Thoughts for the Day

Tag: Real Faith

  • Cut Off the Label

    Cut Off the Label

    “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus…”
    —Romans 8:1, NKJV

    In a sermon about labels, Bishop Tim Hill told a story from his childhood.

    He was six years old when he received his first pillow. That night, something kept scratching the back of his neck. He turned over, adjusted the pillow, and tried to get comfortable, but the irritation remained.

    Finally, he found the problem.

    It was the label.

    So he cut it off.

    The pillow was not defective. There was nothing wrong with what was inside it.

    The label was interfering with his rest.

    Some people cannot rest in what Christ has done because an old label keeps scratching at their conscience.

    They turn over the memories.

    They replay the failure.

    They rehearse every accusation.

    They wonder whether they were truly forgiven, whether restoration is actually possible, and whether God could ever use someone with their history.

    I know that feeling because I lived beneath those labels for years.

    Some were given to me by other people. Others grew from things I had actually done.

    That is what made them so difficult to challenge.

    I had failed.

    Therefore, I believed I was a failure.

    I had committed adultery.

    Therefore, I believed adulterer was my permanent name.

    My marriage ended.

    Therefore, I believed I was disqualified from ever being useful to God again.

    Because there was truth in the history, I assumed there must also be truth in the verdict.

    The accusations followed me everywhere:

    How can you stand on a platform and sing while separated from your wife?

    How can you stand before a classroom and teach teenagers how to live for God when you could not hold your own marriage together?

    How could God ever use an adulterer who sacrificed his family for a few moments of pleasure?

    Eventually, nobody else needed to ask those questions.

    I had learned to ask them myself.

    Other people had attached the labels, but I began introducing myself by them.

    Every opportunity was filtered through the label.

    Every prompting from God was answered by the label.

    Every evidence of grace was followed by the same question:

    Yes, but do You remember what I did?

    Of course God remembered.

    He knew the entire truth—more completely than I did.

    But He also knew what He had done with it.

    There is a difference between conviction and condemnation.

    Conviction says:

    “You sinned. Bring it into the light. Repent. Accept responsibility. Make right whatever you can, and allow God to change you.”

    Condemnation says:

    “Your sin is your name. You are permanently ruined. Stay away from God because He could never want you again.”

    Conviction tells the truth about what we have done.

    Condemnation takes the worst thing we have done and uses it to rename us.

    Conviction leads us to the cross.

    Condemnation chains us to the scene of the crime long after the blood has been applied.

    Accountability says, “I did this.”

    Condemnation says, “This is all I am.”

    I am not minimizing what happened.

    People were hurt. Trust was broken. A family was altered. Repentance did not erase every consequence or remove every scar.

    “Under the blood” is not a religious phrase that allows us to avoid responsibility.

    It does not mean the sin never happened.

    It does not mean nobody was hurt.

    It does not mean consequences disappeared.

    It means the sin was confessed, brought to God, and placed beneath the saving work of Jesus Christ.

    The event remains part of the history.

    But it no longer possesses naming rights.

    Paul did not avoid the former lives of the believers in Corinth. He named what some of them had been, and then he declared:

    “And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified…”
    —1 Corinthians 6:11, NKJV

    What they had done remained part of their testimony.

    It was no longer their name.

    That is the difference grace makes.

    The label may accurately describe where Jesus found us.

    It does not possess the authority to describe where Jesus left us.

    So when the accusation asks:

    “Do you remember what you did?”

    Yes. I remember.

    But it is under the blood.

    “What about the people you hurt?”

    I have not forgotten them, and I do not minimize their pain.

    But it is under the blood.

    “You will always be an adulterer.”

    No. That may accurately describe what I did.

    It does not get to decide who I am after repentance, forgiveness, and the transforming work of God.

    The label says, adulterer.

    The blood says, washed.

    The label says, failure.

    Grace says, restored.

    The label says, disqualified forever.

    God says, “Such were some of you.”

    Cutting off the label does not mean tearing pages out of our testimony. Those pages reveal what grace overcame.

    The scar may remain.

    The memory may remain.

    The consequences may remain.

    But the label has to go.

    It is time to stop introducing ourselves by what Jesus died to redeem.

    It is time to stop allowing an old label to interfere with our rest in what Christ has done.

    The past remains part of my testimony.

    But it is no longer my name.

    Cut off the label.

    Keep the testimony.

    Give God the glory.

  • Grace Changed the Tense

    Grace Changed the Tense

    “And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.”
    —1 Corinthians 6:11, NKJV

    We all have a history.

    For some, that history is relatively quiet. For others, it is dark, painful, and overpowering. It follows them into every new season and casts a shadow over everything they might still become.

    The past begins speaking:

    This is what you did.
    This is who you are.
    This is what you will always be.

    Eventually, something that happened—or something we did—stops feeling like one chapter of our story. It becomes the title we place over the entire book.

    I know the weight of that kind of history because I have lived beneath it.

    I know what it is to look back at choices I made, people I hurt, and consequences I could not undo—and believe that my past had already determined my future.

    For a long time, I did not merely remember what I had done. I allowed it to pronounce a sentence over who I was, what I could become, and whether God could ever use me again.

    I am not writing about hopelessness as a theory.

    I have felt it.

    I know what it is to believe that the darkest chapter of your life has become the title of your entire story.

    Then I read Paul’s words to the church at Corinth.

    In the preceding verses, Paul gives an uncomfortable list of sins and destructive ways of life. He writes about sexual immorality, idolatry, adultery, theft, greed, drunkenness, reviling, and extortion.

    He does not minimize their past.

    He does not soften sin by calling it a mistake, a personality trait, or an unfortunate stage of life.

    He tells the truth.

    Then he writes one word that makes hope possible:

    Were.

    “And such were some of you.”

    Not are.

    Not will always be.

    Not are, but now attend church.

    Were.

    That one word does not erase the sentence that came before it. It places the sentence where it belongs—in the past.

    Paul was not writing about hypothetical people. He was writing to a church where people could hear that list and say:

    That was me.
    That was my life.
    That was what controlled me.

    But that is not where Jesus left me.

    The word were means the darkest truth about yesterday does not have to remain the defining truth about today.

    It means history is real—but it is not destiny.

    It means the chapter happened—but the story did not have to end there.

    It means no matter how long someone has lived under the power of sin, Jesus can move that identity from the present tense into the past.

    But Paul does not stop with were. He follows it with three powerful interruptions:

    But you were washed.

    What had stained them had been cleansed.

    But you were sanctified.

    They had been set apart for God and given a new belonging.

    But you were justified.

    The charges against them no longer determined their standing before God.

    They did not change their tense through willpower, respectability, or religious performance. God intervened:

    “…in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.”

    Grace did not pretend that their former lives were harmless.

    Grace changed what possessed the authority to define them.

    That is what gave me hope.

    God did not tell me that my past did not matter. He showed me that it did not have to remain my identity.

    I could not go backward and undo my history. I could not erase every consequence, retrieve every lost opportunity, or remove every scar.

    But Jesus could do something I could never do.

    He could change the tense of my story.

    Perhaps your history has convinced you that there is no future beyond what you have done. Maybe shame continues speaking about your past in the present tense.

    But if Paul could look across a church filled with people carrying histories like these and say, “Such were some of you,” then no one has traveled so far into darkness that Jesus cannot redeem their story.

    “Were” is not permission to return to the old life.

    It is the declaration that you are no longer required to remain there.

    You can tell the truth about your past without allowing it to predict your future.

    You were bound—but you were washed.

    You were lost—but you were sanctified.

    You were guilty—but you were justified.

    Grace did not deny your history.

    Grace changed the tense.

  • Sometimes You Hear Best In the Dark

    Sometimes You Hear Best In the Dark

    One evening in Puerto Rico, Lisa came in from sitting on the balcony with Ashlee.

    We were eight floors above the ocean, with a beautiful oceanfront view. During the day, you could see the water stretching toward the horizon.

    But at night, much of that view disappeared.

    Even with moonlight, there were still shadows. Dark places. Areas where the eye simply could not make out what was there.

    Lisa said something that stayed with me.

    “Sometimes you hear best when you’re in the dark.”

    She had been sitting outside listening.

    The wind.

    The surf.

    The insects.

    Even the sound of Ashlee breathing beside her.

    None of those sounds suddenly appeared because the sun went down.

    They had been there all along.

    The darkness simply made her more aware of them.

    Her words immediately took me back many years.

    As a young man, I went on a lot of late-night horseback rides. Sometimes the moon was bright enough to give me a general idea of where I was going, but there were always shadows where my eyes could not clearly make out the trail.

    There were times when I trusted the horse’s instincts more than my own eyesight.

    And something else happened in the darkness.

    I listened differently.

    I could hear twigs snapping.

    Leaves rustling as small animals moved through them.

    Sounds that might have gone unnoticed in daylight suddenly got my attention.

    The darkness did not mean I was on the wrong trail.

    It simply meant I could not see as much of it.

    I think we sometimes confuse those two things spiritually.

    There are seasons when we cannot see where God is leading us.

    We cannot see what He is doing.

    We cannot see how the situation is going to work out.

    And because we cannot see the road ahead, we begin to wonder whether we somehow missed God altogether.

    But just because you cannot see where you are going does not mean you are on the wrong track.

    And it does not mean you are alone.

    Jesus said:

    “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” ~ John 10:27, NKJV ~

    Notice what Jesus did not say.

    He did not say His sheep would always see the entire path.

    He said they would hear His voice.

    There is a difference.

    Sometimes we spend so much energy asking God to show us the road that we forget to listen for the One who is leading us down it.

    “Lord, show me what happens next.”

    “Show me how this is going to work.”

    “Show me where this is going.”

    “Show me what You are doing.”

    And sometimes the answer does not come as more light.

    Sometimes the answer comes as a voice in the darkness saying,

    “Follow Me.”

    David wrote:

    “Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
    But the night shines as the day;
    The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”     ~ Psalm 139:12 ~

    The darkness that limits my vision does not limit His.

    My darkness is not God’s darkness.

    I may not know what lies around the next bend.

    He does.

    I may not be able to see ten steps ahead.

    He can see the entire journey.

    Faith is not pretending the darkness is not real.

    Faith is not claiming we know where everything is going.

    Sometimes faith is simply saying:

    “I cannot see the trail very clearly right now, but I know the voice of the One I am following.”

    Maybe you have been asking God to turn the lights back on.

    Maybe you have been asking Him to show you the whole road.

    But perhaps this season is teaching you something else.

    To listen.

    To recognize His voice.

    To trust His leading.

    Because you do not always need to see the entire trail.

    You need to know the voice of the One leading you.

    And sometimes…

    you hear the Master best in the dark.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Keep Your Eyes Ahead

    Keep Your Eyes Ahead

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

    They’re learned behind a plow.

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

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

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

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

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

    The moment my attention drifted, so did the furrow.

    Oddly enough, I discovered the same thing mowing lawns.

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

    Later, football taught me the lesson again.

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

    Three very different experiences.

    One unchanging principle.

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

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

    Then one day I realized…

    Jesus had already taught that lesson.

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

    Jesus wasn’t giving farming advice.

    He was describing discipleship.

    The New Testament repeats this same pattern.

    Paul wrote,

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

    The writer of Hebrews adds,

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

    Notice the consistency.

    Not looking at yesterday.

    Not looking at ourselves.

    Not looking at the obstacles.

    Looking at Christ.

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

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

    Reflection celebrates progress.

    Fixation prevents it.

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

    Keep your eyes on Christ.

    The furrow will follow.

  • Saturday Reflection: The View From Here

    Saturday Reflection: The View From Here

    Last summer, while driving through Wyoming, I found myself doing something I hadn’t planned.

    More than once, I pulled off the road.

    Not because there was a problem.

    Not because I was lost.

    Simply because I wanted to look back.

    It happened on the road leaving Devil’s Tower. It happened again as we descended from Medicine Bow Peak. The mountains behind us, the winding roads, the valleys we’d already crossed—they looked different from where we stood than they had while we were driving through them.

    Standing still gave me a perspective I couldn’t have while I was moving.

    This week has reminded me of those moments.

    We’ve talked about moving into new seasons.

    We’ve talked about leaving some things behind while carrying forward what matters most.

    We’ve talked about knowing the Author instead of simply memorizing the story.

    We’ve reflected on God’s intentional grace.

    We’ve considered the ancient landmarks He established that were never meant to be moved.

    At first glance, those seem like different conversations.

    But when I stop and look back…

    I realize they’ve all been pointing in the same direction.

    God never calls us to stand still.

    He calls us to keep walking.

    He leads us into new places, new seasons, and new opportunities to trust Him.

    Yet every step forward is anchored by truths that never change.

    The scenery changes.

    The road twists and climbs.

    Sometimes the view is breathtaking.

    Sometimes it’s hidden by fog.

    But the landmarks remain exactly where God placed them.

    His Word still tells the truth.

    Repentance still restores.

    Faith still trusts Him when the road disappears around the bend.

    Prayer still reaches heaven.

    Holiness still matters.

    Love still marks His people.

    Making disciples is still our calling.

    Looking back isn’t about wishing we could return to yesterday.

    It’s about recognizing the faithfulness of the God who brought us this far.

    Israel crossed the Jordan and stacked stones so future generations would ask, “What do these stones mean?”

    Samuel raised Ebenezer and declared, “Thus far the LORD has helped us.”

    God’s people have always paused to remember—not because the journey was over, but because remembering gave them confidence to continue.

    Maybe we need more moments like that.

    Moments when we pull off the road—not to stop following Christ, but to see more clearly how faithfully He has led us.

    Then, with grateful hearts…

    we get back in,

    put the road in front of us once again,

    and keep walking toward whatever He has prepared next.

    ⸻

    “Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations…”
    — Deuteronomy 32:7 (NKJV)