The Power of Worship

Mark 14:1-11

Worship is never neutral. It either loosens our grip on lesser loves or tightens their chains around our soul. In Bethany, while death plotted in the shadows and religion calculated its risks, a woman stepped into the light of wholehearted devotion. She broke what could not be repaired, poured out what could not be recovered, and loved Jesus without reserve. And Jesus called it beautiful.

Mary’s act was not impulsive sentimentality; it was the overflow of a heart already shaped. She did not wake that morning intending to make history. She simply brought to Jesus what she treasured most. Worship is always like this—it reveals what already reigns within us. Judas stood in the same room, heard the same words, saw the same Jesus. Yet one broke a jar in love, and the other sold the Lord for silver. Experience with Jesus does not transform us; worship of Jesus does.

What we revere, we resemble. Mary worshiped Jesus and became free—free from calculation, free from fear of opinion, free from the tyranny of possessions. Judas worshiped money and became enslaved—restless, defensive, deceptive, willing to trade relationship for reward. Worship is never merely about what we do on occasion; it is about who or what commands our deepest allegiance. And that allegiance quietly but relentlessly forms us.

Notice that Mary did not understand the full meaning of her act. Jesus tells us she was preparing Him for burial, though she likely had no such awareness. This is the hidden power of worship: God uses surrendered love to accomplish purposes far beyond our understanding. We imagine worship as expressive; God reveals it to be effective. He has chosen praise, sacrifice, obedience, and devotion as instruments through which He works His will in the world.

Yet worship will always invite resistance. Mary’s devotion was criticized by the religious, rebuked by friends, labeled wasteful and impractical. True worship often looks foolish to those who measure life by utility rather than love. But Jesus stands between the worshiper and the accuser and says, “Leave her alone.” Heaven’s approval outweighs every earthly objection.

The question is not whether we worship, but whom. Our lives testify to our altar. Look not merely at your words, but at your formation. Are you becoming more loving or more guarded? More generous or more anxious? More gentle or more defensive? These are not accidental outcomes; they are the fruit of devotion.

Mary did what she could—and that was enough. She did not calculate future security or public opinion. She responded to Jesus with affection and action. Worship that costs us nothing shapes us into nothing. But worship that breaks us open becomes a fragrance God uses to fill the room—and sometimes, to give hope to others standing knee-deep in the mud.

Pour it out. Worship anyway. God is at work.

Practice the Way of Jesus

Jesus does not flatter us with comforting abstractions. He speaks with piercing clarity. “Everyone who hears these words of Mine and puts them into practice…”—and there He draws the line that divides all humanity. Not between the moral and immoral, the religious and irreligious, the fortunate and the afflicted—but between the practiced and the merely informed.

The striking truth of Jesus’ words in Matthew 7 is that everything else is the same. The storm does not discriminate. Rain falls on obedience and disobedience alike. Winds beat against every house. The difference is not the weather of life but the weight-bearing obedience beneath it. One hears and does. The other hears and delays. And delay, in the kingdom of God, is already a decision.

Throughout Scripture this pattern is relentless. God speaks; people respond—or refuse. Noah builds while the sky is blue and finds salvation when it turns black. Abraham keeps obeying long after obedience feels unreasonable and discovers that God keeps promises beyond biology. Moses lifts a staff, Israel walks, Naaman washes, blind eyes open, empty nets break with abundance. God’s power is never detached from trust expressed through action.

Equally clear is the sobering witness of those who heard and did nothing. They were invited. They were informed. They were near the truth. Yet they watched storms without experiencing salvation, commands without deliverance, Christ without transformation. It was not ignorance that robbed them—it was unpracticed truth.

Jesus never asked for admirers. He commanded apprentices. “Teach them to obey,” He said—not merely to agree. Christianity left at the level of belief alone becomes weightless. It can grow numerically, organize efficiently, and yet remain untouched by the living power of God. But obedience—real, embodied obedience—becomes the narrow gate through which life flows.

This is why practicing the way of Jesus feels so often unreasonable. Forgive when wounded. Give when anxious. Pray when exhausted. Speak when silence feels safer. These instructions offend our instincts because God has chosen the foolish-looking things to train our trust. We do not drift into this kind of life. We must aim.

Jesus Himself told us it would be harder. Easier roads are always available—but ease is often destructive. What is easiest rarely fuels what is eternal. The narrow way is demanding, but it is alive. As Chesterton observed, Christianity is not tried and found wanting; it is found difficult and left untried.

Yet hear the mercy in all this: Jesus never commands without empowering. He died not only to forgive sin, but to place His Spirit within us—to make obedience possible from the inside out. “It is God who works in you to will and to act…” Our responsibility is not self-powered righteousness, but surrendered cooperation.

So where is the storm pressing hardest right now? Where do you long to see God’s power break through? Do not ask first for relief—ask what obedience looks like there. Search the Scriptures. Seek counsel. Then act.

Build there. Practice there.

And you will find that the life you most truly crave is not found in hearing more—but in practicing what you already have heard.

Larry’s sermon centers on the idea that God desires to guide His people from places of brokenness, scarcity, and stagnation into lives marked by abundance, wisdom, and flourishing. He illustrates this through a story about a close friend who mentors a young woman whose life has been shaped by harmful decisions and discouragement. Larry’s friend pleads with her, saying that if she would simply watch, listen, and follow her, she could be led “from where you are…to better places” — from a life she hates into one she would love.

When Larry hears this, he senses God revealing that this is not just what He desires for one person, but for all of us: God places wise and godly people in our lives as living examples to help guide us from unwise patterns toward wholeness and life.

A major theme of the message is humility. Larry emphasizes that transformation requires the courage to admit, “I don’t know how to live well — but you do,” and to submit ourselves to guidance and imitation. This posture stands in contrast to the modern tendency to seek advice from distant voices — online personalities, influencers, or strangers — whose own lives may not reflect the fruit or outcomes we desire. Larry challenges the congregation to recognize how irrational it is to entrust our deepest life decisions to people we do not know and whose wisdom we cannot verify. Instead, Scripture presents a God who promises to guide His people daily and who often does so through trustworthy, faithful examples in the community of believers.

The sermon also connects this calling to the life of Jesus. Even though Jesus was equal with God, He chose to humble Himself, refusing to act independently; instead, He imitated and followed the will of the Father in everything He did. His life becomes both the model and the means of our transformation — He humbled Himself to the point of death so that we might be set free and learn how to live in alignment with God’s purposes.

Larry frames this life of imitation and discipleship as a movement from “limited vision and prison space” into abundance. God is deeply committed to our good — so committed, in fact, that Christ gave His life to lead us out of captivity and into fullness of life. Communion becomes a tangible reminder of that commitment and an invitation to trust God’s shepherding presence even when the path forward feels uncertain.

Ultimately, the sermon calls believers to embrace a posture of teachability, to seek guidance from godly men and women whose lives demonstrate the fruit of wisdom, and to follow Jesus’ example of humility and obedience. Through this way of life — watching, listening, imitating, and surrendering — God leads His people from places of pain and confusion into places of abundance, freedom, and joy.

1. Humility & Teachability: Where in your life do you resist guidance because it requires humility? What might it look like to ask someone you trust to “teach you how to live” in that area?

2. Models Worth Imitating: Who in your life demonstrates the kind of spiritual maturity or fruit you hope to grow into? What practical steps could you take to intentionally learn from them?

3. Sources of Influence: In what ways do you tend to seek direction from distant or impersonal voices (social media, influencers, etc.)? How can you shift toward embodied, relational guidance?

4. Following Jesus’ Example: How does Jesus’ humility before the Father challenge your approach to decision-making, independence, or control?

5. From Scarcity to Abundance: Where do you feel “stuck” or limited right now? What might trusting God’s guidance — through Scripture, prayer, and community — look like in that specific area?

C3 will be meeting in a new building starting January 4, 2026. Listen here for details.

The Unedited Genealogy of Jesus

“This is the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah…” — Matthew 1:1

We are accustomed to telling our stories selectively. We polish the edges, omit the failures, and highlight the moments that make us appear respectable. Scripture itself records that genealogies were often written this way—compressed, edited, and curated. Yet when Matthew opens his Gospel, he does something startling. He edits, yes—but not the way we would expect. He leaves the shame in.

The family line of Jesus Christ is not a showcase of uninterrupted virtue. It is a record of sinners, scandals, and severe moral collapse. Judah and Tamar. Rahab the prostitute. Ruth the outsider. David and “the wife of Uriah.” Kings who shed innocent blood and led God’s people into darkness. Matthew does not blur these names into obscurity; he underlines them. He insists that we see the Messiah standing at the end of a long, broken line.

This is not carelessness—it is purposeful. God is telling us something essential about the heart of redemption.

If Jesus were ashamed of broken people, He would have edited them out of His own family tree. But He did not. The people we would hide are the very people God highlights. The people we would disqualify are the people God deliberately includes. From the beginning, the incarnation declares that Jesus did not come from sanitized humanity, but from real humanity—and therefore He has come for it.

Here is the first truth we must face: anyone can belong to His family. Not because sin does not matter, but because grace matters more. The genealogy preaches before Jesus ever speaks. It announces that doubt, failure, addiction, and disgrace do not place you beyond reach—they place you precisely within the kind of reach Christ came to extend. The bloodline of Jesus says to the least and the lost, “There is room.”

But Matthew presses us further. This family tree also reveals that God redeems what we assume is ruined. David’s greatest failure is not erased; it is transformed. From a union marked by adultery and death comes Solomon—and through Solomon, the promises of God move forward. Redemption does not deny the damage of sin, but it refuses to let sin have the final word.

God takes what we are most ashamed of and makes it the very place where His life breaks through. What we call disqualifying, He calls redeemable. What we bury, He resurrects.

Do not ask whether Jesus can handle your past. Look at His genealogy. Do not wonder if your worst mistake is too far gone. Look at the cross, where the Son of God was hung on a tree, covered in the full weight of human shame, so that shame would no longer own us.

The question is not whether He can redeem—it is whether you will hand Him what needs redeeming. Bring it into the light. Invite Him into the place you avoid. He is not embarrassed by your story. He entered history precisely to transform it.

Let Him.