Some are walking through a hard December...

There are some years when December does not arrive with the feeling we hoped it would. The lights go up, the music starts, the calendar fills, and somehow the heaviness we have been carrying feels a little closer to the surface. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just there. Persistent.
Familiar. A reminder that life does not pause just because the season changes.

I have been thinking about that lately, how the holidays do not erase real life. Grief does not check the calendar. Stress does not wait until January. And the ache we have been quietly managing all year has a way of showing up again when everything around us is supposed to feel joyful. It can feel isolating to step into a season built around celebration when something in you still feels unsettled or tired.

But here is what I keep coming back to. The Christmas story was never meant for people who had it all together. It was not written for the moments when life makes sense. It was spoken into a world that was struggling to breathe. A world full of fear, loss, longing, questions, and the kind of waiting that wears on you over time. God did not pick a peaceful moment to enter the story. He came right into the mess of it. The uncertainty. The brokenness. The heaviness people did not have words for.

You do not have to feel strong to be held. You do not have to be cheerful to be seen. And you do not have to pretend anything for God to come near. He has always been the God who moves toward us, even when we feel like we are walking in the darkness.

If this December feels different for you, if something in you is trying to make sense of a year that did not go the way you thought it would, slow down, take a breath, and remember this...
You are not forgotten. Not overlooked. Not expected to push through on your own strength. God has a way of meeting people in the middle of what they are actually feeling, not what they think they are supposed to feel. He does not wait for the pain to resolve. He walks into it with you.

This is not about pretending darkness is not real. It is about remembering that darkness is not final. You may not see what is changing. You may not feel anything shifting yet. But the presence of God in a hard season is not a small thing. It is the kind of quiet, steady companionship that holds you upright when you are not sure how to take the next step.

So if the days feel complicated, if you are tired of being strong, if your heart aches in places that used to feel steady, breathe for a moment. You are not walking through this December by yourself. The same Jesus who stepped into a broken world steps into your world too, without hesitation, without judgment, without demanding anything from you first.

He is near.
Even here.
Especially here.
And you are not alone.

Christmas Isn’t Pagan.
And Yes… It Really Is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Every December, like clockwork, the same TikToks, reels, and confidently delivered “I did my own research” posts start appearing everywhere. Someone stands in front of a camera, says something bold with no historical backbone, and suddenly Christians are wondering whether celebrating the birth of Jesus is spiritual compromise. And in the middle of all that noise, the opinions, the misinformation, the recycled talking points, the enemy is quietly smiling.

Confusion is one of his favorite tools. Division is one of his favorite weapons. If he can take a season designed to lift our eyes to Jesus and twist it into suspicion, doubt, and arguments, he wins a battle we were never supposed to fight.

So let me speak clearly, not to argue, not to shame, but to bring truth into a place where a lot of confusion has taken root. Christmas is not pagan. Not the day. Not the traditions. Not the symbols. Not the celebration. You can celebrate with joy. You can worship with confidence. You can look at this season with wonder, not worry. Christmas has always been about one thing: Jesus came. God with us. Light in the darkness. Hope in human form. And it is absolutely okay, more than okay, to celebrate that with joy.

Now let’s walk through the truth carefully. Everything that follows is built on solid Christian research, including the historical work of Wesley Huff, who has brought needed clarity into conversations too often shaped by misinformation. I am not writing a textbook here, I want this to speak to your heart, but I also want it to be grounded, honest, and undeniably true.

1. December 25, the Most Misunderstood Part
The loudest claim thrown around every year is that Christians “stole” December 25 from pagan holidays. History simply does not support that. People often mention Sol Invictus, but Sol Invictus was not assigned to December 25 until AD 354, long after Christians were already marking that date as the birth of Jesus. Earlier Roman calendars placed Sol celebrations in August, October, and early December, not December 25. And Saturnalia ended on December 17 and was never connected to the 25.

The early Christians were not borrowing anything. They were not trying to overshadow pagan culture or repurpose a holiday. They simply believed something deeply meaningful: that Jesus was conceived on March 25, the same day they believed He died, and nine months later lands on December 25. Their reasoning was not cultural, it was theological. It was worship. It was the church honoring the moment when God entered our world. That is the truth, simple, beautiful, and clear.

2. The Winter Solstice, the Argument That Sounds Strong but Isn’t
The theory that Christians copied the solstice sounds compelling until you look deeper. Ancient Romans did not give the solstice special religious meaning. There were no major festivals tied to it. No sacred rituals built around it. No ceremonies Christians would have collided with. There was nothing there to borrow. The solstice argument falls apart the moment you read actual history. Christians were not looking for a cultural hook, they were celebrating the arrival of their Savior.

3. Santa Claus, Not Pagan, Just Misunderstood
People love attaching pagan origins to Santa, but the story does not go in that direction. Santa traces back to St. Nicholas, a real Christian bishop known for fierce generosity and deep compassion. He protected the poor, rescued vulnerable young women from exploitation, and defended truth at the Council of Nicaea. Over time, culture reshaped his story into a lighter, jollier, commercial version. But his roots are undeniably Christian. No pagan god became Santa. No myth transformed into him. The story evolved culturally, but it began with a follower of Jesus.

4. Christmas Trees, Beautiful but Not Borrowed
Christmas trees get accused of being pagan more than anything else. But historically, Christmas trees do not show up until the 1500s in Christian homes in Europe, not in ancient rituals, not in Druid practices, and definitely not tied to solstice worship. Pagans did not even view pine trees as sacred, their significant tree was the oak. The evergreen tree became a Christian symbol on purpose, life in the dead of winter, hope when the world is cold, a reminder that God brings life to barren places. The tree was not stolen, believers gave it meaning.

5. Mistletoe, A Tradition Not a Threat
Mistletoe as a Christmas decoration appears in the 1600s, and the kissing tradition does not show up until the late 1700s. There is no ancient pagan ritual Christians absorbed. It is simply a cultural custom that grew over time, decorative rather than spiritual. Christians did not inherit something dark, they inherited something cheerful that people chose to enjoy.

Where December 25 Really Came From
What is truly beautiful is this: long before any pagan holiday ever touched December 25, long before Rome had opinions about Christianity, long before cultural traditions developed, the earliest Christians had already embraced this date. Hippolytus (AD 170 to 235) wrote plainly that Jesus was born on December 25. Tertullian (AD 160 to 240) connected Jesus death and conception to March 25 and counted forward nine months. Sextus Julius Africanus calculated the date using Scripture and history. Augustine affirmed it as long held Christian tradition. These early believers were not blending religions, they were honoring Christ with reverence, devotion, and deep theological reflection.

Here Is My Heart in All of This
If you have heard different claims, if you have wondered whether Christmas is something you should step back from, if you have questioned whether celebrating Jesus birth is somehow wrong, take a breath. Truth removes fear. Christmas is about Jesus, about God stepping into our world, about hope being born, about the beginning of redemption story in a manger. You do not need to be suspicious of this season. You can love it. You can celebrate it. You can enjoy everything about it with a clean heart and a full sense of worship.

But please do not let this divide believers. Not this year. Not ever. The enemy would love nothing more than for Christians to fight each other while forgetting the wonder of Christ birth. Let us not hand him that victory. This is the season of hope, of light, of God coming near. And yes, it really is the most wonderful time of the year. Not because of the date or the traditions, but because of the Savior who entered the world for us.

This Thanksgiving God has me in a place of reflection that feels heavier and more sacred than usual.

I am grateful for the blessings He has poured into my life, family, friends, church, a new granddaughter... but God keeps drawing my mind to something deeper. Something quieter. Something I cannot shake.

I am thankful for the gift of repentance. Not the surface level idea of it. The real thing. The kind that reminds me that God loves me too much to leave me where I wandered. The kind that meets me when my thoughts drift into places that are not healthy or holy. The kind that lets me turn back toward Him instead of drowning in guilt or pretending everything is fine. Repentance is the grace that helps me breathe again.

And as I sit with that, I am overwhelmed by how steady our hope is. No matter how confusing the world becomes, no matter what someone else does or what I have done, hope does not move. Jesus is still where He has always been. He is still strong when the world feels shaky. He is still compassionate when our hearts feel worn. He is still the anchor that holds when everything else breaks loose. Hope is the reason we can keep going even when life feels too loud or too heavy. It is the strength beneath our weakness. It is the light that darkness cannot silence.

I am thankful for the reality of eternity. Not as a distant idea but as a sure future. The knowledge that this world, with all its pain and pressure, is not the end changes the way I breathe. It puts peace in places that used to feel anxious. It reminds me that joy is coming. It reminds me that Jesus wins. And it reminds me that every moment here has purpose because heaven is real and waiting.

And I am thankful that God has given us more time. More time to live with intention. More time to look like Jesus in a world that desperately needs Him. More time to speak life, to forgive freely, to stand firm, to love deeply, and to show people a hope they have never seen before.

Every day we wake up is a gift from God. Not a right. A gift.

Gratitude has been shaping everything in me lately. Gratitude is not soft. It is not cute. It is spiritual strength. It shifts the way we see the world and the way we see God. A heart filled with gratitude cannot stay bitter. A mind focused on gratitude cannot stay consumed with what is missing. Gratitude opens our eyes. It steadies our steps. It softens what has grown hard in us.

But the absence of gratitude carries weight too. Without gratitude the heart grows cold and cynical. It becomes demanding. It becomes blind to beauty. It remembers what hurt but forgets what healed. It loses sight of the goodness of God because it is too focused on everything God has not done yet. A life without gratitude slowly drains the soul.

This Thanksgiving I want to live awake. I want to feel the weight of what God has done. I want to remember that repentance is a gift that leads me home again and again. I want to rest in the hope that does not move. I want to let eternity reshape the way I see today. And I want gratitude to take deep root in me, not just this week but every day I am given.

My prayer is that God stirs something deep in you too.
That you feel His mercy.
That you sense His nearness.
And that gratitude becomes the lens that helps you see how faithful He has been.

Happy Thanksgiving.

There is something incredible about meeting with God out here. The world slows down. The noise finally fades. And honestly, it does feel spiritual to sit in the middle of creation with nothing standing between me and the presence of God. I am writing Sunday’s message from a deer blind today. The woods around me are quiet, but my heart is wide awake. Every tree and every breath seems to preach a sermon of its own.

There is a different kind of clarity that shows up when you step away from the rush. When you are not staring at schedules or screens. When the only thing to focus on is the God who made all of this and calls you His own. Out here I am reminded that God is not distant. He is not silent. He is right here speaking and leading and stirring things in my heart that I might have missed if I stayed busy.

And maybe that is what someone needs today. It is hard to hear God when life never gets quiet. We fill every minute with noise and then wonder why He feels far away. But the truth is, He is closer than your next breath. You just have to slow down long enough to sense Him.
So here is the challenge. Find your quiet place. It might not look like a deer blind in the woods, but find a space where your soul can breathe. Turn off the noise. Put everything else on hold. Let God have your attention. Tell Him you are listening. He still speaks. He still refreshes weary hearts. He still fills silence with peace and reminders of who He is.

Today this blind is my study. This field is my sanctuary. And this stillness is a gift from the God who loves us enough to meet us wherever we make room for Him. Slow down. Lift your eyes. Do not rush past the presence of the One who is right here waiting for you.

TO EVERYONE GOING INTO THE WOODS

To every hunter stepping into the woods this week, whether it is before the world wakes up, or in the quiet of an afternoon, or in that sacred hour when the sun sinks behind the trees and the shadows begin to stretch… this is for you.

There is a reason your heart beats a little faster when your boots press into the leaves. There is a reason the cold air feels sharper, cleaner, almost holy. There is a reason anticipation rises inside you when you climb into that blind or settle onto that stand. The woods have always held a kind of wonder, a kind of hush that the world cannot imitate. Hunting is not just a sport. It is not just tradition. It is a blessing straight from the hands of God. It is provision. It is memory. It is joy. It is life lived with purpose. And yes, it is excitement. That moment when the brush moves and your breath catches because maybe, just maybe, today is the day.

But beneath the anticipation, beneath the beauty, beneath the tradition and the thrill, there is something even greater waiting for you. The gift of God meeting you there. Because He does. More than you know.

“The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it” Psalm 24 verse 1. That means every ridge, every cedar, every frost lined branch glowing with morning light belongs to Him. When you step into the woods, you are stepping into His sanctuary. Not one built by human hands, but one shaped by His voice.

Listen closely. Really listen. Listen to the call of a bird you have never slowed down enough to hear. Listen to the soft snap of a twig somewhere behind you. Listen to the wind as it threads its way through the branches like a quiet hymn. Listen as your own heartbeat settles into the rhythm of creation. It is in places like this that God whispers the loudest. “Be still and know that I am God” Psalm 46 verse 10. Stillness is hard to find in a world that never stops moving.

But not here. Not now.

While you sit in those stands or blinds, ask God to speak. Ask Him to show you what your life has been too loud to notice. Offer Him the weight you have been carrying. The worry. The fear. The exhaustion. The questions. Tell Him the things you have been holding in your chest for far too long. Scripture says, “Cast all your cares on Him because He cares for you” First Peter 5 verse 7. There is room for every burden you brought into the woods today.

Every part of the hunt that makes your heart come alive is there because of God. The excitement when the woods begin to move. The sudden stillness when a deer steps into view. The rush that fills your chest. The satisfaction of providing for your family. The tradition passed from one generation to the next. The memories etched into your life forever. All of it carries the fingerprints of the One who made you. “Every good and perfect gift is from above” James 1 verse 17. The hunt is not separate from God. It is wrapped in His goodness. It is shaped by His creativity. It is sustained by His generosity.

He is the One who gave the deer its beauty and strength. He is the One who designed the forest you sit in. He is the One who stirred something in you that finds joy and purpose in these moments. He does not stand outside the experience. He is woven into it. He is the reason it matters. He is the reason the woods feel like a sanctuary.

So as you hunt, let your eyes be open. Let your heart be alive. Let the thrill remind you of the God who made you capable of feeling it. Let the beauty of creation stir something deeper than adrenaline. Let the satisfaction of the harvest turn your gratitude toward the One who provides. Let every moment remind you that He is generous. He is faithful. He is near.

And while you wait in the quiet, let the woods become a place where you breathe Him in. A place where you hand Him every worry and every weight. A place where you listen for the whisper beneath the wind. A place where you recognize that the God who created the deer is the same God who created you, knows you, loves you, and meets you here.

Because when you walk out of the woods at the end of the day, whether your hands are full or empty, the greatest thing you carry with you is not the harvest. It is the presence of the God who walked with you. The God who spoke in the quiet. The God who reminded you that every good thing you experienced today came from Him.

And if you look for Him, you will find Him.
Every single time.

Dear Veterans,

I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know what it’s like to be told to go when every part of you wants to stay. To board a plane or a ship with uncertainty in your gut, a lump in your throat, and a prayer in your heart that you’ll come home the same or that you’ll come home at all. I don’t know what it’s like to hug your family tight, say the words “I’ll see you soon,” and hope they don’t hear the tremble in your voice. I don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day in a place where danger is real, where every sound could be something more, and every breath feels borrowed.

I don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of what you’ve seen, the kind of things you can’t just talk about over coffee. To relive moments that others can’t understand, and to fight battles long after the battlefield is gone. I don’t know what it’s like to readjust, to return to “normal” when normal has changed. To sit in a quiet room and hear echoes of the past that no one else can hear. To wonder if anyone truly knows the cost behind your salute, your silence, your smile.

But here’s what I do know. You have shown a kind of courage that cannot be taught. You have given years, and for some, a lifetime, to something far bigger than yourself. You have faced fear with resolve, served through pain, and carried both pride and scars in the same heart. You have done what many cannot, so that many can live free.

And while no post, parade, or moment of applause can repay what’s been given, please know this: You matter. You matter to this nation, to families you’ve never met, and to generations who will never know the world you kept from becoming. You matter because freedom has a face, and it looks like yours. You matter because sacrifice has a heartbeat, and it’s yours that still beats for others.

Today is Veterans Day. But the truth is, no single day could ever be enough. We honor you today not just for your service, but for your humanity. For the battles no one sees, the nights that still echo, the strength it takes to live with memories that others never will. You are seen.

You are valued. You are not forgotten.

Thank you for standing where others could not. Thank you for fighting for a freedom most of us will never fully comprehend. Thank you for reminding us that bravery is not the absence of fear, it’s the decision to move forward in spite of it.

From the depths of my heart, and from a grateful nation, thank you.
#veterans #VeteransDay

LOOK UP

It’s easy to forget how much of life happens on a horizontal plane.
We wake up and scroll through a world of opinions, arguments, filters, and comparisons. We measure ourselves against headlines, likes, and glances. We look around at what others have, what others do, what others say, and somewhere along the way, we start to believe that the view in front of us is all there is.

The world thrives on that kind of living, a constant cycle of reaction and distraction. It keeps you looking side to side, forward and backward, but never up. It teaches you to evaluate life through what can be seen, controlled, and understood. And without even realizing it, your peace starts to depend on things that were never designed to hold it.
Because when your eyes stay level with the noise, your soul forgets where to rest.
You start to feel the weight of comparison and wonder why you’re not further along. You notice what others say and feel smaller for it. You chase validation that fades the moment it’s found. You feel anxious about things that haven’t even happened yet, because the horizontal is filled with uncertainty. It’s filled with opinions. It’s filled with pressure.

But God…
He invites you to live differently.
He whispers into the noise and says, “Look up.”
Because when you lift your eyes, everything changes.

The same world is still there, but it no longer defines you. The same problems exist, but they’re no longer your whole story. You begin to see from a higher place, from the perspective of the One who is not shaken by any of it.

When you look up, you remember that the Creator of the stars is not overwhelmed by the things that overwhelm you. You remember that His love is steady when everything else feels unstable. You remember that His plans are not limited by what you can see.
And suddenly, peace starts to return. Not because everything around you is fixed, but because your focus has shifted.

Most of the struggles we carry, our worry, our frustration, our exhaustion, are fed by what’s happening on the horizontal. We think if we could just control a little more, understand a little more, or achieve a little more, we’d finally feel secure. But the truth is, control doesn’t bring peace. Perspective does.

Looking forward shows you what’s hard.
Looking up reminds you who’s in control.

Tonight I walked outside and looked up at the sky. No filters. No noise. Just the stillness of creation and the quiet reminder that God is still God. The same hands that hung those stars are still holding everything together, including me.

And in that moment, it hit me… how much I’ve let the horizontal pull my attention, my thoughts, and sometimes even my heart. I needed that reminder to look up. To breathe again. To remember that the world doesn’t get to tell me who I am, or where my hope comes from.
Maybe you need that reminder too.

Maybe it won’t be under a night sky. Maybe it will be in the early morning light, or in the quiet between moments when you finally slow down long enough to see it.

Whenever it happens, stop for a moment. Step outside if you can. Lift your eyes, not just physically, but spiritually. Let your heart rise above the noise and remember who holds all of this together.

All of this will fade, the noise, the striving, the endless comparisons, but what’s above will remain.

And that’s where your peace lives.
That’s where your hope breathes again.
That’s where your soul finds home.

Look up.

The things we crave are wonderful blindfolds

Cravings promise comfort. They feel like relief, like a warm room in a cold world. Approval, success, control, numbing, screens, secret habits, the rush of being right. They tell us we are okay, that we deserve a break, that we can carry this on our own. They sit softly over our eyes and we call it peace.

But blindfolds are still blindfolds.

We stop noticing the slow drift. Convictions blur at the edges. We agree to what we once would have resisted. We rename poison as pleasure and call the ache normal. Our loves get rearranged. God becomes background noise. Prayer becomes an emergency tool. We settle for a life that looks alive but is quietly losing oxygen.

It is frightening how darkness can pass for light when the eyes are covered.

There is another voice. Not the hiss of you deserve this, not the whisper of you are missing out, but the steady call of a Shepherd who knows your name. He does not shame you for the blindfold. He steps close. He reaches for the knot. He is not here to humiliate you. He is here to free you.

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows Me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12)

Light does what darkness cannot. It reveals. It heals. It reorders our loves. When Jesus opens our eyes, the same cravings lose their voice. The mask that felt like safety is exposed as a thief. The heart begins to hunger for different things. Presence over performance. Connection over control. Obedience over image. Holiness over hype.
Maybe today needs a simple prayer.

Search me, God. Know my heart. Test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me. Lead me in the everlasting way. (Psalm 139:23–24)

Let Him take the blindfold. Let Him teach your soul new cravings. Truth that steadies. Grace that holds. Joy that is not rented by the hour. Freedom that does not need a secret.
The craving that remains will be the only one that satisfies.
Jesus.

The God Who Carves Us Free
Michelangelo once said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”
I’ve always loved that.
That's exactly how God sees us.
He sees who He created us to be, before the world bruised us, before religion labeled us, before sin tangled us up in shame, and He carves until we’re free.
Every strike of His chisel is purpose. Every cut is mercy. Every piece that falls away is something we were never meant to carry.
God doesn’t destroy us when He carves.
He reveals us.
I love this quote...
God loves you unconditionally, as you are, not as you should be, because nobody is as they should be.
– Brennan Manning
Does God want us to grow? To heal? To change? Absolutely. But that growth and change are not prerequisites for His love.
His love is the constant.
You can’t out-sin it.
You can’t outperform it.
You can’t undo it.
You can’t make Him love you more by being “better,” and you can’t make Him love you less by failing again.
He loved you first.
He loves you still.
And He’s not going anywhere.
The problem is that too many churches have confused holiness with hierarchy. Too many Christians speak of grace but live by scorekeeping.
We talk about “freedom in Christ” but still chain people to shame.
We polish our lives for Sunday while our neighbors are starving for love on Monday. We care more about the image of faith than the impact of it.
Somewhere along the way, we started to think that filling a building with a thousand people was success, but Jesus never called us to build audiences.
He called us to build altars.
He called us to love.
Getting a crowd into a church isn’t the greatest thing a church will ever do.
Loving the community around that church in such a way that they begin to wonder about the source of that love...
That’s where revival begins.
That’s where Jesus shows up.
So let me ask you... Christian, follower of Jesus, church-goer, pastor, whoever you are:
What are you known for?
How you live, or how you love?
Because when you open your Bible, you see a Savior who sat with prostitutes. Who walked with thieves. Who called the rejected, the angry, the addicted, the broken and said, “Follow Me.”
Jesus didn’t just love perfectly polished people.
He loved real people.
And that’s how the world knew Him. Not by His titles, not by His miracles, but by His LOVE.
“A new command I give you,” Jesus said,
“Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”
– John 13:34
That’s not a suggestion.
It’s a command.
It’s us living the good news that's been given to us.
So may we be a people who love like that, who see the angels in the marble, who refuse to give up on the carving, who believe there’s beauty still hidden in the rough edges.
God hasn’t stopped carving.
And neither should we.

Speak Life
Proverbs 18:21 says, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.”
That’s not a small thing. That’s everything.

Most of us don’t even realize how often we are the ones speaking darkness into our own lives. We replay our failures. We rehearse our disappointments. We sit in the mess of what we’ve done, and then we use our words to dig the hole even deeper.
And then we wonder why we feel stuck.

Words are never empty. They either give life or they take it. They either build something solid or they tear it down. Every time you open your mouth, you are planting seeds, and those seeds don’t just vanish. They grow. They shape how you think, how you feel, how you live.

If you keep saying you’re broken, you’ll live like you can’t be healed.
If you keep saying you’ll never change, you’ll stop even trying.
If you keep saying you’re not worth it, you’ll start to believe it’s true.
But it doesn’t have to end there.

The same mouth that can speak death can also speak life. You can declare hope right in the middle of despair. You can remind your soul of what God says, even when your circumstances say something else. You can speak grace over your past and freedom into your future.

I’ve sat across from people who can’t see a way forward. They’re convinced their story is already written in failure. And you know what I’ve learned? Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is help them change the words they are speaking over their own lives. To remind them they are not too far gone. To remind them that God’s word is louder and truer than the shame that’s been circling in their head.

And the same is true for you.
This isn’t about pretending pain doesn’t exist. It’s not about faking joy or putting on a smile. It’s about refusing to let pain or failure have the final word. It’s about choosing the kind of seed you’re planting with your words. Because sooner or later, you will eat the fruit of what you’ve been sowing.

So today... SPEAK LIFE. Speak it over your family. Speak it over your future. Speak it over your marriage. Speak it over your kids. Speak it over your own soul.

God’s word over you is better than the words you’ve been speaking to yourself. Line your mouth up with His truth. Plant life instead of death. And watch what begins to grow.

Your words are writing your story..  So make sure you’re writing life.

One day, I will be gone, and if I am known for anything, may it be that I was courageous with my faith.
I don’t want to live safe.
I don’t want to live small.
I don’t want to get to the end and realize I chose comfort over courage.
I want to live with a faith that is bold.
A faith that loves even when it’s hard.
A faith that brings light into dark places.
A faith that forgives when the world would question why.
A faith that lays down my craving for what feels fair, my desire for revenge, and instead reaches for something greater...
Helping people see Jesus.
Because His love is the only love that can heal what’s broken.
And His Kingdom is the only Kingdom that will last.
You can feel it right now.
Something is rising.
Something greater than the evil we see, greater than the fear we feel.
It’s not about politics.
It’s not about a nation.
It’s about a King.
And a Kingdom.
And the invitation that is for everyone, no matter who they are or where they’ve been.
So this is how I choose to live:
In the middle of the darkness, I will carry light.
In the middle of hate, I will choose love.
In the middle of despair, I will hold on to hope.
In the middle of brokenness, I will speak grace.
I will speak Jesus' truths, and when that is to someone who disagrees with me, they will know my love for them is stronger than the disagreement.
Because the world doesn’t need more revenge.
It doesn’t need more chaos.
It needs Jesus.
And I want my life to make that undeniable.

Jesus Meets Us in the Dirt

Today I met a young woman who told me she was 527 days sober... and then she relapsed. You could see the weight on her shoulders. The shame. The “I should’ve known better.” The “I ruined it.” She didn’t need a sermon or a checklist. She needed hope. And what I shared with her is the same truth I want to share with you...

Jesus meets us in the dirt where He made us.

Think about that. The God who formed Adam out of dust, who breathed life into clay, is not afraid of dirt. He’s not shocked by it. He’s not put off by it. He enters into it. When we fall flat. When we relapse. When we feel like we’ve undone everything. Jesus bends down into the dust where we lie and says, “I’m here. I'll give you the strength to get back up again. I will never leave you.”

That’s the fierce strength of grace. The world says, “You failed. Start over.”
Jesus says, “You are mine. Let’s keep walking.”

I don’t know where you are right now. Maybe you’re 527 days clean and you slipped. Maybe you’re a parent who blew up at your kids again. Maybe you’re hiding mistakes you can’t forgive yourself for. Wherever it is, hear me: Jesus meets you there. Not in some polished version of your life. Not when you’ve got it all together. Right here. Right now. In the dirt.

And He’s not meeting you there to leave you there. He’s meeting you to lift you up. To steady your shaking hands. To remind you that His love is stronger than your stumble. I told that young woman today that I was praying for her. I’m praying for you too.

Because the dirt isn’t the end of your story. It’s just the place where Jesus gets close enough to write a new one.

When Tools Become Masters

We live in a world saturated with technology. It’s in our homes, our pockets, our work places, our schools, shaping how we connect, work, and learn. AI, with its promise of efficiency and insight, is no longer just a tool; it’s becoming a framework for how we think, decide, and live.

But what happens when the tool we created begins to act like our master?
The danger doesn’t storm in with flashing lights and a dramatic takeover. It slips in quietly, wrapped in convenience. First, we ask AI to calculate. Then to analyze. Then to decide. And before long, it begins to define reality for us.

We already see it. Social media algorithms decide which voices we hear and which we don’t, pulling us deeper into echo chambers, dividing us, shaping our beliefs one scroll at a time. AI driven hiring systems reject qualified candidates because of biased data, valuing efficiency over fairness. Surveillance tools track every step, every purchase, every glance, eroding privacy bit by bit. It recommends what we should buy, the news we should trust, even the songs our children should listen to. It knows when we pause on a video, when we hesitate before clicking... And it uses that hesitation to shape our habits.

Every choice we hand over is a piece of our God given freedom. Convenience may feel harmless, but it can quietly chain us.

History warns us of this pattern. Power always promises peace, but often it delivers chains. Rome built its empire on “order,” yet crucified dissenters. Modern regimes begin with ideals of safety and prosperity but slide into silencing voices. Today, the same risk lives inside our technology. Not because all AI is malicious, but because humans are flawed. We wrap our greed, negligence, and blind trust into the systems we build, and then we bow to them as if they were neutral, as if they were wiser than us.

As a pastor, I’m grateful for what AI can offer. It helps us stream sermons, reach people far beyond our walls, and study Scripture with tools that past generations could never imagine. But we must never confuse a tool with a savior.

If we start believing a machine is more moral, more efficient, or more just than people guided by God’s Spirit, we will invite an authority that enforces without compassion.
That is where AI falls short of the Kingdom. It can scan a face, but it cannot see the image of God shining in it. It can calculate fairness, but it cannot embody grace. It can enforce rules, but it cannot redeem souls.

The real corruption begins when we let it. When leaders shrug and say, “It’s just the algorithm,” accountability vanishes. When governments and corporations defer to systems we barely understand, responsibility disappears. And suddenly, we are bowing to a throne we built with our own hands, forgetting that true authority belongs to God alone.
Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be great among you must be your servant” (Matthew 20:26). His authority wasn’t sterile or coercive, it was sacrificial. He washed feet when others sought crowns. He laid down His life when others built their power. His Kingdom is built not on control but on love. Not on coercion but on grace. Not on efficiency but on compassion.

So what do we do?

We use AI as a tool, never a master. We demand transparency in the systems that shape our lives.

We raise children who are rooted in faith and critical thinking, who learn to master their phones instead of being mastered by them. We build communities where technology serves human dignity instead of diminishing it. And above all, we cling to the freedom Christ purchased for us, the freedom to love, to forgive, to hope.

The prophetic call for our generation is clear:
Never mistake a tool for a Savior. AI may help us organize things, even in churches, but only Christ builds His Church. AI may process data, but only Christ transforms hearts. AI may offer answers, but only Christ offers LIFE.

**And kudos to Grok (AI) for helping me with the artwork for this article....

There’s a line I can’t stop thinking about...
“The U-Haul doesn’t follow the hearse.”
It’s raw. It’s blunt. But it’s true.
One day, every single one of us will take our final ride in this world. And on that day, not one of the things we obsessed over, stressed over, or stacked up will come with us. Not one dollar in the account. Not one square foot of the house. Not one gadget, car, or vacation photo. None of it follows us past the grave.
And yet, if we’re honest, so much of our lives are consumed chasing exactly those things.
We've been sold a lie...
Our culture is built on the myth that more equals meaning.
More money.
More upgrades.
More status.
More comfort.
If we can just get a little more, the lie says, then we’ll finally have enough. But the truth? More never satisfies.
We scroll endlessly, comparing our lives to others. We fill closets and garages and storage units with things we don’t need but can’t seem to part with. And somewhere along the way, our souls grow thinner.
We were made for something deeper.
Jesus warned us about this in Luke 12:15:
“Watch out and be on guard against all greed, because one’s life is not in the abundance of his possessions.”
It’s as if He’s pulling us aside to say: Don’t get duped. Don’t waste your life stacking up stuff that won’t even make the trip to eternity.
So if stuff doesn’t last, what does?
People.
Relationships.
Love.
Service.
Every act of generosity, every word of encouragement, every moment we chose to lift someone else instead of ourselves, that’s what heaven sees. That’s what echoes forever.
The Bible puts it this way in 1 Corinthians 15:58:
“Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, be steadfast, immovable, always excelling in the Lord’s work, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.”
Not in vain.
Every prayer whispered in the dark.
Every time you showed up when it would’ve been easier to stay home.
Every smile you gave to someone who needed it more than you knew.
Every sacrifice of time, energy, or comfort for the sake of love... God sees it. And none of it is wasted.
A Different Kind of Legacy
Let me put it this way: When your story is told one day, what will people remember?
Will they talk about the size of your house or the shine of your car? Or will they talk about the way you made them feel seen, the way you gave when no one was watching, the way you loved without keeping score?
A bigger paycheck might impress people for a moment, but a life poured out in love impacts people for generations.
Think about this: one day in heaven, someone may come up to you and say, “You don’t remember me, but your kindness changed my life.” That’s legacy. That’s impact.
The Call to Live Differently
The U-Haul doesn’t follow the hearse. So why live as if it does?
What if we stopped arranging everything to flow toward us, and instead let our lives become rivers that flow through us? What if our success wasn’t measured by how much we consumed, but by how much we contributed?
God doesn’t need our stuff...
He wants our hearts. And when we pour out our lives in service, generosity, and love, we reflect the reckless generosity of a God who gave us everything in Jesus.
So here’s the challenge:
Hold things loosely.
Love people recklessly.
Give yourself away in ways that matter.
Because in the end, you won’t be remembered for what you stacked up. You’ll be remembered for what you poured out.
And eternity will echo with it.

It Was Never Supposed to Feel Easy

When Jesus said, “If anyone wants to follow me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me." Luke 9:23, He hadn’t yet gone to the cross.

The disciples didn’t know what was coming, but they knew what a cross meant. It wasn’t symbolic to them. It wasn’t poetic. It was Rome’s method of slow, public, excruciating death. So when Jesus said these words, they wouldn’t have heard a spiritual metaphor. They would have heard a call to lay down their lives. To die.

And not just in some heroic blaze of glory… but to die to how they thought things should go.
That’s where it hits us hardest, isn’t it? We feel wronged. Offended. Betrayed. Someone takes credit for something we did. An old coworker manipulates their way forward while we’re left behind. A friend twists the story and we lose the relationship… or the trust… or the job. And in those moments, everything in us screams for justice. For vindication. For the chance to say what we really feel and finally “set the record straight.”

But Jesus… He didn’t take that road. Not even with people who truly deserved it.
He loved the Pharisees who plotted against Him. He loved the Roman soldiers who beat Him. He loved the crowd that screamed, “Crucify.” He loved the ones who mocked Him, spit on Him, and nailed Him to wood.

Through Him all things were made. John 1:3
We are His workmanship.  Ephesians 2:10
Even the ones who killed Him were made by Him… In His image. Genesis 1:27

And He still chose to say nothing. No argument. No defense. No divine revenge. He denied Himself. And by doing so, He opened the doorway to grace and forgiveness for the very people who thought they’d won.

That’s the cross He carried. And that’s the cross He told us to carry, too.

It’s hard. It’s hard not to hope that someone “gets what’s coming to them.” It’s hard not to silently root for the downfall of someone who hurt us. It’s hard not to send that passive aggressive text. Not to tear someone down behind their back. Not to retaliate when we finally have the upper hand.

But that’s what Jesus meant. The cross is death to self. Death to our desire for revenge. Death to the craving for applause when we’re right. Death to our flesh when it rises up and says, “Say it. Post it. Prove your point.”

And instead… we follow.
Not follow some vague idea or abstract spiritual path. But follow a real Savior. One who absorbed the worst humanity had to offer and responded with love. Who forgave the ones hammering the nails. Who denied Himself so that we could live.

When the disciples heard those words, they couldn’t have imagined how literal it would become. That most would actually lay down their lives, each in different ways, for the sake of the gospel. But they chose it. Daily. Because they believed Jesus was worth it. They believed their story wasn’t just about them.

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

Jesus wasn’t calling them to pick up their cross so they could become martyrs or victims. He was calling them to become shade.

Like the old quote says: “Blessed is the man who plants trees under whose shade he will never sit.” That’s what this is. When you carry the cross, you plant something. You lay down your right to be first. You bury your demand to be seen, to be validated, to be avenged. And in that dying, something new grows. Something that will outlast you.

If the disciples had responded to Jesus’ death by launching a rebellion... If they had risen up and taken out every Pharisee, overthrown Rome, and declared justice for Jesus, it would’ve felt righteous. But it would have missed the point. They would have rewritten the story of power… instead of letting the cross rewrite the story of grace.

The same choice sits in front of us every day.
Deny yourself. Let it go. Carry the cross. Follow Jesus.
And in doing so… create shade for a future you may never see.

We live in a world of limits.

Everything we touch, spend, plan, and pursue has a line... somewhere it runs out. Time. Energy. Money. Patience. We know what it’s like to give, but only to a point. To love, mostly, if it’s returned. To forgive, but only if it feels fair.

So when we hear that God is generous, we tend to hear it through that same filter. We imagine a God who gives... but probably watches the clock. Who blesses... but keeps score. Who loves... but only if we do our part.

But that’s not the God I’ve met.

The real God doesn’t give like we do. He gives like someone with nothing to lose and everything to offer.

And maybe that’s the most mind blowing part.
God knew the cost... and still gave anyway.

Long before the cross, before sin, before shame, before we ever asked for help... He was already giving.

Have you ever looked around and wondered why this world has so much beauty in it? Why you can smell that first rain in Spring, why a newborn’s breath can fill a room, why music stirs something we can’t explain?

None of that is necessary for survival.
But all of it is evidence.

Evidence of a God who doesn’t ration. A God who creates, not because He’s empty, but because He’s full.

And then, when the creation He made broke away from Him, He didn’t flinch, didn’t hold back, or just offer a bandage.
Instead... He offered Himself.

That moment on the cross wasn’t poetic.
It was horrifying. And deliberate.
And absolutely undeserved.
And somehow, we’ve dressed it up. We’ve made it tame. We’ve hung it on our walls and forgotten the scandal of it. The Savior of the world... beaten, humiliated, nailed to a tree... not for people who loved Him, but for people who didn’t even care.

That’s not logical. It’s not safe.
It’s not the kind of generosity we’re used to.
In our humanness, it seems reckless, but it’s the only kind He knows.

See, God doesn’t love like a cautious investor hoping for a decent return. He loves like a Father who sees His child in danger and doesn’t think twice.
He didn’t wait until we deserved it.
He didn’t calculate whether it would be worth it.
He just gave.
He gave Jesus to take the place of every sin, every failure, every regret you’ve ever tried to hide.

A Father gave a son so that his enemies would become family.

And if that’s true... if the generosity of God really is this deep, this personal, this wild... then the only thing that makes sense is to stop holding back ourselves.
Not out of guilt. Not out of pressure.
But out of awe.

Because this isn’t a God who asked you to climb to Him. It’s a God who stepped into your mess, carried your shame, and stretched out His arms with blood still dripping... just to say, “I still want you.”

So maybe today is a good day to stop asking if you’ve done enough... And start asking if you’ve truly received what’s already been given.
Because the most reckless, fierce, breathtaking generosity this world has ever seen is still available... Right now.

Literally as you are reading this its available to you.
In your living room.
In your heartbreak.
In your doubt.
In all of your failures.

The only question left is... will you open your hands and receive it?
Reach out anytime with questions or if you need prayer.

While I was outside in the garden today, something hit me.
Not just the beauty of it all… but the brutal process that got it there.
Every bloom…
Every pepper in my hand…
Started with something that had to die.
A seed buried.
Hidden.
Split apart.
Unrecognizable.
I couldn’t help but feel the weight of it...
This is the Gospel.
Not a prettier version of your past.
Not “God cleaned me up.”
But death… and resurrection.
We love the idea of “new life” but we fight like crazy to hold onto our old one.
Our habits.
Our pride.
Our bitterness.
Our comfort.
But Jesus didn’t come to make us slightly improved. He came to make us new.
2 Corinthians 5:17 says:
“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, and see, the new has come!”
That means something has to go.
And sometimes it feels like loss.
Like grief.
Like everything is falling apart.
But what if it’s actually being planted?
What if this breaking you feel… isn’t the end of you… but the BECOMING of you?
God doesn’t just work around our pain.
He grows something through it.
The "dying to self" is part of the miracle.
But.... So is the life that rises.

I woke up today to news I honestly wasn’t ready for.

Hulk Hogan, Terry Gene Bollea, passed away. I felt a part of my childhood quietly slip away with him. It’s strange how someone you’ve never met can leave such an imprint on your heart. I guess heroes have a way of doing that.

As a kid, one of my favorite memories of my dad and me was watching him, eyes wide, glued to a flickering television as Hulk Hogan stormed into the ring, draped in his iconic yellow and red, the roaring crowd echoing my excitement. To my young heart, Hulk Hogan wasn’t just a wrestler; he was larger than life, a beacon of strength, hope, and invincibility. Watching him defeat Andre the Giant at WrestleMania III felt like watching David defeat Goliath. I remember my dad grinning as I cheered wildly, convinced in that moment that anything was possible.

But looking back now, through grown-up eyes, it wasn’t really about wrestling moves or the vibrant costumes or even the victories. It was deeper than that. We all have this innate longing to believe. We ache for someone to lead us, to inspire us, to give us courage. We need heroes, because they remind us of what we could be, what we aspire to become. Hulk Hogan was that for me, and for millions around the world.

I vividly recall the day, around age twelve or thirteen, when I discovered that wrestling wasn’t quite the fierce battle I’d believed it was. Honestly, I felt crushed. Like something precious had been stolen. Yet, as I matured, I realized something more powerful: the magic wasn’t really in the fight itself, it was in the story. It was about good triumphing over evil, redemption winning over brokenness, and courage rising even from defeat. The narratives Hulk Hogan brought to life mirrored what every heart secretly longs for, the hope of overcoming, the possibility of restoration.

It was always heartbreaking when Hulk would turn heel and play the villain for a while. But oh, how incredible it was when he’d come back around to the side of good! There was something profoundly real about that cycle, something human and relatable. Perhaps, deep down, he was searching too… Longing for something or someone greater to look up to, someone to lead him, just as we all do.

And then came the moment a few years ago that I’ll never forget. Hulk Hogan, my childhood hero, the invincible champion, publicly shared that he had given his life to Jesus and had been baptized. Hearing him share his story, watching him humbly admit his own need for a Savior, was profoundly moving. The man I’d spent so many childhood days wanting to become, stood vulnerably before the world and pointed upward, saying there was someone even greater, someone truly worth believing in: Jesus.

In his own words, Hogan once said: “When I finally accepted Jesus, something inside changed forever. I found what I’d been looking for my whole life… PEACE.” The man who embodied power, who conquered giants and captured the imaginations of millions, found his greatest strength on his knees, surrendered at the feet of Jesus. That day, it felt like my childhood wonder had returned, richer and deeper this time, infused with truth and grace.
Today, as I think about Terry standing in the presence of Jesus, completely restored, renewed, reconciled, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of hope. He’s no longer wrestling with doubt or regret. No more pretending, no more illusions… Just pure freedom in the presence of his Savior. He spent decades inspiring us to believe, to hope, to dream. Yet his greatest act of courage was stepping into that truth himself, recognizing the limits of human strength and reaching out for divine grace.

So today, as I honor Terry Gene Bollea, I also celebrate something even bigger than Hulkamania! I celebrate the reality of a God who meets us in our humanity, in our searching, in our brokenness. Because the ultimate hero, the one Hulk Hogan himself pointed us toward, is Jesus. The true conqueror, the only lasting hope.

Rest easy, Hulk. Thank you for every childhood memory, every cheer, every powerful lesson. And most of all, thank you for reminding us that true strength isn’t about muscles or victories, but about surrendering to the one who conquered everything on our behalf.
Today, the hero of my childhood finally meets the Hero of all eternity.

Tonight I stepped outside and looked up.

No filters, no noise, no distractions, just a sky stretched wide with wonder. A sky filled with stars that have been burning since long before we ever worried about gas prices, broken hearts, medical reports, or what tomorrow might hold.

And in that moment, the word that stirred in my heart was gratitude.

Not the kind we force ourselves to muster up because we feel guilty for being overwhelmed. Not the kind that comes with easy answers. But the kind that wells up from deep inside when you're standing in front of something so vast, so beautiful, so precise… and you realize you didn’t put a single star there.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Psalm 19:1
God did that.

Every speck of light, placed on purpose.
And somehow, He also placed you here. On this planet. In this moment. Breathing in air your lungs didn’t design, standing under stars your mind can’t even count.
You are not random. You're not forgotten. You’re not one mistake too far gone.
You are handcrafted by the same God who shaped galaxies.

Statistically, your existence is practically impossible... Some say the odds of you being born are 1 in 400 trillion. But God doesn’t work in odds. He works in purpose. In love. In divine design.

And I know… right now, some of us are barely holding on.
There’s a heavy cloud sitting over people’s minds... Anxiety, fear, depression, disappointment. It’s like the world keeps spinning faster, and we’re all trying to catch up, gasping for peace, for clarity, for rest.

But can I remind you of something that’s been grounding me lately?
He is still holding it all together.

For in Him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible… all things have been created through Him and for Him. He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1:16–17

That includes the galaxies.
And that includes you.

Even when you feel like you're falling apart, He isn't. He’s steady. Present. Sovereign. And close.

So tonight, let the sky remind you… you're not just here to survive the day. You were made in the image of the One who spoke the stars into existence. And if He holds the stars in place, He can hold you, too.
He hasn’t let go.
And He’s not about to start now.

Joy?

We live in a world obsessed with self. Everything around us seems to shout, “Do what’s best for you,” “Protect your peace,” “Put yourself first.” And yet, for all our effort to prioritize comfort and self-preservation, we’ve never been more restless, more anxious, or more disconnected. The more we make life about ourselves, the less satisfaction we seem to find.

But here’s the thing no one tells you: joy was never meant to be the end goal of a perfect life. It’s not something we stumble across once everything feels right. Joy is a gift from God, and a choice we get to make. It’s rooted in His presence, not our performance. And one of the most beautiful things about the way He designed us is this. When we live beyond ourselves, when we pour into others, that joy we long for often rises to the surface.
You were not made to be the center of your own universe. That truth isn’t crushing... It’s freeing. Because it means joy isn’t something you have to chase. It’s something God wants you to walk in right now. And more often than not, that joy deepens when we give ourselves away.

Jesus said, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” That word “blessed” speaks to wholeness. To deep happiness. To soul-level contentment. And while joy is first and foremost a work of the Holy Spirit, God wired our very bodies to experience it through acts of love. Science confirms what the Bible has always declared... Serving others releases the same chemicals in our brains that are tied to peace, contentment, and connection. When we serve, we often feel more alive, not because we’ve earned something, but because we’re stepping into what we were made for.

That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. In fact, some of the most joy-filled moments are born in the most inconvenient places. Helping someone move when your own life feels chaotic. Showing up for a hurting friend when your tank feels low. Giving time, prayer, or energy you weren’t planning to spend. These aren’t glamorous things. They’re quiet, ordinary choices. And still, over and over, we find this truth: we show up hesitant, and walk away full. We give of ourselves, and receive peace we didn’t expect.

But don’t be mistaken. Joy doesn’t hinge on these moments. It doesn’t come and go based on how much you serve. It is yours in Christ. It is your strength. But there’s something about walking in step with God’s heart... Something about stepping into the needs of others, that draws that joy to the surface in a way little else does. We don’t serve to feel joy. But when we do serve, we often discover that joy was already waiting.

The problem is, our culture has dulled our senses. We’ve traded depth for distraction. Our screens have trained us to look past pain, to scroll through need, to choose what’s comfortable over what’s meaningful. And while our hearts crave purpose, we’ve been conditioned to settle for momentary ease. We celebrate the highlight reel and forget the quiet power of presence. We guard our time so fiercely that we forget joy was never meant to be kept to ourselves.

Real joy is constantly found with dirt on its hands. It shows up when no one’s watching. It prays when no one claps. It leans in when life gets messy. Joy isn’t just found in the highlight moments; it’s found in the hidden ones. It’s not born from applause but from alignment with the One who gave everything for us. Jesus didn’t model joy by avoiding pain. He showed us the fullness of joy in a life poured out.

So what if we started to believe Him? What if we trusted that joy really is found in giving? What if we began to look up and out instead of always in? What if we understood that serving isn’t a burden, but a doorway? Not a way to earn joy, but a way to experience it. Not because of what it gives us, but because of what it reveals about who we are and who God is.

The invitation is simple, and it’s for all of us. You don’t need to be strong to serve. You don’t need to have it all together. You just need to be willing. Willing to say yes. Willing to show up. Willing to believe that God meant it when He said joy comes not from grasping, but from giving.

You already have access to joy. It’s yours in Christ. But if you feel like it’s been buried, maybe it’s time to live beyond yourself. Maybe it’s time to step into the places where joy comes alive again. Not because you have to, but because you were made for this.
You were made to carry joy. You were made to give it away. And when you do, you’ll find that it never runs dry.

My daughter Elin said something yesterday that was so deep...

She said, “People see something so perfect and immediately say, ‘That had to be AI.’ But then they look at the perfection of the oceans, gravity, the way the earth spins... and they don’t say, ‘That had to be God.’”

That’s a whole sermon in one sentence.
Think about it.

We look at a string of well written words and how perfect they are structured... and we’re quick to say, “Oh yeah, that’s AI. Too flawless to be human.”

But then we stand in front of a mountain range... or stare at the detail in a sunflower... or consider the precise balance of oxygen in the atmosphere... and instead of whispering, “That’s God,” we start grasping for accidents and probabilities and anything we can reach for that isn’t Him.

It’s wild.

We’re quick to assign credit to something created by man... But hesitant to give glory to the One who made man.

We’ll say, “It’s obvious this was generated” about something written by AI... But somehow we don’t say, “It’s obvious this was designed” when we look at the cosmos or the complexity of our own bodies.

Do we even hear ourselves?

We think an app writing a sentence is worthy of awe... But an ocean stopping at the shoreline isn’t?

We think AI generating a face is impressive...
But the human brain being able to process over 70,000 thoughts in a day isn’t?

We see a perfect paragraph and say, “That couldn’t be random,” Yet we see galaxies in motion and try to argue, “It all just happened.”

We’ve trained ourselves to believe the artificial is intelligent... But we’ve closed our hearts to the fact that divine intelligence holds the universe together.

And the deeper truth is this...
It’s not just skepticism. It’s resistance. We don’t just struggle to believe it’s God... We go out of our way to prove it’s not. Because if it is God, then we’re accountable. If it is God, then we’re not the center. If it is God, then maybe we’ve missed Him... and that’s a terrifying thought.

So we settle for man made answers to explain away a God formed world.
We reduce divine fingerprints to random patterns. We rewrite wonder into coincidence. All to avoid the possibility that there is a Creator who sees us, knows us, and has something to say about how we live.

But the evidence is everywhere.

If the earth spun even a little faster, violent storms would rip across the globe nonstop. A little slower, and we’d be scorched in the day, frozen at night.

If gravity were just a touch weaker or stronger, nothing would hold. And yet here we are... standing, moving, breathing, because gravity does exactly what it was told to do.
How about the oceans Salted with just the right balance to sustain life.
The atmosphere? Packed with precisely 21% oxygen, not a percent more or less.
The tilt of the earth? 23.5 degrees. Just right to create seasons and regulate climate.
Even our own bodies are masterpieces. THINK ABOUT IT. Our circulatory systems, immune defenses, fingerprints that never match another.

We don’t need more proof.
We need clearer eyes.

Since the creation of the world, God’s invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.
Romans 1:20

God has never stopped revealing Himself.
So why have we stopped looking?

Maybe because it’s easier to believe in a machine we made than a God who made us. Maybe because artificial intelligence doesn’t demand surrender, but divine truth does. Maybe because it’s more comfortable to be impressed by a robot than undone by a Savior.

But I’m telling you, He’s here. In every detail. Every rhythm. Every perfectly held breath.
And maybe today is the day we stop explaining Him away...
And start letting Him in.

I’ve had moments where I knew someone I cared about was slipping.

Not slipping in the casual way people talk about making mistakes, but slipping in a way that felt dangerous... like they were standing right at the edge of something that could take them out completely. You sense it before they even say anything. You can see it in their eyes, hear it in the way they talk, notice it in the patterns they start to follow. Their spirit is different. Their posture toward life is different. It’s like something inside is unraveling, but they’ve kept the thread hidden just enough that no one says anything out loud.

And if I’m being honest, there have been times I didn’t say something soon enough. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to push too hard or come off like I was trying to fix them. I told myself I would wait for a better moment. I told myself they probably just needed time. But deep down I knew they were headed toward a ledge, and I stayed silent anyway. And sometimes the cliff doesn’t wait.

There is a kind of love that doesn’t get talked about enough. It’s not soft or surface level. It’s not just about comfort or kindness. It’s the kind of love that gets into the grit of someone’s life and refuses to leave them alone in it. It’s a love that moves toward the mess instead of backing away. It’s a love that grabs someone who is drifting and says, “No, not on my watch.” It’s not controlling or forceful, but it’s deeply present. It carries a kind of solemn urgency. You don’t love someone like that from a distance. You love them by showing up and staying, even when the road gets uncomfortable.

And I think we need more of that. Because there are people in this mode all around us. They’re not announcing it. They’re not calling for help. But they are pulling away... slowly, quietly, steadily. Maybe they’ve been hurt. Maybe they’ve been numbed by life. Maybe they’re tangled up in something they don’t know how to let go of. Regardless of how they got there, they need someone who is willing to see it and love them enough to say something. Not in judgment. Not in shame. But in bold, prayed over, letting them know they truly matter, kind of way.

When someone’s life is starting to unravel, it’s not enough to just hope things get better. Love calls us to act. Love invites us to be brave enough to lean in. And that might mean asking the hard question. It might mean sitting down beside them and saying, “I’m not here to fix you, but I’m not going to pretend everything’s fine either.” It might mean risking the awkwardness of being misunderstood. But I would rather someone be frustrated with me for caring too much than wonder later if I ever cared at all.

Sometimes I think we confuse love with politeness. We think being kind means staying silent. But real love can’t sit still when someone is walking toward destruction. Real love is willing to step in even when it’s messy. Real love shows up and says, “This is not who you are. I see the truth in you, and I’m not letting go.”

I’ve had people do that for me. People who saw something I couldn’t. People who called me back to who I was meant to be. And I thank God for every one of them. They didn’t do it to control me or shame me. They did it because they cared more about my soul than my comfort. That’s what I want to be for others. Someone who loves enough to go to the edge. Someone who doesn’t just pray from a distance but walks all the way to the point of danger and reaches out in love.

Because I believe with everything in me that love... when it’s real, moves. It acts. It risks. It speaks. Not for the sake of being right, but for the sake of rescuing what matters most.
And what matters most is people. The ones God created. The ones He longs to redeem. The ones who may not even know how close they are to falling apart.

If there is someone in your life right now who’s drifting, don’t wait for a perfect moment. Don’t convince yourself that silence is safer. Love them enough to speak. Love them enough to be there. Love them enough to pull when the time comes.
This is what we are called to do.

Rescue others by snatching them from the fire.
Jude 1:23

Let’s be people who don’t look away.
Let’s be people who run to the edge.
Let’s be people who love like Jesus did, without fear, without hesitation, and without holding back.

There are moments that steal the air from your lungs.

Moments where the world seems to tilt on its axis, and all the things that once felt sure suddenly feel shaky. Today has been one of those moments for me.

When the news came that Camp Mystic, an all girls Christian summer camp had been struck by flash floods, the shock was immediate. What should have been a place of joy, faith, and childhood wonder was suddenly swallowed by tragedy. The waters rose quickly, overnight, giving little warning. Campers were caught in the dark. Lives were swept away. Parents are still searching. Friends are still hoping. And for many, the questions are growing louder than the answers. The surrounding area was also devastated.

Families are mourning. First responders are exhausted. Communities are shaken. It’s one of those rare national moments when grief feels personal, even if you’ve never been there yourself. Because it’s not just about a place, it’s about people. Daughters. Sisters. Friends. Counselors. Children.

And when children die… when floodwaters rise in the night… when the worst becomes real… something inside us breaks. We’re left with a kind of sorrow that doesn’t resolve easily. And in that sorrow, our hearts cry out with the same questions we have asked for centuries...

WHERE WAS GOD?
Why didn’t He stop this?
If He’s good, how could this happen?

These are not weak questions. They are not evidence of doubt. They are the natural cries of a heart that was not designed for death. We were made for Eden. And every time tragedy like this strikes, it exposes the deep longing in our souls for something better, something whole, something eternal.

It is completely human to wrestle in moments like this. No one is immune. Not pastors. Not theologians. Not longtime Christians or brand-new believers. When we see children go missing, when we watch lives ripped apart, when we imagine the pain of those living through it... we ache. And that ache is not a failure of faith. It’s evidence of love.
In the middle of our questions, we must remember that pain is not the enemy of faith. Emotion does not cancel truth. And even when everything shakes, the goodness of God remains unchanged.

That doesn’t mean we minimize the sorrow. Quite the opposite. It means we enter into it fully, because we know God does too. This is not a God who remains detached. He is not a God who sends tragedy to teach lessons or take people away because He needed them more. That kind of theology is not only WRONG, it’s CRUEL. And it is not who JESUS is.
The truth is that God’s heart breaks too.

In John 11, when Jesus stood at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He didn’t launch into a sermon. He didn’t explain the reasons behind death. He didn’t rush to resolve the tension. He wept. Even though He knew resurrection was coming, He let His heart break. That’s who God is. He doesn’t just allow space for grief... He joins us in it.

Right now, I believe He is weeping. He weeps with the parents who are still waiting by the phone. He weeps with the families who already received the unthinkable news. He weeps with the campers who saw too much and the staff who are carrying more than they can express. He weeps because His love is deeper than we know. And in that love, He doesn’t leave.

Psalm 34 says the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. Those are not just kind words for hard days; they are a promise for impossible ones.
God is close. Closer than the breath we can’t seem to catch. Closer than the questions. Closer than the fear. He collects every tear. He sees every ache. He knows what it’s like to lose. He lost His Son too.

This tragedy was not from Him. But He will not waste it. He will walk through it with every broken heart. He will carry what no one else can carry. He will sit with those who cannot yet stand. And somehow, in ways we cannot yet see, He will redeem what looks unredeemable.

So no, we don’t have all the answers. But we do have a choice. We can collapse under the weight of what we don’t understand, or we can cling to what we do. God is still who He has always been. Good. Present. Faithful. Steady. He is not shaken. He is not absent. And He will never stop being God, even when life makes no sense.

So, if you’re sitting in grief today, if you’re angry, afraid, or questioning, I want you to know this: you're not alone. You do not need to have polished words or perfect faith. All you need is honesty. And the courage to keep showing up in front of the God who still holds you. He’s not asking you to understand. He’s asking you to trust that He’s still near.

Even now. Especially now. He is good.

Father God,
We don’t have the words. We just have pain. So we bring You that pain, raw and real. We lift up the families who are still waiting, still clinging to hope in the middle of the night. Meet them in their desperation. Hold their hearts in ways no one else can. Be the comfort they don’t even have words to ask for.

We lift up the families who already know what they’ve lost. Oh God, wrap them up in Your presence. Let them scream. Let them cry. Let them collapse in Your arms. And don’t let them feel rushed. Hold their sorrow as long as it takes. Show them that even here, You are still Emmanuel... God with us.

We lift up the campers who survived but now carry fear, trauma, or guilt they were never meant to bear. Heal what we can’t see. Bring peace into the parts of their hearts that don’t know how to be peaceful anymore. Surround them with love that doesn’t flinch.

We lift up the counselors and staff, the ones who were there, who did what they could, who are now holding the weight of impossible memories. Give them strength for every new day. Let them know it wasn’t their fault. Let them rest in Your arms and recover slowly, surrounded by grace.

We lift up the first responders, the rescue teams, and the volunteers. Thank You for their courage. For their tears. For their relentless effort. Replenish what they’ve poured out. Restore what has been broken in them.

We lift up the whole community. The ones watching. The ones grieving. The ones who can’t stop thinking about it. The ones in the surrounding areas whose lives are also changed because of loss and suffering. Help us not to move on too quickly. Help us show up with compassion. Help us reflect Your heart.

God, be near. Be real. Be enough.
We ask this in the name of Jesus, the One who suffers with us, weeps for us, and never lets go.
Amen.

There are seasons in life when all we can see is the storm.

It surrounds us. It blinds us. It shakes everything we thought was stable. And when we’re standing in the middle of it, when the winds are howling and the waves are crashing... it feels like all we can do is beg God to make it stop. That’s our first prayer, right? God, take the storm away. Calm it. End it. Fix it.

And I get it. I’ve prayed that way more times than I can count.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe we’re missing something. What if the point is not always that the storm goes away? What if the point is that we remember who our God is in the middle of it?

We spend so much time describing the storm to God. Telling Him how bad it is. How scared we are. How much we need Him to intervene. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s human. It’s honest. But sometimes I think we forget to speak in the other direction. We forget to tell the storm about our God.

We forget to declare that He is bigger. Stronger. Steadier. Sovereign. That nothing the storm can do will ever dethrone the One who holds us. That the presence of God is not proved by the absence of storms but by the peace that holds us while they rage.

I’m learning to pray differently these days. Not just for the storm to end, but for the faith to endure. For the courage to remember that no matter what comes, I am not alone. For the strength to speak truth over fear and hope over chaos.

The storm is loud. But my God is louder.
The storm is fierce. But my God is stronger.
The storm is unpredictable. But my God never changes.

So I will not let the storm define my future.
I will not let the wind steal my voice.
I will not forget who walks on water and commands the seas.

Maybe you’re in the middle of a storm right now.
If you are, I want to remind you God is not panicked. He is not pacing the floor of heaven trying to come up with a plan. He is present. He is powerful. And He is still the God who speaks peace to storms.

So do not just tell God how big your storm is.
Tell your storm how big your God is.

“Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm.”
— Matthew 8:26

In a world of noise and constant distraction, sometimes the most profound moments begin with a whisper. The book of 1 Samuel opens with just such a scene – a barren woman praying through tears in the back of a temple, in a time when "the word of the Lord was rare." This haunting description sets the stage for a powerful narrative about listening, obedience, and the true nature of leadership.

Hannah's prayer wasn't just a plea for a child; it was an act of surrender. "Lord, if You give me a son, I will give him back to You," she vowed. In this moment of vulnerability and trust, something shifted. God heard her cry, and Samuel was born – a child dedicated to the Lord from his very beginning.

As Samuel grew, we witness a pivotal moment that speaks volumes to our own spiritual journeys. Lying near the ark of God, Samuel hears a voice calling his name. At first, he doesn't recognize it as the Lord. But with guidance, he finally responds, "Speak, for your servant is listening." This simple phrase becomes a turning point, not just for Samuel, but for an entire nation.

How often do we find ourselves in spiritual drought, longing to hear from God but surrounded by noise? The story of Samuel reminds us that God often speaks in the quiet moments, when our hearts are truly ready to listen. It's a powerful reminder that every move of God begins with someone willing to listen, even when the rest of the world has tuned Him out.

As Samuel grows into a faithful leader, we see a stark contrast develop. The people, dissatisfied with God's leadership, demand a king "such as all the other nations have." This request reveals a deeper issue – a desire for control, for visibility, for conformity to the world around them. In essence, they were rejecting God as their true King.

This moment serves as a warning to us all. How often do we ask God for things that seem good, chasing after roles, relationships, or solutions that match the culture around us, while forgetting that what we truly need is a heart that fully trusts God? The sobering truth is that sometimes, God may give us exactly what we ask for – and it may come at a great cost.

Enter Saul – tall, impressive, strong. He seemed to be everything the people wanted in a king. But as pressure mounted, so did the cracks in his character. Saul's downfall wasn't due to a lack of talent, but a lack of trust. He wanted the position without the obedience, the appearance of leadership without the heart of a true follower of God.

The story reaches a pivotal moment when Saul disobeys God's specific command, then tries to justify his actions. Samuel's rebuke cuts to the heart of the matter: "To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams." This powerful statement reminds us that God is never fooled by outward appearances or grand gestures. He looks at the heart.

As Saul's reign unravels, God sets His sights on a most unexpected candidate – David, the youngest son of Jesse, a shepherd boy overlooked even by his own family. This choice highlights one of the most profound truths in Scripture: "The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

David's story is a testament to the power of unseen obedience and quiet trust in God. Long before he faced Goliath, David had been faithfully tending sheep, worshiping God in the fields, and facing down lions and bears when no one was watching. It was this hidden life of faith that prepared him for his public calling.

When David finally steps onto the battlefield against Goliath, his confidence isn't in himself, but in "the name of the Lord Almighty." His bold declaration that "the battle is the Lord's" reveals a heart fully surrendered to God's purposes.

As David's star rises, we see a stark contrast with Saul's descent into jealousy and fear. Saul's attempt to cling to power he was never meant to keep serves as a sobering reminder: when we try to protect what God has asked us to release, we start to see blessings as threats and gifts as dangers.

The story of 1 Samuel isn't just ancient history – it's a mirror that reflects our own struggles with pride, compromise, and the limits of human strength. It reveals our deep longing for leadership we can trust and the devastating consequences of trying to rule our own lives apart from God.

But beyond the cautionary tales and human failures, 1 Samuel points us forward to a different kind of King – Jesus Christ. Where Saul grasped for power, Jesus surrendered it. Where David waited in caves, Jesus endured the cross. Where earthly kings ruled for their own sake, Jesus rules for ours.

This brings us to the heart of the matter – a question each of us must answer: Who is truly King in your life? Is it image, fear, the need for control or recognition? Or have you laid all of that down at the feet of the only King who will never leave you empty?

The invitation is clear. Let go of everything you've built without Him. Crown Jesus as King – not just in theory, but in the practical realities of your life, your heart, your decisions, your identity, and your future. He's not looking for perfect people; He's looking for those who trust Him with everything.

In a world that often feels as spiritually dry as the opening scenes of 1 Samuel, may we be people who say, "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening." For it's in that posture of humility and openness that we position ourselves to be part of God's next great move.