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Broken Yoke Blog

  • Religious Lips, Rebellious Hearts


    You’re Worshipping Idols and Don’t Even Know It. I’ve been guilty of this. I have to check myself daily because it’s an easy trap to walk into. It doesn’t look like a golden calf, so you think you’re good. It doesn’t stand on an altar or wear a robe, so you think it doesn’t count. But idolatry today is much quieter. Much more deceptive. Much more comfortable.

    It looks like the bank account you obsess over. The job title you wear like armor. The mirror you check twenty times a day. The approval you constantly crave from people who don’t even walk with God. The image you’re desperate to maintain, even if it means faking a life you’re not really living.

    You’re not bowing with your knees, but you’re bowing with your priorities. You’re not singing to it, but you’re sacrificing for it. You’re not burning incense, but you’re burning time, energy, peace, purpose. All of this just to keep it happy.

    Some of you are worshipping a relationship that’s not even healthy. You’ve put a person in a place only God should occupy, and you’re wondering why everything feels off-balance. You’re expecting a broken human being to give you identity, peace, fulfillment. The things only the Holy Spirit was ever meant to bring.

    And here’s the part nobody wants to hear:
    You worship people more than you worship God. The scary part is you don’t even see it.

    You fear what they’ll think more than what God already said. You shape your life around their expectations instead of His commands.
    You let their opinions define your worth more than His truth does. And you chase their validation like it’s eternal, just like it’s salvation.

    But people can’t save you. People didn’t die for you. People didn’t tear the veil. People didn’t conquer the grave. So why are they sitting on the throne of your life?

    Others are worshipping their pain. You’ve made an idol out of your trauma. You’ve built your personality around what hurt you, and now you protect it more than you pursue healing.

    And let’s talk about comfort for a second, because for a lot of us, that’s the true god of this generation. We worship comfort. We sacrifice growth for ease. Obedience for convenience. Holiness for pleasure. Truth for what won’t offend.

    You’re still attending church. Still quoting verses. Still wearing the cross. But your heart belongs to something else. And God sees it.

    These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. – Matthew 15:8

    That verse isn’t about pagans. That’s about us. The truth? Idols don’t need temples anymore. They live in your habits. They live in your feed. They live in what you scroll to, what you binge on, what you can’t say no to.
    They live in the quiet moments of compromise that you keep justifying because “God knows my heart.”

    Yeah. He does. He knows who’s really sitting on the throne in your life. And if it’s not Him, it doesn’t matter how dressed up it looks, how culturally accepted it is, or how many Christian words you throw on top of it. This makes it still an idol. And idols always demand sacrifice. Eventually, they will ask for everything.

    So maybe it’s time to do a heart check. What are you really worshipping? What do you rearrange your life for? What do you trust more than God? What can’t your ego and pride let go of, even if He asked?

    Because following Jesus doesn’t just mean putting Him first. It means putting everything else second. Tear the idols down. All of them.
    Even the ones you dressed up in religion.
    Even the ones that feel good. Even your Pastors, Prophets, Evangelists, and Religious Leaders that have died that you still worship more than God. You put their words and love you had for them above your love for God.

    You can’t walk in freedom if you’re still bowing to chains. And you can’t serve a holy God with a divided heart. Choose today who you will serve. And make sure it’s not the god of them, or the god of you. Only One deserves that throne.

    Philip

    4 min read

  • The Foundery Church


    Let me tell you about The Foundery Church.

    It’s not your typical Sunday morning performance. It’s not a concert stage with fog machines and the dimmed lights designed to entertain you. It’s not a place where you come to blend in, check a box, or sip coffee while your soul stays asleep. The Foundery Church is a forge, a place where heat, pressure, and time shape broken metal into purpose-filled steel.

    This isn’t a museum for saints. It’s a workshop for the willing. A gathering place for the gritty. It’s a shelter for the tired. It’s a safe place for the messed up. The ones who’ve been through the fire and the ones just stepping into it. We don’t pretend to have it all together, but we know the One who holds all things together.

    The Foundery isn’t about being flashy or having perfect people. It’s about process. About transformation. About discipleship that costs something. Because we believe God doesn’t just save you, He refines you. He doesn’t just hand you grace, He teaches you how to carry it like a sword.

    Here, we preach the blood of Jesus without watering it down. We speak the truth in love, even when it cuts. Because conviction isn’t cruelty, it’s care. And repentance isn’t shame, it’s freedom.

    At the Foundery, you won’t find a stage where man is lifted up, you’ll find an altar where pride comes to die. You won’t be handed motivational quotes, you’ll be handed a cross. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s real. And because we know that on the other side of the suffering, there’s resurrection power.

    We sing loud. We cry hard. We pray like warriors. And we don’t let our brothers or sisters walk alone. This is a place where iron sharpens iron, where scars are sacred, and where every testimony smells like smoke from the fire God brought us through.

    So if you’re tired of fake. If you’re done with shallow. If you want something that challenges you, breaks you, heals you, and builds you, welcome to The Foundery.

    This is the church for the ones who still believe revival is possible. This is the church where God doesn’t just restore, He reforges.
    Let the sparks fly.

    Philip

    4 min read

  • The Soil That Knows My Name


    Here’s what this place means to me. This dirt, this land, this air, it’s where I am from. Maybe I didn’t fully grow up here, but this is where I was made. Where my bones were shaped, where my heart was taught to beat with pride, patience, and grit.

    This place didn’t just raise me, it molded me. It whispered lessons into me every time I walked across the field, every time I sat on that porch swing, every time I heard the creak of the barn door or the rattle of gravel under car tires.

    A large part of my heart belongs here. Stuck right here in this soil, between the fence posts and the hay bales, in the shadows of the hills and the warmth of that old farmhouse kitchen. I carry it with me every day, even when I’m not here.

    Family runs deep in my veins. Deeper than most folks understand anymore. Not just in last names or old photos, but in the way I love, the way I work, the way we fight for each other and stand through storms together.

    This may just be the most beautiful place on earth to me. And it’s not just because of the view. It’s the feeling. The memories. The stories.

    I remember feeding the calves with Grandma. Her voice was soft, her hands steady. She taught me how to be gentle with something small and scared.

    I remember collecting the dead chickens in the coop with Grandpa. That’s not the kind of memory that makes it into the movies, but it’s real. And it taught me about life, and death, and responsibility.

    I remember the quads, the speed, the mud, the laughter. I remember every path we carved through the fields like it was yesterday.

    And that’s just the tip of it.

    I remember the smell of fresh cut hay.
    I remember cold mornings when breath hung heavy in the air. I remember the sun rising over the hills, and the quiet that followed. I remember all of the family dinners that felt like communion. I remember sitting on the porch after a long day of playing with my siblings, we’d watch the sky catch fire as the sun dipped behind the hills.

    I. Remember. Everything.

    This place is more than just a spot on a map. It’s my foundation. My beginning. And no matter where I go, it’s my home.

    Always will be.

    Philip

    4 min read

  • The Darkest Day, The Brightest Light (Good Friday)


    It’s a strange name, isn’t it? Good Friday.
    The day we remember the brutal beating, humiliation, and public execution of the only perfect man to ever walk the earth, and we call it good? On the surface, it sounds twisted. A crown of thorns. Stripped bare. Spit on by the very people He came to save. Nails in His hands and feet. Blood running down a splintered cross. Where is the good in that?

    But the goodness isn’t in the suffering itself. The goodness is in what the suffering accomplished.

    Good Friday is good because it was the day the debt was paid in full. The day mercy triumphed over judgment. The day sin was sentenced, not you. The day death lost its grip. The day the veil tore from top to bottom. God no longer distant, but now accessible.
    It’s good because the wrath that should’ve fallen on us was poured out on Him instead. And He took it willingly.

    It’s the day Heaven looked down and saw the greatest injustice the world has ever known. The day an innocent man condemned, and yet, it was the greatest display of love history will ever witness. With His arms stretched out wide, he showed how much he loves you.

    Good Friday is good because it was never about nails holding Him there. Love did that.
    He could’ve called down angels. He could’ve ended it with a word. But He stayed. For you.
    He stayed because He saw past the cross. Past the tomb. Past the pain. He saw the rescue. He saw your face.

    It’s good because while the world was mocking Him, He was forgiving them.
    While they were jeering, He was redeeming.
    While they were killing Him, He was saving them. And make no mistake, this wasn’t the tragic end of a good man’s life. This was the victory march of a King. He wasn’t taken. He offered Himself. He wasn’t defeated. He conquered. He wasn’t destroyed. He fulfilled.

    Good Friday is good because Sunday is coming. The cross wasn’t the end. It was the bridge. And now, because of that bloody, beautiful Friday, we walk across it, redeemed.

    So yes, it’s good. It’s heart-wrenching. It’s sobering. It’s holy, and it’s good.

    Because on that dark day, light broke through, and the Son of God, broken and poured out, gave birth to the only hope this world has ever known.

    That’s why Good Friday is good.

    Philip

    4 min read

  • Sanctified Sinners and Barstool Saints


    I’ve heard it my whole life, that you won’t make it to heaven sitting in a bar on the weekends. And listen, I get it. There’s a fair point there. Scripture calls us to be set apart, to live holy, to walk away from the old man and put on the new. There’s absolutely a call to live righteously.

    But let me tell you something that most folks don’t want to admit out loud. You know what you’ll often find in a bar that you can’t find in a lot of churches? The answer is simple, it’s GRACE.

    That drunk sitting on a barstool might hand you his last dollar if you looked like you needed it. That woman sipping a cocktail might ask how you’re really doing and mean it more than someone dressed in THEIR Sunday’s best. That regular bartender? He might listen to your whole story without judging a single word. I know that might mess with some folks theology. But it’s the truth.

    People don’t skip church and head to bars because they’re all trying to rebel. A lot of them just don’t feel safe in the church. They walk into a sanctuary and get side eyed over their clothes, over their past, or the fact that they still smell like last night’s mistakes. But they walk into a bar and feel seen, heard, even loved for who they are, not who they pretend to be. Somewhere along the way, we got it wrong.

    Jesus didn’t sit with the righteous. He sat with the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the outcasts. All of the ones that religious people crossed the street to avoid. He didn’t run from messes. He stepped right into them.
    He didn’t throw stones. He offered grace.
    And the ones He did rebuke the most? The Pharisees. All of the religious elite who knew all the scriptures but couldn’t recognize the Savior standing in front of them.

    The body of Christ wasn’t called to be a gated community of the perfect. It was called to be a hospital for the broken. A safe place, a refuge. A place where people with addictions, baggage, trauma, doubt, and sin can walk in, not be fixed on the spot, but be loved through the process.

    Churches need to start looking less like country clubs and more like those late night bar stools where real conversations happen.
    Where vulnerability is allowed. Where masks come off. Where grace pours like cheap whiskey and love flows like an open tab.

    We’ve been too busy acting like the Pharisees in the synagogue instead of the Friend who sat at the well. The truth?
    Sitting in a bar doesn’t get you to heaven.
    BUT SITTING IN A PEW EVERY SUNDAY DOESN’T EITHER. Jesus does. And He’s not afraid to walk into the darkest places to find His people.

    Philip

    4 min read

  • The Harsh Truth


    I’m thankful for the liars.
    I’m thankful for the haters.
    I’m thankful for the betrayers.

    They pushed me closer to my purpose. They drove me into the arms of God. What they meant to destroy me, God is using to build me. Every lie, every knife in my back, every whisper campaign, they all helped me see clearer, pray deeper, and stand stronger. They taught me who not to be. And more importantly, they helped reveal who I am.

    I know some of what I say is uncomfortable. I know it goes against the grain. It grates against flesh. It stirs something in people. But that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do. The things I write aren’t meant to stroke egos or win applause of people, they are meant to shake the spirit awake. Jesus didn’t come to bring peace in the way the world defines it. He said it Himself that He came to bring a sword. Division. Separation. Not to destroy, but to distinguish His people from the enemy’s people.

    Too many churches today are nothing more than motivational TED Talks with a cross in the background. People sit under pastors who wouldn’t dare preach about sin, hell, or holiness. Instead, they preach prosperity, comfort, and self-love dressed up in Christian lingo. It’s not the Gospel. It’s self-help sprinkled with Scripture. And it’s sending people to hell with a smile on their face and a tithe envelope in their hand.

    We’ve made church a stage, not a sanctuary. We’ve traded conviction for comfort. Truth for tolerance. The Holy Spirit for hype.

    But I refuse to stay quiet.
    I refuse to water it down.
    I refuse to speak half-truths just to make people feel safe in their sin.

    Because the truth isn’t always gentle.
    It’s not always soft. It doesn’t always hug you, it convicts you. It challenges you. It calls you to crucify your flesh, not cater to it.

    The real Gospel doesn’t make you comfortable. It calls you to war, with your sin, with the world, and with anything that stands between you and the will of God.

    So if you’re looking for comfortable Christianity, you’re in the wrong place. This isn’t about popularity. This isn’t about applause. This is about eternity. And I’d rather be hated for speaking the truth than loved for feeding people lies.

    Philip

    4 min read