Blog

Author: Philip

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Faith Like a Dam

    A beaver doesn’t build a dam overnight. It doesn’t haul in a forest with its teeth in one day. It starts with one stick. Just one.
    One piece of wood that is carefully placed. One small movement in the right direction.
    And then another. And another. Until eventually that tiny, unseen effort becomes a force that is strong enough to stop the flow of entire rivers.

    What if I told you that your faith works the same way? We get so caught up thinking that small wins aren’t enough. That starting out by praying for five minutes doesn’t matter. That reading one chapter a day won’t change us.
    That forgiving someone one more time won’t shift anything. That resisting sin just this time is too little. You need to understand something, Kingdoms aren’t built overnight. They’re built brick by brick. Stick by stick.

    Zechariah 4:10, Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.

    Jesus isn’t looking for your perfection. He’s looking for your persistence. He just wants progress. He’s not expecting you to build a dam that stops the flood in one move.
    He’s asking if you’re willing to keep stacking the sticks of obedience, discipline, trust, and of truth. Over and over until what once overwhelmed you can’t even flow through anymore.

    Every time you choose prayer over panic, that’s a stick. Every time you speak life when you want to curse, that’s a stick. Every time you repent and choose to try again, that’s a stick. Every time you get back up, even when your legs shake, that’s a stick. Every one of those sticks pile up. They create something strong. Something unshakeable. Something that tells the enemy, You can’t flood me anymore.

    So if you’re tired, if it feels like what you’re doing isn’t making a difference, Remember the beaver. Remember the dam. And remember Jesus. He didn’t ask you to finish in a day. He wants you to carry your cross daily, and trust Him to multiply the weight of your sticks into a dam that holds back hell itself.

    Keep building stick by stick, grace by grace, win by win. Because what looks small now, might just stop the flood tomorrow.

  • Christian To Disciple

    The beautiful thing is as you continue to grow closer to God. As you become a true disciple of Christ, something big begins to happen within you. And it’s not just about an outward behavior, but it’s an inward transformation that changes your heart, mind, and your spirit.

    You stop feeling the need to respond to every small thing just to be heard. Silence becomes strength, not weakness. You realize that being understood by people isn’t as important as being obedient to God. You no longer feel the urge to prove your point, because your identity is no longer rooted in being right, but in being righteous through Christ.

    You begin to feel peace in situations that used to shake you on any level. What once would have triggered anger, anxiety, or offense now gets filtered through the Spirit. That’s not because you’ve grown numb, but it’s because you’ve grown mature. You understand that not everything needs a reaction. Some things need prayer. Some things need grace.

    You can’t hold onto hate, even when someone betrays you. Forgiveness doesn’t mean that you forget what happened to you, it just means you remember who you serve. That when you look at Jesus, you see how He forgave the ones who nailed Him to the cross. And that becomes your standard. You begin to pray for the people who hurt you, because you know they need healing just as much as you do.

    You love people you’ve never even met. You start to see others not as strangers or enemies, but as souls created by the same God who created you. Your heart breaks for what breaks His. You find yourself caring deeply about things that once seemed distant, thing like justice, mercy, and compassion. You give without expecting. You serve without needing applause.

    You find joy in Scripture, and not out of duty, but out of hunger. You open your Bible not just to learn, but to encounter Jesus. Every page becomes personal. You’re reading for transformation. You desire to know His voice, His heart, and His will.

    You develop a desire to be holy. This is not out of fear, but it’s out of love for the one who loves you. You don’t chase perfection because you know it’s unattainable. You pursue progress and purity because you’ve tasted the goodness of God. You want to be a vessel that He can use as a light in the darkness. You want to be a disciple who reflects His glory and not just someone who uses him as a name drop.

    You lose interest in shallow things. The gossip, the competition, the validation from others, eventually, it all fades. You’re no longer chasing worldly crowns, because your eyes are fixed on a heavenly one. You stop comparing your journey to others, because you trust the One who’s writing your story.

    You begin to live with purpose. Every day becomes an opportunity to grow in faith, to show grace, to extend love, and to point people to Jesus. And while the world may not always understand this change in you, you’re not living for the world’s approval. You’re living for the glory of God.

    This is what happens when you walk with Jesus, and not just believe in Him, but follow Him. He doesn’t just change what you do, he helps changes who you are.

    Because becoming a disciple is deeper than just calling yourself a Christian. It’s not a title you wear. It becomes a life you live. It’s not about association, it’s about transformation. Discipleship costs something. It requires surrender, obedience, and a heart that longs to reflect the One you follow.

  • The Past Doesn’t Define You

    I don’t even know how to explain all that I’ve been through. I’ve walked through fire that left me scarred in ways that no one could ever see. I’ve smiled through pain just to survive the day. I’ve been in rooms full of people and felt completely alone. I’ve lied and said I’m okay more than I’d care to admit. Behind closed doors, I’ve cried out to God with nothing but brokenness in my hands. I was left wondering if He was even still listening.

    I’ve done things I wish I could undo. Seen things I wish I could unsee. Said things in anger, in pain, out of fear. Many things that still echo in my mind, reminding me of who I was when I was just trying to hold myself together.

    I’ve been brought to my knees more than once. And not in worship, but in utter defeat. With absolute regret. Also with complete exhaustion. I’ve looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. I’ve asked God to just let it end. Just let the pain stop. But he had different plans, because I’m still here. And that’s not just a sentence, it’s a miracle.

    The devil came for me hard. First, he tried to destroy my mind when he came at me and caused me anxiety, and the shame. Most of all, the constant voices telling me I wasn’t enough. Then he came for my body, with sickness, fatigue, and chronic pain that doesn’t stop. When that wasn’t enough, he came for both, hoping I’d finally break.

    What the enemy didn’t know is that God had already put something in me that couldn’t be killed. He put a purpose. He gave me a calling. He gave me a reason to rise again. Even when I had no strength of my own. I’m here for such a time as this.

    I’m not who I used to be. I’m also not who I’m going to be. But I am here, wiser, stronger, and more aware of the fight I’m in. I’m also more confident in the God who’s kept me through it all. I’m not done. I’m not out. I refuse to let the darkness that tried to take me out win.

    You can’t kill what God planted. You can’t silence what He raised up for this generation. I may be bruised, but I am not broken. I may carry around scars physically and emotionally, but they are the proof that I survived. That I overcame because the grace of God.

    For anyone that is reading this who’s barely holding on, hear me when I say this, You are not alone, And this isn’t the end. God’s not done with you either. This is just the beginning.

  • Flavor Of The Month

    could never be the flavor of the month, per se. I don’t bend to trends or follow the fray.
    I don’t play nice in pre approved boxes,
    don’t march in line or mirror your optics.

    I don’t match the beat of the world’s drum. I got my own rhythm, my own hum. It ain’t always smooth, but it’s real. It’s mine. And that alone makes it a threat in your design.

    See, I can be controversial, not because I scream. But because I sit silent, and still don’t agree. Because I smile in storms and walk through fires. With unbothered steps and unshaken desires.

    You call my peace a violent opposition. Because I won’t play the role you wrote in your vision. You want a reaction, a spark,
    a show, but I give you calm, and you don’t know where to go.

    You see, your system’s built on control,
    on scripts, on fear. But I tore out the page
    and made it clear. I don’t fit in your frame,
    I’m the break in your mold. The glitch in your matrix, the truth you were told to ignore,
    to shame, to silence with style. But I speak with my presence and I walk every mile.

    So no, I could never be your flavor of the month. I’m not sweet enough to swallow,
    not safe enough to stunt. I’m bitter truth,
    and holy rage. I’m freedom unfiltered, off the stage.

  • Your Calling

    Sometimes we think the gifts God gave us are for us. We feel like our calling should lift us up. That our talent should carry us. That it is for our benefit. That even our light should make us feel better. It should lift us up, bring us joy, open doors for us. But here’s the hard truth that nobody wants to accept; your gift wasn’t just given to bless you. It was given to bless others.

    That’s why you can be sitting in the middle of your own storm. You can be full of anxiety, live with chronic pain, have all kinds of confusion, and still pour encouragement into someone else. That’s why you can be battling depression, but speak life into someone that is about to give up. That’s why you can feel completely overlooked, and still show up and support someone else’s success like it was yours.

    You might feel empty, but your gift still flows.
    You might feel broken, but your purpose still speaks out. You might feel like you’re the one who needs healing, but your words help heal others. That’s not by coincidence. That’s by purpose.

    You may wonder Why would God let me feel like this if I’m supposed to help others? And the answer is simple. It is because He can still use you, even in the midst of your struggle. Especially when you are in the midst of your struggle. That’s how powerful His gift for you is. It’s not tied to your emotions. It’s tied to His calling.

    You can be tired, and still speak energy into someone else. You can be unsure of your own future, and still help someone find direction. You can be fighting silent battles, and still be the loudest cheerleader in someone’s life. It’s humbling. But it’s also holy.

    Don’t mistake your pain as a sign that you’re not being used. Sometimes it’s the opposite. Sometimes God shines through the cracks in our lives because that’s when we can be most effective when we aren’t fighting back against him.

    If you feel like your gift isn’t helping you right now, just keep going. It’s working through you to reach the people who need it. That’s how you know it’s from God. Because even when you’re down, it still lifts others. Stay faithful. Keep giving. You’re being used in ways you can’t even see yet.

  • Hoarding Grace

    If God’s grace is freely given, then why do we act like we have the authority to limit what we offer to others? Why do we hold back grace from people just because they don’t meet our unspoken standards? Why do we feel justified in hoarding something that we didn’t even earn or meant to keep to ourselves in the first place?

    Grace found us when we were at our lowest, not when we figured everything out. It met us in secret sin, in silent struggles, in shame we carried quietly and privately. God didn’t wait until we healed or fixed ourselves to pour it out. He didn’t say, I’ll love you after you get it together. He loved us while we were still a broken mess.

    Why are we so quickly to forget that when it’s our turn to give it? Honestly, we like the feeling of having the upper hand. It feels powerful to say that you hurt me, and now you have to earn my forgiveness. It feels safe to withhold grace, to guard ourselves, to protect our pride, to keep record. We dress it up as boundaries or discernment, but sometimes it’s just bitterness. Sometimes it’s control.
    Sometimes it’s a wound we’ve nurtured so long, that we forgot what freedom really feels like.

    But Jesus didn’t hoard grace, even when He had every right to. He didn’t hoard it from the ones who betrayed Him, denied Him, abandoned Him. He didn’t withhold it from the people who mocked Him as He bled.
    He said, Father, forgive them, not after they repented or asked for forgiveness, but while they were still treating him like he was nothing.

    That’s grace. Undeserved. Uncomfortable. Unfair. And yet, completely free. So who are we to measure grace with teaspoons when God pours it out as rivers?

    We say we want to be like Jesus, but Jesus didn’t wait until people changed to offer grace. He gave it, and the grace itself became the thing that changed them.

    We’re not called to be reservoirs of grace.
    We’re called to be rivers, letting it flow through us. This means even when it’s hard. It also means even when it hurts, especially when it costs us our pride.

    Grace is not ours to withhold. It was never meant to stop with us. It’s a gift we pass on, not a reward we hand out. Freely we’ve received and freely we must give.