Tag: Jesus

Don’t Cast Pearls Before Swine (whaaa??)

By Pastor Scott

Hey friends,
I want to ponder something that Jesus dropped in Matthew 7:6, something that’s got a raw and gritty edge to it: “Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” Whoa. Jesus, pulling no punches. But what’s he getting at here? What does this mean? What’s going on with this pearl? And, who’s the swine? And what does this mean for us, right now, in our sometimes messy lives?

Let’s go back first.
Picture it: Jesus, on a hillside, teaching a crowd that’s hanging on his every word. He’s in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, laying out this insanely radical vision for what it means to live in God’s kingdom. He tells them to love their enemies. Turn the other cheek. Don’t worry about tomorrow. And then, mic drop, he hits them with this: don’t cast your pearls before swine. It’s vivid, it’s jarring, and it’s meant to make you stop and think. I can almost imagine some of the crowd scratching their heads and saying, “huh?!”

In that first-century world, pearls were treasures—rare, precious, the kind of thing you’d guard with your life. Pigs, on the other hand? They were unclean animals in Jewish culture, not exactly known for their discernment. A pig doesn’t know a pearl from a pebble. It’ll trample anything in its path, looking for slop. And dogs? In that context, they weren’t your cuddly golden retriever. They were scavengers, wild, ready to snap at whatever you tossed their way.

Jesus is painting a picture here, and it’s not subtle.

So, what’s the pearl?
Maybe it’s the sacred, the holy—the deep truths of God’s kingdom, the gospel itself, your heart’s deepest convictions. And the swine or dogs? They could be people or situations that can’t receive what you’re offering, that might even turn it against you. Back then, Jesus might’ve been warning his followers not to waste their energy trying to force the good news on those who were openly hostile to it—like certain religious leaders or Roman oppressors who’d mock or destroy what was sacred. It’s not about giving up on people; it’s about wisdom, about knowing when to share and when to hold back.

But let’s make this relevant for us today:
What does this mean for us, today, in 2025, as we navigate a world of social media shouting matches, polarized families, politics, and a culture that sometimes feels like it’s allergic to nuance? What are the pearls in your life? Your faith? Your hope? Your vulnerability? That dream God’s planted in your heart? And where are you casting them? Are you pouring your soul into spaces that honor it, or are you scattering it in places that trample it—scrolling through endless comment threads, arguing with that one uncle who’s never going to hear you, or chasing approval from people who don’t get your worth?

  • Here’s a question to chew on: What if the swine aren’t always people, but systems, habits, or mindsets?
    Think about it. Maybe it’s that toxic workplace that chews up your creativity. Or the endless hustle that leaves no room for Sabbath. Or the inner voice that tells you you’re not enough, trampling the truth of who God says you are. Are you casting your pearls there, hoping for something different, only to end up torn apart?
  • And here’s another one: What if we’re sometimes the swine? Ouch!! That stings. Have you ever been in a place where someone offered you something beautiful—a kind word, a hard truth, a moment of grace—and you weren’t ready to receive it? Maybe you brushed it off, or worse, lashed out. Jesus’ words invite us to look at both sides: how we share, and how we receive.

>>This teaching isn’t about building walls or writing people off. Jesus isn’t saying, “Give up on the world.” He’s the guy who ate with tax collectors and sinners, after all. This is about discernment, about stewarding what’s sacred with care. It’s about knowing when to speak, when to listen, and when to walk away. It’s about trusting that God’s truth doesn’t need to be forced—it’s powerful enough to find its way in the right time, in the right hearts.

So, today, what’s one pearl you’re holding? Maybe it’s a story you’re afraid to tell, a conviction you’re scared to share, or a piece of yourself you’ve been giving to places that don’t see its value. And what would it look like to guard that pearl, to share it wisely, to offer it where it might take root and grow?

  • And here’s a final question: What if the act of not casting your pearls before swine is an act of love—for yourself, for others, for the God who gave you those pearls in the first place?

    Because love doesn’t waste what’s precious. Love knows when to hold, when to release, and when to trust that God’s got it.

So, dear friends, get out there today. Hold your pearls with care. Share them with courage. And trust that the One who made the pearl, and you, knows exactly where they’re meant to shine.

Grace &Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Dear Pastors, The Miracle IS the Mess.

Hey Pastor,

You’re sitting there, sipping that coffee that’s gone cold, staring at the sermon notes that refuse to come together, aren’t you? The weight of the world—or at least the weight of your congregation’s expectations—sits heavy on your shoulders. You’re supposed to have answers. You’re supposed to be the steady one, the one who points to the divine when everyone else is lost in the chaos. But what if the chaos is the point? What if the mess is where the miracle lives?

Let’s pause for a second and breathe. Because I know you’re tired. I know you’re carrying the stories of the single mom who can’t make rent, the teenager who’s cutting again, the elder who’s questioning everything they’ve ever believed. And you’re carrying your own stuff too—the doubts that creep in at 2 a.m., the fear that you’re not enough, the nagging sense that maybe you’re just faking it.

But what if that’s exactly where God shows up? Not in the polished sermon, not in the perfectly executed service, but in the raw, unfiltered mess of it all?

Think about it. The Bible isn’t a tidy book. It’s a wild, untamed collection of stories about people who screw up, fall apart, and somehow, in the middle of their mess, find themselves stumbling into grace. Abraham lies about his wife. Moses kills a guy. David—oh, David—makes a royal mess of things. And yet, these are the people God uses. These are the ones who carry the story forward.

What if your church’s budget crisis, your personal doubts, or that one parishioner who keeps emailing you at midnight are not distractions from the holy but invitations into it? What if the divine is woven into the frayed edges of your life, not waiting for you to clean it up first?

I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. It’s brutal sometimes. You’re out there, week after week, trying to speak hope into a world that feels like it’s unraveling. You’re preaching resurrection while you’re still grieving your own losses. But here’s the thing: the resurrection didn’t happen in a sterile, airbrushed tomb. It happened in the dark, in the dirt, in the place where nobody thought life could break through.

So, Pastor, what if you stopped trying to fix the mess? What if, instead of chasing the perfect sermon or the flawless leadership moment, you leaned into the cracks? What if you let yourself feel the weight of the doubts, the fears, the failures—not to wallow, but to find the sacred there?

Because I believe this: God is in the mess. God is in the tears you cry when nobody’s watching. God is in the awkward silence when you don’t have the answer. God is in the church board meeting that goes off the rails, in the youth group kid who keeps asking why, in the moment you look in the mirror and wonder if you’re cut out for this.

The miracle isn’t that you get it all together. The miracle is that God meets you in the middle of it.

So here’s my invitation to you today: take a risk. Preach that sermon that’s a little too raw. Have that conversation with the person you’ve been avoiding. Admit to your congregation that you don’t have all the answers. Let the mess be holy. Because when you do, you might just find that the Spirit is moving in ways you never expected—through the cracks, through the chaos, through you.

What if the mess is the canvas where God paints the most beautiful stories? What if your imperfections are the very place where grace breaks through?

Keep going, Pastor. You’re not alone. The miracle is already happening—right there in the mess.

With you in the wild, untamed journey,
Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Cancel Culture: How Do We Live Faithfully In an Age of Outrage?

Welcome to Pastors Ponderings with Pastor Scott, where we dive into the big, messy, beautiful questions of faith and what it means to follow Jesus in a complicated world. Grab a coffee, settle in, and let’s wrestle with something together.

Hey there, friends. Today, I want to talk about something that surrounds us like the air we breathe: outrage. Cancel culture. The way we tear each other down in a single post, reel, or 280-character jab. It’s everywhere—on X, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and even spilling into our churches and coffee shop conversations. As people of faith, this raises some tough questions: How do we live in this polarized, trigger-happy world without losing our witness? How do we speak truth, show grace, and avoid getting swept into the digital shouting match? What does it look like to be salt and light when everyone’s ready to throw stones? Let’s ponder this together.

Let’s get real. Have you ever scrolled through Instagram, swiped through TikTok, or checked your Facebook feed and felt your blood pressure spike? One post, one viral video, one hot take, and suddenly it’s a war zone. Someone’s offended, someone’s canceled, and everybody’s got an opinion. It’s like we’re all competing for the loudest megaphone. And if you’re a Christian, it’s even trickier. You want to stand for truth, but then you hear Jesus’ words echoing: “Love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). So, what do you do? Do you fire off a comment? Stay silent? Or is there another way—a better way?

A Real-Life Example

Let me paint a picture. A while back, a Christian author—let’s call her Jane—posted on Facebook about a hot-button issue. She tried to be thoughtful, to speak truth as she saw it while showing compassion. But the internet doesn’t do nuance. Within hours, her words were screenshot, shared across X and Instagram, twisted, and weaponized. One side called her a sellout; the other called her a bigot. TikTok stitched her post with mocking commentary, hashtags flew, and Jane was “canceled” by people who’d never even read her books. She stepped back from public life, wounded, wondering if she’d ever speak again.

Sound familiar? It’s not just Jane. It’s pastors, influencers, everyday folks who say the “wrong” thing on social media and get buried under a pile of outrage. And here’s what gets me: Sometimes the loudest voices claiming to defend truth—whether in TikTok duets or Facebook rants—are the ones doing the most damage. So, I’ve got to ask: Is this what we’re called to? Is this the witness Jesus had in mind?

What Would Jesus Post?

Let’s take it a step further. Imagine Jesus with a social media account in 2025. Seriously, picture it—Jesus on X, Instagram, or TikTok. Would He be clapping back at His critics in the comments? Stitching a video to dunk on the latest scandal? Or would He be doing something else entirely—something that makes us all stop, rethink, and maybe even repent? I can’t help but wonder: What would Jesus post? Would His words cut through the noise or add to it?

A Story from Scripture

This brings me to a story in the Bible that I keep coming back to: John 8, the woman caught in adultery. Picture the scene. A mob’s gathered, stones in hand, ready to cancel this woman for her sin. They’re righteous, they’re angry, and they’ve got the law on their side. And Jesus? He doesn’t join the mob. He doesn’t argue. He kneels down, scribbles in the dirt, and says, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone” (John 8:7). One by one, the crowd melts away. Then He looks at the woman—not with shame, but with grace—and says, “Go now and leave your life of sin” (John 8:11).

What’s so powerful about this story is how Jesus holds both truth and grace in perfect balance. He doesn’t deny her sin, but He doesn’t destroy her either. He disarms the outrage without dismissing the need for accountability. And I wonder: What would it look like for us to do that? To step into the chaos of cancel culture—on X, Instagram, TikTok, or Facebook—with that kind of posture? Can we speak truth without throwing stones? Can we show grace without compromising what’s right?

Cancel Culture Hits Close to Home

Here’s where it gets real. Cancel culture isn’t just “out there” in viral TikTok videos or heated Facebook threads. It’s in our churches. It’s in our small groups. We cancel people when we shut down their questions, when we slap labels like “liberal” or “legalist” on them because they see things differently. We’re so quick to draw lines, to pick fights, to win arguments. But what if winning the argument means losing the person? What if our need to be “right” drowns out our call to love?

Just this week, I saw a post on Instagram blow up. A pastor shared a thought about politics, and it was like a match in a gas tank. The comments section was a mess—half calling him a heretic, half calling him a prophet. Over on TikTok, people were stitching his video with their own takes, and X was buzzing with quote-tweets. Nobody was listening. Everybody was shouting. And I thought, Is this what we’re called to? Jesus said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). So, why does it feel like we’re better at canceling than loving?

A Tough Question

Here’s a question to chew on: Can grace and accountability coexist? Is it possible to call out what’s wrong—whether it’s sin, injustice, or just bad theology—without crushing the human being behind it? Because I believe that’s the Jesus way. I believe that’s what it looks like to be salt and light in an age of outrage (Matthew 5:13-16). But it’s not easy. It takes courage, humility, and a whole lot of prayer.

Practical Steps for Faithful Living

So, how do we do this? How do we navigate cancel culture across X, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok without losing our way? Here are a few thoughts:

  1. Pause Before You Post. When you see that TikTok video or Facebook post that makes your blood boil, take a breath. Ask yourself, “Will my comment or share build something up or just burn it down?” Proverbs 15:1 says, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” Jesus didn’t react; He responded. Let’s do the same.
  2. Listen to Understand, Not to Argue. Next time someone posts something you disagree with, try asking a question instead of dropping a truth bomb. “Can you share more about why you feel that way?” James 1:19 reminds us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Curiosity can open doors that arguments slam shut.
  3. Lean into Humility. None of us have the full picture—not me, not you, not that TikTok influencer with a million followers. Admitting you might be wrong doesn’t weaken your faith; it strengthens it. Philippians 2:3 says, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.”
  4. Choose Grace Over Stones. This doesn’t mean ignoring sin or staying silent about injustice. It means remembering that every person—every single one—is made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). Even the ones who drive you nuts. Even the ones you want to cancel in the comments. Grace doesn’t mean excusing wrong; it means valuing the person enough to call them to something better.

A Hopeful Call

Friends, we’re living in an age of outrage, but we don’t have to play by its rules. We can be different. We can be people who speak truth with love (Ephesians 4:15), who hold accountability with grace, who show the world what Jesus looks like—not with viral posts or hot takes, but with lives that say, “You are seen, you are loved, you are worth it.”

So, let’s keep pondering these questions: How can we be faithful in a world that’s quick to cancel? How can we reflect Jesus in the way we post, comment, and love—whether on X, Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok? And what would it look like for our churches, our communities, and our social media feeds to be places where grace wins the day?

Thanks for joining me on Pastors Ponderings. If this stirred something in you, share it with someone who needs to hear it. Drop me a message—let’s keep wrestling with these questions together. Until next time, keep asking the hard questions, keep choosing grace, and keep shining light in the mess.

Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Jaded Faith, A Church That Pushes Away, and the Hunger for Something Real.

by Pastor Scott

Hey there, friends. can we talk for just a minute, you and me, and explore something heavy on my heart? It’s this thing I’m calling jaded faith—that worn-out, beat-up, “I’m not sure I can do this anymore” feeling that creeps in when the church, the place that’s supposed to be home, starts feeling like a stranger. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? That moment when you look around and think, This isn’t what I signed up for.

I’ve seen it in your eyes at coffee shops, heard it in your voices over late-night texts. People who love Jesus, or at least want to, but feel like the church has let them down. And not just let them down—sometimes it’s pushed them out the door. So let’s unpack this, because it’s real, it’s raw, and it’s not how it’s supposed to be.

The Church That Drives People Away

The church is supposed to be this beautiful, messy, vibrant community where we wrestle with life together, where we find God in the middle of our doubts and dreams. But sometimes, it’s not that at all. Sometimes it’s a place where questions get shushed, where pain gets a pat on the head and a “just pray harder,” where the hard edges of life are sanded down to fit a tidy Sunday sermon. And that, friends, is when people start walking away.

I’ve talked to folks who’ve been burned by churches that cared more about their image than their hearts. Churches that preached “love your neighbor” but turned a blind eye to injustice. Churches that promised answers but dodged the questions. And let’s be honest—sometimes it’s not even the big stuff. It’s the slow drip of feeling unseen, unheard, or like you have to fake it to fit in. That’s when faith starts to jade, starts to fray at the edges, when the spark that once lit you up starts to flicker.

The Bible doesn’t shy away from this. In Matthew 23:27, Jesus calls out the religious leaders of his day, saying they’re like “whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead.” Ouch. That’s Jesus saying, Stop pretending. Stop polishing the surface when the inside is rotting. The church isn’t supposed to be a performance—it’s supposed to be a place where we meet God in the real. Where we drop all of our false pretenses and showy expressions and just – be. Why do we wear masks sometimes in church and pretend everything is alright when inside we are far from okay?!

The Hunger for Authentic Faith

So what do we do with this? If the church has let us down, if our faith feels jaded, where do we go? I think it starts with admitting we’re hungry. Hungry for a faith that doesn’t flinch at the hard questions. Hungry for a God who’s big enough to handle our doubts, our fears, our why is the world like this? cries in the dark.

Think about Job. (I don’t know why I always seem to come back to this guy) But this guy lost everything—his family, his wealth, his health—and he didn’t just sit there quoting platitudes. He yelled at God. He demanded answers. In Job 38, when God finally speaks, He doesn’t give Job a neat little PowerPoint on why suffering happens. He shows up in a whirlwind, reminding Job that He’s God, that He’s vast, that He’s holding the universe together. And somehow, that’s enough for Job. Not because he got answers, but because he got God. Sometimes faith – real faith has to leap and find contentment in knowing that we won’t always have the answers figured out.

That’s what we’re craving, isn’t it? A faith that’s real enough to ask, Why does this hurt so much? Where are you, God? A faith that doesn’t need to tie everything up with a bow but trusts that God is there, even in the mess. Psalm 42:11 captures it so well: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.” It’s not denying the pain—it’s choosing to hope anyway.

The Danger of False Teachings

But here’s where it gets tricky. When people are hungry, they’ll eat anything. And there are voices out there—preachers, influencers, feel-good gurus—who know exactly how to serve up a meal that tastes good but leaves you empty. It’s like eating desert when your body requires a whole meal – but we’re just consuming empty calories instead. They’re the ones promising health, wealth, and happiness if you just believe hard enough, pray loud enough, give enough. They’re selling a faith that’s all flowers and no roots. All sugar but no substance.

Paul saw this coming. In 2 Timothy 4:3, he writes, “For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear.” That’s a warning, friends. When we’re jaded, when we’re hurting, it’s so easy to fall for the flowery stuff—the sermons that make us feel warm and fuzzy but never challenge us to grow, to wrestle, to change.

False teachings aren’t always obvious. Sometimes they’re wrapped in Christian lingo, delivered with a smile. But if it’s pointing you to anything other than Jesus—if it’s promising you a life free of struggle or a God who’s just a cosmic vending machine—it’s not the real deal. Jesus himself said in John 16:33, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” He didn’t promise a trouble-free life; He promised His presence through it.

A Church That Welcomes the Real

So what’s the antidote? How do we rebuild a faith that’s not jaded, a church that doesn’t drive people away? I think it starts with being real. Real with each other, real with God. It means creating spaces where questions are welcome, where doubts aren’t a sin, where we can say, I’m struggling, and someone says, Me too. Let’s walk through it together.

It means preaching a Gospel that’s not just about getting to heaven but about living with Jesus here and now. It means tackling the hard stuff—poverty, injustice, mental health, the why behind the pain—and trusting that God’s big enough to meet us there. It means admitting when we’ve gotten it wrong, when we’ve been more about rules than relationships, more about programs than people.

Hebrews 10:24-25 gives us a blueprint: “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another.” That’s the church I want to be part of. That’s the church I want to be. A church that spurs each other on, that doesn’t give up on community, that encourages each other to keep going, keep asking, keep seeking.

Let’s Keep It Real

So, friends, if your faith feels jaded, if the church has let you down, I’m sorry. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. But don’t give up. There’s a God who sees you, who loves you, who’s not afraid of your questions or your pain. And there are people out there—maybe not perfect, but real—who want to walk this road with you.

Let’s be a church that’s honest about the hard stuff, that points to Jesus instead of empty promises, that says, Come as you are, doubts and all. Let’s ask the big questions, wrestle with the answers, and trust that God’s holding us through it all. Because that’s the kind of faith that doesn’t just survive—it thrives.

What do you think? What’s jading your faith right now? And what would a real, authentic church look like for you? Let’s talk about it.

Pastor Scott

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Are We Really Being the Church? A Call to Live Faith Outside the Walls.


Welcome to Pastor’s Ponderings, where we wrestle with the big, holy questions that challenge us to lean closer to Jesus. Today, we’re diving into something that might sting a little but is worth the discomfort: Are we, as church people, truly being the church in our communities? Or are we just playing church inside our safe, cozy buildings while the world outside hungers for something real?

Church: A Movement, Not a Destination

Picture this: You’re driving through town, and there’s the church on the corner—steeple piercing the sky, stained glass glowing, maybe a sign out front with a catchy phrase like, “Too blessed to be stressed!” It’s comforting, familiar. It’s where we gather to sing, pray, and hear a sermon. But what if we’ve gotten so comfortable inside those walls that we’ve forgotten what the church is supposed to do? What if we’ve turned church into a destination instead of a movement?

Jesus didn’t call us to build fortresses. He called us to go—to be salt of the earth – (Matthew 15:13-16). He tells us to be salt and light in the world: “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything… You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” Salt doesn’t do any good sitting in the shaker, and light is useless hidden under a bowl. Jesus is saying, “Get out there. Flavor the world. Illuminate the darkness.” And that happens not just in the pews but in coffee shops, grocery stores, school board meetings, and homeless shelters—wherever people are hurting, doubting, or searching.

Scripture’s Call to Action

Scripture is clear about this. In Acts 1:8, Jesus commissions His disciples: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” He doesn’t say, “Build a nice building and invite people to hear about Me.” He says, “Be my witnesses”—in your city, your neighborhood, even the places you’d rather avoid.

Then there’s James 2:17, a gut-punch of truth: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.” If our faith only shows up on Sunday mornings, confined to Bible studies and worship services, are we truly living it? Or are we just performing it?

Questions That Sting

Let’s sit with some hard questions—and I’m asking these of myself, too. When was the last time you had a real, no-agenda conversation with someone in your community who doesn’t go to church? Not to invite them to a service or “fix” them, but to listen, to love, to be present?

What’s stopping you from stepping out of the church building and into the mess of the world? Is it fear? Comfort? The assumption that “someone else” will do it? Or, if we’re honest, do you secretly think the people out there don’t deserve your time, your energy, your Jesus?

Here’s one more to twist the knife: If your church building disappeared tomorrow, would your community even notice? Would they feel the absence of your love, your service, your light? Or have we been so inward-focused that we’ve forgotten how to be the church where it counts?

These questions hurt because Jesus didn’t call us to a safe, comfortable faith. He called us to a faith that moves, risks, and loves even when it’s inconvenient. But here’s the beautiful part: When we live church in the community, it’s not just the world that changes—we change, too.

A Story of Bridge-Building

Let me share a story. I met a guy named Mike at a local diner. He’s not a church guy—tattoos, rough past, and enough skepticism about religion to fill a book. I started showing up at that diner regularly, not to preach, but to talk. Over coffee and pancakes, we got to know each other. One day, Mike asked, “Scott, why do you keep showing up? What’s your angle?” I replied, “No angle, man. I just like you. And I think God does, too.”

Months later, Mike came to our church’s community barbecue—not a service, just a party we threw in the park. He didn’t come to “get saved.” He came because he felt seen and loved. That’s what being the church in the community does. It builds bridges. It shows people Jesus in ways a sermon alone never could.

Living Church Practically

So, what does this look like? It’s not about adding more programs to the church calendar. It’s about living with eyes open. Volunteer at the local food bank, not because it’s a “church thing,” but because people are hungry. Show up at city council meetings to advocate for the marginalized. Invite your neighbor over for dinner, even if they think church is a scam. Be the church where you are, with the people God places in your path.

And here’s the promise: When we do this, we’re not just obeying Jesus—we’re joining Him. He’s already out there—in the streets, the schools, the places we’ve been too scared or busy to go. He’s waiting for us to show up.

Where Is God Nudging You?

So, where are you at with this? Where’s God nudging you to be the church outside the walls? Maybe it’s a person you’ve been avoiding, a place you’ve written off, or a step of courage you’ve been too comfortable to take. Sit with that. Pray about it.

Let’s pray together: God, You are the God who goes. You sent Jesus into the world, not to stay safe, but to love, serve, and save. Holy Spirit, shake us up. Show us where we’ve been hiding in our buildings, our routines, our comfort. Give us the courage to be Your church in our communities—to be salt, light, and love. We need You for this. Amen.

Let’s keep pondering how we can live church where it matters most. The world’s waiting.

What’s one step you can take this week to be the church in your community?
Share your thoughts, and let’s encourage each other to live faith out loud.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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What if We’re Getting Worship Wrong?

by Pastor Scott Strissel

Hey there, friends. Imagine this: you’re sitting in church, the lights are low, the band’s playing that one song that always gives you chills, and you’re feeling… something. You call it worship. Or maybe you’re out in the woods, the sun’s filtering through the trees, and your heart swells with awe. That’s worship too, right? But what if worship is bigger than those moments? What if it’s not just a song, a feeling, or a Sunday service? What if we’ve been putting worship in a box when it’s supposed to be our entire life?

I’m diving into this question today because, honestly, it’s been messing with me. I keep coming back to Romans 12:1, where Paul says, “Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” Let that sink in. A living sacrifice. Not a song. Not a moment. Your whole life—every breath, every choice, every messy, ordinary moment—offered to God. That’s worship.

So, let’s unpack this together. What is worship, really? What isn’t it? And why does it matter so much?

Worship: More Than a Moment

When you hear “worship,” what’s the first thing that pops into your head? For a lot of us, it’s tied to music or church. We picture hands raised, eyes closed, maybe a few tears. And don’t get me wrong—those moments can be powerful. But if we stop there, we’re selling worship short. Romans 12:1 isn’t about an hour on Sunday; it’s about Monday morning in the carpool line, Wednesday night at the kitchen sink, Friday afternoon when you’re exhausted and still have to show up for someone.

Think about the word “sacrifice.” In the Old Testament, sacrifices were intense—animals were brought to the altar, blood was shed, it was a total surrender. But Paul says, “Forget the dead offering. Be a living one.” Your life—your commute, your arguments, your dreams, your failures—is the offering God wants. It’s like God’s saying, “I don’t just want your songs. I want you. All of you.”

That’s wild, right? It means worship isn’t confined to “spiritual” moments. It’s the way you listen to a friend who’s hurting. It’s choosing forgiveness when you’d rather hold a grudge. It’s taking care of your body, stewarding your time, even resting—because all of it belongs to God. Psalm 24:1 says, “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it.” If everything is His, then every moment is a chance to worship.

What Worship Isn’t

But here’s where we can get tripped up. Sometimes we make worship something it’s not. It’s not a performance. You don’t have to hit the right notes or say the perfect prayer to impress God. It’s not a transaction either—like, “If I sing loud enough, God will bless me.” And it’s not just a feeling. You don’t need goosebumps or a spiritual high for it to count.

Look at Romans 12:1 again. Paul ties worship to God’s mercy. It’s not about earning God’s favor; it’s a response to the grace He’s already poured out. John 4:23-24 backs this up when Jesus says true worshipers worship “in spirit and in truth.” It’s not about the externals—it’s about a heart surrendered to God, whether you’re in a cathedral or a cubicle.

And here’s another thing: worship isn’t about comparing yourself to others. We’ve all been there, right? You see someone at church, hands raised, totally lost in the moment, and you think, “Man, I’m not spiritual enough.” Or you scroll Instagram and see someone praying at sunrise, and you feel like your quiet time is lame. But worship isn’t a competition. God’s not grading your vibe. He’s after your heart.

The Sacredness of the Ordinary

So, if worship is this all-of-life thing, what does that look like? I think it starts with seeing the sacred in the ordinary. Colossians 3:17 says, “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Whatever you do. That means your work, your parenting, your grocery shopping—it’s all potential worship.

What if you started noticing where God’s already showing up in your day? Maybe it’s in the laughter of your kids, or the way a coworker encourages you, or even the frustration of a hard conversation. What if you paused in those moments and said, “God, this is for You. This is my worship”?

But let’s be real—this can feel overwhelming. If every moment is worship, then every moment matters. There’s no part of your life that’s off-limits. Your anger, your doubts, your Netflix binges—they’re all on the table. That’s a lot to hold. But here’s the flip side: it’s also incredibly freeing. Because it means there’s no moment where God isn’t with you. No part of your life is too mundane or too broken to be holy. Your kitchen, your office, your hospital bed—it’s all sacred ground.

The Hard Question

Here’s where I want to get a little uncomfortable. Are there parts of your life you’re holding back from God? Maybe it’s your work—you think it’s too “secular” to be spiritual. Or your relationships—you’re not sure how they fit into this worship thing. Or maybe it’s your struggles—the shame, the fear, the stuff you don’t even want to name. What would it look like to bring those to the altar too? Not to fix them, but to say, “God, this is me. This is my sacrifice. Take it.”

Isaiah 1:11-17 is a gut-punch here. God tells His people He’s tired of their sacrifices and religious routines because their hearts aren’t in it. He says, “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.” Worship isn’t just singing—it’s living justly, loving mercy, walking humbly (Micah 6:8). It’s letting God into every corner of your life, even the messy ones.

Living as Worship

So, how do we do this? I don’t have a perfect formula, but I think it starts with paying attention. Slow down and notice God in your day. Offer Him the small stuff—the way you speak to your spouse, the way you handle stress. And let go of the pressure to make worship look a certain way. Your life, as it is, is enough.

Here’s a challenge: pick one ordinary or messy part of your life today—maybe your work, your parenting, or even your doubts—and offer it to God as worship. Say, “This is my living sacrifice.” Trust that He sees it, and He’s pleased.

Friends, Romans 12:1 is an invitation to see your life differently. To see every moment as a chance to worship, not because you’re perfect, but because God’s mercy is that big. Because He’s that near. So, let’s live with our eyes open to the sacredness of it all. Let’s offer our whole selves—our joys, our struggles, our everything—as our true and proper worship.

What’s one part of your life you could offer to God today? And what would it look like to trust that it’s enough? Let’s wrestle with that. Let’s live it. And let’s keep showing up to this wild, beautiful, sacred life, giving it all to the One who’s already holding it.

Grace & Peace.
-Pastor Scott.

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Don’t Lose Heart.

Hey there, you beautiful soul. Let’s just pause for a second, wherever you are—sipping coffee, folding laundry, or maybe stealing a quiet moment in the car. I want us to lean into something together, something ancient yet still alive, something that feels like the still, small voice of the Divine. We’re going to dig into a few verses from 2 Corinthians 4:16-18, and I promise, they’re like a tiny spark that can light up the whole room of your heart. Here they are:

“Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

Wow. Just… wow. Can you feel or sense the substance of those two verses? The tenderness? Paul, this guy who’s been through shipwrecks and prisons and all sorts of chaos, starts with this bold, gentle nudge: Don’t lose heart. It’s like he’s sitting across from you at a coffee shop, looking you in the eyes, saying, “I know it’s hard. I know you’re tired. But don’t give up.”

What does that stir in you? Because, let’s be real—sometimes life feels like it’s fraying at the edges. Maybe your body’s aching, or your heart’s carrying a grief that’s too heavy to name. Maybe it’s just the slow grind of the everyday, where you’re juggling bills and schedules and a million little worries. Paul sees that. He’s not pretending it’s all fine. He says, Outwardly, we’re wasting away. That’s honest, isn’t it? Things break down. Bodies age. Plans unravel.

But then—oh, then—he flips the script. Inwardly, we’re being renewed day by day. Isn’t that wild? It’s like there’s this quiet, steady work happening inside you, even when you can’t see it. Like a seed splitting open under the soil, or the first hint of dawn before the sun even crests the horizon. Renewal. Not a one-time fireworks show, but a daily, almost invisible unfolding. What if that’s true? What if, right now, in the middle of whatever you’re carrying, something new is being born in you?

And then Paul goes deeper. He calls our troubles light and momentary. Now, I don’t know about you, but sometimes my troubles feel like boulders, not feathers. Momentary? Some of you are thinking, “Paul, this pain has been my companion for years.” So what’s he doing here? I don’t think he’s dismissing our struggles. I think he’s inviting us to zoom out, to see the bigger canvas. These troubles, as real as they are, aren’t the whole story. They’re weaving something—something Paul calls an eternal glory.

Glory. That word’s got some heft, doesn’t it? In the Bible, it’s this sense of radiance, of divine weight, of something so real it makes everything else feel like a shadow. Your pain, your questions, your long nights—they’re not wasted. They’re part of this mysterious process, shaping something eternal, something that far outweighs the heaviness you’re carrying. Can you imagine that? That the stuff you’re walking through is somehow contributing to a beauty that’s bigger than you can grasp?

And here’s where Paul gets really mischievous: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. Okay, Paul, how do you see the unseen? It’s like he Ascendant, right? It’s this cosmic paradox, this invitation to shift your gaze. The seen—the doctor’s report, the bank account, the broken relationship—that’s real, but it’s temporary. The unseen—the love that holds you, the hope that flickers, the divine presence that’s closer than your breath—that’s eternal. It’s like one of those optical illusions where you see a vase, but then you blink, and it’s two faces. Paul’s saying, “Blink. Look again. See the eternal.”

So, how do we do this? How do we train our hearts to notice the unseen? Maybe it’s as simple as starting your day with a breath and a question: What’s renewing in me today? Maybe it’s naming one thing you’re grateful for, even if it’s just the warmth of your coffee mug. Maybe it’s sitting in silence for a minute, letting yourself feel connected to something bigger. These aren’t grand gestures. They’re small, daily practices that tune your soul to the frequency of the eternal.

Here’s the thing: this isn’t about ignoring the pain or slapping a smiley face sticker on your struggles. Feel it all—the ache, the fear, the questions. But don’t let that be the only story. There’s another story, an unseen one, where renewal is happening, where glory is being forged, where the eternal is breaking through.

So, my friend, wherever you are today—whether you’re standing tall or barely holding on—don’t lose heart. Fix your eyes on the unseen. Trust that something beautiful, something eternal, is unfolding. And here’s an open-ended invitation: What’s one tiny way you can practice seeing the unseen today? Maybe it’s a moment of gratitude, a kind word to someone, or just a deep breath where you whisper, “I’m not alone.” What’s stirring in you? Let it simmer. Let it lead you somewhere new.

Grace and peace, always.
-Pastor Scott.

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When Sunday School Answers Fall Short…

by Pastor Scott

You ever get tired of the neat, tidy answers? You know the ones I’m talking about—those churchy, Sunday School responses that get tossed out like a life preserver when life’s questions feel more like a tsunami. “God’s got a plan.” “Just trust and obey.” “It’ll all work out in the end.” They’re not wrong, necessarily. But sometimes, they feel like Band-Aids on a broken bone. Life’s complicated, messy, and raw. And sometimes, the harder we try to wrap it up in a neat little bow, the more it unravels.

I’m sitting here, sipping my coffee, staring out the window at a world that doesn’t always make sense. Maybe you’re there too. Maybe you’ve asked, Why did this happen? Why him/her? Why now? Maybe you’ve prayed until your knees ached, and the heavens stayed silent. Or maybe you’ve watched someone you love wrestle with pain so deep it makes your chest hurt just to think about it. And when you bring those questions to church, you get… a platitude. A verse quoted like it’s a magic wand. A smile that says, “Don’t dig too deep.”

But what if the digging is the point? What if the wrestling is where we meet God? What if, within that tension, real faith, even in the unknown, gets galvanized?

Let’s talk about Jacob for a second. You know the story—Genesis 32. He’s alone by the Jabbok River, and he ends up in this all-night wrestling match with a mysterious figure. Some say it’s God, some say an angel, but whoever it is, Jacob’s not letting go. He’s got questions. He’s got baggage. He’s got a past he’s running from and a future he’s terrified of. And in the struggle, he gets a limp—and a new name. Israel. “One who strives with God.”

Isn’t that something? God doesn’t smite Jacob for wrestling. He doesn’t hand him a scroll with all the answers. He meets him in the fight. And Jacob walks away changed, but not fixed. He’s still got the limp.

What if that’s us? What if the limp is part of the deal? What if the questions—the ones that keep you up at night, the ones that make you wonder if you’re even doing this faith thing right—are the very place where God shows up?

I’m so tired of pretending we’ve got it all figured out. I’m tired of hearing, “Just read Romans 8:28, and you’ll be fine.” Don’t get me wrong—that verse is gold. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” It’s true. But it’s not a vending machine promise. It doesn’t mean every tragedy comes with a PowerPoint explaining why. Sometimes, we’re left with the tension. The mystery. The ache.

And that’s okay.

Think about Job. The guy loses everything—his kids, his wealth, his health. His friends show up with their Sunday School answers, basically saying, “You must’ve sinned, brah. Repent, and it’ll all be fine.” Job’s like, No, I didn’t do anything to deserve this. And he demands an audience with God. He’s bold. He’s raw. He’s not afraid to say, This doesn’t make sense, and I’m not okay with it.

When God finally speaks, does He give Job a flow chart of why bad things happen? Nope. He shows up in a whirlwind and says, Were you there when I laid the earth’s foundation? It’s not an answer—it’s a perspective shift. God’s like, I’m bigger than your questions, but I’m still here with you. And somehow, that’s enough for Job. Not because he gets it, but because he trusts.

So, here’s the challenging, hard question for us today: Can we trust God when the answers don’t come? Can we sit in the tension of I don’t know and still believe He’s good? Can we let go of the need to have it all figured out and just… wrestle?

I also think about Jesus in Gethsemane. He’s sweating blood, begging for another way. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me.” (Luke 22:42). Even Jesus, the Son of God, had a moment where the plan didn’t feel okay. But then He says, “Yet not my will, but yours be done.” That’s not a Sunday School answer. That’s surrender in the face of the unknown. That’s trust when the road ahead looks like a cross.

So, what about you? What’s the question you’re wrestling with? The one you’re afraid to say out loud because it feels too big, too messy, too unspiritual? What if you brought it to God—not for an answer, but for a fight? What if you said, I’m not letting go until you bless me—not with clarity, but with presence?

Here’s what I’m learning: Faith isn’t about having all the answers. (I used to think it was, but it certainly isn’t) It’s about trusting God in the questions. It’s about showing up to the mat, night after night, even when you’re tired, even when you’re limping. Because God’s not afraid of your struggle. He’s not offended by your doubt. He’s there, in the dark, ready to wrestle.

So, let’s stop pretending we’ve got it all together – because we don’t. Let’s stop handing out churchy clichés like they’re the cure for everything. Let’s be honest about the hard stuff—the grief, the fear, the why that echoes in our souls. And let’s trust that God is big enough to handle it. That He’s good enough to hold us, even when we don’t understand.

As it says in Psalm 23:4, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Not because I get it. Not because it all makes sense. But because He’s with me.

So, keep wrestling, my friend. Keep asking. Keep limping. And trust that the God who meets you in the struggle is the same God who carries you through.

What’s the question you’re afraid to ask? And what would it look like to bring it to God—not for an answer, but for Him?
-Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott

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Discovering Your Calling – One Path or Many?

By Pastor Scott

Hello, friends. Welcome to Pastor’s Ponderings, a space where we sit together, hearts open, and wonder about the big questions. No need for tidy answers or neat conclusions—just a willingness to lean into the mystery of God. Today, I’m pondering something that keeps so many of us awake at night: calling. What does it mean to discover your calling? Is there one singular path God has laid out for you, like a cosmic GPS blinking “You Are Here”? Or is life something wider, messier, more… alive? Let’s explore this together, through the lens of Scripture and the quiet whispers of the Spirit.

The other day, I was walking through the park, watching leaves spiral down from the trees, each one dancing in its own chaotic, beautiful way. I wondered, Does every leaf have a calling? To land in just the right spot? Or is the falling itself the point? We humans, we crave the one thing—the one job, the one mission, the one purpose that makes sense of our existence. We want to know we’re on the right path.

But when I open Scripture, it’s like God gently chuckles at our need for a straight line. Take Jeremiah 1:5, where God says, “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” That’s specific, isn’t it? Jeremiah’s got a clear calling: prophet, nations, go. But then I think about Moses. He starts as a prince in Egypt, becomes a fugitive, then spends decades as a shepherd before God shows up in a burning bush and says, “Now you’re going to lead my people out of slavery.” Was Moses’ calling always to be a liberator? What about those 40 years tending sheep? Were they a detour, or were they part of the calling?

This is where it gets interesting. We love the idea of a singular calling because it feels safe. “Tell me the one thing I’m supposed to do, God, and I’ll do it.” But Scripture doesn’t always play along. Consider Paul. He’s a tentmaker, a Pharisee, a persecutor of Christians, and then—bam—blinded on the road to Damascus, he becomes an apostle to the Gentiles. But even then, his life isn’t just one thing. He’s preaching, writing letters, making tents to pay the bills, surviving shipwrecks, sitting in prisons. Was his calling just “apostle”? Or was it the whole messy, beautiful tapestry of his life?

Ecclesiastes 3:1 offers a clue: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” A season. Not a single moment, not a single job, but seasons. Planting, uprooting, weeping, laughing, building, tearing down. What if your calling isn’t one thing, but a rhythm? A dance through seasons, where God is weaving something bigger than you can see?

Maybe the question isn’t “What’s my calling?” but “Who am I becoming?” When Jesus calls the disciples in Matthew 4:19, he doesn’t hand them a five-year plan. He simply says, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Follow me. Not “Here’s the map.” Not “Here’s the job description.” Just… follow. Trust. Walk.

That’s scary, isn’t it? We want certainty. We want to know we’re not wasting our lives. But what if the wasting is the point? What if the detours, the failures, the seasons of not-knowing are where God is shaping us? Psalm 139:16 says, “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” All the days. Not just the shiny ones where you feel like you’re “living your purpose.” Every day. The days you’re changing diapers, the days you’re stuck in a cubicle, the days you’re crying because you don’t know what’s next. God’s writing something in all of them.

Here’s where I’m landing, friends: I don’t think Scripture points us to one singular calling. It points us to a Caller. To a God who says, “Walk with me. Trust me. Let me shape you through every season, every stumble, every joy.” Your calling isn’t a destination; it’s a relationship. It’s showing up, day after day, saying, “Here I am, God. What’s next?”

And maybe that’s freeing. Maybe it means you don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe the barista pouring coffee with love, the accountant crunching numbers with integrity, the artist creating beauty in obscurity—they’re all living their calling, right now, because they’re doing it with God.

So, what’s stirring in you? Are you chasing the one big thing? Or are you starting to see the beauty in the seasons, in the mess, in the not-knowing? I’d love to hear your thoughts—drop a comment or send me a message. This is a journey we’re on together.

Let’s close with a prayer: God, you are here. In every season, in every question, you are writing our story. Help us trust you. Help us follow. Amen.

Thanks for pondering with me, friends. Until next time, keep wondering, keep walking, keep trusting.
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

If this topic has been meaningful to you, would you let me know by dropping a comment below? I would love to hear from you!

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Forgiveness and Reconciliation: Why Is It So Hard?

-Pastor Scott

Hey there, you beautiful, messy, wandering souls. Welcome to Faith Ponderings, where we don’t just ask the big questions—we lean into them, poke at them, let them breathe. I’m Pastor Scott, your fellow traveler, your co-wonderer, your let’s-get-curious-about-the-hard-stuff companion. No quick fixes here, no bumper-sticker theology. Just us, the Spirit, and a whole lot of holy mystery.

Today, we’re diving into something that’s both a knife to the heart and a balm to the soul: forgiveness. And not just forgiveness, but reconciliation—that next step, that harder step, where you try to rebuild something after it’s been shattered. Why is it so hard? Like, so damn hard? Why does it feel like you’re climbing a mountain with no summit, lugging a backpack stuffed with rocks labeled “hurt,” “betrayal,” and “they don’t even get it”?

Grab a coffee, a journal, or just a quiet corner of your soul. Let’s sit with this. Let’s wrestle. Let’s see where the Spirit takes us.

The Gritty Beauty of Forgiveness

You ever notice how we love the idea of forgiveness? It sounds so good on paper. “Forgive and forget.” “Let it go.” Cue the Disney soundtrack, right? But then you try it, and it’s like… whoa. This isn’t a Hallmark card. This is gritty. This is raw. This is you staring at the person who hurt you—or maybe just their ghost in your memory—and your heart screams, “I can’t. I won’t. They don’t deserve it.”

And here’s the thing: that feeling? It’s real. It’s human. It’s not wrong to feel it. Forgiveness isn’t a transaction, like paying a bill or checking a box. It’s a journey. A process. A tearing-open of your soul to say, “I’m not gonna let this wound define me anymore.” It’s a gift you give yourself, with God’s help, to set your heart free.

But reconciliation? Oh, that’s another beast. That’s saying, “Not only am I letting go of this pain, but I’m gonna try to rebuild something with you. Something new. Something fragile.” And that’s where it gets messy. Because while forgiveness is yours to give, reconciliation takes two.

What Does Scripture Say?

Let’s go to the Bible, because it doesn’t shy away from this mess. In Matthew 18:21-22, Peter—good ol’ Peter, always asking what we’re thinking—comes to Jesus and says, “Lord, how many times should I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Seven! Peter’s feeling generous. That’s a lot of forgiveness. But Jesus? He blows it up. “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” Or in some translations, seventy times seven. Jesus is saying, “Peter, stop counting. Forgiveness isn’t a math problem. It’s a way of being.”

But here’s what gets me: Jesus doesn’t say, “And then reconcile every time.” Forgiveness is one thing—you release the debt, you let go of the grudge. Reconciliation, though? That’s a bridge you build together. It takes trust, rebuilt brick by brick. It takes the other person showing up, owning their stuff, saying, “I see the hurt I caused.” And sometimes… they don’t. Sometimes they can’t. Sometimes they won’t.

So what do you do then? Do you keep forgiving, seventy-seven times, while they keep swinging? Or is there a point where you say, “I forgive you, but I can’t walk with you anymore”? That’s the tension. That’s where we sit, in the ache, asking, “God, what now?”

Joseph’s Story: A Slow, Cautious Dance

Let’s look at Joseph in Genesis 45. This guy’s brothers sold him into slavery. Slavery. Years of betrayal, pain, abandonment. And yet, when he’s standing there, powerful in Egypt, and his brothers show up, he doesn’t just forgive them—he weeps, he embraces them, he reconciles. But it wasn’t instant. It took years. It took his brothers showing some remorse, some change. And even then, Joseph tested them. He didn’t fling open the door and say, “All good!” He watched. He waited. He protected his heart.

I wonder… is that what reconciliation looks like? A slow, cautious dance? A willingness to hope, but not a blindness to reality? Because we love the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15:11-32—the father running out, arms wide, party planned. It’s beautiful. But what if the son came back and said, “I’m not sorry, I just need more cash”? Would the father still throw the party? Or would he say, “I love you, I forgive you, but we’re not there yet”?

The Tension of Reconciliation

This is why it’s so hard. Forgiveness is yours to give—it’s a gift you offer, even if the other person never receives it. But reconciliation? That’s a bridge you build together. And sometimes, the other side isn’t ready to meet you halfway. Sometimes, they’re not safe to build with. Maybe they’re still wielding the same weapons that hurt you. Maybe they’ll never say sorry. And that’s where we need wisdom. That’s where we need prayer, community, maybe even a good therapist to help us sort through the wreckage.

Some of us are carrying wounds from people who will never apologize. A parent who failed you. A friend who betrayed you. A spouse who broke your trust. And the church—oh, the church—sometimes tells us, “Just forgive! Move on! Be the bigger person!” But what if being the bigger person means saying, “I forgive you, but I need boundaries”? What if it means loving from a distance? Is that less holy? Or is that just… human?

Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” I love that. God’s not standing there saying, “Hurry up and forgive so I can love you.” He’s binding up your wounds. He’s healing your broken heart. And maybe forgiveness is part of that healing—not for them, but for you. To set you free. To say, “This hurt doesn’t get to own me anymore.”

Forgiveness vs. Reconciliation: A Holy Distinction

Here’s where I’m landing, friends. Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself, with God’s help, to let go of the poison. It’s saying, “I’m not gonna let this grudge eat me alive.” It’s a solo act, a sacred release. Reconciliation, though? That’s a mutual project. It’s a bridge you build, but only when it’s safe, only when there’s shared work. Sometimes, reconciliation means restoring a relationship to what it was. Other times, it means building something new—something different, something that honors the truth of what happened.

And God? He’s in both. He’s in the letting go and the rebuilding. He’s in the tears and the boundaries. He’s in the “I forgive you” and the “I can’t trust you right now.” He’s writing a story of healing, even when it’s messy.

Where Are You in This?

So, where are you in this? What’s stirring in your heart? Are you stuck on forgiving someone, wrestling with that seventy-seven times thing? Or are you wondering if reconciliation is even possible—or safe? Maybe you’re carrying guilt because you can’t reconcile, and you’re wondering if that makes you a bad Christian. Can I just say… you’re not alone. This is hard. It’s supposed to be hard. It’s holy work, but it’s not instant. It’s a journey.

Here’s a challenge: Take a moment to reflect. Journal it out, pray it through, or just sit in the quiet. Ask yourself:

  • What hurt am I carrying that I need to release?
  • Is there a relationship where reconciliation is possible, or do I need boundaries instead?
  • How is God inviting me to heal, right here, right now?

And if you’re feeling stuck, share your ponderings. Drop a comment, send me a message, or talk it out with someone you trust. We’re in this together.

A Closing Prayer

Let’s close with a breath. Inhale… exhale… God, you see the hurts we carry. You see the walls we’ve built, the bridges we’re scared to cross. Heal us. Guide us. Show us how to forgive, how to love, how to be whole. Amen.

Thanks for being here, you beautiful souls. This is Faith Ponderings, and I’m Pastor Scott. Keep asking, keep wrestling, keep trusting. Peace to you.

What’s stirring in you? Share your thoughts in the comments below. Let’s keep pondering together.

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