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.