What Has Your Heart?

"The Lord your God will circumcise your heart and the hearts of your descendants, and you will love him with all your heart and all your soul so that you will live." (Deuteronomy 30:6)

Everyone Worships

I want to start with something that is true of every single person in this room, whether you believe in God or not. Everybody worships.

The novelist David Foster Wallace was not a Christian, and in 2005 he stood up in front of a graduating class and told them there is really no such thing as not worshiping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get, he said, is what we worship. And he was right. The Bible said it thousands of years before he did.

Now, what does it mean to worship something? Our English word comes from an old word, worth-ship. To worship something is to show what it's worth to you. It's to give it your heart, to look to it for life, to build your sense of who you are on top of it. Whatever your heart treats as most worth having, that's what you worship. It might be your career, or your family, or your reputation. It might be the approval of the people around you, or being right, or being in control. Most of those are good things. But when any good thing becomes the thing your heart can't live without, it has become your god.

If you're here this morning and you're not sure you believe any of this, stay with me, because this is your question too. You're worshiping something. We all are.

And I want to suggest that this isn't only true out there, in the rest of the week. It's true in here, in church, in the middle of worship itself. Let me tell you how I learned that.

At my last assignment, before I became the pastor of that church, the pastor before me asked me a question. I don't remember what the question was, but I remember where I was sitting. I was in the back. And I remember telling him how amazing it was that so many people were disconnected in worship. People were on their phones, flipping through the hymnal, talking, staring out the window. It was one of those moments when you realize our minds aren't always where they need to be.

But what took me longer to see was this: while I sat back there watching everybody else, my own heart wasn't worshiping either. I was so busy grading the room that I gave God nothing.

So the question this morning isn't whether you worship. You do. The question is, what makes worship real, and worthy of God? What is the worship God actually receives? And to answer that, we have to go underneath the outward forms, all the way down to the heart.

Lips Near, Hearts Far

Jesus put his finger right on this. Quoting the prophet Isaiah, he said, "This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me. They worship me in vain" (Matthew 15:8-9).

Notice what Jesus does. He doesn't criticize the singing or the prayers or the gathering. He says there's an inner essence of worship and an outer expression of worship, and it's possible to have all of the outer and none of the inner. And when that happens, he says, the worship is vain. For Jesus, that kind of worship amounts to zero.

In English, the word vain has two meanings. It means empty, and it means full of yourself. Jesus meant empty. But the reason that worship is empty is that it's full of self. So you can do as many good deeds as you want, and go to as many church services as you want, and never truly worship, if nothing is happening in your heart toward God. All real and true worship is heartfelt.

Now, why does that happen to people who love God? Jesus told a story about good seed that never grew, because the worries of this life, the pull of money, and the desire for other things grew up around it and choked it out (Mark 4:18-19). Sometimes it's the world around us, the noise and the pressure and the things we chase. And sometimes it's the world inside us.

Let me go a little deeper, because the sin beneath the sin is always a question of worship. When I sat in that back row grading everyone, what was I really doing? I was protecting something. My sense of being right. My sense of being a little better than the people around me. In the middle of worshiping God, I was worshiping myself. And most of us do some version of that. So let me ask you a few honest questions. What does your mind drift to when it has nowhere it has to be? Whose approval would crush you to lose? Where do you run first when you're afraid? Your answers will tell you what your heart is really treating as worth the most.

The apostle Paul said this to religious people in Rome who were trusting the outward sign that they belonged to God: "True circumcision is not something visible in the flesh... circumcision is of the heart, by the Spirit, not the letter. That person's praise is not from people but from God" (Romans 2:28-29).

Circumcision was the sign God gave Abraham, the mark that you belonged to God's people. But you could carry that mark on your body while your heart was a thousand miles away. For us, the outward marks look different: baptism, membership, knowing the right answers, being here every Sunday. Those are good things, but they can never stand in for a heart the Spirit has made new.

So what is the inner, authentic, Godward experience of the heart that we call the essence of worship? Moses gives us the beginning of the answer: "The Lord your God will circumcise your heart... and you will love him with all your heart and all your soul so that you will live." In other words, God goes to work on the inside, where no one else can reach. He cuts away what keeps pulling our hearts away from him, and he fills the heart with the very character of Jesus. Worthy worship begins with a heart God himself has made whole.

What We Cannot Do, God Promises

But that raises an obvious question. How does God do that? How does a divided heart become whole?

To answer that, we have to go back to the moment God first asked for it. The book of Deuteronomy is Moses speaking to Israel near the end of his life, about forty years after they came out of Egypt, on the edge of the promised land. And in chapters 9 and 10, he makes them remember the worst moment of their history. While he was up on the mountain receiving God's law, their parents made a golden calf and worshiped it. Moses came down, saw the worship, which led him straight back to the hearts of the people, and he shattered the tablets. And yet God called Moses back up the mountain, gave him new tablets, and renewed the covenant with a people who didn't deserve it. And with that story of a second chance fresh in their minds, Moses said, "Circumcise your hearts and don't be stiff-necked any longer" (Deuteronomy 10:16).

What I find interesting in that moment is how easy it is, when we are left alone with our hearts, to revert back to our former selves. The calf was made while Moses was away. The people decided he was taking too long. Their bodies had left Egypt, but their hearts never did.

And they couldn't do what God asked. Why not? Because the heart that needed cutting was the very heart holding the knife. You can make yourself come to church. You can make yourself say the right words. But you cannot make yourself love God with all your heart, any more than you can make yourself love anything. Even David, the man after God's own heart, didn't try to fix himself. He prayed, "God, create a clean heart for me" (Psalm 51:10).

So near the end of his life, Moses gave them a promise: "The Lord your God will circumcise your heart" (Deuteronomy 30:6). What God had commanded, God now promised to do himself.

Centuries later, a young man named Stephen stood before the religious leaders and preached the last sermon of his life. He said of Israel in the wilderness, "Our ancestors were unwilling to obey him. Instead, they pushed him away, and in their hearts turned back to Egypt" (Acts 7:39). And then he looked at the leaders in front of him and said, "You stiff-necked people with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are always resisting the Holy Spirit. As your ancestors did, you do also" (Acts 7:51). And they stoned him for it.

Standing there guarding the coats of the men throwing the stones was a young man named Saul (Acts 7:58). He never forgot it. Years later, as Paul, he prayed, "When the blood of your witness Stephen was being shed, I stood there giving approval" (Acts 22:20). And the man who once stood there with an uncircumcised heart would one day write that true circumcision is of the heart, by the Spirit.

And how does the Spirit do it? Through Christ. "You were also circumcised in him with a circumcision not done with hands... in the circumcision of Christ" (Colossians 2:11). Paul ties our new hearts to what Jesus did on the cross. Isaiah said the Savior would be "cut off from the land of the living" (Isaiah 53:8), and because Jesus gave himself up to death for us, the Spirit can do in our hearts what we could never do ourselves.

Humility

So what happened to Saul? He stood with the Pharisees, watching, while Stephen, full of grace and power, looked up and saw Jesus. That day stayed with him, and later, on the road to Damascus, Jesus himself stopped him and humbled him. And that's always where God begins. When God pursues a heart, he begins by humbling it.

Now, humility is a strange thing. The moment you start checking your own heart to see how humble you are, it slips away. Keller once said humility is so shy that if you start talking about it, it leaves. Piper built on that and said humility flourishes when we stand at a window looking out at the greatness of Christ, and it disappears when we turn around and stand at a mirror. You'll never find humility staring at yourself. It only shows up when you're looking at Jesus. Even when David prayed, "Search me, God, and know my heart" (Psalm 139:23), he was asking God to do the looking.

If you're not a Christian, humility is where you stop trusting your own record, and you look and see Jesus. That's what happened to Paul. He had every outward credential a person could have: circumcised the eighth day, a Pharisee, blameless in the law. And when he saw Jesus, he said, "I consider everything to be a loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord" (Philippians 3:8). He had seen someone so much greater that his record stopped mattering.

But humility is just as important for those of us who have walked with Jesus for years. Maybe we need it more, because pride has a way of growing right inside the religious life. It grows from knowing your Bible. It grows from serving others. It grows from showing up when others don't.

C.S. Lewis said a proud person is "always looking down on things and people," and as long as you're looking down, you can't see what's above you. That was me in the back row. Jesus told a story about it (Luke 18:9-14). Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a faithful, religious Pharisee, and he stood up and prayed, "God, I thank you that I'm not like other people... or even like this tax collector." Think about what he did. He went to the house of God to pray and spent his prayer looking down at the man in the back. And that man couldn't even lift his eyes. He prayed, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner!" And Jesus said that man went home right with God.

And when we finally look up, do you know who we see? We see the One who had every right to sit in the judge's seat, and he got up out of it. He emptied himself, took the form of a servant, and humbled himself all the way to death on a cross (Philippians 2:6-8). That's the humble mind we learn from Christ. There is a sickness in the heart that needs to be cleansed, in sinners and saints alike. Humility opens our eyes to see it, and God cleanses us more and more from one part of it, our pride and our vanity, so that we can welcome faith.

Humility is recognizing our need, and recognizing who can meet it.

I struggle with this. Every day I have to wake up and pray, Father, check my pride, in every conversation, every inward thought, every decision I make. Why? Because the moment I start living for what people think of me, I've stopped looking at Jesus.

The gospel does something for us in this that nothing else can. Most of us live every day in a kind of courtroom. We're on trial, and the verdict keeps changing. A compliment, and we're acquitted. A criticism, and we're condemned. Paul says something remarkable about that courtroom: "It is of little importance to me that I should be judged by you or by any human court. In fact, I don't even judge myself... It is the Lord who judges me" (1 Corinthians 4:3-4). Paul had stepped out of the courtroom, because in Christ the verdict was already in.

My heart, as it stands right now, is that people would see me as someone trying to be faithful with what God has entrusted to me, not because it profits me or gives me praise, but because it might help me serve them better.

The approval of others was never meant to hold up your heart.

Faith

If the approval of others can't hold up your heart, something has to. That's where faith comes in. Once we see our true heart and the disease that lies within, God renews and cleanses us by faith. Peter said it about the first believers who weren't Jewish: God made no distinction between us and them, "cleansing their hearts by faith" (Acts 15:9).

But we have to be clear about what faith is. James says, "You believe that God is one. Good! Even the demons believe, and they shudder" (James 2:19). The demons have perfect theology. They know exactly who God is, and nothing in them has changed. So faith has to be more than believing the right things about the unseen.

In the summer of 1859, a tightrope walker named Charles Blondin stretched a rope across the gorge below Niagara Falls, and thousands of people came out to watch him cross it. He crossed it again and again, and every time, the crowd believed a little more that he could do it. Then that August he carried a man across on his back. His manager, Harry Colcord, climbed onto his shoulders, and the two of them went out over the gorge. Colcord said later that out in the middle, where nothing steadied the rope, Blondin began to totter and sway, and all he could do was hold on.

The crowd believed something true about Charles Blondin, and they went home impressed, but the same as they came. Harry trusted him with his life. That's faith.

So what does it look like to trust Jesus with your whole weight? It means letting him into the places of your heart you've walled off.

Faith is powerful. John Wesley said a living faith is "powerful through God for tearing down strongholds" (2 Corinthians 10:4). A stronghold is a fortress, something dug in and walled up, and every one of us has a few. Some of those strongholds are around us: the things everyone says until we believe them. Follow your heart. You deserve it. Look out for number one. But the Bible says the heart is more deceitful than anything else (Jeremiah 17:9). And some of the strongholds are within us. Sin bends the way we think, so we reach our verdicts first and find our reasons afterward. We decide someone will never change, or that God feels far away so he must be far away, or that we've gone too far for him to want us back.

And underneath all of that, most of us are carrying on an argument with God. If he really loved me, he wouldn't have let that happen. I'll forgive them when they've earned it. I know better about this one part of my life. We rehearse those arguments so often that we start winning them, and every argument we win against God is another wall around a part of our heart he isn't allowed into. Faith takes every one of those thoughts captive to obey Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5). It hands the argument back to him and lets him have the last word.

So let me ask you. What argument have you been winning against God that you need to lose?

And think about this. If by faith we believe that Jesus gave himself for us, that he forgives us and reconciles us, even me, to the Father, and that we have redemption through his blood, then how does that same faith not have the power to cleanse the heart? John puts both in one sentence: "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness" (1 John 1:9). Sin no longer rules over you (Romans 6:14). You are no longer forced to obey it.

That's why humility matters so much. Without it, the heart will not confess its need, and if the heart does not confess, there is no cleansing. But when a heart finally confesses and is cleansed, it has something to say. It can testify of Christ: he took my sin, and he made me clean.

Hope

And something beautiful happens when we testify about God. God testifies about us. Paul says, "The Spirit himself testifies together with our spirit that we are God's children" (Romans 8:16). That is where hope begins.

Hope is the next part of a circumcised heart. It's the Spirit's living proof that humility and faith are at work in us. Hope bears witness that we belong to God, and that our Father gives his children good things (Matthew 7:11). "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure" (Hebrews 6:19). My joy is anchored in someone, and his Spirit witnesses to my spirit that I belong to God.

Why does that anchor matter so much? Because a heart that is unsure where it stands with God performs. It watches, it compares, it grades, and it needs approval. That isn't assurance in God.

Jesus told a story about exactly this kind of heart. We usually call it the parable of the prodigal son, but there are two sons in it. The younger son ran off and wasted everything. The older son stayed home his whole life and did everything right. And when the younger son came home and the father threw him a party, the older son stood outside and refused to go in. He said, "Look, I have been slaving many years for you" (Luke 15:29). Keller pointed out that both sons were lost. The younger son was lost in his rebellion, and the older son was lost in his goodness. He lived in his father's house like a hired hand, watching his brother, grading him, angry that he never got what he thought he'd earned. And the father went out to him too, and said, "Son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours" (Luke 15:31). He was a son the whole time. He just never lived like one.

Paul says, "You did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear. Instead, you received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry out, 'Abba, Father!'" (Romans 8:15). A slave performs, because his place depends on it. A child calls out to his father, because his place was never in question.

So hope is joy, not fear. Underneath all the performing, the heart is asking one question: Am I worthy to be loved? And the Spirit answers it by telling you that you are loved. "God proves his own love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8). The Spirit whispers, I am yours, and you are mine. And Jesus prayed for this very thing, that just as he is in the Father and the Father is in him, we would be in them (John 17:21).

When that finally lands in a heart, something happens that words can't hold. David said, "Taste and see that the Lord is good. How happy is the person who takes refuge in him!" (Psalm 34:8). There's a difference between reading about honey and tasting it. You can know everything about God and never once taste him. But when you do, the heart can't stay quiet. John could hardly contain himself: "See what great love the Father has given us that we should be called God's children, and we are!" (1 John 3:1). It's the slave finding out he's a son. It's the older brother finally walking in to the party. It's the man in the back row who stops grading the room and starts to sing.

And joy and hope produce love. "We love because he first loved us" (1 John 4:19).

Love

What is it that cries out, "Abba, Father"? It can't be pride. It can't be selfishness. Only love can do that, the very love Jesus has for his Father, poured into our hearts by the Spirit (Romans 5:5; Galatians 4:6). And that's what completes a whole heart: real, Christlike love.

Saint Augustine said that the deepest problem of the human heart is disordered love. We love good things in the wrong order. We love comfort, approval, family, success, even ministry, more than we love God, and those good things start to sit on a throne they were never built for. Love for God puts everything back in its place. We still love people. We still enjoy God's good gifts. But we love them in him and for him.

Mark tells us about a young man who came to Jesus who had kept the commandments since he was a boy. He had the outward life down. And Mark says, "Looking at him, Jesus loved him," and then said, "You lack one thing" (Mark 10:21). Jesus told him to let go of what he loved most and follow him, and the man went away grieving, because he had many possessions. He had everything on the outside and a divided heart on the inside. Something else had his heart. And notice the order: Jesus asked for his whole heart because he loved him.

God's love always comes first. He loved us while we were still sinners. But so many of us want to feel his love without letting it change us. We skip humility. We skip faith and hope. And we try to go straight to feeling loved, without letting God cut away what's in the way. We want love without the circumcision.

We refuse the hardship and the pain that come when what we have loved is cut away from us. But God never cuts to leave us scarred and empty. He cuts so that we can have real life. That's the promise of our text: God circumcises the heart so that you will love him with all your heart, "so that you will live."

So what does that look like on an ordinary Tuesday? When God has your whole heart, you don't love the people in your life less. You love them better, because you're no longer asking them to be your god. You can love your spouse without needing them to fill what only God can fill. You can work hard without your job deciding whether you're worth anything. When a disappointment comes, it hurts, but it doesn't take everything from you, because the one thing you can't lose is still yours. When someone criticizes you, you can listen, because your heart isn't resting on their verdict. And when you walk into church on Sunday, you aren't coming to be entertained or to grade the room. You're coming home to the One your heart already loves most.

When love takes the seat we have ruled from, Christ sits there and reigns without a rival, and our joy comes from that very circumcision, as the spirit returns to God who gave it. John Wesley said it as strongly as anyone ever has: "Whoever is not happy, yea, happy in God, is not a Christian." He meant it as an invitation. God is offering you the deepest happiness there is, and it's in him.

Our songs, our giving, and our service all matter to God, but underneath every one of them, he is after the living sacrifice of the heart (Romans 12:1). "The sacrifice pleasing to God is a broken spirit. You will not despise a broken and humbled heart, God" (Psalm 51:17).

But if God wants a whole heart, and none of us could ever give him one on our own, then where does that leave us? It leaves us looking at the only one who ever did.

The True Worshiper

There has only ever been one person whose heart was never divided in worship. Jesus loved his Father with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind, and all his strength. He never once sat in the back row of his own heart. Every word, every step, every breath was for the Father's glory. He said, "I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me" (John 6:38).

And yet on the cross, the one whole heart in all of history was given up for us. The Son who had always cried out, "Abba, Father," cried out instead, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" (Mark 15:34). He was abandoned so that we could be adopted. He gave himself up so that the Spirit could make our hearts new, and pour into us the same love he has for the Father, so that we can love God with all our heart too. He cried out as one forsaken so that we could cry "Abba" forever.

And Keller would remind us of something else from the parable of the two sons. In that story, no one goes out to find the younger brother. But we have a true and better older brother, Jesus, who left the Father's house and came all the way out to where we were, to bring us home at the cost of his own life.

So let's come back to our question. What makes worship real, and worthy of God? What is the inner, authentic, Godward experience of the heart that we call the essence of worship?

The inner essence of worship is a heart that God has made whole.

It's a heart that has been humbled, so it isn't sitting in the judge's seat anymore. It's a heart that has put its whole weight on Jesus. It's a heart that knows it's home, crying out, "Abba, Father." And it's a heart that loves God more than anything he could ever give it. Those aren't four steps we climb to earn a whole heart. They're what God's grace forms in a heart as he makes it whole.

And in that wholeness comes joy. Peter called it inexpressible and glorious joy (1 Peter 1:8), joy too big for words, joy that doesn't come from anything in this world, the joy of a heart that has tasted God and found him better than everything it was chasing.

That is worship.

So let me ask you one more time. What has your heart?

The God who asks for your whole heart is the God who promises to make it whole.

If you've never come to Jesus, this is where it begins. Come to him with empty hands. He said, "The one who comes to me I will never cast out" (John 6:37).

And if you've followed him for years but your heart is still divided, ask him to make it whole. The same faith that received his forgiveness can receive his cleansing.

Let's pray the words of an old hymn together:

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love; here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.

I Will: Attitude

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves. Everyone should look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Adopt the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 2:3-5, CSB)

Technically I was supposed to preach on Jeremiah chapter 2. I had told the team, hey, we're going to do Jeremiah chapter 2, we're going to talk about broken cisterns. There's a word there where God brings Israel into this judicial moment and says, why are you exchanging my glory for glories that are not glory? And he makes this joke about all the other gods from the east and the west, all these little g's. All these people are worshiping their gods and they don't give up their gods, and yet you have given up the God of the universe.

And I was like, oh, I'm going to preach it this week, and talk about my favorite thing, sin. The exchange of sin. Because really, if we understand it, most of our lives is this exchange. We have choices, and sometimes we make the choice to do the thing we know is wrong, and we come alongside Paul where he says, I know what is right but I do what is wrong. I think it's a beautiful thing to talk about, because it opens our eyes to the fact that we all have sinned, and it is something we need to hear.

But while we were in Copper Mountain this week, I don't know if you know this or not, but Alicia and I have a really bad problem with something. We are people watchers. And we enjoy it. I enjoy looking at people's faces, and how they smile or don't smile.

We were walking through Breckenridge, just trying to kill some time before dinner, and we sat down right in front of the Starbucks on Main Street, and we said, you know what, we're going to get some coffee and just sit here and enjoy people watching. And as we're watching people, there are dogs everywhere. I don't know what it is with Breckenridge and dogs. They made me miss my dog. And then this beautiful golden retriever came up, and the owner was like, you don't have to be friendly with everybody. And I said, well, he could be friendly with me. And she said, really? And she comes over with the dog and gives me treats, and he does all kinds of cool tricks, sit and give kisses. Those are the two I did. I love the kisses. A little wet, but worth it.

While we were sitting there, we were enjoying the different languages we were hearing. Russian, and Indian, and some Spanish.

It's funny that when it comes to profanity, sometimes it just is out there. I don't know about you, but in my younger days profanity was an adjective in my life. Every word I had, had to have some sort of profane word attached to it.

And I was sitting there, and there was an older gentleman on a bicycle riding up, and Alicia looks over at me and she says, you're working on your sermon this week. And I said, yeah, you know, sometimes you just can't turn it off. And I'm supposed to be on this retreat.

And all of a sudden we hear this honking of horns. Honking of horns this way, and honking of horns, and honking of horns. And then it was right in front of us. There was this older gentleman riding his bicycle up the hill, and a big old SUV behind him, and they were just laying on the horn. And as they went past this old man on the bike, they started yelling at him for being so slow on the main street. And of course they had profanities, and he had profanities.

And then it was really something, as I'm sitting there watching it. Have you ever noticed that whenever you're in a moment where there's conflict, you kind of pause, because you don't know what to say? There's a part of you that wants to rebut and rebuke and say, well, let me tell you. And that doesn't help me at all. And then what do you do? You stew on it in your mind, and you stew with it in your heart. And the next thing you know, it becomes a part of who you are.

And so as I'm sitting there studying for Jeremiah 2, going to talk about this exchange of sin, I said, you know what? We have an attitude problem at times in our life. And I have an attitude problem. And if I have one, and it's a human thing, then I know you have an attitude problem. Don't deny it. I know you do, because we're human.

The question is, if we go back to this word exchange, have you exchanged your attitude problem for the right attitude? Have you made the choice to glorify God in the way that you speak and act and do? Or have you chosen to live life self-glorifying you?

When I was a young kid, basketball was a big part of my life. We used to go out and play basketball all the time in Jane Lew, and everyone in the '90s had the same person who loved basketball. Who was your person? Michael Jordan. And I loved Michael Jordan, but I couldn't be Michael Jordan, because one, I'm not that good, and two, my best friend always chose to be Michael Jordan. In football he was Joe Montana. I was probably Barry Sanders or Emmitt Smith. That's who I would pick. And the Cowboys were cool back in the '90s. Now, not so much. Go Steelers. I actually moved from being a Cowboys fan to a Steelers fan at the time the Steelers lost the Super Bowl to the Cowboys. Go figure.

I was a Dennis Rodman fan. I loved Dennis Rodman because he was wild, and he was different than everybody else, and he was dominant. He wasn't the best shooter. He wasn't the best point maker. But he was a person who put all of his effort into getting the ball, and then getting it to Jordan. And I've always admired that.

And I can tell you from my life, most of my life trying to play basketball, I utterly failed at being a basketball player. And a lot of it is because of what I'm going to talk about. Pride. Pride. Arrogance.

I failed miserably at playing basketball. I went to my first basketball tryout and I failed miserably, because they wanted me to do layups and I had no clue what a layup was. They wanted me to do foul shots. I had no clue what that was. This was around sixth, seventh grade, and I failed.

So then I put every effort into being better. I started dribbling and learning how to do crossovers, and going through the legs, and going backwards, and becoming this magician of ball handling. And I worked really hard.

And then when I got to high school, my freshman year, it was my opportunity to join the freshman basketball team. I went to all the tryouts, and they had multiple tryouts because there were so many people. And believe it or not, as I am now, I was the fastest person there. I was the best dribbler there. Every single one-on-one matchup, I made it known to the coach. I don't care who is trying out. I want you to give me the hardest challenge. And I'm trying out, and I beat every single one of them one-on-one. I razzle-dazzled. I'm laying it up, and now I know everything. I'm foul shooting. I'm hitting my threes, except for if they were in the corners. I was horrible at that.

And close to the end of practice, almost every single tryout, I would hurt my ankle. I might have been the fastest kid there, but I was also the clumsiest kid there. I had weak ankles, and I would roll my ankle, and if I rolled my ankle I would fall down and hit my knee, and my knee would be sore, and now I couldn't walk. But every day I would show up the next day, taking the pain, pushing it away, saying, put me up against the best.

And on our final day of tryouts, practice was over, and we're waiting for the coach to come out and post who made the team. That's all it was. If your name wasn't on that paper, you didn't make it. And I was nervous. So I'm hobbling over to this paper on the wall that the coach had put up. And to my surprise, my name wasn't on it.

And I felt like it was the worst day of my life, because I already have other prideful issues in my life. One of them is that I don't like being rejected. I've lived my entire life trying not to be rejected. And my best friend, the guy that I beat one-on-one, made the team.

I had shown up early. I had stayed late. I had put the practice in. I had done everything that I was asked to do, and I dominated it. And here I am hanging my head as I'm walking out the door.

As I was gathering my things and walking out the door, the coach comes up and puts his arm around me and pulls me aside, and he begins telling me all the things he admired about my work ethic. He says, you were best at everything. Everything that I asked you to do. When you had to do suicides, when you had to run, when you did the laps around the gym, when you played one-on-one, you did absolutely amazing. Every match was an obstacle I put in front of you, and I wanted to see how you would react in those obstacles.

But before you leave, I wanted to tell you why I cut you. First, as you know, Matthew, you have never played organized basketball in your life.

And I hadn't. I grew up in a small town of Jane Lew, and all we had was the outdoor courts, where we would go and shovel the courts off in the snow, and they actually got us squeegees from the fire hall so we could squeegee the court.

And he was telling me, all the simple things, you did everything well one-on-one, but when you got into the team part of it, you didn't know what to do. You didn't know how to pass. You didn't know what man-on-man was. You didn't know any of the plays, the plays you would have learned in your younger years if you had gone to little league basketball.

Now, he's not blaming my mom or me for not being able to join little league, but that really bothered me, because I thought it was about dominating.

My second issue was this. He said, Matthew, you have the wrong attitude. He says, while you were playing, you got very prideful and you got very cocky. And a lot of times when you got cocky, you got injured, because you were showing off. And in your pridefulness you twisted your ankle. And every tryout that you've come out, you've done something in some way that you got injured. And I need a point guard who can stay healthy the entire season.

And so something that I learned that day is that you can have all the skill required to do something, but skill never trumps having the right attitude.

And I want to make this very clear. Our attitude determines our success and forges our future more than any factor in our life.

There's a book by John Maxwell, and it's about leadership and learning how to have a better attitude, and he says, never underestimate the power of your attitude.

I did. I underestimated, every single time, that my attitude would get in the way, that my pride would get in the way of something I was trying to accomplish in this life.

And Maxwell goes on to say, it is the advance man of our true selves. Its roots are inward, but its fruit is outward. It is your best friend, and it is your worst enemy. It is more honest and more consistent than your words and your experiences. It has an outward look based on your past experiences. It is the thing which draws people to us, or it is the thing that repels them. It is never content until it is expressed. It is the librarian of your past. It is the speaker of your present, and it is the prophet of your future.

So what we learn is that attitude is the key to many things God calls you into. Having the right attitude is the key to getting along with others. Having the right attitude is the key to living a Christlike life. It is the key to listening to the Holy Spirit. Having the right attitude is also having the key to hear him, to obey him, to walk forward into what it is that God is calling you into. And not just walking forward, but walking forward in an attitude that is joyful and peaceful.

One of the things we notice when we go to work is that if a worker has the right attitude, they will learn to do the job better, and then they will proceed to do the job cheerfully. We can go to work and be happy about it even when our job is the worst.

Now, I put that into practice one time. I used to work third shift, from eleven to seven, at the glue factory. And I would walk in every day at eleven and I would be the most cheerful person in the room. I would smile. All the guys are laying there, all scruffied up, and I've got to go shave, because you have to shave before you go to work. And they're sitting in there smoking their cigarettes, like, we've got to go to this hot box. And they would look over to me and say, well, Matthew, why are you so joyful?

Let me tell you about Jesus. Let me tell you about the experience I had this morning when I opened his word and I got reminded that God is faithful. Let me remind you that I don't have the perfect marriage, but I do have a perfect wife and an imperfect husband.

There's a story I hear oftentimes, and I'm going to apply it to my life. There's only two perfect people in this world. Jesus and my wife.

The husband and wife, when you think about marriage, have to have the right attitude. How do you handle difficult situations? You handle them when you have the right attitude, not only about each other, but also the right attitude about how you see God. You can respect your spouse with the right attitude when you're willing to love one another as Christ has loved the church.

But the thing I've learned is that the coach will always choose the athlete with the best attitude, even when they are not the best. And I think about that with employment too. The employer looks for the person who has the right attitude. Or the man or woman who is seeking someone to spend their life with.

Your attitude in life will determine how successful you are. Because even if you fail, your attitude says to have joy. Even if you fail at something, the attitude will be, get up, try again, do a do-over, redo, try to do something different with your life.

Your attitude in life determines your success.

Now, Paul is talking to the Philippians, and because of everything that we experience in life, we know somewhere deep within our hearts that we want to make sure that we are okay. And so what did my coach do? Paul puts the coach right back on me and says, listen, if you're going to live this life of no selfish ambition or conceit, you have to check your pride. You have to put it in check.

Some people would say, well, I would be happy in this life if all the jerks in my life weren't here. Right? And I don't know about you, but when you're driving down the interstate and that person cuts you off, or they drive around you and yell at you, what do you do? Well, if it wasn't for the idiots around me, I would have a perfect life. I would just be fine.

Well, the thing is, it seems like a good thing to say, but it's not always true. Listen. Attitudes are not caused by people or circumstances. Attitudes aren't caused by people or circumstances.

Now think about this. If you rewind life and go back to the garden, to Adam and Eve, they had perfect bodies. Think about their life. They would never die, because they had access to the tree of life. They had Dad walk around with them all the time. And they were in perfect union with the Father.

They never had to experience what it's like to get poison ivy or poison oak. They never had to experience what it's like to be shut up in your house because of COVID. They never had to experience the death of a loved one, or the potential death of a loved one. They never had to worry about being poor, whether they'll have enough. They never had to worry about being homeless. They never had to feel the things that we feel because of the fall. Loneliness.

Wouldn't that be amazing, to go through life knowing that you have the perfect relationship with the Father, and never feeling lonely, because you know the Father is always near? Or anxiety, or depression. One thing I've learned is that it is a human thing, that every single one of us struggles with loneliness, anxiety, and depression.

Nothing negative ever happened to them. And yet, in all of this goodness, what happened? Why were they unsatisfied? Why were they ungrateful? Why did they rebel?

Let me put that in perspective. They had all they could ever want, and yet they chose whatever it was, and not the Father.

King David is a curious person, because he comes years after the fall, and he comes with a different attitude. Because I think about David's life, and in the worst times of his life, he had the best attitude. In the best times of his life, he had the worst attitude.

Most of David's psalms in the Bible are written from his life when all the things that were happening to him were wrong. The Philistines are trying to kill him. King Saul is trying to pursue and kill him. He was running all the time. And yet in these moments, his attitude was what? One of praise and adoration to God. He had a trusting heart, that God's plan was going to be fulfilled, because God is faithful. That's one of the reasons I read the CSB, because it's always this continuous faithful love, faithful God, he in his faithfulness. He had a trusting heart. He had a yearning for God.

What happened in all the good times? There's war, and instead of going and fighting with his men, he was successful enough that he had the choice to stay behind and have other people fight the battles for him. What happened? He met Bathsheba and fell into this great sin. And we can look at the census, when he got to a moment of great growth and took a census to see how powerful he had become, and in his pridefulness there were people who died.

In the worst times of his life he had the best attitude, and in the best times of his life he had the worst attitude.

And then I began to think about what's another way, not just pride, but what's another thing that happens in our life. Entitlement. That I deserve something. It's an attitude killer. Entitlement is believing that everyone owes you because of something you have done.

Paul had this beautiful word, and to be honest with you, up until this message, I forgot about it. It's easy to forget the word sometimes if you're not focusing on it. Paul says, I'm a debtor. I'm a debtor. There is nothing that I can do to ever repay what Christ has done on the cross for me.

And so when you're a Christian, one of the first things that I think should come to our mind is that because of that great sacrifice of what Christ has done, and he continues to do, pouring out salvation to the ends of the world so that you and I can come to know the Father, so that we can be one in Christ as Christ is one in the Father.

And Paul begins to write, I am a debtor to Christ. I am a servant to others.

Entitlement is killed at the cross. When we pick up the humility of Christ, then the Bible tells us that we are robed in his righteousness. That is what every single life is commanded to do. To put your life on the cross and to kill it, for the blood to be applied, and for your life and your attitude to be renewed and to be made into the image of Christ.

Paul begins to tell the Philippians in this verse, he says, in humility consider others as more important than yourselves.

How important is attitude with the people around you? Have you ever been around someone who has a poor attitude and you're like, I don't want to be in this situation? In the oil and gas industry, man, those guys had a poor attitude, and I hated it. I hated it with all of my heart.

Maybe you can think of some time when you had a poor attitude. Maybe it's when you're driving down the freeway and someone cuts you off. Maybe it's when you've done something really nice for someone and they don't give you the recognition you felt like you deserved. Or maybe when you're riding your bicycle and all of a sudden that Yukon comes up beside you and starts screaming obscenities at you, and you start giving them the only sign language you have ever been taught.

I tell people there's only a little bit of sign language that I know, and it's that one. You know what it is.

Back in 2017 I was on my way to church, and I stopped at McDonald's, and they told me to pull up into the front to get my meal. You know how that is. You go and you're expecting your meal at that second window. You paid. Give me my meal, because you're fast food. And if your food is not fast, then you can't call yourself fast food, even if it's only five minutes. And they're like, just pull forward to that sign and we will bring you your food. I'm like, okay, I've got to go to church. I can't go to church hangry.

Well, the guy behind me didn't realize that they had told me to pull up to that sign, and his car was super long with a trailer. And he pulls up beside me, slams on his brakes, rolls his window down, slams on his horn, and he looks over at me and begins yelling at me and giving me sign language. And then he drives off.

And my first response was, man, if he was here, I'd give him a piece of my mind. But then Jesus was like, where are you going? I'm going to church. And I was like, man, you need Jesus. And then I was reminded, I need Jesus.

And then I got on the interstate and he cut me off. And then I started praying, Lord, give him a flat tire.

Or maybe there was a guy that drove past you at a hundred miles an hour. You ever have those people? I hope they get pulled over. Sometimes when people pass me, I'm waiting for them to be pulled over by a cop so I can go, ha ha, in Jesus' name.

Maybe it's when you go to the store and you walk up to the return desk and they won't take your return without a receipt, and you're like, well, I don't have a receipt. You know, we don't keep paper around here anymore.

When someone didn't give you something you felt like you deserved in return, what was your attitude like? And how does your attitude affect those who are around you? Because I can't tell you how many times I've been in the line waiting to return something and the person in front of me is arguing with them, and everyone in the line is just like, dude, just get out of the line so those of us who brought our receipt can get our money.

What about family arguments, when emotions run high and people resort to shouting and name-calling, and when people in your home begin to disrespect one another?

You see, humility begins with having respect. And what we do is, we have to be respectful to people.

And I love this thought. You don't know everyone's story. And if you don't know what people are going through, be respectful. Not everyone is holy. Not everyone is trusting in God fully. And not everyone has someone to walk beside them, to disciple them, to love them, and to show them. And not everyone has someone who shows them grace just as they show grace.

You see, Jesus tells the people, whatever you want others to do for you, do also the same for them, because this is the Law and the Prophets. This is literally the golden rule of the Bible. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Sounds profound, doesn't it? We all know it and we all believe it. But why do we have the wrong attitude for it?

Paul tells us in Romans 12:10 that you are to love one another deeply. He doesn't just say I should love you. He says I should deeply love you.

And if I can love my wife, and we can spend twenty-one years getting to know what that love means, and she can love me and all of my weirdness, like those times when I say, honey, I'm going to learn how to play the violin. And she goes, no, you're not. And I said, wow, honey, what deep love you have. So I bought a violin, and I didn't learn it.

You can't honor a person by smearing their name, or by lifting yourself up over them. You see, that's pride, and that's an attitude killer. You can't honor someone when you refuse to serve them. And humility means looking at yourself first.

Another attitude killer is negativity. All one ever does is focus on what is wrong.

You know something? I can tell you all kinds of things I find wrong with anyone. I can tell you all kinds of wrongs in this life. I can probably sit down with you, if you want me to, and I can tell you all of what I think is wrong with you. And I think you can do the same with me.

You know what's wrong? The fact that biscuits and gravy don't make you skinny. That's wrong. But that negative view doesn't stop me from having biscuits and gravy.

If something is wrong, first ask yourself, is it me? Am I the problem? Is it my attitude? I might be wearing the wrong lens in this situation. Maybe it's wrong because I set the wrong expectation. Maybe it's wrong because I feel entitled. Maybe it's wrong because I have a negative attitude.

You see, these are the things that we all have to ask one another when we are in a situation.

And then finally he says, look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

What would happen at work, or in your home, or when you're at the grocery store, if you had the attitude of kindness and gentleness and compassion? What would happen if your heart was calibrated by the Holy Spirit to see others as more important than yourself?

Now that I say that, I don't want you thinking that you should become worthless. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that when we see others, we've got to give them the benefit of the doubt, because they may not have been convicted the way you have been convicted on something.

And I learned that very young as a minister. Just because God has convicted my heart to not drink, or to not do drugs, or to not do something, doesn't mean that those I lead, or those I shepherd, or those I walk with, have yet to be there.

You see, one of the things you're going to notice about church is this. We all have fallen short of the glory of God. Every single one of us. And we all have a wrong attitude about something in our life.

Now, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know what yours is, because that's not why I'm here.

He humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even to death on a cross. For this reason God highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

Therefore, my dear friends, just as you have always obeyed, so now, not only in my presence but even more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.

And listen to this. For it is God who is working in you, both to will and to work according to his good purpose.

Do everything without grumbling and arguing, so that you may be blameless and pure, children of God who are faultless in a crooked and perverted generation, among whom you shine like stars in the world by holding firm to the word of life.

So go today. Be light. Go shine.

You Came for an Explanation, He Sent a Refiner

"In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith — more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire — may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." — 1 Peter 1:6–7

Good morning. I am glad you are here.

We are in week three of Share the Hope, and today is going to feel different.

Week one — we asked what the angels are looking at. And the answer was stunning. Angels who see the face of God, who have never sinned, never needed faith — leaning in, staring at what is happening inside ordinary believers like us. Not because of anything impressive about us. Because of the

gospel at work in us.

Week two — Peter talked about joy. Not good vibes. The kind of joy that comes from loving someone you have never seen. And the result of that faith, right now, in the present tense, is the salvation of your souls.

So we have talked about wonder. We have talked about joy.

And now today, Peter takes us to the one place nobody signs up for. Today we are talking about why suffering hurts.

When I sat down to work on this, I wanted to put my head in my hands. This is not a subject you master. It masters you. Every time you think you have a handle on it, you sit across from someone whose pain makes your handle feel like cardboard.

What I want to do today is take the question seriously — really seriously — and then show you what Peter actually says. Which surprised me.

1 PETER 1:6–7 "In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith — more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire — may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." Two verses. But there is a lifetime inside them.

If we rush past the weight of the question to get to the answer, we have given people a band-aid and called it surgery.

WHY DOES SUFFERING HURT THEWAYIT DOES?

Here is something I need you to hear before we go any further. This question — why does suffering hurt — is not just a Christian question. It is a human question.

Down at the core of our souls, we are all the same. Pain does not segregate. Pain does not select. Every heart on this planet has the capacity to feel it.

And here is what bothers me. If every one of us knows what it feels like to hurt — then why do we treat one another as if they just do not understand?

Every worldview on the planet has had to deal with this. Buddhism was built on it. Hinduism says your suffering is payment for a past life. In much of Islam, God's sovereignty is so absolute that you do not even have the right to ask why. And atheism has to face the weight of human pain with no bigger story to put it in at all.

Of all the worldviews in the world, only one actually says: you are right to ask. You are right to feel that this is wrong. That is the Christian worldview.

If your worldview does not let you ask the question, it has not answered anything. It has just told you to be quiet.

The God who invented questions is not threatened by yours. Job asked. David asked. Jesus asked from the cross. The question is not a sign that your faith is weak. It may be the most honest thing your faith has ever done.

THREE KINDS OF WHY I want to describe something to you. Not a story — just a moment. A kind of moment that I think most of us have lived.

You are somewhere familiar. A room you know, a drive you have made a hundred times, a place that should feel ordinary. And something shifts. The medical report. The conversation that rewrote everything. The phone call that changed the map. And you are standing there holding the pieces of a life that looked fine five minutes ago.

That is the why of loss. Something was here. Now it is not. And the ground under your feet is not the same ground it was.

But there is a second kind of why that is quieter and, honestly, harder to name. Because nothing was taken from you. It was just never given. The word that was never said. The room that was never made for you. The relationship where you kept showing up and kept being treated like an afterthought. You cannot point to the moment it broke, because it was never whole. And the strangest

thing about this kind of pain is that it is almost impossible to name, because nothing happened. It was just — never there.

That is the why of absence. And some of you have been carrying it so long you have almost stopped calling it pain.

And then there is a third. You tried. You reached out. You showed up. And you were turned away. Not always with cruelty — sometimes rejection does not even raise its voice. Sometimes it just looks past you. The table that was already full. The door that was politely and firmly closed. You showed up and there was no room for you.

Loss. Absence. Rejection. Three different wounds. One word. Why.

And most of us have been carrying at least one of those in here this morning. And nobody asked. We are very good at keeping the service moving.

WHAT "WHY" REVEALS "Why" is not a small word. It assumes there is supposed to be a reason. It assumes your life is headed somewhere and this does not fit.

If life is random — if none of this means anything — then "why" is a silly question. You do not ask why a rock rolls downhill. It just does. But you do not experience your pain that way. Something deep inside you says: this is wrong. This should not be happening.

Now where does that come from? If you say this is wrong, you are assuming there is a right. If you say this is evil, you are assuming there is good. And if there is real good and real evil, there has to be something behind them. Some standard. Some source.

Paul says there is a law written on the human heart. Not on a tablet. On your heart. You did not learn that suffering is wrong by reading a textbook. You knew it. God's handwriting.

The person who says "how can God allow this" is actually proving that God has to be in the picture for the question to even make sense.

Take God out and you do not solve the problem. You lose the ability to call it a problem. Without God, your pain is just chemistry. Just stuff happening to stuff. But you do not experience it that way. And you know it.

Are you convinced of that? Not in your head — in your bones. Are you convinced that your pain is significant enough to bring to God? Because I find that most people who believe in God still live as if their specific pain is too small, or too complicated, or too embarrassing to actually put in front of Him. They believe He cares about suffering in general. They are just not sure He cares about theirs.

THE COLLISION — WHY IT HURTS THIS DEEP

When you follow the word "why" all the way down — when you chase it to the bottom — it leads you somewhere you did not expect.

You were not built for this world the way it is. You were built for wholeness. For presence. For love that does not break. For a world where things make sense. Suffering is the collision between what you were made for and what you are living in.

You were made in the image of God. And God is whole, and present, and love that does not break. When He made you, He wrote those things into you. Not as preferences. As design. You were designed for a world you no longer live in.

And every time suffering hits — every time something is taken, or absent, or turns you away — something in the deepest part of you rises up and says: this is not right. This is not how it is supposed to be.

That ache — that refusal to accept a broken world as normal — that is not weakness. That is the image of God in you. Still intact. Still functioning. Still pointing toward something you were made for.

Think about what that means. That ache you have been trying to manage or outrun — it is not a malfunction. It is a compass. It is pointing at something real. And the fact that you feel it so deeply is not evidence that something is wrong with you. It is evidence that something is right.

Now here is something most people never follow all the way through. If love is the highest thing in the universe, then real love can only exist where freedom

exists. You cannot make someone love you. The moment you force it, it becomes compliance. But it is not love. So God, in His love, created beings with genuine freedom. And genuine freedom means genuine choice. And genuine choice means the door to evil is real.

Love requires freedom. Freedom opens the door to evil. Evil requires a savior. That chain is not an accident. It is the shape of the story God has been telling since the beginning.

WHY IT REACHES SO DEEP — WHAT IS ALIVE INSIDE YOU

But that answers why suffering exists in the world. It does not fully answer why the same event can hit one person at the surface and another person all the way down to the floor. And I think that question deserves a real answer.

Here is what I mean. When you hit your hand with a hammer, pain has an address. You can point to it. You can locate it. It has a source and, usually, an end. But internal pain does not work that way. It does not have a zip code. You cannot point to where it is. You just know it is there. And that shapelessness — the fact that you cannot find the edge of it — is actually part of what makes it so hard to carry. You cannot explain it to anyone. You can barely explain it to yourself.

And this is where I think we have been hardest on ourselves and on each other. We say: what is wrong with me? Why can't I just move on? Why does

this still hurt? And the answer is not: because you are weak. The answer is: because of everything that was alive in you when the pain arrived.

The first thing pain walks into is your hope. Proverbs says it plainly — hope deferred makes the heart sick. Not disappointed. Sick. Because hope is not just a feeling. It is the direction your whole life has been leaning. You were not just living in the present. You were living toward something. A version of the future you had already imagined. Already counted on. And when that future does not arrive — the medical report that did not go the way you prayed, the relationship you thought was finally turning around, the door you asked God to open that stayed shut — the pain is not just about what happened. It is about the direction you were leaning when it hit.

And underneath the hope was love. Because you do not hope for things you do not care about. The reason the hope hurt when it fell is because you had given something real to what you were hoping for. The depth of your grief is proportional to the depth of your love. C.S. Lewis said it plainly — to love at all is to be vulnerable. The only way to guarantee you will never grieve is to never attach to anything. And most of us were not willing to do that.

Which means the size of your pain is actually a measure of the size of your love. You are not broken because it hurts this much. You loved that much.

But it goes deeper still. Because when something is taken — a job, a relationship, a role, a version of your future — sometimes what gets taken is not just the thing. It is the story you were telling about yourself. Who you were. What you were building. Where you were headed. And when the story

collapses, you are left not just without the thing but without a sense of who you are without it. That is a specific kind of pain that feels like more than loss.

It feels like disappearing. And that is one of the hardest things to say out loud, because it sounds dramatic. But it is not dramatic. It is one of the most common and least-talked-about things that happens when people suffer. They do not just lose what they lost. They lose themselves in the losing of it.

And then the mind does what it was designed to do. It goes back. Not because you are weak or stuck — because you were wired to return to what mattered. The same mechanism that helps you learn from experience replays the thing you lost. Over and over. What should be a feature becomes a source of pain. You keep going back not because you cannot move forward. You go back because what you lost was worth remembering. And part of you is still trying to make sense of it.

And underneath all of that runs anxiety. Which is pain running in the future tense. You are not just hurting about what happened. You are hurting about what might happen. What could go wrong. What you stand to lose. And the mind cannot fully distinguish between an imagined threat and a real one — it responds to both with the same alarm. So some of what you are carrying right now is pain about a future that has not arrived yet and may never arrive. You are paying the price of something you have not even lost. That is a particular kind of exhausting that is very hard to explain to someone who is not living it.

Ecclesiastes says it this way: in much wisdom is much grief. The more you understand, the more surface area for pain. A child does not grieve what they

do not know to expect. But you know. You have lived enough to know what can go wrong, what usually does go wrong, what you stand to lose and how fast. And that knowledge is not neutral. It costs something just to hold it.

There is a weight that comes from knowing too much about how fragile things are.

And underneath all of it — underneath the deferred hope, the love, the lost story, the replaying mind, the anxious future, the weight of knowing — there is something even deeper. Augustine spent his life trying to name it and finally did. He said: our heart is restless until it rests in Thee. This is not dissatisfaction with circumstances. It is a structural ache. You were made for God and you are living in a world that cannot satisfy that need no matter how hard it tries. And the soul knows the difference. Always. Which is why you can have everything going right and still feel the ache. Because the ache is not about what you have. It is about what you were made for.

So when suffering hits, it does not just land on the surface. It walks into every room. It finds your hope, your love, your story, your memory, your fear of the future, your weight of knowing, your restlessness — and it reaches into all of them at once.

That is why it hurts the way it does. Not because something is wrong with you. Because something was very much alive in you.

And I want you to hear that. Really hear it. The depth of your pain is not evidence of your weakness. It is evidence of your life. Of everything God put in you that was real enough to hurt when the world came for it.

SUFFERING ISOLATES — THE 1 A.M.

But suffering does not just reach into all of those rooms. It does one more thing. It locks the door behind it. It makes you feel alone.

There have been many times where my body just wakes me up in the middle of the night. One in the morning. I did not set an alarm. But my eyes are open and my mind is already running, and it is not running anywhere good. Everything I was managing during the day — everything I was able to push down while I was busy — it all comes flooding in at once. The worry. The weight. The things I do not have answers for. And I just lie there and receive it.

And I think a lot of us live that way. Not just at 1 a.m. All day. We let our hearts speak to us constantly, and we never speak back. Never say — that is not true. That is not the whole story. Always listening. Never speaking.

And for some of us — the reason we do not speak back is because we were taught through pain that speaking up brings more pain. Silence became survival. You stopped talking. Not because you did not have a voice. Because using your voice was dangerous.

And now, even when the voice at 1 a.m. is telling you things that are not true, you do not fight it. Because somewhere you still believe that speaking up will cost you.

I know that voice. And the honest thing to say is that sometimes I still believe it. Even after years in ministry. There are nights where the knowing better does not reach all the way down to where the voice is coming from. And if that is you this morning — I am not going to tell you to just trust God more. I am going to tell you the voice is lying. And that the man God called after His own heart said the exact same things at the exact same hour.

And you know what that voice says when you are lying there in the dark? It says: I am alone. And nobody sees me.

THE PRISON GLASS You are in this room on a Sunday morning. Someone asks how you are. You say "Fine." And you are not fine.

But the glass is not just shyness. It is more like a prison. You are behind it. And even when someone walks up and says how are you doing, really — you are talking through it. Shame is monitoring you. Fear is monitoring you. The voice that says if they knew what was really going on they would leave — that voice is watching every word. And so you do not say the real thing. You say "Fine."

That is not just loneliness. That is captivity.

I was on the phone with someone not long ago, and they asked me — how's your heart? Are we good? And I did not say fine. I said: no. I am hurt. I am struggling to lay it down. And my trust is broken. That cost me something.

Every instinct said protect yourself. But I did not.

Speaking through the glass — actually saying the real thing — that is terrifying. But it is the only way the glass ever breaks.

Are you behind the glass with God? Not just with people — with God? Because some of us come to prayer and say the fine version there too. We pray the presentable version of our lives. And somewhere underneath it, the real thing is sitting untouched. And God is already on the other side of the glass knowing the real version, just waiting for us to say it.

When people try to explain your pain instead of just being with you in it, the glass does not get thinner. It gets thicker.

WHEN HELP BECOMES A WOUND Job. One of the oldest books in the Bible. This man has lost everything — his kids, his health, his livelihood. He is sitting in ashes covered with sores. And three friends come to see him.

For seven days they sit on the ground with him and say nothing. Seven days of silence. That was the best thing they ever did. Then they opened their mouths.

One opens with a ghost story. Another calls him a windbag. The third says it would be easier to teach a donkey than to get through to Job. And Job says something that every suffering person has felt: "A despairing man should have the devotion of his friends. Your speeches are heartless."

The people who came to help became his tormentors. Not because they were bad people. Because they were offering explanations when what he needed was presence.

A friend of mine had shoulder surgery. And the hardest part was not the pain. It was that everyone forgets. What do you do when you see someone you love? You reach out. You put your hand on their shoulder. And then your hand lands and he flinches. You did not mean to hurt him. You love him. But you touched a healing wound out of habit.

That is what we do to people who are suffering. Not out of cruelty. Out of habit. We grab the sore spot with good intentions. We give them a Bible verse. We tell them everything happens for a reason. And we do not realize we just put our hand on the wound.

The deepest cry of the human soul in suffering is not "explain this to me." It is "is anyone there?"

And the person who got the explanation instead of presence does not stop asking. They just stop asking out loud. The question goes underground. To somewhere deeper. Somewhere harder to reach.

The psalmist knew that cry. Psalm 139 — where can I go from your Spirit? If I make my bed in the depths, you are there. Even the darkness is not dark to you. The psalmist is saying — even when I feel completely invisible, you see me.

WHAT YOU WERE LEANING ON And suffering does one more thing. It tears away what you were leaning on. We all lean on things, and we do not even know we are doing it. Your health. Your paycheck. Your marriage. Your sense of control.

And most of the time they hold. You lean on them every day and you do not think about it. Until the day they give way. And you hit the floor.

The shock is not the fall. The shock is: I had no idea how much of my weight was on that.

The job goes away and you find out your identity was built on it. The body breaks and you find out your peace depended on your ability to function. The relationship ends and you find out you were not just losing a person — you were losing the thing that was holding everything else up.

Meaninglessness does not come from being tired of pain. It comes from being tired of pleasure. The deepest emptiness comes from having everything and finding out everything is not enough. Which means what you were leaning on was never built to hold you. And suffering is just the moment you find that out.

And I think there is a quiet mercy inside that moment that nobody talks about. Because sometimes what gets torn away in the fire was never stable to begin with. And what is left standing when everything else burns is the one thing we should have been holding all along. Suffering does not just take things. Sometimes it clears the ground.

THE SILENCE — THE MAPLE TREE And then there is the silence. When I was young in my faith — really young — I was at a retreat, and I woke up early one morning, before sunrise, and I walked outside and sat under this big old maple tree. The kind that has been there longer than anyone can remember. And I prayed the most honest prayer I knew how to pray.

I said: Lord, let me see you. Show me something. Give me a sign. Anything. And I sat there. And nothing came. The sun came up. The birds started. People started moving around inside. And I walked back in with nothing. Just a kid under a tree who had asked God to show up and got quiet.

And I wish I could tell you that was the only time. But years later, after I had been in ministry, after I had sat with people in some of the hardest seasons of their lives, I found myself asking the same prayer in a different voice. Not: show me a sign. But: help me understand what I am seeing. Help me make sense of this much pain. And most of the time — quiet.

The psalmist knew this. Psalm 13 — "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?" That is not a man who has lost his faith. That is a man whose faith is so real that he will not pretend the silence is okay.

People say: if God is all-powerful and all-loving, why does evil exist? But why stop there? Is God also all-wise? Does wisdom not change the picture completely?

A one-year-old is at the doctor's office. The nurse comes in with a needle. And the baby looks at his mother — the person he trusts more than anyone — and she is not stopping it. She is letting it happen. She might even be holding his arm. From the baby's point of view, she has betrayed him. The same questions we ask God. Where is the protection? Where is the love?

Does the mother have a reason? Of course. A good reason. A loving reason. Can the baby understand it? No. Not yet. Not with what he can see.

The gap between what you are going through and what you can understand about it — that gap is where most of the suffering actually lives.

David wrote Psalm 23 from the valley of the shadow of death. And I think we have read that psalm so many times we have stopped hearing it. He does not say: I looked up and saw the shepherd standing in the light. He says: even here — even in the darkest valley I have ever been in — I will fear no evil. Not because the darkness lifted. Because you are with me. You do not always see Jesus face to face in the dark. But you see the silhouette of what He carries. The rod. The staff. The outline of a shepherd who has not gone anywhere. The shape of care moving through the darkness toward you. You do not see His face. You see His tools. And somehow that is enough to keep walking.

What if the silence is not abandonment? What if the silence is the sound of a shepherd moving through a valley He already knows?

Suffering shakes what I believe. It isolates me. It tears away what I was leaning on. And it leaves me in a silence I do not know how to read. But Peter does not ignore any of this. He just does not answer it the way you expect.

THE TURN — JOB AND PETER Before I take you to what Peter says, I want to show you something in the book of Job.

After all the speeches, all the arguments, all the terrible advice from his friends, Job finally gets what he has been begging for. God speaks. And God asks him sixty-four questions back to back. Which was the last thing Job wanted. He wanted answers.

Where were you when I made the earth? Were you there when I set the boundaries of the ocean? Do you understand how any of this works?

Job said: I will only accept what I can fully understand. And God said: okay. Let us start with the basics. Because if you do not understand the physical world around you, what makes you think you should be able to understand what I am doing inside your pain?

And there is something else in Job most people miss. Job did not just suffer for his own sake. He suffered to demonstrate before heaven itself that a person can love and trust God for who He is — not just for what they get from Him. The suffering in Job's life had a cosmic audience. And the question being answered

was not just his.

Can a human being, in the middle of real fire, love God for nothing? Job answered that question. And so does your faith when it is tested. You may be answering it for an audience larger than you know.

And here is what Job said at the end. After all of it. After the silence. After God showed up — not with answers, but in person.

"I had heard of you by the hearing of my ear. But now my eyes see you."

That is not an explanation. That is an encounter.

And Peter does the same thing. Look at verse 7 again.

"...so that the tested genuineness of your faith — more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire — may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." Peter does not explain why you are suffering. He tells you what is happening to your faith while you suffer.

You came to this text wanting a reason. And Peter says: I am not going to give you a reason. I am going to tell you something better. Something is happening to your faith right now. In the fire. And it is worth more than gold.

Peter does not answer the origin question — where did this come from. He answers the goal question — where is God taking your faith through it.

The refiner does not explain the ore. He works it.

THE REFINER Peter uses gold and fire. In the ancient world, this is how gold was purified. You take raw gold — mixed with junk, impurities, things that do not belong — and you put it in the fire. The heat does not destroy the gold. It separates it. The junk rises to the surface. The impurities burn away. What is left is pure.

But a refiner does not throw gold into the fire and walk away.

"He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." — Malachi 3:3 He will sit. Not stand at a distance. Not check in and leave. He sits. That is patience. That is attention. That is presence.

The refiner watches the metal. He knows how hot it needs to be. He knows how long. He knows when the junk has risen to the top. And the ancient refiners used to say — the silver is ready when the refiner can see his own face in it.

Picture that. Not a God who started a fire and stepped back to watch from a safe distance. A Refiner who has pulled up a chair. Who is watching this specific metal. Who knows this specific temperature. Who is not going anywhere. And who is looking for one thing — the moment He can see His own face in what the fire is making.

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. The flames will not set you ablaze." — Isaiah 43:2

Not a promise that there will be no fire. A promise that you will not be in it alone.

And Paul makes it even clearer. Suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. The fire is not random. It is constructive. The Refiner knows exactly what He is building.

THE REFINER WENT INTO THE FIRE HIMSELF

Now here is the part that changes everything. The Refiner is not watching from a distance.

The Refiner is Jesus. And He went into the fire Himself.

Martin Luther said this: no man ever feared death like this man. Not: Jesus breezed through it. Not: He had a divine advantage over the pain.

No man ever feared death like this man. Because no one would ever die a death like this man.

In the garden, the night before the cross, the Gospel writers say He was deeply distressed. Troubled. Overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. He fell to the ground and prayed. He was a real man. He knew hunger. He knew grief. He

wept at a grave. And now He was facing the fire.

Jesus cried out from the cross — "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" — that is the same question you ask at 1 a.m. The same question you asked when the ground shifted. He went there. With His own body. With the same word you use.

Why? Where are you? He knows that question from the inside.

Do you believe that? Not just that He suffered — that He suffered the way you have suffered. That the distance between His cry from the cross and your cry at 1 a.m. is smaller than you think. That He is not a God who understands your pain in theory. He understands it from experience. From inside it.

And I want you to know something about how He went in. Before the cross, they offered Him a numbing agent — wine mixed with something bitter, meant to dull the edge of the pain. He refused it.

He went in completely present. Nothing to blunt it. Nothing to take the edge off. He chose to feel all of it. So that no one could ever say: someone has suffered worse than this.

But the tomb was not the end. On the third day — the stone moved. The grave clothes were folded. He walked out. Not as a ghost. As a man with wounds real enough to touch. Thomas put his fingers in the nail holes. This was the Refiner coming out of the fire.

The resurrection is not just comfort. It is proof. Proof that what He starts in the furnace, He finishes. Proof that the fire does not have the last word.

Hebrews says we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our sufferings. Not: He understands in principle. He was there. Fully present. Without anesthetic. He can sympathize because He endured.

Henri Nouwen called Jesus the wounded healer. He does not heal you by standing outside your pain and fixing it. He heals you by entering your pain and being with you inside it. His wounds are not just something that happened to Him. They are how He reaches you.

And Brother Lawrence spent his whole life learning something that sounds simple and is not: God's presence is not something you have to earn or manufacture. You practice noticing that He is already there. In the ordinary. In the quiet. And yes — in the fire. The Refiner is already sitting at the furnace. The invitation is not to find Him. The invitation is to stop and realize He has been there the whole time.

The fire does not make your faith. It reveals the genuineness that was already there. God is not starting from scratch. He is burning off what does not belong so that what was always real can finally be seen.

Your faith is real. The fire proves it. And Peter says this proven, tested faith is worth more than gold.

YOU CAME FOR AN EXPLANATION. HE SENT A REFINER.

So let me bring this home. We have been honest this morning about what suffering does. It shakes what you believe. It isolates you. It tears away what you were leaning on. And it leaves you in a silence you do not know how to read.

And we have been honest about why it reaches so deep. Because it walks into every room where something was alive in you. It finds your hope, your love, your story, your memory, your fear, your restlessness. And it reaches into all of them at once.

And underneath all of that — underneath every layer — is one request. The same request Job made. The same request you have made at 1 a.m.

"God — just tell me why."

And God does not give you a reason. He gives you Himself.

That is what happened to Job. He begged for an explanation, and God showed up — not with answers, but in person. And Job said: I had heard about you. But now I see you. That is what Peter is saying. You are in the fire. Something is happening to your faith — something more precious than gold — and it will result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus is finally revealed.

But the reason it is not meaningless is not because you understand it. It is because the Refiner is in the fire with you. And the Refiner has scars on His hands that prove He has been where you are.

It hurts because you were not made for this. You were made for wholeness. For presence. For love that does not break. Suffering is the collision between what you were made for and what you are living in. That is not a flaw in you. That is the image of God in you, refusing to accept a broken world as normal.

It hurts because something was very much alive in you. And pain found every room.

And it hurts because God is coming near. And when God comes near, everything that is not Him starts to burn. Not because He is angry with you. Because He is too close for the junk to survive.

The pain is not destruction. It is restoration. He is burning away what does not look like Him, so that when He looks into your life, He sees His own face. The same face that walked out of the tomb. The same face that carries the scars.

Are you convinced of the love of God for you — that His concern about you, His interest in you, His desire for you supersedes anything you could long for in yourself? Not love in general. Not love as something He holds for people at a distance. His specific attention to you. His actual interest in what is happening inside you right now. Because here is what I have seen. Most people who are in the fire believe God loves people. They are just not sure they qualify. Not sure it is personal enough to reach into the specific thing they are carrying.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. Not the idea of the brokenhearted. You. In the specific shape of your specific breaking.

You asked God for a reason. He gave you Himself. And He has not left the fire.

There is a rare condition where a person cannot feel pain at all. They can step on a nail and not know it. Put their hand on a burning stove and not flinch. And the mother of a young girl with this condition said: "My prayer every night is that my daughter would begin to feel pain."

If pain is a signal that something is wrong, is it so hard to believe that God would let you feel it as a signal to turn back to Him? Not as punishment. As a hand on your shoulder saying: come back. I am here. Come home.

A God who went through the fire Himself and came out the other side will not let the fire have the last word.

I keep asking God for a reason. And He keeps giving me Himself. And sometimes that makes me angry, because I want to understand and He wants me to trust. But His presence in the fire is better than any explanation I could ask for. Because explanations do not change anything. But His presence in the fire changes everything.

CLOSE — INVITATION If you are in the fire right now — and some of you are — I am not going to stand up here and give you the reason. I do not know the reason. But I know who is in the fire with you. Someone who has been there. Someone who came out the other side.

Something is happening to your faith right now. Something real. Something precious. Something gold cannot touch.

You asked God for a reason. He gave you Himself. And He has not left the fire.

If your chair needs to become an altar this morning, it can. If you need someone to pray with you, I am here. We are here.

Some of you have been asking for an explanation for months, maybe years. And maybe this morning, the invitation is not to understand. Maybe the invitation is to stop demanding a reason and let the Refiner be what He already is. Present. In the fire. With you. Doing the most precious work of your life.

He has not left. He is sitting at the fire. And He is not going anywhere.

Let me pray for us.

Father, we came to you this morning asking why. Some of us have been asking for a long time. And you are answering us — not with a reason, but with yourself.

You are the Refiner. You are in the fire. You have not left. And we remember this morning that you went into the fire first. That the cross was not plan B. That the tomb was not the end. That the scars on your hands are the proof that you know what fire feels like — and you came out the other side.

We asked for an explanation. You gave us you. And that is enough.

Help us trust you when we cannot see what you are doing. Help us feel you close when the silence feels like you walked away. And do the precious work in our faith that only fire can do. We do not understand it. But we trust the one who sits beside it — and who walked through it Himself.

In Jesus' name. Amen.

A Living Hope

“Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.” — 1 Peter 1:8–9 I WHERE WE ARE

Alright. We’re in week two of Share the Hope. And the whole series is asking one question: How do we share the hope we’ve been given?

And I want to start this morning with something that might seem obvious, but I think it unlocks the whole series.

Joy is shareable. By nature. We already know how to share it. We do it every day without thinking about it.

Think about it. When something makes us laugh — a video, a moment with the kids, something the dog did — what do we do? We share it. Immediately. We pull out our phone and send it to somebody. When something moves us — a song, a story, a sunset — we take a picture and post it. When something makes us happy, we don’t have to be taught how to share it. Sharing is what joy does. It overflows. It’s natural. It’s instinctive.

So here’s my question. If sharing joy is the most natural thing in the world — why are we struggling to share the hope of the gospel?

And I don’t think the problem is that we don’t know how to share. We share all day long. The problem is we’ve lost the thing worth sharing.

Now, we’re working through 1 Peter 1:3–12 backwards in this series. Last week we started where Peter ended — verses 10 through 12. And Peter ended with a question: What are the angels looking at? And the answer was stunning. The angels — who see the face of God, who’ve never had to trust because trust is what you do when you can’t see — are stooping down, leaning in to peer at what’s happening inside ordinary believers like us.

And we talked about what they’re looking at. It’s not us. It’s not our performance. It’s the exchange being reversed. In Romans 1, Paul said we traded the glory of God for images of ourselves. That’s the oldest story in the universe — a creature choosing itself over its Creator. The angels have seen that a billion times. That’s not what fascinates them.

What fascinates them is what Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 4 — God has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay. The glory that was traded away is coming back. The self-life — the sin, the inward curve — is being exchanged for the glory of God. Inside ordinary people. In real time. That’s what the angels can’t stop looking at. We ended with a prayer: Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. I want to see You.

And this week the question gets more personal: How do we find joy… again?

But I want to reframe that. Because I don’t think it’s really “again” — like joy is a set of car keys we lost. I think the joy was always there. The table was always set. We just walked away from it.

So the real question is: How do we get back to the table?

Let’s read our text. 1 Peter 1, verses 8 and 9. All the way to the end — because that last phrase is where everything’s headed.

Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

Love. Faith. Joy. And then — the salvation of our souls. Every word in that sentence is flowing toward that destination. Love leads to faith. Faith leads to joy. And all of it — all of it — is the experience of salvation arriving. Present tense. Right now.

But before we can talk about salvation, I want to show us where the love comes from. Because it doesn’t start with us. II WHERE LOVE STARTS

Okay, so we say “God is love” all the time, right? It’s on coffee mugs. It’s on bumper stickers. And because we say it so much, I think we’ve stopped hearing it. It’s become wallpaper. So I don’t want to just tell you God is love this morning. I want to show you.

I want to take you to one scene first. The baptism of Jesus. Matthew 3:16–17. Picture this. Jesus comes up out of the water, and three things happen at the same time:

As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”

Do you see who’s there? All three. The Son is in the water. The Spirit is descending like a dove. And the Father’s voice breaks through heaven and says: This is my Son, whom I love.

That’s the Father, declaring His love for the Son. Out loud. In public. And the Spirit is right there — the Spirit is the one making the love visible. The Spirit is the dove. The Spirit is the means by which the Father’s love is expressed and experienced. All three, present. All three, active. All three, bound together in love.

That’s what love looks like inside the heart of God. Before we were ever part of the picture. Before we were ever invited in. The Father, Son, and Spirit — loving one another from eternity.

But here’s what’s incredible. That love didn’t stay inside. It reached. And 1 John 4 shows us exactly how. Listen to this — John says:

God is love. This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.

Did you catch the order there? Not that we loved God. We didn’t start this. But that He loved us. God moved first. And the way He moved was by sending the Son. That’s the love of the Trinity reaching toward us — fully God becoming fully man, carrying the Father’s love with Him, because He never stopped being the Son.

And then John tells us how that love actually lands in us. Verse 13: This is how we know that we live in him and he in us: He has given us of his Spirit.

The Spirit. The same Spirit who descended like a dove at the baptism — the one who made the Father’s love visible — that Spirit has been given to us. He’s inside us now. And He’s doing the same thing He did at the Jordan River. Making the Father’s love real. Making it something we can actually experience. Not just know about. Feel.

And then John lands the plane. Verse 19:

We love because he first loved us.

We love because He first loved us.

That’s it. That’s where the love in 1 Peter 1:8 comes from. When Peter says “you love Him” — that love didn’t start with us. It started in the heart of God, flowed through the Son, and was poured into us by the Spirit. We’re not generating love for God on our own. We’re responding to a love that found us first.

And here’s why that matters. Because I think most of us, when the joy fades, do the same thing. We try harder. We try to manufacture love for God. We try to produce devotion through effort, through performance, through willpower. Like if we just push hard enough, we can force our way back into the inner life of God.

And it doesn’t work. It never works. Because we can’t get in from the outside. The door doesn’t open from our side.

It opens from the inside.

Like a tomb. Nobody from the outside rolled that stone away. It moved from the inside. And when the disciples got there and peered in — He wasn’t there. Which means He was already out. Already moving. Already on His way to find them before they had the sense to come looking. That’s the gospel. The door burst open from the inside, and He came out looking for us.

And Paul says it so clearly in Romans 5:1–2:

Since we’ve been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we’ve gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand.

Access. That’s such a big word. The blood opened the door. The Spirit moved in. And now the same love that the Father declared over the Son at the Jordan River is being poured into our hearts. We’re not outside the circle anymore. We’re in it.

Love for God is only complete when both are present. The blood that brought us in, and the Spirit that holds us there.

And the joy Peter’s talking about? I think it’s what it feels like to be inside that circle. To actually be participating in the love that’s been flowing between Father, Son, and Spirit since before the world was made. That’s why Peter calls it “inexpressible and filled with glory.” It’s not just a strong feeling. It’s divine love passing through a human heart. III WHAT ABIDING IS

Okay, so we’ve been brought in. The blood did that. The Spirit’s here. But now the question is — and this is the question I think most of us are really asking when we say we’ve lost our joy — How do we stay? What does it actually look like to live inside what we’ve been brought into?

And Jesus answers that so directly it almost feels too simple. John 15:9–11:

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.

I want to walk through this slowly because there’s so much packed in here.

“As the Father has loved me” — that’s what we just saw. The eternal love inside the heart of God. “So have I loved you” — that’s the circle reaching toward us through Christ. And then the invitation: “Abide in my love.” Stay. Remain. Don’t walk away from the table.

And then He tells us why He’s saying all of this. And it’s easy to miss. He says: “These things I’ve spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.”

Whose joy? His. Not ours. His. The joy that exists inside the Trinity — between Father and Son and Spirit — flowing through the vine into the branches. We don’t produce it. We receive it. The branch doesn’t manufacture fruit. The vine does. The branch just stays connected. It just abides. And the fruit happens.

So here’s where this connects to Peter. Because look at 1 Peter 1:8–9 — it’s easy to read love, faith, and joy like a checklist. Three boxes. Check, check, check. And if the joy box is empty, we need to go find joy somewhere and fill it back up.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized — that’s not what Peter’s doing. Watch the order:

We love Him — our hearts are drawn to who He is.

We believe in Him — our hearts rest in what He’s promised.

We rejoice — and this is the part I kept missing.

Joy isn’t a third thing we add to love and faith. Joy is what love and faith feel like when they’re actually happening. Think about it — what would it even mean to say, “I love Christ but I’ve got no gladness about it”? That’s not love. That’s duty. Or, “I trust Christ completely but I’ve got no peace about it”? That’s not trust. That’s a gamble.

Joy is the deep gladness of being drawn to someone precious and resting in someone reliable. It was never separate from love and faith. It was always inside them.

And love, faith, and joy together — that’s the abiding. That’s the branch drawing life from the vine. That’s faith in motion. And Jesus used this beautiful picture in John 6:35 — He said, I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me won’t hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst. Coming and believing, side by side. The same thing. And the thing they are is eating and drinking. The soul feeding on Christ. Not a box we checked once. An ongoing meal. Vine and branch. Always flowing. Always receiving.

But okay — I can feel some of you thinking, What does that look like when I wake up tomorrow? Fair question. Because if abiding doesn’t work on a Tuesday, it doesn’t work.

Here’s what I’ve realized. If we’re not preaching the cross to ourselves every day, we’ll slide right back into faith-plus-works. Where our standing with God depends on how well we performed today. And the moment we go there, one of two things happens. We’re either crushed because we can’t measure up, or we’re proud because we think we can. Only the cross deals with both.

And it starts with handing over the stuff we’ve been protecting. The corners of our hearts we’ve told God to stay out of. The habits. The appetites. The unconsecrated sin. Because that’s the current that pulls us from the table. And as long as we’re feeding on that, we can’t feed on Him. But look at Romans 6:14:

Sin shall not be your master, because you are not under law, but under grace.

Shall not. Not “might not.” Shall not. Grace is stronger than the pull. Drifting doesn’t have to happen. But it can, if we stop abiding.

But what does preaching the cross to ourselves actually look like? Most of our joylessness — the low-grade, day-to-day kind — comes from listening to ourselves instead of talking to ourselves.

We wake up and the self starts in. Before our feet hit the floor: You’re behind. You’re failing. God feels far away. And we just lie there and take it.

But the psalmist does something different. Psalm 42:

Why are you downcast, oh my soul? Why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him, my salvation and my God. His soul was crushing him. And he stood up and said: No. Self, you listen to me. And he preached. That’s what preaching the cross to ourselves sounds like: Listen, self. If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son — will He not freely give us all things? Who can bring any charge? It is God who justifies. Self — what can separate us from the love of Christ?

That’s Romans 8. And those words are a weapon. We preach the gospel to ourselves before our selves preach despair to us. That’s abiding.

So practically? It starts with the Gospels in the morning. Not as homework. As a meal. Read until we see Him. Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes thirty. Sometimes we feel nothing and sit there anyway, because showing up hungry is better than not showing up.

And then through the day — we just don’t hang up. You know when you call someone and forget to end the call? Do that with God. Five-second prayers. Before an email: God, help me. Before a hard conversation: Give me wisdom. Before the scroll: What am I about to feed on? Every car ride, every meal, every moment the kids are losing it. Not eloquent. Just — the line stays open. Everything becomes prayer.

Abiding is ordinary. It’s the Gospels as a meal, preaching the cross to ourselves, five-second prayers all day, handing over the sin, and never hanging up the phone. Joy is what our souls taste when we do. IV THOUGH YOU HAVE NOT SEEN HIM

Now, Peter says something that, when I first really heard it, seemed to make all of this harder. He says it twice: Though you have not seen him. And again: Though you do not now see him.

And I get why that’s a problem, right? If abiding is about feeding on Christ, and feeding happens through seeing Him — how do we love someone we’ve never seen? Isn’t that a disadvantage? Didn’t the disciples have it better than us?

So, this is going to sound like a strange turn, but stay with me. I want to tell you about Alicia.

When she and I first started getting to know each other in college, we spent three months on the phone. Three months. We were in different places. Yeah, we’d seen pictures. Yeah, we video chatted sometimes. And yeah, we sent actual letters — through the mail, with stamps and everything. But we’d never been in the same room. Never face to face.

And here’s the thing — because we couldn’t be physically together, all the distractions that come with being in the same room? They were gone. No temptation to skip the hard conversation and just hold her hand. No temptation to let the physical replace the personal. The distance took all of that off the table. And you know what happened? We went deeper. We talked for hours. We asked the questions you only ask when there’s nothing else to do but really talk. We got to know each other in ways that I honestly think being together would’ve made harder.

The distance didn’t weaken the relationship. It sent us somewhere proximity couldn’t reach.

And I think that’s what Peter’s describing. We haven’t seen Christ with our eyes. But we know Him through the Gospels — Matthew, Mark, Luke, John — four portraits covering the full range of who He is. And because the distractions of being physically there aren’t present, we can go deeper than the people who were.

Think about Nicodemus. This is a man who came to Jesus at night — probably because he didn’t want anyone to see him — and they had one conversation. One. And Nicodemus left confused. Or the woman at the well. She met Jesus once, for maybe twenty minutes, and her whole life changed — but she still only got twenty minutes. Zacchaeus climbed a tree and got a single afternoon.

They each got a glimpse. A fragment. A sliver of who He is.

But us? We go with Him to Gethsemane, where even the inner circle fell asleep. We hear whole sermons, not just a sentence caught over someone’s shoulder in a crowd. We see His courage when He’s challenged, His patience when Peter gets it wrong for the hundredth time, His tenderness when the kids come running, His tears when He looks over Jerusalem knowing what’s coming. We see the whole range of who He is.

The crowds got fragments. We get the whole portrait.

The Gospels aren’t second-best. They’re a deeper seat.

And this is what Jesus said to Thomas. Now — you’ve probably heard him called Doubting Thomas your whole life. But I’m done calling him that. We don’t name people after their worst moment, do we? Thomas’s doubt was real. It was honest. He’d just watched Jesus die, and the other disciples were telling him He was alive, and Thomas said, I can’t believe that until I see it. That’s not rebellious. That’s human.

And Jesus didn’t shame him for it. He came back into the room, looked right at Thomas, and said: Put your hand here. See my hands. Reach out and touch the wound. He met Thomas exactly where he was.

And Thomas responded with the greatest thing anyone ever said to Jesus in the Gospels: My Lord and my God.

That’s not Doubting Thomas. That’s Believing Thomas. And I’ll call him that from now on.

And then Jesus looked past Thomas — and I think He looked at us — and said:

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.

Blessed. Because there’s a seeing that happens in the heart that goes deeper than eyes. Paul said: God has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

And that seeing — the heart seeing Christ in the Gospels — that’s the abiding. That’s the feeding. That’s what produces love, which enables faith. And when love and faith are actually happening — when we’re drawn to His preciousness and resting in His reliability — joy is what that feels like from the inside. It’s His joy, flowing through the connection. The joy that’s been moving between Father, Son, and Spirit since before the world was made — now moving through us.

That’s the answer. That’s how we get back to the table. We see Him. We love Him. We trust Him. And joy is what happens when we do.

And if the sermon ended there, it would be enough. But Peter’s sentence doesn’t end there. It keeps going. And where it goes changes what joy even means. V SALVATION IS ARRIVING

Stay with me — the end of verse 9.

Obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

That word obtaining — it’s present tense. Not past: “you obtained,” done, behind us. Not future: “you will obtain,” someday.

And most of us have never heard it that way. Most of us think of salvation as something that happened. Past tense. We prayed a prayer. We got saved. Done. And now we’re just waiting. For heaven. And everything in between is just — the hallway. Not really salvation. Not yet heaven. Just endurance.

Can I be honest? I thought that for years. And it almost killed my faith. Because if salvation’s behind us, then the most important thing God’s ever done in our lives is in the past.

That’s not what Peter says. Peter says obtaining. Present. Progressive. Right now. We’re in the act of receiving the salvation of our souls.

Salvation is initial. Salvation is ongoing. And salvation is pressing us toward being made complete.

It’s the continued, daily work of God rescuing and renewing us. Making us whole. Unbending the heart that was curved in on itself. Filling us so completely with the love of Christ that sin loses its grip. Remember what we said last week — the exchange? We traded the glory of God for ourselves? Salvation is that exchange being reversed. The self-life is being replaced by Christ’s life. The glory is coming back into the clay. And that work hasn’t stopped. God didn’t start something in us and walk away. He’s in this room. He’s working right now. The salvation of our souls is arriving at this moment.

And you see what that does to joy, right? If joy’s just a feeling, then losing it’s no big deal. We’ll get it back eventually. But if joy is the experience of salvation arriving — if joy is what it feels like when God is actively rescuing and renewing us — then the absence of joy is a signal. It’s telling us we’ve stopped receiving what was always being offered.

We haven’t lost our salvation. But we’ve stopped participating in it. We walked away from the table. We stopped eating. We stopped drinking. And the joylessness we feel? That’s the ache of a soul that was made to live inside the love of God and is trying to survive outside of it.

The cure isn’t finding something new. The cure is remembering what we first tasted. And sitting back down.

And this is why salvation should be celebrated. Not just remembered. Not just confessed. Not just filed away as a date on a calendar. Celebrated. Because somewhere along the way, we stopped being amazed by it. Salvation became wallpaper. Background noise.

But when the early church talked about miracles — and they saw real miracles, signs and wonders, the lame walking, the sick healed — the biggest miracle they kept coming back to was salvation itself. Changed hearts. Dead souls coming alive. People who were bent inward their whole lives suddenly looking up. That was the miracle that made the Sanhedrin nervous.

In Acts 4, Peter and John had just healed a lame man and preached about Jesus, and the authorities hauled them in and told them to stop. Stop talking about this. Stop preaching in that name. And Peter and John looked at them and said:

We cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard.

They couldn’t stop. Not because they were brave. Because the joy wouldn’t let them. They weren’t sharing a doctrine. They were sharing what happened to them. And what happened was so real, so alive, so present that telling people to stop talking about it was like telling them to stop breathing.

And that’s what we saw, right here in this church, when we baptized those people recently. Remember what it felt like to stand in this room and hear them talk about what God had done? How their lives had changed? There was joy in their hearts. And there was joy in ours. That was the miracle. Not legs getting longer. Hearts coming alive.

But here’s the danger. And I need us to hear this. That joy? That celebration? It fades when salvation stops being present tense and becomes a memory. When we stop tasting and start just remembering. And if we lose the joy, we lose the sharing. Because we don’t share old news. We share what’s alive. We share what we can’t help talking about.

Salvation is the miracle. And it hasn’t stopped. The river doesn’t end. VI THE RIVER FLOWS OUT And here’s what ties the whole series together. When the abiding’s real, something starts to happen that we didn’t plan. Jesus said it in John 7 — Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.

The water doesn’t just satisfy us. It becomes a spring inside us. And the spring overflows. Not because we tried to be inspiring. Because we were drinking. And the drinking became a well. And the well became a river toward everyone close enough to get wet.

Paul lived this. He told the Thessalonians:

We cared for you so much that we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well.

Not the gospel at arm’s length. His life, shared up close. And that word delighted — that’s not duty. That’s joy overflowing into relationship.

That’s what sharing hope looks like. A life shared up close.

And here’s where I need to be honest with us.

A fire that isn’t tended becomes a smolder. And a smolder still gives off a little warmth — enough to fool ourselves. But it’s not a fire anymore. It’s the memory of one.

I’ve been in churches my whole life. And here’s what I’ve seen — in every single one, including this one. At some point, what’s presented up front starts to drift from what’s actually happening behind it. We say we’re welcoming. And we mean it. But the gap between who we think we are and who we actually are — that’s where people get hurt. And that’s where our witness dies.

I’m not saying this to shame us. I’m saying it because I’m afraid of it. The only thing that makes a church genuinely warm is people who are genuinely being warmed by Christ. People who are abiding. Those people don’t manufacture warmth. It comes off them like heat off a fire.

But when the fire’s real — people walk into a room and feel something they can’t explain. Something that holds on the third visit and the tenth visit and the hard visit. And they find out — yeah. These people actually care. Not because they’re performing. Because something happened to them they couldn’t have pulled off on their own. Our joy is our witness. And the world can tell the difference between a fire and a smolder.

And notice — this series isn’t called Share the Faith. It’s called Share the Hope. And that’s intentional. Because faith is our doctrine — what we believe. And sometimes we think evangelism means explaining a theology we don’t fully understand to people who didn’t ask. No wonder we freeze up.

But hope? Hope is what we’ve experienced. Hope is what we’ve tasted. And sharing hope is what Peter and John were doing when they said, We can’t help speaking about what we’ve seen and heard. They weren’t defending a doctrine. They were overflowing.

Get the fire burning again — get the salvation back into real-time experience — and the sharing takes care of itself. In the weeks ahead we’ll talk about what that looks like. But it starts here. It starts with the fire. VII RETURN TO THE TABLE

I want to close where we closed last week. Because this is the prayer of the whole series. The prayer every week builds on.

Last week I asked God to open my eyes. And I meant it. And honestly? By the middle of the week, I’d walked away from the table. The prayer faded. The fire went out. I stopped abiding and didn’t even notice.

But the table’s still set. The vine’s still producing. The blood’s still sufficient. The Spirit’s still here. Nothing changed on God’s end. I’m the one who walked away.

So this morning I’m not asking us to try harder.

I’m asking us to sit back down at the table.

To start drinking again. Not the sip of duty. Not the gulp of performance. The deep, slow, satisfied drink of a soul that’s remembered where the bread is. Where the water is. Where Christ is.

Open the Gospels this week. Not as an assignment. As a meal. Look at Jesus till we see Him.

Look at the man on the beach, building a fire at dawn. He’s cooking. Breakfast. For the friend who swore he’d die for Him and then denied knowing His name three times before the sun came up. And Jesus didn’t lecture him. He fed him. Sat down with him by the fire and asked him about love. Three times. Once for each denial. Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?

Look at the man face down in a garden. Blood pressing through His skin. Praying the most honest prayer anyone’s ever prayed: Abba, Father, not my will but yours. No audience. No performance. Just a Son, talking to His Father, in the dark. And meaning every word.

Look at the man standing in front of Believing Thomas, offering His wounds. Put your hand here. Not to shame him. To save him.

And as we see Him — as we sit back down at the table and taste again what we first tasted — something’ll happen that we can’t produce on our own. Our souls will drink. And be satisfied. And the joy won’t be something we manufactured. It’ll be His joy — now flowing through us.

And the salvation of our souls will keep arriving. Initial. Ongoing. Pressing toward complete. And the river will flow out. Toward our spouses. Our kids. The neighbor who’s been watching. Not a gospel at arm’s length. Our lives, shared up close.

How do we find joy… again? We sit back down at the table. We receive what salvation is already giving. And the joy that comes from that — His joy, not ours — overflows into everything and everyone around us.

And in a moment, we’re going to do exactly that. We’re going to come to the table together. The bread and the cup. The body and blood of Jesus. Not as a ritual. Not as something we check off. As a meal. As a remembering. As a present-tense act of receiving what salvation is already giving.

This is the table. It’s been set since the cross. And it’s set right now.

So let’s sit down. Let’s eat. Let’s taste again what we first tasted. And as we do, let’s pray the prayer of this whole series:

Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. I want to see You.

Do it again, Lord. Do it again.

Share the Hope — Week 2 Falcon Community Church of the Nazarene

The Names That Matter Most

If you have a Bible, open it with me to Ezra chapter 2. Without this Word, I'm hopeless as a pastor. And without this Word, we're hopeless as a church. But before we get into Ezra 2, let me show you this rock… isn't it pretty? I was hiking at the Garden of the Gods yesterday and came across this rock.

And I just stopped. Look at all these names carved into the stone. Layer upon layer. Some from decades ago, fading into the red rock. Some fresh, probably carved last summer. "EB + VM." "Taylor." "Jason." "HG." And there was also a place where it seems something rubbed against it. Like someone was trying to erase a large section. Like someone wanted to undo what was written there. And I just stood there wondering—what were their stories?

What was going on in their hearts when they carved these names? Was EB still with VM? Did Taylor come here with friends or alone? Was Jason trying to prove something, maybe to friends or to a girl… you know, guys do that sort of thing? And then we can ask… why—why do we do this? Why do people carve their names into rocks and trees and bathroom stalls? Especially bathroom stalls…

like who goes to a public bathroom with a sharpie… am I missing something? But then, I ask… What is it about the human heart that needs to leave a mark somewhere that says, "I was here. My name counts. I existed.” And so I stood there yesterday looking at that rock and I thought about Ezra chapter 2. 33 verses of names carved into Scripture. Names that mattered to God.

And I wondered—standing there on that trail with all these carved names around me—I wondered: Is my name on the list that really matters? Not carved in Colorado sandstone. But written in the Lamb's Book of Life. Now I know what you're thinking. Because I think it too. You flip to Ezra 2 and you see 33 verses of names and numbers and your eyes glaze over. Pastor, can we just skip this part?

But what if I told you that this boring genealogy is actually about the most important question you'll ever answer in your entire life: What do you treasure most? What are you living for? What would you leave everything behind for? Because that's what I want you to feel with me right now. Close your eyes. I want you to feel something. You're standing in a crowd. Thousands of people. Babylon.

538 BC. You've lived your whole life here. This is all you've ever known. Your grandparents told you stories about Jerusalem—a city you've never seen. Stories about the temple where God dwelt. But that's ancient history. You're comfortable here in Babylon. You have a job. A house. Friends. This is home. Then one day everything changes. King Cyrus makes a decree: "Whoever wants to return to Jerusalem—go. Rebuild the temple." And suddenly you have a choice.

Stay in Babylon where life is comfortable, familiar, safe? Or leave everything for a city you've never seen, to worship a God you've only heard about in your grandparents' stories. How many conversations around bread at the family table must have happened. Do we go? Does our lineage even give us the right? What about our kids? They were born here. What about our business? The house we've built? What if Jerusalem is just rubble and dust?

And underneath all those practical questions—the real question burning in every heart: Is God worth it? Is worshiping in His presence worth leaving everything we know? And someone unrolls a scroll and starts reading: "The sons of Parosh, 2,172." And across the crowd—I want you to feel this—chaos. Families weeping. Embracing. Running to pack their bags. Because their name is on the list. They're going home. "The sons of Shephatiah, 372." More families celebrating.

Saying goodbye to everything they've known. "The sons of Arah, 775." And you're standing there. Heart pounding in your chest. And you have to decide—right there in that moment—Is God worth leaving everything for? Is He the treasure? Or is Babylon? Can you feel that? That moment when you realize—what I treasure most will determine everything about my life. That's what this sermon is about. Not just getting your name in a book.

But discovering the treasure that makes you willing to leave Babylon behind. Father, open our eyes. Show us Your beauty. Show us Your worth. Help us treasure Christ above everything else. In Jesus' name, amen. THE LIST Open your Bibles to Ezra 2, verse 2. "They came with Zerubbabel, Jeshua, Nehemiah... the sons of Parosh, 2,172. The sons of Shephatiah, 372. The sons of Arah, 775..." And it just goes on.

Verse after verse. Name after name. Number after number. 42,360 names total. "Pastor, why? Why did God put 33 verses of names in the Bible?" Here's why. Because every single one of these numbers represents people who left everything for God. 2,172 people who said, "God is worth more than Babylon." These weren't heroes with seminary degrees. These were regular people. Farmers. Bakers. Shopkeepers. People who woke up tired and distracted just like you and me.

People who had to choose—every single day—what they were going to treasure most. These families had been in exile for 70 years. Why? Because their ancestors chose sin over God. They chose idols over worship. They earned exile. They deserved judgment. But now God says, "Come home." Not because they deserved it. But because God made a promise. This is a grace list. Every name represents God's faithfulness to bring His people home.

And this haunts me. Because I know I don't deserve to be on any list. If God kept a record of the moments I've chosen comfort over Christ, of the times I've traded His presence for lesser pleasures, of the mornings I've reached for my phone before I've reached for Him—I wouldn't make the cut. Maybe you feel that too. Maybe you're thinking, "If God really knew me—the thoughts I have, the things I've done in secret, the ways I've drifted—He wouldn't want me." And you're right.

None of us deserve it. That's why every name on this list makes my heart leap. Because it means God keeps His promises even when we don't keep ours. THE PATTERN These 42,360 people left Babylon. They returned to Jerusalem. They rebuilt the temple. Why? Because God's presence was their treasure. They didn't just want to escape exile. They wanted to be near God. God Himself. And that pattern is pointing us forward to something greater.

Turn to Revelation 21:27: "Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life." Do you see the pattern? Ezra 2: Your name on the list means you go to Jerusalem to be near God. Revelation 21: Your name in the Book of Life means you enter the New Jerusalem to dwell with God forever.

God is the destination. Not just a place. Not just blessings. God Himself. Now look to Revelation 20:15. "And if anyone's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire." There's a list right now. The Lamb's Book of Life. And your name is either in that book or it's not. It terrifies me when I think about people I love. People sitting in this room.

And it comforts me when I remember that my hope isn't in whether I've been good enough. My hope is in whether God has been gracious enough. So here's the question: How do you get your name in the Lamb's Book of Life? In Ezra, your family line mattered. But that's not how the Book of Life works. Jesus told religious leaders proud of their family line, "You belong to your father, the devil." Being born into a Christian family doesn't do it.

Growing up in church doesn't do it. I grew up in church—that doesn't save you. And you can't earn it. Titus 3:5 says, "He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but according to his own mercy." That's the gospel. That's grace. So how do names get written? Everything hinges on this: "the book of life of the Lamb who was slain." The Lamb. But not just any lamb, but the one who must give up His life.

And why does everything depend on Him? THE WEEPING Turn to Revelation 5. I need to show you something that's going to break your heart first. And then heal it. John has a vision. He's in heaven. In the presence of God. And he sees a scroll in God's hand. Sealed with seven seals. This scroll contains God's plan for the future. The triumph of the gospel. The judgment of evil.

The consummation of all things. Everything is written on this scroll. And it's sealed. Nobody can open it. An angel proclaims with a loud voice, "Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?" Who is worthy? Who has the right to bring history to its end? Verse 3 says—and I want you to feel the weight of this—"And no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or to look into it." No one.

Not the angels. Not Moses. Not David. Not Abraham. Nobody. There's this scroll sitting there in God's hand with everything written on it and nobody can touch it. Now look at verse 4. "And I began to weep loudly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to look into it." John starts weeping. This is John. The disciple Jesus loved. The one who walked with Christ for three years.

Who saw Him heal the sick and raise the dead. Who was at the transfiguration. Who leaned against Jesus at the Last Supper. John knows Jesus is the Messiah. He watched Him die on the cross. He saw the empty tomb. He knows Jesus rose from the dead. So why is he weeping? Because John understands something in this moment. He sees this scroll with everything written on it. The future.

The triumph of good over evil. The end of death. And he realizes—if no one can open it, then history has no ending. If no one is worthy, then everything Jesus accomplished on the cross doesn't reach its fulfillment. The curse remains. Evil continues. Death keeps winning. We stay in exile forever. Have you ever felt that? Even as a believer? Where you know Jesus is real, you know He's alive, you know He saved you—but you look at the brokenness of this world and you wonder, "When does this end?

When does evil finally lose? When does death stop taking people I love?" That's what John is feeling. The grief of living in the gap between the resurrection and the consummation. And I think about this moment a lot. Because I think about the people I love. People in this room. People in my family. And I wonder—are their names in the book? And it terrifies me. Notice this. There's weeping in heaven.

John is weeping in the presence of God. You know one of the most beautiful promises in Scripture? Its in Revelation 21:4 says God "will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore." We love that verse. But think about the context. When does God wipe away every tear? Right after Revelation 20. The final judgment.

"And if anyone's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire." That hits me hard.. because think of this… there are people in heaven right now, weeping. I mean, maybe im wrong… but thats how I am seeing this… John was weeping because no one was worthy to open the scroll, and then in the end of revelation, theres going to be weeping because people we love, and even our enemies.

Do you really think, that those who have harmed you, or done you wrong, won’t touch your heart when you see them be casted away from Gods presence. We are a culture driven by judgment, and being what’s due and we rejoice when we see people we say we hate get what they deserve, but where’s the love your enemies in all of that? We’ll be standing there, watching people who have rejected the gospel…

but we will also see within that line of people, people we’ve known and loved when have also rejected the gospel. Before God wipes away every tear, there are tears to wipe away. And part of what causes those tears is the reality that there are people whose names are not in the book. People we know. People we love. This is why your response to Jesus today is the most important decision you will ever make.

And let me be clear. It's not just your response right now in this moment. It's your response to His leading all the days of your life. Every day. Every morning. Every hour. Because I think about how easily my mind and heart are swooned by this earth. By things that have no spiritual weight. By comfort. By success. By approval. By a thousand little gods that promise satisfaction but leave me thirsty.

And I wonder how many mornings I wake up and forget—I just completely forget—that I'm an exile. How many days I live like Babylon is all there is. And I have to come back to Jesus. Every single day. I have to put my lips to the fountain again. Because I forget. I drift. I wander. THE LAMB But then—and this is where your heart starts to heal—back in Revelation 5, verse 5, one of the elders says to John: "Weep no more; behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals." Weep no more.

Stop weeping. And John looks. And what does he see? "And between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain." A Lamb. Slain. But standing. This is Jesus. The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Slain on a Roman cross 2,000 years ago. And He's standing there in heaven—alive, triumphant, worthy. And then heaven erupts.

"Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation." "Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!" When I read about heaven erupting in worship of the Lamb—my heart leaps. Because everything depends on Him.

Not on me. Not on my performance. Not on whether I've been good enough or faithful enough. It depends on the Lamb. On what He did. On His blood. On His worthiness. And that's the only reason I have any hope. If it depended on me, I'd be lost. But it depends on Him. Before the foundation of the world—before anything was created—God determined that salvation would come through the blood of the Lamb.

And this salvation was planned for all. For everyone. John 3:16: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life." The world. Not just some people. The world. And don't miss what eternal life actually is. John 17:3: "And this is eternal life, that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent." Eternal life is knowing God.

Relationship with Jesus. Being brought into fellowship with the Father through the Son. That's what the Lamb was slain to give you. Not just a ticket to heaven. Heaven is Jesus. Knowing Him. Being with Him. Dwelling with Him forever. and I love how God describes His pursuit of us. Hosea 2:14 says, "Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her." So good….

Men, if you ever want to truly be romantic to your wife… here it is… Allure her.. not to trick her, but to speak sweet tenderness into her ear, and let her heart melt with love, let the scent of your kindness, and gentleness, and care be what she is drawn to… Show her what the aroma of Christ is like in your godly relationship. That’s the picture love. God allures.

He doesn't force. He doesn't manipulate. He doesn't trick. He sweetly, tenderly, graciously draws every human heart to Himself. He speaks to the wilderness of your soul with words of love. He pursues you with His prevenient grace—that grace that goes before, that awakens your heart, that enables you to respond. And then my heart leaps for joy when I think this… Before the foundation of the world, God, in His perfect knowledge and loving purpose, knew those who would respond to His gracious call.

Not because He forced belief, and not because faith itself earned salvation, but because His grace would go before, awaken the heart, and invite a response. Scripture tells us that believers are "elect according to the foreknowledge of God the Father" (1 Peter 1:1-2). God's choosing is rooted in His gracious initiative and His foreknowledge of faith freely given in response to grace. God looked down through time and saw the moment when you would hear His tender voice.

He saw the moment when His Spirit would allure you. He saw the moment when you would respond to His love. And based on that foreknowledge of your faith, your name was written in the Lamb's Book of Life. That’s the beauty of God’s grace. It’s offered to all. It’s available to all. Scripture tells us God is “not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).

Every person in this room has been pursued by God’s grace. Every life has been touched by His invitation. The Spirit of God draws, awakens, convicts, and calls—tenderly, patiently, faithfully. But theres a question looming in your heart right now… and lets ask it… The question is not whether God has reached out. The question is: will you respond? Will you believe? Will you say yes to Jesus? Will you walk by faith, each day, each moment, Because when you do—when you place your faith in the Lamb who was slain—your life becomes joined to His.

Your name is written in His book. THE INVITATION How do you get your name in the Lamb's Book of Life? John 7:37: "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink." Faith in Jesus—real faith—isn't grim religious duty. It's not checking a theological box. Faith is receiving Jesus. It's like drinking living water when you're desperately thirsty. It's your soul's movement toward Christ. With your heart. With your longings.

With your deepest thirst for something more than this broken world can give you. Right now the Spirit of God is pursuing you. He's been drawing you your whole life. Do you feel it? That restlessness deep inside? That ache that nothing in this world quite satisfies? That sense that there must be something more? That's thirst. Soul thirst. And Jesus says, "Come to me and drink." Can I tell you what thirst feels like?

It feels like waking up successful and empty. Like achieving everything you thought you wanted and still feeling hollow. Like scrolling through your phone at 11 PM hoping to find something that will satisfy the ache. Like looking at your life from the outside and thinking it's good, but knowing deep down that something's missing. That's thirst. Every single person in this room knows exactly what I'm talking about. You know that ache.

I know it. I feel it when I try to find my satisfaction in anything other than Jesus. And Jesus says that's not an accident. That's your soul crying out for the only thing that can truly satisfy. Him. Romans 10:13: "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved." Revelation 22:17: "The Spirit and the Bride say, 'Come.' And let the one who hears say, 'Come.' And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price." Do you hear that invitation?

Come. You don't have to clean yourself up first. You don't have to figure everything out. You don't have to be worthy. You just have to be thirsty. And you are. Your soul is dying of thirst, and Jesus is offering you living water. Himself. If you've never trusted Jesus Christ as your Savior—if you've never drunk from this living water—I'm asking you to come. Right now. In your heart. Right where you're sitting.

Call on His name. Come. Drink. Receive Him. Trust that He died for your sins and rose again to give you eternal life. And here's the beautiful mystery—when you put your lips to that fountain and taste and see that the Lord is good, you'll discover something astonishing. You'll look back through the corridors of eternity and see that God's love for you reaches back before the foundation of the world.

That the Lamb was slain for you in the mind of God before time began. That your name was written in His book before you ever took your first breath. But right now, the question isn't "Is my name in that book?" The question is: Are you thirsty? Will you drink? Will you come to Jesus? This determines your eternity. THE CALL So as the worship team comes up…. Theres Two lists.

& Two questions. The first list: Ezra 2. 42,360 names. Because their names were on that list, they got to go home. The second list: The Lamb's Book of Life. This list determines who enters the New Jerusalem. How do you know if your name is in that book? Because if your name is in that book, you will rise from the dead. You will receive a glorified body. You will dwell with God forever.

You can be the most radical human being in the world because your death problem is over. My answer is this: The marks of the person whose name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life are simple. You're drinking from Jesus. You're receiving Him as your treasure. You're coming to Him constantly. You're not putting down the cup. Let me tell you what that looks like in my life. Some mornings I wake up and I've already put the cup down.

The first thing I do is check my phone. I Check my email. Check the news. I check my bank account…. And I realize—I haven't even thought about Jesus yet. I haven't put my lips to the fountain. I'm trying to drink from broken cisterns that can't hold water. And I have to come back. I have to say, "Jesus, I'm thirsty again. I need You again. I can't make it through this day without drinking from You." That's what it means to keep drinking.

Every day—every hour—coming back to Him. If you've never come to Christ—if you've never drunk from the living water—come now. While there's time. While the invitation is still open. Call on His name. Receive Him as your treasure. And discover you were loved before time began. And for those of us who know Christ—let this change how we live today. We don't stop drinking. We don't put down the cup. Believing is receiving constantly.

Coming to Jesus constantly. Christ is ever giving Himself as drink and food for our souls. We're not settlers here. We're exiles heading home. We're not building our kingdom. We're citizens of the New Jerusalem. We're not chasing comfort. We're treasuring Christ. When we struggle—when finances are tight, when bodies break down, when loved ones suffer—we remember: Our names are in the Book of Life. We're getting glorified bodies. We're inheriting a new creation.

We're going to dwell with God forever. So let's be faithful. Let's keep building. Let's keep trusting. Let's keep drinking from Jesus, the living water. Let's keep treasuring Christ above all. Because our names are written in His book. And we're going home. But I don't want you to hear this sermon and then walk out of here unchanged. I don't want this to be another Sunday where you heard some good preaching and then went back to life as usual.

Because if your name is in that book—if you're drinking from Jesus—everything changes. The way you spend your money changes. The way you treat your spouse changes. The way you scroll on your phone changes. The way you respond to suffering changes. Because you're not living for this world anymore. You're living for the New Jerusalem. You're living like an exile who knows they're going home. Father, thank You for Your Word.

Thank You that names matter to You. Thank You that You're bringing us home—to the New Jerusalem, to dwell with You forever. For those who are thirsty right now—for those who haven't yet come to drink from the living water—draw them to Yourself. Help them see the beauty of the Lamb. Give them the courage to come. To drink. To receive Jesus. Right now. In this moment. And for those of us who know You—help us live as exiles heading home.

Help us keep our lips to the fountain. Help us treasure You above all. Help us never stop drinking from the water of life. In Jesus' name, amen. *

Grace Explodes for God's Glory

Let's open our Bibles together to Ezra chapter 2. We're going to finish this chapter today—verses 68 through 70. A few weeks ago we walked through 67 verses. Name after name. Family after family. 42,360 people whose names mattered enough to God that He wrote them down. Today we're looking at just three verses. Three verses. But I'm telling you right now—these three verses will open up the entire universe to you if you'll let them. Before we read them, I want us to do something together. Take a deep breath with me. Ready? One... two... three... I'm asking us to pause because the moment some of you see these verses, you're going to tense up. You're going to see the word "gave" in verse 68, and you're going to think, Oh great. Here comes the stewardship sermon. Here comes the guilt trip about giving. But I need you to hear me. This is not about funding a budget. This is not about meeting a goal. This is not about manipulation or guilt or obligation. What we're about to see in these three verses is going to blow the roof off of what you think giving is about. We're going to go beneath the surface. We're going to go beneath the numbers and the gold and the silver. And we're going to see something that will take your breath away. We're going to see grace blooming to accomplish what God planned before the foundation of the world. Listen as I read. Ezra 2:68-70: "When they came to the house of the LORD in Jerusalem, some of the heads of families gave freewill offerings for the rebuilding of the house of God on its site. According to their ability they gave to the treasury for this work 61,000 darics of gold, 5,000 minas of silver, and 100 priestly garments. The priests, the Levites, the singers, the gatekeepers and the temple servants settled in their own towns, along with some of the other people, and the rest of the Israelites settled in their towns." Let's pray. Father, we come desperate for You. Open our eyes. This is Your Word, living and active. Show us what grace does. Show us what You planned before creation. Show us hearts on fire for Your glory. Help us treasure Christ above all. In Jesus' name, amen.

The Eternal Purpose

Before we look at what's happening in these three verses, I need to show you where this is going. Because if you don't see the destination, you'll miss what's happening on the road. Turn with me to Ephesians 1. Verse 4. This is where we have to start. Because what happens in Ezra 2:68-70 didn't start in Ezra 2:68-70. It started here. Before creation. Ephesians 1:4-6: "He chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of the glory of his grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved." Did you catch that phrase? "To the praise of the glory of his grace." Let me say this as clearly as I can: Everything in the universe exists for this. The stars. The galaxies. History. Nations rising and falling. Your life. My life. All of it exists for one purpose: to the praise of the glory of his grace. And here’s the good news: God is most glorified when that grace is not just proclaimed, but received. Now here's what you need to understand. God has a lot of glorious attributes. His power is glorious. His justice is glorious. His holiness is glorious. His wrath is glorious. But if the glory of God is Mount Everest, grace is the peak. Grace is the apex. Grace is the pinnacle. Romans 9:22-23 makes this clear. Listen to what Paul says: "What if God, desiring to show his wrath and to make known his power, has endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction, in order to make known the riches of his glory for vessels of mercy." Do you see it? Wrath and grace are not equal. Wrath is not ultimate. Wrath serves mercy. God’s justice and wrath reveal the seriousness of sin so that His grace might be seen as infinitely more glorious. Wrath is part of the mountain. But when you reach the summit, you don’t meet wrath. You meet mercy. And God planned this. Before creation. Before Adam. Before anything existed. In the fellowship of the Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit purposed together that the highest display of God’s glory would be the Son giving Himself in grace. And that redeemed people would spend eternity not marveling at an idea, but worshiping a Savior, praising forever the glory of His grace revealed in Jesus Christ. That's where Ezra 2:68-70 is going. That's what's happening beneath the surface. These aren't administrative details. This is grace detonating in history to accomplish what God planned before time began. You see, grace is not passive. Grace doesn't just sit there. Grace blossoms in the heart of people that are touch by it. Grace accomplishes and fulfills the eternal purpose of God. And what we're about to see in these three verses is grace at work—accomplishing the will of God for the glory of the Father.

Grace Explodes In Restoration

Verse 68 Look at verse 68. "When they came to the house of the LORD in Jerusalem, some of the heads of families gave freewill offerings for the rebuilding of the house of God on its site." Now, on the surface, what do you see? You see people arriving. You see people giving. Freewill offerings. Gold. Silver. That's the surface. Go one level deeper. What made them give? Gratitude. They were grateful. They we’re in exile. But They got restoration. Gratitude wells up. That's one level deeper. But I want to take you to bedrock. What's happening beneath the gratitude? Grace is being experienced to accomplish God's eternal purpose. Let me show you what I mean. Notice the word "freewill" in verse 68. Freewill offerings. Why does the text call them that? Think about what a will is. Your will is what you want. It's your desires. It's what you reach for when no one is making you reach for anything. And here's the problem. Before grace, our wills are bent. Curved inward. We want what we want. We protect what we have. We hold on tight because we're not sure there's more coming. We calculate and compare and wonder what other people are giving before we decide what we'll give. That's a bound will. A will in chains. A will that can't help itself. But look at these families. Nobody twisted their arm. Nobody guilted them. Nobody stood at the front with a thermometer chart tracking the goal. The text says they gave freewill offerings. So what happened? Grace got to their wills before the offering plate did. You see, these are the same people—the descendants of the same people—who mocked God's prophets. Who despised His words. Who scoffed until there was no remedy. Their wills were so bound to rebellion that God sent them into exile for seventy years. And now they're giving freely? Joyfully? Without compulsion? Something changed. Something broke the chains. Something got down into the deepest part of who they were—the part that wants and desires and reaches—and set it free. Grace did that. Grace came to them while they were still in Babylon. Grace stirred the heart of a pagan king. Grace opened the door they couldn't open. Grace carried them nine hundred miles through desert. Grace brought them home. And when grace like that gets inside you, it doesn't just change what you do. It changes what you want. That's a free will. Not free from God—free for God. Free to want what you were made to want. Free to give without gripping. Free to open your hands because you finally believe there's more where that came from. These families gave freewill offerings because grace had already given them free wills.

And when grace that is undeserved, that overwhelming, that sovereign captures your heart, it doesn't just forgive you. It frees you. Paul says it in 1 Corinthians 15:10: "By the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me." Do you hear that? "It was not I." When grace is planted in your heart, your response doesn't come from you. It comes from grace working in you. Now watch what God is doing here. This moment in Ezra 2:68 is pointing forward. It's a shadow. A preview. A signpost. Of whats to come… Look to Hebrews 10:5-7. This is Jesus speaking: "Consequently, when Christ came into the world, he said, 'Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired, but a body have you prepared for me; in burnt offerings and sin offerings you have taken no pleasure. Then I said, "Behold, I have come to do your will, O God, as it is written of me in the scroll of the book."'" Do you see it? These freewill offerings in Ezra 2:68 are pointing to THE freewill offering. The Son of God saying, "A body you have prepared for me. I have come to do your will, O God." Jesus didn't go to the cross because the Father forced Him. He went freely. Willingly. Why? Because grace had made His will one with the Father's will. And when we give—when grace is planted in us, we can't help but respond—we're caught up in that. We're participating in the freewill offering of the Son. But here's what I really want you to see. What is grace accomplishing in this moment? Lets go back to Ephesians 1:6. "To the praise of the glory of his grace." That's what's happening. Right here. In Ezra 2:68. Grace is accomplishing its eternal purpose. Grace is fulfilling what God planned before creation. Grace is making God's glory visible. This is not just about rebuilding a temple. This is about the praise of the glory of his grace. Church, when grace is planted in you, and you respond to God’s grace, you’re not just being generous. You're participating in the eternal purpose of God.

Grace Explodes In Worship

Verse 69 Now look at verse 69. "According to their ability they gave to the treasury for this work 61,000 darics of gold, 5,000 minas of silver and 100 priestly garments." On the surface, what do you see? Numbers. Gold. Silver. Garments. That's the surface. One level deeper: They gave according to their ability. Some gave more. Some gave less. But everyone gave what they could. That's deeper. But what's happening at bedrock? Grace is exploding in worship. Look at that phrase: "According to their ability they gave." These are finite people giving finite resources. But this phrase is pointing forward to something infinite. Turn to Romans 8:32. "He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?" God gave according to His ability. And God's ability is infinite. These families gave 61,000 darics of gold. God gave His Son. These families gave 5,000 minas of silver. God gave the blood of the Lamb. These families gave 100 priestly garments. God gave us robes of righteousness. Do you see what's happening? All this gold and silver is pointing to something of infinite worth. And what is it? Turn to John 2:19-21. Jesus said, "Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up." The Jews said, "It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and will you raise it up in three days?" But he was speaking about the temple of his body. The true treasury is the body of Christ. All the gold in Ezra 2:69 points to the infinite worth of the Son. But I want you to see something else. Look beneath the numbers. Beneath the 61,000 darics and the 5,000 minas. What do you see? Hearts on fire. These people aren't doing math. They're not calculating percentages. They're not trying to impress anyone. Grace has exploded in their hearts, and they're on fire for the glory of God. You remember what Hudson Taylor said? After a lifetime of missionary hardship—persecution, sickness, death of his children—he said, "I never made a sacrifice." How could he say that? Because when you've been brought home from exile—when you've been saved from what you deserved—giving isn't loss. It's privilege. When grace captures you, you don't count the cost. You don't weigh the pros and cons. You don't hold back. You participate. And here's what grace is accomplishing: worship. Not just internal worship. Not just feelings in your heart. Visible worship. Public worship. Worship that the world can see. 2 Corinthians 4:15 says it like this: "It is all for your sake, so that as grace extends to more and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God." Grace spreads. Thanksgiving increases. And God gets glory. That's what's happening in Ezra 2:69. Grace is spreading to these families. Thanksgiving is erupting in their hearts. And God is getting glory as they pour out their treasures. This is the dual purpose of grace. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 4:15 that his ministry is "for your sake" so that grace can increase thanksgiving "to the glory of God." For your sake. And for God's glory. These are not in competition. When you get to participate in grace—when you get to express joy in gratitude—God gets exalted as the gracious Giver. God's glory and your gladness are not at odds. They're one. And what makes them one is grace exploding in thanksgiving.

Grace Explodes In Glory

Verses 69b-70 Now look at the end of verse 69 and into verse 70. "The priests, the Levites, the singers, the gatekeepers and the temple servants settled in their own towns, along with some of the other people, and the rest of the Israelites settled in their towns." On the surface: People settling in towns. Priests taking up residence. That's the surface. One level deeper: Worship is becoming visible. The infrastructure for temple worship is being rebuilt. That's deeper. But what's happening at bedrock? Grace is exploding in glory. The priests are settling. The Levites are settling. The singers are settling. The gatekeepers are settling. Why? Because worship is about to resume. The temple is going to be rebuilt. The altar is going to smoke again. The songs are going to rise. The gates are going to be watched. And all of it—all of it—is grace accomplishing its purpose. But this isn't the end. This is a signpost. This is a shadow. This is pointing forward. Turn to 1 Peter 2:9. "But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light." These priests settling in Ezra 2:70 are pointing to you. You're the royal priesthood. You're the ones called out of darkness. You're the ones who proclaim His excellencies. And where is this all going? Revelation 21:3. "And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.'" The priests settling in their towns points to the dwelling place of God with man forever. The temple being rebuilt points to God dwelling with us in the New Jerusalem. The worship resuming points to Revelation 5:9-10, where the multitude sings, "Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation, and you have made them a kingdom and priests to our God." Do you see the arc? From Ezra to Revelation. From the temple in Jerusalem to the New Jerusalem. From priests settling in towns to a royal priesthood dwelling with God forever. And all of it—all of it—is "to the praise of the glory of his grace."

The Cable Of Hope

Now let me show you one more thing before we close. Because I want you to see how secure this is. How certain this is. How unbreakable this is. In 2 Thessalonians 2:13-14, Paul uses this phrase: God "chose you from the beginning to be saved through sanctification by the Spirit and belief in the truth. To this he called you through our gospel, so that you may obtain the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ." And then in verse 15 he says, "So then, brothers, stand firm and hold to the traditions which you were taught." Now, I want you to imagine something with me. Imagine a pilot named Henry Dempsey flying a small plane at 4,000 feet. Suddenly, turbulence hits. The rear door flies open. And he's sucked part way out of the plane. He falls face down on the steps, and his body is hanging out over the Atlantic Ocean. What does he do? He grabs the railing. And he holds on with a life-and-death grip. His fingers clinch around that rail so tight that when the plane lands, they have to pry his hands open. This actually happened. The news called him hang on Hank… And I want you to hear this: The life-and-death grip with which Henry Dempsey held on to that railing is the kind of grip we should have on the grace of God. Because there is a cable of hope. And this cable has six strands of steel. And every one of those strands is a work of God. Strand one: God's love. "Brethren beloved by the Lord" (2 Thess 2:13). You are not loved generally. You are loved particularly. Distinguishingly. Effectually. Eternally. Strand two: God's election. "God chose you from the beginning" (2 Thess 2:13). Before you chose Him, He chose you. Strand three: God's salvation. "Chose you to be saved" (2 Thess 2:13). You are destined for glory. Strand four: God's sanctification. "Through sanctification by the Spirit" (2 Thess 2:13). The Holy Spirit is making you holy. Strand five: God's call. "To this he called you through our gospel" (2 Thess 2:14). God's call overcomes all resistance. Strand six: God's gospel. The good news that Jesus Christ died for sinners. And when you take hold of this cable—when you cling to it with a life-and-death grip—grace explodes in you. You can't help but respond. You can't help but worship. You can't help but give. Why? Because you're not an exile anymore. You're home.

For Your Sake

Now I need to tell you why this was all recorded. Why did God put Ezra 2:68-70 in the Bible? Turn to 1 Timothy 1:15-16. Paul says, "The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the foremost. But I received mercy for this reason, that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display his perfect patience for an example to those who were to believe in him for eternal life." Did you catch that? Paul says his conversion was recorded "for an example to those who were to believe." God had you in view when He saved Paul. And God had you in view when He brought these families home from Babylon. This is recorded for your sake. So you would see how sovereign grace works. So you would see "the whole of God's longsuffering." So you would take hope. If God brought rebels home from Babylon... If God saved the chief of sinners on the Damascus road... Then God can save anyone. Including you. Including the person you're praying for who shows no signs of interest. Paul's conversion was sudden and unexpected. So was Israel's return. And that means the same can happen for others. Don't despair. Keep praying. Keep speaking the truth in love. Because sovereign grace turns enemies into worshipers.

Caught Up In Eternity

Church, let me bring this home, as the worship team comes up… to lead us. When you give—when grace explodes in your heart and you can't help but respond—you're not just being generous. You're not just expressing gratitude. You're not just helping with the budget. You're participating in what God planned before the foundation of the world. Before Babylon. Before Jerusalem. Before Abraham. Before Adam. Before the universe existed. God planned "to the praise of the glory of his grace." And when grace detonates in you, you're caught up in that eternal purpose. Your giving isn't functional. It's praise. It's not about numbers. It's about hearts on fire. It's not about what we need. It's about the glory of the Father. This is why Jesus said in Matthew 6:21, "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." When you invest your treasure in the kingdom of God, your heart follows. And when your heart is caught up in the kingdom, grace explodes in worship. And God gets glory. That's the point. That's always been the point. From before creation to eternity future. "To the praise of the glory of his grace."

*

Sin in the Camp

I. The Mystery I want to take you somewhere this morning. I want you to stand in the camp with them.

It is the morning after Jericho, and you have never felt anything like this in your whole life. You were there. You saw it. There was no siege. No ram at the gate, no ladders thrown against the wall. You walked. Seven days you walked around that city, and on the seventh you shouted, and the wall, that wall, the one that had stood over you your whole life like a locked door, came down flat in the dust right in front of you. And you stood there in the quiet afterward and you thought, there is nothing this God cannot do through us. There is nothing we cannot take.

Hold onto that feeling. Because a few days later you are burying your own men.

They send a few thousand up against a little town called Ai. A nothing town. A place you would not even slow down for. And they come back running. Thirty-six of them do not come back at all. And you are standing in the camp while the news moves tent to tent, and there are women who were wives that morning and are widows by dark, and nobody, nobody, can tell you why.

And something is happening in you that has never happened before, not once since Egypt. Your heart is melting. Going to water. And if you know this book, that word should stop you cold, because you have heard it before, and never once about Israel. It was the enemy whose hearts melted when they heard your God was on the move. The Canaanites. The people God was driving out. And now it is you.

Same God. Same army. Three days ago you were invincible, and now you are standing at a grave you never saw coming, and no one can tell you how you got here.

And I have to stop and ask you. Have you ever stood there? Not in a camp. In your own life. Where the thing was working, where God was near and you knew it, and then, with no warning and no word, something just closed. The prayers go up and stop at the ceiling. The room you used to walk into full of life is only a room now. And you cannot name the day it changed. You just know that it did. And you are standing inside it asking the very thing Israel is asking. What happened. What went wrong. Something did, and I cannot see it.

That is where this whole chapter opens. A nation standing over a loss it cannot explain.

And here is the question I want to leave sitting on the table the whole time we are in this story, because it is the one underneath all of it. Why do we struggle so much to confess?

Because it is not that we do not know we should. We know. We can name the thing. We can quote the verse. We can sit in a room like this one and nod along to every word of it, and then get up and walk out and live a long way from what we just agreed with. That is the part I cannot get past. It is not that we do not believe it. It is that the believing does not reach the doing. And the longer I sit with it, the more sure I am that confession is the exact place that gap is widest. We know we are supposed to bring the thing out into the open. And we bury it instead. Why? Why do we do that?

I want a real answer to that this morning, and not a tidy one. So let us go find the thing that is buried in this camp. Because there is one. And I think if we can find theirs, we might find ours.

Go back with me a few days. Back inside Jericho, the day the wall came down. Everything in that city was under the ban. Devoted to God. Off limits. Not because God is stingy, but because this was the firstfruits, the very first city of the whole promise, and all of it belonged to Him. Every person in that camp knew it.

And there is a man in the rubble named Achan. He is walking through what is left of the city, and he sees something. A beautiful robe. Some silver. A bar of gold. And watch what happens inside him, because it is the oldest thing there is. He saw it. He wanted it. He took it. Hold onto those three. We are going to meet them again. And he wrapped it up, and carried it home under his arm, and that night, by the low light, in his own tent, he got down on his knees and dug a hole in the floor. He laid the gold in the ground, and covered it over, and pressed the dirt back down flat. And then he lay down on top of it and went to sleep. And in the morning he got up, and put his sandals on, and stepped over that spot, and walked out and said good morning to the man in the next tent.

And nobody knew. That is the thing I cannot get over. Nobody in that whole camp knew. He got away with it clean. Except thirty-six men are dead, and an army that walked through Jericho just got run down a hill by a nothing town, and God is not confused about why.

Now I want to ask you something, and I want you to actually answer it. Not out loud. Just you, in your own chest, right now. What is under your floor?

Because I think every one of us has a tent floor. There is the mess we will show people, the stuff we will laugh about in a group. And then there is the other spot. The one we dug at night. The one we have lain down on top of for years, and stepped over every morning, and smoothed back down so many times that most days we have almost talked ourselves into believing there is nothing down there at all. It has gone quiet. And the quiet started to feel like peace.

It is not peace. And this story is about to show us why not. There is gold under a floor in this camp. And until it comes up, a people who walked through Jericho cannot take a town half its size.

II. The Prayer, and the Cost Now let me show you the leader in all of this, because he does not come out looking like a hero, and I love that the Bible left it in.

Joshua tears his clothes and falls on his face in front of the ark and stays there until dark. And you would think, good, he is praying. But listen to the prayer. Why did you ever bring us across the Jordan? If only we had been content to stay on the other side. That is not intercession. That is the old wilderness grumble, the same complaint their parents made in the desert until it killed them. The great Joshua, face down, and what comes up out of him is, I wish we had never come.

Now he does reach for something better. At the end of it he says, what will you do about your great name? And that line is not his. That is Moses. That is the exact argument Moses used to stand in the gap for these people when they made the golden calf. Joshua came up under Moses. He watched the man pray for forty years. And now, in his own first real crisis, he reaches for Moses' words. He just cannot quite reach Moses' heart. Moses used that argument to throw himself between God and the people, take me instead of them. Joshua opens it with a complaint about being made to leave home at all. He has the man's vocabulary. He has not been given the man's heart yet.

And I know that prayer from the inside, because I have prayed it. I was about eighteen months into the first time I ever led a church, learning in real time what it means to walk people through hard decisions, and I did not always get it right. When it got heavy, my first instinct was not to stand in the gap and pray for the people. It was to grumble, and to wish I were somewhere else. I had the words of the men I had learned under. I had not been given their hearts yet.

[ that is drawn from your Pastoral Witness. Keep it, or swap it for the older-brother line from "He Is Glad to Have You": arms folded in the field, doing everything right, and further from the Father's heart than the boy in the pigpen. ]

And then watch the first mercy in this whole chapter, because we read right past it, and it is not for the guilty man. It is for the leader who just prayed badly. God does not flatten him. He does not take his job. He says, stand up. Why have you fallen facedown? He gets him back on his feet, and He tells him plainly what is wrong. So before God ever deals with the sin buried under the tent, we get to watch Him be gentle with the man who missed.

And then He tells Joshua what is wrong. And listen to how He says it. Israel has sinned. Not, Achan has sinned. Israel. One man, one floor, and the whole camp is charged with it. That is the first hard thing this story asks us to believe, that the thing you have filed away as private and small and nobody's business is not, in fact, private. Someone took what was devoted and hid it among his own belongings — that is the tent floor, that is the digging in the dark — and until it comes out, hear this, I will not be with you anymore.

Stop right there. Because a few verses back, at the very end of chapter 6, the writer told you the secret of everything Israel had. He did not say they were strong. He did not say they had good tactics. He said, the LORD was with Joshua. With. That one word was the whole thing. It was the only thing that made them different from every other wandering tribe in that desert.

And now God says, I will not be with you.

Same God. Same people. And the only thing that changed between with you and not with you is one thing, buried under one floor.

So look at what the sin actually cost. It did not cost him the battle first. It did not cost him his reputation. It cost him the presence. And for these people the presence was not one item on a list of blessings. It was the list. Moses had said it as plainly as it can be said, that if Your presence will not go with us, then do not send us up from here. He would rather stay in the desert with God than walk into the promised land without Him. Because milk and honey cannot comfort a soul that was made for the presence of God.

That is what Achan really traded. Not a rule. The nearness. Somewhere back in that rubble he decided the gold he could bury was worth more than the God he already had.

III. Two Kinds of Grief So the morning comes when it has to come out. And God does not simply point to the man. He could have. He does it the slow way, the hardest way there is. In the gray light the whole nation is lined up, and it starts. Tribe by tribe. Then clan by clan. Then family by family. Picture standing in that line, watching the net pull in, tighter and tighter, toward the one tent where you already know the truth is buried.

And I have to stop the story right here, before the lot falls, because I do not want us to miss what is about to happen inside every person in that line. They are about to grieve. And the New Testament will not let us be naive about grief. Paul says there are two kinds. Godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation. Worldly grief produces death. Same word, grief, and two ends that could not be further apart.

And the clearest place in all of Scripture to see it is two men who failed in the same week.

Peter denied Jesus three times beside a fire. And when the rooster crowed, the Lord turned and looked at him, and Peter went out and broke.

Judas handed Jesus over for money. And when it landed on him what he had done, he threw the silver back onto the temple floor and said it out loud. "I have sinned, I have betrayed innocent blood." Which is as true and accurate a confession as a man can make.

Two men. The same week. The same tears. One of them ended up back at a fire on a beach, with the risen Jesus asking, do you love me. The other ended at the end of a rope.

You cannot tell them apart by the weeping. You tell them apart by what the grief was about. One was sorry for what it had cost him. The other was sorry he had wounded someone he loved.

Now watch the lot come down. Verses 16 to 18. Judah. Then the clan of Zerah. Then Zabdi's household. And it stops on Achan.

Look at verse 19, at what Joshua says to him. "My son, give glory to the LORD... and tell me what you have done. Don't hide it from me."

Now that phrase, give glory to God, was a Hebrew way of saying, tell the truth. So even the command to confess is handed to him as an act of worship. Because to say out loud what you have done is to agree with God about it.

And Achan does confess. Verse 20. "It is true. I have sinned." Verse 21. "When I saw... I coveted... I took... they are concealed in the ground inside my tent."

There is nothing wrong with the words. Watch the timing. He says them after the lot has already closed on him. He did not come out. He got found. That is worldly grief. The sorrow that only shows up once you are cornered.

And that is the hinge of everything I am trying to say this morning. The difference between Achan and you is not that his sin was worse. It is that he got found. And you are being asked, right now, before any lot has fallen.

Look at his three words one more time, because they are older than he is. I saw. I coveted. I took.

That is Genesis 3. Eve saw that the tree was good, she desired it, she took and ate. The same three verbs, in the same order. It is David on the roof, when he saw Bathsheba and sent and took. Saw, coveted, took is the oldest pattern there is. The shape every fall has taken since the garden.

And underneath the pattern, every single time, is one quiet accusation. That God is holding something good back from you. That the real life is the thing He will not let you have.

That is what coveting actually is. It is not only wanting a thing. It is a failure to believe God is enough. Achan did not only want the gold. Somewhere along the way he had stopped trusting that the presence he already had was better than the thing he could bury.

IV. The Wage, and the Door Verse 24. They take him out to a valley, and the story ends the only way this grief can end. In death. That is where Paul's sentence lands. The wages of sin is death. And Achan collected his wage in that valley.

Verse 26. They named the place Achor, which means trouble. And they left it named that way on purpose.

But that is not the last word Scripture speaks over that valley. Hundreds of years later, God speaks through Hosea, and He says He will take that same Valley of Achor, the valley of trouble, and make it a door of hope. The very ground where sin was paid out in death becomes a way through. And there is only one way that ever happens. Jesus went down into that valley Himself. He collected the wage that had our name on it. On the cross He went into the God-forsakenness we had earned, and He carried it up the hill. That is how a valley of trouble becomes the road home.

V. Grace in Every Room Now go back to Achan's verbs one more time. Because they are not only a confession. They are a diagram.

Saw. Coveted. Took. And in the end, he became what he took.

Those are the four ways Jesus said you were made to love God. With your mind, your heart, your strength, and your soul. Sin did not get into one of them and stop. It got into the source the whole self runs on, and it worked its way out through all four.

And here is the good news of this passage. Grace, which is to say Jesus Himself, does not stand in the doorway of those rooms. He goes into every one of them.

Into the mind first. Because that is where it started. I saw. The trouble in the mind is that reasonable voice. The one that says, only this once, no one gets hurt, you have earned it. And here is what you have to understand about that voice. It is not your conscience. It is the sin. And it has learned to sound exactly like you. You will not out-argue it. Because in that room your mind is not the judge. It is the defense attorney, already hired by the part of you that decided. So Jesus does not come to win the argument. He does what He did on the first morning of the world, when He said, let light shine out of darkness. He turns a light on inside you. He gives you sight you did not have.

Into the heart, where the coveting lives. And the question grace brings to the heart is not, what did you do. It is, what were you actually thirsty for underneath it. Because it was never really the object. It was the wrong well for a real thirst. And Jesus is the water you were after the whole time. He does not hand your old heart back and tell you to try harder with it. Through Ezekiel He promised to take out the heart of stone and put in a heart of flesh. He goes to work on what you want. Into the strength, which is the hands. Achan's hands buried the thing, and then they never once moved again to dig it up and give it back. All his strength went into the hiding and none of it into the repair. And that is most of us. A grief that feels awful and never gets up out of the chair. But the hands of Jesus went the other direction. All the way to a cross, and all the way to the mending. And having done the repair we could not do, He puts our hands to the part we can.

And into the soul. The room we keep locked the hardest. Because by now it is not about what you did. It is about what you are afraid you have become. Not, I did a bad thing. But, I am one. Achan became the accursed thing. The devoted thing, under judgment. And Paul says that Christ became a curse for us. He took the very identity you are most afraid of, and He wore it in broad daylight on a hill, so that you could be fully seen and still go on living.

VI. Healed Which brings us to the door Achan never walked through. And James names it plainly. "Confess your sins to one another, so that you may be healed."

Look at the word he uses. He does not say forgiven. He had that word. He reached past it for another one. Healed.

Because it was not only your record that got hurt. It was you. And it is you that Jesus is putting back together.

And he says, to one another. Out loud. To a face. Because there is no healing from behind a mask.

It is one motion the whole way down. You came in the door by confessing that Jesus is Lord. And you stay clean by confessing your sin. It is the same door, and the same act. Coming clean is only coming in again.

VII. Come Home So come out of the tent. Not to be scolded. Not only to be pardoned. To be healed. And to come home.

And if you have confessed this before, and you are still carrying it, still bleeding yourself for a thing that is already under the blood, then hear this. The voice keeping you on the floor after you have already turned is not the voice of God. It is the accuser. And the cross is the one place guilt is finally allowed to die.

Now go back to the question we left sitting on the table at the start. Why do we struggle so much to confess? I told you I wanted a real answer to that. Here is the one I keep coming back to.

I think we have believed a lie about what confession even is. We treat it like the punishment. Like the bill that comes due. And it is not the bill. It is the door. Confession is just the sound a buried thing makes when you finally stop hiding it and say it out loud. It does not cost you the nearness. The hiding already did that. Confession is how you get the nearness back.

There is a man in John 5 who had been sick for thirty-eight years, lying by a pool. And Jesus walks up and asks him a question that sounds almost unkind until you understand it. "Do you want to get well?"

Of course he does, you would think. Thirty-eight years. But Jesus asks it because He knows a person can be sick so long that the sickness becomes home. Until the tent that started out as a prison starts to feel like shelter. And a man will not walk out of a shelter he has stopped hating.

So Jesus does not reach down and haul him up. He asks.

And let me be as honest with you as a friend would be. The man had a real problem, and it was not the pool. Every time the water stirred, someone else got in ahead of him. So he had spent thirty-eight years waiting to be carried down by somebody else. And Jesus does not offer to carry him. He tells him to stand up on his own two legs and walk.

The healing is not going to be done to you while you lie there waiting for it. Nobody in this room can want it for you. You have to answer the question. You have to get up. You have to pick up your own mat.

So the question Jesus puts to you this morning is the same one He put to that man. It is not whether you believe He is able. It is whether you actually want it.

Do you want to be healed?

If you do, here is what it looks like. And it is simpler and harder than you would guess.

You name the actual thing. The real one. Not the general fog of, I have been struggling. Because a doctor cannot treat, I do not feel well. And we do the same thing in prayer, if we are honest. We give God safe words. Religious words. Words that sound fine. And we keep the deepest part of us hidden. That is just the fig leaf with better grammar.

So say it out loud. The real thing. To God, and to one person who is safe, who will not flinch and will not repeat it. And say it without the sentence that starts with, but. And then let that person say back to you what is already true. That you are forgiven. That you are healed.

One thing. One person. This week.

He is not standing off at a distance, waiting for you to fix yourself first. He walks straight into your loneliness and your striving and your fear and your shame, and He does not flinch, and He carries you home to the Father.

So do not carry it back out the door you came in. It is open now. It will not always be.

Open your hand. Give Him the thing you have been holding. And get up off the floor.

Come home.

Your own words, sourced: "Milk and honey cannot comfort a soul that was made for the presence of God" and "He walks straight into your loneliness... and carries you home to the Father" — from your sermon "Show Me Your Glory." "We give God safe words, religious words... and we keep the deepest part of us hidden" — from "Holy Ground: The Lord Is Near." Two slots left for you: Joshua's prayer, and the final word.

Holy Ground: The Lord Is Near

Good morning. I want us to stay in Philippians this morning, and I want us to give it enough time to say what Paul is actually saying. Because I have been wanting to learn how to pray. I do not mean I have never prayed. I have prayed before meals. I have prayed at bedsides. I have prayed with people after church. I have prayed when I did not know what else to do. Most of my life as a Christian has been, when in doubt, pray. When you are in need, pray. When fears seem to be crashing on you like waves, pray.

But there is a difference between knowing prayer matters and knowing how to come before God when your heart is hurting. There is a difference between knowing what you are supposed to do and sitting there with something you cannot fix, something that has made you afraid, something that has brought you to the end of yourself, and wondering, “Lord, what do I even say?”

There was a moment at my last assignment that I still think about. It was during COVID, and there was a school board meeting in an auditorium. It was one of those rooms where you could feel what people were carrying. There was division. There was fear. There was anger. There were people hurting, and people were not seeing one another very well. I was asked to pray, and I remember asking God for His presence. I prayed for peace. I prayed for unity. I prayed for God to do what only God could do in a room like that. I do not remember every word I said. I do not know whether it was a good prayer. I just remember praying.

When that meeting was over, I walked out to our Pacifica. I got in, and before I drove away, I just sat there. I began to weep, and I prayed again for God’s presence. I believe God met me there. I do. I do not know if I was the only one who noticed His presence that night. I dunno. But I knew that I had been met by God.

And while I sat there, Luke 19 came to my mind. Jesus is looking over Jerusalem, and He weeps. He is looking at people He loves. He sees their pain. He sees their rebellion. He sees what is coming. He sees that they have missed the time of God’s coming to them. And Jesus weeps.

Jesus is not looking at them like they are a problem to solve. He is not standing at a distance, frustrated because people should

know better. He sees them. He loves them. He is near, and He cares.

That moment stayed with me, because I began to wonder what we do with moments like that. We have them. Something breaks open in us. A verse gets through the noise. We sense the weight of the presence of God. We know, somehow, that He is near. But then we can go back to life as if we did not just come face to face with the living God. We treat it like a kind gesture from God. He met me. He touched my heart. That was nice. And then we go back to tending the same fears, holding the same burdens, living as though nothing really changed.

I do not think the question is only, “Have you ever had a moment with God?” I think the deeper question is, “What does it mean to live like you have met Him?”

That is where Philippians began to open up for me. Most of us know chapter 4, verse 6.

PHILIPPIAN S 4:6 “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

We know that verse. We quote that verse. We put it on pictures. We say it to one another when life gets hard.

But I have to be honest. When I read that verse, there have been times when I got anxious just reading it. I read, “Do not be anxious,” and I think, how? It almost lands like somebody saying, “Don’t worry. Be happy.” And I know that is not what Paul is saying, but when your heart is already overwhelmed, it can feel like one more thing you are supposed to get right. One more command you are failing at.

Because my worry is real. Your pain is real. The thing that keeps you awake at night is real. The grief is real. The fear for your child is real. The marriage that feels strained is real. The sickness is real. The decision you do not know how to make is real. The ache in your heart over something you cannot change is real. I do not ever want to stand in front of someone who is hurting and act like their hurt is not hurt, or their pain is not pain.

Paul is not doing that here. Paul is writing from prison. He knows what it is to suffer. He knows what it is to be uncertain about what comes next. He knows what it is to have people turn against him, to feel weakness in his body, to not know how things will turn out. So he is not saying, “Just push it down. Smile harder. Pretend you are okay. Pray better.” He is saying something deeper, and I think we miss it when we begin at verse 6.

Because that is what I had done for a long time. Anxiety would come, and I would tell myself, “Lay it down. Give it to God.

Pray.” And that is biblical. We are told to cast our cares on Him because He cares for us. But I began to realize that I was treating prayer almost like a procedure. Anxiety comes. I am supposed to get rid of it. I am supposed to lay it down correctly. I am supposed to pray long enough until I feel better. Then I would read, “Do not be anxious,” and it felt as though I had one more burden to carry.

But one day, while I was trying to learn how to pray, trying to lay down anxiety that honestly I did not know how to lay down, I looked one verse back. I had been staring at verse 6, “Do not be anxious,” but I had not stopped long enough at verse 5.

PHILIPPIAN S 4:5 “The Lord is near.”

And something clicked for me. My anxiety did not instantly disappear. The situation did not immediately change. I did not suddenly know what to do. But I saw that before Paul tells me what to do with my anxiety, he tells me where I am.

The Lord is near.

Then I began asking why Paul put that sentence there. Why does he say, “The Lord is near,” right between rejoicing, gentleness, anxiety, prayer, thanksgiving, and peace? Paul did not just drop that sentence into his letter for no reason. He has

been taking us somewhere all through chapter 3. So I started looking back.

Look at chapter 3, verse 8. Paul says, PHILIPPIAN S 3:8 “I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”

Think about the man saying that. Paul had a résumé. He had a religious background. He had knowledge. He had discipline. He had morality. He had the kind of life that could make someone say, “I have done enough. I have earned my place.” But Paul says all of it is loss compared to knowing Christ.

He is not saying those things did not matter at all. He is saying they could not carry the weight of his soul. They could not save him. They could not make him right with God. They could not give him a righteousness he could stand on when everything else began to shake. Christ is of surpassing worth. Christ is better.

Then Paul says in verse 9 that he wants to be found in Him. Not found in his own righteousness. Not found in his own ability. Not found in his own record. Not found in how well he has done. Found in Christ.

That matters when you pray. When you come before God, you do not come hoping you have had a good enough week for Him

to hear you. You do not come hoping your words sound right enough. You do not come bringing your spiritual résumé and saying, “Lord, look what I have done.” You come through Christ. You are found in Christ. The righteousness you need is not something you build for yourself; it is something Christ gives when you trust Him.

Then Paul says in verse 10, PHILIPPIAN S 3:1 0 “I want to know Christ.”

There it is again. I want to know Him. Not only know facts about Him. Not only know what He can do for me when I need help. I want to know Christ. I want to know the power of His resurrection. I want to know Him when life is good, and I want to know Him when life hurts. I want to know Him in suffering. I want to know Him in uncertainty. I want to know Him.

Then Paul says in verse 12, PHILIPPIAN S 3:1 2 “I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.”

That is where the whole thing started opening up for me. Paul is seeking Christ. Paul is pressing on. Paul is not sitting still. But

he is not chasing Christ in order to make Christ love him. He is pursuing Christ because Christ has already taken hold of him.

Christ came after Paul. Christ saved Paul. Christ made Paul His own.

Paul is not trying to make God come near. Christ has taken hold of him.

Paul is not trying to earn the love of God. Christ has taken hold of him.

Paul is not trying to work his way into the presence of God. Christ has taken hold of him.

And then Paul comes into chapter 4.

PHILIPPIAN S 4:1 , 4 – 5 “Therefore, my brothers and sisters, you whom I love and long for, stand firm in the Lord.” Rejoice in the Lord. Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.

That is what comes before, “Do not be anxious.”

Paul is not giving an anxious person a command detached from the gospel. He is not saying, “Stop worrying.” He is reminding them of the Christ they know, the Christ in whom they are found, the Christ who has taken hold of them, the Christ in whom they are called to stand firm.

Then he says, “The Lord is near.”

I had been trying to lay anxiety down almost as though I was alone, trying to get rid of something inside of me. But Paul is showing us that before we ever form a prayer, before we know what words to use, before we can make sense of what hurts, we are already before God.

The Lord is near.

My pain is real, but it is not the only thing that is real. My anxiety is real, but it is not the only thing that is true in that moment. My questions may be real. My fear may be real. I may not know what comes next. But the Lord is near. Christ has taken hold of me. I am found in Him.

And that changes how we lay anxiety down. It does not mean that pain suddenly stops being painful. It does not mean that we learn a formula and everything becomes easy. It means I am no longer trying to empty my heart into a vacuum. I remember Jesus. I remember who He is. I remember what He has done. I remember that He has taken hold of me. And I bring what is real in me before the God who is already near.

There is a reason that can be hard for us. Go all the way back to Genesis 3. Adam and Eve are in a garden God has given them. They have life. They have abundance. They have one another. They have the presence of God. And then the serpent begins with a question: “Did God really say?” The serpent does not

begin by attacking the fruit. He attacks the character of God. He makes Eve wonder whether God is good, whether God is holding out on them, whether God can be trusted.

That is still the lie underneath so much of our fear and sin. God is not good. God is holding something back. I have to take control. I have to make my own way.

Adam and Eve take the fruit, and the first thing they do is try to cover themselves. They sew fig leaves together. Then they hear the Lord God coming in the garden, and they hide.

God is near, but they hide.

That is what sin does. It does not mean God has become absent. It means His presence now feels dangerous to us because shame has entered the room. We are afraid of being seen. We want to cover ourselves. We give God safe words, religious words, words that sound fine, but we keep the deepest part of us hidden.

But God comes looking for Adam. “Where are you?” He knows where Adam is. He is drawing Adam out. He is calling him to stop hiding and tell the truth.

That is the story of the Bible. God coming after hiding people.

Jesus did not come to teach us how to make better fig leaves. He came to deal with sin and shame. Adam took what the Father had forbidden. Jesus went into another garden and

prayed, “Not My will, but Yours be done.” Adam hid from God. Jesus stepped forward to meet those who came to arrest Him. At the cross, Jesus bore our sin and shame. Scripture says that Christ suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that He might bring us to God.

That is why “The Lord is near” is good news. Because of Christ, the nearness of God is not a reason to hide. It is an invitation to come.

Then think about Moses. Moses is tending sheep in Exodus 3. He is not in a sanctuary. He is not in front of people. He is in the wilderness, doing ordinary work on an ordinary day. Then he sees a bush burning, but it is not consumed. God calls his name. God tells him to take off his sandals, because the ground where he is standing is holy.

Why was the ground holy? Not because there was something special about the dirt. Not because Moses had found a more spiritual place. The ground was holy because God was there.

Then God tells Moses, “I have seen the suffering of My people. I have heard their cry. I know their pain. I have come down to rescue them.” That is the God who is near. He sees. He hears. He cares. He comes down.

And then God calls Moses into it. Moses had been tending sheep. God calls him to lead people. The shepherd of sheep is

going to become a shepherd for a people who need to be delivered.

Moses does not leave that bush saying, “That was a nice moment.” He does not go back to tending sheep as though nothing happened. He surrenders his life to the God who met him.

And Moses is not suddenly confident. He asks, “Who am I?” He gives God reasons why he cannot do what God is asking. But God does not answer Moses by telling him how impressive Moses is. God says, “I will be with you.”

Moses asks, “Who am I?” God says, “I will be with you.”

That becomes the answer for us too. The question is not, “Am I enough?” The question is, “Is He with me?” And when God is with us, He does not merely comfort us for a moment. He calls us. He redirects us. He teaches us to depend upon Him.

And later, in Exodus 33, after Moses had seen the sea open and water come from a rock and God rescue His people, he said something I still think about. “If Your presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here.” Moses had learned that the greatest gift was not safety, or bread, or even the promised land. The greatest gift was God Himself.

And I think that is where prayer changes. It is not only, “Lord, give me what I need.” It becomes, “Lord, I need You. I cannot

move one step without You.”

Through Christ, we have been given something Moses could only look toward. Moses met God at a bush. Israel would meet God in a tabernacle. Then there was a temple. But Jesus came. And Jesus says in John 14 that the Spirit will be with His people and in them. He says that the Father and the Son will come and make their home with the one who loves Him.

Make their home.

The Holy Spirit is not merely a feeling that comes and goes. He comforts us. He convicts us. He breaks our heart. He strengthens us. But the Holy Spirit is not an emotion we chase in a service. The Spirit of Christ dwells in His people.

Paul says the church is God’s temple and God’s Spirit dwells in them. He says we are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit. We are not holy because we are impressive. We are not holy because we had an emotional moment. Through Christ, God makes His home in His people.

The ground was holy because God was there. Our lives are meant to be set apart because the Spirit of God is in us. We do not leave the presence of God behind when we walk out of a worship gathering. We do not leave Him at the altar. We do not leave Him in one moment from years ago. Through Christ, His Spirit goes with us.

And that means we are not seeking a feeling this morning. We are seeking Christ. Paul said, “I want to know Christ.” That is the heart of this. We bring Him our needs, yes. We ask Him to help marriages, children, sickness, grief, fear, and decisions. But underneath every request is a deeper prayer: “Jesus, I want to know You. I want to trust You. I want to be changed by You.”

There will be times when you do not know what to pray. Romans 8 says the Spirit helps us in our weakness, because we do not always know what we ought to pray for. That is not failure. That is not God looking down at weak people with frustration. The Spirit helps weak people.

There are moments when you do not have a three-point prayer. You do not know whether to ask for healing or endurance, an open door or a closed door, a change in circumstances or strength to keep walking. Sometimes all you have is a groan, or the simple words, “Father, I do not know.”

And even there, the Spirit helps. The Father knows. Christ has taken hold of you.

So when we pray, we do not have to know every answer. We can come honestly and say, “Father, I do not know what to do, but let Christ be seen in me. Let Christ be magnified in this. Help me trust You with what I cannot carry.”

That brings us back to Philippians 4.

PHILIPPIAN S 4:6 “In every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

In every situation. Not only when you feel spiritual. Not only when you have the words. Not only when you know what comes next. In every situation.

Bring Him the fear. Bring Him the grief. Bring Him the marriage. Bring Him the child. Bring Him the sickness. Bring Him the thing that keeps you awake. Bring Him the thing you have carried too long. Bring Him the part of your heart that you have been hiding.

Prayer is not a transaction. We are not trying to make God care. We are coming before the Father who already does.

And Paul says to bring those requests with thanksgiving. Thanksgiving does not mean nothing hurts. Thanksgiving remembers. It remembers who Christ is. It remembers that He has been faithful. It remembers that, even when we do not understand, the Lord is near.

Then Paul says that the peace of God will guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. He does not promise that every circumstance immediately changes. Paul is writing from prison.

But he knows Christ. He is found in Christ. Christ has taken hold of him. The Lord is near.

That is peace. Not the absence of every trouble, but the presence of God in the middle of it.

So I do not want us to leave this morning merely talking about prayer. Paul says, “Present your requests to God,” and we are going to do that together.

I know where we are. We are in a cafeteria. There are tables, chairs, carts, children’s spaces, setup, teardown, all of it. This is an ordinary room. But Moses was in an ordinary place too when God met him.

We do not make this room holy because we came forward. We do not make the front of this room more sacred than your chair. But Christ is present among His people, and we are His body. So we can bring our requests together. We can seek Him together. We can pray together.

Maybe you need to bring something you have been carrying alone. Maybe you are afraid. Maybe you are tired. Maybe there is grief. Maybe there is sin you have been trying to cover. Maybe you do not even know what to ask for. You do not have to come with perfect words. You do not have to prove anything to anyone.

Come because Christ has made a way.

Come because the Lord is near.

Come because the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

Come because Paul, after all he had seen and done, still said, “I want to know Christ.”

You can come to the front. You can kneel where you are. You can find somebody and say, “Will you pray with me?” But let us not walk away from this ordinary room unchanged. Let us seek Christ together. Let us present our requests together. Let us come before the God who sees, hears, cares, and comes down.

Father, we come to You together. We bring You our fear, our hurt, our grief, our questions, our marriages, our children, our sickness, our need, and the things we do not know how to say. We do not come because we have earned our way into Your presence. We come because Christ has brought us to You. Teach us how to pray. Teach us to seek You, not only what You can do for us. Open the eyes of our hearts to see Christ. Make us people who know You, trust You, and live like Your Spirit dwells within us. And do not let us walk away unchanged. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Deo Volente.

Honor, Guard, Cherish

Good morning church.

First of all, I just want to take a moment and wish you a happy Father’s Day. To the dads. To the men who stepped in when somebody else stepped out. To the ones who never had a father and decided to become one anyway.

I just want you to know you are seen today.

And here is what I love about a day like today. On a day like today, I get to stand up in front of the men in this room and tell you about my father.

And of course you know what I mean. I mean the Father.

I love the Father, church. The Father has loved me in a way I could not begin to describe to you. And one of the joys of my life is getting to introduce him to other people. To tell you how blessed I am, by his undivided grace toward his Son, and by the Spirit of his Son that lives inside this clay vessel.

I think about Peter. I think about sitting down next to him while he writes these words.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you. 1 PETER 1:3-4

And... you have to understand something about me to understand why this verse wrecks my heart.

I did not have a father for so long. And for so long, I did not want the Father to be a Father. I can tell you, there was a point where Jesus was all I wanted. I thought he was all I needed. All that I have ever desired.

For my whole life as a child and young adult, I had no clue what a father is supposed to be. I have only been one for nineteen years.

There are three hearts in this world that call me father. And each one sees me a little differently. Three sets of eyes. Three versions of the same man.

And I think to myself, if three hearts, over nineteen years, and seventeen years, and thirteen years, can see me that many ways what about him?

What about our heavenly Father, who has had ages? Eons of watching his children. Some of them turning to see him. and those children of the world… turning to reject him. A Father who, in all that time, has done everything and I mean, everything out of love for those he loves, which is all of his children. You see, living for Jesus cost me so much of my life. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.

Savior? Yes. Friend of sinners? Yes, I needed that one. Lord? In time. In time he became my Mater and Lord.

But….. there was a season where I just I didn’t want him to live for me. I wanted to live for him.

And here is what I did not understand back then. To live for Christ is to live with a heart that treasures the Son’s Father.

There’s this moment, the night before Jesus dies. He’s in a room with the men who’ve followed him for three years. And one of them, a guy named Philip, finally just says the quiet part out loud. He says, Lord, just show us the Father. That’s it. Show us the Father, and we’ll be satisfied.

And church, I understand Philip, because theres a bit of him within me. Because that has been the cry of my whole life. Just show me the Father. That would be enough. I’ll be reading about Jesus and someone like this would say, just show him… put the beef down and lets hear it sizzle.

And listen to how Jesus answers him.

Have I been with you so long, and you still do not know me, Philip? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. JOHN 14:9

Now church, here is something I had to learn the hard way. You cannot see the Father rightly until you see the Son rightly.

And for a long time, I didn’t. For a long time, Jesus was useful to me. He was my rescue. He was my way out. He was the one who got me to the good stuff.

But a Jesus you use is a Jesus who is still all about you.

Listne, He is not a springboard to the Father. He is not a door you walk through to get to the thing you actually wanted. Looking at him is looking at the Father. He is not the window. He is the face.

And you might be asking me, okay pastor, but how? How do I see the Son rightly? How do I stop using him and start treasuring him?

And church, the answer was sitting right there in the verse I already read you. Go back and listen to how Peter even starts.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. 1 PETER 1:3 DID, You hear that? That’s not a man teaching. That’s a man worshiping, within these words, within this page.… Peter can’t even get the sentence going without blessing God first.

And that, right there, is the difference. A Jesus you use you study him for what he can do for you. A Jesus you treasure you can’t open your mouth without blessing him.

And when you finally see him like that, you start to see the whole shape of it. Listen to the verse again. His great mercy came first. It came to you through the risen Son. And it was always headed somewhere. Into a living hope.

Mercy first. Through the Son. Headed somewhere.

I didn’t start any of it. I was caught up in the middle of it. Mercy I didn’t earn reached me through a Son I didn’t deserve. And I get just a little taste of that even now. Sometimes I’m sitting in prayer. Sometimes I’m up on a mountain west of here looking over the edge of our world. And sometimes, if I’m honest, I’m just sitting in the pain that I’m in. Sometimes it’s mine. Sometimes it’s a weight I’m carrying for somebody else.

And in those moments something comes up out of me. And it isn’t holy, holy, holy. It’s quieter than that.

It’s that still, small voice. Right here, in my chest. The recognition that he is present. That he is in me.

And all it ever says is Beloved… I am here.

And maybe maybe that’s why this one little word, this Abba, this daddy-word, this most intimate way a person could ever say the name Father, means so much more to me now than it ever used to.

Because a love that deep, a love that’s been singing that same song since before there was even such a thing as time well, a love like that can only mean one thing.

It means he could love a weaker vessel like me.

Now hold onto that word. Weaker vessel. Because we’re about to walk into a verse where Peter uses it. And I’ll be honest with you, church, most of us hear that verse and we brace ourselves for a sermon about women.

But I want to tell you where I actually live in this text. I am the weaker vessel. Not weaker than Alicia. Weaker than my Father. I am the clay. He is the glory poured into it.

And here is what I’m learning.

I cannot honor, and guard, and cherish what I have not first been honored, and guarded, and cherished as.

I have nothing to hand my wife that he did not first hand me. But what he handed me he was never asking me to keep.

So here’s the question forming within me right now is this … What are you beholding? What are you, men… what are you treasuring in this life? Because what you behold is what you become able to give.

Right? We don’[t give what we don’t have.

Here is the verse.

Likewise, husbands, live with your wives according to knowledge, showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life, so that your prayers may not be hindered. 1 PETER 3:7

The whole thing hangs on one phrase. Live with her according to knowledge.

Now... that’s a good phrase, isn’t it? Live with her... according to knowledge.

That’s where we begin. And right here, it makes you stop and ask. Knowledge of what?

I mean... is Peter really asking me to know how a woman’s mind works? Because if that’s the test, brother, I’m in trouble.

because I think…. after, Twenty-one years in, I’m still learning her. And honestly? I love that. I’m not at the bottom of her yet. I’ve got another twenty-one years, Lord willing, to keep discovering her. To love her, to make her smile and to hold her when she’s scared, all the while praying that the Lord takes me first, because I wouldn’t be able to function if she was not with me.

Im not trying just to be romantic here.. just honest… because… living with her… accourdiign to knowledge, well that tells me she must be the brains of this whole operation we call marriage and life.

But… honestly, this question Peter raises, tells me something. Whatever Peter means by knowledge here, it can’t be a box you check on your wedding day.

Thats not it… it can’t be… So if it’s not that... then what is it?

Well, my best answer, at this stage in my marriage, is this.

The knowledge Peter’s after is learning to see her the way her Father sees her. Not the facts about her. Not her schedule, not her coffee order, not even twenty-one years of knowing her habits. I mean learning to behold her the…. way heaven beholds her.

Now hold onto that, Because here’s what I’m finding. On the mornings I get her wrong, it’s almost always because I forgot who she actually is. When I get things wrong… in our marriage, and im being honest.,.. I make mistakes… im human just like she is… when I get her wrong….. and start seeing her not has the beloved of Christ… iu no longer see a soul mate, I start seeing a problem.

I see A schedule. Something standing between me and my day. and I ask… in those moments, why? Why have I….. stopped seeing a daughter of God. A fellow heir. A clay jar, jus like me, in my love for the father, through Christ… who is carrying his glory.

Why would I see her in any other way other than to To live with her according to knowledge, which means to live with her is to never stop seeing what, and who she really is.

And church, watch how much seeing Peter packs into this one little verse. Knowledge of what honor is. What a vessel is. What weaker even means. And knowledge of how in the world a man can get his own prayers all tangled up.

And I love that. Because it means you don’t have to go groping around in the dark. You don’t have to wait till you’ve read the right book on marriage to start honoring her tonight. Peter says it’s already close. The knowledge, the you need to honor her, and love her, and to treasure her… is already near you.

So let me flip it around. What’s the opposite? What does it look like to live with her without knowledge?

And Peter already answered that one, back in chapter one.

He says, As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance.

As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance. 1 PETER 1:14 Former ignorance. Now hear me on this. That’s not the ignorance of a man who doesn’t know the facts. After twenty-one years, believe me, I’ve got the facts. I know her coffee order. I know which version of her is walking through the door after a hard day of housewifing.

No. The ignorance Peter’s talking about is sneakier than that. It’s knowing her so well that you quietly stop looking at her. It’s when knowing her turns into assuming her. It’s when she stops being someone you behold, and starts being someone you use. A help to your day. A problem in your evening. Something in the way of where you’re trying to go.

And that hurts my heart so much… when did you last looked at her, or him… or someone you care about and go, wow… I’m so captivated by you.

And, trust me, I know that road, church. I do. Because that’s exactly how I used to treat Jesus. I used him. And then one day I learned to treasure him. And everything changed.

So here’s the choice sitting in front of every man in this room. You’re going to live with her one of two ways.

According to what you now know, the daughter of God she really is.

Or according to what you used to be in the dark about, back when she was just useful to you.

Beholding her. Or using her.

And men, you’ve got to land on one or the other. But hear me, when I say choose, I don’t mean this is a choice you make by gritting your teeth and trying harder. Like if you just buckle down and decide to see her better, you’ll pull it off.

Because I’ve tried that. And it lasts about until Tuesday.

No. I learned this in the deeper room, remember? I didn’t climb my way into seeing the Father. The Spirit opened my hands. And, It was a gift. And it’s the same here. You can’t manufacture this kind of sight. You can only receive it.

So the real choice isn’t whether you’re strong enough to see her right. The choice is whether you’ll keep your hands open. Whether you’ll let him give you his eyes for her.

Igt all comes down to this… to know her.

And, be careful, because we hear that word and we think we know what it means. To know her. Like, have her figured out. Know what she’s going to say before she says it.

But that’s not the word Peter’s reaching for.

Listen. The very first time the Bible ever uses that word, to know, it’s not in a classroom. It’s not information at all. It’s Genesis. Adam knew his wife, and she conceived a son.

That’s the Bible being tender with us. Knowing, all the way down at its root, is the closeness between a husband and a wife. It’s covenant. It’s belonging. It’s two people who’ve given themselves to each other. To do what? To fulfill the purpose God has given to them.. to love him and to love one another.

Thats the gospel right there in genesis.

And then, watch what God does with that word. He picks it up in Hosea, and he says it about himself. He says, I will betroth you to me forever. And you will know the Lord. God takes the most intimate word we’ve got, the one that started in a marriage, and he says, that. That’s how I want to be known by you.

Not studied on a Wednesday night, or a Sunday morning. … Not figured out…. Known.

So when Peter turns to us husbands and says, live with her according to knowledge, do you hear how deep that goes now? He’s not asking me to master her. He’s asking me to know her the way God knows me. With covenant. With faithfulness. With a love that just... stays.

And here’s the thing about that kind of knowing. For Peter, it’s never cold. It was never just facts in your head. When you know someone like that, really know them, it lights a fire. It changes what you want.

Think back to before you knew God. Before any of this. There was a time we were all just... in the dark. Didn’t know what was up or down in the universe. Didn’t know the cross. Didn’t know the Spirit. Didn’t even really know what love was. The whole thing was fog.

And then God opens your eyes. New birth. And the knowing starts flooding in. But watch what Peter says happens next, because this is the part we skip right over. The new knowing

makes new wanting. New loves. New desires. You don’t just know more. You start to want differently.

That’s actually how you can tell something’s alive. Right? How do you know a baby’s alive? It wants something. A living thing wants.

Its natural… the only reason your even here today is what? You want something. And for osmen of you, its Christ, for some of you.. its to be recognized as fathers at churhc… for some of you… you’re just here and confused.

Now somebody’s going to push back on me. Pastor, there’s a long way between my head and my heart. And listen, maybe. Yeah, sometimes there is.

But I know that distance better than most. I lived in it for years. I had all of Jesus up in my head. I had the facts. But the Father didn’t land in my heart until he opened my hands and I finally saw him. And here’s what I learned in that moment. What closed the gap wasn’t me trying harder to feel something. It was the seeing. The seeing is what lit the fire.

So when Peter turns to us and says, live with her according to knowledge, I’m hearing all of that underneath it. He’s saying, men, you know her now. So you’re going to feel something now. Because you cannot really see who she is and stay unmoved.

So let me show you what you’re actually looking at. When a man finally sees his wife with those eyes, here’s who’s standing in his kitchen.

She is a fellow heir of the grace of life. That’s Peter’s word. A fellow heir. Same grace as you. Same inheritance as you. Same forever as you. Remember that inheritance I read you way back at the beginning? Imperishable, undefiled, unfading, kept in heaven? Hear me, men. That’s not just yours. It’s hers. Every bit as much as it’s yours.

And I think that changes the very first thought a man’s allowed to have in the morning. Not what she did wrong yesterday. Not the argument you never finished. The first true thing, before your feet even hit the floor, is this. The woman lying next to me is going to inherit the world.

And I didn’t make that up. Paul did.

All things are yours, whether the world or life or death or the present or the future. All are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s. 1 CORINTHIANS 3:21-23

She inherits the world, church. And that’s just for starters. After that, the galaxies are her backyard.

So let me ask you something. When’s the last time you read Scripture to her? And I don’t mean about her. I mean to her. When’s the last time you pulled a Solomon?

Because Solomon went for it. Listen to how this man talks to his wife.

Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing. SONG OF SONGS 4:2 Now, some of you know Alicia and I have two Finn sheep. Jeb Jeb. And Pickles.

So picture this with me. I take Alicia out to the pen. Just the four of us. Jeb Jeb, Pickles, me, and my bride. And I look deep into her eyes, and I say... honey... your teeth... they’re just like Jeb Jeb after a good wash.

I don’t think that lands the way Solomon meant it.

But here’s what he’s actually doing. He’s saying, baby, your teeth are white, you’ve still got every one of them, and in his day, that was a compliment. That was the man swooning.

And here’s what gets me about it. Solomon isn’t being weird. He’s a man who has looked at his wife so long, and loved her so much, that he’s run clean out of normal words. He’s grabbing for sheep and goats and towers because plain language just can’t hold what he sees when he looks at her.

So let me ask it straight, men. When’s the last time you looked at your wife long enough... to run out of words?

Because that’s what beholding does. It ruins you for careless words. And it’s the opposite of being harsh. So let me ask the other plain question. How do you get to be harsh with someone like that? How do you talk down to a fellow heir of the grace of life over a sink full of dishes? Or dirty kids, or something doesn’t get done?

I don’t care what she did. I don’t care how many problems are stacked up in your house this morning. Strong believer, struggling believer, the morning after the worst fight you’ve ever had, it doesn’t change the knowing. She is a fellow heir of the grace of life. And the man who really sees that... loves her as the father loves her.

Now right after Peter calls her a fellow heir, he uses a word that trips people up. He calls her a vessel.

And church, you remember what I told you about myself this morning? I said I’m the clay, and he’s the glory poured into it. Well, here’s the thing, that’s not me being poetic. That’s Peter. He’s been saying it this whole letter. The container fades. The treasure doesn’t.

So when Peter gets to chapter three and calls her a vessel, his people already know exactly what he means. A vessel is a container. And it almost always holds something worth more than itself.

Alicia just bought this pitcher for our counter. Fills it with water, drops in some fruit. And when I come in thirsty and reach for it, I promise you I’m not admiring the pitcher. Nobody writes a poem about the pitcher. I want what’s inside. The glass is just carrying the good part.

And church, Paul says it out loud, the same way, with the same word Peter’s using.

We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 2 CORINTHIANS 4:7

There it is. Jars of clay. And what’s in the jar? The glory of God himself.

So when Peter calls her a vessel, he’s not insulting her. He’s telling you what she’s carrying. She’s clay holding glory. And so are you. Every one of us in this room is a clay jar carrying something worth a thousand times more than the jar.

And men, once you really see that... you handle people differently. You stop being careless with the clay. Because you’ve finally noticed what’s inside it.

Which brings us to the word everybody snags on. Weaker. The weaker vessel.

And I’m not going to dance around it. I want to open the book and watch what Peter actually does with it. Because Peter does not do the thing we’re all afraid he’s about to do.

Here’s the first thing. Look at the whole verse again.

Likewise, husbands, live with your wives according to knowledge, showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life. 1 PETER 3:7

You see it? Weaker vessel... since they are heirs with you. Same breath. Same sentence. Weaker, and fellow heir, sitting right next to each other. So whatever Peter means by weaker, he cannot mean lesser. The same verse says she inherits everything you inherit. He built the guardrail right into his own sentence.

Now here’s the second thing, and this is the one that settles it for me. You have to back up and read what Peter was saying right before he ever turned to us husbands. Look how he describes her, just a verse up.

For this is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves... And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening. 1 PETER 3:5-6

Read that last line again. Do not fear anything that is frightening. That’s his picture of her. A daughter of Sarah. A woman who hoped in God so deeply that nothing in this world could scare her.

So sit with that. Two verses before Peter ever says the word weaker, his portrait of this woman is a woman who is fearless. Rooted. Brave. Unshakable. So when he turns around and says weaker vessel, he is not talking about some timid little thing who needs a man to have a backbone for her. He just told you how strong her soul is.

Now, is there a plain sense to the word? Sure. In general, she may be the more physically tender one, and Peter’s first readers just assumed that. I’m not going to pretend the word isn’t on the page. But watch what Peter builds on top of it. Read his own logic. He does not say, she’s weaker, therefore you’re in charge. He does not say, she’s weaker, therefore you decide. Look at what he actually says. She’s weaker... therefore show her honor.

That’s the whole move. Weaker, therefore honor. Peter takes the one place she might be more easily hurt, and he does not build a ladder over her. He builds an altar to her. The more tender the vessel, the more carefully you carry it. The honor goes up, not down.

And you have to understand how strange that is. Because our whole culture has only ever handed us two options for this. Two. And Peter’s holding out a third that nobody’s selling.

The first one’s the old one. Strength means you’re in charge. The stronger one stands over the weaker one and sets the terms. And honestly? A lot of you, when you heard “weaker vessel,” that’s the ladder you braced for. You thought, here it comes, the Bible’s about to put men on top.

But it didn’t. Peter already kicked that ladder over two verses ago. Fellow heir. Do not be afraid. He is not handing you a throne.

The second option is the one we’re most proud of. We looked at that old hierarchy, and we hated it, and I get why. So we said, alright, no difference at all. Dead even. We’ll keep score.

You do half, I do half, you got the kids last time so it’s my turn, and if there’s a noise downstairs at two in the morning, it’s as much your turn as mine. And that sounds like fairness. It sounds like progress.

But you want to know what it actually is? It’s still a ladder. It’s just a ladder where everybody’s white-knuckling their own rung, making sure nobody climbs higher. It’s a marriage run like a bank statement. And there is no honor in a bank statement. There’s just math.

And then here comes Peter. And he won’t put the man on top. And he won’t hand you a measuring tape either. He points at this woman, this vessel full of the glory of God, points at the very place she’s more tender, and he says one word. Honor. Guard her there. Spend your strength on her.

That’s not a ladder. That’s an altar. Our culture can hand you a throne, or it can hand you a scoreboard. Only Jesus hands you a man who lays his strength down, on purpose, like worship, over the treasure God set right in front of him.

And men, hear how this lands on me. I told you at the very start. I’m the weaker vessel. Weaker than my Father. I’m clay too. So I don’t get to stand over her as the strong one looking down on the weak one. That was never it. I’m just one clay jar, who got handed a little strength by pure grace, and the whole point of that strength is to spend it guarding another jar carrying the same glory I am.

That’s what the strength is for. And whatever strength I’ve got, I didn’t make it. It was given to me. So even my guarding... is just grace passing through.

So if there’s a noise downstairs in the dark, I’m not lying there doing the math on whose turn it is. Love doesn’t do math. Love runs toward the noise. If something’s down there, I’m going first. Not because she couldn’t handle it. She might handle it better than me. That was never the question. The question is whether there’s something in a man that says, I will put myself between her and the danger, because she is my treasure. And because Someone went first for me.

But church, hear me. Most nights there is no noise downstairs. Most nights it’s just the two of you. And the day you had. And the things that didn’t get said.

And do you remember how Peter even ended that verse? He says, show her honor so that your prayers may not be hindered.

And men, I have to be honest with you about what that is. We’ve been circling it all morning and I think it’s time we just name it. Using her instead of beholding her. That’s

not a rough patch. It’s not the dishes. It’s not the schedule. It’s not whose turn it was at two in the morning. I’m just going to say it plain. That’s sin.

And here’s the thing that wrecks me about it. It’s the same heart. The same heart that curves in on itself and uses Jesus is the same heart that curves in and uses her. I know that heart. I lived in that heart for years.

And now church, here’s where a lesser sermon, here’s where I would have preached this ten years ago. I’d just tell you to go home and fix it. Try harder. Be a better man. Be a better husband. But do you hear it? That’s just using Jesus again, isn’t it? Reaching for him like a self-improvement plan. Like a ticket to a better marriage.

No. The answer to a curved-in heart was never a better effort. The answer was a cross.

The Son already went down first. He ran toward the worst noise there ever was your sin and mine and he went all the way down into it. He honored you and guarded you and cherished you while you were still the man using everyone to fill himself. He paid it. It is finished.

And church here’s the thing I keep circling back to. Even there. Even on that cross. His eyes were not first on me.

I used to think they were. I used to think the whole thing was just about getting me out. But the Son went to that cross for his Father. For his Father’s love. For his Father’s name that it would be shown for the glory it is. He went down loving his Father all the way to the bottom of it.

And it took me years to see this but it’s the only kind of cross that could ever have saved me. Because a Jesus who died just to get me out well, that’s a ticket again, isn’t it? That’s a rescue and nothing more. But a Son who goes to a cross for the love of his Father that’s a treasure. And in the wake of a love like that the door swung open and I got carried all the way home. I didn’t just get out of something. I got in.

So hear our word one more time. Only now don’t hear it as a job. Hear it as the gift it always was.

I cannot honor, and guard, and cherish what I have not first been honored, and guarded, and cherished as. And on a cross, church you were.

So you don’t kneel tonight to buy your way back. You kneel because you already belong.

Because here’s what that old sin still tries to do. It dulls you toward God himself. You’re carrying something you won’t even name and all of a sudden you don’t feel like praying. You kneel down already thinking is he even listening? Sin will quietly talk a man out of the very thing he needs most.

So when Peter says, so that your prayers may not be hindered this is what he’s reaching for. Look with me at the very next verse. 1 Peter 3, verse 12.

For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are open to their prayer. 1 PETER 3:12 The man who uses his wife finds his own prayers all tangled up. Not because God is keeping score. Because sin always pulls the heart back in on itself. And a heart that pulls toward self is always a heart that can’t guard, or honor, or cherish anyone other than self.

And that, men that’s the whole sermon in one room. The man who’s been beholding her can kneel. The man who’s been using her can’t. And if you can’t hear me that’s not the end. That’s the altar again. You go first. Not down the stairs this time. Down to your knees. You kneel beside her and you say Lord, we don’t even feel like praying tonight. Help us. Amen. That’s a lousy little prayer. And it’s one of the most honoring things a man can do. Because he went first. Because Someone went first for him.

Come And Be Loved

So here’s what I’m not going to do. I’m not sending you home with a list. Five steps to a better father. Ten ways to love your wife. You’d lose the paper by Tuesday and church, so would I.

I’m going to give you one thing. Just one.

Tonight. Before your head hits the pillow. You go first. You find her and you look at her long enough to run clean out of words. And then you say the truest thing you know. You are a fellow heir of the grace of life. And I haven’t been beholding you the way heaven does. And I want to start tonight.

That’s it. You don’t have to fix the marriage tonight. You just have to go first. Because Someone went first for you.

Honor, Guard, Cherish 1 Peter 3:7 Father’s Day

Show Me Your Glory

Good morning, church. It is so good to be back in this room with you. On these gym chairs, with this family, doing this one more Sunday together. I hope I never get over what a gift that is.

Last week we sat together in Acts 2, and we watched the Spirit get poured out. On the young and the old. On the sons and the daughters. On a hundred and twenty ordinary people who did one ordinary thing. They came near. And I told you that the Spirit comes when we come near.

I have not been able to put that down all week. And there is one piece of it in particular I have not been able to put down. Last week I stood right here and told you that the body of Jesus was torn open on a cross so that two people who could not stand each other could be made one. That our unity was never cheap. It cost Him His flesh.

Jesus died for that. He died to make us one. I was pulling some old sermons together this week, and I found a journal entry I had forgotten I ever wrote. It was from a night back in 2022. And the second my eyes hit it, I was right back there. I could feel that night again.

The Lord had woken me up in the dark. I am not going to make it sound more dramatic than it was. But I came up out of sleep with a prayer already on my lips, and I could not shake it. Lord, if we are going to move forward as a church, we have to be desperate for You. So I got up before the sun, I sat down in the living room with that same journal, and one sentence was the only thing my heart knew how to say.

Are we desperate for His presence.

I wrote that four years ago. And church, I am still asking it. Different church. Different state. Different room. Same question. Because some questions do not get answered once and filed away. They keep circling back around until you finally deal with them. And this week, this one found me again, in my own handwriting.

Slow down over that word Now I want to slow down over that word desperate, because I know how it can sound. For some of us, desperate is not a comfortable word. It sounds dramatic. It sounds like panic. It sounds like someone falling apart at the seams. And if that is what you hear when I say it, I understand why you would want to keep your distance from it.

So let me tell you what I do not mean, and then let me tell you what I do.

There is a desperation that comes out of fear, and there is a desperation that comes out of clarity. They are not the same thing. Fear says, I am losing control. Clarity says, I finally know what I cannot live without. One of them is panic. The other one is the truest thing your soul has ever said.

That second one is what I am talking about this morning. Desperation for God is not panic. It is clarity. It is the heart finally seeing that God is not one more thing we need, somewhere on the list. He is the One we need underneath everything else we need.

Think about it like this. When you cannot breathe, you do not negotiate for air. You do not sit there and weigh your options. When someone you love is in trouble, you do not casually hope that help shows up eventually. And when you feel unseen, or unwanted, or alone, something honest starts to rise up in you, and the ache begins to tell the truth.

Here is what I have learned about that ache. We are very good at calling it other names. We call it ambition, or anxiety, or being busy, or just keeping everybody happy. We dress it up so we do not have to look straight at it. But underneath all of it, the soul is asking a few very old questions. Am I safe. Am I wanted. Am I alone in this. Is there anywhere I can finally set myself down and stop carrying my own weight.

And hear me, that ache is not a flaw in you. You were made to need. Not as a weakness, as a design. We were never built to stand on our own, and the loneliness so many of us carry around is not a small thing or a shallow thing. It is the soul telling the truth about what it was made for. And what it was made for is God Himself. This is why I love the way Jesus said it. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst. He did not say blessed are the impressive. He did not say blessed are the people who have it all together. He blessed the ones who feel their own emptiness and ache for what only God can fill. Hunger is not hype. Thirst is not drama. They are your body telling you the plain truth about what it cannot live without. And Jesus says the person who feels that, and brings it to Him, is blessed.

So when I ask if we are desperate for His presence, I am not trying to work you up. I am not asking you to manufacture a feeling or perform an emotion for me. I am asking if we are finally willing to be honest about what we cannot live without.

And here is the gospel underneath all of it. Jesus does not stand off at a distance and tell desperate people to calm down. He comes near. He takes on flesh. He walks straight into our loneliness and our striving and our fear and our shame, and He does not flinch, and He carries us home to the Father. That is the One we are dealing with this morning.

So open your Bibles with me to Exodus 33. Because there is a man in this chapter who got honest about all of this a long time before we did.

The blessing without the presence Let me set the scene for you. Moses is up on the mountain with God. And while he is gone, the people he led up out of Egypt go to his brother Aaron and talk him into building them a god they can see. So they melt down their gold, they shape it into a calf, and they throw a party around it.

And I do not want you to miss one small detail in how it happened. Watch Aaron's eyes. EXODUS 32:5 Aaron saw how excited the people were, so he built an altar in front of the calf. So where was Aaron looking? Look at the verse again. He saw how excited the people were. That is where his eyes were the whole time. Not up the mountain. Not toward the presence of God. He was watching the crowd. He read the room, and then he gave the room what it wanted. And I want to be gentle with Aaron here, because I am afraid I understand him better than I would like to. Aaron knew about God. He could have told you all the right things about God. He had just never been ruined by Him. And if I am honest, there is a little bit of Aaron in all of us. It is so much easier to watch the crowd than it is to seek the face of God. It is so much easier to hand people what they want than to lead them to the One they actually need.

So God sends Moses back down the mountain. Moses pleads for the people. And then God says something to Moses that I want you to really hear. EXODUS 33:1-3 Leave this place, you and the people you brought up out of Egypt, and go up to the land I promised. I will send an angel before you and drive out your enemies. Go up to the land flowing with milk and honey. But I will not go with you. Go. Take the land. It is yours. Everything I promised, milk and honey, all of it. I will even send an angel out ahead of you to clear away your enemies. You can have the whole thing.

But I will not go with you.

And do not miss who He is saying that to. These are not faithful people. This is the same crowd that, while Moses was still up on the mountain in the presence of God, melted down their jewelry and threw a party around a golden calf. They had just betrayed Him to His face. And He is still offering them the land. He is still offering to send them in with every promise kept. Church, that much, to people like that, is already grace. The staggering part of this is not the part He offers. It is the one thing He holds back. Himself.

So let me ask you something, and you can be honest, because nobody is standing at the door checking your answer. There is something you have been asking God for. You know exactly what it is. Some of you prayed about it on the drive in this morning. Now imagine He looks at you and says yes. Yes to the very thing you have been longing for. But understand, I will not be in it.

Would you take that deal? Be careful how fast you answer. Because if we are honest, that deal is the version of Christianity a lot of us have quietly settled into. Pray the prayer. Get the ticket to heaven. Collect the blessings along the way. And do not trouble Me again until something breaks. Somewhere along the line we learned to want the gifts of God so much more than we want God.

And I will not ask you that question without telling you where my own heart has been on it. Because you might remember, a few weeks ago I stood in this same spot and told you I would rather miss the blessing and still have hold of the hand of the Blesser. I meant it then. I mean it more now. That turn came slowly in me, slower than I wish it had, and lower than I want to admit. But my heart has been learning to pray something like this.

Father, even if I miss the blessing. Even if the thing I was so sure You were going to do never comes, let me be just as glad as I would have been if it had, as long as I still have hold of Your hand.

That is the truest prayer I know how to pray. And it is really just Moses, put into my own words. Keep the milk. Keep the honey. I want Your hand.

But I have to be honest about the other half of it too. Because the moment I take my eyes off Him, the moment I feel my hand starting to slip out of His, it is so easy. So easy for my heart to wander off and start treating Him as useful again. As the way to get the thing, instead of the thing itself. And here is the only thing I have ever found that actually holds me there. It was never the strength of my grip on Him. It was the strength of His grip on me. I slip my hand out. He does not slip His. My heart wanders. His does not. He has been holding on the whole time.

Because hear me, church. Jesus is not useful. He is not the road to the blessing. He is the blessing.

Think about the verse you have known your whole life. You learned it before you could tie your shoes. JOHN 3:16 For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. We can say it in our sleep. But stop on those last two words. Eternal life. When you hear that, what do you reach for? Streets of gold. A house with your name on it. Everyone you have buried, standing at the gate, waiting for you. All of it good. All of it true. But listen to how Jesus Himself defined it, in the same week, in the very prayer we are going to live inside this morning. JOHN 17:3 Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent. That is the definition, and it came out of His own mouth. Eternal life is not first a place. It is a Person. It is knowing Him. And do not miss what that means, because we are coming back to it before this morning is done. To know Him like that is to be wanted by Him like that. So when the Bible says that Christ died to bring us to God, hear how far that goes. Not to bring us to a better version of this life. Not even, in the end, to bring us to heaven.

Then what is it? What are we actually chasing in this whole faith?

Listen to the prayer again. Everything Jesus prays that night is so that, through Him, He can bring us to the Father. As His own. That is the whole thing. Heaven is not the destination. The Father is. You could take away the gold and the houses and the reunions, set Christ alone in an empty room, and that room would be heaven. Because heaven was only ever the room where we finally have Him with nothing left in the way.

Because He was always the point. He is not the means to your joy. He is your joy. He is not the door to the treasure. He is the treasure. He is not the way to God that you leave behind once you arrive. He is God, come all the way down to get you.

If You are not coming, I do not want it So here is Moses, with the deal of a lifetime sitting right there on the table. Listen to what he says. EXODUS 33:15 If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. If You are not coming, then I do not want it. Keep the milk. Keep the honey. I would rather have a wilderness with You than a paradise without You.

And there it is. So what was the promised land, really? Strip God out of it. What is left? Without Him it is just real estate. Good soil and good weather under an empty sky. Milk and honey cannot comfort a soul that was made for the presence of God. Moses knew that. He had been close enough to God to know that nothing else would ever be enough again.

And notice where that came from. It did not come from a guilt trip. Nobody shamed it into him. It came from a man who had tasted the presence of God and could not take one more step without it.

Are we desperate for His presence?

Show me your glory Now watch what Moses does next. He has just turned down a paradise. And instead of asking for something smaller, something safer, he asks for more. EXODUS 33:18 Now show me your glory. Think about who is saying this. This is the man who saw a bush burn and not be consumed. The man who watched the sea stand up like two walls of water and his whole nation walk through it on dry ground. The man who had just come down off a mountain that was on fire with the presence of God. If anyone in history had seen enough of God, it was this man. And what does he say? Show me more.

How does a man who has seen all of that still ache for more? I will tell you how. Because that is what beauty does to you. Once you have truly tasted Him, you cannot stop. The glory of God is not like a good meal that fills you up and leaves you content to push back from the table. It is the opposite. The more of Him you see, the more of Him you have to see. He satisfies you and makes you hungrier in the very same moment.

And maybe that finally explains a prayer some of you have prayed a hundred times and never seen change. You have stood at your kitchen counter and said, Lord, I want to pray more. I want to be in Your word more. I want to know You more. I just cannot seem to get there. I have prayed that exact prayer with my own coffee going cold in my hand. And maybe the problem was never that you are lazy. Maybe the problem is that you have not yet tasted enough of Him to be ruined for everything else.

Because here is the truth about holiness, and I want to say it carefully. Holiness is not the old life managed better. Holiness is the old life losing its grip because Christ has become better. It is not mostly about trying harder. It is mostly about looking longer. You do not white-knuckle your way into loving God. You behold Him until the old appetites loosen their hold on you on their own. Now watch how God answers a man who asks to see His glory. Before anything else, before the cleft of the rock, before any of it, He says this. EXODUS 33:19 I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. Do you see what just happened there? Moses asks to see His glory, and God reaches for His goodness, as if the two words were the same word. As if you could not tell them apart. And in God, you cannot. His glory is not bare power. A storm has power. A mountain has power. The glory of God is all of His goodness and all of His mercy, the whole weight of who He is, bending low toward people who have done nothing to deserve it. That is what Moses was about to watch go by.

And this is the thing I do not want you to miss about Moses. He was not desperate because something was wrong with him. He was desperate because Someone was beautiful in front of him. He had seen enough of God to know there was nothing in all the world more worth having than more of God. That is what was driving him. Not his emptiness. God's worth. When you have seen even a little of how good He is, wanting more of Him stops being a struggle and starts being the most natural thing your heart has ever done.

But then God tells Moses the one thing he cannot have. EXODUS 33:20 You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live. And even in the no, God is tender. He takes Moses and tucks him down into a crack in the rock. He covers him over with His own hand. And He lets Moses see only His back as His goodness passes by.

Sit with that for a second. Moses, the friend of God, the man who spoke with God the way a man speaks with his friend, got to watch the goodness of God go by from inside the cleft of a rock. He got the back. He never got the face. That was as close as anyone could come and still live.

He wanted you first And here is where I have to turn this whole morning around on you. Because I have spent all of it asking whether you are desperate for His presence. But has it ever once occurred to you that He wanted you first?

Go back to the night before the cross. Before the soldiers ever came for Him in the garden, Jesus prayed. And in the middle of that prayer, listen to what He asked His Father for. JOHN 17:24 Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory. I desire. For a lot of us, that is not a safe word. Almost every time someone has desired something around us, they wanted what we could give them. They wanted what we could do. They wanted us to perform, to provide, to keep it together, to be useful. And somewhere along the way you learned that being wanted always comes with a cost. That nobody wants you for free.

So when you hear that God desires you, part of you braces. Part of you waits for the catch. What does He want from me. What is this going to cost me. Am I going to be enough for it.

Look at the word again. Jesus is not standing at the door with His arms crossed, weighing whether you have done enough to be let in. He is not reluctant. He is not putting up with you. On the night before the cross, with the weight of all our sin and all our suffering bearing down on Him, with every reason in the world to be thinking about Himself, He turns to His Father and says, I desire that they may be with Me.

He does not want something from you. He wants you. Not the version of you that performs well. Not the you that finally has it together. You. The one sitting in that chair right now, with all of it, even the part you would never let anyone see. He is praying you all the way into His presence.

Some of you have spent most of your life wondering if anyone has ever wanted you like that. If you are honest, you are not sure anyone ever has. Then hear this, and let it land somewhere deeper than your ears. One Person does. And the wanting did not start with you.

Before you ever wanted Him, He wanted you. Before you ever prayed, show me Your glory, He had already prayed that you would see it. Before you ever reached for His presence, He was already moving toward a cross to bring you into it.

So you can stop bracing. The wanting was never the soul clawing its way up to God. It is the soul waking up to the fact that He has wanted you near all along. Already prayed you close. Already bled to bring you close.

So when people walk away from you, and when the room goes quiet, and when the one you wanted does not want you back, you take yourself back to that one word and you plant your feet on it. He desires me. He desires me.

And read just one line further in that same prayer. JOHN 17:23 I in them and you in me, that they may become perfectly one, so that the world may know that you sent me and loved them even as you loved me. Loved them even as You loved Me. Hear what Jesus is actually asking for. He is not asking the Father to tolerate you. He is asking that you would be joined to Him so completely that when the Father looks at you, He sees His own Son, and loves you with the same love He has poured over Jesus from before the world began. You are not tolerated in Christ. You are brought home in Christ. And do not miss what that means. The Son did not go to a cross for a people He was embarrassed to love. He did not die so the Father could just barely stand to have you in the room. He died to bring you all the way home.

The glory has a face now And now hear the best of it. What Moses begged for and never received, you have been handed. Moses got the goodness from behind a rock. He never got the face. But centuries later, a man named John picks up his pen and dares to write this. JOHN 1:14 The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. Made his dwelling among us. Church, do not move too quickly past that. The word underneath it means He pitched His tent among us. He tabernacled among us. Think about what that is saying. The presence that used to fill the tent out in the wilderness, the presence Moses could only catch from inside a rock, has now come and filled a human body. The God who met Moses in cloud and fire has come near in flesh and blood.

Not as an idea. Not as a feeling. Not as a religious symbol to hang on a wall. As a Person. With eyes that wept at a friend's grave. With hands that reached out and touched the people nobody else would touch. With feet that walked toward sinners instead of away from them. With a back that was laid open with a whip. With a face that turned toward the cross and would not turn away.

So where do you go to see it? The glory Moses begged for, the glory God hid behind His hand, where is it now?

The glory has a face now. And His name is Jesus. 2 CORINTHIANS 4:6 God made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God's glory displayed in the face of Christ. Moses saw the goodness of God from behind a rock. We see the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. And that face is not cold. It is not distant. To everyone who comes to Him through the Son, it is not terrifying. It is the face of the One who was born in a barn, who knelt down and washed dirty feet, who wept at a grave, who let them drive the nails through His hands so that you could come near.

The goodness Moses had to watch from inside a rock is now standing out in the open, in the daylight, with a face you are allowed to look at. And when you finally look, you find that the face is kind.

So when Moses cries out, show me Your glory, the Father's full and final answer, stretching across all of time, is not a thing. It is a Person. It is Jesus. You want to see the glory? Look at Him.

And once you really look, you will understand Moses. You will understand how a man could turn down a paradise just to keep the presence. Because the presence is Jesus. And He is worth more than every blessing He could ever lay in your hands.

Are we desperate for His presence?

A family we cannot forget Now I want to bring this home, because desperation for God was never meant to be a private thing, just me and my own quiet walk with Jesus. Watch Moses one more time. When he pleads, listen to who he pleads for. EXODUS 33:16 How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth? Me and Your people. Did you catch that? Moses ties his whole future to theirs. He will not go in alone. He will not be blessed alone. If they are not coming into the presence, then neither is he.

Church, that is us. That is this room, these chairs, this family. And a family carries each other. GALATIANS 6:2 Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. For a long time I read that verse as one more thing I had to work up the strength to do. Try harder to show up for people. But that is not what it is, and remember why. Christ is in you now. So when you sit with a friend in the worst week of her life, and you have no words, and you just stay there in the room with her, that is not you gritting your teeth to be a good Christian. That is Christ in you, carrying her. Sometimes Christ carries us Himself. And sometimes Christ carries us in the arms of the person sitting right next to us.

So here is a calling worth more than anything this world could hand you. Learn to notice what is quietly crushing the person next to you. And then spend yourself making it lighter. Help them carry it, all the way to the feet of Jesus. And when you have done it, you will look back and realize it was Christ doing it through you the whole time.

One more thing before I ask you to do something simple. Moses looks at the size of what God has handed him. Lead a couple million stubborn, frightened people across a wilderness and into a land full of giants. And somewhere down in his bones, he arrives where every honest person eventually arrives. I cannot do this.

And I have come to believe that confession is one of the holiest things a person can say. Because the moment you finally say I cannot, you are finally in the one place where you can hear God say I will. We tend to lose our desperation for the Spirit right about the time we start to believe we can manage on our own. Listen to how Jesus put it. JOHN 15:5 I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. Not a little. Apart from Me you can do nothing. And that is good news. Because the size of what He has called us to is the very thing that drives us back down onto our knees. The day we finally say, God, this is too big for us, we have to have Your Spirit, that is the day we stop playing church and start being the church.

So look at Him So here is all I am going to ask you to do this week. I am not going to hand you a list. I am not going to give you five steps to becoming a more desperate person, because desperation does not come off a checklist. You cannot shame your own heart into hunger. I have tried. It does not work.

But you can bring your heart before beauty.

So that is what I am asking. Just look at Him. Look at Jesus until He becomes beautiful to you again. Look until the milk and honey of this world starts to look like what it really is next to Him. Look until you catch yourself, like Moses, turning down good things because you would rather have the presence. Do not try to feel more spiritual. Do not try to work up an emotion. Just look at Christ, and stay there, and let Him become beautiful to you again. Because desire is awakened by sight. The hunger comes back when the bread becomes beautiful again.

And when it does, when the wanting finally rises up in you on its own, pray it. Pray the oldest, boldest, most desperate prayer in the whole book.

Show me Your glory.

Pray it over your kitchen table. Pray it over your kids while they sleep. Pray it over this little church in this gym. Not Your blessings. Your glory. Your face. Your presence. You.

Because the same God who once let Moses see only His back has now shown us His face in Jesus. He wanted you in the room before you ever thought to want Him. And the same Spirit who fell in that upper room is still being poured out on every single person who will come near. He is not hiding from you. He is not far off. He is closer than your next breath.

And hear this last thing, because it is the whole sermon in one sentence. He is more beautiful than anything He could ever give you. The gift was never the point. He is the point. He always was.

So do not settle for the gift. Go after the Giver. Do not settle for the blessing. Go after the Blesser. Do not settle for the milk and honey. Go after the One whose presence was the only thing that ever made it the promised land. Are we desperate for His presence? Church, I think we are about to be.

Let's pray. Father, we come to You honestly this morning. We confess that we have wanted Your gifts more than we have wanted You. We have reached for the milk and honey while You stood there offering us Yourself. Forgive us.

Jesus, show us Your glory. Not from behind a rock. In Your face. Make Yourself so beautiful to us this week that the things we have been clutching lose their grip in our hands. Ruin us for anything less than You.

And thank You. Thank You that it was never the strength of our grip that held us. It was Yours. We slip our hands out. You never slip Yours. Hold on to us, the way You have been holding on the whole time.

Spirit, fall on this family the way You fell in that upper room. Take our I cannot and answer it with Your I will. Make us a desperate people. Not desperate out of fear. Desperate out of love. Desperate because we have finally seen how good You are.

We do not want the promised land without You. If Your presence does not go with us, then do not send us. But we believe You are going with us. So send us out of this gym wanting You, and finding You, all week long.

In Jesus' name. Amen.

When They Ask

Open Your Bibles

If you have a Bible, and I hope that you or somebody around you does, let me invite you to open with me to First Peter, chapter three. First Peter three, verses fourteen and fifteen. Feel free to use the table of contents if you need to. For those of you visiting with us today, my name is Pastor Matthew, and we are in week six of a series called Share the Hope. Week six. The final week. For five weeks we have been walking through this letter from Peter, backwards, from chapter one verse twelve all the way to the beginning. And we have been doing it because Peter builds something around one phrase that he gives us in chapter one, verse three. A living hope. He has been showing us what that hope does in us. It holds us in suffering. It refines our faith like gold in fire. It produces a joy too deep for words to explain. And it stirs the curiosity of angels. Today, Peter brings it home. And I want you to hear this text, because it is going to tell us what every single believer in this room does on Monday morning with what we have been seeing for five weeks. Listen to the Word of God. 1 Peter 3:14–15 (NIV) “But even if you should suffer for righteousness’ sake, you will be blessed. Have no fear of them, nor be troubled, but in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” The Word of God. Now, here is the question this text puts on the table for every single one of us. What does it actually mean to be ready? And this question matters enormously, because there is a wrong way to answer it. And if we get the wrong answer, we are going to walk out of here today and do the exact opposite of what Jesus told us to do. Listen to this. Luke 21:14–15 (ESV) “Settle it therefore in your hearts not to meditate beforehand how to answer, for I will give you a mouth and wisdom which none of your adversaries will be able to withstand or contradict.” Peter says always be ready. Jesus says do not meditate beforehand on how to answer. Do you feel the tension? Good. Because if we misunderstand what Peter means by ready, we are going to spend our entire Christian lives doing what Jesus told us not to do. So what kind of readiness is Peter talking about? I want to give you three truths from this text this morning. Three truths that I believe answer the question of how we share the hope we have been learning about for five weeks. And I want to encourage you, if you are taking notes, write these down.

Truth Number One

The readiness lives inside the reverence. Look at the verse again. Peter says, “in your hearts revere Christ as Lord, always being ready to give an answer.” Now listen to this. That word being is not actually in Peter’s original sentence. It was added by translators to smooth the English. What Peter wrote is one single thought. Revere Christ the Lord in your hearts, ready always to give an answer. There is no second command. The readiness is not a separate assignment you have to work up for. It is what happens when Christ is revered in your heart. Revere Christ, and the readiness follows. It grows up inside the reverence. So what does it actually mean to revere Christ in your heart? Peter gives us enormous help here, because he is borrowing from Isaiah. Turn with me to Isaiah chapter eight. When you see what Peter is pulling from, the whole verse opens up. Isaiah 8:12–13 (ESV) “Do not fear what they fear, nor be in dread. But the LORD of hosts, him you shall honor as holy. Let him be your fear, and let him be your dread.” What God was asking of Isaiah was not a life of constant terror. What God wanted was for the thought of displeasing Him to be a weightier thing to Isaiah than the thought of being rejected by people. Write this down. The measure of your reverence for God is the measure of your desire not to displease Him. And what would have displeased God most in Isaiah’s situation? Isaiah fearing the same things his unbelieving countrymen were fearing. Because God had made promises. Real, specific, glorious promises. And when you fear men more than you trust God’s promises, you are casting a vote against His trustworthiness. You are saying with your fear, your word is not enough. The threats are bigger than the promises. But here is the other side. When you trust God’s promises more than you trust the threats of this world, when you revere Him, the fear gets displaced. Not by grit. Not by positive thinking. Hope grows in the space where fear used to live. That is the fight. Go to His promises when you are afraid. Let them work on your fear. Day after day after day. Your fear will turn to hope. And you will have a reason to give for the hope that is in you. And church, let me say this a different way, because revere can feel like a church word. When Peter says revere Christ as Lord in your heart, what he is really describing is a heart that treasures Him. A heart that holds Him above every other affection. A heart for whom Jesus is not a belief on a shelf, but the most precious thing in its sight. When you treasure something, you do not have to be told to protect it. You do not have to be told to think about it. You already do. Warmer. This is the beside-them illustration. Slow down on Alicia. Do not perform it. Let me make this as personal as I can. I have been married to Alicia for a long time now. And every year, we are becoming more one than we were the year before. Day by day by day. And because of that, when temptations or opportunities come my way, something sits at the front of my heart. It is not will I get caught. It is not what will people think. It is, will this hurt her? That is not fear of punishment. That is what treasuring her looks like. That is a picture of what treasuring Christ looks like. The more you become His, the more you love Him, the more unthinkable it becomes to do anything that would grieve Him. Not because you are afraid of Him throwing you out. Because you treasure Him. You love Him. You do not want to disappoint the One who has loved you all the way to a cross. And hear this. The same thing is true of us as the body of Christ in this room. Paul tells us that we are one body. The arm does not harm the leg. The eye does not wound the hand. We are one. And when Christ is truly treasured in our hearts, something happens in a congregation. We start caring about one another the way we care about our own flesh. Because we belong to Him, and therefore we belong to each other. Now the personal confession. Slow down. This is the pastoral moment. Do not perform it. And church, I need to stop for just a minute and make a personal confession. Because this is where this text hit me hardest. I am your pastor. I stand up here every week and open this Book. And you might think that means I have this figured out, that I wake up every morning overflowing with hope. I do not. Not always. Some mornings the first thing I feel is fear. Fear about this church. Fear about whether I am doing this right. Fear about things I cannot control and people I cannot fix. My hope wanes. And when that fear shows up, I have learned to do one thing. I open His Word. And I say out loud, sometimes almost in a whisper, Lord, I need to hear You. I need You to speak. I cannot carry this today on my own. And I sit with Him in the Scriptures until something shifts. Until a promise lands. Until the fear that was bigger than me meets a Savior who is bigger than the fear. And every single morning the fight is the same. Will I trust the threats, or will I trust the promises? That is the fight of faith. And it is fought on your knees, with His Word, in prayer. Bring readiness down to earth. Two pictures: pre-kids, firefighters. Make the abstract concrete. Before Alicia and I had kids, there was a whole season of getting ready. The nursery. The car seat. The hospital bag sitting by the door. We were not anxious about being ready. We were getting ready because someone precious was coming, and we wanted to be prepared to receive them. Think about the fire department. Those men and women do not sit around hoping a fire does not come. They train. They check the equipment. They stay ready. So that when the call comes, they are not scrambling. They are ready to run toward it. Peter is calling us to that kind of readiness. Not anxious readiness. Loving readiness. The readiness of a heart that has already spent time with the One we are going to speak about. Which is exactly what you see in the early church. Look at Acts chapter four. Peter and John had just healed a lame man at the temple gate. The whole city was talking about it. And the religious leaders arrested them, dragged them in front of the same council that had condemned Jesus a few weeks earlier, and commanded them to stop speaking in the name of Jesus. And in that moment, with their lives on the line, Peter and John said, we cannot help but speak of what we have seen and heard. And listen to what Scripture tells us about the council’s reaction. Acts 4:13 (NIV) When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men had been with Jesus. They had been with Jesus. That was the whole explanation. Not a degree. Not a training program. Not a clever argument. Nearness. They had been near Him. And it showed. This is the sustained readiness picture. Let it flow. Do not announce movement. Let each layer carry you. So what does readiness actually look like, when it is not cramming and not rehearsing? The readiness Peter is describing is not a task you complete. It is a way of living. Readiness is living in a constant awareness that Christ is sufficient for you. Not theoretically. Actually. In this hour. With the thing you are carrying today. The diagnosis. The bill. The child you cannot reach. The marriage you are trying to save. Readiness is waking up and knowing, before anything else, that He is enough for what this day is going to ask of you. Readiness is cultivating a relationship with Jesus where He is not a subject you study but a Person you know. There is a difference. You do not study your spouse. You know her. You do not memorize facts about your best friend. You walk with him. Peter wants us to know Jesus like that. Present tense. Ongoing. A friendship, not a syllabus. Readiness is saturation in His Word. Because Jesus promised that when the moment comes, the Holy Spirit will bring to your mind the very things you need to say. And the more time you spend in the Word, the more the Spirit has to draw on when that moment comes. So open your Bible. Sit with it. Let it sink down. Not because you are behind. Because the Spirit delights to take what has been treasured in your heart and put it on your lips when it is needed. Readiness is dependence. Moment by moment. Waking up in the morning and saying, Lord, I cannot do this day without You. Walking into a meeting and whispering, Lord, help me. Getting in the car after something hard and saying, Lord, I need You now. Not one big dependence at the altar once a year. A thousand small dependences every day that keep you tethered to Him. And church, there is one more picture of readiness I want you to see. Paul uses it in Ephesians chapter six. Listen to how he describes it. Ephesians 6:15 (NIV) “And with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.” Feet fitted. Shoes on. Laces tied. Ready to move. Because feet are for going. And the readiness Peter is describing is not just an attitude that sits in a chair. It is shoes that are already laced up. When the Spirit says move, you are not scrambling for your shoes. You are already wearing them. That is readiness. Aware. Close to Christ. Saturated in His Word. Dependent on Him moment by moment. Shoes on. Ready to move when He says move. And notice what every single one of these has in common. Not one of them is something you manufacture. Not one of them is an assignment. Every single one of them is the fruit of treasuring Him. Of being near Him. Of letting Him become, over time, the most precious thing in your sight. Which is why I want to say this carefully. I am not saying small groups are bad. I am not saying Bible study is a waste. I am not saying the new member class or Sunday school or the discipleship class do not matter. Of course they do. These are good. These are how we get ready together. Keep going. Keep opening your Bible. Keep gathering with the saints. But church, hear this. If all that training, all that study, all that gathering is not leading you to treasure Christ more than you did last year, then what is it for? What does all that knowledge have that the heart cannot taste? You cannot share what you do not have. And if your whole heart, soul, mind, and strength is not treasuring Christ, then something is off. Not broken. Off. And the fix is not more information. The fix is to come back and taste Him again.

Truth Number Two

You are called to be a witness. Now look with me at the second half of what Peter says. Always ready to give an answer. The word Peter uses there for answer is a courtroom word. But I want you to hear this carefully. It is not the word for the defense attorney giving a closing argument. It is the word for the witness. There is a difference. A defense attorney has to make the case. A witness just tells what they saw. A defense attorney has to win the argument. A witness just tells the truth. A defense attorney has to be an expert. A witness just has to have been there. And church, that distinction matters more than almost anything in this verse. Because when most of us hear be ready to give an answer, we hear be ready to win a debate. Handle every objection. Defend the whole structure of Christian theology against anyone who challenges it. And if that is what Peter meant, none of us would ever be ready. We would spend our whole lives feeling guilty about something Peter never asked us to do. But a witness is not a spectator. A witness is someone who has seen something with their own eyes and now gets up and tells the truth about what they saw. That is the assignment. And here is what makes a Christian witness different. The power of the testimony is not in the witness. The power is in what the witness has seen. You are not standing up to say how impressive you are. You are standing up to say how impressive He is. Your story is the evidence. Christ is the verdict. Look at the best example of this in all of Scripture. John chapter nine. In John nine, Jesus comes upon a man who had been blind from birth. He spits on the ground, makes mud, puts it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. The man obeys, washes, and for the first time in his life, he can see. But instead of celebrating, the religious leaders drag him in for questioning. They interrogate his parents. They interrogate him, twice. They throw theology at him. They threaten him with being thrown out of the synagogue, which in his culture meant being cut off from everything and everyone. And in the middle of that pressure, with his whole world on the line, listen to what he says. John 9:25 (NIV) Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see. Church, I love this man. No seminary. No system. No script. He does not pretend to know what he does not know. He just tells what happened. And here is the power of it. They could argue with his theology. They could poke holes in his logic. But they could not look him in the eye and tell him that the thing that happened to him did not happen. ••• So to the person in this room this morning who is sitting there thinking, I could never share my faith. I do not know enough. I want to say to you as plainly as I can. You are not disqualified. You are exactly the kind of person God uses. Can you say, I was lost, and Christ found me? I was afraid, and He gave me peace? I was carrying something I could not put down, and He took it? I was blind, and now I see? That is your account. That is all Peter is asking for. And church, it has always been enough. Your story is the bridge. Christ is the destination. And here is what makes this humbling and freeing at the same time. God alone opens blind eyes. The blindness that keeps people from seeing the glory of Christ is real, and it is deep, and no amount of human effort removes it. If you have ever sat across a table from someone you love and watched them hear the gospel and see no glory, you know what I am talking about. You have felt that helplessness. You have sat in the car afterward and thought, what more could I possibly say? And right there, right at the place of your greatest helplessness, the commission comes. God sends us to open eyes that He alone can open. You are not the power. You are a jar of clay with a treasure inside. Paul said it this way. I planted. Apollos watered. But God gave the growth. The miracle of life, the moment blind eyes open, that belongs to Him. You tell the truth about what Jesus has done. And you trust the God who spoke light into your darkness to speak light into theirs. The miracle is not your responsibility. The faithfulness is.

Truth Number Three

The way you answer is part of the answer. Peter does not just tell us to share. He tells us how. And the how is not a footnote. Look at the end of verse fifteen. 1 Peter 3:15c (NIV) “But do this with gentleness and respect.” That word respect in some translations is fear. Fear of whom? Not the person in front of you. Two verses earlier Peter just said, have no fear of them. This is reverence toward God. The same honoring of Christ as holy we have been tracing all the way through this passage. Gentleness toward the person in front of you. Deep, settled reverence for the God above you. Those two things together produce the posture of a person who does not have to win. Because repentance is a gift. Something God gives. You do not produce it by being persuasive enough. You do not force it by being louder or more theologically armed. And if the outcome is genuinely in His hands and not yours, do you see what that frees you from? You can afford to be the kindest, calmest, most patient person in the room. Because the result, the miracle of a heart coming alive, does not depend on your rhetorical skill. It depends on the sovereign mercy of God. And hear this. Gentleness is not a personality type. Some of us are naturally soft, and some of us are not. That is not what Peter is describing. Gentleness is a fruit of the Spirit. It is what the Spirit of God grows in a heart that treasures Christ and rests in His promises. You do not manufacture it. You cannot fake it. It grows in you as you stay near Him. ••• And church, we do not have to look far to see this posture. We have already seen it. This is the posture Jesus Himself carried to the cross. Peter watched it with his own eyes. He saw a Man who could have called legions of angels and stayed silent instead. He saw the kindest Man who ever lived absorb the worst that humanity could hand Him and not return it. Mocked, and not mocking back. Struck, and not striking back. Led like a lamb to the slaughter, and opening not His mouth. That is the spirit Peter is asking us into. Not a posture we summon from somewhere deep inside us. A posture that grows in us as we stay near the One who carried it first. A hope that makes you anxious does not look like hope to the person watching you. A hope that makes you defensive does not look like hope. A hope that makes you cruel when you feel cornered does not look like hope at all. But a hope that makes you calm. A hope that lets you really listen before you speak. A hope that helps you absorb an unkind word and not return it. A hope that makes you gentle when the world expects you to be sharp. That is a witness before you open your mouth. And Peter tells us the goal. Look at the very next verse, verse sixteen. The ones who slandered you. Who called you names. Who mocked what you believe. They meet you. And you were gentle. And you listened. And you did not fight back. And they went home ashamed of what they had said. The shame cracked something open. And the light got in. The way you answer is part of the answer.

Why We Are Not Ready

Now church, before we land this, I want us to stop and remember what we have actually been living in for five weeks. ••• Think about what this hope actually is. This is the hope that held you in your suffering. Not beside it. Not above it. In it. The fire did not destroy you. It refined you. The trial was never evidence that God abandoned you. It was evidence that He had not finished. That the thing He started in you on the day He spoke light into your darkness was still moving, still burning, still making you into something you could not have become any other way. The suffering was never the end of the story. It was always the refiner’s fire on the way to the inheritance. This is the hope that produced a joy this world cannot explain, cannot manufacture, and cannot take away. Not happiness. Not the absence of pain. Joy. The kind that coexists with grief. The kind that rises in the middle of the hardest season of your life and makes no logical sense, and yet there it is. Peter called it joy inexpressible and full of glory. So deep it does not have words for itself. And then this, and this is the one that has never left me since week one. The angels. The angels who announced the birth of Christ. The angels who rolled the stone away. The angels who have stood in the unmediated presence of Almighty God since before time began. Those angels lean over the edge of heaven and strain to look at what is happening in you. Not in the cosmos. Not in the movements of empires. In you. In your ordinary, broken, scared, still being made whole life. The redemption working itself out in you. They look at it and cannot stop looking. Do you understand what you are carrying? This hope does not live in a doctrine. It does not live on a shelf. It lives in a Person. In Christ. And the way it gets from Christ into your heart is through setting your mind on who He is and what He has promised. You meditate on Him. You dwell with Him. And when the heart arrives at what the mind is seeing, when His nearness becomes real and the promises do their work, something happens that you did not manufacture and cannot fake. It burns. That is the Emmaus road. Two disciples walking away from Jerusalem, carrying the wreckage of everything they thought they knew. A stranger falls in alongside them and begins to open the Scriptures, and they do not know it is Him. Not yet. And then He is gone. And they turn to each other. And one of them says the most beautiful thing in the Gospel of Luke. Luke 24:32 (ESV) “Did not our heart burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” That is what happens when a heart meets Christ in His Word. Not guilt. Not duty. Not grim determination. Him. Wonder. Love. The kind of fire that gets into your chest and will not go out. The kind of joy that makes you want to get up and go, immediately, that same hour, in the dark, and tell someone what you just saw. They did not strategize. They did not rehearse. They did not ask whether they had enough theological training. They ran. Because something had happened that was too good and too real and too alive to keep to themselves. That is what five weeks of living hope has been trying to produce in us. And this burning. This wonder. This joy in the suffering. This hope the angels cannot stop looking at. This is what we are timid about sharing? Let that sit. Then turn. Quietly. Like a man who just found the answer. Church, the reason most of us are not more free in telling people about our hope is not that we lack training. It is simpler and deeper than that. We do not feel very hopeful. And when our hearts are not full of hope in the promises of Christ, here is what happens when a conversation comes up. We feel it as a duty to defend a doctrine instead of a delight to tell somebody why we are so hopeful. Do you feel the difference? One is a burden. The other is an overflow. But here is the good news. And this is where the whole passage turns. If the problem is that we are not hopeful enough, the solution is not to try harder to witness. The solution is to get closer to the source of the hope. Revere Christ. Treasure Him. Set your mind on His promises. And the readiness will come. Because the hope will come. Because it always comes when you get near Him. The way to get ready to share your hope is to get hopeful. And notice what Peter assumes. He does not say, go find someone and make them listen. He says, be ready for everyone who asks you. Peter assumes someone is going to ask. Not because you forced a conversation. Because your life looks different enough, hopeful enough, settled enough, peaceful enough, that somebody gets curious. Are we living close enough to Christ that there is anything to ask about?

Before We Go

Now church, before we close, I want to be very direct. Because I am not assuming that every person in this room this morning is a follower of Jesus. Some of you are here because a friend brought you. Some of you grew up in church but have never personally put your faith in Christ. Some of you have been coming to this church for a long time, but if you were honest, you would say you have never actually trusted Jesus for yourself. You know the story. You have not surrendered to the Savior. And I want to say to you, right where you are sitting this morning, the greatest change possible can happen for you today. Here is what the Bible says. You, like every one of us, have sinned against God. You have turned from His ways to your own ways. And that sin separates you from God. And if you die in that separation, you will be separated from Him forever. But God loves you so much. So much that He came to us in the Person of Jesus. Jesus lived the perfectly righteous life that we could not live. And then He went to a cross, willingly, and died the death that you and I deserved to die. He took the weight of your sin on Himself. And three days later, He walked out of the tomb, alive, in victory over sin and death. And the Bible says that anyone, anyone, who turns from their sin and trusts in Jesus as Savior and Lord of their life will be forgiven of every sin they have ever committed and restored to a relationship with God forever. That is the Gospel. That is the greatest news in the world. And that invitation is open to you this morning. If you have never personally trusted in Jesus, I want to invite you, right now, in the quiet of your own heart, to pray something like this. Just between you and God. God, I know I have sinned against You. I know I cannot save myself. I believe that Jesus died on the cross for my sin and rose from the dead. Right now, I turn from my sin. I trust in Jesus as my Savior and my Lord. Please save me. Make me Yours. Today and forever. If you prayed that prayer this morning, even silently where you are sitting, I want you to know something. The God who does not lie has heard you. You are His. And I want to know about it. After the service, come find me, or send me a message, or tell somebody on our team. Because heaven is rejoicing over you right now, and we want to walk with you from here.

Go And to every believer in this room. This is Commissioning Sunday. This is the last sermon in Share the Hope. And I want you to hear this clearly. You are not walking out of here with an assignment that is too big for you. You are not walking out of here with a script you need to memorize by Tuesday. 1 Peter 1:3 (NIV) “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” You are walking out of here carrying a living hope. A hope that came out of an empty tomb on the third day. A hope that has been making its way through two thousand years of broken, ordinary, scared, needy, still being made whole people. People whose hearts burned on the road. People who could not stop themselves from running back to tell someone. People who stayed close enough to the source that the world could not help but notice. That is the hope of this church. That is the hope of your life. It is not something you have to manufacture. It is alive. It is sustained by the risen Christ Himself. And it will show. Stay near Him. The hope takes care of itself.

Easter: A Living Hope

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time." — 1 Peter 1:3–5

Where We Are

Alright. Let's open our Bibles together to 1 Peter chapter 1. Find with me verses 3 through 5. We are in week four of Share the Hope.

And if you have been with us — and I hope you have — you know where we have been. We started with wonder. What are the angels looking at? And we found out they are stooping down to peer at the mercy of God alive inside ordinary people like us. Then we talked about joy — the kind that comes from actually loving and trusting someone you have never seen. And last week we sat in the hardest question of the series — why does suffering hurt the way it does? And Peter did not give us an explanation. He gave us a Refiner. A God who sits in the fire with us.

Wonder. Joy. Suffering.

Those are real places to be. But Peter does not start there. He starts here. Verses 3 through 5. This is the headwaters. Everything we have preached in this series — the wonder, the joy, the fire — all of it flows from what Peter says in these three verses.

And today is Easter. Which means this is not just the theological center of the series. This is the day the center holds.

But before we get into the text, I want to ask you something. And I do not want you to answer it yet. Just hold it.

What if the only way to keep anything is to be willing to lose everything?

I know. That does not sound like an Easter question. Sounds more like a threat. Sounds like something someone says right before they take something from you. But hold it. We are coming back to it.

What We Carry

We all carry things we are afraid to lose.

Most of us do not say it out loud. We do not walk into a room and announce it. But it is there. Under everything. Like a hum you have lived with for so long you forgot it was running. That low-grade awareness that the things you love most are also the things most capable of being taken from you.

Think about it. You hold your plans carefully. The way you carry something fragile across a room — both hands, eyes forward, breath held. You hold the people you love. You hold the futures you have imagined for your kids, for your marriage, for your life. You hold the version of yourself you have worked hard to build — the capable one, the steady one, the one who has not yet been undone.

And you hold your fears. Quietly. Usually alone. Usually at night when the house is still and there is nothing left to distract you from the thing you have been avoiding.

What if I lose it?

Whatever it is for you this morning — and I think you know what it is — that question is not small. It is not a sign of weak faith. It is one of the most honest things a person can carry.

There was a season in my life — before Falcon, before this church, before most of what defines my days now — where I held on to everything I could.

The grief around me was layered. And what I mean by that is — it was not one thing. It was not a single loss I could name and grieve and slowly move through. It was the kind of grief that stacks. One thing on top of another on top of another. A friend I loved — a prayer partner, someone who had stood with me in the work — died by suicide. And before I had found my footing in that, I was walking alongside his one-hundred-year-old mother as she approached the end of her own life. And at the same time there were others. People I had journeyed with for years. Cancer. Then death. Then the quiet ministry that follows after — when the services are over and the flowers have wilted and everyone else has moved on and you are still there. Still holding. Still trying to be present for what remains.

That is what layered grief does. It does not give you time to recover from one thing before the next thing arrives. And after a while you stop counting the losses. You just carry them.

People I loved were dying. People I had walked with for years. And somewhere in the middle of all of that I was still just a man. Carrying my own frustrations, my own questions, my own quiet ache that I did not always know how to name.

And I held all of it. The grief. The responsibility. The weight of other people's pain pressing against my own. Because I believed — deeply — that this was what faithfulness required. That holding on was the same thing as being obedient. That if I just gripped tightly enough, long enough, I could keep what mattered from being lost.

I was wrong about that. But I did not know it yet.

I think most of us believe some version of that. We believe our grip is what stands between the people and places and purposes we love and the void that would swallow them if we let go. We think loosening our hands is the same as abandoning what we care about. That surrender is just a spiritual word for giving up.

And so we hold on.

And our hands get tired. And the weight gets heavier.

And somewhere underneath all of it, a question begins to surface. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there.

Is there another way to do this?

Easter is the answer to that question. And not a nice idea about hope. It is a historical answer. Written in the body of a man who faced that same question and answered it with His face in the dirt.

The Garden

Before we go to Peter, we need to go somewhere else first. Because Peter did not write these words in a vacuum. Peter wrote them as a man who had been in a garden on the worst night of his life.

Gethsemane.

It is Thursday night. The meal is over. The bread has been broken. The cup has been passed. Jesus has washed His disciples' feet — the act of a servant, the posture of a king on His knees. And now they cross the Kidron Valley in the dark and walk into a garden at the base of the Mount of Olives.

And everything changes.

He takes Peter, James, and John a little further in. And Mark tells us something that should stop us. He says Jesus began to be greatly distressed and troubled. The language is violent. This is not quiet anxiety. This is a man being crushed from the inside. He tells the three of them — my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here. Keep watch with me.

And then He goes further.

Mark says that. A little farther. Past the three. Past the people who were supposed to be with Him. Into the dark. Alone.

And the three of them fall asleep.

Picture this. It is the middle of the night. The olive trees are black against the sky. Somewhere in the distance there are torches moving — Judas is already on his way. And in a clearing, alone, with no one watching, no one praying, no one awake — Jesus falls on His face.

Not kneeling. Not standing with His arms raised. Face in the dirt. The Son of God, flat on the ground.

And Luke tells us something most people read past. He says His sweat became like great drops of blood falling to the ground. The capillaries beneath the skin rupture under extreme distress and blood presses through the pores. That is what is happening to Him. He is not calmly surrendering. His body is breaking under the weight of what is coming.

And from that posture — face down, alone, bleeding into the dirt — He prays.

Abba.

That is the cry of a son who is terrified and the only person He wants is His Father. That is not theology. That is a man on the ground calling for the one person who has never failed Him.

Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me.

He is asking for it to stop. And understand — nobody is forcing this on Him. He said it Himself. No one takes my life from me. I lay it down of my own accord. Twelve legions of angels are one word away. One word and this is over. He walks out of that garden untouched and the cross never happens.

But He knows what is in the cup.

I drink tea. Every morning. Loose leaf. And I have this little metal strainer that I set over the cup. And when it was new it was shiny and clean. But over time — weeks and months of constant use — the tea stains it. The metal darkens. The mesh gets clogged with residue. No matter how many times you rinse it, the stain stays. It becomes part of it. Constant use leaves a mark that you cannot wash away. And I think about that. Because it reminds me of a woman I used to visit. An elderly lady. And she had this cup — white porcelain — that was always sitting on her table. And on the rim of that cup, stained into the porcelain, were her lip prints. Darkened with tea. Layer after layer after layer of use, pressed into the surface until the stain was permanent. You could not wash it off. It was part of the cup now. The evidence of a life lived — every morning, every sip — marked into the thing she drank from.

And I remember looking at that cup one day and my mind went somewhere I did not expect it to go. It went to Gethsemane.

Because the cup in front of Jesus is not a metaphor. It is not just a word for suffering. The cup is real. And what is inside it is the accumulated stain of every human life that has ever been lived. Think about it. Every lie you have told. Every time you chose yourself over God. Every grudge you held onto when you knew you should have let it go. Every night you spent feeding on something you knew was destroying you. Every time you looked at another person and saw a means to your own end instead of a soul made in the image of God.

All of that is in the cup. Layer after layer after layer. Pressed into it. Stained into it. Your sin is in that cup. And so is mine.

And the Father is holding it out to His Son. And He is asking Him to drink it. Not the clean parts. Not the diluted version. The whole thing. Every dark and rotten and corrupted thing the human race has ever done — from the garden of Eden to this morning — concentrated into a single cup. And the only innocent man who has ever drawn breath is being asked to take it. All of it. Into Himself.

If you looked into that cup you would see your own face looking back at you. And Jesus looked at it. And He did not pour it out. He drank it.

But I do not think we stop long enough to ask what drinking that cup actually cost Him. We talk about the nails. We talk about the cross. But the cup was doing its work long before the soldiers arrived. Think about what was in that cup from His side.

Betrayal was in that cup. Judas — a man He had walked with for three years, shared meals with, trusted with the money — was already on his way with a kiss and a bag of silver. And Jesus knew it. He could see the torches. He knew who was carrying them.

Desertion was in that cup. In a few hours, every single person who had sworn they would die for Him would run. Peter would deny Him three times before sunrise. The rest would scatter. He would hang on that cross and look out and see — almost nobody. The crowds that waved palms on Sunday would scream crucify Him by Friday. That is in the cup.

And here is the one that I think about the most. Rejection was in that cup. Think about this. For three years He had shown them who He was. He healed the sick. He raised the dead. He walked on water. He fed five thousand people with a boy's lunch. He cast out demons with a word. He preached the most beautiful sermons anyone had ever heard. And it was not enough. They did not believe Him. He gave them everything He had and they looked at Him and said no thank you.

That is in the cup. Not just our sin. His sorrow. The full weight of loving people who did not love Him back. Of giving everything and being told it was not enough. Of being faithful to people who were unfaithful to Him.

And He drank it anyway.

And church — I need you to hear this — there is a cup in front of you too. Not the same cup. Not that cup. But yours. The thing God has been setting before you that you have been pushing away. The conversation you do not want to have. The surrender you do not want to make. The area of your life you keep telling God is off limits.

Most of us want Easter without Gethsemane. We want the resurrection without the cup. We want open hands and a living hope but we do not want to drink what is in front of us. We want it to be painless. And it is not painless. It was not painless for Him. And it will not be painless for you. But here is what I know. He drank His cup. And the Father answered it with resurrection. And whatever cup the Father is setting before you — if you will drink it, if you will stop pushing it away — He will answer yours the same way.

And for a moment — and I do not think we talk about this enough — the Father and the Son will be separated.

Think about that. The Father and the Son have never been apart. Not once. Not for a fraction of a second. Since before the world existed — since before there was anything at all — there has been a Father who loved a Son and a Son who loved a Father. That fellowship is the oldest and most beautiful thing in the universe. It is the thing everything else was made from. And it is about to be torn apart.

Jesus will hang on a cross and cry out the most devastating words ever spoken — My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? He does not say Father. For the first time in eternity, He says God. Because in that moment the intimacy is gone. The face is turned. The Son is alone in a way that no human being has ever been alone — because no human being has ever had that fellowship to lose.

He can see that coming. Standing in the garden, with blood pressing through His skin, He can see the cross and the darkness and the moment when the Father will turn away. And He is being asked to walk toward it.

And everything in Him recoils. Every nerve. Every instinct. His body is screaming through His skin. The cup is in front of Him and it is the most terrible thing that has ever existed.

And in that moment — alone, bleeding, torches getting closer, disciples asleep, the full weight of human sin pressing down on Him — He says six words.

Not what I will, but what you will.

That is not resignation. That is not a man who ran out of options. That is love. At the most expensive price ever paid.

Nobody took His life. He laid it down. He was the author of the drama. His role in the drama was the cross. And He chose it. Freely. With blood running down His face. He chose it.

So how? How do you do that? How do you look at the full weight of what is coming and walk toward it? What held Him there when twelve legions of angels were one word away?

Hebrews tells us.

"...who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God." — Hebrews 12:2

For the joy. Not despite the suffering. For the joy.

Now, I have heard people explain that joy as the rewards. The throne. The kingdom. The authority. As if Jesus were doing math in the garden — weighing what He would lose against what He would gain and deciding it was a good deal.

That is not what is happening here. And you know it is not. Because of the word He just used.

Abba.

He did not cry out my throne. He did not cry out my kingdom. He cried out Father.

The joy set before Him was not a list of things He would receive. The joy set before Him was the Father Himself. The completion of what the Father sent Him to do. The moment when the work would be finished and the Son would return to the Father's presence — not to collect a reward, but to come home. Paul puts it this way in Philippians 2. He did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped. He emptied Himself. He took the form of a servant. He humbled Himself to the point of death — even death on a cross. And therefore God highly exalted Him.

Do you see the order? The exaltation came after. Not as the motivation. As the Father's response to the Son's love. Jesus was not gripping a future throne to get Himself through the present suffering. He was looking at the Father. He was loving the Father. And the Father's will — even when the Father's will was the cup, even when it meant the cross — the Father's will was enough.

Because He trusted the Father's love. Not the Father's rewards. The Father's love.

Can I tell you something? I think about my marriage when I read this.

Alicia and I — and she knows this, she is sitting right here — we have had moments where I was holding something so tightly that it was hurting both of us. A fear. A plan. A version of how I thought things needed to go. And I could not let go of it by willpower. I tried. But what finally loosened my grip was not trying harder.

It was trust.

It was knowing that the person I was releasing it to loved me. That she was not going to let me fall. That her love for me — and more importantly, that Christ at the center of our marriage — was more reliable than my grip on the thing I was afraid to lose.

Our marriage is not held together by my grip. It never was. It is held together by a love that is bigger than both of us. Christ is the center. And when Christ is the center, you can open your hands. Because you are not letting go into a void. You are letting go into a person you trust.

And if that is true in a marriage between two broken people — think about this — how much more is it true of a Son who has known the Father's love since before the world existed?

Jesus could open His hands in the garden because He knew whose hands He was falling into.

And that changes what surrender actually means. Because most of us — if we are honest — think surrender is a trade. I give up something I want and God gives me something better. And we call that faith. But that is not faith. That is negotiation. That is just gripping something shinier.

What Jesus did in the garden was not a negotiation. It was love. He loved the Father so completely that the Father's will became the only thing that mattered. Not because He understood it. Not because He could see what was coming. Because He knew the Father. And knowing the Father was enough.

The joy set before Him was not a throne. It was the Father's face.

And the Father answered that love with resurrection.

He released His safety. His comfort. His right to be treated as who He actually was. Everything a human being holds tightly — reputation, control, self-preservation, life itself. He released it.

And He walked toward the cross.

And three days later the tomb was empty. Nobody rolled that stone from the outside. It moved from the inside. He was already out. Already alive. Already moving toward the people who had abandoned Him.

The resurrection is God's answer to Gethsemane. It is the proof that willing surrender does not end in loss. It ends in indestructible life.

PETER OPENS HIS MOUTH Now. Let me tell you who is talking.

This is Peter. Same Peter who stood in that garden and watched Jesus fall on His face. Same Peter who — hours later — stood outside a fire in a courtyard and denied knowing Him. Three times. While Jesus was being beaten. While the cup was being poured out.

A woman pointed her finger and he ran. The strongest disciple. The one who swore he would die first. He looked at a servant girl and said I do not know the man.

And the rooster crowed. And Luke tells us that Jesus — in the middle of being led to His death — turned and looked at Peter.

And Peter went out and wept bitterly.

That is a man standing in the wreckage of everything he promised he would be.

After the resurrection, Peter went back to fishing. Back to the old life. Because what do you do when you have failed that completely? You assume you are disqualified. You go back to what you were before you ever heard follow me.

And Jesus found him there. On the shore. At dawn. Building a fire. Making breakfast.

Not a lecture. Not we need to talk about what you did.

Breakfast.

And He asked him about love. Three times. Once for each denial. Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?

I have watched this happen. Not just in Scripture. In my own life.

I have had friendships that I thought were over. Seasons where the distance felt permanent. Where I was not sure there was a way back. And I have watched God do what only God can do — take something that felt dead and bring it back. Not the same. Different. Deeper. The way a bone heals stronger at the break.

That is what happened between Jesus and Peter. Their relationship died in that courtyard. And the resurrection did not just bring Jesus back to life — it brought them back to life. Breakfast on the shore. Three questions about love. A friendship that had been destroyed, raised into something deeper than it was before.

Resurrection is what God does with surrendered things.

So years later Peter sits down to write to people who are losing everything. Scattered across Asia Minor. Displaced. Afraid. They gave everything to follow a crucified Messiah and the world is pressing in from every side.

And Peter opens his mouth. And the first thing out — before any theology, before any encouragement, before a single instruction — is a shout.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." — 1 Peter 1:3

That is not an argument. That is a berakah. A blessing. A burst of praise. The kind of thing that erupts from a person who has seen something so real they cannot contain it. Peter has been to the garden. He has been to the fire. He has been to the shore at dawn. He has been to the empty tomb. And the first thing out of his mouth is not let me explain what happened.

It is blessed be God.

Why? Because he has seen what God does with open hands.

Now stay with me here. Because there is something underneath this verse that most people read right past.

Peter says God has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.

Think about that. How? How does a historical event two thousand years ago cause something to happen inside me right now?

The new birth happens in here — in the human heart. The resurrection happened out there — in a tomb outside Jerusalem. How do you connect those two things?

When the Holy Spirit comes into your life — and that is what happens when a person is born again, the Spirit of God invades a dead soul — what He does is unite you to Christ. He joins you to a living person. Not to a memory. Not to a philosophy. Not to a moral example you try to follow on your best days. To the risen, living, breathing, reigning Jesus Christ.

Paul tells us exactly what that union means.

"If we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his." — Romans 6:5 Think about what is happening. Here comes the Holy Spirit. Here is Christ, risen from the dead. Here is your soul — dead in sin, curved inward, still clutching the glory you traded for yourself. And the Spirit does a miracle. He unites you to Christ.

And in that union, everything true of Christ becomes true of you.

His death counts as your death. The punishment has been endured. The debt has been paid. You have been to the cross and back. It is finished.

And His life counts as your life.

"For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God." — Colossians 3:3 Church, do you hear that? Your life is hidden with Christ in God. That is the safest sentence in the Bible. Your life is not out in the open where anything can reach it. It is hidden. In Christ. In God. Tucked inside the one person in the universe who has an indestructible life.

He can never die again. Which means you — hidden in Him — can never die again.

And that is why Peter calls it a living hope. Not because the hope is optimistic. But because the person it is attached to is alive. Right now. This morning. And He cannot be killed.

No resurrection — no new birth.

No new birth — no union with Christ.

No union with Christ — no hope.

But there was a resurrection. And there is a new birth. And there is a union with the living Christ. Dead hopes stay in the grave. This one walked out.

What Open Hands Receive

Now Peter keeps going. Look at verse 4.

"...to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time." — 1 Peter 1:4–5

Three words. I want you to hear each one. Because Peter is not just describing what you are going to receive. He is describing what you could never have kept by holding on.

Imperishable. It cannot decay. Cannot rot. Cannot break down over time. Think about what is perishing in your life right now. Your body is perishing — you feel it, the ache that was not there ten years ago. Your possessions are perishing — the house needs a new roof, the car needs another repair. Everything you own is in a slow-motion process of falling apart. Even the people you love most are mortal. Everyone you love is dying. Slowly. And you know it. You just do not say it.

This inheritance cannot perish. Time cannot touch it.

Undefiled. Cannot be stained. Cannot be corrupted. Think about it — every good thing you have ever held has been touched by the fall. Every relationship has a crack. Every achievement has a shadow of pride. Every moment of happiness carries the awareness that it will not last. Nothing in this world is pure all the way through.

This inheritance cannot be stained. Sin cannot reach it. Unfading. Does not lose its beauty. Does not dim. Does not grow ordinary. We know what fading feels like. The excitement of a new job that became a grind. The fire we had for God that slowly became a smolder. Everything fades. The newness wears off.

This inheritance does not fade. A million years from now — full brightness. No dimming. No settling.

Three negations. Not what the inheritance is. What it is not. It does not perish. It is not defiled. It does not fade.

Name every way you have ever lost something. And this is none of those things.

And here is the thing nobody wants to hear.

The things you are gripping most tightly right now are already perishing.

The clenched fist contains things that are already dying.

The open hand receives things that cannot die.

But Peter is not done. He knows what you are thinking. Okay, the inheritance is safe. But what about me? What if I let go and I am the one who is lost? "...who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time." — 1 Peter 1:5

Guarded. Military word. Garrisoned. Surrounded. And it is present tense. Not will be guarded. Is being guarded. Right now. This morning. In this room.

The inheritance is kept for you. And you are kept for it. Same power that raised Jesus from the dead — that is the power guarding you right now.

You are not as fragile as you think you are. Because the thing holding you together is not your grip. It is His.

The Call

So let me come back to where we started.

What if the only way to keep anything is to be willing to lose everything?

That question sounded dangerous an hour ago. But now you have been to the garden. You have watched Jesus open His hands. You have heard what Peter says is waiting on the other side.

And I want to ask you the second question.

Are you afraid of what God might ask you to release?

Maybe you know exactly what it is. A relationship. A plan. A grudge you will not release because letting go feels like saying it was okay. A habit you have been protecting. A part of your life you have told God to stay out of.

Or maybe it is bigger than one thing. Maybe what you are holding is yourself. The self-project. And somewhere deep down you know it is not working. You know the fists are tired.

But you will not let go. Because you are afraid of what will be left.

There came a moment in my life where a question rose to the surface. Not forced. Given. And answering it honestly meant releasing something that had become part of my identity. My calling. My place.

And slowly — with trembling hands — I began to let go. Not all at once. Not with certainty. But with a fragile trust that God was present even there.

And what I found was that letting go did not mean losing what mattered. It meant entrusting it. The same thing I learned in my marriage — you do not let go into a void. You let go into a person whose love is more faithful than your grip.

My life is not sustained by my grip. But by His.

Now, church. I need to be honest with you. And I want you to hear this the way I mean it — as a man who loves you.

I have been gentle this morning. And I think you needed that. But Easter is not gentle. The resurrection is not gentle. A stone rolling away from the inside and a dead man walking out into the morning air — that is not gentle. That is the most explosive event in history.

So let me ask you something. If Jesus Christ is alive — and He is — if He walked out of that tomb and is seated at the right hand of God right now — if the Spirit that raised Him from the dead is in this room —

Then why are you living like He is still in the tomb?

Why are you gripping your plans and your fears as if the most powerful person in the universe is not right here? In God's name — how can we sit in a room on Easter Sunday and be unmoved? How can we hear that the grave is empty and shrug?

Some of you have been calling it faithfulness. It is not faithfulness. It is fear. And this morning, at an empty tomb, fear loses its authority over you. Some of you have been coming to church for years and you have never once fallen to the ground. You have never gone a little farther — past the pretending, past the managing — and said Abba. Not my will but yours.

And I want to be specific about what I mean by managing your faith. Because I think some of you are doing it and you do not even realize it. You come on Sunday. You sing the songs. You nod at the right places. You go home and you live the rest of the week on your own terms. You pray, but you do not listen. You read, but you do not let the word read you. You have a Bible on your nightstand and a life that does not match it. And you have gotten so good at this that you have convinced yourself it is normal.

That is not faithfulness. That is management. And there is a world of difference between a managed faith and a surrendered life.

The joy is gone because you took your life back. Piece by piece.

And that is how it happens, by the way. It is never dramatic. Nobody wakes up one morning and says I am going to walk away from God today. It is slower than that. Quieter. You skip the morning prayer one day. Then two days. Then a week. You stop opening the Bible and start opening your phone. You start making decisions without asking. You put a wall around one area of your life — just one — and tell God that part is not His business. And then the wall gets a little bigger. And a little bigger. And before you know it, you are managing a faith you used to surrender. And the hope went flat because you disconnected from the living person it was attached to.

But He is not dead. He is alive. And the same Spirit that raised Him from the dead is in this room right now. And He is able to do what you cannot do for yourself.

So here is what I want to do. And I am not going to be vague about it.

I believe there are people in this room who need to make a decision this morning. Not think about one. Make one. Some of you — this is the first time. You have never given your life to Jesus Christ. Maybe someone brought you here and you did not want to come. But something has been stirring. And this morning the Spirit of God is offering to unite you to Christ — His death for yours, His life for yours. A living hope attached to a living Savior who cannot die. This is the morning something new begins.

Some of you gave your life to Christ years ago — but you took it back. Not all at once. Slowly. You started managing what you used to surrender. The fire became a smolder. And you have been wondering why everything feels flat. I will tell you why. You walked away from the table. This is the morning you come back.

And some of you — God has been asking for something specific. You know what it is. He has been pressing on it. And you have been saying not that, Lord. This morning, in the light of an empty tomb, He is asking again.

Will you open your hands?

I am not asking you to come to the front of a room. I am asking you to do what Jesus did.

He fell to the ground. He went a little farther. Past everyone else. And He went to the Father. Not to a reward. Not to a throne. To the Father. Because the Father's love was enough. The way I have learned in my marriage that love is what makes it safe to let go — Jesus knew that in the deepest way any person has ever known it. He knew whose hands He was falling into.

That is the altar. It has always been the altar. Not a piece of furniture. The posture of a human being who has stopped negotiating with God and has finally fallen to the ground and said — take it. Whatever you need. I am done holding.

You can do that right where you are. Nobody has to see it but Him. Open your hands. And what you release into His hands will not be lost.

Because think about what is on the other side. Not emptiness. Not loss.

An inheritance that cannot perish. Cannot be stained. Cannot fade.

A life hidden with Christ in God.

A hope that is alive — because the One it is attached to walked out of a grave.

Sometimes losing everything is the start of the new beginning you have been praying for.

Peter opened his mouth and the first thing out was a shout. Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

That was not theology. That was a man who had been to the garden and to the fire and to the shore and to the tomb — and the first thing he could do was worship.

When Peter and John stood before the Sanhedrin and were told to stop talking — they said we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard. That is not courage. That is overflow.

And that is where this ends. Not in heaviness. In worship. Because the tomb is empty. Because the Savior is alive. Because the Father answered the Son's love with resurrection — and He will answer yours the same way.

He is risen.

He is alive.

And everything changes. Father. Here we are. Holding things. You know what they are. You have watched us grip. You have watched our knuckles turn white. You have watched us call it faithfulness when it was fear. And you have been patient with us. This morning we have seen the garden. We have seen your Son fall to the ground. We have seen Him look at you — not at the throne, not at the reward, at you — and say not my will but yours. And we have seen what you did with that love. You answered it with resurrection. So here we are. Trembling hands. Stubborn hearts. And we are asking you to do what only you can do. Meet us here. Unite us to your Son. Cause us to be born again — or born again, again — to a living hope. We open our hands. Not because we are brave. Because you went first. Because the Father's love is enough. Even when it costs us everything. In the name of Jesus Christ, who is risen, who is alive, who is in this room right now. Amen.

Share the Hope — Week 4 Falcon Cornerstone Community Church of the Nazarene

Share the Hope

“Things into which angels long to look.” — 1 Peter 1:12

We say it every week in one way or another. We are a community led by the Holy Spirit that loves God, loves people, and proclaims new life in Christ. That’s our rhythm. That’s what we do.

And our horizon — the thing we’re walking toward — is to bring the gospel to every heart, every neighborhood, every generation, one relationship at a time.

I believe that. I have given my life to that. And most Sundays I stand up here and talk about what that looks like — how we love, how we serve, how we share the gospel with the people God has put in front of us.

But this morning I want to stop and ask a question that I don’t think we ask often enough.

And it’s a strange question. It’s not about us. It’s not about our neighbors or our kids or the people we’re trying to reach.

It’s about angels. If you have a Bible, turn with me to 1 Peter chapter 1. I want to read you a few verses, starting at verse 8. Peter says this:

Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

Now drop to verse 10: Concerning this salvation, the prophets who prophesied about the grace that was to be yours searched and inquired carefully, inquiring what person or time the Spirit of Christ in them was indicating when he predicted the sufferings of Christ and the subsequent glories.

It was revealed to them that they were serving not themselves but you, in the things that have now been announced to you through those who preached the good news to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven.

Things into which angels long to look. Things into which angels long to look. I want you to sit with that for a moment. Don’t move past it.

What Peter just said is extraordinary. He said that the salvation you received — not someone else’s salvation, yours, sitting right here in this gym this morning — is something that angels are craning their necks to peer into.

The word means to stoop down, to bend over and look into something, like you would lean over the edge of a well to see what’s at the bottom.

And that image goes all the way back to the beginning of Israel’s worship. When God told Moses to build the Ark of the Covenant, He placed two cherubim on top of the mercy seat — and their faces were bent downward.

Not looking outward. Not looking up. Looking down, toward the place where blood would be sprinkled for the sins of the people.

Angels, permanently fixed in a posture of gazing at mercy. And now Peter says the angels are still leaning in. The shadow became flesh. Christ shed His own blood. And the angels are still stooping down to look.

Angels do that. They do that when they look at you.

And did you catch what Peter said just before that?

Though you have not seen him, you love him.

The angels see God. They have always seen Him. They see the face of God and they worship and they have never had to trust, because trust is what you do when you can’t see.

But you — you have never seen His face. Not once. You have never heard His voice with your ears. You have never touched Him.

And you love Him. You love someone you have never seen, and your love is so real that it produces joy you can’t even put into words.

The angels see and worship. You believe without seeing and love anyway. And something about that is so foreign to their experience that they can’t stop looking. So here is the question I want to walk through with you this morning.

What are the angels looking at? II THE EXCHANGE Not Me, Never Me So what is it about my life that angels are astonished with?

I think about that. I think about my life — what I’ve accomplished, what I’ve pursued, what I’ve tried to build on my own.

I think about the things I’m proud of and the things I don’t talk about. I think about who I am when nobody is watching and who I pretend to be when everyone is.

And I cannot find the thing that would make an angel stop gazing at the throne of Almighty God and look at me.

And then the Bible tells me why.

Romans 1 says we are creatures after our own glory. Paul says that humanity — not some distant pagan civilization, but us, all of us — exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images.

We had the glory. It was right there. The most beautiful, the most weighty, the most satisfying reality in existence, and we looked at it and said, “No thank you. I’d rather have something else.”

And this is not just something we read about in the Bible where Adam and Eve made a wrong choice and now all their descendants choose sin. We inherit it. It’s originally ours. We own it, we live in it.

David said it this way in Psalm 51:

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. And Paul said it in Ephesians 2:

We were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind.

By nature. Not by accident. Not by bad luck.

John Wesley said that the human heart after the fall is bent inward on itself. We were made to look outward toward God in worship, but instead we curve back toward ourselves. We choose ourselves first, defend ourselves first, justify ourselves first.

That is the shape of sin. It is not just what we do. It is what we are.

And do you know what we traded the glory for? Paul says images resembling mortal man. We traded the glory of God for ourselves. That’s the exchange. I didn’t trade God for some obvious evil. I traded God for me.

And every day I’m tempted, and sometimes the natural in me takes over. It looks like waking up in the morning and the first thing I reach for is not God — it’s my phone.

And I tell myself I’m checking the time. But I’m not checking the time. I’m checking to see if anyone needs me, if anyone noticed me, if anything happened in the world that I need to have an opinion about.

Before my feet hit the floor, I have already made myself the center of the story. It looks like rehearsing a conversation in my head — one that hasn’t happened yet, or one that happened yesterday — and in every version, I come out looking right. I rearrange the words until I win. My mind defaults to a story where I am the hero and the other person just didn’t understand.

It looks like sitting in the car in the driveway after a long day. The engine is off. The house is right there.

And you don’t go in.

Because inside that house there are people who need things from you. Your wife needs you to be present. Your kids need you to be engaged. And you have nothing left.

So you sit in the car and scroll your phone for ten more minutes because at least out here, nobody is asking you for anything. At least out here, the algorithms know you and know what you desire, and they are designed to feed you — although you never realize that they’re actually consuming you.

It looks like snapping at your kids and then feeling guilty.

But the guilt isn’t really about them. If you’re honest — and this is hard to be honest about — the guilt is about your image of yourself. You’re not grieved that you hurt them. You’re grieved that you’re not the parent you thought you were.

The idol cracked and you saw what was behind it and you didn’t like what you saw.

So you apologize, not to restore them, but to restore the image. To get the idol back on its pedestal. That is the exchange. Every day. Not Adam’s exchange. Mine. That is not something an angel would bend down to look at. Angels have watched human beings choose themselves over God since the garden. It is the oldest and most boring story in the universe — a creature choosing itself over its Creator.

So if the angels are not looking at me, then what are they looking at? III WHAT THE ANGELS HAVE NEVER TASTED Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s something happening in me.

What does mercy really look like? Not out here — not as a concept, not as a word we sing about. What does mercy look like when it lands on a heart that was made to receive it?

Because the angels have never known.

They stand in the presence of God. They see His face. They sing Holy, Holy, Holy and they mean it with everything they are.

But they have never once said, “Forgive me.” They have never once heard, “You are mine.” They have never once felt the arms of the Father close around them after they wandered away, because they never wandered.

Mercy is something they can only watch.

But you — you know what mercy feels like from the inside.

You know what it’s like to be the one who was wrong — not theoretically wrong, not doctrinally wrong, but wrong in the way that costs you something.

Wrong in the way where you looked at someone you love and saw the damage you caused in their eyes.

Wrong in the way where you sat on the edge of the bed at two in the morning and couldn’t sleep because you finally saw yourself clearly and you didn’t like what was there.

You know what it’s like to carry that. The weight of it. The way it sits in your stomach. The way you avoid eye contact with God the same way you avoid eye contact with someone you’ve hurt. You don’t stop believing He exists. You just stop looking at Him. And then mercy comes.

And it doesn’t come the way you expected.

You expected conditions. You expected a lecture. You expected God to say, “We need to talk about what you did.” Because that’s what every human relationship has trained you to expect — that forgiveness has a cost, and the cost is your dignity.

Peter knew that feeling.

Peter was the one who looked Jesus in the face and said, “I will never deny you. Even if everyone else falls away, I won’t.”

And then the worst night of his life happened. Three times someone asked if he knew Jesus. Three times he said no. And the rooster crowed, and Luke tells us that Jesus turned and looked at him.

And Peter went out and wept bitterly.

That is a man standing in the wreckage. He didn’t just fail privately. He denied Christ publicly, while Christ was being led to His death. The strongest disciple, the one who swore he’d die before he’d deny — he crumbled in front of a servant girl by a fire.

And after the resurrection, Peter went back to fishing. He went back to his old life. Because what do you do when you’ve failed that completely? You go back to what you were before. You assume you’re disqualified. And Jesus found him there. John 21. Early morning. Peter is on the boat. And Jesus is standing on the shore.

And He doesn’t lecture him. He doesn’t say, “We need to talk about what you did.”

He makes breakfast.

He builds a fire on the beach. And then He asks Peter three times — once for each denial — “Do you love me?”

Not “Are you sorry?” Not “Will you do better?” Not “Can I trust you this time?”

Do you love me?

And Peter, broken, says, “Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.” That is mercy. Not a transaction. Not conditions. Not a lecture followed by probation. Jesus made the man who denied Him breakfast and asked him about love.

That is what mercy looks like when it lands on a heart that expected to be disqualified. And that is what God does with you.

He looks at you — you, the glory-exchanger, the one who sat in the car because you had nothing left — and He doesn’t ask for an apology. He doesn’t demand a plan for how you’ll do better.

He says, “You are mine.”

Not after you cleaned up. Not after you proved yourself. While you were still in it. While the idol was still warm in your hands.

And I need to stop here for a second.

Because I’m not just telling you about this. This is my story. I am the man who sat in the car. I am the man who avoided God’s eyes. I am the man who kept the idol warm in his hands and heard God say, “You are mine,” and I did not deserve a single syllable of it.

And if that doesn’t break you, I don’t know what will.

Because it breaks me. Every time. Not because I’m emotional. Because it’s true.

The God I traded for a mirror looked at me and said, “Come home.”

And He meant it. And He means it right now, for whoever in this room has been avoiding His eyes.

That is what mercy looks like when it lands on a heart made to receive it. And the angels have never felt it. They have never stood in the wreckage of their own choices and heard God say, not “I told you so,” but “come home.”

They can worship it. They cannot taste it. IV THE SPIRIT OFTHESON The Cry the Angels Have Never Cried And now we come to the part that, when I first saw it, I had to put my pen down and just sit there.

Because it’s not only that God forgave us. It’s what He put inside us.

Paul says it this way in 2 Corinthians 4:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.

God shone in our hearts.

The same God who spoke light into existence at the beginning of the world spoke light into you. And that light didn’t just illuminate you. It didn’t just show you the truth about God from a distance. It moved in. It took up residence.

The glory of God — the very thing we exchanged for the mirror — came back. And it came back not as something you look at, but as something that lives inside you.

We have this treasure in jars of clay. That’s you. That’s me. We are the clay. And the treasure is inside.

And the treasure is not silent. The glory of God does not move into a human heart and stay quiet. It speaks. It cries out.

Listen to what it says.

Romans 8:15: For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!”

And Galatians 4:6 says it even more stunningly:

And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!”

God sent the Spirit of His Son into your heart. And that Spirit does something inside of you that you could never do on your own.

It cries out, Abba. Father.

That is not your cry. That is the Son’s cry.

The same intimacy that the Son has with the Father from all eternity — that relationship, that closeness, that voice — is now happening inside of you.

Inside a rebel. Inside someone whose heart was bent inward. The Father put His own Son’s voice inside your chest. But here is what I want you to see, because I think these two verses are telling us something about the whole journey of the Christian life.

In Romans, we cry. In Galatians, the Spirit cries.

And if you’ve been a Christian for any length of time, you know the difference between those two cries. You know it in your bones.

You know what your cry sounds like. Your cry has self in it.

Your cry says Abba but it also says, “Am I doing this right?” Your cry says Father but it also says, “Do I mean this enough? Am I sincere enough? Is God hearing me or am I just talking to the ceiling?”

Your cry is real. It’s not fake. But it’s divided. Part of it is reaching for God and part of it is watching yourself reach for God, and those are not the same thing.

So what does the Spirit’s cry sound like? I think we hear it in Gethsemane.

The night before the cross, Jesus falls on His face and prays. And Mark tells us exactly what He said:

Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.

Listen to that prayer.

It is intimate — Abba. It is honest — remove this cup.

There is no performance in that prayer. There is no self- watching. Jesus is not wondering if He sounds sincere enough. He is not checking to see if the disciples are impressed.

He is face down in the dirt, bleeding, and the only thing coming out of Him is the truth of who He is in relationship to the Father.

That is the Spirit’s cry. Intimate. Honest. And it leads somewhere we don’t always want to go.

Not my will but yours.

Not because worship forces us into surrender, but because when you are that close to the Father — that intimate, that honest — surrender is just what happens. It’s not a decision you make. It’s the natural posture of a heart that is actually with God instead of performing for Him. And here is what I think has gone wrong for so many of us.

Do you remember the first time? Do you remember when the dust and grit were rubbed from your eyes and you heard “come” and it was the most real thing you had ever experienced?

The glory was there. Christ was there. And you didn’t have to manufacture anything. You just responded. The cry came out of you and it was genuine and it was the Spirit’s cry moving through you and you didn’t even know the theology of it yet.

You just knew it was real.

And then you spent the rest of your life trying to get back there.

You tried to recreate that moment with your own effort. More service. More prayer. More Sundays. More bracelets and verse walls and worship playlists.

And it didn’t work.

And you got disappointed. And you thought something was wrong with you. Or something was wrong with God. Why doesn’t this feel like it used to? Why am I going through the motions?

And so you worked harder. You served more. You showed up earlier. You stayed later.

And the disappointment deepened. Because the harder you tried to produce the cry, the further you got from the real thing. You were manufacturing praise. Manufacturing devotion. Manufacturing a spiritual life that looked right from the outside but felt hollow from the inside. And that manufactured life — that powerless, relational-less life full of duty and disappointment — that is what happens when your cry replaces the Spirit’s cry.

There is a terrifying moment in Matthew 7 where Jesus looks at people who did things in His name and says, “I never knew you.”

Not I never saw what you did. I never knew you. The doing was there. But the being — the intimacy, the honest cry, the heart that is actually with God — was missing.

This is why what God puts inside you matters more than anything you do for Him.

Because the Spirit’s cry doesn’t come from your effort. It comes from His presence.

When the Spirit of the Son enters a dead heart — a heart that was bent inward, a heart that had exchanged the glory for the mirror — something happens that you cannot produce on your own.

You begin to feel Christ. Not know about Him. Feel Him.

You begin to walk with Him. Not perform for Him. Walk with Him.

You begin to yearn for Him the way you used to yearn for the things you put in His place.

And your cry becomes genuine. Not because you tried harder. But because the Spirit is actually crying through you now.

The gap between Romans 8:15 and Galatians 4:6 is closing. Your voice and His voice are becoming one voice. Not because you strained to sound like Him. Because He filled you so completely that His cry and your cry are no longer two things. That is what it looks like when the light of Christ doesn’t just open your heart but renews it.

His voice, moving through you, the way breath moves through a flute. The flute doesn’t make the music. The breath does. But the music comes out shaped like the flute.

And wonder comes back. Not as an emotion you chase. Not as a feeling you try to recreate from that first moment years ago. Wonder comes back because you are actually with God again instead of working for Him.

And when you are with Him — genuinely, intimately, honestly — you cannot be bored. You cannot be disappointed. Because He is not disappointing. Only the manufactured version of Him is.

You become an extension of God’s own presence — the glory of heaven, alive inside clay, shining out through the cracks.

And the angels have never cried that cry.

They have called Him God. They have called Him Holy. They have called Him Almighty and Everlasting and Wonderful.

But they have never called Him Father.

That word — Abba — belongs to the Son. And now, by the Spirit, it belongs to you.

That is what the angels are looking at. Not your performance. Not your prayer life. They are looking at jars of clay full of glory. They are looking at rebels calling God Father in a voice that isn’t even theirs. V OPEN THE EYES OF MY HEART

Have you ever watched a child on a swing?

You push them and they scream with delight and the second they slow down they say, “Again! Do it again!” And on the fifteenth time you are exhausted and you think, surely by now they’re done.

But they’re not. Because for a child, the fifteenth time is just as miraculous as the first. They have not yet learned to be bored by what is right in front of them.

We have.

Somewhere along the way, we grew out of wonder. We learned to see the sunrise and not notice it. We learned to hold our spouse’s hand and not feel it. We learned to hear the gospel and nod instead of weep.

But God never did.

God looks at the sun every morning and says, “Do it again.” And it rises. And He is not tired of it. He has made the sun rise ten billion times and He still delights in it.

Because God is strong enough to find wonder in what we have decided is ordinary.

The angels are like that. They have been gazing at mercy since before we existed. They watched the blood hit the mercy seat. They watched the prophets strain to understand. They watched Christ go to the cross. They watched the tomb open.

And they are still leaning in. Still stooping down. Still staring. The wonder has not worn off. Not for them. Not for God.

Only for us.

We are the ones who tasted mercy and let it become familiar. We are the ones who heard the Spirit cry Abba from inside our chest and stopped noticing. We are the ones who stood in the presence of the living God and checked our phones. And I stand here this morning as a man who has done all of that. And I am not going to pretend otherwise.

I have let the most astonishing reality in the universe become background noise in my life. I have traded wonder for duty.

And I am tired of living that way.

So I’m not going to ask you to try harder. I’m not going to give you steps or strategies. I’m going to do the only thing I know how to do when I’ve run out of my own effort.

I’m going to surrender.

I’m going to stop being the subject of the sentence. I’m going to stop performing. I’m going to stop manufacturing a cry that was never meant to come from me.

And I’m going to ask God to do the one thing I cannot do for myself.

Open my eyes. Because that’s what this has always been about.

From the beginning — from the cherubim bending over the mercy seat, from the prophets searching and inquiring, from the Spirit testifying about the sufferings of Christ and the glories to follow — it has always been about seeing.

And we have gone blind. Not because the glory left. Because we stopped looking. So this morning, I’m asking God to rub the dust from my eyes one more time.

To let me see what the angels see.

To let me feel what Peter felt on that beach when Jesus didn’t lecture him but loved him.

To let me hear the Spirit cry Abba from inside my chest and actually be undone by it instead of managing it.

I want to see His glory again. Not the manufactured version. The real thing. The mercy of God, alive inside a jar of clay, shining through the cracks.

And I want to be the man who looks at that and says, with everything in him — Do it again, Lord. Do it again. The angels are looking. Not at you. At the mercy of God, alive inside of you, calling out in a voice that isn’t even yours.

Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. I want to see You. Share the Hope — Week 1 Falcon Community Church of the Nazarene

When Help Becomes Harm

If you have a Bible, open it with me to Ezra chapter 4. Before we read, I want to sit with you for a minute. Because I think there's something most of us have experienced that we don't talk about very much in church. Have you ever been in a moment — not a dramatic moment, just a Tuesday — where something was offered to you that looked right? The relationship made sense. The opportunity was real. The door was wide open. And everyone around you was smiling, saying, "This is great. Go for it." And something in you said no. Not a loud no. Not a burning-bush no. Just… a check. A hesitation you couldn't put into words. Like there was a hand on your chest — gentle, but firm — holding you back from something everyone else was rushing toward. And you probably didn't tell anybody. Because what would you say? "I just have a feeling"? That doesn't sound very spiritual. It doesn't sound very smart. It just sounds like you're afraid. I want to show you something in this text today that's going to reframe that experience for you. Because Ezra 4 is a story about people who got a beautiful, generous, religious offer — and said no. And I want to show you why they said no. And then I want to teach you how God grows that same instinct in you and me. Let's read. When the enemies of Judah and Benjamin heard that the returned exiles were building a temple for the LORD, the God of Israel, they approached Zerubbabel and the family heads and said to them, "Let us build with you, for we also worship your God and have been sacrificing to him since the time King Esarhaddon of Assyria brought us here." But Zerubbabel, Jeshua, and the other family heads of Israel said to them, "You have no part with us in building a house for our God, since we alone must build it for the LORD, the God of Israel, as King Cyrus, the king of Persia has commanded us." Then the people of the land discouraged the people of Judah and made them afraid to build. They hired counselors against them to frustrate their plans throughout the reign of King Cyrus of Persia and until the reign of King Darius of Persia. At the beginning of the reign of Ahasuerus, they wrote an accusation against the residents of Judah and Jerusalem.

"Let Us Build with You" Alright. Go back to the beginning with me. Verse 1. "When the enemies of Judah and Benjamin heard that the returned exiles were building a temple for the LORD…" Stop. Did you catch it? The narrator names them before they ever open their mouths. He calls them enemies. Before the pitch. Before the handshake. Before we hear a single word from them — God's Word has already told you who they are. Now hold that word. Don't let it go. Because you're about to hear these enemies speak, and when they speak, they're not going to sound like enemies. They're going to sound like the answer to your prayers. But the Holy Spirit, through the narrator, has already named the truth about them. This is what God does. He names things before we experience them. He gives us eyes before we need them. He doesn't wait until the damage is done to say, "By the way, that was an enemy." He tells you first. Before the smile. Before the generosity. Before you're in too deep to walk away. God names it first. Now listen to what the enemies actually say. Verse 2. "Let us build with you, for we also worship your God and have been sacrificing to him since the time King Esarhaddon of Assyria brought us here." Listen to how good that sounds. Three claims. And I want you to see all three of them, because each one is doing something. First: shared desire. "Let us build with you." We want what you want. We're on the same team. We're here to help. Second: shared worship. "We also worship your God." Same God. Same faith. Same heart. Third: shared history. "We have been sacrificing to him since the time of Esarhaddon." This isn't new for us. We have credentials. We've been doing this for generations. Shared desire. Shared worship. Shared history. Church, if someone walked into our board meeting with that resume, we'd hand them a name tag and put them on a committee before they finished their sentence. And here's the devastating thing about this text. They weren't lying. Not completely. Go back to 2 Kings chapter 17 and you'll find their backstory. When Assyria conquered the northern kingdom, they deported the Israelites and resettled foreign peoples in the land. Those people eventually started worshiping Yahweh — the God of Israel — because they were afraid of what they called "the god of the land." So they added Yahweh to their religion. They sacrificed to Him. They used His name. But they also kept their own gods. Second Kings 17:33 says it plainly: "They worshiped the LORD, but they also served their own gods." Do you see it? Their worship was real. It just wasn't whole. Their devotion was sincere. It just wasn't singular. It was Yahweh plus. Yahweh alongside. Yahweh as one option among many. And that's a world of difference from Yahweh alone. And this is where this ancient text starts walking into our living rooms. Because the most dangerous threat to what God is building in your life is almost never the thing that's obviously wrong. It's the thing that's ninety percent right. The thing that has just enough God in it to look holy, but just enough of something else mixed in to compromise everything it touches. The most dangerous lies are not the ones that are entirely false. The most dangerous lies are the ones that are almost entirely true.

Now look at Zerubbabel's response. And look at it slowly. Verse 3: "You have no part with us in building a house for our God, since we alone must build it for the LORD, the God of Israel, as King Cyrus, the king of Persia has commanded us." I'll be honest with you — the first time I sat with that sentence, I flinched. "You have no part with us." That sounds harsh. That sounds exclusive. That sounds like the kind of thing that would get you called judgmental in our culture. But look at what's actually happening. Zerubbabel isn't reacting out of arrogance. He's not being tribal. He's reaching back — past the emotion of the moment, past the social pressure, past the practical need — and he's grabbing hold of the word already given. "As King Cyrus has commanded us." The decree was specific. It named specific people. It authorized specific work. And Zerubbabel, in the pressure of this moment, doesn't need a new word from God. He needs to be faithful to the word God has already spoken. And I want you to feel what this cost him. He's leading a tiny community. They're surrounded by people who are stronger than they are. A whole delegation walks up with resources, manpower, religious credentials — and offers to join the work. And Zerubbabel looks at all of it — the practical benefit, the political advantage, the help he desperately needs — And says, "No. This is not yours to build." That's not arrogance. That's fidelity. That's a man who loves what God is building more than what the partnership could provide. That's a man who treasures the assignment more than the approval.

And now watch what happens. Verses 4–5: "Then the people of the land discouraged the people of Judah and made them afraid to build. They hired counselors against them to frustrate their plans…" I want you to see the Hebrew underneath the English here, because it's devastating. That word "discouraged" — in Hebrew it's raphah. It means to let the hands sink. To go slack. To make someone's grip go limp. Picture this. These exiles have been holding trowels. Lifting stones. Gripping tools with calloused hands, building something sacred in the rubble. And the enemy's strategy is not to fight them sword-to-sword. It's to make their hands go limp. Just… drain the energy. Weaken the resolve. Not a dramatic assault. A slow, persistent erosion of the will to keep building. And then: "made them afraid." First the hands go limp. Then the fear sets in. And then: "hired counselors to frustrate their plans." Now it's institutional. Now it's lawyers and letters and formal accusations. Do you see the escalation? Friendly offer → rejection → discouragement → fear → hired opposition → formal accusation. The mask came off. The volunteers became what the narrator said they were all along: enemies. And it lasted sixteen years.

The Bigger Story Now I need you to see something bigger. Because if we stop here, this is just ancient politics. And it's not. This is a pattern. And it's as old as the Bible itself. Go back to the beginning. A garden. A tree. And a voice that says, "Did God really say?" Genesis 3:6. "The woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise. So she took." Do you see it? Three claims about the tree. Good for food. Beautiful to look at. Desirable for wisdom. And here's the thing that should stop you cold: every single one was true. The fruit was edible. It was beautiful. It did give knowledge. The serpent didn't lie about the tree. He lied about what taking it would cost. Eve looked at something that was genuinely good — and couldn't see that it wasn't genuinely God's. She couldn't tell the difference between something beautiful and something permitted. Between something desirable and something designed for her. Three true things about the tree. She took. Three true things about the adversaries in Ezra 4. "Let us build with you." Same play. Same enemy. Thousands of years apart, and the strategy hasn't changed. Don't show up with something ugly. Show up with something beautiful that isn't yours. Something genuinely good that isn't genuinely God's will for you in this moment.

Now fast-forward to another garden — no, first, the desert. Matthew chapter 4. Jesus has fasted for forty days. He's at His most vulnerable. And the same enemy who came to Eve comes to Him. And what does Satan bring? Not horns and a pitchfork. He brings Scripture. He quotes the Bible. He offers bread to a hungry man. Kingdoms to a King. Proof of the Father's care to a beloved Son. Three good-sounding offers. Religious language. Shared texts. "Let me help you with your mission." The tree in the garden. The adversaries in Ezra. The tempter in the wilderness. The same play every time. But watch what happens. Where Eve took, Jesus refused. He goes back to the word already given. "It is written." Three times. Not new revelation. Not a mystical experience. Faithfulness to what the Father had already spoken. It is written. It is written. It is written. The second Adam succeeds where the first Adam failed. Not by being smarter than the serpent — but by being more surrendered to the Father. Or think about Gethsemane. Peter draws his sword — and that's a good-looking offer. Loyalty. Courage. "Let me fight for you, Lord." And Jesus says, "Put your sword away." Because the Father's plan required a cross, not a sword. And Peter's help — however brave, however sincere — would have destroyed the very thing God was building. The pattern of Ezra 4 is the pattern of the whole Bible. And Jesus is the one who finally breaks it. The enemy offers a shortcut. A partnership that bypasses suffering. An easier path that avoids the cross. In the garden of Eden, humanity took it. In the pages of Israel's history, God's people wavered. But in the wilderness, in Gethsemane, on the cross — Jesus said no. He trusted the Father's word when everything in front of Him looked good but wasn't God's. Jesus could have taken the kingdoms. They were real. But they came without the cross. And a kingdom without the cross is a kingdom without redemption. A throne without a sacrifice. Power without love. And a temple built with compromised partners would have been the same thing. A building without the holiness. A structure without the presence. Beautiful on the outside, empty where it matters most. God would rather have a small, struggling, faithful community building slowly in the rubble than a grand coalition that looks impressive but has no glory in it. So here's what's been pressing on me all week. And I want it to press on you. How did they know? How does a small band of exiles look at a generous offer and see through it? How does Jesus, exhausted in the desert, say no to bread? How do you develop the kind of heart that can stand in the middle of a beautiful-sounding offer and feel the check of the Spirit and say, "No. This isn't right." Let me show you.

How God Grows Discerning Hearts What I'm about to give you isn't a formula. It's a way of life. Three practices that, over time, will grow in you the same kind of spiritual sight that Zerubbabel had. That Jesus had. Not because you're brilliant. Because the Holy Spirit is faithful. And He will teach you to see. First: What you won't let go of is what you can't see past. Surrender comes before sight. Always. Think about what Zerubbabel had to not be gripping to say no to that offer. If he's gripping the timeline — this will take too long without them — he can't see clearly. If he's gripping approval — they'll turn on us — he can't see clearly. If he's gripping his reputation — people will call me arrogant — he can't see clearly. The thing you're gripping becomes the lens you see through. And a lens made of fear, or ambition, or people-pleasing distorts everything it touches. Jesus said, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Not the smart in mind. The pure in heart. The undivided. The ones who've laid everything on the altar and held nothing back. They shall see. So when you can't get clarity on a decision, the first question isn't "What should I do?" It's "What am I afraid to lose?" Because that thing — whatever it is — is standing between you and clear sight. Lay it down. And watch what happens to your vision.

Second: Obey what you already know. God will show you the rest. Zerubbabel didn't get a vision. He didn't hear an audible voice. He went back to the decree — the word God had already spoken through the authority God had already established. And I think this is where most of us get stuck. We're asking God for step ten while we're sitting on step two. Begging for clarity about the future while ignoring the thing He already made clear. The seasons of my life when I've had the hardest time hearing God were never because He went silent. They were because I was sitting on something I already knew I was supposed to do. A conversation I was avoiding. A habit I was protecting. And until I dealt with that, everything ahead of me stayed foggy. But every time I obeyed the thing I'd been putting off, it was like someone cleaned a window. Because obedience is the organ of spiritual sight. Every act of obedience sharpens your capacity to hear the next thing. Every act of disobedience dulls it. Not as punishment. As consequence. The way a runner who stops running loses endurance. The obedience of leaving Babylon in chapter 1 prepared Zerubbabel to rebuild the altar in chapter 3. Rebuilding the altar prepared him to discern the counterfeit in chapter 4. Every step of faithfulness was training for this moment. Every step of your faithfulness is training for yours. So if you're in a foggy season — is there something God already told you to do that you haven't done? Start there. Watch what happens.

Third: Test it through more than one channel. Now let me be practical. Because I know some of you are thinking, "How do I know if it's the Holy Spirit or just my own anxiety?" Fair question. So here are four channels of confirmation. And the principle is simple: you don't need all four to say no. But you need all four to say yes. One: Does this align with what God has already said in His Word? The Spirit and the Scriptures will never contradict each other. That's your bedrock. Zerubbabel stood on the decree. Check the offer against the word already given. Two: What kind of fruit does this produce in my spirit? The Spirit's leading carries a settled peace, even when the decision is hard. What the Spirit won't produce is rush, pressure, or panic. A feeling like you must decide right now before the window closes — that's not conviction. That's manipulation. God doesn't manipulate His children. Three: What do the wisest, most godly people in my life say? Verse 3: Zerubbabel, Jeshua, and the other family heads. Plural. Who are your people? Not the ones who always agree with you. The ones who love you enough to say, "I don't think that's right." Four: When I sit quietly before God — not arguing, just listening — what settles? Not "confirm what I've decided" but "align my will to Yours." Sometimes it settles quickly. Sometimes it takes weeks. But stillness before God is the soil where discernment grows. All four line up? Move. Even one is off? Wait. You have permission. God is not in a hurry.

The Cost of Clarity Now I'd be lying to you if I stopped there. Come back to verses 4–5. "Then the people of the land discouraged the people of Judah and made them afraid to build. They hired counselors against them to frustrate their plans…" Zerubbabel said no. And the result was not peace. The result was sixteen years of opposition. The people who offered to help became the people who tried to destroy. And Zerubbabel had to live with that. Every day. For sixteen years. Knowing that one word — one yes — could have made it all stop. Discernment that costs you nothing probably isn't discernment. The thing you say no to doesn't just disappear. It pushes back. The relationship you set a boundary in gets harder before it gets healthier. The opportunity you walk away from becomes the thing people question you about for years. I know what that costs. There are decisions I've made where I knew I was doing the right thing, and it cost me sleep. It cost me relationships. It cost me the approval of people I love. And I'd lie awake thinking, "Maybe I got this wrong. Maybe I'm just stubborn." And here's what I want to say from the other side of those seasons: the fact that it's hard doesn't mean it's wrong. Sometimes the hardest road is the most faithful road. And the God who gives you discernment in the decision doesn't abandon you in the fallout. Because look at what happened. Sixteen years… and then Ezra 6. The temple is completed. Not a compromised temple. Not a coalition project. The temple God actually asked for. And this is the gospel. In the garden of Eden, the enemy offered something beautiful, and humanity took it — and everything fell apart. But Jesus walked into the same pattern and refused. No to kingdoms without the cross. No to the crown without the suffering. No to the fruit that looked good but wasn't the Father's. And the result was not applause. The result was crucifixion. Three days in a tomb. The appearance of total defeat. But on the other side of that no — on the other side of the suffering and the silence — was resurrection. Was redemption. Was the thing God had been building from before the foundation of the world. Zerubbabel's no in chapter 4 protected the yes of chapter 6. Jesus's no in the desert protected the yes of the empty tomb. And your no — the costly, lonely, misunderstood no that you're living in right now — may be protecting a yes you can't even see yet. Some of you are in the middle of your sixteen years. You've said no, and it's been hard. People don't understand. The door you closed left you standing in an empty hallway. And some of you are sitting here thinking the opposite. You're thinking, "It's too late for me. I already said yes. I already took the fruit. I already let the wrong thing in." Hear me. The God who teaches discernment also redeems the seasons where we didn't have it. The God who builds temples out of rubble can rebuild what compromise has broken. Eve took the fruit — and God didn't abandon the garden. He came looking for her. He made a promise. He set a plan in motion that would take thousands of years and end on a cross — all to undo what happened when she took what wasn't hers. Discernment isn't just for the next decision. It's for right now. Wherever you are, whatever you've already said yes to — you can start today. You can lay it down today. And the God who met Eve in the garden after the worst decision of human history will meet you too. Let me tell you what this text tells me: the temple gets built. Not on the adversaries' terms. On God's terms. And what God builds — because you wouldn't let it be compromised — will stand. It will have His glory in it. And it will be worth every single thing it cost.

Closing So here's what I want to leave you with. God is not asking you to out-think the enemy. Zerubbabel didn't out-think them. He out-surrendered them. His heart was so fully given to God's purpose that when the counterfeit arrived, he could feel the difference. That's what God is growing in you. Not a sharper mind. A cleaner heart. A heart so tuned to His voice that when something isn't right — even when everyone says it's fine — you feel it. That check. That gentle hand. That quiet no you can't explain but can't ignore. That's the Holy Spirit doing what Jesus promised: guiding you into all truth. Surrender daily. Obey what you know. Test through the Word, the Spirit, your people, and prayer. And when the cost comes — hold fast. The God who gave you the discernment will carry you through the consequences. This is available to every person in this room. Not because you're brilliant. Because the Holy Spirit lives in you. And He will teach you to see. Let's pray.

Father, Give us eyes to see. Not sharper minds — cleaner hearts. Hearts so surrendered that the counterfeits lose their power over us. The enemy has been running the same play since the garden. Make it look good. Make it sound true. Make it beautiful to the eyes and desirable to the heart. And wait for us to take. But You broke that pattern on a cross. And You're breaking it in us. For anyone in this room in the middle of a hard no right now — strengthen their hands. Don't let them go limp. Don't let the enemy's raphah strategy win. Remind them that You are building something on the other side of their obedience that will stand because they wouldn't let it be compromised. For anyone who already said yes to the wrong thing — who already took the fruit, who already let the compromise in — meet them the way You met Eve. Come looking for them. Cover them. And start rebuilding today. For anyone who can't see clearly — show them what they're gripping. Give them courage to lay it down. Then open their eyes. Jesus, You said no to every shortcut so we could be saved. Where Adam took, You refused. Where Eve reached, You surrendered. You chose the cross when the kingdoms were right in front of You. Help us trust that the same pattern — the no that protects the yes, the cost that produces the glory, the suffering that opens into resurrection — is the pattern You're working in us. We love You. We trust You. Teach us to hear. In Your name. Amen. *

Sorrowful Yet Always Rejoicing

I want to invite you to open your Bibles with me to II Corinthians, and find chapter 6. Before we get to Ezra and see our passage for today, I want to establish something we see in the New Testament, and then take you to the Old Testament to show you how this is lived out with God’s people. As you’re finding the text in II Corinthians, I want to ask you something this morning that I think most of us have never been given permission to ask out loud. Have you ever felt grief and joy at the same time? Not one and then the other. Not sorrow on Monday and relief by Friday. I mean simultaneously. In the same moment. In the same chest. The thing that is wonderful and the thing that is breaking you, both present at once, neither one canceling the other out. You know what I’m describing. You’ve held a newborn and cried because someone you loved wasn’t there to see it. Gabriel was sitting in the sea of graduates, and I remember looking over to Alicia, and you can tell, on her face and in her heart, she felt pride and grief arrive at exactly the same second. You’ve had a moment where God did something unmistakably good and you wept through the whole thing because the road to get there cost so much. And if you’re in the church long enough, somebody eventually gives you the impression that this is a spiritual problem. That a mature Christian should be able to manage their grief more cleanly. That joy and sorrow shouldn’t be tangled up like that. That if your faith is strong enough, the grief will eventually get quiet and the joy will get clear. I don’t believe that to be true. Sorrow and joy aren’t different songs — they’re different notes in the same chord. Because what I actually think is happening when you feel both at once isn’t spiritual immaturity. I think it might be one of the most honest, most holy things a human being can experience.

The Why

But I don’t want to just tell you that. I want to show you why. So let me ask the question underneath the question. Why? Why can joy and sorrow live in the same body at the same time? Here’s what I think is going on. You and I are living in the middle of a story that hasn’t ended yet. The already is this: Christ has come. He has died. He has risen. The kingdom of God has broken through. Sin has been defeated. Death has lost. The foundation has been laid. That’s real. That’s done. That cannot be undone. The not yet is this: you still get the diagnosis. Your marriage still falls apart. Your kids still walk away. People you trust still betray you. You still bury the people you love. The world is still groaning. And you are still waiting, for the day when everything sad comes untrue. And you are living, right now, this morning, in the space between those two realities. That’s why you feel both. Not because something is wrong with you. But because you are correctly perceiving two things that are both true at the same time. And the grief is not a failure of faith. The grief is the Christ in you, groaning with all of creation, longing for the redemption that is coming but hasn’t come in full. Paul says that in Romans 8. The Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. That’s not a defeated Spirit. That’s a Spirit who loves so deeply that the ache of the not-yet is unbearable even for God. So when you sit in your car after the funeral and you believe, you genuinely believe, that your loved one is with Jesus, and you still can’t stop crying, that’s not weak faith. That’s complete faith. That’s a faith big enough to hold the already and honest enough to feel the not yet. You cannot love deeply and grieve lightly. The grief is the proof that the love was real.

The Cultural Crisis

But here’s where it gets harder. And I think this is where we have to be honest about the world we actually live in. Because our culture has no category for this. None. We have been so deeply formed, and I use that word intentionally, formed, by a world that insists you must pick a lane. You are either winning or losing. You are either thriving or you’re in crisis. You are either grateful or you’re complaining. And we have swallowed that framework so completely that we bring it into our faith and expect God to operate the same way. You’ve felt this. You know what I’m talking about. You’re going through something genuinely hard, and someone asks how you’re doing, and you have this split-second decision: Do I give them the grief answer or the faith answer? Because you’ve been trained to think you can’t give both. You say “I’m struggling” and people get concerned. You say “God is good” and people move on. But the truest answer, the one that would actually be honest, is “both. Right now. In the same breath. And I don’t know what to do with that.” We don’t have a script for that answer. Not in our culture. And too often, not in our churches. And so what happens, and this is the part that breaks my heart as a pastor, what happens is that people start to feel like their insides don’t match what church is asking them to perform. The worship set is triumphant, but they’re dying inside. The sermon is about victory, but they just need someone to sit with them in the ruins for a minute. And eventually they start to believe that the gap between what they feel and what they’re supposed to feel is evidence that something is spiritually wrong with them. And it’s not. It’s evidence that they’re human. And that they’re paying attention. And that their faith is actually working, because it’s making them sensitive to both the beauty and the brokenness at the same time.

THE WORD: SORROWFUL, YET ALWAYS REJOICING Now. With all of that in your mind, I want to show you what Paul does with this reality. Because he doesn’t just describe it. He stakes his entire ministry on it. Look at II Corinthians 6, verse 8. Paul is defending his ministry, not because he’s insecure, but because the Corinthians need to understand what authentic Christian life actually looks like. And he gives them a series of paradoxes. “We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.” (2 Corinthians 6:8–10) A life that looks like one thing from the outside and is something completely different on the inside. And right in the middle of that list, the one that holds them all together: Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Now, I think as normal Bible readers, we see two words that stand out. Sorrowful and rejoicing. Those are the big words. We feel those words. We have lived inside both of them. But I want to suggest that we have been reading right past the most important word in that sentence. It’s not sorrowful. It’s not rejoicing. It’s the word sitting right between them. Yet. Say that with me. Yet. When I come across the word yet in Scripture, I’ve learned to stop. Because yet is never a throwaway word. Yet is always holding something together. It’s like two arms stretched wide, one hand holding grief, the other hand holding joy, and the word itself is the body that refuses to let either one go. It won’t drop the sorrow to make room for the joy. And it won’t release the joy just because the sorrow is heavy. Not sorrowful and then rejoicing. Not sorrowful but eventually the feelings will catch up. Yet. Right now. Both. At the same time. And then there’s the word sitting right next to it. And this one might be even more confrontational. Always. Say that with me. Always. Not sometimes rejoicing. Not rejoicing when the circumstances cooperate. Always. While sorrowful. In the middle of it. Right now. I know that word just landed on somebody in this room. Because you have been sorrowful for a long time. And always feels like a word that belongs to someone else’s life. And I can feel some of you pushing back. Because “always” sounds impossible. It sounds like one more thing the Bible is asking you to do that you don’t have the strength to pull off. But look at what Paul actually says. He doesn’t say “rejoice always.” He says “Rejoice in the Lord always.” And that matters. Because “always” is not attached to you. It’s attached to Him. The question is not “can you always feel joy?” No. You can’t. Paul couldn’t. He just told you — unceasing anguish. The question is: is there ever a moment when the grounds for your joy have been removed? Is there ever a moment when Christ is not risen? When the steadfast love has run out? When the Spirit has stopped interceding for you? No. There is not. There never has been. There never will be. “Always” is not a demand on your feelings. “Always” is a statement about His faithfulness. The joy is always there. Sometimes you feel it like the sun on your face. And sometimes you feel nothing but the overcast. But the sun has never gone out. Not once. And what the Spirit does over time — and we’ll get to this — is not make you someone who never sees the clouds. He makes you someone who never forgets the sun. And Paul doesn’t just say this. He lives it. Look with me in Romans chapter 9, verse 2. “I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.” (Romans 9:2) Unceasing. Not occasional sadness. Not a rough season. Unceasing anguish. This is Paul’s baseline. This is the emotional weather he woke up in every morning. But then you flip the page to Philippians 4: “Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice.” (Philippians 4:4) Same man. Same life. Same letters. Unceasing anguish. And rejoice always. Both true. At the same time. So how does that work? How is it possible for you? Because you are not an apostle. You are a person who has to get up tomorrow and go to work and pay your bills and raise your kids and somehow hold your life together while carrying things that feel like they should have crushed you by now. How do you live in the yet? I’m not going to answer that question yet. Not fully. Because I think the answer to that question is a Person, not a technique. And we’re going to get to Him before this morning is over. But I will tell you this. The Christian who learns to live in the yet, who stops trying to resolve the tension and starts letting Christ hold it, that person becomes something the world doesn’t have a category for. They become steady. Not because they’ve figured it out. But because they’ve stopped pretending the grief isn’t there, and they’ve stopped letting the grief have the final word. They’re the person at the hospital who cries with you and prays with you, and neither one feels forced. They’re the friend who can say “this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me” and “God has not left me” in the same sentence and mean both completely. That’s not a technique. That’s a life so saturated by the presence of Christ that it can hold what the world cannot hold. And I think the church that learns to hold both sounds at the same time, without managing one or manufacturing the other, becomes the thing the world around it is desperately hungry for and doesn’t know how to find. Now. Let me show you what that looks like when it actually happens.

THE EXPLOSION: THEY MADE A BEGINNING, TOGETHER Turn with me to Ezra chapter 3. Let me set the stage. The people of God have been gone. Not for a rough season. For seventy years. An entire generation was born, grew up, and died in Babylon. They never saw the temple. They never stood in Jerusalem. Everything they know about God’s faithfulness, they learned secondhand, from their parents, their grandparents, the songs that got passed down like family recipes in a foreign kitchen. And then there are the old ones. The ones who remember. They saw the first temple. They remember the gold, the incense, the sound of the Levites singing. And they also remember the day it was torn down. They remember the fire. They remember being dragged away. That memory isn’t a story for them. It’s a scar. Both groups are now standing in the same place. Look at verses 8 and 9 with me. “Now in the second year after their coming to the house of God at Jerusalem, in the second month, Zerubbabel the son of Shealtiel and Jeshua the son of Jozadak made a beginning, together with the rest of their kinsmen, the priests and the Levites and all who had come to Jerusalem from the captivity.” (Ezra 3:8–9) They made a beginning. That’s what the Hebrew word means. It is not gentle. It is not soft. The word carries this image of splitting, of breaking open, like an axe coming down on a piece of wood. A beginning, in the Hebrew imagination, is not a gentle unfolding. It’s a violent act of opening. Something has to be split before anything new can come through. Beginnings hurt. Because something always has to die for something new to be born. And you can’t put the dough back in. Once it pops, it pops. The beginning is irreversible. God is saying: we’re moving forward now. It’s going to be messy. But we are not staying in the can. But notice what happens when the dough comes out. It’s not ready yet. It’s raw. Soft. Shapeless. You wouldn’t eat it. It needs a foundation, a surface, a place to rest and begin to take form. And then it has to go through the oven. Heat. Time. Pressure from the inside out. The pop is just the beginning. The real transformation happens in the fire. I say that to somebody who is in the middle of something that feels like it should be further along by now. You had the breakthrough. God did the thing. But now you’re in the raw-dough season. And you’re wondering why it still hurts and why the heat won’t let up. It’s because God isn’t done with you. The pop was real. But the oven is where the transformation happens. Now. Go back to the text. Because I skipped something and I need you to see it. It doesn’t just say they made a beginning. It says they made a beginning together. Together. Zerubbabel and Jeshua and the priests and the Levites and all who had come from the captivity. The ones who remembered the first temple and the ones who had never seen it. The ones carrying scars and the ones carrying dreams. Every major move of God in Scripture follows this pattern. In the upper room before Pentecost, the disciples were together. They were praying together, waiting together, consecrating themselves together. And it was while they were together that the Spirit fell. Not on one of them privately. On all of them. At once. The Spirit doesn’t seem to be interested in falling on scattered people. He falls on gathered people. He falls on people who have made the inconvenient, uncomfortable, sometimes painful choice to stay in the room with each other. What if the beginning He’s initiating in your life, in our life, requires the same thing? What if the sealed-up thing can’t be broken open alone? What if the axe only falls when we’re standing in the same place? Together. Now look at what happens when the foundation is laid. Verse 10. “And when the builders laid the foundation of the temple of the LORD, the priests stood in their apparel with trumpets, and the Levites, the sons of Asaph, with cymbals, to praise the LORD, according to the directions of King David of Israel. And they sang responsively, praising and giving thanks to the LORD, ‘For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever toward Israel.’ And all the people shouted with a great shout when they praised the LORD, because the foundation of the house of the LORD was laid.” (Ezra 3:10–11) This is worship. Priests in their garments. Levites with instruments. Responsive singing. And the refrain is the oldest chorus in Israel’s songbook: “For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.” They sang that before the Red Sea. They sang it when the first temple was dedicated. And now, exiles, survivors, the children of captives, they’re singing it again. Over a foundation. Over a beginning that they made together. And then verse 12. “But many of the priests and Levites and heads of fathers’ houses, old men who had seen the first house, wept with a loud voice when they saw the foundation of this house being laid, though many shouted aloud for joy, so that the people could not distinguish the sound of the shout of joy from the sound of weeping, because the people shouted with a great shout, and the sound was heard far away.” (Ezra 3:12–13)

THE UNITY: ONE SOUND FROM TWO GENERATIONS Now I need you to see what’s happening. This is not just an emotional moment. This is a theological event. The young ones are shouting. They’ve never had a temple. They’ve only heard about one. And now they’re watching the foundation go down, and they are looking at a future. Joy is the only response that makes any sense. The old ones are weeping. And not quietly. The text says with a loud voice. This is wailing. Because they remember the glory. And this new thing, it’s not that. It’s smaller. The very act of building reminds them of what was destroyed. And do you see what’s happening? Do you see the thread? The same people who split the thing open together are now standing at the foundation together. They didn’t separate into groups for the breaking open, and they didn’t separate into groups for the worship. They stayed. And I want to ask something that I think matters more than we realize. Why? Why did they stay together? The old men could have walked away. They could have said, this isn’t what it used to be. I don’t belong here anymore. And the young could have said, why are you crying? God is moving. Get on board or get out of the way. But they didn’t. Neither group left. Neither group silenced the other. And I want to stop here and say something to us. Not just as a congregation. As a family. Because the temptation, and I’ve seen it in churches my whole ministry, is for one generation to silence the other. For the young to say: Why can’t you just be excited about what God is doing? And for the old to say: You have no idea what it cost to get here. Sound familiar? That tension is alive in almost every church in America right now. The style of worship. The way we do ministry. The things we prioritize. The things we grieve losing. And what usually happens is one group wins and the other group leaves. Or worse, one group performs agreement while dying inside. And we call that unity, but it’s not. It’s just silence. I want to be tender here, because I’m not pointing fingers. I’m talking about us. I’m talking about what it means to be a church where people who remember what was and people who are dreaming about what’s coming can stand in the same place and not need the other group to feel the way they feel in order to stay. “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:35) We’ve heard that a thousand times. But listen to what He’s actually claiming. The primary evidence that we belong to Him is not our theology, not our worship style, not our missional strategy, not the quality of our preaching. It’s how we love each other. A church can have a brilliant communicator in the pulpit. A church can have the most vibrant student ministry in the region. A church can be sending teams across the globe. And all of that matters. We should pursue all of it. But the Bible is painfully clear: none of that is the thing that tells the world who we are. The thing that tells the world who we are is whether the people who see the same God differently can still love each other deeply. Whether the old and the young can stand in the same room and say: you are my family. I’m not going anywhere. The world can produce great speakers. The world can organize impressive events. But the world cannot produce a community where people with fundamentally different experiences of the same reality refuse to abandon each other. Only the Spirit of God can do that. And because they stayed, because neither group left, something happened that had never happened before. The people could not distinguish the sound of the shout of joy from the sound of weeping. The sounds could not be separated. They were fused. One sound. And that sound, that raw, unsortable, honest sound, it didn’t stay in the building. It traveled. It reached people who were nowhere near the temple. They heard it from far away. What do you think they heard? They didn’t hear a performance. They heard something they couldn’t categorize. And that’s why it stopped them. Because the world knows what manufactured praise sounds like. And the world knows what despair sounds like. But a sound that is somehow both? The world has no grid for that. And it makes them ask: What kind of people make a sound like that? That’s the sound that carries. Not volume. Not production. Not agreement. Togetherness. The kind that doesn’t erase difference but refuses to let difference become an excuse to walk away. Now I want to speak to somebody in this room. The grief has been building. And the hope has been building too, even though you’re almost afraid to admit it, because the last time you let yourself hope, it cost you everything. And you keep trying to sort it. Praise here. Pain there. Faith face on. Real face off. But what if the new beginning isn’t supposed to be clean? What if it’s supposed to be loud, and messy, and full of both things at once, and what if that is the most honest worship you’ve ever offered? And what if you’re not supposed to do it alone?

THE GARDEN: CHRIST ISOURYET Now. I want to take you to one more place. And I need you to come with me carefully, because this is where everything finds its home. Turn with me to Matthew 26. Verse 36. “Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here, while I go over there and pray.’ And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’” (Matthew 26:36–38) My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. This is Jesus. And He is not managing His grief. He is telling the people closest to Him: I am being crushed. And what does He do next? He prays. Verse 39. “Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.’” (Matthew 26:39) Did you catch it? There’s our word again. Right there in the mouth of Jesus. In the darkest moment of human history. Yet. “May this cup be taken from me” — that’s the grief. The honest, anguished, face-in-the-dirt cry of a man who does not want what is coming. “Yet not as I will, but as yours” — that’s the joy set before Him. The love of the Father. The hope of redemption. The always rejoicing even when the sorrow is unto death. And He doesn’t choose between them. He holds both. In the same breath. In the same prayer. In the same body. Because in Gethsemane, Jesus is not just experiencing the tension between joy and sorrow. He is becoming the tension. He is becoming the Yet. In a few hours, He will stretch His arms wide on a cross. On one side, the full weight of human grief. Every sin. Every sorrow. Every funeral. Every betrayal. Every exile. Every seventy-year wait. On the other side, the indomitable, unquenchable, death-defeating joy of the Father’s love. The resurrection that is coming. The steadfast love that endures forever. And Jesus, in the middle, holding both. Refusing to let go of either one. That’s yet. That’s what the word looks like in flesh and blood. And here’s why that matters for you. Because you are not being asked to manufacture your own yet. You are not being asked to hold the tension by the strength of your own arms. You are being invited to bring your sorrow and your joy, both of them, unsorted, tangled up, the whole mess, and hand them to the One who is already holding them. Christ is your Yet. He is the body between the arms. He holds your grief in one hand and your joy in the other and refuses to let go of either one. Not because you’re strong enough to carry both, but because He is. This is what Paul discovered. This is how a man can have unceasing anguish and write “rejoice always” in the same lifetime. Not because he resolved the tension. But because he found the Person who holds it. And now I want to ask you something. Simply. Have you reached your yet, yet? Because there is a moment — and some of you know exactly what I’m talking about — there is a moment where yet stops being a word you read in the Bible and becomes the prayer your life is built on. Where “not my will, but yours” moves from something you believe to something you are. Where you stop just following Jesus and you start being made into His likeness. That’s the yet. That’s what it sounds like when a human heart is made holy. And maybe you’re here this morning and you’ve been carrying the sorrow and the joy and you’ve been trying so hard to hold it all together on your own. And Jesus is kneeling in the dirt of Gethsemane, face down, and He’s saying: You don’t have to hold it. I’m holding it. But I need you to let go. Not my will, but yours. Have you reached your yet, yet? What does it look like, practically, to stop trying to be your own yet and to let Christ be that for you? I think most of us are exhausted. And the reason is not that we’re feeling too much. It’s that we’re trying to manage what we feel. What if, tomorrow morning, when the grief hits you before your feet even touch the floor, you didn’t try to fix it? You didn’t reach for the phone to numb it. You didn’t slap a verse on it like a bumper sticker. You just held it. And you said, “Lord, this is real. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.” And then, in the same breath, “And You are real. And I’m not going to pretend You’re not, either.” That’s the yet. Not as a performance. Not as an achievement. As a prayer. This is what it looks like on a Tuesday. In the carpool line and the hospital waiting room and the kitchen at midnight when you can’t sleep. A person who has stopped sorting and started surrendering. Not surrendering to despair. Not surrendering to false happiness. Surrendering to Christ, the one who holds both, and holds you in the middle of both.

THE TABLE: COMMUNION ASTHEYET MADE PHYSICAL And now I want to bring this home. Because we are about to do something together that embodies everything we’ve been talking about. We’re going to come to the Lord’s Table. Communion is not a celebration. And communion is not a funeral. Communion is the yet. Bread, broken. Cup, poured out. This is a meal that remembers death. There is real grief on this table. Real cost. Real sorrow. And yet. Yet this is also the meal that announces life. “Do this in remembrance of me,” not as a memorial for someone who stayed dead, but as a proclamation that the One who died is alive and is coming back. There is real joy on this table. Real hope. Real future. Sorrow and joy. On the same table. In the same bread. In the same cup. Look around this room for a second. Some of you are the old ones weeping. You’ve seen the first temple. You know what was lost. Some of you are the young ones shouting. God is doing something new, and you can barely contain the joy. And some of you are both. At the same time. In the same chest. Now, in a moment, I’m going to ask us to do something that might feel unfamiliar. But I want you to trust me. I’m going to ask those of you who have been part of this church family for a long time, those who have been here before I came, those who remember what was, those who carry the scars and the faithfulness of years, I want you to stand and move to one side of this room. And those of you who are newer, those who have come in this season, those who are looking at what God is building and seeing the future, I want you to stand on the other side. And the bread and the cup will be in the middle. Between you. And then I want you to come to the middle, and I want you to serve each other. The old serving the young. The young serving the old. The ones who remember what was lost placing the bread in the hands of the ones who are just arriving. The ones who see the future lifting the cup to the lips of the ones who have carried the weight for decades. Because that is Ezra 3. That is the one sound. That is the church. Not one group winning and the other leaving. Two groups, with completely different experiences, standing across from each other, and choosing to serve each other the body and blood of the One who holds them both. When we do this, we are not just remembering what Christ did. We are showing the world what He is still doing. Don’t sort yourself first. Don’t clean it up. Bring the grief. Bring the joy. Bring the whole tangled, unsortable mess of being a human being who loves God and still lives in a broken world. And serve each other. Look across this room at someone whose experience is different from yours, and hand them the bread. Lift the cup to them. And in doing so, say with your hands what your mouth might not have the words for: You are my family. I see your grief. I see your joy. And I am not going anywhere. Sorrow and joy. Death and life. Cost and gift. Old and young. In your hands. In your mouth. In your body. In your church. And when we eat and drink together, the weeping and the shouting, all of us, all of it, we make the sound. The one sound. The one the world is starving for. For He is good. His steadfast love endures forever. Let’s come to the table together.

Come, Afraid Together

WHAT DOYOUDO WITH YOUR FEAR? I want to start with an honest question this morning. You don't have to answer it out loud — but answer it in your head. Honestly. What are you afraid of right now? I'm not asking in a general, philosophical way. I mean right now. This week. The thing that shows up at two in the morning when everything's quiet and your brain won't shut off.

For some of you it's your marriage — not some big explosion, just a slow drift. You're in the same house but you feel far apart. For some of you it's your kids. You're watching them walk toward something that scares you and you can't stop them. For some of you it's money — you know exactly what's in the account and it's not enough. For some of you it's a diagnosis, yours or someone you love, and the ground shifted and it still hasn't settled.

And for some of you, you couldn't even name it. It's just this weight. This hum of anxiety that's always there. You're tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. I know this because I talk to you. I sit in your living rooms. I hear it. And I feel it too. I'm not standing up here as somebody who's figured this out. I'm in it with you. I get scared too.

So let's just be honest this morning. We're afraid. And the question I want to sit with today is this — what do you do with that fear? Because I think most of us have only learned two options. And I want to show you a third one. But before I get there, I need to show you something about fear that most of us have never considered. Fear Shows You What You're Trusting Here's what I've been thinking about all week.

Fear is more honest than we give it credit for. Fear shows you what you're leaning on. The thing that scares you most? That's the thing you've been trusting most. The thing you've built your life on, maybe without even realizing it. If money keeps you up at night, it's probably because financial security became the thing holding your world together. Not God — the money. If it's your kids, maybe their success became the thing that tells you whether your life counted.

If it's your health — well, we all know how fast everything changes when the body you took for granted stops cooperating. I'm not saying that to make anybody feel bad. I'm saying it because it's actually good news. When the thing you've been leaning on starts to shake, that panic you feel? That's not God punishing you. That's your heart telling you the truth — this thing was never meant to hold me up.

I put it in a place only God was supposed to be, and it can't carry the weight. That's a gift. It doesn't feel like one. But it is. Because you can't grab hold of God with both hands if your hands are already full of something else. There's a story in the Old Testament that illustrates this better than anything I know. A prophet named Hosea — a man of God, a preacher — gets the strangest assignment in the history of ministry.

God tells him to go marry a promiscuous woman. Can you imagine that conversation? God tells Moses — go free the captives. God tells Abraham — leave everything, go somewhere I'll show you. But Hosea? I want you to marry a prostitute. Like — what? I think I need some more time to pray this through. Are you sure about this? Yes, Hosea. Her name is Gomer. Go. Now it's bad enough that God's asking a man of God to marry a woman with that kind of background.

But come on — Gomer? Why not Mary? Why not Sarah? Even Eve would've been better. There's nothing about that name that sounds like a love story. But Hosea actually does it. And God isn't just asking Hosea to make some crazy life decision. He's asking Hosea to live out a prophecy. Every painful moment, every whisper behind his back — it's all going to paint a living picture of how God feels about His people.

Of how much He loves them, even when they run away. So they get married. Have three kids. And one morning Hosea wakes up and she's gone. Just like that. He's a single father now. And the whispers around town aren't helping. I knew it wouldn't work. What was he thinking? What a fool, and where is God in this.. But here's what I want you to see. Gomer didn't make one dramatic decision to blow her life up.

She just drifted. Little by little. Until wandering felt normal. Until she couldn't even remember what home felt like. Open your Bibles to Hosea chapter 2, verse 5. Listen to how she talks: "She said, 'I will go after my lovers, who give me my food and my water, my wool and my linen, my olive oil and my drink.'" MY wool. MY linen. MY drink. She's not thinking about the covenant.

She's not thinking about Hosea. She's just thinking about what she can get and who's going to give it to her. Drop down to verse 13: "She decked herself with rings and jewelry, and went after her lovers, but me she forgot, declares the Lord." Man, what a heart filled repsosne… did it land on your heart when you heard Hose’s reply.. Me she forgot. Not — she rebelled against me.

Not — she made a dramatic choice to leave. Just... she forgot. The way you forget something slowly. The way drifting becomes so normal you stop feeling it. I can just hear God the Father saying, me he forgot, me she forgot… and just our God’s heart mourning over the fact that we tend to wonder from our first love. Now before I keep going I need to explain something. Because God says something here that sounds funny but isn't.

Look at chapter 3, verse 1. God speaking to Hosea about Gomer: "Go, show your love to your wife again, though she is loved by another man and is an adulteress. Love her as the Lord loves the Israelites, though they turn to other gods and love the sacred raisin cakes." Raisin cakes. I know — sounds almost funny. Like God is upset about a baked good. But in their culture, raisin cakes were status symbols.

Offerings made to other gods. The thing you chased when you wanted to feel like you'd finally arrived. Think… the newest car. The bigger house. The relationship that finally makes you feel worth something. The title. The number in the bank account. The thing that is more desirable than God… That’s the raisin cake. It looks like security. It feels like satisfaction. And it never, ever fills you up. And look at what it cost her.

Chapter 4, verse 10: "They will eat but not have enough; they will engage in prostitution but not flourish, because they have deserted the Lord." Eating and never satisfied. Chasing and never flourishing. That's the deal with whatever we run to instead of God. We reach for it because we're afraid. Because it feels like control. Because it feels like security. And it never, ever fills us up. Here's what I want you to hear.

We can have daily moments of fear in our lives, and by not bringing that fear to God, daily fear can become so familiar that we don't even realize we're walking in it anymore. It starts with small worries and anxieties we brush off as normal. But over time those fears grow. They get ingrained. They shape our thinking and our behavior. And we develop little phrases that keep us in that bondage — "better safe than sorry," "if it ain't broke don't fix it" — and before long, living in fear has become our normal.

We forget what it feels like to walk by faith. OT walk in the unknown.. to trust God has whatever in the future for us, is better than what we can have now… and above e it all… We forget what the altar feels like. And we end up exactly where Gomer ended up. On an auction block. Broke. Empty. Surrounded by everything we chased that never loved us back. I think most of us in this room know exactly what our raisin cakes are.

The thing we run to when we're scared instead of running to God. And the question this morning is — what are you going to do with that fear? Fear Can Drive You Toward God or Away From Him Our culture gives us exactly two options when we're afraid. Option one: fight. Armor up. Control the situation. White-knuckle your way through. Option two: flight. Numb it. Binge something. Stay so busy you don't have to feel it.

Reach for the raisin cakes. And both options have the same thing underneath them: it's up to you. Handle it yourself. You're strong enough. You don't need help. And both of them leave you empty. Because fear needs you alone. That's where it works best. In your own head, running the worst-case scenario for the hundredth time. When you don't bring your fear anywhere, it changes you. Slowly. You start out concerned and end up cynical.

You start out careful and end up disconnected. Somebody asks how you are on a Sunday morning and you say "good, good" and you haven't been good in a while. I did this, this week with the teens. I sat around the room and asked everyone, how was your day, how’s your week, and everyone but one said good. And that one, said I am fine.. And I know better… theres always something on our heart.

Theres always somehyting that calling for our attention… but fear wants you to be alone in your fight. Because Ecclesiastes 4:9 says "two are better than one" — and if fear can keep you isolated, it keeps you from the very thing God designed to hold you up. But there's a third option. And I want to show it to you in one of the most surprising places in all of Scripture.

Turn with me to Ezra chapter 3. A little context — this is about 537 years before Christ. A group of Jewish exiles — maybe fifty thousand people — have just walked nine hundred miles from Babylon back to Jerusalem. Most of them have never been there. They were born in Babylon. But their grandparents told them stories about the city, the temple, the God whose glory used to fill the room like a cloud.

A Persian king named Cyrus issued a decree that they could go home. So they went. And they got there. And it was nothing. Rubble. The temple — gone. Not damaged — gone. The walls were broken. The people living in the area weren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat. These exiles had no army, no political power, no protection. And verse 3 says it plainly — fear was on them.

So here they are. Their idols are gone. Their security is gone. They're standing in the ashes of their grandparents' world. And look at what they do. Verse 2: "Then Jeshua the son of Jozadak, with his fellow priests, and Zerubbabel the son of Shealtiel with his kinsmen, and they built the altar of the God of Israel, to offer burnt offerings on it." They built an altar. You're exhausted. You just walked nine hundred miles.

You've got no infrastructure, no military, no security. NO WALLS NO BUILDING… NO HOME… The people next door don't want you here. And the first thing — the very first thing — you build is a place to worship. When you're afraid and you build a wall, you're saying: my safety is up to me. But when you're afraid and you build an altar, you're saying: my safety is up to God.

And before I do anything else — before I plan, before I strategize, before I build anything for my own protection — I'm going to put myself in the one place where I know He meets me. Now don't miss verse 3. This is the whole thing right here. "They set the altar in its place, for fear was on them because of the peoples of the lands, and they offered burnt offerings on it to the LORD." Did you catch it?

For fear was on them… and they offered burnt offerings. The NIV says "despite their fear." But that's not what the Hebrew says. The scholars agree — the grammar here is causal. Fear wasn't the obstacle to worship. Fear was the reason for worship. They built the altar because they were afraid. That changes everything. We treat fear and worship like opposites. Like you've got to get rid of the fear before you can really worship.

Like worship is what happens when the crisis is over, when you feel strong and grateful and peaceful. And these exiles — standing in rubble, surrounded by enemies, with nothing to their name — say: no. Fear is not the opposite of worship. Fear is the doorway to worship. We're not here because we're brave. We're here because we're terrified, and the only safe place for a terrified person is at the feet of God.

Fear says: you're alone in this. And then you walk into a room full of people singing the same song, praying to the same God — and suddenly you're not alone. Fear says: this is the end, this is where it falls apart. And then you stand at the altar and remember that this God has been bringing His people through impossible situations for thousands of years, and He hasn't lost one yet.

Fear says: it's all up to you. And worship says: it never was. Fear didn't disappear for the exiles. Look at it.. fear was redirected. It drove them somewhere — not into a bunker, not into panic mode. It drove them to God. And at the altar, the fear was still real, but it wasn't in charge anymore. Some of you almost didn't come this morning. I know because I almost don't come some mornings.

The week is heavy and the bed is warm and the voice in your head says what's the point? And you came anyway. Showing up afraid is not a failure of faith. It's the beginning of worship. Because when you walk through those doors and sit down next to somebody else who's also afraid — even if neither of you says it — you are doing the most defiant thing an afraid person can do.

You are refusing to let fear have the last word. God Meets You in the Fear Now I want to show you what God does when you bring your fear to the altar. Because this is the part that undoes me. Go back to Hosea. Remember where we left Gomer. On an auction block. Broke. Ashamed. Surrounded by everything she chased that never loved her back. And God tells Hosea — go get her.

Not — wait for her to come back. Not — let her figure it out. Go. Find her. Bring her home. Think about what that costs Hosea. It's one thing to forgive someone who comes crawling back. It's another thing entirely to go looking for them. To make the first move when you're the one who got hurt. To settle a debt you didn't create. But Hosea goes. He finds her on that auction block, covered in shame, and he pays a price he didn't have to pay.

She was already his wife. He buys her back anyway. Chapter 3, verse 2: "So I bought her for fifteen shekels of silver and about a homer and a lethek of barley." He paid a price he didn't have to pay. Because she was already his. I have an old pastor friend — mentor of mine, I spoke to him this week — and he told me one time, sometimes you just gotta learn to eat crow.

And I didn't fully understand what he meant until I got older and life humbled me a few times. Eating crow means you do the right thing even when you didn't cause the wrong thing. It means you make the first move even when it wasn't your fault. It means you swallow your pride and you go. That's exactly what Hosea did. He ate crow. He walked up to that auction block in front of everybody who had been whispering about him for years — I knew it wouldn't work, what was he thinking — and he paid for her anyway.

He didn't have to. He chose to. And that choice cost him something. It cost him his pride. It cost him his dignity in front of the whole town. It cost him fifteen shekels of silver he didn't owe. And that's the picture of Jesus. He didn't have to come. He chose to. He didn't owe the debt. He paid it anyway. He walked straight up to our auction block — in front of all of heaven — and bought us back.

Not because we deserved it. Because we were already His. Sometimes the most Christlike thing you can do is eat crow. Go first. Pay what you don't owe. Make the move you didn't have to make. That's not weakness. That's the most powerful thing a person can do. Because that's exactly what God did for you. Listne, churhc… Our Heavenly Father is never surprised when we admit to Him that for which He sent His Son to die.

When we confess our sin to other people, they may be surprised and shocked. But God already knew. He loved you at your darkest moment. He loved you even when you've hurt others. He loved you so much that He gave His only Son to die in your place. And 1 John 4:18 says this — "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear." Not your perfect performance.

Not you getting it all together. His perfect love. When we are abiding in God and His love, we find the strength and courage to face our fears rather than hide from them. Can I explain somehtign.. Do you know why I spend so much time at the altar? Because that altar isn't just a piece of furniture up here. That altar is the operating table of Jesus. It's where He does His best work.

My master doesn't show up to places where people believe they are well. He comes to places where people are sick and need healing. He looks around the room and He looks for pain. Why would Jesus show up here if there is not one person who needs the physician? That's why I come. Because on this side of heaven, my heart needs altering. And so I lay it down — here's my heart, Jesus.

What's wrong with it? Why won't it love the way You've called it to love? He won't heal what you won't confess. But when you bring it — He is always, always there. And again, listen churhc… Repentance is one of the most beautiful things we can ever experience in this world. And it begins with honesty. It begins with coming to the altar afraid — not brave, not polished, not with all the answers — just afraid.

And saying: God, I've been chasing raisin cakes. I've been reaching for the thing that felt like security. And I'm empty. And I'm here. That's enough. That's always been enough. The exiles in Ezra 3 set the altar on its foundation — the exact spot where the old altar used to stand. They cleared away fifty years of rubble and wreckage, and underneath it all, the ancient foundation was still there.

Still solid. That's what God does with the altar you walked away from. He doesn't tear it down. He doesn't move on. Under all the rubble in your life — under the fear, under the mess, under the years of things not going the way you planned — the foundation is still there. God hasn't moved. He's still meeting His people at the altar. The question is — are you ready to come back to it?

Bring It Home Here's the whole thing in one sentence. You don't have to stop being afraid to start worshiping. You start worshiping because you're afraid. That's it. That's the whole sermon. Fear is not the enemy of your faith. Fear is the doorway to worship — if you let it drive you to God instead of away from Him. The exiles didn't show up because they were ready. They showed up because they were desperate.

And God met them — not at the end of the process, but at the very beginning, when all they had was an altar and each other. That's what we have this morning. And it's enough. I know what some of you are carrying. I've sat with some of you this year and heard it. And for the ones I haven't sat with — I see you. I see the tiredness.

I see the weight. And I want you to know: you don't have to be good to be here. You just have to be here. Response In a moment I'm going to ask you to do something. And I want you to stay with me on this. Look at the rock in your hand. Feel the weight of it. Because that rock is not an accident this morning. That's your fear.

That's the thing that's been sitting on your chest all week. That's the marriage, the diagnosis, the money, the kid you can't stop worrying about. That's the thing you've been carrying alone that was never meant to be carried alone. And here's what I want you to know about those exiles in Ezra 3. They showed up to Jerusalem surrounded by enemies. Real threats. Real people who didn't want them there.

They had every reason to pick up a rock and throw it. To fight. To defend themselves. To protect what little they had left. Instead — they took those same rocks. And they built an altar. Same rocks. Different choice. That's what I'm inviting you into this morning. Not to throw it. Not to keep carrying it. But to lay it down. To take the thing fear has been using against you — and let God build something holy out of it.

Because that's what He does. He takes the heavy things, the sharp things, the things we've been holding so long we forgot we were holding them — and He builds altars out of them. In a minute I'm going to invite you to come forward. And when you come, bring your rock. Bring your fear. The thing that's been sitting on your chest. The thing you've been carrying alone. Come lay it down right here at this altar.

You don't need the right words. You don't need to know what to pray. You can just come and stand here and open your hand and let God hold what you've been holding. And I want to say this — because I think somebody in this room needs to hear it specifically. Maybe the rock in your hand isn't just fear. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's hurt. Maybe there's a person attached to that rock — somebody who wounded you, somebody who walked away, somebody who let you down.

And you've been holding that rock for a long time. Turning it over in your hands. Thinking about it at two in the morning. You know what we do with rocks when we're hurt? We throw them. That's the human response. That's what those exiles wanted to do to their enemies. And honestly — nobody would've blamed them. But Jesus says something different. He says — blessed are the merciful. He says — forgive as you have been forgiven.

He says — lay it down. Maybe this morning, coming to this altar isn't just about laying down your fear. Maybe it's about laying down the rock you've been holding over somebody else. Maybe the most important thing you do today is open your hand — not just to release what's been done to you, but to release the person who did it. That's not weakness. That's the hardest, holiest thing a human being can do.

And you can't do it alone. But you don't have to. If you want someone to pray with you, our pastoral team is here. If you want to come alone, come alone — but you won't be alone when you get here. And if you want to stay in your seat and pray right where you are — that's worship too. Just open your hand. Just let it go. And when you lay that rock down — when you turn and walk back to your seat — don't just stand there.

Don't look around. Don't check who else is coming. Worship. Close your eyes. Lift your hands. Sing the words. Let God meet you right there in that moment because that walk back to your seat is holy ground. That's not the end of something — that's the beginning. You just laid down what you've been carrying and your hands are finally free. Use them. Worship with everything you've got. Because here's what I've learned — the altar isn't just where you lay things down.

The altar is where God picks you back up. I just don't want you to leave today carrying what you carried in. Because the God who went looking for Gomer on the auction block — the God who met His people in the rubble of Jerusalem — is meeting you right now. And He's saying what He's always said: bring it to me. I can hold it. You were never supposed to carry this alone.

Come. Afraid. Together. Worshiping. That's enough. *

Returning What Was Stolen

I want to invite you to open your Bibles to Ezra chapter 1. Last Sunday we looked at the Spirit who stirs—God rousing Cyrus and families in Babylon. We saw the pattern: when God stirs hearts, people move toward where He dwells. Now, tucked into this passage is one of the most beautiful pictures of what God does when He brings His people home.

Look at verse 7: "Cyrus the king also brought out the vessels of the house of the LORD that Nebuchadnezzar had carried away from Jerusalem and placed in the house of his gods." These aren't just vessels. These are the instruments of worship—the tools through which God's people offered sacrifice, burned incense, presented offerings to the living God. And they've been gone for seventy years. Sitting in pagan temples. Serving false gods.

Defiled. Displaced. Stolen. And now they're coming home. So here's the question: Why did these vessels need to return? And what does their return tell us about what God is doing in us? God restores what was taken so worship can be rightly offered again. We are being restored to worship Him rightly. MOVEMENT 1: Preserved Through Judgment—Called Out Think about what happened to these vessels. Seventy years earlier, Nebuchadnezzar invaded Jerusalem, destroyed the temple, and took everything.

The gold bowls, the silver basins, the lampstands—everything used in the worship of Yahweh. He didn't just steal them for practical use. He took them as trophies. He put them in the temple of his gods in Babylon. These sacred instruments, made for the worship of the one true God, were now sitting in a pagan temple serving false gods. The very tools meant to mediate between God and His people, now defiled, displaced, serving idols.

For seventy years they sat there. And when I think about that, I think about us. We were made in the image of God. Genesis 1:27 tells us: "So God created man in his own image." You, and I were created to reflect God's glory, to worship Him, to commune with Him. Just like these vessels were made for worship in God's temple, you were made to know God and make Him known.

But sin, did to us what Nebuchadnezzar did to these vessels. Sin took us captive. Sin displaced us from our purpose. Sin defiled us and put us in service to things that were never meant to be worshiped. We became like these vessels—made for God's glory but serving false gods. And you'd think these vessels would be lost. But they weren't. Look at verse 8: "Cyrus king of Persia brought these out in the charge of Mithredath the treasurer, who counted them out to Sheshbazzar the prince of Judah." They were counted.

Every single one. God knew exactly where they were. Nothing was lost. Nothing was forgotten. He preserved them through the judgment, through seventy years of sitting in enemy hands. They survived because God had a purpose for them. They were going home. And here's where this gets personal. You were made to worship God. But sin took you captive. And for some of you, that exile has been long. Years of living for things that don't satisfy.

Years of serving desires that don't deliver. Years of feeling far from home. But God never lost sight of you. Even when you were in exile, even when you were serving other things, God knew exactly where you were. He knew your name. And He was preserving you because He had a purpose for you. You were coming home. This is what Peter means in 1 Peter 1:3-5: "In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade...

who through faith are shielded by God's power." You are preserved. Not because you held on to God, but because God held on to you. Now I want you to understand something. When God preserves, He's not passive. He's actively at work in you. Paul writes in Philippians 2:12-13: "Work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose." There's something critical happening in that verse.

Paul tells us to work. That's our responsibility. But then immediately he tells us why that's possible—because God is doing the real work inside us. Think of it like this… A lightbulb doesn't generate electricity, it receives power and then radiates. That's us. We don't generate spiritual life, we receive it from God and then live from it. Think about what Paul is saying. God works in you to will and to act.

Two things. First, to will. He molds your heart. This isn't just talking about wishes. This is talking about the depth of your genuine desires. What we're saying in faith is, God, I want what You want. God, I live in a culture where I am surrounded by the pleasures of this world. I need new appetites from You. I need You by Your grace to change my desires. And second, He empowers your life.

He puts His Spirit in you to enable you to follow His commands. To will and to act. God, I need You to enable me to work. I need You to enable me, not just to desire holiness, but God I need You to enable me to be holy. God, not just I desire to serve people around me, I need You to enable me to serve the people around me.

And here's what that means practically. When you woke up this morning and something in you wanted to seek God—that was God at work in you. When you're in temptation and something in you says "no"—that's God working in you. When you cry out to God for help—that cry is evidence that God is sustaining you. Because a dead person doesn't cry out. The fact that you're reaching means God is drawing.

This is why we can't earn our salvation and we can't earn our preservation. Both are gifts. Grace isn't just the doorway you walked through when you first believed. Grace is the air you breathe every single day. And this is why the Holy Spirit is essential. Jesus said it plainly in John 15: "Apart from me you can do nothing." Apart from Him. Nothing. And the way Jesus lives in you is by His Spirit.

The same Spirit who gave you new birth sustains that new life every single day. Listen. The vessels sat in Babylon for seventy years, but they were never Babylon's. They belonged to God. You may have spent years in exile, but you were never theirs. You belong to God. And He preserved you so He could bring you home. So the bottom line is this: No matter where you are, no matter how long you've been in exile—you are made in the image of God.

And even while you're living in sin, even while you're far from home, God sees you. God knows you. God is extending grace to you right now, calling you to come home. And if you sense that stirring in your heart, that's not you—that's God drawing you. That's God saying, "You belong to Me. Come home." MOVEMENT 2: Counted and Entrusted—Set Apart Now look at verse 8. "Cyrus king of Persia brought these out in the charge of Mithredath the treasurer, who counted them out to Sheshbazzar the prince of Judah." Counted them out.

Every single one. By number. Down to the individual basin, lampstand, censer. Each one mattered. Each one was known. Now I don't know about you, but I can't keep track of anything. I lose my keys three times a week. Just this week I spent ten minutes looking for my phone in the car and found out I left it at home. And you're telling me that God kept track of thousands of vessels for seventy years?

Look at the Scripture—29 silver knives. I can't begin to tell you how silverware gets lost in a house full of teenagers. But here, not one was lost. God doesn't misplace things. He knows exactly where everything is. And more than that, He knows exactly where you are. Look at verses 9-11—the detailed inventory. Thirty gold basins. Four hundred ten silver basins. One thousand other vessels. Why do you need to know this?

Because God doesn't do vague. He doesn't do "around 400-ish vessels, give or take." He does exact. He does specific. He knows you by name, not by category. This should make your heart leap for joy. He knows you. He treasures you. Listen to Scripture. Psalm 139: "O LORD, you have searched me and known me!... How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!" Jesus said in Matthew 10, "Even the hairs of your head are all numbered." God said through Isaiah, "I have called you by name, you are mine...

Because you are precious in my eyes." Jesus said in John 10, "I know my own and my own know me." You are known. You are treasured. You are His. Now, fast-forward 500 years. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 4:7, "We have this treasure in clay jars." We are those vessels. But Paul goes deeper than Ezra could have imagined. God isn't just bringing the vessels home to a place where worship is.

God is putting Himself inside the vessels, where worship happens. Look at Colossians 1. What Paul says right before "Christ in you" is one of the most stunning descriptions of Jesus in all of Scripture. Colossians 1:15-20, 27: "He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him.

And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross...

To them God chose to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." Jesus is the visible image of the invisible God. Think about that. God is spirit—you can't see Him with physical eyes. But Jesus makes Him visible. Jesus is the one through whom everything was made. Every mountain. Every ocean. Every star.

Every atom. All of it came into existence through Him. And not only did He make it all, He's holding it all together right now. The reason the universe doesn't fly apart is because Jesus is sustaining it. The reason your heart is beating, the reason your lungs are pulling in oxygen, the reason the earth is spinning at exactly the right speed—Jesus is holding it all. He's not just holding creation together.

He's the author, creator, sustainer of you and me and eight billion other people who Jesus is sustaining right now with beating hearts and breathing lungs. Even if you were here today and you hate God, the reality is your breath comes from the very one you hate. He's sustaining you. Not to mention two hundred billion trillion stars that He calls by name and that's only the ones we can see.

And this same Jesus—the one who spoke galaxies into existence, the one who holds eight billion people in His hands—this Jesus is also the head of the church. He's the firstborn from the dead. And in Him all the fullness of God dwells. Everything that God is, Jesus is. So here's the point. If this Jesus is anywhere near you, everything changes. But Paul isn't saying Jesus is near you. He's saying Jesus is in you.

Right now, if you've put your faith in Christ, the Creator and Sustainer of the universe is living inside you. That's not a metaphor. That's actual reality. Paul calls this a mystery. He means something that was hidden for a long time but now has been revealed. It's like when you're a kid and your parents are planning a surprise party. It's a mystery to you, but the moment they yell "Surprise!"—it's revealed.

So what's the mystery? Well, I'm glad you asked. All through the Old Testament, God's pattern has always been to be with His people. Over and over again, what is the constant refrain we see in God's relationship with His people? God is saying, "I am with you." I'm with you, Abraham. I'm with you, Isaac. I'm with you, Jacob. The Lord was with Joseph. I will be with you, Moses.

When we get to Joshua, I will be with you, Joshua, just as I was with Moses. I will never leave you or forsake you. I will be with you always. I'll be with you, David. I'll be with you, Solomon, just as I was with David. God dwelt with His people first in a tabernacle and eventually in a temple. Over and over again, He'll say through the prophets to His people, "Fear not for I'm with you." That's the whole Old testament.

Then the New Testament starts. Jesus comes on the scene and His name shall be called Immanuel—which means God what? With us. God with us in the flesh. He is the tabernacle. He is the temple. God with us in Jesus. But then John 13:33, Jesus looks at His disciples and He says, "I will be with you only a little longer." What? And then Jesus, God with us, is gone.

Jesus dies on a cross for our sins. He rises from the grave and ascends to heaven. So what's going on in this story? All God's people have known is God with them in the tabernacle, in the temple, in the flesh, but now He's not with them. Look at what Paul writes back in Colossians 1:15-20, 27, "God has chosen to make known among you the riches of the glory of this mystery"—which is not God with you but Christ the image of the invisible God inside you.

That is amazing and that changes everything about how we view the Christian life. So many Christians believe Jesus died for the forgiveness of our sins and that they're going to heaven as if that's the whole story. Which that's a great story but thats not the purpose of the gospel, so many Christians are completely missing out on all that means here today. So many live compartmentalized Christian lives where Jesus is over here, but the daily stresses of life and family and work and stuff in this world are over here.

In the middle of it all, many Christians are living frail, frustrated, anxious, restless, sometimes rote Christian lives where you constantly feel spiritually defeated, sometimes feel, if you're honest, spiritually bored. I get it.. You’re born because this faith isn’t producing what you had intended it to produce. The reason is because you're missing out on the mammoth truth that you have Christ Himself in you in the middle of all of this.

The mammoth truth that Jesus died for you 2,000 years ago so that He might live in you today. The Christ who died for you is not dead. He is alive and not just alive in heaven. He is alive in you, which means that Jesus is more than just your savior. As awesome as that is, Jesus is your life. He is your life. He doesn't just forgive your debts.

He transforms your days. I think about Hudson Taylor, the missionary to China in the 1800s. For seven years he tried as hard as he could to live the Christian life. He worked. He strived. He exhausted himself trying to be holy, trying to serve God, trying to abide in Christ. And he was miserable. Then one day his sister sent him a letter that wrecked him. She wrote about a conversation she'd had with someone who said, "For seven years with utmost sincerity, you have been trying to live for Christ on His behalf, when all along Christ has been waiting to live through you." And it hit Taylor like a lightning bolt.

He wasn't supposed to generate Christ-likeness through effort. He was supposed to receive Christ's life and let it flow through him. He wrote back to his sister, "Oh, my dear sister, it is a wonderful thing to realize I really am one with a risen and exalted savior. It is joy to feel Jesus living in you, to find your heart all taken up by Him, to be reminded of His love by His seeking communion with you at all times, not by your painful attempts to abide in Him.

He is my life, my strength, my salvation." He went on to say, "I'm no longer anxious about anything. It makes no matter where He places me or how. That is rather for Him to consider than for me, for in the easiest position, He must give me His grace. In the most difficult, His grace will be sufficient. So if God should place me in great perplexity, must He not give me much guidance?

In positions of great difficulty, much grace? In circumstances of great pressure and trial, much strength? I have no fear that His resources will be unequal to the emergency and His resources are mine for He is mine and is with me and dwells in me." Church, have you grasped this? Jesus Christ is in you. Not just near you. Not just with you. In you. And that means the Christian life isn't about trying harder to be a better version of yourself.

That makes your salvation about you. It's about consecrating your life and surrendering your life so that Jesus's life is lived in you and through you. The Christian life is impossible at every single point without the power of Christ at the core of who you are supernaturally transforming the way you think, what you desire, how you act, how you relate to people around you, your whole reason for living.

You can't live and love, be and do all that God has designed you to be and do without His life and His power and His love and His strength and His peace and His wisdom, His life at work in you from the inside out. You can't manufacture patience on your own—but Christ in you is patient. You can't generate love for difficult people on your own—but Christ in you loves the unlovable.

You can't create joy in the middle of suffering on your own—but Christ in you is joy. This is why Jesus told Nicodemus, "You must be born again." Not improved. Not reformed. Born again. Completely new. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 5:17, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away, the new has come. You're not just being restored to usefulness. You're being filled with the very life of God.

You are counted. You are known. You are entrusted with Christ Himself. MOVEMENT 3: Making the Journey Home—Being Transformed Now look at verse 11. "All the vessels for gold and for silver were 5,400. All these did Sheshbazzar bring up, when the exiles were brought up from Babylonia to Jerusalem." The vessels made the journey. These holy vessels didn't just teleport to Jerusalem—they went on a journey. From Babylon to Jerusalem.

From pagan temples to the house of God. From exile to home. But here's what's easy to miss. When these vessels arrived, they couldn't just be immediately put back into service. They had been in pagan temples for seventy years. They were defiled. And according to the Law, anything defiled had to be purified before being used in worship again. Numbers 31 gives the process: metal objects had to pass through fire or be washed with water of purification.

They had to be cleansed. Consecrated. Set apart again as holy. It wasn't enough that they came home. They had to be made holy again for God's use. And listen, church—how much more true is this for us? These vessels needed fire and water to be cleansed. But our defilement runs deeper than anything fire or water can touch. Our defilement is sin. And sin requires blood. Hebrews 9:22 says, "Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins." We needed more than ritual cleansing.

We needed a sacrifice. We needed the blood of Jesus Christ poured out on the cross to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. That's how you're made holy. That's how you're consecrated. Not by your own effort. Not by your own purification rituals. But by the blood of the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world. And that's the picture of what God is doing in you. You're not just being brought home and left as you are.

You're being purified. Cleansed. Transformed. Paul says in 2 Timothy 2:21: "If anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy." So here's where this becomes practical. You've been preserved. You've been counted. Christ is in you. But now comes the journey. Now comes the daily walk. Now comes the process of being transformed as you move toward home. This isn't instant.

This is a journey. And the danger is we can start strong but not finish well. We can begin the race and quit halfway through. Look at 1 Corinthians 10:12: "Therefore let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall." Paul is talking to Christians. Believers saved by grace. And he's saying, "Be careful. Don't get comfortable." Because confidence can turn into carelessness. We can start to think we've got this figured out.

And that's when we're most vulnerable. When we get confident in ourselves, we stop depending on God. We stop being desperate for His Word. We stop seeking Him in prayer. And then temptation finds an opening. Here's the bottom line. It matters how we live. Because we have a mission—showing the world what Jesus looks like. And if we're preaching the gospel with our mouths but living in contradiction to it with our lives, we're hurting the mission.

So Paul reminds the Corinthians of Israel in the wilderness. Verses 1-5: "Our fathers were all under the cloud, and all passed through the sea, and all were baptized into Moses... and all ate the same spiritual food, and all drank the same spiritual drink. For they drank from the spiritual Rock that followed them, and the Rock was Christ. Nevertheless, with most of them God was not pleased, for they were overthrown in the wilderness." Every Israelite experienced the same blessings.

God's presence, God's power, God's provision, and Christ with them. But verse 5 says: "Nevertheless, with most of them God was not pleased." Most of them. Their bodies were scattered across the desert. They started the journey but never made it to the Promised Land. Paul isn't saying they lost their salvation. He's saying they missed out on what God had planned for them. Three things took them down: Uncontrolled desire.

They started craving things God hadn't given them. They were tired of manna. They wanted the food they used to eat in Egypt—the cucumbers and melons and garlic and onions. And they obsessed over it. They complained about it. They let that desire control them. And here's the principle: when you have to have something more than what God has provided, when you can't be satisfied with what's in front of you and what you have right now, desire will start to take over.

You begin serving that desire instead of serving God. And those who were strewn across the wilderness, they were a people who failed to bring their bodies under control. Instead, they indulged in every desire, lust and craving. The Christian who brings his or her desires under control, who's content with what God has given, stays in the race where God has placed them and receives what God has promised in His timing, not theirs.

Idolatry. This is in Exodus 32. Moses was up on the mountain for 40 days. Down below, the people got restless. They started to wonder if God was even real. Have you ever been there? You pray and it feels like nothing's happening. You cry out and heaven seems silent. You wonder if God even sees you, even knows you're struggling. That's where they were. So they went to Aaron and said, "Make us a god we can see." What did Aaron do?

He gave in to their desire. That's dangerous. Because when leaders give in to what people want instead of standing on what God says, everyone falls. Aaron melted down their jewelry and made a golden calf. And they said, "This is the god who brought us out of Egypt." They convinced themselves they could worship the true God through a false image. What happened next? They threw a party. They ate, they drank, they "rose up to play"—which is a polite way of saying they had an orgy.

They did what the pagans did at their idol festivals. And God killed 3,000 of them in one day and sent a plague on top of that. Now we're probably thinking, "I'm not tempted to bow down to a golden calf." True. But we're more sophisticated in our idolatry. Think about this—an idol is anything that takes God's place in your life. Anything that gets your love, your time, your attention, your desire or your worship before God gets it.

When your job consumes you more than your relationship with Jesus does, that's an idol. When you're more concerned about what your kids think of you than what God thinks of you, they've become an idol. When your phone gets more attention than your Bible, when your fantasy team gets more passion than your worship, when accumulating stuff matters more than adoring your Savior—that's idolatry. It's Halloween every day of your life because all you've done is just dressed up all the things you desire and your idolatry in 21st century clothes.

The Christian who keeps Jesus as the supreme treasure of his life stays in the race. Grumbling. This is in Numbers 16. Three men didn't like Moses' leadership. They thought they could do just as good a job. They didn't like the authority God had put in place. So they started complaining. And it wasn't silent complaining behind Moses's back, it was out loud. They stirred up dissension, spread distrust, created division.

And God opened the earth and swallowed them alive. Grumbling is dangerous because it's not just complaining about circumstances. It's questioning God's wisdom, God's goodness, God's plan. When we grumble about our job, we're saying God made a mistake putting us there. When we grumble about our church, or other churches, we're saying God doesn't know what He's doing. When we grumble about our season of life, we're accusing God of not being good.

And here's the thing about grumbling—it spreads. One person starts complaining and pretty soon everyone's negative. It's like a virus. It infects the whole community. The Christian who stays content, who trusts God's plan even in difficulty, stays in the race. So there's the warning. Uncontrolled desires, idolatry, grumbling—these things disqualified Israel from reaching the Promised Land. But Paul doesn't end with warning. He ends with hope. Verse 13: "No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it." Three truths. First, whatever temptation you're facing, you're not alone. It's common to humanity. Someone else has faced it. You're not the first person to struggle with this. Second, God is faithful. He won't let you face something you can't endure with His help.

He knows your limits. He knows what you can handle. And third, God provides a way through. Not a way out—a way through. He doesn't snap His fingers and remove the temptation. He walks with you through it and gives you what you need to endure it. So be encouraged. The temptations coming at you this week aren't new. God knows about them. And He's already prepared the way for you to walk through them without falling.

CONCLUSION As the worship team comes up—we're running a race. The race of treasuring Christ so His glory overflows in worship and compassion to our neighbors and the nations. The question is: Are you going to stay in the race? Are you going to finish well? Think about it, The vessels made it home. Look at Ezra 1:11 one more time: "All the vessels of gold and of silver were 5,400.

All these did Sheshbazzar bring up." All of them. 5,400 counted out in Babylon. 5,400 that arrived in Jerusalem. Not one was lost. And fast forward to Ezra 6:16-18: "The people of Israel... celebrated the dedication of this house of God with joy. They offered at the dedication of this house of God 100 bulls, 200 rams, 400 lambs... for the service of God at Jerusalem." They arrived. They were consecrated.

And they were put back into worship. From Babylon to Jerusalem. From pagan temples to the house of God. From exile to worship. From being defiled to being consecrated. From misuse to their purpose. Here's what I want you to hear this morning. You've been preserved. God hasn't lost sight of you. You've been counted. God knows you by name. If you right now do not know Jesus and you're living in exile—you're not forgotten.

If you're here this morning, God has drawn you here today, or to watch online, saying, "Here is the group going from exile to the promised land. Walk with them, travel with them, do life with them." But first, you need to repent. You need to consecrate your life. You need the very presence of Christ in you. And that happens when you give your life to Christ and say, "Jesus, I've been in exile long enough.

I've been serving idols that don't satisfy. I've been defiled by sin. But You came to bring me home. You died on the cross to pay for my sin. You rose from the dead to give me new life. I'm turning from my sin right now. I'm turning to You. Come into my life. Make me new. Fill me with Your Spirit. Bring me home." And for those of us who've already made that turn, who've already given our lives to Christ—here's what you need to hear: Christ is in you.

The same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead lives in your heart. That's not just good theology. That's your daily reality. That's your power for the journey. That's your hope for the race. So this week, when temptation comes—and it will come—remember you're not alone. Christ is in you. When discouragement hits, when you want to quit, when the journey feels too long, remember you're not alone. Christ is in you.

When you feel like you're still in exile, when you feel displaced from your purpose, when you wonder if God even sees you, remember—He does. He's preserved you. He's counted you. And He's bringing you home. Let's pray. Father, we thank You that You don't just save us and leave us to figure it out on our own. You preserve us. You know us by name. You've placed Christ Himself inside us.

That's staggering. Help us to live from that reality this week. When we're tempted, remind us that Christ is in us. When we're discouraged, remind us that You're bringing us home. When we want to quit the race, give us strength to endure. Not by our power, but by Yours working in us. We love You. We need You. And we're grateful that these vessels—us—are Yours. In Jesus' name, Amen.*

The Spirit Who Stirs

Open your Bibles this morning to Ezra chapter 1. We're going to be looking at three passages that weave together a single thread—a thread that runs through all of Scripture, from the Old Testament to the New, from the return from exile to the letters of the apostles.

It's the work of God's Spirit stirring hearts. Before we read, I want you to understand what we're walking into. Seventy years. That's how long the temple has laid in ruins. An entire generation has been born in Babylon who never saw Jerusalem. Never offered sacrifice in the house of God. Never celebrated Passover where their fathers had. The dwelling place of God—devastated, desolate, destroyed. The people of God are living in exile, and by all appearances, they've gotten comfortable there.

Babylon is the center of the world. Jobs are there. Security is there. Why leave for a pile of rubble hundreds of miles away? But God is about to move. Let's read Ezra 1:1-11: "This morning, I want us to trace a single question through Scripture: How does God work in the world? And specifically: How does God move human hearts? Because if you understand how God stirs hearts, you'll understand everything—from how you came to be sitting in this room this morning, to how God is going to use you to impact the lives of people around you.

So we're going to look at three snapshots across Scripture. Three moments where God is moving. And I want you to see the same pattern in all three. In Ezra 1, we're going to see God stir the heart of a pagan king and ordinary families to rebuild his dwelling place. In Revelation 2, we're going to see what happens when that stirring stops—when a church has all the right doctrine but has lost the affection that once drove them.

And in Hebrews 3 and 10, we're going to see that God doesn't just stir our hearts in isolation. He stirs us to stir one another. So let's start in Ezra 1. Because what you're about to see is going to blow apart any assumption you have about how God chooses people and how he moves in history. MOVEMENT 1: The Spirit Stirs Hearts for God's Purposes The Stirring of a King (v.1-4) Lets begin here, at verse 1: "In the first year of Cyrus king of Persia, that the word of the LORD by the mouth of Jeremiah might be fulfilled, the LORD stirred up the spirit of Cyrus king of Persia, so that he made a proclamation throughout all his kingdom and also put it in writing." That word 'stirred.' In Hebrew, it's ur.

And it doesn't mean God gently nudged Cyrus. It means God roused him. Shook him awake. Grabbed hold of his heart and said, 'You're moving. Now. Think about who Cyrus is. He's a pagan. He worships Persian gods. He has zero history with Israel, zero affection for Yahweh, zero reason to care about rebuilding a Jewish temple. By every human measure, he's the last person you'd expect to finance this project.

But God moved on his heart. Seventy years earlier, Jeremiah prophesied the exile would end. Over a century before that, Isaiah named Cyrus by name—before he was even born—and said he'd rebuild Jerusalem. And now, right on schedule, God stirs this pagan king's spirit, and Cyrus issues a decree to rebuild the house of the LORD. Listen to what Cyrus says in verses 2-3: "The LORD, the God of heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of the earth, and he has charged me to build him a house at Jerusalem, which is in Judah.

Whoever is among you of all his people, may his God be with him, and let him go up to Jerusalem, which is in Judah, and rebuild the house of the LORD, the God of Israel—he is the God who is in Jerusalem." A pagan king is now proclaiming that Yahweh is "the God of heaven" who has charged him with a mission. God moved his heart, and the king's entire agenda shifted toward God's dwelling place.

The Stirring of Ordinary People (v.5-11) But the stirring doesn't stop with Cyrus. Look at verse 5: "Then rose up the heads of the fathers' houses of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests and the Levites, everyone whose spirit God had stirred to go up to rebuild the house of the LORD that is in Jerusalem." SO there it is again… Same word. Same godly action. The Spirit who stirred a pagan king now stirs covenant families.

And notice—it's not just the leaders. It's "everyone whose spirit God had stirred." Regular people. Families with kids. People who'd never seen Jerusalem. People who'd built comfortable lives in Babylon. Something….. awakened in them, and they couldn't ignore it. They felt compelled to rise up, gather their things, and journey toward God's dwelling place. Abraham: The Moon Worshiper God Chose Now I want you to understand something about this stirring. When God stirs a heart, he's not out there shopping.

He's not scanning the earth looking for someone who's finally got it all together. That's not how God works. And I can prove it to you. Go back with me to the beginning of this whole story. Joshua 24, verses 2 and 3. God speaking through Joshua says this: "Your fathers lived of old beyond the Euphrates, Terah, the father of Abraham and of Nahor, and they served other gods. Then I took your father Abraham from beyond the river and led him through all the land of Canaan and made his offspring many." So, Stop right there.

Did you catch that? Abraham served other gods. He was a pagan. Specifically, he was a moon worshiper in Ur of the Chaldees. Now that detail is in Scripture for a reason. It's meant to jar you when you read it. Because it means the entire story of redemption—the story that leads to Jesus, the story that includes you and me—it continues through someone who wasn't even looking for God. God didn't find Abraham in some ancient prayer meeting.

He didn't discover him reading scrolls about Yahweh. Abraham was bowing before false gods. Worshiping the moon. And God said, "I'll take that one. And here's what staggers me: God took this ordinary moon worshiper from Ur—this guy with zero spiritual credentials, zero holy background, zero reason to be chosen—and through decades of trust and trial, through moments of obedience and spectacular failure, through waiting and wrestling and learning to believe...

God turned him into the father of many nations. That's what happens when God stirs a heart. Thats what happens when a heart that has passion for everything else, is moved towards the one who gives life. The Pattern of Stirring This is the God who stirs hearts. And that's exactly what's happening in verse 5. When it says "everyone whose spirit God had stirred"—these ordinary families rising up to leave Babylon—this is the same pattern.

Families who'd gotten comfortable. People who had jobs and homes and security. People who'd been born in Babylon and never known anything else. But God awakened something in them. And they couldn't stay put. They had to move toward where God dwells. And look at verse 6: "And all who were about them aided them with vessels of silver, with gold, with goods, with beasts, and with costly wares, besides all that was freely offered." Even the neighbors who aren't going start contributing.

Silver, gold, livestock, supplies. When God stirs some hearts, others get pulled into the momentum. The awakening spreads. Then verses 7-11 tell us about the sacred vessels. Five thousand four hundred sacred vessels. These had been looted from Solomon's temple when it was destroyed seventy years earlier. They'd been sitting in Babylonian treasuries all this time—in pagan temples, serving false gods. Now they're going home. Why? Because God stirred hearts. Here's the pattern I want you to see: When God stirs hearts, people move toward where he dwells—no matter where they started.

Listen to this progression: Cyrus started as a pagan king worshiping Persian deities → God stirred him → He funded God's house and released the sacred vessels Abraham started as a moon worshiper in Ur → God stirred him → He became the father of faith and the channel of blessing Those exiles started comfortable in Babylon, many never having seen Jerusalem → God stirred them → They left everything to rebuild God's dwelling What we need to reconsider is this…

this stirring doesn't wait for you to be ready. It doesn't require spiritual résumés. It doesn't depend on you having your life together first. God stirs whom he chooses. And whom he stirs, he always transforms. The Question About Pharaoh Now, before we go further, I need to say something. Some of you just had a question pop into your head: If God can stir the heart of a pagan king like Cyrus and a moon worshiper like Abram, what about Pharaoh?

What about the fact that God hardened Pharaoh's heart? And that’s a Good question. And the answer is: yes. The same God who stirred Cyrus also hardened Pharaoh. Listne, churhc, God is sovereign over both stirring and hardening. And that terrifies us, doesn't it? Because it means he's actively moving in human hearts—sometimes to awaken, sometimes to harden. But here's what I want you to see: When God stirs, when he awakens, when he calls someone from darkness to light—that's pure grace.

Nobody deserves that. And when God hardens? When he gives people over to the rebellion they've chosen—that's pure justice. Pharaoh kept rejecting God's word, and so God said, "Fine. I'll confirm that. If you want to keep rejecting my grace, my will, my desire for my people to be free—I will leave you in the hardness you've chosen." Now, that's radical, isn't it? Can you imagine God saying to you, "Okay.

Have it your way." That terrifies me. Because I think of David in Psalm 51. He's sinned. He's blown it spectacularly. And what does he cry out? "Do not take your Holy Spirit from me." Why would David pray that? Because he knew—if God's Spirit departs, if God stops stirring my heart, I'm done. My heart won't awaken. My affections won't burn. I'll drift into the hardness I've chosen and not even know it's happening.

David understood: The worst judgment isn't external consequences. It's God saying, "Fine. Have the cold, dead unloving heart you want." That's what happened to Pharaoh. God gave him exactly what he kept choosing—hardness. And Pharaoh couldn't even see it. And that brings us right to Romans 9. Paul knows this question is coming. He knows you're wrestling with it right now. So he asks it directly: "Is there injustice on God's part?" Is it unjust for God to harden Pharaoh?

Is it unjust for God to stir Cyrus? What’s Paul's answer: "By no means! For he says to Moses, 'I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion.'" God's mercy is free. That's what makes it mercy. Not because you earned it, but because its freely given to you. If God owed it to us, it wouldn't be mercy—it would be payment.

But nobody stands before God with a claim. Nobody can say, "You owe me." Not Cyrus. Not Pharaoh. Not Abraham. Not you. Not me. And that's what makes the gospel so amazing—nobody can meet God's standard, but Jesus can. And Jesus did. We all stand before God as moon worshipers. As rebels. As people who've turned our backs on him, and as people who idolize our sins. And if God gave us what we deserved, we'd all experience hardening.

We see this with Judas. Jesus is at the table with his disciples. He knows what Judas is about to do. He knows the betrayal is coming. And what does Jesus say to him? "What you are going to do, do quickly." Think about that. Jesus doesn't stop him. He doesn't intervene. He essentially says, "If this is the path you've chosen, go ahead. Do it." That's hardening. God stepping back and letting someone have exactly what they want.

Judas had been with Jesus for three years. He'd seen the miracles. He'd heard the teaching. He'd watched the compassion, the power, the grace. And his heart stayed hard. He kept choosing the betrayal. And Jesus let him. That should terrify every one of us. Because it means God can say to any of us, "Fine. Go ahead. Have the sin you want more than me." But the fact that you're here this morning—the fact that some of you are listening online right now—that's not because God owes you.

That's because God is stirring you. The Holy Spirit is stirring hearts right now. You didn't wake up this morning and decide on your own to pursue God. God stirred something in you. He awakened something. He drew you here. Some of you fought it. You had a hundred reasons not to come. But something got you here. That's stirring. That's the Spirit of God moving on your heart. Jesus met the standard we couldn't meet.

Jesus lived the life we should have lived. Jesus died the death we deserved to die. And now, by pure grace, he awakens people like us—moon worshipers, rebels, pagans—and says, “ that one… that person… You’re mine." Where You Started Doesn't Matter And if you're sitting here this morning thinking, "Well, I came from such a messed up background. I was so far from God. My family has no spiritual history.

There's no way God would choose someone like me"— You're thinking exactly like Abraham should have thought. And God chose him anyway. Where you started doesn't determine where God can take you. He specializes in stirring unlikely hearts. He's in the business of interrupting pagans, idol worshipers, and turning them into people of faith. Some of you came from families where nobody went to church. Nobody talked about God. And now here you are—in this room, seeking him, wanting to know him.

That's stirring. Why? Because God interrupted your story sometime in your life, and now your heart's being stirred and roused to know why. Some of you came from religious backgrounds but it was dead religion—all rules, no relationship. And somewhere along the way, something awakened. You started actually wanting Jesus, not just avoiding hell. That's stirring. God breathed life into what was dead. Some of you are comfortable right now. Life is good.

You've got what you need. And yet something is pulling at you this morning. Something is making you restless for more of God. That's stirring. God is awakening hunger in you. And I'm saying to all of you, every person in this room: Don't resist it. Don't ignore it. When God stirs, respond. Move toward where he dwells. But let me ask you something: What happens when the stirring stops? What happens when God's people have sound doctrine, strong discipline, impressive endurance—but cold hearts?

What happens when the affection for Christ dies? Let’s find out… MOVEMENT 2: The Spirit Stirs Our Affections for Christ (Revelation 2:1-7) The Church That Lost Its Stirring Turn with me now to Revelation 2. We're fast-forwarding about 600 years from Ezra to the first century church. Jesus is speaking to the church at Ephesus through the apostle John. And what we're going to see is a church that by all external measures looks like a model congregation—but has lost the very thing that makes Christianity Christian.

Let me read verses 1-7: Listen to what Jesus commends in this church: "I know your works"—they're active, they're doing things "Your toil and your patient endurance"—they're working hard and suffering well "You cannot bear with those who are evil"—they have moral discernment "You have tested those who call themselves apostles and are not, and found them to be false"—they have theological precision, they can spot heresy "You are enduring patiently and bearing up for my name's sake"—they're suffering specifically for Christ "You have not grown weary"—they haven't quit, they're still showing up This is the church I want to join.

They know sound doctrine. They can distinguish truth from error. They endure hardship without complaining. They haven't abandoned their posts. By every measurable metric, First Baptist Ephesus is thriving. But verse 4 is devastating: "But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first." From Affection to Obligation Here's what happened in Ephesus, and here's what happens to us: Somewhere between the awakening and now, affection turned into obligation.

The stirring stopped. The hearts that once burned for Christ cooled into religious performance. When the gospel first awakens our hearts to the reality of the cross of Christ, most of us don't have a framework of right and wrong yet. We have a framework of affection. We're just in love. We think, "When I do this, when I'm around this, when I'm part of this—my heart is stirred up. My affections are awakened.

I want to worship. I want to be near him." And on the flip side, we think, "When I do this, I feel guilty. I feel ashamed. This robs me of that longing. I don't want it." So what do we do? We fill our lives with the things that stir our affections for Jesus. And we avoid the things that rob our affections for Jesus. We're not operating from a checklist.

We're operating from a heart that's been awakened. But slowly, and often times it's real slow, that gets replaced with something else. Now it's no longer, "What stirs my affections for Jesus and what robs my affections for Jesus?" Now it becomes, "I'm going to do what's right and I'm going to avoid what's wrong." I grew up in what Christianity Today called "the center of the evangelical world." And I watched this happen over and over.

People who held tightly to religion but had long since left the gospel. Long since left any active relationship with Jesus Christ. Let me give you an example. I was in a college class on marriage and family with eight guys who were all planning to go into ministry. The topic turned to sex, virginity, and marriage. And these future preachers started talking like this: "Well, I wouldn't marry a woman who's not a virgin.

I mean, I've kept myself a virgin. I'm going to ministry. Why would I marry somebody who wasn't a virgin?" You see the problem? We are partakers in the grace of Christ—unmerited grace. You didn't do anything to get it. Any sense of moral togetherness you have is due to God's mercy in rescuing you. That's the gospel. But you've got future communicators of the grace of God saying, "She's not a virgin, so I'm not marrying her." That's not gospel.

That's religion. That's the older brother in Luke 15 saying, "Where's my goat? I've been good. I deserve something." Completely missing that the Father is saying, "All I have is yours! Why would you settle for a goat when you have the Father's love?" Two Diagnostic Questions So let me give you two questions that will expose where you are right now: Question 1: What stirs your affections for Jesus Christ?

Not what should stir you. Not what stirs other people. Not what the Christian culture says ought to stir you. What actually awakens your heart toward him? Let me get specific because I think this will help. For me, it's early mornings. There's something about that time when everything is level—I'm not amped, I'm not exhausted, I'm just level. It's cool and quiet. And there's something about the smell of tea, and seeing the steam rise from the cup that reminds me of the prayers rising to the Father...

that makes me love Jesus. I can't explain it. I can't find it in a biblical text. But for me, that combination stirs something within my heart. I love music that has emotional weight to it—music where it sounds like the person singing is barely holding it together. That stirs me. Graveyards stir me. I know that's weird. But sitting in a cemetery, looking at someone who died at my age, forces me back in touch with my mortality.

Am I faithful today? Do I get tomorrow? That stirs my affection for Christ. Really good food with really good friends stirs me. Because it's a taste of heaven—the day when the big feast comes, when the new wine flows and we sit at table with Christ himself. Now, those are mine. Yours will be different. Some of you are deeply cerebral—theological study sets your heart on fire. Some of you are emotive—you need beauty and art.

Some of you function best at night, you’re weird, and its ok. Some in the mornings. We're different in aptitude. And what stirs your affections for Jesus Christ matters. Do you know what it is? Can you answer that question? Because if you can't, you're probably operating from a checklist instead of a heart. Question 2: What robs you of those affections? Again, not what's obviously sinful—we all know murder and adultery are wrong.

I'm talking about the morally neutral things that slowly drain your heart. For me, it's television. I can't watch too much of it. Politics—I can't follow them too closely. Sleeping in robs me of affection. When I sleep in, I wake up amped, my mind racing to meetings and tasks, and I'm not thinking about Jeuss. My heart's not on him. But I'm not up here saying, "Television is the devil box.

And im not saying, You can't love God and watch TV." I don't believe that. I'm saying I can't watch too much of it because it robs me of affection. What about you? Maybe it's how you use your phone—the endless scroll, the comparison, the noise. Maybe it's busyness that keeps you from margin and stillness. Maybe it's cynicism or sarcasm that keeps your heart guarded. Maybe it's fantasy sports or binge-watching shows or gossip or whatever else fills the space where longing for God should be.

The Ephesian Warning This is what happened in Ephesus. Look at verse 5 again: "Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first." What were those first works? Do you know? Let me show you wha ti think… We have to go back to Acts 19 to find out. This is the only record we have in Scripture of what was happening when the church in Ephesus first formed.

Acts 19:17-20 says: "And this became known to all the residents of Ephesus, both Jews and Greeks. And fear fell upon them all, and the name of the Lord Jesus was extolled. Also many of those who were now believers came, confessing and divulging their practices. And a number of those who had practiced magic arts brought their books together and burned them in the sight of all." Do you see it?

These are believers—people already converted—coming together and hearts breaking open to reveal their sin. "Here's what I've been guilty of. Here's what I've walked in. Here's what I still struggle with. I need Christ. I need his grace. I need the cross." Nobody was pretending. Nobody was wearing the cape of "spiritual leader" and saying, "Let me show you how great I am." And os I need ot ask… when I read things like this, and I see how church has eveolved…

Could it be that Ephesus got pretty, and comfortable? Could it be that they moved from "I need him, I have a wicked heart" to "How are you doing?" "Fine. How are you?" "Fine." When Affection Dies, Make-Believe Lives Here's what happens when your affections are no longer being stirred for Jesus Christ: You begin to pretend. That's where this make-believe faith comes in what James calls dead faith, and dead faith is nothing but imitation rather than invitational.

You pretend you don't still struggle. That you don't still have doubts. That sin doesn't still creep up and find you. That you're not still weak. You know, holiness isn't so much about what we do. It's about what we love. And so what happens within the congregation… we become comfortable. Theres not repentance. Theres no consecration before brother and sisters who walks with you. No affection. No honesty. Just performance.

And you think you're fine. So what do we do? How does God rescue us from this drift? How does he keep our hearts stirred when everything in us wants to settle into comfortable religion? MOVEMENT 3: Stirred Affections Move Us to Stir One Another (Hebrews 3:12-14; 10:23-25) The Same Spirit, The Same Work Here's how God rescues us from drift: He doesn't leave us to fight it alone. He stirs us to stir one another.

Turn with me to Hebrews. We're going to look at two passages—Hebrews 3:12-14 and Hebrews 10:23-25. And what I want you to see is that the same Spirit who stirred Cyrus, who stirred ordinary families in Babylon, who pleads with Ephesus to return to first-love passion—that same Spirit now calls us to stir one another. Let me read both passages: Do you see the pattern?

In Ezra: The Spirit stirs hearts → People move toward God's dwelling, the temple. In Revelation: Christ pleads for stirred affections → Return to first-love honesty. In Hebrews: God stirs us → We stir one another → We move toward other temples. Because here's what's changed: We are the temple now. God places his spritir, the spirit of his son, Jeuss within our hearts to cry out Abba Father. The same Spirit.

The same work. In each od us.. But now the stirring becomes mutual. What God awakens in us, we are moved towards one another, and awaken and stir each other. God designed your faith to be sustained through other believers. Not just through sermons or personal devotions, but through being deeply involved in each other's lives. Two Ways We Stir One Another And this mutual stirring works in two ways. First, we help each other fight what pulls us away from Christ.

Second, we provoke each other toward what draws us closer. FIRST: Fighting Sin's Deception Together (Hebrews 3:12-13) Look at verses 12-13 again: "Take care, brothers, lest there be in any of you an evil, unbelieving heart, leading you to fall away from the living God. But exhort one another every day, as long as it is called 'today,' that none of you may be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin." Notice the warning: An evil, unbelieving heart that leads to falling away.

And what's the antidote? Exhort one another every day. The word "exhort" here means to come alongside, to urge, to encourage, to warn. It has a bit of an edge to it. This isn't just "have a nice day" pleasantries. This is getting in each other's lives and speaking loving truth. Why? Because sin deceives. It blinds. It hardens. And here's the terrifying part: You can't see it happening to yourself.

That's what deceitful means. You drift slowly. Your affections cool gradually. You start justifying things you once grieved over. You become comfortable with patterns you once fought. And you don't even notice it's happening. The hardness creeps in. This is why isolation kills. When you pull away from close relationships, when you keep everything surface level, when you present only the edited version of yourself, you cut yourself off from the very means God uses to keep you from being hardened.

God has appointed you—yes, you—to help a few other people persevere in faith and fight the blindness of sin. And God has appointed a few others to do that for you. You need them. They need you. Verse 14 says, "For we share in Christ, if indeed we hold our original confidence firm to the end." Do you see it? Our sharing in Christ is connected to holding fast. And holding fast is connected to daily exhortation.

This isn't optional. This is how God designed faith to persevere. SECOND: Provoking Love and Action Together (Hebrews 10:24-25) Now look at chapter 10, verses 24-25: "And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near." The word "consider" here means to observe carefully, to think strategically, to give attention to.

This isn't accidental. We're supposed to be intentional about how we provoke each other toward Christ-treasuring lives. Notice what we're stirring each other toward: Love and good works. Not just theological precision. Not just moral performance. Not just avoiding sin. We're provoking each other toward hearts that overflow in compassion and lives that display the kingdom. Who of us cannot trace much of our passion for radical Christian living to other Christians who stirred us up?

Someone spoke truth to you. Someone modeled generosity. Someone challenged your comfort. Someone called you to something bigger than yourself. You were stirred. And now you're called to do that for others. We all tend to drift into selfishness. Our default mode is self-preservation, self-comfort, self-advancement. God has appointed you to help a few others resist that drift. To stir them up. To provoke them toward love. The Critical Role of Small Groups Now, how does this happen practically?

How do you exhort someone every day if you only see them in rows on Sunday morning? How do you confess sin to one another in a room of 300 people? How do you bear with each other's flaws if you only know the public version? You can't. This is why small groups matter. Why home fellowships matter. Why intentional relationships matter. Not as programs to check off, but as the structural means by which we actually give and receive the care that sustains faith.

Look at verse 25 again: "Not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near." Why "all the more"? Because as the Day approaches, the pressure increases. The deception intensifies. The drift accelerates. You're going to need this more, not less. Few things are more humbling and more healing than confessing your sin to others.

That's the level of trust we need. That's the level of honesty that marked the early church in Ephesus. That's what Christ is calling us back to. You can't stir what you're not around. This isn't about sitting in rows once a week. This is about being in each other's homes. Sharing meals. Knowing each other's struggles. Asking hard questions. Praying specifically. Speaking truth. Bearing burdens. CONCLUSION: The Pattern Continues So let me ask you directly, and I need you to be honest as the Worhsip team comes up..

Question 1: Are your affections stirred? Can you answer those two diagnostic questions? What stirs your affections for Jesus Christ? What robs you of those affections? If you can't answer those, you're probably operating from a checklist instead of a heart. You've left your first love. And Christ is pleading with you this morning: "Remember from where you have fallen. Repent. Return." Maybe you need to do some good work this week identifying what actually stirs you and what actually robs you.

Not what you think should, but what actually does. And then fill your life with the first and avoid the second. Question 2: Are you being stirred by others? Or are you isolated? Pretending you've got it together? Hiding your struggles behind the “some sort of" label? Keeping things surface-level so no one sees the real you? You are being hardened by the deceitfulness of sin, and you can't see it.

You need others. You need daily exhortation. You need people who know you well enough to see what you can't see. You need to be in a small group, in intentional relationships, where confession and prayer and honesty are normal. Don't be a loner in the Christian life. God didn't make you that way. Question 3: Are you stirring others? God has appointed you to help a few others persevere. Who are they?

Do you know them? Are you in their lives? Are you considering how to stir them up to love and good works? Or are you so focused on your own spiritual scoreboard—your goats, your checklist, your performance—that you've forgotten you're called to mutual care? The Spirit stirs. And when he does, we stir one another. This is the pattern. This is how God's people move. This is how faith perseveres. This is how the church treasures Christ together.

Let's pray. Father, stir our hearts this morning. Like you stirred Cyrus and the exiles in Babylon, stir us. Like you pleaded with Ephesus to return to first love, plead with us. Don't let us settle for religion when you're offering relationship. Don't let us settle for checklists when you're offering affection. Show us what stirs our hearts for Jesus. Show us what robs us. Give us the courage to be honest—with you, with ourselves, with each other.

And move us to stir one another. Help us fight the isolation, the pretense, the performance. Put us in each other's lives. Make us a people marked by mutual care—exhorting, encouraging, confessing, praying, bearing burdens, stirring love. We can't do this alone. We were never meant to. So stir us, and through us, stir others. In Jesus' name, Amen. *

Overcoming Fear with Love

If you can, let's open our Bibles back to Hosea and find with me chapter 4.

Last week we began a new five-week series for Lent called, Freed in Love. The series is to show us that when we receive God's freely given love, He desires for us, in His love, to become faithful. Faithful love is steadfast and loyal love.

But what we realize is that we're not always faithful, are we? Did you know that the season of Lent is the season of examination and repentance? That for forty days, God calls the church to really examine the idols in their life. Which is why so many people seek to give something up during these forty days before Passion Week.

When we examine our lives, what we can realize is that not only are we unfaithful individually, but our individual unfaithfulness can lead to unfaithfulness as a church body.

Individual Unfaithfulness · Hosea 4 and 5 Let's begin with our individual faith. Look with me in Hosea 4 and find verse 14.

Hosea 4:14 "People without discernment are doomed."

Now turn one chapter over with me to chapter 5, and find verse 4. What's the issue with living in unfaithfulness? Hosea 5:4 "Their actions do not allow them to return to their God, for a spirit of promiscuity is among them, and they do not know the Lord."

Two things here before we move on to the book of Revelation. And I just want to give you a little context on Hosea first, because this verse is not talking about one bad decision. Hosea is exposing a people whose repeated unfaithfulness has made them unable to see clearly anymore. This is what a pattern of sin does over time. It does not just affect behavior. It dims the eyes.

When sin goes unchecked it does not stay contained. It blinds us to our own patterns. And a blind person walks blindly. Whatever we refuse to face in ourselves we will pass on to everyone around us.

Whatever is unfaithful in me leaks. Into my family. Into my friendships. Into this church. There is no hiding it.

The Church That Lost Its First Love · Revelation 2:1-5 Let me show you a church that this happened to. Turn with me to Revelation, chapter 2, and let's read verses 1 through 5.

Revelation 2:1-5 "To the angel of the church in Ephesus write: These are the words of him who holds the seven stars in his right hand and walks among the seven golden lampstands. I know your deeds, your hard work and your perseverance. I know that you cannot tolerate wicked people, that you have tested those who claim to be apostles but are not, and have found them false. You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary. Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first. Consider how far you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first. If you do not repent, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place."

What we see in this letter to the church, it commends the believers for their hard work, their perseverance, and their rejection of false teaching. But then Jesus says the thing that should stop all of us cold. You have forsaken the love you had at first. Not your doctrine. Not your discipline. Your love. The thing that started it all. Have you ever thought about why the lampstand matters? The lampstand represents the church's place as a witnessing people before Christ. Its presence. Its spiritual authority in the community. And Jesus is saying, a church can keep doing activity and still lose its witness. Keep doing faithful things while losing the faithful love underneath them. And when that happens, He will remove it. Not because He stopped loving you. Because a church that has lost its first love has nothing left to give the world.

And here is the thing I want you to sit with. Most of us do not even know we have drifted. We are still showing up. Still serving. Still singing. The lights look on from the outside. But somewhere along the way the love underneath it all got quietly replaced by habit. By duty. By obligation. And we did not even notice.

We say the right things. But our hearts don't always match what we are saying. And that gap, between what our mouths confess and what our hearts actually hold, that is exactly where fear moves in and love quietly moves out.

The Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth and he called some of them fleshly Christians. Look at 1 Corinthians chapter 3.

1 Corinthians 3:1-3, NIV "Brothers and sisters, I could not address you as people who live by the Spirit but as people who are still worldly, mere infants in Christ. I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it. Indeed, you are still not ready. You are still worldly."

Now Paul is not saying they are unsaved. He is saying they are fleshly. Still Spirit-indwelt. Still belonging to God. But still operating out of the old nature. Saved, but not yet fully surrendered to what the Spirit is trying to do in them.

And I want to make a distinction here that I think changes everything. A pure heart and a mature character are not the same thing.

A pure heart is about full surrender. A mature character is about formed consistency. The thief on the cross shows us that grace can purify a heart in a moment. In his last breath he turned to Jesus and said, remember me. And Jesus said, today you will be with me in paradise. That man had a pure, surrendered heart. In a moment.

But if that thief had come down from the cross and lived another twenty years, grace would not have left him unchanged. He would have had to learn how to forgive. How to speak without destroying. How to stay faithful when Jesus felt far away. How to let his surrender shape his money, his mouth, his marriage, and his hidden thoughts. That is mature Christian character. A pure heart says, Jesus I am completely yours. A mature character learns to say that with every part of your life, over time.

A pure heart can happen at the altar. A mature character is proven after the altar.

I have seen young Christians, six months in, rough around the edges, still learning, still awkward, and yet their heart is fully surrendered to Jesus. And I have seen people who have been in the church for thirty years, know every song, know the language, know how to serve, know how to look the part, and still be divided underneath. Time in church does not automatically make the heart undivided.

Some of us are asking God for maturity when what He is first asking for is surrender. The question is not, how do I become more consistent. The question is, has there been full surrender. Because God is not waiting for a better performance. He is waiting for an open hand. And some who surrendered years ago are now being asked, will you let me keep forming that surrender into character. Because love received in a moment must become love practiced over a lifetime. And character has to learn how to live without reaching back for fear. That takes abiding. That takes repentance. That takes the Spirit forming us in the ordinary places, not just at the altar but on a Tuesday when nobody is watching.

The Ephesus church had mature-looking character. Years of hard work and endurance and doctrinal correctness. But Jesus saw beneath all of that and said, your love has moved. Which means maturity without love can become machinery. Discipline without love can become duty. Orthodoxy without love can become cold correctness. A church can have mature-looking character and still have a divided heart. And when the heart is divided, even faithful-looking work starts running on the wrong fuel.

So here is the framework I want you to walk away with. The thief on the cross shows us that a heart can be made pure in a moment without mature character. The church at Ephesus shows us that a people can display mature-looking character while losing purity of love. And the call to us is this: receive the pure heart by grace, let the Spirit form mature character over time, and keep returning to your first love so that maturity never becomes machinery.

And this is where I want us to let Scripture diagnose us. Not condemn us. Diagnose us. Because James says the tongue has a way of revealing the heart. James 3:9-10, NIV "With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be."

James is making a simple observation. The mouth reveals the heart. What comes out of us when we are disappointed, when we are frustrated, when we are hurt, that is not an accident. That is a window. And what the window shows is what economy we are actually living in. If it is the wage economy, the words will sound like it. If it is the gift economy, the words will begin to sound like that too.

And love sounds different than fear. Fear speaks to protect. Love speaks to restore. Fear accuses. Love confronts and stays. Fear defends. Love repents. If we are honest about what our words have sounded like lately, that is one of the clearest diagnostics we have.

So the question is not only, do I believe the right things. The question is, what is my life producing. What are my words revealing. Is my mouth bearing witness to perfect love, or is my mouth exposing a fear that has not yet been surrendered.

So let me ask you something honest before we go any further. Is what you are doing for God coming from love, or is it coming from obligation? Is it coming from a heart that has been with Him, or a heart that is just keeping the schedule? Are you a fleshly Christian, saved and Spirit-indwelt, but still operating out of the old engine?

And if the answer is yes, or even maybe, I want you to know that is not the end of the conversation. That is exactly where repentance begins. Not for the person who walked away. For the person who has been faithfully showing up and just got honest about what has been powering it.

So do not run from what you just felt. That feeling is not accusation. That is the Spirit doing what He does.

John 16:8, ESV "And when he comes, he will convict the world concerning sin and righteousness and judgment."

Conviction is not condemnation. Condemnation crushes. Conviction calls. And what it is calling you toward right now is repentance.

What Holds Us Back · The Wage We've Been Drawing Billy Graham said, "Repentance means turning from as much as you know of your sin to give as much as you know of yourself to as much as you know of your God, and as our knowledge grows at these three points so our practice of repentance has to be enlarged."

What holds us back from repenting? I believe fear does that.

If I was a betting man, there is a lot more fear in us than we know. The problem is, we've turned our fear into faith.

I want to tell you about something that happened this week. I was sitting with Pua on Thursday. And as we were talking I was already thinking about this sermon, already sitting with this question about fear and faith. And his son Uele walked in. Blue sunglasses. Sitting like he owned the room. And on his shirt it said, Faith Over Fear.

And underneath that it had a Scripture. Psalm 118:6.

Psalm 118:6 "The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?"

I sat there and I thought, that is the question right there. Not just faith over fear as a slogan on a shirt. The psalmist does not say, I worked up enough courage. He does not say, I tried harder. He says, the Lord is on my side. That is the swap. Not willpower over anxiety. The swap happens when you finally believe that God is actually for you. And that is exactly what the wage economy robs from you. When you are always working to earn love, always performing to maintain approval, you cannot fully believe that God is for you. You are too busy trying to stay on His good side to rest in the fact that He already put you there. In Christ. At the cross. Before you did anything to deserve it.

Fear is what we earn when we are not sure God is for us. Love is what we are given when we finally believe He is.

Look with me real quick at Romans chapter 6, verse 23.

Romans 6:23 "For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Paul sets up what should be a parallel sentence. The wages of sin is death. Your brain is already finishing it: and the wages of righteousness is life. Paul refuses. He writes the free gift of God is eternal life. He took the word wages out completely and replaced it with gift. He killed the parallel on purpose. Because the gospel is not a better wage. The gospel is the end of wages altogether. Two different economies. Two different masters. The first runs on what you have earned. The second runs on what you have been given.

And most of us are running both at the same time. We say we believe in the gift. We sing about it. But when something goes wrong, when someone hurts us, when God feels distant, we go right back to work for the first one. We start performing. We start trying to earn our way back into safety.

The wage economy produces fear. The gift economy produces love.

When love has to be earned it stops being love and starts being a contract. And a contract will always make you afraid of the fine print. Afraid of what happens when you cannot hold up your end. Afraid to come back, afraid to repent, afraid to be honest, because somewhere underneath all the church attendance and service there is a quiet terror that you are not enough.

This originates from many different sources. Our personal experiences can cause us to turn fear into faith. There was a time I was hurt by a church that Alicia and I were attending, and my first response was to leave. I was mad. I was hurt. And as I began to become unchristlike in my speech, my wife sat me down and said, Hunny, we're not gonna leave the church. In that moment, Alicia led me into repentance and helped me realize that I was being held accountable.

Truth is, accountability is not church hurt. But church hurt can cause one to turn away from accountability. And fear can become so normal that we mistake it for just the way things are.

Perfect Love Casts Out Fear · 1 John 4:18 Before we go, can I share with you how one lives by faith while overcoming fear in love?

1 John 4:18 "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."

Perfect love. John said perfect love comes from God, and it drives out fear. When we are abiding in God and His love, what we find is the strength and courage to face our fears rather than hide them. Perfect love comes from God and is not something we can generate on our own.

Charles Spurgeon said, "Perfect love is not found in the world. It is an exotic plant that does not grow in earthly soil. It is a gift from God, and is only to be found in those who are born of the Spirit and who have the mind of Christ."

Do you see that? A gift. Not a wage. Not something you produced. Not something you earned by showing up enough times or serving enough Sundays. A gift from God, freely given, freely received.

How does one begin this journey? It begins with repentance. But hear me, because this is important and I don't want you to miss it. Repentance is not just the door you walk through once and forget about. In our tradition we believe in initial salvation, the moment God meets you and brings you from death to life. But we also believe in ongoing salvation, the daily work of the Spirit sanctifying and shaping and deepening what He started. Repentance is not a one-time event. Repentance is a way of living. It is the posture of a heart that stays close to God. That keeps saying, here I am. All of me. Whatever you find.

That is what the church at Ephesus lost. Not the moment of conversion. The daily returning. The ongoing repentance that keeps the first love alive.

Let me just inject a question right here. Does your life show a posture of repentance? Not a moment. Not a memory of a moment. A posture. The way you carry yourself toward God every day. The way you respond when the Spirit puts His finger on something. The way you come back when you drift.

Is that who you are? · Is that how you live?

Because here is the difference. A moment of repentance says, I am sorry for what I did. A posture of repentance says, I am staying close enough to God that when something is wrong, I know it, and I bring it. One is a transaction. The other is a relationship. One happens once. The other happens every day for the rest of your life. And it is the second one that keeps the lampstand burning.

But I know what some of you are feeling right now. Because I have felt it too. The reason most of us don't live with a posture of repentance is not stubbornness. It is fear. We are afraid of what honesty will cost us. Afraid of what God will do with what He finds in there. Afraid that if we really open up, if we really let Him see all of it, the love might be withdrawn. So we manage God instead of meeting Him. We give Him the version of ourselves we think He can handle. We show up to church and we perform the right things and we keep the locked rooms locked.

And then we wonder why the fear never goes away.

Here is what I want you to hear. And I need you to really hear this.

Christ did not die so you would have a religion to perform. He died to reconcile you to God. To forgive your sin. To break the power of death over your life. To make you holy. And in doing all of that, He made honesty possible without fear. He made repentance feel like coming home instead of walking into a courtroom.

The cross is the proof that God already knows the worst of it and came anyway. He saw every locked room. He knew every fear you have dressed up as faithfulness. He saw every moment you performed for Him instead of running to Him. He saw all of it, at Calvary, before the nails went in, and He went through with it. Which means you are not going to surprise Him. You are not going to show Him something that changes His mind about you.

He died for this. He died so that you and I would never have to manage God from a safe distance again. He died so that honesty would not be dangerous. He died so that the posture of repentance would feel like coming home instead of walking into a courtroom.

He died for our unity. He died so we could feel safe enough to be honest with our own hearts.

And when a room full of people are all living that way, not performing for each other, not managing their image, but genuinely honest before God together, that is where real community happens. That is where the first love comes back. That is where the lampstand stays lit.

2 Chronicles 7:14 "If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land."

Humility. That is the word. Not performance. Not production. Not a longer quiet time or a better church attendance record. Humility. The posture of a heart that has stopped pretending and started coming honestly.

It begins with Him. God told us in Hosea that He will freely love them when they repent from their iniquity.

1 John 4:19 "We love because he first loved us."

John 15:4 "Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me."

Living in perfect love means actively seeking to love God and others with our whole hearts. Not because we are afraid of what happens if we don't. Because we have received something so real, so costly, so freely given, that love becomes the only response we have left.

Matthew 22:37-39 "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

Why Do I Keep Living This Way But before I close I have to ask the harder question. Why do I keep living this way?

I mean, if perfect love casts out fear, and God's love is freely given, and the gift is right there in His open hand, then why am I still afraid? Why do I still wake up on Monday morning and go right back to performing? Why does repentance feel so hard? Why does coming back to my first love feel like climbing a mountain every single time? Can we be honest about this? Because I think we have been giving ourselves a cheap answer to a very deep problem.

The cheap answer is this: I just need to try harder. I need to be more disciplined. I need to show up more, pray more, serve more, give more. And if I do those things consistently enough, the fear will go away and the love will come.

That is not the gospel. That is the wage economy with a Christian label on it.

The real answer is harder than that. The real answer is that sin is deeper in us than we think it is. Not just the sins we commit. The sin underneath the sins. The condition beneath the behavior. The thing the theologians call the carnal nature, the bent in us that curves inward, that defaults to self-preservation, self-justification, self-promotion, that reaches for control before it reaches for God.

The reason fear stays is not lack of effort. It is something older and deeper than that. There is something in the human heart, the theologians call it the carnal nature, that does not trust the gift. That cannot receive what it has not earned. That would rather manage God from a safe distance than surrender to Him completely.

And a pastoral note here before we go further. This is not talking about the fear the body feels when real danger is present. It is not talking about fear that comes from trauma that needs patient and gentle healing. That is real and God meets people there. This is about the spiritual fear that keeps the soul hiding from God. The fear that turns religion into performance and repentance into a transaction.

And here is the thing about cheap grace. Cheap grace says, God loves you, so relax. Don't worry about it. You're fine. It receives the forgiveness and refuses the transformation. It says yes to being saved and no to being sanctified. Dietrich Bonhoeffer called it grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ. Because cheap grace does not cast out fear. It just covers it over. The fear is still there underneath, still running, still drawing its paycheck.

Real grace is costly. Not because it can be purchased. Christ paid that cost at the cross. But the grace that forgives also claims. It heals. It calls to surrender. Real grace does not leave a person where it found them. It does not just forgive the debt. It moves the soul into a different house entirely. Not a worker trying to earn their keep. A beloved child who has already been given everything. The root of fear is this. A heart that does not fully believe the love is free. Underneath the theology, underneath the church attendance, underneath the service and the giving, there is a place that is still waiting for God to change His mind. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still convinced that if He really saw everything, the love would turn out to be conditional after all.

That is the root. That is where the fear lives. And no amount of trying harder pulls that root up. Only the Spirit of God, given access to the deep places, invited in with honesty and humility and real repentance, can do that work.

Fear is what we earn. Love is what we are given.

Not cheap love. Not easy love. Not love that winks at your sin and sends you on your way unchanged. The love that went to a cross. The love that absorbed every wage the slave master ever wrote your name on. The love that says, I know everything about you, every locked room, every hidden thing, every fear you have dressed up as faithfulness, and I am not walking away. I am not changing my mind. You are mine. Now let me in.

That is the love that casts out fear. Not because you finally got it together. Because He finally got all of you.

Closing So the question before we close is simply this. Is this church standing in God's light or living in darkness? Is there a posture of repentance here, or has the lampstand quietly gone dim? And if so, is there a willingness to face the fear, to kneel in humility before a holy God and come back to the first love?

Fear never stands a chance when we stand in God's perfect love.

The wage has been drawing fear out of you for a long time. But the gift, the free gift of God, is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. You don't have to keep cashing that old check. You can open your hand and receive what He has already decided to give. Come back to your first love. Repent. Receive. Abide.

Falcon Community Church of the Nazarene · Peyton, Colorado

The Wound of Compassion, Part Two

Last week we started talking about the wound of compassion. Julian of Norwich prayed: "Lord, wound me with the wound of contrition, wound me with the wound of compassion, wound me with the wound of very longing after God." Week one: The wound of contrition - when God lets you see your sin clearly, when you're broken by what you've done, and that wound becomes the doorway to grace. Last week: Steps 1-3. You treasure Christ. You're filled with grace and truth together. You overflow toward Him in worship. That's vertical. That's the foundation. Because you cannot overflow to others what you haven't first received from Jesus. But all of that is still between you and Jesus. That's beautiful. That's essential. But it's not compassion yet. Compassion happens when the vertical becomes horizontal. When your overflow stops being just between you and Jesus and starts moving toward other people. Today we're walking through steps 4 and 5. And by the end, you'll be standing at a threshold. Next week, we'll talk about what happens when you cross it. But before we dive in, I need to tell you something I've been wrestling with. Something that's changed how I understand my own brokenness, my own past, my own struggles. For years, I thought the goal was to get past my wounds. To heal from them. To move beyond them. To get to a place where they didn't matter anymore. Where I could minister despite them. Where I could lead from a place of having it all figured out. But I've discovered something that turned all of that upside down. You don't minister to people despite your wounds. You minister through your wounds. Your past emptiness, your remembered pain, your ongoing struggles - these aren't disqualifications to loving others as Christ would. They're your credentials. They're what give you access to other people's wounds. Think about it. The great illusion is thinking we can lead someone out of a desert we've never walked through. That we can offer water to the thirsty if we've never known thirst. That we can guide someone through darkness if we've never been blind. But that's not how it works. You can't. You enter the desert with another person. You walk into it with them. And you stay there until grace begins to rise out of the dry ground. That's what compassion is. Not standing at the edge of the desert, giving directions. But walking into it. Staying. Waiting for grace to spring up. And that's going to be woven through everything we talk about today. Because when your fullness meets someone's emptiness, it's your memory of being empty that makes you capable of compassion instead of judgment. It's your wound that becomes the bridge. So turn with me to Luke 7. Same passage, but we're going to see something we might have missed.

Step 4: Your Overflow Encounters Someone Who Lacks What You Have

The Collision Point

This is where everything shifts. Up until now, it's been vertical - you and Jesus. You're treasuring Him, you're being filled by Him, you're overflowing toward Him in worship. That's beautiful and essential. But now something happens. Your overflow collides with reality. You encounter someone who doesn't have what you have. And everything changes. Look back at Luke 7. The woman is at Jesus' feet, weeping, worshiping, pouring out her perfume. She's full. She's satisfied. She's tasting grace and truth together, and it's transforming her. But there's someone else in the room. Simon. And Simon is empty. He doesn't see what she sees. He doesn't taste what she tastes. He's got religion, but he doesn't have Jesus. He's got knowledge about Christ, but he doesn't treasure Christ. Verse 39 tells us what Simon is thinking: "If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner." Simon is evaluating. Judging. Calculating. He's completely missing it. And Jesus - Jesus sees it. He sees Simon's emptiness. Later in the passage, Jesus will point it out: "You gave me no water for my feet... You gave me no kiss... You did not anoint my head with oil." Simon has nothing to offer because he's empty. He's not overflowing because there's nothing inside to overflow. That's the collision. Two people in the same room with Jesus. One full. One empty. One overflowing. One withholding. One treasuring. One evaluating.

The Nature of This Encounter The collision happens in moments. Specific moments. With specific people. You're not suddenly burdened for "people in general" or "the lost world." You encounter someone. A person. And something shifts inside you. You realize: they're dying of thirst. They're starving. They're empty. And you have living water. You have bread. You're full. Here's what happens: Your satisfaction in Christ collides with their desperation to satisfy themselves without Christ. You're tasting something real - not perfectly, not completely yet, but genuinely. And then you're standing in front of someone who's still desperately reaching for things that can never fill them. And you can see it. You can see the emptiness behind the performance. The thirst behind the consumption. The hunger behind the achievement. Why This Is Different from Before Before you treasured Christ, you couldn't see this clearly. Remember what Romans 1:18 says: sin suppresses truth. When you're empty, your vision is darkened. You can't see reality clearly - not about God, not about yourself, not about others. You might notice suffering, but you interpret it through your own brokenness. You might feel sympathy, but it's filtered through your own emptiness. But now? Now you've been filled with grace and truth together. Now your vision is clearing. And when you look at people, you begin to see what Jesus sees. You see the glory they were made for. You see the emptiness they're trying to fill with everything except Jesus. You see the thirst they're trying to quench with everything except living water. And can I just add something here - seeing as Jesus sees isn't blind faith. It's not a faith where you just go, "I believe in Jesus" and that's it. Because remember, last week we said there's believing and there's receiving. Believing acknowledges facts. But receiving treasures Christ as supremely satisfying. And when you treasure Him, when He becomes your satisfaction, your eyes open. You start seeing people the way He sees them. The Memory of Your Own Emptiness And Here's what makes this encounter so powerful: you remember. You remember what it was like to be empty. You remember the desperation of trying to fill yourself with things that couldn't satisfy. You remember the exhaustion of performing, achieving, consuming, trying to prove your worth. You remember the darkness of not seeing Jesus clearly. You remember the suppression of truth. The woman at Jesus' feet - she remembers. She remembers being "the sinner" everyone whispered about. She remembers the shame. The isolation. The emptiness. And, yet, now she's full. Now she's forgiven. Now she's loved and accepted and secure. But she hasn't forgotten what it was like. And that memory is what makes compassion possible. Think about it. If you've never been starving, you can't really understand hunger. You might see it, feel sorry about it, even give money to address it. But you don't feel it. You can walk past it without being gripped by it. But if you've been starving - if you've known what it's like to have your stomach eating itself, to be so weak you can barely stand, to be willing to do almost anything for food - and then someone feeds you, gives you bread, restores your strength... you can never again walk past someone who's hungry without that bread in your hand burning. You remember. And the memory compels you. The Collision Creates a Crisis This is where it gets uncomfortable. Because when your overflow collides with someone's emptiness, you can't just walk away. You can't un-see what you've seen. You can't forget what you now know. There's a crisis. A decision point. What are you going to do with what you now see? Simon faced this moment too. Jesus told him the parable of the two debtors - one forgiven little, one forgiven much. And then Jesus said, "Do you see this woman?" That's the question: Do you see? Really see? Do you see her as a person made in God's image, capable of treasuring Christ just like you? Or do you see her as "the sinner" who's beneath you? The crisis is this: Your fullness has made you aware of their emptiness. And now you have to choose. Will you overflow toward them? Or will you protect your fullness, keep it to yourself, stay comfortable? What You See vs. What They See Here's what's remarkable about this collision. You see their emptiness, but they might not. You see, Simon doesn't think he's empty. He's a Pharisee. He's got religion down. He knows the Law. He keeps the rules. He's invited Jesus to dinner - that's pretty spiritual, right? He doesn't see his own need. The truth is, he’s blinded to the needs around him. He's like the church in Laodicea in Revelation 3:17: "You say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked." So the collision isn't just between your fullness and their emptiness. It's also between your vision and their blindness. You can see what they can't see about themselves. And that creates a dilemma. How do you love someone who doesn't think they need what you have? How do you offer living water to someone who thinks they're already hydrated? The Temptation to Judge This is where Simon fails. He sees the woman's sin - her emptiness, her past, her reputation. And he uses her sin to coerce his lack. Because, instead of compassion, he feels judgment. Look at what he says… "If Jesus were really a prophet, he'd know what kind of woman this is." Simon sees, but what he sees doesn't move him toward her. It moves him away from her. It reinforces his sense of superiority. And here's the danger: when you're full and you encounter someone who's empty, you can default to judgment too. You can think, "Well, if they would just treasure Jesus like I do..." "If they would just stop trying to fill themselves with that..." "If they would just see what I see..." And suddenly you're Simon. Full of knowledge, but empty of compassion. The collision should create compassion, not condemnation. The memory of your own emptiness should create humility, not superiority. You should look at them and think, "That was me. That is me, apart from grace. The only difference between us is that God opened my eyes and filled me. Not because I was better. Not because I was smarter. Not because I tried harder. Because of receiving grace.” The Specific Nature of the Encounter Now, Let me ask you something. When was the last time you encountered someone's emptiness and you actually felt it? Not just noticed it. Felt it. When was the last time you saw someone striving, performing, achieving, consuming - and something in you stirred? Not judgment. Not frustration. But recognition. Memory. Compassion. Maybe it was in a conversation where underneath all the words you heard the same desperation you used to carry. The same thirst you used to have. The same ache. Maybe you saw someone making choices, building their life around something, and you recognized it because you did the same thing. You built your identity on that. You tried to find your worth there. And you remember - not intellectually, but viscerally - what that emptiness felt like. The collision doesn't happen in categories. It happens in moments. Specific moments. With specific people. And you can't predict when it's going to happen. But when it does, you'll know. Because something shifts inside you.

The Question This Raises

So here's the question this encounter creates: What are you going to do? You're full. They're empty. You have what they desperately need, even if they don't know they need it. Are you going to overflow toward them? Or are you going to protect your fullness, keep your distance, stay comfortable? Because here's what we haven't said yet: overflowing toward them is going to cost you something. It's going to be inconvenient. It's going to be messy. It's going to interrupt your plans. It's going to require vulnerability. You're going to have to risk rejection. You're going to have to enter into their chaos. You're going to have to be patient while they figure out what you already know. You're going to have to love them while they're still empty, still blind, still trying to satisfy themselves with everything except Jesus. And that's scary. That's uncomfortable. That's why many Christians stay at step 3. They treasure Jesus. They're filled with grace and truth. They overflow in worship. But they never let that overflow collide with anyone's emptiness. They keep it contained. Safe. Comfortable. Sunday morning only. But if you let the collision happen - if you really see people's emptiness and let yourself be gripped by it - something shifts. And that's step 5.

But before we get to step five I have one thing to say… everything we have learned up until now is still not compassion. Compassion comes next. But it can't come without this collision first. You can't have Christ-like compassion for people you don't actually see. You can't overflow toward people you're avoiding. The encounter has to happen. The collision has to occur. Your fullness has to meet their emptiness face to face. And when it does, you're at the threshold of the wound.

Step 5: You Cannot Rest While They Remain Empty

The Holy Restlessness

Now, This is where the wound begins to form. This is where awareness turns into ache. You've encountered their emptiness. You've seen their need. You've felt the collision. And now something happens inside you that you can't control and you can't turn off: you cannot rest while they remain empty. This isn't pity. Pity looks down from a position of comfort and says, "Oh, that's sad. Poor them." Pity feels bad for a moment, then moves on. This isn't sympathy either. Sympathy feels what they feel from a safe distance. Sympathy says, "I'm sorry you're going through that," then goes home and forgets about it. This isn't even empathy. Empathy enters into their experience, feels alongside them, truly understands their pain. But empathy, but here’s the thing about empathy… it can still walk away when the feeling becomes too much. So what is it? What do we call this ache, this compulsion, this inability to rest? If not sympathy, if not empathy, of not pity….. what is it? It’s called, a "holy restlessness." It's what Julian of Norwich was praying for when she asked to be wounded with the wound of compassion. It's a blessed pain. A sacred ache. A compulsion you can't escape. The Biblical Language for This Paul gives us the language for this in 2 Corinthians 5:14: "The love of Christ controls us." That word "controls" in Greek is συνέχω - synechō. It means to hold together, to constrain, to compel, to hem in. It's the same word used when Jesus is pressed in by the crowd. When Paul is "constrained" to preach the gospel. It's not a gentle suggestion. It's a force. A pressure. A compulsion. The love of Christ has gripped you so completely that you are compelled. You cannot NOT overflow. You cannot NOT care. You cannot rest while they remain empty because the love that has filled you will not let you rest. It's controlling you. Not in a manipulative way - in a compulsive way. Like gravity. Like a river finding its level. Like water seeking the cracks in a dam. The Difference from Human Compassion And its… totally…. Different than Human compassion… because human compassion is emotion-based. It comes and goes. You feel it one day, not the next. It's triggered by what you see, what you hear, how you feel that day. You watch a documentary about poverty and you feel compassionate. The documentary ends, the feeling fades, life goes on. You see a homeless person on the corner and you feel a twinge of sympathy. Then the light turns green and you drive away and forget. Human compassion is also selective. We feel it for people we like, people who are like us, people whose suffering makes sense to us. We feel it when it's convenient, when we have energy, when we're in a good mood. But We don't feel it for people who annoy us, people who "brought it on themselves," people whose choices we disagree with. But Christ-like compassion? This is completely different. This is overflow-based, not emotion-based. It flows from fullness, not from feelings. And it's compulsive. It won't turn off. It won't let you rest. It won't let you walk away. Think about the woman at Jesus' feet. She's not overflowing because she feels compassionate in that moment. She's overflowing because she's full. And fullness overflows. It has to. It's not a choice. It's the nature of Christ like fullness. And here's what makes this kind of compassion sustainable: it's not dependent on your emotional state. You don't have to work up feelings. You don't have to manufacture care through guilt. You're full, so you overflow. Naturally. Inevitably. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when you're tired. Even when they're difficult. Because overflow isn't about them deserving it. It's about you being full. The Ache That Won't Stop Let me describe what this feels like. You're going about your day and you think about that person. That neighbor. That coworker. That family member. And you feel this... ache. This holy restlessness. This sense of "I can't just leave them there. I can't just let them stay empty. I have to do something." It's not anxiety. It's not guilt. It's not religious obligation. It's more like... have you ever seen someone you love heading toward danger and you can't just watch? You have to warn them. You have to intervene. You have to do something. That's the feeling. But it's not about danger. It's about emptiness. They're dying of thirst and you have living water, and you cannot just watch them die. It interrupts your comfort. You can't settle into your satisfied life while they're still empty. You can't fully enjoy your fullness while they're still lacking. It's not guilt - you're not responsible for their choices. It's not savior complex - you're not the one who saves them. But you cannot rest. You cannot be satisfied in your satisfaction while they remain empty. Why You Can't Rest And I ask myself… why can’t I rest? Why can’t I just leave them alone, and leave and go about my day? Why is it, when I am at Starbucks and a single mom comes in and she’s got these lovely little lambs with her, and you can tell she’s tired, but also a strong woman, and my heart just wants to leap out of my chest in… can I get your coffee. Can I buy that bear cake pop for the little one…

Here’s why: because the thing that has satisfied you…. is a Person. And that Person is passionate about them. Jesus isn't satisfied while they're empty. Jesus isn't resting while they're still dying of thirst. And you're full of Jesus. So His restlessness becomes your restlessness. His longing for them becomes your longing for them. His refusal to give up on them becomes your refusal to give up on them. Think about it, in Luke 15. Jeuss tells of Three parables - the lost sheep, lost coin, lost son. In each one, there's restlessness. The shepherd can't rest while one sheep is lost. He leaves the ninety-nine and goes searching. The woman can't rest while one coin is missing. She tears the house apart looking. The father can't rest while his son is gone. He watches the road, waiting, hoping, longing. That's Jesus. That's His heart. He cannot rest while people are lost. While people are empty. While people are dying. And now you're full of Him. So His restlessness is filling you. His longing is becoming your longing. His "I cannot rest" is becoming your "I cannot rest." The Refusal to Be Satisfied Alone There's something radical happening here. Your satisfaction in Christ is creating a dissatisfaction with their lack of Christ. You're full, but you're not comfortable being full alone. You have living water, but you can't just hydrate yourself while they die of thirst. You've found treasure, but you can't just sit on it while they live in poverty. This is the mystery of Christian joy. It's a joy that won't stay selfish. It's a satisfaction that refuses to be solitary. It's a fullness that must overflow or it feels incomplete. C.S. Lewis said it this way: "We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." That's the emptiness you're seeing in others. They're making mud pies when the ocean is available. And you've been to the ocean. You've tasted the saltwater. You've felt the waves. And you cannot rest while they're still in the slum making mud pies. The Compulsion to Share This creates a compulsion. Not a duty. Not an obligation. A compulsion. You HAVE to share what you've found. You HAVE to tell them about the treasure. You HAVE to offer them living water. Not because you're supposed to. Not because that's what Christians do. But because you cannot NOT do it. It's like finding the cure for cancer and then walking through a cancer ward. You can't just keep it to yourself. You can't just think, "Well, I'm healthy now, good for me." You'd be compelled to share it. Driven to tell everyone. Unable to rest until everyone who needs it has access to it. That's what treasuring Christ does. It makes you unable to rest while others remain empty. Unable to be satisfied alone. Unable to keep the good news to yourself. The Pain of This Inability to Rest And Here's the thing: this inability to rest is painful. Thats why we call it a wound. It hurts to care this much. It hurts to see their emptiness and feel so burdened by it. It hurts to long for their salvation, their fullness, their joy in Christ, and not be able to make it happen. You can't force them to treasure Jesus. You can't make them drink living water. You can't open their blind eyes. You can only overflow what you have inside of you, and You can only offer what you’ve either treasured or been given … You can only witness. And that's agonizing. Because you know what they're missing. You know what they need. You have what would satisfy them. But you can't make them take it. This is the wound starting to form. Within this holy restlessness. This blessed pain. This ache that won't stop. You cannot rest while they remain empty, but you also cannot force them to be filled. So you're stuck in this tension. This longing. This compulsion that can't be resolved by your own efforts. The Difference from Codependency Now, Let me be clear about what this isn't. This isn't codependency. Codependency says, "I need them to be okay so I can be okay." That's making your peace dependent on their condition. That's unhealthy. That's trying to control what you can't control. That's taking responsibility for their choices. In all of my years of pastoring, this is often what hurt people do. Hurt people try to control so they don't get hurt again. They build their peace on managing other people's choices, other people's responses, other people's lives. And it destroys them. It destroys relationships. It's exhausting, and It’s unsustainable. This holy restlessness is different. You're not responsible for their choices. You're not taking on their burden as if it's yours to carry. You're not trying to be their savior. You're already at rest in Christ. You're already full. You're already satisfied. But your satisfaction in Christ creates a longing for their satisfaction in Christ. Your rest in Christ creates a restlessness about their lack of rest. It's like Paul in Romans 9:1-3: "I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience bears me witness in the Holy Spirit— that I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, my kinsmen according to the flesh." Paul is saying something stunning. He's so full of Christ that he wishes he could be cut off from Christ if it would mean his brothers could know Christ. That's not codependency. That's not unhealthy attachment. That's the overflow of being so satisfied in Christ that you cannot be satisfied while others remain empty. That's the wound of compassion. What This Restlessness Produces And so, what does this restlessness - this inability to be satisfied alone - produce? Well it produces several things: First, it produces prayer. You start praying for them. Constantly. Naturally. Not because you're supposed to, but because you can't help it. You're thinking about them, so you're talking to Jesus about them. You're burdened for them, so you're lifting them up. You're unable to rest, so you're bringing them to the One who can give them rest. Second, it produces presence. You start showing up. Being around. Making yourself available. Not in a weird, stalker way. But in a consistent, faithful way. You're at the neighborhood gathering. You're accepting the coffee invitation. You're saying yes to the dinner. You're staying after the meeting. Because you can't overflow toward them from a distance. Overflow requires proximity. Third, it produces patience. You're not in a hurry. You're not trying to force a moment. You're not manufacturing opportunities. You're just consistently there, consistently full, consistently overflowing. And you're willing to wait. To be patient. To let the Spirit work in His timing. Because you know: you can't make them thirsty. You can only be available with water when they are. And I think this is one of the greatest dilemmas within our church culture today. The church is not patient. There are gimmicks and ideas that stir the emotions of people, and churches celebrate mass baptisms and big response moments, but very few stop to ask what happens next. We love the speed of Acts 2, but we do not embrace the slowness of Acts 2:42 to 47. We celebrate the moment, but we avoid the process. We crave fast fruit, but discipleship is slow. Listen, Formation takes time. The apostles did not panic when three thousand people came to Christ. They simply devoted themselves. They taught. They prayed. They shared life. They trusted the Spirit to shape what He had started. But today, instead of trusting the Spirit, we rush. We try to manufacture spiritual maturity overnight. We chase results instead of relationships. And the tragedy is that we end up producing converts who have no one walking with them. Patience is not the enemy of revival. Patience is what keeps revival from collapsing.

Fourth, it produces persistence. You don't give up. When they reject your overflow, you don't walk away. When they push back, you don't quit. When they don't respond, you don't stop. Not because you're stubborn. Not because you're trying to prove something. But because you cannot rest. The compulsion won't stop. The holy restlessness won't let you give up. The Testimony of This in Scripture Think of Jesus in John 4, with the woman at the well. He's tired. It's noon. He's sitting by a well. The disciples go get food. And a Samaritan woman shows up. Jesus should rest. He should eat. He should take care of Himself. But He can't. He starts a conversation. He offers living water. He persists even when she deflects. He doesn't rest until He's overflowed toward her. And when the disciples come back and say, "Rabbi, eat," what does Jesus say? "I have food to eat that you do not know about... My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to accomplish his work." He's saying: Overflowing toward her satisfied Me. Offering living water to someone dying of thirst was food for My soul. I cannot rest while people are empty, and when I overflow toward them, that fulfills something in Me that food can't touch. That's the holy restlessness. That's the inability to be satisfied alone. That's what happens when you treasure Christ, when you're filled with grace and truth, when your overflow collides with someone's emptiness. You cannot rest. And that inability to rest - that ache, that blessed pain - that's the wound forming.

CONCLUSION What's Happening Next Now, I need to tell you what we're doing with the rest of this series. Next week we have our Thanks For Giving dinner, and then we move into Advent. So instead of rushing through the final part of this series or making you wait until January, I'm going to do something different. I'm going to finish this series through a video sermon that you can watch on your own time. Part 3 will cover what happens when you cross the threshold - when you let yourself be pierced by their pain, when you become willing to be wounded for love's sake, and what those wounds become. How they mark you. How they identify you. How they become scars that prove you belong to Jesus. It'll be available online, and you can watch it during Thanksgiving week, during Advent, whenever you're ready. Because this is important, and I don't want to rush it. The Question for This Week But today, I want you to sit with this question: Who is God bringing to your mind right now? As I've been talking about collision, about encounter, about seeing someone's emptiness - who came to mind? That restlessness you feel? That inability to be satisfied while they remain empty? That's the love of Christ controlling you. That's the Spirit. That's compassion beginning to form. Don't ignore it. What to Do This Week Pray. Not a quick prayer. Wrestle with God about them. Tell Him you can't rest. Be present. Accept the invitation. Show up. Make yourself available. Overflow requires proximity. Be patient. Don't force it. Just be consistently full, consistently overflowing. Trust the Spirit's timing. Be honest. Are you judging them? Then go back to contrition. Remember your own emptiness. Remember grace. Standing at the Threshold You're standing at a threshold today. You've encountered their emptiness. You cannot rest. You feel the compulsion. But you haven't crossed yet. Crossing that threshold is scary. It's costly. It's going to wound you. But this is where compassion is born. Not in the comfortable place where you're full and safe. But in the uncomfortable place where your overflow collides with emptiness and you can't walk away. Jesus didn't stay in heaven. He descended. He entered. He made Himself available to be wounded. And that's what saved us. He's calling you to do the same. Not to save anyone - He's the Savior. But to love like He loves. To overflow like He overflows. To let your fullness collide with someone's emptiness and refuse to walk away. Closing Prayer Father, help us see people's emptiness clearly. Help us remember our own. Give us Your holy restlessness - the kind that won't let us be satisfied alone. The kind that makes us unable to rest while others remain empty. We're standing at a threshold. We're scared. But we know this is what we were made for. Prepare our hearts for what comes next. Because we want to love like You love. We want to bear Your image. We want to carry Your scars. In Jesus' name. Amen. *