Tag Archives: Christian

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 10: The Skull

Leave a comment

Read Mark 15:22–39

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Better to spend your time at funerals than at parties. After all, everyone dies—so the living should take this to heart.” (Ecclesiastes 7:2 NLT)

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

A photorealistic image of a large skull pierced through by a wooden cross, surrounded by other skulls in a dimly lit stone catacomb. A single candle burns nearby, casting warm golden light that contrasts the darkness, symbolizing death overcome by resurrection.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Skull” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 10: The Skull. October is full of skulls—on shelves, shirts, and front lawns. Some wear them as rebellion; others treat them as decoration. But long before they became Halloween props, the Church used the skull as a reminder: memento mori—“remember you will die.” For centuries, believers looked at the skull not to glorify death but to confront denial. Yet there’s another truth here. Death may be the great leveller, but it’s also the great thief—robbing the world of breath, joy, and love. And yet, in Christ, even that thief meets its match.

I write poetry, and much of it is dark—haunted by death, decay, and the ache of being human. Some have judged that darkness as morbid, even un-Christian. But I’ve always believed art should speak the truth we’re taught to avoid. We treat death like a taboo, pretending it’s impolite to mention or too heavy to hold—as if silence could protect us from it. But denying death doesn’t sanctify life; it cheapens it. Faith, like poetry, must face what’s real if it’s to mean anything at all.

Golgotha—“the place of the skull”—stood just outside Jerusalem’s walls, a place of spectacle and shame. Rome staged executions there to remind everyone who ruled life and death. The hill itself became a billboard for fear. But in God’s strange reversal, that place of horror became the stage of salvation. The skull, symbol of mortality and defeat, became the site where Death itself was unmasked. What empire used for terror, God turned into triumph.

Early Christians didn’t shy away from this imagery. In the catacombs, they carved skulls and bones beneath the sign of the cross—art that confessed resurrection in the midst of decay. The skull became both confession and comfort: we die, yes, but Christ has been here first.

Memento mori was never meant to breed despair but to strip illusion. Power, wealth, fame—all return to dust. To remember death is to remember our limits, to live humbly before the God who alone gives breath. But Christ goes further: He doesn’t just remind us of death; He redeems it. The cross planted on the skull of Golgotha declares that the grave has lost its grip.

Death once ruled as thief and tyrant—robbing equally, yes, but still robbing. Jesus entered its house, broke its locks, and walked out carrying life itself. Death is no longer the end. It’s the beginning of something eternally beautiful.

We live in a culture that denies death. We hide it in hospitals, numb it with distraction, and disguise it with filters and slogans of “forever young.” But memento mori still whispers truth: you will die—and because of Christ, you will live again.

To remember death is not to surrender to fear but to wake up to grace. Every breath is borrowed; every heartbeat is holy. The skull that once marked loss now preaches resurrection: the grave has been plundered, and love has the last word.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Death may be the great thief, but Christ has broken its hold and turned the tomb into a doorway of glory.

PRAYER
God of life and victory, remind me that death does not define me—you do. Teach me to live awake to every sacred breath, unafraid of the shadows, certain of the dawn. Through Christ who conquered the grave, I give you thanks. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series, Special Devotion

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Special Devotion: Collars, Robes, and Stoles

Leave a comment

Read Matthew 23:1–12

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.” (Colossians 3:12 NLT)

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

A folded clerical collar rests on a plain robe, with a red-and-beige stole draped across them on a wooden altar table. Warm morning light streams through a stained-glass window, symbolizing humility, transparency, and Christ’s shared yoke of service.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Collar, the Robe, and the Stole” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Special Edition: Collars, Robes, and Stoles. The collar, the robe, and the stole. In some churches, these garments can feel like litmus tests. Robe up, collar up, stole up—or even dress up—because that’s how it’s always been done. For many, they hold deep reverence, reminders of a time when sanctuaries were full and traditions were shared across generations. There’s nothing wrong with that nostalgia; it’s part of our story. But reverence can quietly turn to rigidity. When clothing becomes a credential for faithfulness, we risk mistaking habit for holiness.

The clerical collar began as a symbol of service—a visible sign that the one who wore it was yoked to Christ and bound to serve. It was never meant as a badge of rank. Over time, though, collars began to carry other meanings: authority, professionalism, even fear. For some, the collar has come to represent not safety but suspicion. The sins of the church have stained the fabric; the collar that once marked servanthood has too often been used to hide control. Yet its truest meaning remains: a quiet reminder that ministry is not ownership but obedience, not privilege but burden.

The robe began as a simple covering—worn by scholars and clergy alike to erase distinction. It was meant to conceal individuality, to say, “Before God, we are all the same.” Over time, robes became ornate, hierarchical, sometimes theatrical. They came to separate rather than unite. Still, the robe can remind us that when we stand before God, titles and talents fade. The robe isn’t meant to elevate the wearer but to lower the ego. It’s not costume—it’s supposed to be camouflage.

The stole traces back to the towel a servant would drape over their arm. Early Christians linked it to Jesus’ act of washing his disciples’ feet. It symbolized the weight of ministry—the responsibility to serve, to stoop, to bear one another’s burdens. In time, it also came to represent the yoke of Christ, reminding the one who wears it that ministry is never self-driven but shared with the Savior who said, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Over the centuries, the stole has become ornate and color-coded, a mark of office or season. But the truest stole is still the towel of service, the fabric of humility. If we wear it rightly, it should remind us that authority in Christ is always exercised from our knees—and that all Christians, not just clergy, are called to carry the same towel and yoke of humble service.

We remember the days when these symbols were everywhere—collars in the community, robes in every chancel, stoles changing colors with the calendar. But those years were not as innocent as we remember. Behind the beauty of tradition, harm sometimes hid in plain sight. Titles and vestments that once promised safety were sometimes used to silence, to cover, to control. That’s a hard truth to name, but it must be named if the Church is to heal and be a healing presence in the world.

These garments can still mean something sacred, but only if they’re worn with repentance and transparency. And as Ecclesiastes 3 says, there is a time and season for everything. If anything might stand as a stumbling block between God and another person, it should not be done just for tradition’s sake.

For some these are signs of the sacred—for others, signs of sin and evil committed in the name of God. That is why I choose to robe during Communion Sundays, high holy days, and special occasions—and remain more “me” and approachable the rest of the time. There is no one right way, but that has become my practice.

The question isn’t whether we wear them. The question is whether we live what they mean. The collar, the robe, and the stole can still witness to humility and grace—but only when they point beyond the wearer to Christ. When they become ends in themselves, they’re idols. When they become tools for service, they’re sacraments. Maybe the most subversive act of all is to remember that the truest vestment isn’t on our shoulders—it’s in our spirit. Compassion. Kindness. Humility. Gentleness. Patience. These are the garments the world still needs to see.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
[Enter Thought of the Day]

PRAYER
Christ our Servant, strip us of vanity and clothe us in truth. Whether we robe or not, let our lives reflect your humility. Make every symbol we wear a sign of grace, not power. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 8: The Lamb

Leave a comment

Read John 1:29-42

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Worthy is the Lamb who was slaughtered—to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing.” (Revelation 5:12 NLT)

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

A bloodied lamb stands on stone, slain yet upright, with seven horns and seven eyes. The grotesque image echoes Revelation’s vision of Christ—the Lamb who was slain yet reigns in power.
Image: AI-generated by DALL-E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Lamb” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The Lamb. Today, “sheep” is an insult. We’re told not to be sheep but to be lions, wolves, or at least sheepdogs. I have military in my family and friends who are vets, including one who fought in the Battle of Fallujah. If you remember that battle, you know it was a hellstorm. As such, in military culture, citizens are often seen as the sheep—naïve, soft, and in need of protection from predators. The sheepdogs are the ones with the grit to face the wolves.

But Scripture flips that whole logic. God doesn’t identify with the wolf, or the sheepdog, or even the lion. God identifies with the lamb. And not just any lamb, but the lamb who was slain.

In the ancient world, lambs were synonymous with weakness, vulnerability, and sacrifice. They were common temple offerings, easy prey, and symbols of innocence. At Passover, lambs were slaughtered so Israel could remember God’s deliverance from Egypt. To call someone a lamb was not a compliment. Yet when John the Baptist sees Jesus, he doesn’t hail him as a lion, a king, or a warrior. He cries out, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!”

And the shock doesn’t stop there. In Revelation, when the scroll of history cannot be opened, the elder tells John to look for the Lion of Judah. But when John turns, he does not see a lion. He sees a lamb, standing as if slain. The universe is ruled not by claws and teeth, but by wounds. Power is redefined in the blood of the Lamb.

The same brilliance runs through the Gospel of John. The author shifts the timeline of Holy Week so that Jesus is crucified not after Passover, but on the very day the lambs are being slaughtered in the temple. To the historian, that looks like a contradiction with the other gospels. But to the theologian, it is perfect symmetry. The author wants us to see that Christ’s sacrifice is not accidental or delayed. He is the Passover Lamb, slain as the lambs are slain, once for all. Not historically tidy—ah, but theologically, brilliant.

That’s why the lamb is such a scandalous symbol. In Rome, strength meant domination. The empire exalted the eagle, the lion, the wolf. Christians exalted the lamb. To Roman ears, it sounded ridiculous. Paul even said so: “The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction. But we who are being saved know it is the very power of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18). Who worships a lamb—much less one crucified as a traitor? But that was the point: what the world despised, God exalted. What the empire crushed, God enthroned. To my politically motivated friends, heed this message: God and empire don’t mix.

We’ve tamed the lamb into Easter pageants and Sunday School décor. We imagine fluffy sheep, safe pastures, and gentle bedtime prayers. But in Scripture, the lamb is not cute. The lamb is slaughtered. In Revelation, John sees a lamb “looking as if it had been slain” (Rev. 5:6). It still bears the marks of violence—throat slit, blood spilled—yet it is standing. This lamb has seven horns and seven eyes, imagery meant to startle: ultimate power and ultimate vision embodied in what looks powerless and mutilated. The lamb is grotesque, unsettling, hard to look at—and that is the point. God’s power comes clothed in weakness, God’s victory comes through wounds, and the world’s violence is absorbed, not returned.

And that still cuts against the grain today. We live in a culture that worships strength. Leaders win votes by promising to be lions. Nations stockpile weapons to prove they’re not sheep. Even the church sometimes admires the “sheepdog” more than the lamb. Yet Christ calls us not to despise sheep but to be one and to follow the Lamb. To trust that true power is not in the one who can kill, but in the one who is willing to be killed and still rise.

The question for us is whether we dare to embody the way of the lamb. Do we choose mercy over vengeance? Do we entrust ourselves to vulnerability rather than domination? Do we follow the slaughtered lamb who reigns from the throne—or the wolves and lions who claw for it?

The lamb is not weakness. The lamb is God’s power redefined.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The world crowns lions. Heaven crowns the lamb.

PRAYER
Lamb of God, you took away the sin of the world not by clawing for power but by laying your life down in love. Teach us to follow your way. Give us courage to choose mercy over violence, to trust vulnerability over control, and to live as people marked by your sacrifice. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 4: The Dove

Leave a comment

Read Matthew 3:16–17

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“When the dove returned in the evening with a fresh olive leaf in its beak, Noah knew that the floodwaters were almost gone.” (Genesis 8:11 NLT)

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

A white dove in mid-flight, wings outstretched, glowing with golden light against a dramatic dark background.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Dove” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 4: The Dove. The dove is perhaps one of the gentlest symbols in the Christian imagination. It brings to mind peace, purity, and soft images of God’s Spirit descending. Yet to reduce the dove to sentimentality is to miss its scandal. When the Spirit came upon Jesus at his baptism, the dove didn’t settle him into comfort. It drove him into the wilderness. That same Spirit would later drive the apostles into the streets, Stephen into martyrdom, and Mary into a life of risk and scandal as the mother of God. The dove is not tame. It disrupts.

Consider Jarena Lee. In the early 1800s, Lee felt the Spirit’s undeniable call to preach. Yet as a Black woman in America, she was told by both culture and church that she had no place in the pulpit. Richard Allen, the founder of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, at first refused her request. But when the Spirit fell on her, she stood in a service and proclaimed the Gospel with such power that even Allen had to recognize it. He later licensed her to preach, making her the first authorized female preacher in the AME. Jarena Lee bore the dove’s fire in her bones. She defied expectations not because she wanted power, but because she could not silence the Spirit.

Allen himself embodied the dove’s disruption. Refusing to let racism define his worship, he led Black believers out of segregated pews and founded the AME Church. In a society that saw Black people as second-class citizens, Allen claimed space for the Spirit to dwell fully and freely. His act was not “nice peace” but subversive peace: the Spirit carving out dignity and justice where empire denied it.

Or think of Joan of Arc. A teenage peasant girl claimed that God’s Spirit had spoken to her. She defied the gender roles of her age, donned armor, and led armies under the conviction that God had chosen her. She was betrayed, condemned by church and state, and burned at the stake. Whatever one makes of her visions, Joan bore witness to the dove’s untamable power: God’s Spirit breaks boundaries and refuses to be caged by the categories of empire.

Centuries later, Martin Luther King Jr. embodied the dove in America. His peace was not passive or sentimental—it was disruptive. He resisted violence by marching, preaching, organizing, and calling out systems of racism. He was beaten, jailed, and eventually assassinated. But King’s peace, Spirit-driven, shook the foundations of American life. It was a dove that disturbed the comfortable and comforted the afflicted.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer stood against Hitler and the Nazi machine. Guided by conscience and Spirit, he resisted the church’s capitulation to empire and was executed for it. Oscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador, stood with the poor and denounced government brutality. He was gunned down at the altar while celebrating Mass. Both men embodied the same Spirit—the dove that does not promise safety but calls the Church into costly witness.

The dove, then, is not a sentimental bird floating over baptismal waters. It is the Spirit that disrupts our empires and overturns our assumptions. It moves us into wilderness places, into pulpits we were told not to enter, into streets where justice must be proclaimed, into confrontation with powers that oppress. The dove is peace, yes—but peace that resists violence, peace that refuses domination, peace that stands with the condemned, peace that costs everything.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Spirit is no tame dove. It disrupts, resists, and calls us to costly peace.

PRAYER
Holy Spirit, descend on me anew. Forgive me when I settle for comfort instead of courage, for safety instead of witness. Teach me the peace that resists violence, the love that refuses domination, the faith that stands with the condemned. Drive me into the wilderness if you must—but do not let me escape your call. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Symbols of Subversion, Part 2: Cross

Leave a comment

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.

A weathered wooden cross stands on a barren hill at dusk, a vulture perched on its beam. Jackals prowl below among scattered bones, with storm clouds and fading light in the sky.
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, Previous Post

REVISITED: Shadow of the Vampire

Leave a comment

Read Psalm 88

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5 NIV)

Image: AI-generated by Rev. Todd R. Lattig using Adobe Firefly.

Those of you who know me are aware that I’m a fan of horror, particularly Robert Eggers’ work such as ‘The Witch,’ and a huge admirer of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent film ‘Nosferatu.’ In fact, I rescored ‘Nosferatu,’ which can be found on all major streaming services under the artist name Appalachian Virtual Ensemble, and also viewed, in its entirety on YouTube. So, when I heard that Eggers was remaking this classic tale, I was thrilled to see his vision come to life on the big screen.

Video: Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922) – F.W. Murnau’s silent film, here presented in full with a rescore.

In Eggers’ haunting rendition of “Nosferatu,” we encounter Ellen, a young woman plagued by an overwhelming sense of melancholy. From her earliest years, she feels a deep loneliness that seems to call out to the darkness. This portrayal resonates with many who struggle with inner turmoil, feeling isolated even when surrounded by others.

As a pastor who has grappled with melancholy since childhood, I can relate to Ellen’s experience. My journey began early, manifesting as separation anxiety in preschool and evolving into a more profound sadness by my teenage years. Throughout this struggle, my faith has been a constant source of strength and comfort. The raw emotions expressed in the Psalms, the accounts of Jesus’ own moments of sadness, and the prophets’ cries for help have all offered solace in times of despair.

Like Ellen, I also found myself drawn to creative expression, turning to poetry as an additional means of coping with the darkness that seemed to lurk just beneath the surface of my everyday life.

In the film, Ellen finds a brief respite in her relationship with Thomas. This mirrors the temporary relief many of us seek in relationships, achievements, or fleeting pleasures. However, just as Ellen’s inner darkness returns with a vengeance, our struggles often resurface even when we think we’ve overcome them.

This persistent nature of melancholy can be particularly challenging for those in positions of spiritual leadership. As a pastor, I’ve felt the weight of expectations to always appear cheerful and optimistic, even when struggling internally. The misunderstandings surrounding inner turmoil, as depicted in Ellen’s interactions with others in “Nosferatu,” are all too familiar. Well-meaning advice to “snap out of it” or “think positive” fails to grasp the complex nature of our struggles. These misconceptions can lead to feelings of isolation and a reluctance to share our true experiences with others.

Yet, unlike Ellen, who feels drawn to the shadows, we as believers have a source of hope beyond the darkness. In John 8:12, Jesus spoke to the people once more and said, “I am the light of the world. If you follow me, you won’t have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life.” This promise offers solace even in our darkest moments.

The Psalms teach us the importance of bringing our pain and sorrow to God. Psalm 88, a lament that doesn’t shy away from expressing deep anguish, reminds us that it’s okay to acknowledge our struggles while still clinging to faith. By choosing to lament, we open our hearts to God and create space for healing and transformation.

Unlike Ellen, who feels isolated in her suffering, we are called to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). By opening up about our struggles and supporting others in theirs, we can find strength and healing in Christian community. This act of vulnerability, while challenging, can be a powerful testament to God’s grace working in our lives.

As we reflect on the haunting tale of “Nosferatu,” let us remember that while darkness may seem overwhelming, it does not have the final word. In Christ, we find a light that the darkness cannot overcome. May we turn to God in our moments of melancholy, finding hope, healing, and the strength to persevere. And may we, in turn, be that light for others who are struggling, offering understanding, support, and the transformative message of God’s love.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
“Nothing heals us like letting people know our scariest parts: When people listen to you cry and lament, and look at you with love, it’s like they are holding the baby of you.” – Anne Lamott

PRAYER
Lord, in moments of darkness and despair, help me to turn to You, the true light of the world. Grant me the strength to persevere, the wisdom to seek support from my community of faith, and the courage to be vulnerable with others. Use my experiences to bring comfort and hope to those who are struggling. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

MENTAL HEALTH NOTE
If you’re grappling with melancholy/depression or darker thoughts, remember that you’re not alone in this struggle. Reach out for support – it’s a sign of strength, not weakness. For those in the U.S., the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available 24/7 at 988. It’s free, confidential, and could be the lifeline you need in moments of despair. If you prefer texting, send ‘HOME’ to 741741 to connect with the Crisis Text Line.

For readers outside the U.S., resources like Befrienders Worldwide and the International Association for Suicide Prevention offer helplines and support services across various countries. These organizations embody Christ’s call for us to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). Remember, just as the Psalmist cried out to God in times of anguish, it’s okay to voice your pain and seek help. In the words of Anne Lamott, “Nothing heals us like letting people know our scariest parts.” May we all have the courage to be vulnerable, to seek support, and to offer it to others in their time of need.

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

Devotional, Previous Post, Series

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

Leave a comment

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

Sacrilegious

Leave a comment

Read Matthew 23:27-28

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“No, this is the kind of fasting I want: Free those who are wrongly imprisoned; lighten the burden of those who work for you. Let the oppressed go free, and remove the chains that bind people. Share your food with the hungry, and give shelter to the homeless.” (Isaiah 58:6–7 NLT)

A gothic rock star silhouette stands before a crowd with raised hands, framed by looming whitewashed tombs cracked with light. Among the audience, ghostly robed figures with masklike faces blend in, symbolizing piety without life.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacrilegious” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Back in May of 2025, my best friend and I went to see Marilyn Manson at the Wellmont Theater in Montclair, New Jersey. It wasn’t my first Manson concert, though it still raises eyebrows when people hear a pastor was there. But what I experienced that night wasn’t shock—it was honesty. Manson stepped into the spotlight and did what few pulpits dare: he told the unvarnished truth about himself.

He came out to perform The Dope Show, but stopped a few lines in. He began speaking about his love of drugs, how the drugs really loved him, how they lifted him toward heaven only to deny him and send him crashing down. Then he said, without a hint of theatrics: “My name is Marilyn Manson, and I’m a drug addict.” From there, he launched back into The Dope Show, followed by I Don’t Like the Drugs (But the Drugs Like Me).

But then came the turn. As that song ended, he said: “But that was then, and this is now.” With those words, he went into We’re Only as Sick as the Secrets Within. And suddenly the theater shifted. I watched people lifting their hands, raising their heads, tears streaming down their faces. It was a confessional moment—raw, unforced, real. The kind of moment the church fails to embody nine times out of ten. Because this wasn’t the church telling you you’re a sinner. This was the anti-church, through Manson, telling you that you are loved despite your sin. But that is not anti-church at all. This is exactly what the Church is supposed to be.

That night gave me the frame for Sacrilegious. On the track, Manson sings: “You can climb to the top of my horns, but make sure that you don’t look down. Don’t spit in the face of God when you’re trying to wear His crown.” It’s grotesque, jarring, and true. Religion often looks holy on the outside, but inside it reeks of death. We judgmentally climb high on others’ perceived horns of sin, polishing our whitewashed tombs, convincing ourselves that our rituals and reputations prove our holiness. But Jesus unmasks it: “Outwardly you look like righteous people, but inwardly your hearts are filled with hypocrisy and lawlessness.”

Isaiah said the same: God isn’t impressed by fasting that only makes us look pious. God desires chains broken, burdens lifted, the oppressed set free, the hungry fed, the homeless sheltered. That’s the fast that matters. To ignore this while draping ourselves in religious pretense—that’s the real sacrilege.

Manson spits back the truth the prophets and Christ himself declared: what is truly sacrilegious is not breaking taboos, but dressing up injustice as holiness. To call yourself godly while crushing the poor, silencing truth-tellers, ignoring the suffering—that’s climbing high on horns, pretending at crowns, while spitting in God’s face.

If Kinderfeld dared us to face the mirror, Sacrilegious dares us to face the tombs we’ve built. And maybe the most faithful thing we can do is to tear down our whitewash, stop pretending, and live the kind of faith that frees the oppressed and loves people as Christ loves us.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The greatest sacrilege isn’t breaking religious rules—it’s wearing holiness like a mask while ignoring the people God loves.

PRAYER
God of truth, strip away our whitewash. Expose the rot beneath our piety. Forgive us for the ways we’ve pretended to honor you while neglecting the poor, the oppressed, the suffering. Teach us that real holiness looks like mercy, justice, and love. Make us into a church that embodies the grace we proclaim. Amen.

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

Devotional

Kinderfeld

Leave a comment

By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read Romans 3:9–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For if you listen to the word and don’t obey, it is like glancing at your face in a mirror. You see yourself, walk away, and forget what you look like.” (James 1:23–24 NLT)

“If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth.” (1 John 1:8 NLT).

Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Kinderfeld” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Back in May, my dear friend and I went to a Marilyn Manson concert. This was not my first time, though it always shocks some to see a pastor at “that evil man’s” shows. The irony is missed on them. We know. Manson knows. And he has made a career out of holding up a mirror—grotesque as it may be—and showing people their own reflection. He did so most provocatively in his Antichrist Superstar album, where he painted a portrait of a world that had sold out its “holy” principles for marriage to politics, power, and oppression. As theatrical as he is, behind the facade is a philosopher, poet, and artist who observes and critiques the world around him with unsettling clarity.

Then comes my favorite song on Antichrist Superstar: Kinderfeld. The word itself is German—kinder meaning “children,” feld meaning “field.” It is often used for the part of a cemetery where children are buried—a “field of children.” In the song, Manson drags us into that grim space of lost innocence, abuse, and twisted formation. The verses are haunted nursery rhymes of power and corruption, childhood scars and poisoned inheritance, all of it climaxing in the chilling mantra: “This is what you should fear. You are what you should fear.”

What if the greatest danger isn’t the devil we imagine but the reflection we avoid? Manson’s lyric cuts deep: “This is what you should fear. You are what you should fear.” Paul echoes it in Romans: no one is righteous, not even one. Before grace, there’s the mirror.

Paul doesn’t let us off the hook. In Romans 3, he dismantles the illusion that some people are worse sinners than others, that our “us versus them” narratives can keep us safe from judgment. “All have turned away; all have become useless. No one does good, not a single one.” It’s a brutal mirror—but it’s also the truth. The evil we fear in others runs through us too. We don’t like to face it. So we distract, project, or scapegoat. We point to the “devil out there” and ignore the one inside. But denial doesn’t save us.

This is why James warns that faith without obedience is like forgetting your reflection, and John tells us that claiming to be without sin only proves we’re living in a lie. To be human is to stand guilty before God’s mirror. And yet—Romans 3 doesn’t leave us in despair. After the reckoning comes the revelation: “But now God has shown us a way to be made right with him… We are made right with God by placing our faith in Jesus Christ. And this is true for everyone who believes, no matter who we are.”

Manson ends Kinderfeld with: “This is what you should fear. You are what you should fear.” Paul would agree—but then he would add: this is also why you should hope. For the mirror that exposes us is the same place Christ meets us. Grace doesn’t come to the righteous but to sinners. We are what we should fear, yes—but in Christ, we become what God redeems.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The devil you fear might be closer than you think. But so is the grace that saves you.

PRAYER
God of truth, hold the mirror steady before me. Strip away my excuses, projections, and denials. Help me see the sin that lives within me—not to despair, but to remember that Christ came for sinners like me. Redeem my reflection, Lord, until what I fear becomes what you transform. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Leave the Goat Alone, You Baaaa’d Sheep!

Leave a comment

By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read Matthew 25:31–46

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“You can enter God’s Kingdom only through the narrow gate… the highway to hell is broad, and its gate is wide for the many who choose that way.” (Matthew 7:13 NLT)

Every year my family and I attend the official NJ State Fair, which is also the Sussex County Farm and Horse Show. One of our many favorite things to do there is to see all of the livestock—the precious animals that sadly don’t realize they’re a sacrifice for human bellies (sorry, I’m vegetarian #Iloveanimalswonteatthem 😅). I especially love to visit the lively, goading goats!

Which brings me to today’s musical inspiration: Highway to Hell by AC/DC. That song has been demonized (pun intended) by fearful church folk for decades—but if you actually listen to it, it’s not promoting hell. It’s exposing a broken system. A life where one is “going down” not because they’re evil, but because they refuse to play by the hypocritical rules of a culture that calls itself holy… but crucifies its own.

Which brings us to Jesus’ parable of the sheep and the goats.

For far too long, Christians have misunderstood this teaching. We’ve been taught that the “goats” are outsiders, heretics, even demonic figures. Some even link them to Satan or Baphomet—images never mentioned by Jesus. But that’s fear talking. That’s projection, not theology.

Look closely at the parable.

Jesus isn’t talking about two different religions. He’s not separating the faithful from the unbelievers. He’s dividing people who all claim to follow him. The sheep and the goats are part of the same flock. The difference isn’t belief. It’s behavior. The sheep fed the hungry, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, and visited the imprisoned. The goats? They didn’t. That’s it. They still call him Lord. But they refused to live like he mattered.

The goats weren’t Satanists.

They were the baaaa’d sheep.

And here’s the irony: for centuries, those same bad sheep have taken the image of the goat and made it into a scapegoat. They’ve projected all their fears and shame onto people they didn’t understand—queer folks, mystics, artists, outsiders, truth-tellers—and called them the goats. Then they’ve shunned them, shamed them, flayed them with theology, and yes… even burned them at the stake.

All in the name of Jesus.

But if we’re listening to the Shepherd, we’d know: the real danger isn’t the goat at the edge of the field. It’s the sheep who stopped following and started judging. The sheep who shout “Lord, Lord!” but never feed the hungry. Never clothe the poor. Never welcome the stranger. The sheep who think faith is a fence instead of a way. To those, the Shepherd will say, “I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God’s laws.” (Matthew 7:23 NLT)

So… who’s the real goat?

The one with the horns?

Or the one too proud to kneel at the feet of the least of these?

Maybe it’s time we leave the goat alone… and ask what kind of sheep we really are.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The goats weren’t outsiders. They were insiders who ignored the Shepherd. Don’t be a baaaa’d sheep.

PRAYER
Jesus, our Shepherd, teach us to stop scapegoating and start following. Help us to love the people we’ve wrongly labeled and feared. Remind us that judgment begins not with the world, but with us—with how we feed, welcome, clothe, and care. May we be your sheep not in name, but in how we live. Amen.

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