Digital Animation Evangels

It’s strange how much power we give to things we can’t control. The weather turns gray, the news turns heavy, plans fall apart, and suddenly our hearts follow suit. We grow cold. Distant. Numb. Not because God moved—but because we let circumstances dictate our devotion. Jesus never promised calm skies. He promised His presence. Yet somehow, when the outside world feels harsh, our love grows thin. A stressful season hits, and prayer becomes optional. A discouraging headline appears, and worship feels forced. The temperature drops around us, and without realizing it, the temperature drops inside us too. That should alarm us. Because the warmth of our hearts was never meant to be fueled by comfort. It was meant to be sustained by the Spirit. Think about it—Paul didn’t write letters about joy from a beach. He wrote them from prison. The early church didn’t explode with passion because life was easy; it burned brightly because Christ was worth everything . They didn’t let persecution, ...

Everyone is watching the weather…Emotions Are High. Forecasts are checked. Alerts are shared. Plans are made. We prepare, adjust, and respond—and that is wise. But storms and frigid weather patterns do something else, if we let them. They remind us that control has limits. No matter how advanced our systems are, no matter how prepared we feel, no one commands the wind. No one schedules the rain. No one tells the storm where to stop. And that truth makes us uncomfortable. Because our culture is built on the belief that control equals safety. If we plan enough, organize enough, explain enough, we believe we can manage anything. Storms interrupt that story. They don’t ask permission. They don’t follow our preferences. They expose a reality we often try to ignore: we are not in charge . Scripture has never hidden this. “He makes the clouds rise… He sends lightning with the rain and brings out the wind from His storehouses.” (Psalm 135:7) The Bible does not present nature as chaos. It prese...

  When Did We Stop Feeling? When did injustice stop shocking us—and start exhausting us? When did human suffering become something we scroll past instead of something we stop for? When did being correct begin to matter more than being compassionate ? If these questions feel uncomfortable, that’s a sign of life. Discomfort means something in us still cares. Here is the truth we avoid: we did not suddenly become cruel. We became numb . We are surrounded by stories of pain—loss, injustice, violence, division—every day. At first, it moved us. Then it overwhelmed us. Eventually, it trained us. We learned how to watch suffering without feeling it. We learned how to discuss pain without carrying it. We learned how to protect ourselves by staying detached. Pain became background noise. This is not strength. It is erosion. A numb culture does not fight injustice. It manages it. It organizes it. It debates it. It schedules it. And then it moves on. This is the cultural shift we are living th...

Sin never introduces itself as a tyrant. It comes softly, almost politely, asking only for a small corner of the heart. Scripture warns us that sin is deceitful—not merely because it breaks God’s law, but because it numbs our sensitivity to that very law. “Then when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death” (James 1:15). Notice the progression. Sin grows. And what grows must first be tolerated. The first sin rarely feels comfortable. Conscience protests. The Spirit convicts. The heart feels tension. But when sin is repeated, something dangerous happens—it becomes familiar. What once startled us now barely registers. The problem is not that sin changes, but that we do . Paul describes this tragedy with sobering clarity: “Having their understanding darkened… being past feeling, have given themselves over to lewdness” (Ephesians 4:18–19). Sin dulls spiritual nerves. Like hands hardened by repeated friction, the soul develops calluses....

  The storm didn’t come to destroy your life—it came to reveal the life that could only be seen once everything else was stripped away. There are moments when fear roars so loudly that it strips life down to its rawest elements. A major storm like Melissa does not politely disrupt—it dismantles. Roofs torn away. Farms erased. Income gone. Water unsafe. Power silent. Banking frozen. Voices cut off from the world. And for some, the heaviest loss of all: people they loved, gone forever. In those moments, survival becomes the only language. And then—weeks later—something holy begins to stir. Lights return. Clean water flows again. Food shows up. Messages finally send. Help arrives—not only through supplies and money, but through something deeper: human hearts choosing to move toward suffering rather than away from it . Here is the truth we rarely say out loud: Destruction has a strange way of revealing who we really are—and what we truly trust. Loss does not become good. Death does not...

There are moments in life when everything familiar is stripped away, and you’re left with a simple, unsettling question: Is God enough? Not in theory. Not in a sermon answer. But in real life—when plans collapse, comfort disappears, and control is gone. I think about hurricanes hitting places like Jamaica. Winds tearing through homes. Power gone. Communication cut off. Families huddled together, unsure of what the next hour will bring. In those moments, no one is worried about staying connected to the world. The illusion of control evaporates. What remains is fear, vulnerability—and often, prayer. What’s striking is that when people are most “unplugged” from the world, God often feels the closest. We don’t like that idea. We prefer God plus stability. God plus comfort. God plus answers. But Scripture repeatedly shows a God who allows His people to lose everything else so they can discover that He alone is sufficient. Not because He is cruel—but because He loves us too much to let u...