I went to yoga for the first time in my life last week. I’ve lived with severe back pain and tight muscles pretty much my entire life, and I carry a lot of my stress in my neck and back muscles. Normally I just live […]
If you’re like me, every time I post something to social media I get an instant shot of adrenaline as I watch the likes and comments roll through. They come in almost instantaneously, and Instagram has actually rewired its algorithm so that likes and comments come in one at a time, which gives us a rush of dopamine every time we see someone new has interacted with our post.
It was hard to watch as people got up and walked out of the church service right as “In Christ Alone” began to play. The irony, surely, was lost on them.
Earlier this week Crossroads Christian Church, the church I grew up in and called my home during my formative years and early adulthood, endured one its toughest weeks in its 51-year history. After months of consideration, the elders of the church elected to fire the church’s lead pastor, Patrick Garcia, and teaching pastor, Rick Kyle, and what resulted was a week full of in-fighting among church members, community members, and family members of those affected.
I’m the kind of person that doesn’t like uncertainty. Really, who does? But I mean I really don’t like uncertainty, like down to the point where if I think someone is even the slightest bit mad at me, I’ll stew over it until it gets resolved.
I don’t like not knowing what’s going on or what’s about to come. There are times when I’m content to go with the flow, but when it comes to life’s major decisions or events, I don’t like being uncertain. This runs counter to what God calls us to do as Christians.
Every time I saw David Rinehart, it didn’t matter where it was or when it was, that’s what he’d call me. If I remember right, it was one of many nicknames given to me by my youth group friends in high school that was a spinoff of my name. Most of the time, I get annoyed when people mistake my name, because getting called “Clay” or “Clay Colebourn” happens more than you know. With David, it was a term of endearment. Something was wrong if he didn’t greet me with a “‘Sup, Colebourn,” or some other variation.