"Jesus is LORD" 12/8/13 - Kyle United Methodist Church

11/3/13 - Sermon - Matthew 13:44-45 and 1 Timothy 6:17-19

Sermon 9/8/13 -- Romans 5:6-8 and Mark 1:40-45

Sermon 9/1/13 - Luke 14:25-33 - Kyle UMC

8.25.13--Sermon on Luke 13:10-17

8.18.13--Forgiveness, Weeks 2 and 3

8.4.13--Forgiveness Series, Week 1

7/28/3013 on Luke 11:1-13

7/21/13 Sermon--Luke 10:38-42

07/14/13 Sermon - Luke 10:25-37

07/07/13 Sermon - 2 Kings 5:1-14

Peter and Paul

This last month and a half or so has been crazy for my family and me. We moved down from New Jersey, bounced all over the state of Texas visiting friends and family while we waited to be able to move into our new house, and were welcomed with open arms into our new church family here at Kyle UMC. Now we're trying to redefine for ourselves what order and routine look like in the Cain family. It's been a crazy summer, but it's been good.

As I reflect back on the month of June and everything that happened within it, two specific events stand out in my mind: Annual Conference and JAM Camp.

First Sermon at Kyle UMC--Luke 8:26-39

Here is my first recorded sermon! I am so excited that I'll be able to upload these every week onto the blog. Stay tuned for other thoughts and reflections from the past month as well, for God is working on some stuff in me, and I am pretty sure it's all about to come bursting forth on my blog.

3.3.13--Sermon on Luke 13:6-9

There used to be a large garden behind our house that the previous pastor’s wife had planted and tended. I’m sure that at one point, it was a beautiful patch of ground with all sorts of colorful flowers, fruits, and vegetables growing within it, and I’m sure that it was a pleasing sight for both this couple and everyone who visited the parsonage.

When we moved in, though, this was no longer the case.

Weeds—some now taller than me—had infested the garden. It looked like our backyard was trying to slowly birth a jungle in the middle of Central Jersey, and neither Jess nor I had any idea what to do about it.

Now, I’m sure that this is no surprised, but I am just about as far as one can get from possessing a green thumb. I’ve tried planting trees, vegetables, flowers—you name it, I’ve probably tried it—and each time I’ve ended up with either kindling for a fire or a whole mess of weeds. When it comes to the lawn and garden, I’m best left just mowing and weed whacking. I leave everything else in my wife’s capable hands. She is much, much better at actually being able to grow things. Our first year here, she put in a vegetable garden in the backyard, and we had fresh green beans, peppers, and tomatoes for dinner for a while. It was wonderful. She also put in a number of flowers and trees in the front to liven up the look of the house, and one of those sets of flowers—daffodils or something—are starting to peak up from the ground right now.

I was going to let her tackle rain forest trying to encroach upon our land, but she took one look at it and admitted she had no idea what to do with it. So, after about four months of living there, I did what I do best with lawn and garden care: I started cutting stuff down. I cleared out the weeds, the overgrown tomato plants, the thorny vines, and everything else from that patch until all that was left there was churned up dirt and two small trees—one right in the center of the patch and one off to the side.

It’s kind of funny that these were the only things left standing because they were also the only things that looked like they were no longer alive. Neither had any leaves. Neither were especially large, and neither looked like they were going to be around much longer. Honestly, the only reason that I left them standing is that the weed whacker wasn’t able to cut through them. I’d have to find an axe or hatchet for that. Later, I asked Jessica what she wanted to do with the trees, and we decided to wait and deal with them in the spring.

When spring finally arrived, Jessica started talking about what we were going to do with those trees. We wanted to put a fire pit in the backyard, and the barren, post-apocalyptic jungle patch seemed to be the ideal choice. But what were we going to do with these trees? They still had no leaves on them, and they looked dead.

Luckily, I did not have to make that decision. One day, I got a call from Jess saying that she solved our tree problem. I didn’t think much of it until I got home, and then I went in the back to see what was done. Jess had dug out one of the trees and moved it to a new place in the yard. Apparently, she had gotten so frustrated with the tree that she had dug around a while and then just ripped it out with her bare hands, dug a new hole for it, and filled it in with fresh sod. We both thought for sure that this would never work. I figured I was going to have to go out and chop it down anyways, even after all her work.

For months and months, though, Jess watered that tree and cared for it, and wouldn’t you know it, leaves started to sprout from it. It still looks on the verge of turning into firewood, but it’s fighting on, and it keeps showing signs that it’s still got life left in it.

And I was ready to cut it down. 

2.24.13--Sermon on Genesis 15:1-12,17-18

When I was growing up, I was blessed to be surrounded by a community that seemed to be almost through and through Christian. Everyone belonged to a church—whether they attended regularly or not—and all of my friends were extremely involved in church activities. Now, there was a lot of cross-pollination occurring among the youth of the community; it was very rare for a junior high or senior high student to have only attended youth group at one of the many churches in town.

And let me tell you. There were a lot of churches.

Southern Baptist. American Baptist. Methodist. Lutheran. Episcopal. First Christian. Church of Christ. African Methodist Episcopal. Non-denominational. Churches of all denominations and from all walks of life littered this tiny town. In fact, my home town is in the Guinness Book of World Records because of its ample amount of churches: it is the only town in the world that can boast that it has four churches and jail all on one city block.

Now, I was a good Methodist, heavily involved in the United Methodist Youth Fellowship, or UMYF, that happened every Wednesday night and Sunday mornings at First United Methodist Church. But I was also known to show up on occasion to the youth events put on First Baptist. I also found out that some of the best food to be found on Wednesday nights was at the Church of Christ youth fellowship, so every once in a while I would head over there for a bite to eat and Bible study. Church at the Epicenter, a new extra-denominational church—which is just another fancy way of saying non-denominational—was just starting while I was finishing up high school. Their services were always spiritually filling and I loved sneaking in the back to join them in worship.

This ecclesial cross-pollination led to some very interesting conversations between people with different church backgrounds, but it also led to the forming of some absolutely amazing faith-based relationships. The minister the Church of Christ congregation is still a friend and mentor of mine, and some of the members of the First Baptist Church and Church at the Epicenter had faiths so strong that to this day they are still some of the examples to which I strive to emulate.

No matter where I went, though, whether it was my home congregation, the church across the street, or one of the many within walking distance to my house, I know that I could walk through the doors and be immediately greeted by people I knew and loved and who knew and loved me. I would see families with children as young as James, young men and women my age, and highly experienced men and women who looked like they could be my Papa’s parents; but everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see all of them.

It was a great time to be in the church, because it seemed like everyone was there.

Now, as all of you can see and as many of you have pointed out, I’m still a young’un. It hasn’t been a full decade since I graduated from high school. But it seems like a good bit has changed since I was in high school. When I went back to my hometown a few weeks ago, I got to go back to that church I grew up in. I got to see many of the people who had helped raise me in faith, and it was a wonderful, nostalgic time of fellowship and worship. But something had changed. Now, there were still people of all ages there, some of the ones in high school are the little brothers and sisters of my friends, which still trips me up because I think they should still be in second or third grade. The old friendly faces that I missed so dearly were still there, and there were a good many new faces alongside them.

But the attitude had changed. The atmosphere of the church was just a little different. Instead of that feeling like I was entering a celebration or large family gathering, I felt like I was walking into a bunker full of soldiers who knew they were fighting a losing battle. Now don’t get me wrong. The worship was wonderful. It was great to see all of my old friends and to spend time praising God with them. But something was off.

It wasn’t until after the service when I had a chance to talk to some of those people that I began to understand. You see, no matter whom I spoke to, I heard the same few statements from almost everyone:

“No one comes to church anymore.”

“We can’t compete with Sunday sports.”

“It’s not like it used to be. Everything’s changed.”

This church—still reaching a large number of people and still full of many of the individuals from my past—this church had seemingly forgotten who they serve. For whatever reason, and they could give you a laundry list of them, they had taken their eyes off of the true prize, the true reason for doing church.

They had lost sight of the promise. 

2.17.12--Sermon on Deuteronomy 26:1-11

When I was eight years old, my brother and I caught a kitten.

We were at the softball fields on Hickam AFB on Oahu, waiting for my dad to finish his game. Korey nudged my arm and pointed to this tiny ball of fluff that was cowering near the dugout, and we set off on a mission to capture the cat. Never once did we think that this might be a bad idea. Never once did we think that the poor animal was probably frightened out of its mind, that it might have rabies, that it might actually belong to someone.

We just saw a cute little kitty, and we wanted to play with it.

After about twenty minutes of running around, we finally cornered it against the fence. I picked it up, and it was the tiniest cat I’d ever seen. At eight years old, I could hold it in my hands and have room to spare. We brought it to my dad after the game and told him that we were going to keep it. I’m not sure how we got away with not asking, but we did, so that night, we brought this tiny cat home and he became part of our family.

We named him Pete the Barn Cat, because that was the name of a character in a line of children’s books that I was reading at the time.

Pete traveled from Hawaii to Texas with us, and at some point transitioned from being an indoor cat to an outdoor one. I always felt that I had a special bond with Pete, for even when I’d been gone for long periods of time, he would always run up to me and sit happily in my lap while I pet him. After I went to college, Pete kind of slipped from the forefront of my mind. When I would go home, I’d always try to spend a little bit of time with him, but that time continued to grow shorter and shorter. 

1.13.13--Sermon on Luke 3:21-22

The night that James was born was by far the scariest night of my life.

We had already spent about twenty-two hours in the delivery room, and Jess’ water had broken about four hours before that. Now, I don’t know how much y’all know about pregnancy—though I am assuming most of the women here know it on a much more intimate level than I ever could—but when the mom-to-be’s water breaks, there is only supposed to be a twenty-four hour window for the baby to born. With the absence of the protective water sac, the risk of infection for the baby grows immensely.

And after 26 hours of labor, Jess was not progressing. We both already knew why the mid-wife was coming in to talk to us, but that did little to truly prepare either of us for what she had to say.

The baby had to come out, and he had to come out now. It was time for a caesarean section.

I was stunned, and did not know what to say or do. I have to give Jess a lot of credit, though, because even in the midst of this revelation, she stayed focused and stayed strong. The doctor came in and told us what would happen, and then they began preparations. I was given a set of paper scrubs to wear, and I was so nervous that I actually tore the shirt and one of the shoe-covers trying to get it on. It was basically a t-shirt and a sock for my shoe, but I was so freaked out that I couldn’t remember how to put either on.

Finally, it was time to go into the operating room. In what was easily the brightest and whitest room I have ever seen, the doctors and nurses were gathering around Jess. A partition had been set up at her neck, and I was moved to a stool next to her head. As the final preparations were being made, I talked to my wife and tried to comfort her. The surgeon began his work, and in what seemed both like mere moments and also an eternity, a cry erupted from behind the curtain. One of the nurses lowered the partition enough for the doctor to show us our son. He was crying as loud as his little lungs would allow him, and he was filthy with afterbirth, and he had the angriest look I’ve ever seen on that tiny little face.

And he was beautiful.

The nurses took him over, cleaned him up, and then brought him over to me. I held him close and just looked at him. After all of the stress and fright from the past 27 hours—not to mention the past nine months—he was here. I can honestly say I had never loved anyone as much as I did in that moment, and I have never been happier in my entire life.

Now, James did nothing to earn my love, and he did nothing to elicit those emotions from me. He did absolutely no work in the birthing process; all of that credit goes to Jessica and the medical staff. But when I looked at him that night, there in the OR, I knew that I would always love him, and that he would always be a source of joy in my life.

He didn’t have to earn it. He is my son, and it is his birthright to be loved by his father. 

12.30.12--Sermon on Luke 2:41-52

Have you ever read a book or watched a movie that was so good, you couldn’t help but go back and experience it again and again?  Jess makes fun of me because I have a half-shelf of books that I read constantly. Usually once a year, I make my way through all of them. Three of the books on it are a trilogy that I have read so many times in the past five years that I’m about to have to replace them because mine are falling apart. I also have a stack of movies that I love to watch. I’ve seen the new Muppets movie so many times that I know not only all of the songs but most of the dialogue too!

There are just some stories that are so good, you can’t help but revisit them often. Something about them, be it the narrative or character development or whatever else, is so complex and so rich that it makes you want to come back time and again to see what jumps out at you next time.

For Christmas this year, my brother-in-law, Josiah, gave me Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy on Bluray. Now, as many of you already know, I am a big Batman fan, and I love these movies. Since Christmas, we’ve already watched through all three of them, and I’ve had so much fun reliving these stories. After we finished the third movie, The Dark Knight Rises, Jessica and I had a discussion on how these stories are so well-told that we actually enjoy watching them over and over again. We catch new things every time, and there are even some plot sequences that we are pretty sure only make sense the second or third time watching them.

These movies are definitely on my favorite movie stack.

Do you have a book or movie that does this for you? Maybe it’s a short story or a poem or a printed copy of one of my old sermons :). What wonderful work of literature has sunk its hooks into your brain and refused to let go? What narrative keeps reeling you back in, always exciting and surprising you with new twists and depths that had not been revealed to you before?