Daily Reflections From God's Word

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  • Fifty-Nine Years Later: A Conversation With the Younger Versions of Myself

    Fifty-Nine Years Later: A Conversation With the Younger Versions of Myself

    Today I turn fifty-nine.

    Fifty-nine years.

    Nearly six decades.

    More than twenty-one thousand days of joys, sorrows, victories, failures, unexpected blessings, and lessons I never saw coming.

    People sometimes ask what I would say to my younger self if I had the chance.

    For years, I thought I would tell him how to avoid mistakes.

    How to choose differently.

    How to spare himself heartache.

    But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve realized something.

    If I could erase every painful chapter…

    I might also erase many of the places where I learned who God really is.

    So today, on my fifty-ninth birthday…

    I’d simply like to have a conversation with the younger versions of myself.

    ⸻

    To six-year-old Ben…

    I know you’re confused.

    You don’t understand why your mother is gone.

    You don’t understand why you’re living with your aunt and uncle while other boys live with their parents.

    You’re going to spend years wondering why your story began this way.

    I can’t answer every question.

    But I can promise you this.

    God sees you.

    Even when you don’t yet know how to see Him.

    ⸻

    To thirteen-year-old Ben…

    You’re trying to figure out who you are.

    You’re looking for acceptance.

    Trying to fit in.

    Wondering where you belong.

    Listen carefully.

    Don’t let the opinions of people become louder than the voice of God.

    One day you’ll discover that what God knows about you is infinitely more important than what anyone else thinks about you.

    ⸻

    To seventeen-year-old Ben…

    You just lost your daddy.

    The world suddenly feels different.

    There are conversations you’ll wish you could have one more time.

    Questions you’ll never get to ask.

    The ache won’t disappear overnight.

    But love has a way of surviving even death.

    And so does hope.

    ⸻

    To twenty-one-year-old Ben…

    You think adulthood means having all the answers.

    It doesn’t.

    You’re going to make some wonderful decisions.

    You’re also going to make some painful ones.

    Don’t confuse confidence with wisdom.

    Never stop asking God to direct your steps.

    ⸻

    To twenty-six-year-old Ben…

    Tomorrow you’ll marry the woman you love.

    You’re filled with hope.

    Dreams.

    Plans.

    Marriage is a beautiful gift.

    But remember…

    Love isn’t sustained by emotion alone.

    Choose faithfulness every single day.

    Especially on the days when feelings aren’t enough.

    ⸻

    To forty-year-old Ben…

    You’re about to become a dad.

    Not by birth…

    But by love.

    You have no idea how much that little boy is going to change your life.

    He’ll teach you things about the Father’s heart that no book ever could.

    Treasure every moment.

    Even the ordinary ones.

    Especially the ordinary ones.

    ⸻

    To forty-three-year-old Ben…

    Turn the car around.

    Call your wife.

    Go home.

    There is nothing waiting for you that is worth what you’re about to lose.

    Sin always promises more than it delivers.

    Grace will find you…

    But the scars are real.

    Don’t believe the lie that one decision won’t matter.

    It will.

    ⸻

    To fifty-five-year-old Ben…

    I know you’re sitting in front of a camera trying to make sense of another broken chapter.

    You wonder whether your best days are behind you.

    Keep talking to God.

    Even when your prayers feel like they’re only reaching the ceiling.

    He is listening.

    Even in the silence.

    ⸻

    To fifty-seven-year-old Ben…

    You’re packing boxes.

    Leaving another marriage behind.

    Again.

    You feel like your life has become a collection of endings.

    It hasn’t.

    God still writes new chapters after the ones we’d rather tear out.

    Don’t stop believing that.

    ⸻

    And now…

    Today, I stand on the other side of fifty-nine years.

    Years filled with moments I would gladly relive…

    And moments I would give almost anything to undo.

    Yet every one of them became part of the story God was writing.

    And that’s what I see most clearly today.

    If I’m honest…

    There are things I would change.

    Words I wish I’d never spoken.

    Sins I wish I’d never committed.

    People I wish I’d never hurt.

    Moments I’d gladly relive if I could.

    But I can’t.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Because when I look back over nearly six decades…

    I don’t see a man who always got it right.

    I see a God who never stopped pursuing a man who often got it wrong.

    His mercy outlasted my failures.

    His grace proved greater than my shame.

    His patience exceeded my stubbornness.

    His faithfulness remained when mine faltered.

    If my story proves anything…

    It isn’t that I’ve lived an extraordinary life.

    It’s that I’ve served an extraordinary God.

    Today I turn fifty-nine.

    I don’t know how many birthdays remain.

    Only God knows that.

    But I do know this.

    The same God who walked beside a frightened little boy…

    Strengthened a grieving young man…

    Forgave a broken husband…

    Loved an imperfect father…

    And refused to abandon an aging disciple…

    Will still be faithful tomorrow.

    And every tomorrow after that…

    Until He calls me home.

    If He grants me another year…

    My prayer isn’t that life becomes easier.

    It’s simply that I become more like Christ.

    ⸻

    Final Word

    If I could leave one message for every younger version of myself, it would simply be this:

    Don’t give up on God.

    There will be days when you don’t understand Him.

    Days when you question Him.

    Days when you disappoint Him.

    And days when you wonder if He’s forgotten you.

    He hasn’t.

    One day you’ll look back and realize that through every joy, every loss, every failure, every victory, and every unexpected turn…

    The greatest constant in your life was never your strength.

    It was His faithfulness.

    Today isn’t really about turning fifty-nine.

    It’s about celebrating fifty-nine years of a faithful God.

    To Him be all the glory. conversation with the younger versions of myself.

  • What the Mountains Taught Me About the Valley

    What the Mountains Taught Me About the Valley

    Last summer, while driving through Wyoming and Colorado, I noticed something that challenged an assumption I’d carried for years.

    The valleys weren’t the difficult part of the journey.

    They were broad. Open. In many places, I could see for miles. The roads were relatively gentle, and obstacles could often be spotted long before I reached them.

    It was the mountains that demanded my full attention.

    The road narrowed.

    The next curve disappeared from view.

    The drop-offs became steeper.

    The weather changed without warning.

    Every mile required a little more caution than the last.

    As I drove, a question quietly settled into my mind.

    Have we, as Christians, oversimplified the Bible’s language about mountains and valleys?

    For years, I’ve heard people describe difficult seasons as “walking through the valley” and victorious seasons as “standing on the mountaintop.” There is certainly biblical truth behind those expressions. After all, David wrote of walking through “the valley of the shadow of death,” and mountains are often places where God revealed Himself in extraordinary ways.

    But Scripture paints a richer picture than our clichés sometimes allow.

    Not every valley in the Bible is a place of despair.

    Some valleys are fertile.

    Some are filled with rivers.

    Some become places where battles are fought and won.

    Some are where people build homes, raise families, and experience God’s daily provision.

    Likewise, not every mountain represents ease or triumph.

    Abraham climbed Mount Moriah carrying the wood for Isaac’s sacrifice.

    Moses climbed Mount Sinai into God’s presence.

    Elijah climbed Mount Carmel to confront hundreds of false prophets.

    Each ascent required obedience before it brought revelation.

    Then I thought about Lot.

    When Abraham gave him first choice, Lot looked toward the well-watered plain of the Jordan. It seemed like the obvious decision. Fertile land. Prosperity. Opportunity. Yet that same plain led him toward Sodom. The problem wasn’t that Lot chose a valley. The problem was that he chose by sight instead of by faith.

    The geography wasn’t the lesson.

    His heart was.

    Perhaps that’s where we sometimes miss the point.

    We become so focused on whether we’re living in a “valley” or standing on a “mountain” that we forget the Bible never asks us to put our confidence in the terrain.

    It asks us to trust the One who leads us through it.

    Sometimes God meets us on the mountain.

    Sometimes He restores us beside still waters in the valley.

    Sometimes He calls us to climb.

    Sometimes He calls us to descend.

    Peter wanted to remain on the mountain after witnessing Christ’s glory, but Jesus led him back down because ministry was waiting below.

    Mountaintops are often places of revelation.

    Valleys are often places where that revelation is lived out.

    Looking back, I realized the most dangerous part of my drive wasn’t the open valley stretching before me.

    It was the climb where I couldn’t see what lay around the next bend.

    Yet that’s also where I became most attentive.

    I slowed down.

    I watched more carefully.

    I depended less on myself.

    Maybe that’s exactly why God sometimes leads us into seasons where we can’t see very far ahead.

    Not because He has abandoned us…

    But because faith grows best when we learn to trust the Guide more than the map.

    The older I get, the less interested I am in labeling every season of life as either a mountain or a valley.

    Instead, I’m learning to ask a different question.

    Where is God leading me today?

    Because whether the road winds through fertile plains, shadowed ravines, or steep mountain passes, His presence has always mattered far more than the landscape.

    ⸻

    Final Word

    We spend a lot of time asking whether we’re on the mountaintop or in the valley.

    Scripture asks a different question.

    Are you following the Shepherd?

    The terrain will change.

    Some days will be wide, open valleys filled with quiet provision.

    Others will be steep climbs where every step requires faith.

    Neither place defines your relationship with God.

    His presence does.

    So don’t place your hope in reaching easier ground.

    Place it in the One who never leaves the path.

  • The Blessing You Didn’t Pray For

    The Blessing You Didn’t Pray For

    “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above…” — James 1:17

    A song came to mind this week that asks a series of thought-provoking questions.

    What if the things we call hardships are sometimes the very means by which God accomplishes His greatest work in our lives?

    It isn’t asking whether pain is enjoyable.
    It isn’t suggesting that loss somehow becomes pleasant.

    Instead, it challenges us to consider a difficult possibility:

    What if some of God’s greatest blessings arrive in packages we would never choose to open?

    That thought immediately took me back through Scripture.

    Joseph certainly wouldn’t have chosen betrayal by his brothers.
    He wouldn’t have chosen slavery.
    He wouldn’t have chosen prison.

    Yet years later, he could look back and see that God had been working through every painful chapter.

    David probably wouldn’t have chosen years of hiding in caves while running for his life.

    Moses likely wouldn’t have volunteered for forty years in the wilderness.

    Naomi certainly wouldn’t have chosen famine, widowhood, and the loss of her sons.

    None of those experiences felt like blessings when they were happening.

    Yet every one of them became part of God’s greater purpose.

    I wonder how many blessings I’ve almost missed because I was looking for the wrong wrapping paper.

    We naturally think blessings look like answered prayers.

    Open doors.
    Good health.
    Financial provision.
    Restored relationships.

    There is no question those things can be tremendous gifts from God.

    But sometimes His greatest gifts are quieter.

    A disappointment that redirected our lives.
    A closed door that protected us from walking somewhere we shouldn’t.
    A season of waiting that taught us patience.
    A trial that stripped away our self-reliance and taught us complete dependence upon Him.

    None of us pray for those things.

    Yet many of us would honestly say they became turning points in our walk with Christ.

    I’ve noticed something else.

    We usually recognize those blessings only by looking backward.

    Very few people say in the middle of suffering,

    “I can already see why God allowed this.”

    Perspective often comes long after the pain.

    Perhaps that’s why faith is so essential.

    Faith trusts that God is good before we can understand what He is doing.

    Only later do we begin to see how He was weaving together circumstances we never could have imagined.

    Romans 8:28 isn’t a promise that everything is good.

    It’s a promise that God is working through everything for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.

    That doesn’t minimize grief.
    It doesn’t erase loss.
    It doesn’t pretend suffering isn’t real.

    It simply reminds us that God never wastes any of it.

    One day, I believe we’ll look back and discover that some of the moments we would have erased from our story became the very chapters God used to shape us most into the image of Christ.

    Final Word

    We spend much of our lives asking God to change our circumstances.

    Sometimes He does.

    But often, His greater miracle is using those circumstances to change us.

    Perhaps the greatest blessings aren’t always the ones that make life easier.

    Perhaps they’re the ones that make us more like Jesus.

  • Sunday Studies – Mercy Offends: Lessons from Jonah 4

    Sunday Studies – Mercy Offends: Lessons from Jonah 4

    Most of us know the story of Jonah.

    We remember the storm.

    The great fish.

    The reluctant prophet finally walking through the streets of Nineveh proclaiming God’s coming judgment.

    What often surprises people is that the real climax of the book doesn’t happen when Jonah is swallowed by the fish.

    It happens after Nineveh repents.

    The greatest revival recorded in the Old Testament had just taken place.

    From the king to the common citizen, the people humbled themselves before God. They fasted, repented, and turned from their violence. In response, God withheld the judgment He had promised.

    If we were writing the story, this would be the perfect ending.

    The prophet preached.

    The people repented.

    God showed mercy.

    Everyone celebrates.

    Instead, Jonah chapter 4 opens with these startling words:

    “But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he became angry.” (Jonah 4:1)

    Jonah wasn’t angry because his message failed.

    He was angry because it succeeded.

    He had witnessed exactly what every prophet should long to see—repentance, mercy, and revival.

    And he hated it.

    That should stop every one of us in our tracks.

    Why Was Jonah Angry?

    Jonah explains it himself.

    “I knew that You are a gracious and merciful God, slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness…” (Jonah 4:2)

    Notice what Jonah is saying.

    He isn’t questioning God’s character.

    He knew God’s character perfectly.

    He simply didn’t want God’s mercy extended to those people.

    The Assyrians weren’t misunderstood.

    They were notoriously cruel. They conquered nations through terror, torture, and brutality. Humanly speaking, Jonah’s hatred made sense.

    What didn’t make sense to Jonah was that God’s mercy could be greater than Nineveh’s wickedness.

    Our Jonah Moments

    Before we’re too hard on Jonah, we should ask ourselves a difficult question.

    Who is our Nineveh?

    Who do we quietly believe has crossed the line beyond God’s mercy?

    Maybe it’s a murderer.

    A rapist.

    A child molester.

    An abusive spouse.

    A corrupt politician.

    Someone who destroyed your family.

    Someone who betrayed your trust.

    Most of us have someone.

    We may never say it aloud, but somewhere deep inside we think,

    “Lord… surely not them.”

    That’s where Jonah meets us.

    Justice and Mercy

    This is where many people struggle.

    If God forgives someone guilty of terrible crimes, does that mean justice no longer matters?

    Not at all.

    Scripture never teaches that forgiveness removes earthly consequences.

    David was forgiven, but still lived with painful consequences.

    Moses was forgiven, yet never entered the Promised Land.

    The thief on the cross received mercy, but still died under Roman execution.

    A murderer who genuinely repents may still spend the rest of his life in prison.

    A child molester who truly comes to Christ should still face every legal consequence and every necessary safeguard to protect others.

    Grace does not erase justice.

    It restores a sinner’s relationship with God.

    Those are not the same thing.

    What Forgiveness Looks Like

    Perhaps you’re thinking,

    “That’s easy to say until it’s your child.”

    For one Oklahoma father, it was.

    In 2006, ten-year-old Lindsay Wagoner was raped and murdered. For thirteen years, her father, Bill Wagoner, carried the crushing weight of hatred toward the man who had taken his daughter’s life.

    Eventually, Bill came to a painful realization.

    The man who murdered Lindsay had already stolen enough from his family.

    He wasn’t going to allow him to steal the rest of his life as well.

    In 2019, Bill chose to meet face-to-face with the man who murdered his daughter. He forgave him and shared with him the message of Jesus Christ and the forgiveness that had first been extended to him.

    That meeting didn’t change what had happened.

    It didn’t erase the murder.

    It didn’t remove the prison sentence.

    It didn’t make evil good.

    But it did break the chains that hatred had wrapped around a grieving father’s heart.

    Bill’s story reminds us that forgiveness is never declaring evil to be acceptable.

    It is refusing to allow evil to have the final word.

    Jonah could preach repentance to Nineveh.

    Bill Wagoner lived it.

    One wanted judgment to have the final word.

    The other chose to let mercy have it.

    That is the crossroads every follower of Christ eventually reaches.

    The Foot of the Cross Is Level

    The uncomfortable truth is this:

    The ground at the foot of the cross is perfectly level.

    The respectable church member and the violent criminal are both saved exactly the same way.

    Neither earns forgiveness.

    Neither deserves forgiveness.

    Both stand before God entirely because of grace.

    That doesn’t make their sins equally destructive in this life.

    But it does remind us that salvation has never been based upon the size of our sin.

    It has always been based upon the greatness of our Savior.

    Jonah, the Older Brother… and Us

    Jonah wasn’t the only one to struggle with this.

    Jesus told the story of the prodigal son.

    Most of us celebrate the younger brother coming home.

    But the older brother became angry because someone he believed deserved judgment received mercy instead.

    The Pharisees struggled with tax collectors.

    Peter struggled with Gentiles receiving the Holy Ghost.

    The workers in Jesus’ vineyard parable struggled when those who worked only one hour received the same wage.

    Again and again, Scripture exposes the same temptation.

    We love mercy…

    …until it’s given to someone we don’t think deserves it.

    Looking Into the Mirror

    The Book of Jonah ends strangely.

    There’s no neat conclusion.

    No record of Jonah changing his heart.

    Instead, God simply asks,

    “Is it right for you to be angry?” (Jonah 4:4)

    Then the book ends.

    Almost as though God intentionally leaves the final chapter unfinished.

    Because the last chapter isn’t really about Jonah.

    It’s about us.

    Will we rejoice only when God’s mercy reaches people like us?

    Or will we celebrate whenever another sinner finds forgiveness—even someone we believed was beyond redemption?

    The measure of our understanding of grace isn’t how thankful we are that God forgave us.

    It’s whether we can rejoice when He forgives someone we never thought deserved it.

    Final Word

    The real miracle in Jonah isn’t that God spared Nineveh.

    It’s that God patiently pursued Jonah while his heart was resisting mercy.

    The greatest danger isn’t that God’s grace is too wide.

    It’s that our hearts become too narrow to rejoice when His grace reaches someone we never thought it should.

    If God had drawn the line where we often wish He would…

    none of us would be invited to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

  • The Only Opinion That Ultimately Matters

    “For if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things.” — 1 John 3:20

    Someone once shared a thought that has stayed with me:

    “Sometimes maturing in Christ means letting people believe things about you that aren’t true, remaining quiet, and trusting God to defend you.”

    That isn’t always easy.

    Everything inside us wants to explain ourselves, defend our motives, and make sure everyone knows our side of the story.

    Sometimes that’s appropriate.

    Paul defended his ministry. Jesus answered honest questions. Scripture never teaches us to remain silent in every situation.

    But it does teach us that there comes a point where our confidence must rest in something greater than public opinion.

    I’ve often said:

    “What God knows about me is infinitely more important than what people think or say about me.”

    Think about David.

    As he fled Jerusalem, Shimei cursed him, threw stones at him, and publicly accused him. David’s soldiers wanted to silence the man immediately.

    David refused.

    Instead, he entrusted his reputation to God.

    Think about Jesus.

    He was called a deceiver, a blasphemer, demon possessed, and a friend of sinners. Many of the accusations He simply allowed to stand unanswered because His mission was greater than winning the court of public opinion.

    The older I get, the more I realize that maturity isn’t learning how to win every argument.

    It’s learning which ones don’t need to be won.

    If every misunderstanding demands an explanation…

    If every criticism demands a rebuttal…

    If every accusation demands a defense…

    We’ll spend our lives trying to manage our image instead of cultivating our character.

    That doesn’t mean we ignore godly correction. In fact, mature believers should welcome correction when it’s true.

    But false assumptions, rumors, and misunderstandings are different.

    Sometimes the greatest act of faith is quietly continuing to live a life of integrity and allowing time—and God—to reveal the truth.

    One day, none of us will stand before our critics.

    We won’t stand before Facebook.

    We won’t stand before our friends.

    We won’t stand before those who misunderstood us.

    We will stand before God.

    And on that day, what He knows about us will matter infinitely more than what anyone ever thought or said about us.

    So don’t spend your life chasing the approval of people.

    Pursue the approval of the One who already knows your heart.

    Final Word

    Your reputation is what people believe about you.

    Your character is who you are when only God sees.

    Invest more energy in your character than your reputation.

  • A Matter of Perspective

    Over the past few days, I’ve shared my thoughts regarding a controversy that has generated no shortage of opinions.

    Some have agreed.

    Others have strongly disagreed.

    That’s okay.

    I’ve said what I believe Scripture requires me to say, and I don’t intend to continue debating it.

    But as I’ve reflected on the discussion, my thoughts have drifted toward something much bigger.

    Perspective.

    Jesus never promised His followers an easy road.

    In fact, He promised the opposite.

    “If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you.” (John 15:18)

    “You will be hated by all for My name’s sake.” (Matthew 10:22)

    When I read the New Testament, I don’t find men demanding respect.

    I find men enduring suffering.

    Peter was beaten, imprisoned, and according to Josephus, crucified upside down.

    Paul was imprisoned, stoned, shipwrecked, falsely accused, and ultimately executed.

    James gave his life.

    John was exiled.

    The early church didn’t spend its energy debating whether someone had crossed a street.

    They were crossing prison thresholds.

    They weren’t arguing over insults.

    They were burying martyrs.

    Around our world today, many Christians gather in secret because public worship could cost them their freedom—or their lives.

    Pastors are imprisoned.

    Churches are burned.

    Believers are beaten.

    Some are killed simply because they refuse to deny the name of Jesus.

    When I step back and consider that reality, I’m reminded how blessed we are.

    And I’m reminded how careful we should be.

    Because the true battle has never been about protecting our pride.

    It has always been about remaining faithful to Christ.

    The apostles didn’t conquer the world because they were willing to throw punches.

    They conquered it because they were willing to carry crosses.

    The Kingdom of God has never advanced through personal retaliation.

    It has advanced through sacrificial love, steadfast conviction, unwavering faithfulness, and countless believers who chose obedience over self-preservation.

    Because we follow a Savior who conquered the world, not by calling down twelve legions of angels, but by stretching out His hands on a cross.

    He possessed all authority in heaven and on earth.

    He could have summoned angels.

    He could have silenced His accusers.

    He could have destroyed those who mocked Him.

    Instead, He endured.

    He forgave.

    He overcame evil with good.

    That’s the perspective that makes Romans 12 make sense.

    Without the cross, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” sounds impractical.

    In light of the cross, it becomes the defining characteristic of Christian discipleship.

    If I am to call myself a follower of Christ, then His response—not my emotions, not public opinion, not culture, and not even my own sense of justice—must remain my highest standard.

    Whether someone agrees or disagrees with my conclusions about a particular event isn’t nearly as important as this:

    When history remembers the Church of our generation, will it remember us for defending ourselves…

    …or for faithfully representing Christ?

    That’s the question I’ll continue asking myself long after this controversy has faded from the headlines.

  • The Lesson Beneath the Lessons

    “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful…” — Luke 10:41-42

    Over the past few weeks, we’ve reflected on David’s years in the pasture before the palace. We’ve talked about waiting seasons, clearing the rubble, staying on the wall, looking back, the Cabinetmaker reshaping old wood into a new purpose, and Joseph waiting for years, forgotten in a prison cell by those who swore they wouldn’t forget.

    At first, they felt like individual reflections. Different passages. Different people. Different circumstances.

    But the more I prayed over them, the more I realized they weren’t separate lessons at all.

    They were all leading me to the same place.

    Then today, Martha entered the conversation.

    I’ve read the story of Mary and Martha countless times. Like many people, I always assumed Jesus was simply reminding us to spend time with Him instead of becoming consumed with work.

    But this time, I noticed something different.

    Jesus never rebuked Martha for serving.

    He rebuked her because her service had become anxiety.

    “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things…”

    The meal wasn’t the problem.

    Serving wasn’t the problem.

    The problem was that somewhere along the way, Martha had begun measuring the moment by what she was doing for Jesus instead of simply being with Him.

    If I’m honest…

    I see a lot of Martha in myself.

    There was a season of my life when I was working full-time in a maximum-security penitentiary while serving as a high school Sunday School teacher, youth minister, and outreach director—all while trying to build a marriage and start a family.

    Looking back, people probably thought I was completely sold out to God.

    Maybe I was.

    But I also know there were seasons when I became so busy working for God that I wasn’t walking with Him the way I should have been.

    And that’s a difficult sentence to write.

    It’s even more difficult because I know I’m not the only one.

    Churches often celebrate the busiest people among us.

    The ones carrying multiple ministries.
    The ones who are always available.
    The ones who never seem to stop.

    And if we’re not careful, we begin measuring ourselves the same way.

    We feel valuable when we’re useful.
    We feel needed when we’re busy.
    We feel significant when we’re carrying responsibility.

    Then God changes the assignment.

    A ministry slows.
    A door closes.
    A title disappears.
    The phone stops ringing.

    Suddenly we’re forced to wrestle with a question we never expected to ask:

    If nobody ever gives me another title, another position, or another ministry responsibility… am I still valuable?

    I’d like to tell you that’s an easy question.

    It isn’t.

    Because for many of us, our identity quietly became intertwined with our assignment.

    As I looked back over everything we’ve been writing lately, I realized God has been whispering the same lesson over and over again.

    David wasn’t anointed and immediately escorted to the palace.

    He went back to the pasture.

    Moses spent forty years tending sheep before leading a nation.

    Joseph spent years in prison before standing in Pharaoh’s court.

    Even Jesus spent thirty years in relative obscurity before three years of public ministry.

    The pattern is impossible to ignore.

    All roads seem to lead through the pasture before they lead to the palace.

    But perhaps the pasture isn’t simply preparation for the palace.

    Perhaps the pasture is where we learn that the Shepherd is the prize.

    Without the pasture, David never writes, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”

    Without the waiting, we never discover that God’s presence is enough.

    Maybe that’s what Jesus was inviting Martha into.

    Not less service.
    Greater intimacy.

    Not abandoning responsibility.
    Reordering her priorities.

    Because before we’re teachers…
    Before we’re singers…
    Before we’re pastors…
    Before we’re leaders…
    Before we’re writers…

    We’re sons and daughters.

    Assignments change.
    Titles come and go.
    Platforms rise and fall.

    But our identity in Christ never changes.

    Perhaps the greatest lesson of the waiting season is discovering that our value was never found in our assignment, but in our relationship with the Shepherd.

    I’m still learning that.

    In fact, I suspect that’s exactly what this waiting season has been teaching me all along.

    Maybe the waiting season isn’t an interruption.

    Maybe it is the assignment.

    Maybe God is gently reminding us that before He asks us to do something for Him, He simply invites us to be with Him.

    The palace made David known to Israel.

    The pasture made David known to God.

    And before God entrusts us with influence, He often invites us into intimacy with Him.

    And perhaps that’s the lesson beneath all the lessons I’ve been writing lately… without even realizing it.

  • “A Higher Standard: When Loyalty and Scripture Collide”

    “A Higher Standard: When Loyalty and Scripture Collide”

    I know this post may ruffle feathers.

    It may cost me relationships.

    Some will disagree with me, and that’s their right.

    But there are times when remaining silent would trouble my conscience more than speaking.

    Over the past few days, I’ve watched the discussion surrounding the incident involving Rev. Tony Spell. I’ve listened to the explanations. I’ve read the comments. I’ve watched the longer video. I’ve tried to understand both sides of the argument.

    And after doing so, my spirit remains grieved.

    Before I go any further, let me be transparent.

    I was raised in Apostolic Pentecost. I’ve attended Apostolic churches for more than five decades. I love the Apostolic message. I am not writing as a critic looking for faults in the movement. I’m writing as someone who considers himself part of it.

    I fully understand the claims that the individual involved had allegedly harassed Pastor Spell, his family, and members of his congregation for years.

    If that is true, it is wrong.

    It is sinful.

    It is inexcusable.

    But the question before us is not whether the alleged harassment was wrong.

    The question is whether the response was appropriate for a minister of the Gospel.

    Those are not the same question.

    What has troubled me most is not the incident itself.

    What has troubled me most is the number of Christians defending it.

    I have seen people compare this to Jesus cleansing the Temple.

    I respectfully disagree.

    Jesus cleansing the Temple was not a personal dispute. It was not retaliation. It was not settling a score with someone who had offended Him. It was a prophetic act against corruption in God’s house.

    The same Jesus who overturned tables also allowed Himself to be mocked, falsely accused, beaten, and crucified without retaliation.

    As ministers and Christians, we cannot build our theology around one moment of righteous indignation while ignoring a lifetime of teaching on forgiveness, self-control, mercy, and loving our enemies.

    In fact, I keep finding myself drawn back to Paul’s words in Romans 12:

    “Repay no one evil for evil. Have regard for good things in the sight of all men. If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men. Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.”

    Those words are not written for people who are being treated fairly.

    They are written for people who have been wronged.

    They are written for people who have been insulted, mistreated, falsely accused, provoked, and hurt.

    Paul does not tell believers that evil is acceptable.

    He does not tell them to pretend wrongdoing never happened.

    But he does tell them that vengeance belongs to God.

    That is precisely what makes these verses so difficult.

    Anyone can be gracious when treated kindly.

    The true test of Christian character is how we respond when we are treated unjustly.

    The question is not whether someone was provoked.

    The question is whether the response reflected the teachings of Christ.

    As believers—and especially as ministers of the Gospel—we are called not merely to avoid evil, but to overcome evil with good.

    Perhaps what troubles me most is that many of the same people defending this behavior would condemn it if it involved a church member, a politician they disliked, or someone from another denomination.

    Our standards should not change based on who commits the act.

    A person’s title does not make an action righteous.

    Being a pastor does not place someone above accountability.

    In fact, Scripture teaches the opposite.

    Pastors are called to a higher standard, not a lower one.

    You may disagree with me, and that’s okay.

    But I cannot watch this unfold, watch Christians celebrate it, and pretend that I am not deeply troubled by what I have seen.

    I pray for everyone involved.

    I pray for truth.

    I pray for healing.

    And I pray that we never become so loyal to personalities that we lose our commitment to biblical principles.

    Because in the end, the question is not whether someone was provoked.

    The question is whether we are willing to hold ourselves—and those we admire—to the same standard Scripture requires of everyone else.

    “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
    Romans 12:21

  • Looking Back

    Looking Back

    “Remember Lot’s wife.” — Luke 17:32

    Those three words from Jesus have always fascinated me.

    Out of all the people and stories He could have referenced, Jesus pointed His listeners back to a woman whose name we don’t even know.

    Most people focus on what she did.

    She looked back.

    But I wonder if the deeper issue wasn’t where her eyes were focused.

    Perhaps it was where her heart remained.

    Genesis tells us that God was delivering Lot and his family from Sodom before judgment fell upon the city. The angels urged them to flee and gave a simple instruction:

    “Escape for your life. Do not look behind you.”

    Yet somewhere along the journey, Lot’s wife turned and looked back.

    Why?

    Scripture doesn’t tell us.

    Perhaps she missed her home.

    Perhaps she missed friends and memories.

    Perhaps she simply feared the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

    Whatever the reason, her heart was still connected to something God had called her to leave behind.

    The older I get, the more I realize that many of us are not trapped by sinful places.

    We’re trapped by familiar ones.

    We become comfortable in seasons that were once exactly where God wanted us to be… but are no longer where He is leading us. Hu

    Sometimes it’s a ministry.
    Sometimes it’s a job.
    Sometimes it’s a group of friends.
    Sometimes it’s a dream we have carried for decades.

    We know God is leading us forward, but part of us keeps looking over our shoulder.

    Not because the past was evil.

    But because it was known.

    The future is not.

    I remember nearly thirty years ago when I stepped away from teaching the youth class in McAlester.

    The hardest part wasn’t laying down the responsibility.

    The hardest part was not looking back.

    That season had shaped me.

    I loved those students.
    I loved the ministry.
    I loved what God had done there.

    But eventually I had to learn that following God sometimes means leaving a season you loved in order to embrace one you cannot yet see.

    Abraham left Ur.
    Moses left Midian.
    David left the pasture.
    The disciples left their nets, tax booth, and fig tree.

    None of them were given a complete roadmap.

    They were simply asked to trust God enough to take the next step. And often, the next step didn’t make sense until years later.

    Perhaps that’s why this story still speaks so powerfully today.

    Many of us are asking God for clarity about the future while secretly wishing He would restore the past.

    We want the old ministry.
    The old relationships.
    The old opportunities.
    The old version of ourselves.

    But what if God is not trying to recreate what was?

    What if He is trying to create something new?

    What if looking back isn’t always longing for our past life?

    What if sometimes it’s refusing to believe God can do something different in the future?

    That question has challenged me deeply.

    Because every season of life eventually ends.

    Children grow up.
    Careers change.
    Ministries evolve.
    Doors close.
    Dreams shift.

    The question isn’t whether seasons will change.

    The question is whether we will trust God when they do.

    Lot’s wife teaches us that there is danger in living with our feet pointed toward God’s future while our hearts remain anchored in yesterday.

    The past can be honored.
    The lessons can be remembered.
    The memories can be cherished.

    But they cannot become our destination.

    God never calls us backward.

    He always calls us forward.

    Final Word:

    Maybe the question isn’t:

    “What am I looking back at?”

    Maybe the better question is:

    “Do I trust God enough to believe that what lies ahead may be different from the past… and still be exactly where He wants me to be?”

    After all, it’s hard to move forward while you’re looking back.

  • Truth Be Told…

    Father’s Day has always been a difficult day for me.

    I lost my father in 1985… and the man who stepped in and helped raise me only three years later.

    So when I see little boys & young men sitting beside their fathers in church, I notice.

    When I see men my age spending Father’s Day with their dads, I notice.

    When I see fathers and sons fishing together, working together, or simply sharing life together, I notice.

    And if I’m being honest, there have been times when Father’s Day brought more sadness than celebration.

    But Saturday, I spent several hours with my son, now 18.

    We talked about everything and nothing.

    Life. Family. Work. Memories. The future.

    As I drove home, a line from an old song kept replaying in my mind:

    “It may have a new perspective, on a different day.”

    Maybe that’s what growing older does.

    It doesn’t erase the losses.

    It doesn’t give back the years.

    But it helps you see the story differently.

    Yesterday, I found myself looking at three photographs.

    My father.

    The man who helped raise me.

    And my son.

    For the first time, I wasn’t focused on what had been lost.

    I was focused on what had been passed down.

    The legacy of two very different men lives on in me.

    And part of their legacy—combined with mine—lives on in my son.

    Father’s Day still carries a measure of sadness.

    I suspect it always will.

    But today, it carries gratitude too.

    And that’s a different perspective than I had on another day.