Most pastors enter ministry knowing it will cost them something. They sign up willingly to hold grief at hospital bedsides, to absorb anxiety during seasons of uncertainty, to carry conflict when values collide, and to remain present when a congregation is frightened, divided, or exhausted. Ministry is not a job so much as a vocation—one […]

There is a particular kind of weight that gathers in late December. It isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it arrives as a polite question—So what are your goals for next year?—and suddenly the machinery of self-improvement begins to hum. Lists form. Outcomes glitter. The imagination starts building a safer future where everything stays manageable because we

“Did you get what you wanted for Christmas?” sounds like a simple question—until you realize how often it isn’t about presents at all. It’s about the day we wanted. The family we wanted. The feeling we wanted. And sometimes, if we’re honest, the version of ourselves we wanted to be.

I entered the holiday with “no expectations”—or at least that was the plan. Then plans collapsed, people grieved, and sadness took up space. That’s when my Shifu’s wisdom (my Daoist teacher) walked straight into my living room: Expectations are premeditated disappointments. Because when I premeditate how the day should feel, I’m not meeting what’s real—I’m meeting my private comparison between reality and the script in my head.

There are seasons when the horizon stretches wide before us—full of shimmer, full of promise—yet the closer we move toward it, the more it dissolves. What we think is direction becomes reflection, and what we call certainty fades into light on water. In that quiet unmooring, the Spirit invites us not to navigate the horizon, but to surrender to the One who moves beyond our perception.

I’m losing my religion in finding something new,because I need something different, and different looks like You.”— Lauren Daigle, Losing My Religion A song found me this week. It’s played in the background before, but this time the words came alive—echoing the quiet conversation I’ve been having with God about what it means to let

“Fear is the great illusionist. It looks larger than it is. It whispers lies about your worth, your strength, and your future. Fear is only an obstacle until you walk toward it—then it becomes the path.”

Those words, shared by my friend Tony Merola, stirred something deep in me.
In leadership and in life, fear often shows up right where vision is being born. It dresses up as logic, whispers as prudence, and tells us to turn back just when the Spirit is calling us forward.

But what if fear is not the barrier, but the threshold?
What if it’s the signpost that you’re standing on holy ground—invited to step where your eyes cannot yet see, trusting that the Spirit meets you there?

In an age when every headline demands our outrage, discernment invites us to pause.
To breathe.
To ask not, “What should I say?” but “Is this mine to carry?”
The Spirit still speaks—not through the noise, but through the whisper that rises when we choose presence over reaction.

This is the discipline of our time: to be formed not by the feed, but by the Spirit.

At the edge of Eden, God’s sentence trails off—and the way of discernment begins. This is not exile as punishment, but exile as protection. A Spirit-led life begins where comfort ends.