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Dear Christians, If Church is your foundation then you NEED to rebuild!

“Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than going to a garage makes you an automobile.” -Billy Sunday

Being a member of a church is not enough.
Carrying a bible and wearing “church clothes” isn’t enough either.
Saying all of the right prayers and calling out a timely “amen” isn’t enough either.

We can look the part.
We can act the part.
But if there is no difference in your heart.
Then it all that you have been doing is acting – not being.

We can often times get the “doing” before the “being“.
Do you know what I mean?

What I mean by that is this:
We can do church.
We can even do Christianese.
We can do all of the right things for all of the wrong reasons, and still not BE holy as God has called us to be holy. (1 Peter 1:15).

Doing requires works and action (Which in the right context are good, but AS the context can be bad).
Being requires deep, lasting change.
Being requires identity, the true source of context and provides us with the true foundation – God Himself.
We are made in the image of God.
We are His.
Being His requires surrender, sacrifice, dying of our old self and taking on this new image.

“You learned Christ! My assumption is that you have paid careful attention to him, been well instructed in the truth precisely as we have it in Jesus. Since, then, we do not have the excuse of ignorance, everything—and I do mean everything—connected with that old way of life has to go. It’s rotten through and through. Get rid of it! And then take on an entirely new way of life—a God-fashioned life, a life renewed from the inside and working itself into your conduct as God accurately reproduces his character in you.” -Ephesians 4:22-24 (The Message Version)

If we simply “do Church” we are attempting to “faith-hack” our relationship with Christ and with those He called us to minister to.

If our entire faith journey is all about how Church is blessing ME then we have corrupted our faith and have deleted the great commission from our ideology. We might rationalize it like this: “Sure, reaching people is good as long as they come to our church and as long as they fit the mold of what I think Christians should look and sound like.”

I fear that our Western ideology has polluted our perspective of what being a Christ-follower looks like.
The Christ-following ecclesia (as found in the Acts 2 early Church) was about the Body (the group of believers) being unified, sharing everything while adding to their numbers by reaching out into the world and preaching, teaching and making disciples. The love (Agape love) was evident and was like a sweet aroma to the world around them.

Have we lost that lovin’ feeling?
In our attempts to grow our churches, have we lost sight of reaching out and loving others?

Jesus didn’t call us into the safety of a church building to being silos, develop our own church culture and making it hard for the “outsider” to relate let alone earn their membership cards to our exclusive club. We as humans can sometimes make Jesus almost inaccessible to the sinner when we ourselves are sinners save by grace.

Jesus didn’t call us to become comfortable and complacent in our faith.
He did not want us to leave people out or write them off either.
If we are hiding behind Church, or dare I say, if Church has replaced God as our faith in religious practices, rituals and observances, then we MUST rebuild our faith.

How About You?
Church is not four walls of a building where we practice piety.
Church is not about rituals and the styles of our expressions in worship.
Church is not about having an exclusive club membership.

Church is you and me, human beings, living out our faith expression first of all for the glory of God (and not because we prefer this style of worship music or style of service). Secondly, we express this living and active faith so that others might see the image of Christ through us. When we do this, we are helping others discover that faith journey too for the purpose of a Jesus relationship.

Burn the walls of division.
Burn the halls of exclusivity
Tear down the rituals that have hidden Christ instead of revealed Him to others.
Break the traditions that do not glorify but only serve to prevent new membership and fellowship.

YOU are the Church.
YOU are the prophet that God has called to minister to others (that only you can minister to).
YOU are called and equipped.
YOU must check your foundation and if it is in need of repair – begin the restoration process today!

-Something more to ponder today.

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Why We Are Leaving…and Where We Are Going.

Where do I begin…
For months now I have been battling this thing inside of me.
If I’m honest this urge, this calling, this prompting, this restlessness has been there for much, much longer…for both Shanais and me.

Do you recall what happens when you run from God?
If not, just ask Jonah…

There is a deep aching sadness in the leaving…
There is a sadness in the walking away from what is known and moving into what is presently unknown.

I believe the Lord has brought the story of Abram to me over and over again while we have been in this process. The story is about a rich man named Abram. He had lots of family and friends. He had it all. He was not in want for anything. He was comfortable. And then one day God tells Abram to travel out of his known lands and to live in the unknown places. The uncomfortable, unfamiliar lands…the place where he had no friends. The place where there would be no safety.

It was a giant leap of faith.
He had to trust his Creator.
He had to have faith that God would provide the friends, the comfort, the safety. And so he and his wife Sarai went. They traveled into the unknown land with alien terrain and different customs and people. God reminded Him of His faithfulness. Abram and Sarai were both transformed in the leaving. Sure, there were roadblocks and bouts of their own personal faithlessness, and yet God remained faithful to them. Abraham became the father of many nations. Sarah the mother.

When we do not rely on our own resources and lead from our own comforts we are inclined (sometimes forced) to rely completely on the Lord’s provisions instead of our own. It can be dangerous and yet also liberating, because our resources are limited and our experiences to what is known. What we know personally. We can be comfortable in our frames of reference…and yet God’s frame of reference is so much more infinite.

Back to this restlessness…
I could rely on my own resources…and limit my faith journey.
I could remain in what I know to be comfortable…and run the risk of becoming stagnant and run the same familiar patterns but not really delving any deeper. I could remain here (and here is an amazing, place called home)…but I feel it in the core of my being that God is calling me out of this. It is a leap of faith. It is extremely scary. It is heart-aching. Yet, I will follow Him. I will trust that He knows what He is doing. I will lay all of me on the altar and allow God to use me.

Where are we going?
I didn’t set out to find this.
I wasn’t searching for this kind of work.
It’s not something I am completely familiar with.
We are moving to Southern Alabama.
I will be working in one of the poorest counties in all of Alabama.
Have I ever lived there? No.
Do I have any family there? No.
Do I have friends there? No, not yet.

The ministry? – I will be running a Christian Foster Care organization. It’s a huge leap for me. (I keep saying I and me, and what I really mean is that it is a HUGE leap for both of us – Shanais and me.) We are both stepping out of our comfort zones. We are not abandoning God’s mission in this world, but rather embracing it more deeply. I am a fourth generation Salvationist, and you don’t realize how difficult this is for me to do. And yet, I am doing this, and I have a deep sense of peace about it even though it is scary.

Of course there are questions:
Will I do this for the rest of my life? Answer: I don’t know.
Will I come back to the Army as an Officer? Answer: Maybe.
Am I walking away from my faith? Answer: absolutely not!!
My church? Answer: No.

God’s kingdom is so much larger.
God’s love encompasses so many people, both lost and found.

What can you do?
Please Pray!
Would you pray for us?
Some will not understand why we are doing this.
Some will consider it abandoning our calling…I don’t see it that way at all. Rather we are embracing it more deeply. Some might even disagree with us and the decision we have arrived at. That’s fine, we understand.

I hope that I can count on you to still be a friend and a prayer warrior.
I believe God’s love is greater than any one organization or church. He can call us from one place to another and we can still remain in His will for our lives. Some remain called to one place, others to multiple places.

This might change how you view us, but I hope not.
We are still ministers of God’s love and grace. We still call Him Lord of our lives and we still desire to serve Him.

Thank you for loving us and praying for us while in this scary transition. Thank you to the leaders who have guided us along the way…we love you and are forever in your debt!
We are simply trusting that God knows what He is doing…and there’s nothing simple about it.

God Bless You.
-Scott & Shanais Strissel.





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Fear the Walking Faith…It’s a journey!

He replied, “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” Matthew 17:20

Oh how our faith can waver sometimes.
It seems that the gusting of a slight breeze of discord or worry can shake our quivering feet of faith.

Have you ever come to a moment of realization that your faith is not as deep as you once thought it was? We all encounter times, while on this journey, where the feel as though we have entered into the desert and we are found lacking in our resolve and fortitude. This journey will take us into places that require us to dig a little deeper and to endure the dry and thirsty places – where we find ourselves questioning everything and reaching further for God…who seems to have gone silent.

Have you been to this place?

I remember when I first learned to swim.
My parents would take me into the deeper part of the waters where my feet couldn’t touch and then let go of me, and as they let go of me they step back out of my reach. I remember there was a momentary panic. The saving hands were no longer on me and I found myself struggling to keep my head above the waters. I remember having to reach out my arms while kicking my feet so that I could reach the safety again. As I did this, without realizing, I began to swim by myself for the first time.

My intentions were not to swim. My intention was to reach the safe arms of my parents who were just out of reach.

There is growth within the tension and fear.
Growth that can only take place when we are left to our own devices.
Growth that can only transpire within the turmoil and desert places of our faith journey.

It is as if God steps back from us, and we are faced with the seemingly terrifying notion that we must step into the deep alone. The truth is that we are most certainly not alone, but rather there is growth that is only found in desert. And so we step out, unsure of ourselves…unsure if we can reach those safe arms of Christ again.

Remember Peter on the waters before Jesus?
He is asked to step out into a turbulent, uncertain space.
Peter takes a couple of steps, loses sight of the arms of Christ and begins to sink.
He takes his eyes off of Jesus.
He considers the impossibilities of such a journey.
He must have recalled his inability to do this feat, and as the doubt sinks in so does Peter.

We often chastise Peter for his lack of faith.
We often sermonize this passage to implicate the lack of resolve that ‘the Rock’ had…
But where were the other disciples?
Do we read about their steps of faith on the waters? No.
They were still in the boat watching it all go down.

We have to get out of our boats.
We will encounter dry and thirsty times in our faith journey.
It will feel as if we are all alone out in the wilderness, but we are not alone.
God steps back and watches us within the tension of deeper waters.
And it is within those deeper spaces that we grow.
It is through perseverance that our character and the very image of Christ becomes clearer in us.

Some have turned back and returned to the safe places.
Some have given up because they have felt abandoned.
Others have persevered and they have grown.
The Lord desires all of us to deepen our faith, and so these times of dryness should be seen as opportunities to grow up into this amazing faith.

Being like Jesus isn’t easy.
It takes determination and desire on our part.
Are you prepared to allow God to deepen your faith?
Is it your desire to get off of spiritual baby formula and begin to feast on more sustainable spiritual nourishment?

Take that next step…don’t be afraid, He’s got you, and He isn’t far from you right now!

Something more to ponder today.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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The Grace Expert & The Eight Year Secret.

The news about Philip Yancey is the kind of thing that makes you set your coffee down and just stare out the window for a while.

If you’ve spent any time in the “thinking” corners of the church, Yancey has probably been a companion of yours. His books—What’s So Amazing About Grace? and The Jesus I Never Knew—weren’t just bestsellers; they were lifelines. He was the guy who gave us permission to admit that faith is often a mess of doubt and shadow. He made grace feel like something sturdy enough to hold our weight.

And now, we’re processing this: an eight-year affair. With a married woman. All while he was the face of modern Christian grace, writing the books and speaking at the conferences. He came forward himself, stepped down, and admitted he had “disqualified” himself.

It’s a gut-punch. Not because we’re naive enough to think Christian leaders don’t fail—we know better by now—but because of the specific nature of this failure. It forces a terrifying question: How does someone spend nearly a decade describing the heart of God while their own heart is miles away?

The Art of the Split Life

History is littered with this kind of thing. King David wrote the most beautiful poetry in the Bible while his hands were literally stained with the blood of a man he had murdered to cover an affair. Peter preached the gospel after denying he even knew Jesus.

But Yancey’s situation feels like a very modern, very quiet tragedy. Eight years isn’t a “moment of weakness” or a one-time lapse in judgment. It’s thousands of small, daily choices to live a double life. It’s a sustained effort to keep the “Public Grace Expert” and the “Private Transgressor” from ever meeting in the same room.

It makes you wonder about the words he wrote during those eight years. Were they hollow? Or were they something more tragic—a cry for help from a man who knew the truth of grace but felt he had drifted too far out to actually touch it?

The Myth of Compartmentalization

We like to think we can keep our lives in separate boxes. We tell ourselves, “This secret part of me doesn’t affect my work for God.” But the soul doesn’t work that way. When we live in contradiction, something begins to atrophie.

In church circles, we talk about accountability and integrity so much that the words have lost their teeth. We’ve turned accountability into a polite “how are you doing?” over lunch. But real integrity isn’t about being perfect; it’s about alignment. It’s making sure the person people see on the stage is the same person sitting alone in a hotel room.

When that alignment snaps, we start performing. We use the right “Christianese,” we hit the right emotional notes in our prayers, and we learn how to fake the glow of a spiritual life that has actually gone cold on the inside.

The Quiet Creep of Atrophy

Spiritual decay doesn’t usually happen overnight. It’s a slow, subtle erosion.

  • It starts when you’re “too busy” for your own soul because you’re doing “the Lord’s work.”
  • It grows when you justify a small compromise because, hey, look at all the good you’re doing.
  • It solidifies when you realize you’re good at pretending—and that everyone believes the act.

Eventually, you aren’t living a faith; you’re managing a brand. You become a professional at describing a God you no longer talk to in private. That is the real danger of ministry: you can become so familiar with the language of God that you lose the fear of Him.

Where Does This Leave Us?

The “good” news—if we can call it that—is that Yancey chose to stop the clock. He chose to step into the light, however late, and own the wreckage. That is an act of integrity, even if it’s the final, painful act of a career.

But his story should be a mirror for the rest of us. It’s a warning not to wait for the “big fall.” It’s a call to look at the gaps in our own lives—the places where we are pretending, the secrets we’re guarding, and the ways we’ve let our public persona outpace our private character.

Grace is big enough for Philip Yancey. It’s big enough for the woman involved. And it’s big enough for us. But grace is never an excuse to stay in the dark; it’s the power that allows us to finally come clean.

Let’s stop posing and start being honest. Because a broken person who is honest is much more useful to God than a “godly” person who is lying.

Grace, Peace & Accountability
-Pastor Scott.

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