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Devotional, Series

Sacred Symbols of Subversion, Part 3: Celtic Cross

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read Acts 17:22-28

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For through him God created everything in the heavenly realms and on earth. He made the things we can see and the things we can’t see…” (Colossians 1:16 NLT)

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

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Celtic Cross” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Celtic Cross. The Celtic Cross looks familiar enough at first glance: a cross with a circle embracing the center. Some see it as simply “Irish decoration,” a piece of jewelry or a tattoo. Others have questioned its origins, noting the circle’s resemblance to ancient sun symbols, and wondered if it is too tied to paganism to be fully Christian. But to stop there is to miss the subversive genius of Patrick.

Patrick knew that the Gospel was not about erasing culture but inhabiting it. The circle already carried deep meaning for the Irish people—cosmic order, eternity, the sun as source of life. Instead of destroying those associations, Patrick proclaimed Christ as the true center of creation. The circle around the cross became a symbol of heaven and earth united, eternity embracing history, God’s love holding all things together. This was not compromise but incarnation: God meeting people in their own symbols and showing how Christ fulfilled them.

The same is true of the Celtic knotwork so often carved into crosses, manuscripts, and artwork. Long before Christianity, these endless interlacing designs spoke of cycles, continuity, and the eternal weave of life. Patrick and his followers did not forbid them; they baptized them. The knots came to symbolize eternal life in Christ, the unbroken mystery of the Trinity, and the interconnection of all creation held together in God. What was once a pagan pattern became a Christian proclamation, a visual catechism of faith.

We forget this today. Too often Christianity has taken the Roman road—demanding conquest, drawing boundaries, colonizing culture. It’s the approach we see in voices like Charlie Kirk, Franklin Graham, John MacArthur, and James Dobson. Their posture treats faith as a weapon in a culture war, as though the goal of the Gospel is to dominate rather than to dwell, to erase rather than to redeem. It is the old imperial instinct, baptized and rebranded.

Patrick shows us another way. And he is not alone. Desmond Tutu embodied it in South Africa, proclaiming justice with joy, enculturating faith into liberation rather than letting empire define it. St. Francis of Assisi embraced poverty and preached even to the birds, revealing Christ in simplicity and creation. Pope Francis became a global voice for mercy, dialogue, and encounter—meeting cultures where they were, not erasing them. And Patrick himself baptized the very symbols of the Irish, turning their cosmology and knotwork into catechism without burning their traditions to the ground.

This is the subversion of the Celtic Cross. What was once a pagan sign became a Christian one. What could have been rejected as “unclean” was instead redeemed as holy. The same is true of many symbols we take for granted today—Christmas trees, Easter eggs, wedding rings. Once pagan, now Christian, not by conquest but by Christ’s inhabiting.

And here lies the challenge for us. Too often we live in a black-and-white world: if it’s “Christian,” it must be good; if it’s “secular” or “pagan,” it must be bad. We treat culture as something to fear, to conquer, or to wall ourselves off from. But Patrick’s witness—and the witness of Tutu, Francis, and so many others—is that Christ is not threatened by culture. Christ enters in, transforms from within, and shows us God’s glory even in places we once dismissed as foreign or unclean.

The danger today is flattening the Celtic Cross into mere Irish décor or heritage branding, forgetting its radical message. To wear it as jewelry is fine, but to live it is far more demanding. It asks us: will we try to dominate the world with our faith, or will we let Christ dwell within the world’s symbols, speaking the Gospel in a language people can hear?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Gospel doesn’t erase culture—it redeems it.

PRAYER
God of creation, you are not bound by our lines or limits. Forgive us when we try to conquer rather than to love, when we fight culture wars instead of proclaiming Christ crucified. Teach us the subversive genius of Patrick: to see your presence even in unexpected places, and to trust that your Spirit is big enough to redeem what we cannot control. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Symbols of Subversion, Part 2: Cross

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read 1 Corinthians 1:18-25

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“If any of you wants to be my follower, you must give up your own way, take up your cross daily, and follow me.” (Luke 9:23 NLT)

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

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

Part 2: The Cross. The cross is no trinket. It is no harmless decoration. It was a grotesque, horrific instrument of capital punishment, designed not only to kill but to humiliate and terrorize. Crucifixion was slow, brutal, and deliberately public.

The condemned were tied or nailed naked to wooden beams, stripped of dignity as well as clothing, and left to suffocate under the weight of their own body. Each breath became harder than the last. The body’s weight pressed down on the lungs, so the victim had to push up on torn feet just to inhale, each movement scraping flesh against rough wood. Hours stretched into days.

Friends and family, if they dared to come near, could only watch in grief as their loved one slowly collapsed under the strain. Meanwhile, the scent of blood carried far, drawing insects to swarm the wounds and scavenger birds to circle overhead. Dogs or jackals sometimes prowled beneath the crosses, waiting for what Rome would not bother to bury. Crucifixion was not only execution; it was degradation, meant to erase humanity itself.

To put it in modern terms, it would be as if a faith today chose the electric chair, the noose, the firing squad, or the lethal injection needle as its central symbol. That’s how scandalous the cross was in the first century. And yet, Christians did exactly that. They lifted high what the world despised. They proclaimed Christ crucified. Paul admitted it sounded like foolishness—who builds a movement around a state execution?—but to those who believed, it became the very power of God.

Over time, though, the scandal faded. The cross was polished, gilded, carved into pulpits, worn as jewelry. It became safe, sentimental, even weaponized. Some hold it up as a symbol of cultural dominance or political power—ironically, the very thing it meant to the Romans who first used it. But here is the subversion: Christians inverted the meaning. Rome used the cross to proclaim its absolute power; the Church proclaimed the cross as the place where God’s love broke the empire’s grip. What began as a tool of terror became, in Christ, the sign of salvation.

This is one reason why I do not, under any circumstance, support the death penalty. Yes, there are passages of Scripture that seem to condone it. But I believe the Gospel itself must be our standard, and Jesus’ teachings must be our guide. Jesus was himself a victim of capital punishment, executed as an enemy of the state. To hold up the cross while endorsing modern executions feels, to me, like a contradiction too deep to reconcile. That is my position, one I live and teach true to. I do not judge those who struggle with it, because I have too. And I certainly do not condemn those who disagree. But I cannot escape the reality that the cross calls us to something different.

To take up the cross daily is not to wear a charm, but to embrace a costly way of life. It is to stand with the condemned, not condemn them further. It is to resist the cruelty of empire, not baptize it as righteous. It is to embody love, not vengeance—even in the face of death.

The cross still subverts every attempt to wrap violence in the language of virtue, every effort to sanctify exclusion, every excuse we make for injustice. It will not let us demonize LGBTQ people, scapegoat people of color, or silence women who cry out after being assaulted. It will not let us trample the marginalized while pretending to defend the faith.

Christ will not be hijacked by nationalists, culture warriors, or power-hungry voices who try to turn the Gospel into a weapon. Instead, the cross dares us to see Christ—broken, bleeding, condemned—and still confess: this is the One who saves us.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The cross is not a decoration but a defiant witness: Christ crucified, and Christ alone as Lord.

PRAYER
God of mercy, forgive us when we make the cross safe or sentimental. Teach us again to see it for what it is: the place where empire’s violence met your radical love. Help me to follow Christ with courage, standing with the suffering, rejecting vengeance, and living the way of costly grace. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 1: The Sign of the Cross

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Read Matthew 28:18-20

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For I am not ashamed of this Good News about Christ. It is the power of God at work, saving everyone who believes…” (Romans 1:16 NLT)

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

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sign of the Cross” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 1: Sign of the Cross. From the earliest days of the Church, Christians marked themselves with the cross. Tracing forehead, chest, and shoulders was a prayer in motion—a way to remember baptism, to claim protection in Christ, and to show where their allegiance lay. To sign yourself with the cross in the Roman world was risky; it announced to all that you belonged not to Caesar but to Christ. In times of persecution, when even a whispered prayer could invite danger, the sign of the cross was a visible act of courage. It reminded believers that their lives were not their own—they had been bought with a price.

There is also the sign a pastor or priest makes when blessing others, with three fingers pressed together to proclaim the Trinity and two bent down to confess Christ’s dual nature. That gesture is catechesis in motion—doctrine written into the very hand, tracing the cross outward as blessing. The Church used symbols like this not just for decoration but for teaching; the faithful learned the deepest truths of Christianity by what they could see and touch, even if they could not read. Both forms, whether made by the believer or bestowed by a minister, carried deep meaning: allegiance to Christ, confession of faith, and blessing in his name.

And yet, many of us—especially in Protestant traditions—abandoned these signs. We dismissed them as “too Catholic,” “superstitious,” or “empty ritual.” But that was ignorance. In casting them aside, we lost not only symbols that connect us to our baptismal identity, but also a gesture that taught the mystery of our faith in body and hand. What was once a radical embodied witness was reduced to a ritual caricature—or forgotten altogether. The loss has left our faith poorer, more disembodied, and less connected to the practices that once grounded everyday discipleship. Christianity became increasingly intellectualized, treated as a set of beliefs to agree with rather than a way of life to embody.

This is why the connection to Matthew 28 is so important. When Jesus sent his disciples out with the Great Commission, he commanded them to baptize “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The sign of the cross is, in many ways, a miniature act of that Great Commission. To trace the cross over yourself or others is to confess the Trinity, to remember your baptism, to place yourself under Christ’s authority, and to carry his promise—“I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” It is the Commission embodied in a single gesture.

That is why I have reclaimed the practice in my own life and ministry. I make the sign of the cross in worship, I trace it in blessing, and I use it in quiet moments of prayer. Each time, I am reminded that I am marked as Christ’s own, confessing both the mystery of the Trinity and the dual nature of Christ. Embodied practices matter because they root faith in daily life; they keep us from reducing Christianity to abstract ideas or empty slogans. When I trace the cross over someone during a blessing, I am not performing a quaint ritual. I am declaring that they, too, are beloved of God, sealed with Christ’s promise, and carried in the Spirit’s care.

In a world that constantly tries to claim us—through nationalism, consumerism, or ego—the sign of the cross is a small, defiant act of faith. It is a refusal to bow to lesser gods. It is a prayer that says my body, my spirit, and my future are not for sale. And it is a blessing that pushes back against fear, reminding us that Christ has already claimed the final word. What looks like a simple gesture becomes, in truth, a radical proclamation: Jesus Christ is Lord.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The sign of the cross—whether traced on yourself or offered in blessing—is a subversive act that reclaims your identity as Christ’s own.

PRAYER
Lord Jesus, you claimed me in baptism and sealed me with your Spirit. Help me to reclaim the sacred signs of faith, not as empty ritual but as radical witness. May my body, words, and life bear the mark of your cross, today and always. Amen.

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

Devotional, Previous Post, Series

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.

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?

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?

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?

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?

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).