Hook
Anyone else remember writing “papers” in high school? I remember getting an assignment to write like 3 page or 5 pages on whatever-it-was and just sweating… like, how am I supposed to write so much!? This is insanity! No human being could accomplish this feat! Then I went to college and my term paper were unreasonable! Ranging for 8–12 pages?! What?? I have to cite my sources? In a specific way?? This is madness! And I gotta do 5 of these right before exams?!
But then… in my second semester… I took PHIL102 Ethics. And I had to write an 18–20 page paper DEFENDING a position I disagreed with. I had to spend 18–20 pages in support of Physician-Assisted Suicide! I distinctly remember having about 5 pages done the night before the paper was due when my mother went to bed. I was exhausted and spent the whole night writing. This was the longest most difficult paper I had every written to that point and I was falling asleep on my keyboard. So what did I do? What anyone would have done! I made coffee and went rummaging around in the bathrooms and closets looking for something that might help keep me awake. I found a box that looked like it was from the 70s with a rooster on it and it said “WAKE UP” in bold. Perfect! I’ll have a couple of these with my coffee and off to the races!
Let me be clear, church, I do NOT recommend this! But I did it. I’m sure my brain, heart, and kidneys were all angry at me for several hours, but I printed that paper—yes, we still handed in real pieces of paper back in those days—and headed off to my Monday morning classes.
The funny thing is that nowadays every sermon I write would be 18–20 pages if I put it in full Turabian format. But still, every time I write there is always one part, one line which remains the most difficult. What line is it, church?
The first one.
It’s always the first one. What is it about that first line that is so difficult, elusive, even paralyzing? Well, I have a theory, but we all know you’re gonna have to wait to the end to hear what it is. So let’s take that first line and stick it in our pockets, because we’ll come back to it later.
Book
(Romans 10:13–15, NKJV) 13 For “whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” 14 How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher? 15 And how shall they preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, Who bring glad tidings of good things!”
PRAY
Look
Looking through today’s passage there is a clear progression. Paul starts with the end goal and walks us back through the process that will help us to arrive at that destination. If you call yourself a Christian then you have travelled this road. Although Paul starts from the conclusion and works backward, but for the sake of clarity, we’re going to start at the beginning and work forward to the conclusion. So instead of Saved > Called > Believed > Heard > Preached > Sent we are going with Sent > Preached > Heard > Believed > Called > Saved.
Let’s dig into this roadmap to salvation together.
Sent
By show of hands, who is here today because someone shared the Gospel with them? I know I am.
This is one of the great mysteries of God. He is so big, and vast and powerful, yet he chooses to work through us broken vessels. Just take a moment and think about the people God has sent into your life. The first person who invited you to church. The one who shared the Gospel with you. The one who laughed with you. The one who cried with you. The one who held your hand in a moment of doubt or fear. The who shook you by the collar in a moment of pride or selfishness. God is like the great switchboard operator of our lives. Connecting us with the perfect person for the moment we are in. Sometimes they become life-long friends, sometimes they seem to disappear as quickly as they came. But they are—nonetheless—sent.
Many years ago a couple of dear friends who worked alongside Kelly and I at Metro Kids left to take on the next great adventure in their faith—where they felt God was sending them next. And as the four of us were processing that move together they said something that stuck with me all these years:
Hey, we’re all in the Lord’s army and we’ve got our new commission
Which was actually quite apropos since the husband now serves as a military chaplain, but it stands as the perfect reminder: God is in the business of sending. Of commissioning. Of mobilizing. Of assigning people to accomplish His purposes.
We see it right from the beginning. In Genesis, God sends Adam and Eve out of the garden—not just as punishment, but as the first step in a much bigger plan. He sends Noah with a warning. He sends Abraham with a promise. He sends Moses with a mission. He sends prophets with correction. He sends judges, kings, deliverers—some welcomed, many rejected. Over and over, He sends, weaving together a story of justice and mercy, of confrontation and compassion.
People sometimes look at the Old Testament and think, “That’s a different God—just rules and wrath.” But that shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what the law was meant to do. The law was never meant to save anyone. The law was a mirror. A bright light. A diagnostic tool. It was given to show us how utterly broken we are—so that when someone was sent from God to rescue us, we would understand just how desperate we really were.
It was always—someone say always—it was always God’s plan to send someone.
And one of the people He sent, the prophet Isaiah, pulled the curtain back just a bit. He spoke of a coming Servant—not just for Israel, but for the whole world:
(Isaiah 49:6, NKJV) 6 Indeed He says, ‘It is too small a thing that You should be My Servant To raise up the tribes of Jacob, And to restore the preserved ones of Israel; I will also give You as a light to the Gentiles, That You should be My salvation to the ends of the earth.’ ”
Jesus wasn’t Plan B. He wasn’t a course correction. He was the culmination of a mission that started before time began. And that mission starts with a Sender. And what does the sent one do? Preach.
Preached
What does it mean to preach? To proclaim? To tell?
In God’s design, preaching is central. It isn’t a man‑made tradition or religious filler wedged between songs and sacraments. Preaching is how God pushes His message into the world—the vehicle He chose to unveil His salvation.
Picture the scene in Matthew 28: Jesus, freshly risen and triumphant over death, gathers His followers and issues their marching orders:
(Matthew 28:18–20, NKJV) 18 And Jesus came and spoke to them, saying, “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. 19 Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.
You’ve probably heard the line often mis‑attributed to St. Francis of Assisi:
Preach the gospel at all times. Use words if necessary.
It’s a helpful reminder to live a life that matches our message—but it stops miles short of Christ’s actual command. In the Great Commission the verb “make disciples” is in the aorist imperative—Greek’s strongest possible command form. Jesus isn’t offering a suggestion; He’s issuing a military‑grade order. Making disciples is the single most urgent assignment He left His people.
Let’s be honest. Has anyone ever trusted Christ simply because a neighbour didn’t have loud parties? Or kept his language in check? Or shovelled your part of the sidewalk? Imagine meeting a fellow believer in heaven and having this conversation:
So, how did you come to know Jesus? Well, my neighbour mowed BOTH sides of the strip of grass between our houses. No way—me too!
Unlikely.
You came to Christ because someone told you about Him. Someone told you about sin, death, judgment—and about the Savior who rescues from all three. Words were necessary, and God made sure you had opportunity to hear them.
Preaching—speaking the good news out loud—isn’t optional. It’s the very means God ordained to move people from darkness to light.
Heard
This is where we come in. Someone was sent. Someone preached. And now—we have the chance to hear.
Hearing is where the rubber meets the road. I’m not talking about soundwaves hitting eardrums. I’m talking about truth cutting through the fog. This is not just reception—it’s perception. It’s reckoning. As the truth of the Gospel is presented to us, we can no longer hide behind a veil of ignorance. We are now confronted with a choice: will we hand off control of our lives to Jesus, or will we white-knuckle the wheel as we careen toward certain shipwreck on the rocky shore ahead?
This is exactly what we see after Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension. The Holy Spirit comes at Pentecost and pours out on the believers, who begin speaking in other languages as the Spirit gives them utterance. And in the midst of that chaos, someone in the crowd says something that gets recorded for all of history:
(Acts 2:8, NKJV) “And how is it that we hear, each in our own language in which we were born?”
How is it that we hear?
It’s amazing, isn’t it? Even in the busiest, craziest environments, something unexpected can cut through and demand your attention—like a toddler grabbing your face and turning it toward theirs.
Years ago, Kelly and I were in Berlin. I quite enjoy learning about modern history, and walking on—and under—those streets was just incredible. But I’ll never forget this one moment. We were in Alexanderplatz—one of the busiest squares in the city. People everywhere. Dozens of languages flying through the air. It’s loud, it’s bustling, it’s global. But suddenly, in all that noise, Kelly and I both snapped our heads around at the exact same time, looking in the exact same direction. Why?
Because someone spoke English.
And we heard.
It wasn’t just noise anymore. It felt personal. It felt directed. It felt like, out of all the people in that place, someone was talking to us.
That’s what God did with the message of the cross in our lives. That’s how the Gospel lands. He grabbed us by the face and spoke in a language we could understand, so that we would hear. So that we would listen. So that we would perceive.
And once we did, we found ourselves standing at a crossroad. We had this new information. And the question before us was simple but weighty: What would we do with it?
Believed
To believe or not to believe—that is the question.
But let’s be clear: belief is not the same as recognition. The demons believe—and they tremble. Satan believes—he knows exactly who Jesus is. Biblical belief runs deeper. It’s not just intellectual assent. It’s not a checkbox on a form. It’s confidence. It’s trust. It’s faith.
It’s seeing the truth about Satan, death, demons, the grave, and hell—and still daring to trust the promise of the Gospel. It’s leaning into the message preached to you and throwing your whole weight—your eternity—onto the finished work of the one who saves.
The Apostle John puts it like this:
(John 1:12, NKJV) “But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name.”
That’s not small. That’s not abstract. That’s a cosmic shift—from rebel to child, from stranger to family, from condemned to adopted.
Belief isn’t just checking a doctrinal box. It’s a readiness. A posture. A surrender. It’s saying, “I don’t just believe this is true—I believe it’s for me. I trust the One who sent this message, and I’m staking my life on it.”
Have you ever heard of the Capilano Suspension Bridge? It’s in North Vancouver, near where Kelly and I are from. This thing is a fully rope-and-wood bridge—450 feet across and 230 feet above the canyon floor. And even though the website says it can easily support the weight of a fully loaded 747… we’ve all seen enough movies to know: rope bridges are death traps to be used only by Indiana Jones-types.
But Kelly and I, even with our shared fear of heights, watched others go before us—and not die. So step by shaky step, we moved forward. We trusted the bridge. We transferred our weight. And somewhere between terror and trembling, we made it across. On the way back, we even managed to enjoy the view.
That’s real belief, because it resulted in action. The same is true of the Gospel. By choosing to believe the Gospel, we position ourselves to make the most crucial decision of our lives: To turn that posture into a new identity. A new status. A new standing before God.
Belief isn’t passive. It isn’t neutral. It moves you. And if it doesn’t move you, you haven’t really believed.
Called
And what it is that we are moved to? What action does believe lead us to take? we’ve heard the Gospel. We’ve come to believe it’s true. Now… we call.
Not because God didn’t know. Not because salvation is a vending machine and prayer is the button. But because calling on the Lord is how we stop pretending ‘we got this’ and finally admit, “we don’t got this. we need God to do what only God can do.”
Now—let’s deal with the elephant in the room. Some people get twitchy about this part. “Isn’t calling just another work? Isn’t that me saving myself?”
No. Not even close.
Let me take you to one of the greatest theological moments in animated cinema: Aladdin.
There’s this scene where Aladdin has been thrown off a cliff, chained, and sinks unconscious into the sea. The Genie shows up, ready to save him—but there’s a problem. Genie can’t act unless Aladdin makes a wish. Only Aladdin is out cold. Unresponsive. Dying. So what does Genie do? He grabs Aladdin’s limp, drowning body, implores Aladdin that he cannot saved him unless he makes a wish! Aladdin’s head falls forward as if to signal a nod and Genie takes it to be just that. And then he saves Aladdin’s life.
That’s the picture.
You and I weren’t spiritually adrift—we were drowning. But God, in His mercy, reached out. He saw the moment we would respond freely to His offer of rescue, and He acted. Even the very cry—“Save me!”—came as we were moved by the Spirit, not coerced but awakened. Calling on the name of the Lord isn’t a work. It’s surrender. It’s the desperate gasp of someone who knows they can’t make it on their own and finally chooses to trust the only One who can.
Romans 10:13 doesn’t say “whoever achieves…” It says “whoever calls.” See, it’s not about being qualified. It’s not about being impressive. It’s about being rescued. So call. Don’t delay. Because whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.
Saved
Let’s be crystal clear about what it means to be saved. Not improved. Not inspired. Saved.
God didn’t give you a second chance and say, “Don’t blow it this time.” He didn’t toss you a rulebook and say, “Try harder.” He didn’t hand you a Fitbit and say, “Keep those moral steps up.”
No—salvation is rescue. Three things happen the moment you trust Christ. Three time zones collide—past, present, and future.
First, in the past—He justifies you. That means: Every sin? Forgiven. Every record? Cleared. The Judge slams the gavel and declares, “Not guilty.” You’re not on parole. You’re free.
Second, in the present—He sanctifies you. He puts His Spirit inside you. He starts tearing down the old furniture—sin, shame, fear—and begins a total renovation from the inside out. You’re not just different—you’re becoming new.
Third, in the future—He glorifies you. A resurrected body. A home where no light switch is needed because God Himself is the light. No sickness. No sorrow. No sin. That’s the endgame.
Justified. Sanctified. Glorified. Past forgiven. Present transformed. Future secured. And here’s the best part:
(Ephesians 2:8–9) By grace you have been saved through faith… not of yourselves. It is the gift of God—not by works, so no one can boast.
-Adam West baseballs
He didn’t earn that name. He didn’t negotiate a deal. He was chosen. Adopted. Named. Loved. And that’s the Gospel.
You and I? We were spiritual orphans. Soiled by sin. Doomed to death. But then… God sent someone to preach. We heard, we believed, we called and He saved! Signed the adoption papers in the blood of Jesus. Gave us His name. We didn’t become a slightly better version of our old selves. We were made new.
But church. Church! Salvation doesn’t end with warm fuzzies and a nice devotional life. It ends with a roar.
Revelation 7 makes a promise that says:
“I looked, and behold—a great multitude that no one could count—from every nation, tribe, people, and language—standing before the throne and before the Lamb—clothed in white, waving palm branches, shouting: ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!’”
That’s not fantasy. That’s our future. We will be there—if we are in Christ. Ours voices will be among the choir of millions, all shouting the same anthem: “Salvation belongs to our God!”
So let the world rage. Let the storms come. Because we know how it ends. And our God wins!
TOOK
But here’s the thing, church: even though Paul paints a progression that goes Sent > Preached > Heard > Believed > Called > Saved… that’s really not how we experience that progression. We all join mid-stream, don’t we? Where do we get on this train? At ‘Heard’! This means that we don’t get to the beginning until the end, church!
We don’t live it like this: Sent > Preached > Heard > Believed > Called > Saved
We live it like this: Heard > Believed > Called > Saved > Sent > Preached
Let’s re-cap. This means that if you call yourself a Christian, then you Heard. You’ve Believed what you heard. You’ve called on the One in whom you believed. And you were Saved by the One on whom you called. But now what? Now the strongest possible commandment applies to you! Jesus word in the Great Commission: Go! Make Disciples! Baptize! Teach! That’s YOUR commission. These are OURmarching orders, church.
We are saved to be sent! Those orders have already been issued. And so it comes to ‘Preach’. For how will they hear unless someone preaches to them?
And that’s where we pull that opening thought from our pockets. Why is the first line of the term paper, the book, or the sermon always the hardest one to write? What is it about that first line that seems to paralyze us?
Because of the commitment it represents. We are afraid of starting something we cannot finish. We are scared of getting it wrong or writing something stupid. We are nervous about our ability to do it well—how will we be seen afterward? There is an anxiety around the weight and cost of the task ahead—especially if we don’t nail it off the hop—our reputation is on the line! We are apprehensive at the idea that we might be exposed as not good enough!
At some point this list became about more than just a term paper for someone in the room. Can I get an amen?
Because these are the same thoughts that cloud our minds when we feel prompted to share the Gospel. But you know what all these thoughts come down to? Fear.
Afraid? Fear. Scared? Fear. Nervous? Fear. Anxiety? Fear. Apprehension? Fear! But friends, we have the cure for fear! Say it if you know it, church: What casts out fear? (Perfect Love—1 John 4:18)
This is the call to each of us as Christians and to the church as a whole. It’s time for us to get serious about the orders we’ve been given. Go. Make Disciples. Baptize. Teach. There is a harvest coming, church. I believe it to the core of my soul. It is truly an exciting time to be the church. As the world gets more and more FAKE, we have something REAL to offer a world yearning for truth and belonging. So let’s be soaked in prayer, steeped in worship, and motivated by love to go out there and preach, because, as the Apostle Paul wrote in our passage this morning:
(Romans 10:13–15, NKJV) 13 For “whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” 14 How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher? 15 And how shall they preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, Who bring glad tidings of good things!”