Tag Archives: Rev. Todd R. Lattig

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 8: The Altar of Approval

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Read Galatians 1:1-10

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Fear of people is a dangerous trap, but trusting the Lord means safety.” (Proverbs 29:25 NLT)

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

Part 8: The Altar of Approval. Approval is one of the quietest altars we build.

It rarely looks like idolatry. It looks like professionalism. It looks like respectability. It looks like wisdom, diplomacy, or knowing how to read a room. But beneath all of that can sit a quieter question: Who are we really trying to please?

Paul names the tension directly in Galatians. “Am I now seeking human approval, or God’s?” It is not a rhetorical flourish. It is a diagnostic question. Because the moment approval becomes the measure of faithfulness, the gospel itself begins to bend.

The Church has never been immune to this. Congregations want stability. Leaders want credibility. Communities want reassurance that the people guiding them will not embarrass them or disrupt the fragile peace that holds institutions together. None of that is inherently wrong. But when approval becomes the altar, faithfulness becomes the sacrifice.

The danger is subtle. No one wakes up one morning and decides to worship approval. Instead, it grows slowly through a thousand small calculations. A leader softens a truth because it might upset someone. A congregation rewards the voices that affirm what it already believes. A system quietly teaches that survival depends not on conviction, but on acceptability.

Over time, approval begins to shape identity.

Years ago, when I was serving as a youth pastor, I learned something about this the hard way. I had written and recorded a song and paired it with a dark, gothic-style video—creative work that reflected the artistic voice I had carried with me my entire life as a poet, musician, and artist. At some point, that video found its way into the hands of church leadership after someone burned it onto a CD and mailed it anonymously.

I never learned who sent it. In the end, it did not matter.

What mattered was the note written across the top of the disc:

“Youth Pastor Todd Lattig serving his lord Satan.”

Moments like that clarify something quickly. When approval is the altar, anything unfamiliar becomes a threat. Anything that does not fit the brand must be corrected, contained, or quietly removed.

But Paul’s words refuse that logic.

“If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.”

The apostle is not celebrating antagonism or encouraging leaders to provoke conflict. Faithfulness is not measured by how many people we offend. But Paul is naming something deeper: the gospel cannot survive if approval becomes its guiding compass.

Because the gospel itself is disruptive.

It proclaims grace where systems prefer merit. It lifts the overlooked where hierarchies prefer order. It exposes idols we have grown comfortable with. And when that happens, approval often evaporates quickly.

This is where Proverbs offers its quiet warning: “Fear of people is a dangerous trap.”

Fear is the hidden engine behind the altar of approval. Fear of rejection. Fear of losing influence. Fear of disappointing those who hold power in our lives or communities. And fear has a remarkable ability to reshape conviction into compliance.

But the gospel begins somewhere else entirely.

It begins with belovedness.

Before reputation, before usefulness, before success or failure, the gospel announces that we belong to God. Not because we performed well enough to earn approval, but because grace has already claimed us. Belovedness is not branding. It cannot be curated, managed, or polished into something marketable.

It is given.

And that changes everything.

When identity rests in belovedness rather than approval, we are finally free to speak truthfully, lead faithfully, and love courageously—even when doing so costs us the approval we once believed we needed.

That freedom does not make life easier. But it does make faithfulness possible.

Because the question Paul asks still echoes through every generation of the Church:

Who are we really trying to please?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When approval becomes the altar, faithfulness becomes the sacrifice.

PRAYER
Holy One, free us from the quiet fear that binds our hearts to the approval of others. Teach us to rest in the belovedness you have already given. When truth is costly and courage feels uncertain, steady us in your grace so that our lives seek faithfulness more than applause. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 7: The Altar of Image

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Read Matthew 4:1–11

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. Instead, he gave up his divine privileges; he took the humble position of a slave and was born as a human being.” (Philippians 2:6–7b 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 Image” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 7: The Altar of Image. Most people know the quiet pressure of needing to prove themselves. To show they are capable. To demonstrate they belong. To convince others that they are strong enough, faithful enough, or successful enough to be taken seriously. Much of life teaches us that identity must be displayed to be believed. If we cannot show evidence, the world assumes it is not real.

Over time that pressure becomes deeply ingrained. We learn to manage impressions. We highlight what looks strong and hide what feels fragile. The goal slowly shifts from simply living to making sure our lives appear convincing.

And this pressure does not stop at the doors of the Church.

Faith communities often promise freedom from the world’s expectations, yet sometimes they quietly reproduce them. Belief becomes something to demonstrate. Faithfulness becomes something to measure. Callings become something that must constantly be justified or defended. In ways both subtle and overt, the Church can begin to ask the same question the world asks: prove it.

Without noticing it, we begin to serve an altar built from appearances.

This is the altar of image.

The wilderness temptation reveals how deeply this pressure runs. Three temptations appear in the story, yet beneath them lies a single challenge. The tempter repeatedly begins with the same words: “If you are the Son of God…”

The temptation is not merely about bread, spectacle, or power. The deeper temptation is to prove identity instead of trusting it.

Jesus has just heard the voice of God declare belovedness. That declaration should be enough. Yet almost immediately the wilderness introduces a different demand: demonstrate it. Turn stones into bread. Perform a miracle. Display authority. Show the world what you can do.

But Jesus refuses.

He does not perform for the wilderness. He does not prove himself to the tempter. He does not turn identity into spectacle. Instead, he trusts the word already spoken.

This refusal exposes something uncomfortable about the way image functions in human life. When identity must constantly be demonstrated, life becomes performance. Strength must be visible. Certainty must be projected. Weakness must be hidden.

And when these pressures enter the Church, the results can be subtle but profound.

Congregations begin measuring vitality through appearance. Leaders feel pressure to display success. Ministries begin shaping themselves around visibility rather than faithfulness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Church begins to mirror the same image-driven systems it was meant to challenge.

The altar of image is not built with statues or incense. It is built with perception. With reputation. With the constant need to appear convincing.

Yet Christ refuses that altar in the wilderness.

Identity does not need to be proven when it has already been spoken by God.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When identity must be proven, faith becomes performance.

PRAYER
Holy One, free us from the exhausting need to prove ourselves. Quiet the voices that demand performance and comparison. Teach us to trust the belovedness you have already spoken over our lives. Strip away every false altar we have built around reputation, image, or approval. Lead us again into the freedom of living honestly before you, grounded not in appearance but in grace. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 6: The Altar of Preservation

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Read Mark 11:15–19

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

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

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

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

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

Yet the word vulnerable is broader than we sometimes assume.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the altar of preservation.

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

Preservation quietly becomes the highest good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devotional

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 4: The Altar of Appearance

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Read Matthew 6:1–6

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7 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.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “ALTAR AUDIT, Part 4: The Altar of Appearance” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 4: The Altar of Appearance. There are forms of devotion so familiar we rarely question them. We bow our heads. We lift our hands. We step forward when invited. We mark our foreheads with ash. The gestures are ancient. The rhythms are sacred. But even holy practices can conceal unexamined motives.

On Ash Wednesday, we step forward and receive dust on our foreheads. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is meant to level us. To mark mortality. To confront us with our smallness before God.

And yet even repentance can become visible currency.

In Matthew 6, Jesus’ words are often misheard as a ban on public faith—as if the problem is being seen at all. That’s not what he is doing. Jesus does not forbid prayer. He does not outlaw generosity. He does not condemn fasting. He assumes all three. He participates in all three. What he confronts is motive: “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them.”

The issue is not location. It is orientation.

You can pray in a sanctuary without drawing attention to yourself. You can pray in a closet while performing for an imaginary audience. God is fooled by neither.

The altar of appearance is built when righteousness becomes something we manage. When generosity becomes something we curate. When humility becomes something we subtly hope will be noticed.

Ashes are meant to remind us that we are dust. But the heart can still whisper: Do they see how devout I am? Do they see how serious I am? Do they see my sorrow?

The human need to be seen is powerful. Church culture can unintentionally reward visible spirituality—the right posture, the right tone, the right emotional register. Over time, devotion can begin to drift toward optics.

Jesus’ words are not an attack on corporate worship. They are a warning against performative righteousness. “Your Father, who sees what is done in secret…” That phrase is not about hiding. It is about honesty. God sees the heart beneath the posture.

First Samuel echoes the same truth: “People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” We are skilled at judging what we can see. God examines what we cannot.

The unsettling question of Lent is this: If no one knew, would we still do it? If no one noticed, would we still give? If no one affirmed us, would we still pray?

The altar of appearance does not demand that we abandon faith. It only asks that we polish it. Present it. Display it just enough to be recognized.

But righteousness offered for applause has already shifted its allegiance.

Lent invites us back to sincerity—not as performance, but as integrity. To pray without managing perception. To give without curating recognition. To fast without crafting a narrative. Not because public devotion is wrong, but because our hearts are easily divided.

God sees.

And the One who sees the heart is the only audience that matters.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Righteousness shaped by appearance may look holy, but only God knows whether it is honest.

PRAYER
Holy God, search our motives and reveal where we have confused visibility with faithfulness. Purify our hearts so that our giving, praying, and repentance flow from love rather than performance. Free us from the need to be seen, and teach us to live for the audience of One. Strip away every false altar until only Christ remains. 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.

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 26: Sword

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Read Matthew 10:34–39

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus said. “Shall I not drink from the cup of suffering the Father has given me?” (John 18:11 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 26: Sword” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 26: Sword. The sword may be the most misunderstood symbol Jesus ever invoked.

When Jesus says, “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword,” many readers rush to one of two conclusions. Some hear permission—conflict sanctified, division justified, harm excused in the name of truth. Others rush to soften the words, insisting Jesus couldn’t really mean division at all, because peace must always be preserved.

Both reactions miss the point.

Jesus names the sword because truth embodied does not leave relationships untouched. When truth takes flesh—when it walks, speaks, and refuses to perform for comfort—it divides. Not because it seeks conflict, but because it removes the illusion that everyone can remain unchanged. The sword Jesus brings is not violence. It is exposure. It cuts through false unity, inherited loyalties, and identities built on silence.

And yet—this is where the symbol turns dangerous—Jesus never allows that sword to be wielded without cost.

When Peter reaches for steel in the garden, certain he finally understands what faithfulness requires, Jesus stops him. Not gently. Not ambiguously. “Put your sword back.” The same Jesus who named division now rejects domination. The same Christ who promised rupture refuses coercion. The sword is real—but it does not belong in human hands as an instrument of control.

This is the subversion the Church has spent centuries struggling to live with.

We want the sword Jesus brings, but we want it usable. Swingable. Directed outward. We want truth that wounds others while leaving our own power intact. Peter’s mistake was not malice; it was loyalty shaped by fear. He believed the threat required force. Jesus reveals something far more unsettling: truth will divide on its own. It does not need help. And the moment we try to enforce it, we betray it.

Scripture itself holds multiple sword images in tension. There is the sword that divides households. The sword that cuts inward, exposing motive and desire. The sword that comes from the mouth, not the hand—speech that judges without shedding blood. There is even the sword the Church keeps reaching for, baptizing power as protection and calling control faithfulness.

Jesus refuses all of them—except one.

He refuses violence. He refuses coercion. He refuses domination. But He does not refuse the cost of truth. He accepts the division that comes from living honestly, from refusing to perform peace at the expense of integrity, from standing where the light reveals what cannot be reconciled.

The sword Jesus brings does not destroy enemies. It ends neutrality.

That is why it feels so threatening. Because this sword cannot be used to win. It can only be endured. It does not grant authority; it demands surrender. It does not preserve institutions; it exposes what they are built to protect. It does not promise safety—only faithfulness.

The Church’s greatest temptation is not conflict, but control. And the sword exposes that temptation mercilessly. The moment we pick it up, we reveal that we never trusted God to do the dividing. We wanted to manage the outcome.

Jesus brings the sword—and then lays down His life. He wields it not by striking, but by giving himself over to its cost.

Truth cuts. And we are not in charge of where.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The sword Jesus brings is real—but the moment we try to wield it, we have already misunderstood Him.

PRAYER
God of truth, teach us to live honestly even when truth divides. Free us from the urge to control outcomes or force agreement. Give us courage to stand where Your light exposes what cannot remain unchanged, and humility to lay down every weapon we are tempted to use in Your name. Shape us by faithfulness, not fear. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix

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Read 1 Corinthians 3:10–15

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Unless the Lord builds a house, the work of the builders is wasted. Unless the Lord protects a city, guarding it with sentries will do no good.” (Psalm 127:1 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 look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 24: Phoenix. The phoenix is one of those symbols that feels immediately familiar, even comforting. A creature consumed by fire, only to rise again from its own ashes. For many, it has become shorthand for hope after devastation, resilience after loss, life after death. And that reading is not wrong. Fire can purify. Ashes can nourish new growth. God does bring life out of ruin.

But before we go any further, the truth must be named plainly: the phoenix is not originally a Christian symbol. It does not emerge from Scripture. It was not born from the Church. It comes from ancient pagan imagination—Egyptian and Greco-Roman worlds wrestling with death, renewal, and the longing for immortality. Christianity did not invent the phoenix. It recognized it. And that recognition itself is deeply revealing.

The early Church was not threatened by truth found outside its walls. When Christians adopted the phoenix, they were not diluting the Gospel; they were confessing something bolder—that resurrection is not a fragile idea, and that echoes of God’s truth appear long before we name them. The phoenix was never worshiped. It was re-read. Not as proof of resurrection, but as a witness to humanity’s deep intuition that death does not have the final word.

And yet, even here, the symbol refuses to remain tame.

The phoenix does not simply rise after the fire. It rises because something has been burned beyond recovery. The fire is not an unfortunate prelude to resurrection; it is the necessary judgment that makes resurrection possible. Something real is lost. Something is not restored. Something does not come back.

This is where the symbol begins to unsettle us.

Paul’s words to the church in Corinth refuse the comforting illusion that everything we build deserves to last. The fire will show if a person’s work has any value. Not intentions. Not sincerity. Not effort. What we built. Fire does not negotiate. It reveals. It does not ask whether the structure was beloved or familiar or useful once. It simply tells the truth.

Some work survives the fire. Some work does not. And Paul is unflinching: even when a person is saved, what they have built may be reduced to ash.

This is devastating language—not because it threatens salvation, but because it threatens legacy. It confronts the assumption that faithfulness and survival are the same thing. It names the possibility that entire systems, identities, and institutions may burn—not because God is cruel, but because God is honest.

The phoenix, read through this lens, is not a promise that everything will return in a shinier form. It is a confession that not everything should.

This is where the symbol presses hardest on the Church.

We are adept at resurrection talk that avoids death. We speak of renewal while quietly preserving what no longer gives life. We celebrate transformation while protecting the structures that taught us how to survive but not how to love. We cling to what once worked and call it wisdom. We guard the city with sentries, convinced that vigilance will save what faith no longer sustains.

But Scripture is mercilessly clear: unless the Lord builds the house, the work of the builders is wasted. Fire does not honor nostalgia. It does not reward endurance for its own sake. It does not coddle complacency. It does not spare what has outlived its truth.

First, it must be said plainly: the fire burns institutions. Traditions. Forms of church that learned how to persist but forgot how to repent. The phoenix does not resurrect these unchanged. It consumes them. What rises is not the old thing restored, but something else entirely—or sometimes, nothing at all.

Next, the fire is also intimate. It burns the false self we constructed to survive inside broken systems—the version of ourselves that learned when to stay quiet, when to comply, when to call compromise maturity. Resurrection here is not triumphant. It is costly. It requires letting go of who we thought we were in order to become who we can no longer avoid being.

And then there is the most unsettling truth the phoenix carries: fire does not guarantee rebirth. The myth tempts us to assume that ashes always lead somewhere hopeful. Scripture is more restrained. Fire reveals what is of God—and what is not. What is of God endures, even if only as a remnant. What is not… ends.

That is not despair. It is mercy.

Because a resurrection that refuses to let certain things die is not resurrection at all. It is preservation. And preservation is often the enemy of life.

The phoenix does not promise that everything will rise. It promises that what must die will not be spared. And in that promise—terrifying as it is—there is freedom. Freedom from carrying what was never meant to last. Freedom from confusing survival with faithfulness. Freedom to trust that God’s work does not depend on our constructions, our defenses, or our fear of loss.

Fire comes. Ashes remain. And whatever rises does so only because it can finally live truthfully.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Fire does not destroy what is faithful—it reveals what was never meant to last.

PRAYER
God of truth and mercy, meet us in the fire we fear. Give us the courage to release what no longer carries Your life, even when it once did. Burn away what is false, wasted, or built from fear, and teach us to trust You with what remains. Where something must end, grant us grace. Where something rises, grant us humility. Amen.

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

Devotional, Series

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 23: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil)

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig[i]

Read John 14:8–17, 25–27 (NLT); Matthew 28:16–20 (NLT)

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Dear brothers and sisters, I close my letter with these last words: Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you. May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.” (2 Corinthians 13:11, 14 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 23: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil)” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil). Before the Trinity became a creed, it became a casualty.

In the fourth century, Arius was exiled for refusing to say about Christ what the emerging Church demanded he say. In the sixteenth century, Michael Servetus was burned alive for challenging the dominant Trinitarian formulations of his day. These were not academic disagreements or footnotes in doctrinal history. They were moments when the Church chose coercion over communion—and justified it by invoking God.

Whatever one concludes about their theology, the outcome cannot be baptized. Exile and execution are not neutral tools. They are acts of domination. And domination, when committed in the name of the Triune God, stands in direct contradiction to what the Trinity reveals about God’s very nature.

The Trinity has always been dangerous—not because it is unclear, but because it refuses to be mastered. The moment God-language is absolutized, the moment mystery is treated as property to be defended rather than life to be entered, theology hardens into ideology. At that point, the Church no longer confesses God; it polices God. And when God’s name becomes a weapon, that weapon is no longer holy. It is an idol—fashioned by fear, baptized by certainty, and worshiped in the place of the living God.

So what is the Trinity?

It is not a container for God.
It is not a hierarchy of divine roles.
It is not a formula designed to enforce sameness.

The Trinity is God’s own self-disclosure—God choosing to reveal something fundamental about Godself. At the core of God’s being is relational diversity: three equal persons, eternally sharing life, none dominating the other, none diminished, none isolated. This is unity without uniformity—oneness without erasure, communion without coercion, harmony without hierarchy.

This is not a human invention born of philosophical anxiety. God did not become Trinity because the Church needed a doctrine. God revealed the Trinity because God’s very nature is shared life. The doctrine followed the encounter, not the other way around.

Jesus never offers a diagram of God’s inner mechanics. In John 14, he speaks instead of presence. “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” “I will not leave you orphaned.” “The Spirit will be with you—and in you.” The Holy Spirit is not an abstract force or theological appendix. The Spirit is God’s refusal to withdraw. God abiding. God dwelling. God arriving again and again in whatever form God comes.

And in Matthew 28, the Triune name is not handed down as a concept to be memorized, but as a sending into the world. Baptize. Teach. Go. The Trinity moves outward. It draws others into its life. God is not static. God is communion in motion.

God does not need creation in order to be God. Yet God chooses not to remain distant. The Trinity is not dependent on humanity—but it is known because God turns toward humanity. Revelation, not projection. Invitation, not abstraction.

This is why the Trinity carries ethical weight. If God’s very being is unity without uniformity, then coercion in God’s name is not merely misguided—it is blasphemous. Disagreement is not the sin. Violence is. Silencing is. Erasure is. When the Church exiles, imprisons, or kills to protect doctrine, it does not defend God. It denies God’s nature. In those moments, the Church stops reflecting the Triune life and begins mirroring the Accuser it claims to resist.

The symbols associated with the Trinity quietly preach this truth. The triangle, the triskele, the trefoil—ancient forms circulating long before Christianity claimed them. They speak of movement, balance, and unity held without collapse into sameness. The early Church did not invent these signs; it recognized them. Christianity has never been homogenous, sealed, or culturally pure. God’s relational life has been glimpsed across cultures and centuries, long before councils tried to contain it.

That recognition itself is subversive. It reminds us that God has never belonged to one empire, one language, or one system of control. God’s life exceeds our borders. Always has.

Here is the unsettling truth the Trinity confronts us with: if God’s being is communion, then domination is never holy. If God’s life is shared, then fear-driven control is a lie. The Trinity does not support systems built on hierarchy and exclusion. It exposes them. It unmasks every attempt to justify cruelty in God’s name. It calls the Church back—not to certainty, but to participation in a life shaped by humility, mutuality, and love.

The Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved or a doctrine to be enforced at all costs. It is the life of God revealed. And once revealed, it leaves us with no excuse for becoming what God is not.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Unity without uniformity reflects the life of God; enforced sameness betrays it.

PRAYER
Triune God, whose life is shared and whose love refuses domination, draw us into Your communion. Free us from the fear that turns conviction into cruelty. Teach us to seek truth without destroying one another, to honor difference without erasing dignity, and to live in ways that reflect who You truly are. Make our lives a witness to Your shared, life-giving love. 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.

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).

Advent, Devotional, Previous Post

From the Advent Archives: Why Advent?

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Read Isaiah 11:1–9

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, ‘Look, God’s home is now among God’s people! God will live with them, and they will be God’s people. God Godself will be with them.’” (Revelation 21:3, NLT)

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “From the Advent Archives: Why Advent?” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Advent is one of my favorite times of year. While it is true that I am not a big fan of winter or its weather, I really love the season of Advent and the great hope that it stands for. Throughout the majority of Christian history, the Church has, in one way or another, celebrated the coming Christ. With that said, Christmas (aka the coming of the Christ-child) was not always celebrated by the Church. In fact, it was quite controversial early on and, in some Christian circles, it still is.

The Church didn’t officially recognize the “feast day” of Christ’s birth (what became known as Christ’s Mass, or Christmas) until the fourth century. When we look at the Gospels themselves, only two of the four canonical Gospels (Matthew and Luke) actually account for the birth of the Christ-child. The other two canonical Gospels (Mark and John) do not mention the birth of Christ at all. Mark begins with Jesus’ baptism, and John simply states that the Word of God became flesh as Jesus (John 1:14). They clearly did not feel there was a significant reason to include the Nativity story in their accounts.

So then, why Advent? Regardless of the fact that only two of the four Gospels include the Nativity story, each of the four Gospels contains the Advent story. In fact, the entire Bible is an Advent story. Advent, of course, means “the arrival of a notable person, thing, or event.” All of Scripture points toward Advent when you really think about it. All of Scripture points toward the advent—the arrival—of Immanuel, “God with us.”

From the first humans through the Exodus, from the age of kings through the prophets, from exile through Roman occupation, from the birth of Jesus through the resurrection, from the apostles through the age in which we now live, this world is SCREAMING for the advent of God’s Kingdom—the advent of hope, healing, wholeness, justice, mercy, compassion, and grace.

Why Advent? Because we live in a broken world filled with broken people like ourselves.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world filled with social injustice.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world where people pour lighter fluid down the throats of teenagers and set them on fire.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world where a few have everything and the majority have nothing.
Why Advent? Because we all play a part in the reality of sin.
Why Advent? Because we desire justice, long for mercy, and strive to live humbly.

Unfortunately, in our longing for Advent, we often miss a critically important point: Immanuel has already come.

GOD IS WITH US.
GOD IS WITHIN US.

While we certainly await the coming of God’s Kingdom in all its fullness, and while Scripture is deeply shaped by Advent longing, it also points us to the reality of God’s presence with us now—God’s love for us and God’s Spirit within us. The question, then, isn’t Why Advent?

The question is Why wait?

What are we waiting for? God desires that we recognize God’s presence with us now. We no longer need to lie in wait. We no longer need to sit and hope for a savior to come and rescue us. That Savior has already come, has never left, and has no intention of leaving. As long as people open themselves to God, the Savior will remain present in the world.

Jesus didn’t call us to wait, but to BE AWAKE. Jesus didn’t call us into waiting—Jesus sent the disciples, and sends us, into action. Instead of waiting, actively take part in showing the world that GOD IS ALREADY HERE…

that GOD IS ALREADY WITH US…

that LOVE WINS.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
How are you bringing the reality of Immanuel into the world around you

PRAYER
Lord, I am your vessel of hope, healing, and wholeness. Use me as a witness to your presence among all people. Amen.

© 2012 Rev. Todd R. Lattig. All rights reserved.
First published December 12, 2014.