A Prayer of Thanksgiving for our Mothers:

Thank you God for the love of our mothers:
thank you God for their care and concern;
thank you God for the joys they have shared with us;
thank you God for the pains they have borne for us;
thank you God for all that they give us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

There is a line in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians that many readers overlook. Paul is in the midst of a complex argument about worship, gender, and the order of creation, and he pauses to say:

For as woman was made from man, so man is now born of woman. And all things are from God (1 Cor 11:12).

The verse is almost like a parenthetical aside to Paul’s argument, yet it carries the weight of the entirety of human history. The first woman came from the first man. Every man since then has come from a woman, which means that behind every great man who has played a prominent role in the story of redemption stands a mother who carried, bore, nursed, and loved him long before the world knew his name. When we tell the story of redemption, the tale is, for reasons appropriate to the story, very male-centric. Men take the predominant role in the story, at least as we normally tell it, so, in honor of Mother’s Day, what follows is an attempt to tell the story of redemption with a special focus on the women and mothers who play key roles in it.

In the Beginning

The story begins in a garden with the first mother. Adam names his wife Eve, which means “living” or “life,” because she was “the mother of all living” (Gen 3:20). Eve’s name comes after the fall, which means it is a defiant act of hope on Adam’s part. The ground has just been cursed. Death has entered the world. But Eve is Life.

Life will continue because of her, and one day, one of her descendants will be life itself (John 14:6). That offspring of Eve will finally crush the serpent’s head (Gen 3:15), and the curse will at last be undone. Motherhood, from the very beginning, is not a comfortable, domestic role. It is a calling that God has woven into the fabric of redemptive history so that life can flourish even in the face of death.

Dead Wombs and Living Promises

As the story unfolds, Eve’s descendants quickly experience a recurring issue: barrenness. Sarah’s womb is described later by Paul to be “as good as dead” (Rom 4:19), and Rachel exclaims, “Give me children, or I shall die” (Gen 30:1). The pattern is clear: God often works through wombs that are unlikely to produce life. The path of redemption does not follow fertility and abundance; instead, it moves through barrenness and sorrow.

God does not promise that every barren womb will be filled, but he does declare that he is the God who gives life where there is no life, sometimes through the womb, sometimes through the beauty of adoption, and sometimes through filling our lives with sons and daughters of a different sort. In every case, the point is the same. God brings life where there was no life, which is exactly what the empty tomb on Easter Sunday was all about.

Courage Against Empire

The story continues in Egypt. Pharaoh has issued a death sentence against every newborn male Hebrew child (Exod 1:15). The empire has activated its machinery of death, and the people of God seem to have no answer.

But two mothers do.

The mother of Moses hides her child for three months (Exod 2:2). When she can no longer keep him hidden, she makes a basket, places him in the Nile, and trusts God with what she can no longer protect, as mothers must often do. Pharaoh’s daughter finds the child, takes pity on him, and raises him as her own son, unwittingly hiring his mother to nurse him (Exod 2:9). The man who will lead the exodus from Egypt survives because two women, two mothers, one Hebrew and one Egyptian, decided that a child’s life was more important than the empire’s decree. They chose life in the face of death.

Notice that Exodus doesn’t try to explain their behavior with a lengthy speech from either woman. There’s no extended discourse about the ethics of civil disobedience or God’s providence. The text simply shows them acting as mothers do, and their actions carry the full weight of the argument. Motherhood here isn’t passive. It’s resistance. It’s the subversion of empire through love.

A Mother Who Would Not Stop Praying

As the story progresses, we come to the hill country of Ephraim, where a woman named Hannah prays desperately. She’s barren, just like Sarah and Rachel had been before her. Year after year, she goes to Shiloh weeping and fasting because the LORD had closed her womb (1 Sam 1:5–6). Her prayer is so intense, so silent and trembling, that Eli the priest thinks she is drunk.

But she’s not. She’s praying fervently, and God hears her. She bears a son, names him Samuel, meaning “heard by God,” and then does something that only makes sense for a woman who means every word of her prayer: she gives her son back to God. She tells Eli:

For this child I prayed, and the LORD has granted me my petition that I made to him. Therefore I have lent him to the LORD. As long as he lives, he is lent to the LORD (1 Sam 1:27–28).

The same God who opened her womb now receives back the child he had given her. This again is what faith looks like in a mother, trusting God to provide for, take care of, support, and protect the life that she had held in her womb.

Hannah’s song would echo through Israel’s story for centuries, until another young woman in desperate circumstances opened her mouth and sang Hannah’s melody again.

A Revolution in a Song

In Galilee, an angel appears to a young woman named Mary. She is unmarried, poor, living under Roman occupation, and by any worldly measure, a nobody. And yet God chooses her to be his mother.

She reaches back to Hannah’s song, back to the themes of empire and resistance, and sings:

He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty (Luke 1:51–53).

Her song is no lullaby. It is a manifesto. Mary is not singing about her feelings as a mother. She is announcing what God is doing in history through her. She uses Hannah’s words because she knows the story she has been placed into and all the mothers who have brought the story to this climactic moment. Hannah sang it first. Now Mary sings it over the child in her womb, whom she will carry, deliver, nurse, raise, and one day watch die.

The Sword

When Mary and Joseph bring the infant Jesus to the temple, an old man named Simeon takes the child in his arms and blesses God. Then he turns to Mary and plainly tells her what it will cost her to be this child’s mother.

A sword will pierce through your own soul also (Luke 2:35).

Some would argue that Mary is the first and greatest disciple, not because she is Jesus’s mother, but because she hears the word of God and keeps it (Luke 11:28), even though she knows from the very beginning just how much it will cost her.

At the cross, most of the men are gone. John is there, and so are the women, including Mary (John 19:25). As she watches her son die, the word Simeon predicted has finally come true. The sword has finally pierced her soul. Her grief is unimaginable to most, yet painfully familiar to too many. In the Stations of the Cross, as Jesus is laid in the arms of his mother, we link the words of Lamentations directly to Mary’s sorrow and say:

Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Look and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow (Lam 1:12).

No explanation is given for why Mary is present at the cross when others are not. The text simply places her at the foot of the cross and leaves it at that. Whatever it cost her to be there, physically and emotionally, she paid it. The same love that sustained her as she carried her child in her womb carried her to that hill where the sword pierced her soul.

Not Only for the Biological

To be clear, the category of “mother” is larger than biology. It always has been. Pharaoh’s daughter adopted Moses, raised him, gave him a name, and placed herself between him and death. Centuries later, Paul greets an unnamed woman, identifying her as someone who “has been a mother to me as well” (Rom 16:13).

When we talk about the love of Christ and the Church, the New Testament points toward marriage and calls it a mystery. But right alongside that sign stands the sign of adoption. When Paul wants an image of just how much God loves his people and how much he has done for them, he reaches for the imagery of adoption. There are many examples, but one will stand for all:

You have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” (Rom 8:15).

God chose us, took us in, gave us his name, and made us his heirs. When a family today opens their home to a child who has no one, they are acting in a way that resembles the gospel more than almost anything else in everyday life. That love is given freely, not out of obligation. It creates a new family that is not biological but chosen. Adoptive love is grace made visible in a spare bedroom and a new last name.

All Things From God

To circle back to where we began, Paul concludes his aside with a phrase that grounds everything:

All things are from God (1 Cor 11:12).

If you were raised by a mother who loved you, you benefited from something that God embedded into the fabric of creation itself. That love was not accidental. It was not merely the result of instinct or cultural habits. It was, even in a limited and imperfect form, a reflection of God’s love, who himself, in the words of Isaiah, comforts his people as a mother comforts her child (Isa 66:13).

If you had a mother who did not love you well, is gone, or whom you are grieving today, you are not outside this story. The ache you feel is a witness to what motherly love is meant to be. And the God who designed that love became the child of a woman so that he could become the Father of the fatherless and motherless and the comforter of all who mourn.

A Vocation, Not a Sentiment

What I take from this story, the story of motherhood and the redemption of the world, is that motherhood is not a Hallmark category. It is a vocation, a calling. It demands something from us. It takes courage. It challenges empires by refusing to let children perish. It stands at crosses when everyone else has fled. It opens homes to children who have no place of their own.

So this Mother’s Day, whether you are a biological mother, an adoptive mother, a spiritual mother, an aunt, a grandmother, or a mentor, please remember that you are part of something God has been doing since the garden. You are pushing back the curse. You are bringing life in the face of death. You are keeping the story going.

And for those who have been touched by a mother’s love, in whatever form it came, take a moment today to accept that love for what it truly is: not just kindness, not just instinct, but a costly and irreplaceable reflection of the love of the God who created you, redeemed you, and has adopted you as his own child.

Paul says that all things are from God, to which we say, “Yes, and especially our mothers.”

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Opening Prayer

Heavenly Father, we gather today with gratitude for the gift of mothers and the love they embody. As we open your Word together, we ask that you prepare our hearts to receive what you want to teach us through this discussion. Help us stay open to your Spirit’s guidance and to recognize your hand at work in the stories of the faithful women who came before us. May our time together strengthen our connection to you and to each other. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one of your favorite memories involving your mother, grandmother, or a mother figure in your life?

Discussion Questions

1. Eve’s name is given after the fall, which means Adam names her “Life” at the very moment death has entered the world. How does reading her name as an act of defiant hope change your understanding of her role in the history of redemption?

2. Scripture returns repeatedly to the pattern of barren wombs and unexpected life—Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth among them. Where else do you notice this pattern of God bringing life from barrenness, either in Scripture or in your own experience?

3. Moses’ mother and Pharaoh’s daughter defy Pharaoh’s order without giving any speech or detailed reasons. The text simply shows them acting. What does their example suggest about standing up for life, and what does the lack of explanation add to the strength of the story?

4. Hannah’s prayer is so intense and silent that Eli mistakes her for a drunk woman. What does her example teach us about fervent, desperate prayer? Have you ever experienced or witnessed that kind of earnest prayer?

5. Mary’s song echoes Hannah’s and reinterprets the birth of her son as a political and cosmic event rather than just a personal one. What does the Magnificat reveal about God’s character and the kind of work he does in history?

6. Mary stands at the cross when most of the disciples have fled. Simeon had warned her from the beginning that a sword would pierce her soul. What does her presence there say about the nature of love when it becomes costly, and how might that speak to your own life?

7. How does the concept of adoption—chosen family, given name, shared inheritance—deepen your understanding of what God has done for his people?

8. For those who have not experienced the warmth of good motherly love, what does it mean that God himself is described in Isaiah as one who comforts his people as a mother comforts her child? How does that promise go beyond just being sentimental?

Life Application

This week, reach out to a mother figure in your life—whether it’s your biological mother, adoptive mother, spiritual mentor, or someone who has shown you motherly care—and express specific gratitude for how their love has reflected God’s love to you. If that person is no longer living, spend time in prayer thanking God for their influence and asking him to help you show that same kind of life-giving love to others.

Key Takeaways

• Motherhood is woven into God’s redemptive plan from the very beginning, with Eve being called ‘life’ as an act of hope after the fall.

• God often works through unlikely situations, including barren wombs, to show his power to bring life where it appears there is none.

• Motherhood requires bravery and resilience against forces of death and empire, as exemplified by the actions of Moses’ mother, Pharaoh’s daughter, and Mary.

• The concept of motherhood goes beyond biology to include adoption and spiritual mothering, reflecting God’s own loving adoptive nature for his people.

• Motherly love is costly and doesn’t end when circumstances become difficult, as demonstrated by Mary standing at the cross where ‘a sword pierced her soul.’

Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, we thank you for the gift of mothers and for all who have shown us motherly love. We praise you for including motherhood in your story of redemption, from Eve to Mary and beyond. Help us see your love reflected in the sacrificial love of mothers, and give us courage to be life-giving in our own spheres of influence. For those among us grieving the loss of a mother or carrying wounds from difficult relationships, we ask for your comfort and healing. Deepen in us all an understanding of your adopting love that makes us your children, through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Introduction

I want to achieve two things in this sermon, and for clarity, I will state them from the beginning.

First, I am increasingly convinced that the Christian religion, as it is practiced today in many, if not most, churches, differs significantly from the Christian faith described in the New Testament. We have replaced a person with a book, and I want to show that the book itself often, if not always, points you away from the book and toward the person of Jesus Christ.

Second, I want to share a biblical-theological perspective on the Eucharist so that we can develop a deeper appreciation for this meal we Anglicans (and many others) share every week.

The Religion of the New Testament

To reiterate what I’ve said before, the Christian religion, as it is presented in the New Testament, is not about a book. At the Great Commission, Jesus does not say, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to the books you all are going to write. Go therefore, write those books, and make disciples based on them.” Jesus says:

“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you” (Matt 28:18–20, ESV).

The book of Hebrews, in its stunning introduction, does not say, “Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his apostles.” No. It states:

Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son (Heb 1:1–2).

These are just two examples, and I could continue, but the claim of the New Testament is not, “God’s going to write some books and letters through the Apostles, and you all had better pay attention to them.” The claim of the New Testament is that in these last days God has spoken to us in his Son. In this Son, “the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (Col 1:19), and he is “the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature” (Heb 1:3). To have seen Jesus was to have seen the Father (John 14:9).

While these examples influenced my thinking that the New Testament points away from itself to Christ,1 nothing in the New Testament was more eye-opening for me in this regard than the appearance of the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus.

The Road to Emmaus

To save time, I’ll summarize what happens. On the day of the resurrection, Jesus meets two disciples who are walking to Emmaus, but they don’t recognize him. That’s important.

As they walk with Jesus, the two disciples keep discussing what has happened in Jerusalem over the past three days. When Jesus overhears their conversation, he asks what they’re talking about. Cleopas answers:

“Are you the only visitor to Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?” (Luke 24:18)

The question is loaded with irony, of course, because Jesus is the one to whom all of these things have happened. Jesus doubles down on the ruse and replies:

“What things?” (Luke 24:19)

They reply and tell him that they are talking about Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet mighty in word and deed, who was condemned to death by the chief priests and rulers and was crucified. Then they add:

“But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” (Luke 24:21)

For those first disciples, the death of Jesus was a tragedy. They knew he was a prophet. They thought he was the Messiah. They thought he would be the one to redeem Israel. But he died, and for them in that moment, it meant the story had come to a sudden and tragic conclusion.

They do note that it has been three days since the crucifixion, and some women went to the tomb early in the morning. They didn’t find the body and instead claimed to have seen a vision of angels saying that Jesus was alive. These two disciples clearly don’t believe that testimony, because if they did, they wouldn’t be leaving Jerusalem. If they truly thought Jesus was alive, they would have stayed right there in the city, waiting to see him. But they’re heading home.

And Jesus responds:

“O foolish ones, and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things and enter into his glory?” And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself (Luke 24:25–27).

Call it a sermon, a Bible study, or whatever you prefer. I am certain that no one has ever opened the Bible and explained its meaning better than Jesus does at this moment. The risen Christ is standing there with them, opening up the word of God better than anyone has ever done in the history of humanity.

And guess what happens?

Nothing.

Nothing happens.

Later, the disciples will say that during this moment their hearts “burned within them” (Luke 24:32), so perhaps something is stirring. But importantly, even after he opens the Scriptures to them, the two disciples still don’t recognize Jesus. The risen Christ is standing right there with them, and they still cannot see him for who he is.

Thanks be to God, the story doesn’t end there. They keep walking, and eventually Jesus and the two disciples sit down and share a meal.

When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them (Luke 24:30).

Took, blessed, broke, gave.

The same actions Jesus performed in the Upper Room on the night he was betrayed.

And the very next words of Luke’s Gospel say:

And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him (Luke 24:31).

Their eyes were opened.

If you know your biblical theology, you can hear what is happening in that language. Just as the people of Israel, these disciples have not had eyes to see, ears to hear, or hearts to understand. But in this moment, in the breaking of the bread, their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.

A bit later, these disciples meet the other disciples and share their experience on the road to Emmaus. Luke summarizes what they reported like this:

Then they told what had happened on the road, and how (Luke 24:35, NRSV).

So let me ask you.

The disciples didn’t say they recognized him as he opened the Scriptures, even though he gave them the finest sermon ever preached. They say he was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

This passage is why, as much as I love and reverence the Bible and want to teach it to anyone willing to listen to me, this church will never be merely a “people of the book,” because the book points me to a person, and the book tells me that that person is made known in the breaking of the bread and not in the Scriptures alone, even if Christ himself is the one opening and explaining them.

To be clear, that is not to say the book is unimportant, far from it. But the book only gives you knowledge of Jesus in the way we might know about other historical figures. Knowing someone, however, is different than having knowledge about them. The book gives you knowledge. The table, the breaking of the bread, invites you to share your life with Christ, to take his life inside you, and to know him, not just know about him.

Knowing Him in the Breaking of Bread

All of the Gospels, each in its own way, claim that the fullest revelation of God to the world was in the person of Jesus Christ. That revelation becomes clearest not at Christmas or even at Easter, but on Good Friday. The God who created heaven and earth is most vividly and authentically revealed as Jesus Christ dies on a Roman cross outside the city.

And when Jesus wanted to help his disciples understand what was going to happen to him on Good Friday, he didn’t launch into a doctrinal exposition or start rattling off atonement theories. What he gave them was a meal, a meal that, to be abundantly clear, was loaded with theological context, but it was still a meal, not a theological treatise.

So then, how is Christ made known in this meal? What follows is only scratching the surface.2

First, Christ is made known in this meal because it is a Passover meal, and he is our true Passover lamb. This meal reminds us that those marked by his blood as his people will be “passed over” when judgment comes. Because of what Christ has done, on the last great day, we will be saved from death just as he was.

Second, Christ is made known in this meal because, until the day he comes again, it perpetually proclaims his death in the world in which he has risen from the dead. Paul writes:

For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes (1 Cor 11:26).

Notice the wording: not “his death,” but “the Lord’s death.” Through this meal, we proclaim not only that Jesus has died, but that he is Lord of heaven and earth. And if he has died, how could he come again? Unless, of course, death could not hold him, and he is alive forevermore. This meal makes Christ known to us because it perpetually proclaims that the Lord of heaven and earth has died, is risen, and will come again.

Third, Christ is made known in this meal because this meal is his body and blood. Jesus says as much, and Paul repeats it. We don’t have to know how it becomes his body and blood, and I suggest we shouldn’t try to guess. There is no need to import Aristotelian metaphysics to understand what is happening in the Eucharist. Whatever is happening occurs by the power of the Holy Spirit as an act of participation in the life of Christ. Paul writes:

The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a participation in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a participation in the body of Christ? (1 Cor 10:16).

Sharing in this meal is to participate in Jesus’ body and blood, which should come as no surprise since Jesus himself said:

I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh (John 6:48–51).

Fourth, Christ is made known in this meal because to make bread and wine, grapes must be crushed, and wheat must be broken. Notice again what the disciples say:

Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he was known to them in the breaking of the bread (Luke 24:35).

It’s not the meal itself; it’s the breaking. To make the meal, grapes and wheat must be broken and crushed. To dispense bread from a loaf, it must be broken into pieces. We are reenacting that crushing. Every time we crush grapes to make wine, every time we break wheat down to make bread, every time we fracture a loaf to serve it to his people, we are saying that we cannot know Jesus without remembering that:

He was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed (Isa 53:5).

And what more shall I say, for time would fail me to tell of Melchizedek, manna, the Bread of the Presence, the Messianic Banquet, the Isaianic feast in which death is swallowed up forever, and our Lord standing at the door waiting for his people to knock so he can open it, invite them in, and share table fellowship with him. And I haven’t even begun to speak of how the Eucharist, if it truly is what we believe it to be, serves as proof that the things of this world can be filled with the glory and presence of God without being destroyed or consumed. Every Sunday, the new creation sits right there on the table. And then you take that new creation, make it part of you, let it energize you, and then you are sent back out into the world.

Conclusion

All of this is to say that this meal, for all these reasons and more, is where our Lord is made known to his people. But what you’ll notice, I hope, is that I’ve explained how Jesus is made known by pointing back to Scripture again and again. Scripture gives us context. Scripture offers us theology. Scripture presents models. Scripture provides information, and you cannot truly claim to know someone unless you know something about them. But that knowledge, as valuable as it is, is not the same as really knowing someone and participating in their life.

So let us thank God for Scripture. When we read and study it, as we absolutely should, our hearts burn within us. There is truth in the book that calls out to us. But that burning only gets us so far.

The opened and declared word of God is always pointing us to a person.

And as the Scripture says, that person is made known in the breaking of the bread, so let us keep the feast.

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Intro Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather today, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to what you want to teach us. We admit that it’s easy to know about Jesus without truly knowing him. As we discuss your Word, draw us beyond just information and into participation. May your Holy Spirit be present in this conversation, and may our eyes be opened to see Jesus in new ways. In his name, we pray, Amen.

Ice Breaker

Think of someone you know well, not just know about. What is the difference between what you could learn about them from reading their biography and what you actually know because you’ve shared life with them?

Questions

1. In the Emmaus story, the disciples walk and talk with Jesus for miles while he explains the Scriptures to them, and they still don’t recognize him. What does that tell you about the limits of biblical explanation on its own?

2. The sermon argues that many churches have replaced a person with a book. What does that look like in practice? Do you agree?

3. What’s the difference between knowing about Jesus and truly knowing him? Where do you feel that gap most in your own life?

4. Paul writes that we proclaim “the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Cor 11:26). The text doesn’t say “his death” but “the Lord’s death.” What does that title add to what we’re declaring when we share this meal?

5. Paul describes the Eucharist as “participation” in the body and blood of Christ (1 Cor 10:16). What does participation suggest that mere remembrance does not?

6. Christ is made known in the breaking, not just the meal. Grapes are crushed. Wheat is ground. Bread is torn. How does that imagery influence how you receive communion?

7. How do Scripture and the Eucharist complement each other? What does each provide that the other cannot?

Life Application

Before you receive communion this week, pause for a moment and think about what you are really doing. You’re not just remembering a past event. You are declaring that the Lord of heaven and earth died, rose, and is coming again. You are participating in his body and blood. Ask yourself: what would it look like to bring that awareness to the table, and to carry it with you when you leave?

Key Takeaways

• The Christian faith is not primarily about a book; it is about a person to whom the book points.

• Even Jesus’ own exposition of Scripture did not open the disciples’ eyes. They recognized him in the breaking of the bread.

• The Eucharist makes Christ known as our Passover lamb, proclaims his death and lordship, allows us to participate in his body and blood, and reenacts the crushing and breaking by which he gave his life for the world.

• Scripture gives us knowledge of Jesus. The table invites us to share life with him.

• The two are not in competition. Scripture points us to the person, and the person is made known in the breaking of the bread.

Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, thank you for revealing yourself to us through your Word and at your table. Keep us from being content with just knowing about Jesus when you are inviting us to know him truly. As we leave this place, may the Scriptures burn in our hearts, and may our eyes be open to see him in the breaking of the bread. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

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Introduction

As I was preparing for the homiletical challenge that is Holy Week, a couple of themes kept standing out to me—both in the Passion narrative and in the resurrection appearances—as things I wanted to address and connect the dots on, but the sermons I was preaching didn’t seem like the right place for them. So I want to do some of that here.

The first is a theme that runs throughout every resurrection appearance in every Gospel: doubt. It isn’t just Thomas who doubts. We’ll look at this in some detail, but what struck me is how remarkable some of these moments of doubt actually are. In one account, Jesus is physically standing before his disciples, yet the text still says that some doubted.

I think the doubt creeps in and surprises us, maybe a little bit, because we don’t really feel the full weight of Good Friday, especially from the perspective of Jesus’s first disciples. We feel the weight of Good Friday retrospectively. We are thankful for our Savior and horrified by what he suffered on our behalf. So we do feel that weight, but we’re looking backward.

Try imagining being in that moment. Try imagining being one of Jesus’ first disciples. You’ve followed Jesus for years and left everything to do so. You hope, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, that he will “be the one to redeem Israel.” You know the Isaianic promises. You know the Danielic timetable. You’ve heard him say that the time is fulfilled, that the kingdom of God is at hand. You’ve seen him perform healing miracles. You’ve seen him perform feeding miracles. You’ve seen him have power over the wind and the waves. You’ve even seen him raise the dead. And then … the Roman Empire did what empires do. They killed him. And with his death, all your hopes and dreams came to a sudden, catastrophic end.

Failed Messiahs

What should have happened after Jesus died is that every one of his disciples should have just dispersed and gone their own way. We know this because when Jesus died on Good Friday, it wasn’t the first or last time a messianic claimant had succumbed to the power of Rome. Simon of Peraea proclaimed himself king after the death of Herod and was hunted down and beheaded by Roman forces around 4 BC. Theudas led his followers to the Jordan River, promising to part it like a new Joshua, and the procurator Fadus had him beheaded around 44 AD.

In 56 AD, a figure known only as the Egyptian led thousands to the Mount of Olives, promising the walls of Jerusalem would fall at his command; Roman forces killed or scattered his followers, and he vanished. In 70 AD, Simon bar Giora led the Jewish revolt against Rome. When Jerusalem fell, he was marched through the streets of Rome and publicly executed as the capstone of Titus’s triumphal procession. And sixty-five years later, at the effective end of Second Temple Judaism, Bar Kokhba, hailed as the Messiah by Rabbi Akiva himself, died fighting Rome at the Battle of Betar in 135 AD.

In all these cases, the pattern is consistent and without exception. When the leader died, the movement ended. His followers dispersed. Nobody went home and claimed the dead leader had risen from the grave. Nobody continued to proclaim that the leader was alive and reigning at the right hand of God. That idea — that a would-be Messiah executed by Rome had risen bodily from the dead in the middle of history — would have been absurd to anyone in the first century. Even if you were a Jew who believed in resurrection, that was a corporate event that would occur at the end of the age for all the faithful. The idea of individual, bodily resurrection in the middle of history was unthinkable, or maybe better, unbelievable. When Jesus died, what his disciples must have thought was: it’s over. We put our hope in him. We thought he was the one, and now it’s over.

The Doubting Disciples

This historical context makes clear why, despite Jesus’ clear claim that he would die and rise again on the third day, his disciples appear to have doubted the claims of others that he had in fact risen from the dead. In John 20, we have the famous “Doubting Thomas” episode that everyone knows. But Thomas isn’t unique in his doubt. This theme runs throughout the post-Easter scenes.

When the women returned from the empty tomb and reported what they had seen, Luke tells us that the disciples considered their testimony “an idle tale, and they did not believe them” (Luke 24:11 ESV). On the road to Emmaus, two disciples discuss the reports of resurrection with the risen Jesus himself walking beside them, and they remain unconvinced — and so Jesus calls them foolish and slow of heart to believe. When Jesus appears to the disciples in Luke 24, they think he is a ghost. He has to show them his hands and feet and ask for something to eat, and Luke says they still “disbelieved for joy” (Luke 24:41) — a remarkable phrase that suggests the news was too good, too impossible, to process.

Matthew describes a resurrection appearance in Galilee in which Jesus is physically present before the eleven, and the text plainly states that “some doubted” (Matt 28:17). Matthew is not saying that some had doubted beforehand and that, now, that doubt has disappeared. He is saying that, right there in that moment, even while Jesus is physically standing in their presence, some still doubted. Even Mary Magdalene, the first to witness the empty tomb, assumes the body has been stolen and initially mistakes the risen Jesus for a gardener until he speaks her name.

The doubt runs through every account, in every Gospel, among every category of witness. Thomas’s doubt is not the exception; it’s part of the pattern.

The Claim No One Expected

I say all of this so that we can be unambiguous about what Jesus’s first disciples claimed about the resurrection. From a historical perspective, Jesus’ death was not unique. Jesus was just one of several messianic upstarts that Rome dealt with the way that Rome does. But where Jesus is absolutely historically unique is in the claims that his doubting disciples made about what happened after he died. They didn’t say that Jesus had been raised spiritually to the right hand of God. They didn’t say that he lived on in their hearts. They didn’t say that they were going to keep him alive by furthering the movement he had started. If any of that had been what the early Christians wanted to say, there was no reason for doubt. The doubt only arises when they make the impossible claim that the one who died is bodily, physically alive again.

They claimed, unlike any of the followers of the other would-be messiahs put to death by Rome, that Jesus was alive bodily. Look at what Peter says in Acts 2. His argument is stunning:

“Men of Israel, hear these words: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with mighty works and wonders and signs that God did through him in your midst, as you yourselves know — this Jesus, delivered up according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of lawless men. God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for him to be held by it” (Acts 2:22–24).

And then, as if he wants to drive the point home, Peter quotes Psalm 16, where David says, “You will not abandon my soul to Hades, or let your Holy One see corruption.”

Then Peter says:

“Brothers, I may say to you with confidence about the patriarch David that he both died and was buried, and his tomb is with us to this day” (Acts 2:29).

That’s the claim. David’s tomb is still occupied. Jesus’s tomb is empty because God raised him from the dead. The claim was so outrageous that even the disciples didn’t believe it at first, even though Jesus had told them plainly what would happen. When he tried to communicate it to them, they rebuked him. They tried to figure out what he really meant by saying he would die and rise again on the third day. Even when he told them plainly, they didn’t have the mental categories to understand what he was telling them. And frankly, I don’t think we have the mental categories today to understand this incredible event fully.

The Posture of Faith

All of this means there is room for doubt in the Christian life. The claim we make about Jesus is historically incredible. It is, by any ordinary measure, the most unbelievable thing anyone has ever asserted about something that happened in human history. And we believe it not because we have seen it with our own eyes but because we trust the testimony of those who did. That’s faith.

The disciples didn’t believe it until they saw him. Thomas didn’t believe it until Jesus stood before him and invited him to place his fingers in the wounds. Thomas said, “I will never believe.” Notice what Jesus does not do. He does not rebuke Thomas. He does not shame him for his doubt. He returns specifically for Thomas, stands before him, and gives him exactly what he needs to move from unbelief to belief. And what Thomas does in that moment is fall to his knees and make the greatest Christological confession in John’s Gospel: “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28). The man we remember for his doubt is the first person in John’s Gospel to say out loud what John has been arguing from the very first verse.

And then Jesus says something truly remarkable, something that reaches straight past Thomas to every generation that has ever come after him:

“Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29).

That is us. On this side of the Second Coming, we will never see Jesus the way Thomas saw him. We were not there in that room. We will never touch the wounds.

We believe because the apostles testified, because the Church has carried that testimony across two thousand years, and because, by the grace of God, that testimony has found us here, in this room, on this Sunday. That belief is not a lesser form of faith. Jesus calls it blessed.

Peter understood this. That first chapter of his first epistle is extraordinary, and I regret that it doesn’t come around in the lectionary more often. Peter is writing to communities who have never seen Jesus bodily, who are suffering for their faith, who have every reason to abandon the claim as too costly and too incredible. He doesn’t tell them to try harder or to stop doubting. He marvels at what he sees in them:

“Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory” (1 Pet 1:8).

To love someone you have never seen. To trust a testimony about the most unbelievable event in human history. To keep believing in the face of suffering and doubt and the ordinary grinding difficulty of everyday life. Peter treats that not as the bare minimum of Christian faith but as something extraordinary, something commendable, something to be awed at.

So if you are here today carrying doubt, if you are feeling the weight of the world and wondering whether any of this is really true, you are in good company. The disciples doubted. Thomas doubted. The claim is genuinely incredible, and faith in it is not always easy or settled.

And it’s no good pretending that it is.

What matters is that you are here. What matters is that you have not walked away from the testimony. The disciples who doubted were the same disciples who eventually fell to their knees before the risen Christ. Doubt is not the end of the story. For Thomas, it was the beginning of the deepest, truest confession he ever made.

To believe this outrageous, historically incredible claim without having seen him, to love him without having seen him, to gather and worship him without having seen him — is not a deficiency. It is not second-rate faith. It is not a consolation prize for people who came into the world just a bit too late.

It is faith that comes as a gift from the God who raised Jesus from the dead and poured his Spirit into us. And that faith, Jesus says, is not in vain.

Jesus calls it blessed.

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Intro Prayer

Lord Jesus, we come to you with our questions and our doubts, our settled convictions and our uncertainties. Thank you for not shaming Thomas for his doubt, but for coming back specifically for him. As we open your word together, give us the honesty to wrestle with what we actually believe and why, and the faith to trust the testimony of those who saw you face to face. Amen.

Ice Breaker

Has there been a moment when something you were told turned out to be far more extraordinary than you had imagined? What was it like to realize the full weight of it?

Questions

1. Fr. Michael argues that the doubt in the resurrection accounts is not incidental but structural: it runs through every Gospel, among every category of witness. Why does that matter? What would we lose if the disciples had believed immediately and without question?

2. The disciples had heard Jesus say plainly that he would die and rise on the third day. And yet they still doubted. What does that tell us about the nature of the claim he was making, and about the limits of our mental categories for understanding it?

3. Luke says the disciples “disbelieved for joy.” What does that phrase open up? Have you ever found yourself unable to receive something because it was too good to process?

4. The historical pattern is consistent: when the messianic leader died, the movement collapsed. No one went home and claimed the dead leader had risen bodily. What does it tell us that the disciples, who had every cultural and historical reason to give up, made exactly that claim, even though they initially didn’t believe it themselves?

5. Peter’s argument in Acts 2 turns on a single contrast: David’s tomb is occupied, Jesus’s tomb is empty. How does that contrast function as an argument? Why does the bodily resurrection matter? Why wouldn’t a spiritual resurrection have been enough?

6. Thomas said, “I will never believe,” and Jesus came back specifically for him. Jesus does not rebuke him or shame him. What does that tell us about how Jesus handles doubt? What does it tell us about what Jesus wants from Thomas, and from us?

7. Jesus says those who believe without seeing are blessed. Peter, writing to people who have never seen Jesus, seems to marvel that they love him anyway. Do you experience your faith as something extraordinary, or has it become ordinary? What would it take to feel the weight of what it means to trust a two-thousand-year-old testimony?

8. Fr. Michael ends by saying that faith is not something we generate but something we receive as a gift. What difference does that make for how we relate to our own doubts and struggles?

Life Application

Identify one area of genuine doubt or uncertainty in your faith and bring it into the open this week, in prayer, in a conversation with someone you trust, or in a journal. The disciples who doubted were the same disciples who fell to their knees before the risen Christ. Doubt is not the end of the story. Treat it as the beginning of a question worth asking honestly.

Key Takeaways

• Doubt in the resurrection appearances is not the exception. It runs through every account, in every Gospel, among every category of witness.

• The claim the disciples made, bodily resurrection in the middle of history, had no precedent and no category. Even they didn’t believe it at first.

• The historical pattern of failed messianic movements makes the disciples’ testimony more credible, not less. They had every reason to go home. They didn’t.

• Jesus does not shame Thomas for his doubt. He comes back specifically for him and gives him exactly what he needs.

• Believing without seeing is not second-rate faith. Jesus calls it blessed. Peter treats it as something extraordinary.

• Faith is not something we produce. It is a gift from the God who raised Jesus from the dead and poured his Spirit into us.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, you are the one who came back for Thomas. You are the one Peter’s communities loved without having seen. You are the one this testimony has been carrying across two thousand years, and by your grace, it has found us here. We confess that we have not seen you, that faith is not always easy or settled, and that we do not always know what to do with our doubts. Meet us in them. Give us what we cannot produce on our own. And let the faith you give us be the beginning of the deepest confession we have ever made. Amen.

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This sermon is from our first-ever bilingual service. Fr. Luis Diaz had a translated copy and would read that copy after each paragraph. The video above is from the English-only Easter service. The video at the end of the sermon is from the bilingual service.

Introduction

With the resurrection of Jesus Christ, a new world has begun. Let’s be clear. That is the claim the New Testament makes about the first Easter Sunday.

The importance of Easter isn’t just that someone who had died came back to life. If that were the case, there are other stories in the Bible about people who died and then lived again, like Lazarus, who could be celebrated today. Jesus’ resurrection is not the only story in the Bible where someone who died comes back to life. But Jesus’s resurrection is different. When Jesus rose from the dead, something new happened. On that first Easter, the world changed in ways nobody could have predicted.

There are at least two ways to talk about that new world that burst forth from the empty tomb on Easter morning. First, we could speak of this age (the age in which we all live) and the age to come. With Easter, God’s future (the age to come) has come bursting into our present age. Second, we could discuss the first creation and the new creation. That’s the direction that our Gospel reading points us toward this morning.

The New Creation and Its Gardener

The words “new creation” aren’t in the text itself, but the concept is everywhere. Parts of the story of Genesis 1 are being retold in fresh and surprising ways because God is, starting on that first Easter morning, creating a new world.

Notice, for example, that the resurrection takes place “On the first day of the week.”

Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb (John 20:1, ESV).

What was the state of the world at the start of the first day of creation? Genesis 1:2 states that the earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep.

When Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb on the first day of the week, the world is “still dark.” Jesus Christ is risen from the dead, the light of the world shines again, but neither Mary nor Peter nor John can see it yet.

Mary thinks someone has taken the body. Peter and John notice the linen cloths lying there, but:

as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead (John 20:9).

The disciples leave for their homes. Mary stays in the darkness, and she weeps there. That sorrow is where Jesus meets her.

But at first, she still doesn’t recognize him. And John then notes what appears to be a strange detail.

Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away” (John 20:15).

A gardener? John has already mentioned not only that Jesus was arrested in a garden (18:1), but also that he was buried in one (19:41).

Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been laid (John 19:41).

Let that sink in. The resurrection of Jesus Christ occurred in a garden on the first day of the week, while the world was still in darkness, and in that context, Jesus is mistaken for a gardener.

Who was the one, way back in Genesis, commanded to care for the Garden of Eden? In other words, who was Eden’s gardener?

Adam.

Adam was commanded to tend and work in the garden, but he failed in his vocation. He lost everything. Mary stands in a garden on the first day of a new week of a new creation, looking at the last Adam, and she assumes he is the gardener. She is more correct than she realizes.

John does not rush to correct this misunderstanding because, at the story’s deeper level, it’s not really a mistake. The risen Christ has come as the true caretaker of God’s new creation, as the one who will restore and care for what Adam lost.

And just like in Genesis, God speaks again, not saying “Let there be light,” but simply calling her name, “Mary.” And immediately she recognized Jesus, and then she went and told the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

The Gardener’s Voice

In Simply Christian, N. T. Wright writes about “echoes of a voice,” universal human longings that haunt us and point beyond ourselves, like hearing a voice just around the corner that you can’t quite find or finding a broken signpost pointing out into the mist. For all of Holy Week, I’ve been talking about these signposts.

Wright’s point is that all human beings possess a longing that we can’t quite name. We sense that love ought to win, even though hate so often flourishes. We sense that beauty means something, even if we struggle to define it, and even if it ultimately fades. We sense that we were made for community, even though we so often fracture our relationships. We sense that justice should prevail, even though it is so often denied to those who need it most.

These longings come to us like an echo of a voice we have never heard directly, like broken signposts pointing into a mist our eyes cannot quite penetrate.

But what happens when, on Easter morning, the Second Adam walks out of the mist? What occurs when our risen Lord emerges from the darkness of death, comes from around the corner, surprises us, and calls us by name?

In that moment, the echoes give way to the one whose voice we have finally heard, and the broken signposts give way to the one to whom they had always been pointing. In that moment, we meet the one for whom our hearts have always longed. We recognize him, and like Mary, we go and tell others.

That is Easter: not merely a doctrine to believe, but the living truth behind every longing for community, every ache for justice, every act of selfless love, and every moment of beauty that has ever made you wonder if there is more to the world than it seems. That voice belongs to one man. He was dead, but now he is alive forever, and he is calling you by name.

Sent by the Gardener

Mary recognizes the voice speaking to her, and then Jesus sends her.

“Go to my brothers,” he says (John 20:17). She goes and delivers the first Easter sermon ever preached. It is short, direct, and gets right to the point:

Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord” (John 20:18).

The resurrection sends us out. Easter is not just for standing at the empty tomb and celebrating. As those whom our risen Lord has called by name and as those who have heard his risen voice, we are sent back into a world still listening to echoes and staring at signposts and wondering what they might mean. That “sending out” is our vocation.

Our mission is not to prove our intellectual superiority with clever arguments, nor to condemn the world with our self-righteousness. Rather, we are called to live in such a way that, by our words and deeds, the echoes grow louder and louder until the people around us begin to suspect the voice is real and realize that Jesus is calling them by name, too.

The tomb is empty. The new creation has begun. The gardener is alive, and he is calling you by name.

Go and tell the whole world.

Amen.

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Below is a discussion guide for small groups or Sunday school classes based on this week’s Easter sermon, “The Gardener’s Voice.” The questions are designed to start with the text and then explore broader ideas—what John is doing in the story, what it means that Jesus calls us by name, and what it looks like to be sent out like Mary was. If you find it helpful, feel free to share it. It’s available for anyone who wants to use it.

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Life Group Discussion Guide

Opening Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ, you called Mary by name in the garden, and she recognized you. Quiet us now so that we might hear your voice as we open your Word together. Give us ears to understand what the text is doing and the courage to be sent by what we find. Amen.

Ice Breaker

Is there a moment in your life when something you had long hoped for or sensed was true finally became clear? What was that like?

Discussion Questions

1. The sermon argues that the resurrection is the beginning of a new creation, not just a resuscitation. What details in John 20 point toward that claim? What would be lost if we read it as only the latter?

2. John does not correct Mary’s assumption that Jesus is the gardener because, at the story’s deeper level, it is not a mistake. What does it mean that Jesus is the true gardener, the last Adam? What did Adam lose that Jesus has come to restore?

3. N. T. Wright describes universal human longings for love, beauty, justice, and community as “echoes of a voice” and broken signposts pointing into a mist. Do you find that description accurate to your own experience? Which of those longings do you feel most acutely?

4. The sermon says that when the risen Christ calls us by name, the echoes give way to the voice itself, and the signposts give way to the one to whom they had always been pointing. What does it mean for those longings to be fulfilled rather than explained?

5. Mary’s first Easter sermon is brief: “I have seen the Lord.” Why is personal testimony, rather than argument, the form that Easter proclamation takes?

6. The sermon distinguishes between proving intellectual superiority and living in such a way that the echoes grow louder for the people around us. What does the second posture actually look like in practice?

7. Easter is described as a sending, not merely a celebration. How does that shift the way you think about what you do with the rest of the week?

Life Application

Identify one person in your life who seems to be listening to echoes, someone who senses that love should win, that beauty means something, that justice matters, but who has not yet heard whose voice is behind those longings. Pray for them by name this week, and ask God for one concrete opportunity, in word or deed, to make the echo a little louder.

Closing Prayer

Risen Lord, you called Mary by name and sent her to tell the world. You call us by name and send us the same way. Give us the courage to go. Make us the kind of people in whose words and lives the echoes grow louder, until the people around us begin to suspect the voice is real. The tomb is empty. The new creation has begun. Send us out to say so. Amen.

The Darkness

The Easter Vigil begins in darkness.

We gather outside around a new fire, carry its light with us into the sanctuary, and then sit and listen to ancient texts that remind us of the story of our salvation.

Creation. The fall. The flood. A burning bush. An army swallowed by the sea. A valley of dry bones. Three men in a furnace. A man in the belly of a great fish. Tonight, while the world is still dark, we have been listening to the long story of God and his world, and now we have arrived at last at the empty tomb.

But before we talk about the meaning of the empty tomb, I want us to think for a moment about the darkness that still surrounds us. That darkness has been lingering with us since Good Friday.

On Friday night, we stood at the foot of the cross and watched everything that matters in this world fail all at once. Justice was bent and broken. Beauty was turned into mockery. Freedom was denied as an innocent man was nailed to a tree. Truth was swallowed by imperial power. Power that was meant to defend and uplift the lowly crushed the one who had humbled himself as a servant. The one in whom heaven and earth met cried out in dereliction, feeling that he had been abandoned. And the one who had loved his own εἰς τέλος — all the way to the end — was abandoned by everyone he loved. Every broken signpost suddenly seemed to point to the same hill, the same cross, and the same man, and then he died. He was placed in a borrowed tomb, the stone was rolled in place, and that tomb, and the world along with it, went dark.

It is that darkness in which we started our service this evening, and that darkness still surrounds us now.

The darkness that begins on Good Friday, lingers through Holy Saturday, and is even here at the start of Easter, is the same darkness that was present before the world was ever made.

In the beginning, the earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And into that darkness, God spoke.

“Let there be light” (Gen 1:3).

On the first day of creation, God called light out of darkness. On the first day of the new creation, God speaks again, not with words, but with an act so powerful that the earth shook, the stone rolled back, and the light of the world walked out of an empty tomb alive, never to die again.

The Light Shines Backward

The resurrection of Jesus Christ is the hinge on which all of history turns. And the light that came from that empty tomb does something remarkable: it shines in both forward and backward at once.

When we stand at the empty tomb and turn to look backward, the first thing that we see is the cross. If Jesus is supposed to answer our deepest questions about God, then, looking on the cross from the darkness of Good Friday alone, Jesus’ death appears to be a devastating, silent non-answer. You can feel this in the words of the disciples on the road to Emmaus. They have no hope. No joy. Only darkness. They say of Jesus that he was “a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people,” but the “chief priests and rulers delivered him up to be condemned to death, and crucified him.” And then they add, “And now we’re just waiting for him to rise from the dead, just like he said!”

No. They say, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” We had hoped, but the crucifixion put an end to that hope. In the darkness of Good Friday, the hopes and fears of all the years come crashing down against the might of an imperial cross.

But when Easter light shines in that darkness, something changes. What looked like defeat becomes victory. What looked like abandonment becomes oneness with the Father. What was an instrument of brutal death and torture becomes a symbol of life — eternal, resurrected life.

When the Easter light shines further back into the history past the cross of Jesus Christ, we begin to see that all of redemptive history, like the broken signposts, has always been pointing to Jesus Christ, even though we couldn’t see it until the light of the empty tomb shone backward into human history.

In Genesis 1 and 2, God creates the world and humanity, yet a divide remains between creator and creature. In the Incarnation, God becomes a human being, crossing that divide to be one with us. But when Jesus dies, he surrenders his Spirit to the Father. At that moment, the Incarnation could have been over. It would have been. If Plato had had his way, the Second Person of the Trinity could have left his body behind, returned to heaven as a spirit, and left the divide between God and humans in place forever. But the resurrection of Jesus Christ affirms the goodness of the world that God made, the goodness of the human body that God made, and the permanence of God’s union with humanity. He will forever be with us.

In Genesis 3, humanity is placed under the curse, begins to die, and is exiled from the Garden, the tree of life, and the presence of God. When Jesus Christ rises from the dead in a garden, he affirms that death no longer gets the last word in the story of our lives, that the curse is at last coming undone, and that he indeed intends to dwell with humanity forever.

Noah and Israel are both saved from water. Where they were spared the water, Christ went through it. Noah has the ark. Israel had dry land. But Christ was plunged into the depths of the water, as all human beings eventually are, and has come back out alive. Is it any wonder that Noah’s Ark and Israel’s crossing of the Red Sea are both signposts for Christian baptism?

In the marvel of the burning bush, we see that God can be present in the world, even as a blazing fire, and not consume his creation. God is present, but the bush is not destroyed. What God does in the bush, the resurrection affirms he will one day do for all the world.

Ezekiel envisions the long-awaited restoration of Israel and Judah as a valley of dry bones coming back to life. Resurrection was the metaphor of Israel’s restoration, but now, in the light of the empty tomb, the metaphor has become a reality, and it’s no longer just the hope of one family and one nation but the only hope of all the world.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are thrown into a furnace heated seven times hotter than normal. Nebuchadnezzar looks in and sees four men walking around unbound. The fourth, he says, is like a son of the gods. Three men went into the fire. Four are walking in it. The only things the fire destroyed were the ropes that bound them. In the light of Easter, we see that God does not rescue his people by keeping them out of the fire. Instead, he enters the fire with them. He is present with us in every darkness, every furnace, and every tomb. And when he walks out alive, he brings his people with him. The only things that do not survive God’s presence are the bonds that held and enslaved his people.

Then there is Jonah. Jonah is called to preach, but he runs in the opposite direction. The storm comes. He goes overboard. He goes down into the deep. Three days and three nights in darkness, in the belly of death. And then the fish vomits him onto dry land, and Jonah goes to Nineveh, and an entire city filled with enemies of the people of God repents. We do not have to guess what this story means. In the light of the empty tomb, Jesus tells us directly.

“For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth” (Matt 12:40).

The prophet who went down into the deep and came back up on the third day, who was then sent to preach to the nations — he was always pointing forward to the one who descended into death, rose on the third day, and then sends his people out to proclaim what God has done to the very ends of the earth. And yes, even to our enemies.

All these stories. All these rescues. They have always been pointing to Jesus, to his death and resurrection, in ways that no one could ever have imagined. But now, as the light of Easter shines backward into the pages of human history, we see he is where they have been pointing all along.

The Light Shines Forward

But the light of Easter does not only illuminate the past. It shines forward as well, and it gives us a new vocation.

Paul says it plainly in Romans 6:

Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life (Rom 6:3–4).

The resurrection of Jesus is not only something that happened to him. It is something that is happening in us and will one day happen to us bodily. The same Spirit that hovered over the waters in the beginning, the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead, now dwells in those who belong to him. The new creation that began on that first Easter morning is still, by the power of that same Spirit, breaking into this world, and we, the baptized Spirit-filled people of God, are its heralds and its agents.

You may have noticed last night that I referred to the broken signposts as “vocational signposts” — seven features of human life that every culture in every age reaches for but cannot quite grasp: justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, spirituality, and relationships. These broken signposts are not merely descriptions of what failed at the cross. That’s what we talked about on Good Friday. They are also descriptions of what the resurrection is in the process of repairing. And the Spirit of God, dwelling in the people of God, is the means by which that repair happens in the world. These signposts are also our vocation as resurrection people.

When we stand up for the innocent and fight for those to whom justice has been denied, we are not merely doing good deeds. We are making visible the God who vindicated the righteous sufferer of Psalm 22, who raised the just one condemned by an unjust world, who has promised to put all things right. We are living signposts of the resurrection.

When we create beauty — when we make art, tend gardens, sing well, build things worth looking at, and refuse to let ugliness have the final word — we are honoring the one through whose wounds a beauty has emerged that has been generating art and music and poetry for two thousand years. The resurrection does not despise the material world. It redeems it. And every act of genuine beauty is a testimony to the new creation already breaking into the present.

When we speak the truth at personal cost, when we refuse to let power define reality, when we live with integrity in a world of spin and half-truths, we are following the one who stood before Pilate and said that everyone who belongs to the truth listens to his voice. Truth is not merely a virtue. In the light of the resurrection, truth is an act of defiance against every empire and every corporation that has ever tried to make its own truth.

When we exercise power as service — when we lead by washing feet, when we spend ourselves for others rather than protecting ourselves, when we resist the seduction of dominance and choose the towel and the basin instead — we are embodying the kingdom that is not from this world, the kingdom whose king was enthroned on a cross and whose power death could not hold.

When we pray, when we worship, when we bring our darkness honestly before God rather than pretending it isn’t there, when we cry out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and trust that we will be heard — we are living at the intersection of heaven and earth, the place the resurrection has opened permanently for us and the Spirit now inhabits.

And when we love one another εἰς τέλος — all the way to the end, past the point where our love would naturally stop, through disappointment and betrayal and the sheer difficulty of other people — we are carrying into the world the love that went all the way to a cross and came back out of a tomb alive. We are witnesses that the last enemy of humanity shall be defeated, that death no longer writes the final word in the story of our lives, and that love, therefore, can afford to be as reckless and as costly as it wants to be.

In the light of the resurrection, all the broken signposts not only point to Christ, but they also point to our vocation in this world. To start the Easter service in the brightness of a new day is, symbolically, an act of over-realized eschatology. Christ has risen, but there is still darkness everywhere we look. The world is still full of broken signposts. Justice is still denied. Beauty still fades. Freedom is still elusive. Truth is still swallowed by power. Spirituality still reaches out for God but settles for cheap substitutes. Love still falters and fails.

But we are not people of the dark. The world is still sitting in the kind of darkness we gather in tonight. But we are the people of the resurrection, indwelt by the Spirit of the one who defeated death, and we are sent in his power to live in such a way that the broken signposts of this world begin to be repaired, one act of justice, one piece of beauty, one costly love at a time.

The light of the empty tomb does not merely comfort us. It sends us out into the darkness of the world with the light of Christ.

The Tomb is Empty

You can still visit Jesus’ tomb today, and, just as those first visitors did two thousand years ago, you will find it empty.

The Lord is risen, and in the light of that rising, everything looks different. The cross is not a tragedy but a victory. The broken signposts were not lies but merely needed to be seen from the other side. Darkness was not the end; the Light of the world has risen from the tomb.

Go from this place tonight, back into the darkness, and with your words and deeds, live as spirit-filled signposts, always pointing others back to your crucified and risen King.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Intro Prayer

Lord of light and life, thank you for the empty tomb and for an act so powerful that the earth shook and death lost its grip. As we open your word together, keep us from rushing past what this light in the darkness truly means. Give us eyes to see what the resurrection changes and ears to hear what it asks of us. Amen.

Ice Breaker

Has there been a moment in your life when something that looked like a dead end turned out to be a beginning? What was it?

Questions

1. Fr. Michael opens with the claim that the darkness of Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Vigil is the same darkness that preceded creation. What does it mean that God’s first act was to speak light into that darkness? What does it mean that he does it again at the resurrection?

2. The disciples on the road to Emmaus say “we had hoped.” The crucifixion had ended their hope. Have you ever been in a season where following Christ looked like defeat rather than a victory? What did the light of the resurrection change, if anything?

3. Fr. Michael reads the Old Testament stories backward from the empty tomb: Noah, Israel at the Red Sea, the burning bush, Ezekiel’s dry bones, Shadrach and his companions, Jonah. Pick one. What does the resurrection reveal about that story that you couldn’t see before?

4. The Incarnation could have ended at the cross. Jesus could have surrendered his spirit to the Father and left the divide between God and humanity in place forever. What does the resurrection say about the human body, the material world, and God’s intention to dwell with us?

5. The broken signposts are not only descriptions of what failed at the cross. They are also descriptions of what the resurrection is in the process of repairing. Which of the seven, justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, spirituality, relationships, do you feel most called to work on? What would that look like in your actual life?

6. Fr. Michael argues that truth, in the light of the resurrection, is not merely a virtue but an act of defiance. What does it cost to speak truth in your context right now?

7. “Love can afford to be as reckless and costly as it wants to be” because death no longer gets the final word. Where in your life does that claim need to change how you love?

8. We are sent back out into the same darkness we came from. What does it mean to live as a signpost rather than as someone who has arrived?

Life Application

Choose one of the seven signposts this week and take one concrete step toward repairing it. Not a resolution but an action. One act of justice, one piece of beauty, one costly love. Bring it back to the next meeting and tell the group what happened.

Key Takeaways

• The resurrection is the hinge on which all of history turns. It shines backward into the past and forward into the future, and everything looks different in its light.

• God did not rescue his people by keeping them out of the fire, the flood, or the tomb. He entered those places with them and brought them through.

• The same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead now dwells in those who belong to him. The new creation that began on Easter morning is still breaking into the world.

• The broken signposts are not only descriptions of what failed at the cross. They are our vocation. We are sent to repair them, one act at a time.

• Because of the resurrection, love can afford to be reckless and costly. Death does not get the final word.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, you walked out of the tomb alive, and everything changed. The cross became a victory. The darkness became the threshold of a new creation. The broken signposts became a vocation. Send us back out into the darkness with that light. Give us courage to work for justice, to make beauty, to speak truth, to lead by washing feet, and to love past the point where we would naturally stop. We are not people of the dark. Make us signposts of your resurrection, pointing others back to you. Amen.

This ancient homily, dating from the second to the fourth centuries and attributed to an anonymous author, has been treasured by the Church for centuries as a profound meditation on Holy Saturday, the day when Christ descended to the dead to free the captives held in the shadow of death. The homily imagines Christ’s descent into Sheol, where he confronts Adam and Eve—our first parents—and proclaims their liberation.1

Something strange is happening—there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh, and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh, and hell trembles with fear.

He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve.

The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him, Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: “My Lord be with you all.” Christ answered him: “And with your spirit.” He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.

“I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants, I now, by my own authority, command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell.

“Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person, and we cannot be separated.

“For your sake, I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.

“See on my face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I received in order to refashion your warped nature in my image. On my back, see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree.

“I slept on the cross, and a sword pierced my side for you who slept in paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in hell. The sword that pierced me has sheathed the sword that was turned against you.

“Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly paradise. I will not restore you to that paradise, but I will enthrone you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life, but see, I who am life itself am now one with you. I appointed cherubim to guard you as slaves are guarded, but now I make them worship you as God. The throne formed by cherubim awaits you, its bearers swift and eager. The bridal chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity.”

The Question We Carried Here

On Sunday, the city of Jerusalem asked a question.

The whole city was shaken, and the crowd asked, “Who is this?” In reply came a true but insufficient answer:

“This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee” (Matt 21:11).

The crowd thought they were asking about the man riding into their city on a donkey. But Jesus says,

“Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9).

The claim of Christian theology, therefore, is that to ask “Who is this?” about Jesus of Nazareth is to be asking even deeper, more fundamental questions: “Who is God? What is God like? Where do we find him, and what does he look like when we do?”

The whole of Holy Week is God’s answer to the crowd’s question and to humanity’s deeper questions about God, the world, and our place in it.

On Thursday night, the answer started to take shape. There’s a towel, a basin, a broken loaf, a poured cup, a love moving εἰς τέλος, toward its completion. Tonight, the answer arrives in full. And the answer is not what anyone expected.

The Broken Signposts

The account of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and death in John 18 and 19 is the most devastating scene in all of Scripture. What makes it devastating isn’t just Jesus’s suffering but also the fact that everything human beings have ever cared about — everything we know deep down truly matters — fails all at once. That failure, that brokenness so evident in every detail of the Passion narrative, is one reason this harrowing story continues to have such a powerful effect today, even after two thousand years. Even in our rationalist, modernist, post-Enlightenment world, and even outside the church, this story continues to haunt and captivate our imaginations.

In History and Eschatology, N.T. Wright discusses what he calls “vocational signposts”—seven features of human life that appear across every culture and every era, things we all recognize as important even when we can’t fully explain why. These broken signposts are justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, spirituality, and relationships. We strive for all of them. We can’t live without them. And yet we cannot quite grasp them the way we feel we should. They are like broken signposts—pointing somewhere real but ultimately failing to deliver on their promise.

What I want us to see today is what happens to each of these signposts when we stand, or even better, when we kneel, at the foot of the cross.

Justice. We long for justice. We yearn for wrongs to be righted and for the innocent to be protected. We don’t need to teach children about fairness; they learn all on their own to say, “That’s not fair,” the moment they feel the world’s scales are out of balance. A desire for justice is built into all of us, and yet, not only is justice so often denied to those who need it most, but we’re not even sure what to do about it. Pilate examines Jesus and says plainly: “I find no guilt in him” (John 18:38). He says it twice. Everyone in that courtyard knows Jesus is innocent. And yet, Pilate washes his hands, and he gives the order anyway. The signpost of justice, bent and broken as it is, points to an innocent man dying on a Roman cross.

Beauty. We crave beauty. We see it in other people, in a piece of music that captures us, in a landscape that takes our breath away, especially as the sun rises over the horizon. Yet, not only does beauty fade, but we also struggle to define it. No matter how hard we try to grasp hold of it, to hold onto it and make it last, it eludes us. It escapes us. On Good Friday, the soldiers twist together a crown of thorns and place it on Jesus’ head. They dress him in a purple robe and strike him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” What should have been a beautiful coronation has instead become a grotesque parody. The signpost of beauty is shattered on the floor of Pilate’s Praetorium.

Freedom. Every human being knows what it is to chafe against bondage, against oppression, against addiction, against the forces that diminish and enslave. We fight for freedom. We die for it. And yet freedom is always more elusive than we expect, and one person’s freedom almost always comes at another’s cost. The Passover was Israel’s freedom festival. Pilate tries to use it to release Jesus, but the crowd chooses Barabbas instead — an insurrectionist, a man of violence — because they want freedom but only on their own terms. The signpost of freedom points to a Roman cross and a final Passover that claims the life of God’s only Son and the true Passover lamb.

Truth. We long for truth, for something real and solid that can be trusted. We all know it is better to deal in truth than in falsehood, and yet lying, deception, and half-truths come so easily to us. Thanks to our modern 24-hour news networks, we don’t even know what truth is anymore. It all depends on what you’re watching and what you’re reading online. And yet we still long for it. Even worse, when corporations and politicians can buy and sell the truth as they see fit, we see again and again how easily truth is swallowed whole by power and money. Pilate asks Jesus about truth, and Jesus tells him that everyone who belongs to the truth listens to his voice. Pilate’s response is the response of every empire and every corporation: “What is truth?” (John 18:38). On Good Friday, the signpost of truth collapses under the weight of imperial power.

Power. We long for those with power to exercise it wisely and for authority that protects rather than crushes. And yet, as we see again and again, power always corrupts. Jesus announced a kingdom that was not from this world, and he redefined power as service. And then the machinery of Rome ground him into the earth outside the city walls. The signpost of power points, apparently, to an imperial boot stomping on a human face.

Spirituality. We long for God. We long for something more than the material world can offer. Our culture tells us that the dome above the earth is sealed, and if there is something or someone we might call “God,” he is very far away from us and has nothing to do with the mechanical workings of our universe. And yet we all find that this space is haunted in ways our secular age cannot explain. For decades, centuries now, we have been told again and again that the entirety of human existence can be explained by natural sciences, natural phenomena. Many people, despite everything our culture says, still seek out spirituality in various forms, and yet even the richest spiritual life can find itself plunged into darkness. From the cross, Jesus cries: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt 27:46). The one in whom the disciples had experienced the very presence of God now feels utterly and terribly alone. Despite our longing, the signpost of spirituality leads, quite literally, to a dead end.

Relationships. We long for love. We long for connections with other people. Even the most introverted among us know that we are made for it. And yet our deepest relationships and most intimate relationships so often disappoint, fracture, and ultimately end. Judas betrayed Jesus. Peter has denied him three times before the night is out. The disciples have scattered. The one who, on Thursday night, loved his own εἰς τέλος — all the way to the end — finds himself on the cross utterly and entirely abandoned. The signpost of relationships shatters at the loneliness of a Roman cross.

The world is full of these broken signposts, and yet every broken signpost converges on the same place. Every human longing arrives right here at a Jewish man dying outside the city walls, mocked, forsaken, and buried in a borrowed tomb. If the crowd’s question on Sunday was really a question about who God is, then the cross looks like a devastating non-answer. It looks like silence. It looks like the end.

Who Is God?

There is no way to reason upward from the broken signposts of this world to the God revealed at Golgotha. You cannot start with justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, spirituality, or love, reach for them with everything you have, and arrive at a crucified Jewish peasant as the answer. The trail of broken signposts, followed forward, will not lead you here. But when you stand at the foot of the cross and read the story backward, you discover that this is where our deepest longings were pointing all along. The signposts were not wrong. We were reading them in the wrong direction.

That is the claim of Good Friday. To make sense of the world, to make sense of ourselves, to make sense of the longings in our hearts that we all feel but can’t quite grasp, and to answer the questions “Who is this?” and “Who is God?”, we don’t start elsewhere and try to work our way up because that will never work. Instead, we start here, on our knees, in the horror and agony of Good Friday, seen most clearly in the coming light of Easter Sunday, and we say, “Here I find the answer to my deepest questions. Here I find the answer to my deepest longings. Here I find the God who loved me εἰς τέλος, to the very end.

So, “Who is this?” Who is this man who entered the city with great fanfare only to be crucified a few days later? He is the one in whom every broken signpost finds its fulfillment and its end.

He is the just one, condemned by an unjust world so that justice might finally be established. He is the beautiful one, crowned with thorns and robed in mockery, through whose wounds a beauty emerges that has been inspiring art, music, and poetry for two thousand years. He is the truly free one, who could have called down angels to defend him but chose the cross instead, purchasing for us a freedom no insurrectionist could ever win. He is the truth, standing before a governor who asks, “What is truth?” and cannot recognize it when it looks him in the eye. He is the one who redefines power as a towel, a basin, and a pair of nailed hands, laid down willingly. He is the one in whom heaven and earth meet, the place where every spiritual longing for God finally arrives. And he is the one who loved us, εἰς τέλος, all the way to the end, when every other broken relationship had failed, and every friend had fled. Every broken signpost in the world has been pointing, all along, to this man, on this cross, on this day.

The fullest self-revelation of God in all of human history is a Jewish man dying outside the city walls — the just one condemned unjustly, the beautiful one crowned with thorns, the free one nailed to a cross, the truth dismissed with a shrug, the servant crushed by power, the spiritual one feeling abandoned by God, the one who loved to the very end forsaken by everyone he loved. The cross is not the interruption of God’s plan. It is the fulfillment of that revelation. The cross is God’s plan, written in broken signposts across the whole of human experience and the whole of Israel’s history, and now standing in full and terrible light at Golgotha.

So we do not rush past the pain of the cross to get to the joy of Easter. We stay here, in the silence, in the agony, in the horror, because there is no resurrection without this death, no Easter morning without this evening, no answers without first sitting with the full weight of all our questions.

The trail of broken signposts has led us here, to the ultimate broken signpost, and here at last, as Jesus hangs in agony on a Roman cross, suspended between earth and heaven, the two are united forever, and God is fully and finally revealed.

τετέλεσται.

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Introductory Prayer

Heavenly Father, on days like Good Friday, we come to you with heavy hearts and honest questions. Thank you for the cross. Thank you for the love that did not stop, even when it cost everything. As we gather tonight, slow us down. Keep us from rushing past the weight of this day. Open our eyes to see clearly what happened at Golgotha, and let it do its work in us. Amen.

Ice Breaker

Think of something you wanted badly that finally arrived and still left you wanting more. A relationship, an achievement, a moment. What was it?

Questions

1. N.T. Wright identifies seven things every human being longs for across every culture and era: justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, spirituality, and relationships. Which of these do you feel most acutely in your own life right now? Where does that longing show up for you?

2. We tend to start with our longings and reach upward toward God. Why doesn’t that work? What changes when you start at the cross and read backward?

3. Pilate could look truth in the face and ask, “What is truth?” Where do you see that same blindness today in the world or in yourself?

4. The cross doesn’t look like an answer. It looks like silence, a dead end, and a failure. How do you hold that tension, especially on a day like today, before Easter has arrived?

5. Why is the temptation to rush past Good Friday to get to Easter so strong? What do we lose if we give in to it?

6. What does it mean to you personally that the fullest self-revelation of God is not power or glory, but a man dying outside the city walls, abandoned by everyone he loved?

Life Application

This week, pay attention to the places in your life where a signpost feels broken: a relationship that is fracturing, a longing for justice that goes unanswered, a spiritual dryness you cannot explain. Do not rush to fix it or explain it away. Bring it to the cross and sit with the question: what if this longing, in its very brokenness, is pointing somewhere?

Key Takeaways

• Our deepest longings for justice, beauty, freedom, truth, power, God, and love are not mistakes. They are signposts.

• Those signposts are broken. They point somewhere real but fail to deliver on their promise.

• You cannot reason your way from the broken signposts of this world to the God revealed at Golgotha. The trail only makes sense read backward, from the cross outward.

• The cross is not an interruption in God’s self-revelation. It is the fullest expression of it.

• There is no Easter without Good Friday. Do not skip it.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, you are the just one condemned unjustly, the beautiful one crowned with thorns, the free one who chose the cross, the truth dismissed with a shrug, the servant crushed by power, the one who felt forsaken and loved anyway. Every longing we carry was pointing to you all along. Give us eyes to see it. Give us the courage to stay here, in the weight of this Friday, before we run to Sunday. We pray in your name. Amen.

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The Night Is Already Sacred

Before Jesus speaks a word in the Upper Room, this night is already filled with meaning. The disciples knew exactly what meal this was. They had been celebrating it since childhood. The Passover carried its own liturgy, its own theology, its own weight. This night was a perpetual memorial of the Lord’s passing over the houses of Israel and delivering them from Egypt (Exod 12:14).

When Jesus enters the Upper Room, he doesn’t start from nothing. He steps into a complex web of existing meaning that gives shape to everything that happens not only tonight, but in the days to come.

Εἰς Τέλος

John begins the foot washing scene not with the action itself but with Jesus’ motivation. He writes:

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end (John 13:1 ESV).

“To the end” translates two Greek words: εἰς τέλος. The word τέλος does not simply mean “until the last moment.” It carries the sense of completion, of a thing reaching its intended destination. Paul uses this same word when he writes that Christ is the τέλος of the law, not its termination but its fulfillment, the goal toward which the law was always pointing (Rom 10:4). When John says Jesus loved his own εἰς τέλος, he refers to a love that goes all the way, a love that is moving toward its completion.

And then Jesus gets up, takes a towel, and washes his disciples’ feet.

John takes care to tell us what Jesus knew when he did this:

Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him (John 13:3–5).

The Lord of heaven and earth, the one to whom the Father had given all things, the one who came from God and was returning to God, knelt down and washed the dirt from his disciples’ feet.

This moment isn’t just a solitary act of humility. John has already explained what it is. The foot washing is εἰς τέλος love in action. It represents love beginning its final move toward its fulfillment.

And that movement does not end in the Upper Room.

The Cross Before the Cross

Later in John’s Gospel, as Jesus hangs on the cross, he speaks one final word: τετέλεσται.

“It is finished” (John 19:30).

The word has the same root as τέλος. On the cross, Jesus’ love for his disciples is reaching its painful, agonizing fulfillment.

In connecting these two scenes, John is not being accidental. He is showing us that the foot washing and the cross are part of the same continuous story. Jesus kneels in the Upper Room on his way to the cross. Both the towel and the nails are steps in the same journey, a single act of love that began moving εἰς τέλος, towards its fulfillment, and did not stop until Jesus could say τετέλεσται. Finished. Complete. There was nothing left to give. And so his love had reached its goal.

The foot washing is the cross before the cross.

The Night He Was Betrayed

When Paul reminds the Corinthians of this night and the institution of the Eucharist, he writes:

“For I received from the Lord what I also delivered to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread” (1 Cor 11:23).

Paul is well aware of the Passover connection. He is the one who writes elsewhere that “Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed” (1 Cor 5:7). He understands the typology. He understands the theology. But here, when he discusses the night itself, he zeroes in on its moral darkness.

This is not only the night on which Jesus knelt down and washed his disciples’ feet. This is not only the night on which Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper. This is not only the night on which Jesus gave his disciples a new commandment. This is also the night on which Jesus was betrayed.

That truth adds to the full weight of what is happening in the Upper Room. Jesus knows what Judas is about to do. He knows what Peter is about to do. He knows that when the soldiers come, all of them will scatter, and he will face his death alone.

Jesus could have run. He could have called down angels to fight for him. He could have told Peter to keep out his sword and fight εἰς τέλος, to the very end.

Instead, he takes the bread. He takes the cup. And he gives himself anyway.

The same love that will say τετέλεσται tomorrow was demonstrated dramatically on the night of Jesus’ betrayal.

As we picture the Upper Room, we recognize our place in that story. We are not naturally faithful. We are those who have turned away from Jesus in obvious and subtle ways. We have seen him humble himself by washing feet, and then we have silently or even openly asked:

What about me?

What about my comfort?

What about my position?

What about my reputation?

What about doing things my way?

That is who we are, and this meal is for us anyway. The love that is perfectly fulfilled on the cross as Jesus dies was given on the night that the betrayers sat at his table.

Come to the Table

So when we come to that table tonight, what we receive is the body and blood of a love that went all the way. This love knelt in the Upper Room, washed feet, and did not stop until it reached the agony and shame of the cross. This love was given on the night of betrayal, and still it did not flinch. When this love reached its τέλος, Jesus said τετέλεσται, bowed his head, and gave up his Spirit. In that moment, love was complete, and its work was finished. There was nothing left to give.

With that gift, Jesus left us a commandment.

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another” (John 13:34).

Notice the threshold. The standard for love among his disciples is no longer simply “as you love yourself,” which is already a lot. The standard now is “as I have loved you,” which is εἰς τέλος, the kind of love that washes feet on the way to a Roman cross.

The question this commandment puts to each of us is not whether we love. We know how to love. Everyone reading this sermon loves someone. The question is where our love stops.

Every one of us has a stopping point. We love people until they have disappointed us one too many times. We love people until loving them threatens something we are protecting, our rights, our privileges, or our social standing. We love people until the cost exceeds what we are willing to pay. We reach the edge of our love, and we stop.

Jesus’ love for us never stopped. He loved through betrayal, through denial, through abandonment, through the cross. He loved even when he was beaten, spit upon, and whipped. He loved even as nails were driven through his hands and feet. He loved εἰς τέλος, and then he said τετέλεσται, because his love had nothing left to give.

The meal we are about to receive gives us the one who loved us to the very end. “This is my body. This is my blood.”

We cannot generate this kind of love from within ourselves. But we can receive it, and what we receive at the table is precisely the love that went all the way, a love given to us so that it can begin to move through us toward one another.

So come to the table as people whose love has stopped short. Come as sinners who need a Savior. Come as disciples who can only live by what they receive.

Receive the body of the one who knelt with a towel on his way to the cross. Receive the blood of the one who gave himself on the night of betrayal. Receive the love that has loved you to the very end.

Tomorrow, Jesus will say τετέλεσται. Tonight, he gives himself to us in bread and wine and says, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Intro Prayer

Lord Jesus, we come to you tonight in the shadow of the cross. Thank you for the upper room, for the towel and the basin, for a love that did not stop when it had every reason to. As we open your word together, give us eyes to see what is really happening in that room and what it means for us. Amen.

Ice Breaker

Has someone ever done something for you that genuinely surprised you, an act of service or kindness you did not expect and did not feel you deserved? What was it?

Questions

1. John tells us that Jesus loved his disciples εἰς τέλος, to the end, toward completion. What is the difference between a love that is convenient and a love that is moving toward its fulfillment? What does that distinction change?

2. Before Jesus picks up the towel, John makes a point of telling us what Jesus knew: that the Father had given all things into his hands, that he had come from God and was going back to God. Why does that knowledge matter? What does it tell us about what the foot washing actually is?

3. Paul, writing to the Corinthians about the Lord’s Supper, does not call it the night of the Passover or the night of the new commandment. He calls it the night Jesus was betrayed. Why do you think he frames it that way? What does that framing add?

4. Jesus calls his disciples to love one another not as they love themselves but as he has loved them. What is the difference between those two standards? Which one costs more?

5. Where does your love tend to stop? What are the most common reasons that cause it to fall short?

6. The foot washing and the cross are part of the same continuous act of love. In what sense is the foot washing the cross before the cross? What does it mean that the towel and the nails are steps in the same journey?

7. Jesus washed the feet of Judas. He gave the cup to Peter, who would deny him three times before morning. What does it mean that this meal, this love, was given on the night of betrayal, to the betrayers?

8. The claim of the table is that we receive a love we cannot generate ourselves, so that it can begin to move through us toward other people. What would it look like, practically, for that to happen in your life this week?

Life Application

Identify one relationship where your love has stopped short, because of disappointment, hurt, or the cost of continuing. This week, bring that relationship to the table. You do not have to manufacture something you do not have. Ask instead to receive what you cannot produce, and then take one step.

Key Takeaways

• The foot washing and the cross are not two separate events. They are one continuous act of love moving εἰς τέλος toward its fulfillment.

• Jesus knew exactly what Judas and Peter were about to do. He washed their feet and gave them the cup anyway.

• The standard of the new commandment is not “as you love yourself.” It is “as I have loved you.” That is a different category entirely.

• Every one of us has a stopping point. The question is not whether we love but where our love stops.

• What we receive at the table is not only a model to imitate but a love to receive, one that can then move through us toward the people around us.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, you loved your own to the end. You knelt on the floor of the upper room on your way to the cross, and you did not stop. We confess that we stop. We stop when it costs too much, when the person has disappointed us too many times, when loving them threatens something we are protecting. Forgive us, and give us what we cannot give ourselves. Let the love that said τετέλεσται begin to move through us toward the people in our lives who need it most. Amen.

The City’s Question

As Jesus enters the city, the crowd asks, “Who is this?”

Right before the question is asked, Matthew says something interesting. He says that the entire city was “stirred up.” None of the other Evangelists says this about Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. This language is uniquely Matthean.

The translation “stirred up” is from the ESV, and it’s fine, but the Greek verb Matthew uses is σείω, which usually describes something being physically shaken, like a tree shaken in the wind or the ground shaking from an earthquake. The word can be used figuratively, as it likely is here, but remember, this description of the city is unique to Matthew’s Gospel. And what we find, if we’re paying attention, is that Matthew actually has an earthquake theme running through his passion narrative.

The city’s shaking, then, is no throwaway detail. Matthew uses the same Greek root for the earth shaking when Jesus dies (27:51) and again for the earthquake that accompanies Jesus’s resurrection (28:2).

The city trembles at Jesus’ arrival and asks, “Who is this?” The earth shakes and answers that question at Golgotha and again at the empty tomb.

But the earth is not the only one to answer.

An immediate answer comes from the crowd: “This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee” (Matt 21:11). The answer is true but insufficient. Matthew records it and moves on, but the question hangs over the rest of his Gospel. The earth gives its answer not with words but with seismic power. A verbal answer comes not from the crowds or even from Jesus’ disciples, but from the Roman soldier who stands at the foot of the cross, sees the earthquake, and says, “Truly this was the Son of God” (Matt 27:54).

Palm Sunday opens the question. Good Friday answers it. Easter vindicates it.

This arc gives shape to Holy Week. The question the city asks today is meant to follow us through every service of this week, every reading, every prayer, until Good Friday gives us an answer we could not have predicted and would not have chosen.

The Word Matthew Kept

There’s another uniquely Matthean feature of this text that I want us to look at. Matthew is the only evangelist to quote the Zechariah prophecy directly. He writes:

“Say to the daughter of Zion, ‘Behold, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden’” (Matt 21:5).

The source is Zechariah 9:9, but Matthew has edited it. The Hebrew text describes the coming king with four words: righteous, having salvation, humble, riding on a donkey. Matthew keeps two words, but he drops “righteous” and “having salvation” entirely. What remains is the description of the king as “humble” and “riding on a donkey.”

The word for humble is πραΰς, which is often translated as “meek.” Readers of Matthew’s Gospel have met this word before.

“Blessed are the meek (πραεῖς), for they shall inherit the earth” (Matt 5:5).

“I am gentle (πραΰς) and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matt 11:29).

Matthew has been building a portrait of this king since the Sermon on the Mount. When the moment of arrival finally comes, he makes an editorial decision. He strips the prophecy to its single most essential word. Not righteous. Not victorious. Not even “bringing salvation.” Meek.

But there is more to Zechariah 9:9 than just a messianic prediction. The verses immediately preceding it (Zech 9:1–8) describe a military campaign that moves south through Syria, Phoenicia, and the Philistine coast toward Jerusalem. This movement precisely matches Alexander the Great’s campaign in 332 BC through the same area.

Many scholars think Zechariah 9 was written with Alexander in mind. He was the most well-known conqueror of the ancient world, and he famously rode into conquered cities on a war horse. Surprisingly, in his conquest of the area, Alexander bypassed Jerusalem entirely. Scholars think it had no strategic value to him, although Josephus has a wonderful tale to explain why the city was spared (Ant. 11.317–39).

Against that backdrop, the humble king of Zech 9:9 is not just a prediction. He is a contrast. Jerusalem’s true king arrives differently. Not on a war horse. Not with an army. Not through conquest. He comes to the city, not past it, and he comes low and riding on a donkey.

Matthew quotes this passage and reduces its description of the coming king to one word — meek — because that’s the whole point. The king arriving in Jerusalem today is everything Alexander was not. He is the true savior and king of the world, and yet, before the week ends, that king will be crucified by his own people.

What the Crowd Gets Wrong

The crowd gets many things right as Jesus enters Jerusalem. They shout:

“Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (21:9).

Every phrase is drawn from Scripture. Every title belongs to Jesus. These are not the wrong words.

And yet they are not enough.

The word “Hosanna” is itself a prayer — the Hebrew hoshiana, meaning “Save us now.” The instinct is correct. The people need saving. But they have already decided what salvation should look like, and their vision has no place for a Roman cross.

They wanted Alexander. They wanted another Maccabee. They wanted a conquering king on his mighty war horse. Jesus came to the city meekly, riding a donkey.

A Jesus that you have fully defined and fully understand before Good Friday is a Jesus that you have invented and made safe. The meek king riding in on a donkey does not match the king this crowd is welcoming. They want someone who will solve their problems by force. They want someone who will ride into the conflict between Israel and Rome and bring it to a decisive end in their favor. They want a savior who will bring salvation to them by shedding someone else’s blood. Jesus comes to shed his own.

We are not so different today. We still want a Messiah who will destroy our enemies, vindicate our tribe, and secure our future on our terms. We still prefer the warhorse to the donkey, John Wayne to Jesus. But the Son of David comes to us in meekness, and he saves the world not by dropping bombs on his enemies but by being killed by them.

The Answer

The crowd says, “This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee.” Their answer is not false. It’s just incomplete.

Matthew does not answer on Palm Sunday. He walks Jesus through the temple courts, through the controversies of Holy Week, through the upper room, through Gethsemane, and through the trials. Then, on a Friday afternoon outside the city walls, the earth shakes, and a Roman soldier — not a disciple, not a Pharisee, not a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, not even one of the crowd from today — looks at the man on the cross and says, “Truly this was the Son of God” (27:54).

That is Matthew’s answer to the city’s question. The Son of God is the one on the cross. In Matthew’s Passion narrative, the identity of Jesus and the self-revelation of God come into clearest focus at Calvary. Matthew answers the city’s question with terrible and glorious clarity on the cross of Jesus Christ. The God we worship is the God who died there that blessed and horrid day. The life we believe God raised from the dead is the life of the meek king who rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Palm Sunday and Good Friday are not two unrelated events in Matthew’s Gospel. They are a question and an answer. They are one revelation of who God really and truly is unfolding across a single week.

Walking Through the Week

The crowd that shouts hosannas is the crowd that shouts, “Crucify him!” Matthew makes no effort to distinguish them, no matter how much some might wish otherwise. They are not two different groups of people. And the disciples fare no better. They flee in Gethsemane, and Peter denies him before the night is out. At the foot of the cross, it is not a disciple who answers the city’s question rightly. It is a Roman soldier who sees what the celebrating crowd and Jesus’ own disciples could not.

Holy Week is not merely a commemoration of distant events. It's not like we're celebrating the anniversary of some great event. This is the week in which God shows us who he is. If you want to do theology, if you want to think rightly about who God is, that task starts here. The task of understanding who God truly is for us starts with a Jewish man being murdered by the empire at the behest of religious leaders and works forward and backward from there.

What this week shows us is not a salvation that we would have designed. A king who is meek. A Lord who serves. A God who dies. The crowd on Palm Sunday thought they had an answer, but it was inadequate.

If you’ve ever looked at Jesus and asked yourself, “Who is this?”, Matthew will show you. It will take many days. It will be painful. It will involve repentance, sorrow, and even shame. But there is glory waiting at the end. To know who Jesus truly is, to know who God truly is, you must walk with him through this whole week to see him as he has revealed himself in the cross of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Amen.

Life Group Discussion Guide

Intro Prayer

Lord Jesus, as we gather to discuss your Word, quiet our assumptions about who you are and what you came to do. Give us eyes to see you as you have revealed yourself, not as we would have preferred you to be, but as you truly are. Open our hearts to receive what this week has to show us. Amen.

Ice Breaker

If you could choose any mode of transportation to make a grand entrance somewhere, what would it be and why?

Questions

• Matthew 21:10 says the whole city was “stirred up” when Jesus entered Jerusalem. The Greek verb σείω usually describes something being physically shaken. Why does Matthew include this detail when none of the other evangelists do?

• Fr. Michael pointed out that Matthew uses the same Greek root for the earth shaking at the crucifixion (27:51) and again at the resurrection (28:2). What does it mean that the earth answers the city’s question when the crowd cannot?

• The crowd identifies Jesus as “the prophet from Nazareth of Galilee.” Why is that answer true but insufficient?

• Matthew quotes Zechariah 9:9 but edits it, dropping “righteous” and “having salvation” and keeping only “humble” — πραΰς, meek. Why does Matthew strip the prophecy down to that one word?

• Fr. Michael noted that the verses before Zechariah 9:9 likely describe Alexander the Great’s military campaign through the same region. Against that backdrop, what does it mean that Jerusalem’s true king comes to the city rather than past it, and comes on a donkey rather than a war horse?

• The crowd’s “Hosanna” is actually a prayer — in Hebrew it means “Save us now.” Their instinct is right, but their vision of salvation has no place for a crucified Messiah. Where do we do the same thing today?

• “A Jesus that you have fully defined and fully understand before Good Friday is a Jesus that you have invented and made safe.” What does that mean to you?

• The crowd that shouts “Hosanna!” is the same crowd that shouts “Crucify him.” Matthew makes no effort to distinguish them. What does that tell us about the welcome Jesus received?

• It is a Roman soldier — not a disciple, not a religious leader, not a child of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob — who answers the city’s question rightly at the foot of the cross. Why is that significant?

Life Application

This week, identify one area of your life where you have been expecting Jesus to act like a conquering king, solving your problems by force or on your timeline. Bring that expectation to God in prayer and ask him to show you, through the events of Holy Week, what salvation actually looks like.

Key Takeaways

• The question “Who is this?” is opened on Palm Sunday and answered on Good Friday.

• Matthew strips Zechariah’s prophecy to one word — meek — because that word defines everything Jesus is in contrast to who people want him to be.

• The crowd’s hosannas and the crowd’s “crucify him” come from the same people. Their welcome was real but insufficient.

• The fullest self-revelation of God is not the Incarnation or the miracles. It is the cross.

• To know who Jesus truly is, you have to walk with him through the whole week.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, you came to us in meekness when we wanted a conqueror. You came on a donkey when we wanted a war horse. You shed your own blood when we wanted you to shed someone else’s. Forgive us for making you in our image. This week, as we walk with you toward the cross, open our eyes to see you as you truly are: the meek king, the suffering servant, the Son of God. Amen.

Introduction

The story of the resurrection of Lazarus begins with a delay, and the delay itself is central to the narrative.

When word reaches Jesus that his friend Lazarus is sick, his response is not what we might expect. He does not immediately pack his belongings and head for Bethany. Instead, he stays where he is. John tells us:

Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was (John 11:5–6 ESV).

John links these two sentences with the word “so,” which is surprising and noteworthy. Because Jesus loved them, he waited. His delay is not a failure of love; it is an expression of it. Jesus has a purpose that the disciples, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus cannot yet see, and that purpose requires him to arrive late.

By the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. Not one, not two, not three. But four days. Any hope of a miraculous recovery has long gone. The mourners are gathered. The sisters are overwhelmed with grief. And the smell confirms, as Martha later describes, that this is a situation no one would want to face (11:39).

Jesus walked headfirst into it anyway.

Out of the Depths

Psalm 130 opens with one of the most sincere lines in all of Scripture:

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! (Ps 130:1).

The psalmist is praying from his lowest point. The Hebrew word translated “depths” refers to deep water, the kind where, when you’re in it, you cannot touch the bottom, the kind that closes in and crashes over your head. The psalmist is drowning and crying out to God from that place.

This psalm reminds us that when we come to God in prayer, he wants honesty. There is no reason to sugarcoat our words or search for the right thing to say when we pray. If you are in the depths, if the waters are crashing over your head, say so. Tell God exactly how you feel. The psalmist does, and God does not turn away.

What is remarkable about this Psalm is not that it begins in despair, but that it ends in hope — not a vague or sentimental hope, but a clear and confident one:

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning. (130:5–6).

The psalmist remains in the depths as the psalm ends. His situation has not changed, but something inside him has shifted. He has placed his hope in God’s word, in the promise that the Lord will come to help, and he is willing to wait, even in the darkness, even in the deep.

Mary and Martha were waiting like that. They sent for Jesus when Lazarus became sick, confident that he would come. They waited, and meanwhile their brother died. Jesus still had not arrived, and they buried him. By the time he arrived four days later, both sisters independently said the same thing when they saw him:

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 32).

Those words aren’t an accusation, but they are an expression of real grief. Mary and Martha do not doubt Jesus; they believed in him fully, which is exactly why his absence pained them so greatly. When you believe that God can act and he does not, that absence is costly. It hurts.

The Valley of Dry Bones

Ezekiel understood that waiting.

In Ezekiel 37, the Spirit places the prophet in the middle of a valley filled with bones. The bones are dry, showing they have been there for a very long time. God tells the prophet exactly what they represent: “these bones are the whole house of Israel” (Ezek 37:11). The nation has been taken into Babylonian exile, and they have been there long enough for hope to turn into despair. God quotes their own words back to the prophet:

“Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are indeed cut off” (Ezek 37:11).

What follows is a vision of national resurrection. God instructs Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones, and as he does, there is a rattling, flesh appears, breath enters them, and they stand upright. The divided kingdoms of Israel and Judah will be reunited under a single king. God will put his Spirit within them and bring them home. The God who scattered them will gather them again. Their painful waiting in exile will one day be answered.

When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Israel is still waiting for that re-gathering. Rome now rules the land, and the full restoration Ezekiel envisioned has not yet occurred. A first-century Jewish family burying their brother in a tomb outside Jerusalem would have known that they were still, in some deep sense, a people waiting for God to act.

Jesus enters that waiting. When he stands at Lazarus’s tomb and calls a dead man back to life, he is doing something that carries the full weight of Ezekiel’s vision. The metaphor becomes reality. The long-awaited restoration of God’s people is not arriving through military conquest or political reform. It is arriving in the person of Jesus himself, who breathes life into the dead in the very land where the dry bones were supposed to rise.

I Am the Resurrection

When Jesus finally arrives in Bethany, he does not begin with an explanation. He offers himself. This is typical of Jesus.

When he shared a last meal with his disciples, he did not say, “Here is the theology of the cross.” Instead, he gave them a meal. In the same way, Jesus does not offer Mary and Martha a theological explanation for the delay. Instead, he offers her his presence. He says, in effect: I am here, and I am the resurrection and the life:

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25–26).

This saying is one of the seven great “I am” sayings in John’s Gospel. Each echoes the moment in Exodus 3 when God revealed his name to Moses at the burning bush: “I am who I am” (Exod 3:14). Jesus is not offering Martha a theological concept; he is revealing to her who he truly is.

He is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He is the God who speaks life into dry bones in Ezekiel’s valley. He is not merely on the side of life, as if he endorses it and promotes it from a distance. He is not life’s cheerleader. He is life itself, which means that wherever he is, whenever he is present, death cannot have the final word.

But notice what John tells us before Jesus goes to the tomb. When he sees Mary weeping, and those who came with her weeping, he is deeply moved and troubled. And then:

Jesus wept (11:35).

The one who is the resurrection and the life stood at a graveside and wept. He did not dismiss the grief or rush past it to the miracle. Instead, he entered into it. Jesus is not unmoved by our death, our loss, or our crying from the depths. He is troubled by it. He weeps over it. And then, in his own time, he acts.

He orders that the stone be removed. He prays. And then, in a loud voice, he calls:

“Lazarus, come out” (11:43).

And a dead man walked out of his tomb.

Unbind Him

When Lazarus emerges from the tomb, he is still wearing his grave clothes:

The man who had died came out, his hands and feet bound with linen strips, and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go” (11:44 ).

Death was still clinging to Lazarus. He was still clothed in it, still in some sense trapped by it. And so Jesus said: “Unbind him, let him go.

Those words are what Jesus says to death for all of us. He says, “Unbind them, and let them go.” The voice that called Lazarus out of the tomb is the same voice that speaks over everyone united to Christ by faith. Death no longer holds us. Our grave clothes no longer define us. Even in the depths and darkness of death, Christ will find us, rescue us, and set us free.1

Notice what happens later in John’s Gospel. When Jesus rises from the dead, he leaves his grave clothes behind (20:6–7). He had no further use for them. He was not returning to the life he had before, subject again to weakness and death. He passed through death into something on the other side of it entirely. For each and every one of us, Jesus will say to death: “Unbind them, and let them go.”

Conclusion

Today is the fifth Sunday in Lent. Holy Week begins in one week. In a very real sense, we are still in the valley, still waiting, still crying from the depths. But we are not crying into silence. We are crying to a God who has already entered the valley, who has already stood at a graveside and wept, and who has already opened a tomb.

Jesus asks each of us the same question he asked Martha, and it is not a rhetorical one. It is personal:

“Do you believe this?” (11:26)

Do you believe not just in the idea of resurrection, or in the idea of forgiveness, but in Jesus as the resurrection itself? Do you believe that the God who spoke to the dry bones in Ezekiel’s valley, who called Lazarus out of the tomb, who rose from the dead on the third day and left his grave clothes behind, is the same God who holds your life in his hands?

If you do, then say with Martha:

“Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world” (11:27).

The one who is the resurrection and the life will come again. When he arrives, the depths will not hold us, the grave will not have the final say, and God will wipe away every tear from every face, even his own. On that day, Jesus will say to death: “Unbind them, and let them go,” and dry bones will come back to life.

Amen.

This post is the written version of a sermon preached at St. Dunstan’s Anglican Church in Largo, FL, on Sunday, March 22, 2026. If it resonated with you, consider sharing it with someone else. On the Way is free for everyone. If you find the writing and teaching valuable and want to support it, a paid subscription is the best way to do that.

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Life Group Guide

Opening Prayer

Father, we come before you honestly, just as the psalmist did, from the depths, with whatever grief, confusion, or waiting we are carrying right now. Open our eyes to see what you are doing in these texts and in our lives. Give us faith to trust that your delays are not failures of love, and that the one who called Lazarus out of the tomb is the same God who holds our lives in his hands. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Icebreaker

What is something you have had to wait for far longer than you expected? What did that waiting do to you?

Discussion Questions

1. John 11 tells us that Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, and therefore, he waited. What does that “therefore” reveal about how Jesus understands love? How does it challenge the way we usually think about God’s delays?

2. The psalmist in Psalm 130 cries out from the depths without softening his words or searching for the right thing to say. What does it tell us about prayer that God invites this kind of honesty? Where do you find it hardest to pray that honestly?

3. Both Mary and Martha say the same thing to Jesus independently: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” There is no accusation in those words, but there is real grief. How do you relate to that mixture of faith and sorrow?

4. Ezekiel 37 is a vision of national resurrection for a people who had been in exile long enough that hope had turned to despair. When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Israel is still waiting for that restoration. How does knowing that context change the way you read the raising of Lazarus?

5. Jesus does not offer Martha a theological explanation for the delay. He offers her his presence and says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” What is the difference between receiving a theological answer and receiving a person? Which do you find yourself reaching for when you are in the depths?

6. When Lazarus comes out of the tomb, he is still bound in grave clothes, and Jesus says, “Unbind him, and let him go.” When Jesus rises, he leaves his grave clothes behind entirely. What is the difference between those two moments, and what does it tell us about the kind of life Jesus promises his people?

7. Jesus asks: “Do you believe this?” Do you believe not merely in the idea of resurrection or forgiveness, but in Jesus himself as the resurrection? How would you honestly answer that question right now?

Life Application

This week, identify one area of your life where you are waiting in the depths. Bring it to God honestly, not with the right words, but with the real ones. Then ask him to show you whether there is anything still binding you that he wants to unbind.

Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus, you are the resurrection and the life, and you have already entered the valley, wept at the graveside, and opened the tomb. Unbind us from whatever still clings to us and keeps us from walking in the freedom you have won. As we move toward Holy Week, fix our eyes on the one who left his grave clothes behind, and give us faith to believe that on the last day, you will say to death: unbind them, and let them go. Amen.

Introduction

There is a deep irony woven throughout John 9. The man at the center of the chapter has never seen anything in his entire life. He was born blind. He cannot see the temple, the disciples’ faces as they question Jesus about him, or even Jesus himself. Yet by the end of the chapter, he is the one who sees most clearly.

Meanwhile, the Pharisees, men who have dedicated their entire lives to studying and interpreting God’s law and God’s word, men who can see perfectly well with their physical eyes, end the chapter more painfully blind than they were at the start. Jesus names their condition in verse 41:

Jesus said to them, “If you were blind, you would have no sin; but now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains” (John 9:41 ESV).

Sight, it turns out, is not just about the eyes. It is about the heart as well.

The Light of the World

A man born blind sits outside the temple, and what most people see when they look at him is a byproduct of human sin. Jesus’s own disciples see it precisely this way:

And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9:2).

The disciples are not asking a foolish question. They are asking the only question their current theological understanding allows them to ask. In their worldview, suffering and sin are connected. If something is wrong in your life, it means there is something wrong with you or someone close to you. The man’s blindness is seen as a problem to be explained and a case to be diagnosed.

Jesus refuses their question entirely. The disciples are looking at this man and looking backward, trying to find someone to blame. Jesus looks ahead, toward what God is about to do:

Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him” (John 9:3).

Before he heals the man, Jesus makes a statement that functions as the interpretive key to everything that follows:

“As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world” (John 9:5).

He then makes mud, anoints the blind man’s eyes, and sends him to wash in the pool of Siloam (John 9:6–7). The man goes, washes, and comes back seeing. The miracle is not accidental to the claim to be the light of the world. It is the enacted parable of that claim. Jesus says he is the light of the world, and here is what it looks like when the light of the world appears in the darkness of human suffering and misery: the blind see, people are restored, people are renewed, people are made whole.

The Closed System

The man who has been healed is brought before the Pharisees, and what follows is one of the most remarkable exchanges in the Fourth Gospel. Instead of celebrating what has happened in this man’s life, the Pharisees are offended. Jesus healed on the Sabbath. In their view, that one fact settles the matter.

God gave the Sabbath law. Jesus broke the Sabbath law. Therefore, Jesus is not from God.

The conclusion, in their minds, is airtight, and no amount of evidence will be allowed to reopen the case.

So they question the man. Then they question his parents. His parents, afraid of being expelled from the synagogue, defer to their son (John 9:20–23). The Pharisees call the man back a second time and demand that he give glory to God by renouncing Jesus as a sinner (John 9:24).

What happens next is extraordinary. The man who has spent his entire life on the margins, the man everyone assumed was under God’s judgment, the man with no theological training and no social standing, looks the most powerful religious authorities in his world in the eye and says:

“Whether he is a sinner I do not know. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see” (John 9:25).

The formerly blind man will not be moved. The Pharisees press him further, asking him to repeat what Jesus did, and he turns the question back on them with a flash of dry wit:

“I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?” (John 9:27)

He is mocking them, and they know it.

The healed man then makes a theological argument that is as simple as it is devastating. He points out that while blindness had been healed before, no one in the entire history of Israel had ever given sight to a man born blind (John 9:32), and that such power could only come from God (John 9:30–33). Their response reveals everything about the condition of their heart:

“You were born in utter sin, and would you teach us?” And they cast him out of the synagogue (John 9:34).1

The Pharisees reach for the very assumption Jesus had already rejected (John 9:3). Because this man was born blind, he must have been born in sin, and a man born in sin has nothing to teach those who have given their lives to the study of God’s law and God’s word.

The Pharisees are not stupid men. They are not lazy. They have devoted themselves to Scripture with a seriousness that would put most people to shame. And that very devotion has become the instrument of their blindness. They are so certain they know what God would and would not do that when God does something unexpected right in front of them, they cannot see it. Their theological and moral certainty functions as a closed system that cuts off everything, even God. A man who yesterday could not see and today can is not sufficient to even question their theological formulas.

So Jesus says:

“For judgment I came into this world, that those who do not see may see, and those who see may become blind” (John 9:39).

The progression in this chapter is stark. The man born blind moves steadily toward the light. He calls Jesus “the man called Jesus” (John 9:11), then “a prophet” (John 9:17), then reasons publicly that Jesus must be from God (John 9:33). Then, finally, when Jesus finds him after he has been cast out, he falls before Jesus and worships him as Lord (John 9:38). Each encounter with or about Jesus brings him closer to the truth.

The Pharisees move in exactly the opposite direction. Each encounter with the evidence of what Jesus has done leaves them more entrenched, more hostile, and more blind. The more certain they are that they can see with absolute moral and theological clarity, the deeper their blindness becomes.

Beware of men who tell you that they have this all figured out. Beware of those who tell you that they know exactly whom God loves and precisely whom he condemns, and then expect you to fall in line. Beware of those who are so certain of their interpretation of the Bible and of their theological systems that to disagree with them is to disagree with God himself.

I don’t have this all figured out. You don’t have this all figured out. The Church doesn’t have this all figured out. Augustine, Aquinas, Luther, Calvin, Hooker, Barth, and yes, even N. T. Wright don’t have this all figured out. And it is the epitome of spiritual blindness for any preacher, teacher, or theologian, no matter how famous or well-published, to act as though they do.

Jesus cautioned his disciples:

“Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and the leaven of Herod” (Mark 8:15).

The Church, including today’s American church, rather than heeding that warning, has preferred to feast on that leaven of theological arrogance and political power.

Conclusion

Spiritual sight is not a human achievement. It is a divine gift, and the first condition for receiving it is the honest confession that we cannot see on our own, that we are indeed blind.

The blind man understood this instinctively. He had lived his whole life knowing he could not see. When the light of the world came near him, he had nothing to protect, no carefully constructed theological system to defend, and no reputation to preserve. He simply received what was given. And when it cost him his standing in the synagogue, he did not flinch. He had already lost everything the world said mattered, and what he had found in Jesus was worth much more.

The Pharisees are not a distant warning. They are a mirror. The history of the church is full of people who were certain they knew what God was doing and what God would never do, and who were wrong in ways that caused tremendous harm. Certainty closes us off. It closes us off from what God may be doing. It closes us off from the people God loves. And it closes us off from correction, especially when that correction comes from someone we have already dismissed.

It is worth asking ourselves honestly: where are we so certain that we have closed off our theological system? Where have we decided, quietly and perhaps without even realizing it, that we already know what God would and would not do, who God would and would not use, and where God would and would not show up? The Pharisees did not think of themselves as blind. They thought they saw so well that they were the guardians of truth. And they were so busy guarding “the truth” that when it stood right in front of them, they missed it.

The call of the gospel is not to self-assured control, but to faith.

Faith trusts Jesus. Faith trusts the work of the Holy Spirit. Certainty trusts its own ability to see, interpret, and control.

Faith trusts the light even when it cannot see the path. Certainty thinks it already knows the path, and walks off blindly in the wrong direction.

The Pharisees had certainty. Many Christians today have certainty. The blind man had faith. Only one of them ended up worshiping at the feet of Jesus (John 9:38).

Amen.

This post is the written version of a sermon preached at St. Dunstan’s Anglican Church in Largo, FL, on Sunday, March 15, 2026. If it resonated with you, consider sharing it with someone in your life. On the Way is free for everyone. If you find the work valuable and want to support it (and get access to older content), a paid subscription is the best way to do that.

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Life Group Guide

Opening Prayer

Father, we come before you acknowledging that we do not have this figured out. Open our eyes to see what you are doing in your word and in one another. Give us the humility of the man born blind rather than the certainty of the Pharisees, and give us faith to trust your light even when we cannot see the path ahead. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Icebreaker

What is one area of life where you were absolutely certain you were right, only to discover later that you were wrong?

Discussion Questions

1. Why do the disciples assume someone must have sinned when they see the blind man? What does their question reveal about how they understand suffering, and what does Jesus’s answer reveal about how he sees this man?

2. Jesus says the man’s blindness exists “that the works of God might be displayed in him” (John 9:3). How does that reframe the way we think about suffering and God’s purposes in it?

3. The healed man’s parents are too afraid to speak up, but the man himself refuses to be moved. What gave him the courage to stand his ground before the most powerful religious authorities in his world?

4. The Pharisees were not lazy or ignorant men. They had devoted their lives to Scripture. What does their blindness teach us about the difference between theological knowledge and genuine spiritual sight?

5. In John 9, the Pharisees’ certainty functions as a closed system that cuts off everything, even God. What does a closed theological system look like in practice, and what are the warning signs that we might be operating inside one?

6. Where in your own life might certainty be functioning as a closed system? Where have you quietly decided what God would or would not do, who he would or would not use, where he would or would not show up?

7. John 9 includes a contrast between certainty and faith. Certainty thinks it already knows the path. Faith trusts the light even when it cannot see the path. What is the practical difference between those two postures, and which one more accurately describes where you are right now?

Life Application

This week, identify one area where you have been operating with closed-off certainty. Bring it before God honestly, and ask him to show you what he might be doing that you have not yet seen. Look for an opportunity to listen to someone you might normally dismiss.

Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus, you are the light of the world, and we thank you for opening our eyes today. Protect us from the blindness that comes from arrogance, and give us faith to trust you even when we cannot see where you are leading. Make us more like the man born blind: quick to receive what you give, and willing to worship you regardless of what it costs. Amen.

The Story of the Bible

The story of the Bible that we have been taught since we were children is wrong.

I understand how audacious that sentence is, but I stand by it.

We have been taught that the Bible tells the story of how to get to heaven when we die. However, that is not the story the Bible is actually telling.

The Bible isn’t about how we go to be with God, but rather about how God comes to be with us.

Let me explain this as briefly as I can.

Creation is good. It is tov me’od. It is very good. God created Eden as his temple and placed his image there. From Eden, Adam’s image-bearing family, filled with the very breath or Spirit of God, was to be fruitful, multiply, and fill creation with his glory and presence. That is the purpose of creation — for God to dwell with humanity in his temple and from that place to fill the world with his glory, love, and mercy.

Genesis describes God as walking in the garden, not distant or removed but present with his people. That is the ideal. That is what the story points toward and to which it longs to return. But then Adam sins. He is removed from the garden, and God no longer dwells with his people in his land.

From Genesis 3–11, things continue to deteriorate until humanity attempts (since presumably God won’t descend) to ascend to God. That’s what ziggurats are for, and that’s what the Tower of Babel is about. And it should disprove any idea that what God desires is for humans to figure out how to reach him. Now, not only does God not dwell with his people in their land, but humanity is also separated, divided, and languages are confused.

And, honestly, I can’t help but point out that nations only exist because of human sin, not because God’s intention was for humanity to be divided and separated. What God desires is the flourishing of all people, all nations, and all families, regardless of their skin color or nationality.

The proof of this comes immediately in Genesis 12. There’s a shift as God calls Abram and promises that all the families of the earth will be blessed through him. How this will happen is unknown, but it remains the promise.

From there, we see the patriarchs, reaching a climax in the story of Joseph, which brings God’s people to Egypt, where they eventually become enslaved. Moses tells Pharaoh to let the people go so they might “hold a feast in the wilderness” (Exod 5:1) and “serve the Lord” (7:16; 8:1; 9:1; 9:13)—so they can go to the place where they can dwell with God and serve him as his priests and image bearers. In other words, so that they can go be Adam once again.

Genesis and Exodus form a continuous story, beginning with God’s creation of his people and his dwelling with them in Eden. Instead of ending with the giving of the Law at Sinai, as one might expect, it concludes with the completion and filling of the tabernacle.

Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle. And Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle (Exod 40:34–35 ESV).

God is back dwelling with his people, but not yet in his land.

So the people wander through the wilderness, eventually cross the Jordan River, and settle in the land of Canaan. The tabernacle is there, but David wants something permanent. The people are settled in the land, and he desires God to have a permanent home too — a lasting place where God’s name will be known and where he can dwell with humanity forever. It’s not David who builds the house, but Solomon, and the scene is reminiscent of Exodus 40.

And when the priests came out of the Holy Place, a cloud filled the house of the LORD, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud, for the glory of the LORD filled the house of the LORD (1 Kgs 8:10–11).

God is now dwelling with God’s people in God’s land. We are back in Eden. We are back to the beginning of the story.

But there’s still a problem. The people remain sinful, so eventually God’s glory departs as described in Ezekiel 10–11, and because of this, the temple is destroyed.

I’m going to pause the story here for a moment because I want us to see that God dwelling with God’s people in God’s land—rather than us going to dwell with him—has been the plan and continues to be the plan throughout the Bible. Most people might recognize the story so far, but then, after the temple is destroyed and Jesus enters the story, many suggest (or believe implicitly) that the story changes. However, when we jump from this point to the last book of the Bible, to the climactic scene of the whole story, what we see is that this same theme is still present even at the very end.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. he will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God” (Rev 21:1–3).

God’s desire to dwell with humanity and fill creation with his glory, love, and mercy—so much so that it becomes a new creation—has been the overarching theme from Genesis to Revelation. Once we recognize this, we can better understand how devastating it was for the people of Israel when the glory of God left them, and the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed. This was God’s home, the place where God was meant to dwell with his people forever, the place on earth where God had placed his name. But now, it was empty, destroyed, and in ruins.

Not surprisingly, given the prominence of this theme, we see in the prophets—even later in Ezekiel—the hope of a new Temple where God would come and dwell with his people. That new temple is described in Ezekiel 47, and the very first thing mentioned about it is how water will flow out from it into the entire world, causing it to flourish and multiply life wherever its waters go. This is how God will bring about the new creation—by making living water flow from his new Jerusalem temple into the whole world. So the prophet Zechariah says:

On that day living waters shall flow out from Jerusalem, half of them to the eastern sea and half of them to the western sea. It shall continue in summer as in winter (Zech 14:8).

The new creation hope is for living water to flow from Jerusalem to the entire world. And notice the very next verse:

And the LORD will be king over all the earth. On that day the LORD will be one and his name one (Zech 14:9).

On that day, as Paul describes it, God will be all in all (1 Cor 15:28).

The way God will become king over all the earth and spread his love, justice, and mercy into the world is through living water flowing from the new Temple into all the world so that, as Habakkuk says:

For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the LORD as the waters cover the sea (Hab 2:14).

Living Water

I say all this for a reason.

Jesus asks the Samaritan woman at the well for a drink. She is surprised, both because she’s a woman — and Jesus talking to her alone was a scandal — and because she is a Samaritan and he’s a Jew, and the Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans. Here’s what Jesus says to her:

“If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water” (John 4:10).

Jesus continues by saying:

“Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to ζωὴν αἰώνιον — the life of the age to come” (John 4:13–14).

And this isn’t the only time Jesus mentions living water in John’s Gospel. But let’s back up for a moment. Remember how the narrative arc from Genesis to Exodus begins with creation and culminates in God filling the tabernacle with his glory? How does John start his prologue? With a direct reference to the beginning of Genesis.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. he was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made (John 1:1–3).

Then he says:

And the Word became flesh and ἐσκήνωσεν — “tabernacled” — among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:14).

There it is: Genesis 1 to Exodus 40. John is telling the story of how God plans to dwell with his people and fill creation with his glory. The first part of that story is Jesus. But the second part relates to living water:

On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water’” (John 7:37–38).

And what is Jesus talking about? What does this living water mean? John makes it clear. He doesn’t want us to guess.

Now this he said about the Spirit, whom those who believed in him were to receive, for as yet the Spirit had not been given, because Jesus was not yet glorified (John 7:39).

For John, the glorification of Jesus is through his death, and if there’s any doubt about this, ask yourself which Gospel — and only which Gospel — mentions blood and water flowing from Jesus’ side.

God comes to dwell with his people in Jesus, but Jesus then sends his Holy Spirit upon them, the same glorious Spirit that filled the tabernacle and the “house”—the temple—and later, in Acts 2, we read this:

And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. And divided tongues as of fire appeared to them and rested on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance (Acts 2:2–4).

This is incredible. Notice what does not happen here: the people do not have to flee the space because they cannot stand in God’s presence. The Holy Spirit of God, who left his Temple because of the people’s sin, has now returned to his people at last. He has filled not just a building in Jerusalem, but his people themselves.

So Paul writes:

Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? (1 Cor 6:19).

And again — and notice this isn’t some metaphor for Paul:

For we are the temple of the living God; as God said, “I will make my dwelling among them and walk among them, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people” (2 Cor 6:16).

You are the temple of the living God. You are the place where God has finally chosen to dwell with his people, just as he promised. And through you, out into the entire world, God plans for streams of living water to flow.

Do you understand how important this is? You weren’t saved just to escape this earth and go to heaven when you die. You were saved by the blood of Christ so that you might be filled with the Holy Spirit, and then streams of living water might flow out from you into all the world to reveal God’s glory, love, mercy, and justice. You are a new creation, as Paul also says:

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, new creation (2 Cor 5:17).

You weren’t saved to escape. You were saved to become God’s new creation in this world. You were saved to be God’s new temple, and God eagerly desires to use you to flood this entire world with his glory, his love, and his mercy. That is your purpose. That is why we’re here. That is why we gather on Sundays—so that we can be renewed and then have streams of living water flow out from us back into the world to which we go.

The thing that separates us from God is sin. It’s what led to Adam’s expulsion from the garden. It’s what caused the glory of God to leave the temple.

So, today, I want you to do two things. First, as we prepare for communion, bring all your sins before God. Bring them to the altar, lay them down, and leave them there. Confess them again if needed. Name them aloud if necessary. But be done with them, because God wants to use you.

Second, I want you to pray that God would use this Eucharist to fill you powerfully with the Holy Spirit of the Messiah so that streams of living water might flow out from you into your home, workplace, school, this city, and ultimately, the whole world.

Jesus told the Samaritan woman:

“If you knew who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water” (John 4:10).

We know who he is. So ask him.

This is why God created you. This is why God redeemed you. This is why God filled you with his Holy Spirit, and the only thing stopping you from living a Spirit-filled life are the sins you cling to, even though Christ has already freed you from them.

Let them go.

Ask God to fill you anew with his Holy Spirit, and I promise you, there will be streams of living water flowing from you that God will use to transform the entire world with his glory, mercy, and love.

Amen.

Life Group Guide

Intro Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather today to study your Word, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to what you want to teach us. Help us see beyond our preconceived ideas and truly understand your desire to dwell with us and work through us. Holy Spirit, fill this place and each person here, so we can be receptive to your truth and ready to be changed by your presence. Guide our conversation and help us encourage one another as we explore what it means to be your temple in this world. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What’s one place where you feel most at peace or most “at home”? What makes that place special to you?

Key Verses

• Genesis 1:1

• Exodus 40:34–35

• 1 Kings 8:10–11

• Revelation 21:1–3

• John 1:1–3, 14

• John 7:37–39

• Acts 2:2–4

• 1 Corinthians 6:19

• 2 Corinthians 6:16

Discussion Questions

1. How does viewing the Bible as God’s story of coming to live with us (rather than our story of going to heaven) change your perspective on your faith and purpose?

2. The sermon traces God’s presence from Eden to the tabernacle, the temple, Jesus, and believers. Which part of this progression resonates most with you, and why?

3. What does it personally mean to you that you are described as “the temple of the living God”? How should this truth influence your daily life?

4. Fr. Michael explains that sin is what separates us from God and blocks streams of living water from flowing through us. What are some practical ways we can confront sin in our lives?

5. Jesus promised that “out of his heart will flow rivers of living water” for those who believe. Have you experienced or seen this “living water” flowing through someone? What did that look like?

6. How does seeing yourself as part of God’s “new creation” instead of someone trying to escape this world influence your approach to work, relationships, and community involvement?

7. The sermon highlights that we are saved to be filled with the Holy Spirit and to transform the world with God’s love and mercy. What are some specific ways you can become a conduit of God’s living water in your current circumstances?

8. What barriers or obstacles do you face in allowing God to use you as his temple to reach others with his love and mercy?

Life Application

This week, spend time in prayer asking God to reveal any sins you need to confess and release. Then, each day, pray specifically that God would fill you anew with his Holy Spirit and use you as a conduit of his living water wherever you go — whether at home, work, school, or in your community. Look for opportunities to show God’s love, mercy, and justice to others, remembering that you are his temple and his presence dwells within you.

Key Takeaways

• The main message of the Bible is God coming to live with humanity, not humans trying to reach God or escape to heaven.

• From Genesis to Revelation, God’s purpose has been to fill creation with his glory by living among his people.

• Believers are now the temple of God, filled with the Holy Spirit to serve as channels of God’s love and mercy to the world.

• We are saved not to escape this world but to become God’s new creation, transforming it through streams of living water flowing from us.

• Sin is the only obstacle to fulfilling our purpose as God’s temple and to letting his Spirit flow through us to others.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, thank you for revealing that you came not just to save us from our sins, but also to make us your dwelling place. We are amazed that you would choose to fill us with your Holy Spirit and use us as your temple in this world. Help us to take seriously our calling to be conduits of your living water. Forgive us for the sins that hinder your work through us, and fill us afresh with your Spirit. May streams of your love, mercy, and justice flow from our lives into our families, workplaces, communities, and beyond. Use us, Lord, to transform this world with your glory. We surrender ourselves to you as your temple, ready to be used for your purposes. In your precious name we pray, Amen.

What Do You Actually Trust?

Lent is meant to be a time of self-examination and repentance, so it’s a good moment for an honest question:

I’m not asking what you claim to trust, but what or whom you actually, practically, and emotionally trust to keep you safe, secure your future, and protect the people you love.

I ask this question because Psalm 33 asks it first.

The psalm is a hymn of praise structured around four main themes: the LORD’s word in creation, his plan throughout history, his all-seeing eye, and his power. But throughout all four sections, a single word runs like a thread: ḥesed—the loyal, covenant love of God. Verse 5 proclaims that “Yahweh’s ḥesed fills the earth.” Verse 18 states that the LORD’s eye is on those who “wait for his ḥesed.” The psalm ends in verse 22 with a prayer: “May your ḥesed be over us, O LORD, as we have waited for you.”

The psalm, in rehearsing creation and God’s working through human history, his care and provision for his people, is driving toward one question, over and over: Will you wait on the ḥesed of God, or have you placed your trust somewhere else?

The Deception of the War Horse

The psalmist is very precise about what ‘somewhere else’ refers to.

The king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a false hope for salvation, and by its great might it cannot rescue (Ps 33:16–17).

The Hebrew word translated as “false hope” here is šeqer, a term meaning a lie, fraud, or false witness. The war horse is not just insufficient; it is a falsehood. It promises salvation but cannot deliver.

If this claim sounds radical to you, it was equally radical in the ancient world, where kings justified their power precisely by claiming divine support for their armies. Every Assyrian king, Egyptian pharaoh, and Babylonian ruler declared that their gods were with them, and the proof was their military strength. Voltaire later expressed this secular logic with cynical bluntness:

The psalm challenges this misplaced hope. Military strength, political control, economic power—these are šeqer. They are a deception. They are false hope. The nation whose God is the LORD is not recognized by its militaristic strength but by where it places its trust.

We see this deception unfold in our own time with startling clarity. Countries are spending historic amounts on weapons and armies. Political leaders everywhere promise security through strength, dominance, and the power to destroy. And the psalm says:

This is a false hope.

The war horse cannot save.

The large armies are lying to you.

Psalm 33 challenges each of us—and our nation—with a question we often struggle to ask: Where is your trust, really? Because the psalm says that where you place your ultimate trust reveals everything about who or what your G/god really is.

Leave Everything Behind

The opening words of our reading from Genesis mark the start of God’s plan for redemption. Genesis 3:11 describes the world falling into chaos, reaching its peak in the sin at the Tower of Babel, when the world is scattered, and languages are confused. Then, with Genesis 12, God’s plan of redemption begins to unfold. This is how it starts:

Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Gen 12:1).

God does not ask Abraham to refine himself, improve his current securities, or add faith as just another item in his portfolio. Instead, he asks him to leave everything behind—country, kindred, his father’s house—and follow a promise he cannot see yet. Everything that defined Abraham, everything that gave him standing and security in the world, had to be surrendered if he was going to follow God’s promise. According to Paul in Romans 4, this is the model for faith. This is what the call of God looks like.

And this is exactly what Jesus asks of Nicodemus. Nicodemus is a Pharisee, a leader of Israel, and he comes to Jesus at night because he has too much to lose during the day. He has power, privilege, and social standing. His entire identity could be at stake if he is found associating with Jesus. He is balancing his growing loyalty to Jesus with his standing in the community, his security, and his position. Jesus won’t let him stay there much longer.

Jesus answered him, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God” (John 3:3).

I don’t think we realize how incredibly heavy these words are. Nicodemus was a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He was born into the specific family that God chose out of all the families on earth—the family with the law, the prophets, the covenant, the temple, and the place where God’s name dwelt. He had hit the lottery—the jackpot. And Jesus says: Unless you are born again, you cannot see the kingdom of God.

This statement is not a gentle invitation to experience spiritual renewal. It is a complete demand on Nicodemus’s life. His life was shaped by the family he was born into, but now, like Abraham, he must leave everything behind. He must start over. He must be born again.

The Ḥesed of the Cross

Both Abraham and Nicodemus are asked to do the same thing: to stop trusting in things that seem to offer security and instead trust in the God whose ḥesed fills the earth. In both cases, the promise involves going through death. Abraham’s heir will come from a body as good as dead, and Jesus tells Nicodemus that the path to eternal life goes through the Son of Man being lifted up on a cross.

And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life (John 3:14–15).

And then comes the verse we all know:

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

The cross is God’s ultimate answer to the psalm’s question. Where can true security be found? Not in the king’s army, not in the warrior’s strength, not in the war horse, not in the DOW, not in the right political alignment, not in collecting weapons of war, whether nationally or individually, and not in any credentials or identity the world offers. True, eternal security can only be found in the Son of Man, who was lifted up on the cross, bearing in himself the curse that brought us death, so that everyone who looks to him might live.

The ḥesed of God—the covenant faithfulness and mercy that fills the earth—is not just an idea. It has a face, and that face is Jesus’ as he suffers and cries out in pain and agony on the cross. When God wanted to show the world his power and his might, he didn’t send armies, and he didn’t drop bombs. He sent his Son, and his Son died. His death is the ultimate rejection of Voltaire’s cynical logic: the most decisive victory in history was not won by a large army but by a crucified and risen Messiah.

Waiting on the LORD

The psalm concludes with the only posture that makes sense given everything we’ve discussed.

Our soul waits for the LORD; he is our help and our shield. For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. Let your steadfast love, O LORD, be upon us, even as we hope in you (Ps 33:20–22).

The psalm concludes with patience, hope, and trust—not in armies, political power, stock markets, or worldly securities that ultimately fail—but in the steadfast love of the one whose eye is always on those who hope in him.

Lent is a season for this kind of reflection. These forty days encourage us to ask: What are the warhorses in my life? What false securities have I trusted more than God? What is the thing I cling to in the darkness, like Nicodemus, because I am not yet willing to trust God with it in the daylight? These questions are not meant to be easy. They are meant to push us, like Abraham and Nicodemus, away from the things that once defined us and toward the God who alone will sustain us in this world and the next.

Behold, the eye of the LORD is on those who fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love, that he may deliver their soul from death and keep them alive in famine (Ps 33:18–19).

May his eye always find us trusting not in political or military might but in his unending, everlasting, steadfast love.

Amen.

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Life Group Discussion Guide

Opening Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather today, we ask you to open our hearts and minds to what you want to teach us through your Word. Help us honestly assess where we truly place our trust, and give us the courage to examine the areas of our lives where we might be relying on false securities instead of your steadfast love. Guide our discussion and help us encourage one another as we seek to trust more fully in you. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one thing you collected or held onto as a child that made you feel safe or secure?

Key Verses

1. Psalm 33

2. Genesis 12:1

3. John 3:3

4. John 3:14-16

Questions

1. Fr. Michael asks, ‘What do you actually trust?’—not what you claim to trust, but what you truly, practically trust. How would you honestly answer this question about your own life?

2. The psalmist refers to military strength and political power as lies or false hopes. Why do you think these things are so tempting to trust, both on a personal level and as a nation?

3. Abraham was called to leave ‘country, kindred, and father’s house’—everything that defined him and provided his security. What would be the modern equivalent of these things in our lives today?

4. Nicodemus approached Jesus ’at night’ because he had too much to risk during the day. What are some things we might be afraid to bring into the ‘daylight’ of God’s presence?

5. Jesus told Nicodemus he must be ‘born again.’ What do you think it practically means to be born again in terms of where we place our trust?

6. The sermon states that ‘the cross of Jesus Christ is God’s ultimate answer’ to questions about where true security can be found. How does the cross challenge worldly ideas about power and security?

7. What are some ‘war horses’ (false securities) that are especially tempting in our current culture and time?

8. The psalm concludes with patience, hope, and trust in God’s unfailing love. How can we nurture this kind of steady trust in our everyday lives?

Life Application

This week, identify one specific ‘war horse’ or false security in your life—something you tend to trust more than God. It could be financial security, career success, relationships, health, or reputation. Each day, intentionally choose to surrender this area to God in prayer and practice trusting in His steadfast love instead. Consider sharing this challenge with a trusted friend or family member to hold yourself accountable.

Key Takeaways

1. True security isn’t found in military strength, political influence, or worldly credentials - these are false hopes that ultimately deceive us.

2. God’s hesed (steadfast, covenantal love) fills the earth and serves as the only trustworthy foundation for our trust.

3. Following God means letting go of the things that once defined us and gave us security, as shown by Abraham and Nicodemus.

4. The cross of Jesus Christ is God’s ultimate display of power - not through force, but through sacrificial love.

5. Lent is a time for honest self-reflection on where we genuinely place our trust and what false securities we might be holding onto.

Ending Prayer

Lord God, we thank you for this time of discussion and reflection. We confess that too often we put our trust in things that cannot truly save us—in our own strength, in worldly securities, in the ‘war horses’ of our time. Help us to let go of these false hopes and instead place our full trust in your steadfast love revealed in Jesus Christ. May your eye always find us hoping in you, not in the things of this world. Give us the courage to live as people who genuinely believe that Your love is our ultimate security. We pray this in the name of Jesus, who was lifted up on the cross for our salvation. Amen.

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There is an obvious problem with Ash Wednesday, and I want to address it right from the beginning.

The Gospel reading for Ash Wednesday is from the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus provides three instructions for practicing the three disciplines that define Lent: almsgiving, prayer, and fasting.

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His instructions for all three follow the same basic pattern. Do not do these things to be seen by others. Do not do them for public recognition. Do not perform your righteousness. Do not be like the hypocrites who disfigure their faces so others will notice their fasting. Instead — and this is where it gets uncomfortable — Jesus says:

“But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you” (Matt 6:17–18).

The Gospel reading says, “Wash your face,” and then, as the sermon ends on Ash Wednesday, a minister goes and does the opposite. The minister marks the people’s faces with ashes.

What’s going on here? Have we gathered to do exactly what Jesus warned us not to? Are the ashes we wear on Ash Wednesday simply a show of religiousness, a way to demonstrate our piety to everyone around us? If Jesus tells us to wash our faces and we instead mark them with ashes, are we being the very hypocrites Jesus warns about?

Truth in the Inward Parts

What Jesus requires in Matthew 6 is not new. He isn’t presenting a new standard that caught Israel off guard. Long before the Sermon on the Mount, the prophet Joel and the Psalmist were already saying the same thing.

The word of the Lord that came to Joel arrived during a time of disaster. A locust swarm had devastated the land. The day of the Lord was near, dark and without dawn. Amid this crisis, God called his people to return, but with a warning about how that return should happen. The Lord says through Joel:

Rend your hearts and not your garments (Joel 2:13).

Rending garments was an ancient Near Eastern gesture of grief and mourning. People tore their clothing to show everyone that something terrible had happened, that they were devastated, and that they were overwhelmed. It was a visible, public act that could not be mistaken. And God says: Don’t do that. Or rather, don’t do only that. Do not perform your grief. Do not perform your repentance. Instead, rend your hearts — which is to say, let the grief from your sin go all the way down, into the place where no one can see it except you and God.

Likewise, Psalm 51 is David’s powerful psalm of repentance, written after his sin with Bathsheba. It offers perhaps the clearest picture in all of Scripture of what truly rending the heart looks like. David is not performing here. There is no audience. There is no one to impress. He is alone with God and with the truth about himself, and the truth is overwhelming.

For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight, so that you may be justified in your words and blameless in your judgment (Ps 51:3–4).

I must point out that some people regard David as a model of strictly vertical repentance — he perceives his sin only in relation to God, and they argue that this is the true sign of genuine contrition. I am not convinced that David deserves such high praise.

David did not sin only against God. He also sinned against Bathsheba, a woman he held near-absolute power over and who had little ability to refuse him. And he clearly sinned against Uriah, her husband, whom he arranged to be killed.

“Against you, you only, have I sinned” may reveal more about David’s blind spots than his spiritual depth. The better approach is not to exclude the people we have wronged from our confession, but to explicitly name them — to come before God and say not only “I have sinned against you,” but “I have sinned against her, against him, against them,” because God sees and loves those people we have harmed too.

What David says next goes to the heart of everything we do on Ash Wednesday.

Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being, and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart (Ps 51:6).

Truth in the inner being. From David to Joel to Jesus, this is what God has always sought. Not torn garments. Not disfigured faces. Not ashes worn as a badge of piety. God is after truth in our inner being — a reckoning that occurs in secret, in the hidden place of the heart, where only you and God can see. This is the proper posture for Ash Wednesday.

When Jesus says, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you,” he is not just telling us to avoid showing off. He is also pointing us toward a God who sees what no one else can see and cares more about what is happening in the secret place of our hearts than about anything we do publicly. To be concerned about whether we have ashes on our foreheads or not is still to be concerned about what’s happening on the outside of us. The whole purpose of Ash Wednesday is not to perform repentance but to genuinely repent, which happens, first and foremost, between you and God alone.

When You Come Forward

So, what are the ashes for?

Some people, including my liturgics professor, after grappling with this specific tension, have suggested that we should eliminate the cross shape entirely and go back to the older practice of sprinkling ashes on the head, where they can’t be seen. This practice is indeed the older method.

I understand the point, but it focuses on the wrong issue.

Ashes without the cross don’t transform anything on the inside of you, but they do leave you with a less truthful symbol.

Ashes alone say one thing. They say that you are mortal, that you came from dust and to dust you will return.

That message is true, but it is not uniquely Christian. Every religion and philosophy that has honestly engaged with the human condition has expressed something similar. The Stoics understood this. The Buddhists understand it. The existentialists understand it. If all we do on Ash Wednesday is remind each other that we will die, then all we’ve really accomplished is having a very cheap therapy session.

But the cross marked on your forehead on Ash Wednesday is not just a simple decoration. The cross gives the ashes a purpose beyond despair. When I trace that cross on your forehead, I’m not saying, “This is your end. To dust and ash you shall return.” Instead, I’m saying, “This would be your end, but Christ himself has already claimed you.”

The ashes proclaim the curse — you are dust, you have sinned, and you will die. But the cross speaks a louder, truer word over the ashes — Christ has taken on Adam’s curse so that dust and ash are not your end. It is not the ashes that define the cross, but the cross that defines the ashes.

The ashes on your forehead are not a display of piety for those around you. They are instead an honest acknowledgment of the truth about yourself — that you are mortal, that you are a sinner, and that without Christ, this would be your end. But they also serve as a declaration of an even greater truth: that the cross of Jesus Christ has already spoken on your behalf, and in what it proclaims, it speaks louder than the curse, louder than the dust, louder than your sin, and louder than even death.

This is why the collect for Ash Wednesday begins with words that should stop us in our tracks: “Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing that you have made.” God does not hate you for what you are confessing today. In fact, he loves you. He loves you so much that he sent his Son to bear the weight of everything in your life that the ashes represent. And the cross on your forehead is the sign that he has already taken that weight upon himself and done away with it forever.

The Beginning of Lent

Lent does not start with a resolution. It does not start with a plan. It does not start with you deciding how to improve yourself over the next forty days. Lent begins with an honest reckoning before God, the kind Joel demanded of Israel, the kind David shows us in Psalm 51, the kind that cries out:

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions (Ps 51:1).

Lent begins not with confidence in our own ability to change but with the recognition that only God can create in us a clean and contrite heart and renew a right spirit within us. Even our repentance, even our turning, is something he must do in us. Look again at the collect: it asks God to “create and make in us new and contrite hearts.” We cannot manufacture contrition. We can only run to the God who can.

This internal turning, this reorienting of our hearts, is what God has always wanted from his people — not a performance of religion, but a genuine return. Not torn garments, but a rent heart. Not the appearance of humility, but the real thing. Not dust trying its best to perform its way back to God, but dust relying on the infinite mercy of God and thereby being raised by God, breathed into again, made alive again.

So ask God today to rend your heart. Plead with him if you must. Come before your Father in secret, and beg him to do what only he can do — create in you a clean heart, renew a right spirit within you, and restore in you the joy of his salvation. That joy is the promise of Lent. It comes not from a set of disciplines that we perform in our own strength, but from the God who sees in secret and who, when we come to him honestly, is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love (Joel 2:13).

This is who God has always been. This is who God will always be. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

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Life Group Guide

Intro Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather together today, we ask that you would open our hearts and minds to receive what you want to teach us through your Word. Help us to be honest with ourselves and with you about who we are and our need for your grace. Create in us clean hearts and renew right spirits within us. May our time together draw us closer to you and to one another. We pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one tradition or practice from your childhood that seemed confusing or contradictory to you at the time, but makes more sense to you now as an adult?

Questions

1. How do you understand the tension between Jesus’ instruction to ‘wash your face’ and the practice of receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday?

2. What is the difference between ‘rending your garments’ and ‘rending your heart’ as described in Joel 2:13? How does this apply to our spiritual lives today?

3. Father Michael mentions that David’s confession, ‘against you, you only have I sinned,’ may reflect blind spots rather than spiritual depth. How can we ensure our repentance includes acknowledgment of how we’ve wronged others?

4. What does it mean to have ‘truth in the inward being’ as mentioned in Psalm 51:6? How can we cultivate this in our own lives?

5. How does the cross traced in ashes change the meaning of the ashes themselves? What does this symbolize about our identity in Christ?

6. The collect states that ‘God hates nothing that he has made.’ How does this truth impact the way we view ourselves and our sin?

7. What is the difference between beginning Lent with resolutions versus beginning with ‘honest reckoning before God’?

8. How can we practice the spiritual disciplines of Lent (prayer, fasting, almsgiving) in a way that focuses on internal transformation rather than external performance?

Life Application

This week, spend time in private prayer asking God to reveal areas of your heart that need His transforming work. Practice one of the Lenten disciplines—prayer, fasting, or almsgiving—in secret, focusing not on what others might see but on genuine heart change that only God can accomplish. Consider writing down specific ways you have wronged others and honestly bring these before God in confession.

Key Takeaways

1. True repentance happens in secret between you and God, not as a performance for others to see.

2. The cross traced in ashes transforms their meaning from despair to hope - declaring that Christ has already claimed us and borne our curse.

3. God desires ‘truth in the inward being’ and genuine heart change rather than external religious performances.

4. Lent begins with honest reckoning before God, recognizing that only he can create clean hearts and renew right spirits within us.

5. God hates nothing that he has made and loves us so much that he sent his Son to bear the weight of our sin and mortality.

Ending Prayer

Gracious and merciful God, we thank you for seeing us in secret and loving us completely. We confess that we are dust and sinners, but we rejoice that the cross of Christ speaks louder than our failures. Create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew right spirits within us. Help us to live this week with truth in our inward being, seeking genuine transformation rather than just performance. May the joy of your salvation be our strength as we walk through this Lenten season. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Introduction

What comes to mind when you think about “missions”? Is it financially supporting people experiencing poverty in a small African village? Is it ministering in churches in Colombia, where the children have very few options that don’t involve harvesting cocaine? Is it visiting a theological school in Germany, trying to bring the life-giving water of the Gospel to a dry, barren, and atheistic land?

All of these are examples of “missions,” but not everyone is called to go to these places and do that kind of mission work. Still, we are all called to be missionaries, whether at home or abroad.

Jesus said:

But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth (Acts 1:8).

“Witness.”

I like that word a little better than “missionary.”

Notice that Jesus doesn’t say, “And some of you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” He says, “You will be my witnesses. You. All of you.” If you are Christ’s disciples, then your mission in this world is to be a witness to Jesus Christ, whether you’re at home in your “Jerusalem” or far from your comfort zone in places you might call “the ends of the earth.”

The Reversal

What we should notice in this passage is how unusual this commission truly is. To us, it sounds normal because we’re very familiar with it, but to Jesus’ first-century audience, it would have seemed like the very opposite of what the prophets had predicted would happen when God finally acted to save his people.

It’s not that the Kingdom of God was meant to exclude Gentiles. The prophets clearly indicated that there would be a place for Gentiles in God’s kingdom, and that is one of the main themes of Epiphany. However, the way Gentiles would enter was not through the people of God coming to them, but rather by the Gentiles flowing into Jerusalem.

In the Old Testament, the dominant vision of God’s mission to the nations is centripetal—the nations stream toward Jerusalem. Isaiah writes:

It shall come to pass in the latter days that the mountain of the house of the LORD shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be lifted up above the hills; and all the nations shall flow to it (Isa 2:2).

The Psalmist envisions Jerusalem as the spiritual home of all the nations, and says:

Glorious things of you are spoken, O city of God (Ps 87:3).

Zechariah prophesies:

Many peoples and strong nations shall come to seek the LORD of hosts in Jerusalem and to entreat the favor of the LORD (Zech 8:22).

The pattern is clear: the nations come to Jerusalem, not the other way around. Jerusalem is the center, the destination, the place where God’s glory dwells and where the nations will find salvation.

But now, in Acts 1:8, the direction has reversed:

But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth (Acts 1:8).

The mission is now centrifugal rather than centripetal. No longer do nations gather toward Jerusalem. Instead, from Jerusalem, Jesus’ disciples are sent out. They are to be witnesses first in Jerusalem, then in Judea, then in Samaria, and finally to the ends of the earth. The direction is outward, not inward.

In the kingdom of God, we do not wait for the world to come to us; instead, we go out as witnesses of Jesus Christ.

The reason for the reversal isn’t arbitrary; it’s because of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit of God no longer dwells in the Temple but within the people of God. When Jesus ascended to heaven and poured out his Spirit at Pentecost, the location of God’s dwelling changed.

God’s presence is no longer limited to a building in Jerusalem that nations must visit to encounter the living God. Instead, God’s presence now lives in us, in the church, in those filled with the Holy Spirit. We are the temple of the living God.

Since the temple is mobile and goes with us, the nations still stream to meet Israel’s God, just as the prophets foretold—but now, we carry that temple to them. Part of being Christ’s witnesses at home and abroad is carrying God’s presence with us as we cross every boundary and go to the ends of the earth.

Crossing Boundaries

That’s the other thing we should notice in this passage. The movement is clearly geographical, but with that outward movement comes increasing hostility and a sense of otherness. Jerusalem and Judea were comfort zones, but taking the Gospel to Samaria and to the ends of the earth where those unclean Gentiles lived was something entirely different.

Do you remember what John’s parenthetical note was when Jesus was talking to the Samaritan Woman?

The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans) (John 4:9).

The Jewish avoidance of Samaritans in the first century was a deeply rooted cultural practice based on religious and political conflicts. The Samaritans recognized only the five books of Moses as scripture and built their own temple on Mount Gerizim for worship. In 128 BC, one of the Maccabees, John Hyrcanus, captured Shechem and destroyed the Gerizim sanctuary. By Jesus’s time, the hostility had become so intense that a devout Jew would go out of their way to avoid Samaria entirely when traveling from Judea to Galilee, much like someone today taking the long way home to steer clear of a certain part of town. In short, Jews and Samaritans viewed each other as enemies, yet even they are called to be witnesses by Christ.

And what about the end of the earth? It was people from the end of the earth who destroyed the Jerusalem Temple and sent the people into exile. It was people from the end of the earth who tried to eradicate Judaism from the face of the planet. It was people from the end of the earth who still occupied the Holy City, who continue to impose their rule and authority on God’s people, and who will be judged and destroyed when the stone of Daniel 2 strikes the feet of the idolatrous kingdoms of this world. Yet, even to them, Christ has called us to be his witnesses.

Each step outward from Jerusalem demanded that the disciples cross deeper and more painful divisions. Each step required them to witness to people who were harder to love, harder to reach, and harder to see as beloved children of God. The truth confronting us today on World Mission Sunday is this: God loves and wants to reach our enemies. God loves and wants to reach the people who have wronged us. God loves and wants to reach the people who are different from us, the people who don’t look like us, the people who speak different languages than us, the people who vote differently than us, the people we’d rather ignore on the street than try to help, and even the people who would actively seek to do us harm. God loves them and wants to reach them all.

To these people and more, God has called us to be his witnesses: to tell them about Christ, to embody God’s presence in their lives, and to share his love and mercy in a world that so badly needs it.

If this feels impossible, it’s because we’re not wired that way. We’re not naturally built to love our neighbors as ourselves or to love and pray for our enemies. So, if this task feels overwhelming, you’re right. It’s too much for you, and it goes against your natural instincts. But here’s what makes the whole thing possible:

But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses (Acts 1:8).

The Holy Spirit is more than just a source of spiritual comfort or personal piety. He is the power of God that helps us overcome the boundaries created by our sin and brokenness in this world. The Holy Spirit enables us to love our Samaritans, to witness to those we find hardest to reach, and to extend the love of Christ across every division that separates human beings from one another.

World Mission Starts Where We Are

The mission of the church is not to build a comfortable community of like-minded individuals. Instead, it is to be Christ’s witnesses to the ends of the earth, crossing every boundary that separates us, and bringing the love and lordship of Jesus Christ to those who seem farthest from God.

Witnessing across divisions is our mission wherever we are. Being Spirit-empowered boundary-crossers is what we are called to do. And we cannot accomplish this without the Holy Spirit. The collect for today is exactly right.

Almighty God, through the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, you revealed the way of eternal life to every race and nation: Pour out this gift anew, that by the preaching of the Gospel your salvation may reach to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

God has revealed the way of eternal life to every race and nation. Not to one race. Not to one nation. Not to one people group. But to every race and nation. And then our request is simple: pour out this gift anew.

That’s what we need. If you want to pray on World Mission Sunday, pray for the work of missionaries both at home and abroad. Pray for everyone who serves God’s kingdom, wherever they are. Make sure to also pray for a new outpouring of the Holy Spirit that helps us love others who are different from us, those who hate us, and even those who may seek to harm or wrong us.

You cannot do this on your own. But with the Holy Spirit, we can become exactly what Christ has called every one of us to be: his witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

Amen.

Intro Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather today to discuss your call for us to be witnesses, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to what you want to teach us. Help us to be receptive to your Spirit’s leading and to see beyond our own comfort zones. Give us the courage to examine how we can better serve as your witnesses in our daily lives. May this time together draw us closer to you and to one another. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What’s the farthest place you’ve ever traveled from home, and what was the most surprising thing you discovered about that place or its people?

Key Verses

1. Acts 1:8

2. Isaiah 2:2-3

3. John 4:9

4. Daniel 2

Questions

1. How does knowing we carry God’s presence with us everywhere affect your view of daily interactions?

2. Fr. Michael notes that in the Old Testament, nations were expected to come to Jerusalem, but now we go to them. How does this ‘reversal’ challenge our approach to sharing faith?

3. Who are the ‘Samaritans’ in your life - people you find hard to love or reach out to? What makes it difficult?

4. Fr. Michael discusses crossing progressively tougher boundaries—from Jerusalem to Judea, Samaria, and finally to the ends of the earth. What boundaries in your own life do you find most difficult to cross?

5. The sermon emphasizes that God loves and wants to reach even our enemies. How does this truth challenge your perspective on people who have wronged you?

6. What role does the Holy Spirit have in helping us love those who are different from us or hostile towards us?

7. How can our church better live out the mission of being ‘spirit-empowered boundary crossers’ in our community?

Life Application

This week, choose one person in your life who represents a ‘boundary’ for you—someone who is different, difficult to love, or with whom you have conflict. Pray daily for this person and find one practical way to show Christ’s love to them, whether through a kind word, an act of service, or simply treating them with dignity and respect.

Key Takeaways

1. All Christians are called to witness for Jesus Christ, not only professional missionaries.

2. The mission approach has changed from the Old Testament model — now we proactively reach out to the world instead of waiting for the world to come to us.

3. We carry God’s presence with us wherever we go, making us mobile temples.

4. Being a witness involves crossing progressively harder boundaries and loving those who are different or hostile.

5. The Holy Spirit offers the strength needed to love our enemies and testify across all divisions.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, thank you for calling us to be your witnesses wherever we are. We confess that loving across boundaries and divisions is difficult for us, and we cannot do it in our own strength. Pour out your Holy Spirit upon us anew, that we might have the power to love those who are different from us, those who oppose us, and even those who seek to harm us. Help us to see every person as someone you love and want to reach. Give us the courage to step out of our comfort zones and be faithful witnesses of your love and grace. Use us as instruments of your peace in a divided world. In your precious name, Amen.

The Reproaches

The attentive ear this morning would have heard familiar words in our reading from the prophet Micah. In both Common Worship and the Book of Common Prayer 2019, the Good Friday liturgy quotes explicitly from Micah 6. In both liturgies, a minister places a wooden cross before the congregation, and then the Lord’s question, asked initially through the prophet Micah, is repeated.

“O my people, what have I done to you? How have I wearied you? Answer me!” (Mic 6:3).

God’s Lawsuit Against His People

The scene in Micah is a covenantal lawsuit in which God summons creation to serve as his witness against his people, which highlights the seriousness of their covenantal breach.

Hear what the Lord says: Arise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice. Hear, you mountains, the indictment of the Lord, and you enduring foundations of the earth, for the Lord has an indictment against his people, and he will contend with Israel (Mic 6:1-2).

In this lawsuit, Yahweh acts as both the plaintiff and the judge; creation serves as his witness; the prophet serves as his attorney; and Israel is the defendant.

When God asks, “What have I done to you?”, he flips the script and behaves as if he is the one on trial. But the question is rhetorical. Israel has been acting as if God has wronged them, even though they are the covenant breakers.

In his argument, the LORD recalls what he has done for Israel, which he calls “the righteous acts of the Lord” (v. 5). The word for “righteous” here is צְדָקָה, tsedâqâh. The NRSV translates this as “saving acts,” but the ESV’s translation is better. These acts of the Lord serve as his legal defense, showing that he has acted faithfully to the covenant he made with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. These acts, while salvific, demonstrate that he is “in the right,” legally speaking, which means that Israel must be in the wrong.

Bargaining with God

This verdict leads to a change in the speaker starting in verse six. The case has been settled, and restitution must now be made. The expected answer to the question of restitution when the people have wronged God is a priestly response. The form of this discourse expects the guilty party to offer restitution through sacrifice.

So, an anonymous speaker begins bargaining with God, trying to figure out precisely what it will take to regain the Lord’s favor.

“With what shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” (Mic 6:6-7).

The prophet responds:

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? (Mic 6:8).

What God Requires

Like the words of verse three, these words ought to be familiar too. When we confess our sins corporately, at the end we say to God together:

In your mercy, forgive what we have been, help us to amend what we are, and direct what we shall be; that we may do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with you, our God.

You may have noticed that the ESV uses the word “kindness” in the second phrase, while the confession uses “mercy.” Both are accurate translations of the Hebrew word חֶסֶד (ḥesed), which is difficult to translate. The most common concept connected to this word is “loyal love,” as when the Lord passed before Moses and said:

“The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love (ḥesed) and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love (ḥesed) for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin” (Exod 34:6-7).

The word ḥesed in Exodus 34 refers to God’s steadfast, loyal love for his people, but it is sometimes translated as “kindness” or “mercy” because, as we all know, we do not deserve God’s steadfast, loyal love.

In a secular, non-theological context, ḥesed is a principle of mutuality. It is something expressed and shared within a family or group. “You show loyal love to me, and I will show loyal love to you.” But when the concept is applied to the Lord, something changes. Human beings cannot repay God’s abounding ḥesed to us, but that does not mean the principle of mutuality is therefore excluded.

What we see in Micah 6 and elsewhere in the Old Testament is that “God’s kindness towards an individual places that individual in a new relationship with his neighbor, a relationship based on Yahweh’s kindness; in his daily contacts with others he must keep the kindness he has experienced, he must practice righteousness and justice, kindness and mercy. Thus ḥesed shapes not only the relationship of Yahweh with human beings, but also that of human beings among themselves.”¹

The prophets repeatedly emphasize that the Lord does not ask for sacrifices from his people as if the ritual were all that mattered. Instead, he requires them to do justice (and to be clear, not justice as the state defines it, but as God does), love ḥesed, and walk humbly with him.

Likewise, in Hosea, when explaining why he has judged and punished the people so severely, the Lord answers:

For I desire steadfast love (ḥesed) and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings (Hos 6:6).

Notice that to know God is to practice ḥesed.

Jesus and Hesed

Jesus quotes this passage from Hosea twice in the Gospel of Matthew. When he is asked about why he eats with tax collectors and sinners, he replies:

“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Matt 9:12-13).

When his disciples are accused of breaking the Sabbath, he says again:

And if you had known what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless (Matt 12:7).

Jesus called these things “the weightier matters of the Law,” likely alluding directly to Micah 6:8. He said:

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness” (Matt 23:23).

And all of these passages, of course, come after Jesus had said this:

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy” (Matt 5:7).

In other words, “Blessed are those who practice ḥesed, for they shall receive ḥesed,”  “

Let me ask you a simple question.

Do you think ḥesed mattered to Jesus?

Do you think treating others with mercy, even when they don’t deserve it, mattered to Jesus?

What God Wants from You in Lent

We’re approaching Lent, and hopefully, we’re all starting to think about what we might give up during this season of fasting. But what God wants from you is not for you to give up chocolate. What God wants from you is not for you to give up coffee. What God wants from you is not even some big, extravagant sacrifice, like the anonymous man in Micah 6 offering to sacrifice even his firstborn son in an attempt to earn back God’s favor.

What God wants from you in Lent and all year round is for you to practice ḥesed. He wants you to take the ḥesed that you have been given, even though you didn’t deserve it, and share it with others, even and especially when they don’t deserve it either. All the rituals, all the liturgies, and all the sacrifices we have ever made are meaningless if we refuse to share God’s ḥesed with others, especially with those who do not deserve it.

That is who God is. His glory is that he abounds in ḥesed, and he expects his people to be abounding in ḥesed too. 

But you don’t have to take my word for it. Take his.

Jesus said:

Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful (Luke 6:36).

Amen.

Life Group Guide

Opening Prayer

Heavenly Father, we come before you with open hearts and minds, ready to receive your word. Help us to understand the depth of your steadfast love and guide us to practice justice, kindness, and humility in our daily lives. May we be open to what you want us to learn and apply from our discussion today. Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one act of kindness you have received recently that made a significant impact on you?

Key Verses

1. Micah 6:1–8

2. Hosea 6:6

3. Matthew 9:13

4. Matthew 12:7

Questions

1. What does the term ḥesed mean to you, and how can it be applied in our daily lives?

2. Why do you think God emphasizes justice, kindness, and humility over sacrifices?

3. How can we practice ḥesed in our relationships with others, especially those who may not deserve it?

4. In what ways can we ensure that our acts of worship are not empty rituals but are filled with genuine love and mercy?

5. How does understanding God’s steadfast love change the way we interact with our community?

6. What are some practical ways we can embody ḥesed during the season of Lent?

7. How can we balance the practice of justice and mercy in our daily decisions?

8. What challenges might we face in trying to live out the principles of ḥesed, and how can we overcome them?

Life Application

This week, identify one person in your life who may not ‘deserve’ kindness and intentionally show them an act of ḥesed. Reflect on how this act impacts your relationship with them and your understanding of God’s love.

Key Takeaways

1. God desires his people to practice justice, love ḥesed, and walk humbly with Him.

2. Empty sacrifices are meaningless without genuine love and mercy.

3. The concept of ḥesed is central to understanding God’s relationship with humanity and should be reflected in our relationships with others.

4. Jesus emphasized justice, mercy, and faithfulness as the weightier matters of the law.

5. Practicing ḥesed involves sharing God’s steadfast love with others, even when they don’t deserve it.

Ending Prayer

Lord, thank you for teaching us about your steadfast love and mercy. As we go forth, help us to embody ḥesed in all our interactions. May we be instruments of your mercy in the world. Guide us to live out these principles in our daily lives, reflecting your love to everyone we meet. Amen.

Introduction

The letter to the Hebrews says that Jesus, our great high priest, was tempted in every way like us, yet without sin (Heb 4:15). The fact that our High Priest understands what it means to be tempted by sin like we are is meant to comfort us. But, to be honest, it’s hard for me to picture Jesus going through the same temptations I face, and that’s partly because the Gospels don’t show Jesus as being constantly tempted by sin. They don’t depict Jesus walking around, seeing a beautiful woman and feeling tempted, or finding an unattended bag of money and feeling the urge to take it for himself. Instead, the Gospels focus on one specific moment in Jesus’ life when he is led into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit and tempted by Satan.

But the problem is that those temptations, at least on the surface, don’t seem like the kind you and I face every day. Satan isn’t tempting me to walk outside and turn stones into bread. Satan isn’t taking me to the top of a tall building and telling me to throw myself off. And Satan isn’t exactly whispering in my ear to worship him. Although maybe he is, and we just don’t realize it. We’ll get back to that.

What I want to do in this sermon is revisit each of the three temptations with fresh eyes and look beyond the surface. Because on the surface, they are directly connected to Jesus as the Son of God—the one who has just been declared God’s beloved Son at his baptism. But beneath that, there is something much more universal, something more relatable to all of us. Beneath the surface, we discover the kinds of temptations everyone faces every single day.

The First Temptation

And the tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God’” (Matt 4:3–4).

You’ll notice in v. 2 that this temptation occurs after forty days and forty nights of fasting. Matthew explicitly states that Jesus was hungry. The temptation here isn’t to perform magic. Instead, it’s for Jesus to satisfy his needs through his own power and will, rather than trusting in God’s provision.

Observe how Jesus responds to Satan. His words are a quote from Deut 8:3. Moses is recounting Israel’s forty years in the wilderness and states:

And he humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna, which you did not know, nor did your fathers know, that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone, but man lives by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord (Deut 8:3).

Manna was how God provided for his people, but it wasn’t always readily available. In Exodus, when God first provides manna, he instructs them to take only enough for each day, requiring them to trust in his provision. When they try to take more, it spoils and rots.

When the people grew tired of God’s provision and demanded meat, God sent so much quail that they became sick of it. This led to a “very great plague” that killed many people. Their cravings overwhelmed them, and they buried so many people there that they named the place Kibroth-hattaavah, which means “the Grave of Cravings” (Num 11:34).

Manna wasn’t just about God feeding people; it was a test. As Deuteronomy states, he allowed the people to hunger and provided manna with specific rules so they would learn to trust in God’s provision and care for them.

“Every word that proceeds from the mouth of God” here is not God’s commandments but the word God speaks of ongoing care and provision for his people. The hunger and the manna together are meant to teach the people to trust in God rather than be driven by their own cravings, their own strength, or to think they had provided for themselves by their own means.

For Jesus, using his own power and choice to satisfy his needs—simply turning stones into bread—would have been committing the same sin for which God punished Israel in the wilderness.

The first temptation, at its core, is to rely on our own power and strength to meet our needs instead of trusting in God’s loving provision for his people.

The Second Temptation

Then the devil took him to the holy city and set him on the pinnacle of the temple and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test’” (Matt 4:5–7).

The devil notices what Jesus is doing. Jesus quotes the Hebrew Bible to him, so now he’ll quote it back to Jesus. Jesus quotes from Deuteronomy. Satan quotes from Psalm 91. The temptation here is to act contrary to what God actually wants for his people because someone—or something—has told you that what you’re doing is “biblical.”

Let me be clear, because this is important.

The devil’s argument could rightly be called “biblical,” especially in how people use that term today. He is quoting the Bible to make a point, trying to persuade Jesus to do something that goes against God's will. That’s why I mentioned in Adult Catechesis the other day that from now on, when someone says their position is biblical or wants to share with me the biblical stance on X, I’ll assume they’re lying, wrong, or both. The Bible is far too complex, diverse, and written over far too many years, centuries, and millennia to claim a biblical position on something just because someone pulls out one verse and expects everyone to agree.

People often do this: they select parts of the Bible that seem to support their cause for reasons unrelated to the Bible itself, then claim their view is biblical and argue that all good Christians ought to support it—and them.

The churches in the South used this argument with slavery, saying that God supported it because of the curse of Ham. Segregationist churches did the same during the civil rights movement, claiming that God made separate nations and wanted them to remain separate. White supremacists do this. Christian nationalists do this. Liberals do this. Republicans do this. Democrats do this. Everyone does this, and it makes me want to scream:

Just because the Bible mentions angels guarding your path doesn’t mean you should jump off a building. Just because Paul doesn’t condemn slavery doesn’t mean it’s right to own people made in the image of God. Just because the Bible talks about different nations and peoples doesn’t mean we should forget that we’re all descended from the same man and share the same blood. Just because the Bible advocates submission to the government doesn’t mean it’s okay to stay silent while people seeking a better life for their families are rounded up and treated like animals and criminals—something that’s happening now in Minneapolis to our diocesan brothers and sisters from Myanmar, who came here because their own government was murdering them, burning churches, and destroying orphanages.

The people quoting Scripture to justify the evil, fear, anger, and hatred in their hearts aren’t being biblical; they’re being satanic.

And to be clear, I am not talking about those who might misunderstand something in the Bible because they haven’t been taught to read it properly. I’m sure I misunderstand things all the time; I just don’t know which parts I’ve misunderstood. I’m talking about the people who should know better—the ones who hold themselves out as leaders and yet still weaponize God’s Word as a tool for their own agenda, making the Bible say in one verse what it clearly rejects in all others. That is how Satan uses the Bible, not how Christ used it, nor how those who worship Christ as Lord should use it.

The second temptation, at its core, is to act in a way inconsistent with Scripture while using Scripture to justify our actions and agendas.

The Third Temptation

Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. And he said to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Then Jesus said to him, “Be gone, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve’” (Matt 4:8–10).

The first draft of this sermon at this point just said: “Do I actually need to say anything?”

But I will.

Daniel 7 says of the Son of Man:

And to him was given dominion and glory and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall not be destroyed (Dan 7:14).

Jesus is that Son of Man. He famously said that he came not to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many—because he is that Son of Man. All the kingdoms of this world and all their glory will one day rightly belong to him, as they do now. But the path from the baptismal water to that moment is not the path of pursuing power by worldly means.

Instead, the path Jesus walked involved befriending sinners and tax collectors, being kind to people who regarded him as an enemy, loving those rightly condemned under the law, forgiving those who wronged him—even those who nailed him to a cross—and ultimately sacrificing his own life for others’ good. If there is a Christian way to power, that’s it, and it’s the only path available to us as disciples of Jesus Christ. If you think I’m wrong, go read Philippians 2.

Self-sacrifice is the only way to achieve glory for Christians, yet we are constantly bombarded with temptations to gain power through other means. And I dare say all those temptations to pursue power differently—in ways that don’t resemble taking up our cross, loving our neighbors as ourselves, or doing unto others as we would have them do unto us—can all be summed up in a few words:

“All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me” (Matt 4:9).

If we worship Jesus instead of Satan, then there is only one path for us to follow in this life, and it is the path Jesus walked before us. All other paths are the devil’s temptation for us to gain power, privilege, prestige, and prosperity through Satan’s methods rather than by taking up our cross and following Jesus.

Yes, these temptations have a unique flavor because they are temptations for Jesus. But at their core, they are temptations we all face every day: the desire not to trust in God’s provision, the urge to manipulate God’s Word for our own ends rather than submit to it, and the temptation to pursue power, privilege, prestige, and prosperity—the kingdoms of this world and all their glory—apart from the cross of Jesus Christ.

We constantly fall into these temptations. We try to rely on ourselves instead of trusting God’s provision. We manipulate Scripture to suit our purposes instead of submitting to Christ’s authority. We seek power through any means other than a self-sacrificial cross.

In that regard and in many other ways, we are not so different from Israel in the wilderness.

But Jesus is.

He is the faithful Son who succeeded where Israel failed, where Adam failed, and where we fail daily. He walked the path of self-sacrifice all the way to the end—not for his own glory, but for ours. That is the good news at the heart of this wilderness story.

Lent isn’t meant to make us better through sheer human effort, but to turn us back to the One who has already passed every test we couldn’t, and who offers us, in his great, infinite, ever-expanding mercy, a share in the victory he alone has won.

Amen.

Life Group Guide

Introductory Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather today to study your Word and learn from Jesus’ example in the wilderness, we ask you to open our hearts and minds to what you want to teach us. Help us honestly face our own struggles with temptation and see how Jesus’ victory can become ours. Guide our discussion and encourage us as we seek to follow you more faithfully. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What’s one food you could eat every day for a week without getting tired of it, and what’s one food you think you’d grow sick of after just a few days?

Key Verses

1. Matthew 4:1-11

2. Deuteronomy 8:3

3. Psalm 91

4. Daniel 7:13-14

5. Philippians 2:5-11

Questions

1. Fr. Michael mentions that Jesus was tempted ‘in every way like us.’ How does understanding the deeper meaning of these wilderness temptations help you connect with Jesus’ experience?

2. In the first temptation, Jesus chose to trust God’s provision rather than meet his own needs through his own power. What are some areas in your life where you struggle to trust God’s provision instead of relying on your own strength?

3. The sermon warns against using Scripture to support our own agendas instead of submitting to God’s will. Can you think of examples where you’ve seen this happen or where you might have been tempted to do so yourself?

4. Jesus responded to each temptation by quoting Scripture from Deuteronomy. How can we better prepare ourselves to face temptation by knowing God’s Word?

5. The third temptation involved pursuing power through worldly methods versus choosing the path of self-sacrifice. What does it practically look like to follow the ‘path of the cross’ in our daily lives?

6. Fr. Michael mentions that we ‘fail these temptations constantly.’ How does knowing that Jesus succeeded where we fail change how you view your own struggles with temptation?

7. Israel failed the test in the wilderness with the manna, but Jesus succeeded. What lessons can we learn from both Israel’s failure and Jesus’ success about trusting God?

8. The sermon emphasizes that Lent isn’t about improving ourselves through human effort, but about returning to Jesus who has already achieved victory. How does this outlook influence your approach to spiritual disciplines or personal growth?

Life Application

This week, identify one area where you’ve been trying to fulfill your needs through your own effort rather than trusting in God’s provision. Practice surrendering this to God daily through prayer, and look for ways he might be providing for you that you hadn’t noticed before. Also, when you’re tempted to use a Bible verse to support something you want to do, pause and ask yourself: ‘Am I trying to make Scripture fit my agenda, or am I willing to let Scripture shape my heart and actions?’

Key Takeaways

1. Jesus’ wilderness temptations reflect the daily struggles we all encounter: trusting our own strength instead of God’s provision, twisting Scripture for personal gain, and chasing worldly power rather than choosing the path of self-sacrifice.

2. Using Bible verses to support our own agendas while ignoring the broader message of Scripture is a satanic approach to God’s Word, not a Christian one.

3. The only Christian way to achieve power and glory is through self-sacrifice and taking up our cross, following Jesus’ example of serving others.

4. Jesus succeeded where Israel, Adam, and we have failed. He is the faithful Son who passed every test we could not pass.

5. Lent isn’t about trying harder on your own, but about turning back to Jesus, who gives us a share in his victory through His mercy.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, thank you for walking the path of temptation before us and showing us the way to victory. We admit that we often fall short where you succeeded - relying on our own strength, twisting your Word to fit our desires, and seeking power through worldly means instead of sacrificial love. Help us remember that our hope doesn’t rest in our ability to overcome temptation but in your perfect victory on our behalf. As we leave this place, strengthen our trust in your provision, deepen our commitment to your Word, and guide us to follow your footsteps of self-sacrificial love more faithfully. Thank you for your mercy that covers our failures and your grace that grants us a share in your triumph. In your holy name we pray, Amen.

This sermon was preached on January 26, 2026, at St. Dunstan’s Anglican Church in Largo, FL, in response to recent events in Minneapolis, including the shooting of Alex Pretti the previous day.

Introduction

Today’s Gospel reading directly follows Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness. In that scene, Jesus is offered all the kingdoms of this world and their glory if he will worship Satan instead of following God’s plan. Thankfully, Jesus said no. But the Satanic temptation to embrace the kingdoms of this world - their power, their methods, their promises of security - did not die in the wilderness.

Normally, I spend all week thinking about what I’m going to say on Sunday mornings. I read, research, write, meditate, and pray, and then usually on Saturdays, I take what I have written and rework it into its final form. That method typically works well, except on occasion when something disrupts my Saturday. The disruption yesterday wasn’t due to plans with my family or a must-watch football game. What threw off my Saturday yesterday was a video I saw on social media showing a man on the ground being shot by federal officers in Minneapolis. That video completely changed what I had planned to say today.

The Shadow of Violence

Our Gospel reading today begins:

“Now when he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee” (Matt 4:12).

John the Baptist has been taken into custody by the state. And Jesus, knowing this, begins his public ministry, proclaiming:

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Matt 4:17).

The proclamation of the kingdom of God begins in the shadow of state violence, and he calls the people to repentance. Repentance on the lips of Jesus here doesn’t mean feeling sorry about your sin, although it can and should include that. What it means instead is to turn around and go in a different direction. Jesus could see the way the world was headed in his own day, and he pleaded with the people to turn around and follow him on a different path.

The Question from Amos

Our reading from Amos asks:

“Do two walk together, unless they have agreed to meet?” (Amos 3:3).

This proverb says that sustained partnership requires substantial agreement on values and commitments. In God’s mind, the people no longer share his values, and so he can no longer walk with them. The prophet declares:

“Proclaim to the strongholds in Ashdod and to the strongholds in the land of Egypt, and say, ‘Assemble yourselves on the mountains of Samaria, and see the great tumults within her, and the oppressed in her midst.’ ‘They do not know how to do right,’ declares the LORD, ‘those who store up violence and robbery in their strongholds’” (Amos 3:9–10).

The prophet is clear: God will not walk with those who pursue oppression and violence. His kingdom follows a different path, so if we would walk with him, we must turn around and go another way.

Repentance, Not Authorization

Today is the Third Sunday of Epiphany, but it is also the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. So, I have to ask, in the Book of Acts, does anyone read that Saul was ravaging the church, entering house after house, dragging off men and women, and putting them in prison (Acts 8:3), and think that he was morally justified because he had an official letter from the high priest authorizing him to do so? I certainly hope not, but then again, preachers in the South found a way to use the Bible to support slavery, so nothing should surprise us.

I am no politician, nor do I worship at the altar of any political party. I didn’t dare turn on cable news yesterday because there is quite literally nothing good that comes from that, and I don’t claim to have the divine perspective on what is happening in our country or in Minneapolis. I will never tell you who God wants you to vote for, and our services will never serve as a political rally for any party.

However, like the prophet Amos and our Lord Jesus Christ, I will tell you, and I would be negligent as your priest if I didn’t, that violence and oppression are on one path, and the kingdom of God is on another. And the only way from the former path to the latter is to do exactly what Jesus says:

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Matt 4:17).

A Litany of Confession and Lament

What follows is a litany of confession, lament, intercession, and vision—a way to bring before God both our complicity and our grief, our failures and our hopes. As you read, the lines that trouble you most are probably the ones you most need to hear. That’s how it worked for me as I was writing it.

Confession

(Asking for Mercy for our Sins)

For the fear, unrest, and violence in our country,
Lord, have mercy.

For the times we have chosen security over faithfulness,
Christ, have mercy.

For the comfort we enjoy that depends on oppression we do not have to see,
Lord, have mercy.

For our silence when we should have wept and protested,
Christ, have mercy.

For every time we have called violence “necessary,”
Lord, have mercy.

For the divisions in your church, where some see murder and others see justice,
Christ, have mercy.

For believing the kingdoms of this world could ever align with the kingdom of God,
Lord, have mercy.

For storing up violence in our strongholds while claiming to walk with you,
Christ, have mercy.

For forgetting that you began your ministry in the shadow of state violence and ended it under the weight of the empire’s cross,
Lord, have mercy.

Silence is kept.

Lament

(Asking God to Hear our Grief)

For the image of God destroyed in the victims of violence and oppression,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For the mothers and fathers who grieve,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For the communities living in fear,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For the impossible position of those called to serve and protect in a violent world,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For a nation that has made peace with violence and has forgotten mercy,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For a church that has forgotten how to speak truth to power,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

For a people that never learned that you desire mercy and not sacrifice,
Hear our lament, O Lord.

Silence is kept.

Intercession

(Asking God to Help and Guide Us)

For our president, governor, and all in authority, that they may govern with wisdom and pursue both justice and mercy,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For lawmakers and judges, that your law may be written on their hearts,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For law enforcement officers, that they may serve with integrity, courage, and restraint,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For our bishop and all bishops and clergy, that they may faithfully proclaim your Word and rightly administer your sacraments in turbulent times,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For those who have been harmed by violence, that you would bring healing and restoration,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For those who mourn, that you would comfort them and turn their mourning into hope,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For all who suffer in body, mind, or spirit, and for those in any need or trouble,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For communities torn apart by division and conflict, that you would bind up their wounds and make them whole,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For this congregation, that we may be instruments of your peace and agents of your kingdom,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For the church universal, that we may bear witness to your kingdom and stand with the oppressed,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

For ourselves, that we may have the courage to turn from complicity and walk in the way of Jesus,
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Silence is kept.

Vision and Renewal

(Asking God to Show us the Way Forward and Renew Us)

Grant us vision for a world where both justice and mercy flow like rivers,
Thy Kingdom Come, O Lord.

Show us the way to where swords become plowshares and spears become pruning hooks,
Thy Kingdom Come, O Lord.

Give us the courage to walk in that way, even when it costs us everything,
Thy Kingdom Come, O Lord.

Create in us clean hearts, O God,
And renew a right spirit within us.

Do not cast us from your presence,
Or take your Holy Spirit from us.

Restore to us the joy of your salvation,
And sustain us with your mercy, justice, and love.

Silence is kept.

Closing Prayer

God of justice and mercy, we confess that we do not know how to walk in your ways. We have made peace with violence. We have chosen the comfort and power of the kingdoms of this world over your kingdom. We have stored up violence in our strongholds. We have failed to see your image in those destroyed by power. We have chosen the rule of law over mercy.

Forgive us. Remake us. Help us to follow Jesus, who rejected Satan’s offer of earthly kingdoms and began his ministry while John sat in prison.

Give us courage to repent - not just to feel sorry, but to turn around and walk a different direction. Give us eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts that break for what breaks Yours.

We ask this in the name of Jesus, who knew what it was to live under occupation and to die at the hands of the state. Amen.

Silence is kept.1

General Confession & Absolution

Most merciful God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, we confess that we have sinned in thought, word, and deed. We have not loved you with our whole heart. We have not loved our neighbours as ourselves. In your mercy, forgive what we have been, help us to amend what we are, and direct what we shall be; that we may do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with you, our God. Amen.

Almighty God, who forgives all who truly repent, have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and keep you in life eternal; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Home Depot Apron

Today marks the 12th anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. On Saturday, January 18th, 2014, I was ordained by Bishop Morales into the sacred order of priests, which happened to be the feast day of the Confession of St. Peter. I say “happened to be” because I know the date wasn’t chosen specifically for the feast day but because it was practical for everyone involved. Some of you have heard the story about setting my ordination date, but not all of you, so I’ll tell it again here.

A few months before my ordination, I spoke with Bishop Morales, who asked me to talk with my rector and coordinate with him to suggest some possible dates for my ordination. As you might expect, I was both excited and nervous to see my rector the following Sunday morning. I planned to discuss it with him after the service.

The service ends, and when I find my rector, he’s talking with an elderly woman, but I can’t tell what they’re discussing. Come to find out, she was giving him a public tongue-lashing because he was taking too long praying for children during communion. I guess it was messing up her lunch schedule or something, but she was very upset about it. For my part, I didn’t notice how agitated he was after this conversation, and (stupid me) I approached him immediately afterward and said, “Father, the Bishop asked me to talk to you about some potential ordination dates.” I will never forget the affirmational response I received that day.

He said, “Anyone who wants this job is a fool. I would gladly trade in my collar for the orange apron of Home Depot any day.” And then he stormed off.

As you can imagine, I had never felt more affirmed in my vocation than I did at that moment. My fumbling response as I followed him went something like this: “Okay, but we still need to suggest some dates to the Bishop.”

Eventually, we proposed some dates, and, of course, the ordination took place, for which I am very grateful.

The Joy In Between

In the twelve years since, there have definitely been days, as I suspect any priest would tell you, when I have echoed my former rector’s sentiment—although perhaps not quite as explicitly as he did. There are days when you wonder, “What am I doing here?” But those days are few and far between, at least for me, and in between are many days marked most notably by the joy that comes from sharing Jesus with others, feeding them with his body and blood, and bringing Christ to people, even in my limited and imperfect ways.

I have always seen preaching God’s Word and teaching people about Jesus as my main way of fulfilling my priestly calling. It has felt truly providential to me that I was ordained on the Feast of the Confession of St. Peter, a day when the church remembers and celebrates Peter’s great confession of who Jesus really is. It’s not an exaggeration to say, as you will see, that I have devoted my life to the themes of this confession.

In the Shadow of Caesar

Matthew sets the stage for Peter’s confession in Caesarea Philippi, a historically significant place. In 20 BC, Emperor Caesar Augustus granted this area to Herod the Great, who built a large marble temple there to honor the emperor. After Herod died, the land was given to his son Philip, the tetrarch of Trachonitis, who renamed the city Caesarea in honor of the empire. The name Caesarea Philippi was used to tell this city apart from other Caesareas in the Roman Empire.

This place was, in name and function, entirely dedicated to the emperor and the empire. Jesus is metaphorically standing in the shadow of the cult of Caesar when he asks his disciples,

“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” (Matt 16:13).

Jesus clearly refers to himself when he asks this question, but he does so using his preferred self-designation, the Son of Man. When Jesus calls himself “Son of Man,” he isn’t being modest or cryptic—he’s referencing Daniel’s vision and pointing his disciples to the one who will approach the Ancient of Days and receive an everlasting kingdom. He’s giving them the first clue to his identity.

Who Others Say He Is

The disciples respond:

“Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets” (Matt 16:14).

All of these answers are interesting in their own right and point toward the truth. People think he might be Elijah because Elijah was supposed to precede the Lord’s return to Zion, but in fact, that responsibility fell to John the Baptist. The people suspect that Jesus might be Elijah redivivus—come back to life—because they are aware of the eschatological timetable laid out in Daniel, as well as the prophecy in Malachi (Mal 4:5). The time is now. If the Lord is returning, Elijah must come first.

Some say Jesus is Jeremiah, but why would they think that? Jeremiah was the prophet who denounced Jerusalem for its sin and predicted the destruction of its temple. When Jesus cleanses the temple later in Matthew’s Gospel, he quotes Jeremiah because he is a Jeremiadic prophet who also forecasts the city’s and temple’s destruction. Even in this initial answer from the disciples, we are already hearing hints of who Jesus truly is.

Peter’s Confession

So far, the disciples have shared what others say about Jesus. Now he asks the all-important question:

“But who do you say that I am?” (Matt 16:15).

We’ll return to this question later, but for now, let’s examine Peter’s response.

“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matt 16:16).

Christ, of course, is the Greek translation of the Hebrew word meaning Messiah or Anointed One. Peter answers, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” That Peter understands full Trinitarian theology at this point is probably unlikely. Still, I do not doubt that these words mean more, especially in Matthew’s Gospel, than Peter could ever have understood at the moment. After all, Jesus says:

“Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven” (Matt 16:17).

These are not Peter’s words, even though they come from his lips. It will take the church a long time to fully understand what it means that Jesus is the Son of the Living God and to find precise words to express this theologically, but the idea is already present on Peter’s lips in nascent form.

Who Jesus Is

So, when we combine all of this—Jesus’s self-reference as the Son of Man, the disciples’ initial answers about John the Baptist, Elijah, and Jeremiah, and Peter’s confession—what do we end up with?

Son of Man

First, Jesus is the Son of Man, the one who will be defeated and then vindicated as he rides on the clouds to heaven.

“And to him was given dominion and glory and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall not be destroyed” (Dan 7:14).

That is who Jesus is.

The Lord Returning to His People

Second, he is also the Lord returning at last to his people. In Malachi, the people asked, “Where is the God of justice?” The Lord responded, “I am coming, but before I do, I will send you Elijah the prophet.” Elijah has come in the person of John the Baptist, and the Lord has returned to his people. Not as a pillar of cloud or fire, and not as the shekinah glory once again filling the temple, but much more miraculously, he has returned in the person of Jesus Christ.

That too is who Jesus is.

A Prophet

Third, he is also a prophet, calling his people to repentance, just as Jeremiah did before him, and warning of impending destruction if they do not listen. Jeremiah gave this remarkable speech:

“Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel: Amend your ways and your deeds, and I will let you dwell in this place. Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the LORD, the temple of the LORD, the temple of the LORD.’ Behold, you trust in deceptive words to no avail. Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal, and go after other gods that you have not known, and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘We are delivered!’—only to go on doing all these abominations? Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your eyes? Behold, I myself have seen it, declares the LORD” (Jer 7:3–4, 8–11).

Jesus will quote this speech as he enters the city, goes to the temple, and drives out all who are buying and selling there. In doing so, he follows the tradition of Jeremiah and the other prophets, calling the people to repentance and warning of destruction if they do not listen.

That too is who Jesus is.

The Son of the Living God

Lastly, and most gloriously, he is also the Son of the Living God, which certainly has kingly overtones as we saw at Jesus’s baptism, but now means so much more. Jesus, the fully human being standing before Peter and the rest of his disciples, is the Son of the Living God. We are children of God through adoption. He is eternally begotten of the Father. And yet:

“though he was in the form of God, [he] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2:6–8).

Jesus is the Son, the second person of the Trinity, who has emptied himself for the good of humanity. In Matthew’s Gospel, immediately after this confession, Jesus begins to predict his death and resurrection in Jerusalem. This moment is when everything shifts for Jesus because he understands what it means to be the Son of the living God.

That too is who Jesus is.

Christ

Today, we sum this all up with one word: Christ.

That is our confession, the same as Peter: Jesus is the Christ. And we make this confession while standing in the shadow of the empire and its cult, just as Peter did. It is not to Caesar that worship and glory belong. It is not to the empire that we are to swear allegiance whenever it demands. Right now, the empire is demanding allegiance, and the church is complying in full to its shame. Glory, worship, and allegiance belong only to Jesus Christ because He is Lord, and everyone else and everything else is not. So Paul continues:

“Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Phil 2:9–11).

This whole picture of who Jesus is is great and glorious, but here’s the challenge. I can explain this all exegetically, biblically, and theologically. I can point you to the Old Testament passages alluded to here and help you understand how they work together in the New Testament. Indeed, as I said in the beginning, that is what I consider to be my primary vocation as a priest. I can teach you, but I cannot make you believe. I can point, hopefully in the right direction, but I cannot make you follow. Jesus is saying to all of you, “Yes, I know who Matthew and Peter say that I am. I know who the Creeds say that I am. I know who Fr. Michael says that I am. But who do you say that I am?”

That question is all-important, and only you can answer it.

Amen.

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Life Group Guide

Opening Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather together today, we ask that you would open our hearts and minds to receive what you want to teach us through your Word. Just as you revealed to Peter the true identity of your Son, Jesus Christ, we pray that you would reveal yourself to us in new and deeper ways. Help us to be honest in our discussions, vulnerable in our sharing, and receptive to the work of your Holy Spirit among us. May this time together draw us closer to you and to one another. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one job or career that you think would be particularly challenging or stressful, and why?

Key Verses

• Matthew 16:13–19

• Daniel 7:14

• Malachi 4:5

• Jeremiah 7:3–4, 8–11

• Philippians 2:6–11

Questions

• Why do you think Jesus chose to ask about his identity in Caesarea Philippi, a place dedicated to Caesar and the Roman Empire? How does confessing Jesus in “the shadow of Caesar” relate to our own context today?

• The disciples gave various answers about who people thought Jesus was (John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah). What do these answers reveal about people’s expectations and understanding of Jesus?

• Peter confessed Jesus as “the Christ, the Son of the living God.” What do you think Peter understood about Jesus in that moment, and what might he not have fully grasped yet?

• Fr. Michael describes Jesus as fulfilling multiple roles: Son of Man, returning Lord, prophet like Jeremiah, and Son of God. Which of these aspects of Jesus’ identity resonates most with you and why?

• Jesus said that Peter’s confession was revealed by the Father, not by “flesh and blood.” What role does divine revelation play in our understanding of who Jesus is?

• Fr. Michael mentions that the church today is “complying in full” with the empire’s demands for allegiance. What does this mean? What are some ways modern “empires” or systems compete for our allegiance instead of Christ?

• Fr. Michael emphasizes that while pastors can teach about Jesus, they cannot make people believe. What is the difference between intellectual knowledge about Jesus and personal faith in him?

• Jesus asks each of us personally: “Who do you say that I am?” How would you answer this question, and how has your answer changed over time?

Life Application

This week, spend time in prayer and reflection, honestly answering Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?” Write down your response and consider how your understanding of Jesus’ identity should impact your daily decisions, priorities, and allegiances. Look for one specific area where you can choose loyalty to Christ over competing demands from culture, work, or other “empires” in your life.

Key Takeaways

• Peter’s confession of Jesus as “the Christ, the Son of the living God” was a divinely revealed truth that encompasses multiple aspects of Jesus’ identity.

• Jesus fulfills Old Testament prophecies as the Son of Man, the returning Lord, a prophet like Jeremiah, and ultimately as the Son of God.

• The confession took place in Caesarea Philippi, symbolically challenging the authority of Caesar and earthly empires in favor of the supremacy of Christ.

• While teachers can explain who Jesus is biblically and theologically, each person must personally answer Jesus’ question about his identity.

• True allegiance belongs to Jesus Christ alone, not to earthly powers or systems that demand our worship and loyalty.

Concluding Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, we thank you for revealing yourself to us as the Christ. Like Peter, may our confession of who you are be not just words we speak, but a truth that transforms our lives. Forgive us for the times we have given our allegiance to empires, ideologies, and powers that are not you. Help us to live with undivided loyalty to you, recognizing that you alone are worthy of our worship and allegiance. As we go from this place, may our lives be a testimony to your lordship over every area of our existence. Give us courage to stand firm in our confession of faith, even when the world—and even the church—demands otherwise. We pray this in your holy name, Amen.

Introduction

Among the topics in New Testament studies, my favorite is the use of the Old Testament in the New. Even as I say that, I can hear my doctoral advisor insisting that the topic is “the presence of the Old Testament in the New” because “use” must be demonstrated rather than assumed, but that’s a different conversation.

Today, as we celebrate and remember the baptism of our Lord, we are presented with one of the most salient examples of how the Old Testament is used in the New. Thinking about how these different Old Testament texts come together in one statement will create a powerful picture for us of who Jesus is and how his identity connects to his baptism.

The Voice from Heaven

Let’s have Matthew describe the scene for us.

And when Jesus was baptized, immediately he went up from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on him; and behold, a voice from heaven said, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt 3:16–17 ESV).

What I want us to focus on this morning is the voice from heaven, which combines three Old Testament texts into one powerful declaration. In one sentence, as Jesus rises out of the water, we are told that he is (1) the Royal Son, (2) the Sacrificial Son, and (3) the Servant. We’ll look at each of these briefly and then connect this glorious picture to the sacrament of baptism.

The Royal Son

Leaving aside the word “beloved” for a moment, the first part of the heavenly declaration seems to refer to Psalm 2. This psalm is a coronation psalm, probably written for Solomon’s coronation. The Psalmist writes:

I will tell of the decree: The Lord said to me, “You are my Son; today I have begotten you” (Ps 2:7).

Once again, the Lord speaks, declaring another son of David to be his royal son. Of course, the early church saw more in the sonship language here than just a royal claim, and that may well be implied. But for Solomon to be called God’s son was not a claim of divinity, but rather a declaration of a special, royal relationship with God, similar to that of other kings in the ancient Near East.

By referencing Psalm 2 here, the royal claims of Jesus are attributed to the Father. A new son of David has appeared, and therefore a new son of God, not only through his royal lineage but also by declaration of the Almighty.

The Sacrificial Son

But what about the word “beloved”? Since Psalm 2 only states “my son,” why is the word “beloved” added? It is added because the voice from heaven links Psalm 2 with Genesis 22.

He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you” (Gen 22:2).

The ESV here correctly translates the Hebrew, but in the LXX, the voice states:

“Take your beloved son Isaak, whom you love …” (Gen 22:2 NETS).

Abraham is told to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac, but as he is about to perform the terrible act, his hand is stayed.

And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him was a ram, caught in a thicket by his horns. And Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. So Abraham called the name of that place, “The Lord will provide”; as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided” (Gen 22:13–14 ESV).

As Jesus is baptized, he is declared not only to be the royal Son of David (and possibly much more than that), but also the long-awaited sacrifice of the Lord to atone for the sins of the whole world. He is not only a second David but also a second Isaac, the true beloved son, although this time, the hand holding the knife would not be stayed. He is the sacrifice the Lord has finally provided.

The Servant

The voice from heaven proclaims:

“This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt 3:17).

As we have seen, the first half of the declaration combines Psalm 2:7 and Gen 22:2. But what about the second half? “With whom I am well pleased” is a clear allusion to Isa 42:1.

Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations (Isa 42:1).

There are four so-called Servant Songs in Isaiah, and these are the opening words of the first song. The language describing the Holy Spirit being placed upon the servant, similar to Jesus’ baptism, along with the synonymous phrases of “with whom I am well pleased” and “in whom my soul delights,” makes this allusion fairly certain.

Like the mixture of Psalm 2 and Genesis 22, in which the kingship of the psalm is mixed with the darker tones of the sacrifice of Isaac, so the Servant Songs take a darker tone as well. By the end of the servant songs, we hear:

He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed (Isa 53:3–5).

Jesus, as he comes out of the water, is declared to be the promised, chosen Servant who would bear the griefs of the people, carry their sorrows, and eventually be crushed for their iniquities.

Conclusion

King. Sacrifice. Servant. These titles are how Jesus is proclaimed by the heavenly voice at his baptism. They are who he will be revealed to be as we continue reading in Matthew’s Gospel, but we already see it all here in the divine declaration as Jesus rises from the water.

And here’s the thing: as Paul says, there is only one baptism, that is, the baptism of Jesus (Eph 4:5). When you were baptized, you were baptized into Christ. His baptism is your baptism, and so the words spoken from heaven over him are true of you as well. You were meant to rule, not like Caesars and empires, but with mercy and justice. You were meant to give your life sacrificially for the good of others. You were meant to be filled with the Holy Spirit and bear the iniquities and trespasses of others so that through your wounds, others might be healed.

Baptism isn’t something we do merely out of obedience. It is rather a sacrament that unites us to Christ, sets the trajectory for our lives, and tells us what kind of people we are to be as his disciples. Jesus is the beloved Son in whom the Father is well pleased in a way that we could never be, but we have been baptized into him, and so we must be king, sacrifice, and servant too. If you have been baptized into Christ, then you are a beloved child. God loves you. But as his beloved child, you are called to exercise our Lord’s kingship as you work to bring in his kingdom “on earth as it is in heaven,” not with force or violence, but by giving your life for others and being a servant of all.

Amen.

Life Group Guide

Intro Prayer

Heavenly Father, as we gather together today to study your Word, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to receive what you want to teach us. Help us to understand more deeply the significance of our baptism and our identity in Christ. May your Holy Spirit guide our discussion and reveal to each of us how we can better live as your beloved children - ruling with mercy, serving sacrificially, and bearing one another’s burdens. We pray that you would speak to us individually and collectively. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Ice Breaker

What is one of your favorite childhood memories involving water - whether it was swimming, playing in the rain, or something else?

Key Verses

• Matthew 3:16-17

• Psalm 2:7

• Genesis 22:2

• Isaiah 42:1

Questions

• How does understanding Jesus as the ‘royal son’ change your perspective on what it means to follow him as King?

• What does it mean that Jesus is the ‘sacrificial son’ that God provided, unlike Isaac, who was spared?

• How does the concept of Jesus as the ‘servant’ challenge our modern ideas about leadership and power?

• Fr. Michael said, “‘There is only one baptism’ - Jesus’ baptism.” How does this truth impact your understanding of your own baptism?

• In what practical ways are we called to ‘rule with mercy and compassion’ in our daily lives?

• What does it look like to ‘give your life sacrificially for the good of other people’ in your current circumstances?

• How can we ‘bear the iniquities and trespasses of others’ as the servant Isaiah describes?

• What difference should it make in our lives to know that we are God’s ‘beloved children’?

Life Application

This week, choose one specific way to live out your baptismal calling in each of the three roles: 1) Exercise Christ-like leadership by showing mercy or compassion to someone, 2) Make a sacrificial choice for the benefit of another person, and 3) Serve someone in a humble, practical way. Reflect on how these actions connect to your identity as God’s beloved child.

Key Takeaways

• Jesus’ baptism reveals his threefold identity as royal son, sacrificial son, and servant through the combination of three Old Testament texts.

• Our baptism unites us to Christ, meaning his identity becomes our calling and vocation.

• As baptized believers, we are called to rule with mercy and compassion, not force or violence.

• We are meant to live sacrificially for others and serve as Christ served.

• Baptism is not just an act of obedience but a sacrament that defines our identity and purpose as disciples.

Ending Prayer

Lord Jesus, thank you for revealing yourself to us as King, Sacrifice, and Servant. Thank you for reminding us that, through our baptism, we are united to you and called to share in your mission. Help us to live worthy of our calling as beloved children of God. Give us the courage to lead with mercy, the willingness to sacrifice for others, and the humility to serve as you served. May our lives reflect the love you have shown us, and may we bring your kingdom to earth through our words and actions. We commit to living out our baptismal calling this week and always. In your precious name, Amen.