After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, two women made their way through the darkened streets of Jerusalem toward a tomb. They carried spices and perfumes — the kind you bring for a corpse. They had no expectation of what they were about to find. And yet what happened next at that tomb would change the course of human history forever.
What would it be like to discover that you had done the unthinkable — destroyed the very thing you’d been hoping for your entire life?
What does it mean to be washed? It’s a question so basic that it seems almost too simple to ask — and yet its answer reaches into the deepest truths about who we are and what God has done for us. The ancient rite of baptism, practised by Christians for two thousand years, is far more than a ceremony. It is a vivid, unforgettable picture of two realities that every human being must face.
Try to picture this: a famous, outspoken atheist steps onto a stage, a room full of supporters waiting for him to dismantle Christianity—and his first words are, “Jesus Christ is the Son of God. Repent and trust Him.” The shock would be almost impossible to describe.
Acts 9 gives us one of the most famous conversions in history: Saul, the violent persecutor, meets Jesus on the road to Damascus and everything changes (Acts 9:1–9). But if you look closely, the story doesn’t end with Saul hitting the ground. It continues in the quiet faithfulness of a man most people overlook: Ananias.
Most of us like to imagine spiritual growth as a steady climb—small steps, a few breakthroughs, maybe a new habit or two. But every so often, God tells a different story. Not a “self-improvement” story, but a resurrection story. That’s what we see in Saul’s conversion on the Damascus road (Acts 9:1–19): a man moving full speed in the wrong direction, and Jesus stopping him with a mercy he didn’t ask for.
Most of us have people in our lives we’ve quietly written off. Maybe they’re openly hostile to faith, quick to mock Christianity, or just so hardened that you can’t imagine them ever changing. If that’s you, I want to sit with you for a moment in Acts 9—the conversion of Saul of Tarsus—because it’s one of the strongest “evidences” Christianity offers, and one of the most hopeful stories for anyone who wants to grow spiritually.
This sermon was preached at a special service in the life of Covenant Christian Fellowship, Galway: the ordination and installation of Eli Williamson as a ruling elder. We are thankful for how the Lord has been developing His work in Galway and for raising up a new elder to serve alongside the existing eldership. Two passages of Scripture were expounded: Ephesians 4:1–3 as the main sermon, and Haggai 2:1–5 as a charge to the new elder and to the congregation following the ordination.
The Curious Ways of God: When the Desert Is Actually the Path
You’ve probably noticed this by now: you can be doing the “right” things—praying, obeying, trying to follow Jesus—and still get hit with a week that feels like it’s trying to drown you. A diagnosis you didn’t expect. A relationship that unravels. A job loss that shakes your sense of security. If you’ve ever wondered, Why would God allow this when I’m trying to follow Him? Matthew 8 has something honest—and hopeful—to say.
It’s a strange kind of compliment when someone says, “You’re the first person I’m telling.” Even if the news is hard, it means you matter. That’s why Luke 2:8–20 is so surprising. The greatest announcement in history—the birth of God’s Son—doesn’t go first to emperors, politicians, or religious elites. It goes to ordinary shepherds working the night shift. And that detail isn’t random; it’s deeply personal for you.
There are moments when someone’s final words carry the weight of their whole life. You can almost feel the meaning behind them—everything they’ve loved, fought for, hoped for, and sacrificed. If you’ve ever watched the film Braveheart, you might remember the closing scene. William Wallace, the Scottish freedom fighter, is finally captured and sentenced to a brutal death. He endures torture in silence, and when he finally signals that he wants to speak, everyone assumes he’ll beg for mercy. Instead, with whatever strength he has left, he cries out, “Freedom!” It’s powerful. It’s moving. It’s also heartbreaking, because it feels like the end—of his life, his cause, his dreams.
If you believe one of these messages could bless someone you love, please don’t hesitate to share it with them.
