“Hold On”

Mark 6:32-44

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

March 8, 2026

I prepared a sermon about the loaves and fishes for this morning. It’s one of my favorite stories from the gospels. But by the end of the week, it didn’t feel like the right sermon any more. Maybe it’ll make an appearance next week. We’ll see. 

Everywhere I go these days, there comes a part in each conversation where someone quietly reveals they’re not doing great. People explain that they’re having a lot of trouble focusing, going through the daily motions of life. I’ve heard quite a few people say how difficult it is to just get up and do all the regular things that need to be done when there’s always a significant part of their spirit consumed with what’s going on in the wider world. Grocery prices. Attacks on immigrants and people of color; our trans neighbors; free speech; democracy. Plus, you know, climate change, wildfires, storms, floods. And now - war that has escalated so quickly it takes your breath away. 

In the midst of all this swirling chaos, every single person gathered here today has their own daily celebrations and pain. Doctor’s appointments and hospital visits. Caring for toddlers and elders. Looking for work or a place to live. Trying to figure out how to pay off debt or pay for college. Cars that break down. Wedding anniversaries and birthday parties. A promotion at work that may or may not come with a raise, but always comes with extra responsibilities. 

It’s just all there - swirling. Every day we wake up, brush our teeth, and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Of course we do. 

But it takes a toll. Of course it does. We get tired. We space out. We snap at those we love the most. We curl up under blankets and cry….or watch TV….or just stare at the wall. Some of us find old coping mechanisms we’d rather avoid are back and clamoring for our attention: we drink too much, we restrict our eating, we find ourselves driven by our obsessions and compulsions as if by a motor. 

What I’m saying is: a lot of us aren’t okay right now. Of course we aren’t. We would do well to remember this the next time someone cuts us off in traffic. Or when we botch something up ourselves. We would do well to reach deep to find compassion and empathy. To extend grace. And call upon the Spirit of Love so we can respond instead of react. 

************

This past Friday night, about 40 people from our community gathered here in these pews to sing songs of resistance. These are not your father’s protest songs (though there are a lot of oldies but goodies we should keep alive). The Singing Resistance movement brings with it songs that are brand new - created by artists all over the country - prepared in response to this moment in history. Some of the songs are upbeat. Some are angry and prophetic. Some are songs of deep lament. Some are songs of hope. Some seem to defy categorization. 

The song we started with on Friday night was simple. 

Hold on / Hold on / My dear ones, here comes the dawn [1] 

*********

People of faith have a long history of holding on while hoping and praying and acting for the dawn. One powerful tool that comes to us from our faith ancestors is the practice of lament. 

Today, I want to teach a little bit about this spiritual practice and then try it out together. I hope that, in the months to come, we might return to it as needed. So if you don’t get a chance to practice enough today, don’t worry. This won’t be the last time we practice together. 

First, the teaching. And here I’m borrowing (with permission) the excellent work of the Rev. Rachel Small-Stokes, a UCC pastor in Louisville. 

Pastor Rachel points out that lament comes to us from our Jewish faith ancestors. In fact, lament makes up about a third of the Psalms. That’s significant, isn’t it? 

The purpose of lament is to share our pain with God. Make it known. Lament doesn’t necessarily “fix” anything. Instead, it invites us to draw nearer to God, who promises to be present in our pain, to share our burdens, and offer us a compassionate presence. 

Pastor Rachel points out that lament in the Hebrew Bible has a structure: 

First, the author directs their complaint to God.
Psalm 3: “O God, how many are my foes!”

Second, they describe their suffering.
Psalm 42: “My tears have been my food, day and night.”

Third, they ask God to come to the aid of those who suffer.
Psalm 44: “Awake! Why are you sleeping, God? Wake up!”

Finally, the author remembers God’s faithfulness.
Psalm 13: “But I have trusted in your steadfast love.” 

I’d like to invite you to create your own lament. It might be on behalf of those who are suffering in the Middle East. Or trans Kansans who are fighting for their right to exist. Or on behalf of immigrants detained or deported, or children who are victims of abuse. Perhaps you lament today on your own behalf. 

If you feel comfortable, I invite you to find a piece of paper and writing utensil. Or fire up your phone to take some notes. I’ll guide us through the process and give time for you to pray and write. During our prayer time later in the service, you may want to share yours aloud. If so, I’ll invite you to come up to the microphone to do so or type it into the chat so I can share it. 

First, we offer our complaint. What is happening that feels beyond your control? Painful? This part is usually short (but not very sweet). Think of it as almost a title. 

(pause) 

Second, we describe the suffering. How is this terrible thing impacting you or people God loves? This might go on and on for pages. For today, just focus on one or two things that are jumping up and grabbing your attention. 

(pause) 

Third, we ask God for help. What do you want God to do? It’s okay if this is unrealistic. It’s okay if it’s not tidy or neat. What do you desire in your heart? 

(pause) 

Finally, we remember God’s character. Who have we experienced the Spirit to be in the past? What do we know about who God is from our faith stories? From the person of Jesus? What about this can offer comfort or wisdom in light of your particular lament today? This part may feel challenging, but it’s so important because it grounds us in the presence of Love and reminds us we do not lament alone. Lament doesn’t leave us in despair, but gives strength and encouragement as we prepare to take the next faithful step. 

(pause) 

(end with song)

Hold on / Hold on / My dear ones, here comes the dawn [1] 

NOTES

[1] Song by Heidi Wilson

"Seeds"

Matthew 13: 31-33, 51-52

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

February 22, 2026

Recently, I was talking with someone who helped me remember how important it is to get about definitions when I’m in the pulpit. He was talking about how Jesus speaks about the “Kingdom of God” and I realized that he and I had completely different definitions of the term. In his mind, “Kingdom of God” was synonymous with going to Heaven. 

When he said that, I suddenly remembered: that’s what I always thought, too, before I went to seminary. There, we learned that when Jesus speaks of the Kingdom of God, he’s not referring to heaven. He’s talking about a vision for what the world could look like when God rules. It’s a counter-cultural vision for a world where the Herods no longer rule. Instead, God is in charge. We’re not talking about pearly gates and streets of gold. We’re talking about empty bellies filled, the brokenhearted healed, the prisoners and captives set free.

I think some of the confusion around this term likely started because the author of Matthew’s Gospel usually uses the phrase “Kingdom of Heaven” rather than “Kingdom of God.” Some scholars think this was to avoid saying God’s name for his Jewish audience. To muddy the waters further, 21st century theologians sometimes call it the Kindom of God, the Reign of God, the Realm of God. Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. borrowed the phrase “Beloved Community” from Josiah Royce and used it as the core of his theology. 

For King, the Beloved Community wasn’t some farfetched, pie in the sky idea. The King Center’s website describes it like this: 

The Beloved Community was for him a realistic, achievable goal that could be attained by a critical mass of people committed to and trained in the philosophy and methods of nonviolence.

Dr. King’s Beloved Community is a global vision, in which all people can share in the wealth of the earth. In the Beloved Community, poverty, hunger and homelessness will not be tolerated because international standards of human decency will not allow it. Racism and all forms of discrimination, bigotry and prejudice will be replaced by an all-inclusive spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood. In the Beloved Community, international disputes will be resolved by peaceful conflict-resolution and reconciliation of adversaries, instead of military power. Love and trust will triumph over fear and hatred. Peace with justice will prevail over war and military conflict….

… The core value of the quest for Dr. King’s Beloved Community was agape love.  [1] 

Whatever you want to call it - Kingdom or Kindom of God or Heaven, Reign or Realm of God, Beloved Community - there’s no doubt that this concept is at the very core of the Way of Jesus. He uses the phrase almost 100 times in the gospels, often speaking in parables like the ones we heard this morning. 

These three parables: the parable of the mustard seed, the yeast, and the treasure chest are the shortest parables in the Bible. 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed. Someone planted it and even though it’s one of the smallest seeds, it grew into an enormous bush where birds built their nests. 

The Realm of God is like yeast. A woman put it into some grain and it bubbled up and grew. 

The Beloved Community is like a householder. He brought up his treasure chests from the storeroom and took out things that were old and new. 

******

The beauty of Jesus’s parables, of course, is that they are open-ended. They are invitational, rather than didactic. And so I found myself looking, this week, for signs of the Beloved Community still with us, here and now. 

******

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a high school social studies teacher in a small town in southeastern Kansas. Hoping to inspire his young students, Mr. Norm Conard, gave three teenage girls a clipping from a newspaper. He wondered if it had a typo in it because he had never heard this story before, but it said a Polish woman named Irena Sendler saved 2,500 Jewish children from death by smuggling them out of the Warsaw ghetto. 

The girls began researching and found that it actually wasn’t a typo at all. Sendler, a Polish Catholic social worker, cooperating with a network of 20 or so other women, did save all those children. They were snuck out of the ghetto in coffins, potato carts, and false-bottomed ambulances. Again and again, these women risked their lives and somehow managed the impossible task of convincing Jewish mothers they were trustworthy. Desperate parents trapped in the ghetto released their children into the hands of strangers, hoping against hope that they would take care of them. 

Sendler and her colleagues found local Polish families who were willing to take the Jewish children in. And she kept careful records of every child that was placed, hoping they could one day be reunited with their families. She wrote their names and placements on thin paper and sealed the lists in glass jars, which she buried under an apple tree. 

She was arrested, beaten and tortured. On the day she was to be executed, friends from the Polish Resistance somehow arranged to get her out of prison. She walked free while the official record showed she had been executed. She continued to help children and their families. After the war, most of the children’s parents had been killed and she worked to get them settled in permanent homes. 

For decades, the story of Sendler and her colleagues' heroics was buried - buried like the jars with the children’s names, buried like a mustard seed. 

Buried until these three girls in a classroom in rural Kansas were challenged by their teacher to see what they could learn. Megan Stewart, Elizabeth Cambers, and Sabrina Coons brought her story to life. They researched, they wrote. They eventually learned that Sendler was still alive and they visited her in Poland. They created a play which has been performed for audiences all over the United States. Their work eventually inspired the creation of the Lowell Milken Center for Unsung Heroes in Fort Scott, which encourages students all over the U.S. to find unsung heroes like Sendler and revive their songs. [2] 

********

The Realm of God is like a rabbi from New Jersey who followed love to the wide open plains of Kansas. A man of many talents, keeping his mouth shut is not one of them. In the tradition of the Hebrew prophets, he discovered a spectacular talent for speaking truth to power - and making a lot of people mad in the process. After trying his hand in a few pulpits, Rabbi Moti Rieber eventually became the director of a climate-justice nonprofit, Kansas Interfaith Power & Light. Like yeast working its way through a pile of grain, the work continued to grow and eventually, Kansas Interfaith Action was born. 

For years, Rabbi Moti was the only staff member, operating on a shoestring budget. But the yeast continued to do its thing and the organization grew. Clergy and people of faith from all over the state got involved. Grants were written, many miles were driven, and time and time again, Rabbi Moti showed up in the statehouse talking about the Beloved Community. 

In time, the yeast worked its magic, somehow creating a substance that is pliable, stretchable, and continuing to grow. When the legislature doubled down on attacking LGBTQ Kansans, Rabbi Moti and KIFA became clearer and bolder in their advocacy. Held together by the glutinous bonds of belief in a more just world, a fair amount of sass, and plenty of prayer, KIFA representatives showed up year after year in Topeka, with a simple message, “God loves everyone. No exceptions. Could you seriously, really, truly, pretty please just consider being kind and compassionate for once?” 

Year after year (after year after year) the pleas fell on deaf ears in the state house. And one unseasonably warm February day in 2026, a hateful piece of legislation was finally rushed all the way through and signed into law. SB 244 requires Kansans to use the bathroom consistent with the gender assigned to them at birth in government-owned buildings. And it mandates that driver’s licenses display the gender assigned to people at birth. With the weight of hearts breaking all over the state, the Rabbi bubbled up with one more yeasty proclamation from the gallery as the vote was finalized. Rabbi Moti shouted, “First they came for the trans people, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t trans!” As he was escorted out by security, you could hear him yelling, “Shame on you!” [2] 

******

One last story. The Beloved Community is like….well, I’m going to let Syreeta McFadden describe this because she tells it so beautifully. 

In a 1972 episode of Sesame Street, Jesse Jackson, then 31, is standing against a stoop on the soundstage modelled after an urban neighborhood block. He’s wearing a purple, white and black striped shirt, accented with a gold medallion featuring Martin Luther King Jr’s profile. The camera cuts to reveal a group of kids, the embodiment of Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition – children under the age of 10 from every ethnicity and racial group. He leads them in a call-and-response of his famous liberatory chant: “I am somebody.”

The adorable, cherub-cheeked kids light up the camera with their enthusiasm as they repeat the same words back to him. They are fidgety, giggly and powerful when they respond to Jackson in a cacophonous and slightly out-of-sync roar: I am somebody. The call-and-response is a wall of activating, energetic sound.

If you pay close attention, you can hear a smile behind every word Jackson speaks and feel the shared energy between him and the kids. It is an incredible artifact of a time when the United States teetered on the precipice of a different world order in the wake of the civil rights era and the waning years of the Black Power movement. The episode is a document that demonstrated to Americans the possibility of what a beloved community could look like, integrated and brimming with youthful promise. [4] 

Now, I know you’re not all kids and this isn’t Sesame Street. But will you join me as we take out treasures new and old and remember Rev. Jackson’s words? Repeat after me.

I am 

somebody.

I am

Somebody.

I may be poor -

but I am 

somebody. 

I may be young -

but I am 

somebody. 

I may be on welfare -

but I am 

somebody

I may be small -

but I am 

somebody.

I may make a mistake -

but I am 

somebody.

My clothes are different.

My face is different.

My hair is different.

But I am 

somebody.

I am Black,

Brown,

White.

I speak a different language,

But I must be respected,

Protected,

Never-rejected.

I am

God's child.

I am 

Somebody.

NOTES

[1] https://thekingcenter.org/about-tkc/the-king-philosophy/ 

[2] Info about Sendler and the Kansas students can be found here https://irenasendler.org/history-of-the-lowell-milken-center/ and here https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1335641221926880&set=a.599146178909725

[3]  https://kansasreflector.com/2026/02/17/kansas-senate-overrides-governors-veto-of-anti-trans-bathroom-bill/ 

[4] Read McFadden’s whole article here: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/feb/18/jesse-jackson-sesame-street-somebody and watch Rev. Jackson here: I Am Somebody - Jesse Jackson #sesamestreet

“How We Show Up”

John 4:1-15

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

February 1, 2026

There are so many ways of showing up in the world. As we’ve watched the horrors unfold in Minneapolis this past month, have you learned anything about how you want to show up? I hope so. I know I have. I’ve watched countless videos from our neighbors to the north and asked myself, “What would I do in a situation like this? What kind of energy would I want to bring?” 

This past week I became acquainted with the Singing Resistance in Minneapolis. Maybe you have, too. The first video I saw was a big group of bundled up people walking slowly down a residential street, singing. They chose this neighborhood because they knew that a lot of the people there were scared to come out of their homes. And so they walked through smiling, waving, and singing: 

Every one, every one, oh, every one of these people are ours

Just like we are theirs

We belong to them 

And they belong to us [1] 

These everyday folks gather in affected neighborhoods and they also gather in churches to learn songs of hope and resistance and to sing together. When they first gathered, a couple weeks ago, 300 people came. After Renee Good was killed, 600 people showed up. Last weekend, after Alex Pretti was killed, 1,400 people showed up to sing.

One of their leaders, who wouldn’t show her face because she fears for her safety, did an interview with Anderson Cooper. She sang to him:

I am not afraid 

I am not afraid

I will live for liberation

Cause I know why I was made [2] 

She explained, “Song is a vehicle for us to grieve. It’s a vehicle for us to feel rage. A vehicle for us to strengthen ourselves. When we sing ‘I am not afraid’ - we're not singing it because we're actually not afraid. Like, we are afraid. It is terrifying what is happening. Singing is a way to gather our courage.” [2] 

Today’s story from the Gospel of John features another unnamed woman. And it’s another story of vulnerability and courage, strangers coming together in unexpected places. A story of mutual aid and the ways people choose to show up in challenging situations. 

The scene: a Jewish teacher named Jesus has traveled into foreign territory. He’s on his way to his home in Galilee but first he has to go through Samaria - a place where Jews were not particularly warmly welcomed. Along the way, he becomes thirsty so he goes to the local well. He arrives there when the sun is high in the sky. Most women come to the well first thing in the morning when it’s still cool outside, but Jesus is here at noon so it’s basically deserted. 

He’s in luck, though, as a woman who isn’t named arrives at the well. Jesus seems untroubled by the fact that she’s a Samaritan….or a women….or alone. I mean, you know how this guy is. Always busting open boundaries and very unwilling to be fenced in by cultural and religious expectations. Plus, he’s thirsty. 

So he asks for a drink. And what he gets in return is a lot more than just water. 

This lengthy passage (we didn't hear nearly all of it today) is a dialogue between two people who are mutually vulnerable. Jesus needs water. The woman can provide it. The woman needs to be seen, heard, understood. In Jesus she finds a careful listener and teacher - someone who is willing to probe the difficult areas of her life and hold a mirror up to her life. Karoline Lewis calls their conversation at the well a model for “faithful conversation” - a dialogue where questions are honest and authentic. [3] They are asked out of genuine curiosity, not because the asker already knows the answer. It is a conversation where both parties have something to risk and something to gain. They take their time. They are both willing to be surprised and learn together. 

And, in the end, both of their lives are changed. Many scholars have pointed to this story as evidence that Jesus was always learning that God’s love operates far beyond our human-imposed boundaries. The Samaritan woman was an important teacher in that regard. 

And she is also transformed. She calls Jesus a prophet and accepts his offer of Living Water. Eventually she leaves her jug behind - yet another symbol of her power and vulnerability - and runs to tell her neighbors that she has found the Messiah - the anointed one. In doing so, she is the first person in John’s gospel to recognize Jesus as the Messiah and to invite others to draw near. 

Thirsty people in the desert. Vulnerable people. Mutual interdependence. Worlds being flipped upside down and barriers dismantled as it becomes harder and harder to tell who is the leader and who is the follower. Who is the student and who is the teacher? Who is the giver and who is the recipient? As is so often the case in our holy texts the answer is: yes. 

Next month, our friends at the Manhattan Jewish Congregation will celebrate and dedicate some recent renovations to their building. They’ve completed updates to their kitchen, created accessible restrooms, and built a beautiful sukkah outside. All of these updates display their commitment to practicing hospitality. 

The sukkah will be used in the fall during the Festival of Sukkot. Traditionally, during this seven-day, joy-filled holiday, Jews take all their meals outdoors in tents-like structures.

Why are the Jews so thankful and happy during Sukkot? What are they celebrating? 

Get this. They are celebrating their vulnerability. They are commemorating the time when their faith ancestors were nomads in the desert. They are rejoicing as they recall the years their people spent wandering, hungry and thirsty. 

They are celebrating their vulnerability. 

As they build their sukkahs, they are required to ensure that the structure will allow rain to come through the roof. Rabbi Shmuel Hertzfeld describes it like this: "...the purpose of the sukkah...is to remind us, you know, in our own world we have our houses, which we invest in, and we think we're so secure, and we think we're in control. And for one week, we go outside, kind of live in the elements, reminding ourselves that we're under the shelter of God at all times." [4]

It’s as though remembering our vulnerability enables us to show up courageously. Rabbi Arthur Waskow reflected on the newfound sense of vulnerability many U.S.Americans felt after September 11, 2001. He reflected on the Sukkot that came just a few weeks after the 9/11 attacks, writing “In our evening prayers throughout the year, just as we prepare to lie down in vulnerable sleep, we plead with God, ‘Spread over us your sukkah of shalom - of peace and safety.’”

“Why,” he asks, “does the prayer plead for a sukkah of shalom rather than a temple or fortress or palace of shalom?” After all, he says, a sukkah is “the most vulnerable of houses. Vulnerable in time, since it lasts for only one week each year. Vulnerable in space, since its roof must be not only leafy but leaky enough to let in starlight and guests of wind and rain.” [5]

He’s right, isn’t he? What an odd thing to pray for the gift of insecurity. How could vulnerability lead to anything good? Rabbi Waskow notes that usually we try to cultivate a sense of security by building things like pyramids, pentagons, World Trade Centers. How could a fragile, leaky tent bring hope and joy? 

I suppose it’s a bit like Jesus showing up with humility - admitting his own human vulnerability to a stranger when he asked for a drink of water. 

And a bit like a woman showing up with quiet confidence as she talks to a religious leader who should ignore her, but, instead, sees her. 

It’s like neighbors showing up with no weapon but their voices to create shelter, security, shalom as they sing, “We belong to them and they belong to us.”

Rabbi Waskow says:

We are all in truth vulnerable….we all live in a sukkah. Even the widest oceans, the mightiest buildings, the wealthiest balance sheets, the most powerful weapons [can not] shield us….

There are only wispy walls and leaky roofs between us….The command to love my neighbor as myself is not an admonition to be nice: It is a statement like the law of gravity. However much and in whatever way I love my neighbor, that will turn out to be the way I love myself….

Only a world where all communities feel vulnerable, and therefore connected to all other communities, can prevent...acts of rage and mass murder.

God, be with us in our leaky tents. Help us to show up with some measure of hope in the midst of our vulnerability. 

NOTES:

[1] https://www.instagram.com/p/DUAElNgEZFw/ ; https://soundcloud.com/annie-rambeau/we-belong-to-each-other 

https://arnolfini.org.uk/app/uploads/2025/03/Nikita-Gill-Every-bombed-village-is-my-hometown.pdf 

[2] https://www.cnn.com/2026/01/27/us/video/mn-group-singing-resistance-ice-vrt-digvid

[3] https://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4839 

[4] http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130104116 

[5] All following references and quotations to Rabbi Waskow’s work come from his essay “The Sukkah of Shalom” in The Impossible will Take a Little While” by Paul Rogat Loeb.