Dove Sermons

Sermons from Dove of the Desert UMC

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  • Sermon for August 17th, 2025

    Sermon based on Luke 12:49-56

    There’s a moment in some conversations when someone says the thing no one wants to say.

    It’s the awkward truth that hangs in the air like smoke after a candle is blown out.
    And everyone knows, you can’t unhear it.

    That’s what today’s passage feels like.

    Jesus says:
    “I came to cast fire upon the earth. How I wish that it was already ablaze!  … Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, I have come instead to bring division.”

    This is not the kind of verse we frame in cursive embroidery or put on a coffee mug.
    It’s not the sweet lullaby Jesus we sing about at Christmas.
    It’s the Jesus who leans across the table, looks you in the eye, and says something you can’t shake.

    And I’ll be honest… part of me wants to flip the page.
    I want to find something safer. Gentler. Something about lilies of the field and birds of the air.

    But Luke doesn’t give us that option here. And maybe that’s the point.

    The first word that hits us is “fire.”

    For many of us, fire feels like danger. Destruction. We think of forest fires, of homes lost, of landscapes turned to ash.

    And yet in Scripture, fire is never just one thing.

    It’s the pillar that leads Israel through the wilderness.
    It’s the burning bush that refuses to be consumed.
    It’s the flame on the heads of the disciples at Pentecost.

    Yes, fire can destroy… but it also refines, purifies, transforms.

    John the Baptist had already said this about Jesus in Luke 3:16: “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

    And it’s not a fire of punishment for punishment’s sake, but a fire that burns away what cannot stay. A fire that clears the ground so new life can grow.

    We forget that in certain ecosystems, fire is essential.
    Some seeds will never open unless heat cracks them first.
    The flames prepare the soil for something new.

    That’s the kind of fire Jesus longs to kindle.
    Not a fire to scorch the earth in rage, but to burn away what keeps God’s kingdom from flourishing.

    Oppression. Greed. Idolatry. Exploitation.
    The illusions we build for our own comfort that keep others in chains.

    When Jesus says, “how I wish it were already ablaze,” it’s the longing of someone who sees the suffering of the world and is desperate for the healing to begin.

    That’s why this fire, as fierce as it sounds, is actually good news, at least if you hear it from the underside of history.

    Mary’s song in Luke 1 has already told us the shape of God’s reign:
    “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.”

    That’s not polite poetry. That’s a revolution.

    Zechariah’s prophecy in Luke 1:79 promised that God’s salvation would “guide our feet into the way of peace”, but that peace wasn’t the quiet of an unjust status quo.
    It was the deep, risky peace that comes when wrongs are set right.

    So when Jesus talks about fire, he’s talking about that same kingdom Mary and Zechariah foresaw, a kingdom that can’t coexist with injustice, and therefore, a kingdom that will inevitably be disruptive.

    If you’re comfortable in the world as it is, that fire will feel threatening.
    If you’re crushed by the way things are, that fire is hope.

    And then Jesus talks about his baptism.

    This isn’t the baptism in the Jordan with a dove and a voice descending from heaven.
    This is the baptism still to come, the cross.

    He calls it a baptism because it will immerse him completely.
    Not in water, but in rejection, suffering, death.

    And Luke lets us hear the strain in his voice:
    “How I am distressed until it’s completed!”

    The Greek translation of Jesus’ words here paints a picture of being pressed in on from all sides.
    Hemmed in. Surrounded.

    We don’t often think about Jesus feeling that way, but here he’s showing us the weight of what’s ahead. He knows what it will cost him. And still, he moves toward it.

    And in this baptism, he’s not just doing something for us, he’s showing us the shape of the life we’re baptized into.

    Our baptism is joy, yes, but not because it promises an easy life. It’s joy because we’ve been claimed by God in a way that even pain and death cannot undo.

    Then comes the part that makes us squirm: “I came not to bring peace, but division.”

    How do we reconcile this with the angel’s song at Christmas, “Peace on earth, goodwill to all”?

    Here’s the thing: The opposite of peace in this passage isn’t war, it’s division.
    And that division isn’t about petty arguments or Facebook comment threads.

    It’s the division that happens when someone’s allegiance shifts to God’s kingdom, and others around them are still loyal to the kingdoms of this world.

    In the first-century world of Luke’s audience, following Jesus could literally divide families.
    It could mean rejection from your synagogue. It could mean losing your safety under the Roman peace, the Pax Romana, because you now followed someone Rome had crucified.

    That’s not just theoretical. That’s real loss.

    Luke’s readers knew this from experience.
    Some had been cut off from family. Others from their livelihoods.

    And while we may not face that same cost in the modern Western church, many of us know what it feels like to have our faith put us at odds with people we love.

    Maybe your convictions about justice, mercy, or truth don’t align with your family’s expectations. Maybe your understanding of the gospel makes you feel like a stranger in your own community.

    The division Jesus speaks of isn’t the goal, but it’s often the consequence of living in alignment with God’s kingdom.

    Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
    Sometimes what we call “peace” is just avoidance.

    It’s the so called “peace” of never bringing up that one subject at the family table.
    The “peace” of looking the other way when a coworker is treated unfairly.
    The “peace” of churches deciding that unity is more important than confronting abuse or injustice.

    Jesus refuses that kind of peace. The peace he offers comes through truth, not the denial of it.

    And truth, when it challenges entrenched power or cherished illusions, often divides.

    Then Jesus turns to the crowd and says:
    “You know how to interpret conditions on earth and in the sky. How is it that you don’t know how to interpret the present time?”

    It’s a jab at our selective vision.
    We can see clouds and predict rain.
    We can feel a warm wind and know the heat is coming.

    But when it comes to recognizing the signs of God’s kingdom breaking in, we miss it.

    Why?

    Because it’s not what we expect.
    Because we’ve grown comfortable in the systems that God’s kingdom will upend.
    Because we prefer peace-as-complacency to peace-as-transformation.

    That’s the uncomfortable part of this text. It forces us to ask: What am I pretending not to see?

    What injustices do I look past because they don’t touch me?
    Where do I cling to unity when what’s needed is truth-telling?
    Or where do I cut people off when what’s needed is the hard work of reconciliation?

    Because division, like fire, is not inherently good or bad.
    It depends on its source.

    Division that comes from pride, ego, or control is toxic.
    Division that comes from God’s refining fire, the kind that calls us deeper into justice, mercy, humility, is life-giving, even if it hurts.

    I can’t help but notice Jesus’ honesty about his own stress here.
    And I wonder if some of us need permission to name our own.

    We live in a world that often feels like it’s on fire, politically, socially, environmentally.
    And in that kind of heat, stress can make us impatient. Reactive. Even apocalyptic in our own way, wishing destruction on the people we see as the cause of our pain.

    But Jesus’ fire is different.
    It’s not fueled by resentment.
    It’s fueled by love so fierce it refuses to let injustice stand.

    And his baptism, the suffering he will endure, is not to protect his own comfort, but to stand in solidarity with a hurting world.

    Luke shaped his telling of Jesus’ story with the needs of his community in mind.
    We, too, have to take this passage and ask: What does it mean for us, here, now?

    What signs in our “present time” reveal the need for God’s refining fire?

    • The way wealth shields some from consequences while others pay the full cost.
    • The fear that keeps us from acting on behalf of the vulnerable.
    • The subtle and not-so-subtle hierarchies we cling to in our communities and churches.

    If those are the clouds on the horizon, we know what kind of storm is coming.

    Maybe that’s why Jesus’ words are so urgent.
    Because we don’t have forever to get ready.
    The time to turn toward God’s kingdom is now.

    The poet Mary Oliver wrote, “Be ignited, or be gone.”
    It’s blunt, and it could have been a line in today’s gospel.

    Jesus is not offering us a cozy hearth fire to keep our personal lives warm.
    He’s offering us a wildfire that will burn away what doesn’t belong in God’s kingdom.

    And here’s the risk:
    We can resist that fire.
    We can try to control it, contain it, keep it safe.

    But when we do, we lose the very life it’s meant to bring.

    The good news is that Jesus has already walked this road.
    He’s already undergone his baptism.
    He’s already faced the fire.

    And he leads us not with a sword in hand, but with scars on his body.
    Not by avoiding division at all costs, but by loving people enough to tell the truth.

    So we follow him, not because it’s easy, not because it will keep everyone happy, but because his way leads to life.

    So here’s where we end this reflection, with the question Jesus might ask if he were standing here:

    You know how to interpret the weather.
    But do you know how to interpret your life right now?

    What is God trying to burn away?
    What is God trying to make new?

    And will you let the match be struck?

    Amen.

    By: Rev. Dave Wasson

  • Sermon for August 10th, 2025

    Sermon based on Luke 12:32-40

    Do not be afraid, little flock…

    That’s how Jesus introduces this new teaching, with a word of encouragement.

    Do not be afraid.

    And maybe you’ve heard a phrase like that so often that it no longer registers. Maybe it feels like a spiritual slogan, more “Hang in there” than holy ground. But in this passage, Jesus isn’t offering comfort as an afterthought. He’s starting there because everything that follows depends on us hearing those words: Do not be afraid.

    Because what comes next is not light fare.

    Jesus tells his audience to sell their possessions.
    Give their stuff away.
    Stay ready.
    They are told to keep their lamps lit.
    Be alert like servants waiting up for their master—or like a homeowner watching for a thief.

    A thief!

    What a curveball. Jesus goes from “Fear not, little flock,” to “I’m coming like a thief in the night.” Just when you think you’ve pinned him down as gentle shepherd, he reappears as divine burglar. Slipping through metaphors, shapeshifting from one identity to another—Master, Servant, Shepherd, Thief.

    The question is not just “Who is Jesus here?”
    It’s also “Who are we?”

    Are we sheep? Servants? Householders? Treasure-hoarders? Accomplices in a holy heist?

    I think the answer to all those questions is yes.

    Let’s start at the beginning, because the beginning is a blessing.

    “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

    Not sell you the kingdom.
    Not rent you the kingdom with conditions and hidden fees.
    Not loan you the kingdom for good behavior.

    Give.

    That line alone could be a sermon. It is a sentence that holds grace and promise, tenderness and joy. God is not a stingy cosmic landlord. God is not running a spiritual meritocracy. God is not waiting for you to earn your place.

    It is God’s good pleasure to give.

    But give what, exactly?

    The kingdom.

    And that word, kingdom, is a loaded word. When we talk about the Kingdom of God, we aren’t talking about a castle in the clouds, but a way of being. A whole new order for life. A reality where peace replaces fear, generosity eclipses greed, and community outshines competition. A world that runs not on dominance but on love. A world turned upside-down, or maybe finally turned right-side-up.

    So why the fear?

    Why does Jesus need to say “Do not be afraid” in the first place?

    Because fear is always the first barrier. It’s what keeps us clutching our stuff. It’s what keeps us from opening the door. It’s what keeps us from seeing Jesus when he shows up dressed as the poor, the hungry, the stranger.

    And fear is sneaky. It doesn’t just show up as panic or anxiety. Sometimes it looks like obsession with productivity. Sometimes it sounds like a voice in your head that says, “You better earn your keep.” Sometimes it disguises itself as wisdom: “Don’t be too generous—you might need that someday.”

    Fear also has a way of distorting vocation—our true calling.

    We end up building walls instead of relationships.
    We protect our assets instead of sharing them.
    We hoard time, treasure, and attention because we think there’s not enough to go around.

    But Jesus exposes the lie:
    There is enough.
    God is enough.
    The kingdom is already yours.

    Jesus tells the crowd,

    “Sell your possessions and give to those in need.”
    “Make wallets that don’t wear out.”
    “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

    This isn’t just about charity.
    It’s about orientation. The orientation of our lives.

    Jesus is telling us that money isn’t neutral. Our treasure shapes our hearts. And wherever we keep putting our money, our time, our energy—our hearts will follow.

    If we pour ourselves into accumulation, our hearts will live in anxiety.
    If we pour ourselves into generosity, our hearts will find rest.

    And it’s not about checking a box. It’s not “Give to charity and God will be pleased.” It’s more elemental than that. It’s about discovering that in giving, we become more human. We align ourselves with God’s dream for the world. We begin to give as God has given, like Christ has given, like the Holy Spirit has given, and in doing so, we become more of what God dreams for us.

    In Luke’s Gospel, giving to those in need isn’t just a moral obligation. It’s a spiritual practice. A holy defiance. A declaration that says, “I won’t let fear decide the value of my life.” It’s a refusal to let the logic of scarcity run the show. It’s solidarity—not from a safe distance, but shoulder to shoulder with those the world tries to forget.

    Jesus isn’t interested in a transactional world. He’s not asking the rich to throw scraps to the poor. He’s calling all of us to dismantle the very systems that keep some at the bottom. And that begins when we ask not just what we’re giving—but what we’re clinging to.

    Then Jesus pivots next to a set of strange instructions.

    “Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit.”
    “Be like servants waiting for their master.”
    “Stay ready. Stay awake.”

    It’s less about punctuality and more about posture.

    Jesus isn’t telling us to sit by the window like kids waiting for Santa. He’s saying: live alert. Keep your heart open. Stay dressed in compassion. Keep your lamp fueled with kindness.

    Because the moment you don’t expect him?

    That’s the moment he arrives.

    Maybe not in clouds and glory.
    Maybe not in lightning and trumpets.

    But, maybe he shows up in the neighbor who knocks at your door late at night.
    Maybe he’s the nurse who sits at the bedside of the dying patient.
    Maybe he’s the one who annoys you in the church pew—the one you keep avoiding.
    Maybe he’s the Holy Thief who breaks through your defenses and says, “You don’t need to live like this anymore.”

    This readiness isn’t passive. It’s participatory. It’s not “wait and see,” it’s “live as if.”
    Live as if the kingdom is already here.
    Live as if grace has the last word.
    Live as if Christ could be hidden in the person right in front of you.

    Now for the image we’d rather skip.

    The thief.

    “If the owner of the house had known when the thief was coming…”

    It’s not warm or comforting. It’s unnerving.

    But maybe it should be.
    Maybe we need a Jesus who can shake us up.
    A Jesus who breaks in, not to take, but to liberate.

    There’s a tradition, going back centuries, of describing Jesus as a holy thief. A burglar who sneaks past our security systems to steal what we should have let go of a long time ago: our illusions of control, our idols of certainty, our justifications for apathy.

    He doesn’t take our stuff.
    He takes our false priorities.

    Maybe the Holy Thief doesn’t just steal our fear. Maybe he steals our carefully constructed identities—the ones we build through titles, achievements, and image management. Maybe he sneaks into our certainty and replaces it with curiosity. Maybe he dismantles our theological scaffolding and leaves behind wonder. And maybe that’s what salvation looks like—not being protected from disruption, but being freed by it. The thief doesn’t leave with valuables. He leaves with the lies we thought were keeping us safe.

    Writer Alyce McKenzie calls Jesus, “a burglar who returns to steal our false priorities and overturn our unjust structures.” Because if he doesn’t? We’ll keep clinging to treasures that can’t last, building walls to keep the world at bay, numbing ourselves to injustice, and forgetting who we are.

    But when Jesus breaks in—when he startles us awake—something holy happens. We remember.
    We remember who we are.
    We remember what matters.
    We remember that we are not owners but stewards, not survivors but servants, not prisoners of fear but heirs of the kingdom.

    So what does all this mean?

    What does readiness look like in a world like ours?

    It doesn’t mean paranoia.
    It doesn’t mean predicting the end of the world.
    It doesn’t mean selling everything and living in a hut.

    It means trust. It means living in faith.

    It means letting go of fear and grabbing hold of grace.
    It means taking Sabbath seriously.
    It means giving something away—not because it earns you points, but because it sets your heart free.
    It means living as though Jesus might show up in the break room, at the food bank, in the child who needs your patience, or the elder who needs your presence.

    It means staying alert—not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

    Like a servant with a lamp in the window.
    Like a sheep who trusts the shepherd.
    Like a conspirator in a holy heist, helping the Thief overturn the world as it is.

    There is no tidy bow for this passage.

    Jesus ends with: “The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

    No timeline. No formula. No GPS tracker on the divine.

    Just a call to readiness. To wakefulness.

    And here’s the mystery:

    When the master returns, he does the unthinkable.

    He serves the servants.

    He puts on the apron and sets the table. He tends the tired. He feeds the faithful. It is not just a reversal of roles. It’s a revelation of God’s heart.

    That’s what this strange, shifting passage is really about.

    A God who gives freely.
    A Savior who steals fear.
    A Master who becomes servant.
    A Thief who leaves behind grace.

    So light your lamp.
    Wake your heart.
    And live like the kingdom is already yours.

    Because it is.

    So what about you?
    Where’s your treasure?
    What fears are holding you back from generosity, from presence, from love?
    What would it look like to live this week with your lamp lit and your hands open—not clenched in fear, but extended in grace?

    What would it take for you… to be ready?

    Amen.

    By: Rev. Dave Wasson

  • Sermon for August 3rd, 2025

    Sermon based on Luke 12:13-21

    There’s a man yelling from the crowd.
    He’s not raising a hand, not waiting for a moment of pause.
    He just blurts out: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me!”

    You can almost hear the collective sigh of the crowd.
    This man isn’t really interested in Jesus’ teaching.
    Especially not the kind of teaching that involves soul work or repentance or grace.
    He’s here with a personal grievance, a familiar one.
    Something about money. Something about family.
    Something about fairness. Or the lack of it.

    But Jesus doesn’t take the bait.

    He doesn’t step in as a financial planner, an arbitrator, or a judge. Instead, he offers a warning that echoes louder than any courtroom decision ever could:
    “Watch out! Guard yourself against all kinds of greed. After all, one’s life isn’t determined by one’s possessions, even when someone is very wealthy.”

    And then he tells a story to get his point across. As he so often does.

    It’s a story about a man, a farmer, who had it all, and still had nothing. It’s a parable about the lie of self-sufficiency. A story about barns and bigger barns, about ego and illusion, about the dangerous gamble of thinking we have all the time in the world.

    It’s a story about a fool.

    And perhaps the question that floats over the whole scene, hovering just behind the man’s request and Jesus’ response, is this: “What is enough?”

    That’s the question that drives the man in the crowd. It’s the question that shapes the parable.
    And if we’re honest, it’s the question that lives in most of our bank accounts, our calendars, our anxiety. How much is enough? Enough money? Enough house? Enough time? Enough success?

    That’s where this story wants to go, not to the technicalities of inheritance law,
    but to the deeper, messier terrain of the human soul.

    At first glance, this farmer in the parable seems anything but foolish.

    He’s experienced a bumper crop. His business is thriving.
    He’s not reckless or criminal. He doesn’t exploit his workers or cheat the system.
    He’s just… successful.

    And… he’s planning ahead. Because of his success, he decides to build bigger barns. He wants to save for the future.
    He’s setting himself up to eat, drink, and be merry. Isn’t that what we’re taught to do? Financial advisors, retirement planners, even well-meaning parents might praise his planning.

    But Jesus calls him a fool. Not because he’s rich. Not because he plans. But because he thinks his wealth can secure his soul.

    The barn building farmer talks to himself, plans with himself, dreams for himself.
    Yet, when God interrupts his internal monologue, we realize the truth: he never once included God in the equation. Never once considered his neighbor. He never looked beyond his own reflection. Everything in his planning was about himself.

    His problem wasn’t the barns. It was the belief that if he could just build enough, store enough, protect enough… he’d finally be safe, finally be whole, finally have peace.

    But life doesn’t work that way. The foolishness isn’t in the fortune, it’s in the forgetting.

    Forgetting that the land produces because of rain and sun and soil and workers and grace. Forgetting that barns don’t make you invincible. Forgetting that life is not a commodity you can store up in a silo. Forgetting how fragile life is, and that it can be taken from us at any time.

    For most of us, our last breaths won’t be scheduled like we might schedule some committee meeting.

    From my perspective, the fool isn’t wicked, he’s just blind. Blind to the limits of his own power. Blind to the needs around him. Blind to the source of the blessings he’s been given.

    That’s what makes it a tragedy. Not that he dies. But that he lived without ever really seeing.

    The rich man’s fatal error isn’t ambition, it’s isolation.

    He hoards instead of shares. He calculates instead of thanks. He prepares for decades of leisure without once reckoning with the fragile nature of human life. And it’s not just him. This illusion runs deep in our own world.

    We’re told that more is always better. More savings. More square footage. More likes. More status. More control. We are taught to fear scarcity so deeply that we worship at the altar of accumulation. But the gospel keeps whispering: you’re not in control of your own breath.

    “You fool,” God says. “This very night your life is being demanded of you.” The barns didn’t save him. They never could.

    What’s worse, all that grain, all those goods? They go to someone else now. Maybe someone generous. Maybe someone foolish in their own way. Either way, it’s out of his hands.

    And that’s the sobering truth of it all, none of it lasts. Not the barns. Not the crops. Not even us.

    We often think the opposite of faith is doubt. But maybe it’s not. Maybe the opposite of faith is control. And that’s what this parable exposes: a man trying to control the uncontrollable.

    Jesus isn’t telling us to be reckless with money. He’s not saying we shouldn’t plan. But he is warning us: don’t fall in love with your plans. Don’t mistake your bank account for safety.

    Because the more we try to control our lives, the more our lives start to control us. This man became a slave to his barns. Not out of malice, but out of fear. He wanted to feel safe. And who among us doesn’t?

    But the tragedy of fear is that it makes us turn inward. Fear convinces us that the only way to survive is to close the doors, tighten the grip, build the walls. And fear always tells us: You’re alone. You better look out for yourself. No one else will.

    But Jesus comes along and tells a different story. One where the birds are fed and the lilies clothed. One where your security doesn’t come from grain, but from grace.

    Jesus closes the parable with a haunting contrast: “So it is with those who store up treasure for themselves but are not rich toward God.” That phrase, rich toward God, isn’t just poetic. It’s the pivot point.

    It raises the question: what does it mean to be rich in God’s economy?

    It looks like the tax collector Zacchaeus, who gives away half his possessions and finds salvation in his own living room. It looks like the widow who offers her two copper coins—not because it will fund a capital campaign, but because she trusts the God who sees her offering as priceless.

    It looks like storing up treasure in heaven, not in the sense of heavenly bank accounts,
    but in lives lived generously, joyfully, and compassionately.

    To be rich toward God is to live in such a way that your abundance overflows into someone else’s emptiness.
    It’s the farmer who, instead of building bigger barns, gives away his surplus.
    It’s the family that opens its home to foster kids.
    It’s the church that builds a food pantry instead of a fancier fellowship hall.

    It’s not about quantity, it’s about orientation.
    It’s about stewardship, not ownership.
    It’s about generosity, not scarcity.

    And all of this is not just a private virtue. It’s a public witness.

    In a culture that worships accumulation, being rich toward God is a radical act.
    It’s a way of saying: I don’t find my worth in what I own. I believe in a God who gives enough. Who calls me to share. Who anchors my soul in something deeper than possessions.

    Jesus’ warning against greed isn’t about shame, it’s about freedom.

    Greed is the great unspoken anxiety of our time.
    It masquerades as success. It dresses up as ambition.
    It hides behind phrases like “being smart with money” or “just being prepared.”

    But greed is ultimately a belief that we can protect ourselves from pain, from loss, from death.

    It’s a belief that our lives can be measured in possessions, rather than purpose.

    This is why Jesus speaks so often about money. Not because he’s against it.
    But because he knows how easily it can become our master.

    Greed is the lie that says: “If you just had more, then you’d be okay.”
    Jesus tells the truth that says: “You already belong. You are already loved. You already have enough.”

    You can own things. That’s not the issue. The issue is when the things start to own you.

    If we’re honest, many of our modern churches are made of barn builders.

    We build programs, savings accounts, endowments. We plan carefully. We think strategically.

    And none of that is bad. As a matter of fact, it’s a good thing. But, in the midst of our planning,  we must always ask: to what end?

    Are we building bigger barns for our own comfort, or giving more away for the sake of the gospel?

    In stewardship season, (ours is coming up in September this year) we often ask for pledges. But what we’re really asking for is participation in a different kind of economy. One where generosity is the currency. Where enough is truly enough. Where we don’t need to be afraid, because it is the Father’s good pleasure to give us the kingdom.

    That’s not a metaphor. That’s a promise.

    I think we all have a little bit of the barn builder in us.

    We want to feel secure. We want to relax and be merry.
    We want to control what we can.

    But Jesus invites us to something braver.
    Something riskier. Something holier.

    He invites us to loosen our grip. To live generously.
    To count our lives not by what we own, but by what we give.

    And in the end, when the barns fall and the dust settles, may it be said of us:
    They were rich; rich in love, rich in mercy, rich toward God.

    Amen.

    By: Rev. Dave Wasson