Tag: Hope

The Sacred Art of the Lukewarm Coffee

So.

It’s February 4th.

We’re officially deep into that “middle” space. The holiday glitter has long since been vacuumed up. The New Year’s resolutions? They’re likely sitting in a drawer or in that “Christmas” closet under the stairs or attic somewhere, right next to that “extra” button you saved but will never actually sew onto your coat.

Maybe you woke up today feeling a little…ordinary.

A little dusty.

A little “I forgot to buy milk and now my cereal is just a bowl of crunchy sadness.”

And we’ve been told, haven’t we?

We’ve been told that the Divine lives in the spectacular. In the mountaintop experiences. In the moments where the music swells, the lights dim, and everything feels “perfect.” We often go out and try to capture that kind of “feeling” over and over again. Sometimes we have bought into the lie that this is the only place or only moment(s) that God shows up.

But what if that’s not the whole story?

What if the Spirit isn’t waiting for you to get your act together?

What if the Creator of the stars and the galaxies is just as interested in your Tuesday morning commute as He is in a cathedral service where everything is on point and the music is studio quality?

Think about it.

The ancient Hebrews had this word: Ruach.

It means breath. It means wind. It means spirit.

It’s the thing that animates everything.

And you’re doing it right now.

(Go ahead. Take a breath. I’ll wait.)

See?

You didn’t have to earn that breath.

You didn’t have to fill out a form or prove you were “holy enough” today to deserve that oxygen.
You didn’t have to perform well enough to receive a nod and an approval for that last inhalation of O2 – no, it’s a gift.

It was just… given.

Gift. Grace. Flow.

There is a rhythm to this life, it’s the cadence beneath the noise of your notifications and your “to-do” lists. And that hum, that cadence is saying one thing over and over:

You are here. You are seen. You are loved.

Not the “future, improved version” of you.

Not the you that finally loses the ten pounds or finally masters that sourdough starter (I see you, friend on facebook).

This you. The one with the mismatched socks and the slightly-too-full inbox.

So today, if things feel a bit messy?

If you drop your toast face-down or the dog barks right when you start your Zoom call?

Smile.

Maybe even laugh.

Because the Light isn’t waiting for the cracks to be fixed. The Light is specifically designed to shine through the cracks.

The mess isn’t an obstacle to the sacred.

The mess is the sacred.

May you find the wonder in the mundane today.

May you realize that your very existence is an act of worship.

And may you know, deep in your bones, that you are exactly where you need to be.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Threshold of 2026: What if we stopped “Fixing”?

We’re standing on it again. That invisible line.

One second it’s 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2025, and the next, we’ve crossed over into 2026. We act like the air changes, don’t we? Like the molecules of the universe suddenly rearranged themselves because a calendar page turned.

We call them “Resolutions.” But if you look at that word—resolution—it’s about finding a solution. It implies that you, as you are right now, are a problem to be solved. A leak to be plugged. A glitch in the system that needs a software update.

But what if 2026 isn’t about “fixing” the old you?

What if the “New Year” isn’t a demand for a better version of yourself, but an invitation to finally meet the real one?
I’ve met so many people in my life, and I don’t want to sound judgmental, but I can automatically tell when someone is simply putting on a mask and living a fake life for others to see. Sometimes people do this to impress others, while some pretend instead of live a real life because they fear what people might think if they ACTUALLY ‘let their hair down’.

But what would happen in 2026 if we all just stopped pretending, and started living our lives with authenticity without fear of judgement?

The Rhythm of the New

In the Hebrew scriptures, there’s this beautiful, recurring idea that God is “doing a new thing.” But “new” in the biblical sense isn’t usually about replacement. It’s about renewal. It’s like a tree in winter. It looks dead. It looks stagnant. But deep in the soil, in the dark, silent places where no one is taking selfies or posting updates, something is shifting.

The tree isn’t trying to be a different tree in the spring. It’s just becoming more of what it already is.

So, as we stare down the barrel of 2026, I have some questions. Not the “How much weight do you want to lose?” kind of questions. The other kind. The kind that sit in the pit of your stomach:

  • What are you carrying into this year that isn’t actually yours to carry? Is it a parent’s expectation? A former version of yourself that you outgrew three years ago? A shame that has already been forgiven but you keep in your pocket like a lucky charm?
  • What would happen if you stopped trying to “arrive”? We spend so much energy trying to get somewhere else. To the next job, the next relationship, the next tax bracket. But what if the Divine is actually in the here? What if the burning bush is right in your backyard, but you’re too busy looking at a map of a different forest?
  • Where is the “New” already happening? Look at your life. Not the big, flashy stuff. Look at the small, quiet pulses of grace. The friend who actually listens. The way the light hits the floor at 4:00 p.m. The fact that you’re still breathing.

The Sacred Middle

2026 will have its share of mess. We know this. There will be moments of stress, anxiety, problems – and much more. There will be moments where you feel like you’re failing at everything. I don’t want to dismiss that these kinds of events will most likely happen to us all in 2026.

But the Gospel—the “Good News”—isn’t that life becomes a straight line of success. It’s that even in the mess, even in the “not-yet-resolved” parts of our lives, there is a Presence. A “With-ness.”

Jesus didn’t say, “I have come so that you might have a perfectly organized life and a 401k.” He said he came so we might have Life. Abundant, vibrant, messy, holy, complicated Life. Emmanuel = God – with us. God connected to us. God in relationship with us every. step. of. the. way. (full stop, no flimsy/flip-flopping decisions – He’s all-in with your life! He’s fully invested in YOU!)

A Pondering for the Road

As you step across that threshold into 2026, maybe skip the “To-Do” list for a minute. Try a “To-Be” list.

  • To be… present.
  • To be… kind to yourself when you stumble.
  • To be… open to the idea that God likes you exactly as you are, even as He invites you into who you are becoming.

The calendar is turning tomorrow at 11:59pm.
The sun will rise. And the Spirit is already there, whispering, “Let’s see what we can make of this together.”

Grace and Peace to you in 2026.
-Pastor Scott.

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When Christmas Hurts – Hope for the Lonely Heart.

(A Christmas Reflection)

Every year, the lights go up, the music turns on, and the world seems to lean hard into cheer. “Merry Christmas!” echoes from store speakers, greeting cards, and overcaffeinated morning show hosts. But for many, this season feels anything but merry.

If that’s you this year—if you’re sad, lonely, or walking through grief—this post is for you.

You’re Not Broken Because You’re Hurting

Let’s just say it plainly: being overwhelmed this time of year doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. The world around us says you should feel magical and joyful, but your heart might feel tired, cracked, or heavy. And that’s okay.

Some of you are facing Christmas with an empty chair at the table.
Some are trying to navigate celebrations while carrying the weight of loss.
Some are quietly battling depression behind everyone else’s holiday excitement.
Some just feel alone—maybe more this season than any other.

Pain has a way of echoing louder during a season built on celebration. But you need to hear this: you’re not strange, and you’re not alone.

Even the First Christmas Had Tears

We often picture the first Christmas as serene: a silent night, peaceful animals, starlit skies. But the truth is, on the edges of that holy night, there were tears, fears, and exhaustion.

Mary and Joseph were far from home.
The city was overcrowded.
They delivered a baby in a place no one would choose.
It was messy. It was loud. It was lonely.

In other words—Christmas didn’t begin in perfection. It began in need, in uncertainty, in the dark.
And into that darkness came Jesus.

Your darkness doesn’t disqualify you from Christmas; it may actually help you understand it more deeply than most.

God Sees You in This Season

One of the most comforting truths in Scripture is this:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” (Psalm 34:18)

Christmas is not about us climbing up to God; it’s about God coming down to us.
Not to the strong, but to the struggling.
Not to the whole, but to the broken.
Not to the merry, but to the messy.

If your heart feels cracked this Christmas, God is not avoiding you—He is drawing near.

Permission to Feel What You Feel

You don’t have to fake joy.
You don’t have to “snap out of it.”
You don’t have to match the mood around you.

Your grief is real.
Your loneliness is real.
Your weariness is real.

And Jesus meets you as you are—not as the season suggests you should be.

But Here’s the Good News: Hurt Is Not the End of Your Story

There is hope. There is healing. There is comfort. And even if you can’t feel it today, it doesn’t mean God has stopped working.

Sometimes the most courageous prayer is simply:
“Lord, hold me together today.”

Sometimes the most faithful act is showing up to a new morning.
Sometimes hope grows quietly, like the slow, gentle rise of dawn.

Christmas reminds us that light comes—not all at once, but steadily, faithfully—into the darkest places.

A Few Gentle Encouragements for This Christmas

1. Let someone in.
You don’t have to share everything, but you also don’t have to carry everything alone.

2. Give yourself grace.
If all you manage is a small step today, that step matters.

3. Look for the tiny glimmers.
A song. A memory. A cup of coffee (my favorite). A kind word.
They don’t fix everything, but they remind us that God is still at work.

4. Remember: joy is not the same as happiness.
Joy is the quiet assurance that God is with you—even when your heart aches.

You Are Not Forgotten This Christmas

If this season is hard for you, please know this:
I see you. God sees you. You matter.

You are loved—extravagantly, endlessly, right now in the middle of your pain.

Christmas is not just for the cheerful; it’s for the weary, the grieving, the lonely, the ones trying their best to hold it all together.

It’s for you.

May the God who came near in Bethlehem come near to your heart today.
May He fill your darkness with His gentle light.
And may you sense—even in the smallest ways—that you are not alone.

Merry Christmas, dear friend.
Even if it’s a quiet one.
Even if it’s a hard one.
Even if it looks different this year.

The light is still coming. And so is hope.
-Grace & Peace
Pastor Scott.

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The Upper Room Door Buster

Hey friends,
it’s Scott, sitting here in an old office chair, it’s an old faux-leather thing that smells faintly of wood polish and long days or burning the candle at both ends. Outside of my window, there’s an old maple that’s bleeding out its last furious red, each leaf a small, slow-motion fire spiraling down to the ground like it’s trying to write something on the earth before it dies.



I can’t stop thinking about that upper room (John 20). The air was thick with terror and unshed tears. They too had probably been burning their candles at both ends. The disciples are all bolted in that musty room, breathing shallow, convinced the story just ended in a splatter of blood and a borrowed tomb.

Then the impossible.
He’s there.

Not a ghost.
Not a metaphor.
Flesh.
Breath.
Heartbeat.

And the first word out of the mouth that once called Lazarus out of the dark is the same word He offers them now: Peace.
But watch (watch close), because He doesn’t hide the damage. He lifts the robe, turns those once-ruined hands palm-up, lets the ragged light fall straight through the holes. The resurrection body still carries the crucifixion. The wounds didn’t get airbrushed out in some cosmic Photoshop.

They glow.

And I’m wrecked by this:
Maybe glory isn’t the absence of the scar but the scar set on fire by love.
I have scars that still throb when the weather turns. (Anyone else have old soccer knees and battle scars like me?)

You do too.
Places we were torn open and never quite sewn back the same.
Rooms we keep locked.
Stories we rehearse in the dark like a verdict.

But the Risen One walks straight through those locked doors, breath warm and steady, and says,
“Look. Touch. These are the places the nails went in… and these are the places the world will know it was love that held me there.”

The wounded hands are the ones flipping fish over coals at dawn, feeding men who swore they never knew Him.
The pierced side is the doorway He keeps inviting Thomas to reach into (doubt and all).
So maybe resurrection isn’t erasure.

Maybe it’s the wound transfigured, still telling the truth about Friday while singing the louder song of Sunday.
Maybe the cracks are where the light is planning its jailbreak.

So today, friend, open the fists you’ve been clenching around the shards.

Let Him breathe into the fractures.

Let Him turn the scar into a window.
Because the leaves are falling like grace, and the tree looks dead, but I’ve seen what happens in spring to wood that remembers it was once a cross.
The wounds remain.
The love remains more.
Grace & Peace be with you.
Really.

-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 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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The Fish That Swallowed a Man (And Maybe Us Too)…

Hey Friends! Happy Wednesday, March 12th, 2025! Here’s what we’re pondering today. Check this out:

So, there’s this moment in the story—Jonah 1:17—where it says, “Now the Lord provided a huge fish to swallow Jonah, and Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.” That’s it. One sentence. And yet, it’s one of those lines that just sits there, staring at you, daring you to ask: What’s really going on here?

Let’s back up for a second. Jonah’s running. God says, “Go to Nineveh,” and Jonah’s like, “Nope, I’m out.” He books a ticket on a ship going the opposite direction—like, literally the opposite direction, Tarshish, which is basically the edge of the known world back then. He’s not just avoiding a task; he’s avoiding the whole story God’s trying to write with his life. And then the storm hits, the sailors freak out, Jonah gets tossed overboard, and just when you think it’s over—bam—a fish. A huge fish. Swallows him whole. (Do you think it a fairy tale? It’s totally possible, check this video out)

Now, I want you to pause and picture this. A man, dripping wet, seaweed probably tangled in his hair, sinking into the dark, and then this massive creature opens its jaws and pulls him in. Three days. Three nights. In the belly of a fish. What do you do with that? Because it’s weird, right? It’s absurd. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder if this is just a wild ancient tale—or if there’s something deeper, something that hooks into your life, right here, right now.

Here’s what I think: That fish isn’t just a fish. I mean, it is—it’s scales and fins and probably smells terrible—but it’s also more. It’s a picture of what happens when you run from the thing you’re made for. Jonah’s trying to escape God’s call, his purpose, this wild invitation to go love people he doesn’t even like, and what happens? He ends up in the dark. Alone. In a place that feels like the end. But here’s the twist: it’s not the end. The fish isn’t a punishment; it’s a provision. The text says, “The Lord provided a huge fish.” Provided. That word stops me every time. God doesn’t abandon Jonah; God sends a rescue disguised as a monster.

Have you ever been there? In the belly of something? Maybe not a literal fish, but a situation, a season, a mess you made or one that just swallowed you up anyway? You ran—from a relationship, a dream, a truth about yourself—and now you’re sitting in the dark, wondering how it got this bad. Three days and three nights can feel like forever when you’re stuck, can’t they? But what if that dark place isn’t the end of your story? What if it’s the place where something new begins?

Because here’s the thing about Jonah: He doesn’t stay in the fish. Three days, three nights, and then—spoiler alert—he’s spit out onto dry land. Alive. Changed. Ready (well, sort of) to step back into the story. That time in the belly wasn’t wasted; it was preparation. It was God saying, “I’m not done with you yet.” And I wonder if that’s what God’s saying to you, too.

So, wherever you are today—running, sinking, or maybe already in the belly of something big and overwhelming—can you imagine that it might not be a tomb? That it might be a womb? A place where something new is being formed in you? The dark doesn’t get the last word. The fish doesn’t get to keep you. You’re not abandoned; you’re provided for. And those three days, those three nights—they’re not forever. They’re just long enough for you to hear the whisper: You’re still mine. We’re still going somewhere together.

What would it look like for you to stop running? To lean into the dark instead of fighting it? To trust that even the strangest, scariest provisions might be carrying you toward dry land? Because that’s the God we’re dealing with here—one who sends fish to save us, who turns runaways into prophets, who meets us in the belly of the thing we fear most and says, “This isn’t the end. This is where we start again.”

Take a breath. You’re not alone in there. And you’re not staying there. Something beautiful is coming. Can you feel it?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The God of Hope in the Mess of Now

Hey friends, so let’s talk about this thing called hope. Because if you’re anything like me, you’ve looked around lately—March 11, 2025, to be exact—and thought, What is even happening? The news is a dumpster fire of chaos, your inbox is a landfill of urgent emails, and maybe your own life feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something you can’t quite name. Uncertainty—it’s the air we’re breathing these days, isn’t it? Like the weather can’t decide if it’s winter or spring, and neither can we.

And yet, there’s this line. This ancient, electric line from a guy named Paul, who wrote it in a letter to some friends in Rome. He says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (Romans 15:13). I mean, come on. Read that again. The God of hope. Not the God of certainty, not the God of perfect five-year plans, not the God of “everything’s fine if you just try harder.” The God of hope. That’s who we’re dealing with here.

What if that’s the point? What if hope isn’t about knowing how it all turns out, but about trusting that there’s something—Someone—holding it all together, even when it feels like it’s falling apart? Because let’s be honest: we’re not great at uncertainty. We like maps. We like GPS. We like “arrival time: 6:42 p.m.” But life doesn’t work that way, does it? Life is more like those old sailing ships, where you’re out on the water, the wind’s howling, and you’re just hoping the stars show up at night to tell you where you’re going.

I was thinking about this the other day while drinking coffee—black, no sugar, or cream – because, like every day for me, you just need the bitter to wake you up. I was sitting there, watching some people from next door rush by outside the window, and it hit me: we’re all carrying something. A worry. A question. A what if. Maybe it’s the job that’s hanging by a thread, or the kid who’s not talking to you anymore, or the planet that feels like it’s groaning louder every day. And in the middle of that, Paul’s got the nerve to say, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace.” Joy? Peace? Now? Really, Paul?

But here’s the thing: he’s not talking about a feeling. He’s talking about a filling. A pouring-in. Like the way rain soaks the ground after a drought. It’s not instant. It’s not a switch you flip. It’s a process, a trusting, a leaning into this God who doesn’t run from the mess but steps right into it. The same God who, a couple thousand years ago, showed up in a body—Jesus—and said, “I’m here. With you. In this.” That’s what hope looks like. It’s not the absence of uncertainty; it’s the presence of something bigger.

So what does that mean for us, today, in the thick of 2025? Maybe it means we stop waiting for the uncertainty to clear up before we start living. Maybe it means we take a deep breath—right now, try it—and let that joy and peace sneak in, even if it’s just a crack of light through the blinds (my bedroom blinds are currently broken at the bottom and a lot of light seems to peak in). Maybe it means we trust that the Holy Spirit that Paul is talking about and is already at work, stirring something up in us, something that overflows. Not just trickles. Overflows. Like a cup that can’t hold it all, spilling out onto the people around us.

I don’t know what your uncertain thing is today. Maybe it’s huge, global-sized, or maybe it’s small, quiet, the kind you don’t tell anyone about, but the anxiety is still building inside you. But what if you didn’t have to carry it alone? What if the God of hope is already there, in the middle of it, whispering, “I’ve got this. And I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere, I’m here with you!”? What if hope isn’t about escaping the storm, but about dancing in the rain —not because you’re naive but because you know the One who made the clouds? And you know the One who can calm that storm with just His words – He’s in the boat with you, right now.

So here’s your invitation: trust. Just for a moment. Lean into that God of hope. Let the joy and peace fill you, even if it feels ridiculous at first. And see if that hope doesn’t start to spill over. Because the world? It’s thirsty for it. And you might just be the one carrying the cup.

Grace and Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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Finding Our Way with a Little Bit of Light…(a pondering on Psalm 119).

Hey friends, let’s ponder on Psalm 119 today.
I know, I know, it’s a beast of a Psalm. It’s like, the longest psalm. Ever.
It’s got more lines than a line your neighborhood Chick-Fil-A at lunch time…well, you get the picture.
But stick with me, because there’s something wild in there. Something that’s gonna make you go, “Whoa.”

So, let’s zero in on verses 105-112, shall we?

Here it is (buckle up):

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path. I have taken an oath and confirmed it, that I will follow your righteous laws. I have suffered much; preserve my life, Lord, according to your word. Accept, Lord, the willing praise of my mouth, and teach me your laws. Though I constantly risk my life, I will not forget your law. The wicked have set a snare for me, but I have not strayed from your precepts. Your statutes are my heritage forever; they are the joy of my heart. My heart is set on keeping your decrees to the very end.“

Okay, first off, “Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.” Done. Simple, right? But think about it.
We’re not talking about a spotlight, blinding you with certainty. We’re talking about a lamp. A little light in the dark.
You know, when you’re stumbling around in the middle of the night, trying to find the bathroom? And there’s that little plug-in night light to light your way and prevent you from stubbing your toe on that nightstand that’s trying to trip you.


That’s what this is. It’s enough light for the next step.
Not the whole staircase, just the next step.

See, we get so caught up in needing to know everything. We want the grand plan, the detailed map, the GPS (with the ETA of how long it’s going to take us to get there) coordinates for our entire lives.

But that’s not how it works, is it?
We get the next step.
And then the next.
And then the next.

And then, verse 107: “I have suffered much.”
Yeah, me too. You too. We all have. Life throws curveballs. It punches you in the gut. It sucker punches you in the nose when you’re not looking. And life tends to leave you wondering, “What just happened?”
But even in the midst of that, the psalmist says, “preserve my life, Lord, according to your word.”

It’s not about escaping the pain. It’s about finding a way through it. It’s about trusting that even when things are messy and confusing, there’s a light guiding you. Not a guarantee of a pain-free life, but a promise of presence. I know in previous postings we’ve talked a lot about this. But isn’t it encouraging to know that 1) you’re not the only one who wonders about stuff like this? And 2) God gets us. He knows us. He desires to journey along right beside us as we find our way through that next dumpster fire of a day.

The next step is lit…not the whole course of the journey just yet.

And then, verse 111: “Your statutes are my heritage forever; they are the joy of my heart.” Joy!
Right there in the middle of suffering, in the face of danger, there’s what?! JOY?
Not the kind of joy that comes from having everything figured out, but the kind of joy that comes from knowing you’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.
It’s the kind of joy that comes from knowing you’re connected to something so much bigger than yourself.

Because here’s the thing: you’re not just some random speck of dust floating through the universe.
You’re part of something incredible. Something beautiful. Something that’s been unfolding for a long, long time.

So, take a deep breath. Let that little lamp light your way. Take the next step. And remember, even in the darkness, there’s joy. There’s light. There’s hope. And you? You’re gonna be okay. Things are going to be alright. God has not left your side.

Grace & Peace.
-Pastor Scott.

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The Upside-Down Kingdom: Finding God in the Pressure Cooker

Friends, have you ever felt like you’re in a pressure cooker? Like life is just too much? The kind of pressure where you feel like you might crack under the weight of it all? The Thessalonians knew a thing or two about that. They were facing some serious heat, real challenges, and Paul, in his second letter to them, doesn’t shy away from it. But he doesn’t just offer a pat on the back and a “hang in there” either. He dives deep, offering a perspective shift that’s as relevant today as it was back then.

He starts, as he often does, with gratitude. “We ought always to thank God for you, brothers and sisters,” he says, “and rightly so, because your faith is growing more and more, and the love all of you have for one another is increasing.” (2 Thess 1:3, NIV). Think about that for a second. Even in the midst of their struggles, something was growing. Their faith. Their love for each other. It’s easy to focus on what’s wrong, what’s broken, what’s not working. But Paul, he flips the script. He highlights the good, the beautiful, the growing.

It’s a reminder for us too.
What’s growing in your life, even now? Even in the midst of the mess?
Maybe it’s a tiny seed of hope. Maybe it’s a flicker of compassion.
Nurture it.
Pay attention to it.
Because growth, even the smallest bit, is a sign of life.  

Then he says something really interesting. He talks about their “persecutions and trials.”
He doesn’t sugarcoat it. Life was hard.
But he connects those very trials to something bigger. He says these trials are “evidence of God’s righteous judgment, so that you may be considered worthy of his kingdom, for which you are suffering.” (2 Thess 1:5, NIV).


Now, this isn’t some cosmic math equation where suffering equals worthiness. That’s not how grace works. Instead, it’s about character. It’s about how we respond to the pressure.
Do we become bitter and resentful? Or do we, somehow, through the struggle, become more like the person Jesus was?
The pressure, the trials, they can actually refine us, shape us, mold us into people of greater resilience, greater compassion, greater love. It’s not that God causes the suffering, but God uses it.
He redeems it. He transforms it.
Like a potter working with clay, the challenges we face can become the very things that make us stronger, more beautiful, more…us.  

This idea of “God’s righteous judgment” isn’t about some distant, angry judge waiting to whack us with a gavel. It’s about the universe having a certain order to it. A rightness. A justice. And in this upside-down kingdom, it’s often through suffering that we learn what that justice truly looks like.
It’s through the cracks that the light gets in, as Leonard Cohen so beautifully put it.

So, where does that leave us? It leaves us with hope. It leaves us with a God who sees us, who knows our struggles, and who is working even in the messiest parts of our lives. It leaves us with the understanding that even the hard things, the painful things, can be a part of our journey towards becoming the people we were created to be. It leaves us with the courage to keep going, to keep loving, to keep believing, even when it feels like the world is falling apart. Because in this upside-down kingdom, the last shall be first, the weak shall be strong, and even suffering can be a pathway to glory.

And that, my friends, is good news.
Grace and Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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