​At the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, the Gospel tells us that He was led by the Spirit into the wilderness and for forty days He fasted, prayed, and faced temptation, so this moment echoes the journey of Israel in the desert, but it also prepares the path for everything that will follow. The wilderness is a place of spiritual testing, but it is also a place of spiritual clarity because in the quiet of the desert, stripped of comfort and applause, Jesus reveals something essential about holy love: love rooted in God does not collapse under pressure. Instead, it grows stronger through struggle and in our Lenten journey we follow Jesus into that wilderness since Lent is not simply a season of giving things up; it is a season of discovering what truly sustains us. The temptations Jesus faces, power without obedience, provision without trust, glory without sacrifice, are the same temptations humanity has always faced but each temptation offers an easier path, a shortcut to influence or security. Yet Jesus refuses them all because His mission is guided by holy love, a love that depends entirely on the Father and this love cannot be manipulated by hunger, ambition, or fear.
 
The wilderness teaches us something profound: love that comes from God is not built on circumstances but on dependence and Jesus answers every temptation with Scripture, reminding us that love remains faithful even when the environment becomes hostile. Holy love does not seek domination; it seeks obedience, in fact, in Wesleyan language, we might say that Jesus models perfect holiness, not a distant purity, but a living trust in God that shapes every decision. This moment of testing prepares Jesus for the ministry that follows, Luke tells us that after the wilderness, Jesus returns “in the power of the Spirit”, in other words, struggle has not weakened Him; it has clarified His purpose and the wilderness is not the end of the story; it is preparation for mission. When Jesus enters the synagogue in Nazareth, He reads from the prophet Isaiah. His words reveal the nature of the love He has come to embody:

• To proclaim good news to the poor.
• To proclaim freedom to the prisoners.
• Recovery of sight to the blind.
• To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

 
This is not an abstract love, it is a love that moves toward the marginalized, the imprisoned, the wounded, and the forgotten; it is the kind of love that restores dignity and opens new possibilities. It is the biggest love in the universe, unexpected, transformative, and deeply personal. Yet something surprising happens, cause the very people who hear this message reject it.  At first, the crowd admires Jesus, but admiration quickly turns into resistance and when Jesus reminds them that God’s mercy has often reached outsiders, foreign widows, outsiders in need, their admiration becomes anger. Eventually they try to push Him out of town. Why would people reject a love that heals, liberates, and restores? Because real love exposes false loves. Fake love promises comfort without change, fake love protects privilege and maintains familiar systems, fake love is satisfied with appearances, but the love Jesus brings does something deeper: it reveals the truth about our hearts, it calls us beyond our comfort zones and invites us into a new way of living, and sometimes that invitation feels threatening, Jesus’ message offers clear signs of authentic love. These signs help us recognize real love beyond the surface:

• First, real love proclaims good news to the poor, it does not ignore inequality or suffering; it speaks hope into the lives of those who feel forgotten.
• Second, real love proclaims freedom to prisoners, that freedom may be physical, emotional, or spiritual. Love seeks liberation from whatever binds the human spirit.
• Third, real love restores sight to the blind, it opens our eyes to truth, about God, about ourselves, and about the needs of others.
• Fourth, real love announces the year of the Lord’s favor, a season of grace where reconciliation and renewal become possible.
• These are not merely spiritual ideas; they are social realities; Holy love transforms both hearts and communities.

 
This week we also remember the International Day of Women, a moment to recognize the dignity, resilience, and leadership of women around the world. Throughout history, many women have embodied the kind of love Jesus proclaimed love that lifts the poor, seeks freedom, and restores dignity. John Wesley himself recognized this, at a time when women were rarely given leadership in the church, Wesley affirmed their spiritual gifts, he encouraged women such as Mary Bosanquet Fletcher and Sarah Crosby to preach and lead communities of faith. Wesley saw that the Holy Spirit was working through them, and he refused to silence what God was doing. This decision was not easy or popular, and many criticized him for allowing women to teach and preach, yet Wesley understood something essential about holy love: it recognizes the image of God in every person. When love is genuine, it breaks barriers and expands the circle of grace. The love Jesus proclaimed in Nazareth is the same love that empowered women in Wesley’s movement and continues to inspire justice and dignity today. Each of us encounters wilderness moments, seasons of uncertainty, testing, or struggle. During these times we may question whether love truly sustains us, yet the Gospel reminds us that holy love does not disappear in the wilderness. In fact, it becomes clearer there: struggle often reveals what we truly depend on, cause when distractions fall away, we discover whether our lives are rooted in God or in temporary comforts. The love of Christ invites us to trust that God’s presence is enough, even when the road feels difficult.
 
The people of Nazareth rejected Jesus because His love demanded transformation, but the invitation remains open for us today, so, will we accept a love that challenges our assumptions? will we allow God’s grace to reshape our priorities? To follow Christ is to embrace a love that reaches beyond us, it is to care for the poor, advocate for freedom, restore dignity, and proclaim hope. This is the love that the wilderness prepares us to carry into the world. The love of Christ is often unforeseen, but it appears where we least expect it, it challenges the systems we trust. It calls us into deeper faith and wider compassion. Yet this love is also the greatest gift we can receive. It is the love that sustained Jesus in the wilderness, the love that shaped Wesley’s ministry, and the love that continues to renew the church today. As we continue our Lenten journey, may we open our hearts to this unforeseen love, holy, courageous, and transformative. And may that love to guide us to proclaim good news, freedom, healing, and grace in every place where God sends us. Amen.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, a sacred season inviting us to return to God with humility and renewed intention. The ashes placed on our foreheads remind us that we are dust, fragile, and dependent on God’s sustaining grace. This is not a moment of shame, but a gentle reorientation of our hearts toward the deepest love that calls us home through prayer, fasting, and acts of generosity. We prepare ourselves spiritually for the journey toward Easter. The biggest love in the universe invites us back into a relationship before it asks us to change our lives. Lent begins with a call: “Return to me with all your heart”, that is the cry of the prophet Joel; it is not a threat, it is not condemnation, it is an invitation. “Return,” the Hebrew word carries the meaning of turning back toward someone who already loves you; it is relational language, it assumes connection, it assumes covenant.
 
In the Wesleyan tradition, we understand this as prevenient grace, the love of God that goes before us, reaching toward us even when we are distracted, distant, or wandering. Before we change, before we confess, before we improve, God loves. That is why the key idea for this series is simple: The biggest love invites us back before it asks us to change. Repentance in Lent is not shame, it is reorientation, it is turning back toward love. In Luke 4, Jesus enters the wilderness for forty days; Lent mirrors that journey; the wilderness is not punishment; it is preparation. Jesus faces temptation, power without obedience, bread without trust, glory without surrender. Each temptation is about control; each temptation offers a shortcut, but Jesus resists because He trusts the Father’s love.
 
For us, Lent becomes a wilderness space where we confront our own temptations: self-sufficiency, comfort, distraction. Prayer slows us down, fasting teaches us dependence, and almsgiving reminds us that love moves outward. In Free Methodist theology, holiness is not isolation; it is love perfected in relationship. John Wesley called it “social holiness”; our transformation is never only about personal morality; it is about becoming people shaped by love in community and in the world. There is an old song that asks a question: How deep is your love? The lyrics speak of needing love in a world that can feel cold, of depending on someone who won’t let you down. Though written as a romantic song, the question resonates spiritually. John 15:13 answers: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” That is the biggest love in the universe, a love that gives itself, a love that sacrifices, a love that does not abandon. The cross is not divine anger; it is divine depth. The cross reveals how far God is willing to go to restore a relationship, love that deep is not sentimental. It is costly.
 
Today, our world feels fragile. News of war reminds us how quickly fear escalates into violence, how distrust turns into destruction, when nations clash, ordinary families suffer, children suffer, and communities fracture. War exposes the absence of love at a systemic level; it reveals what happens when pride overrides humility and power replaces compassion. As followers of Christ in the Wesleyan tradition, we affirm that love is not weakness. Love is the strongest force in the universe; it confronts injustice, it seeks reconciliation, and it refuses to dehumanize even enemies. Lent calls us to examine not only our personal sins but also the systems that distort love, racism, violence, exploitation, nationalism, without compassion. Just as slavery had to die for justice to grow, so too must hatred and prejudice die in every generation. Holiness is not withdrawal from the world; it is engagement shaped by love. Where Do You Need to Turn? Joel says:
​
 
“Return with all your heart.”
From where do you need to turn?
perhaps from distraction to presence
perhaps from resentment to forgiveness,
perhaps from fear to trust,
Prayer reconnects us to love,
Fasting reveals what controls us,
 almsgiving expands our hearts toward others,
These practices are not spiritual performance.
They are pathways back to love.

 
And this is why Communion matters; the bread and the cup are not symbols of shame; they are signs of love. At this table, we remember that Christ gave Himself for us before we deserved it; the table is the visible proclamation of John 15:13. When we come to Communion, we declare that love is stronger than division, stronger than history, stronger than war. Love is the only force that can truly connect people and nations; political treaties may pause conflict, but only transformed hearts sustain peace. In Wesleyan theology, the Lord’s Supper is a means of grace. It is not merely memory; it is an encounter. As we receive the elements, we receive the renewing presence of Christ through the Holy Spirit. We are strengthened not only for personal comfort but for mission. We become people shaped by the biggest love in the universe.
 
That old song suggests needing someone who understands weakness, someone who lifts us when we’re falling. The Gospel tells us that in Christ, we have that love. A love that does not fluctuate, a love that does not abandon, a love deeper than failure. Lent asks: How deep is our love in response? Are we willing to love sacrificially? are we willing to forgive? Are we willing to stand for justice? Are we willing to pray for peace even when the world trembles?  Lent is the season of returning, Easter will be the season of rising, but we cannot experience resurrection without first turning toward love. The biggest love in the universe is not abstract; it is revealed in Christ’s obedience in the wilderness, His sacrifice on the cross, His victory in the resurrection, and His presence in Communion, and today, that love calls us:

Return,
come back to love,
trust the depth of it,
live from it.
because before God asks you to change, He invites you home.
Amen

​There are moments in life when love itself becomes a problem, not because love is wrong, but because love places us at risk. Love exposes us, binds us, commits us, and makes us vulnerable to pain. Depending on the circumstances, the people involved, and the nature of the relationship, love can complicate everything. Yet paradoxically, love is also the strongest bond we can form. It is the highest risk in any relationship, but also the deepest and most meaningful connection we can experience. Scripture reminds us again to remember our Creator, the source of love itself, especially when life becomes difficult and confusing.
 
Jesus warned that there would be times when love itself would suffer erosion. In Matthew 24:12, He says that because lawlessness increases, the love of many will grow cold. We are living in days like these, I mean, our news cycles reflect it daily: broken relationships, hardened hearts, indifference toward suffering, and a growing inability to feel deeply for one another. In such a world, love does not disappear suddenly; it cools gradually. That is why remembering our Creator is not sentimental advice; it is a survival practice for the soul.
 
Love, by its very nature, carries urgency; love responds when it is needed most; love moves toward pain, love reassures us that we belong. One of the most painful experiences in human relationships is not rejection, but delay, when love seems to hesitate at the very moment it is most required. Delay feels like absence, silence feels like abandonment, and yet, this is exactly where the story of Lazarus confronts us.
 
Lazarus and his sisters shared a genuine love for Jesus, as Scripture makes explicit: Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, and, astonishingly, still delayed His arrival. Not only that, He chose what seemed like the worst possible moment to act. His explanations sounded illogical to the disciples, almost irresponsible. Yet Jesus openly names the purpose of His delay; what appears as neglect will become revelation, what feels like absence will become miracle. Delay, in the hands of divine love, will not end in loss but in deeper faith.
 
At times, love can feel irrational because it does not always move in straight lines or according to our expectations. Love is rarely unidirectional; it radiates outward and affects everyone within its reach, and just as love has a halo effect that shapes entire communities, hatred does the same, even when we fail to notice it. Still, when actions rooted in love are finally revealed, witnesses rejoice. Love always reveals itself eventually; it never remains hidden forever.
 
This tension reaches a human climax in Thomas, who represents the struggle we all carry when love and logic collide. His skepticism does not come from arrogance, but from a wounded heart, and he voices what others feel but do not dare to say. His response reveals a soul that has been strained by disappointment and fear. Yet Jesus does not reject Thomas, yet He understands better than we do how love must sometimes be shown, not explained, not rushed, but revealed in time.
 
When we look honestly at the current state of human relationships, we see a crisis where love is often handled with excessive pragmatism, Xenophobia, hatred, domination, and exclusion are symptoms of relational breakdown. Love becomes problematic when it is managed like merchandise, measured, priced, negotiated, and withdrawn when inconvenient. Ours is a civilization marked by broken relationships because we have lost the patience and courage required for real love.
 
Healthy love, however, is a sign of emotional and spiritual health cause love reflects our ability to feel, to empathize, to recognize the humanity of others. Relationships are healthier when they are rooted in love rather than control or utility. In contrast, chronic absence of love, especially when it becomes habitual, is not neutrality; it is damage to the soul, and Scripture consistently associates lovelessness with spiritual decay.
 
Our culture often treats love as a transaction, and love becomes an object to exchange, a service to consume, a contract to renegotiate, but in the Kingdom of God, love works differently. I mean, love is covenantal, not transactional; it is given before it is earned, it waits without abandoning, it risks without controlling.
 
This is the power of love: love restores broken souls, love speaks life into darkness, love outlasts death itself. Love has the capacity to transform not only individuals, but entire civilizations, and the story of Lazarus teaches us this hard but holy lesson: sometimes we must learn to wait for love’s full revelation, trusting that God’s delay is not denial. While we wait, we are called to love others as we have been loved, first, freely, and faithfully.

​12 On the day the Lord gave the Amorites over to Israel, Joshua said to the Lord in the presence of Israel: “Sun, stand still over Gibeon, and you, moon, over the Valley of Aijalon.” 13 So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, till the nation avenged itself on its enemies, as it is written in the Book of Jashar. The sun stopped in the middle of the sky and delayed going down about a full day. 14 There has never been a day like it before or since, a day when the Lord listened to a human being. Surely the Lord was fighting for Israel! 15 Then Joshua returned with all Israel to the camp at Gilgal.

​There are moments in everyday life when pressure does not come from conflict, but from time. Think of a parent driving a sick child to the hospital late at night, every traffic light feeling like an obstacle. Or a worker facing a deadline that will determine whether a contract survives or collapses. Or a family gathered around a hospital bed, knowing a decision must be made quickly, and knowing that waiting too long may change everything. In those moments, the pressure is not theoretical. It is embodied. Your heart races, your mind accelerates, and the question is no longer whether to act, but how to act faithfully when time itself feels like the enemy.
 
This is where leadership truly begins, not in authority, titles, or public recognition, but in self-leadership under pressure. Leadership begins when we must make decisions that shape outcomes, while knowing we do not control all the variables. And it is precisely here that Scripture speaks with clarity and compassion. Joshua 10 places us in a moment where leadership is demanded, time is limited, and the future depends on decisions made under extraordinary pressure. Joshua is leading Israel in the land, surrounded by threats that are multiplying rather than diminishing. Alliances of enemy kings have formed. The situation is volatile, fast-moving, and unforgiving.

This is not a season for hesitation. Every delay risks greater loss. Yet every action carries a consequence. Joshua stands in a leadership moment familiar to anyone who has ever had to decide without complete information, without certainty of outcome, and without the luxury of waiting for perfect clarity. He is responsible not only for himself, but for the people. His leadership is now measured not by preparation alone, but by discernment under pressure.
 
This is an important reminder for us: choosing forward with God does not always happen in calm, reflective environments. Often it happens when the clock is ticking, and the margin for error is thin.
 
In this intense moment, Joshua does something that defies conventional leadership wisdom. He prays openly, publicly, and boldly: “Sun, stand still over Gibeon, and moon, over the Valley of Aijalon.” This prayer is astonishing not because it is dramatic, but because it is honest. Joshua is not pretending he can solve everything through strength, strategy, or speed. He recognizes that the challenge before him exceeds his capacity.

Time itself has become the barrier. And rather than denying that reality, Joshua brings it directly before God. Here we learn something essential about self-leadership: wise leaders do not confuse competence with self-sufficiency. They know when to act, and they know when to ask God for what they cannot produce on their own. This is the opposite of panic-driven leadership. Joshua does not rush blindly forward. He pauses, not to delay obedience, but to anchor action in divine guidance.
 
The text tells us that the sun stood still and the moon stopped until the task was completed. Then Scripture reflects: “There has been no day like it before or since, when the Lord listened to a human being.” This does not mean Joshua controlled God. It means Joshua aligned himself with God’s purpose. Divine intervention here is not magic; it is partnership.

God does not replace Joshua’s leadership. He sustains it. This pattern repeats throughout Scripture. God intervenes not to excuse responsibility, but to empower obedience. Joshua still leads. The people still fight. Decisions are still executed. But God enters the moment in a way that transcends human limitation. Leadership under pressure, then, is not about waiting passively for miracles. It is about acting faithfully while trusting God to work beyond what we can manage.
 
Before Joshua commands armies, he must command his own heart. Under pressure, leaders are tempted to let fear dictate pace, urgency dictate ethics, and exhaustion dictate decisions. Self-leadership is the discipline of refusing to let pressure become your master. Joshua models a leader who does not deny urgency but refuses to be ruled by it. He brings urgency into prayer. He integrates action with dependence. He leads outwardly only after aligning inwardly. Most of us will never face a battlefield like Joshua’s, but we face pressure in other forms: decisions that affect livelihoods, families, ministries, integrity, and calling. In those moments, leadership begins with a simple but demanding question: Will I let fear rush me, or will I let God guide me? 

This pattern of leadership under pressure did not end with Joshua. We see it again in Jesus Himself. In the Gospels, Jesus repeatedly faces moments when urgency surrounds Him. Crowds press in, sickness demands attentions opposition grows, and yet, again, Jesus withdraws to pray. Before choosing the Twelve, He prays all night, before the cross, in Gethsemane, He prays under unbearable pressure, asking honestly, “If it is possible, let this cup pass from me,” yet surrendering fully, “Not my will, but Yours.” The book of Acts shows the same pattern in the early church. When persecution intensifies, the apostles do not panic or abandon their calling. They pray; they discern, they continue preaching. Leadership under pressure becomes a testimony to God’s faithfulness, not human control.
 
Joshua’s story ends quietly: he returns to the camp with all Israel. The miracle moment passes, but the faithfulness remains. That is often how God works. Not every decision results in a visible wonder, but every faithful decision shapes the leader we are becoming. To close, consider one final image from Scripture. In Acts 27, the apostle Paul is on a ship caught in a violent storm. For days, the sailors see neither sun nor stars. Time, direction, and hope all seem lost. Yet Paul stands and says, “Keep up your courage… for I have faith in God that it will happen just as He told me.” The storm does not stop immediately, the ship does not remain intact, but every life is saved.

​Sometimes God stops the sun, sometimes God carries us through the storm, but always, God remains faithful to those who trust Him. Choosing forward with God does not mean controlling outcomes. It means leading yourself into God’s presence, trusting His guidance, and acting with courage even when pressure is high. The same God who listened to Joshua listens still, the same God who guided Jesus through the cross guides us today, and the same God who sustained the apostles invites us to lead ourselves faithfully under His care. Divine intervention meets leaders who trust God enough to act—and humble themselves enough to pray.
​

​30 Then Joshua built on Mount Ebal an altar to the Lord, the God of Israel, 31 as Moses the servant of the Lord had commanded the Israelites. He built it according to what is written in the Book of the Law of Moses—an altar of uncut stones, on which no iron tool had been used. On it they offered to the Lord burnt offerings and sacrificed fellowship offerings. 32 There, in the presence of the Israelites, Joshua wrote on stones a copy of the law of Moses. 33 All the Israelites, with their elders, officials and judges, were standing on both sides of the ark of the covenant of the Lord, facing the Levitical priests who carried it. Both the foreigners living among them and the native-born were there. Half of the people stood in front of Mount Gerizim and half of them in front of Mount Ebal, as Moses the servant of the Lord had formerly commanded when he gave instructions to bless the people of Israel. 34 Afterward, Joshua read all the words of the law—the blessings and the curses—just as it is written in the Book of the Law. 35 There was not a word of all that Moses had commanded that Joshua did not read to the whole assembly of Israel, including the women and children, and the foreigners who lived among them.

​The story of Joshua 7 begins at a moment when everything seems to be going right. Israel has just experienced a victory that defies military logic. Jericho, a fortified city, did not fall because of superior strategy or strength, but because the people trusted God and obeyed His instructions. They marched, they waited, they listened, and the walls collapsed. It was a moment that could easily have been interpreted as proof that from now on everything would be easy, that success was guaranteed, and that the path forward would be marked only by triumph. Victory has a way of creating false confidence, especially when it is not followed by reflection and humility.
 
Then comes Ai, a city so small and seemingly insignificant that Israel treats it as a formality. No prayerful consultation. No deep discernment. Just a simple plan based on human calculation. And that is precisely where the shock occurs: Israel is defeated. Soldiers flee, lives are lost, and fear spreads through the camp. Joshua’s response is raw and honest. He falls before the Lord, asking why this has happened, why the promise now seems uncertain. God’s answer is uncomfortable because it shifts the focus away from external enemies and toward an internal rupture. “Israel has sinned.” Not one man. Not one family. Israel.

This is where the text begins to speak powerfully to us. In Scripture, faith is never merely individual; it is communal. The people of God are bound together by covenant, and that covenant shapes how they live, decide, and act together. Achan’s violation of the ḥerem, the command that what was devoted to God was not to be taken for personal use, was not simply an act of private disobedience. It was a breach in the shared spiritual fabric of the community. What seemed hidden and personal was, in fact, communal in its consequences. The defeat at Ai was not about military weakness; it was about misalignment of the heart of the people with the covenant that defined them.
 
It is important to note that the issue was not the objects Achan took or their value. From a modern perspective, his actions might even seem minor. No one was directly harmed. No immediate damage was visible. But the biblical concern is deeper than surface-level morality. Achan acted as though the victory belonged to him, as though the community existed to support his private gain, and as though covenant faithfulness could be selectively ignored. At its core, his sin was a refusal to live in truthful alignment with the shared values of the people of God. This is why the language of Scripture does not isolate blame but speaks of Israel as a whole. Covenant life is not sustained by individual sincerity alone, but by communal integrity.
 
This same pattern reappears in the New Testament in the story of Ananias and Sapphira in Acts 5. The early church is experiencing deep unity, generosity, and joy. Believers are sharing resources freely, not by compulsion but by love. Into this environment, Ananias and Sapphira sell a piece of property and choose to keep part of the proceeds while presenting themselves as though they had given everything. Peter makes something very clear: they were under no obligation to sell the land or to give all the money. The issue was not generosity, but honesty. The problem was not withholding but pretending. Like Achan, they wanted the appearance of covenant faithfulness without the reality of it.
 
Both stories confront us with the same uncomfortable truth: community life in God’s covenant cannot be sustained by appearances. What damages the community is not imperfection, but deception, not weakness, but false alignment. In both Joshua and Acts, the biblical emphasis is not on cruelty or divine rage, but on the seriousness of living together in truth. These stories are not meant to terrify believers into silence or conformity; they are meant to awaken us to the reality that spiritual life is shared life. What we hide does not remain private. What we distort affects others. Covenant faithfulness is not enforced through fear but sustained through truth.
 
This is where a Wesleyan understanding of social holiness becomes especially helpful. John Wesley famously insisted that no holiness is not social holiness. He did not mean that holiness is achieved by public performance or moral policing, but that grace always reshapes relationships. Wesley’s class meetings and bands were spaces where believers could speak honestly about their lives, not to be shamed, but to remain aligned with the transforming work of God. Mutual accountability was not a tool of judgment, but a means of grace. Wesley understood that hidden sin fractures the community, while honest confession strengthens it.
 
Joshua 8 shows us the heart of God clearly. After the truth is confronted and the rupture addressed, God does not abandon Israel. He does not revoke His promise. Instead, He speaks words of reassurance: “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” The attack on Ai is renewed, this time with God’s guidance, and victory follows. But even more importantly, the people pause. Before moving forward, Joshua builds an altar at Mount Ebal, and the Law is read aloud, blessings and curses, promises and responsibilities, in the presence of the entire community, including foreigners and children.

​This moment reframes conquest entirely. Advancement is not about territory; it is about covenant alignment. Progress without faithfulness is meaningless. For the church today, these texts offer a deeply pastoral invitation. We live in a culture that prizes privacy, individual choice, and personal spirituality. We are often uncomfortable with the idea that our lives affect others. Yet Scripture reminds us that community is not optional in the life of faith. We are shaped together. We move forward together. When alignment is lost, strength is lost—not because God withdraws, but because the community loses coherence.
 
The good news, however, is that restoration is always possible. Neither Israel nor the early church was abandoned after failure. God’s desire is not punishment, but renewal; not exposure for its own sake but healing through truth. The question for us, then, is not whether we are perfect, but whether we are willing to live honestly together. Are we aligned as a community with the values we proclaim?

​Are we willing to practice truth in love, mutual responsibility without fear, and holiness as shared life rather than individual achievement? After Jericho came Ai. After victory came testing. And after testing came renewal. This is often how the journey of faith unfolds. We are called to move forward, yes, but to move forward together, grounded in covenant faithfulness, shaped by grace, and sustained by a holiness that is lived in community. When alignment is restored, the mission continues. And God, faithful as ever, goes before His people once again.

13 Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?” 14 “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” Then Joshua fell facedown to the ground in reverence, and asked him, “What message does my Lord[a] have for his servant?” 15 The commander of the Lord’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so.

​Uncertainty is one of the most complicated burdens to carry when you are trying to move forward without enough information, or when you do have information, but it only makes you realize how high the risk is. When you begin a new season, marriage, parenthood, a new job, a move, a diagnosis, a financial decision, or a new year, you can feel the reaction in different ways. Sometimes it is loud: anxiety, fear, sleeplessness. Sometimes it is quiet: procrastination, irritability, the subtle urge to control everything and everyone. Sometimes it is almost invisible: you keep moving, keep smiling, keep planning, but deep inside you are asking, “What if I’m wrong?” “What if I’m not enough?” “What if this fails?” Yet here is the surprising thing: uncertainty is not always a sign that we are out of God’s will. Often, uncertainty is the very place where God trains us to listen, to surrender, and to walk by faith rather than by sight.
 
This is where our Wesleyan story becomes more than history; it becomes pastoral guidance. John Wesley knew uncertainty intimately. Before his famous Aldersgate experience, he was busy, disciplined, religious, and inwardly unsettled. He had done ministry, crossed the Atlantic, tried to serve God with effort and structure, yet he wrestled with assurance. Then, on May 24, 1738, in a small gathering on Aldersgate Street, hearing Luther’s preface to Romans, Wesley wrote that he felt his heart “strangely warmed,” and that he did trust in Christ alone, receiving assurance. Notice the shape of that moment: Wesley did not conquer uncertainty by willpower. He did not solve it by controlling outcomes. He met God in surrender, and God met him with grace and assurance. That is holy ground.
 
That is exactly where Joshua stands in Joshua 5. Joshua is not standing in a classroom; he is standing near Jericho, a real city with real walls, real soldiers, real danger. Moses is gone. The responsibility of leadership is now on Joshua’s shoulders. Israel has crossed the Jordan, but they have not yet taken the land. Promise is in front of them, but so is conflict. This is the moment where the future feels close enough to touch, and frightening enough to shake you. Then the Bible says Joshua looks up: “He saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand.” (Joshua 5:13) This is one of those holy interruptions, when God steps into a human moment and changes the meaning of everything. Joshua’s first question is so honest, so human, so familiar: “Are you for our enemies?” In other words, “Where do you stand in my situation?” “Are you supporting my plan?” “Are you going to protect my people?” “Are you going to make this go the way I need it to go?”
 
But the answer Joshua receives is not the answer he expects: “Neither… but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” (Joshua 5:14) That response is not cold. It is clarifying. God is not coming to become a tool in Joshua’s strategy.

God is coming to establish the only strategy that truly wins: the Lord is in command.  Here is the first big lesson for every uncertain season: God’s power is not something we recruit to bless our agenda; God’s power is something we experience when we surrender to His authority. So, Joshua immediately changes posture. The man with the drawn sword is not just “another figure.” Joshua falls facedown. He shifts from analysis to adoration, from planning to submission, from “God, are You on my side?” to the only question that matters now: “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”

This is what uncertainty is meant to produce in us, not panic, not paralysis, not control, but humility that says: “Lord, I don’t need to be in charge if You are here. Speak.” And then comes the instruction that echoes Moses at the burning bush: “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” (Joshua 5:15) Think about how profound this is. Joshua is near a battlefield, not a sanctuary. He is near Jericho, not the tabernacle. But the Commander of the Lord’s army says, “This place is holy.” Why? Because God’s presence makes the ground holy. That means the place of your uncertainty can become holy ground too, the place where you don’t know what to do next can become holy ground, the place where the walls look too big can become holy ground. Not because you feel strong, but because God is present, and He is faithful.
 
Early Methodism itself was born as a movement of people choosing obedience in uncertain times. They organized class meetings, accountability, prayer, practical holiness, care for the poor, not because life was easy, but because they believed God’s grace forms steady disciples in unstable worlds. Even Canadian Methodist history carries this theme. In 1925, a major denominational change occurred when the Free Methodists in Canada developed their own Canadian identity and structure, and the denomination was incorporated in Canada (1925). Whatever one’s denominational angle, the spiritual lesson is consistent: God’s people have repeatedly faced unfamiliar futures, and the faithful way forward has never been “perfect certainty,” but obedient trust in God’s presence and leadership. What Joshua teaches us about the winning plan.

So how do we choose to move forward with God when we feel uncertain? Joshua 5:13–15 gives us a “winner plan,” and it is beautifully simple, not easy: 1) Follow Jesus, not your fear. Joshua’s first question was about sides. But God’s answer was about lordship. Many of our anxieties shrink when we stop asking, “How do I protect my plan?” and start asking, “Lord, how do I follow You today?” 2) Fear the Lord more than the walls. Jericho was real. The sword was real. The risk was real. But the greatest reality in the scene is the presence of God. Reverence puts our problems in their proper place. 3) Do His will, step by step, on holy ground.
 
God does not give Joshua a ten-year roadmap at that moment. He gives him a holy posture: sandals off, heart bowed, ears open. And that posture becomes the foundation for obedience. Because here is the promise you can preach with confidence: God’s goodness is not fragile, God’s faithfulness is not seasonal, God’s guidance does not disappear when our clarity does, when you stand in uncertainty, you are not standing in emptiness. If the Lord is present, you are standing on holy ground. So, the question today is not merely, “Do I have enough information?” The deeper question is: “Is my heart surrendered to the Commander?” That is the winning plan: Follow Jesus. Fear the Lord. Do His will. And you will find, again, that God is good, and God is faithful, and you can go forward even in the middle of uncertainty, because the battle belongs to the Lord.

14 “Now fear the Lord and serve him with all faithfulness. Throw away the gods your ancestors worshiped beyond the Euphrates River and in Egypt, and serve the Lord. 15 But if serving the Lord seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of ​the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

As we come to the end of a year, we naturally pause. We slow our pace. We look back, not out of nostalgia, but out of wisdom. The end of a year is not simply a closing of dates on a calendar; it is a moment on the pathway where God invites us to stop, turn around, and read the signs of the road we have already walked.
 
Israel has reached a decisive point in its history. The journey from slavery in Egypt, through the wilderness, and into the land has not been easy. It has been marked by battles, uncertainty, setbacks, victories, and long seasons of waiting. Now Joshua gathers the people and asks them to look back, not to remain there, but to understand how they arrived where they are.
 
We recognize where God protected us, even when we were unaware. We see moments where doors closed, not as punishment, but as redirection. We remember battles we thought would defeat us, yet here we are, still standing, still moving, still held by grace. At the end of the year, reflection is not weakness; it is discernment.
 
Joshua reminds the people that their story did not begin with them. Their present moment is surrounded by history, God’s faithfulness to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and generations before. In the same way, our lives today are surrounded by history: personal history, community history, global history, and the realities that shape our conditions, economic pressures, social tensions, and uncertainty about the future.
 
But Joshua also makes something clear: history explains where we are, but it does not determine whom we will serve. That is why Joshua says, “Now therefore fear the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness… choose this day whom you will serve.” The people are not asked to deny their past or pretend their circumstances are easy. They are asked to decide how they will move forward within those realities.
 
We do not step into the future empty-handed; we step forward surrounded by experience, shaped by conditions, and aware of our limitations. Yet above all that stands something greater: God’s project. God’s purpose. God’s vision for life.
 
Joshua knows that life in the land ahead will still involve struggle. There will be enemies, temptations, compromises, and moments of fear. The conquest of life, faithful living, justice, community, and obedience does not end when one chapter closes. It continues.

That is why God’s project must become the guideline for every battle ahead. Not our comfort, not our fear, not the pressure of surrounding cultures or competing loyalties. Joshua draws a line: you cannot serve everything and everyone. You cannot march in every direction at once. The people must decide what will guide their steps when the road becomes difficult. “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.” This is not a slogan. It is a marching order.
 
At the end of the year, this declaration invites us to ask: What has guided us this past year? What voices have shaped our decisions? What loyalties have quietly claimed our energy? And as we look forward, it asks something even more important: What will guide our marching from here on?
 
Choosing forward does not mean we have everything figured out. It means we align our direction with God’s purpose. It means that even as life conditions remain complex, even as history continues to weigh upon us, we choose to walk under God’s vision rather than be driven by fear or convenience.
 
The people of Israel are called not just to remember God, but to serve God. Service implies action, movement, and obedience. It is a choice lived out step by step.
 
So as this year closes, we stand where Israel once stood between what has been and what is yet to come. We look back to read the signs of the pathway. We acknowledge the battles already fought. We name the realities that surround us. And then, with humility and courage, we choose forward. Not because the road will be easy, but because God’s project is trustworthy. Not because the future is clear, but because God’s faithfulness is.
 
As we step into the next season, may we do so with clarity of allegiance, courage in our steps, and trust in the God who has guided us this far and will continue to lead us as we march on.
 
Choose this day, look back with gratitude, choose forward with faith. 

​11 Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. 12 When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. 13 But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John. 14 He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth, 15 for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He is never to take wine or other fermented drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born. 16 He will bring back many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. 17 And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” 18 Zechariah asked the angel, “How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is well along in years.” 19 The angel said to him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. 20 And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time.” 21 Meanwhile, the people were waiting for Zechariah and wondering why he stayed so long in the temple. 22 When he came out, he could not speak to them. They realized he had seen a vision in the temple, for he kept making signs to them but remained unable to speak. 23 When his time of service was completed, he returned home.

​Some gifts sparkle for a moment and then fade. Others lose their value with time, wear out, or are replaced by something newer. But occasionally, we encounter a gift that does not diminish, a gift that grows deeper, stronger, and more meaningful as time passes. Advent proclaims that God has given such a gift to the world: a gift that everlasting time cannot erode.

Luke 1:46–56 records Mary’s song, the Magnificat, not as a sentimental hymn, but as a bold declaration of what God’s gift truly is and what it does. Mary is not standing in comfort or security. She is young, vulnerable, and facing uncertainty. Yet from this fragile place, she sings with confidence, joy, and clarity. Her song teaches us that the gift God gives does not depend on circumstances; it depends on who God is.

Mary begins: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Notice that Mary does not magnify herself, her role, or her future child. She magnifies the Lord. The everlasting gift begins here: God-centered joy. This joy is not shallow happiness; it is rooted in salvation. Mary rejoices not because life is easy, but because God has acted. The gift that everlasts is not control over life, but trust in the God who saves.

Mary continues by acknowledging her own smallness: “For he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.” God’s everlasting gift does not arrive through power, prestige, or privilege. It comes through humility. Mary understands that God’s grace is not earned; it is given. The gift that lasts forever is grace that reaches us exactly where we are, not where we pretend to be.

Then Mary makes a remarkable claim: “Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed.” This is not pride; it is testimony. Mary recognizes that when God acts, the impact extends beyond the moment. God’s gift echoes through generations. The everlasting nature of God’s gift is seen in its enduring influence; it reshapes history, memory, and identity.

Mary shifts her focus from herself to God’s character: “The Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.” The gift that everlasts is grounded in who God is, mighty and holy, yet attentive to the humble. God’s strength is not distant or destructive; it is personal and redemptive. His holiness does not exclude; it restores.

The song then widens to include all people: “His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.” Mercy is one of the clearest expressions of an everlasting gift. Mercy does not expire. Mercy does not run out. Mercy travels across time. What God begins in one generation, He carries forward into the next. The gift that everlasts is God’s mercy, faithfully extended across history.

Mary now names the great reversals of God’s kingdom: the proud scattered, the powerful brought down, the lowly lifted, the hungry filled, the rich sent away empty. This is not poetic exaggeration; it is theological truth. God’s everlasting gift reorders the world. It challenges systems built on arrogance, injustice, and self-sufficiency. It restores dignity to those pushed aside. The gift that everlasts does not preserve the status quo; it transforms it.

In these verses, Mary teaches us that God’s gift is not merely personal comfort; it is cosmic restoration. God is reshaping hearts, communities, and histories. The everlasting gift confronts pride, heals hunger, and lifts the forgotten. It is good news not only for individuals but for a broken world.

Mary concludes by grounding everything in God’s faithfulness: “He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.” The gift that everlasts is anchored in promise. God remembers. God keeps His word. God fulfills what He has spoken. From Abraham to Mary, from Mary to us, God’s gift continues. Advent reminds us that what God gives is not temporary relief, seasonal cheer, or passing inspiration. God gives Himself. In Jesus Christ, God’s mercy takes flesh. God’s promise enters time. God’s faithfulness becomes visible. So we ask ourselves: what kind of gift are we truly seeking? Something impressive or something eternal? Something temporary or something that lasts. Mary’s song invites us to receive the gift that everlasts, God’s mercy, God’s salvation, God’s faithfulness made flesh.

This Advent, may our souls magnify the Lord. May our spirits rejoice in God our Savior. And may we live as people who have received not just a gift for a season, but the gift that everlasts.