Last Sunday I talked about the Kona Low Storms. Now we’re hearing about dangerous El Nino weather coming later this year. Seems like there are plenty disasters to go around!

As you well know, the Lahaina fire happened on Maui 3 years ago this August, just half a year before Dan and I moved here—we watched news reports about the devastation and prayed from afar.

It was hard for all of us to see the images that almost did not seem real. Front Street reduced to ash. The entire town gone. Families standing in silence where homes and businesses and memories had once been.

Heartbreaking! And for many people, the deepest shock was not only the loss of buildings, but the loss of what those places meant. History. Identity. Belonging.

Among the buildings destroyed, as you know, was Holy Innocents, the beloved Episcopal parish that had stood in Lahaina for generations. Its beautiful mural of the Madonna and Child was lost in the flames. We have a copy of it over on the St. Francis Garden side.

In the months afterward, Holy Innocents members began gathering again in borrowed worship spaces, carrying bells and crosses and fragments of memory with them. Some parishioners had lost nearly everything. Still they came together to pray, to sing, to begin again.

I remember reading one account in the Diocesan newsletter from a member of the congregation who said that, after the fire, people were simply trying to restore "homes and hearts."

Restoring homes and hearts. Because when disaster strikes, what hurts most is not only what we lose, but what those losses represent. A home represents security, memories, family, and hopes for the future. When something precious is suddenly lost like that, it can feel as though the ground beneath us has fallen away.

And that brings us closer to the emotional world of today's reading in Genesis. Because Isaac is more than Abraham's son. Isaac represents God's promise, Abraham's future, and everything he holds dear.

Beloved, this is one of the most difficult stories in all Scripture: The passage starts by saying “God tested Abraham”! I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being tested! Abraham climbs a mountain with the son he loves, the son through whom all of God's promises were supposed to come, in order to sacrifice him.

If this story troubles you, that’s probably a sign you are hearing it right. Because once again, we read a story that is not comfortable.

Over these summer weeks, we’re traveling together through Genesis on our “Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life.”

In the first week, Abraham was called into the unknown. Then Sarah laughed because the promise seemed impossible. Last week, Hagar discovered that even in the wilderness, God still sees and hears us.

And now this week, the journey reaches its most painful point. Because sometimes faith becomes costly. Sometimes life leads us into places we never would have chosen. Just as it did in Lahaina.

The story begins almost gently. God says: “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love…” The tenderness of that phrase almost makes it harder to hear what follows.

But Abraham starts off for Moriah. And the text seems very straight-forward. There’s no discussion, no explanation. Just the long silence of the journey. Which, honestly, feels real. Because when people go through deep grief or fear or confusion, there’s often a kind of silence around it. Words seem inadequate. You just keep walking because there’s nothing else to do.

I imagine many survivors in Lahaina experienced something like that in the days afterward. Not fully understanding what had happened yet. Carrying shock and heartbreak and exhaustion all at once. Trying to move forward one step at a time because the future itself had suddenly become unrecognizable. That’s partly why this Genesis story is so enduring. It speaks honestly about moments when life no longer makes sense. Moments when what is happening seems completely at odds with what we thought God had promised. It’s a feeling that seems to echo through these stories
in Genesis, doesn’t it?

Many of us know something about this feeling. A future changes. A prayer remains unanswered. A family suffers. A tragedy occurs that no theology can neatly explain. And suddenly the road ahead looks very different than the one we thought we were traveling.

Now before we go further, I think it’s important to say clearly what this story is not saying. This is not permission for violence in God’s name. This is not a model for harming children. This is not a lesson that suffering itself pleases God. In fact, one of the central points of the story is that God stops the sacrifice.

You see, Abraham lived in a world where surrounding cultures sacrificed children. But at the decisive moment, God says: “No.” The knife is lowered. The boy lives. A ram is provided instead. God is making his will clear; you are to be different than the rest of the world.

So the story moves away from death and toward mercy. But it still leaves us wrestling. Why would Abraham think this was what God wanted? Why does God sometimes seem so bewildering? Why does faith sometimes lead us through painful territory? Those are real questions. And Scripture does not pretend otherwise.

What strikes me most in this story is that Abraham walks up the mountain carrying trust and confusion at the same time. We often imagine biblical faith as unwavering certainty. But most mature faith is not certainty. It is continuing the relationship with God even when we do not fully understand.

That may be one of the hardest spiritual lessons of all. Because we want explanations. We want clarity. We want assurance that everything will make sense beforehand. But often faith looks more like Abraham walking the road without knowing how the story will end.

There is a heartbreaking moment when Isaac asks: “Father?” And Abraham replies: “Here I am.” Then Isaac says: “The fire and the wood are here… but where is the lamb?” And Abraham answers: “God will provide.”

At that moment, Abraham himself cannot yet see how true those words will become. But eventually, on that mountain, provision appears.

A ram caught in a thicket. And Abraham names the place “The Lord will provide.” Not before the journey. Afterward. Which is so often how life works.

We rarely see grace clearly ahead of time. Usually we recognize it looking backward. Looking back, we realize: Oh! There were people who carried us. There was strength we didn’t know we had. There were moments of mercy hidden inside terrible seasons. There was enough grace for the next step. Not always all at once. But enough.

I think that’s part of what the people of Lahaina continue to teach the rest of us. After unimaginable loss, communities still gather. Worship still happens. Meals are shared. People continue helping one another restore homes and hearts.

Not because the suffering was good. Not because the grief has disappeared. But because even in devastating loss, human beings keep discovering that they are not abandoned. Banyan trees regrow.

Perhaps this is the deepest truth inside this difficult story, a truth we hear repeatedly in Genesis: Not that God explains everything. Not that suffering suddenly becomes easy. But that mercy has the final word. That even on hard roads, God walks with us.

As we continue this summer journey together, the stories ahead are still going to be messy. Which is good news, really. Because the Bible is not a book about perfect people who always understand what God is doing.

It is the story of ordinary human beings learning, slowly and imperfectly, that God remains faithful even on the hardest roads.

And if your road feels steep… If life feels uncertain… If faith itself feels costly…
               Keep walking. Not because you understand everything.
               But because somewhere along the journey,
               often when we least expect it--
               God provides. Amen.

ALOHA! This Sunday we continue our Summer Sermon Road Trip through Genesis with one of the most challenging and thought-provoking stories in all of Scripture: Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah (Genesis 22:1-14). We often speak of God's grace as a free gift, and it is. But following God sometimes asks something of us. Faith can require trust when the future is unclear, courage when the road is difficult, and perseverance when we would rather turn back. In this week's story, Abraham faces a test that has troubled and inspired believers for generations. Together we’ll explore what
costly faith really means, what this story does—and does not—say about God, and how God's mercy ultimately has the final say. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we continue this journey of faith together!

LAST SUNDAY we heard the story of Hagar and Ishmael (Genesis 21:8-21), another challenging story that tells us that life does not always unfold according to our plans. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” we hear people say. Families face challenges, relationships become complicated, and sometimes the road ahead seems uncertain. And that certainly can sound familiar! This powerful story reminds us that God sees us, hears us, and remains present even in life's wilderness places. Have you reminded yourself of that this week?

LAST SUNDAY we also celebrated Father’s Day with a fabulous Hot Dog Feast with all the trimmings! Our thanks go to all who brought side dishes, set up, cooked, and cleaned up—we fathers and father-figures are grateful!

BELOVED SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, 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 God’s presence is always with us.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Several weeks ago, we all watched as the Kona Low storms drenched the islands. Streets flooded. Cars stalled. Homes were inundated. Neighborhoods dealt with water where water wasn't supposed to be. Lots of people found their lives upended, and wondering what the next day would bring. They’re still trying to figure out how or whether they will rebuild.

Most of us weren’t really affected. We experienced inconvenience more than catastrophe. But even so, these kinds of storms remind us how quickly life can change. One day things seem normal. The next day familiar routines are disrupted and the future suddenly feels uncertain. Grace and Logan can tell us what that feels like, after their building caught fire a couple of weeks ago!

After major fires, floods, hurricanes, or wildfires, reporters often interview people standing amid the aftermath. Logan was interviewed by Hawaii News Now! But years ago, after one such disaster, a woman stood in front of what had been her home, looking completely stunned, and said something very simple:

"I just keep thinking... this was not supposed to happen."

That line has stayed with me. Because at some point, almost everyone says it.
This was not supposed to happen.

The diagnosis was not supposed to happen. The marriage ending was not supposed to happen. The estrangement from a child was not supposed to happen. The betrayal. The loss. The grief. The future that suddenly looks nothing like the one we imagined.

And perhaps nowhere in Genesis does that feeling echo more painfully than in the story from Chapter 21 that we heard this morning.

Over these summer weeks, we’re traveling together through our "Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life." Two weeks ago Abraham heard God's call and stepped out into the unknown. Last week Sarah laughed because God's promise seemed impossible. And now this week, just as the promise finally begins to come true, everything falls apart.

What!? But isn’t that so often how real life works?

Today’s story is uncomfortable. Sarah sees Hagar and her son Ishmael—the servant woman and Abraham’s older son—and she wants them gone. Abraham is upset, but after some prayer and hesitation, he sends them away into the wilderness with only a little bread and a skin of water.

There are no real heroes in this story. Only wounded people making fearful decisions. And at the center of it all are Hagar and Ishmael, wandering in the desert until their water runs out. The future disappears. Hagar even places her son under a bush because she cannot bear to watch him die. It is one of the bleakest scenes in Scripture. And maybe one of the most honest.

Because sometimes life really does fall apart, doesn’t it? And not in ways that make any immediate sense.

Now today is also Father’s Day, which can be complicated in church. For some, like me, it is joyful. For others, painful. Some carry gratitude. Others carry grief, regret, anger, or absence.

And this morning’s reading certainly does not offer us a sentimental portrait of fatherhood. Abraham is one of the great figures of faith, yes—but he is also flawed and frightened and deeply human.
​
The Bible never really idealizes families, to be honest. Especially in Genesis. Genesis is full of sibling rivalry, favoritism, fractured relationships, deception, jealousy, and pain. Which means if your family has ever felt messy, you are officially biblical!

And then comes this beautiful detail: “God opened [Hagar’s] eyes, and she saw a well of water.” The well was apparently already there. She just couldn’t see it. And I think that may be one of the deepest spiritual truths in this story. When life falls apart, our vision narrows. Fear does that. Grief does that.

Exhaustion does that. All we can see is the wilderness. The absence. The loss. And yet sometimes, slowly and painfully, grace begins to appear—not because the suffering was unreal, but because God was present even there. Not always removing the wilderness immediately. But sustaining us, carrying us, within it.

In our Romans scripture this morning, Paul speaks about the gift of life in Christ. And that can sound abstract until you place it beside a story like this one. Because eternal life in Scripture is not simply about heaven someday. It is about the persistent life of God breaking into places that feel consumed by death. A wilderness. A failed future. A dried-up hope. And suddenly: water.

I think this story matters especially right now because we are living in a world where many people feel as though something is unraveling.

There is anxiety and anger everywhere. And underneath so much public anger is actually grief. A grief that quietly says: This was not supposed to happen.

But the witness of Scripture is that God does some of God’s deepest work precisely in wilderness places. Not because God causes suffering, but because no wilderness is godforsaken.

That may be the most important thing Hagar discovers. She is not invisible. In fact, earlier in Genesis, Hagar becomes the first person in Scripture to give God a name: El-roi — “the God who sees me.”

The God who sees me!

And now here again in the wilderness, God sees. God hears. God provides.

Not through easy triumph. Not through instant rescue. But through presence. I think many of us can look back on seasons of life that felt like wilderness. Times when we truly were not sure how we would keep going. Times when the future seemed frighteningly uncertain. And yet somehow, there we found water in the desert.

Maybe not literal water! But a friend who called at the right time. A community that carried us. A strength we did not know we possessed. A small grace that helped us make it through one more day. Not always dramatic. But enough. Enough for the next step.
​
And that is what faith often looks like. Not pretending everything is fine. Not denying heartbreak. But trusting that even here—even now—God is present. Even in the wilderness. Even when life falls apart. Even when the story has taken a turn we never would have chosen.

As we continue this summer journey together, the stories are not going to become tidier. Jacob is coming, and Jacob is a mess. Joseph’s family becomes spectacularly dysfunctional.

But that is exactly the point. The Bible is not a collection of polished success stories. It is the story of God remaining faithful to imperfect people in a complicated world.

Which means it is our story too. And perhaps today, if life feels uncertain or
broken or frighteningly dry, this is the word we most need to hear:
God sees you.
God hears you.

And even in the wilderness, there is water to refresh us just ahead.
Amen.

ALOHA! This Sunday we celebrate Father's Day, giving thanks for fathers, grandfathers, mentors, teachers, and all those who have helped guide us, encourage us, and shape our lives. We hope you'll also stay after worship for our Father’s Day Hot Dog Feast—a fun opportunity to enjoy fellowship and celebrate together as a church family.

IN WORSHIP, we’ll continue our Summer Sermon Road Trip through Genesis with a message titled "When Life Falls Apart." The story of Hagar and Ishmael (Genesis 21:8-21) reminds us that life does not always unfold according to our plans. Families face challenges, relationships become complicated, and sometimes the road ahead seems uncertain. Sound familiar? Perhaps too familiar! This powerful story reminds us that God sees us, hears us, and remains present even in life's wilderness places. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we
continue this journey of faith together!

LAST SUNDAY, we traveled with Abraham and Sarah in Genesis 18:1-15, which took place long after God first called them and promised them descendants, and what once seemed possible looked increasingly unlikely. When mysterious visitors arrived with news that Sarah would bear a son, her response was snarky laughter! We considered 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. Have you been able to put this promise to work this week?

BELOVED SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. This week, as we give thanks for fathers and father figures, and as we remember that God meets us even when life feels uncertain or broken in the story from Genesis, I invite your prayers for our parish, our ministries, and one another. Please continue to pray for me as your vicar, 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+

​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.