​Last Sunday, we began our summer journey through Genesis with a call. God said to Abram, “Go.” And Abram went. With no map. No certainty. Just trust enough to take the next step.

But if last week was about beginning the journey, this week is about what happens after you’ve been on the road awhile. Long enough for the excitement to wear off. Long enough for the promise to begin feeling delayed. Long enough for hope to become… complicated.

Because today we meet Abraham and Sarah years later. And honestly? They’re tired. I know you probably can’t relate, but hear me out…

God had promised Abram descendants. A future. A great nation. But time has passed. A lot of time. Abraham and Sarah are really old now—Scripture goes out of its way to emphasize this saying, rather bluntly, that the usual rhythms of women’s lives have ceased.

Then these mysterious visitors arrive by the oaks of Mamre and announce to Abraham something that seems absurd: Sarah will have a son. And, listening to this secretly from inside the tent, Sarah laughs. Not a joyful laugh, not yet. More like the snarky laugh that slips out when something is too impossible, too late, too far gone to take seriously anymore. Ha!

That laugh is one of the most human moments in the Bible. Because most of us know something about promises that seem to take too long to be fulfilled. Haven’t we all laughed like Sarah did?

Oh, we know what it’s like to wait for healing that does not come quickly. To pray for reconciliation that never quite happens. To hope for peace in a family, or a church, or a country, and instead wake up each morning to another round of division and bitterness and noise.

We know what it’s like to carry a promise for so long that eventually we stop expecting very much from it. And maybe that is where Sarah is. Not faithless exactly. Just worn out.

I love that the Bible includes this moment. Because more prim and proper storytelling would have cleaned this up. Sarah would smile serenely and say, “Of course, Lord. Your will be done.” Like an Old Testament version of Mary’s Magnificat!

No, overhearing this promise, she laughs. Which makes sense to us. The remarkable thing is that God does not strike her dead for it! God does not say, “Well, clearly you are disqualified from the life of faith.”

Instead, God stays in the conversation. “Why did Sarah laugh?” God asks. It’s almost tender. Almost amused. As though God understands perfectly well what long disappointment can do to a person.

Dear siblings, there is a kind of faith that exists only in the abstract—faith that works beautifully in inspirational quotes on embroidered pillows.

But biblical faith is different. Biblical faith includes exhaustion. Doubt. Confusion. Delay. Abraham and Sarah are not young idealists setting out on an adventurous journey anymore. They are old enough to know how life usually works. And that is precisely why the promise now seems impossible.

Sometimes age brings wisdom. Sometimes it also brings realism. We become experts in our limits. We know what bodies can and cannot do. We know which relationships probably won’t change. We know the odds. Sarah knows the odds. That’s why she laughs. Who can blame her?

Yes, the older I get, the more compassionate I become toward Sarah. Because there are different kinds of unbelief. There is cynical unbelief that closes itself off entirely. But there is also wounded unbelief—the kind that comes after years of hoping and praying, with no results. And many people carry that kind of unbelief very quietly.

People come to church every Sunday carrying prayers they have prayed for decades. Some have watched dreams collapse. Some are caring for aging spouses or grieving people they loved or wondering what the future of the world will look like for their grandchildren.

And in moments like these, faith can become less triumphant and more fragile. More like: “Lord, I want to believe. But this feels impossible.” That is Sarah’s territory. And maybe ours too.

Meanwhile, the world itself feels a little like Sarah’s laugh these days. We hear promises about peace, but wars continue. We hear promises about justice, but divisions deepen. We hear promises about truth, but trust itself feels increasingly fragile.

And in that kind of climate, cynicism becomes very tempting. It is easier to laugh cynically than to remain hopeful. Easier to assume nothing changes. Easier to stop expecting God’s grace.

But the strange witness of Scripture is that God keeps working in places where we humans have concluded that nothing new can happen. An elderly couple becomes the beginning of a people. A shepherd boy becomes king. Exiles return home. A crucified Messiah rises.

Again and again, the biblical story insists that God is not limited by what we think is realistic. Which does not mean that everything we want will happen exactly as we imagine. But it does mean that despair does not get the final word.

In the Romans reading this morning, Paul says something extraordinary: “But we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us.”

Now, if we’re honest, that sounds risky. Because most of us have experienced disappointment. But Paul is not talking about hope as optimism. He’s talking about a deeper kind of trust, a confidence not that life will always go smoothly but that God remains faithful within it.

And perhaps that is the shift Sarah slowly begins to make. The promise is no longer grounded in probability. It is grounded in relationship.

I think that may be one of the quiet lessons of the spiritual life. Eventually, faith matures from certainty into trust. When we are young, we often think faith means confidence. Having answers. Feeling sure.

But over time, faith becomes something gentler and deeper. It becomes the willingness to remain in relationship with God even when the future is unclear. Even when the promise feels delayed. Even when we laugh a little, well, snarkily….

There is one more detail in this story worth noticing. Sarah laughs privately. Quietly. To herself. And yet God hears it. Which means God is paying attention not only to our public prayers, but also to the hidden conversations of the heart. The doubts we never say aloud. The exhaustion we disguise. The hopes we barely dare admit anymore.

God hears all of it. And stays right with us in it.

Well, by the end of this story in Genesis 18, nothing has changed… yet. Sarah is not yet pregnant. The child has not arrived. The future is still unfolding.

But something important has happened. The promise has been spoken again. And maybe that is what some of us need this morning—not instant answers, not certainty, but simply the reminder that God has not forgotten us. That the story is not over yet.

That even now, for Sarah and maybe for you and me, in places that feel worn out or too late or beyond repair, God is still at work.

After all, this is the God who asks: “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?”

Oh by the way, later, in Chapter 21, spoiler alert: Sarah will say: “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.” Because God does make good on the promise.

So the journey of our faith is learning, slowly, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes laughing all the way— to trust that the answer to that question, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?”… may be no.

Nothing… is too wonderful for the Lord. Amen.

ALOHA! As summer unfolds here in Hawai‘i, we continue our journey through Genesis in our Summer Sermon Road Trip series, “Following God in Real Life.” One of the gifts of these ancient stories is how honest they are about the realities of faith. The people we meet in Scripture are not superheroes. They experience uncertainty, disappointment, doubt, and hope much like we do.

This Sunday, we continue traveling with Abraham and Sarah. Genesis 18:1-15 takes place long after God first called them to set out in faith and promised them descendants, and what once seemed possible now appears increasingly unlikely. When mysterious visitors arrive with news that Sarah will bear a son, her response is not immediate confidence, it is snarky laughter! Together we will explore what happens when God's promises seem delayed, why faithful people sometimes struggle to believe, and how God continues to work even when hope feels distant. If you've ever wondered whether your prayers have gone unanswered or your hopes have taken longer than expected, this story just may have something to say to you. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live!

LAST SUNDAY our summer-long sermon journey began with Genesis 12:1-9: Abraham hears God’s call to “Go…” without even knowing exactly where he is headed. That resonates with me, because faith is rarely about having the whole map! More often, it is learning to trust God one step at a time. How have you been able to do that this week?

BELOVED SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, as we continue this summer journey together, I am grateful for the many ways you continue to share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Like Abraham and Sarah setting out in faith, we do not always know exactly where the road ahead will lead, but we trust the One who walks with us. Please keep our church, our ministries, and your vicar in your prayers, as I continue to pray for each of you, for our leaders, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God grant us faith for the journey, hope for the road ahead, and the assurance that wherever we travel, God’s presence goes with us. Amen.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+ 

P.S. Our amazing church administrator Paul Mahuka is out on vacation and will return late next week. Thanks to the volunteers who are helping to staff the office in his absence (especially Andrea Casey and Jana Dove). Note that Friday, June 19, is the Juneteenth holiday.

I remember years ago needing to drive to a government office in downtown Atlanta, Georgia. I had an appointment I absolutely could not miss. This was long before smartphones and live GPS directions, so I had printed directions off the internet—you remember those? Well, I rarely ever had to go downtown. And I doubt you have ever driven there! So let me explain something.

Downtown Atlanta is an enigma. The streets seem to have been designed by a committee of caffeinated squirrels. Actually I think they were based on the meanderings of cows way back in the day.

There are plenty of one-way streets and some suddenly become different one-way streets. Roads curve for no obvious reason (those cow paths!). The famous Peachtree Street splits into several other Peachtree streets. Most downtown drivers knew what they were doing and where they were going, so they were aggressive and impatient with the likes of me.

And I remember gripping the steering wheel thinking: “I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.” I knew the destination in theory. I had an address. But I couldn’t see how to get there. Every turn felt uncertain. Every block felt like I might already be lost.

And honestly, I think that feeling is more familiar to some of us than we like to admit. Not just on highways. In life.

There’s a special kind of anxiety that comes from not knowing what comes next. Not the dramatic kind necessarily, though the world certainly gives us enough of that these days, but the quieter kind. The kind that wakes you up at 3 a.m. The kind that whispers: What now? Where is this going? How do I move forward from here?

And perhaps that is why the story of Abraham begins where it does.

“Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’”

Notice what God does not say. God does not provide a map. God does not provide a timeline. God does not say, “Here is the complete five-year strategic plan for your future.” Just: “Go.”

And we are told, astonishingly: “So Abram went.” That is the beginning of faith. Not certainty. Not clarity. Not confidence. Just… going, when God says “go.”

This morning we begin a summer journey together here at St. Timothy’s that we’re calling: The Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life. And over these summer months, in the season of Ordinary Time, the Sundays after Pentecost, we’re going to travel through some of the great stories of the book of Genesis.

In June, we journey with Abraham and Sarah as they learn what it means to trust God when life is uncertain.

In July, we’ll travel with Jacob through stories of struggle, change, wrestling, and discovery.

And in August, we’ll follow Joseph through betrayal, reconciliation, and the long mysterious work of grace over time.

Along the way, we’ll hear from Jesus and Paul and the other voices of Scripture reminding us that these stories are not just ancient history. They are our stories too. Because every one of us knows what it means to travel without having the whole map.

Now, we often imagine Abraham as a spiritual giant—steady, fearless, absolutely certain all the time. But if you read Genesis carefully, that is not really what you find. What you find instead is a human being responding to a call he does not fully understand. And honestly, that makes him much more relatable.

Paul reflects on Abraham in this morning’s reading from Romans and says Abraham’s faith was “reckoned to him as righteousness.”

​Not because Abraham’s faith was flawless. Not because Abraham always understood everything. But because he trusted enough to take the next step.

Faith, in other words, is not about having all the answers. It is about relationship. It is about movement. It is about trusting God enough to keep going when the road ahead is not entirely clear.

And that is where this story meets us. Because many of us are standing exactly where Abraham stood.
Some are facing health concerns.
Some are carrying uncertainty about family or work or the future.
Some are grieving losses they never expected.
Some are trying to figure out what faith even looks like in a world that feels so divided, angry, and unstable.

We are living in a moment globally where uncertainty seems woven into daily life. Wars continue. Political bitterness deepens. Ethics are shattered. Truth itself often feels negotiable. And as a result we are all exhausted.

And in times like these, the temptation is to wait until everything becomes clear before moving forward. But Scripture suggests something different. Sometimes clarity comes after the step of trust. Sometimes the road only reveals itself as we walk it.

In the Gospel lesson this morning, Jesus approaches a tax collector named Matthew and says simply: “Follow me.” No explanation. No map. No carefully outlined expectations. Just: “Follow me.” And Matthew gets up and goes!

There is a pattern here. God calls. People move.
Understanding comes later… if at all.

Now let’s be honest: that is uncomfortable. Most of us would prefer certainty first. We would like God to function more like Google Maps: “In 500 feet, turn left…” “Your destination is ahead…” “Recalculating…”

But God rarely seems to operate that way. Instead, God tends to offer enough light for the next step. No more. No less. And perhaps that is because faith is not ultimately about mastering the future. It is about learning to trust the One who walks with us into it.

There’s a small detail in this Genesis story that I love. Everywhere Abraham goes, he builds altars. He pauses and marks the place. He remembers. He acknowledges God’s presence along the way.

Not just at the destination. Not after everything is resolved. But in the middle of the journey.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet invitations of the spiritual life. To notice where God is meeting us right now. Not someday when life finally becomes manageable. Not after all the uncertainty disappears. But here. In the ordinary days of this ordinary time. In the confusing seasons. In the unfinished parts of our lives.

The older I get, the more I realize that some of the most meaningful moments of life came from seasons when I honestly had no idea what I was doing. Moments when the future felt uncertain. When I could not see very far ahead. Moments when all I really had was the next faithful step.

And yet somehow, looking back, I can see that God was present all along. Not always leading where I expected. Not always taking the shortest route either. But leading me. Here!

So perhaps the invitation this morning is a simple one. Where is God saying “Go” in your life right now?
​
Maybe it’s a conversation you have been avoiding.
Maybe it’s a step toward healing you’ve been putting off.
Maybe it’s letting go of something familiar but harmful.
Maybe it is simply trusting that your story is not finished yet.

And perhaps the question is not: “Do I fully understand?”

But: “Can I take the next step?”

Because this is the promise that serves as the roadway underneath the whole
journey ahead of us this summer:

Faith is not certainty. It is learning to trust God over time.
​
God calls. And, even before we understand, we go.

Amen.

ALOHA! As we move into summer here on O‘ahu, many of us find ourselves longing for a little renewal—a slower pace, a fresh perspective, perhaps even a clearer sense of where God is leading us next. This year at St. Timothy’s, we’ll spend the summer traveling together through some of the great stories of Genesis in a series we’re calling the “Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life.”

Along the way, we’ll journey with Abraham and Sarah, Jacob, and Joseph, people whose lives were often uncertain, messy, surprising, and deeply human. These are not polished heroes with perfect faith. They are people learning, day by day, to trust God in real life. What might we learn from them for our own journeys in life? Let’s find out! Please see more information about this series in the article below…

Our summer-long journey begins this Sunday, with a sermon on Genesis 12:1-9 called “When You Don’t Know Where You’re Going.” Abraham hears God’s call to “Go…” without even knowing exactly where he is headed. It’s a fitting place to begin, because faith is rarely about having the whole map. More often, it is learning to trust God one step at a time. How might we do that in our own lives? Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live!

LAST SUNDAY we had our Keiki/Youth Service. Mahalo for Rev. Karen Swanson for leading the service, and to all the keiki who participated! We also honored our graduates—please keep them in your prayers as they move to the next chapter of their lives. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be present with you, but I worshiped along with you on Facebook Live. Everyone was richly blessed by the energy and faith of our children.

THIS SUNDAY OUR “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS RETURNS for anyone interested in exploring the beliefs, doctrines, and sacraments of The Episcopal Church. This time we’ll be discussing The Church and The Creeds. Join us for some interesting insights and good conversation!

Beloved siblings in Christ, thank you for the many ways you continue to share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s Church through your prayers, presence, generosity, and care for one another. In every season of the Church year, God continues to guide and strengthen us as a community of faith. Please know that I hold you continually in my prayers, and I ask your faithful prayers for our parish, for all who lead and serve here, for every member of our ʻohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Faith is not certainty. It is learning to trust God over time.

As some of you know, I drive an EV, a Chevrolet Bolt. I love it. I had one when I lived in Atlanta, but “range anxiety” was always an issue there and kept Dan and me from taking long trips in it. But here on O‘ahu, range anxiety never seems to be a problem. You can go around the island several times and still have power left in the battery!

This summer at St. Timothy’s, we’re setting out together on a different kind of journey: a Summer Sermon Road Trip through the Season of Pentecost. It’s not measured in miles or kilowatts, but in stories. It’s not about getting somewhere new, exactly, but about learning to see where God has been all along.

We’ll be traveling with some familiar companions from Scripture, though we may come to know them in new ways.

• In June, we travel with Abraham and Sarah, learning what it means to follow God when life isn’t clear.
• In July, we walk with Jacob, discovering how God meets us in the mess, the struggle, and the long nights of change.
• In August, we journey with Joseph, seeing how—over time—God can bring meaning, grace, and even healing out of what we’ve lived through.

Along the way, we’ll hear the voices of Jesus and Paul, reminding us that this isn’t just their story, it’s ours. No map required. Just a willingness to take the next step. So let’s charge up and get started!
​
–Rev. Pete+

ALOHA! This Sunday, we celebrate Trinity Sunday as we enter the long season after Pentecost—sometimes called “Ordinary Time.” But at St. Timothy’s, it will be anything but ordinary! The season after Pentecost invites us to discover God’s presence in the sacred rhythms of everyday life, and there is nothing ordinary about that.

Trinity Sunday reminds us that the heart of God is relationship, love, and community, and we will celebrate that spirit together in a joyful Keiki/Youth Service. We are delighted to have the Rev. Karen Swanson with us to lead the service. We will also honor our graduates. While I will be away on vacation, I know you will be richly blessed by their leadership and by the energy and faith of our children. Please join us in support of our wonderful keiki this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live!

LAST SUNDAY we celebrated the Day of Pentecost. We saw that in Acts 2:1–21, the Holy Spirit descends with wind and flame, transforming a frightened group of disciples into a bold community ready to carry Christ’s message into the world. This year, Pentecost was part of our Memorial Day weekend, inviting us to reflect both on the Spirit’s power to renew life and on the human cost of conflict and division in our world. I hope that this past week you’ve considered what it means to open ourselves to the movement of God’s Spirit, even in anxious and uncertain times.

Humongous thanks go to our wonderful choir and musician Zach Hamada, who in our Pentecost Day service led us in a new hymn for Pentecost and offered the beautiful anthem for Memorial Day, “Mansions of the Lord.” Mahalo!

THIS SUNDAY there will be NO “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS. We’ll return on June 7 when we explore The Church and The Creeds. Join us!

I will be on vacation from Wednesday, May 27, through Friday, June 5. I’m grateful that Rev. Karen will be available for pastoral needs. Please contact the church office if you need pastoral support during that time, and Rev. Karen will be notified.

Beloved siblings in Christ, thank you for the many ways you continue to share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s Church through your prayers, presence, generosity, and care for one another. In every season of the Church year, God continues to guide and strengthen us as a community of faith. Please know that I hold you continually in my prayers, and I ask your faithful prayers for our parish, for all who lead and serve here, for every member of our ʻohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

I love the trade winds. But it seems this year we have had a lot more windy weather than usual, mostly with rains. A few months ago we had some very strong winds blow through here on a Sunday morning—were you here? Remember how loud and scary it was? It was to me!

And I bet you’ve been in a house when a strong wind like that suddenly hits it. The doors rattle. The roof flutters scarily. Something bangs against the side of the house. You stop whatever you’re doing, look up and think: Okay… what was that? And if it keeps blowing, you really start paying attention. You might even go outside and look around, see what’s moving, what’s shifting, what might need tying down.

There’s something about wind that gets our attention. You can’t see it, but you can definitely feel it. And that’s where Pentecost begins.

“A sound like the rush of a violent wind.” Not a gentle breeze. Not a soft whisper. This is the kind of moment that makes people stop, look at each other, and say, “Wow! Did you hear that?”

And then of all things, tongues of fire appear atop everyone’s heads. People start speaking fluently in languages they’ve never learned.

Now, if all that happened here on a Sunday morning, I imagine we might react in one of two ways. Some of us would be thrilled: “Finally! Something exciting!” Others of us would be looking for the nearest exit.

And, to be fair, the people in Acts aren’t quite sure what to make of it either. Some are amazed. Others are confused. And a few say, “They’ve had too much wine.” Which is Peter’s cue to stand up and say, “Look, it’s only 9:00 in the morning. Get real.”

But then he says something much more important: “This is what was spoken through the prophet Joel…” And he re-frames the whole moment. This isn’t chaos. This is God. These are the winds of change.

This is what happens when the Spirit is poured out—not just on a few, not just on the powerful, but on all flesh. Sons and daughters. Young and old. Even those who were usually left out or overlooked.

The Spirit doesn’t arrive quietly or selectively. The Spirit comes like wind—uncontrollable, uncontainable, and impossible to ignore.

And suddenly, a bunch of frightened, uncertain disciples become something else. They become a living community. They become a voice. They become a movement.

Now, here’s where this connects to us. Because we don’t usually think of Pentecost as something that happens to us. We think of it as something that happened way back then. A dramatic, one-time event.

But the deeper truth is this: Pentecost is not just about what happened. It’s about what continues to happen. The Spirit is still being poured out. The wind is still blowing. The question is not whether the Spirit is present. The question is whether we are paying attention.

And that brings us, in a very real way, to what we’re doing today. Because again today, the Day of Pentecost, we will renew our baptismal vows.

Now, I don’t know about you, but sometimes that can feel a little… routine. We’ve done it before. On Easter Day in fact. And when Bishop Bob was here just a few weeks ago. We know the responses. We can almost say them from memory. “Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship…?” “I will, with God’s help.” And it’s easy to let those words pass by without really hearing them.

But think about what’s actually happening. We are not just repeating words. We are re-committing ourselves to a way of life shaped by the Spirit. A way of life that began at Pentecost. A way of life that says: we will keep showing up, we will keep learning, we will keep praying, we will keep loving, we will keep seeking Christ in all persons—not because it’s easy, but because the Spirit is still at work in us.

And maybe that’s where we need to connect this to the world we’re living in right now. Because it doesn’t take much to see that our world feels unsettled. There is conflict. There is fear. There is division. There is war.

And tomorrow, as a nation, we observe Memorial Day. A day when we remember those who have died in service to their country. A day of gratitude, but also a day of sober reflection.

Because every name we remember is also a reminder of the cost of conflict. The cost of a world that is still, in so many ways, broken.

And into that kind of world, Pentecost speaks. Not with denial. Not with easy answers. But with a different kind of power. Not the power of force, but the power of the Spirit.

A power that creates understanding across difference.
A power that forms community where there was once fear.
A power that calls ordinary people—you and me—to be witnesses to something better.

Which means that renewing our baptismal vows is not just a personal moment. It’s a public one. It’s a way of saying: in this divided world, we here at St. Tim’s will seek unity; in this world of fear, we will choose love; in this world of noise, we will listen for the Spirit.

And yes—sometimes that might feel as unpredictable as the wind. Because the Spirit doesn’t always move in ways we expect. She might nudge us toward someone we would rather avoid. She might call us to speak when we would rather stay quiet. She might open our hearts in ways that push us out of our comfort zones.

But that’s how the Spirit works. Not by keeping everything the same, but by changing us, so that we can be part of what God is doing in the world.

And that brings us back to where we started. That moment when the wind picks up. At first, it’s unsettling. You don’t know exactly what’s happening. But then you begin to realize: something is moving. Something is shifting. Something is alive. Pentecost is that moment—for the Church, and for us.

The Spirit is moving. The question is: will we open ourselves to it? Will we allow ourselves to be shaped by it? Will we say—not just with our words, but with our lives--“I will, with God’s help”?

Because the good news of Pentecost is this: we are not left alone. The Spirit is here—closer than we think—moving among us, breathing life into us, and calling us, again and again, to be the people God has created us to be.

Blow, Spirit, blow! Amen.

ALOHA kākou! As the great fifty days of Easter draw to a close, the Church arrives at one of its most vivid and dramatic celebrations: the Day of Pentecost. In Acts 2:1–21, the Holy Spirit descends with wind and flame, transforming a frightened group of disciples into a bold community ready to carry Christ’s message into the world. This year, Pentecost also comes alongside Memorial Day weekend, inviting us to reflect both on the human cost of conflict and division in our world and on the Spirit’s power to renew life. In the sermon, “When the Wind Blows,” we’ll explore what it means to open ourselves to the movement of God’s Spirit, even in anxious and uncertain times.

LAST SUNDAY, we reflected on Acts 1:6–14, John 17:1–11, and especially 1 Peter 4:12–14 and 5:6–11. Writing to early Christians facing anxiety, suspicion, and social pressure, Peter offers not panic or prediction, but a way of life: stay grounded in prayer, hold fast to love, practice hospitality, serve one another, and trust that God is still at work even in troubled times. In a noisy and anxious world, these ancient words may speak to us more powerfully than ever. Have you tried to follow St. Peter’s advice this past week?

THIS SUNDAY: “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT CLASS CONTINUES! It’s open for anyone interested in understanding more about the Christian faith. Our topic this week is The Holy Spirit. Join us for some insightful information and conversation! Note that we will not have class on May 31.

COMING MAY 31: Our Keiki/Youth Service! Our young people of all ages will be serving in worship, and Rev. Karen Swanson will preside and Shannon Casey will preach. We will also be honoring our graduates. Please come and support our wonderful keiki and their teachers.

I will be on vacation from Wednesday, May 27, through Friday, June 5. Rev. Karen will be available for any pastoral needs while I’m away. Please contact the church office if you need pastoral care during that time, and Rev. Karen will be notified.

Beloved siblings in Christ, may the wind of the Spirit move gently through your life in this holy season of Pentecost, renewing your faith, strengthening your heart, and drawing you ever closer to the love of Christ. I hold you in my prayers and ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for all who lead and serve, for every member of our church ʻohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you always.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

P.S. A Word about Our Bishop Election:

Most of you know that the Diocese of Hawai‘i elected its next bishop on May 16, and our congratulations go to the Rev. Elizabeth “Libby” Berman! You’ll find more information about this below.

Moments like this are deeply important in the life of the Church. They invite us not only to look ahead with hope, but also to pause and reflect on who we are as a diocesan ‘ohana and how we walk together through times of change.

Transitions in the Church are never easy. The calling of a bishop carries great meaning and faithful people often bring different hopes, perspectives, and expectations into the process. That diversity of feeling is natural. Some greet the outcome with excitement and celebration, while others may still be processing disappointment, uncertainty, or mixed emotions. All those responses are part of being human and part of being the Church.

I am deeply thankful for everyone who helped guide this season of discernment, those who worked quietly behind the scenes on the Search and Transition Committees, those who prayed faithfully throughout the process, and especially those who were willing to place their own names before the Church in openness to God’s call. The Rev. Canon Andrew Arakawa, Rev. Tim Yanni, and Bishop-elect Libby Berman each stepped into a demanding and vulnerable process with grace and courage. Simply being willing to imagine oneself in such a role of leadership and service is no small thing.

Please continue to pray for Bishop Bob, for Bishop-elect Libby as she prepares for this new ministry, and for Canon Andrew and Father Tim. Offering oneself for episcopal discernment requires an extraordinary combination of faith, humility, courage, and love for the Church. It means accepting scrutiny, uncertainty, and emotional vulnerability in a very public way, all for the sake of serving Christ and God’s people.

I hope we will take time to express our appreciation to those who participated in this process. Elections inevitably produce one outcome, but the deeper story is the willingness of faithful people to say yes when the Church asks them to discern a call. That willingness is itself a gift to the Church, and we are grateful for it. Mahalo!

--Rev. Pete+

On Friday afternoon, the day before our Special Convention to elect our new bishop, I was supposed to drive to St. Peter’s Church for a clergy dinner and compline at the Cathedral of St. Andrew.

But you may recall at that time, a Friday rush-hour afternoon, we were in the midst of a horrendous thunderstorm, with lightning all around, heavy rain, flood alerts… and I realized I was checking the weather and the traffic every few minutes.

Not because anything changed. I just had that restless feeling that something bad might be happening. Should I risk it and go? You know that sense: The sky is dark, the rain pummeling, the wind is strong, and everything feels unsettled. You start refreshing the radar, checking the text alerts, wondering: Is this going to get worse? Is this the big one?

And of course, there’s always something—another warning, another update, another reason to stay a little on edge. Alert! Alert! Alert!

I think that feeling goes beyond just the weather. Because in so many ways, that’s what the world feels like right now. There’s a kind of constant unsettledness—war, economic crisis, division—and it can leave us asking the same question in a deeper way: Where is all this going? Is this the time when everything finally breaks?

Which, when you think about it, is not so different from the question the disciples ask Jesus in Acts: “Lord, is this the time?” Jesus gives what might feel like a frustrating answer: “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set.” In other words: don’t get lost trying to predict the future.

Instead, he says, you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses. Focus not on when things will be resolved—but on how you will live in the meantime. That’s hard!

This same shift is at the heart of the reading from 1 Peter. And it helps to understand the context for this. 1 Peter is written to early Christians scattered across Asia Minor—modern-day Turkey. These are small, vulnerable communities living on the margins of society. They are not yet facing full-scale empire-wide persecution, but they are nevertheless experiencing something real: social pressure, suspicion, exclusion, and at times hostility because of their faith.

They don’t quite fit anymore. They’re seen as strange. Different. Maybe even a little dangerous. And into that context, Peter writes not with panic, but with pastoral steadiness. “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you…” Don’t be surprised. In other words: this is part of the reality of living faithfully in a world that does not always share your values. Oh, that sounds relevant!

But then he goes further: “Rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings…” Now, that’s a hard word. Not rejoice because suffering is good, but rejoice because even in suffering, you are not alone. You are participating in something larger, something deeper—you are participating in the life and ministry of Christ himself.

And then Peter begins to sketch what we might call a kind of “rule of life” for difficult times. If the world feels chaotic… if fear is rising… if conflict is all around… How shall we live? Well, let’s see…

First, Peter says: be serious and discipline yourselves for the sake of your prayers. In other words, stay grounded. Don’t goof off, or let your guard down. Don’t let anxiety carry you away. Don’t let the noise of the world drown out your connection with God. Prayer becomes not an escape, but an anchor. A way of remembering who we are and whose we are.

Second, Peter says: maintain constant love for one another. Not occasional kindness. Not selective compassion. Constant love. Because in times of stress and fear, what often breaks down first is our care for one another. We turn inward. We protect ourselves. We draw lines. Peter says: do the opposite. Lean toward one another. Hold fast to love.

Third: be hospitable to one another, without complaining. That’s such an interesting little phrase--“without complaining.” Because hospitality is beautiful in theory… but it’s sometimes inconvenient in practice. But Peter knows that community doesn’t just happen. It is created—through ordinary acts of welcome, generosity, and presence.

Fourth: serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received. Notice that: whatever gift you have. Not someone else’s gift. Not some ideal version of yourself. The gifts you already carry. Use them—use them for the sake of others.

And finally, underlying all of this, Peter says: humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God… cast all your anxiety on him, because God cares for you. That may be the most important word of all. Because so much of our fear comes from the feeling that everything depends on us. That we have to fix it. Control it. Understand it.

And Peter gently reminds us: You are not alone in this. God cares for you. God is at work—even when the world feels out of control.

Which brings us to Jesus’ prayer in John’s Gospel. On the night before his death, Jesus prays for his disciples—not that they will be taken out of the world, not that the storm will somehow pass them by—but that they will be held within it. That they will be protected. That they may be one. That they may be grounded in the truth.

In other words: the calling is not to escape a troubled world. It is to live faithfully within it. And that brings us right back to where we started. When the winds pick up and the skies darken, our first instinct is often to ask, “How bad is this going to be? When will it pass?” But long before the storm clears, there is another question: How will we live while the storm is still raging?

Perhaps that’s what Peter is offering us—not a way out of the chaos, not a forecast of when it will end, but a way of being steady, grounded, and faithful right in the middle of it. Stay grounded in prayer. Hold fast to love. Practice hospitality. Use your gifts to serve. Trust that God cares for you. These are not dramatic strategies. They won’t make headlines. But they form a life—a community—that can carry us through even in difficult times.

I was struck recently by a comment from Pope Leo, who spoke about the persistence of war in our world and said, in essence, that peace is not simply the absence of conflict, it is something that must be built, patiently, through justice, compassion, and the refusal to give in to hatred. Sounds very sympatico with what Peter says here.

Peace is not something we wait for. It is something we practice. In small ways. Daily ways. Costly ways. And so, in a world that feels unsettled, even frightening, the question is not only, “When will this end?” But also, “How shall we live?”

Peter gives us an answer—not complete, not easy, but faithful. And perhaps, if we live this way—if we become communities of prayer, love, hospitality, and service—then even in the midst of turmoil and scary storms, something else will be happening, too.

Something quiet. Something resilient. Something that looks like hope.

Oh, by the way—I did make it to the pre-convention gathering, it took an hour to get there, but it was a holy time. And on the next day, yesterday, a sunny, lovely day, we elected a wonderful new bishop.
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Hope!
Amen.

ALOHA kākou! As Eastertide draws toward its conclusion, the Church finds itself in a curious and important moment. The resurrection has happened. The disciples know Christ is alive. And yet they are still waiting, uncertain about what comes next, living in a world that feels unsettled and sometimes frightening. In many ways, it is not so different from our own moment!

THIS SUNDAY, we will reflect on Acts 1:6–14, John 17:1–11, and especially 1 Peter 4:12–14 and 5:6–11. Writing to early Christians facing anxiety, suspicion, and social pressure, Peter offers not panic or prediction, but a way of life: stay grounded in prayer, hold fast to love, practice hospitality, serve one another, and trust that God is still at work even in troubled times. In a noisy and anxious world, these ancient words may speak to us more powerfully than ever! Please join us Sunday at 9 a.m. in the
Chapel, or on Facebook Live!

LAST SUNDAY, we explored Acts 17:22–31 and John 14:15–21, in which the Apostle Paul speaks to seekers in Athens and Jesus promises the abiding presence of the Spirit. In a these uncertain and unsettled times, these readings invited us to look again for a God who is not far away, but with us and in us, deeply present in our lives, our relationships, and even in the ordinary moments we might otherwise miss. How have you realized that God is “closer than you think” this past week?

RETURNING THIS SUNDAY: “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS! Our special Sunday morning series continues this Sunday for anyone interested in understanding more about the Christian faith, and especially those who wish to be confirmed or received in The Episcopal Church. Our topic this week is Jesus’s Death and Resurrection. Join us for some insightful information and conversation!

LAST SUNDAY after worship we had a fabulous Mother’s Day Pancake Buffet in Sumida Hall. Mahalo to Brandon Casey and his fellow cooks and kitchen helpers for putting this festive occasion together!

Beloved brothers and sisters, I hold you in my prayers in this most glorious season of Eastertide. I ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for those who lead and serve, for every member of our ‘ohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always. 

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Acts 17:22-31 and John 14:15-21

A few weeks ago, I went for the first time to visit one of our members in a care home. I had the ‘Aiea
address, I had my phone, I had my map app going—so of course, I assumed this would be
straightforward.

But as I got close, nothing quite lined up. The map said I was close… but I couldn’t see the place. I
drove slowly up and down the street, looking at house numbers, trying to match what I was seeing with what the phone was telling me. You know that feeling—you trust the map, but also… you don’t trust the map.

So finally, I pulled into a driveway so I could stop and take a closer look at my phone map. And as I
looked up—I realized I was already there.

The house I was looking for was set back behind another house. From the street, you couldn’t really see it. But I had pulled right into the driveway without even realizing it. By the way, the second time I
visited, I drove right past it again! I was closer than I thought.

I’ve been thinking about that moment as I read our passage from Acts. Apostle Paul is in Athens,
Greece—standing in the Areopagus, surrounded by temples, statues, and altars to every conceivable
Greek god. It’s a deeply religious place, but also a deeply confused one.
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But Paul notices something: an altar with the inscription “To an unknown god.” Just in case they
missed one. Just in case there was something—or someone—they hadn’t quite figured out yet. And
Paul says, in effect, that one, the one you don’t quite know? Let me tell you about that God.

Then he does something remarkable. He doesn’t start by condemning them. He doesn’t say, “You got it all wrong.” No, he begins where they are.

“I see how extremely religious you are in every way.” And then he gently shifts their understanding: the God who made the world and everything in it does not live in temples made by human hands.

This God is not distant. Not contained. Not confined. In fact, Paul says, “He is not far from any one of
us.”

And then this beautiful line, which Paul apparently borrows from a Greek philosopher: “In him we live
and move and have our being.” In other words, God is not somewhere else. God is closer than we
think.

And that connects beautifully with what Jesus says in the Gospel: “I will not leave you orphaned.”
Now, on this Mother’s Day, that word “orphaned” may land a little differently.

For some, this is a joyful day, full of gratitude and love. For others, it’s more complicated. It can carry
grief, or absence, or longing, or strained relationships. And into that complexity, Jesus speaks these
words: “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.” I will not leave you alone. I will not leave
you without presence, without connection, without love.

Then Jesus speaks of the Advocate—the Spirit of truth—who will be with them, and in them. “You
know him,” Jesus says, “because he abides with you, and he will be in you.” Again, the same theme:
God is not far away. God is closer than we think. Closer than we feel, sometimes, for sure.

And I wonder if that’s part of our struggle, both then and now. Because we live in a world that feels, in
many ways, so chaotic and uncertain. You don’t have to look very far—the Middle East blowing up,
political divisions worsening, rising prices and economic anxieties, forecasts for summer hurricanes and El Ninos, on and on.

It can feel overwhelming. And in the midst of all that, it’s easy to feel like God must be far away. Like
we’re driving back and forth, trying to find our destination, find our bearings, asking, “Where is God in
all of this?”

And the gospel response is both simple and challenging: we are closer than we think. Not because
everything is okay, not because the world isn’t broken, but because God is not absent from it. God is
not contained in one place, or one system, or one understanding. God is present—moving, breathing,
working—in ways we just don’t always recognize.

That brings us back to the image of motherhood. At its best, motherhood is about presence. It’s about being there—sometimes quietly, sometimes fiercely—nurturing, guiding, sustaining life, often in ways that go unnoticed in the moment, or in ways that are only recognized later.

And Jesus is pointing to something like that—not in a sentimental way, but in a deeply real one. “I will
not leave you orphaned.” The Spirit will be with you. The Spirit will be in you.

Which means that the presence of God is not just something we search for “out there.” It is something we begin to discover “in here”—and among us.

“In him we live and move and have our being.” That’s not just poetic. That’s a reorientation. It means
that every act of love, every moment of compassion, every gesture of justice, every quiet act of care, is a place where God is already present—even in a chaotic world. Especially in a chaotic world.

Dear siblings, sometimes we find ourselves lost—like when I was trying to find that hidden care home.
We’re searching. We’re straining. We’re asking, “Where is God? Where is God?” And all the while,
we’re parked in God’s driveway. We’re already surrounded by God’s presence. We just don’t see it or
know it yet.

So what would it mean for us—not to try harder to find God—but to become more attentive to where God already is? In our lives. In our relationships. In our community. Even in the midst of a complicated and broken world.

What would it mean to trust that we are not alone? That we are not orphaned? That the Spirit of truth abides with us—and in us?

Maybe it begins simply, with paying attention, with showing up, with loving God and loving our
neighbor, the job description Jesus gives us. We can do that in many different ways here at St. Tim’s.

And as we do, may we trust that we are not reaching out into emptiness.

No! We are responding to a presence that is closer than we think. A presence that is already here. Amen.