Sermons

Summary: God still speaks within every culture’s understanding, restoring forgotten truth and inviting each generation to move from knowledge to personal encounter.

(THE GOD WHO SPEAKS OUR LANGUAGE)

Opening Scene — Susa, Iran

The ruins of the ancient palace lay scattered across the valley floor at Susa — low mounds of sunbaked earth and broken brick, the faint tracing of walls and courtyards that once belonged to Darius’s royal residence.

You could still see pieces of glazed tile and bits of carved stone half-buried in the dust, quiet witnesses to the grandeur that had stood here twenty-five centuries ago.

Beyond the ruins, the land dipped toward the river, and there, gleaming softly in the light, stood the maqbarah — the Tomb of Daniel. Its tall conical dome rose above the rooftops of Shush, marking the resting place of the prophet who had once served in this very court. Pilgrims came and went, circling the silver lattice that enclosed his tomb, touching the bars reverently, hoping that some trace of holiness might linger still.

I was twenty then — a rambling hippie with a knapsack and no itinerary, wandering through Iran with more questions than answers. The air smelled of dust, cumin, and candle wax.

I didn’t yet grasp the sweep of history beneath my feet — Babylon’s exile, Persia’s rise,

Daniel’s visions of kingdoms yet to come. But standing there amid the ruins, I felt something ancient and alive: the strange endurance of faith. Empires had fallen into rubble, yet the whisper of prayer remained.

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Remembering the Prophet

My mind began to remember the great prophet of God, Daniel. Watching the faithful wash their hands and faces in the courtyard, I thought of his steadfast courage in the courts of Babylon and Persia.

Around me, men moved through their ablutions, bowing low, touching their foreheads to the stone, whispering prayers that rose like heat in the still air.

Their devotion was sincere, yet I couldn’t help but think of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego — those young Hebrews who once stood tall before the king’s command, refusing to bend a knee to any image of man or empire.

How strange, I thought, that in this same land of ancient fire altars and golden idols, faith had survived — sometimes kneeling, sometimes standing. Here, holiness was touched through silver bars; there, it was known through flame and trial.

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Persia and the Ancient Flame

Zoroastrianism had already been born in this soil long before Daniel’s captivity. Its prophet, Zoroaster, had proclaimed one supreme God — Ahura Mazda — Lord of light and truth. Fire, to them, was not a god but a symbol of His purity. Temples kept sacred flames burning continually, reminders that the divine presence was both holy and near.

But centuries dull even the brightest flame. What began as monotheism slowly turned into ritual and superstition — the living faith ossified into ceremony. So when Daniel entered Persia, he did not bring a new idea of God; he brought a living witness to the God they had long forgotten. He stood as a voice of remembrance, not innovation.

Daniel’s courage was not simply defiance; it was testimony. He lived as if to say, “This is who the world once knew God to be.”

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A World of Spoken Memory

The ancient world was not spiritually barren; it was full of memory.

Only a few centuries had passed since the flood. The stories of Noah and his sons were still alive in campfire recitations and tribal myths. Every people group carried fragments of that divine encounter — Mesopotamians told of a boat and a deluge, Egyptians of judgment and the afterlife, Persians of light battling darkness. The world hadn’t forgotten God out of ignorance; it had remembered Him imperfectly.

> “We look back and see ignorance. God looked down and saw rebellion. These were not people groping in the dark for a God they’d never known — they were people turning from a God their fathers had walked with.”

That’s the landscape Daniel entered: a civilization brilliant in knowledge yet dim in remembrance, sophisticated yet spiritually estranged.

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Daniel’s Witness Amid Forgotten Light

By the time Daniel stood before Darius and Cyrus, the Persian world had long known of one Creator but had blurred His image through centuries of cultural drift. Daniel’s presence was not the arrival of new light but the rekindling of forgotten light.

He spoke truth into a civilization that had known too much and remembered too little. Through his life, dreams, and integrity, God whispered again to the conscience of an empire: “You once knew Me. Remember.”

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When Reverence Loses Its Way

As I stood in Susa that day, I watched the faithful circling Daniel’s tomb. They were reverent, sincere, even tender in their devotion — but it struck me that they were worshiping the messenger.

The silver cage glittered with candles and prayer beads, yet the God Daniel served had never asked for bars or incense. Daniel would have been deeply grieved to see such veneration.

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