Faith and doubt often walk hand in hand on our spiritual journeys. The story of Thomas—forever labeled "Doubting Thomas"—offers profound insights into this universal experience.

When Jesus appears to his disciples after the resurrection, Thomas stands apart, refusing to believe without tangible evidence. "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." His skepticism stems not from stubbornness but from the depth of his grief and disillusionment after witnessing his teacher's brutal death.

What follows is a remarkable encounter with the divine. Jesus returns specifically for Thomas, offering his wounds as proof and speaking directly to his doubt. Thomas's response—"My Lord and my God!"—becomes one of scripture's most powerful declarations of faith. Yet Jesus adds something crucial: "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." This blessing extends across time to all who embrace faith without physical evidence.

Through this dramatic retelling, we discover that doubt isn't the enemy of faith but often the pathway to deeper conviction. As one character reflects, "If it wasn't for doubt, Thomas, how will we ever know what we do believe?" We also witness the vital role community plays in nurturing belief, as Thomas acknowledges how others' testimonies helped strengthen his own faith.

The story concludes with the beautiful image of believers as "a living vine of witnesses" stretching across generations, connecting modern Christians to those who physically encountered the risen Christ. It's an invitation to recognize our place in this unbroken chain of testimony that has sustained faith for two thousand years.

Subscribe to explore more biblical stories that illuminate our contemporary spiritual journeys and challenge us to grow in both honest questioning and authentic belief.

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Preacher: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Grief and hope stand in profound tension on Easter Sunday, though our culture often encourages us to keep grief private and celebrate only the triumph. This powerful message invites us to hold both realities simultaneously, recognizing that authentic resurrection hope emerges not despite our wounds, but through them.

Drawing on Rumi's wisdom that "the wound is the place where the light enters you," we explore how Easter begins not with celebration but with women carrying burial spices to a tomb, experiencing perplexity and fear before joy. Their initial experience wasn't triumphant—they were confused, terrified, and when they shared their testimony, the disciples dismissed it as "an idle tale." This reminds us that resurrection disrupts our certainties and challenges what we believe possible.

The striking personal story of sitting on a recently deceased horse named Luke while comforting its grieving owner, then immediately returning to write an Easter sermon, perfectly captures the Easter paradox. This juxtaposition—experiencing death and writing about resurrection in the same afternoon—mirrors our daily reality of finding hope amid suffering. As the sermon powerfully states, "grief gives our hallelujahs teeth," making our praise authentic rather than hollow.

Easter isn't merely spiritual comfort but revolutionary resistance against powers claiming final authority. When we proclaim that death isn't the end, we challenge every system suggesting things cannot change. The resurrection empowers us not to escape suffering but to transform it, allowing divine light to shine through our wounded places. Have you considered how your wounds might become channels for light and healing in this world that desperately needs authentic hope?

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Preacher: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

The crucifixion narrative in Luke's Gospel places before us one of Christianity's most profound paradoxes: what are we to make of a God who dies? This meditation on Good Friday explores the creative tension between acceptance and resistance that forms the heart of authentic faith.

Jesus hangs on the cross between two criminals who embody opposing responses to death and divinity. One mocks and demands proof through self-preservation—"Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!"—while the other acknowledges his guilt and Jesus's innocence, asking simply to be remembered. Through their contrasting approaches, we see how resistance and acceptance can either deny or affirm life.

The cross reveals a God who refuses to save himself, choosing instead to hang in solidarity with those ravaged by injustice and evil. This divine solidarity challenges us to examine our own patterns: Do we resist the cost of discipleship while accepting the unacceptable around us? Or do we resist dehumanizing forces while accepting our call to stand with the suffering?

When we accept a God who dies, we acknowledge that the divine is not distant from our pain but intimately acquainted with it. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer recognized, "only a suffering God can help." This acceptance compels us to action—to embody Christ's love by standing in the gap for the marginalized, advocating for justice, and being a voice for the voiceless.

Join us in the sacred, still space between death and resurrection, where we learn to hold these tensions in faith, awaiting the rest of the story that transforms our understanding of both divine power and human suffering.

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Preaching: Rev. Dr. Kathryn Campbell

Power struggles surround Jesus during his final hours while he models a completely different way of leadership. In our charged world where everyone seems to be grasping for control and influence, this Maundy Thursday reflection offers a timely alternative.

The disciples' behavior at the Last Supper reveals our human tendency to miss what matters most. While Jesus speaks of sacrifice and service, they argue about who's the greatest. Judas has already sold out his teacher for silver. The contrast couldn't be sharper between those clawing for power and Jesus who embodies humble service.

This tension between power and humility continues today. Some people wield influence like a weapon, puffing out their chests to demand attention. Others, like Pope Francis who recently appeared in a simple poncho with oxygen apparatus visible after serious illness, demonstrate that true authority doesn't require pomp or pretense. As one commentator noted, "It's not that Francis is ceasing to be pope by dressing like an ordinary man. It's precisely because of that that he is more so than ever."

The haunting question emerges: whom do you choose to serve? Do you serve power or do you serve through humility? Jesus didn't distinguish himself with special vestments or trappings of authority. He walked with ordinary people, in ordinary clothes, with dust on his feet—showing that "the power of the gospel doesn't dress up, it is enfleshed, it wrinkles, it tires." During this sacred in-between of Holy Week, may we find courage to follow his counter-cultural example of washing feet rather than demanding that others wash ours. What would change if we truly embraced service over status in our families, workplaces, and communities?

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Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

The tension between silence and shouting defines our world. Every day, we navigate digital distractions, informational overload, and cultural noise that threatens to drown out the voices that matter most. Palm Sunday invites us to consider this paradox through the lens of Jesus's entry into Jerusalem—a moment when shouts of "Hosanna" became an act of peaceful protest.

When Jesus rode into Jerusalem during Passover, he entered a powder keg of political tension. The celebration of God's liberation of the Israelites made Roman authorities nervous, prompting increased military presence and heightened surveillance. Amid this tension, followers proclaimed Jesus as king—a dangerous declaration in occupied territory. Religious leaders, fearing reprisal, demanded Jesus silence his supporters. His response resonates through centuries: "If these were silent, the stones would shout out."

This powerful moment challenges us to examine where silence is enforced in our own world. Who fears speaking up? Whose voices remain unheard? Have we remained silent when justice demanded our voice? As we journey through Holy Week, we're invited to experience both the triumphant shouts of Palm Sunday and Easter, and the profound silences in between—the hush of the Upper Room, the stillness of Gethsemane, Peter's silent denial, and the devastating quiet of the cross. In both extremes and everywhere between, God remains present.

Holy Week offers a sacred rhythm of both celebration and contemplation. Don't rush from palms to empty tomb without experiencing the transformative quiet moments along the way. In a world that's constantly shouting, these moments of sacred silence might be exactly what our souls need most. Where is God calling you to raise your voice? Where might God be inviting you into holy silence?

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Preaching: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Curiosity led a despised tax collector up a tree and into an unexpected encounter with grace. The story of Zacchaeus reveals the profound intersection between righteousness and mercy that defines Jesus's ministry and challenges our own understanding of reconciliation.

The biblical account introduces us to this "wee little man" who was actually a powerful figure – a chief tax collector who had grown wealthy by exploiting his neighbors. His very name, meaning "pure" or "innocent," created an ironic contrast with his reputation. Yet something sparked his curiosity about Jesus, leading him to the childlike act of climbing a sycamore tree for a better view. This simple act of curiosity positioned him for a transformative encounter.

What follows is a masterclass in the dance between righteousness and mercy. Jesus doesn't ignore Zacchaeus's harmful actions, but instead creates space for accountability alongside grace. Without being asked, Zacchaeus commits to giving half his possessions to the poor and repaying fourfold anyone he defrauded – embodying the Hebrew concept of teshuva (repentance) through confession, change, making amends, apologizing, and making different choices moving forward.

The crowd's grumbling at Jesus dining with "a sinner" reflects our human struggle to hold righteousness and mercy together. We're reminded that righteousness without mercy creates rigid self-righteousness, while mercy without accountability enables continued harm. Only together do they create the beautiful space where true reconciliation occurs. What tree might you need to climb today to catch a glimpse of this transformative grace?

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Preacher: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

What kind of shepherd abandons 99 sheep to search for just one? A foolish one by earthly standards—but this paradoxical wisdom sits at the heart of God's extraordinary love for each of us.

Through the lens of Luke's parable of the lost sheep, we journey to Skagit County, Washington, where a community called Tierra Nueva ("New Earth") embodies this radical search-and-rescue mission. There, a man once known only by his street name "Neeners" transformed from someone lost in cycles of incarceration and gang violence to a shepherd helping others find their way home.

The divine comedy in this parable isn't meant to simply amuse us but to overturn our carefully constructed categories of who belongs and who doesn't. As Frederick Buechner notes, these stories reveal "the outlandishness of God, who does impossible things with impossible people." When we look closely at all three "lost" parables in Luke 15, we discover something profound: being lost comes in many forms, and not all lostness results from moral failure.

Like sheep that naturally wander or coins that can't lose themselves, humans experience lostness for countless reasons—addiction, poverty, trauma, circumstances beyond control. What matters isn't assigning blame but celebrating recovery. The theological truth shines bright: "None of us is truly found until all of us are found."

Perhaps our greatest spiritual growth happens precisely when we feel most adrift. And perhaps faith at its core isn't about congratulating ourselves for being among the "righteous 99" but simply looking at our neighbor and saying, "If you're lost, so am I." Listen now to discover how God's upside-down kingdom replaces our cutthroat calculus with unimaginable celebration.

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Preaching: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

What if our most productive moments happen when we're not producing anything at all? This thought-provoking sermon explores the countercultural wisdom hidden within Jesus' parable of the fig tree – a story about patience, growth, and sacred rest.

Beginning with a child's simple question – "How many sleeps, Daddy?" – we journey through the surprising science of what happens during sleep. Far from being downtime, sleep is when our bodies perform crucial "synaptic pruning," healing neural pathways and rejuvenating tissues. This biological rhythm mirrors spiritual truth: periods of apparent dormancy are often when the most significant development occurs beneath the surface.

Like the fig tree that appears fruitless but is developing complex underground relationships with soil fungi, our spiritual lives don't always display visible "productivity." The impatient landowner demanding immediate results represents our culture's relentless hustle, while the patient gardener embodies divine wisdom – understanding that growth follows its own sacred timeline and requires nurturing space.

Drawing from Cole Arthur Riley's powerful prayer that "we were made to close our eyes, that we might see," this message challenges us to resist economic systems that sacrifice rest at the altar of productivity. The concluding hymn "Near to the Heart of God," with its poignant origin story of grief and comfort, reminds us that true rest is communion with the divine – a place where healing and growth happen simultaneously.

What might our lives, neighborhoods, and communities look like if we embraced the paradox that rest and growth aren't opposites but partners in the divine dance of human flourishing? Listen and discover the courage to pause, breathe, and grow in God's perfect timing.

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