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Friends,

Some Sundays, the words of the liturgy seem to meet us exactly where we are—warm, nourishing, like fresh bread. Other Sundays, they take a little longer to land. We say them, we sing them, we move through the familiar rhythm, and it’s only later we realize they’ve been working on us all along.

Isaiah’s voice this week is clear: God doesn’t want performance for its own sake. The beauty of our prayers isn’t in how polished they are—it’s in how they draw us back to God and to one another. This is why the Church has carried these patterns for so long. They’re not here to impress. They’re here to shape us—slowly—into people of mercy and hope.

Like a slow cooker, the work is steady, not rushed. You might not taste the change in the moment. But over time, the rhythm gets into your bones. The words start to surface in the middle of the week—in a conversation, a decision, or a moment of quiet.

So this Sunday, whether you come hungry for the bread or chewing a little longer than you’d like, come anyway. Let the ancient words hold you. Let your soul marinate in them. We’ll be here together, carried by the prayers of generations, leaning toward the God who still calls us into love.

I’ll save you a seat.

Alex+