Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

Foundry UMC DC
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Foundry is an historic, progressive United Methodist Church that welcomes all, worships passionately, challenges the status quo, & seeks to transform the world.

  1. 12h ago

    Grace Is Bigger Than You Think

    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 k

    32 min

  2. Jun 2

    We Know Why We Are Sent: The Mission Of God

    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.

    30 min

  3. May 26

    We Know Where We Belong: The Church

    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 bel

    26 min

  4. May 20

    We Know Who We Follow: Jesus

    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 n

    31 min

  5. May 12

    We Know Who We Are: Beloved of God

    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.

    32 min

  6. May 5

    Richmond Way in the Valley

    A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC, April 26, 2026. If there is one truth I want us to carry today, it is this: God’s presence in suffering is our courage, but it is never an excuse to accept suffering as normal. That is the tension these texts hold. Psalm 23 gives us one of the most beloved images in all of scripture: the Lord as shepherd. First Peter gives us Christ as the shepherd and guardian of our souls. Both texts offer comfort. Both texts speak to people who know pain. But neither text tells us to make peace with injustice. Neither text tells us to baptize suffering. Instead, these texts tell the truth. There are green pastures and still waters and restoration, yes. But there are also dark valleys, enemies, unjust suffering, and wounds. And in the middle of that truth, scripture makes a defiant claim: we are not alone. Psalm 23 is so familiar that we can miss how honest it really is. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” can sound soft in our ears, but this is not a psalm written from a safe and easy life. It is the prayer of someone who knows danger, fear, and threat. It is the testimony of someone who knows what it means to walk through what the NRSV calls the darkest valley. And that matters, because Psalm 23 is not beautiful because it denies suffering. It is beautiful because it refuses to let suffering speak the final word. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me.” And it is worth pausing to say a brief word about the psalm itself. The superscription says, “A Psalm of David,” and for generations that has connected the psalm to David the shepherd-king. But most modern scholars are cautious about treating that as proof that David personally wrote it. Like many psalms, Psalm 23 is difficult to date with precision. It does not give us firm historical markers. So it is often understood as part of Israel’s worship tradition, preserved and prayed over time, shaped by a people who had learned to trust God through danger, worship, memory, and hope. That deepens the psalm for me. It means these words endured not because they belonged only to one famous person, but because generations of God’s people found them true. Notice what the psalm does not say. It does not say, “I will never enter the valley.” It does not say, “If my faith is strong enough, I can avoid the valley.” It does not say, “The valley is secretly good.” It says, even there, even in the darkness, even in the fear, even in the threat: you are with me. That is the center of it. The courage of the psalm is not that life is easy. The courage of the psalm is not that the valley disappears. The courage of the psalm is the presence of God in the valley. That distinction matters, because Christians have not always handled suffering well. Too often, people have taken texts about endurance and presence and turned them into permission slips for oppression. Too often, religion has told people to quietly bear what should have been confronted. Too often, the suffering have been told to be patient while the powerful remain comfortable. Too often, faith has been used not to heal wounds but to explain them away. But Psalm 23 does not glorify the valley. It does not bless the darkness. It does not say that enemies are acceptable because God can still set a table. It says that God remains God even there, and that the Shepherd does not abandon the flock even there. And that shepherd image matters more than we sometimes realize. A shepherd is not just a sweet religious metaphor. A shepherd protects. A shepherd guides. A shepherd goes looking. A shepherd defends the vulnerable. A shepherd takes responsibility for lives that can be easily harmed. That is why the psalm says, “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Those are not decorative objects. The rod is for protection. The staff is for guidance and rescue. So the comfort here is not vague spirituality. The comfort is active care. The comfort is the nearness of a God who is not detached from danger and not indifferent to fear. Then the psalm says something almost startling: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Not after the enemies are gone. Not once the danger has passed. Not once everything is tidy and resolved. In the presence of my enemies. In other words, God does not wait for perfect conditions to sustain life. God nourishes in hostile places. God restores in wounded places. God anoints in threatened places. But let us be clear: that is not the same thing as saying hostile conditions are acceptable. God’s presence in suffering is not God’s approval of suffering. And that is where First Peter needs careful handling. “If, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly…” Those words have too often been used badly. They have been used to tell people to remain in abuse, to stay silent under domination, to take the hit and call it holiness. But that is not good news, and that is not what this text should mean for the church. First Peter is speaking to vulnerable communities under pressure. It is trying to encourage people already suffering because the world is not arranged according to the justice of God. It is not praising the injustice. It is not calling suffering good. It is speaking to wounded people about how not to lose their souls in a wounded world. And then it points to Jesus: “When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly.” That is not weakness. That is not surrender to evil. It is Jesus refusing to become what the world is. He refuses to let violence dictate the shape of his spirit. He refuses to answer domination with domination. But hear this clearly: the suffering of Jesus is not God saying suffering is good. The cross is not heaven’s endorsement of violence. The cross reveals what human sin does when confronted with divine love. And the resurrection is God’s refusal to let that violence be final. So when First Peter says Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, it does not mean Christians should seek pain. It does not mean people should stay in dangerous situations for the sake of appearing faithful. It means that when righteousness is costly, Christ has already gone ahead of us. It means that when suffering comes, we do not meet it alone. It means the Shepherd knows the valley from the inside. That is where these two readings reach toward one another in a powerful way. Psalm 23 says, “The Lord is my shepherd.” First Peter says we have now returned “to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.” The Shepherd of Psalm 23 is not far away. The Shepherd of Psalm 23 is not abstract. In the light of Christ, the Shepherd has scars. The Shepherd has known abuse. The Shepherd has known grief. The Shepherd has known the machinery of injustice. So when we say God is with us in suffering, we do not mean that in some thin, sentimental way. We mean that in Jesus Christ, God has entered the full reality of human pain. God knows what it is to be wounded. God knows what it is to be abandoned. God knows what it is to be crushed by the powers of this world. God knows. So yes, there is courage here. Real courage. Because some people in this room know what it is to walk through the valley. Some are carrying grief. Some are carrying fear. Some are exhausted. Some are dealing with illness. Some are trying to keep going under burdens no one else can quite see. Some are watching the pain of the world pile up and wondering how much more human hearts are supposed to bear. And the good news is not that none of it is real. The good news is that none of it is faced alone. But now let me say the other half of what must be said. God’s presence in suffering must never be turned into permission to tolerate suffering. It must never become an excuse for passivity. It must never become a way of spiritualizing injustice. It must never become a reason to tell the suffering to stay quiet. There is a scene in Ted Lasso where Ted Lasso, the coach of AFC Richmond, is being underestimated during a game of darts. He recalls a line he says he once saw painted on a wall while driving his son to school: “Be curious, not judgmental.” In the scene he attributes the line to Walt Whitman. Whether or not Whitman actually said it, the point lands. Ted realizes that the people who dismissed him never asked real questions. They assumed they already knew who he was, and so they judged him instead of trying to understand him. The church has too often done the same thing with suffering. We have judged where we should have listened. We have explained pain where we should have shown up. We have sometimes treated suffering like a spiritual test instead of a human crisis. But the Shepherd of Psalm 23 does not stand at a distance judging the sheep in the valley. The Shepherd enters the valley. Because if God is with the suffering, then suffering should matter to us. Human suffering anywhere should trouble the conscience of the church. Poverty should trouble us. War should trouble us. Racism should trouble us. Displacement should trouble us. Abuse should trouble us. Systems that crush people while blessing the already secure should trouble us. The church cannot say, “Well, God is with them,” as a substitute for justice. Yes, God is with them. And that is exactly why suffering can never be treated as normal, holy, or acceptable. And when Psalm 23 says, “I shall not want,” that is not a promise of luxury. It is trust that the Shepherd will sustain. Trust that what is necessary for life with God will not be withheld. Trust that the valley does not cancel the care of God. And when First Peter says, “By his wounds you have been healed,” that is not cheap denial either. It does not mean every hurt is instantly repaired. It means that Christ’s love break

    37 min

  7. Apr 28

    Hearts on Fire, Fully Perceiving

    A sermon preached by Ed Crump with Foundry UMC, April 19, 2026, the second Sunday of Easter.   Texts: Isaiah 51:1–6; Luke 24:13–35 April 19, 2026 Good morning. Will you pray with me, May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be pleasing to you God, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.   There are moments in life when everything you thought was solid… suddenly isn’t. Plans collapse. The future you trusted no longer exists. Many of us have had those moments since January 20, 2025. Some of us are dealing with illness or a sick loved one. Some of us have experienced heartbreak. Some of us are lonely. Some of us are feeling financial insecurity. And when we experience those things, usually all we can do is put one foot in front of another.   In our text from Luke this morning, that’s where we meet the disciples: Not triumphant.  Not celebrating resurrection.  Not even waiting in hope. They are walking away from Jerusalem. Away from the place where everything fell apart. Away from the cross. Away from hope. Two friends walking away together. They say, “We had hoped…”  And note they use the past tense. “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.”   Not just grief, but disorientation.   Their understanding of God, of justice, of the future has all unraveled. The Jesus they were presented with did not meet their expectations, so they had difficulty recognizing and accepting him. And if we’re honest, many of us know that road. We know what it is to say, “I had hoped…” And for some communities, that sense of “we had hoped” is not just a moment or a season, but a painfully long history. A history of displacement, of promises broken, of identity challenged or erased.   Today, as we mark Native American Ministries Sunday, we remember that Indigenous peoples across this land are not abstract names from a history book. They are living communities, with real histories, sacred languages, deep wisdom, and enduring resilience with cultures that existed for thousands of years before their land was taken from them. And many carry stories of disruption and loss that echo, in their own way, that same cry: “we had hoped.” On this special Sunday during Easter Season, I want to read Foundry’s WE ARE ON NATIVE LAND statement: When we gather for worship and ministry on the corner of 16th and P, we do so upon the sacred, traditional, and unceded lands of the Anacostan, Massawomack, Susquehannock, Piscataway, and Pomunkey peoples, who were forcibly removed from this area to allow for English settlement. As occupiers of their territory, we recognize them as the original and perpetual stewards of this land and gratefully acknowledge our responsibility for a more honest recounting of our history that empowers us to work for the thriving of all people!     Now hold that ugly, inconvenient reality alongside the voice from the prophet Isaiah we read this morning: “Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness… look to the rock from which you were hewn.” Isaiah is speaking to a people who are also disoriented. They are exiled, displaced, unsure of who they are anymore. In the wake of the Babylonian Exile, everything that once defined them: land, temple, nation, has been stripped away. They are not just geographically displaced; they are spiritually disoriented, wondering if they are still God’s people at all. And into that uncertainty, God does not begin with explanation but with invitation: “Look to the rock from which you were [cut].” Isaiah says to remember Abraham and Sarah, how God brought life out of barrenness, promise out of impossibility. In other words, Isaiah is saying, your identity is not determined by your present loss, but by God’s enduring faithfulness. Scripture tells us that every human being is made in the image of God. That’s why we proclaim that truth in rainbows and banners right out front:  “No matter anything, you are welcome here to be met by our God, who knows you by name, and who loves you, and who wants to have an ever deepening relationship with you. Welcome.” That means no people, no culture, no community is less-than.   Even now, God says, salvation is on the way, not just for you, but as a light for all nations. What feels like an ending is, in God’s hands, still unfolding. The prophet Isaiah says: “For the Lord will comfort Zion… will make her wilderness like Eden.” What looks barren is not the end of the story. But here’s the tension between our texts from Isaiah and Luke today: On the road to Emmaus, the disciples know the story. They know the Scriptures. They know the promises. And still…they’re walking away. They really don’t understand what’s going on. And then, all of the sudden, without announcement, Jesus comes alongside them. And they don’t recognize him. He’s not what they expected. Not what they had “hoped for.” Luke tells us, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” The risen Christ is right there walking beside them, and they don’t recognize him. [PAUSE]   Why don’t they know it’s Jesus? I don’t think it’s because they’re actually foolish. And I don’t think it’s because they completely lack faith. Rather, I suspect it’s because sometimes grief closes our vision. Sometimes disappointment narrows what we can imagine God doing; or loved ones doing; or our ability to persevere.   And what does Jesus do when the disciples don’t recognize him?  …and I think this is one of the most instructive parts of this passage… Jesus listens. He lets them tell the story. Cleopas basically says, ‘Are you the only one in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard what happened to Jesus?’ …to Jesus. …and what’s really amazing is, Jesus lets them tell HIS OWN story and he just listens…he doesn’t jump in and say, well of course I know the story, it’s about me! He keeps quiet. He lets them name their grief. He lets them speak their dashed hopes out loud. And only then does he begin to reframe things. “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he reframes the story. Not as failure. Not as defeat. But as part of a larger unfolding, where suffering and glory are somehow, mysteriously intertwined. This is where Luke and Isaiah meet. Isaiah says: Do not trust only what you see. God’s future is bigger than your present reality. Jesus says: You are reading the story too narrowly.   But even after this incredible moment of teaching…the Disciples still don’t recognize Jesus! Not yet. It’s not until they reach the village. Not until there’s an invitation. Not until they sit down. Not until they share a meal. In a text clearly designed to evoke the image of the Eucharist it says, “He took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them.” Then, and only then, do they recognize him. Not in the explanation. Not in the argument. But in the breaking of the bread. In the shared table. In an act of community. And this is exactly why John Wesley refers to Holy Communion as a “means of grace.” An opportunity to have a real encounter with God and Spirit.   According to the UMC website, a “means of grace” in the Methodist and Wesleyan tradition is: “...an ordinary channel—such as prayer, Scripture, or Communion—through  which God invisibly works to strengthen, sanctify, and convey [God’s] love to believers. These practices, categorized as works of piety and devotion; mercy and compassion, are not meritorious acts but instruments for receiving grace and cultivating personal and communal holiness.” And in our tradition we celebrate the Eucharist in an “open table” where we invite all who desire to be Christlike—regardless of denomination, membership, or baptismal status—to partake in Holy Communion. And that tells us something about how we understand God’s vision. In the Interpretation Bible Commentary on Luke, Fred Craddock notes something profound,  “...Luke here tells us that the living Christ is both the key to our understanding the Scriptures and the very present Lord who is revealed to us in the breaking of bread. His presence at the table makes all believers first-generation Christians and every meeting place Emmaus.” The table is not a place where difference disappears. It is a place where difference is honored, and still, there is room for everyone.  The Gospel is Good News precisely because it declares this inclusiveness and abundance.  There is more than enough in God’s economy. And then, just as suddenly, just at the moment they recognize who Jesus is, he vanishes. But something is different. Something has changed in them: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?” The recognition was not just about realizing it was Jesus. It was about becoming people who can fully understand who Jesus is. People whose hearts are awake. People who remember who they are called to be and act accordingly.  And what do they do after they recognize Jesus? They get up, immediately, and go back. Back to Jerusalem. Back to the place they had fled. Because resurrection doesn’t just comfort us. It sends us. It calls us to service in the priesthood of all believers. And when it sends us, it sends us not just with ideas, but with action.   The question for us is:  How do we recognize Jesus like the disciples did? How do we live into the love of Christ we are called to embody?     The Wesleyan answer to that question is — of course — through various “means of grace” like prayer and Holy Communion. Let me give a specific example…   One of the most helpful practices I’ve found to help me improve my conscious contact with God, allowing me to more fully perceive God’

    28 min

  8. Apr 21

    The First Day

    A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 12, 2026, the second Sunday of Easter. Text:  John 20:19-31   This Sunday, the second Sunday of Easter, the church traditionally calls, “Low Sunday.”  And that is quite often how it feels.  Easter Sunday was great.  But now, just a few days have gone by and we find ourselves at some distance from the Easter joy.  And we may wonder—was it all a dream?  Did God really defeat death in the resurrection of Jesus?  Is God’s love stronger than the forces of despair?  These questions are Easter questions and how we answer them really does have life or death consequences.     For if death has the last word, if the forces of injustice, despair, and defeat are all there is, then we might as well hunker down, get by as best we can and make do with what we have.   We have heard the story that Jesus is risen from the dead.  And like Thomas, even though we’ve heard the witnesses who swear that it’s true, we may not be buying it.  Or maybe we figure—“Ok, Jesus might have been resurrected…so what does that have to do with me?”  What does the resurrection of Jesus mean for us and the way we live—not someday, but today?  Is change, “newness of life,” possible for folks like us?  Can we hope for change, slaves that we are to habit, routine, the predictable and the patterned?     The stories and scriptures of the Bible teach us that there is a difference between knowing about something and being changed by something.  There is a difference between having heard that Jesus is raised and to be changed by that reality.  As one religious scholar has put it:  there is a difference between knowing a doctrine of salvation and being saved.     In our Gospel stories of Easter and in the story we get this week of the disciples and Thomas there are folks who are told that Jesus is raised from the dead—and pretty much they don’t believe it just from hearing the words.  Certainly we don’t see an immediate change in them.     In our Gospel today, the disciples have been told that Jesus is raised and that Mary Magdalene has seen him and spoken to him—and there the disciples sit:  locked up in fear.  And when Thomas is told that Jesus has appeared to the other disciples, he comes right out and says that he needs proof or he will not believe.  We can hear something again and again, we can understand it on an intellectual level, but that’s not the same thing as being changed and formed by that thing.  We don’t really know something until it changes our lives.     // All of us know what that’s like—knowing something in our head but not being able to translate it into any meaningful action. Paul makes this abundantly clear in his own struggle with “knowing” the good, but being unable to “do” the good that he knows and wants to do. So if understanding what Easter is about, understanding it intellectually, will not affect our lives in any significant way, then what are the alternatives?   What if, based on our hearing of the story, we tried to ease our way into new life?  This, in most cases, is much more realistic and, frankly, a bit less intimidating than thinking that we’re supposed to be transformed all in one bright flash of light.  Harvard psychologist Jermone Brunner says that persons more normally act their way into a manner of thinking than think their way into a manner of acting.  In other words—we don’t usually change because we figured something out. We change because we started doing something new. Easter isn’t something you think your way into. It’s something you live your way into. So how might we “act our way into new life –into Easter?” I once heard about a guy who often dragged in to work after his “play hard” weekends.  He was asked one Monday morning what he’d done over the weekend.  The guy replied, “I did a favor for a buddy of mine…some construction work.”     The next Monday, the guy was asked again about his weekend.  He replied, “I helped my friend out again on that building project.  I guess it is some kind of charity his church is working on.”     The next Monday, when asked about how his weekend was, the guy said, “I bonded with a guy named Leonard while we figured out how to install a toilet.”   The next Monday, the reply was “I helped build a house so that this family—Maria and John and their three kids—would finally have a real home to live in.”     The next week, he said “I spent the weekend making a difference with my friends from Trinity UMC.”   And the next Monday, when asked what had happened over the weekend, the guy replied, “God has changed my life!”     Often times, we know how far we need to travel to reach any place of wholeness, we look at our lives and at our communities, at our habits and at our struggles, and the sheer immensity or uncertainty of the road ahead is enough to keep us from taking a single step.  It’s like those moments of life when there is so much to attend to that, in thinking about it all at once, you grow so overwhelmed, that you attend to nothing, which in turn, makes you feel even more overwhelmed.     What if you took things one small step at a time, tackling the smaller challenges first, or putting your energy into one very important piece of what is on your plate?  Just get your foot on the path, just take one small step toward that vision of wholeness that is God’s vision for you.  Take a step.  Install a toilet.  Join a team.  Play with your children.  Make a friend.  Forgive someone.  Organize that pile.  Make a donation.  Live in the needs of the day.   I got to thinking about the fact that the story of those disciples in that locked room happened when it was still the first day of the week…it was still Easter day…still resurrection day. It was also the first day of the rest of their lives… They weren’t doing anything. They hadn’t yet been changed by the astonishing truth of God’s power over sin and fear and death. They had heard about it, but then the risen Jesus showed up.  Everything changed after that.  Jesus came speaking words of peace.  He let Thomas “act his way into new life,” by drawing close and touching his broken body. And that made all the difference. And then he sent them out to live, to act, to proclaim, to heal, to love, to build the Kindom of God.     Today is the first day of the week…the first day of the rest of your life.  Even if you’re here today feeling far away from Easter joy, wondering whether change is really possible in your life, doubting God’s presence or that any of what we proclaim is really true—even if you find yourself in one of those places today, we are all given an opportunity to act our way toward Easter together.  We don’t see the human Jesus here today. But again, just as he did over 2000 years ago, the risen Christ comes to his gathered disciples on the first day of the rest of our lives. Jesus meets us right here, wherever we are in our lives of faith and questioning, and offers us peace, offers us his broken body, breathes life into us. Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” and then blesses us with the Holy Spirit.  And the Holy Spirit won’t let you sit still for long…    So don’t wait to feel ready. Don’t wait to be certain. Don’t wait to believe perfectly. Take a step. Live your way into Easter. Because today— is still the first day.

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Foundry is an historic, progressive United Methodist Church that welcomes all, worships passionately, challenges the status quo, & seeks to transform the world.

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  • Creator
    Foundry UMC DC
  • Years Active
    2012 - 2026
  • Episodes
    100
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Copyright 2012 Foundry UMC. All rights reserved.
  • Show Website
    Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

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