Tag: #Christianity

Let’s Talk About Death and Empty Tombs

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Hey friends! I’ve been mulling this topic over today. I don’t want to write a devotional thought that scares you, nor do I want to depress you. Recently, while scrolling on TikTok, I came across this profile that uses AI to generate what certain celebrities who died before their time would look like today. As I watched these clips, I was both sad and happy at the same time. Thanks to the use of artificial intelligence, this content creator brought some of my childhood celebrities back to life.

So, let’s talk this thing called death—this inevitability, the thing we don’t bring up at dinner parties, the one we tiptoe around like it’s the awkward uncle who overstays his welcome. It’s the shadow in the corner, the thing we’re told to fear, to fight, to outrun. But what if we’ve been looking at it all wrong? What if death isn’t the end of the story, but a doorway? What if it’s not a period in a sentence, but a comma?

I mean, think about it. We live in a world obsessed with keeping death at arm’s length—anti-aging creams, kale smoothies, that extra mile on the treadmill—like we can negotiate with it, bribe it to look the other way. And yet, it’s coming for all of us. You, me, the barista who just spelled your name wrong on the cup. Death doesn’t discriminate. It’s sometimes been called the great equalizer. But here’s the wild, beautiful twist: what if it’s not something to dread? What if it’s something to lean into? Not in some morbid way, but rather an embrace of the comma, the next chapter, the acknowledgement that even though we don’t fully know yet, our lives are actually created to be eternal.

See, there’s this ancient story—maybe you’ve heard it—about a guy named Jesus. He’s walking around, healing people, feeding crowds, flipping tables, and then he says something outrageous: “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not I’ll give you resurrection, not someday you’ll get life—he says I am it. Right here, right now. And then, just to prove it, he walks straight into death—nails, cross, tomb, the whole brutal mess—and comes out the other side. Alive. Breathing. New.

What’s that about? It’s about a promise. A promise that death doesn’t get the last word. A promise that whatever’s on the other side isn’t darkness or nothingness, but something so alive, so vibrant, it makes everything we’ve ever known look like a shadow. Heaven, sure—call it that if you want—but it’s not just harps and clouds. It’s a reality where everything broken gets mended, where every tear gets wiped away, where you and I step into the fullness of who we were always meant to be.

And here’s the thing: that promise isn’t just for later. It’s for now. Because if resurrection is real—if Jesus meant what he said—then death isn’t a monster under the bed. It’s a transition. A shedding. Like a seed cracking open in the dirt, letting go of what it was so it can become something more. You don’t have to be afraid of that. You don’t have to clench your fists and grit your teeth. You can open your hands. You can breathe.

I think about my own life sometimes—those moments when I’ve felt death brush close. A loved one gone too soon, a diagnosis that stopped me cold, or just the quiet ache of knowing this body won’t last forever. And yeah, it stings. It’s heavy. But then I hear that voice again: “I am the resurrection and the life.” And I wonder—what if this isn’t the end? What if it’s the beginning of something so big, so good, I can’t even wrap my head around it?

So, what if we stopped running from death and started trusting the One who beat it? What if we lived like people who know the tomb is empty? Because it is. It’s empty. And that changes everything. Death isn’t the thief we thought it was—it’s the usher, leading us into a room we’ve been homesick for our whole lives.

You don’t have to fear it. You don’t have to outsmart it. You just have to trust that the story’s not over. That there’s a resurrection waiting. That heaven isn’t a far-off dream—it’s the heartbeat of everything true, pulling us closer every day. And when the time comes, when we step through that doorway, we’ll see it: the light, the love, the life that never ends.

So, here’s my question for you today: What would it look like to live unafraid? To wake up tomorrow and say, “Death, you don’t own me—I’m already on the other side”? Because you are. We all are. The promise is real. The tomb is empty. And the best is yet to come.

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The Life That’s Hiding Up There…

https://open.spotify.com/episode/5Ncmaj63X8jBsWGZHPpgBV?si=DttjRIOaQcaR0LL2jlPSkg

You ever catch yourself wondering what it’s all for? Like, you’re stuck in traffic, or scrolling through the endless noise of the world, and this quiet question sneaks in: Is this it? The grind, the hustle, the little victories that fade by lunchtime—what’s the point? And then you stumble across something like Colossians 3:1-4, and it’s like someone flips on a light in a room you didn’t even know you were in.

Here’s what Paul writes—Paul, the guy who went from chasing down Christians to chasing this wild, untamable Jesus, all because of a Damascus road experience, he says this:

“Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”

Hold up. Let’s slow that down, because it’s dense—like a good stew you’ve got to savor.

Paul’s saying you’ve been raised. Not “you will be,” not “someday when you get your act together,” but you have been. Past tense. Done deal. When Jesus got up from that grave, something happened to you, too. You’re in on it. And because of that, he’s telling you to lift your eyes—set your heart, your mind, on “things above.” Not as some pious escape plan, but as a way of seeing what’s really real.

But what’s up there? Christ, Paul says, sitting at the right hand of God. Power. Presence. The one who beat death like it was nothing. And here’s the kicker: your life—your life—is hidden with him. Hidden. Like a treasure tucked away in a safe place, waiting for the right moment to be unveiled.

You feel that tension? You died, he says. The old you—the one obsessed with keeping score, chasing approval, clinging to stuff that slips through your fingers—it’s gone. But you’re not just a ghost drifting through. Your real life, the truest thing about you, is stashed away with Christ in God. Safe. Untouchable. Alive.

And then there’s this promise: when Christ shows up—when the curtain finally pulls back—you’re going to show up, too. In glory. Not just tagging along, but with him, shining like you were always meant to. Heaven isn’t just a destination; it’s the reveal of who you already are.

So what does that do to today? To the dishes in the sink, the argument you can’t shake, the fear that keeps you up at night? Paul’s whispering, Look up. Not to ignore what’s here, but to see it through a different lens. The hope of heaven isn’t about bailing out—it’s about knowing there’s a bigger story, and you’re already part of it. Your life’s not defined by the mess down here; it’s defined by the glory up there.

Think about that word: hidden. What if the best parts of you—the parts God sees, the parts he’s been crafting all along—are still under wraps? What if heaven’s the moment when the mask comes off, when the noise fades, and you step into the light as the you you’ve always been meant to be? That’s not just hope for later; that’s fuel for now.

So maybe today, you pause. You breathe. You let your heart drift upward—not to check out, but to check in. Because Christ is your life, Paul says. Not your job. Not your failures. Not the likes or the follows. Him. And he’s holding you—your real, radiant self—until the day it all breaks open.

What if that’s the invitation? To live like your life’s already tucked away in something eternal? To set your mind on what’s above—not as a distraction, but as a defiant, beautiful yes to the glory that’s coming? Because it’s not just about getting to heaven. It’s about heaven getting to you—right here, right now, whispering, You’re mine, and I’ve got you.

Grace, Peace & Heaven,
-Pastor Scott.

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Why Church? 3 Reasons it’s Still a Big Deal.

Hey friends, and happy Thursday – or whenever you read this. Today, let’s talk about church for a few minutes. Not the building, not the steeple, not the stained glass or the slightly out-of-tune piano—but the messy, beautiful, awkward, sacred thing that happens when people show up together to lean into this wild story of God. I get it—sometimes the idea of “going to church” feels like a relic, like something your grandma insists on, or maybe it’s just another box to check in a week already stuffed with boxes. But what if there’s something deeper going on here? What if showing up and participating in church isn’t just a habit—it’s a holy rebellion against isolation, cynicism, and the lie that we’re in this alone? Here are three reasons I keep coming back to why church matters.

1. You’re Part of Something Bigger Than You

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to shrink your world down to just you? Your phone, your playlist, your coffee order—it’s all so tailored, so custom, so me. And that’s not bad—God made you unique, after all—but there’s this moment when you walk into a room full of people singing, praying, stumbling through the same ancient words, and you realize: Oh, I’m not the whole story. Church pulls you out of the tiny orbit of self and plugs you into something cosmic. It’s like the Spirit whispering, “You’re part of a body—a weird, sprawling, glorious body that’s been breathing for centuries.”

Think about it: the same God who spoke galaxies into being is somehow present when a bunch of us—flawed, distracted, hopeful—gather to say, “Hey, we’re here, and we’re listening.” That’s not just a Sunday routine; that’s a collision of the eternal and the everyday. You need that. I need that. We need to be reminded that our little thread of life is woven into a tapestry way bigger than we can see.

2. It’s Where You Learn to Love the Unlovable (Including Yourself)

Let’s be real—church isn’t always easy. You’ve got the guy who talks too loud during the prayer, the kid who spills juice on your new shoes, the sermon that goes 15 minutes too long. And don’t get me started on the politics in the parking lot or the unspoken tension over who gets to hold the mic. But here’s the thing: that’s the point. Church isn’t a country club—it’s a crucible. It’s where you bump up against people you’d never choose to hang out with and figure out how to love them anyway.

And then there’s you. You bring your own mess, your own doubts, your own “I’m not sure I belong here” vibes. Church is this strange, grace-soaked space where you’re forced to wrestle with that—and where others show up to remind you that God’s not done with you yet. It’s like Jesus saying, “You’re all a little unlovable sometimes, and I love you anyway—so try doing that for each other.” Participating in church teaches you how to forgive, how to listen, how to sit with the tension—and that’s not just good for your soul; it’s good for the world.

3. It’s a Rehearsal for the Kingdom

Ever wonder what God’s up to? Like, the big picture—what’s the endgame? The Bible keeps pointing to this vision of a renewed world, a kingdom where everything broken gets fixed, where tears dry up, where the table’s big enough for everyone. Church—when we show up, when we sing, when we pass the bread and the cup—it’s like a dress rehearsal for that. It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s a glimpse. A taste. A little echo of what’s coming.

When you participate, you’re not just killing an hour on Sunday—you’re practicing resurrection. You’re saying, “I believe this story isn’t over.” You’re joining hands (literally or figuratively) with people who are just as hungry for hope as you are, and together you’re leaning into the promise that God’s making all things new. That’s not passive—it’s active. It’s a declaration. It’s you and me and the lady in the pew behind us stepping into the rhythm of eternity, one off-key hymn at a time.

So, Why Bother?

Church isn’t about guilt or obligation—it’s about waking up. It’s about showing up to a mystery that’s been unfolding since the beginning, a mystery that says you’re invited, you’re needed, you’re part of it. Yeah, it’s messy. Yeah, it’s imperfect. But it’s also where the Spirit moves, where love gets legs, where the future breaks into the now. So maybe this week, give it a shot. Walk through the doors, sit in the back if you want, and see what happens. You might just find yourself caught up in something bigger than you ever imagined. Give it a shot. What have you got to lose?

-Grace & Pews,
Pastor Scott.

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Stepping Away From Fear and Into Bravery & Faith.

So, there’s this verse, right? Isaiah 41:10. You’ve probably heard it before—maybe on a coffee mug, or a bookmark, or whispered by someone when the world felt like it was caving in. It goes like this: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Like a melody you didn’t know you needed until it started playing. But let’s sit with it for a minute. Let’s not just slap it on a t-shirt and call it a day. What’s going on here? What’s God actually saying—and what does it mean for us, right now, in the mess and the beauty of being human?

First off, “Do not fear.” That’s how it starts. NOT “Try not to fear” or “Fear less if you can.” No, it’s a straight-up, no-nonsense “Do not fear.” Which is crazy to me, because fear is like the air we breathe sometimes, isn’t it? Fear of failing, fear of not being enough, fear of the news cycle, fear of what’s around the corner. Just turn on the tv these days or scroll through some social media platform, and you will inevitably find fear right there on your mobile device, in some horrific news story from around the world. Fear. Fear. Fear.
epic, monumental invitation: Don’t fear.

Why? Because “I am with you.” That’s the hinge it all swings on. Not “Because I’ll show up later” or “Because I’m watching from a distance.” No, it’s present tense, right here, right now. God’s not some cosmic spectator up in the cheap seats. This is Emmanuel—God with us—whispering, shouting, singing: You’re not alone in this.

But then it gets even better. “Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.” That word “dismayed”—it’s like when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t even see straight. When the questions outnumber the answers, and you’re just… stuck. And God says, “I’ve got you. I’m yours, and you’re mine.” There’s this relational thing happening here, this covenant vibe, like God’s saying, “We’re in this together, you and me.

And if that wasn’t enough, it keeps going, like, can this get any better than that? And God’s like um, Yes! Here it is: “I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Strength. Help. Upholding. Picture it for a second—God’s hand, steady and strong, holding you up when your knees are shaking. Not because you’ve earned it, not because you’ve got it all figured out, but because that’s who God is. Grace isn’t a transaction; it’s a gift.

So here’s where it gets challenging, though. If this is true—if God’s really with us, strengthening us, holding us—what are we doing with it? Because this isn’t just a warm fuzzy to tuck away for a rainy day. This is a call to live differently. If fear doesn’t get the final word, then what does? If God’s got our back, what risks are we willing to take? What love are we willing to give? What justice are we willing to fight for?

Think about it. If you really believed this—deep in your bones, not just in your head—how would tomorrow look different? Would you speak up when you’re usually quiet? Would you reach out where you’ve held back? Would you let go of that thing you’ve been clutching so tight your knuckles are white?

Isaiah 41:10 isn’t just a promise; it’s a dare. It’s God saying, “I’m here, so what are you going to do about it?” Not out of guilt or pressure, but out of this wild, reckless trust that the One who made the stars is walking with you through the dark.

So, yeah, don’t be afraid. Not because life’s easy—it’s not—but because you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got strength you didn’t earn, help you didn’t ask for, and a God who’s holding you up with a hand that never lets go. That’s the gospel right there, isn’t it? Not a rulebook, but a relationship. Not a distant deity, but a presence.

What if you lived like that was true? What if we all did? What would life look like and how freeing would that be for all of us? And that my friends, is something to ponder on today.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Art of Showing Up Approved

Hey Friends!
So, there’s this amazing line tucked away in a letter Paul wrote to his young friend Timothy—2 Timothy 2:15—and it’s one of those verses that sneaks up on you. It’s quiet, unassuming, but it’s so powerful, check this out: “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.” That’s it. Straight to the point, right? But lean in for a second. There’s something pulsing here, something alive, something that’s asking us to wake up. To shake the cobwebs out of our hearts and minds. It’s especially apropos on a Monday morning.

What does it even mean to “present yourself to God as one approved”? Approved by who? For what? And this bit about being a worker who isn’t ashamed—ashamed of what? It’s almost like Paul’s handing us a mirror and saying, “Take a look. What do you see? Are you showing up? Really showing up?”

So, let’s unpack this for a minute because I think it’s less about getting a gold star from God, a pat on the back, and an “atta boy or girl”…it’s less that and more about stepping into the fullness of who you were made to be. The Greek word for “do your best” here is spoudazō. It’s this beautiful, urgent word—it means to be diligent, to hustle, to give it everything you’ve got. Paul’s not saying, “Hey, try a little harder so God doesn’t ground you.” No, he’s inviting Timothy—and us—into a life of intention. A life where we don’t just coast, but we dig in. We lean into the mess and the mystery of it all.

And then there’s this phrase: “a worker who does not need to be ashamed.” I wonder if you’ve ever felt that itch of shame—like you’re not enough, like you’re faking it, like if people really knew you, they’d walk away. For just a moment sit with that, and reflect on those times when you felt like you weren’t enough. Okay, now stop it. Because shame is sneaky like that. It whispers that you’ve got to hide, that you’re not cut out for this. But Paul’s saying, “No, you’re a worker. You’re in the game. You don’t have to shrink back.” What if the approval isn’t about perfection? What if it’s about presence—showing up, open-handed, saying, “Here I am, God. I’m Yours”? Because it’s never been about perfection at all. It’s never been about being good enough. Here’s the kicker – God does the equipping, you just need to show up.

Now, let’s talk about “correctly handling the word of truth.” That sounds lofty, doesn’t it? Like you need a theology degree or a big leather Bible with your name embossed on it. But what if it’s simpler than that? What if it’s about holding truth—God’s truth, the world’s truth, your truth—with care? Not swinging it like a hammer to prove a point, but carrying it like a lantern to light the way. The word for “correctly handling” here literally means “cutting a straight path.” Picture a farmer plowing a field, steady and sure, making room for something to grow. That’s you. That’s me. We’re invited to carve out space for truth to breathe, to take root, to flourish.

Here’s where it gets challenging, though. This isn’t passive. You don’t stumble into a life like this. It takes guts. It takes saying no to the noise—the endless scroll, the comparison, the quick fixes—and saying yes to the slow, sacred work of knowing God and knowing yourself. It’s not sexy. It’s not loud. But it’s real. And it’s worth it.

So, what if today you asked yourself: What am I hustling for? Not in a guilt-trip way, but in a curious, wide-eyed way. Are you chasing approval from the crowd, or are you standing before God, unashamed, letting Him whisper, “You’re already mine”? What if you picked up the word of truth—not to weaponize it, but to let it shape you, to let it cut through the clutter?

You’re a worker. You’re approved—not because you’ve got it all figured out, not because you’re perfect, but because you’re loved beyond measure. So show up. Dig in. Handle the truth with trembling hands and a brave heart. The world’s waiting for what you’ll grow.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Dust Still Sings…

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.” -Genesis 2:7 (NIV)

Hey, you. Yeah, you—reading this right now, on March 21, 2025, with the world spinning wild and beautiful outside your window. Can I tell you something? You’re made of dust. I know, I know, it doesn’t sound like a compliment at first. Dust is the stuff we sweep off the shelf, the gritty bits we try to shake out of our rugs. But stick with me here—because this dust thing? It’s actually the most stunning, mind-blowing thing about you.

Think about it. The Scriptures, those ancient, poetic pages, tell us in Genesis that God scooped up the earth—mud, dirt, dust—and breathed into it. Breathed. Like a divine exhale, a holy wind, filling the ordinary with the extraordinary. And that’s you. That’s me. That’s all of us walking around today, carrying coffee cups and chasing deadlines and wondering if we’re enough. We’re dust with breath in it, animated by something sacred, something alive.

So here’s the question I’ve been wrestling with lately: What if the dust still sings? What if that original breath hasn’t stopped echoing through us? I mean, look at your life for a second. The way you laughed with a friend yesterday, the way you paused to notice the sky turning pink this morning, the way you keep showing up even when it’s hard—that’s not just random. That’s the song of the dust, the melody of a Creator who doesn’t give up on what He’s made.

Sometimes I think we forget this. We get caught up in the noise—scrolling X, scrolling social media apps on our phones, chasing the next big thing, worrying about what’s broken in the world or in us. And trust me, there’s plenty broken. You don’t need me to list it out; you’ve seen it, felt it. But here’s the twist: What if the brokenness isn’t the end of the story? What if it’s just the place where the breath gets louder?

Jesus—this guy who walked around kicking up dust of his own—kept saying things like, “The kingdom of God is near.” Not far off, not locked away in some perfect future, but near. Like, right here, in the mess, in the dust. He ate with outcasts, touched the untouchable, and told stories that flipped everything upside down. And every time he did, it was like he was saying, “Listen, the song’s still playing. You’re still part of it.”

So today, I wonder—what’s your dust singing? Maybe it’s a quiet tune, a little shaky, because you’re tired or scared or just not sure what comes next. That’s okay. The breath doesn’t stop when we falter; it carries us. Or maybe your dust is belting out something bold today—hope, defiance, love. That’s the beauty of it: the song shifts, but it never quits.

Here’s what I’m learning, and maybe it’s for you too: You don’t have to have it all figured out for the dust to sing. You don’t have to be flawless or fearless or “fixed.” You just have to let the breath move through you. That’s faith, isn’t it? Not a perfect performance, but a willingness to lean into the melody, to trust that the One who started the song isn’t done with it yet.

So, wherever you are today—whether you’re soaring or stumbling—take a deep breath. Do you feel that? That’s the holy wind still at work, stirring the dust, calling you alive. You’re part of something vast and good and unbroken, even when it doesn’t feel like it. The world’s a mess, sure, but it’s a mess with a pulse. And so are you. So, perhaps like the song, He’s calling you to “Come Alive Dry Bones.”

What if you lived like that today? Like the dust in you is still singing?
What might happen? I don’t know exactly, but I bet it’d be beautiful. I bet it already is.
Breathe it in.

Grace and dust,
-Pastor Scott.

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“The Sacrifice That Smells Like Coffee and Asphalt”

Hey there, beautiful souls,

Let’s lean into something wild and alive today—something that hums with the heartbeat of the Divine. Hebrews 13:16 in The Message version says, “Make sure you don’t take things for granted and go slack in working for the common good; share what you have with others. God takes particular pleasure in acts of worship—a different kind of ‘sacrifice’—that take place in kitchen and workplace and on the streets.” Isn’t that just electric? It’s like the Spirit’s whispering, “Hey, wake up—this is where it’s at.”

So, what’s the vibe here? This isn’t about sitting in pews, chanting the right words, or tossing a few bucks into a plate and calling it a day. No, this is messier, earthier, more human. It’s about showing up—really showing up—wherever you are. The kitchen table where you’re slicing carrots for dinner, the cubicle where you’re grinding through emails, the street corner where someone’s holding a cardboard sign. That’s the altar. That’s where the worship happens. And God? God’s into it. Like, grinning from ear-to-ear, delighted by this kind of sacrifice.

Let’s unpack that word for a sec—sacrifice. We’ve got baggage with it, don’t we? Lambs on altars, blood and smoke, guilt trips about giving up stuff we love. But this? This is a different kind of sacrifice. It’s not about losing; it’s about giving. It’s not about deprivation; it’s about connection. Sharing what you have—your time, your energy, your extra sandwich, your last five bucks—because that’s where the Kingdom cracks open and spills out. It’s not some far-off heavenly transaction; it’s right here, in the dirt and the hustle of being human.

And that bit about “working for the common good”? Oh, man, that’s a gut punch and a love letter all at once. We’re wired for this, you know? You weren’t made to just hoard your little pile of treasures and build walls around it. You were made to pour out, to weave your life into other lives, to say, “What’s mine is yours, because we’re in this together.” It’s not charity—it’s family. It’s the common good, not the me good. And when we live that way, something shifts. The air feels lighter. The world feels less alone and less dumpster fire – more hopeful.

But here’s the real kicker: God takes particular pleasure in this. Picture that for a moment. The Creator of supernovas and sunsets, black holes, the One who spun oceans into being, is sitting there, elbows on the table, watching you hand a cup of coffee to a stranger or stay late to help a coworker—and God’s like, “Yes. That’s my kid. That’s the stuff.” It’s not about earning points; or gold stars in a classroom, it’s about joining the party God’s already throwing.

So today, wherever you are—whether you’re stirring soup or stuck in traffic or scrolling through this on your phone—don’t go slack. Don’t let the grind numb you out. Look around. Share something. A smile, a story, a dollar, a moment. That’s your worship. That’s your sacrifice. And it’s lighting up the heavens.

You’ve got this. The Spirit’s in you, moving you, cheering you on. Let’s keep working for the common good, together, because that’s where the real magic happens.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Table’s Too Small (And It’s Not God’s Fault)

So, let’s start here: you walk into a church, and it’s beautiful, right? The music’s swelling, the coffee’s decent—maybe even great—and the people? They’re your people. They get you. They look like you, talk like you, vote like you, maybe even grew up on the same street or at least the same kind of street. It feels like home. And that’s not wrong—home is a gift, a grace, a little taste of heaven, isn’t it? Jesus himself said he’s preparing a place for us, a home where we’re known and loved.

But here’s the thing I can’t shake—and maybe you’ve felt it too: when I read the story of God, from Genesis to Revelation, I don’t see a home that’s just for one kind of people. I see a table, a feast, a party, and the guest list? It’s wild. It’s Abraham looking up at the stars and hearing a promise about nations—plural. It’s Isaiah dreaming of a mountain where every tribe streams in. It’s Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners, and then it’s Pentecost, where the Spirit falls and suddenly everyone’s hearing the good news in their own language. And Revelation? It’s this insane, kaleidoscope vision of every nation, tribe, people, and tongue gathered around the Lamb.

So why—why—do so many of our churches look like a family reunion instead of that cosmic party?

I get it, though. Homogenous congregations—places where everyone’s the same shade, the same culture, the same vibe—they’re comfortable. They’re easy. You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to stumble over someone else’s traditions or wonder if they’re judging your potluck dish. There’s a rhythm, a shorthand, a safety in sameness. And let’s be honest: we’re human. We gravitate toward what feels familiar. Psychologists have fancy words for it—ingroup bias, tribalism—but you don’t need a PhD to know it’s true. You feel it in your bones.

And yet, I wonder if that comfort’s a little too comfortable. Like, maybe it’s a sedative when God’s trying to wake us up.

Because here’s the deal: the story of God isn’t about staying safe in our little enclaves. It’s about a love so big it keeps pushing the edges out. It’s Abraham leaving Ur. It’s Ruth—the Moabite!—becoming part of Israel’s story. It’s Jesus telling a Samaritan woman she’s seen, known, invited. It’s Paul saying there’s no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female—not because those differences don’t matter, but because they’re not walls anymore. They’re colors in the palette.

So when our churches stay homogenous, I don’t think it’s just a preference thing. I think it’s a gospel thing. It’s us settling for a smaller story than the one God’s telling.

Now, I’m not saying you should feel guilty about your church. Guilt’s a lousy motivator—it just makes you defensive or paralyzed, and neither of those gets us anywhere. What I’m saying is: what if there’s more? What if the Spirit’s whispering, “Hey, I’ve got people—beautiful, messy, different people—who’d love to sit at this table with you, if you’d just scoot over a little”?

And yeah, that’s scary. Inviting other races, other cultures—it’s not easy. It means listening when you’d rather talk. It means learning names you might mispronounce at first (hey, Shanais look at that lol). It means maybe singing songs that don’t hit your nostalgia button or eating food that’s spicier than you’re used to (mmm, I love spicy food!). It means asking questions—real ones, not just polite ones—and hearing stories that might stretch you, convict you, change you.

But isn’t that the point? The kingdom of God isn’t about preservation—it’s about transformation. It’s not about locking the doors to keep the world out; it’s about flinging them open and saying, “Come in, tell me who you are, because I think God’s already here in you.”

So maybe start small. Look around your church this Sunday and ask: Who’s not here? Who could be? Maybe it’s the family down the street who speaks a different language. Maybe it’s the guy at work whose skin’s a different hue and who’s never been invited—not really. Maybe it’s the refugee community you keep hearing about but haven’t met. And then—here’s the wild part—don’t just think about it. Do something. Invite them. Not to fix them, not to make them like you, but to sit with them. To eat with them. To hear them.

Because the table’s too small right now, and it’s not God’s fault. He’s already set a bigger one. The question is: will we pull up more chairs?

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to be perfect at this. You just have to be willing. And I think—I really think—that’s enough. Because the God who made every color, every culture, every voice—he’s already in this. He’s just waiting for us to catch up. Something more to ponder today!
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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“Cracks in the Whitewash: Jesus, Tombs, and the Beauty of Being Real”

Hey Friends! Happy Tuesday, March 18th. Today, we’re diving into Matthew 23:27-28. Jesus is in the middle of this fiery, full-on rant—he’s not holding back, and it’s aimed right at the religious leaders of his day. The Pharisees, the scribes, the ones who think they’ve got it all figured out. When we find Jesus being harsh, it’s almost always with the religious folks of His day. The people who should have known better. The phony, two-faced hypocrites – who had one standard for everyone else, but a whole different set of rules for themselves. Here’s what Jesus had to say, check this out:

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.” (Matt 23:27-28, NIV).

Whoa. Whitewashed tombs. Can you picture it? These pristine, gleaming graves—perfectly painted, shining in the sun, the kind of thing you’d walk by and think, Wow, that’s lovely. But then Jesus pulls the curtain back, and what’s inside? Death. Decay. Rot. It’s a gut punch, isn’t it?

Now, Jesus isn’t just throwing shade here to flex his rhetorical muscles. He’s doing what he always does—cutting through the noise to get to the heart of things. He’s talking about the gap. You know the gap I mean—the space between who we pretend to be and who we really are. The Pharisees had mastered the art of looking good. They had the robes, the rules, the rituals down to a science. They were the spiritual influencers of their day—#blessed, #righteous, #holyliving. But Jesus says, “Hold on. Let’s talk about what’s under the filter. Let’s address what’s actually in your hearts.”

Because here’s the thing: you can polish the outside all you want, but if the inside’s a mess, it’s still a mess. And Jesus isn’t interested in facades. He’s not here for the performance. He’s not here for all of the “fake nice” to your face, but the backstabbing and side looks that tell a different story. He’s here for the real. The raw. The true.

How’s Your Heart? – “What does this have to do with me?”

So what’s this mean for us? Because let’s be honest—we’re not that different, are we? We’ve got our own versions of whitewashing. Maybe it’s the way we curate our lives online—posting the highlight reel while the outtakes pile up in the shadows. Maybe it’s the way we slap a “Fine, how are you?” on top of a heart that’s breaking. Or maybe it’s the way we cling to our Sunday-best selves, hoping no one notices the doubts, the fears, the failures we’re hauling around inside.

But what if Jesus is inviting us to stop? To stop painting over the cracks and just… let them be seen? What if the point isn’t to look perfect, but to be real? Because tombs don’t come alive by staying pretty—they come alive when someone rolls the stone away and lets the light in.

See, this isn’t about shame. Jesus isn’t wagging his finger here to make us feel small. He’s calling out the hypocrisy because he loves us too much to let us stay stuck in it. He’s saying, “You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to hide. I see the bones, the mess, the unclean stuff—and I’m not running away. I’m here for it. For you.”

So maybe today’s the day we quit whitewashing. Maybe it’s the day we let the outside match the inside a little more—not because we’ve got it all together, but because we’re brave enough to admit we don’t. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the real beauty starts. Not in the shine, but in the cracks where the light gets in.

What do you think? Where’s the whitewash in your life? And what might happen if you let it chip away?
I think that’s definitely something worth pondering today.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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“The Word That Cuts And Heals”

So, let’s talk about this wild, untamed thing we call the Word of God. Hebrews 4:12-13 drops us right into the thick of it, doesn’t it? It says, “For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.”

Whoa. That’s intense, right? I mean, just sit with that for a second. Like, really mull over those words, and let them sink in for just a second…


The Word of God isn’t some dusty old book sitting on a shelf, collecting cobwebs. It’s alive. It’s active. It’s moving, breathing, slicing through the noise of our lives like a blade so sharp you don’t even feel it until you’re already opened up. Soul and spirit, joints and marrow—what does that even mean? Is there a part of you it doesn’t touch?

Let’s be honest: that can feel terrifying. A sword? Cutting into me? Judging my thoughts and attitudes? (No, Thanks!)
I don’t know about you, but there are days when I’d rather keep my thoughts tucked away in the shadows, thank you very much. Days when I’d rather not be laid bare. Because being seen—really seen—can feel like standing in the middle of a storm with nowhere to hide. Naked. Vulnerable. Exposed. It reminds me of that survival show on TV “Naked and Afraid.” There’s no way you could get me out in the wilderness WITHOUT clothes on…Okay, I digress.

But here’s the thing: what if that’s not the whole story? What if this sharpness, this cutting, isn’t just about judgment? What if it’s about something deeper, something more alive than we’ve dared to imagine? I always love to ask the ‘what if’ questions…

Think about a surgeon for a minute. A scalpel in their hand isn’t there to destroy—it’s there to heal. It cuts, yes, but it cuts to get to the stuff that’s killing you, the stuff you can’t see until it’s exposed. What if the Word of God is like that? What if it’s piercing through all the layers we pile on—our masks, our defenses, our endless scrolling distractions—not to shame us, but to free us? To get to the marrow of who we really are?

Because that’s what this text is whispering to us: You can’t hide, but maybe you don’t have to. Everything’s uncovered, it says. Laid bare. Before God’s sight. And yeah, that’s a lot. It’s a lot to take in. That’s God seeing the late-night worries you don’t tell anyone about, the anger you bury, the dreams you’re too scared to chase. But what if the One seeing you isn’t holding a gavel? What if the One seeing you is the same One who breathed you into being, who knows the you beneath the ‘you‘ you’ve been pretending to be?

Here’s where it gets challenging: Are you willing to let the Word do its work? (and by ‘Word‘ I also mean the moving and convicting presence of the Holy Spirit). Are you brave enough to stop running, to stand still, and let it cut through the noise? Because it will, He will. It’ll slice through the excuses, the half-truths, the “I’m fine” you keep saying when you’re not. It’ll find the places you’ve locked up tight and say, “Hey, let’s look at this together.” And that’s hard. That’s messy. (sorry, more dumpster fire talk here). That takes guts.

But here’s the encouragement: You’re not alone in it. This isn’t about you getting dissected and left on the table. This is about a God who sees it all—every jagged edge, every hidden wound—and stays. The same God who wields this living, active Word is the One who says, “I’m with you in the mess.” The One who doesn’t just judge the thoughts and attitudes of your heart, but knows them, loves them, redeems them.

So, what’s it going to be? Will you let the sword fall? Will you trust that the cut is where the healing starts? Because this Word—it’s not here to end you. It’s here to begin you, again and again. It’s here to strip away what’s dead so you can step into what’s alive. And that’s not easy. But it’s beautiful. It’s something truly beautiful. It’s worth it.

So, friends, take a deep breath. You’ve got this. The Word’s already moving. The Holy Spirit is still moving, too.
Can you feel it?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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