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Devotional, Series

Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 8: The Lamb

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Read John 1:29-42

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Worthy is the Lamb who was slaughtered—to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing.” (Revelation 5:12 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.

A bloodied lamb stands on stone, slain yet upright, with seven horns and seven eyes. The grotesque image echoes Revelation’s vision of Christ—the Lamb who was slain yet reigns in power.
Image: AI-generated by DALL-E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Lamb” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The Lamb. Today, “sheep” is an insult. We’re told not to be sheep but to be lions, wolves, or at least sheepdogs. I have military in my family and friends who are vets, including one who fought in the Battle of Fallujah. If you remember that battle, you know it was a hellstorm. As such, in military culture, citizens are often seen as the sheep—naïve, soft, and in need of protection from predators. The sheepdogs are the ones with the grit to face the wolves.

But Scripture flips that whole logic. God doesn’t identify with the wolf, or the sheepdog, or even the lion. God identifies with the lamb. And not just any lamb, but the lamb who was slain.

In the ancient world, lambs were synonymous with weakness, vulnerability, and sacrifice. They were common temple offerings, easy prey, and symbols of innocence. At Passover, lambs were slaughtered so Israel could remember God’s deliverance from Egypt. To call someone a lamb was not a compliment. Yet when John the Baptist sees Jesus, he doesn’t hail him as a lion, a king, or a warrior. He cries out, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!”

And the shock doesn’t stop there. In Revelation, when the scroll of history cannot be opened, the elder tells John to look for the Lion of Judah. But when John turns, he does not see a lion. He sees a lamb, standing as if slain. The universe is ruled not by claws and teeth, but by wounds. Power is redefined in the blood of the Lamb.

The same brilliance runs through the Gospel of John. The author shifts the timeline of Holy Week so that Jesus is crucified not after Passover, but on the very day the lambs are being slaughtered in the temple. To the historian, that looks like a contradiction with the other gospels. But to the theologian, it is perfect symmetry. The author wants us to see that Christ’s sacrifice is not accidental or delayed. He is the Passover Lamb, slain as the lambs are slain, once for all. Not historically tidy—ah, but theologically, brilliant.

That’s why the lamb is such a scandalous symbol. In Rome, strength meant domination. The empire exalted the eagle, the lion, the wolf. Christians exalted the lamb. To Roman ears, it sounded ridiculous. Paul even said so: “The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction. But we who are being saved know it is the very power of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18). Who worships a lamb—much less one crucified as a traitor? But that was the point: what the world despised, God exalted. What the empire crushed, God enthroned. To my politically motivated friends, heed this message: God and empire don’t mix.

We’ve tamed the lamb into Easter pageants and Sunday School décor. We imagine fluffy sheep, safe pastures, and gentle bedtime prayers. But in Scripture, the lamb is not cute. The lamb is slaughtered. In Revelation, John sees a lamb “looking as if it had been slain” (Rev. 5:6). It still bears the marks of violence—throat slit, blood spilled—yet it is standing. This lamb has seven horns and seven eyes, imagery meant to startle: ultimate power and ultimate vision embodied in what looks powerless and mutilated. The lamb is grotesque, unsettling, hard to look at—and that is the point. God’s power comes clothed in weakness, God’s victory comes through wounds, and the world’s violence is absorbed, not returned.

And that still cuts against the grain today. We live in a culture that worships strength. Leaders win votes by promising to be lions. Nations stockpile weapons to prove they’re not sheep. Even the church sometimes admires the “sheepdog” more than the lamb. Yet Christ calls us not to despise sheep but to be one and to follow the Lamb. To trust that true power is not in the one who can kill, but in the one who is willing to be killed and still rise.

The question for us is whether we dare to embody the way of the lamb. Do we choose mercy over vengeance? Do we entrust ourselves to vulnerability rather than domination? Do we follow the slaughtered lamb who reigns from the throne—or the wolves and lions who claw for it?

The lamb is not weakness. The lamb is God’s power redefined.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The world crowns lions. Heaven crowns the lamb.

PRAYER
Lamb of God, you took away the sin of the world not by clawing for power but by laying your life down in love. Teach us to follow your way. Give us courage to choose mercy over violence, to trust vulnerability over control, and to live as people marked by your sacrifice. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Sacred Symbols of Subversion, Part 3: Celtic Cross

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Read Acts 17:22-28

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For through him God created everything in the heavenly realms and on earth. He made the things we can see and the things we can’t see…” (Colossians 1:16 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 “Celtic Cross” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Celtic Cross. The Celtic Cross looks familiar enough at first glance: a cross with a circle embracing the center. Some see it as simply “Irish decoration,” a piece of jewelry or a tattoo. Others have questioned its origins, noting the circle’s resemblance to ancient sun symbols, and wondered if it is too tied to paganism to be fully Christian. But to stop there is to miss the subversive genius of Patrick.

Patrick knew that the Gospel was not about erasing culture but inhabiting it. The circle already carried deep meaning for the Irish people—cosmic order, eternity, the sun as source of life. Instead of destroying those associations, Patrick proclaimed Christ as the true center of creation. The circle around the cross became a symbol of heaven and earth united, eternity embracing history, God’s love holding all things together. This was not compromise but incarnation: God meeting people in their own symbols and showing how Christ fulfilled them.

The same is true of the Celtic knotwork so often carved into crosses, manuscripts, and artwork. Long before Christianity, these endless interlacing designs spoke of cycles, continuity, and the eternal weave of life. Patrick and his followers did not forbid them; they baptized them. The knots came to symbolize eternal life in Christ, the unbroken mystery of the Trinity, and the interconnection of all creation held together in God. What was once a pagan pattern became a Christian proclamation, a visual catechism of faith.

We forget this today. Too often Christianity has taken the Roman road—demanding conquest, drawing boundaries, colonizing culture. It’s the approach we see in voices like Charlie Kirk, Franklin Graham, John MacArthur, and James Dobson. Their posture treats faith as a weapon in a culture war, as though the goal of the Gospel is to dominate rather than to dwell, to erase rather than to redeem. It is the old imperial instinct, baptized and rebranded.

Patrick shows us another way. And he is not alone. Desmond Tutu embodied it in South Africa, proclaiming justice with joy, enculturating faith into liberation rather than letting empire define it. St. Francis of Assisi embraced poverty and preached even to the birds, revealing Christ in simplicity and creation. Pope Francis became a global voice for mercy, dialogue, and encounter—meeting cultures where they were, not erasing them. And Patrick himself baptized the very symbols of the Irish, turning their cosmology and knotwork into catechism without burning their traditions to the ground.

This is the subversion of the Celtic Cross. What was once a pagan sign became a Christian one. What could have been rejected as “unclean” was instead redeemed as holy. The same is true of many symbols we take for granted today—Christmas trees, Easter eggs, wedding rings. Once pagan, now Christian, not by conquest but by Christ’s inhabiting.

And here lies the challenge for us. Too often we live in a black-and-white world: if it’s “Christian,” it must be good; if it’s “secular” or “pagan,” it must be bad. We treat culture as something to fear, to conquer, or to wall ourselves off from. But Patrick’s witness—and the witness of Tutu, Francis, and so many others—is that Christ is not threatened by culture. Christ enters in, transforms from within, and shows us God’s glory even in places we once dismissed as foreign or unclean.

The danger today is flattening the Celtic Cross into mere Irish décor or heritage branding, forgetting its radical message. To wear it as jewelry is fine, but to live it is far more demanding. It asks us: will we try to dominate the world with our faith, or will we let Christ dwell within the world’s symbols, speaking the Gospel in a language people can hear?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Gospel doesn’t erase culture—it redeems it.

PRAYER
God of creation, you are not bound by our lines or limits. Forgive us when we try to conquer rather than to love, when we fight culture wars instead of proclaiming Christ crucified. Teach us the subversive genius of Patrick: to see your presence even in unexpected places, and to trust that your Spirit is big enough to redeem what we cannot control. Amen.

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

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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

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, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 8: The One Jesus Loves

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Read John 13:21–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you forbid on earth will be forbidden in heaven, and whatever you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven.” (Matthew 16:19 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 DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The One Jesus Loves” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The One Jesus Loves. There’s a moment in John’s Gospel—quiet, easily skipped over—where the one Jesus loves rests close enough to feel his heartbeat during the Last Supper. That’s the moment. Not the foot washing. Not the betrayal. Not even the bread and wine. But that tender, reclining closeness—the physical resting of someone on the heart of Christ.

And what’s wild is how much the Church has tried to sanitize that moment, to make it feel safe, distant, holy in the sterile sense. But what if it’s holy in the intimate sense? What if the one Jesus loves doesn’t look like who we expected? What if the closeness that shocked people then still shocks them now?

Let’s be clear: I’m not saying Jesus was queer. We are called to understand and honor who the historical Jesus actually was. But we also have to take his teachings seriously—as they were taught—in light of what we know now. That includes recognizing what is good and just today, even if the Church once called it sin. Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not permission to distort the Gospel, but a responsibility to interpret it with holy wisdom.

So we have to ask: why has the Church been so determined to bind up difference? Why are we so quick to declare the “other” unholy? Do we really think God is going to get in line with our traditions? Or demand we return in line with Christ?

You are already the one Jesus loves. Not after you change. Not once you conform. Right now. As you are. The becoming isn’t to earn love—it’s a response to it. And the becoming is not into something you never were… but into the most real self you’ve ever been. Not the mask. Not the performance. But the raw, radiant, rooted you that God recognized before anyone else had a name for you.

To say “God is love” isn’t a vague Hallmark sentiment—it’s a fierce theological claim. Love like that doesn’t flinch at your truth. It doesn’t recoil from your scars or try to filter your story through a lens of respectability. Love like that draws you close—not to fix you, but to free you.

We don’t need to twist the Gospel into something it’s not. But we do need to hear it again with ears unclogged by fear and power. We need to understand the teachings of Jesus—not as a weapon against difference, but as a call to deeper love, deeper justice, deeper welcome. And yes, that means reexamining what the Church once called sin in the light of what the Spirit is revealing now. Because Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not a threat—it’s a responsibility. So, again, why has the Church spent so long binding up beauty, truth, identity, queerness, color, complexity? Once more, do we really believe God is going to get in line with our traditions when they are not in line with Christ? Or are we finally ready to be snapped into God’s rhythm of grace?

The one Jesus loves is the one leaning in. The one close enough to hear the heartbeat. The one others overlook, sanitize, push aside—and yet still finds themselves pulled close to the chest of Christ. Not rejected. Not erased. Loved. And named.

So lean in, beloved. That space was always yours.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Gospel doesn’t erase you. It draws you closer to the truth of who you’ve always been.

PRAYER
Loving Jesus, I lean in. I rest on your chest. Let me hear your heartbeat louder than the noise of this world. Let your love redefine me—not into someone else, but into the truest me. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours

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Read Genesis 1:26–27

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands except the one who receives it.” (Revelation 2:17 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 DALL-E (OpenAI) and modified by the author; Poetry: written by Tristan Robert Lange, Human-authored.

Part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours. I’ve never liked being called by my last name. Still don’t. It feels cold. Generic. Like I’m being categorized instead of known. “Lattig” belongs to my family—but I’m Todd. That’s who I’ve always been.

Todd, who loved stuffed animals and begged his mom for a Cabbage Patch Kid. Todd, who played with Barbies and battled He-Man in the same afternoon. Who couldn’t do a push-up, but could name every doll in his sister’s toy chest. I loved stories, softness, and strength—not in opposition, but in harmony.

From a young age, I always related better with girls than boys. I wasn’t a jock. I wasn’t loud or aggressive. But I was me.

And still, over and over again, the world tried to rename me. With titles. With assumptions. With ideas about what boys should be, how men should act, and what it meant to belong.

But God never got my name—or my identity—wrong.

“Male and female he created them.” It’s one of the most quoted lines from Scripture—and one of the most misused. For generations, the Church has clung to this verse as proof that gender is fixed, binary, and divinely assigned. But Genesis 1 wasn’t written to define gender roles or validate modern ideologies. It was written during exile—as poetry, not policy. As worship, not anatomy.

Yes, the text refers to biological sex. Ancient people observed male and female bodies. That’s not in dispute. But the assumption that those two categories fully explain the image of God? That’s not biblical. That’s cultural. And when the Church weaponizes this verse to police identity, it distorts the very passage it claims to uphold.

We know now what the ancients didn’t: biological sex isn’t a strict binary. Intersex people exist—and always have. So even on a physical level, “male and female” doesn’t describe everyone. But what’s more, gender identity—who we know ourselves to be—isn’t written on our bodies. It’s written in relationship, language, experience, and soul. And God knows all of that. None of it is outside the image. None of it is outside the blessing.

Genesis 1 says we were created in the image of God. That’s the focus. “Male and female” is part of the poetry—but it’s not the punchline. The image of God is bigger than bodies. Bigger than binaries. Bigger than the limits we love to impose.

Because the point of the creation story was never to flatten diversity. It was to name it holy.

We talk a lot in the Church about being called. Called to ministry. Called to serve. Called by name. But rarely do we stop and ask: what name?

Because the name people use for you—and the pronouns they choose to affirm or deny—tell you everything about whether they see you as a child of God, or just a role to play.

Too many people know what it feels like to be misnamed in God’s house. To be told, in subtle or not-so-subtle ways, that their identity is a problem, a phase, a sin, or a distraction. That who they know themselves to be—whether trans, nonbinary, or otherwise outside the norms—is somehow outside the image of God.

But Scripture tells a different story.

The God of the Bible is not obsessed with rigid categories. God is obsessed with calling people by name—and sometimes even changing those names when the old ones no longer fit.

Abram becomes Abraham. Sarai becomes Sarah. Jacob wrestles with God and is renamed Israel. Simon becomes Peter. Saul becomes Paul. Jesus is named Emmanuel—and called the Christ. In every case, naming is not about control. It’s about calling someone into the fullness of who they are.

When we tell someone their pronouns don’t matter, we’re not defending God. We’re denying the very thing God does best: calling people into life by name.

This isn’t about pronouns being trendy or political. It’s about pronouns being personal. They are shorthand for dignity. For visibility. For the image of God reflected in someone’s life.

When someone tells you their pronouns, they’re not demanding special treatment. They’re inviting you to see them as they truly are—without pretending, without performing, without hiding.

And when a church refuses to honor that? When it insists on old names, dead names, wrong pronouns, or no pronouns at all? It’s not holding the line of faith. It’s blocking the tomb. Because you can’t shout “Come out!” like Jesus did—if you’re unwilling to unbind what holds people back.

The call of Christ is not to enforce conformity. It’s to participate in resurrection. And resurrection is always personal. It doesn’t just raise the body—it restores the name.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The image of God is not limited to male or female—it includes all who bear God’s breath and name. To honor someone’s identity is not rebellion. It’s resurrection.

PRAYER
Creator God, you shaped us in your image—diverse and whole. You call us by name and see us clearly, even when others try to define us by roles or fear. Help us listen when others speak their truth, and speak our own with courage. May our sanctuaries become places where identities are honored, not erased, and where your image is seen in every name, every pronoun, every beloved life. Amen.

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

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 3: Blessed Are the Misfits

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Read Matthew 5:1–12

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.” (1 Corinthians 1:27 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 DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Holy Unbecoming” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Blessed Are the Misfits. When I was in sixth grade, I got into a fight with a kid who had bullied me before. This time, I lost. Badly. I can’t remember the punches, just the shame. The trying-to-be-normal and never quite passing. The teasing in the hallways. The mockery I swallowed to survive. But what I remember most didn’t come from another student. It came from a teacher. One day, in front of everyone, she called me a queerbait.

Even then, I didn’t know exactly what it meant—but I knew it meant something. Something “off.” Something unwanted. Something wrong. I felt exposed. Named. Not in the holy way God names us. In the way the world does—by what makes us different. Strange. Easy to dismiss. Fun to fear.

My mom came in, furious, and the teacher backpedaled: “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… he’s unique. Different.” To her credit, that never happened again and she always treated me with respect and decency afterward, which hadn’t always been the case in past experience.

Maybe she thought she was offering a compliment. Maybe she was trying to explain away something society told her not to say aloud. But the damage was done. Not just by the word—but by the implication that being different was something to be whispered around, excused, or coded.

Years later, I’ve come to see that word for what it means. Queer. Strange. Different. Odd. Unique. And I claim my queerness. Isn’t that exactly who Jesus was talking to on that hillside in Matthew 5? Not the put-together. Not the powerful. But the meek. The mourners. The hungry. The harassed. The ones who didn’t fit in the world’s boxes and couldn’t pass the purity test.

Blessed are the misfits. The ones who walk into a room and feel the silence first. The ones who carry stories that don’t tidy up into sermon illustrations. The ones who are called names—and find belovedness anyway.

Maybe Jesus wasn’t offering a list of spiritual goals to strive for. Maybe he was simply describing the kind of people already sitting in front of him—tired, tender, poor, rejected, queer—and saying, “You’re the ones God sees. You’re the ones God blesses.” He wasn’t telling them to get their act together. He was telling them they already belonged.

That’s still radical. Especially in a world that tells us to clean up, shut up, shape up, and stop queering up just to be welcome in the streets, let alone in the pews. But Jesus didn’t start his ministry with a call to perfection. He started with a call to blessing—for the ones most often excluded from it.

I used to think blessing was something we had to earn. Now I know it’s something we recognize when we stop pretending. When we bring our full selves—awkward, unsure, complicated—to God without apology. When we stop performing and just show up. Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are those who figured it all out.” He says, “Blessed are you.”

The Beatitudes were never about who could rise to God’s standard. They were about who already mattered—exactly as they were. That includes the ones who’ve been laughed at, passed over, kicked out, called names, and rejected by the very people who claim to speak for God. And in Matthew 25, Jesus makes it clear to those who wish to exclude: You are excluding me.

So if you’ve ever felt too queer, too awkward, too unsure, too complicated—know this: you’re already held in divine favor. You’re not outside the blessing. You are the blessing. Jesus didn’t wait for you to get it together. He looked right at you and said, “Blessed are you.”

Indeed, blessed you are!

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Jesus doesn’t bless the ones who perform best. He blesses the ones who show up real. If you’ve ever been called “too much” or “not enough,” hear this: you are exactly the kind of person the Kingdom belongs to.

PRAYER
God of the outcast and the overlooked, thank you for calling us blessed even when the world calls us broken. Help me to see the holiness in what makes me different. Help me stop hiding and start healing. Let me live in the light of your love—just as I am. Amen.

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