Pastor Rich Bitterman

09/26/2025

What Do You Do When Guilt Doesn’t Go Away?
Hebrews 10:1-18

He showed up every year.

Same cloak. Same trembling hands. Same worn sandals slapping dust from the temple steps.

He carried the lamb like it was his only hope. Because it was. His eyes never met the priest’s. No one’s did. Guilt doesn’t look up.

This was Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement.

The blade flashed. The blood spilled. The smoke climbed.

And when it was over, he walked home with the same ache.

Because something deep inside him knew: It didn’t work.

--A Broken System--

The Book of Hebrews throws open the curtains and says:

“The law is only a shadow…”

Not a solution.

Just a shadow dancing on the wall, shaped like mercy but unable to save.

These men, these priests with blood on their garments, offered sacrifice after sacrifice like firemen trying to douse an inferno with teaspoons.

If those offerings worked, why did the line never end?

Why was the altar always wet?

Why did the man keep coming?

Because the shadow couldn’t touch the stain.

--The Prescription That Never Healed--

Imagine a child, coughing.

A doctor gives her a bottle of medicine. She takes it. The cough stays. She takes more. The cough worsens. She drains the bottle. The cough remains.

And ten years later, she’s still taking the same medicine.

The prescription hasn’t cured her. It’s just reminded her that she’s still sick.

That’s the sacrificial system.

Every bull, every goat, every drop of blood was just another pill swallowed in vain.

“It is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.”

The lambs kept dying. The guilt kept living.

--The Body That Changed Everything--

Then, in a manger behind a crowded inn, God gave the world what no altar ever had:

A body.

Not another shadow. A body. Real fingers. Real breath. Real blood.

“A body you have prepared for me…”

Jesus didn’t come with a sacrifice in His hands. He was the sacrifice.

And as He stepped into time shouldering the weight of heaven’s will Psalm 40 was in His mind:

“Behold, I have come to do your will, O God.”

Not sustain a system long past its expiration.

But to do the one thing no priest, no blood, no law could do:

Take away sin.

--One Sacrifice. One Seat.--

There were no chairs in the tabernacle.

No place to sit. Because the priest’s work never ended.

Sin never slept. So neither did the priest.

But look at Jesus:

“When Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, He sat down…”

He sat.

Because it was finished.

He reigned sitting not on a bench, but on the throne.

The blood hit the ground at Calvary, and heaven thundered: Enough.

One sacrifice. No repeats. No revisions. No renewals.

Just a seated Savior waiting for the last trumpet, when every knee will bow and every tongue will say what hell never will: Jesus is Lord.

--The Memory of God--

You remember what you did. So do I.

The sharp word. The second glance. The hidden sin.

Some nights, it rises like smoke beneath the floorboards. You cover it. You confess it. But it lingers.

And you wonder: Does God still remember it too?

Here’s your answer:

“Their sins and their lawless deeds I will remember no more.”

The Judge of all the earth has a perfect memory.

And He chose to forget yours.

--No More Offerings--

Still, you try.

You promise to do better. You serve more. You read longer. You go through the motions because part of you believes grace must be earned.

But grace earned is no longer grace.

Some of us are still dragging ourselves to invisible altars, offering invisible sacrifices.

More prayer. More guilt. More offerings.

But Hebrews 10 closes the temple doors with finality:

“Where there is forgiveness… there is no longer any offering for sin.”

Just the cross.

Just Christ.

Just done.

--The Table, Not the Altar--

There is no altar in the church.

We don’t gather to reenact the sacrifice. We gather to remember it.

There is only a table.

Bread broken. Wine poured. Not to relive Calvary, but to rejoice in its finality.

This is not a new lamb. This is the feast of the Lamb.

And the table says what the altar never could: It is finished.

--The Real Question--

The world wants you to obsess over elections and interest rates. It wants you to think the stakes are jobs and politics and personal branding.

But Hebrews 10 throws down a different gauntlet:

Are your sins forgiven?

That is the question.

It is the only question.

And the only right answer is not, “I’ve tried my best.”

It is not, “I’ve done better lately.”

It is not even, “I go to church.”

The only answer that opens heaven is this:

Jesus paid it all.

--For the Christian Who Feels Dirty--

Maybe that’s you today.

You’re not running from God. You just feel ashamed.

You lost your temper. You said the quiet bitterness out loud. And now the weight is back. The guilt. The grime.

You think, “How can I keep coming back to Him after this?”

Here’s how:

Because He already carried this.

The cross was not a partial payment.

There is no clause that reads: “Valid only for first-time offenders.”

Even this sin…yes, the one burning your conscience…is covered.

That’s why the old hymn dares to say:

“Bold shall I stand in Thy great day.”

Not bold because of our record.

Bold because of His blood.

--The Seated Savior--

He sits now.

Not anxiously waiting to see if you’ll get your act together.

He sits.

Because the work is done.

The only thing He’s waiting for now is the final day. The day when every false religion folds, every altar crumbles, and every shadow dies in the light of His return.

And on that day, you will not be among His enemies.

Because of Calvary, you will be His friend.

--The Final Word--

The priest has sat down.

The blood has been spilled.

The curtain has torn.

And somewhere in heaven, there’s a Lamb still bearing scars but smiling.

Because the table is set.

And the door is open.

Once for all.

Forever.

09/26/2025

He died.

He died with a cry, a last breath, a Roman spear piercing open the very place where love had once beat.

The offering was real. And the offering was final.

Blood had to be shed.

September 24, 2025 - Hebrews 9:14-28

09/25/2025

I Don’t Need Religion!

He stood alone beneath the dripping eaves of the chapel, staring through the fogged glass. Inside, the pews creaked under old saints and young sinners.

Someone was tuning a piano, too many sharp notes, too little time. Rain tapped on his coat like a clock he refused to wind.

He had come to settle something.
And he had already made up his mind.

“I don’t need religion,” he said, loud enough for the church doors to hear.

He said it like a clean break.
Like he had grown past needing God.
Like he was free.

--A Nation Standing in the Rain--

Millions are saying the same thing now.

“I’m good enough.”
“I’m kind to people.”
“I raise my kids right, pay my bills, recycle, avoid drama.”
“Why would God judge that?”

Then came the voice from the top of the hill.
The microphone.
The makeup lights.
The slow, rehearsed venom disguised as common sense:

“This idea that we could go back to a world dominated by white men of a certain persuasion, certain religion, certain ideology — it’s just doing such damage to what we should be aiming for.”

That’s Hillary Clinton.
Speaking into cameras.
Backed by applause.

But she’s not alone.

She speaks for a world that thinks it has finally outgrown God.
That the future must be sterilized of Scripture.
That Christianity is an obstacle, not a foundation.

They call it progress.

It is the oldest rebellion in the book.

--The New Gospel of Humanism--

They’ll never call it religion. But it is.

It has its own creed: Be kind. Do good. Be true to yourself.
It has its own commandments: Don’t offend. Don’t judge. Don’t preach.

It has its own hell: Intolerance.
Its own heaven: Self-acceptance.
Its own god: Mankind.

This is humanism, and it’s not new.
It’s just Eden with better branding.

What’s right is what helps people.
What’s wrong is what hurts them.
That’s the whole system. That’s the whole rot.

--The Standard That Shifts Like Fog--

Humanism asks, What is good for us?
Christianity asks, What is good because God is good?

In one system, we measure righteousness by consensus.
In the other, we measure it by character — His character.

“Be holy, for I am holy.” — Leviticus 11:44

The humanist nods at integrity, generosity, hard work and most of those things are indeed good. But the humanist has no anchor. No compass. Only a weathervane spinning with the spirit of the age.

What was good in 1776 gets canceled in 2025.
What was moral last decade is bigoted this morning.
We kill babies in the womb now and call it care.
We shake our fists at God and call it progress.

We criminalized prayer in schools and legalized confusion in the nursery.

And we’re so proud of how far we’ve come.

--Jesus Met a Humanist Once--

He was young, wealthy, powerful.
Society loved him.
He didn’t cheat, didn’t lie, didn’t sleep around.
He showed up with clean hands and a confident voice.

“Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus didn’t pat him on the back.

He pointed to God.

“Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone.”

That was the first crack in the man’s mirror.

Then Jesus handed him the law, not to save him, but to strip him.
And when the man said, “I’ve kept all these since I was a boy,” Jesus went deeper.

“Sell everything you have. Give it to the poor. Then follow me.”

And the young man turned away, his wealth heavy in his heart,
Because he loved his goodness more than he loved God.

That is humanism.
It’s not that they hate Jesus.
They just think they’re doing fine without Him.

--What’s Good Enough for Society Is Not Good Enough for God--

You might pass the test of your neighborhood.
You might get applause at your job.
You might be the one people trust with their kids and call when life gets hard.

But there’s a deeper test.
There’s a higher court.

And it won’t compare you to your friends.

It will compare you to the holiness of God.

Not whether you meant well.
Not whether you avoided scandal.
But whether you worshiped.
Whether you loved the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.

Not just avoided murder, but avoided hate.
Not just avoided adultery, but avoided lust.
Not just avoided theft, but avoided envy.

You were not born morally neutral.
You were born in a race that walked out on God and the guilt stuck.

You don’t just need improvement.
You need resurrection.

--Your Will Follows Your Want--

Here’s the hardest part:
You can’t just decide to want God.

You can’t white-knuckle your way into faith.
You can’t will yourself into holiness.

The human will always does what the heart desires most. That’s the problem.
It turns with the wind of your desires.

And apart from grace, you don’t want God.
You want comfort. Safety. Applause. Autonomy.

You’ll stay like that unless the wind shifts.
Unless God, in mercy, stirs your soul awake.

Then you’ll want Him.
And when you want Him, you’ll come.

--Grace or Judgment--

You don’t need religion.
You need grace.

You need the holy, terrifying, beautiful kindness of a God who comes after rebels.

You need the Substitute.
The bleeding Lamb.
The broken body.
The empty tomb.

You need someone who kept the law in your place.
And took the wrath that had your name on it.

You need a righteousness you didn’t earn.
A Savior you didn’t ask for.
A gospel that interrupts your self-made peace and replaces it with God-made pardon.

--Before the Door Shuts--

Don’t say, “I don’t need religion.”
Say, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Cry out.

Even the cry is grace.

You’ll know it happened when you feel the ache.
When the Bible starts to breathe.
When the bread and cup feel like lifelines.
When the world calls you religious and you don’t flinch, because you know it’s not religion.
It’s rescue.

--The Real Damage--

Hillary Clinton says Christianity is doing damage.
But the real damage is happening in hearts that think they’re fine without Christ.

The damage is in the lie that “good enough” is good enough.
In the lie that hell isn’t real.
In the lie that man is the measure.
In the lie that sin can be managed.
In the lie that you can face judgment with clean hands and a dirty heart.

The gospel is not a crutch.
It’s a cross.
And it’s the only bridge from here to heaven.

Call on Him while you still can.
Before the clock strikes.
Before the door closes.
Before the Judge stands.

Your clock is ticking.
The Judge is just.
And Jesus still saves.

09/24/2025

I’m Glad Jimmy Kimmel’s Back!

The crowd cheered before he said a word. The stage lights flared like artificial sun. A man in a tailored suit stepped into his spotlight as a comedian returning from controversy.

Jimmy Kimmel was back!

He had been off the air, off the stage, off the screen. There had been anger. There had been silence. There had been a moment. And now, he offered an apology.

“I never intended to make light of the murder of anyone,” he said.

It was measured. It was humble. It was welcome.

I’m thankful I live in a place where a man can speak freely. I don’t have to agree with him. I don’t have to like his jokes. But I’m grateful he can still stand on a stage and talk. That freedom matters. Because once we start silencing each other, it won’t be long before the Gospel gets silenced too.

And then he said something else.

“Erika follows the teachings of Jesus Christ—as I do.”

That line has haunted me.

Not because it was cruel or false or flippant. But because it was spoken with what felt like real respect. And that, more than anything, revealed the quiet danger behind it.

Because you can follow the teachings of Jesus. You can admire His words, frame His quotes, and model your ethics after His kindness. You can say all of that with sincerity.

And still not be connected to Him at all.

--The Walk to the Garden--

Jesus didn’t preach John 15 from a stage.

He whispered it under the moon.

He and His disciples had finished the meal. The bread was broken, the wine poured. Judas had left. Eleven men followed their Master through the narrow Jerusalem alleys, under stone arches and over worn steps, until the city thinned behind them and the Mount of Olives rose before them.

Fires lit the slopes. Campfires. Makeshift shelters. The kind used by pilgrims with no place to sleep.

Some of the fires crackled with burning vinewood, dry and brittle, cut from gardens for this very purpose. The branches were twisted and blackened, useless for anything but smoke.

Jesus stopped beneath a living vine, its limbs crawling along a stone wall, leaves trembling in the chill.

He looked at the plant. He looked at the fire. He looked at His friends.

And then He said it.

“I am the true vine. My Father is the vinedresser.”

--A Dangerous Sentence--

It was not religious language. It was a claim.

He didn’t say, “I teach about the vine.”

He said, “I am the vine.”

Not His morals and certainly not just a movement.

Him.

And He didn’t invite His disciples to mimic Him. He told them to abide.

The branch that abides in the vine lives. The one that doesn’t is gathered with the rest, thrown into the fire, and burned.

That is the line that separates salvation from sentiment.

And it runs straight through Jimmy’s sentence. “I follow the teachings of Jesus Christ.”

So did Judas. So did thousands who touched Him, heard Him, wept in His presence, and still walked away.

Admiration doesn’t attach you to Jesus.

Only death and life do.

--The Lie of Goodness--

It is a comfortable thing to think of Jesus as a teacher.

He is safe there. You can quote Him and remain unchanged.

You can mention the Sermon on the Mount and never kneel. You can defend His ethics while despising His cross. You can call Him beautiful and never call Him Lord.

And you will not feel the knife.

Because the knife is only for the branches that are in Him.

Jesus said that every branch bearing fruit would be pruned, so that it would bear more. Mold, blight, excess leaves cut away. The knife scrapes, cleanses, bleeds.

That is the life of a real Christian. That is what it means to abide.

You are cut so that you grow. You are wounded so that you live.

If there is no cut, there is no union.

If you have never felt the sharp edge of providence, or the sting of conviction, or the sorrow of repentance, it may be that you are still dry, still resting among the leaves, still faking the look of life.

There is no such thing as a fruitless Christian.

There are only living branches and kindling.

--The Words That Cannot Save--

Jimmy’s apology was good. It was right. I welcomed it.

But the world doesn’t need more good apologies.

The world needs the vine.

When he said he follows the teachings of Christ, he might have meant it with all his heart. And that’s what terrifies me.

Because millions of people believe the same thing.

They think of Jesus as a figurehead. A moral compass. A man who said good things about loving enemies and giving to the poor.

But Jesus does not let you follow Him from a distance.

He demands attachment. He demands your death and your life.

He demands that you abide.

Not admire. Not appreciate. Not agree.

Abide.

--Cleaving or Withering--

Jesus said, “Apart from Me, you can do nothing.”

That sentence should crush every notion of casual Christianity.

You cannot do anything eternal, anything holy, anything fruitful without Him pulsing through you.

His Spirit. His Word. His blood. His power.

That is what flows through the branches that live.

And if you are not cleaving to Him, clinging with both hands, hungering for His voice, obeying with your days, you are already withering.

You may look green now. You may be tangled with the fruitful. But the fire sees everything.

There are only two ends.

The fruitful are pruned.

The fruitless are burned.

--The Apologetics of a Holy Life--

We are desperate, in this age of arguments, for something real.

We write books to explain our faith. We debate online. We defend the resurrection and the manuscripts and the morality.

And it matters. It all matters.

But the strongest apologetic is still the holy life.

Jesus said, “By this My Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples.”

The fruit of the branch is the proof of the vine.

You can say anything with your mouth. You can be followed by millions. You can write essays and host programs and say you love His teachings.

But if your life is not marked by holiness, then Christ is not in you.

And if Christ is not in you, no words can save you.

Not even His.

--Love in the Hinge of the Wheel--

Jesus didn’t stop with the vine. He didn’t finish the lesson when He talked about union.

He turned to the disciples, looked them in the eye, and told them to love each other.

The love of the Father to the Son.

The love of the Son to the disciple.

And the love of disciple to disciple.

It is all the same thread.

You cannot cleave to Christ and hate His body.

You cannot abide in Jesus and be absent from His church.

Jesus called them friends. He opened His heart to them. He washed their feet and gave them His peace. And then He told them to do the same for one another.

There is no Christianity that walks alone.

There is no branch in the vine that keeps its fruit to itself.

--The World Will Not Clap--

Jesus ends the discourse with a warning.

“If the world hates you, know that it hated Me before it hated you.”

You can live in kindness. You can speak with gentleness. You can give generously and walk humbly.

But if you belong to Christ, the world will recoil.

Not because you are cruel. But because you are not theirs.

If you were of the world, they would love you.

But you are not.

The closer you move to Christ, the farther you will be from their approval.

The North Pole and the South are never in the same place. You cannot drift toward one without retreating from the other.

Expect rejection. Expect mockery. Expect that your Christlike life will be more offensive than your Christless theology.

And do not be afraid.

Because you are not alone.

--The Witness That Will Never Die--

Jesus said the Holy Spirit would come. That He would testify. That He would cause the apostles to speak, and the gospel to spread, and the church to be built.

That same Spirit still moves.

Somewhere today, a man who despised the gospel will surrender.

Somewhere tonight, a woman will be cut by the knife of truth and begin to bear fruit.

This is what the Holy Spirit does.

And He is not done.

He is grafting branches even now.

--One Last Fire--

I don’t know Jimmy’s heart. I don’t claim to.

But I know mine. And I know this: I am not saved because I follow the teachings of Christ.

I am saved because I have been broken, buried, raised, and bound to Christ Himself.

And so are you.

There is no hope in morals. There is no life in admiration. There is no future in sentiment.

You must abide.

And if you do not, then you are only waiting for the fire.

The same fire that lit the slopes of the Mount of Olives.

The same fire the Lord stared at when He said those words.

“I am the vine. You are the branches.”

And somewhere in the night, a hand reaches for dry wood.

Choose carefully.

The sparks are already falling.

09/23/2025

🎵 The church where I pastor, Cedar Ridge Baptist (Stone County / Branson area), is looking for a part-time worship minister.

Small, loving church. Big hearts. If leading God’s people in song sounds like joy to you, message me.

Email or DM me: [email protected]

09/23/2025

We need to preach the gospel to our own hearts.

09/21/2025

"I forgive him"

Erika Kirk stands at a podium during her husband Charlie Kirk’s packed memorial service, tears in her eyes, as she publicly forgives the man accused of taking his life. The stadium is silent. Her words echo across a sea of mourners.

The stadium is packed. Under the bright floodlights, sweat and dust stick to tongues. The roar of the crowd dies as the pulpit’s microphone cracks.

Erika Kirk stands at center stage, body trembling. The memorial hangs in the air like a dark cloud. Her husband Charlie’s name is on every pair of lips. She lifts her eyes, the hush pressing against her as if the wind itself is waiting.

And she says, firm yet fragile, “I forgive him.”

The words fall like stones. They scatter something inside the crowd. They echo off steel beams, bounce from seats. The scent of hot concrete and thousands of hearts pounding together mix in the heat: grief.

Rage. Compassion. All braided together.

She could have left the anger alive, let it coil like a serpent around her spine. Her retribution register ringing.

She could have let the fire burn until her own skin was scorched. Many would. Many do. But there beneath the stadium lights, she trades rage for mercy. She trades shouts for words.

She trades debt for grace.

Jesus walked into a synagogue once. He saw a man who could not use his hand, withered. He felt the weight of that man’s pain. He glared into the hardness of surrounding hearts and did not retreat. In Mark, his anger was holy because it was born of love. He reached out. He healed.

Erika’s anger lives, but it is not in charge.

Something else carries her forward. Because forgiveness does not erase the wound. It does not silence the ache. But it pulls the poison out of blood, even if the scar burns.

In forgiving, she does not pretend justice does not matter. She assumes it does. She rests it in a larger story.

Peter asked Jesus: How many times must I forgive? Seven? Jesus said seventy times seven. It is a refusal to count offenses. Not a scoreboard. A surrender.

In the parable: a debt so monstrous that the figure collapses. From being kissed by grace to choking a man over coins. He demands payment. The King, seeing all, rages. Because if you have known mercy, how do you refuse it?

That gives shape to what’s happening tonight.

This forgiveness is not soft. It is a weapon drawn in surrender. It bears the mark of the cross. There is blood. There is blight. Charlie is gone. Yet forgiveness declares that even death does not have the final word.

In my living room watching, you can feel it. The hush presses into rib‑cages. Someone swallows. Someone weeps. A thousand hearts tremble. Some faces are pale. Some eyes shine with tears.

The crowd leans in. As if hearing the Gospel not in pat theology, but latched to bone. As if seeing the shape of love in her silhouette under light.

Christ commanded: “Be angry, sin not.”

Do not sleep angry. Let no sunset tug bitterness into your soul. Let anger die with the day. Do not feed resentment with memory. Do not fashion a coffin for hope with your own hands.

Resentment tells you things about yourself. That the gospel may still lie distant in your bones. That you have tasted forgiveness and not swallowed it. That your heart, soft at times, is edged with cold.

That you need again to look to Calvary. See the nails. Feel the crown. See the Innocent bleeding.

Hear him cry: “Father, forgive them.”

Erika is not acted by sentiment. She is acted upon by gospel. The weight of her grief hammered into something incomprehensible: courage. Love. Mercy.

She is the echo of that cross‑cry. She took the stones of grief and set them down.

There is sorrow here that demands voice. There is longing that resists easy comfort. There is the justice system turning its gears. There is the possibility: forgiveness may take time to root. May ache in the earth before blooming. But under stadium lights she plants it.

She tastes hot metal in her throat when she says “I forgive him.” Her hands tremble. Her heart wants to recoil, wants to scream…tears fall.

But she bows instead. She opens the door of her heart. She trusts something greater.

And you: who reads this. Who carries your own wound. Who corners yourself with memory.

You are invited: come take your feet out of the gravel. Shake them. Feel ground under skin. Let forgiveness be your step forward, not your burden.

So here is my challenge: in your darkest room, when your voice is raw, say the name. Speak it. Whisper: “I forgive you.” Let the air charge. Let the weight crack. Be afraid, tremble. But step anyway.

Because of what Erika did, we see the cross awkwardly alive.

Because of what Christ endured, we understand forgiveness is not retreat. It is surrender. It is facing hell and singing resurrection. It is taking loss and playing it into melody.

It is the bravest love.

We were not made for bitterness. We were made for forgiveness. Taste it. Say it. Live in it. Tonight.

09/17/2025

“You are a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek,” it was an earthquake dressed like a song.

Because it meant this: the whole system would be scrapped. Not improved. Overthrown.

09/16/2025

Charlie Kirk Is Dead. Now My Family Won’t Speak to Each Other.

The casserole was still warm.

Aunt June’s phone was still open to the news about Charlie. No one asked. No one answered. But the fellowship felt fractured before we ever bowed to pray.

Eyes darted. Forks hesitated. Somewhere between the blessing and the banana pudding, someone asked, “Did you see what he posted?”

And there it was.

The line.

Drawn here, between the people who used to speak freely at dinner.. One saw martyrdom. Another saw politics. One felt the tremble of the enemy tightening the noose. Another just wanted to keep things light.

This is what Romans 12 was written for.

This isn’t theology for a classroom. This is survival for the Christian who just got blocked by their own child.

--A Living Sacrifice in a Tearing World--

Paul doesn’t begin this chapter with rage. He doesn’t sharpen his words like arrows and fire them into the other camp. He begins with mercy. Doctrine that has just come roaring through eleven chapters of blood, wrath, covenant, and resurrection.

That hill outside Jerusalem didn’t just hold a cross. It held the collision of judgment and grace. And if you heard it, if it struck your chest and left you standing in the rubble of yourself, Paul says you only have one reasonable response: lay your life down.

You bow low. You hand it all over. Like Isaac. Like the widow. Like the Lamb who stayed quiet when they crowned Him in thorns.

He doesn’t say, give your opinion.

He says, give your body.

He doesn’t say, make your position known.

He says, make your self expendable.

He says it right there: “Present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” Reasonable. Not because it makes sense to the world. Reasonable because we have seen the mercy.

--The Pattern Breakers--

Then Paul throws a gr***de in the room: “Do not be conformed to this world.”

The Greek word is pressing language. Mold language. It’s what the world does to your spine and your speech and your dinner table. It molds you, squeezes you into itself, like clay into a cheap toy press.

But the cross doesn’t fit that mold. And neither do you.

To follow Christ is to have your mind re-wired. Transformed. Not patched up or polished, but reprogrammed to chase the will of God instead of the will of man. It means saying things that make no sense to your cousin who thinks you’re brainwashed. It means holding your tongue when everything in you wants to lash back. It means giving yourself not to commentary, but to consecration.

And the first place it shows up is not on a social media post, but in the way you treat your church.

--What No One Wants to Say Out Loud--

We must speak tenderly here.

There are families right now who feel burned. Not by strangers on the internet, but by sons and daughters. Mothers and fathers. Uncles and wives. One shares a post and another doesn’t come to Thanksgiving. One says, “He was a man of God,” and another hurls, “You’re a fascist.”

So many believers are sitting in the ashes of what used to be a family table. They didn’t mean to light the match. They thought they were defending what was good, or grieving what was lost. And now, they’re watching love feel like treason.

Romans 12 is not a lecture for them. It’s a lifeline.

--The Church as Testimony--

We talk about “the body of Christ” like it’s a metaphor. Paul treats it like it has ligaments.

Your elbow matters. Your gift matters. But not for you. For the body.

Paul says the first mark of a consecrated Christian is not fire in the belly, but humility in the pew. You don’t think too highly of yourself. You don’t belittle the roles that look boring. You don’t chase spotlight gifts while neglecting the mercies of leadership, giving, or encouragement. You get in place. You serve. You sacrifice.

You join a church and bleed for it.

You don’t drift from livestream to podcast to Bible app in search of a perfect echo of your preferences. You find a fellowship of sinners, and you say, “God placed me here. So here, I serve.”

Because that’s what consecrated people do.

But Paul doesn’t stop at service. He turns inward. To the soul. To the tongue.

--Loving People Who Think You’re the Problem--

Then Paul pulls back the curtain. This is how Christians live when the world feels like it’s on fire:

- Love must be real, not plastic.
- Hate evil. Like, really hate it. With teeth.
- Cling to good like a bride to her groom.
- Outdo each other in showing honor.
- Stay aglow in the Spirit when your soul feels like a snuffed wick.
- Rejoice in hope.
- Be patient when your husband calls you crazy.
- Pray when your child won’t speak to you.
- Open your home even when you’re misunderstood.

And then he says something that lands like a punch: “Bless those who persecute you.”

There it is. The line again. There are plenty of lines right now. But the only one that matters is the one between sacrifice and self.

The one who shares an article with tears in their eyes is not always trying to start a fight. Sometimes, they’re trying to tell the truth. Other times, they’re trying to keep from snapping. And sometimes they need reminded: vengeance is not your job.

You don’t shame the darkness with snark.

You shame it with kindness.

You heap burning coals on its head by feeding the enemy, not owning him.

You overcome evil with good.

You don’t win by dominating the thread.

You win by dying to self.

--The Real Divide--

The real divide is not left and right.

The real divide is between those who live sacrificed and those who live safe.

Between those who cling to what is good and those who conform to what is easy.

Romans 12 is a battlefield map.

The weapons are spiritual. The fight is holy. The enemy is not your brother who sees things differently. The enemy is the sin inside you that wants to be right more than it wants to be Christlike.

When the news tightens around your throat, when your friends bicker in group texts, when your children look at you sideways because you shared something that sounded political but felt like pain…go back to Romans 12.

Ask yourself:

Am I giving my body to Christ today? Or just my opinions?

Am I glued to what is good? Or glued to my group?

Am I blessing my persecutors, or just blocking them? (I’m still wrestling with this myself.)

Am I serving my church, or analyzing it?

Am I the living sacrifice I claimed to be when mercy first found me?

Because that’s what will shine.

Not the online applause.

But the quiet, blood-soaked faithfulness of men and women who have seen mercy and who now live crucified, resurrected, and unashamed.

That’s how you hold a table together.

That’s how you heal what the world can only divide.

That’s how you overcome evil.

Not with sharper words.

But with better worship.

And perhaps, one day, with the table set again, not just with casseroles, but with understanding.

And with the Father at the head.