Devotional

Who Gets to Pass By?

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Read Luke 10:25–37

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Do not take advantage of foreigners who live among you in your land. Treat them like native-born Israelites, and love them as you love yourself. Remember that you were once foreigners living in the land of Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33–34 NLT)

People in coats descend the steps of a stone church beneath a blue-gray sky. Warm light glows through the windows as a man sits beside a woman on the lowest step, turned toward her while others walk past. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Who Gets to Pass By?” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Now that Election Day has passed, think about the first conversation you had about the results. Who came to mind? Maybe you thought of someone who had been waiting anxiously for the outcome. Maybe you thought of a candidate you hoped would win, or a leader you were relieved to see lose. Now think about someone whose life will be affected by the decisions made after the election. Did the same person come to mind?

From its founding, the United States has wrestled with the place of faith in public life. The government was to have no established national religion, and people were to be free to practice their faith without government interference.

Somewhere along the way, many of us came to hear freedom of religion as a demand for freedom from religion in the public square. Part of that comes from a genuine concern. Our neighbors have their own faiths, convictions, and experiences. Some have felt the weight of Christians assuming that because we have a voice in public life, we should get to decide what everyone else believes or how everyone else worships. We ought to take that concern seriously. The freedom we cherish for ourselves is a freedom we should defend for our neighbors, too.

What would it look like to honor that freedom in an actual conversation? We can listen when a neighbor tells us what their faith asks of them, and we can speak honestly about what following Jesus asks of us. When we speak up for a family being mistreated, we can say that Jesus taught us to see that family as our neighbors. The person beside us may speak up for the same family out of a different conviction. We can hear each other and work together while speaking openly about what brought each of us there.

The gospel has always met a mixed reception. We have martyrs, and we have cathedrals. We can expect people to respond differently when we bring our faith into public life. What we can answer for is how we bring it. Do we listen with the same care we hope to receive? Do we speak with grace when people disagree? And when a neighbor is being harmed, are we willing to say out loud what our faith calls us to do?

But Christians themselves have had a hand in making faith a private affair. Sometimes we keep quiet because we want the approval of people around us. But churches have also taught people to keep quiet by making it costly to speak. A person can ask aloud whether the church is living what it preaches and find that people who once welcomed them now keep their distance. They can be shunned, pushed out of the community, or even formally excommunicated. After a while, people learn which convictions they can share in church and which ones they had better keep to themselves.

And now some people are, in effect, excommunicating themselves. They are turning their backs on institutions that lorded their power over them. Some walk away still carrying the very convictions about Jesus that led them to speak up in the first place. When that happens, the church has to ask what its own use of power had to do with their leaving. What did we do when someone took the gospel seriously enough to ask whether we were living it?

That question follows us into public life after an election. If we want Christians to exercise their freedom of religion faithfully and graciously, our churches ought to make room for people to say what following Jesus asks of them, even when it challenges a leader we voted for. And we ought to be willing to hear it when the leader they’re challenging is one of us.

In Luke, an expert in religious law asks Jesus what he must do to inherit eternal life. The conversation leads to loving God and loving one’s neighbor. Then the expert asks who his neighbor is. Jesus tells him about a man who is robbed, beaten, and left beside the road. A priest passes by. So does a Levite. Finally, a Samaritan sees the man, tends his wounds, takes him to an inn, and pays for his care. He even promises to cover any further expense when he returns.

Jesus ends by asking which of the three acted as a neighbor. The expert can easily answer by looking at what each person did. So can we.

Leviticus presses that question into the life of an entire community. God tells Israel to treat foreigners living among them as they would treat native-born Israelites and to love them as themselves. Then God asks them to remember Egypt. They know what it is to live in a land where others have power over how they are treated. That memory is meant to shape what they do now that the power is theirs. It can shape what we do, too, when a decision made at a public meeting will affect families who have little say in it.

Isaiah 58 brings the question closer to home. The people fast and wonder why God takes no notice, even as they mistreat their workers. Imagine praying for someone on Sunday and then having a say on Monday in whether that person gets paid fairly. Isaiah puts both days before God. And in Mark 10, when James and John ask for places of honor, Jesus speaks about rulers who lord their power over others and calls the disciples to serve. That word reaches anyone with authority, including those of us who exercise it in a church, a workplace, or a town hall.

After an election, it can be easier to talk about who won than to pay attention to who needs a neighbor. It can be harder still to speak when a decision we oppose comes from someone we helped elect. Yet the Samaritan lets the wounded man’s need interrupt his journey, and he takes responsibility for what happens after he leaves the roadside. As the people we elected prepare to begin making decisions, whose wounds are we willing to see, and what are we willing to do once we see them?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Our allegiance to Christ shapes how we use our freedom and whose needs we bring into public view.

PRAYER
God of mercy, open our eyes to the neighbors we pass by. Give us the courage to speak when silence is easier and the grace to serve when mercy costs us something. Keep our allegiance rooted in Christ as we make decisions that affect the lives of others. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

When Power Changes Us

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Read: Mark 10:35–45 (NLT)

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. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” (Romans 12:2 NLT)

A lone person in a dark suit stands in a sunlit marble corridor outside a legislative chamber. Their long shadow stretches across the floor and takes the shape of an ornate throne. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using ChatGPT and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “When Power Changes Us” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

When I heard that the Rev. Adam Hamilton was running for the United States Senate, I found myself holding admiration and concern together. I have respected his ministry for years. He has helped many people encounter Jesus, wrestle honestly with Scripture, and discover a thoughtful expression of United Methodist Christianity. As a fellow ordained elder, I recognize the calling we share, even though our ministries have unfolded on very different scales. Now he is the senator-elect from Kansas, and the questions I carried through his campaign have become considerably more urgent.

Watching NBC News, I saw Rahm Emanuel’s excitement as he discussed Hamilton’s victory. In the coverage I watched, the celebration centered on a Democrat winning in Kansas and what that meant for political power. I can appreciate the hope people see in his victory. Yet I also noticed the different expectations gathering around it. Hamilton may understand his next chapter as an expression of Christian service. The political world welcoming him has its own expectations of what his victory will deliver.

Hamilton has every right to seek public office, and I believe his desire to serve is sincere. Now, however, the campaigning gives way to a harder question: now what? What happens when Christian discipleship encounters the obligations, incentives, and competing loyalties of governing power?

That question belongs to every Christian. Hamilton’s pastoral role gives it particular weight because pastors help others understand what faithful witness looks like. But the concern reaches well beyond clergy. Whenever we seek influence, support a candidate, or celebrate a political victory, we should examine what we expect power to accomplish and what we are willing to accept along the way.

James and John approach Jesus seeking places beside him in glory. They have followed him, learned from him, and witnessed his ministry. Still, their expectations reflect a world in which greatness means occupying the seats nearest the center of power.

Jesus asks whether they can share his cup and baptism. They confidently say they can. But the road ahead leads through suffering and the cross. They are asking for positions whose meaning they do not yet understand.

When the other disciples become angry, Jesus gathers them all. He describes rulers who dominate others and leaders who wield authority over them. Then he insists that his followers must practice a different kind of leadership. Greatness among them takes the shape of service. Jesus grounds that teaching in his own life, given for others.

These disciples already love Jesus. Their devotion has not prevented them from misunderstanding power. That should unsettle those of us who assume sincere faith will keep our ambitions in check.

Christians have responsibilities within society. We should care about laws, public decisions, and the neighbors whose lives they affect. Voting, advocacy, and public service can express that care. Withdrawal can leave vulnerable people facing injustice without our help.

Yet responsible participation does not make acquiring political office the mission Jesus entrusted to his followers. His ministry proclaimed and embodied God’s reign, called people into discipleship, and led him into confrontation with powers that ultimately crucified him. The promise of resurrection places our hope beyond what those powers can grant.

Paul likewise calls believers to live faithfully within their circumstances, attending to how their conduct bears witness to Christ. That instruction does not establish a universal mandate to seek governing office. Neither does it establish a universal prohibition. It leaves us with the demanding work of discernment: will this pursuit help us embody Christ’s way, and what will happen when the role requires something our discipleship cannot permit?

We cannot answer merely by listing the good we hope to accomplish.

Government involves negotiation. An incomplete agreement can bring real relief to people who cannot wait for perfect conditions. But some compromises teach us to excuse what we once recognized as wrong. How do we distinguish patient service from surrendering our convictions? Whose suffering becomes acceptable when keeping influence takes priority?

A new senator will need guidance from people who understand the institution. Those relationships may provide wisdom. They may also teach a newcomer which questions to stop asking and which injustices to tolerate. Political allies can welcome someone’s faith while expecting loyalty when that faith becomes inconvenient.

The rewards matter too. Salary, health coverage, retirement benefits, access, and public standing provide security while others struggle to afford groceries or medical care. Receiving compensation for service carries responsibility. It also gives us something personal to lose. Will we challenge arrangements that protect our comfort while leaving our neighbors exposed?

These questions reach those of us watching from home. Will we hold a politician we admire accountable? Will we excuse conduct from an ally that we condemn in an opponent? When someone bearing Christ’s name wins an election, do we begin treating their success as evidence that God approves their decisions?

Paul’s appeal in Romans 12 calls us toward continuing transformation. In response to God’s mercy, we offer our lives to God and resist conformity to the present age. Discernment requires renewed minds, humility, and a community in which we remain responsible to one another. An initial conviction that God called us somewhere cannot exempt our conduct there from examination.

Hamilton’s ministry helped establish the trust he now carries into public office. As a fellow elder, I care about what his example will teach. I hope he serves faithfully, protects vulnerable people, and remains open to correction. I also hope we resist making him carry expectations that no Christian politician can fulfill.

The same examination belongs in our congregations, workplaces, and homes. We can protect institutions at people’s expense. We can confuse security with faithfulness. We can become so invested in our ability to accomplish good that we stop examining what preserving that ability requires.

Human government can accomplish meaningful good. Our ultimate hope rests in God’s reign. Wherever we serve, people should encounter something of Jesus in how we treat them, especially when doing so costs us.

We may enter believing we will change the system. Who will help us recognize when the system is changing us? And when following Jesus puts our position at risk, will we still follow?

Those questions lead me to prayer. Adam Hamilton will have to walk a very fine line, and I do not imagine I could navigate it easily. Knowing myself, I suspect I would speak my convictions plainly and discover rather quickly how much influence that cost me. I recognize the difficulty of what he is undertaking, and I sincerely want him to remain faithful.

So I ask you to pray for Adam Hamilton. Pray that he serves his country faithfully while keeping his allegiance to Jesus Christ at the center of his life. Pray that he becomes a magnificent witness to Jesus through his decisions, his relationships, his treatment of vulnerable people, and his willingness to tell the truth when silence would be more convenient.

I believe that is possible through the grace of God. Without that grace, it is impossible. Neither a distinguished pastoral record nor strength of character can substitute for our continuing dependence on God. He will need grace to discern, grace to resist, grace to repent, and grace to surrender whatever faithfulness requires him to surrender.

May we pray for him with sincere hope, remain willing to hold him accountable, and receive the same searching grace in our own lives.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Faithful witness depends on God’s grace at every step, especially when power gives us reasons to stop following.

PRAYER
God, surround Adam Hamilton with your grace as he prepares to serve. Give him wisdom to serve his country faithfully, courage to remain loyal to Jesus, and humility to receive correction. May his life and work bear a magnificent witness to Christ. Keep all of us dependent on your grace and willing to follow wherever you lead. Amen.

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 8: The Work of Reconciliation

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An elderly woman sits at a typewriter in a dimly lit study, surrounded by manuscript pages. Beyond the window, the faint figures of a young man and woman stand together, representing a reconciliation that can exist only in her imagination. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using Gemini and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Work of Reconciliation” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

In the 2007 film Atonement, based on Ian McEwan’s novel, a thirteen-year-old girl named Briony Tallis makes an accusation that changes several lives forever. What begins as a terrible misunderstanding becomes something far more consequential, and the damage cannot simply be undone.

Spoiler warning: The following discussion reveals the film’s central mystery and ending.

Briony witnesses interactions between her older sister, Cecilia, and Robbie Turner, a young man with whom Cecilia is developing a romantic relationship. Briony misunderstands what she sees, interpreting Robbie’s behavior through the imagination and assumptions of a child who believes she understands far more than she does.

Later, when her cousin Lola is sexually assaulted, Briony identifies Robbie as the attacker, despite not having clearly seen the perpetrator. Robbie is innocent. The actual attacker is Paul Marshall, a wealthy acquaintance of the family.

Briony’s accusation results in Robbie’s imprisonment and separates him from Cecilia. Years later, Robbie serves in the British military during World War II, while Cecilia has become estranged from her family.

As Briony grows older, she recognizes the enormity of what she has done. She becomes a nurse, struggles with her guilt, and eventually writes a novel attempting to confront the consequences of her accusation.

But the film’s final revelation is devastating.

The reconciliation Briony depicts between herself, Robbie, and Cecilia never happened. Robbie died during the evacuation of Dunkirk, and Cecilia was killed during the Blitz. Briony has given them, through fiction, the future they never lived.

She can rewrite their story. She cannot restore their lives.

And therein lies one of the most difficult truths about reconciliation: sometimes the damage we have done, or the damage done to us, cannot be repaired through an apology, however sincere.

The apostle Paul writes that God has reconciled us through Christ and entrusted us with the ministry of reconciliation. He declares that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone, and a new life has begun.

But notice the order of Paul’s proclamation.

God initiates. We participate.

Reconciliation begins not with our ability to repair everything we have broken, but with God’s grace reaching into a world already fractured by sin, injustice, estrangement, and suffering.

Paul goes even further. God was reconciling the world through Christ, no longer counting people’s sins against them.

The world. Not merely those who have successfully repaired every relationship, made every apology, or satisfied every religious expectation.

That does not mean wrongdoing becomes inconsequential. Nor does it mean that forgiveness eliminates accountability. If anything, becoming a new creation demands that we confront the truth about ourselves, including the harm we have caused.

Jesus tells his followers that if they remember someone has something against them, they should seek reconciliation before returning to worship. There is urgency in that command. We cannot claim devotion to God while treating the wounds we have inflicted upon others as unimportant.

Yet we must be careful not to turn that command into another means of causing harm.

Sometimes someone genuinely repents, but the person they harmed refuses reconciliation. Sometimes the person responsible for the injury refuses accountability, continues harmful behavior, or has died. And sometimes a person has truly changed, but attempting contact would reopen wounds and inflict further suffering upon the one they injured.

In such circumstances, reconciliation cannot responsibly mean forcing an encounter, demanding forgiveness, or insisting that a relationship be restored.

A sincere apology does not grant us the right to enter someone else’s life again.

Likewise, forgiveness does not obligate someone to return to an unsafe relationship. The church has sometimes confused reconciliation with restoration at any cost, pressuring wounded people to make peace while allowing those responsible for their suffering to avoid the discomfort of accountability.

That is not the ministry of reconciliation Paul describes.

Our calling is to participate faithfully in God’s transforming work, not to control its outcome.

And what happens when reconciliation with another person is impossible?

Perhaps this is where we must consider reconciliation within ourselves: acknowledging what happened, accepting responsibility where responsibility belongs, releasing guilt that was never ours to carry, and allowing God’s grace to lead us toward healing.

For someone who has caused harm, that may mean living a genuinely changed life without ever receiving forgiveness from the person they injured. For someone who has suffered harm, it may mean establishing boundaries, grieving what cannot be restored, and discovering that their future need not remain captive to another person’s wrongdoing.

Neither journey requires pretending the past never happened.

Paul’s promise of new creation does not erase history. It declares that history does not possess the final word over who we may become.

Briony could not bring Robbie and Cecilia back. Her fictional ending could not accomplish what reality made impossible. But her story confronts us with a question that reaches beyond the film: What do we do when we cannot make things right?

We tell the truth. We accept responsibility. We seek repair where possible and safe. We respect the boundaries of those we have harmed. We refuse to demand that others heal according to our timetable. And we remain open to the transforming grace of God.

Because reconciliation is not ultimately our achievement.

God initiates. We participate.

And even when a broken relationship cannot be restored, God’s work of making us new can continue.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God initiates reconciliation. We participate through truth, accountability, grace, and love, even when restoration is impossible.

PRAYER
Reconciling God, give us courage to acknowledge our wrongs, grace to respect others’ boundaries, and wisdom to accept what cannot be restored. Heal our wounds and guide us toward new life in Christ. Amen.

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 7: The Foolishness of Power

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Read 1 Corinthians 1:18–31

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“He humbled himself in obedience to God and died a criminal’s death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:8 NLT)

A solemn medieval Knights Templar stands in a shadowy stone courtyard, wearing chainmail and a weathered white mantle bearing a red cross. His hands rest upon the hilt of a downward-pointing sword. Behind him, a large wooden cross casts a long shadow across the cobblestones, symbolizing the tension between Christ's self-giving love and the pursuit of worldly power. Life-Giving Water Devotions branding appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using Gemini and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 7: The Foolishness of Power” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

In October of 312 CE, Constantine marched toward the Milvian Bridge outside Rome, preparing to confront his rival, Maxentius. According to accounts written by Christian historians, Constantine experienced a vision or divine sign associated with Christ before the battle. The details differ between the surviving accounts, but the outcome is unmistakable: Constantine won, and the relationship between Christianity and imperial power would never be the same.

For nearly three centuries, Christians had lived under an empire that could imprison, torture, and execute them. Now, the emperor himself was embracing the Christian religion, though whether he was wholly faithful to Christ is another question. The cross, an instrument of Roman execution, was becoming associated with Roman victory.

For many Christians, this must have seemed extraordinary. Persecution was giving way to imperial favor. But not everyone welcomed the increasingly intimate relationship between church and empire. Some Christians questioned the emperor’s involvement in church affairs, while others resisted the privileges and compromises that accompanied imperial Christianity.

Looking back, we can understand why.

The danger was not simply that Christianity had gained influence. It was that the church might begin confusing the authority of Christ with the authority of Rome.

And history offers a troubling illustration of where that confusion can lead.

Centuries later, the Knights Templar emerged as a religious military order during the Crusades. These were men who professed devotion to Christ while carrying swords into battle. They took religious vows, protected pilgrims, accumulated considerable wealth, and became deeply entangled in the political and financial affairs of medieval Europe.

The cross was no longer merely a reminder of Christ’s suffering. It was displayed upon the clothing of armed warriors.

Then came Friday, October 13, 1307.

King Philip IV of France ordered the arrest of the Templars throughout his kingdom. Accused of heresy and other offenses, many were imprisoned, interrogated, and tortured. Some died in captivity or under torture, while others were executed, including dozens burned at the stake. Among those eventually executed was Jacques de Molay, the order’s last Grand Master, who was burned in Paris in March 1314. Confessions were extracted under coercion, and the order was formally suppressed in 1312.

The historical irony is brutal.

An order that had accumulated military, political, and financial influence under the banner of Christ found itself crushed by the ambitions of a king.

Power had turned upon power.

And somewhere beneath these centuries of Christian history stands the apostle Paul, insisting that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but the power of God to those being saved.

Consider how extraordinary that claim would have sounded in the first century.

Rome used crucifixion to demonstrate the consequences of defying imperial authority. The cross was designed to humiliate, terrorize, and destroy. It announced that Rome possessed the power to determine who lived and who died.

Yet Paul identifies the crucified Christ as the revelation of God’s wisdom and power.

Not because suffering is inherently holy. Not because weakness is a virtue to be imposed upon the vulnerable. And certainly not because God desires people to submit to abuse.

Rather, the cross exposes the limitations of power built upon domination.

In Philippians, Paul describes Christ as one who did not exploit divine status for personal advantage, but embraced humility and obedience, even to death upon a cross.

That does not mean authority itself is wrong.

Paul exercised apostolic authority, sometimes with considerable force. John Wesley’s charge to Methodist ministers to take authority likewise reflects an understanding that Christian leadership carries genuine responsibility.

But neither Paul nor Wesley understood faithful spiritual authority as permission to dominate.

Christian authority is entrusted for stewardship, shepherding, and guiding others toward faithfulness to Christ. It is not ownership of the people entrusted to our care.

And here is where the history becomes uncomfortably contemporary.

The church has repeatedly proclaimed the crucified Christ while seeking the very forms of worldly power that crucified him. We have used the cross to justify conquest, enforce conformity, defend institutions, uphold capital punishment, and sanctify ambitions that bear little resemblance to the self-giving love of Jesus.

We can still do so whenever we confuse protecting the faith with controlling people, defending the church with preserving privilege, or exercising authority with demanding submission.

The temptation reaches beyond emperors, kings, and religious institutions. It appears whenever we use our position, influence, knowledge, or authority to secure our own importance at someone else’s expense.

The problem is not that Christians possess power. It is that we can become so enamored with possessing it that we forget whom it is supposed to serve.

Constantine’s victory and the Templars’ downfall remind us how readily the cross can become entangled with human ambition. Paul’s proclamation confronts us with something far more difficult: a crucified Lord whose power cannot be measured by conquest, wealth, prestige, or control.

Perhaps the greatest foolishness is not believing that God’s power was revealed through a crucified man.

Perhaps it is believing that we can follow that man while making his cross serve our own ambitions.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The cross reveals God’s power through self-giving love, not our ability to dominate others.

PRAYER
God of grace, forgive us when we confuse authority with ownership and faithfulness with control. Free us from the desire to make Christ’s cross serve our ambitions. Teach us to exercise whatever authority we have with humility, courage, and love, remembering that those entrusted to our care belong to you. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 6: Faith Without Permission

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Read Galatians 2:15–21

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“So we are made right with God through faith and not by obeying the law.” (Romans 3:28 NLT)

A warmly lit dining room features a long wooden table where six people share a meal and conversation. In the foreground, an empty wooden chair sits noticeably apart from the table, suggesting exclusion and conditional belonging. Candles, bread, dishes, and flowers create an inviting atmosphere that contrasts with the isolated chair. Golden sunlight illuminates the empty seat. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom of the image.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Faith Without Permission” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

The doorbell rings. A young woman has brought her fiancé home to meet her parents. It’s an ordinary family moment, filled with introductions, polite conversation, and the nervous anticipation that comes with meeting the person your child intends to marry. Except this is 1967. The young woman is white. Her fiancé is Black. And her parents, who have always considered themselves progressive and committed to racial equality, suddenly find their convictions sitting in their living room.

That is the tension at the heart of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. The question is no longer what this family believes about equality. The question is what happens when those beliefs walk through the front door.

The film was released the same year the United States Supreme Court struck down laws prohibiting interracial marriage. Its central conflict exposed a contradiction that remains painfully familiar: people can sincerely believe in inclusion while struggling to practice it when inclusion challenges their comfort, expectations, or social standing.

Nearly two thousand years earlier, the apostle Peter found himself confronting a remarkably similar contradiction.

In Galatians 2, Paul recounts an incident in Antioch involving Peter and the Gentile believers. Peter had been sharing meals with them, recognizing through his actions that they belonged to the same community of faith. But when certain people associated with James, Jesus’ brother, arrived, Peter withdrew from those meals because he feared the criticism of those who insisted on circumcision.

Peter knew better. He had already crossed the boundary. He had already welcomed these believers as family. Yet when the wrong people walked into the room, he began behaving as though the boundary still mattered.

Paul confronted him publicly because this was not merely an awkward social situation. Peter’s behavior threatened the very truth of the gospel.

The issue was not whether Jewish believers could continue observing their religious traditions. The issue was whether Gentile believers had to adopt those traditions to be considered fully acceptable members of Christ’s community. By withdrawing from their table, Peter was effectively communicating that their belonging was conditional.

And that is where this ancient confrontation becomes uncomfortably contemporary.

Churches regularly proclaim that everyone is welcome. We place the words on signs, print them in bulletins, and announce them from pulpits. We insist that God’s love is unconditional and that salvation comes through grace rather than human achievement.

But what happens when someone actually arrives who challenges our understanding of who belongs?

Perhaps they come from a different religious background, have a complicated personal history, live with a disability, struggle financially, or understand their identity in ways that make others uncomfortable. Perhaps they ask questions we would rather not answer or refuse to pretend that their lives fit neatly into our expectations.

We may welcome them through the doors while quietly communicating that full acceptance requires something more. They can attend, but can they participate? They can worship, but can they lead? They can sit at the table, but will we still sit beside them when someone whose approval we value enters the room?

There is a difference between welcoming people into a building and welcoming them into a community.

Paul’s argument in Galatians 2 strikes at the heart of that distinction. We are made right with God through faith in Jesus Christ, not through satisfying a religious system’s requirements. If righteousness could be obtained through the law, Paul argues, then Christ died for nothing.

This does not mean faith has no ethical demands or that Christian communities should abandon accountability. It means we must distinguish between being transformed by Christ and being required to conform to someone else’s expectations before we are treated as belonging to Christ.

The difference matters.

Peter’s failure was not that he lacked theological knowledge. He understood that Gentile believers belonged. His failure was allowing fear to determine whether he would act according to what he knew. He did not need another lesson about grace. He needed the courage to live the grace he already professed.

And perhaps that is precisely what the church needs to hear.

We can have beautifully written statements of welcome, thoughtful theology, and passionate sermons about God’s unconditional love. But if our welcome disappears whenever it becomes inconvenient, our words become little more than decoration.

Faith is not simply agreeing that Christ has broken down the barriers separating people from God. Faith means refusing to rebuild those barriers ourselves.

In Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, the question is whether a family’s professed convictions can withstand the arrival of someone they had never imagined welcoming so intimately. In Antioch, the question was whether Peter would continue sharing a table with people he already knew belonged.

And in the church today, the question remains.

When someone comes to the table, will we make room? Or will we look around first to see who’s watching?

Christ has already extended the invitation.

Who gave us permission to take it back?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Faith is not proven by whom we say God welcomes, but by whom we are willing to welcome ourselves.

PRAYER
God of boundless grace, forgive us for the barriers we rebuild after Christ has torn them down. Give us the courage to live the welcome we proclaim, especially when doing so challenges our comfort or costs us the approval of others. Teach us to recognize your grace at work in people we might otherwise overlook, and make our tables places where your love is practiced rather than merely promised. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 5: The Merit of Grace

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Read Romans 3:21–31

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I do not treat the grace of God as meaningless. For if keeping the law could make us right with God, then there was no need for Christ to die. (Galatians 2:21 NLT)

A broken antique balance scale stands in a grand, shadowy stone hall. One pan holds trophies, coins, books, certificates, and statistical reports representing achievement and success. The other contains worn shoes, a blanket, and simple bowls representing human need. The scale's central mechanism has shattered, leaving both pans resting on the ground. Warm golden sunlight streams through an open doorway behind it, suggesting grace that transcends human measurements of worth. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Merit of Grace” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Charlie Bucket deserves the chocolate factory.

That is part of what makes Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory so satisfying. Five children receive golden tickets and enter Wonka’s strange, wonderful world, and one by one, four of them fail. Augustus cannot control his appetite. Violet refuses to listen. Veruca demands whatever she wants. Mike ignores every warning because he is convinced he knows better.

And then there is Charlie. He is poor, humble, and devoted to his family. He makes mistakes, but when the final test comes, he returns what does not belong to him. He does the right thing when there appears to be nothing left to gain from doing it. Wonka rewards him because Charlie has proven himself worthy of the factory. It is a wonderful story, and it works because we believe Charlie deserves what he receives.

It is also not grace.

We understand Wonka’s system instinctively because most of us have spent our lives inside systems of deservingness. Work hard and you deserve success. Make good choices and you deserve good consequences. Contribute enough and you deserve assistance when you need it. Follow the rules and you deserve respect. Prove yourself useful and you deserve a place at the table. We call it meritocracy, and there is something appealing about it because actions, work, and responsibility really do matter.

The problem comes when achievement becomes a measurement of human worth. Then the person who succeeds must somehow be better than the person who struggles. Poverty becomes evidence of irresponsibility. Wealth becomes evidence of virtue. Productivity becomes worthiness and need becomes failure. We begin sorting people into those who have earned what they have and those who deserve whatever happens to them.

Society does this constantly.

But so does the church.

Churches measure things: attendance, giving, baptisms, professions of faith, new members, small groups, mission participation, worship growth. We collect statistics, study trends, and talk about vitality. Some of that is necessary. Numbers can tell us things we need to know. They can expose problems we might rather ignore and help us understand whether our ministries are actually reaching people.

But measurements can quietly become merit. A growing congregation becomes a successful congregation, while a declining congregation becomes a failing one. A pastor whose numbers increase appears effective, while one whose numbers decrease becomes suspect. Churches with resources look worthy of investment while struggling churches begin to look like liabilities. Statistics that were supposed to help us understand ministry can become a scoreboard determining whose ministry matters.

We are measuring worth.

Paul tears straight through that system. In Romans 3, he asks what room remains for boasting after the grace of God revealed in Jesus Christ. His answer is none. Righteousness is not the prize at the end of a spiritual competition. Nobody reaches God’s grace by outperforming everyone else. Nobody receives the kingdom because they survived the tour while Augustus fell into the chocolate river and Veruca went down the garbage chute. We receive grace because grace is gift.

Galatians makes the point even sharper. Paul insists that if we could make ourselves right with God through our ability to satisfy the system, then Christ died for nothing. Christians can proclaim salvation by grace while constructing communities organized around merit. We can preach that nobody earns God’s love and then spend the rest of the week deciding which people, pastors, congregations, and ministries have demonstrated enough value to deserve ours.

The cross will not let us do that comfortably. Christ crucified exposes what happens when human systems decide who matters, who succeeds, who fails, and whose life is expendable. Grace announces something those systems cannot tolerate:

Your worth was never theirs to calculate.

That does not mean faithfulness does not matter. It does not mean churches should ignore decline, leaders should avoid accountability, or Christians should stop asking whether our ministries bear fruit. It means fruit is not the same thing as worth. There are faithful churches with shrinking membership. There are flourishing ministries whose impact cannot be captured on a statistical report. There are people doing holy work that will never produce impressive numbers. And there are successful institutions whose statistics look wonderful while their witness looks nothing like Christ.

Charlie Bucket deserves the factory, and that is why Wonka gives it to him. But the kingdom of God is not a chocolate factory. There are no golden tickets and no scoreboard determining who has accumulated enough merit to belong. Grace does not gather the winners at the end of the tour and congratulate them for being better than everybody who disappeared along the way.

Grace gives us what none of us could ever claim to deserve.

Maybe the question is not whether we have done enough to deserve what God gives us, but what might happen if the church finally believed that nobody had to.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Grace stops being grace the moment we turn it into something anyone must deserve.

PRAYER
God of grace, free us from the need to measure our worth against the success or failure of others. Teach us to recognize the difference between faithful accountability and systems that turn achievement into value. Strip away our boasting, widen our mercy, and shape us into people who receive your grace as gift and extend it just as freely. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 4: The Final Word

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Read Romans 10:9–13

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it. The world and all its people belong to him.” (Psalm 24:1 NLT)

Sunlight breaks through dark storm clouds over a meadow framed by large oak trees and distant mountains. A winding dirt path passes weathered gravestones and wildflowers, while birds fly beneath the opening in the clouds. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Final Word” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

When Ozzy Osbourne gave his farewell concert, many people saw a complicated life being honored.

They saw a musician whose career had shocked, moved, entertained, unsettled, and shaped generations. They saw someone who had struggled publicly, survived much, loved his family, and left behind a body of work that meant something to people far beyond the boundaries of church life.

Then some Christians began speaking.

Not all Christians, of course. But enough. Loudly enough.

They spoke as though they knew the final word over his soul. They declared where he was going. They dismissed the grief of those who loved him. They treated his life as a warning more than a human story. Some seemed almost eager to turn his death into proof that they were righteous, discerning, and safely on the right side of eternity.

That angered me.

Not because every part of his life needed defending. Not because public lives are beyond critique. Not because Christians should abandon discernment or pretend that nothing matters. It angered me because the speed of condemnation felt far too familiar.

The church has often been quick to identify devils outside itself while refusing to recognize the cruelty it has carried in the name of God. It has scapegoated artists, outsiders, doubters, rebels, queer people, grieving people, wounded people, and anyone who made religious respectability uncomfortable. It has too often sounded less like the body of Christ and more like the accuser.

So I spoke out.

I challenged the judgment. I challenged the certainty. I challenged the way Christians can claim the authority of Jesus while speaking about another person’s soul with contempt. I asked whether the church might need to look in the mirror before deciding who else belongs in hell.

And people got upset.

That is what happens sometimes when Jesus asks you to proclaim something people do not want to hear. The issue is not always whether your words were careful enough, gentle enough, or easy enough to receive. Sometimes people are angry because the question itself exposes something. How dare you challenge the church like that? How dare you suggest that our judgment might not be the same thing as God’s judgment? How dare you interrupt condemnation when we had already made it feel holy?

But that is exactly where Paul’s words matter.

In Romans, Paul says that if we confess with our mouths that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts that God raised him from the dead, we will be saved. That confession is not small. To say “Jesus is Lord” is to surrender every rival claim to ultimate authority.

Including our claim to the final word over another person’s soul.

Paul does not stop with confession. He widens the circle. There is no distinction, he says. The same Lord is Lord of all. Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.

Everyone.

That does not erase discernment. It does not mean every life is equally faithful, every action excusable, or every public witness holy. Paul is not asking us to stop telling the truth.

He is reminding us that the final word is not ours.

Psalm 24 presses the issue even further. The earth belongs to the Lord, and everything in it. Not just the sanctuaries. Not just the respectable lives. Not just the people who make religious communities comfortable. The earth. The world. All who live in it.

If that is true, then no person exists outside the claim of God.

No sinner. No saint. No artist. No outcast. No person whose life unsettles the church’s imagination.

To confess that Jesus is Lord is to give the final word back to Christ. Fear does not get it. Condemnation does not get it. Reputation does not get it. Religious arrogance does not get it. The church at its most anxious does not get it.

Christ does.

That should make us careful before we weaponize eternity against someone else. It should make us slower to damn and quicker to examine ourselves. It should make us ask whether our words sound like the gospel or merely like accusation dressed in religious language.

There will be times when faithfulness requires us to say, “Not so fast.” Not to excuse harm. Not to romanticize destruction. Not to pretend every life should be imitated. But to remind the church that judgment belongs to God, mercy belongs to God, and salvation is not a trophy Christians hand out to people they approve.

Jesus is Lord.

Not the loudest believer. Not the most offended crowd. Not the empire. Not the party. Not the church’s fear. Not even our own certainty.

Jesus.

The same Lord who is Lord of all.

And the final word belongs to him.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
To confess that Jesus is Lord is to surrender the final word over mercy, judgment, and belonging to Christ.

PRAYER
God of mercy, forgive us when we speak with certainty about what belongs to you alone. Free us from judgment that masquerades as faithfulness, and teach us to confess Jesus as Lord with humility, truth, and hope. Let your mercy unsettle our arrogance and widen our love. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 3: The Emptied Lord

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Read Philippians 2:5–11

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“ For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve others and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Mark 10:45 NLT)

A grand throne room stands in warm, dramatic light, with an ornate empty throne in the background. In the foreground, a red royal robe lies on the stone floor beside a basin and towel. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears along the bottom. The scene suggests power set aside in favor of humility and service.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Emptied Lord” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

There is a certain kind of strength we are taught to admire before we ever learn to question it.

It fills the room. It interrupts. It refuses to apologize. It knows how to turn uncertainty into weakness and disagreement into threat. It does not simply want to be heard; it wants to be obeyed. It mistakes volume for conviction, control for leadership, and domination for courage.

Sometimes, that kind of strength does not look obviously cruel. Sometimes it is polished, religious, respectable, and confident. Sometimes it quotes Scripture. Sometimes it claims to defend Jesus while showing very little interest in the way of Jesus.

That is where discernment becomes difficult.

Because Christians do not only face the temptation to reject Christ. We also face the temptation to use Christ. We can take his name, his authority, his cross, his church, and his language, and attach them to the very kinds of power he refused. We can confuse faithfulness with partisan loyalty. We can confuse courage with contempt. We can confuse truth with the permission to be unkind. We can confess Jesus as Lord while admiring leaders, movements, and habits of heart that look nothing like him.

Paul will not let that confusion stand.

In Philippians, Paul writes that Jesus, “though he was God,” did not treat equality with God as something to cling to or exploit. Instead, Christ emptied himself. He took the form of a servant. He humbled himself.

That is not a small detail in Paul’s theology. It is not a decorative piece of Christian poetry. It is Paul showing us what the lordship of Jesus actually looks like.

Jesus is Lord, but he does not define lordship the way the world does. He does not grasp for status. He does not protect himself through domination. He does not confuse being right with being righteous. He does not need to crush others in order to prove who he is.

The Lord of all becomes the servant of all.

That does not mean Jesus is weak. It means we have often misunderstood strength. The humility of Christ is not insecurity. The self-emptying of Christ is not self-hatred. The servanthood of Christ is not passivity in the face of evil. Jesus does not empty himself because he lacks power. He empties himself because God’s power is not anxious, greedy, or cruel.

That is the part we often resist.

Many of us would rather have a Lord who confirms our instincts. A Lord who blesses our side. A Lord who defeats our enemies without examining our hearts. A Lord who gives us spiritual language for the power we already wanted. A Lord who lets us stay certain, superior, and untouched.

But Philippians gives us the emptied Lord.

And the emptied Lord interrupts every false version of lordship, including the ones we have baptized.

This is why Mark’s Gospel belongs beside Paul’s words. When Jesus’ followers begin imagining greatness in the usual way, Jesus tells them that the rulers of the world lord power over others. Then he says it must not be that way among them. His own life becomes the pattern: not to be served, but to serve.

That word reaches beyond politics, though it certainly includes politics. It reaches into churches, families, workplaces, ministries, friendships, and private thoughts. It reaches every place where we grasp for control because we are afraid to trust love. It reaches every place where we perform strength because humility feels too vulnerable. It reaches every place where we would rather win than be changed.

To confess that Jesus is Lord is not merely to place a crown on his head in our imagination. It is to allow his life to reorder what we mean by power, authority, courage, and faithfulness.

The emptied Lord does not ask us to become small so others can remain comfortable. He does not ask us to tolerate injustice or call abuse holy. But he does call us away from the kind of power that can only feel secure when someone else is beneath it.

Christ’s lordship moves downward in love.

And if we follow him, then something in us must be emptied too: our grasping, our posturing, our need to dominate, our addiction to being right, our desire to make Jesus useful to whatever we already believe.

Jesus is Lord.

Not the loudest voice. Not the cruelest leader. Not the strongest brand. Not the party. Not the movement. Not the ego dressed up as conviction.

Jesus.

The one who emptied himself.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The lordship of Jesus does not bless our grasping; it remakes us in the shape of self-emptying love.

PRAYER
Christ our Lord, free us from every false strength that keeps us from your way. Empty us of pride, cruelty, fear, and the need to control. Teach us to recognize your lordship not in domination, but in humble love that serves, heals, and remakes the world. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE, Part 2: You Are Not Their Messiah

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Read Exodus 18:13–24

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“It’s not important who does the planting, or who does the watering. What’s important is that God makes the seed grow.” (1 Corinthians 3:7 NLT)

A gardener walks away through rows of healthy green plants toward a warmly lit farmhouse at sunset. A watering can, gloves, and hand tools rest in the soil while three other workers continue tending the field beneath rain clouds. The Life-Giving Water Devotions logo appears at the bottom.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “You Are Not Their Messiah” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

What may have begun as admiration has hardened into allegiance. Teachers have become banners. Relationships with respected leaders have become evidence of spiritual superiority. The congregation Paul helped establish is now dividing itself according to whose name carries the most authority.

Eventually, word of the conflict reaches Paul.

He could have enjoyed hearing that some believers had chosen his name. He founded the church in Corinth. He preached among them, worked beside them, and endured hardship for the sake of bringing them the gospel. If anyone could have made a case for his importance, Paul had plenty of evidence.

Instead, he refuses to let them turn him into something he is not.

“Who is Apollos?” he asks. “Who is Paul?” 

They are servants through whom the Corinthians came to believe. Paul planted. Apollos watered. God made the seed grow.

Paul does not deny that his work matters. Planting matters. Watering matters. Teaching, leading, organizing, encouraging, correcting, and caring all matter. But none of those things creates life. Paul refuses to confuse his responsibility with God’s power.

He will love the Corinthians. He will serve them. He will not become their Messiah. That distinction is much harder to maintain than it sounds.

We usually do not wake up and consciously decide to become indispensable. It happens slowly. Someone needs help, so we help. A problem appears, so we solve it. Something is forgotten, so we remember it. Other people begin trusting us because we are reliable, compassionate, organized, or simply willing to show up.

Then concern becomes responsibility. Responsibility becomes expectation. Expectation becomes identity.

Before long, we are holding together relationships, families, ministries, workplaces, and communities that seem unable to function without us. We answer every message, anticipate every crisis, absorb every disappointment, and step into every gap.

We call it love. Sometimes it is love. Sometimes it is anxiety wearing love’s clothing.

Anxiety tells us that if we stop moving, something terrible will happen. If we say no, someone will be hurt. If we allow another person to struggle, we have abandoned them. If we are unavailable, we are unfaithful. Anxiety convinces us that vigilance is compassion and exhaustion is proof that we care.

Moses understands this temptation.

After leading the Israelites out of Egypt, Moses becomes the person everyone approaches with every dispute. From morning until evening, people stand around waiting for him. Every conflict, question, and disagreement must pass through Moses.

Perhaps Moses believes this is what faithful leadership requires. God called him. The people need him. The problems are real. Surely devotion means making himself available until everyone has received an answer.

Then Jethro watches the arrangement and says something startling:

“This is not good.”

Moses is helping people, but the system is not good. He is exhausting himself. He is keeping the community dependent upon his judgment. He is carrying work that others are capable of sharing. His good intentions have produced an unhealthy way of living.

Jethro does not tell Moses to stop caring. He tells Moses to stop acting as though care can flow only through him.

Choose capable people. Teach them. Trust them. Let them carry responsibility. Keep doing the work that is truly yours, but release the work that never belonged exclusively to you.

Delegation is not abandonment. Boundaries are not indifference. Allowing other people to contribute is not a failure of leadership. Sometimes it is the first time we have treated them as capable, gifted, and called.

Churches often struggle to believe this. We praise people who are endlessly available. We reward those who say yes to everything. We call them dedicated while quietly building ministries that depend upon their inability to rest. When they finally collapse, resign, or disappear, we mourn their absence without questioning the system that consumed them.

Families and workplaces can do the same thing. One person becomes the keeper of every schedule, emotion, emergency, and unfinished task. Everyone depends upon them, and they depend upon being needed. The arrangement exhausts them, but it can also make them feel secure. If everything depends upon you, then no one can overlook you.

That is where service can become control.The difficult question is not simply, “Am I doing too much?” It is, “What do I fear would happen if I were no longer necessary?”

Paul knew that the Corinthians did not belong to him. Moses had to learn that Israel’s future did not depend upon his constant availability. Both were called to serve faithfully without confusing themselves with the God they served.

You are responsible for your faithfulness. You are not responsible for producing every outcome. You can plant. You can water. You can teach what you know, offer what you have, and carry the portion that is yours. Then you must allow other people to carry theirs and trust God with the growth neither you nor they can create.

The people you love may need your presence.
They do not need you to be omnipresent.

They may need your wisdom.
They do not need you to be omniscient.

They may need your help.
They do not need you to be omipotent or to save them.

Accepting those limits is not an admission that your love is inadequate. It is an act of faith. It means trusting that God remains present when you are absent, that other people possess gifts you do not possess, and that grace continues working after you have done all you can faithfully do.

Paul placed the seed into the soil and released the growth to God. Moses shared the burden and discovered that the community did not collapse when others began to lead. 

You are allowed that same freedom.

Do what love asks of you. Carry what is truly yours. Then stop where your humanity requires you to stop. Set down what belongs to someone else. Let other people rise. Let God remain God.

The work may continue without you. That does not mean you were unnecessary. It means you were never alone in doing it.

You are not their Messiah. You were never asked to be. You are loved, called, and human. That is enough.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
My limits do not prevent faithfulness; they make faithful love possible.

PRAYER
Faithful God, untangle my love from anxiety and my service from the need to be indispensable. Show me what is mine to carry, give me courage to release what is not, and teach me to trust you with the growth. Amen.

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

A biweekly devotional