Tag Archives: Jesus Christ

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb

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Read John 11:38–44

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“You have been raised to new life with Christ. So set your sights on the realities of heaven…” (Colossians 3:1 NLT)

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

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

Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb. He hadn’t meant to open it. The photo album. It just fell off the shelf while he was reaching for something else. Thick, vinyl-bound. The kind that smells like old glue and ghosts. He sat on the floor and flipped it open—page after page of some other boy’s life.

Except the boy was in dresses. Hair curled. Smiling. Always smiling. And every part of him wanted to scream. Because that was him. And it wasn’t.

He remembered how tight the shoes were. How the lace itched. How the compliments stung. “So beautiful.” “Such a pretty little girl.”

He remembered the way his chest sank every time someone used the wrong name—not just wrong, but impossible. Like they were naming a stranger that only he had to become.

He didn’t have words for it back then. Just a hollow ache. Just a sense that something was off and he was the problem. So he learned to perform. Smile for the camera. Say thank you. Don’t make it weird.

But now, as a grown man flipping through a scrapbook of someone else’s expectations, he felt it like a funeral—one he never asked for but had been made to attend.

Years ago, he came out as a trans man. Not for attention. Not to make a point. He was just done pretending. Done shrinking. Done dying politely.

But the album was still there—heavy as ever, shelved like scripture. And sometimes, someone would still flip it open and smile wistfully, landing on a page and saying, “You were always such a happy little girl.”

He never knew what to say to that. They meant it as a memory. But to him, it was a myth. A horrible lie, sealed in plastic, that almost cost him his life.

He closed the album. Not with anger—but with a strange kind of peace. The past couldn’t be undone, but it didn’t get the final word. He was alive now. Fully, finally, painfully alive. And that’s when resurrection really begins.

When Jesus stood outside Lazarus’s tomb, he didn’t blame him for being dead. He didn’t call him out with judgment. He called him by name: “Lazarus, come out.” And then—this part is easy to miss—he turned to the others and said, “Unbind him. Let him go.”

Friends, resurrection doesn’t end at the moment of awakening. It begins there.

Coming out is a resurrection. And like all resurrections, it’s messy. It doesn’t happen with makeup done and hair perfectly styled. It doesn’t look like a Hallmark moment. It often looks like staggering out of a dark place, wrapped in grave clothes that other people put on you. It looks like truth rising through dust. Like life interrupting someone else’s narrative.

Too many people think coming out—whether it’s as queer, trans, disabled, neurodivergent, or simply not what they expected—is some act of rebellion. They call it selfish. They call it sinful. They call it confusing. But what if it’s holy?

What if resurrection means walking out of the tomb with your head held high, even if your voice still shakes? What if grace looks like unwrapping the grave clothes of shame, fear, and forced performance—and refusing to let other people call that death life? And what if the church’s role isn’t to stand at the entrance of the tomb demanding answers, but to help unbind the ones God has already called to rise?

Because if Jesus called Lazarus by name, you can be sure he knows yours too. And when he calls, he doesn’t say, “Come back.” He says, “Come out.”

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Coming out is not rebellion. It is resurrection. And Jesus is the one who calls you by name.

PRAYER
God of the living, you call us out of shame and into truth, out of silence and into song, out of tombs and into life. Help us to hear your voice—and to follow. When others still see a corpse, you see a beloved. Give us courage to rise, and surround us with people who help unbind what no longer belongs. In the name of the risen Christ, who knows our names and our scars, Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 4: The Body You Bear

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Read Isaiah 53:2–3

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“But I will show love to those I called ‘Not loved.’ And to those I called ‘Not my people,’ I will say, ‘Now you are my people.’” (Hosea 2:23 NLT)

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

Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Beloved & Becoming: The Body You Bear” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 4: The Body You Bear. I was awkward, gangly—queer in ways I didn’t yet have language for. Oh, but my peers had the language for me. “Wuss,” “faggot,” “homo,” “sissy,” “girl,” etc. The Physical Fitness Test felt less like a measure of health and more like a public performance I was destined to fail. Pull-ups? I barely managed a hang. Running laps? I came in last. The clipboard wasn’t just tracking numbers—it was tracking shame. The kids laughed. The teacher chuckled. And I shrank a little more each time, wondering if I’d ever measure up to a body, a standard, a world that wasn’t built for me.

There was no need to say it aloud: I didn’t belong. At least, that’s what the test—and the reactions around it—seemed to affirm. It wasn’t just my body that was found wanting. It was me. My softness. My sensitivity. My difference. The clipboard didn’t just log reps and times—it logged who was worthy, and who wasn’t.

Decades later, I look back on that sweaty gym floor and realize how many adults carry those same clipboards in our minds. We may not wear PE uniforms anymore, but the tests remain. They’ve just gone digital. Are you strong enough? Straight enough? Masculine enough? Feminine enough? Successful enough? Stable enough? Have you checked the right boxes? Are you passing the invisible test?

And for those of us who’ve always been marked as “different”—because of our gender, sexuality, neurodivergence, bodies, backgrounds, or beliefs—the weight of that measuring sticks deeper. We’re not just trying to succeed. We’re trying to be seen. We’re trying to survive.

But thank God, there’s another voice. A different kind of measuring.

In Isaiah 53, the prophet speaks of a man “despised and rejected”—a man of sorrows acquainted with grief. He had nothing beautiful or majestic about his appearance, nothing to attract us. That’s the body God chose to bear the suffering of the world.

I think about that body—wounded, marginalized, misunderstood—as a sacred symbol for all the bodies that don’t fit the world’s ideals. Bodies like mine. Bodies like yours. Bodies rejected, mocked, overlooked.

God’s love doesn’t hinge on perfection or performance. It’s given to the despised, the rejected, the broken-hearted. Those who carry grief and scars are the very ones God holds close.

In Hosea, God promises to show love to those once called “Not loved,” and to bring those once called “Not my people” into the family. That promise is for every body that’s been told it doesn’t belong.

Your body is not a test to pass. It is a temple of God’s presence, a vessel of belovedness—crafted by the Divine, held by grace, and called to shine with holy dignity. In every scar, every curve, every breath, God’s love is made visible. You are sacred. You are whole. You are deeply, unconditionally beloved.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God’s measure is not in strength or beauty but in love and belonging. Your body—exactly as it is—is holy ground.

PRAYER
God of wounded beauty, thank you for choosing the rejected and carrying our sorrows. Help me to see my body as you see it: beloved, sacred, and whole. When I feel the weight of judgment, remind me of your unwavering love. Teach me to stop measuring myself against what you never asked of me and help me walk, not in performance—but in purpose. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 2: Holy Unbecoming

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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 Romans 13:11–14

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Clothe yourself with the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. And don’t let yourself think about ways to indulge your evil desires.” (Romans 13:14 NLT)

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

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

Part 2: Holy Unbecoming. He used to wear the blazer like armor. Not for fashion. Not for warmth. Not even for respect, exactly. But because somewhere along the line, he learned that dressing sharp could soften the room. A crisp collar made people look past the voice that trembled. A fitted jacket distracted from the way his hands always fidgeted. If he showed up polished, maybe they wouldn’t see how messy he felt inside.

The thing is, it worked—for a while.

Job interviews went smoother. Church folks smiled more. Even his family, once critical, started saying he seemed “more grounded.” What they meant was: he looked like someone they could finally understand. And let’s be honest—some part of him liked the feeling of being seen as competent, even admired. He got good at it. So good, he nearly forgot it was a performance.

But somewhere between the dry cleaning tags and polite smiles, he started to wonder who was underneath all that tailoring. He wore the blazer even on days he didn’t need to. Until one morning, standing in front of the mirror, something in him cracked. He slid it off, not in anger but in ache. For the first time, he didn’t want to be impressive.

He wanted to be real.

The process of unbecoming is not easy. Especially when the world has praised you for the mask you wear. It’s a slow shedding—layer by layer—of identities we’ve worn to survive. It’s the realization that holiness isn’t found in how well we’ve adapted to others’ expectations. It’s found in the brave return to the soul God breathed into us.

Paul’s words in Romans 13 are urgent: “Wake up… the night is almost gone… the day of salvation will soon be here.” This isn’t a threat. It’s a plea to step out of hiding and live fully in the light. To cast off falsehood—not just immoral behavior, but the exhausting roles we perform to win approval. To put on Christ is not to disguise ourselves in religion, but to be clothed in the love that sees us clearly and stays.

Paul writes that we are to “clothe ourselves with the presence of Christ.” That’s not an invitation to hide behind religious niceties. It’s a call to authenticity. Jesus didn’t perform holiness. He embodied it—through compassion, confrontation, hunger, grief, joy, and tears. To put on Christ is to strip away everything false, and dare to believe that our unvarnished, vulnerable selves are where grace meets us first.

Holy unbecoming is what happens when we stop striving and start listening. When we allow the Spirit to dismantle the false self and rebuild us in truth. It’s messy. Tender. Often misunderstood. But it’s also where freedom lives.

Letting go of who we were told to be isn’t rebellion—it’s resurrection. It’s the slow and sacred work of becoming the beloved we already are.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God doesn’t ask us to pretend. God asks us to be present. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is lay down the mask and trust that what’s underneath is still worthy of love.

PRAYER
God, I’ve worn so many identities just to feel safe. Help me lay them down. Help me remember who I am—who you made me to be—and give me courage to live from that truth. Amen.

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

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).

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REVISITED: Killing Strangers

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Read Revelation 13:1-4

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put the sword back into its place. All those who use the sword will die by the sword.’” (Matthew 26:52 CEB)

Marilyn Manson live on 1/29/2017 at Terminal 5 in Manhattan.

Is it just me or does it seem like the world is spinning completely out of control? The news is daily filled with stories of people killing other people. Growing up, I remember hearing of murders here or there, I remember the shock that would bring to me everytime I heard of someone’s violent demise. It was shocking because it didn’t happen to often, or it was at least less often brought to my attention, so that when I heard of such violent acts I was horrified by it.

Nowadays, I must admit, that I am not shocked to hear of such things at all. If anything, like most in our society, I have grown numb to it. That’s not to say that I am apathetic to the people who suffer. I am an empath, meaning that I can easily put myself in the shoes of others and will often feel the pain others are going through, not to the same level as the suffering, but enough to empathize with them. Yet, overall, I have grown numb (in that I am not shocked) to the constant barraging of violent extremism in this country. It has, sadly, become the norm.

We live in the age of the sword. People no longer can look at the other, despite the differences they have, and see common humanity in them. Rather, they see the other as being the enemy. They embrace the spirit of Satan, which is the spirit of divisiveness and enmity. They avoid, at all costs, the long, hard road of open, honest, and painful communication. They avoid seeking to understand the other, as well as seeking the other to understand them, and they resort to pointing the finger, scapegoating, warring with others, and taking lives. From our politicians modeling this kind of enmity in their campaigns to common protestors who are outraged over injustice, violence is becoming the modus operandi for getting oneself or one’s group heard.

It is understandable how people can resort to violence. When groups of people suffer seemingly endless injustice, while others are treated with respect and dignity, that is angering. When groups of people who are being discriminated against feel like the majority of people are not hearing them out or understanding their woes, that adds fuel to the already stoked fire. Even more, when the majority of people want to keep things exactly as they are because it suits them at the great cost of others, and they discount or deny the experiences of discrimination that others are going through, that can be a rallying cry for those who are fed up with being silenced in their suffering.

Yet, violence almost never helps anyone’s cause, but often begets more violence. We saw that in the shootings of Minnesota, Louisiana and Texas. The shootings of two black males by police officers, resulted in someone angrily taking justice into their own hands by shooting unwary police officers who were just trying to ensure the safety of protestors in Dallas, and they were officers who had nothing to do with the previous shootings. We also see this at the often chaotic and sometimes violent rallies of our presidential candidates. People in both of these instances, and beyond are fed up with NOT being heard and are, unfortunately, venting their frustrations violently. As one candidate’s followers get violent toward the other’s, the other candidate’s followers retaliate.

This reminds me of two Marilyn Manson songs. In his song, “Killing Strangers,” Manson writes that “we’re killing strangers so we don’t kill the ones that we love.” This is a profound truth, in that out of frustration we resort to killing the other, the stranger, in order to “protect” those we love and care about. The problem is that those “strangers” often did nothing, and would do nothing, to deserve being killed.

In his song, “Antichrist Superstar,” Manson writes, “Cut the head off, grows back hard. I am the hydra, now you’ll see your star.” This, of course, is imagery taken straight from the book of Revelation. While Manson is writing about how the church created the “evil” they perceive him, and others, to be, I believe that these lyrics apply here as well. We use the sword (proverbial or literal) to cut down our perceived enemies, only to see those enemies rise back up to strike us back.

The question for us is this, when does the violence stop? Surely, there is truth in Jesus’ warning that “those who live by the sword will surely die by it.” I am not saying that all violence is uncalled for, but when we are reactive in violent and destructive ways as a result of our fear and anger, that almost always leads down the path of destruction. We may be killing strangers to begin with, but we are killing pieces of our own souls in the process, and reaping the harvest of our seeds of fear and anger. Let us, as Jesus taught, lay down our swords and seek the better, more righteous way of responding to injustice.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
“My religion is based on truth and non-violence. Truth is my God. Non-violence is the means of realizing Him.” – Mahatma Gandhi

PRAYER
Lord, help me to find constructive and nonviolent ways of harnessing my righteous anger, for the elimination of injustice and the transformation of this world. Amen.

Devotional, Previous Post

REVISITED: Dance, Baby, Dance

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Read 2 Samuel 6:14-22

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever!

Do you like to dance? I absolutely love to. It is not that I have taken any lessons. I think I took some tap dance lessons when I was a kid, but the only tapping I remember is what I am doing now, on the keyboard. Still, I love to dance. Bring me to a club, take me to concert, bring me to a wedding, and I will inevitably dance it up no matter how I look. I just love to move my body. Besides, is head banging any different really? I love to do both.

Every now and again, including recently, I put together a mix of music to dance. The past two have been centered on darker dance songs. What do I mean by “darker”? That is a great question, for I feel the word “dark” gets used for so many different things that it is important to define. By dark, I mean that the music focuses on deeper, more substantive subjects that relate to the struggles of being human.

These songs can and do dive into different facets of humanity, from depression to anxiety, from loneliness to sexuality. All of these songs are relatable to human life and the struggle it is to be human. Have you ever noticed that. We cling to our lives like precious gems, and they are precious gems; yet, the cost of that is the daily struggle of survival. For some of us that is easier than others, but it is a struggle all the same.

Ask yourself this: “Have I gone through life without a single struggle?” Chances are, you haven’t gone through life unscathed at all. We all have our troubles, our trials, our doubts, our fears, our insecurities. Truthfully, not even Jesus Christ went through life without all of those struggles; therefore, how can any of us expect to do so.

As such, one of the things I have learned to do is to dance through the pain. First, it is hard to feel depressed and troubled when you are moving your body joyously. When I listen to the darker songs, they are expressing my pain lyrically, but the music is carrying me through it, transcending it through exuberant, joyful, and counter-emotional movements. Now, I am able to dance physically and so I do, but dancing need not be merely a physical activity; rather, it can be a spiritual and emotional one too. Put on your favorite music, sing out loud, scream the songs out if you have to. Dance within your heart, your soul, your entire being.

Friends, there is plenty in this world to cause us to want to stop dancing; however, that is when we truly stop living. God created us to dance, to joyfully worship God and to live freely into who we are as God’s children. Whatever your dance is, whatever music it is that makes you want to move, put that on and show the world that it is going to take more than struggles to keep you from rocking and rolling.

If we do that, there will be no telling what God will do with us. Just look at King David who danced, even despite the scorn of his wife, with all his might before the Lord our God. We can do the same too, and we can do so inspite of all that the world throws our way. Sisters and brothers, let us throw off our burdens before the Lord and dance them away, allowing the Lord to fill us with eternal and everlasting joy, a joy the world can never take away.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Not today, Satan! Today I dance!

PRAYER
Lord, teach and help me to dance. Amen.

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REVISITED: Never Trifle

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Read Ephesians 5:15-21

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will succeed.” (Proverbs‬ ‭16:3‬ ‭CEB)‬‬‬‬

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

Time. Our lives are shaped by it, wrapped around it, dictated by it. The world operates on it, and schedules are formed around it. Time is measured by numbers on a clock. It’s marked in boxes on a thing we call a calendar. We record time when we punch into our jobs, we structure our music with it, and we even call our meeting records “minutes.”

What’s more, churches become institutions of time. Rev. John Wesley believed that because time was short, every moment in time needed to be occupied with holy work and that one should not trifle away time. As a pastor, I always try to be a “good steward of time” during our worship services, and no doubt, many pastors are quickly told whether or not they are starting and/or ending worship too late.

Beyond the physical function of time in the church institution, time is also laden in our theology and in the Bible itself. “In the beginning” (Genesis 1), “a season” or a time “for everything under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 3), “making the most of your time” (Ephesians 5:16), “I am the beginning and the end” (Revelation 1:8), and others all signify the importance of time for humanity.

Yet I believe that time can also become our proverbial golden calf—a false idol in our lives. Time is too often used in a way that enables us to be busy, preoccupied, scurrying workers of the tediously mundane. Let me repeat that again: Time is too often used in a way that enables us to be busy, preoccupied, scurrying workers of the tediously mundane. In other words, we fill up time rather than purposefully manage and utilize it for the glory of God.

As a pastor, I don’t have to work hard at being busy—and being busy keeps me working hard, no doubt. There is more to be done daily in the life of the church than any one pastor or person could possibly accomplish. My time, as is the case with all servant leaders, is filled with the busy-ness of the church. On top of being a pastor, I serve on a couple of committees, and I am active in the life of the church beyond the local congregation I serve. To add to that, I am a son, a husband, a father, and a friend; therefore, I have important and vital relationships that I need to maintain and be actively engaged in.

These realities are not just realities for pastors alone, but for all people. You, no doubt, are a busy person with much to do and vitally important relationships to maintain and be actively engaged in. You, if you are a Christian who is actively engaged in a local congregation somewhere, are incredibly busy doing the work in the life of the church.

Here’s the potential pitfall to all that I have written above: God does not call us to be “busy,” nor does God deem our busy-ness to be the best use of our time. Yes, God calls us to serve the church and to be the body of Christ. Yes, God calls us to bring the Gospel message to all people. Yes, God calls us to diligently bring hope, healing, and wholeness to people sorely in need of it. But a lot of the work we do, if we are completely honest, does not answer that call as much as it fills up our time.

The challenge for all of us as human beings, as children of God, is the following: to not “trifle our time away” with the mundane work that keeps us from answering God’s call. Every moment is a sacred moment and should be kept holy. We should work diligently, but we should also not use mundane work as an excuse for why we don’t have the time to do the things God has called us to. What’s more, God has called us to set time apart to rest, to be renewed, and to be recharged (aka Sabbath). Remember, we should never trifle with time but should glorify God with our use of the time we have—by working diligently, serving efficiently, and resting religiously

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
“Be diligent. Never be unemployed a moment. Never be triflingly employed. Never while away time; neither spend more time at any place than is strictly necessary.” – John Wesley, from Wesley’s Twelve Rules of a Helper

PRAYER
Lord, help me to steer clear of trifling the time you have given me. Amen.

Devotional

Forget the Fake

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Read Ecclesiastes 2:4-11

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
Next the devil took him to the peak of a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. “I will give it all to you,” he said, “if you will kneel down and worship me.” “Get out of here, Satan,” Jesus told him. “For the Scriptures say, ‘You must worship the Lord your God and serve only him.’” (Matthew 4:8–10 NLT)

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

I was walking through Walt Disney World—shoulder to shoulder with families in matching shirts, toddlers gripping melting Mickey bars, and cast members trained to smile like their jobs depended on it. Every corner had a soundtrack. Every smile, every gesture, every blade of grass seemed perfectly in place. The grass along the walkways looked too green to be real—and in many places, it wasn’t. Astroturf blended almost seamlessly with manicured lawns, trimmed to the millimeter. The air smelled like popcorn, cotton candy, and sunscreen. Hot dogs sizzled behind shiny glass counters. A trolley clanged gently by, carrying brightly dressed folks singing and dancing their way down the street, inviting all of us to believe we’d stepped into something better than reality.

It felt like walking through nostalgia—curated, choreographed, and utterly convincing. I found myself humming, “I’m walkin’ right down the middle of Main Street, U.S.A.” Then—full stop.

Is this what Main Street U.S.A. really looks like? Smells like? Sounds like?

That question cut deeper than I expected. The illusion cracked. It was too American. Disney had really bought into—or maybe sold—the American Dream. Not from a place of privilege, but from the deeply rooted delusion that luck doesn’t matter. This was one man’s kingdom. His dream. His rules. His version of magic. And beneath the polished surfaces and pixie dust? The same thing that exists everywhere else: inequality, inequity, and the same old story of the rich getting richer off the backs of people willing to give everything for a dream they didn’t invent.

And yet, even in that critical moment, I couldn’t deny the complexity of the legacy. Credit where it’s due—Disney and the company Walt built have also created real opportunities for people to learn, grow, and launch meaningful careers. Both of my daughters have participated in the Disney College Program and have benefited deeply from the vision he set in motion. The legacy is complicated—but it’s not without value.

As the vision softened, so did my judgment. The clarity I felt began turning inward. Empathy began to emerge. I started to see Walt not as a villain, but as a man who did the best he could within a system that gave him a stage—and limits. He built something extraordinary. He dreamed big—not simply for profit, but because his imagination had once been stifled. And yes, he wanted to be paid. Don’t we all? Even me, writing on Medium. Maybe Walt didn’t forget where he came from. Maybe his dream was rooted in that memory. Maybe the blind spots didn’t come from evil intent, but from the slow erosion that happens when success numbs self-awareness.

That’s the thing. The monster wasn’t the dream. The monster was the appetite to sell it. And that hunger isn’t unique to Walt. It’s not unique to Disney. It lives in all of us. We trade the messy, sacred truth of real life for something shinier. Easier. Safer. We chase success as if it proves something. We believe that if we just dream big enough, work hard enough, we’ll get what we deserve. But that’s not gospel. That’s marketing.

Jesus didn’t buy into the dream of empire. He was offered all the kingdoms of the world and turned them down. Why? Because real power doesn’t come from illusion. It doesn’t come from building something shiny on the surface. It comes from humility. Truth. Justice. Mercy. Love.

We don’t need more spectacle. We need more substance. Forget the fake. It may glitter. It may sing. But it won’t save. Only Jesus can do that.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The American Dream may offer comfort, but it can’t offer Christ. Don’t settle for the illusion of magic when what you need is resurrection.

PRAYER
God of truth, awaken me from the dreams that deceive. Help me see through the illusions of power, prestige, and performance. Teach me to long not for the kingdoms of this world, but for your Kingdom come—on earth as it is in heaven. Make me brave enough to let go of the fake, and faithful enough to walk in what’s real. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

SEVEN LOADED LETTERS, Part 8: The Church That Held On

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SEVEN LOADED LETTERS, Part 8: The Church That Held On

Read Revelation 3:7-13

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Lord your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” (Zephaniah 3:17 NLT)

The Book of Revelation opens not with beasts or bowls, but with a voice—a call that echoes through time and space to a Church both ancient and present. These seven letters, delivered to communities scattered across Asia Minor, are more than historical artifacts. They are loaded with truth, urgency, and love. They speak to us, challenge us, and strip away illusions. In every age, Christ’s words to the Church still ask us to listen—and respond.

Image: AI-generated using OpenAI’s DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Church That Held On” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The Church That Held On. Jesus’ words to Philadelphia stand apart from the others. This church receives no rebuke. No harsh critique. Just encouragement, affirmation, and a simple plea: keep going. In a world addicted to power and spectacle, Jesus recognizes their quiet faithfulness. “You have little strength,” he says, “yet you obeyed my word and did not deny me.”

Philadelphia wasn’t the biggest or flashiest church. They didn’t have the numbers, the budget, or the prestige. But they had integrity. And when everything in the surrounding culture told them to compromise, to conform, to just give up—they held on.

Today, that kind of faith can feel invisible. The churches that grab headlines are often the ones that bow to political idols or chase celebrity pastors and prosperity promises. Meanwhile, smaller congregations that cling to Christ amid declining attendance or cultural irrelevance may feel forgotten. But Jesus hasn’t forgotten. He says: I’ve placed before you an open door no one can shut.

That phrase is powerful. Jesus doesn’t promise ease or success. He promises access—to himself, to the Kingdom, to a future that the world can’t block. No gatekeeping megachurch, no ideology, no empire can close a door he has opened.

There’s something deeply subversive here. Philadelphia may have been looked down on, but Jesus lifts them up. They had little strength, but they had unshakable faith. They were poor in power but rich in perseverance. They didn’t assimilate to the empire. They didn’t chase cultural approval. They just stayed true.

This isn’t about nostalgia or clinging to tradition for tradition’s sake. It’s about holding fast to the truth that Jesus is the Holy One, the True One, the One who holds the key of David. It’s about remembering who we follow—and why.

To those who overcome, Jesus promises a name—a new identity—and a place. Not celebrity. Not a platform. But a pillar in the temple of God. That’s not just metaphor. That’s legacy. That’s home.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Faithfulness rarely looks flashy. But Jesus sees. And the open doors he gives are worth more than any human spotlight.

PRAYER
Jesus, help us hold on. When we feel tired or invisible, remind us that you see. Give us courage to remain faithful—to you, to your call, to your open door. Make us pillars not in reputation, but in love. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

SEVEN LOADED LETTERS, Part 7: The Church That Couldn’t Care Less

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Read Revelation 3:14-22

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“They offer superficial treatments for my people’s mortal wound. They give assurances of peace when there is no peace.” (Jeremiah 6:14 NLT)

The Book of Revelation opens not with beasts or bowls, but with a voice—a call that echoes through time and space to a Church both ancient and present. These seven letters, delivered to communities scattered across Asia Minor, are more than historical artifacts. They are loaded with truth, urgency, and love. They speak to us, challenge us, and strip away illusions. In every age, Christ’s words to the Church still ask us to listen—and respond.

Part 7: The Church that Couldn’t Care Less.  The city of Laodicea was famous for its wealth, industry, and medical advancements. It had clothing factories, a banking hub, and an eye salve known throughout the region. It had everything—except good water. Nearby hot springs delivered lukewarm, mineral-heavy water that often made people sick. Jesus seizes that image and turns it into a searing metaphor: “You are like lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold—I will spit you out of my mouth!” (Revelation 3:16, NLT). But the Greek word translated as “spit” is actually much stronger—it means to vomit. Jesus isn’t just disappointed; he’s repulsed by their complacency.

Laodicea looked alive. Their worship may have sounded good. Their buildings were impressive. Their programs ran with precision. But Jesus saw through it. He saw a church so self-satisfied, so sure of its vitality, that it couldn’t recognize its own spiritual poverty. “You say, ‘I am rich. I have everything I want. I don’t need a thing!’” (v.17). But beneath the surface: brokenness, blindness, nakedness.

This is the danger of performative faith—when image replaces intimacy, and appearance outweighs authenticity. It’s what Jesus condemned in the religious elite: “You are like whitewashed tombs—beautiful on the outside but filled on the inside with dead people’s bones and all sorts of impurity” (Matthew 23:27, NLT). It’s what happens when we measure vitality by numbers, not relationships. Even today, churches chase metrics: attendance, giving, small groups, professions of faith, budget increases. But Jesus never measured success the way we do. He didn’t ask for tallies; he called people to follow. His impact was relational, not transactional. He didn’t die to make the Church bigger—he died to make it holy.

Laodicea’s altar flame had gone cold, but not out. And Jesus hadn’t walked away. He was knocking. Calling. “I correct and discipline everyone I love” (v.19). He was still offering gold, garments, and healing for the eyes. He was still offering himself. “Look! I stand at the door and knock…” (v.20). To those few, Jesus doesn’t say, “Start a rebellion.” He says, “Hold on.” Stay awake. Stay faithful. Stay close.

Christ calls us to awaken from spiritual apathy. To throw off the masks of performance and return to the One who doesn’t need polish—only presence. The Church doesn’t need better branding; it needs a burning heart.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
You can’t follow Jesus while sleepwalking.

PRAYER
Jesus, wake us up. Pull us out of performative faith and back into authentic relationship with you. We don’t want to look alive—we want to live. Amen.

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