Wrapped in Bands of Cloth, a sermon based on Luke 2: 1-14, preached on Christmas Eve 2024

Friends, this is it. Christmas Eve. Some of us have been getting ready for this moment since Halloween. Do you remember what happened in Walgreens on the day of Halloween? There had been Halloween candy. When I walked into Walgreens, it was there on the shelves, but by the time I checked out, it was all gone. All that candy was pushed out of the way by a green and red wave of lights and gifts. The pumpkin Reese’s cups had to be replaced by Christmas tree Reese’s cups. The Halloween costumes were replaced by tinsel and lights. We all skipped right over Thanksgiving, and we can’t go back now. This is Christmas, but yesterday I was at Kroger, and they were putting out the Easter egg Reese’s cups, so if we’re not careful, this moment is going to speed right by, too. I don’t want that to happen. In so many ways, this is my favorite day of the entire year, only it’s not easy to savor something that you’ve been rushing towards since October 31st. You can’t just stop on a dime to savor something you’ve been sprinting towards, so some of us aren’t in this moment, at least not fully. There’s just too much to do, right? My wife, Sara, sent me a meme the other day. Do you know what a meme is? Or a gif? It doesn’t matter. She sent me something that said: “Here’s your annual reminder that 95% of that ‘holiday magic’ is actually just the invisible and physical work of women.” That’s true. I can remember my grandmother coming home from her Christmas Eve shift in the maternity ward of Roper Hospital to make us Christmas dinner. She’d been up all night delivering babies, then she’d come home to cook us macaroni and cheese, ham, and a turkey. I can see her in the kitchen, still in her pink scrubs. At some point, she’d ask me to pour her a Tab with a little vodka in it. That’s all she needed to keep going so that we could enjoy that “holiday magic” the meme was talking about, but this is Christmas, so I want to address those of us to whom Christmas means working hard, and I’m guilty of it, so I can talk about it because I’m talking to myself. Some of us are so used to preparing for the next thing that, while the rest of the family is opening presents, we’ll have the garbage bag ready to pick up all the wrapping paper. Only what is the next thing after this? What are we cleaning up for? This is it. Christmas Eve. It’s a day that we work for because we want it to be perfect, which is the absolute pinnacle of irony if you think about it. It’s like we’re all working for perfect, forgetting that He came because we can’t ever achieve perfection no matter how hard we try. Remember that Martha Stewart spent five months behind bars. That’s where chasing perfection will get you. There is no “perfect” for mortals like us. If we could save ourselves, we wouldn’t need a savior. If we were without sin, there would be no need for Him to take upon Himself the sins of the world. What’s worse is that all this work we’re doing to reach towards perfection always keeps us from noticing the baby wrapped in bands of cloth. That’s what happens in all the best Christmas movies, right? The turkey is so dry that it’s nothing but skin and bones, and the dog destroys the kitchen. The tree goes up in flames, and a squirrel gets in the house, which is what it takes for the Clark Griswolds of the world to take notice of the real reason for all of this, the gift from God wrapped in bands of cloth. That first Christmas broke into our world, and yet the innkeeper didn’t notice. What was that innkeeper doing? He was worried over the guests who had already checked in. He had put little mints on their pillows and was getting ready for breakfast. The inn was full. There was no more room. Toilet paper was in short supply, and he was moving quickly from one task to another. When Mary and Joseph showed up at the door, I imagine that their knock interrupted that peaceful moment when he finally had the chance to sit down to take a breath. His glass of wine had been poured, he had knife in hand to carve a lamb shank or break the loaf of bread, freshly baked from the oven, when that knock on the door interrupted the moment that seemed so perfect. He snatched the napkin from his collar or laid down his carving knife not too gently, and with thinly-veiled frustration opened the door to see Joseph and Mary standing there. What did he do? “There is no room,” he said. Might as well have been, “Bah humbug.” “Go to the barn, and don’t bother me again. Don’t you know it’s Christmas?” Of course, he wouldn’t have known anything about Christmas. The baby hadn’t been born, and yet, how ironic that the Christ Child was born in the innkeeper’s stable, and there is no record that he ever went out to see that baby wrapped in band of cloth. Who did? The shepherds. Do you know anything about shepherds? Shepherds smell like sheep. Shepherds never took the time to brush their teeth or wash their hands, but the innkeeper and his family were too busy, so the angel invited the shepherds, and the shepherds saw the miracle of Christmas because the ones who know they need a miracle are the first to find it. Those who of us who are busy picking up discarded wrapping paper in the living room don’t always see that it’s here. This is it. Our temptation this Christmas Eve is the same as our temptation all the rest of the year. We are in a rush moving in the wrong direction, missing all the miracles that God provides. Let me give you an example of what I’m talking about. I was giving the children’s sermon two weeks ago, and I’m a Presbyterian minister. If you don’t know much about Presbyterians, then know this: There are two things that Presbyterians want from their minister: 1. That he pick hymns that they know the words to. 2. That he doesn’t preach for too long. Therefore, our worship services last one hour and not a minute more, and I must achieve that goal because I’m prone to picking hymns that no one knows the words to. I’ve got to move from the children’s sermon to the next step in the worship liturgy because if the service goes past 12:00, First Presbyterian Church will go up in flames and no one will make it to Piccadilly before the Baptists get there, so when little Charlie still had his hand raised as I was making my point in the children’s sermon, I was so tempted to ignore him. I was tempted to just keep going on to the hymn that would follow the children’s sermon, for I had already asked them what they wanted for Christmas and had already heard plenty of cute and interesting comments, and yet there was Charlie’s hand raised as it had been since the children’s sermon began. Something told me to call on him. When I said, “OK, Charlie. It looks like you really have something you want to say,” he boldly declared: “Peace will come to our land.” That’s what Charlie said, and I nearly missed it because I was worried about what I had to do next, not what God has already done. Notice that Charlie didn’t say, “Peace will come to our land once everyone gets in line.” He didn’t say, “Peace might come to our land if we’re all good little boys and girls.” He said, “Peace will come to our land,” for God brings us a gift wrapped in bands of cloth. Have you stopped to notice? If there is darkness in your life, consider this with me: Maybe you’re moving in the wrong direction. So much of the time we’re in such a hurry that we don’t take the time to ask, “Why is my life so full of shadow?” Where is satisfaction? Where is hope, peace, joy, and love? This is our pattern. To keep going. To strive. To work. To spend so much time looking into the future and what’s to come that we fail to be satisfied. The gift, though, is here already. Glory to God in the Highest, they sing. Lay down your burdens. Rest in the promise that peace will come to our land, or you’ll never be at peace. Rest in the promise that you are forgiven, or you’ll never find it in you to forgive. Rest in the promise of salvation or go on trying to save yourself. My friends, I’m a preacher. It’s my job to preach sermons on Christmas Eve, and sometimes I wonder if my Christmas Eve message, while under 14 minutes so that we can get out of here on time, just sounds like me giving you one more thing to do on an already overwhelming to-do list. That’s not what this is about. This is about a gift that comes from God to people who walk in darkness. Take this moment to notice His light. Amen.

Love, a sermon based on Luke 1: 39-55 preached on December 22, 2024

After preaching a sermon the week before last on a long-awaited answered prayer, I’ve been moved by a couple members of our church who encouraged me to preach a follow-up sermon on the reality that God doesn’t always answer our prayers in the way that we want Him to. In fact, sometimes we pray, and then we need to brace ourselves for God’s answer to our prayers because God’s answer may shock us, require something from us, or force us to change in uncomfortable ways. On this fourth Sunday of the season of Advent as we light the candle of love, let us recognize that loving God and trusting God with our prayers is so much like any other loving relationship: To love God means that we change. It means that we let go of control. We trust His will, have faith, and all kinds of other uncomfortable things. This morning as we light the candle of love, brace yourself for love, for love hurts. Right? This morning in our second Scripture lesson, we turn to Mary, who, in the presence of Elizabeth, sang the song of an unwed, pregnant, teenage mother filled with joy, anticipation, and the knowledge that her whole life and the fate of this entire world was about to change, and so she sang: My soul magnifies the Lord. He has scattered the proud. He has brought down the powerful. He has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry, and sent the rich away empty. What we’ve just read is one of the most beautiful and well-known passages of Scripture in the Bible. It’s been set to music and sung for thousands of years now. We call it the Magnificat. It’s the song of Mary, the mother of Jesus, whose soul magnified the Lord, and doing so required that she be willing to change everything. Think with me about Mary this morning. Mary, who was pregnant with the baby Jesus. While her song has been set to music for generations and sung in weddings and other such happy occasions, we don’t know to what tune Mary first sang these words, but if you’ve ever been in a situation anything like hers then you know that the tune to which she sang her song likely wasn’t the bright, happy tune of sappy Christmas music. I imagine that her melody was different because all the best love songs will lift your spirit but they might also break your heart. I googled “Best Love Songs of All Time,” and at the top of the list is, “I will always love you,” by Dolly Parton, which is so bittersweet a song that it will rip your guts out. Do you know that song? I’ll sing it for you. Hit it, Chohee… I’m just kidding. But listen to this. This is what Dolly sang in what’s considered to be the greatest love song of all time: If I should stay, I would only Be in your way So I’ll go, but I know I’ll think of you, each step of the way. And I will always love you When you think about the history of music and all the great music you’ve ever heard, isn’t it true that some of the music that we love best are the songs that help us put into words the strong feelings of our human hearts? Take the Blues, for example. Memphis, Tennessee claims to be the home of the Blues, yet the songs and the beats came up the river from the fields where enslaved men and women sang while they worked. Songs like: Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows my sorrow. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus. Think about Taylor Swift. One of her most well-known songs goes: “When you’re 15 and somebody tells you they love you, you’re gonna believe them.” She also sings of someone who is “so casually cruel in the name of being honest,” and, “Puttin’ someone first only works when you’re in their top five, and by the way, I’m going out tonight.” The best love songs put to words all the most complicated human emotions. The heartbreak and the joy. The excitement and the sorrow. And so when I ask you to imagine the tune to which Mary sang her song so long ago, this ancient song that came forth from her soul so many years ago, I ask you to think with me about the cost of loving someone and knowing that love is going to cost you something. That’s what she expressed. Was this child the long-awaited answer to her prayer? Yes. Had she, along with all her people, been praying for a savior? Absolutely. In fact, we know that so many hoped for a Messiah named Jesus that “Jesus” was the most common name given to boys at that time. We can imagine that there were so many named Jesus at the time that the Kindergarten teachers at the Bethlehem Elementary School had to call them by their first names and last initials. Surely, there was Jesus S. and Jesus T., and you all know Jesus of Nazareth. That’s a joke, but my point is an important one. Everyone was waiting for the Savior. Everyone was praying for the Savior. Mary grew up longing for the Messiah to come so that He would get the Roman soldiers out of her neighborhood, and her mother could finally come home from the market without being harassed. She longed for the Savior who would chase out the tax collectors who were shaking down her father for his profits. Everyone wanted the Messiah to come. Everyone was praying for His birth, maybe Mary especially, for she had this song ready to sing, the perfect one to sing at His coming, but did she expect to be His teenage mother? When she was already engaged to another man? When unwed pregnant women were stoned in her streets? My friends, we pray for miracles. We pray to God for help. Yet, do not think for a second that your answered prayers are going to be all gumdrops and marshmallow dreams. Do you know that song? It’s a marshmallow world in the winter When the snow come to cover the ground Dean Martin sang it, and it’s pure fluff, which is what so many of the songs that we sing this time of year are. Our theologian in residence, Dr. Brennan Breed, Old Testament scholar and professor at Columbia Theological Seminary, sent me a meme the other day that said, There are five types of Christmas songs: 1. Look, snow! 2. I want presents! 3. Santa is in love with my mom. 4. Pour me another drink! 5. The birth of Christ has ushered in a new age and no mortal shall taste eternal death. Mary’s song fits right into number five, but many in our world are singing about snow, presents, and mommy kissing Santa Clause, yet Mary didn’t know what her parents would say. She didn’t know what Joseph, the man to whom she was engaged, was going to say. She didn’t know how the gossips in the neighborhood would respond to this young, pregnant, unmarried woman walking through the streets. Surely, part of her was ready to hide or run away. Surely, there was a big part of her that was angry at God for calling her to play such a role. Why must I be the one to make a sacrifice? Why must I be the one to put my reputation on the line? And yet, she sang, From now on, generations will call me blessed. For the Mighty One has done great things for me, And holy is his name. That’s what Mary sang. Because there can be pain even with answered prayers, for there is sacrifice with every relationship. Why should our relationship with God be any different? A good friend of mine whom you probably know, Tom Clarke, when he met and fell in love with Marjorie, knew that being in a committed relationship with her would require him to give up his lifestyle as a bartender in Colorado. Do you know what it’s like to be a bartender in Colorado? It sounds like it was awesome. Tom lived in a cabin with a stream in the back that had trout in it, so he would flyfish during the day and bartend at night. What’s more, he had a horse, only he knew that in order to settle down with Marjorie, he’d have to give all that up. That was hard for him. It wasn’t easy to even consider the sacrifice, yet today, he can’t even remember that horse’s name because, while we must sacrifice for love, the gift we receive is far greater than the cost of what we’ve given up. Think with me about love. Love that requires sacrifice. Love that only the truly great song writers have ever been able to put into words. Love that hurts. Love that requires something of us. Love that lifts us up beyond where we are and who we are to transform us into someone new. That’s what Mary was singing about. My soul magnifies the Lord. God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. My friends, your prayers, like love, require us to give up something, and when they do, I hope you’ll sing. And I hope you’ll sing with this church, just as Mary sang in the company of Elizabeth. Sing about those hard feelings. Sing about God’s grace. May the world be transformed by what God is doing in you. Amen.

Peace, a sermon based on Malachi 3: 1-4 and Luke 1: 67-80 preached on December 8, 2024

My friends, prayers may not be answered in the way that we expect them to be answered. Miracles may not arrive on our timetable, but may they always come in such a way that you recognize them and receive them with thanksgiving. That’s my introduction to the story of John the Baptist’s birth, which we are focused on this morning. Jesus said that among men there has been none greater than John, and yet he was just the opening act to the main event, so in these weeks leading up to Christmas Day, today our focus is the birth of John the Baptist, which, like the birth of our Savior, was miraculous. Like our daughters, Lily and Cece, John was a preacher’s kid. His father, Zechariah, was a priest at the Temple in Jerusalem; his mother, Elizabeth, born into a family of great priests, and the two had longed for a child. They had been waiting for years for a child to be born. In fact, it had been so long that, as they were getting on in years, Elizabeth and Zechariah had pretty much given up on ever being parents. You know how this works. Some of you know their struggle personally. You get married, and for the first few years, you don’t even think about it. “We’ll have kids at some point,” so many newlyweds assume. In the beginning, getting pregnant is something that scares you. No one walks into a relationship expecting to have any trouble conceiving, and we may imagine that it was this way for Elizabeth and Zechariah, yet by the time Zechariah the Priest was given the high honor of going into the Temple, they had already gone through all the steps. They had tried and tried. They had gotten their hopes up. After their hopes were dashed, they finally went and asked for help. Maybe Elizabeth finally opened up about it to her sister who already had three kids. Maybe they sought advice from a wise woman in town. Maybe they requested prayers from a priest or a ritual from a healer. Whatever it was that they tried, none of it had worked. Some here know how that can stress a marriage. Somehow, they stuck together; perhaps they stuck together by making peace with the bitter reality of their situation. That’s what people do. To survive, many people make peace with sad situations. They accept that not all dreams come true. We can’t know for sure, but we can safely assume that they had pretty much made peace with the reality that children would never come because when an angel of the Lord, Gabriel, appeared to Zechariah to say that Elizabeth was pregnant, he didn’t believe it. From Luke’s first chapter, the angel Gabriel said: Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your payer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before the Messiah, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord. Can you imagine? Zechariah couldn’t. This morning, I invite you to think with me about why. Why would it be that a priest married to the daughter of a priest would not believe that their prayers had been answered, that their dream of a child would come true? Why would they make their peace with infertility? I imagine that it’s because, while they’d read the stories in the Bible of Abraham and Sarah who had a child in their old age, they’d also felt the pain of miscarriage. While they’d heard, and while Zechariah had even preached, that our prayers never go unanswered, they knew how bad it hurts to keep waiting with anticipation for something that never comes. This morning, as we light the candle of peace, I ask you to think with me about that word: peace. Sometimes, we make peace with disappointment and unanswered prayers. Sometimes, we make peace with disappointing realities that may never change. While we talk about peace, we also constantly read about war, and this unfortunate reality becomes such a part of our lives that we make peace, not with the promise that peace will come, but that it may never. Last week, maybe you read the story of the chef who was preparing food for the sick in a hospital in Palestine. He was targeted by a drone and was killed. We wait for peace, but we’ve grown used to war. Haven’t we? What else have we grown used to? At the recommendation of Jimmy Johnson, my wife, Sara, and I have been watching a new TV show on Netflix. It stars Ted Danson, who, in the show, has grown used to loneliness. The first episode begins with the toast he gave to his wife at their wedding: “I’ve found the one I want to grow old with” he says, but he has grown old, she died, and every morning, he wakes up on his side of the bed. He gets out of bed and makes just one cup of coffee. Then, he takes a walk by himself. He reads the paper by himself. He does the crossword with no one to ask for help when he gets stuck on 11 down or 17 across. After the crossword, he snips out interesting articles and sends them to his daughter, who doesn’t want to read the articles he sends her, but he sends them anyway because this is his only connection with another human being. Every night, after spending the day alone, he goes to sleep alone, anticipating the same lonesome existence to continue tomorrow. His wife died. The one he wanted to grow old with left him alone, and he’s made peace with his isolation. He’s made peace with that echo in the empty house. He’s made peace with his routine, even though there’s no brightness to it. He’s made peace, not with being alone, not with solitude, which can be good and healing and healthy, but with loneliness. Let us never make peace with loneliness. Loneliness will kill you, but yet, is it not easier sometimes to make peace with such hardship rather than get our hopes up for fear that our hopes will be dashed once again? Therefore, when the angel Gabriel said to Zechariah: Your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord, Zechariah couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t prepared for this news. He had made peace with the disappointment and wasn’t expecting his hopes to be fulfilled. Therefore, the angel said, “because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” “Because you did not believe my words,” the angel said. Now, maybe a priest should be punished for not believing what an angel said, and yet, remember that priests and preachers come to doubt the miracles just as some of you may. When our prayers go unanswered, we are just as disappointed as anyone else. To make peace, though, with disappointment is a dangerous thing because prayers are answered all the time, and nothing is more tragic than an answered prayer that goes unrecognized. That’s the warning from the story of Zechariah. Make peace with your unanswered prayers so that your heart isn’t shattered, but don’t make such peace with your unanswered prayer that you miss the signs that God has heard you. What’s more tragic than an unnoticed miracle? I imagine such a thing just breaks God’s heart, and yet it happens. We get so fixated on the door that closed that we ignore the door that opened. What I’m talking about this morning is this strange reality of accepting disappointment, heartbreak, and isolation to such a degree that when salvation comes, we are too resigned to our dreadful lot that we can’t accept the invitation. It happens to the young: When their love goes unrequited, they become so fixated on the one who rejected them that they ignore the one who loves them in return. That happens. We have to learn to accept that not all our prayers are answered in the way that we expect them to be answered. Miracles may not arrive on our timetable, but may they always come in such a way that you recognize them and receive them. I once went to visit a woman who hadn’t been to church in weeks. She told me that no one from the church cared enough to call. No one knew her name. She’s been out, and not even the people who sit next to her have noticed that she’d been gone. As she was telling me all this, the phone rang. It was Gloria, who sits just across the aisle. “I was just calling because I’ve missed you and wanted to know how you were,” Gloria said to her. “I noticed you’ve been gone. Is everything OK?” I heard Gloria ask the woman these things because I was eavesdropping, and that’s the kind of nosy person I am, but I was so thankful for this miracle of caring in the church. This was the most obvious and tangible answer to the lonely woman’s prayer, and yet she said to Gloria, “Joe is over here. Thank you for calling, but I’ve got to go.” She hung up and then said, “Pastor, what was I saying? Oh, yes. No one in the church cares about me.” It's not that the reality she perceived was pure fantasy. It’s not that her sadness and disappointment wasn’t real. It’s not that her perception of the church was completely inaccurate. It’s just that situations change, people change, prayers are answered, and there are few tragedies greater than a miracle that falls in your lap yet goes ignored. There are few tragedies greater than the open door you missed walking through because you were still fixated on the door that closed. What is more discouraging than a priest who had made peace with his unanswered prayer in such a way that when the angel showed up to tell him that his prayers were answered, he didn’t believe it? My friends, heartbreak is real. Disappointment is real. There are sad realities in our broken world. If your hopes are getting dashed again and again and again, it is only natural to protect yourself by no longer getting your hopes up, but when an angel shows up in your life, I pray that you see him and that you believe what he has to say. A miracle is on its way to you. The King of Kings draws near to save us, but not everyone is going to see Him. Not everyone will have her head lifted in expectation. Some people will be so focused on their dreams dashed on the ground that they’ll only see the pieces of all their disappointment shattered across the floor, even while the King of Kings descends from the clouds from on high. Don’t stop waiting for peace. Don’t get so used to war that you begin to tolerate the bullets and the bloodshed, for hope is real. Peace is real. Christ is coming. And He’ll come in some place you least expect Him. Like a manger. Like as a child. Like as a miracle that those who walk by faith will see, and those who have become permanent residents of this broken world will miss. Don’t make peace with this broken world. Don’t treasure your shattered dreams. Get ready for the dawn of peace. Amen.

Hope, a sermon based no Jeremiah 31: 31-34 and Luke 21: 25-36, preached on December 1, 2024

There’s a history quiz that comes out every Saturday. My wife, Sara, does it first, and then I try to beat her score. Yesterday, she beat me pretty badly, and one that I missed was the year that Jane Fonda popularized the phrase “Feel the burn!” It was 1982. I won’t forget it again. In fact, I’ve been thinking a lot about that phrase, “Feel the burn.” It is an interesting one because it’s counterintuitive. When it comes to exercise, you want to feel that burn in your muscles. The burn means that the exercise is doing something. You’re getting stronger and more physically fit. You’re burning calories, losing weight, and toning your figure. To “feel the burn” is a good thing, and it was wise for Jane Fonda to point that out and celebrate that feeling because a newcomer to exercise might misinterpret that sign, thinking that the unpleasant feeling means that you should quit. In our second Scripture lesson, Jesus is doing essentially the same thing. He is helping us to understand the signs. We just read that: There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among the nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. The nations will be confused because signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars sound like bad things. They’ll be confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves because most people think that a calm sea is good and that a roaring sea is bad. When it happens, some will faint from the fear and foreboding, but not you. “Do not fear,” Jesus says, “stand up and raise your heads” when these things begin to take place because these signs mean that your redemption is drawing near. Don’t misinterpret the signs. Don’t be afraid. Don’t panic, for fools misinterpret the signs to their own detriment. For example, my friend Tom Clarke works for a company that manages investments, and often, he must help clients understand that when the stock market slumps, that’s not the best time to sell. That’s when some people want to sell, however. When the market fluctuates, sometimes their clients will call the office nervous or afraid. They’ll say, “But I’m losing money. Get rid of those stocks! Make it stop before I lose more.” The calm response of the company is always the same: Don’t panic. “Wait,” they’ll say. “The market does this from time to time. Don’t be afraid. Let’s talk next week. Allow me to interpret what you’re seeing.” All that is good advice, and it’s not just good investment advice, although it is very good investment advice. In 2008, we owned two homes in Decatur, Georgia. We bought one before the bubble burst, then a second with plans to sell the first, only once the bottom fell out of the housing market, we could sell neither. Then, we moved to Tennessee and needed to sell them both. Unable to sell the two in Decatur for anything close to what we’d paid for them, we bought a third in Tennessee. That was a terrifying situation in which to be; however, do you have any idea what those homes would be worth today? My point is that in fear, sometimes we panic. We lose faith. We lose hope. We don’t make good decisions when we’re running around like chickens with our heads cut off. When we’re in such a panic, we just want to do something, even if it’s the wrong thing. Therefore, the best advice can be to wait. Don’t panic. Hold on. Fear not. Such advice isn’t just practical, it’s also faithful, so when you see the signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, the roaring of the sea and the waves, while many people will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, don’t misinterpret the signs. Consider how the leaves change color. When the leaves change, no one responds as though the tree were dying, yet when the stocks go down, we rush to sell as though they’ll never go back up again, or when criticism comes our way, so many of us crumble. Don’t misinterpret the signs. Stocks fall then rise again, as leaves change their color. Likewise, criticism may feel like failure. It may feel like rejection. Yet, no one takes the time to criticize people who don’t matter. Don’t misinterpret the signs. Criticism is the sign that you matter, that you can be better, and yet, how many look at the scoreboard and quit before time has run out? The Yellow Jackets and the Bulldogs lasted how many overtimes? Eight overtimes. My friends, we lose when we quit. We lose when we panic. We lose when our hope runs out. We lose when we’ve misinterpreted the signs. Don’t misinterpret the signs. This old world will fall away to be replaced by a new heaven and a new earth. Don’t be weighed down by the worries of this life, for each step we take is one step closer to the gates of Heaven. All our pain is like pain of childbirth. It is not punishment, for from our struggle comes new life, a new life far better than what was before. I’m talking about hope here. As the waves roar and the heavens shake, get ready for the new thing. Go out into the world today expectant, for our best days are not behind us, but before us. Christ Jesus, who will come again, comes not to judge us or condemn us, but to set us free. Don’t misinterpret the signs. I’ve been watching this TV show about the world’s greatest soccer player. He left his hometown to play in Europe where he rose to celebrity status, only then, at the very height of his career, his heart began to trouble him. His doctors told him he could never play again, and so he returned to his hometown, this tiny Mexican village on the ocean, and he began to drink himself to death, believing that his life was over. My friends, he had misinterpreted the signs, for his best days were still ahead of him. Each day in this small town brings with it new life. He starts to grow and mature. While celebrity had given him fans, in his hometown, he discovered his family. While Europe had given him a mansion to live in, this village gave him a home. So it will be with us, so don’t misinterpret the signs. Do not be weighed down with the worries of this life. Hope. “The days are surely coming,” says the Lord, “when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel. No longer shall they teach one another or say to each other, ‘Know the Lord,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest,” says the Lord, “for I will forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.” That’s the sign of what’s to come. Not condemnation, but salvation. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Is He Your King? A sermon based on Revelation 1: 4B-8, preached on November 24, 2025

A couple months ago, I invited a new pastor in town to lunch. Matt Armstrong is an associate pastor at a neighboring church on Rose Lane. We met here and walked down to Marietta Proper, where it is possible to pay $12.00 for iced tea, but it’s worth it. Before the Rev. Matt Armstrong took his first sip of $12.00 iced tea, he lifted his glass and said, “To the King.” Today is Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday of the year before Advent begins. Each year on this date, we acknowledge Him Lord of all, but let us heed the warning in our second Scripture lesson from the book of Revelation. This morning, we read: He is coming with the clouds. Every eye will see him, Even those who pierced him. And on his account, all the tribes of the earth will wail. All the tribes of the earth will what? All the tribes of the earth will wail, Scripture says. Why would they wail and not rejoice? It is because the King of Kings was not their king. Having kneeled before the earthly powers, they were not prepared for His arrival, which sometimes is the case. Think with me about what happens to Prince John at the end of Robin Hood. My tastes are not too refined, so it’s the cartoon version that I’m thinking of. I loved the one with that Bryan Adams song in the soundtrack; however, as we read about the return of King Jesus, I’m thinking of the Disney cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin Hood is a fox, and the king sitting on the throne sowing injustice and oppression in the land is the false king of England, depicted by Disney as a thumb-sucking lion named Prince John whose head is too small to wear the crown. Do you remember what happens at the end of that movie when the real king, King Richard, a noble lion, returns to England? Our second Scripture lesson is something like that. Here comes the True King of Heaven and earth descending from the clouds to put all things right. In the Disney version, King Richard runs that usurper, Prince John, and all those who bowed before his throne, stealing from the poor and raising taxes ever higher, Sir Hiss, his advisor, and the Sheriff of Nottingham all end up on the chain gang. Our second Scripture lesson is meant to evoke such an image as that one. Descending from the clouds, the True King returns to reign. His rule is defined by justice. His call is to stamp out oppression. He’s more interested in love than in money. He came not to claim status, but to serve the lowly. He takes His throne to put those who abused power in their places. All that is wrong shall be made right. The prison doors will swing open. The hungry will be filled. The widows will be provided for. The orphans shall have an inheritance. The refugees, a home. And those who pierced Him will wail, for they’ll finally get what they deserve, but, wait just a minute and consider with me who it was that pierced Him. One of the finest hymns in our hymnal is number 218. I wish we could sing it every Sunday: Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee? ‘Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee. I crucified thee. My friends, this morning I ask you, who is your king? Have you bowed before the throne of Prince John who sucks his thumb, or do you await the return of the true King of Heaven and earth? Sometimes I wonder because Santa sits on the throne, and we take our children to the mall to meet him, and we’re willing to wait in lines for hours upon hours to see him, but when it comes to Sunday school and the opportunity to learn about the King of Kings, is there the same level of dedication? Last Wednesday morning, I was having breakfast with a bunch of pastors and one rabbi. That sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? We were talking about travel baseball and college football, and one pastor said of the members of his congregation, “If they invested in their kid’s religious foundation half as much as they invested in his travel baseball career, our church’s roof could get replaced, and the kid would have a faith to sustain him once he gives up trying to play in the major leagues.” Is He your king? Now, the truth is, I’m not any better. Our daughter Cece was asked to play on a flag football team. She got invited to try out. It was an out-of-district team who wanted her. The coach made a concession just for her. It was a special thing, and I had told so many people about it, at some point my wife, Sara, had to say to me, “Joe, you know it’s not you who got invited to try out, but your daughter?” Friends, I want what’s best for our two girls, but if we believe that what is best is eternal salvation and freedom from this broken world, then let us all look ourselves in the mirror asking ourselves to consider this question: Who is Lord of your life? If you can name the starting lineup for the Georgia Bulldogs but can’t call the names of the twelve disciples, who is your king? If you stretched so far to buy the car of your dreams that you don’t have anything left to put in the offering plate, you can’t claim to be like the Wise Men, who offered the Christ Child gold, frankincense, and myrrh. My friends, why is it that we live in a world where the quarterback for the Georgia Bulldogs drives a Lamborghini, but the Son of God has no place to lay His head? It’s because we live in a broken world with misplaced priorities, and we all end up kneeling before the false kings of this present evil age. Not a one of us is blameless. Not a one. I’m as guilty as you are, and you are as guilty as the one you’re sitting next to, and we really get into trouble when we forget that part. Let me now get down to it: If we blame the one across the aisle, convinced that we’re right and he’s wrong, that she’s the enemy and we’re the heroes, then who is our king? Did the true King not say, “love your neighbor as yourself?” Did He not say, “Bless those who persecute you. Bless and do not curse them?” Did He not say, “Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself?” Who is our king? If the aftermath of the presidential election has us worried about what it’s going to be like at Thanksgiving dinner this year, then who is our king? I was at a Thanksgiving service last Thursday night. Two members of our youth group spoke, Lydia Marcum and John White. They were incredible. We all gathered in Temple Kol Emeth, that synagogue in East Cobb, representatives of more than 30 houses of worship, and we stood and said the pledge of allegiance, “one nation, under God,” all those people representing all the nations of the earth, and my eyes welled up with tears because it was like I was in that Norman Rockwell painting. Do you know the one? Moreover, do you know his Thanksgiving picture? Freedom from Want is the name of it. It’s a full table at Thanksgiving, and Grandma is laying down the turkey while Grandpa is getting ready to carve it. All the family and friends are getting ready to eat. I imagine that they had not all voted for the same candidate for President. I imagine that they don’t always get along so well. That sometimes they argue. That sometimes they judge each other. That sometimes they get so mad at each other that they think about not showing up at the table, but once they’re there, the Spirit reminds them that regardless of what they can’t agree on, Christ is still King, and they find a balm for their hurting souls. May it be so with you on Thursday. Put aside your arguing and break bread together. If you’re preparing for Thanksgiving by sharpening your arguments rather than prepping your pie crust, I call on you to lay down your sword and take up your cross. You don’t need to fight any battle, for the war is already won. The King is coming. On Thursday, I want you to raise your glass with the uncle with whom you can’t get along, and the aunt who made the comment about your weight, and the sister who never returns your phone calls, and Grandpa who never says the right thing, and your mama whose love language is criticism, and your dad you loves you but can’t ever say the words, and Grandma who let everyone know for whom she voted, and along with them all, I want you to toast to the King. Some may say, “Preacher, I’m not giving them that. They’re wrong and I’m right, and I’m not letting them win.” To that righteous indignation, I say, “Is not the battle already won?” Is He not King over Heaven and earth? Indeed, He is, so let us live like it. The King is coming, and He is your King, and He is mine.

The Widow's Faith, a sermon based on Ruth 3 and 4 and Mark 12: 38-44, preached on November 10, 2024

Jesus said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect, and to have the best seats in the synagogues, and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” I sure am glad He’s not talking about me. But He is. Jesus was teaching His disciples, and as He taught, He said, “If you want to know what faith looks like, don’t look at the guy in the kilt who walks in the grand procession to take his seat up in front of the Great Hall. If you want to know what faith looks like, look over at the widow. Did you see what she just did?” When the poor widow came and put in two small, copper coins, Jesus, as He always did, surprised the disciples by saying, “Look at her, off to the side, the one who just put the two copper coins into the plate. That’s what faith looks like. She’s the miracle. Everyone else is looking at the guy in the kilt, but I want you to see the miracle of the woman who gave to the Lord everything she had.” This is a good lesson for us today, for isn’t it just like the people of God to miss out on the miracle because they’re busy watching the parade? Yet God sees beyond the fanfare to notice the faithful. God loves the humble heart and comes near to hear the prayers of the afflicted; even in the age of kings and princes, our God blessed the lowly. Today is this great celebration of the Scottish roots of the Presbyterian Church. Today we celebrate because long ago in Scotland, they couldn’t. The King of England outlawed the pipes and the tartans. In secret, God’s people would sneak in their plaid, the symbols of their culture and their families, to receive God’s blessing, knowing that God blesses the meek of the earth and can see beyond the fanfare of the powerful. But what about us? What about you? Can you see beyond the fanfare, beyond the preacher in the kilt, to witness the real miracle of God at work in this church? I want you to know that I’m proud to be the Senior Pastor of First Presbyterian Church, but if you want to see God at work in this place, you need to look beyond me to notice the members of this church who live their faith out in the world. I’m talking about women like Sally Benoy. Do you know Sally? Sally was one who maintained our church library. That was a thankless job because while the library was great, ya’ll didn’t use it. The books gathered dust. Still, Sally maintained our church library. She kept it clean. She kept the books in order. Regardless of all that work, not too many people checked any of those books out, so we let the history committee take the room over. The library moved downstairs, and Sally was out of a job. However, she heard that the library at the Cobb County Jail didn’t have any books in it. Since Easter of 2021, we’ve been livestreaming our services in the jail, and since then, our involvement has increased. We’ve provided meals for the jail staff. One of our members, Jeff Knapp, is now a trained chaplain. All the old Bibles from our church’s closets, about 800 of them, have gone over there where they’re being put to good use, and when members of this church heard that the jail library had no books, they wanted to do something about it. Bill and Louise Pardue led a book drive. 3,500 books have been donated. Sally and two other librarians have sorted through those books, organized them by subject, and now, they take requests, so that 500 books are checked out from the jail library each month. 500 books each month. Sally has never been happier, and if you want to know what faith looks like, don’t look at the preacher in the kilt who walked down the center aisle with the bag pipes. Look at her. Look at Doris Faber, who made visits to Presbyterian Village each Sunday for years on end. Look at Marti Miner, who is the chair of the funeral guild, and has only missed three funerals at this church in six years. Consider Laura Powell, whose vision of a Memorial Garden is now a reality. Or Martie Moore, who leads our church in providing a week’s worth of food to over 350 families each week. Think about Mary Groves, who has been leading our afterschool program for years and years. Or Linda Spears, who isn’t a member of this church, and yet she’s here three or four days a week, volunteering, making a difference, and sharing her love. Have you ever noticed the flowers outside our church? Do you know the women who planted them? It started with just one plot maintained by Sue Strauss, who has the fire ant scars on her legs to prove it, then Elizabeth Lisle joined the effort and spread her garden from the front entrance to the corner that’s home to our grease trap. She turned our grease trap into a vegetable garden, and today, because Elizabeth is outside our church watering her garden so often, and because people drive crazy on Church Street, she’s been the first responder for two accidents. When Waze told one young driver to take a right turn onto the railroad tracks, she got stuck, and Elizabeth sat there with that scared young driver until help arrived, and that’s what faith looks like. Look past this preacher in the kilt to consider with me the ministry of the Rev. Denise Beltzner, who has been suffering with a debilitating illness for years now, yet she still ends every email update with the same faithful sentiment: A bit taken back, A tad overwhelmed, Very determined, Extremely thankful, Ever hope-filled. My friends, I walked in here with all the fanfare of a parade, and I loved every second of it because I love the attention, but if you want to know what faith looks like, look past me to see those who serve the Lord without fanfare, who don’t preach faith but live it, for it is better to live one sermon than to preach 500. If you want to see faith, look to the members of this church, not the preacher. Look to the widow who held a baby in her arms. Our first Scripture lesson features a widow named Naomi. Many of you know the story of Naomi and Ruth. They both lost their husbands while living in the land of Moab. Anyone in here know anything about Moab? Not Moab, Utah. Moab in the book of Ruth is the place dreams go to die, and Ruth and Naomi nearly got stuck there, which is about what happened to some members of this church last Wednesday morning. One woke up Wednesday morning, saw the election results, and couldn’t get out of her pajamas. A person can get stuck in Moab. On the other hand, I know that others of you woke up Wednesday morning and felt like you had arrived in the Promised Land. I know that because I have this app on my phone that tells me whom all of you voted for. It’s called Facebook, and because I have Facebook and because many of you have been so vocal, I know how some of you voted, and I also know that those of you who voted one way are sitting right next to those who voted the other way. That’s because we have a church where not everyone votes the same way, and here, we remember that if you woke up on Wednesday morning and felt like you were stuck in Moab, you’re wrong, and if you woke up Wednesday morning and felt like you woke up in the Promised Land, you’re wrong, too, because it’s not a president who will lead us there according to Scripture. It's the Christ Child born in Bethlehem. That’s faith. Naomi had it. She left Moab, encouraged Ruth to marry Boaz, and when Ruth gave birth to a child and Naomi held that baby in her arms, she was holding the grandfather of King David and the ancestor of Jesus Christ Himself. My friends, I’ve been ready for this election to be over for like eight years now because these days, election cycles bring out the very worst in us, but this church brings out the very best. Whether you woke up on Wednesday morning happy or sad, don’t get so tied up in the results that you miss the miracle you are surrounded by. This church is a miracle, filled with faithful people who don’t vote the same way, and if we can sing together, then our nation can remember how to sing together, too. If we can love each other, then we can teach our nation how to love each other. If we follow the Christ Child, live the faith, making a difference in ways that are not always covered on the evening news, then the light will shine forth from this place. And that kind of faith, that kind of hope, that kind of love will change the world. Halleluia. Amen.

Our Help and Our Hope, a sermon based on Psalm 121 and Revelation 21: 1-6a, preached on November 3, 2024

Our first Scripture lesson began with a question. Verse 1 of Psalm 121 reads: I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where will my help come? It’s not a statement. It’s a question. “From where will my help come?” In the King James Version that many grew up hearing, it’s different. The King James Version reads, “I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence commeth my help.” That translation has been corrected because it wasn’t in the original scrolls written thousands of years ago, and the correction makes more sense anyway because our help doesn’t come from the hills. Right? Where does our help come from? Our help comes from the Lord. That’s what the Psalm says. As Christians, we all know (in our heads) that to be true, but do we know (in our hearts) that to be true? On this All Saints’ Sunday, when we remember again our hope for eternal life in the Lord Jesus Christ and the promise that those goodbyes we’ve said were not farewells but “See you later on that Golden Shore,” let us also remember that no matter what happens on Election Day, our help and our hope is the Lord who made Heaven and earth. You know that in your head already. But do you know that in your heart? Sometimes I forget it because I listen to the news too much, and I feel the anxiety too much. Anxiety is contagious, and it spreads through our phones. We read articles written by people who tell us that the future hangs in the balance, and we get worked up and worried. That’s what happens to us. That’s what has been happening to me anyway. Then, I turn my attention to the candidates, who tell me that the future will be secure if I just put my hope in them and help them make it to office, but let us go back to our first Scripture lesson: I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where will my help come? From the hills? From the candidate? Or from the One who made Heaven and earth? My wife, Sara, and I have been watching this TV show called, “Nobody Wants This.” It’s on Netflix. We can’t watch the evening news, so we watch “Nobody Wants This.” It’s about a Rabbi who started dating a blond who has no religious convictions, and because she’s not Jewish and he’s the Rabbi, nobody wants this. Not his family. Not his congregation. Especially not his mother. There was a time when Presbyterians were like this, too. When a Presbyterian married a Methodist or, heaven forbid, a Catholic, it was a big deal. That happens with religion. In this country, it also happened all the time with race. Up until 1972, it was illegal for a white person and a black person to marry in the state of Georgia. Up until 1972. Thanks be to God, things have changed, but if you look it up, according to the institute of family studies, only 4% of marriages are between Democrats and Republicans. 4%. What’s going on here? My friends, on this All Saints’ Sunday, I’m thinking back to how many times I’ve stood at the grave to read our second Scripture lesson from the book of Revelation: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… I was reading those words in the old South, still scarred by the days of segregation. Back in Columbia, Tennessee, I did so many funerals at the old Rose Hill Cemetery. A place like Rose Hill Cemetery, with old trees on the side of a hill, is a good place to be laid to rest, but right on the other side of the hill was Rosemount Cemetery. I did just two graveside services at Rosemount. Rose Hill and Rosemount were separated by an old chain-link fence, and if you know about old, Southern towns, then you know that the cemeteries were once segregated as though Heaven would be as well, yet the preachers read: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth. Think with me, not of what is, but of what’s coming: A city where God will make His home with all mortals. All people. Regardless of skin color or religious conviction. We’ve come a long way here in the South, and so now we know in our heads that Heaven will not be segregated by race or religion, but, if we won’t marry someone who votes differently than we do, then do we really know in our hearts about what’s coming? If we look across the aisle and see anything other than a brother or sister, who have we become, and what kind of a future do we believe we’re heading towards? As your pastor, I want you to go and vote on Tuesday if you haven’t already. I’m not going to tell you whom to vote for. Rev. Billy Graham endorsed Richard Nixon, and I have learned from his mistake. Instead of endorsing one or the other, I’m just going to tell you to vote, but as your preacher, I’m also telling you that as a nation, we’ve got to learn to love people who vote differently because Heaven will not have a separate section for democrats and republicans. Now, I don’t mean you have to agree with everybody. It’s our obligation to vote, and it’s in our blood to disagree. It is one of our constitutional rights to form an educated opinion, to think for ourselves and then to vote and to debate and to argue. If we stop thinking, we will stop maintaining our democracy, but if we stop loving our neighbor, we are no longer following Jesus. His greatest commandment was: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind and love your neighbor as yourself.” I learned a new word that I like while I was in Brazil the week before last. The week before last, I was with a delegation of pastors trying to help Brazilian church leaders develop new programs for their congregations, and while there, I learned a word I hadn’t ever heard before. It wasn’t a Portuguese word, either. It’s an English one: philoxenia. You might not have heard that word before either. Its antonym is more well known. The opposite of philoxenia is xenophobia. Xenophobia is fear of neighbor. Philoxenia is love of neighbor. If ever there were a word our society needed to hear, it’s philoxenia. If ever there were a word that we needed to practice in a society where so few of us even know our neighbor’s names, it’s philoxenia. We’ve got to practice that word. We’ve got to get into the habit of loving our neighbors because philoxenia, love of neighbor, is the word that will define our eternity. Not fear of our neighbor, but love. Love despite difference. Love over division. On this All Saints’ Sunday, I urge you to practice philoxenia now, for this is the way of Jesus, Who is our help and our hope. Amen.