St. Patrick Presbyterian Church, Epc

The thing about hard edges is, they will hurt you! Little ones are particularly vulnerable to hard edges. In fact, when we were having babies every couple of years, Teri and I would look for those hard edges in our home, where a little one might hurt themselves. When we found one, we did one of three things: we removed it, we fenced it off, or we put padded it so as to protect our toddler in case they fell. Well, try as we might, they still would find them. It is a wonder any child survives, isn’t it?            The gospel has a hard edge, as well – one might say the hardest edge of all – and yet, there is nothing you can do to protect yourself from it except choose to ignore it. The gospel cuts deeper than any truth we have ever faced, does it not? It asks you to die and be reborn. It asks you to humble yourself and repent, not just of your badness, but also of your goodness. In our text this week, we see that perhaps the hardest thing you ever do is not repent of your badness but of your goodness. In fact,

Last Saturday I took a road trip to Chelsea, Alabama. I assure you, it wasn’t to spend a weekend at the Ritz. In fact, it is a place that—given my own way of seeing—I would never stop, but would rather just pass through on my way to a place more of my own liking. What is odd about Chelsea is the whole mystery of love. I was in Chelsea to celebrate the five-year anniversary of Chelsea Presbyterian Church, a daughter church of St. Patrick.             I remember one time when I was down there a few years ago, riding around with James Daniels, and in a moment of candidness, I asked him, “Why would you want to plant a church in this place?” What I saw with indifference, he saw with love. He said, “I love this place; these are my people.” Love does things!! Anyway, it was glorious. A few years ago, there was no one but James, Larissa and their daughter, Alexandria. Now five years later, I celebrated with a large crowd of people, most of whom did not even know Jesus back then, much less each other. And as I have wa

As I write, Collierville employees are dismantling those magnificent holiday lights on the Town Square. I’m so proud of them for holding out in celebration of the full twelve days of Christmas! (Yes, I’m sure the scheduling was more practical than pious.) But, now we’re on to the next thing which, for about 1600 years, has been known as the Feast of the Epiphany.  In Eastern churches, Epiphany (from the Greek, meaning appearance), marks the Baptism of our Lord and beginning of his ministry, culminating later in the spring in the cross and resurrection. As it was believed that Jesus began his ministry on his thirtieth birthday, it has often doubled as their Christmas as well. In globally Western churches, however, the tradition has been to celebrate the Arrival of the Magi on Epiphany. But nowadays, those fellas usually end up folded into the manger scene of our imaginations, and by January 6 that just feels like old news.  I suppose this holiday gets lost in the shuffle mainly because the hustle and bustle of

We observers of January’s turn bear a resemblance to the two-headed Roman deity Janus: looking both backward and forward at once. From this vantage point, and with the Law’s tutelage, we are uniquely positioned to see who we have been, compared to who we were made to be. If we’re willing to see and say the truth, this confession can inspire resolution: to be a new creation in this new year. And that’s a noble desire! But this weekend will mark my fortieth New Year and I can only think of one resolution I’ve ever successfully kept. It lasted for about 15 months until Covid hit and good habits gave way to survival.  Now, this is not to say that I have not grown or matured in my life; it’s just that these things rarely happen as the direct result of willpower, triggered by a specific holiday. It’s more often a slog. And yet, we are a liturgical people, given to the observance of days. But we do this, not because it has a magical effect on us, but because our finite minds and hearts can’t hold the entirety of the

Twenty-one years ago this month, my wife, Allie, and I began our dating relationship on the basis of a shared love for the night sky. The allure for her was more scientific; mine more literary. To this day, that overlap manifests itself in one of our greatest joint fears: being “airlocked” into space. Now, you don’t have to be a nerd like us to feel those outer space heebie-jeebies. When most modern folks look up at the stars, a sort of primal terror enters us. I mean, who would willingly depart the rich womb of our mother earth to be birthed violently into the sterile cold of that unfeeling void? Crazy people, that’s who.  To the ancient mind, however, the night sky was not known as cold, dark, empty space, at all. It was the heavens: radiant, inhabited, and musical; its harmonic activity influencing the everyday life of all the earth below. Psalm 19 is a good reminder of this vision, where “The heavens declared the glory of God… and night to night revealed knowledge.” Sure, there was still fear associated w

Nativity Scenes. What got me thinking about them was the story of one my daughters, Anne Rachael, buying one recently while in Mexico with her husband, Wesley. Telling about that led to an even more outlandish story from Josh about nativity scenes which I didn’t believe till verified. At both, I laughed maniacally and, to be truthful, you have to see that they often take part in the comedic. You will have to come Sunday to hear the full story on that one; but seriously, of the making of nativity scenes there is no end, and most homes have several of them. From ones that are very expensive to those paper ones made perhaps in Sunday School whose only value is sentimental, and everything in between. I was thinking about the characters that make up a nativity scene, particularly the shepherds, because they are the subject of our meditation this Sunday and for good reason. We are so familiar with the birth narrative that we don’t register the shock it deserves. Last week we saw the birth; this week, the birth anno

We were doing Advent with Addy at breakfast this morning. The candle was lit and the Advent tree, which has a door for each day in Advent, was opened. Each day has a special note in it about whatever special thing is going on, which for this day was the Christmas Parade. It also has a piece of chocolate, but on this special day there were two and that brought a moment of sadness because my granddaughter Penelope, who was supposed to be with us, had had to cancel because she came down with the flu. We were already starting behind the baseline, it seemed. Until I asked the question about what we celebrated during Advent: “So, Addy, why do we celebrate Advent?” Nothing. Me, trying to get something going, "Are we celebrating Santa Claus?” Addy emphatically denied that all this was about Santa, so I said, “What then?” She finally said, “Jesus being a baby.” I said, “What is so special about that—babies are born all the time.” She thought a minute and then said, “Well, it is that Jesus is all mixed up with God or s

The Scandal of AdventAdvent is here again and I am so thankful. The church looks like a vision; it is never more beautiful than when we celebrate the Incarnation. There is no better argument that we are more than merely thinking creatures than a church festooned and gilded to the nines. We want more than the ordinary when we are making our way towards something as momentous, history-altering, and life-changing as the Incarnation. We want the ordinary taken to another plane of beauty.  This Advent Season we are contemplating, It’s a Wonderful Strife. Yes, you saw that correctly and, yes again, it is a riff on Frank Capra’s classic Christmas movie, It’s a Wonderful Life. If you think about it, most of the story of Jesus coming into the world is filled with strife. (In fact, George Bailey’s life was, as well!) Nothing about it looks like a Hallmark Christmas movie. Seriously, an unwed mother, a fiancé who is going to end the engagement privately to hide the shame, mangers for a king, animals, and ne’er-do-wells

I still chuckle to myself when I think about a prank we once pulled on Jim several years back. We were interviewing candidates for our open worship pastor position and had decided to bring Will Weir in for an interview. Just before the meeting, I pulled the Reverend aside and told him we didn’t know how to break this news to him, but Mr. Weir was a committed vegan. No meat, eggs, or dairy. I saw the wheels turning as our chef-in-chief began to reckon with this devastating news. How could such a person thrive in our foodie culture? What would have to change in order to accommodate this “alternative lifestyle”? Finally, a look of pious resolution washed over his face, and he responded by reminding us (and himself, no doubt), that around here, Grace Is Everything. But I will never forget his look of relief when we burst out laughing and told him the truth.  The fact is, food has very practical implications for fellowship. With Thanksgiving coming up, I asked our staff to share about their ideal family holiday fe

View this email in your browserInstruments in the Redeemer’s Hands In 2016, the Memphis Grizzles made the playoffs. At the time the Grizzles had a lot of injuries and would be a massive underdog against the San Antonio Spurs. This was back in the day when the Spurs still had Tony Parker and Tim Duncan. Because of injuries, the Grizzlies were starting guys I hardly remembered as I looked back to fact check this story—Jordan Famar and Chris Anderson, remember him? Every part of his body covered with tattoos and a multi-colored mohawk? He was also nicknamed, “The Bird man.” They promptly lost the first two games by a total of 58 points. Matt Barnes summed up the situation best when, in his frustration, he said this, “We’re coming to a gunfight with spoons.”  In basketball, that is never a good situation to be in; however, we see a totally different reality in the gospel of the Kingdom. In our passage this week, God highlights that this is the situation all his disciples find themselves in. It is sort of like thi

Damascus RoadSometimes you don’t need a unique sermon title, the very episode you are dealing with speaks for itself. That is certainly true Sunday when we see the book of Acts shift into a whole new gear. The conversion of Saul of Tarsus is like landing a whale. It is so significant, it is mentioned two more times in the book of Acts, and we get a few more details along the way. It is so significant that Paul will take center stage and become the main character in Jesus’ story. Admittedly, it has been hard to shift gears this week to ponder God’s work in redemptive history when the death of our dear friend Barbara Moore has been at the forefront of our hearts and minds. This week I have oscillated between tears, laughter, and wonder as I remember Barbara over the past 23 years I have known her and her family. Rarely have I see anyone deal with so much and yet with so much grace. She truly left the world a better place, as do all when love is operative because, “loves leaves a mark.” The funeral will be past

God it seems has a special regard for the outcast. Think sojourners and aliens in the Old Testament. Think tax collectors in Jesus' day and now we come to the book of Acts, post resurrection, what will we make of them now? The gospel is exploding from Jerusalem and now to a people group outcast from the Jewish people—the Samaritans, but wha about individual outcast? People who just don’t fit into society and who find themselves through the exploitation of other people totally alone. Does the gospel have power to heal that?In one of the most famous passages in the book of Acts, Philip, leaves a revival in Samaria and makes his way to Africa. there he mets perhaps the most outcast person in that society, other than a leper—a eunuch. The eunuch has title and power, as he is the treasure to the queen. But that is only his position, his identity is he is a eunuch. In those days they would take young boys and castrat them, so they could work in the royal court without distraction. Often they are found as servants

Last summer, our youth group’s middle school trip was cancelled just days before departure, due to a Covid outbreak among the camp staff. An all-too-familiar occurrence in those days. But, having been by then thoroughly acclimated to “the art of the pivot,” we scrambled and put together a last-minute alternative trip to the Ozarks. Among the events we had planned was a jaunt to the historic downtown theatre to see “Hot Springs’ #1 Attraction: The Maxwell Blade Magic Show.” This zany performance turned out to be equal parts David Copperfield-esque illusions, so-bad-they’re-great “dad jokes,” and an extended selection of… Elton John impersonations? It was bizarre to say the least, but the kids absolutely loved it. I still have a lot of questions about that man’s personal life. The next day we had planned to go to Magic Springs Amusement Park as our grand finale, but alas, we received news of another Covid exposure and had to shut it down early. Everyone was devastated, of course. As we look back on the ill-fat

I don’t know if you have ever encountered pigweed, but it is as awful as it sounds. When I moved out in the country, I brought in truckloads of composted manure from around here. What I wasn’t expecting was all the foreign weeds I would bring in. Pigweed was the worst: it is tough, spreads quickly, and –to make matters worse – it has stickers, so don’t even think about grabbing it and pulling it out with your hands. Besides that, it has roots that go deep. No problem, I thought. I got out my sprayer and carefully went to work on it with Roundup, a herbicide that will kill anything. Well, anything but pigweed. How could that be? Roundup was a farmer’s, and also a gardener’s, dream. Finally, one spray to kill them all. But a funny thing happened along the way from when Roundup first went on the market – pigweed became resistant! Other weeds have done so as well, I hear. Such is the nature of weeds. They seem to find a way to survive. This week we look at the unstoppable nature of the gospel. The early church in

Twenty years ago, a book by Malcom Gladwell called The Tipping Point was all the rage. In it, he is talking about how big change happens. He says there eventually comes a time when things come to a head and something happens that pushes status quo over the edge. “The tipping point is that magic moment when an idea, trend, or social behavior crosses a threshold, tips, and spreads like wildfire.” (Malcolm Gladwell, The Tipping Point) We see the tipping point this week in Acts 7. How is the gospel going to reach beyond Jerusalem? How is the gospel going to go to Samaria? How is the gospel going to go to the ends of the world? A couple of things happen that bring us to the tipping point. 1) Stephen’s remarks before his accusers about the temple, which is in Jerusalem, being fulfilled in Jesus; and 2) A young zealot named Paul being present when Stephen is attacked by a mob. This Sunday, we look at the longest narrative section by any individual in the book of Acts. Stephen basically stands before a hostile crow

No matter how we try to idealize the church, it is still flawed to the core, an imperfect image of the life and ministry of our Savior. And yet, for some reason, God has chosen to spread his glory to the ends of the earth through local communities who faultily and faithfully seek to be his presence in the world. The book of Acts is compelling as we see the birth pangs of the new community Jesus left on earth. Remember, in Acts we are seeing the genesis of a movement that will subvert the very empire that seeks to eradicate it. Beset by troubles from the outside and also within, the church we see in Acts 6 is hit by yet another attack that seeks to derail it from its mission to be a light to the world—mission drift, I suppose is the term we would use today. The Apostles see a problem that, even given their super-sized gifting, they can’t solve on their own. This week we look at a church fully alive—the ministry is spreading, even the least likely persons for conversion are believing the gospel, and yet folk a

A friend of mine sent me an article from GQ magazine this week, entitled “Inside the World of Leg-Lengthening.” Apparently, this is a recent phenomenon among wealthy men who are willing to have their femurs broken and gradually extended by titanium implants in order to gain three to six inches of height. The friend who sent the article is about my stature and neither of us will ever be able to afford it, so I didn’t take it as a slight. He knew I’d be as fascinated as he is by the psychology of the thing. You see, each patient interviewed plainly admitted that he was driven to these extreme cosmetic measures by jealousy. To be clear, these men were not actually jealous of the height of other men, per se, but of the advantages that seem to correlate with that higher elevation. Believe me, if any of these men thought they could get those benefits without the height, not one of them would have bothered with the procedure. If we’re willing to listen carefully, what and whom we’re jealous of can actually tell us

I have been back in the mundane for a couple of weeks now and about to find my sea legs. So, after a week of personal privilege, we are back to our fall study in the book of Acts. This week we come to the familiar story of Ananias and Sapphira. Remember them? They are the ones that are struck dead for what the text calls, “lying to God.” Essentially what happened was some members in this first community of believers saw something so profound and glorious that they wanted to counterfeit it. One thing I know is that you only counterfeit that which is glorious! For instance, you don’t counterfeit what is throwaway, like paper plates; you counterfeit that which you see as glorious—weighty, priceless, or beautiful. C. S. Lewis also says “glorious” means something like fame, approval or a good report. Ananias and Sapphira saw the overwhelming generosity that the gospel produced and tried to steal it. They wanted credit without the cross. They wanted the honor or acclaim that should have gone to God.