Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport is a logistical marvel. They help 100 million passengers travel every year. They handle 275,000 passengers a day. They employ 60,000 people. It’s a logistical marvel, unless you are the one traveling. Because then you just want to make sure your plane shows up on time. And there’s so much to stress about on travel day. Traffic, baggage, security, parking. the list goes on.

By the time we get to the gate, we finally sit down with this sense of relief just to wait to board. And when I sit down, I know I’m going to have to wait a little while for zone seven. They board 270,000 people by zones. Zone one, I watch as all the first class passengers get up and Get in line. And then zone two, people with miles and medallions. The line gets longer. Zone three and four. I wonder is the plane gonna fill up? Zone five, zone six. Well, all the overhead bins are now full. Finally, zone seven. I am always in Zone 7.

And as I sit there at the gate, I oftentimes remember Jesus saying, “The last will be first, the first will be last.” And I don’t think that applies to the Atlanta airport. But I do think about all of those different lines, many of which are quite critical. And it is not easy to move to the back of the line to make room for others.

But as we stand in the back, we can see more than we can from the front. In fact, Jesus didn’t stand in the front of the line. He stood in the back of the line, which means when we get in the back, we see the world the same way Jesus does. And it’s why there is hope in humility.

There in Caesarea Philippi, Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do people say that I am”? That it was this big multicultural city with altars to many gods. And they said, “Well, some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, some say Jeremiah or just another prophet.” And then Jesus turns the question around on them: “Who do you say that I am?”

And Peter steps forward, “You are the Son of the Living God.” That Jesus reveals God to us. Peter names Jesus. But then Jesus names Peter: “You are the rock. On you I’ll build this church. You get keys to the kingdom of heaven.”

But then there’s that other name, which is also, “You are Simon, son of Jonah.” Jonah, that other prophet who ran the other way. Jonah who didn’t want to take good news to his enemies. Jonah who made mistakes, but who still teaches us about God. Despite all of that, God speaks through Jonah.

So this name, Simon, Son of Jonah, is about humility. And it’s given to Peter. It’s why there’s hope in humility, because it opens us up to the grace of God.

And it’s why Paul talks about sacrifice in the ways that he does. There is serving, there is giving, there is sharing, there is forgiving. Because the first will be last, and the last will be first. We are transformed by the renewing of our minds, seeing the world in that different way.

It reminds us of Philippians 2: we are to have the same mind in us that we find in Christ Jesus. And Philippians defines that as humility because Jesus did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited but emptied himself being born in human likeness. Jesus is the humility of God. It’s why there’s hope in humility. It opens us up to God’s grace.

Before Moses was born, the Pharaoh declared that all newborn babies that are boys should be killed. And when Moses’ mother could not hide him any longer, she prepared a basket. patching it up with bitumen and pitch so it would be watertight. And then she tucked him in with tears running down her face.

She walked down to the edge of the river feeling the cold mud between her feet. And she gently placed the basket in the water, whispering a prayer. It’s the hope of humility and the humility of hope. Needing help, relying on others, praying to God.

One writer says about this kind of hope is that we should never treat Easter like Groundhog Day. That’s not to say that when Jesus emerges from the grave, he might see his shadow and we have six more weeks of winter. I think the writer is referring to the movie Groundhog Day.

And if you’re in college, you need to go back and watch this movie. Bill Murray plays the curmudgeon weatherman Phil Connors. He does not want to go to Punxsutawney to cover the Groundhog Day festivities, but he has no choice. And he wakes up in a hotel there in Punxsutawney to his clock radio playing Sonny and Cher’s, “I Got You, Babe”.

But then the next day… It happens again. Same alarm, same song. It is still Groundhog Day. Rinse and repeat. Same conversations, same interactions. Nothing changes.

And our faith is not redundant. Instead, we are surprised by the love of God on Easter morning. It means we never know what to expect. The first might be last, the last might be first. Easter is not like Groundhog Day.

It’s the hope of humility and the humility of hope. Every now and then we need to find something we can stand next to to remind us of God’s presence.

This week we might wander out into the backyard, stand next to that pine tree that reaches 75 feet tall, hundreds of years old, outlasting countless storms, and we might look up and feel rather small in the best sort of way.

Or we might stand in absolute silence. The kind of silence where all we want to do is make a noise, but if we can be absolutely still we might just hear the presence of God reminding us that we are never alone and none of us have to do this life alone.

Or we might stand next to someone who has faced different obstacles than us, where they have felt the insurmountable weight of prejudice, poverty, despair. And yet, we still see within them a spark of joy and we cannot explain it. The only reason we can come up with is the grace of God.

We need that grace as well. Maybe we can stand next to something this week to remind us that we are all sons and daughters of Jonah, stumbling upon the grace of God. Because there is hope in humility. And there is humility in hope. Amen.

In a letter to his brother, Vincent van Gogh wrote, “A good deal of light falls on everything.” And when we are standing there in a hallway of a museum looking at a beautiful masterpiece, there is so much to notice and see that does not initially jump off the canvas. If we stand there long enough and we look close enough, we are drawn into the painting itself. Emotions are stirred and as we walk away we just might see the world a little different.

When an artist begins to paint light is so important that where do the shadows fall? Where do we see the light bouncing off everything? Where are our eyes initially drawn to? Because of the light, with every brush stroke, it captures all of those details and more. Reminding us that we don’t just open our eyes and see that we are always learning how to see.

And we don’t need a magnifying glass or binoculars or even reading glasses. We need to foster a sensitivity to life. because it illuminates everything that is possible, hopeful or good in the grace of God.

And Joseph was learning how to look beyond all the shadows and see the light. He had been the favored son and he had the wardrobe to prove it. But then his brothers devised this plan plotting against him that they trapped him in a pit. disguised it as an animal attack, and then sold him to these travelers, merchants, on their way to Egypt for pieces of silver.

And then those travelers sold him to Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh. And it wasn’t for years passing through interpreting dreams and offering counsel that he became a leader for Pharaoh.

Back home, a famine struck, his family suffering and struggling, sent his brothers to Egypt, their neighbor, looking for some kind of help. And unbeknownst to them, they meet Joseph.

And understandably, Joseph is filled with all of these different emotions that maybe he flashed back to lying down in that pit surrounded by darkness, looking up, wondering why his own family betrayed him. maybe he felt that hopelessness as he must have felt being carted off by those merchants to Egypt. Or perhaps he was so full of revenge as his brothers stood there in front of him asking for his help.

Surprisingly, Joseph looks beyond the shadows, discovering the light. So full of emotion, he told everybody to leave the room except his brothers. And then he cried so loudly and uncontrollably that even those who had left the room could still hear him. and he told his brothers who he was. They could not believe that their brother was still alive. And then he asked that burning question, is my father still living?

And somehow, over time, years of resentment and regret slowly started to fall away. Joseph was able to look beyond the past and to offer his brothers light for the future. Due to the famine back home, which would continue for years, he told his brothers to bring everyone over to Egypt, that they could settle in Goshen.

And Goshen was far more than the Pharaoh’s garage apartment with a futon and Keurig. It was fertile ground found in the delta of the Nile, beautiful pasture. So for a family of shepherds, this was a gift of grace. It was also in Joseph’s backyard. He would be close to his family, not only reuniting them, but also restoring what had been lost.

And now Joseph’s family. is learning how to see light in unexpected places. It is as the psalmist points out in a way we would never expect, saying how very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity that we would never expect that kindred living together in unity would be in unexpected places to find light.

But just ask Joseph. Cross-stitched on a pillow, that is easy to believe. But up off the page here in reality, it’s harder to find in practice because it asks so much understanding, mercy, and kindness from us that it is facing hard conversations, deep feelings, past hurts and shared forgiveness.

And then Jesus goes and widens our understanding of family on top of that. If you remember one day Jesus’s family showed up and they said, Jesus, your family’s here right outside that door. And Jesus turns to all these different disciples and says, well, this is my mother, my brother, and my sister. Widening that vision. Kindred living together in unity.

We discover light in unexpected places and people. Scott Hoezee says it this way. Grace comes to us from the wrong side of the tracks, in places like Goshen, over there in Egypt, or in places like Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Galilee. None of those places were places of promise. Light comes to us from unexpected places.

And through this wide family that Jesus described. We learn. to notice the light of Christ out there in the world. like an artist standing in front of a blank canvas looking at this gorgeous landscape and paying attention. where the light falls.

Because we do not lecture about grace. We experience it. And we cannot give instructions about mercy. We share it. And we cannot just talk about community. We embody it. It is seeing others in the best possible light. while also striving to reflect the light of Christ. ourselves.

And it’s in this light that we see that there is a place around this table for us all.

The Life is Calling committee through their grant commissioned a painting which will hang in our library. Created around the theme, A Place at the Table, you received a printout of it when you came in to worship. And we are so thankful for the local artist, Laura Lewis, who did such a beautiful job. And we are grateful that Laura and her husband Bill are with us this morning.

It is five scenes from the life and ministry of Jesus and the use of light is masterful.

And in the top left corner, Jesus is talking with the woman at the well. And the disciples questioned him about it. They thought light was only found in expected places, but Jesus steps over those boundaries, seeing her as a child of God.

And then in the top middle, Jesus is calling all the children to gather around Him. The disciples don’t understand this either. But Jesus says, it is to these that the kingdom of God belongs. We should develop this mature, childlike faith in order to see the light of Christ in this world.

And then in the top right, Jesus tells the parable about the good Samaritan, where the grace of God surprises us or shocks us that light is found in unwanted places, calling us to widen our circle of care and concern.

And then in the bottom left, the disciples are bringing Jesus all the leftovers from feeding the 5,000, 12 baskets full. God’s love never ends. There is this abundance of grace out of which we share with others.

And then in the bottom right, we pull up a chair around the table of grace. Jesus gathers with the disciples in the upper room and there is a chair for each of us. We all have a place around this table from wherever we have come. This is the table that shapes all of our other tables.

We get up from this table and we go out to all of our other tables to see the world differently, to look for the light of Christ. And to share the grace of God with all that we meet. Amen.

Jason McElwain was 17 years old. He was the manager of his high school basketball team at Greece Athena High School. And he has autism. And on February 15th, 2006, his basketball team was playing for the division title. It was also senior night and rumors were going around that the coach might put J-Mac, as his friends called him, into the game. And the student body was ready. They had those big cutout posters of his face ready to hold up and wave in the student body section.

And with four minutes left in the game, Trojans had a commanding lead and the coach leaned over and looked down the bench and gave J-Mac the nod. He was so excited he forgot to check in at the scorer’s table, and his teammates kept feeding him the ball. He missed his first shot. He missed his second shot. But they were undeterred. They kept passing him the basketball.

And then, as he says, he “got hot as a pistol.” Not only did he make one two-pointer, he went on to make six three-point shots, becoming the highest scorer in the entire game. And as seconds ticked off the clock, the students rushed the court, not because they had won the division title, but because they had witnessed something so good, so wonderful. They couldn’t hold their celebration back.

And this shining moment was featured on ESPN. They produced a film about it. It won best sports moment of the year. J-Mac was invited to the White House. And now this year, 2026, the 20th anniversary of this game, reporters were sitting down again with J-Mac and his teammates to remember this game that nobody wants to forget.

And whenever we witness something so good, it has a way of resetting something inside, making us realize how so often we can end up chasing lesser things. And instead, we feel called to chase after joy, hope, and goodness.

But none of those things seem to follow the conventional wisdom of today. They invite us onto steeper roads, which is why scripture says so often, “Do not be afraid.” It’s not just the fear in the face of tragedy, but also fear in the face of good news. Because we are not sure it can happen again. And we’re not sure it can happen to us. And we are not sure that ultimately it will be enough.

The Gospel of Matthew transports us to another good, joyous moment where Jesus looks at the disciples and says, “Why don’t you all get in that boat and go to the other side of the lake?” And then he turns to the crowd and he dismisses them so he could go to the mountain and pray. He is weary and tired, and he feels this need to reconnect with the goodness of God.

But while the disciples are alone out there on the boat, a storm erupts. This wind is whipping around them and battered by the waves, they are afraid. And all of this took place before the winds of Pentecost. The disciples did not realize when the winds of the Spirit of God show up, they can be good and scary all at the same time.

And they look out and they see Jesus on the horizon and they assume he’s a ghost. They are terrified, crying out in fear, but Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.” And then Peter speaks boldly in that hasty confidence, “If it is you, command me to come to you.” But as he took his first step out of that boat, his confidence sank like a man thrown overboard. But then Jesus reaches out and catches him.

Good news can frighten us because it can upend our expectations. It can reveal our short-sightedness. It can stretch our comfort zone.

It’s like C.S. Lewis’s description of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, where Aslan, the lion, embodies, personifies the love of Christ. And one character asked about Aslan, “Is he safe? I mean, he is a lion after all.” But the other character says, “Safe? Of course he is not safe. But he is… Good.”

And perhaps we look back on Peter. and we’re sort of impressed by his confidence. Jesus says, “Who do you say I am?” And Peter steps forward and says, “You are the Christ.” But the more we read about Peter, we question his confidence. He also tells Jesus, “I will never betray you.” And then he denies Jesus three times.

But this makes me appreciate Peter even more, because faith and certainty are not the same thing. Certainty is like closing our eyes and just holding on to what we think no matter what. Faith on the other hand is allowing God to hold on to us, like Jesus reaching out to catch Peter. And it’s how we face our fear.

Paul faced these fears as well. The apostle to the Gentiles going anywhere and everywhere, opening a door of invitation to everyone, Jew and Gentile alike. But there were so many folks who were very uncomfortable with this, even though Jew and Gentile were brought together by good news.

“Beautiful are the feet of the messenger who announces good news.” But they are not only beautiful. They are also courageous.

And throughout scripture, from the beginning to the end, the courageous feet of the messenger continue to invite the children of God to return. The priest invites people to return to God. The prophet promises that God will return the people home. Jesus promises to return us to a restored relationship with God and with others, and the return of Christ describes the love of God finishing the work of redemption for all of creation.

But time and time again, when these courageous feet announce this good news, the people get nervous. The people don’t want to return. The people want to keep things the same. As they wandered through the wilderness, they considered settling for Egypt. When they were to return home from Babylon, they wept, knowing that this new beginning would not be easy. Returning is hard because good news can be scary.

And as we return to a new school year, perhaps we’re a little nervous. Student or parent, parent or grandparent alike. Maybe we’re going to a brand new school. We have a new teacher we’re not sure about. There are challenges of new lessons or new friends that maybe we just want to leave everything the same.

And perhaps that’s why we spend a little extra time packing our backpacks this time of year. We want to be ready, have anything and everything we might need.

Well, there are several things, as Elizabeth Caldwell recommends, that we can put in our backpacks to remind us of the good news. We can take a notebook, not just for our notes in Science and English, but also for our prayers, prayers that transform certainty into faith.

We can take bread and juice. We all need a good lunch. But that is the meal of grace, centering our lives around God’s mercy.

We might even take a picture of Auburn First Baptist Church to remind us of who we are and the people who care about us, because none of us have to do this alone.

And finally, we might take a house key. Because when you get off the bus, you got to get back home. But more than that, it reminds us that we always have a home in God’s steadfast love, no matter what.

And as we go, we might also remember Peter. Because when our confidence wavers, the hands of God will catch us as well. Amen.

I met a traveler at a train station and he was carrying this very large bag. Too large to even fit on the train. It was three times the size that he was. It must have weighed 500 pounds. I don’t know how he had the strength to even carry it around and I couldn’t help myself. I said, “What’s in the bag?” He said, “Oh, this is my bag of questions.” I said, “Questions?” He said, “Yes, I have a lot of questions.” I said, “What kind of questions?”

He said, “Questions like, Why do some people cut every corner and ignore every opportunity to offer kindness? And still succeed. And why do some people suffer at no fault of their own? And why do people seem to make the same mistakes over and over again? And why are some people born into situations that limit them, instead of nurture them? Questions about how to treat others, how to find God’s presence, how to pray, how to respond to heartache, how to discover purpose in our work, and how to parent our children. I have a whole lot of questions.”

I was starting to see why his bag was so large. Those are some big questions. And I realized. I have a bag of questions as well. I said, “Do you think we will ever find answers to all of these questions?” He said, “I don’t think so. But I have discovered that just asking them and paying attention to them is enough.” Just asking questions can inform how we live. Determine how we respond. And shape where we experience the presence of God.

And Jacob, Jacob had his bag of questions. Like, is Esau still gonna be mad about that whole birthright thing? And, what am I going to say when I see him? And, is reconciliation even possible? And as he was traveling to see Esau, he slept right there on the bank of the Jabbok River, which the name of the river in Hebrew sounds a good bit like Jacob’s name. It also sounds a lot like the word in Hebrew that means wrestle.

And all throughout the night, Jacob wrestled with God and wrestled with his questions. That he would not let either one of them go until God blessed him. And as they wrestled, his hip was dislocated. I can only imagine how painful that was. And afterwards, Jacob would walk forever with a limp, a permanent reminder of wrestling with God. And he calls that place Peniel, which means I saw God face to face. That after asking his questions and seeing God’s face, Jacob had been changed. In fact, his name was changed to Israel, which means to wrestle with God.

And we all have questions that we wrestle with. Questions that wake us up at 2 a.m. in the morning and will not let us sleep. Questions that grab us in a panic or questions that are that chronic worry that we’re always carrying around. Questions where the answers are elusive and we cannot put them down.

And the psalmist seems to put words to Jacob’s experience that as he wrestled with God we can almost hear Jacob say, “Call upon you for you will answer me, O God. Incline your ear to me, hear my words, wondrously show your steadfast love, O Savior, of those who take refuge from their adversaries at your right hand. And we too have echoed those words. I call upon you. Show me your steadfast love. May I see your face.”

And Jacob would not let go of God until God blessed him. But this blessing was not necessarily clear answers. To all of his questions, was something more profound. That Jacob experienced the presence of the living God. And all of those questions that change us remind us that we have more to learn.

It was the same with Nicodemus. Remember Nicodemus, that teacher and expert in the law. Richard Lischer, who taught at Duke Divinity School, remembers that one of his colleagues just across the hallway had this cartoon from the New Yorker on his office door. A reminder to all of those very smart and studied people that maybe they didn’t know everything.

That the cartoon was of this commencement speaker, an alumni, someone very distinguished standing at the podium. With his cap and gown, and in that thought bubble over the speaker’s head, it said, “I don’t know where to begin because I know so much.”

It was the same challenge for Nicodemus. It had been so long since he had been surprised by grace. So long since he brushed up against the Spirit of God in new ways. So long since he had been taken aback by God’s steadfast love. And perhaps that’s why Jesus pointed him in the direction of being surprised and disoriented to see things new, to be born again.

That’s why Nicodemus started to ask questions. How can anyone be born after having grown old? Learning that we always have more to experience and learn ourselves, opening ourselves up to be surprised by grace. And it’s why we carry around our questions. Making room for something new.

One of the local gifts here in Auburn at the Jule Collins Smith Museum of Fine Art, just a few miles down the road, is the Amber Luster Chandelier by Dale Chihuly. That you stand there looking up and it is so beautiful. This bright amber yellow with flashes of color all through it.

Chihuly is an internationally known artist. He’s a glass blower making these large sculptures. In fact, one of his largest was in Jerusalem in 1999 where over a million people came to visit. And I watched this documentary of Chihuly blowing glass that he creates all these small pieces and then along with his team, they put these large sculptures together piece by piece.

And most of the time, sculptures are symmetrical. You can draw a line straight down the middle, and it’s like this mirror image. This side looks exactly like that side, that there’s beauty in symmetry. Chihuly did the opposite. He made room for something new. He saw beauty in asymmetry.

And life oftentimes is not symmetric. It does not unfold in ways that we expect. Is why we have so many questions. But an asymmetrical life is beautiful. Because we can experience the presence of the living God in our question. Just like Jacob did beside the river.

And like Jacob, walking with a limp, we, too, are changed. We are changed in ways that are lasting, hopeful, and full of grace. Amen.

The book of Proverbs says that wisdom is more valuable than rubies, silver, or gold. Given the choice though, if you placed both of those things on the counter in front of us, it might be hard to choose. As the country song says, money can’t buy me happiness, but it can buy me a boat. That it’s much harder to put our hands around wisdom.

But if we take a deep breath and we think back over our lives and all of the twists and the turns and the value that wisdom has been to us, it helps us choose. For wisdom leads us in right paths. It protects us against great harm. It calms our fears. It gives us peace, that wisdom is more valuable than rubies, silver, or gold.

And it’s why we find the same shared wisdom throughout the world, that despite the differences in culture and tradition, wisdom translates. As we oftentimes say, “A bird in the hand is worth more than two in the bush.” That instead of wanting more, it is wise to be grateful for what we have. That if we wait too long hoping to get two birds, we might end up with none.

And we find this same wisdom around the world. Where in Sweden, they say, “Rather one bird in the hand than ten in the woods.” In Spain, “A bird in the hand is better than a hundred flying in the sky.” Or in Poland, “A sparrow in the hand is better than a pigeon on the roof.” Or in Russia, “Better a titmouse in the hand than a crane in the sky.” Wisdom translates because it’s more valuable than rubies, silver, or gold.

And we could carry on a long debate about what made Solomon wise. But at least one reason would be that he knew to ask for it. Knowing we need wisdom is as important as having it. That he was this young king standing in the shadow of his father David and he was unsure, uncertain and unsteady.

So he would visit these high places, which the passage insinuates was ill-advised. People worship all the gods at these high places, but at a local high place in Gibeon, he had a revelation. The Lord said to him, “Ask what I should give to you.”

And Solomon did not ask for rubies, silver or gold. He did not seek power or prestige. He could have asked for many things and he asked for a discerning mind. One translation has Solomon say, “I am young and inexperienced and I know next to nothing.” And it’s out of that uncertainty, out of that humility that he asks for a discerning mind.

And wisdom is never self-serving. Discernment always accounts for the needs of others. That’s why in his diary, which went on to be a classic in spirituality, Dag Hammarskjöld writes, “What gives life value can be found and lost, but never possessed.”

And it’s the same with wisdom. We can find it and lose it, but never possess it. Because it’s rooted in the steadfast love of God, which never belongs solely to us. And it’s why wisdom always turns us outward towards the needs.

And it’s why wisdom so often is not obvious. That if we go looking for something that is solely beneficial to us, wisdom eludes us. We’ll never see wisdom standing there with a big old sign that says wisdom found here.

And it’s why Jesus teaches in parables, a subtle whisper inviting us to see what is not always obvious. He talked about sowing seeds, pulling weeds, and casting nets, that parables are like wisdom. They teach valuable lessons, but it’s not always obvious. That parables seem safe enough until we use them. And then they change us like wisdom does.

It’s like the woman baking bread, where the kingdom of heaven is like yeast in the flour. It just takes a little bit of yeast to change a whole lot of flour, that you almost can’t see it. It’s hidden, but it is at work, making the bread rise, changing everything.

That wisdom is rather quiet, almost hidden. And when we see it, it doesn’t seem like much. Just a little bit of grace here. Just try some of the ways of Jesus there. But before we know it, it changes us, opening us up to the needs of others around us.

It’s like yeast, almost hidden. That we don’t know where to look for it, but it is there, building community, anticipating the needs for others and guiding us in the most life-giving ways.

So where, where is it at work doing such things? It’s like the parent who quietly drops a note in a child’s lunch box that says, you rock. We love you so much.

Or it’s like the prayers that our loved ones say regularly about us, but we never hear. And they constantly surround us, praying for us to make good decisions, to have meaningful experiences, to discover the richness of God’s steadfast love.

Or it’s like the stillness that we find in silence, which we might want to avoid. But when we embrace it, we find the treasures of hope, peace, and strength.

Or it’s like that journal entry we scratch into our journals late at night, where we can be fully honest with God and also with ourselves about how we feel and the questions we have.

That we will not find wisdom by asking ChatGPT. Because wisdom is incarnation, where the Word becomes flesh, that we find it in the hands and feet of others.

I remember when we were reading all of those books about how to be a parent, to know “what to expect when you are expecting,” and they just recommended all these different things. And we would sit up late at night talking about them.

One book says, if the child’s tired, let them sleep. Another book would say set up a strict sleep schedule and never depart from it. But then the next book would say wake the child up on the minute when it is time to eat. Whereas the next book would say never wake a sleeping child.

And I remember we went to church confused, frustrated. We were telling someone who worked in the nursery, and she was patient and listened carefully to us. But as we went on and on and on, she finally looked at us and said, “Just throw the books out!”

And instead, we started to talk to other parents who were on that same road with us or who’d been down that road before. And we discovered quiet wisdom in what they shared with us.

That we have to learn to talk to one another, to be in conversation with one another about our lives and their lives, to share and learn from one another in order to foster wisdom. People who say to us, yes, I know, but this is the path that is life-giving. Or who share with us, you will not believe the beauty that I have seen on this road. Or someone who keeps saying, just keep going. You will understand why further down the way.

That we need others to unearth God’s wisdom. Because it’s like the yeast in the flour. It is hidden, but it makes the bread rise. Amen.

Sitting in those wooden bleachers of the high school gym, we watched as our basketball team struggled just to stay in the game. We were not a basketball school. We were also not a football school. But regardless, we had school spirit, which was saying something. It was the 90s, the era of alternative music and flannel shirts, which didn’t always fit school spirit. But the cheerleaders were leading us in that cheer. “We have spirit, yes we do. We have spirit, how about you?” And we had practiced during the pep rally, one side of the gym, “We have spirit, yes we do. We have spirit, how about you?” And then the other side in return, “We have spirit, yes we do. We have spirit, how about you?” And back and forth as the cheerleaders pointed at either side of the gym until everything broke down and everyone screamed over the other, “We have more, we have more.” That if we couldn’t win the game, maybe we’d win the cheer.

It was about seven weeks ago when we celebrated Pentecost, the birthday of the church and the arrival of the Spirit of God. It was part of Jesus’s promise to send an advocate to stay with us, to work on our behalf. And I am thankful to say it has never been about having more spirit than another. It is simply God’s gift to us that we are never alone. There’s always a hand to hold, a friend to consult, a community to depend on. That none of us is supposed to do this life by ourselves, that we have spirit, yes we do.

And as we are shaped by and share in the Spirit of God, oftentimes we misunderstand it. That it has little to do with excitement or exuberance like a cheer at a pep rally, that it has more to do with the steady, faithful, enduring presence of God. It is about forgiveness and redemption and transformation. It is an invitation to participate in God’s new creation, in the gift of salvation.

As N. T. Wright, that New Testament scholar, says, “Salvation is not just God’s gift to the people. It is God’s gift through the people. Not just to us, but through us.” That that is the work of the Spirit of God, that we are not only shaped by the grace of God, we share in the grace of God. As N. T. Wright says, “We’re not saved from this world. We are saved for this.”

And it’s why Paul speaks of the Spirit of God dwelling within us. And I know that there are times where that is hard to see, like trying to get out of the door last minute on Sunday morning where everybody is coming apart. But initially, Paul paints this split screen, flesh on one side, spirit on the other. The flesh leads to death, the spirit leads to life. And there are dangers in this world, choices that we can make that have harmful consequences.

I remember years ago going whitewater canoeing on the French Broad River. It’s not a technical river or hard to navigate with a canoe, but I had a good friend who owned a canoe and we’d go up on Saturdays and he knew far more about the river than I did, so he sat in the back because that’s where you steer. And if you don’t steer correctly and enter the rapids correctly, they will dump you out in the river. And I sat in the front and just did what I was told. But then one weekend my brother and his friends came to visit. So we took them canoeing on that Saturday. And because there was more of them, we had to rent additional canoes. And because they knew nothing about the river, I had to sit in the back and steer. And every time we hit a rapid, whether it was big or small, we tipped over. Without fail, we failed.

That if we lean too much in one direction, we can tip over, that there are decisions we can make that are harmful to us and to others. A careless word, a hidden agenda, an impulsive choice, a selfish outlook, a short-sighted decision. But Paul, even though he has this split screen, has not forgotten the story of creation, where God looks out on everything and everyone and says, it is good. And even though there are consequences in the garden, all is not lost. That Paul’s primary message is not warning, it is an invitation, that we are invited to share in God’s new creation, for the Spirit dwells within us.

It’s like the tabernacle where the people of God were wandering through the wilderness, but every night they set up that tent and God’s Spirit descended upon them and dwelled with them. And it’s like the Word became flesh where the light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. And it’s like the book of Revelation where it says, “See the home of God is among mortals. God will dwell with them and they will be God’s people.” That God comes to dwell with us, to heal, to redeem, to restore, that we’re not saved from this. We are saved for it.

The Gospel of Matthew says that Jesus saw the crowds and he hopped up in a boat and he turned around and taught them in parables. There was once a farmer sowing seeds, throwing them in all directions. Some of them fell on the hard path where they could not take root and the evil came and snatched them away. Some fell amongst the rocky ground, where in the face of our troubles we lose sight of what is important and the sun scorches them. Others fell amongst the thorns, where like wealth they were choked and could not grow. And then finally others fell on the good soil bearing good fruit, like fruit of the Spirit.

And we might assume this is about Paul calling us to escape the dangers of this world, but it’s more about Paul extending an invitation, reminding us that we are saved for this, to bear good fruit for the needs around us. But the good news is we don’t make the seeds grow.

I love that project that happens in most elementary schools where the teacher walks around the room handing out small paper cups and then puts a little bit of soil in each one of them. And then the students take a seed and they’ll loosen up the soil a little bit and plant it. And they carefully carry it home riding on the school bus. And then they put some water in it and leave it on the windowsill of the kitchen. And every morning they get up and they wander into the kitchen looking at that cup of soil, just waiting. Until one morning when they are wiping sleepy from their eyes, they notice that the plant has broken ground and is reaching up towards the light.

That we don’t have to make the seeds grow. We just make room in our lives for the Spirit of God, that we loosen the soil and prepare the ground through listening, that posture of openness and humility. And then we water it through prayerful worship and faithful service and a discerning heart. And then we wait, that we rest our lives in the hands of God. And then we are surprised, time and time again, in ways we would never expect or foresee, that we are surprised by the joy of God. Not because we are escaping this world, because we are bearing fruit. Amen.

There are those who have that gift, that touch of matchmaking. They can look at two people and just see how everything would fit together. Perhaps we’ve all had a friend who loves setting their friends up on a blind date. They say to us, “I have the perfect person for you.” But first, we’re a little skeptical. But they seem so excited we might consider it until we start asking questions. We start to hear more about this person. And we are nothing alike. But they keep saying to us, “It’s like two poles of a magnet. Opposites attract.”

And we’ve all known those couples. He is the social butterfly, shaking hands, working the room. He has a bad case of FOMO, not wanting to miss out on anything ever. But she’s more of a homebody. She wants to recharge her battery by hanging in a hammock and reading a book. Or he is impulsive and spontaneous, never following a plan or balancing a checkbook. But she is organized, color-coding her calendar and making plans six months in advance. Or he is a risk-taker, a long bucket list, jumping out of airplanes and running with the bulls. But she’s more cautious. She wears a bright yellow safety vest when she goes walking in a quiet neighborhood at 10 o’clock in the morning. That they are different in every way. And we all wonder, how is this gonna work?

But then, 30 years later, we’re standing in a room full of friends and family celebrating their anniversary. And it dawns on us. All those differences that seemed so problematic were all on the surface. That as we listened to friends and family stand up and give toasts, we realize how much they share in common. Shared values, aligned commitments, that they bring the best out of one another.

And there have been countless matchmakers throughout history trying to set the church and the state up on a blind date. They wanted to be the next power couple. But every single time it is tried, we learn again how the separation of church and state is beneficial for both. Because they don’t bring the best out of one another.

It is as Isaac Backus, that Baptist pastor during the era of the American Revolution, says: “Religious matters are to be separated from the jurisdiction of the state, not because they are beneath the interests of the state, but quite the contrary, because they are too high and holy, and thus are beyond the competence of the state.”

If we ever wanted to do research on Baptists in America, Buddy Shurden suggests that we start with court proceedings, search warrants, and prison records. Because in the early colonies, for most of them, it was against the law to attend a Baptist meeting. It was against the law to do what we are doing right here in this room. It was against the law to baptize believers instead of infants. Baptists had to get together in secret. All those state-sponsored churches thought Baptists were heretics.

And on August 8, 1635, Roger Williams stood in front of the General Court of Massachusetts for the fourth time in two years. It’s quite the rap sheet. And he was charged with “preaching diverse, new, and dangerous opinions.” But all those diverse and dangerous opinions are the very foundation of the Baptist tradition in this country. Because Roger Williams started the first Baptist church in America, in Rhode Island, the only place that had true religious liberty at that time.

And both the church and the state are vitally important. We just should never set them up on a blind date. It’s why John Leland, Baptist pastor and abolitionist, urged James Madison to include religious liberty in this new Constitution, which became the First Amendment. And later, John Leland said, “Government has no more to do with the religious opinions of people than it does the principles of mathematics.”

But despite all this wisdom, there are still matchmakers who want to set the church and the state up on a blind date. But every time that happens, we end up with a theocracy, God and government woven together. But as James Dunn reminds us, “The problem with a theocracy is that everyone wants to be Theo.” Everyone wants to be in charge.

The psalmist reminds us, God’s power is different: “The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. The Lord is good to all and God’s compassion is over all that God has made.” Our faith in God should shape our voices as citizens. We should never set the church and the state up on a blind date.

It’s why the Gospel of Matthew simply invites us as the church to follow the ways of Jesus. It is an invitation. Jesus stands on the shore and says, “Come, follow me,” and we can go or we can stay. It’s not a matter of control. And when we follow the ways of Jesus as the church, we find our way. It’s why it’s described as an “easy yoke,” because we can let go of so many other distractions that it gives us clarity and focus about what matters the most.

And if all of this sounds like diverse, new and dangerous opinions, I understand why. Because the freedom that we find in God’s love can feel that way. Anthony de Mello was not a Baptist. He was a Jesuit priest, but he writes about this freedom that we find in the love of God. He says, “A sheep found a hole in the fence and crept through it. He wandered far and lost his way back. Then he realized he was being followed by a wolf. So he ran and ran, but the wolf kept chasing him until the shepherd came and rescued him and carried him lovingly back to the fold. In spite of everyone’s urgings to the contrary, the shepherd refused to nail up the hole in the fence.”

That in many ways this is a retelling of the parable of the lost sheep, where the shepherd leaves the 99 in order to go and find the one who is lost. And then when the sheep is found, there’s this grand, wonderful, beautiful celebration. The question still lingers. Why doesn’t the shepherd prevent the sheep from getting lost in the first place? Why not nail up that hole in the fence? It is because love never coerces or controls.

And whenever the church and the state get together, we lose sight of that. We confuse control and love. Love always lets go of power. And it’s why the separation of church and state is beneficial for both. Amen.

As you’re driving along 85 East, leaving Atlanta, Georgia on your way to Greenville, South Carolina, you pass this small sign to this small town by the name of Welcome, South Carolina. This is different from that welcome to South Carolina sign that you see when you drive across the state line and pass the visitor center on the right. It’s the name of the town: Welcome, South Carolina. It’s located there in Greenville County. There’s about 7,000 residents and it is surrounded by other towns: Judson, Parker, and Powdersville. All of which, I am guessing, wish they thought of the name first.

And every time we pass that sign, I am tempted to take a detour because I wonder, how are the people of Welcome, South Carolina different from the normal welcome you find in any small town? Are you required to wear name tags every day so you can call out your neighbor’s name or stranger’s name at the gas station or grocery store? Is it an unwritten rule that you have to, under all circumstances, accept that friend request on the Facebook? And do restaurants serve family style so that no one eats alone and you always meet someone new?

But I’ve also wondered whether that name is a blessing or a burden. Because anytime anyone drives into Welcome, South Carolina, they all have the same question: is it true? There’s no room for error. It’s your name after all. And as charming and delightful as I am certain the people of Welcome, South Carolina are, they inevitably stub their toe on their name because quiet biases and limited patience gets the best of us all at times.

I still think though that the name is worthwhile to be known for welcome because it keeps that blessing, that calling out there in front of us because we hope that others experience the welcome of God through our welcome of them.

And we do find hospitality woven through all the pages of scripture, in part because back then it was absolutely essential that when people were walking from town to town and traveling from place to place, there was not a Courtyard Marriott with a continental breakfast. And they needed places to stay and food to eat. And we find these stories throughout scripture, where in Genesis, Abraham and Sarah welcomed those unknown travelers by the oaks of Mamre, only to discover more about God’s faithfulness, hearing that Sarah would have a child. Or in Exodus, where the people of God are wandering through the wilderness, wondering whether they are going to survive, even tempted to return to Egypt. But God shows them hospitality, providing manna in the morning. Or in the Gospel of John, where Jesus shows hospitality, saying, I am the bread of life. Those who come to me will never be hungry. Or even in the book of Revelation where Jesus stands there and knocks, promising to come in and to sit down and to eat with anyone who opens the door. That hospitality is woven into the steadfast love of God.

And we overhear it in the psalmist who is crying out and longing for God’s presence, afraid of ever being alone, saying, how long, O Lord, will you forget me forever? Longing for one’s home in God’s presence. And whereas this psalm begins with longing, it ends with singing, giving thanks for God’s faithful welcomes.

This hospitality is more than a pull-out couch or an available futon, but it is also as simple as a cup of cold water. That it is about making room in our lives for others. Where Jesus says, whoever welcomes you welcomes me. And whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me, that even a cup of cold water can become the welcome of God. And he tells the disciples all of this as they are sent out to take the welcome of God to others, giving them instructions that if your welcome is ever unwelcome by others, just dust off your feet and keep going. That we are to make room in our lives for others even if they don’t make room for us.

That is why hospitality should never be taken for granted. It is a sacred gift because it opens the door to God’s steadfast love. Whether we are making room for the person sitting next to us in the pew or a family member around the kitchen table or the neighbor just a couple doors down or the co-worker in the office next to us, the stranger we meet or the friend that we cherish. We make room in our lives because it is a door to the welcome of God.

Anytime we stand in front of one of those doorways where you’ve got to take a big step because there’s an uneven threshold and you say to the person behind you, watch out, it’s like coming to one of those moments that challenges us to make room in our lives for others. And when we stand in front of that doorway with that uneven threshold, we pause because we don’t want to stumble. And a pause is more than a safety measure. It can be a sacred practice. As Karen Walrond writes, “The pause can get us from judgment to grace.” That we pause before we speak. We pause before we act. We pause before we make assumptions. We pause before we cast judgment to make more room because sometimes welcoming others requires courage.

One writer says, “Only the brave keep the door ajar.” I had a couple friends growing up where you never had to call ahead when you went to their house. You never had to be afraid just to knock on the door unannounced. That they always opened the door and invited you in. You were always welcome in that place. If it was dinnertime, they just set an extra plate at the table and they were interested in your life, the small details, the big dreams. And if they gave advice, it was always with a whole lot of encouragement. Those were the houses you always wanted to go back to. Those are the places that 30 years later you’re still thinking about because you were welcome.

But alongside the joy of hospitality is also the hard work that when we knocked on the door, they had to drop what they were doing. They had to set an extra place at the table. But it’s why our welcome of others can offer the welcome of God.

And this makes me think about our welcome differently in this place. Whether it’s the welcome to worship, or whether it’s that sign over the double doors at the courtyard that says, Welcome to Auburn First Baptist Church, that we receive and experience the welcome of God in this and we’re never the same because of it. Because God is here. We anticipate meeting God’s presence as we gather for worship or ask questions in Sunday school or gather in the fellowship hall. That it’s a gift that we receive, but it’s also a gift that we can share by making room in our lives wherever we are for others. Because God is not only here, God is also out there.

There’s a prayer by Jevon Caldwell-Gross that invites us to keep the door ajar, to make room in our lives for others wherever we are because God is always with us in this place and in every place. So let us close with that prayer. O God of every moment. God of mornings and Monday. God of laundry rooms and lunch breaks. God of school drop-offs, hard conversations, and unexpected laughter. You are not confined to one day or one place. You walk with us in sanctuaries and on sidewalks, in coffee shops and in kitchens, in joy and in the quiet struggles we rarely name. We confess, O God, that we’ve sometimes waited until Sunday to expect you, to seek you, to hear from you. But you’ve been speaking in sunrises and in silence, in small acts of kindness, in the messy middle of our weeks, and so today. We open ourselves again to the sacred truth that you are already here. Amen.

As that that beautiful, powerful spiritual says, “When we go down to the river to pray, studying that good old way,” that we find redemption and renewal. That it leads us to walk in newness of life because we are immersed in the waters of baptism and in the current of grace.

That along the shores of the Washita River in Louisiana, St. Paul’s Baptist Church will gather every year for outdoor baptisms. That they will begin by having several worship services throughout the week, and then they will go down to the river to pray. But some of the older members will say, “We’re going down to the old burying ground.” And by that, they do not mean the cemetery behind the church. They are talking about the river. Because we are buried with Christ in baptism to share in the newness of life.

That those waters become like the waters of the Red Sea, where the people of God left their past behind and stepped into liberation and freedom from the bondage of slavery. And they become like the waters of the River Jordan, where John the Baptist plunged Jesus beneath those waters and a voice overhead said about him, and about us, “This is my beloved with whom I am well pleased,” that we are plunged into death. But it is in the river of life, setting aside what is old and embracing what is new.

It is why the early church, back when Rome controlled the world, and Roman authorities were constantly policing congregations, wanting to know what they are up to and limiting what they could do, that the early church didn’t say, “I’m going to church this morning.” They said, “I’m going to the burial society.” Because no one’s interested in what a burial society is up to. That’s not a party you want to crash. But as Richard Lischer reminds us, there is some truth in the name. That we are buried with Christ, setting aside self-sufficiency, where we can lean in to the grace of God, where through the ways of Jesus, we are led from death into new life.

That’s why Peter and Andrew left their nets behind. It’s why Mary sat down and simply listened to Jesus, even though Martha was busy. It’s why Joanna, who was healed by Jesus, made a commitment to support his ministry financially. And it’s why Saul changed his name to Paul. And all of that change is not stress free.

That I’m guessing Jesus did not realize that today is Father’s Day when he said, “I come to set son against father and mother against daughter and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law,” that “I come not to bring peace but a sword.” This is not permission to create division. But it is preparation for it. That Jesus wants us to deeply love our families, to work through conflict and to maintain strong relationships. But when we make our commitment to the love of God and the love of neighbor above all else, there are times where table fellowship can unravel into table arguments. That it’s not permission for division, but it is preparation for it.

That it is the difference between To Kill a Mockingbird and Go Set a Watchman, both written by Harper Lee. That in To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout looks up to her father with great admiration. She is so proud as he is defending Tom Robinson, a black man, against false accusations. But in Go Set a Watchman by the same author, she is disappointed when she finds out that her father attended a Citizens’ Council meeting, supporting and working for segregation, that she vehemently disagrees with him, that there is conflict.

It’s what Dietrich Bonhoeffer describes as the cost of discipleship, where life just becomes harder than it used to be. There’s no such thing as cheap grace. The grace is absolutely free. But it always costs us something. That as we listen and grow, mature and change, we might encounter conflict along the way.

That one of the hardest parts about life and faith is that we cannot control it. Jesus says in order to find our lives, we must lose them. Whereas we might rather hold on to life as tight as possible in order to find it. But instead, we make choices that stretch us, little by little over time, where we care for the vulnerable, cultivate an unlikely friendship, open ourselves up in worship and prayer, share what we have for the benefit of somebody else, listen to a viewpoint different from our own. That these choices stretch us and help us to embrace the newness of life.

So we try to remain unguarded so we can receive the steadfast love of God. As Wendell Berry writes, “Love comprehends the world we fully cannot comprehend it.” That love helps us better understand and navigate the world around us, but we will never fully understand the height or depth, length or width of the steadfast love of God. So we cannot control it. All we can do is follow it.

That apparently grace is more than a rumor. Diana Shertenlieb attends a church in Atlanta where years ago her priest encouraged her to participate in their prison ministry by writing letters to Josh Bishop, a 22-year-old inmate on Death Row. Hesitantly, she put that first stamp on an envelope and put it in the mail. And over time, a friendship started to begin. In fact, she and her husband, Gary, started visiting John in prison, and she was so surprised when she first met him because he looked so young. And she learned that he had been abandoned by his father and neglected by his mother, that he had slept under bridges, eaten out of trash cans, and fended for himself.

And as they started to get to know one another, she shared with him what her faith meant to her. And he asked questions and she brought him books to read. He was unguarded and open and he found something that grounded him. He experienced love and it changed him. And at the age of 23 he was immersed in the waters of baptism and Diana and Gary became his godparents. And then he tried to find ways to serve others, even from prison. That he worked with a clinic through Mercer Law School where he helped teach 50 law students, sharing with them lessons about justice that they could not learn in any other classroom. And he worked with teenagers, encouraging them to make good, wise decisions, avoiding some of the missteps that he had made, that he walked in newness of life.

And Diana almost didn’t write that first letter. But she was so thankful that she did. Because she stepped into newness of life as well, that we go down to the water to pray, studying that good old way where we step into the current of grace, that we might look up at the picture of baptism, and we might try to listen for the sound of water. We might imagine the current of the river surrounding us. We might let the waters run over our hands, remembering that God’s grace washes over our lives.

Like the waters of the Red Sea and of the River Jordan, through the ways of Jesus, the current of grace always carries us forward into new life. Amen.

In 1961, on Pentecost—or Wit Sunday—Dag Hammarskjöld sat down to make an entry in his journal. He was the second Secretary General of the UN, the youngest person to ever hold that position. He was elected when he was 47 years old. And later on that same year, he died tragically in a plane crash. Following, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. And following the crash, they found his personal journal. And later on, it was published, entitled Markings. And it has become a classic in spirituality.

“And on Pentecost,” he wrote, “I don’t know who or what put the question. I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment, I did answer yes to someone or something. And from that hour, I was certain that existence is meaningful and that therefore my life in self surrender had a goal.” It is quite powerful. That we might not remember the exact moment of when the question was put before us, but when we said yes to someone, to God, that we discovered significant meaning and purpose in our lives.

And one reason that Pentecost is also known as “Wit Sunday” is that historically and traditionally Pentecost has been a day in the church to celebrate baptism, where baptismal candidates put on white robes, where “white robe Sunday” becomes Wit Sunday. And baptism has long been an expression of our shared calling, our shared purpose, where we make a commitment to follow Jesus.

And we might be more inclined to follow the Jesus who says, “Come to me all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest,” than the Jesus who says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” Because down here in Alabama, especially during this time of year, we know that the hard work in the fields is quite difficult, quite taxing. That we need that rest that we find in Jesus. We need to hear again and again that “today’s worries are enough for today and that tomorrow’s troubles will tend to themselves.”

That rest alone cannot fully address the problems in this world. It’s like that technique called facing used in grocery stores where they pull every item to the edge of the shelf and turn it out to face the customer so that the shelves always look fully stocked. That there is someone whose job it is just to wander around the store and make sure everything is facing the customer. That if there’s only one can of tomatoes left, they’ll pull it to the edge, face it outwards so that it looks like they’re not about to run out.

The world is full of gaps and holes, challenges that we need to acknowledge and face. But as Richard Lischer reminds us, the Gospel is not a problem solver, it is a promise. It’s a promise from the one that we said yes to, to always be with us, to guide us through all of those challenges. And we find deep meaning as we care for one another through all of those challenges.

That here in this passage that reminds us that the harvest is plentiful, it is the first time that the Gospel of Matthew uses the word disciple. It is almost as if this is the job description of a disciple. We’re like Jesus, we are to care for the sick, support the vulnerable, offer compassion to all. And the good news is, it doesn’t require a list of certifications. We are to go out without bag, without belt. That compassion does not mean we can type 80 words per minute. And empathy does not mean we’re proficient in Excel. And patience does not ask us to be an expert in AI.

And if this is the job description in the Gospel of Matthew, the passage we read from Romans is the other duties as assigned, which usually turn out to be the most important part of any job description because those other duties always come up. And they are usually the less glamorous parts of the job description. Maybe that’s why we don’t say them out loud on the front end. They’re just other duties as assigned that we don’t always want to do them. The CEO doesn’t want to be bothered with the invoice of new bathroom fixtures. The attorney doesn’t want to be bothered ordering pens for the firm and the accountant does not want to water the plants in the break room. They are the other duties as assigned. But they are essential.

And Romans focuses in on them, whereas they might be unpleasant, they are unavoidable. Where suffering leads to endurance and endurance leads to character and where character leads to hope and where hope does not disappoint. That they are never listed explicitly on the job description of a disciple, but if we have ever tried to love anyone, we know that we will experience this. But there is deep purpose and meaning found through them.

In his novel, Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry writes about this small town in the midst of upheaval and change, that people are buying cars for the very first time, which means they are moving out to other locations. There are farmers trying to adapt and survive as there are new machines that can be used in the field. That change is happening at a rate that it is tearing at the very fabric of their lives. And Jayber, the local barber and gravedigger says, it is not a terrible thing to love the world knowing that the world is always passing and irrecoverable to be known only in loss. That change is inevitable. But he says, to love anything good at any cost is a bargain. That alongside the hardship is this deep meaning and purpose, which we call faith, something that we do together.

It is the faith that we read about in Galatians 2, where in verse 16 it says, we know that a person is justified not by works of the law, but through faith in Jesus Christ. That’s how the New Revised Standard Version translates it. Faith in Jesus Christ. But the King James Version translates it differently where it says, knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ. And there’s a difference. Faith in Jesus Christ, where we put our belief and faith or the faith of Jesus Christ, the same faith that we find in Jesus. And the grammar of the Greek allows for both.

And we need both faith in Jesus and the faith of Jesus. That we need faith in Jesus because we can’t do this on our own. We need the one who says, come, all who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. And we need the faith of Jesus. Because the harvest is plentiful and the laborers are few. Whereas we love others, we face suffering. We embrace endurance. We develop character and we discover hope. That as we say “yes,” we receive this shared call, but it is full of meaning and purpose. Amen.