The Thrill of Hope #1
Hope for People with a Past
Dr. Marty Baker / December 7, 2025 / Matthew 1
Welcome to Stevens Creek Church. We are so glad that you are here. I want to welcome our campuses: Grovetown, North Augusta, South Campus, Atrium and those of you watching online.
Today, we are starting a brand-new Christmas series called: The Thrill of Hope. Christmas can feel busy and complicated, but at its heart, it’s a season of hope. Our world is weary — and Jesus came right into the middle of it to bring real hope. That’s the heartbeat of this series.
I like to start with something funny.
Did you hear about the little boy who wanted a new bicycle for Christmas?
He told his mama, “I’m gonna write Santa and tell him what I want.” She said, “Go ahead.” But as he thought about it, he changed his mind. He told his mother, “I think I’m gonna write the baby Jesus instead.”
So he sat down and wrote: “Dear Jesus, I have been very good this year. Please bring me a bike.”
He read it and said, “Now… Jesus knows better than that.”
Second try: “Dear Jesus, I’ve been good most of the time…” Nope.
Third try: “Dear Jesus, I could be a good boy… especially if I had a bike.” Still didn’t believe it.
So he went for a walk. Passed a neighbor’s Nativity scene, saw the statue of Mary, looked around… grabbed it and ran home… hid it under his bed. Then, he wrote:
“Dear Jesus, If You ever want to see Your mama again… You better send me that bike.”
I know some of you are making a list and checking it twice. And even with all the stress of the season, Christmas still pulls you back to simpler days.
When I was a kid, we had a family tradition of going to my grandparents’ house on Christmas Day. It was one of the longest trips we’d take all year—a whole two and a half hours.
This was before phones, tablets, or anything to keep you entertained. No streaming, no playlists… just AM radio fading in and out as we drove through every little town between Abbeville and Winnsboro.
But when we finally pulled up, it was worth it every time. My grandparents had nine children — my dad was the oldest — and the youngest was my age. Cousins everywhere, laughter in every room, food on every table… and my granddaddy quietly sat right in the middle of it all.
He was a big man. He was steady. He worked hard in the cotton mill. A lint head. He was a man of faith who taught Sunday School every week in the basement of the Winnsboro Church of God.
As I got older, I became interested in our family history. I asked questions but the answers were vague. After my granddaddy passed, I asked my grandmother about his story. She said, “Your granddaddy got saved after we were married, and his life was never the same.” And that was it.
A couple of years later, someone said, “Uncle John died.” I said, “What? Who’s Uncle John?” I have never heard of him before. It turns out he was my granddaddy’s brother, but nobody ever talked about him. Apparently, he and my granddaddy had a falling out and after that, it was like he never existed.
You know almost every family has something like that. A name we skip. A decision we avoid. A story we’d rather not mention.
And that’s exactly why I love how Matthew begins the Christmas story.
Before the manger… before the angels… before the shepherds… Matthew starts with a long, messy, complicated list of names—a family tree filled with imperfect people. People with a past.
Most of us read Luke’s Christmas story—the manger, the star, shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night.
But Matthew takes a different angle. He wants his readers to see the big picture—that what God was doing through Jesus wasn’t just another event in history. It was the moment that changed history.
And Matthew understands this personally. He was a tax collector—despised by his own people, shut out of the Temple, treated like he didn’t belong anywhere.
But Jesus saw him. Jesus called him by name… and everything changed.
The man nobody wanted ended up with a front-row seat to the life and ministry of Jesus Christ. He wrote the first book of the New Testament.
When Matthew started writing the story of Jesus, he began with the genealogy. In the ancient world, genealogies were reserved for kings. Ordinary people didn’t have them.
So the fact that we even have the family line of a carpenter from Nazareth tells us something — Jesus was no ordinary man. His story carries royal significance.
Now, in every family, there are names we highlight… and names we quietly avoid. Maybe you’ve got one too… Cousin Eddie… the relative everyone loves but nobody brags about at the reunion.
In ancient genealogies, kings did the same thing. They edited out the criminals, the scandals, the stories that made the family look bad. But Matthew doesn’t edit anything.
He highlights it. And here’s why:
Jesus comes from a long line of people with a past.
And once Matthew makes that point, he does something no Jewish writer ever did — he breaks every rule.
In Jewish genealogies, you never listed women.
And if you did, it was only to honor the matriarchs — Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Leah.
But Matthew doesn’t list the matriarchs. He lists the outsiders. The scandal stories. The names everyone tried to forget: Tamar. Rahab. Ruth. Bathsheba.
And not only were their stories messy — every single one of them was a Gentile. Matthew is preaching the gospel before Jesus even takes His first breath:
• Jesus came to redeem the nations.
• Jesus came for outsiders.
• Jesus came for sinners.
With that in mind, now the genealogy makes sense.
With that in mind, we pick up the story in Matthew 1.
Matthew 1:1-3
1 A record of the genealogy of Jesus Christ the son of David, the son of Abraham:
2 Abraham was the father of Isaac, Isaac the father of Jacob, Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers,
3 Judah the father of Perez and Zerah, whose mother was Tamar,
Now hold on just a minute, Matthew.
Tamar? Why would you bring her up?
Nobody in the ancient world mentioned the mother’s name in a genealogy—especially not this one.
Tamar’s story is the kind you usually skip over in church. But Matthew puts her right on the page. It’s like he’s saying, “Hey, remember Tamar?”
And the whole Jewish audience is thinking, “Yes… but why bring her up?” Matthew’s answer is simple:
“Because the Messiah is related to Tamar.”
And Tamar’s story isn’t just messy—it’s one of the darkest chapters in the Old Testament. Judah treated her unjustly. He made promises he didn’t keep. He failed to protect her.
And Tamar didn’t just accept it. She took bold steps to confront the wrong that had been done. Her story is complicated, painful, and raw.
So why include her? Because Matthew wants us to see this: The Messiah came through broken people… through unjust people… through stories we would rather skip.
Matthew 1:3-5
3b Perez the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram,
4 Ram the father of Amminadab, Amminadab the father of Nahshon, Nahshon the father of Salmon,
5 Salmon the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab,
Rahab … why did you bring her up Matthew? You know her story. She even had a nickname. Do you remember it? Yeah… Rahab the prostitute. Not Rahab the prayer warrior. Not Rahab the woman of virtue. Rahab the prostitute.
And on top of that, she wasn’t Jewish. She was a Canaanite. In that culture, she didn’t belong anywhere near a royal family tree. She’s the kind of name you edit out, not highlight.
But Matthew puts her right there. It’s like he’s saying, “Hey, remember Rahab?” And the crowd is thinking, “Yes, Matthew… let’s just move on.”
But Matthew won’t move on. “Rahab stays,” he says.
Why? Because he wants us to see this: These are the kinds of people God includes—the ones others would leave out.
The ones nobody else would claim—but God says, ‘She’s part of My story.’”
Matthew 1:5-6
5b Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth, Obed the father of Jesse,
6 and Jesse the father of King David. David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah's wife,
Now of course everyone knew the Messiah would come through David. That wasn’t the surprise.
But Matthew doesn’t just say, “David was the father of Solomon,” and move on. He adds, “David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife.”
And the whole room goes quiet, because everybody knew what that meant. Bathsheba.
Matthew doesn’t even say her name — just a quiet reminder of David’s darkest chapter. It’s like he’s saying, “You remember that story? Yeah… that one.”
And of all David’s wives, of all his children, God chose that story — the one marked by failure — to carry the family line of Jesus.
Why? Because Matthew wants us to see that even in the darkest parts of our story, God is still working redemption. God puts these names in the genealogy to show us something:
People with a past can be forgiven. People with a past can get a second chance.
That’s the message of Christmas. God didn’t send His Son into a world that had it all together. He sent Him into a broken, confused world that desperately needed a Savior.
The world didn’t need another chance. It didn’t need another lesson. It needed a Savior. Sinners need a Savior.
Matthew isn’t just giving us history — he’s giving us hope. He’s saying, “This is who Jesus came through… because this is who Jesus came for.”
It’s like a spiritual DNA test. Today, people buy DNA-testing kits to learn where they come from. You spit in a tube, send it off, and in a few weeks you get a chart telling you who your people are.
And sometimes… you see things you didn’t expect.
Names you don’t recognize. Stories that are complicated. Parts of the tree you didn’t know were there.
And Matthew is saying, “Before you meet Jesus in the manger, look at the family He chose to come through.”
It’s not a perfect story — it’s a redeemed one.
And here’s the turn: If Jesus came through a family with a past, then Jesus can redeem a person with a past.
That’s where this meets every one of us.
Because if we’re honest, everyone here has a past. Something you regret. Something you wish you could rewrite. Something you stopped talking about.
Too often we use our past as an excuse:
• “This is just who I am.”
• “This is just how I cope.”
• “This is how I was raised.”
Your past may shape you, but it does not disqualify you. Jesus already carried it to the cross.
The message of Christmas is this: you can be forgiven, you can be free, and you can get past your past.
And I believe we get past our past by doing three things…
How to Get Past Your Past
1. Stop running from God.
Let me say this as gently as I can:
you can’t move forward while you’re still running away.
From the very beginning of the Bible, people have been running.
• Adam and Eve hid in the garden.
• Jonah ran in the opposite direction.
• Peter ran after he denied Jesus.
But in every one of those stories, God came looking for them. He didn’t come storming in with judgment. He came with questions like, “Where are you?”
Not because He needed the information—He wanted the relationship. Maybe you’ve been running too.
Not with your feet… but with your heart.
• Running from a conversation you need to have.
• Running from a mistake you don’t want to face.
• Running from God because you think He’s disappointed in you.
And here’s what I want you to hear today—if we were sitting at your kitchen table, coffee in hand—I’d look you in the eye and tell you:
You don’t have to run anymore. God is not hunting you down to punish you. He is pursuing you to heal you.
Psalm 139:7 says,
“Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence?”
In other words, “You can run… but you’ll never outrun God’s love.” At some point, you just have to stop. Turn around. Let Him catch you.
The same God who called Rahab out of her past…
the same God who wrote redemption into Tamar’s story…
is calling you out of yours.
He’s not reaching for you to condemn you—He’s reaching for you to bring you home.
2. Stop excusing your past.
Let me say this with kindness — as long as you make excuses for your past, you stay tied to it.
We all do it. We soften the story. We explain things away.
We say things like:
• “It’s not that big of a deal.”
• “I’ve already moved on.”
• “Other people have done worse.”
But excuses don’t heal anything.
They just protect the very thing God is trying to redeem.
It’s like having a broken bone and refusing to admit it’s broken. You can ice it. You can wrap it. You can pretend it’s “not that bad.” But it won’t heal until you let someone look at it.
That’s what confession is. It’s finally letting God touch the thing you’ve been trying to manage on your own.
When David sinned with Bathsheba, he did what we all do — he tried to hide it, spin it, and pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was. But then Nathan looked him straight in the eye and said, “You are the man.”
Nathan wasn’t trying to shame him. He was trying to free him. Because confession isn’t humiliation — it’s liberation. It’s the moment the weight comes off and grace can finally do its work.
Proverbs 28:13 says,
Whoever conceals their sin does not prosper,
but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy.
If we were sitting across from one another, I’d tell you:
Your past can be your excuse or your testimony — but it can’t be both.
3. Start trusting Jesus as your Savior.
Not just as your “Sunday option.”
Not just as your backup plan.
Not just as someone you call when life falls apart.
Trust Him as your Savior.
Your Redeemer. The One who steps into the mess and does what you cannot do.
John 3:17 says,
God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him.
That’s Christmas. Not “try harder.” Not “clean yourself up.”
Not “prove you’re worth saving.”
Christmas is God saying,
“I know your story… and I’m coming anyway.”
If we were talking one-on-one, I’d tell you:
• Just trust Him.
• Trust that His grace really is enough.
• Trust that His blood really does cover everything.
• Trust that your story — even the complicated parts — can still be redeemed.
And for some of you, this is that moment.
This is your turn-around moment. Not next week. Not someday when life settles down.
Paul said in
2 Corinthians 6:2
…Today is the day of salvation.
So here’s my invitation:
• Stop running.
• Stop excusing.
• Start trusting.
This is the moment to come home.
Stevens Creek Story
Let me close with a story from right here at the Creek.
It was February of 1988. Our church was only a few weeks old. We had moved from a borrowed living room into a little hotel conference room on Washington Road.
There weren’t many of us — just a handful of people and a whole lot of faith. Around that same time, a man named G.A. Malone had walked out on his marriage. He left his wife, Faye, packed up his things, and moved to Charleston to start over.
He took a job at a car dealership and tried to build a new life. One afternoon, he was out on a test drive with a customer — just a normal day, doing his job — when the man behind the wheel pulled over, looked at him, and said:
“G.A., I’m not here to buy a car. God sent me here to tell you to repent and go back to your wife.”
No sales pitch. No small talk. Just a divine appointment.
That weekend — Valentine’s Day, 1988 — G.A. got in his car and drove back to Augusta. Faye invited him to church. And in that little hotel conference room, with a church just a few weeks old and less than 50 people in the room, G.A. gave his life to Jesus Christ.
That day, God restored his marriage. He broke the chains of alcohol. He set him on a brand-new path.
G.A. was the second person ever saved at Stevens Creek Church.
And here’s what he discovered — the same thing Tamar discovered… and Rahab… and Ruth… and Bathsheba:
Grace. The power of God to do what you cannot do for yourself.
Some of you today feel a lot like G.A. did. Too broken.
Too far gone. Too lost to find your way back. But hear me — God brought you here today on purpose. Not to shame you. Not to punish you.
To show you that His grace is still enough.
You can’t heal yourself.
You can’t save yourself.
But Jesus can.
If He could redeem Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and G.A. Malone — He can redeem you.
If He could use their stories to bring Jesus into the world — He can use your story to bring hope into someone else’s world.
You can be forgiven. You can be free. You can move past your past.
So don’t wait another day. Right where you sit, there’s hope for you. Just open your heart and whisper:
“Jesus, I need You. I trust You. Forgive me. Make me new.”
Because when you do — that’s the moment your story changes forever.
Closing Thoughts and Prayer
