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.