Indeed, in Beaumont, I learned a lot. I learned a lot of what NOT to do as a pastor. I was young, impetuous, and outspoken – a dangerous combination for a West Virginia native who found herself in a Texas oil town. Unlike former Texas governor Anne Richardson, I was not accustomed to making my personal statement with the height of my hair. I could not follow the rhythm of that town anywhere but my two-step class. I ate slice after slice of humble pie as I bumped into the church members’ customs and beliefs with regularity.

The feeling that caught me most off guard was the overwhelming sense of religious certainty that was as much a part of who they were as my sense of spiritual skepticism has always been for me. I remember the guy who looked like comedian, now “Dancing with the Stars” competitor, Adam Corolla who stopped me in the parking lot one day to tell me, through very emotion filled expressions, about how he was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade. I remember co-officiating at the funeral of a woman not much older than I was at the time who had been murdered, and somehow the anger and doubt that were drumming on my heart never surfaced in the memorial service. I remember how the pastor and I were never quite in sync with one another, so it m ade the mentoring relationship difficult at best.

But the experience that made a huge impression on me was when I was taken to a revival weekend – Texas style. The person who suggested that I go picked me up and dropped me off at the retreat center with no car, and therefore, no escape route. This was also pre-cell phones. From the very beginning, I had a sense of being trapped. I had that tingly sensation that “one of these things is not like the others” and that thing was me. There were no other women pastors at this event. It was a women’s conference, but the pastors called in to speak were all men, and the key theme running through their talks was being submissive and following Jesus without question. Here this certainty comes up all over again. Both speakers and participants seemed certain that the path of Ch ristianity was the only way to heaven, so they were not eager to hear from a disgruntled participant with a seminary background that there might be a broader view. It was in one of the breakout sessions that I unintentionally rocked the boat just a bit too hard. Playing devil’s advocate, I refused to say that Christ was the only way to God. One of the perfectly put together Texan women in my section was horrified. She begged and pleaded for me to change my answer. She wanted me to truly be saved right there in that particular moment. I held my ground as a theological scholar of the Reformed tradition believing that in God’s sovereignty, God can decide who to save and who not to save, but this was the wrong answer! The woman started to cry. Whoops. This was not very pastoral of me. Maybe it wasn’t even very nice of me. I could have shut up, finished the retreat, and gone home to a Shiner Bock or two and prayed for my year to finish up faster. But I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut, I tried to be soothing, explain my theological position, tell her that I did believe in Jesus – just not in the same way she did, but again it was a lame attempt.

Since then, I’ve grown a bit more nuanced in my approach to fellow believers. Thank God. I have even found a place for certainty in my faith – though I must say it still is obscured by many clouds of doubt. My point of certainty, though, has never been about knowing if I’ve made it to heaven or living in fear that I might end up in hell. In good Presbyterian fashion, I still think the question of my ultimate fate is God’s alone to answer. But I do find a good revival partner in this ancient sermon of the apostle Peter’s in the book of Acts. His homiletical technique follows a pattern that meets the criteria for revival preaching even without the push toward the altar to be “saved.”

Peter starts with quotes from scripture as every good preacher tends to do. He reminds the Israelites that the prophet Joel spoke of a time when God’s Spirit would be poured out for all people. The nation’s sons and daughters will prophesy, young men shall see visions, old men dream dreams. He sets an apocalyptic tone, a feeling that change is in the air. Then he tells them about Jesus. He says, “Remember Jesus,” and they nod in agreement. “Remember how he went around teaching people and healing them.” Again, yes’s form on their lips. “Remember the power he possessed and the wonders he performed.” Of co urse. Well, then Peter turns the corner. “This was the Jesus that you handed over, that you crucified, that you killed.” I suspect they really didn’t want to remember that. I’m sure there were excuses, finger pointing, blame placed in every other direction. Nevertheless, Peter holds their feet to the fire. He reminds them of King David’s words about an heir to his throne. He convincingly makes the case. This is the one who will bring the Spirit alive into the world. This is the one who has inherited the heavenly throne. This Jesus, Peter is certain, is the Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.

It’s a lot for the crowd to take in. No one likes to be responsible for pain – our own pain or anyone else’s pain. This text, I’m sure, has been used in anti-Semitic ways to blame the Jews for Jesus’ death, and yet, it’s really about us all taking responsibility for the ways in which we deny, betray, and crucify our Lord every single day. Somewhere along the way to faithfulness, we need to own it. Peter put it right back on the people knowing that he, himself spent Jesus’ final moments denying that he even knew the man.

Being certain that Jesus worked wonders and taught the ways of God, and being certain that he was glorified for his courageous death means everything to me. I place all my hope in this truth. So did Peter. He knew Jesus’ love, and he responded to that love by going out and spreading the message all because Jesus told him, “Feed my sheep.” He didn’t tell people they would go to hell if they didn’t believe, but he reminded them of God’s love in the past and told them about how God’s love had forever changed the world through this one particular life. The revival of our spirits comes when we trust in God’s Spirit bringing new life into the world. It comes when we can no longer deny our capacity to bring harm and pain. We then ca n recognize in the mirror a sinful human being in need of God’s grace.

When the crowd heard Peter’s message, those whose hearts were touched asked, “So what can we do?” It’s the next logical question. When we encounter the living Christ, we want to “do” something about it. It inspires response, action, and accountability. So Peter tells them. “Repent, be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ so your sins will be forgiven, then you will be filled with the Holy Spirit.” We crave the ritualization of our spiritual commitments. We need outward signs to signify the inward grace that we feel. The nature of making a pledge to follow Jesus seems to call for a stamp of approval from somewhere. So the people confessed, repented, and were given a new life through the waters of baptism. Then later, they go a bout forming the church, but today, I just want to address that initial feeling of accepting Jesus that seems so apparent for some and so diffuse for others.

I’m more apt to understand the craving for certainty as I get older. In younger days it seemed foolish or stupid. It is undoubtedly true that nothing in this world is certain. There are a gazillion choices when it comes to religions and beliefs within those religions. Who could possibly be 100% right 100% of the time? The preachers who preached to me like they had the absolute truth seemed like liars. Christians who felt sure of their salvation were either too naïve or too narrow. But I was the one missing the point.

In an age of relative truths, we all need a little something to hang on to. We need the rock solid faith of Peter when we feel a whole lot more like doubting Thomas. We could use more heart truth and less head truth. Even when we want to be in conversation with our brothers and sisters of other faiths, it helps to know, really know that Jesus will be with us always to the end of the age. This isn’t just fire insurance. Using hell as a scare tactic has far outlived its purposes. But an old fashioned revival is applicable even in our newfangled world. It nurtures our sense of hope and purpose to be sure – really sure – that Jesus is the long awaited Messiah, that he will hear us when we laugh or cry, that he died for us, and th at he continues to pray for us. The choices for how to be the collection of believers we call the church may continue to multiply all around us. That isn’t going away any time soon. But we can be certain that Jesus who we crucified is also the Jesus who loved us enough to die so we might live.

Amen.