"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)

---

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.

---

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

---

Scripture

Philippians 3

---

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

---

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

---

Scripture

Philippians 1:1-30

---

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.