When God Stands at the Grave, John 11:27-37

Posted on March 24, 2026 by patrick h wrisley

A Sermon Delivered on March 22, 2026 by the Rev. Dr. Patrick H. Wrisley.

Let’s set the scene: Today we have a story about four friends separated from one another by distance.  Sisters Martha and Mary, along with their brother Lazarus, live in Bethany, a small village just a few miles from Jerusalem. Jesus had recently been in the city for the Feast of Dedication, but had to make a hasty retreat when the religious officials became so angry with him that they tried to stone him. So, Jesus took the long, hot road down to the Jordan River, to the very place where his cousin John had baptized people before John’s beheading.

In the time it took Jesus to make that two-day walk from Jerusalem to the river, his dear friend Lazarus had become deathly ill. Martha and Mary sent word to Jesus: Lazarus is dying but if you come quickly, you might still save him.

Jesus then waited two more days before he and the disciples climbed the long mountain road back up to Bethany. By the time he arrived, Lazarus was not just dead, but he had been in the tomb for four days.

We pick up the story as Jesus walks into Bethany and is met on the road by Martha. The very first words out of her mouth in verse 21 are an honest, grief-laced indictment: Jesus, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

In response, Jesus simply asks her: Do you really believe in the resurrection and the life? Hear now the Word of the Lord.

John 11:27–37

27 She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

28 When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” 29 And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. 30 Now Jesus had not yet come to the village but was still at the place where Martha had met him. 31 The Jews who were with her in the house consoling her saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. 32 When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” 33 When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. 34 He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” 35 Jesus began to weep. 36 So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” 37 But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (NRSVU)

Imagine this scene in your mind: Jesus walks into Bethany, and he is at once surrounded by a crowd of mourners. The village is practicing what Jewish tradition calls sitting Shiva, the ancient custom of surrounding a grieving family with your physical presence for up to seven days. You speak of the one who has died. You cry and wail on behalf of the bereaved because the family may simply have no more tears left to cry. Death, for our Jewish neighbors, both then and now, is a deeply social event. In the Jewish tradition, you do not grieve alone.

So, picture this very emotional reunion. Jesus is surrounded by weeping friends and neighbors huddled around the two sisters. First Martha had met him on the road. Now it is Mary who makes her way to him. She falls at his feet and greets him with now a twice-voiced indictment: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

It is at this moment that something breaks open in Jesus. Surrounded by the tears of people he loves, he becomes undone and it is here we arrive at what is often called the shortest verse in the Bible: John 11, verse 35. Jesus wept.

His best friend is dead. He looks at these two sisters, women who now have no one to provide for or protect them and his grief is simply too much. He just loses it.

Our text this morning uncomfortably reminds us of a question all of us have asked at one time or another.Reading this text honestly, we cannot miss the gentle but pointed dig from Mary and Martha: Why didn’t you come sooner? Jesus, you could have prevented all this pain and sadness! And then the crowd gossips about the same thing, “This guy could open the eyes of a blind man so why could he not save his own friend? Why, Jesus? Why?”

If we are all honest, we have asked that same question. It seems everyone is levelling the proverbial “would’ve, should’ve, could’ves” at Jesus.

“Would only you intervened, Jesus!”

“Shouldn’t you have helped me when I prayed?”

“Couldn’t you have cured my mom?”

Events have occurred in our lives that have caused us to pause, look up toward heaven, and ask, “Why, God?”  So why did Jesus wait, not only until his friend was dead and buried, but as we read further in this story, and as the King James Version so eloquently states, he waited so long that the body stinketh?

Here is my best shot at an answer.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus is fully and deeply aware of his identity as the very presence of the Almighty dwelling in the world. His claim as the Great I AM, woven throughout John’s narrative, affirms that. And it is my conviction that Jesus knew something important: if he was truly the Resurrection and the Life, if he was truly God-among-us in the fullness of our humanity, then he was going to need to fully enter our human condition in every possible way. Including way all of us travel: To experience the journey of the pain of loss of a loved-one.

Lazarus was different from the throngs of crowds and strangers who came to him for healing and solace. In John’s gospel, the love Jesus expressed toward the crowds and strangers he healed is the familiar ancient word, agape. Agape is the sacrificial, intentional, willful, gracious love offered to those who have done nothing to earn it. It is a self-giving love. But agape-type love describes a different kind of bond than what Jesus had with Lazarus.

Notice what the crowd says in verse 36, “See how he loved him.” The word John has the crowd using here is notagape. It is the word for filial love, brotherly or sisterly love that is deeply personal and affectionate, full of emotional intimacy. It is the word for the kind of love that exists between people who truly know and get one another.

Lazarus was not just somebody to Jesus. Lazarus was a soul brother. He was family. He was the kind of friend with whom Jesus could be authentically himself. Lazarus’ house was the place where Jesus could let his guard down, rest his feet, and simply be himself. No crowds. No noise. Lazarus’ home was a sanctuary.

So why let Lazarus die? Why not spare his dearest friend?

Well, it is about God’s passion for us. To fully relate to all humanity in the depths of our common experience, Jesus not only had to face the death every person faces, but he also had to feel the searing, gut-level anguish of losing someone intimate. Not from a divine vantage point above the pain, but as Jesus a man living fully inside human skin. He had to know what it feels like when the person you love most in the world is gone. 

This moment at Lazarus’ tomb reaches forward to Good Friday. Just as Jesus felt the sting of losing his beloved friend, God the Father would feel the sting of losing his only Son on the cross. Grief is not one-sided but experienced physically, emotionally, and relationally within the whole Triune God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit experience the depths of our darkest pain, confusion, and loss. God gets it.

Jesus wept neither as performance nor pretense, but as a man who felt the full weight of what death does to the people left behind. And in his weeping, he sanctifies our tears. He showed that grief is not about a lack of faith. Grief is love with nowhere to go. The Good News is God knows that feeling from deep within God’s self.

So beloved, where is Jesus when it hurts, when life goes sideways and nothing makes sense? He is in the middle of it all.

It means that as you read the headlines, as you carry the fears that silently hum in the background of your thoughts through the day – fears for your family, for your health, for our country and the tyranny of war, for all this hurting world – the God who created all that is, was, and ever shall be is not watching off from a safe distance. God is present. God is deeply moved. God is weeping with you and me.

As we finish looking at our text this morning, reflect upon the fact that the Christian faith is the only faith in the world that draws its strength from the fact that the God we worship and serve is a God who personally knows how to cry. This our God cries for us. Our God cries with us.

And here is the miracle of it: those tears do not mean God has been defeated, but when Jesus wept at Lazarus’ tomb, he then called Lazarus out of it. The One who weeps is the same One who resurrects. The One who stands in our grief is the same One who conquered the grave.

As we move through this season, let this text be a source of genuine comfort for you. In the moments when you look to heaven and ask, “Why God?”, remember that heaven is not silent or indifferent. The God who is, was, and ever shall be holds every star in its place and numbers every hair on our heads, feels us in our pain and is affected by it. But he does not want us to wallow in it but just like with his best friend, Lazarus, he calls us forward into new life and into hope. 

In the Name of the One Who Is, Was, and Is to come. Amen.

© 2026 by Patrick H. Wrisley. Sermon manuscripts are available for the edification of members and friends of First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, 8 West Notre Dame Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801. This sermon may not be altered, re-purposed, published or preached without permission. All rights reserved.

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For I Am with You, Psalm 23

Posted on March 16, 2026 by patrick h wrisley

A Sermon Delivered on March 16, 2026 by the Rev. Dr. Patrick H. Wrisley.

I want to begin with a word from Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor and theologian who was martyred by the Nazis in April of 1945, just days before the end of the war. Writing from his prison cell, he wrote:

Whenever the Psalter is abandoned, an incomprehensible treasure vanishes from the Christian Church. With its recovery will come unsuspected power.[1]

Bonhoeffer, even as he built his underground seminary in defiance of the Reich, taught his students the Psalms, not as an academic exercise, but as a survival skill. He taught them the Psalms to teach them how to pray. He taught them the Psalms to teach them how to be a community when everything around them was collapsing. The Psalms, he believed, were a treasure. They are honest prayers, sometimes joyful, sometimes utterly broken. They are raw. They are real. They come from the gut.      

And here we are, in this season the church has set aside for our honesty before God and we come to perhaps the most beloved of all the Psalms.

Psalm 23 is so familiar that we are in danger of not really hearing it at all. We’ve heard it at bedsides and gravesides, at weddings and in moments of personal crisis. We may have memorized it as a child. But this very sense of familiarity can become a fog that prevents us from encountering its power freshly.

Over-familiarity does three things to us. First, it causes us to take something for granted, we stop noticing it, stop being grateful for it. Second, it robs us of a thing’s deeper purpose and meaning. We become laissez-faire: casual, indifferent, assuming it will always be there when we need it. Finally, over-familiarity produces what I call value-drift. Whatever it is we once cherished simply doesn’t mean as much as it once did.  

So, this morning, I want us to dig in and marinate in this Psalm. This is a Psalm for Lent precisely because Lent is about waking up to our need, our brokenness, our frailty, and the astounding grace of a God who does not abandon us. Listen, then, with new ears. This is the Word of the Lord:

PSALM 23

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Initially, we note there are two figures in this poem. There is the one who prays and there is the Shepherd who watches but who is also a Host, a generous table-setter, who appears in the psalm’s second half. Holding the whole poem together are three great movements: God as Protector, God as Provider, and finally a declaration of Praise and Trust.

Let’s begin by looking at God as Protector. Notice that this Psalm is saturated with verbs, God’s verbs. He makes. He leads. He restores. He leads again. He comforts. He prepares. He anoints. These are not passive observations. These are active, working descriptions of a God who is on the move on our behalf. Every verb in this Psalm is God reaching toward us.

And then, and this is the moment I want you to feel, there is a sudden, breathtaking grammatical shift right at the heart of the poem. In verses 1 through 3, the Lord is spoken of in the third person. He is myshepherd. He leads me. He restores me. But then, in verse 4, there’s a shift:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.

Do you hear it? We move from He to Thou. We go from speaking about God to speaking to God. We move from being at a distance to an embrace. The Psalmist has been describing the shepherd from afar, and then suddenly the shepherd is right here next to us, speaking to us directly. It is one of the most intimate movements in all of Scripture.

In the ancient Near East, a shepherd’s life was not romantic. It was dangerous, demanding, and at times, boring. Sheep, as any farmer will tell you, are not particularly bright creatures. They wander. They stumble. Sheep do not see too well. They require relentless oversight. Here in upstate New York, you may have seen a flock of sheep on a hillside pasture, and they look peaceful enough, but a shepherd knows better. There are gaps in the fence. There are dogs that run wild at night. There is always the question of where the grass is good.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

The shepherd knows the terrain. He leads the sheep to the patches of good grass because he knows where to look. He leads them to water that is calm and still enough to drink from without fear. And when the sheep will not rest on their own, the shepherd makes them lie down. He insists on their rest, even when they resist it.

The shepherd also carries a rod and a staff. The rod, a heavy club, was for defense against predators. The staff, that iconic crook, was for drawing the wandering sheep back into the fold. These are instruments protection and correction; they are instruments of love. They bring comfort.  

But now we come to the center of this Psalm, and the center of our Lenten focus.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:

The phrase is sometimes rendered “the valley of deep shadows.” It is not merely a poetic description of dying; it is an image of any darkness so thick and heavy that it seems to have substance. You know that type of valley of shadows, don’t you? Maybe you are walking through it right now.

Perhaps it is the darkness of a diagnosis, those words a doctor said that rearranged everything, and now the shadow of that reality falls over every ordinary day. Perhaps it is the darkness of anxiety, that low, grinding, relentless cloud that doesn’t lift, whether its source is a hurting relationship, a financial crisis, a child who has walked away, or simply a sense that something is deeply and irreparably wrong. Perhaps it is the darkness of grief, still raw even years later. Or the darkness of feeling invisible, of being in a room full of people and feeling entirely, utterly alone.

Lent names that darkness. Lent does not pretend the valley isn’t real. The ashes of Ash Wednesday were honest: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Lent looks the shadow in the face and does not blink. And then it says this:

For thou art with me. You are with me.

Not He is with me. Not the Lord is with me, at a safe theological distance. It says Thou are with me – You, right here, right now, in this valley with me.

This psalm is not about the absence of darkness in our lives but is all about the presence of God in that darkness. It is not about rescue from the valley of shadows but our Lord’s companionship through it. God does not promise us a life without shadow. God promises us something better:

I will be with you in it.

That is the promise at the heart of Lent, and at the heart of the gospel itself. And then the Psalm turns and surprises us completely.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

The imagery shifts from shepherd to host, and this is no ordinary hospitality. In the ancient Middle East, to receive someone as a guest in your home was to take on full responsibility for their safety and their welfare. When Abraham received his three visitors beneath the oaks of Mamre, he immediately slaughtered a calf and set a feast before them. When Lot welcomed the angels into Sodom, he placed himself between them and the violence of the city. A host, in that world, was a sanctuary. A host was protection made personal.

And here is God, not as the recipient of our sacrifices and offerings, but as the Host who sets the table for us and then serves us. God does this in the very presence of our enemies. In the middle of all that threatens us, the God of the universe spreads a table and says: sit down. Eat. You are my honored guest.

And as if that were not enough, God anoints our heads with oil, a public act of dignity and worth. In a world where the people around us may overlook us, diminish us, or simply fail to see us, God says: I see you. You matter. Your cup is not half-empty; it runs over.

This is the lavish, almost reckless generosity of God. And it is not reserved for the strong or the spiritually accomplished but it is a table set for the weary, the wounded, and the wandering. And now, having been led, protected, accompanied through the valley, and seated at the table and honored as a guest, what else is there for the psalm to say?

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

This is not wishful thinking. This is not naive optimism. This is a declaration of praise forged in the valley, a trust that has been tested and has held. It is a declaration of confidence from someone who has walked through the shadows and found, on the other side, that they were not alone.

Beloved, where is your valley this Lent? Where do you feel abandoned, threatened, afraid? Where is the shadow falling heaviest in your life right now?

And now, let me ask you something deeper: What would it feel like to truly know you are not alone, to know that Thou art with me? What would change if you allowed that promise to soak all the way in?

This Lenten season, I invite you to meet God in your valley. Walk with the Lord, speaking directly to him as friend to friend, because that what Jesus calls us. The Shepherd is not waiting for you on the other side of the darkness. He is already in it, walking with you, rod in hand, calling your name.

For you are with me. Thanks be to God. Amen.

© 2026 by Patrick H. Wrisley, Pastor, First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, 8 West Notre Dame Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801. Sermon manuscripts are available for the edification of members and friends of First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, New York and shall not be altered, re-purposed, published, or preached without permission. All rights reserved.

[1] Dietrich Bonheoffer, Psalms: The Prayer Book for the Church (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing Co., 1970) 26.

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Christianity 101: Getting the Basics Right, John 3:1-7

Posted on March 2, 2026 by patrick h wrisley
Nicodemus and Jesus by Henry Oss

 A Sermon Delivered on March 1, 2026 by the Rev. Dr. Patrick H. Wrisley.

Our New Testament reading on this Second Sunday of Lent is a text most of us know well, perhaps too well. Yet it serves as a primer for Christianity 101, a reminder we all need from time to time as we journey toward the Cross and Easter.

There are three primary characters in our story this morning. First, there is Nicodemus; he is a Pharisee, the equivalent of a Ph.D. in religious studies, who spent his life studying Torah and teaching his fellow Jews. Next, there is Jesus. And finally, there is you and I, the ones overhearing this whole conversation. We are drawn into the whole conversation in verse 11 when John shifts his narrative voice. You see, beginning in verse 11, he uses the second person plural and has Jesus speaking directly to us.

Listen carefully to what Jesus is saying. May the Holy Spirit give each of us ears to hear this familiar scripture anew. Hear the Word of the Lord from John 3:1-17.

John 3:1-17

            Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

            Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.“

            Nicodemus said to him, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’d womb and be born?“

            Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above. The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.“

            Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?“ Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.“

As careful readers of the text, we learn three critical lessons about what it means to call oneself a Christian in today’s world. The first lesson is this: Jesus Cannot Afford Hidden Followers.

John gives us two crucial facts immediately: Nicodemus is a prominent religious scholar and official, and Nicodemus is afraid to publicly show his faith in Jesus. He came by night. He came when the streets were clear, when he wouldn’t be noticed, when everyone else was winding down for bed. He came in secret, protecting his reputation. Nicodemus came to Jesus when it was convenient for him to do so.

Bless Nicodemus’ heart, and I truly mean that in the sincerest way. I want to cheer him on, but his late-night skulking around does not come across well. Fortunately, Nicodemus begins living his faith-life more openly and moves it into the daylight in his two later appearances later in John’s gospel.

The unfortunate reality is that the Church today is full of Nicodemus-like followers; the fact is, it always has been. John Calvin in the sixteenth century referred to Nicodemites, i.e. Christians who sympathized with the Reformation but were reluctant to be publicly identified with it. Closet Christians. You could not recognize them as Christians unless they wore a sign announcing it.

The church today cannot afford nighttime, hiding-in-the-shadows followers of Jesus Christ. It forces us to ask ourselves: Is my faith out in the open where others can see what I believe in my daily living? Can people tell I am a follower of Jesus? Am I a nighttime follower like Nicodemus? Am I a Nicodemite?

If the first lesson is that Jesus and the Church can ill-afford in-name-only hidden followers of the Way, the second lesson is our salvation stems from God’s initiative, not ours. Salvation is a precious gift given to us by God’s gentle hand as opposed to being hastily grasped by our desire. Verse 3 is too often translated “born again” when the ancient word equally means “to be born from above.” This translation better fits the context of their table talk. Eugene Peterson translates verse 3 in The Message as, “Unless a person is born from above, it’s not possible to see that I am pointing to God’s Kingdom.” 

Western Christianity has long pushed the belief that if we simply give mental assent to good doctrine and decide Jesus is God’s Son, then we earn eternal life. In other words, our present-day healing, our eternal destiny rests upon our saying whether we mentally assent in Jesus. Friends, if it is up to you or me to determine our own salvation, it makes a mockery of Jesus and the Cross. If our salvation boils down to my individual decisions, then why did Jesus come in the first place? Why did he have to die and rise again if it is all up to you and me saying, “I believe”?

Jesus tells Nicodemus it is not following the minutiae of Jewish Law that earns God’s love; he is trying to let Nicodemus know that God’s love has already been extended! All Nicodemus has to do is be an open vessel for God to pour the Spirit into him. Think of it like this: We are shy, timid teenagers lining the gym wall at a middle school dance. Jesus takes the initiative to come up to us and asks us to get out onto the dance floor; shall we let ourselves go and dance?

The third lesson in our basic understanding of what it means to call ourselves “Christian” is that Kingdom and Realm of God is both a future hope and a present reality. Jesus speaks of salvation in the present tense. We tend to associate eternal life with only what happens to us when we die; in scripture however, we learn eternal life is both a present and future reality. It is a much richer than we typically make it out to be. You see, in John’ gospel, the word for faith is a verb, not a noun. As a noun, faith refers to having ownership of something specific. Faith as a verb means pledging fidelity and loyalty to someone which requires present-tense action, effort, and a demonstration of that fidelity.

So, for example, when a couple stands before the church and pledges their loyalty and fidelity to each other at a wedding, it signifies they will from that moment forward live a new life. It means they detach from their families of origin and begin a new family of their own. It means they no longer date others but pour everything into this new relationship. Their lives are now bound together; when something happens to one, it affects them both. This is what Christian faith means as a verb: It is living devotedly to another through active reciprocating love. For Nicodemus’ quest for eternal life, it simply means he must take all that religious knowledge stuck in his head and place it in his heart and then reach across the table separating them and grab Jesus’ hand as they take an adventure together.

Another way our text teaches that salvation is a present reality is the word for salvation itself. For too long the church has equated salvation with “not going to hell.” It is time we reclaim the larger meaning. Salvation also means to become healed, restored, and made whole and complete once more. When we understand salvation this way, we hear Jesus’ words as: God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might become healed and made whole again.” 

This is what the esoteric reference to Moses lifting the bronze serpent up in the desert means. In Numbers 21, we read how poisonous vipers kept biting and killing the wandering Hebrews. God told Moses to make a bronze staff shaped like a serpent, and if any Hebrew got bit, they simply had to look at the snake-shaped staff Moses held and they were at once healed and made whole once more.

For Nicodemus, for you and me, healing, wholeness, and restoration all occur in the present moment. When we pledge fidelity to Jesus and walk in a way that shows our loyalty to him, our healing and restoration begins immediately.

So, what does this mean for us today? It means we are urged to step out of the shadows and into the light of discipleship. It means we accept that God has taken the initiative in our healing and that we need only respond with open hearts and lives. And it means we live into the present reality of God’s Kingdom and Realm right this moment, proving our fidelity to Christ by bringing healing, restoration, and wholeness to our families, our neighbors, our colleagues, our government and even to this home of ours we call Earth.

The question Nicodemus came with to Jesus in the night is still the question we must answer in the daylight: Will we be born from above and open the windows of our hearts and let God’s Spirit blow into us like warm spring winds flushing out the vestiges of winter in our lives?  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

© 2026 by Patrick H. Wrisley, Pastor, First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, 8 West Notre Dame Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801. Sermon manuscripts are available for the edification of members and friends of First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, New York and shall not be altered, re-purposed, published, or preached without permission. All rights reserved.

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AN ASH WEDNESDAY MEDITATION

Posted on February 18, 2026 by patrick h wrisley

FIRST SCRIPTURE READING          Isaiah 58:1-12

58 Shout out; do not hold back!
    Lift up your voice like a trumpet!
Announce to my people their rebellion,
    to the house of Jacob their sins.
2 Yet day after day they seek me
    and delight to know my ways,
as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness
    and did not forsake the ordinance of their God;
they ask of me righteous judgments;
    they want God on their side.[a]
3 “Why do we fast, but you do not see?
    Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?”
Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day
    and oppress all your workers.
4 You fast only to quarrel and to fight
    and to strike with a wicked fist.
Such fasting as you do today
    will not make your voice heard on high.
5 Is such the fast that I choose,
    a day to humble oneself?
Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush
    and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Will you call this a fast,
    a day acceptable to the Lord?

6 Is not this the fast that I choose:
    to loose the bonds of injustice,
    to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
    and to break every yoke?
7 Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
    and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them
    and not to hide yourself from your own kin?
8 Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
    and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator[b] shall go before you;
    the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
9 Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
    you shall cry for help, and he will say, “Here I am.”

If you remove the yoke from among you,
    the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
10 if you offer your food to the hungry
    and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
    and your gloom be like the noonday.
11 The Lord will guide you continually
    and satisfy your needs in parched places
    and make your bones strong,
and you shall be like a watered garden,
    like a spring of water
    whose waters never fail.

SECOND SCRIPTURE READING              Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

6 “Beware of practicing your righteousness before others in order to be seen by them, for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.

2 “So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. 3 But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, 4 so that your alms may be done in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.   

5 “And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. 6 But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

16 “And whenever you fast, do not look somber, like the hypocrites, for they mark their faces to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. 17 But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, 18 so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

19 “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal,20 but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. 21 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

An Ash Wednesday Meditation

Our two texts this afternoon paint a picture of what piety truly is. For most Westerners, one’s piety – that is, one’s conscious decisions to be more Christlike, are primarily geared to the individual person, i.e. us! We boil it down to a question of MY praying, MY giving, MY fasting, the looks of MY countenance and face.  Seen this way, it’s all a case in missing the point. 

Our text today are selections from the sermon on the mount.  Jesus has given the community instructions on what it means to be in community with God and with others. Jesus records all the “blessed ares” we remember so well – the poor, the hungry, the gentle, the mourners, the seekers – all of which describe the fabric of what we call the Christian life. Jesus reminds us we will be persecuted and that as community we are the salt which enhances the world we live in and are a light unto the ways of God for others to see.  Jesus is speaking to community in the Sermon on the Mount and in today’s text, he still does. 

He’s speaking about relationships among couples, how the community is to love its enemies, and moving in today’s text about the utter winsomeness of our giving. Jesus then goes to begin talking about how we are to pray in this afternoon’s text but for reasons that are entirely beyond me, the compilers of the lectionary cut out Jesus’ primary instruction on prayer. The community asks Jesus, “How should we pray?” and Jesus replies, “Pray then in this way:” Please join me out loud…

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, they will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…

…For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” It’s at this point Jesus resumes the sermon and speaks about proper fasting and preparing treasures for heaven.

The prophet Isaiah is a bit more direct. Forget all. your public displays of piety.  Do you want to show God you love him, then you need to be about calling truth to power to the Empire about unjust systems of government, helping liberate those who are bound, feed those who are hungry, cloth the naked, and then stay in community with your people. THEN and only then will the Lord hear your prayers and call out to you.

Ash Wednesday is a powerful reminder that matters of faith are not all about “me and Jesus” but is more about “we and Jesus.” It’s a time to confess we have tried to blaze our own path forward neglecting the help and accountability of those in community. It’s a time we sit up straight and admit we have been slouching in our chair when it comes to exposing the abused civil rights of others. Ash Wednesday is the day to lay claim to the fact that before we go into our room and pray to the Father in secret, we need to first go check on the condition of our neighbor.

Ash Wednesday is a Christian’s reboot button. It’s a day we commit to putting our reliance on God, taking care of the community we live in, and reset our hearts calibration to ways of Jesus as he outlines in the Sermon on the Mount.  In the name of the One who is, was, and is to come.  Amen,

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Don’t Miss the Point, Matthew 17:1-9

Posted on February 18, 2026 by patrick h wrisley

A Sermon Delivered on February 15, 2026 by the Rev. Dr. Patrick H. Wrisley.

Today marks the close of the liturgical year’s Second Act. The First Act, Advent and Christmas, introduced us to God’s remarkable interest in and personal investment with our world. God cared so much for the world God made that, as Eugene Peterson paraphrases it in The Message, “He moved into the neighborhood.” 

The Second Act of this Divine Drama began on January 6th, when we read about three wise men from East Asia paying homage to the infant Jesus. The Season of Epiphany started when these magi came searching for the newborn King of the Jews and recognized who they had found when they arrived at the holy family in Bethlehem.

These past weeks have taken us through biblical texts revealing who this person Jesus is and what matters most to him. We’ve listened to his preaching with the Sermon on the Mount, watched him heal and teach, seen him challenge religious authorities. And now we arrive at the last Sunday in Epiphany when scripture not only illuminates Jesus’ identity but floods it with light and we can unmistakably see exactly who we are dealing with in all these stories.

Friends, unless we fully grasp the point of Act Two, we will not be ready to understand Act Three, which begins this Wednesday. The Season of Lent calls us to a forty-day journey with Jesus to the Cross, focusing on what he came to do, but it also calls us to begin our own transformation. So, before we can understand what Jesus came to do, we must be clear about who he is.

Matthew begins to flesh this out in chapter 16 of his gospel, when Jesus pulls his disciples aside and asks if they have had an epiphany. In other words, have they had their own “a-ha!” and know who he is? They tell Jesus what they are hearing: “Some people say you’re John the Baptist come back to life. Others think you’re one of the Old Testament prophets like Elijah or Jeremiah.” Then, with intensity in his voice, Jesus pushes the point: “But who do you say that I am?” In a flash of Holy Spirit-inspired brilliance, Peter blurts out, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God!”

Finally! Someone in Jesus’ inner circle gets it! Jesus, beaming, is so pleased he gives Peter a new nickname: The Rock. And it is right here in the closing verses of Matthew 16 where Jesus speaks plainly about what lies ahead: They are going to Jerusalem; he will be roughed up, arrested, prosecuted, killed; and on the third day he will rise again.

Peter loses it. He pulls Jesus aside and rebukes him for saying such an outlandish thing. The Rock becomes the stumbling block. Jesus, turning sharply, snaps at him: “Get behind me, Satan! You are blocking my way, Peter!” Jesus then tells all of them that anyone who follows him must deny themselves, pick up their cross, and follow him. The cost of following Jesus is clear, and the path is not what they expect. All of this brings us to today’s text which is the final scene of Act Two. Listen to the Word of the Lord from Matthew 17:1-9.

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him! When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, Get up and do not be afraid. And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead. (NRSV)

Matthew writes to a primarily Jewish audience and weaves several Jewish elements throughout our text that his first readers would have at once recognized. The six days echo the cloud covering Mount Sinai before God spoke to Moses. The mountain itself recalls where God met with the prophets and leaders of Israel. The cloud signals the very presence of God.

If we are not careful, we, like Peter, will get all wrapped up in the minutiae and totally miss the point of the culmination of Act 2. You see, our first inclination is to focus on the mechanics of what took place. Scripture says Jesus underwent a metamorphosis; he changed appearance before their very eyes. Our analytical minds want to figure out the how. We might envision something like the transporter beam on the Starship Enterprise with matter rearranging itself, light bending, reality shifting. But asking “How could this really happen?” entirely misses the point. The better question to ask is: Why did this happen?

Matthew wrote his gospel for a fledgling community of Christ-followers late in the first century. The early Church did not have what we call the Bible; all they had to work with were the Hebrew scriptures, our Old Testament. Throughout those scriptures, God demanded the Hebrews to worship the one true God and no other. They were to be obedient and listen to what the Lord God said through the prophets like Moses, Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel. All the prophets were very clear: The Lord your God is One. Obey him.

So, imagine you are a pious first or second-century Jew, trying to live faithfully according to the traditions handed down to you. Now you are being asked to worship this man Jesus. What do you do? Well, it means you need to have your own metamorphosis concerning your understanding of God. You shall undergo your own transfiguration, i.e., that dramatic change from who you are to become whomever God is creating you to be now.

I’m curious, did you notice it was only Jesus whose appearance appearance. The epiphany is not that Moses and Elijah showed up; the revelation is that Moses and Elijah stayed the same while Jesus was transformed before them. Matthew is shouting to the young, fledgling Church: Jesus is not just another great teacher, rabbi, or prophet. Jesus stands as the very living Presence of the great I Am; he is the God Moses met in the burning bush.

This is one of the scandals of Christian faith. Transfiguration Sunday reminds us that Jesus is in an entirely different league than other religious leaders or teachers like Buddha, Muhammad, or Moses. Our Christian faith proclaims that yes, Jesus was fully human, but he is the Lord Almighty himself who dared to become a man. Matthew drives this home through the ringing voice that declared, “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him!”

One scholar writes, “What is significant in this account is not its special effects, but what it affirms about the early church’s foundational belief about Jesus: namely, that he was not just another exceptional human being, prophet, or great teacher and example for all, but the decisive representation of the Divine, the source and judge of life.”[1]

This last epiphany of the season reminds us exactly who Jesus is and what he taught. In Jesus, God becomes the prophet himself, and this is what knocked the three disciples off their feet that day. This is what filled them with holy fear and awe. And frankly, this is what should still move and stir us today.

And lest we miss it, amid their anxious, befuddled fear, the transfigured Christ of God gently touches the three disciples and says, “Get up. Don’t be afraid.” Filled with confidence, Jesus led them down the mountain in their own transformed way. As their understanding of who Jesus was at his core shifted, so their personal spiritual integration of who they were as men of God began to shift as well. The change that occurred in Jesus demanded an equal shift in them. They came down the mountain entirely different people than when they went up. 

As we leave worship today, let us go filled with hope and confidence that as we begin our Lenten journey, walking down the mountain to whatever tomorrow has waiting for us, we descend as changed people. Our assumptions of God have been challenged and enlarged. Our shared experience with Jesus on the mountain has caused us to become more aware to the nuances of God’s presence in our lives. And let’s remember that we walk with Jesus toward Jerusalem and the Cross, we too will hear Jesus say, “Do not be afraid.”  We journey the following forty days with God’s beloved Son, Emmanuel, God-with-us. So, dear friends, what are you going to discuss with Jesus coming down the mountain? In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

© 2026 Patrick H. Wrisley, Pastor, First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, 8 West Notre Dame Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801. Sermon manuscripts are available for the edification of members and friends of First Presbyterian Church of Glens Falls, New York, and shall not be altered, re-purposed, published, or preached without permission. All rights reserved.

[1] Bruner, Dale, Matthew: A Commentary, Volume 2 (New York: Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2007).

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