05/14/2026
Printed with permission of the author Geoffrey Lewis, Episcopal Nomad from Madison, MS.
At 5:28 this morning, while driving from Columbus, Georgia, to Juliette, Georgia, I passed just outside Reynolds and saw a crescent moon hanging quietly above the highway.
The world felt suspended between darkness and dawn. The roads were quiet. The air carried that strange stillness that only exists before the rest of humanity wakes up and starts rushing again. Even the truck seemed calmer somehow. And there above the highway sat this crescent moon, hanging delicately in the sky like a brushstroke from the hand of God Himself. Not a full moon. Not loud or overpowering. Just a sliver of light suspended in the middle of deep blue morning darkness, and maybe that is why it struck me so deeply.
Most people who know me know the energetic version of me. The goofy version. The loud laugh. The “go get ’em” personality. The kid with heart who could somehow turn almost anything into a joke, a story, or complete chaos in under five minutes. Most people know the version of me that thrives on noise, movement, conversation, camp stories, football stories, ridiculous one liners, and making everybody around me feel like they belong somewhere. I love that part of myself.
But this morning, under that crescent moon over Reynolds, Georgia, God seemed to pull me into something quieter. Something holier. Something reverent.
Because that moon was not complete, at least not to my eyes.
It was only partially illuminated, yet the entire moon was still there even though most of it remained hidden in shadow. And somewhere between Columbus and Juliette, somewhere between exhaustion and prayer, somewhere between who I have been and who God is still calling me to become, I realized how much that moon looked like my own spiritual life.
I have spent most of my life extending grace to everybody else. I can preach mercy. I can teach about forgiveness. I can sit beside someone carrying shame and tell them with complete sincerity that they are still loved by God. I can stand at an altar and proclaim that Christ’s table is open to doubters, failures, addicts, exhausted saints, broken families, and people who are barely holding themselves together. I believe every word of that.
But if I am honest, sometimes I struggle to believe those same words about myself. Perhaps that is why the moon felt sacramental this morning.
Because sacraments are visible signs of invisible grace, and somehow that crescent moon became exactly that for me. It became a reminder that God has never confused partial visibility with partial presence.
Just because we cannot fully see something does not mean it is not fully there. The moon was still whole. I just could not see all of it yet. Maybe that is true of us too.
As the Church approaches Ascension, Pentecost, and Trinity Sunday, I cannot help but feel how deeply connected those holy days are to this image in the sky. Every one of those feasts reveals something about a God who continues showing up even when humanity cannot fully see the entire picture.
Ascension is strange when you really think about it. The disciples spend years physically walking beside Jesus, hearing His voice, watching miracles unfold with their own eyes, only for Christ to ascend into heaven and disappear from their sight. To the disciples, it probably felt incomplete. Unfinished. Like a crescent moon kind of moment where they could only see part of what God was doing. Yet Ascension is not about absence. It is about trust.
It is about Christ teaching His followers that just because they cannot physically see Him in the same way anymore does not mean He is no longer present. In fact, the mystery of Ascension is that Christ becomes even more present through the Spirit, through the Church, through the sacraments, through bread broken and wine poured, and grace extended to imperfect people.
Then comes Pentecost, where the Holy Spirit rushes into frightened hearts like wind through an open window. The disciples are still confused. Still uncertain. Still carrying fear, doubt, grief, and unfinished understanding. Yet the Spirit descends anyway. Tongues of fire rest upon imperfect people, and suddenly the Church is born not through polished certainty, but through divine grace meeting human weakness. Maybe that is what Pentecost is ultimately about.
The Spirit does not descend upon finished people. The Spirit descends upon available people. People willing to admit they do not fully understand. People willing to trust God in partial light. People willing to believe that hiddenness does not equal abandonment. People willing to finally accept that grace belongs to them too.
Then the Church arrives at Trinity Sunday, where we proclaim one of the deepest mysteries in all of Christianity. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit existing together in eternal communion and eternal love. Not isolation. Not competition. Communion. Relationship. Self giving grace flowing endlessly between Father, Son, and Spirit.
And maybe that is why grace feels so difficult for us sometimes, because we are often willing to let love flow outward while refusing to let it flow inward. We can extend mercy to strangers, forgiveness to friends, compassion to broken people sitting beside us, yet somehow refuse to believe we ourselves are worthy of the same mercy. But the Trinity says otherwise.
The Trinity reveals a God whose very nature is relationship, mercy, communion, and love. A God who is constantly drawing humanity inward rather than pushing humanity away, and thank God for that.
Because if holiness depended upon us having every part of our lives perfectly illuminated, most of us would never make it through the church doors. We carry too much unfinishedness. Too many fears. Too many wounds. Too many hidden struggles nobody else sees, and still Christ invites us to the table.
That is the scandalous beauty of the Eucharist. Jesus gathers people around His table who are nowhere near spiritually complete. Peter will deny Him. Thomas will doubt Him. James and John are still arguing about power and greatness. Judas has already begun walking toward betrayal. Yet Christ still takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it away. Not after they become worthy.
The Eucharist is not a reward for perfect people. It is food for hungry people. It is grace for incomplete people. It is mercy poured out for people who still have shadows within them. That is why we keep coming back week after week. We kneel at the rail carrying burdens, shame, exhaustion, confusion, and grief, and somehow Christ keeps feeding us anyway.
There is something deeply humbling about realizing that God may be more merciful toward me than I am toward myself.
Honestly, younger Geoff probably would have heard somebody mention a “full moon” and assumed this reflection was headed in an entirely different direction altogether. In that kid mind, “full moon” probably meant somebody at camp doing something they absolutely should not have been doing after compline. Lord have mercy.
But now, years later, standing underneath a crescent moon instead, I see something entirely different. I see grace. I see a God who is patient with unfinished people. I see a God who continues loving us even while parts of our lives remain hidden in darkness.
I see a God who does not demand perfection before offering communion, and maybe the hardest lesson of all is learning that the grace we so freely extend toward others must eventually be extended toward ourselves too.
That is difficult for people like me. It is easier to preach mercy than to receive it. It is easier to proclaim forgiveness than to accept it. It is easier to love broken people than to admit we are broken too.
But the Trinity itself teaches us otherwise.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit exist eternally in self giving love. Richard Ho**er once wrote about the Trinity in ways that made it less about solving a theological equation and more about entering into divine relationship. God is not isolation. God is communion. God is self giving love flowing eternally between Father, Son, and Spirit.
And because we are made in that image, perhaps we were never created merely to distribute grace outward while refusing to receive it inward. Perhaps part of spiritual maturity is finally believing that the mercy of God applies to us too.
Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Maybe that is why this moment mattered so much. Because for once, I was still. No noise. No performance. No pretending. No trying to outrun my own thoughts with humor or busyness.
Just me, an empty highway, and a crescent moon over Reynolds, Georgia. And somehow in that stillness, God felt closer than He had in a long time.
Not because I have figured everything out. Not because I suddenly became spiritually enlightened driving through Georgia before sunrise. Not because all the broken parts of me disappeared overnight.
But because that crescent moon reminded me that God is still illuminating me even in the places where darkness remains.
So this morning, while driving from Columbus to Juliette and passing just outside Reynolds, Georgia, beneath a crescent moon quietly hanging over an awakening world, I realized something that felt almost holy enough to whisper.
Maybe God is not asking me to become a full moon overnight, maybe God is simply asking me to trust Him with the parts of me that are still hidden in shadow, and maybe that is enough; maybe that always was enough.— in Reynolds, GA.
Those Who Serve
Celebrant: The Reverend Christopher Powell
Music: Dianne
LEM: Joe
Altar Guild: Kathy
Lectors: Suzy and Karen
Offertory: Emma and Noa Caroline
MC POD: Mary Beth
Lessons
Acts 1:6-14
1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
John 17:1-11
Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36
Collect for Nativity
Father of all wisdom and love,
In whose wisdom we trust and in whose love we dwell.
We come asking you to guide us as we search for a new shepherd for this flock, a new teacher for those who seek, and for a steadfast companion who will walk with us along the way.
All this we ask in the name of our creator, redeemer and sustainer, one God, whose mercy endures forever. Amen
Announcements
St. Anthony came through for The Rev. Ann Whitaker. Her prayer book has been found.
Book group meets Saturday from 9-10:30 Salt & Light. Book: The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. Available on Kindle, Audible, and print
Announcements from the Sr. Warden - Mary Beth Pulsifer
1. Anyone interested in working with us on the We Open Our Doors initiative, let me know. This initiative aims to foster deeper understanding, genuine fellowship, and a shared sense of belonging among the Christian faith communities by inviting participating churches to open their doors for a two hour community open house on selected dates. This idea came out of our recent Outreach workshop as a way to increase our capacity for community outreach through collaboration with other churches.
2. Save the Date - June 6, 1 - 2:30 for our workshop on Immigrant Communities. Here is a description of the Mission of IAJE, one of our facilitators:
"Through grassroots organizing, transformative leadership development, and popular education, IAJE ignites and amplifies the power of Mississippi's immigrant communities, creating a vibrant progressive political home where dreams take flight, voices rise, and families unite to forge a future of justice, dignity, and collective liberation." learn more about IAJE and their programs at visiting www.iaje.us.
3. Two vacancies will be forthcoming on the Mission Committee next year. If you want to know more about it, please talk with Mary Beth.
