Author: Pastor'sPonderings

Just a guy who asks questions, considers life and tries not to take any of it for granted

A Micah 6:8 Kind of Life

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” — Micah 6:8

So.

Here we are.

We wake up, we scroll, we see the headlines, and we feel it. That tightness in the chest. That sense that the floor is just a little bit shaky. We live in a world that seems to be obsessed with the “us” versus the “them.” A world that is fragmented, loud, and—if we’re being honest—pretty exhausted.

And in the middle of all that noise, there’s this ancient vibration. This whisper from a minor prophet named Micah that somehow feels more “now” than tomorrow’s news cycle.

He asks this question: What does the Lord require of you?

It’s such a massive question. We want to answer it with complex systems, or 500-page manuals, or exhaustive lists of who is “in” and who is “out.” But Micah doesn’t go there. He gives us three movements. Three ways of being human in a world that has forgotten how.

1. Do Justice.

Notice the verb. It’s not “think about” justice. It’s not “post a meme about” justice. It’s do.

Justice is the social expression of love. It’s looking at the broken systems and the lopsided tables and saying, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” Being an ambassador for justice today means we stop asking, “What is best for me?” and start asking, “Who is being left out of the conversation?” It’s the gritty work of making things right, one interaction at a time.

2. Love Kindness.

The word here is Hesed. It’s a deep, sticky, “I’ve got your back” kind of loyalty.

In a divisive world, kindness is often seen as a weakness. A “nice” accessory. But Hesed is a revolutionary act. It’s choosing to see the image of God in the person whose logic you can’t stand. It’s the refusal to dehumanize. When we love kindness, we become people who are more interested in connection than in “winning” the argument.

3. Walk Humbly.

This might be the hardest one.

Walking humbly isn’t about thinking less of yourself; it’s about thinking of yourself less. It’s the recognition that you don’t have the full picture. It’s the posture of a learner.

What if, instead of entering every room with our minds already made up, we entered with a question?

“Tell me more about how you see things.”

Humility is the oxygen that allows grace to breathe. Without it, the world suffocates.

So, what does it mean to be an ambassador for God’s grace in a broken world?

It means we realize that we aren’t the ones saving the world—that’s already been handled. We are simply the ones invited to point to the light.

Today, you’ll have a dozen chances to be “right.”

You’ll have a dozen chances to be angry.

You’ll have a dozen chances to retreat.

But what if, instead, you chose to walk?

Just walk.

With justice in your hands, kindness in your heart, and a humble rhythm in your step.

Maybe the world isn’t waiting for more experts.

Maybe it’s just waiting for more neighbors.
Maybe that neighbor is YOU.

Grace & Peace to you on the journey today.
-Pastor Scott.

0

Real

we walk with heavy pockets
filled with answers
we haven’t even earned yet.

everyone is an expert
on lives they haven’t lived
and oceans they haven’t crossed.
we carry these maps
of places we’ve never been
just so we don’t have to admit
that we are lost.

it is startling, isn’t it?
how we can name the stars
and explain the gravity
that keeps us grounded,
yet we don’t know the rhythm
of our own heartbeat
when the room goes quiet.

we build walls of *i know*
to hide the fact
that we are all just
breath and bone
trembling in the dark,
hoping no one notices
the shaking.

put down the weight
of being right.
stop pretending the glass is unbreakable
when we are all made of cracks.

the world doesn’t need
more people who have it all figured out.
it needs the version of you
that isn’t afraid to stand in the sun
and say
*i don’t know*—
because in that honesty,
you finally become
real.
ss 5/4/26

0

The Sacred Art of Being Right Here

(and avoiding the trappings of this fast-paced life)

You’re probably busy right now.

Maybe you’re reading this on your phone while waiting in line at the grocery store.

Or maybe you’ve got a dozen tabs open on your browser, and this is just one of them.

We live a lot of our lives on the way to somewhere else.

The next meeting.

The next weekend.

The next phase of life.

“Once the kids are finally in school…”
“Once I get through this busy season at work…”
“Once things just settle down…”

We have a tendency to treat the present moment like it’s a waiting room.

Just a beige, sterile lobby we have to sit in until the real thing happens. Until our name is called.

But here’s the thing.

When you read through the ancient stories of Jesus, you notice something striking.

He never seems to be in a hurry.

He’s constantly walking from one town to another, sure. He has places to go.

But he is always, always getting interrupted.

By a woman reaching out in a crowded street.

By a blind man calling out from the dusty side of the road.

By people lowering their friend through a roof right in the middle of his teaching.

And for Jesus, the interruption isn’t a distraction from the work.

The interruption is the work.

He understood something that we so often forget in our hyper-connected, deeply exhausted world.

The divine isn’t just found at the destination.

It’s found in the dust of the journey.

What if we’re missing the profound because we’re too focused on waiting for the spectacular?

We look for God in the earthquake, the wind, and the fire. We look for Him in the grand milestones and the mountaintop experiences.

But God is remarkably comfortable in the ordinary.

In the quiet whisper.

In the breaking of bread around a messy table.

In the face of the person sitting across from you right now.

Grace isn’t something you have to sprint to catch up with.

It’s the air you’re already breathing.

So, take a breath.

Look around.

You don’t have to be anywhere else, or anyone else, to encounter the holy today.

It’s right here.

Three Questions to Ponder:

  1. Where in your life are you currently treating the present moment like a waiting room for the future?
  2. If you truly believed the mundane ground you are standing on right now is holy, what would change about how you move through your day today?
  3. Who or what is “interrupting” you lately, and how might God be gently inviting you to see that very interruption as the actual work you are called to?

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

What Happens When Nothing Happens

We hate waiting.

We just do.

We have apps to skip the line. We have shipping that gets it to our front door by tomorrow morning. We want the answer, the fix, the breakthrough, the clarity, the open door.

And we want it right now.

Because to us, waiting feels like a glitch in the system. We tend to think of waiting as a gap. A void. An empty, useless space between where we are and where we actually want to be.

Like a waiting room. You just sit there. Staring at a five-year-old magazine. Doing absolutely nothing.

But what if spiritual waiting isn’t passive?

What if waiting on the Lord isn’t a delay in your story… what if it’s a crucial chapter of your story?

What if it is the most profoundly active thing you could possibly do?

See, when the scriptures talk about waiting on the Lord, it’s not about twiddling your thumbs. It’s not about spiritual resignation. It’s about tension.

Think of a seed buried deep in the dark, heavy dirt. From the outside, it looks like nothing is happening. It looks abandoned. It feels like the gardener forgot all about it.

But beneath the surface? Everything is happening.

The shell is breaking. Roots are desperately reaching and digging deep into the soil. True, sustainable growth is occurring. You cannot get the massive, unshakeable oak tree without the dark, quiet, excruciatingly slow work of the seed in the dirt.

It’s in the waiting that our false idols are slowly stripped away. It’s in the waiting that we realize we aren’t actually in control. (And man, we love pretending we are in control, don’t we?) It’s in the waiting that our faith stops being a neat little transaction with the Divine—”I do this for you, God, so you give me that”—and starts becoming a real, breathing relationship.

We finally discover that God isn’t a vending machine. He is a presence.

And sometimes, the greatest, most profound gift He can possibly give us is the uncomfortable silence that forces us to stop talking, stop rushing, and start listening for His heartbeat.

The discipline of waiting isn’t about ignoring reality; it’s about anchoring yourself so deeply in the goodness of God that the rushing world around you loses its grip on your soul. It’s active trust. It’s rebellious hope.

So, if you find yourself in the waiting room right now—frustrated, tired, wondering if God lost your file—I want to invite you to stop trying to escape the wait, and start leaning into it.

Because the soil is doing its work.

As you go about your week, I want to leave you with three questions to chew on. Let these sit with you. Ponder them:

1. In your moments of profound discouragement: When you’re exhausted and ready to throw in the towel, what if this divine delay isn’t a punishment, but a deliberate setup to build a deeper, more resilient reliance on His strength rather than your own?

2. In your season of endless searching: When you are desperately looking for the next right answer, are you willing to sit in the uncomfortable, quiet mystery of “I don’t know yet” and trust that God’s presence is enough for today?

3. In your messy time of transition: In that terrifying, beautiful space between what was and what will be, how can you actively tend to the soil of your soul today, instead of just frantically rushing toward tomorrow?

Something more to ponder today.

-Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott.

0

The Danger of Comfort and the Need to Lean In.

Picture a classroom.

Maybe you’re in seventh grade. Maybe you’re in a crowded seminary lecture hall. The teacher is talking. The fluorescent lights are buzzing. And you are… somewhere else.

You’re doodling in the margins of your notebook. You’re thinking about lunch. You’re staring out the window, watching the clouds drift by. The words washing over you are just noise. It’s a comfortable, predictable, safe drone.

And then. It happens.

The teacher says your name.

What happens to your body in that exact fraction of a second? Your spine stiffens. Your eyes snap to the front of the room. You literally, physically, shift your weight.

You lean in.

Because suddenly, the lecture isn’t abstract anymore. It isn’t just noise. It’s highly personal, and it demands your immediate attention.

That comfortable drone? That slow, subtle lulling to sleep? That’s exactly what happens to us in ministry.

You’ve been doing this for a while. You know how the meetings run. You know which songs get the congregation moving, which sermon structures get the nods, how to balance the budget, and how to keep the machine humming.

The machine is safe. The machine is predictable. And let’s be honest: the machine is incredibly comfortable.

But here’s the thing about the machine. It doesn’t have a pulse.

We start out in ministry completely leaned in. We are wide awake to the calling. But over time, the wear and tear of the job takes its toll. People are messy. People are unpredictable. People will break your heart, and they will exhaust you, and they will ask questions you don’t have the answers to.

So, what do we do?

We build structures. We retreat to our offices. We dive into the thick theology books. We spend hours tweaking the graphics for the new sermon series. We step back into the spaces we are used to, the spaces where we are the experts, where we are insulated and in control.

Because leaning out is easy. Leaning back is safe.

But out there in the mess, our name is being called.

God is speaking through the unraveling marriage in your congregation. He is speaking through the doubting young adult sitting in the back row. He is calling your name through the marginalized family in your neighborhood who just needs someone to show up.

When we retreat to the comfortable spaces, we stop hearing our name. We start managing instead of ministering. We start preserving instead of pioneering.

Think about the life of Jesus. He didn’t spend a lot of time in the comfortable, predictable spaces. He didn’t build a machine and manage it from a corner office.

John 1:14 says, “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” He didn’t shout instructions from the safety of the heavens. He moved into the neighborhood. He got dirt under his fingernails. He crashed dinner parties with the wrong kind of people (Mark 2:15).

And he was constantly calling names. He didn’t just wave at Zacchaeus in the tree; he stopped, called him by name, and invited himself into the mess of a despised tax collector’s home (Luke 19:5). He saw Mary weeping at the tomb, blinded by her grief, and the thing that finally broke through the noise wasn’t a theological explanation. It was him, simply saying her name: “Mary” (John 20:16).

He leaned in. And he asks us to do the same.

The heart of ministry isn’t found in the green room. It isn’t found in the flawless, down-to-the-minute execution of a Sunday morning service.

It’s found in the living room. It’s found in the hospital waiting area. It’s found in the quiet, desperate, heavy moments where all you have to offer is your presence.

When we get comfortable, we miss the miracle. We miss the moment the lights finally come on in someone’s eyes. We miss the raw, beautiful redemption of a shattered life being put back together. We miss the very heartbeat of the Divine.

So, here is the invitation.

Listen closely. Through the hum of the church machinery, your name is being called.

How will you respond?

Questions to Consider:

  • Where are your “safe spaces”? What are the tasks, rooms, or routines you retreat to when the messy reality of people becomes too overwhelming?
  • Who is currently “calling your name”? Is there a specific person or situation in your church or community that you have been actively avoiding because it requires you to step out of your comfort zone?
  • When was the last time you felt the “jolt”? Think back to a recent moment in ministry where you were suddenly, acutely aware that God was using you in a raw, unscripted way. How can you posture yourself to experience that more often?
  • Are you managing a machine, or ministering to a movement? If you stripped away the lights, the budget, and the Sunday morning production, what would be left of your ministry?

Step out of the office. Leave the safety of the well-worn path.

Will it be hard? Yes. Will it break your heart? Almost certainly.

But hear your name. Shift your weight. Lean in.

0

From the Basin to the Bread and Wine: The Beautiful Heart of Maunday Thursday

Hello friends, and welcome back to the blog.

As we journey through Holy Week together, we land on a day with a rather unusual name: Maundy Thursday. If you’ve ever wondered where the word “Maundy” comes from, it’s actually derived from the Latin word mandatum, which means “command.” It refers to the new commandment Jesus gave His disciples on this very night: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34).

But before Jesus ever spoke those words, He gave the disciples—and us—a living, breathing, shocking demonstration of exactly what that kind of love looks like.

If you have a few minutes today, I want to invite you to step into the Upper Room with me. I want us to look at two powerful moments from that evening: the washing of the feet, and the breaking of the bread. Because when we put them side by side, they paint the most beautiful picture of our Savior’s heart.

The Shock of the Basin

Imagine the scene. It’s the Passover feast. Jesus and His closest friends are gathered in a private room. In the ancient Middle East, walking in sandals on unpaved, dusty, animal-trodden roads meant your feet got utterly filthy. It was customary for a servant to wash the guests’ feet as they arrived.

But there was no servant in the Upper Room. And none of the disciples volunteered for the job.

So, in the middle of the meal, Jesus stands up. He takes off His outer clothing, wraps a rough linen towel around His waist, pours water into a basin, and kneels down.

Can you imagine the pin-drop silence in that room? The Creator of the universe, the Messiah, on His knees, washing the grime from the calloused feet of fishermen, tax collectors, and even the man who was about to betray Him. Peter, in classic Peter fashion, tries to put a stop to it: “You shall never wash my feet!” It just felt too wrong, too backward. Kings don’t wash the feet of peasants.

But Jesus was showing them a different kind of kingdom. He was physically acting out the very nature of the Gospel: God coming down, taking the posture of a servant, to cleanse us from the dirt we could never wash off ourselves.

The Bread and the “Remembrance”

With the towel put away and the basin set aside, Jesus returns to the table. And here is where He transitions from the water to the wine.

He takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it, and hands it out to those same men whose feet He just washed. He says, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19). Then He takes the cup, explaining that it represents His blood, poured out for the forgiveness of sins.

We say those words so often in church—“do this in remembrance of me”—that sometimes they can lose their weight. We often think Jesus was just setting up a church ritual for us to follow. And while Communion is a beautiful, sacred sacrament, I think Jesus was asking for something even deeper.

How the Basin Explains the Bread

Why did Jesus wash their feet right before breaking the bread? Because the basin explains the bread.

The foot washing was the prequel to the cross. By kneeling with the towel, Jesus was saying, “Pay attention. What I am doing for your feet tonight, I am about to do for your souls tomorrow.”

When Jesus says, “Do this in remembrance of me,” He isn’t just saying, “Eat this bread and drink this juice so you don’t forget my name.” He is saying, “Remember the basin. Remember the towel. Remember how my body was broken and my blood was poured out to serve you and save you. Now, live your life in that exact same way.”

To “remember” Jesus at the Communion table is to embrace His servant heart. We remember His sacrifice by becoming living sacrifices ourselves. We remember the bread He broke for us by breaking our own pride to serve others. When we forgive an offense, when we show radical hospitality, when we stoop down to help someone who can offer us nothing in return—we are remembering Him. We are passing the bread, and we are picking up the towel.

A Word of Encouragement

Friends, as you step into the heavy, holy reality of Good Friday and the joyous triumph of Easter Sunday, I want to encourage you to linger in the Upper Room for just a moment today.

Before you go out and try to serve the world, let Jesus wash your feet. Let Him love you. Let Him cleanse the guilt, the shame, and the spiritual dust you’ve picked up along the road this week. You don’t have to clean yourself up before you come to His table; He is the one who does the washing.

Accept His profound, humble, beautiful love today. Take the bread. Drink the cup. And then, fueled by His incredible grace, let’s go out and find some feet to wash.

Grace and peace to you this Holy Week,
-Pastor Scott.

0

A Pondering on the Shadows: Sitting in the Darkness of Good Friday.

Hello again friends,

Earlier this week, we talked about the temptation to skip straight from the parade of Palm Sunday to the empty tomb of Easter morning. It is so deeply ingrained in our human nature to avoid pain and rush toward the celebration. But as we arrive at Good Friday, I want to gently remind us all: we cannot bypass the cross.

There is a heavy, sacred gravity to today. If Palm Sunday was characterized by loud shouts of “Hosanna,” Good Friday is defined by a profound, agonizing silence.

Think about the sky going dark in the middle of the day. Mark 15:33 tells us, “At noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon.” Creation itself couldn’t bear to watch its Maker suffer. We read about the mocking, the physical torture, and the weight of the sins of the world being placed on the shoulders of the sinless Son of God.

It makes me think of another profound thought from C.S. Lewis, this time from Mere Christianity:

“Fallen man is not simply an imperfect creature who needs improvement: he is a rebel who must lay down his arms.”

That is what we see on the cross. Jesus didn’t just die to make bad people good; He died to make dead people alive. He took the rebellion that was rightfully ours and paid the ultimate price to secure our pardon. When Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34), He is experiencing the holy separation that we deserved.

My challenge to you today is this: Do not rush past the shadows.

Take 15 minutes today to just sit in the quiet. Read the crucifixion accounts. Turn off the radio in your car. Put your phone in another room. Let the reality of what it cost to secure your salvation wash over you. We call it “Good” Friday not because the events were pleasant, but because the outcome was the greatest good the world has ever known.

Let’s lay down our arms today, friends. Let’s sit in the quiet reverence of the cross, holding our breath, and waiting for Sunday.

Walking the Path: A Holy Week Scripture Guide

To help you stay grounded in reverence and contemplation this week, I’ve put together a short, daily scripture reading guide. I encourage you to read these passages each morning, perhaps with your coffee, and let them set the tone for your day.

  • Palm Sunday: The Triumphal Entry * Read: Matthew 21:1-11
    • Ponder: Am I seeking a Savior who submits to my will, or am I submitting to His?
  • Holy Monday: Cleansing the Temple
    • Read: Mark 11:15-19
    • Ponder: What distractions or idols need to be cleared out of my own heart this week?
  • Holy Tuesday: Teaching and Controversy
    • Read: Luke 20:19-26
    • Ponder: Am I giving to God what rightfully bears His image—my whole life?
  • Spy Wednesday: The Betrayal
    • Read: Matthew 26:14-16
    • Ponder: In what small ways do I compromise my faith or trade my devotion for worldly comfort?
  • Maundy Thursday: The Last Supper and the Garden
    • Read: John 13:1-17 & Matthew 26:36-46
    • Ponder: Jesus washed feet and surrendered to the Father’s will. How can I serve others and pray, “Not my will, but yours be done” today?
  • Good Friday: The Cross
    • Read: John 19:16-30
    • Ponder: “It is finished.” Rest quietly in the magnitude of His sacrifice.
  • Holy Saturday: The Tomb
    • Read: Luke 23:50-56
    • Ponder: Sit in the silence of waiting. Trust that God is working even when we cannot see it.
  • Resurrection Sunday: The Empty Tomb!
    • Read: John 20:1-18
    • Ponder: He is risen! How does the reality of the resurrection change the way I live today?

Grace and peace on the journey, friends. Let me know in the comments how these readings are shaping your week!

0

A Pondering on Palms and a Path to the Cross.

Hello friends,

As I sit here looking at the calendar, I realize we are standing right on the threshold of Palm Sunday. It’s hard to believe we are already nearing the end of our Lenten journey, isn’t it?

Whenever this time of year rolls around, I find myself thinking deeply about the stark contrast of the days ahead. Palm Sunday is a day of high energy. We love the waving of the palm branches, the upbeat hymns, and the shouts of “Hosanna!” It feels like a long-awaited victory parade. But as we prepare our hearts for this coming Sunday, I want to invite you to look a little closer at the man riding in on the donkey.

The crowds that day were thrilled. They were throwing their cloaks on the road and cheering for a conquering king. Luke 19:37-38 paints the picture perfectly: “The whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen: ‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’”

They wanted a political savior. They wanted someone to kick out the Romans and make their lives easier. But Jesus wasn’t riding into Jerusalem to make them comfortable; He was riding in to save their souls. Just a few verses later, as He approaches the city and hears the cheers, Jesus actually begins to weep over Jerusalem. He knew that the very same voices shouting “Hosanna” on Sunday would be shouting “Crucify Him” by Friday.

This brings a profound thought to mind from C.S. Lewis. In his classic The Chronicles of Narnia, Mr. Beaver famously describes Aslan—the Christ figure of the story—by saying:

“Safe? … Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

The crowds on Palm Sunday wanted a “safe” king—a tame lion who would do their bidding and fit neatly into their worldly agendas. But Jesus is not a tame lion. The path He was walking didn’t lead to an earthly throne; it led straight to the agonizing wood of the cross. Lewis reminds us that following Christ isn’t about God improving our current circumstances; it’s about a total, reverent surrender of our very lives.

Here is my challenge to you this week:

Do not rush the journey. It is so tempting for us, in our modern, fast-paced world, to show up for the parade on Palm Sunday, check out for the week, and then show up again for the empty tomb on Easter morning. We love the triumph, but we shrink back from the tragedy.

This Holy Week, I challenge you to sit in the uncomfortable, quiet reverence of the season:

  • Pause and reflect: Spend time reading through the events of Maundy Thursday.
  • Sit in the shadows: Allow yourself to feel the heavy, somber reality of Good Friday.
  • Embrace the silence: Recognize the profound stillness of Holy Saturday.

You cannot fully appreciate the blinding, glorious light of Resurrection Sunday until you have spent time contemplating the deep darkness of Friday. Let’s not reduce Jesus to a tame lion this week. Let’s approach the cross with awe, repentance, and a quiet, contemplative reverence for the sheer magnitude of what it cost to save us.

Grace and peace to you all on the journey ahead.

0

The Sacred Art of the Lukewarm Coffee

So.

It’s February 4th.

We’re officially deep into that “middle” space. The holiday glitter has long since been vacuumed up. The New Year’s resolutions? They’re likely sitting in a drawer or in that “Christmas” closet under the stairs or attic somewhere, right next to that “extra” button you saved but will never actually sew onto your coat.

Maybe you woke up today feeling a little…ordinary.

A little dusty.

A little “I forgot to buy milk and now my cereal is just a bowl of crunchy sadness.”

And we’ve been told, haven’t we?

We’ve been told that the Divine lives in the spectacular. In the mountaintop experiences. In the moments where the music swells, the lights dim, and everything feels “perfect.” We often go out and try to capture that kind of “feeling” over and over again. Sometimes we have bought into the lie that this is the only place or only moment(s) that God shows up.

But what if that’s not the whole story?

What if the Spirit isn’t waiting for you to get your act together?

What if the Creator of the stars and the galaxies is just as interested in your Tuesday morning commute as He is in a cathedral service where everything is on point and the music is studio quality?

Think about it.

The ancient Hebrews had this word: Ruach.

It means breath. It means wind. It means spirit.

It’s the thing that animates everything.

And you’re doing it right now.

(Go ahead. Take a breath. I’ll wait.)

See?

You didn’t have to earn that breath.

You didn’t have to fill out a form or prove you were “holy enough” today to deserve that oxygen.
You didn’t have to perform well enough to receive a nod and an approval for that last inhalation of O2 – no, it’s a gift.

It was just… given.

Gift. Grace. Flow.

There is a rhythm to this life, it’s the cadence beneath the noise of your notifications and your “to-do” lists. And that hum, that cadence is saying one thing over and over:

You are here. You are seen. You are loved.

Not the “future, improved version” of you.

Not the you that finally loses the ten pounds or finally masters that sourdough starter (I see you, friend on facebook).

This you. The one with the mismatched socks and the slightly-too-full inbox.

So today, if things feel a bit messy?

If you drop your toast face-down or the dog barks right when you start your Zoom call?

Smile.

Maybe even laugh.

Because the Light isn’t waiting for the cracks to be fixed. The Light is specifically designed to shine through the cracks.

The mess isn’t an obstacle to the sacred.

The mess is the sacred.

May you find the wonder in the mundane today.

May you realize that your very existence is an act of worship.

And may you know, deep in your bones, that you are exactly where you need to be.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑