I’ve been thinking lately about how many younger believers have come to understand faith primarily as a feeling.

If I feel God’s presence, I must be faithful. If I feel peace, clarity, or spiritual warmth, I must be on the right path. And if I don’t feel those things, if God feels quiet, distant, or absent, then maybe my faith is failing.

But Scripture paints a very different picture.

Faith, in its truest form, is not a sensation. It is not certainty. It is not emotional reassurance.

Faith is movement.

Faith is choosing to keep walking in the direction God has set before you even when your nervous system is loud, your heart is tired, and your prayers feel like they’re hitting the ceiling.

If we always felt God’s nearness or if obedience always felt right or if following God always came with clarity, comfort, and confirmation, then it wouldn’t really be faith at all.

It would just be agreement.

Biblical faith is often quiet and unremarkable. It looks like doing the next right thing when nothing inside you feels spiritually impressive. It looks like keeping your integrity when cutting corners would be easier. It looks like loving your neighbor when your heart feels dry. It looks like showing up again even after disappointment, after grief, after unanswered prayers.

Scripture never says, “The righteous will live by their feelings.” It says, “The righteous will live by faith.”

And faith, most days, looks like trust expressed through action.

Sometimes walking in faith means saying, “I don’t feel close to God today but I will still choose goodness.” Sometimes it means saying, “I don’t feel sure but I will still be faithful.” Sometimes it means saying, “I don’t feel peace but I will still do what is right.”

This kind of faith takes courage, maturity and a deeper trust that doesn’t require constant emotional reassurance to keep going.

God has always met His people in the walking. Not always in the feeling. Not always in the certainty. But in the choosing. In the obedience. In the quiet faithfulness of doing the next right thing.

So if you’re in a season where faith feels flat, dull, or distant, you are not failing. You may actually be practicing a stronger faith than you realize.

Keep walking. Keep choosing what is good. Keep doing the next right thing.

That, too, is faith.

This week the headlines have been crushing: another school shooting in Colorado, an assassination here at home, a Ukrainian refugee killed in Charlotte, new drone attacks spilling into Poland, and wars raging in both Ukraine and the Middle East. It feels like the world is unraveling—and our hearts are carrying more than they can hold.

The Bible never asks us to look away from violence. Instead, it gives us words of lament:
“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
God is not offended by our grief or our questions. He welcomes our cries. To lament is an act of faith—it means we believe God cares enough to hear.

Paul reminds us that “the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” (Romans 8:22). The violence we witness is part of that groaning. It is not the way things were meant to be, and it stirs our longing for the kingdom of peace Christ promised.

At the cross, Jesus did not sidestep violence—He entered into it. “He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5). This means we do not carry the world’s brokenness alone. Christ shoulders it with us, and He is redeeming it even now.

Scripture calls us not to give in to despair, but to live as peacemakers:
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)
In a violent world, every act of compassion, every prayer for peace, every refusal to hate is an act of resistance against the darkness.

Revelation paints a picture of the day when violence will finally end:
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). This promise is not sentimental—it is certain. The God who conquered death will make all things new.

Prayer is where we begin—but it cannot be where we stop.

• Support those who are suffering: reach out to families, neighbors, and communities touched by violence with tangible care.
• Advocate for peace and justice: use your voice to call for safer schools, protection for the vulnerable, and wise leadership that seeks the common good.
• Practice everyday peacemaking: in conversations, on social media, in how you treat those who disagree with you—let your presence reduce fear and not add to it.
• Stand with the global body of Christ: partner with ministries, counselors, and humanitarian efforts bringing healing in places torn apart by war.

To follow Jesus is to refuse despair and to embody hope in action.

Lord, our hearts are weary from bearing the weight of so much violence. We grieve the lives lost, the wars that rage, and the fear that shadows our days. Draw near to the brokenhearted. Teach us to be peacemakers in our words, our homes, our communities. And anchor us in the hope that one day, You will wipe away every tear and make all things new. Until that day, help us to hold fast to You. Amen.

There is a subtle danger in following Christ that many of us, if we’re honest, stumble into without realizing it. It is the temptation to believe that because we know Him, we also know what’s best for everyone else. When we slip into judgment or arrogance—deciding what another person should do, should feel, or should believe—we take on a role that belongs only to God.

Jesus saw this clearly in the Pharisees, the religious leaders of His day. They studied the Scriptures, prayed publicly, and made a show of their devotion. Yet He called them “whitewashed tombs” (Matthew 23:27)—clean on the outside, but lifeless within. Their arrogance blinded them to their own need for mercy. They were so busy pointing out others’ faults that they missed the Savior standing in front of them.

Before we shake our heads at them, we should pause. Don’t we do the same? We scroll past someone’s choices online and whisper, If only they would listen to me… We hear of someone’s struggle and think, Well, if they just had more faith… We confuse certainty with holiness, and our arrogance with righteousness.

When we act as if we have the answers for others, we do more harm than good. Our judgment places burdens on people already weary. Our arrogance shuts down the safe space where God’s Spirit might be doing quiet, unseen work. And most tragically, our certainty can push people away from the very grace we ourselves depend on.

The irony is that the more convinced we are of our rightness, the less we reflect the heart of Christ. Jesus, who actually had all the answers, rarely led with them. Instead, He led with compassion. He knelt to wash feet. He touched the untouchable. He dined with the outcast. He welcomed questions, doubts, and even failures without shame.

As followers of Christ, we are not called to be the answer-givers but the love-bearers. Scripture paints a different picture:

Humility: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves” (Philippians 2:3). Humility doesn’t erase truth but delivers it with gentleness and respect.

Compassion: Romans 12:15 invites us to “weep with those who weep.” Sometimes the most Christlike thing we can do is simply sit beside someone in their pain, with no solutions on our lips.

Trust: To step away from arrogance is to trust the Spirit. He alone convicts, guides, and transforms. Our role is to love, encourage, and bear witness to His goodness.

So the next time we feel certain about how someone else should live, may we pause. May we ask ourselves: Am I offering this from pride, or from love? From my need to be right, or from a desire to reflect Christ?

God doesn’t call us to have all the answers. He calls us to walk humbly with Him, to love mercy, and to act justly (Micah 6:8). That posture softens hearts in ways our arrogance never can.

We tend to think of heroes as the people who rescue others from burning buildings or who hold microphones and stand on stages. But God’s idea of a hero has always looked a little different. In the Kingdom of God, greatness often shows up in quiet faithfulness. In hands that serve without being asked. In voices that speak up for the voiceless. In hearts that choose love when the world chooses fear.

Everyday heroes rarely receive medals or headlines. But they are out there, quietly changing the world in Jesus’ name.

They are the grandmother who prays over her family every morning with tear-stained faith.
The young man who gives up his weekend to deliver food to refugee families.
The couple who opens their home to a child who needs a place to belong.
The teenager who invites the new kid to sit with them at lunch.
The volunteer who sits for hours with someone at the hospital, just so they do not feel alone.

These are the moments that heaven sees. These are the acts that echo far beyond what we can measure.

Jesus once said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me.” That means every single act of compassion is seen and treasured by God. Giving someone a warm coat, helping a neighbor carry their groceries, comforting a friend who is grieving—these are not small things. These are sacred.

The world may tell us that success looks like status, but Jesus says greatness looks like service. You do not need a spotlight to reflect the light of Christ. You just need to show up with love and be willing to act.

We are living in a time when pain seems to stretch across the globe and across the street. Wildfires, war, hunger, injustice, loneliness—everywhere we turn, people are aching for hope.

And this is where everyday heroes shine.

When someone donates to a crisis fund for families displaced by war in Ukraine, that is heroic.
When a group of volunteers helps rebuild homes after a flood, that is holy work.
When a teacher quietly buys supplies for a child whose family is struggling, God smiles.
When someone writes a letter to their senator advocating for the vulnerable, that is Kingdom courage.
When a church rallies around a family who just received a devastating diagnosis, that is sacred community in motion.

The opportunities to be a light are endless. And none of them require perfection, only a willing heart.

Being a hero does not mean doing everything. It means doing something with love.

You might be the person who checks on the elderly neighbor who lives alone.
Or the one who brings dinner to a foster family.
Or the person who simply listens without judgment when someone is hurting.

Each time you act with kindness, with gentleness, with mercy, you are reflecting the heart of Jesus. And that matters more than you know.

So let us celebrate the quiet heroes. The ones who are raising children with love, holding space for the brokenhearted, standing for justice, and sharing their loaves and fishes wherever there is need.

Let us remember that in God’s eyes, no act of love is ever wasted.

And let us be the kind of people who live as everyday heroes, not to earn recognition, but to reflect the One who gave everything for us.

Today, my husband Macon witnessed not one, but two acts of road rage: one on the way to work, and another on the way home. Two different moments, two different people, same explosive response. And I can’t stop thinking about it.

Something is shifting in our culture. You can feel it, can’t you? People seem more easily agitated. The smallest inconvenience becomes a personal offense. The brakes between feeling and reacting between frustration and fury are wearing thin. And in a world that’s weary, wounded, and overwhelmed, it’s not surprising that more and more people seem to be living on the edge of eruption.

But as followers of Christ, what do we make of this?

Scripture calls self-control a fruit of the Spirit not just a personality trait, but a spiritual marker of maturity and transformation (Galatians 5:22-23). But in our fast-paced, emotionally exhausted world, that fruit feels harder to find. When our nervous systems are taxed and our souls are running on fumes, regulation takes a back seat to reaction.

And we’re seeing it everywhere: in traffic, in politics, on social media, even in church lobbies. The collective mood is frayed. The pressure is real. And many people are walking through life with more tension than peace, more fear than trust, more grief than they know how to name.

Once, there were clearer social boundaries that made people think twice before acting out in public. But those fences are fading. We’ve seen authority figures lash out with impunity. We’ve watched harshness be rewarded with attention. The world feels less safe, and people are less afraid to behave badly.

But as believers, we’re not called to mirror the world’s tone. We’re called to offer a different way: a kingdom way. “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind…” (Romans 12:2). That renewing isn’t just about how we think, but how we react, how we relate, how we respond under pressure.

Here’s the deeper layer: much of today’s rage is really grief in disguise. When people feel powerless in their finances, disillusioned by politics, isolated in their relationships, or flooded by unhealed trauma, they often lash out at whatever’s nearby. A rude driver. A slow cashier. A family member who says the wrong thing.

But rage doesn’t heal what’s hurting underneath. Only love does.

In Matthew 5, Jesus tells us we are “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world.” That’s not just poetic, it’s profoundly practical. In a world growing darker with aggression, we are meant to shine with compassion. In a culture losing its flavor through fear and disconnection, we are meant to preserve what’s holy, good, and kind.

So what if we started there?
What if we slowed down both on the road and in our spirits?
What if we gave grace when we were cut off, offered a smile instead of a scowl, and let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts (Colossians 3:15) even when others are ruled by chaos?

That’s not weakness. That’s witness.

You might not be able to prevent the road rage, the social division, or the next round of bad news. But you can take a breath. You can remember who you are. You can resist the pull to become hardened by a hard world.

Because love is still stronger.
Peace is still possible.
And Jesus is still our Prince of Peace, not just in a future kingdom, but in the everyday, ordinary mess of traffic, tension, and tight schedules.

So today, may we drive differently.
Speak differently.
Live differently.

Not because it’s easy, but because He is with us, and we belong to Him.