Questions & God - Are You Truly Prepared?

Don't Wait For The Opportunity - Create It!

Nobody handed Moses a license to confront Pharaoh. Nobody gave David permission to swing a stone at a giant. So why in God’s name are we waiting for someone to stamp our lives with approval before we take a step forward?

This lie—that we need validation, ordination, or credentials to speak truth, build something, or change our lives—has shackled more souls than sin ever did. And let’s be honest, most of those shackles come gift-wrapped in politeness and bureaucracy.

But here's the thing: you were born already equipped. You don’t need a gatekeeper to live your calling. That still, small voice? It’s not waiting for permission slips. It’s waiting for action.

Paul reminded Timothy, “Do not neglect the spiritual gift within you [that special endowment]… take pains with these things [be absorbed in them], so that your progress will be evident to all” (1 Timothy 4:14-15, AMP). That wasn’t a polite suggestion. That was a wake-up call to stop waiting and start moving.

Let me say this as plain as a military field manual: Permission is a luxury. Purpose is a necessity. You don’t ask the storm if it’s okay to survive. You grab what you can and start climbing out. That’s how I found ministry. That’s how my wife and I clawed our way back from silence and shame into something real—something sacred in its imperfection.

As the Marines say: “Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.” No roadmap? Improvise. No support? Adapt. No approval? Overcome. Even the Tuatha Dé Danann didn’t wait for a welcome mat before storming the Irish shores. They arrived in fire and fog—and reshaped the land beneath their feet. That’s myth, sure, but every myth holds truth. Sometimes we need to walk into our calling like a warrior poet—with scars, a smirk, and a mission.

You are not here to win popularity contests. You’re here to live out truth with integrity. The Universal Life Church teaches that *we are all children of the same universe*—so act like it. If the universe gave you a spark, don’t bury it in red tape.

“Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good deeds and moral excellence, and [recognize and honor and glorify] your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, AMP).

Don’t wait for permission to be the light. Be it. Start today.

Spiritual Warfare Ain’t Pretty But It’s Necessary

Let’s cut through the soft-edged Sunday School version of spirituality. This isn’t a tea party. It’s war. Not with bombs or bullets, but a daily trench fight for your mind, your purpose, your relationships, and your damn soul.

You think demons wear horns? No. Most wear smiles. They slip into the voice of doubt, the silence of betrayal, the pressure to conform. That’s the real battlefield. And it’s why your armor can’t be made of fluff and fairy tales.

“Put on the full armor of God [for His precepts are like the splendid armor of a heavily-armed soldier], so that you may be able to [successfully] stand up against all the schemes and the strategies and the deceits of the devil.” (Ephesians 6:11, AMP).

I’ve been there—on the floor at 3AM, cursing the heavens and questioning if anything meant anything. And you know what pulled me back up? Not a spiritual soundbite. Not a fortune cookie. It was grit, grace, and the belief that if I was still breathing, I still had a fight in me. Sometimes that belief was carried by my wife when I couldn’t carry it myself.

She doesn’t quote scripture much, but she sure as hell lives it. She’ll tell you with that look of hers—half fire, half mischief—that survival isn’t elegant, but it’s sacred. And if you’re going to walk this path with us, understand: we get knocked down. But we don’t stay down. Ever.

It’s like the Stoics taught: “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” Or as the Finnish would say, *sisu*—that stubborn, unyielding grit of the soul. You don’t quit just because things get ugly. You lean in.

So here’s your spiritual boot camp briefing:

• Life will hit below the belt. Expect it.
• Truth will cost you. Pay it anyway.
• Faith is not a crutch. It’s a combat harness.

You are not meant to be passive. You are meant to stand—bloodied, bruised, but still standing. The Universal Life Church honors all paths to truth. So walk yours. And if you stumble, get up with a curse, a prayer, or both. Just get up.

“We are pressured in every way [hedged in], but not crushed; perplexed [unsure of finding a way out], but not driven to despair.” (2 Corinthians 4:8, AMP).

This is spiritual warfare. And no, it ain't pretty. But it’s absolutely necessary.

Redemption Doesn't Wear A Halo

Redemption ain’t cute. It sure as hell doesn’t smell like incense or glow like stained glass. It smells like sweat, burned bridges, and old habits trying to claw their way back in.

People act like redemption comes after some sweet little prayer whispered into a megachurch sound system. But for most of us, it comes in the dead of night, when you’re staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you let it all go sideways.

Redemption isn’t a trophy. It’s a scar that says, “Yeah, I went to hell—but I didn’t unpack.”

Let’s get one thing straight: your past doesn’t need a mop and bucket. It needs acknowledgment, accountability, and some godly defiance. “For the righteous man falls seven times, and rises again.” (Proverbs 24:16, AMP) But he doesn’t rise like a choir boy. He gets up like a boxer—bloody, limping, pissed off, and grateful.

If you’re looking for sainthood, I ain’t your preacher. But if you’ve ever screwed up so bad that even your shadow’s ashamed to follow you… pull up a chair. You’re in good company.

My wife—bless her chaotic, firecracker soul—reminds me constantly that it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being persistent. She never traded her stilettos for a halo, and thank God. Her redemption story comes with ripped seams, loud opinions, and the kind of forgiveness that doesn’t play nice but plays fair.

Even Christ didn’t wear a halo when he flipped the tables. He wore grit. He wore rage. He wore justice like a second skin. Don’t let the Sunday school art fool you. “I came not to bring peace, but a sword.” (Matthew 10:34) That sword? It cuts through the lies we tell ourselves about who’s worthy and who’s not.

Redemption isn’t about forgetting where you’ve been. It’s about using it like flint—because sometimes, the only way forward is to set fire to the past and watch it burn.

The Gospel According to the Working Class

Here’s the sermon you won’t hear in most churches: The gospel didn’t come to the comfortable. It came to the broke, the bitter, the barely-holding-it-together blue-collar tribe that knows more about calluses than communion wafers.

You think Jesus hung with the HOA crowd? He rolled with fishermen, tax collectors, and women polite society labeled “unmentionable.” In today’s terms, he’d be at the Waffle House at 2 a.m., drinking bad coffee and talking truth with people who’ve seen more bars than Bible studies.

My stepmother cleaned grease traps, toilets, and the occasional disgusting messes left behind by my brother and I, as well as nursing home patients when her place of employment needed an extra hand. My grandmother managed gardening and berry picking with her bare hands until arthritis stole the strength from them. And both of them had more theology in their bones than a stack of seminary degrees. Why? Because the gospel is for those who live it, not just recite it.

“Blessed [spiritually prosperous, happy, to be admired] are the poor in spirit [those devoid of spiritual arrogance], for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3, AMP)

Look, we’re not poor in spirit because we’re weak. We’re poor in spirit because we’ve been run over by bosses, bills, and bureaucratic bullshit for decades. And yet, we still show up. We still feed our families. We still stand at gravesites with cracked voices and call it faith.

This gospel? It’s for the line cooks, the single moms, the truck drivers who talk to God at truck stops. It’s for the guy who picks up a second job just to keep the lights on. It’s for the woman who walks away from abuse with nothing but her kids and a pocket of lint. It’s for the ones who don’t think they’re holy—but holy hell, they’re trying.

The church forgot them. But God never did.

So no, we don’t pass around gold-plated offering plates around here. We pass around stories. Sweat. Laughter that comes with missing teeth. We don’t preach prosperity. We preach persistence.

“Whatever you do [whatever your task may be], work from the soul [that is, put in your very best effort], as [something done] for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, AMP)

This is the gospel according to the working class. It doesn’t wear a suit. It wears boots. And it’s walked through more hell than most people dare imagine. But it walks anyway.

The Day I Told Religion to Shove It—And Found God Anyway

There comes a point when playing nice with religion just doesn’t cut it anymore. I hit that point somewhere between being lied to by preachers in three-piece suits and realizing I was more likely to find the divine in a dive bar than a church pew.

Organized religion told me to be quiet, be humble, be broken—preferably in that order. What it meant was, “Be controllable.” But God? God whispered, “Get up. Wipe the blood off your lip. We’ve got work to do.”

See, I didn’t leave the church. The church left me. It left me when it started charging admission. When it traded conviction for branding. When it valued smiling photo ops over raw confessionals. “Having a form of godliness, but denying its power.” (2 Timothy 3:5, AMP)

So I walked. Not away from faith—but toward something real. Something loud. Something bloody and beautiful. Something sacred enough to handle my mess and holy enough to call it mine.

I found God in the eyes of the broken. In my wife’s laughter. In my own doubt. In the raw courage it takes to show up one more damn day when nothing makes sense.

Religion says clean yourself up first. The Spirit says, “Come as you are, just don’t expect to leave the same.” I’m not here to impress saints. I’m here to lead rebels, heal the outcasts, and call down heaven in the language of the street.

If that makes me a heretic in someone’s book, so be it. I’d rather be a heretic in heaven than a hypocrite in hell.

Confessions of a Minister with a Mouth

Let’s be real: I wasn’t built for stained glass sermons or dainty little devotionals with fake smiles and teacup faith. I cuss more than I should. I wrestle with doubt. And if you’re looking for a sermon without sweat, spit, or sarcasm—you’re in the wrong tent.

But here’s the thing. I’m not here for applause. I’m not here to be liked. I’m here because I was called—dragged, really—into a ministry that doesn’t play by the rules of polite company. And thank God for that.

Because while the nice, clean preachers talk about “loving thy neighbor,” I’m trying to help that neighbor make rent, kick a meth habit, or crawl out of a generational curse that religion helped install.

“Let your yes be [a truthful] yes, and your no be [a truthful] no; anything more than that comes from the evil one.” (Matthew 5:37, AMP)

My “yes” is ugly sometimes. It’s angry. It comes with a chipped mug of black coffee and a hard stare. But it’s honest. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that honesty will get you further than a thousand empty hallelujahs from a man who lies to himself before Sunday brunch.

So I’ll keep preaching with a limp, with my sleeves rolled up, and with a gospel that’s been dragged through every ditch I’ve ever crawled out of. Because that’s the only kind I trust anymore.

Why My Wife Is Holier In Fishnets Than Most Preachers In Prada

She doesn’t wear heels—not because she doesn’t want to, but because her body’s paid a price for a life lived full throttle. But trust me, the flat soles she wears could crush a weak man’s ego just fine.

My wife dresses like someone who knows exactly who she is. Tank tops cut low, skirts that don’t beg for approval, and fishnet stockings that say, “I survived.” She wears her stories on her skin, not hidden in shame, but worn like armor.

One street preacher once told me she was sent by the devil. I waked away with a bit of soft laghter and thought, “Yeah? Well, the devil’s never made Sunday morning feel this alive.”

See, she doesn’t fake holiness. She doesn’t wrap herself in pearls and pretend she’s never thrown a punch, dropped an f-bomb, or wrestled God under a full moon. And yet, I’ve never met anyone more sacred. More real.

“Do not judge by appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.” (John 7:24, AMP)

She’s more honest in her barely-there denim skirts than most pastors are in designer suits. You won’t catch her pretending to be pure. What she is—through and through—is genuine. She won’t lie to make you feel better, and she sure as hell won’t lie to save face.

And yeah, I tease her. Because Lord knows she teases me right back. But here’s the truth: she’s more fun, more fearless, and more forgiving than any church lady with a casserole and a gossip list. She’ll call you out, hold your hand, pray with you, and dance in the kitchen like the Spirit’s got a beat.

So when folks ask how I, a minister, can stand beside a woman like that, I just smile and say, “Because God knew I needed a woman who could handle fire without flinching.”

She doesn’t dress for church. She dresses like she’s already walked through hell and isn’t afraid to do it again—with style, with sass, and with a soul that shines brighter than any steeple.

Are You Prepared?

Headlines don’t ask permission before delivering bad news. A young father gunned down in his driveway. A woman in her prime slips into a coma from a sudden aneurysm. A freak accident on the interstate claims four lives on the way to a wedding. None of them saw it coming. All of them had plans for tomorrow.

And yet… they didn’t make it through the night.

This keeps me up sometimes. Not in some Hollywood, dramatic-slow-pan-to-the-window kind of way. More like 3:47 AM, staring at the ceiling with my wife snoring beside me, and I’m trying not to wake her up again with my tossing and turning. I whisper prayers I haven’t memorized. I worry about whether I said the right thing to my kids. I think about the state of our will, our debts, our digital accounts, the things no one talks about until they’re standing in a funeral home with blank stares and heavy hearts.

Are you prepared? I don’t mean legally. I don’t even mean spiritually in the churchy sense. I mean this: can your soul sit quietly with itself? Have you made peace with the truth that life is fleeting, and that you don’t control the next breath? The Stoics called this memento mori—"remember that you must die." Buddhists call it "mindfulness of impermanence." Both aim at the same thing: quieting the mind.

Most people think preparation means typing up a will or reciting some sinner’s prayer in a sanitized building on Sunday morning. But those who have truly stared into the void know: It’s about clarity. It’s about breathing deeply when the silence gets loud.

So yeah, I’ll probably wake up again tonight, haunted by the question.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe asking the hard questions is part of preparing the soul. Maybe the goal isn’t to never fear death—but to stop fearing the noise in your own head long enough to hear what it’s trying to say.

You don’t need a sermon. You need silence.

A Quiet Mind: 5 Practices for Inner Readiness

Use these when the mind won’t shut up, when anxiety hums in your chest, or when the headlines hit too close to home.

1. Begin with the Breath (Zazen-inspired)
Sit. Breathe. Slowly. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Count 1 to 10. Then back down. This isn't about stopping thoughts. It's about not chasing them.

2. Carry a Stone (Stoic Reminder)
Keep a small object—a coin, a stone, something you carry daily. When your thoughts race, grip it. Remind yourself: “I may not finish today. But I will live it well.”

3. Write One Final Note (Marcus Aurelius meets the Buddha)
Each night, write as if it were your last entry: what you learned, what made you grateful, what you'd want your loved ones to know if tomorrow never came. Then rest.

4. Practice Present Gratitude
Choose one thing you would miss if this were your last morning—your partner’s breath beside you, hot coffee, birdsong, the ache in your knees. Be with it fully.

5. Release the Need to Know
It’s okay not to have everything figured out. True peace doesn’t come from control—it comes from surrender. As Epictetus wrote, “We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond.”

Final Thought:
You may not be able to silence the world, but you can learn to stop letting it run your mind. You don’t need a legal document to be at peace. You just need the courage to sit still in your own company… and breathe.

A Quiet Mind Is Its Own Refuge

"Only when the mind is still, like a calm sea beneath the moonlight, can the truth of who we are be clearly reflected."
—Adapted from Stoic and Zen teachings

• Kundalini Activation Playlist For Quieting The Mind