"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.

"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.