Scattered Moments
Brief reflections on faith, adversity, and the quiet places where grace appears.
Each episode of Scattered Moments is a brief journey through the unexpected classrooms where God does His deepest work — hospital rooms and sanctuaries, seasons of grief and flashes of joy, the ordinary moments where grace shows up and changes everything.
Drawing from over forty years of writing, ministry, and life in the trenches, Matt Tullos weaves together original poetry, hymn stories, Scripture, and honest reflection to remind you that even adversity, you are not alone.
Three Types of Episodes:
Scattered Moments: Brief Reflections on Faith, Adversity and the Quiet Places
Guided Meditations: Opportunities to Encounter God through Meditation
Moments Almanac: Released Every Morning, Reflecting on the Meaning of Each Day,
Take heart, notice the scattered moments, and share the grace.
Scattered Moments
Drunk on Being Right
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In a world fueled by outrage, instant reactions, and the endless need to be right, what happens to the soul?
In this reflective episode of Scattered Moments, Matt Tullos explores the spiritual exhaustion created by judgment, tribalism, and digital outrage. Drawing from Scripture, ancient wisdom, poetry, and personal reflection, this episode invites listeners away from the noise and back into the quiet presence of Christ.
Featuring reflections from Rumi and Blaise Pascal, along with an original spoken-word poem, Drunk on Being Right is a call to stillness, humility, mercy, and quiet holiness in an age addicted to reaction.
Scriptures referenced include James 1:19–20 and Psalm 46:10.
Take care.
Notice the scattered moments.
And share the grace. 🌙
They seem we're doing natural. But it's almost like rocking story. And your brain kind of stopped. The world has become very loud. Not merely noisy with traffic and schedules and notifications, but loud with outrage, loud with accusation, loud with performance, loud with the endless need to be right. Sometimes I wonder if we've confused volume with true conviction. We gather in tribes now, digital tribes, political tribes, theological tribes, and from our glowing screens we fire our judgments into the darkness while somewhere beneath all the noise our soul quietly erodes. And perhaps what grieves me most is not the anger of the world, it is the anger of the church. Not righteous grief, not holy sorrow, but outrage sharpened for applause. The poet Rumi once implored, sit down and be quiet. You are drunk, and this is the edge of the roof. Perhaps no generation has needed those words more than ours. We're intoxicated with outrage, drunk on being right, addicted to the thrill of public outcry. And somewhere in all the noise, we are forgetting how to be still before Christ. Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger. Those words feel almost foreign in our age of instant reaction. The old Christian thinker Blaise Pascal once wrote, All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone. Centuries before social media, before cable news, before algorithm monetized outrage, Pascal understood something about us. We don't like silence. Because silence forces us to encounter ourselves, our fears, our vanity, our hunger to be admired, our craving to win. And so we fill the silence with noise. Perhaps that's why the psalmist wrote these words from the Lord: be still and know that I am God. Not win the argument and know that I am God. No. Not humiliate your enemies and know that I am God. But be still. Stillness is hard because stillness dethrones us. And lately I've been thinking about how easy it is to speak the truth while forgetting mercy, to defend righteousness while abandoning gentleness, to mock those Christ Himself wept over. We battle to our own apostates. We fight in the bunkers of shares. We taunt them with jesting emojis. We rage with our unflinching stares. We argue our case on our platforms. We scroll, we like, we subscribe. We give the guilty comeuppance. In our chosen tribes we abide. And we wonder why we are dying as descendants are leaving the church. But our minds are so quickly distracted by the views that we share from our perch. We've taken his throne in our scoffing, the gavel we've ruthlessly kept, stoned on the wine of our malice, mocking them all as he wept. We rage at the ones who offend us. We wound them with daggers of scorn. The stain runs ever before us. Our unity, it's broken and torn. So this is the state of our movement. This is our shameful pursuit. Instead of loving our neighbors, there are errors we need to refute. So drunk in the glory of judging, admired for rhetorical skill, proclaiming our tribe's indignation, but it's better to cease and be still. Maybe the greatest witness the church could offer this exhausted world right now is not louder outrage. Maybe it's quiet holiness. Maybe it is gentleness, patience, listening, prayer, mercy, silence. Maybe it is people who no longer need to win every argument because they have already surrendered themselves to Christ. The world already knows how to show. What it desperately needs is someone who knows how to be still. Notice the scattered moment and share the grace.
