[VIDEO INCLUDED AT BOTTOM OF FULL POST] On a warm September night nearly a decade ago, I drove north to baptize my 29-year-old cousin on his deathbed; collateral complications from opioid use. We had been messaging about the possibility of baptism in the weeks before he died. Five years later, his brother was felled by fentanyl. We had long been out of touch. And so, as for many Americans, the opioid crisis feels to me both near and far. The battle with this particular addiction has not entered my immediate household, but it is all around. We search for doors to understanding what is happening: through policy documentaries like The Crime of the Century, novels like Demon Copperhead, and music like Jelly Roll’s Grammy-winning contemporary country album, Beautifully Broken. 

Some of us in this room know exactly the feeling and false promise of excessive drugs, alcohol, and other highly addictive temporary escapes, like pornography, gambling, or compulsive eating or shopping.

A couple of years ago, I worked as the director of a drop-in community center called Uptown, which mostly served unhoused folks living on the street. Our headquarters occupied the basement of a church, and we saw ourselves as a faith-based organization. One of our clients, by the name of Tom, had a tattoo on his arm: a figure curled up with his face buried in his knees, arms crossed over his head. Below the drawing were the words “Doubting Thomas.” Although the tattoo was quite striking, I never got around to asking Tom about it. I guess I thought the image spoke for itself.

What it said to me is that doubt is heavy. Doubt is lonely. And to be a doubter, to occupy that role in any community of people, is to carry something that everyone feels, but few are willing to face.

What do you see in the holy story at our center today? What image caught your attention? Before I continue, I urge you to take a mental note of what stood out to you, because the Holy Spirit often draws our attention to where we most need it. What word, phrase, or moment came alive? {Pause.} If something resonated, take time to reflect on it later in prayer. Allow God to lead you.

Now, perhaps nothing stood out. That’s okay. This day can easily feel like a blur; as Fr. Colin says, we can suffer from "emotional overload." This feeling of blurry overwhelm is perhaps why our scriptures use the word “behold” more than 1,500 times. Behold! Stop and listen! Something significant is happening right before you, and it changes everything. To behold is to deeply take in the truth of what you see. Using this word as inspiration, I invite us all to behold our Messiah anew, looking at four key moments in Matthew’s passion narrative.

Today we wrap up the preaching portion of our nonviolence series. In week one, we were reminded of the wild freedom we have in Christ to act contrary to the pressures of the world. In week two, we looked at the revelation that every neighbor has a dignity we can’t comprehend—especially those we are tempted to designate as "other." In week three, we wrestled with the biblical witness, remembering that the nonviolent way of Christ is not passive withdrawal, but an active, engaged love of neighbor and enemy.

It’s been a light few weeks! But we’re going to keep digging in, because it’s Lent, and because we know from our newspapers that if we want to speak truth into the darkness of this war-torn world—speaking with our mouths and our lives—we must hear anew the Word of God. We must think through, with God’s help, what this means for how we live today, in March of 2026.

Today I want to focus on developing a VISION FOR A NON-VIOLENT CHURCH IN A VIOLENT WORLD. Our scriptures are the primary foundation for this. As Calvin put it, scripture is like a set of glasses we put on to see as God sees. Sometimes things look crazy when we put on these glasses, and sometimes we get a headache, but they are a gift to help us see differently.

We begin our journey into Lent by following Jesus into the dusty wilderness. Imagine a heat so thick it feels like a physical weight on your lungs, cold nights of shivering. Jesus has been in the wilderness for forty days. He is hollow with hunger; his skin is parched, his lips are cracked, and his mind is weary from the silence. It is exactly in this moment of utter weakness—not in a moment of triumph—that the Tempter appears.

The devil does not appear with a direct attack or a display of horns and pitchforks. He comes with an invitation to take the easy way out. He offers a series of shortcuts.

"You’re hungry?" he whispers. "You’ve got the power. Why suffer? Just turn these stones into bread. Make yourself comfortable."

Then comes the second nudge: "Do something spectacular. Put on a show. Jump from the highest point of the Temple and let the angels catch you. Make God prove to you—and to everyone else—that you are special."

Finally, the devil cuts to the chase: "Just bow down to me. Do the wrong thing just once, and I will give you all the power and control you could ever want. Think of the good you could do with that kind of power!"