Who Do You Serve?

Psalm 45, Colossians 1:11-19

Earlier this week, before I had even published the sermon title—“Who Do You Serve?”—one of our members sent me a message with a link to a song they thought I might appreciate. It was Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody.” And if you know the song, you know exactly why they sent it.

Dylan goes down this long, poetic list of possibilities—ambassadors and gamblers, rock ’n’ roll stars and state troopers, doctors and thieves, preachers and city council members, socialites with pearls and folks sleeping on the floor. But the refrain keeps coming back, like a hammer hitting the same nail: “You’re gonna have to serve somebody.”

No matter who you are. No matter what name you go by—Timmy, Zimmy, Terry, or Ray. No matter what your life looks like from the outside—mansions, domes, tanks, or barbershops. The same truth rings out: You’re gonna have to serve somebody.

Now, I’m not here to preach Bob Dylan—but I will say this: Dylan understood something Paul and the psalmist understood long before him. Every one of us bends our life around something. Every one of us gives our allegiance to something—whether that’s fear, success, security, chaos, or Christ. And the question for Christ the King Sunday isn’t whether you serve something. It’s who do you serve?

But here’s where the psalmist adds a beautiful twist: before we’re asked to choose whom we serve, we’re reminded what kind of God we’re being invited to trust. Not a tyrant. Not one more clamoring ruler demanding our attention. Not just another voice in an already chaotic world. The psalmist points us to a God who is a refuge. A strength. A very present help in trouble.

Much like the Colossians—who lived under pressure from all sides—the people of Jerusalem who first prayed Psalm 46 were literally besieged. The Assyrian army surrounded their city. Destruction seemed moments away. Fear was the air they breathed. We may not be living in a walled city under siege, but the world around us is shaking too.

War continues in Ukraine, Sudan, Yemen, and the West Bank. Millions live each day with the terror of falling bombs and the loss of homes, families, futures. And here in Wichita, we are not untouched by violence. A steady rhythm of shootings has marked our year. Our police chief has warned of the sharp rise in minors carrying illegal firearms—94 arrests already in 2025, surpassing the total for all of last year. Our public discourse has grown harsher; our divisions deeper. And many live with the quiet fear that they might be singled out because of their accent, their skin, their identity, or simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In that kind of world, Psalm 46 doesn’t offer denial. It offers direction. It proclaims a God who: “makes wars cease to the ends of the earth… breaks the bow… shatters the spear… burns the shields with fire.” It is a song meant to reorient the faithful—a reminder of who is truly in charge.

So how do we reorient ourselves amid the clamor and chaos of our own lives? The psalmist gives us the same invitation God spoke to ancient Israel: “Be still, and know that I am God.” The Hebrew word for “still” is rafah. It means to stop, to let go, to loosen your grip, to relax—to “chillax,” as the kids said a few decades ago.
It means recognizing you are not in control—and that this is good news. Because the One who created all things, the One who holds all things together, the One exalted among the nations and in the earth—that One is with you.

Christ, the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, the beginning and the head of the church, is with us now. God’s steadfast love reaches into every shaking place—where there is violence, where there is pain, where there is fear—and whispers: “Be still. Rafah. Let go. Know that I am God. I’ve got you.”

But what does being still actually look like in daily life? It doesn’t mean ignoring the news or pretending everything is fine. It means choosing—intentionally—to anchor ourselves in God’s presence rather than the world’s panic.

Being still might look like: Pausing before reacting—a deep breath prayed as, “Lord, be my strength.” Turning off the noise—even five minutes of silence to remember who holds you. Letting go of what you cannot control—naming aloud the things you’re carrying and placing them into God’s hands. Praying Scripture—whispering “Be still… God is our refuge” while driving or washing dishes. Serving others—because nothing quiets fear like practicing love.

Being still isn’t about inaction. It’s about reorientation. It’s about remembering whom you serve—and who serves you with steadfast love.

Last month, after our Reformation Sunday service, I received an email from a member lamenting that we did not sing A Mighty Fortress, the hymn traditionally sung on that occasion. Honestly, this was a miss on my part, and I promised we would sing it soon—especially knowing that Psalm 46 was coming up in the lectionary.

You see, Psalm 46 is the very psalm that inspired Martin Luther to write A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Luther didn’t write that hymn during a peaceful season of life. He wrote it under the threat of violence, political pressure, and deep personal fear. The Reformation had shaken the foundations of Europe. His writings had been condemned. A price had been placed on his head. He was excommunicated by the church he loved, hunted by the empire he lived under, and burdened by the suffering of his friends.
And in the middle of that turmoil, Luther kept returning to Psalm 46. Biographers say he would often turn to those around him and say: “Come, let us sing the Forty-Sixth Psalm, and let the devil do his worst.”

“God is our refuge and strength… Though the mountains shake… Though the nations rage… The Lord of hosts is with us.”

Out of that conviction—not out of comfort—Luther wrote: A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. He wasn’t writing a triumphant march. He was writing a confession of trust—a reorienting of his heart toward the One he served above all others. A song to remind him—and us—that even if the world falls apart around us, Christ holds all things together.

So the question Paul asks the Colossians, the question the psalmist asks Jerusalem, the question Bob Dylan asks in his own poetic way, is the question Christ asks us today: Who—or what—do you serve?

Because you will serve something. Fear or faith. Chaos or Christ. The trembling world or the One who holds it.

Christ the King Sunday doesn’t demand blind obedience. It doesn’t threaten us into loyalty. It doesn’t ask us to ignore the world’s pain. Instead, it invites us to remember:
There is only One whose authority brings peace. Only One whose power is love. Only One who can steady your shaking soul and speak into your chaos: “Be still. Rafah. Let go. I am with you. I will not let you go.”

This week, you will hear many voices calling for your allegiance—news cycles, anxieties, deadlines, demands. But only one voice will call you by your true name. Only one voice will lead you toward life. Only one voice has already laid down everything—everything—to bring you home.

So, beloved in Christ, as this church year ends and the new one begins, choose again the One who has already chosen you. Serve the One who first served you. Trust the One who is your refuge, your strength, your mighty fortress—now and forever.
May it be so in your life, in your family, in this congregation, and in the whole church of Jesus Christ.

Saints, Sinners, and Sycomores

Luke 19:1-10

Jesus has been busy since last Sunday, when he told the parable of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee to those who trust in their own righteousness and look down on others. On his way to Jerusalem, he’s been blessing little children, telling a rich young ruler that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God, and healing a blind beggar outside the gates of Jericho.

Now imagine you’re walking with Jesus into the bustling oasis city of Jericho: palm fronds whispering overhead, traders calling out beside the perennial spring named after the prophet Elisha, the scent of date syrup and sun-warmed mud-brick walls mingling with the salt-tinged breeze from the nearby Jordan Valley.
You and Jesus’ entourage make your way past the merchants and street vendors bargaining over figs, olives, and goats. And suddenly, Jesus stops. Here is what happens next, according to Luke’s gospel. Listen for God’s Word to you.

19 He entered Jericho and was passing through it. 2 A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. 3 He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. 4 So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. 5 When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.” 6 So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. 7 All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” 8 Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” 9 Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he, too, is a son of Abraham. 10 For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

No, there isn’t a typo in the sermon title in your service bulletin. Luke tells us that Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree, but this is not the sycamore we know here in Kansas. The sycomore of the Middle East is a cousin of the fig tree—Ficus sycomorus—also known as the sycomore fig. It’s a hardy tree that can grow in marginal soil and was easy to cultivate throughout Israel. Remember the prophet Amos who pierced the fruit of the sycomore tree? In Hebrew, the word for this tree is shikma, which comes from a root meaning regrowth. It was known for its ability to sprout again and again, even when cut down to a stump. In fact, the modern Hebrew word for rehabilitation, shikum, comes from that same root.

The sycomore tree is short and wide, with low branches that are easy to climb—an ideal perch from which to see Jesus. And it’s fun to imagine Zacchaeus scampering up those branches as the crowd gathers around.

Luke tells us Zacchaeus is the chief tax collector—the boss, the overseer of collectors like Levi (the one who threw a party for Jesus in chapter 5) or the tax collector who went home made right with God in the previous chapter. He’s not just a collaborator with the Roman occupation; he’s profiting mightily from it. To the people of Jericho, Zacchaeus wasn’t just disliked—he was despised. Yet Jesus looks up and calls that man by name. “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.” And as Zacchaeus climbs down, happy to welcome him, the crowd begins to grumble. “Of all the people in town, why on earth would Jesus want to associate with this despicable character?”

You can almost hear them whispering, “Do you know who this man is?” “Do you know who he works for?” “Don’t you know he’s a sinner?”

Zacchaeus stands before Jesus in the midst of that crowd and says, “Half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I pay back four times as much.” If you’re like me, you’ve probably thought of this as a redemption story—Jesus notices Zacchaeus, which leads to his repentance and generosity.

But a closer look at the Greek suggests another meaning. Our New Revised Standard Version translates the verb didōmi—“to give”—in the future tense: I will give. But other translations—King James, NIV, CEB—render it in the present tense: I give. That small change in tense changes the story. It suggests that Zacchaeus isn’t promising to change his ways; he’s describing what he already does.

His name, Zacchaeus, means “pure” in Hebrew. Perhaps he wasn’t seeking redemption so much as recognition. Perhaps he’s not the only one in need of repentance—the crowd is too.

Maybe this story isn’t just about Zacchaeus’ transformation; maybe it’s about ours—about our tendency to jump quickly to judgment. The gospels often pair tax collectors and sinners, but simply being a tax collector doesn’t necessarily make one a sinner. And, after two examples of rich and powerful men who didn’t get it—the Pharisee in the temple and the rich young ruler—here we have a rich man who does get it and who does get in with Jesus.

How quickly we assume and label others because of their privilege, position, politics, or past. Who do we grumble about?

Maybe this story is about how God sees us differently than the crowd does. Because it’s not about how the world sees you. It’s about how God sees you and how you see God working through you.

Zacchaeus was willing to literally go out on a limb, to risk embarrassment and stand amidst the grumbling crowd, just to catch a glimpse of Jesus. Would we? Jesus declares, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” Zacchaeus was lost—not in the moral sense, but socially. Cast out, cut off, written off by his community. Yet Jesus brings him back in.

On this All Saints Sunday, when we celebrate the saints who have gone before us, Jesus reminds us that we may be surprised by the saints among us—even those we might be tempted to despise. In our Reformed tradition, we affirm that we are all saints and sinners. Not one or the other, but both at once.

We are made holy not by our perfection, but by God’s persistent grace, the grace that keeps calling us down from our trees and inviting itself to dinner.

Zacchaeus reminds us that sainthood isn’t about moral achievement or spotless reputation. It’s about being seen by Jesus, called by name, and transformed by love. He is the unlikely saint in whom we see ourselves—flawed, curious, hopeful, seeking a glimpse of grace.

And that sycomore tree—that scrappy, regenerative tree that grows in hard places—stands as a witness to that same grace. Its roots dig deep into poor soil, and even when cut down, it sprouts again. That’s the persistence of God’s mercy: continually nurturing new growth, bearing fruit in unlikely places, in unlikely people—like Zacchaeus, like us. So on this All Saints Sunday, as we remember those who have gone before us, may we also remember that we stand among them—rooted in the same persistent grace, growing in the same enduring love, part of the great communion of saints whom Christ still calls by name.

May it be so in your lives, in the life of your families, in the life of this congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church.