On this twenty-fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, we come before you with hearts both grateful and heavy.
We remember an atrocious day, a day we wish we could forget. Yet even after twenty-five years, our grief still lingers, even as our faith still hopes.
We confess our ongoing need of your steadying and sustaining grace, for we are mindful that this date still grieves us, with emotions that are unsettling and memories that continue to elevate our anxiety.
Today, we lift up the families who lost husbands and wives, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, friends and colleagues — in the collapse of the towers, in the field in Pennsylvania, and at the Pentagon. Comfort them still, O God, in the ongoing echo of that loss. May the years never erase the love they carry for those they lost.
We remember, too, the first responders and recovery workers who ran toward danger while others fled — firefighters, police officers, emergency medical workers, and ordinary citizens who became extraordinary in an instant. Bless them for their courage then, and be near to those among them who continue to serve.
And we pray especially today for those who are battling illness in their bodies now — illnesses set in motion by the toxic dust and hazards of that day and its aftermath, cancers and respiratory diseases and other conditions that continue to claim health and life a quarter-century later. Heal them, comfort them, and remind them that their sacrifice has not been forgotten.
We confess that our nation still struggles, twenty-five years later, with division, suspicion, and fear. Forgive us when disagreement hardens into contempt, and when our differences become excuses to separate rather than invitations to understand one another. Remind us that patriotism need not diminish compassion, and that strength need not silence mercy.
We pray for the leaders of our nation, and for leaders among the nations of the world — for wisdom and discernment, for the courage to seek peace rather than retaliation, and for a disposition that defuses conflict rather than inflaming it. Give them humility to lead with justice and grace to govern with integrity.
And we pray for peace in our world — not merely the absence of war, but the presence of justice, dignity, and understanding among all peoples and nations. Where there is conflict, bring reconciliation. Where there is fear, bring courage. Where there is hatred, let us, and all your people, be instruments of your love.
May the memory of September 11 never become simply a date on a calendar. May it call us to live with deeper gratitude, to serve with greater compassion, to forgive more freely, and to cherish the gift of each day we are given.
We offer this prayer in the strong name of the One who came to bring peace on earth and goodwill to all humankind. Amen.
Several years ago, I heard a pastor say, “God gave us two ears and one mouth so that we will listen twice as much as we speak.”
Wherever those words originated, the wisdom behind them is worth remembering. We live in a culture in which many have strong opinions, and increasingly, there is a tendency to believe that everyone else needs to hear that opinion immediately.
In many cases, it seems we have turned jumping to conclusions into an Olympic sport by leaping over facts, hurdling over context, and racing to judgment before we have even finished listening.
The Bible offers a radically different approach. James writes, “Let every person be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger” (James 1:19). Notice the order: listen first, speak second, become angry last. That is good communication advice. More importantly, it is a spiritual discipline.
Listening is more than hearing. Hearing is a physical act. Listening is an intentional act.
We can hear someone’s words while simultaneously preparing our response. We can hear an opposing viewpoint while composing the rebuttal we intend to deliver. We can hear a story while deciding what we think about the person telling it.
True listening, however, requires us to temporarily put our conclusions on hold.
Proverbs says, “The one who gives an answer before listening—this is foolishness and disgrace” (Proverbs 18:13). Perhaps this verse needs to be posted beside every computer, smartphone, microphone, and social-media account.
How often do we respond to a headline without reading the article? React to a quotation without knowing its context? Judge a person based on a thirty-second video clip? Share something because it confirms what we already believe?
We have unprecedented access to information, yet access to information does not necessarily make us wise.
One of the great challenges of our age is confirmation bias—our tendency to notice, believe, and share information that reinforces what we already think while dismissing information that challenges us.
We can become so comfortable inside our ideological echo chambers that we rarely encounter an idea capable of changing our minds.
Our phones have become remarkably good at showing us what we like. Unfortunately, they can also become remarkably good at showing us only what we already believe.
Imagine having a GPS that refused to acknowledge that you might be on the wrong road. Instead of saying, “Recalculating,” it simply kept insisting, “You are absolutely correct.” That would not be helpful.
Neither is a worldview that is incapable of saying, “I may be wrong.” Wisdom requires humility.
Jesus was an avid listener. Jesus certainly spoke with authority for sure, but the Gospels also reveal someone who listened. He listened to Bartimaeus crying out beside the road. He listened to the desperate father whose daughter was dying. He listened to the woman at the well. He listened to people others ignored.
And sometimes Jesus’ questions were as important as his answers. He asked, “What do you want me to do for you?” (Mark 10:51).
What a powerful question. Before we assume we know what someone needs, perhaps we should ask. Before we explain, let’s listen first. Before we judge, perhaps we should understand. Before we respond, perhaps we should pause.
Because Jesus was an avid listener, followers of Jesus should also learn to be avid listeners. And an avid listener can listen across our differences.
Perhaps nowhere is this more important than in our increasingly divided culture. We don’t have to agree with everyone to listen to them. We don’t have to surrender our convictions to understand someone else’s convictions. We don’t have to abandon truth to practice kindness.
In fact, listening can strengthen our convictions because it forces us to examine whether they are based upon truth, Scripture, experience, evidence, or merely assumptions we inherited and never questioned.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “The first service that one owes to others in the fellowship consists in listening to them.”
That is a profoundly Christian practice. Listening is an act of service. When we genuinely listen to another person, we communicate something powerful: You matter enough for me to hear you.
In navigating the different perspectives expressed within our social group or spiritual community, it is imperative that we learn to practice the pause.
There is tremendous wisdom in learning to pause. Before responding to an angry email, pause. Before reposting a provocative story, pause. Before assuming someone’s motives, pause. Before labeling someone because of one opinion, pause. Before saying something that cannot be unsaid, pause.
The pause gives wisdom an opportunity to catch up with emotion. The pause allows facts to catch up with assumptions. The pause gives compassion an opportunity to catch up with judgment. And sometimes the most spiritual thing we can say is not something profound at all. Sometimes it is simply, “Tell me more.”
Intentional listening doesn’t require us to be silent forever. Being slow to speak doesn’t mean we should never speak.
There are times when truth needs to be spoken, injustice needs to be challenged, and courage requires us to use our voices. But our words carry greater credibility when people know that we have first been willing to listen.
Perhaps that is why James connects being quick to listen and slow to speak with being slow to anger. Listening allows us to understand before we react. And understanding doesn’t always change our minds. But it can change the way we disagree.
Avoid becoming a gold medalist at jumping to conclusions. Instead of seeing who can respond the fastest, let’s see who can listen the longest. Instead of seeing who can deliver the sharpest comeback, let’s see who can ask the best question. Instead of seeing who can win the argument, let’s see who can preserve the relationship. Instead of trying to prove that everyone else is wrong, let’s become humble enough to ask whether there is something we might be missing.
“Perhaps it’s time to slow down, gather the facts, and listen more carefully with healthy discernment. Wisdom begins where assumptions and presuppositions end.”
In a noisy world, listening can be an act of courage. In a divided world, listening can be an act of grace. And in a world filled with instant opinions, listening can be an act of wisdom.
In this current climate, we are wise to follow the guidance of James:
Be quick to listen. Be slow to speak. Be slow to anger.
We have two ears and one mouth. Maybe God gave us that particular ratio for a reason, and for a season. Maybe even a time such as this.
The Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins observed, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”
Hopkins believed that God’s presence saturates the ordinary day-to-day world. If we have eyes to see and hearts to perceive, every sunrise, every act of kindness, every note of beautiful music, and every expression of genuine love can become a window through which we glimpse the sacred and the holy.
Perhaps that is why God so often chose ordinary places to reveal His extraordinary presence.
Moses was tending sheep when he encountered the burning bush. Jacob was sleeping on a stone when he dreamed of a ladder reaching into heaven. The disciples were mending nets, walking dusty roads, sharing meals, and sailing across the Sea of Galilee when they discovered that they were standing in the presence of the Son of God.
The sacred has always had a way of surprising us. Scripture tells us that when Moses approached the burning bush, God said, “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” (Exodus 3:5)
Notice that the ground itself was not inherently holy. God’s presence made it holy.
The same is true today. Sometimes the holiest moments are not experienced in a sanctuary or viewed through the prism of stained glass. There are occasions when seemingly ordinary moments become sacred—a sunrise bursting over the horizon, a conversation with a friend, the breaking of bread, listening to music, telling a story, rekindling a cherished memory, or serving someone in need. In those moments, we sense the Divine Presence and become aware, if only for a fleeting instant, that we are standing on holy ground.
I tend to call that sacred space “Holy Terra Firma.”
I was in seminary when I first heard of Brother Lawrence, a seventeenth-century Carmelite monk who spent much of his life working in the monastery kitchen. Washing pots and preparing meals hardly seemed like sacred work, yet he discovered profound communion with God amid the clatter of dishes and the routine of daily chores. His classic work, The Practice of the Presence of God, reminds us that God’s presence is not confined to cathedrals. The kitchen can become a sanctuary when our hearts and minds are attentive.
The beloved poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning expressed a similar truth: “Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God; but only he who sees takes off his shoes.”
Her imagery intentionally echoes Moses before the burning bush. The world is filled with holy moments, but too often we hurry past them without noticing.
Music has long helped us recognize these sacred encounters. Some of our most beloved hymns and songs remind us that holy ground is not merely a geographical location but a spiritual experience. Bill and Gloria Gaither’s beloved song “Holy Ground” declares, “We are standing on holy ground.” Likewise, “Surely the Presence of the Lord Is in This Place” by Lanny Wolfe has encouraged worshipers for generations to recognize God’s nearness. Even traditional hymns such as “Be Still, My Soul,” “Near to the Heart of God,” and “Open My Eyes, That I May See” invite us to become more aware of God’s presence in the ordinary rhythms of life.
Perhaps that is why certain songs move us so deeply. They awaken our awareness that heaven often touches earth in the most unexpected places.
Jesus certainly understood this. He transformed ordinary meals into sacred fellowship. He turned common fishing boats into floating classrooms. He made dusty roads into places of discipleship. He changed a rugged cross into the doorway of redemption and an empty tomb into the birthplace of hope.
Everywhere Jesus went, ordinary places became extraordinary because He was present.
The same invitation remains before us. The challenge is not that God has stopped speaking. The challenge is that we have become distracted by the clammoring noise around us. Our calendars are full. Our phones constantly demand our attention. Our schedules seldom allow us to linger long enough to notice the sacred that quietly surrounds us.
The psalmist offers to us a timeless invitation: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
Stillness creates space for wonder. Wonder awakens gratitude. And gratitude opens our eyes to God’s presence.
I’ve heard quite a few motivational speakers and inspirational preachers say, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” Many of those breathtaking moments are, in reality, holy moments.
Today, slow down. Watch the sunrise. Listen carefully to a child’s laughter. Share an unhurried meal with someone you love. Visit a friend. Offer encouragement to someone who is weary. Serve a neighbor in need. Pause long enough to hear the music that stirs your soul.
You may discover that what appeared to be an ordinary Tuesday was, in fact, a sacred appointment with God.
After all, holy ground is seldom marked by signs. It is recognized by hearts that have learned to notice the presence of the One who walks beside us every day.
So, watch your step! The ground you are standing on at any given moment could be Holy Terra Firma!
(This column is based on a sermon I preached at the First Baptist Church in Pensacola on July 12, 2009.)
(An Easter Sermon based on John 20:1-18 shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola on April 5, 2015)
Early on that first Easter morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene made her way to the tomb. What she expected to find was death. What she discovered instead was life.
And everything changed.
That’s the power of what I want to call today “The Resurrection Factor.” It is the defining difference-maker of the Christian faith. It is not just something we believe happened—it is something that continues to happen in us and through us.
As Will Willimon once said, “We spend so much time trying to explain the resurrection, when in reality, the resurrection explains us.”
The Gospel of Johntells us it was still dark. That detail matters. Because resurrection often begins in the dark—when hope feels buried, when prayers seem unanswered, when life doesn’t make sense.
Mary came looking for a body, but she encountered a risen Savior.
And that is what the resurrection does—it interrupts our assumptions and replaces them with God’s reality.
What difference does Easter really make? Here are five ways the resurrection impacts us:
1. Forgiveness becomes our reality.
Jesus bore the weight of our sins and guilt on the cross.
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins…” (1 John 1:9)
Some of us are still carrying guilt like extra baggage—dragging it from one season of life to another. But the resurrection declares: you don’t have to carry that anymore.
As Max Lucado said, “God loves you just the way you are, but He refuses to leave you that way.”
The resurrection lifts the weight of guilt and replaces it with grace.
2. Hope becomes our perspective.
Let’s be honest—the resurrection doesn’t eliminate every problem. It doesn’t promise that life will always be easy. But it does change how we see everything.
As Victor Hugo wrote, “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
Because of Easter, we live with hope:
Hope for healing
Hope for restoration
Hope for second chances
Hope that God is still at work
We may not always feel optimistic—but we can always be hopeful.
3. Serving becomes our mission.
The resurrection is not just about life after death—it’s about life before death.
As N. T. Wright reminds us, God’s plan is not to snatch people out of earth, but to bring the life of heaven into it.
We are saved for something.
Resurrection people are called to:
Love boldly
Serve faithfully
Live purposefully
As Walter Brueggemann puts it, resurrection life is about aligning ourselves with God’s newness and purpose.
4. Heaven becomes our home.
Jesus said, “I go to prepare a place for you.”
The resurrection reminds us that death is not the end—it is a doorway.
It teaches us not only how to live, but how to face the end of life with faith instead of fear.
There is a quiet confidence that comes from Easter: A confidence that says, “This world is not all there is.”
Because of the resurrection, we can live under the governance of heaven here and now, and there and then.
5. Jesus becomes personal to us…not just me, but all of us.
Mary didn’t recognize Jesus at first. She thought He was the gardener.
But then He spoke her name: “Mary.”
And in that moment, everything changed.
The resurrection is not just theological—it is personal. Jesus still calls names. He still meets us in our grief. He still turns confusion into clarity.
The resurrection factor means this: the risen Christ knows you, sees you, and calls you by name.
Brennan Manning once said, “The most radical demand of Christian faith is to say yes to the present risenness of Jesus Christ.” I like that term “present risenness.” Not just in history—but in your life.
The resurrection transformed life on this planet more than any other event or experience in history.
It changes how we see our past (forgiven), our present (purposeful), and our future (secure).
So let me ask you: Why linger outside the tomb, looking for what used to be? What in this world could keep you from stepping into the resurrection life?
Because the stone has been rolled away. The tomb is empty. And Jesus is alive.
In his first epistle to the Corinthians (11:1), Paul urged the believers to, “Follow my example, as I follow the example of Christ
There is something transformative about walking where the apostle Paul once walked—standing in the shadows of ancient cities, tracing the roads of his missionary journeys, and imagining the courage it took to carry the gospel into unfamiliar and often hostile places.
All the members of our travel group arrived home safely yesterday after our 12-day tour following the footsteps of Paul.
From Thessaloniki to Philippi, from Berea to Athens—and even reflecting on the missed opportunity to visit Ephesus and Patmos—this journey has deepened our understanding of Paul’s life, ministry, and message.
Here are ten things we learned about Paul while following in his footsteps:
1. Paul went where the people were. In every city, Paul positioned himself where conversations were already happening—synagogues, marketplaces, and gathering places. In Areopagus (Mars Hill), he engaged philosophers in thoughtful dialogue (Acts 17).
Paul practiced the words of Jesus from Mark 16:15: “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.”
Paul reminds us that mission begins where people already are.
2. Paul adapted his approach without compromising his message. In Jewish settings, Paul reasoned from Scripture. In Athens, he quoted Greek poets and connected with their worldview.
As John Stott once said, “We must be global Christians with a global vision because our God is a global God.”
Paul met people where they were—but always pointed them to Christ.
3. Paul faced opposition almost everywhere he went. In Thessaloniki and Philippi, he encountered resistance, imprisonment, and persecution (Acts 16–17).
Perhaps it was because of experiences like this that Paul wrote to young Timothy, “Everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted.” (II Timothy 3:12)
Faithfulness does not guarantee ease, but it does produce endurance.
4. Paul invested in people, not just places. In Berea, he encountered believers who eagerly studied the Scriptures (Acts 17:11). His ministry was never about checking locations off a map—it was about nurturing lives.
The historian Will Durant once observed, “A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within.” Paul knew that transformed people shape transformed communities.
5. Paul trusted God in uncertain circumstances. Whether traveling dangerous roads or enduring imprisonment, Paul moved forward in faith.
Paul believed that God’s presence and purpose were persistent. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him.” (Romans 8:28)
Even when plans change—like our missed stops in Ephesus, Patmos, and Santorini—God’s purposes are still at work.
6. Paul proclaimed a bold and relevant gospel. Standing in a culture filled with idols, Paul did not dilute the truth. But neither did he aim to offend. He dialogued with others at their point of need and their level of understanding. At Mars Hill, he proclaimed the one true God (Acts 17:24).
As C.S. Lewis wrote, “Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance.”
Paul preached a gospel that invited deeper thought and an informed response.
7. Paul saw every city as a mission field. From bustling ports to intellectual centers, Paul viewed each location as an opportunity. Athens, with all its philosophy and culture, was no exception.
David Livingstone later wrote, “Here is a plain truth: God calls us to go where He is not known.”
No place was too complex, too pagan, or too resistant.
8. Paul built bridges through common ground. In Athens, Paul referenced an altar to an unknown god and used it as a starting point (Acts 17:23).
This approach reminds us that connection often precedes conversion.
9. Paul left a lasting legacy through his letters. Though we could not walk the streets of Ephesus, Paul’s letter to the Ephesians continues to shape the church today. Whether writing from his sojourn or a prison cell, Paul’s correspondence was practical, contextual, and encouraging.
Although Paul did not know his correspondence would end up in the New Testament, Paul believed, “All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching…” (II Timothy 3:16)
Paul’s influence extends far beyond geography.
10. Paul’s life pointed others to Christ, not to himself. Ultimately, Paul’s journey was never about Paul. It was about Jesus.
His daring perspective is summarized in his words, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” (Philippians 1:21)
As Augustine of Hippo once said, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”
Although we had a few delays and cancellations during our coming and going, this journey was more than a tour—it has been a pilgrimage.
We have stood in ancient cities, traced sacred stories, and reflected on a man whose life was wholly surrendered to God’s mission. Even in the places we could not visit, like Ephesus, the impact of Paul’s ministry remains undeniable.
And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: Faithfulness is not measured by where you go, but by how fully you follow.
As we return home, may we carry Paul’s example with us as we aim to live boldly, love deeply, and encourage generously.
Although our journey has ended, our mission continues.
“Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.” -Psalm 51:1
In my growing-up years, I remember the elderly in our community and in my family saying, “Lawsy mercy!” whenever they heard about an accident or an illness or some sort of tragedy. In Southern Appalachia, “Lawsy mercy” was a common expression of concern or sympathy to surprising or troubling news. The saying was a derivative of the biblical phrase, “Lord, have mercy.”
The biblical version, however, packs a more powerful punch. It is one of the most ancient and enduring prayers of the Church and yet also one of the simplest: “Lord, have mercy” is a cry that rises from deep within the human heart, a prayer offered not from a place of strength, but from a place of need. During Lent, we are invited to slow down long enough to hear ourselves praying these words honestly, without defensiveness or disguise.
Historically, the prayer Kyrie eleison (“Lord, have mercy”) was spoken not only in worship but also in moments of desperation. During the Black Death of the 14th century, entire communities processed through the streets chanting this plea, not as a magical formula, but as an act of trust when answers were few and suffering was overwhelming. The prayer acknowledged a hard truth: human effort has limits, but God’s mercy does not.
Lent helps us rediscover that truth. It reminds us that mercy is not something we earn through self-denial or religious effort. Mercy is something we receive when we finally stop pretending we don’t need it. To ask for mercy is not only to confess our shortcomings, but to practice humility. It is to recognize that grace, not perfection, is the foundation of our relationship with God.
The reformer Martin Luther once wrote, Those words were found scribbled on a scrap of paper after his death. They capture the spirit of Lent beautifully. No matter how accomplished, faithful, or disciplined we may be, we remain people in need of daily, ongoing, and undeserved mercy.
Echoing this posture of trust, Thomas Merton proposed, “Mercy is the kindness that makes sense of our failures.” Lent does not deny our brokenness. It places it gently in the hands of a merciful God who knows us fully and loves us completely.
To pray “Lord, have mercy” is a way to open ourselves to transformation. Mercy does not merely forgive the past; it reshapes the future. As we receive mercy, we are invited to extend mercy to ourselves, to our neighbors, and even to those we struggle to love.
This Lent, let that simple prayer rest on your lips and in your heart. Not as a sign of defeat, but as an act of hope. For the God who meets us in mercy is already at work, healing what is wounded and restoring what feels lost.
So today, as we pray for ourselves and for our world, may we begin “Lord, have mercy!”
17 Be good to your servant while I live, that I may obey your word. 18 Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law. 19 I am a stranger on earth; do not hide your commands from me. 20 My soul is consumed with longing for your laws at all times. 21 You rebuke the arrogant, who are accursed, those who stray from your commands. 22 Remove from me their scorn and contempt, for I keep your statutes. 23 Though rulers sit together and slander me, your servant will meditate on your decrees. 24 Your statutes are my delight; they are my counselors. Psalm 119:17-24 (NIV)
When I visited my optometrist for my annual eye exam, he said, “Your vision has changed a little. We need to update your prescription for your glasses.” I knew it would happen one day. I’ve had the same prescription for almost 7 years.
Sight is extremely important. Maybe that is why the psalmist prayed, “Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law” (v.18). However, I don’t think the psalmist was referring to the ability to see the smallest letters on the vision test chart.
Just as eyesight gives us the capacity to see the physical world around us, things like hindsight, foresight, and insight give us the capacity to better understand God’s word, to shape our faith perspectives, to formulate our worldview, and to exercise wisdom and discernment in our decision-making.
Helen Keller contended, “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”
Lent is an eye-opening season where the Spirit helps us better understand our purpose in life as we revisit the story of Jesus, who fully embodied God’s universal mission.
The psalmist wanted the eyes and minds of worshippers to be wide open as they pursue a deeper understanding of God’s vision for the world. The petitioner prayed, “Cause me to understand the way of your precepts, that I may meditate on your wonderful deeds.”
After the eye exam, my optometrist gave me my new prescription and advised me to upgrade to progressive lenses. For years, I had worn bifocals, mostly for reading. He cautioned that the change from bifocals to progressive lenses would require a period of adjustment. “You need to be especially careful when walking because your depth perception will be a little different.”
I have discovered that every new flicker of insight or morsel of wisdom requires a period of adjustment as I apply it to life. May our understanding of God’s word encourage and equip us to follow God’s ways.
Reflection:
How does God communicate new insights to you? Do you welcome new points of view or are you inclined to resist changes in your understanding? How easily can you move from stale presuppositions and open your mind to fresh insights from God’s word?
Prayer:
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart; Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art; Thou my best Thought, by day or by night; Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light. (Eleanor H. Hull, Mary E. Byrne)
If you have ever experienced doubts or been skeptical about matters of faith and religion, you are not alone. Frederick Buechner said, “Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.”
In some religious circles, however, faith and doubt are often treated as opposites, as though one cancels out the other. In such settings, doubt is viewed with suspicion, as though it is sinful, something to be hidden, hurried past, or quietly resolved before it becomes disruptive. Yet the Christian story tells a different truth. Faith is not fragile. It is resilient, examined, and durable. It can withstand questions, doubts, and honest inquiry.
One of the most ancient and instructive examples of this kind of faith is found in John 20:24-29 in the confession of Thomas. Often labeled “Doubting Thomas,” he may be better understood as “Truth-Seeking Thomas.” When the other disciples announce that they have seen the risen Christ, Thomas responds with remarkable honesty: unless he can see and touch the wounds himself, he cannot believe. Rather than rebuking him, Jesus invites Thomas to examine the evidence. The result is one of the strongest confessions of faith in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.”
Thomas reminds us that faith does not always arrive fully formed. For many, belief is born through the labor pains of honest inquiry. And, somewhat ironically, once faith takes root, it often generates more curiosity, not less. Authentic faith refuses to settle for slogan-like answers to deep and uncomfortable questions.
In the twentieth century, physicist and theologian Ian Barbour challenged the popular notion that science and faith must exist in conflict. Barbour insisted that his Christian faith made him a better scientist, not a lesser one—more curious, more rigorous, and more attentive to mystery. His work opened space for thoughtful dialogue rather than shallow debate. Like Thomas, Barbour understood that truth does not fear examination.
Consider how we make important decisions today—medical diagnoses, financial investments, or even choosing a school for our children. We do our due diligence. We ask questions. We examine evidence. We seek trusted sources. Rarely do we accept life-altering claims without investigation. Yet when it comes to matters of faith, some are told to suspend curiosity and simply “believe.” Thomas pushes back against that false choice. He models a faith that engages both heart and mind.
The New Testament consistently affirms this kind of integrated faith. Hebrews describes faith as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Substance and evidence belong together. The gospel should never be proclaimed through emotional manipulation or social intimidation, but with truthfulness and grace, trusting the Spirit to do the deeper work of conversion.
Buechner captures this balance well when he suggests, “Faith is not being sure where you’re going, but going anyway.” Thomas did not begin with certainty; he began with courage, the courage to ask, to seek, and to stay in community even when belief felt incomplete.
Importantly, the story does not end in the locked room. Early Christian tradition holds that Thomas carried the gospel far beyond the boundaries of the Roman Empire, eventually reaching India. According to ancient sources, communities of believers there trace their origins to his witness. The disciple who once demanded evidence became a missionary whose faith changed lives across continents. Doubt did not disqualify him; it refined him.
Faith stories are life stories. The chapters already written matter, but the chapters still unfolding may prove the most significant. Like Thomas, we are invited not to silence our questions, but to bring them into the presence of Christ. There, doubt can become confession, and inquiry can give way to trust.
Navigating faith and doubts is a challenge in every generation. Yet Jesus still meets seekers where they are, with all their doubts, wounds, and questions.
If you have trouble believing in God, maybe it’s not God you have trouble believing, but the various misrepresentations of God. If you have problems believing in Jesus, perhaps it’s not Jesus you have a problem with, but the many counterfeit faces of Jesus that appear in the church and in the world. Examine the biblical account. Consider the life and teachings of Jesus. Probe the evidence, and you may just discover what you are seeking.
(This column is based on a sermon titled “The Thomas Confession” that I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola on January 5, 2014.)
In Luke’s telling of the Christmas story, there is a quiet line that is easy to overlook amid angels, shepherds, and songs of praise. Twice, Luke pauses the action to tell us something about Mary: “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19; see also Luke 2:51). While others hurried home or returned to their fields, Mary lingered. She pondered.
That single word—pondered—feels almost foreign in our hurried world. We are far more practiced at reacting, scrolling, multitasking, and moving on. We skim headlines, rush conversations, and measure productivity by speed. Pondering, by contrast, requires stillness. It asks us to slow down, to contemplate the significance of an experience rather than rush to explain or resolve it.
Mary’s pondering was not passive or sentimental. It was intentional. She had just given birth under uncertain circumstances, welcomed unexpected visitors, and heard astonishing claims about her child. None of it neatly fit together. Rather than forcing quick conclusions, Mary gathered these moments and carried them within her, trusting that meaning would unfold over time.
In this sense, pondering is an act of faith. It resists the pressure to have immediate answers. It allows mystery to remain mystery. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once advised, “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” Mary lived the questions.
Scripture suggests this practice. The psalmist urges, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The prophet Isaiah writes, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). Pondering is not withdrawal from life but a deeper engagement with it—one rooted in attentiveness and trust.
Historically, this kind of reflection was once considered a spiritual discipline. Early monastics spoke of ruminatio, the slow, prayerful chewing on scripture, much like a cow chewing cud. Lectio divina, still practiced today, invites readers not to rush through sacred words but to linger over them until they sink from the mind into the heart. Wisdom, they believed, comes not from volume of information but from depth of attention.
Our fast-paced culture rarely encourages such depth. We are trained to move on quickly, to optimize time, to fill every quiet moment with noise. Even joy is rushed. We snap pictures instead of absorbing the moment, post updates instead of savoring experiences. In the process, we risk missing the meaning woven into our days.
Recovering the lost art of pondering does not require retreating to a monastery. It begins with small, intentional pauses. It might mean sitting with a scripture instead of rushing to the next task, reflecting on a conversation long after it ends, or resisting the urge to explain away an experience that feels unresolved. It means permitting ourselves to say, “I don’t fully understand this yet, and that’s okay.”
Pondering also changes how we listen to others. When we slow down enough to treasure their stories rather than rush to respond, relationships deepen. When we hold moments with care instead of judgment, gratitude grows. Life becomes less about accumulation and more about attentiveness.
Mary’s example reminds us that some truths cannot be grasped in haste. They must be held, revisited, and trusted. The child she pondered would grow, teach, heal, and redeem. But for now, Mary simply treasured what she had been given.
Perhaps this season, and every season, invites us to do the same. To recover the lost art of pondering is to reclaim space for wonder, wisdom, and faith to take root. In a world that urges us to hurry, pondering becomes a quiet act of resistance, and a sacred practice for the living of these days.
(This column is a revision of a Wednesday night devotional I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola in December 2008.)
The Christmas story is so familiar that we sometimes forget it comes to us through more than one gospel writer’s perspective. Nativity scenes blend shepherds and angels, wise men and a star, Mary and Joseph and a manger into a single display. Yet when we turn to the Gospels, we discover that each writer tells the story from a distinct perspective, or, in one case, chooses not to tell it at all. These different viewpoints do not compete with one another; they enrich our understanding of the mystery of the birth of Jesus.
Matthew: Christmas Through the Lens of Lineage
Matthew’s Gospel tells the Christmas story with one eye firmly fixed on Israel’s scriptures. Written for a largely Jewish audience, Matthew frames Jesus’ birth as the fulfillment of ancient promises. The genealogy of Jesus traces his lineage back through Abraham and David, anchoring the story in God’s covenant history.
Matthew highlights Joseph’s experience, including the angelic dream, the struggle to do what is right, and the costly obedience that follows. The visit of the Magi, the guiding star, and the flight into Egypt all echo Israel’s past, reminding readers that God is continuing a long and faithful story. Matthew invites us to see Christmas as God keeping promises, even when fulfillment of those promises arrives in unexpected ways.
Luke: Christmas as Music for Those on the Margins
Luke’s Gospel is steeped in joy and wonder. Angels sing, the lowly are lifted up, and good news is announced to those on the margins. By focusing on women, the poor, and the powerless, Luke reminds us that the birth of Jesus is good news for all people. His perspective teaches us that Christmas is not just about God entering history, but about God drawing near to those who feel forgotten.
If Matthew emphasizes heritage, Luke emphasizes inclusion of those on the fringes. Luke’s account is the most detailed and the most tender. He gives voice to Mary’s song, Zechariah’s prophecy, and the angels’ proclamation to shepherds, who were ordinary laborers often overlooked by society.
John: Christmas as Cosmic Mystery
Just as Matthew’s gospel comes from a more Jewish perspective and Luke’s narrative is more melodic, John’s version is more philosophical. The writer offers no manger, no shepherds, and no Bethlehem journey. Instead, he begins his Gospel with a soaring theological hymn: “In the beginning was the Word…” For John, Christmas is not primarily a story about where Jesus was born, but about who Jesus is.
By proclaiming that “the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14), John invites readers to contemplate the cosmic significance of the incarnation. Christmas, in this telling, is the moment when eternal light enters human darkness.
John’s use of the ”Word,” which is translated from “Logos,” meaning “reason” or “being,” or perhaps “the reason for being.” helps us see the nativity not only as a historical event, but as a divine mystery that reshapes all of reality.
Mark: Christmas Silence That Speaks
Mark, the earliest Gospel, says nothing about Jesus’ birth at all. He begins with Jesus’ public ministry, moving swiftly and urgently toward the cross. This absence is not an oversight; it is a theological choice.
The silence of Mark on the birth narrative invites us to focus not on sentiment, but on essence. Mark’s focus is on the earthly ministry of Jesus and the teachings of Jesus. Christmas, from this angle, calls us not just to wonder, but to follow those teachings and to align our lives with Jesus’ initiatives.
Taken together, the four Gospels offer a fuller, richer portrait of Christ’s coming than any single account could provide. Much like four sportswriters covering an athletic event from four different seats in the stadium, these biblical writers present the story from the view they’ve been given.
Matthew grounds us in God’s faithfulness, Luke draws us into God’s compassion, John lifts our eyes to God’s mystery, and Mark keeps us focused on God’s mission.
In a world shaped by differing viewpoints, the Gospels remind us that truth is often best seen through multiple lenses. The Christmas story is not diminished by its varied tellings; it is deepened. Each voice adds texture, meaning, and insight to the good news that God is with us.
As we revisit the story year after year, perhaps we are invited to listen again with fresh ears. By contemplating each Gospel’s perspective, we discover that the light of Christmas shines more brilliantly when seen from the whole prism.
(This column is a revision of a Wednesday night message I shared at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola in 2009.)
Cove Creek Reflections 