Tag: Jesus

From the Basin to the Bread and Wine: The Beautiful Heart of Maunday Thursday

Hello friends, and welcome back to the blog.

As we journey through Holy Week together, we land on a day with a rather unusual name: Maundy Thursday. If you’ve ever wondered where the word “Maundy” comes from, it’s actually derived from the Latin word mandatum, which means “command.” It refers to the new commandment Jesus gave His disciples on this very night: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34).

But before Jesus ever spoke those words, He gave the disciples—and us—a living, breathing, shocking demonstration of exactly what that kind of love looks like.

If you have a few minutes today, I want to invite you to step into the Upper Room with me. I want us to look at two powerful moments from that evening: the washing of the feet, and the breaking of the bread. Because when we put them side by side, they paint the most beautiful picture of our Savior’s heart.

The Shock of the Basin

Imagine the scene. It’s the Passover feast. Jesus and His closest friends are gathered in a private room. In the ancient Middle East, walking in sandals on unpaved, dusty, animal-trodden roads meant your feet got utterly filthy. It was customary for a servant to wash the guests’ feet as they arrived.

But there was no servant in the Upper Room. And none of the disciples volunteered for the job.

So, in the middle of the meal, Jesus stands up. He takes off His outer clothing, wraps a rough linen towel around His waist, pours water into a basin, and kneels down.

Can you imagine the pin-drop silence in that room? The Creator of the universe, the Messiah, on His knees, washing the grime from the calloused feet of fishermen, tax collectors, and even the man who was about to betray Him. Peter, in classic Peter fashion, tries to put a stop to it: “You shall never wash my feet!” It just felt too wrong, too backward. Kings don’t wash the feet of peasants.

But Jesus was showing them a different kind of kingdom. He was physically acting out the very nature of the Gospel: God coming down, taking the posture of a servant, to cleanse us from the dirt we could never wash off ourselves.

The Bread and the “Remembrance”

With the towel put away and the basin set aside, Jesus returns to the table. And here is where He transitions from the water to the wine.

He takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it, and hands it out to those same men whose feet He just washed. He says, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19). Then He takes the cup, explaining that it represents His blood, poured out for the forgiveness of sins.

We say those words so often in church—“do this in remembrance of me”—that sometimes they can lose their weight. We often think Jesus was just setting up a church ritual for us to follow. And while Communion is a beautiful, sacred sacrament, I think Jesus was asking for something even deeper.

How the Basin Explains the Bread

Why did Jesus wash their feet right before breaking the bread? Because the basin explains the bread.

The foot washing was the prequel to the cross. By kneeling with the towel, Jesus was saying, “Pay attention. What I am doing for your feet tonight, I am about to do for your souls tomorrow.”

When Jesus says, “Do this in remembrance of me,” He isn’t just saying, “Eat this bread and drink this juice so you don’t forget my name.” He is saying, “Remember the basin. Remember the towel. Remember how my body was broken and my blood was poured out to serve you and save you. Now, live your life in that exact same way.”

To “remember” Jesus at the Communion table is to embrace His servant heart. We remember His sacrifice by becoming living sacrifices ourselves. We remember the bread He broke for us by breaking our own pride to serve others. When we forgive an offense, when we show radical hospitality, when we stoop down to help someone who can offer us nothing in return—we are remembering Him. We are passing the bread, and we are picking up the towel.

A Word of Encouragement

Friends, as you step into the heavy, holy reality of Good Friday and the joyous triumph of Easter Sunday, I want to encourage you to linger in the Upper Room for just a moment today.

Before you go out and try to serve the world, let Jesus wash your feet. Let Him love you. Let Him cleanse the guilt, the shame, and the spiritual dust you’ve picked up along the road this week. You don’t have to clean yourself up before you come to His table; He is the one who does the washing.

Accept His profound, humble, beautiful love today. Take the bread. Drink the cup. And then, fueled by His incredible grace, let’s go out and find some feet to wash.

Grace and peace to you this Holy Week,
-Pastor Scott.

0

A Pondering on Palms and a Path to the Cross.

Hello friends,

As I sit here looking at the calendar, I realize we are standing right on the threshold of Palm Sunday. It’s hard to believe we are already nearing the end of our Lenten journey, isn’t it?

Whenever this time of year rolls around, I find myself thinking deeply about the stark contrast of the days ahead. Palm Sunday is a day of high energy. We love the waving of the palm branches, the upbeat hymns, and the shouts of “Hosanna!” It feels like a long-awaited victory parade. But as we prepare our hearts for this coming Sunday, I want to invite you to look a little closer at the man riding in on the donkey.

The crowds that day were thrilled. They were throwing their cloaks on the road and cheering for a conquering king. Luke 19:37-38 paints the picture perfectly: “The whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen: ‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’”

They wanted a political savior. They wanted someone to kick out the Romans and make their lives easier. But Jesus wasn’t riding into Jerusalem to make them comfortable; He was riding in to save their souls. Just a few verses later, as He approaches the city and hears the cheers, Jesus actually begins to weep over Jerusalem. He knew that the very same voices shouting “Hosanna” on Sunday would be shouting “Crucify Him” by Friday.

This brings a profound thought to mind from C.S. Lewis. In his classic The Chronicles of Narnia, Mr. Beaver famously describes Aslan—the Christ figure of the story—by saying:

“Safe? … Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

The crowds on Palm Sunday wanted a “safe” king—a tame lion who would do their bidding and fit neatly into their worldly agendas. But Jesus is not a tame lion. The path He was walking didn’t lead to an earthly throne; it led straight to the agonizing wood of the cross. Lewis reminds us that following Christ isn’t about God improving our current circumstances; it’s about a total, reverent surrender of our very lives.

Here is my challenge to you this week:

Do not rush the journey. It is so tempting for us, in our modern, fast-paced world, to show up for the parade on Palm Sunday, check out for the week, and then show up again for the empty tomb on Easter morning. We love the triumph, but we shrink back from the tragedy.

This Holy Week, I challenge you to sit in the uncomfortable, quiet reverence of the season:

  • Pause and reflect: Spend time reading through the events of Maundy Thursday.
  • Sit in the shadows: Allow yourself to feel the heavy, somber reality of Good Friday.
  • Embrace the silence: Recognize the profound stillness of Holy Saturday.

You cannot fully appreciate the blinding, glorious light of Resurrection Sunday until you have spent time contemplating the deep darkness of Friday. Let’s not reduce Jesus to a tame lion this week. Let’s approach the cross with awe, repentance, and a quiet, contemplative reverence for the sheer magnitude of what it cost to save us.

Grace and peace to you all on the journey ahead.

0

The Grace Expert & The Eight Year Secret.

The news about Philip Yancey is the kind of thing that makes you set your coffee down and just stare out the window for a while.

If you’ve spent any time in the “thinking” corners of the church, Yancey has probably been a companion of yours. His books—What’s So Amazing About Grace? and The Jesus I Never Knew—weren’t just bestsellers; they were lifelines. He was the guy who gave us permission to admit that faith is often a mess of doubt and shadow. He made grace feel like something sturdy enough to hold our weight.

And now, we’re processing this: an eight-year affair. With a married woman. All while he was the face of modern Christian grace, writing the books and speaking at the conferences. He came forward himself, stepped down, and admitted he had “disqualified” himself.

It’s a gut-punch. Not because we’re naive enough to think Christian leaders don’t fail—we know better by now—but because of the specific nature of this failure. It forces a terrifying question: How does someone spend nearly a decade describing the heart of God while their own heart is miles away?

The Art of the Split Life

History is littered with this kind of thing. King David wrote the most beautiful poetry in the Bible while his hands were literally stained with the blood of a man he had murdered to cover an affair. Peter preached the gospel after denying he even knew Jesus.

But Yancey’s situation feels like a very modern, very quiet tragedy. Eight years isn’t a “moment of weakness” or a one-time lapse in judgment. It’s thousands of small, daily choices to live a double life. It’s a sustained effort to keep the “Public Grace Expert” and the “Private Transgressor” from ever meeting in the same room.

It makes you wonder about the words he wrote during those eight years. Were they hollow? Or were they something more tragic—a cry for help from a man who knew the truth of grace but felt he had drifted too far out to actually touch it?

The Myth of Compartmentalization

We like to think we can keep our lives in separate boxes. We tell ourselves, “This secret part of me doesn’t affect my work for God.” But the soul doesn’t work that way. When we live in contradiction, something begins to atrophie.

In church circles, we talk about accountability and integrity so much that the words have lost their teeth. We’ve turned accountability into a polite “how are you doing?” over lunch. But real integrity isn’t about being perfect; it’s about alignment. It’s making sure the person people see on the stage is the same person sitting alone in a hotel room.

When that alignment snaps, we start performing. We use the right “Christianese,” we hit the right emotional notes in our prayers, and we learn how to fake the glow of a spiritual life that has actually gone cold on the inside.

The Quiet Creep of Atrophy

Spiritual decay doesn’t usually happen overnight. It’s a slow, subtle erosion.

  • It starts when you’re “too busy” for your own soul because you’re doing “the Lord’s work.”
  • It grows when you justify a small compromise because, hey, look at all the good you’re doing.
  • It solidifies when you realize you’re good at pretending—and that everyone believes the act.

Eventually, you aren’t living a faith; you’re managing a brand. You become a professional at describing a God you no longer talk to in private. That is the real danger of ministry: you can become so familiar with the language of God that you lose the fear of Him.

Where Does This Leave Us?

The “good” news—if we can call it that—is that Yancey chose to stop the clock. He chose to step into the light, however late, and own the wreckage. That is an act of integrity, even if it’s the final, painful act of a career.

But his story should be a mirror for the rest of us. It’s a warning not to wait for the “big fall.” It’s a call to look at the gaps in our own lives—the places where we are pretending, the secrets we’re guarding, and the ways we’ve let our public persona outpace our private character.

Grace is big enough for Philip Yancey. It’s big enough for the woman involved. And it’s big enough for us. But grace is never an excuse to stay in the dark; it’s the power that allows us to finally come clean.

Let’s stop posing and start being honest. Because a broken person who is honest is much more useful to God than a “godly” person who is lying.

Grace, Peace & Accountability
-Pastor Scott.

0

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.

2

Christmas For The Burned Out & Lonely

Hey there,
You know, Christmas rolls around every year like clockwork, with all the lights and carols and that relentless push to feel jolly. But what if you’re just… not?

What if the whole thing feels like one more obligation in a world that’s already worn you thin? Maybe religion has left you bruised—too many rules, too much hypocrisy, or just a sense of “been there, done that, and it didn’t fix anything.”

Or perhaps life’s handed you a raw deal this season: loss, loneliness, that ache that won’t quit. If that’s you, pull up a chair.

Let’s talk about this birth story in a way that doesn’t demand you fake a smile or force some festive vibe. Think about it: the original Christmas wasn’t some Hallmark movie with perfect snow and warm fuzzies. It was messy. A young girl, Mary, pregnant out of wedlock in a culture that could’ve stoned her for it. Her fiancé Joseph, wrestling with doubt and whispers from the neighbors. They’re trekking to Bethlehem because some distant emperor decided it was census time—no choice, no comfort. And when they get there? No room. Just a stable, probably smelling like hay and animals, with a feed trough for a crib.

Friends, God shows up not in a palace, not with fanfare and fireworks, but in the dirt and the dark, right in the middle of our human exhaustion. Isn’t that something? I think we have to pause right here and now and truly appreciate that God comes to our level, when we least expect it and when we are far from prepared.

The divine slipping into our world NOT when everything’s polished and pretty, but when it’s all falling apart. Jesus’ first breath wasn’t in a cathedral, or a stately Martha Stewart like Maine Mansion decked out for a Hallmark movie filming; no, it was in the chaos. Shepherds—outcasts, night-shift workers—were the first to hear the news, not the religious elite.

And those wise men? They came later, from far away, following a star that didn’t make a lick of sense. This story whispers that the sacred doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It meets you where you are: burnt out, skeptical, hurting. So if you’re not feeling the “spirit” this year, maybe that’s okay. Maybe the real spirit of Christmas is the one that says, “I see you in your weariness, and I’m here anyway.” I mean, come one, how encouraging and relieving is there?! God sees us, and he desires to be present with us – not to fix it all with a bow on top, but to sit with you in it. To remind you that love—the kind that’s bigger than religion’s boxes—enters quietly, like a baby in a manger. It’s not about mustering up faith or forcing joy; it’s about noticing that glimmer, however faint it might be, in the ordinary mess that is your life right now.

What if, just for a moment, you let that in? No pressure, no guilt. Just breathe. Look around at the people who show up for you, the small acts of kindness that sneak through. Or, perhaps, stare at the stars and wonder if there’s something more, something that doesn’t demand perfection from you.

Jesus’ birth was an invitation to the weary: come as you are. You’re not too broken, too doubtful, or too done with it all. In fact, that’s exactly where the light breaks through.

So – hang in there. The story’s not over. And neither is yours.
Perhaps just rest in the knowledge that Jesus came to this earth because of you. Let that wash over you, and ponder on it.
Grace and peace,
-Pastor Scott

0

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.

0

Advent Reflections Week 2 – When ‘Peace” Isn’t Really Peace.

“And He will be called… Prince of Peace.”
We read those words from Isaiah 9 every Advent, and they land soft and comforting—like warm light on a winter night. But Isaiah didn’t write them in a peaceful moment. He wrote them into chaos, fear, war, and political collapse. And into that storm he declares: A child is coming… and His rule will bring real pea

But here’s the thing about peace: not everyone in Scripture understood what it truly meant.

So for a moment, let’s imagine a conversation—a contrast—between the Prince of Peace Isaiah saw coming… and someone who thought he already understood peace, but didn’t.

Herod: “Peace Is What I Control.”

Herod the Great had a definition of peace that looked impressive on paper: massive building projects, economic growth, order enforced by power. A kind of forced calm.
He believed peace was the absence of threats.

So when whispers came of a child born King of the Jews, his version of “peace” suddenly cracked. A baby? A star in the sky? A question from wandering scholars?
Herod’s peace was so fragile it couldn’t survive a rumor.

He clutched control.
He tightened his grip.
He did the unthinkable—because fear always twists false peace into violence.

Herod teaches us this:
Any peace built on control will eventually crumble under the weight of fear.

Jesus, the Prince of Peace: “Peace Is What I Give.”

Now picture the contrast.

No palace.
No armies.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a manger, a mother, and angels announcing “peace on earth.”

Jesus does not maintain peace by eliminating threats—He transforms peace by entering the world’s brokenness and absorbing its chaos.

His peace is not fragile; it’s fierce.
Not passive; but restorative.
Not enforced; but embodied.

He doesn’t clutch power—He lays it down.
He doesn’t silence threats—He redeems enemies.
He doesn’t demand calm—He brings healing.

If Herod preserved peace by tightening his fist, Jesus brought peace by opening His hands.

Isaiah said, “Of the greatness of His government and of His peace there will be no end.”
Real peace is not something you hold together; it’s something God holds together.

And Here We Are, Second Week of Advent

Between Herod’s panic and Christ’s presence is a question we must face during this season:

Which version of peace do we trust?
The one built on control…
or the one born in a manger?
Which do we honestly identify with more?

You see, Advent invites us to choose again. It invites us to dig a bit deeper, and reflect on our own personality archetype and patterns we fall into when the tides begin to rise and the pressures on.

Questions for Your Heart This Week

  1. Where am I clinging to control and calling it “peace,” rather than trusting the Prince of Peace to hold what I cannot?
  2. Am I holding on with a ‘Herod’ like grip? How can I loosen this false understanding of peace?
  3. What would it look like for Christ’s peace—not my preferences, not my need for certainty—to guide my reactions, relationships, and leadership this week?

May His peace—full, fierce, and everlasting—meet you on the road to Christmas.
-Pastor Scott.

2

Christmas Reflections – Week 1

In the hush of the Advent season, we prepare our hearts for the coming of the King. Yet long before the angels filled Bethlehem’s skies with glory, heaven had already broken into human lives with terrifying, life-altering announcements. Two of those encounters—one with Jacob, one with Mary—stand centuries apart, yet they reveal the same two postures we still bring to God today. Jacob met God on the banks of the Jabbok River (Genesis 32:22-32). A man (the Scriptures say “a man,” but Hosea later calls Him angel and God Himself) appeared in the night and wrestled Jacob until dawn. Jacob fought with every ounce of his cunning, strength, and self-reliance—the same traits that had stolen birthright and blessing, the same instincts that had kept him running for twenty years. Only when his hip was touched and he was left limping did Jacob finally cling instead of wrestle. “I will not let You go unless You bless me,” he gasped. Even in surrender he was bargaining, yet God honored the cry and renamed him Israel—“he struggles with God.” The limp would stay with him forever, a permanent reminder that the blessing comes only after we exhaust our own power.

Centuries later, another angel stepped out of eternity into a humble Galilean home. This time the greeting was not a challenge but a shattering promise: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Mary’s first reaction was trouble and fear—just like Jacob’s—but the similarity ends there. Where Jacob clenched his fists, Mary opened her hands. “How can this be?” she asked, not in defiance but in honest wonder. She did not demand signs, wrestle for control, or calculate how to make the impossible happen in her own strength. She simply placed the entire weight of the future on the word of God: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). One encounter left a man limping into the rest of his life, forever marked by the struggle. The other left a young woman magnifying the Lord, carrying within her the Hope of the nations.

We still meet the living God in these same two ways. Some of us wrestle. We hear the call of God—to repentance, to forgiveness, to mission, to surrender—and our instinct is to grapple. We want explanations, guarantees, and control.
We bargain: “Lord, I’ll follow if You first fix this situation, heal this wound, secure this future.” We exhaust ourselves trying to bless ourselves, only to discover that every blessing from heaven comes with a limp we didn’t choose. Others hear the same voice and respond like Mary. They do not silence their questions—Mary asked “How?”—but they lay every question at the feet of the One who is faithful. They say, in essence, “I do not understand, I cannot make this happen, and I am afraid—but I belong to You. Let it be.” Faith, for them, is not the absence of fear or doubt; it is the presence of surrender. This Christmas, the Child who displaced Jacob’s strength with a touch and filled Mary’s emptiness with divine life still comes to us. The angels’ song still sounds: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace…” Peace—not to those who wrestle the Angel to the ground in their own power, but to those with whom He is pleased, those who receive rather than resist, who open rather than clench.

So the question is not whether God will break in—He already has, in a manger, on a cross, by His Spirit. The question is how we will meet Him. Will we spend another year wrestling in our own strength, walking away blessed but broken and limping? Or will we, like Mary, dare to say today, “Let it be to me according to Your word”?

Which posture will mark your Christmas—and the year to come?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

A Thanksgiving Devotional: Forgiveness, Reconciliation, and the Courage to Try Again

Every Thanksgiving, we talk about gratitude—giving thanks for blessings, family, food, and the goodness of God. But sometimes the things we’re most thankful for are the things God heals inside us: old wounds, buried regrets, lingering anger, unresolved relationships.

And strangely enough, a lesson in forgiveness shows up in Home Alone through the quiet, misunderstood character known as Old Man Marley. (Do you remember him?)

We first see him through Kevin’s fearful eyes—pale, silent, distant, dragging a shovel across the snowy sidewalk. But later, sitting together on a church pew, Marley finally opens up. He confesses that he hasn’t spoken to his son in years because of a painful argument. Pride sat heavy between them. Fear kept him from trying again. Regret made him feel paralyzed. And the saddest part? He watches his granddaughter sing in the choir but doesn’t go near her… because reconciliation feels impossible. It’s a like lesson for all of us and the baggage of anger, resentment and unforgiveness that many of use lug around with us. Some call it just a ‘chip on the shoulder’ but it’s more of an abscess on the heart which prevents any forward momentum because we’re anchored to this burden that could potentially be lifted if we were to just expose it and release it.

Maybe you’ve been there.
Maybe Thanksgiving brings you around people you love but don’t know how to talk to anymore, and so you’ve quit trying.
Maybe the table is set, but something unsaid still sits between you and someone else, and the weight of that baggage keeps nagging at your heart.
Maybe gratitude is hard this year because bitterness is louder than the quiet thanks, or maybe it’s overlooked altogether because of this mountain of hurt piled up at the door of your heart.

Scripture doesn’t ignore this ache. It speaks into it with both truth and tenderness. I want to explore this for just a moment. And I hope you’re still reading this:

1. Forgiveness Is God’s Invitation to Freedom

“Bear with each other and forgive one another… Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
— Colossians 3:13

Forgiveness isn’t excusing what happened. It’s not pretending the pain didn’t matter.
Forgiveness is choosing not to let the wound have the last word. If we do, it will just continue to fester in our souls and make us even more bitter in life.

When Marley admitted, “I’m afraid to call my son,” it wasn’t the conflict that trapped him—it was the fear of taking the first step. Forgiveness begins when we decide, “I won’t let fear freeze me anymore.” It takes real guts to be the one to initiate the forgiving. Most are reluctant to even entertain the notion because all-to-often pride gets the better of us.

2. Reconciliation Requires Courage, Not Certainty

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
— Romans 12:18

God doesn’t say reconciliation will always be easy. Or fast. Or neat. Or even possible – there’s a big “if” hanging out in this verse. Sometimes the other person isn’t ready. Sometimes the relationship may never look the same.

But as far as it depends on you—you can initiate peace.
You can send a text. Make a call. Offer a prayer. Turn toward the possibility instead of away from it.

Back to Home Alone and this scene for just another moment:
Kevin tells Marley, “You should call him.” It’s a simple, childlike nudge toward hope. Isn’t it interesting that children have the tendency to hitting the heart of the matter? If we grown-ups would just become wise like kids again. (Somewhere I hear Jesus scolding His disciples for trying to shoo off a bunch of kids from talking to Him.) Simplistic faith usually has the direct approach to life, while we ‘adults’ tend to overcomplicate every avoidance and insult. Why can’t we become child-like in our faith again? What’s stopping us?

3. Thanksgiving Isn’t Complete Without Grace

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Matthew 5:9

At the end of Home Alone, there’s a brief moment easily missed unless you’re watching for it:

Marley stands outside with his son—talking, laughing, embracing. His granddaughter runs into his arms.
The family he thought he lost… restored. The snow falls. The world is quiet.
Forgiveness has opened a door he thought was locked forever.

That’s what grace does.
It rebuilds.
It reopens.
It releases both the wounded and the one who caused the wound.

A Thanksgiving Reflection

Here’s a quick reflection for each of us to consider.
This Thanksgiving, before the turkey hits the table, maybe take a moment to ask:

  • Is there someone I need to forgive, even if only in my heart for now?
  • Is there someone I need to reach out to, as far as it depends on me?
  • Is fear keeping me from trying, when grace is inviting me forward?

God specializes in resurrection—not just of souls, but of relationships.
Even the frozen, silent ones. Even the ones we think are beyond repair.

And who knows?
Like Old Man Marley, this might be the year something long-broken finally comes home.
Give this some serious though friends. Don’t live a life of bitterness when grace and even peace are possible for you right here and now. Find the courage and reach out.

Prayer:
Lord, as we give thanks this season, soften our hearts where they’ve grown hardened. Give us courage where fear has settled in. Help us forgive as You have forgiven us, and guide us toward peace where reconciliation is possible. Amen.

0

The Unnoticed Goodness

Thanksgiving has a way of slowing us down just enough to notice what’s been happening all along—the overlooked kindnesses, the small mercies, the quiet faithfulness that rarely makes headlines. It’s the season when we finally pause long enough to see the fingerprints of God on the ordinary. I mean, His presence is everywhere!

But here’s what’s been hitting me lately: some of the most powerful moments of goodness are the ones no one else ever sees.
No platform.
No applause.
No credit.
Just a quiet decision to do the right thing because it’s right.

Maybe it was the way you let someone go ahead of you in line, even though you were late.
Maybe it was the word of encouragement you sent that you thought was “no big deal.”
Maybe it was the prayer you prayed for someone who will never know your name.

Thanksgiving reminds us that gratitude isn’t just something we feel—it’s something we live. And when we live it quietly, faithfully, consistently… those moments echo. They ripple out further than we realize.

Scripture puts it simply:
“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9).

Doing good when someone is watching is easy.
Doing good when no one sees—that’s where character is formed.
And often, those hidden acts are the ones God uses to shape someone’s story in ways we’ll never fully know this side of heaven.

You may think you’re just holding a door, paying for someone’s coffee, giving a quiet offering, sending a text, praying a prayer.
But perhaps the person on the receiving end was standing right on the edge—and your small act of unseen kindness pulled them back.

This Thanksgiving, maybe the most meaningful gratitude isn’t found around the table but in the unnoticed corners of everyday life… where God is shaping the world through ordinary people doing ordinary good.

Not for applause.
Not for credit.
But for the quiet joy of reflecting Christ.

Three Questions for the Soul

  1. If God is the only one who notices the good I do this week, is that enough for me?
  2. Whose story could be changed by one small, unseen act of kindness from me today?
  3. Do I want to be known as grateful—or do I want to be grateful in a way that genuinely changes the way I live?

May your Thanksgiving be filled not just with gratitude spoken, but gratitude practiced—quietly, faithfully, joyfully.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑