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Week 1

November 30

Isaiah 2:1-5 | Wider Than We Imagine

The scope of Isaiah's vision startles us. The prophet sees "all nations" streaming toward God's mountain. It isn't just Israel, but people from every direction, speaking every language, worshiping every god. They come eagerly, saying, "Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord.”

This is no vision of a tribal deity claiming supremacy. This is more radical: God's teaching going forth to the world, God's word reaching "to the end of the earth." The nations don't come because they've been conquered; they come because they recognize in God's wisdom the path to genuine peace.

We domesticate this vision at our peril. How easily we wrap God in our national flags, baptize our political priorities, and assume the kingdom looks like our particular kind of Christianity. But Advent disrupts such small imaginings. The child born in Bethlehem comes not as Caesar's rival but as humanity's hope—offering a reign that makes weapons obsolete and turns our instruments of violence into tools for cultivation.

Isaiah's promise of nations learning war no more isn't naive optimism. It's the bold announcement that God's future breaks open every boundary we construct. The light we await in Advent shines for all people. The peace we long for isn't merely personal tranquility. It is the healing of the nations.

As we prepare for Christmas, we're invited into this larger story—one where God's mercy overflows every border we've drawn, where the good news really is for all people, where Christ comes to reconcile not just individuals to God but to gather a fractured world toward shalom.
How might God be calling you to see beyond familiar boundaries this Advent?

Prayer: Lord, as you open your heart to the whole world through the coming of Jesus, open our hearts to our neighbors of every tribe, religion, and nation. Teach us to speak good news beyond the boundaries of our own understanding and experience. 

Robert Hunt, Director of Global Theological Education


December 1

Psalm 124 | A Song of Ascents. Of David.

Psalm 124:1 reminded me of an occasion in my first undergraduate year as a member of the UF Gospel Choir. Sadly enough, the choir was attending the funeral of Alton in his Tampa hometown. He drowned in a lake close to the university in Gainesville, and the whole incident shook the young choir. We traveled together to the service, and because of our collective support and presence, Alton’s mother requested that the choir provide a selection following the eulogy. We sang the gospel song, “If It Had Not been for the Lord on My Side”.  Psalm 124:1b resonates with an invitation to the community of faith to join in this Song of Ascent, like the choir. For Songs of Ascent, “Scholars frequently observe that Psalms 120-134 deal often with matters of daily life -place of residence, routine activities, the importance of spouse and children, larger family and friends...national concerns in the context of festal celebrations where individuals and families from all over would have been brought together by loyalties that transcended the personal and familial.” (J. Clinton McCann, 1996, p. 1176) 

Alton’s death was a disruption in our young comprehension of daily life as college students, as well as a concern for family, natural and extended.  The choir’s loyalty was truly transcendent, reassuring and reaffirming though. And, celebrating his young life, singing that song in those moments together came moreover to be a festal gathering for both familial contingencies. We all transcended like this psalm’s early ‘then’ clauses together. For along life’s journey, of which death is a part, avengers seem to swallow, angers are kindled, floods, torrents and raging waters will be overwhelming, yet in climbing up from life’s abysses together, it can be realized that our Help is ever present, coming and with us always when we offer praise to God.  This is the potency that resounds through those latter three verses of Psalm 124.

If not already, soon we will read the pericopes, sing the carols and songs of this festive Advent season in which family and friends gather. Let us do so heartily and be reminded that our help is in the Lord, Creator of heaven and earth.

Hebrews 11:32-40

Hebrews 11 closes with a whirlwind list of unnamed heroes whose faith carried them through circumstances that were anything but triumphant. Some experienced victory and deliverance; others endured violence, displacement, injustice, and loss. The text does not romanticize their suffering, nor does it pretend that faith guarantees an easy path. Instead, it honors the truth that faith often means trusting God amid unresolved stories. 

These verses remind us that the Advent journey is not simply about waiting for light—it is about acknowledging the real shadows in which many people still live. The early believers described here held on to God’s promise even though they did not see its fullness in their lifetimes. They carried hope not as a reward for endurance but as a lifeline that enabled them to keep going. 

During Advent, we often speak of hope in warm, glowing terms. But Hebrews turns our attention to a gritty, determined hope—a hope that persists despite disappointment, a hope that keeps choosing trust when outcomes remain uncertain. This kind of hope is not naïveté; it is courage. It is the belief that God’s story is not finished, and that the God who has acted in the past will act again. 

The passage concludes with a profound truth: God’s promise was not complete without us. We, too, are part of the unfolding wholeness God is creating. The saints who kept faith across centuries were not abandoned to incomplete stories; rather, their stories knit together with ours as God continues the work of redemption. 

Advent invites us to join that long line of faithful witnesses—to hold on to hope even when circumstances contradict it, to trust that God is bringing all things toward restoration, and to remember that the promise we await is not just personal but communal. We wait together, held by a God who honors every story, especially the unfinished ones. 

Prayer: God of all who wait in hope, strengthen us when the world feels heavy and our faith feels thin. Teach us to trust your unfolding promise, even when we cannot yet see its completion. Knit our stories into the great tapestry of your redemption, and make us living witnesses of your coming light. Amen. 

Geoffrey Moore, Curator of Community Worship

December 3

Matthew 24:36-44 

Advent begins the liturgical year with a focus on the End of time. In Advent, we await the coming of Christ, but the first week of Advent focuses not on the birth of Christ but on the return of Christ, the second coming at the end of time. 

Today’s reading comes from the “eschatological discourse” in the Gospel of Matthew (the Greek root of eschatology means “end”). Matthew portrays Jesus as answering the disciples’ question, “When will this [the destruction of the temple] be, and what will be the sign of your coming and of the end of the age?” (24:3). What he reveals, however, is not a timeline for the End times. Indeed, Jesus spends a great deal of time on what should not be considered markers of the End (24:5–28). The only reliable signs of the Son of the Human’s return will be cosmic in nature: the sun, moon, and stars will quit shining (24:29). If you look out your window and see the sun, it’s not today. 

In our passage, Jesus twists expectations even more by comparing what will happen in the End to the time of Noah’s ark: the flood took away the sinful and left behind the righteous. We often hear about those left behind as the ones not being saved, but not so according to Matthew. Being left behind is being saved. 

Matthew then has Jesus tell a series of parables to describe why we are left behind (24:45–25:46). We are to be like the faithful and wise servant who takes care of the other servants while the master is away. We are to be like the five bridesmaids who brought enough oil to keep their lamps lit while awaiting the groom. We are to be like the servants who multiplied the talents the master gave them charge over while he was away. We are to be like sheep who feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, and visit the imprisoned, and not like the goats. 

To be a Christian for Matthew is to embrace an Advent way of life. We await the return of Christ by taking responsibility for our faithfulness and for others’ needs. 

O Christ, who is always coming to us, grant that we may await your coming not by staring out windows and wondering when, but by serving you and others in the here and now. Amen. 

O. Wesley Allen, Jr., Lois Craddock Professor of Homiletics 

December 4

John 3:16

Now, Behold the Lamb is a powerful and moving song whose lyrics ring true: “Why you love me so, I’ll never know, but thank You...” No, we may never know why He loves us, but we believers are assured that He does, and we experience His love daily. Just read His Word, and we find countless examples, stemming from John 3:16. 

Beloved, let us think on things that bring us joy: the love that Jesus embodies in us, and the light we shine for Him through our love for one another as brothers and sisters in Christ. We see that love, that illuminating light in our personal families and friends, and within our º£½ÇÖ±²¥ Perkins family. We are blessed people, indeed! Look around the world now and pray on what’s needed: women and men shining ever so brightly with love and faith, hope for unity, and peace for all. 

How about the diligence of you and what you encompass as a believer with faith in the reason for this Season—the birth of Jesus the Christ—and how this bright truth propels you forward to reach out to someone who may not know this love and light? This is our mandate; reflect Jesus’ love and let it mirror onto another.  

Moving forward, we may not be able to sing Now Behold the Lamb as eloquently as lead singers, but we can most assuredly chime in on the truth: yes, He loves us and gives full proof through our daily encounters with His amazing love chain!  Yes, Jesus loves us despite our shortcomings. That’s His promise to us, and that’s why we forge ahead with a new joy that spills over into living and being as light dispelling the dark. 

Let us pray:

Precious and Gracious Lord God Almighty, You are the great I AM, and we honor and adore you. Thank you for loving and creating us in your image. We praise and bless you for your unconditional love that continues to manifest abundantly in healing, helping, and handling of our heavy-duty life obstacles.  Forgive us as we forgive others. Create in us a clean heart, and may we be ever mindful of your blessed Gift of Your Son Jesus Christ to us, which translates into victory.

 A³¾±ð²Ô. 

Blessings on this Advent, Christmas Season! 

Carolyn Barker, M.Div. Spring 2026  

December 5

Acts 13:16–25

In Acts 13, Paul stands before a gathered community and reminds them that God’s story is long, layered, and always leaning toward liberation. He doesn’t start with Jesus—not right away. Instead, he starts generations earlier, retelling a history full of wandering, leadership, mistakes, and mercy. Paul’s sermon feels like a pastoral reminder that faith is never rooted only in a single moment; it is rooted in the long, patient work of God’s shaping love.

Advent is a season that asks us to slow down enough to remember. Not simply to reach for nostalgia, but to look honestly at the roads that brought us to this present moment. Paul emphasizes that God raised up leaders “according to the heart of God,” and then fulfilled the promise by raising up Jesus. God’s faithfulness unfolds across years and lives, sometimes quietly, sometimes disruptively, always toward redemption.

In a season marked by longing—for justice, for healing, for peace—we might hear Paul’s sermon as an invitation to trust that God is already weaving something larger than we can see. Advent calls us to situate our personal stories inside God’s broader one. The hopes we carry, the grief we hold, and even the uncertainties that weigh us down are not isolated experiences. They are part of a sacred narrative in which God has been present all along.

As we wait for Christ’s coming, perhaps we are invited to practice holy remembrance: naming where God has shown up before, acknowledging where transformation is still needed, and trusting that the One who began a good work will continue it. Paul’s retelling assures us that God’s promises don’t expire, and that divine faithfulness is often revealed across time—not just in sudden revelation, but in steady, unfolding grace.

Prayer: God of all generations, help us remember your faithfulness in our past and trust your promises for our future. Shape our waiting into hope, our hope into courage, and our courage into love. Prepare our hearts to recognize your presence already rising among us. Amen.

December 6

Isaiah 40:1-11

They had lost, literally, everything. When the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, had come with his vast, powerful army to the city of Jerusalem, they surrounded it … and then just waited. After several months, Jerusalem’s king, Zedekiah, surrendered unceremoniously and shamefully. Zedekiah was bound in chains and brought before Nebuchadnezzar, who sent him away to Babylon. Not satisfied with exiling the king, Nebuchadnezzar also took everyone else who had survived the siege, enslaved them, and took them away, as well. Then, not satisfied with exiling the populace, under his direction, his army thoroughly destroyed Jerusalem. No more palace. No more Temple. No more dwellings, No more wall. The place was razed to the ground. Those people who went away to Babylon had lost, literally, everything.

And in the midst of that prison, that despair, that hopelessness, a voice spoke. Unlike most of the prophets who had spoken before, this new word was not of judgment and justice, but of comfort, mercy, and hope. It was a word that looked forward to a new day, a new people, a new city. It was a word that spoke of a God who would return—along with those who were in that prison, that despair, and that hopelessness—to the site of Jerusalem and rebuild it.

At the end of the reading for this day, in Isaiah 40:10-11, a vision of a mighty, justice-filled deity is revealed. Here is a God who, like Nebuchadnezzar and his army, is powerful, is commanding, is inexorable. Nothing can stand in the way of this God! “His arm rules for him,” the text proclaims. But then, suddenly and surprisingly, the vision turns. What does this king, this God, do with that mighty, ruling arm? Destroy cities? Level palaces and walls? Remove people? No, no, no. This one bares that mighty arm to “feed his flock like a shepherd… gather the lambs in his arms and carry them on his chest, and gently lead the mother sheep.” Unlike Nebuchadnezzar… and unlike all who would use power to destroy and overturn and oppress… our God is one who uses divine, inexorable authority to care for all of us, particularly those of us who most need that care.

O God, as we await your coming, help us turn our fascination away from those who use their power and influence to malign, harm, and trouble. Turn our eyes to the one who comes, not as the conquering hero, but as the powerful, inexorable Prince of Peace.

Roy L. Heller, Professor of Old Testament, Altshuler Distinguished Teaching Professor, Director of the Graduate Program in Religious Studies

Week 2

December 7

Isaiah 11:1-10

The self-trained Black painter Horace Pippin painted an interpretation of Isaiah 11 in his 1945 work “The Holy Mountain” (Isa. 11:9). The foreground shows the animals depicted in the Isaiah passage peaceably grazing alongside Black children lounging in the grass alongside them. The background paints a more sinister portrait. Among the trees, we see outlines of a lynched man, a plane on the upper branches dropping bombs on a cemetery below, and soldiers in war.i He paints during the ashes of World War II and in the midst of Jim Crow. These spectral vestiges of contemporary violence combined with Isaiah’s peaceful metaphors present a stark contrast, and prompt us to consider what peace looks like today.

Pippin’s depiction of war imagery in the background reminds his audience and ours too that peace, like hope, is a here-and-not-yet reality. Isaiah recognizes this as well: 10.2 says “Woe to those who make iniquitous decrees…to turn aside the needy from justice” before he turns to the peaceable kingdom the next chapter and the peaceful mountaintop imagery. We realize that for peace to come, justice must reign. For Pippin, the peaceable kingdom is juxtaposed against racial violence and war. For us today, the background images could still include racial discrimination, abuse and unjust treatment of migrants, and growing class inequities exacerbated by political motives. We too dream of a place where the lion and calf eat together.

When everyone has what they need and experiences equity, peace will come. As the Baptist theologian Martin Luther King tells us, we will not get there alone, but together. I see this in the group of multireligious clergy that stands vigil at the ICE detention office every Monday, praying for migrants and standing for justice. That we can dream points us to a reality that it God’s kin-dom. Let it be so, for Isaiah, for King, and for us.

Prayer: God of the wolf and the lamb,   Help us work toward your justice  So we can rest in your peace.  Amen 

Kate Hanch, Director of the Baptist House of Studies

December 8

Psalm 21 | Joy in the Strength That Holds Us

Psalm 21 is a victory song, but it’s not the kind that pretends life is easy. It’s the kind that looks straight at the battlefield (real enemies, real threats, real schemes) and still dares to rejoice, because the psalmist knows where strength actually comes from. 

At first glance, the focus is “the king”: crowned, blessed, granted desire, given life “length of days, for ever and ever.” But as the psalm unfolds, it becomes clear this is not a celebration of human greatness. It’s a celebration of God’s sustaining presence. The king’s joy isn’t rooted in ego or achievement; it’s rooted in the victories you give and the joy of your presence. Power is redefined: not domination, but dependence—“the king trusts in the Lord…he will not be shaken.”

That line lands like a hand on the shoulder in a season like Advent, when we’re asked to live with tension: longing and waiting, grief and hope, unsettled headlines and stubborn praise. Some days, “victory” looks like surviving. Some days it looks like choosing integrity when others plot harm. Some days it looks like telling the truth, doing good quietly, or refusing to let fear make your decisions for you. 

God of unshakable love, 
when we are tired, be our strength; 
when we are afraid, be our steadiness; 
when evil seems loud, be our defender. 
Teach us to rejoice not in our power, but in your presence, ð ŠŠnd to sing praise even as we wait for your justice to come. ï¿½ exalted in your strength, O Lord. Amen. 

Romans 15:14-21

In Romans, Paul writes to a community he has not yet met but already believes in—trusting their goodness, knowledge, and ability to care for one another. His confidence in them isn’t sentimental; it’s rooted in the grace of God that equips ordinary people to do extraordinary work. Advent carries that same reminder: God often builds the future through communities who may not feel ready, but who are willing.

In this passage, Paul reflects on his ministry as an offering—something sanctified not by personal achievement, but by the Spirit working through him. This reframing is crucial. Advent invites us to shift from striving to attentiveness, from productivity to faithfulness. What if our calling isn’t to accomplish impressive things but to make space for God’s work to shine through us?

Paul’s desire to preach “where Christ has not been named” resonates with our longing for renewal in places that feel unfamiliar or untouched by hope. Many of us carry deep concern for fractured relationships, unjust systems, or communities that feel forgotten. Advent encourages us to imagine what newness might look like there. Not through our own force but through trust that Holy Spirit continues to move and God is not done yet.

The season of waiting is also a season of widening. Through Christ, God gathers people across boundaries and identities, forming a community shaped by mutual encouragement and shared purpose. In a world that often feels polarized, Paul’s words challenge us to reconnect—to believe that God can work through us and in us, even when the path ahead is uncertain.

As we journey through Advent, may we recognize the Spirit’s work in us: moving us to generosity, justice-seeking, and quiet acts of compassion. Paul reminds us that God is always creating new beginnings, especially in places that have yet to experience the fullness of Christ’s peace.

Prayer: Spirit of hope, open our eyes to the work you are already doing through our communities. Give us courage to carry Christ’s love into unfamiliar places. Strengthen us to serve with humility, joy, and trust in your transforming grace. Amen.

December 10

Matthew 12:33-37 | Christ the True Tree, and the Fruit of Our Hearts

During Advent, we remember that Jesus is the shoot from the stump of Jesse—the promised Branch who brings life out of places that seem cut down or forgotten. Isaiah 11 promises that from this unlikely stump will rise a righteous Branch whose fruit will renew creation. Matthew 12 uses similar imagery when Jesus says, “A tree is known by its fruit.” These two passages, read together, invite us to see Advent not just as waiting for Christ, but preparing to be rooted in Him, the True Tree who brings life to the world.

Christ bears the fruit that we cannot produce on our own. His life is marked by love, mercy, righteousness, justice, compassion, and peace. Advent invites us to graft our lives into His life so that the fruit He bears becomes the fruit we bear. In this season, we reflect on what is growing within us: What fruit is visible in my life right now? What do my words, habits, and reactions reveal about the state of my heart?

Jesus says, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” Advent gives us the gift of slowing down long enough to listen—to our words, our reactions, our desires, our longings. If our words are fruit, then Advent becomes a season of spiritual gardening: preparing the soil, tending the roots, pruning what distracts, and making space for new growth.

The Jesse Tree tradition beautifully reinforces this work. Each ornament—Abraham’s stars, Ruth’s grain, David’s harp, Isaiah’s stump—tells part of the long story of God’s faithfulness. That story culminates in Jesus, the True Tree who bears the good fruit of redemption for the whole world. As we hang Jesse Tree symbols or read Scripture in these weeks, we are reminded that God has always been in the business of bringing life out of stumps and hope out of barrenness.

As we prepare for Christ’s coming, we ask Him to cultivate His life within us: mercy instead of harshness, peace instead of hurry, love instead of fear, generosity instead of scarcity, and hope instead of resignation. This Advent, choose one “fruit” to practice intentionally—one way your life can point to the Tree you belong to. Let your words and actions become living ornaments on Christ’s Jesse Tree, signs of the new life He brings into the world.

Prayer: Christ, our coming Savior, plant Your life deep within me. Make my heart good soil and let Your fruit grow in my words and actions. Graft me into Your life so that hope, peace, joy, and love may flourish in me this Advent season. Amen.  

Amy Reddoch, M.Div. Student

December 11

Ruth 1:6-18

They had thought that a new life in Moab would solve their problems. With famine raging in Judah, Moab had seemed to be the answer to their prayers. But, once Naomi, her husband, and her two sons had arrived, that rosy picture soon became tarnished. Her husband died, her sons took Moabite wives (which was forbidden by the Law), and then her sons had died. What Naomi had hoped to be a new, fresh beginning was just more of the same … and even worse.

Once she decides that life back in Judah is the only option, she sets out, and her Moabite daughters-in-law begin to accompany her. In her grief, she tries desperately to persuade them to remain in their homeland. (Misery sometimes loves solitude!) Naomi uses all sorts of persuasive techniques toward Ruth and Orpah (vv. 11-13). She commands them to return to their parents (twice). She asks about their motives or, perhaps suspiciously, their ulterior motives. She believes her only worth in life is bearing children, which is now impossible. She compares her plight to theirs, and finds theirs to be trifling. Then, finally, she does what we all do when faced with a reluctant audience: she does theology! “The hand of the LORD has turned against me,” she opines (v. 13b). Naomi looks at her life and sees the hand of God at work… causing her grief and devastation. For Naomi, God is someone who causes bad things to happen to people, particularly people like her.

Naomi lives in a world of fairness and just desserts. But, for Naomi, God can also be unfair. God is someone who reaches down and causes famine, pestilence, death, and bereavement. God, for Naomi, is someone who is separate and makes things to happen. This is the theology of Naomi, and it just leads her to further emptiness and hopelessness and grief. 

Ruth, however, sees things differently (vv. 16-17). Ruth finds that she already has the beginning of a relationship with Naomi’s God. But, for Ruth, any relationship with that God begins with a relationship with another person, particularly a person one loves. Relationship with God is found in fidelity, compassion, and love toward another human. For Ruth, being in a relationship with Israel’s God means loving another human.  

Blessed Savior, as we await your advent in Bethlehem, open our eyes to the true meaning of your incarnation. Help us to see that you are not separate from our sufferings, but that you suffer with us in our grief, our pain, and our disappointment. Give us a renewed understanding that loving others is like loving you… and loving you leads us to love others, in turn.

Roy L. Heller, Professor of Old Testament, Altshuler Distinguished Teaching Professor, Director of the Graduate Program in Religious Studies 

December 12

Advent is a time of preparation. A time of expectation. A time of waiting. A time filled with hope.

This little snippet of Ruth’s story is pregnant with hope (pardon the pun). Ruth is a faithful woman. An obedient woman. A woman of valor, chosen for her role because of her willingness and her devotion. Here, at the end of her story, she bears a son. Not just any son, but a redeemer.

The women of the town say to Naomi, “May the LORD be blessed, who today hasn’t left you without a redeemer.” They say it to Naomi, but I hope Ruth heard it as well. I hope she believed it for herself. Because this son of hers, who is named Obed, which means “worker” or “servant,” is the redeemer of not just his grandmother but his mother as well. He frees them both from what has held them in captivity, from what has brought distress to them. For Naomi, his grandmother, he will take care of her in her old age.

For his mother, she is now recognized as the woman of valor she has been all along.

I hope we hear those words as well. Because they are words for us, just as much as they were words for Naomi, and for Ruth.

“May the LORD be blessed, who today hasn’t left you without a Redeemer.”

In this time, when it perhaps feels as though hope is waning, when we feel empty and barren, may we remember that the LORD hasn’t left us without a Redeemer, the one who frees us from our captivity. Who sets us free from what distresses us. Our Redeemer has come, and is still coming. Our Redeemer lives. The LORD hasn’t left us.

Prayer: God who redeems, fill us with Advent hope today. Just as Obed was the redeemer of Naomi and Ruth, you are our Redeemer today. We bless you today, knowing that you have not left us without a Redeemer. Amen.

Kaylee Vida, Associate Director of Lifelong Learning

December 13

1 Samuel 2:1-8

When we sit in worship planning, I regularly remind my music staff how important their choice of songs is in conveying the message for the week. I know that on an average Sunday most people will not remember much of what I preach, but they will walk out singing the songs.

Music takes root in ways that words simply cannot. Music speaks beyond words into our very souls. It allows us to voice the things that cannot be spoken. This is the tragedy of Hannah’s song – not that she speaks these words that echo her deep pain healed, but that we cannot hear her sing it. Because she sang it! Undoubtedly with that profound joy – the kind of joy that springs forth from inexpressible pain – that comes when we have known a healing of our darkest places. What did that song sound like?

We might be quick to jump to the sound of the Magnificat, however we have heard it set to music, because Mary does echo Hannah’s song in her song. While both songs are songs of women who were unexpectedly pregnant, their journeys to such places are markedly different. When we quickly compare the two, we may injure those who still struggle to be pregnant, who long to sing like Hannah and are so often hurt by Mary’s story of unsought pregnancy. No, when I think of how Hannah sings, I am transported to Notre Dame de Paris, where I stood in 1998 surrounded by World Cup fans, all of us singing in unison, and hearing behind me a voice that was ecstatically not in tune. I turned around to see an African man singing with such palpable joy that I could not help but stare at him. I had never seen such joy embodied in a human in all my life, standing in a cathedral of a nation that quite possibly colonized his, and experiencing the collective reversal of all things in all moments, singing together with all voices in all notes, and knowing that this – THIS! – was experiencing the reign of God before us, like the world was born anew. In moments of such unbound joy, how can we keep from singing?

Prayer: God of sound and song, of heartbreak and heartbeat, you are with us in all things. Thank you for giving us joy that transcends our everyday moments. And thank you for giving us music that speaks more than we could ever say. Amen.

Michelle J. Morris, 2009 M.Div. and 2014 Ph.D., Lead Pastor, FUMC Bentonville