The Holy Spirit Has Been Set Loose on the World, a sermon based on Acts 2: 1-21, preached on May 19, 2024

According to the Wycliffe Global Alliance, as of last September, the entire Bible has been translated into 736 languages. The New Testament has been translated into an additional 1,658 languages, and smaller portions of Scripture have been translated into another 1,264 languages in addition to that, bringing the grand total of languages that some portion of the Bible has been translated into to 3,658. Since that day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit gave the disciples the ability to speak in languages that those pilgrims in Jerusalem could understand, the Holy Spirit has been set loose on the world. There is no need to learn Latin, nor Hebrew or Greek, to hear the Good News. In their own mother tongues, the people who speak any of those 3,658 languages can hear of God’s great deeds of power without an interpreter. The Holy Spirit has been set loose on the world. Today is the day when we celebrate this reality. The fire started on this day so long ago when the disciples, who had been huddled in their one room, not knowing what to do with themselves since Jesus had ascended into heaven, were pushed out to address the crowd. Before the Spirit came, they busied themselves voting on stuff. They sound like a group of Presbyterians. “What should we do?” one asked. “Maybe we should form a committee.” Yet the Spirit burst into their meeting. They were like a valley of dry bones that were suddenly given flesh and blood. Their agenda was tossed out the window by the holy wind that swept the room. These disciples were then given a power they didn’t understand. They faced the crowd outside and began speaking in languages as the Spirit gave them ability. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, so that Parthians, Meades, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea, and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belong to Cyrene all heard them speaking, not in any language they had to learn in school, but in the very language their mothers had cooed into their ears since the day they first rested on their mothers’ chests. When the disciples spoke, the crowd of people didn’t have to think, “What do these words mean?” They knew instinctively. They heard the Gospel preached directly to them. They could hear God speaking in a language that they could understand. Do you know how wonderful that is? The fire of Pentecost is still spreading today. The Scriptures are being translated more and more, yet there have always been people who wanted to put out the fire of Pentecost. You all know that there was a time when God’s people had to learn Latin to understand Scripture. When John Wycliffe, the namesake of the Wycliffe Bible Alliance, whose objective is translating the Bible into every language on earth, first translated the Gospels into English, he was declared a heretic, his translations were burned, and his remains were burned as well, then thrown into the River Swift by order of Pope Martin V. Why? For just as it was true in the time of John Wycliffe, so it was true on that day of Pentecost so long ago: Not everyone rejoiced at the sound of hearing God’s word spoken in the mother tongues of the nations. Some there on that day of Pentecost so long ago assumed that the disciples were drunk. “Drunk? No,” the Disciple Peter said, “It’s much too early for that.” I love that line. Think with me, though, about what the crowd thought. Some in the crowd thought that the disciples were drunk. Some in the time of John Wycliffe thought it was reckless to translate the Bible into the language of the people. Then, when Martin Luther translated the Bible into German about 100 years later, he was called a heretic as well, but this time it didn’t matter because by the time of Martin Luther, the printing press had been invented, so his works couldn’t be burned. They were all so mass produced that they spread throughout Western Europe, as though the Holy Spirit had been set loose on the world once again. Looking back on the COVID-19 pandemic, all that comes to mind. I think about the disciples and how the crowd thought they were drunk. I think of how Wycliffe and Luther were declared heretics. I remember how the internet was streaming our service out into the world in 2020, but so many were anxious for things to go back to the way they had been before. Do you remember? There’s an article that appeared in The New York Times that made me so mad that I’m dedicating my doctoral dissertation to proving the author wrong. The article is titled, “Why Churches Should Drop Their Online Services.” It was written in January of 2022, and the author makes some great points about how much better it is to be here, worshiping God together in this one room, how community is strengthened by the physical presence of other human beings. The author is right about all of that. Just think about how much easier it is to sing when there are other people around you singing. Think about how good it feels to pass the peace and have a hand to shake. Yet, also think about how, before 2020, we weren’t thinking too much about the men and women in the Cobb County Jail. Before 2020, members of the choir weren’t going out into the community, singing at retirement homes. Before 2020, if you were traveling with your kids’ sports team, you were missing church. If you lived out of state and missed your home church here in Marietta, tough luck. If you were in the hospital or couldn’t drive here, we’d say a prayer for you during the service, but you couldn’t hear it in the hospital. Worship had to happen here in this place. The Spirit was confined to these four walls, yet since 2020, this worship service has been set loose on the world. I drove up to Nashville, Tennessee a couple weeks ago to marry a couple who worships with us online. This summer we’ll be welcoming a new member to our church who lives in London. Not London, Arkansas. London, London. I bet she’s worshiping with us right now, as she does every Sunday, because the Holy Spirit has been set loose on this world of ours, pushing Christ’s disciples out into the world in ways that we’ve never dreamed of and in ways that some people in the crowd think are crazy at best and heretical at worst. It’s different is what it is. It’s not heretical. We’re not drunk. It’s just different. And not everyone likes different. The author of this article in The New York Times just a couple years ago that called on churches to discontinue their virtual worship services wanted churches to turn off the livestream, assuming that if we stopped livestreaming, people would come back into the church building. The point of the article was that if we stopped doing this new thing, people would return to the old thing, yet I can’t believe that we are wise to ever be quick in rejecting what is new and different, for new and different may be the work of God. If people accuse you of being drunk or heretical, it may mean that you’re on the right path. Now, that’s not always the case, of course. If new and different is vegetarian lobster or tofurkey at Thanksgiving, I’m against it. But hear me on this: On Pentecost, nearly 2,000 years ago, God made something happen, and crowds of people explained it away, saying, “They must be drunk because they sure are acting crazy,” for when human beings see something they can’t explain simply, they explain it away. Don’t be quick to reject what is new and different. What if different is the work of God? What if God wasn’t satisfied with what we were doing before? Remember with me what the disciples were doing in that room before the Holy Spirit showed up. Do you remember what they were doing? They were voting. I’m all for voting. Here in the United States of America, we are blessed to live in a functioning democracy where we have the right and the privilege to elect our leaders, yet voting is not the same thing as doing, and the Church, sometimes, gets stuck in voting. We vote, and then we vote again. It’s happened to the Presbyterian Church. It’s happened to the Methodist Church. We vote on who can do what and when and how, as though once we get all the voting out of the way, we’ll finally be the perfect church that Christ has called us to be, while the Spirit pushed the disciples out of their voting booth and into the world. That’s what the Spirit did on Pentecost so long ago. The disciples had been in their nice, little room taking care of business, yet the work Jesus the Christ calls us to cannot be confined to these four walls. The Spirit pushes us out into the world that we might make known the love we have received in Him. Get out there, the Spirit says. Get out in the world, for once this hour of worship comes to an end, the service begins. That’s Pentecost. That’s what it’s about. New things. Radical things. The kind of new and radical things that might make all of us good Presbyterians a little nervous because if we go out into the world doing the things that the Spirit moves us to do, someone might start whispering about us. Maybe they’ll say: “I thought he was a pastor. Should he really be serving beer at Two Birds Taphouse?” Outside a church in a small town in Tennessee, Jack and Frank were standing around talking, when a stranger walked up disgusted. “Is this one of those churches that welcomes everyone?” he asked. Not knowing what to say besides the truth, Jack or Frank said, “It sure is. Why don’t you come on in?” The man didn’t like that answer, so he kept walking. Sometimes that’s how it goes. You can’t please everyone, but can we please the Holy Spirit? Can we be moved by the Spirit to do the will of God? My friends, in our Sanctuary, a room that has been standing in Marietta, Georgia for nearly 200 years, there is a black box sitting atop the pulpit. About 100 years ago, the pastor at the time, Dr. Patton, had a telephone installed in that pulpit that he would take off the receiver so that any on the party line could listen in to the worship service. From that pulpit, the Gospel went out into the world. From this Great Hall, may the Gospel go out into the world through you. Go from here out there, led by the Spirit to let our world better understand the radical love of God for all people. Regardless of the languages that they speak, may they hear the Good News in their mother tongues. Regardless of who they are, may they know that they are loved, unconditionally. Regardless of what the world says about us, may we be bold in our proclamation. May the Holy Spirit be set loose on the world. Amen.

Where Would We Be Without Her? a sermon based on Acts 1: 1-11, preached on May 12, 2024

Hal McClain told me last week that the night Martin Luther King, Jr. died, Hal was in Nashville, Tennessee. Because he’s Hal and because at that time, he was a young, carefree college student, he ignored the total curfew mandated by the National Guard, and with two friends, he was driving around the city, until he was pulled over by an armored personnel carrier. I tell you this story because I want you to think with me this morning about what happens when the great leaders leave. When Dr. King died, the nation erupted in riots, and the Civil Rights Movement slowed down. Some would say it never regained the momentum that it once had. Martin Luther King, Jr. who brought together leaders from the big six: the NAACP, the SCLC, the Congress On Racial Equality, Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the Brotherhood of Sleep Car Porters, and the National Urban League, left a leadership hole so large that no one else could fill it, so these organizations, several of which still exist and have gone on to do important things, have not been unified since the day he died, which reminds me of what happened after my mother-in-law’s aunts died. When Sara and I were first married more than 20 years ago, her favorite holiday was Thanksgiving. She couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving because the entire family on her mother’s side would drive to Knoxville, Tennessee to the street where the aunts lived. All four of these sisters had homes on the same street, so when the cousins came to town, they could run from yard to yard until the Thanksgiving meal was served in the oldest sister’s house. There was no wine because she was a teetotalling Methodist. The dessert was something they just called “yum-yum.” That’s how good it was. It was named after the sound you made while eating it. Surely your family has or had similar traditions, but such traditions sometimes require a leader to keep them going. What happens when the great-aunts die? Does the family still come together? In our case, no. Those aunts died, and no one calls the family together. Sara still loves Thanksgiving, but without the aunts, it’s not the same, for in this life, there are people who bring us together. They bring unity. They help us cooperate. They insist that everyone come to Knoxville for Thanksgiving, and no one drink wine, and today we can drink wine at Thanksgiving dinner, but there aren’t nearly as many seats at the table because the aunts who brought the extended family together are gone. On this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about those people in our lives who have played such an important role that in their absence, things kind of fall apart. Where would we be without her? You may feel that way about your mother. Or maybe you’re thinking, had my mother been different, I would have saved a fortune on therapy. I don’t know what you think about Mother’s Day, but think with me about Jesus, who called Himself the mother hen. Before He was crucified, He looked over the city of Jerusalem and said in the Gospel of Matthew, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem… How often have I desired to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…” In our second Scripture lesson, the Mother Hen lifts off, leaving a brood of disciples to figure out what to do without their great leader. He ascends into Heaven. There is no tomb containing His body, for Jesus ascended into Heaven, the book of Acts tells us. Now that He’s gone, what will happen with His disciples? What will happen with the great religion He started? What happens when the great leaders leave? I’m no great leader, but when we left Columbia, Tennessee to move here nearly seven years ago, I remember so well a phone call I received from our friend and real estate agent, John Hill. John sold us our home in Columbia when we moved there. A couple days after the announcement went out that we’d be leaving there to move here, John called me and said, “Joe, everyone has been so sad that ya’ll are leaving. It’s all I’ve heard about for two days, but now they all want to buy your house.” Sometimes, when someone leaves, it’s hard to see her go, but after a while, you’re thinking about how nice it would be to live in her house. Maybe when the leader leaves, his lieutenants jockey for position. If you look to the fourth verse of our second Scripture lesson, you’ll see that “he ordered them not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for the promise of the Father.” “The Holy Spirit is coming,” He told them. “Just wait here.” That’s no small order. “Just wait,” He said, but when you were a kid, did your mother ever give you that instruction? “I’ll be right back,” is the opening line of all the great stories that end in chaos, for maybe with her gone, we took the opportunity to gain some independence. To step out on our own. To do things our own way. Some are so anxious to take over once the great leader leaves that they abandon all the lessons of love that he taught, becoming ambitious and ruthless, yet when we jockey for position, are we honoring the ones who came not to be served, but to serve? I’ve just recently heard about a tradition shared among the members of the Habsburgs who ruled a massive European empire for 700 years. When a member of the family dies, still to this day, the body is taken to Vienna. After a requiem mass at St. Stephen’s Cathedral, the funeral party carries the deceased to the entrance of the crypt where the leader of the procession knocks on the door. Hearing the knock, a voice on the other side asks: “Who desires admission?” The leader of the funeral procession describes the titles the deceased held: “It is Otto of Austria, former Crown Prince of Austria-Hungary, Prince Royal of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia, of Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, and Galicia; Grand Duke of Tuscany and Cracow; Duke of Lorraine, and Salzburg; Grand Prince of Transylvania, Margrave of Moravia; Duke of Upper and Lower Silesia, Modena, and Zadar; Princely Count of Habsburg and Tyrol; Prince of Trento and Brixen; Margrave of Upper and Lower Istria; Count of Sonnenburg; Lord of Trieste; Grand Voivod of the Voivodship of Serbia.” Those Habsburgs were impressive, but upon hearing the magnitude of the territory that the deceased ruled over, the voice on the other side of the door says: “We do not know him!” and so the leader of the funeral procession knocks again. The voice on the other side of the door asks: “Who desires admission?” The leader of the procession then announces the accomplishments of the deceased: “This is Dr. Otto von Habsburg; President and Honorary President of the Pan-European Union; Member and Father of the House of the European Parliament; Holder of honorary doctorates from countless universities and freeman of many communities in Central Europe; Member of numerous noble academies and institutes; Bearer of high and highest awards, decorations, and honors of church and state made to him in recognition of his decade-long struggle for the freedom of peoples, for right and justice.” Hearing that, the voice on the other side of the door says: “We do not know him!” and so the leader of the funeral procession knocks again. A voice on the other side of the door again asks: “Who desires admission?” For a third time, the leader of the procession answers, yet this time the answer is different: “It is Otto, a mortal, a sinful man!” Finally, the voice on the other side of the door declares: “Let him be admitted.” Last Sunday, I stood with the young men and women who, upon completion of their Confirmation Class, declared their faith as Christians, some for the first time publicly. One of them was my own daughter, and what I realized was that those young men and women who are raised in this church, they will go on to earn titles and to gain authority. They will go forth from this church to do great things, and yet the greatest title that they will ever hold they have already obtained, for there is no greater distinction than to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. This is the great title. To be baptized and claimed, forgiven, and redeemed, to confess Jesus as Lord, to be one of His disciples is the best that any of us will ever do, and yet the minute the Savior ascends into Heaven we, His disciples, continue our arguing over who will sit at His right hand because sometimes that’s just what people do. We want big titles. We want to do things our own way, and yet, will the titles, will the accomplishments, will the prestige, make us any more loved than we are already? Lately, every night at 8 o’clock, the Evans family sits in front of the TV in our sunroom to watch an episode of Young Sheldon. The main character in this TV show is a child genius. He’s tested into high school, and even though he’s 9 years old, Sheldon clearly knows more about calculus and chemistry than his teachers. He’s amazing, yet it’s his mother who is the true star of the show. Sheldon’s mother doesn’t seem to care how smart he is or how well he does on tests. She’s not most interested in what he’ll go on to do in the world. She loves him absolutely already. To her, he is precious. He is worthy, not because of what he’s done or what he will do, but because this is the way of love. My friends, how will we honor the love that we have received from God? Will we jockey for power? Will we work ourselves to death, attempting to gain approval and status? This morning, our first Scripture lesson came from that great disciple who met Jesus on the road to Emmaus and came to understand Him so clearly, so precisely. As the Apostle Paul pondered his own death, these were his words: I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe. When we recognize that in Him, we have already inherited everything, there is no need to strive for more. Remember the love of God and those who have embodied it to you and honor the Savior who ascended into Heaven by living as He did. We honor the One who will come again, not when we jockey for status or puff ourselves up; not when we give up on the movement or split into factions, but when we claim that same spirit of wisdom and revelation that He gave us. We honor Him when we remember that we are already more than conquerors, through Him who loved us. Thanks be to God. Amen.

You Are the Branches, a sermon based on John 15: 1-8, preached on April 28, 2024

You might remember Fran Dresher from the 90’s sitcom, The Nanny, or more recently, as she led actors’ and writers’ strikes. Last week, I heard her tell a joke on a show that I like to watch, Somebody Feed Phil, and since this joke is inspired by the book of Genesis, I thought I’d include it in my sermon this morning. God was talking with Adam about creating for him a wife, so God told him, “Here’s what I’m thinking. She’ll never complain, and she’ll always tell you that you’re right about everything.” Adam said to God, “She sounds great. What’s she going to cost me.” God said, “An arm and a leg.” Adam asked, “What will you give me for a rib?” Forgive me for telling a joke like that. It’s not an appropriate joke for the pulpit, but I tell it because while initially, a partner who never complains and tells me that I’m right about everything sounds wonderful, I don’t know where I would be if my wife agreed with me all the time. When we’re lost, Sara is the first to tell me. When I’m wrong, she lets me know. Rather than tell me I look perfect, she bought me nose hair trimmers and other gifts that have helped me when I look less than perfect. I could go on and on with the ways she has cared enough to help me in my imperfection. I used to ask her to read my sermons the day before I preached them, and she didn’t tell me they were perfect. She loved me too much for that. She took out a page at least, and because of that level of honesty, I trust her more than I trust anyone else. I trust her not because she always tells me that I’m right, but because she tells me when I’m wrong. Likewise, I value honest feedback from you, the congregation, and I expect it from our staff. With friends, I’m the same way. I trust friends who are honest with me, so when I think of that old hymn, “What a friend we have in Jesus,” I know what kind of a friend we have in Him. Is He the friend who always tells me that I’m right and they’re wrong, or is Jesus the kind of friend who holds up a mirror to me, saying, “You’re worth a rib, but not an arm and a leg.” We all have some work to do on ourselves, and so I tell you Jesus is the kind of friend who loves us as we are yet loves us too much to leave us as we are, so to help us get closer to being our best selves, God is at work in our lives, pruning our bad habits as a vine grower prunes dead limbs. That’s the Gospel lesson for today. He is the vine; we are the branches. God is the vine grower who prunes us, yet remember that getting pruned is not the same thing as being cut off from the vine. Plenty of people have struggled to understand the difference. People who misunderstand pruning don’t like being told that they’re wrong. They don’t like advice. They can’t take criticism. In struggle, they fall apart. When things don’t go their way, they throw up their hands, giving up and giving in, maybe because they think they’re perfect already or else because they’ve confused being pruned with being cut off from the vine. When I’m not my best self, that’s what I do. Last Sunday, Rev. Cassie Waits was giving the children’s sermon. She asked those kids if they thought I knew everyone in the church’s name, and they said “yes.” Well, this past week, I’ve proven those kids wrong more than once. I was tired on Friday afternoon, and I called two people by the wrong name. I didn’t say, “Hey, buddy,” or something like that. I said, “Good to see you, Sam,” and he said, “The name’s Alex.” Ten minutes later, I did the same thing again with another person I know and love. Because I was tired, these two mistakes sent me down a shame spiral. I started thinking not only did I fail to honor those two people I care about, but I also let all the kids in the church down. They had me up on a pedestal, and now I’ve fallen from it. Should I turn in my letter of resignation now and apologize to all the kids this coming Sunday? That’s probably an overreaction, and once I had a nap, I thought better of it. After a nap, I could see that it’s one thing to say, “I made a mistake,” and it’s another thing to say, “I am a mistake.” Humility is one thing, and being humiliated is another. Shame sends us down a spiral. Shame is the feeling that we are being cut off from the vine and thrown into the fire, and so I ask you to think about pruning this morning so that we all remember that being pruned and being cut off from the vine are not the same thing, for “you are the branches,” Jesus said. That’s not just a good thing: It is a miraculous thing. It is a miraculous thing to be a branch attached to the vine in the sense that when we hear criticism, when we are pushed, when we face trials, it may be God’s hand at work in our lives enabling us to do more and to be more. Being pruned is not the same thing as being cut off from the vine, for we are the branches. So many teachers help us remember that because they help us learn and grow without kicking us out of their classes. So many coaches do the same when they push us, making us better, without ever giving up on us as people. Today we are celebrating Stephen Ministers, and this is exactly what Stephen Ministers do. They stick with people after those major life prunings. They listen to people after they’ve been left or laid off. They’re there after the divorce to remind them that not everyone will leave. Not everyone will walk away. God will never leave you nor forsake you; however, this good news can be hard to believe for we live in a culture where people don’t get criticized, they get canceled. Years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached a sermon in which he mentioned science and technology and cautioned the congregation, saying, “there is a sort of poverty of the spirit which stands in glaring contrast to our scientific and technological abundance… We have learned to fly the air like birds and swim the sea like fish, but we have not learned the simple art of living together.” In other words, we have the technology to have a conversation that involves millions of people on social media, but read through your Facebook feed and tell me if our moral maturity and our spiritual depth have caught up with our technology. These days, when one expresses an opinion, those who agree cheer and those who disagree cut you off. I’m tired of it. I’m so tired of the “you’re either with me or you’re against me” mentality. To think that you either agree with me or you’re wrong is a mentality that will not advance our society; this willingness to give up on each other is not good for the national conversation and it’s not good for our souls because if we were to lose all the friends we disagree with, we would be isolated and alone. Our Gospel lesson this morning is telling us that God is different. God chooses to stick with you even if you’ve put your foot in your mouth. God chooses not to reject His people but to prune them, refine them, help them to grow. And if that’s God, then how should we be? There’s a great joke about a man who was shipwrecked on a desert island. For two or three years, he lived there all alone, but one day a rescue boat pulled up to the shore. He’d been saved, but before he left the island, he wanted to give his rescuers a tour. On his island were three huts. He pointed to the first one and said, “That’s the home I built.” Then, he pointed to the second, “And that’s my church.” Wanting to know what the third hut was, the rescuers asked about it, and the man said, “That’s the church I used to go to. They made me mad and so I left.” My friends, we can’t storm out on each other. We can’t storm out on each other, not if we are modeling our lives on the God who never storms out on us. We can’t give up on others, and that starts with not giving up on ourselves. We are the branches. We are the branches. We are beloved. We are accepted. We will be changed, challenged, and pushed to grow, but that’s because we are loved, valued, and worthy to bear much fruit. May we all trust in this promise so that we endure the pruning, not with resistance, but with faith, knowing that God is not done with us yet. Halleluiah. Amen

We Wish to See Jesus, a sermon based on John 10: 11-18, preached on April 21, 2024

Last Friday, Rev. Brandon Owen of First Baptist Church and his wife, Lesley Ann, invited Sara and me out for dinner to Two Birds Taphouse on the Square. That sounds like the beginning of an old joke: A presbyterian minister, a Baptist minister, and their wives walk into a bar. We had dinner at Two Birds, and last Friday, every staff member had on matching t-shirts. It was one employee’s last night working at Two Birds before she moved to Greece, and every staff member wanted to celebrate her. They all had on matching shirts, and customers could help her raise money for the big move by putting a little cash into the jar. I was excited to do that. Rev. Brandon Owen was as well, and it got me thinking about what a special workplace Jeff and Rachel Byrd have created in that restaurant they own, where the customers love the staff, the staff loves and supports each other, and this one staff member was so sad to leave. This staff member, Alex, had been working at Two Birds since the restaurant opened seven years ago. In the restaurant industry, that’s a long time, so while I’m sure she stayed that long in her job because of the pay or because the hours worked for her life, when I think about the matching t-shirts and the number of people wanting to wish her well, I could see why she stayed for so long. She didn’t have a typical job, and she didn’t work for a typical boss. I know a father who once told his son that people stay in jobs for one of three reasons: the money is good, they love the people they work with, or they feel good about what they’re doing. I think he’s right about that. People will stay in jobs for the money, even if they don’t like the people they work with and they don’t really enjoy the work that they’re doing. They’ll also stay in jobs because they love the people they work with even if the money isn’t good and they don’t especially love the work. They’ll also stay on because the work matters. I think of teachers and school counselors and social workers. The money is OK, but no one teaches for the money. Teachers teach because the work matters. Police officers put their lives on the line because they have the chance to make a difference. Now, imagine how many teachers would teach or how many police officers would sign on if they got paid what they deserve. Have you seen those police cars out everywhere advertising that the MPD is hiring? This father also said, “Son, if you ever find a job with two of those things, you won’t ever leave.” I feel especially blessed to have all three. I’m grateful for that, but I wonder about everybody else who is just working for a living. Are you just working for the money? This morning our second Scripture lesson from the Gospel of John is all about the Good Shepherd. He’s not like the hired hand or any typical shepherd. He’s different, but before we can really appreciate Him, think with me about a typical shepherd. A typical shepherd is something like a typical boss. A typical shepherd isn’t bad or evil; he’s just a shepherd. I knew a man back in Tennessee who raised cattle for a living, and he always got frustrated in Sunday school classes and Bible studies because people would talk about shepherds without knowing anything about them. They’d be reading Psalm 23: The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. That’s all good and right and true, but if the shepherd in the psalm is anything like the man I knew who raised cattle, some sheep from the fold would be dinner soon enough. That’s what shepherds do. Shepherds raise sheep and turn those sheep into sweaters at best and lamb chops at worst. That’s the deal with a normal shepherd. That’s what a typical shepherd does. How does a shepherd act? In what way does a shepherd take care of his sheep? Does he hug the sheep and lie down beside them? Does he pick burrs out of their wool and make sure they’re fed and watered? Sure. Most shepherds are going to do some of that the same way that most employers are going to take decent care of their staff, but how does the shepherd make a living? Why does the shepherd have sheep at all? It’s so he can shear them or milk them or eat them. And that’s the reality that most of us know. Whether it’s our bosses or our boyfriends, many people want something from us. Will they take care of us? Will they protect us? Will they help us out? Sure, they will, but they also want to get paid. They’ll scratch our backs if we scratch theirs. Our bosses will pay us in exchange for our labor. Our politicians will learn our names and listen to our concerns, but they also want our votes. Even pastors can be like this. How many pastors have I known who were wonderful and kind and supportive, but as soon as I joined the church or turned in my pledge card, I was no longer the center of attention because he got what he wanted from me, and he had other sheep to go and find. I haven’t ever wanted to be that kind of shepherd. I’ve wanted to be more like the Good Shepherd, who, as Rev. Cassie Waits just said in the children’s sermon, knows my name, for the world is full of transactional relationships. We work for a paycheck. We exchange money for haircuts and checkups. We spend money so that we can buy goods and services. This is the way it is, often enough. However, this is not the only way it is, for while our world is full of shepherds who treat us fine but want something from us, the Good Shepherd knows our names, and it’s not because He wants something from us. As a matter of fact, while a typical shepherd will sheer or milk or kill his sheep to make a living, the Good Shepherd lays down His life for the sheep. He died to save us, and what does He ask in return? He asks us to go and do likewise. John 15: 9 and 12 says, “as the father has loved me, so I have loved you… this is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” That happens often enough. Back to Two Birds. Sitting in Two Birds, thinking about those t-shirts and the staff celebrating their coworker who was leaving and wishing her well, Rev. Brandon Owen told us about this experience he had at a Braves game. He was right in the middle of a financial transaction at Truist Park. He was paying too much for a hot dog when he received a message from his mother telling him that his Aunt Sonya had died. As he told us this, he told me that I remind him of his Aunt Sonya, and Sara said, “Joe sometimes reminds me of a 65-year-old woman, too.” I don’t know what she meant by that, but I thought it was funny. We laughed, and Brandon went on with his story. As the news of his Aunt Sonya’s death sunk in, tears filled his eyes, so when he gave his credit card to the woman at the concession stand, she saw the tears and asked him what happened. My friend, Rev. Brandon Owen of First Baptist Church, just opened up to the stranger at the concession stand. He told her he just got news that his aunt had died, and she reached over the barrier between them and hugged him. That’s a great story, right? He’s already told it in a sermon, so he said I could use it. I tell it to you this morning because, while the way of the world may be quid pro quo, the way of Jesus is also at work in our lives. People are following the way of Jesus in this dog-eat-dog world too, and I don’t want you to ever forget it. Think about all those times someone went the extra mile or showed you kindness without expecting anything in return. Has it ever happened that the person in front of you at the drive through window paid for your order? Or has it ever happened that the good people in your office rallied together to support you through a hard time? Last Friday, I was preaching the funeral for Fannette Adams, and right during the welcome, tears came to my eyes. They came to my eyes because it was a Friday afternoon at 2:00, and yet the whole Sanctuary was full. A whole congregation showed up to be there for Fannette’s family. They were daughter Emily’s coworkers. They were elders who serve on the Session beside Bebe. They were Fannette’s high school classmates. They were neighbors and friends. They all stood as the family walked into the Sanctuary, and as I stood in the pulpit looking around, I was moved to tears because there He was. There He was in His church where the followers of the Good Shepherd were loving each other just as He loves them. His love for us isn’t too good to be true, and His commandment is that we accept His love, let it fill us up, and show this world that we live in, where too many people struggle to see the light because of all the darkness, that the Light of our Risen Lord, Jesus Christ, will not go out, for He is Risen. Halleluiah. Amen.

Have You Anything Here to Eat, a sermon based on Luke 24: 36-48 preached on April 14, 2024

Several years ago, there was a trend to wear bracelets with the letters “WWJD” on them. The bracelets were meant to remind the wearer to ask him or herself, “What would Jesus do?” I remember wearing one as a teenager, and so while driving, I’d occasionally glance at the bracelet and would check my speedometer, asking myself, “Would Jesus speed?” or, joking with friends, maybe making fun of someone we knew, I’d glance at the bracelet and would ask myself, “Would Jesus be laughing right now?” That was the intended purpose of the bracelet, yet given the supernatural abilities of Jesus, Dr, David Bartlett, a well-known Bible scholar, once asked the question, “What would Jesus do?” and said, “Jesus would give the blind man his sight. Jesus would make the leper clean. Jesus would multiply the bread and fish to feed thousands. Jesus would face death without fear. Jesus would die and on the third day, would rise again.” In other words, it’s not always good to ask ourselves, “What would Jesus do?” because there are things that Jesus can do that we cannot. Jesus, the son of God, did supernatural things, and yet, Jesus, the risen Christ, also did perfectly human things. The Bible tells us that Jesus wept, just as we do. Jesus laughed, just as we do. When Jesus stormed the Temple and toppled the tables of the money changers, it was because Jesus got angry, just as we do. Now, in our Second Scripture lesson, Jesus, the risen Christ, Who has done the most supernatural thing of all by rising from the dead, follows up this awe-inspiring miracle by asking his disciples, “Have you anything here to eat?” Eating is not supernatural. Jesus got hungry; we get hungry. Being hungry and asking friends for something to eat is an act that everyone here is capable of, so while I don’t doubt the power of God, Who might enable one of us to walk on water or speak in another language, think with me today about Jesus, the divine Miracle Worker, the One who conquers death and is risen to rule the world and what has He to teach us in asking this question, “Have you anything here to eat?” What does it mean that Jesus who wept, who laughed, who got angry, also got hungry, and when He got hungry, He made a request of his disciples, “Have you anything here to eat?” when likely He could have waved His hand and produced a five-course meal or touched His belly and freed Himself from such mortal struggles as being hungry. Have you ever wished you wouldn’t get hungry? I wish I could resist tortilla chips at Mexican restaurants. Why can’t I stop eating them? “What would Jesus do?” the bracelet asks. I say, “Jesus would never give into the temptation of tortilla chips the way I do,” and yet Jesus, the risen Christ, asked His disciples, “Have you anything here to eat?” Why? I believe it is because they were afraid, and Jesus knows that there are a million tiny things that reduce our fear. He knows that there are hundreds of tiny gestures that make us feel safe. One of them is sharing a meal, but another is a simple handshake. Have you ever thought much about the power of a handshake? Imagine with me that you’ve just signed a contract with a new business partner, and when you go to shake her hand, she keeps her hands in her pockets. How are you going to feel? What I’m trying to say is that a handshake is more than a handshake. And a meal is more than food. Jesus knows that. Have you ever experienced it? I have. Just last week, I was on my way to a Presbyterian pastors conference in Moab, Utah. It was for Presbyterian ministers at larger Presbyterian churches. Only 15 were invited from across the country, so I was honored to be invited and proud to be a pastor at a larger Presbyterian church. A wealthy donor put us all up in a beautiful lodge next to a river. The only catch was that to get there I had to fly in a plane that didn’t have TVs. I sat down and there was no built-in TV for me to watch. In fact, there was a sticker where the TV might have been that said, “At this seat, we’re pleased to offer you free personal device entertainment.” Translation: You don’t get a TV to watch movies. You can look at your phone or use your laptop, so I put in my earbuds and took out my computer. Later, the flight attendants came around with snacks. Because they charged me $40 to check my luggage, I thought they were also going to charge me for a snack, yet lo and behold, the flight attendant came to our row with off-brand Chex Mix and full cans of ginger ale. Closing my computer and taking out my ear buds to focus on eating my snack, the woman next to me, who noticed that I had been working on this sermon, asked me if I was Roman Catholic or Presbyterian. “Presbyterian,” I responded, “but how did you guess that?” I asked. She saw the sermon I had been working on and noticed the bulletin draft I had open. Knowing that her nondenominational church doesn’t use the liturgy that we do, she put it together that I must be Roman Catholic or Presbyterian. Then, I introduced myself. I told her my name. She told me hers and that she lives near Peachtree City. I told her that I live in Marietta. The next thing I know, she’s telling me about her son who lives near the Battery, her other son who is doing his residency in Albuquerque, and her youngest son, also named Joe, who died by suicide two years ago. I told her I was sorry. She thanked me for listening. Would she have told me that if no off-brand Chex Mix had been provided? I doubt it because a handshake is not just a handshake. A meal is not just a meal. Knowing that, this morning I draw your attention to a most human request that the resurrected Jesus makes of His disciples: Have you anything here to eat? He’s just done the most supernatural thing that He could possibly do. Rising from the dead is so amazing, so supernatural, so miraculous that the disciples can’t even believe He’s real. Did you notice that in our second Scripture lesson? They were all disbelieving and wondering, so He invited them to touch His hands and His feet, yet that wasn’t enough. As Dr. Bartlett said, “What would Jesus do? Give the blind his sight, heal the leper, multiply the loaves and fishes.” There are all kinds of supernatural things that Jesus does that keep Him outside our grasp and keep us from understanding Who He is, so this morning, think with me about this most human thing that He does, this most basic thing He does, which is also something that from time to time defies our grasp because we get busy doing all kinds of other things so that we don’t eat together either. What keeps us from sitting down and eating together? Maybe one kid has baseball practice three nights a week. The other has dance lessons. Plus, they both have after-school tutoring to get ahead. Parents work. Dogs must be walked. The grass must be cut. All kinds of important meetings and enriching activities have families moving in so many different directions that getting around the dinner table for a shared meal can seem impossible, so when I hear Jesus ask, “Have you anything here to eat?” while I don’t hear anything supernatural in the request, and while I don’t hear anything impossible, I do hear Him teaching us something important and life changing. I hear Jesus, the perfect, sinless, miracle-working, Son of God, revealing once again the incredible gift that we look over, for He is there in the breaking of the bread. That’s what we say so often at the communion table, and yet the kitchen table is an ordinary miracle with healing powers all its own. In my first or second year of ministry, I was invited over for lunch by a mother in the congregation. The invitation came about three weeks after I had been asked by the local newspaper what the Bible really says about homosexuality. In 250 words, I wrote my response. I wrote that while there are passages in the Bible that speak to the issue, Jesus never mentions it, and if Jesus never mentions it, then why do we spend so much time talking about it? That’s all I wrote, but that statement was enough for one member of the congregation to photocopy the article and place it on every pew in the sanctuary while another member of the church held a petition for people to sign if they’d like for me to be fired. It wasn’t the best day of my life, and it was followed by multiple lunches where I was lectured. Multiple cups of coffee where I was interrogated. I would go to visit church members in the hospital, and after I prayed for them, they’d tell me how they felt about what I wrote. Three weeks after I wrote the article, this mother invited me to her home for lunch, and I remember calling Sara from the driveway, “I hope this is the last one. I’m tired of this.” When I walked in, she was visibly nervous. She had prepared too much food for us to eat. I remember there being a bowl of chicken salad and another bowl of tuna salad. We ate in awkward silence for at least 30 minutes before she finally asked, “Can you really tell me that my son isn’t going to hell?” Have you anything here to eat? That’s the question that Jesus asks. Moreover, it’s a question that we all ask because we are all hungry, yet it’s not only a question about food, for a handshake is not just a handshake nor is a meal just a meal. A meal is an invitation to see Jesus as He is, right here, risen and with us, so sit down and eat with people. Eat with your family. Invite your neighbors over. Why? Because we don’t see Jesus clearly even though He is always with us nor do we see each other clearly because we are moving too fast, yet when we sit down to break bread together, we remember that He is with us, and He will be with us forever. Halleluiah. Amen.

Whom Are You Looking For? A sermon based on John 20: 1-18, preached on March 31, 2024

Last Wednesday morning, I was emptying the dishwasher, and as I began putting the clean glasses back in the cupboard, I noticed that several glasses were missing. However, I knew where to find them. I won’t tell you which daughter, but of the two, we have one who loves to take a glass of water up to her room yet is unable to bring the empty glass back to the kitchen. I don’t know why this would be. It’s one of the great mysteries of life. Occasionally, in a fit of frustration, I go upstairs to my daughter’s room. There, on her bedside table last Wednesday morning, were nine glasses. Nine. Her bedside table does not have room enough for all those glasses, so they sat there precariously, stacked one upon the other. You can possibly tell that this habit of hers gets on my nerves. It gets on my nerves because I can’t understand it. I picked up the glasses one by one to take them downstairs to the dishwasher. As I was attempting to hold all nine in two hands so that I might carry them all down in one trip, I noticed that the nine glasses were covering up a valentine’s card. The card wasn’t signed, but I believe it came from her grandmother. Here it is. I stole it, and this is what it says, this valentine to our daughter from her grandmother: The way you are is awesome. The way you are is smart. The way you are is fun and funny, Kind and full of heart. The way you are is magic. The way you are is wow! No wonder you’re so loved for just the way you are right now! That’s what you think, Grandma. You don’t have to pick up her dirty glasses. That’s what I thought to myself for just a second, before I thought about how true those words are. Looking around, I noticed again that there is so much in her bedroom besides an accumulation of dirty glasses. On her wall are multiple awards. One, which she received just the night before, came from her coach who remarked on how mature she is. How respectful. How kind, so slowly but surely, my frustration with one aspect of my daughter retreated so that I might take in the whole of who she is. Has something like this ever happened to you? Do you know what I’m talking about? The Rev. Joe Brice, who served here as an associate pastor for several years (He’s now at the Presbyterian Church in Rockmart.), likes to say, “What you focus on, you get more of.” What does that mean? It means that when I’m pulling weeds, weeds are what I see. It means that when I read the newspaper, the more I focus on typos, the more typos I see. Just last week, I was reading an article on the bridge disaster in Baltimore. The paper I was reading reported that there was an accident on the Francis Key Scott Bridge. That’s not right. It was the Francis Scott Key Bridge, yet the typo is beside the point. Why focus on typos when people have been injured? Why focus on typos when people have died? However, in focusing on tragedy, the same thing happens. When we focus on it, we see more and more. Surely, Mary woke up that Easter morning and said to her family, “Make your own breakfast. I can’t think about it.” Who could think about breakfast amid such a devastating tragedy as what she’d witnessed? I imagine that in the days after His crucifixion, the agony on His face was imprinted on her consciousness. Having watched Him suffer, seen the blood that dripped down His cheeks, heard the crowd who shouted for His death, followed on the slow march to the place where He would be crucified, those images haunted her dreams. I imagine that all the details and all the joy of life fell away so that tragedy was all that she could see. When tragedy walks in, it just takes over, doesn’t it? When injustice appears, it’s hard to think of anything else. And so that Easter morning so long ago, I’m not surprised that Mary didn’t see Him. What we focus on we get more of, and what Mary was focused on was tragedy and injustice, so when she went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb, she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciples and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” My friends, we know that’s not what happened; we know that this is no case of a missing corpse, but think with me about why Mary Magdalene assumed someone had stolen His body. Think with me about why Mary looked up and, in seeing a man, assumed He was the gardener. She couldn’t see Him, in the same way that when I get focused on the part of our daughters that gets on my nerves, I can’t see the whole of who they are. She couldn’t see Him, just as those who read for typos miss the content. Why would Mary Magdalene, consumed by tragedy and injustice, show up at the empty tomb and assume that someone had stolen His body? It’s because what we focus on, we get more of. What we expect to see, we see. If I’ve been watching the news for too long, I go out into the world expecting to be robbed. If I listen to what the talking heads say about illegal immigration, I go out into the world angry and afraid. Just after a funeral, I get so messed up in my head. Tragedy takes over. It takes a minute for me to remember that death will not have the final word. Last week, I sat with my family at the funeral of a 42-year-old mother of four. That funeral was so tragic and so heartbreaking that I fell into a depression. I looked out onto the world preparing myself for the other shoe to drop. In my subconscious mind were questions like: What’s going to happen next? What is God going to take from me next? Where is the next hurt going to come from? When will the next disaster strike? I asked these questions because the tragedy was all that I could see. The tragedy is real, “and yet,” the preacher at that funeral said. “And yet,” is such an important phrase. The preacher at the funeral last week told us that he’d walk with Josh, the widower, and that Josh would say, “I’ve never been through such a hard time, and yet, the church has been there for us every day. I’ve never been so angry with God, and yet, the flowers of spring have never been so beautiful.” That stuck with me because, my friends, there is plenty for us to be upset about. There is plenty of tragedy for us to focus on. If we only focus on the tragedy, though, we will miss the One who is standing right in front of us. “Mary,” Jesus said to her. When He first appeared, she thought He was the gardener, for like me, like us, like our world, she was so practiced in being disappointed that she had no room in her vision for a miracle. What we focus on, we get more of, and I want you to know this morning, that I’m tired of being focused on tragedy. I’m tired of being focused on the bad news. I’m ready to hear the Good News, and I want you to know that the Good News is just as real and as true as anything else, yet we are so practiced in being disappointed that tragedy is clouding our vision, so on this Easter morning, I’m calling on you to see through the lens of faith. I want you to practice your Easter vision. (That’s not exactly what I mean, but it’s close). I’m talking about how I wake up in the morning, look myself I the mirror, and all I see is how the hair that was once on the top of my head is now sprouting from my nostrils. It’s been said that we produce up to 50,000 thoughts per day, and 80% of those are negative. The impact of all those negative thoughts is that we’re dragging through life, preparing ourselves to be disappointed, so remember, thoughts are not the same as reality. The Evil One will use our thoughts against us, and so I ask you this Easter morning the same question that the Risen Lord, Jesus Christ asked Mary Magdalene so long ago, “Whom are you looking for?” Are you looking for death? You will find it. Are you looking for injustice? You will find it. Are you looking to be disappointed? Are you looking for signs that the world is falling apart? Are you looking for a reason to give up hope? You will find it. And yet, if you are looking for the Lord Jesus, you will find Him too, for He is risen. Every morning, I wake up and I write down 10 things that I’m thankful for. Just 10. Every time I get started, I get stuck. It’s slow going because I’m trying to be grateful for what God is doing in my life right after I’ve read the newspaper which has reported on how the world is falling apart. The world has taught me to focus on the flaws, not to be thankful but to complain, and so when I sit down to write down what I’m thankful for, I’ll write down one or two, then I’ll slow down, and I won’t know what to write next, and yet, once I get going, once I reframe my thinking, once the powers of sin and death lose their grip on my consciousness, I can’t stop writing. I can’t stop giving thanks to God who has provided me with a house in which to live, a wife who loves me, two beautiful children, a church to serve, an office with books, the sun that shines, flowers that bloom, springtime all around, for He is risen. Just take a moment to think about it with me. Think about this choir, think about this Great Hall, think about how far we’ve come, and be reminded of the truth: He is risen. Now look around and see these people. Who are they that the Lord has surrounded you with? Criminals? People who will take from you? No. These are your brothers and sisters in Christ, for the message that the world has been pushing into our ears is a false gospel, a lie, meant to manipulate us and push us into despair and isolation. Remember that He is risen and greet your neighbor with joy in your heart. I’ve been moping around too long. You know that? I’ve been moping around too long, focused on what I don’t have. I’ve been moping around too long, afraid that someone is going to take something from me, when the Lord has given me everything. My friends, He is risen. In His wings comes salvation. In His death comes to us the gift of everlasting life. Go out into the world, prepared to see Him, for He is risen. He’s not dead. Hope is not dead. Love is not dead. For He is risen. That’s the message of Easter. The cold earth gives way to the blooms of tulips. Broken relationships are mended by the miracle of forgiveness. And broken people like us, the Lord shows up to us, redefining us. Bringing life to everything. Halleluiah. Amen.

It Was Already Late, a sermon based on Isaiah 50: 4-9 and Mark 11: 1-11 preached on March 24, 2024

I’ve been listening to the most interesting podcast lately. It’s called The Rest Is History, and recently the two hosts, both English historians with great British accents, have been engaged in a six-part series focused on the sinking of the Titanic. It’s amazing how interested I’ve been, considering how I know the end of the story. I know that the ship is going to sink. Still, I held my breath as the two historians talked about the way the iceberg sounded as it scraped the great ship’s side. I felt the passengers’ panic as water spewed into cabins and stairwells. Knowing what was going to happen to those 1,500 people who drowned, as the great ship approached the iceberg, I so badly wanted the captain to steer around it. Likewise, here we are on Palm Sunday, and tragedy looms on the horizon. Today’s service may feel like a celebration. Today’s hymns have elements of joy and triumph. Hosanna, loud hosanna, the little children sang. But knowing the whole story, those hymns sound to me a little like the music the band played on the deck to keep Titanic’s passengers from panicking. Today, we wave our palm branches. We celebrate as He rides into the city. Only, we already know that the cheering of the crowd will change tune. Soon enough, He’ll be betrayed by Judas. Arrested by soldiers, He’ll be led to a cold cell in chains. Peter will deny Him. Pilate will lead a sham trial. Then, the crown of thorns will be pushed into His brow. His back will be whipped. Nails will pierce His wrists. Upon the Cross, soon enough He’ll die. We read this morning from Mark’s Gospel that it was already late as He rode into Jerusalem. It was too late. Too late to turn around. Too late to chart another course. The iceberg lies ahead and Jesus rides straight for it. As the Prophet said in our first Scripture lesson: He was not rebellious. He did not turn backward. Instead, he gave his back to those who struck him, He offered his cheeks to those who pulled out his beard. Rather than hide his face from insult and spitting, he set his face like flint determined to face what lies ahead. Consider with me on this Palm Sunday the character of our Savior, Jesus, knowing that any mortal ship captain would have tried to avoid it all. On the night the ship sank, the Titanic had two lookouts in the crow’s nest, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee. Their job was to help the ship’s captain avoid disaster, which is what I like to do. I like to avoid disaster, and I think about how I might have avoided it even after my ship has sunk, so I think about divorce and how, when I hear that a couple is getting a divorce, I speculate on who did what. I want there to be something that someone did to cause it. I’m looking for the iceberg that they should have steered around. Likewise, I think of terminal illness. When my grandmother suffered a stroke, I remember how my father walked through the weeks prior analyzing each moment for clues and thinking of ways he might have stopped it from happening. “How could I have missed the iceberg?” he asked himself. “Whose fault was it?” he wanted to know. “Was it mine?” This is a human reaction to tragedy. We double up our lookouts in the crow’s nest. We are always looking to the horizon for things that might happen. That’s what keeps me up at night: thinking about how I might I avoid disaster. Late at night, I’m looking out onto the next day, asking myself: Where are the icebergs and how can I steer around them? However, Jesus rides right into the city. He faces the cross, head-on. Why doesn’t He try to avoid it? Why doesn’t He steer around Jerusalem if He knows what’s ahead? It’s because His death is not a mistake. His death is not a disaster. The cross that He faces willingly will bring us our salvation. What that means for us is that He redefines all our tragedies and mistakes by His death on that cross. He saves us from those bad decisions, even the ones that we are afraid will stick to us forever. Back to the Titanic: Bruce Ismay, I learned from my history podcast, was the chairman of the White Star Line, who owned the Titanic. He didn’t die when the ship sank. Instead, he gained a place on a lifeboat and lived to became one of the most hated men in America and Europe. You can imagine why. People needed someone to blame, and so they blamed him. They blamed him for not building the ship strong enough to withstand the iceberg. The blamed him for claiming that the ship was unsinkable when it obviously was not. These accusations stuck to him. They never left his mind, and even in death, his tombstone bears this inscription: “Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whither so ever the governor listeth.” That’s a verse from the book of James in the King James Version. In those words, you hear the guilt that kept him up at night. Over and over again, sleep evaded him as he asked himself, “Why did my ship sink?” Consider the inscription on his tombstone and know that even in his death, he regretted that one bad decision. The worst day of his life seems to have defined him forever. This is my fear as well. Maybe it’s yours. I hold on to some of the most embarrassing memories of my life. I still think about the pop-fly that came to me in right field that I dropped. In 9th grade, I got in a fistfight and lost, and I still think about it all these years later. Likewise, I don’t know how many sermons I’ve preached, but the ones I remember most are my worst, and so sometimes I imagine that my tombstone will bear the inscription: Dropped that pop-fly. Never won a fight. At least his sermons were short because they sure weren’t any good. Yet, that won’t be the case. My friends, we will not be defined by the tragedies. We will not spend all eternity living down our mistakes. Whatever we did on our worst days will not be chiseled into our tombstones. Instead, the inscription will be the mark of the cross, for Jesus’ redeeming death washes over us until all our sins are forgiven. The death He died redefines us. The suffering He endured, the sacrifice He made, the tragedy that His road leads to provides us a grace greater than all our sin. My friends, it was already late when He rode into Jerusalem. It was already done. He had set His face like flint for He rode on to save us all, that we be defined not by our worst days, but by His redeeming. Don’t you go around carrying those heavy burdens. Lay them down before the Savior Who bore the cross. Don’t you go through life with regrets any longer. He died that you and I might live. I worry about us, for so often we remember what has already been washed away. We are still carrying that which He has taken from us. Why? Why carry the debt when He has paid the price? Why worry about the icebergs that we hit when His death changes everything? It was already late. It was already done. Halleluiah. Amen.