#leonbloder

From time to time, I encounter people who identify as Christian, and as soon as they know what I do for a living, they will share in a conspiratorial way something like this: 

"Don't you think that the world has just gone to hell in a handbasket?  It feels like the end times. I just can't wait for Jesus to come back and take care of this sinful, old world once and for all." 

For the sake of brevity, I condensed the information those people will share into a couple of sentences, but you get the idea.  They've been taught that the world is a bad place, and full of darkness, and the best they can hope for is that at some point all of the "unrepentant sinners" will get their comeuppance.  

Honestly, I understand this. At one point in my life, I bought into that way of thinking.  But I've learned since then that system of belief isn't constructive, and not at all what Jesus intended for his followers.  

Some years ago, I read an amazing quote from author Rob Bell that has been in my thoughts lately.  

“Why blame the dark for being dark? It is far more helpful to ask why the light isn’t as bright as it could be.” 

There is an old adage that says, “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” Rob Bell’s quote is a powerful reimagining of that truth. We often find ourselves pointing fingers at the brokenness of the world—the sin, the corruption, the pain, the confusion. 

It’s easy to grow weary and cynical, to grumble about the state of things and lament the perceived decline of morals and faith in the culture we inhabit. But darkness is doing what darkness does--creating shadow, bringing fear, producing anxiety.  

The better question is: Are we doing what light is meant to do?

Jesus told His followers, “You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). He never called us to be the gatekeepers of who’s in or out, who’s worthy or unworthy. He called us to shine—to be a community so full of love, grace, and truth that others can’t help but be drawn toward it.

Far too often, Christians become obsessed with defining boundaries. We argue over doctrine, practice, and tradition, forgetting that the world isn’t transformed by arguments, but by love. While we debate who’s right, the world grows colder and dimmer, longing for warmth and light.

God’s creation—including the people around us—is still beautiful, still sacred, still pulsing with divine potential. When we only see the flaws, we miss the fingerprints of God in the faces of our neighbors, coworkers, and even our critics. What would it look like if, instead of lamenting the world’s darkness, we asked, “How can I shine more brightly today?”

Maybe it’s showing kindness to someone who feels invisible. Maybe it’s choosing forgiveness instead of resentment. Maybe it’s speaking up with truth and love when it would be easier to stay silent. Maybe it’s simply showing up in someone’s life with compassion and a listening ear.

Light doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to be present.

So let us be the people who light candles—who carry the light of Christ into every space we inhabit. Let’s be known not for who we exclude, but for how well we love. Because when the light shines brighter, the darkness has no choice but to recede.

Prayer: 

Throughout Holy Week, we will journey alongside Jesus as He guides us toward the Cross, deepening our faith and understanding of His mission.

According to the Gospel of Mark, following His triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, Jesus returned to the Temple on Monday and instigated a significant disruption:  

“On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple courts and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations'? But you have made it a den of robbers.” (Mark 11:15-17).

So what exactly was Jesus doing in this moment? Theologians Marcus Borg and Dominic Crossan assert that He was staging a powerful prophetic teaching moment, reminiscent of the prophet Jeremiah, who had confronted worshippers at the Temple. 

The Temple system had devolved into corruption. The overly religious individuals of Jesus' time had begun to idolize the institution rather than worship the God who established it. 

They had started to prioritize rituals, systems, and a rigid adherence to rules over the true essence of their faith, expressing love for God through acts of justice, mercy, and compassion toward the "least" in their society.

This dangerous trajectory had been warned against by Hebrew prophets centuries earlier, such as Amos and Hosea, who delivered God's message:

“I hate, I despise your solemn festivals and take no delight in your solemn assemblies….” (Amos 5:21-23).    “I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.” (Hosea 6:6).

C.S. Lewis noted that this issue continues to affect the Christian church in our age. He asserted that when Christians begin to blur the lines between God and the systems, rules, and regulations of their faith, they may come to view the Christian life as a series of transactions, believing:

“...as the only thing [God] wants so that their punctual performance will satisfy Him without obedience to His demands for mercy.”

As we reflect on Jesus' actions in the Temple today, let us be called to faithfulness in our own understanding of faith. 

It is all too common for Christians to perceive their involvement in the Church as a means to earn God's love. In this pursuit, we can easily lose sight of our true calling to be a light in the world.

May we strive to follow Jesus daily, focusing less on religious practices and more on our relationship with Him, who, in the words of the Apostle Paul, “loved the Church and gave himself for it.”

There are seasons in life when the world feels unsteady—when headlines unsettle us, when uncertainty lingers in our personal lives, and when anxiety hums quietly beneath the surface of our days. In those moments, it can be tempting to withdraw, to turn inward, to convince ourselves that we can carry it all alone. And yet, it is precisely in these moments that the presence of a faith community becomes not just helpful, but essential.

From the very beginning, God has called people not only into relationship with Him, but into relationship with one another. The early church understood this deeply: “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42). Their shared life was not an accessory to faith—it was the very environment in which faith took root and flourished.

When the world feels dark, faithfully showing up to be with others—singing, praying, serving, and simply being present—is a quiet but powerful act of resistance. It is a way of declaring that fear does not have the final word. Every time you walk through the doors, every time you take your place among others who are also seeking hope, you are pushing back against isolation, despair, and disconnection.

Nadia Bolz-Weber captures something profound about this in her reflection: “I don't know if I want to call it stubbornness or faithfulness because both of those tend get twisted up in my mind a little bit. Like I think that faithfulness is a form of stubbornness... that I can get behind.”

There is something beautifully honest in that tension. Faithfulness doesn’t always feel heroic. Sometimes it looks like stubbornly showing up when you don’t feel like it. It looks like sitting in the pew when your heart is heavy, singing when your voice feels weak, or reaching out when it would be easier to retreat. This kind of “stubborn faithfulness” becomes a lifeline—not only for ourselves, but for others who are drawing strength from our presence even when we don’t realize it.

Hebrews reminds us of this shared calling: “Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together… but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24–25). In uncertain times, gathering is not optional—it is formative. It shapes us into people who can endure, hope, and love.

So if you have drifted, if the habit of showing up has waned, consider this your gentle invitation back. Not because you must, but because you need not walk alone. Your presence matters. Your voice matters. Your story matters.

And together, in small and steady ways, we become a light that no darkness can overcome.

Prayer Faithful God, when the world feels uncertain and our hearts grow anxious, draw us back into community. Give us the courage to show up, even when it is hard. Strengthen us through one another, and make us bearers of Your light in a weary world. Amen.

Reflection Questions

When life feels uncertain, what tends to pull you away from community—and what might help you return?

How have you experienced encouragement or strength from others in your faith community?

Last night I was more tired than I have been in a very long time.  My entire house was (mostly) moved to my new house, and with the rain and some unforeseen complications, it took nearly 10 hours. 

Then, after all was said and done, I had to go back to my old house to get all my bedding and a bunch of other things, so I fully loaded my Ford Bronco once more, and then trudged another thousand steps or more to get it unloaded. 

By the time my bed was made and I  was ready to climb in it, I was so exhausted that the thought of getting up and writing a Devo seemed like an impossible task.  I told my fiancée about this, and she said, "Why don't you write about that?"

So I did.  Only this morning I'm rested, clear-headed, and about to drink my second cup of coffee because at the last minute I remembered to bring my coffee maker over last night.  And I've been thinking about the power of rest, and how infrequently most of us allow ourselves to embrace it. 

When we are weary—truly weary in both body and soul—it can feel as though rest is a luxury we cannot afford. There is always more to do, more to fix, more to carry. Yet the deeper truth is this: rest is not a reward for finishing everything; it is a gift that makes life itself sustainable.

The writer Anne Lamott once said, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” Her words carry a gentle wisdom. We are not designed to run endlessly. Like any good creation, we require pause, renewal, and stillness in order to function as we were meant to.

Scripture echoes this truth again and again. In Psalm 46:10, we hear the invitation: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness is not inactivity—it is sacred awareness. It is the quiet space where we remember who we are and whose we are. Jesus himself extends a tender call in Matthew 11:28: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Notice that he does not say, “Come to me once you have finished everything,” but simply, “Come.”

Rest is an act of trust. It requires us to loosen our grip on the illusion that everything depends on us. It asks us to step away from the tyranny of the urgent—the endless noise of what demands our attention—and to return to what truly matters. When we rest, we declare that our worth is not measured by productivity, but by being beloved children of God.

In a restless world, choosing rest is a quiet form of resistance. It is a way of saying that your soul matters, your body matters, and your life is more than a checklist of accomplishments.

So carve out space. Breathe deeply. Sit in silence. Take a walk without rushing. Turn off the noise for a while. In that sacred pause, you may discover that God has been waiting—not in the urgency, but in the stillness.

Prayer Gracious God, when I am weary and burdened, help me to come to you. Teach me to rest without guilt and to be still without fear. Restore my body, renew my spirit, and remind me that I am held in your care. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where in your life are you feeling the greatest weariness right now?

What practices might help you create intentional space for rest this week?

I was thinking this morning about Jesus' command to love our enemies, and I realized I didn't like the notion of having any.  The fact that there might be people out there who considered me an enemy, or an opponent was disconcerting. 

I like to imagine that I'm not the kind of person who someone would despise, but I know there are probably a few folks who do, for whatever reason.  

The truth of the matter is, most of us do have people in our lives who don't care for us.  And maybe these same people have said or done things to hurt us. We might be able to get our heads around the idea of forgiving these people, because we don't want to walk around filled with bitterness about it.  

But loving them?  That seems like a bridge too far, doesn't it?  

Loving our enemies may be one of the most difficult teachings Jesus ever gave us. In the Sermon on the Mount, he says plainly, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). It sounds beautiful in theory, but in practice, it can feel almost impossible—especially when the wounds are deep.

Few stories capture this struggle more powerfully than that of Corrie ten Boom. Years after surviving the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp, Corrie found herself face-to-face with one of the guards who had once tormented prisoners. The man, now a Christian, approached her and asked for forgiveness.

Corrie froze. The memories came rushing back—the suffering, the loss, the injustice. She knew what Jesus commanded, but her heart resisted. In that moment, she prayed a simple but honest prayer: “Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give your forgiveness.”

What happened next surprised even her. As she reached out her hand, she felt a surge of love—real, tangible love—for the man she once considered an enemy. It was not something she manufactured; it was something she received.

Reflecting on that moment, Corrie later wrote: “And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on [Jesus's]. When he tells us to love our enemies, he gives along with the command, the love itself.”

This is the heart of the Gospel. God never asks us to do something and then leaves us to figure it out on our own. When Jesus calls us to love beyond our capacity, he also supplies what we lack. As Paul reminds us, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit” (Romans 5:5).

Loving our enemies is not about excusing harm or pretending pain doesn’t exist. It is about opening ourselves to a love that is greater than our wounds—a love that heals, restores, and transforms.

Today, whatever burden you may be carrying, consider praying Corrie’s prayer. You don’t have to force forgiveness. You only have to be willing to receive it.

Prayer Gracious God, when forgiveness feels beyond me, give me your love. Fill my heart with what I cannot create on my own, and teach me to love as you love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Who in your life feels most difficult to forgive right now?

What would it look like to pray honestly for God’s help in loving them?

Yesterday, I started the long drive from Austin to Florida, driving my dad's car as part of his moving back there after nearly ten years in Texas.  I left after church and had a hard time driving through torrential downpours, traffic accidents, road work, and other obstacles. 

At one point, the rain near Houston was so bad that I couldn't see beyond a hundred yards or so in front of me, and could barely see the lane markers on the road.  It was a disorienting and tense experience that left me exhausted. 

I was reflecting on that experience this morning, and it occurred to me why so many of us long for certainty in our lives, and why it's so difficult when uncertainty threatens to blur our vision for the way forward in life's journeys.  

When our long-held beliefs, plans for our lives, and our understanding of meaning and purpose are turned upside down, the uncertainty that follows can be as disorienting and exhausting as driving through blinding, driving rain.  

I recall a quote from Richard Rohr, who wrote about the path toward spiritual awakening amid uncertainty: “Enlightenment is not about knowing as much as it is about unknowing…”  

He then goes on to say that letting go of what we thought we knew is often the most important step toward surrendering our control to God and trusting that God has got us.  

In a culture that prizes certainty, achievement, and accumulation, these words feel almost upside down. Yet, at the heart of the spiritual life is not a grasping for more, but a releasing of what we think we already know.

Scripture echoes this paradox again and again. In Proverbs, we are told, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). Trust requires a kind of unknowing—a willingness to admit that our perspective is limited. Likewise, the Apostle Paul writes, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12), reminding us that clarity is not something we possess, but something we grow into as we surrender to God’s mystery.

Even Jesus invites us into this posture of letting go. “Those who want to save their life will lose it,” he says, “and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 16:25). The path to awakening is not about constructing a more certain faith, but about loosening our grip—on our assumptions, our need for control, even our images of God.

Spiritual awakening happens when we stop trying to master God and instead allow ourselves to be held by God. It is found not in arriving at perfect answers, but in entering more deeply into the sacred unknown. Like Moses before the burning bush, we are invited to take off our sandals—to recognize that we are standing on holy ground we cannot fully comprehend (Exodus 3:5).

There is a quiet freedom in this kind of surrender. When we release the pressure to have it all figured out, we make space for wonder, for humility, for transformation. We begin to see that God is not a problem to be solved, but a presence to be experienced.

So today, let yourself loosen your grip just a little. Let go of the need to be certain. Trust that God is at work in the mystery, gently awakening you to a deeper, richer life than certainty alone could ever offer.

Prayer Gracious and mysterious God, teach me to let go of what I think I know. Lead me into deeper trust, deeper wonder, and deeper surrender. Awaken my heart to your presence in all things. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What beliefs or assumptions might you need to “unlearn” in order to grow spiritually?

Where in your life are you being invited to trust God beyond your own understanding?

I've been thinking a lot this week about resurrection, the universal rhythm of all things, and also about how long it used to take me to eat one of those really big chocolate rabbits when I was a kid.  

Think deeply for a moment.  

When was the last time you set out to tackle one of those really big chocolate rabbits?  I honestly can't remember when it was for me, but I do remember that after a few chunks were broken off and consumed, I felt daunted by the task of eating it.  

Eating the chocolate rabbit was a process that required a certain amount of commitment to storing it properly so it wouldn't melt.  And also keeping it from the greedy hands of those who would secretly break off pieces of it for themselves, thinking you wouldn't notice.  

I remember it taking days to finish off the rabbit, and by the end, it looked pathetic and sad, even while retaining the small smile on its face that had been imprinted at its inception.  

At that point, I imagine I must have felt bad for the thing.  Its only purpose was to be consumed bit by bit until nothing was left.  I felt no triumph in the last bite.  Easter was over.  Time to move on.  

If you are wondering if I really experienced a sense of existential dread while nibbling away at the last bits of a chocolate rabbit, I can tell you that I most likely did.  I actually thought about these kinds of things as a kid, all of which was a harbinger of things to come.  

Some might call it weird, but I prefer to think that I was already wrestling with the ultimate questions of faith, life, and the nature of God.  Also, I was slightly allergic to chocolate, so there was that as well.  

I think that at some level, most of us see Easter in the same light.  We're not sure exactly what it means, but we do feel a strange sense of loss when the celebrations end and we move from the joy and excitement of the day itself into the regular rhythms of life, worry, and questions about meaning and purpose.  

This is why it's so important for those of us who call ourselves Christians to reframe how we see the Resurrection — not as something that happened (as impossible as it might seem), but as something that happens over and over again.  

Author David Housholder once wrote: 

“If anyone or anything tries to curse or kill the Goodness at the Center of all things, it will just keep coming back to life. Forever Easter.”

I really love that line.  It speaks directly to the notion that something greater is at work around us, and that despite the dread we might feel about the circumstances we are surrounded by, there's an essential truth at the center of everything that can't be denied.  

God is still in the resurrection business, and no matter what we humans do to deny or destroy that Goodness at the Center of all things, we can't quite finish the job.  

This is good news for all of us.  Easter is forever.  The Universe around us is always dying and rising.  Just when you think things might be over, they aren't.  Giving up and giving in to despair isn't really an option because there's more on the other side of whatever endings we are facing. 

So may you live this day in defiant hope that nothing ever ends, it just begins again.  We might face hard and trying things, but the eternal, universal rhythm of dying and rising will eventually bring new life.  

May it be so, and may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with us now and always. Amen.  

Prayer: 

God of new life and new beginnings, teach us to trust that Easter is forever.  Teach us to hold on to the hope that You are always at work, bringing back to life what we leave for dead.  Give us peace in the midst of troubled times, and the joy that comes with your mercies which are renewed every morning.  Amen.  

Reflection Questions: 

Where in your life do you feel like something has come to an end—and how might God be inviting you to see that place as the beginning of something new?

When have you experienced the “rhythm of resurrection” in your own story—moments when hope returned after loss, or life emerged from what felt finished?

Today is Maundy Thursday, or Holy Thursday--the day we encounter one of the most powerful images of Jesus’ love.  

The word "maundy" comes from the Latin mandatum, which means "command."  

This is the day during Holy Week when Jesus shared the Last Supper with his disciples, and to demonstrate the extent of his love for them, he washed their feet and gave them this command.  

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14)

In a world shaped by hierarchy and power, this act is startling.The teacher kneels. The Lord serves.

This is not symbolic alone—it is instructive.

Theologian Karl Barth described this moment as the clearest picture of God’s nature: a God who bends low in love.

Peter resists at first, uncomfortable with such vulnerability.

And perhaps we understand why. Because receiving this kind of love requires humility, and offering it requires surrender.

Jesus’ command is simple, yet profound: “Love one another as I have loved you.”Not abstractly, but concretely. Tangibly. Sacrificially.

This love is not about status or recognition; it is about presence.

It is about choosing to kneel when the world tells us to stand above.

Frederick Buechner writes, “The love for equals is a human thing… but to love the unlovable is Godlike.”

This is the love Jesus embodies on this night.

And it is the love He calls us to live.

As the shadows lengthen and the Cross draws near, we are reminded that love is not merely spoken—it is enacted.It shows up. It kneels down. It serves.

Holy Week invites us to consider: Where are we being called to kneel? Whose feet are we being asked to wash?

Because in those moments, we reflect Christ most clearly, and we live out his command to love as we have been loved.

Prayer

Servant Christ, teach me to love as You love. Give me the humility to serve and the courage to kneel. Make my life a reflection of Your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where is God calling you to serve with humility?

What makes it difficult to both give and receive love?