Some chapters close quietly.
Not because the story is over…
But because it’s time to turn the page.
We may not understand why one season ends or what the next one will hold. But God sees the whole story, while we only see the page in front of us.
So when something familiar begins to fade, don’t assume God is finished.
Trust the Author.
He’s still writing.
“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it…”
— Philippians 1:6
“Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” — Proverbs 3:5
I woke before sunrise with an old hymn running through my mind.
Learning to lean…
Learning to lean…
I’m learning to lean on Jesus…
At first, I thought it was simply an encouraging song.
But as I spent time in Scripture, I realized it was asking me a deeper question.
What am I leaning on?
We all lean on something.
Some lean on their own abilities.
Some lean on financial security.
Some lean on relationships, reputation, influence, or strength.
Some lean on determination, believing that if they just try harder, they can make it through.
Others lean on things that promise relief but never truly heal—addictions, distractions, habits, or anything else that numbs the weight they are carrying.
But there is a second question we must ask.
Why am I leaning on it?
Because we do not lean on these things for no reason.
We lean on money because we want security.
We lean on people because we want acceptance.
We lean on control because we want peace.
We lean on success because we want significance.
We lean on escape because we want relief.
Every false support is promising something to the soul that only God can truly give.
David faced that very test in a cave.
King Saul, who had hunted him relentlessly, unknowingly walked in alone. David’s men saw the opportunity of a lifetime. One swing of the sword, and years of fear could be over.
But David saw something else.
He saw a promise that did not need his manipulation.
He refused to take by force what God had promised by grace.
David did not lean on his sword.
He leaned on God.
And because David was leaning on God, he did not need the throne to satisfy his soul.
That is the difference.
David still desired what God had promised.
But he did not need to sin in order to obtain it.
Perhaps that is why Solomon wrote,
“Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”
Those are not two separate commands.
They are one.
The first half tells us what God is calling us to do.
The second half tells us how.
We trust Him by refusing to lean on ourselves.
Faith is not simply believing that God exists.
Faith is transferring the weight of our confidence from our own understanding to His wisdom, and from our own strength to His faithfulness.
And that brings us to the other hymn that came to mind today:
Only Jesus can satisfy your soul…
That is the full equation.
What am I leaning on?
And…
What am I expecting it to give me?
Because whatever we lean on must be able to bear the weight of our lives.
And whatever we look to for satisfaction must be able to reach the deepest place in our souls.
Only Christ can do both.
He alone can carry the weight.
He alone can satisfy the longing.
So maybe the question today is not just whether we believe in Jesus.
Maybe the question is more personal than that.
Am I leaning on Him?
And am I trusting Him to be enough?
Scripture: 1 Samuel 24:1–12
When most people think about David’s greatest victory, they immediately think of Goliath.
It’s understandable.
A shepherd boy walks onto a battlefield with nothing but a sling and five smooth stones. One giant falls, an army flees, and a nation celebrates.
It is one of the greatest stories in all of Scripture.
But I’m no longer convinced that was David’s greatest victory.
This week has been filled with thoughts about David.
First, Nathan confronting him.
Then Psalm 51.
Then, on the drive home Tuesday, Lisa read me something she had found on Facebook.
It simply said that David’s greatest victory wasn’t defeating Goliath.
It was sparing Saul.
I asked her to read it again.
Then I asked her to send it to me.
The more I’ve reflected on it…
The more I think there is profound truth in that statement.
Not because Saul deserved mercy.
But because David had become the kind of man who trusted God enough to show it.
At first glance, it almost feels like we’re going backward in David’s story.
After all, the cave came long before Bathsheba.
Long before Nathan.
Long before Psalm 51.
But perhaps that’s exactly why this passage matters.
Earlier this week we saw what a heart after God’s own heart looks like when it fails.
Today we see what that same heart looked like before it failed.
The setting couldn’t have been more dramatic.
Saul had spent years hunting David.
David had done nothing to deserve it.
He had served Saul faithfully.
He had fought Israel’s enemies.
He had married Saul’s daughter.
Yet now he was living as a fugitive.
Then the opportunity came.
Saul unknowingly entered the very cave where David and his men were hiding.
David’s companions could hardly believe it.
“This is the day the LORD spoke about!”
To them, this wasn’t merely an opportunity.
It was providence.
David could finally take the throne God had already promised him.
No more running.
No more hiding.
No more caves.
He quietly crept toward Saul.
Sword in hand.
Then…
He stopped.
Instead of taking Saul’s life, he cut off a corner of Saul’s robe.
Even then, Scripture says something remarkable.
“David’s heart smote him…” (1 Samuel 24:5)
That verse has always fascinated me.
David wasn’t convicted after killing Saul.
He was convicted after cutting a piece of cloth.
Why?
Because David understood something his men did not.
The robe represented the office God had established.
Saul may have failed as king.
God had already rejected him.
Samuel had already confronted him.
But David understood that judgment belonged to God.
Not to him.
So David declared:
“The LORD forbid that I should do this thing unto my master, the LORD’S anointed…”
Those words have often been misunderstood.
Some have used them to suggest that spiritual leaders should never be questioned or held accountable.
But that’s not what David was saying.
Saul had already been confronted.
He had already been rebuked.
He had already been judged by God.
David simply refused to seize for himself what only God had the right to give.
He would wait.
Even when waiting hurt.
Even when the opportunity seemed perfect.
Even when everyone around him insisted this must be God’s will.
God’s promises will never require us to abandon His principles.
All too often we see an opportunity and immediately assume God has opened the door.
But when we dig beneath the surface, we sometimes discover that walking through that door would require us to compromise the very principles God has already made clear in His Word.
David refused to do that.
He understood that God’s promise of the throne did not give him permission to violate God’s character in order to obtain it.
Sometimes the greatest act of faith is walking away from something you have every human reason to take, because you trust that God’s way is always better than your own shortcut.
As I’ve reflected on David’s life these past several weeks, one thought continues to surface.
God wasn’t merely preparing David to wear a crown.
He was preparing him to carry one.
Anyone can display courage when facing a giant.
It takes a very different kind of strength to lay down your sword when facing an enemy.
Goliath tested David’s courage.
Saul tested David’s character.
One victory won Israel’s applause.
The other revealed the heart God had been forming all along.
Final Word
David eventually became king.
Not because he took the throne when he had the chance…
But because he trusted God enough to wait until God placed him there.
There are moments in life when we could force the outcome.
We defend ourselves.
We get even.
We take what we believe is rightfully ours.
The cave reminds us that the greatest victories are not always the ones everyone celebrates.
Sometimes the greatest victory is trusting God enough to leave justice in His hands.
Because a heart after God’s own heart doesn’t simply ask,
“What can I do?”
It first asks,
“What would honor God?”
And perhaps that’s one of the clearest marks of spiritual maturity.
Not that we seize every opportunity placed before us…
But that we trust God enough to refuse the ones that require us to abandon His principles.
Scripture: Psalm 51
Yesterday we looked at one of the most uncomfortable moments in all of Scripture.
Nathan stood before King David and uttered four unforgettable words:
“Thou art the man.”
David’s response was immediate.
“I have sinned against the LORD.” (2 Samuel 12:13)
For most of us, that’s where the story ends.
But Scripture doesn’t leave us standing in the throne room with Nathan.
It invites us into David’s prayer closet.
Psalm 51 is that prayer.
If 2 Samuel 12 records David’s confession…
Psalm 51 reveals David’s heart.
I’ve read Psalm 51 countless times over the years, and it has long been one of my favorite chapters in the Bible.
But through the years I’ve discovered something.
There are certain passages of Scripture that become more meaningful the longer you live.
When I was younger, I admired David’s poetry.
Today…
I understand his tears.
David doesn’t spend this Psalm trying to explain himself.
He doesn’t minimize his sin.
He doesn’t compare himself to someone worse.
He doesn’t bargain with God.
No… he simply throws himself entirely upon the mercy of God.
The opening words set the tone for everything that follows.
“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness…”
David doesn’t appeal to his past victories.
He doesn’t remind God that he killed Goliath.
He doesn’t mention the years he faithfully served as king.
He simply pleads for mercy.
That is where genuine repentance always begins.
The more I read this Psalm, the more one truth stands out.
David never asks God to change his circumstances.
Instead…
He asks God to change him.
That may be the clearest evidence that his repentance was genuine.
“Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity…”
“Cleanse me from my sin.”
“Purge me with hyssop…”
“Create in me a clean heart…”
“Renew a right spirit within me.”
Notice the pattern.
Wash me.
Cleanse me.
Purge me.
Create in me.
Renew me.
Restore me.
Those aren’t the prayers of a man trying to escape consequences.
They’re the prayers of a man who longs to be different.
David understood something that we sometimes forget.
Forgiveness isn’t merely about removing guilt.
It’s about restoring fellowship with God.
In this chapter, there is one verse that has always stopped me in my tracks.
“Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.” (Psalm 51:11)
David had already lost peace.
He had already lost joy.
His family would experience heartbreaking consequences because of his choices.
But above everything else…
He feared losing the presence of God.
That tells me David finally understood what mattered most.
One word in particular has fascinated me for years.
“Create in me a clean heart, O God…”
David didn’t ask God to repair his heart.
He didn’t ask Him to polish it.
Or improve it.
The Hebrew word translated “create” is the same word used in Genesis 1.
It describes something only God can do.
David wasn’t asking for self-improvement.
He was asking for a new creation.
Isn’t that the hope of the Gospel?
God doesn’t simply make bad people a little better.
He makes dead things live again.
He gives new hearts.
New spirits.
New beginnings.
As I’ve reflected on my own life over the past sixteen years, these words have taken on a depth they never had before.
Not because I’ve learned more Hebrew.
Not because I’ve become a better Bible student.
But because I’ve experienced the painful reality of living with the consequences of my own failures.
I’ve learned that repentance isn’t just feeling sorry for what I’ve done.
It’s longing to become someone different through the grace of God.
That’s why Psalm 51 continues to speak to me.
David never asked God to erase the past.
He asked Him to transform the man who would live tomorrow.
There is a profound difference.
Repentance isn’t trying to convince God we’re better than we are.
It’s agreeing with God about who we really are…
and trusting Him to make us new.
That is the beauty of grace.
Not that God overlooks our sin.
But that He cleanses the sinner who comes to Him with a broken and contrite heart.
Final Word
David wasn’t remembered because he was the king who never failed.
He was remembered because he was the king who knew where to go when he did.
Every one of us will fail.
Every one of us will need mercy.
The question isn’t whether we’ll ever have our own Psalm 51 moment.
The question is whether we’ll come to God with excuses…
or with surrender.
May our prayer never become,
“Lord, protect my reputation.”
May it always be,
“Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”
Because God specializes in doing what only He can do.
He doesn’t merely forgive repentant hearts.
He creates new ones.
Last weekend, Lisa and I had the opportunity to see David at Sight & Sound in Branson.
The production was outstanding.
Like most people, I expected to leave thinking about Goliath.
Instead, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nathan.
As I watched the prophet confront David over his sin with Bathsheba and Uriah, I found myself comparing that scene with another confrontation recorded in Scripture.
Two kings.
Two prophets.
Two sins.
Two completely different responses.
King Saul was confronted by Samuel after sparing King Agag and keeping the best of the Amalekite livestock, despite God’s clear command to destroy everything.
King David was confronted by Nathan after committing adultery with Bathsheba and arranging for Uriah to be killed in battle.
Neither man sought out correction.
God sent a prophet to them.
Both men had sinned.
Both men were confronted.
But that’s where the similarities end.
When Samuel confronted Saul, his first response wasn’t confession.
It was self-defense.
“I have obeyed…”
“The people took of the spoil…”
“It was to sacrifice unto the Lord…”
Excuse followed excuse.
Responsibility was shifted.
Blame was shared.
Even after finally saying, “I have sinned,” Saul immediately added another request:
“Honor me now, I pray thee, before the elders of my people.”
Even in repentance, he was still concerned about preserving his image.
Then Nathan stood before David.
He didn’t begin with an accusation.
He told a story.
A rich man stole the only lamb a poor man possessed.
David was furious.
“The man that hath done this thing shall surely die!”
Then Nathan spoke four words that have echoed through history.
“Thou art the man.”
At that moment, David could have done exactly what Saul had done.
He could have blamed Bathsheba.
He could have blamed loneliness.
He could have blamed the pressures of leadership.
He could have blamed anyone but himself.
Instead, David uttered one of the shortest—and most powerful—confessions in all of Scripture.
“I have sinned against the LORD.”
No excuses.
No blame shifting.
No attempts to justify himself.
Just honest repentance.
David’s sin was enormous.
Adultery.
Deception.
Murder.
None of it was minimized.
The consequences were real, painful, and far-reaching.
His family suffered.
His kingdom suffered.
David himself suffered.
Repentance does not erase earthly consequences.
But it does restore fellowship with God.
I’ve often wondered why preachers spend far more time talking about David and Goliath than David and Nathan.
Perhaps it’s because Goliath is easier.
We all like sermons that ask,
“What giant are you facing?”
Nathan asks a far more uncomfortable question.
“Where are you refusing God’s correction?”
One sermon inspires us.
The other examines us.
One points to battles around us.
The other exposes battles within us.
As I reflected on the production afterward, another thought settled into my heart.
The greatest difference between Saul and David wasn’t that one sinned and the other didn’t.
Both failed.
Both needed mercy.
The difference was what happened after God confronted them.
Saul defended himself.
David humbled himself.
One protected his reputation.
The other surrendered his heart.
I don’t believe God is looking for people who never fail.
If He were, none of us would qualify.
I believe He’s looking for people who remain teachable.
People who are willing to hear hard truth.
People who care more about holiness than appearance.
People who, when confronted by the Spirit of God, are willing to say,
“Lord… You’re right.”
Because every one of us will eventually have a “Thou art the man” moment.
The question isn’t whether correction will come.
The question is what kind of heart it will find.
Final Word
David wasn’t called “a man after God’s own heart” because he never sinned.
He was called that because when God exposed his sin, he didn’t harden his heart.
He humbled it.
The difference between Saul and David wasn’t the seriousness of their failures.
It was the condition of their hearts after they were confronted.
May we never become so concerned with protecting our reputation that we stop listening to God’s correction.
Because the path to restoration doesn’t begin with defending ourselves.
It begins with four simple words…
“I have sinned, Lord.”
One of the saddest realities of our culture is that we have become convinced we must choose between truth and compassion.
We’re told that if we stand for biblical truth, we cannot truly love people.
Or, if we genuinely love people, we must eventually surrender biblical truth.
Jesus accepted neither option.
He never compromised truth.
He never withheld compassion.
And somehow, two thousand years later, many of us have managed to separate what He perfectly united.
Before we go any further, let me be equally clear about where I stand. I believe God’s design for marriage and sexuality is revealed in Scripture, and I do not have the authority to redefine what God has already spoken. At the same time, I believe every person—regardless of their beliefs, identity, choices, or lifestyle—is created in the image of God and is therefore worthy of dignity, compassion, and respect. These convictions are not in conflict. In fact, they belong together.
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I recently came across a simple quote that has lingered in my mind:
“When you hold a belief so tightly you cannot see another’s humanity, it will eventually obscure your own.”
Whether the author intended it or not, I immediately thought of Jesus.
Not because He abandoned truth…
But because He never allowed truth to become an excuse for forgetting the value of the person standing in front of Him.
Think about His ministry.
The woman caught in adultery.
The Samaritan woman at the well.
Matthew, the tax collector.
Zacchaeus.
The lepers everyone else avoided.
The demoniac living among the tombs.
People whom society had already categorized, condemned, dismissed, or avoided.
Jesus never ignored their sin.
But neither did He ignore their humanity.
He saw people before He addressed their problems.
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Genesis tells us something remarkable.
Every human being is created in the image of God.
Not just Christians.
Not just people who agree with us.
Not just those living according to Scripture.
Every person.
Sin has marred that image, but it has not erased it.
That truth should forever change the way followers of Christ see people.
The person addicted to drugs.
The man sitting in prison.
The woman who has had multiple abortions.
The atheist.
The Muslim.
The political activist.
The LGBTQ+ individual.
The person who hurt you.
The family member who rejected your values.
The coworker who mocks your faith.
Every one of them still bears the imprint of the Creator.
If God saw enough value in them to create them…
And enough value in them to send His Son to die for them…
Who am I to pretend they are beneath my compassion?
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James writes something that should stop every Christian in their tracks.
With our mouths we bless God…
And with those same mouths we curse people who have been made in the likeness of God.
James says these things should not be.
Think about that.
When I insult, mock, dehumanize, or rejoice in another person’s humiliation, I am doing so against someone who still carries the fingerprints of God.
That doesn’t excuse sin.
It simply reminds me that sinners are still people.
Sometimes I wonder if we’ve become so busy defending biblical positions that we’ve forgotten why God gave us those truths in the first place.
The purpose of truth is not to win arguments.
The purpose of truth is to lead people to Christ.
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Jesus never confused acceptance with approval.
He welcomed people without affirming everything they did.
He loved them enough to meet them where they were.
He also loved them too much to leave them there.
To the woman caught in adultery He extended mercy…
Then He called her to leave her sin.
Those are not contradictory actions.
They are the very definition of biblical love.
Love without truth leaves people lost.
Truth without love leaves people hopeless.
The Gospel has always been both.
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During the past month, as conversations surrounding Pride once again filled social media, I noticed something that deeply grieved me.
Not the disagreements.
Disagreement is inevitable.
Christians and our culture have very different understandings of sexuality, marriage, and identity.
Those conversations matter.
But what disturbed me wasn’t disagreement.
It was the hatred.
The mocking.
The cruel jokes.
The celebration of another person’s pain.
The comments that seemed to delight in making someone feel less than human.
I couldn’t help but wonder…
When did we decide that cruelty became a fruit of the Spirit?
There is nothing Christlike about humiliating someone.
There is nothing holy about ridicule.
There is nothing righteous about treating another image-bearer of God as though they have no value.
If we believe someone is living apart from God’s design, shouldn’t that move us toward compassion instead of contempt?
After all…
That’s exactly how Jesus treated us.
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The Apostle Paul wrote words that every believer should remember:
“Such were some of you.”
Those words level the ground beneath the cross.
Every Christian has a past.
Every Christian has needed grace.
Every Christian has stood in desperate need of mercy.
The only difference between us and anyone still trapped in sin is not our goodness.
It’s God’s grace.
That realization should produce humility instead of arrogance.
Compassion instead of contempt.
Tears instead of insults.
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Perhaps the greatest danger isn’t abandoning biblical convictions.
It’s allowing those convictions to harden our hearts.
The Pharisees knew Scripture better than almost anyone.
Yet they looked into the eyes of the Son of God and could not recognize Him because their hearts had become so consumed with being right that they no longer loved the people they were supposed to shepherd.
Knowledge had replaced mercy.
Religion had replaced relationship.
Truth had lost compassion.
May that never be true of us.
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As followers of Christ, we should never apologize for what Scripture teaches.
But neither should we apologize for loving the people Christ died to save.
Those are not opposing commitments.
They are inseparable.
If my convictions cause me to look down on people…
Something is wrong with my heart.
If my theology allows me to despise those Christ willingly died for…
Something is wrong with my theology.
Because every person I meet is someone Jesus considered worth stretching out His hands for.
And if He could love them enough to die for them…
Surely I can love them enough to treat them with dignity.
Final Word
The world often tells us we must choose between conviction and compassion.
Jesus chose neither.
He embodied both.
He never compromised truth.
He never forgot a person’s worth.
As His followers, neither should we.
Because biblical conviction should never make us less compassionate.
It should remind us just how much compassion God first showed us.
Today America celebrates 250 years of independence.
Two hundred fifty years.
That is an extraordinary milestone.
Today there will be parades, flags waving in the breeze, backyard cookouts, fireworks lighting the night sky, and families gathering to celebrate the freedoms we often take for granted.
And we should be thankful.
The liberties we enjoy have come at an immeasurable cost. Countless men and women have sacrificed—some giving everything—to preserve those freedoms for future generations.
But today also serves as a reminder of another truth.
Every nation is temporary.
History is filled with kingdoms and empires that once seemed unshakable. They rose to greatness, shaped the world for generations, and eventually became pages in history books.
America, as we know it, will not escape that reality.
No nation does.
Some look at the political division, the cultural conflict, and the uncertainty surrounding our future and wonder what lies ahead.
As a Christian, those things concern me.
But they do not define my hope.
Because Scripture reminds us that God “removeth kings, and setteth up kings” (Daniel 2:21).
Paul declared that God “hath made of one blood all nations of men… and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation” (Acts 17:26).
God is still sovereign.
He appoints rulers.
He establishes nations.
He determines their boundaries.
He raises kingdoms up.
And when His purposes have been fulfilled, He brings them down.
That doesn’t mean every leader is righteous.
It doesn’t mean every decision is wise.
It doesn’t mean Christians stop praying, voting, serving, or standing for truth.
It means we do those things with confidence instead of fear.
Our hope has never rested in Washington.
Our peace has never depended upon who occupies an office.
Our future has never been secured by any political party.
Our hope is found in the King whose throne has never been threatened.
So today…
Celebrate this nation.
Thank God for its freedoms.
Pray for its leaders.
Honor those who have served.
Work to make your community better.
But remember that your highest citizenship is not found beneath the Stars and Stripes.
It is found in the Kingdom of God.
Because one day every flag will be lowered.
Every earthly government will come to an end.
Every nation will become part of history.
But the Kingdom of our Lord will endure forever.
Final Thought
I’m grateful to be an American.
But even more, I’m grateful to belong to a Kingdom that will never fall.
Happy Independence Day.
May God continue to bless America—not merely with prosperity and peace, but with hearts that humble themselves before Him.
There comes a point in life when you stop worrying about what people will remember about you…
And you start wondering what your life will point them toward.
I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back.
I’ve hurt people I loved.
I’ve failed in ways that still grieve me.
If I could rewrite those chapters, I would.
But I can’t.
And maybe that’s exactly where God’s grace becomes most visible.
Because grace isn’t proven by the lives of people who never needed it.
Grace is proven by what God does with people who did.
The Apostle Paul never hid the fact that he persecuted the church.
Peter never pretended he hadn’t denied Jesus.
David never removed Psalm 51 from the Bible.
Their failures weren’t recorded to glorify sin.
They were preserved to magnify God’s mercy.
I don’t tell parts of my story because I’m proud of them.
I’m not.
I tell them because somewhere, someone else is standing where I once stood.
Someone is one decision away from destroying a marriage.
Someone is trapped in secret sin.
Someone is convinced they’ve gone too far for God to forgive.
If my failures can persuade one person to turn around before making the same mistake…
If my scars can convince someone that God’s grace is still greater than their shame…
If one person finds hope because they realized God never gave up on me…
Then every painful chapter will have served a purpose.
When this life is over, I don’t want people talking about my accomplishments.
I don’t want to be remembered for clever words, popular posts, or even a ministry.
I want them to remember a faithful God…
Who refused to stop pursuing an unfaithful man.
Like the song says:
“I don’t want to leave a legacy.
I don’t care if they remember me.
Only Jesus.”
Because if my life points even one person toward Him…
Then every chapter—
The joyful ones.
The painful ones.
The victories.
The failures.
The mountains.
The valleys.
Will all have been worth it.
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Final Word
One day, every one of us will leave something behind.
The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy.
The question is what that legacy will point to.
May people never look at our lives and say, “What an extraordinary person.”
May they instead say,
“What an extraordinary Savior.”
Last summer, while driving through Wyoming and Colorado, I noticed something that challenged an assumption I’d carried for years.
The valleys weren’t the difficult part of the journey.
They were broad. Open. In many places, I could see for miles. The roads were relatively gentle, and obstacles could often be spotted long before I reached them.
It was the mountains that demanded my full attention.
The road narrowed.
The next curve disappeared from view.
The drop-offs became steeper.
The weather changed without warning.
Every mile required a little more caution than the last.
As I drove, a question quietly settled into my mind.
Have we, as Christians, oversimplified the Bible’s language about mountains and valleys?
For years, I’ve heard people describe difficult seasons as “walking through the valley” and victorious seasons as “standing on the mountaintop.” There is certainly biblical truth behind those expressions. After all, David wrote of walking through “the valley of the shadow of death,” and mountains are often places where God revealed Himself in extraordinary ways.
But Scripture paints a richer picture than our clichés sometimes allow.
Not every valley in the Bible is a place of despair.
Some valleys are fertile.
Some are filled with rivers.
Some become places where battles are fought and won.
Some are where people build homes, raise families, and experience God’s daily provision.
Likewise, not every mountain represents ease or triumph.
Abraham climbed Mount Moriah carrying the wood for Isaac’s sacrifice.
Moses climbed Mount Sinai into God’s presence.
Elijah climbed Mount Carmel to confront hundreds of false prophets.
Each ascent required obedience before it brought revelation.
Then I thought about Lot.
When Abraham gave him first choice, Lot looked toward the well-watered plain of the Jordan. It seemed like the obvious decision. Fertile land. Prosperity. Opportunity. Yet that same plain led him toward Sodom. The problem wasn’t that Lot chose a valley. The problem was that he chose by sight instead of by faith.
The geography wasn’t the lesson.
His heart was.
Perhaps that’s where we sometimes miss the point.
We become so focused on whether we’re living in a “valley” or standing on a “mountain” that we forget the Bible never asks us to put our confidence in the terrain.
It asks us to trust the One who leads us through it.
Sometimes God meets us on the mountain.
Sometimes He restores us beside still waters in the valley.
Sometimes He calls us to climb.
Sometimes He calls us to descend.
Peter wanted to remain on the mountain after witnessing Christ’s glory, but Jesus led him back down because ministry was waiting below.
Mountaintops are often places of revelation.
Valleys are often places where that revelation is lived out.
Looking back, I realized the most dangerous part of my drive wasn’t the open valley stretching before me.
It was the climb where I couldn’t see what lay around the next bend.
Yet that’s also where I became most attentive.
I slowed down.
I watched more carefully.
I depended less on myself.
Maybe that’s exactly why God sometimes leads us into seasons where we can’t see very far ahead.
Not because He has abandoned us…
But because faith grows best when we learn to trust the Guide more than the map.
The older I get, the less interested I am in labeling every season of life as either a mountain or a valley.
Instead, I’m learning to ask a different question.
Where is God leading me today?
Because whether the road winds through fertile plains, shadowed ravines, or steep mountain passes, His presence has always mattered far more than the landscape.
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Final Word
We spend a lot of time asking whether we’re on the mountaintop or in the valley.
Scripture asks a different question.
Are you following the Shepherd?
The terrain will change.
Some days will be wide, open valleys filled with quiet provision.
Others will be steep climbs where every step requires faith.
Neither place defines your relationship with God.
His presence does.
So don’t place your hope in reaching easier ground.
Place it in the One who never leaves the path.
Most of us know the story of Jonah.
We remember the storm.
The great fish.
The reluctant prophet finally walking through the streets of Nineveh proclaiming God’s coming judgment.
What often surprises people is that the real climax of the book doesn’t happen when Jonah is swallowed by the fish.
It happens after Nineveh repents.
The greatest revival recorded in the Old Testament had just taken place.
From the king to the common citizen, the people humbled themselves before God. They fasted, repented, and turned from their violence. In response, God withheld the judgment He had promised.
If we were writing the story, this would be the perfect ending.
The prophet preached.
The people repented.
God showed mercy.
Everyone celebrates.
Instead, Jonah chapter 4 opens with these startling words:
“But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he became angry.” (Jonah 4:1)
Jonah wasn’t angry because his message failed.
He was angry because it succeeded.
He had witnessed exactly what every prophet should long to see—repentance, mercy, and revival.
And he hated it.
That should stop every one of us in our tracks.
Why Was Jonah Angry?
Jonah explains it himself.
“I knew that You are a gracious and merciful God, slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness…” (Jonah 4:2)
Notice what Jonah is saying.
He isn’t questioning God’s character.
He knew God’s character perfectly.
He simply didn’t want God’s mercy extended to those people.
The Assyrians weren’t misunderstood.
They were notoriously cruel. They conquered nations through terror, torture, and brutality. Humanly speaking, Jonah’s hatred made sense.
What didn’t make sense to Jonah was that God’s mercy could be greater than Nineveh’s wickedness.
Our Jonah Moments
Before we’re too hard on Jonah, we should ask ourselves a difficult question.
Who is our Nineveh?
Who do we quietly believe has crossed the line beyond God’s mercy?
Maybe it’s a murderer.
A rapist.
A child molester.
An abusive spouse.
A corrupt politician.
Someone who destroyed your family.
Someone who betrayed your trust.
Most of us have someone.
We may never say it aloud, but somewhere deep inside we think,
“Lord… surely not them.”
That’s where Jonah meets us.
Justice and Mercy
This is where many people struggle.
If God forgives someone guilty of terrible crimes, does that mean justice no longer matters?
Not at all.
Scripture never teaches that forgiveness removes earthly consequences.
David was forgiven, but still lived with painful consequences.
Moses was forgiven, yet never entered the Promised Land.
The thief on the cross received mercy, but still died under Roman execution.
A murderer who genuinely repents may still spend the rest of his life in prison.
A child molester who truly comes to Christ should still face every legal consequence and every necessary safeguard to protect others.
Grace does not erase justice.
It restores a sinner’s relationship with God.
Those are not the same thing.
What Forgiveness Looks Like
Perhaps you’re thinking,
“That’s easy to say until it’s your child.”
For one Oklahoma father, it was.
In 2006, ten-year-old Lindsay Wagoner was raped and murdered. For thirteen years, her father, Bill Wagoner, carried the crushing weight of hatred toward the man who had taken his daughter’s life.
Eventually, Bill came to a painful realization.
The man who murdered Lindsay had already stolen enough from his family.
He wasn’t going to allow him to steal the rest of his life as well.
In 2019, Bill chose to meet face-to-face with the man who murdered his daughter. He forgave him and shared with him the message of Jesus Christ and the forgiveness that had first been extended to him.
That meeting didn’t change what had happened.
It didn’t erase the murder.
It didn’t remove the prison sentence.
It didn’t make evil good.
But it did break the chains that hatred had wrapped around a grieving father’s heart.
Bill’s story reminds us that forgiveness is never declaring evil to be acceptable.
It is refusing to allow evil to have the final word.
Jonah could preach repentance to Nineveh.
Bill Wagoner lived it.
One wanted judgment to have the final word.
The other chose to let mercy have it.
That is the crossroads every follower of Christ eventually reaches.
The Foot of the Cross Is Level
The uncomfortable truth is this:
The ground at the foot of the cross is perfectly level.
The respectable church member and the violent criminal are both saved exactly the same way.
Neither earns forgiveness.
Neither deserves forgiveness.
Both stand before God entirely because of grace.
That doesn’t make their sins equally destructive in this life.
But it does remind us that salvation has never been based upon the size of our sin.
It has always been based upon the greatness of our Savior.
Jonah, the Older Brother… and Us
Jonah wasn’t the only one to struggle with this.
Jesus told the story of the prodigal son.
Most of us celebrate the younger brother coming home.
But the older brother became angry because someone he believed deserved judgment received mercy instead.
The Pharisees struggled with tax collectors.
Peter struggled with Gentiles receiving the Holy Ghost.
The workers in Jesus’ vineyard parable struggled when those who worked only one hour received the same wage.
Again and again, Scripture exposes the same temptation.
We love mercy…
…until it’s given to someone we don’t think deserves it.
Looking Into the Mirror
The Book of Jonah ends strangely.
There’s no neat conclusion.
No record of Jonah changing his heart.
Instead, God simply asks,
“Is it right for you to be angry?” (Jonah 4:4)
Then the book ends.
Almost as though God intentionally leaves the final chapter unfinished.
Because the last chapter isn’t really about Jonah.
It’s about us.
Will we rejoice only when God’s mercy reaches people like us?
Or will we celebrate whenever another sinner finds forgiveness—even someone we believed was beyond redemption?
The measure of our understanding of grace isn’t how thankful we are that God forgave us.
It’s whether we can rejoice when He forgives someone we never thought deserved it.
Final Word
The real miracle in Jonah isn’t that God spared Nineveh.
It’s that God patiently pursued Jonah while his heart was resisting mercy.
The greatest danger isn’t that God’s grace is too wide.
It’s that our hearts become too narrow to rejoice when His grace reaches someone we never thought it should.
If God had drawn the line where we often wish He would…
none of us would be invited to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
