Six and a half years ago, we were still living in Spartanburg, SC and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with my life. I had just graduated seminary. I had worked for about 10 years in a ministry where I thought I would serve my entire life, but had come to the slow and difficult realization that I wasn’t supposed to be there. Trouble is, I had no clue where I was supposed to be. I left for an ellipses; the dot dot dot of something to be determined. To help feed a young family, I substitute taught and served as an assistant teacher at our school district’s early childhood center. I gained a huge respect for people who hold down those vocations and I was not happy. I felt lost and adrift.

One evening I went for a walk by myself in our neighborhood and I found myself standing by a pond talking out loud to a God who I wasn’t sure was even there. “Where in the heck are You?,” I remember saying, “I don’t know if I can do this much longer.” I didn’t get an answer that night and went home with nothing more than the catharsis that comes with admitting that something sucks. An answer did eventually come that kept and still keeps me holding on. We’ll get there but to make that journey we need to talk about the stories that Jesus told and still tells.

Throughout the last couple of months, we have been doing this series on the parables of Jesus found in the gospel of Luke. These are legitimately some of my favorite stories in scripture because they are so sneaky brilliant. Jesus tells these of profound religious truth yet the stories themselves are hardly ever in a religious context. These parables are not stories of priests and rabbis and worship services and synagogue meetings. Instead Jesus tells stories of seeds and crops, crooked accountants and weeping tax collectors, runaway sons and stubborn widows. In fact, when Jesus does include the religious in his stories it is often to subvert his listeners’ expectations like when a priest and Levite sidestep a victim of violence to setup a despised Samaritan being the hero. What I love about this way of telling stories is that by taking the things of God and hiding them within these stories of earth and the everyday, Jesus is demonstrating how the holy is all around us.

Last week, I was at Bethany Hills with our high schoolers and students from other Disciples congregations in Tennessee. It was a wonderful seven days; honestly the best I have had over there. However, It did not give me ample time to write a sermon. It’s hard to do that when everything is damp all the time from the humidity, everything smells like Cheetos and bug spray, there are ridiculous songs about fish being played from Bluetooth speakers, and you keep catching the most random snippets of conversations. Plus given the choice, it’s just better to be with people.

I told this to Christi Williams when she was picking up her two children from camp on Friday and she said with matter-of-a-fact confidence, “Just tell four stories from camp and say, ‘Amen.’” So this sermon is how my sleep-deprived mind takes some experiences from this past week, run it through the filter of today’s scripture passage and a recent song from one of my favorite bands, and see what it can say to us about faith and leadership.

Let me set the stage with that verse and that song. In 1 Timothy 4:4-12, the writer, which could be Paul or it could be someone writing in Paul’s name, is encouraging a young minister. There is a reminder that everything created by God is good and a reminder about how utterly important it is to train oneself in godliness; one should not neglect taking care of themselves spiritually just like they shouldn’t neglect their physical or mental health. The writer reminds the reader that this training can be difficult. It can be a toil and a struggle, yet we set our hope on Jesus.

For the last two weeks, the Winter Olympics have been on our TV constantly. It does not matter what event it is or whether the United States has any shot at a medal, we’re watching it. I love it. I love all the countries of the world coming together. I love the underdog stories. I was really pumped to see the Jamaican bobsled team back in the Games this year. It’s a lot of fun to watch. But something occurred to me this year as I watched and I don’t know why because tons of people on the internet have said the same thing: these are the most bizarre and stupid dangerous sports in existence.

In the Summer Olympics, the events are pretty straight forward. Who can run the fastest, swim the fastest, jump the highest, throw the farthest? In the Winter Olympics it’s “We have this ice roller coaster and we have a variety of ways to send you down it at 80 miles per hour. You can go in a bullet sled with your buddies or lay on your back in a regular sled, or you can go face first, or we can stack another person on top of you.” Or “Ski down this mountain, go off the ramp, do flips and twists 200 feet in the air, and then don’t shatter when you hit the ground.” In biathlon, they took cross country skiing—which seems like it might be the most grueling sport in existence—and someone said, “But what if we gave them guns?” Even sports in which I have participated in like skiing or skating are down with such daredevil degrees of difficulty that if I were to try even half of what they do, my best case scenario is a concussion.

Twenty-nine years ago, the Atlanta Braves were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League Championship Series. You have to understand that at the time—at least from my childhood perspective—it seemed like the entire southeastern region of the United States lived and died with the fortunes of the ball club from Atlanta. They were a garbage team for much of the 1980s, but suddenly with the rise of an incredible pitching staff they began to catch fire. And the South plus anyone who had the channel TBS on cable began to get swept up in the excitement. Braves hats were everywhere. P.A. systems at high school football games would break in with updates of playoff scores.

Once a year, our church would take buses on the three hour trek to Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and it felt like a trip to Disney World. By all metrics, baseball has been passed in popularity by football and maybe even basketball. So those first few years of the 1990s are in my memory, baseball’s last true run at being the National Pastime. My brother Taylor and I were locked into all of it.

All of which brings us back to 29 years ago this past Thursday: Atlanta and Pittsburgh were playing a winner-take-all Game 7. The Braves were seeking their second consecutive trip to the World Series, while the Pirates were seeking to avenge falling short against Atlanta the year before. Pittsburgh pitcher Doug Drabek pitched a masterful game and the Pirates were winning 2-0 going into Atlanta’s final at-bat in the Bottom of the 9th; three outs from celebrating on the field of their nemesis. Then October magic began to stir. Terry Pendleton led off with a double then advanced to third when David Justice reached base on an error. Next, Sid Bream walked to load the bases. Ron Gant hit a long fly ball for the first out that allowed Pendleton to score and make it a one run ballgame. Catcher Damon Berryhill walked to load the bases again and then Brian Hunter popped up to the second baseman.

One evening this past week, our family was about to arrive home when I remembered that we didn’t have what one of our sons needed in order to bring his lunch to school the next day. I offered to run back out. This is one of the things that I do: I go to the grocery store and I pick up dinner from restaurants. The men of yore would go out into the field, hunt, and bring their bounty back home. So in that spirit, I too venture out into the wild to track down the elusive prey that are chicken nuggets and tacos.

I dropped E.A. and the boys off at our front door and headed off to the nearest grocery store certain that this would be a quick trip. I knew what I was looking for and I even had multiple options. As long as they had microwaveable bacon or a Chicken Dunks Lunchable, I was golden. I would bring home the bounty. My kid would have his lunch for school the next day.

Yet there was a snag: our grocery store did not have either item. So I texted E.A.: “Swing and a miss on both items. Do you want me to look elsewhere or come home?” She said to try another place; again, we would like for our kid to be able to eat lunch. I drove about 15 minutes to another grocery store. A bigger grocery store. One that has not failed to have the items that are sometimes missing from the smaller store close to our house. In confidence, I strode to the refrigerated section in the back that is home to breakfast meats and pre-packaged meals for school-aged children and lazy college students.

And it was barren. There was no bacon. There were no Chicken Dunks Lunchables. It was as if there was a breaking news story in which a scientist had warned the nation that we don’t know how many pigs or chickens we have left and a panicked populace rushed the grocery stores in hopes of one last moment with pork and poultry.

Today is Birthday Sunday at Woodmont. This church is celebrating 78 years, but from where I stand it looks no older than 7 or 8 months. In all seriousness, a group of individuals came together with the dream of forming a church and they laid out this covenant:

We do hereby solemnly covenant with God and one another to bond ourselves together to establish a Christian Church in this community for ourselves and posterity.

We pledge our time, substance, talents and prayers to the end that His Church shall be a house of prayer for all people, a fellowship of those who believe in Christ and strive to follow his teachings, and a part of the Church Universal.

We aim to erect a suitable edifice for divine worship, for Christian education, for stewardship, for world missions, and to minister to the spiritual needs of the community.

All this we covenant to be and do under the guidance of God and the leadership of Jesus Christ our Lord.

That is legitimately something to celebrate and those words are a good summation of what we at Woodmont Christian Church ought to be about. It is a day to celebrate.

So with it being our birthday, it is time to make a wish and blow out the proverbial candles. Let me ask you: What is your wish for Woodmont going into the future? What do you hope and pray that the church looks like tomorrow? And really we would do well to expand that question; not just what we hope Woodmont looks like tomorrow but, as the covenant puts it, the Church Universal. Because it’s bigger than us. To tweak a quote from the cinematic masterpiece Thor: Ragnarok, the church is not a place, it’s a people. Woodmont is not this building but the people of this community and our community exists within the larger body of Christ.

My family had pets growing up. We had two Eskimo Spitz named Al and Buffy. We later had a German shepherd named Bear. My responsibilities with these pets did not go beyond occasionally filling up the dog dish. And this was in the days before dogs were treated like people. Now you need to tend to a dog’s every need, pamper it, make its bed, make sure it learns Spanish or has some other marketable skill. Pets in the 80s and 90s were far more low maintenance.

The first time that I was solely responsible for tending to a living thing it did not go well. When I was in 3rd or 4th grade someone thought it would be a great idea to give a bunch of schoolchildren goldfish to keep. Because what better way to teach nine and ten year olds about the fragility of life. So I brought my goldfish home from West View Elementary School and was very proud. I had lots of big dreams and hopes for my young ward. He was in a two liter bottle that had the top cut off but I knew it was only a matter of time before we had a luxurious aquarium with coral, a sunken pirate ship, and a fellowship of fish friends. I fed him the fish food that the school provided and took care of him. Three mornings later I came into the kitchen and found my fish friend belly up. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if it was foul play. Regardless my stewardship of this fish had been a flop.

Today we are talking about taking care of others, why it is so important for people who follow Jesus, and how to hopefully do a better job of it than school-aged Christopher did of taking care of a goldfish. We are still in Easter season and so our story is a post-resurrection appearance by Jesus. The disciples were kind of in this weird in-between place. Jesus had come back from the dead, but his followers were drifting and uncertain of what to do next.

Our family recently moved into a new house. Let me amend that. Our family recently moved into a house that is new to us. The house itself is anything but new; it was built in 1899. Again, it was built not in this century, not in the last century, but the century before that. We moved in right before Halloween. And now that we know it’s not deeply haunted, I am really in awe of the place. It’s like living in a history book. We know that the house was in a fire at one point and that it was rebuilt. We think our bedroom used to be the kitchen and that the kitchen used to be a screened in porch; you can see the exterior brick in there. The floors creak with century’s worth of character as you make your way across every room.

Just think of all that house has seen. It is 121 years old! 1899 was only a few decades after the Civil War. It was nine years before the Model T came out, two and a half decades before indoor electricity was common in homes. Mark Twain was still alive and none of us here were close to being around. The house has been around for world wars and us putting a man on the moon. In that house—built during the presidency of William McKinley—there is now electricity and running water, we drive from it without a second thought, and have video calls with relatives who live hundreds of miles away. It’s kind of mind boggling. I mean, how does something stand the test of time and a literal trial by fire like that? How do you build something to last?

That is the question that is at the heart of our text today. How do you build a life that is going to last? An existence that will stand the tests of time and trials by fire; that will weather life’s storms? This is a familiar passage. If you’ve ever been in a children’s Sunday school class or have gone to Vacation Bible School, you have probably sung the song about the wise man who built his upon the rock. Jesus tells us a story of that astute architect and his less wise counterpart. Both of them built their houses.

In November of 1982, the SMU Mustangs defeated the Texas Tech Red Raiders when Bobby Leach caught a bouncing across-the-field lateral on a kickoff return and sprinted 91 yards to the end zone. An NFL assistant coach by the name of Alan Lowry saw that play and kept it in the back of his mind in case he ever needed to call up that kind of miracle. A little over 17 years later, it was time. The Buffalo Bills had just kicked a field goal to take the lead with 16 seconds left in their first round playoff matchup against the Tennessee Titans. The odds of getting through Buffalo’s special team to the end zone seemed slim. The Titans needed to get creative. They needed the play that Alan Lowry saw in Texas many years before.

If you are only passingly familiar with the Titans, you know what happened next. Lorenzo Neal fielded the kick, handed it to Frank Wycheck. Wycheck began running to his right, then turned, and tossed the ball across the field to Kevin Dyson who ran 75 yards for the touchdown and the victory. It was not only one of the most memorable endings ever for the Titans, but one of the all-time greatest finishes to a game in NFL history. Even I—who did not remotely care about the Titans at the time—can still remember where I was when I saw the Music City Miracle. It’s just a reminder that sometimes when your back is against the wall, you need to get creative and amazing things might happen.

There were once four individuals who were hoping for something amazing; not for themselves, but for their paralyzed friend. They had heard about this teacher, a rabbi from Nazareth named Jesus, who had the power to heal people. They had hoped that maybe he might be able to do something for their friend. So they put him on a mat and they carried him to the house where they heard this miracle worker had set up shop. Yet when they got to the place, their hearts sank. The building was slammed full. A massive crowd had gathered around Jesus filling every nook and cranny of the room and spilling outside the house. There was seemingly no way for them to get through all of those people and get their friend to Jesus.

We are going to start off in a remarkably nerdy place, but I promise that this is going somewhere. This past fall, an unprepared world was introduced to Baby Yoda. In the first episode of the new Star Wars TV show called The Mandalorian, the title character—a bounty hunter—is hired to go to some alien world and capture a 50 year old creature to bring back to some pretty shady individuals. After some classic Star Wars derring-do, we discover that the bounty is this impossibly adorable little guy.

No one saw this coming. Disney somehow kept Baby Yoda’s existence under wraps. They would also like to remind everyone that his name is not Baby Yoda because he is not Yoda as an infant and he is officially referred to as The Child. So whereas everyone thought The Mandalorian was going to be a show about a bounty hunter doing some bounty hunting, it turned out to be a show in which this lone wolf type of individual suddenly has to care for and protect this precious child from those who seek to do it harm.

As the video we just showed indicates, the internet has gone absolutely insane for Baby Yoda. Bootleg Baby Yoda merchandise began popping up everywhere. With each episode of The Mandalorian there was a slew of new adorable images of Baby Yoda that were instantly turned into memes or tweeted out a thousand times. My children will periodically ask to see a picture of Baby Yoda just so they can go “Awwwwwww…” He is an absolute marvel of storytelling and creature design. We all know that he is literally a puppet, but we are super invested in his wellbeing.

Because everything on the internet turns into a competition, someone asked who was cuter: Baby Yoda or a tree-like character that captured the internet’s heart a few years ago named Baby Groot. One person replied: “I would use Baby Groot as firewood to keep Baby Yoda warm.” And 362,000 people liked it. Everyone was like, “Yeah, I’d probably do that too.” There is a massive collective instinct of “We must protect Baby Yoda at all costs.” All of which works perfectly for the show because the premise of The Mandalorian is about this individual who discovers this child and turns his own life upside down to protect this precious little creature.