Thoughts for the Day

A devotional ministry of Watchman Ministries

Latest Devotionals

  • The Tank Is Still There

    The Tank Is Still There

    “For sin shall not have dominion over you…”
    —Romans 6:14

    At the far end of Flamenco Beach on the Puerto Rican island of Culebra sits an abandoned military tank.

    For decades, portions of Culebra were used by the United States Navy for military exercises. The island’s people lived with restricted land, exploding ammunition, and the constant reminder that much of their home was controlled by someone else.

    But the people resisted.

    After years of protests and civil disobedience, military operations on Culebra ended in 1975. The land was eventually returned, the explosions stopped, and Flamenco Beach became a place where families swim, children play, and visitors rest beneath the Caribbean sun.

    But the tank is still there.

    It sits at the edge of the beach, rusting beneath layers of salt, sand, and graffiti.

    The evidence of what happened remains.

    But the authority does not.

    Near the entrance to the beach, another reminder of Culebra’s past remains.

    A posted warning tells visitors that munitions from the Navy’s former training activities may still be present—and may still be dangerous.

    The warning does not mean the military still controls the island. It means that remnants of what once controlled it should not be handled carelessly.

    That is another truth about redemption.

    Freedom does not make our former bondage safe.

    The addiction may no longer be your master, but returning to it can still destroy you.

    The relationship may no longer control your life, but reopening that door can still wound you.

    The old appetite may no longer have dominion, but that does not mean you should pick it up again just to prove that you are free.

    The sign gives visitors three instructions:

    Recognize.
    Retreat.
    Report.

    Recognize the danger for what it is.

    Retreat instead of reaching for it.

    Report it—bring it into the light before God and someone you trust.

    The past may no longer control the territory.

    But some remnants should be left exactly where grace defeated them.

    The tank once represented military occupation and control. Today, it cannot move. It cannot fire. It cannot command the beach. The waves wash around it while life continues in spite of it.

    That is a picture of redemption.

    We sometimes believe that if God has truly delivered us, every reminder of our past should disappear.

    The scars should vanish.

    The memories should stop hurting.

    The consequences should be erased.

    The places where we were wounded should look as though nothing ever happened.

    But redemption does not always remove the evidence.

    Sometimes the tank is still there.

    You may still remember what was done to you.

    You may still carry scars from choices you made.

    There may be relationships that cannot be restored, years that cannot be recovered, and consequences that grace does not immediately erase.

    The evidence may remain.

    But through Jesus Christ, it no longer has to possess the territory.

    Paul wrote, “For sin shall not have dominion over you.”

    He did not say sin had never touched them. He did not say their former lives had left no scars. He said sin would no longer have dominion—the power to rule, govern, or control them.

    Your past may explain some of your wounds, but it does not have the authority to determine your future.

    The addiction may be part of your testimony, but it is no longer your master.

    The betrayal may have changed you, but it does not get to define you.

    The failure may have left consequences, but it does not get to name you.

    The wound may still ache, but it does not own the beach.

    The tank is still there—but children play in the water beside it.

    The tank is still there—but waves continue to reach the shore.

    The tank is still there—but what once represented occupation has become nothing more than a powerless reminder of what used to be.

    That is what grace does.

    Grace does not always erase the evidence of the battle.

    Sometimes grace leaves the evidence standing so that everyone can see that what once controlled you has lost its authority.

    The past happened.

    The scars are real.

    The tank may still be there.

    But it no longer controls the beach.

  • Unfinished Doesn’t Mean Abandoned

    Unfinished Doesn’t Mean Abandoned

    “Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with him, that the body of sin might be destroyed…”
    — Romans 6:6

    While driving through Puerto Rico, I noticed a building that was impossible to ignore.

    It was enormous.

    Floor after floor of exposed concrete. Empty windows. Weathered walls. Graffiti. What looked, at first glance, like another abandoned construction project.

    But there was more to the story.

    The building had already been finished once.

    It had served a purpose. It had been occupied. It had even served as a ministry headquarters.

    Then it was sold.

    A new owner had a different vision for the property, and redevelopment began.

    What had been finished was stripped back to its concrete structure.

    Walls came down.

    Interiors disappeared.

    What had once looked complete suddenly looked unfinished again.

    Then, on June 10, 2019, tragedy struck. A skid-steer fell through an upper floor, killing the worker operating it.

    Work stopped.

    Years later, the concrete shell still stands beside the highway.

    And if you knew none of that history, you could drive past it and reach a very reasonable conclusion:

    It was abandoned.

    But appearances don’t always tell the whole story.

    And neither does the unfinished condition of your life.

    There are seasons in our walk with God when He does more than add something new.

    Sometimes He removes.

    Sometimes He tears out things we thought were permanent.

    Sometimes He exposes what has been hidden behind walls for years.

    Habits.

    Pride.

    Fear.

    Bitterness.

    Wrong thinking.

    Old identities.

    Things we learned to live with for so long that we eventually mistook them for part of the structure.

    Paul wrote:

    “Our old man is crucified with him…”

    God is not renovating the old man.

    He is not decorating him.

    He is not putting fresh paint over what sin damaged and calling the project complete.

    There are things that have to die.

    There are things that have to come down.

    And demolition rarely looks like progress while you’re standing in the middle of it.

    That may be one of the most difficult parts of transformation.

    We know what we were.

    We have some idea of what God is calling us to become.

    But sometimes we find ourselves living somewhere between the two.

    And that middle can look awfully unfinished.

    You may look at your life and see exposed places.

    Missing pieces.

    Areas where God has removed something, but you haven’t yet seen what He intends to put in its place.

    You may even wonder why something that once seemed settled has suddenly been disturbed again.

    But don’t confuse God’s reconstruction with His absence.

    And do not mistake unfinished for abandoned.

    The evidence that God is working in your life isn’t always that everything looks complete.

    Sometimes the evidence is precisely the opposite.

    Something is being exposed.

    Something is being removed.

    Something is being rebuilt.

    And maybe you’ve been judging yourself by the scaffolding when God has been looking at the plans.

    Paul gave us another promise:

    “Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it…”
    — Philippians 1:6

    Notice what Paul didn’t say.

    He didn’t say the work would always be comfortable.

    He didn’t say we would always understand the process.

    And he certainly didn’t say there wouldn’t be seasons when everything looked unfinished.

    He said God would perform the work He began.

    So if you’re somewhere between what you were and what God is making you…

    Don’t walk away from the construction site.

    Don’t rebuild something God tore down.

    Don’t assume His silence means His absence.

    And don’t measure His faithfulness by how finished everything looks today.

    Because the shell isn’t the destination.

    The Builder is still working.

  • Come Apart and Rest Awhile

    Come Apart and Rest Awhile

    “And he said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while: for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.”
    —Mark 6:31

    I needed a vacation.

    Not merely somewhere to go.

    Not simply a few days away from work.

    I needed time away with people I love. Time outside the routines and responsibilities that had begun occupying nearly every available space in my life.

    I needed rest.

    I am not sure I fully understood how tired I had become.

    That is one of the dangers of constant activity. Eventually, exhaustion begins to feel normal.

    We learn to function while depleted.

    We get up.

    We go to work.

    We answer the phone.

    We respond to the messages.

    We meet the deadlines.

    We take care of the people who depend upon us.

    We fulfill our responsibilities, attend church, handle problems, and prepare ourselves to do it all again tomorrow.

    There are always people coming.

    There are always responsibilities going.

    And somewhere between the two, we can lose the ability to hear what our own soul has been trying to tell us.

    Mark 6 describes a season of intense activity in the lives of the disciples.

    Jesus had sent the twelve out two by two. They had preached repentance, cast out devils, anointed the sick, and witnessed people being healed.

    When they returned, they gathered around Jesus and told Him everything they had done and taught.

    They had not been wasting their time.

    They had been ministering.

    They had been serving.

    They had been pouring themselves out for others.

    But even good work can leave us exhausted.

    The demands surrounding Jesus and His disciples had become so constant that Scripture says there were “many coming and going.” They could not find enough uninterrupted time even to eat.

    Jesus saw it.

    He saw the crowd.

    He saw the needs.

    He saw the work that remained unfinished.

    But He also saw the condition of His disciples.

    And He said:

    “Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while.”

    Jesus did not question their commitment.

    He did not accuse them of laziness.

    He did not tell them that greater faith would eliminate their need for food, sleep, distance, or quiet.

    He did not tell them to ignore their exhaustion and keep working until everyone else had been helped.

    He invited them to come away.

    That is important because the work was not finished.

    The people had not stopped coming.

    The needs had not disappeared.

    There were still sick bodies, wounded hearts, hungry families, and people who needed to hear the truth.

    But Jesus did not invite the disciples to rest because the work was finished.

    He invited them to rest because they were not.

    We sometimes treat rest as though it were a reward for completing everything.

    Once the work is finished, we will rest.

    Once the house is clean, we will rest.

    Once the children no longer need anything, we will rest.

    Once every message has been answered, every problem has been solved, every deadline has been met, and everyone else is satisfied, we will finally allow ourselves to stop.

    But everything is never finished.

    There will always be another need.

    Another email.

    Another phone call.

    Another problem.

    Another person waiting for something from us.

    If we wait until life gives us permission to rest, we may never rest at all.

    Rest is not laziness.

    It is part of the order God established.

    After the work of creation, God rested. Not because He was exhausted, but because the work had reached its appointed stopping place.

    God commanded Israel to observe the Sabbath.

    He gave the land itself seasons of rest.

    David wrote of being led beside still waters and having his soul restored.

    Jesus regularly withdrew from the crowds to pray.

    And when the disciples became surrounded by constant demands, Jesus told them to come apart and rest awhile.

    Rest is not always the absence of activity.

    Sometimes rest is the absence of demand.

    During my vacation, I did not spend the week doing nothing.

    I traveled.

    I walked.

    I toured.

    I photographed.

    I talked.

    I listened.

    I wrote in my journal.

    I carried my phone.

    I carried my iPad.

    I carried my camera.

    And, of course, I carried my thoughts with me.

    In some ways, my mind became more active than it had been in months.

    But it was a different kind of activity.

    For several days, I was no longer required to give my attention to everything that normally demands it.

    The phone was not constantly ringing.

    The emails were not steadily arriving.

    There were no customer questions waiting to be answered.

    There was no household project insisting that it needed to be completed next.

    My mind was finally free to wander without being immediately summoned back by another responsibility.

    And once the noise began to quiet, I started noticing things.

    I noticed the people waiting at an airport gate.

    I noticed the nervous energy of children preparing for a journey.

    I noticed dawn breaking above the clouds.

    I noticed weathered buildings and streets that had carried generations of travelers before me.

    I noticed the sound of the ocean after darkness removed the distractions competing with it.

    I noticed the strange providence of standing in the same place where someone I love had once stood—without knowing it until afterward.

    I noticed the bittersweet truth that sometimes we must leave, not because something went wrong, but because the appointed time has come to move on.

    None of those moments shouted.

    They did not demand my attention.

    They were simply there, waiting to be noticed.

    And perhaps that is why I had missed so many similar moments before.

    Life had become too loud for quiet things to speak.

    Rest does not require an airline ticket.

    It does not require an oceanfront balcony, a distant island, or enough money to escape every responsibility for a week.

    Sometimes rest is an hour without the phone.

    A quiet drive.

    A walk without headphones.

    A morning with an open Bible and no agenda beyond listening.

    A few minutes sitting outside while the sun rises.

    A deliberate decision to stop producing long enough to remember that our value was never determined by our productivity.

    Sometimes we need to step away—not because we have stopped caring, but because we have been caring without stopping.

    There is a reason Jesus said, “Come ye yourselves apart.”

    Some separation is necessary.

    We cannot hear every voice and still clearly distinguish His.

    We cannot answer every demand and still pretend that our souls require nothing.

    We cannot continually pour from ourselves without returning to the One who fills us.

    The invitation was not to abandon the work.

    It was to step away from it for a while.

    To breathe.

    To eat.

    To pray.

    To listen.

    To rest.

    I left for Puerto Rico believing I needed a vacation.

    I returned understanding that I needed something deeper.

    I needed enough distance from the noise to recognize what God had been placing in front of me.

    The journey did not suddenly make God speak.

    God had been speaking all along.

    Rest simply created room for me to listen.

    Before the journey could speak, I had to become quiet enough to hear it.

    Perhaps you do not need to run away.

    Perhaps you simply need to come apart.

    Not forever.

    Just for a while.

    Long enough to breathe.

    Long enough to rest.

    Long enough to listen.

  • Restored For a Purpose

    Restored For a Purpose

    Most people would have walked right past it.

    Buried beneath years of rust, grease, carbon, and neglect was an old piece of cast iron that looked like it belonged in the scrap pile.

    Meals had been cooked in it.

    Fires had burned beneath it.

    Time had left its mark.

    Layer after layer had accumulated until the original surface was almost completely hidden.

    Most people would have seen something ruined.

    I saw the beauty of what it could be.

    That is the difference between someone who only sees the present condition and someone who understands the restoration process.

    Restoring cast iron is not quick.

    It begins with a wire brush, scraping away as much loose rust, grease, and grime as possible. It is dirty work. Dust flies. Old buildup breaks loose. What has clung to the piece for decades does not always surrender easily.

    But the wire brush can only reach so far.

    Many pieces have deep grooves, decorative patterns, tight corners, and hidden spaces that cannot be thoroughly cleaned by hand.

    Once the wire brush has removed as much as possible, the piece goes into the electrolysis tank…

    Lowered beneath the surface and left there.

    Sometimes for hours.

    Sometimes for days.

    Some pieces take longer than others.

    To someone unfamiliar with the process, it may appear that nothing is happening. The piece is simply sitting beneath the water.

    But beneath the surface, a work is taking place that the eye cannot fully see.

    The rust begins to loosen.

    The corrosion begins to release its grip.

    The buildup that once seemed permanently attached begins separating from the iron.

    When the piece is removed, it is scrubbed and inspected.

    Sometimes the work is complete.

    Sometimes rust and crust remain.

    When that happens, the piece goes back into the tank.

    The process is not repeated because it failed.

    It is repeated because the work is not finished.

    Eventually, the metal is stripped down to the bare surface.

    No paint covering the rust.

    No seasoning applied over years of grime.

    No attempt to disguise what is underneath.

    Everything that does not belong must be removed.

    Only then can the restoration continue.

    Watching that process has often reminded me of what God does in our lives.

    We accumulate things… and some of them are obvious.

    Sin.

    Shame.

    Pride.

    Bitterness.

    Compromise.

    But other things build gradually.

    Attitudes we picked up from people around us.

    Habits we never questioned.

    Influences we allowed into our minds.

    Offenses we refused to release.

    Wounds we buried instead of bringing to God.

    Excuses we repeated until we began believing them.

    One layer may not seem significant.

    Neither does one meal’s worth of grease left on a skillet.

    But over time, layer builds upon layer until what was once beautiful becomes hidden beneath what has accumulated.

    That buildup can become so familiar that we begin to believe it is simply who we are.

    “That is just the way I am.”

    “My family has always been like this.”

    “I have carried this for so long that I will never change.”

    But God never mistakes the buildup for the person beneath it.

    He sees what others may overlook.

    He sees what sin has covered.

    He sees what shame has hidden.

    He sees what years of neglect, pain, and poor choices have obscured.

    And still, He does not walk past us.

    Instead, He begins the work of restoration.

    Sometimes His work feels like the wire brush.

    Conviction can be uncomfortable.

    Correction can feel abrasive.

    God begins confronting the things we have allowed to cling to us.

    He exposes attitudes we defended.

    He challenges habits we excused.

    He reveals influences that have been shaping us in ways we did not recognize.

    That process is not always pleasant.

    But the wire brush is not destroying the iron.

    It is removing what never belonged there.

    Then there are the deeper places.

    The corners we cannot reach ourselves.

    The hidden wounds.

    The secret motives.

    The fears buried beneath years of self-protection.

    The parts of our hearts we do not fully understand.

    David prayed:

    “Search me, O God, and know my heart;
    Try me, and know my anxieties;
    And see if there is any wicked way in me,
    And lead me in the way everlasting.”
    —Psalm 139:23–24, NKJV

    David understood that there were places within him that required more than human effort.

    Some things cannot be scrubbed away through determination alone.

    They require the searching, cleansing work of God.

    Sometimes we find ourselves in a season much like that cast iron sitting beneath the water.

    Hidden.

    Waiting.

    Wondering whether anything is changing.

    We pray, but do not immediately see the answer.

    We repent, yet still feel the pull of old habits.

    We ask God to heal us, but the pain does not disappear overnight.

    From the outside, it may appear that nothing is happening.

    But beneath the surface, God is working.

    He is loosening what has held us.

    He is reaching places we could never reach on our own.

    He is separating us from things that once seemed permanently attached.

    And sometimes that work takes longer than we expected.

    Not because we are worth less.

    Not because the Restorer has forgotten us.

    But because every life has a different history.

    Different wounds.

    Different struggles.

    Different layers that have accumulated along the way.

    God knows exactly what He is working with.

    And He knows exactly what it will take to restore us.

    Sometimes God brings us out of the process, and we discover that more work remains.

    Back into His hands we go.

    More conviction.

    More surrender.

    More healing.

    More learning.

    More letting go.

    That does not mean the process failed.

    It means the work is not finished.

    Paul wrote:

    “Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”
    —Philippians 1:6, NKJV

    God is not discouraged when He finds another layer.

    He knew every layer was there before He began.

    And He is committed to finishing what He started.

    There is something else every experienced restorer understands.

    You cannot season over the buildup.

    Seasoning over grease, carbon, and rust is counterproductive.

    It may temporarily cover the surface, but it does not restore the iron.

    It would be like spraying primer over a rusty fender and then covering it with paint without first removing or treating the corrosion.

    It might look better for a little while.

    But the rust is still there.

    Still spreading.

    Still weakening the metal beneath the fresh coat.

    God does not work that way.

    He does not paint over sin.

    He does not cover corruption with a religious appearance.

    He does not simply make us look better on the outside while leaving the condition of the heart untouched.

    God is not interested in cosmetic righteousness.

    Isaiah put it plainly:

    “But we are all like an unclean thing,
    And all our righteousnesses are like filthy rags…”
    —Isaiah 64:6, NKJV

    Our own righteousness cannot cleanse what sin has corrupted.

    We can polish the outside.

    We can change our appearance.

    We can learn the right words, adopt the right behaviors, and convince everyone around us that everything is fine.

    But God sees beneath the surface.

    And He loves us too much to simply paint over what needs to be removed.

    God doesn’t season over our sin.

    He cleanses us.

    He strips away what doesn’t belong and brings us back to the bare surface—not to leave us exposed, but to make all things new.

    And that brings us to the beauty of 2 Corinthians 5:17:

    “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”
    —2 Corinthians 5:17, NKJV

    At first, restoration and new creation may sound like different ideas.

    But restoring cast iron helps us see how beautifully they work together.

    The restored piece is still the same iron.

    It has not been discarded and replaced.

    Yet after being stripped, cleansed, and renewed, it appears completely new.

    The rust is gone.

    The grime is gone.

    The old layers no longer define it.

    The craftsmanship that was hidden can finally be seen.

    On detailed cast iron pieces, the transformation can be remarkable.

    Before restoration, rust may obscure every fine feature.

    Afterward, feathers appear on birds.

    Veins emerge in leaves.

    Petals become visible on flowers.

    Details that seemed lost were not necessarily gone.

    They were hidden beneath the corrosion.

    That is what God does.

    He does not erase our history.

    He changes what defines us.

    The past may have left scars.

    Neglect may have caused pitting.

    Consequences may remain.

    But the corrosion no longer owns the piece.

    Sin no longer has the final word.

    Shame no longer determines our identity.

    The old life no longer defines who we are in Christ.

    After the metal is clean, the seasoning begins.

    A light coat of oil.

    Heat.

    Cool.

    Another coat.

    More heat.

    Again and again until the bare iron develops a strong, protective finish.

    That process also takes time.

    One coat is not enough.

    In the same way, spiritual maturity is built through repeated acts of faith and obedience.

    Prayer.

    Scripture.

    Worship.

    Faithfulness.

    Forgiveness.

    Surrender.

    Choosing what is right when nobody is watching.

    Choosing it again tomorrow.

    And again the next day.

    God forms character layer by layer.

    But restoration has another purpose.

    A beautifully restored skillet is not meant to spend the rest of its existence sitting on a shelf.

    It was made to be used.

    Again.

    And again.

    And again.

    Years of neglect did not change what the skillet was created to do.

    The rust did not change its purpose.

    The grime did not change its purpose.

    Even decades of sitting unused did not change its purpose.

    Those things only kept it from fulfilling that purpose.

    And maybe you need to hear this today:

    What has happened to you has not changed why God created you.

    Your failures did not erase His purpose.

    Your years away from Him did not erase His purpose.

    The things you allowed to accumulate did not erase His purpose.

    God does not restore us simply so we can look back and admire how far we have come.

    He restores us to usefulness.

    Paul wrote:

    “…he will be a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.”
    —2 Timothy 2:21, NKJV

    Useful to the Master.

    That is the purpose of restoration.

    And there is something beautiful about the usefulness of cast iron.

    A skillet does not exist merely for itself.

    It feeds people.

    Meal after meal.

    Year after year.

    When properly cared for, a piece that has already served one generation can serve another.

    And another.

    Its restoration becomes a blessing to people who had nothing to do with restoring it.

    Maybe ours should too.

    God restores us so that what He has done in us can become a blessing to someone else.

    So we can love.

    Serve.

    Teach.

    Encourage.

    Disciple.

    Give.

    Forgive.

    Tell someone else where we found hope when we had none.

    Our restoration was never intended to end with us.

    The skillet’s greatest days do not have to be behind it.

    Neither do yours.

    You may feel covered in too much rust.

    You may believe too much grime has accumulated.

    You may look at your scars, your history, and your failures and conclude that you belong in the scrap pile.

    But the Restorer sees differently.

    He sees beneath the buildup.

    He sees beyond your present condition.

    He sees what His grace can uncover.

    He sees what His Spirit can cleanse.

    And He sees the purpose for which you were created.

    Most people might have walked right past.

    But the Restorer stopped.

    He saw value beneath the corrosion.

    He knew what could be restored.

    And He knew it could be useful again.

    God never mistakes the crusty exterior for the beauty of the soul beneath it.

    He sees what lies beneath.

    He knows what He created.

    And He has not forgotten why He created it.

    He is still in the business of restoration.

    And He still has a purpose for the restored.

    “And I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…”
    —Joel 2:25, NKJV

  • Preach the Whole Counsel of God

    Preach the Whole Counsel of God

    Those of you who have followed me for any length of time know that I rarely—almost never—use this space to address doctrinal controversies.

    I’d much rather point people toward Christ than spend my time arguing about the things Christians disagree over.

    But every once in a while, something happens.

    A conversation.

    A social media post.

    A sermon that doesn’t quite sit right in my spirit.

    And something begins to burn.

    Not because I want an argument. Not because I believe everyone has to agree with me. And certainly not because I have everything figured out.

    But because sometimes something needs to be said.

    This is one of those times.

    I recently encountered a meme criticizing churches that do not enforce certain “holiness standards.” It accused them of cherry-picking the Bible, called their worship “strange fire,” compared them to the Laodicean church, and ended with an admonition:

    “Repent. Return to holiness. Preach the whole counsel of God.”

    On that last point, I couldn’t agree more.

    So let’s do exactly that.

    I believe in holiness.

    I believe Scripture when it says, “Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” (Hebrews 12:14 NKJV).

    Biblical holiness is a life set apart unto God—belonging wholly to Him and increasingly reflecting His character in the way we think, speak, behave, and live. It begins with what God does within us and produces visible change in how we live before Him and before others. Holiness is therefore neither merely inward nor merely outward; genuine holiness transforms the whole person.

    I believe Christians are called to be different from the world. I believe our relationship with Christ should affect our conduct, our speech, our relationships, our entertainment, our priorities, our appearance, and ultimately every area of our lives.

    This is not an argument against holiness.

    It is an argument that holiness and enforced conformity are not the same thing.

    A church can enforce a dress code.

    A church can establish grooming requirements.

    A church can make rules concerning jewelry, makeup, clothing, entertainment, or any number of other things.

    Those rules may even have been established with sincere intentions and based upon someone’s earnest application of biblical principles.

    But rules can only produce compliance.

    They cannot produce holiness.

    A person can look exactly right on Sunday morning while being filled with bitterness, pride, lust, dishonesty, hatred, unforgiveness, or self-righteousness.

    Jesus addressed precisely that danger when He confronted the Pharisees:

    “First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”
    — Matthew 23:26 NKJV

    Notice the order.

    Inside first. Then outside.

    Jesus wasn’t teaching that the outside doesn’t matter. He was teaching us where genuine transformation begins.

    And that distinction matters.

    Commandment, Conviction, and Tradition

    I believe much of the confusion surrounding holiness disappears when we recognize three different categories that Christians sometimes unintentionally combine.

    First, there are biblical commands.

    Where Scripture clearly speaks, we obey.

    Adultery isn’t a personal-conviction issue. Neither are dishonesty, drunkenness, hatred, sexual immorality, or the many other things Scripture plainly addresses.

    We don’t get to dismiss God’s commandments by saying, “I don’t personally feel convicted about that.”

    God has already spoken.

    Second, there are personal convictions.

    This is an area where I believe we desperately need to recover Paul’s teaching in Romans 14.

    There may be things you cannot do with a clear conscience before God that another sincere Christian can.

    If a woman sincerely believes cutting her hair would violate her conscience before God, she shouldn’t cut it.

    If a man sincerely believes wearing facial hair would violate his conscience before God, he shouldn’t grow it.

    If someone believes wearing shorts would violate his conviction before God, he shouldn’t wear them.

    Paul writes:

    “Happy is he who does not condemn himself in what he approves.”
    — Romans 14:22 NKJV

    And then:

    “For whatever is not from faith is sin.”
    — Romans 14:23 NKJV

    We should never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction simply because we don’t share it.

    But Romans 14 goes both directions.

    Paul also says:

    “Let not him who eats despise him who does not eat, and let not him who does not eat judge him who eats; for God has received him.”
    — Romans 14:3 NKJV

    That’s a remarkable balance.

    Don’t despise.

    Don’t judge.

    The Christian who possesses liberty shouldn’t mock someone whose conscience is more restrictive.

    But the Christian with the restrictive conviction shouldn’t turn his personal conviction into God’s universal commandment.

    “God convicted me” and “God commanded everyone” are not necessarily the same statement.

    We need enough humility to recognize the difference.

    Liberty Is Governed by Love

    There’s another side of this that matters deeply to me.

    Having Christian liberty doesn’t mean I have to exercise it everywhere simply because I can.

    Paul writes:

    “But beware lest somehow this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to those who are weak.”
    — 1 Corinthians 8:9 NKJV

    I wear shorts.

    I have no personal conviction against them.

    But if I’m going somewhere with a brother whom I know sincerely believes he shouldn’t wear shorts, I’m perfectly capable of putting on a pair of long pants.

    Why?

    Not because his conviction suddenly became mine.

    Not because I’ve decided shorts are sinful.

    And not because another Christian gets to dictate my convictions.

    I do it because loving my brother matters more than proving my liberty.

    Christian maturity isn’t demonstrated by seeing how much liberty we can exercise.

    Sometimes it’s demonstrated by having liberty and voluntarily laying it aside for someone else’s sake.

    But neither should the phrase “stumbling block” be used as a weapon to control other believers.

    Being offended by another person’s liberty isn’t necessarily the same thing as stumbling.

    Paul’s concern was that my exercise of liberty could encourage another believer to violate his own conscience.

    There’s a difference between:

    “I wouldn’t do that.”

    and:

    “Watching you do that is leading me to do something I believe is sin.”

    Love requires us to understand the difference.

    Then There Is Tradition

    This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

    Tradition isn’t inherently evil.

    Some traditions are beautiful.

    Some church standards are wise.

    Some applications of biblical principles have been passed down because generations before us learned lessons worth remembering.

    There’s nothing inherently wrong with saying:

    “This is how our church practices this principle.”

    The danger begins when:

    “This is how we practice it”

    becomes:

    “This is what holiness requires,”

    and eventually:

    “Anyone who doesn’t practice it exactly as we do is disobedient to God.”

    Jesus confronted this problem directly.

    Speaking to religious people who had elevated their traditions, He said:

    “All too well you reject the commandment of God, that you may keep your tradition.”
    — Mark 7:9 NKJV

    Then, after discussing their tradition concerning Corban, Jesus said they were:

    “making the word of God of no effect through your tradition which you have handed down.”
    — Mark 7:13 NKJV

    The problem wasn’t simply that they possessed traditions.

    The problem was that human tradition had acquired an authority that belonged to God’s Word.

    And that should make every one of us examine ourselves.

    Not just Apostolics.

    Not just Baptists.

    Not just Catholics.

    Not just Pentecostals.

    Every one of us.

    Because every Christian tradition is capable of confusing:

    “This is how we’ve always done it”

    with:

    “Thus says the Lord.”

    Those statements are not interchangeable.

    Tradition becomes dangerous not when we practice it, but when we can no longer distinguish between what we have always taught and what God actually said.

    Where Does Scripture Say It?

    Scripture teaches modesty.

    Absolutely.

    Scripture teaches separation from sin.

    Absolutely.

    Scripture teaches holiness in our conduct and how we present ourselves.

    Absolutely.

    But once we begin creating specific applications of those principles, intellectual and spiritual honesty require us to distinguish the biblical principle from our application of it.

    How long must a sleeve be?

    Exactly where must a hemline fall?

    May a man wear shorts?

    May he have facial hair?

    What constitutes jewelry?

    What about a wedding band?

    What constitutes makeup?

    What exactly constitutes cutting one’s hair?

    Christians have developed answers to questions like these.

    Sometimes those answers represent deeply held and sincere convictions.

    Respect them.

    If that is your conviction before God, live it faithfully.

    I have no desire whatsoever to talk you out of something you sincerely believe God has asked of you.

    But before we tell another Christian that our particular application is required for holiness, we have an obligation to ask:

    Where does Scripture say it?

    Not merely:

    Where is the biblical principle from which I derived it?

    But:

    Where does Scripture establish my particular application of that principle as the universal requirement for every believer?

    If we cannot demonstrate that, perhaps the more humble statement is:

    “This is how I believe God has called me to apply that biblical principle.”

    There’s no shame in saying that.

    There is wisdom in it.

    You Can Look the Part and Still Miss the Point

    For years, I told the young people in my Sunday School classes something I still believe today.

    You can wear all the right clothes.

    Girls, you can keep your hair long. You can wear sleeves to your fingertips and skirts to the floor.

    Boys, you can keep your hair short. You can wear long sleeves and long pants.

    You can look exactly like everyone expects an Apostolic young person to look.

    And then one word can reveal your heart.

    One action can reveal your heart.

    One moment of anger.

    One cruel comment.

    One lie.

    One piece of gossip.

    One arrogant response.

    One act of dishonesty when telling the truth would cost you something.

    The world already sees how you’re dressed.

    They already recognize what you profess to believe.

    Now they’re watching to see whether you live what you say you believe.

    Jesus said:

    “For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
    — Matthew 12:34 NKJV

    That’s why I never wanted my students merely to learn how to look Apostolic.

    I wanted them to become like Christ.

    The clothing matters when it reflects a sincere conviction.

    Modesty matters because Scripture teaches it.

    Obedience matters.

    Separation from sin matters.

    But none of those things can substitute for a transformed heart.

    You can dress modestly and treat the waitress terribly because your order is wrong.

    You can never cut your hair and destroy someone’s reputation with gossip.

    You can wear long sleeves and lie when telling the truth would cost you something.

    You can remove every piece of jewelry and still adorn yourself with pride.

    You can look unmistakably Christian and treat someone who doesn’t look like you as though they’re beneath you.

    A holiness standard may tell the world something about our convictions. Our character tells the world something about our Christ.

    And if our outward holiness announces that we belong to Jesus while our character tells the people around us something entirely different, the problem isn’t that our outward standard was too high.

    The problem is that our transformation didn’t go deep enough.

    The Pharisee Problem

    This is precisely why Jesus’ confrontations with the Pharisees should make religious people uncomfortable.

    His strongest confrontations were often not with people who cared nothing about righteousness.

    They were with people who cared tremendously about religious observance.

    He told the scribes and Pharisees:

    “For you pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.”
    — Matthew 23:23 NKJV

    But don’t miss what Jesus said next:

    “These you ought to have done, without leaving the others undone.”

    Jesus wasn’t advocating lawlessness.

    The problem wasn’t that they were too obedient.

    The problem was that they had become meticulous about things they could measure while neglecting things that revealed the condition of their hearts.

    And religious people are still vulnerable to that.

    It’s relatively easy to measure a hemline.

    It’s considerably harder to measure humility.

    It’s easy to see whether someone is wearing jewelry.

    It’s harder to see bitterness.

    It’s easy to enforce grooming standards.

    It’s harder to confront pride.

    It’s easy to determine whether somebody looks like us.

    It’s considerably harder to ask whether we look like Christ.

    That is why outward conformity can never become our primary measurement of holiness.

    Paul gives us another measurement of what is happening inside a Spirit-led person:

    “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”
    — Galatians 5:22–23 NKJV

    Those aren’t alternatives to holiness.

    They are evidence of it.

    So perhaps we should occasionally ask ourselves a harder question:

    If everyone around us can see our standards, but they cannot see our love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control…

    What exactly are we showing them?

    And Yes—Preach the Whole Counsel of God

    Preach modesty.

    Preach purity.

    Preach separation from sin.

    Preach sobriety.

    Preach obedience.

    Preach repentance.

    But if we’re going to preach the whole counsel of God, then let’s preach all of it.

    Preach mercy.

    Preach humility.

    Preach compassion.

    Preach patience.

    Preach forgiveness.

    Preach generosity.

    Preach controlling the tongue.

    Preach caring for the poor.

    Preach loving our enemies.

    Preach bearing with weaker believers.

    Preach refusing to judge another man’s servant.

    Preach the fruit of the Spirit.

    Preach that knowledge without love makes us nothing.

    Preach that the greatest among us is the servant.

    Preach that God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.

    That’s holiness too.

    And perhaps this is where we have sometimes failed people.

    When Christianity becomes primarily a list of visible behaviors, people can learn how to look holy without ever learning how to be holy.

    Worse, when our traditions are presented with the same authority as Scripture, someone who eventually discovers that a particular tradition cannot be established from the biblical text may begin questioning everything else we taught them.

    And I believe this has contributed to some people walking away from churches—and, tragically, sometimes walking away from God altogether.

    Not every person who leaves does so because of legalism. Not remotely. People leave churches and abandon faith for many reasons, and we shouldn’t rewrite every story to excuse individual choices.

    But neither should we refuse to examine ourselves.

    Because some people haven’t rejected Christ nearly as much as they’ve rejected a religious culture they were taught was indistinguishable from Christ.

    That should concern us.

    It should especially concern those of us entrusted with teaching the next generation.

    We should want their faith anchored so deeply in Jesus Christ and the Word of God that when they encounter traditions, disagreements, failures in leadership, or Christians who practice their faith differently, their foundation remains secure.

    So yes.

    Preach the whole counsel of God.

    Teach what Scripture commands.

    Preach the principles Scripture establishes.

    Allow the Holy Spirit room to develop personal convictions.

    Respect the conscience of your brother or sister.

    Never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction.

    When love requires it, willingly limit your own liberty.

    Honor traditions that are beneficial without pretending they are Scripture.

    And never confuse:

    “God convicted me”

    with:

    “God commanded everyone.”

    You can enforce rules.

    You can enforce dress codes.

    You can enforce institutional standards.

    You can even enforce conformity.

    But you cannot enforce holiness.

    Only God can produce holiness.

    And when He truly changes the inside, it will eventually show on the outside.

    Maybe instead of spending so much time making sure everyone else looks like us, we should spend a little more time asking whether we look like Him.

    Because holiness was never supposed to make us feel superior to our neighbor.

    Holiness is supposed to make us more like Christ.

  • The Potters Wheel

    The Potters Wheel

    Primary Text: Jeremiah 18:1–6

    “Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.” — Jeremiah 18:2

    When I was a kid, I had the opportunity to spend time at Philbrook Art Museum in Tulsa participating in art programs that introduced us to Native American crafts and traditions. One of the projects was pottery.

    I wasn’t very good at it.

    My attempts usually looked more like lopsided bowls than useful vessels.

    But while my own efforts left much to be desired, I never forgot watching an experienced potter at work.

    Years later, when I read Jeremiah 18, those memories came rushing back.

    God didn’t send Jeremiah to a palace or a battlefield to teach him one of Scripture’s greatest lessons. He sent him to a workshop.

    “Go to the potter’s house.”

    The lesson wouldn’t come through a sermon.

    It would come through observation.

    Sometimes God teaches us the same way.

    Instead of immediately answering our questions, He simply says, “Watch.”

    Watch how I work.

    Watch what I do.

    Watch the Potter.

    The first thing I remember about the process was how important it was to center the clay.

    Nothing else happened until that was right.

    If the clay wasn’t perfectly centered on the wheel, everything that followed would be uneven. The faster the wheel turned, the more obvious the wobble became. No amount of skill could compensate for clay that wasn’t centered.

    Life works much the same way.

    When life speeds up, whatever sits at the center of our hearts is revealed.

    Responsibilities increase.

    Schedules become full.

    Unexpected trials appear.

    Pressure mounts.

    Those seasons don’t usually create our instability. They expose it.

    Before God shapes our lives, He centers our hearts.

    Jesus said, “Seek first the kingdom of God.”

    The writer of Hebrews tells us to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus.

    Only when Christ occupies the center can everything else begin taking its proper place.

    Then came the pressure.

    Watching the potter’s hands was fascinating.

    To someone unfamiliar with pottery, the process almost looks harsh.

    The hands press firmly.

    They squeeze.

    They pull.

    They stretch.

    Yet every movement has purpose.

    Nothing is random.

    One hand supports the outside while the other shapes from within.

    Remove either hand, and the vessel collapses.

    How often is that exactly how God works in our lives?

    We notice the pressures around us—the disappointments, the delays, the hardships, the uncertainties.

    What we often fail to recognize is the quieter work taking place within us.

    While circumstances shape our character externally, the Holy Spirit is transforming our hearts internally.

    God is working from both sides at once.

    The pressure isn’t punishment.

    It’s preparation.

    I also remember the water.

    Clay without water quickly becomes stiff and brittle.

    Push too hard, and it cracks.

    Add too much water, and it loses its strength altogether.

    The potter constantly adds just enough to keep the clay workable.

    What a beautiful picture of God’s grace.

    He knows exactly when our hearts need softening.

    He comforts us without making us complacent.

    He strengthens us without making us hard.

    His grace is never excessive.

    It is always sufficient.

    Perhaps the greatest lesson, however, is this:

    The clay never shaped itself.

    Its responsibility was not to decide what kind of vessel it wanted to become.

    Its responsibility was simply to remain in the potter’s hands.

    That runs completely contrary to our culture.

    We want control.

    We want to choose the timing.

    We want to determine the outcome.

    We even try to tell God what our lives should become.

    But clay has never instructed the potter.

    It simply yields.

    Jeremiah watched as something unexpected happened.

    The vessel became marred in the potter’s hand.

    The clay resisted.

    The shape was spoiled.

    Yet the potter didn’t throw it away.

    He didn’t become frustrated.

    He didn’t walk away from the wheel.

    Scripture says, “So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

    Those words have always moved me.

    He made it again.

    Not repaired.

    Not patched.

    Remade.

    That is the story of redemption.

    Every one of us has been marred by sin.

    Every one of us has failed to become what we were created to be.

    Yet our failures do not surprise the Potter.

    He is able to begin again.

    He reshapes what has been broken.

    He restores what has been damaged.

    He creates something beautiful where we expected only disappointment.

    Sometimes people say they feel like life is going in circles.

    Perhaps you’ve felt that way.

    The same struggles.

    The same prayers.

    The same waiting.

    The same unanswered questions.

    May I offer another perspective?

    Perhaps you’re not going in circles.

    Perhaps you’re still on the wheel.

    The wheel keeps turning because the vessel isn’t finished.

    Every rotation places another part of our lives beneath the Potter’s hands.

    Every season brings another opportunity for Him to remove what doesn’t belong and strengthen what does.

    The clay never sees what the Potter sees.

    The clay feels the pressure.

    The Potter sees the finished vessel.

    The clay experiences the spinning.

    The Potter sees the purpose.

    The clay only knows today.

    The Potter already sees what tomorrow will require.

    That is why faith is ultimately trust.

    Not trust in the wheel.

    Not trust in the process.

    Trust in the One whose hands never leave the clay.

    If your life feels uncertain today…

    if the pressure seems greater than you expected…

    if the wheel seems to keep turning without end…

    don’t mistake movement for abandonment.

    The Potter is still at work.

    And the fact that His hands are still shaping you is evidence that He is not finished yet.

  • Cleanse the Inside First

    Cleanse the Inside First

    I was washing dishes a while back when one greasy bowl reminded me of something Jesus said in Matthew 23.

    “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cleanse the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of extortion and self-indulgence… First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”

    If I had washed only the outside of the bowl, it would have looked clean sitting upside down in the dish rack. But I would never have trusted it to hold food. The inside would still have been coated with grease, contaminating everything placed into it.

    Then another thought struck me.

    While I could wash the outside without ever touching the inside, I couldn’t wash the inside without also washing the outside.

    As I scrubbed the inside of the bowl, it turned continuously in my hand. The soap covered both surfaces. The water rinsed both clean.

    Jesus said our lives can be much the same.

    We spend enormous effort polishing the outward parts of our lives—what people see, what people hear, and what people think about us. Yet God isn’t fooled by a clean exterior wrapped around an unchanged heart.

    Real transformation doesn’t begin on the outside.

    It begins within.

    We cannot cleanse our own hearts any more than a dirty bowl can wash itself. But when we surrender ourselves to Christ, He does what we could never do for ourselves.

    He doesn’t simply improve the old life.

    He makes us new.

    “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

    That is the difference between reputation and character.

    Reputation is what other people believe about us.

    Character is who we are when no one else is watching.

    And integrity is choosing to do what is right, even when it costs us something.

    The Pharisees spent their lives polishing their reputation while neglecting their character.

    Jesus wasn’t calling them to improve their public image.
    He was calling them to receive a transformed heart.

    A clean bowl isn’t pretending to be clean. It is clean.

    And because it is clean, everything about it changes.

    As Christ changes the heart…

    Our attitudes begin to change.

    Our words begin to change.

    Our priorities begin to change.

    Our actions begin to change.

    The outside becomes different because the inside has been made new.

    God never intended Christianity to be spiritual cosmetics—a cleaner version of the old person. His purpose is transformation. The life that reflects Christ outwardly is the life He has first transformed inwardly.

    Thought for Today:

    Don’t spend your life polishing the outside while neglecting the heart. Bring the whole vessel to Christ. When He makes you new on the inside, the change will become evident on the outside.

  • The King Remembered

    The King Remembered

    One of my favorite stories in Scripture isn’t about a battle.

    It isn’t about a miracle.

    It isn’t even about David’s greatest victory.

    It’s about a promise.

    Years earlier, David and Jonathan had entered into a covenant with one another. They pledged loyalty that would outlive them both.

    Then life happened.

    Jonathan was killed in battle.

    Saul died.

    David became king.

    Years passed.

    The kingdom was established.

    The promise could have quietly faded into history.

    No one would have questioned David if it had.

    There was no public pressure to fulfill it.

    No one was reminding him of his obligation.

    There was nothing politically or personally to gain by honoring it.

    In fact, the last surviving heir of Saul’s house represented the former royal family. In many kingdoms of the ancient world, such a person would have been viewed as a threat to the throne, not welcomed into the palace.

    Yet one day David asked a remarkable question:

    “Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?”
    — 2 Samuel 9:1 (NKJV)

    That single question reveals more about David’s character than almost any battlefield victory.

    He wasn’t remembering a debt.

    He was remembering a covenant.

    And he wasn’t merely remembering it.

    He was looking for an opportunity to keep it.

    David sent for Mephibosheth.

    He called him by name.

    Mephibosheth came expecting judgment.

    Instead, David’s first words were,

    “Do not fear…”

    He restored his family’s inheritance.

    He gave him a permanent place at the king’s table.

    David kept his word long after everyone else had forgotten it.

    That is faithfulness.

    Faithfulness is keeping your word when there is no longer any earthly advantage in doing so.

    I’ve often said that character is doing the right thing when no one is watching.

    I’ve also come to believe that integrity is doing the right thing even when it may cost you.

    David displayed both.

    But as beautiful as this story is, it was never meant to end with David.

    It points us to a greater King.

    Before we ever remembered God, God remembered His covenant.

    He did not forget us in our Lo-debar.

    The King came because the King is faithful.

    Like David, the King came looking for those who had nothing to offer Him.

    He called us by name.

    He spoke peace where we expected judgment.

    He restored what sin had stolen.

    And then…

    He invited us to His table.

    That is the gospel.

    We were separated from God by sin.

    We had no claim upon His mercy.

    We brought nothing that could earn His favor.

    Yet because of the covenant established through Jesus Christ, mercy triumphed over judgment.

    The King sought us before we ever sought Him.

    He remembered us before we ever remembered Him.

    He remained faithful even when we were not.

    Faith begins by trusting God’s promises.

    But as faith matures, it produces something beautiful.

    Faithfulness.

    Not merely believing when it’s easy…

    …but becoming people whose lives reflect the unwavering faithfulness of the King we serve.

    ⸻

    “If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.”
    — 2 Timothy 2:13 (NKJV)

    ⸻

  • Lost In the Forest

    Lost In the Forest

    “The forest is never so invisible as to those who are lost within.”
    — Ben James (2012)

    When I first wrote those words fourteen years ago, I was thinking mostly about politics.

    Today, I realize politics was never the forest.

    It was only one tree.

    The forest is anything that consumes our attention until we lose sight of what matters most.

    It can be our career.

    Our finances.

    Our health.

    Our relationships.

    Our fears.

    Our ambitions.

    Even our ministry.

    The closer we stand to the trees, the harder it becomes to recognize the direction we’re actually traveling.

    That’s one of Satan’s oldest tactics.

    He doesn’t always have to pull us away from God.

    Sometimes he only has to keep us looking everywhere except toward God.

    Peter didn’t begin to sink because Jesus stopped holding him.

    He began to sink because he stopped looking at Jesus and started looking at the storm.

    Martha wasn’t doing sinful things.

    She was simply so consumed with serving that she missed the One she was serving.

    The apostle Paul wrote from prison with remarkable peace because prison wasn’t the forest.

    Christ was still his focus.

    The writer of Hebrews gives us the answer in just a few words:

    “…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…”
    — Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)

    Everything changes when our eyes return to Christ.

    The answer isn’t to ignore life’s responsibilities.

    The answer is to refuse to let them become our horizon.

    When Christ remains our focus, careers find their proper place.

    Politics finds its proper place.

    Money finds its proper place.

    Even suffering finds its proper place.

    Because we finally begin to see the forest from above instead of being lost within it.

    Scripture repeatedly tells us to lift up our eyes.

    Often the greatest miracle God performs isn’t changing our circumstances.

    It’s lifting our eyes and changing our perspective.

  • Keep Your Eyes Ahead

    Keep Your Eyes Ahead

    Some of life’s greatest lessons aren’t learned in a classroom.

    They’re learned behind a plow.

    When I was a boy, my cousins, siblings, and I would argue over who got to pull Grandpa’s plow through the garden. Looking back, I smile at those memories. At the time, all we knew was that we wanted to help.

    Years later, when I began making the furrows myself, Grandpa’s lesson finally made sense.

    If I wanted a straight row, I couldn’t keep looking at the plow.

    I couldn’t keep looking behind me to see how I was doing.

    I had to pick something in the distance—a tree, a fence post, anything that wouldn’t move—and keep my eyes fixed on it.

    The moment my attention drifted, so did the furrow.

    Oddly enough, I discovered the same thing mowing lawns.

    The straightest lines didn’t come from staring at the mower deck. They came from focusing on something far ahead.

    Later, football taught me the lesson again.

    A quarterback doesn’t stare at where the receiver is. He throws toward where the receiver is going to be.

    Three very different experiences.

    One unchanging principle.

    You don’t move accurately by staring at what’s immediately in front of you.

    You move accurately by fixing your attention on where you’re headed.

    Then one day I realized…

    Jesus had already taught that lesson.

    “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”
    — Luke 9:62 (NKJV)

    Jesus wasn’t giving farming advice.

    He was describing discipleship.

    The New Testament repeats this same pattern.

    Paul wrote,

    ”…forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead…”
    — Philippians 3:13 (NKJV)

    The writer of Hebrews adds,

    ”…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…”
    — Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)

    Notice the consistency.

    Not looking at yesterday.

    Not looking at ourselves.

    Not looking at the obstacles.

    Looking at Christ.

    Reflection has its place. Looking back reminds us of God’s faithfulness and how far He has brought us.

    But we were never meant to live looking over our shoulder.

    Reflection celebrates progress.

    Fixation prevents it.

    The One who called us forward never intended for us to follow Him while facing yesterday.

    Keep your eyes on Christ.

    The furrow will follow.