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God as Our Guest

“You are no longer strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of God’s household.” (Ephesians 2:19)

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect hospitality, for by it some have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those in prison as though you were imprisoned with them, and those who are mistreated, since you yourselves are still in the body.” (Hebrews 13:1–3)

1. Give everything, expect nothing, remain grateful

Dear congregation, before becoming a minister I worked, as most of you know, for a quarter of a century in the hotel industry. If someone asked me for one general rule for happiness drawn from that experience, I would probably answer: “Give everything, expect nothing, and remain grateful.”

In hospitality one learns early that the guest is king. You give your best without knowing what will return. Yet guests quickly sense whether service comes from heart and soul, whether they are genuinely liked. Let me also dispel a widespread prejudice: it is not the tip.

Do not misunderstand the saying. It is not self-destruction, allowing exploitation or abandoning healthy boundaries. It is a serving heart that lets God go first because it knows that everything is from him, through him and for him. We should be good hosts because God himself is one.

2. Can we encounter God?

As a child I desperately wanted to know what God looked like. The stories of Moses at the burning bush and Abraham beneath the oaks fascinated me. These people had met God, and I wanted to meet him too. My parents told me such an encounter was possible: sometimes God comes at night in a dream.

For a long time I prayed every evening: “God, show yourself to me.” I fell asleep expectantly and woke to nothing. With time, as children do, I forgot the wish and the prayers.

Recently my five-year-old daughter asked almost the same question: “Papa, what does God look like? Can I see him?” And what did I answer? “Sometimes God comes at night in a dream, darling.” Since then she has dreamt of Jesus returning on a white horse. She explained very seriously that this is how she likes Jesus best. I smiled, but she had caught an image from Revelation that is not wrong.

Her question stayed with me, because it is still my question—and perhaps yours: Can we really encounter God in this life? Can we see him here on earth?

Hebrews 13 gives a surprising answer: yes; people have already done so repeatedly. “Do not neglect hospitality, for by it some have entertained angels without knowing it.” Without knowing it—remember that. God often meets us not where we seek him, but where with a pure heart we simply serve.

3. Two open doors: Abraham and Lot

When Hebrews speaks of unknowingly receiving angels, it recalls well-known stories. The first begins at a hot midday. Abraham sits at the entrance of his tent by the oaks of Mamre and sees three strangers. He does not wait to be asked; the old man runs to them in the heat, bows and pleads: “Do not pass by. Let water be brought; wash your feet and rest under the tree. I will bring a morsel of bread.”

He says “a morsel”, then sets the whole household in motion. Sarah bakes with fine flour, a tender calf is prepared, and butter and milk are added. The morsel becomes a feast. Abraham gives not the minimum, but generously, almost extravagantly. As he serves, one guest promises: “I will surely return next year, and Sarah your wife shall have a son.” Sarah laughs inside the tent. Too old, too late, impossible. Yet the guest asks: “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” Abraham realises whom he has received: God himself was a guest at his table.

Why did his eyes not recognise him? Why did the Emmaus disciples fail to recognise Jesus while he walked beside them, until the breaking of bread? Perhaps grief, perhaps the glaring sun. Often the essential is seen not by the outward eyes but by the eyes of the heart. Knowledge about God matters, but so does a God-fearing character—a serving heart.

The second story, one chapter later, ends differently. Two messengers travel to Sodom. Lot, Abraham’s nephew, sits at the city gate, rises, bows and invites them in. They first say they will sleep in the square, but Lot insists. He knows what may happen to strangers there at night.

The city’s corruption soon becomes visible. Men surround the house and demand the guests. They do not see persons with dignity or guests under the house’s protection, but objects for violence. Hospitality, sacred throughout the ancient Near East, is trampled underfoot. Lawlessness and dehumanisation have consumed every form of love. Lot tries to protect the visitors, but in the end the messengers must rescue him. Ezekiel later names Sodom’s guilt: pride, excess and careless ease, while failing to help the poor and needy (Ezekiel 16:49).

Yet there was hope for Lot. When God destroyed the cities, he “remembered Abraham” and led Lot out (Genesis 19:29). God does not forget; he remembers his own.

4. What makes love grow cold?

“Let mutual love continue.” In Greek the sentence is almost ceremonial: Hē philadelphia menetō—“Let brotherly and sisterly love remain.” If love must remain, it is threatened; it can leave and grow cold. Scripture shows four dangers.

The first is lawlessness. Jesus says: “Because lawlessness will increase, the love of many will grow cold” (Matthew 24:12). Greek anomia means disregard of God’s will and the dissolution of moral responsibility, as though nothing were binding and everything permitted. Lawlessness acts on love like salty sea air on bare iron. At first nothing is visible, but rust eats inward day after day until what should bear weight breaks. Where everything seems permitted, another person becomes a tool for our desires. When faithfulness, truth and responsibility lose meaning, love loses reliability. Lawlessness does not liberate love; it makes it cold. We do not love to earn heaven—that is given in Christ—but whoever wants to preserve love must protect it.

The second danger is indifference. In Jesus’ parable, a wounded man lies on the road to Jericho. A priest sees him and passes by; a Levite sees him and passes by. A despised Samaritan sees him and has compassion. He allows himself to be interrupted, binds wounds, carries and pays. The opposite of love is not only hatred, but often indifference. Hatred at least still sees the other; indifference looks through them and says, “Your pain does not concern me.” It preserves outward relationships while participation has died within, protecting personal comfort at the neighbour’s expense.

Hebrews counters this: “Remember those in prison as though you were imprisoned with them.” Biblical remembrance is never merely recalling information. It means allowing ourselves to be drawn in—with heart, feet and hands. Christian remembrance is compassionate participation.

The third danger is forgetting. Throughout the Old Testament comes the warning: “Take care that you do not forget the Lord your God.” Moses connects it with Israel’s own story: remember that you were slaves in Egypt and the Lord brought you out (Deuteronomy 5:15; 15:15). This memory is the source of mercy. The stranger, poor person and dependent one at your door—that was you, Israel. Whoever forgets having received grace becomes hard towards those who need it. Forgetting turns gratitude into entitlement: “I deserve everything.” It lets the rescued look down on the needy and cuts present prosperity off from the helping hands of the past. Moses warns: “Do not say, My power and the might of my own hand gained me this wealth” (Deuteronomy 8:17).

“Do not forget hospitality” is therefore not a memory problem like forgetting an umbrella on a train. It is spiritual indifference: we still know, but are no longer moved.

The fourth danger is satisfied affluence. The risen Christ says to the wealthy church in Laodicea: “You say, I am rich, I have prospered and need nothing; you do not realise that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind and naked” (Revelation 3:17). Wealth is not itself sin—Abraham’s resources made his hospitality possible. It becomes dangerous when it creates the illusion of complete self-sufficiency: I need nothing and nobody. Whoever believes they need nobody unlearns community and soon imagines they no longer need God. Possessions can enlarge the table and shrink the heart.

The most disturbing fact is that these words address a church. It considers itself rich, while Christ stands outside: “I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens, I will come in and eat with that person.” The Lord knocks at the door of his own church because he wants renewed communion at its table.

Four cold winds threaten love: lawlessness, indifference, forgetting and self-satisfied affluence.

5. What strengthens love?

First, draw near to God’s presence and hear his call. Second, drink from the source. God laments in Jeremiah: “They have forsaken me, the fountain of living water, and dug cracked cisterns that hold no water” (Jeremiah 2:13). Love cannot live indefinitely on willpower. Whoever continually gives without receiving grace becomes empty and eventually bitter. The source is not self-improvement, but Christ.

Jesus promises the woman at the well water that will become within a person “a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14). At the feast he cries, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink,” and John explains that he spoke of the Holy Spirit (John 7:37–39). We learn God’s voice, nature and will in Scripture. The word corrects us and renews the heart. Psalm 1 compares the person who meditates on God’s instruction to a tree planted by streams, bearing fruit in season. Whoever lives from the source need not manufacture love, but receives what is to flow through them to others.

Third, seek community and bear differences. Christ brings together people who would probably never have chosen one another: old and young, quiet and loud, locally rooted and newly arrived, devout in different ways. Love grows strong not because differences vanish, but because people receive one another in Christ. “Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you” (Romans 15:7). “Bear with one another in love” (Ephesians 4:2).

Fourth, practise hospitality. It does not happen automatically; it is spiritual training. No athlete becomes strong through one training day, and spiritual dispositions grow through practice. Hospitality requires time, planning, sacrifice and willingness to be interrupted.

6. Philadelphia and philoxenia

Two Greek words carry this movement. Philadelphia is sibling love among those whom Christ has made brothers and sisters. The verb menō means remain, endure, not break off or grow cold—the same word Jesus uses: “Remain in my love.”

Philoxenia joins philos, friend or loving person, with xenos, stranger or guest. It literally means love of the stranger, the friendly reception of the foreigner. What we call hospitality is, in Greek, friendship towards the stranger.

7. Philadelphia’s little strength

Philadelphia was also an ancient city. To its congregation Christ says: “I have set before you an open door that no one can shut, for you have but little power, yet you have kept my word and not denied my name” (Revelation 3:8). This congregation is small, without impressive influence, yet it holds to Christ. He promises an open door, protection and a lasting place in God’s temple. Little strength is enough when Christ opens the door.

8. Christ, the true host

In the parable of the final judgement Jesus says: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35). He identifies himself with the hungry, foreign, sick and imprisoned so completely that what we do for the least, we do for him. Yet before we welcome him, he has welcomed us. Christ is the true host who prepares the table, gives himself and makes strangers members of God’s household.

9. God has already visited

Return to the child’s question—mine and my daughter’s: Can we encounter God? Yes. God meets us in Jesus Christ, through the word that calls our name, and in the Spirit who opens the spring within us. Again and again he also meets us hidden in the neighbour at our door.

As a child I waited for a dream and thought nothing happened. Perhaps God was already waiting at another door. One day Christ will return visibly in glory; my daughter’s dream is not so wrong. Until then God often comes quietly: in someone needing a place at the table; a lonely neighbour; a prisoner forgotten by everyone; a stranger whose language we do not understand; our spouse, whom we may learn to hear anew; our children’s questions; and his word that calls us today.

Hear again the promise for the week: “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of God’s household.” This is not a task, but a fact. You have already been received. The door is open. The table is set. You do not have to earn your place in God’s house; Christ obtained it for you outside the gate. Go into this week as members of God’s household—and keep the door open.

May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

Amen.

Blessed for Relationship with God

“The Lord spoke to Moses: Tell Aaron and his sons, ‘This is how you shall bless the Israelites: The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his face toward you and give you peace.’ So they shall put my name upon the Israelites, and I will bless them.” (Numbers 6:22–27)

Dear congregation,

A medieval chronicle tells of an emperor who wanted to discover which language newborn children would speak if nobody ever spoke to them. The babies were fed and kept clean, but received no words, loving gestures or affection. One after another they died. They could not live without closeness, a friendly face and human attention. Had they been able to express it, their cry would have reached heaven: “A human being does not live by milk alone.”

We do not live by bread, rice or mashed potatoes alone. We were not created merely to exist biologically. Human beings not only seek relationships; we need them in order to live—relationships with others and with God.

That is why the Bible begins with relationship. Before the world is created, God himself lives in relationship: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The triune God is not a lonely God, but lives in eternal love, communion and unity. This God creates humankind in his image and breathes his Spirit into the earth from which the human being was formed, making a living soul.

We hunger for love, acceptance, closeness, recognition, peace and home; for another person with whom we can speak, disagree and be reconciled. The Aaronic blessing addresses precisely this hunger. It is far more than a beautiful liturgical conclusion. It is God’s personal turning towards his people—not primarily possession, success, health or prosperity, but relationship. “The Lord make his face shine upon you.” God looks at you. He sees and knows you and desires communion with you. In the Old Testament, God’s face means his personal presence. When his face shines, God is turned towards you, not against you. His light enters, and the darkness must give way.

Numbers may appear dry at first glance. It tells of Israel in the wilderness: long wandering, war, fear, conflict, murmuring, weakness and failure. Right in the middle of that wilderness, God speaks this blessing. Many think, “When everything is finally in order, then God can bless me—when I am stronger, more devout, make fewer mistakes and the wilderness is over.” Yet God blesses his people in the wilderness, not only afterwards.

He brings water from the rock. If we make the connection to the New Testament, Jesus is the rock on which we stand and the source of living water that not only satisfies but makes fruitful. Perhaps someone feels inwardly like a wilderness today: exhausted, disappointed, empty, wounded, lonely, outwardly provided for but without peace. God has not forgotten you. His blessing does not begin when everything is in order; it begins now, in the midst of pain. Jesus says, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” God does not wait until we are strong enough. He comes first and seeks relationship.

The first line is: “The Lord bless you and keep you.” Two verbs: bless and keep.

The Hebrew word barak, to bless, means to grant life, give strength, enable fruitfulness and make flourishing possible. Blessing is not merely a pious wish, but God’s effective turning towards us. God provides in need, gives and causes growth. He opens spaces of life, doors that were closed and new perspectives.

Immediately comes the second verb: “and keep you”. The Hebrew shamar means guard, protect and preserve, as a shepherd keeps the sheep and is ready to give his life for them. God is not only the giver; he is also the keeper. Psalm 121 says that the Keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. You may not understand everything in your life; neither do I. But you are not defenceless or abandoned. God sees your next step and the step after it before you have thought of either. Often he preserves us without our noticing. This does not mean a life free from care. Blessing is no guarantee of comfort, but the promise that you cannot fall deeper than into God’s loving hand.

The second line is: “The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you.”

The Hebrew field behind “shine” is or, light. On the first page of Scripture God says yehi or—“Let there be light.” Where God speaks, it becomes light, not only in the world but in your life. The blessing now becomes more personal. It speaks not only of God’s giving and protecting hand, but of his face. When a radiant person enters a room, the atmosphere changes. How much more do grief, pain and loneliness change when God enters our life and looks upon us with kindness?

“And be gracious to you.” The Hebrew chanan means grace. You cannot and need not earn God’s love. Our world often works by achievement: those who contribute, produce and perform are seen and promoted; those who make repeated mistakes or move slowly are quickly written off. The kingdom of God is different.

Think of the criminal crucified beside Jesus. He had nothing to offer and admitted his guilt. He did not even ask for grace, only to be remembered. Jesus answered: “Today you will be with me in paradise”—at home, in eternity, in relationship with me. God himself gives grace. Do not reject it. As Israel bent down to drink water from the rock and looked up to the bronze serpent in the wilderness, we too lift our eyes from the ground and look to Jesus Christ.

The third line is: “The Lord lift up his face toward you and give you peace.”

Again it is about God’s face. To lift his face towards you means to give you full attention. God does not overlook you or pass by carelessly. The Creator of the universe sees you. Many suffer because they do not feel truly seen. They function as mother, father, employee, minister, manager, neighbour or church member, yet inwardly ask: Does anyone really see me? Am I worth anything? The blessing says: God sees you—not only your role and performance, but you as a person with joy, pain and hope.

And what does he give? Shalom. Shalom is far more than the absence of conflict, a quiet evening or a day without stress. It means wholeness, healing, ordered relationships, inner rest, safety and a life hidden in God. Shalom means that life returns to its right place—in relationship with God.

I remember an evening from my work in a hotel. An Arab guest came to reception, and I greeted him warmly: “Salam alaikum—peace be with you.” To my surprise he did not reply. I repeated the greeting, but again there was no answer. I soon understood: he did not want to wish me peace; he wanted to complain.

It was midsummer, 37 degrees during the day. His room was too warm, but he did not want to open the window for fear of insects. The air conditioning could not cool the room to 18 degrees. We had already provided two fans and the hotel was full. I could offer only a cold drink with plenty of ice. Two hours later a bad Google review appeared.

The moment showed me how quickly people can lose their peace through disappointment, anger and unmet expectations. Sometimes we no longer grant peace to others because we ourselves have none. Yet Jesus says: “My peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your heart be troubled.”

God’s peace does not depend on perfect circumstances, ideal room temperature, universal understanding or a trouble-free life. It comes from God’s presence. That is why the Aaronic blessing ends with shalom. God reveals himself here and now. Peace is the atmosphere in which relationship can live.

Why does this text fit Trinity Sunday? Because it shows the heart of God. The Father blesses and keeps. The Son reveals God’s shining face and gives grace. The Holy Spirit places God’s peace in our hearts. Paul writes: “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

The good news is this: God is relationship, and he invites us into relationship with him and with one another. Christian faith is not managing a religion; it is living with the living God and following Jesus through the Holy Spirit. The triune God is not far from you. He blesses, keeps, shines, is gracious, sees you and gives you peace.

Perhaps you sense today: I need this peace. Then come to Jesus. Perhaps you are outwardly provided for but inwardly empty; much functions, but something is missing deep within; there is enough bread and wine, but too little closeness and peace. Hear this: the living God knows your name. He sees and turns towards you. He places his protecting hand upon you and speaks his blessing over your life.

Amen.

Between Heaven and Earth

John 17:20–26: Jesus prays not only for the disciples before him, but also for all who will believe through their word: that they may all be one, as the Father is in the Son and the Son in the Father; that the world may believe that the Father sent him; that God’s love may be in them and Christ in them.

Dear congregation,

The play told of people suspended between uncertainty and hope who slowly realise: we are not alone; Christ remains present. I would like to begin with a dream that has stayed with me to this day—between heaven and earth, on a chairlift.

I was seventeen and nearing the end of school in Bulgaria. The country was marked by severe hyperinflation. Money lost its value overnight and many people lost their livelihoods. In that period I had a vivid dream, almost a vision. I sat at my desk in a classroom on the top floor. During the lesson the ceiling slowly opened, and the pupils rose into an open sky with rose-coloured clouds. Before us lay a mountain slope. Each of us sat on an open chairlift. The journey was calm. I felt confident, hopeful and enjoyed the wind and the view.

Only one thing troubled me: my chair, initially near the front, moved far more slowly than the others. One after another, my classmates passed me, waving and laughing, finally even my best friend. They crossed the hill and disappeared. When my chair finally jolted over the ridge, I reached a beautiful green meadow—but no one was there. I looked up and saw an even larger mountain, immense and unavoidable. I knew that my path led upwards and that I would have to walk. There was no chairlift any more. Suddenly I was overcome by a deep fear of being alone and abandoned.

For a long time I did not understand the dream. At seventeen I had clear plans: study, finish quickly, find work, earn my own money, marry, have children and serve in the church. I had written my own plan for life—my expectations of myself and of God. But everything happened differently.

I passed the university entrance examination in Bulgaria after a whole year of preparation. Yet, like most classmates, I went to Aachen in Germany. “Three years of study” became nearly eight. Altogether I spent eleven years at university before receiving my first permanent job, and it had little to do with my studies: it was in a hotel. Family came much later too. I was nearly thirty. In Bulgaria we joked: until thirty you look for a bride yourself; afterwards your friends, then the family, then the congregation, and finally the whole city and republic look for you.

Financial stability did not come easily. I lived below zero more often than above it; things became stable only years later in Switzerland. And children? We waited another ten long years after the wedding before our daughter was born. From the dream to the moment when I could serve in a church here in Oftringen, about twenty-five years passed.

The chairlift of my life did move, but not quickly and not according to my timetable. The mountain was often larger than I expected. Yet one promise remained: I am with you.

This is where I slowly began to understand Ascension Day. God has a plan, but often a different one from ours. Jesus does not continue with his disciples as they expect. They anticipate a king who will free them from Rome and ask: “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” Jesus does not simply say yes. Yet he leaves them a promise: “I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

The Gospel leads us into Jesus’ final hours before the cross. He is betrayed, arrested, beaten and crucified. Then the unimaginable happens: he rises from the dead. He meets Mary Magdalene, the travellers to Emmaus, the disciples behind closed doors, more than five hundred people, Thomas who struggles to believe, and Peter and John by the Sea of Galilee. Before his ascension he gives the commission: “You will be my witnesses”—in Jerusalem, Samaria and to the ends of the earth.

Before he leaves, however, he prays for the disciples. John 17 is called Jesus’ high-priestly prayer. Astonishingly, he prays not only for those present, but for everyone who will later believe—for me, for you, for us. Before we were born, Christ prayed for us.

What does he ask? Not first for success, prosperity, strength or power, but “that they may all be one”. The world is to recognise something of God in this unity. Unity does not mean uniformity or that everyone must think alike. It means that people remain joined to one another and to God although they are different. In an age of political, social, ecclesial and even family fragmentation, the congregation should be another kind of place: a place where people are bound together not first by performance, but by acceptance, grace and Christ.

Ascension is also a feast of patience. The disciples receive a task, but first they must wait. They are not to plan everything anew and rush away, but to wait, pray and prepare inwardly. We prefer quick solutions, answers and results: everything good, in abundance, and now. Yet God’s ways are often slower than our plans. God is not our servant. He is near, but remains beyond our control.

Perhaps you are sitting today on such an open chairlift. You feel the wind, rain and storm. Perhaps you have waited for years—for change, healing, work, peace in the family, clarity or new strength—and the mountain looks enormous. Take heart. Christ sees you. He sees the whole way and the destination even when you see only the next metre.

The true comfort of Ascension is not that Jesus goes away—that hurts—but that he is now present in another way: no longer bound to one place, not only in Galilee or Jerusalem, but among his people, here and today, in Oftringen and in our everyday life, through his Spirit.

Jesus says: “Do not be afraid. I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Amen.

Held by the Good Shepherd

“Christ suffered for you and left you an example, so that you should follow in his steps. He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth. When he was insulted, he did not answer with insults; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but entrusted himself to the One who judges justly. He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sin and live for righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed. You were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Guardian of your souls.” (1 Peter 2:21b–25)

Jesus says: “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep… I know my own, and my own know me… I lay down my life for the sheep.” (John 10:1–15)

Dear congregation,

Some images speak to us immediately. The image of the shepherd is one of them. Even people who have little connection with the church know Psalm 23. Many have heard it at a grave; some have carried its words for years: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Yet the image has also become unfamiliar. Most of us no longer live among sheep on open green pastures. We live in well-insulated homes, between appointments and bills, work and family. Nor does the image of being a sheep appeal very much to a society that prefers to imagine itself as a lion, bear or at least a wolf.

That is precisely why this Shepherd Sunday matters. It asks a serious question: Who actually leads us? Whose voice determines our life? Who seeks us when we lose our way and lose ourselves?

The passage from 1 Peter takes up the image in a surprising way. Christ not only comforts us; he goes before us. He is not only the Shepherd who seeks us, but the One whose way of life we are called to follow. The guiding question is therefore: What does it mean to be held by the Good Shepherd when life becomes hard, unjust or confusing?

First Peter addresses Christians under pressure. They live as a minority and experience alienation, suspicion and disadvantage. The letter helps them to remain faithful without becoming bitter or giving up inwardly. Our passage speaks into experiences of injury, powerlessness and temptation.

It makes three central statements. First, Christ suffered and left us an example: we are to follow in his steps. Christ is not only the object of our faith but the way of our life—the One who leads us home to God. Second, Christ did not answer suffering with counter-violence. This is not weakness, but deep trust: he entrusted himself to the Father who judges justly. Third, Christ bore our sins and brought us home. The conclusion is not a moral ideal but salvation: we were lost and have been returned to the Shepherd and Guardian of our souls.

John 10 says the same: the Shepherd knows his own, calls them, protects them and gives them life. In the background stands Ezekiel 34, where God accuses Israel’s bad shepherds: they feed themselves rather than the flock, do not strengthen the weak and do not seek the lost. God himself promises to rescue his flock. The Good Shepherd is therefore not merely a beautiful image; he is God’s answer to human failure.

We do not believe in a distant Christ, but in One who knows us personally. He sees what we scarcely show anyone else: the tiredness behind our functioning, the irritability born of overload, the shame of failure, hidden envy, secret fear, inner emptiness and the questions we cannot say aloud.

People in Oftringen live very different lives. Some carry pressure and constant availability at work. Others bear much in their families: children, ageing parents, care, tensions and worry about the future. Some are retired and discover how quiet a day can become. Young people face pressure to perform and are expected to know very early who they are and where they are going. Some are at home in church; others remain cautiously distant. Yet one thing unites us: we easily lose direction.

Peter calls us “straying sheep”. That sounds harsh, but it is honest. We lose ourselves in secondary things and are driven by the noise of the day: voices of fear, comparison and cynicism; voices saying, “Look after yourself first. Show no weakness, emotion or tears. Take your rights for yourself.” Christ simply replies: “I know you. Because I know you, I seek you. Even if you feel hopelessly lost and alone, I will not let you fall.”

Then comes the word from Isaiah 53: “By his wounds you have been healed.” Christ does not help us merely by offering a good example. He saves through his suffering in our place. He bears our sins on the wood. The cross is not the tragic end of a noble man, but God’s act for us. There Christ takes upon himself what separates us from God and defeats death. He bears the guilt we cannot repay, the pain that paralyses us, our failure and shame.

The Good Shepherd is not merely a kind human being; he is the crucified and risen Lord. His goodness is costly—it costs him his life. Therefore he can truly save. Your guilt is overcome at the wooden cross. Your past has become his; your wound has become his wound. We are not promised that every problem will vanish, but that we are no longer abandoned to them alone.

Now comes the challenge: Christ left an example so that we should follow his steps. This text has sometimes been abused to teach people silently to endure injustice. It must not be read that way. It does not sanctify oppression. Ezekiel 34 itself condemns false shepherds who crush the weak. Peter’s point is that those who belong to Christ need not submit to the logic of revenge. When insulted, Christ did not strike back. He remained free of the cycle of injury, retaliation and renewed injury.

How contemporary this is. Our age is full of indignation, often for understandable reasons. Yet public speech has changed: quick judgement, sharp retaliation, reducing people to one mistake, writing them off inwardly. This happens not only on social media, but in families, marriages and congregations where people speak about one another rather than with one another.

Peter calls us to another path—not passivity, but Christlikeness. I need not always have the last word, repay every offence or answer hardness with hardness. I must not call injustice good, but neither must I allow it to poison me inwardly. This is difficult, often more difficult than striking back. Christian discipleship is therefore never mere morality; it is the fruit of grace.

The final word is not admonition, but promise. Jesus says: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life; they shall never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand.” No one will snatch them from my hand. This promise carries us when the way is unclear and when we have once again strayed.

The Good Shepherd gave his life for us, rose again and lives. He calls to you: “You are not lost. You are known. You are held.” Go into this week with the voice of the Shepherd in your ears—the Shepherd who knows and carries you.

Amen.

Your King Comes to You

1. Introduction: I was there when the King came

I remember it as though it were yesterday. The sun hung low over Jerusalem; the light was dusty and golden. The city was overflowing. Pilgrims came from every direction, voices spoke in every dialect, and the air carried the smell of dust, sweat and sacrificial smoke. Then a murmur ran through the crowd. Someone called, “He is coming!”

I stood at the city gate where the road rises from Bethany. In my ears was the ancient word of the prophet Zechariah, which we had heard so often in the synagogue:

“Rejoice greatly, daughter Zion! Shout, daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and bringing salvation, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Zechariah 9:9)

Suddenly there really was a man riding on a young donkey. No chariot, no soldiers, no shining armour—only a simple itinerant preacher surrounded by a colourful, ordinary company: fishermen, women, children, people with radiant eyes. The people tore branches from the palms, spread their cloaks on the ground and cried, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

I stood there and sensed: This is he. This is the king of whom Zechariah spoke. Not the king we had imagined—strong, military and forceful—but the king God had promised: righteous, humble and bringing peace. I did not yet know where all this would lead—to the cross, resurrection and Pentecost. But I sensed that if this king truly remains and reigns, everything will change. Then our weary and divided life has hope.

2. Zechariah 9: A king in a fractured age

2.1 Zechariah’s situation: no peace, no stability

Zechariah does not live in a “whole” world. The people have returned from exile. Jerusalem is not the proud capital it once was, but a half-finished building site. The temple is only slowly being rebuilt, the walls are weak, and the political situation is insecure. The people live under the rule of a great empire, Persia. They no longer have a king of their own, no descendant of David on the throne. Many are disappointed: Was that all? Is this why we returned?

It is a time of upheaval: politically unstable, economically strained, religiously uncertain and socially fragile. People ask: What has become of God’s promise? Where is the glory of which the old stories speak? Where is the king whom God promised?

Into precisely this situation God speaks through Zechariah: “See, your king comes to you.” Not “Perhaps.” Not “If you try hard enough.” But “See! Look! Your king comes.”

2.2 Different from what was expected: the humble king

Zechariah draws a radically different picture of kingship: “Righteous and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey.” In that world kings arrived in chariots and on warhorses, with armies marching behind them. Power showed itself loudly, forcefully and frighteningly.

God’s king is different. He is righteous: he stands on God’s side and the side of the weak. He is a saviour, but saves not through violence but through peace. He is humble: he does not meet us condescendingly, but comes near to us.

Verse 10 continues: “I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the warhorse from Jerusalem; the battle bow shall be broken. He shall proclaim peace to the nations. His rule shall be from sea to sea, and from the River to the ends of the earth.”

This is tremendous. God promises a king who brings peace not only to a few, but to all; a king who does not supply new weapons, but breaks those that already exist. In the midst of a time in which neither stability nor peace is visible, God gives a vision: the Prince of Peace will come.

3. Our time: we too live in the in-between

If we are honest, our own time is not so different: wars and escalating violence; political insecurity, populism of the right and left, polarisation; economic crises, inflation and anxiety about survival; ecological threats; broken families, inner exhaustion and loneliness.

Many live with the feeling: “There is no real peace—not in the news, not in my everyday life, often not even in my own heart.” Like Zechariah, we live in an in-between time. God’s great promise stands, but its fulfilment is not yet complete. We believe in Christ, yet we also see the darkness surrounding us.

Here the message of Zechariah 9 becomes important for my life. God did not say only then, “See, your king comes to you.” He says it today: Your king comes to you—in your agitation, insecurity and lack of peace. And this king, Jesus Christ, brings you two gifts.

4. The king’s two gifts: the new law of love and his Spirit

4.1 The gift of love—the new law in the heart

The king’s first gift is not merely a new catalogue of rules, but a new power to love. In the Reformed hymn book, number 847 contains the promise of the new covenant from Jeremiah 31, which God makes with his people Israel and in which we are permitted to share through Jesus Christ:

“The days are coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with my people. I will put my law within them and write it on their hearts. They shall be my people, and I will be their God. They shall all know me, from the least to the greatest.”

This is the wonder: God writes his law no longer only on tablets of stone or in books, but on hearts. He shapes us from within. The new covenant is a covenant of love—not, “You must love, or else,” but, “I give you the love with which you can love.” The Prince of Peace takes the hard, stubborn heart and gives a heart able to beat in time with God’s love.

4.2 The gift of the Spirit

The second gift is the Holy Spirit. John the Baptist recognises Jesus and says: “I baptise you with water for repentance, but the one who comes after me is mightier than I. He will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” (cf. Matthew 3:11; Luke 3:16)

John sees that this king is not merely a teacher or an example. He is the one who gives the Spirit of God—God’s presence within us. The Spirit comforts, lifts us inwardly, leads into truth, gives gifts (1 Corinthians 12) and causes the fruit of the Spirit to grow within us (Galatians 5:22): love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

The Spirit is God’s inward peace in an outwardly restless world. The king therefore comes not with chariots, but with something far more powerful: love that changes hearts and the Spirit who makes people new.

5. Living in the light of the coming day (Romans 13:11–12)

In Romans 13 Paul connects directly with these gifts: “You know what time it is, how it is now the hour for you to awake from sleep. Salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed. The night is far gone; the day is near. Let us therefore cast off the works of darkness and put on the armour of light.”

He says that we live in an in-between time, like the dawn. The night is still present, but it is passing. The day is not yet fully here, but it is coming. Because this light is coming, we are to live differently: not in the works of darkness—selfishness, hatred, indifference and destructive speech—but as people of the coming day: people of love, of the Spirit and of peace.

The two gifts, love and the Spirit, are precisely what we need. Love fulfils the law; the Spirit enables us to live in the light.

6. Application: what does this mean concretely?

First, in a world without peace, the Prince of Peace encourages us to receive his rest within our hearts—not as a feeling we produce, but as a gift. Christ says, “My peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

Second, in a hard and cold society, he places his law of love in our hearts. This is not outward pressure but inward transformation. We may pray: “Lord, fill me with your love. Teach me to love where I have no strength.”

Third, in our personal brokenness, he gives his Spirit. The Spirit wants to comfort us where we are wounded, correct us where we are entangled, strengthen us where we are weak and send us where we are needed.

Fourth, we face the future as people of hope: “The night is far gone; the day is near.” Jesus has come and he will come again. We live, as it were, between Palm Sunday and the Second Coming.

7. Conclusion: waiting for the King—a witness of the future

Let me once more take the role of an eyewitness, this time not looking back to Jerusalem but ahead into the future. I sense that the darkness of this age was real—wars, tears, broken relationships and inward struggles. But now something is happening.

I hear his voice: “See, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” (Revelation 3:20)

I realise that he stands at the door of my heart—not as a harsh ruler or demanding examiner, but as the Prince of Peace who long ago rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and now comes personally to me.

He does not come empty-handed. In one hand he holds the gift of love: “I will write my law on your heart. I will give you a new heart. You do not have to save yourself or love perfectly by your own strength. I give you my love.” In the other hand he holds the gift of the Spirit: “I will dwell in you. I will be your Comforter, your strength and your light in the darkness.”

He asks me: “Will you let me in—even into your wounds, your unrest, your guilt, shame and fear?” I open the door. Outwardly, much remains unsettled. The news continues to report crises; conflicts are not magically solved overnight; my life remains limited. Yet inwardly something new begins. The Prince of Peace makes his home in me. His Spirit begins to work. His love begins to shape my thinking, feeling and action. In the midst of a restless world I become a person of peace—not because I am so strong, but because he lives in me.

8. Invitation

So the final question is simple, but decisive: Will you let the King in? Will you open your door to him anew—perhaps for the first time, perhaps consciously once again? He does not force himself upon you. He knocks.

Amen.

Faith Sees the Invisible

Some time ago, Corrie ten Boom’s book The Hiding Place came into my hands. Corrie, the narrator, came from Haarlem in the Netherlands. Her family ran a watchmaker’s shop and lived simply, yet deeply rooted in the Christian faith. They were warm-hearted and practised hospitality and love of neighbour. Their father, Casper, shaped his children through a clear and lived devotion. From an early age, Corrie and her siblings learned to trust God and serve others. The family lived modestly, but with a generous heart for people in need. Corrie worked with young people and became the first licensed female watchmaker in the Netherlands. When the National Socialists invaded in 1940, everything changed. Threat and repression became part of everyday life. The ten Boom family decided to help Jews and other persecuted people. A secret room was built behind a false wall on the upper floor of the house. It served as a hiding place for Jews and members of the resistance. Again and again, people seeking protection arrived. Corrie and her sister Betsie took them in—despite the constant danger to their own lives.

This is a powerful story. It tells of the faith of a family in dark times. Just as Corrie ten Boom trusted God in the midst of the storm of her life, so the choir has just sung: “Through the storm of life lead me into your light; when I am weak, make me strong.” Before I reveal the end of the story, I would first like to turn to this central theme. What is faith? If we look for a definition, we find one in Hebrews 11. Faith is described as firm assurance concerning things we do not see. The chapter then names fathers and mothers of faith, including Sarah and later Rahab. It speaks of Rahab’s saving faith.

Who was Rahab? In Joshua 2:1, the Bible briefly tells her story: the story of a foreigner, an outsider and a prostitute; the story of a woman who did not have the best prospects in life. She was neither highly educated nor wealthy. She was despised by people and excluded from society. One day she heard news of a God whom she had not known before. The message struck her in the heart so forcefully that it took her breath away. She heard that this God had dried up the waters of the Red Sea and had led his people out of Egyptian captivity with a mighty hand. She recognised that he is almighty, Lord in heaven above and on earth below, stronger than the gods she had known and worshipped. At that very moment there was a knock at her door. Two men—men of Judah, spies—stood before her. They were fleeing, being pursued and dependent on help. They were messengers of the God about whom she had heard. Rahab heard, recognised and acted. She received the spies, hid and rescued them, and in doing so risked her own life. In this way her faith found both practical and prophetic expression. Rahab hung a scarlet cord from the window of her house as a sign of peace and a sign that would bring deliverance. Many years later God would send his own Son as a saving cord from heaven, made red by the blood that Jesus shed for us on the cross. Rahab found refuge, acceptance, protection and a new family. She became an ancestress of Boaz, who married Ruth the Moabite, Naomi’s daughter-in-law and the great-grandmother of King David. Rahab entered the genealogy of Jesus Christ as one of four women named expressly—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and Bathsheba: women of doubtful reputation, but with great hearts and deep faith.

What, then, is faith, and how does it differ, for example, from hope? Hope is embraced within faith. Hope gives us the content, the goal and the vision. Faith is the trust that bears that hope, the transforming power that makes hope possible. Think of an engineer commissioned to build a new road from A to B. With his outward eyes he sees nothing special—there is neither asphalt nor a bridge. Yet his inward eyes already see into the invisible. In his mind he has drawn a picture. Inwardly he sees the completed road and the car travelling on it. This image is hope: the vision of the goal. The fact that he draws plans, orders material and actually begins to build is a sign of his faith: he acts on the basis of his vision. Here, therefore, faith is action that transforms.

By faith we understand that the world was created through God’s word—that what is visible has its origin in the invisible. Faith is therefore testimony to the invisible God.

We see this also in the story of Job. He suffered as few others have: the loss of his children, his possessions and his health. His friends suspected that God had rejected him. Yet he clung firmly to God. In the midst of his distress he confessed:

“But I know that my Advocate lives, and at last he will rise above the dust. And after my skin has been so destroyed, I shall see God, apart from my flesh. I shall see him; my eyes shall behold him and no other. My heart faints within me.”

Job bears witness to the Invisible One whom he recognises in faith. At the end of his journey he confesses:

“I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you.” (Job 42:5)

Thus Job’s life itself becomes a testimony.

Allow me to give a personal testimony. As you know, my parents were unable to have children for a long time. My wife and I likewise waited eight years for a child. The story repeated itself. Various tests gave us only a probability between 0.1 and 0.01 per cent. Over the years, hopelessness crept into my life. It became difficult. Yet after a short prayer to God during one of my visits to Bulgaria, a spark of faith flared up, as small as a mustard seed. I had the assurance that the invisible God is greater than every calculation of probability. And so, at the beginning of January 2021, after a very difficult pregnancy, our daughter was born. We named her Yoana as a reminder that God is gracious.

For people to believe, they need to hear the word; proclamation is necessary. Preachers are messengers and servants of the word of God. They sow the seed of the message of God’s kingdom, and it falls upon the soil of our hearts. I long for this to become reality in our lives. Faith, then, is the good tree that grows from the seed of the good news and bears good fruit. The birds find refuge beneath its branches. The human heart is the treasury of faith. “More than anything else you guard, protect your heart, for from it flow the springs of life,” as Proverbs 4:23 says.

Faith means not only receiving the Gospel inwardly but also confessing it visibly. The word is near you—not distant, unreachable or abstract. It lives in your heart as trust and comes across your lips as confession. Faith means being deeply convinced that God loves me, receives me and grants me salvation through the sacrifice of Jesus.

Unlike Rahab’s story, the story of the Dutch family does not have a happy ending. In 1944 a collaborator betrayed the family. The Gestapo stormed the house. The Jews in the hiding place survived, but the family was arrested. Father Casper died shortly afterwards. Corrie and Betsie were deported to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. There they endured extreme cold, hunger and disease. Betsie died in the camp. Corrie survived and forgave—even a former camp guard who asked her to do so.

She knew that the God in whom she firmly believed was greater than anything she could see with her outward eyes. He works in secret, changes human hearts and leads us back to himself. He brings us home. The choir sang of this in its final song: “On the cross of Calvary Jesus died for me … Hallelujah, I am free,” and “Let the heaven light shine on me.” On Calvary’s cross Jesus died for me. Hallelujah, I am free. Let the light of heaven shine upon me on the way to the bright heavenly world.

Amen.