Although I am still working on my Apprenticeship, A.Div, and Seminary training, I had an experience earlier this week that inspired me to write a sermon that includes lessons from a theology course I am taking as part of my undergraduate education. This is written from a Jedi perspective in dialogue with Christian/Abrahamic thought, but can be applied to any faith—or any sincere practice of the Force—that one adheres to.
There are moments when mercy does not announce itself. It does not arrive with ceremony. It slips into a room on soft shoes or the light squeak of a freshly cleaned floor, looking like something ordinary: a warm blanket, a lowered voice, a hand steady on the bedrail, a presence that does not flee.
On February 17, 2026, in the Emergency Department at Gundersen Medical Center in La Crosse, I was asked to do a small clinical task—an ultrasound-guided IV start for a seventy-year-old woman brought in after a ground-level fall. Her body was frail, her pain was real, but what filled the room even more was fear: the fear that rises when the body fails, when the future narrows, when hospice is no longer an abstract word but a plan. Her son stood by the stretcher and asked the simplest question a family member can ask: “Mom, is there anything you need?” And she answered with the need of a pilgrim: “My rosary. I want my rosary.”
The chaplain was at the bedside. They could provide one, but it was in the spiritual care office. It would take minutes—perhaps only a few—but fear does not wait politely for the hallway. Distress is immediate. It presses on the chest. It steals breath. It makes the present feel like a trap. So I did what mercy often requires: I tried to meet the need that was present, not the need that was convenient. I told her, “I’m wearing my crucifix. If it would bring you comfort, you’re welcome to hold it.” She accepted. Her fingers closed around it, and something in her breathing loosened. The metal in her hand did not change the medical facts, but it changed her loneliness in those facts. She became more able to receive coaching—slow breaths, grounding, the simple discipline of returning to the body. The crucifix became a handhold while the rosary was on its way.
That is what I want to name today: comfort-now mercy - an act of the Force made practical.
Comfort-now mercy is not denial. It is not pretending suffering is small. It is the decision to relieve immediate distress in a way that preserves dignity and quietly points to the Light—to what Christians name as Christ, and what Jedi often name as the living Force. It is our refusal to let a frightened person suffer alone while we search for the “proper” solution.
We can be tempted to think of mercy as something grand: institutional programs, sweeping gestures, public declarations. While those do matter, so does the quiet work that does not make the news. But often, mercy is as small as what you can place in someone’s hand right now.
Why? Because the Divine is not distant. Across traditions, the holy pattern is nearness: the refusal of distance, the choice to enter the human hour instead of speaking to it from afar.
For the Christian perspective, the Incarnation is a name for that nearness: God entering our street, our flesh, our hours. For Jedi, this same nearness is felt as the Force present in the moment—in breath, attention, and relationship. And because the sacred meets us in time, mercy must be willing to enter time as well—especially the sharp minutes when a person’s fear is most acute.
In one gospel scene (Mark VIII), the disciples of Jesus become anxious because they forgot bread. Their minds spiral around what they lack, while help is already in the boat with them. The teacher’s question is almost tender in its firmness: “Do you not yet understand?”.
The lesson is universal: when fear narrows us, we lose sight of what is already present. Unfortunately we do the same in our daily lives. We panic because we cannot find the things that we normally hold, whether it is our cell phone, our glasses, our keys, our control, our routine. Peace, however, is closer than our anxiety would like to admit. In times of suffering and anxiety, we often need a simple, concrete reminder that trust and calm is possible, rather than a lecture about trust and pointing fingers at one another.
Sacramentals, an act of the Force made practical, have the ability to do just that. A crucifix is not magic. A rosary is not superstition. These are just two examples of tangible reminders that the body can readily understand (within a person’s own spiritual practice) when the mind is flooded and anxious. Sacramentals remind us: “You belong. You are prayed for. You are not alone”. The Jedi practice recognizes the same principle in different forms: a steady posture, a repeated mantra, a simple vow we make that becomes reflex, even the comfort and grounding when we feel the grooves of a lightsaber we have built. Our sacramentals aid us in grounding ourselves spiritually, allowing the Force to manifest itself through us, and be better stewards and examples for those around us.
In medicine, we already know the wisdom of tangible comfort. We dim the lights. We warm the blankets. We speak slowly. We ask permission before touch. These are not “extras.” They are humane care. Spiritually, symbols and practices are the same kind of mercy—mercy made touchable. And here I want to make a parallel that may help a Jedi audience: a crucifix can function the way a lightsaber is meant to function in the hands of a disciplined guardian—not as spectacle, but as a vowed tool. A lightsaber and a crucifix, although of different spiritual paths, both signify readiness, restraint, and the commitment to protect life under a code. They are both seen as a calming presence for those in distress, and a protective vow for those who are in harm's way.
Back in the exam room from earlier, the crucifix was not a trophy; it was a focus object—something steady enough to be shared, and quiet enough to keep the moment about the patient, not the one offering it. It is just as important for the patient or recipient to freely consent, and not feel as though the sacramental being shared appears “forced”.
Now, I did not succeed in the IV start. Skill does not always win. But mercy is not measured by success in procedures; mercy is measured by faithfulness in presence. The crucifix stayed with her during her stay. She remained consolable. She was more open to breathing and calming. The chaplain later brought a rosary. When she was discharged home on hospice, the chaplain returned my crucifix, and I placed it back around my neck. That exchange matters. It says: faith is not a trophy; it is a tool for love. Even if I were to have another pendant on, such as my magatama, or something as simple as a challenge coin in my pocket, I would have done the same and offered it for comfort. Any object that one carries with them that brings comfort is comfort-now mercy. It is an act of the Force made practical and tangible. If the object is stable enough to bring me comfort, it is stable enough to be lent. It is strong enough to be shared. It is merciful enough to bring a greater comfort to others in their time of need, rather than solely remaining on our person and allowing them to suffer in that moment. This comfort-now mercy is available to each and every one of us, whether we know it or not, and takes the form of:
• noticing distress early, before it turns to panic;
• offering presence before offering explanations;
• giving what is within reach while the fuller help is on its way;
• and doing it without making the moment about ourselves.
If you are a clinician, your calm can be a form of mercy. If you are family, your steadiness can be a form of mercy. If you are a friend, your willingness to stay can be a form of mercy. And if you are a believer, your faith is not only for your own endurance; it can become a shelter for another person’s shaking. In the language of Jediism, this is the Code in action: Emotion, yet Peace; Chaos, yet Harmony—not by denying feeling, but by guiding it back into balance.
We do not always get to change outcomes. But we can change whether someone suffers alone inside the outcome. We accept the real and now, and do what we can within us to be more human for those in our care. This is where a few of our Teachings and Maxims quietly converge: compassion without performance, humility in the face of limits, and discipline that keeps our presence steady when our hands are not.
So, when you encounter someone who is frightened—at a bedside, in a hallway, across a kitchen table, or in a strange and unfamiliar land—do not underestimate the holy power of small mercies. Offer the handhold. Fetch the Force. Breathe with them. Be present with them.
Because the Force is not only the strength we reach for at the end. It is the presence we practice in the moment. And mercy, if it is real, must be willing to become present tense, rather than a passive thought.
I would like to offer the Meditation for Jedi as our closing reflection:
I am a Jedi, an instrument of peace;
Where there is hatred I shall bring love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.
I am a Jedi.
I shall never seek so much to be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
The Force is with me always, for I am a Jedi.
May the Force Be With You Always
