Tag: love

The Offering Plate is Half Empty – Now What?

Hey.
It’s Sunday morning.
The worship band just landed on that last sustained chord, the one that makes everyone feel like the roof lifted off for a second and maybe goosebumps have appeared on your arms.
But now, here comes the part nobody asked for on the original tour bus of Christianity: the offering.
The ushers start their slow walk down the aisle.
Baskets. Plates. Little velvet bags on sticks (Our church has the boxes in the back and we give afterwards).
Whatever your tradition calls it, it shows up like clockwork.
And lately, maybe you’ve noticed—like I have—that the plates (or in our case the Offering Box) looks…lighter.
Not dramatically empty, not yet, but definitely not overflowing.
Half empty, maybe even a little less than half.
And here’s the thing: nobody says it out loud, but everybody feels it. The pastor (me, in this case) feels it when the finance report lands in my email inbox before our next board meeting.

The treasurer feels it when the mortgage and other bills are due.
The single mom feels it when she drops in a twenty and wonders if it’s enough.
The guy in the back row feels it when he pretends to check his phone so he can let the plate pass by without anyone noticing.

So let’s just talk about it.

No announcements.
No guilt slides.
No Malachi proof-texts dropped like grenades.
Just us.

The offering plate is half empty—now what?

First, can we admit that tithing can feel like the last surviving relic of rule-based religion?
Ten percent.
The word itself sounds like it was invented by an accountant who moonlights as a Puritan right?!
And somewhere along the way we turned a wild, ancient practice of trust into a spiritual report card.

You didn’t hit 10%?
F minus in faith, see me after class.
No wonder there’s resistance.
No wonder there’s guilt.
No wonder some of us just… pass the plate. I’ve been on both sides of this.
I’ve been the broke twenty-something who genuinely had $11 in the bank and felt like a failure when the plate came.
I’ve been the pastor who stood up front and said “God loves a cheerful giver” while secretly scanning the room to see who looked cheerful and who just looked constipated.

Here’s what I’m learning—slowly, painfully, wonderfully: The goal was never to fill the plate.
The goal was to free the heart.

In the Old Testament, people brought crops, animals, oil, flour—stuff they actually lived on.
Handing it over was a way of saying out loud, “I can’t make the sun come up tomorrow, but You can.
Here’s my trust, in grain form.”

Jesus sits down opposite the treasury one day and watches the river of coins clinking in.
Rich people tossing in heavy bags—impressive, loud, tax-deductible.
Then a widow drops in two tiny coins worth almost nothing.
And Jesus loses His mind (in a good way).
He calls His disciples over like He just saw the Grand Canyon of faith.
“She put in more than all the rest.” Not because the budget was suddenly balanced.
But because her heart was suddenly free.

If I’m honest – that story wrecks me, because I want my giving to be about freedom, not fear.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid God will take something if I don’t.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid the church lights will go out.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid of what people think when the plate passes by my row (or I pass by the box in the back).

I want to give because I’m stunned again that everything I have is borrowed anyway.
I want to give because I walked into this building carrying wounds and walked out carrying hope, and somebody paid for that hope.
I want to give the way I want my kids to see their dad give—eyes wide open, grinning, no arm-twisting required.

So if the plate is half empty right now, maybe it’s not a crisis.
Maybe it’s just an invitation.
An invitation to ask better questions than “Am I hitting 10%?”

Questions like:
What would it look like to move from guilt to gratitude?
From obligation to overflow?
From resistance to release?

Start anywhere.
Five bucks. Fifty. Five hundred. Zero.
Just make it honest.
Make it a moment where you look up—literally or figuratively—and say,
“This is me trusting You with what feels impossible to let go of.”

Because here’s the secret nobody tells you in stewardship season: the plate is not a tax.
It’s a testimony. Every coin, every crumpled bill, every direct deposit, or online payment is a little postcard that says,
“I was afraid, but I did it anyway.”
“I was broke, but I’m not broken.”
“I thought I needed this more than God did… turns out I was wrong.”

So yeah.

The offering plate is half empty.
Maybe that just means there’s room for something new to be poured in.

Your move.

-Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott

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The Fraying Threads of Friendship: Why It’s So Hard to Keep Friends as We Age

By Pastor Scott

You ever notice how friendships start to feel like old sweaters? They’re cozy, familiar, but over time, they get stretched out, a little threadbare, maybe even lost in the back of the closet. You don’t mean for it to happen. Life just… happens. And suddenly, you’re standing there, wondering where all your people went.

I’ve been chewing on this a lot lately, mostly because I got hit with a question that stopped me dead in my tracks. I was doing this pastoral survey—you know, one of those “reflect on your life and ministry” deals that’s supposed to make you feel wise and connected. It asked, “Do you have two friends you could call in the middle of the night if you were in a crisis?” Simple, right? Two names. Just two.

I sat there, cursor hovering over the page, and I couldn’t answer it. Not honestly. I mean, I’ve got people. I’ve got my wife, my kids, my congregation, folks I laugh with at church potlucks. But two friends I could call at 2 a.m., no hesitation, no doubt they’d pick up? I didn’t know if I had that. And that realization? It felt like a punch to the gut.

Here’s the thing: I don’t think I’m alone in this. The older we get, the harder it is to maintain friendships. When you’re young, it’s easy. You’re thrown together in school, sports, youth group. You bond over pizza runs and late-night talks about dreams that feel like they’re just around the corner. But then life creeps in—jobs, mortgages, kids, doctor’s appointments, and suddenly, you’re not just juggling time; you’re wrestling it to the ground.

And let’s be real: as a pastor, it’s even trickier. You’re everyone’s friend, but nobody’s friend, you know? You’re there for the crises, the weddings, the funerals, but when it’s your turn to need someone, you hesitate. You don’t want to burden anybody. You’re supposed to be the strong one, the one with the answers. Plus, there’s that weird dynamic where you’re not sure if people are your friend because they like you or because you’re Pastor Scott.

But it’s not just a pastor thing. I’ve talked to enough people—carpenters, teachers, stay-at-home moms—to know this is a human thing. As we age, our worlds get smaller. We move away. We get busy. We get hurt. Maybe a friend betrayed you, or maybe you just drifted apart, and now it feels awkward to reach out. Like, what do you even say? “Hey, remember me? We used to grab coffee ten years ago. Wanna pick up where we left off?”

And then there’s the vulnerability piece. Friendship—real, deep friendship—requires you to show up as you are. No mask, no filter. That’s scary when you’re 20, but when you’re pushing 40, 50, 60? It’s terrifying. You’ve got baggage now. You’ve got scars. You’re not sure if you can trust someone to hold all that without dropping it.

So, what do we do? Do we just shrug and say, “That’s life,” and keep trudging along, lonely but pretending we’re fine? Or do we fight for it? Because I think friendship is worth fighting for. It’s not just nice to have; it’s holy. Jesus didn’t do life alone—he had his twelve, his inner three. He ate with them, laughed with them, cried with them. If the Son of God needed friends, who are we to think we can go it solo?

I’m trying to figure this out myself, and I don’t have all the answers. But here’s what I’m learning:

  1. Start small. You don’t need a squad of ten. One friend, one real connection, can change everything. Text someone you’ve been meaning to reconnect with. Say, “Hey, I miss you. Can we grab a burger?” It might feel awkward, but awkward is better than empty.
  2. Be honest. If you’re struggling, say it. I’m preaching to myself here, because I’m terrible at this. But the few times I’ve let my guard down and admitted, “I’m lonely,” it’s opened doors I didn’t expect. People want to show up; they just need to know you need them.
  3. Make time. I know, I know—time is the one thing we never have enough of. But friendship doesn’t survive on leftovers. Schedule it. Put it on the calendar. Treat it like it matters, because it does.
  4. Lean into grace. Not every friendship is meant to last forever. Some people are in your life for a season, and that’s okay. Let them go with love, and keep your heart open for who’s next.

I’m still wrestling with that survey question. I’ve started reaching out to a couple of old friends, and it’s been messy and beautiful and humbling. I don’t know if they’d pick up at 2 a.m. yet, but I’m hoping we’re getting there. And I’m praying for the courage to keep showing up, to keep risking the vulnerability, to keep believing that God’s got people for me—and for you.

Because here’s the truth: we weren’t made to do this alone. We were made for late-night calls, for belly laughs, for someone to sit with us in the dark and say, “I’m here.” And if we’re willing to fight for it, I think we can find our way back to each other.

So, tell me—how’s it going for you? Got your two people? Or are you, like me, staring at the question, wondering where to start? Let’s figure it out together.
Grace & Peace,

Pastor Scott

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“The Sacrifice That Smells Like Coffee and Asphalt”

Hey there, beautiful souls,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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Caught On Camera? Being Seen By God…

Alright, friends, let’s talk about something that can be, well, a little… intense.
Yeah, intense. It’s this whole thing about God knowing everything. Like, everything.


I just went to the dentist today and she asked me if I flossed and how often I flossed…
So, it’s important to realize that when a doctor had her gloved hands in my mouth and the X-rays were completed, she knew my flossing habits. I couldn’t lie. Right? She would have known. The evidence was right there.

Similarly, I have come across numerous videos on YouTube of individuals in a courtroom. They’ve all been arrested for various crimes. The interesting thing is that when confronted with video evidence, like air-tight stuff on film, of these illegal activities, they inevitably deny all wrongdoing even though the evidence is extremely incriminating and credible. It just blows my mind that one could deny that kind of evidence after being sworn to tell the truth in a court of law.

Back to this God who literally knows everything about us…

Think about it. You’re walking down the street, right? You’re thinking about that awkward thing you said yesterday, or maybe that weird dream you had, or, you know, that little… thing you did that you’re not exactly broadcasting.
And boom. God sees it. Sees it all.

Now, some folks hear that, and they’re like, “Oh man, that’s absolutely terrifying!”
Like, some cosmic surveillance camera, constantly recording our every blunder, every stumble, every, shall we say, less-than-stellar moment.
And I get that. I really do.
Because, let’s be honest, we’ve all got those moments.
Those… uh… curated outtakes we’d rather keep in the vault.

But here’s the thing, and this is where it gets interesting.
This whole “God knows everything” thing? It’s NOT about some divine gotcha game.
It’s not a criminal caught red-handed with video evidence to prove the crime kinda game.
It’s not about some celestial scorekeeper tallying up our failures.
It’s not that visit to the dentist.
It’s not about God shaking his head, all disappointed and stuff.

No, no, no.

But here is what it IS about.
Are you ready for this?
Here goes:

It’s about intimacy. It’s about knowing. It’s about being known.

Think about the people you love the most. They know you, right?
They know your quirks, your weird habits, your, yeah, your flaws. “Warts and all.”
And they love you anyway.
In fact, sometimes, it’s because of those things.

God sees you. Flaws and all.
The messy bits, the broken parts, the parts you try to hide in the dark corners of your heart.
He sees it all. And… he loves you.

Yeah, I said it. Loves you.

Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’ve got it all together.
Not because you’ve got your spiritual act nailed down.
But because you’re you. You’re his.

And that knowing, that seeing, that deep, profound intimacy?
It’s not about judgment. (Thank God!)
It’s about grace. It’s about acceptance. It’s about a love that says, “I see you. I know you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s like, you know, when you’re talking to a friend, and they look you right in the eyes,
and you know they get you.
They see past the surface, past the masks, past the carefully constructed facade.
That’s what God does. All the time.

So, instead of running from that knowing, maybe we lean into it.
Maybe we let that love wash over us, flaws and all.
Maybe we realize that being seen isn’t about being condemned but about being… held.

Because, friends, that’s the amazing news.
That’s the wild, crazy, beautiful truth of it all.
God knows everything, and he loves you anyway.
And that, hopefully, changes everything for us.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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One More Phone Call (A Poem)

The phone, a black slab,
a dormant beetle, lies face down.
Not ringing.
Not his number, a ghost-echo from the 417,
the voicemails I can’t erase,
like frost-flowers breathed on glass.

He’d call, a rumble in the static,
a long highway road leading to his recliner,
a slow drawl about the cardinals at the feeder,
the ice cream melting down the cone.
He’d tell me that joke again,
“Have you heard about the husband whose wife died in Israel?”

I’d heard it before, but I’d welcome it again,
He would pray with me, emotions over the line
passion and a need for salvation.
He knew, of course,
knew the shared grief of the earth,
the way the light thins,
the way the old dog sleeps deeper.

Now, the silence is a thicket,
a bramble where his voice should be,
a phantom limb of the receiver.
I reach for it,
the way a blind man reaches for a familiar door,
only to find a wall,
cold and unyielding.

No more stories of the ARC
and of Salvation Army Officership
although it’s all still coursing in our veins
– this passion to serve and love…
No more humorous bantering about the Cubbies, or the Chiefs or
those cheese heads up there in Green Bay.
His knit-yellow and green stocking cap
worn proudly on his head…

The phone, a black stone,
a monument to the void,
a reflection of the temporary
And I?
a little bit less than I was before those old tired jokes,
there is a loss I cannot put to words
a lost connection,
no more calls from 417
but this too is temporary.
It’s a silence that stretches, for a time
a continent of grief but not the whole of it,
Something else, more constant
and everlasting is just on the horizon

But perhaps just tonight
I’m getting ‘mad’
and my kids will be happy
and we’ll think of him.
Thanks, Grandpa, GrandStan
Pawpaw…so many other names
these terms of endearment.


I’ll see you again
and we can get mad
all over again,
and you can regale me with
One more awful joke
that you’ve told me before.

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The Silent Language: Speaking Through Acts of Mercy.

Greetings my friends,
If you can, let’s pull up a chair, grab a cup of something warm (please tell me it’s coffee!), and we are going to lean into Matthew 5:7 for just a few moments.
This passage reads like this: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.“

Now, you know how we sometimes get caught up in these verses, like they’re some kind of moral checklist, right? We might ask ourselves questions like, “Am I merciful enough? Did I hit my quota of compassion today?” And since it’s a moral checklist, we turn it into a performance, a spiritual to-do list, and we completely miss the point.

So you see, Jesus isn’t handing out merit badges for good behavior. There’s no gold star for doing all of your moral homework this week. He’s revealing something fundamental about the universe, about how it all works. And it’s less about “do this, get that,” and more about “this is how reality is structured, and this is who you should be.”

Think about it. We live in a world where everyone’s got a story, a messy, complicated, sometimes painful story.
We’ve all been hurt, we’ve all made mistakes, and we’ve all had those moments we wish we could rewind and erase.
And in those moments, what do we crave? What do we desperately need?

Mercy.
In big, bold letters.

Not judgment, not condemnation, not a lecture on how we messed up.
We need someone to look at us, to look into our eyes and see the brokenness, and say, “Yeah, me too. I get it. You’re not alone.” It’s a relief to know we have commonality. It’s an assurance there are others who are just like us.

And here’s the kicker: when we extend that kind of mercy to others, something shifts inside us. It’s like we tap into a deeper current, a flow of grace that runs through everything. We become channels for that mercy, and in doing so, we experience it ourselves.

It’s not a transaction, it’s a transformation.
It’s not about earning God’s favor; it’s about aligning ourselves with God’s very nature.
We are essentially tuning into the essence of who God is and what He desires for all of us.
Show mercy – Live mercy – Be merciful.

We’re so good at drawing lines, aren’t we?
“Us vs. them,” “good vs. bad,” “deserving vs. undeserving.” “Real Coffee vs Decaf”…okay I digress.
But Jesus is saying, “Forget the lines. Tear down the walls.
See the humanity in everyone, even the people you think are your enemies.”
It’s a crazy mindset in our world today. It goes counter-cultural to everything we’ve been taught, doesn’t it?

Because here’s the thing: everyone’s fighting a battle you know nothing about.
Everyone’s carrying a weight you can’t see. And in those moments of struggle, what they need isn’t your opinion, or your judgement, it’s your mercy.

So, what does that look like in your life and in my life?
Maybe it’s forgiving someone who’s wronged you.
Maybe it’s listening to someone who’s hurting without trying to fix them.
Maybe it’s simply offering a kind word, a gentle touch, or a moment of understanding.
In a small way, we are extending just an ounce of the mercy Jesus has already shown us.

And get this:
It’s about recognizing that we are all, every single one of us, in need of mercy.
And when we give it, we find it.

It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being present.
It’s about recognizing the divine spark in everyone, Imago Dei (the image of God) in all of us, including ourselves.
It’s about living in the flow of grace, where mercy leads the way.
And a space where judgment and condemnation have no place.

And when we do that, friends, when we choose mercy instead of vengeance, we discover something truly beautiful, something beyond profound:
We discover that we are, indeed, blessed.

Because mercy isn’t just something we give; it’s something we receive.
It’s a gift that keeps on giving, a circle of grace that connects us all.

So go out there and be merciful. And watch what happens. You might just surprise yourself and others.
Grace and Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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When Faith Comes To Dance…

Hey friends, have you ever gotten to a place in your spiritual life where doubt started to creep in and create a kind of identity crisis? Has that ever happened to you? It’s like one minute you’re faith is going strong, you’re connecting with God and things are fine, the next minute you’re questioning aspects of salvation that you never questioned before?

I think it’s important for us to recognize the need to really battle with our faith from time to time. It’s okay to ask the hard questions and, at times, discover you have some doubts. Scripture tells us to work out our salvation with fear and trembling…(Philippians 2:12). Paul doesn’t say “casually consider” or “flippantly cast aside”, no, he uses the word “work”.

Philippians 2:12 is a verse that can stop you in your tracks, isn’t it?
Work out your salvation? Like it’s some kind of cosmic CrossFit routine?
Suddenly, salvation feels less like grace and more like…a to-do list with a lot more sweat involved.

And then there’s the “fear and trembling” part. Yikes. That sounds intense.
Like we’re walking a spiritual tightrope, and one wrong move and whoosh – we’re plummeting into the abyss.

No pressure, right?

But what if… what if there’s something more going on here?
What if Paul’s not giving us a spiritual to-do list, but inviting us into something beautiful, something profound?

Think about it. “Work out” – the original Greek word is katergazomai. It’s not just about gritting your teeth and pushing through. It’s about bringing something to completion. It’s about cultivating something. Like a gardener tending a plant. You don’t just have a garden, you work it. You nurture it. You care for it. You bring it to its fullness.

This is from Shanais’ garden. All the flowers were vibrant and attracting lots of pollinators


My wife loves to garden.
I mean, sometimes even to the point of obsession.
But when she tends the plants, when she works at it, cultivating, hydrating, ensuring the soil has enough nutrients and is at a sufficient PH level, the gardens she is able to produce are magnificent. It’s beautiful, it’s profound. Where once was this kind of barren patch of grass, not a dark-rich, healthy soil contains vibrancy, life and beauty that causes some of our neighbors to be envious.

So, these words “Work out” means we bring something to completion. We cultivate our spiritual journeys, we nurture our faith even when the weeds of doubt tend to sprout up sometimes. And when we care for it, the right kind of faithful fruit is produced…

So maybe, just maybe, Paul’s saying that salvation isn’t a static thing you just get and then you’re done.
Maybe it’s something you participate in.
Something you grow into. Something you live.

And what about the fear and trembling? Is that about being terrified of God’s wrath? I don’t think so. I think it’s more about awe. It’s about recognizing the sheer magnitude of what God has done for us. It’s about being overwhelmed by the incredible, scandalous, mind-blowing love that’s been poured out on us. It’s a reverent, humble awareness of the divine mystery that surrounds us. Like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon – you’re not necessarily scared, but you’re definitely moved. You’re humbled.

See, this whole verse, it’s NOT about earning God’s love. It’s about responding to it. It’s about letting that love transform us from the inside out. It’s about allowing that grace to shape us, to mold us, to make us more like the people we were created to be. That, my friends is what the faith journey is all about. Not some secret formula, or mantra we utter every day. It’s not some kind of ritual we follow to make us more holy. It’s a journey that requires real work to cultivate the right soil for deeper roots.

It’s not about striving in our own strength. It’s about surrendering to the power of God’s love and letting that work in us, through us, and all around us.

So, yeah, work out your salvation. Not like it’s a burden, but like it’s a dance. A beautiful, messy, sometimes scary and occasionally out of rhythm, but it’s always an amazing dance with the Divine. And do it with awe. Do it with wonder. Do it with a heart overflowing with gratitude. Because that, my friends, is where the real transformation happens. That’s where the real life begins. Don’t be afraid of doubt. Let it wash over you sometimes like an off-beat in the rhythm of faith…then get back to the dance.

Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott.

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Kindness: Lifting Heavy Hearts.

“Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up” -Proverbs 12:25

Okay, friends, here we are again with another daily pondering.
And today, let’s talk about heaviness. We all know it, right? We know what heaviness is and how it impacts our lives from time to time. It can sometimes manifest itself like a feeling in your chest, that cloud hanging over your head, that sense that you’re wading through mud even when you’re just walking to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Heavy.


Life throws things at us – grief, disappointment, fear, the sheer overwhelm of existence sometimes –(it’s like the whole kitchen sink is lobbed at us) and it can weigh us down. It can make us feel like we’re the mythological character Atlas who is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And it feels like we might just crumble under the pressure.
I totally get it. You get it. We’re all in this together.

And that’s where this little nugget from Proverbs comes in. Chapter 12, verse 25: “Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up.” Simple, right?
But like so many of these ancient truths, there’s a depth here that can really…well, lift us up. (Pun intended, I couldn’t resist.)

Think about that word “anxiety.” The Hebrew word there, de’agah, it’s not just your everyday worry.
It’s more like a deep, gnawing, almost paralyzing kind of care. That feeling that something is fundamentally wrong, that things are spiraling out of control. We’ve all been there. And when that kind of anxiety hits, it can feel like you’re trapped. We’re alone. Like there’s no way out, and so we cry out for help, but no one can hear us.
It’s like the weight is just…too much.

But then, the second part of the verse. “A kind word cheers it up.” Now, notice something. It doesn’t say “a powerful word.” It doesn’t say “a life-changing word.” It says kind. A simple, genuine, kind word.

Think about the last time someone said something truly kind to you. Maybe it was a friend, a family member, a stranger on the street. Maybe it was just a simple, “I see you,” or “You’ve got this,” or “I’m here for you.” Didn’t it make a difference? Didn’t it, even for a moment, lighten the load?

That’s the power of kindness.
It’s not some magic bullet that makes all your problems disappear.
It’s not a quick fix for deep-seated anxieties. But it’s a start.
It’s a crack of light in the darkness.
It’s a reminder that you’re not alone.
That someone sees your struggle, acknowledges your pain, and offers a bit of…hope.

And here’s the thing: we can be that kind word for someone else.
We can be the ones offering that little bit of light.
Think about the people in your life who are struggling. Maybe it’s someone you know well, maybe it’s someone you barely know.


Reach out.
Offer a kind word.
A genuine compliment.
A listening ear.

You have no idea the impact it could have. You have no idea how heavy someone else’s heart might be. And your simple act of kindness could be the thing that helps them keep going.

So, my friends, let’s remember this.
Let’s remember the power of kindness. Let’s remember that even in the midst of the heaviest of times, a kind word can make a difference. It can lift a heart. It can offer hope. And it can remind us all that we’re in this together.
And that, is always beautiful thing.


Something more to ponder on today.
Grace & Peace…
-Pastor Scott.

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8 Things I’d Tell Myself as a Young Pastor (Reflections of a “Seasoned Pastor” and I mean old)

If I could pull up a chair and have a heart-to-heart with my younger self, the fresh-faced pastor just starting out, I’d have a few things to share. The years in ministry have taught me a lot, some lessons learned the easy way, others etched in through experience. Here’s a glimpse of what I’d whisper across time:

1. It’s Not About You (But It Kind Of Is): Younger me, you’re passionate, driven, and eager to make a difference. That’s fantastic! But remember, this isn’t about building your kingdom, but God’s. Humility is your greatest asset. At the same time, don’t shy away from your gifts and talents. God called you for a reason. Embrace your unique perspective and use it to serve. It’s a delicate balance, but essential.

2. Listen More Than You Speak: Oh, man. This is still hard for me to do. Some times it’s because I have so much I want to say, and I used to almost always fail to stop and actually listen.
Dear younger me – You’ll be tempted to fill every silence with words, to have an answer for everything. Resist that urge. Truly listen to your congregation. Hear their joys, their fears, their unspoken needs. Pastoral care is less about dispensing wisdom and more about being present, offering a listening ear and a compassionate heart. You’ll be amazed at what you learn when you simply listen.

3. Don’t Be Afraid to Ask for Help: Ministry can feel isolating. You might think you have to carry every burden, solve every problem. You don’t. Lean on your fellow pastors, mentors, and spiritual advisors. Don’t be ashamed to admit you’re struggling. Vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s strength. It allows others to support you, and it models authenticity for your congregation.

4. Grace, Grace, and More Grace: You’ll make mistakes. You’ll say the wrong thing, make the wrong decision, and disappoint people (and yourself). Extend grace to others, and most importantly, extend it to yourself. God’s grace is sufficient, and it covers a multitude of sins – including your own. Learn from your mistakes, apologize when necessary, and move forward, clothed in grace.

5. Invest in Your Own Soul Care: This one is crucial, and it’s easy to neglect. You can’t pour from an empty cup. Prioritize your relationship with God. Spend time in prayer, in scripture, and in activities that refresh your spirit. Nurture your own soul so you can effectively nurture others. Don’t let ministry become an idol that consumes you.

6. Embrace the Messiness: Life is messy, and so is ministry. You’ll encounter brokenness, pain, and doubt. Don’t try to sanitize it or pretend it doesn’t exist. Walk alongside people in their struggles. Be present in the messiness. It’s in those difficult moments that God’s love and grace can truly shine.

7. Celebrate the Small Victories: Ministry can be challenging, and it’s easy to get discouraged. Don’t overlook the small wins. A kind word, a changed heart, a strengthened faith – these are the moments that make ministry worthwhile. Celebrate them. They are glimpses of God’s kingdom at work.

8. Love the People: This might seem obvious, but it’s worth repeating. Love the people God has entrusted to your care. Love them unconditionally, even when they’re difficult, even when they disagree with you. Love them as Christ loves them. Everything else is secondary.

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade my journey for anything. The joys and the challenges have shaped me into the pastor I am today. And if I could whisper one final thing to my younger self, it would be this: Trust God, be faithful, and love the people. The rest will fall into place.

Grace and Peace.
-Pastor Scott.

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Disappointment: The Soil of Hope.

Hello friends,

It seems contradictory to group the concept of disappointment with hope, but give this pondering space to breathe and perhaps you’ll agree with me.

Disappointment. It’s a familiar ache, a sinking feeling that settles in our bones when things don’t go as planned. Dreams deferred, expectations shattered, the weight of unmet potential – it can feel suffocating.

But what if disappointment isn’t the enemy? What if it’s actually the fertile ground where something new and unexpected can grow?

Think about it. Have you ever experienced a crushing disappointment that ultimately led to a path you never could have imagined? A lost job that forced you to pursue your true passion. A heartbreak that opened your eyes to a deeper capacity for love.

Disappointment, in its raw, unfiltered form, can feel brutal. It can shake us to our core, strip us bare, and leave us questioning everything. But within that emptiness, there’s a space for something new to emerge. A space for creativity, for resilience, for a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. It’s like shucking off an outer shell only to reveal something so much better.

This isn’t about denying or minimizing the pain of disappointment. It’s about recognizing that within that pain lies a seed of possibility. It’s about trusting that even in the darkest of nights, there’s a sunrise waiting…if we’re patient.

So, the next time you find yourself grappling with disappointment, try to see it differently. See it not as an ending, but as a turning point. See it as an invitation to explore new paths, to cultivate new dreams, to discover a deeper, more authentic version of yourself.

Hope isn’t about ignoring the pain. It’s about finding the courage to believe that something beautiful can emerge from the ashes. It’s about trusting that even in the midst of the storm, there’s a quiet strength within you, a resilience that will see you through.

So trust the process as God prepares the path, even in our current disappointments – He is there.
Grace and Peace,
-Scott.

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