Tag Archives: Discipleship

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 9: The Altar of Strength

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Read Isaiah 42:1–4

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed,

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.

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

Part 9: The Altar of Strength. Strength is one of the most celebrated virtues we know. It is praised in leadership, rewarded in culture, and quietly expected in everyday life. We are taught to admire those who endure, who push through, who hold it together no matter the cost. Strength, on its own, is not the problem. It is real. It matters. It can protect, sustain, and even heal.

But what happens when strength becomes something more than a virtue—when it becomes an altar?

The altar of strength is built not just on what we admire, but on what we are willing to overlook. Because the moment strength becomes the standard by which we measure worth, those who cannot meet it begin to disappear. Not all at once. Not violently, at least not always. But quietly. Systemically. Acceptably.

We tell ourselves a lie: that strength is simply what is good. And in doing so, we justify who we ignore.

Isaiah offers a different vision. The Servant of God does not raise a voice to dominate. The Servant does not crush the bruised reed or extinguish the faintest flame. This is not weakness. This is not passivity. This is strength—restrained, intentional, and directed toward justice. It is power that refuses to prove itself through destruction.

That is a direct contradiction to the strength we are used to seeing.

Because empire has always defined strength by who survives and who does not. Strength, in that system, is measured by dominance, endurance, and control. Those who cannot keep pace—the bruised, the exhausted, the barely holding on—are not centered. They are managed, minimized, or moved aside.

And here is the harder truth: the Church is not immune to this.

We say we follow Christ, but we often mirror empire. We celebrate resilience while ignoring burnout. We platform voices that project stability while sidelining those who struggle to be heard. We call it wisdom. We call it order. We call it strength.

But beneath it is a quieter confession: we do not know what to do with weakness—especially our own.

So we construct an altar.

We convince ourselves that we are strong, even when we are not, because admitting otherwise feels like losing value. And in maintaining that illusion, we distance ourselves from those who cannot hide their fragility. What we refuse to face within ourselves, we often reject in others.

This is how the altar holds.

Jesus dismantles it—not by denying strength, but by redefining it. In Luke’s Gospel, the good news is not announced to the powerful but to the poor, the captive, the blind, the oppressed. Not as an afterthought, but as the center.

That is the inversion.

Strength, in the kingdom of God, is not proven by who stands above others. It is revealed in who refuses to step over them. It is not the ability to endure at all costs—it is the willingness to remain with those who cannot. It is not dominance—it is presence. Not force—but faithfulness.

And that kind of strength cannot coexist with the altar we have built.

Because one sustains systems that discard. The other restores those systems have already crushed.

So the question is not whether we value strength.

It is which definition we are willing to lay down.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Strength, in the way of Christ, is not proven by power over others, but by refusing to abandon them.

PRAYER
God, strip away the false strength we cling to and the illusions we use to measure worth. Teach us the strength of Christ—the kind that does not crush, does not discard, and does not turn away. Give us courage to face our own fragility, and compassion to stand with those the world overlooks. Re-form us in your way of justice and mercy. Amen.

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

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 6: The Altar of Preservation

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Read Mark 11:15–19

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“‘This is what the Lord says: Be fair-minded and just. Do what is right. Help those who have been robbed. Rescue them from their oppressors. Quit your evil deeds! Do not mistreat foreigners, orphans, and widows. Stop murdering the innocent!’” (Jeremiah 22:3 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.

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

Part 6: The Altar of Preservation. Scripture often speaks about protecting the vulnerable. It is language most of us recognize immediately. When we hear the word, certain images rise naturally in our minds—the poor, the widow, the orphan, the foreigner. These are the people the prophets name again and again as deserving protection and care.

And rightly so. The Scriptures are unmistakably clear that the people of God are judged by how they treat those who live without protection in society.

Yet the word vulnerable is broader than we sometimes assume.

In the biblical imagination, vulnerability is not only about poverty. It is about power.

The vulnerable are those who lack protection within a system. Those whose voices are easily ignored. Those whose suffering is inconvenient. Those whose stories threaten the stability of what already exists.

In every age, the vulnerable include the ones whose truth is easiest to dismiss.

Jeremiah spoke into a society where the temple stood at the center of national life. It was the heart of worship, but also the heart of the economy. Pilgrims traveled from across the region to Jerusalem. Roman coins bearing the emperor’s image could not be used in the temple treasury, so money changers exchanged them. Animals for sacrifice were sold for those who had traveled far. The temple complex functioned not only as a sanctuary but as a marketplace, a treasury, and a gathering place for the whole community.

Commerce itself was not the problem. Jesus undoubtedly participated in it throughout his life.

What troubled the prophets—and later Jesus—was what happens when a sacred system begins to protect itself more than it protects the people God commands it to defend.

Jeremiah speaks plainly: rescue the oppressed, help those who have been robbed, refuse to exploit the powerless. These commands were not abstract ideals. They were the measure of whether the people truly honored God.

Centuries later, Jesus enters the temple courts and overturns tables. To many readers this scene feels like sudden anger, but it is actually a continuation of the same prophetic warning Jeremiah delivered generations earlier.

“You have turned it into a den of robbers.”

A den of robbers is not where robbery happens. It is where robbers hide.

Jesus’ accusation cuts to the heart of the matter. The temple—the very place meant to embody justice and mercy—had become a refuge for those who exploited others. The institution that should have protected the vulnerable was now protecting the system itself.

This is the altar of preservation.

Institutions often begin with holy purpose. Communities gather to worship, to serve, to care for one another, to embody the justice of God in the world. But over time something subtle can shift. The mission that created the institution becomes secondary to the survival of the institution itself.

Preservation quietly becomes the highest good.

Once that happens, difficult questions feel dangerous. Voices that challenge the system are treated as threats. The vulnerable become problems to manage rather than people to defend. Stability is valued more than justice.

And when preservation becomes sacred, the altar has already been built.

Jesus’ action in the temple was not simply about overturned tables. It was about a warning that echoes through every generation of God’s people: a religious system can continue to look holy long after it has forgotten what holiness requires.

The prophets were clear. Worship that ignores injustice is not worship at all.

The altar audit asks a hard question during Lent: What are we truly protecting?

The mission of God—or the systems we built along the way?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When preserving the system becomes more important than protecting the vulnerable, the altar has already shifted.

PRAYER
God of justice and mercy, examine the altars we have built and the systems we defend. Give us courage to protect those without power, wisdom to recognize when preservation has replaced faithfulness, and humility to follow Christ wherever truth leads. Amen.

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, part 22: Butterfly

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Read John 12:20–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” (2 Corinthians 5:17 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 and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 22: Butterfly” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 22: Butterfly. The butterfly has long been treated as one of Christianity’s safest symbols. It appears on Easter banners and children’s curricula, a tidy illustration of resurrection and hope. Caterpillar, cocoon, butterfly—death, burial, new life. Simple. Beautiful. Inoffensive. But that simplicity hides a far more unsettling truth, because real transformation is not gentle, and resurrection is not safe.

Jesus does not speak about new life as a painless upgrade. In John 12, when people finally come seeking Him, Jesus does not offer reassurance or clarity. Instead, He speaks of death. “Unless a kernel of wheat falls into the soil and dies, it remains alone.” This is not metaphor for improvement; it is a declaration of loss. The seed does not become more itself. It is broken open. Its previous form does not survive the process. And only through that loss does fruit emerge.

The butterfly embodies this same scandal. The caterpillar lives longer. It eats. It survives. It moves close to the ground, protected by familiarity and repetition. The caterpillar’s life is about continuation. But the butterfly’s life, once it emerges, is often brief—sometimes only days or weeks. And yet in that short span, the butterfly does what the caterpillar never could. It flies. It crosses boundaries. It pollinates. It participates in the flourishing of the world beyond itself. Its life is not measured by duration, but by vocation.

This is where the symbol becomes subversive. We instinctively assume that faithfulness means preservation. We equate blessing with longevity. We celebrate survival while quietly fearing transformation. But Jesus never promises more time. He promises fruit. He never guarantees safety. He invites participation. Resurrection is not a reward for endurance; it is a call into costly becoming.

The chrysalis is not a comfortable place. Inside it, the caterpillar’s body literally dissolves. What emerges is not a repaired version of what existed before, but something entirely new. This is why transformation feels like death. Because it is. Not annihilation, but surrender. Not punishment, but passage. And many communities—faithful, sincere, well-meaning—decide that remaining what they are feels safer than entering that in-between space where nothing looks recognizable anymore.

So they linger. They grow smaller rather than different. They preserve form rather than pursue calling. Not out of malice, but out of fear. And the butterfly does not condemn this choice—but it does expose it. It stands as a quiet witness against the belief that staying alive is the same thing as living faithfully.

Jesus names this cost plainly. “Those who love their life in this world will lose it.” The Gospel is not interested in self-preservation. It is interested in self-giving. The promise is not that nothing will be lost, but that what is lost will not be wasted. The seed dies, and the field flourishes. The caterpillar dissolves, and the world blooms.

The butterfly refuses to let the Church confuse resurrection with comfort. It reminds us that becoming may shorten what we hoped to protect, but it expands what we were created to give. Faithfulness is not clinging to what was. Faithfulness is trusting God enough to let form fall away so fruit can come.

In this way, the butterfly becomes a sacred sign of subversion. It dismantles the myth that holiness is safe, that transformation is gentle, or that resurrection leaves everything intact. It tells the harder Gospel truth: life is found not in lingering, but in letting go.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Resurrection is not about lasting longer—it is about becoming truer.

PRAYER
Transforming God, we confess how often we choose survival over surrender and familiarity over faith. Give us courage to enter the chrysalis when You call us there. Loosen our grip on what we are afraid to lose, and draw us into the life You are still bringing forth. Make us willing to become, even when becoming costs us everything. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 19: Bread & Wine

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Read John 6:53–58

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Some of you hurry to eat your own meal without sharing with others. As a result, some go hungry while others get drunk…For if you eat the bread or drink the cup without honoring the body of Christ, you are eating and drinking God’s judgment upon yourself.” (1 Corinthians 11:21, 29 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 and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Bread & Wine” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 19: Bread & Wine. The symbols of Bread and Wine pull us into one of the earliest and most persistent scandals of the Christian faith. Outsiders heard whispers of a strange meal shared behind closed doors: “They eat flesh and drink blood.” This rumor—part fear, part fascination—was enough to brand Christians as cannibals, atheists, and subversive threats to the empire. What those rumors missed, however, is what they accidentally revealed: this meal was never meant to be respectable. It was meant to unsettle a world built on hierarchy, purity, and the consumption of the vulnerable.

Jesus does not soften His language in John 6. He intensifies it. “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood…” It is an intentionally shocking metaphor. Because the Kingdom of God—unlike Caesar’s world—does not devour the poor to feed the powerful. Christ offers His own life so that no one else must be consumed. The Bread & Wine are divine care, not divine demand. They feed rather than exploit. They restore rather than extract. They reveal a God who sustains humanity rather than draining it for power.

In this way, the Table becomes the great reversal. Empire feeds on the weak; Christ feeds the weak. Empire uses bodies; Christ gives His own. Empire organizes itself around dominance; Christ organizes community around nourishment, memory, and love. When Jesus breaks bread, He is not founding a new ritual. He is founding a new kind of world.

But to understand how radical this sign truly is, we must return to the first Table. It was not set in a sanctuary. It was not overseen by a priest. It was not fenced off from the wrong sort of people. It was prepared in a borrowed room. The participants were not clergy—they were ordinary friends, one of whom was preparing to betray Him, another ready to deny Him, and all of whom would scatter before sunrise. Yet Jesus fed them anyway. He washed their feet. He entrusted the remembrance of His life, death, and resurrection to those who had no credentials, no rank, and no halo of holiness around them.

This leads to one of the most quietly subversive truths in the Christian story: Jesus never created sacramental authority. He never restricted this meal to a particular class of leaders. He never attached it to a hierarchy. The early Church broke bread in homes, around kitchen tables, with no formal structures and no official gatekeepers. Sacramental authority developed later—created by a Church anxious about order, purity, consistency, and control. That authority has done much good… and much harm. But it is a human invention, not a divine requirement. Ordination is a tool for service—not a fence around grace.

As an ordained elder in the United Methodist Church, I carry the privilege and responsibility of presiding at Christ’s Table with the deepest reverence. I take that calling seriously. It is one of the greatest honors of my ministry to place the Bread and Cup into open hands and say, “This is the grace of God for you.” I cherish the sacramental trust the Church has placed in me. Yet it is precisely because I value that sacred trust that I must also tell the truth: authority exists to serve grace, not to restrict it. The Eucharist was never meant to elevate the presider over the people. It was meant to reveal Christ who gives Godself to all.

This matters, because Paul’s harshest rebuke to the Corinthians was not about ritual precision. It was about inequality. The wealthy feasted while the poor went hungry. The privileged ate early; the laborers arrived to crumbs. Paul’s outrage is simple: You cannot celebrate Christ’s feast while embodying Caesar’s hierarchy. A Table rooted in self-giving love cannot become a stage for self-preserving power.

Yet in many places, the Church has done exactly that—protecting the Table from the very people Jesus fed. Fencing it. Managing it. Measuring worthiness. Policing access. Deciding who is welcome to receive God’s gift and who must wait for institutional approval. When the Table becomes a throne, it stops being Christ’s Table. Bread and Wine become reminders not of grace, but of gatekeeping.

But the Spirit still whispers the truth: this meal was never meant to be guarded. It was meant to be given. Bread & Wine expose every system—religious, political, or cultural—that survives on consuming others. They invite us into a different way of living: a world where no one is devoured, no one goes hungry, and no one is turned away.

Bread & Wine are not symbols of consumption. They are symbols of communion. They teach us how to feed and be fed. They train us to become people of care in a devouring world.

Because the Table was never about power. It was always about the unconditional grace and love of God through Jesus Christ.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God’s Table is not a place of consumption—it is a place of care.

PRAYER
God of the Table, teach us to receive Your grace with humility and to share it with courage. Shape our hunger into compassion, our rituals into hospitality, and our lives into places where others find nourishment rather than judgment. Feed us with the Bread that gives life, that we may become people who feed others in Your name. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 15: Alpha & Omega (ΑΩ)

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Read Revelation 1:8–11

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I am the first and the last; apart from me there is no God.” (Isaiah 44:6 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.

Caption: Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Alpha & Omega (ΑΩ)” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 13: Alpha & Omega (ΑΩ). The phrase Alpha and Omega has been embroidered onto church banners and stitched into altar cloths for centuries. But when John’s community first heard those words, they didn’t sound decorative—they sounded defiant. John wrote in rough Greek, not to flatter the empire’s tongue, but to commandeer it. His audience were diaspora Jews and Jewish-Christians scattered through Asia Minor—not exiles like John on Patmos, but people living under Roman rule, constantly watched, never quite trusted.

To Rome, they seemed unpatriotic. They refused to burn incense to Caesar or join festivals that honored the emperor as divine. To them, it was faithfulness; to Rome, it looked like rebellion.

It’s not unlike what happened when Colin Kaepernick first sat during the national anthem in quiet protest against racial injustice. A fellow player and veteran approached him, suggesting that kneeling would be more respectful—the way soldiers kneel when a comrade falls. Kaepernick listened, adjusted, and took a knee out of reverence and grief. Yet politicians and fans twisted that gesture into a sign of hatred for the nation. What began as lament was painted as treason. And it wasn’t without cost. Kaepernick lost his job.

That’s the kind of pressure early Christians lived under. A quiet act of conscience—refusing emperor worship—could be recast as rebellion. A choice of faith could cost livelihood, community, and belonging.

To the synagogue communities, they were heretics whose loyalty to Jesus jeopardized the fragile peace with Rome. They lived “in place but not at home,” faithful to a kingdom no one could see.

Into that tension John heard Christ’s voice:

“I am the Alpha and the Omega.”

Rome boasted of being the beginning and end of civilization; Christ stole the slogan and crowned it with a cross. It was not cultural borrowing—it was defiant translation. The language of empire was turned against itself. The Word that spoke creation now rewrote the alphabet of power.

Every time empire said, “This is the end,” God began another sentence. The persecuted became the punctuation marks of God’s story—the commas, pauses, and ellipses where new life breaks in.

And still, the same dynamic plays out. When conscience collides with comfort, society calls dissent dangerous. Yet Christ, the true Alpha and Omega, invites us to speak hope against the empire’s tongue—to reclaim the words and symbols others have weaponized.

So when a believer stands for justice, when a worker refuses to bow to exploitation, when a community insists on love over fear, they echo John’s act of resistance. They take the alphabet back from Empire.

And like Colin Kaepernick, they may pay a price. But faith’s grammar remains: the first and the last belong to God. No power—political, religious, or cultural—gets the final word.

After all, is it not so that every Advent, we remember: the Word became flesh, entering human language to subvert human power. The alphabet of empire will always be rewritten in love’s script.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Christ is the first and the last—not as owner of time, but as author of new beginnings. Every ending empire writes, God edits into resurrection.

PRAYER
Eternal Word, you speak through every language and every silence. When conscience costs us comfort, keep us steadfast. Teach us to reclaim the words and symbols the world misuses, and to write your mercy into the margins. Amen.

Devotional, Series

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

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

Read Psalm 139:13-16

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

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

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

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

And the mirror remembered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devotional

REVISITED: Denial and the Cross

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Read  Mark 8:34-38

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
Then he said to them all, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. (Luke 9:23)

If you are Christian you have, no doubt, come across today’s scripture reading before. In one fashion, or another, you have heard that following Jesus means that we need to deny ourselves and pick up our cross. Part of the problem of being a Christian is that, all of these centuries later, we hear Jesus’ words in ways that I believe he never intendeded them. For instance, when we come across today’s Scirpture passage we often interpret it in ways that both trivialize the cross and demonize ourselves into something less than valuable in the eyes of God.

An unhealthy understanding of Bible passages such as these can lead to an unhealthy, and perhaps damning perception of self, of neighbor and, ultimately, of God. So let me begin by stressing what this passage is NOT saying. First, this passage is NOT saying you should hate yourself or deny yourself your basic needs. It is not saying that at all! God created you and God does not create junk or rubbish. God created you, and all, with a divine and holy purpose in mind. Thus, Jesus is not telling us that in order to be his disciple we need to hate ourselves, look down upon ourselves, or neglect to take care of ourselves. To do such would be sinful and would not be in line with God’s will for us. After all, God calls us to be good stewards of God’s creation (in which we are included) and to go against that would be to go against God’s call.

Second, this passage is not intended to trivialize the cross. There is a TobyMac song called Irene, in which TobyMac sings “Pick up your cross and where it everyday.” This is both a reference to Luke’s parallel passage (Luke 9:22-25) and to the trinket people often where on a necklace fastened around their necks. But this is not what the passage is referring to at all. It’s not referring to a necklace, nor is it referring to a lamented obligation, or a personal challenge one has been going through; rather, Jesus is referring to the instrument of capital punishment he would be affixed to as a means of painfully and humiliatingly exterminating his life.

What Jesus is ultimately saying in this passage is that, if anyone wishes to be his follower, we must deny any part of us that would hold us back from following him. Regardless of what those things are (e.g. our sins, our hangups, our fears, our desires, our hopes, our dreams, etc.) we must be willing to put them aside and be willing to pay all costs for being associated with Jesus. Even if the cost is our very lives, we must be willing to give it all to follow Christ. It has nothing to do with self-loathing, though. It has to do with one’s identity! If one truly identifies as a Christians, and sees him/herself as belonging to Christ, then that will be the most important thing to him/her over and above anything else, including his/her own life.

There are numerous examples of people who saw Christ as being at the core of their identity. This week it behooves us to look at the life of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. who was a disciple of Christ who denied the fears and things that held him back from following Christ. Dr. King certainly picked up his cross, the burden of fighting for equality and freedom for all people regardless of their skin color, and ended up paying the ultimate price for doing so. When we look at Dr. King we see a man who certainly denied himself, picked up his cross and followed Jesus.

The question for us today is this, will we let our fears and our desires keep us from accepting Christ as our Lord? Will we refuse to pick up our cross because of the possible consequences? Will we deny Christ, or deny the parts of ourselves that keep us from accepting Christ? Will we be ashamed of Christ, Christ’s message, and the way of the Cross because it is more convenient for us to do so? Or will we deny our own convenience for the sake of Christ, for the sake of others and for the sake of God’s Kingdom? The choice is ultimately yours and I pray that your response is one of affirmation rather than one of denial and embarrassment. The world could use more disciples of Christ and the hope, healing and wholeness that such disciples bring in Christ’s name.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When we deny the poor and the vulnerable their own human dignity and capacity for freedom and choice, it becomes self-denial. It becomes a denial of both our collective and individual dignity, at all levels of society. – Jacqueline Novogratz
PRAYER
Lord, I give me the strength to deny the things that hold me back from you, to pick up my cross, and to follow you at all costs. Amen.

Online Worship

September 11, 2022 – Newton UMC – Sunday Worship Livestream

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JOY Fellowship Worship Service in Holland Hall: 9:00 a.m.

Worship service streams live at 9:00 a.m. EST (-500 GMT)

Worship Service in Main Sancutary: 10:30 a.m.

Worship service streams live at 10:30 a.m. EST (-500 GMT)

Welcome to our JOY Fellowship Worship Service for September 11. Today we learn that we are a people of faith and Christ calls us to lay our fears aside and put that faith in action.

Please support us by giving online: https://tithe.ly/give?c=1377216 or https://paypal.me/newtonumc Your support is vital, especially during this COVID-19 pandemic. You can also write and mail a check to First UMC of Newton, 111 Ryerson Ave., Newton, NJ 07860.

If you are from another church that is not able to host online worship, we would strongly encourage you give to YOUR church and support them. They no doubt need that support as much as we do. God bless you all for your generosity.

Online Worship

September 4, 2022 – Newton UMC – Sunday Worship Livestream

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JOY Fellowship Worship Service in Holland Hall: 9:00 a.m.

Worship service streams live at 9:00 a.m. EST (-500 GMT)

Worship Service in Main Sancutary: 10:30 a.m.

Worship service streams live at 10:30 a.m. EST (-500 GMT)

Welcome to our JOY Fellowship Worship Service for August 28. Today we learn that following Christ requires a commitment of FAITH and TRUST in our Lord and Savior. Anything short of FAITH leads us back to being agents of the world.

Please support us by giving online: https://tithe.ly/give?c=1377216 or https://paypal.me/newtonumc Your support is vital, especially during this COVID-19 pandemic. You can also write and mail a check to First UMC of Newton, 111 Ryerson Ave., Newton, NJ 07860.

If you are from another church that is not able to host online worship, we would strongly encourage you give to YOUR church and support them. They no doubt need that support as much as we do. God bless you all for your generosity.