What brings comfort to your life? When you want to feel at ease after experiencing the ups and downs throughout a day, what helps? 

For some people, it’s food. We call it comfort food. If you’ve had a rough day, it could be going over to George’s in Virginia-Highlands and ordering a hamburger. Or it’s food from a crock pot, like pot roast, that cooks in gravy in a slow cooker all day, and it’s there at night awaiting you for dinner. When there’s a death in our circle of friends, often the first thing groups will do is provide food. It’s a sign of comfort. 

In the morning, I prepare breakfast for the kids. My mom used to make cinnamon toast for us when I was growing up. No one ever made it like her. I tried to pass down that culinary art for my kids, and it was good, but it never tasted quite like hers. So on a recent beach vacation with her, I asked my mother, “Would you make some cinnamon toast and let me watch you make it?” She thought I was trying to get out of having to do it myself. As I observed, I figured out what made her cinnamon toast so delicious. Butter. She slathers butter. With all of the butter, the cinnamon and sugar had nowhere to escape. 

When I took a bite, I closed my eyes. It was delicious; in fact, it was divine. But it wasn’t the taste that I craved. The taste connected me to my childhood around our breakfast table with my family. Do you have foods like that? Foods that connect you to the past. It made me think of my dad who died fourteen years ago. I felt the connection of love associated with its taste and desperately wanted to create that sort of place, that sort of experience for my children. Food can bring us comfort because it stirs up memories around a table with the people we love. I mentioned recently we are entering the season of crowded tables with the holidays, but it’s also a season of empty chairs where loved ones used to sit and we feel a sense of loss too. We are searching for comfort. We are yearning for the sights, sounds, and smells that connect us to the people who make us feel their love. 

When I think of comfort, I also think of the sounds of bells. Today is All Saints Sunday, a day to toll a bell to honor our departed dead. Bells have a way of comforting. 

Our church has bells that chime from the steeple daily at noon, 2:30 pm, and 6 pm. People tell me occasionally how their sounds uniquely speak to them. Each time I hear the 2:30 pm bells, I know my daughter will be walking through my office door at any moment and it brings joy to the afternoon. You may wonder why we chose the bells to play at those times. 

Noon is to mark the turning of the morning into the afternoon. Two thirty is when the kids at Morningside Elementary get out of school and gather near our church on the way home. We like to have them playing for them. 6 pm is when our Weekday Children’s Ministry ends, so it marks the close of the day. 

Do church bells bring you comfort? The reality is sometimes we don’t recognize how much comfort such things in our lives bring us until they are suddenly absent. 

During COVID, a time of significant disorientation and confusion, the bells continued to play and were a sign of order and constancy when our world was anything but. People were suddenly working from home, and many told me how comforting it was to hear the hymns of faith played each day from our steeple. 

In fact, a neighbor called me one morning and said, “Your church bells usually chime at 6 pm. But last night, they didn’t chime. It threw me off. It unsettled me. Would you please fix it?” The reason he missed it was because it was daylight savings like today. We had not reset the settings, so it went off at 5 pm instead of 6 pm. The people of Morningside couldn’t function! But the lack of a bell tolling revealed a sudden absence of comfort. Or it’s better said that the absence revealed what brings us comfort. 

On All Saints Sunday, we may realize we took some of those moments with our loved ones for granted until suddenly, like that bell, they were gone. Suddenly, we realize how much comfort they brought us. If you have lost someone you deeply love, you know that feeling of trying to reach out to them after something significant happens in your life or something you used to enjoy doing together…you reach for your phone to call them, but then remember they’re not there. 

On All Saints, we give thanks for the saints who have gone before and comfort each other in our loss as Jesus taught us. As we look at Jesus’ sermon on the mountain, Jesus uses that moment to establish the ethics for the Christian community. This inauguration speech about God’s Kingdom shows that this new community shall bring comfort to those who mourn. 

Today, we’ll look at how we can carry out this ethic of comfort:

1. Comforting others is part of God’s reign.
2. God gives us a community to support one another and does not ask us to do it alone.
3. Eucharist, holy communion, is our comfort food. 

Comforting the mourning is part of God’s reign. Jesus is beginning his public ministry. It’s his first sermon. To begin his ministry, he climbs a mountain, reminding us of another figure in the Old Testament who received instructions from a mountaintop. It’s Moses. In the book of Exodus, Moses came down from Mt. Sinai and delivered the 10 Commandments, which established the values, laws, and ethics for God’s people. Like Moses, Jesus is the one with authority to develop the ethics of his followers. Throughout Matthew’s gospel, Jesus talks about the Kingdom of Heaven. We don’t relate well in today’s world to the word Kingdom. It makes us think of kings and queens and hierarchy. But the term Jesus used for kingdom is “basilea,” and it can also be understood as “reign” as in governance, an authoritative way of living. The Kingdom of Heaven is about the ethics of this new community. The Kingdom is about the way God governs the world. The way God rules the world pushes against our values. In our world, we typically value the strong, the proud, the rich, the famous. But the beatitudes teach us to respect the poor in spirit, the meek, the brokenhearted, the peacemakers. 

Today, I want to point out the second beatitude. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. In this new movement, Jesus places a high value on comforting the hurting. Which means God needs everything within this Kingdom to comfort others. God will comfort others. The Holy Spirit will comfort us and the community will comfort. 

That leads me to my second theme. God provides us with a community for comforting one another. Often, when we read the sermon on the mount, it feels impossible to carry out these ethical standards ourselves. How can an individual do all of this work? How can an individual lift the spirits of the downtrodden, bring peace in times of conflict, and comfort to those who mourn? Here’s a reality check. We can’t. It is too much for individuals. But that’s why Jesus called together a community. Together, we can. On this All Saints Day, many are mourning. People are mourning the death of parents, grandparents, and friends. They are mourning the violent acts in our world due to war and gun violence.The unique part about a community of faith is that together, we can bring comfort. 

Do you have someone in your life right now who is mourning? You feel all alone in trying to comfort them. You don’t have to carry that burden alone. In the reign of God, others can support. Call on siblings, neighbors, and your church community. The task is too great alone. If you are the one who is mourning today, call out to your community. Because grief is heavy. It’s hard to see any light and hope, especially as we move towards the winter months. A few years ago, I was coaching my five year old daughter’s basketball team. I was walking back to the car. I heard one of the kids ask her dad,  “Dad, is it time for bed?” The father said, “No sweetie, it’s only 6:00.” She said, “But it’s so dark out here.” He said, “That’s because it’s winter and the nights are longer.” Then she asked, “When is the darkness going away?” 

When is the darkness going away? Maybe some of you can resonate with her question, but not just about physical light, but about emotional grief. It’s hard to see hope. It feels like the darkness will never go away. Here’s the gospel answer. Mourn. It’s ok to mourn. In fact, Jesus called us blessed when we mourn. There’s a difference between grief and mourning. Grief is the painful, emotional reaction to loss. We have no choice in the matter. Life hits us with sorrow. Mourning is openly expressing our grief. Grief is not optional. Mourning is–and it is wise to opt for it. There is no short-cut to finding hope again. You can’t create a short-cut. We have to choose to mourn. But we don’t mourn alone. 

On All Saints, celebrate Holy Communion. Holy Communion is our comfort food and we share it together. There are foods we eat during anxiety and stress to make life feel more bearable and good. But the most essential comfort food we can ever partake in is Holy Communion. Communion is a sacrament of the church, which means it’s a visible sign of God’s invisible grace. When we partake of Holy Communion, we partake of it as a community. Today, this sacrament not only connects us to God and the people in this room. This sacrament connects us to the people we have lost. We call it the communion of the saints. We affirm it each Sunday in the Apostle’s Creed: I believe in the Holy Spirit. The holy catholic church, the communion of saints. In Luke 20:38, Jesus says, “Now he is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.’

Our loved ones who have passed are alive in Christ because our God is a God of the living. When we partake of the bread and juice, we experience the real presence of Jesus Christ, who connects us to the saints who have gone before. Through communion, the past, present and future come together at once.  We remember the past, we experience Christ in the present and get a foretaste of the life to come. The word for communion is also Eucharist. Eucharist means “thanksgiving”. Our stewardship journey is about a life of gratitude. We take comfort today in our sure hope of resurrection. We give thanks for the lives of those who have loved us and live now with our heavenly savior. 

I think of one of our church’s most devoted members. I won’t mention her name. She lives in a home a few houses up the street. She has always pitched in at Vacation Bible School, attended her women’s circle in the parlor, and supported her pastors. She was an elementary teacher for most of her career. But she stopped attending worship in person. She lost her husband of over forty-five years during the pandemic. I officiated the graveside service in a private ceremony. 

Even though she hadn’t attended church since her husband’s death, she would drop by our fellowship dinners and pick up her to-go plate most Wednesday nights. 

She always said hello and told me she watched worship every Sunday online. She came to pick up her to-go box one Wednesday night in April. As she exited, I followed her out the door and spoke to her on our plaza. It was a beautiful spring day, and the azaleas were in bloom. 

I asked, “Are you coming to worship on Easter?” 

“Oh no, dear. Easter would be an especially challenging day.” 

I asked, “Are you worried about the crowds?” 

She said, “No. I miss my husband. Every time I’m in the sanctuary, I will think of him because that’s what we did every Sunday for 45 years. I’ve thought about asking my son to come to church with me, but they attend another church, and I can’t ask him to step away from his church.” 

The week after Easter, she found me at the church. She said, “I watched the Easter service online like always. Something new occurred to me. I thought about the women at the tomb. When they came to the tomb, they were grieving, but the angel gave them a new assignment to tell the disciples about Jesus. I felt a nudge that it was time for my new assignment. My new assignment is to come back to church. I’m planning to come to church soon.”

I thanked her and assured her she could sit with some of the members instead of her previous pew.

She said, “No. I’m going to sit where I always sat. And I don’t want any fanfare about it. I must face this new life, and I know my husband would want it that way. It’s time for me to live my life again.” 

The following Sunday, right before worship, I saw a group of church members huddled around the fifth row. There were many hugs and smiles and tears. She was starting her new assignment. 

She said to me afterward, “I thought it would be hard today. But seeing everyone today and being in this church brought me comfort.” She paused and said, “Even though there was an empty seat next to me, today, I have a full heart.” 

Are there empty seats in your life? We can still have full hearts. While those seats are empty on this side of the altar, on the other side, our saints sit at the Lord’s table. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Come and partake of the Lord’s comfort food. 

I took our family parasailing on a recent vacation to Destin, Florida. The kids begged me all week about it. I was terrified but determined to do something that scared me. I signed up online. Parasailing seemed easy online as I was punching in the credit card numbers. But then we arrived, and a college kid with shaggy hair and a fishnet cap tightened my life vest. “Dude, I think it fits.” A jet-ski towed us out on a banana tube to the awaiting boat out there in the minty green waters of the gulf. My girls and their cousin decided to ride together on the first round. A worker strapped my two daughters into the parachute, and the line started letting out like a kite.

I have crashed many kites, but there wasn’t any fear on their faces. Katie and Bethany laughed, letting go of their straps and tilting backward. And they were suddenly four hundred feet in the air. My heart was flopping around like a fish. And I suddenly understood Einstein’s theory of relativity regarding time. Because those next eight minutes lasted an eternity. They were squealing in excitement, but I only wanted that captain to start reeling in my girls. I imagined all the horrors; the line breaking, my girls flying a thousand feet in the air, the helicopter chasing them to save them, and the news reporters asking me how I could be so irresponsible. But the electric crank on the boat reeled them in like a fish. And suddenly it was Blair and my turn. As our girls got into the boat, I moved closer to the worker and whispered, “You know, we don’t have to go that high.” She said, “You don’t have to whisper. You’re not the first man to get scared. But no. Your wife would be so disappointed. Look how excited she is.” 

She was beaming. 

The worker locked us into the parachute. I asked the captain while his hands were on the wheel, “What happens if this rope breaks?” 

He said, “Don’t worry. We haven’t had one break all week.” 

He gunned it and before I could say anything, I was fifty feet over the gulf and ascending quickly to four hundred feet. The lady warned me my legs would tire, but the fire-like strain ran through my forearms, not my legs, because I was holding on for dear life with white knuckles, and the watercraft pulling us below looked like a toy boat. 

Now Blair had a different reaction than me. Blair was beside me with her arms open wide like Jack and Rose on the Titanic. “I’m flying!” She looks at me and offers me her hand. I shook my head violently. “Nope!”

I took a breath and let go of the rope. I lay my hand in hers. Then I let my other hand go. It was quiet up there as anything I have ever experienced. It was silent and gave the same feeling as looking out over a snow-covered forest when the snow absorbs all the sound. And I could see open water forever. I left all my worries behind, and for a moment, I felt like a bird flying. It was truly a free moment as we saw all the hotels along the coastline and the happenings at the beach, but we were so far above their cares. 

Suddenly, I felt the vibrations of the rope. I thought, “This is where I die.” But nothing was wrong. Our eight minutes of flight were up. Surprisingly, I was not ready. I was too free up there. The toy boat was becoming real again, and we could hear the chatter of our girls.

The captain dipped us into the water, and it felt like a baptism. I did something that terrified me, and I found freedom in doing what scared me. As I boarded the boat, the captain said, “You used all the rope. You never know what you’re missing until you do something that scares you.”  

“No, will I parasail again?” Absolutely not, but I learned his lesson. I experienced such an incredible moment by facing my fears. 

It struck me that learning to face any fear is applicable to our faith life. I have many other fears that I need to face, even though they terrify me. We all do. Can you think of something right now that scares you? There’s that person you must forgive and can’t bear calling them up for a cup of coffee. What if they verbally attack you? What if they won’t forgive you back? There’s that meeting you need to lead, but you’re scared there’s someone more qualified and people will think you’re a fake. There’s that grief over losing a loved one, and you want to try to live again, but you’re afraid of this future without them. 

Do you know the surprising part about parasailing? I trusted someone I had never met. I trusted that captain, and I trusted the rope he used. I put my life and my family’s life in his hands. If I can trust him, then I can surely trust in the one who has known me my whole life. His name is Jesus. Because here’s the good news. On our Christian journey, we know who’s driving the boat. Jesus Christ knew a thing or two about boats and calmed storms from them. Jesus Christ will help us face our greatest fears.

Jesus showed us how. Jesus faced the fear of reaching people that many people pushed aside. Jesus faced the fear of death. He met the mocking crowds and faced the powers of evil. He faced the horrors of the cross to give us the freedom we longed for. It’s freedom from the power of sin and fear. It’s the freedom of a new life. It’s the freedom to know we are sinners, fallen and undeserving, and yet forgiven and loved more than we can imagine. You can face your fears and experience freedom with Christ driving the boat. Hop on board.

‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’ (Exodus 3:4-5)

Where are your favorite places? Maybe it’s that favorite coffee shop you visit to meet friends. Or that restaurant in the area where the waiter knows your order. Or your child’s baseball field where you sit on the bleachers, and the calm surroundings put you at ease. The late Bartlett Giamatti was the commissioner of baseball and, before that, the president of Yale University. He was once asked about the popularity of baseball. “Why is it so enduring?” “Baseball is about coming home,” he responded, “and we all want to get home.” Places help us find a sense of home.

We all have favorite places. Some places excite us and bring us joy. And not all places bring us the same level of joy as they do to others. One place that brings joy to one person brings anxiety and consternation to another. For instance, my children and wife took me out for Father’s Day to see the new Indian Jones movie, my favorite adventure hero growing up. After the show, we got into the mini-van when my eldest daughter, ten years old, yelps, “Lululemon. Dad, there’s a Lululemon store across the street.”

My other daughter chimed in, “Yes. Dad, that’s our favorite place. Can we go? We don’t want to buy anything. We just want to look.”

For those unaware of Lululemon, it’s an expensive, popular clothing store amongst teenagers. And I thought to myself, “Well, my kids have given me a nice Father’s Day present. They are loving, charitable children. And really, what’s the harm? They just want to look.”

This was a set-up. Pure and simple. I was walking into an ambush. Blair was running another errand. We had driven separately. I said, “Alright, girls, let’s head over. But we’re just looking.”

Have you ever heard the phrase, “Mistakes were made?” They look around at the gear. Nothing is under $75. They bring me a pair of shorts, “Dad, I love these shorts. I just want to try them on. We don’t need to buy them.” Both girls go to try on the shorts in the dressing room. I know I’m in trouble, so I call Blair while they’re in the dressing room. I called. It went straight to her voicemail. It went to her voicemail fourteen times. And then it occurred to me. This situation had moved from a set-up to sabotage.

“Did I purchase the shorts?” you may wonder. I did. Indeed, I did. And I have just recently set up a GoFund me account that you can support. We all have our favorite places, and one person’s favorite place can be another person’s definition of a combat zone.

We also need sacred places. Sacred places are those places where we feel close to God. We feel a special connection to a place because we encountered God’s presence in a real way. I recall the story of Moses from Exodus 3. Moses was shepherding his father-in-law’s sheep in the land at Midian. One day he guides the sheep near Mt. Horeb, known as the Mountain of God. This mountain was where God dwelled. Solomon had yet to build the Temple. If you wanted to be near God, you would approach the mountain. But God was also so powerful that you couldn’t climb the mountain and encounter God. It would be too much for us to handle. While Moses was shepherding the sheep near Mount Horeb, a bush caught on fire, but the bush wasn’t burning up. An angel of the Lord appeared in this bush. Moses turned to see why the fire did not consume the bush. As he turned, God said to Moses, “‘Moses, Moses! Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place you are standing is holy ground.’

Then God proceeded to call Moses to free the Hebrew people from slavery. This ground was holy because God was present in a real way at that place. Removing your sandals was a sign of respect for the holy. It was a way to say, “This space is different. This space needs to be marked as a special place.” It was there at Mt. Horeb that Moses encountered the living God. That moment at that place dramatically affected the rest of Moses’ life. It was that place Moses received his higher calling in life to liberate God’s people from slavery. Indeed, it was holy ground.

Where is the holy ground where you encounter God and must remove your sandals? In the summer season, I think about Athens Y Camp in Tallulah Falls, Georgia. I spent 15 years at this camp. Not long ago, I was driving with my family on Highway 441 to Clayton, Georgia. I saw the sign for the camp. And I asked my family, “Would you be ok if we took a detour?” We crossed the Tallulah Gorge, passed the power plant, and turned left onto Y Camp Road. I remember the many hot days I had run on that road, and it seemed straight uphill. In the van, our kids were watching a movie, and there was chatter, and I said, “Can we turn that off?” They could see I was not their usual dad. And then I said, “Let’s roll the windows down.” I could smell the mountain air. And mountain laurels with their purple flowers dotted the roadsides. Even though they weren’t there, I could see friends from years past. We pulled through the camp gates, and I read the entry sign to my kids, trying to pretend everything was normal, “Where God and a good time are friends.” I had spent those summers in the mountains with my friends, and each morning, we held joyful times of devotion and singing. I need to remove the sandals from my feet every time I’m near. Indeed the ground on which we were standing was holy ground.

We need holy places. Where is your holy ground?

“Sacred things slow us down. It turns out that being human, as God created us to be, takes time.” Kenda Cressy Dean.

Blair and I were in the North Carolina mountains at Lake Junaluska. We were taking a walk around their walking trail around that beautiful lake. It’s one of our favorite things to do up there. As we were walking, a gentleman, probably in his late 70’s, was also on a walk. As we pass him, he says, “I like your Duke shirt.” Blair was wearing a Duke shirt. When it comes to Duke, ambivalence leaves the room. You either love them or hate them.

He says, “I have a Duke shirt. Someone gave it to me, and my daughter gave me a Tarheel shirt to match. I wear them both up here depending on who I am with.” 

He started walking with us, and we slowed down at the same pace. As we walked, he told us about his life. He was a United Methodist Minister from South Georgia, and we connected some other dots with other people we both knew. We weren’t rushed, so we stood on the walking path and spoke. He was a humorous guy. He said, “If you two need to walk faster, go ahead. Please do. I am slower, and my walk is more of a stroll because of my age, but also I like to flirt with people.”

I asked him, “Do you have any family up here?” 

He said, “No, not anymore. My wife and I moved up here fifteen years ago to retire. She died in 2018. Now, the funny thing about my wife is she didn’t think I could be alone. She used to tell me, ‘If I die, Johnny, I want you to remarry. You can’t be alone. You won’t survive alone. You’ll go crazy without someone to talk to. I have just one request. When I die, please, don’t bring a date to my funeral.'”

You could tell he had told that story a hundred times. 

But he didn’t get remarried. His children watch after him, and they are all getting ready to visit him for the Fourth of July, and he’s made friends in the area. He spends many days walking around that lake to talk to people and not feel so alone. 

It was a sunny, pleasant day with a mountain breeze, and he was getting ready to leave as we approached his car. He said, ‘Well, here’s where I parked. The next time you’re up here. Give me a call. I want to take you out for lunch. I know a good spot.” Internally, I thought, “I hope he’s talking to me, not Blair.” 

He opened his car door and then he closed it. He got real serious for a moment. And then he came over to Blair and me, and tears were springing into his eyes. 

He said, “I miss my wife every day. I miss her at church. I miss going to her favorite apple orchard in the fall. I miss watching television while she and her friends are playing bridge. Here’s my piece of advice for you both. Don’t miss out on the blessings that are around you every day.” 

Then he got into his car and left. 

Sacred things slow us down. Everybody’s got a story. When we learn their stories, and they learn ours, we never walk alone. 

God is a poet. The poetry of the creation accounts from Genesis 1 and 2 tells us something true about God in a way that only poetry can do. We can get tangled up in the debate over the scientific accuracy of Genesis 1 and 2, but we’d miss the point about God. The creation stories are about establishing God as the creator and God’s zealous devotion to the creation. The poetics of Genesis 1 and 2 shed light on God’s providential and loving relationship with creation in a manner that history and science cannot. Let me give you an example:

If you wanted the facts about my birth, here they are. In 1979, my mother taught third grade and was pregnant with me. It was on Wednesday in December, right before the school holidays. She had a doctor’s check-up. The doctor said, “You’re not going to teach tomorrow because you’re delivering your baby today.” I was born on December 20th at the hospital in Griffin, Georgia, at 6 am. They placed me underneath the Christmas tree when they returned home from the hospital. That’s a factual account.

But let me tell you the way my grandmother tells it. I asked her when I was eight years old. “Mema, can you remember when I was born?” She said, “I sure do. I watched from a distance. One morning, as the sun rose, God walked along the riverbank. God knelt and scooped up some clay. God said, ‘Today, I will make me a Will.’ God rolled that clay in his hands. God said, ‘He needs to be intelligent,’ and dabbed some more clay. ‘And he needs to be handsome.’ And God splashed some water on the clay, ‘Here’s a dash of charm to keep everyone smiling.’ God held it to the sun and worked the sunlight into the folds of the clay. ‘And he needs a tender heart that loves the Lord.’ When God finished, God set the clay on the bank and admired and blessed it. Then God knelt and breathed into the clay. You came to life. And God said, ‘This is good. Here’s my Will.'”

My grandmother was saying something true about God and me. Her poetics revealed the intensity of devotion God has to me. Her words rang true. If I had to choose between the two accounts, give me my grandmother’s account any day. God feels the same about each of us. God uses poetry to tell us so.

Growing up in Jackson, Georgia we got bored on the weekends. We didn’t have a mall, movie theater, or putt-putt course. But one perk about Jackson was a rainy day because we had a lot of dirt roads and four-wheel trucks. 

We called it mud-bogging. This particular Friday afternoon, we met in a local parking lot. A crew of guys brought their trucks. Most of them were in eleventh grade, and I was a tenth grader, and I wanted to impress them. 

My friend Robert had this white truck, tiny but mighty. We called it the Mighty Max. Now, I didn’t have a truck. I had a car that got 37 miles to the gallon. My friend Robert asked, “Will, do you want to drive the Mighty Max?” 

Robert held up the keys, and all the other eleventh graders were watching. One of them had a big wad of tobacco in his cheek. 

“You have driven when we’ve been mud-bogging before, right?” Brian asked. 

I said, “Of course I have.” I was lying through my teeth. 

“Well, do you want a chew while you drive?” I had never had tobacco before and said, “You better believe I do.” I dug through this foil package of tobacco like I was digging for fishing worms and put a wad of it in my mouth. 

I said, “Load up!” I drove to the edge of this muddy road with the other trucks. It was a monsoon, and I could barely see out the windshield. I tapped the gas, and the Mighty Max purred. 

Robert said, “Stay in the ruts. You won’t slide if you do. And whatever you do, don’t hit the breaks.” 

I gunned it, and we were off. We were bumping along. Mud was flying. I felt like Dale Earnheart (even though I never watched Racing). We were a half mile in, and that tobacco started to go to my head, and I was dizzy. This time, I stomped on the gas and thought I’d show off a little. Suddenly there was no tension in the wheel. No matter where I turned, the tires were not grabbing, and we were fishtailing. I slammed on the brakes. The truck spun, and the front lunged into the bank and jerked me into the wheel. We were all ok, but the front wheel sank ten inches deep into the mud, and the impact from the curb dented Robert’s truck.

I hopped out of the truck and buried my head in my hands. My dad was a prison warden, and while mud bogging was fun, it was also illegal. The tobacco was setting in, and I was getting sick. One of the boys said, “Dude, you got four feet of air. That was awesome.” 

At this point, I imagined the scowl on my dad’s face. I almost cried. Robert said, “You’ll be a legend tomorrow at school.” 

I said, “Or we can tell everyone it was you.” I took that tobacco out of my cheek and threw it out the window. I’ve never been mud-bogging again. 

It was the most helpless feeling. The truck was stuck, and it was because of me. I called my dad. He came out, and because he was the warden, all my other friends hopped in their trucks and left. He looked at the truck and then at me. He said, “Will, if you think I’m mad, wait til your mama finds out.” Then he said, “I’m not happy, but I love you. Let’s get you out of the ditch.” He called a friend with a winch, hooked it up to the truck, and pulled out the Mighty Max. The worst part is he made me tell my mother. I walked into the kitchen with my shoes caked in mud. My dad said, “Tell her.” Panicked, my mom looked at me and said, “Tell me what?” And I said, “Jackson needs a movie theater.” 

That experience taught me a thing or two about sin and salvation. I wanted to impress these eleventh graders, but I knew it was wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing when it came to mud-bogging or chewing tobacco, and I could’ve gotten hurt much worse than I did. Trying to impress people got me into trouble. But I also knew I could still call my dad. He wasn’t happy, but I knew he loved me, and I knew he would help. The same is true for life. When we mess up, there are consequences. Sin has consequences. We will all find our lives stuck in a ditch because of our sinful choices. But we learn from those mistakes. God will never waste a mistake. Here’s the good news. There’s a merciful God out there ready to save us and pull us out of the mud every time. That’s called grace. This grace goes with us wherever we go in our lives. My father’s words are the words I can imagine our heavenly Father would say, “I’m not happy, but I still love you. Let’s get you out of the ditch.”

Jesus once told his disciples, “Follow me and I send you out to fish for people,” (Matthew 4:19). Jesus was teaching his disciples to be evangelist. Evangelism scares people because they worry they are not equipped to evangelize. One of our vows for membership in The United Methodist Church is to witness. All disciples can witness to the good news of Jesus. Here’s a simple but impactful witness from one of our church members.

We had a couple join the church recently. When I met with them about membership, I asked them, “What brought you to the church?” They said, “Well, someone from your church is in our neighborhood because I see their church yard signs. We even noticed they changed them seasonally. After seeing them so often, we thought we’d try it. We’ve loved it!”

We ask members to put those signs up to get the word out about the church.

When this couple joined in front of the congregation, I mentioned they joined because someone in their neighborhood had put a sign in their yard. After worship, someone told me, “I believe they saw Beth Ziegler’s sign because she’s the only one in their neighborhood.”

Beth is an older church member who lives alone. She lost her husband several years ago, and she loves our church. Beth taught children’s Sunday school for 20 years, but she’s had many health issues and surgeries lately. She needs a cane to move around and can’t attend church much these days except when her circle of friends brings her on the holidays. But Beth is the most committed person. She sends my whole family cards every holiday. She worships online every single Sunday.

I received an email from Beth on Sunday night. She said, “Please tell me that Zachary and Cameron live in Martin Manor, and it has been my yard signs that they were talking about! I would be so happy!”

I called Beth and told her it was indeed her sign. She said, “Oh, praise the Lord. You’ve made my year! I’ve been praying my signs would help someone find their way to our beloved Haygood.” She has put up every sign we’ve produced for the last two years. She said, “The first thing I do when I get a sign is have my yard man put it up. I can’t do much for the church these days, but I love putting up my signs. I sit down each morning at my kitchen table and watch people pass by and read them. If people don’t notice, I’ll have the yard man turn the sign in a different angle.”

And then she paused and said, “I caught one. After two years of fishing, I finally caught someone.”

She continued, “Jesus told us to fish for men. Well, I caught one.”

I said, “Actually, you caught two.”

Beth took her membership vows of witnessing seriously. She would not allow her limitations to stop her from serving Christ. Because of her dedication, we have two amazing people in Zach and Cameron finding a spiritual home in our church.

Everyone can evangelize because we all have good news to share.

Can you remember a time of paranoia? It happens to all of us. A few years ago our family was vacationing, and I needed someone to preach for me while I was gone. I called up my colleague Jason, who is a United Methodist minister, and he agreed to preach for me. He preached that Sunday while our family was at the beach. 

The following Sunday morning, when I returned, people rushed up to me. “That guest preacher, Jason, was excellent.” 

One choir member told me, “He sang a verse of a hymn during his sermon, and his voice was pitch-perfect.” I responded, “I told you he was good.” 

One of our ushers said, “That preacher last week. You’ve got to invite him back. He didn’t use any notes and told a story that brought tears to my eyes. And when a baby cried, he came down and held the baby while he preached.” 

I said, “Well, good for him.” 

A seven-year-old boy approached me, “Pastor Will, that preacher brought puppets for the children’s message last week. Puppets! He was so funny, and he made everyone laugh.” 

“Wonderful. I love that Jason brought puppets.” 

It went like this all Sunday. 

On Sunday afternoon’s drive home from church, I made a little mental note, “Never invite Jason to preach again.”

How should we respond to gun violence? The mass murder at the Covenant School in Nashville, Tennessee, more than three weeks ago shook us all up. We need our government leaders, law enforcement, and lawmakers to unite and help solve this epidemic of mass shootings in our schools. Our children deserve nothing less than our total commitment and attention to this matter. I recognize that people have strong opinions about gun control. I do not intend to address the totality of that discussion, but it seems there may be some common ground as I speak to people. People seem to favor offering more mental health resources, which I support. It also appears that groups are beginning to agree to limit the number of ammunition rounds an assault rifle can hold. Let’s start there. Here’s a quick story.

I hunted dove with my father and brothers as a child in Georgia. I remember sitting on a camouflaged bucket on a dove field next to my father. I saw a dove flying in the distance and heard five gunfire reports. My father said, “The game warden will get him.” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “Someone doesn’t have a plug in their shotgun. You only get three shots, and I heard five.” Bird hunters know the law well. Shotguns with a capacity to hold more than three shells must have a plug or filler to limit the number of shots to three. The Federal Government implemented this law for conservational purposes to protect the migratory bird population.

It is legal for assault rifles to hold more than fifty rounds of ammunition. In mass shootings throughout the United States, perpetrators legally purchase and use assault rifles with large-capacity magazines. The results are deadly and massive. I recognize the argument that guns are not the problem but the men and women using them. However, banning large-capacity magazines can significantly decrease a perpetrator’s capacity for harm.

If we can make laws to protect birds, we can create laws to protect our children.