This week Coleton and Rainey offered some response to questions from our church community. Questions engaged the differences between the God of the Old Testament and the loving, forgiving God of the New Testament, to questions about end times theology, and women in ministry. We'd love for you to listen to the rest on the podcast.

Every question we weren't able to get to in our service will be answered separately on our podcast. Stay tuned!

Praying in the Garden

“They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” Mark 14:32

Gethsemane is an olive garden, but its name means olive press. That matters. Because on this night, Jesus is being pressed—pressed by sorrow, dread, betrayal, and the weight of what’s coming. Mark tells us He is “overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” This is not stoic Jesus. This is anguished Jesus. And what does He do when the pressure becomes unbearable?

He prays.

Jesus does not numb Himself, distract Himself, or power through. He withdraws. He falls to the ground. He calls God Abba—Father. Prayer, for Jesus, is not a performance or a duty. It is refuge. When everything feels like too much, He runs toward His Father, not away. Gethsemane shows us that prayer is not something strong people do; it’s where desperate people hide. It’s the place we go when words fail, when explanations run dry, when all we can offer is our presence and our pain.

And Jesus doesn’t pray safely. He prays honestly. “Take this cup from me.” He asks for what He wants. He names His desire without fear, without editing, without pretending. This is stunning. If that prayer were answered, salvation would never come. Yet Jesus still prays it. Why? Because He trusts His Father completely. He knows God will never give Him something that isn’t ultimately good—even if it’s something He deeply wants in the moment.

That means prayer is not just refuge; it’s freedom. Freedom to ask. Freedom to risk honesty. Freedom from the fear that God might mishandle our requests. Jesus shows us we don’t have to tiptoe around God with cautious, half-formed prayers. We can say what we actually want, while still surrendering to the Father we trust. “Not my will, but yours” is not fear—it’s confidence in God’s goodness.

Then Jesus returns to His friends and finds them asleep. Three times. And He says something revealing: “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.” Prayer, Jesus insists, changes things. Not by giving us control, but by shifting where our strength comes from. The disciples skip prayer and later reach for a sword. The result? Chaos, fear, failure.

Human strength cannot produce kingdom change. Prayer can. Because prayer moves us from self-reliance to God-dependence. It is the place where weak people receive power they do not possess on their own.

Gethsemane invites us into a different vision of prayer. Not a burden, but a refuge. Not a risk, but a freedom. Not a formality, but a means of real change.

So go to your place. Say what you’re actually feeling. Ask for what you actually want. And trust the Father who meets you there.

In this sermon, Tommy walks the congregation through Ecclesiastes 12, using King Solomon’s final reflections to confront the reality of aging, mortality, and meaning. Written near the end of Solomon’s life, Ecclesiastes reflects a man who has experienced wealth, wisdom, pleasure, and power—yet concludes that life lived merely “under the sun” is ultimately meaningless apart from God.

The sermon opens by framing Ecclesiastes as deeply honest and intentionally sobering. Solomon repeatedly uses the word “meaningless” to describe life when it is viewed only from an earthly perspective. This is not nihilism, but realism—designed to awaken people, especially the young, before time, strength, and opportunity slip away.

Tommy explains that Ecclesiastes 12 is written as an allegory of aging, describing the gradual decline of the human body and mind. Solomon urges readers to “remember your Creator in the days of your youth,” because aging brings psychological, physiological, and eventually physical decline. The mind grows weary, joy becomes harder to find, and life can feel increasingly dark and repetitive. This is the psychological toll of aging when hope is rooted only in earthly things.

Physiologically, Solomon’s imagery vividly portrays the body breaking down: trembling hands, weakened legs, failing eyesight, loss of hearing, disrupted sleep, and diminished desire. Rather than being crude, the allegory preserves dignity while making the point unmistakable—human strength is temporary, and decline is inevitable.

Finally, the physical conclusion is unavoidable: death. The “silver cord” is severed, the “golden bowl” is broken, and the spirit returns to God. Tommy emphasizes that Scripture is clear—death is certain, and judgment follows. Ignoring this reality does not delay it.

Yet the sermon does not end in despair. Solomon closes with clarity and hope: “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of mankind.” Life gains meaning when lived with God at the center. Obedience, reverence, and eternal perspective anchor life with purpose that aging and death cannot erase.

Tommy’s central message is clear: wisdom is not found in denying mortality, but in preparing for it. The best time to orient life around God is not later—but now.

1. What does it mean to live life “under the sun,” and where do you see that mindset influencing your daily decisions?

2. Why do you think Solomon specifically urges people to remember God while they are young?

3. How does facing the reality of aging and death change the way you prioritize your time, energy, and relationships?

4. In what ways can fearing God and keeping His commandments bring meaning to ordinary, everyday life?

5. What is one practical step you can take this week to live with a more eternal perspective?

If you’d like, I can also:

• Condense this into a small-group handout

• Rewrite it in a more devotional tone

• Create a teaching outline or sermon recap slide

The New Exodus

22 Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take it; this is my body.” 23 Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, and they all drank from it. 24 “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.” –Mark 14:22-24

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Jesus did not stumble into the Passover meal. He orchestrated it. Every detail was arranged—where to go, who to follow, which room to use—because something deeply important was about to be said. This was not just another meal. This was His meal. A moment where Jesus would say, without speeches or arguments, what His heart most wanted His followers to understand.

At that table, Jesus made something unmistakably clear: He chose to suffer for us.

He spoke openly about betrayal. Not vaguely, not hypothetically—but personally. One of the Twelve. One dipping bread into the same bowl. Jesus knew exactly what was coming. He could have stopped it. He could have exposed Judas, avoided the cross, escaped the pain. And yet, He did none of that. Why? Because He was not a victim of suffering; He was a volunteer. He chose the path of suffering so that blessing could come to us.

This is where Jesus stands apart from every other way of life. Most paths tell us, “You do it. You pay the price. You fix yourself.” Jesus says, “I’ll do it. I’ll pay it. I’ll suffer in your place to bring you to God.” Like a father who works himself to exhaustion so his children can experience joy they could never earn on their own, Jesus bears the weight we could not carry.

Then, in the breaking of bread and the sharing of the cup, Jesus redefines the ancient Passover story. What once remembered freedom from slavery in Egypt now points to a greater rescue. “This is my body.” “This is my blood.” He takes the symbols of deliverance and makes them about Himself. He is saying, Just as God once rescued His people from Pharaoh, I am rescuing My people from sin.

The word Jesus uses for forgiveness means release. Freedom. Liberation from bondage. He does not look at us primarily as rebels to be crushed, but as slaves who need to be set free. Slaves to fear. To habits we hate. To patterns we swore we’d never repeat. To decisions we don’t even want to make—but keep making anyway.

We see it in the disciples. They meant what they said. Peter truly believed he would stand strong. The others truly believed they would stay faithful. And yet, they all fell away. Not because they wanted to—but because something else was calling the shots. Sin does that. It promises life and delivers the opposite.

Jesus sees that. And He says, I came to rescue you from that. I chose to suffer to set you free. I bled so you could be released.

The invitation of this meal still stands. Come. Trust Him. Let Him free you. Whether it’s the first surrender of your life or the bringing of hidden chains you’re tired of carrying—Jesus is gentle, determined, and faithful to finish the work He began.