The Apostles Creed

Picture it.

Ashes smeared across your forehead. 

Your shoes coated with the fine, red dust of a Georgia road. 

Your soul, maybe, a little dusty too—tired, scuffed, scarred by loss and disappointment.

Human.

Lent doesn’t begin on some shining mountaintop. It begins in the dirt. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” 

Genesis 3:19 doesn’t pull any punches. It tells the truth. 

And Lent—bless its heart—is stubbornly truthful.

We are dust. 

Not just as a reminder of death, though that’s there too, but as a reminder of earthiness. Tangibility. Materiality. 

We are not ghosts floating through some spiritual mist. We are human beings. 

We eat. We sleep. We ache. 

We laugh until we cry. 

And we believe with cracked lips, not polished ones.

“I believe…”—that’s how the Creed starts. 

But if you’re expecting a sterile, intellectual statement of doctrine, you’ll miss the point. 

The Creed isn’t just a Sunday recitation. It’s a path. A well-worn trail. 

It is THE dusty road that all of us pilgrims walk together.

We believe with cracked lips, not polished ones.

The Apostles’ Creed is older than our hymnals and smarter than our sermons. And it doesn’t waste words.

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth.”

That’s where the trail starts. Creation. Life given. Breath received.

“I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord…”

Now the road winds through suffering, down into the valley of crucifixion, and back up into resurrection.

“I believe in the Holy Spirit…”

The path continues, joined by the communion of saints—those who walk behind us, beside us, before us.

And let’s be honest: we don’t always recite it like we’re ready to storm the gates of Hell.

Sometimes we whisper it. Sometimes we say it through tears.

Sometimes we say it and wonder if we mean it.

But we say it... together.

Because the Creed is not just a personal statement of belief. It’s a communal act of defiance. 

The Creed is a flag planted in enemy territory. A shared confession that says, “This is who we are. This is who God is. And we’re walking on.”

We believe these things because they are real, and being real they utterly define the road we walk, the things we encounter along the way, the destination…

The Creed even defines each one of us on that road.

Jesus didn’t say, “Take up your cross annually and follow Me.”

He said daily. (Luke 9:23)

That means the Christian life isn’t just a highlight reel of spiritual mountaintops. It’s the grind. 

It’s the slow, quiet, sweaty work of repentance and faith. 

Of forgiveness offered and forgiveness received. 

Of choosing love when bitterness would be easier.

That’s why Lent matters. 

It’s not about seasonal spirituality—it’s about remembering that the shape of our days is cruciform. That dying to sin and rising in Christ isn’t a one-time event but a daily rhythm. 

It’s a rhythm we’re terrible at keeping, if we’re being honest.

But that’s why we walk together. That’s why we need the Creed, not as a museum piece, but as a compass.

In a world that values hyper individuality and personalized expression, the Apostles Creed reminds us that underneath the makeup and blue jeans, we are all the same.

We are dust.

The road is dusty.

And the journey is exhausting for us all.

Ever tried hiking without water? Or an energy bar?

Probably not, else you might not be alive to read this!

The longer the hike, the more reliant you are on resources that you’ve packed… pouches of oatmeal, beef jerky, a fly rod and reel.

You have needs. 

Every so often, you take the heavy pack off, find a sun-baked stone to lean your back against, take in some resources… address your needs.

Worship is that rest stop in the wilderness.

Baptism: water for the thirsty.

The Lord’s Supper: food for the journey.

The liturgy: songs for the weary.

The Creed: a topographical map indicating where you’ve been and where you’re going.

Lent is certainly a “season” which slows us down enough to notice these gifts. 

We add an extra “rest stop” on Wednesday evenings.

It’s not easy - our journey is always busy with things, but Lent is there to remind us about the basics.

These aren’t distractions from the road. They are the road. 

Or better yet, the provision God has given for the road ahead.

The Sanctuary isn’t a holy escape room. It’s the oasis. The place where we hear again, “You are forgiven.” 

Our feet are washed, our souls fed, and our eyes lifted to see that we are not walking alone.

Let’s just not forget that what we experience as a “season” is, in fact, a microcosm of the entire Christian life - from baptism to eternity.

And make no mistake—this dusty road is going somewhere.

We don’t walk endlessly. We walk toward resurrection.

“The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.” 

That’s how the Creed ends. That’s the final marker on the trail. 

It doesn’t end in dust. It ends in life.

Lent teaches us to keep walking—even through death—because Christ has walked the road ahead of us. 

He went down into the dirt… into the grave itself, and He came out the other side, trailing resurrection light behind Him.

So we follow.

Cracked lips and calloused feet. 

Dry throats and daily crosses.

We walk.

Together.

Heavenly Father,

Maker of the heavens, the earth, and these dusty roads beneath our feet—

You formed us from the soil and breathed life into our lungs.

Teach us to walk humbly in the world You have made,

receiving each step as gift, each day as grace.

Lord Jesus Christ,

You walked this road before us—

crucified, dead, and buried for our sake.

You know the weight of sorrow, the ache of thirst,

the loneliness of the wilderness.

Yet You rose again to lead us onward.

Teach us to take up our cross and follow,

trusting that even suffering is not the end of the story.

Holy Spirit,

You gather the scattered, strengthen the weary,

and speak hope into cracked and trembling voices.

Bind us to the communion of saints,

renew us in the forgiveness of sins,

and lead us ever onward toward

the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.

This we believe.

This we walk.

Amen.