The Quiet Chaplain

Photo by  mauro mora  on  Unsplash In 1932, a young preacher named  Charles Spurgeon , later known as the “Prince of Preachers,” walked through the streets of London after a morning service. The city was bustling, the poor struggling to survive the harsh winter, and many were overlooked by the world around them. On that morning, Spurgeon noticed a small, seemingly insignificant detail: a ragged child, shivering and alone, trying to sell matches to make a few pennies. Rather than passing by, Spurgeon’s  heart was attuned to God’s concern for the overlooked . He knelt beside the boy, purchased every match he had, offered him a warm coat, and spent time talking about God’s love and care. This was not part of a program or a sermon—it was an intentional, relational step that expressed God’s love in a tangible way. Spurgeon’s action demonstrates a profound truth:  outreach begins with a heart aligned with God, flourishes when we engage others in community, is ena...

Photo by  Jonas Weckschmied  on  Unsplash Anchor Scripture: “Make it your ambition to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before. Then people who are not believers will respect the way you live, and you will not need to depend on others.” — 1 Thessalonians 4:11–12 (NLT) Our culture shouts. It prizes the biggest platform, the loudest argument, the most visible success. Yet Paul offers the Thessalonian church a surprising ambition:  live a quiet life. Not passive. Not disengaged. Quiet. The gospel does not need to compete with the world’s noise. It calls us into a different way of being — one marked by steady faithfulness, ordinary work, and respectful presence. In short: a quiet gospel. What if the loudest testimony we carried was not our words but our lives? The Context of Paul’s Words The Thessalonians lived in a bustling city along a major trade route. Public reputation mattered. Honor and status were ...

Photo by  Ian Hutchinson  on  Unsplash A Quiet Chaplain Reflection on Trust When Things Feel Uncertain I’ve been reading the headlines this week about the government shutdown and how it’s starting to ripple through everyday life. You can sense the uncertainty in people’s voices. Paychecks are delayed. Offices are closed. Plans are on hold. The news feels loud, but beneath the noise, there are quieter stories — the kind that don’t make the front page. People wondering,  “Will I be okay?” What’s interesting is how moments like this make us aware of what we depend on. We trust that systems will run smoothly, that checks will clear, that schedules will hold. But when those things pause, it exposes how fragile our sense of control really is. As I’ve sat with this, I’ve felt the Lord whisper a gentle reminder:  He hasn’t stopped working.  Heaven doesn’t shut down. God’s provision isn’t subject to funding votes or deadlines. Psalm 121 says,  “He who watches o...

Photo by  Levi Meir Clancy  on  Unsplash Anchor Scripture: “This is what the Sovereign LORD, the Holy One of Israel, says: ‘Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength…’ So the LORD must wait for you to come to him so he can show you his love and compassion. For the LORD is a faithful God. Blessed are those who wait for his help.” — Isaiah 30:15, 18 (NLT) Waiting is one of the hardest spiritual disciplines. We prefer movement, progress, and results. Waiting feels like wasted time — a delay in our plans, a pause in our productivity. But in Isaiah, God reframes waiting. He ties it not to punishment or inefficiency, but to blessing: “Blessed are those who wait for his help.” Could it be that waiting, when surrendered, becomes worship? Could it be that the very delays we resist are actually invitations into a deeper stillness with God? Israel’s Impatience — and Ours Isaiah 30 speaks to a restless people. Israel fa...

Photo by  Vedant Agrawal  on  Unsplash The Thorns We Tolerate We’ve named the elephants, but now we turn our attention to the thorns—the subtle, persistent pains that drain life and hope. Unlike elephants, thorns don’t stomp across the room. They don’t demand immediate attention. They grow quietly, almost imperceptibly, and yet they choke joy, unity, and vitality. Thorns appear in many forms. Personal burnout:  long hours of ministry, constant decision-making, emotional labor with little reprieve. The fatigue seeps into prayer, preaching, and pastoral care. Sometimes we carry it quietly, not wanting anyone to notice. Leadership fatigue:  the weight of guiding others through conflict, unspoken tensions, and unmet expectations. Even with strategies and plans, the weariness can settle into our bones. Corporate wounds:  unresolved divisions, lingering offenses, unmet expectations, or chronic criticism that never finds resolution. These thorns drain the spirit o...

We’ve all felt it—that subtle tension that hums in the air during a leadership meeting, a staff gathering, or even a Sunday morning service. No one says it out loud, but we all feel it. Something is off. There’s a strain beneath the surface. Maybe it’s an unspoken conflict, a broken trust, or a weariness no one knows how to admit. It’s like the quiet hum of an electrical current that never stops. We carry on, smile politely, and keep the machine of ministry running, but deep down, we know there’s an elephant standing in the sanctuary. Sometimes the elephant is  disappointment —the gap between what we hoped ministry would be and what it’s become. Sometimes it’s  conflict —the unresolved tension between teams, pastors, or board members that everyone tiptoes around. Sometimes it’s  pain —the wound left by a moral failure, an unaddressed betrayal, or a leadership culture that confuses control with care. We see it. We feel it. We just don’t name it. Why? Because naming it feel...

There’s something sacred about October baseball. The air turns crisp, the lights seem brighter, and hope fills every corner of the field. Every pitch, every swing, every breath feels like it carries the story of an entire season. For the New York Yankees, this season has been one of expectation and examination. From the first crack of the bat in spring training, the goals were clear: to restore what’s been missing — that unmistakable Yankee rhythm of unity, grit, and grace under pressure. Now in the postseason, every inning feels heavier, more intentional. The noise of the crowd rises, but inside the dugout, there’s a stillness — the kind that only comes when you’ve been refined by a long road. Every player knows that October baseball is less about perfection and more about presence. But for those who pay attention, the holiest moments aren’t always in the home runs or walk-offs. They’re found between innings — in the quiet conversations at the rail, in the pitcher’s deep breath before...