Scripture is full of upward gestures toward the divine: smoke from the altar curling heavenward, Moses climbing Sinai, Elijah swept into the sky in fire and wind. Each one reaching toward God. But the Ascension of Christ is something different — not a reaching up, but a going ahead. This week, we consider what it means that Jesus did not simply leave, but ascended as our advocate, carrying our humanity with him into the presence of the Father. And we sit with the question his disciples faced at the foot of that hill: now that he is gone, what are we supposed to do with everything he showed us on the way down? See you Sunday for Worship.

He had washed their feet. He had broken the bread. And now, in the quiet of that upper room, he was trying to prepare them for something they couldn't yet imagine — a world in which he would no longer be physically present, and they would have to find a way to carry on. His answer to their unspoken fear was a promise: that they would not be left alone. That something — someone — would come to dwell not just among them, but within them. This week, we sit with that promise and the mystery it carries - The Holy Spirit. Have you felt it? And do you know what to call it when you do? Join us Sunday as we ask these questions together.

Most of us have heard these words at a graveside. "Do not let your hearts be troubled. In my Father's house, there are many dwelling places." They are among the most quoted verses in all of scripture — spoken at the edges of loss, offered as comfort when comfort is hard to find. But Jesus first spoke these words, not at a funeral. He spoke them to a roomful of frightened friends the night before everything fell apart. This week, we return to those familiar words and ask what they meant then — and what they are still asking of us now.

Long before there were temples or thrones, there were shepherds. The stories of faith are full of them — Jacob, his sons, David — ordinary people who learned to tend living things and listen for what the land and the flock were telling them. In the ancient world, multiple flocks would spend the night together in a shared enclosure — and in the morning, each shepherd would call, and each flock would sort itself out by the sound of the one voice it recognized. This week, we stay with that image and let it ask us something honest: Do we know the voice calling us? Join us Sunday at 830, 11:00, or 11:30 am.

They were walking away from Jerusalem — away from the tomb, away from the rumors, away from the hope that hadn't quite taken hold yet. A stranger fell into step beside them, and they didn't recognize him. They talked with him for miles. They invited him in for a meal. And it was only when he reached across the table, took the bread, and broke it — that they saw who had been beside them the whole time. This week, we sit with the events that happened along the road to Emmaus and ask the questions it quietly raises: How often is Christ walking beside us before we realize it? See you in worship on Sunday.