Pacifica Stories

“The Night Sky and the Kitchen Table” by Jim Knight

Congratulations Class of 2026. What a great day.

First, I want to share the flow of the ceremony. We begin in a reflective posture and gradually move toward celebration, a continuum that starts with reflection and culminates in joy.

We will reflect on the journey, the growth, and the people who made this moment possible. We will pause to consider

what has been learned, what has been overcome, and what has been formed along the way.

Then, we will turn toward celebration, celebrating the goodness, the accomplishments, and the culmination of years of effort, perseverance, and community.

Let us move together from reflection to a great celebration.

Parents and students, as you leave Pacifica and head off to college, you will connect this summer on ground rules. Things like how money will be handled, grade expectations, communication conversations, and so much more. When my oldest daughter, Lindsey, went off to college, we sat down, and I asked her, “How often should we text each other?” I was excited to get her perspective as we entered a new phase of our relationship. She responded, “Dad, that is a good question…how about once a month?” I was stunned, inwardly horrified, and not ready for such a number. I could barely breathe. Outwardly, I held it together, played it cool, and responded, “That’s what I was thinking, once a month. Perfect! We can do that.” The day came to move Lindesy into her dorm at UCLA. We unpacked, set up, went to lunch, and made a few target runs to pick up a few things we needed. We walked around campus, explored, and then it was time for us to leave. There were hugs, some tears, and some poignant comments. We got in the car and drove away. A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was Lindsey. She was in tears, almost sobbing. She said, “Dad, you can text me whenever you want.” In that moment, I knew I had won the day and that everything would be great. Our father-daughter relationship would move to the next stage. We would be ok, she would be ok, I would be ok.

Ground rules: you will have these conversations and many more during this special summer of growth.

Earlier this week, I sat and signed your diploma. As I did, I prayed for you by name. I prayed for your future. I thought of you personally and a bit about your story. Four years ago, when your acceptance letter to Pacifica was sealed with wax, the staff prayed for you individually, that no matter where you ended up for high school, it would be a good journey. As you entered and as you leave you were prayed over.

Four years ago, when you entered Pacifica, you were guided in by a bagpiper. Today, as you leave Pacifica, you will be guided out by a bagpiper.

These bookended moments serve as a symbol of God’s goodness and faithfulness, a reminder that He has been present at the beginning, present along the way, and present as you step into what comes next.

Class of 2026, here we are. Graduation. A holy moment. A joyful moment. A moment suspended between what has been and what will be.

This semester, you have been standing at the edge of two worlds. One foot still planted in Pacifica, chapel, Wolfshack runs, rehearsals, Wilshire Boulevard, classrooms, friendships, ordinary Tuesdays. And one foot stepping into adulthood, college, moving out, moving in, responsibility, courage, and the unknown.

You are leaving something beautiful. And you are walking toward something beautiful.

Today I want to speak to you about two places: The night sky and the kitchen table. Those two images may seem unrelated. But together they reveal something essential about how to live.

Years ago, when I was seventeen, I attended a summer retreat in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. One evening, our speaker gave us a simple instruction. Ten minutes. No conversation. No agenda. Just silence. He asked us to spread out and sit alone under the rocky mountain sky.

I remember walking away from the group and sitting quietly. At first, under the night sky, nothing happened. Then the noise settled. And I looked up. Above me stretched a sky unlike anything I had ever seen. Thousands upon thousands of stars. I felt I could reach up and touch the Milky Way. Endless. Brilliant. Silent.

I remember feeling something I could not fully explain. Small. But not insignificant. Humbled. But strangely hopeful. I realized, for the first time, that life was bigger than me. That there was something beyond achievement, popularity, and plans. Something eternal. The night sky has a way of doing that.

It pulls your eyes upward. It reminds you that your life matters, but that you are not the center of everything. It awakens wonder.

Scripture says: “The heavens declare the glory of God.” Creation points beyond itself. The beauty of the sky does something important. It reminds us to look heavenward. Not to escape this world. But to understand it. Because paradoxically, when we become aware of eternity, we often become more present.

And that brings me to our school theme for next year. I am sharing it now because I hope that you will take a little bit of Pacifica with you.

Next year's theme, which Mr. K so eloquently shared at the senior dinner on Tuesday evening, is Be Present - Be Present Fully Here. Fully Known. Fully Alive.

In a distracted age, presence has become rare. We are always somewhere else. Looking backward. Planning forward. Recording. Scrolling. Achieving. Comparing. There is another way: Presence. Attention. Stillness. Not passivity. Attentiveness.

The Christian understanding of time is beautiful. We look backward with gratitude. We look forward with hope. And because of the Cross behind us and the Resurrection ahead of us, we are free to live now. T

o notice. To listen. To celebrate. To forgive. To create. To love the people right in front of us.

The eternal does not pull us away from the present. It anchors us in it.

And that is where the second image comes in. The kitchen table.

Because while the night sky teaches us to look upward, the table teaches us to look outward.

Think about a kitchen table. Meals. Stories. Homework. Arguments. Prayer. Laughter. Late-night conversations. Parents giving advice. Friends showing up unexpectedly. Questions are being asked. People are known.

The kitchen table may be one of the most formative places in human life. Around tables, people reconcile. Around tables, people celebrate. Around tables, people grieve. Around tables, people become family. And in many ways, the Christian story unfolds around tables. Meals with disciples. Breaking bread at the Last Supper. Hospitality. People gathering.

Tables remind us that we were not made to live alone. Pacifica has tried to give you both.

The night sky. And the kitchen table.

A place that encouraged you to look upward toward truth, beauty, goodness, and eternity.

And a place where teachers, coaches, classmates, mentors, and friends helped form who you are becoming.

You need both. Wonder. And belonging. Transcendence. And community.

Without the sky, life becomes small. Without the table, life becomes lonely.

Class of 2026, do not settle for a small life. You were made for more. Not merely to consume experiences. Not merely to build a résumé. Not merely to curate an image. You were made for significance. For worship. For relationships. For courage. For responsibility. For joy.

And most of those things are built quietly. Not through viral moments. But ordinary faithfulness. One conversation. One friendship. One prayer. One difficult decision. One act of courage. One apology. One dinner. One day. Over time. The older I get, the more convinced I become that some of the greatest moments in life happen sitting across from another person.

My closest friends from college still gather nearly four decades later every single Sunday. We laugh. Pray. Tell Stories. Carry burdens. Celebrate.

That kind of life does not happen accidentally. It requires intention.

So, graduates, fight against isolation. Fight against distraction. Fight against cynicism. Stay soft-hearted. Stay grateful. Stay connected. Look up often. Sit at tables often. Practice presence. And remember, one of the greatest gifts you can give another human being is your full attention.

Be there. Fully here. Fully known. Fully alive.

Class of 2026— in a few moments, you will cross this stage. A bagpiper will lead you out as he led you in four years ago at our freshman dedication service. You will gather in that beautiful courtyard as a group one last time. Photos. Family. Grandparents. Celebration. Goodbyes. I will stand to the side and watch all the goodness. I will be a witness to something beautiful. As the families leave, and the graduates disperse, and the sun goes down, I will reflect, watch, and pray. As the final family leaves, I will walk out full of joy and meaning. I will know it has been a great day. I will know it has been a very great day.

As you go, carry wonder. Carry gratitude. Carry courage. Carry eternal hope.

Keep looking upward. Keep gathering people around tables. Keep becoming fully present. Continue to think and live well.

Class of 2026, we love you. We are proud of you. And we cannot wait to see what you build.

Congratulations. God bless you.