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A student survey conducted at one of our local schools determined that young people see the church as being full of old people and pews. And they think that the pews have to go. There’s some good news in that survey, they didn’t say the old people should go, only the pews.
Think for a moment: How does their perception match reality?
We might immediately begin to defend the pews. They've been good enough for generations. They keep us awake. They haven’t killed anyone.
Or we might be offended that they’ve labelled us as old. We might argue that we’re not nearly as old as our grandparents were at the same age.
We might want to join James and John to ask Jesus whether we should call down fire from heaven and destroy them.
But before we get too defensive, these young people are crying out for the church to recognise and value them. They don’t think the church cares about them, they don’t think we care. They think the church is only interested in the people who’re already involved, which to them means old people.
I wonder whether they’re any different to those of any age who aren’t connected to our churches. Would the whole ‘unchurched’ and 'previously-churched’ community agree that we don’t care. Would they contend that we’re only interested in ourselves.
If we’re so busy polishing and defending our pews then they have to go. If there’s anything in our church that uses up our time at the expense of living our lives for Jesus then it has to go.
Even more urgently we have to go. Not leave the church, the community of God’s people, but go with the good news that because God loves and cares for every single person in this world so do we.
“As you go”, Jesus says, “make disciples of all nations.” Jesus cares about this because he has ‘skin-in-the-game’. He died for each and every one we encounter as we go about our lives.
How do we, as individuals and a church, need to change so that no one in our community will feel that we don’t care about them?
Saved for fearless worship
by Anastasia Kim
Click here to download your printable verse to carry with you today.
… to give his people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins (Luke 1:77).
Read Luke 1:68–79
Luke 1:68–79 places us just after John’s birth. Zechariah, whose voice had long been silent, is finally able to speak. And when he does, he does not explain himself or his experience. He sings. In his song, he recognises what God has been doing all along. What once sounded like an angel’s distant promise is now confessed as fulfilled mercy.
The joy surrounding John’s birth is more than the happiness of a long-awaited child. It is joy rooted in mercy. Luke uses the word eleos to describe it. Not a vague kindness, but God’s tender concern for those in real need. As Zechariah’s song unfolds, that need turns out not to belong only to Elizabeth or to one family’s story. It names ‘us’. Those who sit in darkness. Those who live under the shadow of death. Those who know what it is to lack peace.
Some words in the song sound almost political: ‘that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us’ (Luke 1:71). It is not hard to hear in them the hopes of a people longing for deliverance. I found myself feeling the same way when I read this passage.
Luke does not silence those hopes. But the song itself leads us deeper. Its centre is not conquest, but forgiveness. ‘Knowledge of salvation’ comes, Zechariah sings, ‘by the forgiveness of their sins’ (Luke 1:77b). The most decisive enemy is not only outside us. It is sin and all that follows from it: fear, bondage and, finally, death.
The purpose of this salvation is then named with surprising clarity. We are rescued ‘from the hands of our enemies’ so that we might ‘serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness in his presence all our days’ (Luke 1:74,75). Redemption is not only about being saved from something; it is also about being saved for something. A life before God. A life shaped by worship. A life no longer driven by anxiety but carried by mercy.
So Zechariah’s song gently lifts our eyes. Beyond every short-lived victory. Beyond every hope that cannot finally hold. It points us to the dawn that breaks from on high. Christ comes down to us. He forgives sins. He shines into the darkness. And he guides our feet, again and again, into the way of peace.
Lord God of Israel, we worship you for visiting your people with tender mercy. Forgive our sins, free us from fear, and shape our lives for holy service. By your dawning light, shine into our darkness and guide our feet into peace. Amen.
Anastasia Kim lives in Brisbane and serves as an aged-care chaplain. She holds a Bachelor of Theology from the University of Divinity and is currently undertaking a Master of Theology at Australian Lutheran College. Her ministry and studies are shaped by a commitment to pastoral care.
The everlasting light that does not fade
by Anastasia Kim
Click here to download your printable verse to carry with you today.
The sun shall no longer be your light by day, nor the moon by night; the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended (Isaiah 60:19,20).
Read Isaiah 60:19–22
We cannot live without light. Our days are governed by the sun, our nights softened by the moon. Even rest depends on some form of light to guide and steady us. Yet Isaiah dares to proclaim a future in which neither sun nor moon is necessary, because God himself becomes the light. This is not poetic exaggeration but a theological promise of new creation.
Isaiah 60:19–22 stands at the ‘end of times’ climax of the chapter. It does not merely describe restoration after exile, but the fulfilment of God’s saving purpose, where created lights give way to the uncreated Light. The text assumes the reality of sorrow. ‘Your days of mourning shall be ended’ only makes sense because mourning has been real, persistent and heavy. Law is spoken honestly: human life is marked by fragility, loss and limits. We depend on rhythms that fail, bodies that weaken and hopes that dim.
Into this reality, the gospel is announced. The Lord does not simply provide light; he is the light. Salvation here is not improvement of circumstances but the gift of divine presence. In Lutheran terms, this is grace in its purest form: donum Dei. God gives himself. Verse 21 deepens the promise. ‘Your people shall all be righteous.’ This righteousness is not achieved but bestowed, a status granted by God’s own faithfulness. The future of God’s people rests not on their strength but on God’s promise.
For those in later life, or those who walk alongside them, this word speaks with particular tenderness. The promise is not that life will become brighter in visible ways, but that it will never fall into final darkness. When memory fades, strength diminishes, and productivity ceases, dignity remains, because God himself is their glory. The light that does not fade is already given, hidden now under the cross, but certain in hope.
Everlasting God, you are our light when all other lights fail. Abide with us in our weakness, and let your presence be our glory. Through Jesus Christ, the Light of the World. Amen.
Anastasia Kim lives in Brisbane and serves as an aged-care chaplain. She holds a Bachelor of Theology from the University of Divinity and is currently undertaking a Master of Theology at Australian Lutheran College. Her ministry and studies are shaped by a commitment to pastoral care.
Light at the water’s edge
by Anastasia Kim
Click here to download your printable verse to carry with you today.
The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light (Matthew 4:16a).
Read Matthew 4:12–23
Jesus begins his public ministry in a place many had learned to overlook. After his baptism and time of testing, he goes to Galilee. Not to the religious centre, not to the seat of power, but to a region shaped by ordinary lives and quiet struggle. Matthew tells us this choice matters. What happens in Galilee is the fulfilment of God’s promise. Light comes precisely where darkness has lingered the longest.
I have learnt that my own prayer often begins in ordinary places as well. When I prepare Scripture or seek stillness, I find myself drawn to parks, paths near water and environments where movement slows. I did not always love water. For a long time, I preferred mountains and heights, but living near a lake has taught me something new. Water invites waiting. It reflects light gently. It creates space for prayer without demanding words.
It is along the water’s edge that Jesus calls his first disciples. Fishermen at work, hands busy with nets, lives grounded in daily responsibility. Jesus does not offer them a plan or a lesson. He offers himself. ‘Follow me.’ And they go. Discipleship begins not with understanding everything, but with trusting enough to take the next step.
Matthew places this moment before the Sermon on the Mount for a reason. Before Jesus teaches, he gathers. Before instruction, there is invitation. Before words, there is light. We are first brought out of the shadows and into relationships, and only then shaped by teaching.
This is still how Jesus comes to us. He meets us where we are, in familiar places, in unremarkable moments. He does not wait for clarity or readiness. He brings light and calls us to walk with him, one step at a time.
Lord Jesus Christ, Light of the World, shine upon our day. Call us to follow you and lead us gently into your way. Amen.
Anastasia Kim lives in Brisbane and serves as an aged-care chaplain. She holds a Bachelor of Theology from the University of Divinity and is currently undertaking a Master of Theology at Australian Lutheran College. Her ministry and studies are shaped by a commitment to pastoral care.