When the Weight Won’t Lift

There’s a lump in my throat even now as I write these words.

It’s a feeling that has been growing over the last few days. At first it was subtle. A heaviness in my chest. A pause in my breath. A quiet tension I couldn’t quite name. But now it’s something more. It’s sitting with me. Pressing on me. And I can’t ignore it.

It’s not just emotional. It’s spiritual. And it’s asking to be acknowledged.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve struggled to find the words.

I’ve hesitated to speak because I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’ve wrestled with how to say what I’m feeling without it being misunderstood or reduced to something it’s not.

But the ache hasn’t gone away.

And silence doesn’t feel faithful anymore.

I’m hurting for people who are hurting. Not in a general sense. In a real one. People I’ve talked to. People sitting in church on Sunday morning who feel invisible. People trying to rebuild lives in a country that feels less like home every day. People caught in systems they didn’t create and don’t have the power to escape.

I’m hurting for a country that feels more divided by the day. It’s not just about policies or parties anymore. It’s the kind of division that settles into the soul. Where neighbors avoid each other. Where friendships dissolve over headlines. Where it’s easier to accuse than to understand.

I’m hurting for the Church. Not one local church. The Church. The body of Christ. The people called to reflect His heart. I believe we mean well, but I worry we’ve grown quiet. Maybe even numb. And when the world around us is weeping, silence isn’t neutral. It becomes part of the problem.

I’m hurting because I think we’ve lost something. Not truth. I still believe in truth. Not conviction. I’m not afraid to stand for what matters.

But somewhere along the way, I think we’ve lost tenderness. I think we’ve forgotten how to feel.

It’s possible to be right and still be wrong.
It’s possible to quote Scripture and miss the heart of God.
It’s possible to defend a position and ignore a person.

Sometimes I sit quietly and wonder, what will people say about us in the years to come? When they look back on this moment in history, will they say we felt what God felt? Will they say we stood with the hurting? Or will they say we were too scared, too distracted, or too busy to care?

I’m not trying to be an activist.

I’m just a pastor. And I know pain when I see it. And I know what it means when the Church stays quiet while people suffer.

Right now, I feel the ache.

I feel it for the people. I feel it for our country. I feel it for the Church.

And I feel it for the quiet grievers.
For the person who lost something this year and never got the chance to name it.
For the one who wakes up heavy and isn’t sure why.
For the one who has been holding it together for too long.

This Sunday, we’re beginning a new series called Messengers: The Minor Prophets.

These were ordinary people who carried the weight of God's heart in extraordinary times. They spoke to divided nations, grieving cities, and hardened hearts. And more than anything, they reminded people what it means to return.

I haven’t been able to shake the sense that God is still speaking through them. I believe He is speaking right into where we are.

Do you feel it too?

The weight of it all.
The ache for what’s been lost.
The grief that won’t quite go away.
The feeling that something is missing, even if you can’t say exactly what it is.

If you’ve felt it, whether in a conversation, in a news story, in a hospital room, or in the silence of your own heart, I want you to know this.

You are not alone.

This series is not just about what’s happening out there. It’s about what’s happening in here.

Let’s walk through this together.

Not with blame. Not with quick answers. But with open hearts.

God is near to the brokenhearted. I believe that.
And maybe the beginning of healing is simply giving ourselves permission to grieve.

A Prayer for Today

God,
Some days we carry more than we know how to name.
The world feels heavy. The news feels loud.
Our hearts feel tired.

We don’t want to grow numb.
We don’t want to rush past the ache.
We want to feel what You feel.
To hurt with those who hurt.
To hope like those who believe You still heal.

If we’ve been silent when we should have spoken, forgive us.
If we’ve been loud when we should have listened, quiet us.
If we’ve grown cold when You are calling us to compassion, warm us again.

Teach us to grieve with You.
Teach us to listen to the voices we’ve ignored.
Teach us to live with mercy, justice, and humility.

And when we are too weary to pray,
let our tears speak for us.

You are near to the brokenhearted.
So today, we bring You our hearts—open, aching, and honest.
We trust You to meet us there.

Amen.