Over 30 years ago, I learned that “bless your heart” does not always mean what you think it means. I’m a New England guy who married a Southern girl, and the first time I met my wife’s extended family, I heard that phrase more times than I could count. I walked away thinking I had absolutely crushed it. These people loved me. I told her, “This is going great. They keep blessing my heart.” She paused, gave me that look, and said, “Honey… we need to talk.” What followed was an education. Every “bless your heart” had its own nuance. Some were kind. Some were not so kind. Some meant you’re struggling and don’t even know it. Others meant I love you and I’m praying for you. Same words, very different meanings. That’s what makes the words of Jesus found in the Beatitudes so powerful. Because when Jesus says “blessed,” He never means it sarcastically. He never means it as a subtle jab. When Jesus says “blessed,” He means something real, something life giving, something that transforms not just...

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt more fear or despair than I did one afternoon in December of 2012. Eleven months earlier, God had given us a miracle—our daughter. After years of being told we would never have biological children, after miscarriages and grief, we had come to terms with what wouldn’t be. We had our son, adopted and deeply loved, and that was enough. But God, in His kindness, listened to the persistent prayers of a little boy who wanted a sister. And then one day, I found myself running into an emergency room holding that miracle in my arms limp, barely breathing, unresponsive. I remember the panic rising in my chest. I remember feeling invisible as medical staff moved too slowly for what felt like life and death. I remember doing something I never thought I would do; crying out for attention in sheer desperation. And I remember, most vividly, yelling at God:  Why would you give her to us… just to take her away? On the drive to the hospital where they airlifted he...

Over the last few months, I’ve been sitting with a question that feels more urgent than ever: What kind of spaces are we, as Christians, creating? We are living in a moment that feels heavy. The world feels fractured. People feel isolated. Many are carrying quiet grief, private questions, or wounds inflicted by the very communities meant to reflect Christ. In the middle of that, I keep coming back to Jesus’ question in   Gospel of Matthew   16: “Who do you say that I am?” That question is deeply personal, but it is never merely private. The way we answer it shapes the kind of community we build. In that same chapter of Matthew, Jesus does something striking. Before He ever asks His disciples for their confession, He confronts the religious leaders. The Pharisees and Sadducees—experts in Scripture, guardians of tradition—demand yet another sign from Him. They had knowledge. They had structure. They had moral seriousness. But their hearts were hardened. And Jesus does not soften...

I just  returned from a vacation with friends I don’t just enjoy—but deeply cherish—as chosen family . Two years ago, our little family boarded the   Disney Fantasy. Over the course of the following 7 days (and past 2 years) our journey through life merged with  two other families who would become some of the safest, most life-giving people in our lives. Since that first trip, we’ve shared more vacations, long dinners full of laughter, late-night conversations about life and parenting and doubt, spontaneous adventures across several states, never-ending text threads at all hours of the day (and night), and quiet moments of simply sitting with each other when life felt heavy.  What started as a cruise friendship has grown into something sacred—deep trust, shared joy, and the kind of belonging that steadies you. We celebrate big, grieve honestly, disagree without walking away, and keep choosing each other over and over again. That doesn’t happen by accident. It happens...

In our current cultural and political climate, one truth has become increasingly clear: the greatest value in following Jesus is not about religious practice detached from a kingdom-shaped heart. It is not discovered through self-righteous effort, cultural power, or moral gatekeeping. Instead, the greatest value is found in hearts and lives fully submitted to Jesus—lives that seek justice for the marginalized, extend mercy to those pushed to the edges, and love neighbors who are too often treated as threats rather than image-bearers. Jesus’ vision of the kingdom consistently centers people who are our society overlooks or rejects. Immigrants, outsiders, and those whose identities do not fit dominant cultural expectations were never peripheral to His message—they were central. This remains true as we turn to the concluding verses of the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 7:13–29. Before stepping into these closing words, it helps to remember the foundation was already laid in the Beatitudes...

When the venerable monks participating in the Walk for Peace passed through my area—Columbia, South Carolina—my family and I chose to join them. Early that morning, we intentionally intersected their route so we could walk alongside them for a short distance. We wanted to experience, even briefly, the solidarity I had been hearing about—solidarity with those who long for peace in a world that often seems to thrive on division. Later that afternoon, we attended a rally so well attended that it virtually closed downtown Columbia. Thousands gathered as the monks walked to the Capitol, where they challenged us to pursue both personal and communal peace in our lives and in our world. As the walk has progressed, I have heard troubling stories. Stories of Christians standing in opposition to these monks and to those supporting them. I saw fellow believers—both in person and on social media—question or outright condemn those of us who chose to participate, including my own family. So let me be...