Giving To What Matters

Building off of Jesus’ teaching to his followers that they couldn’t serve God and Money, the author and theologian, Anthony de Mello, once told the following about what it means to serve money, even when you believe you aren’t serving money: 

“The philosopher Diogenes was eating bread and lentils for supper. He was seen by the philosopher Aristippus, who lived comfortably by flattering the king. Said Aristippus, ‘If you would learn to be subservient to the king, you would not have to live on lentils.’
Said Diogenes, 'Learn to live on lentils, and you will not have to be subservient to the king.”

Money reveals what we value. The way we spend and give reflects our priorities more clearly than our intentions ever could. 

Jesus speaks frequently about money, not because it is the most important thing in life, but because it has a powerful ability to shape our hearts. “Where your treasure is,” he teaches, “there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21).

Financial giving during Lent invites us to examine how our resources align with what truly matters. Many of us hope to support causes that reflect compassion, justice, and faith, yet generosity often becomes an afterthought rather than a guiding practice.

The biblical tradition consistently connects financial generosity with trust in God. In the Hebrew Scriptures, offerings were expressions of gratitude and dependence. Giving was a way of acknowledging that everything ultimately belongs to God. When people gave, they were not losing resources—they were returning a portion of what had already been entrusted to them.

Jesus affirms this perspective when he observes a widow placing two small coins into the temple treasury (Mark 12:41–44). Her gift is modest in monetary terms but profound in spiritual significance. She gives not from surplus but from trust. Jesus sees what others overlook: generosity is measured not by amount but by intention.

Financial giving also expands our vision beyond ourselves. When we invest in ministries, relief efforts, community programs, and organizations that serve the vulnerable, our resources become instruments of compassion. Our giving participates in the work of healing and restoration.

Yet generosity does not happen accidentally. It grows through intentional habits. Choosing in advance to give regularly—whether through tithing, charitable support, or planned generosity—helps ensure that our values shape our financial decisions.

During Lent, financial giving becomes a practice of alignment. It invites us to ask honest questions: Do our spending patterns reflect the kingdom values we profess? Are we supporting what nurtures life, justice, and hope?

Giving financially also cultivates freedom. When money no longer controls our decisions, we experience a deeper sense of trust. Resources become tools rather than sources of anxiety.

Generosity reminds us that money’s greatest purpose is not accumulation but participation in God’s work. When we give intentionally, we affirm that the most important things in life—love, compassion, faith, and justice—are worth investing in.

Lent invites us to see financial generosity not as an obligation but as an opportunity. Through giving, our resources become part of something larger than ourselves.

Prayer
God of provision, help us use our resources wisely and generously. Guide our hearts to support what reflects your love and justice. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What values are reflected in how you spend money?

2. Where might financial generosity deepen your faith?

3. How could your giving support something that truly matters?

Faithful Gathering: Worship That Forms Us

Today, we continue our Lenten journey by reflecting on something we can add to our Lenten practices as we release the things that keep us from following Jesus more fully: a renewed commitment to faithful worship.

Worship attendance among members of faith communities in the U.S. had been in decline for decades before COVID, a trend that accelerated both during and after the pandemic.  The most recent statistics indicate that the definition of “regular worship attendance” has shifted.  

Pew Research recently found that only 25–30% of church members attend weekly or nearly weekly, while 33–40% attend once a month.  The remainder attend rarely.  

The reasons for the decline are varied, but the fact remains that fewer church members are attending worship, and in so doing are missing out on something extremely important to their spiritual formation.  

You see, corporate worship is a vital part of our life together as a community of faith.  It reorients us and shapes us. 

In gathering, we remember who we are and whose we are. Week by week, we step out of the swirl of daily life and into a shared rhythm of prayer, song, confession, and Scripture. In doing so, we are reminded that faith is not meant to be carried alone. 

The writer of Hebrews urges believers, “Let us not neglect meeting together… but encourage one another” (Hebrews 10:25). Worship becomes a place where encouragement and renewal meet.

Worship shapes our imagination. It interrupts the isolation that easily creeps into our lives and reminds us that faith is communal. When we gather with others, we see glimpses of God’s work beyond our own experiences. The prayers we hear, the songs we sing, and the stories we share expand our understanding of grace. Together we remember that God’s story is larger than our individual journeys.

Lent deepens this rhythm of worship. The season invites honesty before God through confession, lament, and reflection. These practices may feel uncomfortable, but they are essential for spiritual growth. Confession clears space for forgiveness. Lament allows grief to become prayer. Scripture speaks truth into places where we feel uncertain. Song lifts voices together in hope. Slowly, through repeated rhythms, worship forms our hearts.

Showing up consistently matters. Worship is not entertainment; it is formation. It is not something we consume, but something that shapes us over time. Even when we arrive tired, distracted, or uncertain, the act of gathering itself becomes a quiet declaration of trust. We come not because we have everything figured out, but because we believe God meets us here.

Corporate worship also reminds us that faith extends beyond the sanctuary. The encouragement we receive in community strengthens us to live faithfully in the world. The grace we hear proclaimed becomes the grace we are called to embody. The prayers we share become compassion carried into daily life.

In gathering, we discover that worship is both a gift and a responsibility. It is a gift because God meets us through word, song, and community. It is a responsibility because our presence strengthens others. Every voice, every prayer, every act of participation contributes to the life of the body.

Lent invites us to rediscover the power of faithful gathering. When we come together consistently, worship becomes more than an event—it becomes a rhythm that shapes how we live, love, and trust God beyond the walls of the church.

Prayer
God of community, form us through shared worship. Strengthen us in faith and love. Instill in me a desire to gather and be with others in worship.  Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. How does worship shape you?
2. What keeps you from consistently gathering for worship?
3. How might worship deepen your spiritual life this Lent?

Adding Spiritual Disciplines: Making Room For Growth:

Fasting is not only subtraction; it is addition. When we remove distraction, we create space to add life-giving rhythms that nourish our relationship with God. Lent invites us to clear away what clutters our attention so that practices of faith can take deeper root.

Scripture encourages discipline not as burden, but as formation. Paul writes to Timothy, “Train yourself in godliness” (1 Timothy 4:7). The word train suggests practice, repetition, and patience. Spiritual growth rarely happens suddenly. It unfolds through habits that slowly shape our hearts and desires. Discipline, when rooted in love, becomes a pathway rather than a pressure.

Adding a spiritual practice during Lent anchors the season in growth rather than deprivation. When we remove something that distracts us—whether busyness, technology, or noise—we create an opening where a life-giving rhythm can take its place. Daily Scripture reading, morning prayer, intentional gratitude, or evening reflection can become small but powerful anchors throughout the day.

These practices are not meant to impress God. They are meant to orient us toward God. Spiritual disciplines place us where grace can meet us, just as a gardener prepares soil so seeds can grow. We cannot force transformation, but we can cultivate conditions where transformation becomes possible.

Jesus himself lived with rhythms that nourished his relationship with the Father. He prayed regularly, withdrew for solitude, and remained attentive to God’s presence. His life reminds us that spiritual practices are not signs of weakness; they are ways of remaining rooted in what matters most.

During Lent, consider what practice might help you remain attentive to God. The goal is not complexity or intensity. Simplicity often proves more sustainable. A few minutes each morning with Scripture. A brief prayer before meals. A moment of gratitude at the end of the day. These small practices accumulate over time, forming the quiet architecture of a faithful life.

Addition during Lent reminds us that emptiness is not the goal. Renewal is. We do not fast merely to create absence, but to make room for something deeper. When we replace distraction with devotion, we begin to discover that God has been waiting patiently in the spaces we often overlook.

In this way, spiritual disciplines become invitations rather than obligations. They remind us that growth in faith is not about striving harder, but about showing up consistently and trusting that God is already at work.

Prayer
God who forms us, guide us into practices that deepen trust and love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What discipline might nurture your faith?
2. How could small practices shape your days?
3. Where is God inviting growth?

Fasting From Spending: Learning Contentment

Today, we continue our reflections on the three main practices during the season of Lent: Prayer, Fasting, and Giving.  Our focus this week will be on fasting or letting go of whatever keeps us from experiencing God more fully.  

We live in a culture of consumption.  

Every single day, we are presented with advertisements and information that lead us to believe that, to be more, we need to consume more.  We are studied, tracked, and haunted by algorithms designed to tempt us into buying things we come to believe we can’t live without.  

And so, for many of us, we live in an endless cycle of imagined needs, becoming more and more a part of a system designed to sell us on the idea that material posessions will bring us joy.  

The author Ellen Goodman puts it like this: 

“Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for—in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.”

Spending can become reflex rather than choice. We buy to soothe, celebrate, distract, or impress. The rush we get from acquiring things becomes harder to reach, and we soon find ourselves in debt, regret, or worse.    

Breaking this cycle is harder than it seems for many of us.  Which is why Lent can offer us a way to intentionally break from spending and consuming — one that may lead us to a kind of peace we can’t have if we embrace a materialistic life.  Fasting from unnecessary spending during Lent invites contentment.

The Apostle Paul writes, “I have learned to be content with whatever I have” (Philippians 4:11). Contentment is learned, not automatic.

When we pause purchases, we notice desire more clearly. What do we believe money will solve? What longing sits beneath consumption?  It’s a longing for acceptance, satisfaction, and instant gratification, none of which is a key to true happiness.  

Fasting from spending creates gratitude. We rediscover sufficiency. We ask whether resources might be directed toward generosity instead.  And we are also given the gift of knowing that our identity isn’t defined by our things.  We are more than what we buy.  

This practice is not about austerity but alignment. Money reflects values. Lent invites us to examine them.  Maybe we need to learn what it means to rid ourselves of the possessions that have come to own us.  

Maybe we need to realize that when we are prudent with the money we’ve been blessed with, we might find a sense of worth that is far more enduring than our stuff.  

Prayer
God of provision, teach us contentment. Help us use resources in ways that reflect your kingdom. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What motivates your spending habits?
2. Where might simplicity bring freedom?
3. How could financial restraint nurture generosity?

Fasting From Distraction: Recovering Attentiion

There are a lot of distractions in the culture we inhabit.  And for someone like me, who enjoys multitasking, it doesn’t take long to discover them, usually when I’m trying to focus to get something done. 

We are seldom enveloped by silence.  There are, to coin a phrase from Hamlet, a “thousand natural shocks” that keep us from being quiet and focused.  The act of being fully present in a moment is often jarred by the notifications on our phones or computers.  We have a TV blaring in the background or music in our headphones. 

We have schedules to keep, appointments to make, and projects to do, but they all become difficult to even start because we find ourselves distracted by one thing or another.  

All the ways that we are inundated with distractions can take a toll on us, mentally, physically, and even spiritually.  I often find my mind wandering when I try to spend time in prayer and meditation. As it turns out, it’s a lot harder to empty your mind of scattered thoughts than nyou might think.  

Distraction is subtle. It does not feel sinful; it feels normal. After all, this is the way of our world.  Yet constant distraction erodes depth. When attention is scattered, spiritual formation becomes shallow.

If you read through the Bible, you’ll discover that even in ancient times, people strugled with this. The Apostle Paul exhorted early Christians to limit their exposure to anything that distracted them from following Jesus.  He wrote about renewing the mind, and maintaining focus.  “Set your minds on things above” (Colossians 3:2). Attention shapes desire, and desire shapes life.

Fasting from distraction may mean limiting background noise, resisting multitasking, or choosing single-task focus. It teaches us to remain present.  Anything we can do to quiet our minds and our spirits opens us up more to the movement of the Spirit of God within us.  

This also merits thinking about: Distraction often shields us from discomfort. Many of us have become so accustomed to noise that we can’t abide the discomfort of silence.  When quiet comes, so do unresolved thoughts. Lent invites us not to avoid them, but to bring them into prayer.

Attention is sacred. When we offer it intentionally, ordinary moments become holy.

Prayer
God of clarity, gather our scattered attention. Teach us to be present with you and with others. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What most frequently distracts you?
2. How does distraction affect your faith?
3. What practice could help you recover attention?

Fasting From Busyness: Choosing Holy Slowness

This has been a busy week. I’ve had lots of appointments to keep, meetings to attend, and writing to do.  I’ve been planning sermons, working on projects that seem to never quite finish when I want them to, and having lots of conversations with church members, colleagues, and friends. 

Truth be told, I’ve enjoyed it all, even when it’s been challenging.  I love what I do for a living. This strange and wonderful calling that I’ve spent nearly half of my life following gives me purpose, joy, and has also turned my beard quite gray.  

But even when you love what you do, it’s possible to grow weary in doing it.  I struggle with feelings of guilt and restlessness when I stop for a breather.  I tell others to rest, rejuvenate, and recharge, but I have a hard time taking my own advice.  

Busyness often masquerades as importance. We fill our schedules and wear exhaustion as a badge of honor. Yet Scripture consistently calls God’s people to rest. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

Fasting from busyness is not laziness; it is resistance. It resists the belief that worth equals productivity. Jesus himself withdraws from crowds to pray (Mark 1:35). He does not heal everyone immediately. He lives at the pace of obedience, not urgency.

Busyness can become a distraction from deeper questions. When we slow down, we may encounter restlessness or discomfort. Yet stillness reveals what activity hides.

Sabbath rhythms remind us that God sustains the world without our constant effort. Rest becomes trust. Slowness becomes faith.

During Lent, fasting from busyness might mean protecting margin, declining unnecessary commitments, or resisting the urge to multitask. It may mean doing fewer things with greater presence.

When we step off the treadmill of urgency, we discover that God is never in a hurry.  We begin to see the wisdom of Sabbath rest.  We slow down enough to pay attention to our own needs and the needs of others.  We find ourselves once more in the quiet, the stillness, and freedom from the tyranny of the urgent.    

Prayer
God of holy rest, teach us to slow down. Free us from striving and anchor us in trust. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where does busyness dominate your life?
2. What fears surface when you slow down?
3. How could holy slowness reshape your Lent?

Fasting From Technology: Making Room for Presence

I was a smoker once, long ago.  It was in my 20s when I thought I was indestructible, and there weren’t as many non-smoking rules in the world.  The trouble was, I got up to two packs a day, which wasn’t great at all.  

I remember that when I would wake up in the morning, after I coughed and hacked a bit, the first thing I would reach for was my cigarettes and lighter.  

Now, the first thing I reach for in the morning after waking is my phone. 

Like most people, I never go anywhere without my phone.  These metal and glass supercomputers we carry around with us are as much a part of us as our keys or wallets.  When we don’t have them with us, we can feel lost, disconnected, and for some people, even panicked.  

The idea of giving up technology–even certain aspects of it—during Lent is one of the most complicated and challenging things to attempt.  I have to say, that very idea is not one that I was willing to embrace this year.  

Technology connects us, informs us, and often overwhelms us. Our devices shape how we see the world and ourselves. Fasting from technology during Lent is not about rejecting modern life; it is about reclaiming attention.

Scripture reminds us that attention shapes devotion. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21). When our attention is constantly fragmented, our spiritual lives become fragmented too. Technology fasting invites us to ask: what holds my focus?

Silence is difficult when screens are near. Solitude is interrupted by notifications. Reflection competes with endless scrolling. Fasting from technology—even for designated hours—creates space for stillness and relational presence.

This practice is not about shame. Technology is a tool, not an enemy. But tools can become masters. Paul writes, “I will not be dominated by anything” (1 Corinthians 6:12). Lent invites freedom from domination.

Technology fasting can look simple: no phone at meals, no screens before bed, one screen-free evening each week. The goal is not a rigid rule, but restored awareness.

There’s a song by the hard rock/metal band A Perfect Circle entitled “Disilusioned” that speaks to what we might discover if we are able to loosen the bonds of technology on our lives.  The lyrics contain these interesting lines:

Maybe, if we all became less addicted to the immediate, we might discover something true and beautiful about ourselves and the world we inhabit.  
As distractions fall away, something else emerges—conversation, creativity, prayer, rest. We rediscover what constant input often crowds out.

Lent teaches us that subtraction can reveal abundance. When we step away from constant connection, we become more available—to God, to others, to ourselves.

Prayer

God of presence, free us from distraction. Help us reclaim attention as sacred space for you and for love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. How does technology shape your daily rhythm?
2. What might you discover in screen-free space?
3. Where is God inviting you into deeper attentiveness?

Hunger That Teaches Us To Trust

Today, we will move into some days of reflecting on the Lenten practice of fasting.  

The language that we use surrounding this practice tells us a lot about what it means.  We will say that we are “giving up” something for the season of Lent, like certain foods, drinks, habits, and desires.  

I’ve struggled with this practice over the years.  I once tried to fast from coffee during Lent, and only made it a week before I decided God probably wasn’t pleased with the person I’d become without it.  The people in my life affected by my lack of coffee agreed.  

But there have been other Lenten seasons when I let go of certain habits and remained steadfast. I learned that some things are easier to give up than others, and that if it was too easy, and I didn’t feel at least some discomfort, it probably wasn’t creating the desired effect.  

Fasting isn’t about self-flagellation or something that we do to feel bad.  Jesus himself told his followers that if they fasted, they shouldn’t walk around looking and acting morose so that others would think they were pious.  

In other words, we should feel the effects of fasting, but those effects should serve as reminders to us that we are finite and frail at times, and dependent upon God.  

Fasting from food is the most traditional Lenten practice, yet it is often the most misunderstood. Biblical fasting is not about punishing the body or proving spiritual strength. It is about creating space—space to remember our dependence on God.

When Jesus fasts in the wilderness, he resists the temptation to turn stones into bread, declaring, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4). Hunger becomes teacher rather than enemy. It reminds us that our deepest sustenance comes from God.

Food is good. Scripture affirms it as gift. Yet fasting invites us to loosen our grip on even good things so we can notice what truly satisfies. Physical hunger can awaken spiritual hunger. It can expose where we reach for comfort instead of presence.

The prophet Isaiah reframes fasting not as ritual, but as transformation—loosening injustice and sharing bread with the hungry (Isaiah 58:6–7). Fasting that turns us inward misses the point. Fasting that reorients us toward love fulfills it.

This practice also cultivates gratitude. When we refrain, we learn to receive more intentionally. Meals become prayer. Hunger becomes reminder. Dependence becomes clarity.

Fasting from food should be practiced wisely and with care. It is not required of everyone, and health matters. But even modest fasting—a missed meal, a simplified diet—can become sacred when offered intentionally.

As hunger rises, let it become prayer. Let it remind you that God sustains more deeply than bread. Lent is not about deprivation for its own sake; it is about reordering desire.

Prayer
God who sustains us, teach us through hunger. Help us depend on you more deeply than on comfort. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What does physical hunger awaken in you?
2. Where do you seek comfort apart from God?
3. How might fasting deepen gratitude?

Never Stop Praying?

When I was a kid, I remember hearing a Sunday school lesson on I Thessalonians 5:17, where the Apostle Paul exhorts his readers to “pray without ceasing."  Someone in the class asked, "What does that mean?” and the teacher replied, “We should always be praying."  

I thought about that for a long time afterward and decided it didn’t make sense.  I figured that if you were always praying, you couldn’t see where you were going on account of having your head bowed and eyes closed, which was how I thought you had to pray. 

I imagined people walking around, running into things, crashing their bicycles, running their cars off the road, and the like. 

Later, when I was a good bit older, I was taught that the verse meant we should be in an "attitude of prayer,” which also didn’t really make any sense.  In my way of thinking, there were times you prayed, and times you didn’t.  And the whole phrase “attitude of prayer” seemed made up.  

To be honest, that verse plagued me a bit for a long time.  But when I shifted my perspective a bit and began to see the act of prayer itself differently, I started to learn what Paul meant.  

Prayer is not confined to moments; it becomes a way of living. Scripture reminds us that “in [God] we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Prayer becomes awareness—attentiveness to God’s presence woven through ordinary life.

Paul’s invitation to “pray without ceasing” is not a call to constant speech, but constant openness. Prayer becomes posture rather than activity. It shapes how we notice, respond, and love.

Living prayerfully means paying attention to people, moments, emotions, and God’s quiet nudges. It means offering our work, rest, joy, and sorrow to God as they arise. Prayer becomes integrated rather than isolated.

This practice does not eliminate intentional prayer; it deepens it. Our formal prayers are strengthened when our lives are oriented toward God.

During Lent, living prayerfully invites us to slow down and notice where God is already present. Nothing is wasted. Every moment becomes a potential meeting place.

Prayer
Ever-present God, help us live awake to your presence in all things. Shape our lives into prayer. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What helps you stay aware of God throughout the day?
2. How can prayer move beyond words?
3. What practices help you remain spiritually attentive?

Prayer Through Creation

The weather in Central Texas has been absolutely wonderful this week.  It’s cool in the morning and then warms up nicely by the afternoon without being so beastly hot that you don’t want to be outside at all.  That will come in a few months, mind you, but right now it’s amazing. 

Mornings are my favorite time to be outside this time of year, just after the sun has come up and the birds have awakened, and are singing their songs.  The Japanese plum tree in my front yard has bloomed, its white and pink flowers filling the air with a lovely scent.  

If it wasn’t for the fact that my allergies have turned my head into a stuffed-up mess, I’d enjoy it even more.  But that’s beside the point.  

St. Francis of Assisi once referred to Creation as the “fifth Gospel."  His belief was that if you spent long enough outside in nature, you could learn about God’s creativity, love and kindness just as well as if you were reading about it, maybe even more.  

I believe that Creation can teach us to pray as well.  There is an aspect of worship in being in nature, fully present, and open to its wonders.  

Creation itself prays. “The heavens are telling the glory of God,” the psalmist proclaims (Psalm 19:1). When we slow down and pay attention to the natural world, prayer becomes less about speaking and more about noticing. Creation invites us into awe, humility, and gratitude.

Many of us feel closest to God outdoors—not because creation replaces prayer, but because it awakens it. The rhythms of nature remind us that life unfolds in seasons. Growth takes time. Rest is necessary. Beauty exists even alongside brokenness.

Jesus frequently prays outdoors—on mountains, near water, under open skies. His prayer life is integrated with creation, reminding us that God’s presence is not confined to sanctuaries. “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it” (Psalm 24:1).

Prayer through creation teaches us attentiveness. We notice light, sound, movement. We learn to be present rather than distracted. Creation does not rush. It invites us to live at a pace shaped by trust rather than urgency.

This form of prayer also reconnects us to our bodies. Breathing deeply, walking slowly, noticing sensations—all become acts of prayer. We remember that we are creatures, not machines.

During Lent, creation can become a companion in prayer. A walk. A moment of stillness outside. Watching the sky change. These simple practices draw us closer to God’s sustaining presence.

Creation reminds us that God is already at work all around us. Our task is not to manufacture prayer, but to receive it.

Prayer
Creator God, open our eyes to your presence in the world around us. Teach us to pray with wonder and gratitude. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you feel most aware of God in creation?
2. How does nature shape your prayer?
3. What does slowing down outdoors awaken in you?

Prayer As Journaling

Journaling was part of my daily spiritual practices for years, but for the past few months, I’ve let it slip a bit.  I used to fill journals with my scribbled thoughts, prayers, and reflections.  I have them all stored away for safekeeping because I like to read them from time to time. 

I’ve missed journaling, and Lent seemed the right time to revive the practice. 

There’s something about the feeling of deliberately writing down my scattered thoughts with a pen on actual paper that is restorative.  It’s slower than typing, but it feels more visceral, if that makes sense.  

For over a decade, I have finished each journal entry with the simple word “Amen."  I started doing that when I realized that my journaling was a form of prayer, a way to keep a conversation going with the Divine.  

One of the many things I’ve learned by journaling is that writing can become prayer when we let it be honest. Journaling invites us to slow down, notice patterns, and name what is stirring beneath the surface. It gives shape to thoughts we often ignore or rush past. When offered to God, writing becomes a sacred practice of attentiveness.

Scripture affirms the power of writing as a spiritual witness. “Write the vision,” the prophet is told, “make it plain” (Habakkuk 2:2). Writing helps us see more clearly what God is doing within us and around us. It allows reflection to deepen into prayer.

Journaling prayer is not about crafting beautiful sentences. It is about truth. We write what we feel, fear, hope, and question. Nothing needs to be edited. God receives our words as they are. Over time, writing becomes a mirror that reveals where grace is quietly at work.

Journaling also helps us notice God’s faithfulness across seasons. Looking back, we see prayers answered, perspectives changed, and wounds healed slowly. Writing creates space for gratitude to grow.

This practice can be especially helpful during Lent, when self-examination and reflection are central. Journaling allows us to listen more closely to our inner lives without judgment. It teaches us to be curious rather than critical.

Journaling prayer does not require long entries or daily discipline. A few sentences can be enough. The goal is not consistency but attentiveness. God meets us in honesty, not perfection.

As you write, allow your words to become prayer—offered, trusted, and released. God is present in every line.

Prayer
God, who knows our hearts, meet us as we write. Help us listen for your truth and trust your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What might you need to name honestly before God?
2. How could writing deepen your prayer life?
3. What patterns do you notice in your spiritual journey?

Praying Ancient Prayers

Today, we continue our journey through Lent with reflections on how prayer ought to be a vital practice on our Lenten path and on the different ways we can pray. 

I  wasn’t raised with liturgy in worship.  The faith communities of my youth did not pray the Lord’s Prayer in worship, nor any other written or memorized prayers, for that matter.  There were no mentions of the Prayer of St. Patrick, nor the prayers of St. Julian of Norwich, eveSt.Augustine, and St. Francis of Assisi.  

Even as a young seminarian, I chafed under what I felt were the restrictions of written prayers, and since my exposure to ancient prayers of the Church was so limited, I lumped them into the same category. 

But over the past twenty years of ministry, I’ve grown to love some of the ancient prayers of the saints, like those I mentioned above, and many more besides.  G.K. Chesterton once wrote that “tradition is the democracy of the dead."  It provides space for the wisdom and beauty of the words written long ago, which enabled our forbears to connect with the Divine.  

When words fail us, the historic Church can give us words, ancient prayers that have been prayed throughout the centuries by so many who have gone before us.  Ancient prayers remind us that faith is never a solo journey. Long before us, others cried out, trusted God, doubted honestly, and learned to hope again. Their prayers still carry wisdom.

Jesus himself prays inherited prayers, rooted in Scripture and tradition. On the cross, he prays from Psalm 22. His prayer is not improvised; it is remembered. This reminds us that prayer does not always need originality—it needs honesty and trust.

Ancient prayers carry us when our own faith feels fragile. They become scaffolding when we lack strength. “Lord, have mercy” has been prayed for centuries because mercy never becomes irrelevant. These prayers hold faith for us when we cannot hold it ourselves.

Praying ancient words connects us to the communion of saints across time. It reminds us that our struggles are not unique and that our questions are shared. “One generation shall praise your works to another,” the psalmist declares (Psalm 145:4). Prayer becomes communal rather than solitary.

These prayers also form us. Repeating words shaped by Scripture slowly reshapes our hearts. They teach us how to name God, how to confess, how to hope. Over time, the prayers begin to pray us.

Lent is an especially fitting season to lean into these shared prayers. When we pray words handed down through generations, we resist the pressure to perform spiritually. We receive faith as a gift rather than an achievement.

Ancient prayers remind us that God has been faithful long before us—and will remain faithful long after us. They anchor us in something deeper than feeling or circumstance.

Prayer
Faithful God, thank you for prayers that carry us when our words fall short. Shape our hearts through the wisdom of those who trusted you before us. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. When do words feel hardest to find in prayer?
2. How might ancient prayers support your faith?
3. What comfort comes from shared prayer?

Solitude: Making Space for God

Living alone in a big, empty house has its benefits.  I can watch whatever I want on TV, and I can eat whatever and whenever I want.  I don’t have to stand on decorum when it comes to what I  wear or don’t wear.   

But it does have some serious drawbacks.  Over the past year and a half of living alone, I have discovered that I talk to myself a lot more than I would like.  I also hear all kinds of creaks and groans from my house, which often make me wonder if there is someone in there with me. 

I also find that in the evenings, when the day’s work is done, and there are hours to kill before bedtime, they can be among the loneliest hours of the week.  

Conversely, I have experienced moments when I am alone in which I feel enlivened, connected to God and to the world around me.  

When you live alone, you realize more acutely that there is a huge difference between solitude and loneliness. 

Solitude is not isolation; it is intentional presence. Jesus repeatedly withdraws to lonely places to pray (Luke 5:16), not to escape people, but to remain rooted in God. Solitude creates space to remember who we are beneath expectations, noise, and constant activity.

Without solitude, our spiritual lives can become reactive. We move from one demand to the next without pausing to listen. Solitude interrupts this cycle. It invites us to step away—not because life is unimportant, but because attentiveness matters. “I will lead her into the wilderness,” God says, “and speak tenderly to her” (Hosea 2:14).

Solitude exposes us. Without distraction, we encounter our thoughts, fears, and longings. This can feel unsettling. Yet Scripture consistently portrays wilderness moments as places of formation rather than abandonment. Israel is shaped there. Elijah is restored there. Jesus is clarified there.

Solitude is not about producing insight; it is about receiving presence. In solitude, we are reminded that we are loved apart from usefulness. God does not meet us only in productivity, but in stillness. “For God alone my soul waits in silence,” the psalmist prays (Psalm 62:1).

Lent invites us into honest solitude—not dramatic withdrawal, but intentional space. Even small moments matter. Turning off a screen. Taking a quiet walk. Sitting without an agenda. These moments reorient us toward God and ground us in truth.

Solitude also teaches us to live more faithfully in community. When we know who we are before God, we engage others with greater clarity and compassion. Solitude does not pull us away from love; it deepens our capacity for it.

This season, resist the urge to fill every quiet space. Let solitude become a gift rather than a threat. Trust that God meets us not only in words and activity, but in quiet attentiveness.

Prayer
God who meets us in quiet places, draw us into solitude that restores rather than isolates. Speak gently to our hearts. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What makes solitude challenging for you?
2. Where have you encountered God in quiet moments?
3. How might you create space for solitude this Lent?

Prayer As Silence

Today, we will continue our journey through the season of Lent and through reflections on Prayer, one of the key aspects of Lenten practice.  

The old adage “Silence is golden” is part of a larger 9th-century Arabic proverb: “Speech is silver, silence is golden."  It means that often it is better to stay silent than to speak what may be on your mind. 

Another way of putting it might be, "It is better to remain silent, and have everyone think you are a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." 

Silence is not easy to achieve in the culture we live in.  There is so much noise around us all of the time.  Even now, as I write this, my phone continues to vibrate, indicating that there are messages and notifications vying for my attention.  

I remember when I was in seminary, we were taught in a practicum on Worship to include a period of silence after the Prayer of Confession in the liturgy.  The professor encouraged us to make that time last at least a minute.  To illustrate, she had us stay silent while she timed it.  It seemed like a minute lasted an hour.  

But silence as prayer is something that we truly ought to practice every day.  The silence we hold has something invaluable to teach us.  

We often approach prayer with words ready—requests, explanations, confessions. Yet Scripture reminds us that silence is not the absence of prayer; it is one of its deepest forms. “Be still, and know that I am God,” the psalmist writes (Psalm 46:10). Stillness becomes an act of trust.

Silence feels uncomfortable because it strips away control. Without words, we cannot manage outcomes or shape conversations. Yet it is often in silence that God’s presence becomes most tangible. Elijah discovers this when God comes not in wind, earthquake, or fire, but in “a sound of sheer silence” (1 Kings 19:12). God is not absent from quiet; God often dwells within it.

Silent prayer teaches us to listen—not for answers, but for presence. It invites us to rest in God rather than rush to conclusions. Silence creates space for truth to surface gently, without force. Over time, it trains us to notice God’s work beneath the noise of our lives.

Silence is not empty; it is attentive. It is choosing to sit before God without agenda. In Lent, silence becomes a countercultural practice—a refusal to fill every moment with noise or productivity. It reminds us that God does not need our constant commentary to be near.

Many of us fear silence because it reveals what we would rather avoid—grief, longing, unanswered questions. Yet God meets us there with compassion. “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). Silence becomes strength when we allow it to be shared with God.

Practicing silence does not require long retreats or perfect conditions. It can begin with a few intentional minutes—turning off distractions, breathing slowly, and simply noticing that God is present. Over time, silence reshapes how we listen, respond, and pray.

In a world that prizes constant expression, silent prayer teaches us that God is already speaking—and waiting for us to listen.

Prayer
God of quiet presence, teach us to be still. Help us trust that you meet us even when words fall away. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What emotions surface for you in silence?
2. Where might God be inviting you to listen?
3. How could you practice brief silence this week?

Prayer As Relationship, Not Performance

Today in the Daily Devo, we will begin a Lenten journey through the three main practices of Lent: Prayer, Fasting & Giving.  My hope, as we journey together, is that we will discover new and challenging ways to follow Jesus in his journey to the Cross, and then beyond to the Empty Tomb. 

Lent is a gift to us in that it gives us the opportunity to return home to ourselves, our true selves.  This return is one that we need the presence of God to undertake, and that presence, as we will discover, is always ready to meet us on the road back to who we really are, embrace us, restore us, and walk with us.  

So, let us walk together, you and I, and begin our reflections on how prayer is not merely a Lenten practice but a life-giving practice that leads us down the path toward hope and joy.  

You see, Lent invites us back to the heart of prayer—not as a spiritual obligation, but as a relationship. 

Many of us carry assumptions about prayer shaped by guilt or comparison. We worry about saying the right words, praying often enough, or praying correctly. Over time, prayer can feel like something we perform for God rather than a place where we meet God.

Jesus gently dismantles this anxiety. “When you pray,” he says, “go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret” (Matthew 6:6). Prayer, in Jesus’ vision, is not about impressing God or others. It is about honesty, intimacy, and trust. God is not evaluating our prayers; God is receiving us.

Throughout Scripture, prayer takes many forms—lament, praise, silence, gratitude, confusion, even protest. The psalms remind us that nothing is off-limits in prayer. “Pour out your heart before him,” the psalmist writes, “for God is a refuge for us” (Psalm 62:8). Prayer is less about filtering our emotions and more about bringing our whole selves into God’s presence.

At its core, prayer is not about getting God’s attention. God is already attentive. Prayer is about our attention—learning to notice God’s nearness, to listen as much as we speak, and to remain open to being shaped. Paul encourages believers to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17), not by speaking nonstop, but by living with awareness that God is present in every moment.

Lent does not call us to pray harder; it calls us to pray truer. To let go of scripts and expectations. To show up as we are. When prayer becomes relationship rather than performance, it becomes a place of rest rather than pressure.

As this season begins, resist the urge to measure your prayer life. Instead, tend it. Make space. Be honest. Trust that God delights not in polished prayers, but in open hearts that are learning to trust again.

Prayer
Faithful God, draw us into prayer rooted in relationship rather than performance. Teach us to come as we are, trusting your grace meets us fully. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. How have you understood prayer in the past?
2. What makes prayer feel difficult or intimidating?
3. What might change if prayer became a place of rest?

Fruit of the Spirit: Freedom Shaped By The Spirit

This is the last of our nine reflections on the fruit of the Spirit from the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Tomorrow we will begin our journey through the season of Lent… 

One of the many things that I have been learning over the past year and a half is that not all impulses are good for you.  

For example, the impulse to buy a bunch of clothes and shoes online and rack up credit card debt is not a great use of resources, and will one day come back to bite you in the behind.  Also, the impulse to eat fast food and junk food instead of actually cooking meals will have an adverse effect on your health.  

Thankfully, I have been able to get out of debt over the past several months and am learning to make better choices when it comes to food and the expense of not planning meals.  

I also found a way to sell most of the clothes and shoes I bought on impulse, which turned out to be one of the many ways I got out of debt.  I found that I didn’t need many things (although I still have plenty) to live, and that planning meals, eating better, and saving money each had its own reward.  

But the matter of self-control has always been one that I struggle with, and perhaps this might resonate with some of you, as well.  What I’m learning is that I need a way to reframe self-control, a new way to look at it.  

Self-control is often framed as restriction, discipline, or denial—something imposed to keep desire in check. But when Paul names self-control as a fruit of the Spirit, he reframes it entirely. 

Self-control is not about repression; it is about freedom. It is the ability to live aligned with what gives life rather than being driven by impulse, fear, or compulsion.

Scripture reminds us that self-control is a gift shaped by grace, not willpower. Paul tells Timothy, “God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-discipline” (2 Timothy 1:7). Notice the order: power, love, then self-control. Self-control flows from love, not anxiety. It grows as we trust God’s presence within us.

When self-control becomes moralism, it hardens into shame. But when it becomes fruit, it creates spaciousness. It allows us to pause, discern, and choose wisely. Proverbs describes this as wisdom: “Those without self-control are like a city broken into and left without walls” (Proverbs 25:28). Self-control does not imprison us; it protects what is precious.

Jesus models this kind of freedom throughout his ministry. He resists temptation not through rigidity, but through clarity about who he is and whose he is. His choices flow from relationship with God rather than pressure from the crowd. This same clarity is what the Spirit seeks to cultivate in us.

Self-control grows slowly through attentiveness. It develops as we notice our patterns, name our desires honestly, and invite God into our decisions. Practices like prayer, silence, and reflection help us respond rather than react. Over time, we learn that we are not enslaved to every urge or emotion—we are guided by the Spirit who leads us toward life.

This fruit is not about perfection. It is about orientation. It is choosing again and again to live toward freedom, wholeness, and love. Self-control, shaped by the Spirit, becomes a gift we offer ourselves and the world.

Prayer
Spirit of wisdom, guide our choices. Shape our desires toward what is good and life-giving. Grant us freedom rooted in trust and love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you experience tension between impulse and intention?
2. How does viewing self-control as freedom change your perspective?
3. What spiritual practice might help you grow in attentiveness and discernment?

Fruit of the Spirit: Strength That Makes Room For Grace

Recently, I was working on a funeral service for a longtime member of my church, and I realized that one word kept coming up in my notes from family descriptions of him: “gentle." 

This man was described in many ways: "faithful,” “loving,” “humorous,” and more.  But it was his gentleness that seemed to be one of the many qualities he possessed that made an impact on family and friends.  

I thought about this for a while as I was composing what I was going to say in the sermon at his memorial.  I had to admit that if someone were writing a eulogy for me, “gentleness” would probably not be an adjective used to describe me. 

I thought back and guessed that I may have had gentle moments in my life, when I acted tenderly, softly, and carefully toward those I  loved.  But if my funeral were held soon (God forbid), I was almost certainly never going to be remembered as being a gentle person. 

I think I’d like to change that as much as I can, at least enough where gentleness might at least make an appearance in my future eulogy.  Maybe you might feel the same way.  

The problem most of us face is that gentleness is often misunderstood as weakness, passivity, or a lack of conviction.  Which is why many of us who have a more, shall we say, outward-facing personality, or who value being strong and determined, might dismiss it.  

In a world that rewards volume, speed, and force, gentleness can feel impractical or even ineffective. Yet Scripture consistently presents gentleness as a sign of deep spiritual strength. Gentleness is not the absence of power; it is power shaped and restrained by love.

Jesus names gentleness as central to his own character: “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:29). This is striking when we consider who Jesus is. He confronts injustice, challenges hypocrisy, and speaks truth boldly—yet he does so without crushing those who are already burdened. His gentleness creates space for healing rather than fear.

The apostle Paul echoes this vision when he urges believers to restore one another “in a spirit of gentleness” (Galatians 6:1). Gentleness is not avoidance of truth; it is truth offered in a way that can be received. It listens before reacting. It refuses to dominate or humiliate. Gentleness understands that transformation happens through grace, not coercion.

Gentleness grows in us as we become less driven by ego and more grounded in God’s love. When we are secure in who we are before God, we no longer need to prove ourselves, win every argument, or assert control. Gentleness flows from confidence rooted in grace rather than fear.

This fruit also reshapes how we treat ourselves. Many of us extend far more compassion to others than we do inwardly. Gentleness invites us to release harsh self-judgment and trust that God is patient with our growth. “A bruised reed he will not break,” Isaiah reminds us (Isaiah 42:3). God’s gentleness toward us becomes the pattern for how we live with ourselves and others.

In a culture shaped by outrage and division, gentleness becomes a quiet but radical witness. It reminds us that love does not need to shout to be strong. Gentleness builds bridges, opens hearts, and reflects the steady, healing presence of God.

Prayer
Gentle Savior, soften our hearts. Teach us to embody strength shaped by compassion, humility, and grace. Help us create space for healing in ourselves and others. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you confuse gentleness with weakness?
2. How has gentleness shaped a meaningful relationship in your life?
3. What might it look like to practice gentleness—with others or yourself—this week?

Fruit of the Spirit: Staying Grounded When Life Is Uncertain

In every church I have served as a pastor, there have been quiet, unassuming, and faithful people who show up to do the work of the church, and without whom the work of the church wouldn’t happen. 

These are the people who make coffee for hundreds of people on Sunday mornings, prepare the elements for Holy Communion, and work as greeters, ushers, and unofficial ambassadors for the community.  

They sort clothes to be given to the unhoused, prepare food for memorial service receptions, visit the homebound members, and deliver meals to those who have had surgery, a new baby, or a death in the family.  

There are many who serve without much recognition on service projects, mission trips, church workdays, card writing, organizing gatherings, and cleaning up after events. 

I am always humbled by the faithfulness of these folks and filled with immense gratitude for the many gifts they bring to the community of faith.  I have also learned so much about being faithful from them over the past 28 years of serving in church ministry. 

Sometimes, faithfulness means that you are not out in front; you don’t get the affirmation and adulation of the stage.  You show up.  You are committed.  You do what needs to be done and find joy in the doing. 

There’s a deeper lesson in all of this about what it means to be faithful; a lesson grounded in what it means to faithfully serve a God who is faithful.  

Faithfulness is not flashy. It does not draw attention to itself. Faithfulness is the quiet commitment to remain rooted in God, especially when circumstances feel unstable. 

Scripture reminds us, “If we are faithless, he remains faithful” (2 Timothy 2:13). God’s faithfulness does not depend on our consistency; it sustains it.

Biblical faithfulness is relational rather than transactional. It grows through trust, perseverance, and presence. The psalmist declares, “Your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever; your faithfulness to all generations” (Psalm 100:5). God’s faithfulness becomes the ground beneath our own.

Jesus models faithfulness through obedience rooted in love. He remains committed to his calling even when misunderstood, opposed, and abandoned. His faithfulness is not rigid—it is resilient.

Faithfulness grows slowly through ordinary practices: prayer, worship, service, and showing up again and again. It is nurtured through habits that anchor us when emotions fluctuate.

When faithfulness becomes fruit, it is less about perfection and more about persistence. It reflects trust that God is present, even when outcomes are uncertain.

Prayer
Faithful God, help us remain rooted in you. Strengthen our commitment when the path feels unclear. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where are you being invited to remain steady?
2. How has God’s faithfulness sustained you in the past?
3. What practices help you stay rooted in trust?

Fruit of the Spirit: Choosing What Leads To Life

One of my favorite movies is the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with Gene Wilder as the eccentric Willy Wonka.

While the movie often veered sharply from Roald Dahl’s book, Wilder’s performance has remained unmatched in all subsequent remakes.

There is a moment at the end of the film where Wilder’s Wonka rails at Charlie and his Uncle Joe, berating them mercilessly for theft of candy secrets, even though it wasn’t true.

Charlie sadly starts to leave, but then turns and brings back the Everlasting Gobstopper he’d had in his hand, a piece of candy he could have sold to Wonka’s competitors.

Then Wonka says the line, “So shines a good deed in a weary world.” Then he turns and exclaims to Charlie that he’d won the contest and one day would become the owner of the chocolate factory.

I’ve always loved that scene, and especially the line Wilder delivered. That line actually comes from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, and in full it reads like this:

“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”

As I think about what goodness means in the context of Paul’s fruits of the Spirit in Galatians, I can’t help but think of that line, and the implications for acting with goodness in a world that is weary.

Goodness is often confused with moral perfection, but the fruit of the Spirit points us toward something richer and more relational.

Biblical goodness is not about flawlessness; it is about alignment with what gives life. The psalmist invites us, “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8). Goodness flows from knowing God, not merely obeying rules.

Goodness reflects God’s own character. Throughout Scripture, God’s goodness is described as faithful, sustaining, and generous. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” Psalm 23 proclaims. Goodness is not fragile; it pursues us even in difficult seasons.

Jesus consistently points people toward goodness that restores rather than condemns. He challenges systems that harm and heals those who suffer. His goodness is not passive—it confronts injustice and invites transformation. Paul encourages believers to cling to what is good, even when evil feels louder (Romans 12:9, 21).

Goodness grows in us as we learn to discern what leads to wholeness—for ourselves, our neighbors, and creation. It requires attentiveness, humility, and courage. Choosing goodness often means resisting convenience or comfort in favor of compassion and integrity.

This fruit develops slowly as we stay rooted in God’s presence. It shapes our decisions, not through fear of failure, but through desire for life-giving choices. Goodness becomes less about avoiding wrong and more about actively participating in God’s healing work.

When goodness is fruit, not performance, it draws others toward hope. It reflects a life formed by grace rather than guilt.

Prayer
Good and gracious God, shape our hearts toward what is life-giving. Help us choose goodness that reflects your love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. How do you currently define goodness?

2. Where is God inviting you to choose what leads to life?

3. What practices help you stay aligned with God’s goodness?

Fruit of the Spirit: Love That Takes Shape

As we continue our study of the fruit of the Spirit from the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Galatians in the New Testament, we arrive at the fruit of kindness.  

What is kindness?  The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines kindness as “The quality or state of being kind,” which isn’t much of a definition, to be fair. But when you look at synonyms of kindness, you see words like tenderness, generosity, warmth, benevolence, tenderheartedness, and humaneness.

In other words, kindness is a broad umbrella that covers many other-focused behaviors.  You know it when you see it, feel it, receive it and give it. 

We all have stories of how we experienced others’ kindness, and maybe even a few where we stepped outside ourselves and showed it.  It’s often an impulse that we feel when we see someone in need, or an intentional act to help someone who is hurting.  

But in the way that it becomes one of Paul’s fruits of the Spirit, kindness is love made visible. It is compassion translated into action, mercy that shows up in ordinary moments. 

While kindness may appear small or insignificant, Scripture consistently presents it as a powerful expression of God’s character. Paul urges the church, “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you” (Ephesians 4:32).

Biblical kindness is not about being nice or avoiding conflict. It is rooted in empathy and generosity of spirit. Kindness sees the humanity in others, even when it would be easier to dismiss or judge. The psalmist proclaims, “The Lord is good to all, and his compassion is over all that he has made” (Psalm 145:9). God’s kindness is wide, generous, and unearned.

Jesus consistently embodies this fruit. He notices those overlooked by society, touches those considered untouchable, and speaks with gentleness to those burdened by shame. His kindness does not excuse harm, but it creates space for healing. Paul reminds us that “God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance” (Romans 2:4). Kindness, not fear, becomes the catalyst for change.

Kindness grows slowly in us as we stay close to God’s heart. It shows up in patience with difficult people, attentiveness to suffering, and willingness to forgive. It often looks unspectacular—an encouraging word, a listening ear, a small act of care—but these gestures reflect God’s presence in the world.

When kindness becomes fruit rather than performance, it flows naturally. We stop asking whether someone deserves compassion and start responding out of who we are becoming. Kindness does not require perfect circumstances; it requires an open heart.

In a world shaped by harshness and division, kindness becomes a quiet but radical witness. It reminds us that love still has weight, and gentleness still has power.

Prayer
God of compassion, shape our hearts toward kindness. Help us reflect your mercy in the ways we speak, listen, and act. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where is kindness most needed in your daily life?
2. How has God’s kindness shaped your own story?
3. What small act of kindness might the Spirit be inviting you into today?

Fruit of the Spirit: Learning to Live at God’s Pace

As we continue through our exploration of the fruit of the Spirit from Galatians 5:22-23, we finally come to patience.  Aren’t you glad you waited?

That last joke wasn’t particularly funny, and neither is having to be patient.  

My house has been for sale for sixteen months in what has become a lousy real estate market in Austin, TX.  If I had sold my house a couple of years ago, it would have been different, but that’s a story for another day. 

Through this long process, I have learned patience and the humility that comes from having no control over the outcome.  I changed realtors a few months ago, and my new realtor assured me that my house would sell, but it would have to be for the right buyer (an obvious point, but one that needed to be made).  

As it turns out, the right buyer came along, and my house is currently under contract.  And now I’m having to learn a new kind of patience, the kind that teaches you that a real estate deal isn’t done until the money gets wired into your account.  

All of this has caused me to reflect on not only the long wait to sell my house, but also the patience to not make myself sick with worry as I wait for the process to complete. 

Patience is one of the most misunderstood fruits of the Spirit. We often think of it as passive waiting or quiet endurance, something we practice when circumstances force us to slow down. But biblical patience is far more active and far more demanding. Patience is the spiritual discipline of trusting God’s timing when everything in us wants resolution now.

Scripture consistently describes God as patient. “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Psalm 103:8). God’s patience is not indifference; it is love that refuses to give up on unfinished people. Peter reminds the early church, “The Lord is not slow about his promise… but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish” (2 Peter 3:9). God’s pace is shaped by mercy, not urgency.

Our impatience often reveals where we are trying to control outcomes—our own growth, other people’s change, or God’s responses. We want clarity, healing, reconciliation, and justice on our timetable. Yet Scripture invites us into a slower, deeper trust. “Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him,” the psalmist writes (Psalm 37:7). Stillness becomes an act of faith.

Patience grows when we accept that transformation is rarely instant. The fruit of the Spirit does not ripen overnight. Like any living thing, it develops through seasons—some visible, some hidden. James encourages believers to see waiting not as wasted time, but as formative time: “Let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete” (James 1:4).

Jesus models patience in his relationships. He walks with confused disciples, answers the same questions repeatedly, and remains faithful even when they fail him. His patience creates space for growth rather than demanding perfection.

Patience, then, is not weakness. It is strength shaped by trust. It is choosing to believe that God is at work even when progress feels slow. When we stop rushing what God is still forming, patience becomes a quiet confidence that grace is doing its work.

Prayer
Patient God, slow our hearts and steady our spirits. Teach us to trust your timing and remain faithful in the waiting. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you feel most impatient right now?
2. What might God be forming in you through waiting?
3. How does remembering God’s patience toward you shape your response to others?

Fruit of the Spirit: The Peace of God’s Nearness

Before my recent trip to Senegal, Africa, I was uneasy.  I didn’t know what to expect. I was worried about a number of things, like flight delays, catching some unknown disease, but mostly being out of my comfort zone on an almost constant basis. 

But when I got on the plane and settled in, I silently prayed a short prayer to God, which went something like this:  “I have no idea what is ahead, but I’m tired of this feeling of uncertainty. It’s too much.  You take it."  

In that moment of letting go, I felt something wash over me.  It was a feeling of relief that came from letting it all go–all the worry, anxiety, dread faded away.  I have to say, it doesn’t always work like that for me, but for some reason, it did in that moment.  

For the rest of the trip, I had a sense of peace I couldn’t fully understand, but I embraced it nonetheless.  I found myself able to be more fully present, to be in the moment, and to spend my time seeking to learn, grow, and to experience God’s presence in ways I never expected.  

This got me thinking, as these things often do, about what it means to feel the peace of God and why it’s so hard to do so most of the time.  

Peace is often imagined as the absence of conflict, but the peace promised by God is far more robust. Biblical peace—shalom—is wholeness, presence, and deep rootedness in God. Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you” (John 14:27). This peace does not erase difficulty; it accompanies us through it.

Paul describes peace as something that “surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). It cannot be explained or controlled. It arrives when we release our grip on outcomes and entrust ourselves to God’s care.

Peace grows when prayer becomes less about managing life and more about resting in God’s presence. Psalm 46:10 invites us to “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness is not inactivity; it is trust. It is choosing to believe that God is already at work.

Peace is fruit, not reward. It grows as we practice surrender, prayer, and attentiveness. It settles into our lives slowly, shaping how we respond rather than react.

Prayer
Prince of Peace, quiet our anxious hearts. Help us rest in your presence and trust your care. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What disrupts your sense of peace most often?
2. How does prayer shape your experience of peace?
3. Where might God be inviting you to rest?

Fruit of the Spirit: Joy That Outlasts Circumstances

As we continue our devotional series on the fruit of the Spirit from Galatians 5:22-23, we move on to the “fruit” of joy.  

I recently had the chance to wander around downtown Orlando with my oldest and youngest sons as we searched for a taco restaurant to grab a meal before attending an Orlando Magic basketball game. 

We finally found our destination, and the stellar reviews of the place were spot on.  I had probably some of the best tacos I’ve had in my life.   We ate, joked, and told stories, then went to a game where the home team won by a landslide; we cheered and had a tremendous time. 

My boys are all nearly grown.  My oldest turned 31 this past week, and my youngest doesn’t have long before he’s sixteen and driving around on his own.  Spending time with them was pure joy for me.  I’ve missed being around them, hearing about what’s happening in their lives, eating with them, laughing with them, and taking in every moment.  

I realized that I was happy, but there was more to it than that.  The pure joy that I felt was coming from somewhere else, someplace deeper.  The more I thought about it, the more I came to know that the joy I was feeling was something I’d had inside of me all along, but had failed to recognize as such.  

You see, joy is often mistaken for happiness, but the joy named by the Apostle Paul is far deeper and far more resilient. Happiness depends on what is happening around us; joy is anchored in what is true beneath us. Joy is not the absence of sorrow—it is the presence of God that holds us steady through it.

The psalmist writes, “You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound” (Psalm 4:7). Joy is not tied to abundance; it flows from trust. Paul echoes this conviction while imprisoned: “Rejoice in the Lord always” (Philippians 4:4). This is not denial of suffering; it is defiance of despair.

Biblical joy allows space for grief. Jesus himself wept, lamented, and carried sorrow. Yet joy remained present even in the shadow of the cross. Resurrection does not erase pain; it transforms it. “Weeping may linger for the night,” the psalmist says, “but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Joy follows the night—it does not deny it.

Joy becomes fruit when we learn to see God at work even in unfinished stories. It grows through gratitude, prayer, and honest community. Nehemiah reminds weary people rebuilding a broken city, “The joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10). Joy does not drain us; it sustains us.

This joy is not loud or performative. Sometimes it is quiet endurance. Sometimes it is the ability to keep going. Sometimes it is hope that refuses to disappear.

Joy is not something we summon; it is something the Spirit grows when we remain rooted in God’s presence. It steadies us when circumstances feel unstable and reminds us that despair never has the final word.

Prayer
God of joy, anchor our hearts in your presence. Help us discover joy that sustains us, even in uncertain and difficult seasons. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you confuse joy with happiness?
2. What practices help you remain open to joy?
3. How might joy become a source of strength for you?

Fruit of The Spirit: It Starts With Love

I was thinking the other day about what it takes to be a really good human in a culture that, at times, seems downright inhumane.  To be fair, I realized I struggle with this, so there was a bit of introspection involved as well.  

In the end, my thoughts took me to a couple of verses in the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Galatians in the New Testament, and what is commonly known as the “fruit of the Spirit."   In Galatians 5:22-23, Paul outlines what he believes to be the "fruit” or sign of a person who is being led by the Spirit of God: 

22 By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, 23 gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things.

These nine signs have been the subject of countless sermons, books, theological treatises, Bible studies, and more. I have preached on them numerous times over the past twenty years. 

But in light of our current cultural climate, I thought I would revisit them, and write some Devos on each one, beginning with love.  

The Apostle Paul begins his teaching on the fruit of the Spirit with love, not because it is the simplest virtue, but because it is foundational. 

Love is not merely one fruit among many; it is the root system from which all the others grow. Without love, joy becomes shallow, patience becomes forced, and kindness becomes selective. Love is the soil in which the Spirit does its deepest work.

Scripture reminds us that love is never something we generate on our own. “We love because God first loved us” (1 John 4:19). This reverses the logic many of us learned. Love is not a spiritual achievement; it is a response. It flows from encounter, not effort. Jesus makes this unmistakable when he says, “Abide in me as I abide in you… apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:4–5). Love emerges naturally from connection, not obligation.

Biblical love is far more demanding than sentiment. Paul’s famous words in 1 Corinthians 13 describe love as patient, kind, resilient, and enduring. This love does not insist on its own way. It bears, hopes, and perseveres. Such love cannot be sustained through willpower alone. It is cultivated through prayer, humility, and proximity to God’s heart.

When love becomes fruit rather than performance, it changes how we see others. We stop asking who deserves compassion and start asking how God might be loving the world through us. Jesus names this love as the defining mark of discipleship: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).

Love grows slowly. It stretches us. It matures through forgiveness and failure alike. The Spirit forms love in us as we remain open, present, and willing to be changed.

You are not asked to love perfectly. You are invited to remain connected to the One who is love. Over time, the fruit will come.

Prayer
Loving God, root us deeply in your grace. Shape our hearts so that love flows naturally from our lives. Help us trust the work your Spirit is doing within us. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you find love most challenging right now?
2. How does abiding in God reshape your understanding of love?
3. What helps you stay rooted in love rather than effort?

Repentance and Forgiveness

When I was young, I had a pretty severe understanding of how God worked.  I figured that God was just waiting around for me to mess up, so that judgment would fall upon me in some fashion.  

I lived in fear of this God, not the biblical kind, which speaks of respect, but absolute dread.  I thought that I constantly had one foot in Hell and the other on a banana peel.  It wasn’t a great way to experience faith. 

Even as I’ve grown spiritually and in my relationship with God and faith, I still have lingering feelings at times that I’m not measuring up.  I think most of us have had or continue to have those kinds of feelings, despite how loving we believe God to be.  

Repentance and forgiveness sit at the very heart of the Christian life, yet they are often misunderstood. Many of us were taught—directly or indirectly—to imagine God as a strict rule-keeper, a divine accountant tracking every failure. 

In that framework, repentance becomes a fearful transaction: we confess so God will not punish us. But Scripture paints a far more beautiful picture. Repentance is not about groveling before an angry God; it is about turning back toward a God who never stopped loving us.

Richard Rohr names this with stunning clarity:

“every time God forgives us, God is saying that God’s own rules do not matter as much as the relationship that God wants to create with us.”

This does not mean God has no moral vision or that our choices are unimportant. It means that God’s deepest priority is not enforcing perfection, but restoring communion. Forgiveness is not God reluctantly bending the rules; it is God revealing the very purpose of the rules—to guide us into life, wholeness, and love.

The psalmist captures this posture when he prays, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10). Notice the focus is not merely on erasing guilt, but on transformation. Repentance is a turning of the heart, a reorientation toward the God who renews us from the inside out.

Jesus embodies this truth again and again. In the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32), the father does not wait with folded arms and a lecture prepared. He runs. He embraces. He restores. The son’s confession matters, but it is the father’s love that sets everything in motion. The relationship matters more than the record of wrongs.

The apostle John assures us, “If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). Forgiveness flows not from our ability to fix ourselves, but from God’s faithful character. Paul echoes this when he writes, “God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance” (Romans 2:4). It is grace that invites change, not shame.

When we truly grasp this, repentance becomes less about fear and more about hope. We turn back to God not because we are terrified of rejection, but because we trust in mercy. We change not to earn love, but because we are already loved.

So if you are longing for a new beginning, take heart. Turn toward God with honesty. Open your life to transformation. You are met by a God whose grace is wider than your failures and whose mercy is deeper than your regret. In repentance, you are not condemned—you are welcomed home.

Prayer
Gracious God, thank you for loving us more than our mistakes. Create in us clean hearts and willing spirits. Help us turn toward you with trust, knowing that your mercy meets us every time. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. How have you tended to view repentance in the past—through fear or through hope?
2. Where do you sense God inviting you into change or renewal right now?
3. What might it look like to trust God’s forgiveness more deeply this week?

The Purpose That Grows From Presence

One of the many questions I get from church members in my role as a pastor is, “How do I find my purpose in life?" 

This is an equal opportunity question because I’ve been asked it by people of all ages, life stages, genders, and backgrounds.  It speaks to a universal longing to fulfill a meaningful purpose in the world.  

And our ideas about what that might look like change over time, so we often ask it at various stages of life as we transition from one season to another. 

I’ve been learning about what it takes to discover our purpose, and it’s not exactly what most of us think about when we ponder what sort of purpose we might be pursuing.   

Few questions feel as weighty as What is my purpose? As I said, we carry it through different seasons of life, often with a quiet sense of urgency. We wonder whether we are missing something essential, or if there is a single hidden answer we must uncover to truly matter. The search can become exhausting, even paralyzing.

Kurt Vonnegut offers a surprisingly playful and profound perspective in Cat’s Cradle:

“In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in His cosmic loneliness.
And God said, ‘Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done.’ And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close to mud as man sat up, looked around, and spoke. Man blinked. ‘What is the purpose of all this?’ he asked politely.
‘Everything must have a purpose?’ asked God.
‘Certainly,’ said man.
‘Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,’ said God.

And He went away.”

There is holy wisdom tucked inside this imagined exchange. The God of Scripture is not a distant taskmaster handing out rigid job descriptions. The God who creates in love invites human beings into relationship, wonder, creativity, and responsibility. Purpose, in this sense, is not merely discovered like a hidden object; it is lived into.

Jesus reminds us that the heart of faithful living is relational before it is functional: “Abide in me as I abide in you” (John 15:4). Notice that Jesus does not say, Figure everything out first. He says, Stay connected. From that connection, fruit naturally grows.

The prophet Micah offers a simple vision of what faithful life looks like: “to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). These are not specialized callings reserved for a few. They are everyday ways of being in the world, available to all.

We often spend enormous energy trying to decode God’s master plan for our lives while neglecting the quieter, more faithful work of paying attention—to God’s presence, to our neighbors, to creation, to our own hearts. Yet Psalm 46:10 gently calls us back: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness, not striving, becomes the doorway to clarity.

Purpose may be less about finding the right role and more about cultivating the right relationship. When we walk closely with God, when we practice love, mercy, and humility, our lives begin to take on meaning in ways we could never have scripted.

So draw near to the God who is already near to you. Listen. Love. Live awake. You may discover that your purpose has been unfolding all along.

Prayer
Gracious God, free us from the pressure to have everything figured out. Draw us into deeper relationship with you. Teach us to trust that as we walk with you, our lives will take shape in ways that reflect your love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you feel pressure to “figure out” your purpose right now?
2. What helps you feel most connected to God’s presence?
3. How might focusing on relationship rather than answers change the way you approach your life?

Faith That Dares To Question

If you have wondered why so many Christian traditions cling to biblical interpretations that narrow the scope of God’s grace, exclude women from leadership, and deny the inclusion of LGBTQ+ folk in the church, it comes down to a simple argument: Certainty. 

Certainty in beliefs, certainty in biblical interpretation, and certainty that they are right about all of it.  There can be no grey areas in the belief system of many Christians, because they fear that if there is one, there will be more, and more, and then their whole system falls apart. 

I know this because I used to have these kinds of beliefs.  

Many of us were taught, implicitly or explicitly, that strong faith means having all the answers. We learned to equate belief with certainty, confidence with correctness, and questioning with weakness. Over time, this can quietly shape a brittle spirituality—one that fears curiosity and avoids mystery. Yet Scripture and lived experience tell a different story: faith that grows is often faith that wrestles.

Rachel Held Evans names this truth with gentle clarity:

Certainty can feel safe. It gives us clean lines and clear categories. But when certainty hardens into rigidity, it can close us off from the living, surprising God who refuses to fit neatly into our boxes. Doubt, on the other hand, can become a doorway—a sacred invitation to go deeper.

Throughout Scripture, some of the most faithful people are also the most questioning. Abraham asks God, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?” (Genesis 18:25). The psalmists cry out, “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:1). Job demands answers in the midst of his suffering. Even Mary responds to the angel’s announcement with an honest question: “How can this be?” (Luke 1:34). These are not voices of unbelief; they are voices of relationship.

Jesus himself honors this kind of faith. When Thomas says he needs to see and touch the wounds, Jesus does not shame him. Instead, Jesus meets him in his doubt and invites him closer (John 20:24–29). Faith is not presented as the absence of questions, but as the courage to bring our questions into God’s presence.

When we cling too tightly to certainty, we risk confusing our interpretations with God’s truth. We stop listening. We stop learning. We stop being transformed. But when we embrace uncertainty, we make room for wonder. We allow our faith to breathe, stretch, and mature.

Uncertainty does not mean we have no anchor. Our anchor is not perfect understanding; our anchor is God’s steadfast love. It is trusting that even when we don’t know, we are still known. Even when we don’t see clearly, God is still at work.

So if you find yourself questioning, wondering, or doubting, take heart. You are not failing at faith. You are practicing it. Let your uncertainty become a holy curiosity that draws you closer to God, deeper into love, and further along the lifelong path of becoming.

Prayer
Gracious God, give us courage to be honest about what we don’t know. Free us from the need to have everything figured out. Meet us in our questions, and use them to deepen our trust in you. Teach us to see doubt not as the enemy of faith, but as a companion on the journey. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where have you felt pressure to appear certain in your faith?
2. What questions about God or life have you been holding quietly?
3. How might embracing curiosity open new space for growth in your spiritual life?Fai

Hope Under The Frozen Ground

Winter came for most of us these past couple of weeks.  Even here in Central Texas, the ground froze, sleet fell, and everything was covered in ice.  

And amid this frozenness, we have seen so much violence and unrest on the Midwest’s frozen streets, fear gripping us all like an icy hand rising from the ground.  And we wonder if the sun is ever going to come out again, to shed light and warmth on our souls.  

The snow and ice and snow here in Texas have all but melted, but the feeling still remains for many of us.  Things aren’t as they ought to be in the world around us, and we are left wondering what to do. 

There are seasons when it feels as though darkness has the upper hand. The headlines are heavy. The stories of violence, injustice, and cruelty seem endless. We may find ourselves whispering a painful question: Is goodness still strong enough? Is hope still reasonable?

Vincent van Gogh once named this tension with striking honesty:

“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.”

Van Gogh reminds us that hope is not denial. Hope does not pretend winter isn’t cold. It does not minimize pain or explain away suffering. Hope simply refuses to believe that winter gets the final word.

Scripture echoes this same stubborn confidence. The psalmist declares, “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Notice that joy does not cancel the night; it follows it. The apostle Paul writes, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21). Not because evil is weak, but because goodness—rooted in God—is stronger.

When Jesus stood in the shadow of the cross, the darkness looked absolute. Yet resurrection was already on its way. The light was not extinguished; it was hidden, gathering strength. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5).

Hope, then, is not naive optimism. It is courageous trust. It is choosing to believe that God is still at work beneath the frozen surface. It is planting seeds even when the ground looks barren. It is loving when hate seems louder. It is praying when answers feel distant.

You may not feel summer today. You may still be shivering in winter’s grip. But God’s promise stands: the thaw will come. The wind will turn. Life will push through what looked dead.

So hold on to hope, even with trembling hands. Hold on not because times are easy, but because God is faithful. And faithfulness, in the end, always outlasts the frost.

Prayer
God of light and life, when the darkness feels overwhelming, anchor us in your promises. Help us trust that you are still working, still healing, still bringing new life. Give us courage to hope, even when we are weary. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you most feel the weight of darkness or discouragement right now?
2. What small signs of “thaw” or goodness have you noticed, even in difficult seasons?
3. What might it look like for you to practice hope in a tangible way this week?

Does God Really Care About Football?

Two Sundays ago, the football season ended for my beloved Denver Broncos.  We were one game away from heading to the Super Bowl, but lost during a blinding snowstorm without our starting quarterback who broke his foot the week before. 

I’m still a little bitter over the loss.  I have to admit that I offered a prayer to God the night before the game, and said something like, “God, I know that you probably don’t care one bit about the outcome of a football game, but if you could see your way clear to do it just this once, and let me team win, that would be more than great."  

I’ve had many prayers go unanswered in my life, and there was probably a reason for it.  This was one I really wish God had decided to weigh in on, though.  

Anyone who has ever loved a sports team knows the feeling. When they win, we feel light, energized, almost unstoppable. When they lose, it can feel strangely heavy, as if a small grief has settled into our chest. 

We invest more than time into these moments—we invest hope, identity, and emotion. That is why a championship can feel transcendent, and a last-second loss can feel personal.

During my recent trip to Senegal, the Senegal national soccer team won the Africa Cup — a tournament for national teams in Africa.  It was a game fraught with controversy, and the Senegalese were certain it would be stolen from them.  And then they won.  

The next day, I was talking with one of our translators on the trip about the match, and he said, “God was with us, and good triumphed over evil.” 

I understood this immediately.  But hearing it from someone else made me pause and truly ask myself: Does God really care about the outcome of a match? Does God pick sides on the field?

Scripture does not suggest that God is orchestrating final scores or favoring one team over another. But Scripture does tell us something deeply reassuring: God cares about us. God cares about what moves our hearts. God cares about what lifts us up and what brings us low.

Paul writes, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15). This is not only a command for how we treat one another—it is also a window into God’s own heart. Throughout the Bible, we see a God who is emotionally present with humanity. In Psalm 34 we are told, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit.” In John’s Gospel, Jesus stands at the tomb of his friend Lazarus and weeps (John 11:35), even though he knows resurrection is coming. God does not rush past human emotion. God enters it.

So while God may not be invested in the standings or the trophy, God is invested in the people in the stands and on the couch. God delights when we experience joy, connection, and celebration. God mourns when disappointment, grief, or sorrow weighs on us. And this truth extends far beyond sports.

When we fall in love. When we welcome a child. When we land a job. When we lose someone we love. When a dream comes true. When a season ends in heartbreak. God is present in it all.

The good news is not that God makes our team win. The good news is that God stays with us—win or lose, cheering or crying, hopeful or hurting. God’s greatest allegiance is not to a scoreboard, but to our hearts.

May we trust that in every joy and every sorrow, we are not alone.

Prayer:
Compassionate God, thank you for caring about our lives and our hearts. Rejoice with us in our joys and hold us close in our sorrows. Help us remember that your presence is our greatest victory. Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. Where do you notice yourself experiencing strong emotions connected to sports or competition?
2. How does it feel to imagine God sharing in your joys and sorrows?
3. Where might you need to invite God’s presence into your emotional life right now?

America’s Original Sin

Standing on Gorée Island off the coast of Senegal, where millions of African men, women, and children were held before being forced across the Atlantic, into slavery, it is impossible to remain untouched. 

The stones seem to carry memory. The narrow doorways whisper stories of terror and loss. And the ocean—so beautiful and vast—bears the weight of unspeakable suffering. Gorée does not allow for distance or abstraction. It insists on truth.

As part of my trip to Senegal, I had the opportunity to walk those stones and enter the cells where millions of people were held in the most inhumane ways possible.  I felt like I was walking on sacred ground, because I was.  

There is a doorway that leads to what used to be a dock where slaves were herded like cattle, and subsequently shipped off to the Americas (both North and South).  That door was called “The Door of No Return."  Some slaves, upon passing through that door, ultimately threw themselves into the shark-infested waters outside it, weigned down with chains.  They chose death over a life of horrible servitude and abuse.  

Later that day, I began to reflect on my experience and realized a few things.  

Many have named slavery as America’s "original sin"—not simply because it existed, but because it was justified, normalized, and woven into economic, political, and even theological systems. 

Frederick Douglass understood this painful contradiction when he wrote: 

“Between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference.” 

His words expose how easily faith can be distorted when power and profit are placed above human dignity.

Scripture tells us plainly that every human being is created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). To deny another’s humanity is to deny God’s own imprint upon them. The prophets repeatedly cry out against systems that exploit and dehumanize: “Learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow” (Isaiah 1:17). These words are not suggestions; they are a summons.

When Pope John Paul II visited Gorée Island in 1992, he stood in repentance, naming the transatlantic slave trade a grave sin and asking for forgiveness, saying, in essence, that Christians must confess the wrongs committed against the African people and against humanity itself. His posture reminds us that repentance is not about shame alone—it is about transformation.

To say that slavery is an original sin does not mean we are trapped in the past. It means we acknowledge that its legacy still shapes our present. Racism, inequality, and injustice did not appear out of nowhere. They grew from roots that were planted long ago. And healing requires that we tell the truth about those roots.

The psalmist prays, “Search me, O God, and know my heart… and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23–24). This is the prayer of a people willing to learn, to repent, and to be changed.

Gorée Island calls us not only to remember, but to commit—to deeper study, honest repentance, and faithful action. It calls us to become people who do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God (Micah 6:8).

Prayer:
God of truth and mercy, open our eyes to the sins of the past and their impact on the present. Give us courage to repent, wisdom to learn, and hearts committed to justice and reconciliation. Lead us in the way of healing and hope. Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. What does it mean for you to name slavery as America’s original sin?
2. Where do you see its legacy still at work today?
3. How might God be calling you to participate in repentance, learning, and repair?