Sermon by Rev. Beth Thompson
One of the things that I love about our two scriptures is that they fit so well together, Psalm 27:1,4-8 and Matthew 4:12-23.
Matthew specifically reminds us that Jesus doesn’t wait for a perfect moment to call people. He doesn’t wait till our schedules are clear. Everything’s settled. He calls people while they’re working. Their hands are wet, they’re full. The nets are wet, and the boats are still tied to the shore. It seems to happen right in the middle of life. This is something I learned in a very personal, embodied way many times, but specifically many years ago when my wife and I moved to Maine, COVID restrictions had lightened.
At that time, I had just graduated from seminary, seeing what it truly means to be a leader in a moment of trauma and confusion. I had done all the work, the reading, the listening. I learned the language, the scriptures, the theology, and what I uncovered for myself was not the tidy belief system that I had suspected my education would end in. I expected clarity.
What I discovered instead was that by following Jesus’s word and following the light, my faith spread everywhere. It breached across categories and labels and crossed traditions. It refused to stay contained, and while that faith felt honest and alive for me, it was not always affirmed. It was often questioned by others, feared by others, and eventually, I questioned myself. That left me with the question I didn’t expect to be asking at graduation. When I stepped on that path to seminary, I guaranteed God that I would follow what was put in front of me. I did. I followed all the paths, probably too many, but I was feeling confused. Am I worthy to speak of the divine’s love if my path and my belief doesn’t fit cleanly in a box or a set way? Am I worthy to lead a community?
That question of worthiness, that quiet sense of lack, became one of my greatest hurdles. It held me back from speaking what was in my heart, from trusting what I felt to be true about God, about faith, about Jesus. I knew the move to Maine was gonna be a good thing. It was the right thing, right? The act of love and support from my wife and her calling, as she had just supported me through seminary. I understood that as a willingness to follow and to trust. Trusting can sometimes be stepping into something unknown, but knowing that doesn’t always mean that you know it in your heart. It doesn’t mean that it’s gonna be easy.
I remember driving into Bangalore for the first time. It was beautiful. The skies were blue, the trees were huge. I have never seen nature like that. I thought I did, being in Pennsylvania for all my life, but nope. And yet my stomach dropped. I felt it. It was a moment like when a rollercoaster is just about to go down. It’s not like panic or fear, but more that deep, unmistakable feeling that something inside is saying, this might not go quite the way you expect.
We often talk about following the light, following our call, and we talk about it like it’s going to be comforting, and sometimes it is, but light exposes in Psalm 27.
The question is, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” That’s not a declaration of uncertainty, but more of a prayer spoken in the presence of fear. The light of God doesn’t just reassure us. It reveals what we’ve learned to live around.
This is true in the scripture too. We celebrate the wise men for finding Jesus, but we rarely speak about their journey. They follow the light, the long nights, the uncertainty, the thresholds they crossed, the wise men followed the light the whole time before they even knew where it was leading them. Their journey wasn’t simple, and I’m sure it wasn’t glamorous; it was real, it was human, and it reminds us that following God’s light or following God’s call rarely begins with clarity. It begins with our trust in our faith.
In Maine, that same light revealed something in me. Although I called myself Christian, my experience of God had always felt wider than that Christian label. Interfaith theology wasn’t new to my heart, but naming it felt risky. Confining God to one definition felt too small. And alongside that knowing, I discovered a quiet, inherited distrust of others. Ironic because I’m another who distrust didn’t stop there. It turned inward, and I started to distrust myself. And that’s not a place you wanna be, especially when you’re trying to walk a path in faith. I questioned whether my way of believing, loving, and listening was even worthy of being offered.
That’s what light does. It doesn’t shame us. It just shows us.
But here’s the other thing that I learned about following. Not every threshold feels like Bangor. Some feel like relief, some like an exhale, some like recognition. I feel that when I walk through the doors of Church of the Apostles, even five years later, a place where I am met, not asked to prove or perform, where faith can be curious and honest, where difference is a gift and not a threat, that too is holy ground.
Following Jesus does not always lead us into discomfort. Sometimes it leads us into places that help us breathe again, and sometimes both. When Jesus says, follow me, he doesn’t promise ease or certainty. He promises God’s presence.
We’re invited to trust that the ground beneath us is already holy. Whether challenging or comforting, unfamiliar or deeply known, it’s holy. Most of God’s invitations aren’t dynamic. They come quietly and daily through small turns, through embodied knowing. Through moments that you could easily ignore, especially when you’re busy. The question is rarely whether God is calling, but whether we are listening? Listening for the light that reveals truth, listening for the ground, asking to be trusted, listening for invitations that help us grow, and those that help us rest.
The light of Christ doesn’t always comfort, but it always reveals. When we are honest, we often discover that the holy ground has been holding us all along.
May it be so. Amen.
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