Ancient Faith for Modern Times: Weekly sermons, thoughtful articles, and pastoral prayer rooted in Scripture and the historic Christian faith. Questions and prayer requests welcome.
Husband. Father. Pastor.
The disciples hid behind locked doors — afraid, guilty, and grieving. Jesus came, spoke peace and breathed new life into dry bones. The doors could not hold him then. They cannot hold him now. He is still doing this today.
On Easter morning, Mary came weeping in darkness—grieving and hopeless. The risen Jesus met her there, called her by name, and turned her tears into testimony: “I have seen the Lord.” He is calling your name too. Hear. Respond.
"It is finished." One word in Greek — tetelestai — stamped across humanity's debt like PAID IN FULL. The Lamb stepped forward. The price was paid. Good Friday sermon on John 18–19.
On Good Friday, the Church stops. The altar is bare. Silence fills the space. We stand at the foot of the cross and remember: the King gave himself willingly, pierced for our sins. “It is finished.” We do not rush past the darkness. The light is coming — but first, we stay here.
On Maundy Thursday, our Lord shares his Last Supper with his disciples, stoops to wash dusty feet, and gives us His new commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you.” In the Upper Room, He models humble service before the cross. Will we receive His love and extend it to others?
Maundy Thursday blends celebration and sorrow, drawing the faithful into the Upper Room where Jesus shared his Last Supper with his disciples. #ChristIsKing
Palm Sunday: “Hosanna” to “Crucify”—our hearts mirror the crowd's fickleness. Yet the humble King rides to die for us anyway. Follow Him through Holy Week.
Fifth Sunday in Lent (Passion Sunday): A sealed tomb, dry bones, the long ache of unanswered prayer. The God who delayed for Lazarus, who spoke life into a graveyard, weeps at the grave — and still acts. The stone will not stay in place.
Fourth Sunday in Lent: Seven sons passed over. A healed beggar thrown out. Both found by the one who sees what no one else sees. Jesus still walks into the forgotten places and asks: "Do you believe in the Son of Man?" This changes everything.
In this Third Sunday in Lent sermon, we note that she came to the well alone. At noon. When no one would see her. Jesus was already waiting, knowing every chapter, every failure, every empty jar. He sees the full ledger of our lives and still he offers. That is what makes his grace so astonishing. He crosses every boundary to find those of us who have quietly stopped believing anyone would come for us. The living water is not for people who have cleaned themselves up. It is for anyone who has been coming to the same well for years, still thirsty, quietly hoping that this time might be different. Come to the well of living water.
In this Second Sunday of Lent sermon, we follow Nicodemus—a powerful, educated religious leader—as he slips into the night to seek out Jesus. What he encounters shatters every assumption about how we earn our way to God. Through John 3:1–16, Romans 4, and Psalm 33, one truth emerges with striking clarity: no amount of religion, intellect, or moral achievement can produce what only God can give—a life born from above. Just as Abraham was justified by faith, not performance, we are invited to stop striving and start trusting. And at the center of it all stands the cross—the ultimate "lifting up"—where the remedy for our broken condition was made available to whoever believes.
Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday, is far more than an excuse for pancakes or parades. Its name comes from the practice of "shriving" — confessing sins and receiving absolution — reflecting the day's true purpose: spiritual preparation for the Lenten journey ahead. The tradition of feasting on rich foods before the fast is not mere indulgence, but a meaningful threshold moment, a conscious farewell to abundance before embracing simplicity and self-denial. In this way, Shrove Tuesday embodies one of Christianity's core rhythms — that joy and austerity, feasting and fasting, are not opposites but companions, each giving the other deeper meaning.
Ash Wednesday marks the start of Lent, a 40-day season of repentance, fasting, and prayer leading up to Easter. Drawing on the Old Testament tradition of ashes as a symbol of sorrow and mortality, Christians are marked with a cross of ashes as a reminder of human sinfulness and the judgment of death, while also pointing to the hope of new life found in Jesus Christ. The ashes themselves are typically made from palms burned from the previous year's Palm Sunday. Though some might question whether the public display of ashes contradicts Jesus' warnings against showy religiosity in Matthew 6, the gesture is meant to be a humble sign of repentance and an invitation for others to reflect on their own spiritual lives — a meaningful public witness when done with sincerity.
On Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, we gather around Matthew 6 and Psalm 103 to ask a question that cuts to the heart of every spiritual discipline: why do we do what we do? Jesus warns against practicing our righteousness to be seen by others—whether in giving, praying, or fasting—because those who perform for human applause have already received their reward in full. Even the imposition of ashes, visible as it is, stands apart from that kind of hypocrisy: it is not a badge of superior devotion but a corporate confession of our shared fragility and need. We are dust. And yet, as Psalm 103 reminds us, God knows our frame, remembers our weakness, and meets us not with condemnation but with steadfast love. This Lent, we are invited to audit our hearts—to give secretly, to pray privately, to fast quietly—not to earn God's favor, but to lay down our pretenses and receive what we could never manufacture: the righteousness of Christ, given freely in the great exchange.
Lent isn't just a season of giving things up — it's an invitation into something ancient, costly, and ultimately joyful. This piece traces the spiritual logic of these forty days from the earliest Christians through to the Prayer Book we use today, and asks what it might mean for us to take that invitation seriously. If Easter is the destination, Lent is how we learn to want it.
On this First Sunday of Lent we journey with Jesus into the wilderness, where the Holy Spirit leads Him to face forty days of fasting and fierce temptation by the devil. Through three powerful encounters—turning stones to bread, leaping from the temple pinnacle, and bowing for worldly kingdoms—Jesus triumphs where Adam failed, relying solely on the Word of God to resist every attack. This passage reveals the reality of spiritual battle, the danger of shortcuts, and the victory secured by the obedient Second Adam. As we enter our own Lenten wilderness of prayer, fasting, and repentance, Christ's faithfulness assures us that God's mercy meets us in our weakness, leading us ultimately toward the cross and the empty tomb.
