Tag Archives: Church Leadership

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 8: The Altar of Approval

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Read Galatians 1:1-10

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Fear of people is a dangerous trap, but trusting the Lord means safety.” (Proverbs 29:25 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

Part 8: The Altar of Approval. Approval is one of the quietest altars we build.

It rarely looks like idolatry. It looks like professionalism. It looks like respectability. It looks like wisdom, diplomacy, or knowing how to read a room. But beneath all of that can sit a quieter question: Who are we really trying to please?

Paul names the tension directly in Galatians. “Am I now seeking human approval, or God’s?” It is not a rhetorical flourish. It is a diagnostic question. Because the moment approval becomes the measure of faithfulness, the gospel itself begins to bend.

The Church has never been immune to this. Congregations want stability. Leaders want credibility. Communities want reassurance that the people guiding them will not embarrass them or disrupt the fragile peace that holds institutions together. None of that is inherently wrong. But when approval becomes the altar, faithfulness becomes the sacrifice.

The danger is subtle. No one wakes up one morning and decides to worship approval. Instead, it grows slowly through a thousand small calculations. A leader softens a truth because it might upset someone. A congregation rewards the voices that affirm what it already believes. A system quietly teaches that survival depends not on conviction, but on acceptability.

Over time, approval begins to shape identity.

Years ago, when I was serving as a youth pastor, I learned something about this the hard way. I had written and recorded a song and paired it with a dark, gothic-style video—creative work that reflected the artistic voice I had carried with me my entire life as a poet, musician, and artist. At some point, that video found its way into the hands of church leadership after someone burned it onto a CD and mailed it anonymously.

I never learned who sent it. In the end, it did not matter.

What mattered was the note written across the top of the disc:

“Youth Pastor Todd Lattig serving his lord Satan.”

Moments like that clarify something quickly. When approval is the altar, anything unfamiliar becomes a threat. Anything that does not fit the brand must be corrected, contained, or quietly removed.

But Paul’s words refuse that logic.

“If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.”

The apostle is not celebrating antagonism or encouraging leaders to provoke conflict. Faithfulness is not measured by how many people we offend. But Paul is naming something deeper: the gospel cannot survive if approval becomes its guiding compass.

Because the gospel itself is disruptive.

It proclaims grace where systems prefer merit. It lifts the overlooked where hierarchies prefer order. It exposes idols we have grown comfortable with. And when that happens, approval often evaporates quickly.

This is where Proverbs offers its quiet warning: “Fear of people is a dangerous trap.”

Fear is the hidden engine behind the altar of approval. Fear of rejection. Fear of losing influence. Fear of disappointing those who hold power in our lives or communities. And fear has a remarkable ability to reshape conviction into compliance.

But the gospel begins somewhere else entirely.

It begins with belovedness.

Before reputation, before usefulness, before success or failure, the gospel announces that we belong to God. Not because we performed well enough to earn approval, but because grace has already claimed us. Belovedness is not branding. It cannot be curated, managed, or polished into something marketable.

It is given.

And that changes everything.

When identity rests in belovedness rather than approval, we are finally free to speak truthfully, lead faithfully, and love courageously—even when doing so costs us the approval we once believed we needed.

That freedom does not make life easier. But it does make faithfulness possible.

Because the question Paul asks still echoes through every generation of the Church:

Who are we really trying to please?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When approval becomes the altar, faithfulness becomes the sacrifice.

PRAYER
Holy One, free us from the quiet fear that binds our hearts to the approval of others. Teach us to rest in the belovedness you have already given. When truth is costly and courage feels uncertain, steady us in your grace so that our lives seek faithfulness more than applause. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 3: The Altar of Applause

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read John 12:42–43

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“These people say they are mine. They honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. And their worship of me is nothing but man-made rules learned by rote.” (Isaiah 29:13 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Applause” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: The Altar of Applause. Not every altar is built in public squares or desert wildernesses. Some are raised in conference rooms, sanctuaries, and private calculations of risk. John tells us something unsettling: “Many leaders believed in him.” Not doubters. Not enemies. Leaders. Insiders. People with standing and influence. They believed.

But they would not say so publicly. Why? “For fear that they would be put out of the synagogue.” Fear of expulsion. Fear of losing position. Fear of losing voice. Fear of losing the room.

Then comes the diagnosis: “For they loved human praise more than the praise of God.”

They believed. But they loved applause more.

This is the altar of applause.

It is not the altar of blatant rebellion. It is the altar of careful silence. It is the place where conviction is kept private and compliance is kept public. It is the slow erosion of courage beneath the steady drip of approval.

Institutional systems rarely have to threaten outright. Often, they only have to signal what will cost you access. You will lose standing. You will lose influence. You will be labeled. You will be removed.

So belief goes quiet.

Silence can feel wise. Silence can feel strategic. Silence can feel like staying in the room for the greater good. But silence in the face of injustice is rarely neutral. It is allegiance by omission.

Isaiah’s words cut deeper: “They honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Lips can speak liturgy while hearts calculate risk. Worship can be performed while courage is withheld.

The leaders in John’s Gospel did believe. But over time, loving praise more than God reveals what ultimately governs the heart. What we protect most exposes what we worship most.

The altar of applause is subtle. It does not ask us to deny Christ outright. It only asks us to keep Christ quiet. It assures us that private faith is enough. It whispers that survival is wisdom. It promises that staying respectable preserves witness.

But fear-led faith slowly becomes hollow faith.

When protecting reputation becomes more important than protecting the vulnerable, something has shifted. When belonging to the institution becomes more important than truth within it, something has shifted. When we agree silently because speaking would cost us, the altar of applause is already built.

Lent presses this question into our conscience: Whose praise governs us? The applause of the room—or the pleasure of God?

The leaders believed. That is what makes this passage painful. They were not devoid of faith. They were constrained by fear. And fear, when enthroned, becomes an idol.

Christ does not seek secret admirers. Christ calls public witnesses. Not reckless. Not cruel. But courageous.

The altar of applause asks for very little at first. Just a quiet nod. Just a careful omission. Just one moment of strategic silence.

But worship is revealed by what we protect.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Belief that fears expulsion more than God will eventually love applause more than truth.

PRAYER
Holy God, search our hearts and reveal where fear has governed our faith. Deliver us from the need to be approved more than the desire to be faithful. Give us courage to speak when silence would cost others, and integrity to love your praise above every human voice. Strip away the altar of applause until only Christ remains. Amen.

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

Christian Liturgical Season, Devotional

Altar Audit, part 1: The Altar of Architecture

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Read Daniel 4:28–37

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.” (Isaiah 40:6 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we will conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Altar Audit, Part 1: The Altar of Architecture” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 1: The Altar of Architecture. Nebuchadnezzar stood on the roof of his royal palace and admired what he had built. Babylon stretched before him—brick, tower, wall, gate, garden. An empire carved into skyline and stone. And he said aloud what empire always whispers in its heart: “Look what I built. Look how great I am.”

Architecture is not just buildings. It is visibility. Permanence. Proof. It is what we construct to convince ourselves—and others—that we are secure.

Babylon was magnificent. No one disputed that. But Daniel tells us the problem was not beauty. The problem was boast. The problem was the subtle shift from gratitude to ownership. From stewardship to supremacy. From gift to mine.

Before the words left his mouth, judgment fell. Not because God resents success, but because pride forgets the Most High. Nebuchadnezzar was stripped—not first of his throne, but of his illusion. He lost his sanity. He lost his cultivated humanity. The king who built monuments ended up grazing like cattle.

Grass.

Isaiah echoes the same truth: “All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.” Grass grows. Grass flourishes. Grass withers.

Empire builds architecture.
God reminds us we are grass.

Ash Wednesday marks our foreheads with dust and says what Daniel 4 dramatizes: You are not invincible. You are not ultimate. You are not the architect of eternity.

Empire is not just Babylon. It is any system—civil or sacred—that begins to believe its own press.

Nations build towers of strength and assume divine favor. Churches build campuses, platforms, brands, and assume divine endorsement. Institutions construct reputations and confuse growth with righteousness.

Architecture becomes an altar when we begin to worship what we built.

The Church is not immune to Babylonian thinking. We too can stand on the roof and say, “Look at our numbers. Look at our influence. Look at our reach. Look at our impact.” We can assume that scale equals blessing and visibility equals faithfulness. We can protect the structure more fiercely than we protect the Spirit.

But Lent asks a harder question: What happens when the architecture cracks?

Ashes are the great equalizer. Dust levels kings and laborers alike. Empires and denominations return to the ground. Grass does not negotiate its mortality.

Yet Daniel 4 does not end in destruction. It ends in recognition. Nebuchadnezzar lifts his eyes—not to his buildings, but to heaven. And when he does, his sanity returns. His kingdom is restored, but his perspective is altered. He finally confesses that the Most High reigns.

That confession is the pivot. In the wilderness, Jesus is shown all the kingdoms of the world. Architecture on a global scale. Power without the cross. Glory without surrender. The temptation was not merely political—it was architectural. Build something grand. Rule something visible. Take the shortcut.

Jesus refuses. Where Nebuchadnezzar grasped and lost his mind, Christ relinquished and remained fully human. Where empire builds upward, Christ kneels. Where kings boast, Christ empties.

Architecture promises permanence.
Christ promises resurrection.

This Ash Wednesday, the Altar Audit begins by asking: What have we built to feel secure? What structures do we defend more fiercely than love? Where have we confused visibility with faithfulness?

The question is not whether we build. We all build. Families. Careers. Congregations. Ministries. Influence. The question is whether what we build has quietly become what we worship.

Empire says, “Look what we made.”
Lent whispers, “You are dust.”

And in that whisper is mercy. Because when the architecture falls away—when pride dissolves and illusion cracks—what remains is not ruin. What remains is Christ.

Christ, who refused the kingdoms.
Christ, who did not boast.
Christ, who chose the cross over the skyline.
Christ, who does not wither like grass.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
If what I have built were taken away, would Christ still be enough?

PRAYER
Most High God, we confess how easily we admire what we have constructed. We measure success by scale and faithfulness by visibility. Mark us again with the truth of dust. Strip away pride that blinds us. Guard us from confusing architecture with allegiance. Teach us to lift our eyes from what we have built to who You are. When our towers tremble, let Christ remain. Amen.

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