Devotional

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 4: The Altar of Appearance

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Read Matthew 6:1–6

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A large cracked stone altar sits in a modern civic plaza framed by tall columns, with a distant city skyline blurred in the background under a gray sky, symbolizing fractured devotion and divided motives.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “ALTAR AUDIT, Part 4: The Altar of Appearance” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 4: The Altar of Appearance. There are forms of devotion so familiar we rarely question them. We bow our heads. We lift our hands. We step forward when invited. We mark our foreheads with ash. The gestures are ancient. The rhythms are sacred. But even holy practices can conceal unexamined motives.

On Ash Wednesday, we step forward and receive dust on our foreheads. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is meant to level us. To mark mortality. To confront us with our smallness before God.

And yet even repentance can become visible currency.

In Matthew 6, Jesus’ words are often misheard as a ban on public faith—as if the problem is being seen at all. That’s not what he is doing. Jesus does not forbid prayer. He does not outlaw generosity. He does not condemn fasting. He assumes all three. He participates in all three. What he confronts is motive: “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them.”

The issue is not location. It is orientation.

You can pray in a sanctuary without drawing attention to yourself. You can pray in a closet while performing for an imaginary audience. God is fooled by neither.

The altar of appearance is built when righteousness becomes something we manage. When generosity becomes something we curate. When humility becomes something we subtly hope will be noticed.

Ashes are meant to remind us that we are dust. But the heart can still whisper: Do they see how devout I am? Do they see how serious I am? Do they see my sorrow?

The human need to be seen is powerful. Church culture can unintentionally reward visible spirituality—the right posture, the right tone, the right emotional register. Over time, devotion can begin to drift toward optics.

Jesus’ words are not an attack on corporate worship. They are a warning against performative righteousness. “Your Father, who sees what is done in secret…” That phrase is not about hiding. It is about honesty. God sees the heart beneath the posture.

First Samuel echoes the same truth: “People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” We are skilled at judging what we can see. God examines what we cannot.

The unsettling question of Lent is this: If no one knew, would we still do it? If no one noticed, would we still give? If no one affirmed us, would we still pray?

The altar of appearance does not demand that we abandon faith. It only asks that we polish it. Present it. Display it just enough to be recognized.

But righteousness offered for applause has already shifted its allegiance.

Lent invites us back to sincerity—not as performance, but as integrity. To pray without managing perception. To give without curating recognition. To fast without crafting a narrative. Not because public devotion is wrong, but because our hearts are easily divided.

God sees.

And the One who sees the heart is the only audience that matters.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Righteousness shaped by appearance may look holy, but only God knows whether it is honest.

PRAYER
Holy God, search our motives and reveal where we have confused visibility with faithfulness. Purify our hearts so that our giving, praying, and repentance flow from love rather than performance. Free us from the need to be seen, and teach us to live for the audience of One. Strip away every false altar until only Christ remains. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 3: The Altar of Applause

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read John 12:42–43

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“These people say they are mine. They honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. And their worship of me is nothing but man-made rules learned by rote.” (Isaiah 29:13 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A large cracked stone altar sits in a modern civic plaza framed by tall columns, with a distant city skyline blurred in the background under a gray sky, symbolizing fractured devotion and divided allegiance.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Applause” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: The Altar of Applause. Not every altar is built in public squares or desert wildernesses. Some are raised in conference rooms, sanctuaries, and private calculations of risk. John tells us something unsettling: “Many leaders believed in him.” Not doubters. Not enemies. Leaders. Insiders. People with standing and influence. They believed.

But they would not say so publicly. Why? “For fear that they would be put out of the synagogue.” Fear of expulsion. Fear of losing position. Fear of losing voice. Fear of losing the room.

Then comes the diagnosis: “For they loved human praise more than the praise of God.”

They believed. But they loved applause more.

This is the altar of applause.

It is not the altar of blatant rebellion. It is the altar of careful silence. It is the place where conviction is kept private and compliance is kept public. It is the slow erosion of courage beneath the steady drip of approval.

Institutional systems rarely have to threaten outright. Often, they only have to signal what will cost you access. You will lose standing. You will lose influence. You will be labeled. You will be removed.

So belief goes quiet.

Silence can feel wise. Silence can feel strategic. Silence can feel like staying in the room for the greater good. But silence in the face of injustice is rarely neutral. It is allegiance by omission.

Isaiah’s words cut deeper: “They honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Lips can speak liturgy while hearts calculate risk. Worship can be performed while courage is withheld.

The leaders in John’s Gospel did believe. But over time, loving praise more than God reveals what ultimately governs the heart. What we protect most exposes what we worship most.

The altar of applause is subtle. It does not ask us to deny Christ outright. It only asks us to keep Christ quiet. It assures us that private faith is enough. It whispers that survival is wisdom. It promises that staying respectable preserves witness.

But fear-led faith slowly becomes hollow faith.

When protecting reputation becomes more important than protecting the vulnerable, something has shifted. When belonging to the institution becomes more important than truth within it, something has shifted. When we agree silently because speaking would cost us, the altar of applause is already built.

Lent presses this question into our conscience: Whose praise governs us? The applause of the room—or the pleasure of God?

The leaders believed. That is what makes this passage painful. They were not devoid of faith. They were constrained by fear. And fear, when enthroned, becomes an idol.

Christ does not seek secret admirers. Christ calls public witnesses. Not reckless. Not cruel. But courageous.

The altar of applause asks for very little at first. Just a quiet nod. Just a careful omission. Just one moment of strategic silence.

But worship is revealed by what we protect.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Belief that fears expulsion more than God will eventually love applause more than truth.

PRAYER
Holy God, search our hearts and reveal where fear has governed our faith. Deliver us from the need to be approved more than the desire to be faithful. Give us courage to speak when silence would cost others, and integrity to love your praise above every human voice. Strip away the altar of applause until only Christ remains. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 2: The Altar of Allegiance

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Read Luke 4:5–8

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The kingdom of the world has become the Kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he will reign forever and ever.” (Revelation 11:15 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A large cracked stone altar sits in a modern civic plaza framed by towering columns, with a distant city skyline blurred in the background under a gray, overcast sky, symbolizing fractured allegiance and divided devotion.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Allegiance” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 2: The Altar of Allegiance. After forty days of fasting, Jesus stands at the edge of exhaustion. Hunger presses in. The wilderness has already tested body and will. It is there—when strength is thin and clarity costly—that the devil shifts the terrain of temptation. No crude appeal to appetite now. No stones into bread. Instead, the horizon widens.

Luke tells us that in a single moment Jesus is shown all the kingdoms of the world. Authority. Glory. Influence. Infrastructure. Culture. Law. Security. The visible machinery by which human life is ordered and protected. The offer is not small. It is sweeping. “I will give you all this authority and glory… if you worship me.”

The condition is quiet but absolute. Just bow.

The temptation here is not toward moral failure. It is toward misdirected allegiance. The devil does not demand that Jesus renounce God outright. The request is subtler: reorder your loyalty. Blend devotion. Hold the Kingdom in one hand and power in the other. Secure the world now and sort out the theology later.

It is the temptation of expediency.

If Christ rules, suffering could be avoided. If Christ governs, justice could be implemented immediately. If Christ commands, reform could begin from the inside. The cross becomes unnecessary. The wilderness becomes a prelude to immediate triumph.

Just bend.

Allegiance is rarely tested when it costs nothing. It is tested when compromise promises results.

Jesus’ refusal is neither flippant nor theatrical. It carries the weight of real temptation and the firmness of settled obedience: “You must worship the Lord your God and serve only God.” Only. No divided loyalty. No shared throne. No quiet accommodation.

Where architecture in Babylon tempted Nebuchadnezzar to boast, the allure of empire in the wilderness tempts Jesus to bow. But Christ does not grasp what is offered. Christ refuses what seems efficient. The path of obedience remains narrow and costly.

Revelation later proclaims what the desert foreshadows: “The kingdom of the world has become the Kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ.” The kingdoms will belong to Christ—not because Christ secured them through compromise, but because Christ remained faithful through suffering. What Satan offers prematurely, God fulfills in time.

Allegiance determines destiny.

We do not stand on desert cliffs, but we face quieter versions of the same offer. We bow when belonging feels safer than truth. We bow when influence seems too valuable to risk. We bow when protecting access becomes more important than protecting integrity. We bow when loyalty to tribe, institution, or nation begins to eclipse loyalty to Christ.

The altar of allegiance is not always dramatic. It often disguises itself as wisdom. It whispers about effectiveness and stability. It argues that a small bend now will allow greater faithfulness later.

But worship is revealed by posture. And any power that must be gained by bowing is not the Kingdom of God.

Lent presses this question gently but firmly into our hearts: Where have we negotiated our allegiance to maintain comfort, relevance, or control? Where have we justified subtle compromise because the outcome seemed worthwhile?

Christ stands in the wilderness and refuses to bend. Not because the kingdoms are insignificant, but because devotion cannot be divided. The Kingdom that lasts forever cannot be received through misdirected worship.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Allegiance is revealed not by what we claim to believe, but by where—and to whom—we bow.

PRAYER
Faithful God, you alone are worthy of our worship. In a world that tempts us to bend for power or approval, steady our hearts in undivided devotion. Reveal where our loyalties have drifted and give us courage to stand firm. Strip away every false altar until only Christ remains. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Christian Liturgical Season, Devotional

Altar Audit, part 1: The Altar of Architecture

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Read Daniel 4:28–37

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.” (Isaiah 40:6 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A modern concrete altar sits cracked down the center in a civic plaza beneath an overcast sky, distant skyline blurred behind it. The words “Altar Audit,” “The Altar of Architecture,” and “Life-Giving Water Devotions” are overlaid in white.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Altar Audit, Part 1: The Altar of Architecture” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 1: The Altar of Architecture. Nebuchadnezzar stood on the roof of his royal palace and admired what he had built. Babylon stretched before him—brick, tower, wall, gate, garden. An empire carved into skyline and stone. And he said aloud what empire always whispers in its heart: “Look what I built. Look how great I am.”

Architecture is not just buildings. It is visibility. Permanence. Proof. It is what we construct to convince ourselves—and others—that we are secure.

Babylon was magnificent. No one disputed that. But Daniel tells us the problem was not beauty. The problem was boast. The problem was the subtle shift from gratitude to ownership. From stewardship to supremacy. From gift to mine.

Before the words left his mouth, judgment fell. Not because God resents success, but because pride forgets the Most High. Nebuchadnezzar was stripped—not first of his throne, but of his illusion. He lost his sanity. He lost his cultivated humanity. The king who built monuments ended up grazing like cattle.

Grass.

Isaiah echoes the same truth: “All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.” Grass grows. Grass flourishes. Grass withers.

Empire builds architecture.
God reminds us we are grass.

Ash Wednesday marks our foreheads with dust and says what Daniel 4 dramatizes: You are not invincible. You are not ultimate. You are not the architect of eternity.

Empire is not just Babylon. It is any system—civil or sacred—that begins to believe its own press.

Nations build towers of strength and assume divine favor. Churches build campuses, platforms, brands, and assume divine endorsement. Institutions construct reputations and confuse growth with righteousness.

Architecture becomes an altar when we begin to worship what we built.

The Church is not immune to Babylonian thinking. We too can stand on the roof and say, “Look at our numbers. Look at our influence. Look at our reach. Look at our impact.” We can assume that scale equals blessing and visibility equals faithfulness. We can protect the structure more fiercely than we protect the Spirit.

But Lent asks a harder question: What happens when the architecture cracks?

Ashes are the great equalizer. Dust levels kings and laborers alike. Empires and denominations return to the ground. Grass does not negotiate its mortality.

Yet Daniel 4 does not end in destruction. It ends in recognition. Nebuchadnezzar lifts his eyes—not to his buildings, but to heaven. And when he does, his sanity returns. His kingdom is restored, but his perspective is altered. He finally confesses that the Most High reigns.

That confession is the pivot. In the wilderness, Jesus is shown all the kingdoms of the world. Architecture on a global scale. Power without the cross. Glory without surrender. The temptation was not merely political—it was architectural. Build something grand. Rule something visible. Take the shortcut.

Jesus refuses. Where Nebuchadnezzar grasped and lost his mind, Christ relinquished and remained fully human. Where empire builds upward, Christ kneels. Where kings boast, Christ empties.

Architecture promises permanence.
Christ promises resurrection.

This Ash Wednesday, the Altar Audit begins by asking: What have we built to feel secure? What structures do we defend more fiercely than love? Where have we confused visibility with faithfulness?

The question is not whether we build. We all build. Families. Careers. Congregations. Ministries. Influence. The question is whether what we build has quietly become what we worship.

Empire says, “Look what we made.”
Lent whispers, “You are dust.”

And in that whisper is mercy. Because when the architecture falls away—when pride dissolves and illusion cracks—what remains is not ruin. What remains is Christ.

Christ, who refused the kingdoms.
Christ, who did not boast.
Christ, who chose the cross over the skyline.
Christ, who does not wither like grass.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
If what I have built were taken away, would Christ still be enough?

PRAYER
Most High God, we confess how easily we admire what we have constructed. We measure success by scale and faithfulness by visibility. Mark us again with the truth of dust. Strip away pride that blinds us. Guard us from confusing architecture with allegiance. Teach us to lift our eyes from what we have built to who You are. When our towers tremble, let Christ remain. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 29: Pentagram

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Read 1 John 4:1–6

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.” (Romans 12:2, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ve looked closely at sacred signs that unsettle, confront, and ultimately reveal where Christ still calls the Church to deeper honesty.

Warm, low-angle light falls across a weathered stone wall, casting a soft, incomplete shadow that suggests a shape without forming a clear symbol. The shadow remains indistinct and unresolved, emphasizing texture, light, and ambiguity rather than definition.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 29: Pentagram” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 29: Pentagram. Let’s begin with what most people think they already know.

For many Christians, the pentagram is not a symbol to be examined but a verdict already rendered. It is assumed to be Satanic, dangerous, corrupt—something to fear, reject, and condemn without hesitation. No context. No curiosity. No discernment. The reaction is immediate, visceral, and absolute.

And that reaction tells us something.

Historically, the pentagram did not begin as a symbol of evil. Long before modern panic attached itself to five points and intersecting lines, the symbol appeared across cultures as a sign of harmony, order, and human embodiment. In ancient mathematics and cosmology, it reflected proportion and balance. In Jewish and early Christian traditions, it was associated with protection and divine order. For medieval Christians, it could signify the five wounds of Christ—hands, feet, and side—marking the body as the place where divine love absorbed violence without returning it.

None of this required secrecy. None of it required rebellion. None of it required fear.

Symbols, however, rarely remain static. They migrate. They are reinterpreted. They are claimed, rejected, reclaimed, and re-signified over time. Christianity itself is no exception to this process. The Church has never existed in a vacuum, and it has never been symbolically pure. The cross—now the central emblem of Christian faith—was once a Roman execution device. Halo imagery draws from Greco-Roman depictions of divine radiance. Basilicas were repurposed civic buildings. Incense, vestments, sacred days, even the timing of major feasts reflect a long history of adaptation rather than invention.

Symbols move. Meaning is shaped by use.

In modern contexts, the pentagram is most commonly associated with Wicca and contemporary Neo-Pagan traditions. In those communities, it often represents connection to nature, the elements, or the balance of life. That usage should be acknowledged honestly. It should not be caricatured, mocked, or erased. Nor does acknowledging it require adopting its theology or collapsing all meanings into one.

What matters is not who currently uses a symbol—but how fear responds when control is lost.

The Church’s relationship with the pentagram reveals a familiar pattern. When a symbol is no longer exclusively governed by Christian authority, it is quickly rebranded as dangerous. Once meaning escapes institutional boundaries, panic steps in to do the interpreting. Fear replaces discernment. Labels replace listening. Accusation replaces understanding.

Scripture warns us against this reflex.

“Dear friends,” John writes, “do not believe everyone who claims to speak by the Spirit. You must test them.” Testing requires patience. It requires discernment. It requires refusing the temptation to decide in advance who is safe and who is not. John does not tell the Church to fear what is unfamiliar; he tells them to examine the spirit behind it. And examination is slower than condemnation.

This is where the symbol becomes subversive—not because of what it is, but because of what it exposes.

The real danger has never been the pentagram. The danger is how easily we outsource evil to whatever unsettles us, rather than confronting the fear within ourselves. It is easier to label a symbol demonic than to ask why we need an enemy to feel secure. It is easier to project threat outward than to examine how power, certainty, and control shape our theology.

Paul’s words in Romans press this uncomfortably close: transformation begins with renewed minds, not reinforced reflexes. When fear dictates interpretation, conformity has already won. When panic replaces discernment, the world has shaped the Church more than the Gospel has.

Christ does not fear symbols. Christ unmasks hearts.

Throughout this series, the signs have pointed to the same truth again and again: the Gospel does not thrive on domination, certainty, or scapegoating. It exposes them. The pentagram, more than almost any other symbol, reveals how quickly fear turns difference into danger and how eagerly the Church participates in that transformation.

This is not a call to rehabilitate a symbol. It is a call to reclaim discernment.

Before we decide what something means, we are invited to ask why it frightens us. Before we condemn what we do not control, we are called to examine what we are protecting. Before we name something demonic, we are asked to test the spirits—including our own.

The final subversion is this: the pentagram does not threaten the Gospel. Fear does. And Christ comes not to defend boundaries, but to free us from the lies we tell ourselves to keep them intact.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Fear often reveals itself most clearly in the symbols we refuse to understand.

PRAYER
God of truth and discernment, slow our reflexes when fear rises and sharpen our hearts for wisdom instead. Free us from the urge to label what we do not understand and from the comfort of certainty that resists transformation. Teach us to test the spirits with humility, to examine our own fears honestly, and to follow Christ without scapegoats or suspicion. Renew our minds, that we may see clearly and love faithfully. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 28: Inverted Cross

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Read 1 Corinthians 1:18–19

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“‘I tell you the truth, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked; you dressed yourself and went wherever you wanted to go. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.’ Jesus said this to let him know by what kind of death he would glorify God.” (John 21:18–19, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A simple, weathered wooden cross hangs upside down from a piece of twine against a softly lit, neutral background. The wood is rough and aged, with visible grain and small nails at the center. The image is quiet and minimal, inviting reflection rather than shock.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 28: Inverted Cross” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 28: Inverted Cross. Let’s begin with what we were told. The inverted cross is a sign of evil. A mark of Satan. A deliberate mockery of Christ. A symbol to fear, reject, and condemn.

Long before cable news, social media, or culture wars, symbols were already being distorted through fear, polemic, and power. And few symbols have been so thoroughly misreported as the inverted cross.

The origin of the inverted cross has nothing to do with rebellion or blasphemy. According to early Christian tradition, the Apostle Peter—condemned to death by crucifixion—asked to be crucified upside down, declaring himself unworthy to die in the same manner as Christ. Whether one treats this account as historical fact or sacred tradition, its meaning is unmistakable. The inverted cross began as an act of humility, not defiance. It signaled reversal, not rejection. It proclaimed that Christ alone stands upright at the center of faith.

Over time, the symbol also became associated with the seat of St. Peter, the first bishop of Rome. Again, this is tradition, not Scripture—but it matters. The symbol was never secret. It was never sinister. It was embedded in the Church’s memory as a reminder that leadership in Christ’s name begins not with power, but with surrender.

So how did such a powerful sign against faux spiritual performance become a performance of evil proportions? How did a sign of humility become a harrowing omen of heresy? How did a symbol that once represented humble, servant leadership, become the epitome of of enduring evil?

The first major corruption of the symbol did not come from artists or occultists. It came from theology shaped by fear.

During the Protestant Reformation, the office of the Pope—understood as the successor to Peter—was increasingly demonized. Polemics hardened. Accusations escalated. The Bishop of Rome was labeled the Antichrist, the Beast of Revelation, the embodiment of evil itself. In that climate, anything associated with Peter’s authority was cast in shadow. The inverted cross did not change its meaning; it inherited the suspicion attached to the office it symbolized.

This was bad theology. The term “antichrist” appears not in Revelation, but in the Johannine epistles, where it refers not to a singular figure, but to a persistent spirit that opposes Christ. Likewise, the Beast in Revelation does not represent a church office or a pope. It represents empire—all systems of domination that demand allegiance, participation, and worship. But once fear takes hold, symbols lose their context, and nuance becomes collateral damage. This does not mean church offices are immune from empire; it means they are judged by it, too, whenever power eclipses humility and allegiance shifts from Christ to control.

The second major demonization arrived centuries later, in a very different form. The rise of the Moral Majority, the Evangelical Right, and the Satanic Panic of the 1970s through the 1990s transformed cultural anxiety into political theology. Symbols were no longer studied; they were weaponized. Artists, musicians, creatives, and visionaries who resisted religious political populism were branded dangerous, godless, or demonic. The inverted cross became a convenient prop in a narrative designed to dehumanize dissent.

Here, intentional provocation entered the picture. Figures like Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan did not “discover” the inverted cross—they exploited its misunderstood reputation. The goal was not theological clarity, but cultural disruption. Shock was the point. Fear was the lever. Scaring the puritans was the method. And in many cases, it worked. The symbol’s meaning was further obscured, not because it was powerful, but because it was useful.

Art, media, and rebellion compounded the confusion. Some artists leaned into the inversion as a way of pushing back against the moral purity culture of the 1950s, American Puritanism, and the suffocating marriage of religion and politics. Others adopted the symbol with little interest in its history at all. The result is a cultural echo chamber where almost no one remembers what the symbol actually meant—and almost everyone is certain they know what it stands for.

Scripture offers a corrective.

“The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction,” Paul writes, “but we who are being saved know it is the very power of God.” The cross has always been misunderstood. It has always been scandalous. It has always threatened systems that equate strength with dominance and wisdom with control. The inverted cross simply extends that scandal. It reminds us that the Gospel turns our hierarchies upside down.

In its truest sense, the inverted cross does not mock Christ. It dethrones us. It exposes our obsession with appearing righteous, powerful, and certain. It calls the Church back to humility, reminding us that following Christ often looks like surrender, not spectacle.

The danger is not the symbol. The danger is how easily we allow fear to rewrite meaning, and how quick we are to “other” what we fear in those we don’t like or understand. Now THAT is truly Satanic.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When fear distorts a symbol, it often reveals more about our power structures than about the symbol itself.

PRAYER
God of wisdom and truth, free us from the fear that clouds our discernment. Teach us to look deeper than appearances and to resist the stories that power tells us to keep us afraid. Turn our hearts away from false certainty and back toward the humility of Christ. May we learn again what it means to follow the cross—not as a weapon, but as a way. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 27: 666

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Read Revelation 13:1–18

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“But Peter and the apostles replied, ‘We must obey God rather than any human authority.’” (Acts 5:29, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Two hands exchange a U.S. hundred-dollar bill in warm, low light. The focus is on the act of transaction rather than the people involved. The words “In God We Trust” are visible on the currency, while the background remains softly blurred, emphasizing ordinary participation and trust embedded in everyday exchange.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 27: 666” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 27: 666. When Colin Kaepernick first protested during the national anthem, he didn’t kneel. He sat. And when he was told—by a former Green Beret—that sitting could be interpreted as disrespectful, Kaepernick listened. The soldier explained that kneeling is how service members honor those who have fallen; it is a posture of mourning and respect. So Kaepernick changed his posture. He knelt during the national anthem. But that distinction didn’t matter. What followed was not really a debate about patriotism, the flag, or even the military. It was something older and far more revealing. The outrage was about participation—about whether a public ritual of loyalty could be interrupted without consequence.

That tension is not new. Rome lived by it. In the Roman Empire, belief was flexible. You could worship many gods. You could even worship Jesus. What mattered was that you showed allegiance to Caesar. You paid tribute. You honored the empire. You participated in the system that promised peace, security, and survival. Refuse that participation, and you weren’t just religious—you were dangerous. This is the world Revelation speaks into.

When John writes about “the beast” and its mark, he is not predicting a future monster. He is naming a power his readers already know. Using Hebrew numerology, the number 666 corresponds to Neron Kaesar—Nero Caesar. By the time Revelation is written, Nero is long dead. But rumors persist that he will return, that the empire’s violence will resurrect itself, that the same kind of power will rise again, feared by some and hoped for by others who remembered Nero as hero and god. John is not interested in Nero’s biography; he is naming an archetype.

Nero becomes shorthand for empire itself—a system that demands loyalty, rewards compliance, and punishes conscience. A system that does not care what you believe, so long as you behave, so long as you participate. That is why Revelation says no one could buy or sell without the mark. The mark of the beast was not about belief; it was about participation. Rome did not persecute Christians because they worshiped Jesus privately. It persecuted them because they refused to say, “Caesar is lord,” because they would not perform allegiance when allegiance was required.

The mark is not something forced onto the body. It is something accepted for the sake of access—the cost of doing business, of staying safe, of being considered a “good citizen.” That is why Revelation remains dangerous. The beast does not demand that you abandon Christ; it demands that you rank Christ lower—lower than order, lower than stability, lower than belonging, lower than the system that makes life easier. And often, that loyalty is given in Christ’s name, sanctified by familiar language and stamped onto the very currency we are told to trust.

The beast does not oppose Jesus outright; it rebrands Him. It dresses power in religious language, calls domination “values,” labels refusal as disloyalty, and even presumes to invoke God while regulating who may buy and sell. It praises faith, as long as that faith never interrupts the rituals that keep the system intact. This is why Peter’s words matter: “We must obey God rather than any human authority.” Not because obedience is dramatic, but because it is costly. The question Revelation presses is not whether you believe. It is whether you will participate.

Revelation does not leave us with monsters to fear, but with mirrors to face. It asks where our loyalties truly lie when allegiance is demanded and comfort is on the line. Do we give our first loyalty to Caesar reborn in new forms—to a president, a flag, a nation, or any empire that promises order and protection? Do we confuse faith with patriotism, or obedience with belonging? Or does our loyalty remain with Christ alone, even when that allegiance costs us access, approval, or security? Revelation does not ask these questions to condemn, but to clarify—because in the end, neutrality is not an option, and participation always reveals who, or what, we serve.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The mark of the beast is not what you believe, but what you are willing to go along with so life stays comfortable.

PRAYER
God of truth, give us courage to obey You when obedience costs us belonging, security, or approval. Expose the loyalties we perform without thinking, and free us from the fear that keeps us silent. Teach us to follow the Lamb wherever He leads, even when the world demands we fall in line. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 26: Sword

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Read Matthew 10:34–39

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus said. “Shall I not drink from the cup of suffering the Father has given me?” (John 18:11 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A solitary medieval sword stands planted upright in barren, rocky ground beneath a stormy sky. A beam of light breaks through dark clouds, casting a clear cross-shaped shadow across the earth and the blade. No people are present. The scene is still and solemn, emphasizing restraint, sacrifice, and the cost of truth rather than violence.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 26: Sword” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 26: Sword. The sword may be the most misunderstood symbol Jesus ever invoked.

When Jesus says, “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword,” many readers rush to one of two conclusions. Some hear permission—conflict sanctified, division justified, harm excused in the name of truth. Others rush to soften the words, insisting Jesus couldn’t really mean division at all, because peace must always be preserved.

Both reactions miss the point.

Jesus names the sword because truth embodied does not leave relationships untouched. When truth takes flesh—when it walks, speaks, and refuses to perform for comfort—it divides. Not because it seeks conflict, but because it removes the illusion that everyone can remain unchanged. The sword Jesus brings is not violence. It is exposure. It cuts through false unity, inherited loyalties, and identities built on silence.

And yet—this is where the symbol turns dangerous—Jesus never allows that sword to be wielded without cost.

When Peter reaches for steel in the garden, certain he finally understands what faithfulness requires, Jesus stops him. Not gently. Not ambiguously. “Put your sword back.” The same Jesus who named division now rejects domination. The same Christ who promised rupture refuses coercion. The sword is real—but it does not belong in human hands as an instrument of control.

This is the subversion the Church has spent centuries struggling to live with.

We want the sword Jesus brings, but we want it usable. Swingable. Directed outward. We want truth that wounds others while leaving our own power intact. Peter’s mistake was not malice; it was loyalty shaped by fear. He believed the threat required force. Jesus reveals something far more unsettling: truth will divide on its own. It does not need help. And the moment we try to enforce it, we betray it.

Scripture itself holds multiple sword images in tension. There is the sword that divides households. The sword that cuts inward, exposing motive and desire. The sword that comes from the mouth, not the hand—speech that judges without shedding blood. There is even the sword the Church keeps reaching for, baptizing power as protection and calling control faithfulness.

Jesus refuses all of them—except one.

He refuses violence. He refuses coercion. He refuses domination. But He does not refuse the cost of truth. He accepts the division that comes from living honestly, from refusing to perform peace at the expense of integrity, from standing where the light reveals what cannot be reconciled.

The sword Jesus brings does not destroy enemies. It ends neutrality.

That is why it feels so threatening. Because this sword cannot be used to win. It can only be endured. It does not grant authority; it demands surrender. It does not preserve institutions; it exposes what they are built to protect. It does not promise safety—only faithfulness.

The Church’s greatest temptation is not conflict, but control. And the sword exposes that temptation mercilessly. The moment we pick it up, we reveal that we never trusted God to do the dividing. We wanted to manage the outcome.

Jesus brings the sword—and then lays down His life. He wields it not by striking, but by giving himself over to its cost.

Truth cuts. And we are not in charge of where.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The sword Jesus brings is real—but the moment we try to wield it, we have already misunderstood Him.

PRAYER
God of truth, teach us to live honestly even when truth divides. Free us from the urge to control outcomes or force agreement. Give us courage to stand where Your light exposes what cannot remain unchanged, and humility to lay down every weapon we are tempted to use in Your name. Shape us by faithfulness, not fear. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 25: Peacock

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Read John 3:19–21

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.” (2 Corinthians 4:7 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 25: Peacock” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 25: Peacock. When I was a teenager, a few of my friends and I once made a very poor decision involving a farm and a peacock. From a distance, the bird was stunning—iridescent feathers catching the light, colors that seemed almost unreal, beauty that felt ornamental and harmless. It was easy to forget that this creature was not decoration. It was alive. Territorial. Alert.

The moment we crossed a line we did not realize we had crossed, the peacock charged.

What had appeared beautiful from afar became suddenly loud, aggressive, and fast. There was no malice in it—only instinct, presence, and an unmistakable refusal to retreat. We ran. The feathers did not vanish. The beauty did not disappear. But it was no longer passive. What had been admired now confronted.

That is the peacock.

In early Christian art, the peacock became a symbol of resurrection and incorruptibility. Its molting feathers and radiant display were taken as signs of eternal life, glory revealed, truth made visible. But the Church was not alone in seeing something enduring in this bird. Across the Mediterranean world—among Persian, Greco-Roman, and Hellenistic cultures—the peacock had long symbolized immortality, vigilance, royal splendor, and life resistant to decay. Christianity did not invent this symbol so much as receive it, re-reading what others associated with power or divine watchfulness through the lens of resurrection without domination, recognizing in the peacock a creature whose beauty seemed to hint at something beyond death itself.

But the peacock has always carried a tension the Church sometimes forgets.

Beauty revealed is never neutral. Truth, once visible, is no longer ornamental. Light does not simply illuminate; it exposes. As John’s Gospel makes clear, the problem is not that light comes into the world—the problem is how people respond when it does.

Some step toward it. Some recoil. Some feel threatened simply because something can no longer be hidden.

The peacock does not chase because it is cruel. It charges because it has been seen, approached, and crossed. Its display is not a performance for approval. It is a declaration of presence. The feathers say, Here I am. And for those who preferred the bird as scenery, that declaration feels like danger.

This is where the symbol turns subversive.

The phoenix tells the truth by fire. What cannot endure is burned away. What remains is no longer hidden. The peacock asks the next, more unsettling question: What do we do with the truth when it is revealed?

The Church is often comfortable with truth as long as it remains abstract—contained in symbols, creeds, or stories kept safely at a distance. But when truth becomes visible in real bodies, real lives, real voices, the reaction changes. What was once praised as beautiful becomes “too much.” What once inspired awe now provokes resistance. Not because the truth has changed.But because it can no longer be ignored.

Paul reminds us that this light shines in fragile vessels. The radiance does not belong to us. There is no glory to claim, no spectacle to manage. The power is from God alone. And that vulnerability is precisely what makes visibility so costly. To be seen is to risk misunderstanding. To be revealed is to invite reaction.

The peacock does not ask permission to display its feathers. It does not dim itself to make others comfortable. And it does not disappear when its presence unsettles the ground it stands on.

Truth revealed will always divide—not because it seeks conflict, but because it removes the option of neutrality. Light does not attack. It simply shines. And in doing so, it forces a choice.

The peacock stands in that tension. Beautiful and unyielding. Radiant and dangerous—not because it intends harm, but because it refuses to pretend it is only decoration.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Truth does not become threatening when it changes, but when it becomes visible.

PRAYER
God of light and truth, give us courage to live honestly in the open, even when that openness unsettles us or others. Teach us to receive Your light without fear, and to stand faithfully when truth is revealed. Keep us from hiding what You have made known, and from mistaking beauty for safety. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix

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Read 1 Corinthians 3:10–15

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Unless the Lord builds a house, the work of the builders is wasted. Unless the Lord protects a city, guarding it with sentries will do no good.” (Psalm 127:1 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A singed phoenix stands in the ashes before the burned ruins of a stone church at dawn, wings partially extended as smoke lingers in the early light.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 24: Phoenix. The phoenix is one of those symbols that feels immediately familiar, even comforting. A creature consumed by fire, only to rise again from its own ashes. For many, it has become shorthand for hope after devastation, resilience after loss, life after death. And that reading is not wrong. Fire can purify. Ashes can nourish new growth. God does bring life out of ruin.

But before we go any further, the truth must be named plainly: the phoenix is not originally a Christian symbol. It does not emerge from Scripture. It was not born from the Church. It comes from ancient pagan imagination—Egyptian and Greco-Roman worlds wrestling with death, renewal, and the longing for immortality. Christianity did not invent the phoenix. It recognized it. And that recognition itself is deeply revealing.

The early Church was not threatened by truth found outside its walls. When Christians adopted the phoenix, they were not diluting the Gospel; they were confessing something bolder—that resurrection is not a fragile idea, and that echoes of God’s truth appear long before we name them. The phoenix was never worshiped. It was re-read. Not as proof of resurrection, but as a witness to humanity’s deep intuition that death does not have the final word.

And yet, even here, the symbol refuses to remain tame.

The phoenix does not simply rise after the fire. It rises because something has been burned beyond recovery. The fire is not an unfortunate prelude to resurrection; it is the necessary judgment that makes resurrection possible. Something real is lost. Something is not restored. Something does not come back.

This is where the symbol begins to unsettle us.

Paul’s words to the church in Corinth refuse the comforting illusion that everything we build deserves to last. The fire will show if a person’s work has any value. Not intentions. Not sincerity. Not effort. What we built. Fire does not negotiate. It reveals. It does not ask whether the structure was beloved or familiar or useful once. It simply tells the truth.

Some work survives the fire. Some work does not. And Paul is unflinching: even when a person is saved, what they have built may be reduced to ash.

This is devastating language—not because it threatens salvation, but because it threatens legacy. It confronts the assumption that faithfulness and survival are the same thing. It names the possibility that entire systems, identities, and institutions may burn—not because God is cruel, but because God is honest.

The phoenix, read through this lens, is not a promise that everything will return in a shinier form. It is a confession that not everything should.

This is where the symbol presses hardest on the Church.

We are adept at resurrection talk that avoids death. We speak of renewal while quietly preserving what no longer gives life. We celebrate transformation while protecting the structures that taught us how to survive but not how to love. We cling to what once worked and call it wisdom. We guard the city with sentries, convinced that vigilance will save what faith no longer sustains.

But Scripture is mercilessly clear: unless the Lord builds the house, the work of the builders is wasted. Fire does not honor nostalgia. It does not reward endurance for its own sake. It does not coddle complacency. It does not spare what has outlived its truth.

First, it must be said plainly: the fire burns institutions. Traditions. Forms of church that learned how to persist but forgot how to repent. The phoenix does not resurrect these unchanged. It consumes them. What rises is not the old thing restored, but something else entirely—or sometimes, nothing at all.

Next, the fire is also intimate. It burns the false self we constructed to survive inside broken systems—the version of ourselves that learned when to stay quiet, when to comply, when to call compromise maturity. Resurrection here is not triumphant. It is costly. It requires letting go of who we thought we were in order to become who we can no longer avoid being.

And then there is the most unsettling truth the phoenix carries: fire does not guarantee rebirth. The myth tempts us to assume that ashes always lead somewhere hopeful. Scripture is more restrained. Fire reveals what is of God—and what is not. What is of God endures, even if only as a remnant. What is not… ends.

That is not despair. It is mercy.

Because a resurrection that refuses to let certain things die is not resurrection at all. It is preservation. And preservation is often the enemy of life.

The phoenix does not promise that everything will rise. It promises that what must die will not be spared. And in that promise—terrifying as it is—there is freedom. Freedom from carrying what was never meant to last. Freedom from confusing survival with faithfulness. Freedom to trust that God’s work does not depend on our constructions, our defenses, or our fear of loss.

Fire comes. Ashes remain. And whatever rises does so only because it can finally live truthfully.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Fire does not destroy what is faithful—it reveals what was never meant to last.

PRAYER
God of truth and mercy, meet us in the fire we fear. Give us the courage to release what no longer carries Your life, even when it once did. Burn away what is false, wasted, or built from fear, and teach us to trust You with what remains. Where something must end, grant us grace. Where something rises, grant us humility. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

A biweekly devotional