Night Blessing with Biblical Verses - In English and Portuguese

 

A Night Blessing: The Dust We Hold

As the shadows lengthen and the day's heat upon the ground begins to cool, may you find a moment of honest peace.

This is the night where we remember the truth we'd rather forget: that we are creatures of dust, and to dust we shall return. The ground beneath us, once blessed, now bears the thorn and thistle of our own making. It yields its fruit only by the sweat of our brow, a constant, quiet reminder of a fracture we cannot heal. That is the bitter truth we carry. The serpent's whisper still echoes in our ears, promising we can be like God, even as we feel the ache in our bones from a long day's labor.

But hear this in the quiet: "I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy, and executes justice for the poor." (Psalm 140:12)

He sees you, weary and dust-stained. He knows the struggle is real. He knows the curses of this broken world are not just ancient words, but the daily reality of hunger, of want, of injustice. And He is not a distant God who merely observes. He is the one who bends down to the dust.

And so, a gentle challenge as you lay your head down:

If you have spent your day saying, “Go in peace; be warmed and filled,” without giving the things needed for the body, what good is that? (James 2:15-16). But do not let this thought condemn you; let it call you.

In the silence before sleep, ask not just, "What did I accomplish?" but, "Whose dust did I stand beside?" Did you see the brother or sister in need? Did you offer the coat, the bread, the simple dignity of being seen? For this is the justice the Lord executes—not from a throne far away, but through hands made from the very same dust as our own.

Tonight, rest in the tension. Rest in the truth of the curse—it is real, and you are not wrong to feel its weight. But rest also in the call. You are named, even in the dust. You are sent out from the garden, yes, but not abandoned. You go with a promise and a purpose: to tend to the dust of others, to be a small sign of the justice He maintains.

Sleep well, you creature of dust, held by the God who formed you from it, who walks with you through the thorns, and who will, one day, make all things new.

Amen.

Uma Bênção Noturna: O Pó que Seguramos

Ao cair da noite e com o calor do dia sobre a terra começando a esfriar, que você encontre um momento de paz honesta.

Esta é a noite em que lembramos a verdade que preferiríamos esquecer: que somos criaturas do pó, e ao pó retornaremos. O chão sob nossos pés, outrora abençoado, agora produz espinhos e cardos por obra de nossas próprias mãos. Ele só dá o seu fruto com o suor do nosso rosto, um lembrete constante e silencioso de uma fratura que não podemos curar. Essa é a verdade amarga que carregamos. O sussurro da serpente ainda ecoa em nossos ouvidos, prometendo que podemos ser como Deus, mesmo enquanto sentimos a dor em nossos ossos após um longo dia de trabalho.

Mas ouça isto no silêncio: "Sei que o Senhor defenderá a causa do necessitado e fará justiça aos pobres." (Salmos 140:12)

Ele vê você, cansado e manchado de pó. Ele sabe que a luta é real. Ele sabe que as maldições deste mundo quebrado não são apenas palavras antigas, mas a realidade diária da fome, da carência, da injustiça. E Ele não é um Deus distante que apenas observa. Ele é Aquele que Se inclina até o pó.

E então, um gentil desafio ao deitar a cabeça:

Se você passou o dia dizendo: "Vá em paz, aqueça-se e alimente-se", sem dar-lhe o necessário para o corpo, que proveito há nisso? (Tiago 2:15-16). Mas não deixe que este pensamento o condene; deixe que ele o chame.

No silêncio que antecede o sono, pergunte não apenas: "O que eu realizei?", mas: "Junto ao pó de quem eu estive?". Você viu o irmão ou a irmã necessitados? Você ofereceu o agasalho, o pão, a simples dignidade de ser visto? Pois esta é a justiça que o Senhor executa—não de um trono distante, mas através de mãos feitas do mesmo pó que o nosso.

Hoje à noite, descanse na tensão. Descanse na verdade da maldição—ela é real, e você não está errado em sentir seu peso. Mas descanse também no chamado. Você é nomeado, mesmo no pó. Você é enviado para fora do jardim, sim, mas não abandonado. Você segue com uma promessa e um propósito: cuidar do pó dos outros, ser um pequeno sinal da justiça que Ele mantém.

Durma bem, criatura do pó, sustentada pelo Deus que a formou dele, que caminha com você através dos espinhos e que, um dia, fará novas todas as coisas.

Amém.

 

Night Blessing with Rain and Scripture - in English and Portuguese

 

Night Blessing (with Sarcasm and Hope)

O Lord, we thank you for the rain.

Thank you for the impeccable scheduling—ensuring it arrived just as the last hint of light and good mood had evaporated. We needed the reminder that we are, in fact, not in control, and that our plans are but a fleeting suggestion to the cosmos.

We thank you for the truth of this day, so vividly exposed in the Word.
From Jeremiah 31:7, we hear the shout: "Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob, and raise shouts for the chief of the nations; proclaim, give praise, and say, ‘O Lord, save your people, the remnant of Israel.’"
We give you thanks for the sheer, audacious command to sing. To sing when the forecast is doom. To shout when the world feels like a damp basement. You call us to be a remnant of joy, a stubborn chorus of gladness in a world that has every right to be cynical. We are grateful for that holy, ridiculous hope.

And from Luke 1:68, Zechariah’s song breaks through the drizzle: "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed his people."
Thank you for visiting us. Even here. Even now. Even when we’ve been hiding behind our own pathetic fig leaves of composure, pretending we haven't made a mess of things. You show up. You don't just observe from a dry, comfortable distance; you wade into the mud with us.

Which brings us, of course, to the sermon text for Invocavit Sunday, from Genesis 3.
Thank you for the exposed truth. For the moment when the fig leaves fall away and we stand there, shivering and caught. Thank you that the question in the garden is not "What have you done?" as if you didn't know, but "Where are you?" You come looking for us in the twilight, in the very moment of our shame. You call to us in the dust from which we were made and to which we will return.

So tonight, as the rain turns the ground to mud—that blessed, cursed, life-giving dust—we remember.
We remember the curse on the serpent, and the promise hidden within it: that the offspring of the woman would crush the serpent's head. That in the very place of our failure, a rescue mission was launched.

So bless this night, Lord. Bless this damp, dusty, complicated life.
Bless our attempts at good humor, even when it's tinged with sarcasm. For sarcasm is just hope with a scar, faith that's been in the trenches.

Thank you for the rain that soaks the earth and exposes our need for shelter. And thank you for being the shelter itself.

Amen.

Now go, track mud into the house. It's just holy ground with a warranty.

 

Uma Bênção Noturna (com Sarcasmo e Esperança)

Ô, Senhor, nós te agradecemos pela chuva.

Obrigado pela pontaria impecável—garantindo que ela chegasse bem na hora em que o último resquício de luz e bom humor já tinha evaporado. A gente precisava do lembrete de que não estamos no controle, e que nossos planos são meras sugestões ao cosmos, que duram o que duram.

Nós te agradecemos pela verdade deste dia, tão vividamente exposta na Tua Palavra.
Em Jeremias 31:7, ouvimos o brado: "Porque assim diz o Senor: Cantai sobre Jacó com alegria, e exultai por causa da principal das nações; proclamai, cantai louvores, e dizei: Salva, Senhor, o teu povo, o restante de Israel."
Nós te damos graças pela ordem simples e audaciosa de cantar. Cantar quando a previsão do tempo é de destruição. Exultar quando o mundo parece um porão úmido. Tu nos chamas para ser um resto de alegria, um coro teimoso de contentamento num mundo que tem todo o direito de ser cínico. Somos gratos por essa esperança santa e ridícula.

E em Lucas 1:68, o cântico de Zacarias rompe o chuvisco: "Bendito seja o Senhor, Deus de Israel, porque visitou e remiu o seu povo."
Obrigado por nos visitar. Mesmo aqui. Mesmo agora. Mesmo quando estamos escondidos atrás das nossas folhas de figueira da compostura, fingindo que não fizemos bagunça. Tu apareces. Não ficas apenas observando de uma distância seca e confortável; tu entras na lama com a gente.

O que nos leva, é claro, ao texto do sermão para o Domingo de Invocavit, em Gênesis 3.
Obrigado pela verdade exposta. Pelo momento em que as folhas de figueira caem e a gente fica ali, tremendo e pego no pulo. Obrigado porque a pergunta no jardim não é "O que foi que você fez?", como se Tu não soubesses, mas sim "Onde está você?" Tu vens nos procurar no entardecer, no exato momento da nossa vergonha. Tu nos chamas no pó do qual fomos feitos e ao qual voltaremos.

Então, nesta noite, enquanto a chuva transforma o chão em lama—aquele pó abençoado, amaldiçoado e gerador de vida—nós nos lembramos.
Lembramo-nos da maldição sobre a serpente, e da promessa escondida nela: que o descendente da mulher esmagaria a cabeça da serpente. Que no próprio lugar do nosso fracasso, uma missão de resgate foi lançada.

Então, abençoa esta noite, Senhor. Abençoa esta vida úmida, empoeirada e complicada.
Abençoa as nossas tentativas de bom humor, mesmo quando são tingidas de sarcasmo. Porque o sarcasmo nada mais é do que a esperança com uma cicatriz; é a fé que esteve nas trincheiras.

Obrigado pela chuva que encharca a terra e expõe a nossa necessidade de abrigo. E obrigado por seres Tu mesmo o abrigo.

Amém.

Agora, vai lá e entra com lama dentro de casa. É só chão sagrado com garantia.

 

Sermon for the Invocavit Sunday - Gen 3

 

The Exposed Truth: Cursed and Called in the Dust

Text: Genesis 3:1-19 (20-24)

Liebe Gemeinde, Familie, Broers en Susters.

We gather this morning in the shadow of a very old, very familiar story. The story of a garden, a fruit, and a fall. But before we dismiss it as a children's Sunday School tale, we must recognize that Genesis 3 is not primarily a story about the past. It is a mirror. It is a diagnostic tool held up to the human heart—and to the heart of our nation.

Here, in this room, we have a unique vantage point. We are German and Afrikaans. Our histories are intertwined—through language, through theology, through the complex and often painful story of this land. We know something about building beautiful gardens, about cultivating order, about striving for success. And we also know something about the "Serpent." We know what it is like to be told, "Did God really say?"—to question the boundaries God has set, and to reach for a knowledge and a power that was never meant to be ours.

(Part I: The Anatomy of Temptation – The Lie We Still Believe)

Let us look closely at the temptation. The Serpent is not a grotesque monster; he is subtle, beautiful, and persuasive. He does not begin by denying God outright. He begins by sowing a tiny seed of doubt: "Did God actually say...?"

This is the first crack in the foundation of trust. The Serpent twists God's generous command—"You may surely eat of every tree of the garden" (Genesis 2:16)—into a picture of a stingy, restrictive God. "He is holding out on you," the whisper suggests. "If you really want to be like Him, to be wise, to be in control... you must take matters into your own hands."

This temptation is the engine of history, isn't it? It is the temptation to be our own gods. To define good and evil for ourselves, rather than trusting the definition of our Creator. And we, as two communities with a deep cultural memory of hard work, (Ordnung and orde), are particularly susceptible. We believe that if we just build the right structures, pass the right laws, work hard enough, we can create our own paradise. We can be masters of our own fate.

But the fruit of that self-deification is always the same: shame and hiding.
Their eyes are opened, but not to glorious wisdom. They are opened to nakedness, to vulnerability, to fear. And what do they do? They sew fig leaves—a frantic, human attempt to cover themselves. And then, when they hear the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden, the God who created them, who loved them, who gave them everything... they hide.

This is the great tragedy of sin. It does not make us powerful; it makes us fugitives. It severs the relationship for which we were made.

(Part II: The South African Context – Nakedness and Hiding)

My brothers and sisters, can we not see our own national story here? For generations, we built a garden. We called it "separate development." We believed we were creating order, protecting culture, being wise stewards. But the Serpent's lie was at the heart of it. The lie that one group could define good and evil for another. The lie that we could be like God, deciding who was worthy and who was not.

And when the fruit was eaten—when the injustice became undeniable, when the world's eyes were opened—what was the result? Nakedness. Fear. The fragile foundations of our society were exposed. We were not as strong, as righteous, or as orderly as we believed.

And how did we respond? For some, it was a frantic sewing of fig leaves—trying to justify the past, to cover the shame with arguments and narratives that protected our own image. For others, it was hiding. Hiding in the lager of our own language group, our own culture, our own pain, afraid to come out into the light of a new, unfamiliar South Africa.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission was a moment when the voice of God walked in the garden and said, "Where are you?" It was an invitation to stop hiding, to stop sewing fig leaves, and to come into the open. But the shame was, and is, so deep. The blame-shifting we learned from Adam and Eve is our mother tongue. "The woman you gave me..." Adam says, blaming both God and his partner. "The volk you gave me..." we whisper, blaming the system, the past, or the other group for our current discomfort.

(Part III: The Lutheran Lens – The Theology of the Cross in the Curse)

But here is where our Lutheran theology becomes not just a doctrine, but a lifeline. We are a people of the Theologia Crucis, the Theology of the Cross. This theology teaches us that God is most profoundly revealed not in power and glory, but in weakness and suffering. And we see a strange, painful glimpse of this in the curse itself.

God does not destroy them. He comes looking for them. He does not abandon them in their shame. He speaks. And His words are a diagnosis of the broken world we have chosen.

To the woman: pain in childbirth, struggle in relationship.
To the man: a cursed ground, thorns and thistles, the futility of toil.
To the Serpent: the first promise of the Gospel—the Protevangelium. "He [the seed of the woman] shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel."

This is not just punishment; it is a description of life apart from God. The world we have made for ourselves is a world of thorns. We work so hard—we Germans with our Fleiß, we Afrikaners with our deursettingsvermoë—and yet, the ground fights back. The economy is unpredictable. Relationships fracture. Our best efforts yield frustration. We see the thorns in our beautiful gardens.

But God does not leave us in our fig leaves. The most beautiful, tender, and deeply theological verse in this entire passage is verse 21: "And the Lord God made for Adam and for his wife garments of skins and clothed them."

An animal had to die. Blood was shed to cover their shame. Their pathetic, self-made fig leaves were replaced with a divine covering, purchased at the cost of a life. This is the first sacrifice. This is the first whisper of the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. This is our theology: we cannot cover our own shame, whether it is personal guilt or the collective shame of our history. We cannot sew enough fig leaves of good works, political correctness, or cultural achievement. Only God can clothe us. And He does so through the shedding of blood—ultimately, the blood of His own Son on a cross, a cross that grew from the very wood of a tree, a tree of curse that became the tree of life for us.

(Part IV: Driven Out, But Not Abandoned)

Finally, Adam and Eve are driven from the Garden. They are barred from the Tree of Life. This seems harsh. But in His mercy, God prevents them from living forever in a state of sin and brokenness. The exile from Eden is an act of severe mercy. It is the beginning of the long journey back to the true Tree of Life, which stands not in a perfect garden, but on a barren hill called Golgotha.

We, as a nation, have been driven from our gardens too. The garden of apartheid is closed to us, and the angel with the flaming sword guards its entrance. We cannot go back. We should not want to go back. Our task is not to mourn the lost garden, but to live as people of the promise in the "east of Eden"—in the world of thorns, hard work, and fractured relationships.

(Conclusion)

So, what does it mean for this congregation, this union of German and Afrikaans believers, to live east of Eden, in South Africa today?

It means we stop hiding. It means we stop blaming. It means we stop trying to clothe ourselves with our own righteousness, our own culture, our own history. It means we come, naked and ashamed, and allow God to clothe us in the righteousness of Christ.

It means we look at the "thorns and thistles" of our nation—the poverty, the inequality, the racial tension—not with despair, but with the honest eyes of the Theology of the Cross. This is the world we made. But it is also the world God entered in Jesus Christ. He wore a crown of thorns, thorns that were the fruit of our sin, to redeem the cursed ground.

It means we live as people of the Protevangelium. We live in the hope that the serpent's head is crushed. The power of the lie is broken, even if its poison still lingers. The final victory belongs to the Seed of the Woman, Jesus Christ.

We leave this place not to return to Eden, but to follow the crucified and risen Lord into the world. We go with our shame covered, not by fig leaves, but by His grace. We go with our eyes open, not to the "knowledge of good and evil" that leads to death, but to the knowledge of the Gospel that leads to life.

And we go together. German and Afrikaans. One in our confession of sin. One in our need for a covering. And one in our hope.

Danke sei Gott. Aan God al die eer. Amen.

 

Night Blessing with Rain and Hope. In English and Portuguese

 A Night Blessing for the Weary, the Hopeful, and the Slightly Damp

So, the rain is falling. And yes, we are grateful. Genuinely. We see you, God of mercy, softening the hard ground, giving the thirsty earth a long, slow drink. We thank you for this water, for the life it brings, for the way it washes the dust from the air.

But… (and it’s a very hopeful, very human, very faithful but)… could you maybe also send the end of the drought now?

We’re holding both, Lord. The gratitude for the rain and the aching hope for the dry spell to break. The blessing in our hands and the longing in our hearts.

And speaking of holding both, we come to you this night with the weight of our own Egypt. The Ash Wednesday sermon on that old Exodus story echoes in our minds. We remember that Pharaoh, who did not know Joseph, looked at God's people and saw only a threat, only a workforce. He didn't see their names, their stories, their hopes. He saw what they could do for him, and he loaded them with bitterness.

And if we’re honest, God, we have our own bitterness, too. The grudges we’ve been gripping so long our knuckles have turned white. The old disappointments that have become a familiar, heavy coat we refuse to take off. The names we’ve been called, and the names we’ve called ourselves in our lowest moments. Bitterness is a name for the thing that has made us bricks without straw for far too long.

So tonight, in the quiet, we want to do the brave, Ash Wednesday thing. We want to name them. Just to you. Just for a moment.

(A pause for quiet, for the listener to name their own bitterness in their heart)

We hand them over, these heavy names. We whisper them into the sound of the rain.

And now, God, we lean into your promise. Because you, the God of the Exodus, are also the God who says, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:18-19)

We want to perceive it! Give us new eyes.

And you are the God who declares, through Paul, that “if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The old has gone. The bitterness we just named? Gone. The Pharaohs of our past? Out of power. The drought? It doesn’t get the final word.

So tonight, we go to sleep not as brick-makers for an empire of anxiety, but as beloved children in a new creation.

Bless us with rest, Lord. A deep, defiant rest that declares our trust in your new thing, even before we see it. Let the rain on the roof be not a sound of sorrow, but the percussion of your patience, the rhythm of your preparing the ground for the unimaginable green that is coming.

And when we wake up tomorrow, give us the very good humor to smile, to look for the first sign of your new thing, and to say, with a wink and a prayer, "Okay, God. The rain is lovely. But about that drought…"

We trust you for both.

In the name of the One who makes all things new, Amen.

 

Uma Bênção Noturna para os Cansados, os Esperançosos e os Ligeiramente Molhados

Então, a chuva está caindo. E sim, somos gratos. Genuinamente. Nós Te vemos, Deus de misericórdia, amolecendo o solo duro, dando à terra sedenta uma bebida longa e lenta. Agradecemos por esta água, pela vida que ela traz, pela maneira como lava a poeira do ar.

Mas... (e é um mas muito esperançoso, muito humano, muito cheio de fé)... será que Tu poderias também mandar o fim da seca agora?

Estamos segurando as duas coisas, Senhor. A gratidão pela chuva *e* a esperança dolorida de que este período de estiagem acabe. A bênção em nossas mãos e o anseio em nossos corações.

E por falar em segurar duas coisas, chegamos a Ti esta noite com o peso do nosso próprio Egito. O sermão da Quarta-feira de Cinzas sobre aquela antiga história do Êxodo ecoa em nossas mentes. Lembramo-nos daquele Faraó, que não conheceu José, olhou para o povo de Deus e viu apenas uma ameaça, apenas mão de obra. Ele não via seus nomes, suas histórias, suas esperanças. Ele via apenas o que eles poderiam fazer por ele, e os sobrecarregou com amargura.

E se formos honestos, Deus, nós também temos a nossa própria amargura. As mágoas que estamos segurando com tanta força que nossos nós dos dedos já estão brancos. As velhas decepções que se tornaram um casaco familiar e pesado que nos recusamos a tirar. Os nomes pelos quais fomos chamados, e os nomes que chamamos a nós mesmos em nossos momentos mais baixos. A amargura é o nome para aquilo que nos tem feito fazer tijolos sem palha por tempo demais.

Então, esta noite, no silêncio, queremos fazer a coisa corajosa, a coisa de Quarta-feira de Cinzas. Queremos nomeá-las. Só para Ti. Só por um momento.

(Uma pausa para o silêncio, para que o ouvinte nomeie sua própria amargura em seu coração)

Nós as entregamos, esses nomes pesados. Nós as sussurramos no som da chuva.

E agora, Deus, nos apoiamos na Tua promessa. Porque Tu, o Deus do Êxodo, és também o Deus que diz: “Não vos lembreis das coisas passadas, nem considereis as antigas. Eis que faço coisa nova, que está saindo à luz; porventura, não a percebeis?” (Isaías 43:18-19)

Queremos percebê-la! Dá-nos novos olhos.

E Tu és o Deus que declara, através de Paulo, que “se alguém está em Cristo, é nova criatura; as coisas antigas já passaram; eis que se fizeram novas.” (2 Coríntios 5:17)

O velho já passou. A amargura que acabamos de nomear? Já passou. Os Faraós do nosso passado? Estão sem poder. A seca? Não tem a palavra final.

Então, esta noite, vamos dormir não como fabricantes de tijolos para um império de ansiedade, mas como filhos amados em uma nova criação.

Abençoa-nos com descanso, Senhor. Um descanso profundo e desafiador que declara a nossa confiança na Tua coisa nova, mesmo antes de a vermos. Deixa que a chuva no telhado não seja um som de tristeza, mas a percussão da Tua paciência, o ritmo do Teu preparar o solo para o verde inimaginável que está por vir.

E quando acordarmos amanhã, dá-nos o bom humor para sorrir, para procurar o primeiro sinal da Tua coisa nova, e para dizer, com um sorriso e uma oração: "Ok, Deus. A chuva está uma delícia. Mas sobre aquela seca…"

Nós confiamos em Ti para ambas as coisas.

Em nome Daquele que faz novas todas as coisas, Amém.

 

Night blessing on the path of our bitterness. in English and Portuguese

 

Night Blessing with Scripture and Ash Wednesday Theme

 

And now, as the day exhales its last weary breath, let us consider this blessing of the night. It is not a blessing of loud jubilation, for the heart is a crowded tenement and the noise of the day still echoes in its hallways. It is a blessing for the tired, for those whose names are written in a book they have never seen, for those who carry a brick in their soul.

We look to the psalmist, who cried out, “Praise our God, all peoples, let the sound of his praise be heard; he has preserved our lives and kept our feet from slipping.” A fine blessing, a good blessing. But tonight, let us be honest. Our feet have slipped. Not on the mud of the street, but on the polished floors of forgetting. We have forgotten the names of our own sorrows. We have let them become unnamed, like the children of Israel in that new Egypt, where a new king arose who did not know Joseph. He did not know the story, and so the story became one of brick and mortar, of bitterness and hard service.

So tonight, on the cusp of Ash Wednesday, we look toward that other story, from the book of Exodus. The new king says, “Come, let us deal shrewdly with them.” And the shrewdness, the deep and lasting cruelty, was not just the lash, not just the mortar, but the erasure. The taskmasters were made ruthless, but the true bitterness was that the people’s lives were made bitter with hard service. The bitterness was the nameless, endless toil.

This is the bitterness we carry. It is the bitterness of a slight from years ago that we cannot quite recall, yet it sits in our gut like a stone. It is the bitterness of a word unspoken, a love unreturned, a promise that crumbled to dust. It is the bitterness of a grief so old we have forgotten its original face, yet it colors every morning gray. We carry it with us, these unnamed bricks, and we build with them the walls of our own private Egypt.

And so, this blessing is a naming. It is a small, courageous act of defiance against the new king who would have us forget.

We look now to the words of Paul to the Romans, a prayer for a different kind of endurance. “May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you the same attitude of mind toward each other that Christ Jesus had, so that with one mind and one voice you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

This is the blessing for the night. Not that the bitterness will vanish, but that the God of endurance—the God who saw the affliction of Israel, who heard their cry—will give us the courage to name it. To look at the brick in our hand and say, This is the brick of my father’s silence. To look at the mortar and whisper, This is the mortar of my own fear. To name the taskmaster that lives within us, the one who shouts, “Work faster! Forget! There is no time for tears!”

To name it is to begin to see it. And to see it, in the presence of a God who gives encouragement, is to begin to let it go.

So may you, this night, have the endurance to sit with your unnamed bitterness. May you have the encouragement to give it a name, however small, however trembling. May you find, in the God who preserves our lives, the quiet space to let one brick fall from your weary hands.

And in that falling, may you find a moment of the same mind, the same heart, that knows the end of the story is not Egypt, but a path through the sea.

Sleep. Rest your burdened soul. The naming can wait for the morning light, or for the ash on your brow tomorrow. Tonight, let the God of endurance simply hold you, and the weight you carry. Amen.

 

Bênção da Noite com Escrituras e Tema da Quarta-feira de Cinzas

 

E agora, enquanto o dia exala seu último e cansado suspiro, consideremos esta bênção da noite. Não é uma bênção de jubilo ruidoso, pois o coração é um cortiço lotado e o barulho do dia ainda ecoa em seus corredores. É uma bênção para os cansados, para aqueles cujos nomes estão escritos num livro que nunca viram, para aqueles que carregam um tijolo na alma.

Olhamos para o salmista, que clamou: "Bendizei, ó povos, ao nosso Deus; e fazei ouvir a voz do seu louvor. Ele preserva a nossa alma da morte, e não consente que resvalem os nossos pés." Uma bela bênção, uma boa bênção. Mas esta noite, sejamos honestos. Nossos pés resvalaram. Não na lama da rua, mas nos assoalhos polidos do esquecimento. Esquecemos os nomes de nossas próprias mágoas. Deixamos que elas se tornassem inominadas, como os filhos de Israel naquele novo Egito, onde um novo rei se levantou que não conhecia José. Ele não conhecia a história, e por isso a história se tornou uma de tijolo e cal, de amargura e servidão dura.

Então esta noite, na véspera da Quarta-feira de Cinzas, olhamos para aquela outra história, do livro do Êxodo. O novo rei diz: "Eia, usemos de sabedoria para com eles". E a sabedoria, a crueldade profunda e duradoura, não foi apenas o açoite, não foi apenas a argamassa, mas o apagamento. Os feitores foram impiedosos, mas a verdadeira amargura era que a vida do povo se tornara amarga pela dura servidão. A amargura era o trabalho interminável e sem nome.

Esta é a amargura que carregamos. É a amargura de uma desfeita de anos atrás que não podemos recordar bem, mas que está entalada no estômago como uma pedra. É a amargura de uma palavra não dita, um amor não correspondido, uma promessa que virou pó. É a amargura de uma dor tão antiga que esquecemos seu rosto original, mas que ainda assim tinge todas as manhãs de cinza. Nós a carregamos conosco, esses tijolos sem nome, e construímos com eles as paredes do nosso Egito particular.

E, portanto, esta bênção é um ato de nomear. É um pequeno e corajoso ato de desafio contra o novo rei que quer que esqueçamos.

Olhamos agora para as palavras de Paulo aos Romanos, uma oração por um tipo diferente de perseverança. "Ora, o Deus de paciência e consolação vos conceda o mesmo sentimento uns para com os outros, segundo Cristo Jesus. Para que concordes, a uma boca, glorifiqueis ao Deus e Pai de nosso Senhor Jesus Cristo."

Esta é a bênção para a noite. Não que a amargura vá desaparecer, mas que o Deus da perseverança — o Deus que viu a aflição de Israel, que ouviu seu clamor — nos dará a coragem de nomeá-la. De olhar para o tijolo em nossa mão e dizer: Este é o tijolo do silêncio de meu pai. De olhar para a argamassa e sussurrar: Esta é a argamassa do meu próprio medo. De nomear o feitor que vive dentro de nós, aquele que grita: "Trabalhe mais depressa! Esqueça! Não há tempo para lágrimas!"

Nomear é começar a ver. E ver, na presença de um Deus que dá consolação, é começar a deixar ir.

Assim, que você tenha, esta noite, a perseverança para sentar-se com sua amargura inominada. Que você tenha a consolação para dar a ela um nome, por menor que seja, por mais trêmulo que seja. Que você encontre, no Deus que preserva nossas vidas, o espaço silencioso para deixar cair um tijolo de suas mãos cansadas.

E nessa queda, que você encontre um momento do mesmo sentimento, do mesmo coração, que sabe que o fim da história não é o Egito, mas um caminho através do mar.

Durma. Descanse sua alma sobrecarregada. A nomeação pode esperar pela luz da manhã, ou pela cinza em sua testa amanhã. Esta noite, deixe simplesmente que o Deus da perseverança te segure, a você e ao peso que carrega. Amém.

 

Night Blessing Reflection on Bitterness - in English and Portuguese

 Naming the Bitterness

 

And so, another day steps aside, making room for the night. It puts away its little triumphs and its heavier failures, like a tired shopkeeper pulling down the rusty grate. We are left here, with the quiet, and with the things we carry.

The Ash Wednesday sermon spoke about a new king over Egypt. A king who did not know Joseph. It’s funny how much trouble can come from a failure of memory. This king, he looked at the people of Israel and saw not a story, not a history, not the man who saved the country from famine. He saw a number. A threat. A thing to be managed with bricks and straw and harder labor. He made their lives bitter.

And we sat there in the pew, on this cusp of Lent, and thought, yes. Yes, we know about that king. Not the one in the story, but the one who rises to power in us. The new administration that takes over our hearts and doesn’t remember Joseph. It doesn’t remember the grace we were shown, the times we were strangers in a strange land and were welcomed. It just sees the quotas to be met. The bitterness to be made.

We need to name the bitterness we carry. Not to let it fester in the dark, but to drag it into the light, right there on the cusp of Ash Wednesday. To say its name out loud, even if it’s just a whisper to ourselves.

So tonight, maybe that’s the blessing. Not a forgetting, but a naming.

Maybe you carry the bitterness of a new king who rose in your own life and forgot your history. A boss, a friend, a lover, who saw the useful you and not the real you. That bitterness has a name. Say it, softly, to the dark.

Maybe you carry the bitterness of the bricks themselves. The pointless, back-breaking labor of a life that seems to be going nowhere. The taskmaster’s whip is not always a whip; sometimes it’s the endless, quiet drone of a Monday. That bitterness has a name.

The psalmist, he got it. “Bless our God, O peoples,” he wrote, “let the sound of his praise be heard, who has kept our soul among the living and has not let our feet slip.” Not a promise of no hard labor. Not a promise of a friendly king. Just that. The soul kept. The feet, against all odds, still under us. It’s not a small thing. It is, in fact, everything.

And Paul, writing to the Romans, he seems to know how hard it is to be a people, to be a person, when the memory of Joseph is gone. So he asks for the big thing: “May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Endurance. Encouragement. Harmony. A single voice. It’s the opposite of Egypt. It’s the opposite of bitterness. It’s a plea for a shared memory, for a kingdom where everyone is known.

So here is your blessing for this night, this night before the ashes:

May you have the courage to name the bitterness you carry. Give it a name, the one you’ve been afraid to say out loud. Look at it, there in the quiet. It is heavy, yes. But it is not all of you.

And then, having named it, may you feel, just for a moment, the God of endurance and encouragement. The one who keeps your soul among the living. The one who sees you, not as a number, but as a story that began long ago, with a Joseph you may have forgotten.

May your feet not slip tonight. And may you wake tomorrow, on this day of dust, knowing that you are known. That is the only thing that ever really lightens the load. Good night.

"Nomeando a Amargura"

E assim, mais um dia se retira, abrindo espaço para a noite. Ele guarda seus pequenos triunfos e seus fracassos mais pesados, como um lojista cansado fechando a porta enferrujada. Ficamos aqui, com o silêncio, e com as coisas que carregamos.

O sermão de Cinzas falou sobre um novo rei no Egito. Um rei que não conhecia José. É engraçado como tanta confusão pode vir de uma falha de memória. Esse rei olhou para o povo de Israel e não viu uma história, um passado, o homem que salvou o país da fome. Ele viu um número. Uma ameaça. Uma coisa a ser administrada com tijolos, palha e trabalho ainda mais pesado. Ele tornou a vida deles amarga.

E nós estávamos ali no banco da igreja, nesta véspera de Quaresma, e pensamos, sim. Sim, nós conhecemos esse rei. Não o da história, mas aquele que sobe ao poder dentro de nós. O novo governo que toma conta do nosso coração e não se lembra de José. Não se lembra da graça que recebemos, das vezes em que fomos estrangeiros em terra estranha e fomos acolhidos. Ele só vê as metas a serem cumpridas. A amargura a ser fabricada.

O sermão disse que precisamos nomear a amargura que carregamos. Não deixar que ela infeccione no escuro, mas arrastá-la para a luz, bem nesta véspera de Quarta-feira de Cinzas. Dizer seu nome em voz alta, mesmo que seja apenas um sussurro para nós mesmos.

Então, talvez essa seja a bênção hoje à noite. Não um esquecimento, mas uma nomeação.

Talvez você carregue a amargura de um novo rei que surgiu na sua própria vida e esqueceu a sua história. Um chefe, um amigo, um amor, que viu o você útil e não o você real. Essa amargura tem um nome. Diga-o, suavemente, para o escuro.

Talvez você carregue a amargura dos próprios tijolos. O trabalho sem sentido e extenuante de uma vida que parece não levar a lugar nenhum. O chicote do feitor nem sempre é um chicote; às vezes é o zumbido interminável e silencioso de uma segunda-feira. Essa amargura tem um nome.

O salmista entendeu isso. "Louvai ao nosso Deus, ó povos", ele escreveu, "fazei ouvir a voz do seu louvor, o qual preserva a nossa alma entre os vivos e não permite que resvalem os nossos pés." Não é uma promessa de trabalho leve. Não é uma promessa de um rei amigável. É só isso. A alma preservada. Os pés, contra todas as probabilidades, ainda firmes debaixo de nós. Não é pouca coisa. É, na verdade, tudo.

E Paulo, escrevendo aos Romanos, parece saber como é difícil ser um povo, ser uma pessoa, quando a memória de José se perde. Então ele pede o essencial: "Ora, o Deus da perseverança e da consolação vos conceda o mesmo sentir de uns para com os outros, segundo Cristo Jesus, para que unanimes e a uma voz glorifiqueis ao Deus e Pai de nosso Senhor Jesus Cristo."

Perseverança. Consolação. Harmonia. Uma só voz. É o oposto do Egito. É o oposto da amargura. É um apelo por uma memória compartilhada, por um reino onde todos são conhecidos.

Então aqui está a sua bênção para esta noite, esta noite antes das cinzas:

Que você tenha a coragem de nomear a amargura que carrega. Dê a ela um nome, aquela que você teve medo de dizer em voz alta. Olhe para ela, ali no silêncio. Ela é pesada, sim. Mas ela não é tudo o que você é.

E então, tendo-a nomeado, que você sinta, só por um momento, o Deus da perseverança e da consolação. Aquele que preserva a sua alma entre os vivos. Aquele que vê você, não como um número, mas como uma história que começou há muito tempo, com um José que talvez você tenha esquecido.

Que os seus pés não resvalem esta noite. E que você acorde amanhã, neste dia de pó, sabendo que você é conhecido. Isso é a única coisa que realmente alivia o fardo. Boa noite.

 

Ash Wednesday: Naming the Bitterness We Carry

 

Symbol: Maror (Bitter Herbs)

Text: Exodus 1:8–14

Good evening, and welcome to this Ash Wednesday service. Tonight, we begin a journey—a forty-day pilgrimage toward the cross and the empty tomb. But we do not begin with celebration. We begin with honesty. We begin with ashes. We begin with bitterness.

On the night of Passover, Jewish families gather for the Seder meal. They eat unleavened bread, drink cups of wine, and tell the story of deliverance. And they eat maror—bitter herbs. Horseradish or romaine lettuce, sharp and pungent, bringing tears to the eyes. This is not an accidental part of the meal. It is commanded. They must taste the bitterness. It is a visceral, bodily memory of the bitterness of slavery. Before they taste the sweetness of freedom, they must remember the sharp sting of bondage.

Tonight, Ash Wednesday is our maror. It is our collective, holy pause to taste the bitterness we carry, before we walk the road to grace.

Hear the Word of God from Exodus, chapter 1, verses 8 through 14:

Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph. He said to his people, “Look, the Israelite people are more numerous and more powerful than we. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, or they will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land.” Therefore they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor. They built supply cities, Pithom and Rameses, for Pharaoh. But the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread, so that the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. The Egyptians became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites and made their lives bitter with hard service in mortar and brick and in every kind of field labor. They were ruthless in all the tasks that they imposed on them.

The text is stark: “They made their lives bitter.” This is more than hardship. It is a calculated, systematic infusion of bitterness into the soul of a people. It is the bitterness of injustice, of dehumanizing labor, of hope deferred, of cries that seem to hit a ceiling of brass.

We are not slaves in Egypt. But we are not strangers to bitterness.

• The bitterness of our own making: The sharp aftertaste of words we cannot take back. The regret of choices that wounded others and isolated us. The resentment we nurse, the envy we sip like cheap wine, the pride that turns our hearts to stone. This is the bitterness of sin—not just “breaking rules,” but breaking relationship, with God, with each other, with our own selves.
• The bitterness inflicted upon us: The pain of betrayal, the scar of abandonment, the weight of grief that sits on your chest in the morning. The anxiety that gnaws, the depression that colors the world gray. The memory of a cruel word, an abusive hand, a system that overlooked you. “They made their lives bitter.” We know this story.
• The bitterness of the world: The endless news cycle of war and suffering. The bitter divisions in our communities, our churches, our families. The cry of the oppressed that echoes the cry of Israel.

And what do we do with this bitterness? We are masters of avoidance. We rush past it. We numb it with noise, with busyness, with substances, with shallow optimism. We spiritualize it: “Just have faith!” We swallow it down, where it curdles into cynicism, or hardens into hatred, or metastasizes into despair.

But God, in the Passover—and God, in this Ash Wednesday liturgy—commands a different way: “Taste it. Name it.”

Maror must be eaten. Ashes must be smudged on your forehead. You cannot think about bitterness. You must taste it. You cannot glance at mortality. You must wear its mark: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Why this strange, painful honesty? Why begin Lent here?

First, because we cannot be healed of a disease we deny. A doctor cannot treat “I’m fine.” She needs the truth: “It hurts here. This is the symptom.” Lent is our spiritual triage. We name the bitterness—the sin, the sorrow, the brokenness—not to wallow, but to present it. To bring it out of the shadowy recesses of our soul and into the holy, if frightening, light of God’s presence. Psalm 51, the Ash Wednesday psalm, models this: “For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me… You desire truth in the inward being.”

Second, because unnamed bitterness becomes identity. If we do not name our resentment, it becomes who we are—a resentful person. If we do not name our grief, it becomes the permanent filter for our lives. If we do not name our sin, it becomes our master. By naming it before God, we say, “This is a burden I carry, but it is not my name. My name is ‘Beloved, Dust.’” The ashes are the great equalizer. We are all mortal. We all carry bitterness. We all need mercy.

Third, and most importantly, because God meets us in the truth, not in the pretense. God did not meet Israel after they had “gotten over” Egypt. He met them in their bitter cry. “The Israelites groaned under their slavery and cried out. Their cry for help rose up to God. God heard their groaning…” (Exodus 2:23-24). Our bitter cry is not an obstacle to God’s presence; it is the very prayer that draws Him near. He comes to a people who know they are slaves, not to a people pretending to be free.

So tonight, we take the maror. We name the bitterness.

Perhaps for you tonight, it is the bitterness of a failing marriage, or a fractured friendship.
Perhaps it is the bitterness of addiction’s chains.
Perhaps it is the bitterness of loneliness that has lasted for years.
Perhaps it is the bitterness of your own quick temper, your own judgmental spirit, your own failure to love.
Perhaps it is the bitterness of a loss so profound you have no words.

In the silence of your heart, name it. In the honesty of this moment, taste it.

And then, hear the invitation: Bring it before God. You do not bring it to be shamed. You bring it to be seen, heard, and ultimately, redeemed. The ashes on your forehead are not a sign of despair, but of hope. They are a marker saying, “I have told the truth about my condition. Now I am eligible for grace.” They are the starting line of Lent, which leads us on a path through the wilderness—not around our bitterness, but through it—straight to a hill called Golgotha. There, on the cross, Jesus will take the full, bitter cup of human sin and suffering, and drink it down to the dregs. He will swallow our bitterness so we can taste His sweetness.

Tonight, we begin with truth: “You are dust.” We begin with the taste of maror. We name the bitterness we carry.

Do not rush past this moment. This honest naming is the first, most sacred step toward the joy of Easter. For the God who heard the bitter cries in Egypt is the God who hears your cry tonight. And He is the God who leads enslaved people through sea and wilderness into freedom.

Come. Receive the ashes. Name the bitterness. And know that the journey you begin tonight in honest confession ends at an empty tomb, where mercy has the final, everlasting word.

 

Ash Wednesday blessing - in English and Portuguese

 

A Night Blessing for Ash Wednesday

Lord God,

As this first evening of Lent draws in, we come before You with the dust of the day still clinging to our foreheads and the weight of Your Word in our hearts. We ask for a blessing, but even in our asking, we are aware of the gentle irony: we who are but dust dare to ask for Your steadfast love.

And so we pray with the Psalmist, “Let your steadfast love come to me, O Lord, your salvation according to your promise.” (Psalm 119:41). Let it come, not because we deserve it, but because of Your faithful promise. Let it come and cover the blindness of our pride, the dust of our failings.

We recall the words spoken last Sunday from Your Gospel, where the disciples were blind to the reality of Your coming suffering and glory in Jerusalem (Luke 18:31-34). Their sight was clouded by their own expectations. And yet, on the road, a blind beggar named Bartimaeus saw clearly who You were, crying out for mercy and receiving his sight (Luke 18:35-43). He saw what the crowd could not. He saw the King, the Healer, the Messiah.

Tonight, as we begin this Lenten journey, grant us true sight. Open our eyes to see not what we want to see, but what You are doing. Give us the vision to see our own need, even as we wear a smudge of ash. Give us the clarity to see You in the faces of the overlooked and the outcast.

And we are reminded of another truth from Your Word, from the Gospel of Luke, of the people who witnessed Your authority and were amazed, asking, “What is this word? For with authority and power he commands the unclean spirits, and they come out!” (Luke 4:36). Lord, we confess the unclean spirits that blind us: the spirits of cynicism, of self-righteousness, of fear. In this holy season, command them to leave. By Your power and authority, cast out the blindness that keeps us from following You fully on the road.

Grant us the sight of Bartimaeus, who, once healed, followed You on the way. May we, with newly opened eyes, follow You this Lent—through the dust, toward the cross, and beyond to the empty tomb.

As we rest tonight, let Your steadfast love be our pillow and Your salvation our rest.

Amen.

Uma Bênção Noturna para a Quarta-Feira de Cinzas

Senhor Deus,

Ao cair da noite neste primeiro dia da Quaresma, nós nos apresentamos diante de Ti com o pó deste dia ainda grudado em nossas testas e o peso da Tua Palavra em nossos corações. Pedimos uma bênção, mas, em nosso próprio pedido, reconhecemos a doce ironia: nós, que somos pó, ousamos pedir pelo Teu amor constante.

E por isso oramos com o Salmista: “Venha sobre mim a tua benignidade, ó Senhor, e a tua salvação, segundo a tua promessa.” (Salmo 119:41). Venha sobre nós, não porque a merecemos, mas por causa da Tua fiel promessa. Venha e cubra a cegueira do nosso orgulho, o pó das nossas falhas.

Recordamos as palavras ouvidas no domingo passado no Teu Evangelho, quando os discípulos estavam cegos para a realidade do Teu sofrimento e glória vindouros em Jerusalém (Lucas 18:31-34). A visão deles estava encoberta por suas próprias expectativas. E, no entanto, no caminho, um mendigo cego chamado Bartimeu viu claramente quem Tu eras, clamando por misericórdia e recebendo a visão (Lucas 18:35-43). Ele viu o que a multidão não podia ver. Ele viu o Rei, o Curador, o Messias.

Nesta noite, ao iniciarmos esta jornada quaresmal, concede-nos a verdadeira visão. Abre os nossos olhos para vermos não o que queremos ver, mas o que Tu estás fazendo. Dá-nos a clareza para enxergar a nossa própria necessidade, mesmo enquanto trazemos uma mancha de cinzas. Dá-nos a lucidez para Te vermos nos rostos dos esquecidos e dos marginalizados.

E somos lembrados de outra verdade da Tua Palavra, no Evangelho de Lucas, sobre as pessoas que testemunharam Tua autoridade e ficaram maravilhadas, perguntando: “Que palavra é esta, pois com autoridade e poder ordena aos espíritos imundos, e eles saem?” (Lucas 4:36). Senhor, confessamos os espíritos imundos que nos cegam: os espíritos do cinismo, da autojustiça, do medo. Nesta época santa, ordena que eles saiam. Pelo Teu poder e autoridade, expulsa a cegueira que nos impede de Te seguir plenamente no caminho.

Concede-nos a visão de Bartimeu, que, uma vez curado, seguiu-Te pelo caminho. Que nós, com os olhos recém-abertos, Te sigamos nesta Quaresma — através do pó, em direção à cruz, e para além dela, ao túmulo vazio.

Enquanto descansamos esta noite, que o Teu amor constante seja o nosso travesseiro e a Tua salvação, o nosso repouso.

Amém.

 

A night blessing for the Carnaval Tuesday - In English and Portuguese

 

A Blessing for the Night: True Sight Amidst the Feast

As the sun sets on this Carnival Tuesday, and the vibrant energy of your people in Brazil fills the streets with music, color, and joy, may you seek a different kind of treasure and a deeper vision.

On this day of feasting and celebration, we are reminded of the words from Colossians 2:2-3, that in Christ are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Tonight, as the world around you pursues the fleeting treasures of revelry, may your heart be knit together with others in love, and may you have the full riches of a complete understanding of God's mystery—Christ Himself. May your joy not be just of the moment, but a deep and abiding gladness found in Him.

Remember the words from Deuteronomy 29:29: "The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever." Amidst the parades and the parties, there is much that is loud and on display. But the deepest truths, the true source of peace and purpose, are a gift revealed by God. Ask Him tonight to reveal to you what truly matters.

This past Sunday, we reflected on the story from Luke 18:31-43—the account of the blind man who received his sight. The crowd around him told him to be quiet, to not disturb the passing celebration with his need. But he cried out all the more for mercy, for true sight.

Tonight, as the procession of Carnival passes by, do not let the noise of the world drown out your cry for what really matters. The blind man, once he could see, used his sight to follow Jesus, glorifying God.

So, our prayer for you this night:

May you not be blinded by the glitter of the world, but may your spiritual eyes be opened to see Jesus in the midst of the crowd.
May you possess the riches of a heart that knows Him, which are more valuable than any treasure this world can offer.
And may you rest tonight in the peace of what God has revealed: His unfailing love for you, a mystery made known in Christ.

May this Carnaval Tuesday be not just a night of earthly celebration, but a step toward the eternal joy of truly seeing Him. Good night, and may God bless you with the peace that passes all understanding.

 

Uma Bênção para a Noite: A Verdadeira Visão em Meio à Folia

Ao sol se pôr nesta Terça-Feira de Carnaval, e a energia vibrante do povo brasileiro tomar as ruas com música, cor e alegria, que você busque um tipo diferente de tesouro e uma visão mais profunda.

Neste dia de festa e celebração, somos lembrados pelas palavras de Colossenses 2:2-3 de que em Cristo estão escondidos todos os tesouros da sabedoria e do conhecimento. Nesta noite, enquanto o mundo ao seu redor busca os tesouros fugazes da folia, que o seu coração seja unido em amor com os outros, e que você tenha a plena riqueza do entendimento completo do mistério de Deus — o próprio Cristo. Que a sua alegria não seja apenas do momento, mas uma satisfação profunda e duradoura encontrada nEle.

Lembre-se das palavras de Deuteronômio 29:29: "As coisas encobertas pertencem ao Senhor, nosso Deus, porém as reveladas nos pertencem a nós e a nossos filhos, para sempre." Em meio aos desfiles e às festas, há muito que é barulhento e está em exibição. Mas as verdades mais profundas, a verdadeira fonte de paz e propósito, são um presente revelado por Deus. Peça a Ele, nesta noite, que lhe revele o que realmente importa.

No domingo passado, refletimos sobre a história de Lucas 18:31-43 — o relato do cego que recuperou a sua visão. A multidão ao seu redor mandou que ele se calasse, que não perturbasse a celebração que passava com a sua necessidade. Mas ele gritou ainda mais por misericórdia, por verdadeira visão.

Nesta noite, enquanto o desfile de Carnaval passa, não deixe que o barulho do mundo abafe o seu clamor pelo que realmente importa. Aquele que era cego, uma vez que pôde ver, usou a sua visão para seguir a Jesus, glorificando a Deus.

Então, a nossa oração por você nesta noite:

Que você não seja cegado pelo brilho do mundo, mas que os seus olhos espirituais sejam abertos para ver a Jesus no meio da multidão.
Que você possua as riquezas de um coração que O conhece, que são mais valiosas do que qualquer tesouro que este mundo possa oferecer.
E que você descanse nesta noite na paz daquilo que Deus revelou: o Seu amor infalível por você, um mistério tornado conhecido em Cristo.

Que esta Terça-Feira de Carnaval não seja apenas uma noite de celebração terrena, mas um passo em direção à alegria eterna de verdadeiramente vê-Lo. Boa noite, e que Deus o abençoe com a paz que excede todo o entendimento.

 

A night blessing after a very windy day - In English and Portuguese

A windy Monday night blessing for you:

As the wind rattles the windows and the world outside seems to be in a hurry, may you find a pocket of stillness within. May the very air that gusts and blows remind you of the Holy Spirit's unseen movement—a gentle whisper that is also a mighty wind, capable of clearing the way.

We remember the words of Malachi: “See, I will send my messenger, who will prepare the way before me.” On this gusty night, may any clutter of the mind or heart be swept away, preparing a welcoming space for the Lord to enter. May the unsettling winds of the day become the clearing winds of the night, making a straight path to your rest.

And we hold onto the promise from Mark’s Gospel: “And he will send his angels and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of the heavens.” Even on a blustery Monday, you are seen. You are known. And just as He gathers from the four winds, He is gathering the fragments of your day—the successes, the struggles, and the moments in between—into His loving and purposeful hands.

This brings to mind Sunday's sermon on the road to Jericho, where the blind man received his sight. It’s a funny thing, isn't it? The disciples, with eyes wide open, were blind to Jesus's mission. But the blind man, sitting by the roadside, was the one who truly saw Him as the Son of David, the source of mercy.
So tonight, let’s ask for that "true sight." In the darkness, may you see not just your worries, but His presence. May you see not just the wind, but the One who commands it. May you have the wisdom to cry out like the blind man, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me,” and the faith to know He hears you, even above the howling wind.

Here’s a little pinch of humor for the road: If the wind is keeping you up, just pretend it's God's way of reminding you that your roof is still there. And if it whistles through a crack, maybe it's just Him saying, "I'm still here, too... and I could use a little weather-stripping on your soul." 😉

Rest now, beloved, in the perfect peace that comes from the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever—whether the day is sunny or stormy. You are gathered, you are seen, and you are deeply loved.
Good night.

Uma bênção para essa noite de segunda-feira de muito vento:

Enquanto o vento chacoalha as janelas e o mundo lá fora parece estar com pressa, que você encontre um bolsão de tranquilidade do lado de dentro. Que o próprio ar que sopra e ruge lembre-se do movimento invisível do Espírito Santo — um sussurro suave que também é um vento poderoso, capaz de limpar o caminho.

Nós nos lembramos das palavras de Malaquias: "Vejam, eu enviarei o meu mensageiro, que preparará o caminho diante de mim." Nesta noite ventosa, que toda bagunça da mente ou do coração seja varrida, preparando um espaço acolhedor para a entrada do Senhor. Que os ventos inquietos do dia se tornem os ventos que limpam a noite, abrindo um caminho reto para o seu descanso.

E nos agarramos à promessa do Evangelho de Marcos: "E ele enviará os seus anjos e reunirá os seus eleitos dos quatro ventos, dos confins da terra até os confins do céu." Mesmo em uma segunda-feira ventosa, você é visto. Você é conhecido. E assim como Ele reúne dos quatro ventos, Ele está reunindo os fragmentos do seu dia — os sucessos, as lutas e os momentos entre um e outro — em Suas mãos amorosas e cheias de propósito.

Iso me lembra do sermão de domingo sobre o caminho de Jericó, onde o cego recuperou a visão. É engraçado, não é? Os discípulos, com os olhos bem abertos, estavam cegos para a missão de Jesus. Mas o cego, sentado à beira do caminho, foi quem realmente viu Jesus como o Filho de Davi, a fonte da misericórdia.

Então, nesta noite, vamos pedir essa "visão verdadeira". Na escuridão, que você veja não apenas suas preocupações, mas a presença Dele. Que você veja não apenas o vento, mas Aquele que o comanda. Que você tenha a sabedoria de clamar como o cego: "Jesus, Filho de Davi, tem misericórdia de mim", e a fé para saber que Ele te ouve, mesmo acima do uivar do vento.

E aqui vai uma pitada de humor para o caminho: Se o vento estiver te impedindo de dormir, apenas finja que é o jeito de Deus te lembrar que seu telhado ainda está lá. E se ele assobiar por uma fresta, talvez seja só Ele dizendo: "Ainda estou aqui també ... e você podia usar uma vedação na alma". 😉

Descanse agora, amado, na paz perfeita que vem d'Aquele que é o mesmo ontem, hoje e eternamente — quer o dia esteja ensolarado ou tempestuoso. Você está reunido, você é visto e você é profundamente amado.
Boa noite.

 
 

Sermon on Estomihi Sunday – 15th, February, 2025 - The Last Sunday before Lent.

True Sight

Readings:

• Old Testament: Amos 5:21-24
• Epistle: 1 Corinthians 13:1-13

Gospel: Luke 18:31-43

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

There is a profound tension in today’s readings—a tension between seeing and not seeing, between knowing and not understanding, between empty religion and genuine faith. In this tension, the Holy Spirit reveals to us the heart of God and the nature of true discipleship.

I. The Blindness of the Seeing (Luke 18:31-34)

Our Gospel text begins with Jesus taking the twelve aside and telling them plainly what awaits in Jerusalem: “Everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished.” He details the betrayal, mocking, spitting, flogging, killing, and resurrection. This is the third such prediction in Luke’s Gospel.

Yet we read: “But they understood none of these things. This saying was hidden from them, and they did not grasp what was said.”

Here is the irony: The disciples—who have walked with Jesus, witnessed miracles, heard His teachings—are spiritually blind to His central mission. They have eyes but do not see. They have heard but do not comprehend. Their expectations of a triumphant Messiah cloud their understanding of a suffering Servant.

II. The Insight of the Blind (Luke 18:35-43)

Immediately following, Luke presents a contrasting scene. As Jesus approaches Jericho, a blind beggar hears the crowd and asks what’s happening. He’s told, “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by.”

This man, physically blind, sees what the disciples miss. He cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Even when others try to silence him, he cries out all the more. He recognizes Jesus as the Messiah (“Son of David”) and understands his own need for mercy.

Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?” A simple, profound question. The blind man replies, “Lord, let me recover my sight.”

Jesus responds, “Recover your sight; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he receives his sight and follows Jesus, glorifying God.

The physically blind man sees spiritually what the seeing disciples miss: Jesus’ true identity and his own need. His faith—persistent, humble, focused on mercy—receives healing.

III. The Religion God Rejects (Amos 5:21-24)

This contrast between true and false sight is echoed in our reading from Amos. God speaks through the prophet against Israel’s empty worship:

“I hate, I despise your feasts… Even though you offer me your burnt offerings… I will not accept them.”

Why? Because their worship was disconnected from justice and righteousness. They had the form of religion without its substance. They went through the motions of seeing God while being blind to their oppression of the poor and vulnerable.

God declares: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

True sight—true knowledge of God—always flows into right relationship with others. Worship disconnected from justice is blindness.

IV. The Love That Gives True Sight (1 Corinthians 13:1-13)

This brings us to Paul’s magnificent description of love. He begins by showing that even spectacular spiritual gifts—speaking in tongues, prophetic powers, mountain-moving faith—are nothing without love.

Then he describes what love looks like: patient, kind, not envious or boastful, not arrogant or rude, not insisting on its own way, not irritable or resentful, not rejoicing at wrongdoing but rejoicing with the truth.

Finally, Paul contrasts our present partial knowledge with the perfect knowledge to come: “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.”

Love is the lens through which we see truly. Without love, our theology is blurry, our worship is hollow, and our service is noisy gongs.

V. Receiving and Following

So what does this mean for us today?

1. We must acknowledge our blindness. Like the disciples, we often don’t understand Jesus’ way of suffering love. Like Israel in Amos’ day, we can perform religious rituals while remaining blind to injustice. Like the Corinthians, we can pursue spiritual gifts while lacking love.
2. We must cry out for mercy. The blind beggar shows us the way: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” True sight begins with recognizing our need and Christ’s sufficiency.
3. We must let Jesus define our sight. When Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”—what is our answer? Do we seek comfort, success, validation? Or do we seek to see as Jesus sees: to see the marginalized, to love the unlovely, to serve rather than be served?
4. True sight leads to following and glorifying. The healed man didn’t go back to his old life. He followed Jesus and glorified God. True spiritual sight always leads to discipleship and worship that overflows in love and justice.

Conclusion

In a world filled with information but often lacking wisdom, with vision but often lacking insight, Jesus comes to us today as He came to Jericho long ago.

He asks each of us: “What do you want me to do for you?”

May we have the humility of the blind beggar to cry out: “Lord, let me recover my sight! Help me to see You truly, to see myself honestly, and to see others through Your eyes of love.”

For when we see by the light of Christ’s love—when justice and righteousness flow from our worship—then we move from blindness to sight, from noise to meaning, from religion to relationship.

Then we begin to see dimly what one day we shall see face to face: the unfathomable depth of the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

May the Holy Spirit open the eyes of our hearts today. Amen.