I turned over the earth and carefully placed the seeds in two tidy rows as the seed packet instructed, and I waited. Some part of me thought they might start growing the same day – of course, they did not. Over the next couple weeks, I was out there at least twice a day, leaning over the dirt, looking for any sign of life. Nothing.

And then finally, one day, I saw it—this impossibly tiny green shoot. I remember thinking: How on earth is that little thing going to become a giant sunflower? So, I kept watering and waiting and hoping something more might happen. And it did. By the end of the summer, those sunflowers were taller than I was. I could stand beneath them and look up—and laugh at how worried I’d been in the beginning.

For the last two summers here I have so enjoyed seeing the giant sunflowers grow in our own Loaves and Fishes garden. It brings me back to my own garden experience—to that strange mix of excitement and uncertainty, and all the daily work that waiting often requires.

That has been one of my major learnings: waiting doesn’t always look passive. Sometimes it looks like checking the soil, protecting the seedlings, trusting something small will become something glorious. It can mean preparing a place for life to take root—even when you’re not sure it will. That’s the kind of waiting Jesus speaks to in today’s gospel reading.

Scripture: John 14 and the Peace of Preparation

Here, we meet Jesus in a quiet moment with his disciples. He is preparing them for a future they are just beginning to imagine. His earthly ministry is nearly over, and he knows that life is about to change. But instead of offering a roadmap or a checklist, he offers them this:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

Jesus isn’t giving them instructions for achieving peace. He’s offering peace as a gift—a byproduct of love and of the Spirit’s presence. “Those who love me will keep my word… and we will come to them and make our home with them.”

This is peace that holds space. Peace that lives not in certainty, but in trust. And then he says: “The Advocate, the Holy Spirit… will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.” The Spirit doesn’t freeze us in place. The Spirit forms us while we wait.

Waiting as a Spiritual Practice

We don’t always think of waiting as a spiritual practice. More often, we treat it as something to endure or get through. But what if waiting isn’t just what happens before the real thing starts? What if waiting is part of the real thing? During Lent, several of you gathered with Pastor Barbara for a class on Spiritual Practices.

Each week, you explored a different way of making space for God—ways of quieting the noise just long enough to listen more deeply. You opened yourselves Lectio Divina, listening to scripture not for information but for a word or phrase that speaks to your heart. You experimented with Praying in Color, letting creativity open a doorway to prayer. You sat in the stillness of Centering Prayer, where the goal isn’t words but presence and you tried Journaling as a way to notice God’s presence in the everyday.

Each of those practices invited us into a kind of waiting. Not waiting as in “doing nothing” but waiting as in “making room.” Slowing down enough for our spirit to catch up to God’s Spirit. I saw how engaged that class was. How meaningful it felt—not just as an intellectual exercise, but as a heart-level shift.

People said things like: “I didn’t realize how much I needed this” and “I’ve never done this before, but something opened up for me.” That’s what spiritual practice does. It opens up space. It creates margin in our souls and makes room for God’s spirit to work.

And in that way, it mirrors this season we have been in as a church.

Because we’re not just “waiting around” for a new pastor. We are practicing a kind of collective spiritual attentiveness. We are living into a time that invites us to notice, to listen, to prepare. We’re not frozen in place—we’re moving forward, just differently. With intention. With prayer. With hope.

And like any practice, this kind of waiting can shape us by strengthening our trust and sharpening our vision. This kind of waiting can deepen our connection to God—not because we’re doing more, but because we’re paying attention.

Waiting, in that sense, is a profoundly spiritual act. It reminds us that God is not only in the arrival, but also in the unfolding. And it reminds us that peace—the peace Jesus promises—isn’t the absence of movement. It’s the presence of God’s Spirit, right here, right now – in the waiting.

Psalm 67: Blessing in the Meantime

Our Psalm for the day – Psalm 67 opens with a familiar phrase: “May God be gracious to us and bless us and make his face to shine upon us.” This is not just a private prayer for comfort, it’s a prayer for purpose. “That your way may be known upon earth, your saving power among all nations.”

This psalm gives us a posture for waiting that isn’t idle or inward-focused. It’s grateful, generous, and expansive. It sees God at work in the present moment, not just the future one. And it gives voice to what so many of us need to hear: That peace and blessing are not rewards for getting everything settled. They are gifts of grace for the road as we walk it.

A Church in Anticipation

Last week in worship, we heard an update from your PNC, Pastor nominating Committee.  They communicated how hard they have been working, and we know that’s true.  They shared how many wonderful potential candidates they have encountered, but in respect of the process, they could not give specifics.  While we understood there was much they could not share, it was clear that they are continuing to move forward with prayer and deep commitment.

And so here we are—no longer at the starting line, but not quite at the finish either. What I see, and what I hope you see too, is that this congregation is in a sacred season. You’ve done the work of listening. You’ve held space for change and opened yourselves to new possibilities. You’ve stayed grounded in trust, even when the next step hasn’t always been visible.

Now comes the invitation to let peace settle in. Not a peace that quiets your energy—but a peace that channels it. Not a peace that silences your questions—but one that centers them in faith. Because the waiting isn’t over. But the waiting has changed. It has become a hopeful threshold. And you are standing on it together.

Memorial Day and the Long Arc of Peace

As we stand at this hopeful threshold together, we are also aware that this weekend holds a deeper weight. Memorial Day asks us to remember—not just names and dates, but the cost of conflict, the ache of loss, and the generations shaped by sacrifice. And while it is a national observance, it reaches into the heart of the church’s calling.

Because we are a people shaped by the Prince of Peace. We hold to the vision of swords turned into plowshares, and a world where justice and mercy embrace. Peace, as Jesus offers it, is not the absence of hardship. It is the presence of love—real love, rooted in compassion and courage.

So even as we anticipate what comes next for our church, we do so with hearts wide open to a world still longing for healing. And the peace Jesus offers us is not for ourselves alone. It is peace that calls us outward—to mend what is broken, to love what is hurting, to bless what lies ahead.

Conclusion: Waiting That Moves Us Forward

So here’s what I invite you to hold today: Waiting doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Waiting means something is growing.

And the peace Jesus gives—real peace, Spirit-filled peace—is not a soft cushion. It’s a steady hand. It lets us breathe. It lets us hope. It lets us walk forward—even if we don’t yet see the whole path. This is peace in the waiting—not at the end of path, but right in the middle. And it’s already taking root.

In the name of our Creator, Christ, and Holy Spirit. Amen.