Silencing the Noise, Remembering the Call

A Reflection on General Conference Session 2025

There is a village. Not on a map. But you know it.

Zerah. A place that once burned with mission. A place whose name means seed, whose calling was sunrise. It was given a message not of man but of God. Fear God. Give Him glory. The hour of His judgment has come. A message not meant to be stored in binders or buried in policy. It was meant to be lived, spoken, carried. Shared.

And for a time, they did. The people of Zerah spoke Jesus into silence. They fed hungry neighbors and forgave the hardest hearts. They prayed like it mattered and served like it was their last chance. They didn’t know everything, but they knew they were loved. And that love moved them.

But something changed.

Not all at once. And not everyone. But slowly, quietly, many stopped going. Some never started. Others went decades without sharing the name of Jesus with someone who didn’t already know Him. They assumed it was the preacher’s work, the evangelist’s duty. They loved the mission, but they forgot they were part of it.

And while the field ripened, while the hurting waited, the loud ones came.

They brought their cameras, their keyboards, and their confidence. They weren’t many, but they had volume. Their message wasn’t hope. It wasn’t mercy. It was fear.

They posted videos not to tell the world about Jesus but to warn the church about itself. They wrote blog after blog naming names and questioning hearts. They critiqued the workers instead of joining the work. They never touched the field, but they weighed the hands of those who did.

And the people listened. Not all. But enough.

Mission became suspect. Service felt dangerous. And those who once whispered grace began to doubt their right to speak at all.

Then one day, a man came back from the field. He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t loud. But he had peace in his eyes and dirt on his hands. He had been where Jesus walked—in alleys, in prisons, in hospital rooms.

He stood in the square of Zerah and said, “The gospel is still good. And it still needs all of you. Not just the trained. Not just the eloquent. You, who have been forgiven. You, who still believe grace is stronger than fear.”

And slowly, the people remembered.

They remembered that God uses the weak. That the Spirit fills the ordinary. That Jesus walked with fishermen and tax collectors and women who had been pushed to the margins.

A mother shared Christ with her anxious son. A mechanic prayed with a friend after work. A teenager told her classmate why she still believed. Small seeds. But heaven saw.

And the Master met them. Not in towers. Not in the noise. But in the quiet acts of love. The whispered prayers. The ordinary courage of people who still believed that the gospel was for the world, and that it was also for them.

Now, in St. Louis, during General Conference Session 2025, our church gathers, discusses, and votes. But under all the structure, under all the sound, the same whisper rises again.

Will we go?

Will we silence the noise of judgment and raise the voice of mercy?

Will we equip the ordinary, not just platform the few?

Because the church was never meant to be a stage for the confident. It was always meant to be a family of the forgiven.

And if you are tired, come anyway.
If you are ashamed of how long it’s been, come anyway.
If you have believed the lie that you are too stained to carry grace, then hear this:

You are the one He loves.

Not the polished version of you. Not the version with the perfect words. The real you. The one who still doubts. The one who still struggles. The one who wakes up wondering if any of it still matters.

He does not ask for your résumé. He asks for your heart.

The loud ones will keep talking. But you do not answer to them.

You were not saved to stand in the shadows, afraid of getting it wrong.
You were saved to stand in the light, even if your voice shakes.

He is not looking for the qualified. He is looking for the willing.

So open your mouth. Tell your story. Say His name. Not perfectly, but faithfully.

And if your voice trembles, let it tremble.

Because that is where grace lives.

The field is ready. The hour is here.

Let’s go.