I have had the privilege of being your pastor for 7 months. And in that time I have wondered a lot, wandered some, and realized more than I have time to share in one article. So I will be doing a series on this. This week I go in a little deeper into my time preparing a sermon.
One of the quiet commitments I make each week is this: when I come to the Scripture for Sunday, I try to see something new.
Not something novel for novelty’s sake. Not something clever. Just something I haven’t noticed before.
A word I’ve skipped past.
A character I’ve overlooked.
A tension I’ve smoothed over too quickly.
Sometimes we are taught that strong faith equals certainty. That maturity means having settled answers. That leadership requires clarity at all times. But the older I get — and the longer I sit with Scripture and with people — the more I’m convinced that wondering is not the opposite of faith.
It is faith.
The disciples asked questions constantly.
The psalmists wrestled out loud.
Jesus himself answered questions with… more questions.
Wondering keeps us awake. It keeps us humble. It keeps us from shrinking God down to the size of our current understanding.
When I approach a familiar text and ask, “What have I missed?” I am practicing trust — trust that God is still speaking. Trust that I don’t have it all figured out. Trust that the Spirit is not done revealing.
Wandering is a little different. Wandering can feel less intentional. Sometimes it feels like wilderness. Sometimes it feels like detour. Sometimes it feels like we’re not sure where we’re headed.
But even wandering can be holy.
The Israelites wandered for forty years. Not because God abandoned them, but because transformation takes time. Because freedom is learned slowly. Because sometimes the long way shapes us more than the shortcut would.
Maybe faith isn’t about arriving as quickly as possible.
Maybe it’s about paying attention along the way.
There is good news in this: God is not limited to what we already know. The Spirit is not exhausted by our familiar stories. Resurrection still shows up in places we thought we understood.
So this week, when you hear the Scripture read — maybe ask yourself:
What have I missed?
What is stirring?
What might God be showing me that I haven’t seen before?
Wondering and wandering may not look flashy. But they are holy movements.
And I am grateful to be wondering and wondering with you.
A Prayer for Peace in a World on Edge
Carrie Veal | March 1, 2026
Holy God,
We come to You with heavy hearts.
The world feels loud with violence.
Headlines move faster than our prayers.
Bombs fall. Threats rise. Nations freeze and worry.
And underneath it all are people — mothers, children, grandparents, young soldiers far from home.
Lord, we do not always know from what we read or hear or see what is true, what is strategy, what is propaganda, what is fear.
But we know this:
Every life bears Your image.
Every tear matters to You.
So we pray first for peace.
Not the fragile kind built on threats.
Not the temporary kind that waits for the next strike.
But Your peace — the kind that disarms hatred,
the kind that interrupts revenge,
the kind that softens hard hearts.
We pray for the people of Iran.
We pray for the people of Israel.
We pray for all those in every neighboring nation now holding its breath.
We pray for leaders making decisions that ripple across the globe.
Grant them wisdom that values life over pride, restraint over escalation, courage over ego.
And Lord, we pray for our troops.
For the young men and women who signed up to serve,
for those deployed,
for those waiting for orders,
for families refreshing the news and checking their phones.
Protect them. Guard their bodies and their minds.
Be near to them in loneliness and fear.
Bring them home safely.
We pray for civilians caught in the middle
for families who did not choose this,
for children who do not understand why the sky is dangerous,
for hospitals, for aid workers, for pastors and imams and rabbis trying to hold their communities together.
God of mercy, interrupt the cycle.
Where there is vengeance, sow restraint.
Where there is dehumanizing language, restore dignity.
Where there is fear, plant courage.
Where there is despair, kindle hope.
And while we pray for the world,
do not let us escape our own responsibility.
If there is hatred in us, disarm it.
If there is indifference in us, disturb it.
If there is anxiety in us, steady it.
Make us people of peace —
in our speech,
in our prayers,
in our politics,
in our daily lives.
Christ, You wept over cities.
You stood in the middle of violence and did not return it.
Teach us that way.
We ask for protection.
We ask for wisdom.
We ask for mercy.
And we ask, boldly, for peace.
And we say all these words and all the wordless prayers alongside the prayer that is being prayed around the world by your children, the one Jesus gave us to be our own.