1. When we miss his story, we miss him altogether (vv. 13–24)


2. When his story becomes our story, Scripture comes alive (vv. 25–27)


3. When his story becomes our story, it changes our hearts (vv. 28–32)


4. When his story becomes our story, we have to tell somebody (vv. 33–35)

Ed Bambas is 88, a widower, an Army veteran who lost his pension when GM went bankrupt — and until recently he was still clocking in five days a week at a Meijer. When his story went viral, strangers gave nearly $1.8 million so he could finally rest. Compassion like that still has the power to move a divided world to tears. But it raises a question worth sitting with: when compassion moves us, who are we actually worshipping?

In this message, part of our I Witness series, Pastor Brolin Rosquist opens Luke 7:11–17 — where Jesus interrupts a funeral procession outside the town of Nain and raises a widow's only son from the dead — to show us this: real compassion compels witnesses to worship.

Jesus' Compassion Revealed (vv. 11–13)

Jesus meets a grieving widow's funeral procession at the town gate. Luke says his heart "went out to her" — a gut-level compassion that doesn't just feel for her, but moves toward her.

Jesus' Compassion in Action (vv. 14–15)

Jesus touches the funeral bier, stopping the procession cold, and speaks life into a dead man with a single command — echoing the legendary miracles of Elijah and Elisha, but with power that needs no permission.

Witnesses of Compassion Worship (vv. 16–17)

The crowd is filled with awe and praises God — but Luke corrects their own words to point past a "great prophet" to something bigger: God himself, visiting his people. Compassionate action on display always moves people toward worship. The only question is who they worship.

This week's challenge: let compassion move you to actually do something — and do it in a way that points past yourself, so the people you serve end up worshipping God, not you.

On the edge of Jericho, a blind beggar named Bartimaeus sits in the dust where he sits every day, listening to a crowd stream past on its way to Jerusalem. Then one name catches his ear: Jesus. He cries out. The crowd tells him to be quiet. He cries out louder. And then something remarkable happens — the noise, the crowd, the road to the cross itself, all of it stops.

In this message, part of our I Witness series, Pastor Brolin Rosquist opens Mark 10:46–52 to show us what it looks like to listen the way Jesus listened.

The Crowd That Won't Listen (vv. 47–48)

Bartimaeus has heard the prophecies his whole life — that the Messiah would open the eyes of the blind. When the crowd tells him Jesus is passing by, he cries out for mercy. The crowd tries to silence him. He cries out louder anyway.

The Christ Who Stops to Listen (vv. 49–51)

Jesus stops. He calls Bartimaeus forward and asks him a simple, honest question: "What do you want me to do for you?" Bartimaeus throws off his cloak — his mattress, his begging license, his old identity — and answers with everything he has: "I want to see."

The Saved Become Listeners (v. 52)

Jesus doesn't just heal Bartimaeus' eyes — He saves him, sight and soul both. And the beggar who used to sit and beg now gets up and follows. The crowd that once silenced him becomes the very people who tell him, "Get up, He's calling you."

Three things this leaves us with: Jesus was distractable — He let a mission-critical week get interrupted by one man's cry, because that interruption was the mission. Jesus listened with intention — He asked an honest question and responded to what was actually there, not what He assumed. And we are not Jesus, so our job isn't to fix people or save them — it's to bring them to the One who can.

In this message from John 17:20-26, Pastor Brolin Rosquist walks through Jesus' high priestly prayer on the night of his arrest, showing that Jesus prayed for three specific things: that people would believe, that believers would be one, and that we would truly know and be known by the Father. Drawing on the observation that "our disunity is a gospel problem, not just a relational one," this message challenges Lilac City Church to pray both for the lost and for genuine, observable unity — because it's that unity, more than our arguments, that shows a watching world who Jesus is.

In 1987, a whole nation stopped for one eighteen-month-old girl trapped down an eight-inch well in Midland, Texas. Fifty-eight hours of drilling. Cheering rolling across a whole city when she came out alive. Why does that move us so deeply? Because it's an echo of a heart we were made in the image of.

In this sermon — the kickoff of our new series I Witness: Watch. Learn. Go. — Pastor Brolin Rosquist opens Luke 15:1–10 to show us the heart behind Jesus' whole mission: He joyfully seeks the lost, and parties when they're found.

Jesus eats with sinners (vv. 1–2)

Tax collectors and sinners were drawn to Jesus. The religious crowd grumbled. But sharing a table in that culture meant fellowship, acceptance, welcome — and Jesus threw the door wide open. He didn't wait for the lost to clean up. He drew them in.

The lost sheep and the lost coin (vv. 3–10)

Jesus answers the grumbling with two stories about a search party. A shepherd leaves ninety-nine to find one. A woman lights a lamp and sweeps every corner for one coin. Both stories land the same way: something lost, someone searching, and a party when it's found. The sheep couldn't save itself. The coin was even more helpless. The finding was all on the seeker.

Then comes the twist for the religious ones listening — including us. The danger for people who've been in the fold a long time isn't wandering off. It's standing safe inside with our arms crossed, wondering why Jesus keeps going after "those people." The one standing safe inside can be more lost than the one still out in the wild.

But the same Shepherd who came after you now hands you the broom. You were the one He came after first. Now you get to go after the next one.

Has God rejected His people? Paul's answer is immediate: by no means. In this sermon from Romans 11:1–10, Pastor Brolin Rosquist unpacks two realities running side by side in Israel — a remnant kept by grace, and a hardness brought on by rejecting God's call.

God does not reject the ones He called (vv. 1–6)

Paul points to himself as proof — a Jewish man, from the tribe of Benjamin, now preaching Christ to the Gentiles. Then he reaches back to Elijah, hiding in a cave, convinced he was the last faithful one left. God's answer still echoes: "I have reserved for myself seven thousand who have not bowed the knee to Baal." Elijah's despair was real — but it wasn't reality. There was a remnant the whole time, kept quietly by grace. And Paul says the same is true now: there is a remnant, chosen by grace, not by works — because grace that requires payment isn't grace anymore.

God hardens those who reject His call (vv. 7–10)

But not everyone who sought righteousness found it. Paul describes a hardening — a spirit of stupor, eyes that can't see, a table that becomes a snare instead of a blessing. The very gifts meant to lead Israel to the Messiah — the law, the temple, the scriptures — became the things they hid behind instead. It's a sober warning: Bible knowledge, church attendance, and religious heritage can become a fortress instead of a path, if they replace Jesus instead of pointing to Him.

The whole chapter lands on one sentence: God's grace keeps the called. Not your effort. Not your record. His grace — calling you by name, today.

How does anyone come to call on Jesus? Paul walks us back through the chain, link by link — and what he shows us about Israel lands squarely on us.

In this sermon from Romans 10:14–21, Pastor Brolin Williams traces three movements in the gospel's unstoppable reach:

The Feet of the Gospel (Romans 10:14–15)

Calling requires believing. Believing comes from hearing. Hearing requires someone to preach. Preaching requires someone to be sent. The chain is deliberate, God-designed, and it runs on words — not charades. Isaiah calls the feet of those who bring good news beautiful. Do you remember who brought the news to you? That's who Paul is talking about. And now — God sends you.

The Reach of the Gospel (Romans 10:16–20)

Not all of Israel accepted the good news. But Paul fires back at every objection with Scripture. Did they not hear? Of course they did — the voice went to the ends of the earth. Did they not understand? Moses warned them this would happen. And Isaiah said it plainly: God was found by those who weren't even looking. The gospel has a way of landing on unexpected ears. Your job isn't to predict who's ready. Your job is to speak.

The Hands of the Gospel (Romans 10:21)

After all the refusal — after every objection answered and every opportunity missed — what is God's posture toward a people who keep walking away? All day long I have held out my hands to a disobedient and obstinate people. Arms thrown open. Father on the porch, eyes on the road. Waiting. And he sends you onto that road to help people get home.

The gospel we preach extends God's loving reach. His hands are still out. His heralds are still sent.

Who you call in life matters. Emergency contacts. Late-night calls. The person you dial when everything falls apart. But when it comes to righteousness — actual right standing with God — most of us aren't calling the right number.

In this sermon from Romans 9:30–10:13, Pastor Brolin Williams shows us why Israel — with every advantage imaginable — missed the Messiah they were promised, and what it means for us.

Two moves. One stone. One question: Who are you going to call?

Religion is a wrong number (Romans 9:30–10:4)

The Gentiles weren't chasing righteousness — and they got it. Israel was chasing it hard — and stumbled. Why? Because they were calling the wrong number: their own effort, their own moral staircase, their own zeal. The problem wasn't their passion. Their zeal was real. But zeal aimed at self-righteousness is still a wrong number — and it still rings to no one who can help. Christ is the culmination of the law — not its replacement, but its destination. Every commandment, every sacrifice, every prophecy was a sign pointing forward to one word: Jesus.

Jesus answers every time (Romans 10:5–13)

You don't need to climb to heaven to bring Christ down. He already came. You don't need to descend into the grave to bring him up. He already rose. The word is near you — in your mouth, in your heart. Confess Jesus as Lord. Believe God raised him from the dead. That's not a checklist. That's a call. And there is no difference between Jew and Gentile when it comes to this line: everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.

One number picks up every. Single. Time.

G.K. Chesterton said it like this: "The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits." The poet stands at the ocean and lets it be the ocean. The logician shows up with a mason jar. When it comes to God's sovereignty, most of us reach for the jar. Paul wants us to reach for worship.

In this second sermon of the Romans 9–11 series, Pastor Brolin walks through Romans 9:14–29 to confront us with one of Paul's most weighty teachings — and one of his most comforting. The answer to the tension doesn't live in the middle. It lives at the extremes: God's full sovereignty and our full responsibility, both at once.

Three movements shape the passage:

• God's choice is mercy (vv. 14–18) — Is God unjust to choose? Paul slams the door with mē genoito — "May it never be." Mercy withholds what we deserve. Grace gives us what we don't. Pharaoh's hardened heart didn't catch God off guard — God used it to herald His name across the earth. God's choice to show mercy is not about your effort or your desire. It rests on God alone.


• Know your place in God's choice (vv. 19–23) — When we don't like God's choices, we step into the judge's seat and take the moral high ground. Paul will not have it. "Who are you, a human being, to talk back to God?" The clay doesn't question the potter. And notice Paul's careful grammar — when Scripture talks about mercy, it shouts (God prepared the vessels of mercy). When it talks about judgment, it whispers (vessels of wrath are simply "prepared for destruction"). This is the old theologians' word antinomy — two truths held at full strength without collapsing either one.


• God's choice is expansive, not exclusive (vv. 24–29) — For 23 verses Paul says them. Then he says us. He reaches into Hosea — a promise made to unfaithful Israel — and applies it to Gentiles who were never in the covenant. He reaches into Isaiah and reminds us that even Israel survives only by mercy. Without a remnant, we would all be Sodom. We would all be ash. The shocking thing about Romans 9 isn't that God hardens. The shocking thing is that God includes.

In a playground game called Mercy, you had to extract mercy from someone who was hurting you — beg loud enough, hurt bad enough. In the gospel, mercy isn't extracted. It's already been chosen. You are not on your knees before a God who is reluctantly waiting for you to beg loud enough. You are on your knees before a God whose very name is mercy. And His choice — long before you ever cried out — was you.

Every episode of The A-Team followed the same formula. The plan goes sideways. Bullets are flying. The van's flipped. Everything looks lost. And then the camera finds Hannibal — bound, surrounded, smiling — lighting a cigar and saying nine words: "I love it when a plan comes together." The chaos wasn't the plan failing. The chaos was used. He had a better view than you did.

That's Paul in Romans 9. Israel has rejected the Messiah. The promise looks lost. The plan looks like it failed. And with a metaphorical cigar in his mouth, Paul says: "It is not as though the word of God has failed."

In this opening sermon of the new series through Romans 9–11, Pastor Brolin walks through Romans 9:1–13 to launch us into one of the most theologically weighty sections of Paul's writing. This is heavy ground — many churches won't even preach it. But the destination isn't a debate. It's comfort.

Two stops shape the passage:

• When God's word seems to fail (vv. 1–6a) — Paul grieves for his people with unceasing anguish, willing to be cut off from Christ himself for Israel's sake. He lists eight gifts that still belong to Israel in the present tense — including the eighth gift that is not a thing but a Person: the Messiah, God over all, forever praised. God's faithfulness runs on his character, not ours.


• God comforts through his choice (vv. 6b–13) — Paul uses "Israel" two different ways in one sentence. Through Isaac (not Ishmael), through Jacob (not Esau, before either had done anything good or bad), Paul names the doctrine: election. God chooses first, freely, and apart from anything in us. And the paradox? The once-"hated" Gentile nations now receive the good news of Jesus through Christ.

Sovereignty isn't a debate to win. It's a Father to trust. God is free to choose, and his choices are always good — because he is good. If you've said yes to Jesus, God's choice of you wasn't because you would get it right or because you have the right family. He chose you because he wanted to. And his choice is good.