Sunday, while preaching, I had a millisecond moment.
That time when truth, vulnerability, heart, and words intersected.
A little background info . . .
As you know, I don’t preach from a manuscript.
I do lots of deep work into the scripture, learning what the Greek/Hebrew words mean, the context of the passage, who wrote it, why, to whom, and how can we find ourselves in the story. I try to think about “take aways” – how can this make a difference in your life? I plan the opening illustration, the flow of the message, the closing point, and that’s it. I never really know where the message might go.
Every day, I try my best to be “all in” with God. Allowing my thoughts and actions to weigh against how can I be a bold follower of Jesus.
In the court of public opinon, I work really hard at folliowing the call of Christ while surrounding myself with mentors to coach/push me to be the best leader and pastor I can be.
I strive to not give in to the court of public opinion. I once heard this phrase, “In church world, it is really easy to have Monday morning quarterbacks.”
Meaning, it’s easy to think one might know how to do something better, different, etc. than the leadership, but more often than not, folks see a tiny part of a much bigger picture. I used to be so fickle, I’d go where the wind of opinions blew. One senior pastor called me out on it, told me I was like a giant pinball, bouncing from one thing to the other, so I heard him.
Recently, my coach asked me,
“Are you worried about being successful or are you worried about being faithful?”
“Faithful” was my answer.
“Then do and be so. And let the rest go.”
I tell you all that to tell you, there really isn’t a time that I’m not thinking about what is best for West, and how to best lead and follow Jesus. It’s annoying to my family, but they give me grace.
So – when I preach – I just never know where it might go.
Sunday as I was talking about the nine lepers who left and didn’t return to say thank you, the example of my “holding on too tightly” in my new relationship with Tom crossed my mind.
I had not planned on sharing that story. But as I did, my voice cracked. Because I remembered the pain. The fear. I used to think that in the middle of the night, after we’d speak the evening before, he’d figure out I was “crazy” and decide by the next morning he didn’t want to date me. On the mornings that it would be 10 or 11 before I’d hear from him, I’d be convinced it was over.
Now that – is irrational.
But it was totally based out of years in childhood and adulthood of abandonment, of false starts, of people I trusted disappearing without warning. My nervous system had been trained to expect loss. To brace for it. To assume that anything good would simply not last.
So when I heard my voice crack on Sunday, it surprised me. I’m used to sharing personal stories, but that one bubbled up from a place I don’t visit very often anymore. And in that millisecond—standing there with all of you—I remembered what it felt like to live in that tight, clenched emotional posture. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Always assuming I had to hold on or it would slip away.
And then, just as quickly, I remembered what it felt like to heal.
Not all at once.
Not because of one conversation.
Not because I suddenly “got over it.”
But slowly.
Quietly.
In tiny moments of trust and release.
And honestly? That is exactly what Jesus is talking about in Luke 17.
The nine lepers rushed off clutching their healing—understandably—because they didn’t trust it would last. Trauma does that. It makes you hold tight, grip outcomes, cling to control.
But the tenth one? The Samaritan?
He had a different posture.
He loosened his hands and turned around.
He walked back—open, vulnerable, grateful.
And Jesus says to him, “Your faith has made you whole.”
Not just clean.
Not just healed.
Whole.
And I think that’s what hit me mid-sermon, standing there with all of you. That’s what made my voice crack. I realized I’m not that clenched, terrified version of myself anymore. I’m not gripping everything hoping it won’t leave. Somewhere along the way—in the walking, in the trying, in the following—God healed something deeper in me.
And listen, I want to say this clearly:
Wholeness sneaks up on you.
You don’t always feel it happening.
You often don’t recognize it until you look back.
For me, it happened in dozens of tiny moments when Tom didn’t disappear.
When friends showed up.
When community held me.
When God whispered, “You can loosen your hands. You’re safe.”
So Sunday in the middle of the message, I remembered.
Who I used to be and who I am becoming.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s something for you too.
Maybe you’re gripping something because the past trained you to.
Maybe you’re scared the goodness won’t stay.
Maybe you’re exhausted from holding so tightly to outcomes, people, control, or expectations.
If that’s you, hear me:
You don’t have to white-knuckle your way through your life.
You don’t have to carry the fears your past taught you.
You don’t have to stay clenched.
Wholeness can happen in the walking.
In the trusting.
In the small moments of choosing openness even when it feels risky.
Just like that tenth leper, there comes a moment when faith shifts from clinging to opening. From fear to gratitude. From gripping to receiving.
And when it does…
your story begins to change.
Your heart begins to soften.
And God whispers over you the same thing Jesus whispered over him:
“Your faith has made you whole.”
Grace and Peace,