In the children’s message, the kids this week, "What kinds of things have you had to apologize for?" Anecdotes faded into streams of cuteness consciousness. But before he could land the plane, one six-year-old boy blurted the most revealing, unvarnished confession:

"You don't want to say you're sorry because then kids will know that you're weak. And then they'll be even more mean to you."

Mic drop. Childlike wonder, imagination, and naiveté replaced with self-preservation, scarcity, and a heart already learning to callus.

The world is louder than it is accurate, and the truest things are often the most quiet.

Brad Montague wrote that in his Manifesto for Stubborn Optimists, and I can't stop thinking about it. Because right now, injustice screams. Fear accuses. The desperate stampede shouts a single message: save yourself. But underneath all that noise, there's this whisper—the world we know as normal is not the one God intended.

While the Church wrestles with outward cultural relevance, it's also navigating an inward challenge of metrics. Results and fruit, though both valuable, serve distinct purposes. The primary difference is: God doesn't call His people primarily to results—He invites us to bear fruit.

Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Story famously illustrates these three “time zones” through the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. He narrates the Christian vision that even the most Scrooge-like person among us can experience a change of heart.

What if darkness didn’t just represent fear, evil, and confusion but was also a place of dreams, germination, and deep roots?