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...