ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7, NLT).
The Beatles’ iconic song “Yesterday” begins with a poignant reflection: “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday.” These lyrics capture a sentiment many of us experience – a longing for the past, when life seemed simpler or more carefree. We often find ourselves dwelling on bygone days or fretting about an uncertain future, missing the beauty and potential of the present moment.
In Matthew 6:25-34, Jesus addresses this very human tendency to worry about what’s to come. He reminds us that our Divine Creator, who cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, cares infinitely more for us. Jesus encourages us to focus on today, trusting God with our needs and concerns.
The song continues, “Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me. Oh, yesterday came suddenly.” These lines evoke a sense of loss and anxiety about change. How often do we allow the shadows of past regrets or future uncertainties to dim the light of our present?
Yet, Jesus calls us to a different perspective. He invites us to seek first God’s kingdom and righteousness, assuring us that everything else will fall into place. This doesn’t mean we’ll never face challenges, but it does promise that God will provide what we truly need.
In Philippians 4:6-7, Paul echoes this teaching, urging us to replace worry with prayer and thanksgiving. When we bring our concerns to God, we open ourselves to Divine peace – a peace that surpasses our understanding and guards our hearts and minds.
The final verses of “Yesterday” express a desire to “hide away” from present troubles. But Jesus and Paul point us toward a better way: facing today with faith, prayer, and trust in God’s provision. Instead of hiding, we’re called to engage fully with the present, knowing that God is with us.
This call to live in the present is not about ignoring the lessons of the past or failing to plan for the future. Rather, it’s about recognizing that the only moment we can truly impact is the one we’re in right now. When we fixate on yesterday’s mistakes or tomorrow’s uncertainties, we rob ourselves of the opportunity to fully experience and engage with today’s blessings and challenges.
Living in the present also allows us to be more attuned to God’s presence in our daily lives. It’s in the here and now that we can witness the small miracles of everyday life – the kindness of a stranger, the beauty of nature, or the comfort of a friend’s words. These moments, easily overlooked when we’re preoccupied with past or future, can be powerful reminders of God’s constant care and presence.
Moreover, staying present enables us to be more responsive to the needs of those around us. When we’re not consumed by our own worries about yesterday or tomorrow, we’re better able to notice and respond to the joys and struggles of our neighbors, friends, and family. This awareness and responsiveness is at the heart of living out our faith in practical, meaningful ways.
As we navigate life’s ups and downs, let’s remember that each day is a gift. Rather than yearning for yesterday or anxiously anticipating tomorrow, we can choose to embrace today. We can trust that God, who has seen us through past challenges, will continue to guide and provide for us in the future.
The Beatles may have sung, “Oh, I believe in yesterday,” but as followers of Christ, we’re called to believe in the God of today who gives us the promise and hope of tomorrow. We’re invited to trust in a Divine love that transcends time, encompassing our past, present, and future. By anchoring ourselves in this truth, we can find the strength and peace to fully engage with each day as it comes, knowing that we are held in God’s eternal care.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY Today is the only day we have. How can I fully engage with it, trusting God with both my past and my future?
PRAYER Divine Creator, help me release yesterday’s regrets and tomorrow’s worries, embracing the gift of today. Guide me to live fully in Your presence. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of Perplexity AI
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “So now you Gentiles are no longer strangers and foreigners. You are citizens along with all of God’s holy people. You are members of God’s family.” (Ephesians 2:19 NLT)
Image created by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of AI developed by Microsoft.
The Doors have long been one of my favorite bands and a major artistic influence. Jim Morrison’s profound and provocative lyrics, combined with the band’s eclectic and transcendent sound, explored themes that were often ahead of their time. Jim himself was sometimes downright prophetic, once predicting that future generations would combine different musical styles in innovative ways. In a 1969 interview, he specifically mentioned the fusion of “black” music and country western, a prediction that has been realized in various forms of contemporary music.[i]
Taylor Swift, for instance, has successfully blended elements of country, pop, and other genres throughout her career, exemplifying the kind of musical evolution Morrison foresaw. He also suggested a third element might be “electronics,” which has indeed become a dominant force in modern music production across numerous genres.
One of their most iconic songs, “People Are Strange,” captures the essence of alienation and isolation that many of us experience at times. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of feeling like an outsider:
“People are strange when you’re a stranger, Faces look ugly when you’re alone. Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted, Streets are uneven when you’re down.”
These words resonate with the human experience of feeling disconnected and out of place in society. We’ve all had moments where the world seems hostile, faces appear unfriendly, and we feel unwanted or misunderstood.
However, Scripture offers us a powerful counterpoint to this cynicism and isolation. In Leviticus 19:33-34 (NLT), we read:
“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.”
This passage reminds us that God calls us to embrace those who might feel like strangers or outsiders. We are instructed to treat them as if they were native-born, with love and respect. This command is rooted in the Israelites’ own experience as foreigners in Egypt, encouraging empathy and compassion.
Furthermore, Ephesians 2:19 extends this concept into the New Testament, declaring that in Christ, we are no longer strangers and foreigners but citizens and family members in God’s household. This verse offers a profound shift in perspective – from alienation to inclusion, from isolation to belonging.
While “People Are Strange” captures the pain of feeling like an outsider, Scripture guides us towards a different reality. In God’s kingdom, there are no strangers. We are all welcomed, loved, and included as valuable members of God’s family. This truth transforms our outlook, enabling us to see others not as strange or threatening, but as fellow citizens in God’s household.
As followers of Christ, we are called to be agents of this inclusive love. We should actively seek out those who feel like outsiders and welcome them into our communities. By doing so, we reflect God’s heart and help others experience the belonging and acceptance that we have found in God.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY In God’s family, there are no strangers – only siblings waiting to be embraced.
PRAYER Loving God, thank you for welcoming us into your family. Help us to see others through your eyes of love and inclusion. Give us the courage to reach out to those who feel like strangers, showing them the belonging and acceptance found in your kingdom. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “Make every effort to keep yourselves united in the Spirit, binding yourselves together with peace.” (Ephesians 4:3 NLT)
Image created with the assistance of AI powered by Microsoft.
The church in Corinth was a vibrant but troubled community. Paul, in his first letter to the Corinthians, addresses a myriad of issues, but one of the most pressing was the division among the believers. In 1 Corinthians 1:10-13, Paul appeals to the church to be united, urging them to agree with one another and avoid divisions. He emphasizes that they should be perfectly united in mind and thought, reminding them that Christ is not divided, and neither should His body, the church, be.
This call for unity is echoed in the haunting lyrics of Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them.” The song, written by Roger Waters and Richard Wright, delves into the themes of conflict and division, highlighting the arbitrary lines that separate people. “Us and them / And after all, we’re only ordinary men,” the song laments, pointing out the common humanity that should unite us rather than divide us. The song’s reflection on the futility of conflict and the shared human experience resonates deeply with Paul’s message to the Corinthians.
In Corinth, the divisions were based on allegiance to different leaders. Some claimed to follow Paul, others Apollos, or Cephas (Peter). This factionalism was tearing the church apart. Paul’s rhetorical questions, “Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Were you baptized in the name of Paul?” serve to remind the Corinthians that their primary allegiance should be to Christ alone. The leaders they were aligning themselves with were merely servants of Christ, not the source of their salvation.
The divisions in Corinth can be seen as a microcosm of the broader human tendency to create “us vs. them” scenarios. Whether in religious communities, political arenas, or social contexts, humans have a propensity to divide themselves into groups, often leading to conflict and strife. Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them” captures this dynamic poignantly, with its melancholic melody and reflective lyrics. The song’s verses describe various scenarios of division and conflict, from war to social inequality, underscoring the senselessness of these divisions.
Paul’s call to unity in 1 Corinthians 1:10-13 is not just about avoiding conflict; it’s about recognizing the deeper spiritual reality that, in Christ, we are one. This unity is not uniformity; it does not mean that we all have to think, act, or look the same. Rather, it is a unity that celebrates diversity while being rooted in the common foundation of Jesus Christ. This is a unity that transcends human divisions and reflects the nature of the Triune God – diverse yet one.
Ephesians 4:3 reinforces this idea, urging believers to “make every effort to keep yourselves united in the Spirit, binding yourselves together with peace.” This unity is a gift from the Holy Spirit, but it requires effort on our part to maintain it. It involves humility, patience, and a willingness to bear with one another in love. It means prioritizing our shared identity in Christ over our individual preferences and allegiances.
In practical terms, this call to unity challenges us to examine our own lives and communities. Are there ways in which we are contributing to division rather than unity? Are we aligning ourselves with human leaders or ideologies in a way that detracts from our primary allegiance to Christ? Are we making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace?
Reflecting on “Us and Them,” we can see the tragic consequences of division and conflict. The song’s powerful imagery and emotive music remind us of the shared humanity that should unite us. As followers of Christ, we are called to go even further – to recognize that our unity is not just based on our common humanity, but on our shared identity in Christ. This unity is a powerful witness to the world of the transformative power of the gospel.
In a world that is increasingly polarized, the church has a unique opportunity to model a different way of being. By living out the unity that Paul calls for in 1 Corinthians 1:10-13, we can demonstrate the reconciling power of Christ. This unity is not just for our own benefit; it is a testimony to the world of the love and grace of God.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY In Christ, there is no “us” and “them” – we are one body, united by His love and sacrifice. Let us strive to live out this unity in our daily lives, reflecting the peace and reconciliation that Christ brings.
PRAYER Lord, help us to see past our divisions and embrace the unity You desire for Your church. May we find our identity in You alone and work diligently to maintain the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of Perplexity AI
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 NLT)
Image created by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of AI developed by Microsoft.
As a lifelong fan of Elton John, I have an immense appreciation for his artistry and the brilliant songwriting partnership he has had with Bernie Taupin for over five decades. My love for Elton John’s music began in my childhood, listening to his songs on 8-Track and vinyl, as he was one of my mom’s favorite artists. Taupin’s poetic, narrative lyrics have provided the perfect complement to Elton’s soaring melodies and vocal performances. Of all their collaborations, the 1973 classic “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” stands out as one of the most poignant and relatable songs in their vast catalog.
The song’s lyrics, penned by Taupin, speak to me on a deep, personal level. They evoke a longing for a simpler way of life, far removed from the trappings of fame, wealth, and the superficial “yellow brick road” that mainstream success can often represent. The opening lines immediately transport the listener to a place of disillusionment: “When are you gonna come down? When are you going to land? I should have stayed on the farm, I should have listened to my old man.”
These words resonate with me, as they capture the feeling of being caught up in the whirlwind of modern life, chasing after ambitions and material pursuits, only to realize that true fulfillment may lie in the simple joys and grounded existence we left behind. Growing up in a small rural New Jersey town, my childhood was filled with simple pleasures – taking day trips to nearby state parks, hiking portions of the Appalachian Trail, day trips to the Jersey shore. Some of my fondest memories are of working alongside my family in our yard, tending to the gardens, raking leaves, and simply enjoying each other’s company amidst nature’s beauty.
The narrator in the song expresses a desire to escape the superficial world of penthouses and societal expectations, declaring “You can’t plant me in your penthouse, I’m going back to my plough.” For me, this lyric sparks a longing for a return to that simplicity – being content with the basics that truly matter, not constantly striving for more. Even now, surrounded by the rural charm of the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, I find myself yearning for that childlike wonder and satisfaction with life’s simple pleasures.
Yet, Taupin’s lyrics also acknowledge the harsh realities and potential consequences of rejecting the mainstream path. The narrator wonders, “What do you think you’ll do then? I bet they’ll shoot down the plane. It’ll take you a couple of vodka and tonics to set you on your feet again.” There’s a recognition that stepping off the “yellow brick road” may come at a cost, both personally and professionally.
Despite these warnings, the song’s resolution is unwavering: “Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road.” This defiant declaration resonates deeply, reminding us that true happiness and fulfillment often lie in the road less traveled, in the pursuit of authenticity and a life aligned with our core values.
Elton John’s soaring vocals and Taupin’s evocative lyrics combine to create a timeless masterpiece that continues to inspire and comfort me whenever I find myself longing for a simpler, more grounded existence. “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” is a testament to the enduring power of their artistic partnership and a reminder that, even in the face of societal pressures and expectations, we must stay true to ourselves and our roots.
In Deuteronomy 30:19-20, Moses presents the Israelites with a profound choice – to choose life by obeying God’s commandments or to choose death by disobeying. This choice echoes the theme of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” where the lyrics express a longing to leave behind the allure of fame and fortune and return to a simpler, more authentic way of living. God’s ways are often simpler than our own, yet it is in our resisting obedience to God that causes us to complicate and trivialize life in a way that burdens us beyond belief.
Jesus extends the same invitation in Matthew 11:28-30, calling us to come to him and find rest for our souls. The world’s burdens and pursuits can leave us weary, but in Christ, we find a gentle and humble savior who offers us a light yoke and an easy burden. When we choose to follow him, we discover the true meaning of life – a life of purpose, peace, and eternal significance. Like the narrator in the song, we are called to “go back to our plough,” returning to the simple yet profound truths of God’s word and ways. It is a choice to leave behind the distractions and false promises of the world and embrace the authentic, fulfilling life that God has lovingly designed for God’s children.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY True life is found not in chasing the “Yellow Brick Road” of worldly success but in choosing to follow Christ and obey God’s commandments.
PRAYER Lord, help us to choose the road that leads to life – a life of obedience, purpose, and rest in you. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of Perplexity AI.
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “Meanwhile, Saul was uttering threats with every breath and was eager to kill the Lord’s followers. So he went to the high priest. He requested letters addressed to the synagogues in Damascus, asking for their cooperation in the arrest of any followers of the Way he found there. He wanted to bring them—both men and women—back to Jerusalem in chains.” (Acts 9:1–2 NLT)
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Toward What Lies Ahead” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
I have always had an affinity for Paul.
Not the Paul polished by centuries of Christianity into a nearly untouchable saint. Nor the Paul some would rather reduce to a sinner, remembered primarily for the violence and persecution of his past. I am drawn to Paul the man—the complicated human being who somehow embodied both.
Because before Paul became one of Christianity’s most profound voices for the radical love and grace of Jesus Christ, he was Saul of Tarsus.
And Saul could be terrifying.
He was a Diaspora Jew from Tarsus in Cilicia, a Pharisee, educated in Jerusalem under Gamaliel, and fiercely committed to what he believed faithfulness to God required. He also moved within the wider Greco-Roman world and possessed Roman citizenship. Paul belonged to overlapping worlds, and those worlds would later profoundly shape his ministry.
But Saul wasn’t wandering around searching for meaning or wondering what he should do with his life. He believed he already knew. He was so certain of his righteousness that he participated in the persecution of people he believed were dangerously wrong.
Acts introduces him approving of Stephen’s execution. Soon afterward, Saul is entering homes and dragging followers of Jesus away to prison. Eventually, he heads toward Damascus carrying authority to arrest followers of the Way and bring them back to Jerusalem.
Then Christ meets him on the road, and everything changes.
But Saul does not simply disappear and some pristine Saint Paul take his place.
The man who becomes one of Christianity’s most profound voices for grace remains the same man who once participated in violent religious persecution. Paul carries that history with him. He remembers it. He writes about it. He knows both the terrifying damage religious certainty can cause and the astonishing grace of discovering that even the person who caused that damage is not beyond redemption.
That is the Paul who fascinates me. Not sinner or saint, but sinner and saint—a human being capable of terrible harm and extraordinary faithfulness. A violent persecutor transformed into a passionate proponent of the very Christ—and the very people—he once persecuted.
And Paul keeps moving.
The man who once traveled from place to place trying to stop the Jesus movement eventually travels throughout the Roman world proclaiming Christ, forming communities of faith, enduring opposition, suffering beatings and imprisonment, and continuing forward anyway.
By the time Paul writes to the Philippians, there is quite a lot behind him. He is writing from prison, although scholars continue to debate exactly which imprisonment. Rome has traditionally been the leading possibility, while Caesarea and Ephesus have also been proposed. What matters for Philippians is that Paul is confined, his future uncertain, and the possibility of death very real.
If ever there were a moment to look backward and declare the journey complete, this was it.
Paul could remember Damascus, churches planted, lives changed, miles traveled, friendships formed, some other friendships ended, suffering endured, and a life radically transformed by Christ. Yet Paul says he hasn’t arrived.
Instead, he writes: “I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead…”
Paul is not telling us to erase our histories. He spends plenty of time remembering his own. In this very chapter, he recounts who he was, what he once valued, and how encountering Christ changed his understanding of it all.
Paul remembers the past. He simply refuses to live there.
The past can teach us, shape us, wound us, humble us, and remind us of God’s faithfulness. It can show us how far we have come and warn us against becoming who we once were. But yesterday cannot be the place where faithfulness happens today.
Neither can tomorrow.
That can be easy to miss when Paul speaks so passionately about pressing toward what lies ahead. We can become so fixated on the future that we treat the present as little more than a waiting room. Someday I will serve. Someday I will forgive. Someday I will speak. Someday the church will change. Someday I will finally become who God wants me to be.
But Paul is not sitting in prison waiting for someday. He is writing, encouraging, teaching, praying, witnessing, and loving people now.
That may be the paradox at the heart of moving forward with God: we reach toward what lies ahead by living faithfully in the present.
Yesterday is beyond our reach. Tomorrow has not arrived. God has given us today.
That has been the movement beneath every God beginning we have explored in this series. God calls, accompanies, opens doors, closes others, creates something new, gathers unlikely people into one Body, and asks us to leave some things on the shore. But none of those beginnings was ever meant to become a place where we could settle permanently and announce that the work was finished.
Paul refuses to make that claim even after everything he has experienced. He has not arrived.
Neither have we.
That is not failure. It is discipleship.
A God beginning is not a finish line disguised as a starting point. It is an invitation into a life continually being transformed by Christ, and that transformation happens in the present. It happens in the conversation we choose to have, the person we decide to notice, the injustice we refuse to ignore, the forgiveness we offer, the truth we finally speak, the tradition we are willing to reconsider, the neighbor we welcome, and the work immediately before us.
We can honor yesterday without living there. We can hope for tomorrow without escaping into it. And we can live faithfully today while trusting that God is already preparing what lies ahead.
Sixteen devotions ago, we began talking about God beginnings. Now we have reached the end.
Except, of course, we haven’t.
Every ending eventually becomes part of what lies behind us, and every new beginning eventually becomes the present in which we are called to live.
Remember what God has done. Look toward what God may yet do. But live faithfully where God has placed you today, and from here, keep following Christ toward what lies ahead.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY Faith remembers yesterday, hopes for tomorrow, and follows Christ today.
PRAYER God of every beginning, keep me from becoming trapped in yesterday or lost in tomorrow. Teach me to live faithfully today, trusting you with whatever lies ahead. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “If you love your father or mother more than you love me, you are not worthy of being mine; or if you love your son or daughter more than me, you are not worthy of being mine. If you refuse to take up your cross and follow me, you are not worthy of being mine. If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it.” (Matthew 10:37–39 NLT)
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “What We Leave on the Shore” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
It is funny how easily a single chapter of someone’s life can come to define the whole story.
We meet someone after they have already become who we know them to be, and it can be difficult to imagine them as anything else. The teacher was once a student. The grandparent was once somebody’s child. Even the people closest to us had whole lives unfolding before we ever entered the picture.
Scripture can have the same effect on us.
We know Peter as Peter, the disciple and apostle. James and John become the Sons of Thunder. Matthew becomes the Gospel writer. Thomas becomes the doubter.
But none of them began there.
Before there were disciples, there were fishermen and tax collectors, brothers and sons, husbands and friends. There were families, livelihoods, obligations, loyalties, disappointments, expectations, and histories.
Every disciple had a before. And then Jesus called.
Peter did not meet Jesus while waiting for his real life to begin. He already had one. He had a wife, a mother-in-law Jesus had recently healed, a brother named Andrew, fishing partners, boats, nets, responsibilities, successes, and failures. James and John had their father Zebedee and a family business.
And Peter wasn’t unusual.
Matthew had his tax booth and everything that came with being a tax collector. Simon carried the designation “the Zealot.” Thomas and Bartholomew had stories mostly lost to us. Even Judas Iscariot had a life before his name became forever associated with betrayal.
Every one of them came to Jesus carrying a history.
That is what makes Luke’s final sentence so striking. After the miraculous catch, after the nets begin tearing and the boats nearly sink beneath more fish than these fishermen could have imagined, Luke tells us that they brought the boats to shore, left everything, and followed Jesus.
Everything. Not simply the fish.
Peter leaves the nets and boat, but those belonged to a whole life: a wife, family, livelihood, partners, and responsibilities. James and John were not merely walking away from equipment. Elsewhere in the Gospels, Zebedee is right there when they leave the family business behind.
The call of Jesus reaches into whole lives.
That does not mean Peter suddenly ceases to be a husband. In fact, Paul later refers to Peter’s right to take his wife along with him in ministry. James and John do not stop being Zebedee’s sons. Andrew does not stop being Peter’s brother. Following Jesus does not erase the people we love or make our histories meaningless.
But it does reorder them.
Jesus makes that painfully clear when he tells his followers that anyone who loves father or mother, son or daughter more than him is not worthy of him. Jesus reaches toward some of our deepest and most legitimate attachments and says that even these cannot have the final claim upon where Christ may lead us.
That is what the disciples leave on the shore: the assumption that the life they already understand gets to determine the boundaries of the life Christ is calling them into.
And sometimes that means leaving something painful. But sometimes it means leaving something good.
Peter has just experienced the greatest professional success of his life. By every ordinary measure, this is the moment to stay, expand the business, and build a future around what just happened.
Instead, Peter walks away from the fish.
The miracle is not the destination. It is the threshold.
The miracle revealed something about Jesus and called Peter somewhere he had never been.
Yet Peter does not leave everything about fishing behind. Jesus tells him that from now on he will be fishing for people.
The fisherman comes with him.
Peter’s history is not erased. It is transformed.
That may be one of the hardest parts of following Christ. We understand leaving behind habits, prejudices, fears, sins, and ways of living that destroy us.
But what about the things that were good?
A career that mattered. A relationship that shaped us. A role we once filled. A place where we belonged. A tradition that carried us. A ministry through which God genuinely worked.
Good things can still become anchors when we insist they must remain forever.
Churches struggle with this too. Something worked once, so we assume faithfulness means preserving it. God met us through a particular ministry, building, tradition, structure, or season, so we begin protecting the place where God moved rather than watching for where God is moving.
Peter could have built a shrine around those fish. Instead, he followed Jesus.
Following Christ does not require having no past. It requires refusing to let the past determine where Christ may lead us next.
So perhaps the deeper question is this: What still has such a claim on me that I would refuse to follow Christ without it?
The shore will look different for each of us. But eventually, every disciple has to decide what gets the final word: the life we already know, or the Christ who says, Follow me.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY Following Christ does not erase our past, but it does reorder what gets the final claim on our future.
PRAYER Jesus, thank you for all that has shaped my life. Give me wisdom to know what to carry, courage to release what I cannot keep, and trust to follow wherever you lead. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “I will give him the key to the house of David—the highest position in the royal court. When he opens doors, no one will be able to close them; when he closes doors, no one will be able to open them.” (Isaiah 22:22 NLT)
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Door No One Can Shut” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
Philadelphia is known as the City of Brotherly Love, which is a lovely title until sports enter the conversation. Ask a visiting Giants fan how much brotherly love they expect to experience walking into Lincoln Financial Field wearing blue. Philadelphia sports culture has built an almost affectionate reputation for being loud, relentless, fiercely loyal, and not especially interested in making opposing fans feel at home. Yet another Philadelphia icon tells a slightly different story. Rocky Balboa is the little guy, the underdog nobody expects to win, who keeps getting back up after everyone else thinks he should stay down. Rocky endures. Rocky fights. Rocky survives because there is more strength in him than anyone realized.
There is another Philadelphia in Scripture, though, and its story turns our usual underdog narrative almost completely around.
In Revelation 3, Christ addresses the church in Philadelphia, one of seven churches receiving messages through John. This congregation is not described as impressive, influential, wealthy, or powerful. In fact, Christ says plainly that they have “little strength” (Revelation 3:8).
That does not sound much like Rocky.
There is no inspirational speech telling Philadelphia to dig deeper, discover the champion within, and prove everybody wrong. Christ does not tell them they are secretly stronger than their opponents. Instead, Christ points to something entirely outside their own strength: an open door.
“I have opened a door for you that no one can close” (Revelation 3:8).
The security of the open door does not come from their strength. It comes from Christ’s authority.
That authority is established immediately in the previous verse. Revelation draws upon the imagery of Isaiah 22:22 and describes Christ as holding the key of David—opening what no one can close and closing what no one can open (Revelation 3:7). The church does not possess ultimate control of the hinges. Neither do its opponents. Christ does.
That matters because we often imagine an open door as an opportunity we must somehow protect through our own strength. If God has called us somewhere, then perhaps we assume it is our responsibility to make sure nobody interferes. We fight harder, defend ourselves more aggressively, prove our worth, and try to demonstrate that we deserve to remain where we have been placed.
Philadelphia receives a different assurance.
You have little strength.
And the door is still open.
That is not permission for passivity. The church is praised for obeying Christ’s word and refusing to deny Christ even under pressure (Revelation 3:8). Faithfulness still matters. Perseverance still matters. But their future does not depend upon becoming powerful enough to overpower everyone standing against them.
Nor should we turn this promise into triumphalism. “No one can shut the door” does not mean every opportunity we desire has been guaranteed by God. It does not mean opposition proves we are right, or that every obstacle is merely an enemy we are entitled to bulldoze. Part 13 reminded us that discernment matters because not every closed door was closed by God.
The reverse requires discernment too. Not every door we want open was opened by God.
But when Christ genuinely opens a way toward faithfulness, human gatekeepers do not possess ultimate authority over it.
That is where this passage becomes uncomfortable for institutions, including the Church. Human communities need doors. We establish boundaries, qualifications, processes, expectations, and responsibilities. Some of those are necessary. But institutions can begin behaving as though possessing authority means possessing ultimate authority.
We can forget who actually owns the keys.
A committee can close a door. A leader can close a door. A denomination can close a door. A congregation can close a door. A government can close a door. A culture can decide who belongs and who does not. Those decisions can have very real consequences for very real people.
But Revelation places every human claim to authority beneath Christ’s.
Sometimes religious institutions behave as though they own the hinges.
They do not.
And then, near the end of Revelation, John gives us an even larger image.
In Revelation 21, John sees the New Jerusalem descending into the renewed creation. The city shines with the glory of God. Nations walk in its light. And its gates are never closed during the day—because there is no night there (Revelation 21:23–25).
Notice where the vision has taken us.
In Revelation 3, Christ places an open door before a little church and promises that no one can shut it. By Revelation 21, John sees an entire city whose gates never close.
And once again, its security does not come from strength.
Ancient cities closed their gates because darkness brought danger. Gates protected those inside from whatever might approach from outside. But John’s holy city does not survive because its defenses have finally become impenetrable. The gates remain open because God’s renewed creation has changed the conditions that made fearful closure necessary.
God is the security.
That does not mean Revelation abandons judgment or holiness. Chapter 21 certainly does not. But the final image of God’s dwelling with humanity is strikingly different from an anxious fortress desperately trying to keep outsiders away.
The gates stand open. Perhaps the Church should pay attention to that.
We live in a world where strength is often measured by our ability to control access: who gets admitted, who gets excluded, who receives authority, who is considered legitimate, who possesses the keys. Yet Scripture’s final vision points toward a kingdom whose security rests so completely in God that its gates do not need to close.
Philadelphia had little strength. That was never the problem.
Their hope was not that eventually they would become strong enough to keep the door open themselves. Their hope was that Christ had already opened it.
There will always be people who believe they possess the authority to determine which doors should remain open and which people should be allowed to walk through them.
Revelation reminds us that their authority has limits. Christ holds the key; and what Christ opens, no one can finally shut.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY The security of an open door does not come from our strength, but from the authority of Christ who opens it.
PRAYER Christ of the open door, free us from believing that everything depends upon our strength. Give us faithfulness when we feel small, humility when we hold authority, and discernment about the doors before us. Teach us to trust your power more than our own and to become a people whose openness reflects the kingdom you are bringing. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “We can make our plans,but the Lord determines our steps.” (Proverbs 16:9 NLT)
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Door God Closes” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
Some phrases sound incredibly wise when we first hear them. Some even sound biblical—so biblical, in fact, that we may repeat them for years without ever stopping to ask whether the Bible actually says them. “God helps those who help themselves.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “God will never give you more than you can handle.” That last one, for instance, is often attributed to 1 Corinthians 10:13, though Paul is speaking there specifically about temptation, not promising that faithful people will never encounter circumstances beyond their ability to bear. Each saying contains enough familiarity, common sense, or religious language to sound like something Scripture must surely teach. But, if we’d actually weigh any saying against Scripture, we’d discover that things are usually more complicated.
One such phrase is, “When God closes a door, God opens a window.”
I understand what it is trying to say. God is not limited by the path we expected to take. An ending does not necessarily mean there is nothing ahead. But, honestly, life—and Scripture—are rarely quite as tidy as the saying makes them sound.
Sometimes a door closes and, for a while, there is no window. There is simply a closed door. A relationship ends. An opportunity disappears. A plan falls apart. A ministry changes. Something we were certain would happen does not happen. We stand there wondering whether we failed, misunderstood God, or somehow missed the path we were supposed to take.
Paul knew something about closed doors. In Acts 16, Paul and his companions are traveling through Asia Minor doing exactly what we would expect missionaries to do: preaching the gospel. Yet Luke tells us that the Holy Spirit prevented them from preaching in the province of Asia. They then tried to enter Bithynia, and again the Spirit did not allow them to go.
That is worth noticing because Paul was not trying to do something obviously selfish, foolish, or sinful. He was trying to do something good, faithful, and entirely consistent with his calling. And still, the door closed.
Only later, after arriving in Troas, does Paul receive the vision calling him toward Macedonia. The routes that had closed eventually redirected the journey. We can therefore say, at least in this story, that God really did close doors.
But we need to be careful here, because this passage can become spiritually dangerous if we turn it into a formula. Acts specifically tells us that the Spirit prevented Paul from taking those routes. Scripture identifies these particular closed doors as divine redirection.
Not every closed door comes with that explanation.
People close doors. Institutions close doors. Fear closes doors. Prejudice closes doors. Injustice closes doors. Sometimes we close doors ourselves through choices we have made. And sometimes we simply do not know why a door closed.
Friends, that distinction matters. If someone is rejected because of racism, sexism, ableism, poverty, identity, prejudice, or another person’s misuse of power, we should be very cautious about telling them, “God closed that door.”
Sometimes human beings slam doors God never asked them to touch.
Calling every painful outcome “God’s will” can become a convenient way of baptizing injustice and relieving people or institutions of responsibility for the harm they cause. Something happened, therefore God wanted it to happen, is not a theology Scripture requires us to believe. In fact, Jesus directly challenges that kind of thinking. When the disciples encounter a man who had been blind from birth, they immediately search for a spiritual cause: Who sinned, this man or his parents? Jesus rejects the premise that the man’s condition can simply be explained as punishment for somebody’s sin (John 9:1–3). Likewise, when people tell Jesus about Galileans killed by Pilate, and Jesus recalls eighteen people killed when the tower of Siloam fell, he refuses the assumption that those who suffered must somehow have deserved their fate more than others (Luke 13:1–5).
So perhaps the spiritual question is not simply, “Why did God close this door?” Perhaps we need to ask, “What kind of closure am I facing, and what does faithfulness require of me now?”
The answer will not always be the same. Sometimes faithfulness means releasing the door. Sometimes it means waiting. Sometimes it means admitting that our own choices helped close it and seeking repentance or repair. Sometimes it means respecting a boundary another person has every right to establish. And sometimes faithfulness means refusing to accept that a door closed by prejudice, fear, or injustice somehow carries God’s approval.
Discernment matters.
There is another uncomfortable possibility too. Sometimes we keep pushing against a closed door because we have already decided what faithfulness is supposed to look like. We knock harder, explain ourselves again, work harder, and try another angle. Perseverance can be holy. Scripture certainly teaches persistence (Luke 18:1–8; Galatians 6:9). But persistence and faithfulness are not always the same thing.
At some point we may have to ask whether we are persevering because God is calling us forward, or forcing a door because we cannot imagine God leading us somewhere else.
Paul keeps moving. Asia does not open, so the journey continues. Bithynia does not open, so the journey continues. Eventually Paul reaches Troas, and then comes Macedonia. Paul is not given an explanation for every route that failed. He is given enough direction for the next step.
Perhaps that is often how God works. We would prefer a map explaining every closure, every detour, every disappointment, and every ending. Sometimes we receive only another step.
Churches face this too. Congregations can spend enormous energy trying to reopen doors belonging to another season: ministries that no longer serve the community, structures that cannot be sustained, traditions that have become ends in themselves, or assumptions about what church is supposed to look like because that is what it looked like before. Ecclesiastes reminds us that there are seasons for both keeping and letting go (Ecclesiastes 3:1–8). There are times when faithfulness means grieving what was and allowing something to end.
But churches and other institutions should carry equal humility about the doors they themselves close. No committee, leader, institution, denomination, or majority should confuse its own decision automatically with God’s decision.
We are not God simply because we possess the keys.
Acts 16 gives us no easy formula for determining which doors to push against and which to release. It gives us something harder: discernment. Paul did not spend the rest of his journey standing outside Bithynia demanding that the door reopen. He kept listening. He kept moving. Eventually another direction appeared.
A closed door does not always mean we failed. It may not even tell us who closed it. But when the way ahead changes, faithfulness asks us to listen carefully before forcing the handle—and to trust that God’s ability to begin something new is not limited to the path we expected to take.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY A closed door calls for discernment before we decide what—or who—closed it.
PRAYER God of wisdom, give us discernment when the way ahead closes. Keep us from calling injustice your will, from forcing doors you are asking us to release, and from confusing our own authority with yours. Give us courage to resist what must be resisted, humility to release what must be released, and faith to follow wherever you lead next. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15 NLT)
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “When One Part Suffers” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
Ministry can certainly have its ups and its downs. There have been seasons when I have experienced tremendous joy, moments when I have wondered how I could possibly be blessed enough to do what I do, and others that have hurt more deeply than I expected.
I imagine you could say something similar about your own life.
Over the years, I have experienced what it feels like to be genuinely welcomed. I have walked into communities where people made room for me, trusted me, encouraged me, accepted me for who I am, celebrated with me, and allowed me to become part of their lives. I have also experienced rejection…harsh and hurtful rejection. I know what it feels like when welcome disappears, relationships fracture, or you discover that a place where you thought you belonged no longer feels like home.
But here is something I have learned from both experiences: neither welcome nor rejection stops with the person who receives it.
When I have been welcomed, my family has felt that welcome too. They have watched me come home energized and grateful. And when I have experienced rejection or pain, they have felt that too. They have listened, sat beside me, carried some of the weight, and even physically shared my journey as ministry has moved us from place to place. People who were never directly involved in what happened still experienced its effects because they were connected to someone who was.
Suffering rarely belongs to one person alone.
Perhaps that is why Paul’s words to the Corinthians strike me differently now: “If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad.”
Paul is describing more than sympathy. He is describing connection.
Corinth desperately needed to understand that. The church was fractured by wealth, status, spiritual gifts, personalities, and competing claims of importance. Even around the Lord’s Table, some ate well while others went hungry. Their common life in Christ was being contradicted by the way they treated one another.
So Paul is not describing what Christian community automatically looks like. He is describing what the Body of Christ is called to become.
Think about what happens when you injure part of your own body. Stub your toe badly enough and your entire body reacts. Your other leg shifts your weight. Your hands instinctively reach toward the injury. Your face contorts. Your brain suddenly has difficulty thinking about anything besides that throbbing toe.
Your body does not respond, “Well, that’s really the toe’s problem.”
The suffering of one part changes the behavior of the whole.
That is what makes Paul’s image so challenging. It is easy to know another person is hurting. Suffering with them asks more. It asks us to allow someone else’s pain to affect us.
And suffering with someone does not require agreeing with them about everything.
We sometimes behave as though compassion is a verdict. If I acknowledge your pain, perhaps that means I have decided you were right. If I sit beside you, perhaps someone will assume I have chosen your side. But we can disagree with someone and still suffer with them. Several people can even be wounded by the same situation without compassion having to be rationed to whichever person we decide deserves it most.
The Body does not have to settle every disagreement before it can recognize a wound.
That truth extends beyond individual relationships. Churches, workplaces, families, governments, and other institutions can become much better at managing suffering than entering it. Complaints can be investigated. Policies can be followed. Cases can eventually be marked resolved.
But wounded people cannot.
Procedures may be necessary. Accountability, facts, and justice matter. But none of them relieves us of the responsibility to recognize the human beings standing inside the process.
People are not problems to be resolved.
Paul then turns the image around: “If one part is honored, all the parts are glad.”
That may be just as challenging. We live in a culture that teaches us to compare. Someone else’s success can feel like evidence of our failure. Even churches compare attendance, finances, ministries, and growth as though another community’s flourishing somehow diminishes our own.
Paul imagines something different.
In the Body of Christ, your joy does not threaten me. Your flourishing does not diminish me. Your gifts do not make mine less valuable. Something good happened to part of the Body, and I belong to that Body too.
In Part 11, we considered Paul’s insistence that there are no disposable parts. Now Paul takes us further. If no member is disposable, then neither is that member’s suffering irrelevant nor their joy inconsequential.
We belong to one another.
Someone is grieving. Someone has been rejected. Someone is exhausted. Someone is celebrating. Someone is healing. Someone has discovered something beautiful about themselves. Someone is becoming more fully alive.
When one part suffers, we suffer with them.
When one part is honored, we celebrate with them.
God is creating a Body—many parts, different parts, indispensable parts—learning to share one another’s burdens and one another’s joy.
Because in the Body of Christ, none of us belongs alone.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY To belong to the Body of Christ is to let another person’s suffering and joy matter to us.
PRAYER God of compassion, teach us to suffer with those who suffer and celebrate with those who rejoice. Give us hearts that listen without judgment, remain present in pain, and rejoice without comparison. Form us into one Body, bound together in your love. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE “For there is one body and one Spirit, just as you have been called to one glorious hope for the future” (Ephesians 4:4 NLT).
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “No Disposable Parts” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.
I love music. I mean, I really love music. Heavy metal, industrial, rock and roll, goth—get me going and I am there! My musical tastes are actually far more eclectic than those categories might suggest. I can move quite happily from Beethoven to Bon Jovi to Jewel to Stryper to, well, yes, Marilyn Manson.
At least I’m balanced!
To be honest, people are often shocked that I would listen to—or, worse yet, attend—a Marilyn Manson concert. My reaction is: Why? Would Jesus not find himself at such a concert too? Jesus was called “a glutton and a drunkard” and “a friend of tax collectors and other sinners” because of the company he kept (Matthew 11:19). He repeatedly went where respectable religious people thought respectable religious people should not go. Besides, I’ve been listening to Marilyn Manson since I was, well, a teenager—and here I grew up to become a Christian pastor. Who knew, right?!
Over the years, I’ve had several opportunities to see the band live. The last time I saw Marilyn Manson in concert, he stopped at one point and talked about something that has followed him throughout his career: people trying to dispose of him. Most recently, that story has included serious allegations of sexual abuse and the enormous public and professional fallout surrounding them. After a four-year criminal investigation, however, prosecutors ultimately declined to bring charges, determining that the domestic-violence allegations fell outside the statute of limitations and that the sexual-assault allegations could not be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Some of the civil claims against him were also dismissed, withdrawn, or settled.
A clarification is important here. The legal history surrounding these allegations is complicated, and some civil litigation remains ongoing. I am not attempting to adjudicate those allegations, declare Manson innocent, defend his conduct, or suggest that anyone should escape accountability for harm they may have caused. Nor does the inability of a court to hear or resolve an allegation make a survivor’s suffering untrue, let alone disposable. And, to make matters more complicated, if any of those allegations are true, then he has participated in making other people feel disposable.
Still, the point here is narrower, and deliberately uncomfortable: accountability and human dignity are not opposites. No human being is disposable.
Still, something Manson said that night struck me. People had tried to dispose of him, he said, but he had never been disposable.
That word caught my attention because Manson had been using it long before his most recent controversies. In 2000, he released a song called “The Disposable Teens.” The song gives voice to the alienation and anger of young people pushing against systems of authority and social expectations that seem to have little place for them unless they become what those systems expect.
The title itself is unsettling: disposable teens.
People young enough to still be discovering who they are, yet already receiving the message that if they do not fit, behave, believe, achieve, produce, or conform correctly, society can simply move on without them. More than two decades later, I heard the person who sang about disposable teens standing onstage insisting that he himself had never been disposable.
Sitting there listening, I found myself agreeing with him on this:
No human being is disposable.
That does not mean our actions do not matter. Human dignity does not eliminate accountability, consequences, repentance, justice, or the responsibility to repair harm. Christianity does not teach that because every person bears sacred worth, everything every person does must therefore be accepted. There is a profound difference between holding someone accountable and declaring that person expendable.
Paul makes an even more radical claim about the Christian community in 1 Corinthians 12. The church in Corinth was a mess. Its members competed over status, spiritual gifts, leadership, knowledge, wealth, and importance. Some considered themselves more significant than others. Into that fractured community, Paul introduces an image they could hardly misunderstand: a body.
One body, composed of many parts.
But Paul does something fascinating with the image. He addresses disposability from both directions. First comes the person who feels disposable. The foot looks at the hand and essentially says, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body.” The ear compares itself with the eye and reaches the same conclusion.
I know that voice. Perhaps you do too.
Because I am not like you, I do not belong. Because I cannot do what you do. Because I do not look like you. Because my gifts are different. Because my body works differently. Because my mind works differently. Because I am too old, too young, too wounded, too strange, too uncertain, too much, or somehow not enough.
Paul’s response is wonderfully straightforward: saying you do not belong does not make you stop belonging. The foot remains part of the body. The ear remains part of the body. Difference does not disqualify belonging.
Then Paul turns the argument around. Now it is no longer the foot saying, “I do not belong.” It is the eye saying to the hand, “I don’t need you.”
That is the voice of superiority rather than insecurity. It is what happens when one part of the body decides it possesses enough importance, power, ability, resources, knowledge, or status to determine whether another part is necessary. Paul rejects that sentence too. In fact, Paul says that the parts of the body that seem weakest are actually indispensable.
Notice what Paul does not say. Paul does not say the weaker parts should be tolerated because perhaps someday they will become stronger. Paul does not say everyone deserves a place because everyone can eventually be made useful. Paul does not tell the apparently weaker members to discover their hidden productivity so the rest of the body can justify keeping them around.
They are indispensable.
That distinction matters because even churches can begin measuring human worth according to usefulness. We may never say it aloud, but our questions can reveal the calculation: Can you serve? Can you teach? Can you sing? Can you give? Can you sit on a committee? Can you volunteer? Can you help us grow? Can you still do what you used to do?
There is nothing wrong with discovering and using our gifts. Paul spends considerable time talking about them. But the Body of Christ is not a machine whose parts earn their place by remaining productive.
A person lying in a nursing-home bed is not less part of Christ’s Body because they can no longer serve on a committee. A person with a disability does not need to demonstrate some inspirational hidden talent before becoming indispensable. A teenager sitting silently in the back of the sanctuary does not have to become “the future of the church” before being valued as part of the church now. And notice how often, when we speak about that future, we attach expectations about how they should look, talk, believe, behave, and belong when they get there. The exhausted person who presently needs more from the community than they can give back is not a drain on the Body. And the person whose gifts, personality, questions, identity, or way of moving through the world does not fit neatly into our existing structures is not spare equipment waiting to be discarded.
Belonging to the Body is not something we earn by proving our usefulness.
This is where Paul’s metaphor becomes particularly uncomfortable for institutions, because institutions inevitably make calculations. Budgets must balance. Programs must be evaluated. Buildings must be maintained. Organizations have to make decisions about what is sustainable and what is not.
But people are not programs. People are not buildings. People are not line items.
The Church may sometimes have to let structures die. We may have to close programs, change traditions, merge ministries, relinquish buildings, or admit that something which once served the mission no longer does. None of those decisions makes the people connected to those structures disposable. The Body of Christ has no surplus members.
That means neither of the false conclusions Paul sets up is available to us. We cannot look at ourselves and say, “Because I am not like you, I do not belong.” And we cannot look at another person and say, “Because you are not like me, I do not need you.” The first denies the place God has given us. The second denies the place God has given someone else.
Perhaps that is why the phrase I heard at that concert stayed with me: I was never disposable.
Neither were you. Neither is the person you find difficult. Neither is the person who can no longer produce what they once produced. Neither is the person whose presence complicates the community rather than making it more efficient. Neither is the person the world has decided would be easier to ignore.
God is creating something new, and according to Paul, that new creation looks remarkably like a body: different parts, different gifts, different functions, joined into a life none possesses alone.
There are no disposable teens. There are no disposable adults. There are no disposable people.
And in the Body of Christ, there are no disposable parts.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY Belonging to the Body is not something we earn by proving our usefulness.
PRAYER God of every member, free us from believing that our differences make us unnecessary and from treating the differences of others as reasons we do not need them. Teach us to honor the dignity of every person, use our gifts without measuring our worth by them, and become a Body in which no one is treated as disposable. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).
