Anger might be the most complicated monster of all — because unlike the others, it isn't always wrong. It's wired into us as a response to threat and injustice, and it can move in either direction: toward bitterness and rage, or toward something that looks a lot like peacemaking.

This week, as the series closes and Palm Sunday approaches, a question from the book of Jonah becomes the lens: Is it good for you to be angry? It's an invitation to slow down, get honest, and ask where our anger is actually headed — and whether we're willing to let it be aimed somewhere better.

Because at the cross, Jesus takes the hostility and brokenness of the world and channels it into the ultimate act of peace. That, pastor Steven suggests, is the pattern we're invited into.

Most of us aren't short on passion — we have plenty of it for coffee, sports, music, the small pleasures that light us up without much effort. The question this week is why that same energy so rarely finds its way toward God.

The monster of apathy doesn't cause chaos by anything it does — but by everything it doesn't. It's the quiet cold that settles into the heart and makes the pursuit of God feel like something we'll get to eventually.

The antidote comes from a striking image: David, running for his life through a wilderness with literally no water, writing — my soul thirsts for you. Not for rescue. For God.

Excessiveness vs. the Art of Balance & the Beauty of Belonging

Some monsters are loud and obvious. These three are often overlooked — not because they're rare, but because they've become so familiar we've stopped noticing them.

This week covers gluttony, greed, and lust together, not as a moral checklist, but as expressions of the same restless human impulse: the drive to take more than we need. A birthright traded for a bowl of stew. A man who keeps building bigger barns. A powerful figure undone by desire that overrode everything else.

What holds all three together — and what begins to undo them — is a surprisingly simple idea from the Sermon on the Mount: that we are not the center of the story. When we know we belong to God, and to our neighbor, something in the relentless grasping starts to loosen.