Foundry UMC

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC April 5,2026. “Ignite the Light” series. Easter Sunday. ​​​      ​       Text: Matthew 28:1-10​​​​​   I remember lying on the floor of our living room when I was a child. Not doing anything in particular—just stretched out on the blue shag carpet, near my dad's chair. And I remember noticing something I had never seen before. There was a beam of light coming through the window…and in it these tiny particles floating, moving, shimmering. Just… dancing. I didn't have a name for it.It didn't occur to me that it was dust, or dirt, or anything undesirable. It felt like magic. Like something had always been there—but I had never seen it before. And suddenly, because of the light, I could. The light didn't create it. It revealed it. It held it before my eyes. And I remember just lying there…watching. And I think about that sometimes—the way light reveals what we couldn't see before. The way it catches our attention… draws our eye… Think about how light breaks through clouds… through a canopy of trees… How light refracts through water to make rainbows. How light finds its way through windows—or even cracks in walls— sending a beam of light in which you can see dust dance. It's beautiful. It's delicate. And yet—it is so powerful. Because light finds its way in. It beckons. It invites. And if you follow it, it will show you more than you expected to see. I think about that moment in The Lord of the Rings when Galadriel gives Frodo a small vial of light and says: “May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.” A fragile thing. A small thing. And yet—enough to guide him when everything else fails. And it seems to me that Easter—the reality of it, the story of it, the promise of it—is like that gift. But not small. Not contained. Easter is that kind of light magnified beyond measure. Because there are moments in our lives, in the life of a nation, in the life of the world when it feels like all the lights have gone out. When truth feels buried. When cruelty seems to spread like a virus. When violence feels pervasive. When fear and despair run in packs claiming more and more ground. And into that kind of world, Matthew tells us, the light breaks in. And when it does, it's not only beautiful. It's disruptive. The earth shakes. An angel descends. A stone is rolled away—not to let Jesus out—but to let the light in. What was sealed is opened. What was guarded is broken through. What was declared final is no longer final, not just for one life, but for life itself. Because Easter is not consolation after tragedy. It is God interrupting the apparent finality of death, empire, and violence—and revealing how empty their power really is. And Matthew tells the story in a way that makes it unmistakable. This is not a private miracle. This is a public reversal. The guards—sent by empire to secure the tomb—become like dead men. And the one who was dead—executed, sealed, silenced—is alive. Those who represent control collapse. The one who was crushed rises. The whole thing turns upside down. And if you've been paying attention, you realize—this is how it's been all along. Herod tries to kill the child. The child lives. The powerful condemn the innocent.Truth refuses to stay buried. Rome executes the Messiah. And God reverses the verdict. Because resurrection is God saying: The systems that declared this death final—were wrong. And then the disruption continues as God entrusts this breaking news to women, to those who were grieving and heartbroken, those whose testimony would not be trusted in the world. These women, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary become the first to hear, the first to see, the first to carry the truth that overturns the world.And they leave the tomb—Matthew says—with fear and great joy. Both. Because the world has not suddenly become safe. The empire is still in power. The cross is still fresh. The risk is still real. And yet something has happened that cannot be undone. And so they run. Not because they understand everything, but because they have seen enough light to start moving. And as they go, Jesus meets them. On the road. And he says, “Greetings”—a word that also means: Rejoice. Not as a command to feel something—but as an invitation to step further into what God has done. Because the news they are carrying is not just that the tomb is empty. It is that the light has broken in—and nothing will ever be the same. And Jesus meets them right there on the road to confirm it. To embody it. To send them on. Rejoice. Even now. Even here. And I think about how hard that may be for us to hear. Because the news we encounter most lights up our phones at all hours. It is breaking, urgent, relentless—and almost always…heavy. Another act of violence. Another abuse of power.Another reminder of how much is still broken. And it can start to feel like that is the truest story— like that's the world we live in—like nothing really changes. But what the women are carrying—running with, breathless—is a different kind of breaking news. Not news that traps us in fear. But news that breaks something open. That calls for rejoicing. Because something has broken. Death—which seemed final—is not. The seal—which seemed permanent—is not. The power—that seemed untouchable—is not. And when something like that shifts—when what we thought was final isn't—it creates a crack in the story we've been living inside. And once there's a crack—the light starts to get in. And what breaks in…is also what breaks us open. Because not all breaking is destruction. Some breaking is liberation. A seed has to break for new life to grow.Light has to break to become color. The sky has to break open for rain to fall.Sometimes what we call breaking is the beginning of mending. Because there are things in this world—and in us—that hold life captive. Cages we didn't build but learned how to live inside. Systems that confine and then convince us they are necessary. Stories that tell us this is just the way things are, this is just the way we are. This is just the way I am. But Easter reveals a different kind of power. Not domination. Not control. A power that gently beckons us toward life—and breaks open whatever keeps that life contained. The same light that draws us in… is the power that sets us free. The stone is rolled away. The seal is broken. The grip of death is broken. And when that happens—the cages don't hold the same way anymore. It's like something loosens—not all at once, but enough to change what's possible. The poet Hafiz puts it this way: The small man builds cages for everyone he knows. While the sage who has to duck his head when the moon is low, keeps dropping keys all night long for the beautiful, rowdy prisoners. And that's what resurrection feels like. Not everything suddenly fixed—but keys appearing. Openings where there were none. A loosening of what we thought would hold forever. Because the one they thought they had broken and banished from this world—breaks in. Not untouched. Not unmarked. But bearing the wounds. Carrying the scars and yet somehow making all things whole. Because God does not erase brokenness. God transfigures it. The light doesn't avoid the cracks. It comes through them. Like that beam of light in a living room long ago finding its way in…holding something before our eyes that we didn't even know was there. And this—this is the breaking news: The crucified one is alive. And those sent to guard the tomb are like dead men. The verdict has been reversed. Death has lost its claim. Empire has lost its certainty. Violence has lost its final word. And life—deeper than death—is rising. // And that means whatever feels sealed is not final. Whatever feels broken is not beyond mending. Whatever feels dark is not beyond the reach of light. Because Easter is the day God in Christ breaks the power of canceled sin and sets the prisoner free… breaks the power of death and cruelty… breaks the lie that this is just the way things have to be… and breaks into confusion and fear with hope and solidarity. Easter is the day the light of Christ began to beckon us— to see what—before—we could not see… and to live like it's real. // Like the stone has already been rolled away. Like the seal has already been broken. Like the cages don't hold the same way anymore. Like even now—even here—the light is finding its way in. Like even the smallest beam can change what we see. Like… even the dust… can begin to dance. And the light— still— breaks in.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, March 29, 2026. “Ignite the Light” series. Palm Sunday.            Text: Matthew 21:1-17   Before the tables are turned; before the coins scatter; before the system is exposed…there is a procession. Crowds gather around Jesus, filling the streets as he makes his way into Jerusalem—waving palm branches, spreading their cloaks on the road, shouting “Hosanna!” But this moment does not begin with the crowd. It begins with Jesus. Everything about the way he enters the city is carefully chosen. He comes from the Mount of Olives—and that isn't a random detail. Because the prophet Zechariah had long promised that when God finally showed up to set things right, God would arrive from that very place. The Mount of Olives was not just a location—it was a signal. And then there's the donkey. Not a warhorse. Not a chariot. A donkey. Again, Zechariah: “Look, your king is coming to you; humble, and mounted on a donkey.” This is not accidental. Jesus is enacting the prophecy. And the people respond. They start waving palm branches—which, to us, might just feel festive—but to them meant something more. Palm branches were part of the Festival of Booths—Sukkot—a time when the people remembered how God had delivered them from slavery in Egypt. They built shelters from the branches and lived in them for a week, remembering what it meant to depend on God in the wilderness. And they waved branches in joy—a sign of hope that God would do it again. So when the crowds wave palms at Jesus, they are recognizing what he is doing. “This is the one who will set us free, the one we can depend on.” And then they take off their cloaks and lay them on the road—a sign that they receive Jesus as king. But here's the thing. Jesus lets them do all that—and then immediately begins to redefine what kingship means. Because he doesn't go to the palace. He doesn't go to seize the seat of government. He goes to the Temple, the center of religious life, economic life, the place where faith and money and power are all tangled together. And that's where the light falls. Because when Jesus gets there, he doesn't bless the system. He disrupts it. Tables get flipped. Coins get scattered. “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” he says, “but you have made it a den of robbers.” It's important to understand this wasn't just about a few corrupt individuals. The people changing money and selling doves—they weren't rogue operators. They were the system. Pilgrims had to exchange their currency into Temple currency. Animals had to be purchased for sacrifice. The whole thing was structured, normalized, accepted. It worked. Unless you were poor. Because doves—the ones Jesus specifically names—were the offering of the poor. Which means the system was set up in such a way that even the most vulnerable had to pay into it.  And Jesus walks in and shines a light on all of this. Not just on individual behavior—but on the whole arrangement. Because when the light falls…you start to see things differently. What looks like devotion can actually be exploitation. What looks like order can actually be injustice.  When the light hits the money, you start to see what's really going on. And that pattern doesn't stay in the Temple. It follows Jesus all the way through the week. A disciple slips away and asks, “What will you give me if I betray him?” Thirty pieces of silver. (Mt 26:14-16) And later—after the cross, after the tomb is found empty—more money changes hands. Coins given to soldiers to keep quiet. To bury the truth. To protect the story that those in power want told. (Mt 28:11-15) Again and again in this story—money is used to control, to betray, to silence. And every time, Jesus shines a light on it. And if we're honest we recognize that these dynamics don't just live in this old story. Because Lord knows we are still living in a world where money and power are tangled together in ways that distort truth and burden the most vulnerable. We are living in a moment where those who already have extraordinary wealth are given even more advantage—where access and influence can mean getting a heads-up, an inside track, a chance to profit before anyone else even knows what's coming. We are living in a moment where war is not only a tragedy—it is also an industry. Where violence can drive markets, and suffering becomes someone else's gain. We are living in a moment where proximity to power—family ties, loyalty, allegiance—can open doors and secure advantage, while others are told to tighten their belts and make do with less. And all of it has consequences—rising costs, disappearing jobs, communities carrying burdens they did not create. And we know this is not new. We have long lived with systems where incarceration becomes profit, where human beings are turned into revenue streams. And we are seeing new forms even now—where enforcement is incentivized, where brutal force is rewarded over care, often without the accountability justice requires. If we are willing to let the light fall here—to really see it—then we have to admit: this is not just about a few bad actors. It is about systems. Systems that reward extraction over equity. Systems that protect power instead of people. Systems that make it easier to profit from vulnerability than to alleviate it. And all of it is being baptized by a perverse version of white, so-called “Christian” nationalism. And on this Palm Sunday weekend people have again taken to the streets. Not with palm branches, but with signs. Not shouting “Hosanna,” but crying out for justice, for sanity, for peace. There is still a deep human longing to resist systems where power concentrates, privilege protects itself, and the many are burdened for the gain of the few. But Palm Sunday pushes us deeper than the clever slogans on our signs. The crowd in Jerusalem had a slogan. And within days, many turned away. Because Jesus did not become the kind of king they expected. He didn't overthrow the empire. He didn't seize control or immediately relieve their suffering. He didn't play the game. Instead he exposed it. And that is far more threatening than simply replacing one ruler with another. And the question I always want us to ask of ourselves is this: if Jesus rode into our city, our institutions, our economy, our own lives today, where would the light fall? Where have we accepted what we know is not aligned with the heart of God? Where do we benefit from systems that harm others? Where have we told ourselves, “That's just how it works”? Because the Temple system felt inevitable, too. Until Jesus came in and turned over the tables. // But while that part of the story often gets most of the attention, what happens next is really the turning point. Because once the tables are overturned—once the system is disrupted—something else happens. // People who had been pushed to the edges come forward. Matthew tells us that those who were living with physical disabilities—people who had not been granted full access, full participation, full belonging in the life of the Temple—come to Jesus. And in that kind of system—he heals them. Right there. In the Temple. And that is significant. Because the Temple wasn't just one open space. It was structured in layers, each one marking who could come closer. There was the outer court, where Gentiles could gather—but no further. Then the court of women—closer, but still limited. Then the court of Israel—for men. Then the court of priests. And at the very center, the Holy of Holies, where only the high priest could enter, and only once a year. Every step inward came with restriction—conditions, boundaries about who belonged where. And those boundaries weren't just architectural—they were social and economic, too. Some were kept at a distance because of where they were from. Some because of their gender. Some because the system defined their bodies as lacking purity or wholeness. Some because they simply could not afford the cost of participation. And some—like children—because their voices didn't count. So when Jesus walks into that space, he is not just entering a building. He is stepping into a whole system of managed access to God. And now, in the very place where exclusion had been normalized, Jesus does not reinforce the boundaries. He removes them. He collapses the distance. He restores people not just to health, but to community, dignity, and full participation in the life of God's people. And then—while the religious leaders are indignant—children start shouting: “Hosanna to the Son of David!” The ones with no status. No authority. No voice in the system. They are the ones who recognize what is happening. And Jesus affirms them, quoting Psalm 8, “Out of the mouths of infants… God has prepared praise.” (Ps 8:2) Which means the scene has completely turned. The powerful are outraged. The excluded are restored. The least expected voices tell the truth. This is what the Temple was always meant to be: not a place of transaction, but restoration; not a system that restricts access, but a community where people are brought fully in; not ordered around power, but reordered around mercy. Where value is no longer measured by what can be extracted, but by what can be restored. That is the alternative. Not just tables turned over, but lives turned back toward wholeness. An economy of grace. A community shaped not by profit, but by love. Palm Sunday is not just a parade. It is a confrontation. A moment when Jesus walks straight into the center of power and shines a light on what everyone else has learned to live with. And once the light falls—you can't unsee it.  But the story does not end with exposure. It moves toward restoration. Because following the light doesn't just mean seeing more clearly. It means moving differently. It means loosening our grip on what benefits us when it harms someone else. It means refusing to call something “normal” when it is wounding our neighbors. It means becoming part of God's work of restoration, not just naming what is broken. We've been taught: if you want to understand the system, follow the money. But here—if you want to see the kin-dom—follow what happens when the light falls. Follow the people being brought in. Follow the people being restored. Follow the voices that are finally being heard. Because where the light of Christ falls, the margins begin to disappear, and what was structured around power and greed is reshaped around love. May we have the courage to follow where the light falls—and to take our place in God's restorative work.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 22 2026. “Ignite the Light” series.  Text: John 11:1-45   It is Women's History Month. And right now, there are real reminders that the struggle for women's full dignity—in society and in the church—is not behind us. Legislation like the SAVE Act (being debated this very weekend in the Senate) threatens to create new barriers to voting, not just for women, but most certainly barriers that will disproportionately affect women, especially those whose legal names no longer match their birth certificates. At the same time, there is a growing movement in some corners of Christianity to restrict women from preaching and leadership. And I know this part isn't abstract. In the clips of my sermons regularly getting posted these days on social media, it's common to receive comments discrediting anything I say only because I'm a woman saying it. Arguments against women in church leadership are often justified by appeals to scripture—some reflecting the norms of the time, others drawn from how women show up (or don't) in the Gospel stories. You know the ones: “All the disciples were men!” // Today, our Gospel story has a lot going on in it. Yes, the big reveal is Lazarus coming out of that tomb. But there is so much more: There is a political crisis. A theological crisis. And—if we look closely—a buried story. A buried female story. Because at the heart of this story is a question about who gets to speak the truth about who Jesus is—and what happens when that truth comes from a voice some would rather not hear. John's Gospel is organized around seven astonishing “signs.” The raising of Lazarus is the seventh. And it is the one that gets Jesus killed. Right after Lazarus is raised, the religious authorities decide: “He must die.” Which makes me wonder—Jesus has healed before. Fed thousands. Turned water into wine. Why is this sign the turning point?  To understand that, we look back to the prophet Ezekiel. In chapter 37, he sees a valley of dry bones—an image of a defeated people. God speaks, breath enters them, and they rise. God says, “I will open your graves… and bring you back to your land.” This is not just about individual resurrection. It is about national restoration. Liberation. The defeat of oppression. Now imagine living under brutal Roman occupation. And then hearing about a man who has just… opened a grave. Do you see the connection? This would not just look like a miracle. It would look like Ezekiel's vision coming true. A sign that God is about to overturn the order of things. And hope—especially hope among the oppressed—is always dangerous. So when the authorities say, “If we let him go on like this… the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation,” they are not being irrational. They're being realistic. They're thinking of how to keep the crowds from “poking the bear” of the empire. Because if the crowds start mobilizing around Jesus as the one who will raise Israel from the dead—Rome will respond with violence. Better, they think, for one man to die than for the whole nation to be destroyed. (John 11:50) This is the political crisis. But there is another layer to this story. Another kind of burial.  New Testament scholar Elizabeth Schrader Polczer has spent years studying the earliest manuscripts of John's Gospel—especially this chapter. And what she noticed is that in many of the texts, there are signs of disturbance. In more than one of our oldest copies, there are edits—visible ones. Names changed. Words scratched out. Singular turned into plural. In particular, the name Mary appears to have been altered to Martha. And in some places, what was once a single woman becomes “the sisters.”  Schrader Polczer's careful reconstruction of the text from the most ancient copies suggests that Lazarus had one sister—Mary. One sister, not two. Now, that might sound like a technical detail. A scholarly footnote. But stay with me—because this matters. Schrader Polczer's claim is this: that the Mary in John 11 may actually be Mary Magdalene—and that her role was later divided by introducing Martha into the story. Not invented out of thin air, but imported—brought in, she suggests, from the Gospel of Luke, where a different Mary and her sister Martha (no mention of Lazarus) appear in a completely different story in a completely different place—Galilee in the north, not Bethany near Jerusalem in the south. In Luke 10, this Mary sits at Jesus' feet as a disciple while Martha is busy serving. It's a well-known scene. Early scribes would have known it well. And so, over time, it seems possible that this familiar pair—Mary and Martha—was inserted into John 11. And here's what that does: It takes one central woman, Mary Magdalene, sister of Lazarus, and turns her into two. It diffuses her presence. It redistributes her voice. Because if you read John 11 without Martha—if you imagine the earlier version of the text—Mary becomes the central figure. And not just any Mary. Mary Magdalene—Mary “the Tower”—a name that already suggests strength, presence, witness. And suddenly, connections begin to emerge.  Mary is the one at Lazarus's tomb in chapter 11. And in chapter 20, Mary Magdalene is the one at the tomb again. Mary weeps at the tombs of Lazarus and in the garden. Mary encounters the power of life over death. In both places. Mary anoints Jesus for his burial. (John 12) Mary stands at the cross. (John 19) Mary is the first witness to the resurrection. (John 20) Mary is the first sent to proclaim the good news. And if Mary not Martha is also the one who makes the great confession—then the implications are profound. Because in John 11:27, the one who says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” is making one of the central declarations of the entire Gospel.  And if that confession originally belonged to Mary Magdalene then the first to confess who Jesus is and the first to witness his resurrection are the same person. A woman. A central apostolic voice. And here's where things get tense. Because that kind of authority—in the voice and witness of a woman—has not always been easy for the church to hold. // Polczer's argument is not uncontested. This is real scholarship—debated, tested, ongoing. And it's not about claiming certainty of intent. But it does suggest that the text may have been shaped in ways that had the effect of softening Mary Magdalene's prominence, shaping a story in a world not yet ready to center a woman's authority. Polczer calls it a “wound in the text.” Not something that destroys the Gospel, but something that reveals its vulnerability. And I want to be really clear here: This is not about discrediting scripture. It's about taking it seriously enough to study it closely, to notice what is happening, to ask why it matters. Because what's at stake is not just who was in the room in John 11. What is at stake is the theological issue of who gets to speak, who gets to lead, who gets to bear witness to the truth of who Jesus is. And when you place that alongside the fear we see in the authorities—the fear that Jesus is stirring up too much hope, too much possibility, too much disruption—you begin to see a pattern. Because just as the raising of Lazarus threatens political systems, the elevation of Mary threatens religious ones. But here is the good news. The Gospel of John tells us: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Not will not. Did not. Which means that even if something was buried in the past, even if something was obscured, the light is still there, still shining, still waiting to be seen. So what does all of this mean for us right now in this Women's History Month. In a time when laws are being debated that could make it harder for women to fully participate in our democracy. In a time when some are still arguing that a woman's voice in the pulpit is somehow less faithful, less authoritative, less true. It means that we have seen this before. When voices that carry truth and possibility begin to disrupt the status quo, those voices are sometimes resisted outright. And sometimes, more subtly, they're… adjusted. Edited. Qualified. Split in two. Not erased completely—but reshaped into something easier to manage. This is not just about Mary. This is about all the ways God's truth has been buried. And the question is not simply, “Did this happen in the text?” The question is: Where is it happening now? Because the call of the Gospel is not just to notice the light, the call is to join it. The same Jesus who stood at Lazarus' tomb and called life out of death is still standing at the places where truth has been buried—and saying: “Come out.” “Unbind them.” “Let them go.” So this Women's History Month, hear this clearly: The work is not finished. But neither is the story. Because the light that shone in Mary Magdalene—a light that could be obscured but not extinguished—is still shining. And the darkness has not overcome it. So when you see something buried—a voice dismissed, a calling denied, a truth diminished—do not look away. Call it forth. Unbind it. Let it go. Because in the end, what God brings to life—a body, a truth, a voice—will not stay in the grave. Amen.   References https://nwlc.org/press-release/house-passes-save-act-2-0-to-suppress-millions-of-eligible-voters/ https://www.christiancentury.org/interviews/signs-mary-magdalene-john-11#:~:text=Polczer%20has%20also%20studied%20John%2011%2C%20where,Martha%20was%20not%20a%20sister%20of%20Lazarus. https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/mary-in-john-11

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 15, 2026. “Ignite The Light” series.

3.8.2026 – Rev. Ben Roberts for Foundry UMC, Washington DC The author has wasted no time being extra scandalous here. It's not just that Jesus is meeting with the Samaritan woman but also that he's doing it at a well. Other biblical narratives of men meeting with women at the well usually ends with some sort of marriage; Isaac and Rebecca.  Jacob and Rachel.  Moses and Zipporah.  These are all encounters at wells. So the overtones for the original audience of this story hint at courtship.  If you've encountered this story before maybe you've heard it sad that this woman social standing should be questioned because of the marriage history that's presented. But Dr. Laura Holmes at Wesley Theological seminary invites us to remember that permission to divorce would have been handed down by male family member it would not have been possible for a poor woman. She couldn't have chosen to get divorced. So the multiple husbands noted in this story likely are “related to tragedies either death or being divorced or both.” So it would be inappropriate to make those sorts of conclusion about here moral or social standing. She also notes for us that we should pay attention to the way that the community responds to this woman's testimony, that many people receive it and believe because of her. If she were ostracized, it is unlikely they would have even listened to what she had to say.  This story also follows closely to that of Nicodemus' the story we heard last week. The contrast being that the Nicodemus story takes place in the middle of the night, but Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well in the middle of the day. Their stories present a series of opposites: “They embody gender, class and status, and ethnic and religious differences. The setup for each encounter also differs: Nicodemus initiates the conversation with Jesus, while Jesus initiates the conversation with the Samaritan woman, and the former is at night (3:2) while the latter is at noon (4:6).”  In both stories, Jesus's answers are interpreted literally causing confusion; when talking of being born again or drinking living water. As Pastor Ginger said last week, very unhelpful answers provided by Jesus. But we see different responses within the confusion. Nicodemus's story somewhat ends after a couple of follow-up questions; he the learned teacher doesn't continue the conversation. While the Samaritan woman asks for the living water and goes and tells others about what she has encountered. So we get some of the feeling that they learned teacher Nicodemus who is inside the community doesn't quite get it what this random Samaritan outsider woman stays engaged and curious.  After the woman asks for the living water, Jesus does something that reveals and points to himself as Messiah. He knows things that haven't be said yet. He tells her about her husbands and current situation, nothing she had shared with him. This, him knowing something that hasn't been reveled,  is enough to begin this revelation and journey for her.  Let's note they have this discussion on worship. Localities are brought up as she says “this mountain” and then says, “but you (y'all) say the place where people MUST worship is Jerusalem.”  We'll talk some more about this, but suffice it to say for the moment the Jewish tradition is telling them that worship must be in Jerusalem, while the Samaritan tradition says it should be on Mt. Gerizim (or this mountain).  She points to this dogmatic divide between their communities and Jesus' response is to say neither Jerusalem nor this mountain. A time is coming when true worship will be in spirit and in truth. Worship that is born not from obligation to ritual but love of heart and active in the world as Jesus was active (mercy, service, justice, compassion). She goes from there and tells others in her community and it's said that many listened to her, came to see Jesus for themselves, and also believed. The woman becomes one of our traditions' first theologians discussing proper worship, first preachers telling her community what Jesus had done, and is every bit a disciple/apostle as those other…guys. And that is lovely.  There are few major stories where the Samaritans were mentioned in the New Testament. We have this story of the Samaritan woman at the well. We have the story of a thankful Samaritan leper. And we have probably the best-known story of the Good Samaritan parable. In each of these cases a person who is Samaritan is held up as an example of someone who did the “right” thing where the more faithful person or the Jewish person in this story does the wrong thing or is just slower at…the thing. For example, in the Good Samaritan parable this is the Samaritan who stops to help the injured person after some priests and Levites had passed by on the other side. Or in the case of the leper the Samaritan is the one who gives thanks and tells the story where the other nine just leave. I'll note that in the other two cases a person is in some ways reduced to being an object lesson, that is they are just held up to teach us something about the ways we're supposed to act. There's not a bunch of character development. We don't learn about the actual people or their communities through these stories. They're just being used to show us something. By comparison, today's story is rather robust for the Samaritan character; despite not being given a name. Last fall (2025) as part of our foundations of sacred resistance series, we did a Bible study that included talking about the Good Samaritan. Someone brought up that it would be helpful for us to expand on who the Samaritans were. Usually we (and the Bible) just note there is animosity between the Jewish community and the Samaritan community. There was one Kingdom and a united monarchy until the time after King Solomon. So we have one Kingdom under David and then under his son Solomon, but after Solomon, the kingdoms and the tribes split. Ten tribes remain in the north, which becomes the Kingdom of Israel, and two remain in the South, which becomes the Kingdom of Judah. The reason for that split is often characterized as a continuation of tax policy and harsh leadership. This would have been around or between 975 and 930 BCE. Whatever the day-to-day on the ground specifics, we end up with two groups where there had previously been one. Differences begin to emerge for a variety of reasons. But we'll start with something that's common, and that is that both groups followed the Torah or the fist 5 books of what we would call the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament (Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy). For portions of this Northern Kingdom that eventually become the Samaritan community, the scriptures stop there without additions of prophetic texts, Psalms or others that Christian circles are familiar with from the Hebrew Bible or Old testament.  And within that holy text of those first five books, there are differences between the Torah used by the Samaritans and the Torah used by the Jews. There are 6,000 differences: half of which are grammatical or small changes for flow, and the other half are larger ones like entire conversations (missing/not included) between characters like Moses and Aaron with Pharaoh and a difference in the 10 commandments. Where we might be familiar with the 10th commandment being “thou shalt not covet,” the Samaritan version has the 10th commandment as an instruction to build and alter at Mount Gerizim (believed to be the place Abraham was going to sacrifice Isacc for this tradition rather than Mount Moriah/The Temple Mount in Jerusalem). So differing scriptures (yet the same), differing instructions, differing locations claiming to be central to the faith if not the center of the world. These realties come together over time. The distinct group of the Samaritans does not really emerge however until after the Assyrian conquest in 722 BCE.  The Assyrians come through and take over the Northern Kingdom (Israel). When the northern Kingdom fell some of the members of the 10 tribes are deported throughout Assyrian territory.  Some remained. But the Assyrians also send colonists and other deported people from other places into the region of the northern Kingdom. And the population that remained from the 10 tribes begins to intermix culturally, religiously, and socially.  Differences are magnified  because of the experience of the Southern Kingdom with the Babylonian exile. Where the Assyrian conquest of the Northern Kingdome sends the people away. The Babylonian conquest takes the people of the southern kingdom in to exile in Babylon (this where books of the prophets come from) but there's an end exile (where there wasn't for the northern kingdom) 200 years later, Persians allow the southern kingdom Judean's to return. This has a big impact on the development of Judaism. And upon their return, while it's said in the book of Ezra, the Samaritans were willing to welcome back these cousins and work with them to rebuild. Those returning did not want to mix because of the ways the Samaritans had mixed with other cultures over the centuries. At some point during the Assyrian conquest and the people being deported. Some lions showed up, killed some people, it was a big mess. It was a whole thing. The Assyrians said, you know, those people we sent into that land don't know how to worship the God of that land. So we need to send a priest back to teach them (2 Kings), because we can't have lions running around killing people. So our tradition, from the start says, those people who remain, those Samaritans who have been mixing, they don't know what they're doing when it comes to worship when it comes to being faithful. They're doing it wrong and need to be fixed. That becomes the one-sided story we inherit. This experience of exile, return and non-return becomes a big divergence for the two groups. The returning Judeans don't want to mix with those people who are doing it wrong. They reject the Samaritan's help. And as the returning Judeans begin to do things like rebuild Jerusalem and the temple after rejecting the Samaritans' help. The Samaritans in turn find ways to oppose its construction by lobbying the Persians.  Laws and prohibitions around mixing and inter-marrying are put in place. The marriage prohibitions persist to this day. Animosity and separation continue to grow over hundreds of years by the time the Jesus story begins. In 128 BCE the Hasmonean's (Judea/Southern Kingdom) destroyed the Samaritan Temple at Mt. Gerizim. Little more than a century later (6-9 AD) around the time of Jesus' birth, the Samaritans dump human bones throughout the temple in Jerusalem, rendering it unclean and unavailable for the Passover celebration. There is long-range tit for tat going on. And at roughly the same time as Jesus' life and ministry and the budding of the early Christian church, the Samaritans were essentially in collaboration with the occupying Romans; collecting taxes and helping keep order compared to the rebellious Jewish community. Samaritan community still exists. By all accounts there are 8-900 people left in the community. The population is mainly split between Tel-Aviv, Israel and Nablus near Mount Gerizim in Palestine/West Bank. There was a NYT article from 2021 called “The World's Last Samaritans – Straddling the Israeli-Palestinian Divide.” So with all of that, recent desecrations and destructions of temples, differing yet the same scripture, vastly differing experiences, prohibitions on marriages and sharing food, and hundreds of years of growing divide; Jesus talks with a Samaritan woman at a well. No shortage of old divides on display for us in the world right now. No shortage of one-sided stories about how awful the other side is, right now. No shortage of stories about how awful we are. No shortage of conflict and suffering because of it. I think I very much like the idea today of Jesus stepping into and interrupting old, entrenched conflict. I like the idea that people, like the woman, are still curious and willing not be held by old tropes and dogmas; social, political, or religious. I like Jesus stepping in and saying not your mountain or ours; it's not what matters and they're not worth staying divided over.  If we keep drinking from these old wells; of nationalism, Christian nationalism, Christian Zionism, racism. Drinking from wells of sexism misogyny, racism, or homophobia. Drinking from the wells of ethnic conflict the wells of polarization. Drinking from these old wells of division and violence will just keep us coming back to these old wells of division and violence. Four years from now, 100 years from now, 200, 700, 3000 years from now. Instead, we're invited to the living water that can satisfy and move us into relationship. And for those who would step into that relationship, having experienced the living water, within them a spring would form and other could experience it too. Through that expansion may  we (with God's help) somehow move closer to the days of Spirit and Truth; changed hearts and just action in the world.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 1, 2026. “Ignite the Light” series.  Text: John 3:1-17   Some seasons feel like one long night. Not the gentle kind with a crescent moon and a few bright stars. But the kind where you can't quite see what's coming next. Where the news feels relentless. Where the future feels uncertain. Where the questions get louder than the answers. Questions like: What kind of God creates a world with cancer and deadly storms? Why is there so much cruelty and violence? Why am I so lonely? How can I stop being so afraid? Where is God in all of this? Night has a way of stripping us of pretense. It quiets the noise. It makes us honest—honest about our questions, and honest about our need for Light. And it is there, in that kind of night, that we meet Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a learned man, a scholar of the Jewish faith, a respected religious leader, a man who knew his scripture and his tradition. And still, he comes to Jesus confused and curious, full of questions. That alone should ignite some light for us. Because somewhere along the way many people were taught that questions don't belong in church. That faith means certainty. That belief means signing on the dotted line of a doctrinal checklist. And yet here, in one of the most famous chapters in the Bible, we find a scholar and seeker stumbling through the dark saying: How can this be? Questions are not the opposite of faith. They are often the spark where faith begins. Nicodemus is not given answers. He is given invitation. Invitation to trust. Invitation to step toward Light. “The wind blows where it chooses…” You can feel it, even when you cannot control it. And that is what Jesus is offering Nicodemus—not certainty, but relationship. “For God so loved the world…” This verse from Gospel of John 3:16 has too often been reduced to a slogan—or worse, weaponized as a boundary marker of who is in and who is out. But listen carefully. It does not say: “God so loved the worthy.” It does not say: “God so loved the certain.” It does not say: “God so loved those who figured it all out.” It says: God so loved the world. The whole world. And the word translated “believe,” pisteuo, is not primarily about intellectual agreement. It is about trust. Relational trust. Entrusting yourself to another. There is a world of difference between believing a statement and believing in a person. To say “I believe in you” is not to claim you understand everything about a person. It is to say: I trust you. I will step toward you. Even, perhaps, I will follow your lead. That is the spark. Faith is not having all the answers. Faith is daring to trust the Light of God while still standing in the dark. You only need enough light to take the next step. Not a floodlight. Just a spark. Friends, we are not only people who talk about light. We are people who have seen it. We saw it when neighborhoods in Minneapolis organized to care for one another in the aftermath of unrest and uncertainty. When stores were vulnerable and systems strained, neighbors brought whatever gifts they had—organizing skills, grills, baked goods, bottled water, medical supplies. Some patrolled streets to protect small businesses and vulnerable neighbors—immigrant families, people of color, anyone who felt unsafe. Some accompanied elders to the grocery store and children to school. Some simply showed up and stood watch so others could worship or sleep in peace. No one person solved the darkness. But together, they became light. We have seen it in the quiet, steady witness of Buddhist monks walking for peace—a simple, embodied prayer moving through public streets. Their steps did not shout. They did not argue. They simply walked, reminding everyone watching that love does not have to be loud to be powerful. We have seen it in the long, luminous ministry of Jesse Jackson, who reminded a weary nation again and again: it gets dark sometimes, but morning always comes. He showed up in hospital rooms, on picket lines, in forgotten neighborhoods, listening to people's questions, dignifying their pain, calling them to embodied love. Hope, in his hands, was not naïve optimism. It was disciplined, stubborn carrying of the Light into the dark. These are not abstract ideas. They are sparks in real darkness. And here is the good news: the same Spirit that moved in Nicodemus' night, the same love that sent Jesus into the world, is moving still. Ignite the Light does not mean we deny the darkness. It means we refuse to surrender to it. Nicodemus does not leave Jesus with all his questions answered. But get this beautiful twist: his story doesn't end in chapter three. Near the end of John's Gospel, after Jesus has been crucified, Nicodemus appears again—this time in daylight—bringing spices to help prepare Jesus' body for burial. He moves from academic speculation to embodied love. From confusion to courageous tenderness. From questions to action. Not because all his questions were resolved. But because somewhere along the way, trust took root. The spark caught. That is what trust looks like. Not certainty—but movement. The spark becomes action. God does not wait for us to stop asking questions before God loves us. God meets us in the questions. God meets us in the dark. God meets us and keeps the spark of hope and faith and life burning in us. That is the gospel. And that is why we come to this Table. We do not come to Communion because we have resolved every theological tension. We come because we are hungry for light. We come because we need trust rekindled. We come because love has already moved toward us. “For God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world…” No condemnation here. Only invitation. At this table, Christ does not hand us a doctrinal list with boxes to check. He hands us bread. And in that simple act, light passes from hand to hand. Maybe you feel strong today. Maybe you feel barely glowing. It doesn't matter. A spark is enough. Enough to check on a neighbor. Enough to show up. Enough to listen. Enough to bake bread or walk for peace or stand beside someone who is afraid. Enough to believe that morning will come as we keep working together for what is good. Nicodemus came at night. But he kept moving… all the way to the tomb. And if he was there at the tomb, then he was already on his way to resurrection morning. And the Spirit who moved him is moving us still. Because the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it. So come to the table. Bring your questions. Bring your weariness. Bring your small, flickering hope. Receive the love of God who believes in you. And then go — and be a spark in someone else's dark.

A sermon preached by Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC February 22, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC February 15, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC February 8, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series. Texts: Isaiah 58:1-12; Matthew 5:17-20 Our guest preacher last week invited us into the ancient wisdom of Micah 6:8—to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God. In response to that sermon, someone commented online: “Sad when preachers preach from the old fallen Old Testament. God speaks through Jesus and Jesus said he was to be our only teacher.” I had to hold back from replying with a bit of pastoral snark: I guess you missed the day in class when Jesus said, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” Jesus' whole life is an embodiment of the righteousness the law seeks to teach and the justice the prophets longed to proclaim and enact. In Scripture, “law” isn't a cold rulebook or a list of religious regulations. It's God's teaching for how a community actually lives—how neighbors treat one another, how power is exercised, how workers are paid, how the vulnerable are protected. Jesus does not stand over the law and the prophets, correcting them. He stands within them, holding together what has too often been pulled apart—faith and life, prayer and practice, belief and behavior. Jesus does not discard the law and the prophets; he pieces them together, aligns them with flesh and breath and human relationships, and shows us what they look like when lived fully. Jesus comes to help us align our lives with the deep purposes of God so that peace with justice—what Dr. King called the Beloved Community—can begin to take shape among us. That is why Isaiah 58 lands so powerfully today. Isaiah and Jesus are speaking the same theological language, even as they speak in different moments. And Isaiah does not ease into the message. He comes out of the gate strong: “Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their sins. Yet day after day they seek me and delight to know my ways, as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness and did not forsake the ordinance of their God; they ask of me righteous judgments; they want God on their side.” That little phrase—“as if”—is a doozy. Isaiah is describing a people who are deeply religious: faithful in worship, earnest in prayer, fluent in the rituals and language of faith—as if they were practicing righteousness, as if they had not forsaken God's ordinances. This is not hypocrisy in the cheap sense. It is being faithful in form, but disconnected in practice. They want God near. They want God responsive. They want God on their side. But even as they do all the religious things—fasting, sackcloth, ashes—they forsake God's ordinances—the Hebrew word is mishpat: meaning justice that treats people fairly and equitably. They are acting religious without making God choices, without doing justice. In our current context, it would be very easy to take that “as if” and aim it outward. To point fingers at national leaders who wear big crosses around their necks, hold Bibles for photo ops, show up at public prayer services and then post vile, racist images, enact cruel policies, and unleash violent overreach. It would be easy for me, especially after what I've seen and heard recently, to let my anger form words that strike like a fist. I recently returned from Minneapolis. I heard firsthand stories of families targeted by ICE—stories of fear that lives in bodies and homes, stories of trauma caused by aggressive and dehumanizing enforcement. I've stood at the sites where neighbors lost their lives as they sought to defend and protect others. I also heard anger—anger rooted not only in what is happening now, but in decades of suffering that has gone unseen, unheard, and unaddressed: unmet needs, unacknowledged harm, voices crying out long before the rest of us were paying attention. Isaiah would tell the truth about all of that. Jesus would too. Truth-telling is part of faithfulness. But Scripture is equally clear that how we tell the truth matters. Neither Isaiah nor Jesus believes that mockery creates peace. Neither believes that humiliation heals wounds. Isaiah is clear: the fast God chooses is not one that strikes with the fist or points the finger. Walter Brueggemann reminds us that to be prophetic is not simply to condemn wrongdoing, but to name pain, to let suffering be seen and heard. That happens when we listen to stories we would rather avoid, when we allow another person's fear or anger to interrupt our assumptions, when we allow the realities of human suffering to disrupt the status quo. Brueggemann writes, “The replacing of numbness with compassion… signals a social revolution.” Healing—personal or communal—does not begin with denial. It begins when pain is clearly named and acknowledged. In Minneapolis, I had the opportunity to practice listening to stories I would have preferred to avoid. I heard how African American, African, and other immigrant communities struggle to maintain trust and true solidarity. As one of the few white people in the room, I heard stories of perhaps well-meaning, mostly white progressives who alienate Black communities over ideological issues while ignoring the chronic poverty and violent injustice they face every day. “They talk about unity, but want uniformity,” someone said. “They turn out in record numbers in this moment—but can they say the names of the young people in our community who are shot in the back on a regular basis?” I found myself thinking about how the intersections of race, class, ideology, and power I encountered in Minneapolis echo right here in Washington, DC. And all I could do—and all I can do right now—is ask God to keep me open and available: open to listen, open to learn how my own heart and practice need to change, and open to receive guidance about how to lead us, as a congregation, in faithful response both locally and nationally. That is what Isaiah calls for. And that is what Jesus fulfills. Jesus does not abolish the law and the prophets; he embodies them. Grace, in Jesus' life, is not God letting us off the hook. Grace is God drawing near—giving us strength to change, courage to repair, and patience to stay in relationship when walking away would be easier. Righteousness, in Scripture, is not moral superiority. It is right relationship—with God and with one another. Justice is not an abstract ideal. It is fair and equitable treatment that restores dignity and life. Grace does not replace these. Grace makes them possible in real life. Isaiah makes this concrete. The work of justice and righteousness he describes is not lofty or abstract. It looks like ordinary—and costly—faithfulness: loosening the bonds of injustice, undoing heavy yokes, letting the oppressed go free, sharing bread with the hungry, sheltering the unhoused poor, clothing the naked, and—this one cuts close—not hiding from your own kin. Right now, there are many who have every right and reason to hide. Because if they leave their driveway, they risk being stopped, dragged from their car, and taken to a detention center without due process—or even a question about their citizenship. Because if they go to school, they might be used as bait to lure a parent into detention. Because if they go to worship, they may be rounded up simply for having brown skin or wearing a hijab. But for many of us, hiding takes a different form. We hide when we scroll past suffering because it overwhelms us. When we tell ourselves someone else is better equipped to respond. When we protect our comfort instead of risking connection. When we retreat because we are not the ones being targeted. Isaiah refuses to bless that retreat. And Jesus fulfills that refusal by drawing the circle of kinship wider and wider, putting his own life on the line in true solidarity and love. Peace—real peace—does not come from choosing the right side or going through the motions of religion or shallow relationships that avoid telling the truth. It comes from aligning our lives with the way of God's love as embodied in Jesus. And that alignment is not abstract. It looks like courage without cruelty. Truth-telling without humiliation. Resistance without dehumanization. In Minneapolis, I was struck by stories of people who are embodying exactly that. The resistance in that city right now is overwhelmingly nonviolent, creative, organized, and relentlessly resolute in defense of their neighbors. And my heart aches as I reflect on Renee Good's last words: “I'm not mad at you.” And Alex Pretti's… “Are you okay?”—spoken while trying to help a woman who had just been pepper-sprayed during an encounter with immigration agents. In moments of grave danger, these siblings resisted harm without surrendering their humanity—or anyone else's. That is strength shaped by love. That is what we are called to embody. Isaiah dares to imagine what becomes possible when lives are aligned with God's way of love: light breaking forth like the dawn, wounds healing, guidance emerging, communities rebuilt, streets restored for living. We—even we—can become repairers of the breach, restorers of what violence has torn apart. Most of us won't do this in grand gestures, but in daily choices. So maybe this week, we—all of us—can be intentional about our choices: to listen before reacting, to stay present when retreat feels safer, to use our resources—time, money, influence—to stand with neighbors rather than hide from them. Not selective solidarity, but embodied faithfulness. These are the pieces that make for peace. And by God's grace, they are the pieces Christ is still fitting together—in us, among us, and through us—for the healing of the world.

A sermon preached by Bishop Julius Trimble with Foundry UMC February 1, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC January 25, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Wanda Bynum-Duckett with Foundry UMC January 18, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series.   Isaiah 61: 1-8 [a]The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,     because the Lord has anointed me; He has sent me to bring good news to the afflicted,     to bind up the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives,     release to the prisoners, 2 To announce a year of favor from the Lord     and a day of vindication by our God; To comfort all who mourn; 3     to place on those who mourn in Zion     a diadem instead of ashes, To give them oil of gladness instead of mourning,     a glorious mantle instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of justice,     the planting of the Lord to show his glory. 4 They shall rebuild the ancient ruins,     the former wastes they shall raise up And restore the desolate cities,     devastations of generation upon generation. 5 Strangers shall stand ready to pasture your flocks,     foreigners shall be your farmers and vinedressers. 6 [b]You yourselves shall be called “Priests of the Lord,”     “Ministers of our God” you shall be called. You shall eat the wealth of the nations     and in their riches you will boast. 7 Because their shame was twofold[c]     and disgrace was proclaimed their portion, They will possess twofold in their own land;     everlasting joy shall be theirs.   As your pastor has been leading you in the brilliance of a sermon series entitled  Piece Us Together, I've been wrestling with the notion that life is to a great extent a series of choices…pieces, deposits, decisions made by us (and others connected to us) that when congruent, consistent and courageously aligned with God's Spirit, can not only be called good choices, but can bear the designation of GOD CHOICES. We know those moments when the Spirit speaks and we actually listen, and we do or resist doing or saying a thing, moving in a certain direction or keeping still, and we know in our knower that it wasn't us, it was GOD. Some choices we know we can't take credit for. We didn't have enough information or wisdom or fortitude on our own and yet sometimes you just know: that was God's leading - even ordaining - a particular path or decision. So my wrestling isn't about whether those kinds of choices are possible, it's more about how we might more intentionally posture ourselves to make them. What are the foundational pieces, the underlying preparation for making God choices? In some situations, seasons, and circumstances, it can be difficult to know what good is, let alone where GOD is. Especially when it seems like everyone is screaming and streaming their rightness, even assigning to it the name and the will of GOD, how do we individually and collectively choose rightly, even GODLY.    I picked up this little knick-knack at a thrift store in Greenville, North Carolina – my mother's hometown – and it simply says, “Make good choices.” So I chose to buy it for a whopping 99 cents. I believe that purchase was a God choice because ever since, this statement, this mantra that has become so popular, has had me wrestling. It sounds good, but it also raises a challenge: how do we know? Hindsight can sometimes be 20/20, sometimes we can look back with satisfaction and say that was a good choice, or we can look back with regret and say this or that was a bad move, but how do we really know the ultimate goodness of a choice, with our limited retroactive vision, and with a future yet unfolding before us?  Sometimes options are so plentiful that the gift of choice (God's free will) feels like a burden. And yet for some, life is such that options are few and choices become a luxury. Sometimes the choice is between what we might call two evils, and the struggle is to discern which is less so. Like a choice of whether to steal or starve, or a choice of whether to go to work and risk being kidnapped from a parking lot or staying home and facing the certainty of no income at all. And every morning when my daughter sends my seven-year-old grandson and my 13-year-old granddaughter to school with lunch, and a kiss, and a prayer that no shooter, no bully, no weapon formed against them will prosper, she also sends them off with these words: Make good choices. And so it is from pre-K to reWirement…how do we know which is which? Some decisions are negligible like sushi or soul food, and God bless you if you have access to both. Some choices are weightier and defining of the trajectory of not only our own lives, but the lives of others… like ballot choices. Anybody rethinking these days how much every vote matters? Consider choices like whether to respond to the sign our unhoused sibling is holding at the traffic light, or to roll up our car windows when we dare to drive through that neighborhood…that is if we even dare choose to drive through that neighborhood. After all, that's what beltways are for, right? To avoid the discourse and dilemmas of Samaria? The bible gives us some help, doesn't it? Choose ye this day who you will serve. (Joshua 24:15) Spoiler alert, choose GOD! Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and God's righteousness. (Matthew 6:33) The bible helps us to know that, God's word is a lamp unto our feet, and a light unto our pathway (Psalm 119:105), and meanwhile there are some people who believe - or at least say - that they are following a path illumined by God's word even as they CHOOSE to be, or to follow a path that looks more like darkness than light.  The bible is helpful in many ways, even as it lets us know that there is a way that seems right to a man, or a woman or a human, but its end is not life, but death. (Proverbs 14:12) To put it more simply, just because we place a cross on a path, a way, or a choice, does not mean it's a GOD choice, because our nation's history tells us that some have carried their crosses and others have burned them.  The bible helps us with our discernment, but it does not take away the need for that discernment. The scriptures give us examples of heroes and sheroes and they-roes whose choices are stamped with God's approval. Conversely, but equally as helpful, the bible also offers us examples of choices that we can see from our pews were not God choices. Choices like: Barrabas over Jesus, to wash our hands amidst the bloodshed in our communities, and to entertain the conversation of a snake. Yet in the moment, in the mission field, on our jobs - if we are so blessed in this administration to have and keep a job - and even in the church, we have struggled (often with the best of intentions) to make the good choice, the GOD choice. Good people are also capable of bad choices. So how do we know, and even when we know, how do we move in the direction of what we know is good and what is GOD? This Human Relations Sunday, on the eve of a day when we honor the life, work, and ministry of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, JR, it's a good time to have this conversation. Because the pieces, the choices, the decisions, the moves that Dr. King made, we can look at now and say that they were good, and even that they were GOD, but can we also agree that were hard, and they did not reflect the usual metrics of success. They were not financial choices that led to wealth. They were not safe choices that led to longevity. They were not choices that led to comfort for him or his family. As a young scholar and theologian out of Boston University, the world was Dr. King's oyster. He spoke well, he married well, he could have lived well by most standards even for the time, with the cushion of education, and perhaps some ability to escape the ravages and brutality of life as a black man in the Jim Crow south, or – if he chose - the more liberal and more subtly racist north. But like so many other freedom fighters, peacemakers, and GOD-choosers, King chose differently. He used his gifts and his anointing, not to live a successful life but, to live and ultimately give a life that was good. How and why did he choose as he chose, live as he lived, and die as he died. With four fatherless children, a weeping widow, bomb threats from his enemies, and the voices of his friends saying wait for justice to arrive slowly, when the scripture calls for it to roll down like mighty waters.  What's the framework for such a life? Where's the groundwork and the foundation for making those kinds of God choices? And, considering where we are now, some might even argue what's the point? Because the task of evil is to overwhelm us, and numb us so that we give up and give in. But we are those who understand that only light confounds darkness and only love drives out hate. (Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s 1957 sermon entitled Loving Your Enemies) We are those who must keep the work of Dr. King and other GOD-choosers from unraveling, because it's becoming quite clear that the very fabric of our nation is really more loosely stitched together than we realized, and the fuller we get of ourselves, the more likely we are to come apart at the very (s.e.e.m.s.).  Well, this morning I want to offer a few ideas for your consideration as we seek to piece together our choices, our contributions to a tapestry of goodness and God-ness. These ideas do not form a magic bullet, or fast-working formula, but offer a bit of profiling of two prophetic God choosers: Dr. King and the Prophet Isaiah. In our scripture reading, Isaiah is making a profound declaration that I would imagine sounded a bit grandiose, perhaps even arrogant or delusional for Isaiah to declare, “the Spirit of the LORD is upon ME.” But Friends, this is not mere self-confidence. Isaiah is not pontificating his own opinions or positioning himself for re-election. He is not operating under the advisement of any renegade dictator, partisan pundit, or complacent church. This is not ego, or hubris. This is clarity of call. Isaiah is clear from whom his call comes, and he is clear about those to whom he is called. We have all perhaps witnessed the reduction of the work of prophecy to fortune telling, and sometimes misguided proclamations wrapped in boldness of the flesh. But the real work of prophecy lies in the clearly motivated execution of a call that comes from God to speak and act with truth and justice. Isaiah has seen the Lord high and lifted up. (Isaiah 6:1) He has heard the Lord's call and answered, Here I Am, send me. (Isaiah 6:8) And out of this connection and experience with God comes clarity! It's the kind of clarity that Dr. King testified to, declaring, “I've been to the mountaintop…I just want to do God's will.” (Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, JR.'s 1968 speech, I've Been to the Mountaintop) And the good news for us is that clarity of call and the capacity to see GOD is not limited to a pulpit, or an appointment, or a title. It is the God-given opportunity for all of us who purport to be God's people to discover, discern and be deployed for the mission from whom and to whom we are called. You want to see Jesus? Look in the eyes of your neighbor. You want to see the Lord? Recognize that we are all made in God's image. You want to have a mountaintop experience? Spend some time in the valley with those who are hurting and get some clarity! Maybe that's what my little plaque is trying to say. Maybe choices become a whole lot easier and godlier when we have clarity about who is calling us and why.  We may feel inadequate, like Isaiah did when he was first called. We may face opposition from our peers and elders as Dr. King did. But clarity will help us show up anyhow, even if its stammering like Moses, running like Jonah, wrestling like Jacob, weeping at a tomb like Mary or Coretta, staying seated like Rosa, speaking out like Father Oscar Romero, running for office like Kamala, speaking truth to power like Jasmine, singing like Mahalia and our choir today, speaking on NPR like Ginger, and marching like Martin. Afraid? Yes, sometimes. Called? Absolutely! God is compelling us to offer our piece to the work for such a time as this, whether our call is to teach, or speak, or organize, or march or pray or sing or write, or cook a meal, or wipe a tear, or serve in the church and in the community. Know that separation of church and state does not require us to be isolated or silenced or detached from the world. The church is a place of worship and equipping; the church is no place to hide. And the good news is that the anointing - the clear call to make God choices - is not only for those we call Reverend, or Doctor, or prophet, or priest, but the book of Joel helps us to know that GOD pours out God's spirit on ALL FLESH! (Joel 2:28), to dream like Martin, and to proclaim like Isaiah a new and hopeful reality of rebuilt ruins, restored cities and everlasting joy. The powerful thing about clarity of call is that it grounds us with the ability to make GOD choices. It is the foundational YES that makes everything else clearer.  Listen to the clarity of Isaiah's call. He's not anointed just to be anointed, but it is to bring good news in bad times, to bind up the wounds of the hurting, to comfort those who mourn. Praise God that the call is a call of hope, of captives set free and chains broken. The audacity, the unmitigated gall and the amazing and dangerous opportunity for GOD-choosers like Isaiah, like Martin, like all of us to participate in a holy exchange of beauty for ashes, oil for tears, and the bible says a glorious mantle instead of a faint spirit.  Secondly, foundational to the capacity to make God choices is consciousness of context: knowing what the people and the times call for, with the bible in one hand, media device in the other. Isaiah was well aware of the self-indulgence and wickedness of the powerful, and the turning away of Judah's collective heart from God. Dr. King may have been studying in Boston, but he was preparing for Selma, Birmingham, Memphis and Washington. He was well-versed in the dehumanization of Jim Crow, the economic echoes of chattel slavery, and the need for change. There was an urgency that called him to a movement and a moment. Our call - and the choices that flow from that call- likewise connect to our time and context in pivotal moments where our choices matter in ways that lead to life or death, both literally and figuratively.  These are Kairos moments, not mere hours on a clock or dates on a calendar, but these are times for decisions and God-inspired choices when we need to know the difference between being disrespectful, and having one's life disrespected and taken too soon. These are times when we need to call out the difference between feigned self-defense and excessive and homicidal force. These are times when our immigrant siblings are experiencing the similarly motivated and equally evil kidnapping that once populated the slave trade around the globe. These are times and moments when hard-fought liberties are being dismantled, when fear rules the day, and politics plague the culture. These are the times that ought to try our souls and inform and inspire our choices…like whether to speak up or opt out of the conversation, to step up or to stand by as we take steps back to parts of our history of which we ought to be ashamed. This is the context in which we must choose to love our neighbors, all of them…locally, globally, radically and unapologetically. Not me first, but Humanity first. Love first. Justice First. Peace first. This is not merely a time to reminisce about Isaiah's call, or to romanticize about Martin's dream. This is not Isaiah's Judah or Martin's south. Although the parallels with the past are present, and the pieces are connected for sure, this is our time, and these choices are on US! And finally, to make GOD choices, not only would we do well to be grounded by clarity of call, and consciousness of context, but we also need courage beyond consequences. Every choice comes with some consequence. Even, and especially GOD choices. Sometimes those consequences look like discouragement, isolation, ridicule, black-listing, or even danger. Neither the clarity of our call, nor the consciousness of our context, exempt us from the need for courage. Isaiah's courage called him to speak truth to fou kings over his lifetime, and we know that even the subtlest of pleas for justice and mercy to leadership that is not so inclined can have major consequences. Martin advocated and demonstrated for peace - not violence - as the way to bring about change and it earned him a Nobel Peace Prize. But he didn't live to see his children pick up the mantle for justice, or his birthday become a national holiday, or a black man become President of the United States. Are we not tired of Good dying young? But death does not have the final say, nor does hatred, nor does violence, and - the sacred text reminds us - nor do kings or kingdoms. (Daniel 2:44) I heard a song that I believe says, Every storm runs out of rain. Every lie runs out of gas. There is a GOD who chose us, who chose love, who chose the cup of Calvary so that we might choose to be clear, and conscious, and courageous as well. That God has the final say. Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us, chose to weep, walk, heal and speak truth in perilous times. And one Sabbath day he stood in the synagogue to teach, and he found the words of the prophet Isaiah and said, the Spirit of the Lord is upon ME! Because GOD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor, to proclaim freedom for the prisoners, and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” (Luke 4:18-19) Then Jesus rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant (the word is now in our hands), and the people stared at him. The audacity, the unmitigated gall! Isn't this just Joseph's son. Didn't they know that God uses and chooses those others deem unlikely and even unworthy? Our Jesus declared, TODAY…. this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” My friends TODAY is the time to live and to choose in alignment with the fulfilment of the gospel of peace. TODAY is not just to reminisce, or to recite the speeches and choices of the prophets of old, but TODAY is the time for making GOD choices of our own, to answer the call God has on our lives, to do and bring our piece to the work. And we too shall be called priests of the Lord, ministers of our God, and everlasting joy will be our witness, because God is not just good. God is GOD! God bless you.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC January 11, 2026. “Piece Us Together” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brow with Foundry UMC January 4, 2026. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC December 28, 2025. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC December 24, 2025. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC December 14, 2025. The third Sunday of Advent. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC November 30, 2025. The second Sunday of Advent. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry United Methodist Church November 23, 2025.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC July 26, 2025, the seventh Sunday after Pentecost.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry United Methodist Church November 9, 2025.

A homily preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry United Methodist Church November 2, 2025, All Saints Sunday.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC October 26, 2025, the twentieth Sunday after Pentecost. “Strength for Today, Bright Hope for Tomorrow” series. Consecration Sunday.

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, October 19, 2025, the nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost. “Strength for Today, Bright Hope for Tomorrow” series.

Strength For Today By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli October 12th, 2025 "Strength For Today, Bright Hope For Tomorrow" Series

New Every Morning By T.C. Morrow October 5th, 2025 "Strength For Today, Bright Hope For Tomorrow" Series  

Homecoming Service With Special Guest, Bishop Cedrick Bridgeforth September 28th, 2025

Lead Courageously By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli September 21st, 22025 "Vision" Series

Serve Joyfully By Rev. Ben Roberts September 14th, 2025 "Vision" Series  

Love Boldly By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli September 7th, 2025 "Vision" Series

Which Side Are You On? By Michael Szpak August 31st, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

Invited to Invite By Jonathon Brown August 24th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

Safe? By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli August 17th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

Between "Belly Up" and "Beloved" By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli August 10th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

What About The Glasses? By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli August 3rd, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

The Science Of... Forgiveness? By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli November 9th, 2025

All Saints Day, November 1st, 2025 Sermon "Enlightened" By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli

Us Vs. Them by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli July 27th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

Boots On The Ground by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli July 20th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

Farsighted Faith by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli July 6th, 2025 "We're Listening" Series

The Fruit And The Fire: The Radical Call Of Jesus by Ed Crump June 29th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

Under Fire And On Fire by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli June 8th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

Provisions for The Mission by Guy Cecil June 22nd, 2025 "Right Here, right Now" Series

What Are We Saved For by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli June 1st, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

What Is Resurrection Life? By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli May 25th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

What Gospel Do We Proclaim? By Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli May 18th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series  

Her Resurrection by Rev. Kealani Willbanks May 11th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

First, Breakfast by Rev. Ben Roberts May 4th, 2025 "Right Here, Right Now" Series

The Faith of the doubter by Rev. Katy Hinman

Are We There Yet? (Easter Edition) A sermon shared by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 20, 2025, Easter Sunday. “Grounded in Grace” series. Text: Luke 24:1-12

It's Gonna Get Loud A sermon shared by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, April 13, 2025, Palm Sunday. “Grounded in Grace” series. Texts: Psalm 118:1-2, Luke 19:28-40