"Jesus Shows Us the Way Down"

4/26/2026

Jesus Shows Us the Way Down

A reflection on Philippians 2 | Fourth Sunday of Easter | April 26, 2026

Editor’s Note: This blog post was created with the assistance of artificial intelligence and reviewed by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing. It is based on a sermon preached at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church and is intended as a summary and interpretation of the sermon’s themes for web reading, not as a verbatim manuscript.

Much of life in our culture is organized around getting to “the top.” Success is often measured by visibility, wealth, influence, or power. People are taught to climb, compete, and protect their place. In such a world, neighbors can begin to look like obstacles, and human worth can become tangled up with status and self-advancement.

Philippians 2 offers a strikingly different vision.

In this passage, Paul turns from encouragement to exhortation. He urges the church toward unity, humility, and shared love, suggesting that the community in Philippi was wrestling with the same temptations that still confront the church today: selfish ambition, rivalry, and the lure of climbing higher than others. But instead of scolding them, Paul answers with song.

Paul does not answer the church’s temptation toward pride with shame. He answers it with a hymn.

That hymn, so beloved by the early church, tells the story of Jesus Christ in a way that cuts against every distorted vision of power. Though Christ is in the form of God, he does not grasp at status. He empties himself. He takes the form of a servant. He humbles himself even to the point of death on a cross. Only then comes exaltation.

In other words, Paul presents a Savior who does not show the way up, but the way down.

A Different Kind of Power

That matters because there is never a shortage of distorted images of Jesus in the world. Again and again, the church is tempted by visions of Christ that are wrapped in dominance, spectacle, grievance, or national power. Such versions of Jesus are used to justify control, fear, and self-importance. But the Christ of Philippians 2 refuses all of that.

The Jesus of this hymn does not seize power as a weapon. He does not dominate. He does not crush. He stoops. He serves. He pours himself out.

The Jesus of Philippians 2 does not climb higher. He stoops lower.

This is not only a theological claim. It is a deeply practical one. It challenges the church to ask what kind of life truly reflects the mind of Christ. Paul does not leave that question floating in abstraction. He points to recognizable people whose lives make Christ’s humility visible.

The Mind of Christ in Ordinary People

To keep the “mind of Christ” from sounding distant or unattainable, Paul names two people the Philippians already know well: Timothy and Epaphroditus. These are not grand heroes grasping for influence. They are ordinary believers whose lives have been shaped by concern for others.

Epaphroditus had been sent by the church in Philippi to bring Paul provisions, comfort, and solidarity during his imprisonment. In caring for Paul, he became gravely ill, nearly to the point of death. Yet Paul holds him up not as a tragic figure, but as a living example of Christlike self-giving love.

Timothy is described with equal warmth. Paul emphasizes his genuine concern for others and his refusal to seek his own advantage. In Timothy, the church sees a flesh-and-blood picture of humility: not status-seeking, not self-promoting, but attentive to the needs of others.

The mind of Christ becomes visible when ordinary people stop grasping for the top and begin pouring themselves out in love.

This reminder is important. The church does not learn faithfulness only from extraordinary saints. It also learns it from beloved, familiar people whose daily lives have been quietly shaped by Jesus.

The Way of Jesus and the Life of the Church

The sermon made clear that this is the kind of life the church is called to embody: not a life obsessed with appearances or public dominance, but one shaped by mercy, service, and self-emptying love. The way of Jesus is not about showing off, fearmongering, or using faith as a tool of control. It is about kneeling at the feet of neighbors, towel in hand, ready to serve.

That vision has urgent implications. It suggests that Jesus is less concerned with faith displayed for spectacle and more concerned with love made visible in public life. It suggests that Christ cares less about religious posturing and more about whether children are safe, neighbors are fed, and human beings are treated with dignity. It suggests that the church best bears witness not when it grasps for power, but when it follows Jesus downward into compassion, humility, and service.

It is impossible to wash someone’s feet while spending all one’s energy trying to climb above them.

That is why Philippians 2 remains such a searching text. It forces a choice. Lives can be filled with the endless pursuit of influence, domination, and self-importance. Or they can be shaped by the downward way of Christ: a life of mercy, service, and love that kneels instead of grasps.

Singing the Faith We Need

One of the most beautiful features of this passage is Paul’s decision to sing rather than simply argue. Hymns have long given the church a way to embody shared theology and resist the false stories that distort faithful life. The early church sang this hymn because it taught them who Jesus is and, just as importantly, what kind of people they were becoming.

The same remains true now. The church still needs songs that teach humility over pride, service over domination, and self-giving love over spectacle. It still needs to be reminded, in word and melody alike, that Jesus shows the way down.

The church becomes more faithful when it fills itself not with the hunger for power, but with the song of Christlike love.

In the end, this sermon offered both challenge and invitation. The challenge is to recognize how often the way up still appeals to the human heart. The invitation is to follow the One who empties himself, stoops low, and teaches his people to love in the same way.

This is the Jesus the church proclaims. This is the Jesus the church is called to resemble. And this is the good news of Philippians 2: that the mind of Christ is not only something to admire, but a way of life to be received, practiced, and sung together.

Reflection Questions

Where do you see the culture’s obsession with “the top” shaping the way people understand success and worth?
What does the self-emptying Christ of Philippians 2 reveal about the true nature of power?
Who are the “Timothys” and “Epaphrodituses” in your life whose ordinary faithfulness has made Christ visible to you?
What might it look like this week to follow Jesus in the way down rather than the way up?

This post reflects themes from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church on Sunday, April 26, 2026.

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"Saving Eutychus"

4/19/2026

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Saving Eutychus

A reflection on Acts 20:7–12 | Preschool Celebration Sunday | April 19, 2026

The story of Eutychus in Acts 20 is one of the Bible’s strangest and most memorable scenes. A young man falls asleep during Paul’s long sermon, tumbles from a third-story window, and is later taken up alive. It begins almost like comedy and then turns suddenly serious. And yet, in all its oddness, this story offers a surprisingly tender word for the church.

Eutychus is not simply an unusual biblical character from a long-ago story. He represents something deeply familiar. He is the weary soul struggling to stay awake. He is the distracted worshiper hovering at the edges. He is the person caught between wanting to belong and feeling too tired, uncertain, or overwhelmed to stay fully present.

Eutychus stands in for all those who find themselves in the window—not fully in, not fully out, suspended between fatigue and faith.

That image feels especially timely. Many people arrive at church already tired—tired from anxious schedules, hard conversations, parenting, grief, caregiving, uncertainty, and the relentless churn of daily life. In a weary world, worship cannot be merely an intellectual exercise. It must become a place where grace is encountered not only through words, but through the whole life of the body.

More Than Words Alone

One of the sermon’s central insights was that Eutychus seems to be receiving only one kind of nourishment that evening: words. He listens and listens, but the rest of his embodied humanity is left unattended. From that angle, the story becomes more than a cautionary tale about long sermons. It becomes an invitation to ask what kind of worship truly sustains tired people.

Human beings do not live by words alone. They need grace they can taste and touch, see and smell. They need belonging that is felt, not merely explained. They need worship that remembers that bodies matter.

The body is not an obstacle to worship. The body is where worship begins.

That truth is often easier for children to understand than for adults. Children know instinctively that faith is lived through movement, sound, touch, repetition, and presence. They wiggle. They wonder. They sing. They ask questions. They respond with their whole selves. And perhaps that is not immaturity to be corrected, but wisdom to be honored.

A Church That Notices the Window

The story of Eutychus also presses an important question upon the church: how can communities of faith notice those who are sitting in the window before they slip?

There are many people who live in that space. Some stand at the edges because they are exhausted. Others because they are grieving. Some because they have been hurt by the church. Others because they are unsure they belong. Some are children; some are parents; some are older adults; some are quietly carrying burdens no one else can see.

The call of the church is not to shame them for being in the window. The call is to bring them closer to the center of grace.

A healthy church does not leave weary, wiggly, wondering people at the margins. It welcomes them to the center.

This is one reason embodied memories of faith matter so much. Many people do not remember childhood sermons word for word, but they do remember the feel of church life: candlelight on Christmas Eve, music that shook the room, the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen, bells ringing, voices singing, hands serving, feet moving. Long before grace could be articulated, it could be experienced.

The church at its best offers that kind of faith: not abstract, disembodied religion, but a life with God that can be felt and known in the bones.

Why This Matters on Preschool Celebration Sunday

On Preschool Celebration Sunday, this message takes on added resonance. The ministry of a church preschool embodies exactly the kind of grace this sermon described. In such a place, children encounter love long before they can define it. They are met by teachers who kneel to their level, wipe tears, tie shoes, sing songs, read stories, guide big feelings, and communicate again and again: you are safe, you are loved, you belong.

That is not separate from the church’s witness. It is part of the church’s witness. It is gospel work.

Long before children can explain grace, they are already experiencing it.

That is good news not only for children, but for parents as well. Many parents carry profound hopes for their children alongside very real exhaustion. They want their children not simply to succeed, but to grow into people shaped by compassion, justice, mercy, courage, and trust in God. The church has the privilege of helping nurture exactly that kind of faith.

Every time a congregation makes room for children, blesses their wiggles, supports their families, and treats their questions as holy, it is participating in the work of Christ. Every time someone is drawn in from the edges and reminded that they belong, the gospel is being enacted.

Grace at the Center

In the end, the story of Eutychus is not just about a fall. It is about a community that does not let the fallen one remain alone. It is about being gathered up, held close, and restored to life. That makes it a fitting story for the church in every generation.

There are always people in the window. There are always bodies that are tired, hearts that are uncertain, and lives that are stretched thin. The church is called to be the kind of place where such people are not overlooked, but embraced.

Faith is not merely something to be explained. It is something to be experienced, shared, and lived.

That is part of the good news proclaimed in this sermon: Jesus Christ still notices those at the edges. Christ still gathers up the weary. Christ still brings people from the margins to the center of grace. And communities shaped by that grace become places where children, families, and all kinds of tired souls can discover that they are safe, loved, and fully alive in God’s care.

Thanks be to God for churches that do not leave people in the window. Thanks be to God for ministries that help bring children to the center. And thanks be to God for the grace of Jesus Christ, which still holds people close and brings them alive again.

Reflection Questions

What does the figure of Eutychus reveal about the weariness many people carry into worship?
How can the church better engage the whole person, not just the mind?
Who in today’s world may be living “in the window,” longing to be noticed and welcomed in?
What does it look like for a congregation to bless wiggly, weary, wondering bodies as part of its life together?

This post reflects themes from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church on Sunday, April 19, 2026.

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"A Joy That Can't Be Chained"

4/13/2026

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A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

A reflection on Philippians 1:1–30 | Second Sunday of Easter | April 12, 2026

Editor’s Note: This article is adapted from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church. It has been edited for web reading while preserving the heart, tone, and theological movement of the original message.

There are, it seems, at least two different versions of Paul in the New Testament.

There is what we might call grumpy Paul: sharp-edged, irritated, exasperated, ready to scold. And then there is lovey-dovey Paul: warm, affectionate, grateful, and overflowing with tenderness. If Galatians gives us Paul with his jaw clenched, Philippians gives us Paul with his heart open.

So what changed?

In part, it may have been something wonderfully ordinary. When Paul was imprisoned for preaching the gospel, the Philippian church did not forget him. They sent Epaphroditus to bring provisions, support, and companionship. Yes, perhaps even snacks. But more than that, they sent care. They sent solidarity. They sent a reminder that Paul was not alone.

The Philippians did not just send Paul provisions. They sent him partnership in the gospel.

And from that prison cell, Paul wrote one of the most joy-filled letters in the New Testament.

Joy in the Middle of It

Philippians is not a letter written from comfort. It does not emerge from ease, convenience, or stability. Paul writes from confinement, uncertainty, and suffering. And yet joy keeps rising to the surface.

That matters, because the joy Paul speaks of is not shallow optimism. It is not denial. It is not a polished, curated, everything-is-fine kind of spirituality. It is not the sort of joy that depends on life going smoothly.

It is a joy that has seen some things.

It is a joy that knows hardship and still dares to sing.

It is a joy found not in the absence of struggle, but right in the middle of it.

Joy in Christ is not the reward for finally getting everything under control. It is the gift of Christ’s presence right in the middle of it.

That kind of joy feels especially urgent in a weary and anxious world. How do we find joy when the bills keep coming, the children are melting down, the news is relentless, and the future feels fragile? How do we keep going when so much seems too heavy to carry?

Paul’s answer is not that suffering disappears. His answer is that Christ is still present. The good news is still alive. Therefore, joy is still possible.

You Do Not Have to Fix Everything

One of the great burdens many of us carry is the belief that everything somehow depends on us. We are shaped by a culture of individualism that teaches us to manage, optimize, perform, and solve. We are told, implicitly and explicitly, that if something is broken, it is our job to fix it.

But much of life cannot be fixed that way.

There are wounds too deep, systems too tangled, and griefs too vast for any one person to carry alone. And when we try, we often end up exhausted, discouraged, or numb.

That is why this word from Philippians feels like good news. Paul cannot fix his imprisonment. He cannot control the motives of other preachers. He cannot determine what happens next. But he can rejoice. He can remain faithful. He can keep bearing witness to Christ.

I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere.

That is a word many of us need to hear. Faithfulness is not the same as solving the whole world. Sometimes faithfulness means attending to what Christ has placed in front of us today: loving our children well, telling the truth, showing kindness, tending a friendship, making a meal, offering a prayer, staying present to our neighbors, refusing despair.

We do not need to carry everything. We are simply called to be faithful somewhere.

Backyard Joy

This kind of joy is not only theological. It is deeply practical. It shows up in ordinary places.

After a long Lent, a full Easter Sunday, and yet another exhausting week shaped by a chaotic news cycle, there came a moment of complete weariness. The instinct in such moments is often to withdraw, to disappear, to shut the door and turn inward. And certainly, rest matters. But sometimes rest is not the same thing as retreat.

Sometimes rest looks like reaching out.

So one evening, a few friends gathered in a backyard. The grill was hot with burgers, hot dogs, sweet potatoes, and peppers. Children ran around in princess costumes. A fire flickered. The grass had just been cut. Yacht rock drifted through the air while adults debated whether Steely Dan belonged on the playlist.

Nothing in the wider world had been resolved by that little gathering. The headlines were still grim. The questions remained. The burdens had not vanished.

And yet there was joy.

Not solutions. Not certainty. Just joy: simple, ordinary, local joy.

There was friendship. There was laughter. There was food. There was welcome. There was the simple holiness of people making room for one another. In a world so often dominated by fear, division, and exhaustion, that kind of shared life matters.

It is not a distraction from discipleship. It is part of what sustains discipleship.

Without joy, we do not have much strength for love, justice, truth-telling, or endurance. Joy is not a luxury item in the Christian life. It is nourishment.

Christ in Prison Cells and Backyards

That is part of what Paul teaches us in Philippians. Christ is not only present in the dramatic or obviously sacred moments. Christ meets us in prison cells and sanctuaries, in hospital rooms and dinner tables, in sorrow and in laughter, in public worship and in quiet hospitality.

Joy in Christ is not built on perfect circumstances. It is grounded in the stubborn truth that the risen Jesus keeps showing up in ordinary life.

That means Christ may be present in a care package delivered to someone in despair. Christ may be present in a casserole left on a doorstep. Christ may be present in a porch conversation, a prayer, a hospital visit, or a shared meal in the backyard.

Maybe joy is not something we manufacture for ourselves so much as something Christ keeps handing to us through one another.

That is what the church is meant to be: a community where people keep showing up for one another with tangible grace. Sometimes we get to be like Epaphroditus, carrying care to those whose spirits are chained down by grief or weariness. Sometimes we are the ones receiving that care. Both are holy. Both are part of the life of Christ among us.

The going out and the coming in of such grace is called church.

A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

And that, finally, is the good news of Philippians 1.

The chains do not get the last word.

Prison does not get the last word.

Fear does not get the last word.

Exhaustion does not get the last word.

Even now, Christ is still alive in the world, still meeting people in ordinary places, still creating communities of care, still making joy possible right in the middle of hardship.

So thanks be to God for a joy that cannot be manufactured, cannot be forced, cannot be staged, and cannot be chained.

It is a joy that comes to us as grace.

It is a joy that Christ keeps alive through one another.

It is a joy that sustains us to be faithful somewhere.

Reflection Questions

Where are you feeling the pressure to fix what you cannot fix?
What has Christ placed in front of you today as an opportunity for faithfulness?
Where have you experienced simple, ordinary joy lately?
Who has been an Epaphroditus in your life, and for whom might you be called to be one now?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Sunday, April 12, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

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The Good News Is...Alive in the World!

4/6/2026

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The Good News Is...Alive in the World

A reflection on Matthew 28:1–10 | Easter Sunday | April 5, 2026

Editor’s Note: This article is adapted from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church. It has been edited for web reading while preserving the heart, movement, and theological emphasis of the original message.

Easter is not a day for answers.

It is a day for astonishment.

It is a day for standing at the edge of mystery and hearing the impossible announced as good news. It is a day for listening to the words of the angel at the tomb. It is a day for looking again at what we thought was settled, sealed, finished, and beyond hope. It is a day for hearing, perhaps with trembling, that death does not get the final word.

That first Easter morning, the women came to the tomb carrying grief. They came to mourn. They came to keep watch. They came to stay near the one they loved. In their minds, death had already answered the question. The empire had done what empires do. Violence had spoken. The stone was in place. The story was over.

And yet, when they arrived, everything had changed.

Easter does not begin with certainty. It begins with astonishment.

The earth shakes. The stone is rolled away. A heavenly messenger appears. The guards are overcome with fear and become, as Matthew says, like dead men. The women are afraid too, but unlike the guards, they remain open. They are trembling, yes, but they are still listening. They are still moving. They are still able to receive what God is doing.

That is part of the wonder of Easter: resurrection does not wait for us to become fearless. It meets us in our trembling and calls us forward anyway.

Do Not Be Afraid

The angel gives the women four commands: do not be afraid, come and see, go quickly, and tell. Those movements are not just for them. They are for us as well.

Do not be afraid.

Those words do not mean that nothing frightening has happened. They do not deny grief. They do not erase trauma. They do not pretend that death, loss, violence, and despair are not real. Easter is not sentimental, and it is not denial.

Instead, the message is this: what scares you is not the truest thing anymore.

Death is real. Grief is real. Empire is real. But none of them are ultimate.

That is the difference Easter makes. The resurrection of Jesus does not wave away the world’s pain. It declares that pain will not reign forever. It proclaims that violence is not sovereign. It insists that despair is not destiny. It tells frightened people that there is a truth deeper than the tomb.

Come and See

The angel then says, Come and see.

That invitation matters. The women are not asked to bypass reality. They are not told to distract themselves with vague spiritual comfort. They are invited to look closely, honestly, carefully. To come near the place of death. To face what has happened. To see where he lay.

This, too, feels like Easter faith.

All through Lent, we have been learning not to look away. We have tried to face suffering, betrayal, injustice, vulnerability, and death without pretending they are not there. Easter does not reverse that discipline. It deepens it. Come and see, the messenger says. Look honestly. And then look again.

Because what we have seen is not the end of the story.

Easter does not ask us to look away from the world’s wounds. It teaches us to look again and discover that death is not the end.

Go Quickly

Then comes the next command: Go quickly.

Resurrection does not leave the faithful standing still. The good news is too alive to remain at the tomb. Easter is not a private consolation to be hoarded. It is a living word that sends us back into the world.

Back into the places where fear still lingers.

Back into the places where grief still aches.

Back into the places where love is still needed.

Back into the places where hope must be practiced, embodied, and shared.

This is one of the most important things Easter tells us: the risen Christ does not pull us out of the world. He sends us back into it.

Tell

And finally: Tell.

The women arrive at the tomb as mourners, but they leave as witnesses. They are entrusted with news that is too strange, too beautiful, too world-shaking to keep to themselves.

To tell the story of Easter is not to solve the mystery. It is not to tidy up the unanswered questions. It is not to explain away the wonder. It is simply to bear witness and say, with trembling joy: Look. He is not here. Christ is risen. He is alive.

To tell is not to solve the mystery. It is to bear witness to it.

That is the calling of Easter people. Not to master resurrection, but to proclaim it. Not to control the mystery, but to be changed by it.

Back to Galilee

In Matthew’s Gospel, the women are told that Jesus is going ahead of them to Galilee. That detail is easy to miss, but it matters deeply.

Galilee is not just a location. It is where so much of the story first began. It is where ordinary lives were first interrupted by grace. It is where water became wine. It is where disciples first learned to follow. It is where abundance first broke through scarcity. It is where the ministry of Jesus took shape among ordinary people in ordinary places.

So when the angel says the risen Christ is already ahead of them in Galilee, the message is clear: resurrection is heading back into real life.

Back into neighborhoods and meals.

Back into friendships and work.

Back into the places where people live, grieve, hope, and try again.

Resurrection is not an escape from the world. It is God’s refusal to abandon it.

The tomb is not where the story ends. Galilee is where resurrection starts traveling.

That means Easter sends us not away from the world, but back into it—back into the ordinary places where good news must now be lived.

Where We Have Seen Good News

Throughout this Lenten season, we have been asking where good news is breaking through in a weary world. Week after week, we have tried to keep company with those who know how to say, “Look,” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.

We have seen good news at tables where everyone is invited and no one is beyond the reach of grace. We have seen it in places where scarcity did not get the last word. We have seen it in acts of tenderness, hospitality, mercy, courage, and shared abundance. We have seen it in the vulnerable and the overlooked. We have seen it in the refusal to throw stones. We have seen it in humble processions and basin-shaped love.

And on Easter morning, we hear that all of those glimpses were pointing us here: to the declaration that Christ is alive in the world.

A Glimpse of Resurrection

Sometimes resurrection arrives with the force of an earthquake. Sometimes it comes with blazing brightness and an empty tomb. But sometimes it appears in quieter ways—through tenderness, attention, and unexpected mercy in the middle of grief.

This past week, my family and I caught a glimpse of that kind of good news.

After Tricia’s grandmother, Myra, died at the age of ninety, we drove to Richmond to say our goodbyes. It was our daughters’ first real experience with death. The moment was holy and heartbreaking. We held hands. We spoke words of love. We grieved together.

Later, after we checked into our hotel, a housekeeper noticed the sadness on our daughters’ faces. When she learned why we were there, she asked if she could hug them. Then, the next day, after a long day of grieving and sorting through Myra’s things, we returned to our room and found a handwritten note waiting for us, along with a basket of snacks for the girls and for us.

It was a small act. A tender act. A quiet act. But it was holy.

Sometimes the good news arrives with the shock of an earthquake. Other times, it comes with the tenderness of a kind note from a stranger.

In that moment, in the middle of sorrow, it felt like a sacrament of ordinary grace. A reminder that love still moves through the world. A reminder that grief does not have to be carried alone. A reminder that resurrection does not only belong to grand and dramatic moments. It also glimmers in blueberry muffins, kind words, open eyes, and compassionate strangers.

Sometimes water becomes wine. Other times, grief becomes a bond between people who did not know each other a day before.

Sometimes five loaves and two fish feed thousands. Other times, a small gift basket changes the atmosphere of a room and gives weary people the strength to keep going.

Look

That may be what Easter finally teaches us: how to look.

How to look for signs that grace is still alive.

How to look for beauty in broken places.

How to look for the risen Christ not only at the empty tomb, but in the living world he loves.

Mary Oliver writes of keeping company with those who say, “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. Easter makes such people of us. It teaches us to become witnesses to wonder. It teaches us to notice what fear would have us miss. It teaches us to recognize that Christ is already ahead of us, alive in the world, drawing us back into life.

For Christ is risen. He is alive in the world. Look.

And so we go into this Easter season not with all the answers, but with astonishment. Not without grief, but with hope. Not as people who have mastered the mystery, but as those who have glimpsed it and been changed.

Christ is risen.

He is alive in the world.

Look.

Reflection Questions

Where have you seen signs of good news breaking through in ordinary life recently?
What fears feel most powerful right now, and how might Easter be speaking into them?
What does it mean for you to “come and see” rather than look away?
How is the risen Christ sending you back into the world to love, serve, and bear witness?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Easter Sunday, April 5, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

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The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed

4/3/2026

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Maundy Thursday: Judas Gets His Feet Washed, Too

A reflection on John 13:1–35 | Maundy Thursday | April 2, 2026

I don’t know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too.

That world does not make much sense to most of us. We are far more familiar with a world of condemnation, scorekeeping, and retribution. Judas, after all, is supposed to be the villain. He is supposed to stay in history’s penalty box. He is supposed to stand as a cautionary tale, not as someone kneeling at the feet of Jesus and receiving the same mercy as everyone else in the room.

And yet, in John 13, that is exactly what happens.

On Maundy Thursday, Jesus kneels to wash the feet of his disciples. Not just Peter. Not just John. Not just the faithful ones, the lovable ones, or the dependable ones. Judas, too. Jesus knows what Judas is about to do. He knows betrayal is already in motion. He knows the kiss is coming. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.

Jesus kneels before Judas, fully aware of what he is about to do, and lovingly washes his dirty feet anyway.

The Scandal of Grace

There is something deeply unsettling about this scene. We prefer a world where mercy is earned and grace is deserved. We want betrayal punished, harm exposed, and villains clearly marked. We want a world where people get what is coming to them.

But the Gospel keeps confronting us with a different kind of world.

Maundy Thursday tells the truth about betrayal, but it also tells the truth about mercy. Jesus does not deny what Judas will do. He does not pretend harm is harmless. But neither does he withdraw his love. The basin and towel become signs of a grace that reaches even where we would rather it not go.

That is what makes this story so difficult. It is not only Judas who unsettles us. It is Jesus.

In a culture that mistakes gentleness for weakness and mercy for surrender, Jesus’ actions can seem absurd. He does not shame Judas. He does not humiliate him. He does not crush him. He stoops low and serves him.

To people trained in vengeance and baptized in scorekeeping, that kind of mercy can feel less beautiful than foolish.

Seeing Ourselves in Judas

It is easy to keep Judas at a safe distance. It is easy to reduce him to his worst act and leave him there. But doing so may keep us from recognizing the harder truth: there is more of Judas in us than we care to admit.

We know the parts of ourselves that grow impatient with Jesus’ non-coercive way of changing the world. We know the parts that want quicker vindication, sharper judgment, and cleaner lines between the good people and the bad people. We know the parts that would rather explain people than love them, condemn them rather than pray for them, and reduce them to their worst moment while begging others not to do the same to us.

Maundy Thursday will not let us keep Judas safely over there. It brings him uncomfortably close. It invites us to see him not just as a villain, but as our brother—someone whose kinship with us is closer than we often realize.

And maybe that is precisely why this story matters so much. Because if Jesus can kneel before Judas, then perhaps he can kneel before the worst parts of us, too.

We need the basin. We need the towel. We need a mercy we did not earn and cannot control.

Standing with Javert on the Bridge

One way to understand the moral crisis of this text is through a familiar story from Les Misérables. In that musical, the police inspector Javert lives by strict legalism. For him, mercy threatens justice. Grace feels like disorder. The categories must remain fixed: wrongdoers are condemned, the law is absolute, and punishment is the only language that makes sense.

But when Jean Valjean spares Javert’s life instead of taking it, Javert’s whole worldview begins to collapse. He does not know what to do with mercy. He does not know how to live in a world where grace interrupts the logic he has trusted. And unable to imagine such a world, he falls into despair.

That image feels painfully relevant. We, too, live in a culture perched on the edge of Javert’s bridge. We are surrounded by endless cycles of retribution, outrage, and dehumanization. We know how to punish. We know how to shame. We know how to keep score. What we often do not know is how to step back from the edge and move toward another way.

That does not mean accountability does not matter. It does. Grace does not erase harm, and reconciliation cannot happen without truth. But the Gospel refuses to let retribution have the last word.

Sometimes a simple, humble, silent act of kneeling and washing feet can interrupt the patterns we have been tempted to think are inevitable.

A Different Kind of World

Maundy Thursday is not sentimental. It is not naïve about betrayal, suffering, or human brokenness. It knows exactly what kind of world we live in. But it also dares to proclaim that another world is possible—a world where mercy interrupts vengeance, where grace gets down on its knees, and where love is known not by what it says, but by what it does.

That is the world Jesus opens before us in the upper room.

And stepping into that world changes us. Every act of retribution hardens something in us. Every refusal to see our neighbor’s humanity diminishes our own. But every act of mercy, every kneeling gesture of love, every moment when we choose not to mirror the cruelty around us—those moments make us more human, not less.

That is the way of Christ.

To wash feet is to reject the lie that domination is strength. To love across betrayal is to reject the lie that vengeance is the only form of justice. To come to the basin and the towel is to confess that we are all sustained by grace we did not deserve.

Come to the Basin

So perhaps the invitation of Maundy Thursday is simple, even if it is not easy.

Come to the basin.

Come to the towel.

Come to the table.

Come and be honest about the Judas-like parts of yourself. Come and lay down the habits of scorekeeping and self-protection. Come and receive again the love of Christ, who kneels before us without turning away.

And then, having received that love, go and practice it.

Love one another, Jesus says, just as I have loved you. Not abstractly. Not sentimentally. But concretely. Humbly. Costly. Tenderly. With open hands instead of stones.

Maundy Thursday calls us into a world where grace is stronger than vengeance and where love is measured by what it is willing to do.

We may not fully know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. But by the grace of God, we can take a step toward it. And in taking that step, we may find ourselves stepping away from the brink and toward the kingdom Jesus proclaims.

Reflection Questions

What do you find most unsettling in this story: Judas’ betrayal or Jesus’ mercy?
Where are you tempted to keep score instead of extending grace?
What would it look like for mercy to interrupt the patterns of retribution in your own life?
How is Christ inviting you to come to the basin, the towel, and the table this Holy Week?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Maundy Thursday, April 2, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

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The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act

4/3/2026

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The Good News Is...Inspiring Us to Act

A reflection on Mark 11:1–11 | Palm Sunday | March 29, 2026

Editor’s Note: This article is not the sermon manuscript verbatim. It is an adapted blog post based on Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing’s Palm Sunday sermon, prepared for web reading and shared as a reflection on the message preached at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

Sometimes, we do not recognize the things we should.

We miss grace when it is right in front of us. We overlook beauty when the world feels too broken to bear. We ignore our need for rest because we have been trained to keep moving, keep producing, keep pushing. And often, we miss Jesus for the same reasons. We are looking for the wrong signs of power, the wrong kind of victory, the wrong sort of king.

Palm Sunday invites us to see differently.

In Mark 11, Jesus enters Jerusalem not on a warhorse, but on a borrowed colt. He is not surrounded by soldiers, but by disciples, common people, and shouts of hope. The crowd cries out “Hosanna!” and lines the road with cloaks and branches. It looks like a parade, but it is also a revelation. Jesus is showing the world what kind of Messiah he is.

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Recognizing the King We Almost Miss

Throughout Mark’s Gospel, the disciples struggle to recognize Jesus for who he is. They witness miracles, hear parables, and watch him confront the powers of death and oppression, yet they still misunderstand him. Again and again, they expect glory without suffering, power without humility, triumph without sacrifice.

And truth be told, so do we.

We still prefer a Messiah who looks strong by the world’s standards. We are often more comfortable with spectacle than service, dominance than mercy, aggression than gentleness. But Palm Sunday interrupts those instincts. Jesus comes in humility. He comes in vulnerability. He comes in peace.

The question Palm Sunday asks is not simply whether we admire Jesus. The question is whether we recognize him when he comes to us in ways that do not match the world’s usual script.

A Different Kind of Procession

The people of Jerusalem would have recognized the kind of pageantry unfolding in this story. Public processions were common in the ancient world, especially when empires wanted to display military might and political control. But Jesus reshapes the scene entirely.

Instead of a stallion, he chooses a donkey. Instead of weapons, he comes with openness and vulnerability. Instead of marching toward conquest, he moves toward the cross.

Palm Sunday is not just a parade to admire. It is the moment when Jesus shows us what kind of king he is—and asks whether we are ready to follow him.

This is what makes Palm Sunday both beautiful and unsettling. It is celebratory, yes, but it is also confrontational. Jesus forces us to reckon with how deeply we have been formed by the world’s assumptions about power. Can we recognize holiness when it comes without swagger? Can we trust leadership that does not rely on fear? Can we follow a Lord who rides toward suffering instead of around it?

The Verbs of Recognition

One of the most striking features of Mark’s telling is how active the story is. Palm Sunday is full of movement. Jesus sends disciples to go. They untie the colt. They bring it to him. Cloaks are thrown. Branches are spread. The crowd shouts. The people follow.

This is not a static scene. It is full of verbs.

And those verbs matter, because they show us that recognition is not just something that happens in the mind. Sometimes we come to recognize Jesus by stepping into the life he calls us to live.

Go. Untie. Bring. Spread. Shout. Follow.

These are not just actions for the first disciples. They are invitations for us.

Making the Story Our Own

So what might it mean for the church today to make the verbs of Palm Sunday our own?

It means we go where Jesus sends us, even when discipleship is inconvenient, even when love asks something real of us.

It means we untie what has been bound. We work to loosen the grip of fear, prejudice, isolation, indifference, and despair. We help unbind one another from the habits and systems that diminish human dignity and choke off communal life.

It means we bring what we have. The disciples brought a colt. We bring our time, our courage, our prayers, our tables, our presence, our witness. We bring casseroles to grieving families. We bring meals to Greensboro Urban Ministry. We bring tenderness to hospital rooms and steady companionship to those who feel forgotten.

It means we spread mercy. In the Gospel, people spread cloaks on the road. In our own lives, we spread mercy through acts of care, protection, generosity, and compassion that make the path gentler for someone else.

It means we shout Hosanna not only with our lips, but with our lives. Our hosannas become public witness. They become advocacy for justice, compassion, and the common good in a world so often shaped by cruelty, domination, and us-versus-them thinking.

And it means we follow Jesus in a way that may look strange to a world that has confused strength with aggression and leadership with control.

Retrieving the Truest Parts of Ourselves

Perhaps Palm Sunday also calls us to retrieve something. The disciples retrieved a colt. We are called to retrieve the truest parts of ourselves—the parts buried beneath resentment, numbed by rage, or hidden under the pressure of constant urgency and toxic individualism.

Jesus comes not only to save us, but to restore us to the people God created us to be: merciful, courageous, communal, and alive to grace.

Palm Sunday invites us to rediscover the selves God made us to be.

That kind of recognition does not always happen in dramatic flashes. Sometimes it happens quietly. Grace gets our attention because we have started looking for it. Beauty catches us off guard, and suddenly we find ourselves with a hosanna to offer. Rest begins to feel less like a luxury and more like a holy gift—one that makes us more present to God, to neighbor, and to ourselves.

From Recognition to Action

As Holy Week begins, Palm Sunday places a question before us: Where will you recognize Jesus?

Where will your hosanna rise this week? What will be the holy interruption that moves you from admiration to discipleship, from recognition to action?

Because Palm Sunday is not only about remembering a procession long ago. It is about recognizing the living Christ still in our midst—still coming toward us in humility, still challenging our assumptions, still calling us to join the movement of mercy, justice, and courageous love.

And when we do—when we go, untie, bring, spread, shout, and follow—we may discover that the Jesus we almost missed has been leading us all along.

Reflection Questions

Where are you tempted to look for power in the wrong places?
Which Palm Sunday verb speaks most urgently to your life right now: go, untie, bring, spread, shout, or follow?
What might it look like for you to embody “Hosanna” in public and practical ways this week?
What part of yourself might God be inviting you to retrieve and restore?

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Sunday, March 29, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.

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