Rev MaryGean Cope

Tag: love

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    There was a widow—that’s the only detail we need to know. She was a widow and her only son was dead. And she was carrying his body out of the city for burial.

    Jesus saw her and something moved in him. The Gospel says he had compassion. But compassion doesn’t quite cover it. It’s a gut-level, bone-deep recognition of someone’s suffering. Jesus knows the depth of her loss in a way nobody else can. He stops the funeral procession. He touches the stretcher. He tells the young man: get up.

    And the dead man sits up. He speaks. Jesus gives him back to his mother.

    Now, Jesus didn’t do that for everybody. He didn’t resuscitate everyone who’d died. We still live in a world where people die. Where grief is real. Where loss isn’t magically fixed by faith or prayer or anything else.

    But this story isn’t primarily about the miracle. It’s about Jesus seeing one specific person in one specific moment and meeting her there. Not waiting for her to come to him. Not asking what she’d done to deserve this suffering. Not explaining anything. Just stopping. Looking. Acting.

    We do such damage trying to explain suffering. We tell people it was God’s will. We suggest they must have done something to cause it. We come up with all kinds of theories, like Job’s friends, and we’re usually just wrong. What we know is that Jesus met this woman in her pain. And we can do that for people too. Not fix it. Not explain it. Just stop. See them. Be there.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    That young man came running up to Jesus and asked what he had to do to get eternal life. Jesus told him about the commandments—don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t give false testimony. And the guy said, well, I’ve kept all of those since I was a boy.

    And then it says something that just stops you: Jesus looked at him carefully and loved him. He hadn’t even decided yet. Hadn’t committed to anything. But Jesus looked at him carefully and loved him.

    Then Jesus said: you’re missing one thing. Go sell what you own. Give the money to the poor. Then come follow me.

    And the man went away sad because he had a lot of stuff.

    Jesus looks at us the same way. With that same careful, loving look. And he points out the one thing that’s in the way. Not the same thing for everybody—something different for each one of us. For this guy it was his possessions. For you it might be laziness. Or selfishness. Or greed, whether you’ve got a lot or a little. Maybe it’s hatred. Maybe it’s prejudice. Maybe you’re so full of yourself there’s no room for God.

    What’s the one thing standing between you and the grace God freely gives?

    The disciples were terrified when they heard this because they’d left everything. They wanted to know, okay, so what’s our one thing? And Jesus said all things are possible with God. Not just possible to accomplish. Possible to transform. Possible to let go of. Possible to become whole despite.

    He doesn’t ask you to be perfect. He asks you to be all in. Not just close. Not just this close. All the way in.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Power of Love (Matthew 9)

    The Power of Love (Matthew 9)

    Jesus looked at the crowds and had compassion for them because they were troubled and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. That’s Matthew 9, and yeah, it’s beautiful. But here’s the thing about compassion—it can get out of hand.

    When Jesus saw the damage, the lostness, the mess of people’s lives, he felt this overwhelming need to gather them all up. I mean, he wanted to hug everybody to him. He saw people who were physically sick, emotionally distressed, grieving, in anguish. And he felt it. But here’s what struck me: in the confines of his physical body, he couldn’t be everywhere at once. He knew that when his time on earth was done, there would need to be other people—flesh and blood people—who could do what he’d been doing. Who could love people the way he’d been loving them.

    So he told his disciples: the fields are ripe. There’s so much need. But the workers are few. And you know what? Choosing to do what Jesus did, choosing to leave that kind of life, choosing to have that kind of compassion—it goes against our nature. Our nature is to take care of me and mine. To be closed in. To not want to worry about all those people.

    This gets worse for the tender-hearted. They don’t just feel compassion—they feel the pain. They want to adopt everybody. Bring them home. And sometimes that overwhelms them right out of the game. Nope. I’m not going to be part of that. It’s too dangerous. It’s too messy. Too smelly. Too dirty.

    But here’s what Jesus teaches too: be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Compassion without wisdom isn’t always helping. You have to ask yourself: is what I’m doing actually going to help, or am I making things worse? Is my compassion based on my own health staying intact? On my home? On my money? Jesus knew that sometimes the obvious problem isn’t what someone actually needs. He’d ask people: do you want to be healed? He’d ask instead of assuming.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • Called to Serve

    Called to Serve

    Prayer is not trying to change God’s mind. I think we get that confused sometimes. Like prayer is this negotiation where if we ask hard enough or long enough, God will do what we want.

    Prayer is showing up. It’s saying, I don’t know what to do with this. I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m grateful. I’m broken. I’m here anyway. And then listening. Not even necessarily waiting for words. Just being willing to sit with God in whatever this is.

    We pray for people who are sick. For people dealing with loss. For leaders who have to make impossible decisions. For people threatened by violence. For all the things that break our hearts. We pray and we don’t know if God will do what we’re asking. But we pray anyway because prayer is an act of faith. It’s saying, I believe God hears this. I believe God cares about this. I believe that matters, even when I can’t see how it matters. And showing up—being present to each other, to the world, to God—that’s what prayer is. That’s the hope right there.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • Called to Serve

    Called to Serve

    There’s a difference between being invited to serve and actually serving. One is a nice feeling. The other is showing up on the day it’s inconvenient.

    We talk about being Christ’s hands and feet, but we Methodists—I mean, we had to work for weeks to change the color on the bulletin. Weeks. So actually going out and doing the work? That takes something. It takes deciding that your comfort matters less than somebody else’s need.

    What I see happening is people finding out that when they actually do the work, something shifts. You start seeing people differently. You can’t serve someone and hate them. You can’t feed someone and dismiss them. The work changes you. And that’s God working. That’s the gospel actually moving through your hands.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Power of Love

    The Power of Love

    Mother’s Day. I’ve never been great at these kinds of days. You’re supposed to say the right thing, honor the right people, and I always feel like I’m missing somebody. Somebody’s mother showed up on a Friday when her own mother couldn’t. Somebody’s mother is gone. Somebody’s mother did her best and it still wasn’t enough because nobody’s perfect. Somebody’s mother left, and somebody else became the one who showed up.

    What strikes me is that real love—the kind Jesus was talking about—doesn’t require blood. It doesn’t require perfection. It just requires showing up. It requires saying, I see you. I’m here. You matter.

    That’s what we’re really celebrating today. Not the card. Not the flowers. The people who looked at another person and decided to love them anyway.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Power of Love

    The Power of Love

    This morning we had children’s time. We sang “Jesus Loves Me,” “This Little Light of Mine,” “Do Lord.” Songs I sang when I was little and still love.

    One of those songs asks God: “Do Lord, oh do Lord, remember me.” And I asked the children: Do you think God could ever forget you? The answer is no. But we ask anyway.

    We ask God to remember us. We ask God to see us. Even though we know he does.

    When we sing—whether it’s with children down front or in the pews—our whole body gets involved in praising and worshiping God. Something shifts inside us when we sing together. It’s not just about the words. It’s about the unity. It’s about being part of something bigger.

    We bring the light of Christ into the church. And at the end of the service, we carry it out. Because that means we’re taking the light of Christ out into the world. We’re letting it shine for other people.

    So carry your light. Let it shine. Remember that God remembers you. And take that light with you when you leave this place. Take it into your homes, your workplaces, your communities. That’s what the light is for.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Gift of Forgiveness (Romans 6)

    The Gift of Forgiveness (Romans 6)

    Romans 6:23 says that the wages we earn for our sin is death. It is a debt each of us must pay one way or another. But that verse goes on to say that God decided to give us a gift instead of death. We can accept the gift of eternal life because Jesus paid the debt for us when he took our sin to the cross.

    The old hymn says it: “Jesus paid it all, all to him I owe. Sin had left a crimson stain, but now I am white as snow.”

    Jesus became sinned for us so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. Scripture tells us that everything went dark as Jesus hung on the cross. The sun disappeared. He completed the sacrifice and yielded his life.

    The women who had followed him watched from a distance. Two influential but secret followers buried his body. A heavy stone rolled across the tomb’s entrance. But all that happened before Sunday came.

    We have been bought. Our freedom purchased with God’s grace. And there’s more to this abundant life we’ve received than just forgiveness. The Savior who made our future secure wants to make this life we live now something that brings him honor and glory.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Heart of Prayer

    The Heart of Prayer

    For three years, Christ followers watched Jesus reach out to the poor and weak, heal the sick and dying, even bring the dead back to life. They heard him speak to the storm and watch the sea become still. They saw a small lunch become enough food to feed thousands on a hillside.

    And yet something even greater was happening. In every encounter Jesus took broken lives and made them whole. A woman who had exhausted every resource trying to find a cure for her disease touched his robe and was healed. Another who had searched for love in half a dozen failed relationships found his forgiveness. One who was facing death was given new life when Jesus rescued her.

    But a life of love had led Jesus not to admiration and applause but to suffering and death. He didn’t die by accident. It wasn’t a malicious plot that caught him off guard. Jesus laid down on the cross a willing sacrifice for us.

    And then Sunday came. The stone rolled away. The women arrived to hear the glorious news. Darkness had covered the earth. But the darkness of death could not cover the light of resurrection. He arose. Hallelujah, he arose.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope

  • The Table of Grace

    The Table of Grace

    When I was little, the pastor would say during communion: “Drink all of this.” And I thought that meant drain the cup. I was so committed to getting every last drop. Some of the boys in the children’s choir with me had the same idea—they really went to town on those little cups.

    But “drink all of this” doesn’t mean gulp it down. It means all of you, drink some.

    Today we talk about the communion of saints. And that’s not just about the bread and juice. It’s about being in communion with each other. When God looks at the church, God doesn’t see Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian. God sees one church.

    I watched it happen at the food bank when all of us—different churches, different denominations—worked side by side. Nobody could tell us apart. We were just people working together, part of one body.

    That’s what the communion of saints means. All of us who know Jesus. Past and present and future. Those who have gone before. Those here now. Those still coming. All of us, one. Forgiven, transformed, together. That’s the communion. That’s what we belong to.

    A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope