All Things Hold Together
When our lives break into pieces, our wounds can become the whole horizon, making it difficult to see the life and light still surrounding us. Scripture reminds us that we are not self-contained or alone: in Christ, all things hold together, and the fountain of life continues to flow. Becoming fully alive may have less to do with putting ourselves back together and more to do with receiving the life that is already holding us.
The Glimpses of Grace podcast is a ministry of Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, Georgia. We are passionate about supporting the spiritual growth of souls, and we hope these sermons and conversations meet you where you are and enrich your soul as we all continue to make meaning in the world today.
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Transcript
There are times when something breaks.
And when it does, we tend to experience the world in pieces.
We imagine:
This part of my life is good.
This part is not.
This is who I am when I’m at my best.
This is the part of myself I’d rather nobody see.
Here is the person I want people to believe I am.
Here is the person I actually am.
We become divided people, living divided lives.
I think this is what makes becoming fully alive so difficult.
We imagine that becoming more alive means putting ourselves back together, getting all the pieces of our lives in the right place.
But we don’t hold everything together.
Something holds us.
Last week, Stuart preached about the Good Samaritan.
“Once upon a time, there was a wounded person lying in a ditch.” A part of the invitation is to notice. Stop. Look.
Consider what happens when we are willing to face our own wounds instead of rushing past them.
But when we’re lying in a ditch with our wounds,
the ditch can feel like the entire world.
Pain becomes the horizon. Fear becomes the horizon.
Loneliness becomes the horizon.
It’s all you can see.
When we’re wounded, the world contracts.
It’s incredibly difficult to see the whole.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve chosen readings and prayers
that have shifted things toward honoring God in creation.
This morning’s readings claim that God is not simply present
when we can’t seem to hold the pieces together,
God is the Weaver, the unifying love,
the reason all things hold together.
In a letter to the Colossians, it’s put this way:
“Christ is the exact image of the invisible God…for in Christ all things were created, things seen and unseen…the One before all things,
and the One in which all things have been permanently framed.” Not some things.
Not things that make sense to us.
Not things that we have ordered or controlled.
Not things that we deem as good, desirable, expected.
All things.
Beautiful things, broken things.
Things we understand, things we don’t.
Things we choose, things we might never want to choose.
Things we’re proud of, things we’d rather leave behind closed doors. All things.
Mysteriously, before time and beyond time as we know it,
in Christ, all things hold together.
The prologue of John’s Gospel draws on a similar image:
“In the beginning was the Word.”
In the beginning a thing was uttered.
“In him was life, and the life was the light of all people.”
Life and light are used here to express existence, radiance, vitality. The God we meet in Jesus is not a God who is interested only
in one piece, one corner of creation.
Not only in the right kind of religious person.
Not only in those who pretend they have in figured out, held together, composed.
The life is the light of all.
And in Genesis, after the chaos of a flood,
God makes a promise with Noah,…his descendants,…every living creature. Everything that came out of the ark.
(God’s promise is not limited to humanity.)
God’s promise stretches across creation.
The bow is a reminder that when clouds gather,
when things become chaotic, when the water rises:
we are not abandoned.
We sometimes reduce this story to a promise
that God won’t flood the earth again.
But it’s more of a promise that this is not all there is.
Yes, there is chaos, things come apart.
The storm is real. But the storm is not everything.
The wound is real. I see it.
The grief is real. I’ll sit with you.
The uncertainty is real. It’s scary.
And that’s not the whole story.
There’s something underneath all of it.
Something deeper. Something that holds.
Psalm 36 says:
“For with you is the well, the spring, the fountain of life.”
We had this image in our collect a few weeks ago.
A fountain is a source. It sends forth, it gives, it keeps giving.
We receive it. We don’t construct it.
And we forget this.
We are not self-contained. We are not independent.
Our lives are connected to other lives.
Our breath depends on other breath.
Our stories are intertwined.
We become who we are because of those who have loved us and hurt us. Because of those who have challenged us and forgiven us.
Because of the plant we ate who depended on the soil, rain, and sunlight.
So maybe becoming fully alive is about becoming receptive.
Stretching ourselves to receive, to notice.
Learning to recognize that life is already flowing.
We are surrounded by existence, radiance, vitality.
We are surrounded by things that are holding us.
The phone call from a friend when you didn’t realize you needed it. Noticing the mushrooms at the base of a pine tree
or the colors and textures of lantana.
Becoming fully alive is not becoming the perfected edition.
Nor does it happen when all the pieces seem to fall into place. Because we don’t hold everything together
and what a relief to realize that we can’t…
maybe we were never supposed to.
There are moments when we’re strong enough to carry a friend. There are times when we need a friend to carry us.
There are seasons when things sure make a lot of sense,
or seasons when we feel wonderfully alive.
Others when we need to trust without clarity,
or when all we can do is breathe.
But, always, all things hold together.
There are things in this world that are profoundly broken.
There are wounds that should never have happened.
There are deep losses that don’t make sense and
relationships that don’t get repaired.
The Gospel asks us to see the wound and the whole.
You are part of something that existed before and will continue after.
So consider: what is holding me?
What are the things I have been trying desperately to hold together that I might need to release?
Where have I mistaken control for life?
Where have I allowed a wound, a disappointment, a fear, a failure to become the whole story?
We don’t have to hold everything together.
Christ does.
The God who was in the beginning is still making.
Everything is still becoming. Life is still giving itself.
Once upon a time, there was a wounded person lying in a ditch. Someone stopped. Someone saw. Someone came near. And life begins again.
Because there’s a world beyond the ditch, a fountain of life.
And there is a God who has been holding all things together from the beginning.
And we don’t have to.
Amen.
Rev. Dr. Brandon Nonnemaker
August 23, 2026