Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
June 7, 2026
  • There's Nothing That Our God Can't Do
  • Ancient Gates
  • Worthy Of Your Name

      • Proverbs 1:1-4CSB

      • Proverbs 1:5-7CSB

      • Proverbs 1:8-11CSB

      • Proverbs 1:12-16CSB

      • Proverbs 1:17-19CSB

  • I want to start this morning with a question that might feel a little uncomfortable.
    (brief pause)
    How many of you have made a decision in the last six months — a real decision, not what to have for lunch — and thought afterward: "I have no idea why I did that."
    (let it sit)
    Not a catastrophic decision, necessarily. Just a moment where you looked up and thought, "That wasn't where I meant to go. I'm not sure how I got here."
    (brief pause)
    Maybe it was a relationship. A financial choice. A habit that snuck up on you. A pattern you're only now starting to see.
    And the honest answer isn't that you were stupid. You're not. It's not that you lacked information. You've got a phone in your pocket with more information than any human being in history could access in a lifetime.
    The algorithm knows what you clicked on at 11pm. Your inbox knows what you're anxious about. Your feed knows what you envy. And all of them have an opinion about what a good life looks like.
    The problem was something else.
    (pause)
    This summer, we're going to spend nine weeks together in one of the oldest and most misunderstood books in the Bible. It's called Proverbs. And if you grew up in church, you probably think you know what it is — a collection of fortune-cookie sayings your grandmother had on a decorative plaque in her kitchen.
    (brief smile)
    "A cheerful heart is good medicine." Needlepoint. Wooden frame. Probably next to a rooster for some reason.
    But that's not what Proverbs is.
    Proverbs — especially these first nine chapters we're going to live in together — is a father's voice. It's urgent and personal. It's a father who has watched the world long enough to know how it works, and he is pulling his child close and saying: "Listen to me. I need to tell you something before you go out there."
    We're calling this series “Wisdom in the Wilderness.”
    Because that's where we live, isn't it? We live in a world that is loud, fast, distracted, and deeply confused about what a good life actually looks like. We are drowning in information and starving for wisdom. And in the middle of that wilderness, God has something to say.
    Not tips. Not life hacks.
    Wisdom.
    And this summer, friends, I want to invite you to sit with one question. It's not a complicated question. But if you'll let it follow you through these nine weeks — and honestly, beyond them — I think it will do more good in your life than almost anything else I could offer you from this pulpit.
    The question is simply this:

    What kind of person am I becoming?

    (brief pause)
    Not "what am I doing?" Not "what do I have?" Not even "what do I believe?"
    What kind of person am I becoming?
    Maybe you've felt it as a vague restlessness. You're working hard, building something, keeping up with everything you're supposed to keep up with — and underneath it there's a quiet voice asking whether any of it is actually forming you into someone worth becoming. That voice is not your enemy. That is the question this book is written to answer.
    And here is what nine weeks in Proverbs is going to show us: the voices you welcome shape the person you become.
    Because that is what Proverbs is really about. Not rules. Not advice. A person. The kind of person wisdom forms, and the kind of person foolishness destroys — slowly, quietly, one small decision at a time.
    And this morning, as we have opened these first nineteen verses together, I want to show you three things: what wisdom actually is, where it actually comes from, and what it actually refuses.
    Because those three things — if you let them — will change the direction of your life.
    The wilderness, for most of us, doesn't look like desert sand and scorching heat. It looks like a full calendar and an empty soul. It looks like a life moving fast in a direction you didn't entirely choose. That's the wilderness God meets us in. And that's exactly where this book begins.

    What Wisdom Actually Is

    Go back with me to how Solomon opens this book — Proverbs 1:1-7.
    He tells us immediately what he's doing and why. This book exists for learning wisdom and discipline — for understanding, for receiving prudent instruction in righteousness, justice, and integrity. For teaching shrewdness to the inexperienced.
    But before we go further, I need to deal with something.
    Because the word "wisdom" is one of those words that has been so overused it has lost almost all of its meaning.
    We call investment bankers wise. We call grandmothers wise. We call coaches wise. We put "words of wisdom" in graduation cards right next to "follow your dreams" and a picture of a mountain.
    (brief smile)
    We've also turned wisdom into a product. There are wisdom podcasts, wisdom journals, wisdom apps. There's probably a wisdom supplement you can buy. Magnesium and ancient wisdom, taken nightly.
    And in the middle of all of that noise, Solomon sits down and writes a book.
    Now return to that last phrase from Scripture — "the inexperienced" — is worth pausing on.
    The Hebrew word there is peti. It means someone who is open. Naive, in the literal sense — not stupid, just unformed. Someone whose character and judgment are still being shaped. Someone standing at the beginning of their adult life, with the doors of the world swinging open in front of them.
    If you're in your twenties, Solomon is writing to you. If you've got kids in their twenties, Solomon is writing to them.
    And what Solomon wants for them — for you — is not more information. It's wisdom. And wisdom, in the biblical sense, is knowing how to live. It is skill for life. It is the capacity to navigate the real world with discernment, integrity, and clarity.
    But here is the part that stops most people cold.
    Proverbs 1:7 CSB
    The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge
    Other translations will say “the beginning of wisdom.” But it’s not the middle of wisdom. Not a component of wisdom.
    The beginning.
    Which means if this is wrong — if you miss this — nothing else builds correctly. The whole structure rests on this foundation.
    And I need to tell you what "the fear of the Lord" is not — because most people, when they hear that phrase, picture something like a thunderstorm deity waiting to catch them doing something wrong.
    That's not what Solomon means.
    The fear of the Lord is not terror. It is reverence. It is the posture of a person who has understood something true about who God is — that he is holy, that he is good, that he is wise, that he is true — and who has organized their life accordingly.
    Let me try to put it this way.
    You know that feeling when you walk into a room and the temperature just changes? There's someone there — not necessarily loud, not necessarily imposing — but there's a weight to their presence. A gravity. And you instinctively adjust. Not out of fear, exactly. Out of recognition.
    Some of you have felt a version of this without ever calling it that. You've stood outside on a clear West Texas night — nothing between you and the horizon, stars from one edge of the sky to the other — and something in you went quiet. Not scared. Just small. And strangely okay with being small. That instinct is not random. That is something God wired into you. It is the beginning of something he wants to grow.
    The fear of the Lord is that — infinitely multiplied. It is the soul recognizing who God actually is and saying: "I am not the center of this universe. He is. And everything in my life — every decision, every relationship, every ambition — needs to be organized around that reality."
    That is the beginning of wisdom.
    And here's why that matters so much in a place like Midland right now.
    We are a culture of self-made people. We respect hustle. We admire independence. We've been told since we were children that we can be anything, do anything, build anything — if we just work hard enough and want it badly enough.
    And none of that is entirely wrong. Hard work is good. Ambition can be healthy.
    But underneath all of it, there is a worldview. And the worldview says: You are the center. Your judgment is the measure. Your instincts can be trusted.
    And Solomon looks at that worldview and says: that is not the beginning of wisdom. That is the beginning of foolishness.
    (brief pause)
    I want to give you a picture of this that you've probably experienced.
    Have you ever seen a restaurant advertised as "the world's best"?
    (brief smile)
    World's best burger. World's best barbecue. World's best tacos. I have eaten at several establishments that have made this claim. And I want to report to you that the world's best taco has, in fact, never been located inside a gas station off the interstate, despite what the sign says.
    There is always a gap between the promise and the reality.
    And that's exactly what happens when we approach life with ourselves at the center. The promise is total: "Trust yourself. Follow your instincts. You've got this." But the reality is a life that feels like it's running — working, achieving, moving — without ever quite arriving anywhere meaningful.
    Solomon says: wisdom doesn't start with you. It starts with God.
    And that changes everything.

    Where Wisdom Actually Comes From

    Now look back at Proverbs 1:8-9 — the father-and-mother instruction passage.
    At first glance, this might seem like a brief pivot — a simple "listen to your parents" moment before we get to the real action.
    But don't rush past it.
    Because what Solomon is establishing here is something deeply countercultural, then and now: wisdom is not self-generated. It is received.
    The picture here is a young man who has not yet learned what he needs to know about the world. And the source of wisdom for him is not his own instincts. It's not his peer group. It's not the algorithm. It's not whatever is loudest.
    It is a voice he has to choose to receive.
    A father's instruction. A mother's teaching.
    The language of "garland" and "pendant" is worth noticing. These aren't burden images — a chain around your neck, a weight on your head. These are honor images. In the ancient world, garlands and pendants were worn at celebrations. They were marks of dignity.
    Solomon is saying: the wisdom you receive — the truth passed down to you, the instruction you didn't have to generate yourself — is not a limitation on your freedom. It is an adornment. It makes you more, not less.
    And in a generation that has been told that received wisdom is suspect — that the truest version of yourself is the one you construct entirely on your own terms — this lands like a quiet challenge.
    You were not designed to figure this out alone.
    You were designed to receive.
    From God, yes — ultimately and foundationally. But also from the people he has placed in your life. From Scripture. From the community of faith. From the wisdom of those who have walked further down the road than you have.
    (brief pause)
    There is a particular kind of loneliness that lives in people who have decided they only trust themselves.
    I've seen it in Midland. Someone who has built something real — a career, a reputation, a life that looks solid from the outside — but who has never learned to receive. Never learned to say "I don't know" to someone older and wiser. Never learned to let another person's voice correct the direction they were heading. And after a while, the weight of carrying every decision alone — every judgment call, every uncertain moment, every crossroads — starts to show. Not in their work. In their eyes.
    It looks like confidence from the outside. But up close, it is exhausting.
    Wisdom, Solomon says, begins with the fear of the Lord. And it grows through receiving instruction rather than only trusting yourself.
    That is not weakness.
    That is the garland. That is the pendant.
    That is grace worn visibly.

    What Wisdom Actually Refuses

    Now come back to the section where the temperature drops — Proverbs 1:10-19
    Let me be honest with you for a moment.
    When you read those words — in Midland, Texas, in 2026 — you might be tempted to think: "Okay, that's a bit dramatic. I don't think I'm going to get invited into an ambush this afternoon."
    (brief smile)
    And you're probably right. The specific scenario — the gang, the violence, the plunder — is vivid and extreme. Solomon paints it in bold colors on purpose.
    But don't let the dramatic imagery make you think this doesn't apply to you. Because what Solomon is actually describing is not just violent men in a dark alley.
    He is describing the anatomy of enticement. Look at how it works.

    First, there is an invitation.

    Come with us. It's relational. It's warm. It's inclusive. There's a "we" in it, and "we" is one of the most powerful words in the human vocabulary — especially when you're young and still figuring out where you belong.

    Second, there is a promise.

    We'll find valuable property. We'll share the loot. The promise is always concrete. Always appealing. Always aimed at something you actually want — security, belonging, status, pleasure, relief.

    Third, there is a reframing of cost.

    Notice what the invitation never mentions: what this path will actually cost you. The father has to supply that information. Because the companions never will.
    Here is what I want you to see clearly: enticement doesn't work through your intellect first. It works through your emotions. It finds the hunger — the loneliness, the anxiety, the exhaustion of feeling unproven — and it offers relief. The young man in this passage isn't thinking his way toward destruction. He is feeling his way there. And that is precisely why wisdom must be formed at the level of the heart, not just the mind.
    And the father's verdict is devastating: They set an ambush to kill themselves. They attack their own lives.
    The companions don't know it yet. They think they've found the smart path, the fast path, the path that bypasses all the slow careful work of wisdom. But they are walking — step by reasonable step — toward their own destruction.
    (brief pause)
    I've been doing ministry long enough to have watched this happen.
    Not with gangs. Not with violence.
    With students.
    I've sat across from young men and women who left home for college, or left college for a career, or left a small town for a city — and in the middle of that transition season, they did something very human and very dangerous.
    They needed to belong somewhere. And belonging, when you're new and uncertain and still figuring out who you are, can feel more urgent than almost anything else.
    So they found their people. And to keep their people, they made small adjustments. Not dramatic ones. Nobody woke up one morning and said, "I'm going to walk away from everything I believe today."
    It started with a small silence. A conversation they didn't correct. A boundary they moved just slightly. A habit they picked up because everyone around them had it.
    And then another adjustment. And another.
    And after a while, they looked up and didn't recognize the person they'd become.
    Not because they were stupid. Not because they were bad. Because they accepted an invitation that promised them belonging without telling them what it would cost.
    That is Proverbs 1. In real life. In your generation.
    And I want you to hear the Father's voice right now, not as a lecture, but as the thing it actually is: urgent love.
    Don't travel that road with them. Don't set foot on their path.
    Not because you're better than them. Not because you're too good for certain people. But because the path they're on — the path that promises quick belonging, quick gain, quick relief from the discomfort of being unformed — leads somewhere they cannot yet see.
    (brief pause)
    And here is the question I want to press into that moment — the moment right before the small adjustment, right before the quiet silence, right before the next step down the wrong road:

    What kind of person am I becoming?

    Because that young man in Proverbs 1 never asked it. And that is partly why he ended up where he did. Not because he was swept away suddenly. Because he never stopped to look at the direction his small choices were forming him.
    (brief pause)
    Solomon ends this section with a striking image. He says: it is useless to spread a net where any bird can see it.
    In other words — the trap is visible, if you're paying attention.
    The problem is not that the trap is hidden. The problem is that the bird is distracted. The problem is that we are so focused on what's being offered — the warmth of belonging, the promise of enough, the relief of fitting in — that we do not see where the path actually goes.
    Wisdom sees the net.
    Wisdom, rooted in the fear of the Lord, trained by received instruction, practiced in discernment — wisdom looks at the invitation and says: "I see what you're offering. I also see what you're not telling me."
    And wisdom refuses.

    Invitation

    I want to close with something I need you to carry with you out of this room.
    Everything we've talked about this morning — the fear of the Lord, received wisdom, refusing the wrong paths — is real and it is important. But I need to tell you where it ultimately points.
    Because if Proverbs is just a self-improvement manual — if the message this morning is simply "make better choices, trust God more, be wiser" — then we have missed the deepest thing.
    The New Testament makes an audacious claim about wisdom.
    In 1 Corinthians 1, the apostle Paul writes that Jesus Christ has become for us wisdom from God.
    1 Corinthians 1:30 CSB
    … Christ Jesus, who became wisdom from God for us …
    Not a wise teacher. Not a good example of wise living.
    Wisdom from God.
    Everything Proverbs is calling us toward — this rooted, discerning, fear-of-the-Lord life — finds its fulfillment not in our improved decision-making, but in a Person.
    Jesus is the wisdom we could not generate on our own.
    He is the one who knew exactly what every path cost — who saw every net spread in the dust — and walked willingly into the one that would cost him everything. Not because he was deceived. Because he loved.
    And in doing so, he secured for us something that no wisdom of our own could ever earn: a right relationship with the God whose fear is the beginning of all wisdom.
    Which means wisdom, for us, does not begin with trying harder.
    It begins with Jesus.
    If you've never thought of Jesus that way — not as a religious figure or a moral example, but as the wisdom you've actually been looking for — that's exactly what this summer is going to show you. You don't have to have it figured out to take the next step. You just have to be willing to listen.
    (brief pause)
    So here is where I want to land this morning, friends.
    Some of you walked in here today carrying a quiet disorientation. Something feels off and you can't quite name it. The path you're on is busy and you're not sure it's going anywhere meaningful.
    Some of you are in the middle of a transition — new city, new job, new relationships — and you are feeling the pull of belonging more acutely than you've felt it in years. And some of the invitations coming your way are warm and appealing and they are not telling you what they cost.
    And some of you are further down a road than you meant to go. And you're not even sure how you got there.
    The father's voice in Proverbs is urgent. But it is not condemning.
    It is calling.
    And behind that father's voice is the voice of the one who is himself the wisdom of God — calling weary, disoriented, searching people to something real.
    Not to information. Not to self-improvement.
    To himself — the one in whom the fear of the Lord and the love of God finally meet.
    (brief pause)
    The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.
    And Jesus Christ — crucified, risen, and reigning — is the one in whom we see, most clearly, who the Lord actually is.
    Start there.
    Everything else follows.
    (pause)
    And here is the bottom line I want you to carry out of this room today:

    You can’t follow crowds into wisdom.

    That's not a condemnation. It's a compass.
    Amen.

      • Proverbs 1:7CSB

      • 1 Corinthians 1:30CSB

Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
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