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Church, We Need To Talk About Suicide

September is Suicide Awareness Month.

But here’s the problem:

We don’t need another month of pretty graphics, statistics, and Christian clichés.

We need to start saving lives.

Because there are people sitting in our churches every Sunday who are dying on the inside while everyone around them keeps saying, “You look great!”

There are people worshiping with tears in their eyes who don’t know if they can make it through Monday.

There are men who have been taught their entire lives to “man up” who are terrified to admit they’re drowning.

There are women who are exhausted from pretending everything is okay.

There are teenagers terrified to tell anyone what is happening inside their heads.

And there are people who desperately need help who are afraid that if they tell the Church the truth, we’ll judge them instead of loving them.

CHURCH, THAT HAS TO CHANGE.

We cannot preach about grace on Sunday and shame broken people on Monday.

We cannot tell people that Jesus loves them and then make them feel like they have to hide their depression, anxiety, trauma, grief, addiction, or suicidal thoughts because they might be labeled as weak Christians.

Mental and emotional suffering does not make someone a bad Christian.

And getting professional help does not mean someone doesn’t trust God.

Sometimes faith looks like praying.

Sometimes faith looks like calling a counselor.

Sometimes faith looks like telling your pastor, “Brother, I am not okay.”

Sometimes faith looks like saying, “I need help.”

And sometimes God answers that prayer by sending another person to sit beside you in the darkness.

So Church…

STOP TRYING TO FIX EVERYBODY.

Start listening.

Stop throwing Bible verses at wounds you haven’t taken time to understand.

Stop telling hurting people to “just have more faith.”

Stop confusing spiritual encouragement with dismissing someone’s pain.

Jesus never asked us to pretend we aren’t hurting.

He asked us to love one another.

To carry one another’s burdens.

To weep with those who weep.

To bear one another’s burdens.

To be His hands and feet.

So what if this month we stopped asking:

“How are you?”

And started asking:

“How are you REALLY doing?”

And then—this is important—we actually stayed long enough to hear the answer.

Church, let’s become a safe place for hurting people.

A place where somebody can walk through the doors carrying their darkest thoughts and not be afraid that they’ll be judged.

A place where men can cry.

Where women can admit they’re exhausted.

Where teenagers can speak honestly.

Where broken people don’t have to clean themselves up before coming inside.

Where people can say:

“I’m struggling.”

And the response isn’t condemnation.

It’s:

“Then you don’t have to walk through this alone.”

Because here’s the truth:

You might be sitting next to someone this Sunday who is considering suicide.

You might be the last person who has a chance to notice.

That conversation you’ve been putting off?

Make the call.

Send the text.

Sit down.

Listen.

Ask the hard question.

And if someone tells you they’re thinking about suicide, take them seriously and help connect them with immediate, qualified support.

Don’t assume they’ll “get over it.”

Don’t leave them alone in an immediate crisis.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

Stay with them and get help.

And to the person reading this who is secretly fighting for your life:

PLEASE DON’T LEAVE YET.

You don’t have to solve tomorrow tonight.

You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.

You don’t have to carry this by yourself.

Tell somebody.

Call somebody.

Get help.

Let somebody into the battle.

Your life is worth fighting for—even if you can’t feel that right now.

And Church…

Maybe our greatest revival won’t begin with a louder worship service.

Maybe it will begin when we become the kind of Church where hurting people finally feel safe enough to tell the truth.

Let’s stop being impressed by how good people look on the outside.

Let’s become people who are willing to walk into the mess.

Let’s stop preaching about Jesus and start showing people Jesus.

Because sometimes the most powerful sermon you’ll ever preach…

is simply refusing to walk away from someone who is hurting.

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide or feels in immediate danger in the United States, call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If there is immediate danger, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency department.

Church, let’s be the reason somebody chooses to stay. ~OC

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Love Your Neighbor

Today’s a new day!

Maybe the hardest question we can ask ourselves as Christians isn’t, “Do I love Jesus?”

Maybe it’s this:

“Has following Jesus actually made me love my neighbor more?”

That question has been sitting heavy on my heart.

Because I’ve spent a lot of years learning about Jesus.

I’ve read the Bible. I’ve listened to sermons. I’ve sat in Bible studies. I’ve prayed. I’ve worshiped. I’ve written about faith, grace, suffering, forgiveness, hope and the goodness of God.

I’ve talked about discipleship.

I’ve talked about what it means to follow Jesus.

But lately, I’ve found myself asking a much more uncomfortable question:

Am I actually becoming more like Him?

Because there is a difference between knowing Jesus and becoming like Jesus.

And sometimes I wonder if we’ve become really good at the first one while completely missing the second.

We know the verses.

We know the doctrine.

We know what we believe.

We know what we think is right and what we think is wrong.

We know what other people should be doing.

But do we love them?

Really love them?

Not just the people who agree with us.

Not just the people sitting beside us in church.

Not just the people who vote like us, think like us, worship like us or live their lives the way we believe they should.

I’m talking about the difficult people.

The angry people.

The broken people.

The addicted people.

The people who have made terrible mistakes.

The people who don’t believe what we believe.

The people who have hurt us.

The people who have hurt themselves.

The people who don’t look like us.

The people who don’t smell like us.

The people society has decided aren’t worth much.

The people who make us uncomfortable.

Those people.

Jesus called them our neighbors too.

And that’s where this gets painfully personal for me.

Because it’s easy to love people when loving them costs us nothing.

It’s easy to talk about loving our neighbor when our neighbor looks, thinks and lives like we do.

It’s easy to say, “Jesus loves you,” from a safe distance.

But what happens when Jesus asks us to get close?

What happens when loving our neighbor means listening instead of lecturing?

Forgiving instead of keeping score?

Serving instead of being served?

Showing grace instead of passing judgment?

Sitting with someone in their pain instead of trying to explain it away?

What happens when loving our neighbor requires us to put our pride down?

That’s where discipleship gets real.

Because Jesus didn’t simply tell us to love people.

He showed us what love looks like.

He touched people everyone else avoided.

He ate with people religious society had rejected.

He stopped for people everyone else walked past.

He noticed people everyone else ignored.

He loved people who couldn’t give Him anything in return.

And then He stretched His arms across a wooden cross and showed us that real love is sacrificial.

So I’ve been asking myself:

What if discipleship isn’t measured by how much Bible I know, but by how much love I give?

What if spiritual maturity isn’t about how many arguments I can win, but how much grace I can extend?

What if becoming more like Jesus means becoming slower to judge, quicker to forgive, more willing to listen and more willing to love people who don’t deserve it?

Because here’s the truth I’ve had to confront:

I can be right and still be unChristlike.

I can know Scripture and still have a hard heart.

I can defend the truth and still fail to show grace.

I can go to church every Sunday and still walk past my neighbor without ever noticing that they’re hurting.

I can call myself a disciple while becoming increasingly comfortable with people I don’t like being treated as though they don’t matter.

And that realization hurts.

Because I don’t want to simply talk about Jesus.

I want my life to look like Him.

I want people to experience something different when they encounter me.

I want the lonely to feel seen.

I want the hurting to feel safe.

I want the broken to know they aren’t beyond redemption.

I want the person who disagrees with me to know I can disagree without hating them.

I want the person who has fallen to know there is still grace.

I want the person who feels forgotten to know that somebody cares.

I want my neighbor to encounter Jesus—not because I preached a sermon at them, but because I loved them.

Maybe that’s the discipleship journey we’re missing.

Maybe following Jesus isn’t about becoming more religious.

Maybe it’s about becoming more human—the kind of human God created us to be before sin taught us to divide, judge, hate and exclude.

So I’m asking myself today:

Has following Jesus made me love my neighbor more?

Has it changed the way I speak to people?

Has it changed the way I treat people who disagree with me?

Has it changed the way I respond to the broken?

Has it made me more compassionate?

More patient?

More forgiving?

More generous?

More willing to serve?

More willing to listen?

More willing to love without expecting anything in return?

And perhaps most importantly:

Would my neighbor say that following Jesus has made me a more loving person?

That’s the question that scares me.

Because it’s one thing for me to say I’m becoming like Jesus.

It’s another thing for the people around me to actually see it.

Maybe it’s time we stopped measuring our discipleship by how many Christian things we do and started measuring it by how much love is actually coming out of our lives.

Because Jesus didn’t say the world would recognize His disciples by their political opinions.

He didn’t say they would know us by our church attendance.

He didn’t say they would know us by how loudly we defended our beliefs.

He said they would know us by our love.

So before I point another finger…

Before I criticize another person…

Before I decide who is worthy of my compassion…

Before I tell someone else what they need to change…

Maybe I need to get on my knees and ask God:

“Lord, change me first.”

Make my heart softer.

Make my hands willing to serve.

Make my ears willing to listen.

Make my eyes willing to see the people everyone else overlooks.

Make me love the people I don’t understand.

Make me forgive the people who hurt me.

Make me compassionate toward people whose stories I don’t know.

And when I encounter someone who is hurting, broken, angry, lost or far away from You…

Don’t let me walk past them.

Let me stop.

Let me see them.

Let me love them.

Let me become Your hands and feet.

Because maybe the greatest testimony we will ever give isn’t something we say.

Maybe it’s the way we love someone who thought Christians would hate them.

And tonight, I hope we all sit with this question for a while:

If the only Bible my neighbor ever read was the life I lived, would they see Jesus?

Not perfection.

Not religion.

Not condemnation.

Jesus.

Because if my discipleship hasn’t made me love my neighbor more…

Maybe the problem isn’t that my neighbor needs to come closer to Jesus.

Maybe I do. ~OC

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Do It All Again

TWENTY-SEVEN REASONS I WOULD MARRY LAURA ALL OVER AGAIN

Laura didn’t just marry me twenty-seven years ago. She married every version of me that came after that day.

She married the man who stood beside her on our wedding day, never knowing what the next 27 years would ask of us.

She didn’t know about the years of health battles that would follow.

She didn’t know about the diagnoses, the hospital rooms, the surgeries, the treatments, the frightening moments, the uncertainty, the tears, the prayers, or the nights when we wondered what tomorrow would look like.

She didn’t know there would be moments when life would completely change in ways neither of us could have imagined.

She didn’t know she’d sometimes have to watch the man she married struggle to do things he once took for granted.

She didn’t know there would be seasons when simply getting through the day would be an accomplishment.

She didn’t know how many times we’d have to trust God when we didn’t understand what He was doing.

But she stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Not because she had to.

Not because she had any guarantee that our story would be comfortable.

She stayed because she loved me.

And through 27 years, Laura has walked with me through some of the highest mountains and deepest valleys of my life.

She has seen me at my strongest.

She has seen me at my weakest.

She has seen the tears I didn’t want anyone else to see.

She has seen the fears I didn’t always know how to put into words.

She has watched me fight battles I never asked to fight.

And somehow, after all these years, she still reaches for my hand.

That kind of love is difficult to explain.

It’s not the kind of love you find in a greeting card.

It’s not the kind of love that only shows up when everything is beautiful.

It’s the kind of love that gets down in the trenches.

The kind that stays when the future is uncertain.

The kind that says, “We’re going to get through this together.”

And that’s why, on our 27th wedding anniversary, I have been thinking about one very simple question:

If I could go back to that day 27 years ago, knowing everything I know now, would I marry Laura again?

There isn’t even a question.

A thousand times yes.

Here are 27 reasons why I would marry my bride all over again:

1. Because she loved me before she ever knew what this journey would cost her.

2. Because she stayed when life got incredibly hard. She didn’t sign up for the health battles, hospital stays, disappointments, or uncertainty. But she stayed.

3. Because she has loved me at my strongest and at my weakest.

4. Because she has seen the parts of me that I don’t always like and somehow still chooses me.

5. Because she has never stopped believing there was more life ahead of us, even when I couldn’t see it myself.

6. Because she knows how to make me laugh when I need it most.

7. Because she has stood beside me through some of the darkest valleys of my life.

8. Because she has celebrated the mountaintops with me without forgetting what it took to get there.

9. Because she has taught me that love isn’t just something you say. It is something you do.

10. Because she has sacrificed more than I will ever be able to fully understand.

11. Because she has given me grace when I needed grace.

12. Because she has challenged me when I needed challenging.

13. Because she knows the man behind the public words, the posts, the music, and the ministry—and loves that man too.

14. Because she has walked beside me through seasons when neither of us knew what tomorrow would bring.

15. Because she has never required me to be perfect to be loved.

16. Because she has made our house a home.

17. Because she has reminded me that sometimes the greatest miracles aren’t dramatic. Sometimes they’re simply waking up beside the person you love for another day.

18. Because she has shared my crazy dreams—even the ones that probably sounded completely insane.

19. Because she has prayed with me, prayed for me, and carried things to God when I didn’t have the words.

20. Because she has loved me through changes I never expected my life to bring.

21. Because after 27 years, she is still the person I want beside me when something wonderful happens—and the person I want beside me when everything falls apart.

22. Because she has shown me that commitment means staying when staying isn’t easy.

23. Because she has given me memories I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

24. Because she has helped me become a better man—not by trying to change who I am, but by loving me enough to call me higher.

25. Because after everything we’ve walked through, I don’t just love her. I respect her, admire her, and thank God for her.

26. Because if I had the chance to live these 27 years again, I wouldn’t change the destination. I’d choose the same woman.

And…

27. Because she’s Laura.

She’s my bride.

My best friend.

My partner.

My safe place.

The woman who has walked through fire with me.

The woman who has seen the broken pieces and stayed.

The woman who has laughed with me, cried with me, prayed with me, dreamed with me, and somehow continues to choose me.

Twenty-seven years ago, I stood beside her and made a promise.

Today, I would make that same promise again.

Laura, if I could go back to the beginning, knowing everything I know now, knowing how hard some of the roads would become, knowing how many tears we’d shed, knowing how many times we’d have to lean on God and on each other…

I WOULD STILL CHOOSE YOU.

Without hesitation.

Without reservation.

Without changing a thing.

And if God gives us another 27 years, I hope I get to spend every single one of them reminding you how incredibly grateful I am that you said “I do.”

Happy 27th Anniversary, my beautiful bride.

I married you 27 years ago.

I would marry you again today.

And if I had it to do all over again…

I’d find you.
I’d choose you.
I’d marry you.
All over again.

I love you, Laura.

Happy 27th Anniversary. ❤️

~OC

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Prayer

Dear Lord,

We come before You in the mighty name of Jesus, believing in the power of Your Holy Spirit. Holy Spirit, fall fresh upon us. Move through every place that is broken, wounded, weary, and hurting.

Bring healing where doctors cannot reach. Bring strength where weakness has taken hold. Bring peace where fear has settled. Bring restoration where the enemy has brought destruction.

Lord, release Your healing power. Let faith rise above fear. Let hope rise above despair. Let Your presence fill every room, every hospital bed, every home, and every heart that is crying out to You.

We believe You are still the God who heals, restores, renews, and makes all things new. Nothing is too difficult for You. Nothing is beyond Your reach.

Holy Spirit, have Your way. Bring healing. Bring restoration. Bring life.

We surrender every outcome to You and trust Your perfect will, knowing that Your power is greater than our circumstances.

In the powerful, healing, and victorious name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

~OC

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Moral High Ground (Look In The Mirror)

Today’s a new day!

I’m going to say something that may make some Christians uncomfortable.

Maybe even angry.

But I believe we desperately need to hear it.

If we are going to engage a culture that is increasingly broken, divided, angry, confused, and seemingly hostile toward Christianity, we had better start by recognizing something very important:

We are sinners too.

Yes.

Us.

The people sitting in church on Sunday.

The people carrying Bibles.

The people posting Scripture on Facebook.

The people singing worship songs with our hands raised.

The people who know all the right Christian words.

We are sinners.

And if we forget that, we will eventually become the very kind of people Jesus warned us about.

Jesus told us about the danger of looking at the speck in someone else’s eye while ignoring the plank in our own.

And honestly?

The Church has become really good at finding specks.

We see the sin in somebody else’s life.

We see their political beliefs.

Their sexuality.

Their addiction.

Their language.

Their lifestyle.

Their mistakes.

Their failures.

Their past.

And we point.

And we judge.

And we condemn.

And then we wonder why they don’t want anything to do with Christianity.

Maybe we should ask ourselves a difficult question:

Have some people rejected Jesus—or have they rejected the version of Jesus they’ve seen in us?

That’s a question that hurts.

Because sometimes we have been so busy telling people how lost they are that we’ve forgotten to tell them how much Jesus loves them.

We’ve become more passionate about being right than being Christlike.

More passionate about winning arguments than winning souls.

More comfortable condemning people than sitting beside them in their pain.

And somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten something incredibly important:

Jesus didn’t come for people who had their lives together.

He came for the broken.

The hurting.

The addicted.

The rejected.

The ashamed.

The lonely.

The prodigals.

The sinners.

People like us.

Look at the people Jesus surrounded Himself with.

They weren’t all polished.

They weren’t all respectable.

They weren’t all religious.

They weren’t all acceptable to the religious crowd.

And Jesus didn’t stand at a distance shouting, “Clean yourself up and then come see Me.”

He walked toward them.

He sat with them.

He touched them.

He listened to them.

He loved them.

And then He changed them.

That’s grace.

And here’s where this gets painfully personal:

I don’t need Jesus because I’m better than the people around me.

I need Jesus because I’m not.

I’ve fallen.

I’ve failed.

I’ve made mistakes.

I’ve had moments when my faith was weak.

I’ve had moments when fear was louder than faith.

I’ve had moments when I didn’t understand what God was doing.

I’ve had moments when I needed forgiveness.

I’ve needed grace.

And so have you.

That’s why I can’t stand on some imaginary moral high ground and look down on someone else.

Because when I look at the cross, I don’t see a platform that makes me superior.

I see a place where a broken sinner like me was rescued.

And maybe that’s what the Church needs to rediscover.

Humility.

Not compromise.

Not abandoning biblical truth.

Not pretending sin doesn’t matter.

But humility.

Because there is a massive difference between saying,

“You’re a sinner, and I’m better than you.”

and saying,

“You’re a sinner. I’m a sinner. But there’s a Savior who loves us both.”

One builds walls.

The other builds bridges.

One pushes people away.

The other opens a door.

One says, “Get your life together.”

The other says,

“Come as you are. Jesus isn’t finished with you yet.”

The world doesn’t need Christians who are perfect.

It needs Christians who are real.

People who can say:

“I don’t have all the answers.”

“I’ve struggled too.”

“I’ve cried too.”

“I’ve questioned too.”

“I’ve fallen too.”

“I’ve needed forgiveness too.”

“But I’ve discovered something.”

Jesus didn’t give up on me.

And if He didn’t give up on me, He isn’t going to give up on you.

That is the message we should be carrying into this culture.

Not hate.

Not arrogance.

Not condemnation.

Jesus.

Because at the end of the day, people don’t need another Christian yelling at them about how dark the world has become.

They need someone willing to walk into the darkness carrying a light.

They need someone willing to sit beside them when they’re hurting.

They need someone willing to love them before they agree with them.

They need someone willing to tell them the truth without making them feel worthless.

They need someone who remembers that Jesus died for them too.

So before we point our fingers at the culture…

Let’s look in the mirror.

Before we demand repentance from everyone else…

Let’s repent ourselves.

Before we ask God to change the world…

Let’s ask Him to change us.

Before we complain about how far America has fallen…

Let’s ask how far the Church has fallen from looking like Jesus.

Because perhaps revival won’t begin when the world finally starts acting like Christians.

Perhaps revival begins when Christians finally start acting like Jesus.

And maybe—just maybe—the greatest witness we can give this broken world isn’t telling people how bad they are.

Maybe it’s being honest enough to say:

“I’m broken too.”

“I’ve needed grace too.”

“I’ve needed Jesus too.”

“And I’m still standing—not because I’m perfect, but because He hasn’t let go of me.”

That’s the Gospel.

That’s grace.

That’s hope.

And that’s the message I want to carry.

So I’m not going to stand above you.

I’ll stand beside you.

I’m not going to pretend I’m better than you.

I’m going to remind you that we’re both desperately in need of Jesus.

And I’m not going to point my finger at you while pretending I don’t have my own scars.

I’ll show you mine.

Because maybe when you see that I’m broken too…

You’ll finally believe me when I tell you:

There is a Savior who still loves broken people.

There is grace for the sinner.

There is mercy for the mess.

There is forgiveness for the failure.

There is hope for the hopeless.

And there is still a cross standing in the middle of this broken world saying:

“You are not too far gone.”

So before we try to change the culture…

Let’s let Jesus change us.

Because the world isn’t looking for another group of people who claim to have it all together.

It’s looking for people who have been broken, redeemed, forgiven, and transformed by Jesus.

And maybe that’s exactly what the Church was supposed to be all along.

Not a museum for perfect people.

A hospital for sinners.

And I’m not ashamed to admit it:

I’m still a patient.

I still need Jesus.

Every. Single. Day.

And so do you.

Now go back and read that one more time.

Because this time…

don’t read it looking for someone else.

Read it looking in the mirror. ~OC

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Parent Your Phone

As I watch the news or scroll through social media, I hear and read a lot about how parents should police their children’s cellphone use.

I agree.

But maybe as adults we need to be worried about just more than the younger generations phone use.


Maybe as adults we need to put OUR own phones down.

That one hurts.

Because we can talk about kids being addicted to their screens.

We can talk about teenagers who spend hours scrolling.

We can talk about social media stealing their attention.

We can talk about the dangers of what they’re watching.

But if we’re honest…

We have to look in the mirror first.

Because sometimes we are just as guilty of the very thing we’re warning everyone else about.

Our phone is beside us when we wake up.

It’s in our hands while we’re eating.

It’s there when someone is talking to us.

We reach for it when we’re bored.

We reach for it when we’re uncomfortable.

We reach for it when we’re lonely.

We reach for it when we don’t want to think about what we’re feeling.

And sometimes…

We reach for our phones before we reach for God.

Ouch.

Maybe we don’t need to parent our children’s phones nearly as much as we need to parent our own.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us stopped using our phones and started being used by them.

A notification goes off…

We respond.

Someone posts something…

We check it.

Someone sends a message…

We stop whatever we’re doing.

The phone rings…

We immediately reach for it.

And the person sitting right in front of us?

They wait.

Our spouse waits.

Our children wait.

Our friends wait.

Sometimes even God waits.

And we wonder why our relationships feel disconnected.

Maybe it isn’t because we don’t love people.

Maybe it’s because we’re physically present…

but emotionally somewhere else.

Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:21

So where is our heart?

Because sometimes you can tell where someone’s heart is by where their eyes are.

And if our eyes are constantly staring at a screen…

Maybe we should ask ourselves what has captured our attention.

I’m not saying phones are evil.

I’m not saying technology is evil.

I’m not saying social media is evil.

I’m saying anything that can control us needs to be surrendered to Jesus.

The Bible says, “I will not be mastered by anything.” — 1 Corinthians 6:12

Not anything.

That means our phones don’t get to master us.

Notifications don’t get to master us.

Algorithms don’t get to master us.

Social media doesn’t get to master us.

Jesus is supposed to be our Master.

So maybe we need to start parenting our phones.

Maybe we need to teach ourselves that dinner is more important than notifications.

That a conversation is more important than a comment.

That our children’s eyes deserve to meet our eyes.

That our spouse deserves our full attention.

That sitting with someone who is hurting is more important than scrolling past another post.

That prayer deserves more attention than Facebook.

That God’s Word deserves more attention than our newsfeed.

And maybe we need to remember something incredibly simple:

Life is happening on the other side of the screen.

Your children are growing up.

Your marriage needs you.

Your friend may be hurting.

Someone around you may desperately need someone to listen.

And you may be missing it…

because you’re looking down.

So today, I’m asking myself the same question I’m asking you:

Who is parenting whom?

Do I control my phone…

or does my phone control me?

Could I put it down for an hour without feeling anxious?

Could I sit at lunch or dinner without checking it?

Could I spend time with God without reaching for it?

Could I have a conversation without looking at it?

Could I go somewhere without needing to document it?

Could I be completely present…

without a screen between me and the people I love?

Because maybe the issue isn’t our phones.

Maybe the issue is what we’ve allowed our phones to become.

So here’s my challenge:

Put it down.

Not forever.

Just long enough to look up.

Look at your spouse.

Look at your kids.

Look at your friend.

Look around your dinner table.

Look at the person sitting alone.

Look at the world God actually gave you.

And then…

look up toward Heaven.

Because there is a God who has been trying to get our attention long before our phones ever existed.

And maybe today He isn’t asking you to download another Bible app.

Maybe He’s simply whispering:

“Put the phone down, My child.
I’m right here.”

So before we tell the younger generation to get off their phones…

look at your own screen.

Before you complain about their screen time…

look at your own.

Before you tell them they are addicted…

ask yourself if you are.

And before you scroll to the next post…

stop.

Look at your phone.

Now ask yourself one brutally honest question:

“If I gave God the same attention I give this phone, how different would my life be?”

Let that question sit with you.

Don’t scroll.

Don’t defend yourself.

Don’t make excuses.

Just sit with it.

Maybe it’s time we stopped parenting everyone else’s phones…

and started parenting our own. ~OC

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Men Stand Up

MEN, WE NEED TO TALK.

Not about politics.

Not about sports.

Not about money.

Not about who is right and who is wrong.

We need to talk about what happened to the men of God.

Because somewhere along the way, too many of us became comfortable sitting in the church while our families, our neighborhoods, and our communities were crying out for men who would actually stand up and lead.

We have plenty of men who can talk.

Plenty who can argue.

Plenty who can criticize.

Plenty who can tell everyone else what they’re doing wrong.

But God isn’t looking for more men who can point fingers.

God is looking for men who will get on their knees.

Men who will pray.

Men who will serve.

Men who will sacrifice.

Men who will give.

Men who will love.

Men who will stand in the gap.

Men who will say, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

Paul wrote:

“Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.” ~1 Corinthians 16:13-14

Read that again.

Be courageous.

Be strong.

But don’t miss the last part:

Do everything in love.

Because biblical manhood isn’t about domination.

It’s not about control.

It’s not about being the loudest voice in the room.

It’s not about demanding respect.

It’s about becoming the kind of man who looks like Jesus.

Jesus picked up a towel.

Jesus washed feet.

Jesus touched the untouchable.

Jesus welcomed the rejected.

Jesus fed the hungry.

Jesus defended the vulnerable.

Jesus wept with those who were hurting.

Jesus prayed.

Jesus served.

Jesus sacrificed.

And ultimately…

Jesus laid down His life.

So if we want to be men of God, maybe we should stop asking,

“Who is going to serve me?”

and start asking,

“Who can I serve?”

Maybe it’s time for us to put down our pride and pick up the towel.

Put down our excuses and pick up our Bibles.

Put down our anger and pick up our cross.

Put down our phones and look our children in the eyes.

Put down our criticism and start praying for the people we’re so quick to criticize.

Men, our families need us.

Our wives need husbands who pray.

Our children need fathers who are present.

Our sons need men who will show them that strength isn’t about how much power you have, but how much of yourself you’re willing to give away.

Our daughters need to see what a godly man looks like.

Our churches need men who don’t just occupy a chair on Sunday but carry the burden of the Kingdom Monday through Saturday.

Our communities need men who will stop driving past brokenness and start walking toward it.

There are people all around us who are hurting.

People battling addiction.

People drowning in loneliness.

People wondering if anybody cares.

People who haven’t stepped inside a church in years because somewhere along the way, Christians made them feel like they weren’t welcome.

Men, what if we became different?

What if we became the men who showed up?

What if we became the men who prayed?

What if we became the men who served without needing recognition?

What if we became the men who gave without expecting something in return?

What if we became the men who loved people who could never repay us?

What if we stopped trying to build our own kingdoms…

and started building His?

I’m praying for something bigger than another men’s conference.

Bigger than another Bible study.

Bigger than another church program.

I’m praying for revival in the hearts of men.

I want to see men so completely consumed by Jesus that their families can’t help but notice.

I want to see fathers praying over their children.

Husbands praying with their wives.

Men opening their Bibles before they open social media.

Men serving the homeless.

Men feeding the hungry.

Men visiting the sick.

Men mentoring young men who desperately need somebody to tell them,

“You matter. You’re loved. You were created for something greater.”

I want to see men walk into the darkest places carrying the light of Christ.

I want to see men who aren’t ashamed to worship.

Men who aren’t afraid to cry.

Men who aren’t afraid to say, “I don’t have it all together.”

Men who aren’t afraid to get on their knees and cry out,

“Jesus, change me before You use me.”

Because maybe that’s where revival begins.

Not with a crowd.

With a man.

One broken man surrendering.

One father praying.

One husband repenting.

One son coming home.

One man saying,

“Jesus, I am Yours.”

And then another man catches fire.

And another.

And another.

And suddenly…

THE FIRE SPREADS.

It moves through families.

Through churches.

Through neighborhoods.

Through communities.

Until an entire city begins to feel the presence of God.

Not because men became louder.

But because men became different.

Not because men demanded their rights.

But because men started laying down their lives.

Not because men conquered people.

But because men started loving people.

I want to see men set on fire for Jesus.

And I don’t mean a temporary emotional high.

I mean HOLY FIRE.

The kind of fire that changes the way we live.

The kind of fire that changes the way we speak.

The kind of fire that changes our marriages.

The kind of fire that changes our parenting.

The kind of fire that changes how we treat strangers.

The kind of fire that makes us uncomfortable when we’re sitting still while somebody else is hurting.

Men, I’m calling us higher.

Higher than comfort.

Higher than complacency.

Higher than excuses.

Higher than church-as-usual.

Higher than cultural Christianity.

I’m calling us to Jesus.

To surrender.

To sacrifice.

To service.

To prayer.

To courage.

To holiness.

To love.

Because our communities don’t need more men pretending to have all the answers.

They need men who know where to take their questions.

To the feet of Jesus.

So tonight, before you criticize another man…

pray for him.

Before you complain about your church…

serve it.

Before you complain about your community…

love it.

Before you tell the world what’s wrong with Christianity…

show them Jesus.

And before you demand that everyone else change…

get alone with God and ask Him to change you.

Because revival may be closer than we think.

Maybe God isn’t waiting for the perfect man.

Maybe He’s waiting for the surrendered man.

The available man.

The obedient man.

The man who will say:

“Here I am, Lord. Send me.”

So, men…

Are you willing?

Are you willing to lead when nobody applauds?

Are you willing to serve when nobody notices?

Are you willing to give when it costs you something?

Are you willing to pray when you’re tired?

Are you willing to love when it’s difficult?

Are you willing to forgive?

Are you willing to repent?

Are you willing to surrender your pride?

Are you willing to pick up your cross?

Are you willing to follow Jesus even when it costs you everything?

Because here’s the question I can’t get out of my head:

If your family became exactly like the Christian life you are living right now…

would you be proud of what they became?

Let that sit there for a minute.

Don’t scroll.

Don’t defend yourself.

Don’t think about the man sitting next to you.

Think about you.

Look in the mirror.

Look at your Bible.

Look at your family.

Look at your community.

Look at your life.

And ask yourself the question that may be the most important question a man can ever ask:

AM I REALLY THE MAN GOD HAS CALLED ME TO BE?

And if the answer is no…

Don’t run from that conviction.

Run toward Jesus.

Because He isn’t finished with you.

Men, let’s rise.

Let’s pray.

Let’s serve.

Let’s give.

Let’s love.

Let’s lead.

Let’s surrender.

Let’s become the men our families need, our churches need, our communities need—and most importantly, the men Jesus has called us to be.

One man.

One surrendered heart.

One family.

One church.

One neighborhood.

One city.

Until the fire spreads.

MEN, IT’S TIME.

Let’s set your city’s on fire—not with our anger, not with our politics, not with our pride…

but with the radical, reckless, transforming LOVE OF JESUS CHRIST.

In Jesus’ name, Amen. ~OC

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Being Present and Being Engaged: There Is a Difference

Today’s a new day!

Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is sitting beside someone who is physically there—but emotionally somewhere else.

Read that again.

Because there is a difference between being present and being engaged.

And honestly, I think a lot of us—including me—need to take a hard look at which one we are.

You can sit beside someone for hours and never really be with them.

You can eat dinner with your family while staring at your phone.

You can sit in church every Sunday and never truly encounter God.

You can listen to someone tell you they’re hurting while you’re already thinking about what you’re going to say next.

You can hug someone and say, “I’m here for you,” and yet never actually show up when life gets ugly.

Being present means your body showed up.

Being engaged means your heart did too.

And there’s a world of difference between the two.

Think about Jesus.

He didn’t just walk past hurting people.

He stopped.

He saw the blind man everyone else ignored.

He noticed Zacchaeus when everyone else saw a sinner.

He stopped for the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.

He touched lepers.

He sat with sinners.

He wept with those who were grieving.

He listened.

He noticed.

He cared.

Jesus didn’t simply share people’s space.

He entered their pain.

That’s engagement.

And maybe that’s what we’ve lost somewhere along the way.

We’re connected to everyone, yet sometimes we’re truly connected to no one.

We have hundreds of friends online but don’t know who is crying behind the smile sitting across from us.

We react to someone’s Facebook post with a heart but never send the message that says, “Are you really okay?”

We say, “Praying for you,” but sometimes never actually pray.

We say, “Let me know if you need anything,” knowing deep down that we’re hoping they never call.

And here’s the painful truth:

Some people don’t need another person telling them everything is going to be okay.

They need someone willing to sit beside them while everything isn’t okay.

They don’t need you to fix them.

They need you to listen.

They need you to stay.

They need you to care when their story gets uncomfortable.

They need you to love them when they aren’t easy to love.

They need you to put the phone down, look them in the eyes, and say:

“Tell me what’s really going on.”

And then stay quiet long enough to actually hear the answer.

Because sometimes the most powerful ministry isn’t a sermon.

It’s a conversation.

It’s a cup of coffee.

It’s a hand held during a difficult moment.

It’s sitting beside a hospital bed.

It’s answering the phone at 2 a.m.

It’s showing up when everyone else has disappeared.

It’s remembering someone’s name.

It’s noticing the person who always says, “I’m fine,” and loving them enough to know they’re not.

That’s what Jesus did.

He noticed people.

And maybe we should too.

So today, I want to challenge all of us—including myself.

Look around.

Really look.

Who in your life needs more than your presence?

Who needs your attention?

Who needs your time?

Who needs your listening ear?

Who is smiling on the outside while quietly falling apart on the inside?

Who have you been physically present with but emotionally absent from?

And perhaps most importantly…

Are you merely present with God, or are you engaged with Him?

Are you just attending church?

Or are you seeking Him?

Are you just reading Scripture?

Or are you allowing Scripture to change you?

Are you just saying prayers?

Or are you actually talking with your Father?

Because God doesn’t want a relationship where we simply check in.

He wants our hearts.

Life moves far too quickly.

One day, the person sitting beside you won’t be there anymore.

One day, the phone call you keep putting off won’t be possible.

One day, the chair across the table may be empty.

One day, you’ll wish you had listened longer.

Loved harder.

Forgiven sooner.

Put the phone down.

Stayed a little longer.

Don’t wait until someone’s funeral to realize you should have spent more time with them while they were alive.

Don’t wait until they’re gone to tell them what they meant to you.

Don’t wait until the opportunity disappears.

Be there now.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

Completely.

Because people may forget what you said.

They may forget what you did.

But they will never forget how you made them feel when they were hurting.

So take time to know the difference.

Being present says, “I’m here.”

Being engaged says, “You matter to me.”

And maybe the greatest way we can love people like Jesus loved us…

isn’t simply by showing up.

It’s by staying.

It’s by listening.

It’s by caring.

It’s by entering the mess.

It’s by refusing to walk away.

Because someday, when this life is over and we stand before our Savior, I don’t think we’re going to wish we had spent more time scrolling.

More time arguing.

More time worrying about things that didn’t matter.

More time trying to impress people who weren’t paying attention anyway.

I think we’ll wish we had loved more.

Listened more.

Forgiven more.

Prayed more.

And been there more.

So today…

Put the phone down.

Look up.

Look around.

Look into someone’s eyes.

Ask them how they’re really doing.

And when they finally tell you…

don’t rush away.

Stay.

Because sometimes your willingness to stay may be the very thing God uses to remind a broken heart:

“You are not alone.”

And perhaps that’s what being the hands and feet of Jesus really looks like.

**Not just being present…

but being fully, completely, sacrificially ENGAGED.

Be present. Be engaged. Love like Jesus.

Someone may be silently begging for someone to notice them today.

Please don’t be too busy to see them. ~OC

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