover that there have been Christians trying to make the case that Jesus just made grape juice or refreshing purified water. We have apparently reached the point where we will do anything to make Jesus less fun. Because heaven forbid somebody discovers that the guy we worship actually knew how to throw a party.

With all of that, I find myself wondering, “what does our Christianity look like to people who aren’t Christians? Do they see something compelling? Do they see people who have discovered a deeper way to live? Do they see love? Hope? Generosity? Compassion? Laughter? Freedom? Joy?

Or do they see people who look perpetually annoyed that other people are enjoying themselves?

If the gospel is good news, shouldn’t there be at least some visible evidence that we’ve heard it?

Mike Yaconelli, in his book “Dangerous Wonder: The Adventure of Childlike Faith” wrote, “Christianity is not about learning how to live within the lines; Christianity is about the joy of coloring. The grace of God is preposterous enough to accept as beautiful a coloring that anyone else would reject as ugly. The grace of God sees beyond the scribbling to the heart of the scribbler – a scribbler who is similar to two thieves who hung on crosses on either side of Jesus. One of the two asked Jesus to please accept his scribbled and sloppy life into the kingdom of God and He did. Preposterous. And very good news for the rest of us scribblers.

I love that. Because perhaps we’ve spent too much time teaching people to stay inside the lines and not enough time helping them discover the joy of being alive in Christ.

Yaconelli was also fond of reminding the church that real spirituality is messy, unfinished and imperfect. In other words, faith doesn’t require us to become a collection of perfectly polished religious people.

Now, before someone writes an angry comment, I’m not arguing for shallow worship.

I’m not suggesting that every sermon needs to be a stand-up comedy routine. I’m not saying every hymn needs a drum solo. I’m not saying we should replace theology with confetti.

There is something beautiful about reverence. There are moments when the appropriate response to God is silence. There are Sundays when we need to sit with grief. There are prayers that should make us uncomfortable. There are Scriptures that should challenge us. There are moments when worship should bring us to our knees.

But here’s the thing…reverence doesn’t require joylessness. Depth doesn’t require boredom. Intellectual substance doesn’t require emotional constipation. And holiness doesn’t require looking like you just sucked on a lemon.

We can be thoughtful and joyful. Reverent and exuberant. Theologically serious and capable of laughing at ourselves.

We can sing ancient hymns and contemporary songs. We can sit in silence and clap our hands. We can pray the Psalms and dance. We can weep over the brokenness of the world and still throw a party when someone comes home.

That’s not theological inconsistency. That’s the Christian life.

In “Everybody, Always: Becoming Love in a World Full of Setbacks and Difficult People,” author Bob Goff wrote, “When joy is a habit, love is a reflex.”

Think about that. When joy is a habit, love is a reflex.

Maybe that’s part of what we’ve forgotten. Joy isn’t just something we feel when circumstances are good. Joy is a way of seeing. A way of living. A way of saying that the resurrection has changed the way we understand the world.

Joy says: Yes, the world is broken. Yes, people are hurting. Yes, there is injustice. Yes, there is grief. Yes, there are things worth fighting for.

And yet…God is good. Love is real. Grace is bigger than our failures. Hope is stronger than despair. Jesus is alive.

That’s not childish optimism. That’s resurrection faith.

Maybe what the church needs isn’t more people trying to look holy. Maybe we need more people who actually look alive. People who laugh easily. People who welcome warmly. People who sing like they mean it. People who aren’t afraid to clap. People who can admit when they screwed something up. People who aren’t embarrassed by enthusiasm. People who aren’t afraid to tell someone, “I’m really glad you’re here.” People whose faith spills over into generosity, kindness, justice, hospitality and joy. People who have so deeply encountered the love of God that they can’t quite contain it.

Because that’s what love does. It spills over. It gets messy. It gets loud. It throws parties. It welcomes outsiders. It feeds people. It dances. It sings. It laughs. It weeps. It embraces. It celebrates.

And sometimes it probably makes the religious people nervous…which I think is great because Jesus had a habit of doing that.

So…No more boring Christians. No more uninspired worship. No more acting like enthusiasm is a spiritual defect. No more confusing a frown with holiness. No more assuming that serious faith requires a serious face. No more apologizing for joy.

Let’s be people who actually look like we believe the gospel is good news. Let’s sing. Let’s laugh. Let’s clap. Let’s celebrate. Let’s make room for the awkward, the imperfect, the exuberant and the beautifully messy. Let’s worship with our minds and our hearts and our bodies.

Let’s make our churches places where people don’t just hear about the love of God. Let’s make them places where people can actually feel it.

Because Jesus didn’t say, “By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you maintain an appropriately solemn demeanor.”

He said: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” ~ John 13:35

And Jesus said: “I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” ~ John 15:11

Complete joy. Not carefully managed joy. Not appropriately subdued joy. Not please keep your joy within the approved liturgical boundaries joy. Complete joy.

So let’s be salt and light. Not lemon juice in a paper cut.

Let’s be people whose presence makes the world taste a little better and look a little brighter. Let’s be people who carry hope into the room. Let’s be people whose love is obvious. Let’s be people whose laughter isn’t an embarrassment but a testimony.

Let’s be people who live as though Easter actually happened. Because it did.

Christ is risen. So, for God’s sake, let’s smile.

Fear is natural. Living by fear is a choice.

Fear is a powerful thing.

Sometimes fear is good. Fear can protect us. It can warn us that something isn’t safe. It can cause us to slow down, pay attention, ask questions, and exercise wisdom.

If you see a car speeding toward you, fear is probably a pretty appropriate response. If you’re about to make a major financial decision, a little healthy apprehension might keep you from making a foolish choice. If something feels unsafe, fear can tell us to stop.

We shouldn’t pretend that every fear is irrational. But fear can also become something else.

It can become a prison. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. Fear of change. Fear of losing control. Fear of losing something we love. Fear of being rejected. Fear of what other people might think. Fear of people who are different from us. Fear that we won’t have enough. Fear that we won’t be enough.

And sometimes, fear takes something that might happen and begins treating it as though it will happen. That’s when fear becomes dangerous because when fear becomes the lens through which we see the world, it doesn’t just protect us from danger…It keeps us from moving.

We often talk about uncertainty as though uncertainty itself is the problem. But uncertainty is simply a fact of life.

None of us knows exactly what tomorrow will bring. We don’t know what will happen with our careers. We don’t know how our relationships will change. We don’t know what our children will experience. We don’t know what our health, finances, communities, churches, or world will look like five years from now. We don’t know how every decision will turn out.

And yet, we often respond to uncertainty by creating a story about it. “What if this happens? What if that goes wrong? What if I lose this? What if they do that? What if everything changes?”

Soon, the possibility becomes a probability. The probability becomes an expectation. And the expectation becomes the reason we refuse to move.

Fear takes an unanswered question and fills in the blank with the worst possible answer.

That happens in our personal lives. And it happens in churches, families, communities, and organizations.

You’ve probably heard the familiar claim that the Bible says “do not fear” or “do not be afraid” 365 times, one for every day of the year.

It’s a great line. It’s just not literally true.

There isn’t a single universally accepted count, and the number varies depending on the translation and exactly which expressions are included. The commonly cited 365 figure is more devotional slogan than biblical statistic.

But here’s what matters: The Bible doesn’t need 365 fear-not verses to make its point. The Scriptures are filled with people who are afraid…

Abraham is called into an uncertain future. Moses is convinced he isn’t capable. The Israelites are terrified by what lies ahead. Mary is confronted with a future she never could have planned. Joseph’s plans are completely disrupted. The disciples are afraid of storms, scarcity, failure, and uncertainty. The women arrive at an empty tomb and are initially overwhelmed by what they encounter.

Over and over again, God meets people in circumstances they cannot control. And over and over again, they hear some version of: Do not be afraid.

Notice what God doesn’t say. God doesn’t say, “There is nothing to be afraid of.” God doesn’t promise that everything will be easy. God doesn’t explain every detail of what is coming.

Instead, God says: “I am with you.”

“Do not fear, for I am with you.” ~ Isaiah 41:10

That’s the promise. Not certainty, presence.

Christian faith doesn’t mean knowing exactly what will happen. It means trusting that God will be with us when we don’t.

Sometimes Christians feel guilty about being afraid. We think that if we really trusted God, we wouldn’t be anxious. We wouldn’t worry. We wouldn’t have doubts. We wouldn’t hesitate. We’d simply believe.

But that’s not the biblical story. Faithful people experience fear all the time. The question isn’t whether you feel fear. The question is: Who gets to make the decision?

Fear can be in the room without being in charge. You can be afraid and still move forward. You can be uncertain and still be faithful. You can have questions and still take the next step. You can acknowledge legitimate risks without allowing those risks to become an excuse for paralysis. That’s courage!

Richard Rohr has written about the importance of learning to live with uncertainty rather than constantly trying to eliminate it. Spiritual maturity, he suggests, includes developing the capacity to remain grounded when we don’t have all the answers.

That’s important because we often confuse certainty with faith. They’re not the same thing.

Certainty says: “I know exactly what is going to happen.”

Faith says: “I don’t know what is going to happen, but I trust God enough to move forward.”

One of the most common ways fear keeps us stuck is through our discomfort with the unknown.

We want a map. God often gives us a next step.

Abraham didn’t get the whole itinerary. Moses didn’t receive a detailed leadership manual. Mary didn’t get a guarantee that everything would turn out the way she hoped. The disciples didn’t get a risk assessment before they followed Jesus. They were simply invited to trust.

Bob Goff has often returned to the idea that following Jesus is about taking the next step rather than waiting until we have everything figured out. That’s good advice for life.

We don’t have to know everything. We don’t have to solve everything. We don’t have to control everything. Sometimes we simply need to ask: What is the next faithful thing? And then do it.

Maybe this is why change is so difficult. Change reminds us that we are not in control. We like familiar things because familiar things feel predictable. We know how they work. We know what to expect. We know where we fit.

But sometimes we become so committed to preserving what is familiar that we fail to recognize what God might be doing next. We say: But we’ve always done it this way. What if people don’t like it? What if this doesn’t work? What if we lose something? What if things don’t turn out the way we hoped?”

Those are legitimate questions. But sometimes legitimate questions become disguises for an illegitimate conclusion: Therefore, we shouldn’t change anything.

Fear loves that conclusion because if nothing changes, nothing unexpected can happen. Of course, nothing new can happen either.

Fear also has a way of creating categories. Us and them. People like us and people unlike us. People we understand and people we don’t. People who belong and people who don’t.

When we’re afraid, it becomes easier to keep people at a distance. We don’t have to know them. We don’t have to listen to them. We don’t have to understand their story. We can simply make assumptions.

Father Gregory Boyle has spent much of his ministry challenging the fear and separation that allow us to dehumanize people who are different from us. His emphasis on “kinship” is rooted in the conviction that we cannot love people well from a safe distance. We have to move toward one another.

That’s the movement of Jesus. Jesus continually crossed boundaries. He ate with people respectable religious people avoided. He touched people others considered untouchable. He spoke with people others dismissed. He welcomed people others excluded.

Fear builds walls. Love builds tables.

Fear asks, “How do I protect myself from them?” Jesus asks, “How do I love my neighbor?”

That’s not merely a difference in attitude. It’s a difference in discipleship.

Another fear that quietly controls our lives is the fear that there won’t be enough. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough opportunity. Not enough resources. Not enough security. Not enough love. Not enough for us.

Scarcity says: “Hold on tightly. Don’t risk it. You might need that later. What if it doesn’t work? What if there isn’t enough?”

Sometimes scarcity is real. Wisdom requires us to acknowledge our limitations. But there is a difference between recognizing limits and living as though God is limited by them.

Jesus encounters a crowd of hungry people. The disciples see scarcity. “We have only five loaves and two fish.”

Jesus sees possibility. “Bring them here to me.”

The miracle isn’t a promise that God will magically solve every financial problem we encounter. But it is a reminder that discipleship begins by bringing what we have rather than obsessing over what we don’t have.

Sometimes the question isn’t: “Do we have enough?” It’s: “What could God do with what we have?”

Fear doesn’t always look like panic. Sometimes fear looks like cynicism. Sometimes it looks like complaining. Sometimes it looks like withdrawal. Sometimes it looks like passive-aggressive comments. Sometimes it looks like endlessly revisiting what we have lost. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I guess things just aren’t what they used to be.” Sometimes it looks like quietly hoping the new thing fails so we can say, “See? I told you so.”

In other words: Sometimes fear looks like sulking.

And sulking can feel strangely satisfying. It allows us to feel like victims without requiring us to do anything. We don’t have to risk. We don’t have to change. We don’t have to participate. We don’t have to take responsibility. We can simply sit back and complain about what is happening around us.

But here’s the problem: Sulking doesn’t stop change. It just makes us miserable while change happens around us.

It doesn’t make our families healthier. It doesn’t make our churches stronger. It doesn’t deepen our faith. It doesn’t build relationships. It doesn’t solve the problem. It simply keeps us stuck.

This may be the most dangerous part. Fear can become habitual. We can become so accustomed to looking for what might go wrong that we stop noticing what might go right. We become people who instinctively ask: “What’s the catch? What’s going to go wrong? Who is going to get hurt? What are we going to lose? Why won’t this work?”

Eventually, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. Fear becomes our default setting. And when fear becomes our default setting, we can begin to mistake pessimism for wisdom.

But Scripture offers another way. “For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” ~ 2 Timothy 1:7

Notice the contrast. Fear. Power. Love. Self-discipline.

The Christian response to fear isn’t recklessness. It’s not pretending that risks don’t exist. It’s not refusing to plan. It’s not blind optimism.

It’s power, love, and self-discipline. We can acknowledge reality without being ruled by it.

This is where the question gets personal. What are you afraid of?

Not just the obvious things. What are the fears underneath the decisions you are making? Are you afraid of failure? Are you afraid of disappointing someone? Are you afraid of being rejected? Are you afraid of losing control? Are you afraid of getting older? Are you afraid of starting over? Are you afraid of being vulnerable? Are you afraid of someone who is different from you? Are you afraid that you won’t have enough? Are you afraid that the future won’t look like the past? Are you afraid that if you change, you’ll lose part of yourself?

Some of those fears may be completely rational. Some may be irrational.

Some may be based on real experiences. Some may be based on stories you’ve created about things that haven’t happened.

The important thing is to ask: Is this fear protecting me? Or is it imprisoning me?

Is it helping me exercise wisdom? Or is it keeping me from taking a faithful step?

Is it helping me see danger clearly? Or is it convincing me that every uncertainty is a threat?

Is it prompting me to ask good questions? Or is it giving me permission to remain exactly where I am?

Brennan Manning wrote extensively about the radical trust at the heart of Christian faith. For Manning, faith was never about having everything under control. It was about entrusting ourselves to the God who loves us.

That kind of trust is difficult. Because we like control. We like guarantees. We like certainty.

But Jesus never promised us control. Jesus promised us presence. “I am with you always.” ~ Matthew 28:20

Always. Not just when things make sense. Not just when the future is predictable. Not just when the budget works. Not just when everyone agrees. Not just when we know how the story ends. Always.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe faith is not about eliminating uncertainty. Maybe faith is learning how to live faithfully in the middle of it.

There will always be reasons to be afraid. There will always be things we cannot control. There will always be risks. There will always be uncertainty. There will always be something that could go wrong.

If we wait until we have absolute certainty before we move, we will spend our entire lives standing still. And that isn’t the life Jesus calls us to.

Jesus calls us forward. Out of boats. Out of comfort zones. Out of locked rooms. Out of old assumptions. Out of fear.

And into love. Into relationship. Into service. Into justice. Into generosity. Into peacemaking. Into the kind of life that requires trust.

So perhaps the prayer isn’t: “God, take away all my fear.”

Maybe it is: “God, help me not to be ruled by it. Help me recognize the fears that protect me. Help me release the fears that imprison me. Help me distinguish wisdom from anxiety. Help me distinguish discernment from resistance. Help me distinguish legitimate caution from the stories I tell myself about what might happen.

Give me courage to take the next step. Give me grace when I get it wrong. Give me love for people I don’t understand. Give me generosity when scarcity tells me to hold on. Give me hope when nostalgia tells me the best days are behind me.

And when fear tells me to sit down, withdraw, complain, sulk, or stay exactly where I am…remind me that you are still with me.”

Because the opposite of fear isn’t certainty. The opposite of fear is trust. And trust gives us the courage to move.

So ask yourself today: What is fear keeping me from doing?

And then ask one more question: What would I do next if I trusted God just a little more than I trusted my fear?

Maybe that’s where the journey begins. Not with certainty. Not with a guarantee. Just with the next faithful step.

“Remember the Sabbath day and treat it as holy.” — Exodus 20:8 (CEB)

If you ask someone how they’re doing these days, one answer rises above all the rest: “Busy.”

Busy has become a badge of honor. We wear exhaustion like a medal of achievement. We fill every hour of every day, answering emails late into the evening, shuttling children from activity to activity, checking our phones before our feet hit the floor each morning. Somewhere along the way, we’ve come to believe that our value is measured by our productivity.

But God never asked us to live this way. In fact, one of God’s very first gifts to humanity wasn’t another task to complete…it was an invitation to rest.

The Bible begins with a rhythm. For six days, God creates. Light and darkness. Sky and sea. Plants and animals. Humanity itself. And then, on the seventh day, God rests.

Not because God is tired. Not because the work couldn’t continue. God rests because rest is holy.

The Sabbath isn’t an interruption to life; it is woven into the fabric of creation itself. Before there was Israel. Before there were commandments. Before there was even sin, there was Sabbath.

When God later gives the Ten Commandments, the command to remember the Sabbath isn’t simply about religious observance. It’s about reclaiming our humanity. Israel had just been liberated from slavery in Egypt, a place where there was always another brick to make, another quota to meet, another demand on their time.

God was teaching them that they were no longer slaves. Their worth no longer depended upon endless production. Neither does ours.

Jesus lived with extraordinary purpose, but never with frantic urgency.

Throughout the Gospels, we repeatedly find Jesus withdrawing to lonely places to pray. After long days of healing crowds, he stepped away. Before major decisions, he sought solitude. Following emotionally draining moments, even after hearing of John the Baptist’s death, Jesus invited the disciples, “Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while” (Mark 6:31).

Notice what Jesus doesn’t say. He doesn’t tell them to push harder. He doesn’t tell them to squeeze in one more miracle. He doesn’t tell them to answer one more request. He tells them to rest.

Perhaps one of the most spiritual things we can do is stop long enough to remember that the world continues turning without our constant effort.

God remains God. We do not.

Modern research continues to confirm what Scripture has taught for thousands of years.

People who regularly rest sleep better, experience lower rates of anxiety and depression, have healthier hearts, stronger immune systems, improved creativity, better memory, and greater resilience in the face of stress. Chronic overwork, by contrast, increases the risk of burnout, cardiovascular disease, and mental health struggles. Organizations such as the World Health Organization have identified long working hours as a significant public health concern.

Psychologists also note that our brains need periods of recovery. During moments of rest, our minds process experiences, consolidate memories, solve problems creatively, and restore emotional balance. We are not machines designed for uninterrupted output.

God knew this long before neuroscientists did.

Interestingly, many of the countries that consistently rank among the happiest in the world tend to embrace a different relationship with work and rest.

Nations such as Finland, Denmark, Sweden, Iceland, and the Netherlands often provide generous paid vacation, robust parental leave, universal healthcare, and stronger social safety nets. Several European countries have also experimented successfully with four-day work weeks or shorter work hours while maintaining, or even increasing, productivity. These societies are certainly not perfect, but they challenge the assumption that working more always leads to living better.

Here in the United States, we often celebrate busyness. Elsewhere, many people intentionally celebrate balance. Maybe we have something to learn.

Of course, Sabbath is not simply about leisure. A day spent endlessly scrolling social media or worrying about Monday isn’t really Sabbath.

Biblically, Sabbath is about delight. It is time intentionally set apart for worship, relationships, recreation, gratitude, and remembering who we are.

The Hebrew understanding of Sabbath reminds us that our identity comes before our activity. We are beloved children of God before we are employees. Before we are parents. Before we are volunteers. Before we are leaders. Before we accomplish anything at all.

The Wesleyan tradition has long emphasized the importance of practices, or what John Wesley called the “means of grace”, that help us grow in love of God and neighbor. Worship, prayer, Scripture, Christian conversation, acts of mercy, and service all shape our lives. Sabbath fits naturally within this vision. Rest is not the absence of discipleship; it is one of the ways God forms us into healthier, more compassionate disciples.

From a United Methodist perspective, grace is always at work in every part of life, including our need for renewal. God’s grace invites us not only to serve faithfully but also to receive God’s gifts with gratitude. Healthy discipleship is not constant striving. It is learning to live in rhythms of work, worship, rest, justice, compassion, and joy.

Weekly Sabbath is essential. But sometimes life calls for something more.

Pastors, teachers, healthcare workers, caregivers, first responders, nonprofit leaders, parents, and countless others often spend themselves in service to others. Over time, even meaningful work can become exhausting.

That is why many professions encourage sabbaticals, renewal leaves, retreats, or extended vacations. These aren’t rewards for surviving. They are investments in long-term health.

Throughout Scripture, we see seasons built into God’s design. There are seasons of planting and harvest. Seasons of mourning and dancing. Seasons of wilderness and seasons of abundance. Ecclesiastes reminds us that there is “a season for every matter under heaven.”

Even the land itself was commanded to rest every seventh year. Creation was never intended to operate at maximum capacity forever. Neither are we.

Rest rarely happens by accident. We often have to protect it. Healthy boundaries may include:

• Saying “no” to commitments that exceed our capacity.
• Taking vacation time rather than letting it accumulate.
• Turning off work notifications during evenings or days off.
• Keeping one day each week different from the others.
• Prioritizing family meals and meaningful friendships.
• Spending time outdoors.
• Worshiping regularly.
• Making space for silence and prayer.

Boundaries are not barriers against love. They are the structures that make love sustainable.

God cares about every part of who we are. That means caring for our bodies, minds, emotions, and spirits.

Regular exercise strengthens both body and mind. Routine medical checkups help identify problems before they become crises. Counseling or therapy can provide healing, resilience, and wisdom through life’s challenges. Seeking help for our mental or emotional health is not a sign of weak faith. It is an act of faithful stewardship of the life God has entrusted to us. Healthy eating, sufficient sleep, meaningful relationships, laughter, and recreation all become ways of honoring the gift of life.

The command to “love your neighbor as yourself” assumes something important: You cannot continually pour from an empty cup. Self-care is not selfish. It is one way we become more available to love others well.

As I am traveling through a season of renewal leave, I do so with deep gratitude for this congregation and for the gift of time to rest, learn, pray, and be renewed.

My hope is that this season is not only meaningful for me but becomes an invitation for all of us.

Maybe you don’t need a month away. But maybe you need one afternoon without your phone. Maybe you need to take the vacation you’ve been postponing. Maybe you need to call your doctor. Maybe you need to begin seeing a counselor. Maybe you need to spend an hour in prayer, or on a hiking trail, or around the dinner table with people you love. 

Maybe you simply need permission to rest. If so, receive this as that permission. Not from me. From God.

Because before God asks anything of us, God first reminds us who we are. Beloved. And beloved people need not earn the right to rest.

It has been God’s gift all along.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about home. About belonging. About the places and people that remind us who we are.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that ministry isn’t really about churches. It’s about helping people come home.

Not necessarily to a building. Not even to a denomination. But to themselves. To one another. To God.

When I was younger, I thought ministry was mostly about preaching good sermons, leading meaningful worship, offering pastoral care, and helping a church grow. Those things certainly matter. They remain sacred work.

But the longer I’ve served as a pastor, the more I believe ministry is something much simpler and much harder. It’s paying attention. It’s noticing who is standing alone after worship. It’s remembering someone’s name. It’s making one more phone call than your calendar says you have time for. It’s asking a question and then listening long enough to hear the real answer. It’s refusing to let anyone become invisible.

I’ve come to believe that the opposite of ministry isn’t inactivity. It’s indifference.

One of the most striking things about Jesus is not simply that he loved people. It’s that he noticed them…The woman who had spent years suffering quietly…The blind man everyone else tried to silence…The tax collector hiding in a tree…The children the disciples considered interruptions…The Samaritan woman everyone else walked past.

Again and again, Jesus saw the people others overlooked. Perhaps that’s where ministry begins. Not with programs, but with attention.

Our culture often tells us that bigger is always better. More followers. More influence. More success. More productivity.

But the kingdom of God seems to move differently. One conversation. One meal. One act of compassion. One relationship at a time.

That doesn’t mean numbers don’t matter. Every number represents a person. Every person has a story. Every story bears the image of God.

But ministry was never meant to be about collecting people. It’s about caring for them.

As United Methodists, we often describe ourselves as people who are making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world. Sometimes we hear that mission and immediately think globally. Changing systems. Ending injustice. Building a better society.

We should be committed to that work.  The gospel has public consequences. Faith that never leaves the sanctuary isn’t much like the faith Jesus lived.

But transformation almost always begins personally. It begins when someone who has felt forgotten realizes they have been seen. When someone carrying shame discovers grace. When someone convinced they are alone discovers community. When someone searching for home finds a people who say, “We’re glad you’re here.”

That’s ministry. Not because pastors make it happen. But because the whole church does.

One of my favorite words in the New Testament is hospitality. The Greek word, philoxenia, literally means “love of the stranger” and “friend of the stranger.” Not tolerance. Not obligation. Love.

I wonder what would happen if Christians became known for that again. Not for winning arguments. Not for drawing sharper lines. Not for protecting institutions.

But for loving strangers until they became friends. And friends until they became family.

Perhaps that’s what the church is supposed to be. A community where nobody has to earn a seat at the table. Where questions are welcomed. Where differences are not erased but honored. Where justice and mercy embrace. Where grace is practiced instead of merely preached.

I’ve become convinced that every church is building something. Some build walls. Some build stages. Some build reputations.

I hope we’re building tables. Long tables. Messy tables. Diverse tables. Tables with enough empty chairs that no one wonders whether there’s room for them.

Because every empty chair quietly says, “We’re expecting someone.”

Maybe that’s what ministry has always been. Preparing places for people we haven’t met yet. Living in such a way that another person catches a glimpse of God’s welcome. Creating communities where home is possible and belonging is real.

The beautiful thing is that none of us has to be ordained to do that. Parents do it around kitchen tables. Teachers do it in classrooms. Neighbors do it across fences. Friends do it over coffee. Children do it on playgrounds. Retirees do it through handwritten notes.

Every act of kindness becomes an act of ministry. Every moment of compassion becomes a glimpse of the kingdom of God. And every time we widen the circle just a little more, we participate in the work Jesus began long ago.

The world doesn’t simply need bigger churches. It needs bigger tables. Places where every person can discover what so many of us have spent our lives searching for: A place to belong. A place to breathe. A place to be loved. A place to call home.