The chapel was quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fans and the sound of the pines outside the window. A room full of young men, heads bowed, shoulders pressed close together. I stood at the podium, a Bible in front of me, trying to feel the weight of the moment.
I don’t preach in front of a congregation all that often. Most of my ministry is in the in-between spaces—on trails, by the waterfront, in the middle of a campfire circle. But every so often, I get to open God’s Word in a room like this, and I don’t take that lightly.
It’s not the kind of moment you “get through.” It’s one you lean into. The faces in front of me aren’t casual listeners. They’re here because they want to be. They’re here to know God more. And in a world that pulls hard in the other direction, that hunger is no small thing.
So I preach. Not because I have something clever to say, but because the Word of God is alive and worth hearing. And I pray—because if anything lasting is going to happen in that room, it won’t be because of my words, but because He moves.
These are the moments I covet. The ones I’ll remember when the chapel is empty and the pines are still.
Westerman.Blog 