When We Love the Least, We Love the Lord

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In a world that often celebrates power, platform, and influence, it’s easy to forget that Jesus never once told us to chase after any of those things. Instead, He pointed to the margins. To the overlooked. The unheard. The hurting. And then He said something wild:

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” — Matthew 25:40

It’s not just a poetic thought. It’s a deeply political, deeply spiritual reorientation of value and worth.

Because in Christ’s kingdom, the least are not less.

They are Him.

So Who Are “The Least of These” Today?

They’re not hard to find. They’re in our headlines, our neighborhoods, and our churches:

  • The child in foster care, bouncing between homes, craving stability.
  • The asylum seeker at the border, fleeing war, clutching hope in both hands.
  • The single mom deciding between groceries or rent.
  • The elderly neighbor whose name no one seems to remember.
  • The man sleeping under the overpass—cold, forgotten, human.

In a climate of culture wars and weaponized faith, it’s tempting to reduce “the least of these” to a charity category. But Jesus didn’t. He made it personal. What you do to them… you do to Me.

Faith That Looks Like Something

It’s not enough to say we love Jesus if we don’t love the ones He called His own. And love, biblically, is not abstract. It shows up.

It shows up in how we vote—not just for personal gain, but for the flourishing of the vulnerable.

It shows up in how we speak—not with contempt, but with compassion, especially when the world chooses cruelty.

It shows up in what we protest, what we post, and what we prioritize.

It shows up when we refuse to dehumanize people for their poverty, their identity, their trauma, their history, or their politics.

Because Christ does not call us to agreement. He calls us to love.

What If the Test of Our Faith Isn’t What We Think?

What if, when we finally meet Jesus face to face, He doesn’t ask how loud we sang in church or how many Bible verses we memorized?

What if He simply asks:

Did you love Me when I was hungry? Did you visit Me when I was alone? Did you fight for Me when I was mistreated? Did you see Me in the ones your world said didn’t matter?

The Invitation

This isn’t guilt. It’s invitation.

To live the Gospel not as a theory, but as a posture. To stop spiritualizing cruelty and call it what it is: sin. To see the sacred in every face we’re tempted to overlook.

Because when we love the least, we love Jesus.

And when we ignore them, we risk ignoring Him too.

Dear Little One,

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You were so confused, weren’t you?
Trying to make sense of a world that didn’t make sense.
Trying to be good enough, invisible enough, quiet enough—
just to stay safe.

I know now why you drifted away into stories.
Why you lived half-in and half-out of your body.
It wasn’t weakness.
It was your way of surviving when no one came to explain or protect.

If I could sit beside you now, I wouldn’t rush to change anything.
I’d just hold you.
Let you lean in.
Let you know—
you don’t have to figure everything out.

You have such a kind, compassionate soul.
You always did.
And even though you couldn’t see it back then,
you were already growing into someone strong and wise—
someone very unlike the adults around you.
Someone you could be proud of.

You didn’t become hard.
You didn’t become cruel.
You became someone who heals.
Someone who listens.
Someone who makes space for others in the way you always longed for.

I see you now.
And I carry you with so much love.

-Me

Why Sexual Abuse Prevention Must Be a Priority in Our Churches, Organizations, and Culture

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Last night, I sat with two men—wise, thoughtful, and honest—talking about something that should never have to be discussed, and yet must be: sexual abuse.

The conversation was sobering. We spoke of statistics—how many people have been harmed, how often it happens, and how rarely it’s addressed with the depth and seriousness it deserves. But there was a moment that stopped me: we were looking at the numbers of victims, and my heart asked, “Then how many perpetrators does that mean?”

It was a gut-punch.

Because if we listen to the data—and more importantly, if we listen to survivors—then we must acknowledge that sexual abuse is not a rare, distant horror. It is a widespread, near-at-hand reality. It is not always some dramatic “stranger danger” moment; most often, the perpetrators are known and even trusted by the victims. They are youth volunteers, family members, coaches, neighbors, teachers, ministry leaders. They are often not visibly monstrous—they can seem disarmingly normal. Some aren’t driven by deep, deviant fantasies; they’re opportunists. They act when they think no one will notice, no one will stop them, no one will believe the child or the vulnerable adult they target.

And too often, they’re right.

The Church, of all places, must be where this cycle ends—not where it hides.

Because abuse isn’t just a crime or a psychological wound. It is a sin—an assault against the image of God in another human being. It is a desecration of innocence. It’s a betrayal that shatters trust and buries people in shame that never belonged to them in the first place.

As Christians, we are compelled—by love, by justice, by the very heart of Christ—to act.

We are called to:

  • Believe the wounded when they speak.
  • Break the silence that too often protects the perpetrator more than the victim.
  • Build systems of protection that are not reactive, but preventative.
  • Train our staff and volunteers, not with checkbox policies, but with trauma-informed, survivor-centered wisdom.
  • Create cultures of safety, where abuse cannot thrive and where power is stewarded with integrity.
  • Hold perpetrators accountable, not hide them in hopes they’ll just go away or “repent quietly.”
  • Tend to the healing of survivors, not just spiritually, but emotionally, physically, and communally.

Jesus never turned away from the brokenhearted. He never protected the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable. He flipped tables. He fought for justice. He restored dignity. He invited the wounded near.

So must we.

This isn’t just about protecting our reputations or checking off legal requirements. It’s about reflecting the heart of Christ. It’s about building churches, ministries, and communities where survivors are safe and seen, not silenced or shamed. It’s about acknowledging that for every statistic, there is a story—and that story deserves not just our awareness, but our action.

If we say we follow Jesus, we cannot ignore this.

The cost of silence is too high.

The need is urgent.

And the time is now.

“The systems we build either protect the vulnerable or preserve the powerful. They rarely do both.”
— Diane Langberg

Reflecting Mercy: Who Would Receive My Care This Week?

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“If I were to reflect God’s mercy more fully, who among those I know would I show special care for this week?”

It’s a question that both unsettles and awakens me.

Wayne Grudem defines God’s mercy as “God’s goodness toward those in misery and distress.” Not just kindness in general—but goodness toward suffering. A particular tenderness that bends low to lift the burdened. A holy compassion that sees pain and moves toward it.

Mercy is not passive pity. It’s movement. Intention. Engagement. It is God’s heart stooping to meet us in our weakness, not with condemnation, but with comfort.

And if we’re being honest, that’s not always the heart we carry into our own weeks.

We’re busy. We’re hurt ourselves. We’ve been disappointed or overlooked. We’ve grown calloused, even unintentionally, to the silent aching in the people around us.

But mercy invites us back. Not to hustle, but to presence. Not to rescue, but to care.

So again, I ask myself—and I invite you to join me in asking:

If I were to reflect God’s mercy more fully, who would receive my special care this week?

Maybe it’s the single mom at church whose eyes don’t shine like they used to.

Maybe it’s the coworker whose jokes are getting darker—humor covering hurt.

Maybe it’s your own spouse, your child, or your aging parent. Not someone far away, but someone close—and maybe a little forgotten.

Maybe—if you’re brave enough—it’s the person you’ve grown bitter toward. The one who doesn’t deserve your kindness. And yet, mercy isn’t about deserving. It never has been.

Maybe it’s you.

Sometimes the most radical act of reflecting God’s mercy is extending it inward—to the parts of yourself that are still aching, afraid, or ashamed. Mercy toward your own soul is not selfish. It’s sacred.

This week, I’m praying for eyes to see as God sees: To recognize distress where it’s hidden. To offer gentleness where it’s needed. To embody mercy—not as an abstract virtue, but as a way of walking through the world.

Because mercy isn’t just something we receive from God. It’s something we’re called to reflect.

So—who comes to mind for you?

And what might it look like to show them special care this week?

Truth and Tenderness: A Love That Holds Both

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“Our love grows soft if it is not strengthened by truth, and our truth grows hard if it is not softened by love.”
— John Stott

There are moments in life—quiet, aching moments—when we realize how easy it is to drift into extremes. Maybe you’ve felt it too. The pull toward love that avoids the discomfort of honesty. Or the pull toward truth that forgets the sacredness of gentleness.

In a world so often divided, Stott’s words feel like a compass. A reminder that truth and love are not opposites to be balanced, but partners meant to walk hand in hand.

Jesus modeled this perfectly.

He was truth in human form—unapologetic, unwavering, crystal clear. He called out injustice, confronted hypocrisy, and held to the Father’s will without flinching. But His truth never came without love. He wept over Jerusalem. He knelt to wash dusty feet. He offered mercy to the woman caught in adultery before telling her, “Go and sin no more.”

His love was not flimsy. It was not passive. It did not shy away from the cost of confrontation. And His truth was not harsh. It was never cold. It never forgot the human heart it was speaking to.

This is the tension we’re invited to live in.

Because love without truth is license. It offers warmth but with no direction. It soothes but doesn’t sanctify. It may feel kind, but it ultimately leaves people unchanged.

And truth without love is harshness. It might be technically correct, but it’s spiritually incomplete. It may win arguments, but it wounds hearts.

If our love is not strengthened by truth, it becomes sentimentality. It avoids hard conversations. It chooses comfort over courage. And eventually, it loses its power to transform.

But if our truth is not softened by love, it becomes a weapon. It bruises instead of builds. It condemns rather than restores. And it forgets that every person we speak to is beloved by God.

In counseling, in friendship, in ministry, in marriage—in every relationship—we are constantly asked to choose: Will I speak the truth? Will I do so in love?

Scripture doesn’t leave us guessing.

“Speak the truth in love,” Paul writes in Ephesians 4:15, “so that we may grow up in every way into Him who is the head—Christ.” Not one or the other. Both. Always both.

Because it is in that holy fusion—truth and love together—that real transformation happens.

Love alone can comfort, but it can’t correct.
Truth alone can challenge, but it can’t heal.
But together?
Together, they change everything.

So maybe the invitation today is simple, but not easy:
To ask the Spirit for the courage to be truthful—and the tenderness to be kind.
To speak not for the sake of being right, but for the sake of restoring what’s been broken.
To love deeply enough to tell the truth, and to tell the truth lovingly enough that it becomes an act of love.

This is not weakness. It’s not compromise.

It’s Christlikeness.

And it’s the kind of love this world is aching for.

Have I Slandered God? — A Personal Reckoning

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I came across Oswald Chambers’ words this morning with my coffee still warm in my hands and my heart just beginning to settle. The reading was titled, “Have You Slandered God?” — and honestly, I wasn’t ready for the question to hit me that hard.

At first glance, I thought, Of course not. I would never slander God. I’m a follower of Jesus. I preach grace and cling to hope. But as I read on, Chambers drew the definition out from beneath the surface: “Slandering God means giving the impression that He is not altogether good.”

And that stopped me cold.

Because I realized I’ve done that—not with loud declarations, but in the quiet places. In the sighs too deep for words. In the moments when prayers went unanswered the way I hoped. When grief lingered longer than it felt like it should. When suffering felt unfair and silence felt cruel.

Without saying it aloud, I’ve sometimes lived like I believed God had let me down. I’ve told others God is trustworthy, but in my private doubts, I’ve questioned His timing, His ways, even His love.

I’ve slandered Him with my suspicion.
I’ve whispered accusations with my disappointment.
I’ve wondered if maybe He forgot me.

And yet—He’s never slandered me.

He has never once turned His face away in disgust.
He has never misrepresented my story.
He has never held my weakness against me.

Instead, He keeps inviting me back. To see Him as He truly is—not as my weary heart sometimes imagines Him to be, but as He has always been:
Faithful.
Merciful.
Present.
Good.

Even when I’m struggling to believe it, He is still good.

This isn’t about shame—it’s about clarity. About confession that heals instead of condemns. Chambers isn’t trying to make us afraid of God’s disappointment; he’s pointing us back to trust. A trust that doesn’t rely on our feelings, but on God’s unchanging character.

So today, I’m asking myself a new question—not just “Have I slandered God?” but “What would it look like to honor Him with my trust today?”

It might mean sitting with my grief, but still calling Him good.
It might mean praying again, even after silence.
It might mean choosing to believe that His “no” or “not yet” is love I don’t yet understand.

Friend, if you’ve been struggling too—if you’ve questioned His goodness in the quiet—this isn’t a reprimand. It’s a hand on your shoulder. A gentle voice saying, “Come back. Remember who He is.”

He can handle our honesty. He meets us in our doubt. But He also wants to remind us that He is not like us. He does not wound and withdraw. He stays. He restores. He redeems.

Let’s be people who speak of His goodness, not just when life is good, but when life is hard and we choose to believe anyway.

Let’s honor Him with our trust.

Even here.
Even now.
Even when.

When the Sirens Keep Singing: A Reflection on School Shootings and the Ache for Peace

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Another school.
Another shooting.
Another place of learning and laughter turned into a scene of chaos and grief.
This week, it was Florida State University. But it could have been anywhere. And that’s what breaks us open again and again.

We weren’t made for this.
Our hearts weren’t meant to learn how to read the signs, rehearse lockdown drills, or scan a classroom for the safest hiding spot. Our children weren’t created to carry the weight of wondering if their school might be next. And yet, here we are—again.

There’s a particular ache that comes with these headlines. A kind of spiritual nausea. Because how many more? How many times can we offer thoughts and prayers while holding the staggering reality that the world feels increasingly unsafe—and seemingly unchanged?

As people of faith, we believe in a God who sees. Who hears the blood of Abel still crying from the ground. Who weeps with us in the hallways of our grief. And still, we wrestle: What do we do when prayers feel powerless and action feels paralyzed?

Here are a few reflections I’m sitting with this week:

1. Grief Is a Holy Response

Lament is not weakness—it is worship. Scripture is filled with cries of “How long, O Lord?” and “Why have You forsaken me?” We are invited to bring our sorrow before the throne of grace, not sanitize it. We don’t need to rush past our heartbreak. Jesus Himself wept over death. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. And we are never more like Him than when we grieve with those who grieve.

2. Proximity Matters

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the scale of the problem and retreat into helplessness. But love calls us to proximity. To see the people in our immediate circles who are afraid, angry, or numb. To check on the teachers, students, parents, and first responders. To be present in the long aftermath, not just the news cycle. This is how we become the hands and feet of Christ—by moving toward pain, not away from it.

3. Peacemaking Is Not Passive

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” not the peacekeepers. Making peace requires courage. It demands we enter the mess and do the hard, often unseen work of healing. That might mean advocacy. It might mean deeper conversations about mental health, gun violence, access to care, or the spiritual formation of our communities. It might mean raising our voices in love, even when it’s uncomfortable. The Gospel does not call us to comfort—it calls us to cross-bearing.

4. Resurrection Is Our Anchor

The cross tells us that evil is real. But the empty tomb tells us it doesn’t get the final word. As Christians, we hold a dual citizenship—one foot in a broken world, the other in the unshakable Kingdom of God. We mourn the present pain, but we do not despair. Because we know the arc of history bends toward redemption. Because even in the valley of the shadow, we are not alone.

So, what do we do?

We pray.
We grieve.
We show up.
We listen.
We advocate.
We hold tight to hope.

Not a shallow, sugarcoated hope—but a gritty, resurrection-shaped hope that refuses to give up on a world that God still so deeply loves.

And maybe, in the face of so much senseless violence, we take up a different kind of weapon:
Kindness that disrupts hate.
Courage that interrupts apathy.
Faith that insists light is still stronger than darkness.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Make us instruments of Your peace.

The Silence Between the Thorns and the Triumph

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Today is the in-between.

Good Friday has passed—the sky has darkened, the curtain torn, and the world has exhaled a gasp of grief. The cross still casts its shadow over the earth, and the tomb is sealed tight.

And yet, resurrection has not yet dawned.

This is Holy Saturday.
The day of waiting.
The day of not knowing.
The day of silence.

Scripture is quiet about this day. The Gospels, which paint with vivid color the pain of Friday and the victory of Sunday, go nearly still when it comes to Saturday. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe Holy Saturday was never meant to be explained—but felt.

It is the space between sorrow and joy, between the breaking and the mending, between “It is finished” and “He is risen.”

And in that space… is where we live more often than we like to admit.

Because for so many of us, life feels like Holy Saturday.

We know the promise, but we haven’t yet seen the fulfillment.
We’ve buried our hope, but haven’t yet heard it call our name.
We trust that God is good, but the grave still looks like it won.

We live in the tension of what was and what will be.
And today, God does not rush us out of it.

He lets us linger here.
In the hush.
In the waiting.
In the ache.

And maybe that’s a holy thing too.

Because here—where all seems lost and nothing seems certain—faith breathes its truest breath.
Here is where we say: “I still believe.”
Here is where we whisper: “Even now, You are near.”
Here is where hope is no longer a feeling but a fierce decision.

And make no mistake—He is still working.

Even when it looks like nothing is happening.
Even when the tomb is closed and the silence is thick.
Even when the sky feels empty and our prayers feel unanswered.

Jesus descended into the depths—not just to fulfill prophecy, but to make sure no place is beyond His reach. Not even death. Not even despair. Not even the long, quiet waiting of Holy Saturday.

So today, we wait.

But not as those without hope.

We wait with tear-streaked cheeks and hearts that refuse to stop hoping.
We wait with the trust that Sunday is coming.
We wait, not because we are forgotten—but because God is not finished.

And oh, friend—when He moves the stone… it will all make sense.

Until then, we wait. Together.
In silence.
In trust.
In hope.

It Is Finished: Love Poured Out and the Life That Follows

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Good Friday is the day love broke open.

It is the day blood and mercy mingled. The day silence hung heavy in the air as the Son of God breathed His last. And the day that, paradoxically, the greatest victory the world has ever known was won through what looked like utter defeat.

We remember the Cross today—not just as a symbol of suffering, but as the greatest expression of love the world has ever known.

“It is finished.”

Three words spoken not in despair, but in triumph. Not in resignation, but in radiant completion. Jesus’ cry from the Cross was not a whisper of defeat, but a roar of redemption. It was a declaration that the debt had been paid, the veil torn, and the chasm between us and God bridged once and for all.

He gave up His life willingly. Not taken, but given. Not demanded, but offered.

In that moment, love was no longer theoretical or conditional. It became flesh and bone, pierced and poured out. It looked like forgiveness for those who mocked Him. It looked like hope offered to the criminal beside Him. It looked like the Lamb, spotless and surrendered, taking on the weight of all our sin and shame.

And in the shadow of that Cross, in the radiance of that love, I ask myself: How then shall I live?

What kind of life rises from such love?

It cannot be a life of self-preservation. It cannot be a life of bitterness or revenge. It cannot be a life lived for comfort alone. Love like that—love that suffers, that forgives, that lays itself down—calls me to more.

It calls me to open my hands when I want to cling. To forgive when I’d rather fold my arms. To listen when I’m tempted to turn away. To see the dignity in every human soul—because Christ died for them too.

It calls me to live not from scarcity, but from the fullness of grace that has been lavished on me.

The Cross redefines love—not as sentiment, but as sacrifice. Not as a feeling, but as a fierce, unrelenting choice. And in the light of that, I am invited to live a cruciform life. One shaped by His love. One poured out in response.

This is not easy love. But it is holy love. It is the love that interrupts cycles of hate. The love that shows up in the grief, in the mess, in the margins. The love that says, “Not my will, but Yours.”

And so, on this Good Friday, I do not look away from the suffering. I do not rush ahead to Sunday. I sit at the foot of the Cross and let that victorious cry echo through every part of me.

It is finished.

So let the striving cease. Let the shame fall away. Let the walls we’ve built crumble. And let love remake us—again and again.

May I live today, and every day, as one who has been loved like that.

The Hue of the Soul

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— On Thoughts That Tint Us, and the God Who Renews Our Minds

There is a quiet truth tucked inside this ancient wisdom:
“The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.” —Marcus Aurelius

Not splashed.
Not stained.
But dyed.

As if slowly lowered into a basin of hue, thread by thread, breath by breath. As if we are steeped—over time—until the very fiber of our being holds the echo of our inner dialogue.

Scripture reminds us, too, that “as a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” (Proverbs 23:7)
What we dwell on shapes us. The voice we listen to becomes the compass of our soul.
And the beauty—and weight—of this truth is that we are invited to participate in the formation of our own hearts by what we meditate on.

If the soul is a tapestry, then every thought is a thread.
And what we think—again and again—becomes the palette we wear from within.

Hope tints the soul with heaven’s glow.
Gratitude, with the soft greens of new creation.
But fear can draw in ash-grey shadows.
And shame? Shame dyes the soul in a slow-dripping indigo, heavy and silent, that can begin to feel permanent.

But nothing is too permanent for the Redeemer.
God, the Weaver of our being, invites us into renewal—again and again.

“Be transformed by the renewing of your mind,” Paul writes in Romans 12:2.
Because the world will try to paint us in its own palette—fear, scarcity, comparison.
But God dips our hearts in mercy. In truth. In light.
And when we return to Him, He restores the color of joy, the vibrancy of peace, the radiance of love.

We cannot always choose our first thoughts—those flash floods of fear or reflexive self-criticism.
But we can choose which ones we steep in.
Which ones we stir.
Which ones we invite God to sift and sanctify.

Pain has its own sacred pigment.
Even Jesus wept. Even Jesus bled.
But even pain, when placed in His hands, can be turned into a palette of redemption—not bitterness.

So today, I will pause.
I will ask myself gently: What color are my thoughts?
And if they are dark and heavy, I will not hide them.
I will bring them to the One who dyed the sky with sunrise and washed feet in humility.

Because even one drop of grace,
One whisper of truth,
One glance from the God who sees us—
Can begin to shift the hue of a weary soul.

And friend, He is still in the business of renewal.
Still in the habit of taking gray and turning it into gold.