Ponder All These Things

Sunday, March 8, 2026

Found at the Well

Just like the woman at the well, Jesus meets us—not just where we are—but precisely in the places where we don’t want to be found.

This sermon was preached on the Third Sunday in Lent, at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video version of the sermon may be found here.

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

There’s a particular kind of feeling that comes over you when you’re trying not to be seen. Not the kind of “I forgot to comb my hair” feeling. I mean that deeper instinct we all know—the one that says: If anyone really knew what’s going on in me… if anyone really saw what I’ve done, what I’ve left undone… if anyone saw what I’m afraid of… I might not survive the shame of it.

So, we learn to manage. We learn to hide in our own lives. We learn to show up at the well when nobody else is there.

And that’s why I love this story in John 4—because it tells the truth about us without humiliating us. Jesus is traveling. He’s tired. He sits down by Jacob’s well in Samaria. And a woman comes to draw water. Then, John gives us a detail that is easy to miss: it’s noon.

Noon is a strange time to draw water. That’s not usually when someone does their daily work. That’s done in the cooler hours—during the morning rush—when everyone else is there. When one would have the rest of the day to use the water. When you can blend in.

But she’s not there during the morning rush hour. She comes at noon. Which means—at the very least—this woman is alone.

And I’m going to say what the text invites us to wonder: maybe she likes it that way. Maybe noon is safer. Maybe noon is quieter. Maybe it’s the only time she can breathe without feeling eyes on her, without feeling the weight of whispers. She comes at noon because she doesn’t want to be found.

But, Jesus is already sitting there—where this woman probably did not expect him to be. This noon-time encounter has had me pondering a radical truth all week: God meets us—not just where we are—but precisely in the places where we don’t want to be found.

Not when we’re polished. Not when we’ve done enough penance. Not when we can finally explain ourselves. But right there. At noon. At the well. In the place we would rather avoid.

And the conversation begins so simply. In such a human way: Jesus says, “Give me a drink.” Which is already startling, because there are lines here—religious lines, ethnic lines, moral lines, gender lines—and Jesus steps right over all of them and shows us that love is more influential to him than the world’s categories.

She says, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a Samaritan woman?” In other words: Do you know who I am? Do you know what group I belong to? Do you know the story you’ve been told about people like me?

And Jesus doesn’t answer by defending himself. There’s no lecture. He offers a gift: “If you knew the gift of God… you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

Living water. Fresh water. Running water. Not stagnant. Not what sits too long in a jar and starts to taste like the container.

And at first—she doesn’t get it. You may recall from last week’s Gospel passage with Nicodemus that in John: people misunderstand Jesus, and Jesus uses the misunderstanding as a doorway. He doesn’t shame them for not being enlightened yet. He stays with them until they can receive what he’s actually offering.

Confused, she says, “Sir, you have no bucket.” Then—like so many of us—she tries to steer the conversation into a religious debate. Where is the right place to worship? Which tradition is correct? Who has the true lineage? Whose holy place counts?

And did you notice Jesus’ response? He meets her there. He doesn’t dismiss the question. He doesn’t say doctrine doesn’t matter. He goes with her theology.

But then Jesus takes it deeper. Because Jesus is not interested in winning an argument. Jesus is interested in freeing this woman from her bondage. And that’s where the turning point comes.

Jesus cuts to the heart of things: “Go call your husband and come back.” Friends, that is the moment when most of us would bolt. That is the moment where the conversation stops being interesting and starts being personal.

It’s one thing to talk about worship locations. It’s another thing to talk about your life. But, she doesn’t balk, responding: “I have no husband.”

So, Jesus continues, “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband.” Now—this is important—Jesus does not say this to humiliate her. Jesus does not say this to punish her. Jesus says it because he is doing what love does: he is bringing her into the truth that can finally set her free.

And it’s complicated, right? We don’t know her whole story. We don’t know whether she’s been discarded, widowed, exploited, trapped, or surviving. John doesn’t give us a neat moral résumé.

What John gives us is this: whatever the story is, it’s heavy enough that she’s drawing water at noon. And Jesus looks straight at the place she would rather keep hidden.

And she does something brave. She doesn’t deny. She doesn’t spin. She doesn’t offer an excuse. She stays.

For a moment, she is fully seen. And somehow—mysteriously—the weight shifts. Because this is what happens when you are seen with mercy: you don’t collapse under the truth; you rise inside it. This is the holiness of Jesus: he knows the truth about you, and he stays at the well anyway.

I know some of us grew up with the picture of a God who is angry, vengeful, and waiting for us to slip so we can be punished. But this story will not allow that portrait of God to stand. Because Jesus already knows. Jesus already sees. And what does he offer?

Living water. Not shame-water. Not “try harder” water. Not “come back when you’re fixed” water. Living water!

And the result is not that she becomes small and silent. The result is that she becomes a witness. She leaves her water jar—the very thing she came for—and she runs back to the village and says, “Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done.”

That phrase—“come and see”—matters in John’s Gospel. It shows up at the beginning when disciples are first invited into relationship. It shows up when someone is skeptical and needs an invitation, not an argument. And here it shows up again on the lips of this woman.

In John’s Good News she’s not explicitly “sent,” and yet she becomes a prototype of apostleship: a person who has encountered Jesus and cannot keep it to herself. She doesn’t say, “Come and see the perfect doctrine I’ve mastered.” She doesn’t say, “Come and see how I cleaned up my life.” She says, in essence: Come and see what mercy feels like.

And that means, Church, we do not only admire her. We are meant to emulate her. So, what would it look like for us—at Holy Apostles—to emulate her?

It might look like this:

It might look like telling the truth to God in prayer instead of managing God with religious language. Not “Lord, I’m fine,” but “Lord, I’m thirsty. I’m lonely. I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m exhausted.”

It might look like letting a trusted friend or spouse or counselor see what we usually keep hidden—because secrecy is where shame breeds, and mercy is what shame cannot survive.

It might look like naming the “noon places” in our own lives—those patterns we return to when we don’t want to be found: the doomscrolling, the numbing, the drinking, the controlling, the overworking, the sarcasm, the emotional shutdown, the quiet resentment.

And it might look like a different kind of witness: not loud, not performative, not “holier-than-thou”—but honest.

“Come and see. I met Jesus in the place I didn’t want to be found, and somehow, I’m still standing.”

Now—let me speak carefully, but plainly. From my pastoral perspective—which aims to see the world through the lens of Christ’s love—from my view as a pastor, we have seemed lost as a country over the last several years. We are at odds with one another. We are cynical. We are quick to disdain. We are more practiced at outrage than repair.

And whatever your politics, we are living with the consequences of forces bigger than any one of us—violence in the world, fear in the air, an addiction to domination, a cheapening of truth, and a hardening of our hearts.

And I wonder if what this story does for us in Lent is lead us—not into political debate—but into spiritual honesty. Because the question isn’t, “Can we find someone else to blame?” The question is: Will we let ourselves be seen? Will we tell the truth about our complicity—about how easy it is to want the world to change without wanting our own hearts to change?

Will we tell the truth about the ways prejudice still lives in us and among us? Will we tell the truth about the ways we can spend our lives trying not to be found—by God, by one another, by our own conscience?

Because here is the best news: Jesus already knows everything we’ve ever done.

He knows the broken relationships we’ve been part of.

He knows the ways we’ve harmed and the ways we’ve been harmed.

He knows the ways we’ve tried to quench our thirst with stagnant water—domination, consumerism, addiction, gluttony, greed, lust, revenge, the need to be right, the need to win, and all those other versions of tainted water.

And still—Christ sits at the well. Still—he speaks. Still—he offers living water.

Christ’s living water is not a religious product. It’s not something we earn. It is the life of God poured into the dry places of the human heart. And Jesus says: “The water I will give will become in you a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”

Not from the ground. Not from the empire. Not from the market. Not from the powers and principalities of this world. From within you. From your inmost being—the seat of your soul—where Christ is meant to reign.

So, in this season of Lent, I wonder:

When Christ finds you hiding at the well… will you run and hide?

Or will you do what this brave Samaritan woman did?

Will you stay?

Will you let him see you?

Will you receive the mercy that tells the truth and still loves you?

And then—will you become a witness?

Not because you have it all figured out.
But because you’ve tasted living water.

Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done, he can’t be the Messiah, can he?

Amen.

Sunday, March 1, 2026

Father Nick Couldn't Sleep

This week's message is a modern day retelling of Nicodemus' encounter with Jesus in John 3:1-17.

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday in Lent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. You may view a video of this sermon here.

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Many of us woke up this weekend to headlines that feel destabilizing—news of violence, power shifts, and uncertainty in the world. I don’t pretend to have geopolitical answers in this sermon. But I do know this: when the world feels unsteady, we return to what is steady. And sometimes what steadies us is not analysis, but encounter.

So, let me tell you a story.

Father Nick couldn’t sleep again. It wasn’t the peaceful kind of insomnia the internet recommends deep breathing for. This was the kind where your mind becomes a committee meeting and every thought files a report.

He lay beside his wife, Miriam, who possessed the spiritual gift of falling asleep even when his anxious energy hummed through the mattress like a second heartbeat. She could feel it, though. She always could. She had stopped trying to fix her spouse. Sometimes the only way a person gets honest is when the house is quiet enough to hear their own soul.

Father Nick stared at the ceiling fan tracing slow circles—wondering if it might hypnotize him to sleep. But thoughts turned to the parish calendar, which was already full—vestry meetings starting in prayer and quickly turning into budget conversations, pastoral visits he’d promised but hadn’t yet made, Sunday’s liturgy waiting to be shaped. And then there was the invisible list:

Did the sermon land? Did I sound too political? Not political enough?
Are pledges down? Why did that parishioner look away when I spoke of forgiveness? What happens if people stop coming?

Father Nick was a dutiful pastor. That was the compliment people gave him.

“He’s faithful.”
“He works hard.”
“He keeps things running.”

And he did keep things running. Prayers, bulletins, sacraments, emails—like someone appointed not only to the cure of souls but to the cure of logistics.

But beneath all the competence, something felt hollow.

Not dramatic emptiness. Quiet emptiness. The kind that comes when you’ve been pouring yourself out for so long you can’t remember what it feels like to be filled.

In the dark he remembered his ordination—the bishop’s hands heavy and kind, the prayers like thunder and honey at the same time. He had believed he was being given a life rooted in God.

He also remembered something Bishop Stough, the old bishop, used to say with a half-smile: “The longest journey you’ll ever make is about eighteen inches—from your head down to your heart.”At clergy retreats that sort of statement sounded folksy. At 2 a.m., it sounded like diagnosis.

The next morning Father Nick stood at the kitchen window with his coffee, watching dawn spread like slow mercy across the neighborhood. He caught his reflection in the glass—jaw clenched, shoulders slightly hunched, as if bracing for the next request.

He had meant every promise he made to Miriam—slower evenings, laughter not interrupted by phone calls. But the church needed him. The people needed him. And, if he was honest, he needed to feel needed.

Later that day he met with other clergy at a regional gathering. Paper cups of coffee. Polite jokes. The unspoken competition of who’s busiest. Someone mentioned another church across town—the kind with professional lighting and a brand. The kind where it became harder to tell where the Kingdom of God ends and party platforms begins.

“They’re growing like crazy,” someone said carefully. The tone shifted. Not hostile. Not admiring. Just uneasy. Father Nick felt something tighten in his stomach. Not because growth was wrong. Not because creativity was evil. But because he knew the temptation.

He knew how easily growth in numbers could start to outshine spiritual growth. How influence could start to feel like faithfulness. How being impressive could masquerade as being holy. And he knew how easily a pastor could begin preaching not for transformation—but for approval.

Later that afternoon he walked into his own parish hall. Volunteers were setting up for a newcomers’ event. Banners. Postcards. Welcome items for visitors. All well-intentioned. All harmless. And yet something in him whispered: it would be so easy to make this everything. To drift. Not through greed, but through anxiety.

That evening, after dinner, Miriam watched him pace back-and-forth in their living room. “You’re going to go see him,” she said.

“See who?” he asked, though he knew.

“The Teacher,” she said. “Not the one in your sermon notes. The real one.” He tried to laugh, but it came out thin.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Miriam softened. “Maybe it means you’re finally tired of doing religion without feeling God.”

That landed like a millstone in water—and it pulled Nick down with it. Gasping for spiritual air, he finally decided to follow his spouse’s suggestion, to listen to his soul’s yearning.

So, Father Nick put on his coat and stepped into the night. He didn’t announce it. Didn’t schedule it. Didn’t post about it. He just went. He drove across town and parked along a quiet street. A friend had given him an address—not a church. Not a chapel. Just a place. A small house with one light on.

He knocked. A young person answered. Then, strangely recognized him. “Father Nick, come in,” the 20 something-year-old beckoned.

Inside, the room was simple. No stage. No screen. A table with bread crumbs, a half full cup of wine, a candle burning low. And there, sitting as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world, was the Teacher.

No performance. No anxiety. Just presence.

Father Nick sat down, hands clasped tight. He had rehearsed what he would say, but his prepared speech collapsed under reality.

“Teacher,” he began carefully, “we know your wisdom comes from God.”

The Teacher listened, then said:

“Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Father Nick blinked.

Born from above?

His mind reached for process. For structure. For steps.

“How can anyone be born after having grown old?” he asked.

The Teacher did not mock him.

“Very truly,” he said, “no one can enter the kingdom without being born of water and Spirit.”

Then, he spoke of the wind—how it blows where it chooses. You hear it. But, you cannot control it. You cannot spreadsheet it. You cannot manage it. This wasn’t about understanding. It was about surrender to the loving power that is much bigger than us.

And then the Teacher said, not harshly but truthfully:

“Are you a teacher… and you do not understand these things?”

Father Nick felt exposed.

He knew Scripture. He knew liturgy. He knew theology.

He knew it all in his head.

But somewhere along the way, he had started wearing knowledge like armor.

The Teacher was asking him to disarm.

“How can these things be?” he whispered.

The Teacher leaned forward, moving the conversation those eighteen inches downward.

“For God so loved the world,” he said, “that God gave the Son—not to condemn the world, but to save it—to free it.”

Not to condemn.

Not to evaluate.

Not to grade.

To love it, to love all people, to love all Creation.

Something in Father Nick loosened.

The emptiness he felt wasn’t failure.

It was hunger—holy longing.

Not for better programming. Not for sharper branding.

But, for new birth.

For Spirit.

For love that wasn’t a performance review.

When he stood to leave, the Teacher gave him no to-do list.

Just presence. A look of tenderness. And a short but profound embrace.

Outside, the night air felt alive.

And that’s when he noticed it:

The wind had picked up.

Not violent. Not dramatic.

Just enough to move the leaves. Enough to make the branches whisper.

He stood there, listening.

He didn’t know where it came from or where it was going.

He only knew it was real.

And for the first time in a long time, his heart did not feel like a committee meeting.

It felt like a doorway—leading to a new life born from the love above.

And now I should tell you:

The priest in that story isn’t exactly fictional.

In John’s Gospel his name is Nicodemus—a religious leader who comes to Jesus by night. Full of respect. Full of knowledge. Full of questions.

Living in a time of political tension and religious pressure.

He comes at night because for some reason, he didn’t want to be seen.

And Jesus does not shame him.

Jesus speaks of love.

Friends, Nicodemus doesn’t change overnight.

But he moves throughout John’s Gospel account.

From night in John 3…
to a cautious defense of Jesus at a religious council in John 7…
to finally standing at the cross in broad daylight, helping prepare the body of Jesus for burial.

The longest journey you’ll ever make is about eighteen inches.

From your head down to your heart.

From managing religion
to being born of Spirit.

From performance
to love.

And when the world feels unsteady, when anxiety hums in the dark, when we are tempted to drift toward approval or control—

the invitation is not to try harder.

It is to return.

To encounter.

To let the wind move you.

For God so loved the world.

Not condemned.

Loved.

And sometimes that love doesn’t simply rearrange your calendar.

It rearranges your entire life.

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

God says: Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

God moves in down the street and wonders, "Won't you be my neighbor?"

This sermon was preached on Christmas Eve at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. The readings above, as well as the life of Fred Rogers guided this message. A video of the sermon may be viewed here.

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

The Reverend Fred Rogers—better known as Mr. Rogers—was once asked why his television show had such a lasting impact, why children—and adults—felt seen by it in a way few programs ever managed. His answer was simple.

He said that whenever someone came into his studio—child or adult, guest or stranger—he tried to imagine a sign hanging around their neck that read:

Please do not judge me.
Please try to understand me.
I am doing the best I can.

And then he said something even more striking.

He believed that the greatest gift he could offer another person was not advice, not correction, not even answers to life’s big questions…
The greatest gift he could give was his presence.

Because when someone stays long enough…
listens without rushing…
refuses to abandon another to fear or shame…
something quietly but permanently shifts.

When someone shows up for us in this way…

We begin to breathe differently.
We begin to trust.
We begin to hope.

We feel connected.

We feel seen.

It is yes, a human interaction, but it is also divine.

When someone honors us in this way, it is as though the interior mansions of our lives—our very souls—begin to be remodeled.
The furniture gets rearranged.
New space opens up within, between, and among us.

Not so that we will have more capacity—
but so that God might dwell with us… within us.

That God and we might dance together… living not just around each other, but with one another.

Tonight, we celebrate not a passing presence, but a dwelling one.
On this Holy Night, we remember that God did not create the world, then retreat from it.

On Christmas Eve we marvel at the truth:
God came close.
God made a home among us.
God moved into our neighborhood,

And asked, won’t you be my neighbor?

The Gospel writer Saint Matthew picks up the Prophet Isaiah’s divine name for our God-turned-neighbor calling Jesus—Emmanuel meaning: God-with-us.

How and where did God-With-Us choose to be our neighbor?

Returning to our Gospel lesson for tonight, Saint Luke is clear: God did not enter in myth or legend, but in the middle of history.

Note the details:
A census.
A journey.
An occupied people.
A world where power is held tightly by the few…

Messy and much like our own day.

Isaiah names this reality plainly: darkness.
Not just night, but despair.
Not just fear, but exhaustion.

And into that world—not a perfect one, not a healed one, not a deserving one—into our world, a child is born.

Not in a palace.
Not behind walls of protection.
Not at the center of wealth or influence.

But in a place meant for livestock (our equine and bovine neighbors).

God-With-Us arrives in complete vulnerability.

And friends, that is a crucial ingredient in the miracle of Christmas.

But, it’s not all of it. For elsewhere in Holy Scripture, we read something else essential about God’s entering into our world.
In the First Letter of John, we are told plainly: God is love.

Which means that if God is love,
then God-With-Us is also Love-With-Us.

Not as a feeling.
Not as an idea.
But as a person.

Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, the Messiah, the Savior and Redeemer of the World.

John will later put it more poetically:
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

God-With-Us did not hover at a distance.
Love-With-Us stayed with us.

However, if you follow the story long enough…

You may wonder, But Seth what about the Ascension? Didn’t Jesus leave then?

As we remember, God coming to be with us, it’s only good and right to also ponder what about when God seemingly left us.
And here our siblings in Orthodox Christianity offer a striking legend.

This old story from the Church of the East imagines that as the risen Christ Jesus ascended into heaven, the apostles—still afraid of being left behind—reached out and clung to him. They held onto his feet. And as Christ rose, they held onto one another, forming a living chain between earth and heaven.

As they climbed higher and higher, Christ Jesus did not shake them loose. I think that is because in the Incarnation, God brought heaven to earth—making ordinary human life holy, and in the Ascension, Jesus forever bound earth to heaven—not by leaving us behind, but by drawing our very humanity to the right hand of God the Father, into the very Divine life of the Trinitarian Community.

Even the Ascension, then, is not a story of departure, abandonment, or absence. It is a story of communion.

This means that tonight, we do not simply remember a birth. We proclaim an eternal presence.

God-With-Us is here.

God-With-Us has always been here.

God-With-Us will not abandon us.

And in a few moments, that same God-With-Us will come to us again—
not as an idea to be considered,
not as a metaphor to be decoded,
but as bread and wine.

Ordinary elements.
Everyday food.
The kind of things that sustain life and mark celebration.

And in them, God reminds us that divine presence is not reserved for mountaintops or holy moments alone,
but is woven into daily nourishment and quiet abundance.

Even now, God is choosing nearness…

Still choosing to dwell with us—
hidden in plain sight at this table, yes…
and revealed again and again in the world we inhabit.

God-With-Us meets us in the faces of friends and family,
in the love of those seated beside us,
and in the tenderness we offer and receive.

God-With-Us also resides in the stranger who needs our care,
in the neighbor who carries a burden we cannot see,
and yes—even in the one who challenges us, resists us, or stands opposed to us.

Because God-With-Us is not only among us—
Love-With-Us is within us, all of us.

The same God who called creation into being,
the same God who holds all things together,
is here—
now—
with and within each one of you, each one of us.

So, hear the good news of this Holy Night:
You are not alone.
You have never been alone.

And God will reside with you forever.

For we have an attuned God loving us.

We have the gift of God’s divine love within us.

We have within us an everlasting spring of a Love so abundant that the heavens could not contain them on their own…

So, Love spilled over forming and inhabiting all of Creation…

Because God eternally gives not only divine presence—but also stays with us in an everlasting relationship…
Staying, abiding, refusing to leave—that is who God is.

And, when Christ Jesus came among us, we were given another sign to hang around our necks. This one reads:

God loves me.

God understands me.

God knows I am doing my best.

For God is with you in your joy and in your weariness,
in your hope and in your doubt,
in this moment and in every moment still to come.

God-With-Us came to be in relationship with you and with us. Love-With-Us came to dwell among us—and never left.

Emmanuel has moved into the neighborhood, and he is wondering:

Won’t you be my neighbor?

Won’t you be one another’s neighbor?

Sunday, December 14, 2025

By Their Fruits

Jesus is pretty clear that it's not about lip service, it's about incarnate, embodied ministry.

This sermon was preached on Sunday, December 14^th at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may view a video of the sermon by clicking here.

Holy God, let my words be your words, and when they are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Beloved in Christ, there is a sentence Jesus speaks in this week’s Gospel that lands differently when the world around us feels anxious and reactive. Jesus says, “You will know them by their fruits.” Not by their slogans. Not by their power. Not by how loudly they say, “Lord, Lord.” But by the fruits of their lives.

Jesus teaches this because human beings, especially religious human beings, often confuse conviction with correctness, or fear with faithfulness. And sometimes—God help us—we confuse identity with discipleship.

This past week, our own city of Hoover has been in the news. Some have spoken at public meetings expressing concern, fear, or outright opposition to the creation of a new Islamic school. I’m not here to adjudicate zoning, land use, or financial feasibility—that is not my lane—and I would be wholly out of my depths discussing proper city planning. But I am here to speak—in love—to the Christian reasoning that some have used to justify opposition. Because friends, we must be very, very careful when we invoke Jesus’ name to build walls that He Himself tore down.

Let me say this clearly: If your objection to this school is economic, or infrastructural, or traffic-based—that is civic conversation—and it is good and right to engage in weighing the pros and cons. But if your objection is that Hoover is a “Christian town” and Muslims are a “foreign religion,” that is not Christianity speaking. That is fear wearing a cross as camouflage. And I say that with compassion, because fear is a very human response.

I understand that any change can stir up anxiety. That’s human. But Jesus never let fear steer the ship. And so, Jesus calls us to something deeper. Because here is the truth: Jesus never called His followers to build an exclusive community that shuts others out; He sends us into the world, not away from it.

And Jesus envisioned His followers living among all kinds of people, not separating themselves from them. Think about His entire earthly ministry: He lived in a religiously mixed society—Jews, Samaritans, Roman polytheists, Greek philosophers, zealots, sinners, the faithful, the faithless, the seekers, the tired, the forgotten, and…

He did not fear them.

He ate with them.

He healed them.

He blessed them.

He spoke truth to them.

He received hospitality from them.

He called some of them to follow Him.

Let’s remember a few of His encounters:

• The Samaritan woman at the well—member of a rival religion. Jesus reveals to her more than to any disciple.

• The Roman centurion—a soldier of the occupying force. Jesus marvels: “I have not found such faith in all Israel.”

• The Syrophoenician woman—a mother from a foreign religion. Jesus learns from her boldness and expands His ministry.

• The parable of the Good Samaritan—the outsider is the neighbor; the religious insiders walk by.

Friends, our Lord Jesus lived his entire life as a faithful Jew, not a Christian. And He saw the faith of outsiders, the dignity of strangers, and yes—the presence of God beyond the boundaries of His own religious tradition.

And today’s Gospel—which is all about being known not by what we say but by what we do—leads us to this truth: Real faith is recognized not by correctness but by fruit. By healing. By mercy. By justice. By welcome. By courage. By love.

This is why I think about Jesus’ words in John’s Gospel, where He calls Himself the Good Shepherd. And then He says something astonishing: “I have sheep that are not of this fold.”

Jesus, the one we claim as Lord, believes that God is bigger than our boundaries. Bigger than our maps. Bigger than our categories. Bigger than our religions—even as He works within His own tradition faithfully. Even as He works in this Faith—this Tradition in which we are called Christians because we are all called to be “little Christs.” Which leads me to believe: If Jesus can imagine God’s care for people beyond His fold, surely we as His followers can make room for our Muslim neighbors to flourish. Not in spite of our Christian faith. But because of it.

Opening our hearts to our neighbors of other faiths doesn’t weaken our Christian identity—it strengthens it, because it roots us more deeply in Jesus’ own way. If a Muslim school produces children who are compassionate, curious, committed to justice…

If it teaches respect, diligence, love of neighbor…

If its graduates bless our city—then Jesus’ own standard applies: “You will know them by their fruits.”

And likewise—If we Christians in this city produce division, exclusion, suspicion, or fear—Jesus’ standard still applies: “You will know them by their fruits.”

I am not preaching at anyone here. I am preaching for us—so that the world sees the real Jesus through us. Not the Jesus of political talking points. Not the Jesus of culture wars. Not the Jesus invoked to defend territory or to justify sinful behavior that distorts our relationships with neighbor, Creation, ourselves, and God. Not any of that…

But instead, may we reveal the Jesus who moved toward the other, not away. The Jesus who crossed lines, not reinforced them. The Jesus whose courage came from love, not from fear. The Jesus whose power was shown not in dominance but in mercy. So if you ask, “How do I talk with people who use Christianity to injure those of other faiths?”

I have five steps, and if you are thinking, I’m not going to remember any of this, do not fret. I’ve made a conversation guide that you can pick up on your way out of church.

You might begin here:
1. Ask them about Jesus’ example, not their opinions. “Where in the Gospels does Jesus avoid or oppose people of other religions?”

2. Invite them into curiosity. “Have you ever met a Muslim family? Have you heard their hopes for their children?”

3. Use fruit language. “What fruit will this decision produce in our city? Fear or hospitality? Division or relationship?”

4. Remind them of the Great Commandment. It’s not “Love your neighbor if they are Christian.” It’s Love your neighbor. Full stop.

5. And remind them of the Great Commission when Jesus tells His followers to go into all nations to baptize and model everything He commanded—which always brings us back to the heart of His teaching: Love God. Love Neighbor.

The Church grows through witness, not domination. Through light breaking through the cracks—not through building thicker walls. Through invitation, not intimidation.

Beloved, I don’t know what our great city of Hoover will decide. I don’t know what the council and mayor will approve. I don’t know how everything will shake out. But I do know what kind of Christians we are called to be:

People whose faith bears fruit worthy of the One we follow.

People who walk in love, not fear.

People who embody the wideness of God’s mercy.

People who trust that Jesus meant it when He said, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called Children of God.”

And if we do that—if we become known in Hoover as a church that is curious, compassionate, humble, and brave—then we will be a signal flare in this city: a community willing to have the hard conversations, a people unafraid to stand in truth, a church striving to look, live, and be like Jesus.

And friends—that is the fruit that will last. And Christ knows, we make his Name known not only by what we say or think, but mostly by how we live, and move, and have our being.

So, beloved, what kind of fruit will we bear?