Douglas Vandergraph

 There is a moment in Scripture that feels almost uncomfortable in its honesty. God speaks clearly. The assignment is unmistakable. The calling is historic. And the man chosen to carry it responds not with boldness, but with hesitation. Moses does not argue about the morality of confronting Pharaoh. He does not question the existence of God. He does not debate the justice of freeing Israel. He simply says, in essence, “I cannot speak well.” That single confession reveals something timeless about the human condition. When destiny calls, insecurity often answers first. It is easy to romanticize biblical figures as towering, unshakable giants of faith. We imagine Moses as a fearless prophet from the beginning, standing before burning bushes and parted seas with unwavering confidence. But Scripture gives us something far more relatable. It gives us a man who knew the frustration of words that would not cooperate . A man who understood what it felt like to open his mouth and feel inade...

There are moments in scripture when the narrative doesn’t simply move forward—it expands. Luke 9 is one of those moments. It is the chapter where the boundaries of ordinary discipleship are shattered, where the invisible kingdom suddenly becomes visible, where Jesus does not just call His followers forward but calls them upward. The chapter moves like a river that shifts into rapids; one moment the disciples are gathered as students, the next they are entrusted as messengers. One moment they are walking dusty trails through Galilee, the next they stand in the bright, unfiltered glory of the Transfiguration. One moment they feel confident enough to argue about greatness, the next they are rebuked for misunderstanding the heart of heaven. Luke 9 is the chapter where Jesus refuses to let His followers remain small. It is where He tears open the quiet corners of their limited thinking and invites them into the scale of God. But Luke 9 is more than a scriptural record. It is a mirror. It ...

 There are conversations that sit quietly in the background of a believer’s life, rarely spoken out loud but constantly shaping how we move. One of those conversations revolves around the mysterious space between God’s plan and human freedom. People carry this tension like a weight—this deep, unspoken question about whether their choices actually matter, whether their decisions hold any real power, or whether they are simply passengers in a story already writte n. And it doesn’t matter how long someone has been a believer; these questions still rise. They rise when someone feels stuck. They rise when they must choose a direction. They rise when life feels cloudy. They rise when silence stretches longer than expected. They rise when the future refuses to reveal itself. Most people don’t know how to put that tension into words. They say phrases like “I just want to be in God’s will” or “I don’t want to make the wrong choice,” but beneath those words is something far deeper—a fear th...