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In an age of increasing church consumerism and church division, Christians sometimes leave churches for less than honorable reasons. But what are the honorable ones? In this episode of the FTC Podcast, Jared Wilson and Ronni Kurtz talk about the why’s and how’s of leaving a local church.
When is your compassion tested most in ministry? Recently, after a long and somewhat discouraging Sunday, I was finally sitting on the couch ready to relax. Then my cellphone rang. It was one of my church members—a kind lady, usually encouraging and full of positive words. But we’ve all had “those days.”
“Those” are the days in which our compassion is tested the most. Those are the days we realize just how different we are from the Chief Shepherd. I trust you have had a day like mine. I trust you have had a reaction like mine. We might summarize it this way: I was not compassionate toward my member. As I continued preaching through the gospel of Matthew, I learned a few lessons on compassion from the Chief Shepherd.
Jesus had hard days of ministry. With the crowds, we see just how different and sinless our Lord is. He models the perfect compassion of a shepherd. Matthew 9:36 says, “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (emphasis added).
Jesus had compassion on them, and yet I have no doubt this crowd had a lot of baggage. Many came to Him not knowing who He was. I venture to guess that the majority of this crowd did not have their theological ducks in a row. They probably asked Jesus, from time to time, to cut the Sermon on the Mount down by a few minutes.
Yet Jesus had compassion on them. He didn’t deride them. He wasn’t frustrated by them. Pastors, we would do well to learn from Jesus’ example with the crowds. He had compassion on the masses during the hard days—despite their peculiarities—and desired to shepherd them.
If anyone knew about long, taxing days of ministry, it was Jesus. In Matthew 14, after hearing of John the Baptist’s death, Jesus withdrew from Nazareth to a desolate place. Matthew 14:13–14 says: “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a desolate place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion on them and healed their sick” (Emphasis added).
Jesus wanted a moment to retreat and pray—to rest and commune with His Father. But the crowds didn’t take the hint. And yet, when He saw them, He had compassion and healed their sick.
Here I see my own shortcoming. After all of the Lord’s Day events, I am tired. Yet even on my busiest Sundays, I haven’t experienced half of what Jesus did. That phone call I received doesn’t compare to a massive crowd following Him to a place of retreat. I didn’t have compassion on my church member that day. But Jesus has compassion upon compassion. Our own compassion after long days of ministry can learn much from His example. When we want to quit or when our patience runs thin, we should look to the Chief Shepherd.
We are tired, weak, and worn out after long days of ministry. We pastors feel the weight of being embodied souls in time, space, and fallen bodies. But we often forget that we share this reality with our people.
Jesus had compassion on the crowds in Matthew 15:22 for this very reason: “Then Jesus called his disciples to him and said, ‘I have compassion on the crowd because they have been with me now three days and have nothing to eat. And I am unwilling to send them away hungry, lest they faint on the way’” (Emphasis added).
Jesus tells the disciples that He has compassion because they are hungry—it’s been three days! Our typical Sunday morning may only be a few hours, yet even our harshest critics would have to admit the crowds’ needs were far greater. Our people are tired, hungry, and ready to rest. We should not forget that we are tired come Sunday afternoon, and so are they. The sheep get tired and may act grumpy. We can bear with them patiently, remembering that our embodied souls need care just as theirs do.
Brothers, we are not as compassionate as our Lord. If our people’s righteousness depended on our perfect compassion, we would all be in trouble. But we have the gospel of Christ’s righteousness.
We have a perfectly compassionate Lord. The Good Shepherd teaches under-shepherds how to care for wounded sheep, stubborn sheep, needy sheep, and wandering sheep. May He help us to be so compassionate.
During the Covid-19 pandemic, the practice of delaying funerals became routine. Often postponed out of necessity, delayed funerals complicated the mourning process and created difficult conversations resurfacing months later. Indeed, by mid-2021, articles began appearing in major publications contemplating the awkwardness and grief attending the phenomenon of delayed funerals. A palpable sense was afoot that something deep and meaningful had been lost.
Yet in the wake of Covid, many pastors have anecdotally noticed an increase in the practice of deferring the funeral altogether. Some attribute this trend to factors such as the rise of cremation, while others point to cultural shifts that downplay social connection and acknowledge that the “beliefs and values of the organizers” often do not align with the ethos of traditional funeral services.
From the other side of the pulpit, I can relate. It is not uncommon for me to perform a Christian funeral that would have made sense to the deceased, but which feels quite alien to many of those in attendance. We can expect this dynamic in a quickly secularizing culture, but it remains true that many who find themselves in charge of a loved one’s arrangements attempt to discharge that duty as theological outsiders. The talk of eternity is unfamiliar. And as for the talk of the exclusivity of Christ, which is subject to contemplation in Bible-believing churches, well, that’s just a bridge too far.
In the midst of all this, committed Christians need to reckon with the reality that, because our churches have long neglected a theology of mourning, we find ourselves prone to rather utilitarian and therapeutic approaches to the funeral. We shirk language of loss in favor of “celebrations of life.” We tend toward eulogies that rely heavily on funny stories and anecdotes and rarely ponder the eternal. These factors, both within the church and without, have conspired to create an environment in which funerals are renamed, recast, or altogether relegated to the past: a vaguely understood tradition that may no longer serve our enlightened needs or dignify our postmodern sensibilities.
These realities communicate to the Christian conscience something more salient than mere statistical patterns or offended sensibilities. In fact, when the formal funeral is neglected, something deeply Christian is obscured. We are, after all, a people with a message of hope beyond the grave. Moreover, we are those encouraged to grieve temporary losses in service to reminding our fickle hearts of the comfort only eternity in Christ brings.
Jesus rather confounds us when He claimed, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matt. 5:4).
Yet I submit that this ethic could be said to comprise a vast portion of the Christian worldview. The Cross and the empty tomb make present mourning and pain bearable. In view of Christ’s victory over death, we of all people should be able to understand a funeral. It is where we go to remember that this world could never deliver on its promises in the first place. It is where we go to make sense of Jesus’ Beatitude of mourning, knowing that those who have thrown out all hope of lasting comfort in this life will be eternally comforted in Jesus in the next.
And lest we think Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount was the only place this theme surfaces, we are reminded of the reflections of Solomon in Ecclesiastes: “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for by sadness of face the heart is made glad” (Ecc. 7:2–3).
That’s right: it is better to go to a funeral than to a party. And for Christians seeking to calibrate their consciences aright, we can also say that it is better to have a funeral that mourns than a funeral that ignores life-giving eternal truth.
We live in a culture that seeks to push thoughts of death to the periphery of our consciousness. Whether this is done in service to limiting “negative emotions,” “living one’s best life,” or some other therapeutic justification, the Creator of the universe has built us to utilize mourning for our spiritual good.
Christians: let’s keep the funeral alive. It is not only the occasion during which we can prompt our unbelieving or nominally Christian neighbors to consider again the end toward which we are all walking, but it is also a visceral reminder to our own souls that we will not live forever. A funeral is a sanctifying rehearsal of our own future: one that calls us deeper to Christ and asks us to contemplate what portion of our present way of living will be judged as eternally significant by the only One whose evaluation really matters.
Most Christians know what it is. Most Christians don’t practice it. What is a biblical fast, and what’s the point of it? On this episode of the FTC Podcast, Jared Wilson and Ronni Kurtz discuss the spiritual discipline of fasting.
The familiar car pulled into the church parking lot. As the driver stepped out, my stomach tightened and my heart raced. This churchgoer had a history of sharp words toward me, and I knew he had been involved in conflicts I’d mediated for others. My mind spiraled: “What is he going to say today? What problems will I have to fix afterward?”
This is the reality of life beyond the confines of the Garden of Eden in which you and I fall prey to the schemes of pot-stirrers.
A pot-stirrer is simply someone who causes unrest. Some stir directly, through insults, criticism, or gossip. Others stir indirectly, drawing us into conflicts by complaining about or criticizing others in our hearing. Either way, pot-stirrers drag us into disputes we were never meant to carry.
Instead of cultivating the fruit of the Spirit, such as peace (Gal. 5:22), pot-stirrers often provoke the works of the flesh: enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, and envy (5:20–21).
So how can Christians experience peace in a world full of pot-stirrers?
As David penned Psalm 11, he was clearly tempted to be stirred up by others and against others. “The wicked bend the bow,” he wrote (v. 2). “They have fitted their arrow to the string to shoot in the dark at the upright in heart.” Yet as David remembered the One who was in control of everything, he felt peace regarding circumstances beyond his control.
In verse 4, David proclaimed, “The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord’s throne is in heaven; his eyes see, his eyelids test the children of man.” By describing the heavenly throne room, David confessed the Lord’s sovereignty over all human dealings. Nothing takes Him by surprise. Nothing escapes His notice.
Not only is the Lord sovereign, but He is also righteous. Verse 5 says, “His soul hates the wicked and the one who loves violence,” with verse 6 describing the consequences for those who act unjustly: fire, sulfur, and a scorching wind. The Lord is not neutral toward those who cause harm, nor will He abandon His people. As verse 7 says, “The upright shall behold his face.”
Psalm 11 is David’s confession that the Lord sees all things, works through all things, and will one day bring justice. When the wicked or unjust attempted to disturb his peace, these truths gave David confidence to take refuge in the Lord rather than fleeing in fear (v. 1).
The Lord does not change (Mal. 3:6). Christians can draw peace from Psalm 11, just as David did. We can remain steady when tensions arise, remembering that God remains on His throne, sees all things, works through all things, and promises to bring justice in His time.
The gospel strengthens this peace. Jesus left heaven’s throne to enter a world full of tension and provocation. The devil tempted Him to doubt the Father (Matt. 4:3, 6). The disciples tried to provoke Him to react against Samaritans (Luke 9:54). The high priest sought to unsettle Him with false accusations (Mark 14:60). Yet Jesus remained confident in the Father, secure in His identity, and faithful to the work to which He had been called.
Jesus’ righteousness covers us, both for when we are tempted to react and for when others create tension around us. His death assures us that those who act unjustly will ultimately face God’s justice (Col. 2:15), and His resurrection gives the Holy Spirit to cultivate peace in our hearts (John 14:26).
The gospel gives us peace in a world where tensions and conflicts are inevitable.
When others try to involve us in disputes, Psalm 11 reminds us that God sees all things and will judge all things. We can embrace God’s sovereignty and pray for His will to be done, trusting that we are not responsible for resolving every conflict ourselves. We can be concerned. We can pray. But in most cases, we don’t have to carry someone else’s emotional chaos as our own.
When someone challenges or criticizes us directly, we can follow David’s example and take refuge in the Lord. If their words are true, we can respond in repentance, knowing that Christ has already paid the penalty for our sin. If their words are false, we can trust God to uphold us and vindicate us: “For the Lord is righteous; he loves righteous deeds; the upright shall behold his face” (Ps. 11:7).
In all situations, we can entrust those who cause conflict to God’s judgment. He is not neutral toward wrongdoing, yet He remains stable and faithful.
Guided by Psalm 11, may we live likewise: secure in God’s sovereignty and peace, even in the midst of conflict.
“Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen” (Eph. 3:20–21).
I was in my early twenties when we buried my aunt. She had been the bright center of our family—the one with the booming laugh and lipstick kisses, the woman who never had daughters but poured every ounce of girl-mom love into her nieces. She taught us how to be sophisticated in a fun yet modest way. She spoiled us rotten.
Then cancer struck—quick and merciless. My faith at that moment felt too weak even to whisper a prayer. Nonetheless, while we declared aloud, “God is going to heal her,” inside, we were terrified. We stuffed the fear so deep it never saw the light of day. We smiled bravely and kept hope alive, as if our positivity could influence God’s hand.
The night she died, the hospital hallway swallowed my mother’s scream. A few days later, her casket disappeared into soft Florida dirt, and something in me snapped shut. I didn’t rage at God; I just quietly concluded that my faith wasn’t strong enough. Our prayers weren’t enough.
I decided some graves stay closed because the people praying over them simply don’t have what it takes.
That day became my pattern. Every later disappointment got the same verdict: buried fast, labeled “I’m not enough,” and guarded by shame.
A dream that died—my fault.
A relationship that ended—my prayers too weak.
A sin I couldn’t shake—proof I’ll never measure up.
I became an expert at sealing tombs and then standing watch so no one, especially Jesus, would come near with any wild talk of resurrection.
We all do this, don’t we? We pronounce things dead, blame our own insufficient faith, and bolt the door.
But Jesus has never once waited for our faith to be big enough before He starts kicking stones away.
Look at Lazarus. Four days dead, body decaying. Martha greets Jesus with the same verdict I carried: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21). And when He says, “Roll the stone away,” she objects, “Lord, there will be an odor.” In other words: It’s too late. The faith window closed. Jesus doesn’t lecture her on belief levels. He doesn’t measure the size of anyone’s mustard seed. He simply calls the dead man by name and death is no more.
Or the two disciples on the Emmaus Road, trudging away with hearts in the grave. They confess their disappointment in the past tense: “We had hoped…” (Luke 24:21). Their faith is ashes. The Risen One doesn’t wait for them to muster hope. He walks beside their unbelief, opens Scripture, breaks bread—and suddenly the dead Man is the living Host.
Even Ezekiel in the valley of bones isn’t asked to produce faith first. “Can these bones live?” God asks. Ezekiel’s honest answer is the only one any of us ever has when standing over real graves: “O Lord God, only you know.” To God be the glory, the Spirit breathes life back into those bones anyway. Because the quality of our believing has never powered resurrection; it is powered by the relentless love of the One who believes for us when we cannot.
I finally quit standing guard over my aunt’s grave. That moment was a defining one for our family (and not in a good way). I presented my case: “God, I don’t have enough faith to roll any stone. I still think You said no because we weren’t enough. I’m mad and tired and done pretending. Do whatever You want, but I’m out of hope.” I expected silence. Instead, slowly, gently, and over a long period of time, Jesus met me in my unbelief—not with rebuke, but with Himself.
He is the one who was buried so that no grave, not even the ones we lock with shame and small faith, could ever hold final authority.
So bring Him your grave today, no matter how you feel—faithless, furious, or just numb. You don’t have to feel hopeful. You don’t have to manufacture belief. Just whisper the smallest, most honest version of “Lord God, only You know.”
Tell one safe person who will remind you that resurrection never depended on you in the first place. Then let Ephesians 3:20–21 be the truth that prays for you when you can’t: He is able to do far more than all we ask or even think—especially when we have stopped asking and thinking altogether.
Jesus still crashes funerals. He doesn’t stand outside waiting for us to get our faith act together. He walks straight through the door we bolted and calls our names anyway.
And to Him—the One who refused to stay dead and who refuses to let our weak faith have the final word—be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.
It’s a helpful principle for sorting out unity and debate. But how exactly does theological triage work? In this episode of the FTC Podcast, Jared Wilson and Ronni Kurtz discuss the relative importance of first order, second order, and third order doctrines, and how the application of theological triage can help us with Christian charity and kindness.
We live in an anxious world. While these are certainly challenging times, in Christ we do not have to be anxious. We have a Father in heaven who knows us, loves us, and provides for our needs. Our Father is not anxious, and neither must we be. In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus gives us six antidotes for the spiritual ailment of anxiety (Matt. 6:25–34).
Three times in Matthew 6:25–34, Jesus commands us not to be anxious: “Do not be anxious about your life” (v. 25), “Therefore do not be anxious” (v. 31), and “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow” (v. 34). Anxiety has become an accepted sin in our day. It is often treated as a purely physical condition rather than a spiritual issue. But humans are a composite of body and soul. Our physical bodies affect our spiritual well-being, and our spiritual well-being affects our bodies. Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is eat, drink, rest, or sleep (see 1 Kgs. 19:4–8). Alongside these practical steps, we are called to trust God and turn from the worry that displaces faith in Him.
In verse 25, Jesus asks, “Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” He argues from the greater to the lesser: if God has given you life and a body (the greater), He is certainly capable of providing food and clothing (the lesser).
In verse 26, He points to nature: “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” Birds wake up each day with enough to eat. If God cares for the birds (the lesser), He will certainly care for us (the greater).
In verses 28–30, Jesus gives a second illustration about clothing: “Consider the lilies of the field… even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field… will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?” If God adorns the grass and flowers with beauty (the lesser), He will surely clothe us (the greater).
In verse 27, Jesus asks, “And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” The answer is obvious: nobody. Anxiety accomplishes nothing; in fact, it is counterproductive. Psalm 139:16 reminds us, “Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” The Lord has sovereignly ordained the number of our days before we were even born. Worrying about our life will not extend it beyond the days that God has given us.
In verses 31–32, Jesus says, “Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ Or ‘What shall we drink?’ Or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.” God knows and provides for our needs. While we may think we understand what we need, He sees the full picture far better than we ever could.
Verses 31–32 show that the Gentiles prioritize food, drink, and clothing. Secular people are often preoccupied with their physical needs at the expense of their spiritual wellbeing. It is no accident that Jesus taught about storing treasure in heaven rather than on earth just before addressing anxiety. The more we accumulate earthly treasures, the more tempted we are to worry about protecting, increasing, and holding onto them. As Jesus said in Matthew 6:21, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”?
But what does Jesus call us to do instead? In verse 33, He says, “But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” To seek the kingdom of God is to submit to Christ’s rule and reign in our hearts. It means turning in repentance and faith to King Jesus and pursuing the practical righteousness of God—bringing every aspect of our lives under His will. Seeking the kingdom means prioritizing His rule over building our own, trusting that God will provide for our needs as we faithfully follow Him.
In verse 34, Jesus says, “Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Here, He highlights that anxiety is often future-focused. Instead of worrying about what is ahead, we are called to focus on the present, because God has given us enough grace for today’s challenges. Just as the Israelites collected manna daily, and as Jesus teaches us in the Lord’s Prayer—“Give us this day our daily bread”—God provides for each day in its time. He desires a daily, trusting relationship with us. We are to live fully in today, not wishing it away for tomorrow, and be content with what the Lord has graciously given.
For the pastor, a life of piety can sometimes become a professional hazard. We are expected to be the most “spiritual” person in the room, yet we are frequently the most depleted. When the work of the ministry becomes a barrier to the God of the ministry, we fall into a subtle but soul-crushing trap: We begin to treat God as an employer to be satisfied rather than a Father to be known.
I don’t know about you, but I relate to my boss very differently than I relate to my father. When we operate out of a “report-driven” prayer life, we offer up the church’s metrics and the stressors of the budget, but we rarely offer up ourselves. We begin to mimic the religious leaders Jesus warned against in Matthew 6:5—those who “love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others.” For them, prayer was a public performance, a professional requirement.
To break this cycle, we must prioritize how we engage in disciplines that stir our affections for Christ. We need a framework that shifts our posture from giving God a status report to simply abiding in His presence.
We need a framework for prayer that is rooted in the biblical story. If we were to trace the narrative of Scripture from beginning to end, we find a singular, driving theme: The good news that life with God is available to all who put their faith in Jesus.
Consider this “one-minute biblical theology”:
Jesus’ first message was that the Kingdom of God is here. John tells us that Jesus offers us eternal life. The Holy Spirit descends to dwell in us and build His church. Finally, the story ends with Jesus returning so that man and God can dwell together on earth forever.
Life with God, now and forever, is the goal of the gospel. Therefore, prayer is fundamentally about life with God. He has wired us in His image as relational beings; therefore, we must relate to Him in a relational way. The goal of prayer is connection to God and opening our hearts to Him, not simply requesting what we want.
Intimacy requires communication. Years ago, on my first date with my wife, we ordered our food and she began to ask me questions about my life. Imagine if I had said, “Nope! Not here to talk. I just want to eat.” The relationship wouldn’t have lasted. Why? Because intimacy requires communication. Communion with God requires conversation with God.
In the Gospel of Luke, we see that for Jesus, prayer was the source of His endurance. He frequently withdrew to lonely places—not as an escape, but as an essential withdrawal into the presence of His Father. The disciples saw the miracles, but they didn’t ask for a “how-to” on walking on water; they asked, “Lord, teach us to pray” (Luke 11:1). Jesus responded by directing them to the Father.
I want to invite you to step away from your desk and practice this specific rhythm. Find a quiet corner of your campus, a hallway, a bench, or a spot in the back of the room. For the next fifteen minutes, sit in the silence.
This is where we engage a sanctified imagination. This isn’t about “making things up” or escaping into fantasy; it is the act of using our minds to lay hold of the spiritual reality Scripture declares to be true.
Our theology tells us that because of the work of Christ, we have bold access to the throne of grace. The imagination simply allows us to believe that the Father is as present with us in this room as He was with the Son in the wilderness.
Acknowledge that you are in the presence of your Heavenly Father. He isn’t asking for your quarterly report; He is looking at you, His child, with favor because of Christ. In this space of presence, listen as He speaks to you, inviting you to hear His questions and reflect on His heart:
Ignore the ministry stats for a moment. Look deeper than the “success” or “failure” of the church. How is your soul? Are you weary, joyful, or numb? How is your body—are you carrying tension, lacking sleep, or feeling the weight of the week? Speak to Him about the whole of your life, not just your professional heart.
Where have you seen His grace in the small, unscripted moments? Perhaps it was a conversation in the grocery store, a moment of peace during a hectic morning, or a specific verse that stuck with you. Look for the fingerprints of the Father in the ordinary.
Admit your needs without the filter of “pastoral strength.” Do you need wisdom for a specific conflict? Do you need the courage to rest? Do you simply need to feel the assurance of His love? Be specific about the areas where you are at the end of your own resources.
What are the honest desires of your heart? We often suppress our “wants” in the name of ministry, but the Father cares about the longings too. What are you hoping for? What are you dreaming about? Bring these desires into the light of His presence.
What burden are you carrying today that actually belongs to Him? Is it the spiritual growth of a certain member? The future of the building project? The health of your own family? Identify the weight you were never meant to carry and consciously hand it over to the One who sustains all things.
I am convinced that prayer is the power of our endurance. When the weight of the ministry feels heavy, remember that the King of the universe is not waiting for your results; He is inviting you into His presence.
Step out of the office and back into the relationship. You don’t have to be a “professional” in the presence of the Father; you only have to be a son. Let the work of the Gospel wait for fifteen minutes while you enjoy the God of the Gospel. He is there, He is kind, and He is enough.
A beautiful woman with perfectly windswept hair holds the hand of a tan, pudgy toddler. On the beach in swimsuit bottoms, with cellulite-free legs and a sweatshirt that looks effortless yet classic all at once, the mother looks on adoringly as the sun sets slowly behind her. The toddler has salty curls and a gap-tooth smile, in a diaper that somehow has not absorbed any sea water. It’s a photo unlike any beach day I’ve had with my children.
I stumbled upon this photo on Pinterest today. The algorithm has me absolutely pegged. I stared at the picture for a long while, pondering what it might be like to be her. The photo itself is stunning, but what I gathered from it is much more than beauty. I saw a mother, carefree at the beach. Despite sand and the possibility of her toddler drowning, she looked more at ease than I have in years. Despite having birthed a child not even a year prior, what’s represented of her body is flawless. The sweatshirt hangs at just the right angle, her leg muscles clearly toned. Where in the world did she find the time to have such a figure? The beach looks foreign and expensive. I’m not sure how you make a beach look expensive, but this photographer has done it.
More than the envy I stuff down at the sight of her, I also admire her. She must be a mom who values fun for her child over sand in the carpet of her minivan. I’ll bet she doesn’t even own a minivan—clearly not one concerned too much with convenience. She looks like a mom who doesn’t stay up worried about the cough her baby has. She probably lets people wear shoes in her house. A picture of ease and serenity, right down to the perfect smile plastered on her face.
This fictitious mother of my Pinterest dreams represents all the things I am not. She represents one of the mothers I want to be. I’m drawn to the beauty of these photos depicting motherhood, but I stay for what I can see underneath. Even if it’s a facade, I still re-pin the mirage of mothers I long to emulate.
A disheveled kitchen, a toddler, a baby, and a mother laugh at the flour on the counter. Her apron is linen, of course, and her hair is pulled back in a claw clip hairstyle that must have taken years to perfect. The toddler has flour in her hair and on her hands, dressed in a neutral outfit that, despite the mess, still looks cute. The baby is diaper-clad, perfect little rolls even more delicious than the cookies they’ve baked. The kitchen is my dream: perfect backsplash, quartz countertops. It’s a photo of fun, wealth, and style—ideal motherhood.
But what really catches my eye is the way the mother looks at her children. She seems to have time for them, enough to make a big mess in the kitchen and not worry about having to clean it up. She’s the mom who helps her kids learn valuable skills like cooking and cleaning. I bet she doesn’t mind cleaning up twice to teach them. She’s talented in the kitchen, that much is clear.
These moms have strengths where my biggest insecurities lie: too much focus on keeping things clean, too much focus on convenience, the fact that my daughter wears mismatched clothing every single day.
A mother in a booger-smeared shirt, her hair hasn’t been washed in… how many days? Who knows at this point. She’s holding a baby who is crying. The toddler next to her on the couch is also crying. And guess what she’s doing? Crying, too. The couch she’s sitting on has piles of laundry half folded; she’s barefoot in an old wrestling shirt from her husband’s drawer. The toddler is still in pajamas despite it being 2 p.m. Their leftover breakfast sits in the background. It’s probably lunch time, but she still hasn’t mustered up the energy to make it. Next to the breakfast is an open Bible, marked with pen and weathered by many spills of sippy cups. If you could hear this photo, you’d hear hymns playing in the background.
What you can’t see is a mother doing her very best. Yes, she’s crying because this whole motherhood thing is harder than she ever thought possible. Yet her heart clings to the Lord in moments of intense emotion, toddler tantrums, and infant sleeplessness. You can’t see the quiet work God is doing in the heart of this mother. You can’t see the men and women her babies will grow up to be, having seen an imperfect yet forgiven mother who cultivated a home of joy, hard work, discipleship, and love.
We can make many assumptions about the photos we see. We can long for the perfection depicted in tiny boxes on a glowing screen. Yet what truly matters in the eyes of the Lord, the hearts of our children, and in our souls, is the glorious work God is doing through the holy and hard moments of mothering. For every Pinterest mother we crave to be, God is molding in us a beauty that cannot be captured in photos. Just as the photos we see cannot paint the whole picture, moments of our motherhood cannot be displayed in snapshots. Our mothering is so much more than a clean home or messy baking in the kitchen. The best mothers are those who have their eyes fixed on Christ and who, by His Spirit, are growing alongside their children.
A mother joyous and hopeful as she gently stewards her children, her home, and her days for God’s glory.
That’s a picture I’d gladly add to my Pinterest board. Not because it’s perfect, styled, or staged, but because it’s real. It’s a mother whose worth isn’t measured by sand-free feet, flourless counters, or a flawless smile—it’s measured by faithfulness, love, and by the quiet, unseen work God is doing in her heart and in the hearts of her children. That is the kind of motherhood worth admiring, aspiring to, and celebrating.
