Give this podcast episode a listen, I will be posting new episodes regularly so stay tuned!
The Box Top of Your Life (Foundations #2 Recap Episode)
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.
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.
Rediscovering the Liminal Spaces: Finding God in the In-Between
Hey friends & fellow ponderers, I hope you’re having a great beginning of this new year!
If you’re anything like me, your days feel like a whirlwind of notifications, to-do lists, and that ever-present thrumming in my brain of “just one more thing” before I collapse into bed.
Lately, I’ve been pondering those elusive moments we call liminal spaces—the thresholds, the pauses, the in-between spots where life isn’t quite one thing or another. You know, like the quiet drive home after a long day, or the hazy dawn before the coffee kicks in. But in our hyper-connected, always-on kind of world, these spaces seem to be shrinking, swallowed up by distractions and stresses that leave us breathless and a little bit lost. And so I find myself in search of the liminal, quiet self-reflection moments where I can re-charge my spirit, body and soul.
I truly believe that the sacred is very real and present with us in our daily lives. God desires to enter into our hearts and minds moment by moment, but our days are often consumed with distractions and noise. The sacred is closer than our next heartbeat, His presence fills our lungs, but we must become aware of this sacred space! That’s the kind of presence and spirit I’m trying to remind us of today as we talk about rediscovering these liminal spaces. Because if I’m honest: in the rush of parenting, work deadlines, social media scrolls, and even church commitments, we’ve forgotten how to linger in the thresholds where God often whispers the loudest.
What are liminal spaces, anyway? I’m sure some of you are wondering about that and what the definition could be. Well, think of them as the doorways between what was and what will be. In anthropology, they’re those rites of passage—leaving home for college, the wait between a diagnosis and treatment, or even the silence after a heated argument. Spiritually speaking, they’re the wilderness wanderings in Scripture: Moses on the mountain, Jesus in the desert, or Mary at the tomb before the resurrection dawn. These aren’t just empty voids; they’re fertile ground for transformation, where the old self sheds and something new emerges. But here’s the rub: in our culture of constant stimulation, we fill every gap with podcasts, emails, or endless streaming. We avoid the discomfort of limbo because it feels unproductive, even scary. Yet, it’s in those very uncertainties that we encounter the divine mystery—not in neat answers, but in the holy questions. Amid the distractions—those pings that pull us away from presence—and the stresses of living (bills, relationships, global chaos), we’ve lost touch with the rhythm of rest that God built into creation.
Remember the Sabbath? It’s not just a day off; it’s a liminal space baked into the week, a threshold where we step out of striving and into being. But how often do we treat it like another slot to fill? The same goes for our prayer lives. Prayer isn’t a checklist item – and it was never meant to be a checklist to cross off when we complete them. No, instead, it’s an invitation to solitude, to sit in the in-between with God, where the noise fades and the soul finally gets a chance to breathe.
So, how do we rediscover these spaces? It starts with intention, with carving out disciplines that feel countercultural. A healthy prayer life isn’t about eloquent words; it’s about being present, even when it’s awkward. And what about solitude? It’s not loneliness—it’s the deliberate choice to unplug, to walk in the woods or sit in a quiet room, letting the liminal wash over us. I’ve found that starting small helps: five minutes of silence before checking my phone in the morning, or turning off the radio during my commute to let thoughts wander toward God.
But let’s get a little more practical and a bit more introspective, shall we? Here are some crucial questions we can ask ourselves to rediscover the importance of seeking out these liminal spaces, nurturing a vibrant prayer life, and embracing the discipline of solitude. I encourage you to jot them down, mull them over in your journal, or share them with a trusted friend. They’re not meant to guilt-trip but to gently guide us back to the thresholds where grace awaits:
Questions to Ask Ourselves
- When was the last time I allowed myself to linger in uncertainty without rushing to fill it? What fears come up when I think about pausing in the in-between?
- How do my daily distractions—social media, work, even good things like family obligations—keep me from noticing God’s presence in the ordinary transitions of life?
- What does my prayer life look like right now? Is it a hurried monologue, or am I creating space for listening, for the liminal dialogue where God might surprise me?
- In what ways have I avoided solitude, and why? Could embracing alone time—without devices or agendas—open me up to deeper spiritual growth?
- Looking back, can I identify a past liminal space where transformation happened? How might seeking similar spaces now help me navigate my current stresses?
- What one small step could I take this week to invite more liminality into my routine—like a tech-free walk or a bedtime reflection—and how might that strengthen my connection with God?
Friends, rediscovering liminal spaces isn’t about adding more to our plates; it’s about subtracting the noise to reveal what’s already there: a God who meets us in the thresholds, not despite the chaos, but right in the midst of it. Faith isn’t about certainty; it’s about wrestling, wondering, and waiting together. So, let’s commit to seeking those in-between moments, to praying with open hands, and to solitarily savoring the sacred. Who knows what new life might emerge on the other side?I’d love to hear your thoughts—drop a comment below or shoot me an email. Until next time, may you find peace in the pauses.
Grace and ponderings,
-Pastor Scott
The Threshold of 2026: What if we stopped “Fixing”?
We’re standing on it again. That invisible line.
One second it’s 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2025, and the next, we’ve crossed over into 2026. We act like the air changes, don’t we? Like the molecules of the universe suddenly rearranged themselves because a calendar page turned.
We call them “Resolutions.” But if you look at that word—resolution—it’s about finding a solution. It implies that you, as you are right now, are a problem to be solved. A leak to be plugged. A glitch in the system that needs a software update.
But what if 2026 isn’t about “fixing” the old you?
What if the “New Year” isn’t a demand for a better version of yourself, but an invitation to finally meet the real one?
I’ve met so many people in my life, and I don’t want to sound judgmental, but I can automatically tell when someone is simply putting on a mask and living a fake life for others to see. Sometimes people do this to impress others, while some pretend instead of live a real life because they fear what people might think if they ACTUALLY ‘let their hair down’.
But what would happen in 2026 if we all just stopped pretending, and started living our lives with authenticity without fear of judgement?
The Rhythm of the New
In the Hebrew scriptures, there’s this beautiful, recurring idea that God is “doing a new thing.” But “new” in the biblical sense isn’t usually about replacement. It’s about renewal. It’s like a tree in winter. It looks dead. It looks stagnant. But deep in the soil, in the dark, silent places where no one is taking selfies or posting updates, something is shifting.
The tree isn’t trying to be a different tree in the spring. It’s just becoming more of what it already is.
So, as we stare down the barrel of 2026, I have some questions. Not the “How much weight do you want to lose?” kind of questions. The other kind. The kind that sit in the pit of your stomach:
- What are you carrying into this year that isn’t actually yours to carry? Is it a parent’s expectation? A former version of yourself that you outgrew three years ago? A shame that has already been forgiven but you keep in your pocket like a lucky charm?
- What would happen if you stopped trying to “arrive”? We spend so much energy trying to get somewhere else. To the next job, the next relationship, the next tax bracket. But what if the Divine is actually in the here? What if the burning bush is right in your backyard, but you’re too busy looking at a map of a different forest?
- Where is the “New” already happening? Look at your life. Not the big, flashy stuff. Look at the small, quiet pulses of grace. The friend who actually listens. The way the light hits the floor at 4:00 p.m. The fact that you’re still breathing.
The Sacred Middle
2026 will have its share of mess. We know this. There will be moments of stress, anxiety, problems – and much more. There will be moments where you feel like you’re failing at everything. I don’t want to dismiss that these kinds of events will most likely happen to us all in 2026.
But the Gospel—the “Good News”—isn’t that life becomes a straight line of success. It’s that even in the mess, even in the “not-yet-resolved” parts of our lives, there is a Presence. A “With-ness.”
Jesus didn’t say, “I have come so that you might have a perfectly organized life and a 401k.” He said he came so we might have Life. Abundant, vibrant, messy, holy, complicated Life. Emmanuel = God – with us. God connected to us. God in relationship with us every. step. of. the. way. (full stop, no flimsy/flip-flopping decisions – He’s all-in with your life! He’s fully invested in YOU!)
A Pondering for the Road
As you step across that threshold into 2026, maybe skip the “To-Do” list for a minute. Try a “To-Be” list.
- To be… present.
- To be… kind to yourself when you stumble.
- To be… open to the idea that God likes you exactly as you are, even as He invites you into who you are becoming.
The calendar is turning tomorrow at 11:59pm.
The sun will rise. And the Spirit is already there, whispering, “Let’s see what we can make of this together.”
Grace and Peace to you in 2026.
-Pastor Scott.
Christmas For The Burned Out & Lonely
Hey there,
You know, Christmas rolls around every year like clockwork, with all the lights and carols and that relentless push to feel jolly. But what if you’re just… not?
What if the whole thing feels like one more obligation in a world that’s already worn you thin? Maybe religion has left you bruised—too many rules, too much hypocrisy, or just a sense of “been there, done that, and it didn’t fix anything.”
Or perhaps life’s handed you a raw deal this season: loss, loneliness, that ache that won’t quit. If that’s you, pull up a chair.
Let’s talk about this birth story in a way that doesn’t demand you fake a smile or force some festive vibe. Think about it: the original Christmas wasn’t some Hallmark movie with perfect snow and warm fuzzies. It was messy. A young girl, Mary, pregnant out of wedlock in a culture that could’ve stoned her for it. Her fiancé Joseph, wrestling with doubt and whispers from the neighbors. They’re trekking to Bethlehem because some distant emperor decided it was census time—no choice, no comfort. And when they get there? No room. Just a stable, probably smelling like hay and animals, with a feed trough for a crib.
Friends, God shows up not in a palace, not with fanfare and fireworks, but in the dirt and the dark, right in the middle of our human exhaustion. Isn’t that something? I think we have to pause right here and now and truly appreciate that God comes to our level, when we least expect it and when we are far from prepared.
The divine slipping into our world NOT when everything’s polished and pretty, but when it’s all falling apart. Jesus’ first breath wasn’t in a cathedral, or a stately Martha Stewart like Maine Mansion decked out for a Hallmark movie filming; no, it was in the chaos. Shepherds—outcasts, night-shift workers—were the first to hear the news, not the religious elite.
And those wise men? They came later, from far away, following a star that didn’t make a lick of sense. This story whispers that the sacred doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It meets you where you are: burnt out, skeptical, hurting. So if you’re not feeling the “spirit” this year, maybe that’s okay. Maybe the real spirit of Christmas is the one that says, “I see you in your weariness, and I’m here anyway.” I mean, come one, how encouraging and relieving is there?! God sees us, and he desires to be present with us – not to fix it all with a bow on top, but to sit with you in it. To remind you that love—the kind that’s bigger than religion’s boxes—enters quietly, like a baby in a manger. It’s not about mustering up faith or forcing joy; it’s about noticing that glimmer, however faint it might be, in the ordinary mess that is your life right now.
What if, just for a moment, you let that in? No pressure, no guilt. Just breathe. Look around at the people who show up for you, the small acts of kindness that sneak through. Or, perhaps, stare at the stars and wonder if there’s something more, something that doesn’t demand perfection from you.
Jesus’ birth was an invitation to the weary: come as you are. You’re not too broken, too doubtful, or too done with it all. In fact, that’s exactly where the light breaks through.
So – hang in there. The story’s not over. And neither is yours.
Perhaps just rest in the knowledge that Jesus came to this earth because of you. Let that wash over you, and ponder on it.
Grace and peace,
-Pastor Scott
When Christmas Hurts – Hope for the Lonely Heart.
(A Christmas Reflection)
Every year, the lights go up, the music turns on, and the world seems to lean hard into cheer. “Merry Christmas!” echoes from store speakers, greeting cards, and overcaffeinated morning show hosts. But for many, this season feels anything but merry.
If that’s you this year—if you’re sad, lonely, or walking through grief—this post is for you.
You’re Not Broken Because You’re Hurting
Let’s just say it plainly: being overwhelmed this time of year doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. The world around us says you should feel magical and joyful, but your heart might feel tired, cracked, or heavy. And that’s okay.
Some of you are facing Christmas with an empty chair at the table.
Some are trying to navigate celebrations while carrying the weight of loss.
Some are quietly battling depression behind everyone else’s holiday excitement.
Some just feel alone—maybe more this season than any other.
Pain has a way of echoing louder during a season built on celebration. But you need to hear this: you’re not strange, and you’re not alone.
Even the First Christmas Had Tears
We often picture the first Christmas as serene: a silent night, peaceful animals, starlit skies. But the truth is, on the edges of that holy night, there were tears, fears, and exhaustion.
Mary and Joseph were far from home.
The city was overcrowded.
They delivered a baby in a place no one would choose.
It was messy. It was loud. It was lonely.
In other words—Christmas didn’t begin in perfection. It began in need, in uncertainty, in the dark.
And into that darkness came Jesus.
Your darkness doesn’t disqualify you from Christmas; it may actually help you understand it more deeply than most.
God Sees You in This Season
One of the most comforting truths in Scripture is this:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” (Psalm 34:18)
Christmas is not about us climbing up to God; it’s about God coming down to us.
Not to the strong, but to the struggling.
Not to the whole, but to the broken.
Not to the merry, but to the messy.
If your heart feels cracked this Christmas, God is not avoiding you—He is drawing near.
Permission to Feel What You Feel
You don’t have to fake joy.
You don’t have to “snap out of it.”
You don’t have to match the mood around you.
Your grief is real.
Your loneliness is real.
Your weariness is real.
And Jesus meets you as you are—not as the season suggests you should be.
But Here’s the Good News: Hurt Is Not the End of Your Story
There is hope. There is healing. There is comfort. And even if you can’t feel it today, it doesn’t mean God has stopped working.
Sometimes the most courageous prayer is simply:
“Lord, hold me together today.”
Sometimes the most faithful act is showing up to a new morning.
Sometimes hope grows quietly, like the slow, gentle rise of dawn.
Christmas reminds us that light comes—not all at once, but steadily, faithfully—into the darkest places.
A Few Gentle Encouragements for This Christmas
1. Let someone in.
You don’t have to share everything, but you also don’t have to carry everything alone.
2. Give yourself grace.
If all you manage is a small step today, that step matters.
3. Look for the tiny glimmers.
A song. A memory. A cup of coffee (my favorite). A kind word.
They don’t fix everything, but they remind us that God is still at work.
4. Remember: joy is not the same as happiness.
Joy is the quiet assurance that God is with you—even when your heart aches.
You Are Not Forgotten This Christmas
If this season is hard for you, please know this:
I see you. God sees you. You matter.
You are loved—extravagantly, endlessly, right now in the middle of your pain.
Christmas is not just for the cheerful; it’s for the weary, the grieving, the lonely, the ones trying their best to hold it all together.
It’s for you.
May the God who came near in Bethlehem come near to your heart today.
May He fill your darkness with His gentle light.
And may you sense—even in the smallest ways—that you are not alone.
Merry Christmas, dear friend.
Even if it’s a quiet one.
Even if it’s a hard one.
Even if it looks different this year.
The light is still coming. And so is hope.
-Grace & Peace
Pastor Scott.
Advent Reflections Week 2 – When ‘Peace” Isn’t Really Peace.
“And He will be called… Prince of Peace.”
We read those words from Isaiah 9 every Advent, and they land soft and comforting—like warm light on a winter night. But Isaiah didn’t write them in a peaceful moment. He wrote them into chaos, fear, war, and political collapse. And into that storm he declares: A child is coming… and His rule will bring real pea
But here’s the thing about peace: not everyone in Scripture understood what it truly meant.
So for a moment, let’s imagine a conversation—a contrast—between the Prince of Peace Isaiah saw coming… and someone who thought he already understood peace, but didn’t.
Herod: “Peace Is What I Control.”
Herod the Great had a definition of peace that looked impressive on paper: massive building projects, economic growth, order enforced by power. A kind of forced calm.
He believed peace was the absence of threats.
So when whispers came of a child born King of the Jews, his version of “peace” suddenly cracked. A baby? A star in the sky? A question from wandering scholars?
Herod’s peace was so fragile it couldn’t survive a rumor.
He clutched control.
He tightened his grip.
He did the unthinkable—because fear always twists false peace into violence.
Herod teaches us this:
Any peace built on control will eventually crumble under the weight of fear.
Jesus, the Prince of Peace: “Peace Is What I Give.”
Now picture the contrast.
No palace.
No armies.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a manger, a mother, and angels announcing “peace on earth.”
Jesus does not maintain peace by eliminating threats—He transforms peace by entering the world’s brokenness and absorbing its chaos.
His peace is not fragile; it’s fierce.
Not passive; but restorative.
Not enforced; but embodied.
He doesn’t clutch power—He lays it down.
He doesn’t silence threats—He redeems enemies.
He doesn’t demand calm—He brings healing.
If Herod preserved peace by tightening his fist, Jesus brought peace by opening His hands.
Isaiah said, “Of the greatness of His government and of His peace there will be no end.”
Real peace is not something you hold together; it’s something God holds together.
And Here We Are, Second Week of Advent
Between Herod’s panic and Christ’s presence is a question we must face during this season:
Which version of peace do we trust?
The one built on control…
or the one born in a manger?
Which do we honestly identify with more?
You see, Advent invites us to choose again. It invites us to dig a bit deeper, and reflect on our own personality archetype and patterns we fall into when the tides begin to rise and the pressures on.
Questions for Your Heart This Week
- Where am I clinging to control and calling it “peace,” rather than trusting the Prince of Peace to hold what I cannot?
- Am I holding on with a ‘Herod’ like grip? How can I loosen this false understanding of peace?
- What would it look like for Christ’s peace—not my preferences, not my need for certainty—to guide my reactions, relationships, and leadership this week?
May His peace—full, fierce, and everlasting—meet you on the road to Christmas.
-Pastor Scott.
Christmas Reflections – Week 1
In the hush of the Advent season, we prepare our hearts for the coming of the King. Yet long before the angels filled Bethlehem’s skies with glory, heaven had already broken into human lives with terrifying, life-altering announcements. Two of those encounters—one with Jacob, one with Mary—stand centuries apart, yet they reveal the same two postures we still bring to God today. Jacob met God on the banks of the Jabbok River (Genesis 32:22-32). A man (the Scriptures say “a man,” but Hosea later calls Him angel and God Himself) appeared in the night and wrestled Jacob until dawn. Jacob fought with every ounce of his cunning, strength, and self-reliance—the same traits that had stolen birthright and blessing, the same instincts that had kept him running for twenty years. Only when his hip was touched and he was left limping did Jacob finally cling instead of wrestle. “I will not let You go unless You bless me,” he gasped. Even in surrender he was bargaining, yet God honored the cry and renamed him Israel—“he struggles with God.” The limp would stay with him forever, a permanent reminder that the blessing comes only after we exhaust our own power.
Centuries later, another angel stepped out of eternity into a humble Galilean home. This time the greeting was not a challenge but a shattering promise: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Mary’s first reaction was trouble and fear—just like Jacob’s—but the similarity ends there. Where Jacob clenched his fists, Mary opened her hands. “How can this be?” she asked, not in defiance but in honest wonder. She did not demand signs, wrestle for control, or calculate how to make the impossible happen in her own strength. She simply placed the entire weight of the future on the word of God: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). One encounter left a man limping into the rest of his life, forever marked by the struggle. The other left a young woman magnifying the Lord, carrying within her the Hope of the nations.
We still meet the living God in these same two ways. Some of us wrestle. We hear the call of God—to repentance, to forgiveness, to mission, to surrender—and our instinct is to grapple. We want explanations, guarantees, and control.
We bargain: “Lord, I’ll follow if You first fix this situation, heal this wound, secure this future.” We exhaust ourselves trying to bless ourselves, only to discover that every blessing from heaven comes with a limp we didn’t choose. Others hear the same voice and respond like Mary. They do not silence their questions—Mary asked “How?”—but they lay every question at the feet of the One who is faithful. They say, in essence, “I do not understand, I cannot make this happen, and I am afraid—but I belong to You. Let it be.” Faith, for them, is not the absence of fear or doubt; it is the presence of surrender. This Christmas, the Child who displaced Jacob’s strength with a touch and filled Mary’s emptiness with divine life still comes to us. The angels’ song still sounds: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace…” Peace—not to those who wrestle the Angel to the ground in their own power, but to those with whom He is pleased, those who receive rather than resist, who open rather than clench.
So the question is not whether God will break in—He already has, in a manger, on a cross, by His Spirit. The question is how we will meet Him. Will we spend another year wrestling in our own strength, walking away blessed but broken and limping? Or will we, like Mary, dare to say today, “Let it be to me according to Your word”?
Which posture will mark your Christmas—and the year to come?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.
A Thanksgiving Devotional: Forgiveness, Reconciliation, and the Courage to Try Again
Every Thanksgiving, we talk about gratitude—giving thanks for blessings, family, food, and the goodness of God. But sometimes the things we’re most thankful for are the things God heals inside us: old wounds, buried regrets, lingering anger, unresolved relationships.
And strangely enough, a lesson in forgiveness shows up in Home Alone through the quiet, misunderstood character known as Old Man Marley. (Do you remember him?)
We first see him through Kevin’s fearful eyes—pale, silent, distant, dragging a shovel across the snowy sidewalk. But later, sitting together on a church pew, Marley finally opens up. He confesses that he hasn’t spoken to his son in years because of a painful argument. Pride sat heavy between them. Fear kept him from trying again. Regret made him feel paralyzed. And the saddest part? He watches his granddaughter sing in the choir but doesn’t go near her… because reconciliation feels impossible. It’s a like lesson for all of us and the baggage of anger, resentment and unforgiveness that many of use lug around with us. Some call it just a ‘chip on the shoulder’ but it’s more of an abscess on the heart which prevents any forward momentum because we’re anchored to this burden that could potentially be lifted if we were to just expose it and release it.
Maybe you’ve been there.
Maybe Thanksgiving brings you around people you love but don’t know how to talk to anymore, and so you’ve quit trying.
Maybe the table is set, but something unsaid still sits between you and someone else, and the weight of that baggage keeps nagging at your heart.
Maybe gratitude is hard this year because bitterness is louder than the quiet thanks, or maybe it’s overlooked altogether because of this mountain of hurt piled up at the door of your heart.
Scripture doesn’t ignore this ache. It speaks into it with both truth and tenderness. I want to explore this for just a moment. And I hope you’re still reading this:
1. Forgiveness Is God’s Invitation to Freedom
“Bear with each other and forgive one another… Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
— Colossians 3:13
Forgiveness isn’t excusing what happened. It’s not pretending the pain didn’t matter.
Forgiveness is choosing not to let the wound have the last word. If we do, it will just continue to fester in our souls and make us even more bitter in life.
When Marley admitted, “I’m afraid to call my son,” it wasn’t the conflict that trapped him—it was the fear of taking the first step. Forgiveness begins when we decide, “I won’t let fear freeze me anymore.” It takes real guts to be the one to initiate the forgiving. Most are reluctant to even entertain the notion because all-to-often pride gets the better of us.
2. Reconciliation Requires Courage, Not Certainty
“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
— Romans 12:18
God doesn’t say reconciliation will always be easy. Or fast. Or neat. Or even possible – there’s a big “if” hanging out in this verse. Sometimes the other person isn’t ready. Sometimes the relationship may never look the same.
But as far as it depends on you—you can initiate peace.
You can send a text. Make a call. Offer a prayer. Turn toward the possibility instead of away from it.
Back to Home Alone and this scene for just another moment:
Kevin tells Marley, “You should call him.” It’s a simple, childlike nudge toward hope. Isn’t it interesting that children have the tendency to hitting the heart of the matter? If we grown-ups would just become wise like kids again. (Somewhere I hear Jesus scolding His disciples for trying to shoo off a bunch of kids from talking to Him.) Simplistic faith usually has the direct approach to life, while we ‘adults’ tend to overcomplicate every avoidance and insult. Why can’t we become child-like in our faith again? What’s stopping us?
3. Thanksgiving Isn’t Complete Without Grace
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Matthew 5:9
At the end of Home Alone, there’s a brief moment easily missed unless you’re watching for it:
Marley stands outside with his son—talking, laughing, embracing. His granddaughter runs into his arms.
The family he thought he lost… restored. The snow falls. The world is quiet.
Forgiveness has opened a door he thought was locked forever.
That’s what grace does.
It rebuilds.
It reopens.
It releases both the wounded and the one who caused the wound.
A Thanksgiving Reflection
Here’s a quick reflection for each of us to consider.
This Thanksgiving, before the turkey hits the table, maybe take a moment to ask:
- Is there someone I need to forgive, even if only in my heart for now?
- Is there someone I need to reach out to, as far as it depends on me?
- Is fear keeping me from trying, when grace is inviting me forward?
God specializes in resurrection—not just of souls, but of relationships.
Even the frozen, silent ones. Even the ones we think are beyond repair.
And who knows?
Like Old Man Marley, this might be the year something long-broken finally comes home.
Give this some serious though friends. Don’t live a life of bitterness when grace and even peace are possible for you right here and now. Find the courage and reach out.
Prayer:
Lord, as we give thanks this season, soften our hearts where they’ve grown hardened. Give us courage where fear has settled in. Help us forgive as You have forgiven us, and guide us toward peace where reconciliation is possible. Amen.
Pastor's Ponderings 