​I find that many of the letters I write for the newsletter talk about the parts of the Bible I’m less likely to preach on. Some stories are too strange, too complicated, or a bit too violent for a Sunday morning sermon. But they’re still worth telling, because they show us how wide and surprising God’s work can be.
Today’s story is about Deborah (Judges 4-5). Deborah was one of Israel’s Judges, those early leaders who guided the tribes before there were kings. She stands out for several reasons. First, the obvious: she was a woman—and the only woman to serve as Judge. Second, she was a prophet, again the only one to hold that title until Samuel. And third, she was already leading before the crisis began.
The book of Judges usually follows a pattern: the people turn from God, enemies invade, the people cry out, God raises up a Judge, and peace is restored. Then the cycle repeats. But Deborah breaks the pattern. When we meet her in Judges 4, she’s already leading, already discerning God’s will from beneath her palm tree between Ramah and Bethel.
When the Canaanite commander Sisera begins oppressing Israel, Deborah calls for Barak, a commander from the tribe Naphtali, and tells him that God will deliver Sisera into his hands. Barak’s response is a mix of courage and hesitation: “If you go with me, I’ll go; but if you don’t, I won’t.” Deborah agrees, but warns him that the victory will not be his alone—“the Lord will deliver Sisera into the hands of a woman.”
At first we assume she means herself, but that’s not the case. After Barak’s forces defeat Sisera’s army, the commander flees and finds refuge in the tent of Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite. Jael welcomes him in, offers him milk, covers him with a blanket, and promises to stand guard. Exhausted, Sisera falls asleep. Then, quietly, Jael picks up a hammer and drives a tent peg through his temple.
It’s a shocking moment—the sort of verse most children’s Sunday school teachers skip—but it’s also the turning point. The enemy is defeated not by Israel’s might but by the courage of an unexpected ally. God’s deliverance comes through someone far outside the center of power.
And so, Jael quite literally “puts a pin in it.” But beyond the violence, the image carries a deeper truth: faith often takes the form of final decisions. The pin marks an ending—a closure to fear, oppression, or complacency. Sometimes faith means taking a stand, and sometimes it means quietly holding your ground until the right moment comes.
Still, the story’s heart belongs to Deborah. She is the one who listens first, who leads without fear, who gives space for others to step into God’s call. When the victory is won, she and Barak sing together—a song of celebration and challenge. It praises the tribes that showed up and names the ones that stayed home. “The people willingly offered themselves—praise the Lord!” Deborah sings. But she also asks, “Why did you stay among the sheep pens to hear the whistling for the flocks?”
Her words are as pointed as Jael’s tent peg. Faith isn’t just believing, it’s showing up, even when the outcome isn’t certain.
I like to imagine Deborah back under her palm tree afterward, listening again. People must have seen her differently now—still wise, still steady, but bearing the experience of the battle that changes how all perceive her. Through her, God shows that leadership isn’t about status or strength; it’s about availability. She was ready before the battle began because she had already offered herself to God’s purpose.
Most of us won’t face invading armies or hammer tent pegs into the ground, but we do face choices that test our faith—moments when we’re called to listen, to act, or simply to stay faithful where we stand.
Maybe “let’s put a pin in that” can mean something more than setting an idea aside for later. Maybe it’s a way of saying, let’s hold this story steady; let’s mark this truth and remember it. Let’s put a pin in the reminder that God works through those who listen, those who show up, and those who trust that even small acts of courage can change the story.
Because in the end, Deborah, Barak, and Jael each played their part in God’s redemption—and that same invitation still stands for us today.

*Image: 'Jael kills Sisera' by Jacopo Amigoni, 1739-1752

      You may have heard the story that Jesus was referring to a small gate in Jerusalem called “the Needle.” Supposedly a camel could only pass through if stripped of its load, suggesting the wealthy must lay down their riches to enter God’s kingdom. It’s a neat illustration—but it isn’t true. No such gate existed. No archaeology supports it. And the Gospels themselves don’t agree on the wording, each using a slightly different turn of phrase for “needle’s eye.” If it had been a landmark, they would have been consistent.
That matters. Because it shows how quickly we want to soften Jesus’ words. We would rather imagine a difficult but possible challenge than accept an impossible standard. But Jesus left no wiggle room: wealth is a dangerous burden. Not evil in itself, but blinding, tempting, and capable of convincing us that we don’t need God.
      This is not a new struggle. Ancient Israel was warned against hoarding—commanded to release debts, return land to families, and leave gleanings for the hungry. God placed guardrails so that abundance would not harden into idolatry. The prophets thundered against kings and elites who ignored those commands, not because they hated wealth, but because they saw the corrosion it brought to both soul and society when it became the measure of worth.
      And yet here we are, millennia later, bowing before the same idol. For while the wealthy may not kneel before a carved statue, the pursuit of wealth can easily become the center of devotion, overriding the law of God and eroding even the most basic human morality. We still treat abundance as proof of blessing, when Jesus said the opposite: it is a responsibility, a heavier yoke of accountability. “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded” (Luke 12:48). Wealth and influence are not in themselves evil, but they are a powerful temptation—drawing hearts away from trust in God and toward trust in self. That is why those who hold wealth, power, or platforms must be measured by a higher standard—not because we despise them, but because God requires it. Respect is not owed simply because someone is rich or influential. To give deference on the basis of worldly power is to join in the worship of Mammon.
     The prophets knew this danger well. Nathan stood before David, not to strip him of his crown, but to confront him with the truth that even kings are subject to God’s law. Elijah faced down Ahab, not because monarchy was evil, but because power had seduced him into idolatry and injustice. Amos thundered against Israel’s elites, crying out against those who “trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth and deny justice to the oppressed” (Amos 2:7). Their warnings were not about wealth in the abstract, but about what happens when wealth and power become shields against accountability, weapons of exploitation, and excuses for abandoning God’s covenant.
      And so we return to the gate. Narrow, unyielding, impossible to enter if we come burdened with pride, greed, or self-importance. The way through is not with camels carrying loads, nor with kings wrapped in finery, nor with crowds dazzled by riches. The way through is with the cross—borne in humility, carried in faith, and marked by love. This is the path the prophets pointed toward, and the way Christ himself calls us to walk. Not worshiping wealth, not excusing injustice, not bending the knee to worldly power—but following the narrow way of the kingdom, where treasure is measured not in gold, but in mercy, justice, and love.

     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.

I love a good story—especially the kind that unfolds over time with multiple streams of history, complex characters, psychological tension, and moral ambiguity. The best stories don’t just entertain us; they invite us to wrestle with truth, hope, fear, and purpose. I’m also a bit of a nerd, so I particularly enjoy stories set outside our everyday world—ones filled with ancient magic, futuristic technology, or galaxies far, far away.

Yes, I like Star Wars—and no, that should not surprise anyone.
This coming Sunday is May the 4th, affectionately known to fans as Star Wars Day (“May the Fourth be with you!”). And while I’m not going to preach a sermon on lightsabers or Jedi Knights, I do think this is a fitting opportunity to reflect on how stories—especially those told in modern mythologies like Star Wars—can help us better understand our ancient faith.
The power of a story lies in its ability to speak to us on more than one level. George Lucas, the creator of Star Wars, was deeply influenced by the work of mythologist Joseph Campbell, who wrote about the “hero’s journey”—a narrative arc found in cultures around the world (The King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable, The Tale of Genji, The Odyssey). At its heart is a simple idea: that the journey of the hero reflects something about the journey of us all. There’s a call to adventure, a wrestling with fear, a confrontation with evil, and—if all goes well—a return home changed and renewed.
Luke Skywalker’s journey isn’t just about fighting the Empire; it’s about discovering who he really is and choosing what kind of person he wants to be. At one point, when Luke hesitates to face Darth Vader again, fearing the darkness within himself, Yoda warns: “If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.”
But of course, we know it’s not that simple. Luke chooses not to give in to hate. He sees the possibility of redemption even in Vader, his fallen father. And in one of the series’ most powerful moments, that redemption comes—not because of power or violence, but because Luke refuses to give up hope, believing redemption is possible even after decades of evil actions.
This theme—of light and darkness in constant tension, of people caught in the middle—is not just good storytelling. It’s also deeply biblical.
Paul writes in Romans 7:15, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” That’s the same kind of internal struggle we see in characters like Luke, Rey, and even Anakin. In Star Wars, as in Scripture, the enemy isn’t just “out there”—it’s also within. The question isn’t whether we’ll face temptation and doubt, but how we’ll respond when we do.
And that brings us back to our faith. Christianity isn’t just a set of doctrines or moral rules. It’s a story—one we’re invited into. It’s the story of a world created in love, broken by sin, and redeemed by grace. It’s a story of flawed heroes, unexpected saviors, and a God who enters the story God’s Self, not as a distant force but as a person named Jesus.
Jesus’ story doesn’t follow the path most heroes take. He doesn’t conquer through power, but through surrender. He doesn’t defeat his enemies with a sword, but with forgiveness. In Star Wars terms, He is both the Jedi who never gives in to hate and the rebel who lays down his life for the sake of others. Like Luke throwing away his saber before the Emperor, refusing to give into the temptation of evil. 
In 2 Corinthians 4:6, Paul says, “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.” That light is what we carry into a world that often feels divided between darkness and light, a world of twilight or perhaps of dawn.
Modern myths like Star Wars give us new ways to talk about ancient truths. They help us reflect on our own journey—on what kind of people we’re becoming, on what we’re fighting for, and on what it means to live with hope.
So no, I won’t be preaching in Jedi robes this Sunday (tempting as that may be). But I do think we can learn something from the stories we love—especially when they point us back to the greatest story of all.
May the Force be with you… and more importantly, may the Lord be with you.

In college, I was a religion nerd. I took every Religious Studies class I could, eager to better understand how people reach for God. My studies often led me beyond the classroom—into churches, synagogues, mosques, and temples—where I observed and engaged with others in worship. I broke a Ramadan fast at an Iftar with Muslims, listened to a Hindu priest recite prayers thousands of years old, shared a Seder with a rabbi, and witnessed the profound mystery of an Orthodox Christian Eucharist, to name a few. But one of the most moving experiences was one that brought me home: Love Feast at the Ephrata Cloister.  
A brief history lesson: Johann Conrad Beissel, a German-born believer, was baptized by Peter Becker—the man who led the Brethren to Pennsylvania—on November 12, 1724. Beissel came from the Radical Pietist branch of the Brethren, shaped by various writers and movements before his arrival in the colony. He worked with and learned from Becker before settling in the Lancaster area, where he was baptized. However, his beliefs carried a distinctly “Inspirationist” character, emphasizing ongoing divine revelation through prophets—an idea that did not align with Brethren teachings, which held that the Holy Spirit deepens our understanding of Scripture but does not alter or supersede it.  
A year after becoming leader of the Conestoga Brethren, Beissel “gave back” his baptism and founded a new community at Cocalico Creek, now known as the Ephrata Cloister. This celibate order of brothers and sisters, supported by householder families, worshiped on Saturdays, practiced celibacy and veganism, and became a center for healing, music, and printing. At its height, the community included about 80 celibate members and 200 householders. But like many utopian societies, it declined after the leader’s death—Beissel passed in 1768, and the last celibate member died in 1813. Today, two small congregations of German Seventh Day Baptists (in Salemville and Snow Hill, PA) remain, while the original Cloister has been preserved as a Pennsylvania State Historic Site since 1941. This is just a glimpse into its remarkable history, and I encourage you to explore it further.  ​

The last surviving householder member of the Ephrata Cloister, Sister Marie Bucher, passed away in 2008. Until then, there was an agreement allowing householders to continue holding Love Feast in the Saal (meeting house), along with their guests. I had the profound honor of being among those guests at one of the final Love Feasts in that sacred space. To wash feet, share a meal, sing the old hymns, and partake in communion where Beissel and Mack Jr. once did was deeply moving. Though the Cloister had once separated from the Brethren, this act of worship continued to tie them to their heritage and to the God who taught them to live. Sister Marie welcomed all—German Seventh Day Baptists, Church of the Brethren, Brethren Church, Lutherans, Mennonites, friends of the Cloister, and the simply curious—gathering as one body despite centuries-old divisions.  
Today, the Church of the Brethren again finds itself at a crossroads. Some have chosen to separate, joining other groups or becoming independent. Each separation is painful, just as it was for Becker when his one-time friend and protégé took a different path. But the question before us is not whether divisions exist—they do. The question is: How will we respond?  
Will we allow our wounds to fester, creating chasms that separate us from those we once called brothers and sisters? Will we ignore the changing landscape and pretend nothing has shifted? Or will we acknowledge what has happened, yet still choose love? Will we still recognize one another as part of Christ’s body? Will we still wash one another’s feet?  

The choices we make now will shape our future. My prayer is that, even in division, we do not forget the bonds of grace that unite us. That we keep the basin and towel close at hand. That we continue to sit at the table together, as long as we are able.  
For in Christ, we are still one.

Naaman was a big deal. Commander of the Aramean army, battle-tested, respected—probably had a killer mustache. But there was one little problem—he had leprosy. And no matter how impressive your résumé, flaky skin is not a good look.
One day, his wife’s slave girl—an Israelite taken in a raid—casually mentioned, “Oh, if only Naaman could see the prophet in Samaria. He’d be healed for sure.” Naaman, desperate and itchy, went to the king, who sent him off with a royal letter, some silver, gold, and ten fancy outfits (because nothing says “cure my disease” like a new w ardrobe).
Naaman traveled to King Joram* of Israel with his entourage and handed the letter to the king. Joram, reading the letter demanding a miracle, promptly panicked. “Am I God? Do I look like I hand out healings? He’s totally trying to pick a fight with me!” This was followed by a dramatic royal meltdown.
Joram’s tantrum was so big that the prophet Elisha heard of it and sent a message to bring the general to his residence. Naaman arrived at Elisha’s house with all the pomp of a parade. And then… nothing. No grand welcome, no mystical hand gestures, not even a prophet! Instead, Elisha sent out his servant with a simple message: “Go wash in the Jordan River seven times, and you’ll be healed.”
Naaman was not pleased. “What? That’s it? I thought for sure he’d come out, wave his hands, call on God, maybe throw in some fireworks. And the Jordan? That muddy creek? We’ve got way better rivers back home!” Furious, he spun his chariot around, ready to leave in a rage.
His servants intervened: “Uh, sir? If he had told you to do something hard, you’d have done it, right? Why not at least try the easy thing?”
Grumbling, Naaman stomped down to the Jordan, dunked himself seven times, and—boom—skin like a newborn baby. Stunned, he rushed back to Elisha, gushing gratitude. “Now I know there’s no God but Israel’s God! Here, take these gifts!”
Elisha, unfazed, declined. But Naaman, forever changed (and no longer flaking), vowed never to worship any other god and asked for two donkeys’ worth of Israelite soil so he could worship the Lord back home.
Over 800 years later, Jesus referenced Naaman while facing rejection in his hometown: “And there were many in Israel with leprosy in the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed—only Naaman the Syrian.” (Luke 4:27)
I love these little references in the Bible—they’re like shorthand, a coded language for those who know the stories. Naaman’s story is so short and minor in the scheme of the history of Israel that he could have been forgotten like Shamgar, Jaazaniah, & Shallum (3 points for each one you can identify). However, he had become a symbol of an outsider’s faith and how God answers those who seek Him.
Beyond that, Naaman’s story raises two key points for reflection.
First, receiving God’s blessing is about obedience and faith, not religious performance or sacrifice. Naaman wasn’t asked to slay a dragon, travel to the ends of the earth, or prove his intelligence with a riddle. He was told to take a bath in a nearby river. It was so mundane that Elisha didn’t even bother to deliver the message himself—he sent a servant. That was what offended Naaman the most. It wasn’t hard enough. Yet, it was in that simple act of obedience that he found healing. How often do we look for grand spiritual moments and miss God in the small, ordinary acts of faith?
Second, as Jesus pointed out, Naaman wasn’t the only person with leprosy in the land. Many Israelites suffered from the same condition, yet only Naaman was healed—because he was the only one who came. Elisha wasn’t like Elijah, who spent years hiding in the wilderness. He was settled and well-known, yet people weren’t lining up at his door. They had access to a prophet of God but didn’t seek healing.
It’s easy to judge them, but how often do we do the same? How often do we carry burdens alone, convinced that God either won’t or can’t help us? Naaman’s tale reminds us that God is always willing—but we must be willing to seek, trust, and obey, even in the small things.
So be like Naaman—not the general ravaging a neighbor’s land, but the one who sets aside pride and expectations to go to an enemy and follow God's simple directions. Don’t let stubbornness keep you from the blessings that come through small acts of faith. Stop looking for grand, complicated solutions when God might just be telling you to take a bath. And most importantly, don’t stand around suffering when the Healer is right there—turn to God, trust, and let the Divine do what only God can.


*We don’t know for certain whether the king of Israel in this story was Ahaziah (2 Kings 1:1) or Joram (2 Kings 3:1), both sons of Ahab. The account isn’t part of the larger chronological narrative and was likely placed where it fit best among Elisha’s miracles (2 Kings 4-8). King Hadadezer (also called Ben-Hadad II, 1 Kings 20:1) ruled Aram-Damascus and was responsible for King Ahab’s death (1 Kings 22:34). He was later overthrown and killed by his own officer, Hazael, who seized the throne (2 Kings 8:15).


**Image: OpenAI. An ancient Middle Eastern general with a thick mustache, bathing in a muddy river, looking strong and authoritative but slightly reluctant. DALL·E. 2025. https://openai.com/dall-e.

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The books of Joshua and Judges describe Israel’s ideal society: one where God is King and His Law is the foundation of life. Earthly leaders played three roles: clan and tribal heads oversaw local governance, Judges addressed national crises and security, and priests maintained the nation’s spiritual health and interpreted the Law. Yet, in the 400 years following Joshua’s death, this system steadily deteriorated as leaders prioritized self-interest and Israel’s devotion to God was corrupted by the pagan practices of the Canaanites. Jephthah, the Major Judge before Samson, exemplifies this tragic decline.
“Jephthah the Gileadite was a mighty warrior” (Judges 11:1). Born to Gilead and a prostitute, Jephthah was driven out by his father’s legitimate sons. Exiled to the land of Tob, he gathered a band of “scoundrels” and became a raider. When the Ammonites attacked Gilead, the people turned to Jephthah for help. He agreed, but only on the condition that he would be made chieftain (judge). The people consented, and “the Spirit of the Lord came on Jephthah.” 
As Jephthah prepared to confront the Ammonites, he made a rash, pagan-inspired vow: to offer as a burnt sacrifice whatever greeted him first upon returning home. After a decisive victory, his only child, his daughter, ran out to greet him with joy. Bound by his vow, Jephthah fulfilled it, sacrificing her after a period of mourning.
The tragedy didn’t end there. A dispute with the Ephraimites escalated into bloodshed, culminating in a genocide against the fleeing tribe. Jephthah’s story is one of a man who invoked God’s name yet committed atrocities contrary to God’s character.
Jephthah’s life reflects the fractured society of his day. While he spoke of God’s providence and Israel’s history, his actions revealed a heart shaped by pride, vengeance, and the surrounding culture’s pagan practices. His vow, while intended as an act of piety, mirrored Canaanite rituals more than the God-given Law of Israel. His leadership relied on coercion and violence, not humility or faithfulness.
Jephthah was not an anomaly; he was a product of a society where self-interest and worldly values supplanted communal responsibility, humility, and God’s Way. The closing chapters of Judges illustrate how such a culture leads to ruin—through leaders like Jephthah, individuals like Samson, corrupted faith (Micah’s idols), and national disintegration (the Levite’s concubine and the war with Benjamin).
The story of Jephthah and Israel is not merely ancient history; it is a mirror reflecting humanity’s enduring struggles. Like the Israelites, we are prone to waver between faithfulness to God and assimilation into worldly values. Just as they adopted Canaanite practices, we face pressures to conform to societal norms that contradict God’s teachings.
One of the stark warnings from Jephthah’s story is how easily we can twist faith to justify ungodly actions. Jephthah’s vow, made in the name of God, led to a horrific act of filicide. Today, we see similar distortions when people use religion to defend prejudice, violence, or self-serving agendas. Whether it’s justifying hatred with scripture or conflating faith with political power, these actions, like Jephthah’s vow, contradict God’s character of justice, mercy, and love.
Moreover, Jephthah’s story warns against taking good intentions to unhealthy extremes. His determination to honor his vow—despite its devastating cost—demonstrates the danger of prioritizing human interpretation of righteousness over God’s heart. Jesus rebuked this mindset, reminding us that God desires mercy, not sacrifice (Matthew 9:13). In our time, we face similar challenges: valuing rigid legalism over compassion, pursuing success at the expense of relationships, or adhering to traditions without discernment.
Jephthah’s story challenges us to evaluate our leaders, values, and actions. Are we following God’s Way or bending to cultural pressures? Are we prioritizing image, power, and ambition, or seeking humility, integrity, and accountability? The allure of worldly success and conformity is strong, but it leads to the same disarray seen in Israel.
Instead, we are called to live counter-culturally, reflecting Christ in our actions and values. As Paul writes, we are one body with many parts (1 Corinthians 12:12-14). When each part functions in harmony—focused on Christ, not personal gain—the body thrives. But when selfishness, division, and pride take root, the body suffers.
Jephthah’s story ultimately points to humanity’s need for a perfect leader—a need fulfilled in Jesus Christ. Unlike Jephthah or the kings who followed, Jesus embodies humility, mercy, and righteousness. By following Him, we can resist the pitfalls of Jephthah’s world: selfish ambition, distorted faith, and fractured community.
May we learn from Israel’s history and choose to align our lives with God’s character and Kingdom, trusting in His leadership rather than the flawed systems of the world.

    
Spending most of my childhood in the 90s meant the popular shows of the early 70s were being rerun for parents. So while they were before my time, I did watch The Partridge Family and Little House on the Prairie. M*A*S*H continues to be one of my all-time favorites. And yes, I watched America’s favorite blended family, The Brady Bunch. You know, “the story of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovely girls.” Now that I’ve successfully got the theme song stuck in your head, I’ll quickly remind you of the show’s premise: a man with three sons marries a woman with three daughters, forming a family of eight. They, along with Alice the snarky housekeeper, navigate what it means to bring two families together and face the challenges of growing up. 
    To be fair, blending issues only seem to be a major theme in the first season. The remaining four seasons hardly touch on the unique circumstances of their family. The show, though revolutionary for its time, avoided the harder, more challenging aspects of bringing two families together, painting an idealized image of what a blended family can be. As Carol once said to Bobby, “Listen, the only steps in this house are those, the ones that lead up to your bedroom” (*Every Boy Does It Once,* S1, E10).
    As we come closer to the yoking of our Springfield family with Eastwood, I’ve thought more about the reality of blending communities. It’s easy to idealize this adventure, picturing everything going as smoothly as the Bradys. But blending congregations takes more than just a hopeful spirit; it takes intentional work, patience, and grace. Each group brings its own traditions, expectations, and quirks—ham or lamb at Christmas, vacation at the mountains or the beach, how to load the dishwasher, and so on. Though we can’t avoid conflict entirely, we can plan how we will respond to it. (I will note that I, like many of you, am very excited and happy for new adventure, but let us not let excitement cloud possible realities.)
    In facing inevitable bumps in the road, we have three approaches to choose from: ignore, treat, or seek help. Not every issue requires the same level of response. We don’t take a paper cut to the ER, and we don’t ignore a nail stuck in our foot. It’s the same with any issues that arise in our yoking process. First, we ask ourselves if the issue needs attention—something minor that can be discussed with a friend, the pastor, or simply let go. For larger concerns, there are additional denominational resources to help. The important thing is that we treat issues intentionally, rather than allowing them to fester into something harmful. We must not let a small cut become a great chasm.
    How can we celebrate the God of Love and Unity if we harbor anger toward a brother or sister? How can we form a new body in Christ if we keep one another at a distance? We must approach each other with openness and honesty, offering trust to those we don’t yet know and stepping into this new venture with courage. As Peter wrote to the Christians of Asia Minor, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling” (1 Peter 4:7-8). After all, this isn’t the union of strangers but of brothers and sisters of the same faith.
    As Colossians 3:17 reminds us, “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” By inviting the Spirit into every part of this journey—our discussions, fellowship, and worship—we’re committing to blend not only our traditions but our hearts, grounded in love and gratitude. Just as the Bradys had to learn to love, forgive, and work as one, so can we. Let’s step into this season with hope, trusting that our joined communities will flourish as one faithful family, united and strengthened by God’s grace.

​Illustrations by Mitch Miller. © 2020 Brethren Press. Used and modified by permission.