Mar 12

Making a Good Confession

Lent 4 Newsletter Reflection

In this week’s scriptures, we overhear two very different “confessions.”
In John 18, Jesus stands before Pilate and speaks a quiet, steady truth: “For this I was born… to testify to the truth.” His confession is not a list of wrongs but a revelation of who he is—one whose kingdom is shaped not by force, but by truth, mercy, and self‑giving love.

Then in 1 Timothy 6, Paul reminds the church of their calling: “Fight the good fight of the faith… take hold of the eternal life… for which you made the good confession.” A good confession, Paul suggests, is not merely admitting where we’ve fallen short. It is courageously naming the One we belong to and the life we are striving to live.

During Lent, confession often gets reduced to guilt management. But the scriptures invite something deeper and more life‑giving. A good confession is an act of alignment. It is the moment we stop pretending, stop performing, and speak honestly—about our failures, yes, but also about our hopes, our commitments, and the truth we want to shape us.

To make a good confession is to stand, like Jesus, in the light of God’s presence and say:
This is who I am. This is who I long to become. And this is the One I trust to lead me there.

Lent gives us space to practice this kind of honesty. Not to shame us, but to free us. Not to weigh us down, but to help us “take hold of the life that really is life.”

May this season teach us the courage of a good confession—spoken with humility, grounded in truth, and held in the mercy of God.

Pastor Greg

Mar 01

The Courtyard We Know Too Well

John 18:12–27; Psalm 51:1–12

Lent 3: “From Failure to Restoration”

We know the courtyard. Not the one outside the high priest’s house, but the one in our own hearts—the place where fear whispers louder than faith, where we warm our hands at the nearest fire and hope no one asks who we really are. Peter’s story is painfully familiar because it is ours. He loves Jesus deeply, yet in the cold shadows of that night he says the words he never imagined he’d say: “I am not.”

That courtyard is the space between our intentions and our actions, between our promises and our failures. It’s where we discover that courage evaporates quickly when the questions get too close. And it’s where we learn, as Peter did, that denial isn’t always dramatic—it’s often quiet, subtle, almost reasonable. A small compromise. A moment of self‑protection. A silence when truth was needed.

Psalm 51 gives us the language for what comes next. It refuses to let failure be the final word. It teaches us that confession is not groveling but returning—returning to the God whose mercy is larger than our worst moments. “Create in me a clean heart… restore to me the joy of your salvation.”

Peter’s courtyard ends with a rooster’s cry, but his story doesn’t. Grace meets him on another morning by another charcoal fire, where Jesus restores what fear had broken. That same grace meets us in our courtyards, too—naming the truth, healing the fracture, and calling us back to courage.

Lent invites us to stand honestly in that space: not to shame ourselves, but to let God’s mercy reshape us. The courtyard we know too well can become the place where renewal begins.

What part of your own courtyard is God inviting you to bring into the light this season?

Pastor Greg

Feb 22

Peace Requires Humble Service

John 13:1–17; Isaiah 52:7–10
Second Sunday in Lent

Some of the most powerful moments in scripture happen at ground level—literally. Dusty feet. A basin of water. A messenger running over mountains. A towel tied at the waist. These are not grand symbols of power; they are the everyday tools of people who move through the world with purpose and humility.

In Isaiah 52, the prophet cries out, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace.” Not the voice, not the crown, not the sword—the feet. The beauty comes not from perfection but from movement: someone willing to go, to carry hope, to bring good news into places that have forgotten how to expect it. Peace, Isaiah suggests, is not an idea floating in the heavens. It is something carried by human beings who dare to walk toward one another.

Then in John 13, Jesus bends down and does something even more startling. The One who brings God’s peace doesn’t just send messengers—he becomes a servant. He kneels. He washes the feet of his friends. He takes the posture of the lowest household slave. And then he says, “I have set you an example… you also should do as I have done to you.”

It is one of the most counter cultural moments in the Gospels. Peace does not come through dominance, brilliance, or force. It comes through humble service—through the willingness to kneel, to listen, to tend to the needs of others, to take the towel in hand and say, “Your well-being matters to me.”

This is not soft or sentimental work. It is courageous. It requires us to set aside pride, fear, and the illusion that we are self-sufficient. It asks us to see one another not as obstacles or opponents but as beloved children of God whose feet are tired from the long journey.

And here is the quiet miracle: when we serve one another, peace begins to take shape—not as an abstract ideal but as a lived reality. A basin of water becomes a sign of God’s reign. A simple act of care becomes a doorway to reconciliation. A community that practices humble service becomes a community where peace is not just proclaimed but embodied.

As we move deeper into this season, may we remember that peace is not something we wait for. It is something we practice. It is something we carry. It is something we kneel for.

May our feet become beautiful upon the mountains. May our hands become instruments of compassion. May our hearts be shaped by the One who loved his own to the end.

Grace and peace,

Pastor Greg

Be sure to pick up the Lent Week 2 devotional at church on Sunday.

Feb 12

In Tears Seeing the Glory of God

The Great Reversal of Lent 1

John 11:1–44 • Psalm 126:5–6
Why is it that we can only see the glory of God in tears?

Lent begins with this unsettling truth: the places we most want to avoid are often the very places where God’s glory breaks open. John 11 makes this painfully clear. Mary and Martha send word to Jesus, hoping he will prevent their brother’s death. Instead, Jesus waits. Grief deepens. Tears fall. Hope seems lost.

And yet, when Jesus finally arrives, he does not stand at a distance. He weeps. He enters their sorrow before he transforms it. Only then does he speak the words that change everything: “Lazarus, come out.”

It is striking that Jesus ties this moment to the revelation of God’s glory. Not in the triumph. Not in the miracle. But in the tears.

Psalm 126 gives us the language for this holy pattern: “Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy.” Tears become seeds. Grief becomes ground. What feels like loss becomes the soil where God plants new life.

Maybe this is why we see God’s glory most clearly through tears. Tears wash away our illusions of control. Tears soften the hardened places of the heart. Tears open us to the God who meets us not after we’ve pulled ourselves together, but right in the middle of our sorrow.

Lent invites us to trust this strange and beautiful reversal: that God is closest when we feel most undone, that resurrection begins in the dark, and that joy is already being sown in the very places we weep.

Pastor Greg