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.

This weekend, more than 40 people in Ukraine were killed in one of the deadliest Russian attacks since the full-scale invasion began. The strikes destroyed homes, leveled a children’s hospital in Kyiv, and left a nation once again holding its breath beneath the rubble.

The images are almost too much to bear — babies carried out on stretchers, nurses shielding toddlers with their bodies, fathers weeping beside the wreckage of what was once a home.

And for those of us watching from a distance, the grief is layered.
We feel helpless.
We feel numb.
We feel heartbroken.
We wonder, What can I possibly do from here?

But the Gospel doesn’t let us look away.
And Jesus never gave His followers the option of compassion without action.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Matthew 5:9

Peacemaking Is Not Passive

We often think peace means calm, or the absence of conflict. But biblical peace, shalom, is much more than that. It is the presence of justice, wholeness, and right relationship with God and others.

That kind of peace doesn’t just happen. It must be made.

And when war rages, in Ukraine or anywhere else, the people of God are called not to quiet comfort, but to courageous intercession, advocacy, and generosity.

We don’t need to be near the smoke to carry water to the fire.

What Responsibility Looks Like

When we see the world breaking, our hearts should break too and then move us to act.

1. We Pray, Earnestly and Specifically
Not just “God, bring peace,” but:

• Comfort the mothers who just lost their children.
• Protect those digging through rubble.
• Strengthen pastors, doctors, and aid workers who are exhausted.
• Disrupt evil strategies.
• Let justice roll down like waters.

2. We Give
Not everyone can go. But many of us can give. Find organizations with trusted boots on the ground: those delivering food, trauma care, and spiritual hope. What feels small to us can be lifeblood to someone else.

3. We Bear Witness
Don’t scroll past it.
Don’t forget by Tuesday.
Talk about it. Pray out loud for Ukraine in your church, in your home, in your staff meetings. Let your kids see you cry and care. Let your heart stay tender.

4. We Stay Open to God’s Assignment
Maybe you’re meant to host, write, teach, serve, connect, advocate. Ask Him. You might be part of someone’s answer to prayer even from a world away.

War Is Loud. But Love Can Be Louder.

We are not powerless. We are not forgotten. And neither are they.

God is near to the brokenhearted and He often shows up through His people.

Let us not grow numb in the face of destruction.
Let us not mistake distance for exemption.
Let us not wait until it’s trending to start caring again.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
— Romans 12:21

• Pray for Ukraine with your family, your small group, your church — by name and by need.
• Give to trusted ministries and NGOs doing trauma-informed care, medical response, and community rebuilding.
• Share the stories — not for shock value, but to awaken compassion.
• Stay awake. Stay soft. Stay faithful.

Because when the sky falls, the Church should rise.

This morning, Pastor Thomas preached a message that landed deep in my spirit: Kindness is not the same as niceness. And maybe that’s something we all need to sit with a little longer.

Niceness is often a mask—polite smiles, agreeable nods, quiet avoidance of anything uncomfortable. It keeps the waters smooth and the optics clean. But kindness? Kindness has grit. Kindness is gentle and grounded. It is compassion with conviction, gentleness with a spine, and truth wrapped in mercy.

In our culture, niceness can be self-protective. We play it safe. We avoid offense. We nod when we want to speak up and smile when we want to cry. But biblical kindness doesn’t play safe. It doesn’t look away from suffering, ignore injustice, or shrink back from truth.

Kindness is how love puts on work boots.

It sees the need and moves toward it. It speaks truth—but not to win an argument or prove a point. It speaks truth because love refuses to leave someone in darkness. Kindness doesn’t flatter; it cares. It doesn’t just feel compassion; it shows compassion—through presence, support, and action.

Jesus was the embodiment of this kind of kindness. Think about how He treated people:

• The woman at the well—He named her shame without shaming her. He spoke truth, but with such tenderness that she ran to tell others about the Man who saw her and loved her (John 4).
• The woman caught in adultery—He stooped low, protected her from harm, and offered grace alongside an invitation to live differently (John 8).
• The leper—He didn’t just heal him. He touched him. He crossed the lines that society had drawn and made space for dignity (Matthew 8).

Over and over, Jesus showed us that kindness is the practical expression of God’s love. It is not passive. It is not performative. It’s fiercely present, honest, and merciful.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…”
— Galatians 5:22

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
— Ephesians 4:32

We often think of kindness as something soft. But in Scripture, kindness is powerful. It leads to transformation. Paul writes that “God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance.” (Romans 2:4) Kindness changes us. It calls us home.

Real kindness doesn’t hide when someone is struggling. It doesn’t turn away from pain, even when the pain is messy or unfamiliar. It notices. It moves. It bends low to bind wounds, to make space, to speak words that heal.

And that means kindness often costs us something.

It may cost our comfort, our convenience, or our carefully curated boundaries. It may cost our image—because sometimes kindness looks like taking a stand when others want to stay silent. Or slowing down to offer presence when everyone else is rushing by.

But kindness isn’t rooted in people-pleasing. It’s rooted in love.

Love that sees.
Love that acts.
Love that does not give up.

Kindness is not optional for the follower of Christ. It is part of the fruit of the Spirit, evidence that the Spirit is alive in us. And in a world full of harshness, division, and hurry—our kindness can be a radical act of faith.

So today, let’s ask ourselves:
Where is God inviting me to trade niceness for kindness?
Who needs my presence, not just my politeness?
Where can I show up with compassion and clarity?

Let’s not just talk about love. Let’s let it take on flesh.

Kindness is love in motion.

So bring a meal. Speak a hard truth with tenderness. Write the note. Hold the hand. Make room for someone’s grief. Ask the deeper question. Listen without fixing. Say what needs to be said—but say it with mercy.

Because the world doesn’t need more agreeable Christians.
It needs kind ones—people who carry the heart of Jesus into every room they enter.

We live in a world where lines are drawn quickly: between us and them, worthy and unworthy, right and wrong, visible and invisible. It’s easy to forget, in the tide of division and disagreement, that every person we encounter carries the image of God.

It’s not just theology. It’s truth. From the mother holding her baby in the shelter line to the neighbor who gets on your last nerve; from the outspoken activist to the quiet man bagging your groceries; each one is fashioned by divine hands, loved beyond measure, and called by name.

Jesus never encountered someone and failed to see their value.

The leper — touched.
The Samaritan woman — heard.
The tax collector — called.
The woman caught in adultery — protected.
The thief on the cross — welcomed.

Not once did Jesus say, “You don’t count.”

Instead, He shattered social norms and religious walls to restore dignity where it had been stripped. His ministry was not just about truth. It was about truth delivered in love, in eye contact, in compassion, in presence.

As followers of Christ, our lives are not meant to be measuring sticks of worthiness, but mirrors of mercy.

Dignity isn’t something someone earns by meeting our expectations. It’s something we acknowledge because God already placed it there.

You may disagree with someone’s choices.
You may struggle to understand their culture, politics, lifestyle, or even their tone.
But disagreement is never license for dehumanization.

Ephesians 4:2 reminds us:

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

We bear with one another because love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a posture. It bows low, listens deeply, and chooses compassion even when it’s hard.

How we treat those with no power over us says everything about who we are in Christ.

Do we talk over the quiet ones?
Dismiss the elderly?
Mock those struggling?
Ignore the poor?
Hold grudges against those who’ve hurt us?

Or do we lean in with the grace we ourselves have received?

When we live as if every person matters, we become a living gospel. We reflect a Kingdom where the first are last and the unseen are seen.

Let’s be the people who pause before speaking harshly.
Who remember the barista’s name.
Who speak gently to the child acting out.
Who listen without correcting every flaw.
Who choose empathy over superiority.

Because when we do, we are doing something sacred.

We are joining Jesus in lifting the heads of the weary.
We are telling the world: “You matter, not because of what you do; but because of whose you are.”