The Ethiopian Eunuch: A Follower of Jesus, a sermon based on Acts 8: 26-39, preached on June 22, 2025

Friends, today is the fourth Sunday in our summer sermon series. Each sermon this summer is focused on a particular follower of Jesus, and today I call your attention to the Ethiopian eunuch. The Ethiopian eunuch is not named in our Bible. He’s only described, and there is a significant quality of his that has nothing to do with his being Ethiopian, which I’ll simply allude to without going into detail. Should you be wondering, “Now what exactly is a eunuch?” I’ll echo the response my Sunday school teacher, Dr. Ken Farrar, gave when I was 8 or 9 and asked him about circumcision. “That’s a question you’re going to have to ask your father.” Without getting into the specifics, let me say that being a eunuch made this man neither a social outcast nor a social insider, which might be the loneliest place of all. He was on the fringes of two worlds, fully accepted by neither. On the one hand, he operated in the world of wealth and privilege. He worked among the polite and the powerful, and yet he had no family, and he would leave no heirs. He was respected, but people made jokes about him behind his back. He was wealthy but had no one to share his wealth with. He was powerful but lonely. He was an insider and an outsider. He owned his own chariot, had made the journey from Ethiopia to Jerusalem, and was now on the way back. We read in our second Scripture lesson that this was no business trip, for he went to Jerusalem to worship. He didn’t write the travel expenses off to his business account but paid out of his own pocket. Remember that it took the Israelites 40 years to travel from Egypt to the Holy Land, and that was only one way. How many horses did he have to own to pull that chariot from Ethiopia to Jerusalem and back? The long journey points to his desire to know God and to his substantial wealth, but he could afford it. He just didn’t have anyone to travel with, so Philip found him as he was sitting alone, reading his own copy of the scroll of the Prophet Isaiah. Today, Bibles are not expensive. Members of our church give out hundreds of them in the Cobb County Jail each year. The Gideons have given out 2.5 billion Bibles worldwide, yet there was a time when Scripture was so rare that an entire synagogue might only own two or three books of the Bible written on scrolls and locked up in a cabinet so that no one could steal them. To own his own scroll of the book of Isaiah was rare. It points again to his desire to know God and to his wealth, and so I imagine that when he walked into Jerusalem, as a wealthy representative of the Queen of Ethiopia, he was shown into the shops where scrolls could be bought. Surely, the scribe who sold him his scroll treated him the same way that the salesperson at the car dealership treats the man waving around an Amex Centurion Card looking to buy a Bentley. “Yes, sir, right this way. Can I get you a coffee, sir?” “Would you like that scroll gift-wrapped?” Yet the minute the Eunuch said, “I am here to worship. May I go into the Temple?” he would have run right into verses like Deuteronomy 23:1 or Leviticus 21:23. Look one of those up. I’m not going to read them. Not every verse of the Bible should be read in polite company. Just know that this man who traveled to Jerusalem to worship, who spent a considerable sum so that he might own his own scroll of the prophet Isaiah, was not allowed into the Temple, for he was wealthy but also considered impure and unworthy. He was invited into the community, but only so far. He was permitted to explore his faith, yet, left to linger in his heart was the feeling that there was something wrong with him. I imagine that someone in here knows what it would have felt like to be the Ethiopian eunuch, for the Church still causes people the feel this way. I’ve told you before the story of Flora Speed, who, with her four children, walked into this Sanctuary the first Sunday her husband, Jim, was to preach from this pulpit as the new Senior Pastor at First Presbyterian Church. They were dressed to make a good first impression. They were surely nervous and excited, for it was their first Sunday in their new church. They walked right into this Sanctuary and took a seat on the fourth pew from the front, which they found out was where someone else always sat, for this someone stood at the end of the pew and said, “You all are sitting in my seat.” After that show of hospitality, they walked up to the balcony and never came back down, for while all are welcome here, not all are made to feel welcome. There are all kinds of ways that the children of God are made to feel as though they would not be at home in God’s house. So it was for the Ethiopian eunuch, and so it is for all kinds of people in all kinds of churches every Sunday morning, even here. The good thing about being in this Sanctuary for the summer is that at 11:00, we nearly fill this room up. The bad thing is that those who walk in from the back can’t tell that there are plenty of seats up front or in the balcony. At 11:00 on a Sunday morning, from the back it looks like the school bus scene in Forrest Gump. “Can’t sit here.” Remember that? No one here would ever say that. I’m just talking about the way it feels walking into the back of a room where back pews fill up first, as though everyone feared sitting too close to the preacher. I get self-conscious about the back pews filling up first. It makes me worry about what people are saying about me out on the street. Is it because I yell? I do yell. I only whisper to my children when I want them to fall asleep. I don’t want you falling asleep. I want you awake to the reality that people walk into this Sanctuary looking for love and acceptance, hoping to encounter God, and trying to figure their faith out. Unless they’re welcomed in, unless y’all make some room for them in your pew, unless you make them feel at home in God’s house, they may wander back out that door with the words of Mahatma Gandhi ringing in their ears, “I like the sound of their Christ, but I’m not so sure about those Christians.” After trying to worship God in Jerusalem, the Ethiopian eunuch left that city and was on his way back home when Philip found him sitting in that chariot, reading the scroll of Isaiah with his head full of questions, asking “How can I follow Jesus unless someone guides me?” That’s what the Ethiopian eunuch says to Philip, and this is where I admire his faith. Rather than walk away, this man kept seeking Jesus, asking, “Might Jesus know what it’s like to suffer?” Might Jesus know what it’s like to be a lamb silent before its shearer? Might Jesus know what is like to have justice denied? Might Jesus know what it’s like to be me? Now I want to stop right there and ask you to think about that because in the 21st century, there are all kinds of reasons given by all kinds of people not to come to church on a Sunday morning. Many people feel rejected as the Ethiopian eunuch did. Many feel left out, or only half included. Sometimes, that’s my fault. Folks wander out from the fold quietly, which I hate. Far better is to speak up. Silence can be bad. I’ve just bought an electric car. It’s a Nissan Leaf. The biggest challenge I’ve faced in owning an electric car is that it’s so quiet, more than once I’ve walked away while it was still running. I’m not kidding. Just last Sunday morning, I pulled into my parking space in the west lot across the bridge, talked to Parker Gilbert, who was out walking around, got out of my car, started walking towards the church, and couldn’t figure out why my headlights were still on. It was because my car was still running, but it made no sound. How many people have been hurt by the Church, but suffer in silence? We would pay attention, I would pay attention, but unlike the Ethiopian eunuch, they’re not boldly asking the questions. They’ve already given up or they’re waiting for us to prove to them that we care enough to listen, which some among us are bold enough to do. It happened just last Tuesday. Hundreds of cars were lined up for our food pantry. Each week, hundreds of families drive through our parking lots to get a box of food, diapers, and dog food. Our volunteers even hand them a prayer card. They can write on that card their prayer request with the assurance that we’ll pray for them. Last Tuesday, one woman in the line took the card from one of our volunteers and said, “Knowing that you’ll pray for me matters more to me than the food.” When you think about people who aren’t in church this morning, I want you to know that some of them just love baseball more than church right now. They think their kids are going to play for the Braves or something. Don’t worry about them; they’ll be back when they finally realize their kid isn’t Dansby Swanson. But there are a whole lot of people outside the walls of this church this morning because someone at some time made them feel as though they weren’t good enough to sit in here. The Ethiopian eunuch dared to question that feeling. Might Jesus know what it’s like to be me? And what is to prevent me from being baptized? The answer to that question: nothing. Nothing would have prevented him from being baptized, so don’t you dare stand in his way, for we know that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

Theophilus: A Follower of Jesus, a sermon based on Acts 1: 1-11 preached on June 1, 2025

Back in Columbia, Tennessee, where we lived before moving to Marietta in 2017, older men were notoriously witty, if a little morbid. “How are you this morning?” I’d ask. “Glad to be upright,” some would reply. Around here, Greg Brisco of Mayes Ward Dobbins Funeral Home will often say, “Better to be seen than viewed.” My favorite from Tennessee was, “I’m doing great. This morning, I opened the paper and didn’t see my obituary.” In 1888, an obituary for Alfred Nobel was published by mistake. It was his brother who died, but there in the newspaper was Alfred’s name, his picture, and his date of death, but what most disturbed Alfred Nobel was that his obituary referred to him as a merchant of death. Making his living selling explosives, according to the obituary, Nobel “made it possible to kill more people more quickly than anyone else who had ever lived.” Disturbed to learn how he would be remembered, upon reading this obituary and still being alive, Nobel determined to live in such a way that his obituary would need to be rewritten. Therefore, today, rather than dynamite, when I mention the name Alfred Nobel, you likely think of a prize given to those who contribute to peace, and his story illustrates the power of considering the legacy that we will leave behind while we still have time to do something about it. This morning, I ask you to consider the legacy that you will leave behind, specifically by learning from those who sponsored, funded, subsidized, and underwrote the great awards given, the works of art we see in museums, the theaters that celebrate music and drama, and the literature that we enjoy. You may not know who the 3rd Earl of Southampton was, but without him, we may never have heard of William Shakespeare, for the 3rd Earl of Southampton subsidized the meager salary c earned as a poet and a playwright. Andrew Carnegie made his fortune in steel, yet he gave so much of his money away that his contributions led to the creation of over 2,800 libraries. Because of Dolly Parton, our daughters received a book in the mail every month until they turned five, along with every other child in the state of Tennessee. I add to this list of great philanthropists one name from our second Scripture lesson: Theophilus. Each Sunday this summer, we will focus on a specific follower of Jesus from Scripture. As we follow Jesus in the 21st century, there are lessons for us to learn from the first followers of Jesus, and today I ask you to consider one who caused the Gospel of Luke and the book of Acts to be written: Theophilus. We just read: In the first book, Theophilus, I wrote about all that Jesus did and taught from the beginning until the day when he was taken up to heaven. Who was this man, and why is he mentioned? He didn’t write Luke and Acts. He wasn’t the one who gathered the account of Christ’s birth, researched His genealogy, was an eyewitness to His miracles, or recorded His parables. Theophilus was the one who gave the author the resources to do it. Now, it’s not often that the one who funds the project is remembered, and so while several of the letters in our new testament are addressed to particular people, only Theophilus is listed as a book’s benefactor. That makes sense. Often, we forget that what we have was paid for by somebody. Sick people on the way to surgery at Kennestone hospital don’t slow down to notice the historical plaques that list the names of donors. We don’t know the names of those who donated the $7,000 that enabled our community to break ground on Marietta High School back in 1886. This Sanctuary was built by human hands, but we don’t know the names of the masons, and though we do know the names of the 12 families who funded the construction of this Sanctuary, their names are all listed on a plaque that I often walk by without giving it a second look, for we go on living, often too busy to slow down and consider those who laid the foundation that we have built our lives upon. We sing out of hymnals that someone bought for us. We read out of Bibles donated by one of my 3rd grade Sunday school teachers, though I hesitate to call her name, for the great benefactors don’t give for recognition. They don’t give in the hopes of being celebrated or seeing their names in lights. We read right past the name, “Theophilus,” without a second thought, and I imagine that this is the way he would have wanted it because he didn’t sponsor the author of the book of Acts in the hope of recognition. He sponsored the book of Acts because he wanted to know Jesus. Think with me about Theophilus this morning, not just because his generosity has given us the Gospel of Luke and the book of Acts. Think with me about Theophilus because he wanted to know who Jesus was. He wanted to know, and so he paid someone to go and find out. Maybe he was searching for something. Maybe there was a hole in his heart, an emptiness that couldn’t be filled with a better palace or a faster chariot, and he hoped that this Jesus he kept hearing about would provide him the secret to abundant life. My friends, I’ve been watching a new show on Apple TV. Until Ted Lasso season four comes out, I’m not sure exactly what to watch, so I’ve been watching this TV show with that handsome guy from Mad Men. The new show he’s in is called Your Friends and Neighbors. I’m not recommending that you watch it. It’s not an uplifting or spiritually nurturing show. It’s about a man who lives in a neighborhood of mansions, who drives a car worth $200,000, who had a family and a wife, then lost everything. Finding himself unemployed and too proud to sell his assets, he resorts to stealing expensive watches from his friends and pawning them to a pawn shop owner who won’t ask too many questions. Some of these watches that he steals cost $300,000. And all they do is tell time, which is a limited resource. No matter how fancy the watch we can afford, no amount of riches can buy us any more time. No matter how much you have, the clock is still ticking. How do you want to be remembered? When it comes to Theophilus, who we know was a wealthy citizen in the Roman Empire, I imagine that one Sunday morning, he got out of bed. His wife had already gone to church. The house was empty, and he walked down the driveway to collect his copy of the Rome Daily Journal. I can see him spoon another mouthful of Ceaser Flakes into his mouth as he saw his obituary there printed by mistake and didn’t like what it had to say. Some have said that Theophilus was the secret name of the Roman Emperor’s cousin, Flavius, whose wife, Domitilla, was an early follower of Jesus. They lived during the rule of Emperor Domitian, a time when every misfortune the empire faced was blamed on the Chrisitan community, and we know that eventually Flavius was executed. His wife, Domitilla, was banished. Might they be the ones we have to thank for the Gospel of Luke and the book of Acts? Should Theophilus be a pseudonym for Flavius, then by funding this book of Acts that we now read, he risked his life. Or did he find it? What I’m trying to say is that money can’t fill the hole in our hearts that Jesus was meant to fill. Thinking only of ourselves can’t fill the hole in our hearts that only service can fill. Having a lot of everything will never get anyone out of bed in the morning the way that living your life for a higher purpose will, so as Theophilus died, I imagine that he was thinking to himself, “It cost me a little something to finance those books, but thanks be to God I now know that my death is not the end of my story, for the One who came to earth to save me also ascended into Heaven, and so will I.” My friends, right now, there are people shopping at Home Depot, spending hundreds of dollars on plants to put out in their yard. Right now, some are boating out on Lake Allatoona, and I’m happy for them, but I wonder if they know that unless they learn to serve the Lord with their lives, that unless they find a meaningful use for their treasure, then something will always be missing. I don’t want my obituary to read, “Joe Evans sure had a pretty front yard.” I don’t want it to read, “He sure had a nice boat.” I want to leave a legacy that blesses the generations who will follow me, and from the example of Theophilus, I know that it is better to live and to have died for something that matters than to fade off into the sunset counting the minutes as they pass on a $300,000 watch. Thanks be to God for Theophilus. May we all follow Jesus as he did. Amen.

The City of God, a sermon based on Genesis 2: 4b-9 and Revelation 21: 1-6, preached on May 18, 2025

Our Bible begins in the garden, but it ends in a city. According to the book of Revelation, when we come to our end, we will be welcomed into a holy city, the new Jerusalem, the City of God. In that place, death will be no more. Mourning and crying and pain will be no more. Jesus tells us that in that city, there is a mansion with many rooms. There will be a room for me and a room for you, and when we get there, we won’t have to worry anymore about cancer or poverty, death or taxes, crime or inflation. We won’t spend time worrying about when the next shoe is going to drop, for God will be with us, making all things right and all things new. This is the promise of Scripture, that some bright morning, when this life is over, I’ll fly away, to that home on God’s celestial shore, where joys will never end. We anticipate that day, not with fear, but with faith. We live as those expecting the world to be put together perfectly. We are not the kind of people who fear that the world will go to hell in a handbasket, for we know that the day is coming when sin will be no more. In that city, our God will heal what’s broken. We will be so filled with the love of God that there will be no more room in our hearts for selfishness or greed. We will be made new, as our God puts right all that’s gone wrong. My friends, Scripture promises, the book of Revelation promises, that this fallen world will be made new, yet Christians have never been satisfied just waiting for that to happen. For 2,000 years, Christians in every nation under heaven, while taking heart in the promise of what is to come, have worked to make this world cloaked in shadow just a little brighter. We are called to be healers of the breach. We are called to be a balm for a wounded world, to be salt and light. We were created to be a blessing to the nations. While we wait for justice to come rolling down, we also work for justice. While we wait expectantly for redemption to come, we’ve also built schools, hospitals, and orphanages. Some even went so far as to leave their homes behind in the hope of creating a more perfect union built on the love of God and the love of neighbor. In 1630, Rev. John Winthrop preached a sermon in a boat among fellow settlers just before they reached the Massachusetts Bay Colony. In that sermon, he called their new colony to be “as a city upon a hill. A light to the nations,” and I’m not going to say that those colonists achieved their goal of bringing heaven to earth, but they didn’t sit around waiting for this world to get better all on its own. They got to work. They stepped out in faith. They tried to start a new country that was built differently than their old one. They attempted to create a new nation defined by decency and order, mercy and justice. They longed for a nation where the politicians were honorable, where hard work was rewarded with a fair wage, and no one went into debt after buying a week’s worth of groceries. My friends, in so many ways, we are living in a blessed city. We live in a place that often seems to me to be pretty close to Mayberry, or to the bar in Cheers. Marietta can feel like a place where everybody knows your name. For example, last week, I walked into a restaurant on the Square for lunch, and at a booth in the back was a table. Nearly every woman seated there to celebrate a birthday, I knew by name. One was a former teacher at the elementary school I attended. Others were members of this church. After greeting them, I joined the pastors of First Baptist Church and Zion Baptist Church and the director of Mayes Ward Funeral home for lunch to discuss the future of our parking lots. The waitress came and introduced herself. Rev. Brandon Owen of First Baptist Church invited her to his church because that’s what Baptists do, but notice that we all had lunch together because that’s what pastors in this town do. I give thanks to God for such a close-knit community. I’m so thankful that we live in a town where the pastors of the churches don’t compete with one another, but work together for the common good, and yet, there are newlywed members of this church who are trying to buy a house in which to raise their family, and they can’t afford much closer than Acworth. Our city’s elementary schools offer food pantries because so many of their students live in homes where the cupboards are bare. Too many of them have no address, for they live out of their cars. Too many of them have parents who work but can’t make ends meet. We live in a society of wealth and poverty. Some have savings accounts and others are drowning in debt. On the one hand, I think of Marietta, Georgia as a city on a hill, a bright light in a world of shadow; however, we are not yet the community that God calls us to be. My friends, the call of God is not to wait until we make it to those Pearly Gates to live in a city of justice and peace, but to walk towards such a reality today. Now, maybe you’re thinking: What can I do about the brokenness and injustice of our world? I think that way sometimes. Last week, I had breakfast with a representative of the Presbyterian Foundation. The Presbyterian Foundation is this big, well-funded organization responsible for managing the endowment entrusted to the Presbyterian Church. Because they have so much money, I asked the representative if she thought the Presbyterian Foundation would get our denomination moving in the right direction again, and she looked at me and asked, “Why are you waiting for us, when the light of Jesus Christ is shining in you?” Why are you waiting for something to come along to make a change in this world when the light shines so brightly in you? My friends, don’t wait for someone else to do what you are more than capable of doing. The light shines in you, so reach out your hands in love to your neighbor. Walk into the jail. Visit the sick. Use the gifts you’ve been given to the glory of the Lord. When you do, you make our community a little more like the City of God. Amen.

The Lord is My Shepherd, a sermon based on Psalm 23 and Revelation 7: 9-17, preached on May 11, 2025

Mother’s Day is today, and I’m celebrating because our daughters have received the great gift of a wonderful mother. My wife, Sara, is a particularly wonderful mother. Among other things like feeding them, paying attention to their grades, and taking them to the doctor, when our girls need her to hold them, she holds them, and when they need her to let them go, she lets go. Think about that skill with me for just a moment. When we hold onto our children too closely, we call it coddling. When we push them out of the nest too early, we may break them. When we dropped Lily off at Kindergarten, she was ready, and Sara was excited. Sara could see how excited Lily was to go to school, so she celebrated with her little girl. She cheered her on in taking that step of independence into her Kindergarten classroom, while I, soon after dropping Lily off, cried in the car. Likewise, as Lily passed her driver’s test and drove off into the world on her own, Lily was happy. Sara was happy with Lily, while once again, I cried, only this time it wasn’t the car, because now my car is Lily’s car. I cried in the house instead of crying in the car, and I cried because I felt like I was losing our little girl, while Sara was proud and excited, for motherhood is, at its best, the mastery of two movements which are at odds with each other. A mother holds her baby close to her chest and then encourages her to fly. Today, on Mother’s Day, I’m focused on flying and those who have nudged us out of the nest. This movement begins as soon as the umbilical cord is cut. From the moment that cord is cut, babies are learning to move out into the world. They roll over, learn to crawl, stand up, and start to walk. From walking, they run, and the best mothers cheer for them. The best mothers nudge their chicks out into the big scary world, which becomes a little less scary the more we trust the community to watch out for them. How wonderful that there would be a baptism today, for in baptism, mothers are reminded that they are not their children’s lone caregiver. In the Presbyterian church, the baptism is a public event. It takes place during the worship service so that the parents can hear the congregation promise to help them raise their child. In every Presbyterian baptism, the congregation is asked two questions: “Do we, the people of this congregation, receive this child into the life of the church?” and “Will we promise, through prayer and example, to support and encourage her to be faithful in Christian discipleship?” We Presbyterians can’t have private baptisms because the parents must hear the congregation say: “We do,” and “We will.” Parents need to know that their baptized child has this incredible advantage of community. Not only is there mom, but there is also a congregation, so faith, for us, is not the promise of an easy life without trial. Faith, for us, is instead the promise that amid all the trial and tribulation, we are not alone. There is a community, both human and divine, for our fellowship includes the Good Shepherd, who promises, not to watch from a distance from the clouds up in Heaven, but to walk with us, leading us beside the still waters from green pasture to green pasture. The Presbyterian church continues in this celebration of relationships with the wedding liturgy. I’ve had the honor of officiating many weddings, maybe 200 weddings. The most memorable include one with a medieval theme held at a botanical garden that started one hour late because the mother of the groom was making all the dresses but hadn’t finished in time, so the groomsmen were killing time, just wandering around the botanical garden with swords on their belts. They scared a few people with those swords, although the most terrified of all was the father of the bride. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He didn’t. Still, I’ll never forget that wedding. Another wedding I’ll always remember is the wedding of my wife’s sister. Sara’s sister Ami married a Methodist minister, so my wife, Sara, and her sister Ami both married protestant ministers, which is ironic because they were raised Roman Catholic. The Rev. Lyn Pace, my brother in-law, is a chaplain at Duke University. The two of us arm wrestle over who will pray at Thanksgiving. My daughters, Lily and Cece, will have the option of their uncle or their father to officiate at their weddings. I’m thankful for the honor of officiating their Uncle Lyn’s wedding, both the first and the second time he married Sara’s sister Ami. Upon their engagement, Lyn and Ami set their wedding date and put the invitations in the mail. Then Lyn’s father got sick. When his father’s death seemed eminent, Lyn and Ami asked me to officiate a small wedding service, just family, so that, should Lyn’s father die before the publicized wedding date, he wouldn’t miss the chance to see his son marry the love of his life. The small, family wedding was beautiful. A picture of Lyn’s father giving his blessing to his son on that day is etched in my memory, but the invitations had gone out. The original date had not been canceled. On the day their guests showed up, I asked them, “If they’re already married, what are we doing here?” “We are here because they need your love and support,” I said. Then I asked the congregation: “Do all of you promise to uphold this couple in their marriage and strengthen them in their life together?” This is an important question that is asked at every Presbyterian wedding, for like the congregation at the baptism, the guests at the wedding are not there just for the open bar at the reception, but are a group of people who create a community of love to support and encourage newlyweds as they step out into the world together, making our big scary world just a little less scary. In addition to the people is a Shepherd who promises, not to watch from a distance from the clouds up in Heaven, but to walk with us, leading us beside the still waters from green pasture and even through the valley of the shadow of death. Do not fear for He is with you. Think with me this morning about what it means that our Bible would again and again use this image of a shepherd to describe who Jesus is, for what does a shepherd do? If we are His flock, and if the Lord is my Shepherd, then what does a shepherd do but help me move from where I was or am to where I will be? On this Mother’s Day, think with me about the ones who held our hands while we learned to walk, but in helping us to walk, enabled us to move from one stage to another. Those stages continue on far past childhood and adolescence. The young look forward to turning 16 so they can drive. Then 21. Then, we stop looking forward to the next birthdays, yet the stages continue. We move from one pasture to the next one until we reach the final destination. Be not afraid, for you are not on this journey alone. The road is not easy, but He will not let your foot slip. Think with me about that gentle Shepherd who leads us to lie down in the green pastures, beside the still waters, and through the darkest valley because we were not created to settle in and make our permanent residence until we stand before the throne of God. My friends, we are pilgrims in a foreign land. We are on a journey to our final destination. We travel through this mortal life. Do not be afraid. Do not get stuck where you are, for our journey through life requires we move from our mother’s arms out into the world. Yes, we may get hurt along the way, and yes, we may not all make it from adolescence to adulthood. From early adulthood to middle age. From middle age to retirement. From retirement to that age when we are not testing to receive our driver’s license but testing to determine when we must relinquish it. We are on a journey from one pasture to the next. It’s not easy to keep moving, so I implore you: Trust the Shepherd who guides us to our final destination. Do not neglect your relationship with Him. Learn to hear His voice. Learn to trust Him. Learn to follow. For until we stand before the throne, we cannot settle in. We are on a journey of maturing, a journey of rising, a journey of falling, a journey of learning and understanding, rejoicing and weeping, winning and losing that will be far too terrifying to embark upon if we do not trust the One who leads us. Follow Him until you stand before the throne of our Creator and hear that loud voice saying, “Salvation belongs to our God.” Trust Him, until He wipes every tear from your eyes. Last week, I was back on the Presbyterian College campus because now I’ve been graduated long enough to be considered wise and experienced, wise and experienced enough to instruct recent graduates in how to be a Presbyterian minister. It was a gift to be there, for that was the place I first fell in love with a young woman, who was raised Roman Catholic who has now become my wife and the mother of my children. While I was there, I saw two of my professors, who now live at the Presbyterian Village Retirement Community. They did not resist retirement. They did not fight it but embraced the journey because they trust the Shepherd and know where He is leading them. The Lord is my Shepherd. And I will trust Him, too. Amen.

Those Who Ask Questions Receive Answers, a sermon based on John 20: 19-31, preached on April 27, 2025

Late one night, having had a nightmare, our young daughter cried out. I hurried to her bedroom and rubbed her back. Then, I fell asleep next to her, and I know that she did not fall asleep because I woke up to the feeling of her pulling her finger out of my mouth. A salty taste lingered on my tongue, and so I asked her, “Did you just feed me a booger?” She had fed me a booger. But I don’t regret being there. Every child needs to be able to reach out and touch her mother or her father when she is afraid. We all learn that everything is going to be OK, not because someone told us it was, but because when we cried out, someone with flesh and blood was there. Love must have flesh and blood. Otherwise, it is unbelievable. A lasting image of Pope Francis, who died last Monday, will be him kneeling at the feet of incarcerated men, washing their feet. How are incarcerated men to comprehend the awesome love of God unless such love is wrapped in flesh and blood? The Gospel, to be understood, must come down from the pulpit and to the people because so many understand kinesthetically. How’s that for a big word? Kinesthetic learning means to learn by doing or experiencing. Think of going to the part of the museum designed for young children, where they get to touch a fossil or gently pet the back of a stingray. One of my earliest childhood memories is going to the High Museum of Art and walking across a giant tongue. The taste buds lit up under my feet as I walked over it. We know this about kids, that they learn, not just by listening to us talk or reading about new things, but by doing and touching, feeling and smelling, and we learn about the love of God the same way. We don’t just believe because someone told us, but because someone walked into our lives and made the love of God real. Do you remember that scene in Ted Lasso when Coach Beard goes to Nate’s apartment? Nate is afraid that Coach Beard is there to head butt him. Instead, Coach Beard turns his hat around, gently places his forehead against Nate’s, and forgives him. Jesus said to the disciples, “forgive the sins of any and they are forgiven,” for no one believes in forgiveness until forgiveness comes in flesh in blood. Likewise, Thomas said, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe” because the good news is just too good to believe until it takes flesh and blood. Until the Gospel takes flesh and blood, we cannot believe it. The love of God can’t just be learned by listening or reading the Bible but is comprehended kinesthetically. We believe because we have known. Because we have touched His wounds and felt His grace. This is how we learn the truth about people, who they are and whether they can be trusted, not just by reading their resumes, but by shaking their hands and going into their homes, so the great author Mark Twain is famous for advocating that people travel, saying, Travel is fatal to prejudice. It’s fatal to bigotry. Travel is fatal to narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and women and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. But that is what we are too often doing. I read about the nation of Haiti. Then I went on a mission trip there, and I tell you, it is one thing to read about the poverty, the mounds of plastic floating in the coves, the lack of sanitation and prenatal care. I tell you it’s one thing to read about a lack of sanitation, and it’s another thing to smell the lack of sanitation. It’s also one thing to read about overwhelming poverty, and it’s another thing to witness the strength of human resilience in spite of it. We learn the truth through touch. We come to believe in miracles once we’ve witnessed one. How does anyone ever come to believe that the alcoholic can recover from his addiction, but to see it? How can we comprehend the miracle of the healed broken heart but to see the woman broken by grief lifted and restored? We believe that the light shines despite the darkness because that light has shined upon us, so Jesus doesn’t question Thomas’s motives but says to him, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe,” because this is the way it always is. God who created the heavens and the earth is not some figment for theologians to describe. God is no faceless theory to ponder academically, but is a reality to be experienced. Jesus Christ is God’s love in flesh and blood, which is the way people learn what love is, and so when this city drives by our church, seeing a line of hundreds of cars on Tuesday afternoons, and dozens of volunteers providing those families with food to eat, they know that hope is alive. When the world reaches out and finds Christians here that they can touch, lives are changed. Through ministry here that they can feel, people come to know that this place is not a den of hypocrites, or a country club for casual believes, but the Church of Jesus Christ. For we all learn by touching, smelling, hearing, and witnessing in person, so Jesus calls the disciples to forgive so that His grace takes on flesh and blood. Jesus calls on Thomas to touch His wounds, that he might believe that life has victory over the grave, and I tell you that it’s one thing to read about it in book, and it’s another to experience hope for yourself. I’ve read a book called The Anxious Generation. It’s a book full of incredibly bleak statistics that point towards a concerning reality. Many kids are addicted to their smart phones. They’re not playing outside as much. They’re not on the playground so much. Instead, they’re inside, which seems to many parents as though they’re safe at home, yet so long as they’re on their phones, they’re at risk for exposure to child predators, unhealthy images, and all kinds of other bad influences. That’s the reality that I read about, and in reading this book, I wanted to destroy our daughters’ iPhones. I wanted to destroy your children’s phones and your grandchildren’s phones, too, but then, the week before last, our girls had some friends over, and one friend brought with her a phone basket. She demanded that all in attendance place their phones in the basket so that they would all be present in the moment, talking and interacting instead of staring at their screens. Everyone complied with 16-year-old Birdi Dixon. I put my phone in the basket, too, and I tell you this story because the night is not necessarily so dark as you have heard, but to see the light, you’re going to have to open your eyes and reach out your hands. Death will not have the final word, but you may not hear that on the evening news. He is not dead, for He is risen, but to believe, you’re going to have to go out into the world to find where God’s love has taken on flesh and blood. Don’t take their word for it. For prejudice and racism thrive when people stop searching for the truth. Don’t just read about it. Evil in this world grows when good people give up on finding hope. And please don’t let the talking heads tell you what’s really going on, for ignorance thrives when good people stop asking questions. I’ve heard a lot of concerning news in recent weeks, but when God’s love takes on flesh and blood in us, it changes things. I was invited to lunch by a new banker in town. Before we ordered, he started telling me about his Easter, how he spent the weekend with his daughter, a student at Florida State. You may know that there was an active shooter on the campus of FSU. Two were killed, and several others were injured, and upon hearing the news, he called his daughter right away. She was safe, and he told his wife that she sounded fine. His wife told him to drive to Tallahassee to make sure. “What did you do once you got there?” I asked. “All she needed was a hug from her dad,” he told me. My friends, we all learn that everything is going to be OK, not because someone told us, but because when we cried out, God provided us One to touch. Will you let your faith become action, that those who do not yet know or understand might gain a sense of God’s love through your flesh and blood? Amen.

Why Are You Weeping? A sermon based on John 20: 1-18, preached on Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025

As I think about the empty tomb on that first Easter morning and the scene described in the Scripture lesson we just read, I notice that there are three people who showed up, and all three were there for different reasons. First, there’s the unnamed “disciple,” the one whom Jesus loved. Some Bible scholars have said that this disciple is nameless in our Scripture lesson so that we can imagine ourselves in his shoes. Regardless, we know that Jesus loved him and that he knew that the Savior had been crucified, then put in that tomb, but it’s as though he believed Jesus when He said He would rise again, for when he hears that the tomb is empty, he’s ready. He rushes so quickly to get to there that he beats Peter there. This unnamed disciple reminds me of those of you who woke up this morning with your Easter dresses laid out. You knew which flowers you’d bring to place on the flower cross outside the church. Your ham is already in the oven, and peeps are your favorite candy. There are people here like that unnamed, beloved disciple. On that first Easter morning, Peter and that beloved disciple heard that the tomb was empty from Mary Magdalene. Peter and the unnamed, beloved disciple set off running; yet that Peter would run towards the empty tomb is ironic. Do you remember how quickly Peter had been running away from Jesus since the Lord was arrested? When Jesus was arrested, Peter was afraid that he would be next. While Jesus was suffering, Peter didn’t want to suffer alongside Him, so when a crowd pointed him out saying, “That man was with Jesus,” Peter denied that he even knew who Jesus was. Why then did Peter rush to the empty tomb? Was it because he felt guilty? Was it because he wanted to apologize? Was it because he’d been carrying around regret and shame, punishing himself for what he’d failed to do? I don’t know for sure, but I do know that some of you are here for such a reason. While I know that some of you are here because of how you love Easter and love the Resurrected Savior, I imagine some of you are here because you haven’t been to church since Christmas, and it seems like it’s about time for you to get back in here. Peter went to the tomb carrying a heavy burden, and people carry heavy burdens into this church. So many of us are weighed down with guilt, shame, regret, and self-loathing. Not everyone joyfully rushes to get in here on Easter morning, yet regardless of why you’re here, I want you to know that I’m so thankful you are here. I’m thankful that you’re here, even if you don’t want to be here. That’s how it was with Mary Magdalene. Remember that there were three. The unnamed, beloved disciple who rushed to get there. Peter who rushed, too, because he suffered from a guilty conscience. With Mary Magdalene, it was out of devotion to a man she loved with all her heart. Mary Magdalene showed up at the tomb that first Easter. She was there to anoint a corpse for burial. She didn’t want to be there. She needed to be there. She was there early that morning to honor a man who changed her whole life, but she wasn’t there to see Him; she was there to pay her respect. She wasn’t there because it was pleasant. She was there because it was necessary. Some of you are here today for a similar reason. Mama asked you to come, or your father used to go to church here. You’re here because being here makes them proud. You’re here out of respect or devotion. Your wife comes to this church, and she begged you to come today because it’s Easter. You’re not really expecting anything special to happen. In fact, if a miracle fell in your lap, you might miss it, and so it was with Mary Magdalene. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb, and as she wept, she bent over to investigate the tomb. Two angels were there, and they asked her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” If it sounds strange to be asked a question like that by two angels, know that Mary didn’t notice it was strange. She didn’t think it was strange to see two angels. Neither did she think it was strange to see Jesus. She didn’t recognize the angels as angels, and she thought Jesus was the gardener. That’s how it is with miracles for people who don’t believe in miracles. They just look right through them and explain them away, so Mary, who showed up at the tomb to anoint a dead body for burial, never considered that Jesus was talking to her. She thought He was a gardener, and when He asked her “Woman, why are you weeping?” she said, “because I wanted to stay home to watch the game, but my husband dragged me to church.” No. Assuming that this man who appeared to be the gardener had moved the dead body, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Right then, Jesus said to her, “Mary!” He called her by name. That opened her eyes, and my friends, regardless of why you’re here, I want you to know that Jesus knows your name. He knows why you’ve come, what you need, and who you are looking for. He knows who you’re missing, and why your heart breaks, and what brings you joy. Jesus has called you here, even if it was your mama who twisted your arm. Jesus called you here, even if every day is Easter Sunday for you. Jesus called you here, even if you drug in a 10-pound bag of guilt along with you. And He knows why you weep. I wonder if, when that beloved disciple investigated the empty tomb, he wept for joy. I wonder if Peter, on the night he betrayed the Lord, wept because he had failed. Do you weep, late at night, wondering if you’ll ever live it down? Do you weep because you can’t believe what you did? Or is it because you miss him? Like Mary Magdalene, do you go in his closet, just to breathe in the smell of his clothes? Out of devotion to someone buried in the grave, have you come here today? Is it simply because you thought coming here might help you feel closer, or might help you feel connected? I want you to know that while the unnamed, beloved disciple showed up at the empty tomb that first Easter morning with Easter basket in hand and a hymn on his lips, Peter showed up at the tomb weighed down by guilt and shame. Mary Magdalene showed up to anoint a body for burial. Yet as soon as He said her name, she dropped those burial spices and rushed to embrace the Lord, for He is risen. Peter might have done the same, had he dared to doubt the voices in his head telling him he’d never live it down. Peter might have laid down his heavy burden of guilt, shame, and regret had he just noticed that Christ had broken those chains and removed that burden, but he was so stuck in his own dark, desolate tomb that he wasn’t ready to come out. He was so stuck in the habit of shedding tears that he left that empty tomb more confused than ever, for we all get stuck. This Easter morning, I tell you it’s not just Jesus who has been stuck in a tomb; it’s you and me. We get stuck in tombs of our own shame. Stuck in tombs of our own selfishness and narrowmindedness. Stuck in tombs of grief and mourning. Stuck in tombs where death has all the power. Why are you here? Why are you weeping? The reason hardly matters, for we are all here together, and I tell you, in a divided world, division will not have the final word today. Isolation will not have the final word today. Death will not have the final word today. For He is risen. Doubt your conviction that miracles are all superstition, that people never change, that the bad guys always come out on top, or that all hope is lost. Doubt your conviction that you can never be forgiven. That the church serves no real purpose. That everyone is out to get you. That being here is just killing time until the ham is served. Doubt those stories that the world has told you and take notice of the miracle of Easter. For death gives way to life. Shame gives way to forgiveness. Doubt gives way to faith. Isolation gives way to community. Mary Magdalene came to the tomb to anoint a corpse for burial. She dropped those burial spices to rejoice in the Good News, and I hope that you who are carrying heavy burdens will drop what you’ve carried in here. Drop your burdens and rejoice in the gift that God provides. For He is Risen. He is Risen, indeed. Halleluia. Amen.

Riding a Borrowed Donkey, a sermon based on Luke 19: 28-44, preached on April 13, 2025

I was watching Driving Miss Daisy last week. Do you remember that movie? I was on a plane trying to decide how to occupy my time on this flight, and I realized that I’d never seen Driving Miss Daisy. It takes place in Atlanta during the age of the Civil Rights Movement, and Miss Daisy gets invited to a dinner where she’ll hear Dr. King speak. She asks her son to go with her, and her son likes Dr. King. He believes in what he stands for. He agrees that it’s time for change. He knows that segregation is holding the South back, and as a Jewish man, he knows what discrimination feels like, but when it comes down to making a choice to stand publicly with the Civil Rights icon, he gets worried about what rubbing shoulders with an agent for change might do to his business. Maybe you know the feeling. Maybe you’ve been there before. There’s a choice to be made, and some people join the parade, cheering beside the Messiah riding on the borrowed donkey. Others stand near the edge, trying to keep a foot in two camps. They’re with Jesus, but quietly. They don’t want to disturb the peace. They get all wrapped up in second guessing, wondering: “What will people say?” “How will this choice affect the bottom line?” Not everyone is comfortable taking the risk to follow Jesus, so while today we celebrate these crowds of people who waved their palm branches to welcome the king and who lay down their robes in defiance of Rome without a care for tomorrow, listen as Jesus says, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” What does that line mean? He means that if these people weren’t celebrating, then the stones would. In other words, this celebration is inevitable. This moment in history is unavoidable, and whether the parade of people forms, whether their cheers are loud or soft, it doesn’t really matter because Jesus is the King of Kings, and He doesn’t have to win an election to make that true. He just is. His Lordship is not based on public opinion, but on the arc of history. Nothing lies in the balance. The future is not uncertain, for He commits to us fully even if we suffer from cold feet. He is determined, and He has decided. He rides on a borrowed donkey because there will not be a return trip. He rides to the cross, where the price of our salvation will be paid. If we don’t lift our voices to praise Him, the stones will. That’s the message I want you to hear this morning, in an age where it seems to many that our nation sits on a precipice. My friends, empires rise and fall, stock markets rise and fall, nations have histories that begin and end, while His kingdom will never end. Do you believe it? As mortal creatures, it’s hard to grasp something that never ends, but I caught a glimpse of eternity last week. I watched Driving Miss Daisy on the plane to California because we flew there to see the giant sequoias. The largest one is called General Sherman, and it’s been growing for more than 2,000 years. It’s truly something to stand at the foot of a tree that big. The marker claims that standing at the foot of General Sherman and looking up at its branches is something like how a mouse feels when he looks up at a human. The proportions are about the same. Compared to a giant sequoia, we are like a mouse, yet compared to the God who created the heavens and the earth, the giant sequoia is like a toothpick. At some point, that tree will fall. Maybe we’ll be alive to see it; maybe we won’t. Regardless, all that we see and worry over and obsess about will end, sooner or later. The work of our hands, for good or for evil, will not outlast the Lordship of Jesus Christ. Bow to His power in awe and wonder today and allow the politics and the problems of this present age to take their place in the backdrop of your consciousness. The powers of this world will rise and fall, but the Word of God will stand forever. Stand with the One who rides that borrowed donkey and have the assurance now. Believe the Good News today that the One who rides that borrowed donkey, He rides on to bring our salvation. Halleluia. Amen.