Orleans Baptist Church

06/16/2026

The chains dug into my wrists every time I shifted.

Not enough to cause real pain anymore. After a while, discomfort becomes familiar. It becomes part of the background, like the constant dripping of water somewhere deep within the prison or the smell of damp stone that never quite leaves your clothes. What bothered me more was the silence. Silence gives a man too much time to think. The prison was dark except for the flickering torchlight filtering in from the corridor. Somewhere a guard coughed. Metal scraped against stone. A sandal shuffled across the floor. Beyond these walls, Jerusalem continued as though nothing had happened. Merchants would still be selling their goods in the morning. Families would still gather around their tables. Children would still play in the streets. Life would go on. And James was dead.

I could not get that thought out of my mind. James was not just another believer. He was one of us. One of the first called by Jesus. One of the sons of thunder. One of the men who had stood beside me through years of ministry, miracles, and mistakes. Together we had watched Jesus feed thousands with a few loaves and fish. Together we had seen Him calm a storm with a word. Together we had witnessed Him transfigured before our eyes in glory so overwhelming that none of us knew what to say. We had watched Him die. We had seen Him alive again. We had stood on the Mount of Olives and watched Him ascend into Heaven. James had seen all of that. Yet Herod's sword had still found him. Now I sat chained between soldiers awaiting my own trial, and if I am being honest, there was no reason to believe my outcome would be any different. Herod had discovered that persecuting Christians made him popular. The crowds approved. The guards had their orders. The prison doors were locked. Everything about the situation suggested that this story was heading in a very predictable direction.

The strange thing is that despite all of that, I eventually fell asleep. Looking back, I do not think it was because I was especially brave. It certainly was not because I enjoyed prison accommodations. If you have never spent the night chained between soldiers on a stone floor, I can assure you there are more comfortable lodging options available. No, I think I slept because there was nothing left for me to do. I could not pick the lock. I could not overpower the guards. I could not talk my way out. My future was completely beyond my control. Oddly enough, that can be a peaceful place to be when you belong to God. Somewhere in the darkness, with chains on my wrists and uncertainty ahead of me, I found myself resting in the hands of the One who had called me from a fishing boat all those years ago.

The next thing I knew, something struck me sharply in the side. I opened my eyes and immediately squinted against a light so bright it seemed impossible inside a prison. An angel stood before me, and before I could fully process what I was seeing, he told me to get up quickly. The chains fell from my wrists and hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Even then, I still did not fully understand what was happening. The angel told me to get dressed. I got dressed. He told me to put on my sandals. I put on my sandals. He told me to follow him. I followed. I wish I could tell you I immediately recognized the miracle and boldly marched forward in faith, but the truth is that I spent much of the experience wondering if I was dreaming. We passed one group of guards. Then another. Then another. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody seemed aware that a prisoner was casually walking out of the prison in the middle of the night. When we reached the great iron gate leading into the city, it opened on its own. I remember the cool night air hitting my face. I remember the sounds of Jerusalem drifting through the darkness. I remember blinking and realizing that the angel had vanished.

For several moments I simply stood there. The prison was behind me. The chains were gone. The streets stretched out before me. Slowly, the reality of what had happened settled over me. This was not a dream. This was not a vision. God had actually rescued me. Naturally, I went where I knew I would find other believers. Difficult times have a way of bringing God's people together, and I knew many would be gathered in prayer. Sure enough, when I arrived at the house, I could hear voices inside. I knocked on the door. A servant girl named Rhoda came to answer. The moment she heard my voice, she became so excited that she completely forgot the purpose of answering a door. Instead of opening it, she turned around and ran back into the house to announce that Peter was standing outside. Which would have been considerably more helpful if Peter had not still been standing outside.

From where I stood, I could hear the commotion. Voices rose. People argued. Rhoda insisted it was me. Others insisted it could not possibly be me. I have always found that part of the story amusing. They were gathered together praying for my release while simultaneously refusing to believe I had been released. Before we judge them too harshly, I suspect many of us have done exactly the same thing. We pray for God to provide, then stare in disbelief when He does. We pray for Him to open a door, then stand there shocked when the hinges start moving. Eventually someone opened the door, and the expressions on their faces were priceless. Joy. Relief. Shock. Confusion. It was as though they had expected God to hear their prayers but not necessarily answer them quite so quickly.

Years have passed since that night. I have watched the Gospel spread farther than any of us imagined possible. I have seen churches established in places where the name of Jesus had never been heard. I have witnessed Gentiles come to faith, missionaries travel across the empire, and believers endure hardships that would have seemed impossible when we first began. Looking back now, what surprises me most is not the angel or the chains or even the prison. It is how small Herod ultimately turned out to be. At the time he seemed powerful. People feared him. Soldiers obeyed him. Crowds praised him. His decisions appeared to shape the future. Yet where is Herod now? His kingdom is gone. His palace has crumbled into dust. The crowds that cheered for him have long since disappeared. The power that seemed so overwhelming proved to be temporary.

The Gospel did not.

That is why Luke summarized the entire chapter the way he did. Not by focusing on me. Not by focusing on Herod. Not by focusing on prison walls, iron chains, armed guards, or even angels. Instead, he wrote, "But the word of God increased and multiplied." That was the real story all along. James died, but the word of God increased and multiplied. I was imprisoned, but the word of God increased and multiplied. Herod persecuted the church, but the word of God increased and multiplied. Because kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall. Leaders come and leaders go. The things that seem permanent often prove to be temporary. Yet the Word of God continues moving forward exactly as He intends. If there is one thing I learned from that night, it is that chains are never the final chapter when God is still writing the story.

06/16/2026

It is only right that putting salvation to work in our lives should be difficult.

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06/14/2026

"For everyone who asks receives." Luke 11:10

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06/05/2026

When God checks us in this way, we must obey.

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06/05/2026

You are not a coward; whatever it is, you're going to face it.

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06/02/2026

Acts 9:32-43 is one of those passages that quietly sneaks up on you. There are no flashing lights. No Damascus Road. No voice from Heaven. No dramatic basket escape. Instead, Peter simply goes from town to town doing what God has called him to do, and in the middle of ordinary ministry, extraordinary things happen.

First he arrives in Lydda and finds a man named Aeneas who has been paralyzed and bedridden for eight years. Eight years. Long enough for people to stop expecting anything to change. Long enough for neighbors to walk by and think, "That's just Aeneas." Long enough for everyone, including Aeneas himself, to settle into a new normal. Then Peter says, "Aeneas, Jesus Christ heals you; rise and make your bed" (Acts 9:34, ESV). And immediately he gets up.

The part that always stands out is that Peter doesn't say, "Look what I can do." He doesn't launch a fundraising campaign. He doesn't start handing out business cards that say Apostle Peter, Miracle Specialist. He points directly to Jesus. Peter understood something that can be easy to forget. The power was never in Peter. Peter was just the delivery guy. Nobody thanks the mail carrier for writing the birthday card. They just brought it to the door.

Then the scene shifts to Joppa where a woman named Tabitha, also called Dorcas, becomes sick and dies. Tabitha is the Aramaic form of her name and Dorcas is the Greek form. Both names mean "gazelle." In biblical times that was a compliment. Gazelles were known for their grace, beauty, and elegance. Nobody was naming their daughter after a
farm animal that runs into a fence because it got distracted by a butterfly. A gazelle was something admired.

Tabitha was beloved because she was always helping people. Scripture specifically mentions her acts of kindness and charity. When Peter arrives, the widows gather around him holding up the tunics and garments she had made for them. It is one of the most touching scenes in Acts because nobody is talking about her accomplishments, status, income, or social standing. They are holding evidence of her love. They are essentially saying, "Look what she did for us. Look how much she cared."

That is a question worth asking. If people gathered after our lives were over, what stories would they tell? Not what titles did we have. Not how many followers did we collect. Not how impressive was the résumé. What evidence of love would they be holding in their hands?

Peter sends everyone out of the room, kneels down, and prays. Then he says, "Tabitha, arise" (Acts 9:40, ESV). She opens her eyes, sits up, and Peter helps her to her feet. News spreads throughout Joppa and many people believe in the Lord.

Notice something interesting. In both stories, the miracle itself was never the final goal. The healing was not the point. The resurrection was not the point. The point was always that people would see Jesus. God was not running a supernatural talent show. Every miracle was a giant arrow pointing toward Christ.

That can be frustrating because most of us want God to work in spectacular ways. We want lightning bolts, dramatic signs, and unmistakable miracles. Meanwhile God often works through ordinary faithfulness. Peter just kept showing up. He kept traveling. He kept serving. He kept praying. And somewhere along the road, Jesus kept changing lives.

Sometimes faith feels less like standing on a stage and more like being Tabitha with a sewing needle. One stitch at a time. One act of kindness at a time. One prayer at a time. One ordinary day at a time. Yet God has a remarkable habit of taking those small acts of faithfulness and using them in ways far bigger than we can see.

The people of Joppa remembered Tabitha because she loved well. The people of Lydda remembered Aeneas because Jesus changed his life. The people remembered Peter because he pointed them toward Christ. And thousands of years later, the same challenge remains for us.

When the story of our lives is told, will people remember us for ourselves, or will they remember that somehow, through all our imperfections and mistakes and occasional ability to make simple things unnecessarily complicated, we pointed them toward Jesus?

Because in the end, that is the miracle that matters most.

05/31/2026

Acts continued

One of the most common things people say when they get to Acts is that God changed Saul's name to Paul after his conversion. It makes sense why people think that. Abram became Abraham. Sarai became Sarah. Simon became Peter. Those name changes were significant moments that marked a new chapter in God's plan. So when people read about Saul becoming the great missionary Paul, it's easy to assume the same thing happened here. The surprising part is that Scripture never actually records a moment where God changes Saul's name. There is no dramatic announcement, no ceremony, and no verse where God says, "From this day forward you will be called Paul." Instead, Acts 13:9 simply says, "But Saul, who was also called Paul..." (ESV). In other words, he already had both names. Luke just casually mentions it as though his readers already understand what is going on.

That actually made perfect sense in the world Saul lived in. Saul was born in Tarsus, a major city in the Roman Empire located in what is now modern-day Turkey. This wasn't some tiny little village where everyone knew everyone else's business and the biggest excitement of the week was somebody's goat wandering into the wrong field. Tarsus was a wealthy city known throughout the Roman world for education, philosophy, trade, and culture. Some historians even place it alongside cities like Athens and Alexandria as a center of learning. People from different backgrounds crossed paths there every day. Different languages were spoken. Different customs mixed together. If Jerusalem was deeply Jewish, Tarsus was a place where cultures constantly interacted. Saul grew up in that environment.

At the same time, Saul was thoroughly Jewish. He wasn't someone loosely connected to his faith. He studied under Gamaliel, one of the most respected rabbis of the day. He knew the Scriptures incredibly well. He knew Jewish law. He knew Jewish traditions. He knew the history of his people. When Paul later described himself as a "Hebrew of Hebrews," he wasn't exaggerating. This was a man who took his identity seriously. Yet he was also a Roman citizen, which was an enormous advantage in the ancient world. Later in Acts, a Roman commander is shocked to learn Paul was born a citizen because citizenship often cost a fortune. Some people spent years or even generations trying to gain what Paul had simply by birth. So from the very beginning, Saul lived in two worlds. He had a Hebrew name, Saul, and he had a Roman name, Paul. Same man. Same person. Same personality. Two names that reflected two different parts of his life.

What changes in Acts is not Saul's identity but the direction of his ministry. Early in the story, most of the action revolves around Jerusalem, Judea, and Jewish believers. Saul is interacting primarily with Jews, so Luke mostly calls him Saul. Then something begins to happen. The Gospel starts spreading beyond Jerusalem. Churches begin appearing in Gentile cities. Missionary journeys begin. The message of Jesus starts moving into the wider Roman world. As that happens, Luke begins using Paul more and more often. The man hasn't changed. The mission has. The story is expanding outward, and suddenly the Roman name becomes the one most often used because Paul is now spending much of his time among Gentiles throughout the Roman Empire.

Looking back, it's almost impossible not to see God's preparation in all of this. Long before Saul ever met Jesus on the Damascus Road, God was already putting pieces into place. He was born in a Roman city. He received Roman citizenship. He grew up understanding Gentile culture while remaining deeply rooted in Jewish teaching. He learned the Scriptures. He learned how to think. He learned how to debate. He learned how to communicate. Then years later, God took all of those pieces and used them. Nothing was wasted. Not his upbringing. Not his education. Not his citizenship. Not even the things Saul himself probably took for granted. It is almost like watching someone spend years gathering tools without realizing what they are eventually going to build.

The real miracle, though, was never that Saul was called Paul. The real miracle was that Saul became a follower of Jesus at all. This was the man who approved of Stephen's death. This was the man dragging believers from their homes. This was the man traveling to Damascus to arrest Christians. If the early church had been asked to nominate the least likely missionary in the Roman Empire, Saul would have been a strong contender. Nobody would have looked at him and said, "There's a future apostle." Nobody would have looked at him and said, "There's a man who will write a huge portion of the New Testament." Nobody would have looked at him and said, "There's someone God is going to use to help spread the Gospel across the Roman world." Yet that's exactly what God saw.

And maybe that is the most encouraging part of the story. God didn't throw Saul away and start over. He redeemed him. The same determination Saul once used to persecute Christians became determination to spread the Gospel. The same boldness that once made believers fear him became the boldness that allowed him to stand before governors, kings, philosophers, mobs, and prison guards and keep talking about Jesus. The same brilliant mind that once argued against Christ became one of the greatest tools for explaining Christ. Even his stubbornness remained largely intact, which honestly gives hope to some of us. God didn't need a completely different person. He transformed the one He already had.

Most of us are not waiting for God to give us a new name. We are hoping He can use the person we already are. We look at our flaws, our history, our mistakes, our limitations, and wonder whether God can do anything with them. Saul's story reminds us that God has always been remarkably good at taking ordinary people, complicated people, stubborn people, unlikely people, and using them in ways they never could have imagined. The story isn't really about Saul becoming Paul. It's about God taking the last person anyone expected and turning him into exactly the person He intended him to be all along.

05/30/2026

And we finally get to Acts 9

Acts 9 is one of those chapters that completely shatters the way we tend to think about people. If you had been a member of the early church and someone had come to you and said, "God is about to raise up one of the greatest missionaries in history," you probably would have started thinking of faithful believers, respected leaders, or perhaps one of the apostles. You would not have picked Saul. In fact, if the early church had made a list of possible candidates, Saul probably would not have made the top ten. He would not have made the top hundred. Honestly, he probably would not have made the top thousand. Saul was the guy people were hiding from. He was the guy parents warned their children about. He was the guy whose name caused believers to lower their voices and look over their shoulders. Scripture describes him as "still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord" (Acts 9:1, ESV). That is not exactly the sort of introduction that screams, "Future Apostle Paul."

Yet while everyone else saw a persecutor, God saw a preacher. While everyone else saw an enemy of the church, God saw a servant of Christ. While everyone else was trying to stay as far away from Saul as possible, God was preparing to bring him closer than ever before.

The encounter on the road to Damascus is one of the most dramatic moments in all of Scripture. Saul is traveling with confidence. He has a plan. He has authority from the high priest. He knows exactly where he is going and exactly what he intends to do when he gets there. Then, in an instant, everything changes. A light from heaven flashes around him, he falls to the ground, and he hears a voice saying, "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?" (Acts 9:4, ESV). Imagine what must have gone through his mind in that moment. The very Jesus he believed was dead was speaking to him. The very people he thought he was fighting against were actually the people of God. Everything Saul thought he understood suddenly came crashing down around him.

God responded to Saul's spiritual blindness by giving him physical blindness. The man who thought he saw everything clearly suddenly could not see at all. For three days he sat in darkness. Three days without food. Three days without sight. Three days without distractions. Three days with nothing to do except think. We often want God to work through dramatic miracles, but sometimes the greatest miracle is when God strips away all the noise and forces us to see the truth. Saul entered those three days believing he had everything figured out. He emerged understanding that he had been wrong about the most important thing of all.

Then there is Ananias. Poor Ananias. When I read this chapter I find myself laughing a little because his response sounds exactly like something most of us would say. God tells him to go pray for Saul, and Ananias basically responds, "Lord...are You sure?" You can almost hear him trying to gently explain the situation to the Creator of the universe. "This is Saul we're talking about. The Saul. The one arresting Christians. The one making life miserable for believers. The one everybody is afraid of." It is one of those moments where a human being is attempting to provide information to the all-knowing God as though perhaps He missed a memo somewhere.

But God had not missed anything. He knew exactly who Saul was. He knew every mistake Saul had made. He knew every Christian Saul had terrified. He knew every sinful choice, every wrong motive, every ugly part of Saul's story. And He chose him anyway. That is the part that should stop us in our tracks. God was not waiting for Saul to become worthy. God was not waiting for Saul to clean himself up first. God was not waiting for Saul to earn a second chance. God stepped into Saul's life while Saul was still running in the wrong direction.

I think one of the reasons we love stories like this is because deep down we all know people who seem impossible. Maybe it is a family member. Maybe it is a friend. Maybe it is someone who has spent years rejecting God. Maybe it is someone whose life is such a mess that you cannot imagine how it could ever be untangled. We look at them and think, "There is no way." Acts 9 reminds us that God specializes in "no way." The church looked at Saul and saw a dead end. God looked at Saul and saw the Apostle Paul. The church saw a threat. God saw a testimony. The church saw a persecutor. God saw a missionary whose letters would be read by millions of people thousands of years later.

The truth is that every believer is a miracle of grace. Most of us did not have a blinding light on a road to Damascus, but every one of us was spiritually dead until Christ made us alive. Every one of us was headed in the wrong direction until God intervened. Every one of us has a story that would have ended differently if not for the grace of God. Acts 9 is not ultimately about how great Paul was. It is about how great God is. It is about a God who sees possibilities where we see problems, who sees potential where we see failure, and who sees future saints where we see present sinners.

And honestly, that should give us tremendous hope. The same God who transformed Saul is still transforming people today. He is still changing hearts that seem hardened beyond repair. He is still opening eyes that have been closed for years. He is still rewriting stories that everyone else thinks are finished. If God can take the church's greatest persecutor and turn him into one of its greatest missionaries, then there is no person beyond His reach, no situation beyond His power, and no life too broken for His grace. The God of Acts 9 is still at work, and He is still doing things that leave people standing in amazement, wondering how such a transformation could ever be possible.

05/30/2026

The instant you do, you'll find that His command makes perfect spiritual sense.

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05/26/2026

We have to learn to walk according to the standard which keeps its eye on God.

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