M James Ryan

Author and Poet

Fiction and poetry centered on faith, resilience, and the unseen weight of everyday life, written with a focus on truth, depth, and meaning that lingers.

• FEATURED POEM

• By Starlight

By Starlight

Based on the classic Christmas carol, The Little Drummer Boy, By Starlight tells the tale of a young street urchin named Micah who meets up with a group of magi traveling to pay homage to a new king born in Judea, in the land of Israel.Enjoy this brief selection from the novel:

Our Finest Gifts

The Magi gathered in the small room, their faces flickering in the warm glow of the oil lamps nearby. Micah watched as Neku Rostam and Neku Javad brought forward something covered in a dark wool cloth, embroidered with the symbols of the Magi. The cloth alone marked the object as sacred. They set it down in front of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, and carefully removed the cloth and backed away.Beneath it rested a chest, modest in size, yet breathtaking in its craftsmanship. Shaped from aged Lebanese cedar, it resonated a sweet, resinous fragrance. The edges clad in hammered gold, delicately engraved, and the lid was inlaid with lapis lazuli stars. Even the rope that had bound it to their cart had been oiled and prayed over.The chest itself was beautiful in every way, but it was the devotion with which it had been crafted, the care taken in its transport, and the ceremonial unveiling, that made it nothing less than an act of worship.Navid stepped forward and opened the chest, its hinges creaking softly. One by one, he lifted out three alabaster vessels and set them before the family. As Salin, the sacred fire was in his charge, and so too were these offerings meant to reflect it. Rostam and Javad slowly returned, closed the chest, and lifted it away. Ashkan then knelt behind the three alabaster vessels, his gaze fixed on the child.“O Wise Lord, Light of the Universe, we see Your reflection in this Child and bow before the One You have anointed.” As his proclamation settled over the room, the rest of the Magi lowered themselves to their knees and bowed.“He is the king of a people not our own,” Ashkan continued, “yet a hope for all. Saoshyant, world savior, we come to honor You with these gifts.”He opened the first vessel, lifting the linen with steady care. Beneath it, small gold ingots gleamed, catching the firelight like light gathered from the stars.“Gold, the symbol of kingship and wealth. As it shines before us, so may Your reign shine with righteousness and untarnished glory.”He set the vessel aside and opened the second, lifting the linen shroud.“Frankincense for the divine, that which bridges heaven and earth. May its smoke rise to Him who sent you, pleasing Him, as Your life and reign will also please Him.” He then opened the third vessel and a beautifully rich and resinous scent filled the room.“Myrrh oil, for both the divine and the mortal. The balm of kings and the perfume of the burial. Though divinely appointed, You share the fate of all flesh. May this bless your path in its glory and its grief.”Ashkan lowered himself until his forehead touched the ground, arms stretched forward, palms open as if offering himself. When he spoke again, it was with a low, nearly trembling voice.“You have been proclaimed ruler above all rulers, the Light of the Blessed Lord. Before You, all kings shall bow. May the Wise Lord bless you, child of light, that Your reign be just and Your fire enduring.”He rose slowly, eyes fixed on Jesus, arms still stretched in front of him.“All the wisdom of men ends here, but here, Your wisdom begins. The flame we have served now stands before us, the Light made visible. What heaven sent, we have sought by starlight and have found upon the earth. Our fire, and our lives, are Yours.”A still, soft silence lingered along with the scent of the myrrh hanging in the air. Joseph looked at the Magi, his voice quiet and steady.“You have honored Him well,” he said. “May the Lord return to you the light you have given.”Micah knelt beside the Magi, hardly able to breathe, the scene before him burning itself into his heart.“Navid,” Micah whispered. “I…didn’t bring a gift. In all our time travelling here, it never occurred to me. I should have brought something.”“Micah, I think you may have the finest gift of all.”He looked up at Navid, confused. “What do you mean, I have nothing to give him. Nothing worthy of a King.”Navid shook his head gently. “What is gold to a child? What use are such treasures to one who delights in the simplest of things? His parents may use our gifts, yes, but Him? He has no need of them.”Navid paused, letting his point settle, then continued.“What would truly please Him is something far simpler…and far rarer.”Navid’s eyes drifted down to Micah’s drum.“My drum? I…I could play for Him.”
Micah slowly stood, clutching his drum tightly to his chest. Ashkan rose beside him, offering a simple nod and a gentle gesture toward Jesus.“My lord…my lady…I have no gift for Him. But…may I play my drum for Him?”“Of course, my boy,” Joseph said softly.“He would love that,” Mary said, her face warmed with a soft smile. “And Micah…in the short time we’ve known you, you have touched our hearts more than you know. Please, if you would like, you may call us Abba and Ima.” Mary looked up at her husband who was already smiling back down at her, and he nodded.Micah’s eyes welled up with tears. “I…I would love that, Ima, Abba.”He beamed at them and they at him with a love that felt like home.“Very well then,” Joseph said. “So, you said you wanted to play for Jesus?”“Micah…play drum?” Little Jesus had waddled over to Micah, and tapped his hand on the drum a few times.“Would You like me to play for You?”Jesus nodded eagerly. “Yesh, play.”“Alright then. Go back to Ima and I’ll play for you.” Jesus turned and climbed into Mary’s lap, settling in with expectant excitement.Micah didn’t know why his hands were trembling. Maybe it was awe. Maybe from something deeper he didn’t have a name for. Or maybe he did. Jesus. Behind him, the Magi remained kneeling, silent, waiting.And in that silence, Micah lifted his drum, and setting it in his lap, began to play. His playing was soft at first, reverent, like life's first heartbeats. He intended his playing to fit the mood of what he had just seen: sacred and holy, yet humble. But as he played, his rhythm swelling with a joy he didn’t understand.. The rhythmic beating was unlike anything that had ever come from him before. He wondered for a moment what was happening, but pushed that aside, and just let the moment, the love, consume him.Jesus climbed down off His mother’s lap and started laughing and bouncing to the music. His laughter seemed to add to the drumming, giving it a harmonious rhythm. Mary’s eyes filled with tears of joy. Even the Magi had lost their solemn looks, their faces softened by the scene before them. Micah finished playing, opened his eyes, and looked down at Jesus who was standing before him, clapping His hands erratically while bouncing up and down. Though it didn’t seem possible, Jesus’ smile got even bigger when He met Micah’s eyes.“Micah…drum!”“Oh Micah, that was wonderful! Thank you!” Mary said, beaming at Micah.“It was my pleasure…my honor…to play for Him.” Jesus reached up and wrapped his little arms around Micah’s neck. Micah embraced him as tears began to roll down his cheeks. His heart soared. The joy in him felt too large for his body, like his entire being might burst into light and laughter. For the first time since his parents death, he felt whole, complete. He still missed them fiercely, but finally he felt like he belonged again. The feeling of pure bliss that pervaded his entire being could not be compared to anything he had ever experienced.“What a lovely gift,” Navid began. “You outshone us all today, Micah. I’m afraid our gifts pale in comparison to yours.”“He clearly enjoyed it…but is it really better than gold?” Micah stammered a bit as he wiped the tears from his face.“My boy, you are wise beyond your years, yet you still have much to learn. Our gifts may help their family for a time. Yours served heaven itself. You gave Him your talent, your joy, your heart. No amount of gold can purchase these things. They are priceless beyond measure.”Navid put his arm around Micah’s shoulder and met his eyes. Tears slid down Micah’s cheeks again as he smiled, chin quivering.“When He hugged me…I felt it. Navid, He is Mashiach. I know it.”Navid nodded slowly, eyes soft and steady.“The prophecies of your people, of Moses, David, Isaiah…I saw them unfolding before us long before we arrived here. When I looked upon Him tonight, I no longer doubted. Yes, He is Mashiach. The One your Scriptures…and now mine…promised.”Navid paused a moment, contemplating, then continued.“It is not lost on me, Micah, that in the book of the Tanakh that bears your name it was written that a great ruler would come from Bethlehem. We were meant to be here. Especially you.”“Thank you, Navid. Thank you for bringing me along on this journey. After my parents…”, Micah stopped, his voice catching in his throat, unable to speak further.Navid tightened his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “I know, Micah, I know.”They stood in the glow of the firelight, the scent of myrrh, cedar, and smoke hanging in the air, the memory of the drum not forgotten but fading, like a heartbeat finally coming to rest. Micah closed his eyes, letting the warmth settle in his chest. Something in him, something wounded and long ignored, had finally begun to heal. And the feeling was almost too beautiful to bear.

If you enjoyed this section from my upcoming novel, By Starlight, you can learn more about it by clicking the button below.Also, consider signing up for my newsletter. I will send out updates and maybe sometimes a recent poem I've written. Don't worry, I won't spam your inbox!

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About Me

The world is full of noise, but if you listen closely, you can hear the Spirit speaking like a quiet wind.Writing, for me, is like Michelangelo uncovering the angels he said were already in the stone.I chisel away the noise until only His voice remains.

I have loved writing since the 1st grade when we were assigned to write a short story. I assure you, my tale of Snake the private detective was beyond brilliant!I wrote on and off over the next couple decades, but didn't take it seriously until much later.In recent years, I've been focused on my novel, By Starlight. It's the story of Micah, who travels with the wise men to meet the new King, Jesus.In 2025, my church started an art gallery that wasn't limited to visual arts. I decided to write and submit a poem for an art installation they were doing. It has rekindled my love of writing poetry.Whether poetry, novels, or other forms of writing, my work tends to lean into faith, struggle, and the internal battles that come with both. Occasionally I'll write something a little different just to make sure I don't get stuck writing the same things all the time.Nearly everything I write is shaped in some way by my faith in Jesus Christ, even if sometimes I question that faith. If we aren't questioning, we aren't growing.

I live in San Pedro, California, with my wife and two daughters. I also have a son who is joining the United States Marines, and I'm very proud of him.I love the LA Kings, and I love playing hockey even more.I also enjoy building websites and doing some light graphic design and video editing.But writing...that's in my bones.

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This page is as much for me as it is anyone else.I really just want to talk about what writing is to me, and what it means to me.Each piece I write is literally a part of my soul. Sometimes it comes flowing out like water, sometimes it heaves out of me like vomit, and sometimes I have to pull it out, kicking and screaming. No matter which way it comes out, it is immensely satisfying.It may grieve you to know that I don't write for you. I write for me, and I write for God. As I write this, I'm still a little selfish, so it's mostly for me. I write not because I want money, or fame, or anything like that. I write because it heals me. I write because it hurts not to. I write because I have to.To be honest, if I wrote for you, you probably wouldn't be here reading this right now. It would cheapen my work. I'd be too concerned with what sounds good instead of what true.Truth...that's what I want above all else in my writing. It's what I strive for, what I live for. If my writing isn't true, isn't honest...well, I'm not writing it. That's what you get when you read my work. If nothing else, it's purely honest about who I am, and what I'm going through. It may not encompass the entirety of me, but it's a big piece. I don't write about the happiest parts of my life very often, but know that they absolutely exist. It's just that those things aren't what inspire me to write.Recently, I was tasked with writing a piece about where I see the light of Jesus in my life. I was in a really bad place at the time, and oh my goodness, what I wrote was so dark. I thought about submitting it, but I couldn't. Not because I was embarrassed, but because it just wasn't a good fit. Out of that piece came Nasa Einayim. It's not exactly a bright and happy piece, so if you've read it, you can imagine how dark its predecessor was. Nasa Einayim at least had some real hope to it.Anyway, I stopped writing for a long time through my twenties and thirties, which I regret immensely. I have known my entire life that I am a writer. It always came naturally to me. If you ask me to talk about something off the cuff, yeah, you're probably getting nothing. At best, me stammering like an idiot. But my fingers? They know how to talk. My fingers are way smarter than my mouth.Writing is how my soul expresses itself. I suppressed that for a long time, and now that I've started it back up, I can't stop. It would be like asking me to stop breathing.My prayer for you is that you can find the thing that fulfills your soul. The first thing that should is a love of God and Jesus Christ. After that, maybe you write music, or build houses, or design furniture, or drive buses. Everyone has a calling. I've found mine, and I pray you find yours as well.May God bless you, whoever you are, whether you consider yourself friend or enemy.

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Poetry

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Winter's Harbor

The year draws towards quieter days,
The heat fades, knowing it cannot stay,
And when the first cool wind caresses my face,
I breathe it in and know I'm in my place.The day begins with sharpened air,
Distant sounds carry everywhere,
Even the roads all seem to slow,
As I feel the peace within me grow.Mornings come in shades of grey,
Quiet winds bring a woody bouquet,
The crisp air filling my lungs,
Tells me that the turning has begun.Many voices now feel thin and few,
My port-side city feels quite new,
Early dimming and shadows long,
Light drizzle sings a quiet song.Senses sharpened as the cold slips in,
Wakes me, makes me feel alive again,
Foggy breath and chilly morning dew,
The touch of winter stirs my soul anew.As 110 bends, mountains come into view,
Past Vincent Thomas they rise against the blue,
Forty miles out, yet standing crisp and clear,
Old Wilson towers proud this time of year.On a dark and gentle night, I come in from the rain,
Trading damp for warmth, a single thought remains,
That a soft, warm bed’s the thing,
To ease cold’s sharp and biting sting.Sliding into cold sheets, a welcome bite I love,
A thick, warm blanket pulled soft above,
Night’s early quiet grows as calm settles in,
Thoughts drift off as winter dreams begin.Each new day gently slows,
The year in pause at its close,
Still and quiet let life reset once more,
That’s what winter’s gentle lull is for.It’s in this season I find my peace,
Where anxious thoughts all seem to cease,
Winter’s harbor brings what I’m longing for,
And breathes life to my tired spirit once more.

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When Seeking Does Not Find...Faith Endures

This poem is best viewed on a desktop or laptop

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Waiting in Time

Drifting, walking, he knows not where
The hum of life an endless drone
Changes come small and nearly unnoticed
If they come at all.Flat, same, same, even
Waiting, waiting, fading
Forgetting what he’s even waiting for
Time is standing still
Yet years pass in fast forward.A flash!
Brief, bright like a rising sun
It breathes, it heaves
It wants more
It wants to show you
But it fades.It tries to come again, stronger, longer
Spiraling upward into the sky
Into his sight
Into his mind.It strains
Then it wanes.Flash again!
Bigger, brighter, swelling.
Overwhelming.He sees now
He feels now
He hears now.
Gone, all fear.Answers within grasp.
Journey’s conclusion at last.
The time, the time, the time has come.

This poem was written while listening to Says by Nils Frahm

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The Last Lightkeeper

Brilliant light carves through midnight sky,
The signal sounds with bellowing cry,
Slowly turning with hypnotic grace,
To warn slumbering souls from reef’s embrace.Both gale and lull marked many a night,
Masts and men saved by tower’s sight,
Spared from a dark and watery grave,
Thanks bestowed by masters’ wave.The keeper of the light watches faithfully,
His only friend the long and lonely sea,
The years his gift to those he swore to save,
The peace and pride that steadfast service gave.The keeper once more makes his rounds,
This the final time he tends his grounds,
Ten thousand times this post he’s manned,
Though tomorrow the light needs not his hand.With rise of sun and draw of tide,
The keeper leaves his watch aside,
The post now kept by hands of steel,
Its soul the light can never feel.Tide and time march ever on,
One of many, yet keeper’s never gone,
His watch now done, he heads to sea,
Part of his soul shall it ever be.Resigned to time’s uncaring flow,
He accepts the course all lives must go.

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The Greatest Poem Never Written

I think I’ll write a poem today,
I’m feeling a little creative,
I’m not sure what it will say,
But it’ll be innovative.Maybe I’ll use some rhymes,
I’ll definitely be clever,
Come up with some great lines,
A brilliant artistic endeavour!Yeats, Whitman, Eliot, got nothin’ on me,
Dickinson, Poe, Blake, take a seat,
Chaucer, Wordsworth, and Frost,
I’ll leave you in my dust, you’ll all be lostWait, my rhymes aren’t right,
And I haven’t even started yet,
I gotta keep this airtight,
I really can’t forget.Ok, one line, two lines, three,
Four stanzas, five and six,
How many words do I need?I missed a line!
My structure is all wrong,
It’s gonna be too long,
No, no, it’s going to be ok, I got this, it’ll be fine.
At least, I think, it will be.What kind of poem is this anyway?
This is utter garbage,
I mean, it just does work at all,
Does? I meant doesn’t! I can’t even type right.
I just don’t think I even know what I’m doing anymore.Geez, why can’t you be more like other poems?
You’re ruining my whole vibe.I can’t work like this.
I’m done.Poem, thou hast defeated thy imperious goals,
Thy skills thou hast belied,
I shall never touch the souls,
Of those on land or tide.Wait, that was better,
Or was it too pompous?
You know what? Those guys can have their poems.
This is too hard.
I’m out.

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The Breath Between

Skin crawling
Chest tightens
Face contorts
Boulder in my gutTeeth scraping
Nails draggingHot breath
Something is hereHeart grinding my ribs
It’s all around me
Thick crushing airRacing, racing, thumpingWhat is it
Where is itIt’s here, I have to get away
Running, but running nowhere
Can’t escapeGotta go, gotta hide
Nowhere to go
It’s everywhere, it’s insideHelp me……Breathe…Breath, like winds across an open plain
No walls, no weight, just freedomSolitude—but not aloneHeart, filled with joy
Tears, why are there tearsI was so afraid before
Where did the fear go?I do not need to moveThey stand around me
Washed in the gold and the silver light
Unmovable
UnbreakableNothing gets through.
Not tonight. Not ever.I am here
I am safe
I am not aloneI am His.

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Nasa Einayim

נשא עינים

I was told of the light, from before I could remember. As I began to wake up, I believed in it. I didn’t see it, but I didn’t doubt its existence. Its words felt comfortable, but as time went on, the words began to feel distant. Familiar yet unrecognizable.I stepped onto a road whose end I didn’t know. I didn’t feel particularly lost. You don’t feel lost when you’re in a tunnel. You know there’s a destination, you know there’s an end, even if you don’t know what it looks like. I’ve heard about the light. I know of the light. Now I can even see it far ahead of me, but I want to feel the light, so I take a step, then another.The tunnel began to feel endless. I stopped to sit for a while. Turned into years. Eventually sitting didn’t feel good anymore, so I got back up and continued on. I kept going because sitting was harder. Kept going because stopping felt worse. I wanted to get to the end. I wanted to get there today. I wanted to do it myself. I thought I could. I take a step, another, then another.The tunnel keeps going. And going. Why does it seem like I’m not getting closer? Nothing seems any different. I press on. And on. I drag my fingers along the wall I can’t ever actually see. It feels lifeless and indifferent, like it’s uninterested in my struggle. Have to keep going. Must push on. Can’t disappoint. I take a step, step, step, and then another one.How long have I been here? Am I even half way there yet? Why am I the only one here? I thought there were others before, but I had to keep going. I must have left them behind. I don’t need them anyway, this is my journey. Everything feels so heavy. The ground is unforgiving. I must be close. Right? I shout just to hear something. Nothing returns. Step, step, step, then another one.It doesn’t matter. Keep walking. Keep striving. I can do this. But I’m so tired. Too tired to be frustrated. There is only walking. All that’s left. Bag is too heavy. Can’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Never stop. Step, step, step…


Look at how much he struggles.
Look how long he’s been walking on his own.
If he would only look up.We’re right here.There’s a long way to go, son.We’re right here with you,
even if you never turn your head.

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Had I Grace Enough to Shed This Cloak

There is more room in His heart
Than sorrow can overcome.
More space for the broken, the weary,
The lost and the numb.His love lifts the forgotten,
The discarded and the used.
It covers the bitter, the empty,
The ashamed and the accused.His grace restores the angry,
The wounded, and the burned.
It renews the hollow, the restless,
And hearts astray, not yet returned.Arms never crossed in judgment,
Nor condemning shake of head.
But His arms open wide,
And face filled with joy instead.No matter the wrongs we’ve done,
Nor dark cloak we assume.
Beyond imagining’s infinite horizon,
His heart hath more room.

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Before Memory

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What a gift.

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Unbroken Word

Unbroken Word is a multi-volume series of narrative poems that chronicle the entire biblical story, from Genesis to Revelation. It seeks to reflect scripture rather than explain it so that the reader can experience God's word in a new way.

The Dawn...

Inspired by Genesis 1:1 through 2:25Before the breath, only Being,
Perfect, pure, complete,
Time, yet unborn,
Holding its breath where no breath dwelt,
In swirling nothing, before time or space,
Silence, yet unbroken,
Waiting for the Word with no word yet spoken.The heavens stretched, a canvas bare,
The earth lay still in sculptor’s care,
The Spirit hovered, brush poised and wheel waiting,
The cosmos braced in quietude, unawakened, unabating.Then He spoke—Light! And all that was hidden gave up its shadowed place,
Form emerged with radiant grace.Waters pulled apart, sky born between,
A vault stretched taut by hands unseen.Stone peaks crowned the newborn land,
As petals bloomed at His command.Sun bathed the day in light,
Moon and stars adorned the night.Seas burst with life in glistening hue,
Skies sang with wings in boundless blue.From earth and clay formed beastly shapes,
Through valley mists and wind-swept capes.From dust and breath, His image made,
By God’s own hand, a soul conveyed,
His likeness born in garden’s bloom,
He walks with us in Eden’s womb.The canvas filled, the brush laid down,
The sculpture set, the wheel at rest,
The Artist steps back to gaze at His work,
A breath and then contented sigh,
Completion, like day’s gentle close,
All creation paused and finally understood,
When He looked and said that it was very good.

...and the Descent

First morning’s mist swirled,
Gentle breeze upon the waking boughs,
Light spilled softly o’er gentle hills,
Sound of beast and bird painted the dawn,
Hand in hand He walked with them,
No hunger stirred, nor longing known,
They knew no fear, their hearts His own.And one among the garden’s trees was named,
Beauty set apart, the warning now proclaimed,
The one command He gave and thus decreed,
Eat not this fruit, to death it surely leads.In shadow came the fallen one,
That hissed its lies with silver tongue.“Did God indeed forbid this fruit?
Was his word so truly absolute?”“You shall not die, He surely knows,
For when you eat, your wisdom grows.”“And just like Him you’ll be,
With knowledge born of sacred tree.”She saw the fruit indeed was good,
Together eaten, now fully understood.Their eyes stretched wide, no clothes they bore,
The debt of trust would be accounted for.“Where are you?”, longing ache in His call,
Judgement their bitter silence would not forestall,
Guilt and blame spilled forth in shame,
When excuses failed, their fate was named.‘Neath fiery sword their exile sealed,
Through toil and blood their wages earned,
Fruit born of love’s abiding anguish,
Love itself bearing wounded weight,
Hollow breath fades away in silence,
But through blinding dark, faithful light remains,
Unfailing love that forever sustains.

The Blood and the Name

Cradle's memory fading from thought,
Indifferent stars cast aside indifferent eyes,
Outcasts wandering ‘neath silent sky,
As silence broke, two hearts sang out,
Though fraternal tune began to crack,
The blood of brothers wearing thin,
One was marked by favor, and one by sin.From earth and flock their offerings brought,
One regarded, the other not,
Anger rose like a raging flood,
In a field now stained red with blood.“What have you done?”Already known, yet a question still,
The lie returned with hardened will.And from the ground, the blood cried out,
For just one, soil’s eternal drought.Banished and left to wander the land,
Marked and spared by His command.Departed His presence out of guilt,
A Nod to the east and a city built,Music rose and hammers sound,
Yet only evil there was crowned.Pride and lust marked the day,
Seventy-sevenfold was the new way.Each son more distant than the last,
Blood and depravity were not outcast,
Men given over to their desires,
His Word left to burn on the pyres.Though wickedness spread like a flood,
His Word could not be denied,
Gentle as the tide but able to move mountains,
Just one whisper calmed the storm,
And a new path was born,
As new life was given the father of men,
Calling on Him, a people born again.

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Other Works

Measured by Obedience

Before I start. I want to ask you something:
Have you ever felt like your faith just… wasn’t enough?Not that you didn’t believe in God —
but that you didn’t feel the way other people seemed to feel.Maybe you’ve looked around at other Christians and thought,
“Everyone else seems to be connecting with God better than I am.”
Or maybe you’ve wondered,
“If I really loved God, wouldn’t I feel more than this?”I think more Christians struggle with that than we admit.So if that’s ever been you,
if you’ve ever wondered whether your emotions were some kind of spiritual report card,
I want you to know:You’re not alone.
And what we’re going to look at today might just set you free.There’s a verse in the Bible that haunted me for years.
Not because I didn’t understand it…but because I thought I did.And what I thought it meant was:
“If you don’t feel passionate enough about God… you’re in danger.”As a kid, I would stand in worship and watch people: hands lifted, tears flowing, totally caught up in the moment, and I’d think,
“I don’t feel that. Something must be wrong with me.”Maybe you’ve felt that too.
Like everyone else has this fire burning in their chest…
and you’re over here hoping nobody notices your match never even lit.So when I heard Jesus say in Revelation 3:16,
“Because you are lukewarm… I will spit you out of my mouth,”
I was scared.I didn’t lift my hands like other people.
I didn’t cry during worship.
I didn’t feel that intensity everybody else seemed to have.And I thought, “Well… I guess that’s it. I’m lukewarm. I’m done.”But here’s the crazy part:
I misunderstood the whole thing.
And maybe you have too.Revelation 3:16 says, “Because you are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”But look at the verse right before it: Revelation 3:15:
“I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot.”He doesn’t say, “I know your feelings.”
He says, works.
Actions. Choices. The things you do. How you live.And that lines up with the rest of scripture.
Jeremiah says the heart is deceitful, feelings shift, wobble, and lie. They change based on whether you slept well, what you ate or didn’t eat, or if someone cut you off in traffic. Feelings are fickle. They are NOT a reliable measuring stick.It’s not feelings He asks for.
It’s obedience.
Yes, He wants love — but what even is love?Most of the time, I don’t feel love when I’m interacting with my family. Not in the emotional, movie-soundtrack way. Sometimes I do, certainly. But often I don’t. So does that mean I don’t love them? Of course not.My love language is acts of service. Always has been. I show love by doing things.
I cook dinner. I massage my wife’s feet. I bring them a wet wash cloth when they have a fever.
I play with my them, read to them, help them, listen to them, even when I’m exhausted. Even when I don’t want to.That’s love.
Not a feeling I broadcast.
But actions that benefit them, especially if it’s at a cost to me, even if it’s just energy, or a little sanity.So if that’s how I give love, why would I sit around waiting for some magical emotional feeling to prove it’s real? I’m already expressing it. I’m already experiencing it. Those I’m showing love to have no idea what I’m feeling at any given moment. Their experience of me showing them love is about actions.And James actually backs this up when he says, “Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.”In other words, love isn’t proven by what you feel, it’s proven by what you do.
That’s exactly what James is talking about.And here’s the thing:
Feelings follow behavior, not the other way around.And when it comes to God, it’s the same thing.
He wants love expressed through obedience.
Through acts.
Acts of service — even if that act is simply praying, or reading Scripture, or showing up to serve someone else.
These are acts of love.When you want fruit from the ground, you don’t stand above the dirt demanding it grow. I mean, you could, but you’d look pretty silly yelling at the dirt..
No, you cultivate the soil. You plant seeds. You water.
You do. You act.
And God brings the growth.The Bible actually tells us exactly what love is.
It’s patient and kind.
It doesn’t envy or boast.
It isn’t arrogant or rude.
It doesn’t insist on its own way.
It’s not irritable or resentful.
It doesn’t delight in evil but rejoices in the truth.
It protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres.Now let’s look at what that really means.When you look closely at Paul’s list in 1 Corinthians 13, almost everything he names is about action — or the refusal to act on something harmful.Patience and kindness are things you do.
Envy, irritability, pride: those may begin as feelings, but love refuses to let those feelings drive the behavior. You choose NOT to act a certain way.Over and over, Paul isn’t describing an emotion…
he’s describing choices, self-control, and a way of living.Biblical love isn’t primarily an emotion.
Emotions show up in the list, sure, but the emphasis is what we do or what we refuse to do because of love. Even for the ones that are emotions, it’s the actions that follow that are the problem, not the emotions themselves.Love is a commitment expressed through choices, behaviors, and self-control.James puts it even more bluntly: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.”Dead faith.
Useless faith.And that connects exactly to what Jesus is saying to Laodicea — hot water heals, cold water refreshes, but lukewarm water does nothing.
It’s not the temperature…it’s the usefulness.Most of what Paul lists are actions or action-related choices.
Nowhere in 1 Corinthians 13 does it say anything about love being a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Biblically speaking, love is action, or sometimes the refusal to act in a certain way.It looks like admitting when you messed up instead of throwing out excuses.It looks like speaking respectfully about someone even when they’re not around to hear it.It looks like choosing not to snap at your teenager when they roll their eyes for the thousandth time.It looks like refusing to bring up old mistakes when you’ve already forgiven them.It’s all action. Sometimes humble action. Sometimes quiet action. Sometimes self-restraining action. Sometimes action no one else ever sees or thanks you for. But it’s all action.So how else does the Bible describe love?1 John 3:16: “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.”
That’s not an emotion. That’s sacrifice. That’s action.It doesn’t say Jesus felt butterflies or warm tingles.
It says He died for us. Action.John 15:13 says the same thing:
“No one has greater love than this: to lay down their life for their friends.”
Again, action.Love can absolutely involve feelings, and I’m grateful it does.
But which is the truer measure of love?That funny flutter in your stomach when you look at someone?Or getting out of bed to make your spouse breakfast when every cell in your body wants to stay under the covers?One feels nice.
The other is love.
So what’s the point?
Action is a far better barometer for love than feelings.If I didn’t love God, I wouldn’t bother opening my Bible. That’s action.
I wouldn’t pray. Action.
I wouldn’t serve or volunteer. Action.
I wouldn’t try to obey Him. Action.So if everything God says about love points to choices, behaviors, obedience, sacrifice…
why would He suddenly switch gears and make feelings the requirement?Why would He demand emotional intensity as if the path into Heaven is measured by how fired up you feel on a given day?He doesn’t.The whole of Scripture shows God cares about our faithfulness, our obedience, our devotion lived out, not whether our emotions hit some mystical temperature. The idea that Jesus is scolding Laodicea for not being “passionate enough” doesn’t line up with the text, doesn’t line up with the historical context, and doesn’t line up with the way the Bible defines love anywhere else.God is not testing the thermostat of your feelings.
He’s looking at the direction of your life.Here’s the thing about this verse: the historical context completely flips the way we usually read it.
Ask yourself: does it make any sense that Jesus would say it’s better to be spiritually cold?
Emotionally cold towards Him?
Of course not. That’s not His point at all.He’s writing to the church in Laodicea, a city with money, influence… and a terrible water supply.
So they brought in water from two neighboring cities.Hierapolis was famous for hot springs: water perfect for bathing, soothing joints, healing skin, relaxing the body.
Hot water has purpose.Colossae had crisp cold mountain runoff: water that refreshes, cools you down in brutal heat, and can even preserve food a little while.
Cold water has purpose.But by the time the water reached Laodicea, it lost everything that made it valuable.
The hot water cooled.
The cold water warmed.
And both picked up minerals and grime along the way.What arrived in Laodicea was lukewarm, useless, and pretty gross.So when Jesus says, “You’re neither hot nor cold… you’re lukewarm,”
He’s not talking about emotion at all.
He’s talking about usefulness.He’s saying:
Hot water heals.
Cold water refreshes.
Both are useful. Both have purpose.
But lukewarm water? It’s good for nothing.He says, “I know your works.”
Not your feelings.
Your works.
Your effectiveness.
Your impact.He’s calling them…calling us…to be useful again.
To heal like hot water.
To refresh like cold water.
Not to be stagnant and ineffective like Laodicea’s lukewarm water.The message isn’t “get hotter” or “be more passionate” or “feel more things.”
It’s “Be a doer. Be useful. Be fruitful. Be something that actually blesses the world.”And going back to James, he says something that honestly hits like a ton of bricks:
“You show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.”He doesn’t say, “Show me your passion,” or “Show me your emotions.”He says, “Show me your life.”That’s exactly what Jesus is getting at with Laodicea.
Not your passion level.
Your obedience level.So hear me on this:God never asked you to feel on fire.
He asked you to follow Him.
He asked you to love Him through action.
He asked you to obey Him even when your emotions are dead quiet.The devil wants you obsessed with your spiritual temperature.
He wants you convinced you aren’t enough.
Jesus wants you focused on your faithfulness, and focused on Him.So stop checking your spiritual pulse every five minutes and wondering if you feel enough or if you’re good enough.Just do what He says.Pray when you feel like it…AND when you don’t.
Open the Word when it excites you…AND when it feels dry as dust.
Serve when it’s convenient…AND when it costs you something.Because lukewarm isn’t about emotion.
It’s about inaction.And the one thing Jesus will never reject is a believer who shows up, obeys, and keeps choosing Him, feelings or not.Don’t wait to feel the fire.
Walk in obedience, and the fire will follow.Heaven won’t be filled with the emotionally impressive.
It’ll be filled with the obedient.So stop measuring your faith by the heat of your feelings.
Measure it by the weight of your obedience.Because when you finally stand before God, He’s not going to say,
“Show Me your passion.”
He’s going to say,
“Show Me your life.”So make sure it’s a life filled with obedience to Him.Will you pray with me?Father, thank You for Your patience with us.
Thank You that You don’t measure us by our emotions, but by our faithfulness.
Teach us to love You with our lives: in our choices, in our obedience, in the quiet things no one sees but You.Lord, lead us into the purpose you have for us, shape us into people who bring your love into everything we do.Shape our lives into something that reflects Your heart, Your love, and Your purpose.Give us the strength to follow You when we feel nothing,
to seek You when our hearts are tired,
and to obey You even when there’s a cost.Give us the courage to say “yes” to You today and every day.In Jesus’ name, amen.

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As He Thirsted

After this, Jesus, knowing that all was now finished, said (to fulfill the Scripture), “I thirst.” A jar full of sour wine stood there, so they put a sponge full of the sour wine on a hyssop branch and held it to his mouth. John 19: 28 and 29Of course he was thirsty. Why wouldn’t he be. He was beyond exhausted, beaten, bloody, and near death. I’ve certainly been thirsty from time to time, but I can’t imagine what this kind of thirst must have felt like. But as he thirsted in death, he also thirsted in life.What have I thirsted for in my life?I was content. I had what I needed, what I wanted for the most part. I was satisfied...or so I thought. But I wasn’t. I thought I could find contentment in watching TV, buying things, striving to earn more money. I thirsted for something else. I grew up in a Christian home, so I knew very well what that something was. But I was ignoring it. Why? Maybe I thought I could get along fine without it. Maybe I felt like God had never done anything for me, so why should I do anything for him? I didn’t realize that my failure to see His hand in my life didn’t mean that it wasn’t there. Once I actually started paying attention I found that his hand was everywhere, all the time.I thought at the time that living a "regular" life was what I wanted. Whatever regular means. What I didn't know was that I was not called to live a regular life. None of us were. As Jesus thirsted on the cross, so I thirsted.I was living as an ordinary person, but I was not made to be ordinary. I wanted to fly under the radar, but I was made to soar. I wanted to live in anonymity, but I am famous in my father's eyes. I thirsted, but I was trying to quench it with the wrong things.I had created pillars in my life that I thought held me up. But when those pillars were tested, they crumbled instantly. And it really only took one thing to bring it all down, just one: fear. If one little thing like that could tear down everything I had built, I had no hope of being able to reconstruct my world in any meaningful way. So everything collapsed around me, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I thirsted. No. I was parched.Except I lied to you just now when I said I didn’t know what to do about it, just like I lied when I told myself the same thing. I knew exactly what to do about it. So what did I do? I spent a year still trying to ignore it.At the beginning of that year, I spent several days in the darkest blackness I had ever experienced, followed by six months of basically constant, nearly crippling anxiety. That slowly began to ease up over the course of the next six months, but it was a year at least before I fully recovered. God certainly didn’t do this to me, but he definitely wanted me to know something. I heard the message, but I was still trying to ignore it like a stubborn child ignoring his parents.Those pillars I had created collapsed because they were made by the wrong person and made out of the wrong things. Through that collapse, I was shown that I am not the one in charge, and I am definitely not alone. I learned that I simply needed to submit, to let go, to give in to the only one who IS the unbreaking pillar I was looking for.A little over two years ago I had been out of work for some time, and I had just been offered a job that I wasn't sure I could do. I had lost all confidence in myself. For the first time in my life I really sought God's will. It took three weeks of daily prayer. I wasn't sure I was going to hear anything, but then one day I was praying, eyes closed, and like a switch being flipped it suddenly became bright in the room, yet I felt no compulsion to open my eyes. Moments later, I had the very distinct impression that I was being held by a large pair of hands. They were raising me up, and the further up I went, the more peaceful I felt. It was an amazing feeling. I had been leaning towards turning down the job until that moment. I knew this was God telling me to take it. I had no doubt. So I did. Through this job, he reminded me of things I loved doing that I forgot about and showed me new ones I didn’t know I would love. In the following years I did things I would never have believed I was capable of.I thirsted and I still thirst. Every. Single. Day. The difference is, now I know how to quench that thirst and my cup overflows.Jesus thirsted, just like me, and just like you. He thirsted to share what he KNEW to be true. He thirsted to share the good news. He thirsted to let us all know we are loved, and we are forgiven if we just accept it. If we accept him.He thirsts today, right now, for a deeper relationship with each one of us and the best thing is that we can quench our thirst simply by quenching his.

The End of the 110

I'm driving home from work and it's 92 degrees…in March. That's L.A. for you. I'm nearing the end of the 110 freeway and I can see the port with its massive cranes reaching into the sky, ships loading and unloading, stacks and stacks of cargo containers, trucks, metal, water, people. Most of what I own probably passed through there. But you know what I really see? Stillness. Like a painting someone made capturing a moment in time.Shouldn’t I see the cranes picking up containers? Cargo ships coming in? Leaving? Where are the trucks? I see them on the freeway, but never in the docks. The fifty foot high piles of containers never seem to change. Don’t they go anywhere? How many times have I driven this way? Five hundred? Fifteen hundred?Why can I never see movement there? This is one of the busiest ports in the world. Shouldn't something be moving?I’ve seen it on clear days, cloudy days, in the rain (albeit rarely, like I said, this is L.A.), sunrise, sunset, night…you should see it at night with the cranes glowing, the Vincent Thomas bridge lit up, everything reflecting off the water, beautiful…I still never catch a glimpse of movement. I see cargo ships, cruise ships, yachts, and sail boats slowly lumbering between RPV and Catalina. They’re moving. Where did they come from? Surely not the harbor, because nothing there ever moves.I exit the freeway, driving deeper into my little town of San Pedro. The harbor is out of view now, blocked by businesses and apartment buildings. Cars pack Gaffey Street, people sauntering up and down the sidewalks. One guy is on roller skates, twisting and turning as he crosses in front of me. He's wearing shorts, no shirt, a backpack, and a rainbow headband. But I barely take note today because I've seen him a thousand times.There’s a cart on the sidewalk selling chilled fruit. There’s another with smoke pouring out of it as some sort of meat is cooking. Wait…did gas prices go up again? $5.15!? Ouch. I exit Gaffey because it’s moving too slow. The side streets are much less stressful. To be honest, I would have gotten off Gaffey even if it was empty. I prefer the slower pace.One, two, three…and four. Today I only see four horribly damaged and clearly undrivable cars parked on the street. I always wonder how they even got there and why I only ever see them in San Pedro. And yep, there’s still couches, chairs, broken furniture and other piles of trash right in front of the “No Dumping” sign. Typical. It’ll be gone in a few days, only to be replaced by a new pile a few days after that. And it’s trash pickup day tomorrow, so today people are picking through the recycling bins for glass and aluminum to sell to recycling plants. They’re just trying to make a buck, so I don’t know why it irritates me.I turn onto my street and park my car, gathering my water bottle, laptop case, and empty coffee mug. Walking toward my building, I fumble for my keys. I look up. There's the harbor again, still frozen in time. There's so much happening around me, but in the distance it's like a photo. If I took a picture, nothing would look different if I looked at the harbor again next week or next year.Then I realize there's probably someone down at the dock, surrounded by noise, motion, yelling, and chaos. At some point he probably looked up and wondered why the town at the bottom of the hill seemed so quiet, so still. All the buildings just sitting there, sun glistening off of windows. The hill rising behind, surprisingly lush considering the number of houses. In the morning, the fog bank tries to crest the hill but stops short, leaving this side untouched. Even the fog doesn’t move.Maybe I’m not the only one who saw it.Maybe it always looked like this.Maybe it always just depended on where you were standing.

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