A couple months ago, my best friend called me and said he wanted to be baptized this summer, and that he wanted me to do it in the river where we used to do camping trips. What an amazing honor!

Recently, he and I got to spend some good time chatting, and talking about why he wants to be baptized. His main reason is a recommitment to his faith, and a marker for a changed life in Jesus.

I love asking questions like, “Why do you want to be baptized?” and “What do you mean by a recommitment to your faith?” Because when I ask these questions, I take the opportunity to answer them for myself. This conversation got me thinking a lot about baptism these past few days. Baptism isn’t an act of salvation, but it is a public declaration that I want my life to take a 180-degree turn. I want to stop going my way and start going Jesus’ way. And it’s a commitment to show people in your life that you don’t want to keep living the way you have been.

(Side note: if you've never been baptized and the Lord is laying that on your heart, I’d love to chat with you about it. Hope’s Baptism Sunday is Sept 13.)

The apostle Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians 5:17: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”

As I've sat with this verse and thought about baptism, I’ve questioned even myself. Is the old gone? Am I different than I was before I started following Jesus? Or am I the same, just with the addition of Jesus? These are scary, convicting questions, but ones I think are important for us to consider and revisit from time to time.

We’re called to surrender our whole lives to Jesus. Not to surrender all but my finances. Or all but my shopping habits. Or all but the way I talk to my kids and family. Or all, but my love of X, Y or Z. You can fill in the blanks for your own situation, but I think you see my point. It’s easy to give Jesus part of our lives: it’s hard to surrender all.

Last Sunday, Pastor Nick shared the question, “What are you actually spending your life on?” Chances are, if you’ve surrendered every part of your life to Jesus, then you’re probably spending your life on the right things. But if you’re holding parts back for safety, comfort or time: You’re not alone. I’m in this camp.

One of the songs we sang last Sunday had the lyric, “I lift my hands up, lay my whole life down, my whole life down before You.” It was hard for me to sing that, because I don’t think I can say that’s honestly true. I know there are things I’m holding back from God, and I’m sure there are more things I have blinders for and don’t even realize I’m holding back.

My prayer this week for me and you is that God reveals the things in our lives we’re holding on to and to release those to Him, knowing He will never let us down. May you experience abundant blessings this week as you lean into the Author and Perfector of our faith. (Hebrews 12:2)

Blessings,
Charlie

Like many of you, I found myself a little captivated last month watching Artemis II unfold. The images, the anticipation, the sheer wonder of it all. There’s something about space that pulls us out of the ordinary rhythms of life and reminds us that we’re part of something much bigger than our daily routines.

When talking about Artemis II a friend shared with me a phrase called “the overview effect,” a term coined by space philosopher Frank White. Astronauts describe it as the experience of seeing Earth from space and suddenly realizing how small, fragile, and unified everything is. Borders disappear. Divisions feel artificial. The things that seemed so important down here lose their grip. And in their place comes this deep sense that we actually belong to one another. It’s striking, isn’t it? That it often takes that kind of distance to see clearly.

Because most of us don’t struggle with a lack of information. We struggle with a lack of
perspective. We live close to everything. Close to our opinions. Close to our frustrations. Close to the headlines, the algorithms, the constant noise telling us who to be for and who to be against. And when you live that close for that long, everything starts to feel bigger than it actually is. Every disagreement feels personal. Every difference feels like distance.

So we slowly lose sight of what matters most. Instead of lifting our eyes, we lower them. We get caught in what could be called a kind of navel gazing. Our world shrinks down to our
preferences, our opinions, our frustrations, our little corners of life. And when that happens, it becomes easier to divide, to label, to other. It becomes easier to forget that the person across from us shares the same breath, the same fragility, the same need for grace. Not because the world got smaller, but because our vision did.

“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” (Colossians 3:2)

You don’t need to leave the earth to see this clearly. You just need to lift your eyes. To look
beyond yourself. To remember that the person in front of you is not your enemy but your
neighbor. To recognize that in a world that feels fractured and divided, Jesus is still holding all things together, including us.

Maybe the invitation this week is simple. Step out of the small story you’ve been living in. Lift your gaze. Pay attention to the bigger picture. And then step back into your relationships with that kind of perspective.

Because when we begin to see rightly, we begin to love differently.

peace,
Nick

A letter showed up in my mailbox a couple weeks ago. The road outside our neighborhood is going under construction, and the completion date is more than a year away. A full year. That was the first thing I noticed.

My first reaction was honest annoyance. I started writing the complaint in my head before I'd even finished reading. The detours. The dust. The extra ten minutes every time we leave the house. I had a whole year of grumbling already lined up and ready to go.

But then I kept reading.

The plan is actually pretty incredible. Wider lanes. New sidewalks where there aren't any now. Landscaping. Real improvements that will make this corner of Wichita better for everyone who lives here and drives through. When it's finished, it will genuinely be a better road.

So I have a choice in front of me. I can complain for twelve months about what's torn up, or I can be expectant about what's being built. Same construction. Same inconvenience. Two very different ways to live through it.

Sitting with that letter, I started thinking about the seasons in our own lives that look a lot like this. Sometimes we get a notice we didn't ask for. Things we thought were settled get torn up. Routines we counted on stop working. Relationships we assumed would always feel a certain way are suddenly under repair. It's disorienting. It's inconvenient. We're tempted to spend the whole season complaining about the mess.

But what if the mess is evidence that something is being built?

Paul writes, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus (Philippians 1:6). That's a construction verse. God is not finished with us. The work He started He intends to complete, and the in-between is rarely tidy.

We don't get to grow without seasons that feel torn up. Growing pains are real, and so is the growth. The dust and the detours don't mean something has gone wrong. They might mean something is finally moving.

I don't want to stay stagnant. I'd rather be inconvenienced and growing than comfortable and stuck. So when the cones go up next week, and when whatever season we're in gets messy, may we have eyes to see what's being built and patience to live in the meantime.

peace,
Nick

I recently finished another year of post grad school and all the reading that goes with it. This week, I'm on vacation with my husband and I've finally had time to read books of my choice.

One of the books I've read is So You Don’t Want to Go to Church Anymore, by Wayne Jacobsen and Dave Coleman. I don’t know what I expected from this particular book. Maybe encouragement for how to get connected in church, or ways to help people feel loved and cared for. Maybe with some “how to” lists for spiritual growth sprinkled in. Instead, I read the story of a pastor disillusioned with Sunday mornings, feeling burnt-out and spiritually empty.

It hit a little too close to home at times.

I think for a long time, I’ve tried to find closeness to God by simply attending church. Like, if I’m a good Christian, if I attend every week then somehow God will make me feel His presence.

I think for many of us, at one time or another, we've seen church as something you do in order to be a “good Christian.” (But wait: did Christ say that salvation comes through attending a weekly service? Or did he say, “Follow me”?)

Anyone else feel they’ve been stuck in a rut, just going through the motions? It’s kind of scary as a pastor to admit that I’ve been stuck in that rut. I’m supposed to have it all together, right?

I guess I’m just trying to be real and say the quiet part out loud... sometimes it’s hard to get myself into the Barn on Sundays.

But what if...

What if, instead of seeing church as an obligation, I treated it as a weekly celebration of life in Christ? What if, instead of mumbling the words to the songs, I stayed seated in my chair and let the words guide my prayers? Or even sang as if I was singing to God Himself? What if, instead of reading the scripture on the screen, I actually opened my physical Bible to see with my own eyes what the word of God says? What if, instead of expecting “the church” to make me feel close to God, I actually pursued God and nothing else? Then attending church - whether it's in a building or a gathering of people around a kitchen table - would truly be a joy instead of a chore or expectation.

I love Hope and I love the people. But when I’m just going through the motions of attending church I leave just as empty as when I entered. But, when I shift my thinking to remember that I’m gathering WITH the church – with the people of Jesus – I leave with a full heart.

So how about you? This week will you be attending church, or gathering with the church?

Just something to think about,

Pastor Naomi

“Some believe laments are a crutch, or even a sign of spiritual immaturity. But it’s the opposite. A lament is soaking wet with faith: a rare, pure form of faith that longs for God to keep his word.” (The Art of Asking Better Questions, J.R. Briggs)

Last week in our Hope Workshop on lament, Pastor Mark shared something I have been
pondering. He shared, “sometimes our quiet time with God might look more like a rage room.” Not exactly the picture most of us have in mind when we think about “spending time with God,” is it?

We tend to imagine calm, composed prayers. A verse, a journal, maybe some worship music in the background. But what if real intimacy with God isn’t always quiet and polished? What if, at times, it’s loud, raw, and honest? What if it sounds like, “God, this isn’t right.” Because the truth is, things aren’t right.

We live in a world that is fractured by sin and weighed down by brokenness. You feel it in your body. You see it in your relationships. You carry it in your story. And when you cry out in lament, when you name the pain and say, “This is not how it’s supposed to be,” you’re not drifting from God. You’re actually agreeing with Him.

Lament is not a lack of faith. It’s an expression of it. It’s choosing to bring your disappointment, your confusion, your anger, your grief directly to God instead of away from Him. It’s trusting that He can handle your honesty. That He welcomes it. That He would rather have your real heart than your rehearsed words.

This is why the Psalms are filled with lament. The people of God have always needed language for their pain. They’ve always needed permission to say what’s true while still holding onto hope.

Psalm 13 begins with, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” That’s not polite. That’s
not filtered. But it’s faithful. Because it’s directed toward God, not away from Him.

Lament keeps us connected when everything in us wants to disconnect. And maybe that’s where some of us are right now. Tired. Confused. Carrying things that don’t make sense. Wondering why prayers feel unanswered or why circumstances haven’t changed.

Maybe your quiet time has felt empty because you’ve been trying to keep it clean instead of making it honest. What if this week, you gave yourself permission to show up differently? What if you walked into your time with God and said exactly what’s true? Not what sounds right. Not what feels spiritual. But what’s real: God, this hurts. God, I don’t understand. God, this is not how it’s supposed to be.

That kind of prayer isn’t pushing God away. It’s drawing near. And in a strange and beautiful
way, lament becomes an act of hope. Because every lament carries an unspoken belief
underneath it: that God sees, that He cares, and that He will one day make things right.

“When we are walking, limping, crawling, dragging – or being dragged – through the valley of the shadow of death, there is no energy to pray nice and polite prayers. Mourning takes practice. And this is why we need psalms of lament.” (The Art of Asking Better Questions, J.R. Briggs)

Peace,
Nick

***If you missed last week’s Hope Workshop on Lament you can watch it HERE.

A friend of mine asked me for thirteen minutes. Just thirteen minutes of my time, and he
promised it would be worth it. I trusted him and pulled up the link, and I'm really glad I did. Now I'm asking the same of you.

It's called Forevergreen, a hand-crafted animated short film made by two Disney animators as an after-hours passion project. Two hundred volunteers donated their nights and weekends over six years, nobody got paid, and it just received an Academy Award nomination for Best Animated Short Film.

The story was inspired by the parable of the prodigal son, and the filmmakers were up-front about that. They wanted to make something true, a story about grace and redemption and what it looks like when someone receives a rescue they did nothing to earn. There's no dialogue in the film, not a single spoken word, but somehow it gets all the way inside you before you've had a chance to put your guard up.

The most common reaction people have after watching is something close to: That bear doesn't deserve this. The directors hear it all the time, and their response is simple: "Yes. You're right. None of us do."

Do you have thirteen minutes? If so, go find Forevergreen on YouTube. I don’t think you’ll
regret it.

peace,
Nick

Watch video HERE

Our new walking trail is officially done, and we want to break it in the right way. In this week's video take a walk with Nick, Steve, and Jeff as they share all the details on Walk4Refugees, happening May 9 right here at Hope. Come walk some laps, have some fun, and help raise awareness and funds for our missions partners caring for refugees locally and in Lebanon. You won't want to miss this one.

Watch the video

I've always been a glass-half-full kind of guy. Ask anyone who knows me. I'm the one at the table who says, "It'll work out," sometimes before I even know what it is. During our Easter gathering I started exploring why that instinct, as good as it sounds, might not be enough. I didn't get to finish the thought, so consider this the rest of the conversation.

There are optimistic people and pessimistic people. I've always been an optimistic one. That posture has served me well in many areas of life, but if I'm honest, there are also times when my optimism has gotten me into trouble. I've underestimated challenges, overestimated timelines, or assumed outcomes that never materialized.

That's because optimism and hope are not the same thing, even though we often use them
interchangeably.

Optimism is rooted in circumstances. It looks at the situation and says, "I think this is going to turn out okay." And when things are trending in the right direction, optimism feels natural. But when life takes a hard turn, when prayers go unanswered, when relationships strain, when health declines, or when the future feels uncertain, optimism can quietly fade away.

Hope is different.

Hope is not wishful thinking or positive vibes. Hope is anchored in who God is, not in how things are going. Scripture says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13) Notice where hope comes from. Not circumstances. Not outcomes. God Himself.

That means even in the hardest of times, hope is still available. Not because the situation is good, but because God is good. Hope doesn't deny pain or pretend things are easier than they are. Hope says, "This hurts, and God is still faithful." Hope says, "I don't see the way forward, but I trust the One who does."

The author of Hebrews says, “we have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” (Hebrews 6:19). Anchors don't remove the storm. They keep you from drifting when the storm comes. That's what hope does. It steadies us when optimism alone can't carry the weight.

So, if you're in a season where optimism feels thin, you're not failing. You may simply be being invited into something deeper. A hope that isn't fragile. A hope that doesn't depend on the odds. A hope rooted in a good God who has proven, again and again, that He can be trusted.

And that kind of hope doesn't disappoint.

peace,
Nick

This past Sunday we celebrated an empty tomb. We sang a little louder, gathered with people we love, and maybe felt something stir again that we hadn’t felt in a while. And then Monday came. The dishes are still in the sink. The news is still heavy. Your body still aches. That relationship is still strained. That prayer still feels unanswered. The world, if we’re honest, still feels broken.

So what do we do now?

Because Easter is beautiful, but Monday morning is real. It can almost feel like whiplash. We go from “He is risen!” to “Why does everything still feel like this?” And if we’re not careful, we start to wonder if Easter actually changed anything at all.

But maybe the invitation of Easter was never that everything would instantly feel fixed. Maybe it’s that something deeper has been forever changed.

The resurrection of Jesus was not the end of the story. It was the beginning of a new way to live inside the same broken world. The disciples didn’t wake up the day after Easter to a perfect life. Rome was still Rome. Injustice was still real. Fear still crept in. But something in them was now different.

Paul says it this way in Romans 8:11, “And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of his Spirit who lives in you.” The same power that walked out of the grave didn’t just change history. It moved in.

So what do we do now?

We live like resurrection people in a Good Friday world. We keep showing up. We keep loving when it’s hard. We keep forgiving when it feels undeserved. We keep believing that death doesn’t get the final word, even when everything around us feels like it is shouting otherwise. We don’t deny the brokenness. We just don’t let it define the ending.

Because Easter tells us something the world never could. The worst thing is never the last thing.

So today, if the world still feels heavy, you’re not doing Easter wrong. You’re living in the tension the first followers of Jesus felt too. But don’t miss this. The tomb is still empty. And that means hope is still alive.

peace,
Nick

I recently found myself down a Bob Dylan rabbit hole. If you haven't heard his song "Everything is Broken," do yourself a favor and pull it up today. It's from his 1989 album Oh Mercy, and it's basically Dylan cataloguing the wreckage of the world. He sings about broken hands on broken plows, broken treaties and broken vows. Broken pipes, broken tools, people bending broken rules. It goes on like that, verse after verse, and it doesn't really resolve. It just... ends. Broken. It's not a fun song. But it might be one of the most honest ones ever written.

Here's the thing: he's not wrong.

We live in a world that is, in the most fundamental sense, broken. Relationships fracture. Bodies fail. Promises don't hold. We hurt the people closest to us and sometimes we can't explain why. We build things and they fall apart. We try to fix things and make them worse. The news confirms it every morning. Our own hearts confirm it if we're paying attention.

The theological word for this is sin. And I know that word carries baggage. But just admit it, something is deeply, pervasively wrong with the world. Dylan felt it in 1989. You've felt it this week. I've felt it this week. The brokenness is real, and if we're honest, it lives in us too, not just out there.

I want to say something that might sound strange coming from a pastor in the week before Easter: don't rush past this.

The temptation around Easter is to skip straight to the good news. Flowers and full parking lots and "He is risen!" And that's all true and beautiful and worth celebrating. But if you arrive at Easter Sunday without sitting for even a moment in the weight of what's broken, the resurrection becomes just a nice idea rather than the most urgent rescue mission in human history.

Good Friday exists for a reason. The cross means something specific. Jesus didn't come into a world that just needed a little encouragement. He came into a world that Dylan, without knowing it, diagnosed perfectly. Broken. All of it. And the only way through that brokenness was for God Himself to enter it, absorb it, and defeat it.

That's Easter.

Not a holiday that pretends everything is fine. A declaration that everything broken will not have the final word. Jesus conquered sin and death, and that changes everything. It means the brokenness is real, and it is not the end of the story.

We'd love for you to come celebrate that with us.

Join the Hopesters this Easter Sunday. Bring your skeptic friend, your searching neighbor, your family member who hasn't been in a while. Come as you are, brokenness and all. That's exactly who Easter is for.

Easter Sunday, April 5, 9am & 10:45am
Hope Community Church
1831 E. 21st Street

peace,
Nick

A few months ago, my family went to a parade. There were decorated floats, kids running for candy that’s thrown from cars, high school bands marching, somebody waving from the back of a convertible like they just won something. The whole point of a parade is to celebrate someone. The crowd shows up because they know who's coming and they're ready to cheer.

The first Palm Sunday was a parade.

Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey while people spread cloaks on the road, waved palm branches, and shouted "Hosanna!" which essentially means "Save us!" They had expectations. The world felt heavy and hard, and they had been waiting a long time for someone to come and fix it. They wanted a king who would finally make things right. They were expecting a military or political hero.

Instead, they got Jesus on a donkey.

That gap between what the crowd expected and what actually showed up is worth sitting with. Because here's the thing: they weren't wrong that things were broken. Their cry of "Save us!" came from a genuinely desperate place. They needed rescue. They just had the wrong picture of what rescue looked like.

We do the same thing. We come to Jesus with our list. Fix this, change that, make this pain stop. We want a king who conquers on our terms. And Jesus keeps showing up on a donkey. Not because He doesn't care, but because the brokenness goes so much deeper than our circumstances. Sin isn't just a problem out there in the world. It's a human problem. It impacts all of us. And the rescue required for that kind of brokenness isn't the kind the crowd was imagining.

Nobody cheering that day could have imagined where the parade was headed. A cross on a hill outside the city. And then, three days later, an empty tomb.

But you can't get to Sunday without going through Friday. The resurrection means so much more when you understand what it was rescuing us from.

So this week I want to invite you to slow down. Easter is coming but don’t rush into it. Sit for a moment with the crowd and ask yourself what you're actually hoping Jesus will do. Let the weight of the brokenness land. Because Easter is coming, and when it gets here, it will be worth the wait.

Come a little early this Sunday, as our kids will be leading us in a Palm Sunday celebration.

Peace,
Nick

art: by Kristin Miler

There’s a word that’s been getting a lot of airtime lately: empathy. Depending on who you ask, it’s either a great virtue or a dangerous vice.

There’s a version of empathy, a “me-centered” empathy that is shallow, performative, and self-serving. There’s a kind of emotional signaling that asks, “How does this make me feel?” rather than, “How can I love my neighbor well?” There is empathy that wants to be seen, affirmed, applauded. Or there is a form of empathy that remains silent without action. Those kinds of empathy can become a shortcut, feeling deeply without acting faithfully.

However, Biblical empathy is not about self-fulfillment. It is other-centered on purpose. It’s not a tool to achieve something for ourselves, moral superiority, emotional validation, or social acceptance. It’s a posture that costs us something.

Scripture doesn’t shy away from empathy; Empathy is rooted at the very center of the Gospel. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Jesus didn’t wait for us to be reasonable, repentant, or grateful. He entered our brokenness before it was cleaned up, justified, or helpful. Jesus modeled an empathy that moved first, before repentance, and that is the Gospel.

If we’re honest, you could argue that Jesus’ empathy wasn’t “helpful” in the way our culture often defines helpful. It didn’t reward good behavior. It didn’t affirm our instincts. It didn’t protect Him from being misunderstood or His name being misused. Instead, it led Him to a cross. And yet, that is precisely the empathy that saves.

Jesus consistently moved toward people in their mess, not to excuse sin, but to bear it. He wept with those who would later abandon Him. He healed people who never followed Him. He forgave those actively crucifying Him. None of that was strategic for His reputation or safety. It was love, freely given, without leverage.

The danger isn’t empathy itself. The danger is empathy detached from love’s willingness to suffer. The danger is empathy that refuses truth, or truth that refuses love. Jesus never separated the two.

A Gospel-centered empathy doesn’t mean we deny reality or abandon conviction. It means we refuse to make ourselves the center of the story. It means we listen before we label. It means we stay present when walking away would be easier. It means we tell the truth with tears in our eyes instead of stones in our hands.

In a polarized age, empathy will always look suspicious to someone. But if Jesus showed us anything, it’s that love has never been safe, tidy, or efficient. It has always been costly.

peace,
Nick

What's forming you? It's a question worth sitting with because whether we realize it or not, something is always shaping the way we think, the way we feel, and the way we see the world. In this week's video newsletter, Pastor Nick shares about the voices we're giving our attention to, and a simple invitation to something better.

Watch video

Twenty years ago, Liz and I had no idea that a small decision in an airport would turn into a two-decade friendship.

We were standing in line at a checkout counter with some friends when an Iranian man was in front of us trying to check his bag. The worker behind the counter wouldn’t accept his cash, and he had no other way to pay to check his luggage. You could feel the tension rising. He needed to get on that flight.

Liz and I looked at each other and decided to put his bag on our credit card. He handed us the cash, grateful and a little relieved. What could have been a quick transaction turned into something more. We ended up sitting together in the terminal waiting to board. We talked. We laughed. We exchanged phone numbers. Later, we found each other on social media.

That was the beginning of our friendship with Farrokh.

Over the years we’ve kept up. Life updates. Family pictures. The normal rhythms of staying loosely but genuinely connected across continents. He has always been curious about Jesus. Not combative. Not dismissive. Just genuinely curious. He asks thoughtful questions. The kind of questions that matter.

This past week, when Iran was bombed, he was immediately on my mind. I reached out. He wrote back and said he and his family are safe. There was a strange mixture of hope and fear in his message. Hope, because he believes new leadership may come. Fear, because when nations shake, ordinary families feel it first. He doesn’t know what the future will hold. He doesn’t know if his family will be safe long term.

And that’s what war does. It rarely touches only policies and power structures. It touches fathers and mothers. Sons and daughters. It touches dinner tables and neighborhoods. It touches people like Farrokh.

I am not a geopolitical expert. I don’t pretend to know the right strategies for nations. I don’t know what the best outcomes are in complex global conflicts. But I do know this: war impacts innocent lives. And as followers of Jesus, we are called to be people of prayer and people of love.

Scripture tells us, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). We may not be able to influence global decisions, but we can influence how we respond. We can pray. We can care. We can refuse to reduce people to headlines. We can remember that every person we see in the news is made in the image of God.

Would you pray for my friend Farrokh? Pray for his safety. Pray for his family. Pray for peace in his nation. Pray that in the uncertainty, he would encounter the steady, faithful love of Jesus.

And maybe this week, ask the Lord to show you who is in front of you, in line, in your neighborhood, in your workplace, who simply needs someone to see them.

Small kindness. Long faithfulness. A praying people in a shaking world.

peace,
Nick

Last week in this space I shared some thoughts on how to live in the tension of the sin-filled world we find ourselves in. I’d like to expand on that this week with some practices I’ve found helpful in my own life.

I’ve been asking myself a simple question: What does it look like to faithfully follow Jesus in a culture like this?

A helpful resource I’ve come across lately comes from pastor and author Jim Henderson. He talks about three simple practices that have been quietly shaping how I think about people, conversations, and life in these times. They aren’t flashy. They aren’t complicated. But they are deeply formative. Here they are:

#1 “I’ll be unusually interested in others.”

This practice pushes against our instinct to assume we already know. Instead of leading with opinions, it calls us to lead with curiosity. To listen more than we speak. To genuinely want to understand someone’s story, not just their stance. Interest is a form of love, and curiosity has a way of opening doors that arguments never will.

#2 “I’ll stay in the room with difference.”

Difference makes most of us uncomfortable. When beliefs, politics, theology, or life experiences don’t line up with our own, our reflex is often to disengage or distance. This practice invites us to do the opposite. To remain present. To resist the urge to leave relationally when things get tense. Staying doesn’t mean agreeing. It means loving people enough to not walk away.

#3 “I’ll stop comparing my best with your worst.”

This one hits close to home. We are quick to judge others by their weakest moments while giving ourselves grace for our intentions. This practice calls us toward humility. It reminds us that we all need grace, and that Jesus meets each of us in our broken places, not just our polished ones.

What I appreciate most about these practices is that they don’t try to fix everyone else. They begin with me. They shape posture, not performance. They help us stay open-hearted in a closed-off world.

I’ve found these practices to be incredibly helpful for navigating our current cultural moment. Not by avoiding hard conversations, but by entering them with the spirit of Jesus. Gentle and courageous. Full of grace and truth. My prayer is that we would be a people who don’t retreat from difference, but reflect Jesus right in the middle of it.

peace,
Nick

When we slow down and read the Scriptures, one thing becomes clear pretty quickly: Jesus doesn’t fit into our neat boxes. He is high and holy, and at the same time meek and lowly. He speaks truth with clarity, and He overflows with grace. He never lowers God’s standards, and He never turns away broken people.

That tension can be uncomfortable for us.

Most of us naturally lean one direction. Some of us emphasize truth so strongly that we forget what gentleness sounds like. Others emphasize grace so deeply that we struggle to speak clearly and can create confusion. When we camp out on just one side of that tension, something starts to break. We can sound judgmental without realizing it, or unclear without meaning to be. And division has a way of growing quietly in those spaces.

But Jesus never chose one side over the other. He held both together, fully and beautifully.
The problem isn’t tension. The problem is our rush to resolve it. When we simplify what Jesus intentionally held together, we often end up protecting our opinions instead of reflecting His heart. Healing doesn’t come from being louder or more articulate. It comes from becoming more like Him.

So how do we live in the same tension Jesus lived in?

We stay close to Him. We remain humble and teachable. We listen more than we speak. We resist the urge to label quickly or assume the worst. We speak truth when it’s needed, but we do it with compassion, patience, and prayer. We remember that people are not problems to fix but neighbors to love.

The world doesn’t need Christians who have everything figured out. It needs followers of Jesus who are able to live in the tension, gentle in the way we walk with one another, and courageous enough to reflect both grace and truth.

This is slower work. It’s harder work. But it’s holy work. And it’s the way of Jesus.

Peace,
Nick
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image: detail of Radiant Tension by Michael Bertoli

A couple weeks ago, something small but memorable happened on a Sunday morning.

Our new worship pastor, Ben, stepped up to lead. First service went great. Then second service rolled around, and suddenly the electric guitar pedal board stopped working. No warning. No fix. It just… didn’t work. Nothing anyone could have done about it!

That’s a tough spot for anyone, but especially for the new guy. You want things to go smoothly. You want to make a good first impression. And when something breaks that’s completely out of your control, it can feel discouraging fast.

But Ben didn’t panic. He didn’t shrink back. He rallied, adjusted, and led us well. And honestly, it was a gift to witness.

It reminded me how easy worship can be when everything is working. When the sound is dialed in. When life is going well. When prayers feel answered and the path ahead feels clear.

But worship becomes something deeper when things aren’t working. When life feels off. When plans fall apart. When the pedal board doesn’t turn on and there’s nothing you can do to fix it. That kind of worship isn’t about conditions being perfect. It’s about trust. It’s about choosing to lift our eyes anyway. It’s about declaring that God is still worthy even when circumstances are frustrating, confusing, or painful.

Some of you are walking into this week with things that feel broken. Relationships. Health. Finances. Direction. Pedal boards. You’ve tried to fix it, and it’s still not working.

Here’s the good news. The Lord is with you. Not just when things are smooth, but right in the middle of the struggle. And even there, He is still worthy of our worship.

May we be a people who worship not only when everything works, but also when it doesn’t. Because our hope has never been in perfect conditions. Our hope has always been in a faithful God.

Peace,
Nick

If you have raced with men on foot and they have worn you out, how can you compete with horses? If you stumble in safe country, how will you manage in the thickets by the Jordan? Jer. 12:5

These are challenging and difficult days. Not because everything is terrible all the time, but because there’s a constant heaviness in the things of our world. The pace is relentless. The volume is loud. The pressure to react, to keep up, to stay informed, to stay outraged, to stay relevant, it seems to never lets up.

I see many people exhausted. Not just in their physical bodies, but in their souls. They are tired of running, tired of sorting through noise, tired of feeling like faith is something we’re trying to hold onto while the current keeps speeding up. Even good people, doing good things, for good reasons, feel worn down.

The Prophet Jeremiah lived in a moment like that. Political instability. Spiritual confusion. A sense that everything solid was starting to shake. And in that moment, God asked him a piercing question: if running on foot with other men has already left you worn out, what makes you think you’re ready to run with horses? If you’re stumbling when the ground feels relatively safe, how will you stand when things grow tangled, dense, and dangerous?

It’s not a rebuke as much as it is a reality check. God isn’t shaming Jeremiah for being tired. He’s naming the moment. He’s saying, this is training ground. The strain you feel now isn’t meaningless. It’s preparation.

That’s a hard word for us, because we’d much rather God remove the pressure than use it. We pray for relief, for calm, for the noise to quiet down. And sometimes God gives that. But often, He does something deeper. He strengthens our legs. He deepens our roots. He teaches us how to run at a different pace, with a different power source.

The invitation here isn’t to run harder, it’s to run wiser. To stop trying to keep up with every voice, every outrage, every manufactured emergency. To let go of the illusion that we have to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders. That was never our job.

Following Jesus has never been about frantic striving. It’s about faithful endurance. About learning to walk closely enough with Him that when the terrain changes (and it will), we’re not relying on adrenaline, but on trust and hope. Not on our own strength, but on His.

These are challenging and difficult days. But they are not wasted days. God is at work in the middle of them, forming a people who can stand firm, love deeply, and keep moving forward, even when the path gets thick.

And the good news is this: we do not run alone.

Peace,
Nick

Image: Derek Redmond, 1992 Olympics; by Robert Deutsch, USA TODAY

The quote above is from Pixar’s movie Cars, said by the character Tow Mater, the world’s best backwards driver. Jeff and I saw Cars in the theater while we were dating. More than twice. It’s a little funny to me that two people in their mid 20’s paid to see the same cartoon multiple times!

In the movie, Tow Mater is teaching Lightning McQueen how to drive backwards. In all honesty, I don’t think it's great advice for driving backwards, and I definitely don’t think it's great life advice! But I do think it's important to understand where you've come from as you think about where you're going.

Hope has a long, rich history, and is a community I am proud and so thankful to be part of. Knowing our past deepens my connection to this community.

Sunday, February 1st we'll begin our three-week Hope Connection class. It's a great jumping-off point for getting plugged in here at Hope, but it's also a great way to gain a greater understanding of who we are and what we value. Hope Connection looks back at the values that have guided us to this point, and continue to guide how we will operate in the future. This class starts out by highlighting the most important thing to Hope, the gospel. In my opinion it's the fastest way to see Hope at its core. Different pastors lead each week, so attendees will get to be in small spaces and get to know staff on a more personal level. The first week, Pastor Steve shares Hope history and a simple illustration of the gospel called "The Bridge." Week two, you'll get to walk through core values with Pastor Ben and I. The third week we'll share ways to get plugged in, followed by a lunch where pastor Nick shares his story and answers all your burning questions.

And the best thing about Hope Connection? Anyone can come! So even if you've been at Hope for years, we'd love for you to join us! I promise you'll learn something new that will deepen your connection to Hope. You'll get to see where we have been, catch a vision for where we're going -- and meet a few new people.

Pastor Jolene

Go here to learn more and sign up.

Every once in a while, something small will stop me in my tracks. A song I haven’t heard in years. A picture that pops up unexpectedly. A moment that reminds me of a season of life I’d almost forgotten. Those moments have a way of re-anchoring us. They remind us not just of what happened, but of who carried us through it.

Scripture is filled with moments where God’s people are invited, and sometimes commanded, to remember. Not so they would live in the past, but so they would not forget who God is. Over and over, God reminds His people to look back and recall His faithfulness, His provision, and His presence.

There is something powerful about remembering together.

When we pause to reflect on where we have been, we start to see patterns we might have missed in real time. We see prayers answered. We see growth that did not feel dramatic in the moment. We see how God worked through ordinary faithfulness, quiet generosity, and a community willing to show up again and again.

And remembering does something else too. It gives us confidence to step forward. When we see what God has already done, we are reminded that He is not finished.

This coming Sunday is our Annual Meeting, and I genuinely hope you will make it a priority to be there. I get that people might see this as a Sunday to sleep in and skip, but please understand we work hard to make sure this is not a boring, procedural, sit-through-it kind of gathering. It is one of those Sundays where we celebrate, laugh, learn, and remind ourselves why being part of this church family matters.

We will share stories, highlight what God has been doing in and through Hope, and look ahead with expectation for what is coming next. Most of all, we will take time together to remember God’s goodness.

I believe moments like these help shape who we are as a church. They ground us. They unite us. And they prepare us for what God has in front of us. I would love to see you this Sunday.

peace,
Nick

Did you know on Feb. 13th we are partnering with the Tim Tebow Foundation and will be hosting a Prom night experience for 200+ of our Special Needs friends in our Barn? Just the thought of it makes me smile! We need a bunch of volunteers to pull this off (email ashley@hopecc.net). To learn more please check out this week’s video newsletter!

Also, take some time to read this beautiful prayer/blessing that our Special Needs Coordinator, Shauna Bussard, was recently gifted. (Head to the Special Needs room if you want to see this hanging on the wall.) Our Wings of Hope Special Needs Ministry is a true gift to our church!


Beatitudes of Wings of Hope

Blessed are you who welcome me into God’s house,
for you show me that the body of Christ has a place for everyone.

Blessed are you who see me not as a problem, but as a person,
for you reflect the heart of Jesus.

Blessed are you who greet me with joy and patience,
for you help me feel the love of God in your smile.

Blessed are you who make room for my noises, movements, and differences,
for you teach the church what grace looks like.

Blessed are you who adapt lessons, worship, and activities for me,
for you mirror the Savior who meets each person where they are.

Blessed are you who sit beside me when church is overwhelming,
for your presence brings peace and comfort.

Blessed are you who celebrate my efforts, no matter how small,
for you understand the joy of every step forward.

Blessed are you who pray for me and with me,
for you lift me into the arms of the Father.

Blessed are you who believe that I am fearfully and wonderfully made,
for your belief helps me know the truth of who God created me to be.

WE ARE ALL WONDERFULLY MADE!

I spent some time at the start of the New Year praying and pondering who Jesus is and who He is not. As I prayed and wrote, I became overwhelmed by how radically different Jesus is from any other leader who has ever lived.

Fully God. Fully human. Jesus lived a completely genuine life. While living sin-free, He freely gave up His life for our sake on the cross. And He rose from the dead without seeking revenge.

Jesus did not abuse the vulnerable. He did not lie to survive, cheat to win, or steal to promote Himself. He did not manipulate crowds, coerce loyalty, or terrorize enemies. He did not raise up an army and He did not incite violence. He had no political sponsors and no machinery of earthly power behind Him. He did not court the rich, flatter the influential, or accumulate wealth to protect His future.

Instead, Jesus took the lowest place. He knelt. He washed feet. He touched the unclean. He ate with outcasts. He crossed boundaries others worked hard to defend, religious, ethnic, and social. He honored women. He welcomed children. He demanded the protection of their dignity and their lives.

How radically different!

Many turn to movements and ideologies to tell them who they are, who they must fear, and who they must oppose. Intensity is mistaken for truth and outrage becomes moral currency. People become tools in cultural warfare.

Jesus does not form identity by turning people into enemies. His battle is not against flesh and blood, and His Kingdom is not built by defending tribes but by transforming hearts. Jesus will not be reduced to a symbol, deployed as a slogan, or enrolled into our campaigns.

Jesus is the Way. Jesus is the Truth. Jesus is the Life.

He stands before us not as an idea to agree with, but as a person to follow. Not as an identity to perform, but as a life to receive. To follow Him is to be freed and loved.

I think this is why Jesus still unsettles so many. He cannot be captured by our movements. He will not be weaponized for our causes. He remains stubbornly, mercifully, real and holy.

Jesus captivates me and consumes me. To see Jesus leaves me with only one response: My soul, my life, my all.

Peace,
Nick

art: “Jesus the Liberator,” 1973, by Willis Wheatley

Most meaningful things in life don’t happen all at once. They take time, repetition, and a lot of unseen faithfulness. We live in a world that celebrates the dramatic, the big moment, the instant turnaround, the viral story, but God so often works quietly, patiently, and steadily.

While Scripture has instances of drastic transformation for people, Scripture also repeatedly reminds us that growth in the Kingdom of God rarely looks impressive in the moment. Jesus spoke about faith the size of a mustard seed, something almost unnoticeable in your hand, yet capable of growing into something strong and life-giving. The point wasn’t the size of the faith, but the direction of it. When even small faith is placed in the right hands, mountains begin to move.

That’s often how life with the Lord unfolds. Not through massive spiritual leaps or perfectly executed plans, but through ordinary obedience. A simple prayer offered honestly. Opening Scripture when it would be easier to distract ourselves. Choosing forgiveness, patience, or humility in moments where no one else will ever notice. These small steps may feel insignificant, but they are not wasted.

Paul encourages the church with these words: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9). There is an assumption in that verse that weariness will come. Faithfulness isn’t always exciting. Growth doesn’t always feel productive. But God promises that perseverance, even in small things, leads somewhere good.

Mountains rarely move overnight. They shift slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, through steady pressure applied over time. In the same way, continued faithfulness toward the Lord shapes us more than any single moment ever could. Prayer forms us. Obedience softens us. Trust deepens us.

So as a New Year is beginning, wherever you find yourself right now, steady or tired, hopeful or unsure, don’t underestimate the power of the next small step toward Jesus. God has always done His best work through people who simply kept walking with Him, one faithful step at a time.

Peace,
Nick

Writing this weekly letter/ blog is a very good thing and challenge all at the same time. It’s good, because it gives the author a chance to communicate things on their heart which God is teaching and hopefully it is also very helpful for those reading to grow in their knowledge and love of Jesus. It’s challenging, because regardless of what is going on in the writer’s life, it comes due every week. During my 29 years as the primary writer, with God’s help, I’d estimate I wrote over 1,000 of these letters. Whew!

Pastor Nick does a very excellent job. Each week after reading what God has put on his heart I generally always send a thank you and very brief note of encouragement. If you think about it, please consider praying for him as he sits down to write. It’s not easy to do so week-after-week hoping to write what is pleasing to God, helpful to the reader, and interesting enough to be read and retained.

Even though it’s always a privilege, I’m grateful I now only write a few of these during the year. Many times, it has been hard to know exactly what I should write. I’ve struggled with this one, but this morning after Sharon and I had coffee as I was asking God for help, this came to mind.

Often when meeting with someone I close our time by praying something like this, “Father, I humbly yet boldly ask, today in a way which makes sense to ________ will You please make Yourself known in a very intimate and special way.” (Please, insert your name.)

Today, this is my desire for each of you who are reading this letter. My hope and joy would be for God our Father through His Holy Spirit by way of your faith in Jesus to make Himself known to you in a deeply personal and meaningful way. I really don’t know what that means for you as each of us presently need and experience God in different ways. But, whatever you need today, would God draw very close in a very unique and loving way.

But, also know, you need to play your part. You need to humble yourself, ask God for ears to hear, eyes to see, and a heart to discern His presence. You need to be intentional and open for what He has to say. It might be a very small whisper or shout. It might come by way of a friend, stranger, sunset, song, smell, or whatever. But please, invite God to speak and listen very prayerfully and carefully. Then, remember to be very grateful and worship. Happy listening.

Peace,
steve
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art: detail of "And She Wrote Color" by Ted Byrne

Have you ever had one of those seasons where you can’t see what God is doing? You’re still showing up, still trying to pray, still trying to trust, but it feels like the lights have gone out.

Isaiah 50:10 says, “Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the word of his servant? Let the one who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on their God.”

This verse isn’t about people running from God. It’s about people who fear the Lord, people who are walking with Him, and yet find themselves in darkness. Sometimes the darkness isn’t a sign of failure; it’s just part of the journey of faith.

God doesn’t promise that faithful people will always have light. He promises that we can trust Him when we don’t. When your prayers seem unanswered, when your path feels unclear, when you’re doing all the right things but can’t see the results, that’s when faith becomes real.

“Let the one who walks in the dark… trust.” Because when we walk in the dark, the temptation is to panic. To try to light our own torch, fix our own problem, or run toward the nearest glow, anywhere but here. But Isaiah invites us to do something quieter and harder: trust in the name of the Lord and rely on our God.

It’s not passive resignation. It’s active faith. It’s choosing to believe that even when I can’t see His hand, His heart is still good. It’s resting in the truth that God hasn’t gone anywhere, He’s simply teaching me to lean on Him in ways I never would have if everything was clear and bright.

The light will come. It always does. But in the meantime, remember this: The same God who was faithful in the light is still faithful in the dark.

“Even the darkness will not be dark to You; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to You.” (Psalm 139:12)

peace,
Nick
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art: detail of "Untitled (Black on Grey)" by Mark Rothko, 1969