"What Are You Doing Here?" (June 28, 2026 Sermon)

What Are You Doing Here?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·June 28, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

5th Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

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1 Kings 19:1–18

Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword. Then Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, “So may the gods do to me and more also, if I do not make your life like the life of one of them by this time tomorrow.” Then he was afraid; he got up and fled for his life and came to Beer-sheba, which belongs to Judah; he left his servant there.

But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.” Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, “Get up and eat.” He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones and a jar of water. He ate and drank and lay down again. The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, “Get up and eat, or the journey will be too much for you.” He got up and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God. At that place he came to a cave and spent the night there.

Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts, for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”

He said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind, and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake, and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts, for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” Then the Lord said to him, “Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel, and you shall anoint Elisha son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah as prophet in your place. Whoever escapes from the sword of Hazael, Jehu shall kill, and whoever escapes from the sword of Jehu, Elisha shall kill. Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him.”

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Alright, friends, I’m stepping out of the pulpit today for a slightly different kind of sermon. I spent some quiet time for myself this past week in Montreat at the Music and Worship Conference. I took time to breathe in God’s mercies for myself and breathe them out for others, and I spent a lot more time listening to other people’s sermons than writing my own. So today we get what I like to call “hopefully not too random thoughts from Pastor Stephen,” as we wrap up this first part of our sermon series through the books of First and Second Kings.

So first, let us pray. O Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Naming Faith Fatigue

How many of you know what faith fatigue feels like? Maybe you’re not quite sure what that means, but you probably have a pretty good guess. This phrase was coined in a sermon I heard this past week by the Reverend Dr. Brian Blount, president emeritus of Union Seminary in Richmond, Virginia. He talked about faith fatigue — that feeling I trust you all share with me. When we look out at the world and see all the faithful things we try to do, in our own perfectly imperfect way, both as individuals following Christ and together as a church seeking to follow Jesus and to be agents of good change in the world — yet things don’t seem to be going in a very good direction.

We see a lot of people hurting, a lot of people suffering, a lot of people scared. We go out and do our best, and yet we watch as Haitian immigrants who have done nothing wrong — who have come here legally — are told by this presidential administration that they are expected to be deported. That broke my heart this week. We look out and see so much injustice in the world, and we wonder, “Lord, why are we here? How is it that we try, in our best way, to advocate for our neighbors — our immigrant neighbors, our neighbors experiencing homelessness — and yet there is still so much brokenness in the world?” We just want to run away.

Do you ever have that feeling? Because your pastor is here to tell you that he feels this way, and I’m guessing you do too, from time to time.

Elijah Runs

And you know what? There was a prophet in the Bible named Elijah who felt that way too. You may remember last week we recalled the story of Elijah standing up to the powers that were leading the Israelites into idolatry. He challenged the prophets of Baal at Mount Carmel in a great showdown in which both sides tried to call down fire from heaven. The prophets of Baal tried in vain — Baal didn’t show up. Then Elijah stepped forward and said, “Okay, God, time to do your thing.” And guess what? God showed up. Because we worship a God who shows up.

Well, Ahab and Jezebel were not very happy about that. In fact, Jezebel put a price on Elijah’s head. So guess what Elijah did? He ran. Elijah said, “I am out. I have worked so hard for justice, equity, and righteousness, and all I have gotten in return is a price on my head.” And so Elijah fled to a place called Mount Horeb, feeling tired, faith-fatigued, and despondent — so despondent that his prayer to God was that God would simply let him die.

And in that moment, an angel of God shows up with a message that is essentially this: “You need a nap and a snack.” That is exactly what the angel provides — rest, a freshly baked cake, and some fresh water. Take some time for yourself. And so Elijah does, sustained by that provision through 40 days and 40 nights in the silence, recovering and rejuvenating. Does that sound familiar? We are all entitled to a bit of a pity party from time to time, aren’t we?

After those 40 days and 40 nights, a great wind comes by. But was God in the wind? No. Then an earthquake shatters the ground. Was God in the earthquake? No. Then a great fire comes by. Was God in the fire? No. God was in a still, small, quiet voice — and that voice said to Elijah a very simple sentence: “What are you doing here?”

An Invitation, Not a Rebuke

Now, we could read that in any number of ways. We could read it as God shaming Elijah. But I don’t think that’s how God meant it. I think God was inviting Elijah into personal reflection — the kind we all need from time to time. Because we all need rest. We fight the good fight. We try to join the work of bending the moral arc of the universe, which moves stubbornly slow but is bending nonetheless. And sometimes we need time to be quiet, to reflect, to rejuvenate ourselves before we get back to the good fight of faith.

That is the question God asked Elijah: What are you doing here? After Elijah had taken the time he needed, God gave him new marching orders: I’m going to appoint you to anoint others. Though it’s not in this text, the very next thing God calls Elijah to do is to go and find another prophet named Elisha — to call him to share the mantle of leadership. Because what God is saying to Elijah, in the midst of so much violence, injustice, and pain, is this: I called you to do something, but I never called you to do it alone. So I’m going to raise up Elisha to help you carry the mantle of doing justice, walking humbly, and doing kindness.

A Relay, Not a Solo Marathon

Because, friends, one of the things I heard in the silence I took for myself this week — again, from that sermon by Reverend Dr. Brian Blount — is that the race of faith is not a solo marathon. It is a relay race. Sometimes we are out there fighting the fight. Sometimes, like Elijah, we take time for ourselves to care for our spirits — to take a nap and a snack. And then there is time to get back out there and take up the baton again.

The good news is that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses who have run this race and are passing the baton to us. You and I will carry it, and we may not see this race finished in our lifetime. But that is the life of faith — a time when you and I will hand that baton off to the next generation.

Finding the Geese

So, friends, that is the message I want you to hear today: find that still, small voice, because it is looking for you wherever you are. I’ll tell you where I found it this week. Our house in southeast Guilford County has a pond in the back, and three families of geese have made our backyard their home. We have about two dozen geese that my family has loved watching grow over the past two months. They come to our house every day around five or six o’clock — I could set my watch by it. I’m not crazy about what they leave behind — watch your step if you come to visit — but we absolutely love watching these baby geese grow up.

A week or two ago, we had a huge storm. Thanks be to God, because we needed the rain. The thunder was loud and scary, and it especially frightened our girls. I took Winnie outside and said, “Look at the geese.” They were just hanging out, calm and still, doing their thing — quiet as could be while the very heavens were thundering all around them. And I said to her: “Look, there is the still, small voice of God, right in the middle of all the craziness and the noise.”

So, friends, look for your geese — whatever those metaphorical geese might be for you — and trust that that still, small voice will call you to where God is calling you to be.

Because the good news of this text is that things do not go well for Ahab and Jezebel. They both die. Jezebel gets thrown out of a window. Does anybody know the word for that? Defenestrated. One of my favorite words. And Elijah? He eventually gets carried off to heaven in a chariot. Maybe we will see those glorious days when the chariot comes, and maybe we won’t. But we continue the work.

As we close every worship service here at Guilford Park, remember: we are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are we free to abandon it. Listen to that still, small voice, friends. It is calling you to where God is calling you this day.

In the name of God — Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer — may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

"The God Who Shows Up" (June 21, 2026 Sermon)

The God Who Shows Up

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·June 21, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

4th Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

1 Kings 18:20–40

So Ahab sent to all the Israelites and assembled the prophets at Mount Carmel. Elijah then came near to all the people and said, “How long will you go limping with two different opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him, but if Baal, then follow him.” The people did not answer him a word. Then Elijah said to the people, “I, even I only, am left a prophet of the Lord, but Baal’s prophets number four hundred fifty. Let two bulls be given to us; let them choose one bull for themselves, cut it in pieces, and lay it on the wood but put no fire to it; I will prepare the other bull and lay it on the wood but put no fire to it. Then you call on the name of your god, and I will call on the name of the Lord; the god who answers by fire is indeed God.” All the people answered, “Well spoken!” Then Elijah said to the prophets of Baal, “Choose for yourselves one bull and prepare it first, for you are many; then call on the name of your god, but put no fire to it.” So they took the bull that was given them, prepared it, and called on the name of Baal from morning until noon, crying, “O Baal, answer us!” But there was no voice and no answer. They limped about the altar that they had made. At noon Elijah mocked them, saying, “Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” Then they cried aloud, and, as was their custom, they cut themselves with swords and lances until the blood gushed out over them. As midday passed, they raved on until the time of the offering of the oblation, but there was no voice, no answer, and no response.

Then Elijah said to all the people, “Come closer to me,” and all the people came closer to him. First he repaired the altar of the Lord that had been thrown down; Elijah took twelve stones, according to the number of the tribes of the sons of Jacob, to whom the word of the Lord came, saying, “Israel shall be your name”; with the stones he built an altar in the name of the Lord. Then he made a trench around the altar, large enough to contain two measures of seed. Next he put the wood in order, cut the bull in pieces, and laid it on the wood. He said, “Fill four jars with water and pour it on the burnt offering and on the wood.” Then he said, “Do it a second time,” and they did it a second time. Again he said, “Do it a third time,” and they did it a third time, so that the water ran all around the altar and filled the trench also with water.

At the time of the offering of the oblation, the prophet Elijah came near and said, “O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, let it be known this day that you are God in Israel, that I am your servant, and that I have done all these things at your bidding. Answer me, O Lord, answer me, so that this people may know that you, O Lord, are God and that you have turned their hearts back.” Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt offering, the wood, the stones, and the dust and even licked up the water that was in the trench. When all the people saw it, they fell on their faces and said, “The Lord indeed is God; the Lord indeed is God.” Elijah said to them, “Seize the prophets of Baal; do not let one of them escape.” Then they seized them, and Elijah brought them down to the Wadi Kishon and killed them there.

Rain, Drought, and Divided Allegiance

Glory, glory, hallelujah! It rained a few days ago! I don’t know about y’all, but my poor yard is about as parched as the Sahara at the moment. Our region of North Carolina is in a severe drought, one that I’m told would require approximately 15 inches of rain over the span of a month to end! So when it finally rained a substantial amount at our house last Thursday evening, Winnie got scared of the thunder while she was trying to sleep. I invited her to join me on the front porch of our home, where we have half a dozen rocking chairs. Together, we sat and listened to the rain, watched the lightning, and marveled at the thunder, as I tried to show Winnie that such a storm is a beautiful thing our world needs for our plants and trees to grow and flourish.

Though our drought has only been going on for a few months, the drought in today’s passage had gone on for more than three years! The text gives us a clear reason for it, too: the Israelites, under the leadership of King Ahab, began to worship a pagan idol named Baal. As a reminder, last week we observed the split of Israel into two kingdoms, with Solomon’s son Rehoboam arrogantly ostracizing his constituents to the point of rebellion. Jeroboam and ten of the tribes of Israel seceded from the monarchy and became “Israel” in the northern territories, while Rehoboam and the remainder of the people became “Judah” in the southern territories. Today’s story concerns the events in the northern nation of Israel since last week’s passage.

Jeroboam’s reign lasted 22 years and was followed by a series of rather unremarkable, short-lived reigns. Fast-forward to 869 BCE, and the worst of them arrives, a man named Ahab. Scripture doesn’t hold back its disdain for his leadership. 1 Kings 16:33 says unceremoniously: “Ahab did more to provoke the anger of the Lord, the God of Israel, than had all the kings of Israel that were before him.” This was largely because Ahab took for himself a wife named Jezebel, who was the daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians. The Sidonians worshiped a pagan idol named Baal, the god of fertility. And, unsurprisingly, Jezebel brought with her the religion of her home, and King Ahab led the Israelites away from worshiping God and instead turned their devotion to Baal.

Needless to say, God did not take kindly to this turn of events. The first commandment is pretty clear, and the Israelites (not for the first time, mind you!) seemed to have forgotten it. So God brought forth a prophet to set the record straight and return the Israelites to faithfulness. His name was Elijah, a Tishbite. His first face-to-face encounter with Ahab is one I’ve always found humorous. Elijah runs into Ahab while Ahab is literally walking around looking for water for his people, because things have gotten that desperate. It’s an absurd notion that when a drought gets so bad, the king himself has no better idea than to wander around looking for water. Apparently, Elijah’s reputation preceded him, because the first thing King Ahab says to him is, “Is it you, you troubler of Israel?” Here, I want to pause to acknowledge this thing called “projection.” Projection is a psychological term for the phenomenon of one person accusing another of something they themselves are guilty of. For example, a corrupt politician might accuse someone else of corruption as a way to detract from…their own corruption! Ahab calling Elijah a “troubler of Israel” is ironic, as the text is very clear that the drought and resulting famine are a divine indictment of Ahab’s sinfulness, not of Elijah. Elijah, however, will have none of it and simply replies to Ahab, “I have not troubled Israel; you have troubled Israel.” This is, of course, the very first Biblical record of that famous comeback, ‘I know you are, but what am I?’

The Contest on Mount Carmel

And so begins one of the most famous showdowns in all of scripture. Elijah challenges Ahab to a contest at a place called Mt. Carmel. The rules are simple. Ahab is to bring his prophets of Baal, and Elijah will represent God, and we’ll see which god wins. And so they do just that. On one side of the duel is Ahab with 450 “prophets” of Baal. And on the other side, all by himself, is Elijah representing “Team Yahweh.” Two altars are built, one for each team. Each altar has a slaughtered bull on top, and each team takes turns asking their god to send fire from the heavens to ignite the altar. Elijah graciously offers Ahab and his Baal friends the first turn. But before the contest formally begins, Elijah invites the Israelites to abandon their worship of Baal before things get nasty. “How long will you go limping with two different opinions?” he says. “If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal, then follow him.” Basically, Elijah tells them to stop trying to have their cake and eat it, too. They are trying to worship whichever god benefits them in any given moment, and he prophetically reminds them that that’s not how this works. God is a jealous God and does not take kindly to the Israelites playing both sides of the fence. Yes, indeed, friends, there is a time for compromise! But Elijah reminds us that there is also a time to take sides, a time to let our “yes” be “yes” and our “no” be “no.”

And it is worth pausing here to note that Joshua said something very similar long before Elijah ever showed up at Mount Carmel. “Now if you are unwilling to serve the Lord,” Joshua told the Israelites, “choose this day whom you will serve… but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.” Friends, the limping of divided allegiance is as old as the people of God themselves. Every generation has had to reckon with the same question: when it comes to whom we actually serve, where does our loyalty finally land?

But Ahab doesn’t heed Elijah’s final warning, and so the contest begins. For hours, the prophets of Baal try to get Baal to show up. They “limp” around the altar in a comical pagan dance, hoping to lure Baal into bringing down the fire they need as proof of Baal’s superiority. But the “limping” doesn’t do the trick. In desperation, the prophets draw their swords and begin cutting themselves, hoping that spilled blood will prompt their idol to act. But, lo and behold, nothing seems to work. And then Elijah decides to rub salt in their wounded pride by taunting them with a little bit of potty humor. Elijah mocks them with the following statement: “Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” Now, one of those phrases is a Hebrew euphemism for what someone would say when they had to step away and “relieve” themselves. So Elijah feels pretty confident that God will win this contest.

In fact, he is so confident that he instructs the Israelites to douse his altar with water first. And if that wasn’t enough, he tells them to do it a second time, and even a third; he wants to make sure that what is about to happen cannot be mistaken for a trick or an illusion. Finally, Elijah lifts his hands to the heavens and asks Yahweh to establish his divine authority and to prove to the Israelites, once again, that the first commandment is the first commandment for a reason. And sure enough, fire immediately rains down from heaven, swallowing the whole altar and even licking up every ounce of water that had been poured upon it!

The conclusion of the contest is, at the same time, predictable, bloody, and swift. The Israelites, unsurprisingly, have a change of heart. Elijah orders the slaughter of the 450 prophets of Baal. King Ahab flees to his wife, Jezebel, and the three-year drought immediately ends. The fire from the heavens has been replaced by water that had been divinely withheld for such a dangerously long time.

Where Does Our Loyalty Land?

But at a deeper level, this dramatic scene reminds me of what remains true to this day: we all tend to “play the field” and — both knowingly and unknowingly — split our allegiance among different gods. We do this all the time:

We say “blessed are the peacemakers,” but fund the largest military apparatus in human history without blinking.

We pray “forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors” while participating in an economy that is designed to keep people in endless cycles of debt.

We confess that the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, but treat creation as a resource to be extracted rather than a gift to be tended.

We affirm that every person is made in the image of God, but we build systems that sort people by their economic usefulness.

We baptize our children into a community that transcends borders, but let nationalism determine who we think deserves dignity.

We call Jesus “Lord,” but reserve our deepest loyalty for whichever party or politician promises to protect what we already have or bring back what we’ve lost.

You see, the Hebrew word for ‘limping’ is pesach (פָָסַח), and it really means the inability to walk straight and upright. Before I go any further with that image, though, I want to pause and say something clearly: if you are someone who walks with a limp, lives with a disability, or whose body simply moves through the world differently than others, Elijah is not talking about you. Not even a little bit. In fact, look at what the prophets of Baal are actually doing in this scene — they are choosing to limp. They are performing it theatrically as a kind of desperate religious theater, mimicking a posture of vulnerability to curry favor with a god who cannot hear them. Elijah isn’t condemning disability. He’s condemning its cynical performance in the service of a lie. The ‘limping’ he mentions is a limping of the soul, a divided loyalty of the heart — and it is chosen, not given. So when I use the word ‘limping’ this morning, I am using it the way Elijah does: as a metaphor for the condition of people who know exactly who God is yet still can’t quite bring themselves to act like it.

Thus, today’s passage invites us to reflect on the places in our lives where we are metaphorically “limping.” We “limp” whenever we say one thing and do another. We “limp” whenever we pay lip service to one god but then turn around and give our money, our trust, or our vote to another. We “limp” when predominantly white institutions post on social media, celebrating Juneteenth while failing to actively dismantle policies and procedures that perpetuate racist systems. There are many ways we can fall into these postures, some we understand and others we may be blissfully unaware of.

God Is Faithful; Droughts Come to an End

But there is good news in this text. And that good news is this: if the Israelites’ “limping” serves as a metaphor for their unfaithfulness, then we likewise affirm that God is always faithful. In the whole Old Testament, that verb is used only to describe human behavior, never God’s. God is faithful; full stop. God is faithful to neighborliness. God is faithful to the poor and the downtrodden. God is faithful to the immigrant, the stranger, the gay kid, the broke single mother of two trying to make ends meet, and the farmer who works so hard to feed others that they can barely feed their own family. God is faithful amid the droughts and crises of our own making, and amid the violence of our patterns of complicity. Through all of it, God is faithful.

Friends, there is a time to compromise. There is a time to “meet in the middle.” But there is also a time to make a choice, a time to acknowledge that our capacity for allegiance is a finite resource and that “limping” around has deadly consequences.

And so here is the other piece of good news in this text: droughts come to an end. Last Thursday, as I sat on our front porch with my youngest daughter watching the rain come down and the thunder shake the very ground, I was reminded that droughts come to an end. They come to an end when we collectively choose to stop “limping” between allegiances and strive to live out our faith in ways that serve both God and neighbor — when we dare, as the prophet Amos dreamed it, to let justice roll down like water and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Voices We Heed" (June 14, 2026 Sermon)

The Voices We Heed

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·June 14, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

3rd Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

1 Kings 12:1-17

Rehoboam went to Shechem, for all Israel had come to Shechem to make him king. When Jeroboam son of Nebat heard of it (for he was still in Egypt, where he had fled from King Solomon), then Jeroboam remained in Egypt. And they sent and called him, and Jeroboam and all the assembly of Israel came and said to Rehoboam, “Your father made our yoke heavy. Now, therefore, lighten the hard service of your father and his heavy yoke that he placed on us, and we will serve you.” He said to them, “Go away for three days, then come again to me.” So the people went away.

Then King Rehoboam took counsel with the older men who had attended his father Solomon while he was still alive, saying, “How do you advise me to answer this people?” They answered him, “If you will be a servant to this people today and serve them and speak good words to them when you answer them, then they will be your servants forever.” But he disregarded the advice that the older men gave him and consulted with the young men who had grown up with him and now attended him. He said to them, “What do you advise that we answer this people who have said to me, ‘Lighten the yoke that your father put on us’?” The young men who had grown up with him said to him, “Thus you should say to this people who spoke to you, ‘Your father made our yoke heavy, but you must lighten it for us’; thus you should say to them, ‘My little finger is thicker than my father’s loins. Now, whereas my father laid on you a heavy yoke, I will add to your yoke. My father disciplined you with whips, but I will discipline you with scorpions.’ ”

So Jeroboam and all the people came to Rehoboam the third day, as the king had said, “Come to me again the third day.” The king answered the people harshly. He disregarded the advice that the older men had given him and spoke to them according to the advice of the young men, “My father made your yoke heavy, but I will add to your yoke; my father disciplined you with whips, but I will discipline you with scorpions.” So the king did not listen to the people because it was a turn of affairs brought about by the Lord to fulfill his word that the Lord had spoken by Ahijah the Shilonite to Jeroboam son of Nebat.

When all Israel saw that the king would not listen to them, the people answered the king,

“What share do we have in David?    We have no inheritance in the son of Jesse.
To your tents, O Israel!    Look now to your own house, O David.”

So Israel went away to their tents. But Rehoboam reigned over the Israelites who were living in the towns of Judah.

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Last week, we gathered with Solomon and the Israelites as he stretched his arms out to heaven and dedicated the glorious, newly constructed Temple to God’s glory. It had been years in the making. And in that moment, the Israelites celebrated not only this sacred space, but also the credentials it gave them on the geo-political stage. Just two generations prior, Israel was largely a nation of hill-country farmers. But this Temple put them on the map. It established their reputation. And that moment, when Solomon both basked in the glory of his and their accomplishment, was the apex of his reign. Unfortunately, everything pretty much went downhill after that.

To make a long story short, Solomon tasted glory and, as do almost everyone in his position, decided he wanted more. Once someone tastes that sort of power, they rarely find their appetite satiated. Solomon hungered for gold; lots of it. He began to cover everything in gold and seized every opportunity to establish himself and, almost as an afterthought, the Israelites as the golden kingdom of opulence, wealth, and power that everyone else needs to submit to. Famously, in the chapters between last week’s passage and this week’s passage, the Queen of Sheba paid a royal visit to Solomon to witness firsthand his golden empire and his storied wisdom. It would seem, however, that that “listening heart” (or lev shomeya) that God granted him back in chapter three began to listen to a voice other than the God who granted it to him in the first place. Instead, Solomon began to listen to the god of gold rather than the God of neighborliness.

The irony is this: everything Solomon did to increase Israel’s wealth and prosperity was perhaps done with good intentions. It was all done in the name of law and order, national strength and prosperity, success and power. However, he forgot the Torah’s mandate of neighborliness. Or, to put it another way in modern vernacular: a booming stock market doesn’t necessarily mean that the hungry are being fed, the naked are being clothed, and the homeless are being housed.

Instead, Solomon began to care more about his power than the people’s well-being. We can, of course, look at history and find no shortage of political leaders who have fallen into this trap. More than two dozen years ago, Walter Brueggemann said the following about Solomon’s folly: “It is odd and noteworthy that the steps taken toward security produce more anxiety. The provisions for happiness produce more tension.” In other words, Solomon’s efforts to make Israel “great” only led to a widening economic gap between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” After all, these building projects relied on forced labor and could only be funded by exorbitant taxes that disproportionately burdened the poor in his kingdom. And it’s only a matter of time before those chickens come home to roost.

Therefore, Solomon died a failed king. Mostly because by the time he had died, he had 700 wives and 300 concubines, and Solomon made the choice to abandon his faithfulness to God’s Torah to follow the pagan religions of his numerous spouses and concubines, most of which were undoubtedly affairs of political alliances and geo-political negotiations. But, most of all, the people had had it. By the time Solomon had died, the people were close to mutiny, fed up with the burden of paying for all of Solomon’s building projects.

Solomon’s Son Inherits

And so it happened that the crown was passed on to Solomon’s son, Rehoboam. However, trouble began to stir before his reign had barely gotten off the ground. The Israelites in the northern part of the kingdom complained to him that Solomon’s reign had been oppressive to their economic security. They essentially asked Rehoboam to turn from his father’s ways and to lighten both the requirements of forced labor for his father’s building projects and their responsibility to fund them with their taxes.

Rehoboam takes their complaint to two groups of advisors before deciding his response. First, he goes to the “old guard,” the advisors who have been around a long time and remember the time before his father became drunk with power and wealth. They advise him to ease the burden and lighten the yoke for his new constituents. “Listen, Rehoboam,” they say, “your father flew a little too close to the sun. He bit off more than he could chew, and you have an opportunity to adopt a more conciliatory posture and return the focus to the well-being of your people over national glory or personal advancement.” Rehoboam mulls it over but remains unconvinced.

Next, he goes to another group of advisers, which the Bible only describes as “younger men.” Brueggemann suggests that these are naive advisors, young enough to have known nothing but the opulence of Solomon’s reign, who tell Rehoboam exactly what he wants to hear. “Don’t listen to those wimps in the northern lands,” they tell him arrogantly. “Now isn’t the time to let up; instead, it’s time to grab the bull by the horns and take this to the next level.” In fact, they urge the young king to respond by telling the northern tribes the following taunt: “My little finger is thicker than my father’s loins.” Now, I will leave you all to extrapolate for yourselves what that particular insult is insinuating. Their entitlement and privilege are music to Rehoboam’s ears.

And so, Rehoboam decides to disregard the people’s discontent. And he does so to his own detriment. In the year 922 BCE, the northern tribes revolt and follow one of his father’s old advisors, Jeroboam, and the kingdom splits. The wonder and the glory of Solomon’s temple are now stained by a kingdom divided. Rehoboam continues his reign in the southern tribes of Judah, and Jeroboam begins his reign as king of the northern tribes of Israel. For the remainder of our time in 1 and 2 Kings, we’ll journey through the divided kingdom until Israel (the northern kingdom) falls to the Assyrians around 722 BCE and Judah (the southern kingdom) falls to the Babylonians around 587 BCE.

Wisdom in Rehoboam’s Folly

Now, I realize this has been a lot of history, and such is unavoidable in the Books of First and Second Kings. But I want to focus on the following because I believe that there’s wisdom to be gleaned from Rehoboam’s folly. I will make the case that Rehoboam did, in fact, inherit his father’s lev shomeya, his “listening heart.” But I believe he learned the hard way what many of us are learning today: that a “listening heart” isn’t a proper moral compass unless we make the intentional choice to listen to voices that help us grow, that challenge us, and give us different perspectives.

I remember back in college reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s 2005 Pulitzer Prize-winning book Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. In it, she chronicles how Lincoln cleverly filled his cabinet with his former political rivals who differed with him greatly on a variety of political issues. At a time when the country was fractured by civil war and fighting over the issue of slavery, Abraham Lincoln did the very opposite of what Rehoboam did in today’s passage. Rehoboam surrounded himself with nothing but “yes men,” advisors who appeased his desire to continue his father Solomon's vanity projects. Lincoln, by contrast, surrounded himself with people who disagreed with him. And he worked tirelessly to reconcile conflicting factions to bring the war to an end and, along with it, the institution of slavery. Was it messy work? Absolutely. Did it work 100% of the time? Of course not. But Lincoln knew what Rehoboam learned the hard way: that a political leader who listens only to that which he wants to hear is no leader at all.

We Are Leaders Nevertheless

Now, few among us will ever be the president of a country or the king of a nation. But we are leaders nevertheless. We are leaders in our church, in our families and circles of friends, and in our workplaces, non-profits, and boards. We lead simply by being representatives of Christ on earth whenever we step beyond the walls of this sanctuary. And I believe we are stronger when we listen to a multitude of voices and, together, discern which of those voices is leading us in a faithful direction. Because, let us be clear, not all voices are of God. There are voices telling us to turn against one another, to treat our neighbors with suspicion and contempt, and to give in to selfish individualism. But just because we listen to all voices does not mean we heed them all.

So this week, I invite your “listening heart,” your lev shomeya, to be intentional about naming the voices that you listen to and ask yourself the following questions. Who am I listening to? Who am I not listening to? What voices have been pushed to the side?

I’ll close with this observation. In a few short weeks, we will observe the 250th anniversary of the United States. For many of us, this will be a time of celebration. And I want y’all to hear me when I tell you that we don’t have to choose between being Christian and being patriotic. However, part of being patriotic Christians is having honest conversations about our nation’s lev shomeya, its listening heart. Who has this nation’s heart listened to? And who has this nation’s heart dismissed, disparaged, and dehumanized over its 250-year history? As we study this book of the Bible that chronicles the rise and fall of Israel's political regimes, we face the reality that all kingdoms rise and fall eventually, but only God’s faithfulness remains. And you and I can be thankful for the parts of our country that are good and just and moral, while also attuning our lev shomeyas to the voices of those for whom that promise of “liberty and justice for all” has not come to fruition.

Tuning Our Listening Hearts

And so, we close this sermon together by tuning our listening hearts, and our singing voices, to our next hymn, “O God of Every Nation.” I particularly want to draw our attention to the prayer of the second stanza that we will sing together:

From search of wealth and power and scorn of truth and right,
from trust in bombs that shower destruction through the night,
from pride of race and station and blindness to your way,
deliver every nation, eternal God, we pray.

Let us sing…

[sing “O God of Every Nation”]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Can God Really Dwell on Earth" (June 7, 2026 Sermon)

Can God Really Dwell on Earth?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·June 7, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

2nd Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

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1 Kings 8:22–30

Then Solomon stood before the altar of the Lord in the presence of the whole assembly of Israel and spread out his hands to heaven. He said, “O Lord, God of Israel, there is no God like you in heaven above or on earth beneath, keeping covenant and steadfast love with your servants who walk before you with all their heart, the covenant that you kept for your servant my father David as you declared to him; you promised with your mouth and have this day fulfilled with your hand. Therefore, O Lord, God of Israel, keep for your servant my father David that which you promised him, saying, ‘There shall never fail you a successor before me to sit on the throne of Israel, if only your children look to their way, to walk before me as you have walked before me.’ Therefore, O God of Israel, let your word be confirmed that you promised to your servant my father David.

“But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built! Regard your servant’s prayer and his plea, O Lord my God, heeding the cry and the prayer that your servant prays to you today, that your eyes may be open night and day toward this house, the place of which you said, ‘My name shall be there,’ that you may heed the prayer that your servant prays toward this place. Hear the plea of your servant and of your people Israel when they pray toward this place; O hear in heaven your dwelling place; hear and forgive.

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You all get a little bit of an unscripted sermon this morning, because it’s been one of those weeks. So I’ll keep my comments brief.

I am grateful this morning for the anthem that Jordan and Abigail just lifted up for us, because it is an incredible segue into the text before us — specifically the line they just sang: the heavens are your tabernacle. The heavens are your tabernacle. “God of glory beyond our galaxy” is a wonderful way into this story, in which Solomon dedicates the temple that had been years and years in the making since the beginning of his reign.

So, friends, let us pray. O Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

Yes, indeed, the heavens are God’s tabernacle. But most of us don’t have the ability to go up into the heavens, so we make places like this one, where we can come and encounter God. And I want to begin by saying that this is not a bad thing.

The Holiness of Beautiful Spaces

I have had the privilege of worshiping in some of the world’s most fantastic and beautiful worship spaces. On Tricia’s and my honeymoon, we went to Rome, and I stood in St. Peter’s Basilica. How many of you have been to St. Peter’s? It is hard to imagine — hard even to explain — just how big and beautiful that space is, with St. Peter’s Square reaching out its arms to embrace the world, as Jesus would have us do. Back in college, I traveled to Istanbul, Turkey, and stood in the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. The Hagia Sophia is so grand that you can look up and literally watch birds soaring near the top. I’ve worshiped at Washington National Cathedral. I’ve been blessed to officiate two weddings this year at Duke Chapel — even though I hate Duke, it is a beautiful space. And Jasmine and Joshua, as many of you know, were married at Riverside Church in Manhattan. These are beautiful spaces.

And of course, I want to include our own beautiful space here. It may be humble in size, but it is no less beautiful, and it means so much to all of us, for good reason. This sanctuary was one of the reasons I chose to be your pastor. It was very low on the list — because I came here for the people — but the people of this church have gathered in this space since the late 1950s. For decades, this has been a beautiful place where we have gathered: to celebrate weddings and baptisms, to worship and sing, and to weep as we have said goodbye to those we love.

I love that this worship space truly is ours. If you are new to our congregation, when you leave today, take a look at the wood carvings at the end of each pew — carved by members of this congregation nearly seventy-five years ago. This table, at which we are about to break bread, was built by Rick Cromer, whom we sang to heaven about a year ago. And these beautiful stained-glass windows were purchased in the 1950s for a whopping $600. But aren’t they beautiful? This is a wonderful space where we gather, and I want to honor it and give thanks for it.

Solomon’s Remarkable Curveball

I want to set the stage with all of that, because at this point in 1 Kings, it has been several years since Solomon prayed the prayer we journeyed with last week — the prayer in which he asked God for a lev shomea, a listening heart. Since then, Solomon has spent years building this temple. It was a staggering achievement. (If you ever have trouble falling asleep at night and want a few chapters of the Bible to drift off to, the chapters that precede today’s story do nothing but list, in excruciating detail, the temple’s dimensions and adornments.)

And then we arrive at this moment, after all those years of building, when it is finally time to dedicate it. It is important to recognize that this temple was not only a theological accomplishment but also a political decision, meant to place Israel firmly on the geopolitical map alongside other major players. There were many reasons this temple was built. But in this moment, Solomon gathers all the people together in this beautiful worship space and gives thanks to God for meeting them there, going on at length about how the holy will be encountered there.

So we hold that in one hand. Then Solomon throws a remarkable curveball. After rightly giving thanks that God is met in this place — whether that place is the temple, Guilford Park, St. Peter’s, or a small church in the middle of rural North Carolina — it doesn’t matter, because this is where God finds us — after all of that, Solomon has the wisdom to say this in verse 27:

But will God indeed dwell on earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built.

I love that line because I think Solomon knew what many of us know: that we sometimes treat our worship spaces in ways we don’t even realize. Without intending to, we can try to domesticate God. As Walter Brueggemann observed many times throughout his scholarship, whether we realize it or not, the very places we build to gather can become places where we attempt to manage and possess the holy. But Solomon says this cannot be done.

God Cannot Be Contained

I want us to remember this day. Yes, indeed, this place is holy. It is where we gather to sing, to pray, to wonder, and to be challenged by the words of Scripture. And yet, Solomon was right: we cannot contain God in this space. My guess is that a sermon like this has been preached from this pulpit before. But all of us — pastors included, myself included — need that reminder from time to time.

Because yes, God is here. And God dwells everywhere.

God dwelt in the hospital room a few weeks ago, beside the bed of Skip Bailey, as I gathered with his family to sing, “There is a Balm in Gilead.” God dwells in the veterinary office when we gather to say goodbye to our furry loved ones. God dwells at the kitchen table during uncomfortable conversations about how we will afford groceries or rent. God dwells in the auditorium where our graduates celebrate their achievements and wonder what comes next. And God will dwell wherever this bread is carried after today’s worship, to our sick and our homebound.

I think this is what makes communion so special. We share it mostly in this room — but not always — because we are gathered in this beautiful space to dwell with God, and then we leave with God, and God goes with us.

Come to the Table

So here is your simple homework assignment for today. Come to the table. Come just as you are, with whatever brokenness you may feel, whatever joy or burdens you may carry, and dwell with God in this space. Meet God here — really here. And then carry the God you meet here out into all the places in the world where God already dwells.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

"A Listening Heart" (May 31, 2026 Sermon)

A Listening Heart

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·May 31, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

1st Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

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1 Kings 3:3–15

Solomon loved the Lord, walking in the statutes of his father David, except that he sacrificed and offered incense at the high places. The king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there, for that was the principal high place; Solomon used to offer a thousand burnt offerings on that altar. At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night, and God said, “Ask what I should give you.” And Solomon said, “You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you, and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love and have given him a son to sit on his throne today. And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil, for who can govern this great people of yours?”

It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, “Because you have asked this and have not asked for yourself long life or riches or for the life of your enemies but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word. Indeed, I give you a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you, and no one like you shall arise after you. I give you also what you have not asked, both riches and honor all your life; no other king shall compare with you. If you will walk in my ways, keeping my statutes and my commandments, as your father David walked, then I will lengthen your life.”

Then Solomon awoke; it had been a dream. He came to Jerusalem, where he stood before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. He offered up burnt offerings and offerings of well-being and provided a feast for all his servants.

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Setting the Stage

Today we begin a summer-long journey through the books of 1 and 2 Kings. We’ll spend five weeks on 1 Kings, take a three-week break, and then spend another six weeks on 2 Kings. I invite you to set aside time to read these two books. If you do, I promise you’ll find plenty of juicy stories to pique your interest. 1 and 2 Kings tell the “royal history” of Israel from the death of King David in 962 to the destruction of Jerusalem in 587. The chapters we’ll explore together have it all: palace intrigue, sexual politics, family drama, and, above all, a God who remains faithful throughout the Israelites’ ebbs and flows as they try to do the same.

Before we get to the meat of today’s passage, it’s important to remember where we are in the Biblical narrative. Just before the books of 1 and 2 Kings come the books of 1 and 2 Samuel, which tell the story of King Saul and King David. By the time we reach today’s passage, King David’s meteoric rise has been followed by his fall from grace after the Bathsheba/Uriah debacle. In fact, the very first verse of 1 Kings chapter 1 reminds us of his fragility in his later years: “King David was old and advanced in years; and although they covered him with clothes, he could not get warm.” The once-mighty and invincible David, the very one who conquered Goliath with nothing more than a sling and a rock, now lies shivering in his bed, knocking on heaven’s door. His servants bring in a beautiful young girl named Abishag to “arouse” his vitality, so to speak, from its slumber, but it’s no use. David is old, feeble, and spent. And the vultures begin circling.

By this point, violence has already visited David’s household. One of his sons, Absalom, has already met a nasty end. Absalom never forgave his father for failing to punish his brother Amnon for sexually assaulting their sister Tamar, and he therefore led a rebellion against his father’s house, challenging his father for the throne. Absalom met a memorable, if tragic, end when his head became caught in the branches of an oak tree, and his mule kept on riding, leaving him dangling helplessly until he was eventually found by David’s army and slaughtered. David grieved his son’s death, and this was perhaps the beginning of the end of his reign.

Once it became clear that David’s days were near an end, another of his sons, Adonijah, began vying for the throne behind his father’s back. He launched a PR campaign to solidify support for his candidacy, but Bathsheba (remember her?) had other plans. Though she was stripped of agency in the previous story, where David forced himself upon her and had her husband, Uriah, killed, she now speaks up. She sees the writing on the wall and knows that if Adonijah is crowned king, she and her son with David, Solomon, will be seen as a threat to Adonijah’s legitimacy. Therefore, she conspires with the prophet Nathan to “remind” David that he had promised Solomon the crown. Nowhere in scripture is there a record of this “promise,” so we’re left to wonder whether it really happened or if Bathsheba is perhaps taking advantage of David’s feeble mind. And even if that’s the case, can anyone blame her? She and her husband, after all, were the collateral damage of David’s unsatiated sexual appetite, so perhaps she believes this is an appropriate time for the scales of justice to be rebalanced.

To make a long story short, Bathsheba’s play works. David anoints Solomon as his successor, with all the pomp and circumstance required to legitimize his claim. Not surprisingly, Adonijah’s time on earth was short. In a foolish move, he asks to be given Abishag in marriage, and Solomon interprets this as an attack on his legitimacy. So Solomon has his brother killed. At long last, Solomon has consolidated his power and now sits on the throne that belonged to his father, King David, and to his predecessor, King Saul, before him.

Now, if this is all sounding a bit like the plot of the classic movie The Godfather, you would be right! David is kind of like Don Corleone, who is far past his prime, and the circles of power around him, such as his family and the other families of the Italian mafia, are testing one another to see who will come out on top once he sleeps with the fishes. And after all of these ruthless “Game of Thrones” maneuvers, Solomon finally has a chance to rest his head on his bed and catch up on some sleep as he prepares for his reign to begin.

And that is where we find him in today’s story, or, more specifically, where God finds Solomon. As is often the case with many other characters in the Bible, God meets Solomon in a dream as he slumbers. Solomon had traveled to Gibeon, a so-called “high place” where the Israelites often made sacrifices to God to curry God’s favor. And after the bloodshed that brought Solomon to this point, he certainly could use all the divine favor he could get!

A Blank Check from God

God approaches Solomon in his dream and simply asks him, “Ask what I should give you?” What does one do when one is given a blank check by God Almighty?

If we’re governed by fear, we might ask:

“Keep me safe. Keep my family safe. Make sure nothing bad ever happens to us.”
“Give me certainty - about my health, my future, my children’s future.”
“Let me know how it all ends so I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

If we’re governed by scarcity, we might ask:

“Give me enough money that I will never have to worry again.”
“Make sure my retirement is secure, my house is paid off, and my kids are taken care of.”

If we’re governed by violence, we might ask:

“Punish the people who hurt me.”
“Vindicate me - publicly, visibly. Humiliate my enemies.”

What questions would you add to that list? Perhaps some that come from a place of genuine good? That our church would grow? That the cancer would be defeated? That gas and groceries would become reasonably priced again?

Solomon could have asked for any of those things (though I don’t think the price of gasoline was high on his list of priorities…). But he asks for none of them. His response is simple: “Give me wisdom.” More specifically, he asks for an “understanding mind” to govern God’s people and discern between good and evil.

His restraint is remarkable. Especially because his recently deceased father, King David, was not known for restraint. But the phrase that is usually translated as “understanding mind” deserves further scrutiny because of its complexity.

The Listening Heart

The “understanding mind” that Solomon asks of God is a Hebrew phrase, לֵב שֹמֵעׇ (“lev shomea”), which literally means “a listening heart” or “a hearing heart.” You may recognize the word shema in the phrase lev shomea because it’s the same word that begins Israel’s central confession of faith: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone…” In his dream, Solomon does not ask to be heard; he asks instead “to hear.” We hear in Solomon’s request much of what inspired the Prayer of St. Francis so many centuries later: O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love.

What I think is equally important about the Hebrew phrase לֵב שֹמֵעׇ (“lev shomea”) is that the verb shomea is in the participle form, a grammatical term that simply indicates continuous, ongoing action. Solomon’s request for a lev shomea isn’t a one-time download of information or enlightenment. Solomon doesn’t ask for a heart that has heard and is now done, but for a heart that is forever listening.

I find in this passage a quiet rebuke of so much of the power baked into our world today. Our current political atmosphere assumes that power means making yourself heard, imposing your will, and being the one everyone must listen to. Solomon, on the contrary, asks to be the one who listens. Would that all of our elected leaders, on both sides of the aisle, adopted such a posture! Would that all of us could find within ourselves the resolve to adopt such a posture in our families, in our schools, in our workplaces, in our churches and faith communities, and in our boardrooms!

I think Solomon’s prayer is a wise one for us in this modern age, given how much knowledge is out there. We live in an age where information is easily accessible at our literal fingertips. Now, whether that information is accurate, unbiased, or factual is another topic altogether! But such makes it even more important that you and I join Solomon in a continual posture of humility, asking for the lev shomea, the “listening heart” that God indeed grants Solomon.

Wisdom in the Age of the Sword—and the Algorithm

But such wisdom, even when granted by Divine Authority, can slip between our fingers if we’re not careful. I find the story that comes immediately after today’s story a telling one in this regard. What follows today’s story is the famous passage in which two women simultaneously claim to be the legitimate mother of a child after the other woman’s child dies in the middle of the night. The two women bring the child and claim to be the biological mother. Solomon famously asks for his sword and threatens to cut the baby in two to divide it equally between the two women. One of the two women quickly objects and begs for the child to be given to the other woman, and therefore Solomon surmises that the woman who objects is the biological mother. The passage is often lifted up as evidence of Solomon’s newly granted wisdom.

Now, I think two things can be true at the same time. First of all, this story is evidence of Solomon’s wisdom. After all, the story concludes with the following verse: “All Israel heard of the judgment that the king had rendered, and they stood in awe of the king because they perceived that the wisdom of God was in him to execute justice.”

But I think another thing can be true at the same time: that even with Solomon’s newfound wisdom, his first instinct is nevertheless to reach for the sword.

And I find that to be an important observation for us to make these days. You and I have unlimited potential at our fingertips, unlike any generation before us. The artificial intelligence boom that has happened just in the last three and a half years, since I’ve been your pastor, has completely changed the world around us, in ways we welcome and in others we may not. In just a few years, AI has gone from a rather abstract futuristic concept to something that feels truly unavoidable (I can’t even order a chocolate frosty at my local Wendy’s without using their AI ordering system!). AI may indeed be an incredible tool that can be used for much good; but it’s a tool nonetheless, and one that can also be used for great harm if not properly regulated, maintained, and made accessible to all, not just a wealthy few.

All this is to say that I think we need the lev shomea that Solomon sought now more than ever. We all need listening hearts attuned to humanity’s near-limitless capacity for both good and ill. We need listening hearts that resist Solomon’s instinct—and that of his father—to reach for the sword as the go-to response to conflict. We need listening hearts that can cut through the constant noise around us to hear the still, small voice of the Spirit, bestowed upon the Church last week on Pentecost. We need listening hearts that understand that wisdom is a precious gift, one that must be tended with the same intentionality a master gardener brings to his plants.

As we continue this five-week sermon series on 1 Kings, we’ll see both the successes and failures of Solomon’s reign, as well as the successes and failures of Israel’s attempts to live faithfully as the recipients of God’s liberation from Egypt. As we continue this journey, may we all seek the lev shomea, the “listening heart” of Solomon’s prayer. And may we understand that wisdom is never a gift to be taken for granted.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"We Didn't Start the Fire" (May 24, 2026 Sermon)

We Didn’t Start the Fire

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·May 24, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Pentecost Sunday (Year A)

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Numbers 11:24–30

So Moses went out and told the people the words of the Lord, and he gathered seventy of the elders of the people and placed them all around the tent. Then the Lord came down in the cloud and spoke to him and took some of the spirit that was on him and put it on the seventy elders, and when the spirit rested upon them, they prophesied. But they did not do so again.

Two men remained in the camp, one named Eldad and the other named Medad, and the spirit rested on them; they were among those registered, but they had not gone out to the tent, so they prophesied in the camp. And a young man ran and told Moses, “Eldad and Medad are prophesying in the camp.” And Joshua son of Nun, the assistant of Moses, one of his chosen men, said, “My lord Moses, stop them!” But Moses said to him, “Are you jealous for my sake? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets and that the Lord would put his spirit on them!” And Moses and the elders of Israel returned to the camp.

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Out in the Camp

Sometimes accidents happen. Or sometimes what we think are accidents were never really accidents in the first place. Such was the case in a curious story we turn to this Pentecost Sunday in the Book of Numbers. My suspicion is that most of you are familiar with the other story we read from Acts; after all, we read it pretty much every Pentecost Sunday. However, many of us are far less familiar with the story of two little-known Old Testament characters, Eldad and Medad, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or were they in the right place at the right time? That, friends, is for you to decide.

But first, let’s back up a bit. It’s the Book of Numbers, so the Israelites are wandering in the desert. They’re tired. They’re grumpy. And the manna, that flaky substance God gave them to eat every day, was getting, well… old. Like children complaining about a four-day-old leftover casserole, the Israelites start to complain. The anonymous letters begin showing up on Moses’ desk. People start coming to him, saying, “You know, some people are beginning to say…” And to make matters worse, Moses’ therapist is on sabbatical in the Mediterranean, and he’s about at his wits’ end.

So he goes to God. “Listen here,” he says, “O Holy Provider of Repetitive Carbohydrates. These people are driving me nuts. My father-in-law, Jethro, even came up to me the other day and told me I need help, that doing all this by myself is no good. These are your people; do something, or I’m out!” After thinking it over, God gives Moses a game plan. God tells him to assemble 70 people and bring them to the Tabernacle, a tent at the center of the camp where the people gathered, essentially serving as a “portable sanctuary.” And at this gathering, those gathered are to receive some of the “spirit” that God has given to Moses. This will ordain and commission them to help Moses carry the burden of leadership among the twelve tribes.

To understand what is about to go down, we have to remember how the Israelites spoke of God’s “spirit.” God’s spirit was a very tangible thing; it wasn’t just a spiritual or metaphorical notion. Rather, it was something the Israelites felt, heard, and saw! You may remember the stories of Moses coming down from Mount Sinai, with God’s spirit so infused in him that he lit up like a divine LED bulb with no dimmer switch. You can think of Moses as one of those glow-in-the-dark stars we put on the ceiling of our children’s bedrooms that charge in the light of the sun and then illuminate on their own. So there was this idea that God’s spirit could be transferred. Such is why we lay hands on elders when we ordain them or on youth when they get confirmed (as will be the case next week when we celebrate Jayden Vereen and Gavin Beale).

Well, Moses and Joshua select 70 people and welcome them to the Tent of Meeting to lay hands on them (perhaps) and share the spirit of God that had previously been Moses’ alone. It works, and the 70 “elders” go about their commissioned work to help Moses lead the people. The Bible gives us the word “prophesy,” which, admittedly, is a word I doubt you and I use frequently in our modern vernacular. We usually associate such a thing with fortune-telling or a soothsayer. And while there may have been a small component of that at the time, the deeper meaning of “prophecy” is discernment. The 70 elders discerned God’s will for the Israelites as they resolved their conflicts and sought continued faithfulness to the God who had rescued them from Pharaoh’s hand. Decent and in order, you might say, as we Presbyterians are wont to do.

There was only one problem. God’s spirit — despite the ways we try to collect it, control it, define it, and share it — has a funny way of going rogue. And that’s exactly what happens. Eldad and Medad are two random Israelite men who happen to be near enough the Tent of Meeting to apparently receive some of that spirit being doled out. I like to imagine the two of them walking by, talking about some mundane thing, like the new way they learned to cook up manna so it doesn’t taste like the same old same old. And then… BAM!…all of a sudden they break out into singing “Every time I feel the Spirit moving in my heart I will pray!” Soon enough, they are jumping in to help lead the people: leading prayer groups, sharing their new manna recipes with their fellow manna-weary companions, pitching in to fix the broken tents of the widows and foreigners who have joined the Israelites on their journey, and generally making sure that no one is left out.

Everything was fine until someone noticed that Eldad and Medad weren’t in the Tent of Meeting with the other 70, who were likewise helping Moses carry the burden of leadership. This person then goes and tattles on them. “Moses, Moses,” he says, “Eldad and Medad are doing our thing. They are prophesying, but they didn’t get the special sauce like the rest of us, or at least not the way we did!” Joshua, Moses’ right-hand man, chimes in with an even more succinct statement of opposition: “My Lord, Moses, stop them.”

“Stop them.” Two words. Just like that, Joshua becomes the first recorded church moderator to call a point of order.

The Oldest Reflex in the Room

But before we laugh too hard at Joshua, let’s be honest with ourselves. The impulse to say “stop them” — to look at someone being moved by the Spirit and say, not like that, not them, not here — is not some ancient artifact of desert wandering. If we’re being uncomfortably candid, it is one of the most persistent and well-documented reflexes in history.

For centuries, whenever women sensed that same Spirit stirring within them — calling them to preach, to lead, to stand behind pulpits and before congregations — the church’s collective “Joshua” stood up and said, “Stop them.” Not with a shout, usually, but with polite, procedural language. With theology that conveniently preserved the existing order. The Wesleyan and Holiness movements cracked that door open in the 19th century, and the Spirit rushed through, as it always does when given even the smallest gap. And yet, in many corners of global Christianity, that argument is still being had today — as if the Spirit somehow checks ordination prerequisites before descending.

When Black men and women began to lead, to run for elected office, their gifts and citizenship had every right to inhabit — the cry was the same: stop them. Sometimes it came with poll taxes and literacy tests, and other Jim Crow laws that may have looked like neutral standards of competency but functioned as velvet ropes at the door of democracy. Sometimes it came with gerrymandered maps, drawn like elaborate mazes to ensure that certain communities’ voices were condemned to irrelevance before they ever reached the halls of power. The architects of those systems would have told you, with a straight face, that they were simply maintaining order. Keeping things decent. Just like Joshua.

And when our LGBTQIA+ siblings began to say, we too have felt the Spirit, we too have been called, we too have something to offer this body — the church, so often, said the same words. Slow them down. Add another committee, another discernment process, another layer of gatekeeping that somehow never applies with the same rigor to the people who already look like the people already inside.

I want to get personal for a moment because this isn’t abstract for me. I am a trained theologian, preacher, and pastor. I have jumped through the hoops — the graduate degrees, the ordination exams, the chaplaincy internships, the many committee meetings where someone else decided whether I was ready. And I am genuinely glad those processes exist. They shaped me. They humbled me. They made me better. But here is what I also know: many of the people who helped me most along that road — the seminary professors who cracked open the scriptures for me in ways I’d never imagined, the seasoned pastors who sat with me in my worst moments of doubt and showed me what faithful ministry actually looks like, the church workers, elders, and mentors who poured themselves into my formation — could not have held those positions when many of us here at Guilford Park were born. Women. People of color. LGBTQIA+ individuals. They were the Eldads and Medads of their own generation: gifted, called, set ablaze by the same Spirit, and told in a hundred polite and procedural ways to sit down and be quiet. But they didn’t. And because they didn’t, because the church — slowly, imperfectly, and often only under great pressure — eventually opened the tent a little wider, I am the pastor I am today. And I am better for it. This congregation is better for it. And I believe — I have to believe — that the church itself is better for it, because every time we release our gatekeeping instincts, even a little, the body of Christ begins to look a little more like the God in whose image every single one of us was made. The imago Dei doesn’t fit neatly into any one face, any one voice, any one story. It takes all of us. It always has.

Here is what I want us to notice: the problem was never the process itself. Decent and orderly ways of doing things are not inherently wrong. The Tent of Meeting was a good idea. Having a process for commissioning leadership is a good idea. Structure serves the community. But structure — when it hardens, when it stops asking why it exists, when it begins to protect its own perpetuation more than the flourishing of the people it was meant to serve — stops being a tent of meeting and starts being a wall of exclusion. And walls, friends, are notoriously bad conductors of the Holy Spirit.

Moses knew something that Joshua hadn’t learned yet. You simply cannot manage the Spirit of God. You can build the most beautiful tabernacle, follow the most careful procedure, select the most qualified seventy people, and the Spirit will still find Eldad and Medad out there in the camp, talking about manna recipes, and set them ablaze anyway.

And so, Moses’ reply to Joshua’s condemnation is swift and poignant. He opens with a simple statement of accusation: “Are you jealous for my sake?” In other words, he calls out Joshua’s self-centering argument; this notion that this is all about Moses or Joshua. Moses gently but firmly reminds Joshua to check his ego at the door. “This isn’t about us,” Moses says, “this is about God and what God is doing among us.”

“Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets and that the Lord would put his spirit on them!”

Not just the seventy. Not just the credentialed. Not just the ones who showed up to the right tent at the right time. All of them.

We Didn’t Start the Fire

Which brings me, at long last, to the title of this sermon. I have to confess something. It has been a dream of mine — for years, honestly — to one day preach a Pentecost sermon called “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Not for any particularly profound theological reason, mind you, but because Billy Joel is one of my favorite artists, and because I have been waiting for the right moment to justify it liturgically. Today, friends, is that day. You’re welcome.

But here’s the thing: what started as a shameless indulgence of my musical nostalgia turns out to be, I think, actually true. We didn’t start the fire.

We didn’t start it when we lit the candles this morning. We didn’t start it when we wrote the liturgy, planned the worship order, or printed the bulletin. We didn’t start it on the day of our baptism, or the Sunday we were confirmed, or the morning we were ordained. The fire — this wild, reckless, untameable Spirit of God — was burning long before any of us arrived. It was burning in the desert when Eldad and Medad stumbled into its radius on their way home from wherever they’d been. It was burning in that upper room in Jerusalem when the disciples were hiding behind locked doors and found themselves suddenly, inexplicably, on fire themselves. It has been burning through every cracked-open door, every silenced voice that refused to stay silent, every person who was told not them, not here, not now, and who prophesied anyway.

We didn’t start it. And we cannot put it out.

Carriers, Not Containers

But here’s the harder word, the one I want to leave with you on this Pentecost Sunday: if we didn’t start it, we were also never meant to contain it. The fire is a gift. The Spirit is a gift. Pentecost is not the church’s birthday party where we congratulate ourselves for having kept the flame going. Pentecost is the annual reminder that the flame was never ours to manage in the first place. We are recipients. Vessels. Glow-in-the-dark stars that only shine because something else charged us up.

And recipients of a gift this extravagant are called to do one thing above all else: give it away.

So in the spirit of Moses — who, when confronted with the possibility that God’s Spirit might be spilling out beyond the borders of the expected and the approved, threw open his arms and said yes, yes, let it be so — I want to close with a prayer. A longing. A litany of “would thats” for this church and for this world.

Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets —

Would that all of us worked harder and sacrificed more to ensure that every person in this country has equal, unencumbered access to the ballot box — because a democracy that makes some voices louder by making others quieter is not decent, and it is not orderly, and it is not of God.

Would that all of us built a world where no one has to choose between a prescription and a meal, where no child goes to bed hungry, where “I can’t afford to see a doctor” is a sentence that belongs only to history books.

Would that all of us stopped referring to the young people in our pews as the “future of the church” and the older saints among us as the “past of the church,” and instead saw what is actually true: that we are all, together, the present church — and that God has need of every single one of us right now.

Would that all of us treated the immigrant, the refugee, the foreigner in the camp — and there are foreigners in every camp — with the same dignity we would want extended to our own children, because the Israelites were once foreigners too, and they were told not to forget it.

Would that all of us learned to be a little more Moses and a little less Joshua — a little less anxious about who’s in the tent and a little more astonished that the Spirit keeps showing up outside of it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Steady As We Go" (May 17, 2026 Sermon)

Steady As We Go

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·May 17, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

7th Sunday of Easter (Year A)

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Philippians 4:1-9

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved.

I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my coworkers, whose names are in the book of life.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. As for the things that you have learned and received and heard and noticed in me, do them, and the God of peace will be with you.

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Last night, I went to a Dave Matthews Band concert by myself in Charlotte. I happened to be in that corner of the state yesterday for a wedding I was doing, and the algorithm gods learned of my plans and let me know that Dave Matthews Band would be playing immediately after the ceremony. Though it didn’t make last night’s setlist, on the way home to Greensboro, I found myself humming a beautiful song by the band called “Steady As We Go.” It’s a song sung from one lover to another, giving thanks for the steadiness of their committed relationship, which keeps the person grounded when everything around them seems to be shifting beneath their feet. The lyrics, in part, are as follows.

I walk halfway around the world
Just to sit down by your side,
And I would do most anything girl
To be the apple of your eye
Troubles they may come and go, but good times are the gold.
If the road gets rocky girl just steady as we go
When the storm comes shelter me
I don't say a word anymore and you know exactly what I mean
In the darkest times you shine on me
Set me free forgive me
Steady as we go

As a pastor whose first church was on a small island with no bridges, so boats were kind of important, I appreciate a solid nautical metaphor. “When the storm comes, shelter me,” Dave Matthews sings, “…so steady as we go.” That phrase, or, more specifically, “steady as she goes,” is a helmsman’s phrase. It doesn’t mean “stop moving.” It doesn't mean “drop anchor” or “wait for better weather.” It means hold your current heading, stay true to the course, trust that the destination is ahead, and the vessel is sound.

Steady as She Goes

This advice offers a good summary of the heart of the fourth and final chapter of Paul’s letter to the Philippians. But Paul doesn't arrive at this counsel out of nowhere. We’ve had hints in earlier chapters of division or tension within their congregation. In the first chapter, Paul spoke of others preaching Christ out of envy or rivalry. He also encouraged his readers not to be frightened “by those opposing you.” In chapter two, he urged them “to do all things without murmuring or arguing.” In chapter three, he spoke frankly about others who are living as “enemies of the cross of Christ.” Though we don’t know the specifics of these conflicts, we can imagine the world of the Philippian church not so different from the one we inhabit today.

At the Presbytery Meeting I attended last week at nearby Westminster Presbyterian Church, we briefly discussed a concept known as “mutual forbearance.” It’s a phrase that may sound foreign to us, but it’s important because mutual forbearance is one of the historic principles of the Presbyterian Church. Mutual forbearance is a fancy term that means this: it calls on theological opponents to accept differences, respect conscience, and continue working together to maintain church unity. If any of you have a Book of Order, part of the constitution of our denomination, you’ll find it explained as such in F-3.0105: “We…believe that there are truths and forms with respect to which [persons] of good characters and principles may differ. And in all these we think it the duty both of private Christians and societies to exercise mutual forbearance toward each other.”

The Book of Order didn't invent mutual forbearance. It inherited it — from a letter written in a Roman prison, addressed to a congregation very much like ours. In this anxiety-ridden atmosphere, we hear an ancient word from Paul, an old wisdom for our contemporary world: steady as we go, or, to put it in Paul’s words, “stand firm.” I asked myself what those two words - “stand firm” - sound like in today’s context. My first reaction was “hold your ground, be stubborn, and never budge.” But that’s not what Paul means by “stand firm.”

The very next verse names a conflict between two women, Euodia and Syntyche, and invites them to come together, or, as he puts it, “be of the same mind in the Lord.” What Paul is describing, in other words, is mutual forbearance. Notice what Paul does not do here. He doesn't take sides. He doesn't tell us who is right. He names them both with love, calls them both his coworkers, and trusts that the same gospel that sent them into the work together can bring them back to each other. “Stand firm,” he says, “by coming together.” “Stand firm,” he says, “by helping one another.” “Stand firm,” he says, “by being gentle with one another.”

But gentleness, helping one another, and coming together are not disciplines our body politic seems to reward these days. Which is why Paul doesn’t expect these fruits of the spirit to come from such places. Instead, Paul insists they are freely given because “the Lord is near.” Mutual forbearance is possible because “the Lord is near.” “Steady as she goes” is doable because “the Lord is near.” This is an important theological move by Paul because it would be tempting to think that our abysmal circumstances are evidence of Christ’s absence. But Paul points to the opposite. “The Lord is near,” he says, “even when you are in conflict.” “The Lord is near,” he insists, “even when Euodia and Syntyche, or any of you, don’t see eye to eye.” “The Lord is near,” Paul preaches, “no matter the difficulties that assail you.” Paul has been saying this from his prison cell since chapter one. And he is not finished yet.

But I will pause at this point in the sermon and confess, if I’m honest with myself, that knowing in my head that Christ is near and feeling it in my heart are two very different things. There is much in today’s passage from Philippians that can sound terribly trite in the complex world we inhabit. “Do not be anxious about anything” can fall flat in an anxious world, with anxious algorithms, anxious consumers, and one anxious news cycle after another. “The peace of God…will guard your hearts” can feel like an empty promise when our hearts feel they can’t take another blow. “Rejoice…again I will say, rejoice” can feel like a tall order when joy feels indulgent amid the sheer volume of suffering around us.

But we must never forget that these words of encouragement did not come from places of comfort and privilege. They do not come from the mouth of someone in a smoking jacket, swirling a martini, with Sinatra on the record player and not a care in the world. These words come from someone in literal chains, who doesn’t know whether this letter he’s writing to his friends in the Philippian church will be his last. And I think that matters.

What Paul is turning us to here is not some Pollyannish theology. On the contrary, he was all too aware of the fact that it can be hard to hold a “steady as she goes” approach to faith when so much around us appears to be falling apart. He knows that standing firm is no easy task. He knows that mutual forbearance is not an instinctual posture for most of us, especially when we’re taught that what matters most is what’s best for “me and my own.” Paul knows none of that is easy.

Which is why he gives the Philippians a list of things to which they should tune their attention: “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” Paul knows that we must train our gaze on these things in order to stay “steady as she goes.” And we are doing exactly these things, right now, in this room.

The Church’s Gathered Life

We focus on whatever is true when we affirm the Apostles' Creed together, declaring what the church has held to be true across centuries and continents.

We focus on whatever is honorable when, for example, we dedicate flowers in someone’s memory, such as the flowers today given in honor of Mary L. Sullivan by the Stiles family.

We focus on whatever is just when we collect Pennies for Hunger to help feed our hungry neighbors.

We focus on whatever is pure when we confess our sins, trusting in the mercy of God, and seek to turn away from evil.

We focus on whatever is pleasing when we simply show up — when we choose, on a Sunday morning, to be here with one another rather than anywhere else we could be.

We focus on whatever is commendable when we share the peace of Christ with one another in the Passing of the Peace, reminding ourselves that God calls us to be at peace with one another in a divided world.

We focus on whatever is excellent and worthy of praise when we sing hymns that the church has carried across centuries — including one whose refrain is drawn almost word-for-word from the very passage we're sitting with this morning.

Paul isn’t giving the Philippians a self-help checklist. He’s describing the Church’s gathered life. What you and I do every Sunday—confess, receive pardon, sing, give, pray, pass the peace, hear Scripture, go out with joy—is the practice of directed attention that Paul commends. And when we focus on these things—repeatedly and with intentionality—we’re offering a counter-liturgy to the endless scroll of whatever anxious, divisive, degrading, and enraging things in the world around us.

Closing: A Hymn for Restless Spirits

As we do from time to time here at Guilford Park, y’all are going to help me finish the sermon by singing the next hymn, “Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts.” We'll close with a hymn that has been on the lips of Christians since the 12th century — and I want to sit with you for a moment in its fourth verse before we sing it:

Our restless spirits yearn for thee,
where'er our changeful lot is cast,
glad when thy gracious smile we see,
blest when our faith can hold thee fast.

“Our restless spirits yearn for thee” - as the Philippians did, we come to worship in a restless world, with our spirits often feeling like that boat that carried the disciples on a stormy sea. We are not at peace, but we’re reaching for it. We come here, by pew or livestream, because, like the Philippians, we long to be at peace with one another and ourselves, yet we know we need help.

“Where’er our changeful lot is cast” - And we know we need this help because everything is changing so fast. Amid such shifting ground beneath our feet, we know we need a steadiness that doesn’t come from ourselves.

“Glad when thy gracious smile we see” - And though we’re restless, and though everything changes at a dizzying pace, we remain “steady as she goes” because we trust that God smiles upon us even and especially in our feeble, fearful moments.

“Blest when our faith can hold thee fast” - And, finally, we find what Paul found in chains: that the faith by which we hold is itself the gift of the One who held us first. We do not hold ourselves steady. We are held steady. Steady as we go.

Please rise in body or in spirit…

[sing “Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Loss and Gain" (May 10, 2026 Sermon)

Loss and Gain

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Sixth Sunday of Easter — Sunday, May 10, 2026

Text: Philippians 3

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Scripture

Philippians 3

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The Ledgers We Keep

We all keep ledgers, both literal and emotional. Ways of measuring worth. Internal scorecards that track what we’ve done, what we’ve achieved, and how we stack up against the people we’ve been taught to envy. And those ledgers can become dangerous things, because while they may offer a little short-term gratification, they often leave behind long-term resentment and a diminished capacity for gratitude and generosity. Walter Brueggemann, the recently deceased titan of biblical scholarship, called this “the rat race.” It is a never-ending marathon where we take one step toward the finish line only to watch it move two steps farther away.

The danger of the rat race is that when we’re caught up in it, we usually have no idea we are. And that is part of what makes Philippians 3 so powerful. Paul takes a long, honest look at the ledger he once trusted — and discovers that Christ has changed the math.

Paul takes a long, honest look at the ledger he once trusted — and discovers that Christ has changed the math.

Christ Changes the Math

Paul had a lot of time to think. Such is the case when you’re a prisoner of the Roman Empire. From the isolation of his cell, he has been pulled out of the rat race by forces beyond his control. And he takes this opportunity to take stock of what he has relied on so far in his life to feel “righteous,” “successful,” or “accomplished.”

“Look at me,” he says to his friends in the Philippian church. “I bear the sign of the covenant. I belong to the people of Israel, and am a member of the tribe of Benjamin, to boot! And my spiritual credentials don’t stop there: I’m a Pharisee and, therefore, know the law of God inside and out. Some might even call me ‘blameless’!” Paul knows how seductive this self-congratulatory “liturgy of ledgers” can be. After all, such ledgers sound pretty good in our own heads, but they often sound very different to those around us. One can imagine the first hearers nodding along, maybe even feeling a little impressed, before realizing that Paul is about to tear down the walls of self-righteousness that people like us are always so tempted to build.

And that’s exactly what he does. And it all starts with that dangerous little word: “yet.” “Yet” is the trapdoor word. You think Paul is building a platform beneath his accomplishments, when all along he’s cutting a hole in the floor. And in verse seven, he pulls the cord. “Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish….”

All those things, Paul says, are “rubbish.” Now, in the interest of sermonic modesty, I will not give you the literal translation of the Greek word for rubbish; let’s just say the original meaning was a little more “earthy” than most English Bibles present. Paul wants his hearers to understand in no uncertain terms how Christ has reversed the calculus in a world where comparison is its favorite pastime. “All that other stuff,” he says, “is insufficient compared to the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The Résumé We Trust

Now, to be sure, all those ledger items he calls insufficient in comparison to what he sees as the most important thing: knowing Christ and, perhaps more importantly, being known by Christ. It’s not that all those things are bad, useless, or unnecessary. We must remember that Paul was not mocking Judaism or dismissing covenantal practices as meaningless. He is saying that even the holiest parts of his own résumé cannot do what only Christ can do. Circumcision is not the problem; trusting any identity marker, achievement, or badge of belonging as the basis of righteousness is the problem.

While circumcision may not be, for most of us, a particularly relevant modern example, we do not have to work very hard to imagine our own versions of Paul’s ledger. Ours may look less like tribal belonging and Torah-observance and more like résumés, reputations, bank accounts, degrees on the wall, children who perform well, opinions we’re proud to hold, or a carefully curated sense that we are one of the “good ones.” We all have our own ways of saying, “Look at me. See why I matter. See why I’m righteous. See why I’m enough.” And Paul says: be careful. The things we use to prove ourselves can quietly become the things we trust more than grace.

The Ledger Was Not Kind

Last week was one of those weeks when I felt, as Tolkien once put it, like too little butter spread over too much bread. I was juggling the ordinary chaos of family life, preparing to preach at Tricia’s grandmother’s funeral in Richmond, navigating my own grief, and staring down the particular madness parents sometimes call “May-cember,” when the end-of-school calendar starts to take its toll on your sanity. The girls were having a rough time too, and all of it left me feeling stretched thin. But what I realized was that what made the week so heavy was not only the busyness itself. It was the ledger I kept pulling out in my own head. No one else was telling me I was failing. No one else was giving me a hard time. But I was quietly measuring myself against all the standards I carry around for what a good pastor, a good husband, a good father, and a reasonably functional human being ought to look like. And the ledger was not kind.

Paul is not just talking about ancient religious credentials. He is talking about the deeply human impulse to build an identity out of achievement, performance, and self-justification. And I know that impulse because I carried it around all week long.

Grace as Gift

And a beautiful thing happens when we stop carrying that ledger around. We discover that Christ does not love us because we have managed to keep all the plates spinning. Christ does not claim us because we have finally become impressive enough, productive enough, or put-together enough. Christ meets us not at the end of our accomplishments, but right in the middle of our need. And that, I think, is what Paul means when he says he wants to “gain Christ and be found in him,” not with a righteousness of his own, but with a righteousness that comes from God as gift.

Christ meets us not at the end of our accomplishments, but right in the middle of our need.

And the gospel message is that this is not only a truth we receive for ourselves; it is also a truth we get to share with others.

Run Your Own Race

Forgive me if I’ve mentioned this episode of Bluey before. If I have, too bad, because it’s really a gem. It’s called “Baby Race.” The episode begins with Bluey and Bingo arguing in the present over who is “best” at something, and that prompts Chili to remember Bluey learning to walk. In the flashbacks, Bluey starts rolling over, then crawling, and every new milestone is accompanied by Chili’s joy — but also by comparison. Other babies seem to be getting there faster. Other moms seem more relaxed. And before long, Chili is carrying around a parenting ledger.

By the time Bluey still isn’t walking, one of the other moms can see the weight Chili is carrying. She sits beside her, looks her in the eye, and says simply, “You’re doing great.” And those words are enough to loosen Chili’s grip on the ledger. When the story returns to the present, Chili tells Bluey and Bingo to “run their own race.” In other words: put down the ledger. Stop keeping score. Don’t let comparison steal the joy that belongs to love.

“You’re doing great.”

I love that episode because once Chili lets go of the ledger, she becomes freer to encourage the people around her to do the same. And that, I think, is part of the good news Paul is trying to share with the Philippians. Because Christ is our salvation, we do not have to keep searching for it in our performance, our accomplishments, or our ability to keep up. We can let go of the rat race. We can be found in Christ. And we can help one another do the same.

Put Down the Ledger

So maybe the invitation this morning is not to balance the ledger one more time. Maybe the invitation is to let Christ close the book, so to speak. To let go of the need to prove we are enough — righteous enough, productive enough, faithful enough, good enough — and to trust that the One who has laid hold of us is not waiting for us at the finish line with a red pen. Christ is not auditing our accomplishments. Christ is not measuring our worth by the columns we so carefully keep. Christ is gathering up the whole messy account of our lives — the gains, the losses, the griefs, the striving, the places where we have run ourselves ragged trying to be impressive — and saying, “You are found in me.”

And when that good news begins to sink in, it changes how we live. We still press on, yes. We still love, serve, work, parent, preach, pray, forgive, and try again. But we do none of it to earn God’s grace. We do it because grace has already found us. We do it because Christ has already laid hold of us. We do it because the ledger has been replaced by love and the rat race has been interrupted by resurrection. So, friends, run your own race. Put down the ledger. Be found in Christ. And then go help someone else hear the words they may be longing to hear: “You’re doing great. You are loved. And in Christ, you are already enough.”

Run your own race. Put down the ledger. Be found in Christ.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Jesus Shows Us the Way Down" (April 26, 2026 Sermon)

Jesus Shows Us the Way Down

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Fourth Sunday of Easter — Sunday, April 26, 2026

Text: Philippians 2

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The Temptation to Climb

We spend so much of our lives trying to get to “the top.” In a culture that measures success by the number of followers on social media, the amount of money in your bank account, or the political power you’ve accumulated, getting ahead of everyone else can seem like the whole point. Of course, for there to even be someone at “the top,” there have to be others—many others—below. Our hyper-individualistic society teaches us to see those people not as neighbors to love, but as obstacles to pass by, or worse, as failures to blame for not pulling themselves up by their bootstraps and fighting for the top like everyone else. It is a cruel vision of the world, and for most of us, it is all too familiar. And tempting as it may be to think this is just one more symptom of modern life, Paul reminds us in Philippians that the temptation to measure our worth by status, power, and self-advancement is nothing new.

We know this because Paul makes a significant pivot after the first chapter of his letter, which we explored two weeks ago. In that opening, Paul exudes warmth, tenderness, and affection. From the depths of his cold, dark, and dank prison cell, he encourages his readers, then and now, to live lives worthy of the Gospel of Christ and not to let the joy they find in Jesus depend on their daily circumstances, whether favorable or miserable. Then, in chapter two, Paul pivots from thanksgiving and encouragement to exhortation.

Reading any of Paul’s letters is like reading one half of a conversation. You and I aren’t privy to what prompted the content of his letters, but we have context clues that hint at what was going on that led him to write them. Our first clue is found in verse two of chapter two when he says the following: “Be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or empty conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests but to the interests of others.” These words suggest that the Philippian church—or at least some within it—had begun to absorb the world’s obsession with getting to the top.

Paul Sings Instead of Scolds

And it’s important to note that Paul doesn’t wag a finger. He doesn’t admonish. He doesn’t shame or guilt. Instead, he sings. He sings a hymn of the early church, one sung by the followers of Jesus long before there were hymnals, sanctuaries, or pews. Paul sings because he knew then what you and I know now: that hymns are a powerful way to embody shared theology and to counter dangerous ideologies that threaten the unity and faithfulness of the Church.

Though we didn’t print it this way in the bulletin because it wouldn’t fit, most Bibles will show a switch from prose to poetry in verse six of chapter two. That is, of course, when the hymn begins. Most scholars think Paul is quoting a hymn that the early church already knew by heart.

We do not know the tune that carried this hymn through the house churches of the early church, but we do know the words:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he existed in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
assuming human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a human,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.

Therefore God exalted him even more highly
and gave him the name
that is above every other name,
so that at the name given to Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

The Way Down

Notice what this hymn does not give us. It does not give us a Jesus who grasps for power, clings to status, or uses his equality with God as a weapon to dominate, coerce, or crush. Though he is, so to speak, at “the top,” the Jesus of whom Paul sings has no interest in the kind of power so many of us spend our lives chasing.

Paul, instead, gives us a Jesus who shows us the way down.

And that matters, because there is no shortage of distorted visions of Jesus in our country. There is a version of Jesus preached in our nation that is obsessed with dominance, control, spectacle, and grievance—a Jesus draped in the symbols of national power, a Jesus remade in the image of empire. But that is not the Jesus of Philippians 2. The Jesus Paul sings about does not seize power. He empties himself. He does not crush his enemies. He takes the form of a servant. He does not climb higher. He stoops lower. Because it’s impossible to wash someone’s feet when you put your energies into climbing above them.

And before we imagine this is only someone else’s temptation, we ought to be honest enough to admit that we all prefer the way up. We all want the Jesus who will justify our pride, baptize our ambition, and bless our need to come out on top. But Paul will not let us settle for that kind of savior. He points us instead to the crucified and self-emptying Christ, and says: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

Timothy and Epaphroditus

And lest we imagine that the “mind of Christ” is too lofty, too poetic, or too far beyond us, Paul offers something refreshingly practical. He points to two people the Philippians know by name: Timothy and Epaphroditus. In them, the church is invited to see what Christ-shaped humility, concern, and self-giving service can look like in ordinary human life.

We spoke briefly about Epaphroditus a few weeks ago. You may remember him as a member of the church in Philippi who was sent to bring Paul provisions, comfort, and solidarity during his imprisonment. While caring for Paul, Epaphroditus became seriously ill, nearly to the point of death. Thankfully, he recovered, and Paul sent him back to Philippi with the very letter we’re exploring over these four weeks. Here, Epaphroditus becomes a living model of the self-emptying love Paul sings of in the Christ hymn.

While we don’t have as many specific details about Timothy as we do about Epaphroditus, Paul speaks of him with equal trust and tenderness. He speaks of Timothy with an almost parental tone, emphasizing that he is not one who seeks his own interest but rather acts in the interest of others. In other words, Timothy becomes a flesh-and-blood picture of the mind of Christ: not grasping for status, not seeking his own advantage, but pouring himself out in genuine concern for others.

Of course, Timothy and Epaphroditus are not the only people Paul holds up as examples of gospel faithfulness. In this very letter, Paul later names Euodia and Syntyche as women who “struggled beside” him in the work of the gospel. Paul’s letters are full of women — Phoebe, Prisca, Junia, Lydia, and others — whose faithfulness helped carry the early church forward. But here, in this moment, Paul points to Timothy and Epaphroditus as two beloved siblings whose ordinary faithfulness makes the mind of Christ visible. They are not celebrities of the early church. They are not grasping for the top. They are simply people whose lives have been shaped by the way of Jesus.

The Jesus We Seek to Follow

And that is who we seek to be at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church: imperfect saints whose lives are shaped by the way of Jesus. A Jesus who shows us the way down. A Jesus who invites but doesn’t impose; who serves rather than shows off; who frees rather than fearmongers. A Jesus who cares less about whether the 10 Commandments are posted in a classroom and more about whether the kids in that same classroom are free from gun violence and hunger. A Jesus who is less impressed by someone reading the Bible for show than by a life spent loving their neighbor. A Jesus who doesn’t sow fear but instead plants mercy and compassion. That’s the way down. That’s the Jesus we find in Philippians. That’s the Jesus you and I are called to model each and every day of our lives.

A Jesus who invites but doesn’t impose; who serves rather than shows off; who frees rather than fearmongers.

Towel in Hand

Because, ultimately, you and I have a choice. We can choose to fill ourselves with the endless search for influence, political power, and domination. Or, we can fill ourselves with something different: a love that kneels at the feet of our neighbors, towel in hand, ready to serve. So in that light, we will do exactly what Paul does in this passage: we’re going to sing a song of the church that reminds us how to let the same mind be in us that was in Christ Jesus. Together, let us close this sermon by singing “Jesu, Jesu, Fill Us With Your Love.”

[sing together “Jesu, Jesu, Fill Us With Your Love,” text by Tom Colvin, 1969]

In the name of our savior who shows us the way down, let all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Saving Eutychus" (April 19, 2026 Sermon)

Saving Eutychus

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Sunday, April 19, 2026

Text: Acts 20:7-12

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Scripture

Acts 20:7-12

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A Bizarre Story with Something to Teach Us

So, I may not be the best preacher in the world, but I can safely say I have never literally bored anyone to death with a sermon. And, interestingly enough, that is more than the Apostle Paul can say.

Today’s text is proof. My guess is that for most of you, the story of Eutychus is unfamiliar. You probably did not hear it in Vacation Bible School or Sunday School, and you may never have heard a sermon on it before. It is, admittedly, a bizarre story.

But I love bizarre stories in the Bible, because they give us the chance to see scripture in fresh and surprising ways. And this one has everything: a long-winded preacher, a sleepy young man, an open window three stories up, and a moment that begins almost like comedy before turning suddenly serious. It is, in other words, a preacher’s worst nightmare. But it is also a story that has something important to teach us about worship, attention, bodies, and what it means for faith to be fully alive.

It is, in other words, a preacher’s worst nightmare. But it is also a story that has something important to teach us about worship, attention, bodies, and what it means for faith to be fully alive.

Eutychus Is Us

Eutychus may have a name that strikes us as odd, but his character is one we all know well. He is every weary soul who has tried to pay attention when the body simply had other ideas. He is every student fighting sleep, every parent running on too little rest, every older saint whose energy is not what it once was. Eutychus is not strange. Eutychus is…us.

And we are tired. Tired of one absurd news cycle after another. Tired of schedules and responsibilities and bad news and hard conversations. Tired of being asked to carry more than seems bearable. Tired of living in a constant state of alert in a world that keeps hurling one relentless curveball after another.

So when we come to worship, we come craving something embodied. Something real. Something more than words alone. We come needing good news we can taste and touch, see and smell. We come longing not merely to hear about grace, but to encounter it with our whole selves.

We come needing good news we can taste and touch, see and smell.

The Window

I wonder if that was what Eutychus longed for that evening: an encounter with a grace that engaged all of his senses. But that night, only one sense is being fed: his hearing. Notice, Church, where he is. He is in the window. He is neither fully in nor fully out. He is in a liminal space, teetering between realities. From his window, Eutychus is caught between attention and distraction, between faith and fatigue, between belonging and isolation. And, if we’re honest, that window is where many of us live.

And so this story leaves me with a few questions. How can we save Eutychus before he slips? What weary bodies has God placed in our midst who need not just a grace they can hear, but a grace they can touch, smell, taste, and see? How can the church become a place where those in the window are welcomed to the center rather than left unnoticed at the margins?

Wiggly, Weary, Wondering Bodies

And on a Sunday when we are celebrating our church preschool, perhaps this bizarre story reminds us that the church is healthiest when it doesn’t require stoic attentiveness, but makes room for whole human beings - wiggly, weary, wondering bodies and all. After all, children understand something many adults forget: that the body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

The body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

How Faith Felt

I know this to be true because when I think back on church as a child, I do not remember many sermons. But I remember plenty of other things. I remember the feeling of the coarse rope in my hands when our church’s music director let me ring the bell in our steeple for the whole city to hear. I remember the smell of bacon in the church kitchen when I would wake up early on Tuesday mornings to help my dad cook for the men’s breakfast. I remember the clanging of cell doors as they shut when we would go to the local youth detention center to read scripture with other kids my age who had been forgotten by so much of society. I remember the flickering candles on Christmas Eve when we sang Silent Night before I went home, crawled into my bed, and waited for the wonder of the next morning. I remember the ground shaking beneath my feet at the booming “amen” chords at the end of Widor’s Toccata on Easter morning. I may not remember many of the words, but I remember how faith felt. I remember how worship sounded and smelled, and how it shook the floor beneath me. I remember that long before I could explain grace, I had already begun to experience it.

One reason my faith still matters so deeply to me is that the church did not leave me in the window, as Eutychus was. Yes, there were moments of boredom, as there are in every life of faith. But church was never meant to be an empty exercise in sitting still and zoning out. It was meant to call forth the whole self. It was meant to engage the whole person God created us to be. And maybe that is part of what this strange little story is trying to show us. If we want to save Eutychus before he slips, then we must become the kind of church that refuses to leave weary, wiggly, wondering bodies at the edge of the room. We must become the kind of church that welcomes them to the center, where grace can be heard, yes, but also touched and tasted, seen and smelled, lived and known.

Preschool Grace

And neighbors, on this Preschool Celebration Sunday, I thank God for the holy work our preschool does here. Long before these children can explain grace, they are already experiencing it here. They experience it in the love of teachers who kneel to meet them at eye level, wipe away tears, tie shoes, redirect big feelings, sing songs, read stories, and tell them again and again: you are safe, you are loved, you belong. Tricia and I know this personally. Hazel Grace and Winnie have both been blessed by Ms. Becca, Ms. Mary, Ms. Michelle, Ms. Heather, Ms. Sarah, Ms. Carrie, Ms. Beth, Ms. Cassidy, Ms. Jasmine, and so many others who have helped shape them into the amazing young women they are becoming. And for that, we are deeply grateful.

And I know there are parents here today who are tired. Tired because parenting is holy work, but it is exhausting, too. Tired because the world is heavy, and you want so badly for your children not just to grow up and get by, but to grow up with a living faith. A faith that makes them resilient. A faith that makes them compassionate. A faith that teaches them to seek justice, to love mercy, and to trust that the goodness of God is stronger than the fear of this world. So hear this: when you bring your children here, when you let them wiggle, wonder, sing, and ask questions, when you place them in the care of this community, you are not wasting your time. You are planting seeds of grace. You are helping save Eutychus before he slips. Because every time we welcome a child, every time we make room for a young family, every time we draw someone in from the window and remind them that they belong at the center of Christ’s love, we are doing the work of the gospel.

Every time we welcome a child, every time we make room for a young family, every time we draw someone in from the window and remind them that they belong at the center of Christ’s love, we are doing the work of the gospel.

Bringing People to the Center

Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me,’ and that is what we do here at Guilford Park. We make room. We open our arms. We bless the wiggles. We trust that Christ is already at work in the bodies, questions, laughter, and holy energy of these children. In just a few moments, we will pray not only with our words but with our whole bodies, because that too is part of our witness: that faith is not merely something to be explained but something to be experienced. Thanks be to God for a church that does not leave people in the window. Thanks be to God for a preschool that helps bring children to the center. And thanks be to God for Jesus Christ, who still gathers us up in grace, holds us close, and brings us alive again.

Thanks be to God for a church that does not leave people in the window.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"A Joy That Can't Be Chained" (April 12, 2026 Sermon)

A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Second Sunday of Easter — Sunday, April 12, 2026

Text: Philippians 1:1-30

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Scripture

Philippians 1:1-30

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Grumpy Paul and Lovey-Dovey Paul

There are at least two “Pauls” in the New Testament. There’s what I like to call “grumpy Paul.” In these passages, Paul comes across as irritated, biting, sarcastic, and at the end of his rope. Galatians is a great example of this, where he barely finishes his greeting before launching into a scolding, accusing them of deserting Christ and turning to a different gospel.

On the other hand, you have “lovey-dovey Paul.” Nowhere else in the Bible is Paul more affectionate than in his letter to the Philippians. If Galatians shows us Paul with his jaw clenched, Philippians shows us Paul with his heart open.

And what’s the key, you might ask, to bringing out “lovey-dovey Paul” instead of “grumpy Paul”? Well, the answer, apparently, is snacks! As the father of two young children, I can attest to the importance of a well-timed snack in warding off grumpy behavior.

You see, Paul was in prison for preaching the gospel. But before this imprisonment, he helped plant a church in Philippi, a Roman colony in Macedonia. When the Philippians heard that Paul was imprisoned, they sent a man named Epaphroditus with a love offering, likely food and provisions—a.k.a. snacks!—to sustain him. Epaphroditus, as we’re told elsewhere in the letter, became very sick when he visited Paul in prison, so sick that he nearly died. After he recovered, Paul sent Epaphroditus back to the church. But he didn’t send him away empty-handed; he sent Epaphroditus with a letter to the Philippians. And for the next four weeks, you and I will be walking through this letter, chapter by chapter.

Joy Right in the Middle of It

To be clear, the Philippians didn’t just send Paul snacks; they sent care, solidarity, and partnership in the gospel. Because of that, Paul sent back a letter encouraging the Philippians to keep living the Good News. And in that spirit, we begin with the first chapter, listening for God’s word, which encourages us to do the same. For the next several weeks, we’ll take a stroll through this New Testament epistle, full to the brim with joy. And it’s not a happy-clappy, pie-in-the-sky kind of joy. This isn’t an Instagram-filtered joy, or the kind of joy propped up by slogans like “too blessed to be stressed.” No, this is a joy that’s seen some things—a joy found not in the absence of hardship, but right in the middle of it.

This is a joy that’s seen some things—a joy found not in the absence of hardship, but right in the middle of it.

You and I are living in a moment when people are yearning for exactly that kind of joy: joy “right in the middle of it.” “It” can, of course, be any number of things. How does one find joy when the kids are refusing to get ready for school, the bills are piling up faster than the paycheck comes in, and the news keeps reminding us how fragile and frightening this world can be? Philippians is Paul’s witness that joy is possible, not because life is easy, but because Christ is present right in the middle of it.

Last Sunday, on Easter, we said that the good news is alive in the world — that resurrection does not remove us from the world’s fear and grief but sends us back into it with astonishment, courage, and hope. Now, in Philippians, we find Paul making the same claim from a prison cell. The risen Christ is still present. The good news is still alive. Therefore, joy is still possible, even right in the middle of it.

Being Faithful Somewhere

Anne Lamott writes, “Everything slows down when we listen and stop trying to fix the unfixable.” That line caught my ear this week because I think much of our suffering comes from trying to carry what was never ours to carry alone. We are surrounded by painful realities, personal struggles, and crises in the world, and many of them are simply too big for any one of us to fix. That creates a real dilemma for people raised on the gospel of individualism: we are taught to believe that everything depends on us, even when we know deep down that it does not.

Instead of trying to solve the whole world, I ask: what has Christ put in front of me today? I can teach my daughters to be gentle, kind, and resilient. I can strive to live a life grounded in the good news of Jesus Christ, one that loves neighbor and tells the truth. I can cultivate friendships with people who share the conviction that every human being bears the image of God, even those we struggle to love. I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere, and so can you.

I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere, and so can you.

We see that wisdom in this first chapter of Philippians. Paul cannot fix his imprisonment. He cannot fix the motives of other preachers proclaiming Christ. He cannot control his future. But he can rejoice. He can still sing Hallelujah anyway. And that, I think, is the good news at the heart of this first chapter of Philippians: joy in Christ is not the same as solving everything. And that, friends, is good news we can receive with a long, honest sigh of relief.

A Backyard Glimpse of Joy

In the middle of yet another week shaped by a violent, chaotic news cycle, I found myself completely spent after Easter Sunday and the long marathon of Lent leading up to it. I was tired. I was empty. I was grumpy. The good news may have been alive in the world, but I wasn’t particularly feeling it myself. And when I get that way, my instinct is usually to withdraw.

But lately, I’ve been trying to listen to a different voice, one reminding me that while rest is important, rest is not always the same thing as withdrawing. Sometimes, rest is reaching out. So that’s what we did. Tricia and I invited over some new friends whose daughter is in Winnie’s class here at the church preschool. A few weeks ago, I splurged and bought myself a Blackstone grill—which, if you’re unfamiliar, is basically a very effective way to make new friends and keep them.

So on Friday evening, the seven of us gathered in our backyard. The Blackstone was sizzling with burgers, hot dogs, sweet potatoes, and peppers. The yard had just been mowed. Two preschoolers and a kindergartener ran around in princess costumes. A fire flickered in the gathering dusk. And the Spotify Yacht Rock station played in the background while the adults debated whether Steely Dan really belonged on the playlist.

And there, for a little while, we found joy. Not solutions to the world’s problems—they were all still there. Not answers to the questions that keep us up at night—those hadn’t gone anywhere either. Just joy. Simple, ordinary, local joy. The kind of joy that springs up when people make room for friendship, food, laughter, and shared life.

And it struck me that this, too, is part of what it means to stop trying to fix the unfixable. It does not mean withdrawing from the world or giving up on our responsibility to love our neighbors and do justice. It means recognizing that joy is not a distraction from that work; it is part of what sustains us for it. Without joy, I have little hope of bending any moral arc anywhere.

And I believe Christ was present there—in the laughter, in the welcome, in the breaking of bread, in the simple holiness of an ordinary evening shared with neighbors. The world was not fixed by the end of the night. But a small patch of it had been tended with care. Fear and division did not get the last word that evening. Joy did.

And, to be fair, grilled bananas foster over Tillamook vanilla ice cream didn’t hurt either.

The Church as Care Package

And that is what Paul is trying to teach us in Philippians. Joy in Christ is not dependent on life going smoothly. It is not the reward for finally getting everything under control. It is the gift of Christ’s presence, meeting us in prison cells and backyards, in sanctuaries and around dinner tables, in all the ordinary places where we are trying, by grace, to be faithful somewhere.

I like to think that both “grumpy Paul” and “lovey-dovey Paul” were in that prison cell together. But what I think changed Paul from discouraged to grateful, at least long enough to write the four chapters of this letter, was a friend named Epaphroditus and the church that sent him. Sometimes we get to be Epaphroditus, sent to places in the world where chains hold those weighed down by the enormity of the world’s grief. And sometimes we get to welcome Epaphroditus, receiving the touch of a care package in a moment of grief, loss, or hopelessness. The going out and the coming in of both of those acts of grace is called Church, and you and I are doing it right now. Or, more specifically, the Risen Christ is doing it through us.

And maybe that is one of the ways Christ keeps joy alive in the world: through people who show up for one another with prayer, presence, casseroles, care packages, hospital visits, porch conversations, and backyard dinners. Maybe joy is not something we manufacture for ourselves so much as something Christ keeps handing to us through one another. And when that happens, even for a moment, the chains do not have the last word.

So thanks be to God for a joy that can’t be chained.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Alive in the World" (April 5, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Alive in the World

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Easter Sunday — Sunday, April 5, 2026

Text: Matthew 28:1-10

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An Easter Word of Astonishment

Hear, friends, these words from the poet, Mary Oliver:

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Easter is not a day for answers; it’s a day for astonishment. It’s a day to say, “Look! He is not here!” It’s a day to listen to an angel perched almost casually upon a stone that until recently seemed to seal off any hope of newness. The women came that Easter morning to keep watch, to love, to mourn, and to stay near. In their minds, perhaps, death had answered the question of power, and they came expecting to keep company with their grief. But instead, they are met by a heavenly messenger whose very presence strikes fear into the Roman guards, who shake and, Matthew says, ‘become like dead men.’ While the guards lie sprawled on the ground, the women stand trembling, trying to find their footing on resurrection ground. The guards have resigned themselves to death, while the women, startled, remain open to life. The guards are immobilized by fear. The women are afraid too — but fear does not keep them from hearing, moving, and bearing witness. Easter does not wait for them to become fearless; it meets them in their trembling and sends them on their way.

The Angel’s Instructions

And so they listen. The angel gives them their marching orders: do not be afraid, come and see, go quickly, and tell.

Do not be afraid — because Easter addresses frightened people, not fearless ones. “Do not be afraid” does not mean, “Nothing scary has happened.” It means, “What scares you is not the truest thing anymore.” Death is real. Grief is real. Empire is real. But none of them are ultimate.

Come and see — “Look,” Mary Oliver said, and laugh with astonishment and bow your head. “Come and see,” the messenger says, “and look where he lay.” All Lent long, we have been trying not to look away — from suffering, betrayal, injustice, vulnerability, even death itself. And now Easter says: yes, come and see. Look honestly. And look again. Because what we’ve seen isn’t the end of the story.

Go quickly — because resurrection does not leave us standing still. The good news is too alive to remain at the tomb. It sends us back into the world — back to the places where fear still lingers, where grief still aches, where love is still needed, where hope still must be practiced.

Tell — because news this good cannot be kept to ourselves. The women came as mourners, but Easter makes them witnesses. To tell is not to solve the mystery. It is to say, with astonishment, ‘Look. He is not here. Christ is alive — and already ahead of us.’

Back Into the World

The tomb is not where the story ends. Galilee is where resurrection starts traveling — back into the ordinary places where people live, work, grieve, love, and learn to follow once more. And that matters because Galilee is where so much of it first started. Galilee is where water became wine. Galilee is where ordinary lives were touched by abundance. Galilee is where the disciples first began to see who Jesus truly was. And now, on Easter morning, the risen Christ is already ahead of them there. Resurrection sends them not away from the world but back into it—back to the very places where good news first took shape and where it must now be lived.

And that’s what Easter does. It doesn’t offer us an escape from the world; it sends us back into it, because death, violence, and despair do not get the last word. And you and I go back into the world as disciples equipped by the training ground of this Lenten journey. Today, we conclude our “Tell Me Something Good” sermon series, where we’ve followed Mary Oliver’s advice to “Look, and laugh in astonishment” at places in the world where Good News comes in unexpected ways.

Where We’ve Seen Good News

This Lent, we’ve seen good news breaking out in many places: at a table where everyone is invited and no one is beyond the reach of grace; at a wedding in Cana where joy overflowed and scarcity did not get the last word; in the tearful hospitality of a woman whose love flowed from her hair and her hands; in a hungry crowd where Christ taught us that there is enough when a community puts what it has into God’s hands; in the faces of children and all the vulnerable who Jesus reminds us are closest to the heart of the kingdom; in the expanding mercy of a Savior who invites us to lay down our stones; in the humble procession of Palm Sunday, where power arrived not through domination but with borrowed cloaks, leafy branches, and cries of hosanna; and even at the basin on Maundy Thursday, where Jesus knelt to wash feet — even Judas’ feet — and showed us that love is demonstrated not by what it says, but by what it does.

And maybe that is what this whole Lenten journey has been trying to teach us: how to look for good news not only in scripture, but in the ordinary, fragile, holy moments of our own lives. I saw a glimpse of that good news this week.

A Glimpse of Resurrection

Many of you know that Tricia’s grandmother, Myra, died last week at the age of 90. She had fallen recently, and Tricia’s parents called us after we got home from worship last Sunday to let us know she had entered hospice care. So, with heavy hearts, we threw the girls in the car and drove the three-and-a-half hours to Richmond, VA, to say our goodbyes. Myra, or “Gaga” as she was known to her family (or, more specifically, “Lady Gaga” as I lovingly called her), died peacefully surrounded by her loved ones. It was our girls’ first experience with death, and somehow, even in our grief, the moment felt sacred. Winnie held Gaga’s hand, and we all told her how much we loved her. I thanked her for all the times she told me how proud she was of me. After we said our goodbyes, Myra Dawn Garrett, child of the covenant, took her final breath, and we took the girls to our hotel.

As we checked into our room, one of the hotel’s housekeepers noticed the girls looked quite sad. Tricia explained the reason for our trip. The housekeeper then asked if she could give the girls a hug, and she embraced each of us. After a few hours of sleep, we woke in the morning to head to Gaga’s apartment to grieve as a family and begin going through her things. It was a long day. And when we returned that evening, we entered our hotel room to put the girls to sleep, and we found this letter waiting for us:

“Dear Hazel Grace and Winnie, I know your hearts are heavy right now, and it’s hard not to wonder why your grandmother had to go. There may be days when you feel sad and miss her smile more than anything. But just remember, today, you gained an angel. On the days that feel the hardest, hold onto all the joy and laughter you shared with her. Those memories don’t go anywhere…they stay with you, always. She’ll always have a place in your hearts, and her love doesn’t stop here. She loved you both so much more than words can say - and that love carries on now and beyond. And one day, you’ll see her again. Keeping you all in my thoughts during this time. Your housekeeper, Nora B.” And next to the letter was a gift basket of snacks for the girls and us.

In that moment, in the middle of our grief, I thought: this is what it looks like when the good news is alive in the world. Sometimes, that good news arrives with the shock of an earthquake. But other times, it comes with the tenderness of a kind note from a stranger, accompanied by a sacrament of granola bars, apples, and blueberry muffins. Sometimes, water turns into wine. Other times, grief becomes a bond between complete strangers. Sometimes, five loaves and two fish feed five thousand. Other times, a small gift basket changes everything.

Truly, friends, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.

And so, with Mary Oliver, with Mary Magdalene, with the other Mary, and with all those who have caught a glimpse of grace in the middle of grief, let us keep company with those who say, “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.

For Christ is risen. He is alive in the world. Look.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed" (April 2, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Combined Maundy Thursday Service with Fellowship Presbyterian Church

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Text: John 13:1-35

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Scripture Reading

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already decided that Judas son of Simon Iscariot would betray Jesus. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. I am not speaking of all of you; I know whom I have chosen. But it is to fulfill the scripture, 'The one who ate my bread has lifted his heel against me.' I tell you this now, before it occurs, so that when it does occur you may believe that I am he. Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me."

After saying this Jesus was troubled in spirit and declared, "Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me." The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples—the one whom Jesus loved—was reclining close to his heart; Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So while reclining next to Jesus, he asked him, "Lord, who is it?" Jesus answered, "It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish." So when he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot. After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to him, "Do quickly what you are going to do." Now no one knew why he said this to him. Some thought that, because Judas had the common purse, Jesus was telling him, "Buy what we need for the festival," or that he should give something to the poor. So, after receiving the piece of bread, he immediately went out. And it was night.

When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

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The Scandal of Grace

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. That world doesn't make sense to me. It's a decidedly inconvenient scandal that just rubs me the wrong way. Because Judas deserves to be canceled. He deserves condemnation. He deserves the scorn we've thrown at him these past two thousand years. Or does he? Nearly twenty-two years ago, Guilford Park's own Tim Peck preached a sermon questioning Judas' exclusion from the twelve stained-glass windows that decorate the front of our sanctuary. He's been stripped of his discipleship credentials, Tim noted, replaced by Paul as the twelfth disciple.

But then Tim reminds us that one scandal replaces another. We pat ourselves on the back for relegating Judas to his rightful place in history's penalty box. But in his place, we lift up another who did no less harm to the very man he would later proclaim. And round and round we go, preferring hands full of stones to hands outstretched and open to the scandal of grace. I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too... but I want to.

Seeing Judas in Ourselves

I want to because I see more of Judas inside me than I care to admit. In Judas, I see the part of me that is sick and tired of the wicked prospering while the righteous wane and wither. In Judas, I see the part of me that is impatient with Jesus' non-coercive way of changing the world. In Judas, I see the part of me that loves as long as loving pays off. In Judas, I see the part of me that would rather explain people than love them, condemn them rather than pray for them, and reduce them to their worst act while asking everyone else not to do the same to me.

I want to know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too, because like him, I need Jesus to kneel before the worst parts of me without turning away. I need the basin. I need the towel. I need a mercy I did not earn and cannot control.

I hope that this evening we can hold Judas and his actions uncomfortably close to us. Because it's easy to villainize him and, in so doing, stay at a safe distance ourselves. But Jesus doesn't keep his distance from Judas; neither should we. Jesus kneels before Judas, fully aware of what he is about to do. Jesus kneels before Judas and lovingly washes his dirty feet. Jesus kneels before Judas, our brother, whose kinship with us is closer than we often realize.

Mercy That Unsettles Us

Or perhaps it's not Judas and his actions that unsettle us. Perhaps it's Jesus and his actions that do. In a culture that mistakes mercy for weakness and gentleness for surrender, what Jesus does here seems…absurd. He kneels before the one who will betray him. He does not shame him. He does not humiliate him. He does not crush him. He loves him. And to people like us, schooled in vengeance and baptized in scorekeeping, that kind of mercy feels not beautiful, but foolish.

A Broadway Parable of Grace

Many of y'all know I love a good Broadway metaphor in my sermons! In the musical Les Misérables, the French guard Javert lives a life of strict legalism. In his view, mercy threatens justice. After his former prison inmate, Jean Valjean, is released after serving 19 years of hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread, Javert makes it his mission to hunt him down and return him to prison once he breaks his parole. For most of the play, the two play a cat-and-mouse game, with the protagonist eluding Javert's grasp. Then, famously, in a twist of fate, the tables turn, and Jean Valjean gains the upper hand, finding himself in a position where he could end everything by taking Javert's life. But he famously raises his pistol, fires a shot into the sky, and spares Javert's life. The prison guard then faces a moral crisis. His whole life, he's believed in moral absolutes: criminals are bad, the law is good, and justice means strict enforcement. But Jean Valjean's mercy disrupts everything. Javert doesn't know what to do with grace. He doesn't know how to live in a world where his feet get washed, too. He sings these words in despair and disgust: "All it would take was a flick of his knife / Vengeance was his and he gave me back my life / Damned if I'll live in the debt of a thief / Damned if I'll yield at the end of the chase." As he finishes his lament, he takes his own life by jumping off a bridge.

A Step Away from Retribution

As a nation right now, we stand with Javert on the edge of a bridge, just before the fall. We can choose to keep repeating endless cycles of retribution, or we can step back from the edge and move toward something else: the kingdom Jesus proclaims, where mercy reigns. To be sure, reconciliation cannot happen without accountability, and grace does not erase harm. But endless cycles of retribution help neither the oppressor nor the oppressed. And yet sometimes, a simple, beautiful, humble, silent act of kneeling and washing feet can interrupt the patterns we have constructed for ourselves, patterns we have been tempted to think are inevitable.

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. But I want to. And Maundy Thursday calls me to take a step toward that kind of world. When I do, I take a step away from Javert's bridge—away from acts of retribution that hurt not only my neighbor but also myself. Because retribution stands in opposition to the humanity we see in Jesus Christ. And when I choose to hate my neighbor instead of washing his feet, I become less human. That is not who I want to be, and I suspect it is not who you want to be either.

Come to the Basin

Tonight, Jesus invites us to take a step into that world: a world where mercy interrupts vengeance, where grace gets down on its knees, and where love is known not by what it says, but by what it does. So come to the basin. Come to the towel. Come to the table. And let the love with which Christ has loved us become the love by which we learn, at long last, to love one another.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act" (March 29, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Palm Sunday — Sunday, March 29, 2026

Text: Mark 11:1-11

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Scripture Reading

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this: ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’ ” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said, and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,

“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple, and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.

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Recognizing What We Miss

Sometimes, I just don’t recognize the things I should. I don’t recognize grace when it’s right in front of me. I don’t see beauty when I’m overwhelmed by the world’s brokenness. I don’t notice my body telling me to rest because I’ve been conditioned to live in a constant state of productivity. Sometimes, I just don’t recognize the things I should.

But God’s Spirit has a funny way of tapping me on the shoulder in unexpected moments—moments when the Holy disturbs my stubborn, sterile routine.

Throughout Mark’s Gospel, the disciples consistently fail to recognize Jesus for who he is, despite his parables, his sermons, and his miracles. After Jesus calms the storm in chapter 4, they ask, “Who then is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?” In chapter 6, after Jesus feeds the multitudes, Mark tells us they did not understand what had happened, and that their hearts were hardened. In chapter 8, Peter comes close when he says, “You are the Messiah,” only to recoil when Jesus makes clear that this Messiah must suffer, be rejected, and die. Again and again, they miss it. They argue about who is greatest. They shrink back from Jesus’ predictions of suffering. They even try to stop someone casting out demons in Jesus’ name because he wasn’t “one of them.” Sometimes, the disciples just don’t recognize the things they should.

But after all these missteps, Mark gives us a recognition scene, a moment that invites the disciples—and us—to see what has been in front of us all along. Because we, too, often prefer a Messiah who comes with drones instead of a donkey. Palm Sunday asks whether we know how to recognize power when it arrives wrapped in humility, service, and borrowed things—cloaks, colts, and leafy branches.

A Different Kind of Power

In previous Palm Sunday sermons, I’ve mentioned that this ritual would have been easily recognizable to any inhabitant of Jerusalem. Such pageantry was common when the Romans celebrated another military victory. In those familiar scenes, the acclamations of occupied people may have been more coerced than celebratory; a hosanna, if you will, with a scowl when the Roman guards looked the other way. But the hosannas in today’s text are full-throated; hosannas that came from a deep place of longing for an alternative to the fear-fueled domination of their Roman oppressors.

So, on one hand, this pageantry would have been easily recognizable. However, Jesus puts his unique spin on the act of political theater. Instead of a horse, he uses a donkey. Instead of soldiers, he’s followed by a ragtag group of outcasts. Instead of marching to a victory by the standards of common thought, he’s marching toward death. He recognizes what’s about to happen. But did the disciples? Do we? We still miss him when he shows up in service instead of spectacle, in mercy instead of might, in courage without cruelty. This begs the question: can we recognize Jesus when he does not look like the kind of power we’ve been taught to trust? Because Palm Sunday is not just a parade to admire. It is the moment when Jesus shows us what kind of king he is—and asks whether we are ready to follow a Lord who rides toward the cross instead of around it.

The Verbs of Palm Sunday

Mark asks us to follow Jesus in order that we may recognize him. On Palm Sunday, no one gets to stay in the bleachers. The text gives us a feast of verbs that pull us into the story: go, untie, bring, throw, spread, shout, follow. Mark’s Gospel does not hand us a static portrait to admire from a distance. It gives us stage directions. It invites us to move.

I began this sermon with a confession: sometimes, I fail to recognize the things I should. Grace, beauty, and rest were the three things I named. And Palm Sunday reminds me that I am more likely to recognize Jesus when I step into those verbs myself. I am more likely to recognize grace when I extend it. I am more likely to recognize beauty when I help make it. I am more likely to recognize the holiness of rest when I refuse a life ordered only by urgency, and help make Sabbath possible for somebody else.

So what does it mean for us, here and now, to join the procession of Palm Sunday?

It means we make the verbs of this story our own.

Go

It means we go where Jesus sends us, even when the path is inconvenient, even when discipleship asks something of us.

Untie

It means we untie what has been bound. We help each other free ourselves from the habits and patterns that continue to cause chaos in our communities—fear, isolation, prejudice, indifference, the lie that someone else’s pain isn't our concern. We untie what has been chained down by despair, and we do this by showing up, speaking out, and becoming vocal advocates for justice in this city and beyond.

Bring

It means we bring what we have. The disciples brought a colt. We bring our real lives. We bring our time, attention, courage, tables, prayers, bodies, and witness. We bring casseroles to grieving families. We bring meals to Greensboro Urban Ministry. We bring comfort to the bedside, tenderness to the hurting, and steadfast love to those who feel forgotten.

Spread

It means we spread mercy. In the story, they spread cloaks on the road. Now, we spread mercy along the paths people walk every day. We spread it through the meals we share, in the care we give, in the ways we protect each other during illness and hardship, and in the quiet acts of compassion that make the road gentler for someone else to travel.

Shout Hosanna

It means we shout Hosanna. Not just with our lips, but with our lives. Our hosannas become a public witness. Our cries of “save us” turn into a refusal to accept a world ruled by cruelty, domination, and us-versus-them thinking. Our hosannas transform into advocacy for a shared life where justice is not partisan, mercy is not weakness, and the common good is still worth fighting for.

Follow

It means we follow Jesus in ways that challenge the usual political ideas of power. Because Jesus does not come with the tools of domination. He enters with humility. He arrives in vulnerability. He brings peace. And if we follow him, we may sometimes seem strange to a world that has linked strength with aggression and leadership with control.

Retrieve

And perhaps it also means we retrieve something. The disciples retrieved a colt, but we are called to retrieve the truest parts of ourselves—the parts buried beneath resentment, numbed by rage, or hidden under the weight of toxic individualism. Palm Sunday invites us to rediscover the selves God made us to be: merciful, courageous, communal, and alive to grace.

From Recognition to Action

Sometimes, I don’t recognize the things I should. But when I hear scripture call me into these verbs of recognition—go, untie, bring, spread, shout, follow—I find myself changed. Not always in big, dramatic ways. More often, it happens in subtle ways that are no less holy.

Grace finds my attention because I am learning to look for it in concrete places. Beauty catches me off guard, and suddenly I have a hosanna to offer. Rest becomes less a luxury and more a gift—one that makes me a better disciple, a better father, a better pastor, a better neighbor.

So, as we begin Holy Week, maybe the question before us is: Where will you recognize Jesus? What will be your hosanna? What will be the moment, the nudge, the holy interruption that moves you from recognition to action? Because Palm Sunday is not just about waving branches for a Savior long ago. It is about recognizing the One who is still in our midst, still coming toward us in humility, still calling us to follow.

And when we do—when we go, untie, bring, spread, shout, and follow—we just may discover that the Jesus we almost missed is the very one who has been leading us all along.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness" (March 22, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing
Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 22nd, 2026
5th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture Readings

Matthew 23:23

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others.”

John 8:2-11

Early in the morning he came again to the temple. All the people came to him, and he sat down and began to teach them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and, making her stand before all of them, they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, sir.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

Sermon Manuscript

To state the obvious, our world is currently filled with pain and division. As a pastor married to a therapist, Tricia and I often reflect on why this is and what role we should play—as parents, faith and mental health professionals, and followers of Jesus—in helping to repair the breach. I’m especially grateful for a common refrain she shares with me, which both saddens and challenges me to do better: she often laments that, as a society, we seem to have lost interest in and the ability for nuance in nearly every situation. Social media algorithms lure us into rage and then reward us for sharing it with others. Growing partisan hostility discourages any form of compromise for the common good. Preachers are accused of being “too political” just for sharing the basic tenets of Christianity. Our culture favors those who are deliberately combative in their tone, extreme in their beliefs, and callous with their words. Amid all of this, there is enormous human collateral damage. Why? Because nuance has left the building. We’re too busy arguing why we’re right and everyone else is wrong that we fail to see who suffers in the wake.

Sadly, you and I do not know the name of the collateral damage in today’s passage from John’s Gospel. She is an unnamed woman whose identity is of little use to the people who have thrust her before Jesus in contempt and rage. It was early in a morning, perhaps not unlike the one we are gathered on today. He had sat down and was teaching near the temple to those who would listen. But his tutelage is interrupted by scribes and Pharisees who have allegedly caught this woman in the very act of adultery. “Teacher,” they muse, “the law says we should stone her. What say you?”

Jesus could have instantly jumped into the argument, escalated the situation, and turned his response into a viral rage-bait video that I’m sure would have gained him a large following on social media. But instead, he does something quite rare in our culture: he practices the pause. Quite literally, as it turns out. Without saying a word, he bends to the ground and doodles in the sand. I can only imagine how much this must have angered those who came to argue, or at least puzzled them immensely. What on earth was he thinking? The text doesn’t tell us how long he wrote in the sand, but I like to think it was for an obnoxiously awkward amount of time.

Eventually, the scribes and Pharisees continue to press the issue. So, Jesus straightens up and calmly, gently, but firmly says the words we all know well: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Earlier this week, I thought that if I had to recall that verse from memory, I would forget the last two words. Notice, Jesus doesn’t say, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” No, he says, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” It’s as if Jesus, through both his silence and measured response, is refusing to allow the people trying to trap him to look away from the woman, whose life could very well end in bloodshed.

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

And then he does it again! Slowly, he lowers himself back to the ground and continues his sand art.

Nearly three and a half years ago, I preached on this very passage at the first worship service I ever led among you as your new pastor. In that sermon, I lamented, as so many have before me, that we don’t know what Jesus wrote in the sand that day. I ultimately concluded that it doesn’t matter what he wrote; what was most important was the deliberate act of pausing to gather his thoughts and craft a thoughtful, faithful response. I still believe that. However, I also think it’s a helpful spiritual exercise to make some educated guesses. Jesus might have been simply drawing something of no great consequence. Perhaps he just drew a line in the sand, as a visual reminder of the choices we face in a loud and complex world.

But today I like to think that Jesus drew a few questions in the sand as if to invite nuance back into the conversation. Perhaps he wrote down questions like those Tanya Denise Anderson poses in her artist statement in our Lenten devotional. How was she “caught” in the act? Was she allowed to explain herself? Was this a loving relationship? Was it even consensual? Or, perhaps most damning of all: if she was, in fact, caught in the act, as her accusers say, then where on God’s good green earth is man? As the saying goes, it takes two to tango!

Whether he wrote those questions in the sand or not, Jesus’s intentional choice to pause and invite space into a tense and charged situation adds nuance to the discussion. That’s good news for those caught in the crossfire of whatever current hot-button issue is. Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other. One of the biblical mandates Jesus knew well was the threefold command of Micah 6:8: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. He also knew all too well that we often unintentionally let our zeal for the first part of that equation to diminish our focus on the other two.

Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other.

Now, neighbors, hear me on this important note. While Jesus is condemning the harsh legalism of the scribes and Pharisees, we must never cast all Jewish law as inherently legalistic or rigid. As my friend Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity reminded me this week, Judaism has a rich history of holding Written and Oral Torah together to interpret and reevaluate the law. In this passage, Jesus isn’t telling the scribes and the Pharisees to abandon their Jewish beliefs. In fact, one could argue that Jesus is actually calling them to return to their Jewish beliefs. Because Judaism is built on a deep appreciation for the law of God, the Torah, and the intentional and faithful interpretations of that law that protect the most vulnerable among us. And that’s not just good news; that’s great news.

It’s great news because, as the Church of Jesus Christ, we have the opportunity to model a different way of living where we invite nuance to guide us toward discipleship. This leads us to a place where we are more aware of the stones we cast: stones like shame, certainty, social media contempt, political caricatures, church gossip, the need to win, or always be right. Because following Jesus means letting go of the stones we have come to hold dear. When we lay down those stones, we might discover that in a world that turns people into issues, Jesus restores personhood. In a world eager to condemn, Jesus creates space for repentance without humiliation. And in a world that loves spectacle, Jesus chooses mercy, and so should we.

Concluding Invitation

Perhaps a good way to start this work is to put down stones and pick up hymnals! What Jesus reveals in this story is what we are about to sing: there is a wideness in God’s mercy, and there is a kindness in God’s justice. I invite you to turn to hymn number 435 as together we conclude this sermon by rising in song:

[sing “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy"]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

www.stephenmichaelfearing.com   |   www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Protection and Care for the Vulnerable" (March 15, 2026 Sermon)

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Protection and Care for the Vulnerable

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 15, 2026
4th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture

Deuteronomy 24:17-22

“You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this.

“When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings. When you beat your olive trees, do not strip what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow.

“When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.

Matthew 19:13-15

Then children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them, but Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” And he laid his hands on them and went on his way.

“You were a child once, too.”

You were a child once, too. That's what Mister Rogers said, that's what he wrote down, once upon a time, for the doctors. The doctors were ophthalmologists. An ophthalmologist is a doctor who takes care of the eyes. Sometimes, ophthalmologists have to take care of the eyes of children, and some children get very scared, because children know that their world disappears when their eyes close, and they can be afraid that the ophthalmologists will make their eyes close forever. The ophthalmologists did not want to scare children, so they asked Mister Rogers for help, and Mister Rogers agreed to write a chapter for a book the ophthalmologists were putting together—a chapter about what other ophthalmologists could do to calm the children who came to their offices. Because Mister Rogers is such a busy man, however, he could not write the chapter himself, and he asked a woman who worked for him to write it instead. She worked very hard at writing the chapter, until one day she showed what she had written to Mister Rogers, who read it and crossed it all out and wrote a sentence addressed directly to the doctors who would be reading it: "You were a child once, too.” And that's how the chapter began.^[1]

My friend Tom wrote those words about his friend Fred back in 1998 for Esquire Magazine. You see, Tom made a mistake, a mistake he would later regret. He wrote an article about a very famous person, and in that article, he insinuated something very hurtful, something that wasn’t his story to tell. And it got him into trouble. Tom had developed a reputation for being a ruthless journalist. Ruthlessness is something someone does when they care more about themselves than others.

And so, as he feared that his career had stalled because of his ruthlessness, his editor gave him a new assignment. He called him into his office and told him he wanted him to interview Fred Rogers. “You mean, Mister Rogers? The kid’s show guy?” Tom scoffed. “Yes,” his editor replied, “We’re doing an issue on heroes, and I want you to write a profile on him.” And so, the invulnerable journalist called up the cardigan-wearing Presbyterian minister. “Invulnerable” is a word that means you feel like nothing can touch you, challenge you, or change you. Magical things happen when the invulnerable meet a person like Fred Rogers.

I wonder if the disciples felt invulnerable. “Disciples” is a word for people who want to follow Jesus. If I were his disciple, I would be tempted to feel invulnerable. How does one not feel that way when your teacher is a man who feeds thousands with table scraps, or resists Satan’s seduction, or calms a tempest, or summons the very dead from their slumber? Hang around with stuff like that long enough, and it goes to your head. Which is why, of course, when the children came to Jesus, they shooed them away. “This is grown-up business,” they tell them with the sort of condescension little ones are all too familiar with. “Condescension” is a word for when grown-ups think they always know better.

But Jesus bristles. He bristles because the disciples haven’t been listening. Just a few days earlier, he had placed a child on his knee and reminded them that whoever welcomes such a child in his name welcomes him. Now they are telling children that this is “grown-up business.” This is, of course, a silly notion, because the Kingdom of Heaven is neither “for” grown-ups nor a business.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable.”

The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable. The kingdom is open to all, of course, but again and again Jesus insists that it is the vulnerable, the overlooked, the little ones, who are nearest its center. And this is good news for kids, especially for those whom Jesus welcomed in today’s passage. Being a kid back then was no easy thing. According to Michael Joseph Brown in his book True to Our Native Land, “Fifty percent of children died before the age of five. They were the weakest members of society. They were fed last and received the smallest and least desirable portions of food. They were the first to suffer from famine, war, disease, and natural disasters. Many, some say more than 70 percent, would have lost one or more parents before reaching puberty. A minor had the same status as an enslaved person, and it was not until adulthood that they would be considered a free person.”^[2]

And being a child here and now, for many, is a similar kind of struggle. My work with A Simple Gesture has made me more aware of the scandal of child hunger right here in Guilford County. Close to one in four children here is food-insecure. In many parts of our county, families live in food deserts, far from a grocery store, dependent on public transportation just to buy food. And if you ride the bus in Greensboro, you are allowed only two bags. If you carry a purse, that counts as one. It should not be this hard to feed a child.

“Let the children come to me,” Jesus said. “You were a child once, too,” Fred Rogers said. Too often, our nation’s policies and priorities tell children and their families: your hunger is not urgent enough.

I began this sermon with an anecdote from Mr. Rogers for several reasons. First of all, this upcoming Friday would have been Mr. Rogers' 98th birthday, and as such, our denomination has designated that day in his honor, celebrating his memory and his message of neighborliness. Second, Fred Rogers was someone who had an innate gift for seeing the world through children’s eyes, to remember what it was like to be a little kid navigating a very big world. And that’s a spiritual gift that we all could do more with these days.

Last night, Tricia and I went to the Tanger Center to see The Sound of Music. It had been quite a while since I last saw the show, so I had forgotten several parts. One of those was how funny “Uncle Max” is. He is Captain von Trapp’s friend and a music agent and producer trying to get the von Trapp Family to perform at an upcoming festival. But beneath Uncle Max’s comic relief is a much more dangerous motive. Time and again, he tries to convince Captain von Trapp to adopt a stance of neutrality (at best) or tacit support (at worst) of the German annexation of Austria. “What’s going to happen is going to happen,” he tells Georg von Trapp at one point, “just make sure it doesn’t happen…to you.” In other words, he implies that von Trapp has the power and privilege to stay out of the mess and let the worst happen to others.

However, I trust you know how the story goes. His heart is hardened for good reason. He is devastated by the death of his wife, the children’s mother, and the sound of music has been verboten from his home. Maria and the children soften the Captain’s hardened heart. Together, they bring melody and joy back to his life, and he learns to see the world as his children do. And, indeed, see himself as his children see him. It is this softening that leads the “invulnerable” Captain to open his eyes to how the fascists are preying on the vulnerability of those around him. And he refuses to be complicit. With the help of the nuns, he defies Berlin’s “invitation” (i.e., command) to join the Navy of the Third Reich.

“Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too.”

“You were once a slave in Egypt, too,” God says to the Israelites. “You were once a child, too,” Fred Rogers says to each of us (not just the ophthalmologists).

You see, the gospel is asking us to remember:

Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too. Remember what fear feels like. Remember what hunger feels like. Remember what it is to need gentleness from a world that can be so hard.

And then let that remembering soften you:

Soften you enough to leave grain in the field. Soften you enough to make room for children. Soften you enough to resist every voice that says, “What’s going to happen is going to happen—just make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” No. Not for those who follow Jesus. For those who follow Jesus, the vulnerable are not interruptions. They are where the kingdom shows up first.

So let the children come. Let the stranger come. Let the hungry come. And may they find, in us, not a closed hand or a hardened heart, but the welcome of Christ himself.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

Notes

[1] Junod, Tom. “Can You Say...Hero?” Esquire, November, 1998.

[2] True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian K. Blount, Gay L. Byron, and Emerson B. Powery, (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2024). 120.

www.stephenmfearing.com | www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Together, the Impossible Is Possible" (March 8, 2026 Sermon)

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

The Good News Is… Together, the Impossible Is Possible

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

March 8, 2026 · Third Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Ephesians 3:20–21
“Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

Mark 6:32–44
The feeding of the five thousand

The Worship Committee is currently considering using memorial funds to replace our aging audio equipment here. Our soundboard and speakers, for example, have dutifully served this space for decades, but it’s time to dismiss them with thanks. So I’ve been thinking a lot about amplification, you could say.

As I reflected on these scriptures with several of you this past week, a simple truth came to mind—one that is, honestly, quite obvious but no less profound: Jesus didn’t have a microphone. At least not like the one that carries my voice now. He didn’t have electricity, soundboards, or amplifiers. Instead, his amplifiers were his followers, in a very real sense.

“Before there was amplification, there was community.”

In The Word This Week, we gathered in the library and watched part of an episode of The Chosen that depicts today’s story from Mark’s gospel. There’s a small detail I really appreciated: as you hear Jesus teaching the crowd, you can hear others in the background repeating his words, carrying his message to those in the back.

A space can be designed to help one voice carry a long way, but a crowd of more than 5,000—especially outdoors—would still make hearing Jesus a shared act, not just an individual one. We aren’t told exactly how Jesus’ teaching reached the edges of such a large crowd. But I can’t help imagining it this way: a word spoken here, repeated there; a phrase caught by one set of ears and carried to another; a murmur of mercy rippling outward through human voices.

Participants, Not Spectators

Now, it stands to reason that if Jesus could miraculously feed thousands with just two fish and five loaves, he also could have easily amplified his voice through divine means. But he chose not to. The good news is that in Christ, God’s abundance becomes real not only through divine power from above but also through shared human participation below: voices carrying the word, hands passing the bread, communities discovering together that the impossible is possible.

Jesus could have snapped his fingers and had a four-course meal literally fall from the heavens into the people’s laps, but he chose not to. Jesus is fully capable of acting alone, but he doesn’t, because the kingdom he proclaims always makes people participants, not spectators.

“The kingdom Jesus proclaims always makes people participants, not spectators.”

In Mark’s gospel, Jesus does not treat the crowd as passive consumers of a religious experience. He draws disciples and, in a sense, the entire gathered community into the work. The word is shared collectively. The food is enjoyed together. The abundance is found together. The good news is that with Christ, and with one another, the impossible becomes possible.

From Scarcity to Abundance

The disciples’ instinctual posture is one of scarcity. There are too many people; it’s too late in the day; we have too little money; we have too little food. Jesus doesn’t deny the size of the need; he simply rejects their conclusion. The disciples see the need and believe it’s impossible. Jesus looks at the same need and sees a community that hasn’t yet realized what is possible when they come together.

Exactly one year ago, this congregation faced the question of whether to convert the youth lounge into a temporary homeless shelter for about a dozen women over the summer. What started as a simple January coffee meeting between the CEO of Greenboro Urban Ministry and me grew into a Mission Committee discussion in February, a Session meeting in March, and then numerous conversations across this church and beyond.

At every stage, the same concerns kept resurfacing: Do we have enough space? Enough volunteers? Enough money? Enough security? Enough emotional energy? Enough flexibility in our building and our life together to host roughly a dozen women for three months? These weren’t foolish questions, and they weren’t necessarily unfaithful ones. But they also reflected scarcity.

Beneath each practical concern was a deeper fear: if we open what we have to others, will there still be enough left for us?

“Bring what you have, offer it together, and trust that in God’s hands, shared gifts will become more than enough.”

And that is exactly the kind of question that lingers during the feeding of the five thousand. The disciples look at the crowd and see the math of insufficiency: not enough food, not enough money, not enough capacity—just not enough. But Jesus invites them to see things differently.

He does not dismiss the reality of the challenge, but he also refuses to let scarcity have the final say. “You give them something to eat,” he says. In other words: bring what you have, offer it together, and trust that in God’s hands, shared gifts will become more than enough.

That is what this church wrestled with a year ago. Not just whether we had enough resources, but whether we were willing to believe that God can do abundant things when a community stops clutching what it has and begins putting it in Christ’s hands. And by God’s grace, we took that leap of faith. We opened our doors, welcomed our neighbors, and discovered that when we placed what we had into Christ’s hands, God provided every space, volunteer, resource, and every bit of courage we needed to share good news with women seeking both shelter and a path toward work and stability.

And this was possible because we trusted in the God who, by the power at work within us, is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.

Food as Gift

Did you know that there’s a farm in upstate New York where nothing is for sale? In a small town in the Adirondacks called Keeseville, there’s a place called the Sand River Community Farm. On the surface it looks like any other farm: people digging potatoes, peeling garlic, chopping wood, making stew, tending animals. But there is one remarkable difference: the food is grown and shared as a gift.

No wages. No prices. Nothing bought or bartered. Just neighbors showing up, working together, and feeding one another.

It’s run by a farmer named Adam Wilson. One of his neighbors unexpectedly came into some money and wrote him a $500,000 check to take a local abandoned farmhouse off the market. He started growing food and giving it away. Then some of the people he gave food to began showing up to assist him in tending the farm so they could grow more food. A community began to form—neighbor feeding neighbor. A place where everyone was welcome, and the only requirement was to come hungry.

Not only did those who helped form this community find their stomachs filled, but their spirits filled as well.

“This food is our gift… a responsibility to consider: What are my gifts? And how might I join hands with others to sustain the whole?”

Adam Wilson noticed a shift when giving food as a gift. The Sand River Community doesn’t call it “free” food; they call it “food as a gift.” Because, in his words, the word “free” implies that something doesn’t have value. Instead, they use the phrase “gifted” food to emphasize the value of food grown and harvested by a community of volunteers who do that sacred work simply because everyone deserves food, with no exceptions.

If you enter Sand River Community Farm, you’ll find a sign that invites people to trade transaction for relationship, commerce for community, and to consider how their own gifts might help sustain the whole.

What if we stopped believing the lie of scarcity? What if we saw food less as a commodity purchased by consumers and more as a gift shared among neighbors?

Passing the Good News Along

But Jesus said to them, “You give them something to eat.” Not just you watch. Not just you admire. You give. You carry. You pass it along.

Friends, the good news of this story isn’t just that Jesus once fed a hungry crowd long ago. It’s that Christ still confronts our fear of not-enough by teaching communities to speak and share a different word. A word of gift. A word of mercy. A word of enough.

And that word doesn’t travel by magic. It travels through people. Through voices. Through bodies. Through neighbors.

So I want to invite us, for just a moment, to become what this story says the church is: a people through whom good news is passed along.

There is enough for all:

enough food…
enough housing…
enough healthcare…
enough mercy…

Together, the impossible is possible.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

www.stephenmfearing.com  |  www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Great Love for God and Neighbor"

Some of the most powerful scenes in Luke’s Gospel involve little to no dialogue. It’s as if a recurring theme in his account of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry is that actions speak much louder than words. For example, Luke 5 describes a paralyzed man being lowered through a house’s roof by his friends. Without speaking a word, the man’s companions demonstrate a faithfulness that impresses Jesus. Time and again, Luke’s Gospel shows that those considered models of discipleship are often not the insiders but those on the margins. And more often than not, the outsiders show their faithfulness not through words but through prophetic actions that embody great love for God and neighbor.

Another similar scene happens two chapters later in Luke’s Gospel, when the story of the unnamed woman of ill repute unfolds as she quietly enters a house where Jesus is eating with some Pharisees. They were probably debating the subtle details of the law, which was their usual practice. They were gathered for a meal where status, purity, and propriety all matter—where you can feel the invisible rules in the room. I imagine that was the part of the conversation Jesus liked the least. And so, I think he was intrigued when a woman entered the scene.

There must have been quite an awkward silence. She approached Jesus with an alabaster jar and sat at his feet. She doesn’t argue her worthiness. She just comes—carrying what she has, carrying what she is—and risks being seen. The text simply states that she was “a sinner.” Luke could have been more specific, but he didn’t want us to focus on her sinfulness, only her faithfulness. So while Simon and his fellow Pharisees clutch their pearls, she lowers her gaze to his feet, bathes them in her tears, dries them with her hair, and anoints his feet with precious oil. Simon is doing ethical calculations in his head. He’s tallying purity and propriety while she’s pouring out gratitude. Notice that the text tells us his initial question was something he said to himself. But Jesus must have read his heart, because he tells Simon he has something to say to him.

He shares a simple parable. One person was forgiven for a missed $25 co-payment. Another received a letter from the billing department at Wesley Long Hospital informing them that their $40,000 surgery bill had been forgiven with no strings attached. Who, he mused, do you think will be more grateful? Simon knows the answer and, being no fool, must have realized that Jesus has him trapped in confession. “The one forgiven $40,000,” he says.“Right you are,” Jesus replies. Jesus then reminds Simon that this woman has shown him hospitality that Simon failed to offer—forms of hospitality that a host like Simon would have been socially expected to fulfill.

And so, without saying a single word, this woman delivers a homily of hospitality.  And it is far from the only one in Luke’s Gospel. In fact, her actions are echoed in another story that occurs just a few chapters after today’s reading. It’s a story I’m sure you know: the story of the Good Samaritan. Like the woman, the Good Samaritan doesn’t speak at all—at least not until the very end of the story. He says very little—almost all of the mercy happens before any words do. You know the story: he finds a man beaten and robbed, having already been abandoned by a priest and a Levite, both of whom were known for their sacred words and litanies. Yet, the Good Samaritan, much like the woman in Luke 7, understands intuitively that some moments don’t call for words; they call for action. And that’s exactly what he does. He cares for the man and, like the woman in today’s text, anoints him with oil—silently, lovingly, faithfully.

And so, friends, remember this: love for Jesus at the Table must become mercy for the neighbor in the ditch. That mercy shows up in calendars and casseroles, in who gets invited, and what we do with our money. The woman’s faithfulness becomes a continuous refrain, a song of mercy that calls the Samaritan to set aside words for a moment and pick up some oil to soothe the broken body and broken heart.

In Luke, the gospel goes beyond polite beliefs or correct talk; it becomes visible at tables, on roads, and in homes. The unnamed woman in Luke 7 demonstrates that true hospitality isn’t about social status but about humble love—drawing near to Jesus, honoring him, and receiving forgiveness that makes someone new. After showing us love poured out at Jesus’ feet, Luke sends us into the world where neighbor-love looks like oil and bandages, restitution and repair, gratitude and witness, and a community that refuses to exploit the vulnerable. The real question isn’t just about saying the right things about grace, but whether our bodies, budgets, tables, and time will live out that grace—until the forgiven become forgiving, the welcomed become welcoming, and love of neighbor becomes the church’s most credible confession.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...So Good It Catches Us By Surprise"

Texts: John 2:1-11 & Matthew 13:31-32

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? For me, it was about a week or two ago during an argument with our five-year-old. Before sharing this story, I need to clarify two things. First, Hazel Grace, as many of you know, is in kindergarten in the Spanish Immersion Program at Jones Elementary School. Second, I asked her for her permission to tell this story, and she kindly agreed.

A week or two ago, Tricia, Hazel Grace, and I had an argument. I don’t remember what it was about - probably something life-or-death, like shoes or snacks. All I remember is that Hazel Grace was throwing down; whatever boundary Tricia and I had imposed in that moment was not to her liking. Voices were raised. Blood pressure was going up. Our four-year-old, Winnie, was in the next room watching Bluey without a worry in the world.  But the other three of us were having it out.

And then something changed suddenly. All at once, Tricia and I realized that Hazel Grace was no longer speaking English. Almost imperceptibly, Hazel Grace had switched from English to Spanish. Tricia and I stood stunned in front of our bilingual kindergartener. She was on a roll! Tricia and I couldn’t understand very much, but we did catch “Mamá y papá no son buenos!”

Tricia and I really wanted to be angry at Hazel Grace, but we couldn’t help but be impressed! The two of us stifled a laugh, not wanting Hazel Grace to think we were laughing at her. When I asked her yesterday if I could share this story with y’all, she laughed and said, “Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn't it?”

That was the last time I remember being surprised by something truly holy. Because I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning a language spoken by 50 million people in this country, and she’s getting the chance to learn it much earlier than her mother or I ever did. I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning, at such an early age, that English isn’t the official language of the Kingdom of God. It’s a holy thing that she is growing up in a learning environment much more diverse than the one I grew up in. It’s a holy thing that God has given us such a smart child and that our public school system is teaching her to be creative, kind, and bilingual. Now, I’m sure there will come a moment when I’m less thrilled about the fact that my child can argue with me in Spanish, but for now, Tricia and I are grateful, surprised, and delighted.

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? We start this season of Lent with that question to shake things up a bit. Usually, we begin Lent with stories from Matthew, Mark, or Luke about Jesus being tempted in the wilderness by Satan. But this year, our Lenten theme is “Tell Me Something Good,” so we’re kicking off Lent with a party and a mustard seed. The Wedding at Cana, which one of our college students, Hannah Moore, read, is how John’s Gospel introduces Jesus’ ministry. Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail introduces the passage perfectly in her commentary on it: “People didn’t think Jesus could boogie like that. It took them by surprise—his dance moves, undoubtedly, but also how much Jesus, Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God… loves a good ol’ fashioned Electric Slide.” I love how John introduces us to Jesus through the most ordinary event, a normal wedding. A wedding with ordinary people just like you and me, celebrating love in a way that really hasn’t changed much over the two millennia since.

Therefore, I want us to pause today and acknowledge that the Good News of the Gospel is, above all, about joy. The joy God finds in us. The joy we find in each other. The joy that surprises us when the wine runs out, the party may suddenly come to a halt, and the myth of scarcity rears its ugly head. I, for one, am grateful for this different perspective on Lent this year because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to it. So together, you and I will spend this Lent following Mary Oliver’s advice in her poem “Instructions for Living a Life: Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About It.”

And so, this story reminds us that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a joyful, perhaps even playful, thing. In her artist statement for the liturgical art inspired by this passage, Rev. Tanya Denise Anderson says: “The Wedding at Cana is my favorite text because there is a lot of humor in it. There’s humor in a mother approaching her son and telling him to do something without ever actually telling him to do it. There’s his pouty resistance to his mother’s non-demand while she completely ignores him and paints him in a corner. There is humor in a raucous wedding reception where the people are so “lit” that the wine has run out. And, for me, it’s particularly humorous that there’s this huge, beautiful secret of which only a few people are aware.”

You and I are stewards of this “huge, beautiful secret” in today’s texts. A secret, admittedly, that we don’t (or shouldn’t) hide. This secret is summarized in two stories, one about a wedding and another about a mustard seed. It’s a secret that makes us laugh, brings some lightness and relief in a world that sometimes feels less like a dance at a wedding and more like a dirge at a funeral.  The huge, beautiful secret in both Cana and the mustard seed is this: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance.

Evil, you see, is ultimately predictable. We have become quite accustomed to the voices in our culture that try their best to drive a wedge between us and our neighbors. Evil’s predictability is, ultimately, its greatest weakness.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ, on the other hand, is filled with upended expectations and a disturbed status quo.  In a world that says there’s not enough, Jesus says, “Here’s more joy.”  In a world that tells us that “might makes right,” Jesus says, “Here’s a mustard seed; it’s enough.”  In a world that teaches us to fear the stranger, hoard what we have, and brace for the worst, Jesus says, “Come to the table. There is room. There is enough. Stay for the celebration.” That is why the Gospel remains forever holy and forever surprising: evil may be predictable, but grace never is.

Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail puts it this way: “Because this… this is who Jesus is. Jesus doesn’t have to begin with defeating evil because he knows ultimately evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who loves disco and his mother. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who is not only not afraid of scarcity, but laughs in the face of it. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who will never let an empty cistern or full tomb have the final word. Evil is predictable. But our God loves a surprise because God knows the plot twist is the same every time: God’s goodness will overflow. Every single time.”

Therefore, this Lent, I hope we begin by laughing together. Because you and I are midwives of a story of salvation by a Prince of Peace who isn’t afraid to make his debut at a lively wedding celebration. Such a story is subversive and dangerous to those who benefit from the current system. A Jesus who stays within the halls of power and privilege can be twisted to justify any form of state-sponsored violence and terror. But a Jesus revealed to us at an ordinary wedding? That’s a disturbing truth for those who want to keep us divided. Because a joy like that is nothing less than an act of nonviolent resistance in a callous culture.

And I want to be clear, friends: practicing joy isn’t a selfish act. Our consumerist culture has taught us that joy, and its close cousin, rest, is a luxury reserved only for those who can afford it, or those who have “earned” it, or those who “deserve” it. Joy is a renewable resource that reorients us toward new possibilities when the voices around us say all is lost, or, at least, that all is not new. Yes, there is suffering in the world. Yes, our neighbors are being terrorized in the streets. Yes, there is much that needs our faithful work. But taking joy out of that recipe makes for a bad dish that nourishes no one.

Mary Oliver once famously said, “Joy is not meant to be a crumb.”

And thanks be to God for that. Because at Cana, Jesus does not hand out crumbs. He fills jars to the brim. In the parable, God does not despise small things. God grows a mustard seed into shelter. And in our own lives, the Holy Spirit keeps interrupting our fear, our frustration, and our scarcity with flashes of grace we did not see coming.

So, no, joy is not denial. Joy does not pretend that suffering is not real. Joy does not erase grief. Joy does not ignore injustice. But joy does refuse to let evil have the final word. Joy refuses to surrender our imagination to fear. Joy refuses to believe that scarcity is the truest thing about the world.

This Lent, then, let us practice joy as a form of discipleship. Let us pay attention to the jars being filled. Let us pay attention to the tiny seeds in the soil. Let us pay attention to the moments when laughter breaks through in the middle of a hard day, reminding us that grace is still alive.

And maybe that is one answer to the question we began with: When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? Maybe it was not in a sanctuary at all. Maybe it was in your kitchen. In the middle of a family argument. With blood pressure rising, Bluey playing in the next room, and a five-year-old suddenly switching to Spanish to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that mamá y papá no son buenos.

And somehow, right there — in the frustration, in the laughter, in the love, in the surprise — grace broke in.

That is the kind of thing Cana teaches us to look for. That is the kind of thing the mustard seed trains us to trust. The holy does not always arrive in the places we expect, and it rarely arrives on our schedule. But it does arrive — in ordinary rooms, in ordinary people, in moments that seem too small to matter, until suddenly they are filled to the brim.

And when the world tells us to hoard, to harden, to despair, may we hear Mary’s words at Cana: “Do whatever he tells you.” Fill the jars. Make room at the table. Plant the seed. Stay for the celebration.

Because the huge, beautiful secret is still true: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance. So, church — when was the last time you were surprised by something holy? This Lent, pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...All Are Invited"

Text: Luke 14:15-24

Ash Wednesday has long signaled the start of a solemn season. Lent has traditionally been a time of quiet self-reflection, penitence, and somber study of scripture. We mark ourselves with ashes to remind us of our mortality. Some of us give up something to practice restraint, creating more space for communion with God and spiritual growth. Psalm 51 has often been the psalm chosen for Ash Wednesday, famously attributed to David admitting his sin in sexually assaulting Bathsheba and having her husband, Uriah, killed when he failed to cover his tracks after getting her pregnant. As I mentioned, the beginning of a solemn season, indeed!

But we’re approaching this Lent a little differently this year. This doesn’t mean there’s no spiritual value in solemn introspection, fasting from certain vices, or contemplating our mortality and our consequent total reliance on God’s mercy. However, as you might have seen from the title of our Lenten Sermon series, we’re viewing Lent this year as an invitation—an invitation to Good News—good news that keeps us grounded when much of the world feels so broken. Together, we’ll listen to the Spirit and let her “tell us something good.” This will be our focus this Lent because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to the load.

And so, we begin this Season of Lent with an invitation that is quite fitting. It’s fitting because the Season of Lent was originally a call for new converts to learn the basics of Christianity in order to prepare for their baptism on Easter Sunday.  And so, let us go together to the mailbox and see what RSVP might be waiting for us!

Our RSVP takes the form of a parable of Jesus. A parable, for the record, which he shares while sitting at the dinner table in the home of a local Pharisee. As a reminder of the context (because it’s always important): on the way to this Pharisee’s house, Jesus healed a man with a skin condition on the Sabbath, challenging their obsession with strictly following the letter of the law instead of its spirit. Then, when they arrive at the Pharisee’s house, Jesus notices how everyone is vying for the seat of honor next to the host. He reminds them that the kingdom of heaven operates according to an opposite social logic. No, he tells them, choose the lower place so that the host will invite you to move up. Because Jesus reminds them, those who humble themselves will be exalted, and those who exalt themselves will be humbled.

And then we have this parable that Donna read for us today. A host is preparing a party and sending out the VIP invitations first, as one does. However, the three invitations don’t exactly get positive responses from the A-list celebrities his slave hunts down on his behalf. Each of them has an excuse that, at best, is half-hearted, and, at worst, downright pathetic.

The first has bought a piece of land and has to go see it (as if he didn’t already see it before buying it?).

The second has bought five oxen and has to go see them (again, as if one wouldn’t have already done that before the purchase!).

The third person's excuse diverges from the economic tone of the first two. This third guy is married and claims, I suppose, that the missus is expecting him.

All of these ridiculous excuses can be summed up by a famous quote from the popular TV series, Friends. In the first episode of the first season, which premiered more than 30 years ago, Phoebe is invited to join Joey, Ross, and Chandler to help assemble furniture in Ross’s new apartment. Phoebe, without missing a beat, simply replies: “I wish I could, but I don’t want to!”

This is the response from the three original invitees to the host’s party, at least according to this millennial’s Friends-inspired paraphrase of Luke 14. “Thanks,” they each say; “wish we could, but we don’t want to!” The host, humiliated by rejection, realizes that the usual social expectations aren’t working for him. Usually, someone hosting a party hopes that people higher up the social ladder will attend. If those at the “top” come first, then those at the “bottom” will often find their place in the end, if at all. But this host makes a strange and countercultural move: he begins to focus on the “bottom up,” at least in the eyes of those who initially rejected his invitation.

“Go,” he tells his slave. “Get the poor. Get the disabled. Get the blind. Get the lame. Go grab Phil, who pandhandes across the street between Panera Bread and City BBQ. Go get Denice, who camps out under the canopy of the closed store next to Scuppernong Books downtown. Go find Don, the Harris Teeter worker who moonlights as a Lyft driver to feed his family because his SNAP benefits are about to run out. Go get them all and bring them here.” The slave goes and does as he is told. And the masses come. But there’s still more room. The host sends the slave out again, saying, grab literally whoever you can. Because there’s still more room, and there is no stranger at my table.

And, thus, the feast begins. Phil isn’t seen as an eyesore by those who just want to get home with their groceries. Denice can now feel her fingers and toes again. Don gets a much-needed break from the rat race that consumes his life just to keep his kids from starving. Choice wine is poured. Fresh bread is broken. Grapes are rolling on the floor because there’s no more room on the table to contain all the food that has been prepared. Laughter flows as freely as the drinks. For a moment, the social order is reversed, and the kingdom of heaven has disturbed the status quo just enough to remind everyone present that the way things are isn’t the way things have to be.  And they are indeed not the way God has promised them to be.

That is how we begin Lent this year.  With an open invitation that is ours to receive.  Who wouldn’t want to say yes to a party like that?  Well, as it turns out, there will always be some who would find such a gathering an abomination.

A few months ago, our Theology on Tap group read C.S. Lewis’ novel, The Great Divorce.  In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis doesn’t picture heaven and hell as two static destinations where people are permanently “assigned.” Instead, he imagines them as ends of a spectrum—and the real drama is the direction a person chooses to move. Again and again, the book suggests that the boundary between heaven and hell is traced less by God’s refusal than by our resistance: God keeps offering invitation, mercy, and transformation, but we can cling to the resentments, fears, and self-protective illusions that make joy unbearable. In Lewis’s telling, then, the question of heaven or hell isn’t finally about God sorting people into categories; it’s about whether we accept the offered invitation and step toward the light, or insist on turning away.

And, he would also offer, there are plenty of people who, given the choice between heaven or hell, choose “the bad place.” In one of my favorite chapters, a very self-righteous man is well on his way to “the good place.” He prides himself on all the good he has done in his life. He did the right things. Checked the appropriate boxes on his moral inventory. But as he heads toward heaven, he is introduced to a man named Len, who murdered an innocent man back on earth. “What are you doing here?” the self-righteous man asks. “I’ve gone straight all my life. I don’t say I was a religious man and I don’t say I had no faults, far from it. But I’ve done my best all my life, see? I’ve done my best by everyone, that’s the kind of chap I was. I never asked for anything that wasn’t mine by rights. If I wanted a drink, I paid for it, and if I took my wages, I done my job, see? That’s the kind of guy I was, and I don’t care who knows it! I’m not asking for anyone’s bleeding charity!”

To this, Len, responds, “Ask for the Bleeding Charity.  Everything is here for the asking, and nothing can be bought.”

To this, the righteous man indignantly responds, “I’d rather be damned than go along with you!”  And he turns around and heads toward hell.

“We wish we could,” the well-to-do folks in today’s parable said, “but we just don’t want to.”

I wish I could stand before you today and honestly say that there’s nothing in God’s invitation to the kingdom of heaven that doesn’t rub me the wrong way. Of course, it does! Because I’ve been taught that righteousness is a solo act—something I do for myself, something I earn. But that’s not how God’s math works. It’s not about me. And it’s not about you. It’s about us. And that’s the invitation we receive this evening as we mark our foreheads with ashes and remind ourselves that none of this is a solo act, and everything we do and everything we are depends on God’s grace and God’s invitation. You and I aren’t called to “reinvent” grace (as if it were ever a creation of our own!). We’re simply meant to rest in the truth that we’re invited to the table not because we’ve earned it, but because God has made space. And after we’ve rested in that truth, then comes the time to share it!  Because that’s all this party has ever been about, really.

And some people will never accept that. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the immigrant. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the refugee, or the incarcerated, or the homeless, or the anxious, or the disabled, or the political enemy, or the neighbor whose yard sign makes your blood pressure rise. There will always be those voices, but those voices aren’t the ones we listen to today. On Ash Wednesday, we will hear a voice say, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We can see that promise as a warning or as an invitation to humility, grace, and a different perspective—away from the voices that claim might is right and influence is the only currency worth pursuing.

Instead, I hope we all hear that voice declaring our dustiness as a voice that will forever be God’s voice; a voice with an unending invitation for you - yes, you. An invitation that’s freely available to you right here, right now. And if you can’t accept it now, it will be available to you again. Because the Good News is…everyone is invited.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson died a few days ago at the age of 84.  And in 1972, the 31-year-old civil rights activist visited the most magical place in the world, an address known as 123 Sesame Street.  And there, he met with a diverse group of children and led them in a liturgy for which he became well known.  The call and response went as such, with him as the liturgist and the children the chorus of the many:

I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I may be poor…I MAY BE POOR…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be young…I MAY BE YOUNG…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be on welfare…I MAY BE ON WELFARE…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be small…I MAY BE SMALL…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may make a mistake…I MAY MAKE A MISTAKE…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
My clothes are different…MY CLOTHES ARE DIFFERENT…
My face is different…MY FACE IS DIFFERENT…
My hair is different…MY HAIR IS DIFFERENT…
But I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I am black…BLACK…brown…BROWN…white…WHITE…
I speak a different language…I SPEAK A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE
But I must be respected…RESPECTED…protected…PROTECTED…
and never rejected…AND NEVER REJECTED.
I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!

So friends, say it with me, I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.  There’s room for me….THERE’S ROOM FOR ME…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE…there’s room for my neighbor…THERE’S ROOM FOR MY NEIGHBOR…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE.  And no one and nothing can change that!  AND NO ONE AND NOTHING CAN CHANGE THAT.

And may all of us, God’s beloveds, say: Amen.