I do not usually think of myself as someone who is avoiding obedience. I would rather call it being busy, tired, overwhelmed, or just waiting for a better time.

But if I am honest, there are parts of my life where I keep assuming I have more time.

More time to pray for that person.
More time to apologize.
More time to have the hard conversation.
More time to stop doing the thing I already know is sin.
More time to get serious about Scripture again.

And if I bring it even closer to home, I assume I have more time with my family too.

More time to pray with my kids before bed instead of rushing through the routine.
More time to ask my spouse how they are really doing and actually listen.
More time to apologize after I was impatient in the kitchen or sharp in the car.
More time to open the Bible at the table instead of just trying to survive dinner.
More time to speak the gospel into my kids’ fears, questions, and failures.
More time to put my phone down and look someone in the eyes.

On Sunday, when Jeff asked, “If Jesus came back tomorrow, what would you do differently today?” I felt that question land in a pretty specific way.

I immediately thought of a person I have been meaning to reach out to. I thought of prayers I have said I care about, but have not actually prayed with any kind of urgency. I thought of how easily I can give my best energy to temporary things and then give God whatever is left at the end of the day.

But I also thought about my home.

I thought about the way I can be more patient with a coworker than I am with the people under my own roof. I thought about how quickly I can correct my kids, but how slowly I pray with them. I thought about how easy it is to get everyone dressed, fed, buckled, scheduled, and moving, but forget to shepherd their hearts toward Jesus.

I thought about how often I treat family discipleship like something that needs a perfect setup.

A quiet house.
A clean table.
A prepared devotional.
Everyone in a good mood.
No one spilling water or crying over the wrong color cup.

But maybe faithfulness looks much more ordinary than that.

Maybe it looks like praying in the school drop-off line.
Maybe it looks like saying, “I was wrong to respond that way. Will you forgive me?”
Maybe it looks like reading one short passage of Scripture while the breakfast dishes are still on the counter.
Maybe it looks like asking my spouse, “How can I pray for you this week?” and then actually doing it.
Maybe it looks like turning off the show, sitting on the edge of the bed, and listening a little longer.

Matthew 24 does not give me a date to circle. Jesus says no one knows the day or hour. That means I do not get to manage the timing. I do not get to put obedience on my calendar for later and assume everything will work out.

But the sermon did not make me feel hopeless. It made me feel invited.

Jesus is patient. That patience is not something to take advantage of. It is mercy. It is space to repent. It is kindness that meets me today.

I do not think readiness means I need to become intense or strange. I think readiness might look like a few simple, honest things.

Open my Bible before I open the noise.
Pray for people by name.
Apologize without defending myself.
Stop calling sin “a season.”
Serve where Jesus has put me.
Talk about Jesus with someone I love.

And at home, maybe readiness looks like remembering that the people closest to me are not interruptions to my faithfulness. They are often the very place God is calling me to be faithful.

My spouse.
My kids.
My parents.
My siblings.
The family member I avoid because the relationship is complicated.
The child who needs correction, but also tenderness.
The teenager who acts like they are not listening, but probably hears more than I think.

I keep wanting faithfulness to feel dramatic. But Jesus seems to care a lot about servants being found doing what the master gave them to do.

That is what I want.

Not panic.
Not pretending.
Not delayed obedience with religious language around it.

Just faithfulness today because Jesus is coming back.

Faithfulness in prayer.
Faithfulness in repentance.
Faithfulness in the conversations I have been avoiding.
Faithfulness in my living room, at the dinner table, in the bedtime routine, and on the drive to school.

Jesus does not tell me the hour.

But he does give me today.

I do not like admitting this, but I often pray like there is plenty of time.

I pray for meals.
I pray when someone is sick.
I pray when life feels out of control.
But when it comes to people I love who do not know Jesus, my prayers can be strangely casual.

I say I believe eternity is real. I say I believe Jesus is coming back. I say I believe judgment is real and grace is available. But if someone looked at the urgency of my prayer life, I am not sure they would know that.

That hit me during the sermon.

Jeff said we should not take Matthew 24 and start arguing with people. We should not look at every news headline and convince ourselves we have figured out the end. But we should have more urgency to share the hope of Jesus with people God has put in front of us.

That sentence stayed with me because I know exactly who those people are.
A neighbor I wave to but rarely slow down for.
A coworker who has shared enough pain that I should probably ask better questions.
A family member I avoid spiritual conversations with because I do not want it to get awkward.
A friend who knows I go to church but maybe does not know why Jesus matters to me.

I do not think urgency has to mean pressure or panic. I do not think it means forcing a conversation or treating people like projects. But I do think urgency means love becomes more honest.

If Jesus is coming back, then my silence is not neutral.
If judgment is real, then grace is not a private possession.
If the gospel is true, then people need more than my niceness.
They need to know there is a Savior.

I left Sunday thinking less about timelines and more about names.
That is probably good. Because Jesus did not give Matthew 24 so I could win arguments. He gave it so I would endure, hope, and stay faithful.

This week, I want to pray differently. Not vaguely. Not someday. By name.
And when God opens a door, I want courage to speak with gentleness and honesty.

Jesus is patient. Jesus is saving. Jesus is coming back.
That should change how I pray today.

I do not need a global crisis to become anxious.

Sometimes all it takes is a weird email from work, a sharp comment from someone I love, a bill I forgot about, or traffic that makes me late. I can go from calm to tense in about three seconds.

That is uncomfortable to admit because I prefer to think of myself as steady.

But my reactions tell the truth.

On Sunday, when we read Matthew 24, Jesus said His disciples would hear of wars and rumors of wars. He talked about famines and earthquakes. He did not minimize suffering. He did not pretend the world would be easy. But then He said, “See that you are not alarmed.”

That phrase has stayed with me.

Not because it is easy, but because it exposes me.

I am often alarmed. I am alarmed by things much smaller than wars and earthquakes. I get alarmed when my plans change. I get alarmed when I feel misunderstood. I get alarmed when I cannot control what happens next.

And when I am alarmed, I usually reach for control. I overthink. I rehearse conversations in my head. I become short with people. I scroll for more information, hoping that knowing more will somehow make me trust God more. It usually does the opposite.

Jesus is not calling me to be uninformed or emotionally detached. He is calling me to be rooted.

Pastor Jeff said that rain is going to come and wind is going to blow, but the question is whether we are on the rock. That helped me. The goal is not to build a life where nothing hard happens. That life does not exist. The goal is to be anchored in Jesus when hard things do happen.

This week, I have been trying to notice what alarms me.

Not just the big things. The small ones too.

When I feel my shoulders tighten or my tone sharpen, I want to pause and ask, “What am I believing right now?” Am I believing God is absent? Am I believing everything depends on me? Am I believing peace will come once I regain control?

The gospel tells a better story.

Jesus is not surprised by chaos. He is not threatened by instability. He endured suffering, death, and the cross, and He rose again. My circumstances may be unstable, but He is not.

So I am asking Him for a steadier heart.

Not a numb heart.  
Not a detached heart.  
A heart that can tell the truth about pain and still trust the goodness of God.

It is easy for me to care about people in general.

It is harder to pray for one person by name.

General concern lets me stay comfortable. I can say I want people to know Jesus. I can agree that the gospel should be shared. I can nod along when someone talks about mission.

But naming one person changes things.

On Sunday, when Pastor Jeff asked us to think of one person who does not know Jesus, someone came to mind quickly.

And I did not love that.

Because once I named them, I could not keep the idea of evangelism far away. It was not theoretical anymore. It was not about “people out there.” It was about a real person I love.

Someone I text.  
Someone I sit across from.  
Someone I have laughed with.  
Someone whose burdens I know.  
Someone who needs the hope of Jesus.

That made me feel both tender and afraid.

Tender because I care about them.  
Afraid because I know a conversation about Jesus could feel awkward.

But Acts 22 showed me that Paul did not treat the gospel like an abstract idea. He stood in front of real people, some of whom hated him, and told them what Jesus had done.

I am not facing a crowd like Paul did. I am thinking about one person.

One name.  
One prayer.  
One relationship.  
One possible conversation.

That feels both smaller and more serious.

I am asking God to help me pray consistently instead of randomly. I am asking Him to give me love that is patient, not pushy. I am asking Him for a real opportunity and the courage to recognize it when it comes.

I do not want to treat prayer like a way to avoid action. But I also do not want to act without prayer.

So I am starting here:

“God, would You save them? Would You open their heart to Jesus? Would You help me love them well? Would You give me words when the time is right?”

That is simple.

But I think it is a faithful place to begin.

I know what it is like to have an imaginary argument in the shower.

I know what it is like to replay the conversation while driving to work, thinking of the perfect thing I should have said. I know what it is like to see someone’s name pop up on my phone and feel my whole body tighten. I know what it is like to be polite in person but cold in my heart.

And if I am honest, I know what it is like to call that wisdom when it is actually bitterness.

Sunday’s sermon pressed on that in a way I did not expect.

There was a moment where Ryan talked about carrying resentment for years after being hurt. What got me was not just that he had been hurt. It was that the bitterness had become so normal to him that he did not fully see it anymore.

That felt familiar.

Because bitterness does not always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like avoiding someone in the lobby because I do not want to make small talk.

Sometimes it looks like giving short answers to my spouse because I am still mad about something from three days ago.

Sometimes it looks like assuming the worst about a coworker before they even explain themselves.

Sometimes it looks like saying, “I’m fine,” but secretly hoping the other person feels guilty.

Sometimes it looks like being happy when someone who hurt me has a hard week.

That last one is ugly to write down, but it is real.

I have had moments where someone’s struggle made me feel a little vindicated. Not openly. Not in a way I would say out loud. But somewhere inside, I felt like, “Good. Maybe now they’ll know what it feels like.”

That is not healing.
That is not justice.
That is bitterness.

The hard part is that some wounds are real. Some people really do sin against us. Some apologies are weak. Some conversations never get resolved the way we hoped. Some relationships are not safe to return to in the same way.

Jesus does not ask us to pretend those things did not happen.

But He does ask us to bring our hearts into the light.

That is where I felt convicted.

Because I can spend so much time explaining what someone else did wrong that I never ask what resentment is doing in me now.

Am I becoming more gentle or more guarded?
Am I becoming more honest or more suspicious?
Am I becoming more prayerful or more rehearsed?

Am I asking Jesus to heal me, or am I just keeping the wound available so I can return to it when I need a reason to stay distant?

That question hurts.

But I think it is a mercy.

Ryan said something that stayed with me: bitterness is under our control. That does not mean the original hurt was our fault. It does not mean forgiveness is easy. It does not mean trust is automatically restored.

But it does mean I cannot blame someone else for the bitterness I keep feeding.

I thought about how practical this gets.

When I am tempted to replay the conversation again, I can stop and pray, “Jesus, I am hurt, but I do not want to rehearse resentment.”

When I want to avoid someone just to punish them with distance, I can ask, “Is this wisdom, or am I withholding kindness?”

When I start telling the story in a way that makes me look completely innocent, I can ask, “Am I being honest about my part?”

When I feel that little spark of satisfaction at someone else’s struggle, I can confess it quickly instead of letting it settle in.

When I cannot forgive from the heart yet, I can at least tell Jesus the truth: “I want to want to forgive. Help me.”

That may sound small, but for me, that is where repentance often begins.

Not with a dramatic moment.

With a quiet surrender.
In the car.
At the sink.
Before sending the text.
Before walking into church.
Before telling the story one more time.

Acts 21 reminded us that Jesus is serious about unity in His church. But unity is not just something “the church” needs to work on out there somewhere. It starts in actual hearts. Mine included.

It starts when I stop treating bitterness like protection.

It starts when I stop calling resentment discernment.

It starts when I let Jesus tell the truth about me without crushing me.

The good news is that Jesus does not expose bitterness to shame us. He brings it into the light to free us.

He knows what was done to us.

He knows what has been growing in us.

And He is able to lead us toward peace.

Maybe not quickly. Maybe not simply. Maybe not without hard conversations.

But really.

Because restoration is not something I can manufacture by being mature enough. It is something only Christ can do.

And I want that.

I want to be free more than I want to be proven right.

At least today, I am asking Jesus to make that true in me.

I like to think of myself as willing.

Willing to follow Jesus. Willing to serve. Willing to be generous. Willing to be inconvenienced if that is what obedience requires.

But then the inconvenience becomes specific.

It is not a vague idea anymore. It is Sunday morning with a baby who woke up three times and a toddler who suddenly hates the shoes they loved yesterday.

It is trying to get everyone out the door for church while someone is crying, someone needs a diaper change, and I am wondering if it would just be easier to stay home.

It is community group night when dinner ran late, the baby is fussy, the toddler is sticky, the dishes are still in the sink, and the couch looks like a better spiritual discipline than showing up.

It is wanting to pray with my spouse after the kids go down, but by the time the house is quiet, we are both exhausted and scrolling feels easier than honesty.

It is hearing about a need in the church and wanting to care, but also feeling like we are already running on fumes.

It is realizing that generosity is not theoretical when diapers, groceries, formula, gas, and rent all have numbers attached to them.

That is where Sunday’s sermon got me.

In Acts 21, Paul knew the road ahead would be hard. He was warned that suffering was waiting for him in Jerusalem. His friends loved him and urged him not to go.

I understand them.

I do not want people I love to suffer. I do not want to suffer either. If there is another way around pain, sacrifice, or inconvenience, I usually want to find it.

But Paul’s response was not reckless. It was resolved.

He said he was ready not only to be imprisoned, but even to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus.

That sentence feels so far beyond my normal category of obedience.

Most of the time, I am not being asked to risk prison. I am being asked to be faithful when it costs me comfort, time, pride, money, sleep, or control.

And honestly, I still resist.

The line that stayed with me was, “The road is hard. Keep going.”

That is not dramatic. It is not flashy. It is just true.

The Christian life is not always easy. Sometimes I think I have quietly believed that if I am following Jesus, things should feel smoother. My marriage should feel easier. Parenting should feel more peaceful. Church should fit neatly into our calendar. Serving should feel energizing every time. Giving should only happen when the budget feels comfortable.

But Jesus never promised that kind of road.

He called us to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow him.

That sounds beautiful in a song. It feels harder when the toddler is melting down, the baby is teething, and I am running on coffee and impatience.

I am learning that a lot of my discipleship right now is happening in very ordinary places.

It is apologizing to my spouse when I have been short.  
It is praying one honest sentence instead of waiting for the perfect quiet time.  
It is getting to church even if we arrive late and frazzled.  
It is choosing community when staying isolated would be easier.  
It is giving generously when there are plenty of other things we could use the money for.  
It is serving even when our season feels full.  
It is believing that faithfulness in a tired house still matters to Jesus.

I do not want to chase hardship. That is not the point.

But I do want to stop treating inconvenience like it automatically means something has gone wrong.

Sometimes the road is hard because obedience is hard.

Sometimes the faithful thing is not impressive. It is packing the diaper bag again. It is loading kids into car seats again. It is showing up again. It is asking for prayer again. It is opening Scripture when you only have ten quiet minutes. It is choosing patience when everyone in the house is tired.

And sometimes it is admitting, “I need help.”

That part matters too.

Paul did not walk alone. He had people praying with him, weeping with him, speaking honestly to him, and helping him continue forward.

Our family needs that. I need that.

I need people who do not make me feel embarrassed that our life is loud and messy right now. I need people who will pray for us when sleep is thin and patience is thinner. I need people who remind me that this season matters, even if it feels small.

And I want to be that kind of person for others too.

So this week, I am trying to ask a better question.

Not, “How can I make my life easier?”

But, “Where is Jesus asking me to be faithful?”

Maybe it is in my home. Maybe it is with my spouse. Maybe it is with my kids. Maybe it is in my giving. Maybe it is with the neighbor I keep meaning to talk to. Maybe it is in finally saying yes to community instead of waiting until life feels calmer.

Because if I wait until life feels calm, I may be waiting a long time.

The road is hard.

Jesus is still worth following.

And by his grace, we keep going.

I am more afraid of people than I want to admit.

Not in every situation. I can have opinions. I can speak up about things that do not cost me much. But when it comes to spiritual conversations, correction, repentance, sin, Jesus, or the gospel, I can feel the fear rise quickly.

What if I say it wrong?  
What if they think I am judging them?  
What if it makes things awkward?  
What if they pull away from me?  
What if I lose the relationship?

So I stay quiet and call it patience.

Sometimes it is patience. Sometimes it is wisdom. But sometimes, if I am honest, it is fear.

In Acts 20, Paul says he did not shrink back from declaring anything that was profitable. He taught publicly and from house to house. He testified to Jews and Greeks about repentance toward God and faith in Jesus.

That phrase “did not shrink back” stayed with me.

Because I shrink back.

I shrink back from inviting the coworker I have prayed for. I shrink back from asking a deeper question when a friend is clearly struggling. I shrink back from telling the truth when someone I love is walking toward harm. I shrink back from speaking about Jesus because I do not want the room to feel tense.

But Paul was not trying to be harsh. He was not trying to win a debate. He was not trying to prove he was brave.

He loved people enough to tell them what was profitable.

That is different.

Fearless preaching is not just a Sunday pulpit thing, though we need that deeply. It is also a house-to-house thing. A dinner table thing. A car ride thing. A coffee shop thing. A text message thing. A moment when love refuses to let fear make all the decisions.

The sermon reminded me that truth is not the enemy of care. Truth is one way God cares for us.

That does not mean I should be reckless. It does not mean every thought I have needs to be spoken. It does not mean I should use “truth” as an excuse to be careless with people.

But it does mean I should ask a better question.

Not “How do I avoid discomfort?”  
But “What would love do here?”

Sometimes love listens quietly. Sometimes love waits. Sometimes love prays for the right moment.

And sometimes love speaks.

I want to be the kind of Christian who does not shrink back from what is profitable. Not because I am naturally bold. I am not. But because Jesus is worthy, people are eternal, and the gospel is good news.

Even when it makes the room quiet.

I can get so focused on finding my purpose that I miss the person standing right in front of me. That is not easy to admit, but it is true.

I can overthink calling, timing, decisions, gifting, capacity, and what God wants to do with my life. Meanwhile, my neighbor is outside taking his trash cans to the curb. My coworker is quieter than usual in the break room. My kid is trying to tell me something while I am half-listening and checking my phone. My friend has not replied in a while. The cashier at WinCo looks exhausted. Someone at church is sitting alone with coffee in their hand.
And I am busy wondering whether I am doing something meaningful enough.

Sunday’s sermon gently confronted that in me. Josh talked about Acts 20 and the way Paul traveled from place to place. One phrase stood out: Paul “had given them much encouragement.”

That is easy to pass by. It is not flashy. It does not feel complicated. Paul went through the regions and encouraged the disciples. But what if that is a bigger deal than I usually think?

I tend to want impact to look large. Clear. Measurable. Something with a story attached to it. I want to know that my life is making a difference.

But the mission of Jesus often meets me in ordinary proximity.

The people already near me.
The conversations already happening.
The needs I already know about.
The encouragement I could give, but often delay.

I thought about how many times I have felt prompted to send a text and then talked myself out of it because I did not know what to say perfectly.

Something simple like:
“Hey, I know this week has been a lot. I prayed for you this morning.”

Or:
“I was thinking about you today. No need to reply, but I wanted you to know you matter to us.”

Or even:
“Want to grab coffee this week? I would love to hear how you’re really doing.”
I make encouragement more complicated than it needs to be.

I thought about Sunday mornings too. How often do I walk into church thinking about where I am going to sit, who I normally talk to, or whether I can get my kids checked in on time? Those things are real. But there are also people around me who may have barely made it through the doors.

The mom trying to get three kids into class.
The older man sitting by himself.
The teenager standing near the wall.
The new person looking for the bathrooms.
The volunteer who has been serving all morning and looks tired.
The person who says, “I’m good,” but their face says something else.

Encouragement might be as simple as slowing down long enough to notice.

“Is this your first time here?”
“I’m really glad you came today.”
“Can I sit with you?”
“Thank you for serving our kids.”
“You seemed heavy today. Do you want prayer before you go?”

None of that feels dramatic. But it might matter more than I realize.

I also thought about my week outside of church.

At work, encouragement might look like not joining the complaint spiral for once. It might look like telling a coworker, “I noticed how you handled that. That was really patient.” It might look like asking the person who always seems fine if they are actually doing okay.

At home, it might look like putting my phone face down when my spouse starts talking. It might look like telling my kid, “I love how God made you thoughtful,” instead of only correcting the thing they forgot to do. It might look like apologizing without defending myself first.

In my neighborhood, it might look like learning the name of the person across the street. It might look like offering to bring in a package when they are gone. It might look like stopping for a five-minute conversation instead of waving and rushing inside.

At the grocery store, it might look like patience when the line is slow. It might look like looking the cashier in the eye and saying, “Thank you. I hope your day gets easier.” That is not a sermon. It is just basic kindness, but basic kindness can be a doorway.

Acts 20 reminds me that encouragement is not a small thing.

Paul was headed somewhere. He had urgency. He was moving toward Jerusalem. There were plans, travel routes, companions, risks, and responsibilities. And still, along the way, he encouraged people.

That matters to me because my life does not usually feel spacious. It feels full. There is work, laundry, family, bills, school schedules, appointments, and the low-grade mental noise of trying to keep up.

I can tell myself I will encourage people when life slows down.

But maybe encouragement is part of faithfulness in the middle of a full life.

Not a performance. Not forcing spiritual words into every interaction. Not trying to fix people.

Just paying attention.

Asking the second question.
Praying with someone instead of only saying I will pray for them.
Telling a friend what I see God doing in them.
Inviting someone to church without making it weird.
Being patient with the person who needs more grace than I feel like giving.
Remembering that people need to know they are loved and that they matter.

At the end of the service, Josh said we are going to meet people this week who need to be brought to the foot of Jesus. That sentence has stayed with me.

Because I will.

I will meet them at home when someone needs my attention at an inconvenient time.
I will meet them at work when someone is discouraged but trying to hide it.
I will meet them in traffic when I am tempted to forget that everyone else is human too.
I will meet them in the church lobby when someone is standing alone.
I will meet them in my own family when the people closest to me need gentleness, not just efficiency.

The question is whether I will be paying attention.

I do not have to be impressive. I do not have to know the whole plan. I do not have to see every outcome.

I can be faithful with the person in front of me.

Maybe that is one of the ways Jesus uses ordinary people to bring real hope into ordinary places.

I noticed something uncomfortable during the sermon.
When Pastor Jeff asked, “Who do you worship?” my first thought was, “God, obviously.”
That answer came a little too quickly.
 
The passage in Acts 19 is loud and chaotic. A city is stirred up. People are chanting. Demetrius is angry because Paul’s message is threatening the worship of Artemis and the business built around it.
At first, it is easy to feel distant from the story. I am not buying silver shrines. I am not chanting in a theater. I am not defending a goddess.
But then I thought about how I respond when my comfort gets threatened.
 
And maybe even more honestly, how I respond when I finally get the comfort I thought I needed, and I am still not at peace.
I work from home, and for a long time, work and finances felt like a constant pressure point. There was always another bill, another expense, another spreadsheet, another conversation about what we could delay or cut or stretch.
I prayed about it. I worried about it. I checked accounts more often than I needed to. I carried the pressure in my shoulders and in my sleep.
And then, finally, there was a breakthrough.
Work opened up. Income became more stable. The pressure started to ease. We could breathe a little. We could plan a little. We could say yes to things we had been putting off.
 
And I was grateful.
I still am.
 
But I was surprised by something.
 
The peace I thought would come automatically did not fully come.
I still found myself awake at night.
 
Only now, instead of lying there thinking about finances, my mind moved to the kids. Are they okay? Am I missing something? Are they drifting? Are they lonely? Are they anxious? Did I handle that conversation the right way? Should I have pushed more? Should I have been softer?
 
Then my mind moved to my parents.
The appointment coming up. The symptoms that seem small but maybe are not. The phone call I need to make. The questions I do not know how to answer. The quiet grief of realizing they are getting older and that our roles are slowly changing.
 
And there I was, in the dark, with the work breakthrough I had prayed for and the financial relief I had wanted, still trying to control a life I cannot control.
 
That is when Sunday’s sermon started pressing on me.
Sometimes I think I am asking God for help, but underneath that, I am asking him to arrange my life so I do not have to trust him so much.
 
If the finances are stable, then I can rest.
If the kids are okay, then I can rest.
If my parents are healthy, then I can rest.
If work keeps going well, then I can rest.
If everyone I love is safe and predictable, then I can rest.
 
But that kind of rest is fragile.
It depends on everything staying steady.
And nothing in this life stays steady for very long.
Pastor Jeff said, “God deserves all worship and praise. Man-made gods are useless.”
I know he was talking about idols, but I kept thinking about the quieter ones I make with my own hands.
 
A stable income.
A good job.
A healthy family.
A five-year plan.
A full savings account.
Children who are doing well.
Parents who do not need more care than I can give.
A life that finally feels manageable.
 
Those are good gifts.
But they are not God.
And when I treat them like they are, they cannot carry the weight.
 
Financial stability can reduce stress, but it cannot give me the peace of Christ.
A good job can be a blessing, but it cannot become my security.
Healthy children are a mercy, but they cannot become the foundation of my hope.
A plan can be wise, but it cannot save me from needing God.
 
That is hard for me because I like being responsible. I like doing my part. I like making the call, updating the calendar, checking the budget, finishing the project, following up, planning ahead.
 
None of that is wrong.
But there is a fine line between faithfulness and worshiping control.
I cross that line when I cannot sleep because my mind is trying to be God over every person I love.
I cross it when I treat prayer like a last resort after I have mentally rehearsed every possible outcome.
I cross it when I believe I cannot be okay unless the people I love are okay in the exact ways I want them to be.
I cross it when gratitude for provision turns into dependence on provision.
Acts 19 reminded me that idols are not always ugly things. Sometimes they are good things that I ask too much from.
That realization did not make me feel condemned. It made me feel invited.
 
Jesus is not shaming me for caring about my children. He loves them more than I do.
Jesus is not dismissing my concern for my aging parents. He sees their bodies, their needs, their fears, and mine.
Jesus is not telling me to be careless with work or finances. He has given those things as places for faithfulness.
But he is showing me that none of those things can be my source of peace.
Only He can.
 
So this week, I am trying to practice surrender in the moments where anxiety usually takes over.
When I wake up at 2:00 AM and my mind starts making lists, I am trying to pray before I problem-solve.
“Jesus, you love my children more than I do.”
“Jesus, you see my parents tonight.”
“Jesus, thank you for providing, but help me not worship provision.”
“Jesus, I am not in control, and you are good.”
It is not dramatic. It does not instantly make every concern disappear.
But it does remind me who is God.
 
Not my job.
Not my bank account.
Not my ability to anticipate every need.
Not my children’s outcomes.
Not my parents’ health.
Not my control.
Jesus.
 
The breakthrough was a gift. Financial relief is a gift. Work is a gift. Family is a gift.
But gifts make terrible gods.
And I do not want to spend my life asking good gifts to give me what only Jesus can give.
I need peace that does not depend on everything going right.
I need hope that holds when people I love are struggling.
I need rest that is deeper than a stable bank account.
I need Jesus.
And he is better.

I am a starter, not a finisher.

That is not something I enjoy admitting, but it is true. I love new ideas, new projects, new commitments. I have said excited yeses to gym memberships, Bible reading plans, volunteer roles, and even job opportunities, only to feel the excitement fade a few weeks later.

Yesterday when Jeff talked about his 1,000 pound club attempt and how he said yes before really counting the cost, I laughed out loud, mostly because I saw myself in it. I have my own graveyard of half-finished commitments and abandoned plans.

Then we hit Acts 19:21.

“Paul resolved in the Spirit to pass through Macedonia and Achaia and go to Jerusalem, saying, ‘After I have been there, I must also see Rome.’”

What got me was that Paul made that decision in the middle of a really good season. Ministry was fruitful in Ephesus. People were repenting. The gospel was spreading. If I had been Paul, I would have been tempted to settle in, decorate an office, and stay as long as possible.

Instead, Paul prayed, heard the Spirit’s leading, and then formed a plan that would cost him comfort, stability, and probably safety. And it was not just a burst of inspiration. It was resolve. It was a long obedience in the same direction.

As Jeff talked about counting the cost before saying yes, I started thinking about my own “yes” to Jesus.

I realized that some of my yeses have been more about emotion than conviction. I have said yes to leading when I was fired up after a conference, yes to serving when a need was announced in a moving way, yes to generosity after a powerful story. None of those are wrong, but feelings do not carry you very far when things get boring or hard.

I thought about a ministry commitment I made last year that quietly fizzled out when my schedule got complicated. No big failure. No public meltdown. Just a slow drift away from something I had actually promised to do.

That is where the three movements Jeff laid out hit home for me:

For me, that means slowing down before I say yes. Not just thinking, “Is this a good thing?” but actually asking, “God, is this what You want me to do?” I have not prayed that as often as I should. A lot of my decisions are made based on opportunity and guilt rather than listening and discernment.

There are areas where I actually do know what God wants. There is a hard conversation with a family member I have avoided for months. There is a habit I know I need to confess and get help with. I keep saying I am praying for clarity, but the truth is I am scared. I do not need more information. I need courage.

There are also areas where I feel ready to move but God seems to be saying, “Wait.” I have career dreams and ministry ideas that feel stalled. Hearing that Paul sent Timothy and Erastus ahead and then stayed in Asia “for a while” encouraged me. God is not late. He is not ignoring me. He is preparing me.

The sentence that has stayed with me since Sunday is this: “God isn’t going to microwave His plans for you.”

I want everything fast. Promotion, progress, visible fruit. But when I look back at the slow, hidden seasons in my life, they are the ones where God did most of His deep work in me. Those are the years where He exposed my pride, healed old wounds, and taught me to obey when nobody was watching.

- I am taking one current commitment and laying it back before the Lord, asking honestly, “Is this still what You want me to do?”  

- I am choosing one specific step of obedience I already know about and putting a date on the calendar to do it. Not someday. This week.  

- I am naming one area where God seems to be saying “wait,” and instead of trying to force it, I am asking, “What are You trying to form in me here?”

I still like new things. I probably always will. But I want my yes to Jesus to be more than a moment of emotion. I want it to be a settled resolve, rooted in prayer, expressed in action, and willing to wait as long as He says.

I have three kids, a full-time job, a husband I love and don't see enough, and approximately zero margin in my week.

Which is why 10PM has become sacred.

Not in a good way. In a I-finally-got-everyone-to-bed-and-now-this-is-mine kind of way.

I pour a glass of water, sit on the couch, and open Instagram. And then forty-five minutes disappear. Sometimes an hour. Other people's vacations. Other people's houses. Other people's bodies six months after having a baby. Other moms who seem to be doing everything I'm doing but with better lighting and a cleaner kitchen.

I know what it does to me. I wake up the next morning feeling behind before the day even starts. Behind on the house. Behind on my body. Behind on my marriage. Behind on my faith. Like everyone else got a memo I missed.

I've told myself it's rest. Decompression. The only quiet I get all day.

But I know it's not rest. Rest doesn't leave you feeling worse.

David Ord preached Acts 19 on Sunday and I sat there thinking about my 10PM couch ritual the entire time.

He opened the passage about the new believers in Ephesus who came forward after seeing God's power on display. They confessed their practices publicly. And then they gathered their sorcery books, the things that had held power over them, the things they'd been going back to, and burned them.

All of it.

David Googled the math. A denarius was a day's wage. 50,000 of them. Roughly $17 million in today's terms. They burned $17 million worth of books.

And then he said the thing I couldn't shake: they didn't sell them. They didn't donate them. They didn't box them up and put them in the garage just in case. They burned them. Because they realized they valued God more than they valued what they'd been holding onto.

My scrolling habit isn't worth $17 million. But it costs me something real... my peace, my contentment, my ability to receive what God has given me without immediately measuring it against what he gave someone else.

I've been treating the comparison as harmless because it doesn't look like sin. It's just Instagram. Everyone does it. There are worse things.

But I know what it produces in me. And I know I keep going back to it at the exact moment of the day when I'm most depleted and most susceptible to believing I'm not enough.

David said the Ephesians realized they valued God more than they valued their books. And I had to ask myself honestly: do I value those forty-five minutes more than I value what God is actually trying to do in my quietest hour?

Because that's when he'd have me. Genuinely quiet. Kids asleep. The day done. And instead of bringing that space to him, I've been handing it to an algorithm.

He also pointed out what happened right after the bonfire. The word of the Lord continued to increase and prevail mightily. Surrender made room for something. Full surrender always does.

I don't know exactly what 10PM looks like without the phone. Probably uncomfortable at first. Probably a lot of sitting with thoughts I've been scrolling past.

But I've been doing the wrong math. I've been calculating what it costs to let go instead of asking what God is trying to do with what I'm holding onto.

This week I'm putting the phone down at 10.

Not forever. Not with a dramatic announcement.

Just tonight. And then tomorrow night.

And I'm going to find out what God does with the quiet when I actually give it to him.

I run a tight ship.

School schedules. Soccer practice. Dentist appointments. Summer camp logistics. Meal planning for the week. I have a system and the system mostly works and I feel better when everything is in order.

I pray over our family. I ask God to bless what we're doing. I thank him when the week goes smoothly.

But David Ord said something in Acts 19 on Sunday that I've been sitting with since we got home and put the kids to bed.

He pointed to one line from Paul - just before arriving in Ephesus. Paul is saying goodbye to people he cares about. Telling them he'll come back. And he says:

"I will return to you if God wills."

Not: I'll be back. 

Not: I'm planning on it. 

Not: let me check the calendar.

If God wills.

David asked: do you go where God wills? Are you sensitive to his voice? Or do you just make your own decisions and ask God to bless them afterward?

I sat with that question longer than I wanted to.

Because if I'm being honest about how I actually parent - I plan first and pray second. I decide which school. Which sport. Which neighborhood. Which schedule. And then I bring God in at the confirmation stage. Lord, please bless what I've already decided.

There's a decision we've been going back and forth on as a family. Whether to stay where we are or make a move. I've already run the numbers. Looked at the school ratings. Mapped out the commute. Made a pros and cons list.

And somewhere in all of that I forgot to actually ask God what he wanted.

David went to James 4 - don't boast about tomorrow. Don't say I'm going to do this and this and this. That's sin. Instead, hold your plans loosely. Submit to his will. Do what he says.

There's a posture in "if God wills" that I haven't been modeling for my kids. I want them to see parents who pray before they decide - not just parents who pray after they've already committed. I want them to see what it looks like to hold the future with open hands. To say: I think we're going to do this - but only if God wills.

Because they're watching how we make decisions. They're absorbing whether faith is something we live by or something we refer to afterward.

Paul was one of the most intentional people in all of the New Testament. He wasn't passive. He made plans, he traveled, he reasoned, he argued, he built. But his intentionality was in service of God's direction - not his own preferences.

I want to be that kind of parent. Not less intentional. But oriented differently.

This week I reopened the decision I thought I'd already made. And instead of asking God to bless it, I asked him what he actually wants.

It's a different prayer. But I think it's the right one.

I have a default prayer.

It's not one I planned. It's just the one that comes out when life feels uncertain. God, please stabilize this. Please make this clearer. Please let things settle down so I can get my footing.

Stability. Clarity. Settled. Those are the things I've been asking for most consistently over the last year or two.

Devin closed his sermon on Sunday with a challenge that made me sit up a little straighter.

He said: prayerfully embrace change this week. Surrender the idol of comfort and ask God to introduce change in your life.

He framed it around Jeremiah 29:13 - you will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. And he said seeking is an action verb. It involves movement. It involves not sitting where you are. It means chasing something, being in the race, not handing out water on the sideline.

I've been handing out water.

Not literally. But spiritually - I've been in a comfortable orbit around my faith without a lot of forward motion. I show up. I participate. I maintain. But I haven't been pursuing anything. I haven't been asking God to change me or move me or put me somewhere uncomfortable.

And Devin said something about Apollos leaving Ephesus that reframed how I've been thinking about change. The church invested in Apollos and then sent him to Achaia. From their perspective - he's gone. The thing they built together is over. But Paul writes later that he planted and Apollos watered and God gave the growth. The thing that looked like loss from inside Ephesus was actually multiplication from above it.

I've been treating stability like it's the goal. Like if things would just stop shifting, I'd be in a position to really grow.

But Acts 18 doesn't show Paul in one place finding his footing. It shows him moving from Corinth to Ephesus to Caesarea to Antioch to Galatia - strengthening churches everywhere he went, staying where God said stay and leaving when God said go. The movement wasn't the problem. The movement was the ministry.

Devin's challenge wasn't to go create chaos or manufacture transition. It was to stop asking God to keep things comfortable and start asking him what he wants to change. To surrender the idol of comfort - which is a strong phrase and I felt it - and open my hands to whatever comes next.

I don't know what that looks like for me specifically yet. But I know my default prayer has been the wrong one. Stability was never the destination. Pursuit was.

This week I'm changing the prayer.

You can watch the full message from Devin Hopper on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I've been tired for a while now.

Not the kind of tired that a good night's sleep fixes. The kind that sits in your chest on Sunday morning when you're getting ready for church and you think - do I have anything left to give today?

I serve in kids ministry. I show up most Sundays at 8:15 to set up. I prep curriculum on Thursday nights after the kids are in bed. I send follow-up texts to parents during the week. I genuinely love it. And lately I've been doing all of it while quietly wondering if any of it is actually making a difference.

Nobody said anything was wrong. There was no big moment. Just a slow leak somewhere that I hadn't named yet.

Jeff preached Acts 18 on Father's Day and I wasn't expecting much. I came in tired and I sat down tired and I figured I'd take some notes and go home tired.

But he said something early on that I wrote down and haven't stopped thinking about.

He said Paul worked two jobs in Corinth - tent making and the word - for a year and a half. Not a quick trip. Not a highlight reel. A year and a half of showing up in the same city, doing the unglamorous work, staying when it would have been easier to leave.

And then God showed up. Not with a dramatic sign. With a quiet word in the night: don't be afraid. Go on speaking. Don't be silent. I am with you.

I needed that more than I knew.

Because the thing nobody tells you about serving consistently is that the silence gets loud. You don't get a lot of feedback in kids ministry. You prep and you show up and you love the kids and you go home and you do it again. And sometimes you wonder - does this matter? Does God even see this?

Acts 18 says yes.

Jeff also talked about Aquila and Priscilla - a couple who gave Paul a job when he arrived with nothing. They didn't preach. They made tents. And because they made tents, Paul could stay in Corinth long enough for a whole city to be changed by the gospel.

I'm not Paul. But I'm Aquila and Priscilla every Sunday morning when I show up at 8:15.

The other thing that helped was the one message section. Jeff said any biblically faithful pastor only has one message. Christ crucified. And I realized I'd been measuring my ministry by the wrong things - the energy in the room, the kids who seemed engaged, the parents who said thank you. All of that matters. But none of it is the point.

The point is the message. And the message doesn't need me to perform well for it to be true.

I'm still tired. But I went home Sunday with something I didn't have when I walked in. Not a solution. Just a reminder that God sees the unglamorous work, He's present in the quiet seasons, and the message I'm carrying is worth carrying even when I'm running low.

That's enough to keep going.

You can watch the full message from Pastor Jeff on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I've had a hard time putting words to it.

It's not quite loneliness. Not exactly emptiness. Just this persistent sense that something is missing - that the life I've built, which looks pretty good from the outside, doesn't quite feel complete from the inside.

I've tried to fill it with different things. More work. Better relationships. Longer runs. Cleaner eating. A different city. Most of them helped for a while. None of them fixed it.

Josh Bressler preached Acts 17 on Sunday and described what he called a God-shaped void. A famous theologian, he said, used that phrase - the idea that all of us have a space inside that nothing else will fill. And if you've been going through life without a relationship with God, you already know that. He said: I'm not telling you about something you don't know about. You've experienced it, probably even today.

That landed harder than I expected.

The passage was about Paul walking into Athens - one of the most educated, successful cities of the ancient world - and finding a city full of people doing what I've been doing. Looking for something to fill the void. They had altars everywhere, gods for every occasion, and one more just in case: "To the Unknown God."

They were hedging. Covering their bases. Making sure they hadn't missed whoever was actually out there.

Paul stood up and said: you haven't missed him. You just don't know his name yet. Let me introduce you.

Josh traced the whole story from there - God in the garden, walking close enough to be heard. God building a temple to be near his people. God sending Jesus to tear the curtain that separated them. Not because he was keeping people out, but because he was waiting for the day when he could finally invite them back in.

He said: God isn't far from any of us. In fact, he's been seeking you the whole time.

I don't have this all figured out. I still have questions. But I'm starting to wonder if the void I've been trying to fill has a specific shape - and if the God who's been seeking me is exactly what fits it.

I'm not ready to say I have it all figured out. But I'm done building altars to an unknown God. I want to know who he actually is.

If you want to explore more, you can watch the full message from Josh Bressler on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App. And if you want to talk, someone at Hope would genuinely love to have that conversation with you.

I've known the gospel for most of my life.

I believe it. I'm grateful for it. I think about it often enough.

I just don't bring it up much anymore.

At some point I think I decided that my life was the witness. That people could see something different in me and ask about it if they wanted. That I shouldn't push. That it's not my job to convert anyone. All of those things that sound reasonable and feel comfortable.

Acts 17 made me sit with that.

Paul and his team arrived in Thessalonica and reasoned from the scriptures for three weeks. Not passively. Not waiting for people to ask. Explaining. Proving. Proclaiming. Christ crucified. Christ risen. In the synagogue. To whoever would listen.

Some believed. A mob formed. Paul left in the middle of the night.

He arrived in Berea. Went straight to the synagogue. Did it again.

Jeff said the Bereans moved from 120 followers in Acts 1 to tens of thousands across multiple countries in 30 years - not because of programs or buildings, but because people kept sharing the message everywhere they went. Every time. No matter what happened the last time.

I've been treating the gospel like something I received and now hold. Acts treats it like something you received and keep passing on.

Jeff closed with three simple questions. Where do you live? The gospel is needed there. Who do you see? The gospel is needed there. Point in a direction. The gospel is needed there.

And I sat there thinking about specific people.

My neighbor down the street who lost his job six months ago and has been quieter ever since. We wave. We talk about the weather. I've never once brought up Jesus.

The coworker who asked me last year why I seem so calm under pressure. I said something vague about my faith and moved on. She hasn't asked again. I never went back to it.

My friend who's been going through a rough patch in his marriage. He came to church once with us two years ago. I never followed up. Never asked what he thought. Just assumed it wasn't the right time.

It's always not the right time when I'm comfortable.

Jeff used an illustration that I keep coming back to. The man selling oranges didn't argue. He didn't give a presentation. He just cut the orange and said: taste. He had a good product and trusted it to speak for itself.

I know the gospel is a good product. I've tasted it. It changed my life. But somewhere along the way I stopped offering it to the people right in front of me.

Paul never stopped. Rejected in Thessalonica. Shipped off in the middle of the night. Arrived in Berea and walked straight into the synagogue. Same message. Same method. No hesitation.

I've let one awkward conversation keep me quiet for years.

That's not Acts. That's comfort.

I've never thought of myself as a global missions person.

I picture global missions as something for people who are particularly bold. Particularly gifted. Particularly called in some dramatic way — a moment at a conference, a vision, a clear sign from God. People who leave behind comfortable lives and move to hard places. People built differently than me.

Sunday complicated that picture.

Jeff opened Ephesians 2:10 and built the whole message around one idea: we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works that He prepared beforehand. All of us. Not a specific subset of unusually courageous Christians.

He talked about a couple from our church who spent years with a quiet heart for global work — building careers, opening their home for community groups, financially supporting others who went overseas, traveling to encourage global partners on the field. Not dramatic. Just faithful. And Jeff said God had been setting things up for them for years without them fully knowing it. Each small yes prepared them for the next one.

That reframed everything for me.

I kept waiting for the dramatic moment. The burning bush. The unmistakable sign. But maybe that's not how most of it works. Maybe it looks more like showing up consistently, saying yes to the small thing in front of you, and trusting that God is building something you can't fully see yet.

Then Jeff broke it down into three concrete ways to be part of global gospel work: pray, give, go.

Pray. Every Wednesday, pray for our global partners by name. Not a vague "God bless the missionaries" kind of prayer — specific, committed, weekly. That's something anyone can do starting this week.

Give. The American dollar goes significantly farther in the places our global partners serve. Generosity isn't just for people with extra — it's participation. Even a small, consistent gift to the global outreach fund is part of the work.

Go. Maybe that's a global encounter trip next year. Maybe it's striking up a real conversation with your neighbor who's been through a hard season and hasn't found solid ground. Maybe it's the coworker who keeps asking honest questions about faith over lunch. Maybe it's the friend who's been carrying something heavy and doesn't know where to turn. Going doesn't always mean a plane ticket.

Jeff also said something that I couldn't shake: there are over 2,000 unreached people groups in India alone. Less than 2% believe in Jesus. These are real people, made in God's image, who have never heard the name of Jesus in a way that made sense to them. Not because they rejected it — because no one ever got close enough to tell them.

That's not someone else's problem to solve. That's why the church exists.

I'm not moving overseas. But I'm taking the Wednesday prayer commitment seriously. I'm thinking harder about what "go" looks like in my own zip code. And I'm asking God to show me what tee He's already set up that I've been walking past.

I grew up in a church where the baseline expectation was that you were always a little behind.

Not behind on salvation, that part was settled. But behind on everything else. Quiet time. Giving. Serving. Attitude. Behind on holiness. Behind on joy. Behind on having the kind of faith that made things easier instead of heavier.

I internalized that early. And I’ve been running a low-level performance review of my own spiritual life ever since.

Sunday’s message from Matthew 23 named it in a way I wasn’t fully prepared for.

Jeff described religion as a system. Beat this level. Do these things. Move to the next challenge. Keep ascending. And he said it plainly: religion changes nothing. We strive and strive and come up with emptiness, because religion is about you being good. And Jesus instead is about Jesus being good.

I sat with that for a minute because I realized I’ve spent a lot of years confusing the two.

I know what religious striving looks like in my actual week. It looks like guilt every time I open my Bible late in the day instead of first thing. It looks like wondering if the reason that hard situation didn’t resolve is because I didn’t pray enough, or well enough, or with enough faith. It looks like serving at church but quietly scanning the room to see if anyone noticed. It looks like comparing my spiritual temperature to other people’s highlight reels and always coming up short.

None of that is the gospel. I know that. I’ve known it intellectually for a long time.

But hearing Jeff walk through the Pharisees in Matthew 23 made it feel less like theology and more like a mirror.

He pointed out that the religious leaders lay heavy burdens on people and won’t lift a finger to help. They’re experts at making the standard clear and absent when it comes to helping anyone meet it. And Jesus looked at that whole system and said: woe to you. And then He turned to the people carrying those burdens and said something completely different.

Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Jeff ran through the list of who’s invited. Sick people. Broken people. People who look dirty. People who look clean but know they’re not.

I’ve been in that last category for a long time. Showing up. Saying the right things. Genuinely meaning some of it. And quietly knowing that the inside doesn’t match the outside as much as I’d like it to.

Still invited.

The chapter ends with the part that got me most. Jesus weeping over Jerusalem. Not giving up on it. Not writing it off. Grieving. “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood, and you were not willing.”

I’ve been unwilling in my own way. Not unwilling to show up to church. Unwilling to stop performing for a God who has never once asked me to perform. Unwilling to just come, empty-handed, and trust that the invitation is actually for me.

This week I’m trying something different. Not a new spiritual discipline. Not a better quiet time plan. Just stopping the performance review. And coming.

That’s the whole thing. He said come. So I’m coming.

You can watch the full message from Pastor Jeff on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I’ve spent most of my thirties building a life that is pretty much entirely on my own terms. I’ve got the career track, the gym routine, and a weekend schedule that belongs to nobody but me. For a long time, I viewed "faith" as something for people who needed a crutch or a social club, and I didn't think I qualified for either.

But a guy I work with, someone who is actually grounded and doesn't have a "preachy" bone in his body, kept mentioning this place. Eventually, I showed up just to see what the deal was. I expected to feel like an outsider looking into a museum. Instead, I feel like I’ve walked into an interrogation room where I’m the one being asked the questions.

Before I started showing up here, I had a very specific, very safe version of Jesus in my head. He was a historical figure who said some profound things about being kind to your neighbor. He was the "Life Coach" Jesus. He was someone I could reference when I wanted to feel a bit more ethical, but he didn't actually have any say over how I spent my Tuesday nights or my bank account.

I realized recently that I’ve been treating Jesus like a character in a movie rather than a person with authority. I took the parts of his "brand" that I liked and ignored anything that felt too demanding. It was a DIY religion. I was basically worshiping a version of myself that wore sandals and lived in the first century.

But the more I actually look at the accounts of his life, the more I see that the people who met him were rarely "comforted" in the way I want to be. They were usually shocked, offended, or completely undone. He didn't come to be a mascot for my lifestyle.

In my world, commitment is a heavy word. I like having an exit strategy for everything. I thought I could treat Christianity like a podcast: I’d listen when I found it interesting and hit "pause" when it got too real. I wanted to stay in this safe, neutral zone where I was "exploring" without ever having to make a call.

But I’m starting to see that "undecided" is actually a decision. If someone claims to be the architect of the entire universe, you can't really just give them a three-star review and move on. There is no middle ground. If he is who he says he is, then everything in my life has to shift. If he isn't, then the whole thing is a waste of time.

The ancient writings I’ve been reading lately don't help my case for staying neutral. Long before Jesus was born, writers were describing a coming figure who wouldn't just be a good teacher or a political rebel, but someone whose authority was so absolute it defied explanation.

I’m still the guy who sits near the door. I’m still checking the fine print. I have a lot of questions about how a guy in his thirties, living in a modern world, is supposed to reconcile all of this with his everyday reality.

But I’m done with the "costume" version of Jesus. I’m tired of the safe, domesticated version that never asks anything of me. I’m realizing that if I’m going to be honest with myself, I have to stop treating this like an intellectual hobby.

I don't have it all figured out, and I’m definitely not "churchy" yet. But for the first time in a decade, I’m actually looking for the real version of the truth, even if it means losing control of the narrative I’ve built for myself.

You can watch the full message on this reflection on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App. If you have questions or want to talk to someone about faith, we'd love to connect with you.

You can watch the full message on this reflection on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

This week already feels full. 

School pickups. A work deadline. A kid’s taekwondo class. Laundry that’s been sitting there for days.

It’s the kind of week where it feels reasonable to say, not now. Maybe later, when things slow down.

But if I’m honest, things don’t really slow down. There’s always something next.

And I’m starting to notice how easy it is to push certain things to “someday.” To assume I’ll show up more, give more, be more present when life feels easier to manage.

At the same time, I’m aware that the people around me, especially my kids, are paying attention. Not to what I say matters, but to what actually gets my time and energy.

They see what I make room for. They see what gets postponed.

And that makes me pause a little.

Maybe it’s not about finding extra time.

Maybe it’s about what I choose to do with the time that’s already there.

Even small things count. Showing up. Helping out. Choosing to give when it would be easier not to.

Not in a big, dramatic way. Just in the middle of a normal, busy week.

I don’t have it all figured out. 

The schedule is still full. The to-do list isn’t going anywhere.

But I can take one small step. Something simple. Something real.

That feels doable.

You can watch the full message from our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I’ll be honest. The idea of people coming back to life has always felt like a stretch to me. I figured it was just a nice thought people used to feel better about death, but I didn't think it was rooted in much logic.

Then I saw how Jesus handled a group of skeptics who felt the same way I did.

They came to Him with a total "gotcha" question about marriage and the afterlife, trying to make the whole idea of heaven look absurd. I expected a religious platitude, but Jesus gave a remarkably logical answer.

He explained that we can’t judge the next life based on the rules of this one. It isn't just "Earth 2.0." He basically told them they were thinking too small.

The part that really got me was when He pointed to the burning bush story. When God spoke to Moses, He didn't say "I used to be" the God of the ancestors. He said, "I am." Even though those men had been dead for centuries, God spoke about them in the present tense.

The point Jesus made was simple: God is the God of the living, not the dead.

I’m still processing a lot of this, but it changed how I view the resurrection. It isn't just a random miracle tacked onto the end of a story. It’s a natural result of who God is. If He exists, and if He is as big as He says He is, then life doesn't just stop. That’s a perspective I hadn’t considered before.

You can watch the full message from Elder David Ord on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I’ve noticed something about myself. 

When life feels uncertain, I start asking God a lot of questions.

What should I do? What’s the right move? How do I fix this?

It feels spiritual. Like I’m bringing things to Him.

But this Sunday in Matthew 22, I started to wonder if my questions are really about something else. Because the people who questioned Jesus weren’t actually looking for answers. They were trying to trap Him.

And underneath their question about taxes was something deeper: Control.

Who’s in charge? Who has the power? Who can take it away?

That hit closer to home than I expected.

Because I don’t argue about denarius coins, but I do have my own version of those moments.

I check my bank account when money feels tight.

I feel anxious after reading the news.

I replay conversations, wondering if I messed something up.

I think about the future and try to plan every possible outcome.

And in all of it, I keep asking questions. But if I’m honest, I’m not just looking for guidance. I’m trying to stay in control.

Jesus’ answer is simple: “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

Handle what’s in front of you.

 Be responsible.

 Do what’s right.

But don’t give your heart to it.

That’s the part I miss.

Because I don’t just deal with the situation. I attach my peace to it.

I let it decide if I’m okay. And Jesus gently pulls that back. Your life is not held together by your control.  It’s held together by Him.

So this week, I’m trying something different.

Still doing what’s in front of me.

Still showing up, working, planning, thinking.

But paying attention to where my trust is actually going.

And when I feel that pull to control everything again,

 just coming back to something simple: Give to God what is God’s.

If this resonates with you, you can watch the full sermon from Hope Community on YouTube and let Jesus’ words sink a little deeper.

I’ll be honest: I don’t naturally think of God’s kingdom as a party.

When I hear “Christian life,” my mind goes to discipline. Trying to read my Bible more. Showing up to church. Serving when I can. A wedding feast is not the first picture that comes to mind.

So when we walked through Matthew 22 this Sunday, I felt both encouraged and uncomfortable.

Encouraged, because Jesus is very clear: life with Him is meant to be like a feast. A celebration. A place of belonging and joy. The King isn’t inviting people to a lecture. He’s inviting them to a table.

But also uncomfortable… because of how people respond.

Some just ignore the invitation. They’re busy. They have fields and businesses and plans.

Honestly, that sounds a lot like me on a normal week.

When I’m too tired to pray, but somehow still have energy to scroll for 45 minutes.

 When gathering with God’s people is the first thing to drop, but everything else feels non-negotiable.

And that hits close to home.

Others in the story respond with hostility. They reject the servants completely.

I don’t usually see that kind of reaction in myself, but I do see quieter versions:

Brushing off conviction

Getting defensive when something hits too close

Staying busy so I don’t have to deal with what God might be saying

Then there’s the part that lingers the most for me. The man at the feast without a wedding garment. He’s in the room. Close to everything. But not clothed the way the King provided. And that’s the part that makes me stop.

Because it’s possible to:

 Know the songs

 Show up every Sunday

 Say the right things

 Serve in the right places

…and still be relying on myself.

Still quietly thinking, “I’m doing pretty well.”

Still trying to stand before God in my own effort.

But the good news is this: The King doesn’t just invite us. He provides what we need to belong. The wedding garment is not something we earn. It’s something we receive.

Jesus is the One who covers us, our sin, our striving, our pretending.

The invitation isn’t “try harder.” It’s “put on Christ.” 

That’s what this passage keeps bringing me back to. Not just being in the room. But actually trusting Him. Not just going through motions. But coming honestly and letting Him change me.

For me, this week looks like paying attention to the small ways I treat God’s invitation as casual:

Choosing distraction over time with Him

 Letting days pass without real conversation with God

 Serving out of obligation instead of love

And then asking Him to restore something deeper.

Not just discipline… but joy.

 Not just routine… but relationship.

 Not just attendance… but hunger.

Because this isn’t just an invitation to show up.

It’s an invitation to a feast.

And the King is still inviting.

If you want to go deeper, you can watch the full message on our YouTube channel or through the Hope App.

I’ve heard the Easter story more times than I can count.

Jesus lived a perfect life.

Jesus died on the cross.

Jesus rose from the dead.

I believe it. I’m all in on that. But if I’m honest, there are seasons where those truths feel more like “background music” than the loud, clear song in my heart.

This Easter at Hope, sitting with Philippians 2 again, something shifted for me, not because I learned something brand new, but because something old felt fresh.

“Though he was in the form of God… he emptied himself.”

I’ve read that verse before. But this time, I slowed down with it. Jesus didn’t just do a good thing for the world in general. He chose to step down, to serve, to suffer, for people like me who already know the story and still stumble.

I needed that reminder. As someone who has walked with Jesus for a while, it’s easy to quietly slide into a “I should be past this by now” mindset. I know better. I’ve heard better. So when I hit familiar struggles, old sins, old fears, old patterns, I can slip into shame.

But hearing again that Jesus came for me, died for me, and won for me, right where I am today, was surprisingly encouraging.

He didn’t just come for the person hearing the gospel for the first time. He came for the worn-out parent who still loses their temper. For the long-time church member who battles doubt. For the weary heart that keeps trying and failing and getting back up.

Then there was this line: “At the name of Jesus every knee should bow… and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

I’ve always loved that verse, but this year it felt less like a distant scene and more like a daily invitation. As a believer, my knee already belongs to Him. My life already belongs to Him. And yet, there are places I still hold back, little pockets of control, buried worries, unspoken plans.

It was strangely comforting to realize that bowing my knee to Jesus isn’t a one-time, “I did that years ago” moment. It’s a daily posture. A daily choice to say, “You are Lord here too.”

The ABCs that Jeff shared: Admit, Believe, Confess, Surrender aren’t just for people coming to faith for the first time. They’re a simple pattern for long-time followers too.

Admit: I still need Him today.

Believe: His life, death, and resurrection are still enough for me today.

Confess: He is still Lord, not just of my eternity, but of this moment.

Surrender: I can let go again, of control, fear, and self-reliance, and trust Him.

As a long-time believer, I walked away from Easter not with brand-new information, but with renewed affection. The old story felt like good news again.

Maybe that’s what I needed most.

Reflect & Respond:

If you’d like to hear the full message and sit with these truths more, you can watch the full sermon on our YouTube channel.