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?

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?

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?

Joy That Strengthens Us

“The joy of the Lord is your strength.” — Nehemiah 8:10

I have struggled with depression for most of my adult life.  

I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling at first when the symptoms became too acute to ignore.  I would describe it as “feeling blue,” or just say I needed a “basement day,” to sleep or binge-watch television.  

After my mom passed away several years ago, my struggle intensified, so I hired a therapist.  

During one of our sessions, she asked me how I was feeling, and I told her I didn’t feel like getting out of bed in the morning. I summoned just enough energy to do the things I had to do, but had little left afterward.  I felt numb, walking around like a zombie. 

And then I remember saying to her, “It’s like the complete absence of joy."  

Thanks be to God, I’ve been able to do enough therapy and was also prescribed the proper medication to help me cope with the chronic symptoms of depression.  

I’ve also rediscovered my sense of joy, which I never realized was such an incredible part of my life and wellness.  

We often treat joy as a bonus emotion—something welcome but unnecessary, pleasant but nonessential. But Scripture presents joy as strength, sustenance, and resilience. Joy is the deep current beneath faithful living—not loud or flashy, but steadying and empowering.

The people of Israel heard these words in Nehemiah’s day when their city was in ruins and their spirits were low. Tears flowed as they recognized their failures and feared their future. Yet Nehemiah’s message was startling: joy, not shame, would sustain them. The joy of God—not their enthusiasm, optimism, or effort—would be the source of renewal.

Advent teaches this same paradox. Joy enters where there is need: a poor couple traveling under imperial decree, shepherds laboring at night, wise men navigating uncertainty. Joy is not a reward for settled circumstances but the sustainer of weary hearts.

This joy is rooted in God’s delight—God’s joy over us, God’s pleasure in redeeming what is broken, God’s nearness that turns mourning toward dancing. Our circumstances may not feel joyful, but our God rejoices in restoring, in liberating, in redeeming. His joy strengthens us.

Where do you feel depleted? What burden drains your resolve? Joy does not deny exhaustion—it infuses us with the ability to endure it. Joy whispers, “There is more than what you see.” It reminds us that God is at work even when we are worn thin.

Mary drew strength not from certainty but from joy—“My soul magnifies the Lord.” The shepherds returned glorifying God after witnessing glory they did not expect. The Magi rejoiced with “exceeding great joy,” because their long journey had not been wasted.

This same joy strengthens you. Let it seep beneath your anxieties, your disappointments, your to-do lists, and your limitations. Joy is not noise—it is nourishment.

Receive it. Let God’s joy over you be your strength.

Prayer

God of deep joy, fill us with Your delight. Strengthen us where we are tired, discouraged, or afraid. Teach us to draw from joy not as a fleeting emotion but as a sustaining gift. May Your joy be the current that carries us through our waiting and our work. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in your life do you feel most depleted and in need of joy’s strength?
2. How does it change your understanding to think of joy as God’s delight over you rather than your effort to feel happy?
3. What practices help you receive joy rather than force it?

The Courage To Lament

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” — Psalm 13:1

“The only whole heart is a broken one, because it is open.” — Margaret Becker

Some time ago, when I was on sabbatical in Edinburgh, I had a moment when the grief of all the losses I’d experienced over the past several years became too much to bear.  

I’d been holding everything inside, trying to intellectualize it all based on my own knowledge of pastoral counseling, psychology, and the like–twenty years of experience, in fact.  

I’d been in talk therapy for years, attended Al-Anon faithfully, and even worked with a life coach. I was covering all the bases, but hadn’t yet had the breakthrough I was seeking.   

In the end, it took hearing a song while I was getting ready for a day of exploring (a song that seemingly had absolutely nothing to do with any of it) to trigger an outpouring of grief, rage, sorrow, and bitterness to come rushing to the surface. 

I’ve thought a lot about that moment, and I still don’t fully understand why that particular song was the catalyst; however, I do know that it was time for something to break, and it did.  

I ended up crying uncontrollably for nearly forty-five minutes, alternately railing at God and begging for God’s presence to give me peace.  When it finally ended, I lay on my hotel room bed wrung out, exhausted, but also feeling a sense of relief that I hadn’t felt in years.  

And I learned something about what it means to lament, and how sometimes that lamenting can be the only thing left for us to do to begin charting a new way forward after being wracked by grief.      

You see, there are moments when faith begins not with confidence but with a cry. We were taught to bring God our praise, but Scripture also teaches us to bring our pain. 

 The psalms are full of raw honesty: anger, grief, abandonment, bewilderment. And yet, in that honesty lies the beginning of healing.

Lament is the language of those who refuse to give up on a relationship with God, even when they can’t feel God’s presence. 

 It says, “I still believe You are there, or I wouldn’t be talking.” The absence of lament in much of modern faith isn’t a sign of maturity—it’s a sign of fear. We are afraid to appear ungrateful or weak. But God would rather hear our anger than our silence.

In lament, we turn our wounds toward the light. We name injustice, loss, and longing before the One who can bear it all. Walter Brueggemann once wrote that lament “is an act of bold faith precisely because it insists that the world must be made right.” The lamenter believes that what is, is not what must be.

When Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus, and then over Jerusalem during his week of Passion, He joined the long chorus of the broken-hearted faithful. When He cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He sanctified every human cry that has ever risen in the dark.

To lament, then, is not to lose faith but to live it. It is trusting that God is still listening, still near, still tender with those who dare to speak their truth through their tears.

Prayer:
God who hears our cries,
teach us to bring You what hurts.
Meet us in our sorrow with mercy,
and remind us that our tears are prayers You understand.
Hold us in the dark until light returns.
Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. What have you been reluctant to bring honestly before God?
2. How might lament be an act of trust rather than doubt?
3. When have you experienced God’s presence most clearly in sorrow?

The Courage To Rest

“If you can’t take time to rest, your rest will eventually take you.” —Unknown.

I’ve been working nonstop over the past several days as I prepare to relist my house with a new realtor, who hopefully will be able to sell it soon.  My dad and stepmom have been right alongside helping me with painting, landscaping, cleaning, and the like.  

Today, a photographer came over to shoot video and to take photos for the listing.  Before he arrived with the realtor this morning, I was still bustling, trying to get the place photo-ready.  

As I sit here this moment, I feel like I’m completely wrung out, and I’ve got a bunch of non-house-related work to do.  And I’m beating myself up for not getting more done.  

Also, I’ve told at least four people how tired and busy I am already today.  

We live in a world that glorifies exhaustion. Our culture applauds busyness, rewards overwork, and subtly convinces us that our worth is tied to our productivity. We are told to keep going, to hustle harder, to prove our value through motion. 

And yet Jesus says something radically different: “Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

Rest takes courage. It requires the audacity to believe that the world—and even the church—will keep spinning without our constant supervision. It calls for a deep act of trust in a God who neither slumbers nor sleeps, but who tenderly commands us to stop striving. “The Sabbath was made for humankind,” Jesus said, reminding us that rest isn’t a luxury or a suggestion. It’s a sacred rhythm woven into creation itself.

True rest is not simply sleeping in or taking a vacation, though those are good gifts. True rest is a posture of the soul—a way of remembering who we are and who we are not. It’s a declaration of faith that our identity is not earned by what we do, but received in whose we are. 

When we rest, we practice surrender. We admit that we are finite creatures held in the infinite grace of God.

The courage to rest is also a form of resistance. It pushes back against the empire of endless productivity and perfectionism that enslaves so many hearts. When we stop, breathe, and trust, we join God’s own rhythm of creation and renewal. In that stillness, we rediscover joy, gratitude, and a sense of being rather than doing.

Maybe you’ve been running too long—trying to prove something, fix something, or hold everything together. Hear this good news: you don’t have to. Rest is not a reward for having done enough; it’s the starting place for remembering that you are enough.

Prayer

God of rest and renewal,
teach me to trust that your world can go on without my constant motion.
Help me to stop striving long enough to feel your peace restoring my soul.
When I am tempted to measure my worth by my work, remind me that I am your beloved child,
created not only for labor, but for love, joy, and holy rest.
Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What fears or insecurities make it difficult for you to rest?
2. How might you build small Sabbath practices into your daily or weekly rhythm?
3. What would it look like for you to rest—not just your body, but your mind and spirit—in God’s care this week?

Welcoming The Stranger

In keeping with my goal this week to try to demonstrate better ways to think and converse about some of the hot-button issues in our current, contentious culture (good alliteration, right?), I’m going to steer us toward the topic of immigration. 

Inside the Statue of Liberty, there is a bronze plaque with the words of a poem by Emma Lazarus that reads: 

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 

In the waning days of the 19th century, my great-grandfather saw that statue from the deck of a tiny cargo ship crammed with over two thousand refugees from Europe.  He was from Austria, spoke little English, had little money, and yet clung to a dream of a better life.  
I exist because Josef Bloder made an exodus to a new world.  And the beauty of America is that we all "come from away,” as it is a nation of immigrants, arguably the most diverse country on the planet.  
Yet, we seem to have lost something along the way through all of the debates over immigration.  We’ve lost the ability to see the humanity in those who have the same kind of dream my great-grandfather had.  

The late Catholic activist Dorothy Day once wrote: 

“A custom existed among the first generations of Christians, when faith was a bright fire that warmed more than those who kept it burning. In every house then a room was kept ready for any stranger who might ask for shelter; it was even called ‘the stranger’s room.’ Not because these people thought they could trace something of someone they loved in the stranger who used it, not because the man or woman to whom they gave shelter reminded them of Christ, but because—plain and simple and stupendous fact—he or she was Christ.”

Her words recall a forgotten truth at the heart of Christian discipleship: hospitality is not charity; it is sacrament. To welcome the stranger is to welcome Christ Himself. Jesus said plainly, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35). 

This was not a metaphor—it was a radical redefinition of neighborliness. The early church took Jesus at His word, transforming their homes into sanctuaries of grace, warmth, and protection for those who had nowhere else to go.

Yet in our modern culture, we have drifted far from this vision. Fear and suspicion have taken root where love and compassion once flourished. Immigrants and refugees—men, women, and children made in God’s image—are often spoken of not as neighbors, but as threats. 

In many circles, “foreigner” has become synonymous with “other.” This “othering” of human beings is not only un-Christlike; it is anti-Christ in spirit, denying the very incarnation of God’s love that sees Christ in every person.

Scripture calls us to a different way: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Hebrews 13:2). Paul echoes the same spirit when he reminds us, “You are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people” (Ephesians 2:19). In Christ, there are no borders that divide hearts, only bridges that unite them.

To live this truth is to resist the currents of fear and embrace the radical welcome of Jesus—the one who made room for outcasts and outsiders alike. It means opening our hearts, homes, and communities to those whom the world rejects. 

We can, as followers of Jesus, be filled with compassion for those seeking a better life, even as we realize the need to fix our broken immigration system.  Those two things can be held together.  

May we learn to see Christ in the eyes of every stranger, and let our love burn bright enough to warm those who have been left in the cold.  May we learn what it means to hold in tension our love for others with the need for better and more just laws for us all.  And may the law of love be in every heart as we do.  

Prayer:
Loving God, open our hearts to welcome those we do not understand. Help us see Your image in every face, and give us the courage to practice the hospitality of Christ in a world that fears difference. Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. Who in my community might feel like a “foreigner” or outsider, and how could I extend welcome to them?
2. What fears or assumptions keep me from seeing Christ in others?
3. How might I make space—literally or figuratively—for “the stranger’s room” in my own life?

Toward A Truly Pro-Life Vision

I’ve decided to practice what I preach a bit for the next few Devos by taking on some hot-button issues that have been incredibly divisive. My hope is to demonstrate that there are nuanced and more moderate ways to approach them as followers of Jesus.  

I know.  I’m taking my life in my own hands by doing this, but there you go.  I figured I’d start with the most divisive issue, one that has Christians of all stripes divided in all kinds of ways: the debate over abortion rights.  

Before you stop reading, hear me out.  We need to find better ways to disagree with one another in our current culture and to see each other better.  Even when it comes to hot-button issues, we can (if we work at it) find common ground to stand on.  

With that in mind, I want to share some sage words from author Caitlin Moran on what it means to be “pro-life,” and how those words should have an impact on Jesus-followers: 

“I cannot understand anti-abortion arguments that centre on the sanctity of life. As a species we’ve fairly comprehensively demonstrated that we don’t believe in the sanctity of life. The shrugging acceptance of war, famine, epidemic, pain and life-long poverty shows us that, whatever we tell ourselves, we’ve made only the most feeble of efforts to really treat human life as sacred.” 

Caitlin Moran’s words cut through the noise of our polarized debates. They challenge both those who call themselves pro-life and those who identify as pro-choice to reckon with the deeper question: Do we, as a society, truly value life as sacred?

Too often, “pro-life” rhetoric stops at the unborn while remaining silent about the suffering of the living—the child born into poverty, the mother without healthcare, the refugee turned away, the student killed in a classroom, the soldier lost to a war we’ve grown numb to. 

Can we call ourselves pro-life if we defend the unborn but not the breathing? The Gospel paints a broader picture: Jesus came that “they may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). Abundant life is not just survival—it’s flourishing, dignity, and care for body and soul.

Yet Moran’s critique doesn’t absolve those on the other side of the debate either. Being pro-choice must also mean being pro-support—creating systems of care so that no person feels forced to choose between financial ruin and parenthood, or between autonomy and abandonment. 

Love demands more than slogans; it requires solidarity. “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).

If life is sacred, then the work of valuing it must extend from womb to tomb. It means ensuring healthcare, education, safety, and equity for all. It means supporting mothers and fathers, protecting children, rejecting violence, and dismantling systems that degrade human dignity. 

It means honoring the complexity of moral agency—the God-given ability to choose, to discern, to act with compassion and conscience.

To be truly pro-life, then, is to love life in all its forms and stages—to see every human being as made in the image of God, deserving of care, protection, and freedom. Only then can we move beyond the narrow boundaries of debate and toward a vision of beloved community where life—in all its messy, miraculous, embodied fullness—is truly sacred.

Prayer:
God of life and compassion,
teach us to see Your image in every person, born and unborn, rich and poor, strong and vulnerable.
Help us move beyond arguments into action—toward justice, mercy, and care for all life.
Show us how to build a world where every life is valued, and every choice is met with love.
Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. How might a truly “pro-life” vision change the way you think about issues like poverty, healthcare, and violence?
2. In what ways can you help create a culture where choosing life—at every stage—is supported and celebrated?
3. How does your faith call you to hold compassion and conviction together when facing complex moral issues like abortion?

Wisdom and The Mystery of God

There is this old aphorism that I have heard more than once in my life, but it’s becoming increasingly appropriate lately.  It goes something like this:  “The older I get, the less I know." 

Now, for some of us, that might explain why we go into a room in our house and forget why we went into it.  That’s happened to me exactly three times in the past week.  

But what that phrase really seems to be saying is that we have a choice to make with every passing year: continue believing that we have everything figured out, and that we don’t need to learn or change, or become more flexible with age (which seems impossible at times), and more open to the joy of new experiences. 

The latter is, in essence, true wisdom.  It is the ability to understand that you don’t know everything, and that becoming too set in your ways can destroy the childlike imagination you once had, as well as your sense of wonder along with it. 

There’s a paradox at the heart of wisdom: the more we truly learn, the more aware we become of how much we don’t know. At first, this can be unsettling—like realizing the shallow pool we thought was an ocean is just the edge of a vast, unfathomable sea. But in the life of faith, this is a gift.

When we first come to God, we often try to make God fit into neat categories, manageable explanations, and tidy doctrinal boxes. This can feel safe, even reassuring. But in doing so, we risk losing the wonder and mystery that first drew us to God. God becomes predictable in our minds—yet the God of Scripture is anything but predictable.

Theologian David Bentley Hart writes:  

“Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience; it is the ability to see again what most of us have forgotten how to see, but now fortified by the ability to translate some of that vision into words, however inadequate.”

This captures the journey beautifully. True wisdom does not lead to arrogance, but to a kind of childlike awe—one that has been tested, refined, and humbled by life’s complexity.

The Bible affirms this. Proverbs 9:10 tells us, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.” Notice, it begins with reverence—an acknowledgment that God is infinitely beyond us. Paul echoes this in Romans 11:33: “Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out!”

Even Jesus pointed to childlike wonder as the posture for entering God’s kingdom (Matthew 18:3). This is not about being naïve, but about holding a heart open to the possibility that God is always more than we imagine.

So, wisdom is not merely about accumulating facts about God. It’s about recapturing the innocent wonder we had at the beginning of our journey—now enriched by the depth of experience. It is learning to marvel again, to admit our smallness, and to delight in the vastness of the One who cannot be reduced to our definitions.

Today, may you open yourself to the mystery of God. Let yourself be both a learner and a dreamer. For in wonder, we find the truest wisdom.

Prayer:
Lord, give me the humility to admit what I do not know, and the courage to embrace the mystery of who You are. Restore to me the wonder of a child, and let that wonder be strengthened by the wisdom You grow in me. Amen.

Thriving Through The Cracks

This past Sunday, I was slated to sing a song with our band before the worship service.  Our band plays cover songs ten minutes before the worship services they lead, which makes for a fun atmosphere, and also lets everyone milling around in the foyer know that church is starting soon.  

I had practiced the song (“Hooked On A Feeling” by Blue Suede) on my own a dozen times.  I rehearsed with the band at least four times, and I knew the lyrics by heart.  

Until I stood up to sing, and completely forgot the first stanza.  

In that moment, I decided that instead of lamely trying to keep going, I just needed a restart.  It pained me to do it, and I was embarrassed, but I figured since everyone in the room knew I screwed up, I may as well own it.  

We restarted the song, and I made it through without any further mistakes, thanks be to God.  But even so, I was silently beating myself up over the stumble.  What I realized later was that no one cared.  In fact, they seemed to think better of me for it, which blew my mind.   

Life has a way of reminding us—sometimes gently, sometimes with a jolt—that we are not perfect. 

We stumble in our relationships. We fall short of our own expectations. We get it wrong, even when our hearts mean well. In a world obsessed with flawless images and flawless performance, imperfection can feel like failure. But God sees it differently.

Richard Rohr reminds us:  

“Perfection, rather, is the ability to incorporate imperfection! There’s no other way to live: You either incorporate imperfection, or you fall into denial. That’s how the Spirit moves in or out of our lives.”

This is a radical reframing. The goal isn’t to erase every flaw or hide every weakness. Instead, it’s to invite our imperfections into the story of our growth—to see them as places where God’s Spirit can move and work. Denial chokes off that movement. But acceptance, humility, and honesty open the door.

Leonard Cohen captured this truth beautifully: “There is a crack, a crack, in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” The cracks—the times we’ve been wounded, the moments we’ve failed, the mistakes we’ve made—are not proof that we’re unusable. They are the very openings through which God’s grace pours in. The light doesn’t avoid the cracks; it seeks them out.

When we stop pretending to be perfect, we begin to live in a freedom we can’t find in denial. Our weaknesses become the very canvas upon which God paints beauty. Our struggles become testimonies of His power to redeem. Our “not enough” becomes the stage for His “more than enough.”

Think of the disciples. None of them were polished saints when Jesus called them. Peter was impulsive, Thomas doubted, and James and John fought for the best seats in the kingdom. And yet, through their imperfections, God’s Spirit moved powerfully. Their cracks didn’t keep them from thriving—they became the openings through which God’s light transformed them.

So, the next time you notice your own cracks—your impatience, your insecurity, your tendency to fall short—don’t despise them. Bring them into the light. Let God pour His love into those spaces. And as He does, you’ll discover that your imperfections aren’t obstacles to your thriving; they are the very means by which you’ll be made whole.

Embrace your imperfections. Incorporate them into your story. Let the Spirit flow through them. And trust this truth: every crack in your life is an entry point for God’s light and love.

And, if you want to see my flawed performance, find my church on Facebook and watch the video. I’ve done it a few times myself.  

Prayer: 

Lord, thank You for loving me as I am, cracks and all.
Help me to see my imperfections not as failures, but as places where Your Spirit can work and Your light can shine through.
Teach me to embrace my flaws with honesty and humility, trusting that You will fill every broken space with Your love.
May my life reflect the beauty of Your grace, even through the cracks.
Amen.

Adventures In Missing The Point

One of the many things that I have been burdened with over the past several years is the way that so many people outside of the Christian church have come to view Christians. 

To put it bluntly, Christianity in America has a PR problem, and it’s only getting worse. 

The fact of the matter is that thousands upon thousands of people practice their Christian faith with great sincerity, and they are kind, gracious, and loving.  They might not always agree on matters of faith and biblical interpretation, but they are doing their best to follow Jesus.  

But there is a vocal minority within American Christianity that seems to be controlling the narrative when it comes to what being a Christian looks like, and that’s the pervasive image that most people outside the Church tend to believe.  

I think we can do better, and it’s time that we started telling the truth to one another. 

It’s possible to look the part of a devoted Christian while living a life disconnected from Christ. Churches can be filled with people who attend every service, speak fluent “Christianese,” and serve in leadership—yet somehow fail to live lives transformed by the love, grace, and presence of Jesus.

Skye Jethani puts it bluntly:

“As long as a person appears devout, uses the right words, and participates in the right religious activities, we don’t look much deeper. They are often given a pass on their anger, greed, jealousy, bitterness, lust, or bigotry. Such a person might be acceptable in a church today, but Jesus said they are unfit for God’s kingdom.”

Jesus didn’t mince words about religious performance. In Matthew 23, He rebuked the Pharisees, calling them “whitewashed tombs” (v. 27)—beautiful on the outside but full of death within. He condemned their obsession with appearances and legalism while ignoring the “more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness” (v. 23). To Jesus, it was never about religious showmanship; it was about transformed hearts.

In Luke 6:46, Jesus asked a piercing question: “Why do you call me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ and do not do what I say?” Mere lip service or outward religiosity means nothing if it doesn’t result in obedience, love, and mercy. Our actions reveal the authenticity of our faith far more than our church attendance or theological vocabulary ever could.

This isn’t just a call to self-reflection—it’s a call to transformation. It’s not enough to appear holy; we are invited to be made holy through a living, breathing relationship with Jesus. A relationship that confronts our pride, softens our bitterness, and compels us to love as He loves.

The apostle Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13 that we can speak in tongues, prophesy, and even give all we have to the poor, but if we do it without love, we are nothing. Love—the kind shaped by walking daily with Christ—is the evidence of a life truly following Him.

So let us examine our hearts. Are we performing faith, or are we living it? Do we know about Jesus, or do we truly know Him?

Today, release the need to be “religiously acceptable” and instead pursue the presence of Christ. Walk with Him, listen to Him, let Him change you from the inside out. Because following Jesus has never been about appearance—it’s about transformation.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10).
Let that be our mantra as we follow Him—entirely, honestly, and wholeheartedly.

Prayer:
Lord Jesus,
Strip away the masks I wear and the need to appear righteous. Search my heart and reveal the places where I’ve settled for empty religion instead of true relationship. Teach me to walk with You in honesty, humility, and love. Transform me from the inside out so that my life reflects Your grace, not just my habits. Help me follow You not in word alone, but in every thought, action, and intention.
Amen.