PresbyMusings

Thoughts On Life, Faith, God & Other Stuff

[leonbloder]

Together In Uncertain Times: The Power of Faithful Presence

There are seasons in life when the world feels unsteady—when headlines unsettle us, when uncertainty lingers in our personal lives, and when anxiety hums quietly beneath the surface of our days. In those moments, it can be tempting to withdraw, to turn inward, to convince ourselves that we can carry it all alone. And yet, it is precisely in these moments that the presence of a faith community becomes not just helpful, but essential.

From the very beginning, God has called people not only into relationship with Him, but into relationship with one another. The early church understood this deeply: “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42). Their shared life was not an accessory to faith—it was the very environment in which faith took root and flourished.

When the world feels dark, faithfully showing up to be with others—singing, praying, serving, and simply being present—is a quiet but powerful act of resistance. It is a way of declaring that fear does not have the final word. Every time you walk through the doors, every time you take your place among others who are also seeking hope, you are pushing back against isolation, despair, and disconnection.

Nadia Bolz-Weber captures something profound about this in her reflection: “I don't know if I want to call it stubbornness or faithfulness because both of those tend get twisted up in my mind a little bit. Like I think that faithfulness is a form of stubbornness... that I can get behind.”

There is something beautifully honest in that tension. Faithfulness doesn’t always feel heroic. Sometimes it looks like stubbornly showing up when you don’t feel like it. It looks like sitting in the pew when your heart is heavy, singing when your voice feels weak, or reaching out when it would be easier to retreat. This kind of “stubborn faithfulness” becomes a lifeline—not only for ourselves, but for others who are drawing strength from our presence even when we don’t realize it.

Hebrews reminds us of this shared calling: “Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together… but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24–25). In uncertain times, gathering is not optional—it is formative. It shapes us into people who can endure, hope, and love.

So if you have drifted, if the habit of showing up has waned, consider this your gentle invitation back. Not because you must, but because you need not walk alone. Your presence matters. Your voice matters. Your story matters.

And together, in small and steady ways, we become a light that no darkness can overcome.

Prayer Faithful God, when the world feels uncertain and our hearts grow anxious, draw us back into community. Give us the courage to show up, even when it is hard. Strengthen us through one another, and make us bearers of Your light in a weary world. Amen.

Reflection Questions

When life feels uncertain, what tends to pull you away from community—and what might help you return?

How have you experienced encouragement or strength from others in your faith community?

What would it look like for you to practice “stubborn faithfulness” in showing up this week?

[leonbloder]

The Power of Rest

Last night I was more tired than I have been in a very long time.  My entire house was (mostly) moved to my new house, and with the rain and some unforeseen complications, it took nearly 10 hours. 

Then, after all was said and done, I had to go back to my old house to get all my bedding and a bunch of other things, so I fully loaded my Ford Bronco once more, and then trudged another thousand steps or more to get it unloaded. 

By the time my bed was made and I  was ready to climb in it, I was so exhausted that the thought of getting up and writing a Devo seemed like an impossible task.  I told my fiancée about this, and she said, "Why don't you write about that?"

So I did.  Only this morning I'm rested, clear-headed, and about to drink my second cup of coffee because at the last minute I remembered to bring my coffee maker over last night.  And I've been thinking about the power of rest, and how infrequently most of us allow ourselves to embrace it. 

When we are weary—truly weary in both body and soul—it can feel as though rest is a luxury we cannot afford. There is always more to do, more to fix, more to carry. Yet the deeper truth is this: rest is not a reward for finishing everything; it is a gift that makes life itself sustainable.

The writer Anne Lamott once said, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” Her words carry a gentle wisdom. We are not designed to run endlessly. Like any good creation, we require pause, renewal, and stillness in order to function as we were meant to.

Scripture echoes this truth again and again. In Psalm 46:10, we hear the invitation: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness is not inactivity—it is sacred awareness. It is the quiet space where we remember who we are and whose we are. Jesus himself extends a tender call in Matthew 11:28: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Notice that he does not say, “Come to me once you have finished everything,” but simply, “Come.”

Rest is an act of trust. It requires us to loosen our grip on the illusion that everything depends on us. It asks us to step away from the tyranny of the urgent—the endless noise of what demands our attention—and to return to what truly matters. When we rest, we declare that our worth is not measured by productivity, but by being beloved children of God.

In a restless world, choosing rest is a quiet form of resistance. It is a way of saying that your soul matters, your body matters, and your life is more than a checklist of accomplishments.

So carve out space. Breathe deeply. Sit in silence. Take a walk without rushing. Turn off the noise for a while. In that sacred pause, you may discover that God has been waiting—not in the urgency, but in the stillness.

Prayer Gracious God, when I am weary and burdened, help me to come to you. Teach me to rest without guilt and to be still without fear. Restore my body, renew my spirit, and remind me that I am held in your care. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where in your life are you feeling the greatest weariness right now?

What practices might help you create intentional space for rest this week?

How might trusting God more deeply allow you to release the pressure of constant urgency?

[leonbloder]

Trusting God In Every Transition

I'm moving today.  More specifically, movers are coming today to move all my furniture to a different house.  The moving process has been underway for some time, and I've got the aches and pains to prove it.  

I've taken 14 loads of donations to Goodwill in the past week and a half, and at least 12 loads to my new house over the past couple of weeks.  I got rid of a bunch of furniture through Facebook Marketplace, all of which has happened over the last few days. 

Last night, I looked around the house, and was struck by the empty spaces and the piled-up boxes.  I felt a twinge of dread.  It hit me that it was the last night I would spend in the place where my kids grew up, my mother passed away, and where I have spent the last three years remaking my life.   

I had a hard time falling asleep with all the memories swirling around in my mind. It turns out, even the change we have longed for can be difficult when it becomes a reality.  

Change has a way of unsettling us. Even when it brings possibility, it often arrives wrapped in uncertainty. We cling to what is familiar because it feels safe, predictable, and controllable. Yet life itself tells a different story—one where change is not the exception, but the rule.

Author Heraclitus once wrote, “The only constant in life is change.” While simple, this truth carries deep wisdom. To live is to move, to grow, to evolve. Resisting change, then, is not just resisting circumstance—it is resisting the very nature of life that God has woven into creation.

Scripture reminds us that change is not something to fear, but something God can use for good. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God speaks words that have comforted generations: “For surely I know the plans I have for you… plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” (Jeremiah 29:11). Even when we cannot see the full picture, we are invited to trust that God is at work within the transitions we face.

Consider also Isaiah’s promise: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). God is always creating, always renewing, always inviting us into something new. And in Romans 8:28, we are reminded that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him.” Change, then, becomes not a threat, but an opportunity—an opening through which God’s purposes can unfold.

Embracing change is, at its core, an act of hope. It is a declaration that we trust God more than we trust our fear. It is a willingness to step forward, even when the path is unclear, believing that God walks with us into every unknown.

So when change comes—and it will—do not shrink back. Release your grip on fear. Trust the One who holds your future. Step forward with courage, knowing that the same God who has carried you this far will not abandon you now.

Prayer Gracious God, when change unsettles me, anchor me in your promises. Help me to trust your plans and to walk forward with courage and hope. Remind me that you are with me in every new beginning. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What change in your life are you currently resisting, and why?

How might trusting God’s promises reshape your perspective on this change?

What would it look like to step forward in faith rather than fear this week?

[leonbloder]

The View From Where You Are

Finding and pursuing your purpose in life is one of the greatest and most intrinsic longings that we humans have.  Each of us longs to live a life that matters, no matter what we might believe about God and God's direction for us.  

Those of us who believe in Divine plans might call this "doing God's will," or something to that effect, but the desire to fulfill that longing to find purpose and meaning in the life we've been given is shared by all of us. 

The problem we all face, however, is that we have so many conflicting suggestions about how to pursue purpose and meaning, and it is often difficult to discover why we've been put on this earth in the first place.  

We spend so much of our lives looking ahead—toward the next goal, the next achievement, the next stage where we believe life will finally feel meaningful. Purpose, we assume, is waiting for us somewhere “up there,” just beyond our current reach. But what if purpose isn’t found at the summit? What if it is discovered in the very place we are standing?

Author Shannon Adler writes:

“I am convinced that the jealous, the angry, the bitter and the egotistical are the first to race to the top of mountains. A confident person enjoys the journey, the people they meet along the way and sees life not as a competition. They reach the summit last because they know God isn’t at the top waiting for them. He is down below helping his followers to understand that the view is glorious where ever you stand.”

There is a quiet truth in these words that echoes throughout Scripture. Again and again, we see that God is not confined to some distant destination. 

In Psalm 139, the psalmist proclaims that there is nowhere we can go where God is not already present. In Matthew 6, Jesus reminds us not to worry about tomorrow, for today holds enough of God’s presence and provision. And in Philippians 4, Paul speaks of learning the secret of contentment in every circumstance—not because life is perfect, but because God is near.

Purpose is not something we earn by climbing higher or achieving more. It is something we awaken to when we become fully present to where we are. It is found in the conversations we might otherwise rush through, in the ordinary moments we are tempted to overlook, in the sacred “now” that we so often trade for an imagined “later.”

When we slow down enough to notice, we begin to see that God is already here—meeting us in the middle of our lives, inviting us to live deeply rather than hurriedly. The view is, indeed, glorious wherever we stand, not because everything is ideal, but because God is present.

So wherever you find yourself today—whether on the climb, in the valley, or somewhere in between—pause. Breathe. Look around. You may discover that purpose has been quietly waiting for you all along, right where you are.

Prayer Gracious God, help me to be fully present in this moment. Quiet my restless striving and open my eyes to your presence here and now. Teach me to find purpose not in reaching the summit, but in walking faithfully with you each step of the way. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where in your life are you rushing ahead instead of being present to where you are?

What might change if you believed that God is fully present with you in this moment?

How can you practice contentment and awareness in your daily routines this week?

[leonbloder]

Learning To Love Your Enemies

I was thinking this morning about Jesus' command to love our enemies, and I realized I didn't like the notion of having any.  The fact that there might be people out there who considered me an enemy, or an opponent was disconcerting. 

I like to imagine that I'm not the kind of person who someone would despise, but I know there are probably a few folks who do, for whatever reason.  

The truth of the matter is, most of us do have people in our lives who don't care for us.  And maybe these same people have said or done things to hurt us. We might be able to get our heads around the idea of forgiving these people, because we don't want to walk around filled with bitterness about it.  

But loving them?  That seems like a bridge too far, doesn't it?  

Loving our enemies may be one of the most difficult teachings Jesus ever gave us. In the Sermon on the Mount, he says plainly, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). It sounds beautiful in theory, but in practice, it can feel almost impossible—especially when the wounds are deep.

Few stories capture this struggle more powerfully than that of Corrie ten Boom. Years after surviving the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp, Corrie found herself face-to-face with one of the guards who had once tormented prisoners. The man, now a Christian, approached her and asked for forgiveness.

Corrie froze. The memories came rushing back—the suffering, the loss, the injustice. She knew what Jesus commanded, but her heart resisted. In that moment, she prayed a simple but honest prayer: “Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give your forgiveness.”

What happened next surprised even her. As she reached out her hand, she felt a surge of love—real, tangible love—for the man she once considered an enemy. It was not something she manufactured; it was something she received.

Reflecting on that moment, Corrie later wrote: “And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on [Jesus's]. When he tells us to love our enemies, he gives along with the command, the love itself.”

This is the heart of the Gospel. God never asks us to do something and then leaves us to figure it out on our own. When Jesus calls us to love beyond our capacity, he also supplies what we lack. As Paul reminds us, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit” (Romans 5:5).

Loving our enemies is not about excusing harm or pretending pain doesn’t exist. It is about opening ourselves to a love that is greater than our wounds—a love that heals, restores, and transforms.

Today, whatever burden you may be carrying, consider praying Corrie’s prayer. You don’t have to force forgiveness. You only have to be willing to receive it.

Prayer Gracious God, when forgiveness feels beyond me, give me your love. Fill my heart with what I cannot create on my own, and teach me to love as you love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Who in your life feels most difficult to forgive right now?

What would it look like to pray honestly for God’s help in loving them?

How might receiving God’s love change the way you see your enemies?

[leonbloder]

Learning to Handle Criticism

I once had a friend tell me that if everyone in my congregation agreed with me, I probably had created a cult and not a church.  I find a small amount of comfort in that when I have seasons when the critics come out of the woodwork. 

Churches that aren't willing to pursue some holy imagination tend to lose their ability to dream, and when that happens, death follows.  We change or die, according to the poet Wendell Berry, and it's not always warm and fuzzy as we do it.  

But not everyone embraces change easily, and when people become anxious, they often channel that anxiety into criticism, some of which can be pointed and hurtful.  

Winston Churchill once wrote:  

“Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body; it calls attention to the development of an unhealthy state of things. If it is heeded in time, danger may be averted; if it is suppressed, a fatal distemper may develop."

There is a hard wisdom in those words. Criticism, like pain, is rarely welcome—but it can be deeply instructive. It has a way of exposing blind spots, challenging our assumptions, and inviting us to grow. 

Scripture echoes this truth: “Let the righteous strike me—it is a kindness; let them rebuke me—it is oil on my head” (Psalm 141:5). When we receive criticism with humility, it becomes a tool that refines us rather than diminishes us. It keeps our egos in check and reminds us that we are always becoming, always learning.

But not all criticism is created equal. Some voices are not seeking to heal, but to wound. Some critics speak of fear, misunderstanding, or even resentment. Jesus himself encountered this kind of opposition. In Matthew 11, he is criticized both for fasting and for feasting—proof that some people are less interested in truth than in tearing down what they cannot control or comprehend.

This is where spiritual maturity calls us to be self-differentiated—to know who we are in God, regardless of the noise around us. The apostle Paul writes, “It is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court… It is the Lord who judges me” (1 Corinthians 4:3–4). Paul is not dismissing accountability; rather, he is rooted in a deeper center. He listens, he learns, but he does not lose himself.

So we are invited to do the same. Listen for the truth in criticism—there may be something there that can help you grow. But do not surrender your calling to every loud or careless voice. Stay grounded. Stay faithful. If you believe you are doing the good work God has placed before you, then continue with courage.

Let criticism refine you, not define you.

Prayer Gracious God, give me the wisdom to hear what is true, the humility to grow where I need it, and the courage to remain steady in the work you have called me to do. Guard my heart from bitterness and my spirit from fear. Help me walk faithfully in your truth. Amen.

Reflection Questions

When have you received criticism that ultimately helped you grow?

How can you discern the difference between helpful critique and harmful negativity?

What would it look like for you to stay grounded in your calling, even in the face of criticism? 

[leonbloder]

The Path To Resilience

The last four years of my life have been filled with heartbreak, disorientation, loss, grief, battles with depression, and struggles to hold on to faith in the middle of despair.  

Thankfully, there were also plenty of good things, too.  

I've learned some invaluable lessons over the past few years.  I've learned to focus more on what matters most, and that love is the most powerful force in the universe.  I've learned that you can find peace in the middle of some of the worst things if you are willing to surrender your outcomes.  

And I've learned that when everything shatters, there is beauty in the brokenness that can be remade and become something even more beautiful than you could have ever imagined.  

It's not an easy process to pick up the pieces of what was broken, mind you.  I'm still learning as I go, but there was a quote I read at some point in the middle of all of the mess I was surrounded by that has stuck with me: 

“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.” — Shane Koyczan

There is something deeply holy about this kind of resilience. It does not deny the breaking. It does not pretend the pain never happened. Instead, it gathers the fragments and dares to believe that something meaningful can still emerge.

Scripture reminds us that God does some of God’s most profound work in the places where life feels shattered. The psalmist writes, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Not after the healing, and not once everything is put back together. Right there—in the breaking—God draws near.

Resilience is not simply the ability to endure hardship; it is the sacred capacity to be transformed by it. The apostle Paul speaks to this mystery when he says, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed… struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). There is a quiet defiance in those words—a refusal to let suffering have the final say.

And perhaps that is where hope begins: in the realization that brokenness is not the end of the story.

Think of the resurrected Christ, still bearing the scars of the cross (John 20:27). The wounds were not erased; they were redeemed. They became testimony. They became meaning. In the same way, the pieces of our own brokenness can be shaped into something that speaks—something that heals—something that gives life to others.

Resilience teaches us that even the most painful chapters can become part of a larger, more beautiful story. It invites us to trust that God is at work, even now, weaving together what feels irreparably torn.

So take the pieces. The disappointment. The grief. The questions that still linger. And begin, however slowly, to make something new. Not because it is easy, but because it is possible—with God.

Let this be your encouragement: your story is not finished. There is still beauty to be created, still purpose to be discovered. Ask God to awaken in you a holy imagination—one that can see beyond what has been lost and envision what might yet be.

Prayer God of broken and beautiful things, draw near to us in our pain. Gather the scattered pieces of our lives and shape them into something new. Give us the resilience to endure, the courage to create, and the hope to imagine a future filled with your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What “pieces” of your life feel broken right now, and how might God be inviting you to reimagine them?

Where have you experienced resilience in the past, and what did it teach you about hope?

What would it look like to embrace a holy imagination for your future, even in the midst of uncertainty?

[leonbloder]

Lessons From Driving In The Rain

Yesterday, I started the long drive from Austin to Florida, driving my dad's car as part of his moving back there after nearly ten years in Texas.  I left after church and had a hard time driving through torrential downpours, traffic accidents, road work, and other obstacles. 

At one point, the rain near Houston was so bad that I couldn't see beyond a hundred yards or so in front of me, and could barely see the lane markers on the road.  It was a disorienting and tense experience that left me exhausted. 

I was reflecting on that experience this morning, and it occurred to me why so many of us long for certainty in our lives, and why it's so difficult when uncertainty threatens to blur our vision for the way forward in life's journeys.  

When our long-held beliefs, plans for our lives, and our understanding of meaning and purpose are turned upside down, the uncertainty that follows can be as disorienting and exhausting as driving through blinding, driving rain.  

I recall a quote from Richard Rohr, who wrote about the path toward spiritual awakening amid uncertainty: “Enlightenment is not about knowing as much as it is about unknowing…”  

He then goes on to say that letting go of what we thought we knew is often the most important step toward surrendering our control to God and trusting that God has got us.  

In a culture that prizes certainty, achievement, and accumulation, these words feel almost upside down. Yet, at the heart of the spiritual life is not a grasping for more, but a releasing of what we think we already know.

Scripture echoes this paradox again and again. In Proverbs, we are told, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). Trust requires a kind of unknowing—a willingness to admit that our perspective is limited. Likewise, the Apostle Paul writes, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12), reminding us that clarity is not something we possess, but something we grow into as we surrender to God’s mystery.

Even Jesus invites us into this posture of letting go. “Those who want to save their life will lose it,” he says, “and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 16:25). The path to awakening is not about constructing a more certain faith, but about loosening our grip—on our assumptions, our need for control, even our images of God.

Spiritual awakening happens when we stop trying to master God and instead allow ourselves to be held by God. It is found not in arriving at perfect answers, but in entering more deeply into the sacred unknown. Like Moses before the burning bush, we are invited to take off our sandals—to recognize that we are standing on holy ground we cannot fully comprehend (Exodus 3:5).

There is a quiet freedom in this kind of surrender. When we release the pressure to have it all figured out, we make space for wonder, for humility, for transformation. We begin to see that God is not a problem to be solved, but a presence to be experienced.

So today, let yourself loosen your grip just a little. Let go of the need to be certain. Trust that God is at work in the mystery, gently awakening you to a deeper, richer life than certainty alone could ever offer.

Prayer Gracious and mysterious God, teach me to let go of what I think I know. Lead me into deeper trust, deeper wonder, and deeper surrender. Awaken my heart to your presence in all things. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What beliefs or assumptions might you need to “unlearn” in order to grow spiritually?

Where in your life are you being invited to trust God beyond your own understanding?

How might embracing mystery deepen your experience of faith?

[leonbloder]

Saved All Over Again

Fifteen years ago, I had a crisis of faith while driving to church early on Easter Sunday. I had a forty-five-minute commute back then, so I would practice my sermon as I drove in the wee hours of the morning. 

On that particular Easter Sunday, I was going over the sermon, speaking the words out loud, when a dark realization came over me that felt like it chilled me to the bone.  I didn't know if I actually believed anything I was saying. 

"What if none of this is true?" I remember whispering to myself in the car.  

I began to wonder what, if anything, I could say that morning that would feel true to me, or if I was just going to be regurgitating ideas that I wasn't sure I believed in any longer just to get through the day.  

In the end, I managed to get through that Easter Sunday morning and afterward began the process of determining whether I could still be a pastor with all the doubts I was carrying at the time.  Turns out, I could, and did.  

In fact, the years following that complete meltdown on the road to Easter became some of the most rewarding, challenging, and refining of my life.  It was the second season of my life where my faith got deconstructed and then reconstructed.  

To put it another way, it was the second time in my life that I thought my faith in God had died, only to see it resurrected.  

This is why I believe that resurrection is the foundation of the Christian faith.  The belief that God raised Jesus from the dead has implications far beyond the event itself.  

If, as followers of Jesus, we say that we believe in his resurrection, we should also embrace the idea that resurrection happens not only for us but also each and every day.  

The late Rachel Held Evans wrote about this, and the quote below speaks directly to what I mean: 

“It’s just death and resurrection, over and over again, day after day, as God reaches down into our deepest graves and with the same power that raised Jesus from the dead wrests us from our pride, our apathy, our fear, our prejudice, our anger, our hurt, and our despair. Most days I don’t know which is harder for me to believe: that God reanimated the brain functions of a man three days dead, or that God can bring back to life all the beautiful things we have killed...”

I remember reading the words above when I was going through the deconstructing process of all my certainty about my faith, and they still resonate with me today as much as they did then.  

God is constantly at work in the middle of all our dying and rising.  We are never a finished product because the notion of what it means to experience salvation is something we wrestle with every single day of our lives.  

The Apostle Paul got this.  He once wrote to the church at Philipi the following words of encouragement: 

12 Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence but much more now in my absence, work on your own salvation with fear and trembling, 13 for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure. (Philippians 2:12-13)

I've come to understand all too well what he meant by "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling," because the dying-and-rising aspect of transformation can be disorienting.  But when we trust that God is at work in us, moving us from certainty to faith, we can find hope that there is more on the other side of what we are letting go of.   

So may you know what it means to die to certainty every day, knowing that you will rise again to new life, new hope and new beginnings.  May you let go of whatever is keeping you from being shaped and saved all over again, all of the time.  

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always.  Amen.  

Prayer: 

God of resurrection,

You meet us not only in our certainty, but in our doubt, our questions, and our unraveling. When our faith feels fragile or lost, remind us that you are still at work within us. Give us the courage to release what no longer gives life, and the trust to believe that something new is being formed in its place. In every ending, help us to see the promise of new beginnings.

In Christ’s name, Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in my life might something be “dying” right now—and what new life might God be bringing from it?

2. How have seasons of doubt or deconstruction shaped my faith in meaningful ways?

3. What might it look like for me to trust that God is still at work in me, even when I feel uncertain?

[leonbloder]

Becoming God's Visible Compassion

Those of us who call ourselves followers of Christ seem to be all over the place when it comes to an understanding of what it really means to be a Christian.  This difference of opinion often makes us seem like a strange bunch, and for good reason. 

If you were to gather a group of us together and ask us, "What does it mean to be a Christian?" or "What is the purpose of being a Christian?" You'll most likely get the expected stuff about being a "good person," loving others, and perhaps a smattering of "doing your best to lead a moral life."  

To be fair, even those answers will be nuanced, as Christians often hold wildly differing views on what they mean beneath the platitudes.  

But what you might discover is that there will be roughly half of the group with a sense that the most important reason to be a Christian is to "go to heaven when you die."  

I remember when I was six years old, I made a profession of faith, and "asked Jesus to come into my heart to save me," because I didn't want to spend all of eternity burning in hell.  As a kid with a vivid imagination, I found the thought of such a fate haunting and was spurred to take action to prevent it.  

Interestingly, despite the fact that most Christians believe going to heaven when they die is at the heart of their faith and beliefs, Jesus never really talked about it that much at all.  In fact, his stated mission wasn't at all heavenly-minded; it was decidedly focused on bringing heaven to earth.

It's almost as if he taught (because he did) that if you focused on doing God's will and fulfilling God's purposes on earth, you needn't worry about what comes after you have"shuffled off this mortal coil."  

Jesus' final words to his followers weren't: 

"So, all of this resurrection business means that you lot are assured a place in heaven when you finally kick the bucket. That's right, you heard me. No doing laps in the Lake of Fire for the rest of eternity for you.  That fate is reserved for all of the saps who don't believe what you tell them about me.  Now go out and be so heavenly-minded that you aren't any earthly good."

Jesus teachings to his followers were the exact opposite.  He taught his followers to love one another, to be generous with all they had, to put others first, to bring healing, end suffering, practice non-violence, act as peacemakers, light-bringers, bearers of the good news that God so loved the world, God became one of us to rescue all of us.  

Richard Rohr spoke to this very notion in his incredible book The Universal Christ:  

“Christians are meant to be the visible compassion of God on earth more than “those who are going to heaven.”

During this Easter season, we have the opportunity to shift our focus to the world around us, and to truly become the "visible compassion" of God, not only to the people we encounter, but also to Creation itself.  How we live and move in the world can serve as a sign that, like God, we haven't given up on it.  We aren't "just passin' through" this life to get to the next, as the old hymn might suggest.  This world is our home, and we are not called to sit on our hands waiting for some life "way beyond the blue."  We are meant to do more and be more, right here and now.   May you find ways to be God's visible compassion to the world around you.  May you discover what it means to embody that God so loved the world.  May you learn what it means to bring heavenly-mindedness to all your earthly tasks.   And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all, now and forever.  Amen.  

Prayer: Loving God,You have called us not only to believe, but to embody your love in the world. Open our eyes to the places where your compassion is needed, and soften our hearts to respond with courage and grace. Help us to move beyond fear and into faithful action, becoming instruments of your peace, healing, and hope. Teach us to live as people of resurrection—bringing light where there is darkness, and love where there is need. In Christ’s name, Amen.

Reflection Questions 1. In what ways have I understood my faith more as a future promise than a present calling—and how might that shift?

2. Where is God inviting me to be “visible compassion” in my daily life right now?

3. What is one concrete way I can bring a glimpse of heaven to earth this week?

[leonbloder]

Chocolate Easter Bunnies & Forever Easter

I've been thinking a lot this week about resurrection, the universal rhythm of all things, and also about how long it used to take me to eat one of those really big chocolate rabbits when I was a kid.  

Think deeply for a moment.  

When was the last time you set out to tackle one of those really big chocolate rabbits?  I honestly can't remember when it was for me, but I do remember that after a few chunks were broken off and consumed, I felt daunted by the task of eating it.  

Eating the chocolate rabbit was a process that required a certain amount of commitment to storing it properly so it wouldn't melt.  And also keeping it from the greedy hands of those who would secretly break off pieces of it for themselves, thinking you wouldn't notice.  

I remember it taking days to finish off the rabbit, and by the end, it looked pathetic and sad, even while retaining the small smile on its face that had been imprinted at its inception.  

At that point, I imagine I must have felt bad for the thing.  Its only purpose was to be consumed bit by bit until nothing was left.  I felt no triumph in the last bite.  Easter was over.  Time to move on.  

If you are wondering if I really experienced a sense of existential dread while nibbling away at the last bits of a chocolate rabbit, I can tell you that I most likely did.  I actually thought about these kinds of things as a kid, all of which was a harbinger of things to come.  

Some might call it weird, but I prefer to think that I was already wrestling with the ultimate questions of faith, life, and the nature of God.  Also, I was slightly allergic to chocolate, so there was that as well.  

I think that at some level, most of us see Easter in the same light.  We're not sure exactly what it means, but we do feel a strange sense of loss when the celebrations end and we move from the joy and excitement of the day itself into the regular rhythms of life, worry, and questions about meaning and purpose.  

This is why it's so important for those of us who call ourselves Christians to reframe how we see the Resurrection — not as something that happened (as impossible as it might seem), but as something that happens over and over again.  

Author David Housholder once wrote: 

“If anyone or anything tries to curse or kill the Goodness at the Center of all things, it will just keep coming back to life. Forever Easter.”

I really love that line.  It speaks directly to the notion that something greater is at work around us, and that despite the dread we might feel about the circumstances we are surrounded by, there's an essential truth at the center of everything that can't be denied.  

God is still in the resurrection business, and no matter what we humans do to deny or destroy that Goodness at the Center of all things, we can't quite finish the job.  

This is good news for all of us.  Easter is forever.  The Universe around us is always dying and rising.  Just when you think things might be over, they aren't.  Giving up and giving in to despair isn't really an option because there's more on the other side of whatever endings we are facing. 

So may you live this day in defiant hope that nothing ever ends, it just begins again.  We might face hard and trying things, but the eternal, universal rhythm of dying and rising will eventually bring new life.  

May it be so, and may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with us now and always. Amen.  

Prayer: 

God of new life and new beginnings, teach us to trust that Easter is forever.  Teach us to hold on to the hope that You are always at work, bringing back to life what we leave for dead.  Give us peace in the midst of troubled times, and the joy that comes with your mercies which are renewed every morning.  Amen.  

Reflection Questions: 

Where in your life do you feel like something has come to an end—and how might God be inviting you to see that place as the beginning of something new?

When have you experienced the “rhythm of resurrection” in your own story—moments when hope returned after loss, or life emerged from what felt finished?

What would it look like for you to live today with “defiant hope,” trusting that God is still bringing new life out of even the most difficult circumstances?

[leonbloder]

Bringing Heaven to Earth

As we begin our journey through the season of Easter, I want to spend some time in the Daily Devos reflecting on what it means to live as Resurrection people.  

For the Early Church, the story of the Resurrection was the foundation of what it means to be a follower of Jesus.  All of his teaching, ministry, and miracles were seen by early Christians through the lens of the Resurrection. 

For the first centuries of the Christian movement, Jesus-followers held on to the defiant hope that the world could be made new, that evil and death didn't have the last word, and they were willing to lay down their very lives, if need be, to follow Christ's example.  

Theologian NT Wright wrote the following in his book Surprised By Hope, and I find it quite beautiful, but also incredibly instructive: 

“Jesus's resurrection is the beginning of God's new project, not to snatch people away from earth to heaven, but to colonize earth with the life of heaven."

Wright's words resonate with me because I have come to understand that, as Resurrection people, those of us who call ourselves Christians are tasked with doing all that we can to bring light and life to the world.  

The old children's song "This Little Light of Mine" conveys a deep theological message about what it means to live this way:  "This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine... Hide it under a bushel?  No!  I'm going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." 

So what does it look like to let our lights shine?  I think it means that we do our best to live as if heaven is right here on earth.  We move in the world in a heart-forward way, valuing what lasts forever: peace, hope, joy, and love.  

It means embracing a life in service to others.  It means trusting that there is new life on the other side of all our losses and all our griefs.  It's the kind of life that holds on to the hope that God is still at work in the world and has not abandoned it.  

When we do our best to show the world what Resurrection brings, we often discover that we have been transformed in the process.  Our love deepens, and our focus on living a life of joy broadens.  We can truly learn what it means to live as our best and truest selves.  

During this Easter season, I encourage you to carry the Resurrection with you wherever you go.  Make a point to be a source of light and life to those you encounter.  Don't let the cynicism of the culture we inhabit win the day.  

We are the instruments of God's kingdom of peace and new life, right here and now.  When we pray the words in the Lord's Prayer, "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," we need to know that God's means for doing just that is us.  

So, go and bring heaven to earth today and every day from this day.  May you experience the power of Resurrection within you and around you.  May you know that shining your light is actually dispelling the darkness.  

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always.  Amen.  

Prayer: 

God, I want to be an instrument of your light and love in the world, but I don't often know how.  Instill in me a sense of renewal and restoration--the kind that Resurrection brings.  Show me where my light is needed most.  Amen.  

Reflection Questions: 

1. Where in your daily life do you sense an invitation to “bring heaven to earth,” and how might you respond in a tangible way this week?

2. What are the fears, losses, or sources of cynicism that threaten to dim your light—and how can the hope of the Resurrection reshape your response to them?

3. In what ways have you experienced transformation as you’ve sought to love, serve, or bring light to others, and how is God continuing that work within you?

[leonbloder]

Reflections On The Monday After Easter

For Pastors, the  Monday after Easter is usually a day to rest and regather after the busyness and excitement of Easter Sunday.  

A quick perusal of my social media confirmed this, as more than a few of my pastor friends reflected on the weariness they were feeling today — a weariness also marked by a sense of joy.

I'm feeling that way today.  

I'm still a bit tired from a full Easter Sunday, but also buoyed by the joy I felt yesterday, and the wonder of waking up to a beautiful morning filled with the songs of birds and a gentle breeze blowing through the burgeoning green of the new leaves on the trees outside my window.   

According to the Church's historic liturgical rhythms, we are now in the Season of Easter for the next couple of months.  I rather like this gift from the mothers and fathers of the Church.  Easter should be more than merely one day of celebration. 

I recently read an article in the New York Times entitled "Is Christianity Making A Comeback?" that responded to recent polls suggesting that, for the first time in decades, the number of people leaving the Church in the US not only paused but actually reversed.  

If that trend continues, it might suggest that emerging generations are either returning to church, or giving it a try for the first time.  

My belief is that there is a longing in our current culture for something more.  In the midst of all the turmoil around us, many of us are seeking meaning and purpose, and to discover anew what is good, beautiful, and true in the world. 

We want to believe there is still goodness in the world.  We want to find purpose for our lives.  We want to know that God's moral arc bends toward justice, mercy, and grace.  We want to believe in miracles.  

I recently read a quote from author Willa Cather that resonated with me: 

“Miracles... seem to me to rest not so much upon... healing power coming suddenly near us from afar but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that, for a moment, our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there around us always.”

I believe that the Season of Easter gives us the opportunity to live into the meaning of Resurrection for us and the world around us.  The signs and symbols of the miracle of renewal are always around us.  

We just need to be willing to see them.  We need to open our eyes and hearts to them.  We need to pursue our longings for what is good, beautiful, and true.  We are Resurrection people, after all.  The world needs us to live into the promise of that calling.  

So open up to the wonder of Easter around you today.  Let yourself be a light to those who might be struggling to walk out of the graveyards of despair.  Easter is upon us, beloved.  Let's live like people who have been made new.  

Prayer: 

God of Resurrection, make us new each day.  Help us be beacons of hope and faith, trusting that you are constantly making all things new.  Give us opportunities to share the Good News that new life is here for all of us.  Amen.  

Reflection Questions: 

1.  Where can you find the defiant hope today to be a light of love in a culture of desapair?

2.  What would it look like in your life to live out the promise of Resurrection?

3.  How can I learn to pray for opportunities to share the light of God's renewal to others, and then act upon it?

[leonbloder]

Good Friday: The Radical Nature of God's Mercy

Today is Good Friday, and at the end of Holy Week, we finally stand at the foot of the Cross. 

The "Good" in Good Friday comes from its original medieval name, "God's Friday," which, over the centuries, was shortened, largely because the masses, either intentionally or unintentionally, referred to it as "good."  

The scene is a familiar one, the story of Jesus' crucifixion told from the perspective of each of the Gospel accounts, is well known to Christians, despite the varying ways they choose to interpret it.  

One thing stands out, however.  Luke's Gospel relates that even in the midst of incredible pain and suffering, and at the point of death, Jesus forgave his tormentors.  

The Gospel tells us:

“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

Even in suffering, Jesus speaks of forgiveness. Even in death, He extends grace. This is the mystery at the heart of our faith.

The Cross is not simply an instrument of death—it is the revelation of divine love.

Theologian James Cone once wrote, “The cross is God’s solidarity with the suffering.” It is where God meets humanity at its most broken.

Here, we see the depth of God’s love—not in power, but in vulnerability. Not in control, but in surrender.

The Cross exposes the worst of humanity—violence, injustice, fear. And yet, it reveals the best of God—mercy, forgiveness, and unrelenting love.

This is not easy to comprehend.

Nor is it meant to be. Good Friday is not a day to explain. It is a day to behold.

We are invited today to sit in the tension of love and forgiveness in the face of the worst that the world has to offer. We are called to acknowledge both the pain of the world and the love that refuses to abandon it.

Martin Luther called this the “theology of the cross”—the understanding that God is most fully revealed not in strength, but in suffering love.

And so we linger here. We ought not rush to Easter even though the weariness of the long Lenten season tempts us to do so.  There should be no skipping ahead to resurrection, because this moment matters.

This love matters.

It is here that we are reminded that nothing is beyond redemption. No pain is unseen. No life is beyond God’s reach.

The Cross stands as both a symbol of suffering and a promise of hope.  It stands as a reminder that despite our best efforts to wreak havoc on ourselves and the world around us, God's mercy, love, and grace are sufficient to reverse it all.  

As we hear the words of Jesus today, “Father, forgive,” let us feel their power wash over us.  Let us know that no matter what we have done, or what has been done to us, the burdens of shame, the fear of exposure, and even death itself do not get the last word.  

Let us stand at the foot of the Cross today, and know that nothing can separate us from the love of God, and that "Sunday's coming."  

Prayer

Crucified Christ, help me to see Your love in the midst of suffering. Teach me to trust even when I do not understand. Hold me in the mystery of Your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where do you see suffering in your life or in the world right now?

What does the Cross reveal to you about God’s love?

How might you embody forgiveness in a difficult situation? 

[leonbloder]

Maundy Thursday: The God Who Kneels

Today is Maundy Thursday, or Holy Thursday--the day we encounter one of the most powerful images of Jesus’ love.  

The word "maundy" comes from the Latin mandatum, which means "command."  

This is the day during Holy Week when Jesus shared the Last Supper with his disciples, and to demonstrate the extent of his love for them, he washed their feet and gave them this command.  

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14)

In a world shaped by hierarchy and power, this act is startling.The teacher kneels. The Lord serves.

This is not symbolic alone—it is instructive.

Theologian Karl Barth described this moment as the clearest picture of God’s nature: a God who bends low in love.

Peter resists at first, uncomfortable with such vulnerability.

And perhaps we understand why. Because receiving this kind of love requires humility, and offering it requires surrender.

Jesus’ command is simple, yet profound: “Love one another as I have loved you.”Not abstractly, but concretely. Tangibly. Sacrificially.

This love is not about status or recognition; it is about presence.

It is about choosing to kneel when the world tells us to stand above.

Frederick Buechner writes, “The love for equals is a human thing… but to love the unlovable is Godlike.”

This is the love Jesus embodies on this night.

And it is the love He calls us to live.

As the shadows lengthen and the Cross draws near, we are reminded that love is not merely spoken—it is enacted.It shows up. It kneels down. It serves.

Holy Week invites us to consider: Where are we being called to kneel? Whose feet are we being asked to wash?

Because in those moments, we reflect Christ most clearly, and we live out his command to love as we have been loved.

Prayer

Servant Christ, teach me to love as You love. Give me the humility to serve and the courage to kneel. Make my life a reflection of Your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where is God calling you to serve with humility?

What makes it difficult to both give and receive love?

How can you embody Christ’s love in a tangible way this week?

[leonbloder]

Holy Wednesday: The Cost of Betrayal

Today, we continue our journey through Holy Week and reflect on Holy Wednesday, and Judas' thoughts of betraying Jesus.  Midweek, the tone of Holy Week shifts.

The Gospel tells us:

“Then one of the twelve, who was called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, ‘What will you give me if I betray him?’” (Matthew 26:14–15)

This is a quiet but devastating moment. The tension in the story begins to build as one of Jesus' own handpicked disciples decides to betray him.  

No crowds.

No confrontation.

Just a decision.

Judas’ betrayal did not happen all at once. It emerged from somewhere—disappointment, misunderstanding, perhaps even disillusionment.  Many scholars believe that Judas may have been trying to force Jesus' hand to start a revolution.  Others believe that he alllowed bitterness to drive him to do the unthinkable. 

Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds us that “sin demands to have a man by himself.” Isolation often precedes betrayal. Perhaps Judas felt isolated from the rest of the disciples, who didn't share his disappointment in the way Jesus seemed to be moving in his ministry.  

But this story is not just about Judas.

It is about all the subtle ways we distance ourselves from Christ. Moments when we choose convenience over conviction. Silence over courage. Self-interest over love. It's in the ways we betray him by rejecting his teachings and example of selfless love.  

Yet what makes this passage even more striking is that Jesus continues forward, knowing what is coming. There is no turning back. No retaliation. Only surrender.

Rowan Williams reflects that Jesus’ response to betrayal is not to withdraw love, but to deepen it.

Even here, grace is at work.

Holy Week reminds us that betrayal is part of the human story. But it is not the end of the story.

Because God’s love is not undone by human failure. It is revealed through it.

Perhaps the invitation today is not simply to condemn Judas, but to examine our own hearts.

Where have we drifted? Where have we compromised? And more importantly, can we return?

The answer, always, is yes. Because even in the shadow of betrayal, grace remains. And the path back to Christ is never closed.

Prayer

Faithful God, reveal the places where I have drifted from You. Draw me back with Your grace. Strengthen my heart to follow You with integrity. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where might you be tempted to compromise your faith?

What causes distance in your relationship with Christ?

How can you return to Christ today with honesty and trust?

[leonbloder]

Holy Tuesday: Faith That Bears Fruit

As we continue our journey through Holy Week, on Holy Tuesday, we reflect on a story from the Gospel of Matthew in which Jesus offers a powerful image that invites reflection and honesty.  It's also a bit weird.  

The Gospel reading tells us:

19 Seeing a fig tree by the road, he went up to it but found nothing on it except leaves. Then he said to it, “May you never bear fruit again!” Immediately the tree withered. (Matthew 21:19)

At first glance, this moment feels harsh. Why would Jesus curse a fig tree? I mean, what did the fig tree ever do to him? 

Theologians often interpret this as a living parable. The tree, full of leaves but lacking fruit, becomes a symbol of outward vitality without inward substance.  

Jesus was about to take his disciples to the Temple, and he wanted them to learn that looking good on the outside doesn't mean having spiritual health on the inside.  

Theologian Marcus Borg suggests that Jesus consistently challenged systems—and individuals—that appeared faithful but lacked justice and compassion.Leaves without fruit. Appearance without transformation. Religion without love.

It is a sobering image, especially during Holy Week, when we are invited to examine not just what we believe, but how we live.

Jesus’ subsequent teaching underscores the point: faith is not passive. It is living, active, and transformative.  You can talk about what you believe, and make it sound interesting and compelling, but when it comes down to it, what actionable things are you doing to show your faith?

The epistle of James in the New Testament echoes this truth: “Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead” (James 2:17).Yet this is not about striving or earning. It is about alignment.

When we are rooted in God’s love, fruit becomes a natural expression—compassion, generosity, forgiveness, justice.

Henri Nouwen once wrote, “What makes us human is not our mind but our heart… not our ability to think but our ability to love.”

This is the fruit Jesus seeks.Not perfection. But authenticity. Not performance. But presence.

Holy Week calls us to look beyond the leaves.  It calls us to peel back the superficiality that can mask a lack of spiritual depth, a faith that has grown lifeless.  

It calls us to ask whether our lives reflect the love we profess. It invites us to consider whether our faith is visible not just in words, but in action.

The good news is that God is patient. Even barren trees are given time. Even weary hearts can bear fruit again.

And so today, we are invited not into guilt, but into growth. To remain rooted in Christ, trusting that in time, fruit will come.

Prayer

God of life, root me deeply in Your love. Grow in me the fruit of compassion, justice, and grace. Make my faith alive and visible. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where do you see “leaves” but not fruit in your life?

What fruit might God be cultivating in you right now?

How can your faith become more visible through love?