Brothers And Sisters In Christ Ministries

09/28/2026

WOW! One of the absolute best presentation of the Gospel

If you are reading this while suffering, especially if you've been told that you may be reaching the end of your life, I don't want to give you a bunch of Christian clichés. I don't want to tell you everything happens for a reason and then walk away like that somehow makes the pain hurt less. I don't know why this is happening to you. I don't know why some people get decades more than others, why some prayers seem to get the answer we desperately wanted while others don't, or why sometimes medicine works and sometimes everyone eventually runs out of things to try. There are questions I would love to hand God someday and say, "Okay. Explain this one to me." But I do know this: you are not too sick, too scared, too angry, too doubtful, too far gone, or too close to death to come to Jesus.

Maybe you've spent your entire life believing in Him. Maybe you've spent your entire life avoiding Him. Maybe you believe there's probably a God but you've never been particularly interested in figuring out who He is. Maybe you're angry with Him right now, and frankly, you have a list of questions you'd like answered before you're interested in hearing about how much He loves you. Maybe you've done things you're ashamed of and figure God probably isn't particularly interested in hearing from you now. Maybe you've heard Christians talk about salvation your entire life and thought, "Yeah, maybe someday." And suddenly someday got here a whole lot faster than you expected. If that's you, I want you to know about a man who met Jesus when both of them were dying, because I think his story might be one of the most important stories you could hear right now.

He was a criminal hanging on a cross beside Jesus, and I love that this story is in the Bible because this man had absolutely nothing left to offer God. There was no time to clean himself up. No chance to go back and undo whatever he'd done. No opportunity to start attending church, volunteer somewhere, read through the Bible, become a better person, make amends with everyone he'd hurt, or produce a nice little résumé proving he deserved heaven. His hands were literally nailed down. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was turn to Jesus and say, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." And Jesus answered, "Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise (Luke 23:42-43)." That's it. And somehow I think we humans have spent the last couple thousand years trying to make the Gospel more complicated than Jesus did.

We like earning things. We understand earning things. Work harder, do better, prove yourself, fix your mistakes. We even like imagining salvation as some enormous heavenly scale where hopefully we can pile enough good things onto one side that God will look at the other side, squint a little, and decide we're close enough. Except that's not the Gospel. The Gospel is that none of us could make that scale balance. Not me. Not you. Not the person who has been sitting in the same church pew every Sunday for seventy years. So Jesus didn't tell us to try a little harder to tip the scale. He came here Himself. He lived the life we couldn't live and took our sin upon Himself. Salvation isn't God waiting at the top of a mountain to see whether you can somehow crawl high enough to reach Him. Christianity is the story of God coming down because we couldn't.

And there's a word Christians use for this all the time: grace. Sometimes we use church words so often that we forget to explain what they actually mean. Grace means God gives us what we could never earn and do not deserve. Salvation isn't a paycheck God hands you because you worked enough hours. It isn't a trophy for being one of the good people. It isn't something God owes you because your good deeds outnumbered your bad ones. Grace means you come to God with empty hands and Jesus is enough. You don't earn forgiveness. You don't purchase eternal life with good behavior. You don't work off your sins. Jesus paid the debt Himself, and then offers salvation as a gift. That's why grace is so incredible and, if we're being fair, slightly offensive to our human sense of keeping score. We want to earn things. God says, "You can't earn this. Receive it."

And Jesus didn't come into this world protected from everything that hurts about being human. He knew hunger and exhaustion. He cried when His friend died. He knew grief. He knew betrayal. He knew what it was like when people He loved disappeared when things got scary. He knew physical agony. He knew what it felt like to ask the Father if there could possibly be another way. And eventually He knew what it felt like to take one final breath. Christianity doesn't give us a God who watches human suffering from a comfortable distance and sends us inspirational sayings about staying positive. It gives us Jesus, God with us, standing right in the middle of the suffering.

And then Jesus walked directly into death. But He didn't stay there. Three days later, He walked back out. That part matters tremendously when you're staring at death yourself, because Christianity doesn't actually promise that Christians won't die. We do. It doesn't promise that we won't be scared when death comes close. It doesn't promise that we'll understand why this is happening. It doesn't promise that if enough people pray with enough faith the diagnosis will suddenly disappear. Sometimes God heals in ways that leave doctors scratching their heads. Sometimes He doesn't, and we are left with a thousand questions and an empty chair. But Christianity promises something even bigger than escaping death temporarily.

It promises that death has already lost.

Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live (John 11:25)." Notice He didn't say, "Whoever believes in me will never have to walk through something terrifying." He said that even when death comes, death won't keep them. That's a very different promise. Christianity doesn't require us to pretend death isn't horrible. Scripture actually calls death an enemy. We don't have to make it pretty. We don't have to pretend we're excited about it. We don't have to smile through fear to prove we have enough faith. We can hate death while trusting the One who defeated it.

So if you're scared, tell Him. Seriously. You don't need fancy words. You don't need to suddenly figure out how Christians are supposedly supposed to pray. God isn't grading vocabulary. "Jesus, I'm scared." That's a prayer. "Jesus, I don't understand why this is happening." That's a prayer. "Jesus, I'm angry." That's a prayer. "Jesus, I don't even know if I believe all of this, but if You're there, I want to know You." That's a prayer too. You don't have to approach Jesus pretending to be somebody you're not. He already knows exactly who you are. There isn't going to be an awkward moment where you confess something and God goes, "Wait. You did WHAT?" He knew every part of your story before you ever turned toward Him.

And maybe you're thinking, "But you don't know what I've done." You're right. I don't. Jesus does. And He already knew it when He went to the cross. That's the part about grace that almost feels offensively unfair to us. We want the person who spent eighty years following Jesus to somehow qualify more than the person who reaches for Him with their final breaths. Surely the lifelong Christian has accumulated more points. Except there aren't points. Neither one earned salvation. Jesus did. "For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God (Ephesians 2:8)." A gift. You don't earn gifts. You receive them. And if you're reaching toward Jesus with trembling hands after spending your entire life running the opposite direction, you're still reaching toward Jesus.

So if you're lying somewhere tonight wondering how many days, weeks, months, or breaths you have left, I can't promise you that everything here is going to turn out the way you desperately want it to. I can't tell you why you're suffering. I can't explain why this happened to you instead of somebody else. And I'm definitely not going to tell you that if you just believe hard enough everything will suddenly be fine, because sometimes everything isn't fine. Sometimes the miracle isn't another fifty years here. But I can tell you where to look.

Jesus.

Not at how good you've been. Not at how badly you've failed. Not at how much faith you think you're supposed to have. Not at whether you've asked too many questions. Not at whether you're afraid. Not at whether you've been in church every Sunday or haven't walked through the doors of one in forty years. Look at Jesus. The One who stepped into our mess because we couldn't climb our way out of it. The One who carried our sin to a cross. The One who entered a grave and then left it empty.

Maybe that's the part of the Gospel we don't completely understand until death suddenly feels close. Jesus didn't come merely to teach us how to be nicer people for the few decades we're here. He didn't come simply to give us rules for living a respectable Christian life before we die. He came because humanity had a problem we couldn't solve ourselves. Sin separated us from God, death waited at the end, and there was absolutely nothing we could do to defeat either one.

So He did.

And if you are approaching your final breath here, please understand what that means. Your last breath doesn't have to be the end of your story. There is a Savior who has already gone through death ahead of you. There is a Savior who knows what suffering feels like. There is a Savior who knows every terrible thing you've ever done and every good thing you wish you'd done and isn't waiting for you to somehow make the numbers come out right before you reach Him. There is a Savior with scars in His hands because He loved you enough to die for you.

And if you're reading this and realizing that you want Jesus, you can talk to Him right now. There aren't magic words that save you, and repeating a prayer isn't some secret password that opens heaven. Salvation is by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. The prayer is simply a way of putting into words what is happening in your heart. You can use these words, change them, stumble through your own, cry halfway through them, or barely manage to whisper His name. Jesus isn't waiting for a polished performance.

It can be as simple as this: "Jesus, I need You. I know that I have sinned, and I know that I cannot save myself. I believe that You are the Son of God, that You died for my sins, and that You rose again. I don't have anything I can offer You to earn salvation, so I am asking for Your grace. Forgive me. I put my trust in You and in what You have done for me, not in what I have done. I give You my life, however much of it remains here. Please stay with me through whatever comes next. When I am afraid, help me trust You. When I don't understand, help me hold onto You. And when my life here is finished, bring me home to You. Thank You that because of Jesus, death does not get the final word. Amen."

If you prayed that with faith, don't spend the next hour wondering whether you said every word correctly. That's exactly the point of grace. Your salvation isn't resting on whether you performed the prayer perfectly. It rests on Jesus. The thief on the cross didn't have years left to prove himself. He had Jesus.

Death may get a chapter in your story.

It does not get the final word.

Jesus does.

And the tomb is still empty.

09/28/2026

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06/27/2026

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06/08/2026

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Once upon a time, in a kingdom more beautiful than any ever painted in a storybook, there lived a great King. He was wise beyond measure, strong beyond imagination, and kind beyond anything the people of the world had ever known. His castle was not built of stone and wood but of glory and light. Its gates shimmered like pearls, its streets sparkled like gold, and music filled the air like a gentle breeze. Every good thing people had ever experienced was only a faint shadow of the beauty found in His kingdom.

Far away from this kingdom lived a bride. She did not live in a palace surrounded by comfort and ease. Instead, she lived in a land that was often broken and weary. Storms came without warning. Hearts were wounded. Tears flowed freely. People grew sick, grew old, and said painful goodbyes. Many had forgotten the King entirely. Others doubted He even existed. Some laughed whenever His name was mentioned. Yet the bride remembered Him. Long ago He had made her a promise, and she treasured it in her heart. "I will come back for you."

The years passed slowly. Seasons changed. Generations came and went. The bride often found herself standing at the edge of the world, gazing toward the horizon and wondering if today would be the day. There were moments when the waiting felt easy, but there were also moments when it felt impossibly hard. Sometimes she stumbled. Sometimes she became discouraged. Sometimes the white wedding garment she wore became stained by the dust and dirt of the world around her. Yet whenever she turned back to the King, He faithfully cleansed her and reminded her that she belonged to Him. Though she could not see Him with her eyes, His voice still reached her heart. "I have not forgotten you."

As time passed, the people around her became more skeptical. "The King isn't coming," they would say. "Look how long it has been. Your parents waited. Their parents waited. Entire generations have waited. Surely if He intended to return, He would have done so by now." Their words echoed through the land until many stopped watching for the King altogether. Some became distracted by the temporary treasures of the world. Others simply grew tired of waiting. But the bride held tightly to the promise. Even when she did not understand the timing, she trusted the One who had made it.

Then, on a day that seemed ordinary at first, everything changed. A trumpet sounded across the heavens. It was not the sound of a village celebration or the call of a castle guard. This trumpet seemed to shake creation itself. Mountains trembled. Oceans roared. The stars appeared to bow before its power. Every person stopped what they were doing and looked upward as the sky itself seemed to open.

And there He was.

The King had come.

He was more magnificent than any story could ever describe. Crowns rested upon His head. Glory surrounded Him like the brilliance of a thousand suns, yet somehow it did not hurt the eyes to look upon Him. Armies of Heaven followed behind Him. The same King who had once entered the world in humility to rescue His people now returned in victory and power. There was no doubt who He was. No one needed to announce His arrival. Every heart knew.

The bride looked upon Him, and in that moment every sorrow she had ever carried seemed to melt away. Every prayer whispered through tears, every lonely night, every struggle, every disappointment, every wound, and every burden suddenly appeared small compared to the joy of seeing her King. The waiting was over. The promise had been fulfilled.

The King stretched out His hand toward her. His eyes were full of love, the same love that had carried her through every difficult day. "Come," He said.

And she ran to Him.

No one had to convince her. No one had to force her. She had spent her life longing for this moment. The King took her hand and led her home. There, beyond anything she had ever imagined, a great wedding feast had been prepared. Tables stretched farther than the eye could see. Laughter filled the air. Music echoed through the kingdom. Joy flowed like a river. Every person gathered there belonged to the King and was welcomed as family.

Then the King did something even more wonderful. He wiped every tear from His bride's eyes. Not some of them. Every single one. The grief she had carried was gone. The pain of loss was gone. The sicknesses that had plagued the world were gone. Death itself was gone. Fear had no place there. Regret had no place there. The broken things of the old world had passed away forever.

As the celebration continued, the bride realized something she had never fully understood before. Every chapter of her journey had been leading to this moment. Every trial had taught her to trust the King. Every delay had strengthened her faith. Every rescue had been a reminder that He was faithful. Even when she could not see what He was doing, He had been preparing a home for her all along.

"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people...He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more.'" Revelation 21:3-4 (ESV)

And so the King and His bride entered the greatest happily-ever-after ever told. Not because it was a fairy tale, but because it was true. The King kept His promise. He came for His bride. And together they lived in a kingdom where joy would never fade, where love would never end, and where every story finally pointed back to Him.

04/05/2026

“Yeah, I know God forgave my past… but I’m not sure about what I did yesterday… or what I might do tomorrow.”

Let me settle that fear right now. The cross did not partially work. It fully worked. Jesus did not pay for some of your sin and leave the rest up to you. He finished it. Completely. Forever. You are not living on a trial version of forgiveness. You are standing in a finished reality.

When Jesus said, “It is finished,” He was not speaking emotionally. He was declaring completion. The payment was not in progress. It was done. Every sin, not just the ones behind you, but the ones ahead of you, were already in view when He went to the cross. Nothing has ever caught Him off guard.

“He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.” 1 Peter 2:24

What people often think is that forgiveness works like a reset button. You mess up, you ask, God forgives again, and the cycle continues. But that mindset treats the cross like it needs to be reapplied over and over. What Jesus did was not a temporary covering. It was a permanent removal.

“As far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us.” Psalm 103:12

After the cross, forgiveness is not something being handed out in pieces. It is something that has already been fully given. You are not trying to stay forgiven. You already are.

“I will remember their sins and their lawless deeds no more.” Hebrews 10:17

Think about that. Not “I will remember them less.” Not “I will bring them up when needed.” No. He says He remembers them no more. That means there is no record left in God’s mind to hold against you. If God is not holding your sin against you, then who is?

“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace.” Ephesians 1:7

Notice the language. Not we will have. Not we might have. We have. Right now. Because of His blood, not your behavior.

Here is the truth that changes everything. If even one of your sins was not paid for, then Jesus would have needed to stay on the cross longer. But He did not. He finished the work once, completely, and sat down. Nothing left to add. Nothing left to fix.

You are not the exception to the finished work. You are the reason for it.

So you can stop living like your future is uncertain with God. Your future was already included in the payment. The cross reached further than your past. It secured your forever.

You are fully forgiven. Not temporarily. Not conditionally. Fully.

And you can finally breathe again, not because you got everything right, but because Jesus already made everything right for you.

03/10/2026

I was close enough to read it, and that is important because Rome did not waste wood on vague messaging. Crucifixions were not subtle. They were not private. They were billboards. The sign was the explanation, the public service announcement, the empire’s way of saying, in case you were wondering, this is what happens when you threaten Caesar.

John 19:19 says, “Pilate also wrote an inscription and put it on the cross. It read, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.’” It was written in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek. In other words, no one could pretend they misunderstood. The locals could read it. The Romans could read it. The tourists passing through could read it. It was multilingual humiliation.

Now you have to understand what that phrase meant at the time. “King” was not a sweet church word. It was not the kind of title you embroidered on a pillow. It was political dynamite. Rome tolerated religion. Rome tolerated festivals. Rome tolerated heated theological debates as long as taxes were paid and no one tried to start a revolution. What Rome did not tolerate was rival authority.

To claim kingship in a land under Roman occupation was to poke Caesar in the eye.

So when we read “King of the Jews,” we did not hear a devotional hymn. We heard treason. We heard threat. We heard, this man is being executed because he dared to challenge the empire.

The chief priests were not pleased with the wording either. John 19:21–22 records, “So the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, ‘Do not write, “The King of the Jews,” but rather, “This man said, I am King of the Jews.”’ Pilate answered, ‘What I have written I have written.’” You can almost hear Pilate’s tone. He had been cornered into authorizing the ex*****on, and now he was getting one last jab in. You want a king? Fine. Here he is.

From Rome’s perspective, it was satire. From the religious leaders’ perspective, it was damage control. From the crowd’s perspective, it was confirmation that another supposed deliverer had met the same end as all the others.

We had grown up hearing words like those in Isaiah 9:7, “Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom.” We expected a throne. We expected banners. We expected Rome to pack up and go home. We did not expect a cross.

A crucified king made no sense. Kings conquer. Kings command armies. Kings expand territory. They do not hang between criminals gasping for breath. It felt like calling a defeated general victorious while he was still tied up.

And yet He did not object to the sign. He did not shout up at it and demand a correction. Earlier, when questioned, He had said in John 18:36, “My kingdom is not of this world.” At the time that sounded evasive, maybe even mystical in a way that makes practical people uncomfortable. Standing there beneath that sign, it began to sound less evasive and more… unsettlingly true.

If His kingdom was not of this world, then maybe the cross was not a contradiction of His kingship. Maybe it was the strangest coronation anyone had ever witnessed.

The soldiers meant it as mockery. The priests meant it as accusation. Pilate meant it as sarcasm. But there it hung, nailed above His head, declaring something none of them fully intended.

“King of the Jews.”

Lent makes you linger under that sign longer than is comfortable. It forces you to ask what kind of king chooses a wooden beam instead of a throne, a crown of thorns instead of gold, forgiveness instead of retaliation. It also forces you to admit that we are not always thrilled about that kind of king. We prefer strength we can measure. We prefer power that looks like winning.

But that day, power looked like surrender. Authority looked like restraint. Kingship looked like sacrifice.

Rome posted the sign as a warning.

History remembers it as a proclamation.

And the irony is that the empire, in trying to humiliate Him, accidentally preached the truth in three languages at once.

03/03/2026

I served in the temple. Not as high priest. Not as anyone whose name would make it into the records you read. I was one of many. We rotated duties. We trimmed lamps. We burned incense. We kept order. The temple ran on routine and reverence, and I was very good at both.

You need to understand the curtain.

It was not decorative. It was not symbolic in the casual way people use symbols. It was massive. Thick. Woven with intention. It separated the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place, the place where only the high priest entered, and only once a year. It was a boundary that said clearly, this far and no farther. God is holy. You are not. Distance is necessary.

We treated it with gravity.

That day had already felt strange. Rumors were swirling about a teacher being crucified outside the city. That was not our concern. Rome handled ex*****ons. We handled sacrifice. We stayed in our lanes.

And then the light changed.

Word reached us that darkness had fallen over the land. Matthew 27:45 says, “Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land until the ninth hour.” It was midday, and yet the temple felt like twilight. The lamps flickered against stone walls. The air felt heavy. Priests who were normally composed began exchanging glances that said more than their mouths would.

We continued our duties because that is what you do when you do not know what else to do. You keep trimming lamps. You keep reciting prayers. You keep moving.

And then it happened.

Matthew 27:51 says, “And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” Not frayed. Not tugged loose. Torn. From top to bottom.

Do you know what that means? It did not start at the floor where human hands could reach. It started at the top. As if something above us had taken hold and pulled.

The sound alone was enough to freeze a room. Fabric that thick does not tear quietly. It split with a violence that did not belong inside sacred walls. Threads that had held for years gave way in a moment. The barrier that had defined our understanding of holiness simply opened.

And beyond it was the space we had been taught to fear.

I remember standing there, heart pounding, staring into a place I had never seen. We had been told that entering improperly meant death. We had built an entire system around careful access. Sacrifice. Cleansing. Intercession. Layers of separation to protect us from the weight of glory.

And now the separation was gone.

At roughly the same time, we later learned, the man outside the city cried out and died. Luke 23:46 records His words, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” And having said this he breathed his last.

It does not take a scholar to connect those moments. We had spent our lives guarding access to God and at the moment of His death, the barrier was removed.

Lent has a way of bringing you into that temple and making you stare at the torn fabric. We like structure. We like systems. We like knowing where the line is and how close we are allowed to stand. We prefer distance because distance feels safe.

But that tear declared something unsettling and beautiful at the same time: the holiness we feared was not pushing us away.

It was making a way in.

I had spent years serving beside that curtain, convinced that separation was permanent. That day I learned that what we thought was a wall was, in fact, temporary.

The veil tore...and not from bottom to top.
It tore from top to bottom.

And suddenly access was no longer restricted to one man once a year.

It was open.

02/28/2026

My name is Simon. Not Peter. Not the loud fisherman with opinions. Just Simon. From Cyrene. North Africa. A long way from Jerusalem and an even longer way from volunteering for anything involving Roman soldiers and ex*****on equipment.

I came for Passover. That is what faithful men do. You pack up, you make the journey, you remember how God split the sea and broke the chains and brought your people out with a mighty hand. You think about lambs and blood on doorposts and freedom. You do not think about becoming part of someone else’s sacrifice.

The account is short and almost rude in its simplicity in Gospel of Mark 15:21. They “compelled” me. That word makes it sound polite. It was not polite. A Roman spear handle in your ribs is not a suggestion. I was pulled from the crowd like a man chosen for the worst chore imaginable. Congratulations, sir, you have been selected to assist with today’s crucifixion.

I had two sons with me, Alexander and Rufus. Yes, those Alexander and Rufus mentioned in Mark. Which means people knew us later. Which means this day did not stay private. I still remember the look on their faces. Their father dragged into the middle of a Roman ex*****on parade. Not exactly the kind of memory you frame for the family wall.

The wood was rough and heavy and already stained. I could feel the grain digging into my shoulders. It smelled like sweat and iron and something final. The man ahead of me had already taken more punishment than I had ever seen one person survive. His back was torn open. His steps were unsteady. And yet when I came close enough to see His face, I did not see rage. I did not see panic. I saw something that unsettled me far more.

Purpose.

He looked at me once. Just once. And I have tried my entire life to describe that look. It was not pity. It was not apology. It was not even gratitude in the way we think of it. It was as if He knew exactly what this moment meant and I was the only one who had not read the script.

Understand the irony here. I came to Jerusalem to celebrate the story of a lamb whose blood saved our ancestors. And now I am walking behind a beaten man some were calling the Lamb of God, carrying wood on which He would bleed. If you had told me that morning that I would end the day helping fulfill the very story I had traveled to commemorate, I would have laughed and told you to drink more water.

He fell. That is why they grabbed me. He physically could not go farther. So for a stretch of road that probably lasted minutes but feels like it still echoes in eternity, I carried what was meant for Him.

And here is the part that still humbles me. I thought I was helping a condemned man survive the walk. I did not realize He was helping me survive my life.

Later I heard the rumors. The whispers. The testimonies. That the tomb was empty. That forgiveness was being preached in His name. That this was not a failed rebellion but a rescue mission. My sons heard it too. And when I heard that He carried sin the way I carried that beam, something in me shifted.

For a brief moment I bore His cross.

For all of history He bore my guilt.

Lent has a way of pulling us out of the crowd like that. We think we are spectators. We think we are just attending the religious holiday and minding our own business. And then suddenly we are confronted with the weight of what our sin costs and the weight of what He chose to carry.

I did not volunteer that day. I did not wake up hoping to participate in redemption history. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, at least that is what I thought.

But maybe it was the right place at exactly the right time.

Maybe grace sometimes feels like being drafted.

And maybe the man I thought I was helping was the One who had been carrying me all along.