"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...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