A voice is crying out in the streets. She calls to the simple, the foolish, the ones who have already disqualified themselves. She gives what no one else can give. And before the foundation of the world, her delight was set on you.

Complacency kills. Not dramatically. Not all at once. One small, passive, directionless step at a time — until a man arrives somewhere he never intended to go and doesn't know how he got there. Proverbs 6:20–7:27 shows us the anatomy of that drift, the irreversible cost it carries, and the only protection that actually works — not trying harder, but being bound to the one who is himself the wisdom of God.

What does foolishness actually look like? Not the dramatic, obvious kind — but the everyday kind that creeps in quietly, compounds slowly, and blindsides you when the consequences finally arrive? In this sermon from Proverbs 6, we walk through several portraits of folly: the surety-taker who speaks away his freedom, the sluggard who can't see past the present moment, the scoundrel whose corruption works its way from mouth to body to heart - and God's own verdict on what all three of them look like from heaven. Each portrait is a mirror helping us to identify our own folly. But they are also windows through which we see the one who bore every abomination on God's list so that fools of every kind could be free.

Most of us know we’re supposed to be faithful. What we don’t know is why it’s actually the better deal — or how to want it when the counterfeit looks so good. Proverbs 5 answers both questions. This sermon works through the anatomy of sexual temptation, the total cost of folly, and the only thing with enough power to reorient desire at the root: the astonishing, undeserved faithfulness of Christ to his unfaithful people.

Everything in Christianity hinges on a risen Christ. Which raises the most important question any of us can ask: where do we find him? On the road to Emmaus, Jesus himself answers — and his answer is more ordinary, more accessible, and more glorious than we might expect.

Most people know these as the shortest verse in the Bible. But John 11 isn't the only place Jesus wept. On Palm Sunday, surrounded by crowds shouting hosanna, Jesus crested the Mount of Olives — and wept over Jerusalem. Not for himself. Not for what he was about to suffer. He wept for his killers. In those tears we find something remarkable: the heart of God toward sinners, and the only reason judgment doesn't await us now.

There's a question people have been wrestling with since Eden — if knowing what is right isn't enough to make us do it, what is? Proverbs 4 sets two roads before us with urgent clarity, charges us to guard our hearts above everything else, and then leaves us staring at a problem we cannot solve ourselves. But the text doesn't leave us there. This sermon traces the arc from wisdom received, to wisdom walked, to the only thing that makes either one possible — a new heart that only God can give.

Wisdom loves. That's not just a nice sentiment — it's the claim of Proverbs 3:27-35. Wisdom shows itself not in what you know but in how you treat the people around you. In this sermon we look at what that looks like on the ground — in the ordinary moments when we have it in our power to do good, and the deeper reason we so often don't. At the root of every scheme, every withheld kindness, every manufactured conflict is a heart curved inward by sin — needy, grasping, convinced it has to take what it can get. But the gospel changes everything. The one who had every right to take gave instead — and in him, the scarcity that drives our grasping has been answered. You are not a desperate person. He has filled your empty hands.