06/21/2026
A few thoughts from today’s sermon:
There is a holy place in life that none of us can avoid. It is that space where love and suffering meet, where the people we love most become the source of our deepest grief. This past week, sitting in a sanctuary filled with hundreds of people grieving the death of a 14-year-old boy, that holy place felt very real.
Everyone in the room shared the same air, the same songs, the same silence. Yet each heart carried its own questions, memories, and ache. That is what grief does. It gathers people together and still somehow makes each person feel alone. It is the kind of pain you feel in your chest and in your throat, the kind that lingers long after the last “amen.”
And yet, even there, love would not let go. It was in the way people showed up. It was in the arms wrapped around shoulders, in tissues quietly passed down the pew, in the simple courage of just being present when there was nothing to fix. The sorrow was deep, but so was the love that brought everyone into that room.
Now, shirts have been marked with four simple words on the back: “Tap me on the shoulder.” The shirts were an invitation to tell stories about a young man, but they were also a quiet plea to anyone who might be hurting: you do not have to carry this alone. When the darkness feels heavy, there is always a shoulder to tap.
Maybe that is one of the clearest pictures of the gospel. God does not promise a life free from grief. God promises presence in the middle of it. Sometimes that presence feels like a whisper in prayer. Sometimes it feels like a hand holding yours in the pew. Sometimes it is as simple as someone turning when you tap their shoulder and saying, “I’m here.”
In a world where so many walk through silent, hidden pain, perhaps the holiest thing we can do is pay attention. To be the kind of people who are willing to be tapped. To be the kind of church where no one sits in their sorrow alone.
