Author: FUMCWP Admin

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed when we look around at the world today. conflicts in culture and even the church can often feel like battlegrounds: loud, divisive, exhausting. Fear seems to be the default tone. Anger spreads faster than understanding. Discouragement feels like the safest emotion to settle into.

But as followers of Jesus, we are not called to mirror the tone of the world. We are called to bear witness to something deeper, something eternal. Not optimism or wishful thinking, but hope. Real, rooted hope in the One who is making all things new.

The early Christians in Rome had every reason to be afraid. They were a small, misunderstood community living in the shadow of a massive empire. Rome demanded loyalty, celebrated power, and tolerated no rival kings. The culture around them glorified status, conquest, power, and control, everything the gospel of Jesus seemed to turn upside down. To proclaim Jesus as Lord in that environment wasn’t just countercultural, it was dangerous. It meant aligning with a kingdom not built by violence, but by mercy. Not rooted in fear, but in love.

And yet, to that community, Paul wrote these words:

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15:13 (NRSVUE)

This hope isn’t manufactured, it’s a gift of the Spirit. And it’s not meant to be hidden. It’s meant to shape how we talk, how we listen, how we love, and how we show up in every space, including the complicated and wearying world we live in.

Reflection Question:

Where can we be people of hope in a world of fear, anger, and discouragement?

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.