Blog

Author: Philip

  • Every Scar Had a Seat

    I had dinner with myself forty-one times last night.

    The table stretched longer than any room I’ve ever known, bending at angles that didn’t make sense, like memory refusing to follow straight lines. Every chair was filled when I arrived. Plates were already warm, glasses half-full, silverware resting patiently. No one looked surprised to see me. They’d been waiting longer than I realized.

    At the far end sat all of the youngest, there was seven years old. Feet dangling above the floor, sneakers scuffed from a day spent running instead of worrying. His hands were still clean of guilt. His eyes hadn’t learned how to flinch yet. He smiled at me like I was something out of a comic book, like I was already the hero in the story. I felt my chest tighten. That kind of belief is dangerous when you know how much the world is about to take from him.

    Around him were the early years, eight, nine, ten. The versions that thought the future was automatic, that love was permanent, that effort alone could fix anything. They spoke loudly, overlapping each other, telling stories that ended before disappointment ever showed up. I let them talk. They deserved to exist untouched for a little while longer.

    Further down the table, innocence thinned.

    Middle school me sat quieter, shoulders already tense, learning that fitting in sometimes meant shrinking. He poked at his food, unsure where he belonged. Across from him was the first version that learned how to mask, how to smile without feeling it, how to say “I’m fine” and mean “don’t ask.” He didn’t look up much. He was already practicing survival.

    Then came the teenagers.

    One slouched low, anger wrapped tightly around confusion. He didn’t know how to ask for help, so he sharpened his edges instead. He looked at me like I failed him, like I didn’t step in soon enough. Another sat with his arms crossed, convinced the world was against him, daring it to prove him wrong. He confused toughness with isolation and pride with silence.

    I wanted to interrupt. To explain. To tell them it would make sense one day.

    But dinner isn’t for speeches. It’s for listening.

    The table grew heavier as the years went on. Young adult me stared into his plate, carrying the weight of expectations he never agreed to but felt obligated to meet. One version wore confidence like armor, loud, decisive, always in control. He talked big because he was terrified of being small again. Another version sat quietly beside him, exhausted, running on fumes, still showing up for work, for family, for responsibility, even when he felt hollow.

    Then there were the hardest seats to face.

    The versions that were hurt, and the ones that hurt others.

    Conversation slowed there. Forks paused. Some wouldn’t meet my eyes at first. They carried regret in their posture, shame in the way they took up space, like they were trying not to be noticed by the damage they caused. One spoke about reacting instead of responding. Another admitted he lashed out because pain felt better than vulnerability. One confessed he didn’t know how to love without controlling it. Another whispered that he stayed too long in places that were killing him because leaving felt like failure.

    None of them were evil.
    They were wounded men doing the best they could with the tools they had at the time.

    The quiet ones sat scattered throughout the table, the versions that endured without applause. The ones who stayed for family when walking away would’ve been easier. The ones who swallowed fear so others wouldn’t have to taste it. They didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. Their presence spoke in endurance.

    As the night stretched on, something shifted.

    I realized every version of me believed he was acting in service of something, safety, love, respect, survival. Even the mistakes were attempts. Even the failures were lessons written in bruises and late nights and second chances.

    None of them were accidents.

    Each scar shaped a boundary. Each regret refined a value. Each moment of weakness taught me what strength actually costs. The man I am didn’t arrive despite these versions, I arrived because of them.

    And then the seven-year-old stood up.

    He climbed onto his chair, tapping his glass with a spoon, nervous but determined. The table went silent. He looked past the anger, past the shame, past the exhaustion, and locked eyes with me, not the broken versions, not the loud ones, but me, as I am now.

    “I just wanted someone strong,” he said. “Someone who would protect us. Someone who wouldn’t quit. Someone who would keep the family safe.”

    My throat closed.

    He smiled again, unbroken, unguarded. “You did that.”

    In that moment, everything else faded. The nights I doubted myself. The guilt I still carry. The things I wish I’d done differently. All of it went quiet under the weight of that truth.

    I became the person he needed.

    Not perfect. Not untouched. But present. Still standing. Still choosing responsibility over escape. Still choosing protection over comfort. Still showing up, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

    When dinner ended, the table emptied slowly. Each version faded back into memory, into instinct, into muscle and reflex. They didn’t disappear. They merged. They became one spine, one voice, one man.

    And when I was finally alone, I understood something clearly for the first time:

    I’m not haunted by my past.
    I’m built by it.

    I carry every one of those men forward.
    And tonight, I sit at this table proud, because the child who needed protecting knows he’s safe now.

  • My Mission

    I don’t wake up every day chasing money.

    I don’t measure my life by status, titles, or how many people recognize my name. I’m not here to build an image, a brand, or a reputation that fades the moment I’m gone.

    My mission is simple, but it’s not small: I want to make a difference in people’s lives.

    I want to be someone who shows up when it would be easier to stay silent. Someone who chooses compassion over convenience, truth over comfort, and purpose over applause.

    I want the people I cross paths with to feel seen, valued, and reminded that their life matters, especially in moments when they’ve forgotten that themselves.

    We live in a world obsessed with numbers.

    How much you make. How many followers you have. How loud your voice is and how often it’s heard. But none of those things measure the true weight of a life. They don’t tell the story of the quiet moments, the conversations that kept someone going, the encouragement that showed up at the right time, or the kindness that changed the direction of a heart.

    I don’t want my legacy to be a bank account or a highlight reel. I want it to be written in people.

    When my time comes, I don’t want heaven to echo with statistics or achievements. I want it filled with testimonies.

    Testimonies from people who say, “He helped me when I was struggling.” “He spoke life into me when I felt broken.” “He didn’t have all the answers, but he walked with me anyway.” “He showed me what faith looks like when it’s lived, not just spoken.”

    I believe success looks different than the world says it does. Success is choosing integrity when no one is watching. It’s being consistent when recognition never comes. It’s serving without expecting anything in return and loving without keeping score.

    I don’t want to stand before God and list everything I accumulated. I want to stand there knowing I poured myself out. That I used my time, my voice, my resources, and my opportunities to lift others up, not to elevate myself.

    If my life points people closer to hope, healing, and truth, then it’s a life well lived. If someone finds courage, peace, or faith because I crossed their path, then every sacrifice was worth it.

    At the end of it all, money will stay here. Status will fade. Popularity will disappear.

    But the impact we have on people, the lives we touch, the love we give, the difference we make, that’s what carries into eternity.

    That’s the mission.

  • Let It Be Known

    Let it be known: God has always worked with crooked sticks to draw straight lines.

    If perfection were the requirement, none of us would be useful. None of us would be called. None of us would be chosen. Scripture isn’t a highlight reel of flawless people, it’s a record of broken men and women who were willing to be used. Moses stuttered. David fell hard. Peter denied. Paul persecuted. Yet God didn’t wait for them to get it all together before He moved through them. He moved becausethey were surrendered, not because they were spotless.

    We will not be perfect. We will say the wrong thing. We will struggle with pride, fear, anger, doubt, and old habits that don’t die quietly. Growth is rarely graceful. Obedience is often clumsy. Faith can look messy from the outside. But brokenness does not disqualify us, misrepresentation does.

    There is a difference between being imperfect and being careless with the name of God.

    Let it be known: grace is not permission to be reckless. Mercy is not a license to distort truth. Being forgiven does not mean we get to redefine righteousness to make ourselves comfortable. When we claim God’s name, we carry His reputation. When we speak on His behalf, our words matter. When we wear faith as a banner, our lives preach whether we want them to or not.

    God can use our flaws. He will not excuse our hypocrisy.

    We don’t honor Him by pretending we’re sinless. We honor Him by being honest, repentant, and submitted. By admitting when we’re wrong. By turning when we’re corrected. By refusing to weaponize Scripture to justify our preferences or excuse our behavior. The world doesn’t need more polished performances, it needs authentic obedience.

    Crooked sticks still have a responsibility to stay in the Craftsman’s hands.

    Let it be known: humility is louder than perfection. A quiet life that reflects integrity speaks stronger than a loud faith that lacks fruit. Love matters. Truth matters. How we treat people matters. Not because we’re earning salvation, but because salvation should change us.

    We will stumble. But we don’t stay down and call it “being real.”

    We will fail. But we don’t celebrate failure as freedom.

    We will struggle. But we don’t lower the standard to avoid conviction.

    Conviction is not condemnation, it’s correction.

    God doesn’t need us to clean ourselves up before coming to Him, but once we come, He does not leave us the same. Transformation is part of the promise. And when we refuse that process, we risk presenting a version of God that looks nothing like Him.

    Let it be known: the goal is not to look holy, but to reflect Him accurately.

    If you’re broken, you’re not disqualified.

    If you’re imperfect, you’re not disowned.

    If you’re struggling, you’re not alone.

    Just don’t confuse grace with permission to misrepresent the One who saved you.

    God draws straight lines with crooked sticks, but only when the sticks are willing to be shaped, guided, and used for His purpose.

    Let it be known

  • Here’s To Those of Us

    Here’s to those of us who get up every morning sore. Tired. Still carrying yesterday in our bones. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that lives deeper than muscles. And still, before the world asks anything of us, we make a cup of coffee, take that first breath, and decide to grind anyway. Not because it’s easy. Not because we feel inspired. But because stopping was never an option.

    Here’s to those of us who know nobody is coming to save us. No shortcuts. No handouts. No perfectly timed miracle. We learned early that if it’s going to get done, it’s going to be done by our own hands. By our own discipline. By showing up when motivation is gone and excuses are loud. We don’t wait for permission. We don’t wait for applause. We just do the work.

    Here’s to those of us who learned to tune out the noise. The opinions. The whispers from people who never lifted the weight we carry but feel entitled to comment on how we move. We’ve realized their words don’t add value to our lives. They don’t pay our bills. They don’t carry our burdens. They don’t bleed our battles. So we keep walking, steady and focused, letting results speak where explanations aren’t owed.

    Here’s to those of us fighting the good fight. The quiet one. The unseen one. The fight to stay honest in a world that rewards shortcuts. The fight to stay kind without becoming weak. The fight to stay disciplined when chaos would be easier. The fight to keep our integrity intact when compromise is tempting and convenient. Some days it feels like we’re swinging in the dark, but we swing anyway.

    Here’s to those of us who have felt the days get heavy. When the weight is crushing. When the silence is loud. When doubt creeps in at night and asks questions we don’t have answers for yet. Days when just getting out of bed feels like a victory. Days when progress looks invisible and hope feels thin. And still, we show up. Still, we put one foot in front of the other.

    Here’s to those of us who don’t give up. Not because we’re fearless, but because quitting would cost us more than continuing. We keep going even when we’re unsure. Even when we’re hurt. Even when we’re misunderstood. We keep going because we know what it took to get here, and we’re not walking away from that.

    Here’s to resilience built quietly. To strength earned the hard way. To people who wake up tired and still choose effort over excuses. Who carry responsibility with no spotlight. Who build something meaningful brick by brick, rep by rep, day by day.

    Here’s to us. Still standing. Still grinding. Still moving forward. And tomorrow morning with coffee in hand, we’ll do it all again.

  • The Scandal of Grace

    The biggest scandal isn’t sin. It’s the gospel.

    Not the watered-down version. Not the polite, Sunday-morning, don’t-rock-the-boat version. The real one. The kind that makes religious people uncomfortable and leaves no room for ego.

    The scandal is that grace isn’t earned. That forgiveness isn’t negotiated. That the worst parts of us aren’t the parts God avoids, they’re the very places He shows up. That alone offends everything built on control, hierarchy, and performance.

    The gospel says you don’t clean yourself up to be accepted. You’re accepted, and that’s what changes you. That’s a problem for systems that thrive on shame. It’s a threat to anything that profits from keeping people small, guilty, and afraid.

    Jesus didn’t come to protect reputations. He came to expose hearts. He didn’t cozy up to the religious elite, He confronted them. Hard. Publicly. Repeatedly. Because nothing scares religion more than grace it can’t regulate.

    The scandal is that the people Jesus welcomed were the ones everyone else avoided. The addicts. The failures. The prostitutes. The tax collectors. The broken, the doubting, the messy. He didn’t lower the standard, He fulfilled it. And then handed righteousness away like a gift.

    That’s offensive.

    Because if grace is real, then nobody gets to boast. If mercy is free, then control collapses. If forgiveness is complete, then shame loses its leverage. And if love is unconditional, then the gatekeepers lose their power.

    The gospel doesn’t ask permission from religion. It doesn’t wait for approval. It doesn’t fit neatly into man-made boxes. It disrupts. It confronts. It flips tables and calls out hypocrisy without apology.

    The scandal is that Jesus didn’t die to make bad people behave better. He died to make dead people alive. That changes everything. That shifts the focus from performance to transformation. From image to identity. From fear to freedom.

    Religion says, “Do more.”

    The gospel says, “It’s finished.”

    Religion says, “Prove it.”

    The gospel says, “Believe it.”

    Religion draws lines.

    The gospel breaks chains.

    And that’s why it’s still scandalous.

    Because grace offends pride.

    Mercy offends control.

    And love without conditions offends systems built on exclusion.

    The gospel doesn’t make sense unless you admit you need it. And that admission? That’s the real scandal. Because it puts everyone on the same level ground, no hierarchy, no scorecards, no spiritual flexing.

    Just a cross.

    An empty grave.

    And a Savior who refuses to play by religious rules.

    The biggest scandal isn’t the brokenness of people.

    It’s a God who loves them anyway, and doesn’t ask permission to do it.

  • No Clean Lines

    Life is messy. Not the kind of messy you can clean up in a weekend, not the kind that fits into a motivational quote or a highlight reel. It’s the kind that spills over into places you didn’t plan for. The kind that leaves fingerprints on everything. The kind that changes you whether you’re ready or not.

    Nobody really prepares you for that part. They sell you the dream, the destination, the “one day it’ll all make sense.” But they don’t talk enough about the in-between. The confusion. The setbacks. The days where you’re doing your best and it still feels like you’re barely holding it together. Life doesn’t come in straight lines, it comes in zigzags, circles, and hard resets.

    I’ve learned that messy doesn’t mean meaningless. Some of the most important growth happens when things are uncomfortable, unclear, and unpolished. When you’re forced to sit with yourself instead of running toward the next distraction. When you have to admit you don’t have it all figured out, and maybe never will.

    Life gets messy when people disappoint you. When plans fall apart. When you realize some versions of yourself were built to survive, not to thrive. When you have to unlearn habits that once kept you safe but now keep you stuck. That kind of mess doesn’t wash off easy. It takes time. Patience. Grace you don’t always want to give yourself.

    There are moments when you’re strong and moments when you’re exhausted. Moments when you’re confident and moments when you question everything. And all of it counts. The struggle doesn’t cancel the progress. The doubts don’t erase the discipline. You don’t lose your worth just because you’re tired or unsure.

    Messy looks like growth happening in real time. It looks like healing that isn’t linear. Like learning the same lesson more than once and finally understanding it deeper each time. It looks like falling short and choosing to get back up without pretending it didn’t hurt.

    I used to think I needed to clean everything up before I could move forward. Now I know you move forward while it’s still messy. While things are unresolved. While you’re still learning how to carry what life handed you. Waiting for perfect conditions is just another way of staying stuck.

    There’s honesty in admitting life isn’t tidy. There’s strength in staying present when it’s uncomfortable. You don’t need a flawless story to have a meaningful one. You don’t need to be put together to be progressing.

    So if your life feels chaotic right now, if it’s loud, uncertain, and full of loose ends, don’t assume you’re failing. Maybe you’re just living. Maybe you’re in the middle of becoming someone real, someone grounded, someone resilient.

    Life is messy. And sometimes, that’s exactly how you know it’s real.

  • Not Everyone Earns The Right

    A real friend is not the loudest voice in the room or the one who agrees with everything I say. A real friend is the one who stays close enough to tell me the truth when it would be easier to stay silent. They do not confuse loyalty with flattery. They understand that real care sometimes sounds like correction.

    A real friend checks on me, not to control me, but to cover me. They ask how I am doing and actually wait for the answer. They listen without rushing to fix me, but they are not afraid to speak when something needs to be said. They care just as much about how I live as they do about how I talk.

    Correction from a real friend is not condemnation. It is not public, loud, or meant to embarrass. It is private, thoughtful, and rooted in love. A real friend corrects me because they see more in me than my current behavior. They believe in who I can become, not just who I am in the moment.

    A real friend knows my patterns. They recognize when I am drifting, isolating, or pretending that everything is fine. They call it out gently but clearly. Not to shame me, but to remind me of my values, my faith, and the standards I say I live by.

    A real friend is not intimidated by disagreement. They are willing to challenge my perspective while still respecting my dignity. They ask questions instead of making assumptions. They speak truth without cruelty and grace without compromise.

    A real friend prays for me, even when I never ask them to. They protect my name in rooms I am not in. They celebrate my growth without jealousy and my success without comparison. When I win, they are not threatened. When I fail, they do not disappear.

    A real friend understands that faith does not remove struggle. They know that believing in God does not mean I always get it right. When I fall short, they do not weaponize scripture against me. Instead, they remind me who I am and whose I am. They point me back to truth without pushing me away.

    A real friend does not only show up to correct me. They also encourage me. They speak life when I am tired. They tell me the truth when I am strong enough to hear it and give grace when I am not. They know the difference between accountability and control.

    A real friend stays invested. They do not offer advice from a distance or judgment without relationship. They walk with me through seasons of growth, confusion, discipline, and healing.

    And I know this goes both ways. To have real friends, I must be one. I must be open to correction. I must listen without defensiveness. I must care enough to stay present.

    Real friendship is not easy, but it is worth it. Because iron sharpens iron, and we were never meant to grow alone.

  • What 40 is Teaching Me

    I’m 40, and I’m still learning things about myself I thought I’d have figured out by now.

    For a long time, I believed age came with clarity. That by this point I’d have everything labeled, sorted, and settled. Instead, I’m realizing growth doesn’t end, it just gets quieter and more honest. I’m not learning who I want to be anymore. I’m learning who I actually am.

    I’m learning what drains me and what fuels me. I’m learning that peace matters more than being understood by everyone. That I don’t need as many people in my life as I once thought, I need the right ones. I’m learning that protecting my energy isn’t selfish, it’s necessary.

    I’m learning that I feel things deeply, even when I try to convince myself I don’t. That I’ve spent years being strong when what I really needed was to be honest. I’m learning that vulnerability isn’t a weakness, it’s the only way anything real ever happens.

    At 40, I’m learning that not every reaction needs a response. That silence can be a boundary. That saying less often says more. I’m learning to pause instead of explain, to observe instead of react, and to trust my instincts when something doesn’t sit right.

    I’m learning which parts of me are healed and which ones are still tender. I’m learning where my patience ends and where my standards begin. I’m learning the difference between wanting connection and settling for convenience. Those two used to look the same to me. They don’t anymore.

    I’m learning that my past didn’t break me, it shaped me. Every scar carries a lesson. Every loss carved out space for something better. I don’t romanticize the hard seasons, but I respect what they taught me. They forced me to slow down and pay attention.

    I’m learning that I don’t have to prove anything anymore. Not my worth. Not my strength. Not my intentions. The people who matter see it without explanation. The ones who don’t were never meant to stay.

    I’m learning that it’s okay to change my mind. To outgrow people, places, and patterns that once felt like home. Growth doesn’t always look like progress to others, it often looks like distance.

    At 40, I’m learning to give myself grace. To stop measuring my life against timelines that were never mine. To understand that healing isn’t linear and confidence doesn’t mean certainty.

    I don’t have all the answers. I don’t pretend to. But I’m more self-aware than I’ve ever been, and that counts for something. I’m listening more. Trusting myself more. And finally allowing myself to be a work in progress without shame.

    I’m still learning.

    And at 40, that feels less like failure…

    and more like freedom.

  • Not Churchy, Just Changed

    I don’t follow Jesus the way religion taught me to. I follow Him the way He walked, dust on His feet, blood on His hands, and mercy in His voice. I don’t fit neatly into pews or policies, and I don’t pretend holiness looks like perfection. If that makes me uncomfortable to religious people, I think I’m probably closer to Him than I’ve ever been.

    Jesus didn’t come to build an institution obsessed with image, power, or being right. He came for hearts. Broken ones. Angry ones. Tired ones. The kind people whisper about and pray around instead of praying with. He didn’t ask for polished prayers or spotless records. He asked for honesty. He asked for surrender. He asked for love that costs something.

    Religion loves rules because rules give control. Jesus loved people, even when loving them broke the rules. He touched the unclean. He defended the shamed. He ate with sinners and exposed the pride of the religious. And somehow, two thousand years later, we still miss that He was hardest on the people who thought they had God figured out.

    I don’t believe faith is proven by how loud you quote scripture or how clean your life looks on the outside. Faith is proven in what you do when no one is watching. In how you treat the people who can’t offer you anything back. In how quickly you forgive. In whether you choose grace when judgment would feel easier.

    Jesus didn’t shame people into change, He loved them into it. He didn’t weaponize truth to win arguments. He used truth to set people free. And freedom doesn’t always look respectable. Sometimes it looks messy. Sometimes it looks like walking away from traditions that no longer reflect His heart.

    I believe Jesus is more offended by our lack of compassion than our brokenness. I believe He’s closer to the addict crying out at 2 a.m. than the religious leader congratulating himself for being “set apart.” I believe He still flips tables when faith becomes a business and mercy becomes optional.

    My faith isn’t about being morally superior. It’s about being desperately dependent. I came to God with empty hands, and I’ll leave the same way. Every good thing in me is borrowed grace. Every breath is mercy I didn’t earn.

    If following Jesus means being misunderstood, then so be it. He was misunderstood first. If it means standing with the outcast instead of the comfortable, I know where He stands. If it means choosing love over being right, I’ll choose love every time.

    I don’t worship religion. I worship the risen Christ, the One who stepped into darkness, took on flesh, and chose the cross so we could stop pretending and start living free. That’s the faith I follow. And I’m not backing down from it.

  • Religion vs Relationship

    I met the Lord on my own road to Damascus. And let me tell you,  He wasn’t Pentecostal. He wasn’t Baptist. He wasn’t Methodist, Lutheran, or Protestant. He wasn’t Catholic, Orthodox, etc. He didn’t come wearing a name tag with a brand stamped on it. He didn’t introduce Himself through the filter of human tradition. He came as He is, the Living God.

    That day, I realized something powerful: Jesus Christ doesn’t belong to a denomination. He isn’t boxed in by man-made labels, rituals, or rules. He is Lord of all, Lord of the broken, the wandering, the hurting, the sinner and the saint alike. He is not bound to the structures men build to feel in control of Him.

    You can keep your religion. I’ll take relationship.

    See, religion gives you a checklist. It tells you when to sit, when to stand, what to wear, what to say, how to behave inside the walls. But relationship? That changes everything. Relationship says He walks with me when I rise in the morning. He hears me when I cry out in the night. He knows me at my worst and loves me still. He doesn’t just want my Sunday attendance, He wants my heart on a Tuesday morning, my faith on a Thursday night, my trust in the valley, and my praise on the mountaintop.

    Religion confines God to a building. Relationship reminds me that He fills the heavens and the earth.

    We’ve done a lot of damage by shrinking “church” down to four walls, a steeple, and a service schedule. Don’t get me wrong, gathering matters. Fellowship matters. Worship together matters. But let’s not forget what Jesus said: “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” That’s church. That’s alive. That’s real.

    The true church is not brick and mortar. It’s not stained glass and pews. The church is a body, His body. The people. The hands that serve. The feet that carry the good news. The hearts that beat with compassion for the lost and the broken. The church is a family bound not by membership rolls but by the blood of Christ.

    It’s a church without walls.

    And that’s the church the world desperately needs. Because if we think God is only found inside a building, we’ll miss Him on the street corner. We’ll miss Him in the addict trying to find hope. We’ll miss Him in the single mom crying herself to sleep. We’ll miss Him in the broken man who thinks he’s too far gone. Jesus walked the roads. He sat at tables. He touched the untouchable. He went to where people were, and that’s what His body is called to do still.

    Religion says, “Come and look like us.” Relationship says, “Come as you are, and let Christ transform you.”

    Religion says, “You don’t belong here unless you fit the mold.” Relationship says, “You are welcome, because He died for you too.”

    Religion says, “Stay in the lines.” Relationship says, “Follow Me.”

    My Damascus moment broke me out of the prison of performance. It opened my eyes to the reality that Jesus doesn’t want my denomination, my tradition, or my ritual. He wants me. All of me. My doubts, my failures, my fears, my faith. He didn’t call me to a religion. He called me to Himself.

    So, I’ll say it again: keep your religion. I’ll take relationship. Keep your walls. I’ll walk in freedom with the One who tore the veil. Keep your denominational pride. I’ll boast only in Christ and Him crucified.

    Because I didn’t meet the Lord in a sanctuary. I met Him on the road. And ever since, I’ve been part of a church without walls.