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Devotional, Holy Week Series, Lent, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 13: The Altar of Popularity

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Read Luke 19:28–40

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Then the Pharisees said to each other, ‘There’s nothing we can do. Look, everyone has gone after him!’” (John 12:19 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 Popularity” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 13: The Altar of Popularity. Palm Sunday feels like a victory. The road is lined with people. Cloaks are thrown down. Branches are waved. Voices rise together in celebration. “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord.”

It looks like faith. It sounds like devotion. It feels like certainty.

But popularity is not the same as allegiance.

The crowd is not lying. They are responding. They see something in Jesus that stirs hope, and they respond with what they have—praise, excitement, expectation. There is sincerity here. There is even joy.

But there is also assumption.

They are welcoming the kind of king they expect. A king who will restore, elevate, and vindicate. A king who fits their vision of how God should act. The celebration is real, but it is built on a particular understanding of who Jesus is and what Jesus has come to do.

And that understanding will not hold. Jesus is the embodiment of “I AM WHO I AM”—“I WILL BE WHAT I WILL BE”—not who we wish Jesus to be, not who the crowd demands Jesus to be.

Because the road does not end in Jerusalem’s throne rooms. It leads somewhere else entirely. It leads to confrontation, to disruption, to suffering. It leads to a cross.

Palm Sunday celebrates arrival.

But it does not yet reckon with direction.

This is where the altar reveals itself.

The altar of popularity is built when faith is measured by approval. When what is affirmed by the crowd is assumed to be what is faithful. When the volume of praise is mistaken for the depth of commitment. It doesn’t take long to see how easily this happens. Even in something as simple as a show like The Traitors, herd mentality takes over quickly—people align with the crowd, suspicions spread, and “faithful” players turn on one another just to stay in step with the group. It is unsettling how quickly belonging outweighs truth.

It is easy to follow Christ when the path is lined with voices that agree. It is easy to join in when the movement feels like momentum, when the story feels like it is going somewhere triumphant and visible.

But the same road that receives praise will soon demand something else.

Not louder voices.

Not greater numbers.

But deeper trust.

The Gospels do not present a crowd that slowly drifts away in confusion. They show something more unsettling. The energy shifts. The expectations collapse. The same public enthusiasm that welcomed Jesus does not sustain when the path becomes costly.

And this is not just about them.

We are not outside that crowd. We are formed by the same instincts. We know how to celebrate what feels right. We know how to align ourselves with what gains affirmation. We know how to participate when following Christ looks like belonging, like clarity, like movement.

But when Christ leads somewhere uncomfortable—when obedience disrupts what we would prefer to keep intact—the question changes.

Not, “Do we agree?”

But, “Will we continue?”

Popularity creates the illusion that we are further along than we are. It allows us to believe that agreement is the same as commitment, that enthusiasm is the same as trust. It gathers us into something that feels like unity, even when that unity has not been tested.

But faith is not formed on the road where everyone agrees. It is formed on the road where following becomes costly.

Palm branches are easy to carry. They require nothing but participation in themoment.

Golgotha requires something else.

It requires staying when the crowd thins. It requires trust when the outcome no longer looks like victory. It requires a willingness to follow Christ not just where it is celebrated, but where it is rejected.

And that is where the altar breaks.

Because the altar of popularity cannot survive that road. It depends on affirmation. It depends on agreement. It depends on a version of Christ that keeps the crowd intact.

But Christ does not move according to the crowd. Christ moves toward the cross.

So the question is not whether we have praised. The question is not whether we have participated.

The question is whether we will follow.

Do we follow Christ to Golgotha…or do we follow the crowd?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Popularity may gather a crowd, but only trust follows Christ to the cross.

PRAYER
God, guard me from confusing approval with faithfulness. Give me the courage to follow Christ not only where it is easy, but where it is costly. Form in me a trust that remains when the crowd fades and the road becomes uncertain. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 3: The Altar of Applause

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read John 12:42–43

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

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

A large cracked stone altar sits in a modern civic plaza framed by tall columns, with a distant city skyline blurred in the background under a gray sky, symbolizing fractured devotion and divided allegiance.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Applause” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

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

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

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

They believed. But they loved applause more.

This is the altar of applause.

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

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

So belief goes quiet.

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

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

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

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

But fear-led faith slowly becomes hollow faith.

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

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

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

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

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

But worship is revealed by what we protect.

Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

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

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

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

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.

A fog-filled old cemetery at dawn with weathered stone crosses and gravestones, where vibrant butterflies rest and take flight, symbolizing transformation, resurrection, and new life emerging from places of death.
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).