Though Shiprah and Puah occupy only a brief moment within the vast narrative of Moses and the Exodus, their contribution is immeasurable. Without them, there would be no Moses—and consequently, no Exodus story at all. These two midwives are rightly counted among the cohort of women who risked their lives to keep Moses alive in the face of Pharaoh's genocidal decree. Rather than delivering death as ordered, Shiprah and Puah instead birthed new life. Through cunning and courage, they defied Pharaoh's command, choosing civil disobedience over complicity in atrocity. Their act was not merely self-preservation; it made possible the eventual freedom and liberation of an entire people.

Our own modern history holds examples of women igniting grassroots movements that inspired justice, challenged oppression, and transformed societies. Like Shiprah and Puah, these women understood that small acts of resistance—when rooted in conviction and care for human life—can unlock the path to profound change. Their stories remind us that liberation often begins not with armies or kings, but with individuals who dare to say "no" to tyranny and "yes" to life.

Hagar starts our summer worship series of Influencers: Women in Scripture. 

This story of Hagar is as terrifying as it is complex.  It’s a tale of impatience, of abuse, it’s a story of neglet and it’s a story of God noticing and responding to injustice.  In Hagar, we hear a story of a woman, taken and thrown into a situation which today we would find repugnant.   And while Sarai and Abram might have discarded her, and while the biblical narrative sidelines her, God does not ignore her.  God comes to her, and cares for her, and gives to her and her son, Ishmael, the same divine promise that is gifted to Abram.  Something remarkable for a slave woman who did not belong to the chosen people. In Hagar, we find the ‘other.’  She is an alien, an outsider, a person of colour, a servant, an unwed mother, a victim of domestic violence.   Hagar’s story partially inspired the well-known Margaret Atwood novel The Handmaid’s Tale.  And in Hagar, we hear a story of a compassionate God noticing her in a way that Sarai and Abram, and others could or would not.  Hagar's story is a story for people of this world who feel that they have been abandoned.  But God sees and notices.  What does it mean for God to notice and see?  What does it mean for us to be seen by God?

Is our light truly too small to change the world? As we step into what the church calendar calls "ordinary time," we will discover that nothing about this season is ordinary. In our upcoming reflection, we will explore how Pentecost transforms us from passive followers of Jesus into active bearers of His Spirit—living flames that cannot be hidden or extinguished. Join us as we uncover the power of that "not-so-little light" within us, a fire destined to pierce the shadows of suffering, expose injustice, and prove that the darkness can never overcome the dawn. Let's prepare to shine so brightly that the world takes notice, carrying God's transformative power into every corner of our lives.

What will it take for us to turn strangers into family? In this reflection, we will explore one of the most powerful catalysts for church growth: radical hospitality. Drawing from the story of Lydia—the purple cloth dealer who "would not take no for an answer" when inviting Paul and Silas into her home—we will challenge ourselves to ask whether guests walk in feeling like they've crashed a private party or truly belong. Through warmth, humor, and a deep call to authenticity, we will discover why tenacious welcome isn't just about being nice; it will lay the foundation for new life in our community. Ready to see what happens when hospitality becomes our shared identity?

What happens to a community when the people who shaped it are no longer there? We explore how we stay connected when the "glue" of physical presence is gone, revealing that our true bond isn't found in agreeing on every detail, but in sharing the heart of Jesus. This message will invite everyone to step into a radical new kind of family—one built not on bloodlines or comfort, but on a daily, active choice to love like Christ, creating a community that stands out in a world that often forgets how to belong.

What happens when the earthquake of God's power hits the prison of your daily life? In this sermon, we jump from the empty tomb to the dark cell of Philippi to uncover the invisible chains binding our bodies, minds, and spirits today. We'll wrestle with a messy text to discover that the same seismic force that freed Paul, the slave girl, and the jailor is still at work, not just to break our chains, but to call us into the radical freedom of loving our enemies. The powers that hold us hostage have already been defeated—are you ready to walk out?

Peter’s fearful denial contrasts with Jesus’ courageous truth-telling. Peter is close by and is trying to follow Jesus (trying not to run away and hide, like most of the other disciples do). But when questioned by a servant woman, guards, and a relative of the man he injured in the garden, Peter’s fear gets the better of him, and he lies about his identity and involvement.

Meanwhile, Jesus continues to speak honestly about himself and points out that he has been open and clear about everything from the beginning. While Jesus is struck for his honest words to those who hold power over him, Peter warms himself by the fire, seeking comfort.

In what ways do we feel torn between solidarity and self-protection these days, between the boldness of publicly standing up for our values and the impulse to hide?

How might we be experiencing the dissonance between risk and comfort?

In what ways might it feel particularly difficult to live out our discipleship today?

What rooster crows or wake up calls have we been hearing?

How might God be calling us to walk in the way of Jesus, in our current context?

This text uplifts the dissonance between knowing and not knowing. Jesus knows who he is and when his time is. The disciples will not understand yet. Jesus knows who will betray him. He asks, “Do you know what I have done for you?” and says, “Now that you know . . . ”

Do we know what Jesus has done for us? Maybe, somewhat. Probably not entirely. What might our not-knowing have to teach us? (If Socrates was right, perhaps the beginning of true wisdom is knowing we know nothing!) Still, we know enough to know that what Jesus offers in John 13:1–17 is radically loving. And perhaps that is enough to begin to do likewise:

We say, “You will never.”

We say, “I need more.”

Jesus says, “This is enough.”

Jesus says, “So you also must do.”

We begin Lent with an invitation to contemplate the reality of our human finitude.  In John 11,  Lazarus' sisters Mary and Martha lament like we might: "Lord, if you had been here...this wouldn't have happened."  Others whisper a question we might also ask: "Couldn't you have prevented this?"  These questions hold a familiar, deeply human grief:  the experience of an absence of God or Christ in a world of pain and suffering, where things are not as we want them to be.  Can we believe that in the dissonance between how things should be and how they are, God might be at the work of transformation, opening us to the possibilities of resurrection?