9th after Trinity sermon; 2nd August 2026. Jeremiah 1.4-10

 

The Unlikely Candidate

Jeremiah 1:4–10

 “Surely You’ve Got the Wrong Person”

Have you ever found yourself thinking, “God could never use someone like me”?

Maybe you’ve looked at your life and thought, I’m too inexperienced. I’m too old. I don’t know enough. I’ve made too many mistakes. There are far better people than me.

Most of us have had those thoughts.

The interesting thing is that nearly every person God called in the Bible had exactly the same reaction.

Moses said he couldn’t speak.

Gideon insisted he came from the weakest family.

Isaiah cried out that he had unclean lips.

Jonah ran away.

And Jeremiah? Jeremiah simply said, “Lord… I’m just a kid.”

It’s comforting, isn’t it? The heroes of faith weren’t fearless superheroes. They were ordinary people who found themselves standing before an extraordinary God.

Today’s reading isn’t simply about the calling of an ancient prophet. It’s about the way God still calls ordinary people—people like you and me—to serve Him in the places He has planted us.

Let’s listen again to God’s Word from Jeremiah chapter 1.

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I. Before You Knew God, God Knew You

The very first thing God says to Jeremiah is astonishing:

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I consecrated you.”

Imagine hearing those words.

Jeremiah’s story didn’t begin on the day he heard God’s voice.

It began long before he took his first breath.

Before his parents dreamed of him…

Before anyone knew his name…

Before Jeremiah had done anything good—or anything bad—

God already knew him.

That tells us something wonderful.

Our lives are not accidents.

We are not random collections of cells drifting through history.

We are known.

Loved.

Seen.

God’s knowledge of us comes before our achievements, before our failures, before our doubts.

That’s incredibly freeing.

So much of life is spent asking, Who am I? What am I supposed to do?

We search for answers everywhere. We take personality tests. We compare ourselves with others. We wonder whether we’re successful enough or gifted enough.

But God says, “I knew you before you ever started asking those questions.”

Our purpose doesn’t begin with us.

It begins with Him.

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II. The Excuses We Love to Keep 

Jeremiah hears God’s call…

…and immediately starts making excuses.

“Ah, Lord God! I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth.”

Can you hear the panic?

God says, “I’ve appointed you.”

Jeremiah replies, “You must have the wrong person.”

Honestly, that’s a very human response.

Whenever God opens a door, our eyes usually go straight to everything we think is wrong with us.

“I don’t know enough.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m not outgoing.”

“I’m too shy.”

“I’m too busy.”

“I’m too old.”

“I’m too young.”

“I’ve messed up too much.”

Our excuses may change over the years, but they all say the same thing:

“Lord, surely someone else would do this better.”

Fear has a remarkable ability to shrink our vision.

It makes our weaknesses look enormous and God’s power look very small.

Jeremiah wasn’t really measuring himself against the task.

He was forgetting to measure the task against God.

And perhaps that’s where some of us are today.

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III. God Doesn’t Argue With the Excuse

I find God’s response fascinating.

He doesn’t stop to debate Jeremiah.

He doesn’t give him a motivational speech.

He simply says,

“Do not say, ‘I am only a youth.’”

In other words,

“Stop defining yourself by what you think you lack.”

Then God shifts Jeremiah’s focus.

Jeremiah keeps saying, “I…”

God keeps saying, “I…”

“I send.”

“I command.”

“I am with you.”

The center of the story is no longer Jeremiah.

It’s God.

That changes everything.

Faith isn’t confidence in ourselves.

Faith is confidence in the One who sends us.

Notice the simplicity of God’s instructions.

Go where I send you.

Say what I tell you.

Don’t be afraid.

Why?

Because I am with you.

Not because you’re strong.

Not because you’re eloquent.

Not because you’ll never make mistakes.

Because I’m with you.

Those four words have carried God’s people through centuries of impossible situations.

“I am with you.”

They’re enough.

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IV. When God Touches What We Lack

Then comes one of the most tender moments in the passage.

“The Lord reached out His hand and touched my mouth.”

What a beautiful picture.

God doesn’t merely issue commands from heaven.

He comes near.

He touches the very place where Jeremiah feels most inadequate.

Jeremiah says,

“I can’t speak.”

God says,

“Then let Me take care of your mouth.”

That’s often how God works.

He doesn’t always remove our weakness.

Instead, He meets us in it.

Our weakness becomes the place where His strength shines brightest.

Many of us know that feeling.

You’ve wondered how to comfort a grieving friend.

How to talk with your children about faith.

How to witness to a neighbour.

How to pray when words won’t come.

In those moments, remember Jeremiah.

God still gives His people the words they need.

Not perfect words.

Not polished speeches.

Just faithful words.

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V. First the Demolition, Then the Garden

Finally, God tells Jeremiah what his ministry will involve.

It’s quite a list.

To pluck up.

To tear down.

To destroy.

To overthrow.

Only then—

To build.

To plant.

At first glance it sounds harsh.

But anyone who’s ever renovated an old house understands exactly what’s happening.

Before you paint the walls…

You have to remove the mould.

Before you lay a new floor…

You have to rip out the rotten boards.

Before you plant a garden…

You pull the weeds.

Growth often begins with clearing away what doesn’t belong.

The same is true in our spiritual lives.

Sometimes God lovingly tears down our pride.

Sometimes He uproots bitterness.

Sometimes He exposes lies we’ve believed for years.

Not because He delights in breaking things.

But because He’s preparing the ground for something better.

God never demolishes without also rebuilding.

He tears down so He can plant.

He wounds so He can heal.

He prunes so life can flourish.

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Conclusion: God Still Chooses the Unlikely

So where does this leave us today?

Perhaps you’re still thinking,

“I’m not the kind of person God uses.”

If that’s true, then you’re in excellent company.

David was the forgotten shepherd boy.

Moses stumbled over his words.

Peter often spoke before he thought.

Jeremiah was frightened.

Paul once persecuted the Church.

Again and again, God chooses unlikely people.

Not because they’re impressive.

But because His grace is.

The Gospel itself tells the same story.

God didn’t save the world through military power or political influence.

He saved it through a carpenter from Nazareth who carried a cross.

The world calls that weakness.

God calls it salvation.

Maybe God isn’t asking you to preach to nations.

But He may be asking you to encourage one lonely person.

To forgive someone.

To serve quietly.

To raise your children in the faith.

To speak hope into a hurting family.

To stand for truth with gentleness and courage.

Never underestimate what God can do through one willing heart.

The question has never been, “Am I good enough?”

The question is, “Will I trust the One who promises to be with me?”

Years later, the Apostle Paul encouraged another timid young servant named Timothy:

“God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control.”

The God who strengthened Jeremiah is the same God who strengthens His Church today.

So don’t let fear write the story of your life.

Let God write it.

Because He knew you before you were born.

He has never lost sight of you.

He walks beside you.

And He delights in using ordinary people to accomplish extraordinary things for His kingdom.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

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Prayer

Let us pray.

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for knowing us long before we ever knew You. Thank You for calling ordinary people into Your extraordinary work.

Forgive us for the times we’ve hidden behind fear, excuses, or feelings of inadequacy. Help us to stop looking only at ourselves and to fix our eyes on You.

When we feel weak, remind us that Your strength is made perfect in weakness. When we don’t know what to say, place Your words on our lips. When we are afraid to take the next step, reassure us with Your promise: “I am with you.”

Where our hearts need rebuilding, tear down whatever keeps us from trusting You. Uproot our pride, our bitterness, and our fears, and plant instead faith, hope, love, and joyful obedience.

Use each of us—in our homes, our workplaces, our schools, our neighbourhoods, and our church—to bear witness to Christ.

We ask all this in the name of Jesus, who calls us, equips us, and never leaves us.

Amen.

Go in peace.

And remember: God has never been looking for perfect people. He has always been looking for willing ones. 

Night Blessing Mud Miracle for the English and Portuguese speaking dry mud

 A Nightly Blessing: When the Mud Dries

(To be read slowly, perhaps with a cup of tea in hand, as the day settles into night)

Beloved, let’s take a deep breath. The world has been doing its thing today—loud, busy, and a little too eager to demand our attention. But the night is different. The night is for sifting.

The prophet Jeremiah heard the Lord say, “See, I will refine them and test them.” (Jeremiah 9:7). Now, I know that "refining" and "testing" sound a lot like work, or worse, a pop quiz. But tonight, let’s see it with softer eyes. Think of it not as the hammer of a blacksmith, but as the quiet sifting of a baker. The day’s flour is in the air; the chaff of our worries and hurry is being gently separated, falling away into the darkness. God is not testing you to see if you pass; God is sifting you to help you rest, letting the heavy stuff sink down so the light stuff can rise. You are being made tender.

And in that tenderness, we hear Jesus’ whisper to his disciples: “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.” (Luke 22:40). Now, a little good humor here: This isn't a command to be perfect. It’s an invitation to be present. Think of it as a gentle "Hey, don't forget your armor!" before a long day. The "temptation" tonight isn't some grand, dramatic sin. The temptation is to scroll through your phone in the dark and let the anxiety of tomorrow creep in. The temptation is to replay that awkward conversation from three years ago. The temptation is to believe you have to solve everything before your head hits the pillow.

So, Jesus says, "Pray." And prayer right now doesn’t need to be eloquent. It can be a simple, sleepy sigh: "Lord, I’m handing this one to you. I’m too tired to carry it."

And that leads us to the mud. Last Sunday, we sat with that fascinating story in John 9, where Jesus takes dirt, spits in it, makes mud, and smears it on a blind man's eyes. When Mud Becomes a Miracle.

Isn't that the story of our lives? So much of our day feels like mud—the messy stuff, the confusing emails, the awkward silences, the tasks we don't want to do, the words we wish we hadn't said. It’s gritty, sticky, and honestly, a bit of an embarrassment. We'd rather have something clean and holy, like crystal-clear water.

But Jesus isn't afraid of the dirt. He gets right into it. He uses the very stuff of the earth, the stuff of our mess, to bring sight and healing. He doesn't remove the mud; He uses it. He asks the man to do the hard, clumsy work of going to wash it off, and in that journey, the miracle happens.

So, as you settle into bed tonight, I bless you with this:

May you see the mud of your day—the stumbles, the frustrations, the unsolved problems—not as a sign of failure, but as a potential ingredient for a miracle. May you have the gentle faith to trust that God can work with this muck. May you laugh a little at your own efforts to be perfect, and instead, find peace in the process of being made whole.

May you not fight the sifting, but surrender to it. Let the worries you can't control sift through your fingers and land at the foot of the cross.

And most of all, may you hear the invitation to pray simply, not as a chore, but as a friend falling asleep mid-conversation with a trusted companion. Rest your heavy lids. The One who made the mud is making you new.

Sleep well, dear heart. Tomorrow, we’ll go wash in the pool together. But for now, let the mud dry in peace.

Uma Bênção Noturna: Quando a Lama seca.

(Para ser lida devagar, talvez com uma xícara de café na mão, enquanto o dia se acomoda na noite)

Amado(a), vamos respirar fundo. O mundo fez o que faz de melhor hoje — barulhento, agitado e um pouco ansioso demais para exigir nossa atenção. Mas a noite é diferente. A noite é para peneirar.

O profeta Jeremias ouviu o Senhor dizer: "Eis que os refinarei e os provarei" (Jeremias 9:7). Eu sei, "refinar" e "provar" parecem trabalho, ou pior, uma prova surpresa. Mas nesta noite, vamos enxergar isso com olhos mais macios. Pense não no martelo de um ferreiro, mas na peneira silenciosa de um padeiro. A farinha do dia está no ar; o joio das nossas preocupações e pressa está sendo gentilmente separado, caindo na escuridão. Deus não está te testando para ver se você passa; Deus está te peneirando para te ajudar a descansar, deixando o pesado afundar para que o leve possa subir. Você está sendo amaciado(a).

E nessa ternura, ouvimos o sussurro de Jesus aos discípulos: "Orai para que não entreis em tentação" (Lucas 22:40). Com um pouco de bom humor: isso não é uma ordem para ser perfeito(a). É um convite para estar presente. Pense como um carinhoso "Ei, não esqueça sua armadura!" antes de um longo dia. A "tentação" hoje não é algum pecado grandioso ou dramático. A tentação é rolar a tela do celular no escuro e deixar a ansiedade de amanhã se infiltrar. A tentação é reencenar aquela conversa constrangedora de três anos atrás. A tentação é acreditar que você precisa resolver tudo antes de encostar a cabeça no travesseiro.

Então, Jesus diz: "Orai". E a oração agora não precisa ser eloquente. Pode ser um simples suspiro sonolento: "Senhor, estou te entregando isso. Estou cansado(a) demais para carregar."

E isso nos leva à lama. No último domingo, nos sentamos com aquela história fascinante em João 9, onde Jesus pega terra, cospe, faz lama e a espalha nos olhos do cego. Quando a Lama se Torna um Milagre.

Não é essa a história das nossas vidas? Tanto do nosso dia parece lama — as coisas bagunçadas, os e-mails confusos, os silêncios estranhos, as tarefas que não queremos fazer, as palavras que gostaríamos de não ter dito. É granuloso, pegajoso e, honestamente, um pouco constrangedor. Preferiríamos algo limpo e santo, como água cristalina.

Mas Jesus não tem medo da sujeira. Ele entra nela. Ele usa a própria matéria da terra, a matéria da nossa bagunça, para trazer visão e cura. Ele não remove a lama; Ele a usa. Ele pede que o homem faça o trabalho duro e desajeitado de ir lavá-la, e nessa jornada, o milagre acontece.

Então, enquanto você se aconchega na cama hoje à noite, eu te abençoo com isto:

Que você enxergue a lama do seu dia — as tropeçadas, as frustrações, os problemas não resolvidos — não como um sinal de fracasso, mas como um ingrediente em potencial para um milagre. Que você tenha a fé mansa de confiar que Deus pode trabalhar com esse barro todo. Que você ria um pouco dos seus próprios esforços para ser perfeito(a), e em vez disso, encontre paz no processo de ser curado(a).

Que você não lute contra o peneiramento, mas se entregue a ele. Deixe que as preocupações que você não pode controlar escorram pelos seus dedos e caiam aos pés da cruz.

E, acima de tudo, que você ouça o convite para orar simplesmente, não como uma obrigação, mas como um amigo que adormece no meio da conversa com um companheiro de confiança. Descanse suas pálpebras pesadas. Aquele que fez a lama está te fazendo novo(a).

Durma bem, coração querido. Amanhã, iremos juntos lavar no tanque. Mas por agora, deixe a lama secar em paz.

 

Night Blessing with Irony for the English speakers and Portuguese speakers.

 A Night Blessing for the Exhausted and the Overly-Woke

(A Meditation for the End of the Day)

So, here we are again. Another day down, another cosmic battle fought in the trenches of the grocery store line and the email inbox. The world tells you to wind down, to find your "zen," to breathe deeply. But let’s be honest—you just spent the last twelve hours trying to convince your soul that the printer jam wasn't a personal attack.

Tonight, let’s look at the text. It’s a bit of a theological cocktail. On one hand, Daniel assures us, "The people who know their God shall stand firm and take action" (Daniel 11:32). It sounds so militant, so heroic. "Stand firm!" it says. But the irony of our modern life is that we often spend our "standing firm" energy on deciding whether to stand firm in the checkout line or take the action of abandoning the cart entirely. True strength isn't always the warrior’s charge; sometimes, it’s the stubbornness to remain soft when the world has taught you to be cynical. It’s knowing Who you know, even when that knowledge feels like a faint echo in a noisy room.

And then we have the Revelation text, a double-edged sword of comfort and disquiet: "He who has the key of David... opens and no one will shut, and shuts and no one opens... Because you have kept My word of perseverance, I also will keep you from the hour of testing" (Revelation 3:7, 10). There is a deep, sardonic comfort in that, isn't there? He holds the keys. He opens doors you thought were brick walls, and, more frustratingly, He closes doors you’ve been kicking for years. The sarcasm of life is that we spend our days trying to be the bouncer of our own fate, only to realize we don't even own the keys to the club. Perseverance isn't just gritting your teeth; it's the quiet, sometimes humorous, surrender to the fact that the Master is in charge of the locks. The "hour of testing" will come for the world, but He promises a refuge—not necessarily a removal from the mess, but a protection through it. That’s the loving caveat: the storm will rage, but you won't be swept away.

This brings us to today’s sermon, the glorious mess of John 9. Jesus spits in the dirt. He makes mud. He smears it on a blind man's eyes. Seriously. The King of the Universe used the stuff stuck to the bottom of your shoe to perform a miracle. “When Mud Becomes a Miracle.”

Here is the profound, loving sarcasm for your night: God works through the mundane, the gross, the ordinary. You think a miracle is a lightning bolt from heaven? No. It’s spit and dirt. It is the awkward phone call you had to make. It is the mundane task you did with love even though no one thanked you. It is the tired prayer you breathed into your pillow.

So, tonight, as you lie down, acknowledge the absurdity. You are tired. You have fought battles unseen and lost a few skirmishes that were utterly trivial. You have keys you can't find and doors that won't budge. And yet, you are loved with a ferocity that makes the universe blink.

Blessing:

May you rest in the holy satire of grace—that the God who holds the keys to eternity uses mud to heal.

May you find the strength to stop kicking the closed doors and start noticing the open ones, even if they lead to a quiet room rather than a grand stage.

And when the hour of testing comes, may you not rely on the clarity of your sight, but on the hands that are not afraid to get dirty for you.

Sleep peacefully in the irony that you are most powerful when you are most surrendered. The Maker of the mud is holding your night. And He is enough.

Goodnight, you beautiful, complicated, miracle-in-the-making mess.

 

Uma Bênção Noturna para os Exaustos e os Super-Despertos

(Uma Meditação para o Fim do Dia)

Então, aqui estamos nós de novo. Mais um dia que passou, mais uma batalha cósmica travada nas trincheiras da fila do supermercado e da caixa de entrada do e-mail. O mundo diz para você relaxar, encontrar seu "zen", respirar fundo. Mas sejamos honestos – você acabou de passar as últimas doze horas tentando convencer sua alma de que o travamento da impressora não foi um ataque pessoal.

Hoje à noite, vamos olhar para o texto. É um coquetel teológico. Por um lado, Daniel nos garante: "O povo que conhece o seu Deus se mostrará forte e agirá" (Daniel 11:32). Parece tão militar, tão heroico. "Mostre-se forte!", diz. Mas a ironia da nossa vida moderna é que muitas vezes gastamos nossa energia de "nos mostrar fortes" decidindo se ficamos firmes na fila do caixa ou se tomamos a ação de abandonar o carrinho de vez. A verdadeira força nem sempre é a carga do guerreiro; às vezes, é a teimosia de permanecer macio quando o mundo te ensinou a ser cínico. É saber Quem você conhece, mesmo quando esse conhecimento parece um eco fraco em uma sala barulhenta.

E então temos o texto de Apocalipse, uma faca de dois gumes de conforto e inquietação: "Aquele que tem a chave de Davi... abre, e ninguém fechará; fecha, e ninguém abrirá... Porque você guardou a minha palavra de perseverança, eu também o guardarei da hora da provação" (Apocalipse 3:7, 10). Há um conforto profundo e sardônico nisso, não é? Ele tem as chaves. Ele abre portas que você pensava serem paredes de tijolos e, mais frustrante ainda, Ele fecha portas que você tem chutado há anos. O sarcasmo da vida é que passamos nossos dias tentando ser os seguranças do nosso próprio destino, só para perceber que nem temos as chaves da boate. Perseverança não é apenas ranger os dentes; é a rendição tranquila, às vezes bem-humorada, ao fato de que o Mestre é quem controla as fechaduras. A "hora da provação" virá para o mundo, mas Ele promete um refúgio – não necessariamente uma remoção da bagunça, mas uma proteção através dela. Essa é a ressalva amorosa: a tempestade vai rugir, mas você não será arrastado.

Isso nos traz ao sermão de hoje, a gloriosa bagunça de João 9. Jesus cospe no chão. Ele faz lama. Ele passa nos olhos do cego. Sério. O Rei do Universo usou a sujeira que gruda na sola do seu sapato para realizar um milagre. "Quando a Lama se Torna um Milagre."

Aqui está o sarcasmo profundo e amoroso para a sua noite: Deus age através do mundano, do grosseiro, do ordinário. Você acha que um milagre é um raio do céu? Não. É cuspe e terra. É a ligação telefônica constrangedora que você teve que fazer. É a tarefa mundana que você fez com amor, mesmo que ninguém tenha te agradecido. É a oração cansada que você soprou no travesseiro.

Então, esta noite, ao se deitar, reconheça o absurdo. Você está cansado. Você travou batalhas invisíveis e perdeu algumas escaramuças que eram totalmente triviais. Você tem chaves que não encontra e portas que não cedem. E, ainda assim, você é amado com uma ferocidade que faz o universo piscar.

Bênção:

Que você descanse na santa sátira da graça – que o Deus que tem as chaves da eternidade usa lama para curar.

Que você encontre forças para parar de chutar as portas fechadas e começar a notar as abertas, mesmo que elas levem a uma sala silenciosa em vez de a um grande palco.

E quando a hora da provação chegar, que você não confie na clareza da sua visão, mas nas mãos que não têm medo de se sujar por você.

Durma em paz na ironia de que você é mais poderoso quando está mais rendido. O Fazedor da lama está segurando sua noite. E Ele é suficiente.

Boa noite, você, linda, complicada e milagrosa bagunça em formação.

 

Night Blessing to the people in the mud, in English and Portuguese

When God Makes Miracles Out of Mud

Life rarely gives us a clear and easy path. More often, it feels messy, confusing, and painful. Yet tonight's three readings—Psalm 42, Philippians 1, and John 9—remind us that God often does His greatest work in the middle of the mess.

The psalmist begins with a heartbreaking confession:

"My tears have been my food day and night." (Psalm 42:3)

These are the words of someone who feels overwhelmed and abandoned. Perhaps you've been there too. Faith does not mean we never cry. It means that even in our tears, we continue to seek the living God. The psalmist eventually speaks to his own soul: "Put your hope in God." Sometimes hope begins by reminding ourselves that God has not forgotten us, even when the night feels endless.

Then we meet Paul, writing from prison. Instead of seeing only chains, he sees opportunity. He tells the Philippians that his imprisonment has actually helped spread the Gospel. His chains became his pulpit. What others viewed as defeat, God used for His mission. Our struggles may also become the place where others witness God's faithfulness through us.

Finally, in John 9, Jesus encounters a man born blind. Instead of explaining the man's suffering, Jesus acts. He makes mud from the dust of the earth, places it on the man's eyes, and tells him to wash. It is an unexpected, even messy, miracle. Yet through ordinary dirt, Christ brings extraordinary healing.

The lesson is profound: God is not afraid of our mess. He enters it. He takes what seems ordinary, painful, or broken and transforms it into something that reveals His glory.

So tonight, receive this blessing.

May your tears draw you closer to the God who never abandons His children.

May your chains become opportunities for God's grace to shine through your life.

And when life feels like nothing but mud, may you trust the hands of Jesus. The same hands that formed the mud are the hands that were pierced for your salvation.

The night will not last forever.

The chains will not have the final word.

And the mud may become the very place where Christ opens your eyes to His grace.

Sleep in peace. Wake in hope. And when God opens your eyes, tell the world what He has done.

Amen.

Quando Deus Faz Milagres com Lama

A vida raramente nos dá um caminho claro e fácil. Na maioria das vezes, parece bagunçada, confusa e dolorosa. No entanto, as três leituras desta noite — Salmo 42, Filipenses 1 e João 9 — nos lembram que Deus muitas vezes faz Sua maior obra no meio da bagunça.
O salmista começa com uma confissão de partir o coração:
"Minhas lágrimas têm sido o meu alimento de dia e de noite." (Salmo 42:3)
São palavras de alguém que se sente sobrecarregado e abandonado. Talvez você também já tenha passado por isso. Fé não significa que nunca choramos. Significa que, mesmo em nossas lágrimas, continuamos buscando o Deus vivo. O salmista, por fim, fala à sua própria alma: "Espere em Deus." Às vezes, a esperança começa quando lembramos a nós mesmos que Deus não nos esqueceu, mesmo quando a noite parece interminável.
Em seguida, encontramos Paulo, escrevendo da prisão. Em vez de enxergar apenas correntes, ele vê oportunidade. Ele diz aos filipenses que seu aprisionamento, na verdade, tem ajudado a espalhar o Evangelho. Suas correntes se tornaram seu púlpito. O que outros viam como derrota, Deus usou para Sua missão. Nossas lutas também podem se tornar o lugar onde outros testemunham a fidelidade de Deus por meio de nós.
Finalmente, em João 9, Jesus encontra um homem cego de nascença. Em vez de explicar o sofrimento do homem, Jesus age. Ele faz lama com o pó da terra, coloca-a sobre os olhos do homem e manda que ele lave. É um milagre inesperado, até mesmo bagunçado. No entanto, por meio de terra comum, Cristo traz cura extraordinária.
A lição é profunda: Deus não tem medo da nossa bagunça. Ele entra nela. Ele toma o que parece comum, doloroso ou quebrado e o transforma em algo que revela Sua glória.
Então, nesta noite, receba esta bênção.
Que suas lágrimas o aproximem mais do Deus que nunca abandona Seus filhos.
Que suas correntes se tornem oportunidades para a graça de Deus brilhar através da sua vida.
E quando a vida parecer nada além de lama, que você confie nas mãos de Jesus. As mesmas mãos que formaram a lama são as mãos que foram traspassadas para a sua salvação.
A noite não durará para sempre.
As correntes não terão a última palavra.
E a lama pode se tornar exatamente o lugar onde Cristo abre seus olhos para a Sua graça.
Durma em paz. Desperte em esperança. E quando Deus abrir seus olhos, conte ao mundo o que Ele fez.
Amém.

Night Blessing in a Rainy Day for English and Portuguese speakers

 A Night Blessing for a Rainy, Cold Day

The rain taps a cold, steady rhythm against the window, and the world outside feels hushed and gray. But here, in this quiet space, you are wrapped in a different kind of weather—the enduring warmth of a love that doesn't falter.

Tonight, we remember the words of the Psalmist, who declared with quiet confidence: “In God we have boasted all day long, and we will praise Your name forever.” (Psalm 44:8). This boasting isn't about loud pride; it's a soft, steady trust. It's the quiet knowledge that even as the chill seeps in, your foundation is secure. Your strength isn't in the weather, but in the One who holds you.

Let this truth fill your heart and overflow from your lips, just as we are encouraged: “speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit.” (Ephesians 5:19). So, hum a little tune to yourself. Sing a silly song about the rain to your pet. Let a melody of gratitude cut through the gloom.

And remember the sermon, the story of the man born blind in John 9. The disciples saw a problem to be diagnosed. Jesus saw an opportunity. He took the mud of the earth—the very thing that seemed messy and cold—and he made it a miracle. He took the ordinary, the gritty, the uncomfortable, and transformed it into a means of sight.

So, let this be your prayer tonight:

May the chill outside only make you more aware of the warmth within.
May the rain wash away the dust of worry, and may you see, even in the mud of your own challenges, the hands of the Potter at work.
May God take the messy, unclear parts of your day and speak the same creative word over them: “Go, wash… and you will see.”

Rest tonight, not in a problem solved, but in a God who is present. He is with you in the cold, and He is at work in the mud. Sleep peacefully, knowing you are safe, loved, and being gently shaped into a clearer image of grace. And when you wake, you will see the new day with new eyes.

Goodnight.

Uma Bênção para a Noite – Num Dia Frio e Chuvoso

A chuva bate um ritmo frio e constante contra a janela, e o mundo lá fora parece abafado e cinzento. Mas aqui, neste espaço de calma, você está envolto num tipo diferente de clima – o calor duradouro de um amor que não vacila.

Esta noite, lembramos das palavras do salmista, que declarou com serena confiança: "Em Deus nos gloriamos todo o dia, e louvaremos o teu nome para sempre" (Salmo 44:8). Esse orgulho não é um grito arrogante; é uma confiança mansa e constante. É a certeza silenciosa de que, mesmo quando o frio se infiltra, sua base é segura. Sua força não está no tempo, mas n'Aquele que te sustenta.

Deixe essa verdade encher seu coração e transbordar dos seus lábios, assim como somos encorajados: "falando entre vós com salmos, hinos e cânticos espirituais" (Efésios 5:19). Então, dê um tarareada leve. Cante uma música bobinha sobre a chuva para seu gato ou cachorro. Deixe uma melodia de gratidão cortar a escuridão.

E lembre-se do sermão, da história do homem cego de nascença em João 9. Os discípulos viram um problema a ser diagnosticado. Jesus viu uma oportunidade. Ele pegou a lama da terra – aquilo que parecia sujo e frio – e fez dela um milagre. Ele transformou o comum, o áspero, o desconfortável, num meio de cura e visão.

Então, que esta seja sua oração esta noite:

Que o frio lá fora só te faça perceber melhor o calor que há dentro.
Que a chuva lave o pó das preocupações, e que você enxergue, mesmo na lama dos seus próprios desafios, as mãos do Oleiro agindo.
Que Deus pegue as partes confusas e embaçadas do seu dia e fale sobre elas a mesma palavra criativa: "Vai, lava-te... e verás".

Descanse esta noite, não num problema resolvido, mas num Deus que está presente. Ele está com você no frio, e Ele está agindo na lama. Durma em paz, sabendo que você está seguro, amado e sendo gentilmente moldado à imagem mais clara da graça. E quando acordar, verá o novo dia com novos olhos.

Boa noite. 🌙

 

Sermon for the 8th Sunday after Trinity, John 9:1-7; St. Crucis Lutheran Church

 

When Mud Becomes a Miracle

John 9:1–7

There is a question that seems to follow every one of us through life.

Whenever we stand beside a hospital bed, hear of a child born with a disability, or watch someone we love carry a burden that never seems to lift, the question rises almost automatically:

Why?

Why this person? Why now? Why would God allow this?

The disciples asked exactly that question when they saw the man who had been blind since birth.

“Rabbi,” they asked, “who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

It sounds like a strange question to us, but in their world it made perfect sense. Many people believed that suffering was always a punishment for someone’s sin. If something terrible happened, someone had to be blamed.

But Jesus refuses to point a finger.

Instead, He changes the whole conversation.

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned… but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

Those words have sometimes been misunderstood. Jesus is not saying that God deliberately made this man blind simply to perform a miracle years later. Rather, He is saying that in this broken world, where suffering is sadly real, God is still able to bring His glory and His grace into even the darkest places.

The disciples wanted someone to blame.

Jesus wanted someone to heal.

That changes everything.

---

Then Jesus does something completely unexpected.

He bends down.

He spits on the ground.

He mixes the saliva with the dust until it becomes mud.

Then He gently places that mud on the blind man’s eyes.

Of all the ways Jesus healed people, this may be one of the strangest.

Why mud?

Why not simply speak a word?

After all, Jesus healed people from miles away. He calmed storms with His voice. Surely He didn’t need dirt.

Yet He chose to use something ordinary.

Something messy.

Something people walked over every day.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons we most need to hear.

God often does His greatest work through the ordinary things we are tempted to overlook.

Throughout Scripture, He does this again and again.

Moses carried nothing more impressive than a shepherd’s staff.

David faced Goliath with a sling and a few stones.

Five loaves and two fish fed thousands.

Water became wine.

Bread and wine become gifts through which Christ serves His people.

And here, dust becomes part of a miracle.

It reminds me of a carpenter building a house.

A nail doesn’t look important.

It’s small.

Cheap.

Easy to ignore.

But in the hands of a skilled carpenter, that little nail helps hold an entire house together.

Its value isn’t found in itself.

Its value comes from the one using it.

The same is true here.

The power was never in the mud.

The power was in Jesus.

Maybe your “mud” today is an ordinary job that feels unnoticed.

Maybe it’s caring for an aging parent.

Maybe it’s praying the same prayer day after day.

Maybe it’s simply remaining faithful when nothing seems to change.

Don’t despise the ordinary.

God often hides His miracles there.

---

Then Jesus gives the man a command.

“Go. Wash in the Pool of Siloam.”

Notice something remarkable.

The healing isn’t complete yet.

The man still has mud on his eyes.

He is still blind.

Now he must walk.

Can you imagine that journey?

He cannot see where he is going.

Someone may have needed to guide him.

Every step required trust.

The pool’s name is significant.

“Siloam” means Sent.

John even pauses to explain it.

Again and again throughout this Gospel, Jesus calls Himself the One sent by the Father.

The blind man must go to the place called “Sent” before his eyes are opened.

In other words, healing comes through the One whom the Father has sent.

It reminds me of visiting a doctor.

Suppose the doctor examines you carefully and hands you a prescription.

You could stare at that piece of paper all day.

You could question it.

Argue about it.

Fold it into your pocket.

But until you actually take it to the pharmacy, the medicine never reaches you.

The paper itself has no power.

The healing comes when you trust enough to act.

Faith works like that.

Faith is not merely agreeing with ideas in our heads.

Faith moves.

Faith obeys.

Faith takes the next step even before seeing the whole path.

The blind man believed with his feet before he ever believed with his eyes.

Perhaps that’s where some of us are today.

We understand enough.

We’ve asked enough questions.

We’ve waited for enough explanations.

Now Jesus simply says,

“Come.”

“Trust Me.”

“Take the next step.”

---

John tells the story with beautiful simplicity.

“So the man went and washed, and came home seeing.”

Imagine that moment.

He had lived in that house his whole life.

He knew every doorway by touch.

He knew every voice by sound.

He knew every room by memory.

But he had never actually seen it.

Now, for the first time, he saw his mother’s face.

The sunlight.

The trees.

The colors of the sky.

Everything was familiar—

and completely new.

Jesus didn’t merely give him better eyesight.

He gave him a new world.

That is what Christ still does.

When He opens our eyes, He doesn’t simply solve one problem.

He changes how we see everything.

We begin to recognize God’s mercy where we once saw only hardship.

We notice our neighbour instead of only ourselves.

We discover purpose where we once felt only disappointment.

Most of all, we see Jesus Himself.

---

Someone once imagined a man who had lived his entire life inside a dark cave.

He owned a map, but it was useless because there was never enough light to read it.

People told him about mountains, rivers, forests and open skies, but they sounded like fairy tales.

Then one day a guide took him gently by the hand and led him outside.

At first the sunlight hurt his eyes.

Then, slowly, everything came into focus.

For the first time he saw the world.

Only then did the map make sense.

That is what Jesus does for us.

By ourselves we are spiritually blind.

We may own a Bible.

We may know Bible stories.

We may even know Christian language.

But until Christ opens our eyes, we cannot truly see.

He comes to us in humility.

He stoops into the dust.

He takes upon Himself our humanity.

He carries our sin to the cross.

Then He calls us to Himself—to repent, to trust Him, and to follow.

And suddenly the whole story makes sense.

---

So let me leave you with one final question.

Where might you be blind today?

Perhaps you cannot see God’s love because guilt has clouded your heart.

Perhaps suffering has made it difficult to see His purpose.

Perhaps disappointment has blinded you to hope.

Or perhaps you’ve become so absorbed in your own struggles that you’ve stopped seeing the needs of those around you.

Whatever your blindness, Jesus is still passing by.

Notice that He never answers every “Why?”

Instead, He offers Himself.

He stoops into our dust.

He enters our brokenness.

He calls us to trust Him.

Sometimes His work feels messy.

Sometimes His ways seem far too ordinary.

But His grace is always enough.

Don’t remain in the darkness trying to explain the darkness.

Listen for His voice.

Take the next step.

Walk toward the One who was sent by the Father.

And by His grace, you too will come home seeing.

Amen.