12/7/25 – Sermon Written and Preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

INTRODUCTION TO EZEKIEL 37:1–14

Last week, we heard Isaiah speak hope to a people frightened by the collapse of all they knew.
Today we step deeper into that history.

Jerusalem has fallen,

the people have been carried into exile,

and hope feels shattered.

Into this landscape of loss, God gives a vision to Ezekiel that insists the story is not over.
Let us listen for the Word that breathes life where life seems impossible.

INTRODUCTION TO THE GOSPEL — JOHN 11:25–26

We continue hearing the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures through the lens of John’s Gospel.

As God promised life to bones that were long dead,

Jesus now stands beside Martha at her brother’s tomb and speaks a promise stronger than grief. He says:

“I AM the resurrection and the life.”

Let us listen for how Christ’s abundant life meets us even in the places we fear are beyond hope.

ADVENT 2 SERMON — PREPARE

“Breath Enough for the Valley”

Ezekiel 37:1–14; John 11:25–26

When Harper was about four years old, he was staying with my mom and my stepdad, Ralph during an ice storm.

He and Ralph had bundled up, walked outside into the sleet, and built a small icy snowman.

It was the kind of wobbly creation that only a Louisiana child and a grandparent would have the patience, much less the desire to make.

But it came out pretty cute.

At some point, Ralph went back inside to get a hat for the snowman.

As he rounded a corner just out of sight, his feet slipped out from under him on the icy path.

He fell hard and sliced his head open.
He lost consciousness for a few seconds, then came to and stumbled inside.

My mom sat him down, trying to clean him up, trying to piece together what had happened, and realizing he didn’t quite know himself.

So she called me to come get Harper so they could head to the ER.

By the time I arrived, they were wiping away the last of the blood and getting ready to go.

I stepped through the door ready to just scoop Harper up and head out quickly so that he wouldn’t be too traumatized by it all and so they could be on their way to get Ralph help.

But before I could reach him, Harper’s scared little face lit up.

He ran—not to me, but to his Ralphie—and wrapped his arms around him.

And with all the confidence a four-year-old heart can hold, he said,

“It’s ok, Ralphie. It’s gonna be ok. Momma’s here now.”

In his little mind, my presence could still heal anything.

Momma could fix anything.

My presence made his own fear lose its sharp edges.

And he was sure I could offer that to his Ralphie.

He didn’t understand what had happened and he knew that he couldn’t make it right on his own...

But he knew someone he trusted to make the world less scary and less painful.

And in that turning, in that instinctive leaning toward presence,

he prepared a small but holy space for hope in his own heart.

I think these moments are what Scripture is referring to when it tells us that “a little child will lead us” or when it invites us to have the faith of a child….

And Advent invites us into that kind of faith and that kind of preparation:

Not the hurried preparation the world expects.
Not the endless lists or the pressure to perfect.

Advent preparation is quieter.

Gentler.
It is the clearing of a little room inside ourselves so breath can return.
We prepare by turning toward God with open hands and honest hearts.
Advent is when we lean into trust and say to God, “This mess is too big for me, but your presence can hold it and heal it.”

Ezekiel lived through the devastation of the Babylonian exile.

Jerusalem had fallen.
The temple lay in ruins.
Families had been carried off to Babylon.
Everything that once felt steady was gone.

The people repeated the same sentence to each other, like a psalm of despair: “Our bones are dried up. Our hope is lost. We are cut off.”

And Ezekiel felt it too.

He had been a priest-in-training for a temple that no longer existed.
His own calling had crumbled with the stones of Jerusalem.

So when God places Ezekiel in a valley of dry bones,

God is not showing him someone else’s catastrophe.
God is showing him the truth of where he is standing.
The valley is a mirror for him and his people.

Can these bones live?

It is a question that echoes through every age, every grief, every valley we walk.

Ezekiel cannot imagine how life could return,

but he makes one small opening for hope:

“O Lord God, you know.”

This is not certainty.

This is not a solution.

He has no idea how it might be possible,

but he makes just enough room to think that

maybe God could make these dry bones live again.

And into tiny window of hope, into that prepared room, God breathes.

Breath rattles the bones.
Breath knits sinews and flesh together.
Breath fills lungs that had long forgotten how to breathe.
Life stands again on feet that had grown used to the dust.

This is God’s way…

Life begins with breath.
Hope begins with breath.
Resurrection begins with breath.

We see it again John’s Gospel - in Bethany.

There is a house full of mourners,
a sister grieving her brother, and a tomb sealed against the world.

This is another valley.
Another moment when breath feels absent.

And Jesus stands right there, close enough to touch the grief in Martha.
Close enough to hear the tremble in her voice.
Close enough to feel the weight of death in the air around them.

And before anything changes,

before the stone rolls away,

before Lazarus steps into the light,

Jesus says,
“I am the resurrection and the life.”

This is not a promise about a distant someday.

It is a declaration of presence in that moment.
Life is here.
Hope is here.
Breath is here.
Christ is here.

And Martha, much like Ezekiel, makes a small but holy room for trust.

She cannot imagine how resurrection could come.
She cannot yet see what Jesus sees.
But she turns toward him and in doing so, she prepares just enough space for life to rise.

Advent is the season that teaches us to prepare that kind of space.

Not perfect space.
Not polished space.
Just honest space where God can breathe.

Sometimes preparation is a candle lit in a dark room.
Sometimes it is a whispered prayer.
Sometimes it is the steadying breath taken before facing another day.
Sometimes it is leaning toward someone we know who can hold what we cannot.
Sometimes it is the smallest turning toward God, a childlike trust that says, “It’s ok. I know you are here now.”

And so, as Advent walks us toward the Babe Born in Bethlehem,

let us return to this breath:

Breath that sweeps across the valley of bones.
Breath that warms the body of Lazarus.
Breath that fills the lungs of a newborn child.
Breath that echoes through prophets and angels and shepherds and seekers.
Breath that still moves, still stirs, still brings life to the places we fear are too far gone.

Advent and Christmas teach us that resurrection does not always begin with trumpets and fanfare.

Sometimes it begins as a breath so faint we almost miss it.
Sometimes it begins as a quiet stirring in a valley that has been dry for a long time.
Sometimes it begins with a child’s instinctive turn toward the presence that makes them feel safe.

This season invites us to trust that breath again.

To notice the movement of God gathering what has been scattered.
To feel life rising inside places we had given up on.
To recognize Christ beside us, speaking resurrection into our sorrow.

Today, as the Advent candles flicker their soft, determined light,

may we notice the breath of God moving in us, around us, and through us.
May we feel life stirring in places that once felt silent.
May we trust the Spirit who still knits bone to bone and calls us to stand.

Even the Christmas hymn reminds us that

before we can shout “Joy to the World”,

“every heart” must “prepare him room”.

Before heaven and nature sing,

we must invite the God who meets us with resurrection breath

to fill our lungs with courage

and make us ready for abundant life.

Amen.

11.30.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

SCRIPTURE INTRODUCTION (Daniel 3)

Last week, we listened as the prophet Jeremiah spoke to a people living in uncertainty, urging them to build and plant and seek the peace of the place where they found themselves exiled.

Today we remain in that same long season of displacement, but we turn to another voice from the exile, another glimpse into what faith looked like for a people trying to remember who, and whose, they were.

By the time we meet Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the Babylonian empire has not only conquered their land but tried to reshape their identity, language, and loyalty. Everything familiar has been stripped away. Everything stable has been shaken.

And yet, in the midst of that dislocation, today’s reading shows us what steadfast faith looks like when the world around you is demanding compromise.

Let us listen for a word of hope, a word of courage, and above all, a word of presence.

GOSPEL INTRODUCTION (John 18:36-37)

We continue hearing these ancient stories through the lens of John’s Gospel, which keeps pulling us back to the God who draws near, who abides, who chooses presence over power.
Let us listen for that same nearness in today’s Gospel reading.

Advent 2025: Preparing Our Hearts for the God Who Draws Near

Sermon for Advent Week One: Trust – God’s presence meets us in the fire.

Have you ever stepped into a pitch-black room
and felt that momentary wash of disorientation
where everything in you tightens because you cannot see
what is in front of you?

You stand still….. waiting….
your heart beating a little faster than usual……

And slowly, slowly… your eyes begin to adjust…..
And you realize the room is not entirely dark after all….

There is a sliver of light coming from somewhere,
maybe a thin line under the door,
or a soft glow from a window you had not noticed,
or perhaps there is a faint reflection your eyes needed time to recognize.

And that tiny bit of light,
as fragile as it seems,
is enough…..

Not enough to see everything.
Not enough to feel certain or safe or in control.
But enough to take the next step.
Enough to know you are not lost.
Enough to remember that darkness is rarely absolute and never final.

Advent begins a bit like that.
Not with full illumination.
Not with answers.
But with the slow realization that there is light already present in the shadows
if we are willing to pause long enough
for our eyes to adjust.

Advent always starts in the places where shadows linger.
The shadows of exhaustion.
The shadows of grief that sits heavy on the chest.
The shadows of a world stretched thin by worry and weariness.
The shadows where we ache for God to come near.

And into those shadows come the old stories that have carried God’s people for generations.
Stories that remind us of who God has been.
Stories that tell us what God is still doing.

One of those stories begins with three young men whose names feel like courage themselves:
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
But those were not the names their mothers gave them.

In chapter one of the book of Daniel we learn their true names, their Hebrew names:
Hananiah, which means “The Lord is gracious.”
Mishael, which means “Who is like God.”
Azariah, which means “The Lord has helped.”
These are names that carried the memory of the Holy One.
Names rooted in their identity as the people of God.

But Babylon tried to rename them.
Tried to reshape them.
Tried to absorb them into a system where allegiance to the king
mattered more than faithfulness to God.

The world still does this.
It still tries to rename us.

We are often renamed by our failures,
our exhaustion,
our fear,
our scarcity,
our status,
our usefulness.

The world often tries identify us (or cause us to identify ourselves) by the wounds we carry….
But those are not our true names.

Just as Hananiah remained Hananiah
even when the empire called him Shadrach,
we remain who God has always said we are:
We are Beloved.
We are the Children of the Most High.

We are chosen. Forgiven, and set free.

No empire, no system, no season of hardship
can rename someone God has already called beloved.

Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah were taken from their homeland,
educated in the king’s court,
surrounded by a culture that rewarded conformity and punished any sign of resistance.
Everything around them whispered that survival required surrender.
But they remembered who they were and to whom they belonged.

So when the king demanded allegiance,
when music played and the crowd knelt low,
they stood tall.
Not out of pride.
Not for attention.
But because their faithfulness ran deeper
than their fear of the consequences.

Their courage carried a cost.
And that cost was fire.

And God showed up.
Not later.
Not once the flames died down.
Not from a safe distance.
But right there in the blaze itself.

It does not surprise me that God met them there.

This is who God has always been.

Through the deep waters, God says, I am with you.
In the valley of shadows, you will fear no evil, for I am beside you.
When the flood rises, it will not sweep you away.
Not because we are strong enough to stand on our own,
but because God is steadfast enough to stay…..

In every story of God,

Before deliverance, there is presence.
Before rescue, there is companionship.
Before the ending we long for,
there is the God who steps into the fire and makes it holy ground.

And if that is who God has been,
then that is who God still is.

Which means when we quietly think the question that we rarely dare to ask out loud:
Can you meet me too, God?
we ask the One who has already walked through flame for us….

And still, I find myself asking:

God, can you really meet us in the dumpster fires of today?

Can you meet the single mom in line at the grocery store,
standing under flickering fluorescent lights,
and calculating every dollar…
sliding items out of her cart one by one,
because the rent is due
and her paycheck is small
and the fire of “not enough” keeps creeping closer?

Can you meet the weary ones
at the graveside of someone beloved,
with their hearts burning in grief that seems like it will never ease up,
because their world has shifted beneath their feet?

Can you meet families walking through season after season
of uncertainty and worry,
carrying hope in one hand
and heartbreak in the other,
all while doing their best to hold onto each other together
in a world where stability is fragile?

We may all feel different flames.

But there is the same pressure:
The pressure to bow.
The pressure to harden.
The pressure to shrink our compassion so our hearts do not break quite so easily.
The pressure to match the world’s fear.
The pressure to settle for cynicism
or lose ourselves in distraction
or forget who and whose we are.

And yet.

God keeps stepping into fires.
God keeps breathing life into bones that feel dry and exhausted.
God keeps parting waters that looked ready to drown us.
God keeps carving pathways through the wilderness.
God keeps bringing green shoots out of barren seasons, and blooms in the desert soil.

This is who God has always been:
Strength when we are weak.
Breath when we are empty.
A presence in the fire.
A companion in the valley.
The light that does not wait for morning.

Advent does not ask for certainty.
But Advent asks for trust.

Trust that God has and will – and even now does draw near
to the places we thought were godforsaken.

Trust that God comes to the rubble, and can turn it into places of beauty.
Trust that God is already standing in the fire we are naming for the first time.
Trust that the fourth figure still walks among the embers of our life,
still turns the empires punishing furnace floors into holy ground,
and still draws close enough to whisper through the smoke,

“I am here.
Even in this.
Especially in this.”

So we begin this Advent season watching for God who has always shown up in the shadows of death,
in the quiet corners of grief,
in the places too small or too broken to seem holy.

We begin this season trusting not in our own ability to hold it all together,
but rather, trusting in the One who keeps finding us right when and where the world says we should not expect to be found.

As God who draws near and stands with us.

We see that it is God who lights the first candle in the very heart of the darkness.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

11.16.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Scripture Introduction: Isaiah 9:1–7

The world Isaiah speaks into is a world in crisis.

By the time of this passage,

the Assyrian Empire has swept through the northern kingdom of Israel.

Entire regions have been conquered.

Towns and villages have been emptied.

Families have been uprooted.

The places Isaiah names were the first to fall and their loss hangs over the whole nation like a heavy shadow.

Isaiah himself lives in Judah, the southern kingdom,

watching the devastation to the north

and knowing his own people feel the danger pressing closer.

The fear is real. The uncertainty is real.

Life has shifted in ways no one expected, and the darkness feels deep.

It is into that landscape that Isaiah steps forward as a prophet.

Not to erase the fear, not to deny the reality,

but to speak a word from God in the midst of it.

Let us listen for the Word of the Lord in the book of Isaiah.

Isaiah 9:1-7

Scripture Introduction:

Our second reading comes from the Gospel of John,

in the midst of one of Israel’s great festivals, the festival of booths or tabernacles.

It is a time when the people remembered how God guided them through wilderness nights as a pillar of cloud and fire.

Lamps were lit across the temple courts.

Their glow filled the courtyards and reminded the people of God’s presence with their ancestors long ago.

It is in that setting, surrounded by their collective memory of God’s guiding light in the wilderness, that Jesus speaks.

Let us listen for the Word of the Lord from the Gospel of John.

John 8:12

Again, Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.”

Sermon: The Light We Call By Name

I sleep with my phone nearby.
Not for the notifications.
Not even for the alarm.
Mostly for the light…..

In the middle of the night, when the house is quiet and the room is dark,

all I have to do is tap the screen.

The glow is not much.

It will never brighten the whole room or chase away every shadow. But it is enough.

Enough to see the floor.
Enough to keep from stepping on the dog’s tail.
Enough to make my way without stumbling.

It’s just a tiny bit of light.
But in the middle of the night, it changes everything.

Isaiah spoke into a moment that felt like that kind of night.

A moment when the world had dimmed around God’s people.

A moment when they were trying to find their footing in a landscape that had shifted under them.

The northern tribes, Zebulun and Naphtali,

had already fallen to the Assyrian empire.

These were not distant places.

These were neighbors. Kinfolk.

These were the lands where cousins lived,

the lands whose stories filled the collective memory of the people.

Now they were occupied.

Their people displaced.

Their identity shaken.

Assyria was not only a political force.

It was a shadow that spread across everything.

One couldn’t do anything without fear…

Every border crossing. Every trip to the marketplace. Was done in fear.

Every prayer. Every plan for tomorrow. Was done in the shadow of that fear.

The fear was not imagined.

It had a shape and a name and an army.
And it was close enough to breathe down their necks.

This scripture passage calls what they are living in “deep darkness.”

Interestingly, the same old Hebrew word used here is found in Psalm 23, which we usually translate as “the shadow of death.”

This darkness was not merely nighttime.

This was the kind of darkness that settles into a community

and rearranges how people live and think and hope.

Isaiah steps into that world.
Not with easy reassurance.
Not with denial.

He steps into the same shadows everyone else is standing in.

He breathes the same air.
He carries the same questions.
And yet he speaks.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

When Isaiah says that, nothing has changed…. yet.

Assyria is still Assyria.
The land is still scarred.
The people are still afraid.
Hope has not arrived.
Peace has not broken through.

But Isaiah sees what the people cannot see yet.

That God’s presence has not left.
That the darkness is not the end of the story.
That light has a way of coming even when no one is looking for it.

Isaiah even names the direction the light will come from.

He points north.
Toward Galilee.
Toward the very regions crushed first by Assyria.

Isaiah says the first light will rise

in the very places that have known the worst of the night.

Because this is the pattern of God.
God’s light does not begin where everything is already bright.
God’s light begins where people most need it.

Isaiah then imagines what this light will do.

It will break the yoke from their shoulders.
It will lift the weight that has pressed them down.
It will burn the tools of violence that have scarred the land.
It will end the cycle of fear that has shaped their days.

This is not sentimental light.
It is liberating light.
Restoring light.
Healing light.
Light that does not pretend the world is fine.
Light that enters what is not fine and begins its quiet work of restoration.

Isaiah then tells them that this light will take form in a child.

A child born into a world that is not gentle or safe.
A child who will carry titles large enough to signal that God’s reign is coming in a new way.

Wonderful Counselor.
Mighty God.
Everlasting Father.
Prince of Peace.

This is clearly a new kind of leadership.

Not based on fear.
Not rooted in domination.
Not held together by violence.
A leadership rooted in God’s own character.
A leadership that creates peace by healing and justice, not by force.

Centuries later, during the Festival of Booths, Jesus stands in the temple courts.

This is a festival built entirely around the memory of wandering in the wilderness,

the memory of God’s guidance,

the memory of a pillar of fire that lit the way through every night.

During this feast, giant lamps were lit in the courtyard.

Their glow could be seen across the entire city.

The light reminded the people that God had guided them before and could guide them again.

It is in the glow of those lamps that Jesus says, “I AM the light of the world.”

Not the festival lamps.
Not the temple lights.
Jesus himself.

Jesus stands there as a human being.
Carrying in his own body the fulfillment of Isaiah’s promise.

The same light that rises in deep darkness.
The same light that breaks the weight of oppression.
The same light that guides people through wilderness nights.
The same light that whispers, even now, that the shadow of death will not ultimately win.

Jesus becomes the light that is enough.

Enough to reveal truth.
Enough to heal wounds.
Enough to enter the parts of our lives we keep hidden because we worry they are too dark or too tangled.
Enough to quiet the frantic stories we tell ourselves in the night.
Enough to steady us when the world shifts under our feet.

In church, we talk a lot about peace.

Sometimes the images of peace feel soft and beautiful.
But sometimes, if we are honest, they feel too small for the world we actually live in.
Sometimes we find ourselves longing for something deeper than holiday peace,

something that can stand up to grief and violence and exhaustion and uncertainty.

Isaiah and Jesus offer that deeper peace.
A peace that does not ignore reality.
A peace that looks directly at the world as it is.
A peace that enters the real valleys, the real upheavals, the real shadows.
A peace that holds even when nothing else does.

And so the promise for us today is this:

God’s light will rise.
God’s presence will meet us in every shadowed place.
God’s peace will take root in the real world.

Sometimes the light comes like morning.
Sometimes it comes like a lamp in the distance.
Sometimes it comes like the soft glow of a phone screen in the night.

It is not always bright.
But it is always enough.
Enough to take the next step.
Enough to know we are not alone.
Enough to trust that the One who is our light will guide us all the way home.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

11.9.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Last week, we heard the story of Elijah,

the prophet who called down fire on Mount Carmel

and listened for God’s voice in the sound of sheer silence.

Through Elijah, we saw God’s power and presence

breaking through a time of idolatry and fear.

After Elijah, the prophetic mantle passed to Elisha,

whose ministry was marked not by fire and thunder,

but by compassion: healing the sick, feeding the hungry,

showing that God’s Spirit moves among the people in everyday life.

Now, generations later, we meet another prophet: Amos.

The people of Israel have grown prosperous and comfortable.

Their worship is full of songs and sacrifices,

but their society has grown unjust.

Amos is sent to remind them that true faith

is not measured in offerings or rituals,

but in righteousness that rolls down like a river

and justice that flows like an endless stream.

Let us listen for the Word of the Lord in the words of the prophet Amos.

(Amos 1:1-2; 5:14-15, 21-24)

Generations later, Jesus stands in the temple during a festival

and uses that same image Amos used: water,

to speak of God’s Spirit that flows through those who believe,

Let us listen now for the Word of the Lord from the Gospel according to John.

(John 7:37–38)

Sermon: Come to the Water

There’s a certain kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap.

The kind of tired that comes from watching the world and whispering,

“Surely this isn’t what God had in mind.”

Maybe that’s how Amos felt.

He wasn’t a prophet by trade.

He didn’t have a pulpit, a robe,

or a professional headshot on the synagogue website.

He was a shepherd (a man who smelled like sheep) and,

as he liked to remind people, a “dresser of sycamore trees.”

Which sounds fancy, doesn’t it?

Like a profession you’d find on a sign in a charming little village:

“Amos & Sons: Fine Dresser of Sycamore Trees Since 750 B.C.”

But it wasn’t glamorous work.

Sycamore figs were poor folks’ fruit,

and to “dress” them meant going tree by tree, fig by fig,
and poking each one with a knife so it could ripen properly.

Amos spent his days coaxing sweetness out of something rough.

And maybe that’s why God called him –

because he knew how to take something unripe

and make it ready.

Amos knew how to do slow, patient work.

He knew how to keep going when nothing changed overnight.

So God sends this fig-pricking, sheep-smelling man north to Israel,

a country that believed itself to be doing just fine, thank you very much.

Business is booming.
The markets are busy.
The temple choirs are on key.
If you’d asked them how things were going,
they would’ve smiled and said, “We’re blessed!”

Amos is preaching into a Lake Wobegon world,

where all the women are strong,
all the men are good-looking,
and all the children are above average.

Everything’s wonderful, at least on the surface.

Except, of course, for the people who aren’t doing so wonderful…..

And it’s those forgotten ones,

living just below the shine,

that God keeps noticing.

Amos looks around and sees the truth under the glitter.

He sees people selling the poor for the price of a pair of sandals.

He sees judges taking bribes,

priests protecting the powerful,

and worship that’s big on pomp and circumstance, but small on soul.

And if Amos walked through our world today,

he might see different versions of the same thing:

people working two jobs but still unable to make rent,

families skipping meals to keep the lights on,

whole neighborhoods thirsting for fairness

while those with plenty build higher fences.

It’s not that we don’t love God;

it’s that collectively, we’ve grown comfortable

singing about justice and mercy and love,

while the world around us aches for it.

So Amos stands up and preaches

what must have set the record for the world’s least popular sermon.

He tells the people of Israel that God hates - no, despises - their festivals and worship.

I mean…. This is the kind of sermon you preach

if you don’t want to be invited back.

The kind of sermon that empties the fellowship hall before the potluck.

So, as some of my siblings in Christ who preach in the Black church tradition might say before offering a hard truth: “Stay with me now…”

“I hate, I despise your festivals,” God says through Amos.

“Take away the noise of your songs…

But let justice roll down like waters,
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Sometimes we hear those words and translate them in our minds

So that “Justice” equals “punishment”

and “righteousness” equals “personal holiness”

After all, we have a “criminal justice system”

that mostly punishes those convicted of crimes.

And when someone is “acting righteous,”

we usually mean that they are acting in ways that seem “holier than thou.”

But when Amos says “justice,”

he’s speaking the language of covenant—

the kind of justice that flows from God’s own heart.

In scripture, justice isn’t an argument or a policy.

God’s Justice refers to the way God sets things right.

Justice is God lifting up the poor,

defending the orphan and the widow,

welcoming the stranger….

Justice is the promise of the Jubilee year,

when debts are forgiven and land is restored.

Justice is manna in the wilderness,

daily bread enough for everyone,

with nothing hoarded and nothing wasted.

When the prophets cry for justice,

they’re echoing God’s dream for creation:

that everyone would live in right relationship,

with God and with one another.

God’s justice isn’t enacted simply by going through the motions,

or checking the right boxes,

or even getting the right policies in place.

God’s justice is love made visible.

It’s the steady, everyday practice

of seeing our neighbors as God sees them….

of feeding the hungry,

freeing the oppressed,

lifting the fallen,

forgiving the debtor.

It’s the shape of love taking on flesh.

It’s the sound of God’s heart breaking open in the world.

That’s why justice and righteousness are always paired together.

Justice is what right relationship looks like in public,

and righteousness is what it looks like in our heart.

Justice is the outward current,

righteousness the inward spring.

Both flow from the same source: the mercy of God that never runs dry.

Because justice, at its core,

is love with our sleeves rolled up and work boots on.

It’s love that gets its hands dirty.

Love that shows up early and stays late.

Love that builds ramps and serves meals

and writes letters to those in power.

Love that keeps knocking on the door even when change is slow.

It’s the kind of love that doesn’t just feel sorry for the hurting

but joins them, listens to them, stands beside them.

That’s the kind of love God calls justice.

And righteousness is about being in right relationship

with God and with our neighbors.

Sometimes we call it “being faithful.”

But Amos’s call to righteousness

is about living out a faith that moves to the margins of society,

faith that walks where Jesus walked,

into places respectable religion often avoids.

Faith that looks into the eyes of the outcast and says,

“You belong to God too.”

It’s the kind of faith that refuses to stay comfortable

while anyone else is left outside the circle of grace.

That’s the kind of faith God calls righteous.

Centuries later, Jesus stands in that same city,

in the middle of another festival,
and he cries out:
“Let anyone who is thirsty come to me.
And out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.”

It’s as if he’s answering Amos,

as if he’s saying, Yes, that river of justice still flows.

And it begins right here, in me….

It begins in Christ.

And through the waters of baptism, it flows to us.

As a living current of grace, meant not to be contained,
but to spill over the edges of our lives
and bless the world around us.

So maybe the question isn’t “Where has justice gone?”

Maybe it’s “Where have we dammed up the stream?”

Where has fear or comfort or apathy

stopped the flow of God’s love from running freely through us?

The good news is, that Jesus doesn’t tell us that

we have to manufacture that river out of our own power.

He tells us to come and drink.

To draw close enough to the Source

that living water rises again within us

and overflows into acts of kindness, courage, and care.

Amos spoke to a people who thought their prosperity was proof of blessing.

Jesus speaks to a people still trying to quench a deeper thirst.

And both of them, the shepherd and the Savior,

invite us to live lives where mercy flows naturally,
where worship and justice are one river, not two.

Let justice roll down, Amos said.
Let mercy roll down….
Let peace roll down….
Let love roll down…

Because when God’s river flows freely,

everything dry begins to live again.

So let us come to the water.

Let us return to the Source of living water that never runs dry.

Let our hearts be renewed,

our spirits refreshed, and

our lives made whole again….

For the living water is still flowing,

and God is still calling,

to every heart that thirsts,

and to every soul that longs for justice and righteousness.

Let us come to the water,

and let the river of God’s grace, the living water of Christ

flow through us, together,

as we not only long for, but also work together for….

nothing short of the healing of the world.

This is Amos’s call and this is Christ’s invitation: Come to the Waters.

May our response always be, “Here I Am, Lord…. Send me.” Amen.

11.2.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Before the First Reading (1 Kings 19:1–18):

Last week, we reflected on the glorious temple built by Solomon. Unfortunately, after Solomon’s reign, the kingdom divided. The northern part of the kingdom became Israel and the south became Judah, and faith in God grew fractured. By the time of the prophet Elijah, King Ahab and Queen Jezebel were ruling Israel and had led the people deep into the worship of Baal. Just before the passage we’re about to read, Elijah had confronted hundreds of Baal’s prophets on Mount Carmel, calling down fire from heaven to prove that the Lord is God. But that moment of triumph quickly turned to danger, and Elijah found himself running for his life.
Let us listen together for God’s Word, beginning at 1 Kings 19, verse 1.

Before the Gospel Reading (John 12:27–28):

As we turn to the Gospel of John, we hear another moment of weariness and resolve. Jesus has entered Jerusalem, the crowds have cheered, and the shadow of the cross is drawing near. Like Elijah, he faces the weight of fear and purpose at once.
Let us listen together for God’s Word from the Gospel according to John, chapter 12, verses 27–28.

Sermon: The Rhythm of Faith

It had been a long season of noise.

Elijah had stood on Mount Carmel before a loud crowd.

Hundreds of prophets of Baal were dancing and crying out from morning until evening,

begging their false god to set fire to the sacrifice.

When their voices failed, Elijah called on the Lord,

and fire fell from heaven. This was proof of God’s divine power.

The crowd roared its approval.

It was the kind of moment that makes headlines and wins arguments,

the kind of moment when faith feels clear and uncomplicated.

But when the fire cooled, Elijah’s anger did not. And he killed Baal’s false prophets.

Of course, the queen vowed revenge.

And the prophet ran.

So begins this story: Elijah is no longer on the mountain of victory, but now he is trudging into the wilderness.

Under the broom tree, he finally collapses.

“It is enough,” he says. “Take away my life.”

The one who had just proven that God was real,

who had just – essentially – had God at his command,

is now unsure if he can go on believing.

And God does not answer with a lecture or a command.

God sends an angel with bread and water….

simple sustenance, a small mercy.

Twice the angel says, “Get up and eat, or the journey will be too much for you.”

Sometimes that’s the gospel in its purest form:

not glory, not theological explanation, just enough for the next step.

Forty days later, Elijah reaches Horeb,

This is the mountain of God

the same place where Moses saw flame in a bush

and where Israel once met God amid thunder and smoke.

He hides in a cave, and God asks, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

It’s not a question for information.

It’s the kind that draws truth to the surface.

When God asks that question, it echoes something ancient.

It sounds like another question from long ago,

a question gently whispered in the garden after the first humans had hidden from God among the trees:

“Where are you?”

God already knew where Adam and Eve were hiding.
God already knows where Elijah is hiding.
The question isn’t about location—it’s about relationship.
It’s God’s way of saying,

I still see you. I still want to be with you.

This is who God is - not a voice that condemns us for hiding,

but one that comes looking for us when we’ve grown afraid or ashamed or tired.

When we retreat into caves of exhaustion or doubt,

God’s question still finds us: “What are you doing here?”

Not to scold, but to invite.
Not to push us away, but to draw us back toward the light.

And Elijah, like Adam and Eve before him, answers from that vulnerable place:

“I’ve done everything I could.

I’ve been faithful.

Now I’m all alone.

And they’re trying to kill me.”

It is a cry of weariness.

A confession of despair.

And still, God stays.

Then God says, “Go out and stand on the mountain, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

A wind tears through the rocks, but God is not in the wind.
An earthquake shakes the ground, but God is not in the earthquake.
A fire flashes across the ridge, but God is not in the fire.
And after the fire, a sound of sheer silence.

Silence that is not emptiness, but fullness too deep for words.
Silence that holds what the wind and fire cannot.
Silence that says, I am still here.

When Elijah hears it, he covers his face with his cloak and steps to the edge of the cave.

There are no fireworks this time, no cheering crowds, no consuming fire—just Presence.

Holy, quiet, steady.

Across centuries and desert miles, another weary soul speaks in the same tone.

“Now my soul is troubled,” Jesus says. “And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No; it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.”

And the voice comes—not thunder to frighten, not lightning to convince, but confirmation. “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.”

The crowd hears only thunder.

Some think it is an angel.

But the moment is not for spectacle. It is for those who will listen beneath the noise.

Both Elijah and Jesus stand in that threshold space between triumph and despair.

Both weary from misunderstanding,

both tempted to quit,

both sustained by something quieter than applause.

For Elijah, glory was not in the fire that fell,

but in the whisper that remained.

For Jesus, glory would not be in the parade or the miracle,

but in the cross, the love that holds fast when everything else falls apart.

God’s glory is not in domination, but in presence.

Not in the loud, but in the faithful.
Not in the proof, but in the love that stays.

There is something deeply human in Elijah’s exhaustion.

He has done what he thought God wanted.

He has poured out his passion, spoken the truth, risked his life.

And it still feels like nothing changes.

Many of us know that ache.

We know it when we pour ourselves into our work or our families

and still wonder if it matters.

We know it when we care for aging parents or grieving friends

and there’s no dramatic sign that healing has come.

We know it when we scroll through headlines

and wonder if kindness can really push back against cruelty,

if love can still mend what’s broken.

Like Elijah, we’ve all had days when we think,

I’m doing my best, and it still isn’t enough.

So God does not send Elijah a new task first.

God sends him a meal and a nap.

Because grace begins with rest.

Because sometimes holiness looks like bread baked on stones and a jar of water beside your head.

Only after Elijah has eaten and slept does God speak again.

The silence comes, and then a voice, and then a calling –

back into the same world, but not the same way.

And maybe that’s why this story feels like such good news.

It shows us that faith is not a straight line of certainty or success.

It moves in rhythm: wind, fire, silence.

Action, collapse, renewal.

The rhythm of faith is the rhythm of breathing, the rhythm of living.

We act, we fall, we rest, we rise.
We speak, we grow quiet, we listen.

God meets us in every beat of that rhythm –

not only on the mountaintop moments of triumph,

but in the stillness that follows,

when we can finally hear the heartbeat of grace beneath it all.

When we learn to trust that rhythm,

we just might begin to find peace in the pauses,

strength in the stillness,

and hope even in the dark.

There’s a line from that old Simon & Garfunkel song that started playing in my head as I wrote this sermon:
“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.”

It could almost be Elijah’s prayer.
He knows the darkness.

He knows the silence.
And somehow, even there, he finds that God is still listening.

The world hums with noise – or as the song says:

voices talking without listening,

hearts rushing without resting…..

And the temptation is to think that God must be found in something louder or brighter than all the world’s flashy noises and lights

But Elijah discovers that God’s glory glows quietly in the dark,

and Jesus reminds us that light shines brightest there.

When everything else has gone dim,

the smallest flame becomes a beacon.

When hope feels fragile, that’s when grace gleams most clearly.

The cross itself, the place of suffering and silence, becomes the very revelation of love.

So when we find ourselves walking through shadow,

maybe we can remember Elijah’s mountain and Jesus’ hour.

God’s light does not vanish in the darkness.
It meets us there, unwavering.

And when Elijah finally leaves that mountain,

he is not sent back to call down more fire or to stage another miracle.

He is sent to do quieter, slower work –

to anoint kings, to mentor a young prophet,

to pass the flame so that it can keep burning long after he is gone.

It is the work of sustainability, of faithfulness that endures beyond spectacle.

It is the same kind of work God entrusts to us:

to tend, to teach, to heal, to keep loving even when no one’s cheering.

That is the rhythm of faith.
That is the light that lasts.

That is the sound between the storms –

the steady breath of God within the silence,

the light that refuses to go out.

And that is good news: the light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.

10.26.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Last week, we heard of God’s call to David,

the shepherd king whose heart sought after God.

David longed to build a house for God,

but that dream was given to his son Solomon.

In today’s reading, the promise is fulfilled:

Let us listen for how this story still speaks to us,

how we might find ourselves in God’s story of dwelling and delight.

Read: 1 Kings 5:1–5; 8:1–13

And we continue to hear the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures

through the lens of the Gospel of John

and how these stories reveal how God’s presence has always moved among us.

Let us listen together for the Word of the Lord.

Read: John 2:19–21

Sermon: Where God Dwells

I think there is something deep in us that wants to build a house for God.

To make space that feels worthy of the holy, where the air itself seems to hum with reverence.

A place where the invisible becomes visible.

Across centuries and cultures,

people have built temples and cathedrals, chapels and shrines,

trying to make room for the divine.

And yet, this morning – on Reformation Sunday –

we find ourselves in the lineage of a tradition

that stripped those sacred spaces down to the bare essentials.

Our Presbyterian ancestors

took out the gilded statues,

whitewashed the walls,

and placed the pulpit at the center of the room

(though some of us have moved it to the side and added a lectern….)

The reformers believed that what made a space holy

was not its ornamentation

but the Word proclaimed,

Not incense or icons

but the gathered people of God.

Our sanctuaries became simpler, but the impulse remained the same:

To make a space where we might encounter the Holy.

There is something in us that longs to point and say: “Here. Here is where God is.”

It is the same impulse that led Solomon to build the temple – to take the beauty and strength of cedar and stone

and give it shape for the sake of worship.

A place not only to honor God,

but to remember that God had chosen to dwell among the people…

His father, David, had carried the dream of building a temple.

But David’s life was too tangled in conflict and war,

so the task passed to Solomon — whose name means peace.

He was the one who would build a house for God.

Not a tent to move from place to place,

but a temple of stone and cedar, filled with light and song.

When it was finished, Solomon gathered the people and the priests.

They brought the Ark of the Covenant, the sacred chest that had wandered with them since their wilderness days,

and placed it in the innermost room of the temple.

And then, scripture says,

a cloud filled the house of the Lord so completely

that the priests could not even stand to minister.

The glory of God filled the house.

And the people knew: God was here.

We understand that longing to build sanctuaries and call them holy.

And whether they are majestic and ornate or simple and austere,

we hush our voices when we enter,

because we can feel that something sacred lives here.

We know that God is bigger, grander,

more magnificent than our daily lives can contain.

And it is true.

God is beyond us….

God is the uncreated Light,

the Holy One,

the Mystery that holds galaxies together….

As we sang this morning, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty.”

The awe of Solomon’s temple lives on in our hearts.

But the story doesn’t stop there.

In the part of this story just after we stop reading,

Solomon prayed his great dedicatory prayer for the temple and in it he says something startling:

“Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, O God - how much less this house that I have built.”

He knew, even then,

that no building, no matter how beautiful,

could hold the fullness of God.

The temple was never meant to contain God.

It was meant to help the people remember God.

To give them a place to gather, to pray, to bring their best,

to lift their eyes and remember

that the God who led them through the wilderness still led them now.

God held off allowing his people to build a temple.

Because there is danger in constructing these holy spaces.

It’s not about the place itself, but the danger is in forgetting what the space is for.

Because over time, it can become easier to point to the building

than to live the covenant.

It can become easier to protect the walls

than to protect the widows and the poor.

It can be easier to think, God is in OUR place,

than to recognize God walking among THEM.

And that’s where Jesus’ words begin to shake things up.

When he says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,”

he’s not talking about stone and mortar.

He’s talking about himself, about HIS body,

the place where heaven and earth meet.

He is helping us to understand that God is not contained behind a curtain.

God walks among us.

God eats and laughs and weeps and bleeds.

The holy has moved into the ordinary.

The transcendence of God has not been lost.

It has been embodied.

The same glory that filled Solomon’s temple

also fills human lungs.

The same presence that we once understood to hover above the Ark

also breathes through us,

as near as our next inhale.

That’s what we mean when we say

God is both transcendent and immanent,

both beyond and within,

in the vastness of the stars and the pulse in our wrist.

The Holy One who cannot be contained

chooses to dwell here:

in flesh… in breath… in love….

Sometimes we think we might prefer a God who stays at a distance

or closed up in a temple.

Sometimes we still might prefer a God who lives only in the heavens,

because that feels safer than a God who lives next door.

A God who thunders in holiness

is easier to revere than one who sits at our table.

But the scandal of the incarnation,

and the promise of Pentecost that follows,

is that God refuses to stay far away.

God’s glory doesn’t just fill temples.

It fills people. It fills creation.

It fills us.

When we sing A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,

we’re not declaring OUR own walls to be strong.

We’re remembering that God’s faithfulness is what holds us together.

That grace, not grandeur, is our refuge.

This is how we find ourselves in God’s story today.

We are not the builders of a temple.

We are its living stones. And we need every stone….

The Spirit of God dwells not just with us,

but within us.

Our hearts become altars.

Our daily lives become offerings.

Our shared love becomes the sound of worship rising like incense.

God is in the breath that steadies us.

God is in the neighbor who waves across the fence.

In the tears we shed for someone else’s pain.

In the hands that set the table and pour the cup.

God is in the work of justice that mends what is broken.

And in the quiet moments when peace returns.

And yes, God is even in the ordinary holiness of this place,

this small sanctuary on this Sunday morning

and in each one of us.

The glory that once filled Solomon’s temple

has not vanished.

It is just also on the move,

and multiplying,

and filling the whole world with grace.

The same Spirit that filled the temple also fills us.

We are a dwelling place of the living God.

And the world around us - every tree, every face, every breath -

is alive with the same holy presence.

The psalmist (Ps. 139) said,

“Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”

There is nowhere we (or anyone else!) can go that is outside the reach of God’s love.

There is no distance too far, no sin too big,

No place too ordinary…

For God to dwell.

The presence that rested on the Ark,

that filled the temple with cloud and light,

also fills the earth with breath and being.

It fills you. Your life, your laughter, your tears, your touch….

They are all places where the Holy One chooses to dwell.

So, as we leave this place today, let us remember:

We are walking sanctuaries,

living temples of the living God.

The walls of the church may mark a sacred space,

but God’s dwelling does not end here.

It goes with us –

into every word of kindness,

every act of justice,

every breath that carries love into the world.

The glory of God still fills the house.

And God’s house is everywhere.

Thanks be to God.

10.5.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Bread Enough for the Journey - World Communion Sunday 2025

Exodus 16:1–18; John 6:51

Scriptural Context

From the beginning of scripture, God’s story has been one of provision.

In creation, God spoke light into the darkness and filled the earth with all that was needed for life to flourish.

When fear and violence fractured that goodness, God kept providing…

God called Abraham and Sarah,

blessing them with promise and purpose,

and forming a people through whom all nations might be blessed.

When Jacob fled in fear,

God met him with a dream of angels and a word of belonging.

When Joseph was sold into slavery,

God turned despair into deliverance.

And when those same descendants found themselves enslaved in Egypt,

God saw their suffering, heard their cries,

and made a way through the waters of the Red Sea.

Now, the people stand on the far shore of freedom -

They are experiencing a new beginning, but are not yet home.

They have been created, called, and delivered.

And now they must learn how to live as people who trust the God who provides.

Scripture Reading — Exodus 16:1–18 & John 6: 51 (NRSVUE)

Sermon

They had crossed the sea.

The waters had parted,

and the people had walked through on dry land.

Behind them, the chariots of Egypt were swallowed by the waves.

Ahead of them lay freedom.

No more Pharaoh.

No more taskmasters.

No more bricks without straw.

But…. freedom didn’t look like they expected.

The taste of liberation was aching bellies and dry, parched mouths.

They found themselves where there was no map, no garden, no feast

just wilderness.

And before long, hunger.

It’s strange how quickly our memories can change

when our stomach growls.

“If only we had died in Egypt,” they said,

“where we sat by the pots of meat and ate our fill of bread.”

They remembered the food but not the chains.

They remembered comfort but not cruelty.

They remembered full bellies but forgot broken backs.

And still—God listened.

Still, God provided.

Bread from heaven. Rained down and filled the land every morning.

Quail came at twilight. 

There was enough for each day.

The story says that when the dew lifted each morning,

a thin, delicate layer appeared on the ground,

like frost or seeds or crumbs of heaven.

When the people saw it, they asked, “What is it?”

And that question became its name: Manna.

“What is it?”

“What is this strange mercy?”

“What is this grace that appears where there was nothing yesterday?”

Moses told them,

“It is the bread the Lord has given you to eat.

Gather as much of it as each of you needs - no more, no less.”

And they did.

Some gathered more, some gathered less,

but when they measured it,

each one had enough.

That is the miracle hiding in this story.

Not only that God sends bread from heaven,

but that God teaches the people a new rhythm -

a rhythm of enough.

Because Egypt had trained them to believe otherwise.

Egypt said, You never have enough.

There is never enough bricks.

There is never enough hours in the day.

There is never enough productivity, or enough control.

Egypt said, Take more. Store more. Protect what’s yours.

Egypt said, Hoard what you can and call it wisdom.

But God, out in the wilderness, was teaching a different way.

A way of daily trust.

A way of dependence and community.

A way of enough…..

You could not stockpile manna.

If you tried, it spoiled.

It turned rancid and filled the camp with the smell of decay.

Because manna was never meant to be controlled

it was meant to be received.

It’s hard to live that way.

It’s hard to believe there will be enough tomorrow.

It’s hard to believe that we could stop clutching and start trusting.

But that’s the invitation:

each day, gather what is enough.

Trust that God will meet you again in the morning.

And yet—how do we know what is enough?

The Israelites had to learn by doing.

By gathering and measuring.

By trusting and discovering that what God provided was sufficient.

Enough didn’t mean plenty.

It didn’t mean comfort.

It meant sustenance for today.

Enough is not always what we expect,

but it is what will keep us alive.

Our world still wrestles with this question.

We live surrounded by both excess and need:

oceans of waste beside deserts of want.

Some have far more than they could ever use,

while others scrape by on crumbs.

And still, the voice of Pharaoh echoes through our systems,

telling us that safety lies in storing more,

in keeping what we can,

in pretending that someone else’s hunger is not our problem.

But God’s vision is different.

God’s economy is mercy.

In God’s way of abundance,

those who gathered much had nothing left over,

and those who gathered little had no shortage.

This is not only a miracle.

It’s a pattern for living.

The people learned to live on what was enough

long before they entered the Promised Land.

They learned that freedom is not found in endless supply,

but in shared dependence on the God who provides.

And every time we come to the Lord’s Table,

we are invited back into that same rhythm.

The bread and cup are not luxuries;

they are necessities.

They remind us that grace, like manna, cannot be hoarded.

It must be received and shared.

It is daily bread for daily living.

When Jesus took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it,

he was not just giving a new ritual,

he was teaching a way of life:

A life of trust, gratitude, and generosity.

When he said, “Do this in remembrance of me,”

perhaps he was saying:

Remember not just the act, but the pattern.

Perhaps Jesus is inviting us to remember

what he did with what was in his hands.

Remember how he gave thanks.

Remember how he shared.

Remember that in God’s kingdom, ENOUGH multiplies in the sharing of it.

“Do this in remembrance of me”

Is not only as a sacrament to repeat,

but as a way of being in the world.

Do this:

receive what you’re given,

bless it,

break it open,

and share it.

Live as though you actually trust that there will be enough.

On this World Communion Sunday,

that remembrance widens.

We remember that God’s provision has always been global:

We remember that the same sun rises

over those who feast and those who fast,

and that the same Spirit calls us to one table

where there is no rich or poor, no guest or host,

only one body fed by one love.

This is the miracle that still changes the world:

that there is enough.

Enough mercy.

Enough bread.

Enough God.

If only we would gather what is we have been given today,

and trust that the giving God will meet us again in the morning.

The manna story ends with this quiet declaration:

“Those who gathered much had nothing left over,

and those who gathered little had no shortage.”

This is not nostalgia for a simpler time.

It is a prophetic word for our own.

This is a reminder that abundance does not come from control,

but from communion.

That faith is not hoarding manna,

but trusting mercy.

And yet, how often we forget.

How often we reach instead for what does not satisfy:

the bread of moral certainty,

the bread of control and domination,

the bread of fear disguised as faith.

We fill ourselves with what the world calls success

and wonder why our spirits still feel starved.

Whenever the church forgets the true bread,

we start eating what is easy to reach:

religion without compassion,

power without grace,

words without love.

It’s junk food for the soul:

sweet at first bite,

but it cannot sustain life.

Jesus offers something different.

His bread is not a private spiritual comfort.

It’s nourishment for a new creation.

The closer we stay to him,

the more we find ourselves drawn into God’s economy of abundance,

where there is enough for all,

where the hungry are fed,

and the world itself begins to be transformed.

This meal, this manna, this table,

they are not escapes from the world’s hunger.

They are rehearsals for its healing.

So let us gather what we have. Trusting that it will be enough.

Let us share it with open hands and hearts as we watch God’s grace grow.

For the God who rained manna in the wilderness still fills the world with wonder,

and still feeds us with bread enough for the journey.

Thanks be to God for that! Amen.

9.28.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Narrative Recap Before Scripture

Last week we heard the story of Jacob.

And in the end, he had run away, fearing for his life,

after tricking his father and gaining the blessing intended for his older brother.

When Jacob fell asleep in the wilderness, with only a stone for his pillow,

he dreamed of a ladder stretching between heaven and earth.

God promised to be with him, to bless him, and to make his descendants into a great people.

Much has happened in God’s story since then.

Jacob wrestled with God and was renamed “Israel.”

And then Jacob’s sons became the tribes of Israel.

His son Joseph (best known for his fancy coat) was

betrayed by his brothers,

And carried down to Egypt as a slave,

but through both hardship and providence, he rose to power.

When famine struck, Joseph’s family went to Egypt looking for food,

and there he forgave them and welcomed them as honored guests.

But generations passed and a new Pharaoh arose “who did not know Joseph.”

So, hospitality turned to fear. And Fear turned to oppression.

Joseph’s descendants, the Israelites, became enslaved, their lives pressed down under hard labor.

Pharaoh even decreed the death of every Hebrew boy.

In an act of desperate courage,

Moses’ mother placed her son in a basket on the Nile,

where he was found and adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter.

Though raised in Pharaoh’s household,

Moses fled to Midian after killing an Egyptian taskmaster,

and there he lived in exile as a shepherd.

Meanwhile, back in Egypt, the Israelites’ burden only grew heavier, and their cries rose up to heaven.

And God heard. God saw.

God remembered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

God took notice.

That is where today’s scripture picks up the story.

Scripture Reading - Exodus 2:23–25; 3:1–15; 4:10–17 & John 8:58

Sermon: “Here I Am… Send Someone Else”

Moses begged God to send someone else.

He didn’t feel eloquent enough, ready enough, or strong enough.

And who could blame him?

The task before him was enormous.

He was being asked to stand before Pharaoh,

the ruler of the greatest empire of his day,

and say, “Let my people go.”

To confront the powers that had enslaved his people for four hundred years.

To march them out of Egypt with nothing but bread for the journey

and a promise ringing in their ears.

Moses looked at himself – at his history, his flaws, his slow tongue, his fragile courage - and he saw only lack.

So he said what so many of us say, in one way or another:

“Please, Lord. Send someone else.”

Moses begins well enough.

When God calls his name from the fire,

he answers with the words of the faithful:

“Here I am.”

But as the conversation continues,

Moses’ “Here I am” turns into “Who am I?”

“Who am I to stand before Pharaoh? Who am I to lead your people?”

And then, his question shifts again, from “Who am I?” to “Who are you?”

Moses says to God, “If I go to Israel and say, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me,’ they will want to know your name.”

God’s answer is one of the most mysterious in all of scripture:

In Hebrew the words are: ’ehyeh ’ašer ’ehyeh

(pronounced “ech-yeah -- ashear -- ech-yeah”)

It is a form of the verb “to-be” and is difficult to translate, but it means something like:

“I Am who I Am.” Or “I will be who I will be.”

Or even “I Am the Source of all Being.” “I cause all being”

In essence, God’s response to Moses is, “I am God and I will be YOUR God.

And I’m the whole reason you or anyone or anything exists at all.

And I will be with you, for you, ahead of you, and beyond you.….

I will be God for you.”

God is offering not just a name, but a description.

And not just a description, but a promise.

I will be faithfully God for you and for my people. Forever.

He seems to be saying, in unequivocal terms, that this

is not about who Moses is.

It is not about what he can or cannot do.

It is about who God is.

And about who God promises to be for his people.

And here’s the striking thing:

Moses has no trouble speaking with God.

He argues. He questions. He raises every excuse he can think of.

The bush is burning, and Moses is protesting.

But when it comes to Pharaoh, that is where Moses is afraid and begins to stammers.

He cannot imagine himself standing before the seat of empire.

Moses is more at ease wrestling with the Almighty

than confronting the ruler of his own world.

And maybe that is true for us, too.

It can feel easier to pray to God in private

than to speak truth in public.

It can feel easier to cry out to heaven

than to confront injustice on earth.

But God does not let Moses off the hook.

God name is a reminder that God is WAY more powerful than Pharoah.

In fact, God’s even the source of being for Pharoah.

And God will outlast Pharoah and every other ruler of this earth…..

God IS forever. Pharoah is for right now.

But Moses is still not certain….

Finally, God’s like: “If you can speak with me, you can speak for me.”

And God (not so subtly) reminds Moses that

God is the one who gave Moses a mouth

and the power of speech…

and that God knows GOOD AND WELL what Moses is and isn’t capable of…..

         And still Moses pushes back….

And this time God gets angry, but STILL remains committed to Moses.

Ultimately, God relents and allows for Aaron to be like a mouthpiece for Moses.

God is sure Moses can do it, but works within Moses own ideas of himself to get him to say “yes”….

Later in the story, Moses does find his voice and doesn’t need Aaron as much...

And so God’s original plan plays out after all.

The promise is true for Moses and for us:

When we are called,

We will not have to do it alone.

God be with us.

God’s presence will go before us.

This is the shape of call.

God interrupts the ordinary with presence.

Like a bush in the wilderness, burning but not consumed.

Over the next few weeks, we will read stories of call that come in a

another shepherd’s field,

a boy’s bed,

a temple filled with smoke,

and even a boat rocking on a lake.

The ordinary becomes holy ground whenever and wherever God speaks.

It is interesting to note that the one who is called in these stories always hesitates first.

Their “Here I am” always leads to…. “Who am I?”

And the answer is always the same:

It is not about who you are.

It is about who God is.

And God’s answer is always, “I will be with you.”

This is the rhythm that will echo through scripture in the coming weeks as we read about:

Samuel confused by the voice in the night,

David overlooked in the field,

Isaiah undone by his unworthiness,

Jeremiah certain he is too young,

Peter falling to his knees in shame.

Hesitant people, faithful God.

That is the pattern.

And the other thing to notice is that these calls are never private or for personal gain:

Moses is not called so he can feel fulfilled or gain personal wealth.

He is called so that Israel might be set free from enslavement.

The prophets will be called for the sake of justice.

The disciples will be called for the sake of the world.

God’s call is always for the people.

Always for the community.

Always for the healing of the world.

This is why the lectionary pairs this story with John’s gospel.

When Jesus says, “Before Abraham was, I Am,”

he is not just playing with verb tenses.

He is speaking the name of the burning bush.

He is embodying the promise of God’s faithful presence.

The same God who was “I Am” to Moses is “I Am” to us in Christ.

The same presence that sent Moses to Pharaoh

now sends US into the world.

And so, we find ourselves in this story.

Not because we are Moses,

but because the God of Moses is our God, too.

The same God who spoke creation into being and saw what was good,

The same God who spoke blessing and provision to ensure that Goodness could continue and that Light would shine in the darkness,

The same God sees us AND ALSO calls us to action,

And God always says: “I will be with you.”

This fall we will watch the pattern unfold again and again—

ordinary people, who are interrupted by God’s holy presence,

hesitant people, who are reassured by God’s faithfulness,

ordinary and hesitant people who are sent into the world for the sake of others.

And each time, we will be reminded:

It is not about who WE are,

but about who God IS.

Not about what WE can or cannot do,

but about what the One who will be faithfully God for us CAN DO.

So, let us go where we are sent…

Not because WE are enough,

But because the One who IS, always IS.

Amen.

9/21/25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Violence Does Not Get the Last Word

Genesis 27:1–4, 15–23; 28:10–17 & John 1:50–51

Series: Finding Ourselves in God’s Story

We are surrounded by stories.

Many of the stories that surround us are told on our screens,

shaped by headlines and hashtags,

and carefully crafted by ads and algorithms.

These stories are trying to shape us—by telling us who matters.

They tell us what to fear.

And they tell us where power lies.

But God is telling a different story.

As we take a walk through the story of scripture we find:

A story that began with “Let there be light,”

and continues to show us where and how light shines in the darkness.

The story of scripture is one where God speaks, and it is so.

It is a story where God sees, and it is good.

Where God blesses, and life takes root.

Over and over, God provides what is needed and separates life from death.

Throughout the story, God continually calls God’s good world back to God’s holy peace.

Through these stories of scripture, we are invited to find ourselves in God’s story.

And this week we find ourselves in the story of Jacob and Esau.

If you ever thought that your own family stories were too messy, too messed up, or too dysfunctional, then this story is for you.

Because THIS is a messy story.

Isaac is old and blind. He and Rebekkah have twin boys.

Esau, the elder by mere seconds, is supposed to inherit the blessing.

But Jacob and his mother (surprisingly enough!) devise a plan

to deprive Esau of his blessing,

by tricking their father into blessing Jacob instead.

And so, Jacob sneaks in while his older brother is away,

dressed in his brother’s clothes, with his hands covered in goat skins to fool his father (because apparently Esau was a very hairy man!).

And their father isn’t quite sure.

The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands feel like Esau’s…

But ultimately Isaac is deceived.

The blessing is spoken, and once it is spoken, it cannot be taken back.

Esau’s cry fills the tent when he discovers what has happened.

He weeps bitterly.

And then, as is often the case, his sadness turns to anger.

And soon he is burning with rage.

Esau resolves to kill his brother.

And Jacob must run for his life.

Even if your family isn’t quite this dysfunctional, it doesn’t take much imagination to see ourselves in this story.

We have all known rivalry and resentment.

I’ve scarcely ever heard of a person with a large estate dying that hasn’t raised at least some resentments about who receives what.

And beyond our own families, our news is full of families being torn apart by rivalry and resentment.  

and our headlines tell us of the story of our whole country being torn apart

by rivalry, revenge, and this, of course, leads to

threats of violence and

way-too-often actual violence

that seem to be happening every which way we look.

Yet it is in the wilderness, with nothing but a stone for a pillow,

that Jacob dreams a dream.

In his dream, he sees a ladder, reaching from earth, clear up into heaven.

 With angels ascending and descending on this ladder.

And God standing beside Jacob, saying:

“I am the Lord, the God of Abraham and Isaac.

The land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring.

Your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth.

All the families of the earth shall be blessed in you.

Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go.

I will not leave you until I have done what I promised.”

Notice how wide the promise stretches—“east and west, north and south.”

The blessing isn’t just for Jacob, but for all the families of the earth.

We hear an echo of this every time we come to the table,

proclaiming that people will gather from east and west, north and south, to sit at Christ’s banquet.

What was scattered is reconciled.

What was broken is made whole.

Jacob wakes up and he is shaken. And he proclaims: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place. This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”

The story that began in rivalry and deceit is not the end.

Because God is writing a story where violence does not get the last word.

Jacob ran away expecting only fear and loss.

He knew he deserved Esau’s anger. He knew the harm he’d done.

Perhaps it is ironic that Jacob had gone to so much trouble to get his father’s blessing.

And yet found himself running for his life, with only a stone for a pillow.

I wonder if Jacob was questioning his life choices in that moment when that stolen blessing seemed to be doing him no good at all.

At this point, the same God who spoke light into the darkness, speaks promise into Jacob’s dark night.

Notice what God does not say:

God doesn’t say, “Jacob, you messed it up, and now it’s over.”

God doesn’t say, “Jacob, you stole what didn’t belong to you, and I’m taking it back.”

God doesn’t even say, “Jacob, you owe your brother an apology!”

God says, “I am with you. I see you. I will keep you and bless you.

I will guide you on the path of life and light and away from death and destruction.

And I will not leave you.”

That’s the God of creation and re-creation at work.

It is God who sees Jacob even when his earthly father, Isaac’s, eyes fail.

And God blesses Jacob even after Jacob steals and misuses the blessing he already got.

God promises a future for Jacob even when Jacob has nothing but a stone for a pillow.

The God who separates life from death and light from darkness

turns Jacob’s flight from death

into the beginning of a new chapter of abundant life.

On that stone pillow,

Jacob went to sleep in fear. But he woke up with awe.

He went to sleep with guilt but he woke up with a promise.

He went to sleep alone but he woke up in the presence of God.

This is what I mean when I say God is writing a story

stronger than deceit and rivalry,

stronger than anger and violence,

a story where none of that will get the last word.

The Gospel of John picks up the thread from here.

Jesus meets Nathanael and says, “You will see heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

Jesus is, of course, referencing Jacob’s dream.

But the ladder is no longer just a dream in the desert.

The ladder is now flesh and blood.

John is making the point for his readers that Jesus himself is the meeting place of heaven and earth.

John wants us to see that, in Jesus, God is present with us.

The God who spoke creation into being now speaks blessing through Christ.

The God who saw Jacob in the wilderness now sees Nathanael under the fig tree.

The God who provided a promise to Jacob when he was a fugitive now provides bread for the hungry and living water for the thirsty.

The God who separated life from death in the beginning now goes through death and brings forth life.

This is the story God is writing.

It is a story where violence tries again and again to end the story.

But where God again and again intervenes to show that violence will not, and cannot, be the end of the story.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

And friends, we need that story.

We need to know that we are part of that story.

Because the stories on our screens and in our newspapers are filled with violence.

Every day we read stories about:

Another war. Another shooting. Another child lost.

Like Esau, our world burns with anger and the threat of revenge.

But violence does not get the last word.

Jacob and Esau’s story bends toward reconciliation.

Jacob must have been terrified when he saw Esau coming toward him with 400 men.

And he had every reason to believe the end had come.

But instead of revenge, Esau ran to embrace him.

The one wronged becomes the one who offers peace.

This part of the story sounds a bit like Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son.

In this case the brother, not the father, who is running to embrace the one who had betrayed him.

But in both cases, it is a story of reconciliation that only God can write.

And in Christ, heaven and earth embrace not in a dream, but on a cross.

God bears the world’s violence in his own body.

He takes into himself all of our rivalry and deceit,

all of our anger and vengeance.

And from that place of death, he brings forth life.

That is the story we are called to live in.

Not the story of fear or scarcity.

Not the story of rivalry or revenge.

But the story of God who creates and re-creates,

who blesses and provides,

who separates life from death,

and who in Christ is writing a story stronger than violence.

So, when we feel like Jacob, running in fear, uncertain of what’s ahead

or when we feel like Esau, angry and betrayed,

we can know that God is still blessing us,

still at work to bring reconciliation and forgiveness.

Because the truth is that at any moment, we may feel like either one of these twins.

But any time we feel like the world is spinning out in violence,

God’s story reminds us that God is building a bridge,

a ladder, a meeting place where heaven and earth come together in peace.

We find this in Jesus, who is our Lord and Savior.

Our rock for a pillow has become our redeemer.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

9.14.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Introductory Warning (before the reading)

Friends, before we hear today’s scripture, I want to say this:

The passage we’re about to hear is one of the hardest in all of scripture.

I don’t think it should ever be included in children’s Bibles.

Though it often is. 

As we read it with, modern eyes, it can stir fear, confusion, even anger.

But this story was not written in our time

or for us as an audience.

It is a story that comes from a world very different from our own.

And in that world, the surprise of the story is NOT what we might first expect.

So I invite us to listen carefully,

to hold onto what we know of God from creation and from Christ,

and to trust that there is good news here.

to trust that even in stories that horrify us, there is a word of life, not death.

Read Genesis 21:1-3; 22:1–14 & John 1:29

Last week we spoke of “In the beginning…”

and we heard how God spoke, and it was so.

God saw the light, and it was good.

God separated and blessed, calling creation into life.

And God provided… seeds and fruit, water and sun,

so that life would not only begin, but also continue.

From the very first page of scripture, God is a God who sees.

And God’s seeing is never just noticing.

God beholds with delight.

God sees and offers blessing.

God sees the Good of creation

and provides what is needed for goodness to endure.

Between the story of Creation and the story we read today,

we learn that God called Abraham to leave behind his homeland. 

The Word that spoke light into being also called Abraham. 

At the time, Abraham was settled in Haran,

surrounded by family, rooted in a familiar land.

And yet he heard God’s voice: “Go. Leave your country, your people, your father’s house, and go to the land I will show you.”

It was a call into the unknown, into risk, into trust.

And Abraham stepped out not knowing where he was going,

trusting that God could make a home where there was no home,

a family where there was no child,

a future where there was only wandering.

The story unfolds and we see how God provides for Abraham and his wife Sarah.

And how a long-awaited child, for this barren couple is promised and then born. 

Isaac is the precious child on whom all the promises of God seem to hang.

God sees and calls Abraham and Sarah. 

And God blesses them. 

And God provides for the goodness of their life to continue. 

But now, years later, that same God speaks again.

And this time the call is even harder.

Abraham is asked not only to trust with his own life, not only with Sarah’s,

but with Isaa, his child, the fulfillment of all God’s promises. 

Every parent knows this is the hardest trust of all:

to place into God’s hands the child we love most.

To believe that God will see and provide not only for oneself, but for one’s child.

To believe that God’s blessing is bigger than any fear.

I remember the first day I walked Harper into his first preschool. 

He was so little, his backpack nearly bigger than he was.

He gripped my hand so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

And then the teacher came to the door and it was time.

I had to let go.

I smiled bravely, gave him a big hug and then handed him off to a woman that was all but a stranger to me.

And I cried all the way back to the car.

Because it felt like the hardest thing I had ever done was letting go of that hand,

trusting that God would watch over him when I could not.

And that was just school. 

But the ache Abraham must have felt in this story is like the ache every parent will feel at some point

as we realize we will have to entrust what is most precious to us into God’s safekeeping.

And yet, again and again, we discover in these stories of scripture, how God sees what is Good. 

And God blesses and provides for Life’s Goodness to continue. 

Now, just to be clear… This is not the promise of a life free of worry, but a promise of a life where we are not alone, and where God sees to it that Life and not Death continues. Even if that means Life after death.

This story of almost child-sacrifice may feel extreme to us. And it is!

And yet in Abraham’s world, it was not unthinkable.

The writer of Genesis sets it before us not as proof of Abraham’s devotion,

but as revelation of God’s character.

The true test is not whether Abraham will destroy what is precious to him “for God”,

but whether he will trust that God will provide what is life-giving for him and his family in the end.

Unfortunately, we still can still sometimes face this same struggle today.

We still sometimes imagine that faith means struggle,

that devotion must mean loss.

We still think we must prove our value by what we give up,

by how much we suffer,

by what we are willing to sacrifice for God.

The good news that shines through this story is that

the God of the new creation, to which we are being called,

is not glorified by our destruction or our own sacrifices,

but by God’s provision of what is needed for Goodness and Life to continue.

The God who saw light and called it good,

the God who saw Abraham and Isaac and provided life,

is the God who calls US… 

not to death, but to life.

Not to despair, but to joy.

Not to losing what is precious, but to receiving what is Good.

So Abraham walks up the mountain with Isaac beside him.

And as we read this story, the silence is heavy, until Isaac finally asks, “Where is the lamb?”

And Abraham, with trembling faith, replies:

“God will see to it. God will provide.”

And God does.

God provides not a lamb but a ram. 

And the child lives. 

The covenant continues.

The new creation is coming.

The author gives us a clue about what the story is supposed to teach us

when we are told that the mountain on which this happens

is named NOT for Abraham’s faith

but for God’s seeing and providing. 

If we take a step back, we will see that this story, and indeed the pattern of all of scripture, is the same story we heard in creation. 

God speaks or calls someone or something into action. 

God sees what is Good.

God provides what is needed to preserve Life

so that blessings and Goodness can continue.

Centuries later, John the Baptist will echo this

when he points to Jesus and says,

“Behold! See! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

When John calls Jesus the Lamb of God, he is pointing back to stories his hearers would have known by heart: 

The story of Abraham and Isaac, where God provides this ram in place of the child, preserving life and continuing the covenant.

But also. 

The story of the Passover, when the blood of the lamb marked the doors of Israel’s homes and death passed over, and the people were set free from slavery.

And the lambs that had been daily offerings in the temple. They were signs of forgiveness, a reminder that the people were still in covenant with God.

John’s declaration that Jesus is the Lamb of God even points to the time of the prophets, especially the prophet Isaiah, where we hear of the servant who suffered on behalf of the people.

And this servant is described as a lamb led to the slaughter, carrying the people’s grief and bringing healing.

All of those stories would have echoed at once in the ears of his audience when John cried out: “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

It is John the Baptist reminding his followers that 

God provides. 

God rescues. 

God forgives. 

God heals.

And in Jesus, all those threads come together.

And that this blessing of provision and healing is not just for one person,

not even just for one family,

and not even just for one people group or nation,

but for the whole world.

Of course, now, as more modern humans, the ancient language of lamb and sacrifice may not resonate as deeply as it did then. 

But I think the underlying truth of these stories is still the best news we might ever hear:

God, the Word made flesh is still calling forth Goodness and life,

still separating the ways the Life from the ways of death. 

And in Jesus, God provides what is most needed for Goodness and Life to continue.

God rescues. God forgives. God heals. God shows up in love.

This is the story we live in:

God, at the dawn of creation, saw all that was made and called it Good.

This same God, even on the mountain with Abraham, saw the child and preserved his life.

And then God, seeing the whole world in all its brokenness,

still called it Beloved,

and still sent God’s own self in the form of His Son, Jesus,

to offer the path to Life for this broken world….

So that Goodness may continue eternally. 

This is the story of creation and re-creation.

Not destruction, but blessing.

Not despair, but hope.

Not death, but Life that continues, and continues in Goodness.

And the test is never whether we can offer up enough to earn any of it. 

But perhaps the test is whether we will dare to trust God to see us,

to provide for us,

And to bless us.

So that Life may continue,

and continue in Goodness.

Let us offer thanks for this Good News. 

Amen. 

9.7.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Genesis 1:1–2:4a and John 1:1–5

“In the Beginning: Speaking Light, Breathing Life”

This Sunday we begin a new journey together.

Through the Narrative Lectionary, we will walk the long arc of scripture (from Genesis to Revelation)

listening for the ways God’s story shapes our story.

Each year, this lectionary anchors us in one gospel, and this year it is John.

John’s gospel is different from the others.

He doesn’t begin with a genealogy like Matthew,

or a manger scene like Luke,

or a baptism in the wilderness like Mark.

John reaches further back. He begins before time itself: “In the beginning.” 

John writes with poetry and

with a vision of Christ as the One who not only walked the roads of Galilee long ago,

but who was present at creation’s dawn.

John tells the story of Jesus as the story of new creation.

God is making the world new again through the Word made flesh.

And so, week by week, as we hear the stories of Genesis, Exodus, and beyond, we will also listen for their echoes in John’s gospel.

We will look for how the same God who spoke light into the darkness in the beginning still speaks through Christ today, calling us into the rhythm of new creation.

In the beginning.

These are the three little words that open the great story of scripture.

Those same words echo again at the start of John’s gospel.

Genesis begins with a formless void, darkness swirling over the deep,

and a Spirit (God’s breath) hovering, waiting. 

You can almost feel the hush, the anticipation,

as if the whole cosmos is leaning forward to hear what God will say.

And then: God speaks. “Let there be light.”

And there was light.

John begins his Gospel with the Word, the Logos,

who was present with God in the beginning, speaking life into being.

Both tell us that before there was anything, there was God.

Before the world had its rhythms,

before light and dark could be told apart,

before we had names for oceans or stars or seasons….

God was.

God spoke.

And it was so.

And it was good.

Genesis 1 is written less like a report and more like a poem.

In fact, some call this first portion of Genesis, the Creation Hymn. 

It moves in stanzas. 

It sings in a rhythm. 

Over and over we hear the refrain:

• God speaking order out of chaos.

• God seeing the good and providing what is needed.

• God separating light from shadow, life from death.

• God naming us “Beloved.”

• God blessing with grace.

• God resting with us in holy peace.

It is a liturgy of creation, a song of order rising from chaos,

goodness repeating like the chorus of a hymn.

Light is called out of the dark.

Waters are parted,

dry land appears,

seeds sprout,

stars scatter,

creatures learn to swim, crawl, and fly.

And with each breath of God’s word, the world becomes more itself, more alive, more good.

John hears that same rhythm when he tells the story of Jesus.

“In the beginning was the Word…

All things came into being through him…

John is making a very clear point:

Jesus, The Christ, The Logos, The Word was NOT a late arrival.

Not a patch to fix what went wrong.

But is part of the eternal rhythm, 

The Word is the voice that called forth light,

And the Breath that breathed chaos into the goodness of creation.

John wants us to know that when we meet Jesus, we are not meeting a stranger to this story.

We are meeting the One who was there from the first word spoken.

For John’s Gospel, just as God spoke in Genesis,

so God speaks again in Christ.

The Word is not only sound, but flesh.

The Word walks among us, breathes with us, carries our joy and our sorrow.

The Word shines light into every shadowed corner and breathes life into every withered place.

This is not only the story of long ago.

It is the story of every beginning.

Every time chaos swirls and darkness closes in, 

God is there, 

still speaking order out of chaos.

Every time we cannot see the way forward,

God is there,

still seeing what is Good and providing what is needed. 

Every time we are tangled in what destroys,

God is there,

still separating light from shadow, life from death.

Every time we forget who we are,

God is there,

still naming us beloved.

Every time we grow weary,

God is there,

still blessing us with grace.

Every time we need to be held,

God is there,

still resting with us in holy peace.

You have probably known those dark nights 

when the weight of worry keeps you awake, 

when the future seems uncertain, 

when hope feels like it has slipped through your fingers. 

And yet—even there—the light has a way of breaking through. 

Sometimes as small as a candle flame, 

sometimes as dazzling as the sunrise, 

but always enough to remind us:

the darkness does not win.

The light shines in the darkness.

And the darkness does not overcome it.

The darkness could not overcome the light at creation’s dawn.

Darkness could not overcome the light that broke forth in Bethlehem at the Savior’s birth.

Darkness could not overcome the light of the world even when he was lifted onto the cross.

And the darkness cannot overcome us now.

The light of Christ keeps breaking through.

This is God’s story.

And this is our story.

We are called to find ourselves in God’s story: living in the rhythm God began.

We are called to speak words that build and bless.

We are called to see the goodness God has placed around us.

We are called to separate ourselves from what destroys and draw near to what gives life.

We are called to name one another as beloved, blessed, chosen.

And then, we are called to rest in God’s peace, trusting that the world does not depend on our constant toil but on God’s faithful word.

This rhythm—speaking, seeing, separating, naming, blessing, resting—is not only how God created the world.

It is how God continues to re-create us through Christ.

In the beginning, God spoke light into the world.

In Christ, God speaks again and again,

always inviting us into the new creation:

There will be a new heaven and a new earth.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Thanks be to God! Amen.

8.31.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Love Will Have the Final Word: Reclaiming Faith from Fear-Based Religion
Texts: Isaiah 65:17–25, Revelation 21:1–6a

There’s no shortage of doom in the world.
Turn on the news, scroll social media, or just stand in line at the grocery store.

We even have a new word to describe the process of looking through the newsfeed of Facebook or other social media channels.

We don’t just call it scrolling anymore.

Because what we are looking at in those feeds can be so depressing,

Now it is called, “doom-scrolling…”

And given the current dumpster fire that is often the state of the world around us, it’s easy to believe the story that this world ends in destruction.

In flames.
In loss.
In fear.

Some versions of Christianity double down on that idea.

They tell us God’s final word is judgment.

That the goal is escape.

That the world is disposable.

That if we want to be saved, we’d better get our act together—fast.

But I don’t believe that’s the story scripture tells.
And I don’t believe that’s the story God is writing.
Because I don’t believe fear is God’s final word.
I believe love is.

“I am about to create new heavens and a new earth…”

That’s what the prophet Isaiah dares to proclaim.

And it’s echoed centuries later in Revelation, as John declares:

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… the home of God is among mortals… See, I am making all things new.”

Not….

I will burn it all down.

Not….

I will rescue a chosen few while the rest are left behind.

But…..

I am making all things new.

And here’s what’s important to know:
Neither Isaiah nor John was writing from a place of ease.

These aren’t visions dreamed up in comfort.
They are hope born from hardship.

Isaiah 65 comes to us from a time after the Israelites had returned from exile in Babylon.
They thought coming home would be the happy ending.

But the city was still in ruins.
The temple was still a shell of what it had been.
People were divided.

The land was fragile.
The promises of God seemed far off, maybe even broken….

And into that disappointment, Isaiah doesn’t offer a return to the past.

Isaiah’s vision offers something bigger:
Not just a rebuilt city, but a new heaven and a new earth.

A world without weeping.
A world where children thrive and elders are honored.

Where people live in the homes they build,

eat from the gardens they plant,

and find peace not only among themselves,

but even in creation itself.

This is not just optimism.
It’s a bold act of faith.
A forward-looking hope that refuses to be defined by ruin.

Revelation is written in the same spirit.

John of Patmos writes to early Christians under the weight of Roman persecution.
Faith had made them vulnerable.
Justice seemed a long way off.

And yet—he doesn’t preach escape.
He doesn’t say, “Just hold on until you get to heaven.”
He paints a picture of God moving in to the world.

“See, the home of God is among mortals…”
“Death will be no more…”
“I am making all things new.”

This isn’t just a description of the end times that we may or may never get to see…..

It’s a manifesto of trust.
That even when empires rise and fall,
even when the world feels like it’s unraveling,
God is not finished.

And love will still have the final word.

These scriptures don’t just give us a someday vision.
They give us a call to live like it’s already beginning.

Isaiah describes people building homes and growing food,
raising children and planting vineyards,
living long and good lives in a world no longer driven by fear.

Revelation invites us to imagine a city where God lives not above and apart from us, but among us:

where tears are wiped away,
and all the hurt, the pain, and the despair of this life are no more.

I’m sure you have been driving down the street and seen someone carrying one of those classic apocalypse signs.

You know the ones:
“The end is near!”
“Prepare to meet thy God!”
I once saw one hanging off a highway overpass and wondered how the heck someone got it up there!

Anyway, these signs usually make me chuckle a bit…. But sometimes they make me sad… because if you live in fear of meeting God – fear that you might not measure up, fear that God might not really love all of you, fear that you need to stand up straighter and clean up your life a bit more, then your relationship with God is not one based on love, but fear….

But I wonder—what if we made signs that said something else?

What if we made signs that said:
“God is already here.”
“Love is already winning.”
“You are already known—and loved—and called.”

Wouldn’t that change the story?

Scripture doesn’t tell us to panic.
It invites us to participate.
Not in the countdown to destruction, but in the building of beloved community.

The end isn’t near because everything is doomed and getting worse!
The end is near because God is always drawing nearer and nearer.

And this - this holy anticipation of love made visible -
this is what the church has always called Advent.

Those weeks leading up to Christmas, when we light the Advent wreath and anticipate the birth of the Savior…

During Advent, we are not just the waiting for a baby born two thousand years ago,
but also experiencing the deep, aching, active hope for Christ’s coming again.

Not just into the world, but into our lives.
Into our streets. Into our headlines. Into our hospitals and homes.
Into every system that still wounds.
Into every part of creation still groaning for healing.

Advent is not nostalgia. Or simply looking back to a time when things seemed simpler and a Savior was born in a manger.

Advent is about resistance.

It is the refusal to believe that the darkness gets the last word.
It is standing with Isaiah and with John and daring to believe
that Christ will come again,
not with wrath, but with restoration.

That the One who once took on flesh and moved into the neighborhood
will come again to make all things new. And indeed, is already working on making all things new.

That’s why this vision matters.
Because it tells us the story is not over.

That God has not forgotten.
And that what God began in Christ is still unfolding—
in us, through us, and beyond us.

We began this morning singing “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.”
That’s not just a cheerful way to start a service.

It’s a declaration.
That in the face of sorrow, we choose joy.

That creation itself – the sun and moon, the field and forest – nothing was made for doom.

We were all made for delight.

Creation is Good – very Good even….

God’s love is written into the very rhythm of the world.

And when we listen, we can hear that song… the song of God’s new heaven and new earth already playing in this world….

While we wait, we can kind of sway to the music, clap our hands and hearts to the new beat and rhythms…

While we live our lives in this world, while the fire in the dumpster still burns bright, while doom still fills our news feed with horrific news….

Even in the midst of all this, we can tune our ears, like adjusting the old rabbit ear antenna to catch the right station, we can tune our ears to hear God’s new heaven and earth, coming even now and all around us….

And when we do, we find that we can’t help but groove to that beat of joy and hope and peace… Living into God’s new heaven and earth like people who can hear different music than everyone else in the room…

It is God’s “very Good” world we are called to live for.
Not with fear. But with courage.
Not in despair. But in love.

Because the end is not destruction.
The end is restoration.
And Love will have the final word.

But also….
Love is already speaking.

In every act of kindness.
In every work of justice.
In every meal shared.
In every person reminded that they belong.

We don’t have to wait for heaven.

We can live like it’s breaking in right now.
We can live like love has the final word -
because in Christ, we know that it already does.

Thanks be to God! Amen.

8.24.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

The Table of Grace: Reclaiming faith from its misuse as a tool of scarcity and control

Luke 22:14–20, Isaiah 55:1–2, 1 Corinthians 11:17–34

_____________________________________

There’s a table at the center of our sanctuary.

Maybe you’ve seen it so often you hardly think about it anymore.

But it’s always there.

And in our Reformed tradition, it is intentionally a table, not an altar.

We do bring our offerings here.

We bring our financial gifts, and our worship, and our prayers.

But we don’t come to make a sacrifice in the way that altars once required.

We don’t reenact the suffering of Christ.

When we gather at this table, we remember the love of Christ.

We remember that we were made by love, in love, and for love.

A love that has been and continues to be poured out for us and in us and through us.

This table is not a place where we earn grace.

It’s a place where we remember that grace is already ours.

We can never, on our own be “worthy” of this table,

But we are welcomed here anyway and made worthy by the one who invites us.

Even today, when we don’t break the bread or drink from the cup during worship,

the table is still here, at the center of our sanctuary,

and at the center of our life together.

It reminds us who we are, and whose we are.

And I think that’s true of the tables in our homes, too.

Not just the beautifully set holiday tables,

but the ordinary ones, perhaps, especially the ordinary ones:

the weekday tables scattered with crayons and homework or bills and receipts…

the tables where conversation is the centerpiece…

Where meals are shared.

Where stories are told.

Where lives are really lived.

And where love is really experienced.

When Jesus said, “Do this in remembrance of me,”

I believe he meant more than one kind of meal.

More than one kind of table.

I believe he was giving us a way to live:

with grace at the center,

with room for one another,

and with love enough to feed the world.

When Jesus gathered with his disciples the night before his death,

it wasn’t in a banquet hall full of dignitaries.

It was in a room of ordinary people:

his friends and followers,

who were fishermen and tax collectors…

These were faithful folks doing their best, even though that wasn’t always enough….

Gathered around the table with Christ were

disciples who loved him but also questioned and doubted him,

most of them would deny and abandon him when the road got rough,

and on the night of the last supper, Judas, the one who would betray him the next day was there.

Still, Jesus took the bread.

And he took the cup.

And he said, “This is for you…..”

He didn’t pause to check who was worthy.

He didn’t send anyone away.

He didn’t require certainty or perfect theology or a spotless past.

He gave himself freely.

And I believe that’s what makes the table holy:

Not that we come in perfection, but that Christ comes in love.

Not that we’ve earned the invitation,

but that we are welcomed - again and again - just as we are.

In the words of the prophet Isaiah:

“Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters;

and you that have no money, come, buy and eat!

Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.”

Bread without price.

Nourishment without cost.

Grace without prerequisites.

It’s not just poetry. It’s a declaration.

A declaration that the things of God cannot be bought or bartered.

They are given.

Like manna falling from the sky in the wilderness.

Like water from a rock.

Like the most perfect Love given for the whole world.

We don’t have to prove anything to come to the table.

We don’t have to be sure of what we believe.

We don’t have to be sinless.

We just have to be hungry.

Hungry for hope.

Hungry for healing.

Hungry to remember who we are and whose we are.

Paul wrote to the early church in Corinth because something was going wrong with their practice of communion.

Some people ate too much.

Others were left out.

The meal of Christ had become a mirror of the world’s divisions

rather than a sign of God’s unity.

Paul doesn’t tell them to cancel communion.

He tells them to remember what it’s about: communion!

He tells them that when we eat this bread and drink this cup,

we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

We remember the one who died for all,

and we recognize that we, who are many, are one body.

This table is not a place of separation. It is a place of belonging.

It is a place of inclusion and love pouring out, overflowing for the world….

You remember that when Ancient Israel was wandering in the wilderness after escaping Egypt,

“manna” fell from the sky to sustain them.

Well, because of that experience, ancient Israel had a practice of keeping a portion of the manna in the Tabernacle.

This was called the Bread of Presence or the “bread of the face”.

It was a symbol of God’s nearness, provision, and love.

For Ancient Israel, in the bread, they saw the very face of God.

I still believe that.

I believe that when we come to the table,

we are not just remembering something from long ago.

We are encountering something real – today.

We are tasting grace.

We are seeing love face to face.

And we are being sustained—again—for the journey ahead.

And this world is hungry for this bread...

Hungry for communion. For connection...

Hungry for kindness and grace…

Hungry for a love that doesn’t measure or exclude or control….

My favorite definition of evangelism is that it is just like “one beggar telling another where to find bread….” (original source unknown. Usually attributed to D.T. Niles, a Sri Lankan pastor)

And the good news is that this table,

the one at the center of our sanctuary,

the one at the center of our worship,

the one at the center of God’s heart,

this table holds more than enough Love for the world.

Even today, when we don’t share the actual bread and cup,

we still gather at the table and in Christ’s presence.

to remember what it means, and

to shape our lives around the grace this table reveals.

Because this table is not only a ritual we engage in one a month,

It is a way of life.

It is a reminder that every table can be holy,

if it is gathered around in remembrance and in love.

Christ said, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

And yes, that means the bread broken and the cup poured during the Lord’s Supper in Church.

But I believe it also means:

Do this… when you sit with a grieving friend.

Do this… when you make room for someone new.

Do this… when you feed the hungry or visit those in prison.

Do this… when you forgive the one who hurt you.

Do this. This life of grace and welcome and presence. Always.

Around this table, even when there isn’t any bread or cup on it, we gather in remembrance that:

we belong,

and that this table has more than enough nourishment for us and for the world…. for whatever the journey ahead may hold.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

8/17/25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Baptism as New Life: Reclaiming Faith from the Twisting of Water into a Boundary

Exodus 14:21–31, Matthew 3:13–17, Romans 6:1–11

----------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s something about standing at the edge of water.

Whether it’s the sea, stretching wide before me, with waves crashing at your feet. 

Or a river, winding past me with quiet persistence. 

Something happens at the edge of water.

I stop.

I breathe.

It causes me to reflect

- to feel the weight of what came before

- and the pull of what might come next.

And it isn’t just big natural bodies of water either. 

Standing by a full tub of water, as I’m about to get in and clean the day off of me has the same effect.

Or even standing next to the baptismal font, tucked into a sanctuary - with water that is still and sacred.

Water, in scripture, is never just scenery.

It’s a threshold.

Sometimes, it’s a threat. 

Sometimes, a barrier. 

But again and again, water becomes the place where God acts

-       to deliver, to name, and to raise us up into something new.

In Exodus, the people of Israel stand on the shore, terrified.

Pharaoh’s army is behind them.

A wall of sea is before them.

There’s no way forward that doesn’t feel like drowning.

But God does the impossible:

God parts the waters, makes a path where there wasn’t one.

And the people walk through

- not around, not above, but through the water

-into freedom.

Once onto the other side, their identity is transformed.

No longer are they just runaway slaves, they are now God’s people - delivered, claimed, called.

The Water marked the moment when fear was replaced with freedom.

When the people learned that God could make a way even through the deep.

Generations later, Jesus steps into the Jordan River.

He doesn’t need to repent.

He doesn’t need to be cleansed.

But still, he goes into the water - in solidarity with us. 

And as he rises, the heavens break open.

The Spirit descends like a dove.

And a voice says: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

This is what baptism proclaims.

Not OUR goodness. Not OUR perfection.

But God’s love. God’s grace. God’s initiative.

And then Paul - who has seen first hand how grace can transform even the most hardened heart – his! - writes this:

“What then? Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound?

By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it?”

Paul is talking about baptism here - but not as a gentle ritual we sometimes mistake it for….

He’s talking about baptism as a death and a resurrection.

“We have been buried with Christ by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead, we too might walk in newness of life.”

We’re not talking about earning salvation.

We’re talking about participating in Christ

- being united with him in death and in life.

“The old self was crucified… so that we might no longer be enslaved to sin.”

“So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.”

This is not metaphorical fluff.

This is a radical reorientation of identity.

Baptism says: We are no longer defined by our past.

We are no longer chained to our shame.

No longer a prisoner to fear, or hate, or hopelessness.

But we are alive - to God, in Christ.

         Claimed for abundant life….

Years ago, when I was in seminary, I had to complete an internship at a church as different from my own tradition as possible.

Since I’m part of what is often lovingly called the “frozen chosen,” the Presbyterian Church (USA), I signed up to intern at a large, non-denominational mega-church.

I was curious. I wanted to learn.

One day during their staff meeting, they began planning an upcoming baptism.

It was going to be the first baptism ever performed by one of their newest pastors, and the room lit up with advice.

Some of the advice was spiritual:

“pray ahead of time,” “make it a sacred moment.”

But a lot of it was practical:

“avoid white shirts, be careful not to slip in the baptistry, decide if you’re going barefoot or wearing water shoes.”

Then one seasoned pastor got very serious and said:

“Make sure you hold them under long enough that they think they’re going to drown.”

I laughed, thinking it was a joke.

But another pastor quickly jumped in to offer explanation and to show how serious they were about this. He said,

“No. No. This is true.

In baptism we die to Christ so we can live with Christ.

If they don’t feel like they died, or at least like they might have, then it isn’t as meaningful…..”

And all I could think in that moment was:

Thank God for the Presbyterians and their gentle sprinkling.

But still… something in what they said stuck with me.

Not the idea of fear or drowning,

but the truth that in baptism, something does die:

The grip of sin.

The lie that we are unworthy.

The chains of shame or self-hatred.

And what rises in its place is not our own perfection,

but Christ’s perfect love, offering us abundant life….

What rises is grace.

What rises is new life.

Baptism is a gift.

A sign of God’s grace poured out.

A threshold we cross not by effort or worthiness,

but by the movement of God’s love toward us.

But over time, even the most beautiful of signs can become misunderstood.

We may start to think of baptism as something WE achieve.

Or as something that separates us from others,

instead of connecting us at a deeper level.

In our tradition, we remember:

Baptism is God’s “yes” to us. 

It is not a reward for the faithful,

but a revelation of God’s eternal faithfulness.

It is not a mark of superiority,

but a sign of belonging—to God and to one another.

Some of us were baptized as infants,

carried to the font by the love of others.

Some came to the font later in life,

with questions and courage and conviction.

Some have not yet been baptized—

but even so, God’s love is already at work in your life.

The water is waiting… 

but grace does not wait to begin.

Baptism reminds us that God is the one who acts.

God is the one who claims us. 

God is the one who seals us with love

and delivers us into a life of purpose and joy.

The Book of Order says, “Baptism is the sign and seal of God’s grace and covenant in Christ.”

And every time I hear that phrase -“sign and seal”

- I think of that old Stevie Wonder song:

 “Signed, sealed, delivered… I’m yours.”

Of course, in the song, the one singing is the one who messed up.

They’re asking to be forgiven.

They’re making a promise.

But in baptism, it’s God who does the signing.

It is God who does the sealing.

It is God who delivers us, not because we got everything right, but because we are already God’s.

In a few moments, we’ll be invited to remember the gift of baptism.

If you have not been baptized - or if you do not remember your actual baptism, perhaps because you were an infant….

That’s okay.

This remembrance is not so much about a specific date and time of your particular baptism,

as it is about remembering and being thankful for the gift of baptism.

This is an invitation to wonder,

to listen,

and to know that you are already loved.

Baptism reminds us that our life is not our own.

Together, we belong to Christ.

We are signed with grace.

We are sealed by the Spirit.

We are delivered - not into safety, but into love and mission.

So may we always walk in newness of life.

May our life always be a sign that points to Christ. 

And may the world always see in us the mark of God’s mercy, hope, and love.

Thanks be to God for the gift of baptism.

Amen.

8.10.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

The Body of Christ: Reclaiming Faith from the Idol of Institutionalism

1 Corinthians 12:12–27

John 17:20-23

Some people hear the word church and think of family, community, worship, and hope.

Others hear that word and feel a knot in their stomach.

They remember exclusion, rejection, or hypocrisy.

They remember when the church closed its doors—literally or figuratively—because someone didn’t fit the mold.

The Church is the Body of Christ,

but too often we have lived as if we were something else entirely. 

Too often we have acted as a body that exists to protect itself,

keeping certain people in and others out,

and holding onto power and comfort,

even at the cost of the gospel.

History is full of moments when the church aligned itself with the wrong side of justice because it benefited the institution. 

The church has defended slavery and segregation,

suppressed women’s voices,

turned away from the poor,

and protected its own image rather than confronting abuse.

And yet…

Paul’s words to the Corinthians still call to us:

“You are the Body of Christ, and individually members of it.”

Paul didn’t write these words because the Corinthian church was thriving in unity.

He wrote this to them because the church in Corinth was fractured.

Corinth was a bustling port city, a crossroads of culture, commerce, and religion.

It was also deeply divided, not only by class and wealth but by ethnicity, status, and power.

And the same divisions that marked the Corinthian society had seeped into the church.

The wealthier members treated worship like a private dinner party, arriving early to feast

while the laborers, who had to finish working before worship, were left with scraps.

Some prized certain spiritual gifts above others, treating them as badges of superiority.

Factions had formed, each claiming loyalty to a different leader

(some claimed to follow Paul, others Apollos, others Cephas or Peter),

as if Christ himself were divided.

Paul’s response was brilliant.

He uses a metaphor they can’t ignore: the human body.

Every part belongs.

Every part needs the others.

The eye can’t say to the hand, “I have no need of you.”

The head can’t say to the feet, “I have no need of you.”

And in this body, Paul says, the parts that seem weaker are actually indispensable.

The ones we might be tempted to hide or discard deserve special honor.

This wasn’t just a call for niceness.

It was a complete inversion of the social order—a redefinition of worth and belonging based not on status or ability, but on grace.

Paul’s image of the Church as a body is so vivid you almost can’t help but picture it.

Eyes and ears and hands and feet — all needing one another, all connected.

Sometimes, to bring this point home, I’ve pulled out a Mr. Potato Head.

And not just with children. I’ve used it in rooms full of pastors and church leaders.

Because there’s something delightfully humbling about holding up a plastic potato while talking about the Body of Christ.

I’ll usually start with the bare potato.

Then I hold up the eyes:

“What if the whole body were an eye?” Paul asks.

Imagine a giant eye just staring at you from the pew.

Creepy.

And also… pretty useless for walking anywhere.

Or I hold up the ears: “What if the whole body were an ear?”

A big potato that just sits there listening to everything….

maybe helpful at a committee meeting, but not much else.

It’s silly. And it makes people laugh.

But that’s the beauty of a childlike image - it lowers our defenses just enough for the truth to slip in.

We need each other.

Not in spite of our differences, but because of them.

And Paul’s point isn’t that a body needs to be physically complete or perfectly “functional” to be whole.

Bodies come in many forms -

some with missing parts, some with extra parts,

some with parts that work differently,

some that carry pain or limitation –

and they are all still whole, still beautiful, still fully alive.

In fact, Paul takes the parts some might consider “less desirable” and insists they deserve the most honor.

The parts others might try to cover or hide, Paul says, are indispensable and worthy of special care and attention.

That’s the exact opposite of the world’s hierarchy.

And that’s the kind of Body we’re called to be.

The Body of Christ is like THAT.

Wholeness is not about uniformity or every part doing the same thing.

Wholeness is about belonging.

Every part - seen or unseen, strong or fragile, typical or different - is necessary for the life of the whole.

No one is disposable. No one is less needed.

This is where we reclaim the church from the idol of institutionalism.

Because institutionalism says: 

We’re fine the way we are.

Don’t rock the boat.

Keep the budget steady.

Protect the brand.

But the Body of Christ says: 

If one part suffers, we all suffer together.

If one part rejoices, we all rejoice together.

Institutionalism values efficiency and control.

The Body of Christ values relationship and mutual care.

Institutionalism is afraid of being wounded.

But the Body of Christ trusts that God’s light can shine even through our deepest scars -

just as it did through the scarred body of the risen Christ.

Henri Nouwen wrote that no one escapes being wounded.

We are all wounded people.

And yet, in God’s grace, we can become wounded healers: people whose own scars become a source of compassion for others.

And this is not only true for individuals, it is also true for the Church.

The Church is always Christ’s Body,

but our credibility and ultimately our impact on this world comes not from perfection or power.

It comes from the humility to admit where we have failed,

the courage to repent,

and the willingness to be transformed.

In communion, we hear Jesus say, “This is my body, broken for you.”

But that is not only true about the bread we break.

It is also about the Church itself.

The Body of Christ - the Church gathered at the table - is broken for the sake of the world.

Like the bread, we are lifted by Christ, blessed, broken, and given for the world.

Our wounds - physical, emotional, or spiritual - are not defects to hide,

but places where grace can flow.

So I don’t believe in a church that clings to power.

I believe in a church that lays power down for the sake of love.

I don’t believe in a church that builds walls to keep the “wrong” people out.

I believe in a church that pulls up more chairs to the table.

I don’t believe in a church that pretends to have it all together.

I believe in a church that shows up wounded and still dares to serve.

The Church is and will always be the Body of Christ.

And because of that, we must be honest about the ways we have failed to live as Christ’s Body in the world.

Institutionally, we have sometimes mistaken self-preservation for faithfulness.

We have ignored the suffering of our neighbors while guarding our own comfort.

We have shut the doors Christ meant to leave open.

And in so doing, we have wounded those Christ calls beloved.

We must lament these things.

We must repent of these things.

Because we belong to Christ 

and belonging to Christ means continually turning back toward him,

and allowing his Spirit to reshape us in love.

And so, let us seek the grace and the courage to live more fully into the truth of who we already are:

a body that reflects the love, mercy, and justice of Christ.

A body that gives special honor to the parts the world overlooks.

A body that knows its own wounds, and allows God to make those wounds a source of healing for the world.

Friends, the world is still aching.

And Christ is still calling.

So let us, together, be the Body of Christ: 

A diverse, interdependent, wounded, yet serving and healing Body 

that is given in Love for the life of the world.

We have been made by love, in love, for love.

We have been saved by love, in love, and for love.

And we are given by love, in love, and for love. 

May it be so….

8.3.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Scriptures: Isaiah 43:1–2, 4; Luke 15:1–7; John 3:16–17

If someone asked you, “Are you saved?”

What would you say?

Some traditions expect a specific answer:

a date, a place, a moment when everything changed.

And for some, that moment is deeply meaningful.

But for others, maybe it feels like a loaded question.

Or it just sparks confusion….

What exactly is salvation?

What are we being saved from?

Why does any of it matter?

Somewhere along the way, salvation became a “get out of hell” card. And the point of believing in Jesus got reduced to a cosmic transaction:

Say the right words, believe the right things, and God will sign your spiritual release form.

But I don’t believe God is running a cosmic ledger.

And I don’t believe Jesus came to change God’s mind about us.

I believe Jesus came to change our minds about God.

Now, I’ll add this caveat. It’s really a caveat for the whole sermon series.

What I’m sharing is what I believe… 

Others might believe differently. 

You might believe differently. 

And that’s ok. :) And I’m happy to talk with you about it all. 

But at the end of the day, I think it still helps for you to know what I believe….

So, today, we start digging into what I believe “Salvation” is -  not with doctrine or debate, but with poetry:

The voice of God, through the prophet Isaiah:

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you.

I have called you by name; you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…

Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

THAT is where I believe salvation begins.

Not with our sin.

Not with our fear.

Definitely not with divine wrath.

But with belonging and God’s abiding love for us. 

God doesn’t say, “Once you prove yourself, then I’ll love you.”

God says, “You are mine. You are precious. I love you.”

We do not have to be saved from God.

Because God is not an angry divine being sitting up in the clouds, judging us and looking for the right justification to throw a lightening bolt at us. 

But we are saved by God—who walks with us through the fire,

who whispers our name in the flood,

who refuses to let us be lost.

Scripture has lots of stories about God refusing to let us be lost. In fact, we might conclude that this is the whole story of Scripture… told again and again…. 

Today we read one of these stories that Jesus tells - one of his most beloved stories of God refusing to allow us to be lost.

A shepherd has a hundred sheep.

One wanders off.

Is there a shepherd that might have considered that an acceptable loss? Maybe. 

But not this shepherd.

He leaves the 99 to go after the one.

He searches. He finds. He carries it home.

And then he throws a party.

“Rejoice with me,” he says, “for I have found my sheep that was lost.”

You might hear echoes there of the story of the prodigal son, with the father who rejoices when his lost son comes home. 

Jesus tells other stories too - of lost coins and lost treasure. 

He seems sometimes to be desperately trying to make the point clear for us: 

This is what God is like.

Not a God who punishes.

Not a God who tallies our mistakes.

But a God who goes searching for us. 

A God who carries us when we’re too tired to make it back to safety on our own. 

A God who rejoices in our return.

This is the God of our salvation. 

The God who refuses to allow us to be lost. 

In the letter to the Romans, Paul says:

“While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Not after we got our act together.

Not once we passed the right tests.

But while we were still stumbling in the dark, God moved toward us in love.

And then there’s the famous John 3:16 passage:

“For God so loved the world…”

Note: God was not angry at the world. 

God did not despise the world. 

God Loved it.

“That God gave his only Son…

Not to condemn the world,

But so that the world might be saved through him.”

The word “save” in the Greek is sozo: it means, “to heal, to restore, to make whole.”

Salvation is about healing and making us whole.

Salvation is about restoring us (and all of creation0 to what God had in mind for us in the first place…..

It’s not about getting out of this world, but it’s about being transformed by love even in this world.

,_______________________________________

But, you might be thinking, if all that’s true, then how did we end up with the other version of salvation?

The one where Jesus saves us from God?

Where salvation means Jesus appeasing God’s divine anger?

Well, that came from a theology that took shape in the Middle Ages,

when God was imagined as a feudal lord whose honor had been offended by our sins. 

Anselm of Canterbury said Jesus had to make it right.

Later, Calvin and others turned it into what theologians call, “penal substitution”—

that Jesus took our punishment so God wouldn’t have to give it to us.

It’s a compelling legal theory. But it has never sounded like good news to me. And it places the Father and the Son in opposition to each other - as if Jesus is loving and God is angry and mean.

But Jesus says, “I and the Father are one.”

Paul says, “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself.”

Jesus didn’t come to change God’s heart.

He came to reveal it.

To show us that the heart of God has always been love.

This story of divine wrath for human sins and Jesus as the divine appeaser is so embedded in us that it can be hard to shake. 

Thinking of this a different way entirely helps me…. 

A child is playing and accidently runs into the street. But a car is coming fast…..

An adult sees what’s happening and doesn’t hesitate.

They run, push the child out of the way, and take the hit themselves.  

For our story, let’s say the adult doesn’t die. Because it is a happier outcome and death isn’t necessary to make the point. 

Anyway, the child had not run into the street because of willful disobedience.

And even if the child was being willfully disobedient, we would never say that a child deserved to be hit by a car….

Nor would we say that the adult sacrificing his or her life was to appease an angry God or to satisfy the demands of the car….

But the actions of the adult did save the child from the consequences of running into the street. And the adult did sacrifice his own well being.

The child was saved by an act of love. 

It wasn’t demanded. It wasn’t owed to the car. 

It was freely given by the adult - because love can’t imagine doing nothing.

And we see this kind of love all the time:

In a soldier who places his own life on the line for his country. 

In a firefighter who runs into the flames for someone they’ve never met.

In an officer who shields others in the face of danger.

Not because they’re paying a debt.

But because they said, “I’ll go.”

That’s what the cross is.

Not Jesus absorbing God’s wrath,

but Jesus absorbing our own violence, humanity’s fear, our hate, our sin.

Jesus stepped between us and the destructive forces we create in our world. 

Jesus does this because God so loved the world.

He died for us, not to appease anyone.

He sacrificed his life for us, but it wasn’t to anyone….

And it is not transactional. 

It is the pure love of the creator for us, God’s beloved creation.

But maybe you’re still wondering:

“If others have given their lives for love—soldiers, firefighters, neighbors—what makes Jesus’ death different?

Why does his death actually save us?”

The answer is:

It’s not just what Jesus did.

It’s who Jesus is.

Jesus is the full embodiment of God—and of humanity.

The bridge between heaven and earth.

Jesus is Love made flesh, God’s love poured out into humanity.

He entered fully into our pain, our violence, our death—not as a distant observer, but as one of us.

And then—he rose.

Not with revenge,

but with his wounds still showing

and peace still on his lips.

Jesus didn’t just interrupt one moment of danger—he went to the roots of everything that separates us from God’s love:

All our Sin and Shame. 

All our fear and violence. 

And even Death itself.

And he broke their hold.

No one else could do that.

Because no one else carried both divinity and humanity in perfect union.

Jesus didn’t die instead of us.

He died as one of us.

And in his resurrection, he opened a new and abundant way of living. 

________________________________

Maybe I’m just in the back-to-school mode, because as I was writing this sermon, an algebra equation kept coming to mind. 

Now, no one panic. This is only a review. There won’t be a test…

But maybe you remember this:

If A = B and B = C, then A = C.

If we apply that to what we’ve been talking about, we know that: 

Scripture says, God = Love.

And that Jesus is the full embodiment of God, so God = Jesus. 

Therefore, Jesus = Love.

Which means…

when we say “Jesus saves us,”

we are also saying that Love saves us.

When we call Christ our Lord and Savior,

we’re declaring that the greatest power in the universe is God’s perfect Love.

That we will follow the way of Love, and that our salvation is found in nothing else….

Our salvation is not found in force or fear or dominance.

But Love—poured out, lifted up, and still alive.

And salvation is what happens when that love breaks into our fear, our shame, our wounds—and makes us whole.

Love saves us. 

And that love has a name: Jesus.

So when someone asks, “Are you saved?”

You can say: Yes—I was saved. on a cross at Calvary, 2,000 years ago.

And also: Yes—I am saved today, every time grace meets me in the mess.

• every time I remember I belong, even when I feel lost.

• every time I choose forgiveness over hate, truth over comfort, or love over fear.

Salvation isn’t something we earn.

It’s something we receive.

And it becomes something we live—

with joy, with freedom, with open hands and an open heart.

You see, we are not problems God needed to solve.

We are beloved children whom God chooses to save from the harm of our own actions through God’s transformative grace. 

We were made by love, in love, for love. 

And we are saved by love, in love, and for love. 

Thanks be to God!

Amen.

7.27.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

(Texts: Ezekiel 37:1–14, John 3:1–8, Acts 2:1–4)

When someone dies, we say, “They took their last breath.”

We say this not just because it’s poetic or euphemistic, 

but because it’s true.

Breath is life.

And life is breath.

We don’t live because we have muscles or memories or movement.

We live because we breathe.

And Scripture tells us that God is the giver of that breath.

In Genesis 2, when God forms the first human from the dust of the earth,

the creature doesn’t become alive until God breathes into its nostrils.

So from the very beginning, it has been the breath of God that animates us - not just air, but Spirit.

The word is Ruach in Hebrew.

The same Hebrew word can be translated to English as breath, wind, or spirit.

And so we read that the ruach of God hovered over the waters in creation.

The ruach of God breathed life into the first human.

The ruach of God speaks through prophets.

And the ruach of God stirs us awake even now.

In Ezekiel 37, the prophet is taken by the Spirit into a valley full of dry bones.

Not just dead bodies. But Bones.

Disjointed.

Scattered.

These bones had been lifeless for so long that they had become dry and brittle.

Then God asks Ezekiel,

“Mortal, can these bones live?”

And. What kind of question is that?

Of course they can’t. 

Bones are bones.

Dead is dead.

But Ezekiel doesn’t say yes or no.

He says, “O Lord God, you know.”

Because Ezekiel knows what we sometimes forget:

that God has a habit of doing impossible things.

So God tells him to prophesy to the bones.

To speak over them.

To declare that the breath will come again.

And as he does, there’s a rattling.

A sound.

A stirring.

The bones come together—bone to bone, tendon to tendon, flesh to flesh.

But still, there is no breath.

Until God says,

“Prophesy to the breath… and the breath came into them, and they lived.”

This isn’t just a story about ancient Israel.

It’s a story about us.

It’s about what happens when faith dries out.

When our religion becomes a pile of well-organized bones, but nothing is moving.

We can have the structure.

We can have the habits.

We can have the doctrine and the denomination and the details—

but without the breath, without the Spirit, 

it’s still just dust.

Sometimes, our faith can start to feel familiar but hollow.

We say the right words,

but forget to listen for the whisper.

We follow the forms,

but lose sight of the fire.

We recite the creeds,

but forget the Comforter.

We talk about God,

but struggle to walk with God.

That’s what I mean when I say we need to “Reclaim Faith from the trap of a Spiritless Religion.”

We’re not throwing out the bones.

But we are asking for the Breath of God to bring them back to life...

Jesus had a conversation like that with Nicodemus.

A respected religious leader.

A man who knew the law, taught the people, followed the customs.

But he came to Jesus at night - 

maybe because he was afraid of what people would think,

or maybe because his soul was tired

and he wasn’t sure the faith he had was the faith he needed.

He says to Jesus, “We know you’re a teacher from God…”

And Jesus immediately responds, “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Nicodemus is confused, so Jesus tries to clarify:

“You must be born of water and Spirit.”

And then Jesus says something even more mysterious and beautiful:

“The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

The Holy Spirit cannot be domesticated.

She doesn’t follow our rules or show up on demand.

We don’t own her.

We can’t schedule her.

We won’t be able to predict her.

But we can feel her.

We can hear the sound of her presence.

And we can be changed by her movement.

Alright.

Now we fast forward to Pentecost. 

Because we can’t talk about the Spirit without talking about Pentecost!

The followers of Jesus are gathered, unsure of what comes next.

They’ve seen the resurrected Christ,

they’ve heard his commission,

but they have not yet received what Jesus promised them. 

So they are waiting -

not because they’re lazy,

but because they know that real power doesn’t come from their own strength. 

And then suddenly….

there’s a sound.

Like a rush of wind.

And the room is filled.

Tongues of fire appear.

And the disciples begin to speak, and sing, they pour out into the streets—

not because they figured out a strategy,

but because the Spirit showed up.

That’s what WE need.

We don’t need better worship performances.

We don’t need more efficient denominational infrastructure.

We don’t need a slicker / more modern version of what we’ve always done.

We need breath and fire. 

We need to be born of Water and Spirit. 

We need Gods wind to fill us.

We need the Holy Spirit to show up and breathe into our dry bones.

To whisper into our confusion like Jesus did with Nicodemus.

To fill our churches and the people of God with holy fire.

Because without the Spirit, we’re just performing. 

We’re checking the boxes

and managing an institution.

But with the Spirit—

we are alive.

We are brave.

We are carried.

We are transformed.

The good news is that

The breath of God is still blowing.

Of course, we cannot possess the Spirit.

But we can be possessed by Her.

And when we are—

we live differently.

We love differently.

We become people of wind and breath and grace.

So today….. may the Spirt blow through us. 

Let OUR dry bones rattle….

And may we reclaim a faith full of abundant life. 

A life that is Spirit-filled and Spirit-led: 

born of God’s breath,

and animated by God’s wind, blowing wild and free…. 

Because with Gods ruach blowing through us,

we too can calm the waters of chaos

and co-create a world that is Good. 

With Gods ruach blowing through us,

we can offer healing and hope

to the hurt and confused world around us. 

With God’s ruach blowing through us,

we can transform tired and fear-filled places and spaces

into gardens of renewal—

where dry bones dance,

where strangers become neighbors,

where weary hearts catch their breath.

So let us go…. 

not with fear, but with fire.

And may our very lives proclaim that:

The Spirit is still moving.

The Church is still rising.

And love is still being poured out: wild and free and full of grace. Amen.

7.20.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Some say that Christmas is for children.

That it’s a sweet and simple story, about angels and shepherds and a baby asleep on the hay.

But the story we tell today—the story we keep telling—is not gentle. 

It’s not tidy. 

And it is startling in its clarity.

Because the heart of the Christmas story is about a God who refuses to stay distant.

About love that breaks through the silence and enters a world that is weary, worn, and wounded.

Sound familiar? 

A world filled with unrest and injustice. 

With sorrow and suspicion.

A world where people ache for things to be different but aren’t sure change will come.

And into that world, love is born.

Not abstract love. 

Not safe, theoretical love.

But love with skin on.

Love that weeps and walks and eats and heals.

Love that gets dusty feet and calloused hands and doesn’t mind the company of those others avoid.

Last week, we spoke of our nature. Of humanity. 

That we were made in love, by love, and for love.

But too often, we don’t live like it.

Fear creeps in. 

Anger takes root.

We forget who we are.

And we forget who they are, too.

That something in us bends away from the love we were created for.

Call it brokenness. 

Call it sin. 

Call it forgetting our true calling. 

Whatever we name it, we know the ache.

We’ve all lived it.

But God does not respond with fury.

God responds with flesh.

God’s answer to our sinfulness is not punishment.

It is presence.

Not condemnation.

But companionship.

Not threats of wrath.

But a life so full of love it cannot be ignored.

Jesus comes into this world, into this ache,

and shows us what it looks like to be human again.

To be love, in the flesh.

To feed the hungry. 

To touch the untouchable.

To speak truth with tenderness and to embody mercy in motion.

And when the world tries to silence that love—

when fear and power and cruelty do their worst—

Jesus doesn’t fight back with vengeance.

He stays true to love.

Even to the end.

And that end, the cross, has been distorted.

Some say it was divine wrath, unleashed.

That God needed someone to suffer.

That Jesus stepped in so we wouldn’t have to.

But no.

The cross is not the moment God stopped being angry.

It is the moment love refused to stop loving.

It’s where mercy met our deepest violence and didn’t even flinch.

Where love carried the weight of all that is broken, all we have lost,

and all we still long to be.

And in the resurrection, love got back up.

Not just as a triumph but as a promise.

That death does not win.

That sin does not have the final word.

That fear is not our master.

Still, the shape of Jesus’ love might surprise us.

He didn’t spend his life surrounded by the righteous.

He didn’t curry favor with the morally upright.

He was love that crossed lines. 

That ignored social rules. 

That made religious people squirm.

His life was not marked by heroic purity.

It was marked by a kind of holiness that looked suspicious.

The wrong dinner guests. 

The wrong friends.

He was always with the wrong crowd, it seems. 

And that is exactly what made his life so holy.

He didn’t shy away from sinners. 

He befriended them.

Not to excuse their pain, but to share it. 

To heal it.

The purity of Jesus wasn’t distance. 

It was presence.

He chose to be with people as they were: hurting, messy, longing for something more.

And in doing so, he revealed what sinlessness really is.

Not flawless avoidance.

But perfect love.

A love that enters the brokenness,

takes it on without being consumed by it,

and begins the slow, healing work of making all things new.

So why believe in Jesus?

Because Jesus shows us what God is really like.

Not a distant judge.

Not a divine scorekeeper.

But love. 

Fierce and tender and full of grace.

Jesus does not protect us from God.

Jesus reveals God.

In Jesus we see that God walks with the wounded, 

weeps with the broken, 

heals with his hands, 

and forgives with his whole life.

We believe in Jesus not because he makes us “right.”

But because he makes us whole.

Because he shows us how to be human.

Because he shows us how to be love.

We are singing songs that we usually think of as Christmas or Easter songs today.

But that’s because these remind us of the eternal truth of our faith.

These stories tell the central story of our faith

and they are just as true all year  - not just in Dec. or during Springtime. 

We have good news that is too good to keep to ourselves, 

promising joy not just for the already joyful, but for the whole groaning world

Because Christ is alive. 

Not locked in the past. 

Not tucked away in a tomb.

Alive and moving in every place where love shows up.

If you’ve ever feared God more than you’ve trusted grace,

If you’ve ever been told that Jesus came to save you from a God who couldn’t bear to look at you,

If faith has felt more like threat than invitation,

Hear this:

The God we meet in Jesus has always been love.

Jesus the Christ is Love Incarnate and he is alive and with us – still.

Still healing. Still calling. Still setting captives free.

And we, we were made in that image.

We are called to remember who we are.

And who we’ve always been.

We are Loved by Love itself….

And we are made in love, by love and for love.

Thanks be to God! 

7.13.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Scriptures: Genesis 1:26–27, 1 Corinthians 13:1–13, 1 John 4:7–21

I wasn’t allowed to say the word hate growing up.

Not even about broccoli.

And I tried. Believe me, I tried.

But it didn’t matter.

Hate was off-limits.

My mom would gently, firmly correct me every time:

“We don’t say hate.”

It wasn’t just a parenting rule - it was a value.

Words shape the world. 

And hate, once let loose, rarely stays small.

I didn’t understand it then. But I do now.

Because we live in a world where hate is not only spoken, it’s applauded.

Where politicians and public figures win approval by hating boldly and proudly.

Where enemies aren’t just disagreed with, they’re dehumanized.

Where fear becomes fuel, and hate becomes policy.

And I wonder if, sometimes, we forget who we are.

I know there are many ways Christians have tried to describe the human condition -

including the idea of original sin, the reality that we are born into a world already bent and broken.

Or in the more reformed traditions, we talk about the “total depravity” of all humans. 

And there is truth in these concepts. 

But here’s what I also believe… and what I want to lift up today:

I believe our story doesn’t start in sin.

It starts in love.

Genesis 1 says that we were created in the image of God

all of us - formed in divine likeness.

Before there was failure, before there was a fall, there was blessing.

God said “Very good….”

We are not a mistake.

And no one is. Everyone is Beloved.

Before we ever got lost, we were made good.

Before we broke anything, we were blessed.

Before we sinned, we were named “Beloved.”

Genesis tells us that we are made in the image of God.

Every. Single. One of us. 

Even the people we don’t like.

Even those we disagree with.

Even those who do terrible harm.

I believe in that beginning.

I believe in original blessing.

And I believe that the love of our creator and our original Goodness is more true - more lasting - than our failures. 

That’s not to say sin doesn’t exist.

It does.

We wound and betray and abandon one another.

We hoard and divide and destroy.

But that is clearly not what we were made for.

We were made in love. By Love. For love. 

We were made to love God, neighbor, and self - with our whole beings. 

Theologian Shirley Guthrie defines sin by saying simply that:

“Sin is not loving and not being willing to let ourselves be loved.”

Sin, then, is not just doing bad things.

It is refusing to live as people made in love, by love, for love.

It is forgetting who we are: image-bearers of a loving God.

It is denying the image of God in our neighbor.

And that’s where hate comes in.

Hate refuses the image of God in others.

It justifies harm.

It breeds violence.

It declares someone less-than, unworthy, disposable.

But the gospel says otherwise.

The Gospel says that Everyone is God’s Beloved.

Now let me be clear:

Scripture tells us to hate evil.

Romans 12 says: “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good.”

Psalm 97 says: “You who love the Lord, hate evil!”

We are right to resist injustice, to oppose cruelty, to speak out against harm.

But we are never told to hate people.

Even those who do great wrong.

Even those we fear.

Ephesians 6 reminds us:

“Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against powers and principalities.”

Jesus said: “Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who mistreat you.”

Yes, we are to hate what is evil.

But we are to love those who are caught in evil and sin  

- because we are, too.

The cross is not about vengeance. It’s about redemption.

And that redemption reaches even those we fear, even those who wound.

Because if it doesn’t, what hope do any of us have?

Because here’s the truth we don’t always want to admit:

Sin isn’t just out there, in them.

It’s in us, too.

Not always on purpose.

Not always through obvious harm.

But we participate in broken systems.

We benefit from injustice.

We act in fear when love is called for.

As our tradition teaches, we are not just people who sometimes sin—

We are sinners.

Even our best intentions fall short.

Even our striving toward goodness is incomplete.

As Romans 3 puts it: “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

But Romans goes on to say:

“God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

That’s why hate can never be the answer.

Because if we start hating sinners, we’ll end up hating ourselves.

And God doesn’t.

God doesn’t hate us.

God sees it all—every failure, every harm, every bit of self-deception—

and still calls us beloved.

1 John 4 tells us that “God is love,” and that “those who love are born of God and know God.”

It goes even further:

“Those who say, ‘I love God,’ and hate their brother or sister are liars.”

It doesn’t get much clearer than that.

If we hate, we do not know God.

If we dehumanize, we do not know Christ.

If we write people off either as groups

- by race, religion, political party, nationality, sexuality, gender, or criminal records –

or as individuals for any other reason….

we have forgotten our own belovedness.

Because everyone—everyone—is God’s beloved.

This isn’t about ignoring evil.

It’s about resisting evil without becoming it.

It’s about remembering who we are—

and who they are, too.

Our closing hymn today is:

“They’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

But… is that what we’re known for?

Are we known for our compassion?

Our humility?

Our willingness to see the image of God even in those the world casts aside?

I find that line deeply convicting.

Because it doesn’t always ring true.

Not in the headlines.

Not on social media.

Not even, sometimes, in the church.

When you look around, it seems that Christian’s are more often known for

our exclusions,

our anger,

our entanglement with power…..

But we are not called to be known by our opinions.

Or by who we vote for.

Or who we’re against.

We are called to be known by our love….

What if, when people saw a Christian,

they expected kindness?

Healing?

A fierce commitment to justice, and a tender care for the hurting?

What if when people needed community and care and love, they immediately and without hesitation went to the closest Christian or church they could find?

What if we reclaimed faith from the sin of hate—and became people of unapologetic, extravagant, radical, visible, unmistakable love?

What if that was our witness?

Let us remember who we are and who everyone is:

People made in love, by love, and for love. 

and let us help one another live as if it’s true.

Because it is.

Amen.

7.6.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

Today, we’re continuing our sermon series on some of the basics of our faith. 

In the first week, we remembered that at the heart of everything, God is love.

Last week, we explored how that love creates a beloved community - a vision of human relationships rooted in dignity and compassion.

This week, we’re widening the circle even further.

Because God’s love isn’t just for humans. 

It embraces all of creation - the earth, the creatures, the rivers, and the sky.

This world is not a disposable backdrop for the story of humanity. 

The entire world is sacred ground.

It is all beloved.

According to Genesis, in the beginning, when God shaped the dust into a living being and planted a garden, the story of Genesis says that God placed the human there to till it and keep it.

Not to exploit, not to discard, not to Lord over it,

but to belong to it…

to steward and tend what God had called good.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to learning about the world itself.

I’ve always loved to read and most of the time, I read theology - books about faith, scripture, the long history of people trying to understand God.

But every so often, when I need to clear my head

or when the questions feel too heavy,

I reach for something different.

That’s when I read science books – any book about how the world works.

Physics, biology, astronomy, books about galaxies and microbes and everything in between.

And I realized not long ago that even when I’m reading about the expansion of the universe or the daily life of snails, I’m still reading about the same things:

Who is God? Who are we? And what are we all doing here?

Science and Theology are just two ways of asking the same questions.

Two ways of trying to remember that this world is more than just useful. 

It is holy.

I’ve also found that some of my best sermon inspirations aren’t found in books at all.

They happen when I’m just walking around our yard, paying attention.

Watching the crickets and frogs hopping about,

or the turtles slipping into the coulee,

or the fish rising to the surface for a moment before disappearing again.

Sometimes I take pictures and post them on Facebook—just to share a little of that wonder.

It’s a kind of preaching without words.

A way of reminding myself, and anyone who cares to look,

that this world is shimmering with God’s presence

if we’ll only slow down long enough to see it.

Some of the great theologians have said that God has given us two books—creation and scripture.

That the beauty and order of the world are like a first language in which God speaks to us.

And that Christ and the scriptures are the second expression of who God is.

John Calvin called creation “the theater of God’s glory,”

and said it shows us glimpses of the divine, if only we will look.

Our story in Genesis insists that we are not separate from creation.

We are formed from the humus—the same root as the word “humble.”

We are earthlings made of earth, breathing God’s own breath.

We were never meant to live as conquerors on this planet.

We were meant to live as part of God’s Sacred World. 

But even in that first garden,

there was a tree whose fruit was not for us to take.

Creation has always held both beauty and consequence.

The goodness of creation was never the same thing as the absence of danger.

From the beginning, the world was alive—full of possibility, full of risk.

God’s intention was never that the garden would be a safe little enclosure for our convenience.

It was a place of freedom and choice,

where love meant respecting limits that we did not set ourselves.

Sometimes the same sun that makes things grow will scorch the fields to dust.

The same life cycles that give life will also take it away.

But that doesn’t mean the world is bad.

Or that it is disposable.

It means that the world is dynamic.

That, like us, there is good and bad within it.

It also means that it is not ours to control.

If we look back over the long arc of history, it’s clear how often the mindset of domination has shaped the world.

Empires have set out across oceans, claiming new lands as their own, often without a second thought for the people or the creatures who already called those places home.

Forests have been burned to the ground to harvest a single crop.

Rivers have been dammed or poisoned or drained dry to feed our hunger for more….. more land, more profit, more power.

But is this what God intended for us?

Is this what it means to be formed from the dust, to be given breath and placed in the garden to till it and keep it?

Or is there another way? One rooted not in conquest but in care,

not in endless taking but in gratitude and respect?

We have often forgotten that the same Word who became flesh, was the Word through whom all things came into being. 

The Gospel of John says it as plainly as any scripture can: All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.

If that’s true, then every leaf and river, every creature and cloud carries the fingerprint of Christ. Creation isn’t disposable. It is beloved.

And the story of salvation is not just a story about saving individual souls.

It’s about God’s love poured out for the entire earth.

The rivers and the fields, the creatures and the soil….

God’s redeeming work stretches as wide as creation itself.

Romans 8 speaks of creation groaning - as if in labor pains - for this redemption. 

And we don’t have to look far to hear the groaning. Just a few days ago, the Guadeloupe River rose up in the dark of night…. Wreaking havoc and heartbreak in its path….

The world is groaning. And so are we. Because we are part of this creation, woven into its beauty and its sorrow.

When we see tragedies like this, it is tempting to turn away or to give up.

But even in our heartbreak, our calling has not changed.

We are still invited to live as people

who tend and keep,

who watch and protect,

who love and honor this earth and all who call it home. 

We can’t stop the flood or quiet the storm,

but we can stand with those who mourn.

We can remember that our care for creation is also a way of caring for each other.

We can ponder our own place in this beloved creation:

Are we part of it? Formed from the dust, breathing God’s breath, endowed with a calling to steward and tend?

Or do we see ourselves as something set apart, with license to use the earth as we please?

It isn’t always simple.

The choices aren’t always clear-cut.

Sometimes what seems like tending in one moment might later reveal unintended harm.

Sometimes what looks like dominion is done out of fear or need.

And yet, the questions remain:

What would it look like to live in a way that sustains life beyond our own lifetime?

What would it look like to give back to the land and water that nourish us, so that others (human and non-human) can flourish too?

What would it look like to stay present to suffering, even when it’s inconvenient, to remember that our neighbors’ pain is part of our shared life?

In a world that often tells us to take and consume, what would it mean to remember that we belong to each other—and to this earth?

There are many ways to live.

Some treat the world as disposable, as something to conquer or control.

Others remember that this is sacred ground.

That we are guests here.

That our calling, as best we can discern it, is to care.

The good news is that the same God who formed us from the dust and called us to tend the garden is still at work.

Still redeeming. Still reconciling all things.

The Word became flesh not to help us escape this world but to heal it.

To dwell with us in the midst of it.

To show us what love embodied looks like.

So we don’t have to live by the myth of domination.

We don’t have to keep pretending that more consumption and more exploitation will somehow satisfy us.

We don’t have to keep pretending that the world is here for our taking instead of our tending.

Instead, we can remember that creation is a gift: God’s first gift to us.

We can choose to live like it matters.

We can learn again to delight in the beauty around us,

to grieve what is broken,

to hope for what can still be restored.

Because this world - this fragile, aching, stunning world - is not disposable.

It is the beloved work of God’s hands.

And we are not its masters.

We are its caretakers and its stewards.

May we have the courage to live as if that is true.

Amen.

6.29.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

This is week two of my summer sermon series, where we are walking through some basic tenets of our faith.

Last week, we built the foundation on which all our other beliefs rest: that God is love.

This week, we are trying to understand a bit more about God’s vision of love for the world -

what it looks like when that love takes shape among us. We call it God’s Beloved Community.

And the Holy Spirit worked the timing out just right for this conversation, because this is the week when we celebrate the birth of our nation -

a time when we remember the story of our country, give thanks for its blessings, and reflect on what it means to belong.

It is good to celebrate where we come from.

It is good to love the place God has planted us.

It is good to pause and give thanks for the blessings we enjoy - blessings that many in the world still long for.

It is good to remember the sacrifices made so that others could live with dignity and the hope of peace.

Love of place, of land, of shared memory - these are good gifts.

Gratitude for freedom, for community, for opportunity, these things are all worth honoring.

But even good things can become distorted.

There’s a quiet shift that can happen - often without us noticing -

when our love of country becomes the measure of all things.

When God’s favor gets painted red, white, and blue.

When faith is fused with power, the cross is draped in a flag.

That’s the danger of nationalism:

the belief that our nation is somehow uniquely chosen by God,

that its success proves God’s blessing,

and that our version of faith should rule the public square.

It turns Jesus from the Savior of the world into a national mascot.

And when that happens, faith loses its power to challenge us.

It becomes a mirror reflecting back our own preferences

instead of a window through which we glimpse God’s kingdom.

But Scripture tells us a different story about God’s vision for our life on earth.

The prophet Isaiah offers a vision of many peoples, many nations,

streaming toward God - not to conquer or claim,

but to learn, to lay down weapons, to walk in peace.

He writes:

“They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

Notice what Isaiah doesn’t say.

He doesn’t say one nation will rise above all others.

He doesn’t say God’s mountain is the exclusive possession of a single people.

He doesn’t say only those who look or worship or speak the same belong there.

Isaiah sees a future that runs counter to the logic of empire and exclusion—

a future where all humanity gathers in the name of peace,

where competition is replaced by cooperation,

where weapons are repurposed to feed and to tend.

Centuries later, Paul writes to the Galatians:

“There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

In Christ, every division is undone.

Every hierarchy dismantled.

Every wall torn down.

And generations after Paul, when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was leading the struggle for civil rights, he reached back to this same vision and gave it new language.

He called it the Beloved Community - a community where racism, poverty, and violence are replaced by reconciliation, justice, and peace.

Dr. King said:

“The end is reconciliation; the end is redemption; the end is the creation of the Beloved Community.”

He believed God was drawing a circle so wide there is no outside.

A circle were no one left our or left behind.

Where no one deemed unworthy or less worthy than another.

Friends, I also want to say this plainly:

Nationalism is not just a political ideology.

It is a kind of idolatry - a false god that demands our loyalty but cannot save us.

It promises security and belonging, but it leaves us more fearful and divided.

It asks us to trust in power rather than grace.

But there is a better way.

A deeper belonging.

A truer hope.

Jesus calls us out of the shadows of these false gods and into the light of God’s Beloved Community - a community where our worth is not measured by citizenship or power, but by the love of the One who made us.

Of course, just because God’s Vision, God’s Beloved Community includes all nations doesn’t mean that we don’t have nations right now.

Of course, we all do live in nations.

And we do need laws and borders to order our civic life.

There is nothing inherently unfaithful about processes for citizenship or policies for immigration.

But as Christians, we are always called to wrestle with how those laws reflect - or fail to reflect - the deeper call of the gospel.

And I also want to acknowledge that questions about borders and citizenship are complicated.

Nations do need policies to manage who can enter, who can stay, and how we live together.

And reasonable people can disagree about what those policies should be.

But as followers of Jesus, our task is to hold all those decisions - no matter which side we stand on - up to the light of God’s love.

We may disagree on immigration policy.

But scripture leaves no doubt about how we are called to see the people behind the headlines: the immigrants, refugees, asylum seekers and the ICE agents, the police officers, the elected officials -

We are to call all of these people our neighbors.

They are all bearers of God’s image.

And God loves them just as much as God loves us.

Even when a law says someone must leave,

we are never excused from treating that person with dignity.

Even when a person’s job is to enforce the laws we disagree with,

we are never excused from treating that person with dignity.

Even when a policy draws a boundary,

we are never relieved of our call to love.

We are called to remember that our first citizenship is not in any earthly nation but in the kingdom of heaven.

And in that kingdom, there are no outsiders.

No disposable lives.

And maybe one of the simplest ways to know whether we are following the gospel or bowing to the idols of nationalism is this:

When we hear the words “God bless America,” can we also say—without hesitation—

God bless Iran.

God bless Israel and Palestine.

God bless Russia and Ukraine.

God bless the nations we fear and the nations we love.

Because the nature of God, as Creator of all, is to bless all of creation.

To long for peace and flourishing in every land.

And our call as Christ’s disciples is to see no enemy so hated that God’s grace does not reach them.

If our faith can only imagine blessings for us, it isn’t faith in Jesus.

It’s faith in ourselves.

But if our faith dares to imagine God’s blessing for all peoples,

even - or especially- for the least, the lost, the stranger, and the foreigner -

that is the beginning of the Beloved Community.

And that is the beginning of true peace.

So, as we live in this tension –

grateful for the blessings of our U.S. citizenship and mindful of our civic responsibilities to our nation - 

we also hold tightly to our truest allegiance –

which is to the One who breaks down all walls and makes us all one.

And let’s be honest: this isn’t easy work.

It is so much simpler to draw lines.

To sort the world into “us” and “them.”

To believe that our way is the only way.

To let faith serve our comfort instead of challenging our assumptions.

But the gospel doesn’t call us to what is easy.

It calls us to what is true.

To what is holy.

To what is just.

It calls us to the mountain of God, where all nations gather.

Where swords become plowshares and weapons become tools of nurture.

Where true peace is not the prize of the powerful but the gift of God.

So yes - let us celebrate the good.

Let’s sing the patriotic songs we love.

Let’s decorate with flags and pray God’s blessing upon our nation.

Let’s also remember the sacrifices that have made the freedoms we enjoy possible.

But let’s not let the celebration end there.

Let it lead us deeper –

to gratitude that does not stop at our own borders,

to compassion that dares to love even our enemies,

to justice that refuses to privilege some over others.

Let our love of country be a doorway to loving the world God so loves –

a world where no one is forgotten,

no one is cast aside,

no one is called unworthy.

Because the gospel truth is this:

God’s love knows no borders.

God’s mercy cannot be contained by any flag.

God’s embrace gathers all the world into belonging.

May we have the courage to step out of the shadow of our false gods

and into the light of Christ, who alone is worthy of our ultimate trust.

May we have the courage to build God’s Beloved Community together -

on earth as it is in heaven.

And may our witness always be one of peace, of reconciliation,

and of Love that will not let any of us go.

Amen.

6.22.25 - Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville

I wonder what image of God you first internalized.

Maybe it was from a song—

Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

A melody you can still hum without thinking,

promising love at the heart of it all.

Maybe it was from a picture book—

Jesus with a lamb on his shoulders,

a shepherd, gentle and kind.

Maybe it was God as a parent—

arms open wide, waiting at the door to welcome you home.

These were the types of images that formed my understanding of God….

And they have served as foundational beliefs for who God is and who I am and who I believe that humans are called to be in this world….

This morning, I hope to set that foundation for us. And then over the next several weeks, I’m planning to explore more about what it means to worship and follow the God who is Love.

But we have to start with this foundation – that God is Love – because far too often, God is depicted as something else.  

And if we start with the foundation that God is anything other than Love, then we skew our images of ourselves and of the world and of our relationship with God and the world.

So maybe your first understanding of God was not that of love…

Maybe it was God as judge.

God as distant.

God as angry.

God as the one keeping score,

watching for you to trip up,

waiting to punish.

I remember a friend in middle school who came back from summer camp different.

My silly, happy go lucky friend was suddenly very serious. And Afraid.

She’d been told that unless a person “gave their life to Christ” in exactly the right way,

they were bound for hell.

She had said the words her summer camp leader had told her were necessary for salvation, but she was desperate to save us—her friends—

because her foundational image of God was like that of a cosmic bouncer,

standing at the gates, eager to turn people away.

It was during this time that I learned that I had other friends who also believed that God was keeping track of every wrong,

every tiny slip.

One told me that she would lie awake at night,

replaying the day in her mind,

trying to confess every little thing,

terrified that she might have missed one.

And I remember hearing that…

and feeling horrified.

Because that wasn’t the God I knew.

That wasn’t the God I trusted.

It felt a little like when someone the world had lifted up as a hero

turns out to have done something terrible.

It was disorienting.

Like you couldn’t trust what you thought you knew.

That’s how it felt to hear people speak of God that way.

It made me wonder—

Had I misunderstood?

Had I gotten it wrong all along?

But that is not the God I had been taught to believe in.

That is not the God who is Love itself….

When we look at what scripture we can find verses that can be used to support the idea of an angry, score-keeping, divine war-monger.

My friends were fond of quoting:

“Depart from me, you who are cursed…”

“Anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire.”

“If you will not obey… all these curses shall come upon you.”

People have used these verses to paint God as harsh and cruel—

But those words were never meant to terrify us into submission.

They were meant to call us back—

to compassion,

to justice,

to love.

The sheep and goats?

It’s a parable about seeing Christ in the hungry, the sick, the imprisoned.

Revelation’s lake of fire?

It’s the destruction of evil so life can flourish.

Deuteronomy’s warnings?

A call to build a community where no one is forgotten, no one is crushed.

And this is not two gods—

an Old Testament God of wrath, a New Testament God of love.

There is one God.

The scriptures I picked for today are two well-known passages (one from the OT and one from the NT)

Psalm 23:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside still waters;

He restores my soul.”

That’s not a bully.

That’s not a bouncer.

That’s a shepherd—guiding, providing, restoring.

Even in the valley of the shadow of death,

the shepherd is there.

The rod and staff?

Not weapons to strike you down.

A Shepherd did not use those to beat his sheep into submission.

They’re for protection, for guidance,

for keeping us safe, for bringing us home.

And what follows us?

Not wrath. Not shame.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

In Luke 15:

The prodigal son, trudging home with a speech in his mouth:

“Father, I am no longer worthy…”

But before he can even finish—

before he can beg or bargain—

the father runs.

Runs down the road.

Wraps him in an embrace.

Celebrates his return.

The whole arc of scripture tells the same story of Love:

This is the God of creation—

who looked at sky and sea, bird and beast, and called it good.

Who shaped humanity from dust and breathed life into us.

The God of the flood—

not delighting in destruction,

but grieving over human violence,

and setting a rainbow as a promise: never again.

The God of the prophets—

who cried out for justice,

pleaded for mercy,

longed for the people to return.

The God of the psalms—

our shepherd, our refuge, our steadfast love.

The God of the gospels—

healing, feeding, forgiving, welcoming.

The God of Revelation—

making all things new.

Wiping every tear.

Welcoming people from every nation into the city where the gates are never shut.

From beginning to end, and all along the middle,

the story of scripture points to the God who is love.

God is not a cosmic bully.

God is not a divine bouncer.

God is the shepherd who seeks.

The parent who runs.

The healer who binds up wounds.

The One whose power is mercy.

The One whose glory is grace.

We hear again and again that Love is the way.

And that Love is the why…..

If it isn’t Love, it isn’t what God is.

As I look around the world today, I think that some of what we’ve gotten wrong is that we have the wrong view of who and what God is….

When we think of God as a divine bully, we end up living in terror.

But if we trust in the God who is love, we can lay down that fear and

rest in the love that has already claimed us.

When we think of God as a divine scorekeeper, we find ourselves scrambling to earn grace—

but if we simply receive grace as a gift of Love, that changes everything.

When we think of God as “Love that wilt not let us go”, we can indeed “rest our weary hearts in God…”

And we can trust that all our sins and wrong-doings are forgiven. We can extend that to others in the ways we forgive.

When we think of God as the King of Love (as we will sing later) we can imagine what a Kingdom built entirely on Love might be like.

As we wrestle with all the goings on in the world.

As we interact with friends and neighbors.

As we seek to find our place in this world and in our community,

what we believe about the God who created us, matters.

We have to get the foundation right or the whole building will crumble. Buildings can not be stabilized on shifting sands. If there is a crack in the foundation, then a building will crack or twist and distort.

But when we build our house of faith on the rock that is the God of Love, then it can withstand all the storms of life, our faith will not become twisted or distorted.  

The story of God – the story of God’s people – our story, and therefore what we based the entirety of our life and faith on is Love…

The heart of all things is love.

The ground of all being is love.

Love is the way.

And Love is the why.

May that love heal what fear has broken in us.

Love is the song that is leading us all home.

May we all listen to and, indeed, join into the singing of Love’s Song for us and for the world.

Amen.