My sermon is based on
I have two small wall signs in my office.
One hangs on the door: “Above all else, believe.”
The other says, “Wherever you go, go with all your heart.”
When I got them, I didn’t expect much. They were just cute little plaques—something you might find at Cracker Barrel.
But over the years, these two messages have carried me through my ministry as a priest.
One urges belief; the other, wholeheartedness.
Together, they’ve become a quiet rule of life for me.
Above all else, believe.
To believe the impossible requires every strength of my body, mind, and spirit.
It takes all my heart to believe—not because my experiences are always miraculous or extraordinary.
Quite the contrary. Most moments of belief happen in the thick of confusion, frustration, disappointment—those seasons when nothing seems to make sense.
There are days I want to ask where God is in all of it.
Days I want to yell if He hears me.
Days I want to ask why there is so much suffering when all we want is love and peace.
And sometimes… I wonder quietly, “Is this all there is?”
My expectation of God is often more Hollywood than holy—filled with bright lights and quick resolutions.
So learning to give all my heart means realizing how small and limited that heart really is, yet loved enough by God to become useful for proclaiming the Gospel.
Scripture reminds us that God’s work is rarely flashy.
It is quiet, hidden, and often working in places we least expect.
Jesus told the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector to people who trusted in their own righteousness.
The tax collector couldn’t lift his eyes to heaven; he knew too well the weight of his sin.
All he could do was bow his head, strike his chest, and plead for mercy.
The Pharisee, meanwhile, stood tall, thanking God that he was better than others, rehearsing his good deeds as if they proved his worth.
Yet God looked not at their words, but at their hearts—and chose the humility of the sinner over the pride of the righteous.
Jeremiah pleads with God not to abandon His people, even in their disobedience.
His prayer echoes Jesus’ cry from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Both Jeremiah and Jesus stand between God and a wayward people, embodying mercy when judgment would be easier.
This passage reminds me of my own calling—not to play God or pass verdicts, but to stand beside His people with compassion.
Jeremiah’s cry becomes a pastoral mirror, inviting me to love those I serve with the same mercy I ask of God.
It is hard work.
But as the psalm teaches us, the journey through sorrow is the very soil where grace wells up.
Paul, nearing the end of his ministry, tells Timothy he has no regrets.
He has poured himself out for the Gospel—not for gain or reputation, but so that Christ might be known.
His road was anything but easy, yet every hardship was redeemed by purpose.
Through his testimony, Paul urges Timothy to face the future with courage and wholehearted faith, trusting that a life given to Christ is never wasted.
Our Christian life is about how much of the Good News—the love of God through Jesus Christ—we get to proclaim while we have time on this earth.
Above all else, we must strive to believe.
To believe, we must give all our hearts.
And to give it generously, we must practice humility.
Above all else, believe.
And believing, give your whole heart.
And in that giving, find the mercy that makes all things new.(pause, then quietly) Amen.
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