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.

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.

— 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.

Lately, it seems the air is thick with suspicion. The headlines, the conversations at gas stations, the whispers in pews and the shouting in comment sections—so much of it is steeped in fear, in “us” versus “them,” in a kind of cold certainty that forgets the imago Dei in each face.

I find myself grieving.

Grieving the ways we have othered each other.

Grieving the ways God’s name is used like a weapon instead of a refuge.

Grieving the steady drumbeat of dehumanization that masquerades as conviction.

We are naming enemies where there are neighbors. We are calling strangers dangerous before we’ve ever shared a meal or heard their story. We are painting entire people groups with broad, fearful strokes and then calling it holy.

But it isn’t holy.
It isn’t even human.

When we strip someone of their dignity because of where they were born, who they love, the color of their skin, the questions they carry, the clothes they wear, the God they pray to (or don’t), we are not being faithful. We are being forgetful.

We have forgotten the way Jesus knelt—not stood tall—beside the hurting.
We have forgotten how He touched the unclean, dined with the scandalous, defended the accused, wept with the grieving, and silenced the mob.

We have forgotten the tenderness that scandalized the religious elite.
We have forgotten that the distinguishing mark of His followers is not correct doctrine, sharp arguments, or moral superiority.

It’s love.
“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” — John 13:35

Not love in theory.
Not love in the abstract.
Not love only for those who look like us, think like us, worship like us.

But a love that crosses borders.
A love that pauses to listen.
A love that disarms instead of dominates.
A love that says, “I see God’s fingerprint on your life, even if I don’t understand your path.”

And yet here we are, in a time when suspicion is baptized and hate is dressed in church clothes. We hear that defending “truth” justifies cruelty, that purity demands exclusion, that God needs our outrage more than our compassion.

No.
That is not the Gospel.

The Gospel is the good news that God moved toward us in our brokenness.
And now we are to move toward others in theirs.

This kind of love does not mean the absence of boundaries or the approval of harm. But it does mean we resist the easy narratives that flatten people into caricatures. It means we tell the truth, yes—but with tears in our eyes, not venom in our voice.

It means when we speak of judgment, it is not with glee.
It is not with gloating.
It is not with gnarled fingers pointing outward, but with trembling hands open in repentance.

Because all of us—all of us—have fallen short.

And still, grace runs toward us like the father of the prodigal.
Still, mercy makes room at the table.
Still, we are being shaped by a God whose justice always partners with compassion.

So today, I pray we soften.
That we listen more than we speak.
That we lean in instead of turning away.

And that the world might begin to recognize us again—
not by the sharpness of our opinions,
not by the people we fear,
not by the lines we draw—
but by the unmistakable, tender, audacious love that looks like Jesus.

“So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith.” – Galatians 6:10

In a world where suffering rarely takes a break, we are called to lean in—not turn away.

I think often of that verse in Galatians. It’s tucked gently into the end of Paul’s letter, a reminder that our faith doesn’t float in abstraction. It moves. It acts. It crosses borders, kneels low, and brings bread to the hungry and comfort to the grieving. It reaches for those in the thick of battle—not just metaphorically, but sometimes quite literally.

When war breaks out—whether across oceans or in the quiet tremors of someone’s soul—our first response isn’t to ask, is it safe? It’s to ask, is it faithful?

Because the Church is not confined to comfort.

The Church—the household of faith—is a global, breathing Body. And when one part suffers, we all suffer. When our brothers and sisters are displaced, bombed, starved, or isolated, we cannot simply offer prayers from the sidelines and call it enough.

We’re meant to embody the prayers we pray.

Helping the household of faith in war zones means listening when the rest of the world forgets. It means supporting local churches and pastors who stay behind to care for the broken. It means resourcing trauma care for the weary, showing up with blankets and bread, and reminding the faithful in hiding that they are not forgotten by the family of God.

It’s easy to romanticize suffering from afar. But real help is not romantic—it is rugged. It’s sending supplies in the mud. It’s finding ways to translate truth across language and pain. It’s navigating checkpoints and curfews and trauma triggers to sit with the grieving and to whisper, You’re not alone. The Church sees you. God sees you.

Helping the household of faith in war zones also means refusing to let global conflict numb us into inaction. It means choosing proximity. Choosing presence. Choosing to let our comfort be disrupted by the discomfort of others—because that is what love does.

And sometimes… it simply means showing up with loaves and fishes, trusting that God still multiplies.

This is our moment to be the Church—not just in sanctuary, but in the rubble.

May we carry each other across borders and battle lines. May we see beyond headlines into homes and hearts. And may we never forget that the household of faith is bigger than the pew beside us.

It stretches across oceans.

It bleeds and weeps and prays in the trenches.

And it waits for us—not just to care, but to come.