Number 10 in the Corner

God bless you. It gets hot on that truck now, I'm telling you. It has been such a delight to be with you. Of course, when I flew out on Tuesday and landed in San Diego and spent the first service there, and worked our way — the weather was, oh man. And Brother Hodges said, "Enjoy this; it ain't going to get better." And he is correct. It's— if that's not hot— and here's the thing: I got out in the car in this parking lot, I went, "Man." And then I told him, I said, "The problem is, the locals are going, 'Oh, it's not hot yet.' There's something wrong with y'all, that's all I've got to tell you. I'll just say this: if that's not hot, it will do till hot weather gets here. That's all I'm saying — it'll hold you." You know, I'm glad — and thank God that you learn to love that, as he says. I am — that's hard for me to believe. I trust you as a man of God, but it's hard for me to believe I would ever learn to love— I'm pretty well insulated, and it's warm out there. I would just merely point out to you that when God chose how to eternally punish rebellious people, He chose heat. I'm just saying. Okay, I'm just — it's all— But I am blessed to be here. It's been a wonderful week. And to Brother Hodges and Brother Durant and your district board, I'm very grateful for the privilege. I was a fill-in — I know the Canadian border crossing prohibited Brother Woodward from being able to be here — but I feel very blessed to have stood in his place, and I thank God for that. Amen.

Can I— I just— I'm— man, this— I'm going to be so bold right now. Good grief, I can't believe I'm going to do this. It's one of those moments my wife, if she was here, she'd be going, "Oh, Scott." Would you humor me? Could we — while I'm preaching — could we get a little more light on y'all? Is that doable? I mean, I don't want to cause a problem, and I'm not critiquing anything about how things are. I just like to see you. And I don't want this to be like a stage show, where I'm on performance and you sit out there and evaluate. That's closer — I can see you a little bit. Hey, there we are. And you're a good-looking group. I don't know why they were hiding you in the dark like that. My Lord — somewhere right now, there's somebody going, "Well, there went my nap."

Exodus chapter 20. Oh, thank you for doing that for me; I appreciate that. I just feel better already. Exodus chapter 20, verse 1. I'm going to read a somewhat lengthy passage here, I realize that, and I'll be courteous to your time and try to read quickly. Exodus chapter 20, and beginning in verse number one. The Word of the Lord says this — and I've got a little ring, I think, sounds like to me, up here. "And God spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Aren't you glad for that? Because of that, then He says: Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me" — oh, I'm glad the Bible doesn't stop right there, because that next verse is important to all of us — "and shewing mercy" — thank God — "unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: for in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's."

And because you are intelligent people, you are well aware that what I just read to you is commonly called the Ten Commandments. Not ten suggestions. Not ten good ideas. Ten Commandments.

My message title today is a little unique. Now, if your background was maybe not perfectly righteous, and if before Calvary you spent some time in the pool hall, please do not infer anything from my title today, okay? And if you don't want anybody to know that's your background, don't let your face show anything when I give my title, okay? Here's what I'm going to preach today: Number 10 in the Corner. All right — we made it. All right, very good. Number 10 in the corner. And if you'll smile, you can be seated. If you're going to be a grump, just remain standing, so we can spot you. All right, praise God.

I'm going to start today — thank you, my brother, you are awesome. This music team was great. That young lady that stood in the middle here has got a voice — whoa. Let me start with a simple declaration today, and that is this — and I hope you agree with me: I'm good— both, thank you much. I'm going to start with a simple statement. I hope every one of you agrees with me on this; if not, we're going to be here a while: there is nothing like the church. Oh, you're looking at somebody that loves the church. I don't feel like a hostage. I don't feel like I'm captive. I don't feel like I have to do this. The church is the greatest blessing on this earth in my life. I love the church.

Paul called it a mystery, which had been hidden through the ages past but was revealed in the New Testament age. It is such a wonder that the Bible uses various descriptive metaphors and similes to try to help us grasp its profound nature. There is the marvel, for instance, of Christ having a bride, and that bride is identified as the church of Jesus Christ. Collectively, we are betrothed to Him. You look individually — when you look in the mirror, you are not the bride of Christ; you are His son or His daughter. But collectively, we comprise the bride of Christ, and we are betrothed to Him, and we anxiously await the moment when we will sit down with Him at the marriage supper of the Lamb. This church is a bride. Alternately, it is called a building, crafted by God and founded upon the message of the apostles and the prophets, with Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone of this building, wherein each of us are lively stones, fitted together — the Bible says "built up together" — as a holy habitation for the Lord. This church is a building. It is likened to a family, in which we are brothers and sisters, and God is our Father, and there is a familial care and unity which arises from this relationship, where we might even disagree from time to time, and we might not see everything eye to eye, but underneath it all we keep this in mind: we've got the same Father, and we've got the same mother, and we've got the same name, and we've got the same blood. We are family. It is depicted as a bride, as a building, as a family, and as a body, with Christ as the head and each of us as members in particular — no two alike, but no one unneeded. All interconnected and valuable, until a disparate group of people — with different backgrounds, and different educations, and different incomes, and different perspectives, and different politics, and different skin color — can lay all that aside at the door of the church and say: those lines of division, they may exist out there, but when you come in here, we are all one body.

To whoever's running the sound: can I just say, it was thundering in here, and that's your business, but I need more monitor, please. Don't hurt these people, these precious folks — do not damage them. But if you can knock the rest of the hair off my head, that would be wonderful.

Our world is torn up and divided in all kinds of lines — by the color of our skin, or our political posturing, and all that junk out there needs to stay out there. Because every voice out there says we can't get along. Every voice out there says there's no way we can understand each other. Every voice out there says we might as well march in the streets against one another. I wish they'd come to the church once, and they'd find out that there's one place that all those lines of division go away, and we are one.

All right, let me just — let's do this. I'm going to wade way out there right now. I pastored for fifteen years in a place that none of you have heard of called Florissant, Missouri. But all of you have heard of what was six miles from me: Ferguson, Missouri. Yeah — that was us. All kinds of people live in Ferguson. We ran our buses and picked up folks in Ferguson. And I got up that next Sunday, after watching our city burn, and everybody throw rocks at each other, and people that were in the streets blaming the people that weren't in the streets, and people that weren't in the streets blaming the people that were in the streets, and everybody, from government down through civic authority, is telling us it's pretty much hopeless, we can't get along. I wish they would have all come to the sanctuary on Sunday, because you'd have seen people of black and white sitting together, hugging on one another, loving one another, praying for one another, saying, "I've got news for you: that junk may be out there, but it's not in the church. That's not who we are." Hey — government can't fix it. Society can't fix it. But the church has the answer to it. We are all one. We do it every week: we rejoice with those that rejoice, and we weep with those that weep. And when one member suffers, all the members suffer with it. Watch: even if I don't understand why he's suffering — just because I cannot understand why it hurts my brother to see somebody that looked like him abused by a police officer does not mean that I don't suffer with him. Because when one member suffers, we all suffer together. Don't you even dare me to preach like this, because I'll do it. When one of my family members is hurting — even if I don't understand how it hurts, or why it hurts, or the historical hurt that's there — that's my brother, and I'm going to stand with him and love him and pray for him and support him. That's who we are. That's the church. We're not like anything else on the planet. We are not like the Elks Club. We are not like the Lions Club. We're not like some school club. This is different. We've been baptized into one body. This is the church.

I'll say it again: there is nothing like the church. This is where you'll find love. This is where second chances are common things. This is where you'll be embraced and forgiven and supported and cared for. This is where you can come after a weary week of struggle and find somebody put their arm around you and say, "I've been praying for you all week. I hope you're doing okay." Hey, this is where we bask in the warmth of collective worship, and we find healing in our minds and in our hearts. This is where you bring your mistakes and find mercy. You bring your disappointments and find hope. You bring your weariness and find strength. I love the church. For whatever flaws it may have, for whatever warts it has, it's still the prettiest girl at the party. The church is the greatest thing in my life.

Look, look, look: don't come to me and talk bad about my mama. My mom is still alive — 88 years old, lives on her own, can whip most of you; can whip me. You can come up to me and call me a dirty scoundrel. You can walk up to me after service today and say, "You know, you're about the sorriest preacher I ever heard." I'm just going to feel bad for you, that you've got such bad taste in preaching. But if you walk up and start talking about my mama, we're going to have an issue. She gave birth to me. She loved me when nobody loved me. She bandaged up my wounds when I fell and got hurt. You can talk bad about me; don't talk bad about my mama. I'd like to remind you today: this church, the Bible says, is the mother of us all. Don't come up to me and start talking bad about my mama. Hey — this church gave birth to me. This church loved me when nobody else loved me. This church bandaged up my wounds when I fell and made a mistake. You can criticize a lot of things, but don't talk bad about my mother. I love the church. I'll go one step further: I love my church. I love the church — the local church I attend. I love my pastor. I love the folks I worship with. Are they perfect? Lord, no. Neither are you. You find a perfect church, don't go there — you'll ruin their record. I know it's got problems, but I love my church. I'm not looking for another one. I'm not waiting to get offended so I go down the street and go someplace else. I love my pastor. I'm committed to my pastor. I'm committed to my church.

Well, we built a new church building some years ago, and we got all done — we doubled our square footage, we thank God for it, it's a wonderful blessing. I mean, we just had so much room, we thought. And up that upstairs hallway, we've got classrooms — man, we have more classrooms than we ever had, ever, ever, ever. And I'm not a very good pastor, probably, because I can't even name them all in order — you know, the beginner, primary, kindergarten — I don't even know what order they come in. I just gave them my kids and put them in the right one. Like all those classes up there: and this is junior, and junior high, and senior high, and we've got hyphen, and college and career, whatever they call it — I don't know. We've got a deaf class. We've got new converts. We've got all kinds of classes. No sooner had we got it built, one day I was dealing with some junk — I went to my bishop. I said, "Bishop Dugas, we're short; we need one more class." He said, "Really? What'd we leave out?" I said, "Oh man, I just want one more classroom, and I want the sign outside it to say 'Negative People,' with a door that locks from the outside. And I can just put those folks in there that see all the problems and want to complain and talk about how bad it is. I just lock the door and let them whine and cry until Jesus comes — and probably for seven years thereafter."

But there's some of us that are saying: "I love the church. This is the greatest thing I've ever been a part of. It may not be perfect, but it's the perfect for me." Some of us are still saying, "I was glad when they said unto me, 'Let us go to church.'" In fact, you can't run me off from the church. You can't talk bad enough about me to get me to leave the church. You can't treat me bad enough to get me to leave the church, because I don't care how bad you treat me — Jesus has been good to me. And I love the church. I'll go one further: I need the church. My marriage needs the church. My kids need the church. My finances need the church. My mind needs the church. My soul needs the church. I won't make it without the church. Folks, you ain't going to heaven without the church. If I want to go up in the rapture of the church, then I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to be in the church. I need the church. I depend on the church. This crazy pandemic thing proved a couple of things: we need the church. It did one of two things — you either saw folks going, "Whoa boy, I need the church; I want to go to church," or you saw folks go, "You know what? I can be just as carnal and not go at all." But I need the church. Some of us are seeing each other for the very first time. I couldn't even see you until they turned the lights on, so I don't know you. I can't call but about a half a dozen names in this place. But can I tell you something? I need you. For me to go to heaven, I need you. So we don't even know each other — I know. But we're part of this collective thing called the church, and I need you. I depend on you.

Okay, watch — here's where I'm going with this: between here and there, we depend on one another. Now, it is absolutely true that at the end of this road, I must have worked out my own salvation in the fear of God. And when I stand before Him face to face, trembling, I will stand there before God for myself, and all my excuses are going to dry up in my mouth. You ain't going to stand before God one day and go, "Well, you know, I probably could have made it, but somebody took my parking place. I mean, I probably could have made it, but somebody posted something on Facebook — and I'm pretty sure they didn't name me, but I think they were talking about me." I mean, I've got a news flash for you: you ain't going to make excuses to try to argue your way into heaven on that day. So I know that ultimately I am responsible for my eternity — I get that. But it is also true that no one is an island. We are not independent; we are interdependent. Look around this room, and you will see those people on whom you depend to get to heaven, and you will see people who depend on you to get to heaven. And that is the point that I want to arrive at here today: we are accountable for each other. I'll get there, just right along here — the horse is just getting ready to gallop.

I want you to think about your pastor right now. There is an incredible responsibility which rests on that individual. It is profound. It is immeasurably heavy. And it is something which I cannot tell you fully — you cannot grasp it completely if you have never felt its weight — to know that someday you will stand before God and give an account for how you handled the spiritual well-being of a group of eternal souls that He died for. That will keep you up at night. But I want, for a season today, to broaden the focus just a little bit. Because this good man right here — I don't know who your pastor is; doesn't matter to me right now. Trust you have one — okay, good. Your pastor is not the only one responsible to get that man to heaven. You want to know who else has a responsibility to get him into heaven? You do. And you do. And you do. And you, and you, and you, and you. You say, "Well, we don't even worship in the same church." I know — you're part of the same section, and we bear responsibility for each other. No, you're not his pastor. He has a pastor, and don't you ever try to take that man's place. But I preach to you today that we are not disconnected from each other. He's not going to heaven by himself; he's going to heaven with the rest of you. And we have a responsibility to help one another.

Are there two of you young bucks there on the front row? I know there are, that are well and healthy enough you can jump up here without stairs. I need two of you to jump up here. You smart aleck — come over here. Stand one on either side of me. Now I'm going to tell you something — come here. I'm going to tell you something, probably all you— just wait right here; I'll get with you. Probably all you know this, but you just let the Midwesterner show his ignorance, okay?

Some years ago, my wife and kids — we were out here on Christmas time. Well, not here, but we were in the Bay Area, and we went one day across the Golden Gate Bridge and up through Sausalito, went up to Muir Woods, where they've got one of the redwood groves. I've never seen the redwoods before. I know you have, but humor me: is there anybody here that has never been physically to see the redwoods? Oh, praise the Lord, I feel better. I'm in the Midwest — I just couldn't— No pictures do them justice. There's no National Geographic or YouTube channel that does justice to those trees, man. I'm talking about three hundred feet tall. Now, again, I'm from the West— grew up in Illinois, live in Missouri. Here's what I know about trees, okay? That on average — on average — the roots of a tree: you have a maple, or an oak, or an elm, or some of those trees we have — on average, the roots of that tree go down as many feet as the tree is tall. If you have a twenty-foot tree, on average, the roots go down twenty feet. You've got an old mature ninety-foot oak — on average the roots go down — soil conditions could change it, but usually they go down ninety feet. There is as much wood beneath the ground as there is above the ground. So I'm standing there looking at these trees, I'm thinking, "Whoa — three hundred feet deep roots." Walking through the forest now, come on — this little sign thing: it says on that sign, the roots of the average redwood go down three feet. And I was like, "No — they made a mistake. Decimal error. They forgot the two zeros." I mean, I just look dumb. I've had physics in college. I've studied Newtonian kinematics. Did that sound impressive? I got an A, too. I know there is no way you can have a three-hundred-foot-long lever, with the fulcrum at the ground, and those coastal winds blow up there three hundred feet from the fulcrum — and roots three feet deep will not hold that up. That can't be right. I wish what I'm about to tell you was a joke. Pray for my wife, because I went looking for someone to tell that their sign was wrong. So help me before God, I really did. I'm not proud of that. Walking along, and I saw this forest ranger down there — you know, I don't know if he's feeding Yogi and Boo-Boo, or doing what — I don't know what he's doing down there. And I ran up to him. I said, "Sir, I had to tell you this. I'm sure it's just an oversight, a little embarrassing, but I'm glad I caught it for you. I proofread a little bit. I said, you've got a sign up right around the corner — it's just a mistake, I'm sure, a little embarrassing — but it says the roots of these trees only go down three feet." He said, "That's true." I said, "That can't be true, man. Come on." I gave him a Joe Biden "come on, man." I said, "Ain't no way — wind blowing that tree three hundred feet tall, three feet of roots is not going to hold that up." He looked at me just like I see that guy. He said, "Did you read the rest of the sign?" There was more? I said, "No — I got a little distracted by your typo." He said, "It is absolutely true that the roots of those redwoods only go down three feet. But they go out up to a mile. And in that mile, they find the roots of the next redwood, and they find the roots of the next redwood, and they tie themselves together." He said, "Sir, the wind never blows on one tree; it blows on the whole forest. And since it can't knock down the forest, it can't knock down the members." I preach to you: we've got to hold on to each other. Hell can't knock down the church, and so if I stay in the church, hell can't knock me down either. He said, "Sir, there have been trees out in that forest — and we thought they were dead. If it had been up to us, we'd have cut them down. We hadn't seen signs of life in years. But their neighbors would not let go of them. And he said, sure enough, one day we walked out there in the spring, and there was a little green leaf out on the end of a limb that had been dead for years. And he said, if you saw that tree today, you'd never know it was weak. You'd never know it struggled. You'd never know it went through a dry time. It's healthy and well, because when it was weak, its neighbors didn't go to Denny's and talk about him, didn't get on social media and cut him down. They just held on to him and said, 'I love you. You're going to get through this.'" That is the church. I can do nothing that might hinder that man from getting to heaven, and I must do everything in my power to help that man get to heaven. That's the church.

You know, they taught me in Bible school you should always get to your text. I probably should. Even people who know hardly anything about the Bible have at least heard of the Ten Commandments. If nothing else, they are aware of the legal battles which have surrounded their display in public venues around the country. This concise expression of God's moral code is known sometimes as the Decalogue, and it's found in two places in Scripture. I read you one of them today: Exodus chapter 20. Let me show you how good God is to you: if you ever want to find them, He made it mathematically possible. They are in Exodus chapter 20 — that's ten times two. They are in Deuteronomy 5 — that's ten divided by two. Now, if you can't do the math, I can't help you further; I'm sorry. Exodus 20, Deuteronomy 5. Exodus 20: when God gave them to Moses. Deuteronomy 5: when Moses reiterates them that second time before he departs, to Israel. And for years, Bishop Hodges, I've always known — growing up in Sunday school, working my way through Bible school, working my way through ministry — I've always believed that those are the two places in Scripture that you find the Ten Commandments: Exodus 20, Deuteronomy 5. Everybody knows that. Oh, I know there's isolated verses all through the Bible, of course, that reiterate these truths. But as far as having a list of them, that's just Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5. Always known that — until recently, when I was reading sometime back — don't get your Bibles out and check me; you can do it later. I was reading some time back in Leviticus chapter 19. Now, you remember Leviticus, right? It's that book that's killed many a reading chart. I really do think that Leviticus has been the cause of more broken New Year's resolutions than Krispy Kreme has — that's my guess. "I'm going to read the Bible through this year," and you make it through Genesis and Exodus, you get to Leviticus, you just die. That's a shame, because there's some good stuff in there.

I was reading Leviticus 19 a while back, when I noticed something really amazing to me, and that was that interspersed through this chapter is a third listing of the Ten Commandments. They're not in the same order, and they're not quite as concise, and some of them are worded a little differently — but there can be no debate that they're there. I'm going to take you on a whirlwind tour. They're not going to put it on the screens; I'm going to move too fast. Just listen.

Commandment number one out of Exodus: "I'm the Lord thy God, that brought thee out of Egypt; you'll have no other gods before Me" — right? That's number one. Here's Leviticus 19, 36–37: "I am the Lord your God, which brought you out of the land of Egypt. Ye shall observe all my statutes, and all my judgments, and do them: I am the Lord." Commandment number two is about no graven image. Here's Leviticus 19 and 4: "Turn ye not unto idols, nor make to yourselves molten gods." Commandment number three: don't take His name in vain. Leviticus 19 and 12: "Ye shall not swear by my name falsely, neither shalt thou profane the name of thy God." Command number four is about the Sabbath. Here's Leviticus 19 and 3: "Keep my sabbaths." Commandment number five: honor your father and mother. Here's Leviticus 19, also in verse 3: "Ye shall fear every man his mother and his father." I do find it fascinating that when it says honor, it puts Dad first; when it says fear, it puts Mom first. Just point that out to you for your consideration — Mama, she'll fix you.

So I'm reading that, and all of a sudden this starts to dawn on me. And I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and I said, "Okay, there's number one, and there's number two, three, and there's four, there's five." Commandment number six: don't kill. Leviticus 19 and 17: "Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart." That's what Jesus reached back to in the New Testament. He said, "You've heard 'don't kill' — I tell you, don't hate him." He didn't make that up on the Sermon on the Mount; He reached back in Leviticus 19 and grabbed that commandment and said, "Don't hate anybody." Commandment number seven: no adultery. Leviticus 19, 20 and 29, talk about lying carnally with a woman; it talks about prostitutes and whoredoms. Commandment number eight: don't steal. Leviticus 19 and 11: "Ye shall not steal." Commandment number nine: don't bear false witness against your neighbor. Here's Leviticus 19, verses 11, 13, 16: "Neither deal falsely, neither lie one to another. Thou shalt not defraud thy neighbour. Thou shalt not go up and down as a talebearer among thy people; neither shalt thou stand against the blood of thy neighbour."

It is blowing my mind. I've got a paper — there's number one, there's number two. I put them side by side, printed out: Exodus 20, print it out, Leviticus 19. There's number three up here; there's four, five; six is down there; there's seven, there's eight, there's number nine. I read Leviticus 19 again. Now, the tenth commandment is the one about don't covet. Okay, so I thought, "I must have missed it." So I read Leviticus 19 again. Do you know how many times the word "covet" occurs in Leviticus 19? Zero. It's like, "Now, God, You're messing up a really cool sermon here. Why, why, why — why would You list the other nine and not list number ten again? I mean, was it less important? Was it less applicable?" Then I had a brilliant idea, Brother Hodges. I thought, "Oh, I've got it. I've got it. When the Bible was written, there were no chapters. It's probably at the end of either Leviticus 18, or the first part of Leviticus 20." That was brilliant. It was wrong, but it was brilliant. I used my high-dollar computer software Bible. I searched the whole book of Leviticus. You know how many times the word "covet" occurs in the whole book of Leviticus— and then I found it. The tip: number 10 is in the corner. Leviticus 19. And I'm going to let you do this one. Can you give me a verse real quick, sis? I'm sorry I didn't give it to you in advance; we were pressed for time getting here. Leviticus 19, and verse 9 and 10. How quick can you get that up there? The dancing fingers, the amazing, the gifted, the talented, the brilliant, the wonderful, the beautiful, the lovely — I'm running out of adjectives. There — watch. "Get out of the way. And when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of thy field." Verse 10 — no, I'm sorry: "Neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest." Verse 10: "And thou shalt not glean thy vineyard, neither shalt thou gather every grape of thy vineyard; thou shalt leave them for the poor and stranger: I am the Lord your God."

You see — watch, I'm going to make sense of this. Coveting is when I want something that doesn't belong to me — when I want to control something that is not mine. And God made it clear to Israel that the corners of their field did not belong to them. It might be inside their fence. They might have watered it. They might have sown it. They might have planted it. But it is not theirs. He said, "That belongs to somebody in need. That belongs to somebody who is weak. That belongs to somebody who is broken. That belongs to somebody that does not have enough. And I have ordained that what is in the corner of your field belongs to them." Stay with me, stay with me — this is what Ruth capitalized on. Remember when she came back from Moab with her Naomi, and she went into the field of Boaz, and she began to glean behind the reapers? Boaz does not get a pat on the back for letting her do that. She was not picking up Boaz's grain; she was picking up Ruth's grain, because God had already given that to her. And if Boaz had looked at the corners of his field and said, "I worked hard for that — I don't want her to have that," he would have been coveting what belonged to somebody else. Because God had already given it: the corn — or the wheat — that fell from their wagons, and the crops that stood in the corner of the field, did not belong to Boaz; they belonged to Ruth. God had decreed that the corner of the field was hers. God said— don't see— you're looking at me so strange. I'm going to make my point; I haven't made it yet. God said: "You might think it's under your control, but it does not belong to you. It belongs to somebody who has a need that day, who is weak and broken and weary. And I have ordained that even though you think it's yours, it belongs to somebody else. And if you look at it and try to keep control of it, you are coveting what I have given to someone else." That grain existed for the good of someone who was weak, for the good of someone who was hurting, for the good of someone who did not have the necessary resources to make it another day.

Now I will preach for just a few minutes. I kind of think that's how the church works. Relax — I'm not talking about your billfold right now. I'm just saying that not everything in my field is mine. When I walk into the praise and worship field, it's not all mine; some of it exists for somebody else. When I go to prayer meeting, it's not all mine; some of it belongs to somebody. God gave me some of my singing to be a blessing to somebody else. God gave me a little bit of my worship — not to bless me, but to bless somebody else. He said, "There's going to be somebody there that day that's weak and broken and weary, and your worship is going to help them." I'm sorry — maybe I'm not making this plain enough. My praise is not just to make me feel good; my praise is to help somebody else. Let me say it in English: I'm not supposed to worship until I feel God; I'm supposed to worship until that crackhead feels God. I'm not supposed to sing until I have victory; I'm supposed to sing until you have victory. I'm not supposed to shout till I feel better; I'm supposed to shout until you feel better. I don't sacrifice until I can make it; I sacrifice until you can make it. I don't pray till my family is saved; I pray until your family is saved. It may be in my field, but it belongs to you — and it belongs to you — and it belongs to you. And on a day when you're weary and you're a little beat up, you can eat out of the corner of my victory. And on a day when I'm tired, I can eat out of the corner of your victory. God gave it to you. That's why I can't come to church and say, "Well, I'm tired today. I think I've worshiped enough to get me through." But have I worshiped enough to get you through? What would happen tomorrow morning in your church if everybody came to church tomorrow and said, "I'm going to worship until the most defeated, downcast, broken, weary, sick, battered, tired person here feels a taste of victory. I'm not going to stop when I feel it. I'm going to let—" Hey, hey: I'm going to let the corner of my field be a strength for somebody else. I'm not just doing enough to stay saved; I'm going to do enough so somebody else is saved. It's the corner of my field, but it belongs to them. Because when I do less — when I look at the extra and say, "I don't think I really have to offer that" — I'm not depriving me; I've got the rest of my field to eat in. I'm cheating that person who came to church in a valley.

Let me tell you — a couple of different nights I've told folks, "You need a story," and I happen to have one. It's convenient when it works that way. I went through — some years ago; I've not been pastoring for three years now, since assuming the position that I now hold at headquarters. Your pastor, probably — back, oh man, I don't know, seven or eight years ago — I went through one of the darkest seasons of my life. I was broken. I was emptied. Had some problems, had some issues — staff, just all kinds of stuff. I was beat up. I went — I remember going to church that Sunday morning. The choir's up there singing. I'm sitting right down, right beside where Brother Blizzard is in our church. And I had to get up and preach in a couple of minutes. I don't feel like preaching. I've got nothing; I'm empty. I can't feel God. "Oh, you're the pastor — that's why." That explains it; thank you for noticing. I'm just desperate. I look around in my field — looks like it looks outside of town here, it's a perfect illustration: ain't nothing green. There's not one little blade of grass blooming any place. It's dry, dusty desert, barren. I've got nothing. "Where are You? I can't find You." I was thinking about quitting. Now, if that diminishes your opinion of me, I'm sorry. I thought, "I could make better money doing something else. I'll quit this. This is silly — pour yourself out and get stabbed by people." I was done. I was empty. The choir was singing back over here, just about where my good brother is, was one of the founding members of our church, Granny Foster. If she met you today, she would introduce herself to you as "Granny." Most folks in our church don't even know her first name. When I became pastor, I went to the hospital to visit her one time, in the hospital, and I got pulled up in the parking lot, realized I don't know her name. Do you know that the front desk of the hospital will not give you the room number for "Granny Foster"? I went in, I walked up outside the room — she said, "What's the patient's last name?" I said, "Foster." She said, "What's her first name?" I said, "Granny." I'm sorry — I can't— "Granny." She said, "You've got to do better than that." I had to call back the church office, get my secretary, said, "What's her first name?" "Granny." There's no nice way to say this: she's old. She is — I'm sorry, she is. She's sneezing dust. Okay, she's old. I'm just saying: she's sweet. I love her to death. She's more fun to pick on than any two people I know. But she is aged.

The choir's up here singing. She got out of her pew — I wish I was down there — but I can't do what he did. So she started up the aisle. I'm thinking, "Man, you'd better hurry. I don't know how long that song is. It'd be a little embarrassing if she didn't get right to the front and they quit." She got up to the front. She gave it the best she had. It looked something like this. I ran from my chair as fast as my pudgy little self could go. I sprinted over there. I grabbed that little bony hand. And when I did, the Holy Ghost shot through me. I felt more of God in that moment than I had felt in the last six weeks. You know what happened? I came stumbling over into her field. She wasn't worshiping for her; she was worshiping for me. And I walked into her field, and I started picking up handfuls of grain, and I got the strength I needed to go on. Somebody hear me: she didn't save herself; she saved her pastor.

I plead with you: when you go to church tomorrow, give a little more. Sing a little more. Praise a little more. Be a little more faithful. You never know who has to come into your field. That was mine — that belonged to me. It was inside her fences, but she gave it for me. Because God said, "I'm going to give you a little extra today. Don't you hide it. You lift it up, because somebody is in church that needs what—" You hear me well today? Hear me well today: I violate the tenth commandment when I look at it like it's mine. Because a portion of my worship is yours. A portion of my giving is yours. A portion of my commitment is yours. A portion of my sacrifice is yours. When I pray, it's not all about me. When I give, it's not just so I can be blessed. When I separate myself to holy living, it is in part for your spiritual welfare. Because when I discipline myself in conduct and appearance, I might just be saving a teenager who is watching me. When I worship when I don't feel like it, I might be strengthening a soul who's been battered by the enemy all week. When I come to service for midweek Bible study after a long day at work, when I'd really rather just relax at home, I might make the difference for someone. A discouraged member of the family might come stumbling into the corner of my faithfulness and find what they need to make it another day. And when I feel like it's too much for God to ask me to give more of my time, or my energy, or my emotions, or my money, or my worship, or my prayer — I'm coveting. I have to shake myself and remind me: it's not mine. It's yours, and yours, and yours.

I will finish with this. My grandparents came to this country from Germany. Now don't watch them; watch me — they know what they're doing. It is the craziest thing — we are the weirdest folks, of Pentecostal. You call for the musicians, and everybody stops, and they go, "I wonder if they can find it this time?" Pay attention to me; they'll show up. Everybody ought to get to sit on the platform. It's just hysterical. Would the musicians please come? Got to keep an eye on them, you know. I'm preaching my guts out; everybody's looking to see if they know where the keyboard is — maybe forgot, in the last hour.

My grandparents came here from Germany as infants, toddlers. They settled — they married in 1919 — they settled near a little place called Belleville, Illinois, just across the river from St. Louis. They'd been married about two or three years, and Grandma got an ear infection. Now, today, an ear infection — you get a little, you know, good-tasting pink antibiotic stuff, and no problem. Back then, that wasn't possible, and proximity to the brain made an ear infection rather dangerous. She couldn't get well. There was a big revival going on outside of Belleville that's become known as the Price Revival, named after a man who was leading it, Brother Price. My grandparents, as I said, they came from Germany; they were Lutheran. I mean, they were Lutheran with a capital L-U-T-H. They didn't even really know if they believed in all that— oh, I forgot to mention: one night at the Price Revival, they advertised they were going to have a healing service. Now, my grandparents aren't even really sure they believe in that stuff, but they were desperate, so they went. Sat on the back row. Didn't like it; scared them. They were too respectful to walk out, so they stayed. But no, no — did not fit their German mindset. So they had the service; I don't know what all went on, don't know how many — I would love to tell you that that night, while they were in service, lightning struck and the voice of God spoke audibly and my grandparents fell out on the floor and she was healed. But none of that happened. They sat there and watched the service. Got to the end. Whoever was leading the service, or was in charge, looked out and saw a man named Brother Underwood. Now, the Underwood name became kind of iconic in the UPC years later in Illinois. Sister Dorothy Underwood lived for 143 years, I think; pastored in Illinois for years. Old Brother Underwood was there; he was pastoring in the area. And the man in charge called for Brother Underwood to come up and pray the dismissal prayer.

I've been in this all my life. I can't really tell you that I've ever known of a time, in any service where I was, deeply and spiritually impacted by the dismissal prayer. Have you? If that's your spiritual high-water mark, hold on — good things are coming. I just said, personally, it's just, you know, "The Lord takes our place abode, bring us back to the appointed time, bless the food at Wendy's, amen." Oh, Brother Underwood got up in that pulpit — he could have prayed the standard little prayer. He could have even thrown in a couple of King James words to make it sound religious. But that night, he walked over in the corner, and I don't know where praying stopped and preaching started, and I don't know where preaching stopped and prophesying started. All I know is, halfway through that prayer, as the Holy Ghost rippled through that congregation, my grandfather turned to my grandmother and said, "I don't know who that man is, but we're going to his church." Pentecost came into my family because somebody gave a little extra. I baptized my kids in Jesus' name because somebody didn't just push play on the tape recorder and give a little token prayer. They reached in the corner of the field and gave something extra. That man, Brother Underwood, had no idea that he was doing something that would produce the preacher for the SoCal camp meeting one day. He didn't know he was giving the United Pentecostal Church a general secretary. He had no idea. He just gave a little extra — and look what happened.

So I wonder a little bit — and here's where I quit. I turned my computer off, to give you hope. Here's what I wonder: I wonder sometimes, pastors — I don't know, I did it the same way we all do it — but I really wonder, Brother Cooper, if maybe sometimes we do altar calls wrong. Because here's what we say: "If you're broken, if you're empty, if you've got nothing" — and then we just hope that somebody will come up and join them. I wonder what would happen instead if we said, "Who's got some extra tonight?" And if people that weren't broken, and weren't empty, and weren't defeated, came first, and came up and started giving the extra out of the abundance of their field — and then we could say to the broken, "Look at the buffet that's up here. Look at all the strength that's up here. Look at all the healing that's up here. Look at all the blessing that's up here." And maybe then they should come up and receive what God has supplied through you. It's a Saturday afternoon — what a strange time: 3:49 p.m., odd time to have church. Maybe it'd be okay to do something different. Who's got some extra? Don't you come up here weeping — that's for the weepers to come later. I want you to come up and start giving the extra. I want you to shout and dance and celebrate and worship and pray and say, "God, I've got a little extra to give today. You've been good to me." And if you're hungry, if you're broken, come on up here — we've got plenty to spare. God gave us some extra. Come on, Section 5: it's time to give a little extra. When you go to church tomorrow, give a little extra. When you go to the house of God — it's not about you; it's about somebody else. Go ahead, go ahead — reach into the corner. Reach into the corner and give a little extra today. Start praying.

All right, now I want you to link up with somebody. Don't leave anybody alone, because you don't know how hungry the guy next to you might be. But this is the church; we're in this thing together — all the way from the front to the back. I want you to catch up with somebody and say, "I'm going to worship, and some of this is for you. I'm going to pray, and some of this is for you. I'm going to celebrate, and some of this is for you. I'm going to sing, and some of this is for you." Go ahead — a little extra, a little extra, a little extra. Number 10 is in the corner. You can't covet it. It's not yours. It belongs to somebody else.