I first moved away from my home town in my early twenties. I had been a commuter student at college, and had lived in a few different student apartments, but was never more than a 20 minute drive from my family home.  So my first real encounter with homesickness, besides being away at summer camp as a kid, was when I moved half a state away to pursue a Master’s degree. 

Good morning beloved! 

Over the last month, we have been exploring the idea of sacred rest and considering some of the spiritual practices that people routinely engage in. Today, I would like to talk a little bit about the ancient practice of meditation. And then I will invite you to join me as I lead us through a guided meditation.

In the tradition of the contemplative community of Taizé, France, there is no written sermon for this service. We invite you to find sacred rest in the hearing of scripture and music.

It is 1982, the summer after I graduated from high school. I am 18, and my three friends and I are power-walking through the Louvre museum, as one does when one has allotted only three hours to see a museum that has a collection of over 500,000 art objects. In this museum full of famous paintings, we are fixated on making our way to perhaps THE most famous painting. We stride through the galleries without pausing. But in one gallery, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a painting that draws my attention. I turned to look at it, and it seems as though time stops. I am totally captivated. I’ve never seen a reproduction of the painting before, and I have no idea who the artist is, but there’s something about it that draws me in. Something about the contrast of light and dark, something about the main figure that I see in the painting, something about the quietness of the scene that makes me—compels me—to stop and notice. Time seems to stop for a moment. As I remember this moment in my mind’s eye, all the sound in the room disappears. All the voices, the movement fade away. And I am alone in the room with this painting.

In the beginning, God consecrated not a place, but time.

Read the opening of Genesis slowly and you notice something easy to miss. God makes light and calls it good. God makes land and sea, sun and moon, creatures of every kind—tob, good, and good, and very good. But the first thing in all of Scripture that God calls holy is not a mountain. Not a garden. Not a temple. It is a day.

“So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it.”

Before there was ever a sanctuary, there was a Sabbath.

Nearly three thousand years ago, someone in the Greek world started telling a story about a soldier trying to get home. And we have never stopped telling it. The Greek poem is attributed to the poet Homer. It would be written down centuries after him. Today, Tennyson’s echo still reverberates, “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” James Joyce moved the whole Odyssey into one ordinary Thursday in Dublin. Tolkien, who loved Homer, quietly refused him—his hero is not a clever king but Samwise Gamgee, an ordinary gardener who keeps walking no matter what. Now there’s an Face of Faith! And the Coen brothers set the story in Depression-era Mississippi with a bluegrass soundtrack and a river baptism. The epic fits nicely into Nolan’s filmography as he is beholden to what happens when extraordinary human ability collides with profound moral complexity.

Today we bring our summer worship series about the Faces of Our Faith: Bold and Untold Stories to a close. We’ve explored 14 different figures from that Bible, told their often-untold stories, and heard how their faith had an impact on those around them. We’ve also heard wonderful testimony from our own congregation about the faithful folks who influenced their spiritual journeys. I’m grateful to Lorenzo, Dave, Jeffra, Bob, Allie, Sam, and Becca for having the courage to tell their stories!

The final story in our series is Mary Magdalene, which is very appropriate, since last Wednesday, July 22 was Mary Magdalene’s feast day. I love Mary Magdalene. I have a stack of books about her, I’ve taken classes and workshops about her, and I love sharing the things I’ve learned about her. I have so much information to share that I could preach an entire sermon series on her. Unfortunately, I only have ten minutes today. So I’m going to offer you some of this information in the form of a list: seven things you may not know about Mary Magdalene, but should.

On Pentecost, we remembered the coming of the Holy Spirit to the disciples through tongues of fire and the ability to speak and understand many languages. After that event, the Book of Acts says that three thousand people received the message and were baptized. The Apostles then began preaching the gospel in Jerusalem, telling people about Jesus’ resurrection and proclaiming that his New Creation had begun. They even taught in the courtyards of the Temple. The number of converts was growing. All of this angered the Temple leadership. The disciple Stephan was stoned to death

Now we arrive at today’s reading from the 8th chapter of Acts begins by telling us that “a severe persecution began against the (Jesus followers)...and all except the apostles were scattered throughout the countryside of Judea and Samaria.” They continued preaching the gospel and gaining new disciples wherever they went. The apostle Philip went down to the city of Samaria proclaiming the Messiah to them and performed many miracles. The people were amazed and many converted.

The next morning, scripture says that the Angel of the Lord appeared to Philip and told him, “Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.” As you heard earlier, Philip does so and there encounters the Ethiopian eunuch. 

At the Temple, then, several strands of Israel’s long story come together: Mary and Joseph arrive with their child; Simeon takes Jesus in his arms; and Anna, a prophet named for grace and descended from a scattered tribe named for blessedness, recognizes the significance of the moment. Luke says she immediately begins speaking about Jesus to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

That phrase suggests that Anna was part of a larger community of hope. She apparently knew who was still waiting, who was still praying, and who had not given up on the possibility of redemption. And when the moment came, she knew where to take the news.

El nombre de Ana también nos recuerda a otra gran mujer de la Biblia: Ana, la madre de Samuel. Ella llevó a su hijo al templo y cantó un himno sobre un Dios que levanta a los oprimidos. Ese mismo canto inspira más adelante el Magníficat de María, la madre de Jesús.

Ahora aparece otra Ana en el Templo y ella reconoce en el niño Jesús al Mesías esperado y comienza a anunciarlo a todos. La fe de Ana fue formada por una vida de oración, espera y esperanza. Nos recuerda que Dios suele revelar sus mayores sorpresas a quienes permanecen atentos y fieles, aun después de muchos años de espera.

Anna’s face of faith is one shaped by a long life: by grief and memory, prayer and community, identity and hope. She represents those people whose contribution to the story may occupy only a few verses, but whose years of faithfulness have prepared them to recognize something important when it finally appears.

Lydia was originally from what is now Turkey. She was a dealer in purple cloth, which likely means she worked in a valuable trade. Purple goods were associated with wealth, status, and influence in the Roman world.

The text presents her as a person of agency. She speaks for herself. She responds to Paul’s message. She and her household are baptized. And then she invites Paul and his companions to stay in her home. That detail matters.

In the earliest years of the church, homes were central to Christian life. Before there were church buildings, Christians gathered in houses for prayer, teaching, meals, fellowship, and song. So when Lydia opens her home, she is not simply being polite. She is creating space for the church to take root in Philippi.

Esta mañana continuamos nuestra serie Rostros de Nuestra Fe con la historia de Lidia. Aunque su historia ocupa pocos versículos, su importancia en la iglesia primitiva fue enorme.

Lidia era una comerciante de telas de púrpura, un producto asociado con la riqueza y el poder. Cuando Pablo llegó a Filipos, la encontró junto a un grupo de mujeres reunidas para orar a la orilla de un río. Lidia escuchó su mensaje, abrió su corazón y fue bautizada junto con su familia.

Después, abrió también las puertas de su casa. En una época sin templos cristianos, los hogares eran lugares de oración, comida, canto y comunidad. La hospitalidad de Lidia ayudó a crear un espacio donde la iglesia en Filipos pudo echar raíces. Su fe se expresó en hospitalidad, liderazgo y generosidad.

Desde sus comienzos, la Iglesia también fue una comunidad que cantaba su fe y esperanza. Y esa tradición continúa en nuestra herencia congregacional: el primer libro publicado en lo que hoy es Estados Unidos fue un libro de salmos preparado por iglesias congregacionales en el año 1640. La historia de Lidia, nuestros himnos y nuestra herencia nos recuerdan una misma verdad: la fe no es pasiva; se vive y se practica en comunidad.

Over the years, God has continued stretching our imagination. We've learned that compassion is only the beginning.

It's one thing to hand someone food; it's another to ask why they are hungry.

It's one thing to welcome immigrants; it's another to organize so every immigrant can flourish with dignity.

It’s one thing to pull babies from the Nile; it’s another to go upstream to stop the babies from being thrown in.

That's why you've heard us say that we're moving from welcoming to belonging, from charity to solidarity, from simply responding downstream to crises toward working upstream to transform the conditions that create them in the first place. That isn't because we've abandoned mercy. It's because mercy keeps leading us toward justice.

La historia de Sifrá y Puá nos recuerda que el mal casi nunca se presenta como mal al principio. Muchas veces llega disfrazado de órdenes, políticas o simplemente de "cumplir con mi trabajo". Ellas escogieron obedecer a Dios antes que al faraón, y su compasión se convirtió en valentía y resistencia frente a la injusticia.

Al reunirnos hoy para nuestra Reunión Anual, también nosotros preguntamos qué clase de iglesia queremos ser. Sí, seguiremos alimentando, acompañando y dando la bienvenida. Pero Dios también nos llama a ir más allá: no solo rescatar a los bebés del río, sino ir río arriba para detener las fuerzas que los empujan al agua. Por eso hablamos de pasar de la caridad a la solidaridad, de la bienvenida al verdadero sentido de pertenencia, trabajando para transformar las causas de la injusticia y no solo sus consecuencias.