I'm Coming Home - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What happens when we finally come to our senses and realize we have been living far beneath our true identity? The parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15 takes us on a journey that is far more than a story about a wayward child and a forgiving parent. It is a mirror held up to every one of us. We see ourselves in the younger son who wanted the blessings without the relationship, who treated the Father like a vending machine rather than a loving presence. We see how sin follows the same pattern every time: it takes us further than we wanted to go, keeps us longer than we planned to stay, and costs us more than we ever intended to pay. But the most striking moment in the entire story is not the son's fall. It is the father's run. In a culture where dignity demanded stillness, the father hiked up his garment and sprinted down the road. That image alone tells us everything we need to know about how God responds when we turn back toward home. He is not waiting with a checklist. He is already running. And when we arrive, He is not handing us a servant's uniform. He is restoring our identity, our authority, and our place at the table. The robe, the ring, the sandals -- these are not rewards for good behavior. They are declarations of who we have always been.

Coming Home: The Father Who Runs

There is something deeply human about the desire to wander. We pack our bags, chase the horizon, and convince ourselves that whatever is out there must be better than what we already have. And there is something equally human about the long, humbling walk back when we finally realize we were wrong.

The parable of the prodigal son, found in Luke 15, is one of the most well-known stories in all of scripture. But familiarity has a way of dulling the edges of a story that was designed to cut deep. When you slow down and sit inside this parable, it does not just tell you about a wayward son. It tells you about yourself. It tells you about the Father. And it tells you that no matter how far you have gone, there is a way back home.

The God We Treat Like a Vending Machine

The story begins with a younger son who approaches his father and demands his share of the inheritance. In the culture of that day, an inheritance was something you received after someone died. This request was not simply impolite. It was a declaration. He was telling his father, in effect, that he was worth more dead than alive. He did not want a relationship. He wanted a payout.

It is uncomfortable to sit with that truth, but if we are honest, we have all done the same thing. We have approached God with a list of needs and requests, quoting scriptures about blessing and provision, without ever simply resting in his presence. We want what he can give without wanting him. We treat our Heavenly Father like a transaction rather than a relationship. We want the inheritance without the intimacy.

And remarkably, the Father grants the request. He does not chase the son down the road. He respects the man's free will, even knowing the cost. That restraint is itself a kind of love.

What Sin Actually Does

The son takes everything and heads to a distant country, where he scatters it all on wild living. The word used in the original Greek means he wasted it, threw it away on things that could never satisfy him. And when the money ran out, a famine hit the land. He ends up feeding pigs, a deeply shameful position for a Jewish young man raised to consider pigs unclean. He gets so hungry that the pig feed starts to look like a meal.

That is what sin does. It takes you further than you wanted to go. It keeps you longer than you planned to stay. It costs you more than you ever intended to pay. And it will have you sitting in a place you never imagined, convincing yourself that the pig slop in front of you is the best you can hope for.

But rock bottom has a way of clearing the fog.

When He Came to His Senses

Luke 15:17 marks one of the most important turning points in the entire story. The son comes to his senses. Not because someone rescued him. Not because his father showed up. He simply stops, tells himself the truth, and remembers whose son he is. He remembers that his father's hired servants have food to spare while he is starving in a foreign land.

That moment of clarity is available to anyone, anywhere, at any time. The same mind that walked away can decide to come back. You do not have to wait for a better set of circumstances. You do not have to wait until you have cleaned yourself up or figured everything out. You can come to your senses right where you are.

He rehearses his speech on the way home. He plans to confess his sin and ask to be made a hired servant. He has come to his senses about his failure, but he still has not fully come to his senses about his worth. He thinks the best he can hope for is a place at the back door.

The Father Who Runs

Here is where the story becomes extraordinary. While the son is still a long way off, his father sees him. You do not see someone coming down the road unless you have been watching for them. The father had been scanning the horizon every single day since his son left.

And when he sees him, he runs.

In the culture of that day, a man of standing did not run. To run, he would have had to lift his garment, exposing his legs, appearing undignified before the entire community. A patriarch was supposed to wait, to be approached, to maintain his composure. But this father throws all of that aside because his child is more important than his reputation.

He runs past the neighbors, past the gossip, past everything cultural expectation demanded of him, and he meets his son in the road.

That is the God we serve. He is not waiting at the door with crossed arms and a list of grievances. He is running toward you. He is not waiting for your speech to be polished or your life to be sorted. He sees you while you are still a long way off, and he runs because you are worth more to him than dignity.

The Robe, the Ring, and the Sandals

When the father reaches his son, he calls for a robe, a ring, and sandals. These are not simply acts of generosity. They are acts of restoration. The robe covers shame and marks him as family. The sandals distinguish him from the servants, who went barefoot. The ring is a signet, a symbol of authority and identity, used to conduct business in the father's name. The father is not just saying he forgives his son. He is reinstating him. He is saying, you are not a servant. You are my son, and everything that comes with this name belongs to you again.

The Brother Who Never Left

There is a second son in the story, and his warning is just as urgent. He stayed home, worked faithfully, and yet when his brother returned and the celebration began, he refused to go in. He described his own life as slaving. He had access to everything the entire time and never claimed it.

That is a word for those who have been in the church for years, who have never run off to a far country, who show up faithfully and serve quietly. Bitterness and resentment can grow in faithful people just as easily as in wandering ones. The Father's invitation extends to both sons. The table has room for the one coming back from the far country and the one standing outside the party, arms folded, convinced they have been overlooked.

You Can Come Home

Whether you have been in a far country of addiction, broken relationships, or seasons of chasing things that promised life and left you empty, or whether you have been standing faithfully in the house but quietly starving on the inside, the Father is extending the same invitation.

You can come to your senses right now. And when you turn around and start heading home, do not be surprised when you look up and see him already running toward you.

He will meet you in your mess. He will walk you the rest of the way home. And when you arrive, there will be a robe, a ring, sandals, and a celebration, because what was lost has now been found.

What is this Stuff? - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What do we do when God has clearly moved on our behalf, but we find ourselves still waiting, still hungry, still uncertain about what comes next? That is the tension at the heart of Exodus 16, where the people of God are three months removed from one of the greatest miracles in human history and yet find themselves grumbling in the wilderness. The tambourines have gone quiet. The songs have faded. And the children are asking questions that nobody can answer. This passage pulls back the curtain on one of the most honest and uncomfortable realities of the faith journey: deliverance does not always come with a welcome basket. We can be free from what once held us and still feel the weight of what lies ahead. The spiritual lesson here cuts deep. Nostalgia can become its own kind of bondage. When we romanticize what God has already freed us from, we risk trading a real future for a false memory. The Israelites looked back at Egypt and remembered the food, forgetting the whips, the quotas, the decree against their sons. That selective memory is not just an ancient problem. It lives in us too, in every moment we cling to the familiar over the faithful, in every season we defend the way things have always been done while God is standing at the door with our bags already packed. The wilderness is not a punishment. It is a passage. And the manna that falls in it is not just bread. It is a message: the same God who brought us out is the same God who is with us in the middle. 

What Is This Stuff? Finding God's Provision in the Wilderness

There is a question buried in the book of Exodus that is so simple, so raw, so utterly human that it has echoed across thousands of years and still lands with full force today. When the people of Israel looked down at the ground one morning and saw something they had never seen before, something thin and flaky that had appeared with the dew, they turned to one another and asked the only question they had: "What is this stuff?"

That question — manna in Hebrew — became the name for the very bread God rained down from heaven. And it is still the right question to ask when God provides in ways that defy explanation.

Free but Not Comfortable

To understand why that question matters, you have to understand what came before it. Three months earlier, the Israelites had been standing in the mud of the Nile Delta with a whip cracking over their heads. They had no name except a number, no wages except survival, and no future except what Pharaoh decided it would be. Then God moved. He sent a stuttering shepherd with a stick in his hand to stand before the most powerful man in the world and deliver four words that would change the shape of human history: "Let my people go."

God brought them out through plagues that shook an empire. He brought them through a sea that had no business opening and no business closing. He brought them out with gold in their hands and songs on their lips. Miriam had a tambourine, and the whole camp went dancing.

But that was three months ago.

Now the tambourine is sitting in somebody's bag. The song has faded. The people of God are in a place the Bible calls the desert of Sin, somewhere between Elim and Sinai. They are free. Nobody is counting their bricks. But they are also hungry. They are tired. The scenery has not changed in weeks, and the children are asking questions that mama and daddy cannot answer.

Here is the truth that the wilderness forces us to confront: freedom and comfort are not the same thing. Deliverance does not always come with a welcome basket. You can be out of Egypt and still be in the wilderness. You can have the shackles removed from your wrists and still have a knot in your stomach. And if you have ever been in that place where God clearly did something but you are still waiting on God to do something else, then you understand exactly where the people of God are standing in Exodus 16.

The Danger of Selective Memory

What the Israelites did next is painfully familiar. They looked back. The whole community grumbled against Moses and Aaron, saying that if only they had died in Egypt, where they sat around pots of meat and ate all the food they wanted. They were remembering the cornbread. They were talking about Egypt like it was a family reunion.

But somebody needed to check the record. Egypt was where Pharaoh ordered every newborn Hebrew boy thrown into the Nile. Egypt was where they made bricks without straw and were beaten when the quota was not met. Egypt was not a reunion. Egypt was a plantation.

That is the danger of nostalgia. It is one thing to look back on the past fondly. It is something else entirely to be in bondage to it. Familiarity is not freedom. Sometimes the most dangerous thing in your life is not the thing that is hurting you. Sometimes it is the thing that is hurting you that you have simply gotten used to.

The journey from Egypt to the promised land was supposed to take eleven days. It took forty years. Not because God was slow, but because the people kept stopping. Every time the terrain changed, they stopped. Every time the menu changed, they stopped. They kept measuring the wilderness against Egypt instead of measuring the wilderness against the promise God had given them.

The Wilderness Is Still Real

The wilderness is not just an ancient story. The wilderness is a grocery store where ground beef approaches seven dollars a pound. The wilderness is a layoff that arrived by email on a Tuesday. The wilderness is a diagnosis you did not want, a bed with an empty side, a child who has stopped answering the phone. The wilderness is having more month than money.

And in the wilderness, the temptation is always the same one the Israelites faced: to complain about what we do not have instead of remembering what God can provide. To look backward and call it wisdom. To tell God how big the mountain is instead of telling the mountain how big God is.

God Heard Them Anyway

Here is where the story turns. The people complained, and their complaints were not polite or theologically precise. They said they would rather have died as slaves than trust God in freedom. And God heard them anyway. Moses told the community four times in a single passage: God has heard you. Not "God might hear you." Not "God will hear you if you clean yourself up." God has heard you.

That is not permission to be ungrateful. That is proof of who God is. His mercy is everlasting. His truth endures to all generations. And the God who heard them crying out in the brickyard is the same God who heard them in the desert. God did not stop listening once the whips stopped.

What followed was provision that defied every natural explanation. Quail covered the camp that evening. In the morning, something thin and flaky appeared on the ground with the dew. The people looked at it and had no word for it. They called it what it was to them: what is this stuff?

Moses gave them the only answer that mattered. It is the bread the Lord has given you to eat.

The Gift Is the Message

The manna was never just calories. The gift was the message. The timing told the people that the same God who brought them out of Egypt was the same God present with them in the wilderness. Same God, different address.

This is how God has always worked. He told Abram to leave everything familiar and travel toward a place he could not yet name. He told Noah to build a boat before rain had ever fallen. He told people standing at the edge of a sea to step forward, and they walked across on dry ground. He told professional fishermen to throw the net on the other side of the boat after a whole night of catching nothing, and the nets filled so fast they began to tear. Faith looks foolish right up until the moment the miracle happens.

God has never needed your circumstances to cooperate in order to provide for you. He set a table in the desert for people who had no fields, no plows, no harvest, and no supply chain. He can do it again.

Some of us are sitting with evidence of that provision all around us. Clothes we do not remember buying. A house that one or two banks said was not for us. Children who survived things that would have taken other people out. A life that, when examined honestly, can only produce one response: I did not do this by myself.

What is this? How did God make a way when the math said it was impossible? How has God provided, protected, and sustained through things that should have broken us entirely?

We may not have a name for it. But we know we did not get here alone.

The manna is still raining down. Bring your empty hands, your questions, your complaints still warm on your lips. Draw near. The provision is waiting in the place God is taking you, not the place you already know.

The Debt We Cannot Count - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What happens when forgiveness meets a ledger? In Matthew 18:21-35, we find one of the most searching questions in all of Scripture, Peter steps forward and asks Jesus how many times we are really expected to forgive someone who keeps hurting us. It is a question most of us have quietly asked ourselves, even if we never said it out loud. Jesus responds not with a simple number but with a parable that reframes the entire conversation. The story of a servant forgiven an astronomically impossible debt, the kind that would have exceeded the combined tax revenue of entire nations, only to turn around and choke a fellow servant over a comparatively trivial sum, holds up a mirror to something we all carry. The spiritual insight here is not just about forgiving others. It is about recognizing the staggering scale of what has already been forgiven in us. When we understand the size of the debt that was canceled at the cross on our behalf, the ledgers we keep on one another begin to look very different. This message invites us to stop counting and start living from the overflow of grace we have already received.

The Debt You Could Never Count

There is a certain kind of person who keeps a ledger. Not the kind you file with your taxes, but the kind you carry quietly in the back of your mind. It has entries going back years, maybe decades. What someone said at a family dinner in 1997 and never apologized for. What a former friend did when you needed them most. What a coworker said in that meeting, knowing full well you were in the room. The ledger is detailed; it is organized, and if we are being honest, some of us have been remarkably faithful to keeping it current.

Most of us would not call it bitterness. We would call it wisdom. We would call it protecting our peace. But the question that sits at the center of Matthew 18 has a way of exposing what we are actually doing when we reach for that ledger. It is the question the apostle Peter raised when he asked Jesus how many times he was supposed to forgive someone who sinned against him. He even offered what he thought was a generous answer: seven times. Rabbis of his day taught that forgiving someone three times was sufficient. Peter doubled it and added one for good measure. He was not trying to get out of forgiving. He was trying to find where it ended.

He wanted a ceiling.

And the truth is, most of us want one too.

Jesus answered Peter with a number so large it defied counting, whether it was 77 or 70 times 7, the point was never the arithmetic. The moment you start counting, you have already missed what forgiveness is. Jesus was not raising the ceiling. He was taking the roof off the building altogether.

Then, to make sure the lesson landed, he told a story.

A servant owed a king an amount so staggering that historians estimate it would have rivaled the combined annual tax revenue of entire regions under Herod the Great. This was not a debt anyone could work off in a lifetime, or ten lifetimes. It was a number designed to be impossible, a debt beyond any reasonable calculation or payment plan. The servant fell on his face and begged for patience, as though patience could ever bridge a gap that wide. And the king, moved not by the servant's math but by compassion, canceled the whole thing. Not reduced it. Not restructured it. Canceled it entirely.

The servant walked out of that room a free man.

And the first thing he did was find someone who owed him about 100 days' wages and grab him by the throat demanding payment. When that man begged for patience using the exact same words the servant himself had just used before the king, the servant refused and had him thrown into prison.

The contrast is not subtle. Jesus wants us sitting with the sheer absurdity of it. A man forgiven a debt equivalent to the GDP of multiple nations, choking someone over what amounts to a fraction of a single year's salary. The fellow servants who witnessed it were outraged. The king, when he heard, was furious. And the warning at the end of the parable is among the most sobering in all of the Gospels, found in Matthew 18:35, where Jesus makes clear that the Father's treatment of those who refuse to forgive from the heart mirrors the king's response to that unforgiving servant.

This is where the text refuses to let us stay comfortable.

Because whatever has been done to you, and nothing here is meant to minimize it, whatever wound you are carrying, whatever name is written in your ledger, it exists inside a much larger story. A story about what has already been forgiven in you. You did not earn the first forgiveness. That means you have no standing to be rationing out the next one.

But it is worth being careful here, because forgiveness is not the same thing as pretending nothing happened. It is not glossing over real pain or telling yourself it was not that bad when it was. That is avoidance, and avoidance does not heal anyone. Real forgiveness looks the debt full in the face, names it honestly, and then releases it anyway. Scripture gives us examples of people who were genuinely forgiven and still lived with real consequences. Forgiveness does not erase consequences, and it does not automatically rebuild trust. You are not required to hand your car keys to someone who has wrecked your car three times already. Forgiveness simply means you are no longer operating as judge and jury. That position was filled long before you arrived, and it will remain filled long after you are gone.

What forgiveness does is release you. It releases the hurt from being the first thing you think about when you wake up and the last thing you think about before you close your eyes. Holding on to unforgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to get sick. More often than not, they have moved on entirely. The only one being slowly destroyed by the ledger is the one keeping it.

There is also something the parable makes plain that we tend to overlook: unforgiveness is never as private as we think. The fellow servants saw what happened, and it affected the entire community. When you withhold forgiveness, it ripples outward. And when you extend it, especially to someone who did not deserve it, something shifts in the people watching. They begin to believe that their own wounds might be survivable too.

Every sin you have ever committed, every time you have fallen short, every secret struggle no one else knows about, canceled. Not reduced. Not placed on a payment plan. Canceled in full.

That is not a God running a ledger. That is a God who tore the ledger up and nailed it to a cross.

And the same grace that erased your debt is now available to hand to someone else. The forgiven are called to become the forgivers, not out of gritted teeth and willpower, but out of overflow. Because we have already received more mercy than we could ever measure.

So if there is a name in your ledger today, set it next to the impossible debt that has already been erased on your behalf.

Then let it go.

The Wearable Christ - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What if the most important decision we make each morning has nothing to do with what hangs in our closet? Romans 13:8-14 challenges us to think beyond the physical and consider the spiritual identity we put on each day. Paul writes to a church living inside a culture of excess and appetite, urging believers to wake up, shed the habits of darkness, and clothe themselves with Christ. The passage draws a striking parallel between getting dressed and living out our faith. Just as we check the weather before choosing an outfit, we are called to examine our hearts before stepping into the world. The central tension Paul identifies is one many of us quietly live with: two outfits hanging in the closet at the same time, one for Sunday and one for every other day of the week. The call here is not to minor adjustments but to a decisive, whole-life commitment to wearing one identity consistently. Love, Paul argues, is not a slogan but the fulfillment of the entire law, and it is something the world around us should be able to see without us having to explain it.

The Wearable Christ: Who Are You Putting On Today?

Every morning, before your feet hit the floor, you make a decision. You may not call it a decision. You may call it a habit, a routine, something automatic. But it is a decision all the same. You ask yourself, consciously or not, what am I going to wear today?

Some of us have it figured out the night before. Some of us stand in front of a mirror for fifteen minutes weighing options. Some of us check the weather before we even open the closet. We think about color, comfort, occasion, and function. We think about whether an outfit has enough pockets. We think about what statement we are making before we ever say a word.

And yet, for all the care and attention we pour into what goes on our bodies, most of us spend zero minutes deciding what spirit we are going to walk out the door wearing.

That is the tension at the heart of Romans 13:8-14, and it is as alive today as it was when Paul first wrote it to the church in Rome.

A Debt That Never Fully Clears

Paul opens this passage with a striking financial image. He tells his readers to owe nothing to anyone, with one exception: the continuing debt to love one another. This is not a debt you can pay off and be done with. It is a debt that renews itself every single day, with every person you encounter.

He then walks through several of the commandments, pointing out that they all share a common thread. Whether the command is about adultery, murder, theft, or coveting, every single one of them is fundamentally about how you treat another human being. And Paul's conclusion is the same one Jesus reached when the Pharisees pressed him on the greatest commandment in all of Scripture: love your neighbor as yourself. As Matthew 22:37-40 makes clear, the entire law and the writings of the prophets hang on loving God and loving people. That is the whole of it.

This is not a slogan for a website or a line in a church bulletin. It is the fulfillment of the entire law.

The word used for love in this passage is the Greek word agape. This is not a casual or conditional affection. This is the highest form of love described in Christian scripture, a love that does not calculate what it will receive before it decides to give. It is love that acts regardless of the return.

Real faith is about relationship, not ritual. You can occupy a pew every Sunday of your life and still miss the point entirely if you cannot genuinely love the person sitting two rows away from you, or the neighbor across the street who does not look like you, worship like you, or vote like you. Attending church does not make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. The location is right, but the function has to follow.

Wake Up. The Day Is Coming.

Paul does not stop at the call to love. He adds urgency to it. He tells his readers to understand the present time, because the hour has already come to wake up from sleep.

The word Paul uses for time here is not the ordinary Greek word for clock time. It is the word kairos, meaning a decisive, appointed moment. God's time. And Paul is saying that on God's timeline, the church is living somewhere between midnight and morning. There is time, but just enough time to get up, get dressed, and get to work.

He says that salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. This means that a one-time decision made years ago is not a finish line. It is a starting point. Discipleship requires forward movement, even when the doctor's report is discouraging, even when there is more month than money, even when the news is heavy and the friendships around you turn out to be something less than you thought they were. The call is to press forward because the dawn is closer than it has ever been.

Take It Off. Put It On.

Paul gives the church a clear two-part instruction. First, take off the works of darkness. He names them specifically: carousing, drunkenness, sexual immorality, dissension, and jealousy. What is striking about this list is that every item on it has something in common. Each one is a thing that robs you of rest, clarity, and connection. Jealousy keeps you up at night rehearsing what someone else has. Dissension has you spending energy arguing with people who have no intention of changing their minds. These are not just moral failures. They are things that drain the life out of you and out of every relationship you carry.

But Paul does not stop at subtraction. He tells his readers what to put on in place of what they have taken off. He says to put on the armor of light. This is battle language. These are not decorative accessories. They are weapons, because anything worth having in this life is worth fighting for. Fight for your marriage. Fight for your children. Fight for your community. Fight for your church. Wake up and go beyond the walls of what is familiar and comfortable.

And then Paul lands on the phrase that gathers everything together. He says to clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ.

In the early church, new believers being baptized would remove their old garments before going into the water and be dressed in new white robes when they came up. This was not ceremony for ceremony's sake. It was a visible, physical picture of exactly what Paul is describing. The old self laid down. The new self raised up and clothed in something entirely different.

Who Are You Wearing?

The world does not need the church to explain what it believes nearly as much as it needs to be able to look at the church and recognize what it is wearing, not because of a bumper sticker or a lapel pin, but because of how believers love, how they forgive, and how they show up for people who have nothing to offer them in return.

You can forget your watch. You can leave your phone on the nightstand. You can walk out without a coat and survive being cold for a few minutes.

But do not leave the house without putting on Christ.

The night is nearly over. The day is almost here. Get up, get dressed, and walk into this world wearing the only thing that has ever fully and finally covered us.

How to Overcome Evil - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

 

What does it actually look like to love people when the world feels like it is coming apart at the seams? Romans 12:9-21 gives us one of the most practical and demanding blueprints in all of Scripture for doing exactly that. We are called not just to avoid evil, but to be utterly repulsed by it, while at the same time clinging so tightly to what is good that nothing can pry it loose. That is a tension most of us live in every single day. The passage does not ask us to pretend that injustice is not real or that pain does not exist. It asks us to refuse to let that pain rewrite who we are becoming. When we hold a grudge long enough, we can mistake it for a part of our identity. But Paul is calling us to something harder and more transformative than revenge or bitterness. He is calling us to a love that is sincere, unhypocritical, and consistent whether anyone is watching or not. The kind of love that does not wait for an apology before it acts. The kind that feeds an enemy not to humiliate them, but to create a moment where they have to face themselves. That is not weakness. That is the strategy of the cross.

Overcoming Evil With Good: A Call to Sincere, Unbreakable Love

There is a question that never seems to go away, no matter how many years pass or how much the world changes. It is the question that surfaces every time a headline makes your stomach drop, every time someone wrongs you in a way that feels impossible to forgive, every time hatred seems to be winning on every front. The question is simply this: How are we supposed to respond?

Romans 12:9-21 does not sidestep that question. It walks straight into it. And what it offers is not a tidy self-help formula or a passive suggestion to simply be nicer. It is a radical, demanding, and deeply hopeful blueprint for how people of faith are supposed to live when the world around them is on fire.

The World Paul Was Writing Into

When the Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Rome, he was writing to a congregation he had never visited. He was writing to a community of Jewish believers and Gentile converts who were trying to figure out how to share a table, share a faith, and share a life together under an empire that had little interest in seeing them survive. And remarkably, even before they had to worry about the empire, they were struggling to get along with each other. The tension Paul addresses in Romans 12 is largely internal. Believers were failing to love the people sitting right next to them in the pew.

Sound familiar?

The circumstances of Rome may be ancient, but the struggle is not. Communities are on edge today. Hate crimes are climbing. Houses of worship have become crime scenes. Neighbors are suspicious of neighbors. And inside the church, people who claim the same Lord are still finding ways to wound one another. The question Paul was answering then is the question we are still living with now.

Hate the Evil, Cling to the Good

The first thing Paul establishes in verse 9 is that genuine love is not neutral. He says to hate what is evil, and the Greek word behind that command is intense. It means to be utterly repulsed by it, to despise it. This is not a call to passive, conflict-avoiding faith. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from a Birmingham jail, history will judge this generation not only by the actions of bad people, but by the appalling silence of good people.

But Paul does not stop at hatred of evil. In the same breath, he says to cling to what is good. The word translated as cling means to glue yourself to it, to bind yourself so tightly to goodness that nothing can pry it loose. This is the tension the Christian life holds together. We reject evil fiercely, but we refuse to let that rejection define us or deform us. There is a difference between separating yourself from wickedness and letting bitterness move into your heart and set up permanent residence.

James Baldwin observed that people hold onto hatred so tightly because they sense that underneath it is pain, and once the hatred is gone, they will actually have to deal with that pain. Some of us have been nursing grudges for so long that we have confused them for identity. Paul is calling us to something harder and better than that.

What Real Love Actually Looks Like

Paul is precise about the shape of this love. Verse 9 says it must be sincere, and the Greek word behind sincere means literally unhypocritical. No mask, no performance. Not one thing on Sunday and something entirely different on Monday. Real love is not a feeling you wait to catch. It is a decision you make and then act upon, consistently, even when no one is watching.

Verse 10 calls believers to outdo one another in showing honor. That is a strange kind of competition, because most competition in this life is about getting ahead of someone else. This competition is about who can lift someone up faster. Instead of competing over who was hurt worse or who can hold a grudge longer, what if the church competed over who could show up for a neighbor first?

Paul is also realistic. In verse 18, he acknowledges that peace is not always fully within your power to achieve. He says, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. That is an honest word. You cannot control what other people do. You can only control what you do. This is not a call to be a doormat. It is not an instruction to walk into a room that has already decided reconciliation is impossible. But it is a call to make sure that if peace breaks down, it is not because of what you brought to the table.

The Strange Power of Feeding Your Enemy

Verse 20 quotes from Proverbs 25, and it is one of the strangest passages in all of scripture. Paul says that if your enemy is hungry, you should feed him. If he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing so, you will heap burning coals on his head.

Do not misread that image. Paul is not encouraging a secret strategy of kindness designed to humiliate someone later. Those burning coals are not about punishment. They are about conviction. When you respond to cruelty with genuine kindness, you create a moment in which the other person has to face what they have done. The shame is not something you are handing them. It is something being exposed in them by your love. Feeding your enemy does not make you weak. It makes them face themselves.

The Demonstration We Were Given

If all we had was a command to love our enemies, that would simply be another law we were bound to break eventually. But we do not just have a command. We have a demonstration. Romans 5:8 tells us that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. He did not wait for an apology. He did not withhold love until conditions improved. He was bruised by the very hands he came to save, and from the cross he said, Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.

That is love that is sincere. That is love that clings to good even while evil is doing its absolute worst. And three days after that cross, an empty tomb announced that this kind of love does not lose. Archbishop Desmond Tutu put it plainly: good is stronger than evil, love is stronger than hate, light is stronger than darkness, and life is stronger than death.

That is not wishful thinking. That is the gospel.

The Question Before Us

Evil is not hiding. It will show up this week in small ways and large ones. The real question is not whether it is out there. The question is whether you are going to let it move in. Are you going to let what someone did to you take up permanent residence in your heart? Are you going to let bitterness cast the deciding vote in how you treat people?

Or are you going to do what Paul called the church in Rome to do? Hate the evil. Cling to what is good. Let love be genuine and consistent and unbreakable. Do not be overcome by evil. Overcome evil with good.

That is the strategy of the cross. And it has never stopped working.

Early Influencers - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What does it look like when God chooses the overlooked to change the world? In this powerful exploration of Exodus 1:8 through 2:10, we are taken deep into one of Scripture's most gripping stories of oppression, resistance, and divine deliverance. The passage opens with a chilling reminder of how quickly gratitude fades in human institutions. A new Pharaoh rises who knows nothing of Joseph, the Hebrew man whose wisdom once saved all of Egypt from famine. That single detail exposes something raw about human nature: systems and societies can benefit enormously from people and then erase them entirely from memory. The lesson for us is sobering. We cannot afford to wait for the world to remember our contributions or come looking for what we offer. Faithfulness calls us to keep moving forward regardless. At the heart of this message is a truth that cuts across every era of history: oppression is always rooted in fear. Pharaoh did not oppress the Israelites because they had done anything wrong. He acted out of fear of being outnumbered and losing control. That fear drove policy, labor exploitation, and eventually a decree to kill Hebrew infant boys. Yet the more the Israelites were oppressed, the more they multiplied. There is a profound spiritual principle here. You can place a burden on the people of God, but you cannot place a limit on the favor of God. The very pressure designed to diminish them became the platform for their increase. That is a word for anyone who has ever felt crushed by circumstances that seemed designed to stop them.

The Influencers Heaven Remembers

There is a kind of influence the world will never measure. It does not trend. It does not accumulate followers. It does not generate revenue or earn a verified badge. And yet, it is the kind of influence that has repeatedly changed the course of history, delivered entire generations from oppression, and set in motion the purposes of God in ways that no empire could anticipate or stop.

The opening chapters of Exodus tell one of the most dramatic stories in all of Scripture, and it begins not with a king or a general or a prophet, but with midwives, a mother, a watchful sister, and a compassionate princess. Before Moses ever held a staff, before a single plague was called down on Egypt, before the waters of the Red Sea parted, God was already at work through people the empire had completely overlooked.

When the World Forgets What You Built

Exodus 1 opens with a jarring reality. A new king has come to power in Egypt, and this king has no knowledge of Joseph. The man who had interpreted Pharaoh's dreams, stored up grain during years of plenty, managed a nation through famine, and saved the very country now turning against his descendants, that man and his legacy had been erased from the cultural memory of those in power.

It is a sobering reminder that the world does not always hold onto what it owes. Institutions forget their foundations. Generations inherit blessings they never trace back to their source. People in power rewrite the story to center themselves. And if we spend our lives waiting for the world to remember what we contributed, we will wait forever.

The lesson is not bitterness. The lesson is clarity. We cannot assume that faithfulness will be recognized by those who benefit from it. We do the work anyway, because the work is not ultimately for Pharaoh's memory. It is for God's purposes.

Fear in the Driver's Seat

What drove Pharaoh's cruelty was not evidence. It was fear. He looked at a people who were growing and thriving and prospering, and instead of seeing neighbors, he saw a threat. He had no proof that the Israelites were plotting against him. He had anxiety about losing control, dressed up as a national security concern.

Fear-based leadership follows a predictable pattern. It identifies a group to blame. It builds policy around that fear. It frames oppression as protection. And it always, eventually, comes for the next generation, because the goal of fear-based power is never just to control the present. It is to eliminate the future.

Pharaoh escalated from forced labor to infanticide. When the workload did not break the Israelites, he went after the babies. Exodus 1 tells us that the more the Egyptians oppressed the Israelites, the more the Israelites multiplied and spread. You can place a burden on the people of God, but you cannot place a limit on the favor of God. The very pressure designed to shrink them became the platform for their increase.

The Courage That Does Not Make Headlines

When Pharaoh ordered the Hebrew midwives, Shiprah and Puah, to kill every baby boy they delivered, these two women made a decision that would quietly alter the trajectory of an entire nation. They feared God, and so they did not do what the king commanded. They let the boys live.

They had no political title. They had no army. They had no platform. What they had was a conscience that was not for rent and an obedience that was not for sale. Their loyalty belonged to someone whose authority outranked Pharaoh's, and that settled the matter for them.

Long before the apostles stood before the religious council and declared that they must obey God rather than human authority, as recorded in Acts 5, these two midwives had already lived that truth out with their own hands. They are among the first named individuals in the book of Exodus, and God honored them with families of their own. Heaven noticed what the headlines missed.

A Basket in the Nile

By the time we reach Exodus 2, a Levite mother has given birth to a son and hidden him for three months. When she can hide him no longer, she builds a basket, waterproofs it, and places her child in the very river that Pharaoh had commanded be used to drown Hebrew boys. The Hebrew word used for that basket is the same word used elsewhere in Scripture for ark. It is a vessel designed so that what is placed inside can save what is on the outside.

Noah's ark carried life through the flood. The ark of the covenant carried the presence and promises of God through the wilderness. And this small, hand-built basket carried the future deliverer of Israel through the waters of the Nile. Pharaoh's own weapon became the instrument of rescue. The river meant for death became the road to life.

Miriam, the baby's sister, stations herself nearby to watch. Pharaoh's own daughter comes to bathe, finds the basket, hears the crying child, and chooses compassion over compliance with her father's decree. Miriam steps forward and offers to find a nurse. The woman she brings is the baby's own mother, who is then paid wages from Pharaoh's own household to raise the child she had risked everything to protect.

God tied the whole rescue back together using the very system built to destroy.

What Is Already in Your Hands

The early chapters of Exodus are not driven by Pharaoh's power. They are driven by the faithfulness of people the empire never took seriously. None of them held political office. None of them commanded armies. But every one of them changed the course of history through a steadfast refusal to surrender their compassion or their conscience.

This is the invitation extended to all of us. Not to wait for a title or a microphone or a moment when the world finally recognizes what we bring. The invitation is to be faithful with what is already in our hands, right where God has already placed us.

The history books may not record your name. The algorithms will not amplify your quiet courage. But the same God who saw Shiprah and Puah, who saw Jochebed weaving that basket, who saw Miriam standing watch at the water's edge, that God sees you. And that is more than enough to keep going.

And the Winner Is - Pastor Johnnie Simpson Jr.

What happens when the fight you never planned for shows up in the middle of the night? In Genesis 32:22-31, we find Jacob alone in the dark, stripped of every comfort and distraction, suddenly wrestling with a divine opponent until daybreak. This passage pulls back the curtain on one of the most raw and honest moments in all of scripture, and it turns out to have everything to do with where we are right now. The central lesson is this: some blessings cannot be received without a struggle. Jacob did not win by overpowering God. He won by refusing to let go. Even after his hip was knocked out of socket, even when he could no longer stand on his own strength, he shifted from fighting to holding on, and that desperate grip was exactly what God was waiting for. The sermon draws a powerful parallel between Jacob's panic before the fight and the anxiety so many of us carry, the dread of a phone call, a diagnosis, a conversation we have been avoiding. Ninety percent of what we worry about never happens, yet we rehearse it endlessly in our minds. Jacob was already overwhelmed before the wrestling even began, and still God met him right there in that place. There is tremendous encouragement in that for all of us.

 

 

 

When the Fight Finds You: Lessons from Jacob's Night at the Jabbok

There are fights you prepare for. You see them coming. You have time to strategize, to gather your strength, to mentally rehearse every possible outcome. And then there are the fights that find you in the dark, without warning, without a referee, without any of the people you normally lean on standing nearby. Those are the fights that change you forever.

Genesis 32:22-31 tells one of the most raw and surprising stories in all of scripture. Jacob, a man with a complicated history and a long list of people he had wronged, finds himself alone on the bank of the Jabbok River. He had sent his family ahead. He had sent his possessions ahead. And in that solitude, before daybreak, a man appears and the wrestling begins. No introduction. No explanation. Just the fight.

What happens in that stretch of darkness between sunset and sunrise holds some of the most profound spiritual truth available to anyone who has ever felt like life had them pinned against the ground.

The Weight of a Panicked Heart

Jacob was not in a peaceful place when this fight found him. He was a man running from his own history. Years earlier, he had deceived his brother Esau out of both his birthright and his blessing, the two most significant things a firstborn son could possess in that culture. Esau had been furious enough to gather four hundred men. Jacob had fled and built an entire life in exile, far from the consequences he left behind.

But now he was heading home. And home meant facing what he had never fully dealt with.

That kind of panic is not unique to Jacob. Many people are walking around carrying the weight of something they outran but never resolved. A conversation they have been dreading. A relationship they fractured. A decision they made that they have been hoping would quietly disappear. The mind has a way of rehearsing these confrontations over and over, playing out every scenario, and yet none of those mental rehearsals ever quite match what actually happens.

Jacob was mentally preparing for one fight and ended up in a completely different one.

You Cannot Buy Your Way Out of a Reckoning

Before crossing the river, Jacob sent wave after wave of livestock ahead as gifts to his brother. Goats, sheep, cattle, camels, donkeys. He was hoping that enough generosity could soften the blow of his past. He believed that if he could give Esau enough, he could purchase peace before he ever had to look his brother in the eye.

It is a deeply human instinct. People try to buy their way out of hard conversations with gifts instead of honesty. They try to work their way into God's favor through religious activity instead of genuine surrender. They believe that if they can just give enough, do enough, send enough ahead, they can avoid the wrestling match entirely.

But some things cannot be purchased. Some reckonings cannot be bypassed. Jacob sent everything he owned across that river and still ended up alone in the dark with a fight on his hands.

The Promise That Preceded the Struggle

What Jacob had in that darkness was a word. Years before this night, when he was fleeing Esau for the first time, God had met him in a dream and spoken a promise over him. In Genesis 28, God told him that he would be with him, watch over him wherever he went, and bring him back to his homeland. Jacob had a promise that predated his crisis.

And yet, that promise did not cancel the wrestling match. It did not remove the struggle. What it did was give him something to hold onto when everything else had been sent across the river.

This is one of the most important things a person of faith can understand. Prayer and promise do not always mean the absence of struggle. Sometimes they mean the presence of God within the struggle. Sometimes the prayer does not eliminate the hard season. It equips you to survive it.

The Moment Strength Becomes a Liability

The wrestling match between Jacob and this mysterious divine figure goes on through the night. Jacob holds his own until the man touches his hip and knocks it out of socket. In an instant, Jacob goes from fighting to clinging. He can no longer rely on his own strength, his own technique, his own strategy. All he can do is hold on.

And it is precisely at that moment that Jacob says something extraordinary. When the man tells him to let go because daybreak is coming, Jacob responds that he will not release his grip until he receives a blessing.

That is not defeat speaking. That is determination born from desperation. There is something significant about the moment when a person can no longer stand on their own strength and finally grabs hold of God with everything they have left. Sometimes God has to dislocate something in a person before that person will stop trying to win the fight on their own terms and simply refuse to let go.

The Limp and the Blessing in the Same Body

Jacob walks away from that riverbank with two things simultaneously: a new name and a permanent limp. He is renamed Israel, a name that will eventually carry the weight of an entire nation and a covenant people. He has been marked by God, elevated by God, blessed by God.

And he walks with a limp for the rest of his life.

This is the part of the story that deserves to sit with you for a moment. The wound and the blessing are not opposites. They are companions. Jacob does not need to build a monument at Peniel to remember what happened there because he carries the evidence in his own body every time he takes a step.

Some of the most profound encounters with God leave a mark. Not because God is cruel, but because some transformations are that deep. Some people are walking around right now, wounded in ways that nobody around them can see, and still showing up, still moving forward, still holding families together, still serving, still pressing on.

The limp is not the proof that you lost.

Sometimes the limp is the proof that you refused to let go.

Hold on until daybreak. You may leave the fight wounded, but you also leave blessed.