Tag: Christian living

  • Create In Me A Clean Heart

    Create In Me A Clean Heart

    Scripture: Psalm 51

    Yesterday we looked at one of the most uncomfortable moments in all of Scripture.

    Nathan stood before King David and uttered four unforgettable words:

    “Thou art the man.”

    David’s response was immediate.

    “I have sinned against the LORD.” (2 Samuel 12:13)

    For most of us, that’s where the story ends.

    But Scripture doesn’t leave us standing in the throne room with Nathan.

    It invites us into David’s prayer closet.

    Psalm 51 is that prayer.

    If 2 Samuel 12 records David’s confession…

    Psalm 51 reveals David’s heart.

    I’ve read Psalm 51 countless times over the years, and it has long been one of my favorite chapters in the Bible.

    But through the years I’ve discovered something.

    There are certain passages of Scripture that become more meaningful the longer you live.

    When I was younger, I admired David’s poetry.

    Today…

    I understand his tears.

    David doesn’t spend this Psalm trying to explain himself.

    He doesn’t minimize his sin.

    He doesn’t compare himself to someone worse.

    He doesn’t bargain with God.

    No… he simply throws himself entirely upon the mercy of God.

    The opening words set the tone for everything that follows.

    “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness…”

    David doesn’t appeal to his past victories.

    He doesn’t remind God that he killed Goliath.

    He doesn’t mention the years he faithfully served as king.

    He simply pleads for mercy.

    That is where genuine repentance always begins.

    The more I read this Psalm, the more one truth stands out.

    David never asks God to change his circumstances.

    Instead…

    He asks God to change him.

    That may be the clearest evidence that his repentance was genuine.

    “Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity…”

    “Cleanse me from my sin.”

    “Purge me with hyssop…”

    “Create in me a clean heart…”

    “Renew a right spirit within me.”

    Notice the pattern.

    Wash me.

    Cleanse me.

    Purge me.

    Create in me.

    Renew me.

    Restore me.

    Those aren’t the prayers of a man trying to escape consequences.

    They’re the prayers of a man who longs to be different.

    David understood something that we sometimes forget.

    Forgiveness isn’t merely about removing guilt.

    It’s about restoring fellowship with God.

    In this chapter, there is one verse that has always stopped me in my tracks.

    “Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.” (Psalm 51:11)

    David had already lost peace.

    He had already lost joy.

    His family would experience heartbreaking consequences because of his choices.

    But above everything else…

    He feared losing the presence of God.

    That tells me David finally understood what mattered most.

    One word in particular has fascinated me for years.

    “Create in me a clean heart, O God…”

    David didn’t ask God to repair his heart.

    He didn’t ask Him to polish it.

    Or improve it.

    The Hebrew word translated “create” is the same word used in Genesis 1.

    It describes something only God can do.

    David wasn’t asking for self-improvement.

    He was asking for a new creation.

    Isn’t that the hope of the Gospel?

    God doesn’t simply make bad people a little better.

    He makes dead things live again.

    He gives new hearts.

    New spirits.

    New beginnings.

    As I’ve reflected on my own life over the past sixteen years, these words have taken on a depth they never had before.

    Not because I’ve learned more Hebrew.

    Not because I’ve become a better Bible student.

    But because I’ve experienced the painful reality of living with the consequences of my own failures.

    I’ve learned that repentance isn’t just feeling sorry for what I’ve done.

    It’s longing to become someone different through the grace of God.

    That’s why Psalm 51 continues to speak to me.

    David never asked God to erase the past.

    He asked Him to transform the man who would live tomorrow.

    There is a profound difference.

    Repentance isn’t trying to convince God we’re better than we are.

    It’s agreeing with God about who we really are…

    and trusting Him to make us new.

    That is the beauty of grace.

    Not that God overlooks our sin.

    But that He cleanses the sinner who comes to Him with a broken and contrite heart.

    Final Word

    David wasn’t remembered because he was the king who never failed.

    He was remembered because he was the king who knew where to go when he did.

    Every one of us will fail.

    Every one of us will need mercy.

    The question isn’t whether we’ll ever have our own Psalm 51 moment.

    The question is whether we’ll come to God with excuses…

    or with surrender.

    May our prayer never become,

    “Lord, protect my reputation.”

    May it always be,

    “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”

    Because God specializes in doing what only He can do.

    He doesn’t merely forgive repentant hearts.

    He creates new ones.

  • Two Kings. Two Prophets. Two Hearts.

    Two Kings. Two Prophets. Two Hearts.

    Last weekend, Lisa and I had the opportunity to see David at Sight & Sound in Branson.

    The production was outstanding.

    Like most people, I expected to leave thinking about Goliath.

    Instead, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nathan.

    As I watched the prophet confront David over his sin with Bathsheba and Uriah, I found myself comparing that scene with another confrontation recorded in Scripture.

    Two kings.

    Two prophets.

    Two sins.

    Two completely different responses.

    King Saul was confronted by Samuel after sparing King Agag and keeping the best of the Amalekite livestock, despite God’s clear command to destroy everything.

    King David was confronted by Nathan after committing adultery with Bathsheba and arranging for Uriah to be killed in battle.

    Neither man sought out correction.

    God sent a prophet to them.

    Both men had sinned.

    Both men were confronted.

    But that’s where the similarities end.

    When Samuel confronted Saul, his first response wasn’t confession.

    It was self-defense.

    “I have obeyed…”

    “The people took of the spoil…”

    “It was to sacrifice unto the Lord…”

    Excuse followed excuse.

    Responsibility was shifted.

    Blame was shared.

    Even after finally saying, “I have sinned,” Saul immediately added another request:

    “Honor me now, I pray thee, before the elders of my people.”

    Even in repentance, he was still concerned about preserving his image.

    Then Nathan stood before David.

    He didn’t begin with an accusation.

    He told a story.

    A rich man stole the only lamb a poor man possessed.

    David was furious.

    “The man that hath done this thing shall surely die!”

    Then Nathan spoke four words that have echoed through history.

    “Thou art the man.”

    At that moment, David could have done exactly what Saul had done.

    He could have blamed Bathsheba.

    He could have blamed loneliness.

    He could have blamed the pressures of leadership.

    He could have blamed anyone but himself.

    Instead, David uttered one of the shortest—and most powerful—confessions in all of Scripture.

    “I have sinned against the LORD.”

    No excuses.

    No blame shifting.

    No attempts to justify himself.

    Just honest repentance.

    David’s sin was enormous.

    Adultery.

    Deception.

    Murder.

    None of it was minimized.

    The consequences were real, painful, and far-reaching.

    His family suffered.

    His kingdom suffered.

    David himself suffered.

    Repentance does not erase earthly consequences.

    But it does restore fellowship with God.

    I’ve often wondered why preachers spend far more time talking about David and Goliath than David and Nathan.

    Perhaps it’s because Goliath is easier.

    We all like sermons that ask,

    “What giant are you facing?”

    Nathan asks a far more uncomfortable question.

    “Where are you refusing God’s correction?”

    One sermon inspires us.

    The other examines us.

    One points to battles around us.

    The other exposes battles within us.

    As I reflected on the production afterward, another thought settled into my heart.

    The greatest difference between Saul and David wasn’t that one sinned and the other didn’t.

    Both failed.

    Both needed mercy.

    The difference was what happened after God confronted them.

    Saul defended himself.

    David humbled himself.

    One protected his reputation.

    The other surrendered his heart.

    I don’t believe God is looking for people who never fail.

    If He were, none of us would qualify.

    I believe He’s looking for people who remain teachable.

    People who are willing to hear hard truth.

    People who care more about holiness than appearance.

    People who, when confronted by the Spirit of God, are willing to say,

    “Lord… You’re right.”

    Because every one of us will eventually have a “Thou art the man” moment.

    The question isn’t whether correction will come.

    The question is what kind of heart it will find.

    Final Word

    David wasn’t called “a man after God’s own heart” because he never sinned.

    He was called that because when God exposed his sin, he didn’t harden his heart.

    He humbled it.

    The difference between Saul and David wasn’t the seriousness of their failures.

    It was the condition of their hearts after they were confronted.

    May we never become so concerned with protecting our reputation that we stop listening to God’s correction.

    Because the path to restoration doesn’t begin with defending ourselves.

    It begins with four simple words…

    “I have sinned, Lord.”

  • When Conviction Loses Compassion

    When Conviction Loses Compassion

    One of the saddest realities of our culture is that we have become convinced we must choose between truth and compassion.

    We’re told that if we stand for biblical truth, we cannot truly love people.

    Or, if we genuinely love people, we must eventually surrender biblical truth.

    Jesus accepted neither option.

    He never compromised truth.

    He never withheld compassion.

    And somehow, two thousand years later, many of us have managed to separate what He perfectly united.

    Before we go any further, let me be equally clear about where I stand. I believe God’s design for marriage and sexuality is revealed in Scripture, and I do not have the authority to redefine what God has already spoken. At the same time, I believe every person—regardless of their beliefs, identity, choices, or lifestyle—is created in the image of God and is therefore worthy of dignity, compassion, and respect. These convictions are not in conflict. In fact, they belong together.

    I recently came across a simple quote that has lingered in my mind:

    “When you hold a belief so tightly you cannot see another’s humanity, it will eventually obscure your own.”

    Whether the author intended it or not, I immediately thought of Jesus.

    Not because He abandoned truth…

    But because He never allowed truth to become an excuse for forgetting the value of the person standing in front of Him.

    Think about His ministry.

    The woman caught in adultery.

    The Samaritan woman at the well.

    Matthew, the tax collector.

    Zacchaeus.

    The lepers everyone else avoided.

    The demoniac living among the tombs.

    People whom society had already categorized, condemned, dismissed, or avoided.

    Jesus never ignored their sin.

    But neither did He ignore their humanity.

    He saw people before He addressed their problems.

    Genesis tells us something remarkable.

    Every human being is created in the image of God.

    Not just Christians.

    Not just people who agree with us.

    Not just those living according to Scripture.

    Every person.

    Sin has marred that image, but it has not erased it.

    That truth should forever change the way followers of Christ see people.

    The person addicted to drugs.

    The man sitting in prison.

    The woman who has had multiple abortions.

    The atheist.

    The Muslim.

    The political activist.

    The LGBTQ+ individual.

    The person who hurt you.

    The family member who rejected your values.

    The coworker who mocks your faith.

    Every one of them still bears the imprint of the Creator.

    If God saw enough value in them to create them…

    And enough value in them to send His Son to die for them…

    Who am I to pretend they are beneath my compassion?

    James writes something that should stop every Christian in their tracks.

    With our mouths we bless God…

    And with those same mouths we curse people who have been made in the likeness of God.

    James says these things should not be.

    Think about that.

    When I insult, mock, dehumanize, or rejoice in another person’s humiliation, I am doing so against someone who still carries the fingerprints of God.

    That doesn’t excuse sin.

    It simply reminds me that sinners are still people.

    Sometimes I wonder if we’ve become so busy defending biblical positions that we’ve forgotten why God gave us those truths in the first place.

    The purpose of truth is not to win arguments.

    The purpose of truth is to lead people to Christ.

    Jesus never confused acceptance with approval.

    He welcomed people without affirming everything they did.

    He loved them enough to meet them where they were.

    He also loved them too much to leave them there.

    To the woman caught in adultery He extended mercy…

    Then He called her to leave her sin.

    Those are not contradictory actions.

    They are the very definition of biblical love.

    Love without truth leaves people lost.

    Truth without love leaves people hopeless.

    The Gospel has always been both.

    During the past month, as conversations surrounding Pride once again filled social media, I noticed something that deeply grieved me.

    Not the disagreements.

    Disagreement is inevitable.

    Christians and our culture have very different understandings of sexuality, marriage, and identity.

    Those conversations matter.

    But what disturbed me wasn’t disagreement.

    It was the hatred.

    The mocking.

    The cruel jokes.

    The celebration of another person’s pain.

    The comments that seemed to delight in making someone feel less than human.

    I couldn’t help but wonder…

    When did we decide that cruelty became a fruit of the Spirit?

    There is nothing Christlike about humiliating someone.

    There is nothing holy about ridicule.

    There is nothing righteous about treating another image-bearer of God as though they have no value.

    If we believe someone is living apart from God’s design, shouldn’t that move us toward compassion instead of contempt?

    After all…

    That’s exactly how Jesus treated us.

    The Apostle Paul wrote words that every believer should remember:

    “Such were some of you.”

    Those words level the ground beneath the cross.

    Every Christian has a past.

    Every Christian has needed grace.

    Every Christian has stood in desperate need of mercy.

    The only difference between us and anyone still trapped in sin is not our goodness.

    It’s God’s grace.

    That realization should produce humility instead of arrogance.

    Compassion instead of contempt.

    Tears instead of insults.

    Perhaps the greatest danger isn’t abandoning biblical convictions.

    It’s allowing those convictions to harden our hearts.

    The Pharisees knew Scripture better than almost anyone.

    Yet they looked into the eyes of the Son of God and could not recognize Him because their hearts had become so consumed with being right that they no longer loved the people they were supposed to shepherd.

    Knowledge had replaced mercy.

    Religion had replaced relationship.

    Truth had lost compassion.

    May that never be true of us.

    As followers of Christ, we should never apologize for what Scripture teaches.

    But neither should we apologize for loving the people Christ died to save.

    Those are not opposing commitments.

    They are inseparable.

    If my convictions cause me to look down on people…

    Something is wrong with my heart.

    If my theology allows me to despise those Christ willingly died for…

    Something is wrong with my theology.

    Because every person I meet is someone Jesus considered worth stretching out His hands for.

    And if He could love them enough to die for them…

    Surely I can love them enough to treat them with dignity.

    Final Word

    The world often tells us we must choose between conviction and compassion.

    Jesus chose neither.

    He embodied both.

    He never compromised truth.

    He never forgot a person’s worth.

    As His followers, neither should we.

    Because biblical conviction should never make us less compassionate.

    It should remind us just how much compassion God first showed us.

  • If My Story Can Save Someone Else’s

    If My Story Can Save Someone Else’s

    There comes a point in life when you stop worrying about what people will remember about you…

    And you start wondering what your life will point them toward.

    I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back.

    I’ve hurt people I loved.

    I’ve failed in ways that still grieve me.

    If I could rewrite those chapters, I would.

    But I can’t.

    And maybe that’s exactly where God’s grace becomes most visible.

    Because grace isn’t proven by the lives of people who never needed it.

    Grace is proven by what God does with people who did.

    The Apostle Paul never hid the fact that he persecuted the church.

    Peter never pretended he hadn’t denied Jesus.

    David never removed Psalm 51 from the Bible.

    Their failures weren’t recorded to glorify sin.

    They were preserved to magnify God’s mercy.

    I don’t tell parts of my story because I’m proud of them.

    I’m not.

    I tell them because somewhere, someone else is standing where I once stood.

    Someone is one decision away from destroying a marriage.

    Someone is trapped in secret sin.

    Someone is convinced they’ve gone too far for God to forgive.

    If my failures can persuade one person to turn around before making the same mistake…

    If my scars can convince someone that God’s grace is still greater than their shame…

    If one person finds hope because they realized God never gave up on me…

    Then every painful chapter will have served a purpose.

    When this life is over, I don’t want people talking about my accomplishments.

    I don’t want to be remembered for clever words, popular posts, or even a ministry.

    I want them to remember a faithful God…

    Who refused to stop pursuing an unfaithful man.

    Like the song says:

    “I don’t want to leave a legacy.

    I don’t care if they remember me.

    Only Jesus.”

    Because if my life points even one person toward Him…

    Then every chapter—

    The joyful ones.

    The painful ones.

    The victories.

    The failures.

    The mountains.

    The valleys.

    Will all have been worth it.

    Final Word

    One day, every one of us will leave something behind.

    The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy.

    The question is what that legacy will point to.

    May people never look at our lives and say, “What an extraordinary person.”

    May they instead say,

    “What an extraordinary Savior.”

  • What the Mountains Taught Me About the Valley

    What the Mountains Taught Me About the Valley

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

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

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

    It was the mountains that demanded my full attention.

    The road narrowed.

    The next curve disappeared from view.

    The drop-offs became steeper.

    The weather changed without warning.

    Every mile required a little more caution than the last.

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

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

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

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

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

    Some valleys are fertile.

    Some are filled with rivers.

    Some become places where battles are fought and won.

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

    Likewise, not every mountain represents ease or triumph.

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

    Moses climbed Mount Sinai into God’s presence.

    Elijah climbed Mount Carmel to confront hundreds of false prophets.

    Each ascent required obedience before it brought revelation.

    Then I thought about Lot.

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

    The geography wasn’t the lesson.

    His heart was.

    Perhaps that’s where we sometimes miss the point.

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

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

    Sometimes God meets us on the mountain.

    Sometimes He restores us beside still waters in the valley.

    Sometimes He calls us to climb.

    Sometimes He calls us to descend.

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

    Mountaintops are often places of revelation.

    Valleys are often places where that revelation is lived out.

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

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

    Yet that’s also where I became most attentive.

    I slowed down.

    I watched more carefully.

    I depended less on myself.

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

    Not because He has abandoned us…

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

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

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

    Where is God leading me today?

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

    Final Word

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

    Scripture asks a different question.

    Are you following the Shepherd?

    The terrain will change.

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

    Others will be steep climbs where every step requires faith.

    Neither place defines your relationship with God.

    His presence does.

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

    Place it in the One who never leaves the path.

  • The Blessing You Didn’t Pray For

    The Blessing You Didn’t Pray For

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

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

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

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

    Instead, it challenges us to consider a difficult possibility:

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

    That thought immediately took me back through Scripture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    We naturally think blessings look like answered prayers.

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

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

    But sometimes His greatest gifts are quieter.

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

    None of us pray for those things.

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

    I’ve noticed something else.

    We usually recognize those blessings only by looking backward.

    Very few people say in the middle of suffering,

    “I can already see why God allowed this.”

    Perspective often comes long after the pain.

    Perhaps that’s why faith is so essential.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Final Word

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

    Sometimes He does.

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

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

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

  • The Only Opinion That Ultimately Matters

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

    Someone once shared a thought that has stayed with me:

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

    That isn’t always easy.

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

    Sometimes that’s appropriate.

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

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

    I’ve often said:

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

    Think about David.

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

    David refused.

    Instead, he entrusted his reputation to God.

    Think about Jesus.

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

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

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

    If every misunderstanding demands an explanation…

    If every criticism demands a rebuttal…

    If every accusation demands a defense…

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

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

    But false assumptions, rumors, and misunderstandings are different.

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

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

    We won’t stand before Facebook.

    We won’t stand before our friends.

    We won’t stand before those who misunderstood us.

    We will stand before God.

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

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

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

    Final Word

    Your reputation is what people believe about you.

    Your character is who you are when only God sees.

    Invest more energy in your character than your reputation.

  • Looking Back

    Looking Back

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

    Those three words from Jesus have always fascinated me.

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

    Most people focus on what she did.

    She looked back.

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

    Perhaps it was where her heart remained.

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

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

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

    Why?

    Scripture doesn’t tell us.

    Perhaps she missed her home.

    Perhaps she missed friends and memories.

    Perhaps she simply feared the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

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

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

    We’re trapped by familiar ones.

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

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

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

    Not because the past was evil.

    But because it was known.

    The future is not.

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

    The hardest part wasn’t laying down the responsibility.

    The hardest part was not looking back.

    That season had shaped me.

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

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

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

    None of them were given a complete roadmap.

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

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

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

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

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

    What if He is trying to create something new?

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

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

    That question has challenged me deeply.

    Because every season of life eventually ends.

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

    The question isn’t whether seasons will change.

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

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

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

    But they cannot become our destination.

    God never calls us backward.

    He always calls us forward.

    Final Word:

    Maybe the question isn’t:

    “What am I looking back at?”

    Maybe the better question is:

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

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

  • Give Me Truth

    “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”
    — Henry David Thoreau

    Truth sounds noble… until it costs you something.

    It’s easy to praise truth when it’s inspirational.

    It’s much harder when truth isolates you, threatens your comfort, damages your reputation, or costs you relationships.

    Biblical truth has always carried a price tag.

    Ask Noah.

    The man spent decades building an ark while the world mocked him as irrational and extreme. Yet the flood still came.

    Ask Elijah.

    One prophet standing against hundreds was declared a troublemaker and hunted by a king and queen because he refused to bow to a culture built on compromise.

    Ask Jeremiah.

    He loved his nation enough to tell them the truth, and they answered by throwing him into a pit.

    Ask John the Baptist.

    He lost his head because he refused to soften the truth about sin for the sake of political favor.

    Ask the apostles.

    Most of them died not because they were violent men, but because they would not deny what they had seen and heard about Jesus Christ.

    And ultimately, ask Jesus Himself.

    Truth was nailed to a cross by people who claimed to love God while rejecting the very Word standing in front of them.

    The cost of truth did not end at Calvary.

    Throughout history, men and women have continued to pay a price for refusing to abandon what they knew to be true.

    Dietrich Bonhoeffer stood against the lies and evil of Nazi Germany, fully aware that his convictions could cost him his freedom—and ultimately his life.

    Today, believers in parts of Africa gather for worship despite threats of violence, imprisonment, and death. Some have watched churches burn and loved ones suffer because they refused to deny Christ.

    In China and other restrictive nations, Christians continue meeting in underground churches, knowing that obedience may carry consequences most of us have never faced.

    Even in societies that celebrate freedom, standing on biblical convictions can carry a cost. Careers may be affected. Friendships may be strained. Reputations may suffer. The pressure is often less about denying Christ outright and more about remaining silent when His truth becomes unpopular.

    The forms may change.

    The cost remains.

    Every generation is eventually faced with the same question:

    What am I willing to lose in order to remain faithful to the truth?

    That’s the part modern culture often ignores:

    Truth is rarely hated when it’s vague.

    Truth becomes dangerous when it becomes specific.

    The world doesn’t mind spirituality that never confronts sin.

    It doesn’t mind Christianity that never requires repentance.

    It doesn’t mind churches that entertain but never convict.

    But biblical truth?

    Truth that calls people to surrender?

    Truth that challenges pride, lust, greed, hatred, hypocrisy, and self-worship?

    That kind of truth has always been costly.

    And yet, throughout history, every revival, every awakening, and every genuine move of God was built on men and women who decided truth mattered more than acceptance.

    John 8:32 (NKJV)

    “And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

    Notice:

    Jesus never said truth would make us comfortable.

    He said it would make us free.

    Final Word

    We live in a generation that often values comfort over conviction, platform over principle, and feelings over truth.

    Yet every generation has faced its own test.

    Noah faced it.

    Jeremiah faced it.

    John the Baptist faced it.

    Bonhoeffer faced it.

    Persecuted believers face it today.

    And now the question comes to us.

    Do I want truth badly enough to accept the cost that comes with it?

    Because truth will demand something from all of us.

    But truth offers something compromise never can:

    Freedom.

    “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:32)

    Truth may be costly, but the price of abandoning it is always higher.

  • Scripture Is Not About Me… But It Still Reveals Me

    Scripture Is Not About Me… But It Still Reveals Me

    Yesterday, we talked about James describing God’s Word as a mirror.

    That thought sparked some interesting discussion.

    One person commented that the Bible is written so we can see Christ and follow God—not so we can see ourselves.

    In one sense, I completely agree.

    The Bible is not primarily a self-help book. It is the revelation of God. From Genesis to Revelation, Scripture points us to God’s character, God’s promises, God’s mercy, God’s judgment, and ultimately God’s plan of redemption through Jesus Christ.

    Christ is the center of Scripture.

    But I think we can make a mistake if we stop there.

    If Scripture reveals Christ, and Christ exposes what is in my heart, then self-examination becomes unavoidable.

    Throughout the Bible, we find people who encountered God and immediately became aware of themselves.

    When Isaiah saw the Lord high and lifted up, his first response was not to analyze the sins of the nation around him. He cried, “Woe is me! for I am undone.”

    When Peter witnessed the miraculous catch of fish, he fell at Jesus’ feet and said, “Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.”

    At the Last Supper, when Jesus told the disciples that one of them would betray Him, they did not immediately begin pointing fingers. Instead, one by one, they asked, “Lord, is it I?”

    In every case, seeing God more clearly caused them to see themselves more clearly.

    That is why James compares God’s Word to a mirror.

    A mirror does not create flaws.

    A mirror reveals what is already there.

    The purpose of Scripture is not to make me the hero of the story. The purpose of Scripture is to reveal God. Yet when God is revealed, I begin to see myself honestly.

    We do not read David so we can pretend we are David.

    We do not read Esau so we can condemn Esau.

    We do not read Peter simply to admire Peter.

    These men often become mirrors.

    David reveals the heart of repentance.

    Esau reveals the danger of placing temporary desires above eternal blessings.

    Peter reveals how quickly passion can outrun wisdom.

    Judas reveals that it is possible to be near Jesus while withholding complete surrender.

    The goal is not identification.

    The goal is transformation.

    The question is not, “Which Bible character am I?”

    The better question is, “Lord, what are You showing me that needs to change?”

    That question requires humility.

    It is easy to read about the Pharisees and see someone else.

    It is easy to read about Judas and think of someone else’s betrayal.

    It is easy to read about Esau and think of someone else’s poor choices.

    It is much harder to ask whether traces of those same attitudes might exist in our own hearts.

    Yet that is often where real growth begins.

    The closer we draw to God, the less interested we become in evaluating everyone else and the more willing we become to examine ourselves.

    Perhaps that is why the disciples’ question still echoes through Scripture.

    Not, “Lord, is it him?”

    Not, “Lord, is it her?”

    Not, “Lord, is it them?”

    But, “Lord, is it I?”

    When we open God’s Word, may we see Christ more clearly than ever before.

    And in His light, may we have the courage to see ourselves honestly as well.