Faith That Steps Out (Sermon for Lent 2a)

Have you ever been asked to do something that made absolutely no sense to you? How did you respond? This dynamic is perhaps best illustrated in the simple, often frustrating exchange between a parent and a child. A parent asks a child to do something, and the child inevitably asks, “Why?” The parental response is frequently a firm, “Because I said so.” Let’s try this again: Have you ever been asked to do something that made absolutely no sense to you — but you did it anyway because you trusted the person who asked?  Trust is the necessary bridge that spans the distance where our understanding ends. This is faith. As we navigate the Lenten journey, we rely on a trust-based faith. While our logic demands a destination before a departure, spiritual reality often requires the departure before the destination is even revealed. This is seen in the call of a man named Abram.

To understand the weight of Abram’s call, we must first look at what he was leaving behind. Archaeology tells us that the city of Ur was not a primitive outpost, but a sophisticated urban center representing the peak of Mesopotamian luxury. Homes were substantial, featuring walls and floors covered in expensive, intricate tile. Abram was a man of significant means, seventy-five years old, settled with his wife Sarai (later Sarah) and many servants. His life was defined by physical security and social standing. Yet, God arrived with a radical directive: “Go from your country... to the land that I will show you.”

In our modern context, we rarely travel without a fixed destination. We have GPS systems where we plug in an address, or for those who remember the days before digital navigation, the Rand McNally road atlas allowed us to trace the major routes from Maine to Florida. But a GPS or a map is meaningless without a destination; a GPS simply tells you where you are currently standing if you do not provide it with a “where to go.” God’s guidance to Abram was an “I’ll show you” promise. The destination was revealed only after the movement began. By trading the tiled floors of Ur for an unknown path, a seventy-five-year-old man took a scary step, demonstrating that true security is found not in a location, but in the one who leads. This physical movement was the outward sign of an internal momentum of trust.

The biblical narrative frequently reinforces the idea that faith is an action that must precede the miracle. This is vividly illustrated by the later account of the Israelites at the Jordan River. When they reached the border of the promised land, the Jordan was at flood stage, its waters swollen to the tops of the banks. God instructed Joshua to have the priests carry the heavy Ark of the Covenant directly into the river. Imagine being the two priests at the front of the Ark, feeling that immense weight on your shoulders as you approached the torrent.

The strategic importance of this moment is clear: the waters did not divide while the priests stood on the dry bank. The miracle occurred only when their feet actually touched the floodwaters. They had to step into the danger before the path was cleared. Now, THAT is faith.

Abram functioned under this same mandate of immediate, active trust. Though his journey was far from perfect—marked by the lapses and mistakes recorded throughout Genesis—his willingness to move when God said “Go” was the defining characteristic of his life. This active trust is the very mechanism of our relationship with God, which the apostle Paul identifies as a spiritual “accounting.”

Reckoned as Righteous: The Accounting of Grace

In the book of Romans, Paul performs a theological analysis of Abram’s life through the lens of the Wesleyan heart of the Gospel. He uses the specific term “reckoned,” a word common in the financial world of his time. To be reckoned as something means a sum is simply attached to an account; it is an entry made not because it was earned through a transaction of labor, but because it was granted. Paul clarifies that Abram was not made right with God by following a set of rules—the Law had not even been given yet—but because he trusted God.

This is the core of the Gospel: salvation is a gift of grace rather than a wage for work. A “checkbox” approach to religion suggests that if we tick off enough requirements, God owes us a favorable balance. However, the scriptures argue that we must come to God empty-handed. It is only in our “emptiness” that we have the capacity to be filled by his grace. Righteousness is attached to our account the moment we exercise trust, transitioning the spiritual life from a legal struggle to a personal relationship. Just as the priests’ physical step into the Jordan was the catalyst for the miracle, our “accounting step” of faith allows us to act on a promise before the proof is visible.

Nicodemus in the Dark

While Abram represents a physical journey of faith, Nicodemus represents the internal struggle of the educated elite. A Pharisee and a leader of the Jews, Nicodemus was a man with more questions than answers. He sought out Jesus under the “protection of darkness,” likely to avoid the scrutiny of his peers. It is important to remember that Jesus had disciples among the Judean elite—people like Joseph of Arimathea, Simon the leper, and his children Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. Nicodemus belonged to this educated, upper-class circle.

The dialogue between Jesus and Nicodemus represents the classic Johannine tension between earthly misunderstanding and heavenly revelation. Jesus speaks of being “born from above.” The Greek word he uses, anōthen, is intentionally ambiguous; it can mean “from above,” “anew,” or “again.” Nicodemus, trapped in earthly logic, hears only the literal, physical meaning. He asks how a grown man can physically re-enter his mother’s womb. Jesus redirects him toward the necessity of a spiritual transformation that only God can provide. Even the (arguably) most famous verse in scripture, John 3:16, can be easily misunderstood. We see it on handmade signs held by “super fans” at football games, but its core is not about intellectual agreement. To “believe” in this context is to trust. It is the move from knowing about God to resting in the goodness of Christ and his work.

Beyond the High Places: The True Source of Help

Psalm 121 begins with a question that is often misinterpreted: “I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?” In the historical context of Israel, “the hills” were synonymous with “the high places”—shrines built for worship often including pagan idols. These were tangible, visible places where people sought security through various deities. King Hezekiah was remembered as a “good king” specifically because he destroyed these high places, forcing the people to look beyond what was visible and to worship at the temple in Jerusalem.

The psalmist is not saying his help comes from the hills. He proclaims: “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” We are often tempted to put our trust in “tangible shrines”—our bank accounts, our professional standing, or our own planning. The discipline of Lent redirects our gaze away from these high places and toward the Creator who does not slumber. However, even with the tools of faith, the road toward the cross can be obscured by the storms of life.

The GPS and the Ocean: Navigating the Storms of Life

The road toward the cross is not always a clear, sunny highway. I once invited Tim Russell, who was the assistant to the bishop, to come to Kitty Hawk to preach. It was a weekend of torrential rain and driving wind. Tim relied on his GPS to find the beachfront cottage where he was staying. Following the voice of the device, he took the next right as instructed.

Suddenly, he slammed on his brakes in a moment of surprise. The storm had been so powerful that the ocean had pushed over the dunes, creating an overwash that completely covered the streets. The GPS, limited by its programming, told him to drive straight forward, but if he had followed it, he would have driven directly into the sea. Tim stopped and turned around. Our own foresight is often like that GPS—it has limitations and cannot see the “overwash” of life’s crises. The comfort for the believer is not that the road is always dry, but the promise that the Lord will keep your going out and your coming in. Faith is the wisdom to distinguish between his voice and the limited programming of our own plans.

The Dare to Trust

Whether we look at Abram leaving the luxury of Ur, Nicodemus seeking truth in the dark, or a traveler facing a storm at the coast, the message remains the same: salvation is a gift based on God’s goodness, not our own. We do not need to have the entire map unfolded or every question answered before we begin to move.

God is not waiting for us to become perfect; he is waiting for us to trust him. He looks at each of us today, in the midst of our doubts and our scary uncertainties, and delivers a promising charge: “Go. Trust me. I got your back. I will show you the way.” As we continue through this season of Lent, I challenge you to identify the “scary steps” in your own life. Do not wait for the waters to part before you move. Dare to take the step, trusting that the Lord of heaven and earth is already there.

+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Date: March 1, 2026 
Speaker: Alan Swartz 
Occasion: Second Sunday of Lent at Ebenezer and Black Creek UMCs
Scripture: Genesis 12:1–4a; Psalm 121; Romans 4:1–5, 13–17; John 3:1–17