Thoughts for the Day

A devotional ministry of Watchman Ministries

Latest Devotionals

  • Set Me Afire

    Set Me Afire

    Six years ago, while managing the TH Rogers Lumber Company store in Hartshorne, Oklahoma, I was helping a customer with a propane torch.

    During our conversation, he looked at me and said:

    “Light me up!”

    Immediately, an old song came to mind:

    Lord, set me afire,
    Make me a flame for Thee.

    And because I apparently possessed neither restraint nor concern for what the customer might think, I began singing it—out loud—right there in the store.

    It was funny then, and it is still funny now.

    But when that memory resurfaced on Facebook, I began to recognize something deeper within it.

    Jeremiah once reached a place where he no longer wanted to speak for God. His message had brought him ridicule, rejection, and pain. He decided he would remain silent.

    But he couldn’t.

    “Then I said, ‘I will not make mention of Him,
    Nor speak anymore in His name.’
    But His word was in my heart like a burning fire
    Shut up in my bones;
    I was weary of holding it back,
    And I could not.”
    —Jeremiah 20:9

    The fire within Jeremiah would not allow him to remain silent.

    Jesus later told His disciples:

    “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
    —Matthew 5:14

    The fire is inward.

    The light is outward.

    God places His Word within us. His Spirit supplies the power. Our lives become the lamps through which His truth, love, mercy, and grace are made visible to the world around us.

    But that is where many of us encounter a problem.

    We sing about wanting the fire.

    We pray for revival.

    We claim to be the light of the world.

    But when an opportunity comes to speak—when someone is hurting, searching, struggling, or standing directly in front of us—we suddenly become concerned about what others might think.

    I know because I have lived it.

    When I was eighteen years old, I attended a powerful Sunday night church service followed by a youth prayer meeting. The following morning, I encountered a homeless man beneath the railroad overpass near North Peoria Avenue and East Archer Street in Tulsa.

    He asked whether I had a couple of dollars. After I gave him what I had, we began talking.

    He may have been about the same age then that I am now. He told me that he had once been a worship leader and preacher at a large Assembly of God church in Tulsa.

    Then he told me what had happened.

    He had an affair.

    His wife left him.

    His children deserted him.

    He began drinking heavily.

    He lost his ministry position.

    He lost his job.

    He lost his home.

    For more than an hour, we stood beneath that overpass while he told me his story.

    And throughout our conversation, I kept feeling something in my spirit:

    “Ask him to pray.”

    But I didn’t…

    We were standing in public.
    On a sidewalk.
    In the neighborhood where many of my friends lived.

    What if they saw me?

    What would they think?

    What would they say?

    So I said nothing.

    Three days later, I learned that he had stepped off a curb in front of a city bus and had been killed.

    For more than forty years, I have lived with the what-ifs of that Monday morning.

    What if I had asked him to pray?

    What if we had knelt together beneath that railroad overpass?

    What if someone had seen us?

    And what if it had made a difference?

    I cannot tell you what would have happened if I had prayed with him. I was eighteen years old, and I was not his savior. I cannot assume responsibility for everything that happened after we parted ways.

    But I do know that I felt prompted to pray.

    I also know that fear of what other people might think kept me from obeying.

    And three days later, the opportunity was gone forever.

    I had carried the light into that man’s darkness, but I allowed fear to place a basket over the lamp.

    That is why this message is not being written from a place of superiority or condemnation. I am not standing above anyone and saying, “You should be more courageous.”

    I am speaking as someone who knows the lasting regret of recognizing an opportunity, feeling the Spirit’s prompting, and walking away without doing what I believed God was asking me to do.

    Boldness does not mean being loud, argumentative, or obnoxious. It does not mean forcing a sermon into every conversation or pretending to possess every answer.

    Sometimes boldness is simply saying:

    “Can I pray for you?”

    “God helped me through something similar.”

    “There is a Scripture that carried me when I was hurting.”

    “Would you like to come to church with me?”

    “Let me tell you what Jesus has done in my life.”

    Those words may feel small to us, but one exposed flame can light another wick.

    Every believer carries light into places a preacher may never enter.

    The recovering addict can reach another addict.

    The former inmate can speak to someone who believes his past has permanently disqualified him.

    The construction worker can carry Christ onto the jobsite.

    The police officer encounters people during some of the most frightening and vulnerable moments of their lives.

    The inside salesman speaks with customers, representatives, and coworkers scattered across places he may never physically visit.

    The nurse enters rooms where pain has stripped away appearances and people are suddenly willing to discuss what truly matters.

    The gas station attendant may regularly encounter someone everyone else overlooks.

    The corporate trainer reaches people across departments, cities, and walks of life.

    The housewife influences her family, her neighbors, other parents, and generations still being formed within her home.

    The teacher stands before young lives still deciding what they believe, what they value, and who they will become.

    These are not interruptions to ministry.

    They are ministry.

    We each have a circle of influence that belongs uniquely to us. We have relationships others do not have, access others may never receive, and credibility born from experiences others have never lived.

    I cannot occupy your relationships.

    I have not earned the trust you have earned.

    I do not know all the people who cross your path each day.

    You do not have to reach everyone. But there are people whom you may be uniquely positioned to reach.

    God has not placed every lamp in the same room.

    Over the past several days, I have shared some of the things God showed me while traveling through Puerto Rico and returning home.

    The journey began with rest:

    “Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while.”
    —Mark 6:31

    There were lessons in the dawn at thirty thousand feet, an unfinished building, burdened streets, a scarred beach, an ancient fortress, storm clouds over the ocean, and a darkened airplane cabin where I could not see the way home.

    But every journey eventually ends.

    We come home.

    We return to our families, our jobs, our responsibilities, and the ordinary conversations that fill our days.

    Eventually, we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, standing beside someone whose darkness may be deeper than we realize.

    The question is not merely whether the journey refreshed us.

    The question is what we brought home.

    God does not call us apart so that we can permanently withdraw from the world. He gives us rest because there is still work to do. He renews our strength because there are still burdens to carry. He speaks to us in quiet places because there are still people who need to hear what He has placed within us.

    We come apart to be renewed.

    We return to shine.

    The vacation ends.

    The calling does not.

    So perhaps we should ask ourselves:

    If God has placed His fire within me, who was it meant to give light to?

    Who is receiving light because of the fire I claim to possess?

    Where have fear, embarrassment, comfort, or self-consciousness caused me to place a basket over the lamp?

    And when the Spirit prompts me again, will I obey—or will I first look around to see who might be watching?

    We have rested.

    We have listened.

    We have seen.

    Now it is time to return to the places God has positioned us, remove the basket, and let the light shine.

    Lord, set us afire.

    Not merely so that we may feel the flame—

    but so that someone standing in darkness may finally see the Light.

  • He Knows the Way

    He Knows the Way

    “Behold, I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him: On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him: But he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” ~Job 23:8-10~

    At 35,000 feet, it is nearly impossible to sense how quickly an airplane is moving.

    On my return flight from San Juan, I sat in an aisle seat while nearly every window shade around me remained closed. I knew we were traveling generally north and northwest toward Atlanta, but I could not see the ocean beneath us. I could not watch the clouds pass. I could not identify a coastline, city, or landmark.

    There was no visible evidence of our speed, progress, or direction.

    From inside the darkened cabin, we could have been flying more than five hundred miles per hour or sitting completely still. Unless I looked at the flight tracker, I had no way of knowing where we were, how far we had traveled, or how much farther remained.

    Yet I was not empty-handed.

    I was returning with memories of people I love, photographs of places I had seen, roads I had walked, and lessons I did not want to forget. I carried mementos of where I had been and memories of those who had walked beside me.

    But none of them could show me the way ahead.

    There are seasons when faith feels much the same.

    We can remember what God has done before. We can look back at prayers He answered, doors He opened, and places where His hand was unmistakable. We carry photographs in our minds and testimonies in our hearts.

    But memories of yesterday do not always provide a map for tomorrow.

    Sometimes the shades are closed.

    We cannot see where we are going. We cannot sense progress. We may feel changes taking place without understanding where they are leading. Something shifts. The aircraft banks. A familiar season begins to turn, but we cannot identify the new direction.

    We know we are no longer where we were, but we have not yet arrived where we are going.

    Job understood that disorientation.

    He looked forward, but God did not appear to be there. He looked backward and could not perceive Him. He searched to the left, where he knew God was working, but could not behold Him. He looked to the right, and God remained hidden.

    Every direction Job searched seemed empty.

    Yet notice what Job said about the left hand:

    “Where he doth work.”

    Job could not see God, but he still acknowledged that God was working.

    That is faith in its most honest form. It does not pretend the window is open when it is closed. It does not deny the darkness, disguise the uncertainty, or claim to understand a route that remains hidden.

    Faith simply refuses to interpret limited visibility as divine absence.

    Job could not perceive God—but God had not lost sight of Job.

    “But he knoweth the way that I take.”

    Job did not know the way, but God did.

    Job could not see the route, but God could.

    Job could not identify his present location or understand the purpose of the journey, but heaven had not misplaced him.

    The same is true for us.

    There will be times when we cannot see what God is doing. We may not understand why a familiar path changed, why a door closed, why a season ended, or why the next destination has not yet appeared. We may feel the turn long before we understand the direction.

    But our inability to see the route never means the Pilot has lost it.

    God does not need us to understand the flight plan in order to complete it. He sees beyond the closed shade. He knows our present position, the conditions ahead, and the destination He has appointed.

    The silence does not mean He has left the cockpit.

    The darkness does not mean the aircraft has stopped moving.

    And the absence of visible landmarks does not mean we are lost.

    You may not know where this season is taking you. You may look forward, backward, left, and right without finding the answers you desperately want.

    But God knows the way that you take.

    For now, that may have to be enough.

    And faith says that it is.

    Final Word:

    When I cannot see the way ahead, I can still trust the One who already knows it.

  • Another Way In

    Another Way In

    Standing at El Morro in Old San Juan, it is difficult not to be impressed by its strength.

    For centuries, Castillo San Felipe del Morro stood guard over the entrance to San Juan Bay. Massive walls. Cannons aimed toward the sea. A commanding position overlooking the harbor.

    It was built for one purpose:

    See the enemy coming—and stop him before he gets through.

    And from the sea, El Morro was remarkably effective.

    But history teaches us something important.

    When attacking forces discovered how difficult it was to defeat San Juan through its strongest defenses, they looked for another way.

    They came from the land.

    They probed the defenses.

    They searched for the place that wasn’t as well protected.

    And our adversary hasn’t changed his strategy.

    ⸝

    He Doesn’t Have To Break Your Strongest Wall

    Some of us have built enormous spiritual defenses around the places where we’ve already fought battles.

    We’ve learned.

    We’ve grown.

    We’ve established boundaries.

    We’ve memorized the Scriptures.

    We’ve recognized the warning signs.

    The enemy may have attacked that wall a hundred times—and discovered that it isn’t moving.

    But don’t confuse his silence with surrender.

    If the enemy cannot get through the wall, he will start walking around it.

    Peter warned us:

    “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.” ~1 Peter 5:8~

    Notice the language.

    Walketh about. Seeking.

    The enemy isn’t merely attacking.

    He’s looking.

    Watching.

    Searching for another way in.

    ⸝

    Sometimes He Sends a Scout First

    An invading army doesn’t always begin with thousands of soldiers charging the wall.

    Sometimes it begins with reconnaissance.

    Something small.

    Something seemingly insignificant.

    Something that doesn’t appear threatening enough to sound the alarm.

    And spiritually, compromise often begins the same way.

    It doesn’t announce:

    I’m here to destroy your marriage.

    I’m here to ruin your testimony.

    I’m here to pull you away from God.

    Instead, it whispers:

    There’s nothing wrong with this.

    Just this once.

    You deserve this.

    Nobody will ever know.

    You’re strong enough to handle it.

    Sometimes the scout may even look friendly.

    It may speak our language.

    It may appeal to something familiar.

    It may simply ask for a little room.

    And Paul warned:

    “Neither give place to the devil.” ~Ephesians 4:27

    He doesn’t have to possess the entire fortress to begin gaining ground.

    He only needs a place.

    ⸝

    Where Is Your Wall Unguarded?

    That’s the uncomfortable question El Morro asks us.

    We usually know where our strongest walls are.

    But what about the places we aren’t watching?

    Maybe it’s resentment we’ve justified.

    Attention we’ve begun enjoying a little too much.

    A friendship where boundaries have slowly moved.

    Something we’re watching that we once wouldn’t have watched.

    A private thought we’ve stopped challenging.

    A disappointment with God we’ve stopped talking to Him about.

    None of those things necessarily means the fortress has fallen.

    But they may reveal something important:

    where the wall isn’t being watched.

    The enemy doesn’t need to destroy your strongest wall if you’ll leave another gate unguarded.

    ⸝

    Keep Watch

    Peter’s warning doesn’t end with the enemy.

    Neither should ours.

    “Whom resist stedfast in the faith…” ~1 Peter 5:9

    The answer isn’t paranoia.

    It’s vigilance.

    We don’t have to spend our lives frightened of Satan or suspicious of everyone around us.

    We simply need to remain sober.

    Watchful.

    Prayerful.

    Honest enough to recognize our vulnerabilities—and humble enough to guard them.

    El Morro didn’t survive centuries because nobody attacked it.

    It survived because somebody kept watch.

    Don’t mistake the absence of an attack for the absence of an enemy.

    The enemy may simply be walking around the wall.

    Keep watch.

  • Even Into the Storm

    Even Into the Storm

    Scripture Focus: Jonah 1–4

    “Now the word of the LORD came unto Jonah the son of Amittai, saying, Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against it…”
    — Jonah 1:1–2

    Jonah knew exactly what God had said.

    There was no confusion about the calling. No uncertainty about the destination. No need to pray about it for another week and ask God for confirmation.

    God had spoken.

    “Arise, go to Nineveh.”

    Jonah arose.

    And went the other direction.

    “But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarshish from the presence of the LORD…”

    Those two verses establish the conflict of the entire book. God said Nineveh. Jonah chose Tarshish.

    It would be easy to reduce Jonah’s story to a simple lesson about obedience: God told Jonah to do something, Jonah refused, God sent a fish, Jonah changed his mind, and eventually Jonah obeyed.

    But Jonah is far more complicated than that.

    So are we.

    Jonah knew God. He was a prophet. He had heard the voice of God and had been used by God before. His problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what God wanted.

    His problem was that he didn’t want what God wanted.

    And there is a world of difference between the two.

    The Fare to Tarshish

    Jonah went down to Joppa and found exactly what he was looking for—a ship headed toward Tarshish.

    That must have seemed convenient.

    Think about that for a moment.

    Jonah was running from God, arrived at the port, and there happened to be a ship going exactly where he wanted to go.

    We sometimes make the mistake of believing that an open door must mean God approves of the direction we are taking.

    Not necessarily.

    Sometimes there is a ship to Tarshish.

    Jonah found one.

    Then Scripture includes a small detail that is easy to overlook:

    “He paid the fare thereof.”

    Jonah had to pay for passage in the wrong direction.

    Running from God cost Jonah something before the storm ever arrived.

    Disobedience always has a fare.

    Sometimes we pay it in time.

    Sometimes in peace.

    Sometimes in relationships.

    Sometimes in opportunities.

    Sometimes in years we can never recover.

    We spend enormous amounts of energy trying to maintain a journey God never told us to take.

    Jonah bought passage to Tarshish, but he could not purchase distance from God.

    He could leave Israel.

    He could sail across the Mediterranean.

    He could surround himself with people who knew nothing about his calling.

    But there was nowhere Jonah could go where God ceased to be God.

    Jonah discovered something David had written about long before:

    “Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?”

    The answer is nowhere.

    Jonah could run.

    God could follow.

    But the LORD

    Jonah found his ship.

    “But the LORD sent out a great wind into the sea.”

    There is that word:

    But.

    Jonah had made his plans.

    But the LORD.

    Jonah had purchased his ticket.

    But the LORD.

    Jonah had boarded the ship.

    But the LORD.

    Jonah was headed toward Tarshish.

    But the LORD.

    The storm was not evidence that God had abandoned Jonah.

    It was evidence that God had not.

    That distinction matters.

    Not every storm in life is caused by disobedience. Scripture gives us far too many examples of righteous people suffering to make such a careless claim. Job suffered without Jonah’s rebellion. Paul encountered storms while obeying God. Jesus Himself sent His disciples across the Sea of Galilee, where they encountered a storm while doing exactly what He had told them to do.

    We should never look at someone struggling and automatically assume, “They must have disobeyed God.”

    But Jonah knew why this storm had come.

    He was running.

    And God loved him too much to simply wave goodbye from the shoreline.

    Sleeping Through the Storm

    The storm became so violent that experienced sailors became afraid.

    These were not men unfamiliar with the sea. Storms were part of their lives.

    Yet this one frightened them.

    They began throwing cargo overboard to lighten the ship.

    Then they began praying.

    “Every man unto his god.”

    Everybody aboard that ship seemed to understand that something serious was happening.

    Everybody except Jonah.

    Jonah was below deck.

    Asleep.

    The prophet of God was sleeping while pagan sailors were praying.

    There is an uncomfortable picture there.

    Jonah had become so settled into his disobedience that he could sleep while the consequences raged around him.

    Isn’t that sometimes how we become?

    At first, running from God bothers us.

    Our conscience speaks.

    The Spirit convicts.

    Something inside us knows we are moving in the wrong direction.

    But if we continue long enough, we can become comfortable somewhere we never should have been comfortable.

    We can sleep on the way to Tarshish.

    We can become spiritually numb while storms rage around us.

    I know.

    I’ve been there.

    There have been times when I knew what God had said and still thought I knew better. Times when I stepped away, pulled back, resisted, or tried to convince myself that another direction would be easier.

    The frightening part isn’t always the running.

    Sometimes it is how comfortable we can eventually become while running.

    Everyone on the Ship Paid

    The sailors eventually cast lots to determine who was responsible for the calamity.

    The lot fell on Jonah.

    Suddenly the questions came.

    Who are you?

    Where are you from?

    What do you do?

    What people do you belong to?

    Jonah answered:

    “I am an Hebrew; and I fear the LORD, the God of heaven, which hath made the sea and the dry land.”

    His theology was correct.

    His life was contradicting it.

    Jonah claimed to fear the God who made the sea while using that very sea to run from Him.

    The sailors recognized the contradiction.

    Verse 10 tells us Jonah had explained that he was fleeing from the presence of the LORD.

    Their response was essentially:

    Why would you do this?

    And by this point, Jonah was no longer the only one suffering because of his decision.

    That deserves our attention.

    Our disobedience rarely affects only us.

    The sailors didn’t choose Jonah’s rebellion.

    They didn’t hear God’s command and reject it.

    They were simply on the same boat with the man who did.

    Yet their lives were endangered.

    Their cargo was lost.

    Their journey was interrupted.

    They experienced fear they never would have experienced had Jonah obeyed God.

    That is a serious warning for anyone who says:

    “My decisions are between me and God.”

    Not always.

    Sometimes our families ride on the ship with us.

    Our children.

    Our spouses.

    Our churches.

    Our friends.

    The people we are supposed to be ministering to.

    The people who depend on us.

    The people who simply happen to be close enough to experience the consequences of our decisions.

    Jonah bought one ticket, but an entire ship entered the storm.

    Sin loves to tell us that our choices are private.

    They rarely remain that way.

    Throw Me Overboard

    Eventually Jonah admitted what had to happen.

    “Take me up, and cast me forth into the sea; so shall the sea be calm unto you.”

    Interestingly, the sailors initially refused.

    They rowed harder.

    They tried desperately to reach land.

    These men, who had every reason to be angry with Jonah, still attempted to save him.

    But they couldn’t.

    Finally, after crying out to the LORD, they threw Jonah overboard.

    Immediately the sea became calm.

    And something remarkable happened.

    The sailors who began the chapter crying out to their own gods ended the episode fearing the LORD.

    “They feared the LORD exceedingly, and offered a sacrifice unto the LORD, and made vows.”

    Even in Jonah’s rebellion, God revealed Himself to people who had not known Him.

    That does not excuse Jonah’s disobedience.

    But it does reveal something extraordinary about God.

    God is capable of working redemptively even in situations created by our failures.

    He does not need our mistakes.

    He does not approve of our rebellion.

    But neither is He defeated by them.

    God can take the wreckage of human disobedience and still reveal Himself in the middle of it.

    Then Jonah disappeared beneath the waves.

    And for the first time in the story, there was nothing Jonah could do.

    No ship.

    No fare.

    No destination.

    No plan.

    No escape.

    He could not sail himself out.

    He could not bargain his way out.

    He could not swim his way out.

    Jonah had finally reached a place where he could not save himself.

    And God was already there.

    God Had Prepared a Fish

    “Now the LORD had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.”

    Most of us grew up thinking the fish was Jonah’s punishment.

    Look again.

    Jonah was drowning.

    The fish kept him alive.

    The storm confronted Jonah.

    The sea broke Jonah’s illusion of control.

    But the fish preserved him.

    The fish was not God saying:

    “Now I’ve got you.”

    It was God saying:

    “I’m not finished with you.”

    What looked like the worst possible thing that could happen to Jonah was actually God’s provision for him.

    Imagine Jonah sinking beneath the surface.

    The ship growing distant above him.

    The light disappearing.

    His strength failing.

    There was no human possibility of rescue.

    And then came the fish.

    Not how Jonah would have designed salvation.

    Certainly not comfortable.

    Definitely not pleasant.

    But effective.

    Sometimes God’s rescue does not look like rescue when it first arrives.

    Sometimes it looks like an interruption.

    A closed door.

    A consequence.

    A season we never would have chosen.

    Something gets removed.

    Something collapses.

    Something we depended upon disappears.

    And in the moment, all we can see is the fish.

    Only later do we understand:

    That wasn’t God destroying me.

    That was God refusing to let me drown.

    From the Belly of the Fish

    Jonah finally prayed.

    Not from a temple.

    Not from Jerusalem.

    Not standing confidently before a congregation.

    From the belly of a fish.

    There are prayers we pray when we still believe we can fix everything ourselves.

    Then there are prayers we pray when every other option is gone.

    Jonah remembered God.

    He acknowledged his helplessness.

    He recognized that salvation belonged to the LORD.

    And God spoke to the fish.

    Jonah was deposited onto dry land.

    Wet.

    Humbled.

    Probably smelling worse than any prophet in Israel.

    But alive.

    Then Jonah 3 begins with one of the most beautiful statements in the book:

    “And the word of the LORD came unto Jonah the second time.”

    The second time.

    God could have found another prophet.

    He could have replaced Jonah.

    Jonah had openly rebelled against a direct command from God.

    He ran.

    He endangered others.

    He resisted.

    He failed.

    Yet after the storm, after the sea, after the fish, God spoke to Jonah again.

    The calling survived the failure.

    “Arise, go unto Nineveh.”

    Almost exactly what God had said the first time.

    God had not changed the assignment.

    He had been working on the messenger.

    And this time Jonah went.

    The Runaway Preaches to Runaways

    Jonah entered Nineveh and proclaimed the warning God had given him.

    And Nineveh responded.

    The people believed God.

    They fasted.

    They repented.

    Even the king humbled himself.

    And God saw their response and withheld the destruction He had warned them about.

    That should have been the triumphant ending.

    The runaway prophet had been restored.

    The wicked city had repented.

    Thousands had been spared.

    Everyone should have been celebrating.

    Except Jonah.

    Jonah was angry.

    And now we finally learn why he ran.

    It wasn’t because he was afraid to preach.

    It wasn’t because he doubted God’s power.

    Jonah ran because he knew God’s character.

    He told God:

    “I knew that thou art a gracious God, and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness…”

    There is the great irony of Jonah.

    Jonah wanted mercy for Jonah but judgment for Nineveh.

    He was grateful for the fish when he was drowning.

    He was angry about grace when Nineveh needed it.

    He celebrated the mercy that saved the prophet but resented the mercy that saved the city.

    And suddenly the story turns the mirror toward us again.

    How easily we receive grace while deciding who else deserves it.

    We thank God for forgiving our failures while remembering someone else’s.

    We rejoice that God pursued us while secretly wishing He would punish those who hurt us.

    We sing about amazing grace until grace becomes amazing for someone we don’t think deserves it.

    Jonah had learned that God would pursue a runaway prophet.

    Now he had to learn that God would also pursue a wicked city.

    The God Who Pursues

    That may be the deepest message of Jonah.

    Everyone is running from something.

    Jonah ran from Nineveh.

    Nineveh had run far from righteousness.

    Even after obeying, Jonah still struggled with his own heart.

    Yet God kept pursuing.

    He pursued Jonah with a storm.

    He pursued the sailors through Jonah’s failure.

    He pursued Jonah beneath the waves.

    He pursued Nineveh through preaching.

    And in chapter 4, He was still pursuing Jonah through a plant, a worm, a hot east wind, and a conversation.

    The book ends without telling us how Jonah responded.

    God asks:

    “Should not I spare Nineveh…?”

    And then the story stops.

    No recorded answer from Jonah.

    Perhaps that is intentional.

    Because eventually the question stops being about Jonah.

    It becomes a question for us.

    Do we believe God has the right to show mercy to people we would rather condemn?

    Can we celebrate redemption when the person being redeemed is someone we believe deserves judgment?

    Can we trust God enough to go where He sends us, even when we do not understand—or even like—what He intends to do there?

    And when we are the ones running, can we believe His pursuit is not always anger?

    Sometimes the storm is mercy.

    Sometimes the interruption is mercy.

    Sometimes the fish is mercy.

    Sometimes the second chance is mercy.

    Jonah ran.

    God followed.

    Into Joppa.

    Onto the sea.

    Into the storm.

    Beneath the waves.

    All the way to Nineveh.

    Jonah discovered that there is no distance far enough, no sea wide enough, no failure deep enough to place a person beyond the reach of God.

    His disobedience had consequences.

    His rebellion affected innocent people.

    His failure was real.

    But his failure did not get the final word.

    God did.

    And when Jonah finally reached the place where he could no longer save himself, God had already prepared what he needed.

    The fish wasn’t revenge.

    It was rescue.

    The storm wasn’t the end.

    It became the road back.

    And the God Jonah was desperately trying to escape turned out to be the only One who could save him.

    Jonah ran.

    God pursued.

    Jonah sank.

    God provided.

    Jonah failed.

    God spoke a second time.

    That is more than the story of a runaway prophet.

    That is redemption.

  • 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.