A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, June 28, 2026, fifth Sunday after Pentecost. “We Know Who We Are” series. ​​​ Texts: Romans 6:3-11; Luke 24:28-35​​​​   Humans are storytelling creatures. Our stories help us understand who we are and how life works. They teach us how people have lived and thought and loved and struggled through the ages. They give us a framework for how to be in relationship. Humans are also ritual-making creatures. Just as the stories we tell shape our sense of identity and reality, so too rituals shape our actions and the way we embody our values. Every culture has stories that shape human imagination and understanding. Every culture has rituals that shape human desires and loyalties. While powerful, formative, and often positive, we know stories can be told in ways that distort truth and do harm. And rituals can include habits that are unhealthy or destructive to persons or communities. Consumerism tells a certain story and has its rituals. White Christian Nationalism tells a certain story and has its rituals. Political tribes tell their own stories and have their rituals. Social media…well… All these things and more tell us who we are and what matters most. Christians also tell a story and practice rituals—it’s a story of God’s grace, mercy, and liberating love. And the rituals? Water. Bread. Cup. A few weeks ago, as we began focusing on the United Methodist way of living the Christian story, we thought together about the means of grace and the practices that shape us. We reflected on how we are all being formed by something. The question is: What is forming us? What stories, rituals, and practices are shaping our imagination, our desires, and our values? The sacraments are among the primary ways God shapes us into the people we are called to be. And because these rituals are so familiar, it is easy to participate in them without ever stopping to ask what they mean. Why do we call themsacraments? What do United Methodists actually believe is happening when we baptize someone or come to the Lord’s Table? These are important questions to ask. Because if we are going to know who we are, then we need to understand the practices that have formed Christians for centuries and the theology that stands behind them. Let’s begin with the word sacrament itself. United Methodists define a sacrament as “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.” In other words, sacraments are the places where the invisible grace of God takes visible form. I could reasonably argue that, with that definition, every act of beauty, love, tenderness, and justice are sacramental acts. But the two liturgical sacraments recognized by our tradition are those Jesus specifically commanded his followers to practice in the stories recorded in scripture: baptism and communion. Here again, our rituals are embedded in our stories and our stories are embedded in our rituals. Stories and rituals belong together. In many cultures, stories are not merely told. They are enacted. Danced. Sung. The story becomes part of the people through repeated actions that connect memory to the body. Christians do something similar. We do not merely tell the story of God’s grace.We enact it. We embody it. In baptism, we tell not just one story, but many: the story of dying and rising with Christ, of being washed by grace and mercy, and of being claimed and named as God’s beloved and part of the Body of Christ. The beauty of sacrament is that it can hold multiple meanings at once. And we don’t simply talk about those things. We pour water. We listen for the sound of the flow. We feel the water on our skin. In communion, we tell the stories of Christ’s sacrificial, self-giving love, of God’s provision and faithfulness; we reaffirm the story of God's mercy—of forgiveness, reconciliation, and belonging. But we do not simply describe those things. We break bread. We share the cup. The story is embedded in thes

A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC, June 21, 2026. “We Know Who We Are” series.

A sermon preached by Abby Steele with Foundry UMC, June 14, 2026, 3rd Sunday after Pentecost. "We Know Who We Are" series. Texts: 1 Corinthians 13:8-12; Acts 17:10-15   Good morning! Thank you for coming to Youth Sunday. I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to be here with you all. My name is Abby Steele, and I have been attending Foundry since I was a little kid, and became a member of the church in 2022. I recently graduated from Thomas Jefferson High School. For those of you that don't know, TJ is a regional science and technology public magnet school in Northern Virginia. Many students at my school put emphasis on fact and certainty, which has made navigating my life as both a scientist and a devout Christian a bit challenging. However, throughout my time in high school, I have learned a strong lesson as to how these two identities can coexist together, and I would love to share this with you all. When I was around ten years old, my nana and I were sitting in her 2010 Toyota Camry waiting in the kiss-and-ride line to pick up my younger cousin from school. She always believed there is no such thing as being too young for intense philosophical discussion, so that became the topic of conversation during our wait. I told her, "I read The Great Emergence, like you recommended." This book was a challenging read for my ten-year-old self, filled with words too long for me to interpret and sayings too old for me to comprehend. Nevertheless, I read it with determination. Our conversation centered on the trustworthiness of the Bible—something I never could have imagined discussing with my grandmother, who grew up in a conservative Christian household. However, she had experienced a complete religious transformation later in life, which sparked a new tradition of elaborate spiritual car talks.   We discussed our shared struggle to believe certain biblical stories. Together, we came to see many of them as metaphors rather than historical accounts. I wasn't sure whether they were accurate or not, but I began to realize that the purpose of stories was not necessarily the factual evidence they contained, but the lessons they taught. That ordinary Monday afternoon completely changed the trajectory of my religious life. The conversation left me unafraid to be curious. If we can question and interpret God's word, why not view every experience through the same lens? When I look back on that conversation, I think of the passage from Corinthians we just heard. Paul describes the transition from childhood into adulthood, and he reminds us that, for now, our understanding is only partial as we can only see a reflection in a mirror. We do not see the whole picture.   I've often encountered people in religious contexts that really fear doubt and uncertainty. They worry that asking too many questions will make them appear as being unfaithful and disloyal, but the conversations I've had with my grandmother beg to differ. My faith has been profoundly deepened by allowing myself the space to question and decipher every aspect of Christianity and the bible. I've come to understand that Paul is right - we are only capable of seeing a reflection of our reality. But by learning about and accepting multiple interpretations of religious texts and messages rather than turning a blind eye to the parts that we may disagree with or not fully comprehend, we are capable of conjuring a far greater picture and understanding of our faith. Since childhood, I have struggled with my faith in God, the afterlife, and sometimes even science. How can I know something is true without ever seeing it? I couldn't comprehend how anyone could take the Bible, a collection of ancient texts that have undergone numerous translations, and swear their interpretation was the only truth. Similarly, I found it difficult to believe the science I learned in school was entirely accurate. In my neurobiology class, I found myself staring at diagrams of neurons, wondering how we

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, June 7, 2026, Second Sunday after Pentecost. “We Know Who We Are”series. Texts: Romans 12:1-2, 9-13; Acts 2:41-47   Last week we reflected on grace. We remembered that God’s grace comes before we ever think about God, before we ever do anything right, before we ever earn anything. Grace comes first. Grace comes last. Grace is always the ground beneath our feet. This week the question is: If grace comes first, how does grace actually change us?   I grew up before car seats were common. Heck—I regularly rode in the back of my dad’s or grandpa’s pickup truck to get ice cream or drive out to the lake. Looking back, it feels like I was raised in the Wild West!?  As a teenager, I’d been driving a year or so when a new law was passed that required seatbelts. We started hearing about studies showing how seatbelts saved lives. There were those crash-test dummy commercials—remember those? But putting on a seatbelt wasn’t something I thought about.  And so every time I got into the car, I had to remind myself: Put on your seatbelt. Sometimes I’d forget. Sometimes I’d remember halfway down the road. But I kept doing it. And then one day I noticed something. I was driving somewhere and realized I already had my seatbelt on. I hadn’t thought about it. I hadn’t reminded myself. I had just done it. What had once felt awkward and inconvenient had become a habit. It had become instinct. I had practiced and learned a new thing.   Most of us understand this when it comes to driving. Or learning an instrument. Or speaking a language. Or playing a sport. Or exercising.   A friend once told me, “Nobody likes running when they first start. You have to just do it. After a while you’ll reap the benefits.” I never forgot the wisdom. You may not start out loving the practice. But you practice because of what the practice is shaping you to become.   And I’ve been thinking this week that much of the Christian life works the same way. Many of us want to become more loving, more patient, more generous, more courageous. We want to respond to conflict with grace. We want to be less fearful and more trusting. We want our lives to reflect the love of Christ. But how does that happen?   John Wesley believed that the goal of the Christian life was what he called “Christian perfection.” Unfortunately, that phrase has caused confusion for generations. Wesley wasn’t talking about becoming flawless. He wasn’t talking about never making mistakes. He wasn’t talking about acting like we’ve got it all together. He was talking about becoming so filled with the love of God that God’s love begins to overflow from our lives.   I often picture it like a pitcher being filled with water. As we open ourselves to receive God’s love and mercy—God’s grace!—we are filled. And just as a pitcher overflows once it becomes full, so God’s love begins to overflow in our lives. Love spills over. Mercy spills over. Compassion spills over. Generosity spills over. Wesley believed that this could happen. In fact, he believed it was the goal of those who would follow Christ.   Or as the hymn puts it: “Take my hands and let them move at the impulse of thy love.” I love that phrase. The impulse of thy love. Because it suggests a life in which love becomes our first instinct. A life in which generosity and mercy become as natural as breathing. A life in which our hands move at the impulse of God's love. Wouldn’t that be something?   The question is: How do we become those people? And Wesley’s answer was surprisingly practical. We practice. We train. We place ourselves again and again in the flow of God’s grace. Wesley called these practices “means of grace.” Prayer. Scripture. Worship. Holy Communion. Christian conversation and accountability. Small groups. Acts of mercy and service.   And this week, I want to invite you to choose one. Not all of them. Just one. Spend a few minutes each day reading scripture. Or pray e

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 31, 2026, First Sunday after Pentecost, Confirmation Sunday. "We Know Who We Are"series. Texts: Genesis 1:26-2:3; Ephesians 2:4–10 There are some words in scripture that change everything. Not because they're long or unusual. But because they turn the whole story in a different direction. Today’s passage contains two of those words: “But God.” Before we can appreciate those words, we need to know what precedes them. In the first 3 verses of Ephesians 2, Paul reminds the church in Ephesus of their old ways of being. The direct translation from the Greek is convoluted and confusing, but Eugene Peterson’s interpretation from The Message helps us get the point: “It wasn’t so long ago that you were mired in that old stagnant life of sin. You let the world, which doesn’t know the first thing about living, tell you how to live…We all did it, all of us doing what we felt like doing, when we felt like doing it, all of us in the same boat. It’s a wonder God didn’t lose his temper and do away with the whole lot of us.” And then…. “But God…” The old story gets interrupted. It moves in a new direction. Which is good news because most of us know something about stories that seem stuck in a rut. Maybe you’ve carried shame for something you did years ago. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that some part of your life is beyond repair. Maybe you’ve spent so long trying to prove your worth that you’ve forgotten who you are underneath all the striving. Maybe you’ve watched the news lately and wondered whether cruelty and greed and fear are simply winning. The story goes one way. But God… That little phrase shows up all over scripture. Human beings build a tower to heaven. But God. Sarah is too old. But God. The sea is in front of them. Pharaohs army is behind them. But God. The disciples lock themselves in a room because they are terrified. But God. The cross stands on a hill outside Jerusalem. But God. Mary Magdalene despaired at the tomb. But God. Again and again, scripture insists that God is never limited by the stories we tell ourselves about what is possible. What a gift. Because one of the stories many of us carry is the story that we have to earn our way. This is so ingrained in our culture and mindset. We learn that story early. We learn it from grades and report cards. From performance reviews. From comparisons. From all the subtle ways the world teaches us to keep score. We absorb these lessons so deeply that eventually we begin to assume that God works this way too. God helps those who help themselves. God rewards the faithful. God blesses the deserving. God keeps score. But this is precisely the story Paul is trying to undo. Our temptation to slide into the world’s quid pro quo economy isn’t new. And in these few verses, Paul takes pains to refute it—not with an abstract argument, but by showing us, phrase by phrase, who God is and how grace works. So let’s move through the text together and listen deeply to the word. Notice where Paul begins. “But God, who is rich in mercy...” Rich in mercy. Before Paul says anything about us, he says something about God. After describing the sorry, lost state of humanity, Paul doesn’t say, “But we finally figured it out.” He doesn’t say, “But we repented.” He doesn’t say, “But we became more faithful.” He doesn’t say, “But we got serious about our spiritual lives.” He says, “But God.” The turning point of the story is not a change in us. It is a revelation of who God is. “But God, who is rich in mercy...” Paul could have said simply, “God is merciful.” He doesn’t. He says God is plousios (πλούσιος)—in the Greek: rich, abundant, lavish—in mercy. Possessing more mercy than we can imagine. This is so important! Because most of us have been trained to think in terms of scarcity. There’s never enough time or money or security or opportunity. There is not enough to go around. There are only so many slices of any pie. And i

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 24, 2026, Pentecost Sunday. “We Know Who We Are” series. ​​​​Texts: Acts 2:1-21; John 20:19-22​​​​   Last Tuesday evening, I found myself seated at a table listening to live jazz in the nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in NYC. The occasion was the celebration for my mentor, Rev. Dr. Serene Jones upon her retirement as president of Union Theological Seminary after an extraordinary 18-year tenure. It was such a gift not only to be in the room with and for Serene, but to reflect on her influence upon my life through her words, actions, and friendship. And when she rose at the end of the evening to address the crowd, she urged all of us to pay attention to the prompting of Spirit and to follow God’s call on our life.   It was a gift to receive this charge: to ponder, remember, and honor God’s call upon my life and how Spirit has been falling afresh on me at every age and stage of my journey. Sometimes Spirit’s meddling and God’s call have felt aggravating, disruptive, heavy, and even painful. But, with every twist and turn along the way, God has brought me through and Spirit has stirred me to keep going.   And the truth is, I didn’t always recognize Spirit’s presence while it was happening. Sometimes it was only later, looking back, that I could see how God had been nudging and guiding and sustaining me all along. Maybe you know something about that too. Maybe Spirit has shown up in your life in ways you didn’t fully recognize at the time—in a relationship that changed you…a burden you couldn’t shake…a moment of courage you didn’t know you had…a conviction that kept growing in you…a grief that opened your heart…or a persistent tug toward compassion, justice, mercy, or love.   And it makes me think about how we focus just one day of the liturgical year on the miraculous story of Spirit blowing into the community of Jesus’s disciples and setting them on fire to move out into the streets to tell God’s deeds of power. But, really, Spirit is at work in all sorts of ways all the time.   I get it, though, why we make a whole day out of Pentecost. It is a powerful story, the church’s origin story really, of the moment when the disciples realized that Jesus’ promises would be kept—that the Holy Spirit would baptize them and empower them to continue the saving work of God in the world. That very day they did things that seemed impossible—they spoke in ways that people from all over the known world could understand. And in that moment Peter recognized and proclaimed the fulfillment not only of the promise of Jesus, but the prophecy of Joel. That God would pour out Spirit upon all flesh, empowering all to have visions and dream dreams and prophesy. It’s very dramatic—like a sci-fi movie that brings unlikely people together acrossunimaginable odds to do extraordinary things—with the bonus of great special effects. And I love it! But I also recognize that Pentecost wasn’t the first time Spirit showed up among the disciples. Maybe it was the first time they recognized so clearly the Spirit who had been carrying them all along.   How else were they able to have the courage to leave their familiar lives to follow Jesus? How else were they able to go into villages and tell the good news and care for the sick and those struggling with their demons? How, apart from Holy Spirit, did they feed the five thousand? How did they stay together after the trauma and terror of crucifixion?   And maybe that’s why I love the quieter story in John chapter 20 so much. The disciples have had the wind knocked out of them. By grief, fear, trauma.By watching everything they thought was going to happen collapse before their eyes. They are huddled behind locked doors, trying to figure out what comes next.   And then Jesus comes among them—not first with demands or instructions, but with peace. “Peace be with you.” And then he breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spir

Text: 1 Corinthians 12:4-14, 27 May 17, 2026 Foundry United Methodist Church – Washington, DC Rev. T.C. Morrow Good morning! My name is Rev. T.C. Morrow. For the last twenty-four years I have been blessed to be a part of the Foundry community - first while finishing seminary, then like many of you serving in a variety of ways through the years, and when I formally became a clergyperson in the United Methodist Church, on the extended clergy team. In July, I will be starting as Senior Pastor at The United Church, a joint United Methodist and United Church of Christ congregation in Foggy Bottom. I am looking forward to my next adventures, but I am going to miss this Foundry community. I cannot start naming individuals or that will take all of my time, but I give my thanks to the three senior pastors during my time here: Rev. Dr. Phil Wogaman, Rev. Dean Snyder, and Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli. I give thanks to God for their leadership, their guidance, their solidarity, and so much more. Today we are in the third week of a sermon series exploring foundations of Christian identity and discipleship. In a world full of competing messages about who we are, our purpose, and how we should live, we are returning to some of the core aspects of Christianity. We’ve already looked at our identity as beloved of God and how we are called to follow Jesus into a way of life shaped by God’s love and grace. Today we’re exploring the church and our belonging in it, the gathering in community of those seeking to grow in love of God and neighbor. Will you join me in prayer: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable to you O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen. As the U.S. nears its 250th anniversary, I’ve been thinking about some of the myths, like manifest destiny, that have shaped - or distorted – the direction of the country. As we gather this morning, not far from us, on the National Mall, others are gathering in what is ostensibly a day of prayer as part of activities marking the anniversary of the country. I looked at the speakers list. By all appearances, it is a Christian nationalist rally seeking to further solidify the myth that Christianity – a particular type of Christianity – is the only thing that will “save America.” I agree there is need for repentance in this country, but I think it is safe to say we deviate on specifics. I know that I do not need to repent for who I am as a lesbian and a beloved child of God. I do not need to repent for supporting my fellow trans Americans, and others who are being demonized and treated cruelly. But we do need repentance as a nation. Repentance from instilling fear and division. Repentance from greed and lies. Repentance from war mongering and violence. Repentance from the scapegoating of trans people, immigrants, non-Christians, and anyone who may be deemed “other.” Repentance from failing to uphold the common good. In today’s scripture lesson, Paul names the reality of the diversity of the identities and the spiritual gifts of the community of Jesus followers in Corinth. Uniformity is not the goal; faithful interdependence is. Paul insists that there are indeed differences, and that it is only together, it is only collectively, that we are the body of Christ. Paul does not only acknowledge differences, he goes on to describe that we need the differences: “If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be?” Paul describes the need for robust diversity for the fullness of the church. Honoring diversity is biblical. Twenty-four years ago, a young lesbian couple – two cradle United Methodists with parents very involved in the church – decided to find a church home together. Logan and I wanted a church home where we could belong, as our full selves. We looked at a few options, and decided we wanted it to be a United Methodist Church, and with only a few Reconciling congregations at the time – churches that have gone on the record in support of

Rev. Jonathan Brown 05/11/2026 Sometimes the things that become central to who we are begin as a surprise. They do not always arrive with a clear plan, a perfect explanation, or a sense that we understand exactly what we are saying yes to. Sometimes a door opens, an invitation comes, a possibility appears, and only later do we realize that something important in us began to take shape there. When Francis came to us at eleven, he spoke very little English. I spoke no Spanish. Katy knew a bit. And DC Child and Family Services seemed to consider a person bilingual if they had Google Translate on their phone. Every day, I thank God because his young mind has been able to adapt to our language, while I still find myself cursing Duolingo. And since Francis became part of our family, he has also become an accomplished cyclist. He has won two Under 19 series championships, and he spends his free time training to get better. At our local bike shop, someone told us he was a unicorn because he fell in love with cycling even though his parents were not already obsessed with it. This was not a family culture he simply inherited. It became his. One day after a race, I was kind of in awe of him and all he had accomplished, and I asked him, “Francis, how did this happen? How did cycling become your thing?” And he said, “Do you remember when I first moved in with you, and you asked if I wanted a bike?” I said, “Yes.” And he said, “I did not know what you were saying, and I did not want to be rude, so I just said yes. Then I fell in love with it.” I love that. Because so much of life is like that. One day, seemingly out of the blue, something comes into our lives that we did not plan for and could not have predicted. At first, it may feel random. It may feel small. It may feel like a simple yes to a simple question. But over time, that unexpected beginning can become a practice, then a passion, then a major part of who we are. A bike becomes more than a bike. A first ride becomes a rhythm. A rhythm becomes a love. A love becomes part of someone’s identity. And that helps me hear Mark’s story with fresh ears. Simon and Andrew do not wake up that morning knowing they are about to become disciples. James and John do not begin the day expecting their lives to turn in a new direction. They are working. They are casting nets. They are mending nets. They are living the life they know. Then, seemingly out of the blue, Jesus walks by and says, “Follow me.” What may have felt sudden in the moment becomes the beginning of their identity. They will come to be known as disciples, apostles, witnesses, people whose lives are forever shaped by Jesus. One ordinary day becomes the day they discover the call that will define them. In this first movement of our series, we are asking one of the most basic and important questions Christians can ask: Who are we? In a culture that often tells us our worth depends on success, power, control, or fear, the gospel speaks a deeper truth. We are beloved. We are called. We are connected. We are sent. And today, we begin with this: we know who we are because we know who we follow. We follow Jesus. Mark tells the story with striking simplicity. Jesus passes along the Sea of Galilee and sees Simon and Andrew casting a net into the sea, because they are fishers. Jesus says to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.” Immediately, they leave their nets and follow him. Then Jesus goes a little farther and sees James and John, the sons of Zebedee, mending nets in their boat. He calls them too, and they leave their father in the boat with the hired men and follow him. That whole scene unfolds with surprising simplicity. Jesus walks along the water and sees ordinary people in the middle of their ordinary work. The call of Jesus meets them right there, in the texture of daily life, among boats, nets, family, labor, and responsibility. Before they have time to prepare themselves, before they know where the r

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC, May 3, 2026, the fifth Sunday of Easter. “We Know Who We Are”series. Texts: Isaiah 43:1-4; Romans 8:14–17; 31-39 A while back a friend reached out with a question. He had seen a pastor online passionately teaching about the transformative power of God’s love. My friend asked simply, “How does God’s love really change anything? Is focusing on God’s love really the most important thing?” I was struck by the question—and have come back to it any number of times over the past weeks as, together with many of you, I’ve grappled with loss and grief…with worry about loved ones ill or injured…with the continued assault of this corrupt administration on civil rights and constitutional law, on black and brown law-abiding citizens, on refugees and asylum seekers, on the environment itself. What difference does the love of God make when so much feels painful and messed up? My friend asks a fair question. Because if we’re honest, “God loves you” can sound thin in the face of the world as it actually is. But, as we begin this new series, “We Know Who We Are: A Counter-Testimony of Faith, United Methodism, and the Work of the Church,” I want to suggest that everything begins here. Before we talk about United Methodism. Before we talk about the work of the church. Before we talk about witness or justice or discipleship or mission. Everything begins with the love of God. And if we get this wrong, everything else eventually falls apart. Let’s look at our texts for today to understand why. Isaiah 43 is found in the section of the book often called Second Isaiah—chapters 40-55—and the context is the Babylonian Exile. Walter Brueggemann points out that throughout this section, God’s words of care and presence interrupt the despair of the people again and again. And that’s what we receive in our text today. The people are displaced and grieving countless losses. They are a people living under the crushing weight of empire. Babylon has named them defeated, forgotten, insignificant, abandoned. But God counters with a wholly different word. A word of relationship, a word of covenant, saying, “I have called you by name. You are mine.” The text beautifully describes God’s loving activity, moving fromcreation—“I created you”—to redemption—“I redeemed you”—to naming—“I have called you by name”—to accompaniment —“When you pass through the waters…” And notice what God does not say. God doesn’t say, “You will never pass through deep waters.” God doesn’t say, “You will never walk through fire.”God doesn’t say, “Nothing hard will ever happen to you.” God says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” And then these astonishing words: “You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.” The Hebrew here is unusually intimate and tender. God loves God’s people not because they are strong or successful. Not because they have earned restoration. But because God freely chooses covenant love. Because they are precious in God’s sight…honored…loved. Babylon—and empires across the ages—measure worth through military dominance and status and wealth and appearance and productivity. And honestly, our world still does. We are constantly being told who we are: You are what you produce. You are what you achieve. You are your failures. You are your fears. You are your appearance. You are your politics. You are your usefulness…People carry those names around every day. And we call ourselves things we would likely never call anyone else: We tell ourselves we’re Not enough. Too much. Failure. Weak. Unseen. Disposable. But into all of those voices comes the voice of God: “You are mine.” “You are precious.” “I love you.” This—this!—is where everything begins. It is the beginning of our freedom and the ground of our true identity. And if we can stay connected to it, it allows us to live in the furnace of this world without losing our soul. Without becoming consumed by fear. Without

A sermon preached by Rev. Jonathan Brown with Foundry UMC, April 26, 2026. If there is one truth I want us to carry today, it is this: God’s presence in suffering is our courage, but it is never an excuse to accept suffering as normal. That is the tension these texts hold. Psalm 23 gives us one of the most beloved images in all of scripture: the Lord as shepherd. First Peter gives us Christ as the shepherd and guardian of our souls. Both texts offer comfort. Both texts speak to people who know pain. But neither text tells us to make peace with injustice. Neither text tells us to baptize suffering. Instead, these texts tell the truth. There are green pastures and still waters and restoration, yes. But there are also dark valleys, enemies, unjust suffering, and wounds. And in the middle of that truth, scripture makes a defiant claim: we are not alone. Psalm 23 is so familiar that we can miss how honest it really is. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” can sound soft in our ears, but this is not a psalm written from a safe and easy life. It is the prayer of someone who knows danger, fear, and threat. It is the testimony of someone who knows what it means to walk through what the NRSV calls the darkest valley. And that matters, because Psalm 23 is not beautiful because it denies suffering. It is beautiful because it refuses to let suffering speak the final word. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me.” And it is worth pausing to say a brief word about the psalm itself. The superscription says, “A Psalm of David,” and for generations that has connected the psalm to David the shepherd-king. But most modern scholars are cautious about treating that as proof that David personally wrote it. Like many psalms, Psalm 23 is difficult to date with precision. It does not give us firm historical markers. So it is often understood as part of Israel’s worship tradition, preserved and prayed over time, shaped by a people who had learned to trust God through danger, worship, memory, and hope. That deepens the psalm for me. It means these words endured not because they belonged only to one famous person, but because generations of God’s people found them true. Notice what the psalm does not say. It does not say, “I will never enter the valley.” It does not say, “If my faith is strong enough, I can avoid the valley.” It does not say, “The valley is secretly good.” It says, even there, even in the darkness, even in the fear, even in the threat: you are with me. That is the center of it. The courage of the psalm is not that life is easy. The courage of the psalm is not that the valley disappears. The courage of the psalm is the presence of God in the valley. That distinction matters, because Christians have not always handled suffering well. Too often, people have taken texts about endurance and presence and turned them into permission slips for oppression. Too often, religion has told people to quietly bear what should have been confronted. Too often, the suffering have been told to be patient while the powerful remain comfortable. Too often, faith has been used not to heal wounds but to explain them away. But Psalm 23 does not glorify the valley. It does not bless the darkness. It does not say that enemies are acceptable because God can still set a table. It says that God remains God even there, and that the Shepherd does not abandon the flock even there. And that shepherd image matters more than we sometimes realize. A shepherd is not just a sweet religious metaphor. A shepherd protects. A shepherd guides. A shepherd goes looking. A shepherd defends the vulnerable. A shepherd takes responsibility for lives that can be easily harmed. That is why the psalm says, “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Those are not decorative objects. The rod is for protection. The staff is for guidance and rescue. So the comfort here is not vague spirituality. The comfort is active care. The comfo