What They Carried
And what they carry still
What They Carried
Some truths are so plain in Scripture that it takes generations of debate to miss them.
Before the church had buildings, it had people.
Before it had denominations, seminaries, or theologians arguing with strangers at midnight, it had people.
Faithful people.
Among them stood two women you ought to know by name.
Phoebe carried the letter to the Romans.
Not a greeting card. Not a church bulletin.
Romans.
The theological Everest of the New Testament. The letter that has reordered the convictions of every honest generation that has ever read it.
Paul did not hand her a scroll and wish her luck. He handed her his life’s argument. He trusted her to carry it across the sea, to stand before the believers in Rome, to read it aloud, to answer their questions, to explain what it meant.
In a world where literacy was rare and the roads were dangerous, that trust was its own kind of ordination.
Paul called her a deacon. He called her a patron of the church.
Two titles. Both real. Both sitting there in the Greek, for anyone who cares to check.
Imagine the room.
The Christians of Rome hearing these words for the very first time:
“There is therefore now no condemnation.”
“We rejoice in hope.”
“Nothing shall separate us from the love of God.”
And the first human voice to carry those words into that room was the voice of a woman named Phoebe.
Then there was Mary Magdalene.
While fear locked the disciples behind doors, she walked toward the tomb before the sun was up.
Understand what she was walking toward. Grief had handed her a task. Anoint the body. Tend the dead. The lowest, saddest work in the whole house of mourning.
That is exactly where the risen Christ went looking first.
He did not appear first to Caesar. He did not appear first to the Sanhedrin. He did not appear first to Peter.
He appeared to Mary.
And then He placed in her hands the message that would split history in two:
“Go and tell them.”
The first sermon of the Resurrection was preached by a woman who had only come to mourn.
The church fathers would later call her Apostola Apostolorum.
The Apostle to the Apostles.
Say it slowly. It is a beautiful title, and she earned it before sunrise, while the others were still behind locked doors.
Phoebe carried the greatest letter. Mary carried the greatest news.
One proclaimed what Christ had accomplished. The other proclaimed that Christ was alive.
Neither asked permission from history. Neither waited for the culture to approve. Neither spent her life trying to win an argument.
They simply carried what God had placed in their hands.
Perhaps that is the whole lesson.
The Kingdom has never advanced because certain people were finally allowed to serve.
The Kingdom advances because faithful people refuse to wait for permission.
And here is the pattern, worn into every page of Scripture. Whenever God had something important to say, He seemed remarkably unconcerned about whether the messenger fit anyone’s expectations.
The empty tomb did not consult our traditions. The letter to Rome did not pause for our debates.
Truth simply kept moving.
So I will say the thing this is really about.
You will not always feel qualified. You will rarely feel ready. The world may never hand you its blessing.
Carry it anyway.
Carry what God has placed in your hands. The letter. The news. The small and thankless task at dawn that no one else wanted.
The Kingdom is still moving.
Sometimes on the feet of a woman walking toward a tomb. Sometimes in the hands of a woman carrying a letter. Always, and only, by the grace of God.
Boutwell Jones
Coming soon: redclaygospel.com
Red Clay Gospel The Holy Ordinary Volume One and Red Clay Gospel The Holy Ordinary Volume Two
