Only Survivors Hurt

God bless you. There are those who preach because of the times; there are those who preach because of the cancellations — and I am delighted, I am delighted to be here. Now, if you want the real definition of irony, or I don't know, circular providential care: just last week I received a text message from Brother Dylan, who is the superintendent of the British Columbia district in Canada. I was supposed to preach their camp in about a month, or three weeks, something like that, along those lines, and they had been holding off to wait and see what would happen with the border. And he finally sent me a text last week: "There's just no way. If you came, you'd have to quarantine for two weeks, and I know you can't do that. Brother Bernard was supposed to be going — we were both going to be there — and he said, 'There's just — we can't do it. We're going to have camp, but you can't get here.' He said, 'So we went ahead and contacted Brother Raymond Woodward, and he's going to come and fill in for you.'"

So we just kind of swapped, you know — the beauty of the Northwest up there for this lovely place. And I just want to tell you, having left the place where the heat index was well over 100 last week, it's really good to be here. Yes, it is. You're wonderful people. It's a delight to be with your superintendent. I give honor to the Hodges — just a great man, represents us well, and I thank God. And to Brother Durant and Galoni, and any other members of the district board that are here, I give honor to them, and thank you for this great privilege. Sure, your presbyter here is a fine man; it's good to honor him.

But I will tell you: I think I figured out why Brother Hodges is so driven to be kingdom-effective. Because when you pastor and live your life in a place where a cold night is 52 and a hot day is 85, there's no stars in your crown — you get to heaven for living there, you just don't get anything for that. I'm sorry, it's going to be very hard to stand next to the saints of Rochester, Minnesota. So he has had to populate his crown by being so kingdom-effective, and he has done that. I honor him absolutely. But I'm blessed to be here.

Let me direct your attention to Second Corinthians chapter 4 and verse number 7. Second Corinthians 4 and verse 7. They do have this, I believe, prepared on the screen behind me for your benefit. I used to try to explain to the church that I was privileged to pastor that we do that for sinners that don't have Bibles, not for Christians that can't find theirs. Second Corinthians chapter 4 and verse 7. The Word of the Lord says this: "But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us."

Now here is his brochure advertising this Christian walk: "We are troubled on every side" — anybody want to join? — "yet not distressed. We are perplexed" — got some questions — "but not in despair. Persecuted" — yeah, yeah — "but not forsaken. Cast down, but not destroyed. Always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body." Verse 16 of this same chapter: "For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day." This next line can almost tickle you if you let it: he has talked about troubled on every side, perplexed, persecuted, cast down, bearing in our body the marks, the dying of Jesus — "For our light affliction" — that's how he phrased it — "for our light affliction, which" — and here's why it's light — "which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." So while we — here's the focus — "while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen" — that stuff we're living in down here — "just last a little while; it's just temporal. But the things that you can't see, those things are eternal."

Oh, thank God. I'm going to hold my title for just a little bit. Now I have but one request tonight. I was pleasantly surprised today when I got here. Bishop Hodges picked me up, took me — we walked into the hotel lobby, and I looked around and I could see faces. I will confess I was stunned. Coming from flyover country in the middle, I assumed here on the West Coast, having heard all the — you know, your governor and all the stuff — I just couldn't believe you'd go anywhere without a mask. I'd have to have a Tyvek suit on or something; I wasn't sure. Never — there were no masks. Well, there were one or two, and I don't mind if you wear it; I'm not critiquing anybody that wears one; that's not my point at all. But could I just make a request tonight? Could we not wear masks this evening? Oh no, I'm not talking about the cloth you have or don't have. I respect anybody's desire to do that. But I think tonight we need to take our masks off.

It's okay to be troubled on every side. It's okay to be perplexed. It's okay to be cast down. And so for the next little while, I just ask you to be mask-free in the spirit here for a little bit.

Father, I thank You for these precious people that have come. We come here living in a real world with real hurts and real needs and real questions. We've buried loved ones this year; we didn't expect it. We've said goodbye to folks. We've dealt with financial pressure and loneliness and discouragement. We're coming out of all that, God, and I thank You for Your mercy. But the wounds and the scars and some of that stuff linger in our spirits. I ask, God, You'd help us tonight to just be honest. Minister among Your people tonight, I pray, in Jesus' name. Amen. Amen. You can be seated. The Lord be with you tonight.

Life — life has some unfortunate truths which, from our fleshly perspective, we wish they weren't so. It seems like living here, this Christian life, even this Apostolic life that we are so blessed to live — it just seems like it'd be so much easier if we did not face some of the realities of life which come to us all. But they do. Being baptized in Jesus' name and filled with the Holy Ghost — being born again of water and Spirit — is the greatest blessing you could ever have. But that doesn't mean you're never disappointed. It doesn't mean that you'll never face a betrayed trust, painful moments, dark valleys, hard seasons, broken promises, devastating diagnoses, wounded spirits. They are quite simply a part of our existence here, due to the fall of man. If Adam had never partaken of that one forbidden tree, then we would not even know words like "restore" or "heal" or "encourage." There'd be nothing — if it weren't for sin, there would be nothing to restore, there would be nothing to heal. We would never be discouraged. Our joy would never suffer. Our peace would never be under attack. Our confidence would never waver. Our assurance in the Spirit would never battle against the weakness of our flesh.

But that's not life. The reality is that all of us are going to experience those aspects of life, and being born again does not inoculate you against ever going through that stuff. And if you have the mistaken concept that because you talked in tongues you're never going to have a dark day — I beg to differ with you. You will still know the taste of tears on your cheeks. You will still know what it is to not see things happen like you want them to happen. If you thought this was a get-out-of-jail-free card and you would never deal with pain or brokenness or disappointment again, you are sorely mistaken. We will wrestle with questions of faith. Our world will be rocked at times by news so shocking that it takes our breath away and rips sleep from our eyes, replacing it with tears without measure. We will have moments when hope seems distant and victory seems absent and Christian service itself seems dreary — those moments when pain becomes our constant companion and faithful tormentor, until thoughts that we never thought we'd entertain become regular invaders in our mind: "Maybe I should just quit." "It'll probably never get better." "Where is God right now?" Anybody honest enough — you've had those thoughts before. "If I'm living right, why is it like this? We had a plan to reach every city, and then 2020 hits. What's going on, God? I'm discouraged. I'm hurting."

I'm asking somebody tonight to take the mask off for a minute and admit that we are human, and pain is a part of our life. Because I have to tell you tonight that pain cannot be ignored. Pain has to be dealt with. Pain has to have an answer. And I believe in the Holy Ghost tonight that God has given me one answer for your pain this evening.

He is a treasure in the Missouri district, from which I hail. I speak tonight of an elder pastor in our district. He is now north of 80. His name is Gerald Hamlet, and he is an extraordinarily kind man — just a small little, just little small, wrinkled-up, dried-up old guy. He is — he'd fit in one of my pant legs. He's so sweet; he's just so kind. A couple of years ago, Brother and Sister Hamlet endured a very frightening episode. He was driving her home from a doctor's appointment in Jefferson City, our capital city. They were on a four-lane highway traveling at highway speeds, about 45 minutes back to their town. Let me tell you how redneck we are in Missouri: we can't even decide how to pronounce our state — Missouri, Missouri. Here's the answer: if you're in the city, it's "Missouri"; if you're out in the boonies, it's "Missouri." Well, he lives in Missouri, in a town that, if we were cultured in Missouri, would be pronounced "Versailles," like the beautiful city in France where Napoleon had his palace, the beautiful Palace of Versailles. But because in Missouri we're not so cultured, we pronounce it "for-sales" — Versailles, Missouri. It's where he pastors.

And he was driving home from Jefferson City on this highway, and they're still not sure what happened — whether he blacked out, or if he fell asleep, or just nodded off. They don't know really what precipitated what happened next. But Brother Hamlet, in his car going at highway speed — 65 miles an hour probably, or more — left the right-hand lane of his side of the highway, crossed the left-hand lane, went through the median, and went airborne coming up out of the median, and crossed the two oncoming lanes of traffic, went down the embankment on the other side, across a ditch, through a fence, and came to a stop in the middle of a farmer's field. God's mercy was profoundly evident that day, as they did not collide with anything. They didn't hit a light pole, no oncoming car, no tree, not even a cow. They just came to rest out in that field. But you imagine how that would have shaken them around and thrown them around the inside of that car — waking from whatever dozing or whatever happened to him, and he's being thrown from side to side, even belted in; the airbags deployed with all the force that they have and battered them, and the seat belt held them as they thrashed across in that car. As you might imagine, bruises were the order of the day.

A couple of days later, I spoke to Brother Hamlet — checked on him, called him to see how he was doing. He said, "You know, Brother Graham, when you're as old as I am, you don't bounce back quite as quick." Well, I was trying to be nice to him; I said, "Oh, you're not old, Brother Hamlet." Well, he is; he's sneezing dust. His reply was priceless. He said, "Not old? Brother Graham, the other day I went to a restaurant and ordered a three-minute egg, and they made me pay in advance. That's old." But it's what he told me next that moved me so profoundly that I grabbed a piece of paper to write it down, and it is what I will preach to you here tonight. He said, "Brother Graham, I appreciate your call. Thank you for checking on me." He said, "I'll have to admit that I'm hurting. But," he said, "you know what? Only survivors hurt."

And that is the message God sent me to tell somebody tonight. You may be hurting, but there's a reason for it: you're still here. I've come to preach to somebody that came in with some scars. There's a reason you're hurting: you're still here. As bad as it is, it didn't kill you. As dark as it got, you didn't backslide. As much as it hurt, you didn't abandon your faith. Hey, I've got good news, somebody: you may be hurting, but only survivors hurt. I wish a survivor would just go ahead and worship right now, before I preach anymore. I wish somebody would confuse hell right now and say, "You took your best shot, but I'm still here." Hallelujah.

I do not celebrate your pain tonight. I'm sorry that you've had to go through it. I am sorry that your church was shut down for months, and years in terms of corporate worship. I'm sorry for every graveside you stood at when you buried somebody that went home too soon. I'm sorry for every financial pressure you felt when you got laid off because the business was shut down. I'm sorry for every bit of pressure and discouragement and loneliness you may have felt. But I've got good news tonight: it did not kill you — not physically, not emotionally, not spiritually. It hurts you, but the only reason you're hurting tonight is that your situation — as dark and as disheartening and as discouraging and as disappointing as it may have been — was not the last page in your story. Hey, your story did not end on a day of defeat. Your story saw you back in camp meeting this year. You turned the page, and the next page showed you in church tonight, still worshiping, still loving God, still Apostolic, still living for God.

Somebody needs to know tonight that pain has a testimony. Pain testifies. Listen to what it says: you're still alive. You're still here. You're still saved. You made it farther than you thought you could. You made it farther than hell said you would. It didn't get you. It's not over. Hell could not defeat you. Satan thought he had you, but you're still here. You're still here, and in spite of his best efforts, you've still got a song on your lips, you've still got a dance in your feet, you've still got a clap in your hands. Somebody ought to dance through your pain tonight. Somebody ought to run in the middle of your pain tonight, because you say, "I may be hurting, but only survivors hurt."

Short version is this: don't you for one second think that hell won just because you're hurt. Don't you for one second think that your pain testifies to hell's victory. I maintain pain testifies to hell's failure, because you can't show me one place where it says the thief cometh to hurt you. You can't show me where the Scripture says the thief cometh to wound. The Scripture says the thief cometh to steal, kill, and destroy. The fact that you're hurting tells me hell failed. Your pain does not say that heaven failed; your pain says that hell failed. Hell thought you'd be backslid by now. Hell thought you would have given up on your faith by now. Hell thought the church would just throw its hands up and surrender. Hell thought the SoCal district would be defeated. He may have hurt us, but he didn't defeat us. My pain says that God is still faithful. My pain says revival is still here. My pain says everything's going to be all right. I have survived.

And every time you do that, hell says, "I just don't get it. I took my best shot. I unleashed a pandemic. I shut down the churches. I had people isolated. I thought it was—" Oh, but look at him: here they are, coming out the other side of it, and instead of the church being defeated, it may be wounded, but it's stronger than ever. Instead of the church shutting down, they've had victories all the way to the Supreme Court. Hey, somebody needs to just testify a minute: "I may be hurting, but only survivors hurt."

I'm not suggesting that we like pain. We're not masochists. "I sure hope I hurt tomorrow" — I'm not advocating for some kind of, "Well, I sure hope I get wounded someday." I am just merely telling you it's going to happen. At some point you'll have a day of discouragement; it's going to happen. When that day comes and you walk back into the church the next Sunday, and you throw your hands up when the praise team starts, and you get out of your pew and walk up front when you haven't done that during the last six months of good days — you rub hell's nose in it, and you remind him that you are not defined by what's going on around you; you are defined by Who's going on in you. And I am still a victor. I am more than a conqueror. That's why I'm hurting: because I'm still in the battle. I'm still in this thing. I'm still fighting. Pain resides with hope. Pain is the companion of courage. Pain walks with faith, because pain says, "Well, congratulations — you made it through. You're still in the fight. It's not over yet."

That day when I talked to Brother Hamlet on the phone, he told me that — I got cleaned up out of my chair. He encouraged me so much when he said that, because I was going through some stuff right then. It was a window of time in my life that I was going through some stuff. Anybody ever go through some stuff? I ain't going to tell you what my stuff was, but I was going through some stuff, and I was feeling a little down, a little discouraged. I called this 80-year-old man that's been thrown around the inside of a car wreck. I thought I'd encourage him — I mean, that was my intention: I'm going to encourage him. "Well, my brother, you're just going to take it easy a while, you know. It's going to take you a little while, but I'll be praying for you." That was what I thought the tone of that phone call would be. And here I got this dude — this octogenarian, biggest word I know, I wanted to get it in there — this octogenarian who's looking at me going, "Yeah, I'm hurting, but I'm here." And all of a sudden I was in a hotel hallway, sitting in a chair, trying to be just nice — I mean, I was trying to even put that compassionate look on my face, even though I'm just on the phone; maybe it'd come through my voice, you know. You know what face you put on — you go in the hospital room, the guy's laying there with nine broken bones; that's the look I had on my face. I'd been wearing it a while, because I was feeling a little defeated, a little down. And here I'm doing my best, and pastoring a church, and trying to serve God — and how come all this junk is going on in my life, and how come I'm so discouraged, and why isn't stuff going better? And I get this man on the phone whose body's beat to a pulp in a car, saying, "Well, it may be hurting, but that just means I'm still able to talk to you, Brother Graham." Man, I got up out of that chair. I said, "Hey, Brother Hamlet, I'm still able to talk to you, too, because I made it. I'm still going to get back up on that pulpit Sunday and preach again, and hell can like it or hell can lump it. I just don't care. But it didn't kill me. It's not over."

Somebody needs to hear me: you may be hurting, but you made it. You may be hurting, but the story's not over. You may be hurting, but you're a victor. You may be hurting, but you're still a champion. Hey, somebody: you're still believing, you're still trusting, you're still praying, you're still singing, you're still preaching, you're still doing the work of God. I wish somebody would just confuse hell right now and say, "Take this, Satan — I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still here. You haven't won just because I'm hurting."

Take that, hell. You took your best shot. She probably buried somebody she cared about, but she is not ashamed to get up out of her seat and say, "I'm still in this thing. I still believe God. I still trust the Holy Ghost. I still know He's in control." I need somebody that still believes there's revival in SoCal to confuse hell for just a minute and say, "You shut us down, but we're back. We're still here. We're still here. We baptized them in the parking lot. We baptized them in the city park. We're still—"

And I may not yet be able to demonstrate my victory over my pain, but I can show you my obedience through my pain, because even though it hurts — only survivors hurt. He told me, "You'll probably never get to worship together again. You're not going to survive this."

I saw the greatest little comic strip while all this crazy mess was going on. It showed this aerial view of these two houses, and the ladies were talking on the phone. One of them said, "I'm going to kill him. I'm telling you, I'm going to kill him. He can't leave, and I'm going to kill him — too much time together, I'm going to kill him." She said, "Where's your husband?" She said, "Well, he's out in the garden." She said, "I'm looking out the window; I don't see him." She said, "You've got to dig deeper."

Hey, I told my wife: "It's going to be tragic — we survive COVID, and you kill me." Pressures. Loneliness. Suicide went to all-time highs. Our teenagers are such social creatures; depression was running rampant among kids of all stripes. And those little things whispered in your mind sometimes: "It's never going to get better." Right? Because when it started out, we're just going to shut it down for a couple weeks to flatten the curve. So that was a curve: two weeks turned into a month, and then a month turned into three months, and three months turned into six months, and six months into a year. Is there anybody besides me that was like, "Maybe this is never going to go away"? What if — you know, and you think what you want; I'm not advocating for anything — but what if that vaccine doesn't even work? Or what if we all take it, and then a new variant comes out? Are we going to be doing this again next year? Anybody have those kind of thoughts? What's going to happen? What's going to happen to the church? What's going to happen to our buildings, sitting there empty? All those thoughts. And then the devil starts messing with you: "Hope you enjoyed that camp meeting a couple years ago — it's the last one you're ever going to have. Hope you took good pictures, made good memories, because it's over. Hope you enjoyed the last sermon your pastor preached — you'll probably never hear him again in person. I know you're watching online in your pajamas, but you're sure enough never going to come back together to have SoCal camp meeting." He's a liar, and the father of it.

And I know you may have limped your way in here, but can you just join your voice with the apostle Paul? "We're troubled on every side" — I'm hurting, but not distressed: I survived. "We're perplexed" — I'm hurting, but not in despair: I survived. "Been persecuted" — I'm hurting, but not forsaken: I survived. "Even been cast down a little while" — I'm hurting, but not destroyed, because I survived.

I don't mean to be unkind, but some of you are sitting — maybe it didn't get as dark for you as it did for some of us. But I've attended too many funerals. I've had too much bad news. I've had too much discouragement. I've had too much hurt. And now here I am, and I just want to make the devil suffer a little while. We're still here. Hey, the church is still standing. Your best shot couldn't take us down. Nothing out of Sacramento can stop us. Nothing out of hell can stop us. Nothing out of D.C. can stop us. His church is going on, and we might be hurting, but we survived.

Oh, hallelujah. Hallelujah. See, pain — pain refines us. Pain purifies us. Pain matures us. Pain develops us. I'm a better man today because of pain I've gone through. I'm closer to God today because of pain I've suffered than I would be if I had never tasted it. My prayer life is richer today because of pain that I went through. My worship means more today than it would if I had not hurt when I offered it. And I don't like it, but when I compare the pain I've endured to what He is preparing for me — this light affliction is working in us a far more glorious thing. I may not be the most brilliant theologian alive — quite sure I'm not — but I know this much: He can't wipe tears out of my eyes if there's no tears there. We sing all the time about, "Shout, He's going to wipe the tears out of my eyes," and there had to be some tears there. So I may go walking in there with tears running down my face over some hurts and suffering that I've endured, but when I get on the other side, there's no more sickness, there's no more suffering, there's no more pain, there's no more tears, because this light affliction got me ready for something much more glorious over there. And when I stand there on that day, and the eternal purpose of my pain is revealed, and my faith has become sight, and I look face to face at the One who died for me — a lot of you are going to be way too young to even know this, but on that day I will throw my head back and say: "It will be worth it all when we see Jesus. Life's trials will seem so small when we see Christ. One glimpse of His dear face, all sorrow will erase. So bravely run the race till we see Christ." I'm not quitting just because I hurt. I'm not giving up just because I hurt. I'm not going to backslide just because I hurt. I'm not going to leave the church just because I hurt. Because when it's all said and done, my pain will be swallowed up in victory, and everything's going to be all right. I may be hurting, but I'm still on my way to heaven. I may be hurting, but I'm still getting closer to my mansion. I may be hurting, but I'm still ready for the rapture.

And while I would like to just wrap this up right there and rejoice and celebrate with you about what I've preached here, I must need to tell you one more thing, and that is this: you're not running alone. However lonely it may have felt this year, you're not alone. And certainly now that we're back together, you're not alone. And I'm not just talking about the fact that the Holy Ghost has never left us. I preach momentarily about the value of the body.

His name is shrouded in infamy. No one today names a son after him. Does anybody know — maybe I don't know — anybody know anybody in the last ten years that's named their little boy Ichabod? Last one I knew about was the headless horseman guy in Sleepy Hollow, or whatever that was — Ichabod Crane. I remember his name; can't remember the name of the book. Because who would name their child "No Glory"? He had a dark legacy, and it didn't have to be that way. His grandfather was Eli, the high priest — only the seventh in the history of the nation of Israel. But Eli's son Phinehas was a corrupt man; he was wicked and vile, and so the judgment of God was pronounced against him and carried out in a battle with the Philistines, while that little boy was yet in his mother's womb. During a disastrous day for the nation, his father and his uncle Hophni were killed in the battle, and — even more terrible consequence — the ark of the covenant was stolen by the enemy. When word of that horror returned, the babe's grandfather Eli fell over backwards off the bench where he sat; he broke his neck and died. And then the babe's mother, as she gives birth to him, dies in childbirth. Consider it with me: in that one day, his father and his uncle and his grandfather and his mother all die, on the same day that the ark of the covenant was seized by the Philistines. It's really not much of a surprise, then, that the unnamed midwife named him as she did: Ichabod. Oh, I know we sanitize it somewhat, and we say — well, his name meant, we almost have to have a British accent to do it — "the glory has departed." But in reality the name just means "no glory." And it's even more than that, because it's not just a statement, it's a lament. His name really meant "no glory." That's this kid's name. This is what he grew up with every day of his life. And despite the fact that he had nothing to do with the circumstances that got him there, he was labeled by that day of pain. He wore the disappointments of his yesterdays all his life, and his name, every time it was spoken, recalled and recounted the disaster of his past. Whenever it was breathed — kind of like now, every time we say "2020." It used to — "no glory" used to mean good vision; now it's been — that simple number will never mean the same thing to us again. Every time anyone called out "Ichabod," those nearby shivered. It was a horrid label to wear. Such was the pain that he journeyed through life with, from the moment his first breath is recorded. As a child, when they would speak his name, pain was the immediate emotion. When he was in school and he'd get called on to recite his multiplication tables, his name made everybody remember the hurt of yesterday. In all his life, every time it was spoken, he was marked by it. He couldn't get free from it. Everybody looked at him and said, "No glory. He's a tragedy. He's a mistake. He's a victim. He is wounded. He's hurting."

And I don't know how I missed it — to all my preacher dude friends, not sure how I missed it all these years. Even though he was the grandson of the high priest, we read nothing about his life from that point on. But much to my surprise — and I don't know how I missed it — Ichabod had a brother. It's found in First Samuel 14. We read of King Saul resting under a pomegranate tree with several of his friends, and the listing goes like this in First Samuel 14 and 2: "And Saul tarried in the uttermost part of Gibeah under a pomegranate tree which is in Migron: and the people that were with him were about six hundred men" — that's a big pomegranate tree — "verse 3: And Ahiah, the son of Ahitub, Ichabod's brother, the son of Phinehas, the son of Eli, the Lord's priest in Shiloh, wearing an ephod. And the people knew not that Jonathan was gone." There it is: Ahitub, Ichabod's brother. Now, he had to be older, of course, because his dad and his mom both died on the day that Ichabod was born, so obviously Ahitub has to be older; it couldn't happen otherwise. Ahitub's son is now recorded as wearing the ephod — Eli's great-grandson is now the high priest, which means that probably he followed — either Ahitub had been the high priest for a while. But the amazing thing to me is this: I got curious one day. I thought, "Well, Lord have mercy — I wonder what his name means. You're growing up with 'No Glory' as your kid brother; what's your name mean?" Now, I didn't just look at Wikipedia; I got a legitimate scholarly work. And when I looked it up and saw what they said his name meant, I thought, "That can't be so." I went and got another book, and I looked in that, and it said the same thing. And I went and got a third book. I had four books spread out on my desk, and all of them agreed on what Ahitub's name means. On this one — when I realized that before that little boy had ever suffered that horrid day and got labeled by it, before 2020 ever happened, he already had a brother, that God had orchestrated his name. Because Ahitub means "my brother is good."

I'm here to tell you: when hell tries to label you, you stay close to the church. When hell tries to tell you you're defeated, you stay close to the body. When you feel a little weak and a little weary, don't you lay down and quit, because when you come to the house of God, there's going to be a brother come up next to you and say, "Hell, I know what you're saying about him, but my brother is good. I still believe in him. I still know God's got plans for him." You want to know why this church is strong? Because we don't get on Facebook and start talking bad about everybody. We get next to him and say, "Hell, you've got a problem. This is a man of God. This is a woman of God. He may have been hurt, but he is good." You're not alone. You're not on your own. The body of Christ is here. I don't care what hell says about you — you've got somebody that believes in you. Come on, somebody. When hell tries to tell you, "Oh great, Brother Rivera baptized people; we're still not back to as big as we were before we started" — there's somebody going to come up next to you and say, "Don't be discouraged. There's revival coming. I still believe in you. I still believe in your calling. I still believe in your purpose. I still believe in the will of God."

I wish everybody in this place would jump to your feet right now and shout a little shout of victory, because you're not alone. We still believe in one another. We still support one another. We still pray for one another. We still love one another. My brother is good.

So I'm done, and this is where it gets tough, because tonight the altar must needs be opened for the hurting. Now, see, this is where we get really uncomfortable, and we start digging around, and then we go home and we take it off and we weep into our pillow — when if we could just be brave, if we could just be brave enough in about the next ten minutes to peel that thing off, we would not be criticized for our pain; we would be encouraged by our brother, who would walk up to us and say, "I'm so sorry you felt alone, but I'm here for you. I'm sorry you've dealt with grief, but you're a good man. I'm sorry you've been discouraged, but I'm still here for you."

Would you lift your hands and let's pray together for just a moment, that God will help us in the next few minutes? In the name of the Lord Jesus, I pray You would help us to tear down our stinking pride right now. God, help us to be honest among ourselves. Help us to trust the body right now. Help us to trust one another. Ahitub is out there. Ichabod is not alone. It may feel like there's no glory on my life, but I've got a brother somewhere that's been praying for me, saying, "My brother is good." I didn't even know about it. He was positioned before I even knew I needed him. He was already in place before I ever faced this battle. Hey, he was there before I even knew I would have to depend on his strength. But he's here tonight, and Ahitub is ready to be an encouragement to you.

Please continue that atmosphere of prayer. And while they're praying — I wish to God that someone — I know we've all dealt with it; I know everybody could come flood into this altar, I get it. But if this message has resonated with your spirit, and you felt a little alone, and you felt a little weary, and you've had some discouragement — would you please, don't be so stinking proud, I wish you'd get out and walk with boldness up to this altar and throw your hands up in the air and say, "I have heard the Word of the Lord tonight. I have survived it. I'm still here. I'm not defeated. I may be hurting, but I'm a survivor." Throw your hands up in the air and begin to rejoice in the goodness of God. There's still others out there that need to come down here and be a part of this moment. You know what it was to feel lonely this year. You know what it was to have more doubt than you ever faced before. You need to come down here to the front tonight.

Go ahead — don't stop, don't stop, don't stop. The musicians are coming; they're going to get in place. But now, now, now: Ahitub, I need you to come. Ahitub, I need you to come and put an arm around one of your sisters. Ladies, please don't just stand there and stare at me. Gentlemen, I need you to come down here and find one of your brothers and put an arm around their shoulder and say, "God sent me tonight to be a strength to you. God sent me tonight to be an encouragement to you. You are not alone. It is not over. You're good. You're going to make it." There's a lot of young ladies down here; I need some ladies to come down here and pray with them. Just put an arm around — you say, "Well, I don't know what to say. I don't even know him." I know — just put an arm around him and say, "I love her. This is my sister. She's good. There's a hand of God on her life." You need to come find one of your brothers down here and encourage them in the Lord. You're going to make it. You're going to make it. You're going to make it. You're going to make it. You all ready? Come on, lift your voice in victory tonight. Be a strength to one another tonight. You're going to come out of this. We're coming out of this.

You're good. You're good. I still believe in you. I still believe in you.