Author: FUMCWP Admin

Dear Church Family,

I want to share something meaningful with you.

This week, I’m officially joining the United Methodist Church as a pastor. Thank you, Pastor Rachel, for your kind words last week. By the way, I’m not going anywhere. I’m still here, serving alongside you all. What’s changing is my denominational home. After a long season of prayer and discernment, I’m surrendering my credentials as an ordained elder in the Church of the Nazarene and transferring into the United Methodist Church.

This decision comes from deep reflection, personal wrestling, and shared listening to God’s leading as a family. It hasn’t been quick or easy. But it has been faithful. Over time, I’ve found myself drawn more and more to the heart of the UMC, especially in four key ways:

1. I’m drawn to the UMC’s deep Wesleyan roots.
   John Wesley’s vision of discipleship, growing in love of God and neighbor through spiritual practices, community, and service, continues to shape the church in powerful ways. In the UMC, I’ve found a denomination that doesn’t just talk about grace but lives it out in personal and communal ways.
2. I’m moved by the UMC’s commitment to both personal and social holiness.
   This is not a church that separates faith from action. The UMC’s historical and ongoing work for justice, equity, and compassion resonates deeply with me. I believe in a Church that cares not just about individual salvation. It also cares about the transformation of the world, beginning with the most vulnerable.
3. I believe in a Church that creates space for difference.
   We don’t all have to agree to walk together. The UMC’s efforts to remain rooted in Scripture while welcoming a diversity of voices and experiences speak to my heart. I believe in a Church that chooses unity over uniformity: a community that values relationships more than rigid agreement. That kind of love takes courage, but it’s the kind of love that reflects the heart of Christ.
4. I’m attracted to the idea that EVERYONE is invited to the table.
   In the United Methodist Church, the communion table is open. No conditions, no prerequisites, no litmus tests. Just an invitation. That speaks volumes to me. It reflects the heart of Jesus, who shared meals with outcasts, sinners, and saints alike. I believe the Church is at its best when it makes room for all: those with questions, those who have been hurt, and those who have felt unseen. That’s the kind of love we want to extend as a family. A love that welcomes, listens, and makes space.

Of course, alongside hope, there is also grief. Leaving the Church of the Nazarene, a denomination that has shaped my family’s life and ministry in beautiful ways, is not an easy decision. We’re thankful for the Nazarene churches that welcomed us, the mentors who guided us, and the relationships that helped us grow. We’ll always be grateful for our first church family. But it is time to say goodbye.

Jon Foreman’s song Eulogy has been in my heart during this season:

“Every day I write the eulogy
For everything I used to be
I’m still aiming for a better me
I am the mosaic of a shattered man
Broken and becoming, broken and becoming who I am.”

These words capture something important for me. We honor the past. We step forward in love. And we move with hope into what’s next.

That’s the kind of Church my family and I want to serve: a Church that forms disciples of Jesus Christ who are empowered by the Holy Spirit, love boldly, serve joyfully, and lead courageously in local communities and worldwide connections. That’s the vision we’re stepping into.

We are moving forward with open hearts and love for ALL, feeling hopeful about the future, and deeply grateful for the grace we’ve received through Christ Jesus that has brought us to this point.

Unity, Grace, and Love,
Pastor Philip

Last Sunday afternoon I was frantic to find Charlie’s backpack. If you didn’t know, Charlie has been playing Flag Football with a local League and they practice and play every Sunday afternoon at Lake Howell High School. The week before, Ryan had brough him home from the game and left his backpack and water bottle at the school track and field,  and after several calls and emails, I didn’t get any answer. Our son Charlie has LOVED Flag Football and he is on Team Thunder, which is perfect, because if you don’t know, Charlie is the kind of kid that you hear before you see. And so Team Thunder is so very appropriate for his loud voice. He wears cleats to play in and in the backpack was his pair of school shoes that are his favorite. All week long we limped by with different shoes, which to a seven-year-old is a travesty, but we made it work. And so, on this Sunday afternoon, I was determined to find this backpack, so help me God. And God helped me, that is for sure.

All game long I looked for it. I asked the coaches and the volunteers if they had seen it. No luck. I tried to find the groundskeeper, but again, no luck. And then this incredibly energetic woman on a golfcart wheels up as we are packing the car and is smiling at me. Her name is K. Johnson, and she said, “I heard you were looking for a backpack…” I shouted, “Yes, thank you so much!” I then did the happy dance. And then she said these words. “I have been driving around this field all afternoon long asking each person I saw, if this was their backpack, but I had no luck. I knew I would find the owner, but I just had to keep looking.”

And in that moment, I felt a profound sense that Jesus was there with us, not because of a stupid backpack or a pair of shoes, but because lost things, always have a way of being found.

I want to be like K. Johnson who tenaciously works to reconnect a lost thing back to where it belongs. I don’t know how long she went person by person in the heat that day, but isn’t that a picture of Christ? Taking each one of us who is lost and tenaciously asking around until they are home again? The Bible says it like this:

¹⁰ “See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.^[11] 

¹² “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? ¹³ And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. ¹⁴ In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish.”

In the Parable of the Wandering Sheep from Matthew 18, Jesus never gives up looking for us and in fact prioritizes the lost one over the 99 already found sheep. This sometimes makes those in the “IN” crowd of Church a bit frustrated because we want attention and care too. But what stood out to me that day as K. Johnson shared how much she cared was her determination to find us, the owners. And I thought about how the church could be a little bit more like K. Johnson that became bold enough and tenacious enough to go person by person, space by space and help those who were lost to find their way back to God. If you have ever been lost, you know how important it is to be found again. And so this is a small example of my first world problem, but it reminded me of the joy that is shared when something lost has been found. And the joy it brings God’s heart when a wandering sheep finds her home.

Do you have a child, or a spouse, or a sibling, or a friend or a parent that feels lost to you? We all know someone, maybe God has laid them on your heart as you read this. If you do, this is your encouragement to never stop trying to show them Jesus. Don’t give up, don’t lose hope. The journey of faith is a marathon, not a sprint and we are in this together. May we be people, who with Joy get to know and share the love of Jesus with all people and are open to being used by the Holy Spirit to reconnect that which is lost, back to God.

AMEN

The Gift of Lament: Embracing Vulnerability and Honesty with God 
By Rev. Philip Allred

We all love the moments in life when things are going well—when faith feels easy and everything makes sense. But let’s be honest, there are also those seasons when nothing makes sense, when the floor falls out from under you, and you’re left wondering where God is in the mess. That’s where lament comes in. 

Lament is this honest, vulnerable space where we can come before God and say, “This hurts. I don’t understand. I’m scared.” It’s all over Scripture—from the cries of the Psalms to the groans of the prophets to Jesus Himself crying out on the cross. It reminds us that God can handle our rawest prayers. 

When the pandemic hit, our family found ourselves in one of those seasons. The consulting business we’d built from the ground up collapsed overnight when churches shut their doors. We had no clue how we were going to pay the bills. It felt like the world we had built was slipping through our fingers, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. 

In that season, all we could do was cry out to God. I remember walking for hours, pouring out every fear, every doubt, every frustration. I told God, “I don’t know where this is going. I’m scared. I’m angry. I don’t even know what to pray right now.” But in those moments, something holy happened. I wasn’t given all the answers, but I did sense God’s presence walking alongside us in the unknown. 

That’s the thing about lament—it’s not a quick fix or a tidy prayer that wraps everything up with a bow. It’s the long, honest work of trusting God with your pain, even when you don’t have a clue where the path leads. And in that vulnerability, we often find a strength we didn’t know we had. 

Lament isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s faith that’s been through the fire. It’s a way of saying, “God, I’m showing up with everything I’ve got, even if what I’ve got today is just tears.” 

Psalm 13 captures this so well. The psalmist cries out: 

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me? 

It’s as if the psalmist is giving us permission to ask the hard questions. But even in the same breath, they choose to lean into trust: 

But I trusted in your steadfast love;
my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. 

That’s the gift of lament—it lets us hold both. The pain and the trust. The questions and the hope. The tears and the stubborn belief that somehow, even here, God is with us. 

Scripture: Luke 19:37–40; Luke 23:1–5; John 18:36
Holy Week Devotional by Rev. Philip Allred

Holy Week begins with a parade.

However, this is not the type of celebration Rome would have envisioned. Rome showcased its generals, military triumphs, and displays of power—processions filled with soldiers, war horses, and trophies from victory. In contrast, Jesus enters Jerusalem on a humble colt rather than a war horse. He carries no weapons but instead brings humility. His procession features the ordinary and the overlooked. The crowds proclaim, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”—an inherently subversive claim, for in the empire’s eyes, the title of king already belongs to Caesar.

This marks the initial indication that Holy Week represents a confrontation. Instead of swords, it involves truth; rather than violence, it embodies love. Jesus does not shy away from the world’s powers—he boldly approaches their stronghold, declaring through both words and actions that another kingdom has arrived.

Throughout the week, Jesus turns the symbols of the empire upside down:

• He enters the Temple not to uphold religious respectability but to disrupt its collusion with political power.
• He washes his disciples’ feet, refusing the ladder of dominance and choosing instead the basin of servanthood.
• He shares a meal, not with elites, but with friends—some of whom will betray and abandon him—proving that love is not earned but given.

On Good Friday, the empire does what empires always do: it silences dissent, this time with a cross.

They call him a threat to national stability. They say he’s undermining public order. They accuse him of inciting revolution.

And in a way, they’re right. He is leading a revolution—not with legions, but with love. As Brian Zahnd says, “Jesus didn’t come to start a religion; he came to start a revolution. Not a revolution of violence, but of love.”

This Holy Week, we’re not just remembering a story. We are being invited to live it.

The empire’s narrative is still alive in the world today—in systems that oppress, ideologies that divide, and the lies we tell ourselves about who matters and who doesn’t. To walk the way of Jesus is to reject the ways of empire—whether that empire looks like nationalism, violence, racism, exploitation, or any system that crushes the vulnerable to protect the powerful.

However, Holy Week presents a contrasting narrative: embodying the subversive gospel includes

• Choosing forgiveness when the world demands retribution.
• Showing mercy when the culture demands judgment.
• Standing with the vulnerable when empire protects the powerful.
• Loving enemies when the world teaches us to fear them.
• Carrying a cross, not to punish, but to redeem.

This is not just a nice idea—it is a different way of being human. A different way of ordering the world. A different kind of kingdom.

The cross is not just where Jesus died. It’s where the values of empire go to die. And the empty tomb is not just about life after death—it is about life before death, a new kingdom breaking through.

So, as we walk through Holy Week, may we see it not as a series of rituals but as a revolution. May we find ourselves caught up in the story of a God who defeats violence with peace, hate with love, and death with resurrection.

Let us walk this week not as spectators but as disciples—people shaped by the subversive nature of a different kind of king.

By Rev. Philip Allred

I recently returned from a pilgrimage to Argentina, a journey that was as emotionally difficult as it was spiritually rich. We sought to learn from Methodist churches and those who experienced one of the darkest periods in Argentina’s history- the military dictatorship from 1976 to 1983 that led to the disappearance of 30,000 individuals.

I listened to a man speak about his parents, who were taken by the regime and never returned. I stood in a former military base turned museum filled with faces—thousands of the disappeared—all tortured, all killed. Then I learned something that made the grief heavier: the U.S. government helped fund and train the Argentine military behind it all.

I left that day asking deep questions:
What is the Church’s role in the face of political extremism?
When do we speak up?
How do we discern the truth when even history itself is contested?

These aren’t abstract questions. Today, Argentina wrestles with the same divisions we do. Some deny the scale of the atrocities. Others cling to a version of history they believe restores order. And the Church is caught in the middle—divided, weary, and still trying to be faithful.

I thought of Jesus’ words:

“By their fruits, you will know them” (Matthew 7:16).

Truth isn’t just a claim; it’s what endures. It’s what produces justice, humility, and compassion. That’s the truth we must live by.

But alongside that grief, I also encountered something holy. I saw radical hospitality.

We were welcomed like family in a church, not polished and pristine like American churches. At this church, we enjoyed a prepared meal, sang together, and shared with them in laughter. I noticed they were organizing children’s programs—not to boost attendance but to bring hope to the community. Another church launched job workshops aimed at helping people achieve dignity and earn a living. Yet another church trained former sex workers and unhoused women in sewing to provide income for their needs and their families.

These communities weren’t wealthy. But they were rich in presence. Their ministry wasn’t flashy—it was faithful. This kind of hospitality was beautiful to experience. I was reminded of the early church in Acts 2:

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer… And they had everything in common.”

True community is not just programs—it’s people, showing up for each other. Creating space. Sharing what they have.

As I reflected on the political and social complexities I witnessed in Argentina, I found a mirror of our own challenges. Just as they wrestle with contested histories and deep division, so do we. Some churches there are deeply engaged in political advocacy. Others avoid politics entirely. Some lean more conservative; others more populist or progressive. But like them, we are asking: How do we follow Jesus in a politically fractured world?

I believe the Church must not perfectly align itself with any one ideology or party. Instead, we must evaluate every policy and every power through the lens of Christ—through the call to love, justice, and humility. Sometimes, this means we will align with a particular group or movement for a time, but our allegiance is never to them. Our loyalty is to the way of Christ, who calls us to stand with the vulnerable, speak truth, and pursue the peaceable Kingdom above all else.

Here’s what I’m bringing back from Argentina, which I will be processing in the coming months:

• Truth matters—not for argument’s sake, but because real lives are shaped by it. The Church must be a voice of clarity and compassion in a world of spin.
• Hospitality is Resistance—against despair, against division, against apathy. It’s what makes the Kingdom of God tangible.
• Kingdom allegiance means no tribal allegiance. Not red. Not blue. Not purple. But the radical love of Jesus, who sided with the least of these.

As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn said,

 “You can resolve to live your life with integrity. Let your credo be this: Let the lie come into the world; let it even triumph. BUT NOT THROUGH ME.”

My prayer is that spin, lies, and disinformation come to an end with us! Let us be known not by our opinions or party but by our courage to tell the truth and our commitment to breaking bread with our neighbors.

Let us be a Kingdom Church where Christ is King, honesty is sacred, and the table is always set.