After three and a half years of reading, writing, questioning, painting, sitting in silence, and slowly learning how to listen to God, to others, and to myself — I completed my Doctor of Ministry program.

This is not a small thing, and I don’t want to rush past it.

People have asked me how it feels to be done, and my answer is mostly that it feels surreal. I know that I have finished. I know that the work is complete. I know that I defended my project, passed, turned everything in, and reached the end of this particular journey. And still, there is something strange about arriving at a place you have been walking toward for so long.

So, I want to sit here for a moment in the joy of it.

My doctoral project, Artful Awakening: Using Art, Poetry, and Lyric as an Invitation to Embodied Spirituality, was more than a research project. It was a becoming. It asked me to bring my whole self to the work: my body, my art, my questions, my faith, my story, and my own unfinished healing. It asked me to pay attention to the places where I had been moving too quickly, explaining too much, trusting too little, and living mostly from the neck up.

At the heart of the project was this realization: the deeper work of transformation is not only about naming what is broken in the world. It is also about practicing another way of being.

The decolonizing work of Artful Awakening was not only about identifying systems of harm, though that matters deeply. It was about noticing the ways those systems live in us, shape us, rush us, silence us, and teach us to measure our worth by what we produce. It taught me that embodiment is resistance, creativity is wisdom, slowness is faithful, and transformation is deeper than information.

Over these last few years, I began to see how much of ministry, and honestly how much of life, has been shaped by productivity, performance, certainty, and control. I began to notice how often we measure faithfulness by how much we do, how clearly we explain, how quickly we respond, how well we manage, and how much we can hold together without appearing tired. This project invited me to lead from a different place. It invited me to trust the body, honor the imagination, make room for ambiguity, and listen for the Spirit.

I’m still discovering all the ways this research has shaped me. So I’m sure I will have more to share later, but for now here are five things I learned in my Doctor of Ministry program:

1. Embodiment is resistance.

When this journey began, I was tired in ways I did not fully understand. I had become very good at thinking, planning, producing, and doing the next thing. I could tell you what I believed. I could tell you what I was working on. I could tell you what needed to happen next. But if you had asked me what I was feeling, not what I was thinking or managing or trying to make sense of, but what I was actually feeling, I would have struggled to answer.

For most of my life, I had learned to treat my body like a vehicle. It was something to maintain well enough so I could keep going, but I did not really know how to listen to it. I did not know that my body had wisdom. I did not know that tension, exhaustion, breath, grief, desire, and joy could all be ways the Spirit was speaking.

This project helped me understand that there is wisdom in the body that the mind cannot access on its own.

And as a Christian, I keep coming back to the incarnation.

At the center of our faith is the astonishing claim that God did not stay abstract. God did not remain distant, detached, or disembodied. In Jesus, God took on flesh. God entered the world through a body that needed rest, food, water, touch, friendship, and care. Jesus wept. Jesus got tired. Jesus noticed hunger. Jesus touched wounds. Jesus let people touch him. Jesus paid attention to bodies that had been ignored, shamed, excluded, or pushed to the margins.

So, if God chose embodiment, then our bodies cannot be incidental to our spiritual lives.

They are not obstacles to holiness. They are not distractions from faith. They are not just containers for more important spiritual things. Our bodies are part of how we encounter God, how we tell the truth, how we discern what is life-giving, and how we participate in healing.

When I talk about embodiment as resistance, I do not mean it in an abstract way. I mean that so many of the systems around us benefit when we stay disconnected from ourselves. We are easier to manage when we are rushed. We are easier to shape when we are numb. We are easier to exhaust when we believe our worth is tied to our usefulness. A person who cannot feel their own weariness, grief, anger, joy, longing, or desire will have a harder time recognizing what needs to change.

So coming home to the body is not only personal healing. It is spiritual work. It is theological work. It is truth-telling. It is a way of refusing to let productivity have the final word over our lives. It is a way of remembering that we are not machines, minds, brands, roles, or outputs. We are beloved creatures. We are dust and breath. We are bodies held by God.

I learned to notice my breath. I learned to ask what I was carrying in my shoulders. I learned to pay attention to what made me feel free and what made me feel constricted. I learned that sometimes discernment does not begin with a perfectly worded prayer or a well-reasoned pro/con list. Sometimes discernment begins when your body whispers, “This is too much,” or “This feels like life,” or “You are holding your breath again.”

And maybe that is one of the gifts of an incarnational faith: it teaches us that God is not only found above us or beyond us, but with us, among us, and within the ordinary, tender, physical truth of our lives.

2. Creativity is wisdom.

As I was learning to listen to my body, I was also learning to trust my art.

I picked up a paintbrush for the first time in years, and watercolor slowly became a form of prayer. I love watercolor because it refuses to be controlled. You can guide it, but you cannot force it. The colors bleed into one another unpredictably. The water moves where it wants to move.

It was like painting became an embodied practice of surrender. It taught me that not everything meaningful can be planned ahead. Not everything holy arrives in a polished form. Not everything needs to be explained before it can be received.

For a long time, I thought art was something I loved, but not something I could take seriously. I was waiting for someone to give me permission to call myself an artist, a writer, or a poet. I thought there must be some invisible threshold I had not crossed yet, some accomplishment or credential or external validation that would make it true.

But then something shifted. I began to understand that creativity is not outside the life of faith. It is not the extra thing we add once the serious work is finished. Creativity is often how we access the serious work.

At the beginning of scripture, God creates. Before there is doctrine, institution, sermon, or system, there is a God who speaks light into darkness, separates water from land, fills the world with color and texture and sound, and calls creation good. So creativity is not outside the life of God. It is one of the first things we learn about who God is.

And if we are made in the image of a creative God, then our own creativity is not trivial. It is not self-indulgent. It is one of the ways we reflect God’s life in us. It is one of the ways we participate in the ongoing work of creation, healing, and renewal.

That became central to my DMin project. I was not using art, poetry, and lyric simply as tools to make spirituality more interesting. I was beginning to understand them as holy bridges. They are ways of helping us access the parts of ourselves that do not always respond to explanation, logic, or information alone. Art can reach places that thinking, reading, and even praying in traditional ways cannot always reach. A poem can sneak past the defenses we have built around our pain. A painting can reveal what we did not know we were feeling. A song can give language to grief before we are ready to speak it directly. A collage can hold together the pieces of a story that do not yet make sense.

Art creates space for ambiguity, mystery, contradiction, beauty, longing, and truth all together. And that matters because so much of our world teaches us to value only what can be measured, monetized, explained, or produced. We are taught to ask whether something is useful, whether it is impressive, whether it is successful, or whether it can be turned into content or product or proof.

But art resists that.

Art says that something can be meaningful before it is useful. Something can be holy before it is polished. Something can be true before it is fully understood.

In that way, creating became part of the decolonizing work of the project. It helped me resist the voices that told me my worth was tied to what I could produce, prove, explain, or accomplish. It helped me make space for mystery in a world obsessed with certainty. It helped me honor the imagination in a culture that often dismisses wonder as childish or impractical. It helped me trust that the Spirit does not only move through what is efficient, articulate, and easily measured, but also through what is unfinished, intuitive, beautiful, and alive.

3. Decolonizing is also about practicing another way of being.

The word “decolonizing” can sound big or academic or intimidating, but through this project it became very practical for me.

It meant asking: What has shaped us that may not be making us free? What have we inherited that teaches us to move too fast, silence our bodies, distrust our imaginations, flatten mystery, prize certainty, and measure our worth by what we produce? What have we absorbed from church, culture, family, education, and the systems around us that may not reflect the freedom and love of Christ?

And then, maybe most importantly, what would it look like to practice another way?

A way that is slower. More embodied. More honest. More creative. More spacious. More rooted in love. More open to the Spirit.

This project did not answer all of those questions. Thank God. I am less and less interested in projects that answer everything. But it did help me live the questions differently.

It helped me understand that decolonizing work is not only about what we critique. It is also about what we cultivate. It is not only about naming systems of harm. It is also about creating spaces of healing, honesty, beauty, imagination, and belonging. It is about noticing where the patterns of empire live in our bodies, our calendars, our churches, our leadership, our theology, and our expectations of ourselves, and then choosing to practice something different.

That kind of work is slow. It asks us to pay attention. It asks us to tell the truth. It asks us to listen to voices that have been ignored, including the quiet voice within ourselves that says, “There has to be another way.”

4. The church is for transformation, not just information.

This changed me, and because it changed me, it changed the way I understand ministry.

For a long time, I think I understood my role as a pastor primarily as a teacher. I wanted to help people know more, understand more, and believe more faithfully. And I still believe teaching matters. Scripture matters. Theology matters. Words matter. I have given my life to those things, and I still love them deeply.

But somewhere along the way, I began to wonder whether we had confused information with formation. Because Jesus does not only give us something to know. Jesus gives us something to become.

That realization has shifted my vision of the church. I am less interested in programs that simply transfer content, and I am more drawn to spaces where people can encounter themselves, one another, and God in embodied, open, and wondering ways. I am more interested in silence, questions, art, reflection, story, and the kind of mutuality that happens when no one person in the room has to have all the answers.

This has changed how I lead. I am less compelled to connect every dot for people. I am learning to lay the dots down with care and trust the Spirit to guide people as they are ready. That is a different kind of leadership for me. It is quieter in some ways, but it is not passive. It requires courage to release control. It requires trust to believe that God is already present before I explain anything. It requires faith to create space and not rush to fill it.

Honestly, maybe that is one of the greatest gifts of this whole journey. It taught me to slow down enough to listen. The Spirit was always speaking. The invitation now is to listen.

5. I am still becoming, and I am more open than afraid.

Now, on the other side of this degree, I feel different. Not finished. Not fully healed. Not suddenly confident every minute of the day. Not magically free from every old voice that asks who I think I am. But different.

I am more comfortable in my calling now than I have ever been. I am learning to trust God and myself more than I trust the outside voices that have tried to tell me who I should be. I am learning to show up as who God made me to be, in every room I walk into and every space I help create.

Pastor. Artist. Writer. Poet. Spiritual director. Question asker. Beloved child of God.

People have already started asking, what’s next? Truthfully, a nap. Then after that, I am simply trying to stay open to the slow unfolding of whatever comes.

That may be the biggest transformation of all. I am not afraid. I am just open.

Open to the right people finding their way to this work. Open to healing. Open to joy. Open to beauty. Open to God. Open to the light pouring in.

I have no doubt this work will continue to shape me, and I will have more to share later. For now, I’m celebrating. I did it, and I’m grateful!

It is a way of praying with an image. Instead of rushing to understand or explain, you are invited to slow down and look. To let color, shape, line, space, and texture become a doorway into prayer.

NOTE: You do not have to know anything about art. You do not have to understand the image. You do not have to make something profound happen.

Just look. Notice what draws you in. Notice what you want to avoid. Notice what rises in your body, your memory, your spirit.

The image is not something to solve. It is something to receive.

So take a breath. Let your shoulders soften. Let your eyes wander.

See.

Begin by simply noticing. What color draws your attention first? Where does your gaze want to linger? What lines, shapes, or spaces do you notice? Is there anything you feel drawn toward? Is there anything you feel confused by, curious about, or tempted to move past quickly?

Try not to judge or interpret too soon. Just notice.

Listen.

Stay with the image a little longer. What feeling begins to rise in you? Is there a memory, longing, question, or word that comes to the surface? Where do you notice shelter? Where do you notice growth? Where do you notice light? Is there a place in the image where your body wants to exhale?

Receive.

Now let the looking become prayer. What might grace be inviting you to notice? Where in your life are you longing for rest? What helps you feel rooted? Where is light still finding a way through? What would it mean, just for today, to let yourself be held?

Carry

Choose one word to carry with you. Maybe it is rest. Maybe it is rooted. Maybe it is held. Maybe it is home. Maybe it is light. Maybe it is enough. Maybe it is something else entirely.

Let that word stay with you. You might whisper it as a prayer. You might write it down. You might come back to it later today.

No need to force anything. Simply receive what is given, and let it settle.

A Blessing for the Place Within You That Needs Rest

May you trust the quiet places
where grace is still growing.

May you remember
that small does not mean insignificant.

May light find its way through
what feels tangled or overgrown.

May you be rooted,
held,
and given room to breathe.

And may you discover,
even here,
there is a place to rest.

Coming Soon: The Artful Awakening Deck

This piece of art is from something new I’ve been creating: The Artful Awakening Deck.

The deck grew out of my Doctor of Ministry project. It is rooted in the belief that art can become a doorway into prayer, reflection, honesty, imagination, and grace. It is a 54-card deck, and each card features original art along with invitations to pause, notice, listen, and respond.

You might use it for quiet time, journaling, spiritual direction, retreats, small groups, or the days when you want to pray but words are hard to find. The deck is coming soon, and I cannot wait to share more.

For now, consider this practice a small glimpse of what is on the way.

This year, I decided to do it again. Another decade. Another letter. Only this time, the words came out differently. It is less prose and more poetry. Maybe because these last ten years have asked more of me. Maybe because I’ve found that not everything needs to be explained to be understood. Either way, I’m grateful for this life and all the lessons I have learned.

Dear 18-Year-Old Self,

Sweet girl, I wish I could give you a hug.
The kind that holds on a little too long
but is an embodied reminder that you matter.

You know that saying, it’s like riding a bike?
When I picture you in my mind,
I can still feel the chaos buried deep in your chest.
I can sense how shallow your breath is
and the burden of responsibility you carry.
But it is all tempered with this sincere joy
and genuine care for people. All people.

First, I want you to know how beautiful you are.
And how beautiful life is.
The next 20 years will take you down paths
you could have never imagined.
You’ll find yourself braving the wilderness
of heartache and grace.
There will be seasons that feel so isolating,
And disorienting. 
They will leave you wondering if you have the survival skills
to make it out alive. 

But then right when you need it, 
As if love was looking out for you
After all
There will be manna waiting for you on the ground.
Grace to catch you
And a community to affirm you. 

You have seen and experienced 
The worst of humanity
But I can testify that it has not made you jaded.
At least not yet.
I will say that trust is hard.
Letting people in?
Even harder.

You’ll spend years collecting  all the right words 
To verbally process, and try to reach an actualized self
But you’ll eventually learn
that your body has kept its own story
and that healing has to happen there too.

It’s funny the things that circle back around. 
That spark of creativity you have, 
It never leaves. 
Eventually you’ll pick up a paintbrush.
and watercolor, 
this unpredictable and uncontrollable medium
Will become a form of prayer. 
It will crack something open 
that all of those words could not reach.

I think so much of life feels like a race to the future.
They, whoever they is, 
hands you boxes to check at the appropriate time
college, career, marriage, success —
the American dream on a conveyor belt.
But nobody asks where the boxes came from
in the first place.

Your life will not fit in those boxes.
Thank God.
So here’s what I’d tell you:
Ask lots of questions.
Be where your feet are.
Breathe deep — I mean it, deep,
the kind of breath that settles your soul
And feels like an embrace. 
Cultivate your creativity.
Invest in your friendships.
Learn to let people show up for you.
I know that’s the hardest thing I’ve said.
Do it anyway.
Let life unfold however it comes
without attaching your worth to the outcome.
Keep speaking up.
For yourself. For others. For the truth.

It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it, but 
You are going to become someone
your 18-year-old self would look up to.
and I’m so proud of you. 

Always grace,
Rev. Dr. Amber Lea :)
38 years old

P.S. Dear 28-year-old self,
these next 10 years are wild.
Really, you wouldn’t believe me
even if I told you.
You’re still protecting stories
That you don’t have to.
Just hold on, 
Healing is coming.

If you want to read the letter I wrote when I turned 28, then you can do that here.

Not a bad heaviness, exactly. More like the weight of something real.

Holy Week is a slow walk through the last few days of Jesus’ life, and what gets me every year is how utterly human it is. We’re not talking about theological abstractions here. We’re talking about friends gathered around a table, sharing bread and wine. We’re talking about someone getting down on their knees to wash the dirt off another person’s feet. We’re talking about a man in a garden, sweating and trembling, asking if there’s another way — while his closest friends fall asleep..

Blood. Sweat. Tears. Literally.

And then the scattering. When it all falls apart, everyone runs. The people who swore they wouldn’t? Well, they are first out of the gate. Peter, who meant every word when he said I will never deny you? Well, he denies him. Three times. Before the sun even comes up.

These are not sanitized spiritual moments. They are the kind of moments that live in the body. The kind we recognize, even if we can’t say exactly why.

We are living through a heavy time.

Most of us know what it is to open our phones in the morning and feel the weight of the headlines settle into our chests. There is so much suffering in the world right now. There is so much that is painful and complex.. And there is a very understandable temptation to look away. To keep moving. To act like this is normal, because if we stopped to feel all of it, how would we function?

But Holy Week will not let us look away.

It walks us, slowly, through suffering. It asks us to stay at the table even when things are about to break. To stay in the garden even when we’re exhausted. To watch, and grieve, and not rush to the ending.

There’s something in that. Something about what it means to witness. To refuse to let suffering, Christ’s or our neighbors’, become just background noise.

I don’t want to draw the lines too neatly. But I wonder if we feel the weight of this week more acutely because of the world we’re living in right now. Or maybe the world feels more unbearable because we haven’t learned to stay present to it the way Holy Week asks us to stay present to the story.

Maybe both.

Paying attention is a spiritual practice. A difficult one. It costs something to really look — at the news, at our neighbors, at the ancient story we’re walking through this week. It is easier to skim. To only catch headlines. To stay on the surface. To get to Sunday without really passing through Friday.

But there is something that happens in us when we stay. When we let the weight land. When we sit with the bread and wine and let it mean something. When we feel the vulnerability of having our feet washed, or the shame of scattering when we said we wouldn’t.

We become more human. And maybe, more ready.

So as we walk through these days, here are a few questions to ponder:

• Where in your own life are you tempted to look away from something that needs your presence?

• What does it feel like in your body to stay — to really stay — with something hard?

• Where do you see yourself in the Holy Week story? At the table? In the garden? Running? In denial?

• What would it mean to not rush to resurrection — to let Sunday come to you, instead of chasing it?

And it will come. That’s the thing. We don’t manufacture Easter. We don’t earn it or rush it into being. We just walk. Slowly. Honestly. And Easter meets us.

The story doesn’t end in the garden. It doesn’t end with the scattering, or the denial, or the silence of Friday.

But we’re not there yet.

For now, we keep going. One step at a time.

Read Exodus 16:1-18

Lent has a way of leading us into the wilderness — not dramatically, but quietly. Almost gently. It slows us down long enough to notice what we’ve been carrying. It invites us to pay attention to what feels uncertain, unfinished, or fragile. It places us in that space between what has been and what will be.

And that is exactly where we find the Israelites in Exodus 16.

They are about six weeks removed from slavery in Egypt. Six weeks from this like cinematic back and forth between Moses and Pharaoh. Six weeks from watching the Red Sea split open in front of them. Six weeks from singing on the shore while their oppressors disappeared into the water.

If this were a movie, the screen would fade to black and then reappear with the words: “Six Weeks Later.”

And now?

They are hungry. The adrenaline has worn off. The miracle feels distant. The songs have quieted. And what remains is the desert — wide, open, exposed, and uncertain.

The whole community begins to complain. They say to Moses and Aaron, “If only we had died in Egypt. At least there we sat by pots of meat and ate our fill of bread.” It’s almost painful to hear. Four hundred and thirty years of oppression, and already the past is being rewritten.

But wilderness does that. It narrows your vision.

Before we judge them, we might admit that we know something about that feeling. We know what it is to step into something new — a new season, a new diagnosis, a new responsibility, a new reality — and realize that freedom does not feel the way we imagined it would. We know what it is to discover that the promised land is not immediate. That there is a stretch of desert in between.

They thought deliverance would feel like arrival. Instead, it feels like dust and distance. It feels like not knowing how long the journey will take. It feels like wondering whether there will be enough.

Enough food. Enough energy. Enough clarity. Enough hope.

And that is where God meets them.

Not with shame for their fear. Not with anger for their complaint. Not with a reminder of how much has already been done for them.

But with hope, with bread from heaven.

“The Lord said to Moses, I am going to rain bread from heaven for you.” Each morning, when the dew lifts, something rests on the ground. Small. Thin. Almost easy to miss. They look at it and say, “What is it?” — which is what the word manna actually means.

It is not a feast. It is not abundance in the way they imagined. It is not immediate security for the next forty years. It is daily bread.

They are told to gather only what they need for that day. An omer per person. If they try to gather more than they need and save it out of fear or scarcity, it spoils. If they receive it as gift and trust that there will be more tomorrow, it sustains them.

It becomes a rhythm. Morning by morning. Open hands. Enough. Not a strategy. Not a system. Just the daily practice of showing up with your hands open and trusting that something will be there. I think this is where hope lives in Lent.

Not in loud declarations. Not in pretending the wilderness isn’t real. Not in skipping ahead to resurrection light before we’ve walked through the desert.

Hope, in this season, looks like waking up and discovering there is enough grace for this day.

Enough strength to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding.

Enough steadiness to sit with grief that hasn’t resolved.

Enough courage to take the next step even if you cannot see the whole path.

Enough mercy to begin again.

The miracle is not only that God once split the sea. The miracle is that God keeps showing up long after the waters come back together. After the songs quiet. After the crowd disperses. Not just in the parting of seas and the pillars of fire, but in the small, daily, almost unremarkable act of showing up. Of providing. Of not abandoning the people, even when the people are scared and complaining and looking the wrong direction. God is faithful in the ordinary.

And there is a line in this passage that feels especially tender: “The one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little.”

In the wilderness, scarcity does not get to run the story. The frantic competition for more loosens its grip. The quiet fear that there won’t be enough does not get the final word.

Lent stretches across forty days not because we are trying to suffer dramatically, but because trust is learned in repetition. It is learned in daily dependence. It is learned in waking up again and again and choosing to receive rather than hoard, to trust rather than grasp.

We wake up.

We gather what is given.

We receive.

We release.

And then we wake up and do it again.

Some of you may feel like you are in a wilderness season right now. Not dramatic — just weary. Not catastrophic — just uncertain. The future feels unclear. The world feels heavy. Your own heart feels stretched. This story does not rush you out of that space. It does not demand that you feel triumphant. It does not scold you for being hungry.

It simply reminds you: you are not abandoned here.

Manna will be there in the morning.

Hope, in Lent, is steady rather than loud. It rests quietly on the ground, waiting to be noticed. It does not shout over your questions. It sits beside them. It does not erase your hunger. It feeds it. So perhaps the invitation today is simply to notice the manna. To look back over the past week and ask: where was there enough?

Enough kindness in a conversation.

Enough strength to get through an appointment.

Enough beauty in a sunrise.

Enough grace to keep going.

Not all at once. Not forever. Just enough.

That is the word I want to leave with you today. Not a tidy answer. Not a promise that the wilderness ends tomorrow. Just this: there is enough. There is enough grace for today. There is enough mercy to begin again. There is enough of God’s faithfulness to carry you through what feels uncertain.

That is hope. And it is yours.

Reflection Questions

Wilderness seasons have a way of narrowing our vision. We start looking for certainty, answers, or a clear map forward. But the story of manna invites something a little different — noticing the grace that is already present, the small provisions that carry us through the day. If you have a moment, sit with these questions and see what rises to the surface.

1. Where in your life right now does the road feel uncertain or unfinished — a place that feels a little like wilderness? What emotions surface there: fear, fatigue, longing, hope?

2. In this past week, where might there have been “manna” — small, quiet signs of grace that helped sustain you? A conversation, a moment of beauty, an unexpected kindness, enough strength to keep going.

3. What might it look like to trust that God’s grace is enough for today, rather than trying to secure tomorrow? How might your posture shift if you approached this day with open hands instead of clenched fists?

I know your inbox is full right now with Black Friday this, Cyber Monday that, and it can feel like a lot. So I’ll keep this simple.

This weekend, in honor of Shop Small Saturday, I’m offering 20% off everything in my shop with the code ALG20. The sale runs now through December 3rd, and if you’re local to Tupelo, you’re always welcome to choose free local pickup.

When you order from me, it’s not just a transaction. I’m a real person over here who excitedly tells her husband every time an order comes through. Your support doesn’t just keep a small business going; it fuels my art, my ministry, my creativity, and the work I feel called to do. Truly, thank you.

SHOP HERE

As you think about what you’re bringing into your home or gifting to others this season, here are a few gentle questions to reflect on:

• What beauty is your soul craving right now?

• What kind of gift feels like a blessing rather than a checkbox?

• Where is wonder tugging at your sleeve as the year draws near its close?

Whether you shop with me this weekend or simply pause for a breath in the midst of holiday noise, I’m grateful for you. Blessings to you this holiday season.

Always Grace,

Amber Lea

Yesterday I preached for All Saints’ Day, and I’ve been carrying the weight of it with me ever since.

Not the weight of sadness, exactly — though there was sadness in the sanctuary, the kind that comes when you speak the names of people you loved and will not see again in this life.

It was another kind of weight. The holy weight of continuity. The feeling that comes when one story draws to a close and another begins, like that moment in a relay race when one runner’s hand releases and another’s closes around the baton.

The sacred trust of it. The responsibility and the gift, both at once.

Faith, I think, is always a handoff. It is a story that keeps moving through time, and I’ve been thinking about what it means to carry something forward.

The book of Hebrews is one of the unsolved mysteries of scripture. We don’t know who wrote it. We don’t know exactly when, or to whom, or from where. It is like this ancient letter sent to us with no return address, no signature, just this urgent, beautiful word of encouragement sent to people who desperately needed to hear it.

People whose heads were drooping. Whose knees were weak. Who had been running the race of faith for so long that they were beginning to wonder if it was all worth it. So the writer gives a word of encouragement in the form of stories. He reminds them of the ones who came before.

Abel to Enoch to Noah to Abraham to Moses to the prophets—an unbroken chain of faithfulness stretching across the centuries. Each one running toward God’s promises. Each one trusting that what they were building mattered, that their lives of faith were part of something larger, something eternal.

Generation after generation the faithful ran their leg of the race, kept their eyes on God’s promises, lived their lives as acts of trust, and then they handed the baton to the next generation.

After writer goes through this litany of saints, he says to the reader, now it’s your turn.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

The roll call of faith stretches across centuries, but it also winds through our own stories, through the people who made faith visible in the most ordinary ways. The cloud of witnesses isn’t just ancient; it’s intimate. It’s the faces we remember, the hands that steadied us, the voices that whispered hope when we needed it most.

Here’s what I’ve been sitting with: The people we remember, the ones whose absence still aches, whose presence still shapes us, they weren’t saints because they were perfect. They were saints because they showed up. Because they loved when it was hard. Because they believed when it would have been easier not to.

Your grandmother who prayed for you every single day.

Your friend who showed up with soup when you were sick.

The neighbor who shoveled your walk without being asked.

The teacher who saw something in you that you couldn’t yet see in yourself.

The person who loved you through your worst season and didn’t give up.

They were saints in their kitchens and cubicles, in carpool lines and hospital rooms, in the quiet, ordinary moments when no one was watching. They ran with endurance. They kept their eyes on Jesus.

Then, they handed you the baton.

Who are the saints who shaped your faith?

And here’s the part that takes my breath away: We are the saints of today.

Not someday. Not after we’ve done enough or been enough or fixed enough of our brokenness. Right now. In our kitchens and classrooms, in our workplaces and neighborhoods. In the ordinary, faithful work of showing up, loving people, praying, serving, forgiving, trying again. We are the saints of today.

In a world as weary and divided as ours, maybe holiness looks like persistence in love. Maybe sainthood means refusing cynicism. Choosing compassion over contempt. Lifting one another up when the race feels long.

This is not about achieving some impossible standard of holiness. This is about receiving what’s been handed to us and carrying it forward. It’s about becoming, in our own lives, the kind of people whose love leaves a mark. Whose faithfulness becomes a foundation. Whose ordinary acts of kindness become someone else’s memory of grace.

One day, maybe decades from now, maybe a century, someone will remember us. They will tell stories about what we did, who we loved, how we showed up. They will give thanks for the faith they saw in us.

What will they say?

Will they say we ran with perseverance? That we kept our eyes on Jesus? That we laid aside the weights that held us back and ran the race set before us?

Will they say we were people who saw those in need and helped? Who fed the hungry and visited the lonely, who gave generously of our time and resources for our neighbors?

Will they say we were people who wrestled with hard questions, who made difficult decisions—not because it was easy, but because we trusted God’s promises?

The race is ours.

What story are you writing with your life? What legacy will your love leave behind?

The baton is in your hands.

The world doesn’t need more perfect people. It needs steady ones—kind ones. The kind of saints who will stand in the rubble and rebuild. Who will hold the light when the headlines dim it. Who will keep believing that love is still worth the risk. Because that is what holiness looks like now: not an escape from the world’s pain, but a faithful presence within it.

May we remember that sainthood was never about perfection, but about participation— the courage to keep showing up in love. May the hands that once steadied us teach our own hands to open, to bless, to build. And as we take our place in the story, may we run our race with grace — becoming, one ordinary act at a time, someone else’s memory of God’s goodness.

Many of us are exhuasted, overwhelmed, hurting, and confused. Life is swirling in chaos, and it feels like we are not teathered to anything. It turned out different than we hoped. The reality of the situation is much heavier than they told us it would be. There is the word around town, but can we believe it? The pain of dissapointment makes hoping again seem too hard. What is next? What is the next right move?

Friends, I see you.

As we continue our journey this Holy Week, know that you do not go alone. I created some prayer stations that you can do at home. There is both a text and a podcast option. It is my prayer that they meet you where you are. The hope of an empty tomb is our story, but it does not discredit all the pain and heartache it takes to get there.

Encounter Jesus as you journey with him through the passtion narrative.

Encounter | Self-Guided Prayer Stations

Start Here | Introduction

Welcome, pilgrim. You are about to begin a sacred journey…

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a year ago · Amber Lea Gray

Beloved pilgrim,
as you begin this sacred journey through the story of Holy Week,
may your heart be open,
your steps be unhurried,
and your spirit be attentive to the presence of Christ.

May you walk these stations not as a tourist of holy things,
but as a seeker—
one who longs to meet Jesus in the silence,
in the sorrow,
in the sacrifice,
and in the hope.

May each pause become a prayer.
May each word invite reflection.
May each symbol speak truth to your soul.

As you remember the road He walked—
from palms to supper, from garden to cross—
may you discover the love that walks with you still.

Go with blessing.
Go with curiosity.
Go with courage.
And may the One who enters the city in peace
walk beside you,
every step of the way.

Amen.

Encounter | Self-Guided Prayer Stations

You are invited to Encounter Christ through these interactive, contemplative, and reflective prayer stations. These are self-guided prayer stations that can serve as a resource for churches and individuals.

By Amber Lea Gray

I'm checking in to see how your journey has been so far. We've been traveling for over a week now -- exploring the wilderness during this season of Lent.

Reminder: Lent is the 40 days before Easter (minus Sundays) that represents the time Jesus spent in the wilderness before the start of his ministry. Lent is a season in the church that provides space for fasting, confession, and self-examination as we prepare for Easter.

When I start something new, I usually have lots of energy and enthusiasm at the beginning. My eyes are wide with possibility, and I look forward to the process of exploring. It does not take long, however, for the 'new adventure' energy to wear off.

Last year, Andrew and I went on an 8-mile hike at the base of Mt. Hood in Oregon.  The trail crossed paths with multiple waterfalls and had a beautiful view of Mt. Hood. We packed plenty of water and could not have asked for a more beautiful day. My hiking app told me this was an ‘easy-moderate’ level hike, and the trail was clearly marked.

We were excited to embark on this adventure.

We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

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We live in Mississippi. The flattest of flat states, and truthfully -- I don't think my hiking app understands an 'easy-moderate' level hike. We were about the 3 miles in, my heart was pounding, I couldn’t catch my breath, and my toes were numb from the pressure in my hiking boots. I did not know if I could finish five more miles. But if we turned around now, it was basically the same as finishing the hike. So we had no choice but to keep going.

Reflecting on this hike, I'm reminded that there comes a point in any wilderness journey when we begin to question our choices, our capabilities, and our plans.

I think about the Israelites in Exodus 16. God has delivered them from slavery. They experienced the parting of the Red Sea. They trusted and followed Moses into the wilderness as they searched for the promised land. But halfway through the 2nd month of their journey, the Israelites began to complain. They were hungry. They were tired. They wanted to go back to Egypt.

Whose idea was this?! Where are we even going? Why didn't I pack more snacks? This hiking applied to me! How do these other hikers make it look so easy?

Anxiety creeps in. Survival mode activates.

Our nervous systems have three main responses when faced with anxiety:

Fight, Flight, or Freeze

3 miles into our wilderness journey, when turning around makes no sense, these are our automatic responses.

So, if you're feeling a little overwhelmed, questioning your choices, or struggling with all the thoughts and emotions that come with the wilderness, this is for you.

What is your typical response when faced with anxiety? The unknown? Doubt?

Fight

God says. I’ve got this one. It’s okay. I will fight for you. Put down your weapons and unclench your fists. Put your hand on your chest, feel your heartbeat, and breathe deeply. I am here. 

Flight

God says. Take me by the hand. You don’t have to run anymore. I will walk with you. Let’s sit awhile. I will be here the whole time. You are not alone.

Freeze

God says. I will stand with you for as long as you need. Deep breath. Let your shoulders sink down. Let your eyes look around at what is happening all around you. Grace abounds.

May these words bring comfort as we continue our journey in the wilderness.

The comment section is open for reflections below.

Grace on your journey,

Amber Lea

Share Wild Grace w/ Rev Amber Lea Gray

We have officially entered the season of Lent — a season of confession and reflection. It is the 40 days (minus Sundays) before Easter, where we wander together in the wilderness. A season where we can let go of everything that weighs us down.

For last several years I have been intrigued by Pilgrims who walk the Camino De Santiago (the Way of St. James). There are many routes throughout Europe. Some of them are over 400 miles long, but they all end up at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. Pilgrims who take this journey share about the transformational experience of walking this distance and breaking bread with strangers.

I watched a video not long ago about a Pilgrim who has completed the Camino De Santiago more than once, and she was giving tips on how to prepare. She said this —

Most people pack for their fears. If you fear getting sick, you will pack medicine. If you don’t want to get wet, you will pack a raincoat. If you are afraid of blisters, then you will pack bandages. After a few days of walking, you realize that your fears were irrational and heavy — so you take out all the extra stuff that weighs you down on the journey. We call it offloading.

We pack for our fears.

This is a beautiful metaphor for the season of Lent. In life, we pack for our fears. We hold onto SO MUCH stuff that weighs us down. These 40 days in the wilderness are an opportunity to examine what we are carrying.

• Do I need this?

• Does this give me life?

• How much is this weighing me down? Holding me back?

• When is the last time that I used this?

An act of simplicity.

Richard Foster said in his book, Celebration of Discipline, “[Simplicity] has nothing to do with abundance of possession or their lack. It is an inward spirit of trust.” (p87)

Lent is journey of trust.

Dear Pilgrim,

What do you need to offload this Lenten season? What is weighing you down? As we journey together in the wilderness, do you trust for God to provide? What practices would help you process these questions? How much time are you spending in silence? Do you enjoy the journey or do you rush to the destination?

I’d like to walk slow with you these next 6 weeks and maybe notice some things we’ve never noticed before. It will be a means of grace, an act of trust.

I’ll share my thoughts and noticing-s each week, and you will be invited to also share in the comments. My hope is that we will learn from one another. My prayer is that we will feel a little lighter once Resurrection comes.

always grace,
Amber Lea

Share Wild Grace w/ Rev Amber Lea Gray

If we're honest, that question can get out of control pretty quickly. We easily spiral into worry and anxiety. In today's episode of Wild Grace, we will hear about worry from the Gospel of Matthew. We will also enter into the passage with an imaginative contemplation exercise. If you have a tendency to worry, this episode is for you.

www.amberleagray.com

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I launched my little art shop earlier this year to help pay for my doctorate program. I have always been creative, but I never really considered myself an artist. This year, YOU CHANGED THAT, and I’m forever grateful. I had no idea how much joy it would bring to have someone purchase my art and display it in their home. Every time I’m sent a photo or tagged in a post, it lights up my soul.

I’m so thankful for you and all that you bring to the world. Thanks for supporting me on this journey. Thanks for just being here. It means the most. Seriously.

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I’ve extended my holiday sale until December 1st!

MS Gulf Coast Collection is here.

I recently went on a little trip to the MS Gulf Coast and was so inspired. Empty beaches. Abundant Wildlife. Sleep Beach Town. Bold Colors. Digital Sketches.

New Stickers - Perfect to stick in a card or stocking!

I call my stickers mobile pep talks because I want you to look at them and feel encouraged. I want you to put them places where other people can be encouraged. Life is hard. Everyone needs a pep talk.

Digital Art Prints - Use Code BOGOPRINT for 1/2 off!

These 5x7 digital art prints are a VERY LIMITED RUN! They make the perfect teacher gift!

20% off all ALG Originals!

This holiday season I encourage you to shop small and support local businesses. Again, thanks for being here!

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always grace,

Amber Lea

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The image of a garden– sowing, planting, and nurturing seeds gives us a way to reflect on our own spiritual growth and the ways that grace shows up in our lives. Sometimes we need to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. Grace transforms. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us.

Harvest

Mark 4:26-32

26 Then Jesus said, “This is what God’s kingdom is like. It’s as though someone scatters seed on the ground, 27 then sleeps and wakes night and day. The seed sprouts and grows, but the farmer doesn’t know how. 28 The earth produces crops all by itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full head of grain. 29 Whenever the crop is ready, the farmer goes out to cut the grain because it’s harvest time.”

30 He continued, “What’s a good image for God’s kingdom? What parable can I use to explain it? 31 Consider a mustard seed. When scattered on the ground, it’s the smallest of all the seeds on the earth; 32 but when it’s planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all vegetable plants. It produces such large branches that the birds in the sky are able to nest in its shade.”

Last spring, I planted two tomato plants and one pepper plant. Y’all, I’ve never worried and fussed over anything so much in my life. 

Am I watering them too much? Not enough? I started to read some garden blogs that said you were supposed to snip off the little shoots that come out of the main stem to make sure that your fruit is getting enough nutrients. What is considered a little shoot exactly? And the little card that came with my plants said that they needed full sun. What exactly does full sun mean? Can they not be in the shade ever? The sun moves! How does that work? 

It was something else. And then I got little blooms that would never turn into anything because apparently they weren’t being pollinated. I fussed over, worried about, and cared for these little potted plants for months. FINALLY, I get little baby peppers and tomatoes that start to grow. I did it! Didn’t I? 

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The image of a garden– sowing, planting, and nurturing seeds gives us a way to reflect on our own spiritual growth and the ways that grace shows up in our lives. Sometimes we need to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. Grace transforms. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us.

Waiting

Romans 8:18-25 (CEB)

¹⁸ I believe that the present suffering is nothing compared to the coming glory that is going to be revealed to us. ¹⁹ The whole creation waits breathless with anticipation for the revelation of God’s sons and daughters.²⁰ Creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice—it was the choice of the one who subjected it—but in the hope ²¹ that the creation itself will be set free from slavery to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of God’s children. ²² We know that the whole creation is groaning together and suffering labor pains up until now. ²³ And it’s not only the creation. We ourselves who have the Spirit as the first crop of the harvest also groan inside as we wait to be adopted and for our bodies to be set free. ²⁴ We were saved in hope. If we see what we hope for, that isn’t hope. Who hopes for what they already see? ²⁵ But if we hope for what we don’t see, we wait for it with patience.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve been working with this metaphor of planting as an image for our faith. We have the seeds of possibility. We talked about how they germinate with the promise of good news and resurrection. We’ve scattered those seeds anywhere and everywhere, as a reminder that God’s love is for all people. Last week we talked about what it means to nurture these seeds by cultivating spiritual practices. We were reminded of God’s desire to be in a relationship with God’s people, and how God will show up to replant us by streams of living water over and over again. All we have to do is ask. 

We’ve done a lot of work these last few weeks. We’ve dug in the soil. Our hands are dirty. The sun has beat down; we’ve pulled up weeds and got out our watering pails. Now what? 

Well, now— we wait. Today we’re going to talk about the waiting. 

Waiting can be… awkward. It can be uncomfortable. It can be frustrating. We are not patient people. Y’all, we have drive-thru restaurants because we don’t want to wait for our food. Heaven forbid the person in front of us doesn’t start driving the millisecond the light turns green. Watching TV has completely changed with streaming, we don’t wait for the next episode or even through commercials. Standard shipping isn’t even fast enough these days. We need a 2-day guarantee with Amazon prime.

We live in an impatient world. We are impatient people. Waiting is often seen as an inconvenience – something to get through. 

And then I think about this image of planting and harvest. 

Waiting is even harder when we’ve been doing the work. We’ve been punching the clock. Putting in our hours. Planting and nurturing the seeds. We’re going to church. We’re reading our Bibles. Showing up for our neighbors. We’re doing ALL the things – and it seems like nothing is happening. 

There is this psychological connection between waiting and results. The longer we wait, the more anxious we become. We begin to question if what we did was enough. Our minds start to swirl with scenarios, and we can become frantic. So we fill our time. We work to become more efficient. We do more, just in case what we did before was not enough to get the result we wanted. It is this never-ending cycle that continues to build and build until we’re desperate, frustrated, exhausted, and losing hope. 

Paul’s letter to the Romans is one of his later writings. It’s carefully considered and theologically significant. Scholars agree that it contains Paul’s more mature reflections on the Christian faith. In chapter 8, he talks about being set free by the Spirit, and how there is nothing that can separate us from the Love of God. Starting in verse 18, we get this image that all of creation waits breathless with anticipation, that we hope for something that is beyond what we can see. 

“We were saved in hope,” he says, “If we see what we hope for, that isn’t hope. Who hopes for what they already see? But if we hope for what we don’t see, we wait for it with patience.”

Here Paul is reminding us what we’ve seen throughout scripture over and over again. Waiting is part of the process. A significant part of the journey of faith. 

• Psalm 135:5, “I hope, LORD. My whole being hopes, and I wait for God’s promise.”

• Psalm 5:3, “In the morning, LORD, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.”

• Psalm 106:13, “But they soon forgot what he had done and did not wait for his plan to unfold.”

• Isaiah 30:18, “Yet the LORD longs to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show you compassion. For the LORD is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!”

• Lamentations 3:24, “I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” 

• Micah 7:7, “But as for me, I watch in hope for the LORD, I wait for God my Savior; my God will hear me.”

• 1 Corinthians 4:5, “Therefore judge nothing before the appointed time; wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart.” 

God promised Abraham that his wife Sarah would be a mother of nations, but they waited 90 years for that promise to be fulfilled, before becoming pregnant with Issac. 

The Israelites waited 40 years in the wilderness before entering the promised land, and then later in their story, they waited for 70 years in exile. 

The entire arch of scripture is waiting for the coming messiah — who eventually comes in the person and work of Jesus. 

Over and over again, Jesus told his disciples that the Kingdom of God had not yet come. They needed to wait. They would know and understand when the time was right. 

Waiting is part of our story as people of God. It is part of this process and life of faith. We wait, but we wait in hope! Hope for what we cannot yet see. 

Y’all, the gospel is not efficient.

It is not goal-oriented, at least not in the same way as our modern-day culture. There are not three surefire steps to a healthy faith or church or life. There is a lot more mystery in this whole thing than makes us comfortable. And this waiting requires trust. It looks like surrender — when we put aside our wants and desires in order to pick up God’s wants and desires— in God’s timing. 

It means that we trust God to do what God promised and to realize that God is not on our time clock. God does not work based on our timeline. It doesn’t matter what the farmer’s almanac says. 

We are to remain faithful in our planting and nurturing and trust that something is happening beneath the soil.

What we are able to see and what is actually going on are always not the same.

You see, grace is unexpected. It sprouts up through cracks in the concrete. It produces blooms in the middle of winter. It is the shade of a magnolia tree and the rain that cools off a summer day. We can’t plan or calculate or control the way that the Spirit moves. There are seasons when all we can do is wait. Seasons when we are called to wait. 

What do we know about God in God’s word?

We know that God is at work in the waiting. 

So when we get impatient —- and we will get impatient! We can pause and recall the ways that God has been faithful before. So quickly, we forget. Honestly, it’s beautiful when you think about the image of planting. We can look back and remember the harvest from all the past seasons. This cycle of life and death and new life. We can recall the ways that God showed up before and trust that GOD WILL show up again!

Questions for Reflection

• How easy/difficult is it for you to wait?

• In what ways does God show up in the waiting?

• What do you think it means that the gospel is not efficient?

The image of a garden– sowing, planting, and nurturing seeds gives us a way to reflect on our own spiritual growth and the ways that grace shows up in our lives. Sometimes, we need to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. Grace transforms. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us.

Nurturing | Week Three

Psalm 1

The truly happy person
    doesn’t follow wicked advice,
    doesn’t stand on the road of sinners,
    and doesn’t sit with the disrespectful.
Instead of doing those things,
    these persons love the Lord’s Instruction,
    and they recite God’s Instruction day and night!
They are like a tree replanted by streams of water,
    which bears fruit at just the right time
    and whose leaves don’t fade.
        Whatever they do succeeds.

That’s not true for the wicked!
    They are like dust that the wind blows away.
And that’s why the wicked will have no standing in the court of justice—
    neither will sinners
    in the assembly of the righteous.
The Lord is intimately acquainted
    with the way of the righteous,
    but the way of the wicked is destroyed.

Psalm 1 says we find our joy and delight in meditation upon the law. Wait, what? 

I don’t know about you, but “law” and “delight” are not two words that I typically put together. When we hear the word “law,” what usually comes to mind is a set of rules and regulations. A list of dos and don’ts. Maybe not necessarily a bad thing, but laws are something that are typically behavior-oriented. They are about what we do or don’t do.

The “law” of God, however, is something different. What the Bible calls God’s “law” is not just a list of rules and regulations, but instead, it is God’s purpose for human life. It is a project of love, joy, trust, peace and justice. For the people of Israel, Law was a description of life with God through rules and regulations (yes) but also stories. If you read through the Old Testament, It’s about God’s relationship with God’s people. 

Psalm 1 is saying that a truly happy person, clings to life with God.

It is not someone who just blindly follows all the rules as if God is a dictator. It is not the rules that are important, but to realize that God’s intention for us is beautiful, joyful, and life-giving. It is about grace and connection.

We’re in the middle of a series talking about agricultural grace. We’ve been looking at this image of planting – unpacking the possibility of the seed of the gospel, the significance of scattering those seeds anywhere and everywhere. Now today, we’re talking about what it means to nurture those seeds. 

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The image of a garden– sowing, planting, and nurturing seeds gives us a way to reflect on our own spiritual growth and the ways that grace shows up in our lives. Sometimes we need to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. Grace transforms. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us.

Planting

Matthew 13: 3-9 (CEB)

He said many things to them in parables: “A farmer went out to scatter seed. As he was scattering seed, some fell on the path, and birds came and ate it. Other seed fell on rocky ground where the soil was shallow. They sprouted immediately because the soil wasn’t deep. But when the sun came up, it scorched the plants, and they dried up because they had no roots. Other seed fell among thorny plants. The thorny plants grew and choked them. Other seed fell on good soil and bore fruit, in one case a yield of one hundred to one, in another case a yield of sixty to one, and in another case a yield of thirty to one. Everyone who has ears should pay attention.”

First, what is a parable? 

A parable is a story used to illustrate a moral or spiritual lesson. They are different from instructions or law, like the 10 commandments. They are not an actual account of history. With a parable, it’s not always clear what Jesus is saying. Oftentimes, there is more than one meaning. Bible scholars say that is why Jesus intentionally used parables as his primary way of teaching — because parables invite us to wrestle with truth. To see ourselves in different parts of the story. 

What are some ways that we could read and interpret the parable of the four soils? 

We could focus on the seed. There is no sowing or no growing without the seed. Jesus tells us later in Matthew 13 that the seed is the good news of the Gospel. It is the word of God. Those who have ears, let them listen, Jesus says. 

We talked a lot about seeds last week. The process of germination. All of the potential one seed can carry. The good news of the gospel is resurrection, new life, and possibility. We have story after story of how this pattern of possibility shows up in scripture, and in our lives. The seed opens itself up to transformation – bursting forth with new possibilities and growth. Literally. 

We could focus on the soils. In this parable, Jesus talks about four types of soil. 

• The soil that became hardened from being repeatedly walked on and so the seed simply sits on the surface, waiting to become food for the birds.

• The rocky soil that makes it difficult for the seed to take root and access the nutrients necessary for growth. 

• The soil that is covered in thorns— already has well-established, invasive plants, giving little chance for new seeds to grow.

• And finally, the good soil that has been prepared, turned over and loosened, replenished with nutrients — good soil cultivated to produce good fruit. 

We could learn a lot if we focused on what it means to prepare the soil of our soul for the seed of the gospel, of God’s love, to take root and grow in our lives. 

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The image of a garden– sowing, planting, and nurturing seeds gives us a way to reflect on our own spiritual growth and the ways that grace shows up in our lives. Sometimes we need to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. Grace transforms. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us.

Germination

1 Corinthians 15:35-38 (CEB)

But someone will say, “How are the dead raised? What kind of body will they have when they come back?” Look, fool! When you put a seed into the ground, it doesn’t come back to life unless it dies.  What you put in the ground doesn’t have the shape that it will have, but it’s a bare grain of wheat or some other seed.  God gives it the sort of shape that he chooses, and he gives each of the seeds its own shape.

We don’t get fruit the first day we plant the seed. We must wait. 

The image of a garden– sowing and nurturing seeds, waiting for a harvest. It offers us a way to reflect on our growth as people of God. We are invited to ask, who are we? Who are we called to be?  What are we called to do? In a time when hope is desperately needed by so many, it is good to be reminded that not everything is a quick fix. Growth takes time. It requires patience and hard work. We plant seeds and wait with the truth that God is always with us. 

This week our text comes from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. 

In the first 14 chapters, Paul talks about very practical things that apply to the church in Corinth. In this letter Paul is concerned with order and morality. He tried to help the church in Corinth understand that their relationship with Jesus Christ should impact their behavior.

BUT it is more than just rules to follow. It is rooted in the conviction that a relationship with Jesus determines how we see ourselves and how we relate to others. Paul is calling the Corinthians (and now us) to consider— how does our relationship with Jesus Christ affect all of the relationships in our lives? 

Most Bible scholars agree that Paul visited Corinth at least three times and probably spent over a year there. So with this first letter, it seems like Paul is trying to circle back to his people — round up those who have strayed, become lost, or have not grown in their faith as much as he had hoped.

Then we get to chapter 15. In chapter 15, Paul addresses what he would consider the heart of the Gospel – the resurrection of the Body. Paul insists that Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.  In chapter 15, Paul uses this metaphor of a seed and planting to illustrate the resurrection. “Look, fool! When you put a seed into the ground, it doesn’t come back to life unless it dies.” (1 Cor 15:36)

Have you ever thought about what is necessary for resurrection? What is the one thing that has to happen in order for resurrection to take place? 

Death. 

You cannot experience resurrection without death. 

I was at a clergy meeting recently where a colleague was sharing his heart and hopes for the future of the church. Not just our local congregations, but the CHURCH of Jesus Christ! He said that he looked at his congregation and asked them if they needed some dirt. What needs to die, he said? What do we need to bury in order to experience resurrection? 

Now Paul says that the seed dies, and in a sense, I guess it does. It gives itself up. It ceases to be a seed and opens itself up to new possibilities and growth. Literally. 

Today we look at the image of seeds germinating —which Paul uses as a metaphor for resurrection. A release from that which binds us to the past, an inbreaking and indwelling of God, an infusion of the Spirit.

I have learned a lot about the germination of seeds. Germination is the process a seed goes through when it “wakes up” from its dormant state and starts to grow. Seeds are self-contained systems that have most of what they need to get themselves started, but there are three things that are needed: air, water, and warmth.

I don’t have an exhaustive list, but a few things came to mind. 

I think we need…

• Prayer: For a long time, I thought that prayer’s purpose was to change the outcome of situations. And maybe sometimes it does. I’m wondering, though, if prayer is not just about changing outcomes, but about changing us. If prayer is our way of communicating with God, of cultivating a deep spirituality, then prayer transforms us. It wakes us up. 

I think we need… 

• Grace: But not the Sunday best, Jesus is my boyfriend kind of grace. We need a grace that is wild, catches us off guard, and sustains us in the wilderness. A daily grace that takes us to the very edge of our own capabilities and says, keep going— I got it from here. A grace that is real and raw and practical. That is not afraid of hard conversations and is consumed with love.

I think we need…

• Community: We need one another. We know that for Paul, the Christian faith is lived in community. We cannot do this alone. 

I think we need…

• The Holy Spirit: To acknowledge the Holy Spirit at work in the world. To trust that the Spirit is working when we can’t see what is happening beneath the dirt. For just when we think all hope is lost, new life springs forth.

p.s. If you go to your local seed store, Home Depot or a local nursery and start to read the information on the back of the seed packets, then you will notice that different seeds germinate at different rates. From 1 week to a few months, it depends on the seed. 

Questions for Reflection:

• How often do we try to rush the work of God? 

• What are the conditions we need that will break us open for new life and possibility?

• What comes to mind when you start to consider new possibilities?

Share Wild Grace w/ Rev Amber Lea Gray

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