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God in the Transitions Series
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Welcome. Today we're introducing a series called God in the Transitions—a journey through the significant changes and transitions we all face in life. Over the coming weeks, we'll explore different seasons: adolescence, menopause, parenthood, retirement, and more.
You might think, "That doesn't apply to me." But here's the challenge: if we truly want to be a church that mourns with those who mourn and rejoices with those who rejoice (Romans 12:15), we need to understand each other's experiences. We grow in compassion and empathy when we learn about the transitions others face, even if they're not our own.
Transitions are often painful, but they are rich with possibility. In Celtic spirituality, these in-between spaces are called "thin spaces"—thresholds where change happens and where we often meet God most profoundly.
Think of moving between two boats. The instability is uncomfortable, but it's also incredibly fertile. Ecologists call this a riparian zone—where two different habitats meet. It's neither fully one thing nor the other, yet it's where life flourishes most abundantly. Change is good. Being in change is good. Yet our instinct is to cling to what feels safe.
As we head into 2026, we often focus on external goals: fitness, better relationships, more successful work, a healthier appearance. There's nothing wrong with these. But here's the truth: most of our external change will come whether we want it or not.
Statistically, people in this room will face major illness this year. Some will lose jobs. Some will experience relationship breakdown. We cannot control these external changes. Our only real choice is how we receive them.
If you haven't done the internal work—the deep spiritual and emotional work within yourself—you cannot navigate the external changes that will come. The people who embrace change and learn from it are those doing their internal work. Spend more time asking: How am I doing spiritually? What is my internal self becoming?
Thomas Merton, writing in 1960 about the desert fathers and mothers, offers a stunning insight:
Society was regarded as a shipwreck from which each individual had to swim for their life. To let oneself drift along passively, accepting the values of society, was purely and simply a disaster.
Merton notes that when Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, many thought this was wonderful. But something troubling happened: the cross became a symbol of temporal power—entangled with government, violence, and war—rather than the eternal kingdom of God.
We face the same question: Do you cling to the shipwreck of the systems around you, or do you swim for your life in hope that there is something better?
Let's turn to the story of the man at the pool of Bethesda (John 5). Jesus encounters a man who has been ill for 38 years, lying among the outcasts—the blind, lame, and paralyzed. Society had labeled them unclean, forbidden, untouchable.
Jesus asks him a startling question: "Do you want to be made well?"
This question is radical. Jesus never imposes healing. He respects human choice, even when He knows what's best for us. He asks: Do you really want to be well?
For 38 years, this man had believed one thing: the only way to be well is to wait here for the waters to stir, to hope he's first in line. That was his entire reality. Jesus comes and says: Wake up. There is another possibility.
Many of us live in the same delusion. We tell ourselves: My job will save me. My friendships will sustain me. This system is all there is. And we passively accept the shipwreck. But Jesus asks: Do you want to be well? Are you awake to the possibility that there is more wellness available to you than you are currently experiencing?
John Dominic Crossan writes:
Jesus invited his followers to stand against all that systematically destroys and dehumanizes and dominates, to accept the abandonment of such systems and no longer participate in their exploitative normalcy.
There is another way. Another system. A different life. Wake up to it.
But the man's answer is revealing. He doesn't say, "Yes, I want to be healed." Instead, he says: "Sir, I have no one. I have nobody to help me. While I'm making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me."
His real problem isn't just physical disability—it's isolation and loneliness. He wants to be well so he can be accepted, loved, and part of community. And notice how he frames his struggle: scarcity. Everyone's competing. Someone's always getting ahead. This is the fearful, scarcity-driven world we live in.
But he's saying this to Jesus, the God who made him and knows him perfectly. The truth is: we need others.
I remember walking the West Highland Way with friends. We got strung out across miles of Scottish wilderness. I was trudging along, head down, not paying attention. Suddenly, my friend Ally called me back. He was pointing at a signpost—the actual trail marker I'd walked right past. If he hadn't called me back, I might have walked off into the wilderness. You need others to help you find the way.
This year, ask yourself: How can I cultivate deeper companionship? Who am I walking alongside, not just bumping into? Build genuine friendships where people know your real struggles and you know theirs.
After Jesus heals him, the man picks up his mat and walks. But immediately, the religious authorities confront him: "It's the Sabbath! You can't carry your mat!"
Isn't it hilarious? They've just witnessed an incredible miracle—38 years of paralysis healed in a moment—and instead of rejoicing, they're complaining about a rule. This is the world we live in. Every time you do something true, honest, and beautiful, someone will try to diminish it. Don't be discouraged. It's often a sign you're alive and doing the right thing.
But look at the man's response: "The man who made me well told me to do it."
In other words: I'm listening to the one with a proven track record in my life. Not you. Him.
This is the deepest truth. Every time I have followed Christ, every time I've taken my faith seriously, every time I've done what I know is right in Christ's eyes and been led by the Spirit—I've found life. There's a proven track record.
Remember Mary's words at Cana: "Do whatever he tells you to do" (John 2:5).
As we move into 2026, here's my invitation:
Swim away from the shipwreck of this world. There is land ahead—a promised land where you can know genuine joy, peace, and hope.
As we take communion together, I invite you to accept God's question: "Do you want to be well?" When you take the bread and wine, let it be your "yes." Yes, I want to be well. Yes, I want to trust you. Yes, I want to follow you into whatever this year holds.
