As Jesus’ birth drew near, Bethlehem was crowded and restless. Because of the Roman census, families were arriving from every direction to register, including Joseph and Mary, traveling late in pregnancy. Homes were full, guest rooms taken, animals sheltered close to families for warmth. Shepherds were likely in the fields outside town, watching flocks through the cold night hours. Ordinary life was busy and strained, yet God was quietly bringing His promise to completion. On this day, the Messiah was not yet seen—but He was very near.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
There is a particular kind of weight that comes with leadership in a small rural community. It is not loud or dramatic. It does not announce itself. It settles in quietly and stays. You carry it when you unlock buildings early in the morning, when you answer questions no one else has time to answer, when you make decisions knowing there is no backup team waiting behind you. This year has been full of that kind of weight.
In rural East Texas, leadership is less about titles and more about presence. People know where you live. They know your family. They see whether you show up consistently or disappear when things get hard. Stewardship here is personal. You are not managing abstractions; you are caring for places and people with names, histories, and long memories. That responsibility can be humbling, and it can be heavy, especially when the year brings grief alongside progress.
As an engineer, I spend much of my time working with systems, infrastructure, and technology. Fiber routes, wireless links, power systems, networks that must stay up even when conditions are less than ideal. This year reinforced something I already knew but needed to relearn: technology is never the purpose. It is a tool. It exists to serve people, not to replace presence, wisdom, or care. Infrastructure matters deeply, but only because of what it enables—connection, opportunity, safety, and dignity. When the work becomes only about equipment or metrics, something essential is lost.
There were many days this year when exhaustion and calling pulled in opposite directions. Fatigue does not always come from doing too much; sometimes it comes from caring deeply over a long period of time. There were moments when it would have been easier to step back, to delay decisions, to wait for someone else to take responsibility. But calling is persistent. It does not shout. It simply asks, again and again, whether you will show up today.
Patience has been one of the quiet lessons of this year. Progress in rural places is slow by nature, and that slowness can feel frustrating in a world accustomed to rapid change. Trust grows the same way. It is built through small, repeated acts of reliability. Showing up on time. Following through. Listening more than speaking. These habits rarely make headlines, but they form the foundation of healthy communities.
Faith has been less about answers and more about posture. There were seasons of waiting when clarity did not come quickly. In those moments, faith looked like staying present, doing the next right thing, and trusting that light does not always arrive all at once. Often it comes like morning—gradually, almost unnoticed at first, until suddenly you realize you can see farther than you could before.
Grief has been part of the landscape this year as well. Loss changes how time feels. It reshapes priorities. It has a way of stripping away what is unnecessary and leaving what truly matters. In that sense, grief has also clarified calling. It has reminded me that people are not projects, and that leadership is ultimately an act of care.
As 2026 approaches, there is plenty that could invite fear: uncertainty, resource constraints, the complexity of rural challenges. But fear is not a useful guide. Hope, grounded in faith, is steadier. It does not deny difficulty; it simply refuses to let difficulty have the final word. Looking forward, the goal is not perfection or speed, but faithfulness—continuing to build, serve, and lead with integrity, even when the work remains unfinished.
So the choice at the end of this year is a simple one. To keep walking forward. To trust that God is at work in the quiet, steady moments more than in the loud ones. To believe that showing up, again and again, is itself an act of faith. And to rest in the confidence that light, even when it comes slowly, is still light.
Today we light the third candle of Advent—the Shepherds’ Candle—the candle of Joy.
Its color is different for a reason. Joy is not merely another virtue in the Advent lineup; it is the evidence that the world is already being changed by God’s promise.
Joy appears before circumstances improve. Joy arrives while the night is still dark. It is the shepherd’s fire on a hillside, burning long before the sunrise.
The Revised Common Lectionary gives us a vivid tapestry this morning—texts that speak to people living under pressure, uncertainty, and discouragement. In each passage, joy does not arise from ease but from the assurance of God’s nearness.
I. “Sing Aloud… Rejoice with All Your Heart”
Zephaniah 3:14–20
Zephaniah speaks to a people who have been shaken, scattered, and exhausted by judgment and loss. Their world has been unstable. Their future has been uncertain.
Yet the prophet commands what their emotions do not feel ready to offer: Sing. Rejoice. Lift up your heart.
This is not denial; it is revelation.
Zephaniah tells them why they can rejoice:
“The Lord, your God, is in your midst… He will rejoice over you with gladness… He will renew you in His love.”
The joy of God’s people begins with the joy of God Himself.
Before the shepherds rejoiced, Heaven rejoiced over them. Before Bethlehem sang, God was already singing.
There are moments in all our lives when joy feels beyond reach—when responsibilities tower, when exhaustion settles in, when losses pull on the heart. Yet Scripture invites us to trust that God’s joy reaches us long before we can reach it ourselves.
II. “Surely God Is My Salvation”
Isaiah 12:2–6
Isaiah’s song is the testimony of someone who has come through deep waters and discovered that God did not abandon them.
“God is my strength and my song… With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.”
Joy is not a shallow emotion.
Joy is the water you draw when everything else has run dry.
Joy is the evidence that God has not merely saved you from something but saved you for something—to live, to hope, to become a witness of His faithfulness.
The shepherds understood this. Their lives were ordinary, hidden, uncelebrated. Yet when the angels declared “good news of great joy,” their hearts recognized it instantly. This was the water their souls had longed for.
III. “Rejoice in the Lord Always”
Philippians 4:4–7
Paul writes these words from a place of confinement. There is no comfort in his setting. Yet he instructs the church to live with a joy that cannot be cancelled by circumstance.
“Rejoice in the Lord always… The Lord is near.”
Joy is not a reaction. Joy is a posture.
Joy anchors us when anxiety rises. Joy guards the heart when pressures mount. Joy flows from the confidence that Christ is not far away—He is near, attentive, present.
And Paul says this nearness produces something profound:
“The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
The shepherds would soon stand in that peace, beholding a newborn King in a manger. What Paul proclaims in a prison is exactly what the angels announced in the fields: God has come near.
IV. John the Baptist and the Joy of Expectation
Luke 3:7–18
Luke’s Gospel offers a surprising text for a Sunday dedicated to joy. John the Baptist’s message is blunt, confrontational, and demanding. He calls people to repentance, integrity, and transformation.
And yet the passage ends with this assertion:
“So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.”
Good news and repentance are not competing ideas.
True joy is impossible without transformation. Joy is what emerges when God clears the debris, breaks the chains, and calls us into honest, renewed living.
John’s message prepared the people to receive the Christ-child with hearts ready, uncluttered, and awakened. The angels announced joy; John cleared the way for that joy to take root.
The shepherds illustrate what this looks like: when God interrupts your ordinary life with His glory, you move. You go. You see. You bear witness. And you return “glorifying and praising God” because joy has become personal.
V. The Shepherds’ Candle for Us Today
Advent joy is not naïve. It is not blind to hardship, pressure, or grief. It is not manufactured by effort.
It is the recognition that:
God is in our midst.
God rejoices over us.
God renews us in His love.
God draws near when the world is dark.
God speaks truth that sets us free.
God opens wells of salvation where we thought only dryness existed.
Joy is the shepherd’s discovery—that the long-promised Messiah has come not to the palace but to the quiet fields where ordinary people stand watch at night.
Joy is not found by escaping our responsibilities; it is found when Christ steps into them.
Joy is not the absence of strain; it is the presence of a Savior.
Joy is the announcement that Heaven came looking for us.
VI. Joy in the Midst of Family Life
Let me speak directly to what many of us face this Advent season.
For the parent working long hours: You clock in before dawn at the plant or the refinery. You drive the highways to Beaumont or Port Arthur. You come home tired, and the house still needs tending, the kids still need help with homework, and Christmas is coming whether you’re ready or not.
Joy is not waiting for you at the end of a less demanding season. Joy meets you in the truck on the way home. Joy sits with you at the kitchen table. The Lord is near—even there.
For the mom holding everything together: You’re managing schedules, stretching the budget, keeping peace between siblings, and wondering if you’re doing enough. December multiplies the pressure—school programs, family gatherings, gifts to buy when money is already tight.
Hear what Zephaniah says: God rejoices over you. Before you get it all figured out. Before the laundry is done. Before you feel like you’ve measured up. He is already singing over you.
For the grandparent raising grandchildren: You thought these years would look different. Instead, you’re back in the thick of it—school lunches, discipline, bedtimes—when your body is tired and your heart carries grief over what led to this.
Joy does not ignore your weariness. But joy reminds you: God sees your faithfulness. He has not forgotten you. The same God who sent angels to shepherds working the night shift sends His presence to you.
For the family walking through grief: This Christmas, there’s an empty chair. The holidays remind you of who’s missing—a spouse, a parent, a child. Joy feels like a word for other people.
But Advent joy is not cheerfulness. It is the deep-water confidence that God draws near to the brokenhearted. Isaiah’s wells of salvation are for those who have walked through the valley. You are not forgotten. You are held.
For the young family just getting started: Maybe you’re newly married, or you’ve got little ones underfoot, and you’re trying to build something on one income or two jobs. You look around at what others have and wonder when your turn comes.
The shepherds had nothing but their flocks and their fields. And God came to them first. Joy is not reserved for those who have arrived. Joy is given to those who are willing to receive.
For the one battling anxiety or depression: Some of us carry burdens that don’t show on the outside. The holidays can make it worse—expectations, gatherings, the gap between how things look and how things feel.
Paul wrote “Rejoice in the Lord always” from a prison cell. He was not pretending everything was fine. He was anchoring himself in a truth deeper than his circumstances. You can bring your real struggle to a real Savior. He does not require you to clean up first.
VII. A Word for This Community
We live in a place where people know how to work hard and look after their own. We’ve weathered storms—the kind that come off the Gulf and the kind that come through family crisis. We’ve rebuilt after floods. We’ve buried people we loved too soon. We’ve held together when times got lean.
And Advent says to us: Even here, Joy approaches.
Not because everything is resolved. Not because life has become easy. But because the Lord is near.
When the shepherds ran to Bethlehem that night, they were not running toward relief. They were running toward revelation—a God who chooses the humble places, who draws close to the weary, who brings joy to those who least expect it.
That same God stands near you today.
And because He is near, joy is possible.
VIII. A Call to Respond
What does it look like to receive this joy?
First, believe it is for you. Not for people with easier lives. Not for people more spiritual than you feel. For you—in your tiredness, your doubts, your ordinary days.
Second, make room for it. This week, take even five minutes away from the noise. Sit with the Lord. Let Him remind you that He is near. You cannot hurry joy, but you can clear space for it.
Third, share it. The shepherds did not keep what they found to themselves. They told everyone. Joy multiplies when it moves through families, through neighbors, through a church that refuses to let anyone walk alone.
This Advent, let the Shepherds’ Candle burn in your home—not as decoration, but as declaration: The Lord is near. And because He is near, we have joy.
Closing Prayer
Lord, we thank You for the joy that does not depend on circumstance but on Your presence.
Renew us in Your love.
Clear our hearts by Your truth.
Let the wells of salvation open again within us.
Meet the tired parent on the drive home.
Comfort the grieving at the empty chair.
Strengthen the grandparent giving more than they thought they had left.
Anchor the anxious heart in Your peace.
And may we, like the shepherds, become witnesses of the joy that has entered the world—
The light of Christ does not arrive after the night ends—it enters while it is still dark. God’s promise is not that suffering will disappear before He comes, but that His presence is stronger than any darkness you’re walking through.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
For centuries, Israel walked in shadows. They were exiled, oppressed, silenced—waiting for God to return. They didn’t know when or how. But the prophets kept whispering: Light is coming. Not someday when everything is fixed. Not after you’ve earned it. The light comes into the darkness, meeting you exactly where you are.
Isaiah 40:1-11
“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God… The voice of one calling: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way for the LORD; make straight in the desert a highway for our God.'”
God doesn’t wait for the path to be perfect before He comes. He comes into the wilderness—the place of broken things, lost things, wandering things. And His coming transforms the terrain itself. The desert becomes a highway. The crooked places are made straight. You don’t have to clean yourself up first.
Malachi 3:1
“I will send my messenger, who will prepare the way before me. Then suddenly the Lord you are seeking will come to his temple.”
After 400 years of silence, God promises to speak again. The people had given up hope. They thought God had abandoned them. But He was preparing His coming all along. In your silence, in your waiting, in your despair—God is preparing His coming too.
Luke 1:26-38
Mary’s encounter with Gabriel. An ordinary girl in an ordinary place receives an extraordinary promise. “The Lord is with you,” the angel says. Not because Mary deserves it. Not because she’s perfect or ready. But because God chooses her. And she chooses to trust.
Luke 2:25-32
Simeon has waited his whole life for God’s promise. “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace, for my eyes have seen your salvation.” He recognized Jesus immediately—not because he was looking for a king, but because he knew what hope looked like after a lifetime of waiting.
John 8:12
“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
Jesus doesn’t say the darkness goes away when you follow Him. He says you won’t walk in it alone. The light walks with you, through you, ahead of you.
What This Means for You
Your darkness is not disqualifying. God’s light doesn’t wait for you to get better, sober, stronger, or more worthy. It comes for you in the mess, in the relapse, in the confusion. That’s when it matters most.
Waiting doesn’t mean abandonment. Israel waited 400 years. You may have waited years for healing. That silence wasn’t absence—it was God preparing His coming. Your waiting is not wasted.
Hope is not naive. Israel knew their pain. They lived it every day. But they also knew God’s promises. Healing doesn’t deny the darkness; it walks through it with company. Your hope can hold both the pain and the promise.
You are seen and called by name. Like Mary. Like Simeon. Like the people Isaiah spoke to. You are not invisible to God. He knows your wilderness and your waiting. He comes for you personally.
The light exposes to heal, not to shame. When Christ’s light comes into darkness, it reveals what was hidden—not to condemn you, but to heal you. In recovery, you learn to name your pain, your choices, your truth. That exposure is the beginning of freedom, not judgment.
You can trust the light. After years of living in darkness—whether addiction, abuse, silence, or shame—trusting light feels dangerous. But Jesus says: follow me. You won’t walk alone. The light is stronger than any relapse, any failure, any day you think you can’t make it.
Discussion Questions
What kinds of darkness have you walked through? What did that darkness feel like?
Israel waited 400 years for God to speak. When have you waited for hope? What sustained you?
When light breaks through after long darkness, what does that feel like? Does it ever feel scary?
In your recovery or healing, where have you experienced God “entering the darkness” rather than waiting for things to be perfect first?
What does it mean that the light comes while you’re still walking in darkness, not after the darkness ends?
How does it change things to know that Christ’s light exposes wounds to heal them, not to shame you?
Who in your life has been “light” to you when you were in a dark place?
This Week’s Practice
Read Isaiah 9:1 each morning. Let it be your mirror. You are the people walking in darkness. The light has come for you.
Journal one word each day: “One way I see light breaking through today…” Notice small things—a moment of peace, a connection with someone, a choice you made toward healing, grace you received.
Sit in one dark room this week. Literally. Sit in darkness for 5-10 minutes. Notice how even a small light—a candle, a phone screen—changes everything. Let that be your prayer: Jesus, be that light for me.
Memorize: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2)
Call or text one person this week who has been light to you in your darkness. Thank them. Tell them what their presence meant.
Daily Reflections
DAY 1 – DARKNESS AND LONGING
Read Isaiah 9:1-7
Imagine Israel waiting. Centuries of waiting. Foreign rulers, broken temples, silence from heaven. But in that darkness, they held onto a promise: the light is coming.
Where in your life do you feel like you’re waiting? In your recovery? In your relationships? In your faith?
Ask God: “Help me wait without losing hope. Show me signs that You’re coming, even now.”
DAY 2 – GOD IN THE WILDERNESS
Read Isaiah 40:1-11
God doesn’t meet us at the finish line. He meets us in the wilderness—where we’re lost, broken, confused.
What does your wilderness look like right now? Where do you feel most lost?
Sit with this: God is preparing a highway through your desert. Not to skip the hard parts, but to make a way through them. You’re not alone in there.
DAY 3 – AFTER THE SILENCE
Read Malachi 3:1
Four hundred years. That’s how long Israel waited after God stopped speaking. Four hundred years of silence. And then: “I will send my messenger.”
Have you experienced silence from God? A time when you didn’t hear His voice, didn’t feel His presence?
Healing often begins in silence. Sometimes God is quiet not because He’s absent, but because He’s coming. Write: “One way I’ve experienced God’s silence was…”
DAY 4 – CALLED BY NAME
Read Luke 1:26-38
Mary was nobody important. Just a young girl in a small town. But when the angel came, he didn’t say, “You’ve earned this.” He said, “The Lord is with you.”
God doesn’t call the qualified. He qualifies the called. He comes to ordinary people in ordinary places and says: You. I choose you.
Ask yourself: What would change if I truly believed God chose me—not because I’m perfect, but because I’m His?
DAY 5 – RECOGNIZING THE LIGHT
Read Luke 2:25-32
Simeon waited his whole life. He was old. He had waited so long he might have stopped looking. But when Jesus came, he knew. Something in him recognized what he’d been waiting for.
In your recovery, have you had moments where you suddenly recognized healing? Where hope showed up when you least expected it?
Write: “I recognized God’s light when…”
DAY 6 – WALKING IN LIGHT
Read John 8:12
“Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
Not: the darkness goes away. Not: you’ll never struggle again.
But: you will not walk alone. The light walks with you.
In what area of your recovery do you most need to remember: I’m not walking this alone?
DAY 7 – REST IN THE PROMISE
Read all passages from this week, slowly.
This week, you’ve sat with Israel’s waiting, with God’s silence, with His sudden breaking-through. You’ve remembered that light doesn’t wait for perfection. It comes into the mess.
Today, simply rest. Let yourself feel seen by God. Let yourself trust that the light you’ve seen—in yourself, in your recovery, in God’s grace—is real and strong.
Write: “The light I’m holding onto this week is…”
A Word for You
You are not too dark for God’s light. You are not too far gone, too broken, too much of a mess. The light of Christ enters darkness—it doesn’t wait for the darkness to leave first. In your recovery, in your healing, you are learning to walk in that light. Some days it feels bright. Some days it’s just a flicker. But it’s there. And it’s stronger than you know.
Next Week: The Gift of Presence (Luke 2, Matthew 2; Incarnation and Emmanuel)
The story of Job begins with blessing and ends with brokenness. In Job chapters 1 and 2, Scripture introduces a man described as blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil. He had seven sons, three daughters, and abundant wealth. Job’s life seemed stable, ordered, and blessed. Then, in a single day, everything collapsed.
The book opens with a heavenly scene where Satan challenges God, questioning whether Job’s devotion is genuine or just a result of prosperity. God allows Job to be tested, permitting the loss of everything he owns. One messenger after another brings devastating news: raiders steal the oxen and donkeys, fire consumes the sheep, enemies seize the camels, and a violent wind destroys the house where his children are feasting. In moments, Job loses his wealth, his workers, and his children.
Job’s reaction is remarkable. He grieves, tears his robe, and falls to the ground in worship, saying, “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” When tested further with physical suffering, covered from head to toe with painful sores, Job still refuses to curse God. His wife, overcome by despair, urges him to give up, but Job replies, “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?”
The chapters close with Job sitting in ashes while his friends arrive to comfort him. They are so shocked by his condition that they remain silent for seven days.
These opening scenes set the tone for the rest of the book. Job’s world has ended, yet his faith remains. The story shows that faith is not proven in the moments when everything is going right but in the moments when everything falls apart. Job teaches that pain does not always mean punishment, and silence does not mean God has left.
When life feels unfair or when tragedy strikes suddenly, Job’s story reminds us that faith can survive the storm. Even when the world ends for us personally, God’s sovereignty and mercy endure.
There’s a weight we don’t often talk about in church life—the grief that lingers in the soul when things don’t work out the way we prayed they would. Jeremiah knew that weight. He wrote, “Oh, that my head were a spring of water and my eyes a fountain of tears! I would weep day and night for the slain of my people” (Jeremiah 9:1). The psalmist prayed something similar: “Help us, O God of our salvation, for the glory of your name; deliver us, and forgive our sins, for your name’s sake” (Psalm 79:9).
Both voices remind us that lament is not just personal sadness—it’s a holy act of naming the pain before God.
Lament in Scripture, Lament in Life
When I read Jeremiah’s words, I hear echoes of seasons in my own journey. There have been moments where I’ve had to sit across from friends, colleagues, or family members, knowing that words couldn’t fix the brokenness we were facing. Times when projects I poured years into were stalled by forces beyond my control. Times when communities I love were fractured, and I felt powerless to heal the divides.
I’ve often carried those burdens quietly, as an engineer, a leader, a brother, a son. Like many men, I was taught to just keep going, solve the next problem, make the next call. But Scripture teaches that silence isn’t the only response—lament is.
What Lament Looks Like
Lament is not despair. It’s not quitting. It’s a turning of the heart toward God when life feels too heavy to carry. It’s saying out loud what we’d rather keep inside:
This hurts. I don’t understand. God, why does it seem like you’re far away?
Lament opens a door to hope because it refuses to let pain have the last word.
Carrying Pain in a World of Injustice
The prophet Amos points out that part of our pain comes from living in a world where injustice is real. He names those who trample the needy and cheat the poor. I’ve seen versions of that play out in Southeast Texas—families weighed down by the unfair cost of living, workers underpaid while corporations thrive, small towns overlooked when resources are allocated.
My own work in rural broadband has been shaped by that reality. It grieves me that whole communities are still left behind in an age where connection determines opportunity. That’s not just a technical problem—it’s a justice issue. And lament, at its heart, is agreeing with God that this isn’t how things should be.
Learning to Pray the Pain
Paul urges us in 1 Timothy to pray “for all people—for kings and all who are in high positions.” That’s not easy when leaders disappoint us, but it’s part of carrying pain rightly. Prayer puts lament into motion, turning grief into intercession.
I’ve had to learn this the hard way. In seasons where leadership at church or in business felt uncertain, I wanted to either fix everything or walk away. Instead, God has gently reminded me to pray—not just for outcomes, but for people. Prayer doesn’t erase pain, but it transforms how we carry it.
Choosing the Treasure That Lasts
Jesus’ parable of the dishonest manager ends with this line: “You cannot serve God and wealth.” For me, that lands like a compass point. All the work, all the projects, all the energy—none of it can become the ultimate treasure. Pain has a way of reminding us what really matters.
When I’ve lost deals, faced setbacks, or been misunderstood, the Spirit has pressed me back to what lasts: relationships, faith, hope, and love. Those are eternal treasures.
Walking Forward with Honest Hearts
So what do we do with the pain we carry? We learn to lament. We give voice to Jeremiah’s tears and the psalmist’s cries. We name injustice, we pray for people in power, and we re-orient our hearts to the treasure of God’s kingdom.
If you’re carrying something heavy today, don’t bury it. Pray it. Cry it. Write it. Let lament be your way of standing before God honestly. Because in the end, lament is not just about pain—it’s about trust. Trust that God hears. Trust that God heals. Trust that His kingdom will come, even in Southeast Texas, even in my life and yours.
Title: Living the New Life by Compass in a Fractured World Texts: Ephesians 4:22–24; 2 Corinthians 5:17–20; John 15:5; Colossians 3:17
Opening Prayer
Lord Jesus, Thank You for offering us a new name amid this week’s heartaches—Kirk’s loss, Evergreen’s terror, Memphis’ violence, and Vidor’s wounds. As we gather, be our compass in this fractured world. Strip away our old selves—our fears, our furies—and clothe us with the new. Align us with Your Vine so that we may bear fruit in places that feel barren. Amen.
Introduction – A Fractured World Needs a Compass
My heart is heavy. This week has fractured us again:
Charlie Kirk assassinated in Utah.
Evergreen High School torn by gunfire.
Memphis, Minneapolis, and Fort Wayne wracked by shootings.
And closer to home, Vidor shaken by a woman shot in her apartment, a police chase, and a car hijacking with a family inside.
These are more than headlines. They are mirrors. They expose the anger, fear, and indifference inside us. And they leave us in a liminal space — in between grief and hope.
In those spaces, we need more than maps of opinion, ideology, or rage. We need a compass. Not a device in our pocket — but Christ Himself, our true North.
1. The Quiet Question: Where Am I Going?
Ephesians 4:22–24 calls us to shed the old self and put on the new.
The old self is what fuels violence — vengeance in Utah, despair in Colorado, cycles of revenge in Memphis, desperation in Vidor. But the old self lives in me too. I’ve worn names like “failure” and “not enough,” especially after Joshua’s death.
A compass question cuts through the noise: Who am I becoming?
Youth Call-out (12–18): You hear names and labels every day — “popular,” “awkward,” “try-hard.” But your real compass isn’t popularity or reputation. It’s who Christ is shaping you to become.
2. A New Name, A New Compass
Revelation 2:17 promises: “To the one who overcomes I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it.”
God doesn’t just hand us directions — He renames us. Abram became Abraham. Jacob became Israel. Simon became Peter. I once thought “unworthy” was my name. But Christ renamed me.
A compass doesn’t just point you somewhere. It tells you who you are becoming.
Reflection: What old names still cling to you? How does Christ rename you?
3. The Call to Shed the Old Self
Paul says the old self must go. But that’s not one big decision — it’s a daily compass check.
Ask yourself:
Who am I becoming?
What pain am I avoiding that God wants to redeem?
What can I serve without applause?
This week I felt anger over Kirk’s death, fear for classrooms turned battlegrounds, judgment toward Vidor’s suspects. But renewal starts by taking those thoughts captive, by surrendering them daily.
Romans 5:3–5 reminds us: suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope. That’s compass work.
4. Ambassadors with Authority
2 Corinthians 5:20 says: “We are Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making His appeal through us.”
Ambassadors don’t speak their own agenda. They represent their King. After Kirk’s assassination, we don’t answer with vengeance but reconciliation. After Evergreen, we don’t harden, we heal. In Memphis and Vidor, we stand with victims, break cycles of despair, and show mercy.
Authority without compass becomes arrogance. Authority with compass becomes mission.
Youth Call-out (12–18): Think about being the “rep” for your school at a competition. You don’t just speak for yourself — you represent everyone. That’s what being Christ’s ambassador means. People see Jesus in how you live.
5. Abiding: The Anchor in the In-Between
John 15:5 says: “I am the vine; you are the branches… apart from Me you can do nothing.”
Authority without abiding turns to arrogance. Abiding aligns our compass to true North. It’s what turns wounds into wisdom, chaos into fruit. For me, abiding has meant praying over Joshua’s memory, letting grief refine me instead of define me.
Practice: Take five minutes daily. Breathe in God’s grace, exhale fear or vengeance, and listen. Abiding is the only way to stay aligned.
Youth Call-out (12–18): You can’t run your phone on one charge all week. Same with your soul. Stay plugged into Jesus daily — prayer, Scripture, worship — and you’ll bear fruit that lasts.
Application – Living the Compass Life
So, what does this mean for us tomorrow?
Shed the Old Self – Identify one “old name” (anger, fear, indifference) and surrender it.
Live as an Ambassador – Ask: Am I reflecting Christ in my community? Take one step this week: pray, serve, reconcile.
Abide Daily – Pause five minutes a day. Let Christ be your compass.
Living by clocks and calendars keeps us busy. Living by compass keeps us aligned.
Conclusion
This fractured world leaves us asking: Where am I going? Who am I becoming?
The Gospel answers:
You are renamed.
You are renewed.
You are sent as an ambassador.
You are rooted by abiding.
“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)
In the liminal space of 2025, let Christ be your compass.
Closing Prayer
Lord Jesus, Thank You for renaming us, renewing us, and sending us. Help us to shed the old, live as Your ambassadors, and stay rooted in the Vine. In this fractured world, keep us walking by Your compass, not our culture’s maps. May we bear fruit that heals and hope that lasts. Amen.
Charlie Kirk was just 31 years old. A speaker about faith in God, a passionate advocate for what he believed, and—beyond all titles—a human being. Like every one of us, he was a unique creation, fashioned in the image of God. That truth alone makes his death tragic.
I am deeply saddened that someone felt motivated to murder him instead of speaking to him, listening, or even debating with him. Words may cut, but they can also build bridges. To bypass dialogue and take a life is to step into the place of God—as judge and executioner for the universe. That is a role none of us are worthy to assume.
This act is more than political. It is a wound in the fabric of our humanity. Violence against any person—friend, foe, or stranger—reveals how far we fall when we stop seeing each other as God’s handiwork. Every life is sacred, and when one is taken unjustly, we are all diminished.
As Christians, we are called to something higher. We are reminded:
“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’” (Romans 12:19)
Judgment belongs to God. Our call is to love, to bear witness to truth with grace, and to pray for those we disagree with—even when it feels impossible.
So let us grieve. Let us pray for Charlie’s family, friends, and the countless young people who looked to him for guidance. Let us also pray for our nation, that words might replace weapons, and conversations might replace condemnation.
And let us remember: in God’s eyes, no person is disposable. Each of us carries eternal worth. May that truth shape how we speak, how we act, and how we disagree.
Many years ago the brilliant scientist, Sir Isaac Newton, made a working model of the solar system. At the center of his model was a large golden ball representing the sun. Revolving around it were the planets, represented by smaller spheres attached to the ends of rods of varying lengths.
One day a friend who did not accept the biblical account of creation stopped by to visit Newton. When he came into Newton’s study and saw the working model of the solar system, he exclaimed, “What an exquisite thing! Who made it?”
“No one.” replied Newton.
“No one?” the man responded with a look of unbelief and skepticism.
“That’s right,” continued Newton, “these various sized spheres and rods and gears just happened to come together and form this intricate working model.”
Newton’s friend got the message: if this little table model bore silent testimony to its creator, how much more do the heavens declare the glory of God their Creator!
Sinful man seeks to reject the fact that the Lord our God is the Creator of the world and all things in it. Romans 1:18 tells us, “the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all the ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness.”
The first sentence of the first chapter of the first book of the Bible sets before us the truth about God as the Creator of the world and all that it contains in contradistinction to the false views held by sinful man.
CREATION The First Message Of The Bible (Genesis 1:1-2) This Bible study course considers the text of Genesis 1:1-2 where God reveals Himself to be the majestic Creator and describes the initial condition of the earth at the time of its creation.
God’s Work Of Creation (Genesis 1:3-25) This Bible study course discusses the creation events that occurred during the six days of the creation week.
The Pinnacle Of God’s Creation (Genesis 1:26-2:3) This Bible study course focuses on man as the pinnacle of God’s creation, as well as the ultimate destiny God has determined for the creation.
What Is Man? (Genesis 2:4-25) This Bible study course discusses man’s relationship to God his Creator and the purpose for which he has been created.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 