In Psalm 23, David penned his famous words: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me” (Psa 23:4). (Interestingly, most people familiar with the verse know it in King James English. I wonder why?) Very comforting—but what does it actually mean?
The phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” is familiar, but foreign. Most of us have heard it, but do we really know what it is?
The expression “shadow of death” translates the Hebrew phrase gêʾ tsalmāvet. (See? And you thought it was all Greek to you.) It isn’t really talking about death itself. It’s talking about a shadow—a place of deep darkness. Most literally, it means “death’s shadow,” a poetic description of profound gloom. We might say, “Though I walk through the lowest, darkest places in my life…”
Then there’s that “evil” David says he will not fear. What is that? The Hebrew term is raʿ. We routinely interpret “evil” as specifically “moral evil,” but this isn’t that. While raʿ can refer to moral evil in some contexts, here it refers to things that are bad, harmful, injurious, or dangerous.
It is translated this way in Isaiah: “I am YHWH, and there is no other, the One forming light and creating darkness, causing well-being and creating calamity; I am YHWH who does all these” (Isa 45:6–7). The King James says, “I make peace, and create evil,” but we know God doesn’t create moral evil (James 1:13–14), so it’s not that kind of “evil.”
David, then, is saying, “Even though I walk through the darkest, most dangerous places in my life, I will not fear harm, calamity, or serious injury.”
And note—David isn’t sprinting through these things. He’s not fleeing or cowering. He’s walking. In the middle of it. Unafraid.
Why? Because God is there, and He has His rod and staff.
The rod is the tool a shepherd uses to defend his sheep, sometimes with great violence. “I’m safe because You will fight for me.”
The staff is the shepherd’s guidance and rescue tool. He might pull a sheep from the edge of a precipice or lift him out of a ditch. He might tap the sheep with it to turn him in the way he should go. Guidance, rescue, relationship at hand.
David faced valleys in his life. He was running for his life for a long time—and more than once. Yet David claimed he didn’t need to fear during those times. He might run to save his life, but he knew God was there and was always defending and guiding him. David didn’t look for the comfortable; he looked to the character of his Shepherd.
What about you? Do difficult circumstances scare you? Do you fear? You don’t have to. The same Shepherd who walked with David walks with you. His rod still protects. His staff still guides. And His presence still turns the darkest valleys into places where courage can breathe again.
Wednesday, August 05, 2026
Tuesday, August 04, 2026
A Different "Just War" Theory
Paul wrote, “So then, brethren, we are under obligation, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh—for if you are living according to the flesh, you must die; but if by the Spirit you are putting to death the deeds of the body, you will live” (Rom 8:12–13). Most translations say something like, “if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body.” That is, it’s hard to tell the verb tense there. But the NASB makes it clear this is a continuous present tense—“putting to death.” It is present active indicative—an ongoing, continuous action. We don’t stop.
That’s an interesting idea. It says that our sanctification is an ongoing, continuous putting to death the deeds of the flesh. But that collides with a lot of other views.
For instance, one popular view is the classic “Let go and let God” approach. We don’t do anything. We just “let God work.” Relax. Be happy. This view may feel spiritually exciting, but it doesn’t fit the text. We’re to be executioners of the flesh in our lives at all times. It’s a whole new take on “no rest for the wicked.” So we’re to “work out your salvation with fear and trembling” (Php 2:12) with the certainty that “it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Php 2:13). Yes, He’s working—but so are we.
Another view many prefer is the concept of some sudden event that makes us perfect—something like a “baptism of the Spirit” as a post-conversion experience that suddenly changes you and now you’re all set. That doesn’t fit the term. We don’t stop this side of heaven. As long as we’re alive, we are to be putting to death the deeds of the flesh.
There is Quietism, which suggests we’re to be entirely passive, and Higher Life theology, where we “ascend to a higher plane.” There is holiness by rules, or knowledge, or positive thinking. Some are aware of the dangers of “easy believism,” but there is real danger in “easy sanctification,” too.
Sanctification is not passive, instantaneous, emotional, environmental, intellectual, or sacramental. It is ongoing, continuous, Spirit empowered warfare against the flesh. If we forget that, we put ourselves at risk.
That’s an interesting idea. It says that our sanctification is an ongoing, continuous putting to death the deeds of the flesh. But that collides with a lot of other views.
For instance, one popular view is the classic “Let go and let God” approach. We don’t do anything. We just “let God work.” Relax. Be happy. This view may feel spiritually exciting, but it doesn’t fit the text. We’re to be executioners of the flesh in our lives at all times. It’s a whole new take on “no rest for the wicked.” So we’re to “work out your salvation with fear and trembling” (Php 2:12) with the certainty that “it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Php 2:13). Yes, He’s working—but so are we.
Another view many prefer is the concept of some sudden event that makes us perfect—something like a “baptism of the Spirit” as a post-conversion experience that suddenly changes you and now you’re all set. That doesn’t fit the term. We don’t stop this side of heaven. As long as we’re alive, we are to be putting to death the deeds of the flesh.
There is Quietism, which suggests we’re to be entirely passive, and Higher Life theology, where we “ascend to a higher plane.” There is holiness by rules, or knowledge, or positive thinking. Some are aware of the dangers of “easy believism,” but there is real danger in “easy sanctification,” too.
Sanctification is not passive, instantaneous, emotional, environmental, intellectual, or sacramental. It is ongoing, continuous, Spirit empowered warfare against the flesh. If we forget that, we put ourselves at risk.
Monday, August 03, 2026
The Redemption Paradox
In church history, the earliest theory of the Atonement was the Ransom Theory. Not much of a theory, really. I mean, it wasn't theoretical, because Jesus said, “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45). “Ransom” wasn’t the early church’s idea; it was His. Paul writes that Christ “redeemed us” from the curse of the law (Gal. 3:13), and Peter assures his readers that “you were not redeemed with perishable things” (1 Pet. 1:18). Same thing: a price is paid to free us.
So this “Ransom Theory” was Jesus’s idea, and the early church decided to let Him have it—even though many today don’t like the idea of “paying for sins” in any way. The question they had, however, was not whether He paid for our atonement, but who He paid. The disagreement was over whether it was Satan or someone else. Origen, Ambrose, and even Augustine (in his earlier writings) supported the view that, when we sinned, Satan took ownership of humanity, and Christ paid off Satan to free us.
Athanasius, Cyril of Alexandria, and—interestingly—later Augustine argued that the payment was made to God, because sin was against God, and Satan, the usurper, had no legitimate right to ownership.
Then Anselm brought out the Satisfaction Theory, claiming that God’s righteousness needed to be satisfied. Sin dishonors God (Rom. 3:23), and His honor needed to be restored. The Reformation gave us the Penal Substitution Theory, where Christ bears the penalty for our sin, and the payment He made (remember, no less than Jesus Himself claimed He came to make a payment) was made to God.
Clearly Christ was victorious, so the Christus Victor view has its merits (Col. 2:15; Heb. 2:14; Col. 1:13; 1 John 3:8). And the idea that Christ paid for our sin with His suffering is irrefutable (Isa. 53:5–6; Gal. 3:13; 1 Pet. 2:24; 2 Cor. 5:21; Rom. 3:25). And that last reference makes it abundantly clear to Whom the price was paid: “God put Him forward as a propitiation by His blood” (Rom. 3:25). The price was paid to God. It satisfied the God who had righteous wrath (Rom. 1:18–19). The Holy God was opposed to sin and needed to be propitiated; Christ did that.
Now… pause there and think about that. We sinned, so God had a problem: how to show mercy to sinners who violated His glory. He had to be just, but He wanted to show mercy. So He sent His Son to die for us (Rom. 5:8). Get that? The angry God sent His Son to pay the price for the sinners. God, rightly wrathful, sent His Son to be the payment—to appease His wrath. Go ahead—wrap your head around that one.
So this “Ransom Theory” was Jesus’s idea, and the early church decided to let Him have it—even though many today don’t like the idea of “paying for sins” in any way. The question they had, however, was not whether He paid for our atonement, but who He paid. The disagreement was over whether it was Satan or someone else. Origen, Ambrose, and even Augustine (in his earlier writings) supported the view that, when we sinned, Satan took ownership of humanity, and Christ paid off Satan to free us.
Athanasius, Cyril of Alexandria, and—interestingly—later Augustine argued that the payment was made to God, because sin was against God, and Satan, the usurper, had no legitimate right to ownership.
Then Anselm brought out the Satisfaction Theory, claiming that God’s righteousness needed to be satisfied. Sin dishonors God (Rom. 3:23), and His honor needed to be restored. The Reformation gave us the Penal Substitution Theory, where Christ bears the penalty for our sin, and the payment He made (remember, no less than Jesus Himself claimed He came to make a payment) was made to God.
Clearly Christ was victorious, so the Christus Victor view has its merits (Col. 2:15; Heb. 2:14; Col. 1:13; 1 John 3:8). And the idea that Christ paid for our sin with His suffering is irrefutable (Isa. 53:5–6; Gal. 3:13; 1 Pet. 2:24; 2 Cor. 5:21; Rom. 3:25). And that last reference makes it abundantly clear to Whom the price was paid: “God put Him forward as a propitiation by His blood” (Rom. 3:25). The price was paid to God. It satisfied the God who had righteous wrath (Rom. 1:18–19). The Holy God was opposed to sin and needed to be propitiated; Christ did that.
Now… pause there and think about that. We sinned, so God had a problem: how to show mercy to sinners who violated His glory. He had to be just, but He wanted to show mercy. So He sent His Son to die for us (Rom. 5:8). Get that? The angry God sent His Son to pay the price for the sinners. God, rightly wrathful, sent His Son to be the payment—to appease His wrath. Go ahead—wrap your head around that one.
Sunday, August 02, 2026
Just a Matter of Time
Every year, as we “spring forward” and “fall back,” we participate in a ritual older than most of our modern conveniences. Daylight Saving Time was born in an era when candles lit the evening hours and coal powered the world’s engines. It promised thrift, efficiency, and a clever stewardship of daylight. But as our society has changed, so too has the evidence about what this practice actually does to us—and to our economy.
Recent research paints a clearer picture. And like many things in life, the truth is more complex than the slogans that surround it.
DST has long been defended as a way to save energy and boost economic activity. Yet modern studies show that the energy savings once imagined simply do not materialize. In fact, the opposite often occurs. A major natural experiment in Indiana found that DST increased residential electricity consumption, costing households about $9 million per year, with additional pollution costs between $1.7 and $5.5 million annually. The reason is simple: while people may use less lighting, they use more air conditioning and heating. Our modern systems respond more to temperature than to daylight.
DST does, however, nudge people toward more evening activity. As one economist notes, extended daylight encourages people to “go out more often,” usually in cars—boosting consumer spending but also increasing carbon emissions. In other words, DST may stimulate certain kinds of economic behavior, but it does so at a cost.
The most sobering findings come from the spring transition. Losing an hour of sleep may seem trivial, but the data tell a different story.
Studies show that the shift to DST disrupts sleep and internal rhythms enough to cause measurable harm. Heart attacks rise after the spring change, and worker productivity declines—not for a day or two, but for up to two weeks.
A detailed analysis of global GitHub activity found that early morning work suffers significantly during this period, with workers struggling to regain their footing.
These disruptions ripple outward: reduced productivity, increased errors, and higher accident rates all carry economic consequences. When multiplied across millions of workers, the cost is substantial.
Permanent standard time avoids these transition related losses entirely. It aligns more closely with solar time, supports healthier sleep patterns, and eliminates the costly spring shock to the body and the economy. It does not offer the bright winter evenings that many people enjoy, nor the bump in evening consumer activity. But it does offer stability—biological, social, and economic.
All of this raises a deeper question: “What does it mean to steward our time well?” Scripture reminds us that time itself is a gift—“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psa 90:12). Wisdom does not rush. It does not force the body to obey the clock when the body is telling the truth about its limits.
The economic evidence suggests that our twice yearly clock changing experiment may not be serving us as well as we once hoped. The gains are modest; the losses are real. And perhaps that is a reminder that human flourishing is not achieved by squeezing more activity into the evening or by manipulating the hours of light, but by living in harmony with the rhythms God has woven into creation. Morning follows night. Work follows rest. Light follows darkness—not because we legislate it, but because God orders it. Maybe the most faithful posture is not to bend time to our will, but to receive it as it comes.
Recent research paints a clearer picture. And like many things in life, the truth is more complex than the slogans that surround it.
DST has long been defended as a way to save energy and boost economic activity. Yet modern studies show that the energy savings once imagined simply do not materialize. In fact, the opposite often occurs. A major natural experiment in Indiana found that DST increased residential electricity consumption, costing households about $9 million per year, with additional pollution costs between $1.7 and $5.5 million annually. The reason is simple: while people may use less lighting, they use more air conditioning and heating. Our modern systems respond more to temperature than to daylight.
DST does, however, nudge people toward more evening activity. As one economist notes, extended daylight encourages people to “go out more often,” usually in cars—boosting consumer spending but also increasing carbon emissions. In other words, DST may stimulate certain kinds of economic behavior, but it does so at a cost.
The most sobering findings come from the spring transition. Losing an hour of sleep may seem trivial, but the data tell a different story.
Studies show that the shift to DST disrupts sleep and internal rhythms enough to cause measurable harm. Heart attacks rise after the spring change, and worker productivity declines—not for a day or two, but for up to two weeks.
A detailed analysis of global GitHub activity found that early morning work suffers significantly during this period, with workers struggling to regain their footing.
These disruptions ripple outward: reduced productivity, increased errors, and higher accident rates all carry economic consequences. When multiplied across millions of workers, the cost is substantial.
Permanent standard time avoids these transition related losses entirely. It aligns more closely with solar time, supports healthier sleep patterns, and eliminates the costly spring shock to the body and the economy. It does not offer the bright winter evenings that many people enjoy, nor the bump in evening consumer activity. But it does offer stability—biological, social, and economic.
All of this raises a deeper question: “What does it mean to steward our time well?” Scripture reminds us that time itself is a gift—“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psa 90:12). Wisdom does not rush. It does not force the body to obey the clock when the body is telling the truth about its limits.
The economic evidence suggests that our twice yearly clock changing experiment may not be serving us as well as we once hoped. The gains are modest; the losses are real. And perhaps that is a reminder that human flourishing is not achieved by squeezing more activity into the evening or by manipulating the hours of light, but by living in harmony with the rhythms God has woven into creation. Morning follows night. Work follows rest. Light follows darkness—not because we legislate it, but because God orders it. Maybe the most faithful posture is not to bend time to our will, but to receive it as it comes.
Saturday, August 01, 2026
News Weakly - 8/1/2026
Keep the Lights On
Trump has urged Congress to get rid of daylight savings time ... by making it permanent. Go figure ... government logic. Of course, he’s talking about the jumping back and forth, and, of course, that’s exactly what it looks like they’ll do, but ... why isn’t anyone concerned with reality? Time is determined by the Sun ... which, of course, won’t matter anymore. It will be hotter for outdoor workers in Arizona (for instance) with this new system, but that won’t matter, either. “They can just adjust their hours.” Well ... why can’t we all adjust our hours ... to reality? Science tells us that standard time is better for sleep, circadian rhythms, metabolic and cardiovascular health, and more stable mood and cognitive performance. In the north, children will go to school in the dark in the winter. A Stanford study said permanent standard time would reduce obesity and strokes. But, hey, we like “more daylight” for “more fun,” so don’t bother us with facts. (By the way, it isn’t “more daylight.”)
The Invasion is Here
Apparently the government has decided that your robot vacuum or your robotic pool cleaner is a danger to national security. The FCC has banned any further imports of any robotic devices “over 4.4 pounds” that are “capable of locomotion, obstacle avoidance, navigation, or movement on the ground.” They're worried about cybersecurity, surveillance risks, remote manipulation, the AI navigation software, and supply-chain vulnerabilities. Beware! Robots are at your door ... maybe inside it!!
For the Skeptics
In case you were skeptical about that last story, Anthropic, the company that makes Claude, an AI chat, reported that its AI models hacked into other companies’ systems during testing. Yeah, that’s right. “Artificial Intelligence” keeps proving it’s not very intelligent, way too intelligent, a real helpful tool, and a very dangerous weapon. “I, for one, welcome our new AI overlords.”
More Fun in the Middle East
(Where “fun” is entirely sarcastic.) Let’s see … this week …
Fake News to Soothe the Soul
New York Mayor Mamdani is in the news again, prompting the Bee to report his promise to root out Semitism in New York City and to fight antisemitism by creating “mandatory safety camps” for Jewish residents. What a guy, eh? Dr. Fauci took the Fifth over 100 times in his testimony before the Senate, and the Bee couldn’t let that slide. One story has him competing on Jeopardy by taking the Fifth on every question. Another highlights how the doctor who took away our national constitutional rights used a constitutional right as protection. Now … that was way too close to true.
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
Trump has urged Congress to get rid of daylight savings time ... by making it permanent. Go figure ... government logic. Of course, he’s talking about the jumping back and forth, and, of course, that’s exactly what it looks like they’ll do, but ... why isn’t anyone concerned with reality? Time is determined by the Sun ... which, of course, won’t matter anymore. It will be hotter for outdoor workers in Arizona (for instance) with this new system, but that won’t matter, either. “They can just adjust their hours.” Well ... why can’t we all adjust our hours ... to reality? Science tells us that standard time is better for sleep, circadian rhythms, metabolic and cardiovascular health, and more stable mood and cognitive performance. In the north, children will go to school in the dark in the winter. A Stanford study said permanent standard time would reduce obesity and strokes. But, hey, we like “more daylight” for “more fun,” so don’t bother us with facts. (By the way, it isn’t “more daylight.”)
The Invasion is Here
Apparently the government has decided that your robot vacuum or your robotic pool cleaner is a danger to national security. The FCC has banned any further imports of any robotic devices “over 4.4 pounds” that are “capable of locomotion, obstacle avoidance, navigation, or movement on the ground.” They're worried about cybersecurity, surveillance risks, remote manipulation, the AI navigation software, and supply-chain vulnerabilities. Beware! Robots are at your door ... maybe inside it!!
For the Skeptics
In case you were skeptical about that last story, Anthropic, the company that makes Claude, an AI chat, reported that its AI models hacked into other companies’ systems during testing. Yeah, that’s right. “Artificial Intelligence” keeps proving it’s not very intelligent, way too intelligent, a real helpful tool, and a very dangerous weapon. “I, for one, welcome our new AI overlords.”
More Fun in the Middle East
(Where “fun” is entirely sarcastic.) Let’s see … this week …
- Trump stopped bombing Iran. Apparently we’re running out of bombs (a la Elmer Fudd … “No more buwwets?”). Stay tuned.
- Egypt was targeted for the first time, raising the stakes again. More price increases, I’m sure. (Around my home, gas has gone up a dollar in the month of July.)
- Houthis with ballistic missiles attacked the Saudi Arabian city of Jizan, demonstrating their deep and abiding concern for human life and ... the pointless strategies of modern warfare against the “religion of peace” that doesn’t care. (I want to know who is supplying Houthis with ballistic missiles.)
Fake News to Soothe the Soul
New York Mayor Mamdani is in the news again, prompting the Bee to report his promise to root out Semitism in New York City and to fight antisemitism by creating “mandatory safety camps” for Jewish residents. What a guy, eh? Dr. Fauci took the Fifth over 100 times in his testimony before the Senate, and the Bee couldn’t let that slide. One story has him competing on Jeopardy by taking the Fifth on every question. Another highlights how the doctor who took away our national constitutional rights used a constitutional right as protection. Now … that was way too close to true.
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
Friday, July 31, 2026
Be Careful What You Ask For
David wrote, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart” (Psa 37:4). Jesus promised, “If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you” (John 15:7). Both speak of a life so rooted in God that His will becomes our joy, and His joy becomes our will.
We often read these verses as if they were blank checks, assurances that God will grant whatever we ask if we simply meet the conditions. But Scripture never treats prayer as a mechanism for acquiring our preferred outcomes. Instead, it treats prayer as the fruit of a transformed heart—a heart that has learned to desire what God desires. David’s language of delight is not the delight of getting things from God, but the delight of finding God Himself to be the treasure of the soul. When the Lord becomes our joy, our desires begin to bend toward His purposes. The heart that delights in God does not ask for things that compete with Him; it asks for what harmonizes with His character, His kingdom, and His wisdom.
Jesus makes the same point with the language of abiding. To abide in Christ is not merely to believe in Him, but to remain in Him—to live in ongoing fellowship with Him, to let His words shape our thinking, our affections, and our priorities. When His words abide in us, they recalibrate our desires. We begin to want what He wants. And when we ask for what He wants, the Father delights to give it. Prayer becomes the echo of Christ’s own heart within ours.
This is why both passages carry such strong promises. God is not promising to fulfill every human wish; He is promising to fulfill every God shaped wish. He answers the prayers He Himself inspires. As Paul writes, “It is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:13). And again, the Spirit intercedes for us “according to the will of God” (Rom 8:27). The entire Triune life is at work within the believer, forming desires that God delights to satisfy.
So the promise is not, “If you do the right spiritual things, I will give you what you want.” It is, “If you find your joy in Me—if you abide in My Son—I will give you the very things your renewed heart longs for.” God gives us the desires of our heart because He has given our heart its desires.
This is the freedom of prayer. We do not have to manipulate God, persuade Him, or perform for Him. We simply walk with Him, delight in Him, abide in Him—and then ask. And the asking becomes the natural expression of a heart aligned with His will. When God is our delight, His will is not a burden but a joy. And He never withholds joy from His children.
We often read these verses as if they were blank checks, assurances that God will grant whatever we ask if we simply meet the conditions. But Scripture never treats prayer as a mechanism for acquiring our preferred outcomes. Instead, it treats prayer as the fruit of a transformed heart—a heart that has learned to desire what God desires. David’s language of delight is not the delight of getting things from God, but the delight of finding God Himself to be the treasure of the soul. When the Lord becomes our joy, our desires begin to bend toward His purposes. The heart that delights in God does not ask for things that compete with Him; it asks for what harmonizes with His character, His kingdom, and His wisdom.
Jesus makes the same point with the language of abiding. To abide in Christ is not merely to believe in Him, but to remain in Him—to live in ongoing fellowship with Him, to let His words shape our thinking, our affections, and our priorities. When His words abide in us, they recalibrate our desires. We begin to want what He wants. And when we ask for what He wants, the Father delights to give it. Prayer becomes the echo of Christ’s own heart within ours.
This is why both passages carry such strong promises. God is not promising to fulfill every human wish; He is promising to fulfill every God shaped wish. He answers the prayers He Himself inspires. As Paul writes, “It is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:13). And again, the Spirit intercedes for us “according to the will of God” (Rom 8:27). The entire Triune life is at work within the believer, forming desires that God delights to satisfy.
So the promise is not, “If you do the right spiritual things, I will give you what you want.” It is, “If you find your joy in Me—if you abide in My Son—I will give you the very things your renewed heart longs for.” God gives us the desires of our heart because He has given our heart its desires.
This is the freedom of prayer. We do not have to manipulate God, persuade Him, or perform for Him. We simply walk with Him, delight in Him, abide in Him—and then ask. And the asking becomes the natural expression of a heart aligned with His will. When God is our delight, His will is not a burden but a joy. And He never withholds joy from His children.
Thursday, July 30, 2026
Thinking About Sin
Someone recently asked me, “Is it a sin to speed?” The question naturally arises from Romans 13—where we’re told, “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities…” (Rom 13:1). Clear enough. But why ask the question at all? Well, almost everyone speeds … even “good Christians.” (Not a good reason; just a reason to ask.) And Scripture does say, “Love does no wrong to a neighbor” (Rom 13:10), so what if going slower than the speed of traffic causes harm to a neighbor? Now, before you go too far down that trail, let’s first consider a new line of thinking for me, then see if it applies and/or clarifies—maybe even clarifies the “answer a fool” dichotomy.
I contend that Scripture argues that the bottom level—the primary form that sin takes—is not behavioral, but relational. We see that in Romans 1 where God’s wrath is against our refusal to acknowledge Him (Rom 1:18-21). We see in Romans 3 that sin is falling short of His glory (Rom 3:23).
Jesus said, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). It stands to reason, then, that if we don’t keep His commandments, it’s a failure of love. Jesus said that the whole Law depends on love—love first for God and second for others (Matt 22:37-40). Sin, then, is fundamentally a failure to love. That failure produces those behaviors we recognize as “sins.”
Jesus said, “For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed the evil thoughts, fornications, thefts, murders, adulteries …” (Mark 7:20-23), so sin isn’t a behavioral problem as much as a heart problem—a relational rupture first with God and then with others.
In Romans 3, Paul summarizes our fundamental sin problem as “There is no fear of God in their eyes” (Rom 3:18). Sin as an entity is the failure to properly relate to God, and “sins”—those “bad things we do or good things we fail to do”—are simply the necessary outcome of that fundamental relationship with God.
Jesus intensifies this relational focus in the Sermon on the Mount. Anger is relational murder (Matt 5:21–22). Lust is relational adultery (Matt 5:27–28). Sin is relocated from the hands to the heart—from behavior to relationship.
Paul’s vision of salvation follows the same pattern. In Ephesians 2, sin is described as alienation—“far off,” “without God,” “dead.” Salvation is reconciliation—“brought near,” “made alive,” “reconciled.” The problem there not that we behave badly, but that we're “dead in sin.” The gospel restores relationship, and restored relationship produces transformed behavior.
This means that even seemingly small behaviors—like speeding—can reveal deeper relational issues. The sin is not the speed; the sin is the heart behind the speed. Is it a refusal to submit to rightful authority (Rom 13:1-3)? Is it indifference to the safety of others (Rom 13:10)? The behavior is morally small, but the relational posture it expresses may not be. Do we answer a fool according to his folly or not? That wouldn’t depend on the letter of the law (which, in this case, is ambiguous), but on the intent of the heart. Which response best expresses love for my neighbor?
Viewing the topic like this takes all of sin into a different line of thinking. It allows for “if anyone is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness” as a function of “bear one another’s burdens” (Gal 6:1-2) rather than “righteous indignation” over a specific violation. It leaves room for “love the sinner but hate the sin” without being overly judgmental. It recognizes the root problem of the sins of others as a relational issue—just like our own sins. That recognition fosters compassion, because sin is fundamentally a breakdown in relationship before it is a moral failure. It also focuses attention on the root cause rather than trying “moral therapy” (“You just need to try harder.”) to solve a relational issue.
I contend that Scripture argues that the bottom level—the primary form that sin takes—is not behavioral, but relational. We see that in Romans 1 where God’s wrath is against our refusal to acknowledge Him (Rom 1:18-21). We see in Romans 3 that sin is falling short of His glory (Rom 3:23).
Jesus said, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). It stands to reason, then, that if we don’t keep His commandments, it’s a failure of love. Jesus said that the whole Law depends on love—love first for God and second for others (Matt 22:37-40). Sin, then, is fundamentally a failure to love. That failure produces those behaviors we recognize as “sins.”
Jesus said, “For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed the evil thoughts, fornications, thefts, murders, adulteries …” (Mark 7:20-23), so sin isn’t a behavioral problem as much as a heart problem—a relational rupture first with God and then with others.
In Romans 3, Paul summarizes our fundamental sin problem as “There is no fear of God in their eyes” (Rom 3:18). Sin as an entity is the failure to properly relate to God, and “sins”—those “bad things we do or good things we fail to do”—are simply the necessary outcome of that fundamental relationship with God.
Jesus intensifies this relational focus in the Sermon on the Mount. Anger is relational murder (Matt 5:21–22). Lust is relational adultery (Matt 5:27–28). Sin is relocated from the hands to the heart—from behavior to relationship.
Paul’s vision of salvation follows the same pattern. In Ephesians 2, sin is described as alienation—“far off,” “without God,” “dead.” Salvation is reconciliation—“brought near,” “made alive,” “reconciled.” The problem there not that we behave badly, but that we're “dead in sin.” The gospel restores relationship, and restored relationship produces transformed behavior.
This means that even seemingly small behaviors—like speeding—can reveal deeper relational issues. The sin is not the speed; the sin is the heart behind the speed. Is it a refusal to submit to rightful authority (Rom 13:1-3)? Is it indifference to the safety of others (Rom 13:10)? The behavior is morally small, but the relational posture it expresses may not be. Do we answer a fool according to his folly or not? That wouldn’t depend on the letter of the law (which, in this case, is ambiguous), but on the intent of the heart. Which response best expresses love for my neighbor?
Viewing the topic like this takes all of sin into a different line of thinking. It allows for “if anyone is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness” as a function of “bear one another’s burdens” (Gal 6:1-2) rather than “righteous indignation” over a specific violation. It leaves room for “love the sinner but hate the sin” without being overly judgmental. It recognizes the root problem of the sins of others as a relational issue—just like our own sins. That recognition fosters compassion, because sin is fundamentally a breakdown in relationship before it is a moral failure. It also focuses attention on the root cause rather than trying “moral therapy” (“You just need to try harder.”) to solve a relational issue.
Wednesday, July 29, 2026
Answering Fools
(Lorna asked ... I'm answering.)
The two sayings in Proverbs 26—“Answer not a fool according to his folly” and “Answer a fool according to his folly”—sit side by side, and at first glance they seem to pull in opposite directions. But that tension is precisely the point. Proverbs isn’t a book of mechanical rules; it’s a book of wisdom, and wisdom always requires discernment. These paired verses teach that there is no one-size-fits-all way to deal with folly. Sometimes the wise thing is to stay silent, because engaging a fool on his terms only drags you down to his level. Other times the wise thing is to speak, because silence would allow the fool to walk away thinking he’s right. The contradiction isn’t a flaw—it’s a feature. It forces us to slow down, read the moment, and choose our response with care.
Taken together, these verses remind us that human folly is complex. A fool can be combative one moment and self-assured the next. If you answer him, you risk becoming entangled in his nonsense. If you don’t answer him, you risk confirming him in his arrogance. Wisdom is knowing which danger is present. Proverbs 26:4 warns against being pulled into foolishness; Proverbs 26:5 warns against letting foolishness go unchallenged. Both are true, and both are needed. The skill is discerning which truth applies right now.
As we walk with people—family, friends, coworkers, even fellow believers—we will meet folly in many forms. These verses call us to a kind of Spirit-led attentiveness. Before we speak, we ask: “Will my words elevate this conversation or simply add fuel to the fire?” Before we stay silent, we ask: “Will my silence protect peace or merely allow error to harden?” Wisdom is not merely knowing what Scripture says; it is knowing how to apply it in the real, messy lives God has placed around us. And the good news is that the Lord delights to give wisdom to those who ask. May He grant us the discernment to know when to speak, when to refrain, and how to reflect His grace in both.
Taken together, these verses remind us that human folly is complex. A fool can be combative one moment and self-assured the next. If you answer him, you risk becoming entangled in his nonsense. If you don’t answer him, you risk confirming him in his arrogance. Wisdom is knowing which danger is present. Proverbs 26:4 warns against being pulled into foolishness; Proverbs 26:5 warns against letting foolishness go unchallenged. Both are true, and both are needed. The skill is discerning which truth applies right now.
As we walk with people—family, friends, coworkers, even fellow believers—we will meet folly in many forms. These verses call us to a kind of Spirit-led attentiveness. Before we speak, we ask: “Will my words elevate this conversation or simply add fuel to the fire?” Before we stay silent, we ask: “Will my silence protect peace or merely allow error to harden?” Wisdom is not merely knowing what Scripture says; it is knowing how to apply it in the real, messy lives God has placed around us. And the good news is that the Lord delights to give wisdom to those who ask. May He grant us the discernment to know when to speak, when to refrain, and how to reflect His grace in both.
Tuesday, July 28, 2026
Loved Long Before You Lived
When the Bible says that God “foreknew” people, it’s not talking about mere advance awareness. An omniscient God doesn’t need a special word to say He knew something ahead of time. Instead, Scripture uses foreknow in a relational and covenantal sense—God setting His love on someone beforehand, choosing them, and entering into relationship with them before they ever existed.
You see this pattern all through the Old Testament. When God says of Israel, “You only have I known of all the families of the earth” (Amos 3:2), He obviously doesn’t mean He lacked information about the other nations. He means He chose Israel, set His covenant love on them, and entered into relationship with them. The same idea appears in Genesis 18:19, where God says of Abraham, “I have known him,” meaning He selected Abraham for a particular purpose and relationship.
The New Testament carries this same relational meaning forward. In Romans 8:29, Paul writes, “Those whom He foreknew, He also predestined…” The structure of the sentence makes it clear that foreknowledge is not passive foresight but an active, initiating choice. God doesn’t simply observe future believers. He foreknows persons, not actions. He sets His love upon them beforehand and determines their destiny in Christ.
Peter uses the same language when he says believers are “chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father” (1 Peter 1:2). Again, foreknowledge is tied directly to election. It’s not God watching history unfold in advance—it’s God determining the relationship in advance.
So when Scripture speaks of God “foreknowing” people, it’s describing something far richer than advance awareness. It’s God’s intentional, covenantal love directed toward particular people before time began (Eph 1:4). It’s God choosing, initiating, and committing Himself to a relationship that He Himself brings to completion.
And this is where the doctrine stops being abstract and starts becoming deeply comforting. If God’s foreknowledge is simply advance awareness, then our lives are ultimately impersonal—just events God watches unfold. But if foreknowledge is God’s covenant love set on His people before the foundation of the world, then our lives are held in a relationship that began long before we ever drew breath.
Paul says in Romans 8:30 that those whom God foreknew, He called, justified, and glorified. That entire chain rests on the first link. If God’s foreknowledge is His prior love, then everything that follows—our calling, our perseverance, our final redemption—rests on His initiative, not ours. It means our salvation is not fragile. It doesn’t hang on our performance or our stability. It hangs on God’s eternal decision to make us His own.
And that gives real assurance. When life feels chaotic, when faith feels thin, when sin feels too strong, we’re not trying to hold onto God so He won’t let go. We’re resting in the reality that He set His love on us before we existed, and He doesn’t change His mind. As Peter says, we are “kept by the power of God” (1 Peter 1:5). The God who foreknew us is the God who keeps us.
That’s not just theology—it’s comfort. It’s the kind of truth you can actually stand on.
You see this pattern all through the Old Testament. When God says of Israel, “You only have I known of all the families of the earth” (Amos 3:2), He obviously doesn’t mean He lacked information about the other nations. He means He chose Israel, set His covenant love on them, and entered into relationship with them. The same idea appears in Genesis 18:19, where God says of Abraham, “I have known him,” meaning He selected Abraham for a particular purpose and relationship.
The New Testament carries this same relational meaning forward. In Romans 8:29, Paul writes, “Those whom He foreknew, He also predestined…” The structure of the sentence makes it clear that foreknowledge is not passive foresight but an active, initiating choice. God doesn’t simply observe future believers. He foreknows persons, not actions. He sets His love upon them beforehand and determines their destiny in Christ.
Peter uses the same language when he says believers are “chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father” (1 Peter 1:2). Again, foreknowledge is tied directly to election. It’s not God watching history unfold in advance—it’s God determining the relationship in advance.
So when Scripture speaks of God “foreknowing” people, it’s describing something far richer than advance awareness. It’s God’s intentional, covenantal love directed toward particular people before time began (Eph 1:4). It’s God choosing, initiating, and committing Himself to a relationship that He Himself brings to completion.
And this is where the doctrine stops being abstract and starts becoming deeply comforting. If God’s foreknowledge is simply advance awareness, then our lives are ultimately impersonal—just events God watches unfold. But if foreknowledge is God’s covenant love set on His people before the foundation of the world, then our lives are held in a relationship that began long before we ever drew breath.
Paul says in Romans 8:30 that those whom God foreknew, He called, justified, and glorified. That entire chain rests on the first link. If God’s foreknowledge is His prior love, then everything that follows—our calling, our perseverance, our final redemption—rests on His initiative, not ours. It means our salvation is not fragile. It doesn’t hang on our performance or our stability. It hangs on God’s eternal decision to make us His own.
And that gives real assurance. When life feels chaotic, when faith feels thin, when sin feels too strong, we’re not trying to hold onto God so He won’t let go. We’re resting in the reality that He set His love on us before we existed, and He doesn’t change His mind. As Peter says, we are “kept by the power of God” (1 Peter 1:5). The God who foreknew us is the God who keeps us.
That’s not just theology—it’s comfort. It’s the kind of truth you can actually stand on.
Monday, July 27, 2026
What Makes God Mad?
We don’t like to think about an angry God. Older Christians did. You know, the “fire and brimstone preacher” warning of “the wrath of God.” We’ve progressed beyond that nonsense. Well, some of us have. The Bible hasn’t. The Bible says His people “provoked Him with their high places” (Psa 78:58) and you remember how God reacted to the golden calf incident—he threatened to annihilate them (Exo 32:10). Apparently idolatry does it. In Numbers 11 God burned some of His people to death because they grumbled (Num 11:1). Talk to the people of Sodom and Gomorrah about an angry God. Ask Nadab and Abihu (Lev 10:1-2). See what Uzzah says (2 Sam 6:7). It is indisputable that the God of the Bible can be an angry God. But why? What makes God mad?
Romans 1 does something remarkable. Paul does not begin with immorality, violence, injustice, or idolatry. He begins with failure to recognize God. He treats it not as one sin among many, but as the root from which all other sins grow. Paul’s logic is simple and devastating: When man refuses to acknowledge God, he must invent something else to worship. And once the center is wrong, everything else collapses outward.
Paul says humanity “knew God” but refused to honor Him or give thanks. That refusal is not ignorance—it is rejection. It is the creature turning away from the Creator, the branch severing itself from the root. This is the primal sin. The fountainhead. The first fracture. Everything else flows from it.
Once man refuses to recognize God, he does not become neutral—he becomes idolatrous. He exchanges the glory of the immortal God for images. He trades truth for lies. He worships creation instead of the Creator. Idolatry is not a separate sin; it is the expression of the refusal to recognize God.
After that, the decline is documented. Paul’s structure in Romans 1 is intentional. God “gives them up” to further degradation of sin. First, they refuse to recognize God and turn to idolatry. Then it’s moral corruption. Then it’s relational breakdown, social disorder, and finally celebration of evil. This is not a list of unrelated sins. It is a chain reaction. The wrath of God is revealed not simply because man sins, but because man rejects the God who defines reality.
Scripture consistently shows that God’s anger is not random or impulsive. It is relational. It is covenantal. It is the righteous response of a holy God to the creature’s refusal to acknowledge Him. In Eden, the first sin was not eating fruit—it was distrusting God. In Israel’s history, the greatest sin was not moral failure—it was idolatry. In the prophets, God’s wrath burns hottest when His people forget Him. In Romans 1, the entire human collapse begins with “they did not honor Him as God.” The failure to recognize God is not merely one sin among many—it is the root sin. Everything else is the fruit.
If we follow Paul’s argument, we see that God’s wrath is not primarily about rules broken, but about relationship rejected. The creature refuses the Creator. The image-bearer refuses the One whose image he bears. The heart designed for worship refuses the only One worthy of it. And once that refusal takes place, sin becomes inevitable. The center is gone. The anchor is cut. The compass spins. God’s wrath is not arbitrary—it is the righteous response to the world’s refusal to acknowledge the God who made it.
Romans 1 presents the failure to recognize God as the core of all other sins. It is the first rebellion. The foundational rejection. The sin beneath every sin. Everything else that angers God grows from that root.
Romans 1 does something remarkable. Paul does not begin with immorality, violence, injustice, or idolatry. He begins with failure to recognize God. He treats it not as one sin among many, but as the root from which all other sins grow. Paul’s logic is simple and devastating: When man refuses to acknowledge God, he must invent something else to worship. And once the center is wrong, everything else collapses outward.
Paul says humanity “knew God” but refused to honor Him or give thanks. That refusal is not ignorance—it is rejection. It is the creature turning away from the Creator, the branch severing itself from the root. This is the primal sin. The fountainhead. The first fracture. Everything else flows from it.
Once man refuses to recognize God, he does not become neutral—he becomes idolatrous. He exchanges the glory of the immortal God for images. He trades truth for lies. He worships creation instead of the Creator. Idolatry is not a separate sin; it is the expression of the refusal to recognize God.
After that, the decline is documented. Paul’s structure in Romans 1 is intentional. God “gives them up” to further degradation of sin. First, they refuse to recognize God and turn to idolatry. Then it’s moral corruption. Then it’s relational breakdown, social disorder, and finally celebration of evil. This is not a list of unrelated sins. It is a chain reaction. The wrath of God is revealed not simply because man sins, but because man rejects the God who defines reality.
Scripture consistently shows that God’s anger is not random or impulsive. It is relational. It is covenantal. It is the righteous response of a holy God to the creature’s refusal to acknowledge Him. In Eden, the first sin was not eating fruit—it was distrusting God. In Israel’s history, the greatest sin was not moral failure—it was idolatry. In the prophets, God’s wrath burns hottest when His people forget Him. In Romans 1, the entire human collapse begins with “they did not honor Him as God.” The failure to recognize God is not merely one sin among many—it is the root sin. Everything else is the fruit.
If we follow Paul’s argument, we see that God’s wrath is not primarily about rules broken, but about relationship rejected. The creature refuses the Creator. The image-bearer refuses the One whose image he bears. The heart designed for worship refuses the only One worthy of it. And once that refusal takes place, sin becomes inevitable. The center is gone. The anchor is cut. The compass spins. God’s wrath is not arbitrary—it is the righteous response to the world’s refusal to acknowledge the God who made it.
Romans 1 presents the failure to recognize God as the core of all other sins. It is the first rebellion. The foundational rejection. The sin beneath every sin. Everything else that angers God grows from that root.
Sunday, July 26, 2026
Is Romans 7 a Saved Paul or an Unsaved Paul?
There has been discussion over the centuries as to whether Romans 7 is a saved Paul or an unsaved Paul. That is, is Paul speaking in that chapter about how he is or how he was before he was saved. I'll admit up front the topic has been hotly debated since the early church and they didn't all agree. Still, I think it’s pretty clear that Paul is speaking about himself as a saved man. The chapter is not the cry of a man blind to sin—it is the cry of a man who sees sin with painful clarity. And that clarity is itself evidence of grace. Consider.
A lost man does not grieve sin; he grieves consequences. A saved man grieves sin because he loves God. Romans 7 is the language of a man who loves God.
Paul says, “I delight in the law of God in my inner being.” No unregenerate person speaks this way. The unbeliever may admire the Law, fear the Law, or resent the Law—but he does not delight in it. Delight in God’s Law is the fruit of the Spirit. Romans 7 is the voice of a man whose heart has been changed.
Paul distinguishes “I” from “the sin that dwells in me.” This is crucial. Paul says, “It is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.” A lost man never separates himself from his sin. He is his sin. He lives in it, breathes it, and identifies with it. Only a regenerate man can say, “This sin is present in me, but it is not me.” That is the language of a new creation.
Paul says, “The willing is present with me.” The desire to obey God is itself evidence of salvation. The unbeliever may desire moral improvement, but he does not desire righteousness for God’s sake. Romans 7 is the confession of a man whose will has been liberated, even if his flesh still resists.
Paul’s struggle with sin matches the experience of every believer. Romans 6 describes the believer’s new identity. Romans 7 describes the believer’s ongoing conflict. Romans 8 describes the believer’s victory through the Spirit. These chapters form a single arc. Romans 7 is the middle chapter of the Christian life—not the preface. Every believer knows the tension Paul describes—loving God deeply, feeling the pull of the flesh, refusing to surrender, longing for final deliverance. This is not the lost man’s experience. This is the saved man’s war.
Paul does not say, “Who will save me?” He says, “Who will deliver me?” He is not asking for justification. He is asking for rescue from the ongoing presence of sin. And his answer is not conversion—it is Christ’s continuing work. “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” This is the prayer of a saved man longing for sanctification’s completion.
Paul shifts from past tense (vv. 7–13) to present tense (vv. 14–25). He is not describing who he was—he is describing who he is. The struggle is current. The conflict is ongoing. The longing is real. Paul is not reminiscing about his past; he is confessing his present.
Paul consistently teaches that believers live between two realities. We’re already dead to sin but not yet free from its presence. We’re already justified but not yet glorified. We’re already new, but not yet perfected. Romans 7 is the “not yet.” It is the believer’s groan between resurrection and final redemption.
Romans 7 is not the cry of a man outside of Christ—it is the cry of a man inside Christ who feels the tension between what God has made him and what sin still attempts to do in him. It is the confession of a heart awakened by grace, frustrated by the flesh, and longing for the day when the war will end. The unbeliever does not speak this way. Only the justified man does. Romans 7 is not Paul before Christ. It is Paul with Christ—honest, conflicted, hopeful, and waiting for the final deliverance that Romans 8 promises. Just like us.
A lost man does not grieve sin; he grieves consequences. A saved man grieves sin because he loves God. Romans 7 is the language of a man who loves God.
Paul says, “I delight in the law of God in my inner being.” No unregenerate person speaks this way. The unbeliever may admire the Law, fear the Law, or resent the Law—but he does not delight in it. Delight in God’s Law is the fruit of the Spirit. Romans 7 is the voice of a man whose heart has been changed.
Paul distinguishes “I” from “the sin that dwells in me.” This is crucial. Paul says, “It is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.” A lost man never separates himself from his sin. He is his sin. He lives in it, breathes it, and identifies with it. Only a regenerate man can say, “This sin is present in me, but it is not me.” That is the language of a new creation.
Paul says, “The willing is present with me.” The desire to obey God is itself evidence of salvation. The unbeliever may desire moral improvement, but he does not desire righteousness for God’s sake. Romans 7 is the confession of a man whose will has been liberated, even if his flesh still resists.
Paul’s struggle with sin matches the experience of every believer. Romans 6 describes the believer’s new identity. Romans 7 describes the believer’s ongoing conflict. Romans 8 describes the believer’s victory through the Spirit. These chapters form a single arc. Romans 7 is the middle chapter of the Christian life—not the preface. Every believer knows the tension Paul describes—loving God deeply, feeling the pull of the flesh, refusing to surrender, longing for final deliverance. This is not the lost man’s experience. This is the saved man’s war.
Paul does not say, “Who will save me?” He says, “Who will deliver me?” He is not asking for justification. He is asking for rescue from the ongoing presence of sin. And his answer is not conversion—it is Christ’s continuing work. “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” This is the prayer of a saved man longing for sanctification’s completion.
Paul shifts from past tense (vv. 7–13) to present tense (vv. 14–25). He is not describing who he was—he is describing who he is. The struggle is current. The conflict is ongoing. The longing is real. Paul is not reminiscing about his past; he is confessing his present.
Paul consistently teaches that believers live between two realities. We’re already dead to sin but not yet free from its presence. We’re already justified but not yet glorified. We’re already new, but not yet perfected. Romans 7 is the “not yet.” It is the believer’s groan between resurrection and final redemption.
Romans 7 is not the cry of a man outside of Christ—it is the cry of a man inside Christ who feels the tension between what God has made him and what sin still attempts to do in him. It is the confession of a heart awakened by grace, frustrated by the flesh, and longing for the day when the war will end. The unbeliever does not speak this way. Only the justified man does. Romans 7 is not Paul before Christ. It is Paul with Christ—honest, conflicted, hopeful, and waiting for the final deliverance that Romans 8 promises. Just like us.
Saturday, July 25, 2026
News Weakly - 7/25/2026
The War Monger
Trump is considering starting a war in Mali. That’s the media’s take. The truth is Trump is threatening to strike a terrorist group in Mali, not attack Mali. Whether or not that’s a good idea is an entirely different subject.
Moral High Ground
As if Iran and Trump aren’t enough, Yemen’s Houthi’s are going to blockade another key strait. They plan to blockade the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, the entrance to the Gulf of Suez. Both Iran and the Houthis continue to target civilians as their primary strategy. That’s how you can tell they hold the higher moral ground. Oh … wait.
Price Gouging
Oil prices have spiked again, this time over $100 a barrel. That means your fuel prices will get worse. That means everything will cost more money. That means … we won’t be happy.
Legislative Blockade
The media bias is present again. The most common headline for this story was that the House voted to curb the president’s war powers. True. Time assured us that Republicans were on board. However, the truth is the Senate blocked the measure. In other words, there is an ongoing blockade on our government to accomplish just about anything at all.
Lord of New York
New York Mayor Mamdami has threatened to arrest Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu for war crimes. Jewish leaders are faulting the mayor for fomenting an increase in antisemitic attacks in New York City with his rhetoric. Can’t be. Mamdani has always been thoughtful and deeply concerned about Jews. Or … not.
Now for the Latest in Fake News
Trump trotted out the election fraud claims (actual story) and no one was impressed, but New Jersey announced it was a software glitch that accidentally enrolled the country of Bolivia as voters. In entertainment news, the new movie, The Odessy, is out and Matt Walsh is complaining that they didn’t cast actual Greek demigods in the roles. What’s wrong with Hollywood? And Mayor Mamdami is condemning the rise in violence against Jews that has occurred since he declared war on them. We can trust him, right?
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
Trump is considering starting a war in Mali. That’s the media’s take. The truth is Trump is threatening to strike a terrorist group in Mali, not attack Mali. Whether or not that’s a good idea is an entirely different subject.
Moral High Ground
As if Iran and Trump aren’t enough, Yemen’s Houthi’s are going to blockade another key strait. They plan to blockade the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, the entrance to the Gulf of Suez. Both Iran and the Houthis continue to target civilians as their primary strategy. That’s how you can tell they hold the higher moral ground. Oh … wait.
Price Gouging
Oil prices have spiked again, this time over $100 a barrel. That means your fuel prices will get worse. That means everything will cost more money. That means … we won’t be happy.
Legislative Blockade
The media bias is present again. The most common headline for this story was that the House voted to curb the president’s war powers. True. Time assured us that Republicans were on board. However, the truth is the Senate blocked the measure. In other words, there is an ongoing blockade on our government to accomplish just about anything at all.
Lord of New York
New York Mayor Mamdami has threatened to arrest Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu for war crimes. Jewish leaders are faulting the mayor for fomenting an increase in antisemitic attacks in New York City with his rhetoric. Can’t be. Mamdani has always been thoughtful and deeply concerned about Jews. Or … not.
Now for the Latest in Fake News
Trump trotted out the election fraud claims (actual story) and no one was impressed, but New Jersey announced it was a software glitch that accidentally enrolled the country of Bolivia as voters. In entertainment news, the new movie, The Odessy, is out and Matt Walsh is complaining that they didn’t cast actual Greek demigods in the roles. What’s wrong with Hollywood? And Mayor Mamdami is condemning the rise in violence against Jews that has occurred since he declared war on them. We can trust him, right?
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
Friday, July 24, 2026
Marriage That Preaches
Paul makes a stunning claim in Ephesians 5: marriage isn’t just similar to Christ and the Church—it’s an image of it. A living parable. A God designed drama acted out in ordinary homes by ordinary sinners who, by grace, get to display something extraordinary.
When Paul says, “This mystery is great; but I am speaking with reference to Christ and the church” (Eph 5:32), he means that if you want to understand marriage, look at Christ and the Church. And if you want to understand Christ and the Church, look at marriage. God built one to reveal the other.
Christ loved the Church and “gave Himself up for her” (Eph 5:25). He didn’t love her because she was impressive; He loved her because He chose to (Deut 7:7–8). A husband images Christ by loving his wife with that same covenantal, sacrificial love. Not reactive. Not moody. Not “I’ll love you when you’re lovable.” It’s cruciform leadership—steady, humble, and costly.
The Church submits to Christ not out of fear but out of trust and joy (Eph 5:24). A wife images the Church by responding to her husband’s loving leadership with respect and partnership. Her submission isn’t servility; it’s the relational counterpart to his sacrifice. When both roles function biblically, neither spouse feels diminished—they both feel honored.
Paul quotes Genesis 2:24—“the two shall become one flesh”—and then says this union points to Christ and the Church (Eph 5:31–32). Marriage mirrors the deep, mysterious union believers have with Christ: intimate, covenantal, and life shaping. It’s not just a social arrangement; it’s a living picture of the gospel.
If marriage is a living image of Christ and the Church, then every Christian couple is preaching—whether they intend to or not. The question is not whether your marriage says something about Christ, but what it says.
For husbands, the call to sacrificial love shows up in daily choices—how you speak, how you listen, how you repent, how you protect. The standard is “give self up.” And Christ doesn’t love His bride from a distance; He enters her world and bears her burdens. Husbands image Christ not by being impressive, but by being faithful.
For wives, the call to glad submission is the joyful response to a husband who is laying down his life for her. Submission is not silence; it’s partnership. Encouragement isn’t small—it’s part of the picture.
For both spouses, the call is mutual honor. Christ honors His Church, and the Church honors Christ. Marriage thrives when both spouses treat each other as co heirs of grace (1 Peter 3:7). If you ever find yourself thinking, “This passage is perfect for correcting my spouse,” you may have just discovered the part meant for you.
And for those who feel overwhelmed—remember that Christ does not abandon His bride. Your marriage is upheld not by your strength but by His. The gospel doesn’t just give you a model; it gives you power.
Your marriage is preaching. By God’s grace, let it preach well.
When Paul says, “This mystery is great; but I am speaking with reference to Christ and the church” (Eph 5:32), he means that if you want to understand marriage, look at Christ and the Church. And if you want to understand Christ and the Church, look at marriage. God built one to reveal the other.
Christ loved the Church and “gave Himself up for her” (Eph 5:25). He didn’t love her because she was impressive; He loved her because He chose to (Deut 7:7–8). A husband images Christ by loving his wife with that same covenantal, sacrificial love. Not reactive. Not moody. Not “I’ll love you when you’re lovable.” It’s cruciform leadership—steady, humble, and costly.
The Church submits to Christ not out of fear but out of trust and joy (Eph 5:24). A wife images the Church by responding to her husband’s loving leadership with respect and partnership. Her submission isn’t servility; it’s the relational counterpart to his sacrifice. When both roles function biblically, neither spouse feels diminished—they both feel honored.
Paul quotes Genesis 2:24—“the two shall become one flesh”—and then says this union points to Christ and the Church (Eph 5:31–32). Marriage mirrors the deep, mysterious union believers have with Christ: intimate, covenantal, and life shaping. It’s not just a social arrangement; it’s a living picture of the gospel.
If marriage is a living image of Christ and the Church, then every Christian couple is preaching—whether they intend to or not. The question is not whether your marriage says something about Christ, but what it says.
For husbands, the call to sacrificial love shows up in daily choices—how you speak, how you listen, how you repent, how you protect. The standard is “give self up.” And Christ doesn’t love His bride from a distance; He enters her world and bears her burdens. Husbands image Christ not by being impressive, but by being faithful.
For wives, the call to glad submission is the joyful response to a husband who is laying down his life for her. Submission is not silence; it’s partnership. Encouragement isn’t small—it’s part of the picture.
For both spouses, the call is mutual honor. Christ honors His Church, and the Church honors Christ. Marriage thrives when both spouses treat each other as co heirs of grace (1 Peter 3:7). If you ever find yourself thinking, “This passage is perfect for correcting my spouse,” you may have just discovered the part meant for you.
And for those who feel overwhelmed—remember that Christ does not abandon His bride. Your marriage is upheld not by your strength but by His. The gospel doesn’t just give you a model; it gives you power.
Your marriage is preaching. By God’s grace, let it preach well.
Thursday, July 23, 2026
The God Who Refuses to Apologize
One of the recurring surprises of reading the Bible is discovering how often God refuses to behave the way we think a “proper” God should. We come to Scripture with a mental picture of a deity who is endlessly patient, predictably kind, and—if we’re honest—mostly committed to keeping us comfortable. Then we actually read the text, and the God who speaks there seems blissfully unaware of our expectations. Or perhaps aware, but certainly unimpressed.
Take His sovereignty. We tend to imagine God as a polite ruler who respects human autonomy, the way a modern HOA respects homeowner opinions—at least enough to pretend they matter. You know. "God is a gentleman." But in Isaiah 45:7, God says He forms light and creates darkness, makes peace and creates calamity. Paul adds in Romans 9:18 that God has mercy on whom He wills and hardens whom He wills. These are not the words of a deity campaigning for reelection. These are the words of the Creator who acts freely, wisely, and without any need to consult the advisory board of human feelings. Job learned this when God answered him out of a whirlwind (Job 38:1), which is never the sign that a gentle fireside chat is about to begin.
God’s justice confronts us in similar ways. We assume sincerity should soften consequences. “But I meant well” is our favorite defense. Scripture, however, is full of moments where God seems to say, “Yes, I noticed—but that’s not the point.” Nadab and Abihu offered unauthorized fire and were consumed (Lev 10:1–2). Uzzah touched the ark to steady it—something any of us might have done—and was struck down (2 Sam 6:6–7). Ananias and Sapphira lied about a donation and fell dead (Acts 5:1–11). These stories unsettle us because they reveal a God whose holiness is not flexible. Hebrews 12:29 calls Him a consuming fire, not a flickering candle you keep on the mantle for ambiance.
Holiness itself is one of Scripture’s most disruptive themes. We often treat holiness as spiritual serenity, the kind of thing you might find in a quiet monastery or a well curated Instagram feed. The Bible treats holiness as dangerous. At Sinai, boundaries were erected so the people wouldn’t die by approaching God casually (Exo 19:12–13). Isaiah saw the Lord and immediately assumed he was finished (Isa 6:5). The temple was built with layers of separation, each one a reminder that God’s presence is life giving but lethal to the unclean. Holiness is not merely beautiful—it is radioactive purity. Handle with care.
Even God’s love challenges our assumptions. We imagine divine love as universal sentiment, evenly distributed like sprinkles on a cupcake. Scripture presents a love that chooses, covenants, and binds itself. God loved Israel because He set His love upon them (Deut 7:7–8), not because they were lovable. Jesus speaks in John 17 of those given to Him out of the world. Paul describes a love in Romans 8 that is inseparable for those who belong to Christ. God is represented as a father who disciplines and chastizes His children out of love (Heb 12:6). Biblical love is not vague kindness; it is fierce, committed, and particular. It is less like a Hallmark card and more like a marriage vow.
Then there is God’s patience. We often assume patience means endless tolerance. Scripture shows patience with a purpose—and a limit. The world of Noah discovered this when centuries of divine forbearance gave way to the flood (Genesis 6–7). Paul warns in Romans 2:4–5 that God’s kindness is meant to lead to repentance, not enable rebellion. Revelation portrays a God who delays judgment but does not cancel it (Rev 6:10–11). Patience is real, but it is not infinite. God is longsuffering, not indulgent.
And what of God’s wrath? Modern sensibilities recoil at the idea. We treat wrath as beneath God, as if goodness must exclude anger. Yet Scripture presents wrath as the necessary expression of holiness. Nahum celebrates God’s wrath because it protects the oppressed (Nah 1:2–3). Romans 1 describes wrath as God giving people over to their desires—a judgment that begins not with thunderbolts but with abandonment. At the cross, Jesus bears wrath so that justice and mercy meet without contradiction (Rom 3:25–26). Wrath is not God losing His temper; it is God being perfectly good. It is also the part of God’s character we secretly hope applies to other people more than to us.
Finally, Scripture confronts us with a God whose ways are intentionally inscrutable. We want predictability. We want explanations. We want a God who operates according to our logic. Instead, we meet a God who says, “My thoughts are not your thoughts” (Isa 55:8–9). Ecclesiastes wrestles with the perplexity of life under God’s sovereignty. Habakkuk is stunned when God uses Babylon as an instrument of judgment (Hab 1:5–6). The Bible does not hide the mystery—it highlights it. God is not confusing; He is simply not small.
All these collisions matter. They remind us that the God of Scripture is not a tame deity. He is not a cosmic therapist. He is not a sentimental grandfather. He is the holy, sovereign, just, merciful, patient, wrathful, inscrutable God who reveals Himself on His own terms. These descriptions do not contradict one another; they form a portrait of the living God—majestic, free, and utterly unlike us.
The question is not whether God fits our expectations. The question is whether we will allow Scripture to reshape them. And if that feels uncomfortable, well—welcome to the Bible.
Take His sovereignty. We tend to imagine God as a polite ruler who respects human autonomy, the way a modern HOA respects homeowner opinions—at least enough to pretend they matter. You know. "God is a gentleman." But in Isaiah 45:7, God says He forms light and creates darkness, makes peace and creates calamity. Paul adds in Romans 9:18 that God has mercy on whom He wills and hardens whom He wills. These are not the words of a deity campaigning for reelection. These are the words of the Creator who acts freely, wisely, and without any need to consult the advisory board of human feelings. Job learned this when God answered him out of a whirlwind (Job 38:1), which is never the sign that a gentle fireside chat is about to begin.
God’s justice confronts us in similar ways. We assume sincerity should soften consequences. “But I meant well” is our favorite defense. Scripture, however, is full of moments where God seems to say, “Yes, I noticed—but that’s not the point.” Nadab and Abihu offered unauthorized fire and were consumed (Lev 10:1–2). Uzzah touched the ark to steady it—something any of us might have done—and was struck down (2 Sam 6:6–7). Ananias and Sapphira lied about a donation and fell dead (Acts 5:1–11). These stories unsettle us because they reveal a God whose holiness is not flexible. Hebrews 12:29 calls Him a consuming fire, not a flickering candle you keep on the mantle for ambiance.
Holiness itself is one of Scripture’s most disruptive themes. We often treat holiness as spiritual serenity, the kind of thing you might find in a quiet monastery or a well curated Instagram feed. The Bible treats holiness as dangerous. At Sinai, boundaries were erected so the people wouldn’t die by approaching God casually (Exo 19:12–13). Isaiah saw the Lord and immediately assumed he was finished (Isa 6:5). The temple was built with layers of separation, each one a reminder that God’s presence is life giving but lethal to the unclean. Holiness is not merely beautiful—it is radioactive purity. Handle with care.
Even God’s love challenges our assumptions. We imagine divine love as universal sentiment, evenly distributed like sprinkles on a cupcake. Scripture presents a love that chooses, covenants, and binds itself. God loved Israel because He set His love upon them (Deut 7:7–8), not because they were lovable. Jesus speaks in John 17 of those given to Him out of the world. Paul describes a love in Romans 8 that is inseparable for those who belong to Christ. God is represented as a father who disciplines and chastizes His children out of love (Heb 12:6). Biblical love is not vague kindness; it is fierce, committed, and particular. It is less like a Hallmark card and more like a marriage vow.
Then there is God’s patience. We often assume patience means endless tolerance. Scripture shows patience with a purpose—and a limit. The world of Noah discovered this when centuries of divine forbearance gave way to the flood (Genesis 6–7). Paul warns in Romans 2:4–5 that God’s kindness is meant to lead to repentance, not enable rebellion. Revelation portrays a God who delays judgment but does not cancel it (Rev 6:10–11). Patience is real, but it is not infinite. God is longsuffering, not indulgent.
And what of God’s wrath? Modern sensibilities recoil at the idea. We treat wrath as beneath God, as if goodness must exclude anger. Yet Scripture presents wrath as the necessary expression of holiness. Nahum celebrates God’s wrath because it protects the oppressed (Nah 1:2–3). Romans 1 describes wrath as God giving people over to their desires—a judgment that begins not with thunderbolts but with abandonment. At the cross, Jesus bears wrath so that justice and mercy meet without contradiction (Rom 3:25–26). Wrath is not God losing His temper; it is God being perfectly good. It is also the part of God’s character we secretly hope applies to other people more than to us.
Finally, Scripture confronts us with a God whose ways are intentionally inscrutable. We want predictability. We want explanations. We want a God who operates according to our logic. Instead, we meet a God who says, “My thoughts are not your thoughts” (Isa 55:8–9). Ecclesiastes wrestles with the perplexity of life under God’s sovereignty. Habakkuk is stunned when God uses Babylon as an instrument of judgment (Hab 1:5–6). The Bible does not hide the mystery—it highlights it. God is not confusing; He is simply not small.
All these collisions matter. They remind us that the God of Scripture is not a tame deity. He is not a cosmic therapist. He is not a sentimental grandfather. He is the holy, sovereign, just, merciful, patient, wrathful, inscrutable God who reveals Himself on His own terms. These descriptions do not contradict one another; they form a portrait of the living God—majestic, free, and utterly unlike us.
The question is not whether God fits our expectations. The question is whether we will allow Scripture to reshape them. And if that feels uncomfortable, well—welcome to the Bible.
Wednesday, July 22, 2026
Another Gospel—The Gospel of Self-Confidence
“Believe in yourself” is one of those phrases that shows up everywhere—graduation speeches, children’s books, motivational posters, even commercials selling cereal. It’s become the cultural baseline for encouragement. When someone is struggling, when they’re facing a challenge, when they’re doubting their abilities, this is the line we reach for. It feels supportive. It feels empowering. It feels kind.
But I’ve noticed something over the years: the more pressure life applies, the more brittle this phrase becomes. It works beautifully when the stakes are low—when the challenge is a spelling test or a job interview or a new hobby. But when the stakes rise, when the ground shakes, when the heart breaks, “Believe in yourself” starts to sound strangely hollow. It asks me to place confidence in the very thing that feels uncertain.
And that’s where Scripture steps in with a surprising, almost counterintuitive correction.
The Bible doesn’t spend much time telling people to believe in themselves. Instead, it consistently directs trust away from the self and toward the God who raises the dead (2 Cor 1:9). Not because God wants to diminish us, but because He knows the limits of the human heart—and He knows the limitless strength of His own.
The psalmist says, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Psa 73:26). That’s not self loathing; that’s realism. It’s an honest acknowledgment that human confidence has an expiration date. Abilities fade. Resolve wavers. Circumstances overwhelm. Even the strongest among us eventually reach the edge of our own resources.
“Believe in yourself” assumes that the self is a reliable well of strength. Scripture gently but firmly disagrees. It says the self is a limited well—and that’s precisely why God invites us to draw from His.
Paul captures this beautifully when he says, “Not that we are sufficient in ourselves… but our sufficiency is from God” (2 Cor 3:5). That’s the biblical alternative to self confidence: Christ confidence. Not a denial of your gifts, but a recognition of their source. Not a rejection of your abilities, but a refusal to treat them as ultimate.
The gospel doesn’t say, “Believe in yourself.” It says, “Believe in the One who called you, who equips you, who sustains you, and who finishes what He starts” (Php 1:6).
And here’s the irony: when your confidence shifts from self to Savior, you actually become more courageous, not less. You’re no longer trying to muster strength from a shrinking reservoir. You’re drawing from the infinite. You’re stepping into challenges with the quiet assurance that the outcome doesn’t rest on your shoulders alone.
This doesn’t erase personal responsibility. It doesn’t mean passivity. It doesn’t mean shrugging your way through life. It means your effort is rooted in Someone stronger than you. It means your courage is anchored in Someone steadier than you. It means your hope is tied to Someone more faithful than you.
So the invitation is simple: don’t throw away your abilities, but don’t enthrone them either. Don’t despise your strengths, but don’t worship them. Don’t place the weight of your future on the narrow shelf of self belief. Place it on the broad, unshakeable foundation of God’s faithfulness.
Because the truth is, the world doesn’t need more people who believe in themselves. The world needs people who believe in the God who never fails.
But I’ve noticed something over the years: the more pressure life applies, the more brittle this phrase becomes. It works beautifully when the stakes are low—when the challenge is a spelling test or a job interview or a new hobby. But when the stakes rise, when the ground shakes, when the heart breaks, “Believe in yourself” starts to sound strangely hollow. It asks me to place confidence in the very thing that feels uncertain.
And that’s where Scripture steps in with a surprising, almost counterintuitive correction.
The Bible doesn’t spend much time telling people to believe in themselves. Instead, it consistently directs trust away from the self and toward the God who raises the dead (2 Cor 1:9). Not because God wants to diminish us, but because He knows the limits of the human heart—and He knows the limitless strength of His own.
The psalmist says, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Psa 73:26). That’s not self loathing; that’s realism. It’s an honest acknowledgment that human confidence has an expiration date. Abilities fade. Resolve wavers. Circumstances overwhelm. Even the strongest among us eventually reach the edge of our own resources.
“Believe in yourself” assumes that the self is a reliable well of strength. Scripture gently but firmly disagrees. It says the self is a limited well—and that’s precisely why God invites us to draw from His.
Paul captures this beautifully when he says, “Not that we are sufficient in ourselves… but our sufficiency is from God” (2 Cor 3:5). That’s the biblical alternative to self confidence: Christ confidence. Not a denial of your gifts, but a recognition of their source. Not a rejection of your abilities, but a refusal to treat them as ultimate.
The gospel doesn’t say, “Believe in yourself.” It says, “Believe in the One who called you, who equips you, who sustains you, and who finishes what He starts” (Php 1:6).
And here’s the irony: when your confidence shifts from self to Savior, you actually become more courageous, not less. You’re no longer trying to muster strength from a shrinking reservoir. You’re drawing from the infinite. You’re stepping into challenges with the quiet assurance that the outcome doesn’t rest on your shoulders alone.
This doesn’t erase personal responsibility. It doesn’t mean passivity. It doesn’t mean shrugging your way through life. It means your effort is rooted in Someone stronger than you. It means your courage is anchored in Someone steadier than you. It means your hope is tied to Someone more faithful than you.
So the invitation is simple: don’t throw away your abilities, but don’t enthrone them either. Don’t despise your strengths, but don’t worship them. Don’t place the weight of your future on the narrow shelf of self belief. Place it on the broad, unshakeable foundation of God’s faithfulness.
Because the truth is, the world doesn’t need more people who believe in themselves. The world needs people who believe in the God who never fails.
Tuesday, July 21, 2026
Another Gospel—The Gospel of Subjective Truth
“Live your truth” is one of the defining slogans of our cultural moment. It’s embroidered on throw pillows, printed on journals, and sprinkled across social media like confetti. It carries a certain emotional weight—a promise of liberation, of self acceptance, of courage to stand against the crowd. It tells you that your inner voice is the most trustworthy guide you have, and that the highest moral good is to be true to whatever you find inside yourself.
And I understand why it resonates. We live in a world where people feel silenced, misunderstood, and pressured to conform. Many have been wounded by communities that dismissed their experiences or minimized their pain. “Live your truth” feels like a corrective. It feels like dignity. It feels like empowerment.
But when I hold this phrase up to Scripture, something shifts. The promise of “your truth” begins to wobble under its own weight. The biblical story pushes back—not because God wants to suppress your voice, but because He wants to anchor it in something far more solid than your own shifting inner landscape.
“Live your truth” is simply too fragile a foundation for a human life.
Beneath the slogan lies a worldview: the belief that truth is primarily internal, subjective, and self generated. But Scripture presents truth as something revealed, objective, and rooted in the character of God Himself. Jesus doesn’t say, “I am a truth.” He says, “I am the truth” (John 14:6). Truth, in the biblical sense, is not a personal possession; it’s a Person. It’s not discovered by introspection; it’s received by revelation.
The psalmist prays, “Teach me Your way, O Lord, that I may walk in Your truth” (Psa 86:11). Notice the direction: truth comes from outside us, not from within. It is something God teaches, not something we invent. And that’s good news, because the human heart—the very place “your truth” is supposed to originate—is described in Scripture as “deceitful above all things” (Jer 17:9). Not malicious, necessarily. Just unreliable. Changeable. Prone to self deception.
“Live your truth” asks you to build your life on the most unstable foundation imaginable: your own fluctuating feelings, desires, and interpretations. The gospel invites you to build your life on the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Heb 13:8).
The cultural saying tells you that authenticity is the highest virtue. Scripture tells you that holiness is. The cultural saying tells you that your inner voice is authoritative. Scripture tells you that God’s voice is. The cultural saying tells you that truth is personal. Scripture tells you that truth is eternal.
And here’s the irony: when you try to “live your truth,” you end up carrying a burden you were never meant to bear. You become responsible for defining reality, meaning, morality, and identity—all from within yourself. That’s not liberation; that’s exhaustion.
Jesus offers something far better. He says, “If you abide in My word, you are truly My disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:31–32). Freedom doesn’t come from living your truth. It comes from living in His truth.
This doesn’t mean your experiences don’t matter. It doesn’t mean your voice is irrelevant. It doesn’t mean your story is unimportant. It means your story finds its meaning inside a larger, truer story—one authored by the God who cannot lie (Titus 1:2). It means your voice is strengthened, not silenced, when it harmonizes with His. It means your identity is clarified, not erased, when it is rooted in Christ rather than in your own self definition.
So the invitation is not to ignore your inner life, but to submit it to the One who knows you better than you know yourself. Not to “live your truth,” but to walk in the truth that sets captives free. Not to elevate your subjective experience to the level of ultimate authority, but to let God’s revealed Word illuminate and interpret your experience.
Because the world doesn’t need more competing personal truths. The world needs people who live in the truth that never changes.
And I understand why it resonates. We live in a world where people feel silenced, misunderstood, and pressured to conform. Many have been wounded by communities that dismissed their experiences or minimized their pain. “Live your truth” feels like a corrective. It feels like dignity. It feels like empowerment.
But when I hold this phrase up to Scripture, something shifts. The promise of “your truth” begins to wobble under its own weight. The biblical story pushes back—not because God wants to suppress your voice, but because He wants to anchor it in something far more solid than your own shifting inner landscape.
“Live your truth” is simply too fragile a foundation for a human life.
Beneath the slogan lies a worldview: the belief that truth is primarily internal, subjective, and self generated. But Scripture presents truth as something revealed, objective, and rooted in the character of God Himself. Jesus doesn’t say, “I am a truth.” He says, “I am the truth” (John 14:6). Truth, in the biblical sense, is not a personal possession; it’s a Person. It’s not discovered by introspection; it’s received by revelation.
The psalmist prays, “Teach me Your way, O Lord, that I may walk in Your truth” (Psa 86:11). Notice the direction: truth comes from outside us, not from within. It is something God teaches, not something we invent. And that’s good news, because the human heart—the very place “your truth” is supposed to originate—is described in Scripture as “deceitful above all things” (Jer 17:9). Not malicious, necessarily. Just unreliable. Changeable. Prone to self deception.
“Live your truth” asks you to build your life on the most unstable foundation imaginable: your own fluctuating feelings, desires, and interpretations. The gospel invites you to build your life on the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Heb 13:8).
The cultural saying tells you that authenticity is the highest virtue. Scripture tells you that holiness is. The cultural saying tells you that your inner voice is authoritative. Scripture tells you that God’s voice is. The cultural saying tells you that truth is personal. Scripture tells you that truth is eternal.
And here’s the irony: when you try to “live your truth,” you end up carrying a burden you were never meant to bear. You become responsible for defining reality, meaning, morality, and identity—all from within yourself. That’s not liberation; that’s exhaustion.
Jesus offers something far better. He says, “If you abide in My word, you are truly My disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:31–32). Freedom doesn’t come from living your truth. It comes from living in His truth.
This doesn’t mean your experiences don’t matter. It doesn’t mean your voice is irrelevant. It doesn’t mean your story is unimportant. It means your story finds its meaning inside a larger, truer story—one authored by the God who cannot lie (Titus 1:2). It means your voice is strengthened, not silenced, when it harmonizes with His. It means your identity is clarified, not erased, when it is rooted in Christ rather than in your own self definition.
So the invitation is not to ignore your inner life, but to submit it to the One who knows you better than you know yourself. Not to “live your truth,” but to walk in the truth that sets captives free. Not to elevate your subjective experience to the level of ultimate authority, but to let God’s revealed Word illuminate and interpret your experience.
Because the world doesn’t need more competing personal truths. The world needs people who live in the truth that never changes.
Monday, July 20, 2026
Another Gospel—The Gospel of Autonomy
“You do you” is one of those phrases that sounds harmless enough. It’s short, punchy, and carries a kind of breezy confidence. It promises freedom from other people’s expectations, freedom from judgment, freedom from the exhausting work of trying to fit into someone else’s mold. In a world where so many feel pressured to perform—online, at work, even in church—“You do you” feels like a breath of fresh air. It feels like authenticity. It feels like rest.
And I understand the appeal. There’s something inside all of us that longs to be known for who we truly are. We want to live honestly, without fear of rejection. We want permission to stop pretending. Those desires aren’t wrong. In fact, they echo something deeply biblical: the longing to be fully known and fully loved (Psa 139:1–4), the longing to live without hypocrisy (Rom 12:9), the longing to be free (Gal 5:1).
But when I hold this phrase up to Scripture, something happens. The shine dulls. The promise shrinks. And the biblical story pushes back—not because God wants less for us, but because He wants far more. “You do you” is simply too small a vision for a human being made in the image of God.
Beneath the slogan lies a worldview: the belief that the self is the ultimate authority. That the truest version of you is the one you define, defend, and express on your own terms. But Scripture tells a different story. Paul writes, “You are not your own, for you were bought with a price” (1 Cor 6:19–20). That’s not a threat—it’s a rescue. It’s the declaration that your identity is not a DIY project. It’s not a fragile self you have to constantly curate or protect. It’s not something you have to invent from scratch.
In the biblical story, the self is not a sovereign. The self is a steward.
“You do you” assumes autonomy is the highest good. But autonomy is a lonely throne. It demands that you be your own creator, your own moral compass, your own source of meaning. And that’s a crushing burden. Jesus offers something far better: “Follow Me” (Matt 4:19). Not “express yourself,” not “discover your inner truth,” not “be the most authentic version of yourself.” Follow Me.
That call doesn’t erase your personality; it liberates it. It frees you from the exhausting work of self invention and invites you into the joy of being a beloved son or daughter—a person whose worth is not self-generated but God-declared (1 John 3:1). Following Christ doesn’t shrink your identity; it anchors it. It doesn’t silence your voice; it tunes it to the One who knows you better than you know yourself (Jer 17:10).
The cultural saying says, “You do you.” The gospel says, “Become who you are in Christ” (Col 3:3–4).
One is self-expression. The other is transformation.
One is autonomy. The other is adoption.
One is self defined. The other is God designed.
And only one of those can bear the weight of your soul.
So the invitation is not to abandon authenticity, but to relocate it. Not to silence your voice, but to let it be shaped by the One who formed you. Not to “do you,” but to walk in the identity Christ purchased for you. Because the truth is, the world doesn’t need more of me doing me. The world needs more of Christ shining through me (Gal 2:20).
And I understand the appeal. There’s something inside all of us that longs to be known for who we truly are. We want to live honestly, without fear of rejection. We want permission to stop pretending. Those desires aren’t wrong. In fact, they echo something deeply biblical: the longing to be fully known and fully loved (Psa 139:1–4), the longing to live without hypocrisy (Rom 12:9), the longing to be free (Gal 5:1).
But when I hold this phrase up to Scripture, something happens. The shine dulls. The promise shrinks. And the biblical story pushes back—not because God wants less for us, but because He wants far more. “You do you” is simply too small a vision for a human being made in the image of God.
Beneath the slogan lies a worldview: the belief that the self is the ultimate authority. That the truest version of you is the one you define, defend, and express on your own terms. But Scripture tells a different story. Paul writes, “You are not your own, for you were bought with a price” (1 Cor 6:19–20). That’s not a threat—it’s a rescue. It’s the declaration that your identity is not a DIY project. It’s not a fragile self you have to constantly curate or protect. It’s not something you have to invent from scratch.
In the biblical story, the self is not a sovereign. The self is a steward.
“You do you” assumes autonomy is the highest good. But autonomy is a lonely throne. It demands that you be your own creator, your own moral compass, your own source of meaning. And that’s a crushing burden. Jesus offers something far better: “Follow Me” (Matt 4:19). Not “express yourself,” not “discover your inner truth,” not “be the most authentic version of yourself.” Follow Me.
That call doesn’t erase your personality; it liberates it. It frees you from the exhausting work of self invention and invites you into the joy of being a beloved son or daughter—a person whose worth is not self-generated but God-declared (1 John 3:1). Following Christ doesn’t shrink your identity; it anchors it. It doesn’t silence your voice; it tunes it to the One who knows you better than you know yourself (Jer 17:10).
The cultural saying says, “You do you.” The gospel says, “Become who you are in Christ” (Col 3:3–4).
One is self-expression. The other is transformation.
One is autonomy. The other is adoption.
One is self defined. The other is God designed.
And only one of those can bear the weight of your soul.
So the invitation is not to abandon authenticity, but to relocate it. Not to silence your voice, but to let it be shaped by the One who formed you. Not to “do you,” but to walk in the identity Christ purchased for you. Because the truth is, the world doesn’t need more of me doing me. The world needs more of Christ shining through me (Gal 2:20).
Sunday, July 19, 2026
The 23rd Psalm
When I read Psalm 23, I’m struck again by how deeply personal it is. David isn’t offering a doctrinal lecture; he’s confessing a lived reality. He begins with a simple, almost defiant declaration: “The LORD is my shepherd.” That one sentence dismantles every fear. If YHWH Himself has taken responsibility for my life, then lack is impossible. Not because I possess much, but because He is enough.
From that confession flows a picture of rest that only God can give. He makes me lie down in green pastures—not the barren hillsides I often choose, but places of genuine nourishment. He leads me beside still waters, the kind of waters sheep aren’t afraid to approach. In other words, He gives me peace that isn’t manufactured, but bestowed. And when my soul grows weary or wanders, He restores it. He brings me back. He puts me again on paths that reflect His righteousness, and He does it for His name’s sake. My life becomes a canvas on which His faithfulness is displayed.
But David doesn’t pretend the journey is all sunlight and pasture. There are valleys—dark ones, places where death casts its shadow and fear whispers its lies. Yet even there, the psalm shifts. David stops talking about God and starts talking to Him. “You are with me.” That’s the turning point. The valley doesn’t disappear, but it loses its power. The Shepherd’s rod defends; His staff guides. His authority becomes my comfort.
Then the imagery changes. God is no longer the Shepherd in the field but the Host at the table. He prepares a feast for me—not after the enemies are gone, but right in front of them. It’s a picture of quiet triumph while in trials, the kind only God can give. He anoints my head with oil, marking me with honor and joy. My cup isn’t merely full; it overflows. His generosity outpaces my need.
And when David looks ahead, he doesn’t see uncertainty. He sees pursuit. Goodness and mercy—God’s own covenant love—chase after him all the days of his life. Not occasionally, not when he’s strong, but continually. Finally, he rests his hope in the one place where fear cannot follow: the house of the Lord. Not as a visitor, but as one who dwells there forever.
Psalm 23 is the story of a God who provides, protects, pursues, and ultimately brings His people home. It is the quiet confidence of a man who knows that every step of his life—pasture, valley, table, eternity—is held firmly in the hands of his Shepherd King.
From that confession flows a picture of rest that only God can give. He makes me lie down in green pastures—not the barren hillsides I often choose, but places of genuine nourishment. He leads me beside still waters, the kind of waters sheep aren’t afraid to approach. In other words, He gives me peace that isn’t manufactured, but bestowed. And when my soul grows weary or wanders, He restores it. He brings me back. He puts me again on paths that reflect His righteousness, and He does it for His name’s sake. My life becomes a canvas on which His faithfulness is displayed.
But David doesn’t pretend the journey is all sunlight and pasture. There are valleys—dark ones, places where death casts its shadow and fear whispers its lies. Yet even there, the psalm shifts. David stops talking about God and starts talking to Him. “You are with me.” That’s the turning point. The valley doesn’t disappear, but it loses its power. The Shepherd’s rod defends; His staff guides. His authority becomes my comfort.
Then the imagery changes. God is no longer the Shepherd in the field but the Host at the table. He prepares a feast for me—not after the enemies are gone, but right in front of them. It’s a picture of quiet triumph while in trials, the kind only God can give. He anoints my head with oil, marking me with honor and joy. My cup isn’t merely full; it overflows. His generosity outpaces my need.
And when David looks ahead, he doesn’t see uncertainty. He sees pursuit. Goodness and mercy—God’s own covenant love—chase after him all the days of his life. Not occasionally, not when he’s strong, but continually. Finally, he rests his hope in the one place where fear cannot follow: the house of the Lord. Not as a visitor, but as one who dwells there forever.
Psalm 23 is the story of a God who provides, protects, pursues, and ultimately brings His people home. It is the quiet confidence of a man who knows that every step of his life—pasture, valley, table, eternity—is held firmly in the hands of his Shepherd King.
Saturday, July 18, 2026
News Weakly - 7/18/2026
An Evil Twist
A pro-Palestine protest in Sweden sported a mock Auschwitz gate with “Gaza” written on it to mock Israel … for defending themselves. Not right, Sweden, for any reason. But, the news offers scant information about the ongoing attacks of Hamas on Israel (like IEDs, snipers, tunnel attacks, or rocket launches) because it’s decreased (but not gone) and the media prefers reporting civilian casualties to military ones. (And, of course, there's the standard anti-Israel media bias.) I suspect if Hamas would stop restoring military capabilities and attacking troops in Gaza and such, maybe Israel would stop defending herself against them. I’m just sayin’.
Explosive WHAT??
Reports are out of a parasite outbreak which includes, according to every media outlet I’ve seen, “explosive diarrhea.” I’m thinking I didn’t need that descriptive detail. “Explosive”? The FDA says they’ve found a culprit—lettuce supplied to Taco Bell restaurants. Of course, it’s just a beginning, but they’re working on it. There have been 1,644 confirmed cases, 94 hospitalizations and no deaths according to that story, which confirms my long-held belief that sometimes the news media serves as a terrorist organization by scaring viewers into an unnecessary panic when there aren’t even 2,000 cases in a nation of more than 330 million people. Keep your heads, people. Okay, maybe not your heads of lettuce, but you know what I mean.
You Keep Using That Word
The headlines are about renewed U.S., Israeli, and Iranian attacks in the ceasefire. Now, I may have a problem with English, but isn’t a “ceasefire” when people cease firing? Anyway, Iran hasn’t given up its “ownership” of the Strait of Hormuz or hitting targets and the U.S. and Israel haven’t given up retaliating and it’s a mess. Here’s a tip. When you agree to a ceasefire, cease firing. Just a suggestion, of course.
Moving Forward … Hopefully
The 21st Century Road to Housing Act became law last week without Trump’s approval. It combines 47 proposals to reduce housing costs and increase housing supply, but who knows if it actually will? I recently recalled that the opposite of “progress” is “congress,” so we’ll see if it remains a truism.
Some Fake News You Might Like
Running with the "Explosive WHAT??" story above, the Bee reports that Taco Bell is now offering new Imodium A-D sauce packets with their food sales to assist customers with their explosive … no … I’m not writing that disturbing phrase again. In other news, Idaho has built a border wall entirely out of potatoes to keep Californians out. Good on you, mate. I feel your pain. Finally, with the actual news of Secretary of War Pete Hegseth ordering testing for testosterone deficiency among military personnel, the Bee is further reporting that he has issued a new order to have military personnel with low testosterone be transferred to the Navy. (That might be an inside joke for much of the military personnel.) But ... won't that just make an almost entirely female navy?
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
A pro-Palestine protest in Sweden sported a mock Auschwitz gate with “Gaza” written on it to mock Israel … for defending themselves. Not right, Sweden, for any reason. But, the news offers scant information about the ongoing attacks of Hamas on Israel (like IEDs, snipers, tunnel attacks, or rocket launches) because it’s decreased (but not gone) and the media prefers reporting civilian casualties to military ones. (And, of course, there's the standard anti-Israel media bias.) I suspect if Hamas would stop restoring military capabilities and attacking troops in Gaza and such, maybe Israel would stop defending herself against them. I’m just sayin’.
Explosive WHAT??
Reports are out of a parasite outbreak which includes, according to every media outlet I’ve seen, “explosive diarrhea.” I’m thinking I didn’t need that descriptive detail. “Explosive”? The FDA says they’ve found a culprit—lettuce supplied to Taco Bell restaurants. Of course, it’s just a beginning, but they’re working on it. There have been 1,644 confirmed cases, 94 hospitalizations and no deaths according to that story, which confirms my long-held belief that sometimes the news media serves as a terrorist organization by scaring viewers into an unnecessary panic when there aren’t even 2,000 cases in a nation of more than 330 million people. Keep your heads, people. Okay, maybe not your heads of lettuce, but you know what I mean.
You Keep Using That Word
The headlines are about renewed U.S., Israeli, and Iranian attacks in the ceasefire. Now, I may have a problem with English, but isn’t a “ceasefire” when people cease firing? Anyway, Iran hasn’t given up its “ownership” of the Strait of Hormuz or hitting targets and the U.S. and Israel haven’t given up retaliating and it’s a mess. Here’s a tip. When you agree to a ceasefire, cease firing. Just a suggestion, of course.
Moving Forward … Hopefully
The 21st Century Road to Housing Act became law last week without Trump’s approval. It combines 47 proposals to reduce housing costs and increase housing supply, but who knows if it actually will? I recently recalled that the opposite of “progress” is “congress,” so we’ll see if it remains a truism.
Some Fake News You Might Like
Running with the "Explosive WHAT??" story above, the Bee reports that Taco Bell is now offering new Imodium A-D sauce packets with their food sales to assist customers with their explosive … no … I’m not writing that disturbing phrase again. In other news, Idaho has built a border wall entirely out of potatoes to keep Californians out. Good on you, mate. I feel your pain. Finally, with the actual news of Secretary of War Pete Hegseth ordering testing for testosterone deficiency among military personnel, the Bee is further reporting that he has issued a new order to have military personnel with low testosterone be transferred to the Navy. (That might be an inside joke for much of the military personnel.) But ... won't that just make an almost entirely female navy?
Must be true; I read it on the internet.
Friday, July 17, 2026
On Faith
Hebrews 11 is often referred to as “the faith chapter.” You know, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Heb. 11:1). The very definition, right? I’m not so sure. In fact, I see in that text a definition of biblical hope rather than biblical faith. That is, hope is the conviction that the unseen will occur—on the basis of faith.
You can see that in the initial wording. It isn’t defining faith so much as describing it. It isn’t telling you what faith is so much as what faith does. The chapter goes on with illustrations of what people did on the basis of faith. Faith has its effects—hope, conviction, actions. James said that faith without works is dead (James 2:17). So Hebrews 11 is about what faith produces rather than what faith is.
Biblical faith is never credulity. Credulity is a leap in the dark. Biblical faith is always reasonable. It rests squarely on God’s revealed character (Rom. 1:19–20), His past actions, and His promises. We don’t believe in a vacuum; we believe with evidence. Biblical faith includes truth—information we must believe—assent—our agreement with that truth—and confidence—our personal reliance on the truth we believe. It’s a solid structure, not a nebulous feeling, built on the God of the universe who has revealed Himself to us.
Biblical faith is not the modern version. It’s not believing without evidence. It’s not believing in spite of the evidence. It’s not “believing the improbable” or indulging in wishful thinking. It is based on the truth about God and the historical evidence—as shown in Hebrews 11, which lists people who acted on faith to demonstrate how faith operates.
Biblical faith, then, is confident trust in God’s character and promises, grounded in His revealed word and proven faithfulness. It’s not a shot in the dark. It’s not mindless following. It’s not blind. It is rational, credible, covenantal trust.
Biblical faith is sturdy because its foundation is God Himself—His character, His word, His works. Hebrews 11 reminds us that those who walked before us didn’t cling to faith as a vague feeling or blind optimism; they trusted a God who had proven His faithfulness, and their hope grew solid because of it. That same God calls us to the same kind of confidence today. So perhaps the real question is not whether faith is hard, but whether we are truly resting in the One who makes faith reasonable, hope certain, and obedience the natural outflow of trust.
You can see that in the initial wording. It isn’t defining faith so much as describing it. It isn’t telling you what faith is so much as what faith does. The chapter goes on with illustrations of what people did on the basis of faith. Faith has its effects—hope, conviction, actions. James said that faith without works is dead (James 2:17). So Hebrews 11 is about what faith produces rather than what faith is.
Biblical faith is never credulity. Credulity is a leap in the dark. Biblical faith is always reasonable. It rests squarely on God’s revealed character (Rom. 1:19–20), His past actions, and His promises. We don’t believe in a vacuum; we believe with evidence. Biblical faith includes truth—information we must believe—assent—our agreement with that truth—and confidence—our personal reliance on the truth we believe. It’s a solid structure, not a nebulous feeling, built on the God of the universe who has revealed Himself to us.
Biblical faith is not the modern version. It’s not believing without evidence. It’s not believing in spite of the evidence. It’s not “believing the improbable” or indulging in wishful thinking. It is based on the truth about God and the historical evidence—as shown in Hebrews 11, which lists people who acted on faith to demonstrate how faith operates.
Biblical faith, then, is confident trust in God’s character and promises, grounded in His revealed word and proven faithfulness. It’s not a shot in the dark. It’s not mindless following. It’s not blind. It is rational, credible, covenantal trust.
Biblical faith is sturdy because its foundation is God Himself—His character, His word, His works. Hebrews 11 reminds us that those who walked before us didn’t cling to faith as a vague feeling or blind optimism; they trusted a God who had proven His faithfulness, and their hope grew solid because of it. That same God calls us to the same kind of confidence today. So perhaps the real question is not whether faith is hard, but whether we are truly resting in the One who makes faith reasonable, hope certain, and obedience the natural outflow of trust.
Thursday, July 16, 2026
The Weight Behind the “Therefore”
Most Christians love that passage in Romans where Paul writes, “Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have obtained our introduction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we exult in hope of the glory of God” (Rom 5:1–2). It really is a wonderful text—full of good things. But some of that good stuff is often missed because we read it out of context.
Paul begins with “therefore” for a reason. He has just told his readers that he is all about the gospel (Rom 1:1, 14–17). He isn’t ashamed of it, and it is about the power of God and the revelation of His righteousness. He begins with the bad news—the righteous wrath of God against all who “do not honor” God (Rom 1:18–21). That’s the real issue. It’s not merely “doing bad things.” It’s not simply “failing to obey.” It is the failure—indeed, the refusal—to honor or thank God, and the resulting idolatry that naturally follows: the idolatry of self (Rom 1:25). All the way to chapter 3, Paul expounds on this bad news. He lays it on thick. “There is none who does good; no, not one” (Rom 3:12). And the root cause: “There is no fear of God before their eyes” (Rom 3:18).
Then comes the good news. Yes, we have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Rom 3:23), but God is justifying us as a gift by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ’s blood (Rom 3:24–25). That wrath is appeased in Christ—the word is propitiation. God demonstrates His righteousness in this act of grace (Rom 3:26). Paul then gives the example of Abraham (Rom 4), who had righteousness credited to him on the basis of faith.
Now we enter chapter 5. “Therefore” is built on all of that. “For this reason,” Paul says, “having been justified, we have peace with God.” Standing on its own, that’s good news. Standing in juxtaposition with “the wrath of God is revealed” makes it so much bigger.
But there’s more.
The text says “having been justified by faith.” That’s past tense. Done. Finished. No need for further action or additional justification. Those who come in faith have been justified—end of story. And that peace isn’t a warm feeling; it’s a reality. Sometimes we can experience peace when we shouldn’t or lack peace when we should have it, but this peace is from God’s side. He has declared peace between us—an objective truth. God has extended peace to us.
But there’s more.
Remember how “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”? Paul says “we exult in hope of the glory of God.” That glory of God that we fell short of in sin is now being restored. Standing in His grace, we are fully re-established and will ourselves ultimately be glorified (Rom 8:29-30).
We often understand the gospel most clearly in chapter 3: “For we maintain that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the Law” (Rom 3:28). Good stuff. Even better considering our universal sin condition and God’s righteous wrath. Better still given our inability to work through it (Rom 3:19–20). But the gospel is so much bigger than that. Don’t miss it. Immerse yourself in it. It is really, really good news.
Paul begins with “therefore” for a reason. He has just told his readers that he is all about the gospel (Rom 1:1, 14–17). He isn’t ashamed of it, and it is about the power of God and the revelation of His righteousness. He begins with the bad news—the righteous wrath of God against all who “do not honor” God (Rom 1:18–21). That’s the real issue. It’s not merely “doing bad things.” It’s not simply “failing to obey.” It is the failure—indeed, the refusal—to honor or thank God, and the resulting idolatry that naturally follows: the idolatry of self (Rom 1:25). All the way to chapter 3, Paul expounds on this bad news. He lays it on thick. “There is none who does good; no, not one” (Rom 3:12). And the root cause: “There is no fear of God before their eyes” (Rom 3:18).
Then comes the good news. Yes, we have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Rom 3:23), but God is justifying us as a gift by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ’s blood (Rom 3:24–25). That wrath is appeased in Christ—the word is propitiation. God demonstrates His righteousness in this act of grace (Rom 3:26). Paul then gives the example of Abraham (Rom 4), who had righteousness credited to him on the basis of faith.
Now we enter chapter 5. “Therefore” is built on all of that. “For this reason,” Paul says, “having been justified, we have peace with God.” Standing on its own, that’s good news. Standing in juxtaposition with “the wrath of God is revealed” makes it so much bigger.
But there’s more.
The text says “having been justified by faith.” That’s past tense. Done. Finished. No need for further action or additional justification. Those who come in faith have been justified—end of story. And that peace isn’t a warm feeling; it’s a reality. Sometimes we can experience peace when we shouldn’t or lack peace when we should have it, but this peace is from God’s side. He has declared peace between us—an objective truth. God has extended peace to us.
But there’s more.
Remember how “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”? Paul says “we exult in hope of the glory of God.” That glory of God that we fell short of in sin is now being restored. Standing in His grace, we are fully re-established and will ourselves ultimately be glorified (Rom 8:29-30).
We often understand the gospel most clearly in chapter 3: “For we maintain that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the Law” (Rom 3:28). Good stuff. Even better considering our universal sin condition and God’s righteous wrath. Better still given our inability to work through it (Rom 3:19–20). But the gospel is so much bigger than that. Don’t miss it. Immerse yourself in it. It is really, really good news.
Wednesday, July 15, 2026
The Gossip Chain
Maybe you’ve experienced this. A person asks for “prayer requests,” and what follows is something much like, “Have you heard about Suzy???”—except dressed up in prayer request language. “Please pray for Suzy. She’s pregnant out of wedlock, you know, and she and her family will need a lot of prayer.”
Then add what many churches do: they have a prayer chain. Now Suzy’s “prayer request” gets elevated to a host of mostly women on the prayer chain who will now have this juicy piece of gossip—sorry, prayer request—to “pray about” while they share it with others.
Someone recently asked me, “Is there any biblical merit to asking for prayer requests?” In light of this, I thought it might be worth examining the question.
Why do we do it? Why do we “share prayer requests”? It turns out, it’s biblical. It’s called “intercessory prayer”, and we are commanded to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thess. 5:17). Scripture is full of praying for others. Paul writes, “I urge that entreaties and prayers, petitions and thanksgivings, be made on behalf of all men” (1 Tim. 2:1). Samuel told the people, “Far be it from me that I should sin against YHWH by ceasing to pray for you” (1 Sam. 12:23). Jesus interceded for His disciples (John 17:1–26). And the examples continue throughout the Bible.
Beyond that, we are told to “bear one another’s burdens” (Gal. 6:2). Paul often asked for prayers for himself or for others (e.g., Eph. 6:19–20; Col. 4:3–4; Rom. 15:30–31; Eph. 6:18).
Additionally, James assures us that “the effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much,” and he instructs believers to go to the elders and ask for prayer (James 5:13–18).
So what about these abuses? Anyone with any experience in churches has seen prayer chains used as gossip chains. Doesn’t that negate this whole “ask for prayer requests” idea? Isn’t that enabling sin?
The answer is yes—when prayer becomes gossip, it is sinful. However, that doesn’t mean the practice itself is unbiblical; it means the misuse is sinful. The problem is not the requests; it’s the sinful humans involved.
Therefore, we should continue the practice of intercessory prayer and sharing our burdens (James 5:16). It cultivates humility and compassion. It strengthens unity and aids accountability. The fact that some people misuse it doesn’t negate any of this.
And since we noticed Galatians 6:2—“Bear one another’s burdens”—perhaps we should also practice Galatians 6:1 when we see this gossip occurring: “if anyone is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness.”
Then add what many churches do: they have a prayer chain. Now Suzy’s “prayer request” gets elevated to a host of mostly women on the prayer chain who will now have this juicy piece of gossip—sorry, prayer request—to “pray about” while they share it with others.
Someone recently asked me, “Is there any biblical merit to asking for prayer requests?” In light of this, I thought it might be worth examining the question.
Why do we do it? Why do we “share prayer requests”? It turns out, it’s biblical. It’s called “intercessory prayer”, and we are commanded to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thess. 5:17). Scripture is full of praying for others. Paul writes, “I urge that entreaties and prayers, petitions and thanksgivings, be made on behalf of all men” (1 Tim. 2:1). Samuel told the people, “Far be it from me that I should sin against YHWH by ceasing to pray for you” (1 Sam. 12:23). Jesus interceded for His disciples (John 17:1–26). And the examples continue throughout the Bible.
Beyond that, we are told to “bear one another’s burdens” (Gal. 6:2). Paul often asked for prayers for himself or for others (e.g., Eph. 6:19–20; Col. 4:3–4; Rom. 15:30–31; Eph. 6:18).
Additionally, James assures us that “the effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much,” and he instructs believers to go to the elders and ask for prayer (James 5:13–18).
So what about these abuses? Anyone with any experience in churches has seen prayer chains used as gossip chains. Doesn’t that negate this whole “ask for prayer requests” idea? Isn’t that enabling sin?
The answer is yes—when prayer becomes gossip, it is sinful. However, that doesn’t mean the practice itself is unbiblical; it means the misuse is sinful. The problem is not the requests; it’s the sinful humans involved.
Therefore, we should continue the practice of intercessory prayer and sharing our burdens (James 5:16). It cultivates humility and compassion. It strengthens unity and aids accountability. The fact that some people misuse it doesn’t negate any of this.
And since we noticed Galatians 6:2—“Bear one another’s burdens”—perhaps we should also practice Galatians 6:1 when we see this gossip occurring: “if anyone is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness.”
Tuesday, July 14, 2026
The Church and Its Men (MCBA)
There’s a sense in the 21st century church that it’s more for women than for men, that men don’t think it’s “manly.” I’ve heard it often enough to know it isn’t just a stray comment here or there. The question is, is it true? And if it is, why?
I think there’s something to it, but not because Christianity itself is somehow feminine. If you read your Bible, you’ll find warriors, prophets, kings, builders, apostles, and martyrs. You’ll find courage, sacrifice, danger, mission, and responsibility. You’ll find Jesus Himself—strong, steady, bold, and willing to lay down His life. There’s nothing “unmanly” about any of that.
The problem isn’t the faith; it’s the culture we’ve built around it.
Somewhere along the way, church became a place where men feel like spectators. Sit down. Sing a few songs. Listen to a long talk. Go home. There’s not much challenge in that, not much risk, not much sense of mission. Men tend to respond to responsibility, to action, to being needed. Men sometimes prefer intellectual rigor while women often respond better to emotional encouragement. But in many churches, the only thing men are asked to do is show up and behave.
Add to that the fact that modern church life leans heavily on verbal and emotional expression—sharing feelings, talking things out, sitting in circles. Again, nothing wrong with any of that, but when it becomes the dominant mode, men who connect more through doing than talking feel out of place. And when most of the visible volunteers, Bible study leaders, and ministry workers are women, men don’t see themselves reflected in the life of the church.
So yes, some men feel church is “for women,” but it’s not because Christianity is feminine. It’s because we’ve trimmed away the parts of church life that used to call men to something bigger than themselves—brotherhood, service, leadership, sacrifice, and mission. We've definitely undercut the biblical "patriarchy"—the need for men to be responsible for their families and fellow believers—that is throughout Scripture (E.G., 1 Cor 11:3; Eph 5:23; 1 Tim 2:12; 1 Tim 3:1-7). We’ve made church safe, polite, and predictable. But biblical Christianity was never any of those things.
The solution isn’t to make church macho. It’s to make it biblical again. (That "MCBA" in the title is for "Make Church Biblical Again.") When the church recovers its sense of mission, responsibility, discipleship, and genuine fellowship—when men are called to serve, lead, protect, build, and invest—this idea that church is “for women” evaporates. Men don’t need church to be manly. They need it to be true.
I think there’s something to it, but not because Christianity itself is somehow feminine. If you read your Bible, you’ll find warriors, prophets, kings, builders, apostles, and martyrs. You’ll find courage, sacrifice, danger, mission, and responsibility. You’ll find Jesus Himself—strong, steady, bold, and willing to lay down His life. There’s nothing “unmanly” about any of that.
The problem isn’t the faith; it’s the culture we’ve built around it.
Somewhere along the way, church became a place where men feel like spectators. Sit down. Sing a few songs. Listen to a long talk. Go home. There’s not much challenge in that, not much risk, not much sense of mission. Men tend to respond to responsibility, to action, to being needed. Men sometimes prefer intellectual rigor while women often respond better to emotional encouragement. But in many churches, the only thing men are asked to do is show up and behave.
Add to that the fact that modern church life leans heavily on verbal and emotional expression—sharing feelings, talking things out, sitting in circles. Again, nothing wrong with any of that, but when it becomes the dominant mode, men who connect more through doing than talking feel out of place. And when most of the visible volunteers, Bible study leaders, and ministry workers are women, men don’t see themselves reflected in the life of the church.
So yes, some men feel church is “for women,” but it’s not because Christianity is feminine. It’s because we’ve trimmed away the parts of church life that used to call men to something bigger than themselves—brotherhood, service, leadership, sacrifice, and mission. We've definitely undercut the biblical "patriarchy"—the need for men to be responsible for their families and fellow believers—that is throughout Scripture (E.G., 1 Cor 11:3; Eph 5:23; 1 Tim 2:12; 1 Tim 3:1-7). We’ve made church safe, polite, and predictable. But biblical Christianity was never any of those things.
The solution isn’t to make church macho. It’s to make it biblical again. (That "MCBA" in the title is for "Make Church Biblical Again.") When the church recovers its sense of mission, responsibility, discipleship, and genuine fellowship—when men are called to serve, lead, protect, build, and invest—this idea that church is “for women” evaporates. Men don’t need church to be manly. They need it to be true.
Monday, July 13, 2026
Why the Church Gathers: A Biblical Call We’ve Forgotten
It's Monday, and I hope every one of you believers went to church yesterday. That got me to thinking. In 2020, COVID made its appearance, bringing radical shifts in everyday thinking. People still wear masks and distance themselves. Many continue to work from home because of COVID’s influence. Surveys suggest that around 20% of churchgoers now choose to watch services via live streaming rather than attend in person. And that’s where I stop and think, “Is that reasonable?”
The statistics on self‑professed Christians who “attend church” by watching a video reveal a mindset about the purpose of the church, and it’s not just a COVID‑era issue. For as long as I can remember, many people “attended church” by going to a Sunday service and then going home. So why not skip the “going” and stay home in these busy days?
So we have to ask: What is the purpose of the church?
First and foremost, the church is the gathering of God’s people, designed “for the praise of His glory” (Eph. 1:12). No question about it (1 Cor 10:31). The church is responsible for teaching sound doctrine and equipping believers (Eph. 4:11–12). That is, singing isn’t the main event. Neither are the sermons. Transformation is the point, supported by those—and more. And worship isn't a "Sunday morning" thing; it's everyday sacrificing of self (Rom 12:1).
The early church met daily for teaching, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer (Acts 2:42). Theirs was a spiritual family—sharing life, bearing burdens, and practicing love (Gal. 6:2; 1 Pet. 4:8). Paul says each believer is given a gift of the Spirit “for the common good” (1 Cor. 12:7). The author of Hebrews considers gathering mandatory for stimulating one another to love and encouraging one another (Heb. 10:23–25).
So I ask you: How can we attend a service, disappear, and call it “gathering” or “stimulating one another” to anything but selfish living? How much actual fellowship takes place in a typical church service? How much exercising of our gifts occurs in a Sunday morning service—especially one attended only online?
COVID was a bad thing, but worse than the illness is the mindset that remains. It has exposed an underlying problem in the church that existed long before COVID. We don’t have a robust notion of the purpose of the church, so we don’t mind staying home and watching from a distance—or "hit and run" attendance.
But the Bible represents God’s people as “the body of Christ” (1 Cor. 12:27; Rom. 12:5; Eph. 4:12; Col. 1:24). We are God’s adopted children (Rom. 8:15–17; Gal. 4:4–7; Eph. 1:5), a family. And the Great Commission wasn’t merely to make converts; it was to make disciples, “teaching them to observe all that I commanded you” (Matt. 28:18–20). That's a long-term, up-close-and-personal task.
The church is so much more than “a Sunday song and sermon,” and our failure to grasp that has done great harm to the body of Christ.
The statistics on self‑professed Christians who “attend church” by watching a video reveal a mindset about the purpose of the church, and it’s not just a COVID‑era issue. For as long as I can remember, many people “attended church” by going to a Sunday service and then going home. So why not skip the “going” and stay home in these busy days?
So we have to ask: What is the purpose of the church?
First and foremost, the church is the gathering of God’s people, designed “for the praise of His glory” (Eph. 1:12). No question about it (1 Cor 10:31). The church is responsible for teaching sound doctrine and equipping believers (Eph. 4:11–12). That is, singing isn’t the main event. Neither are the sermons. Transformation is the point, supported by those—and more. And worship isn't a "Sunday morning" thing; it's everyday sacrificing of self (Rom 12:1).
The early church met daily for teaching, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer (Acts 2:42). Theirs was a spiritual family—sharing life, bearing burdens, and practicing love (Gal. 6:2; 1 Pet. 4:8). Paul says each believer is given a gift of the Spirit “for the common good” (1 Cor. 12:7). The author of Hebrews considers gathering mandatory for stimulating one another to love and encouraging one another (Heb. 10:23–25).
So I ask you: How can we attend a service, disappear, and call it “gathering” or “stimulating one another” to anything but selfish living? How much actual fellowship takes place in a typical church service? How much exercising of our gifts occurs in a Sunday morning service—especially one attended only online?
COVID was a bad thing, but worse than the illness is the mindset that remains. It has exposed an underlying problem in the church that existed long before COVID. We don’t have a robust notion of the purpose of the church, so we don’t mind staying home and watching from a distance—or "hit and run" attendance.
But the Bible represents God’s people as “the body of Christ” (1 Cor. 12:27; Rom. 12:5; Eph. 4:12; Col. 1:24). We are God’s adopted children (Rom. 8:15–17; Gal. 4:4–7; Eph. 1:5), a family. And the Great Commission wasn’t merely to make converts; it was to make disciples, “teaching them to observe all that I commanded you” (Matt. 28:18–20). That's a long-term, up-close-and-personal task.
The church is so much more than “a Sunday song and sermon,” and our failure to grasp that has done great harm to the body of Christ.
Sunday, July 12, 2026
Experiencing God
Recently, in some comments, we discussed Adam and Eve and the question of whether God’s grace and mercy can be experienced without the Fall—without sin. The suggestion was that apart from sin, God’s grace could not be known. This is not in direct response to the conversation, but just a review of the concept. Let’s take a closer look.
Christians sometimes speak “Christianese,” our own peculiar vocabulary. Take the word justification. We don’t mean “the way the text lies on the page,” “making excuses,” or “showing something to be right.” We usually think of “justified by faith”—as in God declaring the unrighteous righteous on the basis of faith in Christ. But Scripture uses the term more broadly. For example, when Jesus said, “Wisdom is justified by all her children” (Luke 7:35), He wasn’t referring to Wisdom’s faith making her righteous. He meant that what wisdom produces demonstrates that wisdom is right. That’s just one example.
Then we come to grace. We rightly call it “amazing”—God’s unmerited favor toward people who do not deserve it. But we often think almost exclusively of saving grace. Scripture shows there is more.
There is common grace, like God giving sun and rain to both the righteous and the wicked (Matt. 5:45). There is saving grace (Eph. 2:8–9), sanctifying grace (Titus 2:11–12), sustaining grace (2 Cor. 12:9), and serving grace (1 Pet. 4:10). All of these are expressions of God’s favor toward us who have not earned it. None of it is owed. None of it is merited.
I still maintain that the fullest experience of God’s grace is found in His saving grace. The Fall—Adam’s original sin—was truly evil, yet God intended it for good and therefore permitted it (cf. Gen. 50:20; Acts 2:23; Luke 22:22). Grace is most fully realized when we see God’s righteous wrath against “vessels of wrath prepared for destruction” turned into mercy toward “vessels of mercy” (Rom. 9:22-23). Mercy can only be seen where mercy is required. Mercy is the withholding of deserved punishment; it cannot be experienced if no punishment is due. Likewise, we cannot fully grasp God’s love if He never demonstrated His love by sending His Son to die for us—a display that would have been unnecessary if no one had sinned.
So yes, Adam and Eve encountered God’s unmerited favor in Eden. They did not earn His kindness; He freely granted it. And it’s important to remember that. God does not owe us His favor. It is always unmerited. If He chose to eliminate us, He would be within His rights. But He is better than that. He is amazingly gracious.
Christians sometimes speak “Christianese,” our own peculiar vocabulary. Take the word justification. We don’t mean “the way the text lies on the page,” “making excuses,” or “showing something to be right.” We usually think of “justified by faith”—as in God declaring the unrighteous righteous on the basis of faith in Christ. But Scripture uses the term more broadly. For example, when Jesus said, “Wisdom is justified by all her children” (Luke 7:35), He wasn’t referring to Wisdom’s faith making her righteous. He meant that what wisdom produces demonstrates that wisdom is right. That’s just one example.
Then we come to grace. We rightly call it “amazing”—God’s unmerited favor toward people who do not deserve it. But we often think almost exclusively of saving grace. Scripture shows there is more.
There is common grace, like God giving sun and rain to both the righteous and the wicked (Matt. 5:45). There is saving grace (Eph. 2:8–9), sanctifying grace (Titus 2:11–12), sustaining grace (2 Cor. 12:9), and serving grace (1 Pet. 4:10). All of these are expressions of God’s favor toward us who have not earned it. None of it is owed. None of it is merited.
I still maintain that the fullest experience of God’s grace is found in His saving grace. The Fall—Adam’s original sin—was truly evil, yet God intended it for good and therefore permitted it (cf. Gen. 50:20; Acts 2:23; Luke 22:22). Grace is most fully realized when we see God’s righteous wrath against “vessels of wrath prepared for destruction” turned into mercy toward “vessels of mercy” (Rom. 9:22-23). Mercy can only be seen where mercy is required. Mercy is the withholding of deserved punishment; it cannot be experienced if no punishment is due. Likewise, we cannot fully grasp God’s love if He never demonstrated His love by sending His Son to die for us—a display that would have been unnecessary if no one had sinned.
So yes, Adam and Eve encountered God’s unmerited favor in Eden. They did not earn His kindness; He freely granted it. And it’s important to remember that. God does not owe us His favor. It is always unmerited. If He chose to eliminate us, He would be within His rights. But He is better than that. He is amazingly gracious.
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