And in Jesus Christ, His Only Son, Our Lord..., a sermon based on Matthew 10: 9-23, preached on June 14, 2026

Last Tuesday, I was honored to have lunch with Rabbi Steve Lebow, the founding Rabbi of Temple Kol Emeth in East Cobb. I was honored to have lunch with the good Rabbi because I admire him so much, even though getting out to East Cobb for me is a pain. You can’t get there on a bicycle, and I like to ride my bike to stay out of traffic as I did to the church this morning. I can’t get to Roswell on a bike, yet this tip was worth it in more ways than one. He invited me to an authentic middle eastern restaurant. Rabbi Lebow studied in Israel, and so he knows what middle eastern food is supposed to taste like. He also knows something about the amount of middle eastern food that is supposed to be served to reflect the hospitality of the region, and so he took me to this place with a name I can’t pronounce where there was a menu, but the menu didn’t matter because they just bring you everything. To start, they brough to the table bowls of salad. Then came buttered pita bread and more bowls filled with delicious dips to spread on the bread. Following the bread came the meat, lamb, chicken, and beef, presented on skewers fresh from the grill. At the insistence of the staff, we tried freshly-squeezed lemonade with mint leaves. I ate everything I could, and still, there was food left on the table. Then Rabbi Lebow decided it was time for some theological conversation. “I have one more question for you before we leave. Which Gospel is your favorite?” Now, my answer to this question doesn’t matter for this sermon as much as the question does. There are four Gospels in our Bible. To describe Him, to record His words, the ancients who wrote and compiled what is today our Bible saw fit not to limit but to expand. Not one Gospel but four, and yet when we stand to say what we believe, the life and ministry of Jesus Christ is summarized with just a sentence fragment: “And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontious Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried.” That’s it. There’s nothing about the Sermon on the Mount. There’s no mention of His disciples. There are no beatitudes or parables. There’s no statement on the miracles, the number of His followers, where He traveled, or what He said. If we Christians stand and say the Apostles’ Creed every week during this worship service, why isn’t there more about what Jesus said and did? Or is this sentence enough? That’s what I ask you to think about today as we ponder this one line of the Apostles’ Creed. Today is the third sermon of ten in which we focus on the Apostles’ Creed. Having thought about God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth last Sunday, today we come to Jesus, but it’s just a little bit about His birth, “conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary,” nothing about His life, then we skip straight to His death: “suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried.” Just His birth and His death, it reminds me of a tombstone. On each tombstone, there is a date of birth and a date of death. In between the two dates is a dash, but there’s so much in that dash. A whole life is lived between a person’s date of birth and her date of death, and yet on a tombstone, it’s just a dash, and in the Creed, we only hear that He was born a miracle, then He suffered and died. What about all that happened in between? What would you add to tell His story? I wouldn’t dare to add anything before considering that so simple a statement contains within it a multitude of wisdom. Think about this with me: Is it not important to consider how we are all born a miracle and yet we suffer and die? I was standing around with my friend Gray Kelly at the Glover Park Brewery last week. It was for a fundraiser. I feel like I have to tell you that it was for a fundraiser because I just told you that your pastor was at a brewery. I was at Glover Park Brewery talking with my friend Gray Kelly, who told me a story about Michael Jordan, the great Chicago Bulls basketball player. A couple weeks ago, Landon Coleman from our youth group ran into Michael Jordan at a vacation resort, and 35 years ago, the same thing happened to my friend Gray Kelly. He was on vacation with his family. He was 10 or 15 years old. Stumbling onto a basketball court, he started shooting around, when onto the court walks the man some say is the greatest basketball player of all time, Michael Jordan. Gray stops shooting and starts rebounding for Michael Jordan. After a while, Gray introduced himself to Michael Jordan, while Michael Jordan needed no introduction. The two of them shot basketball for a while longer, and later that afternoon, Gray and his father walk by Michael Jordan at the pool. His dad says, “Look Gray, there’s Michael Jordan,” and Michael Jordan says, “Good to see you, Gray.” To hear Gray tell the story is a beautiful thing. At this point in the story, he told us how great it was that this interchange happened in front of his dad. It’s as though his dad were thinking, “I knew my son was special, but I didn’t know that Michael Jordan knew who he was. Everyone knows Michael Jordan’s name, but Michael Jordan knows my son’s name.” This is how many fathers think of their sons because we are all born miracles. We are all precious in the sight of God. This was most abundantly obvious when it came to Jesus. Jesus was such a miracle that His Father was God, not in a figurative sense but in a literal sense, and His mother was the absolute picture of faithful obedience, so much so that she was called a virgin though she bore a son, and yet Jesus suffered under Pontious Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried, for while we are all miracles and while Jesus is more a miracle than any of us, still He suffered. Still, we suffer. Right now, my friend Gray’s father is dying, and so he told us this story about meeting Michael Jordan not only with humor, Not only with joy, but also with bitterness. Not only with laughter, but also with tears because while there is joy in our lives, there is also suffering, and that reality makes us more like Jesus, not less. Now I want to get back to my lunch with Rabbi Lebow. I ate so much that day, I feel like I’m still digesting. I told you that if I can’t get somewhere on my bicycle, I just have a hard time getting there. That’s in part because I drive an electric car, but not the good kind of electric car. I bought the cheap kind with limited battery life. Even with the limited battery life, I still thought I’d be able to make it out to Roswell and back with a full charge. I was wrong about that. There were too many hills. I made it to Roswell. I just didn’t have enough juice in my battery to make it back, so after lunch, I located a charging station, plugged my car in, and the dashboard told me that I’d be ready to get back on the road in four hours. That was frustrating. I was angry about that. It was also embarrassing. I had to call my 2:00 appointment to tell him that I wouldn’t be able to make it. I was having car trouble. To get to my 3:30 appointment, I decided I’d call an Uber. While in the Uber, I received a phone call from our General Presbyter, Andy Casto-Waters. For those unfamiliar with the organizational structure of the Presbyterian Church, effectively this was the bishop calling. You always have to pick up when the bishop calls even if you’ve been stranded in Roswell and are riding in the back of an Uber. “Why are you in an Uber?” Andy asked me. “My car wouldn’t make it to Roswell and back,” I told him. “You have to get a new car, Joe,” Andy said. Then he laughed at me, and yesterday, he gave me this gift (a “For Sale” sign). When I hung up with Andy, the Uber driver said, “You have to get a new car.” Then he laughed at me, and after that, he said, “You’d be better off with an electric scooter.” My point in telling you this is that immediately after eating like a king at the middle eastern restaurant with Rabbi Lebow, I was stranded in East Cobb and ridiculed by, first, my bishop and then my Uber driver. Had I been conceived by the Holy Ghost and born of the Virgin Mary, my self-esteem might have remained intact for the ride home, but had I next suffered under Pontious Pilate, and been crucified like a common criminal, I would have started to wonder. I would have begun to wonder about who I am. I would have questioned my worth. I would have descended into the darkness of depression. I might have called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Did you know that’s what He said on the Cross? In this one sentence, we hear so much of what we need to know for us to live our lives without coming apart at the seams, for while Jesus was born a miracle, and not just a miracle but the miracle of all birth miracles, still He suffered. Still, He died. Still, He hurt. Still, He cried, so when you suffer, don’t you think for an instant that God has left you behind. Don’t you think for a moment that your worth is diminished. Suffering is not always punishment. So often, suffering is leading to salvation, but you won’t get there if you give up or give in. I want to end this sermon by telling you two more stories. The week before last, I was honored to chaperone our high school youth mission trip. During that trip, we all walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. You know that bridge. John Lewis walked across it twice, but the first time, a police officer cracked his skull. That day is called Bloody Sunday. It was an important day during the Civil Rights Movement, but it was important not because it went well. Instead, it was important because the suffering of that day was foundational for the victory. After people heard about the suffering on Bloody Sunday, they rushed to the cause. Clergy and politicians heard the cry. The suffering of that day was not punishment. It was not failure. It laid the foundation for victory, and I got to walk across that bridge with our two daughters, who are miracles, who are perfect, but last Wednesday, one of them wanted to suntan in the driveway, and she texted my wife, Sara, and me, “I’m suntanning in the driveway. Please don’t run me over.” Why would they send their parents, who love them more than anything, a text message such as that? It’s because we are precious. We are miracles, that does not mean we are immune to suffering. That does not mean our lives will be roses and middle eastern feasts and sunny days. In this life, there is suffering. There was suffering in the life of Jesus, but His suffering leads to our salvation, and so we call Him, not the Prince of Sorrow but the Lord of the Dance. Will you dance with Him? Will you rejoice in sorrow beside Him? Will you remember that you are precious in the sight of God, despite the trials and tribulations of this day, for He leads us beyond the valley of the shadow of death and to the bright hope of tomorrow? Thanks be to God. Amen.

Why So We Say the Apostles' Creed, a sermon based on Genesis 1: 1-4 and 2nd Corinthians 13: 11-13, preached on May 31, 2026

If you look at your order of worship, you’ll see that the title for my sermon today takes the form of a question. Thinking about this 10-week sermon series on the Apostles’ Creed, your pastors thought it best to begin by asking, “Why do we say the Apostles’ Creed?” What’s the purpose of this ritual that we take part in, Sunday after Sunday? Each week I ask, “Friends, what do you believe?” Is it like Pavlov’s Dog that you recite without thinking, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty? Why do we say the Apostles’ Creed? If the unexamined life is not worth living, then the unexamined ritual is not worth doing. Rather than keep the tradition for the sake of tradition, consider with me why we say the Apostles’ Creed that this element of the worship service might have a greater depth of meaning. So why do we do it? Reason number 1: because it is good for a group of people to remember that they pretty much believe the same thing. Have you thought about that? Think with me about all that we have in common. While we all have a favorite hymn, and my favorite hymn is not the same as your favorite hymn, we sing out of the same hymnal. We may have a different favorite Bible verse, yet we read from the same Bible. We sit in different pews, yet we are under the same roof, and we all stand together and say, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty” because there are virtues that unify us. There are standards that we hold in common. With one voice, we say, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty.” Before we even get to the meaning of that phrase, which is the subject for next Sunday’s sermon, consider the miracle of saying something together, and I say it is a miracle, for we live in a divided nation, yet each Sunday, we stand in agreement. To stand in agreement is noteworthy, for as a people, we are not all that agreeable. Some of us argue with our waiters, which doesn’t make any sense. To argue with a person who has ample time to spit in what you’re about to eat is foolish, yet people still do it. Some also argue with their television sets. Your TV can’t hear you, yet many do that as well. Some of us even argue with ourselves. It’s been said by my friend Steve Lebow, the Rabbi Emeritus of Temple Kol Emeth in East Cobb, that whenever there are two Jewish people gathered, there are at least three different opinions, yet here we stand to say, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty.” Remember that in a world of uncertainty, you believe in something, and don’t forget that you stand with the person next to you to share core convictions that you have in common, for a divided house cannot stand. I once heard a story about a man who, shipwrecked, lived on a deserted island alone for five years. When his rescuers came, he first wanted to show them around. There were three huts. “The first is my house,” he said. “The second is my church.” “What’s the third?” his rescuers asked. “That’s the church I used to go to. I don’t go there anymore. I couldn’t get along with those people.” Let’s talk about “those people.” There is diversity of opinion and background within this church. You don’t all vote the same way. You don’t think the same way. Some have been members here for generations. Others are here for the first time today. Some of us dip our French fries into ketchup; others, like barbarians, squirt their ketchup on top. Some wake up and drink coffee and others, orange juice. Some come to church for the music; others for their Sunday school class. I once knew a man who said that he just came to church for the hugs. In this culture of isolation, we join here as a family of faith, a community of believers, members all in the household of God. Our differences are miniscule compared to our common convictions. Our accomplishments give no one a reason to boast, for we are all in need of the Savior’s grace. When we rediscover what we share, it changes the way we interact, not only with the people in here, but the people out there. Last week, I was blessed to chaperone our high school mission trip. I’m so glad I did, even though I got home at 11:00 last night and am suffering from severe sleep deprivation. My daughters were less than enthusiastic about their dad going on this trip, but they eventually relented, and I’m so thankful because I got to see them in action. I watched as our little youth group became a community. That’s what happens when you’re stuck in a van for hours without a phone in your hands. Our youth group voted to leave their phones at home for the trip because they know that their phones keep them from talking with each other. Without their phones, talking with each other is what they did. They also served the Lord all over Georgia and Alabama. During the trip, we volunteered here at the Pantry on Church in the rain. The next day, we drove downtown to feed unhoused men and women along Ponce de Leon. The pastor we partnered with there encouraged our kids to get to know the people they fed. Introducing us to his leadership team, he mentioned that one of the people who was organizing the meal we’d serve still spent his nights without a roof over his head. Before we even started, we were rubbing shoulders with different kinds of people. It was an uncomfortable thing to eat with people who look different and smell different rather than just put food in their hands, so at first, the members of our group were standoffish. They were being asked to talk with people they typically avert their eyes from, yet slowly, in the breaking of the bread, they recognized that people who find shelter in bus stops and spend rainy days in public libraries are just people. People with needs, yes, but also people who could quote Scripture, and who wanted to encourage our young people. People with names and stories and wants and dreams. Some with college degrees. Others with artistic gifts. One man we ran into twice used the money people gave him to buy pens and markers that he used to create beautiful artwork, intricate masterpieces that he carried in plastic bags to protect from the elements. We asked him if he sold them, and he said he simply created them for the glory of God. Isn’t it good to remember our common faith that binds us together? Notice with me the Apostle Paul in our second Scripture lesson; as he closed his letter to the church in Corinth, he writes, “Finally, brothers and sisters, agree with one another, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you. Greet one another with a holy kiss.” I just love that. It makes me think about changing the way we pass the peace of Christ. “Greet one another with a holy kiss.” Maybe that’s a little too much, but you can’t kiss someone you don’t trust, and you can’t trust someone if you don’t know where they’re coming from, so let us remember that we share common convictions. We all stand to say that we believe the same thing. Remember that, for we live in a land of paranoia and anxiety. A world of suspicion and fear. Our culture, be it the news, the media, or social media, keeps us so focused on the darkness that we forget about the Light. Whether we are high school freshmen who walk through the halls of the high school fearful of whoever comes around the corner or adults living alone going days or weeks without hearing anyone call them by name, when we offer each other welcome, we provide a gift, and when we are attuned to convictions we share in common, it helps us to feel a little less alone. There’s a great line from the author of the book Theo of Golden that so many people are reading. In an interview, the author said that Theo helps a town of individuals remember that they are neighbors. Would you remember that the person sitting next to you is your brother, and that your sister lives across the street? Would you dare to live that hymn we grew up singing? We are one in the Spirit. We are one in the Lord. And we pray that all unity will one day be restored. And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love. Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love. Another incredible experience we had last week on that high school mission trip was eating food prepared from chefs born in the Congo, Ethiopia, and East Asia. Before we tried what they prepared, our high school students were asked by our hosts about their favorite exotic food. “What’s something adventurous that you like to eat?” they asked, and Thomas Foster said, “Fiber One Cereal.” Now think about this with me. Thomas Foster’s idea of exotic is Fiber One Cereal, and yet, he was served salad made with tea leaves from Myanmar, wet bread spiced with seasonings he’d never heard of from Ethiopia, and the fried pastries served at Congolese weddings, yet he tried all of it. They all did. They ate the food that they were served. They were welcomed by the chefs who served it. They were learning that while there are movements that claim to be Christian at work within our nation right now that so focus on what makes us different, the way of Jesus reminds us that what truly matters is not where we come from or whom we vote for but the faith that we share: “I believe in God, the Father Almighty.” Not everyone in here looks the same or dresses the same, we’re not all from the same generation, we don’t have the same amount of melanin in our skin, some of us have more hair on our heads and others less, yet we all say, “I believe.” I believe the same as you and you as me, for the body is weak when it is divided, but we are strong when we stand together in faith. Would you stand with me now? Together, let us say what we believe.