God Stepping Into Our Mess – Why This Flesh Matters.

Check out the podcast version of this pondering here.

So, I preached on this passage yesterday, and I think there’s more to say on this topic. You see there’s this line in John’s Gospel, and it’s a profound line. I wanted to expound on it yesterday, but I just ran out of time. But this one verse is like a bright neon sign on a dark highway – it can be seen for miles. Are you ready for the verse? Brace yourself. It’s THE most important verse in all of John’s gospel, because this is how it went down. Here’s where we get our genesis. : “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” John 1:14.

It’s one of those verses we’ve heard so many times that it can feel like background noise—white noise for the soul. But let’s lean into it for a second. Let it hit you fresh. The Word—the cosmic, eternal, untouchable Logos, the blueprint behind everything that breathes and spins and sings (sometimes off key) —didn’t just stay out there, somewhere in the cosmos, the Word doesn’t hang out somewhere just watching us or hovering above us like some distant deity pulling levers. No. He became flesh. Skin and bones. Sweat and tears. He moved into our world.

Imagine that. The infinite zipped itself into the finite. The One who spoke galaxies into being traded the vastness of eternity for a heartbeat, for dusty sandals, for a stomach that growled when it was empty. And he didn’t just enter anywhere in the world, or a remote section of it —He entered into the thick of it, right here, among us. The Greek says He “tabernacled” with us, like God setting up camp in the middle of our mess. And it’s wild, right? The divine didn’t wait for us to climb some cosmic ladder to get to Him. He came down. He showed up. He knocked on the door of humanity and said, “Hey, I’m here. Let’s do this life thing together.”

But here’s the thing—here’s where it gets personal for each of us today – We have to ask the important question: what does that mean for you and me? Because it’s not just as a nice idea to nod at on Sunday and say our “amens” at just the right orchestrated time – but instead it’s a gut-punch truth that rewires how you live on a Monday? Because if the Word became flesh, then flesh matters. Your flesh. My flesh. The flesh of the person you scrolled past on your phone this morning, the one begging for a scrap of attention or a sandwich. If God wrapped Himself in skin, then skin isn’t just a disposable shell—it’s holy. It’s the stuff of eternity.

And that’s where it gets tricky, doesn’t it? Because we’re so good at splitting things apart—spirit over here, body over there. We’ve got this habit of acting like the “real” stuff is the invisible stuff, the prayers and the beliefs and the quiet times, while the physical world is just a waiting room we’re passing through. But John 1:14 says no. It’s not a waiting room. It’s the main event. God didn’t just send a memo—He became THE message. He didn’t just whisper from the clouds—He walked the dirt.

So what if you took that seriously? What if you stopped treating your body like a rental car you’re just driving till the lease is up? What if you stopped treating your neighbor like a side character in your story? Because if the Word became flesh, then every bit of flesh you bump into is a place where God might just show up. That’s the encouragement: you’re not alone. The divine is tangled up in the human. God’s not waiting for you to escape this messy, beautiful life—He’s in it with you.

But here’s the challenge: live like it. Stop pretending the sacred is only in the pews or the stained glass. It’s in the grocery store line. It’s in the argument you had with your spouse last night. It’s in the ache of your tired hands after a long day. The Word became flesh, so now you get to be the flesh the Word keeps speaking through. Are you listening? Are you showing up? Are you daring to let your ordinary, flawed, fragile life become a tent for something eternal?

Because that’s the invitation. Not to float above it all, but to dive in. To let your flesh—your actual, everyday, unglamorous flesh—become a place where grace leaks out. Where love gets loud. Where the invisible crashes into the visible and says, “This is home.”

So go ahead. Step into it. The Word is still flesh. And He’s still here.

The God of Hope in the Mess of Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace and Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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