Sermon on Matthew 5:1-12

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

A lot of people in the first century were considered undesirable.

Those the Bible calls “lepers” had various skin diseases that were contagious, and society made them live apart from people without those diseases. They were made to yell out “unclean” to keep people from approaching them. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to have to do that?

There was also a big gulf between those who were citizens and those who weren’t. Roman citizens (who were, of course, only men) had a lot of rights that those who weren’t citizens didn’t. Non-citizens weren’t allowed to participate in public life in the same way. They didn’t have a voice or protection from those who governed. We’re largely accustomed to a lot of rights that haven’t been so broadly given throughout a lot of history.

Some folks were enslaved, making them property of another. They weren’t “undesirable,” but they were disposable—a resource to be used up instead of a human being.

Women were desirable, but also only for what they could do—bear children, household labor. Women’s testimony wasn’t even considered valid in court. Women were property too, and it was ideal if they silently acted as such.

And there was a large class gap in the first century. The majority of the population lived at subsistence level or below, scraping by with nothing left over. The elites had plenty while most people could scarcely fill their stomachs.

Many people of different circumstances were considered undesirable, disposable, or for whatever other reason less than fully realized human beings.

We’re not much better today.

I had to delete the Nextdoor app, because I was exhausted and demoralized seeing my neighbors post suspicious things about unhoused people and teenagers hanging out.

The news is full of narratives that make us fearful of groups of people.

We still have a large class gap today. Billionaire CEOs are so removed from the people who clean their offices that they might as well live on different planets.

We indicate to people with disabilities that they’re undesirable when we don’t provide accommodations that would allow them to participate.

During COVID, we indicated to seniors, people with diabetes, and others who were especially vulnerable that they were disposable when people resisted getting vaccinated or taking other measures to protect them.

Having worked with at-risk young adults before I went to seminary, I saw how challenging it is for people with a criminal record to get a job or be eligible for services that would help them break the cycle of poverty that got them locked up in the first place.

A lot of people today are considered undesirable or disposable.

Who else can you think of that’s considered undesirable or disposable today? Take a moment to think about it while I get a pad of paper set up.

That’s quite a list. Thank you for your thoughts.

When Jesus went up the mountain, the first thing he did was list people who were undesirable and disposable and say that they were favored by God:

1.    “The poor in spirit”—those crushed by life’s circumstances

2.    “Those who mourn”—those grieved by life’s circumstances

3.    “The meek,” “the merciful,” “the peacemakers”—those who went against the “might is right,” violent, dominating common sense of the world, especially the Roman Empire

We’ve gotten desensitized to how radical that sounded because we’re so familiar with the words of the Sermon on the Mount.

But what if Jesus stood in front of us today and said, “Blessed are the [items from our list]”?

It’s jarring, isn’t it?

What Jesus said was shocking. It wasn’t feel-good embroidery on a pillow. It was unsettling for those who thought they were blessed and earth-shakingly hope-filled for those who thought they were undesirable and disposable.

These were the people Jesus was collecting into the Beloved Community—people who had been told they were worthless, unimportant, undeserving, even less than human.As Paul put it: “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to abolish things that are.” Jesus was turning the world upside down.

People who found hope in Jesus’ words were indeed blessed—blessed by getting to follow Jesus and being part of the Good News he was spreading.

We’re in the season after Epiphany, when we reflect on how God reveals Godself to the world.

How do the Beatitudes—so well-known, but so surprising when we really hear them—how do the Beatitudes change how we understand God?

How do they change how we understand the world?

How do they change how we understand each other?

How do we best honor a God who looks at the least, the last, and the lost and says “I favor you”?

How might we treat the neighbors we don’t normally think about and maybe don’t want to be around, remembering they’re blessed by God?

How might we treat the parts of ourselves we try to hide because they’re undesirable? If you feel comfortable with it, close your eyes for a moment. Take a deep breath. Imagine those parts of yourself you want to ignore. Then, imagine Jesus in front of you. He looks at you with kind eyes and a gentle smile. And he says, “You are blessed—all of you, every part.”

When you’re ready, you can open your eyes.

Check in with yourself: how did that feel?

Might you be able to love your neighbors differently if you could really internalize your own blessedness too?

God created you, loves you, and became human to show you that love.

No human is undesirable. No human is disposable.

Feel the fire of God’s love for you in your heart and let that belovedness overflow into doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with our God.

Come and See

Pr. Jaz Bowen-Waring |

Epiphany 2 January 18, 2026

“Who are you looking for?” This is the first question Jesus asks in the Gospel of John (John 1:38). Before he calls disciples, before he performs signs, before he offers teaching or healing, Jesus asks a question about desire. Not What do you believe? Not What do you know? But What are you seeking? It’s a question that assumes we are all already searching. It invites honesty. Because the truth is, we never come to Jesus empty-handed—we come carrying hopes, expectations, disappointments, and longings shaped by our lives and the world around us. The two disciples respond by calling him Rabbi, which means teacher. This tells us something important: they are looking for guidance, for wisdom, for someone whose life they can study and imitate. In the ancient world, to follow a rabbi meant more than listening to lectures. It meant watching how he prayed, how he ate, how he treated people, how he suffered. They are searching for a way of life. But what they find is more than a teacher. John tells us that Jesus is the Word made flesh—God dwelling among us (John 1:14). They come seeking instruction, and they leave having encountered incarnation. They come hoping to learn, and they find themselves standing in the presence of God. That tension still lives with us. We, too, come searching—but what we’re searching for often reveals more about us than about Jesus. Some of us are looking for a Jesus who will fix things quickly. A Jesus who functions like a divine superhero—stronger than us, braver than us, capable of swooping in to solve the world’s problems in a single episode. Others are looking for a healer, a doctor who can restore our bodies, soothe our minds, and make us whole again. And sometimes, honestly, we’re looking for a Jesus who will affirm our comfort and leave our lives mostly unchanged. But again and again, scripture tells us that Christ refuses to conform to our expectations. We look for a conquering lion, but John points and says, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). We expect domination, but God chooses self-giving love. We imagine power that crushes enemies, yet Philippians tells us Christ empties himself, taking the form of a servant (Philippians 2:6–7). We look for glory, and instead we are shown a cross. We look for strength, and Paul reminds us that God’s power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). Even the Spirit arrives not in fire and spectacle here, but as a dove—gentle, vulnerable, easily overlooked (John 1:32). So Jesus’ question presses us still: Who are you looking for? Because the Christ we seek is often not the Christ who comes. And yet, the Christ who comes is always the Christ we need. When the disciples ask Jesus, “Where are you staying?” or “Where are you abiding?” (John 1:38), they are asking more than for an address. The word abide echoes throughout John’s Gospel. It is the same word used when we are told that the Word dwelt among us (John 1:14), and later when Jesus says, “Abide in me as I abide in you” (John 15:4). To ask where Jesus abides is to ask where God has chosen to make a home. Where does Christ put down roots? Where does divine life take shape in the world? Scripture gives us a consistent answer. Jesus abides where suffering is present. He abides with those pushed to the edges. He abides with the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the grieving, and the forgotten. When Jesus describes the final judgment in Matthew 25, he does not point to correct belief, but to presence: I was hungry, I was a stranger, I was in prison—and you visited me. Wherever the least are found, Christ is already there. That means Christ is not distant from the pain of our world today. He is dwelling with refugees searching for safety. He is abiding with families shattered by gun violence. He is present with immigrants living under constant fear, with communities crushed by poverty, with those whose grief never makes the news. And for those of us who live with relative comfort and privilege, the call of discipleship is not simply to admire Jesus from afar, but to follow him—to go where he abides and to stay there. To dwell long enough to be changed. Not all of us can be on the front lines of protest. But all of us can practice presence. We can share meals. Learn names. Build relationships. Create spaces of safety and belonging. The kingdom of God does not descend only through grand gestures—it takes root in ordinary acts of love that resist isolation and dehumanization. And still Jesus says, “Come and see” (John 1:39). This is not an argument—it’s an invitation. Some truths cannot be explained; they must be witnessed. Like love. Like grief. Like grace. You don’t explain the birth of a child— you show up and see. You don’t theologize your way through loss—you sit beside one another in silence. John is not interested in proving Jesus. He is interested in testimony. John the Baptist doesn’t analyze the Spirit; he points and says, Look. Behold. Come and see. And that is still our calling. Not to have all the answers, but to bear witness. To notice Christ in our shared life together—in joy and in sorrow, in righteous anger at injustice, in quiet acts of care, in the fragile beauty of human connection. So once more, Jesus asks: Who are you looking for? And once more, he answers our searching with grace: Come and see. Come and abide. Come and discover that God is already here—dwelling among us, making all things new.

Sermon on Matthew 3:13-17

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

2026 has barely started, and already I feel overwhelmed.

Society expects us to get our lives together in January. New Year, New You! We’ve got to optimize every minute, make resolutions and SMART goals and figure out the perfect systems and schedules with the best$200 planner and become the healthiest we’ve ever been and cook nutritionally balanced meals from scratch every night in our impeccably organized and spotless kitchens.

There’s immense pressure to completely change one’s life the minute the clock strikes midnight on New Year's.

But it’s 11 days into 2026, and I’m still me—flawed and anxious and tired.

How can I possibly live up to society’s expectations?

And then, when I try to distract myself from my disappointment that I’m not suddenly perfect, I check the news, which is definitely a good idea when I’m feeling disappointed and anxious.

I see updates about what’s going on in Venezuela—which makes me confused about what happened, fearful of more violence, conflicted about the US’s historical involvement in regime changes in South America,and so I pray for peace and flourishing for the people of Venezuela in this new chapter.

I expected that Venezuela would be the biggest news story this week, and then, there was thefatal shooting of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis in a conflict with ICE, and I’m devastated by the fear and grief our immigrant neighbors and so many others are experiencing.

And of course, there’s still ongoing turmoil in Ukraine and in Israel and Gaza.

Our trans siblings are being targeted by legislation in various states.

AI technology progresses, and thesci-fi fan part of me is both intrigued and concerned.

Our guests at Caring Hands continue to increase in number, showing the need in our own community.

The world feels overwhelming right now. It’s nothing new, and still, I never want to become numb to the world’s pain.

But it’s easy to start asking, “How can I possibly make a difference? I’m just one person. The world’s problems are too big. I’m too small and broken. What can I do? I can’t even get my own life together, let alone fix any of this.”

I’m torn between trying to hustle harder to make a difference in a flurry of perfectionism and wanting to hide under the covers and give up. Neither will end well.

And this doesn’t even touch other circumstances you might be dealing with: illness, caregiving, financial concerns, family drama, death and loss.

In whatever circumstances we’re facing, sometimes it feels like we’re not up the task.

John the Baptist didn’t think he was up to the task either.

When Jesus came to him to be baptized, he said, “Wait, wait, wait—you should be baptizing me, not the other way around!”

You can almost hear the voice of imposter syndrome in his head, saying, “You can’t do this. You’re just here to prepare the way. You’ve only been shouting at religious leaders and telling people to repent. But now he’s here! He’s supposed to take over—your job is irrelevant now. You can’t possibly expect to baptize him too!”

And yet, that was exactly what Jesus was asking him—exactly what God was calling him to.

Jesus’ ministry—his very existence as a human being—was self-emptying. The Incarnation—God becoming human—was to bring what is lofty and powerful (God) to meet us (stumbling, violent, self-interested human beings) where we are.

Jesus was asking John to do exactly what God had called him to do—baptize people and invite them to join in the Beloved Community.

Jesus joined in too.

And the heavens ripped apart, and God’s Spirit came down, and God’s voice announced, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

God was well-pleased with Jesus, who hadn’t yet healed anyone or preached anything or performed any miracles or fed any crowds.

God was well-pleased with Jesus simply for being who he was.

And God was well-pleased with John simply for being who he was.

And God is well-pleased with you simply for being who you are.

You are enough, because God created you and loves you.

You are enough without overhauling your life, fulfilling all your New Year’s resolutions, buying that planner, or fixing the world’s problems.

God welcomes us into God’s family in baptism, and we baptize people of all ages, including infants, because it’s about God’s work, not ours. God loves us before we’ve done anything. God is well-pleased with us when our only accomplishments are eating, sleeping, and pooping.

Maybe you were baptized as an infant. Maybe when you were older. Maybe you haven’t been baptized, and that’s okay. It’s never too early or too late. You are part of God’s family, and God rejoices when we mark that truth with water. And God is already well-pleased with you, whether you feel it or not.

And just like John had a calling, we each have a calling from God. It could be related to our careers, and it could also be about loving your family well, about serving your community in big and small ways, about using your God-given creativity to make beautiful things, or about using your voice to advocate for vulnerable people.

And like John, maybe you feel unworthy to live out what God is asking of you.

But you are already enough in God’s eyes, and God believes in you and will accompany you through everything.

I was reminded this week between reviewing to-do lists and doom-scrolling the news that sometimes our callings aren’t as recognizable as we might wish.

Kate Bowler sent out an email this week talking about the development of the assembly line and the value of increased productivity that has deeply influenced our country over the decades.

Then, she talked about teaching that history to seminary students. She notes that the work they’re preparing for is “slow and inefficient.” Ministry—for all of us, not just pastors and deacons—is slow and inefficient. It can be made up of boring meetings, picking up trash, giving a water bottle to someone who won’t say thank you and will leave the bottle on the ground for someone else to pick up.

But it still matters. Every small act of kindness and love and dedication to God’s calling matters even though we don’t always see the positive effects. They all matter, because God changes the world through slow, seemingly inefficient acts of love.

“If you want progress,” says Kate Bowler,“take up running. If you want meaning, run a church.” And I would amend that to “if you want meaning, do whatever it is God is asking of you, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant.” It’s not insignificant, because you’re not insignificant in God’s eyes.

So, do whatever you can, no matter how small or whether or not you feel worthy.

You are God’s beloved child, and God is well-pleased with you just as you are, yesterday, today, and always.