Blog

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;<figure id="figure-vvw4hmot7mp2fncf5"><img id="vvw4hmot7mp2fncf5" src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/17ecsY89zl7wOGDa1F276kJKOqjEZu3ThtAaXP8fOkyxaxvyy5c2tJIRJxByqFUc.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Wait believe - then be baptized? &nbsp; When Jesus said, “He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved,” he wasn’t wasting words. He didn’t say, “Believe, be saved, and then get baptized if you feel like it.” He put things in a certain order, and he meant what he said. I don’t get to rearrange his sentences to fit my preferences. But to hear him rightly, we have to understand what he means by saved. Most of us grew up thinking salvation was mainly about avoiding hell and getting into heaven. Or maybe about having our sins forgiven so we can live a cleaner life.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Those things matter, but Scripture pushes the word further than that. Salvation has to do with the world we’re living in — not the planet, but the system. The whole arrangement of things shaped by the flesh, energized by the devil, and set against the Father’s heart. It’s the air we breathe without noticing: the values, the ambitions, the noise, the self‑importance, the religious games, the politics, the pride. All of it. And Jesus is saying: When you believe in me and you’re baptized, you’re stepping out of that world and into another. &nbsp; Not in theory. Not someday. Now. Baptism isn’t magic. It isn’t regeneration. But it is the God‑given doorway where a man says with his whole body, “I’m done with the old order. I’m crossing over.” It’s the line in the sand. Peter reaches back to Noah to make the same point. The flood didn’t just keep Noah from drowning — it lifted him out of a world that was already under judgment. The water separated him from what God was finished with. Peter says baptism works the same way. It’s the moment when a believer publicly leaves one world behind and steps into another. &nbsp; When you go down into the water, you’re not the only thing going under. The whole world you belonged to — the one shaped by Adam, driven by fear, pride, and self — goes down with you. And when you rise, you rise into Christ’s world. A new creation. A new order. A new way of being human. That’s why baptism matters. It’s not a small thing. It’s not a sentimental ceremony. It’s a declaration of allegiance. &nbsp; It’s you saying, “My world is gone. I belong to Jesus now.” This is why Paul could tell the Philippian jailer, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved — you and your household.” He wasn’t promising automatic eternal life for the whole family. He was saying: If you publicly turn toward Christ, your whole home steps out of one system and into another. People will look at your doorway and say, “That house belongs to the Lord.” &nbsp; Two worlds. Two orders. Two ways of living. We were born into Adam’s world by natural birth. We leave it through death — Christ’s death counted as ours. And we enter Christ’s world by new birth — his resurrection counted as ours. Baptism stands between those two realities as the burial that makes the crossing visible. &nbsp; When a man comes up out of the water, he’s not just wet. He’s declaring something to heaven, to earth, and to himself: “I’ve crossed over. I’m walking in a new world now.”

Believe then baptized?

<figure id="figure-sjwsunej8qmp1hm7y4"><img id="sjwsunej8qmp1hm7y4" src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/279IieR1blT0i2DMQdlGkP72RvHAVLW5Kdh05hUI4sITmIy870o0ky2Bf4i8G0tq.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg selected" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 50% 25%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="50%" data-positiony="25%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/279IieR1blT0i2DMQdlGkP72RvHAVLW5Kdh05hUI4sITmIy870o0ky2Bf4i8G0tq.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 50% 25%;" data-mce-selected="1"></figure>The Prodigal’s Voice — Sitting Across From Mephibosheth I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me.Mephibosheth had that quiet in his eyes — the kind men get when life has taken more from them than they ever say out loud. He didn’t try to fill the space. He didn’t try to make me feel better. He just sat there, crooked legs tucked under the chair like he’d learned to make peace with the things that wouldn’t heal.I envied him for that.I kept thinking he’d ask what I did with the money, or how long I’d been gone, or what it felt like to come home smelling like pigs. But he didn’t. He just watched me the way a man watches a fire he’s sat beside before.Finally I said it.“I don’t know why he ran to me.”My voice cracked on the word ran. I hated that.Mephibosheth nodded, slow. “David said my name like he’d been waiting for it,” he said. “Like he remembered me when I didn’t remember myself.”I swallowed hard. That was it. That was exactly it.“I kept waiting for my father to remember who I really was,” I said. “What I’d done. Where I’d been.”He didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct me. Didn’t offer a verse.He just said, “Grace feels like a trick when you’ve lived too long without it.”Something in me loosened. Not healed — just loosened, like a knot that finally gives a little.I looked at his legs — twisted, thin, the kind of broken you can’t hide. And I realized he wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t pretending.He’d learned to sit at a table he didn’t earn. He’d learned to let the chair hold him.I whispered, “Does it ever stop feeling like you don’t belong?”He breathed out slow. “Some days. Some days I still feel like the man who fell. But the place stays set. The chair doesn’t move. That steadiness… it teaches you something.”I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.We sat there in the quiet — two men who had run out of their own strength in different ways. Two men who had been carried farther than they deserved. Two men learning how to sit still in a love that didn’t ask for explanations.And for the first time since I came home, I didn’t feel alone at the table.

The Prodigal’s Voice — Sitting Across From Mephibosheth

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<figure id="figure-m9180ohf6moqz5udb"><img id="m9180ohf6moqz5udb" src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/10zEQ6f11FTOyEDnoDr9hi6svExsXKu3me7N8d8UsotZRO2LtSCxgYyeexiEK1k5.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg selected" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/10zEQ6f11FTOyEDnoDr9hi6svExsXKu3me7N8d8UsotZRO2LtSCxgYyeexiEK1k5.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-mce-selected="1"></figure>As I sit in the chapel and welcome whoever God sends my way, I’m reminded of Peter’s moment on the mountain. He was swept up in the wonder of it all and wanted to honor Jesus, Moses, and Elijah side by side. But God cut through the moment with a different message: Jesus alone is the One we’re to listen to. Not the law. Not the prophets. Just Him.That speaks directly to what I’m doing here. People walk into this chapel with all kinds of stories—church hurt, religious confusion, spiritual hunger. Some are still holding on to old systems, old voices, old shadows. But when they sit with me in this space, I want them to encounter Jesus alone. Not religion. Not rules. Not even my own opinions. Just the living Christ.This chapel isn’t a place for building three tents. It’s a place for letting go of everything that distracts from Jesus. I want people to leave knowing He isn’t one voice among many. He isn’t part of the story. He is the story. He’s the fulfillment, the center, the life. He’s the One who speaks directly into their hearts, just as He speaks into mine.So when someone comes through these doors, I’m not offering them Moses or Elijah. I’m offering them Jesus. And if they walk away with Him alone, then this chapel has done what it was meant to do.

As I Sit in the Chapel

Romans 8:2 says it plainly: “The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set me free from the law of sin and death.” And Hebrews 1 reminds us that while God once spoke in fragments—through prophets and portions—He now speaks fully, in the Son.Here in the chapel’s hush, I’ve come to see Christ not only as the fulfillment of the law, but as the One who breathes life into it. Moses carried tablets carved in stone—good, but outside of us. Christ writes the law in spirit—alive, near, and tender. He doesn’t thunder from a mountaintop. He steps into the inner room of the soul we have bolted shut—appearing where no one should be able to enter, just as He did in the Upper Room—and there He inscribes Himself in the quiet places. That makes Him our true Lawgiver—not of dead letters, but of living presence.And He is our Prophet as well. Not one who merely warns or foretells, but One who speaks God’s heart from within. Elijah was a shadow. Christ is the substance. He doesn’t echo God from afar—He embodies Him. He speaks forth God in the stillness between our thoughts, in the ache that turns into prayer.So I’ve stopped waiting for another Moses. I’ve stopped looking for another Elijah. I don’t need them. I have Christ. And He is enough.As the kingdom draws near, I’m learning not to set anyone beside Him. Not Moses. Not Elijah. Not any hero of faith. Christ alone governs me gently and speaks to me truly. He is my present, living, inward Moses—guiding me with the law of life. He is my present, living, inward Elijah—whispering the voice of God when I grow still enough to hear.So I listen. I yield. I let Him be the One who speaks and the One who shapes. And I find myself glowing—not because I’ve climbed a mountain, but because He has stepped into the locked places of my being and made His home there.

The One Who Speaks Within

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We spend so much of our lives gripping things we were never meant to control. We tighten our hands around outcomes, relationships, timing, reputation, and the unknown — as if our effort alone could keep everything from slipping away. And when it inevitably does, we blame ourselves for not holding tighter.But the truth is simple: You can’t hold an ocean in your hands.The ocean is vast, powerful, and alive with movement. It refuses to be contained by human effort. And life works the same way. The more you try to cup your hands around what feels uncertain, the more it runs through your fingers. Not because you’re weak, but because some things were never designed to be managed by human strength.Scripture reminds us again and again that God is the One who sets boundaries for the seas, who commands the waves, who knows the depths we cannot see. That same God invites us to trust Him with the parts of life that overwhelm us. Not because He wants us to be passive, but because He wants us to be free.When your hands are clenched around control, they’re too full to receive peace. When your mind is consumed with managing outcomes, there’s no room left for rest. When your heart is busy trying to predict every wave, you miss the beauty of simply standing in God’s presence.Letting go isn’t failure. It’s alignment.It’s choosing to believe that the God who governs the ocean can govern your life. It’s releasing the illusion of control so you can finally breathe again. It’s remembering that your job is obedience, not omnipotence.So if you’re tired — tired of gripping, tired of managing, tired of trying to keep the tide from rising — hear this:You were never meant to hold the ocean. You were meant to trust the One who holds you.

Stop Trying to Hold an Ocean in Your Hands

Statue of jesus with outstretched arm in front of church.

Most of us go to church assuming we’re doing what Jesus intended. We gather, we sing, we listen, we give, we go home. It’s familiar, comfortable, and—if we’re honest—predictable. But lately I’ve been wondering whether our version of “church” resembles the world Jesus walked in or if we’ve unintentionally built something He never asked for.This isn’t about tearing down the church. It’s about asking whether we’ve drifted from the simplicity, power, and raw humanity of the early Jesus movement. And if we have, what would it look like to return.&nbsp; 1. Jesus Gathered Around Tables, Not Stages In the Gospels, Jesus’ ministry happened in homes, around meals, on hillsides, in boats, and on dusty roads. The table—not the platform—was His primary setting. People didn’t come to watch Him perform; they came to participate in life with Him.Today, church often feels like an event. A production. A weekly show we attend rather than a shared life we embody.What if the most “biblical” church meeting looks less like a service and more like a dinner table where people actually know each other’s stories.&nbsp; 2. Jesus Formed Disciples, Not Audiences Jesus didn’t say, “Come listen to Me once a week.” He said, “Follow Me.” That meant walking with Him, imitating Him, learning His rhythms, and adopting His priorities.In many churches, discipleship has been replaced by content consumption. We hear sermons but rarely practice spiritual apprenticeship. We admire Jesus but don’t always imitate Him.The early church grew not because they had great speakers, but because they had transformed people.&nbsp; 3. Jesus Prioritized People Over Programs Jesus constantly disrupted His own plans for the sake of people—touching lepers, noticing the overlooked, stopping for the hurting, restoring the outcast.Modern church culture can unintentionally reverse this. We protect the program even if it means rushing past the person. We schedule ministry instead of living it.But Jesus’ ministry was messy, interruptible, and deeply personal.&nbsp; 4. Jesus Sent People Out, Not Just In The early church didn’t measure success by attendance but by impact. They didn’t build bigger buildings; they built bigger communities. They didn’t wait for people to come; they went.Today, we often equate church health with how many people sit in a room rather than how many people are sent into the world.Jesus didn’t command us to gather crowds. He commanded us to make disciples.&nbsp; 5. Jesus’ Church Was a Movement, Not an Institution The first believers had no budgets, no sound systems, no branding, no committees, no strategic plans. Yet they turned the world upside down.Their power wasn’t in structure—it was in surrender. Not in polish—but in presence. Not in professionalism—but in the Holy Spirit.Somewhere along the way, we traded movement for maintenance.&nbsp; So What Do We Do With This We don’t need to burn down the modern church. We don’t need to reject buildings, sermons, or Sunday gatherings. Those can be beautiful tools.But we do need to ask whether our tools have become our identity.Maybe the invitation is to loosen our grip on the way we’ve always done things and return to the way Jesus did things:Smaller circles, not just bigger rooms Shared lives, not just shared beliefs Apprenticeship, not just attendance Mission, not just meetings Spirit-led movement, not just human-made structure The question isn’t “How do we make church more attractive” but “How do we make church more like Jesus.”And maybe—just maybe—if we rediscover the simplicity of His way, we’ll rediscover the power of His presence.

When Church Looks Less Like Jesus: A Necessary Re‑Evaluation

The Chapel along the way