We all know the story of Jesus’s final hours before his arrest. He and the disciples share a final meal, where he washes their feet, breaks bread, and blesses the cup. Then they go to Gethsemane where Jesus prays and the disciples nod off. But tucked between meal and garden, Mark and Matthew include a detail that’s easy to miss:

“When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.” (Mark 14:26/Matthew 26:30)
     It’s the only place in the Gospels where we are explicitly told that Jesus sang. Of course, he may have sung often—it just didn’t make it into the written accounts. But both Mark and Matthew thought this moment was worth preserving. Why? Most likely because Jesus and his disciples were singing Psalms 113–118, known as the Hallel, a collection of hymns of praise sung during the Passover meal. The words would have been familiar: songs of God’s faithfulness, deliverance, and enduring love they had sung since childhood. That Jesus raised his voice in song just before betrayal, trial, and crucifixion reveals something profound—when facing the darkest night, he turned to music, to worship, to the familiar, to the words of Scripture set to melody.
     That small note in the Gospels is a reminder that music is not an accessory to faith—it’s at the heart of how God’s people have always expressed themselves. Singing ties us together, teaching us truths too deep for mere speech, lifting our prayers beyond what our own words can carry.
     The earliest Christians understood this. Paul writes in his letters that believers are to speak to one another “with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts” (Ephesians 5:19). In Colossians 3:16 he adds, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly…with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God.” Paul doesn’t treat music as background noise or that part of worship that we have to do. He sees it as central to community life, a way of teaching, encouraging, and proclaiming faith together.
     Even outsiders noticed. In one of the earliest non-Christian descriptions of Christian worship, Pliny the Younger, a Roman governor in the early second century, reported to the emperor that these peculiar followers of Christ “were in the habit of meeting before dawn to sing responsively a hymn to Christ as to a god.” Singing marked them out. Long before church buildings or hymnals or choirs, Christians were known as a people who sang.
     Across the centuries, the Church has never lost that song. The style may change—chant, chorale, gospel, praise chorus—but the impulse is the same. Music carries us when words falter. It gathers us into one voice when life pushes us apart. It teaches children, comforts the grieving, strengthens the weary, and gives joy to the grateful.
     Think of the songs that have carried you through: maybe an old hymn learned at grandma’s side, or a chorus that played on repeat during a hard season, or a refrain that gave voice to your prayers when you couldn’t quite find the words yourself. Music connects our faith to memory and emotion in a way few other things can.
     Of course, Christians have long debated the “right” kind of music for worship. Traditional hymns often draw us in with rich theology and layered language, slowing us down to reflect on the meaning of the words. Contemporary praise songs, on the other hand, lean on repetition, accessible lyrics, and musical flow to help worshipers enter a spirit of prayer and praise. Each has its strengths, and each helps us approach God in a slightly different way. The diversity of song is part of the beauty of the Church’s worship.
     As we move into this new season, we will begin a sermon series exploring some of the Church’s most beloved hymns—and perhaps a few less familiar treasures. Together, we will look more closely at their words, and also at the stories of the writers whose faith and struggles gave birth to these songs. My hope is that as we explore the roots of these hymns, they will take on new life in our worship.
     ​So when we gather this fall and raise our voices—sometimes strong, sometimes stumbling—we are stepping into a stream that flows through millennia of believers: from Paul and Pliny, through the disciples and Jesus himself, all the way back to the psalms of Israel. In learning and worshiping, in navigating melodies and harmonies, we add our voices to the great chorus of praise that spans time and place, heaven and earth.

(Letter from August 2025)
​     When we think of King David—the shepherd boy who became Israel’s greatest king—we might imagine a perfectly noble lineage: generations of faithful, respectable men and women leading up to the throne. But David’s ancestry tells a different, more surprising story.
     Yes, David is a descendant of Abraham, through Isaac, Jacob, Judah, and Perez. That much is expected. But dig a little deeper, and we discover three remarkable—and unlikely—women in his family tree: Ruth, Rahab, and Tamar. Each carries a story far from typical, yet each made extraordinary choices that changed the world for the positive. These women remind us that the work of redemption often flows through the unexpected.

Ruth: Faithful in the Foreign Land
     Ruth was a Moabite, born outside the covenant people of Israel. After the death of her husband, she famously refused to abandon her widowed mother-in-law, Naomi, saying, “Your people will be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16).
     Ruth is the epitome of steadfast love and quiet strength. She left her homeland, endured poverty, and gleaned grain in the fields as a beggar to care for Naomi. Eventually, she married Boaz, and together they became the great-grandparents of King David.
      Ruth teaches us that faithfulness often looks like small, daily acts of love and loyalty. She didn’t set out to be part of something historic—she simply followed the path of integrity. And that faithfulness helped shape the future of a nation.

Rahab: Courage in the Margins
      Rahab may be the most surprising figure on this list. She was a Canaanite and a prostitute in Jericho. When Israelite spies came to scout the city, Rahab hid them and helped them escape. In return, she and her family were spared when Jericho fell (Joshua 2).
      It’s a bit unclear whether this Rahab is the same one who married Salmon, David’s ancestor, but Jewish and Christian traditions have widely embraced her as such. Her inclusion in Matthew’s genealogy of Christ boldly challenges assumptions about who belongs in the unfolding story of salvation.
      Rahab shows that courage and faith often rise from unexpected places. Her choice to protect the spies was risky, but it came from trust in something greater. Her legacy stands as proof that no life is beyond the reach of grace—or outside the plans of redemption.

Tamar: Justice Through Boldness
      Tamar’s story, found in Genesis 38, is perhaps the most complex. She was a Canaanite woman married to Judah’s son. When her husband died, she was promised another—but Judah’s family failed to fulfill that duty. So Tamar took matters into her own hands, disguising herself, becoming pregnant with Judah’s sons, and confronting him with his failure.
      Her actions can be hard to understand today, but in her context, she was securing justice and her rightful place in the family line. The son born from that encounter, Perez, became one of David’s direct ancestors.
      Tamar reminds us that even through human messiness, justice and redemption can still break through. Her story speaks to boldness in the face of injustice—and serves as a reminder that tangled and painful chapters are not beyond restoration.

      King David’s family tree is anything but polished. But maybe that’s the point. The story of the kingdom was not built through perfect people, but through real people—the faithful, the bold, the wounded, and the unexpected.
      ​Ruth, Rahab, and Tamar aren’t background characters. They are essential links in the story of redemption. And just like them, each life can become part of something far greater—not because of perfection, but because grace makes space for all.

(Letter for July 2025)
Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognized Peter’s voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, “Peter is at the door!” - Acts 12:13–14
     This reflection was supposed to go out as part of our daily morning series. I had it all written, set aside to upload later—and then, like Rhoda in Acts 12, I got distracted. The result? A joyful moment left standing at the door a little longer than planned. Maybe that’s fitting, because this story is all about how joy, mistakes, and a little humor can still be part of God’s unfolding story.
     In Acts 12, Peter has just been miraculously freed from prison. The early church is gathered in John-Mark's mother's home, praying fervently for Peter's safety. As Peter knocks at the outer gate, a servant named Rhoda comes to the door, inquires who is there, and in her excitement of hearing Peter's voice, forgets the most obvious next step—actually letting him in. She runs back to the others and announces, “Peter is at the door!” Meanwhile, the poor apostle is still standing outside in the dark, fresh from a jailbreak, waiting to be let in off the street.
     This moment, brief as it is, has been remembered for two thousand years. It’s one of those wonderfully human scenes that reminds us the Bible isn’t just full of lofty theology—it’s also full of people. People who get excited. People who make small mistakes. People who laugh, sometimes in disbelief, at how quickly and surprisingly God answers prayer.
It’s not hard to imagine the early church telling this story with a chuckle: “Remember how Rhoda got so excited she forgot to open the door?” And there’s something profound about the fact that Luke, the careful historian and doctor, includes it in the book of Acts. It didn’t have to be there. But he tells it, maybe because we all need to remember that joy sometimes looks like running in the wrong direction. That even faithful people forget the obvious when grace shows up.
     There’s encouragement here for all of us. Because if we’re honest, we’ve all had Rhoda moments—times when we were so caught up in joy or surprise or even busyness that we forgot to follow through. We’ve left someone waiting at the door. We’ve started celebrating before the miracle was finished. We’ve made a small misstep that ended up being part of a much bigger story.
     And the good news? God doesn’t discard us for that. In fact, sometimes He uses those moments to remind us that His work doesn’t depend on our perfection. It depends on His power—and our willingness to respond, even if we respond imperfectly.
     So here’s your slightly late reflection, complete with a laugh, a little grace, and a reminder: joy is sometimes messy. Mistakes can be funny. And even when we forget to open the door, God is still in the business of showing up.