Tag: faith

In the Garden: Wrestling, Trusting, and Breaking Open


Text: Matthew 26:36-46

Hey friends,
Welcome back to Pastor’s Ponderings. It’s Pastor Scott here, and today I want to sit with you in a story that feels like it holds the weight of the world. Matthew 26:36-46—the Garden of Gethsemane. This is Jesus at his most human, wrestling with fear and sorrow, yet leaning into trust. If you’ve ever faced a moment where life felt too heavy, where you wondered if you could keep going, this one’s for you. Let’s step into the garden together.

It’s nighttime. The air smells of olive trees, their leaves whispering in the quiet. Jesus and his disciples enter Gethsemane—a name that means “oil press,” a place where olives are crushed to release their oil. Before a single word is spoken, the setting tells us something: this is a place of pressure, of breaking open.

Jesus tells most of his followers to stay put, but he brings Peter, James, and John closer. Then, something shifts. The text says he “began to be sorrowful and troubled.” The Greek words here don’t mess around—they mean deep grief, overwhelming distress. Jesus, the one who’s walked on water and fed thousands, is coming undone. He tells his friends, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.”

Let that sink in. Jesus is saying, “I’m so sad, I could die.” This isn’t a distant, untouchable Savior. This is Jesus feeling the full weight of what’s coming—the betrayal, the cross, the pain. If you’ve ever been in a place where fear or grief felt like it might swallow you, you’re not alone. Jesus has been there too.

And what does he do? He doesn’t hide it. He asks his friends to stay close, to “keep watch” with him. It’s such a vulnerable request. He’s not asking them to fix it or fight for him—just to be there. Isn’t that what we all crave in our hardest moments? Someone to sit with us, to hold space for our pain?

Jesus moves a little further and falls to the ground, praying, “Father, if it’s possible, let this cup pass from me.” The “cup” in scripture often means suffering, the hard stuff you have to drink down. Jesus knows what’s ahead, and he’s honest: he doesn’t want it. He’s asking for another way.

But then, in the same breath, he says, “Yet not my will, but yours be done.” That’s the heart of it—raw honesty paired with trust. He’s not pretending he’s okay with the cross. He’s wrestling, pleading, but choosing to trust God’s bigger story. Have you ever prayed a prayer like that? “God, I don’t want this, but I trust you.” It’s not neat or easy. It’s a struggle, a surrender.

Meanwhile, the disciples are… asleep. Jesus comes back and finds them dozing. “Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour?” he asks Peter. There’s a hint of frustration, but I hear sadness too. Jesus is carrying the weight of the world, and his closest friends can’t even stay awake. It’s so human, isn’t it? We let each other down, even with the best intentions. Yet Jesus doesn’t give up on them. He keeps them close.

He prays two more times, each prayer echoing the first: “If this cup can’t pass, your will be done.” Each time, he leans deeper into trust. By the third prayer, something has shifted. He rises, steady—not because the fear is gone, but because he’s given it over. He wakes his disciples and says, “Rise, let’s go. My betrayer is here.” The story barrels forward—Judas, the soldiers, the arrest—but Jesus is ready. The garden has done its work. He’s been pressed, and what flows out is trust.

So what does this mean for us? I see three invitations here.

First, it’s okay to feel the weight. Jesus did. Your fear, your sorrow, your “I can’t do this” moments—they’re not a sign of weak faith. They’re part of being human. Jesus shows us we can bring those raw emotions to God, no filter needed.

Second, community matters, even when it’s messy. The disciples fall asleep, but Jesus still wants them near. Who’s in your garden? Who are you showing up for? Even imperfect presence can be a gift.

Finally, there’s this mystery of surrender. “Not my will, but yours.” It’s not about denying what you feel or giving up what you want. It’s about trusting that God’s story is bigger, even when you can’t see it. In the crushing, something new is released—like oil from an olive, like life from a cross.

So, my friends, where’s your Gethsemane right now? What’s pressing you? What might happen if you brought it to God, honest and open? The garden isn’t the end of the story. It’s where everything breaks open, where trust takes root, where resurrection begins to stir.

Keep pondering, keep trusting, keep walking. I’m right here with you.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott

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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.

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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.

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The Peace That Doesn’t Make Sense

https://creators.spotify.com/pod/profile/scott-strissel8/episodes/Peace-That-Doesnt-Make-Sense-e319ni1?fbclid=IwY2xjawJjXMZleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHp4ZVWk22DHhhd2tsSnnp1Pamtc0Xc97fBsyrBCJQjpQozlteUvk6g3nHH_7_aem_58zurbjMlyFOnm031KlYUQ

Hey, friends. Welcome back to Pastor’s Ponderings. This is where we sit together with the big questions, the quiet moments, and those ancient words that still rattle and hum with something alive. Today, I want to pull us into a little corner of Philippians—chapter 4, verses 6 and 7. Ready? Let’s step in.

Imagine this: Paul’s in a jail cell. Not some cozy retreat with Wi-Fi and a view—Roman jail. Chains on his wrists, damp stone walls, the kind of place where hope feels like it’s flickering out. And yet, there he is, scratching out these words: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Wild, right? How does a guy in chains write something that feels so… free?

Let’s linger on that first line: “Do not be anxious about anything.” Okay, Paul. Sure. You’re not doom-scrolling X at 2 a.m., watching the world tear itself apart. You’re not staring down a pile of bills or replaying that awkward thing you said three weeks ago that still stings. Anxiety’s this low hum we all carry, isn’t it? It’s the static of being human. And here’s Paul, tossing out this line like it’s no big deal. Don’t be anxious. About anything.

But what if he’s not pointing a finger here? What if this isn’t some guilt trip—“Oh, you’re anxious? Bad Christian!”—but an invitation? What if he’s whispering, “Hey, there’s another way to live”? Because anxiety—it’s heavy. It’s this invisible backpack stuffed with rocks, and we don’t even realize how much it’s crushing us until someone says, “You don’t have to carry that.”

And then he shifts: “But in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Every situation. Not just the shiny wins or the polished Sunday moments—the messy ones too. The 3 a.m. panic spirals. The “I don’t know if I can keep going” whispers. Every single one. Bring it to God, he says—with thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving? In that? That’s the twist, isn’t it? “Thanks, God, for the chaos? For the uncertainty?” But maybe it’s not about faking it. Maybe it’s about hunting for something—anything—that reminds you you’re not alone. The breath still moving in your chest. That friend who texted right when you needed it. The way sunlight spills through the trees outside your window. Tiny threads of gratitude that tether you when the waves hit.

And here’s where it lands: “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Peace. Not the “everything’s fine” kind—Paul’s still in jail, after all—but something deeper. Something that doesn’t add up. It’s not logical; it transcends understanding, which is just a poetic way of saying it’s too big for our heads to hold.

I love that word, “guard.” Picture it—a sentinel standing watch. Your heart, your mind—they’re these tender, untamed places, and life comes at them with fists. But this peace? It’s there, pacing the walls, keeping vigil, so you can breathe.

So here’s what I’m chewing on: What if this isn’t just a verse to frame on the wall? What if it’s a rhythm we could step into? You’re anxious—fair enough, that’s real. But instead of letting it steer, you pause. You breathe. You pray—no filter, just whatever’s on your heart. You find one thing to say “thank you” for, even if it’s small. And then… you wait. You see if this peace slips in. Not because you’ve earned it, but because it’s a gift. A gift from a God who doesn’t flinch at your mess.

Philippians 4:6-7 isn’t a magic wand. It’s not a formula. It’s an experiment. Paul’s scribbling it from his cell, saying, “Try it. See what happens.” So maybe today, we do. We name the anxiety, we bring it to God, we whisper thanks for something—anything. And we watch. We see if that peace shows up, quiet and steady, standing guard.

What do you think? Worth a try?

Thanks for sitting with me here at Pastor’s Ponderings. Keep asking the questions, keep chasing the mystery, and if you have questions you would like us to ponder together, please leave a comment and let me know!

I’ll see you in the next one.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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Grave-Shaking Glory: Jesus, Lazarus, and Your Easter Wake-Up Call

Here’s the Spotify Episode (Click Here)

Alright, friends, let’s get into it—Easter’s not just a holiday, it’s a holy disruption. And if you wanna see what it’s really about, crack open John 11, where Jesus does the unthinkable: He calls Lazarus out of the grave. This isn’t just a story to make you feel good—it’s a straight-up invitation to see what Easter’s got to do with you. So, let’s go there, because this one’s gonna hit deep.

Picture it: Lazarus is dead. Four days in the ground. His sisters, Mary and Martha, are shattered. They’d sent a 911 to Jesus when Lazarus was still hanging on, like, “Jesus, get here—now!” But Jesus? He doesn’t move. He waits two whole days. Why? Because He’s not just about fixing things—He’s about flipping the script for God’s glory. He tells His people, “This isn’t gonna end in death. It’s gonna show who God is.” And that’s the first thing that grabs me: God’s glory doesn’t always show up on our schedule, but it shows up right on time.

So, Jesus finally arrives, and it’s raw. The tomb’s sealed, the air’s heavy with grief, and Martha’s like, “Jesus, if You’d been here, my brother wouldn’t be dead.” Ever been there? “God, where were You when everything fell apart?” I have. We all have. We’ve stood at the edge of something broken—our hearts, our plans, our hope—and wondered why He didn’t come through. But Jesus doesn’t dodge her pain. He looks her in the eyes and drops this: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me? They’ll live, even if they die.” That’s not just a nice line—it’s a lifeline.

Then it gets real. Jesus cries. He doesn’t roll in like some untouchable superhero. He weeps with them. He feels the weight of their loss. And that’s Easter, friends—it’s not just about the win; it’s about a God who steps into our hurt, who stands with us in the mess. But He doesn’t stop at tears. He walks up to that tomb and shouts, “Lazarus, come out!” And this guy—dead, done, four days gone—walks out. Alive. Still wrapped in those grave clothes, but alive.

Here’s where it gets personal: That’s you and me. We’re Lazarus. Dead in our stuff—our sin, our shame, our fears. We’ve got tombs we don’t talk about, places we’ve buried hope. But Jesus? He’s not scared of our darkness. He’s standing there, calling us by name, saying, “Get out here! You weren’t made for this grave!” Easter isn’t just Jesus rising—it’s Him raising us. It’s Him pulling off those grave clothes—our guilt, our pain, our chains—and saying, “You’re free. Live.”

So, this Easter, let’s not play small. What’s your tomb? What’s keeping you stuck? Because Jesus didn’t raise Lazarus just to show off—He did it to prove He’s still bringing dead things to life. He’s still crashing into our chaos, calling us into something new. And when we step out, we’re not just survivors—we’re walking proof that God gets the last word, not death.

Let’s do this, friends. Let’s answer His call, shake off those grave clothes, and step into the life He’s got for us. Easter’s here, and it’s got your name on it. You in?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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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.

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Whispers to the Infinite: Unlocking the Dance of Prayer

(Check out the Spotify Audio Version of this Pondering Here)

Hey friends, you ever think about how wild it is that we get to talk to God? Like, the Creator of everything — spinning galaxies and the whispering winds, the One who dreamed up the taste of rain and the sound of laughter—that God leans in close and says, “Yeah, tell me what’s on your mind.” It’s not a monologue, you know? It’s not us shouting into the void, hoping the echo comes back with a nod. It’s a conversation. A back-and-forth. A dance of words and silence.

I mean, think about it—communication is this holy thread woven into everything. The way a sunrise speaks without saying a thing, the way a friend’s eyes can tell you they’re hurting before their mouth catches up. And prayer? Prayer’s like that. It’s not just words strung together, all polished and proper. It’s the raw stuff—your fears, your dreams, the ache you can’t name. It’s you showing up, messy and real, and God meeting you there, not with a clipboard and a checklist, but with a heartbeat that says, “I’m listening.”

Jesus, he got this. He’d slip away to the hills, not to perform some religious script, but to breathe, to talk, to listen. He’d say things like, “Ask, and it’ll be given. Seek, and you’ll find.” Not because it’s a vending machine deal—insert prayer, get prize—but because it’s about relationship. It’s about trust. It’s about daring to open your mouth and let the honest stuff spill out, knowing the One on the other end isn’t rolling His eyes or tapping His foot.

So what if we tried that today? What if we stopped treating prayer like a memo to the boss and started seeing it as a late-night chat with the best friend who never sleeps? What if we said, “God, here’s what’s heavy, here’s what’s beautiful, here’s where I’m stuck,” and then—here’s the kicker—we paused? We let the silence sit. We listened for that still, small voice that doesn’t always sound like we expect.

Because communication with God isn’t about getting it right. It’s about showing up. It’s about letting the words—or the lack of them—carry you closer to the One who’s been speaking your name since before you took your first breath. What would happen if we leaned into that? If we let prayer be less about saying the perfect thing and more about being fully, wildly, wonderfully heard?

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The Roof Crashers In Mark 2.

https://spotifycreators-web.app.link/e/5JTtuFk7bSb

Hey, let’s step into this wild little story from Mark 2. Picture it: Jesus is in Capernaum, and the buzz around Him is electric. People are jammed into this house—shoulder to shoulder, spilling out the door, all trying to get close to this guy who’s saying things that make their hearts beat faster. And then, out of nowhere, there’s this commotion. Four friends show up, carrying a paralyzed man on a stretcher. They can’t get in—too many bodies, too much noise. So they do something insane. They climb up on the roof, start digging through it—tearing it apart, tile by tile—and lower their friend down, right into the middle of everything. Right in front of Jesus.

Can you feel that? The audacity. The desperation. The sheer, beautiful chaos of it all.

The Ones Who Won’t Stop

These four friends—they’re not polite. They don’t wait for an invitation or a clear path. They’ve got this guy, their friend, who’s been stuck—paralyzed, sidelined, forgotten—and they’re done with the excuses. They’re not just hoping for a miracle; they’re making a way for one. This is love with dirt under its fingernails. It’s faith that doesn’t sit still.

And isn’t that us, sometimes? Or at least, isn’t that who we want to be? The ones who refuse to let the crowd—whether it’s people, or fear, or doubt—keep us from getting to Jesus? Because maybe the roof isn’t just clay and straw. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the voices saying, “You’re not enough.” And these friends—they’re like, “No. We’re crashing through.”

Isaiah 53 whispers something here: “Who has believed our message?” These guys did. They believed Jesus was more than a teacher, more than a healer. They believed He was worth the mess. And that belief? It moved them.

The Unexpected Word

So, the man’s down there, dangling in front of Jesus, and the room’s holding its breath. What’s He going to do? Heal him, right? That’s the obvious play. But Jesus looks at this guy—really looks at him—and says, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

Wait. What?

Not “Stand up.” Not “Be healed.” But “Your sins are forgiven.” It’s like Jesus is rewriting the script. Everyone’s expecting a physical fix, but He goes deeper, straight to the soul. Because maybe the real paralysis isn’t in this man’s legs—it’s in his heart. Maybe he’s been carrying something heavier than a broken body. And Jesus sees it. He always sees it.

Isaiah 53:5 echoes through this moment: “He was pierced for our transgressions… by His wounds we are healed.” This isn’t just about a mat and some dusty feet. This is about a Messiah who takes our junk—our sin, our pain—and says, “I’ve got this.” Forgiveness isn’t a side dish here; it’s the main course. Jesus is saying, “You’re not just a body to me. You’re a soul. You’re mine.”

The Power That Proves It

The religious folks in the corner—they’re not happy. “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” they mutter. And Jesus—hears them, feels their skepticism—and He doesn’t flinch. He turns it into a question: “Which is easier—to say ‘Your sins are forgiven’ or ‘Get up and walk’?” Then, without missing a beat, He tells the man, “Take your mat and go home.” And the guy does. He stands up, grabs that mat, and walks out—right through the stunned crowd.

This is it. This is the mic-drop moment. Because forgiving sins? That’s invisible. Anyone can say it. But making a paralyzed man walk? That’s proof. That’s power. And Jesus ties them together—forgiveness and healing, spirit and body—like they’re two sides of the same coin. He’s not just a healer. He’s God in flesh, the Messiah Isaiah saw coming: “Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering” (Isaiah 53:4). This is divinity crashing into humanity, right there in the dust.

The Invitation

So here’s the thing: This story isn’t just about a guy on a mat. It’s about us. Who are we in this scene? Are we the friends, tearing roofs off to get someone to Jesus? Are we the paralyzed one, needing to hear “Son, daughter, you’re forgiven”? Or are we the crowd, watching, wondering what it all means?

Maybe it’s all three. Maybe we’re invited to crash through whatever’s holding us back, to trust that Jesus sees the stuff we can’t even name, and to stand up in the power He’s already given us. Because this Jesus—He’s not just fixing legs. He’s remaking lives. He’s the suffering servant of Isaiah 53, the one who carries our wounds so we don’t have to.

So take a breath today. Lean into this story. Maybe close your eyes for a second or two and picture yourself on that mat—or maybe holding the ropes. What’s the roof in your life right now? What’s keeping you from Jesus? Name it. Whisper it. And then hear Him say, “Your sins are forgiven.” Let that sink in. It’s not about earning it—it’s about receiving it. Now, what’s He saying next? “Get up and walk”? Maybe it’s time to move. Maybe it’s time to carry someone else. Spend a minute with that. Let it stir you. Because this story? It’s still alive. It’s still yours.

Grace, Peace & Empty Mats.
-Pastor Scott.

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God Stepping Into Our Mess – Why This Flesh Matters.

Check out the podcast version of this pondering here.
https://spotifycreators-web.app.link/e/yFzr5lkFbSb

So, I preached on this passage yesterday, and I think there’s more to say on this topic. You see there’s this line in John’s Gospel, and it’s a profound line. I wanted to expound on it yesterday, but I just ran out of time. But this one verse is like a bright neon sign on a dark highway – it can be seen for miles. Are you ready for the verse? Brace yourself. It’s THE most important verse in all of John’s gospel, because this is how it went down. Here’s where we get our genesis. : “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” John 1:14.

It’s one of those verses we’ve heard so many times that it can feel like background noise—white noise for the soul. But let’s lean into it for a second. Let it hit you fresh. The Word—the cosmic, eternal, untouchable Logos, the blueprint behind everything that breathes and spins and sings (sometimes off key) —didn’t just stay out there, somewhere in the cosmos, the Word doesn’t hang out somewhere just watching us or hovering above us like some distant deity pulling levers. No. He became flesh. Skin and bones. Sweat and tears. He moved into our world.

Imagine that. The infinite zipped itself into the finite. The One who spoke galaxies into being traded the vastness of eternity for a heartbeat, for dusty sandals, for a stomach that growled when it was empty. And he didn’t just enter anywhere in the world, or a remote section of it —He entered into the thick of it, right here, among us. The Greek says He “tabernacled” with us, like God setting up camp in the middle of our mess. And it’s wild, right? The divine didn’t wait for us to climb some cosmic ladder to get to Him. He came down. He showed up. He knocked on the door of humanity and said, “Hey, I’m here. Let’s do this life thing together.”

But here’s the thing—here’s where it gets personal for each of us today – We have to ask the important question: what does that mean for you and me? Because it’s not just as a nice idea to nod at on Sunday and say our “amens” at just the right orchestrated time – but instead it’s a gut-punch truth that rewires how you live on a Monday? Because if the Word became flesh, then flesh matters. Your flesh. My flesh. The flesh of the person you scrolled past on your phone this morning, the one begging for a scrap of attention or a sandwich. If God wrapped Himself in skin, then skin isn’t just a disposable shell—it’s holy. It’s the stuff of eternity.

And that’s where it gets tricky, doesn’t it? Because we’re so good at splitting things apart—spirit over here, body over there. We’ve got this habit of acting like the “real” stuff is the invisible stuff, the prayers and the beliefs and the quiet times, while the physical world is just a waiting room we’re passing through. But John 1:14 says no. It’s not a waiting room. It’s the main event. God didn’t just send a memo—He became THE message. He didn’t just whisper from the clouds—He walked the dirt.

So what if you took that seriously? What if you stopped treating your body like a rental car you’re just driving till the lease is up? What if you stopped treating your neighbor like a side character in your story? Because if the Word became flesh, then every bit of flesh you bump into is a place where God might just show up. That’s the encouragement: you’re not alone. The divine is tangled up in the human. God’s not waiting for you to escape this messy, beautiful life—He’s in it with you.

But here’s the challenge: live like it. Stop pretending the sacred is only in the pews or the stained glass. It’s in the grocery store line. It’s in the argument you had with your spouse last night. It’s in the ache of your tired hands after a long day. The Word became flesh, so now you get to be the flesh the Word keeps speaking through. Are you listening? Are you showing up? Are you daring to let your ordinary, flawed, fragile life become a tent for something eternal?

Because that’s the invitation. Not to float above it all, but to dive in. To let your flesh—your actual, everyday, unglamorous flesh—become a place where grace leaks out. Where love gets loud. Where the invisible crashes into the visible and says, “This is home.”

So go ahead. Step into it. The Word is still flesh. And He’s still here.

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The Life That’s Hiding Up There…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace, Peace & Heaven,
-Pastor Scott.

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

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