SERMON
Living the God-Sized Life: Doing the Him-Possible
Pastor Paul Georgulis
February 1, 2026
A few years ago, I read a novel called The Road, written by Cormac McCarthy. It’s the story of a father and his young son who are walking through a world that has essentially ended. Civilization has collapsed, danger is everywhere, and survival depends on suspicion and self-protection.
The father understands the rules of that world and knows that if you want to live, you keep your head down, you protect what’s yours, and you don’t open yourself to others. But the son wants to do what doesn’t make sense. He wants to help strangers, share food, and stop when someone is suffering.
And in a world like that, that kind of compassion feels impossible.
And when we hear the word impossible, most of us instinctively think of something dramatic, like miracles or heroic faith. But the impossible thing in the story isn’t staying alive—it’s remaining human. And somehow, the son was capable of that.
And that’s where this story meets us—at the place where what is asked of us feels bigger than what we can manage on our own.
And today, we’ll see that we have been created and redeemed by God to do much more than what is normally possible—not through our own strength or goodness, but because of what we are calling the “Him-possible”—possible because of Jesus, alive and at work within us.
You see, God doesn’t call us to settle only for what we can manage on our own. Instead, he invites us into a life where something greater is at work.
And we don’t have to guess what that looks like, because Scripture shows us. Beginning in Matthew 17, verse 14, we read:
“14 When they came to the crowd, a man approached Jesus and knelt before him. 15 “Lord, have mercy on my son,” he said. “He has seizures and is suffering greatly. He often falls into the fire or into the water. 16 I brought him to your disciples, but they could not heal him.” 17 “You unbelieving and perverse generation,” Jesus replied, “how long shall I stay with you? How long shall I put up with you? Bring the boy here to me.” – Matthew 17:14-17
Let’s pause here. Jesus doesn’t seem very happy in this moment, does He? He sounds frustrated, irritated—maybe even angry. But His response makes more sense when we look at where He had just come from.
Just before this, Jesus was on the Mount of Transfiguration, where He received honor and glory from God the Father. It was a moment of clarity, holiness, and divine purpose. And then Jesus came down the mountain—and immediately stepped into chaos. Religious leaders were arguing. The disciples were ineffective in healing. A desperate father was pleading. And a child was being actively destroyed by evil—and no one was stopping it.
Jesus said what He said and reacted the way He did, not because the disciples failed or made a mistake, but because He was confronting the sobering contrast between the glory of God’s Kingdom and the brokenness of the world—and the urgency of a suffering family caught in the middle of it.
That matters, because this wasn’t theoretical. This was real suffering, real evil, right in front of Jesus.
Picking back up with verse 18, we see that…
18 Jesus rebuked the demon, and it came out of the boy, and he was healed at that moment. 19 Then the disciples came to Jesus in private and asked, “Why couldn’t we drive it out?” 20 He replied, “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” – Matthew 17:18-20
After seeing this encounter, it’s tempting to focus immediately on the miracle itself—the healing, the power, the moment where everything changes. But the most revealing part is not what Jesus did—it’s what the disciples could not do.
These were not people encountering Jesus for the first time. They weren’t curious bystanders or religious skeptics. These were Jesus’ disciples—the ones He had already called, already taught, and already sent out with authority. And yet, when a real need was placed in front of them, they came up empty.
And if we’re paying attention, we realize this story isn’t just about their struggle. It’s about ours. Sometimes this moment doesn’t just happen in the world—it happens in our own lives.
For me, I want to serve, lead, and care well. I plan. I prepare. I pray. I show up. And sometimes, even after all of that, I find myself standing in front of a real need—a hurting person, a broken situation, a moment that requires wisdom or compassion—and I realize I don’t have what it takes on my own.
There are moments when I realize I’m doing ministry for Jesus, but not actually depending on Him—and that scares me more than failure ever could.
And that’s not just true for pastors. It’s true for parents who want to love their kids well and carry the weight of knowing they can’t fix everything for them. For someone who sees another struggling and doesn’t know what to say—or whether saying anything would even help. For coworkers who notice injustice and feel powerless to change it. For citizens watching systems fail them. For church members who care deeply but aren’t sure how to help. It’s not because we don’t care or didn’t try. It’s because what’s being asked of us requires more than our own strength.
And if we’re not careful, even good, faithful, well-intended ministry—and even the way we live our faith—can quietly shrink down into human-sized living. Doing what we know how to do. Relying on what we’ve learned. Drawing from our own reserves.
Because many of us know what it’s like to believe in Jesus—and still feel stuck. We want to live differently, yet we still hit walls. We want to sense that God is calling us to more, yet we feel unable to actually step into it.
The disciples failed because they were trying to do what only God could do—without staying fully dependent on Him. And Jesus names it when He responds—not with anger, but with clarity. He exposes the gap between proximity to Him and reliance on Him, between knowing about Jesus and living from Jesus. And this is where the idea of the Him-possible starts to come into focus.
The issue in this story isn’t effort or desire. The issue is that the disciples were still learning that the life Jesus called them to live couldn’t be sustained by human ability alone. And if I’m being honest with you—which I am, because this is church—I’m still learning that lesson too.
Matthew shows us the contrast between the glory of the mountain and the brokenness below. But Mark slows the moment down and helps us see what the disciples were facing—and why this situation overwhelmed them.
Mark tells us that when Jesus arrives, the disciples are surrounded—by a crowd pressing in, religious leaders arguing, and a father who has been carrying pain for years.
It’s important to name what’s really happening here. This isn’t just illness or bad luck. Scripture is honest with us—there is evil at work, and a family is being torn apart from the inside out. This shows that evil is not abstract. It’s personal. It crushes people, and steals life. And we don’t just see that in this story—we see it all around us.
We see it in brutality. In abuse. In injustice. In systems that grind people down and leave them powerless. And the reason this encounter between a father, a son, and Jesus matters so much is that Jesus doesn’t ignore that reality. Instead, He confronts it. He names it and overcomes it. And then—and this is key—He invites His disciples to participate in that work, not in their own strength, but through faith and prayer.
And after Jesus healed the boy, the disciples pulled Jesus aside and asked why they were unable to do it themselves. Jesus didn’t tell them they lacked effort or intention. He told them that it could only be done through prayer—through dependence on God.
In other words, the issue was never about power they didn’t have. It was about reliance they were still learning. And that changes how we hear Jesus’ words about faith.
Jesus wasn’t shaming the disciples for not having enough faith—He was redirecting them. What He was pointing to was not the size of their faith, but its source—who it was placed in. God-sized living isn’t about trying harder; it’s about staying connected to Jesus.
And that’s why Jesus reached for such a small image—a mustard seed. A mustard seed isn’t impressive. It’s small, ordinary, and unremarkable. But it grows—not because it strains or proves itself—but because life is already inside it.
That’s what Jesus was getting at. You see, faith isn’t static—it’s alive. Matthew talks about faith here, and we’ll soon see John talk about belief—but both point us to the same thing: a living relationship of trust in God.
And like a seed, that relationship is meant to grow. Faith grows…
Faith in what God will do flows from faith in who God is. We don’t start by believing we can move mountains—we start by trusting the God who already can. And that’s exactly the gap Mark helps us see more clearly when he shows us Jesus connecting this moment to prayer—not as a technique, but as a posture—as a way of staying connected to the God who is already and always at work.
That’s the difference between human-sized living and God-sized living.
Human-sized living asks, “What can I handle?” But God-sized living asks, “What is God doing—and how do I stay connected to Him?” And sometimes, staying connected doesn’t mean having everything figured out—it means trusting God enough to move, even when things don’t yet make sense.
For some of us, the Him-possible begins right there—not with knowing exactly what to do next, not with certainty or confidence, but with taking a step anyway—simply trusting that God is already at work ahead of us.
And that brings us to something Jesus said later that sounds almost impossible on its own.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus tells His disciples that those who believe in Him will continue His work—and do even greater things than He did.
Now, Jesus wasn’t saying that they would out-perform Him or that they need to try harder than He did. What He was saying was that His life, His power, His mission wouldn’t end when He ascended to Heaven—but would continue through His people—through His disciples, and through us today.
And Jesus is very clear about how that happens. This promise about “greater things” is wrapped inside a much bigger promise—the gift of the Holy Spirit. In John chapters 14 through 16, Jesus tells His disciples that He would send the Helper, the Holy Spirit, who will live in them and remain with them. So the greater works Jesus talks about are not powered by our efforts or confidence—they are made possible by His Spirit at work within us.
So the “greater” work is not bigger miracles—it’s broader reach. What do I mean by that? Jesus ministered in one place at one time. But through the Spirit, His life now moves through the Church—through ordinary people like you and me, in ordinary places, facing real needs.
That’s the Him-possible. It’s not us doing impressive things for Jesus—but Jesus continuing His work through us.
The real question isn’t whether we have enough faith—but whether we’re staying connected to Jesus. Because when we are, God doesn’t ask us to settle for what we can manage on our own. He invites us to live, love, and act BEYOND what would otherwise be impossible.
That matters, especially now—at the beginning of a new year—when many of us are carrying unfinished stories from last year. Some of us are tired. Some of us are uncertain. Some of us are willing, but unsure.
And the good news of this passage is that Jesus doesn’t wait for us to feel strong and confident. Instead, He meets us right where belief and unbelief exist together. And from that place, He invites us into a God-sized life—not powered by our effort but sustained by His presence.
So if you find yourself saying, “Lord, I want to live that way—but I don’t know how”, you’re not behind. You’re not disqualified. You’re exactly where this journey begins.
Because the Him-possible has never depended on what we can do for God—only on what God is willing to do in and through us.
The father understands the rules of that world and knows that if you want to live, you keep your head down, you protect what’s yours, and you don’t open yourself to others. But the son wants to do what doesn’t make sense. He wants to help strangers, share food, and stop when someone is suffering.
And in a world like that, that kind of compassion feels impossible.
And when we hear the word impossible, most of us instinctively think of something dramatic, like miracles or heroic faith. But the impossible thing in the story isn’t staying alive—it’s remaining human. And somehow, the son was capable of that.
And that’s where this story meets us—at the place where what is asked of us feels bigger than what we can manage on our own.
And today, we’ll see that we have been created and redeemed by God to do much more than what is normally possible—not through our own strength or goodness, but because of what we are calling the “Him-possible”—possible because of Jesus, alive and at work within us.
You see, God doesn’t call us to settle only for what we can manage on our own. Instead, he invites us into a life where something greater is at work.
And we don’t have to guess what that looks like, because Scripture shows us. Beginning in Matthew 17, verse 14, we read:
“14 When they came to the crowd, a man approached Jesus and knelt before him. 15 “Lord, have mercy on my son,” he said. “He has seizures and is suffering greatly. He often falls into the fire or into the water. 16 I brought him to your disciples, but they could not heal him.” 17 “You unbelieving and perverse generation,” Jesus replied, “how long shall I stay with you? How long shall I put up with you? Bring the boy here to me.” – Matthew 17:14-17
Let’s pause here. Jesus doesn’t seem very happy in this moment, does He? He sounds frustrated, irritated—maybe even angry. But His response makes more sense when we look at where He had just come from.
Just before this, Jesus was on the Mount of Transfiguration, where He received honor and glory from God the Father. It was a moment of clarity, holiness, and divine purpose. And then Jesus came down the mountain—and immediately stepped into chaos. Religious leaders were arguing. The disciples were ineffective in healing. A desperate father was pleading. And a child was being actively destroyed by evil—and no one was stopping it.
Jesus said what He said and reacted the way He did, not because the disciples failed or made a mistake, but because He was confronting the sobering contrast between the glory of God’s Kingdom and the brokenness of the world—and the urgency of a suffering family caught in the middle of it.
That matters, because this wasn’t theoretical. This was real suffering, real evil, right in front of Jesus.
Picking back up with verse 18, we see that…
18 Jesus rebuked the demon, and it came out of the boy, and he was healed at that moment. 19 Then the disciples came to Jesus in private and asked, “Why couldn’t we drive it out?” 20 He replied, “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” – Matthew 17:18-20
After seeing this encounter, it’s tempting to focus immediately on the miracle itself—the healing, the power, the moment where everything changes. But the most revealing part is not what Jesus did—it’s what the disciples could not do.
These were not people encountering Jesus for the first time. They weren’t curious bystanders or religious skeptics. These were Jesus’ disciples—the ones He had already called, already taught, and already sent out with authority. And yet, when a real need was placed in front of them, they came up empty.
And if we’re paying attention, we realize this story isn’t just about their struggle. It’s about ours. Sometimes this moment doesn’t just happen in the world—it happens in our own lives.
For me, I want to serve, lead, and care well. I plan. I prepare. I pray. I show up. And sometimes, even after all of that, I find myself standing in front of a real need—a hurting person, a broken situation, a moment that requires wisdom or compassion—and I realize I don’t have what it takes on my own.
There are moments when I realize I’m doing ministry for Jesus, but not actually depending on Him—and that scares me more than failure ever could.
And that’s not just true for pastors. It’s true for parents who want to love their kids well and carry the weight of knowing they can’t fix everything for them. For someone who sees another struggling and doesn’t know what to say—or whether saying anything would even help. For coworkers who notice injustice and feel powerless to change it. For citizens watching systems fail them. For church members who care deeply but aren’t sure how to help. It’s not because we don’t care or didn’t try. It’s because what’s being asked of us requires more than our own strength.
And if we’re not careful, even good, faithful, well-intended ministry—and even the way we live our faith—can quietly shrink down into human-sized living. Doing what we know how to do. Relying on what we’ve learned. Drawing from our own reserves.
Because many of us know what it’s like to believe in Jesus—and still feel stuck. We want to live differently, yet we still hit walls. We want to sense that God is calling us to more, yet we feel unable to actually step into it.
The disciples failed because they were trying to do what only God could do—without staying fully dependent on Him. And Jesus names it when He responds—not with anger, but with clarity. He exposes the gap between proximity to Him and reliance on Him, between knowing about Jesus and living from Jesus. And this is where the idea of the Him-possible starts to come into focus.
The issue in this story isn’t effort or desire. The issue is that the disciples were still learning that the life Jesus called them to live couldn’t be sustained by human ability alone. And if I’m being honest with you—which I am, because this is church—I’m still learning that lesson too.
Matthew shows us the contrast between the glory of the mountain and the brokenness below. But Mark slows the moment down and helps us see what the disciples were facing—and why this situation overwhelmed them.
Mark tells us that when Jesus arrives, the disciples are surrounded—by a crowd pressing in, religious leaders arguing, and a father who has been carrying pain for years.
It’s important to name what’s really happening here. This isn’t just illness or bad luck. Scripture is honest with us—there is evil at work, and a family is being torn apart from the inside out. This shows that evil is not abstract. It’s personal. It crushes people, and steals life. And we don’t just see that in this story—we see it all around us.
We see it in brutality. In abuse. In injustice. In systems that grind people down and leave them powerless. And the reason this encounter between a father, a son, and Jesus matters so much is that Jesus doesn’t ignore that reality. Instead, He confronts it. He names it and overcomes it. And then—and this is key—He invites His disciples to participate in that work, not in their own strength, but through faith and prayer.
And after Jesus healed the boy, the disciples pulled Jesus aside and asked why they were unable to do it themselves. Jesus didn’t tell them they lacked effort or intention. He told them that it could only be done through prayer—through dependence on God.
In other words, the issue was never about power they didn’t have. It was about reliance they were still learning. And that changes how we hear Jesus’ words about faith.
Jesus wasn’t shaming the disciples for not having enough faith—He was redirecting them. What He was pointing to was not the size of their faith, but its source—who it was placed in. God-sized living isn’t about trying harder; it’s about staying connected to Jesus.
And that’s why Jesus reached for such a small image—a mustard seed. A mustard seed isn’t impressive. It’s small, ordinary, and unremarkable. But it grows—not because it strains or proves itself—but because life is already inside it.
That’s what Jesus was getting at. You see, faith isn’t static—it’s alive. Matthew talks about faith here, and we’ll soon see John talk about belief—but both point us to the same thing: a living relationship of trust in God.
And like a seed, that relationship is meant to grow. Faith grows…
- …through prayer, because prayer keeps us connected to God.
- …through love and obedience, because the more we trust Him, the more we step into what He’s calling us to do.
- And faith grows as God stretches us beyond what feels comfortable or manageable.
Faith in what God will do flows from faith in who God is. We don’t start by believing we can move mountains—we start by trusting the God who already can. And that’s exactly the gap Mark helps us see more clearly when he shows us Jesus connecting this moment to prayer—not as a technique, but as a posture—as a way of staying connected to the God who is already and always at work.
That’s the difference between human-sized living and God-sized living.
Human-sized living asks, “What can I handle?” But God-sized living asks, “What is God doing—and how do I stay connected to Him?” And sometimes, staying connected doesn’t mean having everything figured out—it means trusting God enough to move, even when things don’t yet make sense.
For some of us, the Him-possible begins right there—not with knowing exactly what to do next, not with certainty or confidence, but with taking a step anyway—simply trusting that God is already at work ahead of us.
And that brings us to something Jesus said later that sounds almost impossible on its own.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus tells His disciples that those who believe in Him will continue His work—and do even greater things than He did.
Now, Jesus wasn’t saying that they would out-perform Him or that they need to try harder than He did. What He was saying was that His life, His power, His mission wouldn’t end when He ascended to Heaven—but would continue through His people—through His disciples, and through us today.
And Jesus is very clear about how that happens. This promise about “greater things” is wrapped inside a much bigger promise—the gift of the Holy Spirit. In John chapters 14 through 16, Jesus tells His disciples that He would send the Helper, the Holy Spirit, who will live in them and remain with them. So the greater works Jesus talks about are not powered by our efforts or confidence—they are made possible by His Spirit at work within us.
So the “greater” work is not bigger miracles—it’s broader reach. What do I mean by that? Jesus ministered in one place at one time. But through the Spirit, His life now moves through the Church—through ordinary people like you and me, in ordinary places, facing real needs.
That’s the Him-possible. It’s not us doing impressive things for Jesus—but Jesus continuing His work through us.
The real question isn’t whether we have enough faith—but whether we’re staying connected to Jesus. Because when we are, God doesn’t ask us to settle for what we can manage on our own. He invites us to live, love, and act BEYOND what would otherwise be impossible.
That matters, especially now—at the beginning of a new year—when many of us are carrying unfinished stories from last year. Some of us are tired. Some of us are uncertain. Some of us are willing, but unsure.
And the good news of this passage is that Jesus doesn’t wait for us to feel strong and confident. Instead, He meets us right where belief and unbelief exist together. And from that place, He invites us into a God-sized life—not powered by our effort but sustained by His presence.
So if you find yourself saying, “Lord, I want to live that way—but I don’t know how”, you’re not behind. You’re not disqualified. You’re exactly where this journey begins.
Because the Him-possible has never depended on what we can do for God—only on what God is willing to do in and through us.