Open Way Mission Newsletters

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume One, Issue One
“The First Step Forward: Love, Fear, and the Gospel of Matthew”

Dear friends and neighbors,

This is the first edition of the Open Way Mission newsletter. It arrives not simply at the start of a month or ministry cycle, but in the midst of a climate of growing dread. We find ourselves in a country, perhaps even a world, straining beneath the weight of fear. It saturates the airwaves, it drips from our conversations, and it lodges silently in the space between strangers.

There is fear of the future, of collapse, of scarcity and disorder. But it is more than that. Fear has begun to harden into something worse: mistrust, resentment, tribalism, disbelief. People speak of one another not as neighbors, but as threats. As enemies. As objects to be contained, removed, dismissed, or defeated. Entire communities now live under siege, not from war, but from policy, from silence, from the cold machinery of enforcement.

The Gospel of Matthew opens not into ease, but into unrest. Christ is born into an occupied land, under the shadow of Herod’s slaughter. His people live under Roman law, marginalized and watched. And yet, in this context, Matthew gives us the beginning of hope. Not through revolt. Not through power. But through a man who teaches that “blessed are the merciful… blessed are the peacemakers… blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:7,9-10, ESV)

We are told not to return evil for evil, but to extend love in the face of rejection, kindness in the face of fear. This is not weakness. It is the highest form of discipline. It is how we keep our humanity intact when the world would strip it from us.

The reality on the ground today is stark. In neighborhoods across the country, federal and state enforcement actions have turned communities into zones of fear. Families are torn apart in the name of legality. Children live in silence. Mothers do not leave home for fear of detention. Regardless of where we stand politically, morally, or ideologically, as Christians we are bound to a deeper law.

“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” (Matthew 25:35, ESV)

These are not metaphorical strangers. These are our literal neighbors. Some have fled unimaginable violence. Others have lived beside us for decades. Some are documented. Others are not. The state may call them aliens, offenders, or fugitives. But the Gospel never once makes love conditional on legal status.

To love as Christ loves is to extend compassion, even to those the state brands as undesirable. This does not mean we break the law. It means we remember that God’s law precedes it. We resist not with weapons or rebellion, but with presence, with care, and above all with the clarity of love. We remember that Jesus Himself was arrested, interrogated, and executed by legal means, and He met that injustice not with retaliation, but with endurance.

“Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.” (Matthew 5:39, ESV)

This is not an invitation to accept oppression. It is an instruction to resist in a way that preserves the soul. To absorb evil without replicating it. To testify by our actions that love is not a reaction, but a choice. Now more than ever, we must look to our neighbors, those within our walls and those on the margins, and ask the most important questions: What can I do for you? How can I help?

This is not sentimentalism. It is how the kingdom of heaven advances. Not through conquest, but through witness. Not through anger, but through endurance. Christ never promised us safety. He never promised us comfort. But He did promise that He would be with us, even unto the end.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28, ESV)

As Christians, we are not permitted the luxury of despair. We may grieve. We may tremble. But we must never allow fear to dictate our behavior. The Messiah’s arrival was not triumphant in earthly terms. It came in obscurity, in poverty, in a stable. Yet it changed the world. That is the pattern of God’s work: quiet, steady, unyielding.

To follow Jesus means trusting in that pattern, even when it is hidden beneath layers of injustice or suffering. It means refusing to meet fear with rage. It means walking into the dark places with open hands and a steady heart, offering help wherever it is needed, not because we will always succeed, but because we must not look away.

This is our calling at Open Way Mission. To bring Scripture not as decoration but as sustenance. To meet the lonely, the forgotten, the hated, the judged, and offer them not just resources, but relationship. We walk alongside the incarcerated, the unhoused, the terminally ill, and the undocumented, not because we are saviors, but because we remember what it is to be lost.

Acceptance is not surrender. It is the posture of the soul that is ready to begin. When we accept that the world is broken but still worth loving, we are prepared to act, not impulsively, but faithfully. We take the next step not because it is easy, but because it is right. We keep our promise to Christ not by grand gestures, but by small, consistent movements of mercy.

This is what it means to resist with love. And in this moment, there is no other way.

Grace and peace,
Peter Gray Moll

Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume One, Issue Two
“False Riches: On Megachurches, Prosperity Doctrine, and the Narrow Road”

Dear friends,

The church is shifting. Across the country, once-dominant mainline denominations are fading in size and influence, while a new form of worship rises in their place. These newer churches are often sleek, stripped down, free of denominational bureaucracy, and eager to meet people where they are. Some of this is necessary. The Gospel is not meant to be buried under tradition for tradition’s sake. But in this shift, something vital is being lost. Depth is being replaced by convenience. Substance is being traded for spectacle. And nowhere is this more dangerous than in the rise of the prosperity gospel.

Prosperity theology, for all its polished stagecraft and smiling certainty, is a lie. It teaches that wealth is a sign of God’s favor, that faith guarantees material abundance, and that hardship is a failure of belief. But the life of Christ contradicts this at every turn. Jesus lived as a pauper. He walked from town to town without home or savings. He warned against riches, He blessed the poor, and He told His disciples plainly that to follow Him meant hardship, not ease. “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24, ESV)

That is not a call to luxury. It is a call to sacrifice. Yet in countless megachurches today, that message is softened until it vanishes. Instead of a crucified Messiah, congregants are offered a spiritual vending machine. Instead of discipleship, they are taught financial empowerment. There is no denying the charisma or intelligence of many prosperity preachers. Most are well educated. Many hold advanced theological degrees. Which makes their distortion of scripture all the more troubling. These are not errors of ignorance. They are calculated choices to prioritize attendance, image, and revenue over truth.

“Woe to you, when all people speak well of you, for so their fathers did to the false prophets.” (Luke 6:26, ESV) Christ Himself spoke these words to warn us. Popularity is no sign of divine blessing. In fact, it often marks the opposite. Yet entire ministries are now built around appealing to the broadest possible audience with the least discomfort. They attract crowds with entertainment, keep them with promises, and use just enough scripture to maintain the illusion of fidelity. But Christianity is not convenient. It is not designed to fit neatly into a once-a-week routine. True discipleship requires a daily dying to self, a steady and often painful realignment of values and desires. “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many.” (Matthew 7:13, ESV)

To be clear, wealth itself is not sin. Nor is every large church inherently corrupt. But when wealth becomes a measure of spiritual success, and when pastors stand on multi-million-dollar stages urging their flocks to “believe bigger” in order to receive their breakthrough, something essential has been betrayed. Christ did not die to make us rich. He died to make us holy. He did not promise comfort. He promised persecution, suffering, and the company of the Holy Spirit in the midst of it. “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20, ESV)

There is blessing in poverty. Not in destitution, but in the clarity it brings. When our hands are empty, we are more ready to receive. When our plans fall apart, we are more able to listen. The modern world sees poverty as failure. The Gospel sees it as a crucible. The early church held all things in common and gave freely to those in need. The apostles were imprisoned, beaten, and often homeless. Their lives bore no resemblance to the wealth-driven narratives of modern televangelism. “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.” (Philippians 4:11, ESV) Paul’s words carry no hint of resentment. He is not waiting for his breakthrough. He is not claiming abundance. He is simply enduring, trusting in God’s sufficiency regardless of outcome.

We must ask ourselves: are we worshipping Christ, or are we worshipping the idea of a better life through Him? Are we seeking transformation, or are we seeking transaction? The prosperity gospel invites people to treat God like a sponsor. It trains hearts not toward holiness, but toward expectation. And when the checks do not come, or the sickness does not lift, or the marriage does not heal, it leaves the believer with guilt and confusion. True faith does not demand results. It abides. “Though he slay me, I will hope in him.” (Job 13:15, ESV)

I do not write this to condemn those caught in the orbit of these teachings. Many are sincere, longing for hope and direction. They are not to be blamed. But those who lead them, those who know the Word and choose to bend it, bear a different kind of responsibility. “Not many of you should become teachers… for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness.” (James 3:1, ESV)

Let us not confuse attendance with righteousness. Let us not confuse polished branding with spiritual authority. A church is not a product. A pastor is not a brand. And Christianity is not a shortcut to prosperity. It is a road of discipline, service, humility, and trust. That road is narrow. That gate is small. But it leads to life.

In your worship, seek depth. In your giving, seek simplicity. In your community, seek honesty. Beware the easy promises. Beware the churches that never speak of sin, never mention repentance, never call for sacrifice. Christ did not offer a comfortable life. He offered a cross.

“Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:27, ESV)

May we remember this always. Not with fear, but with the solemn joy of those who know they walk the hard road for the sake of something eternal. We are not here to be seen. We are here to serve. Let us not foster a paucity of spirit in our worship. Let us bring our whole selves, broken, burdened, and blessed, into the presence of a Savior who had nowhere to lay His head, yet gave everything to redeem ours.

With steady hope,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume One, Issue Three
“The Least of These: Christ Among the Forgotten”

Dear friends,

There are places in every town, in every city, where the light of the sanctuary does not reach. Places where the broken are gathered not by invitation, but by necessity. Psychiatric wards. County jails. Bus stops. Motel parking lots. These are not the venues of polished worship or stage-lit sermons. The people there do not tithe regularly, if at all. Some are unmedicated and afraid. Others tremble through withdrawal or speak in a language shaped by trauma. Still others simply remain unseen, made invisible by years of rejection. They do not attend Sunday service because they do not believe they belong. The message many have received, spoken or implied, is that their presence would be disruptive. But these are the very people Christ gravitated toward. Not the adorned or the self-assured, but the disfigured, the disruptive, the forgotten.

Jesus said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Mark 2:17, ESV) The Gospel is not decorative. It is medicinal. It is meant for those who know they are unwell and have nowhere else to turn. This is not an abstract truth. It is a directive. When the church neglects the wounded, those suffering from mental illness, those cycling through incarceration, those sleeping under bridges, it forfeits its authority. Christ did not seek the spotlight. He sought the man crying out from the margins, the woman with no one to speak for her, the soul buried under shame.

And this call to serve the margins does not stop at domestic boundaries. The suffering are not confined to city streets or county hospitals. They are found at the edges of our national policies, too. Just as we are called to love those in psychiatric distress or under punitive supervision, we are called also to see the immigrant and the refugee not as political burdens, but as human beings. Many flee unimaginable violence. Others come for their children. Some enter without papers. Some are turned away at borders. Some are held in detention for months, separated from family, spoken to like objects. But no matter their legal status, they remain fully human and fully known by God.

And in these detention centers, there are those who are denied more than freedom of movement. Some are denied access to their religious texts. Some are forbidden to gather for prayer or study. Some are discouraged or even punished for expressing their faith. In a country that claims to uphold religious liberty, this is a quiet but serious offense. It is not only unconstitutional, it is unchristian. Every person, regardless of circumstance, should have the right to seek Christ, to pray, and to read His word. “Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body.” (Hebrews 13:3, ESV)

Scripture does not separate compassion from immigration status. It does not permit believers to withhold love based on whether someone has followed the correct administrative path. In fact, it speaks most clearly on this issue in the language of commandment. “You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:34, ESV) That word, shall, carries the full weight of moral obligation. It is not offered as a suggestion or a gesture of goodwill. It is a requirement. To disregard it is not only to fail the immigrant. It is to disobey the God who made them.

And we forget, too easily, that Christ Himself was once among them. His parents, Joseph and Mary, fled their homeland under threat of violence. They became strangers in Egypt, carrying an infant Savior through desert and uncertainty. Herod’s slaughter of the innocents sent them into exile. Jesus’ earliest years were not spent in the comfort of home, but under foreign skies, protected only by the quiet obedience of a desperate mother and a faithful, fearful father. That is the beginning of the Gospel. Not in stability, but in flight. Not in certainty, but in danger. He knows the refugee’s fear. He lived it. “Out of Egypt I called my son.” (Matthew 2:15, ESV)

This is why we must resist the soft temptation to look away from those who unsettle us. The undocumented family. The child in the shelter. The asylum seeker. The man raving on the sidewalk. Each bears the image of God. Each is a neighbor, not in theory, but in fact. And if we will not kneel to wash their feet, we should stop claiming we follow Christ at all. “Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13:1-2, ESV)

The early church did not hoard its resources or withhold its table. It gave freely, because it understood what we often forget, that all flesh is sacred and all breath is borrowed. At Pentecost, the Spirit did not fall on the learned or the elite, but on a crowd of foreigners, the overlooked and the ordinary. The Apostle Peter, quoting the prophet Joel, declared, “I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.” (Acts 2:17, ESV) This is not metaphor. It is a divine fact. God’s Spirit is not reserved for the articulate or the socially comfortable. It moves through all peoples, in all places, in all forms of suffering and silence.

And so we must act. Not from guilt, and not for recognition, but from obedience. Christians must begin to do more than attend, more than observe, more than speak. We must serve. We must go to the fringes and befriend those who cannot repay us. We must advocate for the detained, sit beside the mentally ill, write letters to those imprisoned, offer shelter to the unhoused, and recognize the immigrant as our kin. We must reject the theology of convenience and embrace the reality of discipleship. Christ does not walk among the comfortable. He walks among the cast-out. And if we will not follow Him there, then we are not following Him at all.

Let us begin again, not in judgment, but in mercy. Let us open our eyes to the unwanted, our hands to the unclean, and our hearts to the ones we are taught to fear. The narrow road has never been easy, but it is the only one worth walking. And it always leads back to Him.

In service and in truth,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume One, Issue Four
“A Kingdom Not of This World: On Politics, Power, and the Faithful Pulpit”

Dear friends,

There is a growing chorus, both in the halls of power and from within church walls, calling for the repeal of the Johnson Amendment. This law, passed in 1954, prohibits clergy and tax-exempt religious organizations from formally endorsing political candidates from the pulpit. Many claim it restricts freedom of speech. Others argue it is outdated. But underneath these surface debates lies a deeper, far more dangerous confusion. The pulpit is not meant to serve temporal power. It is not a platform for partisanship or a staging ground for campaign rhetoric. It is a place set apart. A place where the eternal word of God is proclaimed without distortion or interference from the machinery of worldly politics.

Yes, churches have violated the Johnson Amendment for years. Yes, many preachers now openly endorse candidates with no legal consequence. But sin is not excused by repetition, and error is not justified by frequency. The Gospel does not conform to culture or law. It calls us to a different way. “My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus said to Pilate. “If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting… But my kingdom is not from the world.” (John 18:36, ESV)

Christ did not come to secure political control. He came to save souls. When He rode into Jerusalem, the people cried out with palm branches, expecting revolution. They expected Him to overthrow the Roman occupation and restore national glory. Instead, He wept. “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace!” (Luke 19:42, ESV) They wanted liberation by force. He offered transformation by faith. They wanted a new Caesar. He gave them a cross.

It is no different today. Many within the modern church hunger for political power, believing that with the right candidate, the right court, or the right legislation, righteousness will prevail. But righteousness cannot be legislated. It must be lived. The church thrives not through influence over the state, but through integrity within itself. When clergy turn the pulpit into a press conference for their favored candidate, they abandon their sacred office. They no longer speak as servants of Christ. They become managers of narrative, spokespeople for earthly campaigns. And in doing so, they jeopardize both their credibility and the purity of the message they are entrusted to carry.

This is not to say Christians should not care about politics. We live in a broken world, and Scripture does not forbid us from civic participation. But there is a difference between being a witness and being a mouthpiece. When members of a congregation approach their pastor with fear, confusion, or anguish about the state of the world, that pastor’s duty is not to tell them how to vote. Their duty is to open the Word of God. Their duty is to pray, to listen, to guide by example, and to remind their flock that no matter who rules from Capitol Hill or the Supreme Court bench, Christ still reigns. “The Lord has established his throne in the heavens, and his kingdom rules over all.” (Psalm 103:19, ESV)

In the early church, there were no elections. No pulpits adorned with flags. No congregational debates about the emperor. There was suffering. There was persecution. There were believers dragged into courts, executed in amphitheaters, and burned for their faith. And still, they did not organize political resistance. They did not issue manifestos. They gave their food to the poor. They cared for widows and orphans. And when plague struck Rome, it was Christians, not senators, who entered the infected districts and tended the sick, knowing they might not survive. “They received the message with joy from the Holy Spirit in the midst of severe suffering.” (1 Thessalonians 1:6, ESV)

That is our legacy. Not power, but presence. Not influence, but integrity. We are not called to dominate political discourse. We are called to embody the love of Christ wherever we are placed, regardless of who holds office. Paul did not write letters demanding policy changes. He wrote from prison, urging the churches to hold fast, to rejoice in suffering, and to walk in a manner worthy of their calling. “Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand.” (Philippians 4:5, ESV)

Some argue that political engagement is necessary because the stakes are too high. That we are at risk of losing our religious freedoms. That certain leaders will bring persecution. That churches will be shut down, that families will suffer. But this fear forgets the nature of our faith. Christ was persecuted. The apostles were persecuted. Paul, Peter, James, and countless others were put to death by those in power. And yet the Gospel spread like fire. We do not wither in persecution. We endure. “We are pressed on every side, but not crushed. Struck down, but not destroyed.” (2 Corinthians 4:8-9, ESV)

The church must remember its posture. Christ never promised protection through politics. He promised presence in trial. “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, ESV) Our strength is not in who governs, but in who saves. The danger of repealing the Johnson Amendment is not that it will unleash new chaos. It is that it will formalize and normalize a temptation already at work. It will encourage pastors to see themselves as influencers, as brokers of worldly authority. It will tempt churches to conform their message to partisan lines, muting difficult truths in order to maintain access to power.

When that happens, the church becomes nothing more than a lobby with hymnals. A place where the Gospel is filtered through political allegiance, and where God is no longer sovereign, but useful.

We must reject this.

Let the world manage its affairs. Let politicians argue and debate. Let courts decide what they will. Our task is different. We are not campaigners. We are caretakers of souls. We are not called to win. We are called to witness. And when we forget, we must return to the narrow path and begin again. Christ was clear. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” (Mark 12:17, ESV) The soul belongs to God. The pulpit belongs to God. It is not ours to rent out to the highest bidder or offer up to the urgency of the news cycle.

If the repeal comes, we must resist the urge to use it. We must remember our calling. And we must fix our eyes not on Capitol Hill, but on Calvary. That is where our allegiance begins. That is where it must remain.

In quiet faith,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume One, Issue Five
“Perfect Love Casts Out Fear: On Resistance, Risk, and the Way of Christ”

Dear friends,

Recently, I was invited to join a small gathering over Zoom, a thoughtful group of individuals who had come together to speak candidly about the fear and uncertainty that now permeate much of daily life. The participants came from varied walks of life, some with backgrounds marked by professional achievement, others with long-standing community roles, financial stability, and well-developed personal networks. These were not people on the margins. None faced the threat of deportation. None were likely to be arrested or imprisoned for their beliefs. They live with comfort, with access, with choice. Yet the mood in the virtual room was unmistakable. They were disturbed, unsettled, and deeply concerned by what they see unfolding around them. What troubled them was not their own safety, but the safety of others. What they felt was not personal panic, but a growing awareness that something is deeply broken.

One member likened the moment to the French Resistance. Others spoke of the shame that haunted Europe during the 1930s and 40s, when silence became complicity and some risked everything to shelter the hunted. There was urgency in their voices, but also grief and confusion. Many asked how it could be that so many Christians now remain silent, or worse, actively align themselves with those who carry out detentions, deportations, and policies that harm the vulnerable. It is a fair question. But I could not speak of action without first speaking of cost.

None of the people on that call were violent, nor did they speak with anger. They are not insurgents or agitators. They are concerned neighbors, gentle, principled, and kind. Some have quietly begun to explore forms of support that are peaceful and lawful, though still not without consequence. A few discussed filming and recording enforcement actions to ensure accountability. Others considered distributing flyers or cards offering legal advice and comfort to those targeted for detention or deportation. These are not acts of aggression. They are quiet gestures of conscience. But I reminded them that even harmless gestures can provoke serious reaction. In the eyes of empire, bearing witness can be seen as interference. Offering guidance can be construed as obstruction. Good intentions do not always shield one from legal risk. Civil disobedience, even when entirely nonviolent, carries weight. And those who feel compelled to act must do so with full awareness of the burden it may place upon them.

More importantly, we must be careful not to declare divine sanction over what we have merely decided is right. Scripture is clear. “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God.” (Romans 13:1, ESV) This is not a blanket endorsement of unjust regimes, but it is a warning against pride. Nowhere in the New Testament are believers instructed to break the law in God’s name while denying the consequence. When Peter and John defied the Sanhedrin’s orders to stop preaching Christ, they did so without evasion. “We must obey God rather than men.” (Acts 5:29, ESV) And they accepted the lashes that followed.

If you act outside the law, do so only in obedience to conscience and in the full knowledge of the price. Do not claim God commanded it unless you are willing to suffer for it in love, not in bitterness. Do not cloak your impulse in the language of holiness. Even the apostles never claimed immunity. They bled and died and never once declared themselves above earthly judgment.

Some churches have chosen to endorse the machinery of power. Others remain painfully silent. But the Gospel does not call us to choose sides. It calls us to follow Christ, regardless of who holds office or controls the narrative. When Jesus stood before Pilate, He did not argue. He did not protest. He said, “My kingdom is not of this world.” (John 18:36, ESV) This is our call as well, to live and act as citizens of another kingdom, one ruled not by elections or violence, but by grace and truth.

So what do we do in this hour? How do we respond to fear and injustice, to helplessness and silence?

We love.

When asked what I believed should be done, I answered plainly. We must love our enemies. Love those who voted for the policies we abhor. Love the officers who carry them out. Love the lawmakers who sign them into power. We are not permitted to hate. Not even in secret. “But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44, ESV)

This is the hardest path. And it is the only one Christ has given us.

Love is not weakness. Love is clarity. It is the refusal to become like the world, even when the world mocks, jails, or betrays you. If we want to transform this moment, we must start there. We must speak without scorn, act without vengeance, and demonstrate what it means to be a Christian. Not a cultural identity. Not a voting bloc. But a person who forgives, who prays, who endures.

To follow Christ is to give up the need to win. It is to carry the cross of confusion, of loss, of apparent failure. It is to accept that we may not see justice in our lifetime, but we will see God. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5, ESV)

The early Christians survived Rome not by overthrowing it, but by outlasting it. They did not charge the gates. They did not form militias. They did not become louder or more aggressive. They became quieter. Steadier. They moved through plague and persecution with grace. They gave to the poor. They cared for the sick. They buried the dead. They shared bread with the hungry and sang hymns from prison. Their faith was not spectacle. It was surrender. And it changed the world. They accepted suffering without complaint, not because they enjoyed it, but because they trusted in the goodness of Christ even as the empire closed in. “But the one who endures to the end will be saved.” (Matthew 24:13, ESV)

This is our inheritance. We are not activists with a creed. We are servants of a crucified King. If you feel called to do more, then do so. But weigh the cost. Do not act in fury. Do not claim God’s endorsement unless your hands are clean and your heart full of grace. You may be arrested. You may be condemned. But if you suffer, suffer as Christ suffered, not for pride, but for love. “Be angry and do not sin.” (Ephesians 4:26, ESV)

This newsletter is not a platform for strategy. We do not direct legal resistance or civic disobedience. We return always to the Word. And that Word tells us, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18, ESV)

That is the antidote. That is the response. Not slogans. Not anger. But love.

It is enough. It has always been enough.

In quiet obedience,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume 1, Issue Six
“When He Says He Will Come”

Dear friends,

Faith is often mistaken for sentiment, imagination, or the suspension of reason. In truth, it is none of these. Faith is not belief in what cannot be known. It is not emotional fervor, nor a kind of mental blindness accepted under pressure or tradition. Faith, as Scripture presents it, is not irrational. It is relational. It is trust, grounded in the known character of God and in the recorded testimony of His words and deeds.

To speak of faith is to speak of expectation. Not wishful thinking, but reasoned confidence in what has been promised. When a trusted friend says they will meet at a certain place and time, preparations follow without hesitation. There is no dramatic inner struggle. One simply prepares, departs, and arrives. The friend is there, as expected. This is not naïveté. It is trust. And if that trust has been earned through years of consistency, it is not questioned. It is simply lived out.

So it is with the Lord. He has spoken. He has acted. He has fulfilled His word generation after generation. He has revealed His law, His mercy, His Son. He has declared the end from the beginning. “I declare the end from the beginning, and from ancient times things not yet done, saying, ‘My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose’” (Isaiah 46:10). He has told the truth, even when it cuts, and shown compassion, even when undeserved. Faith in Him is not trust without evidence, but trust because of it. Trust, not in circumstances, which shift like sand, but in the one who does not change.

In the Gospels, Christ tells His disciples plainly what is to come. He says He will suffer, die, and rise again. He tells them He will be betrayed. He warns them of persecution. He promises the coming of the Holy Spirit. These are not vague impressions or poetic riddles. They are clear statements. And though the disciples misunderstand, or forget, or lose courage, Christ does not rebuke their humanity. He simply fulfills the word He gave them. “See, I have told you beforehand” (Matthew 24:25). This pattern is repeated again and again. A promise is made. Time passes. The word is fulfilled.

The same is true of the Father. From Abraham to Moses, from David to the prophets, from exile to return, the covenant is maintained. Not because Israel was faithful, but because God was. “Know therefore that the Lord your God is God, the faithful God who keeps covenant and steadfast love” (Deuteronomy 7:9). His consistency is not abstract. It is historical, preserved in Scripture, testified to by saints and martyrs alike. Those who place their trust in Him are not engaging in fantasy. They are following a pattern that has never been broken.

Faith is often confused with belief in the supernatural. But belief in the supernatural is not inherently virtuous. It may be true or false, useful or misleading. Faith, on the other hand, is moral. It is covenantal. It says, “I know whom I have believed” (2 Timothy 1:12). It says, “He who promised is faithful” (Hebrews 10:23). It is not rooted in wonder, though God is wondrous. It is rooted in trust, because God is trustworthy. Even belief in miracles, signs, or visions is worthless without faith in the One who gives them meaning.

Faith is required most in times of uncertainty. When the world convulses. When suffering seems without cause. When evil appears to flourish and justice seems far off. It is here that the temptation arises to redefine faith as optimism, or to discard it entirely as obsolete. But faith is not dependent on visible outcomes. It is not shaken by delay. It waits, as the prophets waited. It laments, as the psalmists lamented. It clings, as Job clung, saying, “Though he slay me, I will hope in him” (Job 13:15). This is not weakness. It is worship.

God does not ignore suffering. Nor does He require silence in the face of it. The entire witness of Scripture invites petition, lament, and plea. But He does not abdicate His sovereignty either. He sees what human eyes cannot. He remembers what human memory loses. He governs what human will cannot control. His plans are not contingent on human approval. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways” (Isaiah 55:9). Faith rests in that height. It does not reach it. It does not pretend to. But it bows before it.

To live by faith is not to abandon action, but to order action rightly. It is not passivity, but obedience. Scripture commends both prudence and boldness, but only within the bounds of God’s law. There is room for engagement, for resistance, for stewardship and speech. But there is no room for compromise. “We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29). This is not a call to rebellion. It is a call to constancy. The Christian may be uncertain of what the world will do, but must not be uncertain of what God has commanded.

This kind of faith is not ornamental. It is not a badge or an internal feeling. It is a daily alignment of thought and deed. It listens to the voice of Christ. It believes Him when He says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). It believes Him when He says, “I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2). It believes Him when He says, “I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also” (John 14:3). This belief does not guarantee ease. But it does guarantee that no suffering is wasted. “After you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace… will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you” (1 Peter 5:10). That is not poetry. It is promise.

When asked how such faith is possible, the answer is simple, though never shallow. It is possible because God is who He says He is. Because He has never lied. Because He has never failed. Because He is not an idea, but a person. Not a theory, but a Father. Not a symbol, but a Savior. Like a trusted friend who says they will come and then arrives, even if delayed, God does not forget His word. Faith remembers that. Faith waits. Faith acts accordingly.

In quiet faith,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission

Open Way Mission Newsletter | Volume 1, Issue Seven
“When Truth Is Bargained Away”
Dear friends,

Truth is no longer expected to stand still. It is bent, qualified, trimmed to fit platforms and fears. In many places, it is no longer something to live by but something to use. The truth becomes a tool when it ceases to be sacred. It becomes an asset to manage, a risk to evaluate, a liability to avoid. But Scripture never permits the believer to treat truth as a means to an end. Truth is not strategy. Truth is not tone. Truth is not an angle to be refined for the sake of reach or favor. It is a Person. It is a witness.

Christ stood before Pilate and refused the transaction. He could have spoken words to comfort. He could have remained silent to avoid further injury. He could have appealed to public sentiment or quoted Scripture in a way that deflected tension. But He did none of these. Instead, He said, “For this purpose I was born and for this purpose I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth” (John 18:37). Pilate responded with a question that still echoes today: “What is truth?” (John 18:38). He was not seeking an answer. He was illustrating a posture. To those with temporal power, truth is flexible. It is whatever protects influence or preserves control. Pilate had the authority to release Christ, but not the courage to recognize Truth when He stood before him.

Christ did not answer the question. He bore it. He did not attempt to prove Himself to a man who could not see. He did not meet cynicism with explanation. He simply endured. That silence speaks louder than argument. It reveals what truth looks like when it refuses to play the world’s games.

The temptation to manage truth is real. Approval is easier to hold than clarity. Praise is easier to secure than trust. But the Christian does not shape the truth to avoid discomfort. The Christian is shaped by the truth, even when it is uncomfortable to speak, to hear, or to carry. “Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from evil” (Matthew 5:37). This is not a restriction of speech but a standard of soul. It is a warning that the soft compromise, the carefully tailored word, and the intentionally incomplete answer are not neutral acts. They do damage to the speaker before they ever reach the listener.

Truth telling is not a matter of personality. It is not the province of the bold or the privileged. It is not easier for some and optional for others. It is the calling of all who follow Christ. It is not about tone or timing. It is about alignment. To speak truly is to speak in union with the One who never lies. To withhold the truth out of fear is to break fellowship with Him, even when appearances are maintained. This is why the believer must be especially wary of polite deceit, of selective accuracy, of the silence that shields error. These are not loving acts. They are evasions of responsibility.

To bear witness is not to control the narrative. It is not to win. It is not to dominate. It is to remain faithful to what is true even when no one asks for it. It is to live in such a way that truth becomes visible again. In an age of manipulation, truth telling is not the performance of outrage. It is the quiet clarity of obedience. “At one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light, for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true” (Ephesians 5:8–9). Light does not adjust itself to the shadows around it. It simply reveals what has been hidden.

Christians are often tempted to speak with precision but without courage. To say much and mean little. To answer questions with curated phrases that protect image but avoid commitment. The world rewards this. It celebrates ambiguity when conviction would be costly. But the one who follows Christ cannot live this way. Truth is not something to be edited down until no one is offended. It is something to be spoken plainly, even when it invites misunderstanding or loss. If we are misunderstood for speaking too truly, we are in the company of the prophets and of Christ Himself.

There is a spiritual cost to half-truths. They erode integrity, not in great breaks but in the slow compromise of conscience. What begins as caution becomes habit. What was once a moment of hesitation becomes a mode of life. Eventually, one no longer knows what it means to speak plainly. And in such a state, prayer becomes strained, and discernment becomes clouded. For the Spirit testifies to the truth. And when the truth is bargained away, the Spirit is grieved. It is not simply that falsehoods are harmful to others. It is that they rupture the soul of the one who speaks them.

To speak the truth is not to attack. It is not to wield doctrine like a blade. It is not to reduce others to categories or errors. It is to remember that Christ is not only the truth, but also the way and the life. If truth is spoken without love, it ceases to reflect Him. But if love is offered without truth, it ceases to be love. The believer must hold these together without apology. Not to condemn, but to call. Not to stand above, but to stand beside. Not to shame, but to shine.

In a world where manipulation is common and truth is often treated as naïve, the Christian’s task is not to dominate discourse. It is to live in such a way that truth is seen again as something holy. Not convenient. Not marketable. Holy. The truth must be spoken not because it is persuasive, but because it is God’s. It must be lived not because it earns us applause, but because it aligns us with the nature of the One who cannot lie. Truth is not merely a virtue. It is an act of loyalty to God Himself.

To speak the truth, then, is not to enter a debate. It is to give a gift. It is to bear witness. Not to win the moment, but to honor the eternal. To say, without malice and without fear, what is so. And to do so with the confidence that God still sees, still hears, and still works in and through those who walk in the light.

In quiet faith,
Peter Gray Moll
Open Way Mission