You know, something that has long struck me about God, especially as revealed through Jesus, is just how deeply emotional he is. We don't always talk about that. Sometimes we picture God as distant or stoic, always composed, kind of hovering above it all. But when you really sit with Scripture, when you slow down enough to notice, you see a God who feels. Profoundly. Jesus wept. That verse alone, just two words, carries a world of meaning. He didn’t just feel compassion from a distance. He cried at the tomb of his friend.

When I was young I thought of strength as something outward, something that could be measured in terms of force, endurance, or sheer willpower. Strength, as the world often defines it, is loud. It is unyielding. It refuses to bend. But the more I walk this journey of faith, the more I see that true strength is something quieter, something deeper. It is not found in overpowering others or in suppressing emotions, but in gentleness, patience, and self-control. Paul’s words in Galatians 5:22-23 remind me that strength is a fruit of the Spirit, but not in the way the world expects.

I often find that the external world can be a distraction from prayer. The noise, the busyness, the constant pull of things to do—it's easy for all of it to pull me away from a quiet, focused connection with God. Yet, the more I reflect on it, the more I realize that even these distractions can become opportunities for prayer. Rather than seeing distractions as obstacles, I can choose to turn them into moments to reconnect with God. The noise around me can be a reminder to pray for peace; the busyness can prompt me to ask for patience.

I’ve heard Jeremiah 29:11 quoted so many times as a kind of divine guarantee that God has a perfect, pain-free plan for every individual. It’s been printed on graduation cards, recited in motivational speeches, and used as a reassurance that everything will turn out just fine. And yet, when I take a closer look at this passage, I see something much deeper and more challenging than a simple promise of personal success. This verse was originally spoken to people in exile, people who had lost everything and were being told they would remain in a foreign land for seventy years.

If my speech lacks grace, then my understanding of the gospel is lacking in some way. This is a challenge I pose to myself regularly. The way I speak—my tone, my words, my patience—reveals how deeply I have grasped God’s grace. If I truly understand the gospel, if I truly know how much mercy I’ve been given, then my words should reflect that same mercy toward others. But do they? Do I respond with kindness when I’m frustrated? Do I speak truth in love, or do I let pride, impatience, or irritation slip into my words?

YouTube video by Dr Russell Razzaque

The televangelist misappropriates God's promises to ancient Israel in Exodus as a prosperity gospel for today.

There are times when life feels overwhelming—when anxiety, grief, or uncertainty take over, and it’s hard to see a way forward. In those moments, I’ve found that biblical wisdom literature offers both comfort and perspective. It doesn’t erase the difficulty, but it helps me navigate it with a sense of grounding and hope. Finding Stability in Crisis The Psalms have been especially meaningful to me in difficult times. They don’t shy away from the reality of suffering—there are raw, honest cries of pain, fear, and doubt. Psalm 42:11 asks, “Why, my soul, are you downcast?”

I was considering this passage from the Bible over lunch last week: “To God’s elect, exiles scattered throughout the provinces of Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia, who have been chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, through the sanctifying work of the Spirit, to be obedient to Jesus Christ and sprinkled with his blood:Grace and peace be yours in abundance.” (1 Peter 1:1-2) While the Bible doesn’t present a fully developed doctrine of the Trinity, passages like this introduce us to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in a way that invites reflection on their distinct, yet unified, involvement in the salvation of humanity.

Lately, I seem to have become a magnet for insults from certain self-proclaimed Christians. I say “self-proclaimed” because their behavior suggests they may have skipped a few key sections of the Sermon on the Mount. The pattern is usually the same—I gently (or, let’s be honest, sometimes not-so-gently) try to steer the conversation away from the gospel of Trump and back to, well, the actual Gospel. This tends to go over about as well as a sermon on patience at a fast-food drive-thru. But here’s the thing: I take comfort in knowing I’m in good company.

Yesterday, I came across an intriguing question: What was God doing before creation? At first, it seems like a reasonable thing to ask. But the question itself is built on a flawed assumption—that there was a "before" creation. Time itself is part of what God created; it didn’t exist independently before God brought everything into being. Without time, there is no "before" in the way we typically understand it. So, what was God "doing" before creation? The best answer is that God simply was. Hence the name YHWH, meaning I AM WHO I AM.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the nature of contentment, and this morning, I opened my Bible to a passage that caught my attention: “The fear of the LORD leads to life; then one rests content, untouched by trouble.” (Proverbs 19:23) What strikes me most about this verse is that it doesn’t promise a life without trouble. Instead, it offers something deeper—a way to remain untouched by it. True contentment isn’t about avoiding hardship but about finding peace in the midst of it.

Unless you can see how Romans 13:1-2 applies to Trump and Biden, each in their own time, equally, you have not understood it.

When AI developers talk about the “alignment problem” they’re generally referring to the risk that the goals of super intelligent AI will diverge from those of humanity, potentially posing existential risks. But there’s another alignment problem that they don’t talk about, that’s even more clear and present: that the goals of AI owners could be at odds with the rest of humanity.

I find the Anabaptist tradition has much to offer in the current political climate of ascendent Christian Nationalism. Anabaptists have a long history of standing firm against state-sponsored versions of Christianity, refusing to let faith be co-opted by political power. This year is their 500th anniversary in fact. I find their emphasis on peace, justice, and community-centered faith is a much-needed alternative to the more coercive and exclusionary tendencies I see in Christian Nationalism.

I’m not perfect, but I do my best to live by the wisdom of James, the brother of Jesus: “Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.” (James 1:19) It’s simple advice, but far from easy, especially in today’s world. Online interactions can be a minefield of misunderstandings, harsh words, and snap judgments. It’s tempting to fire off a quick reply or let frustration get the better of me when I see something I disagree with.

I have been thinking about ways to offer Christians off-ramps from the MAGA movement. I’ve seen plenty of videos of MAGA voters who’ve come to regret for their decision after belatedly finding Trump’s policies negatively affected them and their loved ones. These videos have frequently been reshared by people mocking them for their poor life choices. While this is understandable, and I feel the schadenfreude myself, I don’t think it’s the most constructive response.

Lately, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been feeling anxious about the threats to democracy under Donald Trump and Elon Musk. The instability, the polarization, and the challenges to foundational institutions weigh heavily on me. It’s hard not to feel anxious in the face of the unfolding crisis. But as I reflect on Ephesians 1:18-23, I’m reminded to lift my eyes to a further horizon.

If Trump goes ahead with creating a White House Faith Office led by Reverend Paula White, there’s a lot that could go wrong. For starters, it raises serious concerns about the separation of church and state. The First Amendment is pretty clear about two things: the government can’t establish a religion, and it can’t stop people from practicing their faith. But putting someone like Paula White (a figure closely tied to a very specific branch of evangelical Christianity) in charge of a government office risks blurring those lines.

Reflecting on the scientific search for a Theory of Everything, and its ongoing elusiveness, I can’t help but see some interesting parallels with Christian theology. It’s almost as if the limits of our knowledge and understanding are woven into the very fabric of existence, pointing us toward something—or someone—beyond ourselves. Take Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem. This theorem fascinates me because it suggests that no matter how brilliant our mathematical systems are, there will always be truths that lie outside of what we can prove.

When I read 1 John 3:16-18, I can’t help but pause and reflect on what real love looks like. John makes it clear: love isn’t just something we say—it’s something we do. Jesus showed us that when he laid down his life for us, and if I truly follow him, I’m called to love in the same way. That’s a heavy thought.

This morning, as I was reading Ecclesiastes, I found myself reflecting on the contrast between Zen “emptiness” and the Christian idea of “fullness”—especially as Paul describes it in Colossians. There’s a certain wisdom in recognizing the emptiness of life when it lacks meaning, but what struck me is how Paul insists that true fullness is found in Christ.