We've domesticated Psalm 23. We've turned it into background noise for grief and decoration for walls. But David wrote this psalm with dirt under his fingernails — as a shepherd who knew exactly what it cost to keep sheep alive.

This week, Steve McKenzie opens "The God Who Is…" — an 8-week summer series through the Psalms — by recovering what Psalm 23 actually says. It is not a poem about peaceful places. It is a gritty, oxygen-giving declaration about who God is and what that means for people who are running out of steam.

The Name Behind the Shepherd — YAHWEH is the most holy, most terrifying designation for God in Scripture: self-sufficient, timeless, inexhaustible. He needs nothing. He lacks nothing. And he has personally attached that name to the word shepherd — and made it yours.

Why Rest Is Impossible — and Why That Matters — Sheep cannot lie down on command. Four conditions must be met: freedom from fear, friction, flies, and famine. Every one of them is the shepherd's job.

Cast Sheep — A cast sheep has rolled onto its back and cannot get up. Legs flailing, unable to breathe, slowly dying. The shepherd finds it, flips it, massages blood back into its legs, and holds it until it can stand. This is what "restores my soul" means in Hebrew.

The Valley Is Not a Detour — The Wadi Kelt is a real ravine in the Judean wilderness — deep shadow, flash floods, predators. And it is the right path. You cannot reach the high pastures without walking through it.

A Table in Enemy Territory — Middle Eastern hospitality law: a chief who fed a fugitive at his table placed that person under full protection. God doesn't wait for your enemies to disappear. He sets a table in the middle of your crisis.

What's Really Chasing You — Radaph (Hebrew) means to chase down and overtake with violent intent — the same word used for Pharaoh's chariots. You thought something was hunting you. Look back. It's Goodness and Faithful Love.

The Lord is my shepherd; I have what I need. He lets me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside quiet waters. He renews my life; he leads me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff — they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord as long as I live.

Subscribe so you don't miss a week. Share this episode with someone who's exhausted and barely holding on. And if you're in the area — come find us Sunday.

What Can Separate Us From the Love of God? — Romans 8:31–39

You already know the answer. Nothing. But knowing it and feeling it are two very different things. This week, Stephen Bean closes out Romans 1–8 with Paul's thundering conclusion — a string of rhetorical questions that aren't really questions at all. What can be brought against you? Nothing. Who can condemn you? No one. What can separate you from the love of Christ? Not suffering, not doubt, not your worst failure, not your longest drought. Stephen unpacks why we so often struggle to believe what we say we believe — and why the security of God's love doesn't rest on how well we're doing. A fitting summit after months in the deep terrain of Romans.

You know the verses. You believe them. But Monday afternoon still feels heavy, and the gap between what you know and what you experience can be isolating. In this message from Romans 8:18-30, Steve McKenzie walks through one of the most hope-filled passages in all of Scripture, not as a quick fix for pain, but as an anchor for people who are tired of pretending everything is fine. If you've ever wondered whether your struggles mean your faith is failing, this is for you.

What do you do when you're a Christian who's done everything right and still feels like it isn't enough? Steve McKenzie opens Romans 8 with a declaration meant for the weary believer: the war with God is over. Through the story of a soldier who hid in the jungle for 30 years after his war had ended, we see what it looks like to finally lay down a fight Jesus already finished — and to live as sons and daughters, not soldiers and slaves.

Listen, share with someone who needs the reminder, and join us this Sunday at CrossPointe Church | Orlando — xpointe.com.

You know the feeling: you promised yourself you'd do better, be more patient, more present, more faithful. And then you didn't. Romans 7 is Paul at his most raw, naming the civil war every honest person recognizes inside themselves. In this sermon, Steve McKenzie walks through why the struggle isn't a sign that something is wrong with you. It's actually evidence that something has gone right. If you've ever felt exhausted by trying harder, this one is for you.

You finally land the job you've been chasing. You finally pay off the debt. You finally move out of your parents' house. And somewhere in the middle of celebrating, it hits you. The new job came with a new boss. The new place came with a stack of bills. The freedom you wanted came wearing a different uniform. So what if real freedom was never about getting rid of every master in your life? What if the question we're actually asking is which master is worth giving yourself to? In this message from Romans 6:15-23, Associate Pastor Stephen Bean walks through Paul's most uncomfortable question yet. We're all slaves to something. The wages of one master are death. The gift of the other is life. And the difference between the two might be sitting closer to the surface of your week than you think.

Do you feel defeated by sin? Not in some abstract theological sense, but the Tuesday afternoon kind, where you feel like you've broken the same promise for the thousandth time? Or maybe you've swung the other direction, quietly convinced that grace is a blank check and the fire for holiness has just gone cold. In this message from Romans 6:1–14, Pastor Steve McKenzie shows that both postures are living like a prisoner in a cell where the door has already been ripped off the hinges. The Christian life is not about white-knuckling your way to better behavior. It is about reckoning what is already true: you have been moved, fused with Christ in his death and resurrection, and sin no longer has authority over you. Listen and let the first command in the book of Romans do its quiet, revolutionary work.

Hope is a strange thing to lose quietly. You don't decide to stop believing it — it just goes cold. A diagnosis comes. A relationship falls apart. A child walks away. And the world tells you to stay positive, find your peace, keep your chin up. You try that. The peace doesn't come. And somewhere you don't show many people, you start to wonder if hope was ever real — or just something Christians say to paint a clown's smile on a frowning soul.

Paul had something to say about that. In Romans 5, he starts a sentence about what sin has done to the human race and can't even finish it. Not because the weight of it broke him — because the grace of God is so much bigger than he could fit into grammar. He invented a word to try.

That's where we're going in this episode.