I was in a meeting with my leader, planning for a conference I was hosting. We were talking about how to cultivate and steward the platform I'd been given — how to grow it faithfully, keep it healthy, make sure it was reaching the people it was meant to reach.
That's when he said it: there was one area where I wasn't showing up. One space where my presence was missing. Social media.
He wasn't wrong.
I was already running hard. Apostolically Speaking was restarting after a break. My book was being relaunched. Work was demanding everything it could take. I'm a husband. I'm a father of five. And now I'm supposed to build an audience I haven't invested in.
But it wasn't the workload that frustrated me. It was the stupidity of the solution.
I had content. Real content. Sermons, teachings, insights from the podcast, passages from the book — material worth sharing. But getting it out there meant hours of manual work. Break a sermon into sections. Find the right quotes. Write captions. Schedule across multiple platforms at multiple times. And if I paid someone to do it? I'd still be neck-deep in approvals, revisions, making sure everything was in the right place. Time and money, and I'd still be managing it all.
I sat with that frustration for a moment. Then I asked myself a different question: What if I just built this?
So I did. For me. I built a tool that would take my content, break it down, generate the posts, and schedule them across platforms — without me spending four hours in prompts and spreadsheets.
It worked. Better than I expected.
And then something shifted. I realized I wasn't alone in this bind. Every creator I knew — every pastor, every podcaster, every minister trying to steward their platform — was fighting the same fight. They had a message. They had an audience waiting to hear it. But the gap between the message and the distribution was a canyon of friction and time.
So Cultivate became something bigger than a personal tool. It became a solution for the people I'm called to serve.
The build hasn't been clean. There were moments — errors in the code, doubt creeping in, the comparison trap whispering that someone else had already solved this — where I almost stopped. I looked at what existed. I wondered if I was just reinventing the wheel.
But then clarity came. What I was building wasn't the same. The problem I was solving wasn't the same. And the people I was building for — creators with a kingdom calling, with a voice that matters, with a platform that needs to be stewarded — they needed something that understood their world, not just their content calendar.
My leader preached a message called Build, Builder, Build. He talked about the ox anointing — the grace given to those called to apostolic work to move into ungrazed ground. The areas that aren't easy. The territory that hasn't been plowed. That's where apostolic builders operate.
My wife and I wrote a song with that same name. An anthem. A declaration. When doubt came — when the errors piled up, when the comparison started, when I wanted to quit — I'd hear that song. Her voice singing Build, Builder, Build. Not just a teaching anymore. A lived declaration. A reminder that the anointing was real, the calling was real, and the work was worth finishing.
Every time I've wanted to pause. Every time the friction has felt too heavy. Every time I've heard that whisper to walk away — I hear it again: Build, Builder, Build.
So I'm building. For you. For every creator trying to move the kingdom forward but drowning in the logistics of getting your voice heard. For every pastor, every author, every podcaster who has a message worth sharing and a platform that deserves to be stewarded well.
Cultivate Social exists because I refused to let the distribution problem be bigger than the message.
Build, Builder, Build.