Tag: #Christianity

The Seeds You Can’t Outrun

Galatians 6:7 at Pastors Ponderings

Hey there, friends. Welcome back to Pastors Ponderings. It’s Pastor Scott here, and today we’re digging into a single verse that’s been rattling around in my head like a loose stone: Galatians 6:7. Paul’s words hit hard and stick deep: “Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.” That’s it. Short, sharp, and straight to the gut. Ready to wrestle with it? Let’s go.

Picture Paul writing this to the Galatians—folks he cared about, folks he sometimes wanted to shake a little. He’s not mincing words here. Reaps what he sows. It’s got that earthy, farmer’s wisdom to it—like something your grandpa might’ve muttered while tossing seed into the ground. But don’t let the simplicity fool you. This isn’t about crops. It’s about us. Our lives. The seeds we’re scattering every single day, whether we’re paying attention or not.

Take a moment. What are you sowing? Not in the big, shiny moments you’d post online, but in the quiet ones nobody sees. The way you snap at the cashier when you’re rushed. The bitter thoughts you let fester like weeds. The grudges you nurture as if they’re prize roses. That’s seed, friends. And Paul’s warning us: don’t kid yourself. God’s not buying the act. What you plant comes back to you.

It’s a little unnerving, right? Your life’s this garden, and you’re holding the shovel. No pointing fingers at the soil or the weather or the neighbor’s dog digging up your rows. You reap what you sow. It’s on you.

But here’s where it shifts. Paul’s not just playing the heavy here—he’s not out to shame us. This isn’t about guilt trips. It’s about power. Real power. If you reap what you sow, then you’ve got a hand in what grows. You’re not just drifting through life, waiting for the next thing to happen. You’re the gardener. You get to choose.

So, what’s growing in your patch? Seriously—stop reading for a sec if you need to, grab a coffee, and sit with that question. Are you sowing bitterness? Fear? That sneaky cynicism that feels like armor but leaves you empty? Or are you planting something different—kindness, courage, hope—even when it feels risky or foolish? Because here’s the truth: the harvest doesn’t lie. It’s coming. And it’s got your name on it.

Paul’s writing to a church here—a messy, real group of people stumbling through faith together. He’s saying, don’t buy the lie that you can plant thorns and pick roses. You can’t mock God like that—not because He’s keeping score, but because that’s how the world works. It’s stitched into the universe. Gravity pulls. Seeds sprout. Actions ripple.

But flip that coin: every good thing you sow—every time you choose love over spite, grace over payback—it’s not lost. It’s seed. And it’s going to push through the dirt and turn into something wild and beautiful, something you can’t even picture yet.

Here’s the challenge: What are you sowing today? Not tomorrow, not when life’s all neat and tidy—right now. Galatians 6:7 isn’t a threat—it’s a wake-up call. It’s Paul grabbing us by the shoulders, saying, “You’ve got this crazy, sacred shot to shape what’s coming. Don’t miss it.”

And here’s the hope: You’re not out there alone. The God who set this whole reaping-and-sowing thing in motion? He’s right there with you. He’s the sun warming the ground, the rain soaking it through, the force that cracks the seeds open and pulls them toward the light. You sow, and He grows. That’s the quiet promise humming beneath this verse.

Galatians 6:7 is a mirror. A dare. A whisper that says your life matters—every seed you plant matters. So maybe today, you and I, we pick up the shovel. We sow something brave. Something true. And we trust the harvest is on its way. What do you say? Let’s see what breaks through the soil.

Keep digging, keep planting, keep chasing the mystery. I’ll see you back here next time.
Grace, Peace & Dirt under the nails

— Pastor Scott

0

Rolling Stones and Rising Hope: An Easter Invitation

Hey friends, welcome back to Pastor’s Ponderings. I’m Pastor Scott, and today I’m sitting down with my coffee, my Bible, and a heart full of wonder about Easter. It’s the season of resurrection, of new life, of something breaking through—and I want to invite you into that mystery with me. Easter’s not just a day on the calendar or a story we dust off once a year. It’s an invitation. A dare. A question: What if the things we thought were dead aren’t finished at all? Let’s ponder this together.

I was walking through my neighborhood last night just before a thunderstorm, and spring is waking up all around me. Trees budding (lots of pollen), flowers poking through the dirt. And there, in a neighbor’s yard (the one that always has a perfect lawn and a perfect garden – I’m so envious), was this one tulip—bright red, standing tall like it was shouting, “I’m alive!” It stopped me in my tracks. Because isn’t that Easter? Something refusing to stay buried. Something insisting that life gets the last word.

Let’s go to the story. Picture it: early morning, the air cool and heavy with dew. The women—Mary Magdalene, maybe another Mary—are walking to the tomb. Their steps are slow, their hearts weighed down with grief. They’re carrying spices to anoint a body. Jesus’ body. The one they loved, the one they followed, the one they thought would change everything. Now it’s over. Done. Finished.

Or so they think.

Then they get there, and—boom—the stone’s rolled away. The tomb’s empty. An angel’s sitting there, casual as you please, saying, “He’s not here. He’s risen.” Can you imagine Mary’s face? Confusion, shock, maybe a flicker of hope she’s afraid to let herself feel. Because that’s not how death works. That’s not how the story was supposed to end.

Or was it?

Here’s what grabs me about Easter: It’s not just about what happened that morning. It’s about what it means for us today. Easter says the worst thing is never the last thing. Betrayal? Not the final word. Pain? Not the end of the chapter. Even death? Nope. There’s something more. There’s a rising.

I wonder where you feel that in your life right now. Where are you standing at a tomb, holding onto something you think is gone? A dream that fizzled out? A relationship that’s fractured? A hope you’ve buried? Easter’s whispering to you, “It’s not over. Look for the life.”

Let’s slow down for a second, because resurrection is a big word. We toss it around at church, but what does it really mean? Sure, it’s about Jesus rising from the dead—absolutely, that’s the heartbeat of our faith. But it’s also about what that does to *us*. To you and me. To the world we’re stumbling through.

Resurrection says that God’s not done. Not with you, not with your story, not with the mess. It says there’s always a next. A new chapter. A second chance. And here’s the thing: it doesn’t always look like you expect. Sometimes resurrection is loud—an empty tomb, angels singing, the whole shebang. But sometimes it’s quiet. It’s the friend who texts you just when you need it. It’s the courage to try again after you’ve failed. It’s the moment you forgive when you thought you’d hold that grudge forever.

Resurrection’s sneaky like that. It shows up in the dirt of life. In the ordinary. In the places we least expect. Because that’s where God loves to work, isn’t it? In the cracks. In the mess. In the moments we’d written off.

So let’s get real. I know life doesn’t always feel like a resurrection party. Sometimes it feels like you’re stuck at the tomb, clutching those spices, staring at what’s lost. I’ve been there. We all have. But here’s what I’m learning: Easter invites us to move. Those women at the tomb didn’t just stand there, gaping at the empty space. They ran. They told people. They became part of the story.

And that’s the question Easter asks us: Are you going to stay at the tomb, holding onto what *was*? Or are you going to step into what *could be*? Are you going to look for the places where life’s breaking through—and then join in?

Maybe it’s a conversation you need to have, even if it scares you. Maybe it’s a dream you’ve shelved that’s tugging at your heart again. Maybe it’s just getting up tomorrow and choosing to love a little more, forgive a little deeper, hope a little braver. That’s resurrection. That’s Easter alive in you.

Here’s my challenge as we sit with this Easter season: Look for it. Look for the resurrection all around you. Not just in the big, flashy moments, but in the small ones. Where’s love refusing to quit? Where’s hope pushing up like that tulip through the dirt? Where’s life saying, “I’m not done yet”?

And then—here’s the part that changes everything—*be* the resurrection. Easter’s not just something that happened 2,000 years ago. It’s happening now. In your choices. In your courage. In the way you show up. You get to roll stones away for someone else. You get to carry the news that life wins. You get to live like the tomb is empty—because it is.

One last thought before I let you go. In John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not “I’ll give you resurrection later.” Not “I’ll show you life someday.” But *I am*. Right now. Right here. In the middle of your doubts, your fears, your questions—resurrection is already humming. It’s already alive. And you’re invited to step into it.

So this Easter, don’t just read the story. Live it. Run from the tomb. Tell the world with your life. Be the rising. Because the story’s not over—and neither are you.

Thanks for pondering with me, friends. If this stirs something in you, share it with someone. Let’s keep asking the big questions together. Until next time, keep seeking, keep hoping, and keep rising.
Grace, Peace & Tulips,
-Pastor Scott.

0

Forgiveness is a Fistfight

Hey, friends. Welcome back to Pastor’s Ponderings. This is where we crack open the ancient words, let them breathe, and see what they kick up inside us. Today, I want us to sit with Ephesians 4:32—a single verse that’s quiet on the surface, but man does it hit like a freight train. Are you ready to step into it? Here goes:

Paul’s writing to the Ephesians—a scrappy bunch of Jesus-followers who are fumbling their way through faith—and he lays this down: “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” That’s it. Be kind. Be compassionate. Forgive. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Like something you’d stitch on a throw pillow or a t-shirt and call it a day. It sounds so simple and inspirational –

Except… it’s not. Not even a little.

Let’s start with the opening jab: “Be kind and compassionate to one another.” Sure, it’s got that warm, fuzzy vibe—like smiling at strangers or holding the door. But dig deeper. Kindness isn’t just polite; it’s gritty. It’s choosing softness when everything around you is yelling for you to toughen up. And compassion? That’s not standing on the edge with a pep talk—it’s climbing down into the muck with someone, feeling the weight they carry. Paul’s saying, do that. With each other. Not just the easy ones, the ones who get you—but the prickly ones, the loud ones, the ones who cut you off in traffic or mid-sentence – THOSE ONES.

Then comes the knockout punch: “Forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” Oh, man. Forgiveness. That word’s a live wire, isn’t it? We all nod along in church, but when it’s time to actually live it—when it’s that person, that wound—it feels like trying to bench-press a truck off your soul.

Here’s the hard part, the challenge: What if Paul’s not just handing us a checklist here? What if he’s holding up a mirror for us to look at how we are currently conducting “forgiveness”? Because kindness—it’s brutal when you’re exhausted. Compassion slips away when you’re burned out or burned by someone. And forgiveness? That’s a monster. You’ve got every right to clutch that grudge—it’s yours, you built it, it shields you. But Paul’s saying, drop it. Not because they’ve earned it, but because God forgave you.

Pause there for a second.
God forgave you—not with a half-hearted “eh, fine,” but in Christ. In this messy, bloody, breathtaking act of love that says, “I see it all—the screw-ups, the shame, the stuff you bury—and I’m still here, I’m not going anywhere!”
That’s the standard. That’s the “just as.”

So let’s get real: Who are you NOT forgiving? Who’s that face flashing in your mind right now? We’ve all got one—or a few. The coworker who twisted the knife. The friend who vanished. The family member who keeps swinging the same tired hatchet. Maybe you’re thinking, “Scott, you don’t understand—they don’t deserve it.” You’re right. They don’t. But neither did you. Neither did I. That’s the gut-punch truth of it.

Now flip it—here’s the spark, the inspiration: What if forgiveness isn’t weakness? What if it’s the toughest, fiercest thing you’ll ever do? It’s not caving in; it’s rising up and saying, “This pain doesn’t get to own me anymore.” Kindness, compassion, forgiveness—they’re not soft. They’re radical. They’re how you snap the chain—the one where hurt just keeps birthing more hurt. You plant something else. You scatter grace. Yeah, it’s hard—it’s so hard—but it’s how the ground shifts.

Paul’s not asking us to play pretend. He’s calling us to live it—because we’ve been lived into it. God’s forgiveness isn’t some abstract idea; it’s a force, tugging us toward something bigger. So maybe today, we start small. Just like those baby steps in that old movie: What about Bob? One kind word to someone who doesn’t see it coming. One flicker of compassion when we’d rather look away. One chip in the fortress of that grudge we’ve fortified. Not the whole wall—just a crack. And we see where it leads.

Ephesians 4:32 is a whisper AND a roar. It’s a dare to be human in a way that rewrites everything. So, are you in? Let’s try it. Baby step it. Let’s see what takes root when we live like we’re forgiven.

Thanks for sitting with me here at Pastor’s Ponderings today. Keep wrestling, keep wondering, keep reaching for the light, and if you have a certain topic you would like us to tackle together, please leave it in the comments below.
I’ll catch you in the next one.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

Palm Sunday- Donkeys or Warhorses?

Happy Monday, my friends! I hope each of you had a good weekend. Today, we edge ever closer to Easter, and I wanted to dig into what will happen on Palm Sunday. So, let’s dive into this wild, beautiful, interesting story from Luke 19:28-44 that always evokes questions.

Picture it with me: Jesus is heading into Jerusalem, and the air crackled and hummed, thick with a restless energy that felt like a living thing—wild, untamed, sparking with possibility.

He’s not rolling in with a warhorse or a chariot—no, he’s on a donkey, a borrowed one at that. This isn’t the entrance of a conqueror, at least not in the way we’d expect. It’s quieter, humbler, but don’t let that fool you—it’s loaded with meaning, dripping with intention.

So, he tells his disciples, “Go get me that colt.” They’re confused, probably—Jesus isn’t exactly known for spelling things out in neon lights. But they go, they find it, and here he comes, riding down the Mount of Olives. The crowd’s losing it—coats on the ground, palm branches waving, shouts of “Hosanna!” bouncing off the stones. It’s a party, a parade, a moment where hope feels so close you could touch it. They’re quoting the Psalms, calling him the King who comes in the name of the Lord. Peace in heaven, glory in the highest—it’s cosmic, it’s earthy, it’s everything all at once.

But then, zoom in. Jesus isn’t grinning ear to ear. He’s not waving like a politician soaking up the applause. He’s weeping. Weeping! The guy they’re cheering for, the one they’re pinning their dreams on, is crying as he looks at Jerusalem. Why? Because he sees what’s coming. He sees the city that’s about to miss the point, miss the moment, miss him. “If you’d only known what would bring you peace,” he says, “but now it’s hidden from your eyes.” Hidden. That word hangs there, heavy, haunting. Days of siege are coming, he says—enemies, barricades, destruction—because they didn’t recognize the time of God’s visitation. The time when God showed up, right there, on a donkey.

Now, let’s pause. What’s this about? Is this just a sad history lesson, a first-century postcard of a city that didn’t get it? Or is it something more, something that’s still humming under the surface of our lives? Because here’s the thing: Jesus isn’t just crying over Jerusalem back then—he’s crying over every Jerusalem since. Every place, every heart, every moment where we miss what’s right in front of us. Where we trade peace for power, love for control, presence for distraction.

Think about it. The crowd wanted a king to fix their problems—kick out the Romans, restore the glory days. They wanted fireworks and fanfare. But Jesus rides in on a donkey, not a stallion. He’s offering a different kind of kingdom, one that doesn’t shout but whispers, one that doesn’t crush but lifts. And they miss it. They miss the visitation because it didn’t look like what they expected.

So, here’s the question pulsing through this story: What are we missing? What’s God riding into our lives on, right now, that we’re too busy waving our own branches to see? Maybe it’s not the loud, obvious thing we’re waiting for—maybe it’s quieter, smaller, more borrowed-donkey than royal-steed. Maybe peace isn’t in the next big win or the perfect fix, but in the tears, the humility, the willingness to ride into the mess instead of around it.

And those tears of Jesus—they’re not just pity. They’re love. Love that sees what could be, what should be, and mourns what isn’t yet. But they’re also hope. Because even as he weeps, he keeps going. He doesn’t turn the donkey around. He rides into Jerusalem anyway—into the cheers, into the chaos, into the cross. He doesn’t give up on them. He doesn’t give up on us.

So, today, let’s ponder this. Let it get under your skin a little bit. Let it settle down deep.
Let’s ask: (and I always seem to be asking where something is lol, it’s just in my nature)
Where’s the donkey in my story? Where’s the peace I’m missing because I’m looking for a warhorse? And what if—just what if—God’s visitation is already here, waiting for me to stop shouting long enough to see it? Because the one who wept over Jerusalem is still weeping, still riding, still whispering: “Peace. Peace. I’m here.”

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

What If Everything You Thought About Church Was Wrong?

Listen to this episode on Spotify

Dispelling the misconceptions of “Church” (revisited)

So, let’s revisit this topic of “Church” once more. Perhaps as we explore, we might begin to recognize what it is and what it isn’t, and perhaps what it was never meant to be. Yeah, church—the one with the pews or the folding chairs, the stained glass or the projector screen, the one we’ve all got some picture of in our heads. The one we love, hate, avoid, become bored to tears when the topic is mentioned, or cling to. What if we’ve been missing the point? Not just a little off, but WAY out in left field, swinging at something that’s not even the game we’re meant to be playing?

I mean, think about it. We walk into these spaces—or we don’t—and we carry all this baggage with us. Expectations. Rules. Stories we’ve been told about what church should be. And maybe that’s the first thing we need to rethink: the should. Because when you strip it all down, church isn’t a building, a sermon, or a set of bylaws. It’s not even a Sunday thing. What if it’s something messier, wilder, more alive than that?

Let’s start here: people have some ideas about church that stick like gum to the bottom of a shoe or pew bench. They’re hard to shake, and they shape everything—how we show up, why we stay away, what we hope for or dread. I’ve even heard of people staying or leaving a church because either the music wasn’t to their liking or the sermons weren’t challenging enough and they said, “Well, I’m just not being spiritually fed.” Sometimes, dare I say, that’s just a cop out to a greater commitment, and they aren’t being truthful to others and themselves. (I digress)

So, let’s name a few of these misconceptions, these sacred cows we’ve been herding around, and see if we can’t nudge them out of the way.

Misconception #1: Church Is About Showing Up and Shutting Up

You’ve seen it, right? The idea that church is this place where you file in, sit down, nod along, and keep your questions to yourself. It’s a performance—you’re the audience, someone else is the star, and the goal is to get through the hour without rocking the boat. But what if church isn’t a spectator sport? What if it’s more like a dinner table where everyone’s got a voice, where the questions matter as much as the answers? Jesus didn’t sit around handing out scripts—he broke bread, he listened, he flipped tables when the moment called for it. What if church is less about consuming and more about colliding—ideas, stories, lives? Honestly, wasn’t that the whole reason for church in the ancient world? Families getting together, sharing all they had, encouraging one another, meeting at houses, sharing a meal together? Perhaps we’re showing up at the wrong building when we should consider meeting in each other’s homes from time to time.

Misconception #2: It’s a Morality Club

Then there’s this one: church as the VIP list for good people. You join to prove you’ve got your act together, or at least to fake it ‘til you do. It’s a place to polish your halo, to signal you’re better than the mess outside. But flip through the Gospels—Jesus didn’t hang out with the shiny people. He was with the tax collectors, the outcasts, the ones who’d screwed up big time. What if church isn’t a club for the righteous but a hospital for the broken? A place where the masks come off, not go on?

Misconception #3: Church Is the Point

Here’s a sneaky one: we start thinking church is the endgame. Like, if we can just get the service right, the attendance up, the budget balanced, we’ve won. But what if church isn’t the destination? What if it’s a launchpad? A space where we’re fueled up, celebrate—through bread, wine, song, silence, whatever it takes—to go out and live it? The early followers didn’t build cathedrals; they met in homes, on hillsides, in secret. Church was a verb, not a noun. What if we’ve been obsessing over the container and missing the fire inside it?

Misconception #4: It’s Gotta Look a Certain Way

Picture this: organ music, or maybe a fog machine and skinny jeans. Hymns or Hillsong. We’ve got these templates, these blueprints, and we fight over them like they’re sacred. But what if church doesn’t have to wear a tie or a t-shirt? What if it’s happening in a coffee shop, a park, a group text at 2 a.m.? What if it’s less about the packaging and more about the pulse—the connection, the wrestling, the showing-up-for-each-other-ness? The first Christians didn’t have a handbook; they had a story and a Spirit. Maybe we’ve been overcomplicating it.

So, What’s It Really About?

Here’s where it gets good. What if church is about life—not the tame, boxed-up version, but the raw, untamed, holy chaos of it? What if it’s about people finding each other in the dark, holding space for the questions, the doubts, the dreams? What if it’s less about saving souls for later and more about waking them up right now—to love, to justice, to the wild beauty of being human together?

Think about the stories Jesus told. The lost sheep, the prodigal son, the banquet where everyone’s invited. It’s not about walls or membership cards—it’s about movement, about gathering, about a table that keeps getting bigger. Church could be that. Not a fortress, but a fire. Not a checklist, but a collision of hearts.

So, what if we let go of the shoulds? What if we stopped trying to fix church or flee it, and started asking what it could become? Because here’s the thing: it’s not dead. It’s not irrelevant. It’s just waiting for us to rethink it—to crack it open and see what spills out. What if we’re the ones who get to write the next chapter? What if it’s already started, and we just haven’t noticed?

Something more to ponder today – and this weekend.
Grace, Peace, and More Pews.
-Pastor Scott.

Check out these similar articles on the topic church previously explored.

0

Let’s Talk About Death and Empty Tombs

Listen to this episode on Spotify (click the link)

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.

0

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.

btw, subscribe to my podcast “Faith Ponderings” exclusively on Spotify.

0

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.

If you like audio/podcast content, please subscribe to my new offering – “Faith Ponderings” exclusively on Spotify (and it’s free!!)

0

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.

0

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.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑