Tag: God

The Seeds You Can’t Outrun

Galatians 6:7 at Pastors Ponderings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Pastor Scott

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Palm Sunday- Donkeys or Warhorses?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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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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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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Stepping Away From Fear and Into Bravery & Faith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Word That Holds Us Together

Hey friends, have you ever stopped and thought about how everything started?

I mean, everything—the stars, the dirt under your feet, that coffee you’re sipping right now? John, this wild, poetic guy who hung out with Jesus, he’s got something to say about it. He kicks off his story with this mind-bending line: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Boom. Right out of the gate, he’s dropping something heavy, something that makes you lean in and go, “Wait, what?” “What’s this all about?!”

You see, John’s not just talking about a word like “hello” or “taco”, (mmm, now I’m hungry).
He’s talking about THE Word. In Greek, it’s Logos—this cosmic, creative force, the divine reason, the heartbeat behind it all. And he’s saying this Word wasn’t just floating around somewhere; it was with God, and it was God. From the very beginning, before the first sunrise, before the first wave crashed on the shore, there was this Word, humming with life, holding everything together.

And then John keeps going. He says, “Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.” Did you catch that? Everything—every tree, every laugh, every tear—came through this Word. It’s like the universe is a song, and this Word is the melody that ties all the notes together. You’re part of that song. I’m part of that song. The person you passed on the street today? Part of it too. Nothing’s outside this creative pulse.

But here’s where it gets really good. John doesn’t stop at the cosmic stuff. He zooms in close and says, “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” Hold on. The Word—the one that spun galaxies into motion—didn’t just stay out there, distant and untouchable. It became flesh. Skin and bones. Sweat and smiles. Jesus. The God who was there at the beginning stepped into the mess of our world, pitched a tent right here with us, and said, “I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

Isn’t that wild? The infinite became finite. The untouchable became touchable. The light that darkness can’t overcome—and trust me, there’s plenty of darkness out there—showed up in a way we could see, hear, feel. John says, “We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” Grace and truth. Not judgment and shame. Not rules and checklists. Grace—like a warm hug when you’re falling apart. Truth—like a compass when you’re lost.

So what does this mean for you, right now, today? Maybe you’re feeling like the darkness is winning. Maybe life’s throwing punches, and you’re not sure you can get back up. John’s whispering to you: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness doesn’t get the last word. The Word does. Jesus does. And he’s not some far-off idea—he’s here, in the thick of it with you.

Or maybe you’re wondering if you’re enough. If you belong. If there’s a place for you in this big, sprawling story. John’s got you covered there too. “To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” Not employees. Not fans. Children. You’re family. The Word that spoke the world into being says you’re in. You’re loved. You’re wanted.

So take a deep breath. Look around. That light’s still shining. That Word’s still speaking. It’s in the way the sun rises, the way a friend listens, the way hope sneaks back in when you least expect it. The Word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood—and he’s not moving out. You’re not alone in this. You never were. And that, my friend, is the kind of news that can carry you through anything.

What if you lived like that’s true today? What might change?

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

Check out our new Spotify Podcast site we just launched today. I hope and pray there will be more content on it very soon, so please subscribe and follow!

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The Art of Showing Up Approved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Dust Still Sings…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace and dust,
-Pastor Scott.

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“The Sacrifice That Smells Like Coffee and Asphalt”

Hey there, beautiful souls,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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