Jesus Died for Saul Too - No Biggie, Right? Before we dive into this, take a moment to wrap your head around what's being said. Don't get all worked up just yet. This isn't a church-bashing session. The church is like that quirky relative at the family reunion - it's the body of Christ, the community of the redeemed, the family that grace built. It's a beautiful mess, and God loves it just the same. This is about broadening our minds about who's welcome in this crazy family. Somewhere along the way, the gospel got a little too cool for school. Not in its theology, mind you - that's still on point. But in its posture. We went from "whosoever will, let them come" to "whosoever will, let them come... but only if they look like us, speak like us, and have the same history as us." And so, the church became this place that's all warm and fuzzy for the saved, but kinda chilly for everyone else. That's not how Jesus rolled. He was all about hanging out with the synagogue crew on the Sabbath, flipping tables in the temple, and teaching crowds. He was all about community, building the thing that would become the church. But he was also all about hitting the road to Damascus. Saul wasn't exactly on the lookout for a divine encounter. He was more like the church's arch-nemesis, with a bad attitude and a worse haircut. He was the last person you'd expect to get a visit from Jesus. And yet, Jesus showed up anyway. Not instead of the church, but alongside it. Because God's love isn't about choosing between the cool kids and the outcasts. It's about loving both with the same intensity, the same urgency, and the same "I've got all day" vibe. This is the church at its best - not some exclusive club, but a big, messy family that welcomes everyone, no matter how messed up they are. The church that gets this doesn't shrink its welcome; it expands it. It becomes the place where the Sauls of the world discover that God was looking for them all along, and that the community of faith is not some reward for being perfect, but a family that welcomes you just as you are. Jesus died for the church. He died for Saul too. And the church at its most faithful is the place where those two sentences are held together without contradiction, preached without embarrassment, and lived without exception. ❤️

God is not your African Parent There is a God who does not make you wait outside the door. He does not require that you have your explanation ready, your repentance polished, your failure dressed in the right words before you are permitted back into the room. He does not sit with his back to you while you find the courage to speak. He does not make you feel the full weight of what you did before he decides whether you are worth responding to. He is not the silence after you have disappointed someone. He is not the cold that settles in a house where love is present but withheld as instrument. He is not the approval that arrives only after performance, the warmth that must be earned before it is offered, the father whose face you read before you speak to know whether today is a day you are permitted to need something. That father exists. Many of us grew up in his house. And we carried him, without knowing we were carrying him, all the way to the throne of grace, where we stood outside the door and waited, rehearsing, managing, making ourselves presentable for a God who had already seen everything and was already moving toward us. But God is not your African parent. He is the father who sees the figure on the road while it is still a long way off and does not wait for it to arrive composed. He runs. In the culture where this story was first told, dignified men did not run. Running was beneath them. He ran anyway, robe gathered, undignified, unconcerned with what the watching village thought, because the child was coming home and nothing else in that moment was of any consequence. He loves it best when you are his baby. Not the managed version. Not the version with the prepared speech and the appropriate contrition and the plan for how it will be different this time. The baby. The one who comes with full need and zero apology. The one who does not explain their crying, who does not justify their hunger, who arrives undone and expects, without sophistication, to be held. This is the thing the difficult home stole most quietly. Not just trust in people. Trust in the approach. The simple, unmanaged, unembarrassed movement toward the one who holds you, without first calculating whether you have earned the right to go. You have not earned it. You do not need to. He is already at the door. He is already running. Come as you are. Come as the baby. Come loudly, with full need, in the wrong season, without your explanation ready. He has never loved you more than in the moment you stop performing and simply come. ❤️https://https://https://

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