Okay, friends, let’s be real. Ministry. It’s beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s… sometimes brutally, gut-wrenchingly hard. Like, harder than trying to explain the Book of Revelation to your five-year-old nephew while he’s hopped up on Mountain Dew and birthday cake. We’re talking sleepless nights, tough conversations, the weight of the world on your shoulders kind of hard. And if you’re a pastor, you know what I’m talking about.
So, what do we do with all that? How do we navigate the messy, complicated, sometimes heartbreaking realities of leading a community? Because let’s be honest, pretending everything’s sunshine and rainbows isn’t going to cut it. We’ve all seen that. It doesn’t work. It actually makes things worse.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned (and I’m still learning, by the way, this is a lifelong gig): It’s okay to not be okay. Seriously. You’re not a robot. You’re a human. You have doubts. You have fears. You have moments where you just want to throw in the towel and move to a secluded cabin in Montana and raise goats and maybe a miniature donkey. (Anyone else have that fantasy?)
And that’s perfectly normal. In fact, I’d argue it’s essential. Because when we’re honest about our struggles, when we acknowledge the pain, that’s when we open ourselves up to something bigger than ourselves. That’s when we create space for grace.
Think about it. The stories that resonate with us, the stories that stick with us, they’re not the ones where everything is perfect. They’re the stories where people wrestle with the hard stuff. They’re the stories where people face their fears, their doubts, their brokenness, and somehow, through it all, find a way to keep going.
That’s the kind of community I want to be a part of. A community where it’s okay to say, “I’m struggling.” A community where we can be real with each other, where we can share our burdens, where we can support each other through the tough times.
Now, I’m not saying it’s easy. Dealing with hard things is, well, hard. But here are a few things I’ve found helpful:
Find your tribe: Connect with other pastors, mentors, friends, people who get it. You need people you can be honest with, people who will listen without judgment, people who will remind you that you’re not alone.
Take care of yourself: This sounds basic, but it’s crucial. Get enough sleep. Eat healthy food. Move your body. Do things that bring you joy. Seriously, schedule it in. It’s not selfish; it’s essential.
Embrace the questions: Doubt is not the enemy of faith. In fact, I think it can be a catalyst for growth. Don’t be afraid to ask the hard questions. Don’t be afraid to wrestle with the mysteries. That’s where the real transformation happens.
Remember the bigger story: Sometimes, when we’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to see the bigger picture. But remember, there’s a story unfolding, a story of hope, a story of redemption, a story that’s bigger than our individual struggles. And we’re all a part of it.
So, yeah, ministry is hard. Life is hard. But we’re not in this alone. We’re in this together. And maybe, just maybe, in the midst of the mess, we’ll discover something beautiful, something profound, something truly holy. And that, my friends, I believe is so worth it!
Hey there, friends. can we talk for just a minute, you and me, and explore something heavy on my heart? It’s this thing I’m calling jaded faith—that worn-out, beat-up, “I’m not sure I can do this anymore” feeling that creeps in when the church, the place that’s supposed to be home, starts feeling like a stranger. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? That moment when you look around and think, This isn’t what I signed up for.
I’ve seen it in your eyes at coffee shops, heard it in your voices over late-night texts. People who love Jesus, or at least want to, but feel like the church has let them down. And not just let them down—sometimes it’s pushed them out the door. So let’s unpack this, because it’s real, it’s raw, and it’s not how it’s supposed to be.
The Church That Drives People Away
The church is supposed to be this beautiful, messy, vibrant community where we wrestle with life together, where we find God in the middle of our doubts and dreams. But sometimes, it’s not that at all. Sometimes it’s a place where questions get shushed, where pain gets a pat on the head and a “just pray harder,” where the hard edges of life are sanded down to fit a tidy Sunday sermon. And that, friends, is when people start walking away.
I’ve talked to folks who’ve been burned by churches that cared more about their image than their hearts. Churches that preached “love your neighbor” but turned a blind eye to injustice. Churches that promised answers but dodged the questions. And let’s be honest—sometimes it’s not even the big stuff. It’s the slow drip of feeling unseen, unheard, or like you have to fake it to fit in. That’s when faith starts to jade, starts to fray at the edges, when the spark that once lit you up starts to flicker.
The Bible doesn’t shy away from this. In Matthew 23:27, Jesus calls out the religious leaders of his day, saying they’re like “whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead.” Ouch. That’s Jesus saying, Stop pretending. Stop polishing the surface when the inside is rotting. The church isn’t supposed to be a performance—it’s supposed to be a place where we meet God in the real. Where we drop all of our false pretenses and showy expressions and just – be. Why do we wear masks sometimes in church and pretend everything is alright when inside we are far from okay?!
The Hunger for Authentic Faith
So what do we do with this? If the church has let us down, if our faith feels jaded, where do we go? I think it starts with admitting we’re hungry. Hungry for a faith that doesn’t flinch at the hard questions. Hungry for a God who’s big enough to handle our doubts, our fears, our why is the world like this? cries in the dark.
Think about Job. (I don’t know why I always seem to come back to this guy) But this guy lost everything—his family, his wealth, his health—and he didn’t just sit there quoting platitudes. He yelled at God. He demanded answers. In Job 38, when God finally speaks, He doesn’t give Job a neat little PowerPoint on why suffering happens. He shows up in a whirlwind, reminding Job that He’s God, that He’s vast, that He’s holding the universe together. And somehow, that’s enough for Job. Not because he got answers, but because he got God. Sometimes faith – real faith has to leap and find contentment in knowing that we won’t always have the answers figured out.
That’s what we’re craving, isn’t it? A faith that’s real enough to ask, Why does this hurt so much? Where are you, God? A faith that doesn’t need to tie everything up with a bow but trusts that God is there, even in the mess. Psalm 42:11 captures it so well: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.” It’s not denying the pain—it’s choosing to hope anyway.
The Danger of False Teachings
But here’s where it gets tricky. When people are hungry, they’ll eat anything. And there are voices out there—preachers, influencers, feel-good gurus—who know exactly how to serve up a meal that tastes good but leaves you empty. It’s like eating desert when your body requires a whole meal – but we’re just consuming empty calories instead. They’re the ones promising health, wealth, and happiness if you just believe hard enough, pray loud enough, give enough. They’re selling a faith that’s all flowers and no roots. All sugar but no substance.
Paul saw this coming. In 2 Timothy 4:3, he writes, “For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear.” That’s a warning, friends. When we’re jaded, when we’re hurting, it’s so easy to fall for the flowery stuff—the sermons that make us feel warm and fuzzy but never challenge us to grow, to wrestle, to change.
False teachings aren’t always obvious. Sometimes they’re wrapped in Christian lingo, delivered with a smile. But if it’s pointing you to anything other than Jesus—if it’s promising you a life free of struggle or a God who’s just a cosmic vending machine—it’s not the real deal. Jesus himself said in John 16:33, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” He didn’t promise a trouble-free life; He promised His presence through it.
A Church That Welcomes the Real
So what’s the antidote? How do we rebuild a faith that’s not jaded, a church that doesn’t drive people away? I think it starts with being real. Real with each other, real with God. It means creating spaces where questions are welcome, where doubts aren’t a sin, where we can say, I’m struggling, and someone says, Me too. Let’s walk through it together.
It means preaching a Gospel that’s not just about getting to heaven but about living with Jesus here and now. It means tackling the hard stuff—poverty, injustice, mental health, the why behind the pain—and trusting that God’s big enough to meet us there. It means admitting when we’ve gotten it wrong, when we’ve been more about rules than relationships, more about programs than people.
Hebrews 10:24-25 gives us a blueprint: “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another.” That’s the church I want to be part of. That’s the church I want to be. A church that spurs each other on, that doesn’t give up on community, that encourages each other to keep going, keep asking, keep seeking.
Let’s Keep It Real
So, friends, if your faith feels jaded, if the church has let you down, I’m sorry. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. But don’t give up. There’s a God who sees you, who loves you, who’s not afraid of your questions or your pain. And there are people out there—maybe not perfect, but real—who want to walk this road with you.
Let’s be a church that’s honest about the hard stuff, that points to Jesus instead of empty promises, that says, Come as you are, doubts and all. Let’s ask the big questions, wrestle with the answers, and trust that God’s holding us through it all. Because that’s the kind of faith that doesn’t just survive—it thrives.
What do you think? What’s jading your faith right now? And what would a real, authentic church look like for you? Let’s talk about it.
Welcome to Pastor’s Ponderings, where we wrestle with the big, holy questions that challenge us to lean closer to Jesus. Today, we’re diving into something that might sting a little but is worth the discomfort: Are we, as church people, truly being the church in our communities? Or are we just playing church inside our safe, cozy buildings while the world outside hungers for something real?
Church: A Movement, Not a Destination
Picture this: You’re driving through town, and there’s the church on the corner—steeple piercing the sky, stained glass glowing, maybe a sign out front with a catchy phrase like, “Too blessed to be stressed!” It’s comforting, familiar. It’s where we gather to sing, pray, and hear a sermon. But what if we’ve gotten so comfortable inside those walls that we’ve forgotten what the church is supposed to do? What if we’ve turned church into a destination instead of a movement?
Jesus didn’t call us to build fortresses. He called us to go—to be salt of the earth – (Matthew 15:13-16). He tells us to be salt and light in the world: “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything… You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” Salt doesn’t do any good sitting in the shaker, and light is useless hidden under a bowl. Jesus is saying, “Get out there. Flavor the world. Illuminate the darkness.” And that happens not just in the pews but in coffee shops, grocery stores, school board meetings, and homeless shelters—wherever people are hurting, doubting, or searching.
Scripture’s Call to Action
Scripture is clear about this. In Acts 1:8, Jesus commissions His disciples: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” He doesn’t say, “Build a nice building and invite people to hear about Me.” He says, “Be my witnesses”—in your city, your neighborhood, even the places you’d rather avoid.
Then there’s James 2:17, a gut-punch of truth: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.” If our faith only shows up on Sunday mornings, confined to Bible studies and worship services, are we truly living it? Or are we just performing it?
Questions That Sting
Let’s sit with some hard questions—and I’m asking these of myself, too. When was the last time you had a real, no-agenda conversation with someone in your community who doesn’t go to church? Not to invite them to a service or “fix” them, but to listen, to love, to be present?
What’s stopping you from stepping out of the church building and into the mess of the world? Is it fear? Comfort? The assumption that “someone else” will do it? Or, if we’re honest, do you secretly think the people out there don’t deserve your time, your energy, your Jesus?
Here’s one more to twist the knife: If your church building disappeared tomorrow, would your community even notice? Would they feel the absence of your love, your service, your light? Or have we been so inward-focused that we’ve forgotten how to be the church where it counts?
These questions hurt because Jesus didn’t call us to a safe, comfortable faith. He called us to a faith that moves, risks, and loves even when it’s inconvenient. But here’s the beautiful part: When we live church in the community, it’s not just the world that changes—we change, too.
A Story of Bridge-Building
Let me share a story. I met a guy named Mike at a local diner. He’s not a church guy—tattoos, rough past, and enough skepticism about religion to fill a book. I started showing up at that diner regularly, not to preach, but to talk. Over coffee and pancakes, we got to know each other. One day, Mike asked, “Scott, why do you keep showing up? What’s your angle?” I replied, “No angle, man. I just like you. And I think God does, too.”
Months later, Mike came to our church’s community barbecue—not a service, just a party we threw in the park. He didn’t come to “get saved.” He came because he felt seen and loved. That’s what being the church in the community does. It builds bridges. It shows people Jesus in ways a sermon alone never could.
Living Church Practically
So, what does this look like? It’s not about adding more programs to the church calendar. It’s about living with eyes open. Volunteer at the local food bank, not because it’s a “church thing,” but because people are hungry. Show up at city council meetings to advocate for the marginalized. Invite your neighbor over for dinner, even if they think church is a scam. Be the church where you are, with the people God places in your path.
And here’s the promise: When we do this, we’re not just obeying Jesus—we’re joining Him. He’s already out there—in the streets, the schools, the places we’ve been too scared or busy to go. He’s waiting for us to show up.
Where Is God Nudging You?
So, where are you at with this? Where’s God nudging you to be the church outside the walls? Maybe it’s a person you’ve been avoiding, a place you’ve written off, or a step of courage you’ve been too comfortable to take. Sit with that. Pray about it.
Let’s pray together: God, You are the God who goes. You sent Jesus into the world, not to stay safe, but to love, serve, and save. Holy Spirit, shake us up. Show us where we’ve been hiding in our buildings, our routines, our comfort. Give us the courage to be Your church in our communities—to be salt, light, and love. We need You for this. Amen.
Let’s keep pondering how we can live church where it matters most. The world’s waiting.
What’s one step you can take this week to be the church in your community? Share your thoughts, and let’s encourage each other to live faith out loud. Grace & Peace, -Pastor Scott.
Hey there, you beautiful soul. Let’s just pause for a second, wherever you are—sipping coffee, folding laundry, or maybe stealing a quiet moment in the car. I want us to lean into something together, something ancient yet still alive, something that feels like the still, small voice of the Divine. We’re going to dig into a few verses from 2 Corinthians 4:16-18, and I promise, they’re like a tiny spark that can light up the whole room of your heart. Here they are:
“Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
Wow. Just… wow. Can you feel or sense the substance of those two verses? The tenderness? Paul, this guy who’s been through shipwrecks and prisons and all sorts of chaos, starts with this bold, gentle nudge: Don’t lose heart. It’s like he’s sitting across from you at a coffee shop, looking you in the eyes, saying, “I know it’s hard. I know you’re tired. But don’t give up.”
What does that stir in you? Because, let’s be real—sometimes life feels like it’s fraying at the edges. Maybe your body’s aching, or your heart’s carrying a grief that’s too heavy to name. Maybe it’s just the slow grind of the everyday, where you’re juggling bills and schedules and a million little worries. Paul sees that. He’s not pretending it’s all fine. He says, Outwardly, we’re wasting away. That’s honest, isn’t it? Things break down. Bodies age. Plans unravel.
But then—oh, then—he flips the script. Inwardly, we’re being renewed day by day. Isn’t that wild? It’s like there’s this quiet, steady work happening inside you, even when you can’t see it. Like a seed splitting open under the soil, or the first hint of dawn before the sun even crests the horizon. Renewal. Not a one-time fireworks show, but a daily, almost invisible unfolding. What if that’s true? What if, right now, in the middle of whatever you’re carrying, something new is being born in you?
And then Paul goes deeper. He calls our troubles light and momentary. Now, I don’t know about you, but sometimes my troubles feel like boulders, not feathers. Momentary? Some of you are thinking, “Paul, this pain has been my companion for years.” So what’s he doing here? I don’t think he’s dismissing our struggles. I think he’s inviting us to zoom out, to see the bigger canvas. These troubles, as real as they are, aren’t the whole story. They’re weaving something—something Paul calls an eternal glory.
Glory. That word’s got some heft, doesn’t it? In the Bible, it’s this sense of radiance, of divine weight, of something so real it makes everything else feel like a shadow. Your pain, your questions, your long nights—they’re not wasted. They’re part of this mysterious process, shaping something eternal, something that far outweighs the heaviness you’re carrying. Can you imagine that? That the stuff you’re walking through is somehow contributing to a beauty that’s bigger than you can grasp?
And here’s where Paul gets really mischievous: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. Okay, Paul, how do you see the unseen? It’s like he Ascendant, right? It’s this cosmic paradox, this invitation to shift your gaze. The seen—the doctor’s report, the bank account, the broken relationship—that’s real, but it’s temporary. The unseen—the love that holds you, the hope that flickers, the divine presence that’s closer than your breath—that’s eternal. It’s like one of those optical illusions where you see a vase, but then you blink, and it’s two faces. Paul’s saying, “Blink. Look again. See the eternal.”
So, how do we do this? How do we train our hearts to notice the unseen? Maybe it’s as simple as starting your day with a breath and a question: What’s renewing in me today? Maybe it’s naming one thing you’re grateful for, even if it’s just the warmth of your coffee mug. Maybe it’s sitting in silence for a minute, letting yourself feel connected to something bigger. These aren’t grand gestures. They’re small, daily practices that tune your soul to the frequency of the eternal.
Here’s the thing: this isn’t about ignoring the pain or slapping a smiley face sticker on your struggles. Feel it all—the ache, the fear, the questions. But don’t let that be the only story. There’s another story, an unseen one, where renewal is happening, where glory is being forged, where the eternal is breaking through.
So, my friend, wherever you are today—whether you’re standing tall or barely holding on—don’t lose heart. Fix your eyes on the unseen. Trust that something beautiful, something eternal, is unfolding. And here’s an open-ended invitation: What’s one tiny way you can practice seeing the unseen today? Maybe it’s a moment of gratitude, a kind word to someone, or just a deep breath where you whisper, “I’m not alone.” What’s stirring in you? Let it simmer. Let it lead you somewhere new.
You ever get tired of the neat, tidy answers? You know the ones I’m talking about—those churchy, Sunday School responses that get tossed out like a life preserver when life’s questions feel more like a tsunami. “God’s got a plan.” “Just trust and obey.” “It’ll all work out in the end.” They’re not wrong, necessarily. But sometimes, they feel like Band-Aids on a broken bone. Life’s complicated, messy, and raw. And sometimes, the harder we try to wrap it up in a neat little bow, the more it unravels.
I’m sitting here, sipping my coffee, staring out the window at a world that doesn’t always make sense. Maybe you’re there too. Maybe you’ve asked, Why did this happen? Why him/her? Why now? Maybe you’ve prayed until your knees ached, and the heavens stayed silent. Or maybe you’ve watched someone you love wrestle with pain so deep it makes your chest hurt just to think about it. And when you bring those questions to church, you get… a platitude. A verse quoted like it’s a magic wand. A smile that says, “Don’t dig too deep.”
But what if the digging is the point? What if the wrestling is where we meet God? What if, within that tension, real faith, even in the unknown, gets galvanized?
Let’s talk about Jacob for a second. You know the story—Genesis 32. He’s alone by the Jabbok River, and he ends up in this all-night wrestling match with a mysterious figure. Some say it’s God, some say an angel, but whoever it is, Jacob’s not letting go. He’s got questions. He’s got baggage. He’s got a past he’s running from and a future he’s terrified of. And in the struggle, he gets a limp—and a new name. Israel. “One who strives with God.”
Isn’t that something? God doesn’t smite Jacob for wrestling. He doesn’t hand him a scroll with all the answers. He meets him in the fight. And Jacob walks away changed, but not fixed. He’s still got the limp.
What if that’s us? What if the limp is part of the deal? What if the questions—the ones that keep you up at night, the ones that make you wonder if you’re even doing this faith thing right—are the very place where God shows up?
I’m so tired of pretending we’ve got it all figured out. I’m tired of hearing, “Just read Romans 8:28, and you’ll be fine.” Don’t get me wrong—that verse is gold. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” It’s true. But it’s not a vending machine promise. It doesn’t mean every tragedy comes with a PowerPoint explaining why. Sometimes, we’re left with the tension. The mystery. The ache.
And that’s okay.
Think about Job. The guy loses everything—his kids, his wealth, his health. His friends show up with their Sunday School answers, basically saying, “You must’ve sinned, brah. Repent, and it’ll all be fine.” Job’s like, No, I didn’t do anything to deserve this. And he demands an audience with God. He’s bold. He’s raw. He’s not afraid to say, This doesn’t make sense, and I’m not okay with it.
When God finally speaks, does He give Job a flow chart of why bad things happen? Nope. He shows up in a whirlwind and says, Were you there when I laid the earth’s foundation? It’s not an answer—it’s a perspective shift. God’s like, I’m bigger than your questions, but I’m still here with you. And somehow, that’s enough for Job. Not because he gets it, but because he trusts.
So, here’s the challenging, hard question for us today: Can we trust God when the answers don’t come? Can we sit in the tension of I don’t know and still believe He’s good? Can we let go of the need to have it all figured out and just… wrestle?
I also think about Jesus in Gethsemane. He’s sweating blood, begging for another way. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me.” (Luke 22:42). Even Jesus, the Son of God, had a moment where the plan didn’t feel okay. But then He says, “Yet not my will, but yours be done.” That’s not a Sunday School answer. That’s surrender in the face of the unknown. That’s trust when the road ahead looks like a cross.
So, what about you? What’s the question you’re wrestling with? The one you’re afraid to say out loud because it feels too big, too messy, too unspiritual? What if you brought it to God—not for an answer, but for a fight? What if you said, I’m not letting go until you bless me—not with clarity, but with presence?
Here’s what I’m learning: Faith isn’t about having all the answers. (I used to think it was, but it certainly isn’t) It’s about trusting God in the questions. It’s about showing up to the mat, night after night, even when you’re tired, even when you’re limping. Because God’s not afraid of your struggle. He’s not offended by your doubt. He’s there, in the dark, ready to wrestle.
So, let’s stop pretending we’ve got it all together – because we don’t. Let’s stop handing out churchy clichés like they’re the cure for everything. Let’s be honest about the hard stuff—the grief, the fear, the why that echoes in our souls. And let’s trust that God is big enough to handle it. That He’s good enough to hold us, even when we don’t understand.
As it says in Psalm 23:4, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Not because I get it. Not because it all makes sense. But because He’s with me.
So, keep wrestling, my friend. Keep asking. Keep limping. And trust that the God who meets you in the struggle is the same God who carries you through.
What’s the question you’re afraid to ask? And what would it look like to bring it to God—not for an answer, but for Him? -Grace & Peace, Pastor Scott
Hello, friends. Welcome to Pastor’s Ponderings, a space where we sit together, hearts open, and wonder about the big questions. No need for tidy answers or neat conclusions—just a willingness to lean into the mystery of God. Today, I’m pondering something that keeps so many of us awake at night: calling. What does it mean to discover your calling? Is there one singular path God has laid out for you, like a cosmic GPS blinking “You Are Here”? Or is life something wider, messier, more… alive? Let’s explore this together, through the lens of Scripture and the quiet whispers of the Spirit.
The other day, I was walking through the park, watching leaves spiral down from the trees, each one dancing in its own chaotic, beautiful way. I wondered, Does every leaf have a calling? To land in just the right spot? Or is the falling itself the point? We humans, we crave the one thing—the one job, the one mission, the one purpose that makes sense of our existence. We want to know we’re on the right path.
But when I open Scripture, it’s like God gently chuckles at our need for a straight line. Take Jeremiah 1:5, where God says, “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” That’s specific, isn’t it? Jeremiah’s got a clear calling: prophet, nations, go. But then I think about Moses. He starts as a prince in Egypt, becomes a fugitive, then spends decades as a shepherd before God shows up in a burning bush and says, “Now you’re going to lead my people out of slavery.” Was Moses’ calling always to be a liberator? What about those 40 years tending sheep? Were they a detour, or were they part of the calling?
This is where it gets interesting. We love the idea of a singular calling because it feels safe. “Tell me the one thing I’m supposed to do, God, and I’ll do it.” But Scripture doesn’t always play along. Consider Paul. He’s a tentmaker, a Pharisee, a persecutor of Christians, and then—bam—blinded on the road to Damascus, he becomes an apostle to the Gentiles. But even then, his life isn’t just one thing. He’s preaching, writing letters, making tents to pay the bills, surviving shipwrecks, sitting in prisons. Was his calling just “apostle”? Or was it the whole messy, beautiful tapestry of his life?
Ecclesiastes 3:1 offers a clue: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” A season. Not a single moment, not a single job, but seasons. Planting, uprooting, weeping, laughing, building, tearing down. What if your calling isn’t one thing, but a rhythm? A dance through seasons, where God is weaving something bigger than you can see?
Maybe the question isn’t “What’s my calling?” but “Who am I becoming?” When Jesus calls the disciples in Matthew 4:19, he doesn’t hand them a five-year plan. He simply says, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Follow me. Not “Here’s the map.” Not “Here’s the job description.” Just… follow. Trust. Walk.
That’s scary, isn’t it? We want certainty. We want to know we’re not wasting our lives. But what if the wasting is the point? What if the detours, the failures, the seasons of not-knowing are where God is shaping us? Psalm 139:16 says, “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” All the days. Not just the shiny ones where you feel like you’re “living your purpose.” Every day. The days you’re changing diapers, the days you’re stuck in a cubicle, the days you’re crying because you don’t know what’s next. God’s writing something in all of them.
Here’s where I’m landing, friends: I don’t think Scripture points us to one singular calling. It points us to a Caller. To a God who says, “Walk with me. Trust me. Let me shape you through every season, every stumble, every joy.” Your calling isn’t a destination; it’s a relationship. It’s showing up, day after day, saying, “Here I am, God. What’s next?”
And maybe that’s freeing. Maybe it means you don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe the barista pouring coffee with love, the accountant crunching numbers with integrity, the artist creating beauty in obscurity—they’re all living their calling, right now, because they’re doing it with God.
So, what’s stirring in you? Are you chasing the one big thing? Or are you starting to see the beauty in the seasons, in the mess, in the not-knowing? I’d love to hear your thoughts—drop a comment or send me a message. This is a journey we’re on together.
Let’s close with a prayer: God, you are here. In every season, in every question, you are writing our story. Help us trust you. Help us follow. Amen.
Thanks for pondering with me, friends. Until next time, keep wondering, keep walking, keep trusting. Grace & Peace, -Pastor Scott.
If this topic has been meaningful to you, would you let me know by dropping a comment below? I would love to hear from you!
Hello, friends. Welcome to Pastor’s Ponderings, this is a quiet space where we can sit together, hearts open, and wrestle with the big questions—the ones that possibly stir our souls and keep us up at night. Today, we’re diving into something that’s both familiar and mysterious, something we’ve heard about since we were kids, something that’s been painted in vivid colors and whispered in hushed tones: heaven and hell. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been interested in this particular topic. Like, where do we go when we die? What happens next? So, today we’re exploring Heaven and Hell.
Yeah, those two.
We grow up with these ideas, don’t we? Heaven, this perfect place—clouds and angels, streets of gold, a celestial city where everything is right. And hell, the opposite—fire, brimstone, eternal torment. Good people go up, bad people go down. It’s clear, right? Like a cosmic sorting system, neatly dividing the saved from the damned.
Except… is it? (is it really that straightforward? Is it really that simple?)
Because when you start digging into Scripture, it gets kinda messy. It gets complicated. It’s not always so black-and-white, up-or-down. Let’s start with hell. The word itself carries so much weight, scares people, but what does it actually mean? In the Old Testament, we find Sheol. And Sheol isn’t always this fiery pit of torment we imagine. It’s more like… the grave. The place of the dead. A shadowy, murky realm where everyone goes—righteous or not. Psalm 139:8 says, “If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.” God is there, in the depths. That’s not exactly the hell we picture, is it?
Then we get to the New Testament, and things get even more layered. There’s Gehenna, a word Jesus uses. Interestingly, Gehenna was a real place—a garbage dump outside Jerusalem where fires burned constantly, a place of decay and destruction. When Jesus talks about Gehenna in places like Matthew 5:29, it’s vivid, visceral. But is He describing a literal place of eternal punishment? Or is He using this image to point to something deeper—maybe the consequences of living a life turned away from God?
And then there’s Hades, which feels more like the Greek underworld, and Tartarus, mentioned in 2 Peter 2:4 as a place for fallen angels. So, we’ve got all these different words—Sheol, Gehenna, Hades, Tartarus—all translated as “hell” in our English Bibles. Each carries its own nuance, its own imagery. It’s like Scripture is less interested in giving us a clear map of the afterlife and more interested in inviting us to ponder the weight of our choices.
Now, let’s talk about heaven. We often imagine it as a place way up there, far from the mess of this world. But Scripture doesn’t always describe it that way. Jesus talks about the “kingdom of God” or the “kingdom of heaven,” and in Luke 17:21, He says it’s “within you” or “among you.” Not a distant destination, but something breaking into the present, something you can taste now. In Revelation 21, we get this breathtaking vision of a new heaven and a new earth, where God dwells with humanity, wiping away every tear. It’s not about escaping to some ethereal realm—it’s about heaven coming down, transforming this world.
And then there’s Paul, who in 2 Corinthians 12:2 talks about being “caught up to the third heaven.” The third heaven? What does that even mean? Is it a literal place? A spiritual experience? A metaphor for closeness to God? The early Jewish worldview often spoke of multiple heavens—layers of divine reality. It’s like Scripture is saying, “This is bigger than you can grasp. Lean into the mystery.”
You see what I’m getting at? Heaven and hell aren’t as simple as we often make them out to be. They’re not just places on a cosmic map, neatly labeled “reward” and “punishment.” And that brings us to the deeper question: What’s it all about?
We often frame heaven and hell as God’s cosmic courtroom—follow the rules, get the golden ticket; break them, face eternal consequences. But is God really just a judge, handing out eternal sentences based on our performance? Or is there something more going on? Because Jesus talks a lot about judgment, yes. But He also talks about forgiveness. About grace. About a love that never gives up. In Luke 15, the father in the parable of the prodigal son doesn’t wait for his wayward child to grovel—he runs to him, arms wide open. That’s the heart of God.
What if heaven and hell aren’t so much about where we go, but about how we are? What if they’re about the state of our hearts, the direction of our lives, the choices we make in this very moment?
Let’s ponder this. What if hell is separation? Separation from God, from others, from our true selves. What if it’s the natural consequence of choosing a life disconnected from love, compassion, and life itself? In Matthew 25, Jesus describes those who ignore the hungry, the stranger, the prisoner as being sent to “eternal punishment.” But the word there for punishment, kolasis, can also mean correction or pruning. What if even God’s judgment is about restoration, not destruction? What if hell is less about eternal torment and more about the pain of living apart from the Source of all life?
And heaven—what if it’s connection? Connection with God, with others, with the fullness of who we were created to be. In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” That’s heaven—not just a future hope, but a present reality. A life saturated with love, overflowing with grace, radiating hope. Revelation 22 paints a picture of a river of life, a tree of healing for the nations. That’s not a far-off dream—it’s something we’re invited to participate in now.
Maybe, just maybe, heaven and hell aren’t only places we go after we die. Maybe they’re realities we experience here and now. Maybe we’re creating heaven or hell with every breath we take, with every choice we make, with every relationship we cultivate or neglect. When we choose love, when we forgive, when we seek justice, we’re bringing heaven to earth. When we choose selfishness, apathy, or hatred, we’re building walls of separation—our own little hells.
This isn’t to say there’s no afterlife, no ultimate fulfillment of God’s promises. Scripture points to a future where God makes all things new. But it’s also saying that eternity starts now. The choices we make today ripple into forever.
It’s a mystery, of course. We’re talking about things beyond our full comprehension. And that’s okay. Maybe instead of obsessing over the fire and brimstone or the clouds and harps, we can focus on this: God is love (1 John 4:8). And God is always, always, always reaching out to us, inviting us into a life of love, a life of connection, a life that is… truly life.
So, what’s stirring in you? How do you imagine heaven and hell? Where do you see glimpses of connection or separation in your own life? Drop a comment or send me a message—I’d love to hear your ponderings. We’re in this together, wrestling, wondering, trusting.
Let’s close with a prayer: God, you are love, and you are always calling us closer. Help us choose connection over separation, love over indifference, life over death. Guide us into your kingdom, here and now, and forever. Amen.
Thanks for pondering with me, friends. Until next time, keep questioning, keep seeking, keep trusting. Grace & Peace, -Pastor Scott.
Check out my latest “Faith Ponderings” Podcast Episode as I host a special guest and friend, Pastor Alex Norton on this topic:
Hey there, friend. Yeah, you—reading this, maybe sipping coffee, maybe scrolling while the kids are napping or the dog’s chewing on something he shouldn’t. Can we just pause for a second and breathe? Inhale. Exhale. Good. Let’s talk about something real, something that sits heavy in the heart of every pastor, every leader, every human trying to hold it together while pointing others toward hope: connection. Or, more specifically, why pastors—yep, those folks up front with the sermons and the smiles—need friends too.
You ever think about that? I mean, really think about it? Pastors are supposed to have it all figured out, right? We’re the ones with the answers, the ones who pray the prayers, visit the hospitals, counsel the broken, and somehow keep the church potlucks from descending into chaos. (Spoiler: It’s harder than it looks.) But here’s the thing—and lean in close, because this is where it gets honest—pastors are just people. Flesh and blood, doubts and dreams, Netflix binges and existential crises, just like you. And people? People need friends. Not admirers. Not followers. Not even congregants. Friends.
The Loneliness of the Calling
Let’s start here, because it’s real. Ministry can be lonely. Like, soul-achingly, stare-at-the-ceiling-at-2-a.m. lonely. You’re surrounded by people—Sunday mornings, Bible studies, committee meetings—but there’s this invisible wall. You’re the pastor. You’re supposed to be strong, wise, unflappable. You’re the one who’s got God on speed dial, right? So, you smile, you nod, you preach, you pray. But inside? Sometimes you’re screaming, Does anyone actually know me?
I remember this one time, early in my ministry, when I was at a church dinner. Everyone’s laughing, passing the mashed potatoes, telling stories about their kids or their jobs. And I’m there, at the head of the table, smiling, making sure everyone’s included. But nobody asked me how I was doing. Not really. They asked about the sermon series or the budget meeting, but not about Scott—the guy who’s still figuring out how to be a husband, a dad, a human. And I went home that night and just sat in my car for a while, wondering, Who’s my friend? Who’s my person?
It’s not that people don’t care. They do. Congregations are full of good, kind folks. But there’s this dynamic, this unspoken rule: pastors are givers, not receivers. We’re the shepherds, not the sheep. And that’s where the lie creeps in—the lie that says we don’t need what everyone else needs: connection, vulnerability, someone to laugh with over a bad movie or cry with when life feels like it’s cracking at the seams.
The God of Relationship
Let’s flip this for a second and talk about God. Because if we’re gonna get contemplative (and you know I love to get contemplative), we’ve gotta start with the One who wired us for connection in the first place. Think about it: God is relationship. Father, Son, Spirit—dancing together in this eternal, beautiful, mysterious community. And we’re made in that image. You, me, the guy cutting you off in traffic, the barista who spelled your name wrong—we’re all built for with-ness. For being known. For being loved.
So, why would pastors be any different? If anything, we need it more. Ministry is a crucible. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing like watching someone’s eyes light up when they finally get grace, or holding a hand as someone takes their last breath, or baptizing a kid who’s been asking questions about Jesus since they could talk. But it’s also heavy. You carry stories that aren’t yours to tell, burdens you can’t share, criticisms that cut deeper than they should. And you can’t do that alone. Nobody can.
Jesus didn’t. Think about that. The Son of God, the one who literally was the Word, had friends. He had the twelve, sure, but he also had Mary, Martha, Lazarus—people he’d crash with, eat with, laugh with. He wept with them. He let them see him tired, frustrated, human. If Jesus needed that, why do we think we can go it alone?
The Gift of Friendship
So, here’s the invitation, the nudge, the holy whisper: pastors, you need friends. Not just colleagues you swap sermon ideas with (though those are great). Not just mentors or accountability partners (also important). Friends. People who don’t care that you’re Pastor Scott or Pastor Sarah or Pastor Whoever. People who know your quirks, your bad habits, your secret love for cheesy rom-coms. People who’ll call you out when you’re being a jerk and hug you when you’re falling apart.
And yeah, I know it’s hard. I hear you. Finding friends as a pastor is like trying to date while wearing a clerical collar—it’s awkward. People put you on a pedestal, or they’re intimidated, or they just assume you’re too busy. Plus, there’s the trust thing. You’ve been burned before—maybe by a congregant who shared something you thought was private, or a friend who couldn’t handle the weight of your calling. I get it. I’ve been there.
But here’s the truth: friendship is worth the risk. It’s worth the awkward coffee dates, the vulnerability, the fear of being seen. Because when you find those people—the ones who show up with pizza when your sermon flops, or text you a meme that makes you snort-laugh in the middle of a budget meeting—they’re like oxygen. They remind you that you’re not just a role. You’re a soul. And souls need connection.
A Few Thoughts for the Road
So, how do we do this? How do pastors find friends in the wild, messy, beautiful chaos of ministry? A few thoughts, not because I’ve got it all figured out, but because I’m walking this road too:
Be intentional. Friendship doesn’t just happen. You’ve gotta make space for it. Invite someone over for dinner. Join a book club. Show up at the gym class where everyone’s sweating and swearing and nobody cares who you are. Put it on your calendar like it’s a meeting with Jesus himself.
Be vulnerable. I know, I know—it’s scary. But friendship thrives on honesty. Share your doubts, your fears, your bad days. Let someone see the real you, not just the polished pastor version.
Look outside the church. This one’s huge. Your congregation loves you, but they’re not your friends—not in the way you need. Find people who aren’t tied to your ministry, who don’t care about your sermon or your budget report. They’re out there, I promise.
Receive, don’t just give. Pastors are great at giving—time, energy, wisdom. But friendship is a two-way street. Let someone care for you. Let them listen, pray, show up. It’s not selfish; it’s human.
Trust God with it. If you’re lonely, if you’re craving connection, bring that to God. He’s not surprised. He’s not disappointed. He’s the one who said, “It’s not good for man to be alone.” Ask him to bring the right people into your life, and then keep your eyes open.
A Final Pondering
I’m sitting here, typing this, thinking about my own friends—the ones who’ve carried me through the highs and lows of ministry. There’s Alex, who always knows when I need a laugh. There’s Mike, who asks the hard questions and doesn’t let me dodge them. There’s Josh, who just gets me, no explanation needed. They’re not perfect, and neither am I, but they’re my people. And they make this calling—not just bearable, but beautiful. (Sorry if I didn’t name all of my friends, I do have a longer list and you’re all important to me!)
So, pastor, leader, human reading this: you’re not meant to do this alone. You’re not meant to carry the weight of the world without someone to share the load. You need friends. Not because you’re weak, but because you’re wired for it—by a God who’s all about relationship, all about love, all about showing up.
Who’s your person? Who’s your tribe? If you don’t have one yet, that’s okay. Start small. Reach out. Take a risk. And know that you’re not alone in this. We’re all just people, trying to love and be loved, one awkward, holy connection at a time.
Grace and peace, Pastor Scott
What about you? Who’s someone in your life who reminds you you’re human? Drop a comment or shoot me a message—I’d love to hear your story.
Hello, friends. Welcome back to Pastor’s Ponderings, where we sit together, hearts wide open, and wrestle with the questions that weigh heavy on our souls. Today, we’re going there. We’re talking about evil. That word. It’s a heavy one, isn’t it? The one we whisper about, the one we try to explain away, the one that creeps into our dreams and floods our newsfeeds.
Evil is everywhere, isn’t it? We see it on the grand scale—wars tearing nations apart, natural disasters swallowing communities whole. But we also feel it in the quiet, personal moments—the child battling cancer, the family shattered by violence, the weight of injustice that presses down on the oppressed. And in those moments, the question rises, sharp and unyielding: Where is God in all of this?
It’s the question that’s been asked for millennia. The one that makes people walk away from faith, the one that keeps theologians up at night, the one that, if we’re honest, makes all of us wonder. If God is all-powerful and all-loving, how can there be so much evil in the world?
We try to make sense of it, don’t we? We reach for explanations. Free will, for instance—God gave us the choice to love or to hate, to create or to destroy. And that makes sense, up to a point. It explains why humans hurt each other. But then you think about a tsunami, a pandemic, an earthquake. What choice did the victims have? Where does free will fit when the ground itself seems to turn against us?
Then there’s the idea of a greater plan, some cosmic tapestry where all this suffering somehow fits, somehow leads to a greater good. But does that really satisfy? Does it comfort the mother who’s lost her child? Does it bring justice to the oppressed? Or does it feel like a hollow promise, a way to gloss over the pain?
And what about our images of God? Is God the one who allows evil, standing back and watching it all unfold? Or is God somehow in it—suffering with us, weeping with us, groaning alongside creation? Romans 8:22 says, “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth.” Creation itself is in pain, and yet, in verse 26, we’re told the Spirit “intercedes for us through wordless groans.” God is groaning too. Not distant, not detached, but right here, in the mess.
Here’s what keeps circling back to me: we want a God who fixes it. A God who steps in, banishes the darkness, and makes everything right. We want the superhero God, the one who snaps His fingers and wipes out evil. But what if God doesn’t work that way? What if God’s power isn’t the power over, but the power within?
What if, instead of erasing evil, God’s power is the power to transform it? To redeem it? To take even the darkest, most broken moments and weave them into something new, something beautiful, something… hopeful? Think of the cross. The ultimate symbol of evil—torture, injustice, death—and yet, through it, God brings resurrection, redemption, life. John 16:33 has Jesus saying, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” Not by removing trouble, but by overcoming it, by working through it.
It’s a mystery, I know. A mystery that defies easy answers. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the goal isn’t to solve the problem of evil, but to enter it. To be present to the pain, to lament with those who lament, to work for justice in a world that so desperately needs it. Lamentations 3:19-23 reminds us that even in the bitterness of suffering, God’s mercies are new every morning. There’s a light that shines, even in the darkest places.
That light—it flickers in the eyes of those who fight for good, who work for peace, who love in the face of hate. It glows in the hands that rebuild after disaster, in the voices that speak out against oppression, in the hearts that refuse to give up. And maybe, just maybe, that light is God. Not a God who removes all suffering, but a God who walks through it with us, who empowers us to be agents of healing and hope in a broken world.
Isaiah 43:1 says, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” Even in the valley of the shadow of death, God is with us (Psalm 23:4). Not fixing, not erasing, but with. And that presence, that nearness, changes everything.
So, where does this leave us? Wrestling, I think. Wrestling with the questions, the tears, the doubts. But maybe, in the wrestling, we find a God who is closer than we ever imagined. A God who doesn’t stand above the pain, but enters it. A God who doesn’t promise a world without evil, but a world where evil doesn’t have the final word.
What’s stirring in you? How do you wrestle with the reality of evil? Where do you see that flickering light of hope? Drop a comment or send me a message—I’d love to hear your thoughts. We’re in this together, pondering, questioning, trusting.
Let’s close with a prayer: “God, you are in the darkness and the light, in the questions and the pain. Walk with us. Show us your light. Empower us to be your hands and feet in a broken world. Amen.”
Thanks for pondering with me, friends. Until next time, keep wrestling, keep hoping, keep trusting. Peace be with you.
Also check out my Good Friday episode on Spotify & Apple Podcasts:
Hey, friends. It’s Good Friday. The air feels heavy, doesn’t it? Like the world is holding its breath, caught in the tension of a moment that’s both brutal and beautiful. Today, we’re sitting with the cross, with death, with the great unraveling of everything we thought we knew. And I’m not gonna lie—it’s messy. But it’s also where the real stuff happens.
Let’s start here: Good Friday isn’t just a day on the calendar. It’s a collision. It’s God stepping into the chaos of human brokenness, staring death in the face, and saying, “You don’t get the last word.” But before we rush to the resurrection, let’s pause. Let’s feel the weight of this moment. Because something profound happens when everything falls apart.
Think about it. Jesus on the cross—arms stretched wide, body broken, crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This isn’t just a historical event; it’s a mirror. It’s the moment where every ounce of human pain, every betrayal, every fear of abandonment, every question about whether God is even there—it all gets absorbed into the heart of God. The cross is where the threads of our tidy little lives start to unravel, and we’re left with the raw, unfiltered truth: death is real. Suffering is real. And yet, love is more real.
But here’s the thing: we don’t like unraveling, do we? We want to keep it together. We want our plans to work, our faith to be neat, our lives to make sense. Good Friday says, “Nope. Not today.” It’s the day that forces us to look at the places where we’re clinging too tightly, where we’re avoiding the pain, where we’re pretending we’ve got it all figured out. It’s the day that whispers, “Let it go. Let it fall apart. Because that’s where the new thing begins.”
I’m thinking about my own life as I write this. There’s this moment a few years back—maybe you’ve got one too—where everything I thought I knew about God, about myself, about what “success” looks like, just… crumbled. I was sitting in my office, staring at a stack of sermon notes that felt hollow, and I realized I was terrified of letting go. Terrified of admitting I didn’t have the answers. But in that unraveling, in that death of my need to control, something broke open. I started to see God in the mess, in the questions, in the silence.
Good Friday is like that. It’s the death of our illusions. It’s the moment where we’re invited to stop running from the pain and just sit with it. Because here’s the wild, upside-down truth: the cross shows us that death isn’t the end. It’s the doorway. It’s the place where God says, “I’m here. In the worst of it. I’m here.”
So, let’s get real for a second. What’s unraveling in your life right now? What’s the thing you’re holding onto so tightly that your knuckles are white? Maybe it’s a relationship that’s fraying, a dream that’s dying, a version of yourself you’re afraid to let go of. What if Good Friday is an invitation to stop fighting the unraveling and trust that something new is being woven in the wreckage?
Here are a few questions to chew on as you sit with this day:
What’s the “death” you’re afraid of facing in your life right now? Is it a literal loss, a change, or maybe the death of an old way of thinking?
Where do you see God in the unraveling moments of your story? Can you look back and spot the threads of grace in the mess?
What would it look like to trust that love gets the last word, even when everything feels like it’s falling apart? How might that change the way you move through this day, this season?
Friends, Good Friday isn’t the end of the story, but it’s a crucial part. It’s the part where we learn that God doesn’t shy away from the dark. God enters it. God transforms it. So today, let’s not rush past the cross. Let’s stand here, in the shadow of death, and let the great unraveling do its work. Because on the other side? There’s life. More life than we can imagine.
With you in the mess, Pastor Scott
What’s unraveling for you today? Drop a comment below or just sit with these questions in your heart. Let’s hold space for the holy work of Good Friday together.
Pastor's Ponderings 