Thoughts for the Day

Tag: Thoughts for the Day

  • Whose Mind Is Stayed On You

    Whose Mind Is Stayed On You

    Isaiah 26:3–4; 2 Corinthians 10:5 NKJV

    Some battles are fought entirely within the mind.

    Nothing around us may have changed. No new threat has appeared. No bad news has arrived. Yet one troubling possibility enters our thoughts, joins itself to another, and begins multiplying.

    What if this happens?

    What if that changes?

    What if the answer is no?

    What if the thing I fear has already begun?

    Before long, we are responding emotionally to circumstances that have not happened and conversations that have never taken place.

    The unknown has filled every available space.

    Isaiah wrote:

    “You will keep him in perfect peace,
    Whose mind is stayed on You,
    Because he trusts in You.
    Trust in the LORD forever,
    For in YAH, the LORD, is everlasting strength.”
    — Isaiah 26:3–4 NKJV

    Isaiah does not say that God will keep in perfect peace the person whose circumstances are settled.

    He does not say the surrounding world will become predictable, every question will be answered, or every troubling possibility will disappear.

    The promise concerns the mind.

    More specifically, it concerns the mind that is stayed on God.

    To stay the mind upon God is to rest its weight upon Him. It is to become supported, fixed, and sustained by something stronger than the circumstances surrounding us.

    That does not mean a stayed mind never feels afraid.

    It does not mean troubling thoughts never enter.

    It does not mean believers should be able to silence anxiety through enough determination, quote one verse, and immediately feel calm.

    Anxiety is not automatically evidence of spiritual failure.

    Some fears grow from real uncertainty. Some have been shaped by painful experiences. Some appear before we have time to reason with them. A person may sincerely trust God while still feeling the physical and emotional effects of fear.

    Isaiah’s promise should never become another burden placed upon someone who is already struggling:

    If you trusted God more, you would not feel this way.

    That is not the heart of this passage.

    A stayed mind is not necessarily a mind that never wanders.

    It is a mind that has learned where to return.

    I was reminded of this truth yesterday morning.

    My mind had been unsettled by circumstances that awakened old fears. Nothing new had happened, but my thoughts were already anticipating what might happen next. I was interpreting the present through painful experiences from the past.

    A frightened part of me—the scared little boy who learned long ago to keep the hands you could see in sight while looking for where the blow may actually come from—was trying to take control of the room.

    Then my phone dinged as I placed it on my desk at work.

    Fittingly, it was my Bible app sharing its verse of the day… 2 Corinthians 10:5:

    “…bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.”
    — 2 Corinthians 10:5 NKJV

    Nothing around me changed in that moment.

    The questions were still unanswered. The circumstances had not been resolved. I had received no guarantee that everything would develop exactly as I hoped.

    But I began directing my attention toward God and toward the good things He had already placed within my life.

    As my attention changed, the fear began losing its hold.

    The frightened child within me did not need to control the room. He did not have to anticipate every possible danger or prepare a defense against something that had not happened.

    The anxious thoughts did not prove that I had stopped trusting God.

    They revealed that my mind needed somewhere stronger to return.

    That is what it means for the mind to be stayed upon Him.

    It doesn’t never wander.

    It learns where to return.

    While fear may pull our attention toward the unknown.

    Trust repeatedly brings it back to what is known about God.

    We may not know what the doctor will say.

    We may not know whether the relationship will be restored.

    We may not know how the need will be supplied, when the door will open, or what tomorrow will require from us.

    But we know that God is faithful.

    We know that His character does not change with our circumstances.

    We know that He is present before the answer arrives.

    We know that His wisdom reaches beyond our understanding and His strength reaches beyond our own.

    Directing the mind toward those truths is not the same as denying reality.

    Denial says, There is nothing wrong.

    Faith says, Something is wrong, but it is not greater than God.

    Denial refuses to acknowledge the threat.

    Faith acknowledges it and then refuses to give it the throne.

    Denial pretends the outcome does not matter.

    Faith brings the desired outcome honestly before God while continuing to rest upon Him.

    The mind that is stayed on God does not ignore what is happening. It refuses to interpret everything that is happening without including God in the picture.

    That distinction matters.

    When fear takes control of our thoughts, the unknown begins to multiply.

    One unanswered question becomes ten imagined outcomes. We rehearse conversations that may never occur. We prepare defenses against accusations no one has made. We suffer losses that have not happened and respond to endings God has not written.

    The mind reaches for certainty because certainty feels like safety.

    But there are times when certainty is unavailable.

    Trust offers something different.

    Trust does not always tell us what will happen.

    Trust reminds us who will remain faithful whatever happens.

    This is why sustained peace grows from sustained attention.

    Isaiah connects the mind that is stayed on God with the heart that trusts Him. Our thoughts and our trust are not strangers to one another. What we repeatedly place before our minds will eventually influence where we place the weight of our confidence.

    If I continually rehearse everything that might go wrong, fear will begin to feel greater than God.

    If I continually return to the truth of who God is, the problem may remain—but it will no longer stand alone in my vision.

    That return may need to happen more than once.

    It may need to happen repeatedly throughout the same hour.

    We return through prayer.

    We return through Scripture.

    We return by remembering the faithfulness of God in places we have already walked.

    We return by recognizing the good things God has already placed within our lives.

    We return by interrupting the multiplication of the unknown with the truth of what is known:

    God is present.

    God is faithful.

    God is wise.

    God is good.

    God is still at work when I cannot see what He is doing.

    This is not merely positive thinking.

    Positive thinking attempts to replace an unpleasant possibility with a pleasant one.

    Trust places both possibilities into the hands of God.

    It says, I do not know what will happen, but I know where I will rest while I wait.

    Sometimes peace comes because God changes the circumstances.

    Sometimes peace comes while the circumstances remain exactly as they were.

    That second kind of peace can be difficult to explain. Nothing visible has improved. The answer has not arrived. The problem has not disappeared.

    Yet the mind is no longer carrying the full weight of what it cannot control.

    It has rested that weight upon God.

    The peace Isaiah describes is not produced by our ability to hold ourselves together. God is the One who keeps us in peace.

    Our part is not to manufacture calm.

    Our part is to keep returning.

    When fear pulls the mind away, we return.

    When uncertainty begins multiplying, we return.

    When yesterday’s confidence gives way to today’s anxiety, we return again.

    Not because we have failed, but because returning is part of trusting.

    Peace does not begin when the mind has nothing left to fear.

    Peace begins where the mind comes to rest.

    Lord, steady my mind today.

    When fear carries my thoughts toward outcomes I cannot predict, bring me back to what I know about You. Help me acknowledge what is real without allowing it to become greater in my vision than You are. Teach me to bring every thought beneath the truth of Christ and to place the weight of my mind upon Your faithfulness, Your wisdom, and Your everlasting strength.

    I ask You to change the circumstances that trouble me. But while I wait, change the place where my mind rests. Keep bringing me back to You.

    Amen.

  • Long Before the Furnace Was Lit

    Long Before the Furnace Was Lit

    Genesis 39:7–10; Daniel 1:8; Daniel 3:16–18; Luke 16:10 NKJV

    Everyone remembers the furnace.

    We remember Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego standing while everyone around them bowed. We remember their answer to Nebuchadnezzar:

    Our God is able.

    But if not.

    We will not bow.

    What we may not consider is how long it took to form the faith behind that answer.

    The three Hebrews did not begin building their convictions while the furnace was being heated. That was no place to begin deciding whom they would worship. The pressure was too great, the cost was too high, and the moment demanded an immediate answer.

    Their decision had been made long before the music began.

    Years ago, I taught a Sunday-school series called Values That Last. One of those lessons centered on another young man far from home: Joseph.

    Joseph had been betrayed by his brothers, carried into Egypt, and sold as a slave. He was separated from his father, his family, and everything familiar. Then Potiphar’s wife repeatedly attempted to draw him into sin.

    Joseph did not need time to decide whether her offer was wrong. His response was immediate:

    “How then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?”
    — Genesis 39:9 NKJV

    Joseph did not merely refuse once. Scripture says she spoke to him day by day, and he continued to refuse.

    Potiphar’s house was not where Joseph began developing his convictions.

    The temptation revealed his integrity.

    It did not create it.

    Joseph’s response came from truth that had been instilled in his youth, buried deeply within his heart, and made personal before the temptation arrived. He was no longer standing beside his father. There was no teacher in the room reminding him what was right. As far as Joseph knew, no one who loved him would ever learn what he chose to do.

    But Joseph knew that God would know.

    When I taught that lesson, I told those young people that they might someday find themselves a thousand miles from home, surrounded by people who did not know them and apparently accountable to no one. If they waited until that moment to decide what they believed and how they intended to live, it would be too late.

    Conviction must be built before temptation demands an answer.

    The same truth appears in the lives of Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego.

    The Bible does not record the lessons they heard as children. It does not tell us the names of the parents, teachers, or spiritual leaders who helped form them. But Daniel 1 shows us the convictions they carried into captivity.

    Babylon changed their location. It changed their names. It began teaching them a new language, a new literature, and a new way of life.

    But Babylon encountered something already present within them.

    “But Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the king’s delicacies, nor with the wine which he drank.”
    — Daniel 1:8 NKJV

    Daniel spoke, and the four young men stood together in that decision.

    Even that was not the beginning of their faith. It was the first recorded evidence of a faith already being lived. Before they refused to bow before the king’s image, they had refused to compromise at the king’s table.

    The table prepared them for the furnace.

    The private decision prepared them for the public stand.

    Jesus said:

    “He who is faithful in what is least is faithful also in much.”
    — Luke 16:10 NKJV

    Faithfulness in smaller matters may not feel dramatic. Prayer when no crisis is present does not attract much attention. Reading Scripture when no immediate answer is required may appear ordinary. Obeying God when compromise would be easy and invisible may never become a story anyone else tells.

    But those quiet acts are forming something within us.

    They teach the heart where to turn.

    They settle questions before pressure asks them.

    They establish whom we serve before another voice demands our allegiance.

    This is why parents, teachers, and churches must plant truth early. Convictions do not pass automatically from one generation to the next. They must be taught, modeled, repeated, and lived.

    But there also comes a moment when inherited instruction must become personal conviction.

    Joseph could not rely upon Jacob’s presence in Potiphar’s house.

    The four Hebrew youths could not rely upon Jerusalem while living in Babylon.

    The truth they had received had to become the truth by which they lived.

    None of us knows exactly what test may come tomorrow. Most of us will never stand before a literal fiery furnace. But we will encounter moments when compromise offers an easier road, when obedience carries a cost, or when no one appears to be watching.

    That moment is not the time to begin building faith.

    Crisis does not usually give us time to develop convictions. It calls upon the convictions we have already developed.

    The furnace revealed the faith of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego.

    It did not create it.

    The stand you may need tomorrow is being formed by the truth you receive, the convictions you settle, and the choices you make with God today.

  • What Did I Bring?

    What Did I Bring?

    A couple of days ago, my friend Christi Rogers shared a post about someone standing in a quiet sanctuary before service began. The instruments were waiting. The microphones were silent. The pews had not yet filled.

    At the heart of the reflection was one penetrating question:

    What did I bring?

    As someone who has taught Sunday School and served in worship ministry, I know something about what happens before a service begins.

    Someone arrives early.

    Someone rehearses while others are still getting ready at home. Someone studies a lesson no one will see them preparing. Someone prays over the sanctuary, the musicians, the preacher, and the people who will soon occupy the empty seats. Someone carries a burden for what God may want to accomplish.

    By the time the congregation arrives, there has already been a pouring out.

    It is easy to enter that prepared place and become a consumer without realizing it. We listen to the musicians, receive the teaching, respond to the preaching, and enjoy an atmosphere shaped by someone else’s preparation.

    Then we evaluate what we received.

    Did I like the music?

    Did the sermon speak to me?

    Did I feel anything today?

    But worship was never intended to be something performed by a few people while everyone else waits to be moved. The musicians may lead us, but they cannot worship for us. The preacher may feed us, but he cannot bring our surrender to the altar. Someone else may help prepare the room, but no one else can bring our offering.

    So perhaps, before asking what we received from the service, we should ask:

    What did I bring into the presence of God?

    When Getting There Is the Offering

    Before that question becomes a source of condemnation, it must be covered with grace.

    There are Sundays when we arrive ready to pour ourselves out in worship. There are other Sundays when simply making it through the doors requires nearly everything we have.

    Grief may have emptied us.

    Depression may have followed us into the sanctuary.

    Exhaustion may have taken our voice.

    Private devastation may be hiding behind the smile we managed to put on before leaving the car.

    Coming needy does not make us less spiritual. The church is a body, and we will not all be strong on the same Sunday. Sometimes we help carry someone else. Sometimes we are the ones who need to be carried.

    Hannah entered the house of the Lord as a woman overwhelmed by sorrow. She did not arrive with a triumphant song. She could not even form an audible prayer.

    Scripture says:

    “Now Hannah spoke in her heart; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard.”
    —1 Samuel 1:13, NKJV

    Eli saw her lips moving and mistakenly assumed she was drunk. Hannah explained that she was a woman of sorrowful spirit who had “poured out” her soul before the Lord.

    To the person watching, it may have appeared that Hannah brought nothing. There was no song, no shout, and no eloquent prayer.

    But she had not come empty-handed.

    She brought her broken heart and poured it out before God.

    Romans 8:26 tells us that when we do not know how to pray, the Spirit helps us in our weakness and intercedes for us “with groanings which cannot be uttered.”

    God does not mistake silence for emptiness.

    Sometimes the only offering we can bring is trembling lips, falling tears, and a prayer too painful to speak. God understands every word we cannot find.

    The Sacrifice of Praise

    There are seasons when we desperately need to receive. But there are also seasons when God calls us out of a settled posture of spiritual consumption and asks us to pour.

    Hebrews 13:15 says:

    “Therefore by Him let us continually offer the sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of our lips, giving thanks to His name.”
    —Hebrews 13:15, NKJV

    Two words stand out:

    Continually. Sacrifice.

    Praise is not meant to depend upon the music being right, the song being familiar, the week having gone well, or our emotions cooperating.

    If praise is offered continually, there will be times when it flows freely—and times when it costs us something.

    A sacrifice of effort.

    We turn our attention toward God. We quiet the distractions, engage our minds, open our mouths, and participate. We do not wait passively for the musicians to produce a feeling before we respond.

    A sacrifice of pride.

    We stop managing how we appear to everyone around us. We acknowledge that we are not self-sufficient—that we need God, depend upon God, and owe everything to God.

    A sacrifice of self.

    We surrender our preferences, expectations, comfort, and desire to be served. Worship is not about whether they sang our favorite song in our preferred style at the volume we wanted.

    The sacrifice is not being offered to us.

    We are offering it to Him.

    Sometimes the sacrifice is not the song. It is the self we must lay down in order to sing it.

    The Pride We Were Taught to Protect

    The sacrifice of pride is deeply personal for me.

    Many of us—especially men of my generation—were taught that real men do not cry. They do not lose control of their emotions. They keep everything together so they can remain strong for everyone else.

    That teaching can produce dependable men.

    It can also produce isolated men.

    We become so accustomed to carrying the burden that we no longer know how to admit when it has become too heavy. We become so committed to appearing strong that we struggle to be honest about our need.

    Then we carry the same armor into worship.

    We feel something stirring within us, but immediately become aware of who may be watching. Our voice tightens. Our hands remain at our sides. The tears begin to rise, and we force them back—not because God has not touched us, but because we have been trained to protect the image of the man who always has himself under control.

    Self-control is biblical. Emotional suppression is not.

    Surrendering to God is not the same as being governed by our emotions. Tears are not necessarily evidence that a man has lost control. Sometimes they are evidence that he has finally stopped pretending he does not need God.

    Jesus wept openly.

    David poured his anguish into the Psalms.

    Peter wept bitterly after denying the Lord.

    Hebrews tells us that Jesus prayed with vehement cries and tears.

    Their tears did not diminish their strength.

    We were taught that we must be the rock for everyone else. But we are not the Rock.

    Jesus is.

    “It Was Before the LORD”

    When the Ark of the Covenant was brought into Jerusalem, David danced before the Lord with all his might.

    Michal watched from a window and despised him.

    She was concerned with how the king appeared. David was concerned with the One before whom the king was worshiping.

    When she mocked what she considered his undignified behavior, David answered:

    “It was before the LORD… And I will be even more undignified than this, and will be humble in my own sight.”
    —2 Samuel 6:21–22, NKJV

    David was not manufacturing an emotional spectacle. He had decided that his title, reputation, and another person’s opinion would not determine his response to God.

    Before the Lord, the king was simply another worshiper.

    That was David’s sacrifice of pride.

    Sometimes our sacrifice may be allowing the tear to fall instead of immediately wiping it away. It may be lifting our hands without first surveying the room. It may be kneeling when pride tells us to remain standing. It may be walking forward for prayer or telling someone, “I am not doing well, and I need you to pray for me.”

    Before I can lift my hands in worship, I may first have to lay down my pride.

    And there may always be a Michal watching from the window.

    But my worship was never for the Michal’s.

    It was before the Lord.

    One Danced. One Wept.

    There is a beautiful contrast between David and Hannah.

    David’s worship was expressive, and Michal considered it undignified.

    Hannah’s prayer was nearly silent, and Eli misunderstood it entirely.

    David was judged because people could see too much.

    Hannah was judged because people could understand too little.

    One danced. One wept. Both were misunderstood. And God saw the heart of each.

    Not everyone must worship like David. Not every sacrifice of praise will be loud, exuberant, or outwardly expressive. Sometimes worship dances. Sometimes worship weeps. Sometimes it shouts. Sometimes it can only whisper.

    The common thread is not the outward expression.

    It is the inward surrender.

    David once declared:

    “Nor will I offer burnt offerings to the LORD my God with that which costs me nothing.”
    —2 Samuel 24:24, NKJV

    So, what did I bring?

    Perhaps I brought thanksgiving.

    Perhaps I brought praise.

    Perhaps I brought a burden for someone sitting near me.

    Perhaps I brought a broken heart, trembling lips, and a prayer I could not speak.

    Perhaps I brought the willingness to admit that I needed someone else to help carry me.

    Or perhaps the most costly thing I brought was the self I had worked so hard to protect.

    I will not always enter His presence feeling strong. I will not always bring the same offering.

    Some days I may bring a shout.

    Some days I may bring a whisper.

    Some days I may bring nothing but tears.

    But I do not want to come merely asking what someone else has prepared for me. I want to enter His presence with an honest and surrendered heart.

    Before I ask, “What am I going to receive today?” perhaps I should stop and ask:

    Jesus, what am I bringing to You?

  • Thirty Pieces At A Time

    Thirty Pieces At A Time

    “Then Jesus spoke to them again, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.’”
    —John 8:12, NKJV

    A statement appeared in my Facebook feed on Sunday, and I was immediately convicted:

    The sin you refuse to depart from is your thirty pieces of silver. The more you entertain that sin, the more you are trading Jesus for it.

    The wording is severe.

    Perhaps it is supposed to be.

    We have become accustomed to softening difficult truths. We cushion the warning, qualify the consequences, and reassure people that everyone struggles. All of that may be true, but sometimes truth is supposed to hurt. Sometimes the sharpness of conviction is what awakens us from spiritual slumber.

    Jesus could be gentle with the broken, patient with the confused, and compassionate toward those trapped in sin. But He also called religious hypocrites “whitewashed tombs,” “blind guides,” and a “brood of vipers.” He spoke of cutting off a hand and plucking out an eye—not as instructions for physical mutilation, but as deliberately severe language about the danger of tolerated sin.

    Jesus was not cruel, but neither did He make truth comfortable for people who had become comfortable in their compromise.

    The statement about thirty pieces of silver is not directed toward someone who hates their sin, falls, repents, and continues fighting. It confronts the person who has stopped fighting—the professing follower of Jesus who has decided there is something they will not surrender.

    There is a difference between struggling against sin and protecting it.

    There is a difference between falling and arranging to return.

    There is a difference between being tempted and pulling out a chair, setting the table, and inviting temptation to stay.

    The danger is not merely the sin that catches us off guard. It is the sin we entertain, accommodate, excuse, and eventually defend.

    Before the Thirty Pieces

    Judas did not suddenly become a betrayer when the chief priests placed silver in his hand. The betrayal had begun long before that moment.

    John tells us that Judas was already stealing from the disciples’ money box. When Mary poured expensive oil on the feet of Jesus, Judas objected:

    “Why was this fragrant oil not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?”
    —John 12:5, NKJV

    His protest sounded compassionate, but Scripture exposes what was hiding underneath it:

    “This he said, not that he cared for the poor, but because he was a thief, and had the money box; and he used to take what was put in it.”
    —John 12:6, NKJV

    The thirty pieces did not create Judas’s divided loyalty. They revealed it.

    In an earlier reflection, “Divided Loyalties,” we considered the impossibility of following Christ while preserving something within us that refuses His authority. Judas shows us where that division can eventually lead.

    Before there was open betrayal, there had been private theft. Before Judas sold Jesus publicly, he had repeatedly chosen greed privately. One concealed compromise prepared him for another until something that may once have been unthinkable became negotiable.

    That is how tolerated sin works.

    What was once unthinkable becomes negotiable.

    What becomes negotiable eventually becomes permissible.

    What becomes permissible eventually becomes normal.

    And what becomes normal eventually stops producing conviction.

    Public betrayal is often the final expression of a private compromise.

    The Doorway in the Alley

    Yesterday, in “The Same Dark Alley”, I wrote about an image Lisa sent me of a dark alley with light visible at the far end. We saw the same image from two different perspectives.

    Lisa immediately saw the light.

    She saw the destination. No matter how dark the alley became, if we kept our eyes fixed on the light and continued walking toward it, we would eventually make it through.

    I noticed the dangers along the way—the twists, shadows, dark corners, hidden passages, and doorways.

    Both perspectives were true.

    The alley itself is life. Christ is the light at its end. As we travel through life, we encounter temptations, disappointments, wounds, complications, and countless opportunities to become distracted. If we keep our eyes on the Light, He will guide us through.

    But it is easy to take a detour into one of the alley’s dark doorways.

    Most people do not step through such a doorway intending to abandon Christ. It may begin with curiosity. Loneliness. Anger. Wounded pride. The desire for pleasure, relief, approval, or control.

    We tell ourselves we are only stepping aside for a moment. We still intend to follow Jesus. We simply want to investigate something beside the path.

    But once inside, it is easy to become disoriented.

    The deeper we wander, the harder it becomes to remember where the opening was. Our eyes adjust to the darkness. Things that once appeared dangerous begin to look ordinary. Things we would once have immediately rejected begin to appear harmless.

    The enemy does not need us to renounce Jesus at the entrance. He only needs us to step through one doorway and remain there long enough for our eyes to adjust.

    Paul warned:

    “Nor give place to the devil.”
    —Ephesians 4:27, NKJV

    A foothold is not the complete surrender of territory. It is one small place yielded to the enemy.

    But the enemy never intends to remain confined to the small space we initially surrender. He uses that position to press farther inward.

    What begins as a foothold becomes a stronghold.

    What begins as a detour becomes a new direction.

    What begins as something we control eventually takes control of us.

    Judas Walked With the Light

    Judas did not merely walk toward the Light. He walked beside Him.

    He heard Jesus teach. He witnessed miracles. He watched blinded eyes open and the dead raised to life. He traveled, ministered, and prayed alongside the other disciples. Jesus washed his feet and gave him a place at the table.

    Yet proximity to Jesus never became complete surrender to Jesus.

    Somewhere along the alley, money caught Judas’s attention. Perhaps the first theft seemed insignificant. He could take a little from the money box and continue following Jesus. For a while, he may have believed he could accommodate both discipleship and greed.

    But greed became a doorway.

    Once Judas entered it, his spiritual vision began adjusting to the darkness. Stealing became normal. Mary’s worship began to look wasteful. The chief priests began to look like potential business partners. Eventually, betraying Jesus—something he may never have imagined at the beginning—became worth considering for the right price.

    Thirty pieces of silver echoed the value assigned to a slave. Judas did not simply sell Jesus; he valued Him cheaply.

    Every protected sin makes a similar statement about value:

    This pleasure is worth disobeying Him for.

    This resentment is worth withholding forgiveness for.

    This pride is worth resisting correction for.

    This secret is worth weakening my relationship with Him for.

    We would never stand in church and say those words aloud. But deliberate disobedience says them through our choices.

    Sin Changes What We Can See

    Judas may have considered greed his private weakness, but protected sin never remains confined to one compartment of life.

    His greed affected how he viewed Mary’s worship. Because he wanted access to the value of the oil, her sacrifice looked irresponsible. The sin he protected began interpreting what he saw.

    That still happens.

    Pride makes correction look like persecution.

    Bitterness makes mercy look unjust.

    Lust makes boundaries look unreasonable.

    Greed makes generosity look wasteful.

    Resentment makes reconciliation look like weakness.

    The darkness does not always hide what is in front of us. Sometimes it changes the way we see it.

    James described the progression:

    “But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death.”
    —James 1:14–15, NKJV

    The destination visible from the entrance is never the destination sin ultimately has in mind.

    The Light Has Not Moved

    There is mercy even in this severe warning.

    Jesus knew what Judas had done and what he was preparing to do. Yet He still washed Judas’s feet, seated him at the table, and gave him opportunities to turn back.

    Conviction is evidence that the Light is still reaching into the darkness.

    When God puts His finger on something we have been protecting, He is not merely exposing us. He is warning us about what is attempting to destroy us while there is still time to turn around.

    Exposure is not rejection.

    Conviction is an invitation to return.

    Judas eventually returned the silver and admitted that he had betrayed innocent blood. But he carried his remorse back to the religious leaders rather than carrying his sin to Jesus. He discarded the payment, but he did not return to the Savior.

    Peter also became disoriented in the alley. Fear drew him into a dark corner where denying Jesus suddenly appeared safer than confessing Him. But when Jesus looked at Peter, he remembered. He wept, turned, and remained within reach of restoration.

    Both men failed Jesus.

    One turned back toward the Light.

    The other surrendered to the darkness.

    What Are We Choosing?

    Every day, our choices assign value. They reveal what we believe Jesus is worth.

    The question is not merely, “Would I sell Jesus for thirty pieces of silver?” Almost every professing Christian would immediately answer no.

    The harder question is:

    What have I already begun choosing over Him in smaller amounts?

    Because what begins in smaller amounts does not remain small.

    One compromise becomes another. What we entertain, we eventually accommodate. What we accommodate, we begin to protect. What we continually protect begins to claim territory within us.

    And what we repeatedly choose over Jesus will eventually displace Him entirely.

    Judas did not trade Jesus all at once.

    He entered a doorway in the alley and continued walking, one decision at a time.

    Keep your eyes on the Light. Be careful which doors you enter. And if you realize that you have lost your bearings, do not continue deeper simply because you are ashamed that you wandered.

    Turn around.

    The Light is still there.

  • The Same Dark Alley, but We Saw It Differently

    “Let your eyes look straight ahead,
    And your eyelids look right before you.
    Ponder the path of your feet,
    And let all your ways be established.”
    —Proverbs 4:25–26 NKJV

    Friday afternoon, my wife, Lisa, sent me a text.

    She was thinking about the alley behind her workplace and the spiritual picture it presented:

    “Picture me going down the alley behind my work. There are so many opportunities for darkness—things to jump out, distractions, wrong doors, paths to go down. Yet if we stay focused on the straight path, we get to where we are going.”

    “That’s amazingly good,” I replied. “Do you mind if I use that?”

    Then I asked whether she could take a photograph of the alley.

    Her response was immediate:

    “That’s why I sent it to you. I will go get a photo in a few.”

    We both saw the same dark alley.

    But we did not see it in quite the same way.

    Lisa saw the destination at the end. She understood that it remained fully attainable if she ignored the distractions, stayed focused, and continued walking straight ahead.

    I saw the dangers hiding along the way.

    I pictured temptations lurking in the corners, behind the doors, and even in the faces of those we meet.

    Whispered words.

    Tantalizing glimpses.

    Almost-concealed curiosities.

    Things that appear nearly innocent on the surface—things that may not seem especially dangerous to entertain at first.

    But then we open the door.

    We step around the blind corner.

    We venture just a little too far into the darkness.

    And suddenly, we find ourselves entangled in something that proves overwhelmingly difficult to escape.

    Perhaps our different perspectives have been shaped by our different life experiences.

    Lisa was raised by a preacher. She spent much of her life in music and ministry, using her voice to encourage people and point them toward God. Her eyes instinctively look toward the light and say, “Keep going. Stay focused. The destination is still ahead of you.”

    I have lived and worked in some dark places. I have fought demons I never asked for—and more than a few that I voluntarily picked up along the way.

    My experiences have trained me to look toward the shadows and say, “Be careful. Not everything waiting along the path wants you to reach the end.”

    That does not mean Lisa has never encountered darkness, nor does it mean I cannot see the light. We both see the light of God ahead of us. But we perceive the darkness between us and Him very differently.

    She sees the promise of reaching the destination.

    I recognize the dangers attempting to prevent us from getting there.

    And perhaps we need both perspectives.

    We must never underestimate the darkness, but neither can we allow the darkness to make us forget the light.

    The Desire Behind the Door

    Temptation does not usually introduce itself by showing us where it ultimately leads.

    It whispers rather than shouts. It offers a glimpse while concealing the chains farther inside. It presents only enough to awaken our curiosity.

    That is what makes seemingly innocent moments so dangerous. We judge them according to how harmless they appear at the entrance. But the entrance tells us nothing about the depth of the corridor—or how difficult it may be to reopen the door from the other side.

    James makes an important distinction:

    “But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin.”
    —James 1:14–15 NKJV

    Temptation does not exist entirely outside us.

    The door may be outside, but something inside us wants to know what lies behind it. The whispered word gains power because some part of our flesh wants to hear it. The glimpse becomes tantalizing because it touches an appetite already present within us.

    The darkness does not always create the desire.

    Sometimes it merely offers our desire somewhere to go.

    Temptation may be waiting behind the door, but our own desire is what reaches for the handle.

    The progression often begins with thoughts that sound harmless:

    I will only look.

    I will only listen.

    I will only wonder.

    I will only step inside for a moment.

    I can leave whenever I choose.

    But some doors close differently from the other side.

    The War Within Us

    Paul described this struggle with painful honesty in Romans 7:

    “For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do.”

    Paul was not describing someone who loved evil and had no desire for righteousness. He wanted to do what was right. He delighted in the law of God according to the inward man.

    But he also recognized another law operating within his members—something warring against his mind and attempting to bring him into captivity.

    Knowing what was right was not enough.

    Wanting to do what was right was not enough.

    Paul eventually cried:

    “O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?”

    Notice that he did not ask, “What rule am I missing?”

    He asked, “Who will deliver me?”

    His answer came immediately:

    “I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!”
    —Romans 7:24–25 NKJV

    Deliverance does not come through determination alone. It comes through Jesus Christ and the power of His Spirit working within us.

    That is why Paul repeatedly used the language of crucifixion and death:

    “Our old man was crucified with Him.”
    —Romans 6:6

    “Those who are Christ’s have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.”
    —Galatians 5:24

    “If by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live.”
    —Romans 8:13

    “Therefore put to death your members which are on the earth.”
    —Colossians 3:5

    There is both an accomplished reality and an ongoing responsibility.

    Through Christ, the old man has been crucified. The authority of sin has been broken. But the flesh has not lost its voice. It continues attempting to pull our attention toward the shadows and persuade us to reopen doors that Christ has called us to leave closed.

    A few days ago, I wrote that choosing to follow Jesus is a wonderful decision—but continuing to follow Him requires a thousand decisions every day.

    This is where many of those decisions are made.

    I will not take the second look.

    I will not entertain the thought.

    I will not continue the conversation.

    I will not feed this curiosity.

    I will not open that door.

    I will not provide another opportunity for something Christ has called me to crucify.

    Those decisions do not earn our deliverance. Jesus Christ is our Deliverer. But they are how we choose to walk in agreement with the Spirit rather than surrendering another opportunity to the flesh.

    Keep Walking Toward the Light

    Lisa saw something in that alley that I needed to remember.

    The darkness may be real, but so is the destination.

    The shadows do not change where the path leads. The existence of a wrong door does not mean we must open it. A whispered invitation does not require an answer. Curiosity does not have to become consent.

    We can keep our eyes focused ahead.

    We can continue walking.

    And when we recognize that our own strength is insufficient, we can cry with Paul, “Who will deliver me?”

    Jesus Christ will.

    And if we have already opened the door—if we have wandered around the corner and become entangled in something we cannot escape by ourselves—He still knows where we are.

    He still knows the way out.

    Later, I asked Lisa to read through the developing exchange with the AI writing assistant I use as part of my editorial process. As she read, I looked again at the three photographs she had taken.

    That was when I noticed something neither of us had mentioned.

    Each photograph had been taken from farther inside the alley.

    In the first, we are standing outside, looking into the darkness. The opening at the other end is visible, but it appears small and distant.

    In the next, we have entered the alley. The surroundings are darker, but the light ahead occupies more of our vision.

    In the final photograph, we have traveled deeper into the shadows—and now the light at the end is almost impossible to miss.

    The deeper into the darkness we go, the brighter the light at the end appears.

    The light has not changed.

    Our position has.

    The darkness did not make the light stronger. It made the contrast more unmistakable.

    We should never deliberately venture into darkness simply to see the light more clearly. But sometimes life carries us through darkness we did not choose. At other times, our own desires and decisions take us farther into it than we ever intended to go.

    Either way, the darkness does not extinguish the light.

    The person who has traveled deep into the shadows may believe they have gone too far to be reached. They may imagine that the wrong doors, blind corners, and accumulated decisions have placed them beyond hope.

    But when they finally lift their eyes, the light is still there.

    It has not moved.

    It has not weakened.

    It is still showing them the way home.

    Lisa’s perspective calls us forward: The light remains ahead, and the destination is still attainable.

    My perspective offers the warning: Do not underestimate what may be waiting along the way.

    And the photographs reveal one final truth: No matter how dark the passage becomes, the darkness cannot extinguish the light of Christ.

    Together, they give us the whole truth:

    The darkness is real.

    The distractions are dangerous.

    Our own desires make us vulnerable.

    But the light has not changed.

    Jesus Christ is still our Deliverer.

    Keep your eyes forward.

    Refuse the wrong doors.

    Walk in the Spirit.

    And keep moving toward the light.

    Author’s Note: I use artificial intelligence as a collaborative research and editing tool to help organize my thoughts, identify relevant Scripture and context for further study, test the clarity of my reasoning, and refine language through multiple revisions. The experiences, spiritual convictions, theological judgments, and final editorial decisions remain human, and I accept responsibility for every word I publish.

  • Close the Door

    Close the Door

    “When all that generation had been gathered to their fathers, another generation arose after them who did not know the LORD nor the work which He had done for Israel.”
    —Judges 2:10 NKJV

    A meme recently appeared in my Facebook feed with a sobering observation:

    Samson did not lose his strength because Delilah was stronger than he was. He lost it because he continued giving access to someone he knew was dangerous.

    There is considerable truth in that statement—but Samson’s failure did not begin with Delilah.

    It began generations earlier.

    God had commanded Israel to remove the corrupting influences from the land He had given them:

    “And you shall make no covenant with the inhabitants of this land; you shall tear down their altars. But you have not obeyed My voice. Why have you done this? Therefore I also said, ‘I will not drive them out before you; but they shall be thorns in your side, and their gods shall be a snare to you.’”
    —Judges 2:2–3 NKJV

    Israel did not completely obey.

    They left people, practices, and altars in place that God had commanded them to remove. What appeared tolerable in one season eventually became a snare in another.

    Then Joshua’s generation passed away.

    “When all that generation had been gathered to their fathers, another generation arose after them who did not know the LORD nor the work which He had done for Israel.”
    —Judges 2:10 NKJV

    This new generation may have known something about Israel’s history. They may have recognized the names of Abraham, Moses, and Joshua. But they did not know the Lord in the covenantal, life-governing way the previous generation had known Him.

    Somewhere, the transmission of truth had broken down. Whether the testimony had not been taught, had not been modeled, or had simply not been received, the result was the same: the knowledge of God no longer shaped how that generation lived.

    The surrounding culture was ready to fill the emptiness.

    Israel began serving the Baals. They adopted the practices of the nations around them. They gradually surrendered the distinctiveness God had called them to maintain.

    A spiritual vacuum never remains empty for long.

    When the knowledge of God no longer governs a heart, a home, or a generation, another voice will gladly take its place.

    By the time Samson entered the story, compromise was already woven into Israel’s culture. His personal choices reflected the pattern of his nation.

    Israel allowed dangerous influences to remain in the land.

    Samson allowed Delilah to remain close to his heart.

    Israel tolerated what God had warned would become a snare.

    Samson trusted someone who repeatedly demonstrated that she intended to betray him.

    Delilah did not hide her intentions particularly well. Samson gave her a false explanation for his strength, and she immediately used that information against him. When it failed, she asked again. Then she did the same thing again.

    Every supposed secret was followed by another ambush.

    Samson saw the pattern. He knew what she was doing.

    Yet he stayed.

    “And it came to pass, when she pestered him daily with her words and pressed him, so that his soul was vexed to death…”
    —Judges 16:16 NKJV

    Notice how the erosion occurred:

    Daily words.

    Continual pressure.

    Repeated access.

    Delilah did not—could not—overpower Samson physically. What the Philistine armies could not conquer from the outside, persistent influence gradually reached from the inside.

    Finally, Samson “told her all his heart.”

    His hair was not magical. His strength came from God. His uncut hair was the outward sign of his Nazirite consecration—his separation unto the Lord from his mother’s womb.

    Samson did more than reveal the secret of his strength. He gave a destructive influence access to the place of his consecration.

    That is what makes the story so serious.

    We sometimes believe we can repeatedly entertain an influence without eventually being influenced by it. We imagine that because we recognize the danger, we are protected from it.

    Samson recognized what Delilah was doing. Recognition did not protect him because he refused to remove her access.

    We may recognize that a conversation continually feeds bitterness but keep participating in it.

    We may know that certain entertainment awakens desires we have been trying to surrender but keep watching.

    We may follow voices that mock holiness, weaken our confidence in Scripture, normalize disobedience, or fill us with anger—and tell ourselves that we are strong enough to remain unaffected.

    But repeated access becomes influence.

    Influence becomes pressure.

    Pressure, when entertained long enough, can become surrender.

    Not every person who disagrees with us is dangerous. Not every difficult conversation is an attack. Sometimes God uses people who challenge us to expose pride, correct error, and lead us closer to truth.

    The question is whether an influence moves us toward obedience or gradually makes disobedience seem reasonable.

    Does the voice strengthen our faith or continually undermine it?

    Does the relationship encourage our consecration or repeatedly ask us to compromise it?

    Does the atmosphere produce the fruit of the Spirit, or does it continually feed anger, lust, pride, bitterness, confusion, and unbelief?

    We can love someone without allowing that person to shape our convictions. We can minister to people without surrendering our spiritual direction to them. Jesus welcomed sinners, ate with them, and showed them compassion—but they did not determine His identity or redirect His mission.

    Closing a door does not necessarily mean that we hate the person outside.

    Sometimes it means that we have finally recognized the value of what God has placed inside.

    The darkest moment in Samson’s story came after his hair had been cut:

    “And she said, ‘The Philistines are upon you, Samson!’ So he awoke from his sleep, and said, ‘I will go out as before, at other times, and shake myself free!’ But he did not know that the LORD had departed from him.”
    —Judges 16:20 NKJV

    “But he did not know.”

    This may be the most dangerous place a person can reach—not merely distant from God, but so spiritually insensitive that the distance is no longer recognizable.

    Samson still remembered how strength had felt. He still knew the movements. He still expected the same result.

    “I will go out as before.”

    But yesterday’s experience had become a substitute for present consecration. Samson assumed that because God had moved through him before, God would continue moving through him now.

    He had become so accustomed to the gift that he failed to recognize the absence of the Giver.

    That danger remains.

    We can continue using spiritual language while our prayer life disappears. We can maintain religious routines while our sensitivity to God grows dull. We can remember what His presence once felt like and mistake the memory for present spiritual health.

    We can continue singing, teaching, posting, attending church, and saying all the right things while something within us is slowly becoming cold.

    Spiritual decline rarely announces itself loudly.

    Often, it happens one compromise, one ignored conviction, and one open door at a time—until we attempt to go out “as before” and discover that something vital has changed.

    Centuries after Samson, Solomon gave this instruction:

    “Keep your heart with all diligence,
    For out of it spring the issues of life.”
    —Proverbs 4:23 NKJV

    I have often wondered when Solomon first spoke those words.

    Did he write them earlier in life, before his wives and concubines turned his heart away from God? Was this wisdom he clearly understood and faithfully taught, but eventually failed to practice?

    Or were these the words of an older man looking back upon the spiritual wreckage created by an unguarded heart?

    Scripture does not tell us.

    But it does tell us this:

    “For it was so, when Solomon was old, that his wives turned his heart after other gods; and his heart was not loyal to the LORD his God, as was the heart of his father David.”
    —1 Kings 11:4 NKJV

    The man who warned others to keep their hearts failed to keep his own.

    Solomon possessed wisdom unlike any other man of his time. Samson possessed strength no other man could match.

    But Samson’s strength did not guard his consecration for him.

    Solomon’s wisdom did not guard his heart for him.

    Spiritual gifts are not substitutes for spiritual vigilance.

    Knowing the truth does not automatically mean we will obey it. Recognizing a danger does not protect us when we continue allowing it access. Knowing that a door should be closed is not the same as closing it.

    Samson knew Delilah was dangerous, yet he continued giving her access.

    Solomon knew foreign wives would turn his heart from God, yet Scripture says he “clung to these in love.”

    Both men understood more than they obeyed.

    Both men allowed affections to overrule convictions.

    Both discovered that what we tolerate long enough can eventually take what we never intended to surrender.

    This warning does not end with us. Judges 2 reminds us that the doors one generation leaves open may become the snares that capture the next.

    If we do not teach those coming behind us what God has done, other voices will tell them that He has done nothing.

    If we do not explain why His Word matters, the surrounding culture will offer them another standard.

    If our homes contain more outrage than prayer, more entertainment than worship, and more criticism than testimony, we should not be surprised when the next generation knows our opinions but does not know our God.

    We cannot force another generation to believe. Every person must respond to God individually. But we are responsible for what we teach, what we model, what we tolerate, and which doors we leave standing open.

    There is mercy even in Samson’s story:

    “However, the hair of his head began to grow again after it had been shaven.”
    —Judges 16:22 NKJV

    His consequences did not disappear. His eyes were not restored, and the years he had squandered were not returned. But God had not forgotten him. Samson prayed again, and God heard him.

    Grace offers restoration, but grace should never be used to make compromise appear harmless.

    Perhaps there is a voice you have continued entertaining even though you know where it is leading.

    Perhaps there is an attitude entering your home that is changing its spiritual atmosphere.

    Perhaps there is a relationship, conversation, habit, or source of influence that keeps reaching for the place of your consecration.

    Do not wait until it has taken what you never intended to surrender.

    Guard your heart.

    Not casually. Not occasionally. With all diligence.

    Be careful which voices receive continual access to it. Pay attention to what weakens your convictions, disturbs the spiritual atmosphere of your home, or gradually makes disobedience seem reasonable.

    Remember what God has done.

    Teach it to those coming behind you.

    Remain sensitive enough to recognize His voice—and humble enough to respond when He warns you.

    When God reveals that something has become a snare, do not keep testing your strength against it.

    Close the door.

    Some doors must be closed—not because we hate the person outside, but because we understand the value of what God has placed within.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • What Will Your Pain Produce?

    What Will Your Pain Produce?

    Two people can endure the same kind of pain and emerge from it very differently.

    One becomes cold and distant.

    The other becomes tender and compassionate.

    One says, “Nobody cared when I was hurting, so why should I care?”

    The other says, “I remember how it felt when nobody cared. I refuse to let someone else suffer alone.”

    The pain may be similar.

    What it produces is not.

    But bitterness seldom begins with someone consciously deciding to become bitter. More often, it begins as protection.

    “I will never let anyone hurt me like that again.”

    “I cannot trust anybody.”

    “If I expect nothing, I cannot be disappointed.”

    “I had to survive alone. Everyone else can do the same.”

    Those walls may have helped us survive something painful. But if we are not careful, the protection eventually becomes a prison.

    The wall that keeps further pain from entering can also keep love from leaving.

    We sometimes speak as though suffering automatically makes people stronger, wiser, and more compassionate.

    It can.

    But pain can also make us suspicious, controlling, resentful, harsh, or emotionally unavailable.

    Pain does not determine the outcome by itself. What matters is what we allow God to do within us afterward.

    Hebrews describes two very different things that can grow from painful experiences.

    “Nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.” ~Hebrews 12:11~

    Then, only a few verses later, we are warned:

    “Lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby may be defiled.” ~Hebrews 12:15~

    One experience can produce the peaceable fruit of righteousness.

    Another can produce a root of bitterness.

    And roots never remain beneath the surface forever.

    Eventually, something grows from them.

    Bitterness may begin inside one wounded heart, but it rarely stays there. Hebrews says that when it springs up, “many be defiled.”

    The person who betrayed us may be gone, but someone else lives under our suspicion.

    The person who abandoned us may no longer be present, but others encounter the distance they created.

    The church that wounded us may be far behind us, but every future believer is judged through the lens of what that congregation did.

    That is one of pain’s cruelest consequences:

    Unhealed pain often sends the bill to people who never caused the damage.

    They did not create the wound, yet they are expected to pay for it.

    But there is another way.

    God does not ask us to pretend the pain was insignificant. He does not require us to deny what happened or call evil good.

    Instead, He meets us in the wounded place and begins transforming what flows from it.

    Paul wrote that God:

    “Comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble…” ~2 Corinthians 1:4~

    The comfort God gives us is not intended to stop with us.

    He comforts us so that His comfort can pass through us.

    “I remember what rejection felt like, so I will notice the person standing alone.”

    “I remember how deeply careless words wounded me, so I will handle another person’s heart carefully.”

    “I remember needing someone to listen, so I will not rush another person’s grief.”

    “I remember desperately needing mercy, so I will not be quick to withhold it.”

    Compassion does not forget the pain.

    Compassion remembers—and decides not to reproduce it.

    The wound says, “Never again.”

    Grace says, “Because I know what that feels like, not through me.”

    That does not mean allowing unsafe people continued access to our lives.

    Forgiveness is not pretending.

    Compassion is not the absence of boundaries.

    Healing does not require restored trust where there has been no repentance or change.

    We can remain tenderhearted without remaining unprotected. We can forgive someone and still recognize that wisdom requires distance.

    The choice is not between bitterness and becoming someone’s victim again.

    The choice is whether we will allow what happened to us to determine what flows through us.

    You did not choose everything that happened to you.

    You may not have chosen the survival mechanisms you developed while trying to endure it.

    You may not be able to choose how quickly the wound heals.

    But with God’s help, you can choose whether you continue defending what your pain has produced.

    You can bring the wound into the light.

    You can allow grace to interrupt the cycle.

    You can let God transform the place that once made you bleed into the place from which you recognize another person’s bleeding.

    The enemy wants your pain to become your personality.

    God wants to redeem it until it becomes part of your ministry.

    The enemy says:

    “You were rejected, so reject others first.”

    God says:

    “You know what rejection feels like. Notice the overlooked.”

    The enemy says:

    “You were betrayed, so trust no one.”

    God says:

    “You understand the cost of betrayal. Become someone whose word is safe.”

    The enemy says:

    “No one showed you mercy, so nobody deserves yours.”

    God says:

    “You remember how desperately you needed mercy. Now extend it to someone else.”

    Your pain can become a weapon in your hand, a wall around your heart, or compassion within your spirit.

    What happened to you was real.

    What it did to you was real.

    But it does not have to keep passing through you into everyone around you.

    You cannot change what was done to you.

    But by the grace of God, you can decide that it will not be done through you.

    Let the cycle end here.

    Let grace begin here.

    What will your pain produce?

  • 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.