John and I meet for coffee every couple of weeks. We don't really plan it; it just happens.

John's in his 80s, retired, and has amazing stories. He also puts up with a lot of my questions (I'm still not sure why).

John is one of the kindest men I know. There's something about him that draws people in. While we sit and talk, other patrons and bookstore employees stop by our table to visit with him. He knows them by name, asks about their families, and always has a smile.

As I worked on my sermon from Jonah this week, I found myself thinking about John.

You see, John is from Nineveh.

Well... Nineveh adjacent, anyway. John grew up in Iran.

In a world that encourages us to sort people into categories—us and them, friend and enemy, insider and outsider—I've found it increasingly important to sit across the table from people whose stories are different from my own.

It's hard to keep thinking of people as "those people" once someone from "those people" becomes your friend.

My conversations with John have given me a perspective I never would have gained from reading headlines or scrolling social media. He's reminded me that history, politics, and conflict are real—but so are kindness, hospitality, faith, and friendship.

Jonah struggled to see the people of Nineveh the way God saw them. I wonder, who might help us see our own "Ninevites" differently?

The announcement came over the PA system at school: "We're conducting eye exams in the office today." I didn't think much about it until I realized something. The other kids could read the chalkboard from their seats. I couldn't.

I failed the eye exam, a note was sent home to my parents, and before long, I had my first pair of glasses. I still remember riding home with my dad, looking out the car window in amazement. I could see individual leaves on the trees. Street signs were crisp. Everything looked so much sharper.

I hadn't realized what I was missing.

In Luke 7, John the Baptist's disciples come to Jesus with one question: "Are you the one we've been waiting for?" Jesus' answer begins with an interesting observation: "Go back and tell John the blind receive their sight." Throughout the Gospels, one of the hallmarks of Jesus' presence is restored vision.

In this message, we explore one of the Bible's most familiar stories—the raising of Lazarus. But instead of focusing on Lazarus, we'll ask a different question: “What does Jesus see?” Or, more importantly, “Who does Jesus see?”

Because perhaps the greatest miracle isn't learning to see more clearly.

It's learning to see people the way Jesus does.

Some mornings, coffee isn’t enough.

A few years ago, after a late night and an early morning, I sat down at breakfast with friends and announced, “Listen . . . I’m barely functioning. If you have anything important to say, you’re probably going to need to repeat it three times.”

Honestly, exhaustion was only part of the problem. The truth is, human beings are forgetful. We miss things. We drift. We stop paying attention. Which is why repetition matters.

Back in the 1800s, a psychologist named Hermann Ebbinghaus discovered that repetition helps move things into long-term memory. Apparently, hearing something repeatedly helps it stick (though I have my doubts it would work for a name like "Hermann Ebbinghaus").

Repetition helps us remember. God already knew that. In the New Testament, we find 100 passages that tell us what we should do for "one another." We should pray for one another, speak truth to one another, bear one another's burdens, and serve one another, just to name a few. If Ebbinghouse says three times is the charm, the Bible's 100 "one anothers" shows us that God doesn't want us to forget how to treat one another!

And underneath all the “one another” passages is one central command holding everything together: love one another.

Not sentimental love. Not easy love. Not “I’ll love you when it’s convenient” love. Romans 12 describes a love that is sincere, sacrificial, patient, generous, and deeply committed to other people.

The key was missing, and the door wouldn’t open.

There weren’t many options for getting in. I suppose I could have tried to break down the door, but that would have been expensive (and probably painful). In the end, I chose to go outside and break a window instead.

That turned into a $20 repair at the local hardware store, plus another $10 for a second key, this one hopefully hidden a little better from our son Connor. (He has still never told me what he did with the original.)

I remember the frustration of not being able to get through that door . . . the door to my home office, of all places. The confusion of searching for a key I was sure I had hidden well, and the weakness of not being able to get it open myself.

Sometimes life feels exactly like that: the way forward is right in front of us, but we just can’t seem to find a way through. Jesus’ promise in Revelation 3:8 speaks to that frustration. He says, “See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut.”

Not a door you force open. Not a door you figure out. Not a door that depends on your strength. A door he has already opened.

And when Jesus opens the door, you don’t need the key.

Today is Palm Sunday, the day we remember Jesus entering Jerusalem as Savior and King. No gate, no wall, no resistance could keep him out then, and nothing can close the door he opens now.

We’ll celebrate his triumphal entry and the open door he sets before us.

Some weeks, the loudest voice in your life isn’t God’s—it’s the one telling you what you’re not.

It whispers before you’re fully awake. It follows you into the car, into the office, into the quiet moments. And most days, it doesn’t need anyone else’s help; we’re perfectly capable of discouraging ourselves.

Relationship researchers John and Julie Gottman found that negative words hit us harder than positive ones, so much so that it takes about five positive interactions to counter just one negative moment. And while other people’s criticism can sting, the deeper wounds usually come from the things we mutter inwardly:

You’re not enough.

You’re not capable.

You’re pretending . . . and someone will eventually find you out.

Left unchecked, that inner voice only grows louder. It’s exhausting trying to outshout your own self-doubt.

Thankfully, our Heavenly Father has already stepped into that fight on our behalf. In Psalm 136, He doesn’t reassure us five times but twenty-six times that His love never ends. Twenty-six reminders that you are seen, known, and cherished. Twenty-six reasons to trust that His steadfast love truly endures forever.

As we approach Thanksgiving, let’s fill our hearts with the greatest reason to give thanks—the never-ending love of God.

In John 14:15–27, Jesus promises the Holy Spirit as our Advocate, Comforter, and Friend—the one who steadies our hearts and keeps us focused on him. Using imagery from The Wizard of Oz, Bret compares the Spirit’s quiet guidance to Toto’s loyal presence beside Dorothy: alert, faithful, and always sensing what’s true. When fear and distraction rise, the Spirit redirects us toward Jesus and fills our troubled hearts with peace—the kind the world can’t give or take away.

Are you having a good morning? Let’s see if we can fix that.

Did you know crocodiles can gallop like horses? They’re crazy fast!

Did you know there are approximately 40 supervolwcanoes worldwide, and they are way overdue to erupt? They could go off any minute now.

Did you know your cellphone has ten times more bacteria on it than the average public toilet?

In a world where worries are everywhere, Jesus’ question in Matthew 6:28 sounds a little simplistic: “Why do you worry?”

Why wouldn’t I worry, Jesus?? Have you heard about the volcanoes???

But here’s the thing: when Jesus talked about worry, he didn’t mention crocodiles, volcanoes, or germy phones. No — he mentioned food, drink, and clothing. Those daily needs we all have and, for the most part, have enough of.

But what about those who don’t? I can’t do much about the crocodiles out there, but if I’m not worried about my daily needs, maybe I can do something about someone else’s worries.

Today at South Side Christian Church, we’ll hear Jesus’ words about worry and his prescription for a worry-free community. I hope you can join us at either 9:00 or 10:30 am. We’d love to see you there.

Oh, and you probably ought to wipe that phone off after you’re done reading this.

"Who was that masked man?"

I must have heard that line a hundred times growing up, watching reruns of The Lone Ranger. At the end of every episode, the townspeople would stand around in awe as the stranger rode off into the sunset, wondering about the identity of their mysterious rescuer.

But it doesn't take a mask to wonder about someone's identity—or your own.

Far too often, we hide behind something—pain from the past, shame we've carried too long, names that were never really ours but somehow stuck.

In Mark 5, Jesus meets a man who's lost his name to chaos. He knows himself only by his wounds. But Jesus doesn't leave him there—he speaks freedom and gives him an identity greater than he could have imagined.

If you've ever wondered who you really are, Jesus offers an identity rooted not in your failures, but in his grace.

Hosea laments Israel's lusts for idols, but never loses sight of God's unfailing love and compassion. In Hosea 11, we hear God's constant call for his people to return to him.

This sermon follows the Four Pages of the Sermon method developed by Paul Scott Wilson, a framework designed to move from trouble to grace both in the text and in our lives. It invites listeners to reflect deeply on the nature of divine love—one that refuses to abandon, even when abandonment seems justified.

For more on the Four Pages approach and how it shapes sermons like this, visit: https://www.brethammond.com/2025/04/four-pages/.

Jerry Seinfeld once noted that most people's number one fear is public speaking, and number two is death. This means that the average funeral attendee would feel more comfortable being the person in the casket than the person delivering the eulogy.

Moses would have preferred the casket. In Exodus 4:10, he cries to God, "Pardon your servant, Lord. I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue." There's something familiar to me in Moses' words. I've heard many people tell God what they can't do, but I've also witnessed what happens when they overcome that fear and serve anyway. I've listened to amazing messages from people who told me they couldn't speak, heard heartfelt prayers from those who told me they couldn't pray out loud, and seen God's grace poured out on those who said "yes" to him.

Before we list our limitations to God, let's pause and listen to what he can do through us—all of us. Just as God addressed Moses' concerns before he left the burning bush, he speaks to each of us. If we listen carefully, we can hear his call for us and his promises as well.