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REVISITED: KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTIAN, Part 16: Don’t Be a Hypocrite

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Read Matthew 23:1-12

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil” (Ecclesiastes 12:14 NLT).

We’ve all seen those bumper stickers and church signs urging us to “Keep Christ in Christmas.” Well-intentioned? Sure. But often missing the mark? Absolutely. They focus on preserving a commercialized image of “baby Jesus” rather than embracing the full, transformative power of Christ in our lives. The real challenge isn’t just keeping Christ in a holiday—it’s keeping Christ in Christian.

A close-up portrait of a woman’s face seen through a shattered mirror, the broken glass symbolizing fractured identity and self-reflection.
Image: AI-generated by Rev. Todd R. Lattig using Adobe Firefly and modified by the author.

Part 16: Don’t Be a Hypocrite. As we navigate our daily lives, we often encounter situations where actions don’t align with words. This discrepancy can be seen in various aspects of society, from personal relationships to public policy. One area where this is particularly evident is in politics.

Consider the recent political landscape where both parties have been accused of hypocrisy regarding the filibuster. When in the minority, they often passionately defend it as a crucial tool for protecting minority rights. However, when they become the majority, they may seek to eliminate it to pass legislation more easily. This flip-flopping undermines trust and credibility. Similarly, politicians often criticize others for increasing deficits but do the same when they gain power. These actions highlight how hypocrisy can erode public trust and credibility.

Hypocrisy is a significant barrier that keeps many people, especially young adults, from attending church. They often perceive Christians as hypocritical, which affects the church’s credibility and appeal. This is a widespread issue that we must address.

Hypocrisy is not just a Christian problem; it’s a widespread human issue that involves saying one thing but doing another, often to cover up one’s sins or promote personal gain. This discrepancy damages character, blinds us to true discipleship, and tarnishes spiritual influence.

In our daily lives, we often face situations where hypocrisy can creep in. We might criticize others for actions we ourselves engage in, or we might change our stance based on convenience rather than principle. To avoid hypocrisy, we must strive for authenticity and accountability. This involves recognizing our own flaws and living genuinely, holding ourselves accountable for our actions, avoiding judgment of others, and addressing inconsistencies between our actions and values.

In rural communities, where relationships are often close-knit and trust is highly valued, living authentically is particularly important. This principle, however, applies universally across different contexts and communities. Authenticity fosters stronger bonds and trust, whether in urban, rural, or whatever settings you find yourself living in this increasingly small world.

In Matthew 23:1-12, Jesus confronts the Pharisees for their hypocrisy, emphasizing the importance of living out what we preach. This passage highlights the need for authenticity and accountability in our lives.

As we reflect on our own lives and communities, let’s strive to embody authenticity and accountability. By doing so, we can build trust and credibility, both within our churches and in the broader society. This journey towards authenticity is not easy, but it is essential for living out our faith genuinely. In Ecclesiastes 12:14, we’re reminded that God will bring every deed into judgment. This should motivate us to live authentically and avoid hypocrisy, knowing that our actions have consequences not just in this life but in eternity.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Hypocrisy is not just about what others do; it’s about our own actions and intentions. Let’s focus on living genuinely and holding ourselves accountable.

PRAYER
God, guide us in the path of authenticity and accountability. May our hearts be transformed, and may we live out Your will in our lives. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of Perplexity AI.

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 8: The One Jesus Loves

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Read John 13:21–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you forbid on earth will be forbidden in heaven, and whatever you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven.” (Matthew 16:19 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The One Jesus Loves” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The One Jesus Loves. There’s a moment in John’s Gospel—quiet, easily skipped over—where the one Jesus loves rests close enough to feel his heartbeat during the Last Supper. That’s the moment. Not the foot washing. Not the betrayal. Not even the bread and wine. But that tender, reclining closeness—the physical resting of someone on the heart of Christ.

And what’s wild is how much the Church has tried to sanitize that moment, to make it feel safe, distant, holy in the sterile sense. But what if it’s holy in the intimate sense? What if the one Jesus loves doesn’t look like who we expected? What if the closeness that shocked people then still shocks them now?

Let’s be clear: I’m not saying Jesus was queer. We are called to understand and honor who the historical Jesus actually was. But we also have to take his teachings seriously—as they were taught—in light of what we know now. That includes recognizing what is good and just today, even if the Church once called it sin. Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not permission to distort the Gospel, but a responsibility to interpret it with holy wisdom.

So we have to ask: why has the Church been so determined to bind up difference? Why are we so quick to declare the “other” unholy? Do we really think God is going to get in line with our traditions? Or demand we return in line with Christ?

You are already the one Jesus loves. Not after you change. Not once you conform. Right now. As you are. The becoming isn’t to earn love—it’s a response to it. And the becoming is not into something you never were… but into the most real self you’ve ever been. Not the mask. Not the performance. But the raw, radiant, rooted you that God recognized before anyone else had a name for you.

To say “God is love” isn’t a vague Hallmark sentiment—it’s a fierce theological claim. Love like that doesn’t flinch at your truth. It doesn’t recoil from your scars or try to filter your story through a lens of respectability. Love like that draws you close—not to fix you, but to free you.

We don’t need to twist the Gospel into something it’s not. But we do need to hear it again with ears unclogged by fear and power. We need to understand the teachings of Jesus—not as a weapon against difference, but as a call to deeper love, deeper justice, deeper welcome. And yes, that means reexamining what the Church once called sin in the light of what the Spirit is revealing now. Because Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not a threat—it’s a responsibility. So, again, why has the Church spent so long binding up beauty, truth, identity, queerness, color, complexity? Once more, do we really believe God is going to get in line with our traditions when they are not in line with Christ? Or are we finally ready to be snapped into God’s rhythm of grace?

The one Jesus loves is the one leaning in. The one close enough to hear the heartbeat. The one others overlook, sanitize, push aside—and yet still finds themselves pulled close to the chest of Christ. Not rejected. Not erased. Loved. And named.

So lean in, beloved. That space was always yours.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Gospel doesn’t erase you. It draws you closer to the truth of who you’ve always been.

PRAYER
Loving Jesus, I lean in. I rest on your chest. Let me hear your heartbeat louder than the noise of this world. Let your love redefine me—not into someone else, but into the truest me. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

BELOVED & BECOMING, Part 7: No Other Gods Before Me (Including the One You Pretend to Be)

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Read Matthew 7:1–5

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Put on your new nature, created to be like God—truly righteous and holy.” (Ephesians 4:24 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

A young adult stands before four tall mirrors, each reflecting a different version of themselves—businessperson, religious figure, professional woman, and gender-nonconforming individual—while they wear casual clothes and face the mirrors in warm, dramatic golden light.
Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and modified by the author; Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig, Human-authored.

Part 7: No Other Gods Before Me (Including the One You Pretend to Be). There was a time I stayed quiet. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t know. But because I wanted to keep the peace. I told myself I was being wise, pastoral, measured. I avoided “politics” in the pulpit and steered clear of anything that might upset the balance. People told me I was a good pastor. Faithful. Godly. Respectable.

But deep down, I knew I was performing.

Then George Floyd was murdered. And silence was no longer holy.

Truly, it never had been.

I remembered my vows—not just as a pastor, but as a United Methodist: to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. Not when convenient. Not when the congregation is ready. But always. At whatever cost.

That’s when I stepped into Christian activism. I started speaking publicly about privilege, injustice, and the need for not just equality, but equity. And while I still reject partisanship—because God’s kingdom isn’t red or blue—I stopped pretending neutrality was faithfulness. It wasn’t. It was self-protection, disguised as virtue.

And the same has been true around sexuality. For years, I kept quiet to “not rock the boat.” But Jesus didn’t call me to comfort. Jesus rocked boats—including the ones his disciples were in. Including mine.

It’s easy to make idols out of things we think are good—like being a “strong leader,” a “godly example,” or even “straight” or “cisgendered.” But when those roles become masks we hide behind… they stop being holy. They start being idols. And idols, by their nature, demand sacrifice. We lose ourselves trying to play the part. We silence our truths to stay safe. We distance ourselves from those who are different, just to maintain an image of purity or correctness. But that’s not righteousness—it’s roleplaying. And Jesus didn’t say, “Blessed are the performers.”

He said, “Don’t judge.”

Because when we put ourselves in the place of God—whether in judgment of others or in constructing an image of perfection—we break the very first commandment. “You shall have no other gods before me.” That includes the one you pretend to be.

We perform for many reasons: to avoid rejection, to keep the peace, to survive. But God never asked for the curated version of you. God asked for you. The real you. The broken-and-beloved you. The one made in God’s image, not built in someone else’s mold. The version the world told you to become might be admired… but only the real you can be free.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
We are never closer to God than when we stop performing—and start living in truth.

PRAYER
God of truth, I’ve worn masks to survive—but you see through every layer. Help me let go of the false self I perform for others. When I’m tempted to seek approval instead of justice, remind me who I really am: your beloved. Give me courage to resist evil, not just quietly but boldly. May I live from truth, not fear—from love, not performance. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours

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Read Genesis 1:26–27

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands except the one who receives it.” (Revelation 2:17 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Three diverse individuals stand side by side, outdoors, in casual, affirming poses—each representing unique expressions of gender identity and belonging.
Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and modified by the author; Poetry: written by Tristan Robert Lange, Human-authored.

Part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours. I’ve never liked being called by my last name. Still don’t. It feels cold. Generic. Like I’m being categorized instead of known. “Lattig” belongs to my family—but I’m Todd. That’s who I’ve always been.

Todd, who loved stuffed animals and begged his mom for a Cabbage Patch Kid. Todd, who played with Barbies and battled He-Man in the same afternoon. Who couldn’t do a push-up, but could name every doll in his sister’s toy chest. I loved stories, softness, and strength—not in opposition, but in harmony.

From a young age, I always related better with girls than boys. I wasn’t a jock. I wasn’t loud or aggressive. But I was me.

And still, over and over again, the world tried to rename me. With titles. With assumptions. With ideas about what boys should be, how men should act, and what it meant to belong.

But God never got my name—or my identity—wrong.

“Male and female he created them.” It’s one of the most quoted lines from Scripture—and one of the most misused. For generations, the Church has clung to this verse as proof that gender is fixed, binary, and divinely assigned. But Genesis 1 wasn’t written to define gender roles or validate modern ideologies. It was written during exile—as poetry, not policy. As worship, not anatomy.

Yes, the text refers to biological sex. Ancient people observed male and female bodies. That’s not in dispute. But the assumption that those two categories fully explain the image of God? That’s not biblical. That’s cultural. And when the Church weaponizes this verse to police identity, it distorts the very passage it claims to uphold.

We know now what the ancients didn’t: biological sex isn’t a strict binary. Intersex people exist—and always have. So even on a physical level, “male and female” doesn’t describe everyone. But what’s more, gender identity—who we know ourselves to be—isn’t written on our bodies. It’s written in relationship, language, experience, and soul. And God knows all of that. None of it is outside the image. None of it is outside the blessing.

Genesis 1 says we were created in the image of God. That’s the focus. “Male and female” is part of the poetry—but it’s not the punchline. The image of God is bigger than bodies. Bigger than binaries. Bigger than the limits we love to impose.

Because the point of the creation story was never to flatten diversity. It was to name it holy.

We talk a lot in the Church about being called. Called to ministry. Called to serve. Called by name. But rarely do we stop and ask: what name?

Because the name people use for you—and the pronouns they choose to affirm or deny—tell you everything about whether they see you as a child of God, or just a role to play.

Too many people know what it feels like to be misnamed in God’s house. To be told, in subtle or not-so-subtle ways, that their identity is a problem, a phase, a sin, or a distraction. That who they know themselves to be—whether trans, nonbinary, or otherwise outside the norms—is somehow outside the image of God.

But Scripture tells a different story.

The God of the Bible is not obsessed with rigid categories. God is obsessed with calling people by name—and sometimes even changing those names when the old ones no longer fit.

Abram becomes Abraham. Sarai becomes Sarah. Jacob wrestles with God and is renamed Israel. Simon becomes Peter. Saul becomes Paul. Jesus is named Emmanuel—and called the Christ. In every case, naming is not about control. It’s about calling someone into the fullness of who they are.

When we tell someone their pronouns don’t matter, we’re not defending God. We’re denying the very thing God does best: calling people into life by name.

This isn’t about pronouns being trendy or political. It’s about pronouns being personal. They are shorthand for dignity. For visibility. For the image of God reflected in someone’s life.

When someone tells you their pronouns, they’re not demanding special treatment. They’re inviting you to see them as they truly are—without pretending, without performing, without hiding.

And when a church refuses to honor that? When it insists on old names, dead names, wrong pronouns, or no pronouns at all? It’s not holding the line of faith. It’s blocking the tomb. Because you can’t shout “Come out!” like Jesus did—if you’re unwilling to unbind what holds people back.

The call of Christ is not to enforce conformity. It’s to participate in resurrection. And resurrection is always personal. It doesn’t just raise the body—it restores the name.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The image of God is not limited to male or female—it includes all who bear God’s breath and name. To honor someone’s identity is not rebellion. It’s resurrection.

PRAYER
Creator God, you shaped us in your image—diverse and whole. You call us by name and see us clearly, even when others try to define us by roles or fear. Help us listen when others speak their truth, and speak our own with courage. May our sanctuaries become places where identities are honored, not erased, and where your image is seen in every name, every pronoun, every beloved life. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb

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Read John 11:38–44

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“You have been raised to new life with Christ. So set your sights on the realities of heaven…” (Colossians 3:1 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

A light-skinned transgender man with a short beard sits cross-legged on a hardwood floor, flipping through a photo album. Natural light softly illuminates the room, casting a quiet, introspective mood as he reflects on the images within.
Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Coming Out of the Tomb” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb. He hadn’t meant to open it. The photo album. It just fell off the shelf while he was reaching for something else. Thick, vinyl-bound. The kind that smells like old glue and ghosts. He sat on the floor and flipped it open—page after page of some other boy’s life.

Except the boy was in dresses. Hair curled. Smiling. Always smiling. And every part of him wanted to scream. Because that was him. And it wasn’t.

He remembered how tight the shoes were. How the lace itched. How the compliments stung. “So beautiful.” “Such a pretty little girl.”

He remembered the way his chest sank every time someone used the wrong name—not just wrong, but impossible. Like they were naming a stranger that only he had to become.

He didn’t have words for it back then. Just a hollow ache. Just a sense that something was off and he was the problem. So he learned to perform. Smile for the camera. Say thank you. Don’t make it weird.

But now, as a grown man flipping through a scrapbook of someone else’s expectations, he felt it like a funeral—one he never asked for but had been made to attend.

Years ago, he came out as a trans man. Not for attention. Not to make a point. He was just done pretending. Done shrinking. Done dying politely.

But the album was still there—heavy as ever, shelved like scripture. And sometimes, someone would still flip it open and smile wistfully, landing on a page and saying, “You were always such a happy little girl.”

He never knew what to say to that. They meant it as a memory. But to him, it was a myth. A horrible lie, sealed in plastic, that almost cost him his life.

He closed the album. Not with anger—but with a strange kind of peace. The past couldn’t be undone, but it didn’t get the final word. He was alive now. Fully, finally, painfully alive. And that’s when resurrection really begins.

When Jesus stood outside Lazarus’s tomb, he didn’t blame him for being dead. He didn’t call him out with judgment. He called him by name: “Lazarus, come out.” And then—this part is easy to miss—he turned to the others and said, “Unbind him. Let him go.”

Friends, resurrection doesn’t end at the moment of awakening. It begins there.

Coming out is a resurrection. And like all resurrections, it’s messy. It doesn’t happen with makeup done and hair perfectly styled. It doesn’t look like a Hallmark moment. It often looks like staggering out of a dark place, wrapped in grave clothes that other people put on you. It looks like truth rising through dust. Like life interrupting someone else’s narrative.

Too many people think coming out—whether it’s as queer, trans, disabled, neurodivergent, or simply not what they expected—is some act of rebellion. They call it selfish. They call it sinful. They call it confusing. But what if it’s holy?

What if resurrection means walking out of the tomb with your head held high, even if your voice still shakes? What if grace looks like unwrapping the grave clothes of shame, fear, and forced performance—and refusing to let other people call that death life? And what if the church’s role isn’t to stand at the entrance of the tomb demanding answers, but to help unbind the ones God has already called to rise?

Because if Jesus called Lazarus by name, you can be sure he knows yours too. And when he calls, he doesn’t say, “Come back.” He says, “Come out.”

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Coming out is not rebellion. It is resurrection. And Jesus is the one who calls you by name.

PRAYER
God of the living, you call us out of shame and into truth, out of silence and into song, out of tombs and into life. Help us to hear your voice—and to follow. When others still see a corpse, you see a beloved. Give us courage to rise, and surround us with people who help unbind what no longer belongs. In the name of the risen Christ, who knows our names and our scars, Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 4: The Body You Bear

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Read Isaiah 53:2–3

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“But I will show love to those I called ‘Not loved.’ And to those I called ‘Not my people,’ I will say, ‘Now you are my people.’” (Hosea 2:23 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Beloved & Becoming: The Body You Bear” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 4: The Body You Bear. I was awkward, gangly—queer in ways I didn’t yet have language for. Oh, but my peers had the language for me. “Wuss,” “faggot,” “homo,” “sissy,” “girl,” etc. The Physical Fitness Test felt less like a measure of health and more like a public performance I was destined to fail. Pull-ups? I barely managed a hang. Running laps? I came in last. The clipboard wasn’t just tracking numbers—it was tracking shame. The kids laughed. The teacher chuckled. And I shrank a little more each time, wondering if I’d ever measure up to a body, a standard, a world that wasn’t built for me.

There was no need to say it aloud: I didn’t belong. At least, that’s what the test—and the reactions around it—seemed to affirm. It wasn’t just my body that was found wanting. It was me. My softness. My sensitivity. My difference. The clipboard didn’t just log reps and times—it logged who was worthy, and who wasn’t.

Decades later, I look back on that sweaty gym floor and realize how many adults carry those same clipboards in our minds. We may not wear PE uniforms anymore, but the tests remain. They’ve just gone digital. Are you strong enough? Straight enough? Masculine enough? Feminine enough? Successful enough? Stable enough? Have you checked the right boxes? Are you passing the invisible test?

And for those of us who’ve always been marked as “different”—because of our gender, sexuality, neurodivergence, bodies, backgrounds, or beliefs—the weight of that measuring sticks deeper. We’re not just trying to succeed. We’re trying to be seen. We’re trying to survive.

But thank God, there’s another voice. A different kind of measuring.

In Isaiah 53, the prophet speaks of a man “despised and rejected”—a man of sorrows acquainted with grief. He had nothing beautiful or majestic about his appearance, nothing to attract us. That’s the body God chose to bear the suffering of the world.

I think about that body—wounded, marginalized, misunderstood—as a sacred symbol for all the bodies that don’t fit the world’s ideals. Bodies like mine. Bodies like yours. Bodies rejected, mocked, overlooked.

God’s love doesn’t hinge on perfection or performance. It’s given to the despised, the rejected, the broken-hearted. Those who carry grief and scars are the very ones God holds close.

In Hosea, God promises to show love to those once called “Not loved,” and to bring those once called “Not my people” into the family. That promise is for every body that’s been told it doesn’t belong.

Your body is not a test to pass. It is a temple of God’s presence, a vessel of belovedness—crafted by the Divine, held by grace, and called to shine with holy dignity. In every scar, every curve, every breath, God’s love is made visible. You are sacred. You are whole. You are deeply, unconditionally beloved.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God’s measure is not in strength or beauty but in love and belonging. Your body—exactly as it is—is holy ground.

PRAYER
God of wounded beauty, thank you for choosing the rejected and carrying our sorrows. Help me to see my body as you see it: beloved, sacred, and whole. When I feel the weight of judgment, remind me of your unwavering love. Teach me to stop measuring myself against what you never asked of me and help me walk, not in performance—but in purpose. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 3: Blessed Are the Misfits

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Read Matthew 5:1–12

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.” (1 Corinthians 1:27 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Four individuals—diverse in race and gender, including a visibly transgender person—stand prayerfully inside a Protestant church sanctuary, holding a rainbow Pride flag. Sunlight filters through arched windows, casting a warm glow across the quiet, reverent scene.
Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Holy Unbecoming” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Blessed Are the Misfits. When I was in sixth grade, I got into a fight with a kid who had bullied me before. This time, I lost. Badly. I can’t remember the punches, just the shame. The trying-to-be-normal and never quite passing. The teasing in the hallways. The mockery I swallowed to survive. But what I remember most didn’t come from another student. It came from a teacher. One day, in front of everyone, she called me a queerbait.

Even then, I didn’t know exactly what it meant—but I knew it meant something. Something “off.” Something unwanted. Something wrong. I felt exposed. Named. Not in the holy way God names us. In the way the world does—by what makes us different. Strange. Easy to dismiss. Fun to fear.

My mom came in, furious, and the teacher backpedaled: “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… he’s unique. Different.” To her credit, that never happened again and she always treated me with respect and decency afterward, which hadn’t always been the case in past experience.

Maybe she thought she was offering a compliment. Maybe she was trying to explain away something society told her not to say aloud. But the damage was done. Not just by the word—but by the implication that being different was something to be whispered around, excused, or coded.

Years later, I’ve come to see that word for what it means. Queer. Strange. Different. Odd. Unique. And I claim my queerness. Isn’t that exactly who Jesus was talking to on that hillside in Matthew 5? Not the put-together. Not the powerful. But the meek. The mourners. The hungry. The harassed. The ones who didn’t fit in the world’s boxes and couldn’t pass the purity test.

Blessed are the misfits. The ones who walk into a room and feel the silence first. The ones who carry stories that don’t tidy up into sermon illustrations. The ones who are called names—and find belovedness anyway.

Maybe Jesus wasn’t offering a list of spiritual goals to strive for. Maybe he was simply describing the kind of people already sitting in front of him—tired, tender, poor, rejected, queer—and saying, “You’re the ones God sees. You’re the ones God blesses.” He wasn’t telling them to get their act together. He was telling them they already belonged.

That’s still radical. Especially in a world that tells us to clean up, shut up, shape up, and stop queering up just to be welcome in the streets, let alone in the pews. But Jesus didn’t start his ministry with a call to perfection. He started with a call to blessing—for the ones most often excluded from it.

I used to think blessing was something we had to earn. Now I know it’s something we recognize when we stop pretending. When we bring our full selves—awkward, unsure, complicated—to God without apology. When we stop performing and just show up. Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are those who figured it all out.” He says, “Blessed are you.”

The Beatitudes were never about who could rise to God’s standard. They were about who already mattered—exactly as they were. That includes the ones who’ve been laughed at, passed over, kicked out, called names, and rejected by the very people who claim to speak for God. And in Matthew 25, Jesus makes it clear to those who wish to exclude: You are excluding me.

So if you’ve ever felt too queer, too awkward, too unsure, too complicated—know this: you’re already held in divine favor. You’re not outside the blessing. You are the blessing. Jesus didn’t wait for you to get it together. He looked right at you and said, “Blessed are you.”

Indeed, blessed you are!

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Jesus doesn’t bless the ones who perform best. He blesses the ones who show up real. If you’ve ever been called “too much” or “not enough,” hear this: you are exactly the kind of person the Kingdom belongs to.

PRAYER
God of the outcast and the overlooked, thank you for calling us blessed even when the world calls us broken. Help me to see the holiness in what makes me different. Help me stop hiding and start healing. Let me live in the light of your love—just as I am. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 2: Holy Unbecoming

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About This Series
Started during Pride Month 2025, this series is for anyone who’s ever been told they had to become someone else to be loved by God. It’s a journey of returning to the sacred self God created—especially for those whose stories have been silenced or shamed.

Read Romans 13:11–14

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Clothe yourself with the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. And don’t let yourself think about ways to indulge your evil desires.” (Romans 13:14 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

A man stands silently before a mirror in a dimly lit room, his reflection solemn. At his feet, a navy blazer lies crumpled on the hardwood floor, symbolizing the act of letting go.
Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Beloved & Becoming: Holy Unbecoming” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 2: Holy Unbecoming. He used to wear the blazer like armor. Not for fashion. Not for warmth. Not even for respect, exactly. But because somewhere along the line, he learned that dressing sharp could soften the room. A crisp collar made people look past the voice that trembled. A fitted jacket distracted from the way his hands always fidgeted. If he showed up polished, maybe they wouldn’t see how messy he felt inside.

The thing is, it worked—for a while.

Job interviews went smoother. Church folks smiled more. Even his family, once critical, started saying he seemed “more grounded.” What they meant was: he looked like someone they could finally understand. And let’s be honest—some part of him liked the feeling of being seen as competent, even admired. He got good at it. So good, he nearly forgot it was a performance.

But somewhere between the dry cleaning tags and polite smiles, he started to wonder who was underneath all that tailoring. He wore the blazer even on days he didn’t need to. Until one morning, standing in front of the mirror, something in him cracked. He slid it off, not in anger but in ache. For the first time, he didn’t want to be impressive.

He wanted to be real.

The process of unbecoming is not easy. Especially when the world has praised you for the mask you wear. It’s a slow shedding—layer by layer—of identities we’ve worn to survive. It’s the realization that holiness isn’t found in how well we’ve adapted to others’ expectations. It’s found in the brave return to the soul God breathed into us.

Paul’s words in Romans 13 are urgent: “Wake up… the night is almost gone… the day of salvation will soon be here.” This isn’t a threat. It’s a plea to step out of hiding and live fully in the light. To cast off falsehood—not just immoral behavior, but the exhausting roles we perform to win approval. To put on Christ is not to disguise ourselves in religion, but to be clothed in the love that sees us clearly and stays.

Paul writes that we are to “clothe ourselves with the presence of Christ.” That’s not an invitation to hide behind religious niceties. It’s a call to authenticity. Jesus didn’t perform holiness. He embodied it—through compassion, confrontation, hunger, grief, joy, and tears. To put on Christ is to strip away everything false, and dare to believe that our unvarnished, vulnerable selves are where grace meets us first.

Holy unbecoming is what happens when we stop striving and start listening. When we allow the Spirit to dismantle the false self and rebuild us in truth. It’s messy. Tender. Often misunderstood. But it’s also where freedom lives.

Letting go of who we were told to be isn’t rebellion—it’s resurrection. It’s the slow and sacred work of becoming the beloved we already are.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God doesn’t ask us to pretend. God asks us to be present. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is lay down the mask and trust that what’s underneath is still worthy of love.

PRAYER
God, I’ve worn so many identities just to feel safe. Help me lay them down. Help me remember who I am—who you made me to be—and give me courage to live from that truth. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 1: Not Who We Wished God Made

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About This Series
Started during Pride Month 2025, this series is for anyone who’s ever been told they had to become someone else to be loved by God. It’s a journey of returning to the sacred self God created—especially for those whose stories have been silenced or shamed.

Read Psalm 139:13-16

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7b NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image Caption: Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Not Who We Wished God Made” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 1: Not Who We Wished God Made. He stood in front of the mirror like it was a witness. Shirt off. Breath held. Not to admire—never that—but to prepare. He tugged at his shirt before even putting it on, stretching it so it wouldn’t cling. Shoulders slouched inward, more defense than posture. He didn’t hate his body—not exactly. But he’d spent years treating it like something to apologize for.

And the mirror remembered.

It remembered the kitchen table—age eight—when his uncle laughed and told him to stop stuffing his face or he’d turn into a walking meatball. “Better learn now, kid. Nobody marries the fat one.” The words stuck harder than the food ever did.

It remembered middle school, when boys hooked their fingers through the loop on the back of his shirt—the so-called “fag tag”—and yanked, grinning as they spit the word like gum. It was supposed to be funny. It wasn’t. And it didn’t stop.

It remembered the church potluck, the woman at the serving table who gave him a second helping with a wink and said, “Don’t worry—God loves us big boys too.” Her tone was sweet. The shame was not.

It remembered the date who ghosted. The pastor who called his baggy clothes a sign of humility. The job interview where no one looked him in the eye until he mentioned his degree.

Every time he dressed, it became a kind of translation. What do they want to see today? Not too loud. Not too soft. Not too “emotional.” Not too “fabulous.” Just… not too much.

He didn’t want to be admired. He just didn’t want to be erased. And in that quiet, staring back at himself, he still wondered—though he feared the answer—if God looked at him the same way he did: through the eyes of everyone who’d wished him smaller.

The psalmist wrote, “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb.” That’s not a metaphor for a sanitized version of ourselves—it’s the raw, real beginning. God saw everything—every curve, every quirk, every contradiction—and called it wonderfully made.

But that’s not the version most of us were taught to love. Somewhere along the way, someone handed us a template: be strong, but not soft. Be pure, but not weird. Be faithful, but not too much of yourself. The result? We try to become who we think God wished God made—shaving off the parts that might offend, hiding the parts that don’t “belong.”

Yet Psalm 139 isn’t about who we might become if we work hard enough. It’s about the God who already saw us and called us good. Before the world told us to shrink, God was already forming something beautiful. Before the bullies, the uncles, the pulpits, the potlucks—God was already knitting. Already blessing. Already calling us known.

When we try to become someone else for the sake of belonging, we aren’t just hiding ourselves—we’re denying the sacredness of God’s design. That doesn’t mean we don’t grow, repent, or transform. But transformation doesn’t mean erasure. Becoming doesn’t mean abandoning. It means unfolding—step by step—into the truth that was planted in us before we ever knew how to be afraid of it.

The question isn’t whether God loves us. That part is settled. The question is: will we stop wishing to be someone else long enough to believe it?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God doesn’t love the version of you you’ve performed to survive. God loves you. The real, unfiltered, unpolished you. That’s where becoming begins.

PRAYER
God, forgive me for chasing someone you never asked me to become. Help me remember who you made me to be—and to trust that it is good. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

SEVEN LOADED LETTERS, Part 8: The Church That Held On

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SEVEN LOADED LETTERS, Part 8: The Church That Held On

Read Revelation 3:7-13

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Lord your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” (Zephaniah 3:17 NLT)

The Book of Revelation opens not with beasts or bowls, but with a voice—a call that echoes through time and space to a Church both ancient and present. These seven letters, delivered to communities scattered across Asia Minor, are more than historical artifacts. They are loaded with truth, urgency, and love. They speak to us, challenge us, and strip away illusions. In every age, Christ’s words to the Church still ask us to listen—and respond.

A lone figure stands in a shadowed sanctuary, reaching toward an open door radiating golden light. Seven candlesticks—three on each side and one beside the door—burn steadily, illuminating the path forward. The scene evokes perseverance, faithfulness, and divine invitation.
Image: AI-generated using OpenAI’s DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Church That Held On” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The Church That Held On. Jesus’ words to Philadelphia stand apart from the others. This church receives no rebuke. No harsh critique. Just encouragement, affirmation, and a simple plea: keep going. In a world addicted to power and spectacle, Jesus recognizes their quiet faithfulness. “You have little strength,” he says, “yet you obeyed my word and did not deny me.”

Philadelphia wasn’t the biggest or flashiest church. They didn’t have the numbers, the budget, or the prestige. But they had integrity. And when everything in the surrounding culture told them to compromise, to conform, to just give up—they held on.

Today, that kind of faith can feel invisible. The churches that grab headlines are often the ones that bow to political idols or chase celebrity pastors and prosperity promises. Meanwhile, smaller congregations that cling to Christ amid declining attendance or cultural irrelevance may feel forgotten. But Jesus hasn’t forgotten. He says: I’ve placed before you an open door no one can shut.

That phrase is powerful. Jesus doesn’t promise ease or success. He promises access—to himself, to the Kingdom, to a future that the world can’t block. No gatekeeping megachurch, no ideology, no empire can close a door he has opened.

There’s something deeply subversive here. Philadelphia may have been looked down on, but Jesus lifts them up. They had little strength, but they had unshakable faith. They were poor in power but rich in perseverance. They didn’t assimilate to the empire. They didn’t chase cultural approval. They just stayed true.

This isn’t about nostalgia or clinging to tradition for tradition’s sake. It’s about holding fast to the truth that Jesus is the Holy One, the True One, the One who holds the key of David. It’s about remembering who we follow—and why.

To those who overcome, Jesus promises a name—a new identity—and a place. Not celebrity. Not a platform. But a pillar in the temple of God. That’s not just metaphor. That’s legacy. That’s home.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Faithfulness rarely looks flashy. But Jesus sees. And the open doors he gives are worth more than any human spotlight.

PRAYER
Jesus, help us hold on. When we feel tired or invisible, remind us that you see. Give us courage to remain faithful—to you, to your call, to your open door. Make us pillars not in reputation, but in love. Amen.

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