Mirrors of God’s Goodness

A Sermon on Reflecting the Goodness of God

Philippians 4:8-9

Introduction

Over the past several weeks, we have been reflecting on the goodness of God.
First, we started at the big inning — and I don’t mean a moment in a baseball game where the home team hits a grand slam. I mean the beginning, the dawn of Creation. At the beginning, God created everything, and God saw that it was good.
God is good, and what God creates is good.
Last week, we reflected on how we have experienced God’s goodness. God is good, and God has been good to us. We talked about remembering, noticing, and naming the ways God’s goodness has touched our lives. We talked about how goodness is not just an abstract doctrine, but something we taste and see, something we experience, something we can look back on and say, “Yes, God has been good to me.”
So we have these first two movements.
God is good and what God creates is good.
And God has been good to us.
Today we come to the next question: what do we do with that?
If we do not fundamentally believe that God is good, that what God creates is good, and if we are not able to see how God has been good to us, then we are probably going to have a hard time reflecting God’s goodness to creation and her people.
Because the goodness of God is not only something we believe. It is not only something we receive. It is something we are called to reflect. It is something we are called to practice. It is something we are called to embody in our lives together.
My first car was a 1972 Ford Pinto, as some of you know. And no, I didn’t have to worry about it blowing up if I got rear-ended. At least, that was not my main concern at the time.
With my Kraco cassette player, Pioneer coaxials in the doors, and two generic subwoofers in the back, I would often cruise down 8th Street in Meridian, Mississippi, on Friday nights, blasting my Christian rock — Resurrection Band most likely — driving from McDonald’s down to the Sonic drive-through and back again.
But there was something missing. At least, I thought there was.
On one of our family road trips, I saw a tractor-trailer rig with a cool set up, and it gave me an idea. I decided I could do something similar to my car. So I got a friend of mine in a workshop to make me a cross out of metal. Then I took yellow trailer lights and attached them to the cross, which I then attached to the front bumper of my car.
That way folks could really see my commitment to Jesus. You know, this little light of mine.
The problem came when I tried to hook up the lights to the electrical wiring in my car. I was hoping to be able to turn on the lights with my parking light switch, but I wound up frying the electronics. I can still remember the smell of burnt wiring and bitter disappointment as that little light of mine flickered once and went out.
I did figure out a workaround. So for a while there I was cruising 8th Street in my 1972 lime green Ford Pinto, with a lighted cross on the front, blaring Christian rock to all the world.
Now, there is probably a whole sermon right there about youthful zeal and questionable judgment.
But here is the connection for today: if we talk about the goodness of God and how God has been good to us, that is great. But if we forget this third aspect of the goodness of God, then it is like shorting out the cross on the front of my Pinto.
Because if we believe God is good, and if we know how God has been good to us, then we need to be reflecting God’s goodness to those around us. And not only reflecting it, but being a people who do good.
Let us pray.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of every heart here be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Homily
Paul writes in Philippians 4:8-9:
“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”
There are two parts here that belong together.
First, Paul tells them what to think about. Whatever is true. Whatever is noble. Whatever is right. Whatever is pure. Whatever is lovely. Whatever is admirable. If anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.
But then he says, “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice.”
Think about such things.
Put it into practice.
The goodness of God shapes our imagination, but it does not stop there. It moves into our hands, our words, our relationships, our decisions, our treatment of creation, our care for neighbors, our willingness to forgive, our resistance to evil, and our practice of peace.
This is not simply positive thinking. Paul is not asking the church to pretend the world is better than it is. He is writing from prison. He knows suffering. He knows conflict. He knows disappointment. He knows opposition. He knows what it is to live in a world where goodness is contested.
So when Paul says, “Think about such things,” he is not saying, “Ignore what is wrong.”
He begins with truth.
Whatever is true.
Christian goodness is not denial. Christian hope is not pretending. Christian love does not require us to lie about harm, injustice, pain, grief, or evil.
But truth is larger than the worst thing that has happened.
Truth includes the goodness of creation.
Truth includes the image of God in every person.
Truth includes the mercy of Christ.
Truth includes resurrection.
Truth includes forgiveness.
Truth includes the Spirit still moving.
Truth includes beauty, grace, and the possibility of new creation.
And if we spend all our time thinking only about what is ugly, false, fearful, bitter, and broken, it will shape us.
If we constantly feed on fear, we will have a hard time practicing peace.
If we constantly feed on outrage, we will have a hard time practicing gentleness.
If we constantly feed on resentment, we will have a hard time practicing forgiveness.
If we constantly feed on despair, we will have a hard time seeing hope.
If we constantly rehearse what is wrong with people, we will have a hard time seeing the image of God in them.
Paul is inviting us into holy attention.
He is inviting us to pay attention to what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy — not so we can escape the world, but so we can live faithfully in it.
What we behold, we begin to reflect.
If we behold only fear, we reflect fear.
If we behold only anger, we reflect anger.
If we behold only contempt, we reflect contempt.
But if we behold the goodness of God, we can begin to reflect the goodness of God.
That is why Genesis matters so much.
At the beginning, God creates, and again and again the refrain comes: “And God saw that it was good.”
Light is good.
Sky is good.
Land and sea are good.
Plants and trees are good.
Sun, moon, and stars are good.
Birds and fish are good.
Animals are good.
Human beings, made in the image of God, are very good.
Before there is sin, there is goodness.
Before there is shame, there is blessing.
Before there is violence, there is peace.
Before there is scarcity and fear, there is abundance and delight.
The Communicator’s Commentary on Genesis makes this connection practical. It says, “Those who believe God created everything good certainly will not be indifferent to developments which may serve only to pollute and ruin, exterminate and defile all that God has made.”
Believing in the goodness of creation shapes the way we live.
If creation is good, then we receive it with gratitude and protect it with care. We do not worship creation, but neither do we treat it as disposable. We care for what God has called good.
That means the goodness of God is not merely spiritual in some narrow sense. It touches the soil. It touches water. It touches air. It touches animals. It touches bodies. It touches neighborhoods. It touches the vulnerable. It touches how we live in the world God made.
The goodness of God gives us permission to name evil as evil and to resist what destroys life. It gives us permission to lament, protest, pray, feed, heal, repair, reconcile, and work for peace.
If the world begins in goodness, and if God is good, and if goodness and mercy follow us, then part of faith is learning to see what God has already called good.
To see creation not as disposable, but as gift.
To see our bodies not as shameful, but as part of God’s good creation.
To see other people not first as problems or enemies, but as made in God’s image.
To see ourselves not first as failures, but as beloved creatures made by a good God.
This does not mean we deny sin or excuse harm. But it does mean we begin where Scripture begins: with our good, good God who creates good things.
And that goodness is not merely something we believe about God. It is something we are called to reflect.
If we want to know what this looks like, we look to Jesus.
Jesus is the goodness of God in human form.
He touches the untouchable.
He welcomes children.
He eats with sinners.
He forgives enemies.
He heals the sick.
He feeds the hungry.
He notices the overlooked.
He tells the truth to the powerful.
He weeps at the tomb of his friend.
He breaks bread with those who will fail him.
He prays forgiveness over those who crucify him.
This is goodness.
But goodness is not the same as niceness.
Niceness often avoids hard things. Goodness moves toward healing.
Niceness wants to be liked. Goodness seeks the wholeness of the other.
Niceness may keep things pleasant on the surface. Goodness tells the truth in love.
Niceness may walk past suffering politely. Goodness stops on the road and binds up wounds.
Jesus is good. He is not merely nice.
The goodness of Jesus is tender, but not weak.
It is merciful, but not passive.
It is truthful, but not cruel.
It is holy, but not harsh.
It is welcoming, but not shallow.
And this is the goodness we are called to reflect.
Paul says, “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice.”
Practice matters.
We can believe beautiful things and still live in ugly ways.
We can say God is good and still treat people as if they are disposable.
We can say creation is good and still live carelessly toward the earth.
We can say God has been merciful to us and still refuse mercy to others.
We can say we follow Jesus and still sound more like fear, anger, and contempt than like Christ.
This is where the lighted cross on the Pinto comes back for me.
It is possible to have the symbol right out front and still have the wiring messed up.
It is possible to display faith outwardly while something inward is shorting out. It is possible to announce Jesus loudly while not reflecting the goodness of Jesus clearly.
That does not mean we have to be perfect. Thank God. But it does mean we have to pay attention to what is forming us.
Are we being formed by the goodness of God?
Are we being formed by the mercy of Jesus?
Are we being formed by what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy?
Or are we being formed by fear, suspicion, resentment, and despair?
The church is called to be a community where people can taste the goodness of God: a community not ruled by fear, condemnation, suspicion, or bitterness, but a community of goodness and mercy.
A community that tells the truth with love.
A community that resists evil without becoming evil.
A community that cares for creation.
A community that feeds the hungry.
A community that welcomes the stranger.
A community that protects the vulnerable.
A community that forgives.
A community that practices peace.
This does not happen by accident.
It happens as we return again and again to the goodness of God. It happens as we remember how God has been good to us. It happens as we practice gratitude. It happens as we confess when we fail. It happens as we forgive and are forgiven. It happens as we train our attention toward what is true and lovely. It happens as we put into practice what we have learned and received and heard and seen in Jesus.
And often, reflecting God’s goodness looks small.
A meal delivered.
A note written.
A phone call made.
A child listened to.
A stranger welcomed.
A harsh word left unsaid.
A truthful word spoken gently.
A grudge released.
A prayer offered.
A garden planted.
A lonely person noticed.
A wounded person treated with dignity.
A disagreement handled without contempt.
Small goodness matters.
Jesus compared the kingdom to mustard seed, yeast, salt, and light. Small things. Ordinary things. Hidden things. Things that do not always look impressive at first. And yet God works through them.
The church reflects God’s goodness not only through grand gestures, but through ordinary faithfulness.
We reflect God’s goodness when our worship helps people taste and see that the Lord is good.
We reflect God’s goodness when our fellowship gives lonely people a place to belong.
We reflect God’s goodness when our care for creation treats the earth as beloved, not disposable.
We reflect God’s goodness when children are safe and cherished.
We reflect God’s goodness when elders are honored.
We reflect God’s goodness when the poor are not forgotten.
We reflect God’s goodness when strangers are welcomed.
We reflect God’s goodness when people who disagree still recognize one another as image-bearers of God.
And we reflect God’s goodness when we receive ourselves as part of God’s good creation too.
Some of us find that hard.
We may believe God loves the world, but struggle to believe God loves us. We may believe God forgives others, but struggle to receive forgiveness ourselves. We may believe creation is good, but look at our own bodies, our own lives, our own stories, and see only what is wrong.
But you, too, are God’s creation.
You are not God, but you are made by God.
You are not perfect, but you are loved.
You are not finished, but you are being formed.
You are not the source of goodness, but you can reflect it.
So maybe the invitation this week is simple.
Taste and see.
Take time to notice the goodness of God. Name it. Write it down. Speak it aloud. Share it at the table. Pray it before sleep. Look for it in creation. Look for it in Scripture. Look for it in the life of Jesus. Look for it in your own story. Look for it in someone you find difficult.
And then ask: how can I reflect this goodness today?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in one conversation?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in one act of care?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in the way I use my words?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward creation?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward someone who feels forgotten?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward myself?
Because if we do not fundamentally believe that God is good, that what God creates is good, and if we are not able to see how God has been good to us or spend regular time reflecting on that, then we are probably going to have a hard time reflecting God’s goodness to creation and her people.
But if we do believe God is good, if we learn to see creation as good, if we take time to remember how God has been good to us, then we may become people through whom others taste and see that goodness too.
May our minds dwell on what is true and lovely.
May our hearts remember what God has done.
May our hands practice mercy.
May our words carry grace.
May our lives become small mirrors of the goodness of God.
And may creation and her people taste and see, through us, that the Lord is good.
Amen.

Homily
Paul writes in Philippians 4:8-9:
“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”
There are two parts here that belong together.
First, Paul tells them what to think about. Whatever is true. Whatever is noble. Whatever is right. Whatever is pure. Whatever is lovely. Whatever is admirable. If anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.
But then he says, “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice.”
Think about such things.
Put it into practice.
The goodness of God shapes our imagination, but it does not stop there. It moves into our hands, our words, our relationships, our decisions, our treatment of creation, our care for neighbors, our willingness to forgive, our resistance to evil, and our practice of peace.
This is not simply positive thinking. Paul is not asking the church to pretend the world is better than it is. He is writing from prison. He knows suffering. He knows conflict. He knows disappointment. He knows opposition. He knows what it is to live in a world where goodness is contested.
So when Paul says, “Think about such things,” he is not saying, “Ignore what is wrong.”
He begins with truth.
Whatever is true.
Christian goodness is not denial. Christian hope is not pretending. Christian love does not require us to lie about harm, injustice, pain, grief, or evil.
But truth is larger than the worst thing that has happened.
Truth includes the goodness of creation.
Truth includes the image of God in every person.
Truth includes the mercy of Christ.
Truth includes resurrection.
Truth includes forgiveness.
Truth includes the Spirit still moving.
Truth includes beauty, grace, and the possibility of new creation.
And if we spend all our time thinking only about what is ugly, false, fearful, bitter, and broken, it will shape us.
If we constantly feed on fear, we will have a hard time practicing peace.
If we constantly feed on outrage, we will have a hard time practicing gentleness.
If we constantly feed on resentment, we will have a hard time practicing forgiveness.
If we constantly feed on despair, we will have a hard time seeing hope.
If we constantly rehearse what is wrong with people, we will have a hard time seeing the image of God in them.
Paul is inviting us into holy attention.
He is inviting us to pay attention to what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy — not so we can escape the world, but so we can live faithfully in it.
What we behold, we begin to reflect.
If we behold only fear, we reflect fear.
If we behold only anger, we reflect anger.
If we behold only contempt, we reflect contempt.
But if we behold the goodness of God, we can begin to reflect the goodness of God.
That is why Genesis matters so much.
At the beginning, God creates, and again and again the refrain comes: “And God saw that it was good.”
Light is good.
Sky is good.
Land and sea are good.
Plants and trees are good.
Sun, moon, and stars are good.
Birds and fish are good.
Animals are good.
Human beings, made in the image of God, are very good.
Before there is sin, there is goodness.
Before there is shame, there is blessing.
Before there is violence, there is peace.
Before there is scarcity and fear, there is abundance and delight.
The Communicator’s Commentary on Genesis makes this connection practical. It says, “Those who believe God created everything good certainly will not be indifferent to developments which may serve only to pollute and ruin, exterminate and defile all that God has made.”
Believing in the goodness of creation shapes the way we live.
If creation is good, then we receive it with gratitude and protect it with care. We do not worship creation, but neither do we treat it as disposable. We care for what God has called good.
That means the goodness of God is not merely spiritual in some narrow sense. It touches the soil. It touches water. It touches air. It touches animals. It touches bodies. It touches neighborhoods. It touches the vulnerable. It touches how we live in the world God made.
The goodness of God gives us permission to name evil as evil and to resist what destroys life. It gives us permission to lament, protest, pray, feed, heal, repair, reconcile, and work for peace.
If the world begins in goodness, and if God is good, and if goodness and mercy follow us, then part of faith is learning to see what God has already called good.
To see creation not as disposable, but as gift.
To see our bodies not as shameful, but as part of God’s good creation.
To see other people not first as problems or enemies, but as made in God’s image.
To see ourselves not first as failures, but as beloved creatures made by a good God.
This does not mean we deny sin or excuse harm. But it does mean we begin where Scripture begins: with our good, good God who creates good things.
And that goodness is not merely something we believe about God. It is something we are called to reflect.
If we want to know what this looks like, we look to Jesus.
Jesus is the goodness of God in human form.
He touches the untouchable.
He welcomes children.
He eats with sinners.
He forgives enemies.
He heals the sick.
He feeds the hungry.
He notices the overlooked.
He tells the truth to the powerful.
He weeps at the tomb of his friend.
He breaks bread with those who will fail him.
He prays forgiveness over those who crucify him.
This is goodness.
But goodness is not the same as niceness.
Niceness often avoids hard things. Goodness moves toward healing.
Niceness wants to be liked. Goodness seeks the wholeness of the other.
Niceness may keep things pleasant on the surface. Goodness tells the truth in love.
Niceness may walk past suffering politely. Goodness stops on the road and binds up wounds.
Jesus is good. He is not merely nice.
The goodness of Jesus is tender, but not weak.
It is merciful, but not passive.
It is truthful, but not cruel.
It is holy, but not harsh.
It is welcoming, but not shallow.
And this is the goodness we are called to reflect.
Paul says, “Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice.”
Practice matters.
We can believe beautiful things and still live in ugly ways.
We can say God is good and still treat people as if they are disposable.
We can say creation is good and still live carelessly toward the earth.
We can say God has been merciful to us and still refuse mercy to others.
We can say we follow Jesus and still sound more like fear, anger, and contempt than like Christ.
This is where the lighted cross on the Pinto comes back for me.
It is possible to have the symbol right out front and still have the wiring messed up.
It is possible to display faith outwardly while something inward is shorting out. It is possible to announce Jesus loudly while not reflecting the goodness of Jesus clearly.
That does not mean we have to be perfect. Thank God. But it does mean we have to pay attention to what is forming us.
Are we being formed by the goodness of God?
Are we being formed by the mercy of Jesus?
Are we being formed by what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy?
Or are we being formed by fear, suspicion, resentment, and despair?
The church is called to be a community where people can taste the goodness of God: a community not ruled by fear, condemnation, suspicion, or bitterness, but a community of goodness and mercy.
A community that tells the truth with love.
A community that resists evil without becoming evil.
A community that cares for creation.
A community that feeds the hungry.
A community that welcomes the stranger.
A community that protects the vulnerable.
A community that forgives.
A community that practices peace.
This does not happen by accident.
It happens as we return again and again to the goodness of God. It happens as we remember how God has been good to us. It happens as we practice gratitude. It happens as we confess when we fail. It happens as we forgive and are forgiven. It happens as we train our attention toward what is true and lovely. It happens as we put into practice what we have learned and received and heard and seen in Jesus.
And often, reflecting God’s goodness looks small.
A meal delivered.
A note written.
A phone call made.
A child listened to.
A stranger welcomed.
A harsh word left unsaid.
A truthful word spoken gently.
A grudge released.
A prayer offered.
A garden planted.
A lonely person noticed.
A wounded person treated with dignity.
A disagreement handled without contempt.
Small goodness matters.
Jesus compared the kingdom to mustard seed, yeast, salt, and light. Small things. Ordinary things. Hidden things. Things that do not always look impressive at first. And yet God works through them.
The church reflects God’s goodness not only through grand gestures, but through ordinary faithfulness.
We reflect God’s goodness when our worship helps people taste and see that the Lord is good.
We reflect God’s goodness when our fellowship gives lonely people a place to belong.
We reflect God’s goodness when our care for creation treats the earth as beloved, not disposable.
We reflect God’s goodness when children are safe and cherished.
We reflect God’s goodness when elders are honored.
We reflect God’s goodness when the poor are not forgotten.
We reflect God’s goodness when strangers are welcomed.
We reflect God’s goodness when people who disagree still recognize one another as image-bearers of God.
And we reflect God’s goodness when we receive ourselves as part of God’s good creation too.
Some of us find that hard.
We may believe God loves the world, but struggle to believe God loves us. We may believe God forgives others, but struggle to receive forgiveness ourselves. We may believe creation is good, but look at our own bodies, our own lives, our own stories, and see only what is wrong.
But you, too, are God’s creation.
You are not God, but you are made by God.
You are not perfect, but you are loved.
You are not finished, but you are being formed.
You are not the source of goodness, but you can reflect it.
So maybe the invitation this week is simple.
Taste and see.
Take time to notice the goodness of God. Name it. Write it down. Speak it aloud. Share it at the table. Pray it before sleep. Look for it in creation. Look for it in Scripture. Look for it in the life of Jesus. Look for it in your own story. Look for it in someone you find difficult.
And then ask: how can I reflect this goodness today?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in one conversation?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in one act of care?
How can I reflect God’s goodness in the way I use my words?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward creation?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward someone who feels forgotten?
How can I reflect God’s goodness toward myself?
Because if we do not fundamentally believe that God is good, that what God creates is good, and if we are not able to see how God has been good to us or spend regular time reflecting on that, then we are probably going to have a hard time reflecting God’s goodness to creation and her people.
But if we do believe God is good, if we learn to see creation as good, if we take time to remember how God has been good to us, then we may become people through whom others taste and see that goodness too.
May our minds dwell on what is true and lovely.
May our hearts remember what God has done.
May our hands practice mercy.
May our words carry grace.
May our lives become small mirrors of the goodness of God.
And may creation and her people taste and see, through us, that the Lord is good.
Amen.

#ChristianLiving #CreationCare #CreationIsGood #FaithInPractice #Genesis1 #GodOfPeace #GoodnessOfGod #Grace #Mercy #peace #Philippians489 #ReflectingGodSGoodness #Sermon #Shalom #SmallActsOfGoodness #spiritualFormation #tasteAndSee

The Miracle-Gro of Suffering

If anyone had told a younger me that the best way to become a stronger Christian is by going through suffering, I wouldn’t have believed them. It’s the hope of all human beings to live the good life, uninhibited by pain, difficulty, or drama. Suffering isn’t something anyone desires or runs toward.

But truth be told, nothing grows a Christian like suffering does. When you suffer, you don’t choose to follow God because he’s the obvious answer. No, you cry out, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” and then you choose him anyways.

The developed Christian has to rise above their suffering to do the right thing. They don’t choose to forgive others when they’re good to them—they forgive them while they’re be nailed to a cross. They learn to cultivate joy when there’s little to have joy about. They choose to love when hate is knocking on their door. They have to fight the thoughts and visions that plague their mind, inviting them to think of the worst possible outcomes. They have to choose humility when all they want is to fight for themselves.

They have to develop new spiritual disciplines for their faith to survive. They have to pray after they’ve decided that prayer is pointless and that God is not listening. They have to hold dear to the sliver of light that the Spirit has shone them when the whole world seems nothing but darkness. They have to grow or their faith will die, and at the same time, they have to die so that their faith will grow.

We do not serve a God that likes to see us suffer. We do not serve a God that wants to see us suffer. We do not serve a God that who orchestrates the worst moments in our lives.

Rather, all suffering has a chance to become Miracle-Gro for the fruit of the Spirit. When the fruits of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control find a way to grow in environments we would have never expected them to grow, then they prove that they can grow anywhere.

We’ve all had friends whose faith was unable to survive the test of suffering. Indeed, the topic of suffering is easily one of the main theological conundrums that people leave the faith over. God is not surprised by this. That’s why Jesus told a whole parable about it. It’s easy to follow a prosperity gospel God—much harder to follow one who disciplines those he loves.

If you are able, receive these words from St. John of the Cross in his classic work, Dark Night of the Soul.

There is another reason why the soul has walked securely in this darkness, and this is because it has been suffering; for the road of suffering is more secure and even more profitable than that of fruition and action: first, because in suffering the strength of God is added to that of man, while in action and fruition the soul is practising its own weaknesses and imperfections; and second, because in suffering the soul continues to practise and acquire the virtues and become purer, wiser and more cautious.

#ChristianLiving #DarkNightOfTheSoul #discipleship #faith #fruitOfTheSpirit #hope #perseverance #spiritualFormation #StJohnOfTheCross #suffering

The Edge of the Forge: Why the Fire Feels Like a Threat

2,005 words, 11 minutes read time.

The heat in the workshop was absolute, a living thing that demanded total submission. Nash Holden wiped sweat from his brow with a forearm darkened by years of coal dust and scale. Outside, the wind was biting, tearing at the siding of his metal-clad shed, but inside, the air was a steady, dry furnace. He was working on a commission that had been keeping him awake for three weeks: a custom wilderness survival blade for Julian Vane. Vane ran a modest but respected YouTube channel called The Practical Woodsman, where he focused on the tedious, unglamorous reality of remote living. Vane’s audience of 300,000 subscribers valued authenticity above all else; they would catch a failure in seconds. If a blade snapped during a simple wood-splitting demonstration, Vane’s brand would take a hit, and Nash’s reputation—built on fifteen years of perfection—would evaporate in a single edit.

For Nash, this wasn’t just a job; it was a high-stakes spotlight on his own inadequacies. The design called for 400 layers of 1084 and 15N20 high-carbon steel. He had spent the morning carefully stacking the alternating layers, tack-welding them into a solid billet, and heating them to a precise 2,250 degrees until they fused at a molecular level. To build the layer count, Nash had to draw the billet out, cut it into sections, restack those sections, and fuse them again. It was a grueling cycle of heat, pressure, and precision. If he made a mistake—if one weld didn’t hold or a microscopic piece of slag remained between the layers—the blade could snap in the middle of a routine task. The thought of that potential failure made his stomach turn. He had built his livelihood on the promise that his steel was bulletproof, and the idea that a flaw could be hiding inside this billet, invisible to the eye but waiting to shatter his career, was a constant, low-level hum of terror in the back of his mind.

Nash wasn’t a man of many words, and he liked it that way. He’d grown up in the shadow of a father who was a foreman at a local manufacturing plant—a man who believed that if you weren’t producing, you were wasting oxygen. Nash had spent his life trying to prove he was a high-yield producer. He’d built his reputation on reliability. But lately, the man behind the hammer felt like a brittle piece of low-carbon scrap. He’d started attending a men’s group at his church, expecting to find guys who were as stoic and put-together as he was. Instead, he found men who admitted they were lost, men who talked about shame and inadequacy as if it were a common cold. At first, it irritated him. He wanted solutions, not a support group for the broken. But the more they talked, the more he realized his own “perfect” professional life was a facade, a polished handle on a blade that was internally fractured.

The fear that had been gnawing at him wasn’t just about the blade; it was the fear he’d voiced to his pastor during a lunch last week: if he truly gave everything to God, if he stopped holding back the parts of his life he wanted to manage himself, would he be signing up for a life of wreckage? He looked at the historical accounts of men like Job or the Apostle Paul, and he didn’t see a life of comfort; he saw a life of trials that would have leveled a lesser man. Nash gripped the tongs until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to be a man of faith, but he was terrified that the price of admission was a crucible he wasn’t built to survive. If he surrendered to God, would God put him through a “survival scenario” just to test his integrity? Was it better to keep his faith in the “safe” zone, or did he have to be willing to be broken just to prove he was worth something to his Maker?

He pulled the billet from the forge, the metal glowing with a color that sat somewhere between cherry red and a threatening orange. He placed it on the anvil and brought the heavy hammer down. Clang. The sound reverberated through the shed, a singular note of absolute finality. He hammered, drawing the steel out, then cut it, stacked it, and fused it again, his mind racing. He imagined God as a blacksmith, but a blacksmith who didn’t seem to mind how much he hammered the steel. Was that the only way to get the impurities out? Was Nash just a piece of metal on the anvil, waiting for the next blow? He thought about his own life—the missed opportunities to be a better husband, the pride that kept him from apologizing, the secret jealousy he felt when he saw other men succeeding where he felt stalled. If God really took hold of his life, would He just hammer those things out until there was nothing left of Nash but a sharp, cold tool?

He looked at the blade, now cooling slightly, its surface showing the first hints of the Damascus pattern—the intricate, swirling lines that only emerged after repeated trauma and heat. He used to think the pattern was the point. Now, he wondered if the pattern was just the aftermath of the survival. He remembered a man in his group, a guy named Elias who had lost his business and his home in the span of a year, saying that he’d never felt more “known” by God than when he had nothing left to lose. Nash didn’t want to lose anything. He liked his shed. He liked his forge. He liked the feeling of being in control of his own heat. He wondered if that was the barrier—the belief that he needed to protect his own soul from the very hands that had formed it.

The furnace roared as he kicked the bellows, pushing the temperature back up to prepare for the next fusion. He felt the heat prickle his skin, a reminder of how close he was to the fire. He was a man who worked with dangerous things every day, yet the thing he feared most was the quiet realization that he didn’t have the final say. If he was truly “known,” truly surrendered, did that mean he had to be prepared for the kind of fire that refined, not the kind that comforted? He didn’t have an answer. The steel didn’t care about his theology; it only responded to the heat and the hammer. He looked at the glowing billet, a beautiful, violent thing, and realized he was no closer to knowing if he could trust the blacksmith. He reached for the tongs again, his hands shaking slightly, not from the weight of the metal, but from the weight of the silence that filled the shed. He brought the steel back to the heat, the roar of the fire drowning out every other thought, leaving him alone with the orange glow, the heavy hammer, and the unanswered question of whether he would ever be brave enough to stop holding the hammer himself. He waited, held his breath, and brought the metal down against the iron, the clang echoing into the night, leaving him to wonder just how much more heat he could stand, and if, at the end of it all, he would be a masterpiece or just discarded scrap.

Author’s Note: Stop Polishing the Rust

Listen close. You’re walking around with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, sweating bullets because you think the whole operation is one bad day away from total collapse. You’ve got a business to run, a house to keep, and a reputation that’s held together by duct tape and sheer, stubborn willpower. But at 3:00 AM, when the shop is dark and the house is quiet, that nagging voice in your head doesn’t stop. It tells you that you’re a fraud. It tells you that your “inadequacy” is a terminal diagnosis.

And then there’s the God part. You look at guys like Paul—who got shipwrecked, beaten, and hunted—or Job, who lost everything that mattered—and you think, “If I actually surrender to that, I’m finished.” You’re terrified that letting God into the driver’s seat means He’s going to turn your life into a dumpster fire just to test the integrity of your faith.

Cut the crap. You’re viewing the Creator of the universe like some petty tyrant waiting to sabotage your production line.

The blacksmith doesn’t throw a billet into the forge because he wants to ruin it. He puts it in the fire because he knows that’s the only way to purge the impurities. You think your “weakness” is a liability? Read your manual. 2 Corinthians 12:9 isn’t a suggestion; it’s the law of the land: “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” That’s not a platitude for the faint of heart. That is a directive for warriors.

Stop trying to patch your life with cheap, home-store adhesive. Stop trying to hide the cracks in your soul with a high-polish finish. Shame is a parasite. It lives in the dark, sucking the life out of your work and your marriage, thriving because you’re too proud to admit you’re out of your depth. You aren’t “scrap metal.” You’re a project in progress, and the Master is trying to get the impurities out so He can finally put an edge on you that won’t snap when the pressure hits.

James 1:2-4 isn’t a fairy tale. It’s the hard truth about building a man: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” That is what generates the iron in your spine.

You want to keep holding the hammer? Fine. But don’t complain when the blade snaps in the dirt because you were too scared to let the Fire refine you. You’re holding onto the control because you don’t trust the outcome. It’s time to stop the charade.

Here’s the call to action: Put down the hammer. Write down the one thing you’re most terrified of people finding out about you—the secret “dent” in your character you’ve been trying to buff out—and bring it to one guy you actually trust. No excuses. No polished exterior. Just the raw, ugly truth. Break the silence today, or watch the rust eat you alive.

“Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 1:6

Now, get back to work.

SUPPORTSUBSCRIBECONTACT ME

D. Bryan King

Sources

• iForgeIron: Global Blacksmithing Community & Metallurgy
• The Bladesmith’s Forum: Advanced Billet & Pattern-Welding Techniques
• American Bladesmith Society: Education on Steel Performance
• The Practical Woodsman: Real-World Survival Gear Testing
• 2 Corinthians 12:9: The Strength Found in Weakness
• James 1:2-4: The Purpose of Trials and Perseverance
• Philippians 1:6: The Assurance of Completion
• National Weather Service: Skywarn Spotter Training (Disciplined Observation)
• ARRL: Amateur Radio Public Service Corps (Service Under Pressure)
• The Art of Manliness: Vulnerability as a Manly Virtue
• NWS: Standard Operating Procedures (The Standard of Professionalism)
• Psychology Today: Overcoming the Internal Weight of Shame
• The Forge Magazine: Spiritual Disciplines and the Refining Fire
• Survivalist Boards: Post-Failure Analysis of Cutting Tools
• Christianity Today: Why Men Need Community to Beat Shame

Disclaimer:

The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.

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And It Was Good

A Sermon on the Character of God

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Today we are starting a 3-part series on the Goodness of God. Our theme verse for this series comes from Psalm 27:13:

“I remain confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.”

That verse will guide us through these weeks as we reflect on the goodness of God: what it means that God is good, how we have experienced God’s goodness, and how we are called to share God’s goodness with others.

Today, we begin at the beginning.

When I was a boy growing up on ten acres of wooded land in rural Mississippi, I used to climb the mimosa trees near our house. I would get sap on my knees and elbows and see ruby-throated hummingbirds seeking out the fragrant flowers around my head. I was not thinking in theological language then, but I was learning something. I was learning that I was stuck to something bigger than myself, and that something was rather wonderful.

We know about the Good Book, the Bible. We read it, study it, preach from it, and seek to live by it. But there is also what I call The Other Good Book: the book of Creation. Not a replacement for Scripture, but a witness alongside it. A book written in wind, soil, birdsong, tree bark, creek water, deer tracks, ant hills, and the breath of living things.

Creation has a way of teaching us if we are willing to listen. And one of the first things creation teaches us is this:

Dios es bueno.

God is good.

And because God is good, what God creates is good.

That is where Genesis begins.

Not with sin.
Not with shame.

But with God creating, God seeing, and God calling creation good.

Let us pray,

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our Rock, and our Redeemer. Amen

Homily

In the beginning, God speaks, and light comes into being. God gathers the waters and brings forth dry land. God fills the sky, sea, and earth with life. And again and again, after God creates, the same refrain appears:

And God saw that it was good.

Then God creates humankind in the image of God, blessed by God and given responsibility within creation.

And then Genesis says:

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.”

That is where the story begins.

The first word over creation is not “broken,” “sinful,” or “condemned.”

The first word is good.

Before there is a fall, there is blessing. Before there is exile, there is a garden. Before there is shame, there is delight. Before there is sin, there is goodness.

That matters because we often begin the story in the wrong place. We begin with what is wrong: human failure, guilt, sin, and everything that has gone bad in the world.

We shouldn’t ignore those things. The world is wounded. Creation groans. Bodies suffer. Relationships break. Violence, poverty, and despair are real.

But Genesis does not begin there.

Genesis begins with the goodness of God overflowing into the goodness of creation.

The repeated phrase “and it was good” is not filler. It is a deeply theological claim. The created world is not a mistake. The earth is not trash. The body is not shameful. Human life is not an accident.

God looks at what God has made and calls it good.

Dios mira lo que ha hecho y lo llama bueno.

The world is good because God is good. Creation reflects the character of the Creator.

Thomas Aquinas said God is not merely one good being among others. God is goodness itself. God does not simply have goodness the way we might have a good day or do a good deed. God is good in God’s very being. God is the source from which all true goodness flows.

That is why I love this phrase:

God is good all the time.
All the time, God is good.

It may sound like a simple phrase. A church litany. A call and response.

But if we really hear it, it is one of the deepest confessions of faith we can make.

God is good.

Not merely when life is going well. Not merely when prayers are answered the way we hoped. Not merely when healing comes quickly.

But all the time.

That does not mean everything that happens is good. It does not mean suffering is good.

It means God is good.

That is an important distinction. If we confuse everything that happens with the will of God, we may begin to call evil good. We may begin to think suffering, poverty, despair, abuse, and violence somehow come from the heart of God.

Scripture tells us something different.

The Psalmist, in addressing God, says:

“You are good, and what you do is good; teach me your decrees.” (Psalm 119:68)

God’s actions flow from God’s character. God’s commands, teaching, correction, guidance, and wisdom all come from goodness.

God’s ways are trustworthy because God is good.

But this raises an honest question.

Do we really believe God is good?

¿Realmente creemos que Dios es bueno?

Not just in what we say out loud. Not just in our hymns. Not just in our theology. But deep down, what kind of God do we imagine?

Some of us may carry an image of God as a disappointed parent, standing over us with crossed arms, waiting for us to mess up. Some of us may imagine God keeping a record of every one of our failures. Some of us may imagine God as mainly angry, cold, distant, or impossible to please.

Some of us may say “God is good,” but inwardly live as though God is out to get us.

Nuestra imagen de Dios importa porque la forma en que vemos a Dios moldea la forma en que vemos todo lo demás.

Our image of God matters because how we see God shapes how we see everything else.

If we believe God is mainly punitive, then every hardship feels like punishment. If we believe God is always disappointed, then we may never rest in grace. If we believe God is looking for reasons to condemn us, then we may become fearful, anxious, defensive, or ashamed.

But what if God is better than that?

What if God is not the author of cruelty? What if there is no evil in God? What if humanity, not God, is to blame for poverty, despair, abuse, and violence? What if God is not waiting to catch us in something wrong, but is always working to call us back into life?

To say God is good does not mean God ignores evil.

God’s goodness is not weakness or sentimentality. Because God is good, God opposes everything that destroys life.

Porque Dios es bueno, Dios se opone a todo lo que destruye la vida.

God’s judgment, rightly understood, is not the opposite of God’s goodness. God’s judgment is what goodness looks like when it confronts evil.

A good doctor does not ignore disease. A good shepherd does not ignore wolves. A good parent does not ignore harm being done to their child.

Goodness acts. Goodness protects. Goodness tells the truth. Goodness heals. Goodness restores.

So when we say there is no evil in God, we are not saying God does not care about evil. We are saying evil does not exist in nor come from God’s heart.

God is not secretly cruel. God is not secretly malicious. God is not secretly against us.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

And if God is good, then wherever life is being restored, God is at work.

Julian of Norwich lived in a time of great suffering, illness, plague, and uncertainty. She did not deny suffering or pretend pain was unreal. But she believed that God’s love was deeper than suffering, and that in the end God’s goodness would be stronger than all that wounds and destroys.

Her famous words were, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

That is not shallow optimism. That is deep trust that God’s goodness is not defeated by brokenness,

Perhaps this is why Psalm 23 speaks so deeply to us.

Green pastures, still waters, restored souls, God’s presence in the valley of the shades[RS1] , a table prepared in the presence of enemies, and a cup that overflows.

And then comes this promise:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

“Ciertamente la bondad y la misericordia me seguirán todos los días de mi vida.”

Goodness and mercy.

Not guilt and condemnation. Not shame and fear. Not wrath and suspicion. Not despair and punishment.

Goodness and mercy.

The word “follow” can carry the sense of pursuit. God’s goodness and mercy do not simply trail behind us at a distance. They pursue us. They come after us. They seek us.

We may often imagine the things following us are more sinister than that: regret, failure, the past, shame, fear.

And yes, sometimes those things can feel close behind us.

But Psalm 23 promises that there is something deeper pursuing the people of God.

Goodness and mercy.

(song)

The hounds of heaven are not guilt and condemnation. They are more like our blue tick coon hound Belle, who is sure that anyone and everyone is a friend and/or wants to be her friend too. Our pursuers are goodness and mercy.

And when sin wounds what is good, God does not abandon creation. God works to redeem it.

In Jesus, we see the goodness of God most clearly.

If our image of God does not look like Jesus blessing children, touching lepers, forgiving enemies, feeding the hungry, welcoming the outcast, forgiving enemies, and laying down his life in love, then our image of God needs to be redeemed.

Jesus does not reveal a God who is eager to condemn. Jesus reveals a God who seeks the lost, touches the untouchable, welcomes children, eats with sinners, heals the sick, lifts the shamed, and lays down life in love.

If you want to know whether God is good, look at Jesus.

Jesús es cómo se ve la bondad de Dios hecha carne.

Jesus is what the goodness of God looks like in the flesh.

So perhaps the invitation today is for each of us to look within and examine the image of God we carry.

When you think of God, what rises in you first?

Fear? Shame? Suspicion? Condemnation?

Or goodness?

Do you believe God is good? Do you believe God’s desire for you is life abundantly? Do you believe goodness and mercy are following you?

For some of us, the answers to these questions may surprise us. Distorted images of God do not always disappear in a moment.

But God is not limited by our distortions.

God is bigger than our fears. God is kinder than our shame. God is more merciful than our guilt. God is more faithful than our anxiety.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

And because God is good, we can trust God with the truth. We can bring our pain, questions, anger, grief, failures, our whole selves.

No tenemos que escondernos de un Dios bueno.

We do not have to hide from a good God. We do not have to pretend before a good God. We do not have to earn the goodness of a good God.

We receive it. We trust it. We live out of it. And by grace, we reflect it.

Genesis says God saw everything God had made, and indeed, it was very good.

Psalm 119 says, “You are good, and what you do is good.”

Psalm 23 says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

So let us begin here.

God is good.

Dios es bueno.

Not sometimes. Not reluctantly. Not only to the deserving. Not only when life makes sense.

God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good.

Amen

Benediction:

Go forth trusting the goodness of God.

Go forth seeing the goodness already written into the world God loves.

Go forth becoming people who reflect the goodness of God.

And may goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives.

Go in Peace.

#anabaptist #AndItWasGood #BookOfCreation #ChristianReflection #Creation #CreationCare #Faith #Genesis1 #GodIsGood #GoodnessAndMercy #GoodnessOfGod #Grace #imageOfGod #Jesus #JulianOfNorwich #landOfTheLiving #mennonite #Mercy #OtherGoodBook #peace #psalm119 #Psalm23 #Psalm27 #Sermon #spiritualFormation #Theology #ThomasAquinas

The Kintsugi Man

A Story Told In Tanka Form

Once I was broken,
a man of many pieces,
cracked beyond repair,
so many tiny places
scattered like leaves in the wind.

Healing was a dream.
Restoration was elusive.
Much of me was lost.
I could not find the missing,
my eyes dry from the seeking.

Then mercy found me.
The Great Artist touched my heart,
gathered me to me,
glued the pieces one by one
until I was whole again.

Why do the cracks show?
My question rose to the sky.
The scars are ugly.
Must they remain forever?
I wondered if I was healed.

Wait, you gently said.
Dipping your finger in gold,
your love traced the scars -
beauty in my brokenness.
The cracks let the soul's light out. #AndrogynousFigure #BeautyFromAshes #BeautyInBrokenness #Brokenness #ChristianReflection #ContemporaryPoetry #CyberpunkSpirituality #DigitalArt #divineMercy #Faith #FaithAndArt #FreeVersePoetry #FutureHumanity #futuristicArt #GodSGrace #GodSLove #GoldenCracks #Grace #Healing #Hope #HumanAndMachine #InspirationalPoetry #Kintsugi #KintsugiSoul #lightAndShadow #Mercy #newCreation #Redemption #restoration #resurrection #SacredScars #SacredTechnology #ScarsAndHealing #ScienceFictionArt #SoulLight #spiritualFormation #spiritualGrowth #SpiritualPoetry #Symbolism #TheGreatArtist #TheReluctantCyborg #Transformation #visualPoetry #wholeness #woundedHealer

Pressed Petals

On Art, Obscurity, and Faithful Release

I am trying to understand the pressure within me.

I do not think the problem is that I want to complete things. Completion is not wrong. It is good to finish. It is good to give form to what has been stirring within me. It is good to bring a story, a song, a piece of art, a sermon, a reflection, or a book to the point into the world outside of me.

I also do not think the problem is that everything I see or do becomes inspiration. That is not really true. I am not endlessly turning every bird, every headline, every conversation, every historical fact, every passing image into a mandate. But I am a creative person. I do receive the world creatively. I do carry within me stories upon stories, art upon art, songs upon songs. I am full to the brim.

I could burn all my writings. I could get rid of all my wood and tools, my instruments, artist pens, notebooks, and unfinished manuscripts. I could live in an empty house. But I would still be me.

I would still be full.

So the question is not simply, “How do I get rid of the pressure?” The pressure is not only in the objects around me. The pressure is in the love, the longing, the calling, the imagination, and the grief within me. It is in the fact that I have created so much, imagined so much, begun so much, and hoped so much.

Maybe the deeper issue is timing.

Maybe it is not forcing things to be seen. Maybe it is not demanding that every creation immediately justify itself in the world. Maybe it is about creating because creating is part of who I am, and then learning when and how to release what I have made.

But even that is difficult, because my creations are not merely products to me. They are not just content. They are not just files, posts, pages, songs, or images. They feel like children.

And if they are children, then do I not owe them a life?

Do they not deserve to be born, released into the world, seen, growing, making children of their own? Is that not what seeds are supposed to do? A seed is not meant to remain forever in its packet. A song is not meant to remain forever unheard. A story is not meant to remain forever unread. A painting is not meant to remain forever unseen.

A child is not meant to remain forever in the nursery.

This is where the theology of less becomes hard for me.

I can understand becoming less before God. I can understand humility. I can understand that fame is not salvation, that platform is not faithfulness, that applause is not the measure of a life. I can understand that hiddenness can be holy and smallness can be faithful.

But I do not know how to make peace with the utter unfairness of being unknown.

It feels unfair that shallow things are seen while deep things disappear. It feels unfair that loud things are rewarded while quiet, careful, soulful things are ignored. It feels unfair that some people seem born with platforms, networks, confidence, and an audience, while others carry whole worlds inside them and can barely find a door. It feels unfair that my creations might never have the chance to become what they could become in the world.

Not to compare, but it seems others will always have more. Their gardens will be bigger. Their opinions will be loud. Their books will be published. Their children will be giants. Their lives will be important. Their plans will be successful. Their family will enlarge. Their church will be mega. Their ministry will be blessed. Their corporation will grow. Their house will be comfortable.

And I fear that I will become less.

A pressed faded flower in a dusty book.

My words without weight. My writings unknown. My children tufts of grass in city sidewalks. My life hidden. My hopes dashed. My name ended. My chapel tiny. My faith questioned. My business failed. My home feeling like old dead skin. And I, a creature curled in some coffin hole.

That is the fear underneath the pressure.

It is not only that I want success. It is that obscurity feels like abandonment. It feels like my creations have been born into a world that has no room for them. It feels like I have been faithful to them by bringing them forth, but the world has not been faithful in receiving them.

And yet, perhaps I am being asked to distinguish between faithful release and guaranteed reception.

I can birth the work.
I can name the work.
I can feed it, clothe it, revise it, shape it, bless it.
I can give it a door.
I can show it a road.
I can release it into the world.

But I cannot make the world welcome it.

That is where the pain is. That is where the unfairness lives. I want not only to create the work, but to protect it from neglect. I want to be artist and audience, parent and world, sower and weather, seed and soil. I want to make sure that what I have loved does not disappear.

But maybe that is too much for me to carry.

Maybe my creations are my children, but they are not my saviors.

Maybe I owe them faithful release, but I do not owe them guaranteed success.

Maybe I can grieve obscurity without hearing it as a verdict.

That sentence matters to me: I can grieve obscurity without hearing it as a verdict

Because obscurity speaks like a judge. It says, “No one knows this, therefore it does not matter. No one read this, therefore it has no weight. No one heard this, therefore it was not a real song. No one saw this, therefore it was not real art. No one published this, therefore it was not a real book. No one noticed this life, therefore this life was wasted.”

But obscurity is not God.

Obscurity does not get to name the value of my work.

Still, I cannot pretend that visibility does not matter at all. That would be dishonest. My creations do need windows. They do need doors. They do need pathways. They do need some way to move beyond me. If I keep everything hidden forever out of fear, confusion, perfectionism, or despair, then I am not being faithful to them.

So perhaps the theology of less is not to “make peace with never being seen.”

Perhaps it is: make doors without worshiping doors.

Make the book.
Make the post.
Make the song page.
Make the archive.
Make the submission.
Make the collection.
Make the small press.
Make the reading.
Make the gathering place.
Make the simple, faithful path by which the work can walk into the world.

But do not demand that the door become a throne.

Do not demand that every release become vindication.

Do not demand that every creation prove my life was worth living.

That is where I become Atlas beneath a planet of creation. I carry not only the work itself, but its future, its reception, its audience, its influence, its children, its grandchildren, its whole imagined destiny. I am not only trying to make things. I am trying to guarantee what they will become.

No wonder I feel incapacitated.

Perhaps the faithful question is smaller.

Not, “What will become of all my creations?”

But, “What does this one need next?”

This one story.
This one song.
This one image.
This one reflection.
This one book.
This one child of my imagination.

Does it need finishing?
Does it need editing?
Does it need a cover?
Does it need to be posted?
Does it need to be submitted?
Does it need to be gathered with others?
Does it need to rest until its season comes?
Does it need to remain a seed a little longer?

That is not abandonment. That is attention.

I cannot parent the whole household of my imagination all at once. I cannot carry every child at the same time. I cannot give every creation its full future today. But I can turn toward one and ask what faithfulness looks like now.

This is not less love.

It may actually be a better stronger love.

Panic says, “I must get everything out before it is too late.”

Faithfulness says, “I will give this one the care it needs today.”

Panic says, “If this is not seen widely, I have failed.”

Faithfulness says, “I will give it a real path into the world, and then I will release what I cannot control.”

Panic says, “My birthings are dying in obscurity.”

Faithfulness says, “Some seeds sleep before they rise.”

I do not want to use seed language too cheaply. Seeds are supposed to grow. I know that. That is exactly why it hurts. Seeds want soil, light, water, air, room. My creations want communion. They want to meet other lives. They want to make children of their own.

But perhaps the timing of growth is not always mine to command.

Some seeds grow quickly. Some grow slowly. Some are carried by birds. Some lie hidden until fire, flood, winter, or strange mercy opens them. Some become roots long before they become leaves. Some feed the soil that feeds another tree.

This does not remove the ache.

But maybe it removes some of the accusation and guilt.

I am not betraying my creations simply because they are not yet widely known. I betray them only if I refuse to love them truthfully, shape them faithfully, and give the ones that are ready a way outside myself.

So I will try to live by a gentler discipline.

I will create because creating is part of who I am.

I will complete what I can, not because completion saves me, but because form and formation is a kind of love.

I will release what is ready, not because release guarantees success, but because communion is part of the nature of art.

I will build openings, but I will not worship doors.

I will grieve obscurity, but I will not hear it as a verdict.

I will remember that my creations may be my children, but they are not my saviors.

I will remember that I owe them faithful release, not guaranteed success.

I will remember that I am not artist and audience, parent and world, sower and weather, seed and soil. I am not Atlas. I am a finite creature with a full heart, a crowded imagination, and one life.

So perhaps my prayer is this:

God of seeds and seasons,
teach me how to love what I have made without being crushed by it.
Teach me how to complete what is mine to complete.
Teach me how to release what is ready to be released.
Teach me how to wait without calling waiting failure.
Teach me how to build openings without worshiping doors.
Teach me how to grieve the unfairness of being unknown without letting obscurity become my judge.

Bless my stories, my songs, my art, my sermons, my reflections, my unfinished fragments, my hidden children.

Give them life where life is possible.
Give them readers, listeners, viewers, companions, and future children if that is their path.
And where they must wait, let them wait as seeds, not broken corpses.

Let me be faithful to them.
Let me be free from needing them to save me.
Let me create because I am alive.
Let me release because love seeks communion.
Let me rest because I am not God.

I give you this one thing I make today.

I bless it.

I open the door.

I let it walk.

I return to the waiting room within.

More at Medium

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Instruction in Simple Contemplation

Inhabiting the Word until the Word inhabits us

Simple Contemplation is a way of reading Scripture not only with the mind, but with the whole person. It is especially suited to the Gospel stories of Jesus. Rather than standing outside the text as a distant observer, the reader prayerfully enters the scene, beholds Christ, listens, feels, notices, and allows the living Word to become present within.

This practice has deep roots in Christian devotion. It is often associated with Ludolph of Saxony, a fourteenth-century Carthusian monk whose Vita Christi — The Life of Christ — invited readers to meditate imaginatively on the events of Jesus’ life. Ludolph’s work deeply influenced Ignatius of Loyola, who later developed this kind of Gospel contemplation in the Spiritual Exercises. In the Ignatian tradition, imaginative contemplation is a way of becoming present in a Gospel scene so that one may encounter Jesus more personally and be moved toward love, discipleship, and transformation.

This is not fantasy replacing Scripture. It is Scripture becoming spacious enough for the soul to enter. The imagination is disciplined by the Gospel story. One does not invent a different Jesus; one allows the Jesus of the text to become vivid.

Simple Contemplation asks:

What do I see?
What do I hear?
What do I feel?
Where am I in this scene?
What is Jesus doing?
What is Jesus saying to me?
What is being formed in me?

The purpose is not merely to understand the passage, though understanding may come. The purpose is to abide. To remain with Christ. To let the story move from page to prayer, from prayer to presence, from presence to life.

How to Practice Simple Contemplation

Begin by choosing a Gospel passage. It is best to start with a concrete scene: the Nativity, Jesus calling the disciples, the healing of Bartimaeus, the woman at the well, the calming of the storm, the washing of feet, the crucifixion, the resurrection appearance on the road to Emmaus.

Read the passage slowly. Do not hurry. Read it once to become familiar with the story. Read it again to notice details. Read it a third time as prayer.

Then close your eyes, or lower them, and allow the scene to form.

Do not force it. Let it come gently.

Notice the place. Is it crowded or quiet? Is it day or night? Is the air hot, dusty, cool, damp? Are there voices nearby? Are there animals, stones, water jars, tables, boats, lamps, bread, nets, sandals?

Then, notice the people. Where is Jesus? What is his face like? Who stands near him? Who is afraid? Who is angry? Who is ashamed? Who is longing? Who is left out?

Then, place yourself in the scene. You may be one of the named people. You may be a bystander. You may be a servant, a child, a disciple, a skeptic, a sick person, someone in the crowd. Let your place emerge.

The practice traditionally uses the senses: sight, sound, smell, touch, and even taste. This “application of the senses” helps the passage become embodied rather than abstract. Ignatian contemplation often asks the person praying to enter the Gospel scene through the imagination and to engage Christ there in a personal, heart-to-heart way.

Once you are there, watch Jesus.

Do not rush to explain him.

Let him act.

Let him speak.

Let him be.

If words arise, listen. If emotion arises, receive it. If resistance arises, notice it. If nothing seems to happen, remain gently present. The point is not to manufacture an experience but to consent to encounter.

At the end, speak with Christ simply. Tell him what you noticed. Ask him what he desires to show you. Receive his gaze. Rest in his presence.

Then, return to the passage and read it once more.

Finally, carry one word, image, or phrase with you into the day.

Example: The Nativity

Read Luke 2:1–20.

Imagine the night. The road has been long. The town is crowded. There is no room. The child is born not in comfort but in poverty and vulnerability.

You stand near the edge of the place where Mary rests. Joseph is tired. The animals shift and breathe. The child makes small sounds. The Lord of Heaven has entered the world without defense.

You look at the manger.

You notice that God does not come as domination. God comes as dependence.

You feel your own ego quieting. Your need to be important, admired, successful, powerful — all of it stands embarrassed before this child. The Word has become flesh, and the flesh is small.

You ask:

Jesus, where are you being born in me?
Where have I made no room for you?
What part of me still refuses humility?
What would it mean to receive you today?

Then you sit quietly.

You do not need to solve the scene.

You let it live in you.

The Fruit of the Practice

Simple Contemplation helps Scripture move from information to formation.

One may study the text and ask, “What did this mean?”
One may contemplate the text and ask, “How is Christ meeting me here?”

Both are good. They belong together. But contemplation guards us from handling Scripture only as an object. The Bible is not merely a thing we master. It is a place where we are mastered by love.

To inhabit the Word is to allow the story of Jesus to become the architecture of the soul.

His mercy begins to shape our mercy.
His patience begins to shape our patience.
His courage begins to shape our courage.
His nonviolence begins to expose our violence.
His humility begins to undo our pride.
His cross begins to reveal our false selves.
His resurrection begins to awaken our hope.

In this way, simple contemplation is not escape from the world. It is preparation for faithful living in the world. We enter the Gospel so that we may return to our homes, churches, neighborhoods, and conflicts bearing the mind of Christ.

A Brief Pattern for Daily Use

Choose a Gospel scene.

Read it slowly.

Ask for grace:
“Lord Jesus, let me know you, love you, and follow you.”

Enter the scene with your imagination.

Notice what you see, hear, smell, touch, and feel.

Watch Jesus.

Let yourself be present.

Speak with Christ as with a friend.

Rest quietly.

Carry one word or image into the day.

#BiblicalContemplation #ChristianArt #ChristianMeditation #christianMysticism #contemplativePrayer #DevotionalPractice #DigitalSacredArt #FaithReflection #FuturisticIcon #GospelMeditation #GospelOfJesus #IgnatianSpirituality #ImaginativePrayer #InhabitingTheWord #innerTransformation #Jesus #LectioDivina #LivingWord #LudolphOfSaxony #MinimalistChristianArt #PeaceGrooves #PrayerAndScripture #PrayerPractice #SacredReading #sacredSymbolism #scriptureReflection #simpleContemplation #spiritualFormation #spiritualImagination #VitaChristi #wordMadeFlesh

In the Manner of a Corpse

The phrase perinde ac cadaver means “as if a corpse” or “in the manner of a dead body.” It is associated especially with Ignatius of Loyola and Jesuit obedience. In the Jesuit context, the idea was that one living under religious obedience should allow oneself to be “carried and governed” by divine providence through one’s superiors, as a dead body can be carried wherever another wills. A Jesuit Studies summary notes that Ignatius’s teaching on obedience was centered on Christ and extended beyond outward action toward the will and understanding, while still allowing a person to represent difficulties to a superior. (Portal to Jesuit Studies) A 1908 quotation of the relevant Latin renders the image starkly: the obedient person should be like a body that “allows itself to be carried in any direction and treated in any way.” (The Spectator Archive)

So the phrase has a dangerous edge. It can become a theology of domination: the living person reduced to a usable instrument. But it also touches an older ascetic question: how does the self become free from the tyranny of self-will? The problem is not desire itself, nor personality, nor conscience, nor agency. The problem is the ego enthroned — the self that must be obeyed, defended, admired, justified, and protected at all costs.

A Caelinian Reflection: Concerning the Corpse, the Cross, and the Living Self

From the lesser folios of Brother Caelinius, copied in the dim cloister of the Morastery, concerning the death that is not death, and the life that is not possession.

There is a saying among the old disciplined orders: perinde ac cadaver — as if a dead body.

And many have trembled before it, as well they should.

For no phrase that compares the soul to a corpse ought to be handled without fear. A corpse cannot speak. A corpse cannot protest. A corpse cannot discern whether the hands that carry it are gentle or cruel. Therefore let no abbot, bishop, prince, pastor, committee, empire, army, market, or machine take this phrase into its mouth too easily. For there are many who love obedience in others because they love power in themselves.

But there is another reading, hidden beneath the severe garment of the words.

Not the corpse of domination.
Not the corpse of erased conscience.
Not the corpse of holy silence before unholy command.

Rather, the corpse of the false self.

For the ego too must die.

Not the self God created.
Not the face beloved before the foundation of the world.
Not the child laughing in the garden of being.
Not the soul with its strange music, its wounds, its gifts, its tears, its fire.

That self must live.

But the other self — the swollen self, the defended self, the self that must always be seen, always be right, always be vindicated, always be centered, always be special, always be wounded more deeply than all others, always be praised for its humility — that self must be laid out upon the table.

Let it be washed.
Let it be wrapped.
Let it be carried away.

For there is a death that does not destroy the person, but releases the person from the prison of self-occupation.

This is not becoming zero in the sense of becoming nothing. It is becoming unowned by the ego. It is the long, daily, humiliating, merciful work of dying to the self that has mistaken itself for God.

Christ does not say, “Erase the image of God within you.”

Christ says, “Deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me.”

And what is denied?

Not love.
Not conscience.
Not joy.
Not beauty.
Not creativity.
Not the holy ache of being alive.

What is denied is the little throne within the breast, where the anxious monarch sits and demands tribute from every room it enters.

The ego says:
“Who noticed me?”
“Who ignored me?”
“Who has more than I have?”
“Who threatens my place?”
“Who failed to honor my pain?”
“Who saw my brilliance?”
“Who wounded my image?”
“Who must I defeat so that I may exist?”

But the soul alive in Christ learns another speech:

“I am already seen.”
“I am already held.”
“I do not need to win in order to be real.”
“I do not need to dominate in order to be safe.”
“I do not need to disappear in order to be humble.”
“I may become small because I am held by a Love too large to measure.”

Here, then, is the mystery: the one who dies to self does not become less alive, but more alive.

The corpse-image fails if it ends in passivity. But it becomes fruitful if it passes through the tomb into resurrection.

For the Christian is not called merely to be dead.

The Christian is called to be dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.

Dead to the old compulsions.
Alive to mercy.

Dead to rivalry.
Alive to communion.

Dead to the hunger to possess.
Alive to receiving.

Dead to the need to be the hero of every story.
Alive to becoming a servant within God’s story.

Dead to reputation as an idol.
Alive to faithfulness in secret.

Dead to vengeance.
Alive to reconciliation.

Dead to the clenched fist.
Alive to the open hand.

Thus Brother Caelinius writes:

Blessed is the one whose ego has become a corpse,
yet whose heart has become a garden.
For such a one is not carried by tyrants,
but raised by Christ.

The work continues because the ego is not slain once only. It is a many-headed thing. It dies in the morning and returns by noon. It dies in prayer and rises in conversation. It dies in confession and reappears in ministry. It dies in one wound and returns disguised as wisdom.

Therefore the disciple must not say, “I have no ego.”
That is usually the ego wearing a monk’s robe.

The disciple says instead:

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
Teach me to notice the old self without obeying it.
Teach me to lay down the false self without despising the true self.
Teach me to die without becoming dead.
Teach me to live without needing to be enthroned.”

For the goal is not corpse-like obedience to human hierarchy.

The goal is cruciform freedom.

Not the dead body as object, but the living body of Christ. Not the person emptied for use, but the person emptied for love. Not submission to domination, but surrender to resurrection.

And so the old phrase is taken down from the wall of fear and placed upon the altar of discernment.

Perinde ac cadaver — yes, but only if what lies dead is the tyranny of ego.

And beyond it, written in brighter ink:

Vivo autem, iam non ego, vivit vero in me Christus.

“I live; yet not I, but Christ lives in me.”

#aliveInChrist #AnabaptistReflection #BrotherCaelinius #ChristianArt #ChristianReflection #contemplativePrayer #cruciformLife #devotionalArt #Discipleship #DyingToSelf #egoDeath #falseSelf #Humility #IgnatiusOfLoyola #JesuitObedience #kenosis #minimalistArt #monasticSpirituality #mysticalTheology #perindeAcCadaver #resurrection #selfEmptying #spiritualFormation #surrender #symbolicIllustration #trueSelf

Becoming Zero

A Sermon on Our Value in Christ

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Philippians 2:1–13

Introduction

There is a strange kind of math at the heart of Christian faith.

Most of us are taught to become something: successful, respected, secure, noticed. We want a place, a voice, a purpose. There is nothing wrong with wanting life to matter. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be seen and loved.

And today, as we honor our graduates, we give thanks for real accomplishment, for effort, growth, perseverance, and the doors that now open before them. But I also want to bless them with this deeper challenge: do not let the world’s calculations of what counts for success be the measure for your life.

The world often teaches us an anxious kind of success. It teaches us to add and add and add: accomplishments, things, recognition, possessions, influence, control, certainty, proof that we are right, evidence that we matter.

Then Paul gives us the mathematics of Jesus.
Jesus, who had equality with God, did not use it for his own advantage.
Jesus emptied himself.
Jesus took the form of a servant.
Jesus became obedient, even to death on a cross.

Jesus became zero.

Not worthless. Not meaningless. Not erased. But emptied of grasping for power. Emptied of the need to dominate. Emptied of the need to stand above others. Emptied so completely that the love of God could be witnessed without obstruction.

Let us pray:

Que las palabras de mi boca y las meditaciones de nuestros corazones sean agradables a tus ojos, oh Dios, roca nuestra y redentor nuestro. Amén.

Homily

Becoming zero does not mean believing we have no value. It does not mean allowing ourselves or others to be diminished or abused in the name of humility. That is not the way of Christ. The humility of Jesus does not protect oppression; it exposes it. The self-emptying of Christ is not self-destruction.

To become zero is not to become nothing.

To become zero is to become free.

I once wrote a short poem called “Becoming Zero,” subtitled “The Mathematics of the Divine.” It begins:

“It is where
I need to be
not past the center
into negativity
but more of others
and less of me”

That is the distinction we need. Becoming zero is not moving past the center into despair, shame, worthlessness, or self-hatred. It is the place where my needs, preferences, anxieties, opinions, and desires are no longer the measure of everything.

It is, as the poem says, “more of others / and less of me.”

And then the poem continues:

“What were gains
I now consider loss
for where the axes
meet at zero
they make a cross”

Where the axes meet at zero, they make a cross.

That is Philippians 2. The vertical line: love of God. The horizontal line: love of neighbor. And at the center: Christ, emptied, humbled, crucified, and yet revealing the very heart of God.

So when Paul says, “Value others above yourselves,” he is not asking us to wander into negativity. He is asking us to come to the cross-shaped center.

Paul writes:

No hagan nada por ambición egoísta ni por vanidad.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.”

That sentence alone could transform the church.

Imagine if it became not just a verse we admire, but a practice we live. Imagine if every time we entered a room we asked, “Whose good am I seeking?” Imagine a disagreement where people asked, “How can I understand the interest of the other before defending my own?” Imagine life lived where the question was not, “How do I get my way?” but “How do we become more faithful to Christ together?”

That is the community Paul is describing.

“If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion…”

Paul is appealing to what the church at Phillipi has already received. If Christ has encouraged us, if love has comforted us, if the Spirit has drawn us into fellowship, then those gifts should become visible in the way we treat one another.

La vida de la iglesia debe ser el desbordamiento de la gracia de Dios.

Church life should be the overflow of God’s grace.

If we have been comforted by Christ, we become comforting people.
If we have been forgiven by Christ, we become forgiving people.
If we have been welcomed by Christ, we become welcoming people.
If we have been served by Christ, we become servants of all.

Paul says, “Be like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind.”

That does not mean everyone in the church must have the same personality, opinions, politics, beliefs, preferences, background, or tastes. Christian unity is not sameness. The church is a body, not a wall of identical bricks.

La unidad significa que nuestras diferencias se reúnen bajo el señorío de Cristo.

Unity means our differences are gathered under the lordship of Christ.

We can disagree and still ask, “How do I love you?” We can see things differently and still ask, “How do I honor Christ in how I speak to you?” We can have strong convictions and still refuse selfish ambition and vain conceit.

That phrase “selfish ambition” matters. Paul is not condemning all ambition. There are holy ambitions: to serve well, love deeply, seek justice, create beauty, build peace, preach truth, care for the suffering.

He is naming the ambition that curves inward.

Selfish ambition says: I must win. I must be seen. I must be right. I must get credit. I must protect my place. I must not become less.

Then Paul names “vain conceit”: empty glory, hollow importance, the need to appear larger than we are.

Against all of that, Paul says: humility.

But humility is often misunderstood. Humility is not pretending our gifts are not real. Humility is not saying, “I am terrible at everything,” when God has given us abilities. True humility is living in the truth:

I am deeply loved, but I am not the center.
I have gifts, but they are not mine to hoard.
I have needs, but so do others.
I have a voice, but so does my neighbor.
I have interests, but they are not the only interests that matter.

Paul says:

“Not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.”

He does not say we have no interests. He does not say our needs do not matter. He does not command a community where some are always sacrificed for the comfort of others. In a healthy body, every member matters. En un cuerpo sano, cada miembro importa.

This is where John the Baptist helps us.

In the Gospel of John, John’s disciples come to him worried. Jesus is baptizing. Crowds are going to Jesus. John’s influence is decreasing. His ministry is no longer at the center.

And John says:

“He must become greater; I must become less.”

That is becoming zero.

John does not say it with bitterness. He does not say, “Well, I guess I failed.”

John fundamentally understands his calling. John is not the bridegroom. He is the friend of the bridegroom. John is not the light. He bears witness to the light. John’s joy is not in being central. His joy is in pointing to Christ.

John is free because he knows who he is and whose he is. He can decrease because his identity is not threatened by Christ’s increase.

Ministry is not about us. It’s about Jesus. Our identity and value are rooted in Christ. Like John, we are free because we know who we are and whose we are. And that manifests itself in our relationships with others. As Paul says:

En vuestras relaciones entre vosotros, tened la misma mentalidad que Cristo Jesús.

“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

“In your relationships.” At home. At church. In disagreement. In conflict. In leadership. In service. In community. Have the mind of Christ there.

And what is the mind of Christ?

Jesus does not humble himself from a place of lowliness. He humbles himself from the highest place. He does not become servant because he has no power. He becomes servant because this is what divine love does with power.

The world uses power to dominate. Jesus uses power to serve.
The world uses status to separate. Jesus uses status to kneel.
The world uses authority to command attention. Jesus uses authority to wash feet.

This is why “Becoming Zero” is not just an individual spiritual idea. It is the shape of the church.

A zero-shaped church is a church where people make room.

It is where the strong do not use their strength to get their way, but to support the weak. It is where her members do not say, “This church belongs to us,” but, “How can we welcome those God is bringing among us?” It is where leaders do not ask, “How can I be important?” but, “How can I help others flourish?”

A zero-shaped church is where people in conflict do not rush to defend themselves first, but pause long enough to ask, “What burden, wound, hope, loss, care might my brother or sister be carrying?”

And this is where we must be honest: valuing others above ourselves is hard.

It sounds beautiful until someone else’s interests inconvenience us. It sounds holy until someone else’s needs require us to change. It sounds inspiring until valuing another person means listening longer than we wanted, apologizing more honestly than we planned, giving up a preference we cherished, or making room for a voice we would rather not hear.

There is a kind of mathematics that says: If someone else gains, I lose.

But Christ gives us different math. I call it The Geometry of Grace.

In Christ, another person’s dignity does not SUBTRACT from mine. Another person’s voice does not erase mine. Another person’s gift does not make mine meaningless.

God loved us 100% before we even learned to loved God 1%. My friends, that’s the Geometry of Grace.

Division disappears and the church grows like in Acts where people were ADDED to their number every day. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The dignity of all of us is multiplied to become a sum greater than its parts. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The first become last, the negative becomes positive, the least of these become Christ, and King of kings chooses to become zero….

“Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name…”

This is not a strategy for self-promotion. We do not humble ourselves in order to get applause later. We do not become servants as a clever way to become masters. That would just be selfish ambition wearing religious clothing.

But Paul wants us to know that self-emptying is not annihilation. The humbled Christ is exalted. The crucified one is Lord. God vindicates self-giving love.

Paul ends:

“Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.”

Work out your salvation. Ocupaos de vuestra salvación.

Not work for your salvation because God is at work in you. The you here is plural. Do you believe that God is working in you? Do you believe that God is working in your sisters and brothers here? Do you believe that God is at work in our community, nation, and the world?

The mindset of Christ is being formed within us. God is working in us to will and to act according to God’s good purpose.

So yes, we practice. Yes, we choose. Yes, we repent. Yes, we listen. Yes, we serve. Yes, we learn to lay down selfish ambition and vain conceit.

But underneath our work is God’s work.

God is making us into the kind of people who can love like this. God is making us into the kind of church where people do not have to compete for worth. God is making us into a body where Christ is made visible more and more each and every day.

The text today is an invitation, but it also raises some hard questions. Let’s reflect on these together:

What do you need to let go? ¿Qué necesitas liberar?

Are you clinging to status, preference, control, resentment, recognition, or the need to be right?

Where is Christ inviting you to become less, not because you do not matter, but because Christ matters more?

Where is Christ inviting you to value another person’s interests above your own?

¿En qué momento te invita Cristo a valorar los intereses de otra persona por encima de los tuyos?

Maybe it is in your family. Maybe it is in this congregation. Maybe it is with someone you are avoiding. Maybe it is in a disagreement where you have been preparing your defense rather than your compassion. Maybe it is in a ministry where you need to rejoice that someone else is now carrying what you once carried. Maybe it is simply in the daily hidden work of making room.

John said, “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

Paul said, “Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

Jesus said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”

This is the way of the kingdom.

Not upward grasping, but downward love.
Not selfish ambition, but shared joy.
Not vain conceit, but holy humility.
Not my interests alone, but the interests of others.
Not becoming nothing, but becoming free in everything.

So let us become zero.

Let us become empty enough for Christ to fill us.
Low enough for Christ to lift us.
Humble enough for Christ to be seen in and through us.
Free enough to value one another above ourselves.
Loving enough to make room for all God’s children.

And may the same mind be in us that is in Christ Jesus.

Let us pray:

Prayer (Less of Me by Glen Campbell)

Let me be a little kinder
Let me be a little blinder
To the faults of those about me
Let me praise a little more

Let me be when I am weary
Just a little bit more cheery
Think a little more of others
And a little less of me

Let me be a little braver
When temptation bids me waver
Let me strive a little harder
To be all that I should be

Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker
Let me think more of my neighbor
And a little less of me

May it be so

In the name of our Servant King, Jesus the Christ.

Amen

Becoming Zero by kmls

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Shaped by the Potter’s Hands

As the Day Begins

“You are our Father; we are the clay, and You our potter; and all we are the work of Your hand.” — Isaiah 64:8

There is something deeply comforting about knowing that God is still working on us. Isaiah used the image of the potter and clay to remind Israel that their failures were not the end of the story. The Hebrew word for potter here is yatsar, meaning “to form” or “fashion intentionally.” God is not randomly molding our lives. He is shaping character, strengthening faith, refining attitudes, and drawing out abilities we may not yet see in ourselves. The Lord never compares us to another person’s assignment or gifting. He simply asks whether we are willing to become the best version of who He created us to be.

Too often people spend their energy trying to measure themselves against others. Yet Scripture continually directs us back to stewardship rather than competition. Paul wrote in Galatians 6:4, “But let each one test his own work.” God’s concern is not whether your life resembles someone else’s journey. His concern is whether you are surrendering to His hands today. A lump of clay does not argue with the potter about the process. It yields. Some days God smooths rough places in us. Some days He presses harder to remove weakness, pride, fear, or complacency. Even difficult seasons can become tools in His shaping process.

As this day begins, remember that growth is rarely instant. The Christian walk is formed through daily surrender, faithful obedience, and small choices repeated over time. Your best today may simply be choosing patience instead of anger, diligence instead of laziness, or faith instead of discouragement. Tomorrow, by God’s grace, your best may grow stronger still. The beauty of the gospel is that the Potter never abandons the clay.

Prayer to the Heavenly Father

Heavenly Father, thank You for loving me enough not to leave me unchanged. I confess that there are moments when I resist Your shaping because growth can be uncomfortable and humbling. Yet this morning I acknowledge that Your hands are wiser than my understanding. Form my thoughts, my speech, my habits, and my priorities according to Your will. Teach me to stop measuring my worth against others and instead focus on becoming faithful with the gifts and opportunities You have placed before me. Give me courage to improve where I have become careless and strength to persevere where I have grown weary. Remind me throughout this day that I am Your workmanship and that You continue to mold my life with patience, mercy, and purpose.

Prayer to Jesus the Son

Jesus the Son, thank You for showing me what a surrendered life looks like. In every conversation, every act of compassion, and every moment of obedience, You revealed the character the Father desires to shape within me. I ask You today to help me walk as Your disciple with humility and integrity. Guard my tongue from careless words and my heart from selfish ambition. Teach me to work faithfully even when no one notices and to serve others without needing recognition. When I become discouraged by my imperfections, remind me that Your grace is greater than my failures. Through Your cross and resurrection, I have hope that transformation is possible. Help me honor You in the ordinary moments of this day so that my life reflects Your goodness more clearly.

Prayer to the Holy Spirit

Holy Spirit, breathe fresh strength into my spirit this morning. Convict me gently where change is needed, and encourage me where growth is already taking place. I ask for wisdom in my decisions, patience in my relationships, and sensitivity to Your guidance throughout the day. Shape my reactions before they become regrets. Fill my mind with truth instead of anxiety and my heart with peace instead of striving. Produce within me the fruit You desire—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Let my life become soft clay in the hands of God rather than hardened by pride or fear. I welcome Your transforming work today and trust that You are leading me toward maturity in Christ.

Thought for the Day: Stop comparing your progress to someone else’s journey. God is shaping you according to His purpose, and faithful surrender today prepares you for greater usefulness tomorrow.

For additional insight on spiritual growth and becoming who God created you to be, consider reading articles from Bible.org and Desiring God.

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