Marriage is a great teacher. Sometimes the hardest. Sometimes the wisest.
If you’ve been married for any length of time, you know relationships only work when you fully lean into one another with mercy. You can’t keep score. You can’t file mental receipts every time your spouse messes up. Because if you do, it becomes a ledger of resentment instead of love.
That’s exactly what the Bible talks about in 1 Corinthians 13 when it says love does not keep a record of wrongs. It’s not a naive rule. It’s a practical truth about human relationships. Mercy is the grease that keeps the gears running smoothly.
And that’s what Psalm 51 invites us to experience. Not just in marriage, but in all areas of our life.
God doesn’t just slap a sticker on our mistakes and call it good. That’s cosmetic. That’s like spraying perfume on a dirty heart. Real mercy goes deeper.
Mercy, by definition, is not getting the bad we deserve. It’s not receiving the punishment or consequences we truly earned. Grace, on the other hand, is getting the good we don’t deserve. The positive blessings that we never could earn on our own.
Psalm 51 isn’t about shame. It’s about a clean heart. It’s about God offering a deep, thorough cleaning of the parts of us that are broken, wounded, or hardened. And the invitation is for us to lean in and receive it.
Think about marriage again. When you truly lean into your spouse with mercy, the relationship doesn’t just survive. It thrives. There’s freedom, trust, and space for growth. You stop being defined by your mistakes. And the same goes for your spouse.
God is inviting us into that same type of relationship: a relationship grounded in mercy. A place where our mess doesn’t disqualify us, and where a clean heart is possible.
So today, pause and ask yourself: Am I holding onto grudges, against others or even myself, that are keeping me from experiencing mercy? Am I leaning in fully, allowing God to clean the heart that only He can reach?
The amazing truth here is that when God cleanses a heart, it’s not surface level. It’s deep, it’s thorough, and it changes how we relate to others and ourselves. Mercy isn’t weak. It’s powerful. It’s transformative.
Lean in. Let it happen. Because a clean heart is the foundation for living fully, freely, and with genuine love.
We walk forward. We kneel or maybe we stand. A thumb presses into our foreheads. Dust mixed with oil is smeared on us. And we hear words we spend the rest of the year trying to avoid:
You are dust, and to dust you shall return.
No filters. No catchy spin. No branding strategy. Just reality.
And if we’re honest, most of us don’t like reality when it strips us down that far.
We prefer curated strength. Polished faith. Manageable struggles. We want a Jesus who enhances our lives, not one who exposes how desperately we need Him.
But Ash Wednesday refuses to play that game.
The ashes are not there to shame us. They simply tell the truth. You are not self-sustaining. You are not invincible. You are not in control. Your body will age. Your strength will fade. Your plans will unravel. And beneath the busyness and bravado, you are more fragile than you’ll ever admit.
That’s not morbid. That’s merciful.
Because until we face our need, we will never reach for grace.
Lent begins when pretending ends.
It begins when the successful professional admits the anxiety is real. When the exhausted mom whispers that she can’t keep carrying it all. When the pastor confesses that he, too, wrestles with doubt and pride. When the teenager realizes popularity can’t quiet loneliness. When the strong one finally says, “I’m not okay.”
Ashes level us.
They remind us that sin isn’t just out there in the headlines. It’s in here in our impatience, ego, lust, greed, resentment, self-righteousness, comparison, secret bitterness. It’s in the subtle belief that we can manage life without daily surrender.
And the truth? We can’t.
We are dust. And dust doesn’t fix itself.
But there’s a whisper of beauty in the ashes of Ash Wednesday: the ashes are placed in the shape of a cross.
Death is spoken. But hope is outlined.
The same God who formed Adam from dust stepped into dust Himself. Jesus didn’t avoid our frailty. He took it on. He walked toward our mortality. He carried our sin. He entered our grave. Not symbolically. Actually.
Ash Wednesday tells the truth about us. Good Friday tells the truth about God.
He doesn’t recoil at our weakness. He moves toward it.
When the ashes mark your forehead, they are not just a reminder of what you are. They are a reminder of whose you are. You belong to the One who went into the ground and walked out again.
Lent is not a spiritual self-improvement program. It’s not about proving your devotion with stricter habits or impressive discipline. It’s about coming back to the basics:
I am dust. I am a sinner. I need a Savior.
And I have One.
Honest self-awareness opens the door to transformation. Not self-hatred. Not despair. But honesty. The kind that says, “Without Jesus, I am lost.” And the kind that hears Him whisper back, “With Me, you are found.”
Ash Wednesday is an invitation.
Come and see your need.
Not to wallow in it. Not to be crushed by it. But to let it lead you to the cross.
Because when you finally stop pretending you’re strong enough, you discover something better: Grace.
While at the gathering we’ve been treated to original poems by Tanner Olson. Here’s my crack at a written to speak style poem summarizing last night’s event. Remember it’s written to speak which means you kind of need to read it aloud to get the rhythm to it.
I didn’t earn this place. Didn’t climb enough ladders or check the right boxes. Didn’t bring a spotless résumé or a perfect past, just a mess of mistakes and a hunger that wouldn’t quit.
But the table was set. Candles flickered with welcome. Chairs pulled out like open arms. And there, at the head was Jesus. Not a scowling judge, but a smiling Host, nails in His hands, grace in His eyes.
He didn’t ask what I brought. Didn’t weigh my worth on scales of effort or achievement. He just said, “Come. Sit. Eat. You belong here, not because of you, but because of Me.”
See, this table isn’t for the perfect. It’s for the hungry. The weary. The wanderers and wrecked. It’s not about merit, it’s about mercy. Not performance, but promise.
The Host broke the bread, His body. Poured the wine, His blood. And every bite, every sip, tastes like grace so rich it ruins every lie that said I wasn’t enough.
So here I sit, shoulder to shoulder with saints and sinners, all the same in His eyes not because we climbed our way in, but because He came down and opened the door.
We get a seat at the table not because we’re worthy, but because He is. And He says, “This chair has your name on it.” That’s grace. And it’s dinner time.
Inspired by Night 2 of the LCMS Youth Gathering & Hebrews 12:1–3
Some moments stay with you.
For many who gathered on Night 2 of the LCMS Youth Gathering, there was a phrase that echoed through the arena and hit deep into the soul:
“I am that joy.”
“Looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:2 (ESV)
What was the joy set before Jesus? You were.
That truth landed like a wave. Jesus endured the mockery, the nails, the weight of sin not out of obligation or guilt but with joy. And that joy was you. It was your restoration. It was your freedom. It was your life made new in Him.
You are the joy that kept Him on the cross.
That realization changes everything, especially in the moments we feel too broken, too stuck, or too far gone to endure in Jesus.
Because if we’re honest, sometimes we don’t. We give in to old habits. We isolate in shame. We spiral into addiction, self-harm, porn, or self-loathing, wondering if there’s any way back.
But Night 2 didn’t stop at the hard truth. It pointed us to hope real, honest, Spirit-filled hope.
Jesus endured the cross not just to rescue us but to recreate us. When we surrender the broken pieces to Him, the Holy Spirit goes to work not simply to polish us up, but to make us new.
“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” 2 Corinthians 5:17 (ESV)
So if you’re feeling like you’ve failed to endure, hear this:
There is no shame in coming back. There is no darkness too deep. There is no mistake too final.
Because Jesus saw all of it and still, you were the joy set before Him. He didn’t quit on you then. He won’t quit on you now.
Hold This Close:
Remind yourself of this throughout this week: “I am that joy.”
When shame creeps in, remind yourself: Jesus endured for me.
Pray: “Holy Spirit, take the broken places in me and make me new. I want to endure in Jesus.”
Let’s walk in that joy. Let’s endure not alone, not by our own strength but in Jesus.
This Holy Week has most definitely been unlike any I’ve ever experienced.
As we approached the most sacred days of our faith—the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus—we were met with a trial of our own. A fire broke out in our church building. It was significant. Rooms we’ve prayed in, served in, and celebrated in were damaged. Walls were blackened. Equipment has been lost. We’re going to be a bit disjointed for a while.
But make no mistake: this fire will not have the final word.
Because we serve a God who specializes in resurrection.
The truth of Easter isn’t just a story we tell. It’s a power we live by. When Jesus stepped out of the grave, He proved that death doesn’t win. Despair doesn’t win. Devastation doesn’t win. The worst thing is never the last thing.
So yes, our building took a hit. But the church is not a building. The Church is a people. A people of resurrection. A people of hope. A people who believe in the God who makes beauty from ashes.
Isaiah 61:3 promises that God will give “a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” That’s our prayer and our posture in this season. We are not alone. We are not defeated. We are not without purpose.
This Easter, as we remember the stone rolled away and the Savior risen, we’re clinging to that same truth for ourselves: we too will rise.
It may take time to rebuild. It may be messy. But grace is already showing up in big ways—from the firefighters who contained the flames quickly, to the neighbors and church family rallying in prayer and clean up efforts, to the Spirit of God reminding us: this is not the end of the story.
One thing we hold very dear is that we meet people in the messiness of life. Well, this community has turned the tables and met us right in our own messiness and we can’t thank you enough! Friends, we’re in this together and we’re so glad we have you walking with us!
Jesus rose from the grave. We will rise from these ashes.
We are blessed, even in brokenness. And we’re moving forward together—renewed, refined, and ready for what God will do next.
He was kind. He was compassionate. He was full of grace and truth. But “nice”? Not in the way we’ve defined it.
“Nice” smiles when it should speak. “Nice” avoids conflict instead of calling out injustice. “Nice” would rather preserve appearances than pursue holiness.
And if we’re being honest, the modern American church is drowning in nice—while it’s starving for truth.
The Gospel Isn’t Polite
Jesus flipped tables in the temple (Matthew 21:12–13), called out religious leaders as “whitewashed tombs” (Matthew 23:27), and publicly rebuked his own disciples when they got it wrong (Matthew 16:23).
If Jesus walked into most churches today, we’d probably form a committee to ask Him to tone it down.
We’ve confused the tone of love with the truth of love. And in the name of being “nice,” we’ve created churches that are conflict-avoidant, spiritual kiddy-pools, and allergic to accountability.
The Fruit of the Spirit Isn’t Niceness
Let’s look at Galatians 5:22–23:
“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”
Notice something missing? Niceness. It’s not there. You know what else isn’t there? People-pleasing. Passive aggression. Smile-and-nod Christianity.
Kindness is there—but kindness is strength under control, not cowardice wrapped in fake smiles.
Jesus was kind to the broken, but He was brutally honest with the prideful. That’s love. That’s what the Church needs more of.
Nice Churches Don’t Make Disciples
A “nice” church says:
“Everyone’s welcome—just don’t expect us to talk about your sin.”
“We love you—just not enough to tell you the truth.”
“Let’s all get along—even if it means watering down the gospel.”
But look at Jesus’ final command before the ascension:
“Go and make disciples… teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” – Matthew 28:19–20
Making disciples requires teaching, correcting, challenging, and stretching. None of that feels “nice”—but all of it is loving.
A nice church might be full, but it’s often spiritually empty. A bold church might lose people—but the ones who stay will be set on fire for Jesus.
How the Church Can Kill Niceness (And Grow Bold Love Instead)
1. Stop Confusing Conflict with Division Healthy churches should have tension. Jesus created it constantly. Conflict isn’t a sign of failure—it’s often the birthplace of growth. Let your leaders challenge. Let your sermons convict. Let your groups go deep.
2. Preach the Whole Gospel The gospel includes grace and repentance, love and truth, mercy and obedience. If your messages never offend anyone, you’re probably not preaching the same gospel Jesus did. Caution: you don’t have to preach the whole counsel of God at once though!
3. Practice Biblical Confrontation Matthew 18 gives a model for calling out sin—in love, privately first, and then more directly if needed. Most churches avoid this altogether, opting for passive silence or church gossip. Let’s bring back real accountability. Heck let’s bring back the real church not this postmodern game of pretend we play on Sunday.
4. Raise the Bar, Don’t Lower It Jesus never lowered the standard for anyone—but He always offered the strength to meet it. Don’t coddle Christians. Call them up. People crave challenge more than comfort—they just don’t always know it yet.
Kindness Changes Lives. Niceness Just Numbs Them.
You can be polite all the way to someone’s spiritual deathbed.
Nice Christians won’t change the world. They’ll just blend into it.
But bold, truth-filled, Spirit-led disciples? They’ll shake foundations, flip tables, love radically, and speak life with power.
Jesus wasn’t crucified for being nice. He was crucified because He told the truth in love—and the world couldn’t handle it.
Let’s stop being nice churches. Let’s be dangerous churches—the kind hell fears and heaven empowers.
This week we celebrated Ash Wednesday. A day that marks the beginning of the season of Lent, a season marked by reflection, repentance, and renewal. It is a time to acknowledge our failures, confront our brokenness, and recognize our deep need for grace. As we step into this forty-day journey toward the cross, Jesus’ words in Matthew 6:16-21 invite us to consider where we have placed our treasure, where our hearts truly dwell, and how God’s faithfulness endures even when we falter.
The Weight of Our Failures
Jesus speaks about fasting in this passage, warning against outward displays of righteousness that seek human approval rather than God’s. This caution goes far beyond fasting though—it’s about our entire approach to faith. How often do we wear a mask of holiness while hiding the struggles and doubts within? How often do we seek validation from the world rather than resting in the assurance of God’s love?
The musical group Casting Crowns have a song titled – Stained Glass Masquerade which drives at the heart of fake Christianity. It’s about our vain attempts to gain accolades for our “religiosity” in the eyes of the world around us. Here’s one small part of the lyrics to the song.
Are we happy plastic people, Under shiny plastic steeples, With walls around our weakness, The smiles to hide our pain?
All too often we hide our failures, afraid the world will judge us for not getting it right. We’re afraid to step out in faith for fear we won’t have all the answers. We fear looking silly or sounding dumb. In reality we’re just plastic people sitting in plastic churches with no meaning and connection to the world around us.
Lent is a time when we are invited to experience Jesus cutting through the noise of the world and inviting us to step into a new and real kind of life – the very kind of life that God created us to live.
No matter how much we try to hide our weaknesses, the truth is – we fail. We fail in our commitments. We fail in our faithfulness. We fail in our ability to love as we should. We set out with the best of intentions, but our hearts wander. We store up treasures on earth—our achievements, our possessions, our reputations—only to find that they decay and disappoint. We stumble in sin, fall into selfishness, and neglect the very relationship with God that we claim to treasure.
Lent is not a season for pretending we have it all together. It is a season for honesty. A season to acknowledge that our hearts are often divided, our devotion inconsistent, and our faith fragile at best.
It is a season to bring all of this—our failures, our regrets, our struggles, our fears, our worries, our anxieties—before the God who never wavers. No sense trying to hide it because he already knows!
The Faithfulness of God
While our faithfulness falters, God’s does not. The beauty of the Lenten journey is that it is not about our ability to get everything right, but about God’s unwavering commitment to fulfill His promises to us. As we acknowledge our weakness, we do so in the presence of a God who remains steadfast, strong, and stable.
Matthew 6:21 reminds us, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Even when our hearts are prone to wander, God continually calls us back. His faithfulness is not dependent on our performance but on His character. This is the heart of the gospel: God does not abandon His people. He does not give up on us. Instead, He pursues, redeems, and restores.
We see this throughout Scripture. When Israel repeatedly turned away, God remained faithful (2 Timothy 2:13). When Peter denied Jesus three times, Christ did not cast him aside but restored him (John 21:15-17). When humanity rebelled, God did not leave us to die in our waste but sent His Son to suffer and die for our salvation (Romans 5:8). The entire biblical story points to a God who does not forsake His people, even amidst their many failures.
Ash Wednesday sets us on the path toward the cross, where the greatest act of faithfulness was displayed. Jesus, who knew no sin, bore the full weight of our sin (2 Corinthians 5:21). His suffering was not theoretical or symbolic—it was real, excruciating, and complete. He endured betrayal, mockery, scourging, and ultimately, the agony of crucifixion. He was abandoned so that we would never have to be (Matthew 27:46). God will never leave us nor forsake us because he left and forsook Jesus instead of us.
Our own suffering, no matter how deep, finds its meaning in the suffering of Jesus. He does not remain distant from our pain. He steps into it. The cross reminds us that God’s faithfulness is not just about rescuing us from hardship but walking with us through it. When we suffer loss, face trials, or wrestle with sin, we look to the One who carried our burdens to Calvary.
Setting Our Hearts on Eternal Treasures
Lent encourages us to let go of lesser things and turn our hearts toward what is eternal. Jesus urges us to store up treasures in heaven, treasures that cannot be destroyed or taken away. This isn’t just about material wealth—it’s about where we place our trust, our hope, and our devotion.
What would it look like to shift our focus this season? To surrender the things that distract and entangle us, and instead seek the deeper things of God? Lent is a call to prayer, to fasting, to generously giving—not to earn God’s love but to realign our hearts with His. It is a call to trust that even in our brokenness, He is making us new.
As we walk through Lent, we walk with Jesus toward the cross. This journey is not about self-denial but about encountering the depth of God’s love. The cross stands as the ultimate display of faithfulness—the place where Jesus took on our failures, our sin, our shame, and replaced them with grace, forgiveness, and redemption.
Paul reminds us in Philippians 2:8, “And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” Jesus did not waver in His mission. He did not turn away from the suffering set before Him. Instead, He embraced it, out of His tremendous love for us.
We begin this season marked with ashes, reminded of our mortality and our need for a Savior. But we do not walk as people without hope. We walk in the confidence that the same God who formed us from dust is the God who redeems and restores. The same God who called us to Himself will sustain us. And the same God who went to the cross will lead us to resurrection.
So as you enter this season, do so with honesty. Acknowledge your failures, but don’t dwell on them. Contemplate where your heart truly rests, and know that even in your wandering, God’s faithfulness remains. The cross is before us, and so is the promise: He is making all things new—even us.
Prayer can sometimes feel daunting. Maybe you’ve found yourself sitting in silence, unsure of what to say, or wondering if God even hears you. You’re definitely not alone. Many of us struggle with knowing how to pray, how to come before God with more than just a list of needs, and how to truly hear from Him.
When words fail or when our hearts feel restless, Scripture offers a profound guide to lead us into deep, meaningful prayer. One method of prayer that I have found extremely meaningful is to use one of the Psalms, which have served as the prayer book of God’s people for generations. Psalm 1 is a good place to start. It paints a vivid picture of two paths—the way of the righteous and the way of the wicked—while inviting us to delight in God’s Word. This is actually a prayer I prayed over my children before I went to bed for many years as they were growing up. As we reflect on each verse, we can transform this ancient text into a personal, heartfelt prayer.
Verse 1: “Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers.”
Lord, help me to walk in Your ways today. Guard my steps so that I don’t stray into paths that lead me away from You. When I’m tempted to conform to the world’s patterns, strengthen me to choose righteousness. Surround me with godly influences, and keep me mindful of the voices I allow into my life.
Verse 2: “But whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on His law day and night.”
Father, teach me to delight in Your Word. Let it be like sweet honey to my soul. As I read and reflect on Scripture, help me not just to gain knowledge but to encounter You. May Your truth shape my thoughts, decisions, and desires. I long to meditate on Your Word, not just in fleeting moments, but throughout the rhythms of my day.
Verse 3: “That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither—whatever they do prospers.”
Lord, plant me by the streams of Your living water. Nourish my spirit so that I may bear fruit in Your perfect timing. When seasons of drought come, keep my faith strong and unwavering. Let my life be a testament to Your sustaining grace, flourishing even in challenges.
Verse 4-5: “Not so the wicked! They are like chaff that the wind blows away. Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the assembly of the righteous.”
Father, protect me from becoming like chaff—empty and rootless. Keep me grounded in You, with a heart that seeks righteousness. Help me to trust Your justice and leave judgment in Your hands.
Verse 6: “For the Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked leads to destruction.”
Thank You, Lord, for watching over my path. Even when I cannot see the way ahead, I trust that You are guiding me. Lead me on the path that brings life and joy in You.
Praying through the Psalms allows us to engage with God in a deeply personal way. Psalm 1 reminds us that prayer is not merely a ritual but a journey—one that roots us by streams of living water and aligns our hearts with God’s eternal truth. As you meditate on these verses, may your prayers flow freely, drawing you ever closer to the One who watches over your way.
The wildfires in Los Angeles right now feel like something out of a nightmare. The sky glows red, and thick, choking smoke hangs over neighborhoods. It’s devastating. As of today, over 27,000 acres have been burned to ash. Families have fled their homes—more than 137,000 people evacuated. And some haven’t been as lucky. At least five lives have been lost, with others injured and fighting to recover.
Think about that for a moment: homes reduced to rubble, entire neighborhoods gone, and thousands of people unsure where they’ll sleep tonight. Over 2,000 buildings have been destroyed or severely damaged. This isn’t just news. It’s personal. Every destroyed home represents a family—moms, dads, kids—trying to figure out what’s next.
The fire itself is relentless, fueled by high winds and the dry conditions California knows all too well. First responders are fighting around the clock, putting their lives on the line to save others. These firefighters are heroes, but they’re tired. They’re human. They need support, and so do the countless families waiting for the all-clear to return to what’s left of their homes.
What can we do when the destruction feels this overwhelming? For starters, we can pray.
It sounds cliche but prayer is the most powerful thing we have in our tool bag as followers of Jesus. Prayer isn’t just a way to hide from real help. Prayer connects us to the true help needed in this time. Prayer isn’t an excuse to not get involved. Prayer is the first way we should all get involved. Pray first. Then act.
Pray for those who’ve lost loved ones—that they would find comfort in their unimaginable grief. Pray for those who’ve been displaced, that they would find shelter, support, and hope to start rebuilding. Pray for the firefighters and first responders on the frontlines, that they’d have strength, protection, and encouragement to keep going.
And don’t forget to pray for healing—for the scorched land, for the devastated communities, and for the lives forever changed by this disaster.
It’s hard not to feel helpless when the news flashes images of fire tearing through homes and forests. But prayer is powerful. It’s not a last resort; it’s a lifeline. When we pray, we’re lifting others into God’s hands. We’re calling on Him to do what we can’t—to bring peace, restoration, and hope.
Stories of courage are already emerging, even in the midst of the chaos. Neighbors are opening their doors to strangers. Churches and communities are rallying to provide food, water, and shelter. People are showing up for each other in ways that remind us: even in the darkest times, there’s light.
These stories are a glimpse of what God can do through us. Prayer isn’t passive; it’s an invitation to action. After we pray, let’s ask, “What else can I do?” Maybe it’s donating to relief efforts, checking on someone affected, or simply sharing words of encouragement.
Let’s keep praying. For the grieving. For the displaced. For the responders. For the healing of the land and its people.
And let’s hold onto hope—the kind of hope that only God can provide. The fires are raging, but they won’t last forever. And in the ashes, there’s the promise of rebuilding, of renewal, of life springing up again.
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests.” The angels’ message wasn’t just a song—it was a proclamation that Jesus came to bring peace between God and man.
The peace those angels announced is more than the absence of war. It’s not the elimination of stress. It’s the deep, abiding peace of knowing you’re loved by God and safe in His hands. It’s the kind of peace that lets you smile through a burnt pie or a delayed package because your heart is secure in Christ.
Reflection: How can you live out the angels’ proclamation of peace in your daily life?
Application: Join the angels’ song! Let your life proclaim God’s glory and His peace to everyone around you.
