Mark 11 opens with motion. Jesus is moving toward Jerusalem, toward confrontation, toward the center of religious and political life. But the chapter does not begin with thunder. It begins with a borrowed animal. The King of creation chooses not a warhorse but a colt, not a throne but a path scattered with cloaks and branches. This is not accidental theater. It is a deliberate collision between expectation and reality. Israel expected a conqueror who would topple Rome. God sent a Savior who would topple the inner temple first. The crowd shouts “Hosanna,” but they do not yet understand what kind of rescue they are welcoming. Mark 11 is not about noise in the streets; it is about silence in the soul. It is about what looks alive and what actually is. It is about the difference between leaves and fruit, between buildings and prayer, between confidence and faith.

The borrowed colt matters more than it seems. Jesus instructs His disciples with unsettling precision: where to go, what they will find, what to say if questioned. It is a small miracle before the larger ones. It tells us that even the unnoticed moments of obedience are scripted by God’s foreknowledge. The animal has never been ridden. That detail matters too. In Scripture, what is set apart for God is often untouched. Jesus enters Jerusalem on something that has never been used, as though to say that this moment is unlike any other. Kings usually arrive by force. This King arrives by permission. The crowd responds with words from the Psalms, but the hearts behind the words are mixed. Some see Him as Messiah. Some see Him as momentum. Some see Him as a spectacle. Jesus receives their praise, but He does not trust their understanding. He rides through applause with eyes already fixed on the temple.

When He reaches Jerusalem, the text says something almost jarring in its simplicity: He goes into the temple and looks around at everything. Then, because it is late, He leaves. No sermon. No miracle. No cleansing yet. Just observation. This is the most frightening sentence in the chapter if we are honest. Jesus looks. He does not rush. He does not react immediately. He sees. It is the gaze of God on religion, on ritual, on the systems humans build to manage holiness. And He leaves with that image in His mind. This suggests that judgment is not impulsive. It is informed. It is measured. It is patient. God does not overturn tables without first understanding what they represent.

The next morning introduces the fig tree. It is a strange miracle because it feels out of place. Jesus is hungry. He sees a tree with leaves. From a distance, it looks promising. Up close, it is empty. Mark carefully explains that it was not the season for figs, which makes the curse seem unfair until we understand the symbolism. In fig trees, leaves appear after fruit. A tree with leaves but no fruit is advertising something it does not possess. It is performing productivity. It is religious theater. Jesus is not condemning agriculture. He is condemning pretense. He speaks to the tree, and it withers from the roots. This is not about anger. It is about exposure. God is not threatened by emptiness, but He is provoked by false fullness.

The fig tree stands between two temple scenes like a parable planted in soil. Jesus goes from the tree to the temple and finds the same problem. Outward structure. Inward corruption. The court of the Gentiles, meant to be a place where the nations could pray, has been turned into a marketplace. The space designed for outsiders has been swallowed by insiders who profit from religion. Money changers and sellers of sacrificial animals have turned worship into transaction. Jesus overturns tables not because commerce exists, but because communion has been replaced. He quotes Scripture: His house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations, but they have made it a den of thieves. The word “den” does not mean a place where theft happens. It means a place where thieves hide. The temple has become a refuge for injustice rather than a light for repentance.

This moment is often framed as righteous anger, but it is deeper than emotion. It is alignment. Jesus is aligning the temple with its original purpose. He is not destroying worship. He is restoring it. The authority of the act terrifies the religious leaders. Mark says they fear Him because the whole crowd is astonished at His teaching. Authority is most threatening when it exposes what has been normalized. The priests have learned how to manage God. Jesus has come to reintroduce God. That is why they want Him gone. Not because He is violent, but because He is true.

The fig tree returns the next day. Peter notices it has withered from the roots. Jesus uses this moment to speak about faith. This is not random. The disciples are thinking about power. Jesus is thinking about prayer. He says that if they have faith in God, they can speak to a mountain and it will move. But He does not end there. He ties faith to forgiveness. When you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone, that your Father also may forgive you. Faith that moves mountains must first remove grudges. Spiritual power cannot coexist with relational poison. The withered tree teaches that life without fruit is dead. The temple teaches that structure without prayer is empty. And Jesus teaches that faith without forgiveness is blocked.

There is a frightening coherence to this chapter. Everything is connected. The parade, the tree, the temple, the teaching. It is all one message. God is not impressed by appearance. He is looking for alignment. He is not searching for crowds but for hearts. He is not measuring leaves but fruit. We often separate these scenes into isolated stories, but Mark presents them as a single movement. Jesus enters Jerusalem as King. He inspects the temple as Judge. He teaches His disciples as Shepherd. These are not roles He switches between. They are facets of the same authority.

When the chief priests and scribes confront Him about His authority, they ask the wrong question. They want credentials. Jesus responds with a question about John the Baptist. Was his baptism from heaven or from men? They cannot answer because they are trapped by their own calculations. If they say from heaven, they condemn themselves for not believing him. If they say from men, they fear the crowd. Their authority is public. Jesus’ authority is moral. They live by optics. He lives by truth. And because they will not answer honestly, He will not satisfy their curiosity. This is not evasion. It is exposure. Authority that refuses truth cannot receive truth.

Mark 11 is a chapter about God refusing to be managed. The people try to manage Him with praise. The priests try to manage Him with policy. The disciples try to manage Him with expectations. The fig tree tries to manage Him with leaves. But God cannot be negotiated into smallness. He will not be reduced to ritual. He will not be confined to courts and calendars. He is entering the city to reclaim what has been misused.

There is a personal weight to this chapter that cannot be ignored. We are the fig tree more often than we want to admit. We display leaves of language, behavior, and belief. We know how to look spiritual. We know how to sound devoted. But fruit requires depth. Fruit requires time. Fruit requires roots. The withering from the roots tells us that the problem was not seasonal; it was structural. The tree had learned how to survive without producing. Religion can do the same. Churches can do the same. Individuals can do the same. We can build a life that looks convincing but does not nourish anyone.

The temple scene asks a question that is still uncomfortable. What has replaced prayer in the spaces meant for God? It is easy to condemn the ancient money changers, but harder to see modern substitutes. We trade prayer for productivity. We trade silence for strategy. We trade dependence for programming. None of these things are evil in themselves, but they become thieves when they displace communion. Jesus does not destroy the temple because it exists. He confronts it because it forgot why it exists.

And then there is forgiveness. It seems like an odd insertion, but it is actually the hinge. Faith that moves mountains is not a performance trick. It is the byproduct of a heart aligned with God’s character. Unforgiveness creates internal resistance. It is like asking for divine power while refusing divine posture. God’s mercy does not flow through clenched fists. If prayer is the engine, forgiveness is the fuel line. Block it, and nothing moves.

The authority question at the end reveals something tragic. The leaders are not ignorant. They are strategic. They know the truth but fear the consequences. This is the most dangerous posture in Scripture: informed unbelief. It is not doubt. It is calculation. It is choosing safety over surrender. Jesus does not argue them into faith. He lets their silence condemn itself.

Mark 11 is not primarily about trees or temples. It is about thresholds. Jesus is crossing into Jerusalem. He is crossing into conflict. He is crossing into His final week. But He is also crossing into our inner world. He is asking what kind of King we want. A decorative one or a disruptive one. A Savior who affirms our systems or one who exposes them. A Lord who accepts leaves or one who seeks fruit.

The crowd wanted liberation without transformation. The priests wanted control without repentance. The disciples wanted power without understanding. And Jesus offers something none of them expect: a kingdom built on faith, prayer, and forgiveness rather than spectacle, commerce, and fear.

If the fig tree could speak, it would warn us. If the overturned tables could testify, they would accuse us. If the unanswered question of authority could echo, it would ask us whether we want truth or convenience. Mark 11 does not end with resolution. It ends with tension. Jesus remains unclaimed by the system He has confronted. The conflict is set. The question is no longer about His authority. It is about our response to it.

This chapter is not ancient history. It is present diagnosis. We still build temples that impress and trees that deceive. We still shout hosanna and then negotiate obedience. We still prefer leaves to fruit because fruit requires vulnerability. Leaves can be manufactured. Fruit cannot.

And so the withered fig tree stands as a witness between the road and the sanctuary. It is the silent sermon of Mark 11. God is not fooled by growth that does not give. He is not honored by worship that excludes. He is not moved by faith that refuses forgiveness.

Jesus enters the city to reclaim its heart. He enters the temple to restore its purpose. He enters the conversation to redefine authority. And He enters our lives to do the same.

The question that remains is not whether He has the right to do this. The question is whether we will let Him.

If Mark 11 ended with only the fig tree and the overturned tables, it would already be unsettling. But the chapter continues pressing inward, moving from public disruption to private alignment. Jesus does not simply confront systems; He confronts hearts. The tension of this chapter is not resolved because it is meant to linger. It follows Jesus into Jerusalem, but it also follows us into self-examination. The road from Bethany to the temple is not just a physical path. It is a spiritual corridor between what we display and what we are.

One of the quiet tragedies of religion is how easily it learns to survive without intimacy. Structures can remain long after the fire has gone out. Songs can continue when surrender has stopped. Sermons can be preached when prayer has been replaced by habit. Jesus does not despise structure. He uses synagogues. He honors Scripture. He teaches in the temple. But He refuses to let structure become a substitute for communion. The temple was not wrong because it existed. It was wrong because it had drifted from its purpose. It had become a center of transaction rather than transformation. It had become a place where people came to manage sin rather than meet God.

The fig tree stands as a living metaphor for that drift. Leaves without fruit are not neutral. They are misleading. They promise nourishment where none exists. They draw the hungry and send them away empty. This is why Jesus’ response seems severe. He is not reacting to hunger. He is responding to hypocrisy. The tree represents a system that advertises life but does not produce it. This is not just about ancient Israel. It is about any spiritual life that becomes performative. It is about any faith that learns how to look alive without actually feeding anyone.

The detail that the tree withered from the roots is crucial. Jesus does not prune branches. He addresses foundations. He does not correct behavior alone. He exposes identity. The roots are where the tree draws its life. A withered root system means the issue was never visible on the surface until it was already fatal. Many spiritual failures look sudden, but they are almost always slow. They begin underground. They begin in prayerlessness, in unexamined compromise, in quiet pride, in small substitutions of dependence with control. By the time the leaves fall, the death has already been present for a while.

The disciples’ amazement at the withered tree shows that they are still learning how God works. They notice the external effect. Jesus directs them to the internal cause. He speaks of faith, not as a vague optimism but as a posture of trust toward God Himself. “Have faith in God” is not a motivational phrase. It is a reorientation. Faith is not in results. It is not in words. It is not in methods. It is in God. Mountains move not because humans speak loudly but because God responds faithfully.

But Jesus does something surprising. He connects faith to forgiveness. This is not a tangent. It is the core. Forgiveness is not an accessory to prayer. It is an atmosphere for prayer. A heart that clings to offense cannot fully open to grace. Unforgiveness is a form of control. It insists on holding judgment rather than releasing it. Faith, by contrast, is release. It is surrender. It is the willingness to entrust outcomes, wounds, and justice to God. That is why Jesus ties the two together. A person who prays while refusing to forgive is divided against themselves. They are asking God to move mountains while refusing to move their own bitterness.

This is where Mark 11 becomes deeply uncomfortable. It no longer allows religion to be abstract. It demands inward alignment. It asks whether our worship is flowing from trust or from routine. It asks whether our prayers are flowing from humility or from grievance. It asks whether our faith is about communion or control.

The confrontation over authority later in the chapter sharpens this tension. The religious leaders do not deny Jesus’ power. They question its source. They are not neutral observers. They are guardians of a system. Their concern is not theological clarity but institutional survival. Jesus’ authority threatens their arrangement. His presence exposes their compromises. His teaching reveals their distance from the God they represent.

When they ask, “By what authority doest thou these things?” they are not seeking truth. They are seeking jurisdiction. They want to know who authorized Him to interfere. Jesus answers with a question about John the Baptist, because John represents the same problem. John also operated outside their control. John also called for repentance rather than compliance. John also drew crowds without permission. The leaders’ inability to answer reveals the state of their hearts. They are not willing to affirm heaven if it costs them status. They are not willing to deny heaven if it costs them safety. Their silence is not humility. It is calculation.

This moment shows the difference between spiritual authority and institutional authority. Spiritual authority flows from alignment with God’s will. Institutional authority flows from recognition by people. The two are not always opposed, but when they conflict, truth becomes dangerous to systems built on fear. Jesus refuses to legitimize their question because their posture is illegitimate. Authority that avoids truth forfeits credibility.

This is why Mark 11 feels so relevant. It is not merely a story about first-century Judaism. It is a warning about any form of faith that prioritizes appearance over obedience. It is a warning about leadership that values control more than repentance. It is a warning about worship that crowds out prayer with commerce, and about prayer that crowds out forgiveness with grievance.

The tragedy of the temple scene is not that people were selling and buying. It is that they were doing so in the court of the Gentiles. The space meant for outsiders to approach God had been repurposed for insiders’ convenience. The nations were displaced by noise and negotiation. The poor were pushed aside by profit. Worship became inaccessible to those who needed it most. Jesus’ anger is not arbitrary. It is rooted in God’s heart for the nations. The temple was meant to be a meeting place between heaven and earth. Instead, it had become a marketplace of exclusion.

This pattern repeats whenever faith becomes a private possession rather than a public invitation. When the church forgets that its calling is to create space for the lost, it becomes a fortress instead of a sanctuary. When prayer is replaced by performance, outsiders see only noise. When forgiveness is replaced by faction, seekers encounter walls instead of welcome. The temple in Mark 11 is not just a building. It is a symbol of what happens when religious life turns inward and loses its mission.

Jesus’ action is therefore not just purifying. It is prophetic. He is reenacting judgment and restoration in a single moment. He is declaring that God’s house cannot be managed like a business. It must be inhabited like a home. It must be filled with prayer, not transactions. It must be open to all nations, not guarded by privilege.

The fig tree and the temple together form a mirrored message. The tree had leaves but no fruit. The temple had activity but no prayer. Both looked alive. Both were empty at the core. Both are addressed by Jesus in a way that seems abrupt because decay has reached a critical point. This is not cruelty. It is mercy. God exposes before He replaces. He reveals before He rebuilds. He confronts before He redeems.

There is also something deeply personal in the way Jesus interacts with these symbols. He does not curse the tree from a distance. He approaches it. He does not condemn the temple without entering it. He walks into what is wrong. He engages what is broken. He does not issue declarations from afar. He steps into the spaces that need change. This is how God still works. He does not shout from heaven. He walks into human structures. He enters human hearts. He overturns what blocks communion and withers what pretends to nourish.

For modern believers, Mark 11 is a call to examine the inner temple. What fills the space meant for prayer? What occupies the room meant for God? What has replaced dependence? It is easy to condemn ancient money changers, but harder to notice modern equivalents. Anxiety can become a merchant in the temple. Ambition can take up residence where surrender once lived. Image can crowd out integrity. Habit can replace hunger.

The withered fig tree also confronts the illusion of timing. Mark tells us it was not the season for figs. That detail is not meant to excuse the tree. It is meant to indict it. A tree that advertises fruit out of season is claiming maturity it does not possess. This is a warning against premature spirituality. Against borrowed language without lived transformation. Against quoting truths we have not yet allowed to shape us. God is patient with growth, but He is not deceived by pretense.

Jesus’ teaching on faith is not about spectacle. It is about surrender. Speaking to a mountain is not a trick of belief. It is a metaphor for obstacles that exceed human strength. But even that promise is framed by prayer and forgiveness. Power is not granted to vindicate ego. It is given to align with God’s will. The mountain that moves is not always external. Sometimes it is resentment. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes it is pride.

The chapter’s unresolved tension points toward the cross. Mark 11 is the beginning of the end. It is Jesus’ public declaration that the current order cannot continue unchanged. The religious leaders sense this. That is why they begin seeking a way to destroy Him. His authority is not compatible with their system. His vision of a praying, forgiving, fruit-bearing people threatens a structure built on transaction and control.

Yet even in confrontation, Jesus remains oriented toward restoration. He does not curse the temple. He cleanses it. He does not destroy prayer. He defends it. He does not reject the people. He invites them to deeper faith. His severity is not vindictive. It is surgical. He cuts to heal. He exposes to redeem.

Mark 11 ends without resolution because transformation does not happen in a moment. The fig tree is withered, but the disciples are still learning. The temple is cleansed, but the leaders are still resistant. The authority is questioned, but the truth is still standing. The story pauses on the edge of conflict because that is where faith often lives. Between recognition and response. Between confrontation and conversion.

This chapter refuses to let us remain spectators. It presses us into participation. It asks whether our faith is rooted or decorative. It asks whether our worship makes space for prayer or noise for commerce. It asks whether our prayers flow from forgiveness or from grievance. It asks whether we want authority that affirms us or authority that transforms us.

The fig tree speaks without words. The temple preaches without sermons. And Jesus teaches without compromise. Together they form a single message: God is not impressed by what looks alive if it does not give life. He is not honored by what looks holy if it does not make room for Him. He is not moved by faith that refuses to become love.

Jerusalem receives its King with branches and songs. But the true test of His kingship is not the parade. It is the purification. Not the cheers, but the changes. Not the celebration, but the confrontation.

Mark 11 is the story of a King who refuses to reign over illusion. He enters the city to reclaim its heart. He enters the temple to restore its purpose. He enters the question of authority to reveal its source. And He enters the hidden places of faith to grow real fruit where there were once only leaves.

If the fig tree could speak today, it would not accuse. It would warn. It would tell us that growth without fruit is not growth at all. If the overturned tables could testify, they would not shame. They would plead. They would remind us that prayer must always outrank profit, and people must always outrank systems.

And if the unanswered question of authority could echo forward, it would ask us whether we are willing to follow truth even when it disrupts what we have built.

Because the true danger is not that God will confront our temples. The danger is that we will defend them.

Mark 11 leaves us standing between a road and a sanctuary, between a tree and a temple, between appearance and alignment. It leaves us with a King who rides in humility, judges in truth, and teaches in mercy. And it leaves us with a choice: to remain leafy or to become fruitful, to preserve systems or to pursue prayer, to guard authority or to trust God.

The chapter does not end with collapse. It ends with invitation.

And the invitation is this: let the roots be healed so the fruit can grow.

Let the temple be cleared so prayer can rise.

Let forgiveness flow so faith can move.

And let authority be received not as threat, but as grace.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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GO DAWGS!

My college basketball game this Wednesday night starts much earlier than did last night's Hoosiers / Boilermakers game, which the Hoosiers won, BTW. Heh. Tonight I'll be cheering on the Butler Bulldogs as they travel from Indianapolis, Indiana to face the St. John's Red Storm in Queens, New York.

And the adventure continues.

I want to begin by saying something simple to you, something that doesn’t come wrapped in advice or correction or expectation. I just want to say hello. Not hello as a greeting that passes by quickly, but hello as a way of stopping the noise for a moment and letting you know that you are seen. In a world that constantly demands movement, improvement, and results, pausing to acknowledge another human being is almost an act of rebellion. It says that you are more than what you produce. It says that your existence alone carries value. It says that before you fix anything or accomplish anything or prove anything, you are already worth noticing. That is the kind of hello I mean.

And with that hello, I want to say something else that you may not hear very often. You are doing a good job. I know your mind may want to argue with that statement immediately. You may think about what you didn’t finish yesterday, what you should have done differently, what still hurts, what still feels unresolved. But I am not measuring you by your perfection. I am not measuring you by your outcomes. I am measuring you by your willingness to keep going when it would be easier to quit. By your decision to keep believing when it would be simpler to become numb. By the way you are still standing in a world that keeps trying to knock people down emotionally, spiritually, and mentally. That counts. It counts more than you think.

There is a strange pressure that settles into people as they grow older. Somewhere along the way, we learn that worth must be earned. We learn that peace is something we are allowed to feel only after we have solved everything. We learn that rest must be justified by productivity. We learn that confidence must be backed up by visible success. But that is not how God measures people. God does not wait until a person is impressive before calling them beloved. God does not delay His presence until someone is finished becoming who they are meant to be. He steps into lives while they are still messy, still forming, still uncertain, still incomplete. Grace is not a reward for progress. It is the soil that allows progress to happen at all.

There is a moment in Scripture where a prophet collapses under a tree and decides that his story is over. He has tried. He has spoken truth. He has faced danger. And now he is exhausted. He tells God that he is done. That he cannot do this anymore. And God does not answer him with a lecture. God does not say, “Try harder.” God does not say, “You should know better.” Instead, God feeds him. God lets him sleep. God comes close enough to ask a question that sounds simple but carries deep meaning: what are you doing here? That question is not accusation. It is invitation. It is God saying, “I see you where you are, not where you think you should be.”

That is the posture I want you to feel right now. Not pressure. Not demand. Presence. The presence of a God who is not waiting for you at the finish line, tapping His foot in impatience, but walking with you on the road where you already are. You may feel like you are behind. You may feel like others are moving faster. You may feel like your life is not matching the timeline you imagined for yourself. But God is not bound to your mental calendar. He is not in a hurry the way you are. He is not anxious about the future the way you are. He is shaping things inside you that cannot be rushed without breaking them.

You do not have to worry about that today. You do not have to carry tomorrow on your shoulders before it arrives. You do not have to know how everything will turn out before you trust God with the next step. Today is allowed to be what it is. A day where you breathe. A day where you try again. A day where you choose faith over fear even if your faith feels small. That is not weakness. That is courage in ordinary clothing.

When I say that today is going to be a good day, I am not pretending that nothing will go wrong. I am not promising you comfort or ease or perfect outcomes. I am saying that today will be held. That God will be present in it. That your steps will not be wasted even if they feel slow. That your effort will not be ignored even if it goes unseen by other people. That your prayers are not disappearing into silence even if answers are delayed. Good does not always mean easy. Sometimes it means meaningful. Sometimes it means formative. Sometimes it means God doing something quiet inside you while nothing dramatic is happening around you.

Most of Jesus’ life was not spent in crowds. It was spent in routine. In work. In waiting. In prayer. In obedience that nobody applauded. We remember the miracles because they are loud. We remember the sermons because they are recorded. But the foundation of His life was built in ordinary days. That should tell us something about how God works. He does not only reveal Himself in spectacle. He reveals Himself in faithfulness. He builds people in places where nobody is watching so that when the moment comes to be seen, their character can hold the weight of it.

If your life feels quiet right now, that does not mean it is empty. If your progress feels slow, that does not mean it is meaningless. If your faith feels fragile, that does not mean it is false. Seeds grow underground before they ever break the surface. Roots form in darkness before branches reach toward light. You are not behind because you are unseen. You may be unseen because something deep is being built.

When I tell you that you are doing a good job, I am not ignoring your struggles. I am acknowledging them. I am saying that the fact you are still here matters. The fact you still care matters. The fact you still hope matters. You may not feel victorious. You may not feel accomplished. You may not feel strong. But faith is not proven by how loud your success is. Faith is proven by how quietly you continue.

There is a kind of fear that tries to live in the future. It asks questions that cannot be answered yet. What if this never works? What if I always feel this way? What if I fail again? Fear pulls tomorrow into today and demands that you solve it immediately. Faith leaves tomorrow in God’s hands. Faith says, I will do what I can today and trust God with what I cannot see yet. That is not denial. That is trust. That is choosing to believe that the One who holds time is more reliable than your predictions about it.

So when I say, “Don’t worry about that,” I am not dismissing your concerns. I am redirecting them. I am reminding you that you were never meant to carry the whole future by yourself. You were meant to walk with God through it one step at a time. Anxiety tries to make you live years ahead. God invites you to live where your feet are.

And when I say, “Today is going to be a great day,” I am not describing circumstances. I am describing companionship. I am describing the quiet miracle of not being abandoned. I am describing the power of waking up and knowing that grace did not expire overnight. That mercy did not run out. That God did not change His mind about you while you were asleep.

Some days the bravest prayer you can pray is not a grand declaration. It is a simple sentence: God, help me with today. Some days the holiest thing you can do is get out of bed and keep going. Some days faith looks like nothing more than refusing to quit. And heaven takes that seriously.

You may think your life should look different by now. You may think you should feel more certain by now. You may think you should be further along by now. But God is not disappointed in you for being human. He is not surprised by your learning curve. He is not shocked by your questions. He does not build people by shaming them into growth. He builds them by staying with them while they learn how to trust.

There is something deeply spiritual about showing up again when you feel tired. About choosing kindness when you feel unseen. About praying when you feel unsure. Those things do not make headlines, but they shape souls. They prepare you for moments you cannot yet see.

So let yourself rest in this truth for a moment. You are not forgotten. You are not invisible to God. You are not failing simply because your life is not flashy. You are in the middle of something, not the end of it. And the middle is always the hardest place to see meaning.

Hello. That is not just a word. It is an invitation to be present. To stop racing through the moment as if it has no value. To notice that you are alive in a story that is still being written. To remember that faith is not about control. It is about companionship.

You are doing a good job. Not because everything is perfect, but because you are still trying. You are still believing. You are still moving forward. That is enough for today.

And today really can be a good day. Not because you will avoid trouble, but because you will not face it alone. Not because you will have all the answers, but because you will walk with the One who does. Not because you are strong, but because God is patient.

Let today be lighter than yesterday. Let your shoulders drop. Let your heart stop bracing for disaster. Let your spirit remember that God does not rush people. He walks with them. He shapes them. He stays with them.

And if nothing else, take this with you as you move through this day: you are seen, you are still becoming, and God is not finished with you yet.

There is a quiet courage in letting a day be what it is instead of demanding that it become something dramatic. We often think meaning must announce itself with noise, but God’s way is usually gentler. He works in breaths and steps and moments of honesty. He works when you choose patience instead of panic. He works when you decide to believe something good about tomorrow instead of assuming the worst. These are not small things. They are the texture of faith.

You were never meant to live as if every day were a test you might fail. You were meant to live as if every day were a gift you are learning how to open. And gifts are not rushed. They are received. They are explored. They are held. You do not tear through them to get to the end. You sit with them. You notice them. You let them become part of your story.

God’s presence in your life is not dependent on how impressive you feel today. It is not dependent on how confident you are. It is not dependent on whether you woke up hopeful or tired. It is rooted in who He is, not in how you performed. That is why you can say to someone, without pretending or exaggerating, that today can be a good day. Because goodness is not the absence of struggle. It is the presence of God within it.

There are seasons when you feel like you are walking forward and nothing is changing. You pray, but the situation stays the same. You try, but the outcome does not shift. You hope, but the waiting stretches longer than you expected. These seasons tempt you to believe that nothing is happening. But Scripture is filled with stories of people who were being shaped long before anything changed on the outside. Joseph was being prepared in a prison long before he was trusted with authority. Moses was being formed in the wilderness long before he stood before Pharaoh. David was being trained in obscurity long before he wore a crown. None of them knew what their quiet seasons were building. They only knew that God was still with them in it.

You may be in one of those seasons now. A season where obedience feels repetitive. A season where faith feels quiet. A season where you are doing the same right things without seeing new results. That does not mean God is inactive. It means He is working beneath the surface, where roots grow. And roots are not glamorous. They are hidden. They are patient. They take time. But without them, nothing stands.

So when I tell you that you are doing a good job, I am not speaking to your achievements. I am speaking to your willingness to keep walking in a season that does not yet make sense. I am speaking to your decision to trust God without a visible reward. I am speaking to the strength it takes to stay gentle in a world that rewards hardness. Those choices do not look heroic. They look human. And that is exactly where God does His deepest work.

There is also something holy about simply noticing one another. About speaking kindness without a strategy. About offering reassurance without needing credit for it. When you tell someone, “Don’t worry about that,” you are not denying reality. You are reminding them that reality includes God. You are saying that fear does not get to be the loudest voice in the room. You are saying that hope is still allowed. That peace is still possible. That the story is not over just because the moment is difficult.

And when you tell someone, “Today is going to be a great day,” you are not promising ease. You are declaring intention. You are choosing to believe that God will be present in it, that something meaningful will happen within it, that the day will not be wasted even if it is ordinary. Greatness does not have to mean spectacular. Sometimes it means steady. Sometimes it means faithful. Sometimes it means simply not giving up.

There are people who measure their lives by milestones. By visible progress. By external proof that they are doing well. But God measures lives by trust. By surrender. By quiet obedience. By the way a person keeps their heart open in a world that encourages closure. You cannot always see that kind of growth. It does not announce itself. But it is real.

So much of what discourages people comes from comparison. You look at someone else’s story and wonder why yours feels slower. You see someone else’s joy and wonder why yours feels fragile. You hear someone else’s testimony and think yours is too small. But God does not write duplicate stories. He does not build people in identical ways. He does not hurry one person just because another seems further along. He is patient with your process because He knows what He is forming in you.

If you woke up today feeling behind, let that be replaced with something truer. You are not behind. You are becoming. And becoming takes time. It takes patience. It takes repetition. It takes faith. God is not rushing you toward a finish line. He is walking with you through a life.

That is why I can say hello to you without needing to fix you. That is why I can tell you that you are doing a good job without needing to measure you. That is why I can tell you not to worry about everything at once. That is why I can say that today can be a good day.

Because goodness is not a performance. It is a relationship.

It is waking up and choosing trust instead of fear. It is choosing kindness instead of cynicism. It is choosing to try again instead of quitting. It is choosing to believe that God’s presence matters more than your predictions.

There will be days when you feel strong and days when you feel uncertain. There will be moments when you sense God clearly and moments when He feels quiet. But quiet does not mean absent. Silence does not mean abandonment. Waiting does not mean rejection. God’s work in your life is not always visible to you in the moment. Often, it only becomes clear in memory. You look back and realize that the very season you thought was empty was actually full of preparation.

So let today be lived, not judged. Let it unfold without demanding that it impress you. Let it be enough that you showed up. Let it be enough that you trusted God with one more step. Let it be enough that you chose to believe something hopeful about your future.

And let your words to others carry that same spirit. When you say hello, let it mean something. When you say someone is doing a good job, let it be sincere. When you say not to worry, let it be grounded in faith, not denial. When you say today will be a great day, let it be rooted in God’s presence, not circumstances.

These are not small sentences. They are sacred ones.

They are reminders that we are not alone. They are reminders that effort matters. They are reminders that God is still working. They are reminders that ordinary days are part of holy stories.

You do not need to carry the whole future in your hands. You do not need to become someone else to be loved. You do not need to rush your growth to be faithful. You are allowed to be where you are while trusting God with where you are going.

So if nothing else, hear this as you move through today:

Hello.

You are seen.

You are doing a good job.

Do not worry about everything all at once.

Today can be a good day.

Not because you control it, but because God walks with you in it.

And that is enough to keep going.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph)

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#Faith #Encouragement #ChristianInspiration #Hope #TrustGod #DailyFaith #SpiritualGrowth #Motivation

12 January 2026

Flat light (working title): The light bulb in my flat, my flat in the light bulb. Have been looking at Artschwager's Intersect (1992) aquatint/drypoint work of a dog in a corner a lot this week. That monochrome approach to sitting at some essential point where vision both understands an essence and fails to differentiate between its constantly changing parts felt (and still feels) like something related to why I keep approaching light. And so I painted a corner of my room through an unilluminated light bulb. Mixed colors instinctually this time (as opposed to from a reference work), and while I did not intend this, it occurred to me after I finished working how the hues and tones seem to relate directly to the amalgam of sensations I've had in my room in the three plus weeks since I moved in.

10 January 2026

Visited Sebastián's studio, brought him one of the hand-drip coffee bags Yena's father makes. This one was an Ethiopia Geisha with a Manet on the packaging (Woman Reading, 1880-82). When I handed it over, Sebastián immediately placed it among the other objects on one of the still life surfaces in his space. I knew from researching his work and seeing his current show (Lustre at Interval Clerkenwell; if you're reading this you should go see it) that he paints master paintings into his compositions, but it hadn't occurred to me that I was literally handing him a mini master painting. So that was a lovely synchronicity. But I mention it because it speaks to what I feel is the main thing I learned from him, which is how to create a studio that is a self-regenerating ecosystem. If it comes into his space, it becomes part of its orbit and nourishment. I had the sense in there that everything in the space was vital, alive, able to be used at a moment's notice. Which aligns with how he described looking and working with attention and openness, which includes an openness to freely modulating his process through any number of variables including light, objects, and reference works. At risk of sounding dramatic, coming face to face with a world built out so fully altered my thinking around my own practice pretty significantly in that as soon as I left his space, I began to think more carefully about what it is that I don't have to think about at all (or what is lodged at my core). Into my head then popped William Eggleston's famous Greenwood, Mississippi work (1971, the one of the light bulb on a red ceiling). There's a similar bulb in the room at my new flat. It has always been about light (and looking democratically), I think.

The butter and the bone

I’m at a point Where I’m so tired of always Being right about to crack. I feel myself groan and stretch On the daily Without ever wondering what the other ways To be, might be. But I’m starting to see Yes, I’m starting to feel That instead of bone, I can be butter.

Up til now I’ve lived my days Like an old bone, boiled far too long In a pan of foamy, greasy water A child’s fingers could snap me in half The way I’ve been living Makes me brittle Porous and pocked, With no meat and no forgiveness To give me cushion to move and bend. I want to sway like a palm tree, Seduction, Dancing in even the heaviest of winds But here I find myself an old twig On the very point of the ‘snap’ I can feel the maddened fingers tightening And I’ll have no more of it.

It’s too jagged and stretched, In this place of bone, This place of scarcity. I’m tired of the fear and the white-knuckled grip Like some gnarled old hand, clinging to one end of A last-ditch wishbone. I’m done with it.

I want to be smooth, creamy, and jolly. I’d rather be like butter than some old over-cooked bone. I want to be sexy and smooth. About everything, not just the easy, normal stuff. I want people to be able To come spend time in The soothing, refreshing butter. Spread me onto the bread. Dip your hesitant, greedy fingers in me And lick them after.

People will look for the bone, I’m sure. But they won’t find it. That old thing was never me Only what I tried to hold, Out of fear, Fear that there was no butter And the feeling that I had to suck My nourishment and hope From a shard that had nothing left to give.

I’m throwing it down, Like the cracked, tired thing it always was, So that the butter can show up on the table. Slide it over to me, And I’ll eat. I’ll rub it on my face, my strong shoulders, My sturdy hips I’ll swallow mouthfuls, full for the first time, And I’ll know deep down, Deep down in the creamy, dreamy yellow, gentle depths That there’s a lot more butter where that came from.

Who do homeowners turn to when threatened by the HOA? If you have the money, you can hire an attorney. You can commiserate with your friends, family, and neighbors. You can get a therapist. Sometimes, homeowners turn to the local news station for assistance.

Tampa Bay 28 complied their expose on Homeowners Associations and their unchecked power into a forty-two minute video. Part of the video discusses the woman in the Creek View neighborhood who went to jail. And it shows how once one person (victim/survivor) comes forward, others follow (This is similar to how serial rapists and killers are discovered.). Check it out at the link below. When I figure out how to embed things on this website, I will.

Home Sweet HOA: An Investigative Report on the Growing Power of HOAs

In How to File an ARC with Your HOA So That They Can Reject It, I begin to tell the story of how I landed in my present situation with the HOA. Keep in mind that when I mention the HOA, I am also talking about the Property Management Company/Property Manager since they are a team, regardless of whether they functionally operate in that manner or not. And as you can see on my neighborhood’s CDD website, the HOA is the property manager.

Since I did not respond to the request for further details in a timely manner, I submitted another ARC. Below you will see what I wrote, with additional emphasis that I have added in bold for reference later:

1. Description of Improvement:

I had the flu from 12/7/25 for two weeks. Do you want a doctor's note? I do not have insurance but I can go to the clinic to get one because I had records of my fever and symptoms. I also started a new job on 12/1 and ended up missing a lot of time due to the flu. This is why I did not respond. Without any further assistance available for poor and/or disabled homeowners, the tarp would be replaced in May of 2026 and will be done at that time due accumulations of funds and/or to sale of property/new owner. ______ Progressive Insurance in conjunction with South Shore Roofing company would like to improve the roof that was increasingly damaged by storms Debbie, Helene, and Milton by installing a whole house tarp as prior damage was exacerbated by multi-day rain storms that occurred in May 2025 which resulted in severe interior leaking throughout the 2nd floor of home and a part of the 1st floor. FEMA was unable to tarp for homeowner immediately after the storm. Progressive insurance will deny coverage of interior damage if roof is not tarped. Home already has $30k+ worth of damage from previous storms unresolved due to class action lawsuit against builder. South Shore roofing decided to use flashing to cover roof insisting that it was superior to what was seen throughout Vista Palms. Progressive insurance agreed with South Shore Roofing's conclusion. Flashing is a blue and white. Interior damage has not progressed and tarp remains intact. Progressive insurance approved total roof replacement with a deductible of $7k. Homeowner cannot meet deductible at this time due to 1. the HOA having a previous lien on property rending the property ineligible for county assistance over the summer; 2. current unemployment related to issue #1; 3. Catholic Charity subsidiary could not investigate FEMA claim and provide supplementary assistance due to being closed by current U.S. president. Homeowner's new employment is $22k annually which is about $2k per month. If I set aside $1k per month, I could pay for the roof in July 2026.

The part before the dashes is what I added to the ARC when I resubmitted it. Everything after that is the exact same thing I wrote in the first ARC. I tried to add all pertinent information because it still does not make since to me that I am actually making an improvement to the home. A tarp isn’t an improvement—it mitigates damages. Plus, the tarp already existed prior to them forcing me to submit this claim that they knew they were going to reject. If I were getting a better roof, that would be an improvement.

Here is the response from the HOA:

History

• Hello Board, The owner is requesting to keep the tarp on the roof for an unknow period of time. Their comments show that they could not pay the deductible for their insurance to complete the repairs. They make reference to hardship. The owner then states he could pay the deductible by June 2026, which still does not provide a ETA on when the tarp would be removed or repairs made. I would suspect that after the deductible is paid in June, it would take a while for the insurance company to approve and get the roofer out there to make the repairs. Please let me know if you approve this request or if there are any questions?

Management 12/23/2025 02:12 pm

I had to respond to this because I wasn’t sure if the HOA had a reading comprehension problem or if I was just stressed out and losing my ability to communicate effectively. I had already submitted documents detailing when the tarp was installed, the estimate for a roof replacement, and my homeowner insurance company’s approval of a new roof.

In June, either the foreclosure/sale of the home will be complete and the lender will be responsible for the roof at that time (possibly prior to that time but the lender has to deal with the lien that the HOA placed on the home while the home was already in mortgage foreclosure), or the “homeowner” (myself) will have said deductible in June due to accumulation of funds from new employment. The deductible has nothing to do with the insurance company (Progressive) approving anything. I have already attached documents to my previous ARC indicating as such so I am unsure why that claim is being made currently by Kessler. Additionally, I already have a roofer—for which I have previously provided documentation for also—that is ready to do the job as they did the tarp and were going to do the roof in June prior to the HOA foreclosing on the house which pulled the Hillsborough County home repair funding from the roofer. There are not an abundance of roofs needing repair currently as there were no active hurricanes to hit this area during the past season so nothing is hindering the repair except money.

So, in response to my response, I am sure you know what the HOA did. They rejected that shit:

Hello, This request has been declined by the board of directors. The board has stated that it is unreasonable to have to wait until June to have this issue taken care of especially since this has been an issue throughout 2025. The board further states that the repairs must be made within the reasonable time of the end of January in order to avoid the issue being sent to the attorney for legal enforcement actions. Please have the issue resolved by the end of January.

Management 01/05/2026 02:58 pm

So, let all the details above serve as a further introduction to how I landed in this predicament. It gets worse. Much worse.

Our Father Who art in heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

Let Zay in Heaven

For this fjord to seek all day And in the night’s esteem beget A promise under play Of Dan who saw The Watch of early yearing In effort to effect A place called solemn home Between each tree And every brother To this day In reach And called a poem For rights to read The Scotland view Which appears to sow No large divide Of faded number But the stars who call him near And every phone- on lock to store the day- of strings that whay and study Of the optimal accord So as chance to make it home And forever be this right To years of beautiful unsuffer This man called Zay An Earthen dream Of making rouse To always know Hear heights in grace And fortitude of love For all who cast a hope But righting ships of souls And mending free The right of Kings Who summon free The debts to be unhad And wincing star In play for truth The madness gone While spirits desolate A new purview To always say Amen By wished gear A striking man and sharp Exciting best And gone to see the waves As Colin would To best- and free Eclectic Zay Is found a star For this new tack In splicing more A hull for steer With wrath to wind To solitude my shore And placing hands For future mend It honours me in three This will to go alone A space to bless New Zay and done The forded best To one and ten A call to roads For years to stay ahead In solemn be To Rome And then- a better day- forever.

—For Zay Harding

I got a great photo this morning to add to my ADA information seeking email, so I’m glad I took the time to breathe and exercise a bit of restraint instead of just shooting off an angry email.

Yes, that’s my foot (the bad ankle, even) fully stuck in a plowberg up to my knee and trying to get loose. Which I did manage, only to slide down the opposite face of the plowberg into an intersection where a truck was driving distracted and nearly hit me.

Accessibility!

#accessibility #disability

It's been a strange week.

You can't find dead bodies and not become extremely existential in thought. Especially if the bodies pertain to people you were conversing with only a handful of hours prior.

Carbon monoxide poisoning. Looks like they accidentally dozed off and had left something on the stove. Pot overflowed and put out the flame and the gas kept going overnight.

Had to break in. Thought I could save them but it was too late.

Police proceedings afterwards were their own surreal experience.

Really fucking tragic.

#journal

Byla noc. Dědek Strašpytel stál u dveří, ruku na klice, druhou na prdeli – čistě kontrolně. Musel jít ven. Nešlo to odložit. V kamnech cosi zůstalo nedodělané, v hlavě tikalo a v močovém měchýři zvonil poplach třetího stupně.

Jenže venku… ticho. Takové to soví ticho, co není prázdné, ale čekající. Strašpytel pootevřel dveře na šířku prstu. Studený vzduch mu přinesl známou štiplavost. Ne jednu. Více vrstev.

„Jsou tady,“ zašeptal, i když nebylo komu. Na střeše cosi tupě tup. Na okenici cosi měkkého šplác. A pak to přišlo: pomalé, důstojné přitlačení prdele na sklo. Sklo zamlžilo. Strašpytel ztuhl.

Sovy neútočily. Sovy čekaly. Dědek si vzpomněl na staré pravidlo Dědolesa: Když nemůžeš projít kolem prdele, musíš projít skrz prd.

Zavřel oči. Vyšel na práh. Postavil se čelem do tmy. A prděl. Ne hystericky. Ne obranně. Ale pomalu, hluboce, s lehkým chvěním kolen – prd člověka, který ví, že se bojí, ale jde stejně.

Byl už skoro uprostřed dvora. Studená hlína křupala pod nohama, dech mu šel v obláčcích a prdel – ta byla v pohotovosti, lehce sevřená, připravená kdykoliv zasáhnout.

Sovy se zatím držely v odstupu. Seděly na plotě, na střeše kůlny, na jabloni. Neprdly. To bylo nejhorší. A pak to přišlo. Z temnoty se utrhla jedna. Ne let – nálet. Tiché švihnutí vzduchu, roztažená křídla, a uprostřed toho všeho prdel, pevná, navedená, mířící přímo na dědkova záda.

Strašpytel zareagoval instinktivně. Žádné hrdinství. Žádná filozofie. Jen syrové, zoufalé:

PRD!

Krátký, ostrý, panický. Sova to nečekala. Prdel jí cukla, let se rozpadl a s tlumeným žbluňk skončila v sudu s dešťovkou.

To už dědek nečekal na nic. Rozběhl se. Kabát mu vlál, boty klouzaly po blátě, dech se lámal. Za ním šustění křídel, rozhořčené huu-prrrd, chaos. Jedna sova narazila do plotu, druhá do sebe navzájem, třetí se snažila prorazit oknem, ale tvrdé sklo jen zakvílelo.

Strašpytel se vrhl ke dveřím, zalomcoval klikou, zakopl o práh a vpadl dovnitř. Zabouchl. Zasunul závoru. Opřel se celou vahou o dřevo. Ticho. Jen jeho dech. Jen tlukot srdce. Jen jemný doznívající pach prdu, který ho vlastně uklidňoval.

Už si chtěl sednout. A v tu chvíli to uslyšel. Šššš… škrk… chrrr… Ze skříně. Strašpytel pomalu otočil hlavu. Dvířka byla pootevřená. Jen nepatrně. A zevnitř se linul známý, štiplavý pach. Něco se tam pohnulo. Něco, co tam nemělo být.

Skříň se začala pomalu otevírat. Ne prudce. Ne nápadně. Jen tak… o prst. Strašpytel nezakřičel. Nedýchal. Ruka mu vystřelila sama – závora, kov studený jak rozum po půlnoci. PRÁSK. Dvířka skříně se zavřela tak rychle, že uvnitř cosi zaklaplo zobákem naprázdno.

Ozvalo se tlumené huuuf–prrrd, rozčilené, stísněné. Dědek se ani neohlédl. Vklouzl do sklepa, schody bral po dvou, klopýtl, ale zabouchl dveře a zapřel je tělem. Tma. Vlhko. Sudy. Brambory. Starý pach dědkovského bezpečí.

Nahoře se ozvalo šramocení. Křídla narážela do stěn. Skříň vrzala. Dřevo pracovalo. Strašpytel seděl na schodech až do rána. Nespal. Jen občas… prdl. Pro jistotu. Ráno bylo tiché. Až podezřele.

Strašpytel si netroufl nahoru sám, to ne. Poslal pro jezevce. Přišli dva. Zkušení. Čichali už ode dveří. „Hm,“ zabručel jeden. „Tady něco bylo,“ řekl druhý. „Ale teď už to tu není.“ Skříň otevřeli opatrně. Prázdno. Jen lehce poškrábané dřevo zevnitř. Jedno šedé pírko. A pach, který nešel zařadit – ne čerstvý, ne starý, spíš… čekající.

„Odešla,“ řekl jezevec. „Ale ne proto, že by musela.“ Strašpytel polkl. „A proč teda?“ zeptal se. Jezevec se podíval na okno. Na střechu. Na les. „Protože chtěla,“ řekl. „A když sova chce… většinou se ještě vrátí.“ Od té doby Strašpytel skříně nezavírá úplně. Tvrdí, že kvůli větrání.

Andate pure avanti, qui non c’è niente da vedere.

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