Today we light the third candle of Advent—the Shepherds’ Candle—the candle of Joy.
Its color is different for a reason. Joy is not merely another virtue in the Advent lineup; it is the evidence that the world is already being changed by God’s promise.
Joy appears before circumstances improve. Joy arrives while the night is still dark. It is the shepherd’s fire on a hillside, burning long before the sunrise.
The Revised Common Lectionary gives us a vivid tapestry this morning—texts that speak to people living under pressure, uncertainty, and discouragement. In each passage, joy does not arise from ease but from the assurance of God’s nearness.
I. “Sing Aloud… Rejoice with All Your Heart”
Zephaniah 3:14–20
Zephaniah speaks to a people who have been shaken, scattered, and exhausted by judgment and loss. Their world has been unstable. Their future has been uncertain.
Yet the prophet commands what their emotions do not feel ready to offer: Sing. Rejoice. Lift up your heart.
This is not denial; it is revelation.
Zephaniah tells them why they can rejoice:
“The Lord, your God, is in your midst… He will rejoice over you with gladness… He will renew you in His love.”
The joy of God’s people begins with the joy of God Himself.
Before the shepherds rejoiced, Heaven rejoiced over them. Before Bethlehem sang, God was already singing.
There are moments in all our lives when joy feels beyond reach—when responsibilities tower, when exhaustion settles in, when losses pull on the heart. Yet Scripture invites us to trust that God’s joy reaches us long before we can reach it ourselves.
II. “Surely God Is My Salvation”
Isaiah 12:2–6
Isaiah’s song is the testimony of someone who has come through deep waters and discovered that God did not abandon them.
“God is my strength and my song… With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.”
Joy is not a shallow emotion.
Joy is the water you draw when everything else has run dry.
Joy is the evidence that God has not merely saved you from something but saved you for something—to live, to hope, to become a witness of His faithfulness.
The shepherds understood this. Their lives were ordinary, hidden, uncelebrated. Yet when the angels declared “good news of great joy,” their hearts recognized it instantly. This was the water their souls had longed for.
III. “Rejoice in the Lord Always”
Philippians 4:4–7
Paul writes these words from a place of confinement. There is no comfort in his setting. Yet he instructs the church to live with a joy that cannot be cancelled by circumstance.
“Rejoice in the Lord always… The Lord is near.”
Joy is not a reaction. Joy is a posture.
Joy anchors us when anxiety rises. Joy guards the heart when pressures mount. Joy flows from the confidence that Christ is not far away—He is near, attentive, present.
And Paul says this nearness produces something profound:
“The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
The shepherds would soon stand in that peace, beholding a newborn King in a manger. What Paul proclaims in a prison is exactly what the angels announced in the fields: God has come near.
IV. John the Baptist and the Joy of Expectation
Luke 3:7–18
Luke’s Gospel offers a surprising text for a Sunday dedicated to joy. John the Baptist’s message is blunt, confrontational, and demanding. He calls people to repentance, integrity, and transformation.
And yet the passage ends with this assertion:
“So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.”
Good news and repentance are not competing ideas.
True joy is impossible without transformation. Joy is what emerges when God clears the debris, breaks the chains, and calls us into honest, renewed living.
John’s message prepared the people to receive the Christ-child with hearts ready, uncluttered, and awakened. The angels announced joy; John cleared the way for that joy to take root.
The shepherds illustrate what this looks like: when God interrupts your ordinary life with His glory, you move. You go. You see. You bear witness. And you return “glorifying and praising God” because joy has become personal.
V. The Shepherds’ Candle for Us Today
Advent joy is not naïve. It is not blind to hardship, pressure, or grief. It is not manufactured by effort.
It is the recognition that:
God is in our midst.
God rejoices over us.
God renews us in His love.
God draws near when the world is dark.
God speaks truth that sets us free.
God opens wells of salvation where we thought only dryness existed.
Joy is the shepherd’s discovery—that the long-promised Messiah has come not to the palace but to the quiet fields where ordinary people stand watch at night.
Joy is not found by escaping our responsibilities; it is found when Christ steps into them.
Joy is not the absence of strain; it is the presence of a Savior.
Joy is the announcement that Heaven came looking for us.
VI. Joy in the Midst of Family Life
Let me speak directly to what many of us face this Advent season.
For the parent working long hours: You clock in before dawn at the plant or the refinery. You drive the highways to Beaumont or Port Arthur. You come home tired, and the house still needs tending, the kids still need help with homework, and Christmas is coming whether you’re ready or not.
Joy is not waiting for you at the end of a less demanding season. Joy meets you in the truck on the way home. Joy sits with you at the kitchen table. The Lord is near—even there.
For the mom holding everything together: You’re managing schedules, stretching the budget, keeping peace between siblings, and wondering if you’re doing enough. December multiplies the pressure—school programs, family gatherings, gifts to buy when money is already tight.
Hear what Zephaniah says: God rejoices over you. Before you get it all figured out. Before the laundry is done. Before you feel like you’ve measured up. He is already singing over you.
For the grandparent raising grandchildren: You thought these years would look different. Instead, you’re back in the thick of it—school lunches, discipline, bedtimes—when your body is tired and your heart carries grief over what led to this.
Joy does not ignore your weariness. But joy reminds you: God sees your faithfulness. He has not forgotten you. The same God who sent angels to shepherds working the night shift sends His presence to you.
For the family walking through grief: This Christmas, there’s an empty chair. The holidays remind you of who’s missing—a spouse, a parent, a child. Joy feels like a word for other people.
But Advent joy is not cheerfulness. It is the deep-water confidence that God draws near to the brokenhearted. Isaiah’s wells of salvation are for those who have walked through the valley. You are not forgotten. You are held.
For the young family just getting started: Maybe you’re newly married, or you’ve got little ones underfoot, and you’re trying to build something on one income or two jobs. You look around at what others have and wonder when your turn comes.
The shepherds had nothing but their flocks and their fields. And God came to them first. Joy is not reserved for those who have arrived. Joy is given to those who are willing to receive.
For the one battling anxiety or depression: Some of us carry burdens that don’t show on the outside. The holidays can make it worse—expectations, gatherings, the gap between how things look and how things feel.
Paul wrote “Rejoice in the Lord always” from a prison cell. He was not pretending everything was fine. He was anchoring himself in a truth deeper than his circumstances. You can bring your real struggle to a real Savior. He does not require you to clean up first.
VII. A Word for This Community
We live in a place where people know how to work hard and look after their own. We’ve weathered storms—the kind that come off the Gulf and the kind that come through family crisis. We’ve rebuilt after floods. We’ve buried people we loved too soon. We’ve held together when times got lean.
And Advent says to us: Even here, Joy approaches.
Not because everything is resolved. Not because life has become easy. But because the Lord is near.
When the shepherds ran to Bethlehem that night, they were not running toward relief. They were running toward revelation—a God who chooses the humble places, who draws close to the weary, who brings joy to those who least expect it.
That same God stands near you today.
And because He is near, joy is possible.
VIII. A Call to Respond
What does it look like to receive this joy?
First, believe it is for you. Not for people with easier lives. Not for people more spiritual than you feel. For you—in your tiredness, your doubts, your ordinary days.
Second, make room for it. This week, take even five minutes away from the noise. Sit with the Lord. Let Him remind you that He is near. You cannot hurry joy, but you can clear space for it.
Third, share it. The shepherds did not keep what they found to themselves. They told everyone. Joy multiplies when it moves through families, through neighbors, through a church that refuses to let anyone walk alone.
This Advent, let the Shepherds’ Candle burn in your home—not as decoration, but as declaration: The Lord is near. And because He is near, we have joy.
Closing Prayer
Lord, we thank You for the joy that does not depend on circumstance but on Your presence.
Renew us in Your love.
Clear our hearts by Your truth.
Let the wells of salvation open again within us.
Meet the tired parent on the drive home.
Comfort the grieving at the empty chair.
Strengthen the grandparent giving more than they thought they had left.
Anchor the anxious heart in Your peace.
And may we, like the shepherds, become witnesses of the joy that has entered the world—
Advent joy is not a sentimental feeling, and Scripture refuses to flatten it into something shallow. The lectionary readings for the third Sunday of Advent—Zephaniah 3, Isaiah 12, Philippians 4, and Luke 3—do not describe easy times. They speak to people under pressure, people who are unsettled, people who need God to step into the middle of their reality.
And it is precisely there that joy emerges.
Zephaniah promises a God who “rejoices over His people with gladness.” Isaiah sings of a salvation that becomes a well of living water. Paul—writing from confinement—reminds believers that peace and joy come because “the Lord is near.”
Then Luke offers a surprising picture. We meet John the Baptist, thundering a message of repentance. His words are sharp, his demands weighty, and his tone urgent. Yet Luke concludes by saying that John was “proclaiming the good news.”
The doorway to joy is repentance—not as punishment, but as transformation. Joy grows where God clears away what is broken. Joy takes root where honesty finally replaces pretense. Joy flourishes where hearts make room for the One who is coming.
The angels did not announce joy to shepherds because shepherds had perfect hearts—they announced joy because God had arrived to renew them.
That same renewal is still His work today.
If your life feels stretched, if your heart is tired, or if your spirit is unsettled, do not assume joy is out of reach. Advent joy does not come from pretending everything is fine. It comes from allowing Christ to step into the truth of where you really are.
Let this season be an invitation to honesty, to renewal, and to the quiet miracle of joy that follows. The Shepherds’ Candle is a reminder that joy always begins with God’s nearness—right here, right now, in the real circumstances of your life.
Some passages in Scripture whisper comfort; others stop us in our tracks. Few verses unsettle believers more than Jesus’ words in Matthew 12 and Mark 3—His solemn warning that blasphemy against the Holy Spirit “will not be forgiven,” neither in this age nor the one to come. Many read it and feel a chill. Why would Jesus, full of mercy and compassion, name a sin that seems beyond forgiveness?
To understand His warning, we must enter the moment in which it was first spoken.
Jesus had just healed a man in full public view—blind, mute, oppressed. The transformation was unmistakable. The crowd was moved to wonder. Yet the religious leaders, determined to discredit Him, stepped forward with a chilling claim: “He casts out demons by the power of Beelzebul.”
Jesus answered with gravity. They were not merely confused. They were not wrestling with belief. They were watching the Holy Spirit reveal the kingdom of God in real time and calling that holy work demonic. They were resisting the very witness God uses to draw a person to salvation. And in that defiant rejection of the Spirit’s testimony about Christ, Jesus warned them: You are approaching a line from which the heart cannot return.
This is the core of why this sin is described as “unforgivable.” It is not because God is unwilling to forgive, but because a person in that state refuses the very grace that forgives. The Spirit’s mission is to reveal Jesus, convict of sin, and open the door to repentance. When someone knowingly rejects that witness—and attributes the Spirit’s work to the devil—they close the door on themselves. They shut out the only light that can break through their darkness.
It is one thing to misunderstand Jesus; even His disciples did that. It is another to harden the heart so completely that truth is reinterpreted as evil. Jesus calls this an “eternal sin” because such rejection—if carried through life and into death—becomes a final, unchanging posture. Where repentance is refused, forgiveness cannot be received. Not because God withholds mercy, but because the heart no longer seeks it.
This warning is sobering, but it carries a surprising reassurance: the person troubled by this sin has not committed it. Concern is evidence of softness, not hardness. The Pharisees Jesus rebuked felt no such concern. Their posture was not fear—it was hostility.
At its core, blasphemy against the Spirit is not a single outburst or a passing doubt. It is a willful, deliberate, and persistent rejection of the Spirit’s revelation of Jesus Christ. It is calling the truth a lie, calling the good evil, and resisting the very One who draws us toward forgiveness.
The gravity of Jesus’ warning is meant to awaken us, not paralyze us. It reminds us that the heart can be shaped over time—toward hardness or toward openness. And it calls us to honor the work of the Holy Spirit whenever He shines light, convicts, comforts, or draws us to the Son. The Spirit never turns away a repentant heart. The danger lies only in refusing Him until the heart no longer wishes to turn at all.
In the end, this teaching is not about one terrifying exception to God’s mercy. It is about the essential doorway through which all mercy comes. To reject the Spirit is to refuse life itself. To welcome His work is to find grace waiting at every turn.
There are moments in life when movies, memories, and years of lived experience weave themselves into a single thread. Looking back from sixty-seven, I can see how the stories that once entertained me now speak with deeper meaning. They shine a quiet light on what I have carried, what I have learned, and who I have become.
Two films from late 2001 come to mind—stories set in the shadows of espionage and conflict, filled with characters wrestling with impossible choices. On the surface, they were thrillers. Beneath the surface, they were studies in darkness, loyalty, and the long, hard road toward redemption. Only now do I see why they left such a mark.
Both narratives followed men who lived in the shadows—first as soldiers, then as operatives shaped by ambiguity. Each learned to navigate life with precision, endurance, and a sense of duty that often required more than most people ever see. They carried weight—emotional, moral, and sometimes spiritual. They worked under pressure, made decisions that others would never know about, and shouldered consequences that rarely made headlines.
Yet in the end, their defining moments weren’t the missions they completed or the dangers they survived. Their defining moments were the ones where they chose love over protocol, compassion over convenience, and human life over institutional safety. In those choices, we see how men shaped by darkness still gravitated toward the light.
At sixty-seven, I understand that more deeply than I once did.
Life has a way of testing every belief we have about ourselves. There are seasons when the weight feels unbearable—years of responsibility, the losses that accumulate, the roles we never asked for but stepped into anyway. There are moments when duty seems to conflict with compassion, when institutions fail the people in them, and when the world asks us to harden our hearts just to stay afloat.
But there is another story running underneath all of that. A quieter one.
The older I get, the more convinced I am that light has a way of finding its way into even the darkest corners. Faith becomes less about having every answer and more about trusting that God meets us in the places where our strength wears thin. Love becomes less of a feeling and more of a choice—a decision to stand with people, protect them, guide them, or rescue them when the world turns away.
Redemption, too, looks different with time. It is not a sudden, dramatic reversal. It is slow, steady restoration. It is the grace that holds you together when you have carried too much for too long. It is the courage to step toward the light even after walking through shadows.
When I look back, I see how many moments were shaped by these themes. Times of crisis where clarity finally emerged. Seasons of confusion that eventually revealed deeper purpose. Relationships tested but made stronger by truth. Leadership forged in hard places. And always, the gentle hand of God pulling me back toward the light when the world felt heavy.
Those old movie stories were fiction, but the truths inside them are not. We all stand at the crossroads between darkness and light more often than we admit. We all feel the strain of choices that have no easy answers. And all of us, if we are honest, long for redemption—something that tells us our struggles were not wasted and our sacrifices were not in vain.
At sixty-seven, this is the lesson that rings truest: the weight we carry does not define us. What defines us is the love we choose, the faith we hold, the light we walk toward, and the redemption that meets us along the way.
Celebrating the Life and Legacy of Robert Edwin Hargrove December 5 2025 Born December 5, 1927 — Buna, Texas Passed September 6, 2013 — Buna, Texas
Today we honor the birthday of Robert Edwin Hargrove, a man whose steady presence shaped his family, strengthened his community, and left an enduring mark on Buna and Jasper County. His life reflected the deep values of rural East Texas—work, faith, service, and integrity—lived not in speeches but in actions repeated faithfully over decades.
Born in Buna in 1927, Robert was raised during the Great Depression and the wartime years that demanded resilience from every family. Those early years shaped the patient, steady character he carried throughout his life.
During his youth and early adulthood, Robert contributed to the early development of Buna’s public services. He worked for Tom Barker during high school and for some time afterward, assisting in the operation of the town’s diesel generator system—the very system that provided electricity to Buna before JNEC extended power lines into the region. In those years, the town relied on local operators to keep the generators running, manage outages, and ensure that families and businesses had dependable light and power.
As a young man he answered his country’s call, serving in the United States Army with the 45th Infantry Division, 120th Combat Engineers, deploying to Korea and performing dangerous, essential work with quiet resolve.
Returning home, he built a life marked by responsibility and devotion. In 1957 he married Lavee Richbourg, and together they raised three sons—John, Hardy , and Wylie—rooting their family in the same East Texas soil that had shaped them.
Robert gave deeply to his community. He served for many years on the Buna Independent School District Board, including time as Board President. In that role he helped guide the school system through seasons of growth and change, always insisting that the next generation deserved stability, opportunity, and excellence. His leadership was steady, principled, and grounded in a genuine concern for the children and families of Buna.
He was also a man of faith, active throughout his life in the Buna Methodist Church. He served wherever needed—trustee, Sunday school teacher, volunteer, and quiet presence. His faith was lived rather than announced, expressed in service, humility, and a deep sense of responsibility to his church family.
His legacy reflects the best of the long Hargrove lineage—strength without pride, faith without show, perseverance without complaint. The generations who preceded him crossed oceans, endured war and hardship, and built communities from the ground up. Robert carried those same qualities into the modern era, living a life of steadiness that inspired those around him.
Today, as we mark his birthday, we remember a man whose example continues to guide his family and community. A man who did what needed to be done. A man who could be counted on. A man whose life mattered quietly, deeply, and permanently.
Happy 97th Birthday in Heaven, Robert E. Hargrove. Your legacy continues in the lives you shaped and the community you served.
Robert Edwin Hargrove A Life Across Nine Decades
1920s — Beginnings (1927–1929) Robert was born in the closing years of the Roaring Twenties, at a time when Buna was a small, timber-country settlement with limited infrastructure. His earliest days would have been marked by family, church, and the rhythms of rural life. His parents, James and Mary, were part of the first generation to root the Hargrove and Denman lines firmly in Buna’s early community life.
1930s — Childhood in the Depression His childhood unfolded during the Great Depression, a decade when rural East Texas survived through hard work, neighbor cooperation, and self-reliance. Robert likely helped with farm chores, garden plots, cutting wood, and caring for animals. School was a privilege; work was expected. Sunday worship at the local Methodist church anchored weekly life. Electricity was limited, and his later work on the town diesel generator suggests an early familiarity with mechanical systems, power equipment, and practical problem-solving.
1940s — Youth, Work, and Early Responsibility In his teenage years Robert attended Buna schools and worked for Tom Barker, helping operate Buna’s diesel generator plant, which produced electricity for the town before JNEC lines arrived. This work required reliability, long hours, and technical skill well beyond his age. These were the war years. Though too young for World War II, Robert grew up in a community shaped by rationing, local enlistments, and the wartime economy. He learned responsibility early—supporting his family, working multiple jobs, and contributing to the stability of a rural town in a turbulent era.
1950s — Military Service, Marriage, and the Start of Family Life The Korean War era called him to military duty. In 1951 he entered the U.S. Army and deployed to Korea with the 45th Infantry Division, 120th Combat Engineers, where he served in harsh conditions that demanded discipline, strength, and courage. After returning home, Robert married Lavee Richbourg in 1957 and began building a home of his own. Late in the decade their first child, John, was born. The 1950s were years of transition—from soldier to husband, from young worker to the steady provider he would become.
1960s — Raising a Family and Deepening Community Roots The 1960s were defined by family life and community service. With the births of Hardy and Wylie, Robert became the father of three sons. He worked steadily to provide for his growing household, and these years likely saw him balancing demanding work with active involvement in Buna Methodist Church and local community responsibilities. His Father passed during this decade, leaving him as one of the senior carriers of the Hargrove family’s East Texas legacy.
1970s — Leadership, School Board Service, and Stability The 1970s were a period of public service. Robert served on the Buna ISD School Board, including time as Board President, helping guide the district during seasons of modernization and growth. His sons were moving through school, and he focused on ensuring they—and all Buna students—had reliable facilities, stable leadership, and opportunities that earlier generations lacked. These were steady years, defined by work, church, responsibility, and the steady rhythm of rural life.
1980s — Mentorship, Church Leadership, and Family Milestones By the 1980s, Robert was respected as a seasoned leader, a trusted church member, and a mentor. At Buna Methodist Church he served as trustee, Sunday school teacher, and a dependable servant in numerous roles.
His Mother passed as the decade started. He supported his sons as they began their adult lives, careers, and families. He and Lavee became grandparents. These were years of quiet influence—teaching, advising, helping, and modeling steady character.
1990s — Retirement, Reflection, and Community Continuity In the 1990s Robert eased into retirement while maintaining deep roots in community and church. He saw the passing of his siblings James (1994) and George (1995), a reminder that he had become part of the family’s senior generation. He spent more time on the Neches River, on quiet mornings with coffee, and on the small routines that bring meaning after decades of work. His presence remained steady—calm, predictable, and deeply valued.
2000s — The Grandfather Years The 2000s brought slower days and the joy of watching grandchildren grow. Though older, he remained active in his church and community, continuing the habits of service that marked his life. These were reflective years—filled with family gatherings, stories from earlier days, and the quiet pride of seeing the next generation stand on foundations he helped lay.
2010s — Closing Years Robert entered his final decade still grounded in the same community where he had been born. He lived to see Buna change, grow, and become a connected rural hub far beyond the diesel-generator days of his youth. He passed away in 2013 at the age of 85, leaving behind a legacy of steadiness, humility, faith, and service—a legacy carried forward by his children, grandchildren, and the community he helped shape.
Date: First Sunday of Advent, Year A Primary Scripture: Romans 13:12
The season of Advent does not begin with celebration—it begins with longing. It opens not in bright light but in the quiet, honest darkness of real life, where people carry grief, illness, recovery, fatigue, and the complex history of family and community. Advent speaks precisely into these places and invites us to lift our eyes toward the hope of Christ.
Our congregation reflects this reality well. Some among us are grieving recent losses. Some are navigating serious health challenges. Others are walking faithfully through recovery from addiction. Many carry responsibilities that feel heavy. And many more carry the deep history and legacy of this church’s founding families. Into this very real mixture of pain, perseverance, and hope, Advent speaks clearly: The Light is coming.
A Vision That Pulls Us Forward — Isaiah 2:1–5
In the first reading of the season, Isaiah gives God’s people a vision large enough to carry them through dark times. He describes a future where nations stream to the mountain of the Lord and where weapons of violence become tools of growth. It is a world transformed by the peace of God.
Isaiah’s call—“Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord”—is not an invitation to pretend everything is fine. It is a summons to move, one step at a time, toward the future God promises. Advent is never passive. It is an active walk toward hope.
Finding Gladness and Peace in Worship — Psalm 122
Psalm 122 echoes Isaiah’s vision but turns it into a song of gathering. The psalmist rejoices to be with God’s people and prays for the peace of Jerusalem.
In our setting, that becomes a prayer for the peace of this congregation, for the families who carry decades of shared memories, for those who minister to the sick and grieving, for the children and teens growing in faith, and for every person who walks through our doors longing for God’s presence. Advent reminds us that worship is not simply a routine—it is a pilgrimage toward peace.
Wake Up—The Dawn Is Near — Romans 13:11–14
Paul speaks to believers who are tired, discouraged, or tempted to drift spiritually. His message is strikingly direct: “It is now the moment for you to wake from sleep… the day is at hand.”
Rural communities know what it is to rise before dawn. You stand on the porch, look out at the dark pasture, and trust that light is coming even when you cannot yet see it. Paul’s message resonates here: no matter how long the night has felt, God assures us that dawn is drawing near.
To “put on the armor of light” is to live with purpose and clarity:
Choosing steps toward healing and recovery.
Letting go of habits that harm us.
Forgiving old wounds.
Encouraging those who struggle.
Living in a way that reflects hope rather than despair.
Advent calls us to spiritual wakefulness.
Living Ready for Christ — Matthew 24:36–44
Jesus reminds His disciples that His coming will be unexpected, and His point is not to create fear but to cultivate readiness. In the days of Noah, people were absorbed in everyday routines—good routines, ordinary routines—but they became spiritually numb.
That can happen to all of us. Work, illness, grief, family burdens, schedules, and stress can slowly lull us to sleep. Jesus urges us to stay awake and live ready—not anxious, but alert; not afraid, but purposeful.
Readiness means shaping daily life around the reality that Christ truly matters.
Advent for Real People
Taken together, these readings paint a powerful picture of Advent:
Isaiah shows us God’s promised future.
The Psalm invites us into community and peace.
Romans calls us to awaken and put on the armor of light.
Jesus urges us to live ready for His return.
And all of this meets us in our real world, not in an ideal one.
Images for the Journey
Several images help us understand Advent more clearly:
The lantern on the fence post: God often gives just enough light for the next step, not the entire path.
The barn after the storm: God promises a world where the storm ends and rebuilding begins.
The empty chair: Advent does not erase grief, but it promises that sorrow is not the end of the story.
These images remind us that Christ comes to honest places, hurting places, rural places, and to ordinary people walking through extraordinary challenges.
Walking in the Light This Season
As Advent begins, consider these simple practices:
Take one small step toward God each day.
Make peace where God opens the door.
Care for those who are sick or grieving.
Live as though Christ could be welcomed at any moment.
Enter worship with expectation and hope.
Advent is not about perfection. It is about preparation.
Conclusion: The Light Is Coming
Advent tells the truth: our world feels dark in places. But it also proclaims the greater truth: the dawn is approaching. The night is far gone. The day is at hand. And the Light of the world is drawing near.
May this season awaken our hearts to hope, strengthen our walk of faith, and prepare us to welcome Christ with joy.
With Reflections from Various Theologies, Early Church Fathers, and Zola Levitt Studies
Names & Meaning Adam means “earth” or “ground,” referencing his formation from the dust. Eve means “life” or “living,” reflecting her role as “the mother of all who live” (Genesis 3:20).
Scriptural Origin Genesis 1–5 tells the story of Adam and Eve: the first humans, created in God’s image (Genesis 1:27), given the sacred task of stewardship over creation (Genesis 2:15), and placed in the Garden of Eden to live in communion with God and one another.
God formed Adam from dust and breathed into him the breath of life (Genesis 2:7). Eve was created from Adam’s side (Genesis 2:22), indicating not inferiority, but equality and partnership. Their union represented the first human covenant and family.
The Fall and the First Gospel Tempted by the serpent, Eve ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and gave the fruit to Adam, who ate knowingly (Genesis 3:6). Their eyes were opened, shame entered the world, and they hid from God. Yet, even in judgment, God sought them out (Genesis 3:9) and promised redemption through the “seed of the woman” (Genesis 3:15)—the first gospel.
Christian Perspectives John Wesley, in Sermon 44: Original Sin, wrote that Adam’s disobedience “infected the very root of our nature,” but that God’s grace “goes before” to awaken us. He insisted on shared guilt and shared grace. Adam was passive; Eve was deceived. Both sinned and both were recipients of prevenient grace.
For Wesley, the story of Adam and Eve is not about assigning blame, but about recognizing the universal condition of sin and the universal availability of redemption. Their expulsion from Eden was not the end—it marked the beginning of God’s saving work.
Early Church Fathers
Irenaeus of Lyons (2nd century)
Irenaeus taught that Adam’s sin introduced corruption into humanity, not merely by imitation but by a real distortion of human nature. He emphasized that humanity fell “in Adam” because Adam was the head of the human race. Simultaneously, Irenaeus introduced the earliest full articulation of prevenient grace through the theme of “recapitulation”: God moves first to heal what Adam broke, and Christ retraces Adam’s steps to restore human freedom. Eve is portrayed as genuinely deceived; Adam knowingly chose disobedience.
Tertullian (late 2nd–early 3rd century)
Tertullian argued that Adam transmitted guilt and corruption biologically (“seminal identity”). He stressed the seriousness of the Fall and saw all humans as implicated in Adam’s act. He also affirmed that divine grace initiates repentance—though not systematically developed.
Origen (3rd century)
Origen taught that humanity inherited a condition of moral weakness because of Adam, even if he avoided later Western language of “imputed guilt.” He explicitly states that God’s grace must “precede and assist” the soul’s turning to God. Eve’s deception and Adam’s disobedience are both treated as components of the Fall, but Adam carries the headship responsibility.
Athanasius (4th century)
In On the Incarnation, Athanasius depicts Adam’s sin as plunging humanity into corruption and death. He presents grace as wholly prior—God must act first to restore the human will, because the human will has lost its capacity to return to God unaided.
Augustine of Hippo (late 4th–early 5th century)
Augustine is the most decisive early voice on inherited guilt and divine initiative:
Adam’s sin caused a real corruption of human nature inherited by all.
Humans are morally unable to initiate faith or love of God.
Grace must come first—gratia praeveniens—to awaken the will. Augustine also distinguished between Eve’s deception and Adam’s knowing rebellion (1 Tim. 2:14), but he held both fully responsible.
John Cassian (5th century)
Cassian moderated Augustine slightly: humanity is wounded by Adam, unable to save itself, but still retains some capacity to cooperate when grace first stirs the soul. He preserved the idea that grace initiates, but emphasized synergy.
Medieval Christian Writers
Anselm of Canterbury (11th century)
In Cur Deus Homo, Anselm presents original sin as the loss of original righteousness and the inheritance of guilt. Anselm is firmly Augustinian: the will cannot return to God without God beginning the work.
Thomas Aquinas (13th century)
Aquinas taught that Adam’s sin deprived humanity of supernatural grace and disordered human nature. Original sin is both guilt and the “privation of original justice.” He emphasizes that actual grace precedes every movement of the will—a clear affirmation of prevenient grace. He distinguishes the modes of Adam and Eve’s sin: Eve fell by deception; Adam by consent; both equally contributed to humanity’s corruption.
Bonaventure (13th century)
Bonaventure strongly emphasized that grace is always prior to human action and that no one can reach God unless God first inclines the heart.
Reformation-Era Voices (16th century)
Martin Luther
Luther held that original sin corrupts the entire human nature and that no part of the will remained untainted. He described fallen humanity as spiritually “dead.” Grace—specifically the work of the Holy Spirit—must awaken faith; it always precedes. He kept the distinction of Eve’s deception and Adam’s headship responsibility.
John Calvin
Calvin articulated that Adam’s disobedience “contaminated” human nature. Original sin is both guilt and corruption. The will is so bound that it cannot even desire God unless God first acts—praeveniens gratia is implicit in his doctrine of regeneration. Both Adam and Eve sinned, but Adam’s role as covenant head made his act determinative.
Seventeenth and Eighteenth-Century Writers (Wesley’s Context)
Jacobus Arminius (1560–1609)
Arminius, whom Wesley later followed, taught that original sin leaves humanity totally unable to turn to God without grace. But he insisted on a universal, enabling grace restorative to free will—“prevenient grace”—given through the Spirit on the basis of Christ’s atonement. Adam and Eve jointly sinned; Adam, as representative head, transmitted the fallen condition.
The Arminian Remonstrants (17th century)
They reinforced:
corrupted human nature inherited from Adam;
salvation’s first movement from God;
universal enabling grace restoring the ability to believe.
Richard Baxter (1615–1691)
Baxter accepted inherited corruption and affirmed that God must first stir the will. He drew heavily from Augustine but maintained human response as genuinely free, once grace awakens it.
Jeremy Taylor (1613–1667)
Taylor taught that humanity inherits the consequences of Adam’s sin (mortality and corruption), and that divine grace precedes repentance. He leaned toward the Eastern emphasis: human nature is wounded, not annihilated.
Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758)
A contemporary of Wesley with a sharply different view. Edwards asserted:
Adam’s sin causes a “moral inability” for humans to choose good.
Depravity is total and affects affections, not just intellect.
Only sovereign, effectual grace can awaken the soul. He did not affirm universal prevenient grace; he affirmed monergistic regeneration.
John Fletcher (1729–1785)
Wesley’s closest theological ally. Fletcher defended prevenient grace as universally extended to all humanity and described it as the restorative presence of the Spirit enabling repentance, faith, and obedience. He affirmed inherited corruption but rejected imputed guilt in the strict Calvinist sense.
Across the Centuries
Wesley’s position in Sermon 44 stands in a long Christian tradition with several consistent themes:
Humanity inherits a real corruption from Adam. From Irenaeus to Aquinas to Arminius, this is nearly universal.
Adam and Eve share responsibility, though in different modes. The distinction (Eve deceived, Adam knowingly choosing) is common, but shared sin and shared consequences remain.
Grace always initiates. Augustine, Aquinas, Cassian, Luther, Calvin, Arminius, and Wesley all affirm that God must move first—though they differ on whether this grace is universal (Arminius, Wesley) or selective (Calvin, Edwards).
Wesley fits into the synergistic, grace-first tradition rooted in the East, moderated Augustine, and developed through Arminian theology. His emphasis on universal prevenient grace is deeply indebted to both the early fathers (Irenaeus, Cassian) and Reformation-era Arminians.
Terms
Life After Eden Outside the garden, Adam and Eve lived long lives. They worked the land, bore children, and experienced grief, especially after Cain murdered Abel. Yet in the birth of Seth (Genesis 4:25), hope continued. Through Seth’s line came Noah, Abraham, and eventually Christ (Luke 3:38).
The apocryphal Life of Adam and Eve imagines their post-Eden life as one of repentance, fasting, and longing for restoration—resonant with early Christian and Wesleyan themes of grace-empowered transformation.
Zola Levitt Connections In A Christian Love Story, Zola Levitt draws on Jewish wedding imagery to show how God’s covenant with humanity began in Eden and will culminate in the marriage supper of the Lamb. Adam and Eve’s creation and separation mirror the model of bride and groom—God forming a people for Himself.
In The Seven Feasts of Israel, the Eden narrative foreshadows the structure of God’s redemptive calendar. The Passover feast points to the need for blood to cover sin—a concept introduced when God clothed Adam and Eve with garments of skin (Genesis 3:21).
Theological Legacy Adam and Eve are not merely figures of failure. They are the beginning of both the problem and the promise. Their lives teach us:
That sin breaks relationships—with God, others, and creation.
That shame does not stop God from pursuing us.
That redemption is planned, promised, and possible from the very beginning.
Application for Today Here and beyond, their story reminds us that every broken moment is also an invitation to return to God. The church becomes a new garden—where grace grows, forgiveness is cultivated, and the promise of full restoration blooms.
Glossary of Terms – Adam and Eve Study
Biblical and Theological Terms
Image of God (Imago Dei) The unique identity given to humans reflects God’s nature—reason, moral agency, relational capacity (Genesis 1:27).
Protoevangelium Latin term meaning “first gospel,” referring to Genesis 3:15—the promise that the seed of the woman would crush the serpent.
Terms from Church History and Wesleyan Thought
Second Adam A title for Christ, used in 1 Corinthians 15:45, to describe His role in reversing the sin of the first Adam.
Greek:eschatos Adam (ἔσχατος Ἀδάμ) – “last Adam”
Typology A theological method where Old Testament persons or events (types) foreshadow New Testament fulfillment (antitypes). Eve–Mary and Adam–Christ are classic examples.
Sanctification The process by which a believer is made holy. In Wesleyan thought, this includes entire sanctification, a heart perfected in love.
Exile The condition of being separated from one’s rightful place. Adam and Eve’s removal from Eden foreshadows Israel’s exile and humanity’s spiritual separation from God.
Theological Definition: The Greek word martyria (μαρτυρία) means “testimony” or “witness,” but carries weight beyond simple reporting. In John’s Gospel, witness is not passive observation but active participation in revealing truth. A martyr (martyrs) is literally “one who testifies”—someone who stakes their credibility, reputation, and sometimes life on the truth they proclaim.
Key Theological Significance:
Witness is relational: it always requires both a testifier and an audience
Witness is costly: authentic witness demands alignment between message and life
Witness is eschatological: it participates in God’s work of revealing His Kingdom
Witness points beyond itself: true witness always directs attention away from the witness toward the one witnessed to
In John the Baptist’s case, his entire mission is framed as witness to the light (John 1:7-8). He is not the light; he testifies to the light. This distinction is theologically crucial—it establishes the pattern for all Christian witness.
Theological Principle:Authority in witness comes not from institutional power, but from the integrity between proclamation and practice.
B. The Forerunner (Prodromos) – Preparing the Way
Theological Definition: A forerunner (Greek: prodromos, προδρόμος) was an advance scout or herald who would prepare the path for a royal procession. In the Old Testament, this role was prophesied for Elijah (Malachi 4:5-6); in the New Testament, John fulfills this calling as the forerunner to Jesus.
Literal/Historical: John prepares people through baptism and the proclamation of repentance, creating space for Jesus’ arrival
Spiritual: John’s ministry addresses the fundamental human condition of spiritual disorientation. Israel had been spiritually “lost in the wilderness” for four centuries (the “intertestamental period”). John calls people out of this confusion toward clarity.
Mystical/Personal: For individual believers, the forerunner function invites us to examine how we prepare our hearts for encounter with Christ. What obstacles block our recognition of Him?
Theological Principle:Preparation is not about becoming worthy, but about removing obstacles to encountering God’s grace.
Theological Definition: The Greek word metanoia (μετάνοια) means far more than “regret” or “turning around.” It literally means “change of mind” (meta=after/beyond, noia=mind/perception). This is a fundamental reorientation of consciousness—a new way of seeing reality.
Distinguishing from “Penance”: Many English translations blur the line between metanoia (Greek) and penance (Latin). This is a critical error. Repentance is not:
Self-flagellation or punishment
Earning forgiveness through suffering
Shame-driven self-rejection
A one-time event that “fixes” a person
Rather, repentance is:
A sustained reorientation toward God
Cognitive + emotional + volitional transformation
The recognition that current patterns are misaligned with reality (God’s kingdom)
The acceptance of a new identity and orientation
Biblical Precedent: Isaiah 1:18 presents repentance not as punishment but as a new way of seeing: “Come now, let us reason together… though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow.” The invitation is to reconsider, to see oneself and God differently.
Recovery Parallel: This aligns with how modern recovery frameworks understand transformation—not shame-based, but identity-based. “I am no longer defining myself by my addiction” is a form of metanoia.
Theological Principle:True repentance is a gift from God that restores sight, not a price we pay for forgiveness.
D. The Lamb of God (Arnos/Pascha)
Theological Definition: John the Baptist’s declaration—”Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29)—draws on multiple layers of symbolism:
In the Jewish temple system, a lamb was the primary sacrifice for sin atonement (Leviticus 4-5)
The lamb was typically young, spotless, unblemished—perfect
Its death effected atonement for the community
Passover Lamb (Exodus):
The lamb’s blood marked doorframes, protecting the firstborn of Israel
It provided both protection (salvation) and community identity (you are the redeemed people)
This was the most profound liberation narrative in Jewish memory
Suffering Servant (Isaiah):
Isaiah 53:7 describes the servant “like a lamb led to slaughter”
This servant’s suffering is vicarious—for others, not for himself
His self-offering transforms death into redemption
Cosmic Lamb (Revelation):
Revelation portrays the Lamb (arnion, the diminutive form suggesting tenderness/intimacy) as central to all cosmic worship and redemption
The Lamb who was slain is simultaneously the Lamb enthroned in power (Revelation 5)
Critical Theological Insight: The Lamb is vulnerable who redeems. In a world of power and domination, the Lamb offers a radically different path—the power of self-giving love. This is why in Revelation, the most powerful cosmic being is depicted as a Lamb.
Theological Principle:God’s redemptive power works through self-giving vulnerability, not coercive might.
E. Baptism (Baptizo) – Symbolic Drowning and Rising
Theological Definition: The Greek word baptizo (βαπτίζω) literally means “to immerse” or “to plunge.” It’s not sprinkling or pouring, but total submersion. This is symbolically significant.
What Baptism Signifies:
Death of the Old Self (Romans 6:3-4):
Going under the water = entering the grave, the end of old patterns
Rising from water = resurrection into new life
Paul uses baptism as the primary metaphor for identification with Christ’s death and resurrection
Washing/Cleansing (Acts 22:16):
Baptism signifies the removal of shame and guilt
In the ancient world, baptism was about ritual purity—entering the presence of the holy
For those in recovery, this symbolizes the possibility of being cleansed, not stained by past
Incorporation into Community (1 Corinthians 12:13):
Baptism marks entry into the Body of Christ
You are no longer alone in your identity; you are grafted into a people
In recovery language: you move from isolation to belonging
Public Identification (Matthew 28:19):
Baptism is explicitly public and trinitarian—done in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit
It’s a declaration to heaven and earth: you belong to God
Recovery Significance: In recovery frameworks, baptism can represent the moment of public commitment—the willingness to be vulnerable, to identify with a community, to declare that your old way of life is over.
Theological Principle:Baptism is both death to self and birth into new identity; both washing and incorporation.
F. The Spirit Descending – God’s Empowerment
Theological Definition: In all four Gospel accounts of Jesus’ baptism, the Spirit descends upon Him “like a dove” (Matthew 3:16, Mark 1:10, Luke 3:22, John 1:32-33). This imagery is profound.
Gentleness, not violence: Doves represent peace, purity, and innocence. This contrasts sharply with other biblical symbols of the Spirit’s power (like wind or fire). Here, power comes gently.
Connection to Creation: In Genesis 1:2, the Spirit “broods” over the waters at creation. The dove echoes this creative, generative presence.
Innocence: Doves were the sacrifice of the poor (Mary’s offering in Luke 2:24). The Spirit descends with identification with the marginal, not the powerful.
Universality: The dove became a symbol of peace across cultures. John’s Gospel uses it to suggest the Spirit’s work transcends ethnic and cultural boundaries.
The Voice of Affirmation: At Jesus’ baptism, a voice from heaven declares: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). This is not about achievement or earning approval. It’s an affirmation of identity before any work is done. Jesus hasn’t begun his ministry yet—He’s simply received the Spirit and heard His Father’s voice.
Recovery Parallel: In recovery, participants often struggle with shame and the belief that they must “earn” their worth. The baptism narrative offers a different model: affirmation precedes achievement. God declares you beloved before you prove yourself.
Theological Principle:The Spirit’s work is characterized by gentleness, empowerment, and identification with the vulnerable.
II. HISTORICAL & CULTURAL CONTEXT
A. First-Century Political Landscape
The Wilderness as Counter-Site: John the Baptist operated in the Judean wilderness—a deliberate choice with political significance. The wilderness was:
Liminal space: neither civilized nor truly wild; a place of transition
Prophetic space: where Israel encountered God (Moses, Elijah, Amos)
Anti-imperial space: removed from Roman administrative control and Jerusalem’s temple-based authority
By preaching in the wilderness, John was making a statement: an authentic encounter with God happens outside the power structures of Rome and the Jerusalem establishment.
Rome’s Religious Strategy: The Roman Empire was pragmatic about local religions. It allowed client kingdoms to maintain religious practices as long as they didn’t threaten the political order. However, John’s preaching of repentance—calling people to radical reorientation—was inherently destabilizing. You cannot preach genuine metanoia without implicitly critiquing the status quo.
This is why John was arrested. Herod Antipas (the tetrarch of Galilee/Perea) saw John as a political threat (Mark 6:17-18). John was preaching repentance, which threatened the entire social order that Herod benefited from.
The Jewish Establishment’s Complexity: The Pharisees and Sadducees represented different responses to Roman occupation:
Pharisees: Believed in maintaining Jewish practice and purity despite Roman rule; focused on Torah observance as resistance
Sadducees: More accommodationist; collaborated with Rome; controlled the temple system
John’s baptism was radical because it bypassed the temple entirely. You didn’t need to go to Jerusalem, pay a priest, or engage in the sacrificial system. Repentance was available to anyone, anywhere, through water and a change of mind. This was democratizing and therefore destabilizing.
B. Jewish Renewal Movements
John didn’t emerge in a vacuum. First-century Judaism experienced multiple “renewal” movements, each offering different responses to Roman occupation and spiritual disorientation:
Apocalyptic Movements: Believed God would soon intervene violently to overthrow Rome
Qumran Community (the Essenes): Withdrew to the desert to maintain ritual purity; saw baptism as a daily practice of repentance
Zealot Movements: Advocated armed rebellion
John the Baptist’s Movement: Offered spiritual reformation through repentance and baptism
John was part of a broader Jewish renewal conversation, but with a distinct emphasis: repentance, not revolution; baptism, not armed struggle; humility, not political power-grabbing.
III. CULTURAL RELEVANCE FOR 2025
A. Authenticity in an Age of Performativity
The Crisis of Credibility: John’s credibility came from the alignment between his message and his life. Today, we live in an age of unprecedented performative capacity. Consider:
Social media allows anyone to curate a perfect image
Influencer culture separates the public persona from private reality
Religious institutions have experienced successive waves of scandals where leaders’ private lives contradicted their public messaging
Deepfakes make it possible to simulate authenticity entirely
The Result: Younger generations are deeply skeptical of institutional religion and religious authority. Pew Research consistently shows that one primary reason young people leave faith communities is perceived hypocrisy—the failure of religious leaders to live out their stated values.
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John offers a model of radical transparency. He lived simply; he had no institutional power base to protect; he explicitly denied his own importance. In an age of performativity, genuine humility and integrity are increasingly rare—and therefore increasingly powerful.
The question for 2025 Christianity: Can we recover a witness that is willing to be small, to refuse institutional protection, and to point away from ourselves toward Christ?
B. Counter-Cultural Witness in Polarized Times
The Polarization Problem: In 2025, we live in unprecedented ideological fragmentation. Every issue is tribal: politics, economics, sexuality, technology, spirituality. The default posture is adversarial—you’re either with us or against us.
Religious communities are not immune to this. Many churches have become effectively political organizations, blessing one partisan vision or another. The boundary between Christian witness and political ideology has dissolved.
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John stood outside the power structures of his day. He didn’t ally with Rome, the Pharisees, the Sadducees, or the Zealots. His allegiance was singular and undivided: to the God who was coming.
This suggests a prophetic posture for 2025 Christianity: the willingness to critique all human power structures from the perspective of God’s kingdom, rather than investing in any earthly power system.
This is countercultural in every direction:
To progressive Christians, it suggests you cannot simply sacralize left-wing political movements
To conservative Christians, it suggests that you cannot baptize right-wing nationalism
To political moderates, it suggests the kingdom of God is not a middle-ground compromise
John’s witness invites believers to a different kind of politics—one rooted in repentance, humility, and reorientation toward Christ, rather than securing earthly power.
C. The Hunger for Authenticity in Spirituality
The Spiritual-But-Not-Religious Movement: Over the past 20 years, the “spiritual but not religious” category has exploded. In 2025, many younger people are:
Seeking authentic spiritual experience rather than doctrinal correctness
Valuing experiential knowledge over inherited tradition
The Gap: Many spiritual-seeking people are not actually anti-Christian; they’re anti-institutional-Christianity. They want an encounter with transcendence, community, and transformation, but without the perceived baggage of hypocrisy and control.
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John offers Christianity at its most reduced and most powerful: a call to repentance, baptism, and encounter with the living God in the wilderness. No institution, no priesthood, no complex theology. Just: change your mind, be immersed, meet the one who is coming.
This suggests that authentic Christian witness in 2025 may look less like defending institutions and more like inviting people into a genuine encounter with God. Not as a defensive posture, but as an offensive proclamation: There is a reality larger than your current perception. Come, and your mind will be changed.
D. The Wilderness as Metaphor for Digital Disorientation
The Information Wilderness: In 2025, we live in a kind of wilderness—not a geographical one, but an informational one. The digital landscape is:
Unstructured and overwhelming
Full of competing voices claiming authority
Algorithmically designed to fragment consensus
Increasingly difficult to navigate with integrity
Social media creates what we might call “spiritual disorientation”—the sense that you don’t know what’s true, who to trust, or which way is forward. Conspiracy theories flourish. Expert knowledge is distrusted. Everyone has a platform.
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John preached clarity in a time of confusion. He stood in one place, spoke one message, and pointed in one direction. His witness was singular and undivided. In an age of infinite choice and information overload, this is spiritually compelling.
The question for 2025 believers: Can we offer a witness that is clear, coherent, and courageous amid digital chaos? Can we help people navigate the wilderness?
E. Recovery and the Language of Rebirth
The Recovery Movement’s Growth: In 2025, awareness of addiction—not just substance abuse, but behavioral addiction, digital addiction, relational trauma—is widespread. More people than ever before have some connection to recovery frameworks (12-step programs, therapy, spiritual direction).
Recovery language emphasizes:
Admission of powerlessness and need
Spiritual reorientation (the “higher power”)
Community accountability
The possibility of transformation despite past failure
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John’s entire proclamation is oriented toward people who recognize they are spiritually lost and need reorientation. He doesn’t shame; he invites. He doesn’t demand perfection; he offers change.
For people in recovery, John’s witness says: Your past does not determine your future. Repentance is real. You can be baptized into a new identity. The Lamb of God takes away the sin of the world—including yours.
This is not judgment; it’s liberation. This is not shame; it’s hope.
F. Leadership Without Institutional Power
The Crisis of Authority: In 2025, institutional authority is fundamentally compromised:
Religious institutions have credibility crises around abuse and misconduct
Political institutions are deeply distrusted
Corporate institutions are seen as serving shareholders, not communities
Even educational institutions face questions about their true purposes
Young people are skeptical of anyone claiming authority based on position, credentials, or institution.
Where John’s Witness Speaks: John had no institutional authority. He had no credentials, no ordination, no official status. His authority came entirely from the integrity of his witness. He pointed away from himself to One greater. He refused to capitalize on his own influence—when people tried to follow him, he redirected them to Jesus.
This offers a model for 2025 leadership: Authority grounded not in position but in integrity; power exercised through humility; influence wielded by pointing away from oneself.
This is radical in every context. It suggests:
Pastors should be willing to be small, unknown, humble
Religious leaders should critique their own institutions when necessary
Spiritual authority is not something you claim but something others recognize in your witness
The goal is never to build your own platform but to redirect people toward Christ
IV. THEOLOGICAL QUESTIONS FOR DEEPER EXPLORATION
For Individual Reflection:
On Witness: Where am I most tempted to let my actions contradict my proclaimed values? What would it look like to align more fully?
On Preparation: What obstacles in my life prevent me from seeing and following Christ clearly? What would removing them cost?
On Repentance: Where do I need a fundamental reorientation of my thinking? Where has my “mind” become captured by cultural narratives rather than divine truth?
On the Lamb: How do I tend to seek power—through dominance, manipulation, accumulation? How might the Lamb’s way of vulnerability change my approach?
On Baptism: Have I truly “died” to my old identity, or am I still trying to resurrect aspects of my former self? What would a wholehearted commitment to a new life require?
On the Spirit: Where in my life do I need the Spirit’s gentle empowerment rather than my own striving?
On Counter-Cultural Witness: Where am I tempted to align Christianity with a particular political or cultural system? How might I recover a witness that transcends such alignments?
For Community Dialogue:
How do we foster authentic, humble witness in contexts where the default is performance and self-promotion?
What does it look like to invite people into genuine repentance without shaming or coercion?
How can we recover baptism as genuinely transformative rather than merely ceremonial?
What would it mean for our community to offer genuine spiritual sanctuary—a “wilderness” space where people can encounter God outside consumer and entertainment logic?
How do we cultivate leadership that points away from itself toward Christ?
V. PASTORAL INTEGRATION: FROM THEOLOGY TO LIVED TRANSFORMATION
A. Preaching Theology to Those in Recovery
The theological themes here are not abstract—they speak directly to the experience of addiction, relapse, and recovery.
Witness & Integrity: Many in recovery have had their trust shattered by people who claimed to have their interests at heart but didn’t. John’s integrity—his willingness to be small and to point away from himself—offers a model of trustworthiness that wounds can begin to heal around.
Repentance, Not Shame: The distinction between metanoia and penance is critical. Many people in recovery have internalized profound shame about their addiction and failures. Repentance (change of mind) offers transformation; shame offers only degradation. The proclamation must be: You don’t have to be ashamed of who you were to be transformed into who you’re becoming.
Baptism as New Identity: For someone who has been labeled “addict” or “failure,” baptism offers an alternative narrative. You are not your history. You are beloved. You are being reborn.
The Lamb’s Vulnerability: People in recovery understand vulnerability. They’ve experienced rock bottom. John’s Lamb—powerful through self-giving, not domination—speaks to the paradoxical strength found in admission and surrender.
B. Liturgical & Spiritual Practices
Ritual Recommitment: Consider a baptismal renewal practice in which people publicly reaffirm their commitment to a new life. This is not a requirement but an invitation—a moment to declare before the community that they are identifying with Christ’s death and resurrection.
Wilderness Pilgrimage: Create intentional “wilderness” space—whether literal (a retreat in nature) or metaphorical (a period of prayer and silence). This is not an escape from community but deeper entry into it, via encounter with God.
Witness Sharing: Create safe containers where people can share their witness—how they’ve seen God work, where their integrity has been tested and held, how their minds have been changed by encountering Christ.
Contemplative Prayer on John 1: Lead people through extended meditation on John’s first chapter, using different senses: What do you see? What do you hear? What invitation are you sensing?
VI. CULTURAL COMMENTARY: THE PROPHETIC TASK
For 2025, a word about the prophetic role of John the Baptist witness:
The prophetic stance is not:
Being right about politics
Defending Christian civilization
Gaining cultural influence
Building institutional power
Making Christianity palatable to the dominant culture
The prophetic stance is:
Calling all people—including ourselves—to repentance
Pointing away from human power toward God’s kingdom
Offering hope grounded in reality, not wishful thinking
Maintaining integrity at the cost of comfort
Standing in solidarity with the vulnerable and marginalized
Speaking truth even when it threatens our own interests
John the Baptist was executed for his witness. Not because he directly attacked Rome or the religious establishment, but because his call to repentance was fundamentally destabilizing to all existing power structures.
For Christians in 2025, this raises a question: Are we willing to be small, to lose influence, to be misunderstood, to be marginalized—in order to maintain integrity in our witness?
The culture war posture says: Gain power so you can impose your values.
The John the Baptist posture says: Lose power so you can witness to a different kingdom entirely.
FINAL REFLECTION
John the Baptist is not the hero of his own story. He is the forerunner, the witness, the voice crying in the wilderness. His greatness consists entirely in his humility—his willingness to be small so that Another might be great.
In 2025, as we navigate polarization, performativity, institutional crisis, and spiritual seeking, John’s witness remains timely. It is prophetic. It invites us to:
Trade authenticity for performance
Trade political power for spiritual authority
Trade the pretense of perfection for the reality of transformation
Trade the comfort of belonging to worldly systems for the cost and joy of following the Lamb
The one who testifies to the Light is not the light. But by pointing clearly and humbly away from himself, he becomes a clear channel through whom others can see.
This is the calling. This is the invitation. This is the way forward in 2025.
SCRIPTURE REFERENCES & FURTHER STUDY
Primary Texts:
John 1:1-34 (John’s Prologue and John the Baptist’s testimony)
Mark 1:1-11 (Gospel opening and baptism)
Matthew 3:1-17 (John’s preaching and Jesus’ baptism)
Luke 3:1-22 (John’s prophetic witness and baptism)
Isaiah 53:1-12 (Suffering Servant passage)
Revelation 5:6-10 (The Lamb in cosmic worship)
Key Theological Texts:
Romans 6:1-14 (Paul on baptism and dying to self)
1 Peter 1:18-21 (Redemption through the spotless Lamb)
2 Corinthians 5:17 (New creation in Christ)
Ephesians 5:25-27 (The Church as spotless Bride)
Secondary Sources for Further Study:
N.T. Wright, Simply Christian (on witness and kingdom)
Richard Rohr, The Universal Christ (on Christ’s cosmic redemption)
Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning Church (on baptismal theology)
James Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit (technical theology of baptism)
John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus (context of John the Baptist)
As I sit here on a quiet November evening in 2025, sixty-seven years after that January night in Kirbyville, I find myself doing what old engineers do best: tracing the signal all the way back to its source.
It started with a curious boy in Buna who followed a dog named Brownie too far into the pasture and had to be rescued by the fire department, milk and cookies waiting with Ms. James. That same boy took apart radios just to watch the voices spill out, swam a mile for a merit badge at thirteen, and somehow earned the rank of Eagle Scout before most kids earn a driver’s license. He learned drafting at his grandfather Truman’s knee, watched his dad Robert come home from Dupont with plastic under his nails and quiet integrity in his eyes, and felt his mom Lavee’s faith wrap around the house like the smell of coffee and bacon on Sunday mornings.
That boy met a girl named Leisa at a graduation ceremony in 1975, and something silent and certain took root. We married in 1980 while I was still failing (and then passing) calculus at Lamar, barely scraping together rent, nearly losing each other in the exhaustion and anger of those lean years. But grace is stubborn, and we stayed. In 1984 God gave us Joshua—our Disney World miracle—and for eighteen bright years the three of us were a complete world.
Then came a season of wandering in the wilderness of my own making. Through the late 1980s and most of the 1990s—while on the outside I was climbing towers, building companies, and looking like the picture of success—inside I was coming undone. I wore a faith mask on Sundays and a competent-engineer mask on weekdays, but underneath I was angry, blind, and selfish. I kicked walls, punched doors, tore things apart with my hands when I couldn’t fix what was breaking in my soul. I hurt Leisa and Joshua with fits of rage I still regret, and toward the end I tried to fill the God-shaped hole with every wrong thing I could find. I was lost and didn’t even know how lost.
But on an October night in Orange, Texas, in 2000—two years before the worst day of my life—Jesus found me anyway. I was on my knees at a simple prayer rail, surrounded by other broken men unloading their souls, tears soaking a box of Kleenex. It wasn’t a dramatic revival; it was gentle, forceful, prevenient grace pulling me home before I had earned a single step. That night the signal broke through the noise, and I came back to the Father who had never stopped chasing me.
Two years later, when the valley came and losing Joshua in 2002 broke things in me I didn’t know could break, I discovered that God had already been rebuilding the foundation. The rage was quieter, the mask no longer fit, and though the grief was deeper than any ocean, I now had an Anchor. For a long time I still wore a limp and carried the ache, but I no longer carried it alone. Grief taught me that the capacity to ache is the capacity to love, and love, it turns out, is the only thing that outlasts death. Leisa and I opened our home, led youth groups, hosted Bible studies, and tried—imperfectly—to turn sorrow into sanctuary for others walking the same road.
The years after Joshua are marked by a limp I will carry to my grave, but also by a clarity I never had before. Grief taught me that the capacity to ache is the capacity to love, and love, it turns out, is the only thing that outlasts death. Leisa and I opened our home, led youth groups, hosted Bible studies, and tried—imperfectly—to turn sorrow into sanctuary for others walking the same road.
Meanwhile the work kept calling. From student engineer at Gulf States Utilities to supervising microwave networks that spanned half of Texas; from founding New Signals Engineering on a wing and a prayer to watching it grow into two decades of service; from climbing towers in the rain to keep the lights on in rural counties, to standing up a wireless internet company in the middle of a pandemic so kids in Buna could go to school online—none of it was glamorous. Most of it was midnight pages, impossible budgets, and prayers whispered over schematics. But it mattered. Lights stayed on. People stayed connected. Grace snuck in through fiber and radio waves.
Looking back, I see the thread God was weaving when I could only see tangles: every tower I climbed, every co-op boardroom where I fought for resilience, every late-night text to a grieving parent, every tower hand-off that brought broadband to a forgotten corner of East Texas—it was all the same calling dressed in different clothes. Build. Repair. Connect. Stand in the gap.
I am not the man I planned to be. Thank God. I am the man grief refined, grace pursued, and Leisa loved into existence. Joshua is waiting (I know this in my bones), my dad and grandparents have gone ahead, and one day soon the final signal will come through clear: “Well done.”
Until then, I keep showing up—still curious, still learning, still building, still surrendering. The quiet work goes on.
And by the mercy that has chased me across six decades of East Texas pine and microwave paths, I can say with all my heart: I had a great life. Because He did.
Here lies John E. Hargrove January 24, 1958 – [date yet to be written]
A boy from Buna who never stopped wondering how things worked and never stopped trying to make them work for others.
He chased signals across microwave towers and fiber miles, built networks that carried light to forgotten places, and in the darkest valleys carried the light of Christ to broken hearts.
Husband to Leisa for a lifetime and beyond, father to Joshua—whose brief life taught him how to love forever, son of Robert and Lavee, brother, friend, mentor, builder.
He knew grief intimately, yet chose every morning to show up, to do the quiet work that lasts when applause has long faded.
He was not perfect. He was faithful.
Still learning. Still building. Still becoming. Now, at last, fully known and fully home.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 