Hephus, almost persuaded. Not forced, convinced.
Well, this morning we step into a courtroom where
power wears perfume and calls it order. Festus
sits with the governor's impatience, Agrippa
with a king's smile. Bernice sits beside him
and the principal men of the city watching for
a way in which the wind's going to blow. Then
Paul enters, chained, unbothered, eyes bright
like a man who's already died and come back.
He raises his hand, he tells the Damascus road,
the blinding light, the risen Christ, and he
looks past the crown into a conscience. Now,
church, normally we'd be tucked in our sanctuary
hearing the furnace hum and the hymnals rustle,
but this week the snow came hard. Roads went
slick and we're gathering online, scattered around
kitchens and couches, listening through screens
while the storm keeps snowing. Same family, same
word, different room. So draw close, turn the
volume up, and let the spirit get near. And friend,
I'll see you on the other side. Before I begin,
I want to make sure everybody, I hope at least
you're in a place where you're warm and you're
safe and enjoying. You're able to enjoy the beautiful
view out the window. And also, we've had some
ongoing prayer requests. Please continue to pray
for Susan and her son, Justin, that Justin's
making improvement. slowly but surely and so
please continue to pray for them remembering
of course we've got Marcia and her friend dealing
with her situation so please keep Marcia and
her friend in your thoughts and prayers and And
yeah, so we're glad that you're able to join
us here today. And we certainly look forward
to being back together Sunday. This morning,
I'm going to talk about a story from the Acts
of the Apostles. And it's a story about the Apostle
Paul. And Paul is one of these guys that goes
around the Mediterranean basin, and he tries
to convert people to Christianity. And he starts
churches. And that's what he's doing in our story
today. He has encountered this king who is of
Herod's line, a king by the name of Agrippa.
And it's a very interesting kind of story in
the way that he interacts with King Agrippa.
And I thought this would be a good one to tell
on a snow day. So we're just going to jump right
in and start. Now, you guys know that there are
stories in the Bible that sometimes they feel
like courtroom dramas. There are moments that
feel. Like a person is standing on the edge of
a bridge, looking down and knowing exactly what
it's going to cost to jump. The story today in
Acts 26 is one of those stories. Picture the
room. It's not like a church fellowship hall
with metal chairs and burnt coffee. This is a
room with power. This is polished stones. The
smell of... of money and iron and that particular
perfume that only, it seems, success can wear.
This, where our story finds us today, this is
Rome's world. Marble columns, banners catching
light, guards who don't blink, who don't fidget,
who stand there like they've never needed to
even breathe. And King Agrippa is there. From
Herod's line. And he's Jewish enough to know
the scriptures. He's also political enough to
know how to survive. He's got the weight of royal
dynasty in his bones. He knows what it costs
to keep a throne warm. And... Bernice is there
too, his sister. History says their relationship
raised eyebrows in ways that powerful people
only whisper about late at night. Room is thick
with that unspoken kind of scandal that never
quite gets named out loud. And then there's Festus.
Festus is a Roman governor, a man trying to do
paperwork on a case that he does not understand.
A bureaucrat. who wants a problem that he can
solve. They're surrounding them the principal
men of the city, folks who always seem to show
up and are seated near the front when something
important in public is happening, ones that seem
like they probably have skin in the game, ones
who watch to see which way the wind blows. And
in comes Paul. but not as a celebrity, not as
a guest preacher who's been invited to inspire
the crowds. Paul comes in in chains. And this
matters. It matters more than anything else in
the moment because he is not delivering a lecture.
He's delivering testimony under pressure. He's
not sharing ideas he's thought about. He's fighting
for his life. And yet, here he is. Standing like
a man who's already died once and came back with
nothing left to lose. You can see it in the way
that he moves. There is a lightness in him that
shouldn't be possible. There is a freedom in
Paul that chains just can't seem to touch. Paul
lifts his hands to speak and the whole room gets
quiet. Not because they love Paul. That's not
what's going on here. But because they're curious
about what he's going to say. And curious is
what happens when people don't know what to do
about what you're going to say. Curious is what
happens when truth shows up uninvited. They are
watching a man in chains who looks like he's
won something. And Paul starts telling his story.
The zeal, the violence, the Damascus road, the
light, he calls it light. And you can tell he
is still seeing his conversion moments in his
mind's eye, the voice that stopped him dead,
the calling that turned him inside out, the mercy
that interrupted his whole operating system.
He quotes Moses and the prophets. He says it
wasn't a new religion. This was the hope Israel
had always been carrying, even when they didn't
know how to carry it. He says the resurrection
is the deal maker, the proof, the hinge on which
everything turns. And he looks at Agrippa like
he's not talking to a king. He looks at him like
he is talking to a soul. Now here's what's interesting.
Some folks don't slam the door on Jesus. They
keep him in our maybe later drawer. Right next
to the old batteries that might work if you find
the right flashlight. The expired coupons you
swear you'll use someday. The broken thing you
are absolutely going to fix when you get time.
The letter you've been meaning to answer for
three years. The apology you have practiced but
never delivered. But you and I both know what
that drawer really is. The drawer is a graveyard
for unfinished obediences. That drawer is where
good intentions go to die slowly. Without fanfare.
Without even noticing they're gone. And that
drawer, my dear friends, is the most dangerous
place in a Christian life. Not because it's hostile,
but because it's comfortable. You can open it
whenever you want. You can look at what's inside.
You can even dust it off and feel like you're
thinking about it. You can keep Jesus in reach
without ever having to reach. So friends, attune
your ears to the reading of Holy Scripture this
morning. Our word comes to us from the Acts of
the Apostles, the 26th chapter of that book,
beginning in verse 24. And thus he made his defense.
Festus said with a loud voice, Paul, you're mad.
All of your learning has turned you mad. But
Paul says, I'm not mad, most excellent Festus,
but speak forth words of truth and soberness.
For the king knows of these things of whom I
speak freely. For I am persuaded that none of
these things are hidden from him. For this has
not been done in a corner. King Agrippa, you
believe the prophets. I know you do. And Agrippa
says to Paul, With but little persuasion thou
wouldst made me a Christian. And Paul says, I
would to God that whether with little or with
much, not thou only, but also all that hear me
this day might become such as I, except these
bonds. And the king rose up, and the governor,
and Bernice, and they sat with him. And when
they had withdrawn, they spake to one another,
saying, This man does nothing worthy of death
or bonds. And Agrippa said unto Festus, This
man might have been set at liberty if he had
not appealed unto Caesar. Thus ends the reading
of the word this morning. And that's the text.
A man tells the truth. Heaven shows up in the
room through his mouth. The spirit gets so close
you can feel it. And the response is not hatred,
not anger, not violence. Polite distance. A chuckle.
A dodge. With but little persuasion. Translation,
you're getting close, Paul. Maybe, maybe too
close. Back up. Let's not get crazy here. And
let's be honest. Almost is a respectable place
to live. Almost still lets you sit in church
without sweating through your shirt. Almost still
lets you pray when you're scared or lonely or
lost. Almost still lets you cry during your third
verse of the hymn and then go right back to the
same patterns on Monday morning, just like nothing
had changed. Almost still lets you nod along
with the sermon, check your phone during the
altar call. Almost is the spiritual equivalent,
standing at the threshold and insisting you are
here only to observe. And some of us, whether
we realize it or not, we have mastered almost.
We do it so well with scripture open in our lap,
and I mean looking real spiritual while keeping
everything really at a safe distance. And here
is the genius of Agrippa in this moment. He's
not ignorant. That's the twist. He's not some...
Pagan kid who never heard of Moses or the prophets
or the promises Israel had been carrying around
for a thousand years. He's a Herod, raised around
Jewish law, steeped in Jewish prophecy, soaked
in Jewish expectation. His whole life is built
on knowing the scriptures. So Paul doesn't ask,
have you heard of God? Paul asks the dangerous
question, King Agrippa. Don't you believe the
prophets? I know you do. Right? Translation here.
You already know this is true, Agrippa. The question
is not whether you believe. It's whether you'll
obey. It's the kind of way to make a room go
quiet in a way that you can hear. Because it
corners you without raising its voice. Exposes
you without accusation. It makes you own what
you already know. Now watch the defense mechanisms
in the room. They are old as dust. They are modern
as this morning. They're sitting in our pews
every week wearing cologne and church perfume
and emotional armor. And we don't even see them
because we're too busy using them ourselves.
Paul is testifying. To the power of the resurrection.
And Festus blurts out loud, Paul, you are mad.
That's not an argument. It's a label. It's a
way of making something go away without actually
having to address it. Ridicule. It's what people
do when truth gets too hot to hold. If you can
make the person look crazy, you don't actually
have to deal with what they said. You can dismiss
the message by dismissing the messenger. Paul
doesn't crumble. He doesn't swing back with his
own insults. He doesn't get defensive. He says,
I'm not mad. I'm not crazy. But speak forth words
of truth and soberness. I'm not unstable. I'm
not emotionally compromised. I am awake and I
am seeing clearly and I'm speaking to what I
see. And that's scarier to power than madness
could ever be. Agrippa doesn't say no. He doesn't
say yes. He does something slick. Something I
think only the powerful can pull off. With but
little persuasion, thou wouldst feign to make
me a Christian. Depending on the tone, that's
either a joke or a deflection. Maybe both. Either
way, it functions like a shield for Agrippa.
Look how reasonable I am. Look how I'm not taking
this too seriously. Look how I can hold on to
this tightly. Agrippa keeps it light so he can
keep it safe. And hear me, friends, humor is
a gift. I love humor. Oklahomans, we survive
on humor. Our grandmothers taught us that laughter
is the only thing that keeps you sane when the
world gets hard. But humor can also be a trap
door, a way so you don't have to stand still
long enough to let conviction land. So if you
turn something sacred into something manageable,
Agrippa is doing that. And he's doing what many
of us do when the sermon starts sounding personal.
He turns revelation into entertainment. Afterwards,
they step aside and they say, this man doesn't
do anything wrong, worthy of death or bonds.
Very fair, very reasonable, very judicial. They
call it reasonableness, but it's really avoidance
with good manners. Look at this line here. He
might have been set at liberty if he had not
appealed unto Caesar. They reduce Paul's witness
to legal technicalities, trying to solve grace
like a case file. They want to make Paul and,
well, Christianity a problem that they can manage.
But the gospel account isn't a case file. It's
not a problem to be managed. It's a crossroads.
It's a summons. It is an interruption in your
life that requires an answer from you. And you
cannot intellectualize your way out of being
called. You can't analyze yourself out of a decision
you've already made in your bones. So what's
actually happening in this courtroom? Paul is
doing something both holy and dangerous at the
same time. He's aiming past the crown and into
the conscience of Agrippa. He's not trying to
impress him. He's not trying to win a debate.
He's trying to awaken something in the man's
soul that the crown has put to sleep. And he
says to Festus, these things aren't hidden. Everybody
knows what I'm talking about. He says to Agrippa,
you know the prophets. You've read them. You
understand the promises. And then he tightens
the circle with that question. Do you believe
the prophets? You can almost hear the chains
stop moving because Paul just turned the courtroom
into a mirror. Because Paul knows something we
forget in our age of information and options.
You don't get saved by agreeing that scripture
is true. You get saved when scripture becomes
a mirror in your life and you stop flinching.
Agrippa has belief, but not surrender. Agrippa
has information, but not conversion. Agrippa
has proximity, but not repentance. And here's
the haunted part. It can keep you up at night.
You could be that close. and still walk away
unchanged. You can have truth so near you, you
can reach out and touch it and still choose the
drawer. With but little persuasion is Agrippa
admitting the gospel is working on him. It means
the spirit is near. It means the door is cracked.
It means the light is in the room and he can
see it. But he doesn't step through. Why? Because
becoming a Christian doesn't change your Sunday.
It changes all of your allegiances in life. If
Agrippa says yes in that room, he risks everything
he had built in his lifetime. Reputation, power,
control, the whole architecture of looking like
you've got it all put together. He risks being
seen as weak. He risks losing the people who
depend on him and staying in charge. Friends,
grace is free, but it's not weightless. It lands
heavy. It rearranges your furniture. It knocks
your little kingdom off the table. It tells you
that things you thought proved your worth, your
title, your money, your ability to manage people,
those things are not your worth at all. Some
folks would simply rather keep their crown than
Christ. So they choose almost. And almost feels
harmless until you realize that almost is how
people miss trains. Almost is how people miss
their exit. Almost is how people die with the
truth in their ears but not in their bones. Now,
let me bring this down into our gravel and our
kitchen table lives because this isn't just about
first century politics. Oh, I love talking about
first century politics. This is about you and
about me. This is about what we do when grace
gets too close. I want to name three modern Agrippa
moves. And I say this with love because I've
done all three of those before breakfast. One,
the not now move. You don't reject Jesus, you
delay him. I'm not ready yet. Let me get my life
together first. When I'm older, when I'm more
stable, when I've got this figured out. But delay
is not neutral. Delay is a decision. It's just
wearing a polite hat. Every time you say, not
now, you're saying yes to one more day of running
the show yourself. One more day of holding on
to the steering wheel. One more day of looking
over your shoulder instead of looking for the
cross. Another Agrippa move, making it intellectual.
You keep the gospel in the realm of ideas. History,
translation debates, philosophy, church politics,
theological purity tests, whatever you call it.
Now, all of that stuff can matter to some degree,
but sometimes we hide in that stuff so we don't
have to obey the gospel message. You could spend
your whole life arguing about Greek verb tenses
while your marriage is dying three rooms over.
You can handle a debate on the finer points of
atonement theology while you're staying silent.
Someone you know is being treated like trash.
You can keep it epidemic so you don't have to
let it be personal. Another Agrippa move, keep
it funny. You turn conviction into a quip. You
make a joke out of grace. You laugh so hard everyone
else laughs and you stay safe. The room stays
light. Nothing gets heavy. Nothing gets real.
I'm such a sinner, laugh. I'll probably screw
this up anyway. Laugh. Jesus probably shakes
his head at me. Laugh. And everybody laughs.
And the moment passes, and you've kept your distance
without anybody actually noticing. But Paul,
in this story, Paul's the man in chains who's
refusing to let this room stay comfortable. When
Agrippa tries to dodge, Paul answers with one
of the most stunning lines in Acts. I warn to
God that not that thou holy, but also that all,
everyone in this room he's saying, hear me this
day, and they might come to be like I am, except
in these bonds. And I hope you can hear the tenderness
in Paul's voice there. Paul's basically saying,
I want you free the way Christ made me free.
I don't want you chained up the way that Rome
has chained me. I want you to have what I have,
peace, purpose, a reason to wake up, a reason
to die. If it comes to that, that's a preacher's
heart right there. He's not trying to win. He's
not trying to score points or prove that he's
right. He's trying. To rescue. He's trying to
pry open a door he sees is cracked and says,
come through. Come through to the light. Stop
managing yourself. Stop protecting yourself.
Stop being almost and become. And here's the
moment, church. This is the point where it stops
being about Agrippa and starts being about us.
Because once you've heard it. You don't go back
to innocence. You go back to responsibility.
If you're listening to me right now on a screen
alone in your home while snow piles up outside,
while the world gets quiet, something in you
is squirming. Not shame, not self -hatred, but
that holy discomfort that says, this is for me,
this is about my life. This isn't me being clever.
It's not me manipulating you with my words. That's
the spirit getting close. Question is not, did
you enjoy the sermon? The question is, will you
keep living in your almost? And some of you are
almost ready to forgive someone. And I mean really
forgive, not just pretend it didn't happen, forgive.
Some of you are almost ready. To stop that addiction
that's turning your grief into numbness. Some
of you are almost ready to tell the truth to
your spouse, to your friend, to yourself. Some
of you... are almost ready to come home to God
without negotiating terms, without promising
you have to be better first, without waiting
for the perfect moment. And I am not telling
you, the gospel is not asking you to perform.
It's asking you to turn, not into a better you.
Better is a direction that never ends. Better
is a hamster wheel. Better is that drawer. The
gospel is asking you to turn into a truer you.
Because you don't have to come and clean up before
you come to Jesus. Your life can be a wreck.
Your choices can be disasters. Your secrets can
be dark as coal. Jesus doesn't need you fixed
first. But you do have to stop pretending you
can hold him at arm's length. Because sooner
or later, we all learn the truth in the dark.
You can't keep Jesus as a maybe later without
eventually making him a no. And the drawer gets
deeper and the distance gets easier. The excuses
get smoother. And one day you look back and realize
you have spent your whole life in the almost.
Because the drawer doesn't stay neutral. It turns
into a habit. Habits turn into a life. And a
life turns into a story somebody tells at your
funeral. The question is, Will it be a story
about a person who finally stepped into the light?
Or somebody who stayed polite, stayed safe, and
stayed almost? So, here's my altar call, and
it isn't flashy. Don't be almost. Don't be with
but little persuasion. Tell the truth in plain
language. Jesus, I believe. Help my unbelief.
Jesus, I am tired of feeling like I am split
into. Jesus, I'm done living with the door cracked
but never walking through. And if you can't say
some pretty prayer, say the kind of prayer Paul
himself once needed. Lord, I was wrong. That's
enough. That's all he needs. Heaven can work
with that. In fact, heaven prefers that. So,
may the God who refuses to be kept in a drawer,
the Christ who walks into courtrooms and kitchens
alike, into our loneliness and our pride, the
Spirit who gets close enough to make you honest,
who whispers in the quiet moments, give you courage
to do more than almost. May you step out of the
polite distance. May you stop managing appearances.
May you stop negotiating the truth. And may you
step through that door that's already cracked
open. And may you become with little or with
much free except for these bonds. Amen? Amen.
See you next time, guys. Friend, if you felt
that little ache in your chest this morning,
that quiet pressure behind the ribs, don't rush
to shake it off. Sometimes that's not guilt.
Sometimes that's grace getting close. Lord isn't
trying to humiliate you. He's trying to bring
you home. Almost can look respectable, but it's
still distance. And distance over time turns
into habit. So let the question linger a minute.
What drawer have you been keeping Jesus in? What
truth have you heard that you can't unhear? You
don't have to perform your way back to God. You
just have to turn plain, honest, and unhidden.
And if something you heard today landed differently,
if it taught you something new, or if you heard
an old story like it was the first time, go on
and toss that old like in the offering plate.
Doesn't cost you a thing. It's just a little
bit of witness saying, I hear what you're saying.
And if you want to walk with us through the new
year, make sure you tithe your subscribe. That
way you don't miss what's coming next. All right,
friend. Until next week, be warm, be safe, and
be blessed.