Morning Prayer: Eula Hledik Choral Amen Hymn of Joy *Fairest Lord Jesus* Witness of Scripture: Luke 24:44-53 Anthem *Create in me a Cealn Heart, O God* Carl F. Mueller Sermon *Carry a Little Bit of Doubt and Humility* Steve Graham
Recorded on June 1, 2025
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Carry A Little Bit of Doubt and Humility
A Celebration of the Good News with the Beloved Community,
First Christian Church, Norman, Oklahoma
Rev. Dr. Stephen D. Graham
June 1, 2025
Luke 24: 44–53
Luke concludes his gospel with a poignant image: Jesus, bearing the wounds of crucifixion and the glory of resurrection, stands among his disciples. He speaks not only as the Risen One but as the Ascending One, who commissions, blesses, and departs in grace. He acknowledges the gravitational pull of this world—a drag that tugs on our spirit. As John Mayer sings, "Gravity is working against me...it's trying to bring me down." Yet Christ, having risen, now prepares to rise again—ascending to the heavens while anchoring his mission in the lives of those left behind.
“The Messiah suffered and was raised from the dead on the third day,” he reminds them, and now they are to proclaim repentance and the forgiveness of sins to all nations, beginning right where they are—in Jerusalem (Luke 24:46-47). The next chapter of God’s unfolding story begins not with a leap but with a pause. They must wait until they are clothed with power from on high.
We, too, in this season of discernment and transition, find ourselves waiting. Seeking new pastoral leadership is more than a procedural step; it is a spiritual journey. And every faithful journey begins with a first step. Jesus does not invite us to bypass the present moment. He calls us to begin exactly where we are—with gratitude, with attentiveness, and with trust.
That first step is rarely easy. It demands courage, but also humility. The gravitational weight of worry, longing, and impatience can blur our vision. As Mayer observes, “Twice as much ain’t twice as good, and can’t sustain like one-half could. It’s wanting more that’s gonna send me to my knees.” Wanting more, needing certainty, seeking control—these instincts weigh us down. But faith lifts.
Lyndon Johnson once confided his fear of being "a nothing." He spent much of his life trying to outdistance the shadow of his Texas Hill Country roots. Many of us live with similar fears—fearing that what we have, or who we
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are, isn’t enough. But the gospel speaks back: You have enough. You are enough. Wait with gratitude. Trust the blessing already given.
Faith, not certainty, is the true power of the disciple. In Balancing Heaven and Earth, Robert Johnson writes, "Be afraid of the one who claims to know exactly what he is doing." Instead, seek the ones who walk with reverence, who carry a little bit of doubt and a great deal of humility. Such doubt is not weakness. It is a holy companion that keeps us leaning on God, rather than ourselves.
Jesus opened the disciples' minds to understand the scriptures. They saw him not only as Messiah but as the Suffering Servant—the one who bore the full weight of sin and sorrow. And now they were to go out with good news: hearts can change, forgiveness is real, and no failure is final. This message wasn’t for Jerusalem alone. It was for all people, everywhere, always.
Forgiveness defines us. Not success. Not failure. Forgiveness. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes even our best effort disappoints. But through Christ, we are not limited by either our victories or our defeats. We are redefined by grace.
Jesus told them to stay in the city until the promised Spirit arrived. A friend of mine once described moving into his college dorm as trying to pack too much into one suitcase, one car, and one tiny room. He liked to say, “You can’t take everything, So take the right things.” And in this spiritual journey, we take with us the essentials: faith, gratitude, community, and the promised Spirit of God.
As Jesus prepared to ascend, he lifted his hands and blessed them. His last earthly gesture was one of blessing. Luke does not close the gospel with an ending but with a new beginning. The curtain doesn’t fall. The stage opens wider. The blessing continues to this day.
“He led them out as far as Bethany, lifted up his hands, and blessed them. While he was blessing them, he withdrew and was carried up into heaven” (Luke 24:50-51). That blessing was not sealed in the past. It is active. It is present. It is yours.
I remember the funeral for Bill Rose, a man who stopped by our church daily for a cup of coffee. His routine was sacred: first the courthouse then to the bookstore, and the church, where he would sit in a green leather chair in the foyer and sip from a small Styrofoam cup. Bill had been pulled down by the weight of life—grief, hardship, and maybe regrets. Yet he carried
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himself with quiet dignity. His back was straight, his eyes steady, his hands wrapped gently around his cup as though it contained holy warmth.
He never said much. But when he did, it mattered. He seemed to understand what Morris West meant when he wrote, in The Clowns of God, that the pace of life should be set more by the kingdom of God than by the clamor of the world. Bill drank his coffee with a kingdom cadence.
On what would be his last Sunday, I saw him at the coffee pot. He seemed restless. I greeted him quietly and let him be. Later, I saw his cup—untouched, still full of coffee, but now cold. He had not joined us for worship. The next day his caretaker, Nancy, called to say he had been taken to the hospital. He died a few days later.
Bill left behind no riches, no memoirs, no grand legacy. But he left behind a blessing. I remember how he would often pause at my door and say, “You’re a good man, Steve Graham. I know about you.” That was enough. Enough to remind me of grace. Enough to offer me peace.
You see, we are all in need of such affirmation. The world can be unkind. The gravity of pain and indifference is strong. But Christ still blesses, and he calls us to do the same.
Receive the blessing. Carry it close. And whenever you can, offer a blessing n doorways and driveways, kitchen tables and sanctuary pews—extend a blessing to others. The risen Christ ascended, but his blessing remains. He blesses still, through our hands, through our words.
It takes a great deal of receiving to give even a little.
"The Spirit has been promised, and though we are alone, We wait until the moment when fire and wind are known."