Before I was born, my father stomped across the South sharing the gospel, drenched in the blood of Christ and filled with a passion that shaped everyone around him. It all stopped when I was six, shifting the trajectory of our family in an instant. I was too young to remember his voice behind the pulpit, too young to hold onto more than the smell of the pews and the comfort of resting my head on my grandfather’s arm during church.

Growing up, I believed we were different people. It took marriage, quiet moments, and the passing years to realize how much of him I carry in me. I’ve wrestled with faith—sometimes letting it fade, sometimes mocking it, but never letting go of the questions it planted in me. I’ve spent my life exploring religion, fascinated by the beauty, the courage, and the contradictions that have shaped history and shaped me.

Now, I’m turning to my father’s old sermons—tapes from 1985 to 1992—to learn about him, about faith, and about myself. I want to understand the man whose advice I often ignored. I want to challenge what I believe, to see Christ’s teachings with fresh eyes, and to explore what it means to live with faith in a complicated world.

Maybe even the smallest rattle of a cage can shift a lock.

This is my journey into Sermons of My Father.