This Sunday wasn’t business as usual at Lakeview Fellowship.

Instead of our typical service flow, I paused everything—songs, structure, all of it—to share something from deep inside my heart. What I’m about to reflect on wasn’t carefully crafted in an office over coffee and commentaries. It was birthed on a rainy night, sometime between midnight and 3 AM, while sitting on the back porch with my dog and my Bible.

It’s the first time in 14 years of ministry that I stood before a congregation without a prepared sermon.

Why? Because God stirred something different in me—a message not of three points and a poem, but of honesty, brokenness, and love for this church. What I shared wasn’t polished. It wasn’t safe. But it was real. And sometimes, the real gets ugly.

The Weight of Shepherding

Being a pastor isn’t a title I chose. It’s a calling I wrestled with—and surrendered to. It’s a role I’ve embraced with everything in me for the past eight and a half years here at Lakeview. I’ve poured myself into this church, sometimes to an unhealthy degree, striving to love, lead, and live above reproach.

But “above reproach” doesn’t mean “without sin.”

It means walking humbly, being held accountable, and refusing to wear a mask—especially behind the pulpit. And yet, two weeks ago, in the middle of one of the most passionate sermons I’ve ever preached, I shared something deeply vulnerable and raw. A moment of spiritual warfare I had been battling privately—spoken out loud, in real time.

And it shook some people.

What I Said… and What It Meant

Let’s be honest: what I said offended some. Four people that I know of spoke up—two came directly to me (thank you for doing it the biblical way), and two others spoke with a deacon. I respect every single person who felt something after hearing those words, whether that feeling was shock, hurt, concern, or even judgment. Some called it inappropriate. Others, a lapse in judgment. A few went as far as to question my mental health.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t plan to say it. It wasn’t in my notes. It wasn’t part of the outline. It came from a deep, unfiltered place. And while I won’t defend the language, I won’t hide the heart behind it either. What I said wasn’t for shock value—it was a cry from a soul in battle, a moment of brutal honesty in front of the people I love most.

And for many, that rawness wasn’t offensive—it was freeing.

Some told me it gave them courage. Others said it made them feel seen. For a few, it was the first time they felt the church was a safe space for their real struggles.

Ministry Is Messy

Let’s be clear—ministry isn’t neat. It’s not clean-cut or picture-perfect. People are hurting. People are broken. And sometimes, even the pastor bleeds in front of the congregation.

The Western Church has become uncomfortable with mess. We’ve grown so accustomed to polished services and pristine appearances that we forget the Bible is filled with flawed, broken people being used by a perfect God. King David? Adulterer and murderer. Jonah? Bitter and disobedient. Peter? Denied Christ three times. Paul? Admitted, “What I want to do, I do not do.”

Yet God used them. And He still uses broken people today.

Church, if we’re going to be the body of Christ, we have to stop pretending. We have to stop being afraid of confession and repentance. Because if we can’t be honest here—where can we be?

Revival Will Cost Us Something

We say we want revival. But do we really?

Revival doesn’t come through better lighting or tighter transitions. It comes through repentance. Through real moments of surrender and brokenness. Through tears, through truth, and through trembling hearts saying, “God, I need you.”

We won’t see revival if we’re not willing to be real—with God, with ourselves, and with each other.

So here’s what I’m asking:

To those I offended, I am deeply sorry. Please forgive me.

To those who felt liberated, I’m humbled that God could use something so messy to bring healing.

And to all of us—let’s keep our eyes on Jesus. Not on the man with the mic, not on the performance of the service, but on the One who bore our sin and shame so we could walk in freedom.

A Final Word

I’m not perfect. I never have been. And I never claimed to be. But I love this church with everything I have. And I believe that what happened two weeks ago—ugly as it may have looked—was a pivotal moment for Lakeview Fellowship.

We can choose to bury it, or we can let it be the beginning of something new.

Let’s choose revival. Let’s choose repentance. Let’s choose real.