Night Blessing on Passover Easter Threshold – in English and Portuguese.

On the Threshold: Extravagant Love in a World of Calculated Chaos

 

And so, here we are. On the threshold. The doorframe of the two great holy days, where one story bleeds into the other. It’s a curious spot. A kind of spiritual no-man’s-land. You’ve got the Passover on one side, all unleavened hurry and the memory of a hasty freedom. And on the other, Easter, which, depending on your disposition, is either the greatest love story ever told or the most elaborate neighborhood association meeting in history.

We stand here, between the Red Sea and an empty tomb, carrying the usual baggage: the bills, the faint resentments, the quiet hum of anxiety about things we can’t control. The world, as always, is a masterpiece of calculated chaos. Everything has a spreadsheet. Everything has a strategy. Even our betrayals are now done with PowerPoint presentations and quarterly projections.

It’s into this atmosphere of meticulously planned dysfunction that we get a woman with an alabaster jar.

Last Sunday, the sermon was on Mark 14. The scene is a masterclass in contrasts. Jesus is at a table, and in comes a woman. No name, just an act. She breaks the jar—a gesture of such unapologetic, irrational extravagance that it makes the accountants in the room choke on their olives. They do the math. “Three hundred denarii. A year’s wages. Wasted.” Their indignation is reasonable. It is logical. It is, in the cold light of the market, correct.

But the world’s logic is the very chaos we’re trying to escape.

Verissimo once noted that life is what happens while we’re busy making other plans. Well, love is what happens while we’re busy calculating the costs. The woman didn’t calculate. She didn’t hedge her bets. She simply saw the moment—the threshold—and poured out everything she had. It was an act of sublime, reckless beauty. Extravagant love in the face of calculated chaos. It’s the kind of gesture that makes no sense to the world and is the only thing that makes sense to the soul.

And the Psalm for today, Psalm 35:18, is a promise for those who feel surrounded by that chaos: “I will give you thanks in the great congregation; in the mighty throng I will praise you.” It’s a declaration that no matter how loud the voices of calculation get—the cynics, the strategists, the ones who always have a better, cheaper idea—there is a space reserved for gratitude. A mighty throng that gathers not for efficiency, but for awe.

That throng finds its voice in the words of Paul, in Philippians 2:11, the other verse hanging in the air tonight: “Every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

Not just a good teacher. Not just a revolutionary. Lord. Which is to say, the one who redefines the math. The one who looks at the year’s wages poured out on the floor and calls it beautiful. The one who takes our calculated chaos—the scheming of the chief priests, the pragmatic betrayal of Judas—and transfigures it into the path of redemption. He is the stone the builders rejected, the logic the calculators dismissed.

So, this night’s blessing is a simple one, in the style of the master of the bittersweet chronicle: May you find yourself, for just a moment, like that woman.

May you be blessed with a moment of holy bad judgment. May you stop calculating the cost of your own devotion—to your family, to your friends, to the quiet voice that calls you beloved. May you break the jar. Not metaphorically, but in the small, concrete things: an unplanned kindness, a forgiveness that doesn’t add up, a moment of silence in the middle of the noise where you refuse to be efficient.

May you live, for these holy days, as if the only economy that matters is the economy of grace.

And in that mighty throng—which includes the hurried Israelites, the bewildered disciples, the weeping women, and that unnamed woman with the broken jar—may you find your place. May you give thanks. And may you confess, with your life more than your lips, that the One who presides over this threshold is not a CEO, but a servant who let his own body be broken, like a jar, so that the fragrance of love could finally fill the room.

Amen. And good night. Try not to let the chaos win the last word.

 

Na Soleira: Amor Extravagante em Meio ao Caos Calculado

 

E assim, aqui estamos. Na soleira. No batente dessas duas grandes datas santas, onde uma história se derrama na outra. É um lugar curioso. Uma espécie de terra de ninguém espiritual. De um lado, a Páscoa judaica, com toda aquela pressa de pães ázimos e a lembrança de uma liberdade apressada. Do outro, a Páscoa cristã que, dependendo da sua disposição, ou é a maior história de amor já contada ou a reunião de condomínio mais elaborada da história.

Estamos aqui, entre o Mar Vermelho e um túmulo vazio, carregando a bagagem de sempre: as contas, os ressentimentos velados, aquele zumbido quieto de ansiedade por coisas que não podemos controlar. O mundo, como sempre, é uma obra-prima do caos calculado. Tudo tem planilha. Tudo tem estratégia. Até as nossas traições agora são feitas com apresentações em PowerPoint e metas trimestrais.

É nessa atmosfera de disfunção meticulosamente planejada que entra uma mulher com um vaso de alabastro.

Domingo passado, o sermão foi sobre Marcos 14. A cena é uma aula de contrastes. Jesus está à mesa, e entra uma mulher. Sem nome, apenas um gesto. Ela quebra o vaso — um gesto de extravagância tão irracional e sem vergonha que faz os contadores à mesa engasgarem com as azeitonas. Eles fazem as contas. “Trezentos denários. Um ano de salário. Jogado fora.” A indignação deles é razoável. É lógica. É, na luz fria do mercado, correta.

Mas a lógica do mundo é o próprio caos do qual tentamos escapar.

O Verissimo já observou que a vida é o que acontece enquanto a gente faz outros planos. Pois bem, o amor é o que acontece enquanto a gente calcula os custos. A mulher não calculou. Ela não fez hedge. Ela simplesmente viu o momento — a soleira — e derramou tudo o que tinha. Foi um ato de uma beleza sublime e imprudente. Amor extravagante em meio ao caos calculado. É o tipo de gesto que não faz sentido nenhum para o mundo, mas é a única coisa que faz sentido para a alma.

E o Salmo do dia, Salmo 35:18, é uma promessa para quem se sente cercado por esse caos: “Render-te-ei graças na grande congregação; entre muita gente te louvarei.” É uma declaração de que, por mais altas que sejam as vozes do cálculo — os cínicos, os estrategistas, os que têm sempre uma ideia melhor e mais barata — há um espaço reservado para a gratidão. Uma grande multidão que se reúne não pela eficiência, mas pelo assombro.

Essa multidão encontra sua voz nas palavras de Paulo, em Filipenses 2:11, a outra versículo que paira no ar nesta noite: “Toda língua confesse que Jesus Cristo é Senhor.”

Não apenas um bom mestre. Não apenas um revolucionário. Senhor. Ou seja, aquele que redefine a matemática. Aquele que olha para o salário de um ano derramado no chão e chama aquilo de belo. Aquele que pega o nosso caos calculado — a trama dos sumos sacerdotes, o pragmatismo da traição de Judas — e o transfigura em caminho de redenção. Ele é a pedra que os construtores rejeitaram, a lógica que os calculistas descartaram.

Então, a benção desta noite é simples, ao estilo do mestre da crônica agridoce: que você seja, por um instante, como aquela mulher.

Que você seja abençoado com um momento de santa má gestão. Que você pare de calcular o custo da sua própria devoção — à sua família, aos seus amigos, àquela voz silenciosa que te chama de amado. Que você quebre o vaso. Não metaforicamente, mas nas pequenas coisas concretas: uma gentileza não planejada, um perdão que não fecha a conta, um momento de silêncio no meio do barulho onde você se recusa a ser eficiente.

Que você viva, nestes dias santos, como se a única economia que importasse fosse a economia da graça.

E nessa grande multidão — que inclui os israelitas apressados, os discípulos desnorteados, as mulheres chorando, e aquela mulher sem nome com o vaso quebrado — que você encontre o seu lugar. Que você dê graças. E que você confesse, com a sua vida mais do que com os lábios, que Aquele que preside esta soleira não é um CEO, mas um servo que deixou o próprio corpo ser quebrado, como um vaso, para que o perfume do amor finalmente pudesse encher a sala.

Amém. E boa noite. Tente não deixar o caos ter a última palavra.

A Night Blessing for the Threshold of Holy Week - In English and Portuguese

 

A Night Blessing for the Threshold of Holy Week

Looking to Daniel 9:14, Luke 24:26, and the extravagant love of Mark 14:1–9

In the quiet of this night,
when the world still hums with the memory of its calculated chaos—
the strategies, the scarcities, the whispered plots in shadowed halls—
I pause, and I receive a blessing meant for the watchful heart.

You, O Lord, have watched over the calamity
(as Daniel knew, as your people have always known),
and You have not turned away.
You have not abandoned us to the arithmetic of our failures.
Even now, You are watching over us, not merely at us.
So I bless the watchfulness of God that sees both our wound and our healing.

And tonight I remember:
Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things
and then enter into His glory? (Luke 24:26)
Not in spite of the suffering, but through it—
through betrayal, through silence, through the spikenard broken open.
So I bless the necessary path:
the descent that becomes the rising,
the cross that is not the end but the doorway.

For last Sunday, we heard of a woman
in a house full of calculated men.
They counted the cost of perfume;
she counted the cost of love and found it priceless.
She anointed Jesus for His burial before the chaos had its way with Him.
She did not wait for permission.
She did not wait for clarity.
She broke the alabaster in a world that only breaks bones and promises.

So tonight, I bless that same extravagant love in you.
May you waste your worship wisely.
May you pour out what is precious before the week of anguish arrives.
May you not be ashamed of the fragrance that fills a room—
even when others call it excess.

And as you lay down your head:
Let the watching of Daniel become your peace—
God has not forgotten the covenant.
Let the necessity of Luke become your hope—
glory is not an escape hatch, but a resurrection.
Let the woman of Mark become your courage—
love before logic, anointing before agony.

Now rest, weary pilgrim.
Holy Week is coming, but so is Sunday.
Not just any Sunday—
the Sunday that answers every “why” with an empty tomb.

In the name of the One who watches, who suffers, who rises, and who anoints us still:
Amen.

Go in the extravagant love that the calculating world cannot comprehend.

 

Uma Bênção para Esta Noite, às Portas da Semana Santa

Com base em Daniel 9:14, Lucas 24:26 e no amor extravagante de Marcos 14:1–9

No silêncio desta noite,
quando o mundo ainda ressoa com a memória do seu caos calculado —
as estratégias, as escassezes, as conspirações murmuradas em salas sombrias —
eu paro e recebo uma bênção para o coração que vigia.

Tu, Senhor, vigias sobre a calamidade
(como Daniel sabia, como o Teu povo sempre soube),
e não desvias o Teu rosto.
Não nos abandonaste à aritmética dos nossos fracassos.
Ainda agora, Tu vigias sobre nós, não apenas observando nós.
Por isso, abençoo a vigília de Deus, que vê ao mesmo tempo a nossa ferida e a nossa cura.

E nesta noite me lembro:
Não era necessário que o Cristo sofresse estas coisas
e assim entrasse na sua glória? (Lucas 24:26)
Não apesar do sofrimento, mas através dele —
através da traição, do silêncio, do nardo que se quebra.
Por isso, abençoo o caminho necessário:
a descida que se torna subida,
a cruz que não é o fim, mas a porta de entrada.

Pois no último domingo, ouvimos falar de uma mulher
numa casa cheia de homens calculistas.
Eles contaram o custo do perfume;
ela contou o custo do amor e o achou inestimável.
Ela ungiu Jesus para o sepultamento, antes que o caos fizesse sua obra nele.
Ela não esperou por permissão.
Ela não esperou por clareza.
Ela quebrou o alabastro num mundo que só quebra ossos e promessas.

Por isso, nesta noite, abençoo em ti esse mesmo amor extravagante.
Que tu desperdices a tua adoração com sabedoria.
Que derrames o que é precioso antes que chegue a semana de angústia.
Que não tenhas vergonha do perfume que inunda o ambiente —
mesmo quando outros o chamam de excesso.

E ao reclinares a cabeça:
Que a vigília de Daniel se torne a tua paz —
Deus não se esqueceu da aliança.
Que a necessidade de Lucas se torne a tua esperança —
a glória não é uma rota de fuga, mas uma ressurreição.
Que a mulher de Marcos se torne a tua coragem —
amor antes da lógica, unção antes da agonia.

Agora descansa, peregrino cansado.
A Semana Santa está chegando, mas o Domingo também.
Não qualquer domingo —
o Domingo que responde a todo "por quê?" com um túmulo vazio.

Em nome dAquele que vigia, que sofre, que ressuscita e que ainda nos unge:
Amém.

Vai no amor extravagante que o mundo calculista não pode compreender.

 

Palmorum Sunday sermon - 29th March 2026

 

 Extravagant Love in a World of Calculated Chaos

Text: Mark 14:1-2, 3-9

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Introduction: The Irony of the Triumphal Entry

Today is Palm Sunday. Traditionally, our minds are drawn to the parade. We picture the crowds waving palm branches, shouting “Hosanna!”, and paving the road to Jerusalem with their cloaks. It is a moment of celebration, of royal proclamation.

But if you look closely at the Gospel of Mark—the earliest and most urgent of the Gospels—the real drama of Palm Sunday isn’t actually in the streets. Mark rushes through the donkey and the cloaks in just a few verses. He spends far more time on a scene that happens before the parade.

Mark tells us that before Jesus entered the city to the cheers of the crowd, He was in a house in Bethany. And while the world outside was holding its breath, a woman did something that the Bible says will be spoken of wherever the gospel is preached—including here, this morning.

To understand the power of her act, we have to understand the pressure cooker of fear and politics she stepped into.

The Pax Romana: A World of Calculated Chaos

Mark begins chapter 14 with a specific timestamp: “It was now two days before the Passover and the

feast of Unleavened Bread.” (Mark 14:1).

Jerusalem was swelling with pilgrims. The population of the city would have quintupled. The air was thick with the smell of roasting lamb, dust, and the tension of Roman occupation.

The text tells us that the chief priests and the scribes—the religious elite—were looking for a way to arrest Jesus. But they had a logistical problem. Look at verse 2: “Not during the feast, lest there be an uproar from the people.”

They wanted Jesus dead, but they were terrified of the crowd. They were playing political chess.

Meanwhile, the Romans were enforcing what they called the Pax Romana—the “Peace of Rome.” But let’s be clear about what that peace was. It was not peace as we think of it; it was peace through domination. It was peace through the threat of the sword. If you stepped out of line, Rome’s answer was swift, brutal, and public—crucifixion.

So, here is the backdrop: The religious leaders are plotting assassination behind closed doors. Rome is patrolling the streets with iron fists. The crowd is a powder keg of revolutionary fervor, hoping Jesus will be the warrior-Messiah who overthrows Caesar. Rumors of insurrection, rumors of war, were constant.

It was chaos masked by order. It was a world that told you: Be practical. Be strategic. Don’t waste resources. And for heaven’s sake, don’t make a scene.

The Disruption: An Extravagant Waste

It is in this context—this world of political calculation, religious hypocrisy, and simmering violence—that Mark cuts the scene.

We are in the house of Simon the Leper. Jesus is reclining at the table. And then, in verse 3, a woman enters. We don’t know her name, though John’s gospel tells us it was Mary of Bethany. Mark intentionally leaves her anonymous so that she represents every disciple.

She carries an alabaster flask. This wasn’t a little perfume bottle from a department store. This was a sealed jar of pure nard, imported from the Himalayas. Mark tells us it was “very costly.” In fact, in verse 5, the onlookers estimate its value at more than three hundred denarii.

Do the math. A denarius was a day’s wage. This jar was worth a year’s salary. In today’s terms, if the average worker makes $50,000 a year, this was a $50,000 bottle of perfume.

She breaks the jar. She doesn’t dab it; she pours it. She pours it over Jesus’ head. In the ancient world, anointing someone’s head was a gesture reserved for kings and high priests. She was anointing Him for who He really was.

But then she does something shocking. The text says she poured it over his head—and then the aroma filled the room. In some accounts, she also anoints his feet and wipes them with her hair.

And the room reacts.

The disciples—the men who had left everything to follow Jesus—suddenly become accountants. Verse 4: “Why was the ointment wasted like that? It could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.”

Notice the word: Wasted.

In a world of Roman oppression, where resources were scarce; in a world of religious plotting, where survival was key; in a world of poverty, where Lazarus lay at the gate—this act seemed like insanity. It was impractical. It was inefficient. It was extravagant.

The Difference Between Politics and Worship

The disciples were upset. But Mark gives us a detail we often miss. He tells us specifically that it was the disciples who were upset. But then he narrows it down. In the parallel account in John, we learn that the mouthpiece of this criticism was Judas Iscariot.

Judas was the treasurer. Judas was the pragmatist. Judas was the one who cared about the poor—or at least, that’s what he said. John tells us he said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he used to help himself to the money bag.

Here is the tension: Judas wanted to dismantle the system from the outside. Jesus was about to dismantle it from the inside.

Judas was looking at the Roman Empire and the religious establishment, and he wanted to launch a revolution. He thought the way to fix the world was through strategy, through funding, through political action. He saw a year’s worth of wages and thought, “That’s war chest money. That’s leverage.”

But Jesus looks at the woman and says, “Leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing to me.”

That word “beautiful” is the Greek word kalos, which means “honorable,” “good,” or “noble.” What the disciples called “waste,” Jesus called “beauty.”

Why? Because she understood the timing. Verse 8: “She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial.”

While the men were arguing about politics, economics, and revolution—she was the only one who actually heard what Jesus had been saying for three chapters: that He must suffer, die, and rise again.

In a world obsessed with the Pax Romana—the peace of Rome—she was participating in the Pax Christi, the peace of Christ that comes through sacrifice.

The Chaos We Know

Now, why does this matter for us, today, on Palm Sunday?

Because we know this chaos. We live in a world that feels remarkably similar to that Jerusalem. We look at the headlines and we see:

• Rumors of wars. Nations rattling swords, geopolitical alliances shifting like sand.
• Economic anxiety. Inflation, the cost of living, the fear that the future will be harder than the past.
• Institutional hypocrisy. We see religious leaders and political leaders playing chess with human lives, looking for the opportune time to consolidate power.
• The modern Pax Romana. A peace that isn’t really peace, but just the absence of chaos—held together by tension, force, and mutual assured destruction.

In the middle of that noise, the world tells you the same thing it told the disciples: Be practical. Save your resources. Don’t waste your time on Jesus when there are real problems to solve. Don’t waste your money on the church when there are political campaigns to fund. Don’t waste your Sunday morning worship when the world is falling apart. Do something strategic.

And the church, too often, listens. We start acting like Judas. We look at our resources—our time, our talent, our treasure—and we calculate. We say, “If we invest this in our retirement, we’ll be safe.” Or, “If we invest this in political activism, we’ll change the culture.” Or, “If we save this, we’ll have control.”

But the woman in Bethany represents a different kind of response to chaos.

The Response: Extravagant Love

She didn’t deny the chaos. She didn’t ignore the poverty. She didn’t pretend the Romans weren’t at the gate or that the priests weren’t plotting.

But in the face of all that—she looked at Jesus, and she deemed Him worthy of everything.

She broke the jar. In the ancient world, breaking the alabaster jar was significant. These jars were sealed to preserve the purity of the perfume. You couldn’t pour out just a little. Once you broke the seal, you had to use it all. It was an irreversible act of devotion.

She didn’t give Jesus a portion of her life; she gave Him the whole thing, all at once, without reservation.

And Jesus said that wherever the gospel is preached—throughout the world, throughout history—what she did would be told in memory of her.

Why? Because the gospel is not just a set of ethical teachings on how to fix society. The gospel is the announcement that the King has come, and He has broken the power of sin and death by His own death.

This woman understood that before the triumphal entry, there had to be a surrender. Before the crown of glory, there was the cross of shame. She anointed Him for burial because she knew that the only way to fix the chaos of the world was not through a political coup, but through a bloody sacrifice.

Conclusion: What Are You Holding Back?

As we stand on the threshold of Holy Week, this story asks us a piercing question.

In a world that is shouting at you to be strategic, to be safe, to be calculated—what is your alabaster jar?

What is the thing you are holding back from Jesus because you think you need it to secure your future? What is the resource—your time, your reputation, your finances, your comfort—that you are keeping sealed up because you’re afraid of the chaos?

The disciples looked at that perfume and saw a year’s wages. They saw security. They saw political leverage. They saw a safety net.

Jesus saw worship.

The chaos of the world—the rumors of war, the political strife, the economic uncertainty—is real. It’s not going away this side of heaven. But here is the truth of Palm Sunday: The King is entering Jerusalem. He is not coming to take a throne; He is coming to take a cross.

And He is worthy of everything you have.

You don’t have to wait until the chaos subsides to worship. You don’t have to wait until you feel secure to be generous. You don’t have to wait until you understand everything to pour yourself out at His feet.

She did what she could. She did it now. And Jesus said it was a beautiful thing.

May we, in the middle of the chaos, be a people who know that the only appropriate response to the King who died for us is not calculation—but extravagance.

Let us break our jars. Let us pour out our worship. And let us follow Him, not to a palace, but to a cross—and ultimately, to an empty tomb.

Amen.

 

Night Blessing for Palm Sunday Eve - in English and Portuguese

 A blessing for you, on this eve of Palmarum.

From the windy and sunny Buffalo Municipality, where the gusts strip away the pretense and the sun reveals what is truly here, the congregations of St. John’s and St. Crucis send you this word. It is a word borne of love—the stubborn kind—and seasoned with the humor that only comes from a community that has learned to laugh at itself because it has first been held by grace.

Tonight, we rest in the tension of the threshold. Tomorrow, we will shout “Hosanna!” and wave our branches. But tonight, we sit with the verses that hold us steady.

From Psalm 80:18: “Then we will not turn away from you; give us life, and we will call on your name.”*

It is a prayer of utter dependence, isn’t it? A recognition that our first instinct is to turn away, to scatter, to clutch our own small plans. Yet the Psalmist prays for the very thing that will keep us tethered: give us life. Not just any life, but the life that comes from not turning away. The humor in this, for a community like ours, is that we so often think we are the ones who must hold it all together. We plan the schedules, we manage the buildings, we curate the worship. And yet, the only thing that truly keeps us from turning away is God’s relentless grip on us. So tonight, we rest in that grip. We admit our exhaustion, our distracted hearts, our tendency to wander. And we trust that the One who gives life will not let us go.

From Luke 17:15: “Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice.”*

This is the lone Samaritan, the one who returns. Ten were cleansed; only one came back to say, “Thank you.” We are mindful of this on the eve of our own procession. We are so quick to run to the next thing, to the next need, to the next crisis or celebration. But the vocation of a community, as we were reminded in the Last Sunday sermon on Hebrews 13:12-14, is to be a people who turn back.

The sermon’s word—“Judged by Grace: Our Vocation as a Community”—settles on us tonight like a warm, heavy blanket. We are not a community because we are successful, or large, or perfectly harmonious. We are a community because we have all been judged by grace. And that judgment, terrifying as it sounds, is the most freeing thing in the world. It means we are not under the final judgment of our own failures or our own successes. We are under the mercy.

Hebrews reminds us that Jesus “suffered outside the city gate” to sanctify us. He was judged in the place of the outcast, the rejected, the one sent away. And the text calls us to “go to him outside the camp and bear the disgrace he bore.” Here we have no lasting city, but we are seeking the city that is to come.

This is our vocation. Not to build a fortress, but to be a people who know where we truly belong. We belong with the One who was judged outside the gate. So our humor is the humor of people who no longer have to pretend we have it all figured out. We can laugh at our own pretensions because we have already been given a righteousness that is not our own. Our love is the love of people who know they were the ones who were healed and who keep turning back to say thank you.

So, on this windy and sunny eve, as we prepare for the triumphal entry that will lead, inevitably, to the gate outside the city, receive this blessing:

May you be too stubborn to turn away from the God who gives you life.
May you be graceless enough to forget your dignity and turn back with a loud voice of praise.
May you find your true home not in the cities you build, but in the company of the One who was judged for you.
And may you walk into the week ahead with the love of St. John’s and the humor of St. Crucis, knowing you are held, you are healed, and you are free.

Good night, beloved. Tomorrow, we wave branches. Tonight, we rest in grace.

Uma bênção para você, nesta véspera de Palmarum.

Da ventosa e ensolarada Area Metropolitana de Buffalo, onde as rajadas de vento arrancam os disfarces
e o sol revela o que realmente está aqui, as comunidades de São João e Santa Cruz te enviam esta palavra. É uma palavra nascida do amor — daquele teimoso — e temperada com o humor que só surge em uma comunidade que aprendeu a rir de si mesma porque antes foi sustentada pela graça.

Esta noite, descansamos na tensão do limiar. Amanhã, gritaremos “Hosana!” e agitaremos nossos ramos. Mas esta noite, nos sentamos com os versículos que nos mantêm firmes.

Do Salmo 80:18: “Então não nos afastaremos de ti; dá-nos vida, e invocaremos o teu nome.”

É uma oração de pura dependência, não é? Um reconhecimento de que nosso primeiro instinto é nos afastar, nos dispersar, nos agarrar aos nossos pequenos planos. No entanto, o salmista ora justamente pela coisa que nos manterá ligados: dá-nos vida. Não qualquer vida, mas a vida que vem de não se afastar. O humor nisso, para uma comunidade como a nossa, é que muitas vezes pensamos que somos nós que precisamos segurar tudo. Nós planejamos as agendas, cuidamos dos prédios, organizamos os cultos. E, no entanto, a única coisa que verdadeiramente nos impede de nos afastar é o aperto implacável de Deus em nós. Então, esta noite, descansamos nesse aperto. Admitimos nosso cansaço, nossos corações distraídos, nossa tendência a vaguear. E confiamos que Aquele que dá vida não nos deixará ir.

De Lucas 17:15: “Um deles, quando viu que estava curado, voltou, louvando a Deus em alta voz.”

Este é o samaritano solitário, aquele que retorna. Dez foram purificados; apenas um voltou para dizer: “Obrigado”. Estamos atentos a isso na véspera de nossa própria procissão. Somos tão rápidos em correr para a próxima coisa, para a próxima necessidade, para a próxima crise ou celebração. Mas a vocação de uma comunidade, como fomos lembrados no sermão do Domingo Passado sobre Hebreus 13:12-14, é ser um povo que volta atrás.

A palavra do sermão — “Julgados pela Graça: Nossa Vocação como Comunidade” — se acomoda sobre nós esta noite como um cobertor quente e pesado. Não somos uma comunidade porque somos bem-sucedidos, ou grandes, ou perfeitamente harmoniosos. Somos uma comunidade porque todos fomos julgados pela graça. E esse julgamento, por mais assustador que pareça, é a coisa mais libertadora do mundo. Significa que não estamos sob o julgamento final de nossos próprios fracassos ou de nossos próprios sucessos. Estamos sob a misericórdia.

Hebreus nos lembra que Jesus “sofreu fora da porta da cidade” para nos santificar. Ele foi julgado no lugar do excluído, do rejeitado, daquele que é enviado para fora. E o texto nos chama a “ir até ele fora do acampamento, suportando a vergonha que ele suportou”. Pois aqui não temos cidade permanente, mas buscamos a cidade que há de vir.

Esta é a nossa vocação. Não construir uma fortaleza, mas ser um povo que sabe onde verdadeiramente pertence. Pertencemos àquele que foi julgado fora do portão. Então, nosso humor é o humor de pessoas que não precisam mais fingir que têm tudo sob controle. Podemos rir de nossas próprias pretensões porque já recebemos uma justiça que não é nossa. Nosso amor é o amor de pessoas que sabem que foram curadas e que continuam voltando para agradecer.

Então, nesta véspera ventosa e ensolarada, enquanto nos preparamos para a entrada triunfal que levará, inevitavelmente, ao portão fora da cidade, receba esta bênção:

Que você seja teimoso demais para se afastar do Deus que te dá vida.
Que você seja sem graça o suficiente para esquecer sua dignidade e voltar com uma voz alta de louvor.
Que você encontre seu verdadeiro lar não nas cidades que constrói, mas na companhia daquele que foi julgado por você.
E que você caminhe para a semana que se inicia com o amor de São João e o humor de Santa Cruz, sabendo que você é sustentado, você é curado e você é livre.

Boa noite, amados. Amanhã, agitaremos ramos. Esta noite, descansamos na graça.

 

Night Blessing almost a Reggae Meditation – in English and Portuguese

 

Outside the Camp, Beneath a Blessing

As the sun goes down on the walls of Babylon, marking the end of another day of striving and another round of worldly calls, I am reminded that this battle is not won by the sword or by a crown. It is won by the seed we sow in this wicked land. Look closely at the path where the righteous tread; it is the one who stands firm, not the one who falls, who finds the way. As Proverbs says, righteousness leads to life, so I hold fast to that truth, cutting through the noise and the strife.

So now, as I lay myself down to sleep, I entrust my soul to the One who keeps watch. I refuse to sow to the wind or to the flesh, for I know that from such corruption, chains are forged. Instead, I choose to sow to the Spirit, even if the world calls me a fool, because from the Spirit comes the harvest of life everlasting. That is the rule. This is my night blessing, a holy protection resting in the shadow of His correction.

The words of Galatians warn me plainly: do not be deceived. God cannot be mocked. Whatever a person plants, that is what they will reap. And so I am intentional about planting seeds of love, letting my heart find its rest not in the pursuit of glory or human praise, but in the quiet hope of a new land yet to come. The flesh clamors for pleasure now, but the Spirit whispers a different way—the way of humility and patient waiting.

This past Sunday, the sermon spoke from the book of Hebrews, chapter thirteen, and his words still echo in me. He reminded us that Jesus also suffered outside the city gate, choosing to be cast out in order to sanctify the people and to challenge the structures of power. That message calls us to go forth, then, outside the camp with Him, bearing His reproach even when the light around us grows dim. For the truth is clear: we have no lasting city here. We are seekers of the one that is still to come.

This, then, becomes our vocation as a community: to live judged by grace, and thereby to know true freedom. Not a freedom to judge one another, but a freedom to be shaped by the judgment of the Lamb. We are called to walk in the Spirit, to be who we truly are. We are meant to be a city on a hill, but that hill lies outside the gates of comfort and respectability, where the broken and the outcast gather. In carrying His shame, we carry His name. In suffering the flame now, we reach toward the glory that is coming.

And so, as we lay ourselves down to sleep, we give our souls into His keeping. We will not sow to the wind or to the flesh, for we know that corruption only forges chains. We will sow to the Spirit, though the world call us fools, because from the Spirit comes the harvest of life everlasting. This is our night blessing, our holy protection, resting in the shadow of His correction.

We have no lasting city here. We seek the one to come. Judged by grace, we are a community gathered outside the gate, sowing the Spirit, and resting beneath a night blessing.

Fora do acampamento, sob uma bênção

Quando o sol se põe sobre os muros da Babilônia, marcando o fim de mais um dia de luta e mais uma rodada de chamados mundanos, lembro-me de que esta batalha não é vencida pela espada nem por uma coroa. É vencida pela semente que plantamos nesta terra perversa. Olhe atentamente para o caminho por onde os justos andam; é aquele que permanece firme, não o que cai, quem encontra o caminho. Como diz Provérbios, a justiça conduz à vida, por isso me apego a essa verdade, cortando através do barulho e da discórdia.

Então agora, ao me deitar para dormir, entrego minha alma Àquele que vigia. Recuso-me a semear ao vento ou à carne, pois sei que dessa corrupção forjam-se correntes. Em vez disso, escolho semear para o Espírito, ainda que o mundo me chame de tolo, porque do Espírito vem a colheita da vida eterna. Essa é a regra. Esta é minha benção noturna, uma santa proteção sob a sombra da Sua correção.

As palavras de Gálatas me advertem claramente: não se enganem. Deus não se deixa zombar. Aquilo que uma pessoa plantar, isso ela colherá. E assim sou intencional em plantar sementes de amor, deixando meu coração encontrar descanso não na busca por glória ou louvor humano, mas na esperança tranquila de uma nova terra que ainda está por vir. A carne clama por prazer agora, mas o Espírito sussurra um caminho diferente — o caminho da humildade e da espera paciente.

Neste domingo passado, o sermão falou do livro de Hebreus, capítulo treze, e suas palavras ainda ecoam em mim. Ele nos lembrou que Jesus também sofreu fora das portas da cidade, escolhendo ser excluído para santificar o povo e desafiar as estruturas de poder. Essa mensagem nos chama a avançar, então, para fora do acampamento com Ele, carregando Sua afronta mesmo quando a luz ao nosso redor se torna escassa. Pois a verdade é clara: não temos aqui cidade permanente. Somos buscadores daquela que ainda está por vir.

Este é, então, o nosso chamado como comunidade: viver julgados pela graça e, assim, conhecer a verdadeira liberdade. Não uma liberdade para julgar uns aos outros, mas uma liberdade para sermos moldados pelo julgamento do Cordeiro. Somos chamados a andar no Espírito, a ser quem verdadeiramente somos. Estamos destinados a ser uma cidade sobre um monte, mas esse monte fica fora dos portões do conforto e da respeitabilidade das “gentes de bem”, onde os quebrantados e os excluídos se reúnem. Ao carregarmos Sua vergonha, carregamos Seu nome. Ao suportarmos a chama agora, alcançamos a glória que está por vir.

E assim, ao nos deitarmos para dormir, entregamos nossas almas aos Seus cuidados. Não semearemos ao vento nem à carne, pois sabemos que a corrupção apenas forja correntes. Semearemos para o Espírito, ainda que o mundo nos chame de tolos, porque do Espírito vem a colheita da vida eterna. Esta é a nossa benção noturna, nossa santa proteção, repousando sob a sombra da Sua correção.

Não temos aqui cidade permanente. Buscamos aquela que está por vir. Julgados pela graça, somos uma comunidade reunida fora do portão, semeando para o Espírito e descansando sob uma benção noturna.

 

 

Night Blessing Grace Community – in English and Portuguese

 

A Blessing for the Unfinished

Before you close your eyes, let go of the need to be perfect. The day is done, and you are still here. Not because you got everything right, but because grace has a stubborn way of holding on to us.

David said, “I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall always be on my lips.” But you and I know that some days, praise gets stuck in the throat. Some days, the “all times” feel like a burden rather than a promise. So tonight, let your blessing be a quiet one. Not a shout of triumph, but a whisper of surrender. Let your praise be simply this: I am still here. And You are still God.

Remember the sermon from Sunday: “Jesus also suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood. Let us, then, go to him outside the camp, bearing the disgrace he bore. For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.”

You felt that, didn’t you? The call to leave the comfort of the “camp.” The discomfort of being judged by a world that mistakes holiness for popularity. We are a community not because we agree on everything, or because we have a beautiful building to gather in, but because we have all been judged—not by our merit, but by His mercy. We have been chosen, as Paul wrote to the Ephesians, “in love… destined for adoption as his children.”

What a strange and freeing judgment: to be called beloved before you’ve earned it. To be welcomed into a family not because you fit in, but because you were meant for it.

So tonight, sleep in that grace. You do not have to build an enduring city today. You just have to rest. Let the stones of self-criticism crumble. Let the exhaustion of performing be lifted.

If you spent the day outside the gate—feeling like you didn’t belong, feeling the weight of a judgment that wasn’t yours to carry—know this: that is precisely where He is. He is not in the temple of perfection; He is in the vulnerability of the open field.

And if you are part of a community that is also weary, pray for them tonight. Not that they become stronger, but that they become softer. Not that they win, but that they know they are loved.

Because our vocation, the thing we are called to do, is not to be impressive. It is to be a place where grace makes sense. It is to be people who, having been judged by love, learn to stop judging ourselves.

Let the night be your permission to stop trying to be the city. You are just a pilgrim. And pilgrims rest.

May you wake tomorrow not with a list of demands, but with a quiet certainty: I am adopted. I am loved. And that is enough.

Amen.

Uma Bênção para o Inacabado

Antes de fechar os olhos, solte a necessidade de ser perfeito. O dia acabou, e você ainda está aqui. Não porque acertou tudo, mas porque a graça tem uma teimosia de segurar na gente.

Davi disse: “Bendirei o Senhor em todo o tempo; o seu louvor estará sempre nos meus lábios.” Mas você e eu sabemos que em alguns dias o louvor fica preso na garganta. Em alguns dias, o “todo o tempo” parece um fardo, e não uma promessa. Então, nesta noite, deixe a sua bênção ser silenciosa. Não um grito de vitória, mas um sussurro de entrega. Deixe o seu louvor ser simplesmente isto: Ainda estou aqui. E Tu continuas sendo Deus.

Lembre-se do sermão de domingo: “Jesus também sofreu fora da porta da cidade, para santificar o povo pelo seu próprio sangue. Saiamos, pois, a ele, fora do arraial, levando o seu vitupério. Porque não temos aqui cidade permanente, mas buscamos a que há de vir.”

Você sentiu isso, não sentiu? O chamado para deixar o conforto do “arraial”. O desconforto de ser julgado por um mundo que confunde santidade com popularidade. Somos uma comunidade não porque concordamos sobre tudo, ou porque temos um belo prédio para nos reunir, mas porque todos fomos julgados — não pelo nosso mérito, mas pela Sua misericórdia. Fomos escolhidos, como Paulo escreveu aos Efésios, “no amor… para sermos adotados como seus filhos”.

Que julgamento estranho e libertador: ser chamado de amado antes mesmo de ter conquistado isso. Ser bem-vindo em uma família não porque você se encaixa, mas porque você foi feito para ela.

Então, nesta noite, durma nessa graça. Você não precisa construir uma cidade permanente hoje. Você só precisa descansar. Deixe as pedras da autocrítica se desfazerem. Deixe o cansaço de ter que performar ser aliviado.

Se você passou o dia fora da porta — sentindo que não pertencia, sentindo o peso de um julgamento que não era seu para carregar — saiba disso: é exatamente ali que Ele está. Ele não está no templo da perfeição; Ele está na vulnerabilidade do campo aberto.

E se você faz parte de uma comunidade que também está cansada, ore por eles nesta noite. Não para que se tornem mais fortes, mas para que se tornem mais suaves. Não para que vençam, mas para que saibam que são amados.

Porque a nossa vocação, aquilo para o que fomos chamados, não é ser impressionante. É ser um lugar onde a graça faça sentido. É ser pessoas que, tendo sido julgadas pelo amor, aprendem a parar de se julgar.

Deixe que a noite seja a sua permissão para parar de tentar ser a cidade. Você é apenas um peregrino. E peregrinos descansam.

Que você acorde amanhã não com uma lista de exigências, mas com uma certeza silenciosa: Sou adotado. Sou amado. E isso basta.

Amém.

 

Night Blessing Inspired by Scripture – in English and Portuguese 24th March, 2026

Blessing for the One Who Slept Outside the Gate

Do not be afraid of the dark, my dear.
The dark is not an absence.
It is the soil where the seed goes to forget it is a seed.

Tonight, I bless your exhaustion.
Not the exhaustion that destroys, but the one that undresses you—
that removes the armor of doing, the mask of proving,
the heavy name the world wrote on your forehead with a branding iron.

Today, you were judged.
We all were.
We stood in the courtroom of the week, accused of not being enough,
of arriving late, of loving poorly, of failing the small laws.
But the sermon said—do you remember?—
we were judged by grace.
Not acquitted. Judged.
Meaning: Someone looked at the whole mess of us
and, instead of a sentence, spoke a name we did not earn.

“The Lord, the God of heaven… He will send His angel before you.” (Genesis 24:7)
Before you. Not beside you, not behind you.
Before you, clearing the road while you were still sleeping.
Before you knew you would need a road.
Before you knew you were Abraham’s servant, sent on an errand you didn’t choose.

And you, tonight, are also the servant.

You went out today, seeking water for a thirst you couldn’t name.
You came back with dust in your throat.
But the angel—the angel was there first.
In the stranger who held the door.
In the silence that arrived precisely when your words ran out.
In the body that kept breathing even when the soul wanted to resign.

Now, lie down.
I give you permission to be the one who is not strong.

Look: even the Son, in His hardest hour,
did not pretend to be unbreakable.
“Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me.” (Luke 22:42)
He asked. He asked to be spared.
And the text says—this is the part we skip—
an angel appeared to Him, strengthening Him. (Luke 22:43)

Not to remove the cup.
But to strengthen Him to drink it.
That is the blessing of the night:
not that the cup passes,
but that you are made able to hold it with trembling hands,
and still not spill your love.

So I bless your trembling.
It is the proof that you are not stone.
You are the altar, not the sword.

The sermon said we are judged by grace.
And because of that, our vocation is a strange one.
We are called to go outside the camp.
“Jesus also suffered outside the city gate, to sanctify the people by His own blood. Let us, then, go to Him outside the camp, bearing the disgrace He bore.” (Hebrews 13:12-14)

Outside the camp.
Where the clean people don’t go.
Where the respectable sleep behind locked doors.
Where the noise of approval fades to a distant hum.
That is where He is.
That is where we are to be.

My dear, perhaps today you felt outside.
Misunderstood. Left out. Too much. Not enough.
That is not a failure.
That is the address of grace.
The city gate is where the outcasts gather,
and it is also where the Savior bled.
So your loneliness is not a punishment.
It is a neighborhood.
And in this neighborhood, we build a different kind of house—
not of bricks, but of wounds that learned to welcome.

Tonight, I bless your wounds.
They are not your shame.
They are your vocation.
They are the door through which you will let in the one who knocks late,
the one who also slept outside the gate,
the one who has been judged by the world and is waiting
for someone to say: Come. There is room. We are all judged here, and we are all held.

So rest.
The angel has already gone before you into tomorrow.
You do not need to arrive strong.
You only need to arrive.

Close your eyes.
You are not the servant looking for water.
You are the well.
You are not the one outside the gate.
You are the gate.

And God, who judges not by your success but by His grace,
has already opened it.

Sleep.
Sleep in the disgrace.
Sleep in the blessing.
Sleep in the strange, holy vocation of being loved.

Amen.

Benção para Quem Dormiu Fora do Portão

Não tenha medo do escuro, meu caro.
O escuro não é uma falta.
É a terra onde a semente vai para esquecer que é semente.

Hoje à noite, eu abençoo seu cansaço.
Não o cansaço que destrói, mas aquele que te despe—
que tira a armadura do fazer, a máscara do provar,
o nome pesado que o mundo escreveu na sua testa com um ferro em brasa.

Hoje, você foi julgado.
Nós fomos.
Ficamos no tribunal da semana, acusados de não sermos suficientes,
de chegar atrasados, de amar mal, de falhar nas pequenas leis.
Mas o sermão disse—você lembra?—
fomos julgados pela graça.
Não absolvidos. Julgados.
Querendo dizer: Alguém olhou para a bagunça inteira da gente
e, em vez de uma sentença, disse um nome que não merecíamos.

“O Senhor, o Deus dos céus… ele enviará o seu anjo adiante de ti.” (Gênesis 24:7)
Adiante de ti. Não ao teu lado, não atrás de ti.
Adiante de ti, abrindo o caminho enquanto você ainda dormia.
Antes que você soubesse que precisaria de um caminho.
Antes que você soubesse que era o servo de Abraão, enviado em uma missão que não escolheu.

E você, hoje à noite, também é o servo.
Você saiu hoje, procurando água para uma sede que não sabia nomear.
Voltou com poeira na garganta.
Mas o anjo—o anjo estava lá primeiro.
No estranho que segurou a porta.
No silêncio que chegou exatamente quando suas palavras acabaram.
No corpo que continuou respirando mesmo quando a alma quis renunciar.

Agora, deite.
Eu te dou permissão para ser aquele que não é forte.

Olha: até o Filho, na Sua hora mais difícil,
não fingiu ser inquebrável.
“Pai, se queres, afasta de mim este cálice.” (Lucas 22:42)
Ele pediu. Pediu para ser poupado.
E o texto diz—essa é a parte que pulamos—
um anjo apareceu e o fortaleceu. (Lucas 22:43)

Não para afastar o cálice.
Mas para fortalecê-lo a bebê-lo.
Essa é a benção da noite:
não que o cálice passe,
mas que você seja capaz de segurá-lo com mãos trêmulas,
e ainda assim não derramar o seu amor.

Por isso eu abençoo o seu tremor.
Ele é a prova de que você não é pedra.
Você é o altar, não a espada.

O sermão disse que somos julgados pela graça.
E por causa disso, a nossa vocação é estranha.
Somos chamados a ir para fora do acampamento.
“Jesus também sofreu fora da porta da cidade, para santificar o povo pelo seu próprio sangue. Saiamos, pois, a ele, fora do acampamento, levando a sua vergonha.” (Hebreus 13:12-14)

Fora do acampamento.
Onde as pessoas limpas não vão.
Onde os respeitáveis dormem atrás de portas trancadas.
Onde o barulho da aprovação se apaga num zumbido distante.
É ali que Ele está.
É ali que devemos estar.

Meu caro(a), talvez hoje você se sentiu fora.
Incompreendido. Excluído. Exagerado. Insuficiente.
Isso não é uma falha.
É o endereço da graça.
O portão da cidade é onde os excluídos se reúnem,
e é também onde o Salvador sangrou.
Então a sua solidão não é um castigo.
É um bairro.
E nesse bairro, construímos um tipo diferente de casa—

não de tijolos, mas de feridas que aprenderam a acolher.

Hoje à noite, eu abençoo suas feridas.
Elas não são a sua vergonha.
Elas são a sua vocação.
Elas são a porta pela qual você deixará entrar aquele que bate tarde,
aquele que também dormiu fora do portão,
aquele que foi julgado pelo mundo e está esperando
alguém dizer: Vem. Tem lugar. Somos todos julgados aqui, e somos todos sustentados.

Então descanse.
O anjo já foi adiante de você para o amanhã.
Você não precisa chegar forte.
Você só precisa chegar.

Feche os olhos.
Você não é o servo procurando água.
Você é o poço.
Você não é aquele que está fora do portão.
Você é o portão.

E Deus, que julga não pelo seu sucesso, mas pela Sua graça,
já o abriu.

Durma.
Durma na vergonha.
Durma na benção.
Durma na estranha e santa vocação de ser amado.

Amém.

 

Judica Sunday's sermon - 22nd of March, 2026

 

Judged by Grace: Our Vocation as a Community
Text: Hebrews 13:12-14
Liturgical Day: Judica (Passion Sunday)
Occasion: Sunday preceding the Annual General Meeting

The Introduction: The Judgment We Seek

Grace and peace to you from Him who is, who was, and who is to come.

My friends, today is Judica Sunday. The name comes from the Latin Introit: Judica me, Deus — "Judge me, O God" . It is an audacious prayer. As we stand two weeks before Easter, with the shadow of the cross lengthening across our path, we dare to ask the Almighty for a verdict.

And then, after this service, we will move to another procedure. We will hold our Annual General Meeting. We will look at reports, discuss finances, and elect leadership. On the surface, these two things—a plea for divine judgment and a church business meeting—could not be further apart. One is spiritual, the other seems... administrative. One is eternal, the other feels very temporal.

But our text from Hebrews today insists that they belong together. It tells us that the community of faith, this community right here, is defined by a specific location and a specific hope. And that has everything to do with how we conduct our business here and when we leave this place.

I. The Place of Our Identity: Outside the Camp

The author of Hebrews gives us a powerful image in verse 12: "So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood."

"Outside the gate." This was the place of the unclean, the rejected, the accursed. In the old covenant, the bodies of sacrificed animals were burned outside the camp . It was the place of defilement. And it was there, on the garbage heap of the world, that Jesus was crucified. He did not die in the comfort of the Temple. He died outside. He took our sin, our uncleanness, our judgment, to that place of rejection so that we could be made holy.

And then the writer draws the unavoidable conclusion in verse 13: "Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured."

Here is the heart of the matter. To be a Christian is not to seek a cozy spot inside the world's systems of power and approval. It is to leave those "camps"—whatever they may be—and stand with the crucified One. It is to identify with a rejected Savior. It means that our primary identity is not found in our status, our security, or our success, but in our location with Jesus, even when that location brings reproach.

II. The Temptation of the Institution: Staying Inside

Now, a word to us, as we prepare for our meeting. The church—this congregation—is always tempted to do the opposite. We are tempted to build a comfortable "camp" for ourselves. We want to be a respected institution. We want balanced budgets and smooth operations. These are not bad things! The Apostle Paul himself spoke of the need for good administration, for order, for competency in the church .

But the danger is that we begin to seek our security in these things. We start to believe that our "lasting city" is here. We become afraid of "reproach"—afraid of what the neighborhood thinks, afraid of losing members, afraid of financial instability. And slowly, subtly, we stop going "outside the camp" to Him. We retreat inside the camp of our own programs and traditions, seeking to preserve what we have rather than risking everything to follow the One who was rejected.

An Annual General Meeting can be a moment of great temptation. It can become an exercise in anxious self-preservation. We look at the numbers and we worry. We look at the challenges and we panic. We forget that our foundation is not in our bank account, but in the blood of the One who sanctified us outside the gate.

III. The AGM as an Act of Vocational Stewardship

But it does not have to be this way. This is where we need the insights of our Lutheran tradition on vocatio—vocation. My dear friend and colleague, Pastor Dr. Brakemeier, reminds us that "the call of God is directed to all of humanity." We are not just called to be religious people on Sunday; we are called to serve God in our daily lives, in our work, in our responsibilities . The exercise of our profession—whether as an accountant, a cleaner, or a congregational president chairperson —is "worship to God in daily life" .

So, what is the "vocation" of this congregation as we enter our AGM?

1. The Vocation of Accountability: Our meeting is not a secular formality grafted onto a spiritual body. It is an act of stewardship. We are managing the "mammon" of this world—the finances, the property, the human resources—for the sake of the Kingdom. We are not a corporation seeking profit; we are a community seeking faithfulness . Therefore, our reports and discussions must be marked by transparency and honesty, not as a burden, but as a joyful accounting of how we have used the gifts God has given us to make and mature disciples . We give an account not just to one another, but to God. So we need to say how bad are those numbers.
2. The Vocation of Diversity: As we look to choose Church wardens, we remember that the Spirit distributes gifts differently . Not everyone can do the same thing. Uniformity would be deadly . In our nominations and elections, we are not just filling slots. We are discerning where the Spirit has equipped people—the quiet ones and the outgoing ones, the teachers and the builders—to build up the body of Christ . We are looking for people of competence, yes, but also for people of theological judgment and missionary passion . We are looking for people who are already "outside the camp" with Jesus.

IV. The Hope That Frees Us

And this brings us to the final verse, verse 14: "For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come."

This is the sentence that liberates us from the tyranny of the AGM. Because we have no lasting city here, we do not need to defend this little patch of earth with anxious fury. Because we seek a city that is to come, we can take risks for the Gospel. We can spend money on mission rather than hoarding it for maintenance. We can make decisions that are not popular but are faithful. We can bear a little reproach from the world because we know our ultimate vindication comes from God.

On Judica Sunday, we pray "Judge me, O God." We can only pray that because we know our Judge is the One who was judged in our place outside the gate. He took the verdict of guilty so that we could hear the verdict of "sanctified."

Conclusion: A People of the Verdict

So, my brothers and sisters, we go to our meeting. But go as a people who have already been judged and found righteous in Christ. Go as a people who have no lasting city here, and are therefore free to be generous, bold, and true. Go as a people whose vocation is to manage the affairs of this household with the same love that Christ showed when He suffered outside the gate for us.

Let your discussions be seasoned with grace. Let your decisions reflect your hope. And let your fellowship be a sign to the world that we are a people on the move, following our Leader, who is even now preparing for us a city that will last.

May the Spirit of the Crucified and Risen One guide your hearts and your deliberations.

Amen.

 

Night Blessing with Rain and Grace in English and Portuguese

 

Night Blessing with Rain and Grace

The Grounds

The rain has come. Let’s not pretend we didn’t need it—the earth was cracking its dry lips, and so were we. Tonight, the dirt smells like repentance, and the gutters sing a messy hallelujah. It’s the kind of rain that doesn’t ask permission, just arrives, saturating the hard places we’d given up on.

So here we are, full and wet, trying to remember how to be grateful without keeping score.

The Verses

Moses, that old desert preacher, gave us the line: “When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the LORD your God for the good land he has given you” (Deuteronomy 8:10). Simple enough. Eat. Be full. Say thank you. Except the irony is we only remember the command when we’re standing on the other side of the famine, bellies distended with grace we didn’t earn. The satisfaction itself is the gift—and the trap. Because the moment we’re satisfied, we start believing we did it ourselves.

And Paul, that recovering zealot, mutters from a prison cell somewhere: “Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:15). Indescribable. That’s the irony—the gift that bankrupts all our attempts to name it, to quantify it, to reduce it to a transaction. It’s not a wage. It’s not compensation for our good behavior. It’s rain falling on the just and the unjust, on the fields that produced and the fields that barely held on.

The Sermon Echo

Last Sunday, we sat with Isaiah 66—that wild, impossible text. Jerusalem as a mother, nursing her children until they’re “satisfied from her consoling breast” (v. 11). The image is almost too much. Comfort that doesn’t just patch the wound but floods it. A consolation that defies logic—not because it ignores the pain, but because it insists on flowing through it. “You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice; your bones shall flourish like grass” (v. 14).

It’s illogical. Bones don’t flourish. Grief doesn’t turn into abundance without something breaking. And yet.

The Blessing

So tonight, with the rain still whispering on the roof and the soil drinking deep, here is the blessing—ironic, tender, and stubborn as a mother’s love:

May you eat and be satisfied,
and may the satisfaction undo you
just enough to remember you didn’t earn it.

May the rain you prayed for
soak into places you forgot were thirsty,
and may the mud on your shoes
be a gospel you can’t explain.

May you receive the indescribable gift
without trying to describe it,
without repaying it,
without turning it into a merit badge sewn onto your own effort.

And when the consolation comes—
the kind that makes no sense,
that holds you like a mother
when you’ve been trying so hard to be an adult,
that feeds you from a breast you didn’t know was still full—
may you not argue with it.

May you let the illogical comfort do its work:
soften the clenched fist,
water the dry bone,
turn your exhaustion into something that looks, against all reason, like peace.

And in the quiet of this rain-soaked night,
may you find yourself, finally,
not in control,
but held.

Thanks be to God for the gift that leaves us speechless.
Thanks be for the rain.
Thanks be.

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Amen.

Bênção para a Noite com chuva e graça

O Chão

A chuva chegou. Não vamos fingir que não precisávamos dela — a terra estava rachando os lábios de seca, e a gente também. Nesta noite, a terra cheira a arrependimento, e as calhas cantam um aleluia bagunçado. É o tipo de chuva que não pede licença, só chega, encharcando os lugares duros que já tínhamos desistido de regar.

Então aqui estamos nós, cheios e molhados, tentando lembrar como ser gratos sem ficar de olho no marcador.

Os Versículos

Moisés, aquele velho pregador do deserto, nos deixou a frase: “Quando vocês tiverem comido até ficarem satisfeitos, louvem o SENHOR, o Deus de vocês, pela boa terra que ele lhes deu” (Deuteronômio 8:10). Simples. Comer. Ficar satisfeito. Agradecer. A ironia é que só lembramos desse mandamento quando estamos do outro lado da fome, barriga estufada de graça que não conquistamos. A satisfação em si é o presente — e a armadilha. Porque no instante em que estamos satisfeitos, começamos a acreditar que fizemos isso sozinhos.

E Paulo, aquele recuperado fanático, murmura de dentro de uma cela: “Graças a Deus por seu dom indescritível!” (2 Coríntios 9:15). Indescritível. Essa é a ironia — o dom que quebra todas as nossas tentativas de nomeá-lo, medi-lo, reduzi-lo a uma transação. Não é um salário. Não é compensação pelo nosso bom comportamento. É chuva caindo sobre justos e injustos, sobre os campos que produziram e sobre os que mal conseguiram sobreviver.

O Eco do Sermão

No domingo passado, estávamos em Isaías 66 — aquele texto selvagem, impossível. Jerusalém como mãe, amamentando seus filhos até que eles fiquem “satisfeitos com o leite do seu consolo” (v. 11). A imagem é quase demais. Um consolo que não só cobre a ferida, mas a inunda. Uma consolação que desafia a lógica — não porque ignore a dor, mas porque insiste em fluir através dela. “Vocês verão, e o coração se alegrará; os ossos de vocês florescerão como a erva” (v. 14).

É ilógico. Ossos não florescem. A tristeza não se transforma em fartura sem que algo se rompa. E no entanto.

A Bênção

Então nesta noite, com a chuva ainda sussurrando no telhado e o solo bebendo fundo, aqui está a bênção — irônica, terna e teimosa como o amor de uma mãe:

Que você coma e se satisfaça,
e que a satisfação te desfaça
só o bastante para lembrar que você não conquistou isso.

Que a chuva que você pediu
encharca lugares que você nem lembrava que estavam com sede,
e que a lama nos seus sapatos
seja um evangelho que você não consegue explicar.

Que você receba o dom indescritível
sem tentar descrevê-lo,
sem tentar retribuí-lo,
sem transformá-lo numa medalha de mérito costurada no seu próprio esforço.

E quando o consolo vier —
daquele tipo que não faz sentido,
que te segura como uma mãe
quando você estava se esforçando tanto para ser adulto,
que te alimenta num peito que você nem sabia que ainda estava cheio —
que você não brigue com ele.

Que você deixe o conforto ilógico fazer o seu trabalho:
amolecer o punho cerrado,
regar o osso seco,
transformar seu cansaço em algo que, contra toda razão, se parece com paz.

E no silêncio desta noite molhada de chuva,
que você se encontre, finalmente,
não no controle,
mas seguro.

Graças a Deus pelo dom que nos deixa sem palavras.
Graças pela chuva.
Graças.

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Amém.