We Sang "All." We Meant "Most."

There's a song many of us have sung since childhood. All to Jesus I surrender. All to him I freely give. Think about how many times you've sung it. Hymnal open, or the words up on the wall. At a funeral. At a baptism. On an ordinary Sunday when your mind was already halfway to lunch. Now think about what you were holding while you sang it.

Because most of us have sung all to Jesus I surrender with something still in our hand. Something small. Something we'd never call a sin out loud, and we'd be a little offended if somebody else did.

• A grudge we've quietly made peace with keeping.
• An apology we're still owed from years ago.
• An opinion about how a thing ought to be done, and a settled certainty that we're right about it.

We sang all. We meant most.

Here's what I want you to hear first

That gap between the word and the grip is not proof that you're a bad Christian. It's proof that you're human.

Surrender runs against our oldest instinct. Since we could talk, we've been protecting ourselves. Defending our version of the story. Making sure we don't get the short end of the stick. Nobody had to teach us that. It came free with being human. So when God asks for the last room in the house, everything in us wants to hand him the key to a different one.

I've watched faithful people — people who've given decades to the Lord — get stuck on one square foot of ground they would not give up. I've been that person. You probably have too.

That's the honest place to start, and it's where we're starting Sunday.

The fight is never about the thing

Here's what makes any of this so hard to see. What we're gripping is almost never what the fight appears to be about. We've all been in the argument that wasn't really about the argument.

A husband snaps over dishes in the sink. A meeting turns sharp over one little thing. Two old friends who used to talk every week quietly stop calling, and neither one could tell you exactly when it started. Ask any of them what happened, and they'll tell you about the dishes. They'll tell you about the schedule.

That's never what it was about.

James knew it. Look at how he opens chapter 4. He doesn't start with a lecture. He starts with a question: What is the source of wars and fights among you? Don't they come from your passions that wage war within you? (James 4:1)

And then the passage turns
James spends five verses building an indictment. Cravings. Fights. Prayers offered for ammunition. You read it, and you brace for the hammer to come down.

The hammer doesn't come down.

There are four words in verse 6 that change the direction of the entire passage, and Sunday morning we're going to sit in them for a while. They're the reason this sermon isn't a scolding.

We'll also go to a garden.

Because before the cross, there was a night when the Son of God knelt in the dirt and asked his Father for another way out. He asked. Then he said one word that has carried Christians through every hard surrender since.

Nevertheless.

That's the title of the sermon, and I'd love for you to come hear why.

Come sit with us
You don't have to have this figured out to walk in the door. Nobody in the building has it figured out, and the man preaching it will tell you so from the pulpit. If you've been carrying something you can't seem to set down, or you're just tired and don't know why, there's a seat here for you.

"Nevertheless" — Surrender and the War With Selfish Pride James 4:1–10

Cornerstone Church of Christ. Sunday. 9:30 & 10:30 AM. 5051 Wilmington Pike, Centerville. cornerstone-coc.com

Come as you are. We'll be glad you did.