Tag: God

Rediscovering Thin Spaces In Our Spiritual Journey.

Hey friends, it’s been a minute since I last wrote.
Summer months are often a mass acceleration of busyness and mundane tasks – and yet, they still need to be done.
Can I admit something to you? Well, it’s not really a secret, but it’s more of an identifiable internal struggle. Here it is: I often get restless and unsettled in life. It’s nothing substantial to a point that I can identify why or what’s causing it, but rather it’s root deep in my soul and I have to perform a spiritual workout to uproot it, and get to the bottom of it all.

I think you can relate in some way.
Life is often like that for all of us, from time to time.
One day things are going great, the next something is gnawing at your soul and you’re not sure just what it is.
You awaken in the middle of the night – sleep disrupted and then you commence the wrestling match with your pillow and blanket, all the while subconsciously you’re in a space of disruption, anxiety and emotional chaos.

There’s a verse the comforts me in these times of disruption. It’s found in James 4:8. It says, “Come close to God and He will come close to you. Wash your hands, you sinners. Clean up your hearts, you who want to follow the sinful ways of the world and God at the same time.“

The Thin Spaces
Our world is full of fast-paced, instant gratification. We want responses to our emails, phone calls, text messages NOW, and if a response doesn’t come quickly we get impatient. Could it be that this component of our instant-response culture drives us to transfer this concept onto our relationship with God? Actually, scratch that, it’s not a matter of “could be”, it’s more certain that that – it IS a fact – we expect God to respond as instantly as a text message from a close friend or spouse. But God doesn’t work like that. Yet, despite this unrealistic expectation about God, He shows us in our lives in unexpected ways.

Get this: Thomas Merton once said, “True contemplation is not a psychological trick but a theological grace. It can come to us ONLY as a gift, and not as a result of our own clever use of spiritual techniques.”


God draws near to us in the quiet moments we intentionally create for His presence. That’s what a thin space is all about. When we draw near, with expectation and a heart of worship, God also draws near to us. The problem is you can fake it until you make it with God. No one is that good of an actor. You cannot act the part and expect the same result as one who is approaching the Divine with humility, love, adoration and supplication. It’s not something that can be fabricated or simulated. God knows our hearts, and if we are to commune with Him within these thin spaces, we are to set aside every distraction, every god we have erected (whether knowingly or unknowingly) and come for relationship and nothing else.

“The grace of salvation, the grace of Christian wholeness that flowers in silence, dispels this illusion of separation. For when the mind is brought to stillness, and all our strategies of acquisition have dropped, a deeper truth presents itself: we are and have always been one with God.” –Martin Laird

When we constantly kneel before the altar of our hearts and lay bare with honesty our utter need for God in every aspect of our being, we make that thin space even thinner. This is both done through our supplication and humility as well as this undeserved gift of God’s fellowship that He alone can impart. These thin spaces exist not to glorify our holiness or elevate some over others, but for the weak to be nourished and strengthened.

Friends, do these thin spaces exist in your life right now? What needs to be surrendered and sacrificed so that you can draw near to God? Is it your constant screen time? Unhealthy relationships? Unhealthy boundaries? Whatever it is, surrender it today. Lay it down and dedicate some uninterrupted space and time to draw near to the Almighty.

“As your meditation becomes deeper it will defend you from the perpetual assaults of the outer world. You will hear the busy hum of that world as a distant exterior melody, and know yourself to be in some sort withdrawn from it. You have set a ring of silence between you and it; and behold! within that silence you are free.” –Evelyn Underhill

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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Peace, Power, and Purpose: A Devotional Thought on John 20:19-23

Hey, friends, let’s jump into something personal and real today.
Picture it with me: the disciples are huddled together, doors locked, hearts pounding. They’re scared out of their minds. Jesus, their leader, their friend, was just crucified. The weight of loss and fear is crushing them. And then—KA-BLAM—Jesus shows up. Right there in the room. John 20:19-23 tells us this moment isn’t just a cool resurrection story; it’s a game-changer for how we live as followers of Jesus.

Let’s unpack it and let the Holy Spirit mess with us a bit.

The Scene: Peace in the Chaos
It’s evening, the first day of the week, and the disciples are hiding. The Jewish leaders are out for blood, and these guys are next on the list. Then Jesus appears—risen, alive, real. His first words? “Peace be with you.” Man, stop and feel that. These guys are freaking out, and Jesus doesn’t lecture them or shame them for their fear. He speaks peace. Twice, actually (v. 19, 21). Why? Because He knows their hearts are a mess, and He’s the only one who can calm the storm inside them. Isn’t that us? We lock ourselves behind doors of fear—fear of failure, fear of what people think, fear of the future. And Jesus steps into our mess with the same words: “Peace be with you.” Not a fluffy, feel-good peace, but a deep, soul-anchoring peace that says, “I’m here, and I’ve overcome death itself.” Are you letting His peace rule your heart, or are you still bolting the door, trying to control the chaos?

The Mission: Sent Like Jesus
Then Jesus drops a bombshell: “As the Father has sent me, I am sending you” (v. 21). Think about that. The Father sent Jesus to live a sinless life, to love the broken, to confront hypocrisy, to die for sinners, and to rise in victory. And now Jesus says, “That’s your mission too.” This isn’t a suggestion. It’s a divine commissioning. You and I are sent into the world with the same purpose Jesus had—to show people the Father’s love and bring them into His kingdom. But let’s get real: are we living like we’re sent? Or are we just cozying up in our Christian bubbles, playing it safe? Jesus didn’t stay safe. He went to the cross. He loved the unlovable. He spoke truth even when it cost Him. What’s holding you back from living sent? Is it comfort? Fear of rejection? Or have you just forgotten the weight of what Jesus is calling you to?

The Power: The Holy Spirit
Jesus doesn’t just send them; He equips them. He breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit” (v. 22). This is huge. The same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead is now given to the disciples—and to us. This isn’t just a nice gift; it’s the power to live out the mission. It’s the Spirit who convicts, transforms, and emb emboldens us to forgive sins and proclaim truth (v. 23). But here’s where it gets uncomfortable. Are we actually relying on the Holy Spirit? Or are we trying to do this Christian life in our own strength? I’ve been there—planning, striving, hustling to make ministry happen, only to realize I’m running on empty because I’ve ignored the Spirit’s power. I have to tell you, that’s really convicting and personal. I tried to be a super pastor – the best or the best. Yet, God operates from our weakness and humility. Why do we constantly get it wrong? Why are do equate performance with success? Probably because that’s the world’s standard, but not God’s. When was the last time you paused and asked the Holy Spirit to fill you, guide you, or give you boldness to share Jesus with someone?

The Challenge: Forgive and Proclaim
Verse 23 is a head-scratcher: “If you forgive anyone’s sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven.” This isn’t about playing God; it’s about the authority Jesus gives His followers to proclaim forgiveness through the gospel. When we share the good news, we’re offering people the chance to be forgiven and reconciled to God. But if we stay silent, we’re withholding that opportunity. That’s heavy, right? Your words, your life, your witness—they carry eternal weight. So, what are you doing with that authority? Are you proclaiming forgiveness to a world that’s desperate for it? Or are you holding back because you’re afraid of how it’ll land? Who in your life needs to hear about the forgiveness Jesus offers? What’s stopping you from telling them?

Ponder This, Friends
This passage isn’t just a cool story about Jesus showing up. It’s a call to live differently. Jesus steps into our fear with peace, sends us with purpose, empowers us with His Spirit, and entrusts us with the message of forgiveness. But here’s the thing: this isn’t just for the disciples 2,000 years ago.

This is for you. Right now. Today. So, let me ask you a few questions to chew on:
– Where are you locking the door on Jesus, trying to keep fear or control in charge?
– What does it look like for you to live “sent” in your everyday life—at work, at home, in your community?
– Are you relying on the Holy Spirit’s power, or are you running on your own fumes?
– Who in your life needs to hear about the forgiveness Jesus offers, and what’s stopping you from sharing it?

Friends, let’s not just read this passage and move on. Let’s let it wreck us, change us, and push us to live boldly for Jesus. He’s alive. He’s with us. And He’s sending us out with His peace and power. Let’s go.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott

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The Texas Flood, What Can We Do? (When we feel so helpless)

Listen, let’s just sit in this for a moment.
The images are seared into our minds: the Guadalupe River, swollen and raging, tearing through the Texas Hill Country like a freight train, leaving behind a trail of devastation. Homes reduced to splinters, cars piled like toys, and the heart-wrenching stories of lives lost—over 100 souls (as last reported), including children at Camp Mystic, swept away in the night.

The grief is heavy, raw, and real. It literally makes me sick to my stomach to think of what those parents are going through right now. It’s the kind of pain that makes you clench your fists, stare at the sky, and ask, *Why?* And I think we should create some safe spaces to ask those hard-no-easily-answered questions.

Question: “Why does God allow bad things to happen to good people?”

This isn’t a time to gloss over the hurt. The families who lost loved ones—parents, children, grandparents, friends—are carrying a devastating weight that feels unbearable. The stories are gut-wrenching: a mother clinging to a tree as floodwaters roared past, a camp director giving his life to save young girls, entire communities washed away in hours. Kerr County alone mourns at least 84 lives, with 28 of them children. The numbers are staggering, but they’re NOT just numbers—they’re names, faces, stories. This is a tragedy that demands we pause and feel the depth of the loss. To rush past that grief would be to dishonor those who are suffering. And yet, in the middle of these tears welling in my eyes and this ache, there’s a question that keeps surfacing, one that’s as old as humanity itself: *If God is good, why does He allow bad things to happen to good people?*

It’s the kind of question that can keep you up at night, staring into the dark-heart-heavy wondering if faith even makes sense anymore. Let’s not dodge it, as a matter of fact, let’s lean into it. Here’s the thing: the Bible doesn’t give us a neat, tidy answer to that question. It’s not a math equation with a clean solution. Job, a man who lost everything—family, wealth, health—wrestled with this same question, shaking his fist at the heavens, demanding to know why, his supportive wife (insert sarcastic font here) telling him to just curse God and die.

But what was God’s response? Not a formula, but a vision of a universe vast and wild, held together by a Creator whose ways are bigger than our understanding. “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” God asks (Job 38:4). It’s not a dismissal of Job’s pain; it’s an invitation to trust that there’s a story bigger than the one we can see. The truth is, we live in a world that’s broken—beautiful, yes, but fractured. The same rivers that give life can turn deadly. The same skies that bring gentle rain can unleash torrents. And God, in His mysterious love, doesn’t always intervene the way we wish He would (and for most of us, that’s hard to understand).

BUT here’s where the encouragement comes in: God doesn’t abandon us in the flood. He’s there in the rescue boats, in the helicopters, in the hands of first responders pulling people from the water. He’s there in the churches opening their doors, in the neighbors sharing food and clothes, in the tears shed at vigils in San Antonio. The goodness of God doesn’t erase the pain, but it shows up in the people who refuse to let despair have the last word. Think about Jesus on the cross—nailed to a piece of wood, abandoned by His friends, mocked by the crowd. If anyone ever looked at a moment and said, “Where’s the good God now?” it was there. And yet, that moment of ultimate suffering became the doorway to resurrection, to life, to hope. The cross tells us that God doesn’t stand aloof from our pain; He enters it, bears it, and somehow, in ways we can’t always grasp, redeems it.

SO, to those asking the hard question, to those who are angry at God right now: It’s okay to wrestle. It’s okay to cry out. God can handle your doubts, your anger, your grief. He’s not afraid of your questions, I’ve asked many of these questions too during this devastating time. But don’t stop there. Look around. See the stories of hope rising from the wreckage—stories like Coast Guard Swimmer Scott Ruskan who wasn’t supposed to be in the area, and yet, managed to save a 165 children in those sudden flash floods. Stories of strangers becoming family, communities rallying, people giving sacrificially. That’s where God’s goodness shines through, not in erasing the tragedy but in weaving something new through it.

Here’s the challenge, and it’s not a small one: Don’t just pray for the families of the victims—though please, *please* do that. Their pain is unimaginable, and our prayers are a way of holding them up when they can’t stand. But let’s go further. Let’s be the hands and feet of Jesus in this broken world. Get out there and help your neighbor—whether it’s clearing debris, donating to relief efforts, or simply listening to someone’s story of loss. The NFL Foundation, the Dallas Cowboys, and the Houston Texans have pledged $1.5 million to aid victims. Local churches like Hunt Baptist are offering free water, The Salvation Army is on the ground with their Emergency Disaster Teams proving food, water, and clothes. You don’t need to be a millionaire or a megachurch to make a difference—just show up in so many different ways. This is our moment to change the world around us, not with grand gestures but with small, faithful acts of love. When we do that, we’re not just helping our neighbors; we’re joining God in His work of redemption, of bringing light to the darkest places. We’re saying, with our lives, that even in the face of a flood, hope rises. And that hope, that stubborn, defiant hope, is how we glorify God in the midst of the storm.

So, let’s pray. Let’s weep. And then let’s get to work, because the world needs us to show up now more than ever.
Grace & Peace EVEN in the Storms.
-Pastor Scott.

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When Heroes Fall – Michael Tait, Sin, and the Long Road to Redemption.

Hey there, friends. I want to wrestle with some heavy stuff today. I was mulling it over and even deleted a couple of drafts before I settled on this one. You’ve probably seen the news by now—Michael Tait, the voice behind so many anthems that stirred our souls, has stepped into a spotlight none of us wanted to see him under. The former Newsboys frontman, a guy whose music shaped our faith playlists, confessed to a “double life” of substance abuse and sexual misconduct. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s heartbreaking. So, let’s talk about it—about sin, falling from grace, the consequences that linger, and the wild, stubborn hope of forgiveness and redemption. Because, friends, this is where the rubber meets the road in our faith. It’s often messy, I wont sugarcoat it, but I also think we have to talk about stuff like this, because sadly it’s so prevalent today.

The Fall Hurts

So, let’s not sugarcoat it: Michael Tait’s confession hit like a punch to the gut. This is the guy who belted out “God’s Not Dead” and made us feel like we could storm the gates of heaven with a guitar riff. But the allegations—sexual assault, grooming, drug and alcohol abuse—paint a picture of a man caught in a spiral of sin for two decades. Three men have come forward, sharing stories of pain and betrayal, moments where trust was shattered by someone they looked up to. One of them said, “To this day I jump whenever someone touches me unexpectedly… It’s heartbreaking to think someone you look up to could do something like that.” That’s not just a news headline; that’s a wound. It makes me both angry and sick to my stomach. Think of the lives of those who have witnessed this double life and the awful consequences of a seemingly phony testimony. Not only does it impact the victims – for it surely has ruined these men, but also the fans and people who have come to faith because of the ministry of Tait and the Newsboys. Where does that leave them? Disillusioned? Lost? Confused?

And here’s the thing about sin: it’s not just a private fumble, a little oopsie between you and God. Sin ripples. It breaks things. It leaves scars on others. Tait himself said, “I have hurt so many people in so many ways, and I will live with that shameful reality the rest of my life.” He’s not wrong. The Bible doesn’t pull punches on this either. Galatians 6:7 says, “Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.” When we sow seeds of sin, the harvest comes, and it’s often bitter. Tait’s facing that now—public shame, a tarnished legacy, and the very real pain of those he hurt.

The Weight of Consequences

Let’s pause here, because I think we sometimes want to rush past this part. We want to jump straight to the “forgiveness” part of the story, like it’s a feel-good movie montage. But sin has consequences, and they don’t vanish just because we say sorry. Tait stepped down from Newsboys in January, citing a “monumental and heartfelt decision” after prayer and fasting. But the truth came out later: he’d been living a double life, and the allegations that surfaced in The Roys Report forced him to confront it publicly. His bandmates, blindsided, said their “hearts were shattered” when they learned of his actions.

This is where 1 Timothy 5:20 hits hard: “But those elders who are sinning you are to reprove before everyone, so that the others may take warning.” Tait, as a visible Christian leader, carried a weighty responsibility. His sin wasn’t just personal; it impacted a community, a fanbase, a movement. The consequences? A fractured trust, a band moving on without him, and victims carrying trauma that may take years to heal. Sin costs, friends. It always does. As Tait put it, “Sin is a terrible thing, taking us where we don’t want to go; keeping us longer than we want to stay; and costing us more than we want to pay.”

The Scandal of Grace

But here’s where the story takes a turn—not a cheap turn, not a glossing-over, but a real, gritty, beautiful turn. Tait’s confession, posted on Instagram on June 10, 2025, didn’t dodge the truth. He called his actions what they were: sin. He wrote, “By His grace, I can say that for the past six months, I have lived a singular life—one of utter brokenness and total dependence on a loving and merciful God.” He’s been in treatment, seeking help, and leaning into a circle of counselors and friends who are walking with him. That’s not nothing. That’s the beginning of repentance. Some of you reading this might be skeptical and worry his apology is all scripted or insincere. I would challenge, we do not know the heart of man, but God does. Let’s allow God to do the judging, for the consequences are already playing out for Tait.

And this is where the scandal of grace comes in. Psalm 51, the cry of King David after his own catastrophic fall, echoes here: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions.” David, a man after God’s own heart, was also a man who sinned big—adultery, murder, betrayal. Yet he threw himself at the mercy of God, and God didn’t turn him away. Tait referenced this psalm in his confession, and it’s no accident. Grace doesn’t erase consequences, but it offers a path through them. It’s the promise that even in our worst moments, God is still there, ready to meet us in our brokenness.

Redemption’s Long Road

So, what does redemption look like for someone like Michael Tait? It’s not a quick fix, friends. It’s not a press release or a single tearful apology. Redemption is a journey, and it’s messy. Tait’s been clean and sober since his time in a Utah treatment center, but he admits he’s got “lots of hard work ahead.” That’s real talk. Redemption means owning the wreckage, making amends where possible, and walking humbly with God and others. It means accepting that some relationships may never heal, some fans may never listen to his music again, and some wounds may linger.

But here’s the hope: God’s not done with Michael Tait. Or with you. Or with me. Romans 5:8 reminds us, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” That’s the heartbeat of the gospel—God’s love doesn’t wait for us to get it together. It meets us in the mess. Tait’s story isn’t over, and neither is ours. Redemption doesn’t mean the consequences disappear, but it means we don’t walk through them alone.

What Do We Do With This?

So, what do we do with a story like this? Do we cancel Michael Tait? Stop listening to Newsboys or DC Talk? That’s a question a lot of fans are wrestling with. I get it—it’s hard to separate the art from the artist when the betrayal feels so personal. But maybe the better question is: How do we hold space for both justice and grace? How do we pray for healing for the victims, accountability for the sinner, and restoration for all involved?

One X post I saw put it beautifully: “The Church? We’re called to forgive, not cancel. We’ve all sinned. Let’s be people of grace and truth.” That’s the tension we live in, friends. We don’t gloss over the pain or the consequences, but we also don’t shut the door on redemption. We pray for Tait, that he keeps walking this hard road of repentance. We pray for those he hurt, that they find healing from the “Merciful Healer and Hope-Giver,” as Tait called God. And we pray for ourselves, that we’d be honest about our own sin, quick to repent, and relentless in pursuing grace.

The Invitation

Here’s the invitation in all this: Don’t put people on pedestals. Not Michael Tait, not your pastor, not even yourself. We’re all capable of falling, and we all need grace. Tait’s story is a wake-up call, not just for him but for all of us. It’s a reminder that sin is real, consequences are real, but so is God’s mercy. As Jeremiah 3:22 says, “Return, you faithless people; I will cure you of backsliding.” God’s calling us to return, to lean into His mercy, and to walk the long, hard road of redemption together.

So, let’s keep praying, keep loving, and keep holding space for the messy beauty of grace. Because if God can redeem a guy like David, a guy like Tait, a guy like me—well, there’s hope for us all.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott

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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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