Tag: faith

Stirring Up Love For Those Who Need It.

(Hebrews 10:24-25)

Hey there, friend! It’s Pastor Scott, and I’m just sitting here with a cup of coffee at the airport, thinking about what it means to really show up for each other. I’ve been at a conference this week called “Belonging” and I’ve got to tell you, I felt like I did and as I visited with old friends I felt encouraged and loved.

You know, life can feel like you’re lost in the woods and there’s no one to help you —this life seems to constantly make us feel like we need to be rushing about, all the while life is swirling, pulling us in a hundred directions. And in the middle of all that, we’re called to be people who don’t just float along, but who paddle toward each other with purpose. That’s where Hebrews 10:24-25 comes in, like a beacon, a gentle nudge, a holy (in the translation of my 17 year old son)“Bruh, let’s do this together.”

Here’s the text, straight from the heart of Scripture:
“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—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” (NIV)

Okay, let’s unpack this, because there’s something so important for us here. The writer of Hebrews is saying, “Hey, let’s think hard about how we can stir each other up.” Not stir up drama or chaos—nah, we’ve got enough of that. Stir up love. Stir up good deeds. It’s like tossing a pebble into a pond and watching the ripples spread. Your words, your presence, your actions—they ripple out, touching lives in ways you might not even see.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about showing up to church (though, yeah, that’s part of it). It’s about showing up for each other in the mess of life. It’s about being the kind of people who don’t just coast through relationships but lean into them, and get curious, and ask, “How can I help you shine brighter?” The Greek word for “spur” here is paroxysmos—it’s a word that means to provoke or stir up, almost like a holy agitation. It’s not passive. It’s active, intentional, like poking a fire to make it blaze.

And then there’s that bit about “not giving up meeting together.” Some folks had started bailing on community, maybe because life got hard, or they got hurt, or they just got lazy. Sound familiar? We’ve all been tempted to pull back, to isolate, to think, “I’m fine on my own.” But the writer’s like, “Nope, don’t do it. You need each other. Keep showing up.” Why? Because when we gather—whether it’s in a sanctuary, a coffee shop, or a living room—something holy happens. We remind each other who we are. We encourage each other to keep going, especially as the “Day” (you know, the big one, when Jesus returns) gets closer.

So, what does this look like in real life? How do we spur and encourage each other in a way that’s real, not just slapping a smiley-face sticker on someone’s pain? It starts with paying attention. It’s about seeing the people around you—not just their faces, but their hearts. It’s about asking, “What’s stirring in you? What’s holding you back? How can I help you take that next step toward love and good deeds?”

Here are four questions you can ask yourself as you think about spurring and encouraging others. These aren’t just for you to ponder in your quiet time—they’re for the road, for the conversations, for the moments when you’re face-to-face with someone who needs a spark:

  1. Who in my life needs a nudge to keep going?
    Look around. Who’s weary? Who’s stuck? Maybe it’s your friend who’s been quiet lately, or the coworker who seems overwhelmed. How can you come alongside them with a word, a gesture, a moment of presence that says, “I see you, and you’ve got this”?
  2. What’s one specific way I can inspire love in someone today?
    Love isn’t abstract—it’s concrete. It’s a text that says, “I’m praying for you.” It’s dropping off a meal. It’s listening without fixing. Think of one person and one tangible way you can spark love in their life today.
  3. Am I showing up consistently for my community?
    Be honest. Are you in the habit of gathering, or have you been ghosting your people? Community isn’t perfect—it’s messy, sometimes awkward—but it’s where we grow. What’s one step you can take to lean back in?
  4. How can I celebrate someone’s good deeds without making it weird?
    People are doing beautiful things all around you—small acts of kindness, bold steps of faith. How can you call that out? Maybe it’s a note, a shout-out, or just saying, “I saw what you did, and it’s awesome.” Encouragement doesn’t have to be loud; it just has to be real.

Here’s the deal: spurring and encouraging isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room or having all the answers. It’s about being present, being intentional, and believing that God’s already at work in the people around you. You’re not creating the fire—you’re just fanning the flames. And when you do that, when you stir up love and good deeds, you’re not just changing someone else’s day—you’re changing the world, one ripple at a time. Make sure the people you are reaching out to feel like they belong. Include them. Don’t just let them be spectators, but engage in friendships!

So, go out there and be a holy agitator. Stir something up. Show up. Encourage someone to keep running their race. And don’t be surprised when you find yourself encouraged, too. Because that’s how this works—we’re all in this together, and the Day is coming.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott

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Giving Thanks: A Heart Cracked Open by Gratitude


By Pastor Scott

Hey there friends, let’s pause for a second, shall we? Take a deep breath. Feel the air moving through you, the way your chest rises, the way this moment—this exact moment—is a gift. Isn’t that wild? That you’re here, right now, reading this, alive, held together by a mystery so vast it could make your heart ache if you let it? That’s where I want to start today—right in the middle of that ache, that wonder, that pulse of gratitude that reminds us we’re not just floating through life but swimming in an ocean of divine love.

Gratitude. It’s such a simple word, isn’t it? But it’s like a seed that, when planted, splits the ground open and grows into something wild and untamed. The Bible is bursting with this call to give thanks—Psalm 100 shouting, “Enter His gates with thanksgiving!” or Paul in 1 Thessalonians 5:18 nudging us to “give thanks in all circumstances.” All circumstances? Really? The flat tire, the hospital bill, the argument that left you raw? Yeah, all of it. But here’s the thing: gratitude isn’t about pretending everything’s fine. It’s about seeing the deeper current, the one that says God’s love and grace are still flowing, even when life feels like a storm.

So why do we give thanks to the Lord? Because everything—everything—is a gift. The coffee in your mug, the sunrise you barely noticed, the way your dog looks at you like you’re their whole world. These are little love notes from the Creator, whispers of a God who’s extravagantly generous. And yet, let’s be real: we forget this, don’t we? We take it for granted. We walk through life like it’s a grocery list—check this off, get that done—forgetting that every breath is a miracle, every heartbeat a divine conspiracy to keep us here, loved, alive.

I wonder… when’s the last time you stopped and let yourself feel the weight of God’s grace? Like, really feel it? The kind of grace that says, “You don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to hustle for my love. It’s yours. Always has been.” We’re so good at turning grace into a transaction, aren’t we? Like we’ve got to be good enough, holy enough, busy enough to deserve it. But grace doesn’t work that way. It’s like rain—it falls on the just and the unjust, on the put-together and the falling-apart. And yet, we breeze past it, don’t we? We take it for granted, like it’s just another Tuesday, like the God of the universe didn’t just hand us another day to live and love and mess it all up and try again.

So here’s a question: What if we stopped taking God’s love for granted? What if we woke up tomorrow and decided to notice—really notice—the way grace shows up? In the laughter of a kid, in the way a friend texts you just when you need it, in the quiet of a morning before the world gets loud? What if we let gratitude crack us open, let it reshape how we see everything?

And here’s another one: What’s keeping you from giving thanks? Is it the pain you’re carrying? The disappointment that’s settled into your bones? The fear that if you let yourself be grateful, you’re somehow saying the hard stuff doesn’t matter? I get it. Gratitude in the middle of the mess feels like a tightrope walk. But what if giving thanks isn’t about ignoring the pain but about seeing the bigger story? The one where God is still there, still weaving something beautiful, even when you can’t see the whole picture?

The Bible keeps pointing us back to this truth: giving thanks reorients us. It’s not about faking it or slapping a smile on suffering. It’s about remembering who we’re tethered to. Colossians 3:17 says, “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Whatever you do. The mundane, the glorious, the heartbreaking—it’s all held in the hands of a God who loves you so fiercely it’s almost too much to take in.

But we do take it for granted, don’t we? We forget that the cross was God’s wild, reckless declaration of love. We forget that the resurrection means death doesn’t get the last word. We get so caught up in our to-do lists, our worries, our scrolling, that we miss the miracle of it all. So here’s my invitation: slow down. Look around. Let your heart break open with thanks. For the big stuff—salvation, hope, eternity. For the small stuff—the smell of rain, the sound of your favorite song, the way someone’s smile lights up a room.

What would it look like for you to live with a grateful heart today? Not a perfect heart, not a polished heart, but a real one, raw and open to the love that’s holding you together? What would it look like to stop, right now, and say, “Thank you, God, for this moment, for this life, for your grace that I don’t deserve but get to soak in anyway”?

Let’s not take it for granted anymore. Let’s live like we know how loved we are. Let’s give thanks—not because life is perfect, but because God is present. And that, my friends, is enough.
Grace & Peace,

–Pastor Scott.

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The Fleeting Vapor of Life.

Hey friends, today I am pondering how much vapor our lives contain.
The bible says our life is but vapor (James 4:14) – quick, fleeting, temporary – poof, and it’s gone.

So, I’m sitting here in the quiet, my heart a little heavier than usual today. I lost a friend recently—a mentor, a guide, someone who poured wisdom and laughter into my life like a river that never seemed to run dry. And yet, here we are, standing at the edge of that river, staring into the stillness where their presence used to ripple. Death has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? It stops us in our tracks, takes the breath out of our lungs momentarily, makes us look up from our calendars and coffee cups, and whispers, This life? It’s fragile. It’s fleeting. It’s a vapor.

James, that no-nonsense brother of Jesus, put it like this: “What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (James 4:14, NIV). A mist. A puff of breath on a cold morning. Here one moment, gone the next. It’s not morbid to linger on this—it’s honest. It’s the kind of truth that shakes us awake, that begs us to ask:

What are we doing with this one, wild, temporary life?

When I learned yesterday that one of my mentors and friends passed, it felt like the ground shifted beneath me. Maybe you’ve been there too—when someone you love or admire slips beyond the veil, and you’re left holding questions bigger than your heart can carry. Why so soon? What comes next? And what does it all mean for the days we’ve got left? I want to lean into those questions together for just a few moments, because I think, in some way, they’re holy.
They’re the kind of questions that pull us closer to the mystery of God, to the heartbeat of eternity.

The Fragility of Now

Let’s start here: life is breakable. It’s delicate, like a clay jar holding something sacred. Paul, that wild-eyed apostle, called us “jars of clay” to show that the treasure inside us—God’s light, God’s love—is carried in something that can crack, chip, shatter (2 Corinthians 4:7). My friend’s death reminds me of that today. One moment, they were here—laughing, teaching, encouraging, challenging me to be better. Next, they were gone, and I’m left holding the pieces, wondering how something so vibrant could be so temporary.

But isn’t that the beauty of it? The fragility is what makes it precious. Every hug, every shared story, every quiet moment of prayer—it’s all a gift because it won’t last forever. The writer of Ecclesiastes gets it: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2, NIV). This life is a season, a chapter, a melody that rises and falls. And when someone we love steps out of this song, it doesn’t mean the music stops—it just changes key.

The Afterlife: A Door, Not a Wall

So what happens when the mist fades? When the jar breaks? When the melody shifts? That’s where the questions about the afterlife come in, and oh, they’re big questions. But here’s the thing: death isn’t a wall. It’s a door. Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die” (John 11:25, NIV). That’s not just a comforting platitude; it’s a promise that whatever lies beyond this life, it’s held in the hands of a God who loves us fiercely.

What’s on the other side? The Bible gives us glimpses, not blueprints. Streets of gold, a new heaven and new earth, a place where “God will wipe every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 21:4, NIV). But it’s less about the details and more about the One who’s waiting there. My friend, my mentor, my Grandparents, my Aunt Joy —they’re not gone, not really. They’ve stepped through the door into a reality more real than this one, where the love and laughter we shared here are just a shadow of what’s to come. It’s not some fairytale story, but rather a hope, a reality, an eternal promise.

The afterlife isn’t about escaping this world; it’s about this world being caught up in something bigger, something eternal. It’s about God saying, “I’m not done with you yet.” When I think of my friend and others who have recently made that transition, I imagine them laughing in a place where the colors are brighter, the joy is deeper, and the love is unending.
And that gives me hope.

Living the Temporary with Eternity in Mind

But what about us, the ones still here, breathing in this fleeting vapor? How do we live in a world where jars break and mists vanish? We live awake. We live open. We live like every moment is a chance to love, to forgive, to create something beautiful. Jesus told us to “seek first his kingdom and his righteousness” (Matthew 6:33, NIV), which isn’t about ignoring this life but about infusing it with eternal weight. Every act of kindness, every prayer whispered in the dark, every time we choose love over fear—it’s all building something that outlasts the mist.

My friend’s life was like that. He didn’t just exist; he poured himself out. He listened well and pointed me (and others) toward a Jesus in a way that made me want to run toward Him. His sudden death doesn’t erase that—it amplifies it. It reminds me to live in a way that echoes into eternity, to hold loosely to the things that fade and cling tightly to the things that last.

So here’s my invitation to you, friends: let’s live like we’re made of mist.
Let’s love like we’re made of eternity. Let’s hold the people we love a little closer, forgive a little quicker, and chase the God who holds both this life and the next. Because this vapor? It’s fleeting.
But the One who breathes it into being?
He’s forever.

“The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us” (1 John 1:2, NIV).

Let’s proclaim it with our lives, every fragile, beautiful moment of them.

With you in the journey,
Pastor Scott

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Don’t Cast Pearls Before Swine (whaaa??)

By Pastor Scott

Hey friends,
I want to ponder something that Jesus dropped in Matthew 7:6, something that’s got a raw and gritty edge to it: “Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” Whoa. Jesus, pulling no punches. But what’s he getting at here? What does this mean? What’s going on with this pearl? And, who’s the swine? And what does this mean for us, right now, in our sometimes messy lives?

Let’s go back first.
Picture it: Jesus, on a hillside, teaching a crowd that’s hanging on his every word. He’s in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, laying out this insanely radical vision for what it means to live in God’s kingdom. He tells them to love their enemies. Turn the other cheek. Don’t worry about tomorrow. And then, mic drop, he hits them with this: don’t cast your pearls before swine. It’s vivid, it’s jarring, and it’s meant to make you stop and think. I can almost imagine some of the crowd scratching their heads and saying, “huh?!”

In that first-century world, pearls were treasures—rare, precious, the kind of thing you’d guard with your life. Pigs, on the other hand? They were unclean animals in Jewish culture, not exactly known for their discernment. A pig doesn’t know a pearl from a pebble. It’ll trample anything in its path, looking for slop. And dogs? In that context, they weren’t your cuddly golden retriever. They were scavengers, wild, ready to snap at whatever you tossed their way.

Jesus is painting a picture here, and it’s not subtle.

So, what’s the pearl?
Maybe it’s the sacred, the holy—the deep truths of God’s kingdom, the gospel itself, your heart’s deepest convictions. And the swine or dogs? They could be people or situations that can’t receive what you’re offering, that might even turn it against you. Back then, Jesus might’ve been warning his followers not to waste their energy trying to force the good news on those who were openly hostile to it—like certain religious leaders or Roman oppressors who’d mock or destroy what was sacred. It’s not about giving up on people; it’s about wisdom, about knowing when to share and when to hold back.

But let’s make this relevant for us today:
What does this mean for us, today, in 2025, as we navigate a world of social media shouting matches, polarized families, politics, and a culture that sometimes feels like it’s allergic to nuance? What are the pearls in your life? Your faith? Your hope? Your vulnerability? That dream God’s planted in your heart? And where are you casting them? Are you pouring your soul into spaces that honor it, or are you scattering it in places that trample it—scrolling through endless comment threads, arguing with that one uncle who’s never going to hear you, or chasing approval from people who don’t get your worth?

  • Here’s a question to chew on: What if the swine aren’t always people, but systems, habits, or mindsets?
    Think about it. Maybe it’s that toxic workplace that chews up your creativity. Or the endless hustle that leaves no room for Sabbath. Or the inner voice that tells you you’re not enough, trampling the truth of who God says you are. Are you casting your pearls there, hoping for something different, only to end up torn apart?
  • And here’s another one: What if we’re sometimes the swine? Ouch!! That stings. Have you ever been in a place where someone offered you something beautiful—a kind word, a hard truth, a moment of grace—and you weren’t ready to receive it? Maybe you brushed it off, or worse, lashed out. Jesus’ words invite us to look at both sides: how we share, and how we receive.

>>This teaching isn’t about building walls or writing people off. Jesus isn’t saying, “Give up on the world.” He’s the guy who ate with tax collectors and sinners, after all. This is about discernment, about stewarding what’s sacred with care. It’s about knowing when to speak, when to listen, and when to walk away. It’s about trusting that God’s truth doesn’t need to be forced—it’s powerful enough to find its way in the right time, in the right hearts.

So, today, what’s one pearl you’re holding? Maybe it’s a story you’re afraid to tell, a conviction you’re scared to share, or a piece of yourself you’ve been giving to places that don’t see its value. And what would it look like to guard that pearl, to share it wisely, to offer it where it might take root and grow?

  • And here’s a final question: What if the act of not casting your pearls before swine is an act of love—for yourself, for others, for the God who gave you those pearls in the first place?

    Because love doesn’t waste what’s precious. Love knows when to hold, when to release, and when to trust that God’s got it.

So, dear friends, get out there today. Hold your pearls with care. Share them with courage. And trust that the One who made the pearl, and you, knows exactly where they’re meant to shine.

Grace &Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Dear Pastors, The Miracle IS the Mess.

Hey Pastor,

You’re sitting there, sipping that coffee that’s gone cold, staring at the sermon notes that refuse to come together, aren’t you? The weight of the world—or at least the weight of your congregation’s expectations—sits heavy on your shoulders. You’re supposed to have answers. You’re supposed to be the steady one, the one who points to the divine when everyone else is lost in the chaos. But what if the chaos is the point? What if the mess is where the miracle lives?

Let’s pause for a second and breathe. Because I know you’re tired. I know you’re carrying the stories of the single mom who can’t make rent, the teenager who’s cutting again, the elder who’s questioning everything they’ve ever believed. And you’re carrying your own stuff too—the doubts that creep in at 2 a.m., the fear that you’re not enough, the nagging sense that maybe you’re just faking it.

But what if that’s exactly where God shows up? Not in the polished sermon, not in the perfectly executed service, but in the raw, unfiltered mess of it all?

Think about it. The Bible isn’t a tidy book. It’s a wild, untamed collection of stories about people who screw up, fall apart, and somehow, in the middle of their mess, find themselves stumbling into grace. Abraham lies about his wife. Moses kills a guy. David—oh, David—makes a royal mess of things. And yet, these are the people God uses. These are the ones who carry the story forward.

What if your church’s budget crisis, your personal doubts, or that one parishioner who keeps emailing you at midnight are not distractions from the holy but invitations into it? What if the divine is woven into the frayed edges of your life, not waiting for you to clean it up first?

I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. It’s brutal sometimes. You’re out there, week after week, trying to speak hope into a world that feels like it’s unraveling. You’re preaching resurrection while you’re still grieving your own losses. But here’s the thing: the resurrection didn’t happen in a sterile, airbrushed tomb. It happened in the dark, in the dirt, in the place where nobody thought life could break through.

So, Pastor, what if you stopped trying to fix the mess? What if, instead of chasing the perfect sermon or the flawless leadership moment, you leaned into the cracks? What if you let yourself feel the weight of the doubts, the fears, the failures—not to wallow, but to find the sacred there?

Because I believe this: God is in the mess. God is in the tears you cry when nobody’s watching. God is in the awkward silence when you don’t have the answer. God is in the church board meeting that goes off the rails, in the youth group kid who keeps asking why, in the moment you look in the mirror and wonder if you’re cut out for this.

The miracle isn’t that you get it all together. The miracle is that God meets you in the middle of it.

So here’s my invitation to you today: take a risk. Preach that sermon that’s a little too raw. Have that conversation with the person you’ve been avoiding. Admit to your congregation that you don’t have all the answers. Let the mess be holy. Because when you do, you might just find that the Spirit is moving in ways you never expected—through the cracks, through the chaos, through you.

What if the mess is the canvas where God paints the most beautiful stories? What if your imperfections are the very place where grace breaks through?

Keep going, Pastor. You’re not alone. The miracle is already happening—right there in the mess.

With you in the wild, untamed journey,
Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Cancel Culture: How Do We Live Faithfully In an Age of Outrage?

Welcome to Pastors Ponderings with Pastor Scott, where we dive into the big, messy, beautiful questions of faith and what it means to follow Jesus in a complicated world. Grab a coffee, settle in, and let’s wrestle with something together.

Hey there, friends. Today, I want to talk about something that surrounds us like the air we breathe: outrage. Cancel culture. The way we tear each other down in a single post, reel, or 280-character jab. It’s everywhere—on X, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and even spilling into our churches and coffee shop conversations. As people of faith, this raises some tough questions: How do we live in this polarized, trigger-happy world without losing our witness? How do we speak truth, show grace, and avoid getting swept into the digital shouting match? What does it look like to be salt and light when everyone’s ready to throw stones? Let’s ponder this together.

Let’s get real. Have you ever scrolled through Instagram, swiped through TikTok, or checked your Facebook feed and felt your blood pressure spike? One post, one viral video, one hot take, and suddenly it’s a war zone. Someone’s offended, someone’s canceled, and everybody’s got an opinion. It’s like we’re all competing for the loudest megaphone. And if you’re a Christian, it’s even trickier. You want to stand for truth, but then you hear Jesus’ words echoing: “Love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). So, what do you do? Do you fire off a comment? Stay silent? Or is there another way—a better way?

A Real-Life Example

Let me paint a picture. A while back, a Christian author—let’s call her Jane—posted on Facebook about a hot-button issue. She tried to be thoughtful, to speak truth as she saw it while showing compassion. But the internet doesn’t do nuance. Within hours, her words were screenshot, shared across X and Instagram, twisted, and weaponized. One side called her a sellout; the other called her a bigot. TikTok stitched her post with mocking commentary, hashtags flew, and Jane was “canceled” by people who’d never even read her books. She stepped back from public life, wounded, wondering if she’d ever speak again.

Sound familiar? It’s not just Jane. It’s pastors, influencers, everyday folks who say the “wrong” thing on social media and get buried under a pile of outrage. And here’s what gets me: Sometimes the loudest voices claiming to defend truth—whether in TikTok duets or Facebook rants—are the ones doing the most damage. So, I’ve got to ask: Is this what we’re called to? Is this the witness Jesus had in mind?

What Would Jesus Post?

Let’s take it a step further. Imagine Jesus with a social media account in 2025. Seriously, picture it—Jesus on X, Instagram, or TikTok. Would He be clapping back at His critics in the comments? Stitching a video to dunk on the latest scandal? Or would He be doing something else entirely—something that makes us all stop, rethink, and maybe even repent? I can’t help but wonder: What would Jesus post? Would His words cut through the noise or add to it?

A Story from Scripture

This brings me to a story in the Bible that I keep coming back to: John 8, the woman caught in adultery. Picture the scene. A mob’s gathered, stones in hand, ready to cancel this woman for her sin. They’re righteous, they’re angry, and they’ve got the law on their side. And Jesus? He doesn’t join the mob. He doesn’t argue. He kneels down, scribbles in the dirt, and says, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone” (John 8:7). One by one, the crowd melts away. Then He looks at the woman—not with shame, but with grace—and says, “Go now and leave your life of sin” (John 8:11).

What’s so powerful about this story is how Jesus holds both truth and grace in perfect balance. He doesn’t deny her sin, but He doesn’t destroy her either. He disarms the outrage without dismissing the need for accountability. And I wonder: What would it look like for us to do that? To step into the chaos of cancel culture—on X, Instagram, TikTok, or Facebook—with that kind of posture? Can we speak truth without throwing stones? Can we show grace without compromising what’s right?

Cancel Culture Hits Close to Home

Here’s where it gets real. Cancel culture isn’t just “out there” in viral TikTok videos or heated Facebook threads. It’s in our churches. It’s in our small groups. We cancel people when we shut down their questions, when we slap labels like “liberal” or “legalist” on them because they see things differently. We’re so quick to draw lines, to pick fights, to win arguments. But what if winning the argument means losing the person? What if our need to be “right” drowns out our call to love?

Just this week, I saw a post on Instagram blow up. A pastor shared a thought about politics, and it was like a match in a gas tank. The comments section was a mess—half calling him a heretic, half calling him a prophet. Over on TikTok, people were stitching his video with their own takes, and X was buzzing with quote-tweets. Nobody was listening. Everybody was shouting. And I thought, Is this what we’re called to? Jesus said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). So, why does it feel like we’re better at canceling than loving?

A Tough Question

Here’s a question to chew on: Can grace and accountability coexist? Is it possible to call out what’s wrong—whether it’s sin, injustice, or just bad theology—without crushing the human being behind it? Because I believe that’s the Jesus way. I believe that’s what it looks like to be salt and light in an age of outrage (Matthew 5:13-16). But it’s not easy. It takes courage, humility, and a whole lot of prayer.

Practical Steps for Faithful Living

So, how do we do this? How do we navigate cancel culture across X, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok without losing our way? Here are a few thoughts:

  1. Pause Before You Post. When you see that TikTok video or Facebook post that makes your blood boil, take a breath. Ask yourself, “Will my comment or share build something up or just burn it down?” Proverbs 15:1 says, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” Jesus didn’t react; He responded. Let’s do the same.
  2. Listen to Understand, Not to Argue. Next time someone posts something you disagree with, try asking a question instead of dropping a truth bomb. “Can you share more about why you feel that way?” James 1:19 reminds us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Curiosity can open doors that arguments slam shut.
  3. Lean into Humility. None of us have the full picture—not me, not you, not that TikTok influencer with a million followers. Admitting you might be wrong doesn’t weaken your faith; it strengthens it. Philippians 2:3 says, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.”
  4. Choose Grace Over Stones. This doesn’t mean ignoring sin or staying silent about injustice. It means remembering that every person—every single one—is made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). Even the ones who drive you nuts. Even the ones you want to cancel in the comments. Grace doesn’t mean excusing wrong; it means valuing the person enough to call them to something better.

A Hopeful Call

Friends, we’re living in an age of outrage, but we don’t have to play by its rules. We can be different. We can be people who speak truth with love (Ephesians 4:15), who hold accountability with grace, who show the world what Jesus looks like—not with viral posts or hot takes, but with lives that say, “You are seen, you are loved, you are worth it.”

So, let’s keep pondering these questions: How can we be faithful in a world that’s quick to cancel? How can we reflect Jesus in the way we post, comment, and love—whether on X, Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok? And what would it look like for our churches, our communities, and our social media feeds to be places where grace wins the day?

Thanks for joining me on Pastors Ponderings. If this stirred something in you, share it with someone who needs to hear it. Drop me a message—let’s keep wrestling with these questions together. Until next time, keep asking the hard questions, keep choosing grace, and keep shining light in the mess.

Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Holy Crap, This is Hard: A Pastor’s Take on the Mess

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!

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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Jaded Faith, A Church That Pushes Away, and the Hunger for Something Real.

by Pastor Scott

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.

Pastor Scott

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Are We Really Being the Church? A Call to Live Faith Outside the Walls.


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.

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What if We’re Getting Worship Wrong?

by Pastor Scott Strissel

Hey there, friends. Imagine this: you’re sitting in church, the lights are low, the band’s playing that one song that always gives you chills, and you’re feeling… something. You call it worship. Or maybe you’re out in the woods, the sun’s filtering through the trees, and your heart swells with awe. That’s worship too, right? But what if worship is bigger than those moments? What if it’s not just a song, a feeling, or a Sunday service? What if we’ve been putting worship in a box when it’s supposed to be our entire life?

I’m diving into this question today because, honestly, it’s been messing with me. I keep coming back to Romans 12:1, where Paul says, “Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” Let that sink in. A living sacrifice. Not a song. Not a moment. Your whole life—every breath, every choice, every messy, ordinary moment—offered to God. That’s worship.

So, let’s unpack this together. What is worship, really? What isn’t it? And why does it matter so much?

Worship: More Than a Moment

When you hear “worship,” what’s the first thing that pops into your head? For a lot of us, it’s tied to music or church. We picture hands raised, eyes closed, maybe a few tears. And don’t get me wrong—those moments can be powerful. But if we stop there, we’re selling worship short. Romans 12:1 isn’t about an hour on Sunday; it’s about Monday morning in the carpool line, Wednesday night at the kitchen sink, Friday afternoon when you’re exhausted and still have to show up for someone.

Think about the word “sacrifice.” In the Old Testament, sacrifices were intense—animals were brought to the altar, blood was shed, it was a total surrender. But Paul says, “Forget the dead offering. Be a living one.” Your life—your commute, your arguments, your dreams, your failures—is the offering God wants. It’s like God’s saying, “I don’t just want your songs. I want you. All of you.”

That’s wild, right? It means worship isn’t confined to “spiritual” moments. It’s the way you listen to a friend who’s hurting. It’s choosing forgiveness when you’d rather hold a grudge. It’s taking care of your body, stewarding your time, even resting—because all of it belongs to God. Psalm 24:1 says, “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it.” If everything is His, then every moment is a chance to worship.

What Worship Isn’t

But here’s where we can get tripped up. Sometimes we make worship something it’s not. It’s not a performance. You don’t have to hit the right notes or say the perfect prayer to impress God. It’s not a transaction either—like, “If I sing loud enough, God will bless me.” And it’s not just a feeling. You don’t need goosebumps or a spiritual high for it to count.

Look at Romans 12:1 again. Paul ties worship to God’s mercy. It’s not about earning God’s favor; it’s a response to the grace He’s already poured out. John 4:23-24 backs this up when Jesus says true worshipers worship “in spirit and in truth.” It’s not about the externals—it’s about a heart surrendered to God, whether you’re in a cathedral or a cubicle.

And here’s another thing: worship isn’t about comparing yourself to others. We’ve all been there, right? You see someone at church, hands raised, totally lost in the moment, and you think, “Man, I’m not spiritual enough.” Or you scroll Instagram and see someone praying at sunrise, and you feel like your quiet time is lame. But worship isn’t a competition. God’s not grading your vibe. He’s after your heart.

The Sacredness of the Ordinary

So, if worship is this all-of-life thing, what does that look like? I think it starts with seeing the sacred in the ordinary. Colossians 3:17 says, “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Whatever you do. That means your work, your parenting, your grocery shopping—it’s all potential worship.

What if you started noticing where God’s already showing up in your day? Maybe it’s in the laughter of your kids, or the way a coworker encourages you, or even the frustration of a hard conversation. What if you paused in those moments and said, “God, this is for You. This is my worship”?

But let’s be real—this can feel overwhelming. If every moment is worship, then every moment matters. There’s no part of your life that’s off-limits. Your anger, your doubts, your Netflix binges—they’re all on the table. That’s a lot to hold. But here’s the flip side: it’s also incredibly freeing. Because it means there’s no moment where God isn’t with you. No part of your life is too mundane or too broken to be holy. Your kitchen, your office, your hospital bed—it’s all sacred ground.

The Hard Question

Here’s where I want to get a little uncomfortable. Are there parts of your life you’re holding back from God? Maybe it’s your work—you think it’s too “secular” to be spiritual. Or your relationships—you’re not sure how they fit into this worship thing. Or maybe it’s your struggles—the shame, the fear, the stuff you don’t even want to name. What would it look like to bring those to the altar too? Not to fix them, but to say, “God, this is me. This is my sacrifice. Take it.”

Isaiah 1:11-17 is a gut-punch here. God tells His people He’s tired of their sacrifices and religious routines because their hearts aren’t in it. He says, “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.” Worship isn’t just singing—it’s living justly, loving mercy, walking humbly (Micah 6:8). It’s letting God into every corner of your life, even the messy ones.

Living as Worship

So, how do we do this? I don’t have a perfect formula, but I think it starts with paying attention. Slow down and notice God in your day. Offer Him the small stuff—the way you speak to your spouse, the way you handle stress. And let go of the pressure to make worship look a certain way. Your life, as it is, is enough.

Here’s a challenge: pick one ordinary or messy part of your life today—maybe your work, your parenting, or even your doubts—and offer it to God as worship. Say, “This is my living sacrifice.” Trust that He sees it, and He’s pleased.

Friends, Romans 12:1 is an invitation to see your life differently. To see every moment as a chance to worship, not because you’re perfect, but because God’s mercy is that big. Because He’s that near. So, let’s live with our eyes open to the sacredness of it all. Let’s offer our whole selves—our joys, our struggles, our everything—as our true and proper worship.

What’s one part of your life you could offer to God today? And what would it look like to trust that it’s enough? Let’s wrestle with that. Let’s live it. And let’s keep showing up to this wild, beautiful, sacred life, giving it all to the One who’s already holding it.

Grace & Peace.
-Pastor Scott.

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