Tag Archives: Holy Spirit

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 12: Fire

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Read Exodus 3:1-6

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For our God is a devouring fire.” (Hebrews 12:29 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 “Fire” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 12: Fire. Fire has always drawn us close and frightened us away. It gives warmth and light but devours whatever it touches. From the beginning, fire meant awe. It danced through the wilderness as a pillar of flame. It blazed in the bush that burned but was not consumed. It fell from heaven at Elijah’s prayer and flared again at Pentecost in tongues of light. When Scripture speaks of fire, it’s not talking about destruction—it’s talking about presence. God’s fire refines. It burns away falsehood but never life.

But humanity has always been quick to claim the flames for itself. If God’s fire reveals truth, ours often hides cruelty. The same Church that sang “Come, Holy Spirit” once lit pyres in God’s name. Crusaders burned villages, inquisitors burned heretics, colonizers burned cultures. Even now, Christians still burn bridges and books, ideas and identities. We’ve mistaken zeal for love, wrath for holiness, and torches for testimony. The world smells the smoke and wonders why we call it worship.

We have baptized arson. We’ve turned the language of fire into slogans for vengeance and purity, using the flames of judgment to scorch those who think, love, or live differently. When we use “holy fire” to destroy, we mirror Cain, not Christ. We forget that the fire of God’s presence is the same fire that stood between enslaved Israelites and their pursuers, the same light that filled a frightened upper room with courage. Divine fire liberates—it doesn’t lynch.

Scripture’s fire is not that kind of fire. When Moses met God in the desert, the flames blazed yet left the bush whole. When the Spirit came at Pentecost, the disciples were set alight but not destroyed. That’s the pattern of divine fire: it consumes what poisons but preserves what’s pure. It doesn’t burn to punish; it burns to reveal. It’s the fire of covenant, of purification, of presence.

Human flames are never so merciful. Nebuchadnezzar built a furnace to destroy faith, but the fire bowed before the fourth figure who walked among the exiles untouched. Elijah mocked Baal’s prophets as they begged for their god to answer with fire, but only the Lord’s flame fell—and it didn’t just consume the offering, it consumed the stones, the water, and the pride of the people who’d forgotten who they were. Again and again, the fires we build to destroy are conquered by the fire that saves.

“Our God is a devouring fire,” the writer of Hebrews says—but devouring only what does not belong to love.

There is also the fire we fear to face—the one that burns within. The anger, grief, and longing that threaten to undo us are not always enemies. Sometimes they are the sparks of transformation, begging to be tended. God’s refining flame is not distant; it works in the marrow of our being. It burns away self-deception and pride, purges our need to control, and leaves behind only what can survive in love’s heat. The saints called it purgation; we might just call it growing up. Either way, it’s holy fire.

We’ve all felt both sides of the flame. There’s the heat that sanctifies, and the heat that scorches. The Church must ask which one it carries. Do our words kindle life or ash? Do our hearts burn with compassion or contempt? Because every time we ignite hatred and call it holy, we commit arson against grace.

The subversive truth is that God’s fire cannot be managed or weaponized. It isn’t ours to control. It is the fire of the bush that refuses to go out, the fire that melts our golden calves, the fire that burns in the eyes of prophets and poets who refuse to let the world grow cold. To stand near that flame is dangerous—but not because it destroys. It’s dangerous because it changes us. It burns away the false self until only love remains.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The only fire God blesses is the kind that burns without destroying.

PRAYER
Consuming Fire, burn within us, not against us. Kindle what is holy and burn away what is cruel. Melt our hardness into compassion, our fear into courage, our pride into light. Make us flames that warm rather than wound and let your holy fire be known again in love. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 9: The Star of David

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Read Genesis 32:22–30

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I am the Lord, and I do not change. That is why you descendants of Jacob are not already destroyed.” (Malachi 3:6 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.

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

Part 9: The Star of David. It’s one of the most recognized shapes on earth—two triangles interlocked into a single star. To many it names a people, a faith, a nation. Yet this six-pointed figure carries a story far older and more complex than flags or politics.

Long before anyone called it the Star of David, geometric versions of it appeared in the ancient Near East and Mediterranean world—on seals, mosaics, and pottery—signs of symmetry, of heaven and earth in dialogue. In those early cultures, creation was not described through four “classical” elements the way Greek philosophers later would, but through layers of cosmos: heavens above, waters below, the fertile earth between. When the Hellenistic world eventually met Hebrew imagination, the upward triangle came to stand for fire rising toward heaven, the downward for water descending to nourish the world. Their union pictured wholeness—the marriage of divine transcendence and divine nearness.

By the Middle Ages, Jewish artists and scholars had begun calling it the Shield or Seal of David, linking it to Solomon’s legendary ring and to God’s protection. Mystics saw in its mirrored triangles the movement of divine life itself: mercy and justice, male and female, creation and redemption. Later, teachers of Kabbalah—a stream of Jewish mysticism that searched the Hebrew Scriptures for the hidden patterns of God’s presence—used the star to reflect that sacred balance. For them, it wasn’t a charm for control, but a diagram of relationship: the world below echoing the world above, both held in divine unity.

In the centuries that followed, the star continued to travel. During the Renaissance and the rise of esoteric study in Europe, Christian alchemists and philosophers borrowed it as a bridge between science and spirit. Secret societies and mystical orders, from the Rosicrucians to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, adopted it as a way of visualizing the harmony between the material and the divine. Each tradition layered its own meaning upon it—some noble, some misguided—but the geometry of faith remained. The two triangles still spoke of heaven and earth meeting, of divine and human co-laboring in the act of creation.

For the Jewish people, the star’s meaning deepened through the centuries. It appeared on synagogues and manuscripts, a sign of belonging and blessing. Yet in the twentieth century, this same symbol was twisted into something unspeakable. The Nazis forced Jews to wear the yellow Star of David as a mark of shame and isolation. What had long represented covenant was turned into a curse.

Yet even when the Nazis turned that same shape into a badge of shame, its meaning refused to die. When it later appeared on the flag of Israel, it stood as testimony: a people refusing to let hatred erase them. But that return was not without cost. The land was already home to others—Palestinians, both Muslim and Christian, and Jewish families who had lived there for generations. In the struggle for safety came displacement, division, war, and death. The star that once marked covenant now also bears the ache of exile and loss. It reminds us that divine promises are never meant to justify human harm, and that God’s heart holds the tears of all who suffer.

Still, the star’s meaning remains contested. In some corners of Christianity, it has been co-opted again—not out of hatred, but out of hubris. Some use it to press political or prophetic agendas, wielding it as a tool to hasten apocalypse or justify allegiance to empire. But the star is not a weapon. It is a witness. Its very shape tells us that creation’s balance is not ours to manipulate; it is God’s to maintain. When faith reaches for control, it tips the scales toward chaos.

The true subversion of the Star of David is not found in its mystique or in its misuse—it’s found in what it remembers. This is the symbol of a people who have wrestled with God and survived, who have clung to promise through centuries of exile and return. It tells the story of a covenant that outlasts kings and crusades. For Christians, it stands as a humbling reminder that we are grafted into a story not our own. The Star of David belongs first to those who bore the burden of God’s faithfulness long before we spoke the name of Christ.

To look upon this star with reverence is to remember that divine strength is found in struggle, not supremacy. Fire and water, heaven and earth—each moves toward the other until creation is made whole again. The same God who called Jacob to wrestle calls the Church to relent—to stop grasping at power and start bearing witness to grace.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God’s covenant isn’t a competition—it’s an invitation to wrestle, to remember, and to be made whole.

PRAYER
Faithful God, who binds heaven and earth together in mercy, thank You for the symbol that still shines through centuries of struggle. Teach us to honor its meaning, to respect its people, and to seek balance in our own hearts. May every sign of faith we bear point not to conquest but to covenant. 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

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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.

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 4: The Dove

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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.

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, Previous Post

REVISITED: Shadow of the Vampire

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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

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Read Matthew 23:1-12

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

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

Image: AI-generated by Rev. Todd R. Lattig using Adobe Firefly and modified by the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devotional

Sacrilegious

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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)

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

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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

Ktulu’s Call

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Read Daniel 3:1-18

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“They worshiped the dragon for giving the beast such power, and they worshiped the beast. ‘Who is as great as the beast?’ they exclaimed. ‘Who is able to fight against him?’” (Revelation 13:4 NLT)

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Ktulu’s Call” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Beneath the waves, something stirs.

It is older than empires, older than crowns.

It slumbers in the deep, patient as stone, dreaming of the day its name will be spoken again. And above, in the cities of humanity, its worshipers gather.

They wear robes of power, not burlap. Their temples are marble halls, not mountain caves. They sing their hymns to the glory of the state, to the promise of safety, to the myth of greatness. They call it patriotism. They call it destiny. But in the shadows, the old god smiles — for it knows the truth. This is worship. And worship, without discernment, always finds its way to the abyss.

Once, an empire called its ruler divine. Citizens bowed not just to power, but to the idea of power — that it could save them, protect them, define them. They built altars in the public square. They silenced the prophets who dared to speak another name.

It has happened before.

It will happen again.

For the cult does not care whose face is on the coin, so long as the throne remains the altar.

In Daniel’s day, the empire’s god wore the face of Nebuchadnezzar. His statue loomed ninety feet tall, a shimmering idol in the desert sun. At the sound of the horn, the flute, and the lyre, all were commanded to bow — not just as an act of loyalty, but as proof of belonging. Refusal was not dissent; it was treason. And in the furnace, the penalty awaited.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego heard the call and stayed on their feet. They knew the difference between honoring authority and worshiping it. Between respect and reverence. Between human rule and divine sovereignty. And so they answered the king: “We do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter… the God we serve is able to deliver us… but even if he does not, we will not serve your gods or worship the image you have set up.”

That is what faith looks like when the cult of empire comes calling — when the Call of Ktulu rises from the deep, dressed in the language of safety, tradition, and unity. Faith that refuses to kneel to any throne that demands God’s place.

Revelation warns us that the beast and the dragon are not relics of the past. They are patterns. They show up wherever power demands worship, wherever fear is weaponized, wherever loyalty to God is measured by loyalty to the state. And they flourish when the faithful forget that our allegiance belongs to a Kingdom not built by human hands.

Today’s idols don’t always stand in golden fields. Sometimes they stand behind podiums. Sometimes they march under flags — and those flags sadly and wrongly litter our altar and sanctuary spaces, as if God shares our national pride. Sometimes idols hide in slogans we’ve recited so often we’ve stopped hearing their hollow echo. And the music still plays — not horns and flutes, but chants and headlines, swelling to remind us: “Bow with us, or burn alone.”

Ktulu’s call, the call beneath the throne, is subtle. It doesn’t always demand open blasphemy. Sometimes it just asks you to blend in. To stay quiet when truth is costly. To let someone else bear the heat while you hum along to the empire’s song.

But the Kingdom’s citizens are not called to blend in. We are called to stand out — not for our own glory, but for Christ’s. Our worship belongs to the One who walked through the furnace with those who would not bow, and who walks with us still.

The question isn’t whether the cult will rise again. It’s whether we will hear the music — and choose to stand.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Allegiance to Christ will always put you at odds with the idols of your age.

PRAYER
Lord, give me ears to hear when the music of the empire plays, and courage to stand when all the world kneels. Amen.

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

Devotional

Religious, Not Spiritual

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Read 2 Timothy 3:1-5

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing.” (John 6:63 NLT)

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Religious Not Spiritual” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

The last of the paper cups clinked into the trash bin, and the smell of burnt coffee lingered in the fellowship hall. A man lingered too—hovering by the doorway, eyes fixed on the floor. He waited until the chatter thinned before stepping forward.

“Pastor?” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the hum of the soda machine. “I’m not really religious… but I am spiritual.” The words tumbled out like a confession he wasn’t sure he wanted to make.

Across the room, a Bible study group laughed over some inside joke. He glanced their way, then back again, as if the sight itself explained its meaning. He’d seen this before—prayers without love, creeds without kindness. Religion as a badge, but never a breath.

He told the pastor about the church of his childhood, where rules mattered more than people. Where pews were full but hearts felt empty. Where the sermons were about sin management, not life transformation. “They told me who God was,” he said, “but never showed me.”

For many churchgoers, it is easy to dismiss his words as cliché—another person parroting the “spiritual but not religious” line. Yet, that would be foolish, because beneath them is something truer: a deep hunger for God, buried under layers of human control. The person in the opening story wasn’t rejecting Jesus. He was rejecting the version of him he’d been handed—one stripped of compassion, bound up in policies and politics.

Everyone knows the line: “I’m spiritual, but not religious.” For some, it’s a dodge. For others, it’s a real wound. But I’ve met just as many who live the opposite—religious not spiritual—faithful in form but untouched by the Spirit.

As both a human and a pastor, I have found myself in both camps. I’ve known the safety of staying “religious”—going through the motions, doing church the way it’s always been done, because it’s predictable and comfortable. It’s the path of least resistance. And I’ve known the vulnerability of living by the Spirit—where God calls you beyond tradition into love that costs something.

Religion in itself isn’t the problem. Hollow religion is. Ritual without the Spirit is just theater. Worship without love is just noise. But when religion is infused with the Spirit, it becomes what it was meant to be all along: a rhythm that shapes hearts, a gathering that heals, a practice that points to Jesus.

This is exactly what Jesus confronted in his own day. His sharpest words weren’t for the people on the margins—they were for the religious elite who had the form of godliness but denied its power. They prayed loudly but loved little. They tithed from their spice racks but neglected justice and mercy.

Jesus didn’t come to scrap religion entirely—he came to breathe life into it. He still does. He takes our dry habits and fills them with living water. He transforms “just going to church” into “being the Church.” He moves us from simply following rules to living in relationship.

So maybe the better question isn’t, “Am I religious or spiritual?” but “Is my faith alive?” Does it beat with the heart of Christ? Does it move me to love those the world ignores? Does it challenge my comfort when the Spirit calls me deeper?

If our faith is just habit, it will eventually wither. But when the Spirit fills it, religion becomes the trellis where love grows.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Faith without the Spirit is a shell. Let God fill it.

PRAYER
Lord, strip away the empty motions in my faith. Breathe your Spirit into every word, every act, every gathering. Make my life a living rhythm that points to you. Amen.