There’s a moment in every Christian journey where the question shifts.

It’s no longer, “Do I believe?”
It becomes, “What will I do because I believe?”

Reading Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist brought that question into sharper focus.

Kendi doesn’t offer easy answers. He doesn’t give us a checklist or a way to feel good about ourselves. Instead, he offers something far more Gospel-shaped:

The truth that racism is not just about hate.
It’s about power.
It’s about policies.
It’s about the choices we make, again and again, consciously or not.

And perhaps most strikingly, Kendi reminds us that being “not racist” is not enough.
Neutrality is not righteousness.
Silence is not holiness.
Intentions are not liberation.

He writes, “The opposite of racist isn’t ‘not racist.’ It is antiracist.”

That hit me like a Gospel call.

Because if our faith is not actively working to dismantle what harms our neighbour—
is it really faith at all?

Kendi’s framing of racism as something we do or undo, moment by moment,
feels like the spiritual practice of confession and repentance—
not once, but daily.
Not with shame, but with clarity.
Not to feel bad, but to do better.

And isn’t that what discipleship is?

Not mastering goodness, but apprenticing ourselves to grace.
Being teachable.
Being changed.
Letting Christ unsettle the parts of us that have made peace with power.

In this way, Kendi’s work calls us back to the Gospel—
not the comfortable one that keeps us in control,
but the one that lifts the lowly, tears down unjust systems, and starts everything over in love.

It asks us:

• Who are we centring in our communities?
• Whose voices are we silencing in our discomfort?
• Whose safety are we trading for stability?
• What theology have we baptised that still smells of empire?

To be antiracist, in the Christian life, is to repent in real time.
It’s to choose the Jesus road over the Roman road.
It’s to hear, again, the call:

“Let the oppressed go free.”
“Break every yoke.” (Isaiah 58)

This isn’t political. It’s spiritual.
It’s not partisan. It’s pastoral.

And if we’re not learning to live this way—
to listen, to change, to act—
then we’re not really following Christ.

We’re just following comfort.

So I read Kendi’s book not as a challenge to my faith—
but as a call deeper into it.

Because real faith doesn’t just believe in resurrection.
It helps make it possible—
in policies, in communities, and in hearts willing to be changed.

There is a longing that lives in many of us—especially those called to ministry—to encounter Christ in unmistakable ways.

In powerful worship.
In thin places.
In sacramental moments.

And yes, Christ is there.

But over time, and especially through seasons of weariness, I’ve come to realize something deeper:

Christ is also in the ordinary.

In chipped coffee mugs and messy kitchens.
In slow walks with someone who needs to talk.
In the ache of intercession that never makes it into the Sunday prayers.
In the quiet tenacity of someone who shows up, even when no one thanks them.
In the tired hands of those who clean the sanctuary long after the candles burn out.

These are not lesser places.
These are holy ground.

When we imagine the face of Christ only on mountaintops or behind stained glass,
we miss him in the cracked sidewalk.
In the grocery line.
In the grieving stranger.
In the child who asks, “Can I help?” and means it.

Incarnation didn’t happen once. It happens every day.

It happens when we meet someone’s gaze with kindness instead of judgment.
When we stop to listen, even if it’s inconvenient.
When we carry out ordinary tasks with extraordinary love.

This is not a lesser faith.
It is the faith.
Because it’s what Jesus himself modeled.

Born not in a palace but in a barn.
Teaching not from thrones but from hillsides.
Walking dusty roads.
Eating with outcasts.
Touching the overlooked.
Showing up—not in power, but in presence.

And that’s what we’re called to do, too.
To stop waiting for the big sign,
and instead notice the small sacrament of now.

To open our eyes and say:

“Surely Christ is in this place—and I did not know it.”

Every day is an altar.
Every interaction is an invitation.
And every moment holds the possibility of encountering the Holy.

All we need is a heart willing to look again.

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that to be in ministry means to always say yes.

Yes to the extra meeting.
Yes to the midnight crisis.
Yes to stretching a little further, staying a little longer, offering a little more.

And yes, ministry is a calling of deep generosity.
But boundless giving is not the same as faithful service.

Over time, that kind of ministry—ministry without boundaries—becomes a slow erosion.
Not just of time.
Not just of energy.
But of soul.

When we give without limits, we begin to disappear.

But here’s the truth, held tenderly in the Gospel:
Saying “no” can be an act of holy love.

Jesus said no.
No to the crowds when he needed solitude.
No to the demands of the powerful.
No to the expectations of those who wanted him to be something he wasn’t.

Jesus didn’t shape his ministry around people-pleasing.
He shaped it around truth.

And truth requires space.

Space to breathe.
Space to rest.
Space to listen to God.
Space to honor your own limits without shame.

Boundaries are not walls of selfishness.
They are borders of clarity and care—where we define what is ours to carry, and what is not.

For those in ministry, setting boundaries can feel disloyal.
Like we’re letting someone down.
But in reality, boundaries are what allow us to show up fully present and truly free.

They protect our time, yes.
But more importantly, they protect the sacredness of our “yes”.

Because when we learn to say “no” from a place of love,
our “yes” carries more weight, more grace, more truth.

Boundaries don’t make us less loving.
They make our love more sustainable.

And in a Church that often confuses exhaustion with holiness,
this is a lesson worth learning again and again:

You are not God. And you don’t have to be.

There’s a quiet crisis in the Church that doesn’t get talked about enough.

It’s not just declining attendance.
It’s not just budgets.
It’s not just cultural change.

It’s this:
Too many people called to hold others forget how to hold themselves.
Too many ministers offer grace to everyone but themselves.
Too many feel guilty for resting.
Ashamed of having limits.
Afraid that boundaries might look like weakness.

But Christ never asked anyone to burn out for the Kingdom.

When we look closely at Jesus—
not as an unreachable ideal,
but as a breathing, embodied presence—
we see a model not only of radical love for others,
but of gentle, grounded love for self.

Jesus withdrew to rest.
He napped during storms.
He rose early to pray—alone.
He surrounded himself with people,
and then stepped away when he needed to.
He nourished his body.
He wept openly.
He received love from friends—
oil on his feet, tears on his skin, food on his plate.

And then he said,

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Not more than.
Not instead of.
As.

You cannot pour from an empty vessel.
You cannot lead others to still waters when your own soul is parched.

Self-love is not self-indulgence.
It is spiritual discipline.
It is the ongoing recognition that you are a beloved child of God—
not just a channel for others’ healing.

It’s easy, especially in ministry, to mistake exhaustion for devotion.
To confuse depletion with faithfulness.
But there is no Gospel in quiet martyrdom for appearance’s sake.
There is only grace—
and the invitation to live in the same love we proclaim.

So let this be a word to all who serve:

• You are allowed to rest.
• You are allowed to say no.
• You are allowed to feel joy.
• You are allowed to tend to your own pain, your own body, your own belovedness.

The Christ we follow was not a machine.
Christ was fully human.

And did not only give love—
Christ also received it,
held it,
knew it.

And so must we.

Let the Church become a place where self-love is not questioned—
but honoured as sacred.
Because the leader who knows they are loved
is the one who leads not from survival,
but from wholeness.

As the candles of Advent are lit one by one, we enter a season of profound anticipation and reflection. In the Gospel, we encounter the enigmatic figure of John the Baptist, a voice crying in the wilderness, preparing the way for the Light. This Advent, let’s dig into this passage to glean insights that illuminate our hearts as we journey toward the celebration of Christ’s birth.

John’s role as a witness to the Light is central to this passage. He comes as a witness, not the Light itself, sent to testify about the true Light that is coming into the world. In Advent, we, too, are called to be witnesses—bearing the light of Christ in our lives and testifying to His presence in a world often shrouded in darkness.

The imagery of John crying out in the wilderness holds profound significance. The wilderness represents the barrenness of the human soul, the emptiness without the presence of Christ. Advent beckons us to recognize the wilderness within and prepare a way for the One who brings life and vitality to our spiritual landscape.

John’s humility is noteworthy. When questioned about his identity, he denies being the Messiah, Elijah, or the Prophet. Instead, he identifies himself as the voice calling in the wilderness, making straight the way of the Lord. Advent invites us to embrace humility, acknowledging that we are not the Light but bear witness to it.

The call to “make straight the way of the Lord” is a resonant theme in Advent. It’s a call to clear the clutter of our hearts, removing obstacles that hinder the light of Christ from illuminating our lives. As we prepare for Christmas, let us consider what needs straightening in our lives to make room for the Light.

The religious authorities inquire about John’s identity, asking if he is Elijah, the Prophet, or the Messiah. John’s responses offer clarity about his role as the precursor. In our Advent journey, it’s essential to reflect on our own questions and confessions. What do we seek? Who do we confess Jesus to be in our lives?

Advent is a season of waiting, but it is also a season of witness. Like John, we wait for the Light, and in our waiting, we declare the hope that resides in the promise of Christ’s coming. Our lives become Advent candles, gradually dispelling the darkness as we wait for the dawn.

As we immerse ourselves in the Advent season, let us embody the spirit of John the Baptist. May we be witnesses to the Light, voices crying in the wilderness of our world. Let us prepare the way in our hearts, making space for the transformative presence of Christ. In our waiting and witnessing, may we draw others toward the true Light that shines in the darkness, bringing hope, joy, and salvation to all who receive Him. Advent, after all, is not just a season of waiting but a season of active anticipation, where our lives become testimonies to the Light that has come and is coming again.

I. The King Who Serves:

Unlike earthly kings adorned in splendor and surrounded by opulence, Christ, our King, reveals His divine authority through acts of humble service. In the parable, He identifies Himself with the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. This is the paradoxical nature of Christ’s kingship — it’s a kingship of service and love.

II. Recognizing Christ in the Least:

The parable challenges us to recognize the presence of Christ in the marginalized and vulnerable. When we extend compassion to those in need, we are, in essence, serving the King Himself. It’s a profound revelation that calls us to see beyond the surface and embrace the divine in every human encounter.

III. The Kingdom of Love:

Christ’s kingship inaugurates a kingdom characterized by love, justice, and mercy. It’s a kingdom where the values of the world are inverted, and the last are first. As we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, we are invited to ponder the radical and transformative nature of this kingdom and how we can actively participate in its establishment on earth.

IV. The Challenge of Love in Action:

This passage challenges us not merely to acknowledge Christ as King with our words but to enthrone Him in our hearts through tangible acts of love. It compels us to confront the hungry, the stranger, and the hurting with genuine care and concern. In doing so, we participate in the unfolding of Christ’s kingdom on earth.

V. The Enduring Impact of Compassion:

The parable reminds us that our acts of love have a lasting impact. In caring for the least, we contribute to the transformation of lives and communities. Each gesture of compassion echoes in eternity, reflecting the enduring nature of Christ’s reign in the lives touched by love.

VI. Embracing Christ’s Kingship in Daily Life:

As we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, let us commit to embracing Christ’s kingship in our daily lives. This means not only acknowledging His lordship but allowing His love to permeate our thoughts, words, and actions. It’s about living as citizens of a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Christ the King Sunday beckons us to reevaluate our understanding of kingship. It invites us to embrace a sovereign who, in His majesty, stoops down to serve the least among us. As we celebrate the reign of Christ, may we be inspired to manifest His love in tangible ways, recognizing the divine in the faces of those often overlooked. In doing so, we actively participate in the establishment of a kingdom where Christ’s love is not just acknowledged but profoundly lived out.

When we travel through the Gospel with Matthew as we’ve done for the past liturgical year, there are some important things to keep in mind that can really inform our understanding of the things that are shared in that text.  First of all, Matthew’s is a thoroughly Jewish Gospel.  Matthew is himself a Jew, he is intimately connected to the Hebrew Scriptures,  and often makes references to them. He writes this Gospel story for a Jewish Diaspora community in or around Alexandria.  He also can often make references that are not quite so in your face, but were still quite clear to a 1^st Century Jewish congregation.  Matthew is still the former tax collector.  When Matthew makes reference to the tax system of the Roman empire, he is very much conscious of the degree to which the Jews detested the occupation by Rome, which was made a part of day to day life through the taxation system.  So there are some extra layers we need to sift through with this Gospel.

Jesus asks the questioners “Whose image is on the coin for the tax. The measure of ownership in his answer, is the image it bears.  He drives it all home saying, “give to Caesar what is Caesar, and to God what is God. Matthew in this answer is pointing back to the very first chapter in the very first book of the Hebrew Scriptures. “Let us make humanity in our own image.”  It is each and every one of us that bears God’s image.  We may owe the tax to Caesar,  but we owe ourselves; body mind and Spirit, to God.

This story revolves around the famous question of paying taxes to Caesar, and Jesus’ profound response. Let’s delve into the text and explore the timeless lessons it holds.

The religious authorities of the time sought to trap Jesus with a seemingly straightforward question: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?” Their aim was to put Him in a no-win situation. If He endorsed paying taxes to Caesar, He risked alienating the Jewish crowd who resented Roman rule. On the other hand, if He rejected paying taxes, He would be seen as a revolutionary by the Roman authorities.

Jesus’ response was nothing short of brilliance. He asked for a denarius, the Roman coin used to pay the tax, and inquired whose image and inscription were on it. When they answered, “Caesar’s,” Jesus delivered the memorable line, “Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Matthew 22:21).

Jesus’ response recognizes the duality of human existence. We are citizens of both earthly kingdoms and the kingdom of God. While our earthly obligations are important, our primary allegiance is to God’s kingdom, and we must never let worldly concerns overshadow our spiritual ones.

: Jesus didn’t dismiss the responsibility to pay taxes, even in an oppressive political climate. He emphasized the importance of obeying just laws, acknowledging that taxes are a part of sustaining civic order.

Jesus’ response teaches us about the importance of honoring and respecting the governing authorities, even if they are not perfect. This principle aligns with broader biblical teachings about submission to authority figures.

In our lives, we face similar dilemmas. We have financial obligations, civic duties, and responsibilities to our communities. Yet, we must also remember our higher duty to God. Balancing these two realms is an art, and it often involves making decisions that reflect our Christian values.

The story of paying taxes to Caesar is more than a historical anecdote; it’s a profound lesson about our responsibilities as dual citizens of this world and the kingdom of God. It calls us to honor the laws of the land while never losing sight of our ultimate allegiance to our Creator.

In a world that often demands our allegiance to various authorities, may we approach our civic duties with wisdom, recognizing that the things we give to Caesar, while important, must never overshadow the things we give to God. By rendering to both with integrity, we can strive to live out the teachings of Christ in a complex and ever-changing world.

In Matthew 22:1-14, Jesus shares the Parable of the Great Banquet. This powerful and thought-provoking story conveys profound lessons about God’s invitation to His kingdom, our response to His call, and the significance of being properly attired for the celebration. There are difficult aspects to this parable, but the parable’s message is important to hesar. Let’s explore the richness of this parable and the insights it offers for our lives.

The parable begins with a king preparing a great banquet for his son’s wedding. He sends out servants to invite many guests, but they refuse to come, making excuses and even mistreating the messengers. Undeterred, the king sends more servants to invite anyone they can find.

These invitations yield some surprising guests. The servants gather both good and bad guests, and the wedding hall is filled with attendees. The king welcomes them to the banquet, but his attention turns to one guest who is not dressed in wedding attire. When questioned, this guest is rendered speechless and subsequently expelled from the celebration.

So setting aside the aspect of the one cat out for not having the proper attire for a few moments, lets consider what the parable has to say to us about God’s invitation. The parable illustrates God’s abundant grace and the expansiveness of God’s invitation. Initially, the king invited his honoured guests, but when they refused, the invitation was expanded and extended to those they would typically consider unworthy. ALL were to be welcomed to the feast!

The parable emphasizes our response to God’s call. The first group of invitees represents those who reject God’s invitation due to preoccupation, indifference, or hostility. In contrast, the second group symbolizes those who accept God’s call with gratitude and humility.

But still, we can’t gloss over the guest who is thrown out of the feast for not having the proper attire. Some commentaries point to the fact that for a large 1st century wedding feast, the host would have sent the proper attire along with the invitation. The one who is not properly dressed has willfully refused to accept the gift of the King, and prepare for the feast. The guest without the proper wedding attire teaches a crucial lesson. In the context of the parable, it highlights the importance of responding to God’s invitation with a transformed heart, symbolized by being clothed in righteousness and humility. God’s invitation requires a change in our lives, not just acceptance with indifference.

The Parable of the Great Banquet serves as a call to prepare our hearts for God’s kingdom. It reminds us that God’s invitation is not limited to the religious elite or those who appear outwardly righteous. It extends to all, regardless of their past or station in life.

As we reflect on the Parable of the Great Banquet, may we embrace the generous invitation God extends to us. Let us heed Christ’s call with humility and gratitude, recognizing that acceptance is not enough. Our hearts, like wedding garments, should be adorned with righteousness, love, and transformation.

Just as the king desired a full banquet hall, God longs for all to partake in the kingdom. May our lives be testimonies to the transformative power of God’s invitation, and may we continually seek to be properly attired for the great celebration of God’s eternal love.

In this parable, we find an invitation, a call, and a path to a banquet where all are welcome, and the attire required is the love and righteousness that spring from a heart that is responding to the grace of God.

In the Gospel of Luke, we encounter a story of healing and gratitude. In Luke 17:11-17, Jesus encounters ten lepers, but only one returns after being healed to offer thanks. This story serves as a powerful reminder of the transformative power of gratitude in our lives. Let’s dig into this passage and explore the lessons it holds for us.

In ancient times, leprosy was not just a physical ailment; it carried social and spiritual isolation. It was a highly visible disease, so it was easy to shun those who suffered from it. The ten lepers in this story stood at a distance, calling out to Jesus for mercy. They recognized their need for healing and approached Him with faith.

Upon hearing their cries, Jesus responded with compassion. He instructed them to go and show themselves to the priests, a significant step in declaring their healing and reintegration into society. As they obeyed, they were cleansed and made whole.

What comes next is both astonishing and sobering. While all ten lepers were healed, only one, a Samaritan, returned to Jesus. He fell at Jesus’ feet, thanking Him for the miraculous healing. Jesus inquired about the whereabouts of the other nine, highlighting their lack of gratitude.

The healed Samaritan’s gratitude was not merely a polite acknowledgment of a good deed. It was transformative. It led him to return to Jesus, to acknowledge the source of his healing, and to express his thankfulness. Gratitude has the power to transform our hearts and actions.

The other nine lepers were understandably overjoyed by their healing, but they forgot to remember the One who had made it possible. In our own lives, it’s easy to become absorbed in our blessings and forget the source of those blessings.

The Samaritan in this story was not of the same cultural or religious background as Jesus, yet he recognized the gift of healing and responded with gratitude. Gratitude knows no boundaries; it transcends differences and unites us in our acknowledgment of blessings received.

Just as Jesus questioned the absence of the other nine, this story challenges us to return to Christ in gratitude for the blessings we receive. It’s a call to pause and acknowledge the many gifts in our lives, both big and small.

The story of the healing of the ten lepers is a timeless reminder of the power of gratitude. It teaches us that gratitude is not just a feeling; it’s a transformative force that draws us closer to God and to one another. It prompts us to remember the source of our blessings and to return in thanksgiving.

As we go about our lives, may we be like the one leper who turned back to express gratitude. May we recognize the healing, blessings, and grace that flow into our lives each day, and may our hearts overflow with gratitude that transforms us and those around us.

In a world often marked by hurriedness and discontent, let us be the ones who, like the Samaritan, return to Jesus with hearts full of thanksgiving, for gratitude has the power to heal not only our bodies but our souls as well.