Taken for What? Unlocking True Deliverance

From Life Springs Christian Church: a sermon that starts with an unlikely pop-culture pun and leads us straight into the heart of Pentecost, compassion, and the mission of the church. In “Taken for What? Unlocking True Deliverance” we pull together three threads—an image from the movie Taken, the birth of the church at Pentecost, and Jesus’ parables—to ask a single question: what has taken us, and who will come to get us?

Outline

• Why the “Taken” story frames the problem
• The church is born: Acts 1–2 and the power of the Spirit
• Caesarea Philippi, “the gates of hell,” and Jesus’ promise
• Compassion in action: the Good Samaritan
• Vulnerability, suffering, and why we resist entering “hell”
• The rich man and Lazarus: a warning about indifference
• What true deliverance looks like—practical next steps

From Liam Neeson to Pentecost: why I used “Taken”

Yes, the title is a little campy: “Taken 4: The Gates of Hell will not prevail.” If you know the Taken films, you know the basic framework—Liam Neeson’s character is a dad with a “very special set of skills” who crosses any boundary to rescue his daughter. The movie raises hard questions: did the girls deserve their fate because they’d been warned? Is the father’s single-minded rescue mission an obligation, a compulsion, or something deeper?

That tension—who’s been taken, who will go get them, and what it costs to go in—is the lens I use to read Acts and Jesus’ parables today. The church is born on Pentecost precisely to be a rescue community empowered by the Holy Spirit. But what does that rescue look like? Is it Lone Ranger heroism, or a loving, vulnerable community that will cross dangerous borders to bring people home?

The Church Is Born: Acts 1–2 and the Promise of Power

In Acts 1 Jesus tells his followers there is a preparation to be made. He interrupts their curiosity about “times and seasons” and points them to something practical: they will receive power for the mission ahead.

“When the day of Pentecost arrived, they were all gathered in one place. And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind…and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance.” (Acts 2, paraphrase)

The Spirit falls like wind and fire—spoken in the many tongues of those gathered—so the “mighty works of God” can be declared to every nation. In the Jewish mind those mighty works most often mean deliverance: God’s saving action on behalf of people. The church is empowered not to parade spiritual gifts for self-glory but to announce and enact deliverance.

Caesarea Philippi: “On this rock I will build my church”

Jesus brings his disciples to Caesarea Philippi—an off-limits pagan worship center carved into rock with shrines and a spring that ancient people associated with the underworld. There, away from the temple and the safety of religious norms, Peter confesses Jesus as “the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

“And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” (Matthew 16:18, paraphrase as read in sermon)

Why say that at the gates of hell? Because Jesus is naming the church that will be willing to go where others refuse: into places of death, pagan worship, and systems that use fear to enslave. The “rock” can be read in multiple ways—Peter the person, the revelation Peter received, or that declaration of who Jesus is—but the point is clear: the church is built to withstand and to break through the powers of death, not to hide safely behind walls.

The Gates of Hell: fear, walls, and the false safety of exile

There’s a temptation for believers to treat those pagan gates as contagious—too frightening to cross. We build walls and “bull works” to keep the world at bay, convincing ourselves that protection equals faithfulness. Yet Jesus’ promise is that the gates of hell will not prevail. The Spirit was poured out to empower us to go in, not to keep us safely out.

That going in is not heroic Liam Neeson-style violence. It is the risky, vulnerable, everyday work of compassion: entering hospitals, sitting with pain, binding wounds, paying expenses—showing mercy where others pass by.

The Good Samaritan: redefining “neighbor”

Jesus answers the question “Who is my neighbor?” with a story that overturns expectations. The lawyer expected a definition that kept outsiders out. Instead, Jesus tells of a Samaritan—the very person Jews would consider religiously impure—who becomes the example of the law truly lived.

“A Samaritan…when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds…he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him.” (Luke 10:33–34, paraphrase)

The Samaritan’s actions are costly and personal. He pours oil and wine on wounds, puts the injured man on his own animal, pays the innkeeper, and promises to reimburse further expenses. Jesus’ point: neighbor-love is not about litmus tests or who “deserves” mercy. It’s costly compassion for whoever lies in the road.

Why this matters for the church

• Compassion beats purity tests. Loving your neighbor outranks ritual correctness.
• We can’t decide who is worthy of rescue—only God can judge hearts; we are called to love.
• True rescue requires vulnerability and expense—time, resources, and presence.

Vulnerability of God: the model for our mission

God’s own vulnerability is the gospel’s deepest scandal: the Creator exposes himself to the heartbreak of a faithless people, makes covenants, and suffers rejection. That vulnerability is imitated by Jesus and should shape the church.

Going into places of pain—hospitals, neighborhoods, broken systems—means sitting with suffering we cannot always fix. Sometimes prayer brings miraculous healing; sometimes it simply plants a seed. Either way, the Spirit empowers us to stay present, to grieve, and to act.

The Rich Man and Lazarus: conscience and the cost of indifference

Jesus’ parable about the rich man and Lazarus is a stark warning. The rich man feasted while Lazarus lay at his gate. In the afterlife roles reverse: Lazarus is comforted; the rich man is in torment. The rich man, familiar with the law and prophets, still missed the radical call of hesed—steadfast love and compassion.

“Remember that you in your lifetime received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner bad things…they have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them.” (Luke 16, paraphrase)

The parable exposes a dangerous habit: using religious knowledge to justify passing by those who suffer. Knowledge without compassion does not save. The gates of hell are not only external pagan strongholds—they are also erected by our own indifference.

What true deliverance looks like

The Holy Spirit was poured out so the church could embody the mighty works of God: deliverance, mercy, and restoration. If Pentecost is more than fire and tongues, it is a commissioning to compassion. So what practical steps follow?

1. See people differently. Start by recognizing the image of God in those you’d otherwise judge or ignore.
2. Enter the gates. Move toward places of pain—hospitals, neighborhoods, prison ministries, refugee communities—with presence, not just platitudes.
3. Bring community. Rescue is not a lone hero project. It’s a church project—neighbors helping neighbors.
4. Practice costly compassion. Like the Samaritan, be prepared to invest time, money, and risk into healing others.
5. Pray for the Spirit’s power. Courage, endurance, and the ability to keep returning—like Paul after he was stoned—come from the Spirit.

Conclusion: Pentecost as commission

Pentecost is not a private spiritual upgrade. It is the pouring out of God’s power so the church will break into the strongholds of fear, death, and indifference. The gates of hell will not prevail—not because we’re more powerful, but because the Spirit empowers a people to love where love is hardest.

“Lord, help us to believe you can change everything in this world, that you can smash down the gates of hell and that we can go in there…you delivered us—help us to remember and have compassion so you can use us to help others get out of the hell they’re in.” (Prayer, paraphrase)

If you want to live Pentecost as a present reality, begin where the Samaritan began: notice a neighbor, have compassion, bind wounds, and follow through. The Spirit will give the courage to go where fear would have kept you out—because deliverance is a communal, risky, and loving pursuit.

Questions for reflection

• Who is “Lazarus” at your gate—literally or figuratively—and what would it cost to love them?
• Where has the church been building walls instead of siege works to reach people?
• How can your community practice tangible, costly compassion this week?

Closing prayer (adapted)

Father, pour out your Spirit and give us the courage to see people as you see them. Remind us that mighty works are acts of deliverance and mercy. Help us to go into places of pain with compassion, to bind wounds, to pay the cost, and to bring people home. Amen.