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Morning watch - 7/26/2015 - 5:52 am&nbsp;There’s something I’m sitting with today—this moment at the Jordan, when the Spirit descends like a dove. Not the beginning, but the unveiling. Before that descent, Jesus was already formed by the Holy Spirit—conceived, born, filled. His very being was Spirit-made. That was birth.&nbsp;But ministry required something different. Something outward. Isaiah 61:1, Psalm 45, the echo in Isaiah 42—they aren’t just poetic markers. They name a threshold. The Spirit didn’t come to make Him what He wasn’t—it came to reveal what He was. The dove didn’t correct Him, it confirmed Him.&nbsp;A dove only sees one thing at a time. That image won’t let go of me. Gentleness, singleness, focus. Not fragmented. Not multitasking. Ministry that’s grounded in vision too narrow for distraction.&nbsp;Jesus didn’t need to be filled again. He needed to be poured out. The descent was anointing. Visibility. Invitation. Before the crowd, before the wilderness, before the testing—this. The Spirit saying: here is your King. Watch how He moves.&nbsp;I wonder: how many times have I mistaken inward fullness for readiness? How many moments have I waited for a dove, when the Spirit was already forming me beneath the surface?

Singleness of Sight

July 25, Morning Watch 6:15 amMatthew 3:6; Romans 6:3–5 &nbsp; There’s something sobering here, something precise. Righteousness isn’t a feeling. It’s an act, a way—a step through what God has set in place. In the Old Testament, it was keeping the law. In John’s time, it was the water. No shortcuts. No exceptions. Even Jesus—especially Jesus—entered through the baptism John offered. Not as some divine exemption, but as someone modeling the way. A man. Willing to be seen. Willing to be submerged. I keep circling that word: gateway. Not ceremonial. Not decorative. A passage. And if Jesus didn’t bypass it, why should I? Why would I? I think about what baptism meant then—and now. Termination. Germination. To be right with God means letting the old die, and letting something else break forth. Not just a cleansing, but a resurrection. Not just a gesture, but a grafting. Is my life showing this righteousness? Not in the visible ways, maybe. But in the surrender? In the willingness to be undone and redone? I carry this question with me today: What part of me still resists the gateway God has ordained—preferring my own version of righteousness instead? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

Even Jesus Entered Here

7.24.25 Morning Watch 4:53 amEphesians 2:10 Matthew 3:6 Romans 6:3–5This morning opened like deep water. Still, cool, off-key somehow. I let it sit. I didn’t reach for resolution. Just stayed with it.Baptism keeps showing up. Not just in scripture. It’s in the breath, in letting go, in the grief that’s slow to name itself. John baptized not to punish, but to bury. That always stands out. He treated repentance as something you could lay down, mark as finished, and sink beneath the surface. The beginning didn’t come until something ended.Neurodivergent souls know what it is to carry weight that never belonged to them. The pressure to pass, to perform, to comply. And the long, quiet work of release. Of trusting that surrender isn’t failure.Resurrection doesn’t wear a uniform. It unfolds strangely, sensorially, sacredly. We rise as we are—unmatched, mysterious, textured by grace.I’ve stopped expecting transformation to be clean or dramatic. It’s slower than that. Rough-edged. Holy in ways I can't explain. Burial isn't the end. God receives what’s finished and brings new growth. I ask now for resurrection that doesn’t need translation. I trust it will find its own shape. Let me know if you'd like this version anchored even further—less theological, more physical, or shaped by a different kind of silence. We can keep adjusting until it feels lived in.

This Morning, Like Water

As a spiritual companion, I have long believed that presence matters more than certainty. That questions can be kinder than answers. That belonging must be felt before it can be taught. This morning, the quiet affirms it again. &nbsp; “Be still, and know that I am God…” — Psalm 46:10 &nbsp; But even in stillness, a question echoes. &nbsp; “Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?” — Isaiah 6:8 &nbsp; God is not absent. God is seeking. Not just worship, but cooperation. The Spirit stirs, but many are preoccupied— with vainglory, comfort, or ease. The invitation waits, not because God withholds it, but because we are slow to respond. This morning’s rhythm is nonlinear, textured. The Spirit is not always sequential. It pulses, pauses, returns. And still, it belongs. Even silence may be aspiration. The Spirit remembers what we hoped for before we were ready. God waited forty years with Moses. Moved through Hannah’s longing. Treasured what was offered in desire before it became action. &nbsp; “For now we see through a glass, darkly…” — 1 Corinthians 13:12 &nbsp; We are still becoming. Yet God still asks. So I place my hand over my heart. Not to answer with certainty— but to say, with presence: Here I am. Let this be enough for now.

Morning watch 5:08 am 7/27/25

Col 1:13 - &nbsp;Eph 5:5&nbsp;The Ruling That WhispersI have a King. Not one who roars commands from a throne, but One who dwells within—quiet, near.This morning, I felt His voice again. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just one word: no.It’s a protective whisper. Not rejection. Not rebuke. A pause. A boundary. A grace.The world calls it self-control. Courts call it law. But I know it as the ruling presence of the kingdom of the heavens—active in spirit, gentle in authority.He speaks “no” to save me from pathways I cannot yet see. “No” to remind me who I am beneath the rush and noise. “No” that interrupts not my freedom, but my forgetting.There are many today who do not hear this voice. They violate boundaries, summon consequences, measure life by external rule. But for the kingdom people—for those who dwell in Spirit—the ruling is already here. At work. Within.And today, I thank the Lord for the “no.” For its quietness. For its clarity. For how it keeps me close.

The Inward “No”

Today I am writing from a place of… …quiet ache. Not loud grief, not righteous anger—just that subtle weight of having been misnamed by someone who never asked my name. The Encounter I was approached, not with curiosity, but contempt. Words rained down that I did not invite. I did not shrink. I did not shout. But something in me folded— not in defeat, but like a note placed gently into the pocket of God's robe. "Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear." — Psalm 27:3 Unfolding The note remains. Unread by the one who accused. Read intimately by the One who called. No retort needed. No defense given. I wonder—how long have I carried the ache of being misread? And why does each new injury trace the same scar, even if the hand is different? Presence I am still here. Not the same, but not undone. The soil of me holds roots the storm cannot reach. Naming What does it mean to be faithful when your offering is spit out? Not to reframe it, not to explain it, but to let it be as it was: enough, true, not for them.

Chaplain Services

Fresh Manna: Reflections at First light

Singleness of Sight

Even Jesus Entered Here

This Morning, Like Water

Morning watch 5:08 am 7/27/25

The Inward “No”

Uninvited Rain