Chris Yaw

What if Lazarus hadn't been raised from the dead? What if Jesus had called out, Lazarus had stayed in the grave, and everybody had to deal with the fact that when you die, you die?

It seems like Jesus was preparing for Plan B, because as he was surrounded by mourners, who were crying, and wailing in sorrow, he didn't tell them to quiet down and prepare for a miracle, he stopped, he joined, he broke down - you know it's the shortest verse in the Bible, "Jesus wept", or as scholars say, more accurately it's that Jesus burst into tears.

Maybe your plan A is to heal that relationship, miraculously recover your health, or strike it rich with that new business.

When that doesn't happen, God has not left the building and there is a plan, because God will do one of two things: make it happen, or give you the strength to get through it.

The story of Lazarus sats God's power can make the impossible happen - like ending a war, uniting a divided country, or liberating an oppressed group.

But it also says that as we go through the unspeakable, we are not alone, somebody weeps next to us, somebody is just as torn up as we are, and will not abandon us.

Listen to Saint Mick, you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need.

And I'll see you Sunday.

Let’s talk about the question that’s making everyone’s palms a little sweaty today: Would Jesus bomb Iran?

After all, we see a regime that’s repressive—where protesters are silenced, where 80% of the people are literally crying out for a different future, and where an iron fist is the standard operating procedure.

As followers of Jesus, our hearts don’t just ache for that; they break. We want to do something. We want to help."

But historically, the Church has tried to navigate this through something called Just War Theory. You can Google it—it’s basically a five-point checklist to see if a war is, well, just.

And honestly? Just like we saw with Iraq, this path with Iran is tripping over almost every single one of those hurdles

For instance:

Do the benefits outweigh the harm? In a region as complex as the Middle East, that’s a massive 'maybe' at best.

Was there an imminent, verifiable danger to us? Again... the math isn't mathing.

And: Is there a clear, honest intention? Because right now, the stories are changing faster than a Sunday morning liturgy.

There’s this story in the Gospels where Jesus heals a blind man. And the people in power? They hated it. They weren’t worried about the man’s sight; they were worried about their own status. They were willing to deny the truth just to keep their grip on the steering wheel.

I can’t help but wonder: Are we compromising our morality just to feel powerful on the world stage?

Look, our hearts should break when we see drones and destruction. But we have to remember: using violence to end violence—if it’s born out of vengeance or greed instead of a radical, sacrificial love—it’s not the Way.

We are called to act 'Christianly,' whether we’re in seasons of peace or the shadows of war.

Who did Jesus have his longest conversation with in the Bible?

Now, you might think it was a powerful politician, right? Or maybe one of the "religious elites" of the day—the billionaires and celebrities, or even the powerful rabbis of first-century Judea.

But it wasn’t. It was a woman.

A Samaritan woman.

Someone who had been married five times, going on six. She was an outcast among outcasts.

But see, this was Jesus’s "brand." He didn’t spend his time climbing social ladders; he spent it crossing social boundaries. He sought out the people who were sincerely open—people who were thirsty for a deeper spiritual life, even if they didn’t look "the part."

His ministry—and by extension, our ministry—is about doing the same thing: being peacemakers and healers. It’s about the radical idea that everyone is included in God’s plan. No exceptions. No fine print.

So, I have to ask myself—and I’m asking you, too:

How are we bridging the divides in our own lives?

Who are we seeking out for real, honest friendship?

Are we cultivating relationships with people who think, vote, or live differently than we do?

Instead of assuming, mocking, disparaging, the other side, are we actually trying to have a conversation with them?

We learn everything we need to know about Jesus by looking at who he sat down with. And honestly? We learn a lot about ourselves when we look at the same thing.

How can we try to be a little more like the man at the well this week?

Night falls on Nicodemus, and he’s got two doors in front of him.

Door number one? He goes to the bar with the boys—his fellow religious leaders. They grab a drink, toast to their success, and talk strategy on how to keep their power locked down. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. It’s what’s expected.

But door number two? That’s the "still, small voice." The one whispering that maybe—just maybe—faith isn’t about control or protection. Maybe it’s about openness.

He chooses door number two. He lets curiosity win. And because he was willing to look a little "unprofessional" by sneaking out to meet a radical rabbi in the dark, we got the most famous verse in history: John 3:16.

But don't miss the weight of this. Nicodemus was under massive pressure. His peers, his family, the whole system was screaming at him to keep the status quo. "Don't rock the boat, Nick. Stay in your lane."

If the world was perfect, the status quo would be fine. But look around. We know it’s not.

Today, we desperately need the "Nicodemus Faith." Not a faith that’s cemented in "being right," but a faith that’s open to a Spirit that is constantly doing something new.

We need humble bridge builders, peacemakers, and willing witnesses to God's mercy who will calmly listen, and patiently react with dignity and authenticity.

So, how’s that sitting with you today? Where is God inviting you to trade your certainty for a little bit of curiosity?

Would you pray with a total stranger?

I mean really. Would you roll down your window… look someone in the eye… and let them mark your forehead with ash?

It feels risky. Vulnerable. A little wild.

And yet look at this. Cars wrapped around 12 Mile. Blinkers flashing. People with meetings to get to, kids to pick up, emails piling up. And still they wait. For ashes. For prayer. For a moment.

There is something deeply brave about that.

Ash Wednesday is not about religious guilt. It is about holy honesty.

Reflection is that sacred pause where you stop running long enough to remember who you are. And whose you are. Before the job title. Before the mistakes. Before the expectations. You are dust, yes. But you are beloved dust. And that changes everything.

Repentance is not about shame. It is about courage. It is the bold decision to say, “I’ve wandered.” And then to trust that God is not standing there with crossed arms but with open ones.

Repentance is a pivot. A recalibration. A turning of the heart back toward Love.

And what moves me every year is this: people show up carrying so much. Stress. Grief. Uncertainty. Regret. Hope they’re almost afraid to name. And they still pull forward. They still say yes to prayer from someone they have never met.

That is not weakness.

That is faith.

Faith that God meets us right here. In traffic lines. In ordinary Wednesdays. In the mess and beauty of our actual lives.

So let me ask you: what would honesty look like for you today? Where have you drifted just a little? What needs to be named so it can be healed?

If ashes and prayer would help, come on down to Southfield. We are here.

And if you mark this day in another way, that’s okay too. There are many ways to begin again. Many ways to be brave.

Grace is not scarce.

Every year, right before we head into the "dust and ashes" of Lent, the Lectionary gives us the Transfiguration. It’s that wild story where Jesus takes his inner circle—Peter, James, and John—up a mountain and suddenly starts glowing like a literal supernova.

And then, just to make it weirder, two "celebrity guests" from the Hebrew Bible, Moses and Elijah, just... show up.

Now, Peter—who is basically all of us on our best and worst days—is so blown away by the "God-ness" of it all that he does the most human thing possible:

He tries to manage it. He offers to build three booths. He wants to bottle the magic, codify the moment, and turn a mystical experience into a real estate project.

He’s trying to institutionalize the Divine before the glow even fades.

And how does God respond? Not with a "Thanks, Peter!" but with a voice so terrifyingly loud it knocks them all flat on their faces. They’re paralyzed by the weight of it all until Jesus walks over, touches them, and tells them to get up.

See our churches? They’re often just our modern-day attempts to "build a booth" on that mountain. We get so obsessed with the "tent"—the traditions, the buildings, the "way we’ve always done it"—that we forget to look at the Person the tent was supposed to house.

This is the tension between religion and spirituality. Spirituality is that raw, desperate hunger for the Divine. Religion is the infrastructure we build to try and hold onto it.

The problem isn't the tent; the problem is when we start worshiping the canvas instead of the Christ.

So here is the lesson for the week: Don’t get so focused on the window that you forget to look at the view. Pay more attention to that spiritual self of yours - and don't get caught up in the trappings of hollow tradition, empty ritual, and stale sentimentality.

The rose blooming outside your window lasts much longer when you don't put it in a vase.

We usually think of salt as something that makes popcorn taste better. And that’s fine. But in the ancient world, salt wasn't a luxury for your fries; it was a lifeline. It was the only thing standing between a piece of meat and total decay - Sunday dinner and starvation.

When Jesus calls us the "salt of the earth," he’s not just saying we should be "tasty" or "nice." He’s articulating our job description - something that's critical - life saving .

Salt is a preservative. Its job is to slow down the rot. To keep things from falling apart.

Let’s be honest: our world feels like it’s rotting in a lot of places right now. We see it in the way we talk to each other, the way we treat the vulnerable, and the way cynicism just seems to eat everything it touches.

As Christians, our "saltiness" isn't our ability to judge the world for rotting. That’s easy. Anyone can point out a mess. Our job is to be the element that stops the decay.

In our Church's Baptismal Covenant we "strive for justice and peace among all people." That’s preservative work. It’s staying in the room when everyone else is walking out. It’s holding onto hope when the culture is spiraling into despair. It’s being the person who says, "No, we aren't going to let this relationship—or this community—turn to dust."

But here’s the catch Jesus says: if the salt loses its saltiness, it’s useless. Meaning, if we become just as cynical, just as divisive, and just as bitter as the world around us, we’ve lost our preservative power. We aren't holding back the rot anymore; we’re just part of it.

Being salt means you bring a different "chemistry" to the room. You’re the one who preserves dignity when things get ugly. You’re the one who preserves truth when everything feels like a lie.

So, look around your life today. Where is the rot starting to set in? Is it in a friendship? In your social media feed? In your own heart?

Don’t just watch it happen. Be the salt. Rub a little grace into the wound. Hold things together. It’s hard work, and it might even sting a little, but it’s what we’re here for.

Stay salty, friends.

The biggest mistake people make is to believe that this is all there is.

We sense that there's more, but we get caught up in the whirlwind around us - waking up too early, working too late - walking around with headphones on - obsessively busy - needing to be constantly occupied, And we let our fears dictate our faith.

It's not like that 'other world' is hiding - it's just that it can be so hard to see.

Because when we look for it we can get tricked into thinking it's only perceptible with our eyes, ears, nose, and fingers - forgetting that the spiritual life, by very definition, involves Spirit - and the existence we have beyond all this stuff that Jesus talked about.

And boy did he talk about it.

The sermon on the Mount is his first and most famous teaching that outlines what that place looks like and the kind of people who feel comfortable there.

For example, are you mourning, distressed, anxious, and fearful? Then this place is for you, because this is where you'll be comforted.

Are you meek, in other words, are you humble, considerate of others, selfless, and work to put others first? Then this is a place for you. God's kingdom is what you inherit, because that is what goes on there.

Blessed are the peacemakers, are you working to fix things, bring opposing sides together, not to divide, and separate, but to mend what's broken? This is what is practiced in God's kingdom!

And there are a list of these in the sermon of the Mount, but you get it, if life's biggest mistake is not taking seriously our essence, which is spiritual, and all that that entails, then the good news is that mistakes can be forgiven and corrected!

Eyes can be opened, the blind can see!

The message of the Gospel is live into your spiritual nature, let that peace and confidence radiate, we are blessed, as we live into who we are and that Kingdom to which we belong.

There's a good argument that the biggest decisions we make don't come as a result of logically weighing out the facts, but by a gut feeling, an intuition, a deep sense of which path to take.

Modern Neuroscience suggests that "gut feelings" aren't just impulsive whims—they are often the result of sophisticated, high-speed data processing by the brain.

While we like to think of ourselves as logical beings who weigh pros and cons in a spreadsheet, the reality is that our brains evolved to make complex decisions long before we developed formal logic.

In Bible terms this has been called the Holy Spirit, or that part of us that allows us to know things that we have a hard time explaining.

This is what's at play in this Sunday's gospel when Jesus comes on the scene in the first chapter of John's account.

What's interesting is that Jesus gets identified by John the Baptist, Andrew, and Peter, well before he does anything, heals anybody, feeds anybody, or even preaches: Jesus is identified not for anything that he's done, but for who he is - there is something about him that resonates deep inside of the hearts of people who are looking for him.

And what is the human heart looking for more than anything else, but love?

And Jesus, who is the incarnate, human form of love, comes on to the scene to fulfill a universe of people whose hearts are yearning for love.

It's the biggest, continuous yearning of infants, children, and adults, that we have. Love.

And it is found here, not in possessions, or experiences, or in accomplishments, power, or popularity; ; it is found in God, in love who is ever present, ever patient, just waiting to be found.

So the upshot for you and me is to be on the lookout for love, listening to that inner voice of ours, with appreciation and gratitude for all that we have, and a keen eye to identify love when we see it, and commend all who are responsible for bringing it.

Lean into that beautiful spirit of yours, that spirit self: What is love asking you to do today? Your spirit can be trusted to identify and walk with love.

It's commonly believed that the last 3 years of Jesus's life was spent in a ministry that officially began when he was baptized by John in the River Jordan.

At this event, a voice from heaven was heard, presumably God's voice, to give God's first instructions to his son.

And what's interesting is that these first instructions were not to do anything, to heal, feed, preach, or protest.

God's very first instruction to Jesus was to be - to be loved, 'This is my son, my beloved ' declared the heavens.

You and I were not created primarily to DO anything - but to first to BE an object of God's love.

Think of your dog who hops up on the couch and curls up as your heart melts in adoration of your family friend, who need not fetch, perform, or otherwise exhibit perfect obedience to score your love. You just love that doggy for being a doggy.

So this is where we get it wrong: we buy into the worldly reasoning that we are primarily here to do, do, do - to talk, to act, to build, to make, and to serve, in order to fulfill God's mission, to do God's will - that's where we get our worth, value, and reason to be loved.

The problem is that we can believe that the more we do for God, the more we're loved by God - that the priest in the collar, the donor with his name on the hospital ward, the holy man who's renounced riches and now prays 5 times a day - is somehow closer to the God, favored by God, loved by God.

But the more we own our belovedness, our total, unconditional acceptance by God, the more secure, calm and focused we can then be on what we need to do.

We can go ahead and take risks, be flamboyantly generous, be courageously forgiving, unafraid to stand up for what's right and stand down to what's wrong.

Like Jesus, the more we own our security in God, that our beginning, middle, and end are marked with God's unequivocal, love and acceptance, the more we can take risks, enjoy life, and live for others, which is the ultimate fulfillment of the human experience.

Yes, go ahead and do, but first, be!

As you move through the holidays, are you approaching life as a rough road that needs to be fixed, or a colorful adventure that needs to be discovered?

Here's what I mean if I think that everything is broken, imagine the frustration and anger when there is no fix in sight - like that relationship that I really wanted to work, but went hopelessly South?

Do I beat myself up, watching the game tapes over and over and wishing I'd made different decisions?

Or do I look at that relationship for what it is, not giving up on ever improving it, but observing through the primary lens of acceptance?

What has that taught me? Do broken relationships have anything at all to offer? Do the broken things around me have anything to teach, inspire, or encourage me?

This works with sickness, job looks, most all of life's downers.

And this unpacks a whole new world where life doesn't happen to me, but for me, and God will form me through the good, the bad, and the ugly.

So as you head out into those scenes and scenarios that are unique to holidays, try out this lens: approach life with acceptance and curiosity and see what God has in store.

What's the image that comes to mind when I say the words 'Homeless person?'

Probably not great -

But to make sense of Jesus is to make sense of him as a homeless person.

He was born in a borrowed stable - homeless.

He fled violence to live as a refugee in Egypt - homeless.

He described his day to day life as the Son of Man 'having nowhere to lay his head' - homeless

And he died rejected, betrayed, and buried inside a borrowed tomb - homeless.

This is not to say Jesus was an addict, mentally unstable, or even without access to wealth and other resources that might come to mind when we think of contemporary homelessness.

It is to say that Jesus was not overly interested in those things - he did not find his home in wealth, security, or popularity, rather he found his grounding in his unshakable faith in the power of love.

God is love after all, and to put your faith in the possibility that recognizing, cultivating, and expressing love, as the ground of your being, will ultimately take care of you, seems to be a notion Jesus put a lot of stock in.

As Christmas Day approaches, and we look upon that little baby born in a manger, let us be mindful of Jesus's style of homelessness, that was not about preventing it by building palaces, reputations, or savings accounts, but about embracing it by an absolutely obsessing over love - recognizing it, cultivating it - marinating in it.

And let us see the wisdom in that: is your 2026 list of goals all about buying this and achieving that - instead of being that person or that person - being kind, being selfless, and being loving - which is where Jesus' goals were.

And let us see the wisdom in that, put acquisition in its place, and embrace and cultivate, instead, the ground of our being, and the center of our souls, which is to love.

Chris Yaw

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What Was Plan B for Lazarus?

Would Jesus Bomb Iran?

The Man at the Well

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Ashes, Ashes

Transfigured

Stay Salty

The Biggest Mistake

Trusting Your Gut

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Homeless Jesus

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