SOCL, EasterC

Sunday April 20, 2025

See

We race toward evidence but hesitate at the threshold of belief. Like the beloved disciple, we arrive first—eager, breathless with anticipation—yet pause at the entrance, unwilling to fully enter the empty space where certainty once lived. Our curiosity carries us to the edge, but something primal holds us back from the final step.

The folded burial cloths sit in silent testimony. What strikes us isn't the miracle but the orderliness of it—not chaos but intention, not theft but transition. The abandoned grave clothes, meticulously arranged, reveal more than absence; they speak of purpose. We expect disruption in transformation, yet the most profound changes often leave behind a mysterious order we struggle to comprehend.

The fastest runner doesn't always see most clearly. Peter arrives second but enters first, his impulsive courage compensating for his slower pace. Meanwhile, the one who witnesses from the threshold ultimately believes more deeply. Our understanding follows no predictable timeline—some grasp truth in an instant while others require physical immersion in the emptiness before comprehension dawns.

Listen

Acts 10:34, 37-43; Psalm 118 (117); Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-9

Reflect

(John 20:1-9)

When have you rushed toward something you desperately wanted to understand, only to hesitate at the final moment? Consider times when you've stood at the threshold of transformation—seeing evidence but struggling to take that final step into belief or action.

The disciples encountered an empty space where they expected to find death and closure. How might the unexpected absences or losses in your life actually be invitations to a new kind of presence or understanding you haven't yet recognized?

What carefully folded "burial cloths" exist in your life—signs of intention and purpose amid apparent absence? How might paying attention to the order within chaos help you recognize the difference between loss and transformation?

Pray

Lord, your design remains when all else appears vacant. Grant us courage to enter empty spaces that terrify us, wisdom to distinguish between theft and transformation, and patience with ourselves and others as understanding unfolds at its own pace. May we recognize your fingerprints in the folded cloths of our unraveling certainties.

SOCL, PalmC

Sunday April 13, 2025

Power surrendered

See

We cling to control as our birthright—scheduling, planning, optimizing our way around vulnerability. Yet the moment crisis strikes, this carefully constructed scaffolding collapses. What then? The truly powerful person isn't the one who never falls but who knows how to surrender with intention. When accused, Jesus offers no defense; facing death, no escape plan. His silence confounds his captors more than any argument could. We mistake this for weakness, but within apparent powerlessness lies revolutionary strength.

Our fear isn't of suffering but of meaningless suffering. We construct elaborate narratives—career achievements, financial security, social validation—all designed to convince ourselves that pain can be permanently outsmarted. The cross exposes this fiction. The path forward runs directly through vulnerability, not around it. Our desperate attempts to circumvent suffering keep us circling the very transformation we seek.

What power emerges when control is relinquished? Consider how water's strength comes not from resistance but from yielding—flowing around obstacles, gradually reshaping landscapes. Those who clutch tightly at authority ultimately lose it, while those who open their hands often discover something greater waiting beyond the sacrifice.

Listen

Isaiah 50:4-7; Psalm 22 (21); Philippians 2:6-11; Luke 22:14-23:56

Reflect

(Luke 22:14-23-56)

When have you faced a situation where your usual methods of control failed you? Consider moments when your carefully constructed plans dissolved, leaving you in uncomfortable territory without your typical defenses or solutions.

Instead of seeing vulnerability as weakness, how might embracing it connect you more deeply to others? The crucified figure offers a radical alternative to power-through-dominance, suggesting strength emerges precisely where we feel most exposed.

What might you need to surrender today—a grudge, an expectation, a carefully maintained image? What space might open up if you released your grip on something you've been desperately trying to control?

Pray

Lord, you move through surrender rather than force. Teach us to release our tight grip on outcomes. Bring comfort to those facing impossible situations beyond their control. Transform our communities from competition toward compassion. May we discover, in our moments of greatest vulnerability, the unexpected power that flows when we finally open our clenched hands.

SOCL, Lent5C

Sunday April 07, 2025

The mirrors we throw

See

We rush to document others' failures with screenshot precision while furiously deleting evidence of our own. The court of public opinion never adjourns, but somehow we're always on the jury, never in the defendant's box. Our selective outrage reveals not moral clarity but strategic blindness—we measure others by their worst moments while granting ourselves lifetime grace.

The stones we clutch aren't just weapons but shields. Behind each accusation hides a fear: that someone might apply our own standards to us. We build elaborate explanations for why our identical mistakes deserve understanding while others' warrant exposure. How easily forgiveness becomes a resource we hoard rather than distribute, available in abundance for our reflection but scarce for the stranger.

The ground beneath accusers and accused remains the same earth. The finger tracing in dust writes what we already know but refuse to acknowledge: we stand in both places simultaneously. True transformation begins not when we perfect our judgment but when we release the exhausting pretense of having earned the right to cast it.

Listen

Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126 (125); Philippians 3:8-14; John 7:53-8:11

Reflect

(John 7:53-8:11)

When did you last find yourself part of a collective judgment—piling on someone's mistake online, participating in office gossip, or mentally cataloging others' failures? Notice how comfortable it felt to stand outside the circle looking in.

Jesus disrupts our rush to judgment not by denying wrongdoing but by expanding the circle until it includes us all. What would change if you approached others' mistakes with the same context and compassion you hope others apply to yours?

Identify one person you've been holding to an impossible standard. How might your relationship transform if you set down the stone of judgment—not excusing harmful behavior, but creating space where growth becomes possible?

Pray

Lord, you see completely without condemning. Grant us courage to examine our own hearts before criticizing others, wisdom to recognize our selective standards of judgment, and compassion that creates spaces of transformation. Help us become people who offer others the same grace we desperately need ourselves.