Curious

Night falls on Nicodemus, and he’s got two doors in front of him.

Door number one? He goes to the bar with the boys—his fellow religious leaders. They grab a drink, toast to their success, and talk strategy on how to keep their power locked down. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. It’s what’s expected.

But door number two? That’s the "still, small voice." The one whispering that maybe—just maybe—faith isn’t about control or protection. Maybe it’s about openness.

He chooses door number two. He lets curiosity win. And because he was willing to look a little "unprofessional" by sneaking out to meet a radical rabbi in the dark, we got the most famous verse in history: John 3:16.

But don't miss the weight of this. Nicodemus was under massive pressure. His peers, his family, the whole system was screaming at him to keep the status quo. "Don't rock the boat, Nick. Stay in your lane."

If the world was perfect, the status quo would be fine. But look around. We know it’s not.

Today, we desperately need the "Nicodemus Faith." Not a faith that’s cemented in "being right," but a faith that’s open to a Spirit that is constantly doing something new.

We need humble bridge builders, peacemakers, and willing witnesses to God's mercy who will calmly listen, and patiently react with dignity and authenticity.

So, how’s that sitting with you today? Where is God inviting you to trade your certainty for a little bit of curiosity?

Ashes, Ashes

Would you pray with a total stranger?

I mean really. Would you roll down your window… look someone in the eye… and let them mark your forehead with ash?

It feels risky. Vulnerable. A little wild.

And yet look at this. Cars wrapped around 12 Mile. Blinkers flashing. People with meetings to get to, kids to pick up, emails piling up. And still they wait. For ashes. For prayer. For a moment.

There is something deeply brave about that.

Ash Wednesday is not about religious guilt. It is about holy honesty.

Reflection is that sacred pause where you stop running long enough to remember who you are. And whose you are. Before the job title. Before the mistakes. Before the expectations. You are dust, yes. But you are beloved dust. And that changes everything.

Repentance is not about shame. It is about courage. It is the bold decision to say, “I’ve wandered.” And then to trust that God is not standing there with crossed arms but with open ones.

Repentance is a pivot. A recalibration. A turning of the heart back toward Love.

And what moves me every year is this: people show up carrying so much. Stress. Grief. Uncertainty. Regret. Hope they’re almost afraid to name. And they still pull forward. They still say yes to prayer from someone they have never met.

That is not weakness.

That is faith.

Faith that God meets us right here. In traffic lines. In ordinary Wednesdays. In the mess and beauty of our actual lives.

So let me ask you: what would honesty look like for you today? Where have you drifted just a little? What needs to be named so it can be healed?

If ashes and prayer would help, come on down to Southfield. We are here.

And if you mark this day in another way, that’s okay too. There are many ways to begin again. Many ways to be brave.

Grace is not scarce.

Transfigured

Every year, right before we head into the "dust and ashes" of Lent, the Lectionary gives us the Transfiguration. It’s that wild story where Jesus takes his inner circle—Peter, James, and John—up a mountain and suddenly starts glowing like a literal supernova.

And then, just to make it weirder, two "celebrity guests" from the Hebrew Bible, Moses and Elijah, just... show up.

Now, Peter—who is basically all of us on our best and worst days—is so blown away by the "God-ness" of it all that he does the most human thing possible:

He tries to manage it. He offers to build three booths. He wants to bottle the magic, codify the moment, and turn a mystical experience into a real estate project.

He’s trying to institutionalize the Divine before the glow even fades.

And how does God respond? Not with a "Thanks, Peter!" but with a voice so terrifyingly loud it knocks them all flat on their faces. They’re paralyzed by the weight of it all until Jesus walks over, touches them, and tells them to get up.

See our churches? They’re often just our modern-day attempts to "build a booth" on that mountain. We get so obsessed with the "tent"—the traditions, the buildings, the "way we’ve always done it"—that we forget to look at the Person the tent was supposed to house.

This is the tension between religion and spirituality. Spirituality is that raw, desperate hunger for the Divine. Religion is the infrastructure we build to try and hold onto it.

The problem isn't the tent; the problem is when we start worshiping the canvas instead of the Christ.

So here is the lesson for the week: Don’t get so focused on the window that you forget to look at the view. Pay more attention to that spiritual self of yours - and don't get caught up in the trappings of hollow tradition, empty ritual, and stale sentimentality.

The rose blooming outside your window lasts much longer when you don't put it in a vase.

Stay Salty

We usually think of salt as something that makes popcorn taste better. And that’s fine. But in the ancient world, salt wasn't a luxury for your fries; it was a lifeline. It was the only thing standing between a piece of meat and total decay - Sunday dinner and starvation.

When Jesus calls us the "salt of the earth," he’s not just saying we should be "tasty" or "nice." He’s articulating our job description - something that's critical - life saving .

Salt is a preservative. Its job is to slow down the rot. To keep things from falling apart.

Let’s be honest: our world feels like it’s rotting in a lot of places right now. We see it in the way we talk to each other, the way we treat the vulnerable, and the way cynicism just seems to eat everything it touches.

As Christians, our "saltiness" isn't our ability to judge the world for rotting. That’s easy. Anyone can point out a mess. Our job is to be the element that stops the decay.

In our Church's Baptismal Covenant we "strive for justice and peace among all people." That’s preservative work. It’s staying in the room when everyone else is walking out. It’s holding onto hope when the culture is spiraling into despair. It’s being the person who says, "No, we aren't going to let this relationship—or this community—turn to dust."

But here’s the catch Jesus says: if the salt loses its saltiness, it’s useless. Meaning, if we become just as cynical, just as divisive, and just as bitter as the world around us, we’ve lost our preservative power. We aren't holding back the rot anymore; we’re just part of it.

Being salt means you bring a different "chemistry" to the room. You’re the one who preserves dignity when things get ugly. You’re the one who preserves truth when everything feels like a lie.

So, look around your life today. Where is the rot starting to set in? Is it in a friendship? In your social media feed? In your own heart?

Don’t just watch it happen. Be the salt. Rub a little grace into the wound. Hold things together. It’s hard work, and it might even sting a little, but it’s what we’re here for.

Stay salty, friends.

Chris Yaw

Hi, I am

Chris Yaw

ABOUT ME

Chris Yaw

Contact Details

How Can I Help?

St. David's

Disarmory Ministries

ChurchNext

Oakland Housing

Hyacinth Fellowship

Yaw Wedding

Blog

Curious

Curious

Ashes, Ashes

Ashes, Ashes

Transfigured

Transfigured

Stay Salty

Stay Salty

Popular Posts

SAY HELLO TO ME

Total Pageviews

Search This Blog

Blog Archive

ADDRESS

EMAIL

TELEPHONE