
Last year, as we were preparing for Ash Wednesday, we realized at the last minute that there were no ashes. It would have been easy to assign blame or panic. Instead, I picked up the phone and called the deacon at the Episcopal church across town. They shared what they had, and because of that simple act of communion across congregations, Ash Wednesday was not only saved, it was holy in a deeper way. We were reminded that the church is never just one place, one supply cabinet, or one tradition. It is a people who show up for one another.
This year, snow has cancelled our service.
And yet, as I look toward the snow-covered Carson Pass, I find myself thinking about the wilderness.
The wilderness of Lent.
The wilderness where Jesus is led by the Spirit.
The wilderness where we are stripped of certainty and taught to trust in God’s abundance.
And I wonder if that is not a Lenten image for us: God’s presence moving beside us in ways we did not plan; in landscapes we would not have chosen.
This season is inviting us to shift our vision: from scarcity to abundance, from isolation to neighbor, love, from fear to moral courage.
I recently heard Senator and Rev. Dr. Raphael Warnock speak about this moment as a time of moral reckoning, a time when we are asked where we stand and how we will live. And I have been thinking about the stories I’ve heard right here in our communities, about people encountering ICE patrols, about neighbors who may not even claim faith and yet embody the gospel by loving and protecting one another.
Because at its core, the way of Jesus has always been this:
Love your neighbor.
Jesus did not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it, to reveal its deepest purpose: a love that resists empire, crosses boundaries, and restores human dignity.
This weekend I will return to my home congregation for its 80th anniversary. It is in Placer County, a place many would label politically conservative, and yet it is where my faith was formed. Three generations of my family still gather there week after week. The same is true here in Carson City, where generations come together in this community we share.
Which is why I cannot accept the narrative that the church is dying.
The church is not dead.
We may simply need new eyes to see it.
We see it when ashes are shared across denominational lines.
We see it in a snowy wilderness.
We see it in neighbors protecting neighbors.
We see it in grandparents, parents, and children gathered around the same table.
We see it in this congregation.
This Lent, I invite you to look for that abundance.
To notice where God is already present.
To notice the companions on the road.
To notice the love that refuses to be cancelled — even by snow.
Because the wilderness is not empty.
It is full of God.



