Tuesday, April 15

A Clearer Kind of Courage

Michael Andres

Reading

With everybody listening, Jesus spoke to his disciples. “Watch out for the religion scholars. They love to walk around in academic gowns, preen in the radiance of public flattery, bask in prominent positions, sit at the head table at every church function. And all the time they are exploiting the weak and helpless. The longer their prayers, the worse they get. But they’ll pay for it in the end.”
Luke 20:45–47 (The Message)

Reflection

For a long time, I thought I had to be the one who stood strong. The one who charged the hill, rallied the team, solved the problem. The one who could take the heat and hand it back hotter.

I leaned into that identity — like Teddy Roosevelt with a fresh whiteboard and less impressive horse-riding skills. Grit and heart. Turning every molehill into a mountain in the name of church growth, discipleship, reform, ambition, and maybe something harder to name.

I poured myself into the work. We set big goals. Measured big growth. Tried to translate the mystery of God into strategy decks and digital metrics. But eventually, the pace became exhausting.

The metrics stopped measuring anything that mattered. The political climate shifted. And somewhere along the way, I hollowed out — worn down by the effort of fighting all day, every day.

I thought I was being strong.
But that was just fear wearing a branded nametag.

Over time — through recovery, through therapy (and the Enneagram!), through the steady presence of a faith community that refused to give up on me — I’ve begun to see things more clearly:

I’ve gone from The Defender of What Must Be Built
to The Witness to What Must Be Felt.

From The Challenger Who Cannot Fall
to The Healer Who Stands Even When Fragile.

From Clarity Through Conflict
to Truth Through Tenderness.

That’s why Tuesday of Holy Week speaks so strongly to me.
It’s the day Jesus walks into the Temple and says, Enough.

He turns over tables. He names corruption. He confronts power with truth — not to perform, but because silence in the face of suffering is complicity.

As Pastor Mark reminded us this week:
“In a world of bullying and needless suffering, Jesus stands for those who suffer and cares for them.”

Tuesday isn’t just the day Jesus stirred conflict.
It’s the day he took sides.

He stood with the widow and the vulnerable. He challenged those who cloaked their economic ambition — often abusive — in patriotism and religion. He disrupted systems that extracted from the poor and called it holiness.

Today, his actions still speak — especially to those of us who have benefited from systems built on comfort, not compassion.

We see it when policies criminalize the distribution of food and water to migrants in the desert.
We see it when compassion is framed as weakness, or when advocacy is dismissed as “too political.”
We see it when theology is used to guard institutions instead of protecting people.

If our version of following Jesus never finds itself in tension with cruelty, it’s worth asking if we’re really walking with him — especially on Tuesday.

So today, I’m praying:
“Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.”

And I’m remembering that to follow Jesus is to be clear — not just about who we are, but about who we’re called to love, protect, and stand beside.

Even when it costs us something.
Especially when it could cost us everything.