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<figure id="figure-3j7bx674vampgn7seg"><iframe id="3j7bx674vampgn7seg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dCzDAGHY45I" class="w-full bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" referrerpolicy="strict-origin-when-cross-origin" allowfullscreen data-url="https://youtu.be/dCzDAGHY45I" data-corners="default" data-fullWidth="false"></iframe></figure>There are moments in life when the need in front of us is so large, so painful, so tangled, that we feel the same way the disciples did on that hillside: “Lord… this is not enough.”A young woman escapes a trafficking ring. She carries wounds that go deeper than the body. She is safe, but she is not whole. And you feel the ache of wanting to help her heal, yet knowing you cannot reach into the places where her soul has been torn.Another woman, living with Autism and cerebral palsy, now faces life alone. The silence in her home is louder than any noise. Her fears are real. Her limitations are real. And you stand beside her, wishing you could lift the loneliness off her shoulders, but knowing you cannot.These are not small needs. These are not simple needs. These are not “fixable” needs.They are the five thousand. And what you have feels like five loaves and two fish.But the miracle in the Gospel is not about the size of the bread. It is about whose hands it ends up in.The disciples did not have enough strength, enough resources, or enough solutions. And Jesus never asked them to.He simply said, “Bring them to Me.”Bring Me the little you have. Bring Me your compassion. Bring Me your listening. Bring Me your presence. Bring Me your prayers that feel too small. Bring Me your desire to help, even when you cannot fix.Because once the offering leaves your hands and enters His, it becomes something different.The Lord does not multiply what we hide. He multiplies what we surrender.You cannot heal the trauma of the woman who escaped abuse. But you can place her in His hands. And He can begin a work in her that no human counselor, no chaplain, no friend could ever accomplish alone.You cannot remove the loneliness of the woman living with disabilities. But you can place her in His hands. And He can become her strength, her companion, her peace in the quiet hours.The miracle is not that the disciples fed the crowd. The miracle is that Jesus did, using what they offered.And the same is true today.When you stand before the impossible, remember:God never asked you to be enough. He asked you to bring what you have. Your role is faithfulness. His role is sufficiency.Your role is presence. His role is healing.Your role is compassion. His role is restoration.Your role is to offer the loaves. His role is to feed the multitude.So let your prayer be simple:“Lord, this is all I have. It is small, but it is Yours. Do what only You can do.” And you will find that the impossible places—the ones that break your heart—are the very places where His hands do their deepest work.

“When What We Have Is Not Enough”

<figure id="figure-1z9073iyadmpazbxf2"><img id="1z9073iyadmpazbxf2" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1e4qlq8fqNtUK3eQuLUAoorAerySItfjEIJGG1sY8PfTUXxVBVHZXyqlQB465me5.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" 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"/></figure> Scripture: “You are not your own; you were bought with a price.” — 1 Corinthians 6:19–20There are moments when the Christian life feels like a tug-of-war between what we desire and who we are becoming. Sexuality often sits right in the middle of that tension. Not because God is obsessed with rules, but because He is fiercely committed to our wholeness.God cares about your sexuality for the same reason He cares about your heart, your wounds, your habits, and your hopes: because you matter to Him.Sexuality is not a side room in the house of discipleship. It is one of the places where identity, longing, and vulnerability meet. When we treat it lightly, we end up treating ourselves lightly. When we treat it with reverence, we discover that God has been treating us with reverence all along.Paul’s call to “flee sexual immorality” is not a command to run in fear. It is an invitation to run toward Someone — the One who names you, restores you, and holds your story with tenderness.To flee is to trust. To trust is to turn. To turn is to come home.And when you run toward Jesus, you are not running away from pleasure — you are running toward the One who created it, redeemed it, and knows how to lead you into joy that does not collapse under its own weight.Prayer: Lord Jesus, teach me to run toward You with my whole self — my desires, my fears, my body, and my story. Let Your love reorder what feels tangled, and let Your presence become the place where I learn to live free.

Running Toward the One Who Calls You Beloved”

Scripture “Abide in Me, and I in you.” — John 15:4Takeaway The Christian life does not begin with movement. It begins with placement. God puts us in Christ, and faith is simply agreeing to stay where He has put us.&nbsp; 1. The First Work Is to Stop Working Most of us come to God with the assumption that He wants us to do something for Him. But the first thing God asks is that we stop doing.Not because effort is evil, but because effort cannot produce life.Watchman Nee wrote often that God brings a believer to the point where they discover they cannot “live the Christian life” at all. That discovery is not a crisis — it is the beginning of rest.You cannot live Christ’s life. Only Christ can live Christ’s life.Your part is to yield.2. The Fact You Must Not Argue With There is a spiritual fact that does not depend on your feelings:You are in Christ.Not trying to get in. Not hoping to stay in. Not drifting in and out.Placed. Held. Rooted.Faith is not climbing toward God. Faith is refusing to climb when God has already seated you.&nbsp; 3. The Inner Shift of the Day When pressure rises, the old self immediately reaches for control — tightening, planning, striving, rehearsing.But the new life does something different. It returns.It returns to the Vine. It returns to the quiet center. It returns to the fact of union.You do not overcome by force. You overcome by remaining.&nbsp; 4. Prayer “Lord, I accept the place You have put me. I lay down every attempt to live this life in my own strength. Let Christ be the life in me today — not as an idea, but as a fact. Teach me to stay where You have placed me. Amen.”&nbsp; 5. Practice for Today When you feel yourself tightening, striving, or trying to “be spiritual,” pause and say:“I am already in Christ. I will remain.”Let that be your anchor.

The Place God Has Already Put You”

&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

The Chapel along the way