Have you ever found yourself scrolling through your phone late at night, searching for something—anything—that might fill that restless feeling inside? Maybe you add items to your online cart, scroll through social media, or binge another episode of that show you’re not even enjoying anymore. We keep consuming, keep searching, keep spending time and money on things that leave us just as empty as when we started. A recent study found that the average American spends over five hours a day on their phone, often searching for connection, meaning, or just something to quiet that inner thirst. Yet despite having more entertainment, more options, more everything than any generation before us, we seem more unsatisfied than ever. This morning, Isaiah has something stunning to say about our endless scrolling, our midnight searching, our deep thirst that nothing seems to satisfy.
We’ve journeyed through Advent watching for divine light breaking into darkness. First, we witnessed God’s presence in the furnace with three young men who refused to bow to empire. Then we watched as divine breath brought life to Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones. Today, as we light the joy candle, Isaiah reveals that God’s word itself carries light—not as information but as creative power. This word doesn’t just describe transformation; it causes it. Like rain that cannot return to heaven without accomplishing its purpose, divine speech creates gardens from deserts and joy from sorrow. This is light that feeds, satisfies, and transforms.
Every farmer from the Nebraska Sandhills to the Kansas wheat fields understands Isaiah’s rain metaphor in their bones. Rain doesn’t run a credit check before falling. It doesn’t ask the soil about last year’s yield or demand proof of proper preparation. When those dark clouds build on the western horizon, rain falls on the profitable farm and the struggling one, the carefully managed field and the neglected corner, the rich bottomland and the poor hillside.
I think of farmers around McPherson County watching those July thunderheads approach. One family’s wheat is already sold forward at a good price; their neighbor is still digging out from last year’s hail damage. But the rain doesn’t consult the crop insurance claims or the bank statements. It falls on the discouraged farmer who almost quit three years ago and on the one whose operation is thriving. I’ve seen the look on a farmer’s face after that first good rain breaks a drought—there’s something more than relief there. There’s wonder. They didn’t earn it. They couldn’t buy it. It simply came, and it changed everything.
This is how God’s economy works. Divine generosity falls like prairie rain—not because we’ve earned it through proper spiritual irrigation systems or moral fertilizer programs. It falls because that’s what grace does. It gives life to whatever it touches. The only question is whether we’ll open ourselves to receive it, and then let that same generous flow pour through us to others who thirst.
Isaiah’s words explode with marketplace imagery: “All of you who are thirsty, come! Whoever has no money, come, buy and eat!” This sounds like economic nonsense. What vendor shouts for broke customers? Yet God’s economy operates on different principles. The Hebrew word for “buy” here—shabar—typically means a commercial exchange, but Isaiah deliberately breaks the transactional system. You acquire this feast not through payment but through coming, through responding to the invitation.
The prophet confronts our misdirected spending directly: “Why spend money for what isn’t food, and your earnings for what doesn’t satisfy?” The Hebrew word for “satisfy” means to be sated, to have enough. Isaiah knows we’re not just physically hungry but spiritually starving, trying to fill infinite need with finite things. We invest in what promises fulfillment but delivers emptiness—another promotion that demands longer hours, another relationship that requires us to be someone we’re not, another purchase that thrills for a moment then joins the clutter.
Notice how God’s generosity intensifies in verse seven: “because he is generous with forgiveness.” The Hebrew literally means “he will multiply” or “he will do abundantly.” God doesn’t ration forgiveness or calculate how much grace you’ve earned. Then comes the rain metaphor—divine word descends, saturates, generates growth, provides both seed and bread. Nothing wasted, everything multiplied.
John Wesley likely understood this passage as describing prevenient grace—God’s first move toward us before we even know to seek the divine. This free feast represents grace that comes before our response, invitation that precedes our awareness of need. Wesley didn’t just teach this theology; he lived it. When his income rose from thirty pounds to one hundred twenty pounds annually, he continued living on thirty pounds and gave the rest away. He died with virtually nothing in his bank account but had funded orphanages, schools, and missions across England. Wesley understood that generosity isn’t something we do after we’ve secured enough for ourselves. It’s how we discover that God’s abundance flows through open hands, not clenched fists. For Wesley, giving wasn’t obligation—it was participation in divine life. He believed that growth in grace and growth in generosity couldn’t be separated; they were the same movement of the soul toward God.
The Methodist tradition emphasizes that all resources are gifts from God, making us stewards rather than owners. This connects profoundly to our capital campaign. We don’t give to earn God’s favor or purchase blessing. We give because we’ve been swept into God’s generous flow. When divine generosity enters human scarcity, transformation begins—not just in our finances but in our entire worldview. We discover that in God’s economy, the more we give, the more capacity we have to give.
Right here in McPherson, we know about spending money on what doesn’t satisfy. We watch our young families stretching budgets, choosing between gas and groceries. We see our teenagers anxious about college costs, our retirees worried their savings won’t last. The so-called American dream keeps getting more expensive while delivering less joy. We’re told happiness comes from success, security from wealth, satisfaction from consumption. Yet our antidepressant prescriptions keep climbing, our debt keeps growing, our dissatisfaction keeps deepening.
Isaiah’s invitation speaks directly to our exhausted searching. Stop trying to buy what can’t be purchased. Stop exhausting yourself for what evaporates. Instead, come to waters that actually quench thirst. This isn’t about becoming more religious or trying harder to be spiritual. It’s about recognizing that what we most deeply need—meaning, connection, purpose, joy—comes as gift, not achievement.
Think about our church’s own story. Every time we’ve stepped out in generous faith—launching Steps to End Poverty in McPherson County, funding youth mission trips, our Tomorrow First campaign, helping families in crisis—resources have appeared. Not magically, but through people discovering that giving brings more joy than keeping. Consider a family who decided to give their first ten percent even when it seemed financially impossible. They later share that something shifted inside them—not their bank balance, but their anxiety level. They stopped feeling like they never had enough. Or consider someone who says this: “I used to think I’d give more when I had more. Now I realize I have more because I started giving.” That’s the Isaiah principle at work right here on Kansas Avenue.
When we operate from scarcity, we become smaller, tighter, more anxious. When we operate from God’s abundance, we become conduits of that abundance.
Studies show that generous people are happier, healthier, and more connected to their communities. Not because generosity makes them wealthy, but because it aligns them with reality—everything is gift. God’s generous word still accomplishes what it proclaims today.
The good news is that God’s generosity has already begun transforming everything. Before you knew to ask, before you could pay, before you deserved anything, God spread a feast and invited you to eat freely. Divine generosity doesn’t depend on your bank balance, your worthiness, or your ability to reciprocate. Grace multiplies beyond calculation, forgiveness flows without rationing, transformation begins without prerequisites.
When you practice generosity, you’re not depleting limited resources but tapping into unlimited supply. Every generous act connects you to the flow of God’s abundance. And here’s the surprising thing: joy actually increases when we give. Not the fleeting pleasure of acquisition but the deep satisfaction of participating in something bigger than ourselves. This is why Isaiah connects generosity to the mountains singing and trees clapping. Generosity doesn’t just change bank accounts—it changes atmospheres. It shifts the very air around us from anxiety to celebration, from grasping to gratitude. The joy candle we light today burns not despite our giving but because of it. Joy and generosity dance together, each one increasing the other.
God’s generous word accomplishes what it promises. When divine generosity enters your scarcity mindset, transformation begins. Mountains and hills burst into song not because circumstances change but because perspective shifts from scarcity to abundance. You discover that in God’s economy, the more you give, the more you have to give—not necessarily money, but what money can’t buy: joy, peace, purpose, connection.
This is the light breaking through today: God offers what your soul truly craves, and it costs nothing but changes everything. You’re already invited. The feast is already prepared.
Isaiah’s abundance connects directly to our membership promise of GIFTS—the commitment to give money as part of our discipleship. Here’s how to live Isaiah’s invitation this week:
Practice one specific act of radical generosity—not calculated giving from your excess, but something requiring trust. Perhaps forgive a debt someone owes you. Give time you don’t think you have. Share something you’ve been hoarding—not just money, but encouragement, appreciation, or grace.
Before you give, pause. Remember you’re not depleting limited resources but joining God’s abundant flow. After you give, pay attention. Notice what happens in your spirit. Does anxiety increase or peace grow? Does scarcity tighten or joy expand?
Review your giving to the church this year. If you haven’t yet set a percentage, consider what it would mean to take one step toward proportional giving that reflects what God has entrusted to you.
Each morning, ask God: “Where can I be a channel of your generosity today?”
As we light the joy candle this morning, we celebrate word that transforms wilderness into garden. That dead tree sprouting new life, rain falling on parched fields—these point to God’s generous word at work. You don’t have to wait until you have enough to be generous. You’re already swimming in abundance, already invited to the feast. This is how light conquers darkness—through overwhelming generosity.
Will you pray with me?
Generous God, transform our scarcity thinking into abundance living. Help us give like rain falls—freely, abundantly, without calculating who deserves it. Make us channels of your transforming word. Amen.
In crafting today’s sermon, I employed AI assistants like Claude and Apple Intelligence, yet the ultimate responsibility for its content rests with me. These tools offered valuable perspectives, but the most influential sermon preparation hinges on biblical study, theological insight, personal reflection, and divine guidance. I see AI as a supportive aid to enrich the sermon process while ensuring my own voice in proclaiming the Word of God.
Rev. Andrew Conard 