Wednesday - May 27, 2026

SCRIPTURE

John 7:37–39

Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink. Whoever trusts in me, as the scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.

WORDS OF HOPE

 World Otter Day

There are moments when the sacred does not arrive through arguments, systems, or carefully managed theology, but through something far more alive—playful, slightly chaotic, and full of unexpected joy. World Otter Day feels like one of those moments, when creation itself seems to pause and remind us that holiness is not only found in seriousness or certainty, but also in laughter, splashing, and delight that refuses to be contained. Because sometimes the truest theology does not come as an explanation.

It comes as laughter.

 As splashing.

 As otters sliding into rivers like joy itself decided to become visible—without permission, without apology, and without needing to prove anything at all.

When I think of otters, I think of creatures moving through water as if they were made for joy itself—tumbling, floating, playing, holding hands so they do not drift apart. They do not seem driven by anxiety, control, or performance. They simply live—present, relational, and free in a way that feels like a quiet interruption to a world that constantly trains individuals to be guarded, hurried, and afraid.

Creation keeps whispering another way.

Whales sing across oceans like connection has no borders.

 Giraffes stretch into the sky like curiosity is built into existence.

 Birds cut through air like freedom refuses containment.

 Cats rest in sunbeams like peace is sacred… then suddenly sprint through the house at 3 a.m. like mystery itself just knocked on the door.

 And otters turn rivers into play, reminding us that joy is not extra—it is part of being alive.

None of this looks like fear. It looks like an abundance.

And it raises a deeper question that quietly unsettles and invites reflection: what if, instead of us being made in the image of God, we have sometimes tried to remake God in our image—shrinking the Divine into something shaped by fear, control, and the limits of what we can comfortably understand?

Because when God is reduced that way, love becomes narrower, belonging becomes conditional, and individuals—especially those already pushed to the margins—are measured instead of welcomed. Difference becomes suspicion. Mercy becomes rationed. And fear begins to sound like wisdom.

But creation refuses that smallness.

We see galaxies beyond counting, oceans still more mysterious than space, and life overflowing with difference at every level. Nothing in the natural world suggests a God threatened by variety. Instead, everything suggests creativity without fear—an imagination too vast to be contained by any single category.

That includes humanity.

Across race, ethnicity, nationality, culture, language, ability, neurodiversity, gender, sexuality, identity, age, and class—every individual is part of that same overflowing creativity. LGBTQIA+ individuals are not outside divine imagination, but within it. Immigrants and refugees are not interruptions to compassion, but beloved neighbors carrying dignity, grief, memory, courage, and hope across borders that do not limit God’s care. Muslims, Jews, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Indigenous communities, seekers, doubters, and those with no label at all are not outside grace—the Sacred has never been confined to one language or one expression of truth.

A God who creates without repetition is not threatened by difference.

 A God who says “it is good” does not revoke that goodness when life looks unfamiliar or diverse.

It is good.

 It is good.

 It is very good.

Not “if it fits.”

 Not “if it conforms.”

 No conditions. No exclusions. No fear attached.

Just good.

 And very good.

And when that truth is taken seriously, it begins to widen how we see everything. It widens how we see immigrants seeking safety and dignity, refugees rebuilding life after loss, LGBTQIA+ individuals living truthfully and beautifully, and every individual who has ever been told they are too much, too different, or not enough. It widens compassion, softens certainty, and challenges us to see that belonging was never meant to be conditional.

It also calls us back to what God requires: to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly. Because repeatedly, the sacred story bends toward the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the excluded, the wounded, the prisoner, and those denied dignity. That is where God keeps showing up—not at the center of power, but at the edges where care is most needed.

And it saddens me when Scripture is used as a weapon instead of a bridge—used to exclude immigrants, LGBTQIA+ individuals, or other faith communities rather than to expand love and justice. Because God is still speaking through many voices, many traditions, and through creation itself. Still speaking through prayer, through resistance, through compassion, through science, through art, through communities of care, and through individuals who refuse to let fear have the final word.

So maybe World Otter Day is more than whimsy.

Maybe it is a reminder that God is not tightening the world.

God is widening it.

Still creating.

 Still delighting.

 Still speaking.

More life.

 More color.

 More love.

PRAYER

God of laughter and rivers,

Thank You for creatures that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously.

Thank You for otters, for joy, for play, for creativity, and for the holy freedom found in delight.

Teach us to hold on to love, to rest without shame, to laugh without fear, and to live with wonder.

When life feels heavy, remind us that creation still knows how to dance.

Amen.

DEVOTION AUTHOR

Reed Kirkman