1/25/26 Sermon

I’m going to ask for your patience and grace with me this morning. I’ve just come through what is quite possibly the worst day of my life so far.  I woke up yesterday to find out that my best friend since I was 5, the best man at my wedding, Godfather to my son, the keeper of my secrets, the legend of my childhood memories took his own life.

I didn’t even have time to digest and process what that means and what had been taken from this world before I heard about yet another person murdered by agents of the US government and we began to scramble to help the people of Minneapolis.  And after a long and terrifying day wanting nothing but to be home, I was rear-ended so hard my car is inoperable.

I got home at 1 am and before I could even catch my breath, I  had to immediately change out of my teargas drenched clothing to be at the hospital to care for  one of my children.  And I left his bedside 2 hours ago to freshen up, take a shower, and stand up here this morning.

I’m tired, family. The closest person to a brother I’ve ever known is dead. My child is suffering. My car is crashed. My country betrayed me. My heart is shattered into a million little pieces and I’m struggling to figure out if these pieces can be put together.  And as family and friends and loved ones came out of the woodwork to support me, to hold me up, to help me keep it together, they asked one thing.  What do I need?  I told them all the same thing.

I needed to be right here. Right now. With my people. In worship of God.  And if I don’t collapse into a puddle of emotion and heartache this morning which feels like a bigger miracle than resurrection, I need to give thanks to that same God for being God.  Through a day of terror and heartache, through a night that felt like it would never end, the only place I wanted to be , the only thing i wanted to get to is you. I just wanted to be with you right now in this place in this moment. Because there were moments yesterday where I truly wasn’t sure if I’d ever see this place and you all ever again. And I truly give thanks to God that I am here this morning.

Throughout the night I’ve thought about why that is. Out of all the Sundays in my career that I’ve felt justified to call it off and pull someone from the bullpen, I think this may be the one that tops them all.  And I can think of a million other places I could be right now. All of them good. All of them loving.  All of them caring. All of them supporting.  So why this one?  What is it about here? Why you? I honestly don’t know.

The only answer that i can come up with is that it feels like ever since I watched the horrific assassination of Charlie Kirk, my life and faith have been quietly changed. It wasn’t the man or his politics or his theology that did it. Whatever you think of him, and I know we won’t all think the same thing, I never knew much about him or his beliefs until he was murdered. What shook me to my core was the response.  The hatred. The ugliness. The clarity of the divide in this country became undeniable.  We can’t even agree that the murder of a human being is horrific, no matter who that person is or what they’ve done.  And lately we’ve seen that same tragic divide played and replayed over and over again as we’ve literally watched people be murdered in real life on our screens and tried to dissect what happened.

And my mind went somewhere dangerous. Watching how easily the erasure of a human life could be dismissed, justified, or even celebrated, I started thinking about how small any one of us really is.  In the grand sweep of history, in a universe this vast, my life is less than a hiccup of time.  And sitting in that place, I found myself asking a question that scared me:  If my life can feel that small, then what would it mean to place it completely in the hands of someone I believe means everything?  What would happen if I stopped trying to make my life matter on its own and instead trusted Jesus enough to give it to him and follow wherever he leads?

And since then, Jesus has asked me to stand in places I never wanted to stand. To see things I never wanted to see. To experience things that I never want anyone else to experience. And I’ve broken in ways I never wanted to break.  But because Jesus asked me to do that, he’s shown me courage that I never knew existed.  He’s shown me compassion the likes of which I never knew possible.  Faith that is utterly unrelenting. Love that erupts like volcanoes. Passion for things like justice that shakes the ground. And Hope that is utterly indestructible. And so when Jesus told me I needed to be standing right here right now, I knew that I didn’t need to know why. I just… I just needed to do it.

I wish I could say I found all of those amazing things in myself and maybe I’m starting to a little.  But Jesus is showing them to me through other people. My friend Sean who knows the exact moment when to make a joke so that I’ll lose it laughing - when he asked what I needed and I said I needed to be here, he dropped what he was doing and did everything in his power to make sure that I was.  My friend David who’s endured death threats and assaults and yet has a faith that lives and moves so beautifully through this world that I’ve watched it crack hearts of stone.

There’s JD who swears to me that she wants nothing to do with any of this God stuff but I call her my chaplain because the way she cares for people can only come from the Holy Spirit.  And there’s Rabbit and Skip And Violet and Abby and this list goes on and on. All people I’ve met since I decided what was truly worth doing is what I should have been doing all along - handing my life to Jesus and trusting when he said “follow me.”

There are times in my life where I’ve done it in glimpses. For example, when we moved here and I became your pastor.  I truly believe Jesus called us together. I’ve intellectually thought I was a good Christian and a disciple of Christ, but up until recently I thought that meant trying to be a good person, going to church and praying and study my bible.  All good things, sure. But Jesus never says THAT’S the point.  He says feed the hungry. Stand for God’s justice.  Build the kingdom. Protect those who are marginalized. Love people who hate you. Care about others who are different than you.  Treat every single person with dignity no matter what.  That’s what Jesus says a disciple is. That’s what he tells us to do.  That’s what he calls us into. And why? Why does he call us into that?

For the same reason those fishermen dropped everything in their lives to follow him that day. Because the world they were living in had become unbearable, and because Jesus dared to say that another world is possible.

When Jesus walks along the Sea of Galilee and says, “Follow me,” there’s no negotiation and no explanation. And that should unsettle us. People don’t just abandon their livelihoods, their families, their identities, and their security on a whim. You don’t walk away from everything unless the world you are living in is crushing you… AND unless another world has suddenly appeared within reach.

Matthew gives us the context if we’re paying attention. John the Baptist was just arrested. That isn’t a footnote; it’s a warning. It tells us how Empire responds when someone names a different way of living, a different vision of the world, a better way of being human. And Jesus’s world was a world shaped by empire that echoes our own. Rome didn’t rule only through soldiers and swords. It ruled by shaping everyday life. By deciding who had access and who didn’t, who mattered and who didn’t, who could breathe freely and who had to keep their head down. A small group prospered, and most people lived close to the edge. You worked harder just to stay in place. You learned quickly that silence was safer than truth.

That’s how empire works. It doesn’t just control bodies; it colonizes imagination. It tells people what is realistic and what is foolish to hope for. It convinces us that this is just how things are and always will be. It even borrows religious language to baptize itself, to suggest that cruelty is necessary, that obedience looks like silence, and that God prefers order over justice. And it will even twist scripture to justify our dehumanizing of other people.

And if the kingdom Jesus proclaims is real, then there has to be a place on earth where the shattered aren’t discarded, where exhausted people are held, where lives aren’t measured by usefulness or compliance.  There HAS to be a place where another way of being human can ACTUALLY be practiced.

And so life goes on, day after day, under pressure that never quite lets up. Fishermen working long hours with thin margins, living with the constant uncertainty of whether today’s work will be enough and whether tomorrow will be worse. A world organized around survival. A world where fear keeps everything running smoothly. A world where hope has learned to lower its expectations.

That’s the world Jesus walks into and says, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Not someday. Not after you die. Now. Today. Right here.

And that’s why they follow him.

Because Jesus doesn’t simply offer escape from empire; he offers resistance to it. Not with violence. Not with domination. But with something far more dangerous: with a different way to be human.

Notice what Jesus doesn’t offer. He doesn’t promise safety or stability. He doesn’t offer a plan for advancement or a path up the ranks. And he certainly doesn’t offer incentives or financial bonuses for enforcing His will onto some of the most vulnerable among us. That’s how empire works. Empire always tells you to earn your worth, to wait your turn, to accept your place. But Jesus says something else entirely.

In this kingdom, worth isn’t scarce. Dignity isn’t rationed. Belonging isn’t conditional. Empire says, “You are what you produce.” The kingdom says, “You are already claimed.” Empire says, “Protect yourself.” Jesus says, “Follow me.”

And so the question that refuses to leave us alone this morning is this: what kind of world are we. We.  You and I.  The church.  What kind of world are we calling people into? What alternate vision are we offering not just in words, but in how we live to our neighbors, our city, and our country? Because the future of the church doesn’t depend on whether we survive. It depends on whether or not we’re brave enough to live as if the kingdom Jesus proclaimed is actually real.

Family, I am standing up here tired in a way I have never known before. My soul is tired, my heart is shattered, and my body is exhausted. And still, this is where I need to be. Because even now — maybe especially now — I believe the kingdom Jesus spoke about is not something we simply wait for and it certainly isn’t just some silly dream of the naive preached 2,000 years ago.

It is something we step into. It is something we live and breathe and make real through Christ.

And the question he keeps asking and insisting that we answer is the same one he asked those fishermen that day so long ago: will you follow me?

Amen