When I was seventeen, my first child was born, Stephen. He lived for two days.
Two days—barely enough time to understand love,
but long enough to understand loss. “He is not going to make it.” “His lungs are not developed.” “It might be time to turn off the machine……but it’s your decision.”
Everything around me felt blurred, the world was suddenly condensed and it was pressing in on me, crushing my heart and spirit. “Do you want to hold him.” Inexplicably, and something that would torture me for many years……”No.” I did not want to hold my own dying heart, how utterly selfish.
On the day of the funeral, I sat in the back of the hearse,
a small white coffin resting on my knees.
It felt too light. Too still. Maybe just an empty box….. like my heart.
I was there but I was distant in my mind, none of it seemed real.
He was to be laid in the place reserved for stillborn children,
though he hadn’t been stillborn.
He had lived. He had tried, he had tried hard.
The driver took a corner faster than he meant to,
and the tiny body shifted inside the box.I could “feel,” him move.
That was the moment all the walls I had built
collapsed in a single breath.
I knew what was in the box.
The truth I had been keeping at arm’s length
pressed itself into me with a weight I simply could not carry.
For a long time I carried anger for that driver—
that unnamed man who broke the silence for me
before I was ready.
There are things we bury deep,
not because they are gone,
but because we cannot look at them, cannot handle the weight of it, but is still caries the same weight whether we look at it or not.
Years passed.
I came to the Lord.
Life moved on in the way life does—
slowly, quietly, with its own kind of insistence.
And then one ordinary day,
standing under the warm water of the shower,
the deep finally broke open.
Grief rose from the hidden places
like something long trapped beneath ice—
cold, vast, unstoppable.
My legs buckled.
I held the walls with both hands.
A lifetime was passing through me in moments, years
were flooding out of me, threatening to sweep me away.
My wife heard me and thought I was breaking apart.
Maybe I was.
But when it was over, I could breathe again.
The bitter waters that had filled that sealed chamber
were gone, emptied out.
In its place came something pure, living waters
from a pure crystal stream, unmistakably from Him.
The Lord leaves no room untouched.
Every locked door is His.
Every deep place is His.
He moves like a glacier—nothing stands in its way
slow, sure, reshaping everything in His path
until what was buried
finally meets the light. No chamber left untouched.
If you are carrying within you something hidden—
something buried away, unnamed, unknown to the world
know this brother, sister
it will not stay buried forever.
He will touch it.
He will open it.
And when He does,
what comes will be healing.
Unmistakable.
Beautiful in its own way.
Stephen, you are not forgotten…..but your father is forgiven.
One of the most tragic realities of the contemporary church, most glaringly within the American context, yet by no means confined to it, is the widespread absence of the new birth among professing Christians. This foundational deficiency renders it utterly impossible for such individuals to love as the early church loved, for the very source and sustainer of that love is Christ Himself. It is He who binds believers together in divine unity.
The church, properly understood, is not a building, a denomination, or an institution, it is the living body of Christ. And unless one has been joined to that body through regeneration, one simply does not belong to the Church in the true, biblical sense, the ekklesia, the “called-out ones.”
It is spiritual folly to expect those outside of Christ, unregenerate and untouched by the Spirit of God, to manifest the supernatural love that defined the earliest believers. This love flows not from religious duty or communal sentiment, but from the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit.
Oswald Chambers, in his meditations on the Sermon on the Mount, rightly observed that any attempt to live out Christ’s teachings apart from the new birth results in a miserable experience. For the unregenerate, the Sermon is not a light but a crushing burden, a lofty ideal that exposes the impossibility of genuine righteousness without divine transformation.
Religion, absent the life of Christ, becomes little more than a philosophy, a system of ethics, or a cultural form. It may produce momentary acts of kindness, but it cannot sustain the sacrificial, Spirit-wrought love of the saints. This love, that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, does not arise from human effort but from the supernatural work of God in the soul.
Thus, what many interpret as disunity in the church is, in truth, the presence of multitudes who are members of religious organizations, but not members of Christ’s body. They are, at best, moralists striving in their own strength, at worst, deceived souls clinging to the form of godliness while denying its power.
The Scriptures are not silent on this. “Many are called, but few are chosen” (Matthew 22:14). The remnant, the few, are the truly born again, those who love with a love not their own, who recognize one another not by label or denomination, but by the Spirit of Christ within. When these encounter one another, there is immediate fellowship, unfeigned and deeply rooted in shared life.
To expect widespread spiritual unity in a landscape dominated by nominalism is to set oneself up for continual disillusionment. Indeed, the gap between our expectations and the reality of the religious world around us is often the precise measure of our grief.
But if we understand this reality, that true unity and true love exist only among the regenerate few, we will cease to be disheartened by the failures of the masses and instead rejoice to find, here and there, a brother or sister truly alive in Christ. For these are the Church. These are the Body. These are the beloved of God.
In Ezekiel chater two, Ezekiel is still reeling from the overwhelming vision in chapter 1. The heavens had opened. The glory of the Lord had appeared. And what does a man do when he beholds the living God? He falls, face down, trembling, undone. Just like Isaiah in chapter 6, who cried, “Woe is me!” when he saw the Lord high and lifted up. And Jeremiah, he too had his moment, his calling, his confrontation with divine fire.
Every time, every single time, when a man comes into the presence of the Most High, he cannot stand. It is the only posture that makes sense before such holiness: to fall flat on your face, emptied of pride, silenced by glory.But then, then! The voice of the Lord cuts through with the weight of glory and says, “Son of man, stand on your feet.” Oh, can you hear it? It’s as though He’s speaking life into dust. It’s the same voice that called to the dry bones in the valley, saying, “Live!” And live they did. Bone to bone, sinew to sinew, flesh upon flesh, but it meant nothing without the breath.
And then—the wind! The Spirit! The breath of life rushed through the valley, and what had been dead stood tall, a vast army, alive by the very breath of God.So it is with us, brothers and sisters. We were dead—dead in our sins, dry and lifeless in a dark valley. But God! He breathed into us His Spirit. He raised us up. He caused us to stand—not by our might, not by our will, but by His power, His Spirit, His holy command.
We move, we speak, we rise, in the name and by the power of the Lord Jesus Christ. But it all begins,with an encounter. An encounter that breaks us down before it builds us up. This is the birth place of true obedience. This encounter, this losing of oneself, is the primary motivation for our mission in life, whatever He calls us to do. Ezekiel chapter 2 is not just the next chapter in a prophet’s story, it’s the holy aftermath of a collision with the Divine. It’s the moment where the fallen man hears the voice of God saying, “Rise.” And by His Spirit—we do.
It is a holy thing to know who you are in the Lord. To search the chambers of your own spirit with trembling , for the flesh is relentless, and is our most cunning foe. It creeps in as a whisper, yet departs in a tempest, tearing as it goes. But the Lord, ah, the Lord He speaks not in thunder, nor in the earthquake, but in that still, small voice. It is not the volume that stirs and shakes mountains, but the weight of the Word itself, Spirit-breathed, eternal.
For passion can rage like a sea in a storm, waves rising like giants, smashing all that dares to stand. But gaze upon the Christ before Pilate, Truth wrapped in silence, power clothed in meekness. Love’s boldness stood face to face with earthly might, yet never raised its voice in pride or vanity, the power of knowing.
If the message be truly of God, then it does not waver,it is unchanging, steadfast as His own Word. But the messenger? Oh, he is tested. Ridiculed. Wounded. Laid bare. He is stripped of self until he walks quietly, humbly, unknown to men, yet known to God. His heart beats not for applause but for obedience, to carry the fire he was given.
It is sweet, yes,so sweet,to hear His voice. But to speak it? That is often bitter. Bittersweet, the flavor of the prophetic path. Yet we must be faithful. Come storm or silence, come crowd or solitude,we must speak what He has spoken.
Let the waves crash, let the world rage. But let us walk on. One step in front of the other. One day at a time. Falling down but getting back up again. We can do all of this in Christ alone. In Him all things are possible and only by the power of the Holy Spirit can the message be delivered.
The great falling away isn’t about people no longer “going to church,” since the concept of attending “church” is foreign to the Scriptures. Genuine believers are the Church. The true falling away is a departure from truth itself. A building may be packed with people, but who are they spiritually? Are they radical followers of Jesus with deep relationships with Him, or compromisers who embrace Christ but reject the cross?
Those of us who have left religious traditions—I myself am a former Catholic—are well-acquainted with the Sunday-only Christian who checks a box by attending a service, perhaps even midweek gatherings, men’s BBQ nights, or women’s retreats. I call this the processed church. Just as processed food is altered from its original state for convenience—loaded with sugars, unhealthy fats, preservatives, and lacking nutrients—the spiritually processed church has also been altered for convenience.
What are the spiritual effects of this processed church? Consider the “added sugar”: elaborate stages, entertainment-driven worship bands, and smoke machines designed to hype people up, compensating for the absence of God’s genuine presence. Many nominal believers have never truly encountered God’s authentic presence and therefore cannot discern the difference.
Think of “unhealthy fats and low nutrients”: the Word of God diluted, compromised, and stripped of its true nutritional value. These “fats” are sermons focused solely on worldly success, prosperity teachings, and self-enrichment schemes, creating spiritually unhealthy Christians who must continually rely on shallow injections of emotional hype to stay spiritually “alive.” The church system has taught its followers dependency on itself rather than complete reliance on Jesus.
What’s the solution? Revolution—a total abandonment of this processed religious system in favor of something pure, raw, organic, and unaltered by worldly additives. Without such radical change, the current system will collapse under the weight of worldliness and self-centered doctrines disguised as salvation.
There is a growing hunger, especially among younger generations raised within spiritually unhealthy environments, for authenticity, radical commitment, and an uncompromising devotion to Christ Himself. They desire a church wholly devoted to Jesus, characterized by quiet reverence and genuine holiness. A community where believers edify one another according to Scripture, where prophecy, exhortation, wisdom, tongues, and interpretations are practiced. A fellowship without hierarchical leadership, led instead by humble elders and deacons who serve selflessly, desiring no recognition or financial reward. A place that equips believers to live radically, to embrace suffering for Christ, proudly bearing the cross and the scars upon their backs as marks of their love, devotion and authenticity.
This is the organic Church—unprocessed by the world, radically committed to Jesus Christ and His Kingdom.
As a young Christian, I found myself standing in a church one day, worshiping. In that moment, I had a vision. I saw a vase being violently thrown to the ground, shattering into countless pieces. Though some larger fragments remained, they too were gathered and thrown down again. This process repeated three times until the vase was utterly destroyed—broken beyond any hope of repair.
Then, I realized—I was the vase.
As I watched, I saw what I knew to be my heavenly Father. With small spectacles resting at the tip of His nose, He carefully picked up each tiny, even microscopic shard. With supernatural love and patience, He began to restore the vase, piece by piece, bringing it back to wholeness. What had seemed irreparably broken was being made new.
That morning, I was able to share this vision with the fellowship, and it has remained deeply significant to me. Perhaps that’s why 2 Corinthians 4 holds such a special place in my heart.
If you find yourself completely shattered today—broken by life and circumstances beyond any hope of repair—know this: there is a God in heaven who can restore you. He can heal, renew, and make you whole, just as He always intended. His Son, Jesus, was broken for us, disfigured beyond recognition, yet through the power of the Holy Spirit, He was raised from the dead. That same Spirit is reaching out to you now, ready to lift you up if you take His hand.
The men that inhabit the pulpits of today refuse to see that the writing is on the wall for our present religious system. They will not listen because their livelihoods depend upon ignoring the truth. I recall Duncan Campbell sharing how he had to step away from the system of men—relinquishing the manse, his career, and the security that came with it. For seventeen years, he remained in a church where he was not called, held there by the comfort of stability.
Paul worked with his own hands and declared that those unwilling to work should not eat. Being a pastor, teacher, evangelist, or prophet is not a profession one assumes; it is an identity bestowed at the new birth and the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Paul declared woe upon himself if he did not preach the gospel—it was a fire consuming his very being.
If money were removed from the American church, only then would we see the true shepherds continuing to do what they do-making disciples. The gifts of God are not mere roles we fulfill but the essence of who we are, compelling us to act according to our divine nature—our supernature. Even as God raises up His remnant, He is dismantling the clergy-laity system. How? By leaving it to its own resources, sustained only by entertainment and human effort rather than the presence of God and the manifestation of His Spirit within His people.
A conversation between Kalli Womack Cook and Frank McEleny, brother and sister in the Lord.
Kalli………….
The Father said, “There is beauty in the earth.” The child asked, “Where?” The Father said, “A flower blooms in the desert.” And the child responded, “But no one sees it.” And the Father said, “Yet, because it blooms it makes it true: There is beauty in the earth, And truth is beautiful.”
This morning, the whispered prayer of my heart was, “Lord, help me to be like You, in a world that is not.” The whispered prayers of our heart are like flowers blooming in the desert. Beauty unseen. But the beauty of a flower isn’t measured by how many people observe and appreciate its beauty. A flower’s beauty is the same, whether it blooms unseen in the desert or near a well-traveled sidewalk.
Mankind does not set the standard for beauty. Nor does mankind’s measurable observations of beauty determine its existence or value. Beauty unseen by men, is seen by God. And in a world wholly unlike Christ, it makes this statement true: “There is still beauty to be found in this world.” Maybe not for long, but for now.
Frank……………
And to finish the thought from Corinthians, when we gaze upon that which is unseen, the eternal weight of His glory falls upon us. We cannot see this “weight,” yet it presses down upon our hearts and oil pours forth. This eternal weight of glory changes the very atmosphere, unseen, but rarified air breathed and glory exhaled.
When Angie and I hike, I search out the hidden flowers, often having her pull back leaves so that I can take the shot and show the world what beforehand, only God could see, and He does. Isn’t it just the same with us? He sees what the world cannot and it brings Him great pleasure.
Kalli………………
I remember a while ago, I watched a nature documentary about sea creatures that lived fathoms below the surface. They were mesmerizingly beautiful and my initial reaction was sadness that such beauty should go to waste, unseen and unappreciated by man. And then the Spirit used that moment to teach me a greater truth about beauty.
Until that moment, I had never realized how much I assumed that beauty existed for mankind. That if man doesn’t observe it to appreciate it, then it is somehow wasted. I learned that beauty doesn’t exist for us. It exists because God is beautiful and He is the One who created all things. Beauty exists because God exists.
Frank………………
Amen Kalli! It’s a magnificent truth that the God of all glory, the creator, takes delight in His creation. Imagine a world where no two flowers are alike, every one, like the snowflakes, different and every one a masterful piece of artistry. That world is the Kingdom of God, that flower, is you. And His delight is to see it blossom.
The glory of God!! The light that reflects from God Himself is seen in Christ and magnified in our hearts. It has substance, there is an eternal “weight,” that is quite apart from gravity. This weight is the “train of His robe.” It fills the temple and it fills us to overflowing. It fills our deepest longings, It touches the very depths of our souls. It renders us changed forever. Who can stand in His glory? Who could even begin to fathom/know the depths of His love? Isaiah falls down as dead and his heart is rent. The old saints used to talk about the weight of His glory where their heads naturally bowed low and trembling hands are barely raised in the “atmosphere,” of heaven come down.”Time ceases to exist and for a moment or moments we are entirely “taken up,” to higher ground. And all of this ceases to be even the first sentence to describe Him because they are but human words. He is “sensed,” in our very DNA and whoever encounters this “manifest,” presence is changed forever.
God is high and lifted up. He is glorious in His majesty. In the presence of God there is fulness of joy. In this place there is nothing impossible. Our minds are lit up by His mere presence, the manifest presence of God. To come up and into this place is to dwell with Him. This is where we are changed. This is where the attractions of this world and everything it has to offer loses all of its meaning. One moment in the manifest presence of God does more good than a lifetime of struggling against sin. For in this light we see the true darkness of our souls and we long to never again walk among the shadows. This life is but a shadow and this flesh is the vehicle that must be inhabited until that happy day when the mere moments in His presence is transformed into eternity. If we desire God, if we truly desire to come into His presence, then we shall be as the deer that panteth for the waterbrooks.
Humility and brokenness is the door and the lintel that ushers us into this Holy place. Everything about our walk with the Lord is a contradiction to the world. In order to live we must die. In order to be truly rich, we must become poor to the things of this world. In order to lead we must serve. In order to ascend unto that holy place of His presence we must bow low. It is in the deepest valleys that the saint will discover the greatest mountaintops.We must stoop down low on bended knee in order to ascend that hill and truly see. The greatest danger of the one who brings trials and tribulations and persecutions upon the saints is that they create the perfect environment for the most radical encounters with the Living God that they will ever have had. This is why the saint who genuinely desires a radical encounter with the living God is such a danger to the enemy of our souls. If he pushes too hard against the saint, he pushes Him deeper into the heart of God and that becomes a witness that has a life all of itself. The Spirit of Glory that stands for all time.
His name is like honey on my lips, His presence , the source of my life and my joy and my peace. Where could I go but to the Lord? He is the light of my life, the breath in my lungs, the very reason that I exist. His majesty and His glory tower over me.His love, as vast as the endless sea. His faithfulness as endless as eternity. In Him I have been gloriously set free. Oh for a thousand years to sing of the reason for my joy. It is complete in Jesus. Teach me Father how to glorify that name which is above all names. The name given, that name honored, that name high and lifted up, that name which fills the temple, which fills all of heavens chambers. It fills the nigh skies and the vast seas, it fills my endless soul and brings me to my knees. Jesus, Jesus, walk with me and by the power of your Holy Spirit let all the world see that when they see you, they have seen the Father and the glory and the majesty.
I awoke this morning (05/17/2024) from a dream about exalting the name of Jesus and I had this line in my spirit “perfect in all your broken pieces,” which prompted the writing of this poem………….
Made perfect in Christ
Perfect in all your broken pieces Perfect in the Blood of Christ alone His perfect love it never ceases As He draws you before His triumphant throne
Jesus, Jesus how I love you so I know you'll never let me go Beneath thy wing I ever stand Safe and secure in the palm of your hand
I'm healed by the Blood that never ceases I'm healed as I wade amidst it's flow And my cry to the heavens surely reaches It cleanses me whiter than the purest snow
I'm perfected by Christ my one Redeemer The one who died for you and for me I'm healed and made whole as I go ever deeper Deeper in Him shall set me free
His perfect love cries out in the darkness It cries out to you right where you are Conquering all sin and death and sadness He is so near who once was so far.
I wanted to address something. Many people have messaged me and told me how strong I am in the midst of this cancer and how they admire my faith. I do not want to give the impression that going through cancer is easy and “all you have to do is,”……….fill in the blanks. A test is a test, a trial is a trial, not because it is easy but because it is not. Jesus is the star of this story of mine. He is strong, He is faithful, He is my high tower. I run into Him. I cry out to Him, I rely upon Him for the little strength and faith I do have. It is an honor and a privilege to represent Him no matter what my circumstances are. Consider these verses from Psalm 37. Trust in the LORD, and do good; so shall you dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness. Delight yourself also in the LORD; and he shall give you the desires of your heart. Commit your ways unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass. And he shall bring forth your righteousness as the light, and your judgment as the noonday. Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him:
In this portion of Scripture we are instructed how to walk in the power and strength of the Lord. We are to trust Him and do good. We are to delight ourselves in the Lord. We are to commit all our ways unto Him. We are also told (NKJ) to ” feed upon His faithfulness.” I left that to last because this has been my primary source of strength. I feed upon His faithfulness. It edifies my very soul and gives strength to me physically.I have been through enough trials in my life that I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that He is faithful. He has never left me nor forsaken me. It is His faithfulness I celebrate, it is His strength in me that makes this weak vessel strong. I am nothing without the Lord and would have crumbled and fallen into the sea of life a long time ago without Jesus. I feed upon the faithfulness of my heavenly Father and I am well fed. It is well with my soul because of His residency there. In and of myself I am weak, yet, His strength is only highlighted in my weakness.
Sometimes life can be just too much and it threatens to overwhelm us and drown us beneath the waves of afflictions and trials. Many times in my own Christian walk I have fallen to my knees and cried out to my Father in heaven. And He heard me and He “knows.” And just knowing that He hears and knows begins to lift our heads above the waters. Sometimes we are called to walk upon the waters, other times He takes us in the palm of His hand and lifts us above the fray, lest we lose our very minds.
He will not let us go under. He lifts us up to higher ground. The Lord intercedes for us before the throne. The Holy Spirit strengthens us and enables us to run and not grow weary, to walk and not faint. To rise up on wings like eagles! Glorifying God and praising Him and testifying of Him gives us strength and promotes in us joy and that joy is our very strength. We have joy where there should be no joy. We have peace when all around us is in turmoil. We love even when we are hated. We stand immovable upon the Rock that is higher than us. When life makes our head hang low, then He calls us to look up. Look up into the heavens from where our help comes from.
In all of these things we have choices. We choose to worship Him, not because we somehow are trying to manipulate the Lord, but rather from a deep wellspring of love. From out of the depths of this love we cry unto God with thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is a mark of the saint. A heart that is full of thanksgiving is a heart that has encountered the presence of God and in that encounter peered into the depths of Calvary. And the vision that we see infuses itself into our spiritual DNA. The “knowledge,’ of Calvary informs every part of who we are. Without this “knowledge,” we can only be, at best, two dimensional. The head knowledge of Calvary can only promote the soulish elements of religion. Yet to encounter Calvary is to “know.” And it is from this “knowing,” that our hearts are primed.
A Call To The Remnant 