Tonight, millions of people will watch Super Bowl 60. The Patriots and the Seahawks will face off for the second time on this stage—a rematch eleven years in the making. At some point a quarterback will drop back, read the defense, and throw the ball to a spot before his receiver gets there. He’ll trust his preparation, trust his teammate, and release the ball before he can verify the outcome. That’s what competition requires: commitment before confirmation.
In a few hours, that drama will play out on a football field. But for some of us, it plays out in a hospital hallway. A driveway at 2 AM. A phone call that changes everything.
You get the call no parent ever wants. Your child is sick—really sick. The doctor’s voice carries that careful tone, the one that means they’re managing your expectations. You hang up and immediately start problem-solving. You research specialists. You call everyone you know. You drive across town, across the state, whatever it takes. And then you hit the wall. You’ve done everything you can do. The rest is waiting.
Waiting is its own kind of darkness. Not the darkness of ignorance—you know exactly what’s wrong. Not the darkness of inaction—you’ve exhausted every option. This is the darkness of distance. The gap between where you are and where you need to be. The space between prayer and answer, between hope and evidence.
What do you do when you’ve asked God for help and the only response is “trust me”? When the healing you need is twenty miles away and all you have is a promise?
We’re in the third week of “From Darkness to Light,” exploring how Jesus brings clarity to people living in confusion, hiddenness, and uncertainty. Two weeks ago, Nicodemus came to Jesus under cover of night, carrying questions he was afraid to ask in daylight. Last week, a Samaritan woman met Jesus at noon, her secrets exposed in the harshest light.
Today, a father encounters Jesus in a different kind of darkness—the darkness of distance. His son is dying twenty miles away, and Jesus won’t come with him. What happens next will test everything he believes.
That kind of faith—committing before confirmation—shows up in places you wouldn’t expect. Eleven years ago, the Patriots and Seahawks met in the Super Bowl. With twenty seconds left, Seattle had the ball at New England’s one-yard line, trailing by four points. Everyone expected them to hand the ball to their star running back. Instead, they called a pass play.
Malcolm Butler was a rookie cornerback, undrafted out of tiny West Alabama. He’d spent most of the season as a backup, barely on the roster. But during practice that week, Patriots coaches had identified this exact play—a quick slant near the goal line that Seattle loved to run. Bill Belichick drilled Butler relentlessly: “If you see that formation, you’ve got to be ready to jump that route.”
When Butler saw Seattle line up, he recognized the formation instantly. The ball wasn’t thrown yet. He couldn’t be certain where it was going. But he trusted his preparation, committed to the route, and jumped before he had proof.
The interception won the Super Bowl.
This week, with the rematch approaching, Butler reflected on that moment. He recalled that just seconds before the interception, he’d watched Jermaine Kearse make a juggling, impossible catch that put Seattle at the one-yard line. “I said this game is over,” Butler told a radio interviewer. “We lose, it’s my fault.” He was ready to accept defeat. And then the next play came, and everything changed.
Butler couldn’t wait to verify the throw. He had to trust what he’d been given and act before he could see the result. That’s exactly what faith looks like—and it’s exactly what the royal official did when he started walking home on nothing but Jesus’ word.
John sets this story carefully. He tells us Jesus returned to Cana—the same village where he turned water into wine. That first sign happened at a party, surrounded by witnesses, with visible proof anyone could taste. This second sign will be completely different. No crowd. No spectacle. Just a word spoken across twenty miles of Galilean hills.
The royal official arrives desperate. His son is dying in Capernaum, and he’s traveled a full day to find Jesus. His request seems reasonable: “Come and heal my son.” He wants Jesus physically present. He wants to watch the healing happen. He wants proof he can see with his own eyes.
Jesus’ response sounds almost dismissive: “Unless you see miraculous signs and wonders, you won’t believe.” But Jesus isn’t rejecting the man—he’s surfacing the deeper question. What kind of faith does this father actually have? Does he trust Jesus, or does he trust only what he can verify?
The decision point comes in verse 50. Jesus offers only words: “Go home. Your son lives.” No journey to Capernaum. No bedside healing. No evidence. The official must choose: demand that Jesus come with him, or trust a promise he cannot confirm.
John’s next sentence changes everything: “The man believed the word that Jesus spoke to him and set out for his home.” The Greek verb for “believed” here describes a decisive, completed action. This isn’t gradual warming to an idea. It’s a turning point. A commitment.
His twenty-mile walk home becomes a physical embodiment of faith. Every step away from Jesus is a step toward trust. He’s walking in darkness, believing in light he cannot yet see.
John Wesley would recognize this official’s journey. Wesley spent years pursuing God through religious duty—methodical prayer, disciplined service, missionary zeal—yet something remained incomplete. He could check every box of faithful practice and still feel the gap between knowing about God and actually trusting God with his life.
At Aldersgate Street in 1738, Wesley finally stopped demanding proof and received assurance. His heart was “strangely warmed,” not because the facts changed, but because he trusted what God had already done. The official made the same discovery: faith isn’t about doing enough to earn God’s response. It’s about trusting a response already given.
That same invitation meets us today. The royal official’s story isn’t ancient history locked behind museum glass. It’s a living invitation that finds each of us exactly where we are.
Some of you are standing at the edge of faith for the first time. You’ve attended church, maybe for years. You know the stories. But somewhere along the way, you realized there’s a difference between knowing about Jesus and actually trusting him with your life. The official didn’t just believe Jesus existed—he staked his son’s life on Jesus’ word. If that’s you today, know that your curiosity brought you here for a reason. The twenty-mile journey begins with a single step of trust.
Others of you trusted God once, deeply, and then life happened. Prayers went unanswered. Tragedy struck. The distance between you and God grew until it felt like twenty miles of silence. Here’s what this story whispers to you: the road home is still open. God’s word still travels across distance, and God has been walking toward you the whole time you thought you were walking away.
And some of you are faithful, committed Christians who sense God asking for something more. There’s one area of your life you’ve kept protected—maybe it’s your calendar, packed so tight there’s no room for God to interrupt. Maybe it’s your finances, your grudges, your carefully guarded dreams. Jesus is saying to you what he said to the official: “Trust me with that too. Walk toward home without knowing how it will turn out.”
Whatever your twenty-mile journey looks like, what happens next in the story changes everything.
The good news is that God’s word was already healing the boy before the father believed it. Read the timeline carefully. The servants meet the official on his way home and report that the fever broke “yesterday at about one in the afternoon”—the exact hour Jesus spoke. The healing didn’t wait for the father’s faith to mature. It didn’t require his belief to activate it. It happened the moment Jesus said the word.
This is what Wesley called prevenient grace: God working before we’re even aware of it. The father’s decision to trust didn’t create the healing—it positioned him to receive news of what God had already done. His faith didn’t earn the miracle; his faith walked toward it.
That reframes everything. We’re not trying to generate enough belief to make God act. We’re trusting a God who is already acting, already healing, already at work in ways we haven’t yet discovered. Your twenty-mile walk home isn’t a test to see if you can muster enough faith. It’s a journey toward discovering what God has already accomplished.
As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness.
This week, we focus on gifts—supporting God’s work with our financial resources as an act of worship and trust—because this official’s story shows us what it means to release something precious into God’s care before we can see the outcome. Financial commitment is its own twenty-mile journey. We’re releasing what we can see into God’s purposes we cannot yet verify.
Some of you received something in the mail this week about Commitment Sunday. Next Sunday, we’ll gather our estimates of giving for 2026—our opportunity to trust God with our resources the way the official trusted God with his son.
Nicole and I will be turning in our commitment card right alongside you. Our commitment is $12,000 for the year. Our approach is to tithe—give ten percent of our take-home pay—and then increase it slightly each year as an act of growing trust. We’re not asking you to do something we’re unwilling to do ourselves. Next Sunday, we’ll all walk the same twenty-mile journey together—releasing what we can see into God’s purposes we cannot yet verify.
This week, prayerfully consider what God is inviting you to give. Bring your commitment card next Sunday, when we’ll dedicate them together.
We also focus on prayers—talking with God—because faith across distance requires ongoing conversation with the One we’re trusting. The royal official had to sustain his trust for twenty miles and an overnight journey. Prayer is how we walk toward home.
Start a “twenty-mile prayer.” Identify one situation where you’re waiting for God to act. Each morning, pray for that situation—not asking God to hurry, but declaring your trust that God is already at work. In your prayer time, physically open your hands as a gesture of release. Name what you’re giving to God’s care. Each evening, write one sentence about where you saw glimpses of God’s faithfulness that day.
Consider starting a small group during Lent for accountability, growth, and encouragement as you practice these commitments with others.
The royal official walked twenty miles trusting a word he couldn’t verify. His faith didn’t create the healing—but it carried him home to discover what God had already done. This is the invitation of “From Darkness to Light”: not to generate enough belief to make God act, but to trust that God’s word is already traveling ahead of us, bringing healing we haven’t yet seen.
Will you pray with me?
God of distant healing, strengthen our steps toward home. When we cannot see the evidence, help us trust your word. Walk with us through the darkness. Amen.
AI tools assisted with drafting and research for this sermon, working within a theological framework I developed for preaching at McPherson First UMC. Scripture selection, theological direction, and final content remain my pastoral responsibility.
Rev. Andrew Conard 