Handing It On

Why showing up second completes the circle of grace

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For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins … and that he was raised on the third day.

 - From 1 Corinthians 15

There’s a sacred rhythm in those words — a rhythm older than time itself.
Paul doesn’t just proclaim the gospel; he hands it on. He shows up first. That’s what love does.

When I invite people to a concert, or to a family gathering, or to share in something that has taken shape in my heart — I’m not trying to sell tickets or fill seats. I’m handing on something precious. I’m showing up first, holding out a piece of myself, hoping someone will close the circle by taking it, cherishing it, and handing it forward. . . . By showing up second. 

And yet, how often the response comes back:

“Not everybody likes going to live performances.”
“Not everybody is into genealogy.”

But what’s really being offered isn’t a “show” or a “project.” It’s communion. It’s participation. It’s the human chain that keeps beauty alive. When someone shows up, the art breathes. The family grows. The circle closes.

Paul knew that. He passed along what he had received, trusting it would awaken faith in others. That’s how the gospel survives — by being shared, not shelved.

A physical gift can be unwrapped, politely received, and soon forgotten. But a gift of presence — music, story, fellowship — is alive. It carries risk and vulnerability. It waits to be accepted. And when it is, something eternal passes between giver and receiver.

Show up. Take the handoff. Complete the circle. That’s how grace keeps moving.

Refrain from Anger

When Calm Isn’t Peace and Control Isn’t Healing

Refrain from anger, leave rage alone; do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil.

 - From Psalm 137

Sing Us a Song, They Say

What do you do when the world wants a performance, 

not a testimony?

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For our captors asked us for a song, and our tormentors called for mirth: "Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

— From Psalm 137

This is one of the most haunting verses in Scripture — because it doesn’t describe cruelty in the form of chains or whips.
It describes cruelty in the form of expectation.

The exiles are grieving. Their temple is gone. Their homeland is in ruins. And their captors have only one request:

“Sing. Entertain us.
Tell us what faith sounds like. But don’t tell us what pain sounds like.”

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This hits close to home.

There are seasons in life when people don’t want your honesty — they want your performance.
They want your music, your smile, your warmth, your hospitality, your insight — but not your story.

They want the part of you that comforts them, not the part that might challenge them.
They want to quote the faith that carried you, but not listen to what you had to walk through to find it.
They want the Psalms, but not the lament.
The Gospel, but not the Gethsemane.
Your voice, but not your volume.

And when you speak your truth — when you question, or resist, or go quiet — you quickly learn how uncomfortable your truth makes them. The room changes. The invitations stop. Your name gets quieter in their circles.

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There’s a reason this verse feels so resonant right now. We live in a time of keyboard courage and curated outrage. Everyone wants to be righteous — but only if it aligns with their algorithm.

True righteousness is inconvenient.
It notices things others don’t want to see.
It walks toward injustice, even when it’s subtle or internal.
It does not perform on command.

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There is a sacred power in knowing when not to sing.

Sometimes silence is the only thing left with dignity in it.
Sometimes resistance isn’t shouting — it’s withholding the song.
And sometimes what people call “bitterness” is just what grief sounds like when it’s been ignored too long.

The Verse We All Like to Quote (and Ignore)

Psalm 146:8 isn’t just about “the stranger.” 

It’s about all the hard parts.

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The Lord loves the righteous; the Lord cares for the stranger; He sustains the orphan and the widow, but frustrates the way of the wicked.”

— From Psalm 146

The Reproach I Dread

 When you’ve been punished for doing what’s right, even God’s kindness feels risky.

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Turn away the reproach which I dread, because your judgments are good.

— From Psalm 119

There’s a kind of fear that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it:
The fear of doing right… and getting punished anyway.

The Psalmist calls it “the reproach I dread.” And for those who’ve been there — not once, but again and again — it doesn’t feel like fear, exactly. It feels like expectation. You start bracing for it. You begin to assume that any honest question, any act of integrity, any gentle refusal to go along with something wrong… will come back to bite you.

You’re not paranoid. You’ve just learned how the world often works.

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I once had a manager who, without fail, made me feel that any email from him would contain criticism. All caps. CC’d higher-ups. Cold language. No matter the outcome or results, I was the one he vented toward. At the time, I chalked it up to me being a convenient target — someone who wouldn’t punch back. In hindsight, I see it more clearly: many people resent those who simply walk with peace.

It’s not that they want to destroy you. But your steady presence… convicts them. And instead of letting it soften them, they lash out.

So yes — I dread reproach.
Not because I’m fragile, or avoidant.
But because I’ve learned that doing right doesn’t protect you from being shouted down.

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And this is why the Psalmist adds:

“…because your judgments are good.”

We trust God’s correction because we’ve seen what human judgment looks like.
We trust God’s discipline because we know it’s not laced with ego, or insecurity, or performance management. We trust God's mercy because we’ve been mocked in the absence of it.

When we finally submit ourselves — heart, mind, ego, opinions — to God’s direction, it’s not because He’s scary. It’s because He’s the only one left who isn’t cruel.

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In a culture flooded with sarcasm, snark, and a defensive refusal to admit fault, this verse holds space for the soft-hearted:

“Turn away the reproach I dread.”

Not, “keep me from being challenged.”
Not, “make me always right.”
But simply: “Be different, God. Be kinder than the rest.”

And He is.

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📖 Reflectionary is still on the move… just a little slower than planned.

• Through August 31, posts appeared here on Blogger.

• Starting in September (eventually, hopefully), Reflectionary: The Word and the Real World will also be available on Substack, alongside the deeper narrative project 45 Winters.

• We’re working through a few profile setup kinks — but soon, the two will walk side by side.

Thank you for reading — and for walking this with me. 🌿

When Every Knee Bows

 It won’t be because we’re finally impressed. It’ll be because we’re finally broken.

To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear. - From Isaiah 45

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There’s a line in Isaiah 45 that should shake every person of faith — not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s inevitable:

“To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear.”

That day is coming. But not because the world suddenly becomes spiritual. Not because we finally admit God is majestic, or that Jesus is beautiful, or that the Scriptures are true. No — it’ll happen because everything else has failed. Our politics, our fury, our utopias, our tribal hashtags — all exhausted. And we’ll be out of venom, out of pride, out of answers.

We will bow not in awe, but in surrender.
Because we’ll have nothing left but surrender.

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In September of 2025, Christians are publicly mocking each other over politics. Over Charlie Kirk. Over everything. And no one seems to remember Gethsemane — where Christ, bleeding under the weight of what was coming, prayed for His people to be one.

That was the prayer. Not peace. Not healing. Not plenty. Not power. Not vengeance. Not LIFE.

Unity.

Because Jesus knew: that’s the key.

• Unity would bring justice.

• Unity would bring peace.

• Unity would unleash mercy, rebuild trust, restore dignity.

• Unity is the strategy.

But we didn’t want unity. We wanted to be right.

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The tragedy is that even the “good” people — the ones who believe the Gospel — have become comfortable joining in the pile-ons. And when you ask why? They point fingers.

• “But he’s problematic.”

• “But she’s on the wrong side.”

• “But they’re part of that movement.”

No. They are your brothers and sisters in Christ.
You don’t have to agree. But you do have to love.

What if, instead of another takedown, we said:

“I disagree with him. But you will not speak evil of my brother.”

That’s how the Church heals. That’s how the world sees something different.
That’s how the Kingdom comes.

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Because in the end, every knee will bow.
Some because they are finally willing.
Most because they are finally shattered.

Come, Lord Jesus. Not because we’re ready — but because we are so clearly not.

He Left the Ninety-Nine

The Gospel isn’t about the crowd. It’s about the one.

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Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?
— Luke 15:4

We live in a world that exalts consensus. Crowd-sourcing. Mob opinion. “The right side of history.” Entire ideologies now hinge on the idea that what the majority believes must be what’s right — and that those who wander from the flock are either foolish, dangerous, or expendable.

But Jesus doesn’t speak that way.

In Luke 15, He begins one of the most famous parables in Scripture: a shepherd who leaves ninety-nine sheep to go find the one that wandered off. And He’s not scolding that sheep. He’s searching. Reaching. Rejoicing.

This is the Gospel.

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You can say what you want about the ninety-nine. You can make a case for the efficiency of staying with them. But Jesus doesn’t. He says the real story, the real party, is about the one who wandered — and the love that ran after them.

I think of my Great Aunt Mae, who used to say: “For the truth I’ll stand one to a hill.”
And she did. She lived that truth when the rest of the hill was empty.

I think of my mother, when asked to distance herself from a relative with “strange views.” She simply said, “What if they’re right?”

It wasn’t agreement. It was humility.

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In today’s world, we’ve trained ourselves to fear the one who leaves the fold. We call them “fringe,” “radical,” “conspiratorial,” “cultish.” But the irony is — the most dangerous people in history were almost never alone. They were surrounded by roaring crowds.

The real danger lies not in isolation, but in mobs who’ve stopped listening.

Jesus says heaven throws a party not when the flock stays together, but when the missing one comes home.

That’s why I don’t buy the idea that the one must always return to the ninety-nine.
Sometimes, it’s the ninety-nine who need to be scattered — until they learn how to love like the Shepherd.

Between the Lines

When love is costly, and bridges take time to build

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“Though I am bold enough in Christ to command you…

yet I prefer to appeal to you on the basis of love.”

— From Philemon

Obsessed with the King, Ignored by the Kingdom

Mockery doesn’t change anything — and it never gets you invited to the table.

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Do not put yourself forward in the king’s presence
or stand in the place of the great;
for it is better to be told, "Come up here,"
than to be put lower in the presence of a noble.
— Proverbs 25:6–7

 

There’s a meme circulating that riffs on the Cracker Barrel logo — turning it into a sarcastic jab: “Release the Files.” It’s aimed squarely at “those people” (you know the ones), mocking their obsession with culture war conspiracies and logo outrage.

The irony? The targets of  this meme have been saying "Release the files" for a long time, and were once mocked for their focus on it, by the very people now saying "Release the files." It’s as if both sides are fighting to outdo each other in performative indignation — while pointing fingers across the aisle for being exactly like them.

And that’s the point.
Mockery doesn’t persuade.
Self-righteousness doesn’t heal.
And obsession with opposing the king — the boss, the president, the pastor, the principal — never gets you invited into real influence.

We live in an age where everyone wants the spotlight, the platform, the final word. But Proverbs offers a different posture: Don’t rush forward. Don’t assume greatness. Don’t seize a microphone no one offered you.

Instead, do the work. Help others. Be present. Do well — and do it quietly. And in time, if your voice is worth hearing, you’ll be called forward.

And if not? Maybe the peace of obscurity is the reward you actually needed.

In the shadow of unresolved pain, it’s easy to get addicted to opposition. You define yourself by what (or who) you’re against. You obsess over the one in charge. You replay old arguments in your mind. You spiral in endless commentary.

But healing doesn’t come through conquest. It comes through release.
Release your resentment.
Release your obsession.
Release yourself from needing to be noticed.

Then — without effort or manipulation — you might hear those beautiful, kingdom words:

“Come up here.”

Nightmares Don’t Get the Last Word

 From failing grades to naked shame, trauma sharpened my dreams—until healing dulled the blade

Politics Won’t Feed the Hungry

Isaiah’s Ancient Wisdom: Stop Accusing, Start Serving

“If you remove the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.”
— Isaiah 58:9-10

Isaiah doesn’t mince words. God is not impressed by finger-pointing, name-calling, or endless shouting matches over who is more righteous. He says: Stop it. All of it.

Look at the list:

• Stop judging others.

• Stop calling them names.

• Stop pretending that labeling someone “evil,” “racist,” “cult-like,” “privileged,” or “deplorable” makes you good by comparison.

And instead: feed the hungry, tend to the afflicted, share your resources, use your strength.

The difference is stunning. Finger-pointing multiplies darkness. But helping multiplies light.

I saw this firsthand during a moving project with my daughter and son-in-law. At first, three of us slogged through it—sweating, groaning, making no progress. Add a fourth person, and suddenly it got lighter. Add two more, and it was as though ten people were there. That’s how service works. Your effort becomes more than your own. It’s like God builds a multiplier into generosity.

Gossip, accusation, and politics make the load heavier. But service makes it lighter.

And Isaiah goes further: not only does the community benefit—you yourself are lifted. Your gloom becomes like noonday. The weight you thought you were carrying alone dissolves in the joy of giving.

This is the pattern written all through Scripture. Stop tearing down. Start building up. Stop talking about justice. Start living it.

And when you do? People will notice. Your moral arguments will finally carry weight, not because you shouted louder, but because you lived better.

It really is that simple.

When Justice Backfires

 When Justice Backfires

"He expected justice,
but saw bloodshed;
righteousness,
but heard a cry!"
— From Isaiah 5

The fall of a culture doesn’t begin with its enemies. It begins with its own people, convinced they are fighting for justice, yet blind to the rot beneath their feet.

Every great civilization starts with something magnificent: freedom, innovation, beauty, learning. But generations rarely stop at gratitude. Instead, they begin asking: Why do they have more than I do? Why do they deserve it? “Deserve” becomes the word on everyone’s lips.

Dig into the past, and you will always find faults. No nation ever rose without some mixture of conquest, injustice, or favoritism. The builders were human. And humans are never spotless.

The tragedy is that later generations weaponize these flaws. Instead of building on the strengths they inherited, they nurse resentment, convinced they are owed more. Justice morphs into score-settling. Love collapses into self-interest. Even righteousness gets recast as self-righteousness.

Isaiah’s warning is clear: when people chase “justice” and “righteousness” for selfish ends, they end up with the opposite. Walls fall. Societies unravel. And the cry of despair replaces the song of blessing.

History shows that once this collapse begins, it may take centuries—sometimes half a millennium—to recover.

Isaiah’s vineyard parable is not ancient poetry. It is a mirror. The question is whether we dare to look into it.

The Rich, the Poor, and the Kingdom Come

What Mary Still Teaches Us

He has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.

 - From Luke 1

Home is Not on This Map

Home is Not on This Map

They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth. - From Hebrews 11

If Moses, Aaron, and Samuel Were That Bad . . .

 

If Moses, Aaron, and Samuel Were That Bad . . .

Psalm 99 | Transfiguration Eve

You were a God who forgave them, yet punished them for their evil deeds.

- From Psalm 99

Saved . . . From What?

 Saved from What?

“He redeemed them from the hand of the foe.”

— From Psalm 107:2b

When Israel Was a Child

 When Israel was a child, I loved him.

— From Hosea 11:1

The Most Ignored Verse of All

 The Most Ignored Verse of All

“…whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant,
and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave.”
— From Matthew 20

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This may be the most explained away teaching Jesus ever gave.

Not because it’s unclear.
But because it’s unbearable.

You want to lead? Be everyone’s servant.
You want to be first? Become a slave to all.

There it is—no footnote, no asterisk, no cultural loophole.
But how rarely it’s lived. How often it’s softened, spiritualized, or just skipped.

In a culture of platforms, followers, and branding—Jesus says greatness looks like invisible labor.
Not power. Not prestige. Not success. But serving quietly without expecting credit.

And here's the kicker:

If you do it well, no one will notice.
If you do it purely, you’ll never post about it.
You’ll never demand attention for your “servant leadership.” Because to do so would betray the posture itself.

I was reminded of this recently, while visiting the Sharehouse—a local charity that takes in household donations and redistributes them for the good of those in crisis. I recognized a man unloading heavy furniture out back.

It was Father Brendan—from St. Joseph’s Catholic Church.

No collar. No robes. Just sweat and simplicity.

That’s greatness.

I remember, years ago, touring the Latter-day Saint Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake City. They run one of the most efficient, far-reaching disaster relief operations in the world. Quietly. Unpolitically. Rapidly. After seeing it, President Reagan said the LDS Church should be in charge of federal relief.

That’s greatness.

But we all know what actually happens to people who live like this.

They get overlooked.
They get stepped on.
They don’t climb the ladder.

A pastor once told me, years ago:

“You know why people don’t take you seriously? You don’t look successful.”

Even now, that line rings in my ears—discouraging, wounding, unforgettable.

And yet, how close it comes to what Jesus said we should expect.

If you’re trying to follow Christ—and feel like the world isn’t impressed with you—maybe that’s the point.

Maybe being a servant is not the path to being taken seriously.
Maybe it’s the path to becoming like Christ.

And maybe that's enough.

Do You Still Hope?

 Do You Still Hope?

“…provided that you continue securely established and steadfast in the faith,
without shifting from the hope promised by the gospel that you heard.”
— From Colossians 1

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Much ink has been spilled—centuries of it—on the debate between grace and works.
Are we saved by faith alone? Or must we prove it with our lives?

Paul, writing to the Colossians, offers a quiet test. A subtle but striking marker of a life worthy to be presented before God:

Do you still hope?

Not: Did you once believe?
Not: Are you serving in ministry?
Not: Are you winning arguments, or appearing righteous, or keeping busy with religious activity?

Just this:

Have you remained “steadfast… without shifting from the hope”?

That may be the rarest thing of all.

I was raised in a tradition where hope in Christ’s return wasn’t symbolic. It was real.
We expected it. We talked about it. We looked up.

And while that watchfulness sometimes took on the tone of exclusivity—yes, sometimes even oddness—there was something deeply reverent about it. A simple, unshakable conviction:

I don’t care what people say. Jesus is coming back.

That hope made us peculiar. It also made us grounded.

But it gets harder to hold, doesn’t it? Harder as the years pass. Harder when He keeps not coming back.
Harder when even the faithful begin to say, “I thought He’d come in my lifetime. But maybe it isn’t true.”

A friend once told me he’d lost much of his faith over this very point:

If Jesus didn’t return in the first generation, wasn’t that a kind of lie?

That ache runs deep.

And yet—Paul doesn’t demand certainty. He doesn’t demand productivity. He simply says: Stay rooted. Don’t shift. Don’t lose the hope.

You may have theological tangles. You may have doctrinal scars. You may struggle with unity, with fellowship, with fatigue.

But if you still hope—you’re still anchored.

You still look up. You still whisper, “Come, Lord Jesus.” You still dare to believe there’s a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

And that, Paul says, is what makes you blameless.

So ask yourself today—not Am I winning? or Am I strong? But simply:

Do I still hope?

If so… stay.
Stand.
Look up.

He hasn’t forgotten.

And Does Not Take Back His Word

And Does Not Take Back His Word

“…he has sworn to do no wrong, and does not take back his word.”
— From Psalm 15

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Psalm 15 asks: Who may dwell in the Lord’s tabernacle? Or, who lives close to God—not just in ritual, but in reality?

Verse 4 gives part of the answer:

The one who keeps their word, even when it hurts.
The one who chooses integrity, even when no one notices—or worse, when they do.

That’s harder than it sounds.

In a past role I held, I was asked—ordered, really—to make a hiring decision that went against both my judgment and the stated values of the program I led. It wasn’t a matter of taste or preference. It involved issues of competence, diversity, and legal clarity.

When I raised concerns, I was assured by peers that they had my back. But when the pressure came, they quietly disappeared. They kept their jobs. I lost mine.

Later, even people close to me—trusted voices—said things like:

“You probably should have just done what you were told.”
“I lost confidence in you when you lost your position.”

That’s the world we live in. And it’s why Psalm 15 still matters.

Because doing the right thing won’t always protect you. It won’t always feel heroic. Sometimes, it will look like failure.

But the Psalm doesn’t say: “Those who win shall dwell with God.”
It says: “Those who swear to do no wrong, and do not take it back.”

It says the one who stays true—who doesn’t betray conscience just to survive—shall never be overthrown.

Sometimes the right thing is a lose-lose. Say “yes” and violate your principles. Say “no” and lose your career.

And yet—there is a third path: The path of keeping your word before God, even when everyone else walks away.

Our culture doesn’t honor that anymore.
But The Kingdom of Heaven does.

So if you’ve made the hard call, and lost something for it— A job. A reputation. A friendship. Know this: you are not forgotten.

You may not be trending. But you are known. You may feel isolated. But you are not alone. God sees. And He calls that kind of person—the one who doesn’t take back their word—fit to dwell on His holy hill.

How Long?

HOW LONG?  

How long will you judge unjustly, and show favor to the wicked?

— From Psalm 82

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Psalm 82 begins with a powerful image:
God standing in the council—watching, listening, waiting.

Then comes the interruption:

“How long will you judge unjustly?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not abstract.
It’s a divine call-out—spoken to those in positions of influence, those with voices, those seated at tables where decisions are made.

This isn't just about ancient rulers or long-dead kings. It’s about now.
It's about school boards and leadership teams. Church elders and city councils. Online mobs and family texts.

And it's especially about what happens when someone speaks up—asks a hard question, calls out a contradiction, points to something that just doesn’t feel right.

Because far too often, the first instinct isn’t to listen, but to shut it down.

“Let’s move on.”
“This isn’t the time.”
“That voice doesn’t matter.”

Even in the quietest of rooms, that soft censorship can ring louder than truth.

And when the one speaking is uncredentialed, unpolished, or unfamiliar—a worker, a neighbor, someone on the outside—it becomes all too easy to laugh, dismiss, ignore.

But Scripture doesn’t laugh.
Amos was a farmer. David, a shepherd. Jesus, a carpenter.

The people most often silenced are often the very ones God sends to speak.

“How long will you judge unjustly?”

It’s a question for every leader, every influencer, every voice in power.

Because God still stands in the council.
And He still drops the plumb line.
And He still expects justice—not just in what is decided, but in who is heard.

Do Not Prophesy Here

“You say, ‘Do not prophesy against Israel, and do not preach against the house of Isaac.’ Therefore thus says the Lord…”

— From Amos 7

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There’s a strange kind of arrogance that shows itself not in loud boasts—but in soft censorship.

That’s what Amos faced. He wasn’t tortured. He wasn’t imprisoned. He wasn’t even shouted down. He was simply told:

“Go preach somewhere else.”

That quiet rejection carries the real message:

We don’t want correction here. We’ve already decided we’re right.

And that’s the giveaway.

The moment a culture—whether religious, academic, political, or social—tries to prohibit questioning or prophecy, you can be sure the wall is crooked. The plumb line has been dropped, and it’s not aligning.

Amos wasn’t a priest. He wasn’t a scribe. He was, in his own words, “a herdsman and a dresser of sycamore trees.”
That made him easy to dismiss.

And that’s the point.

We love to silence average people. The unlettered, the blue-collar, the earnest-but-untrained voice in the crowd. Not because they’re wrong—but because it’s easier to laugh than to listen. It’s more comfortable to mock the speaker than to consider the message.

But history shows us: those are the voices that often see the clearest.

Stephen Covey once said even crazy ideas should be welcomed in brainstorming—because creativity lives in the margins. The fresh air comes from the edges, not the echo chambers.

In my own life, I’ve experienced this.
I saw something that didn’t seem right. I asked legitimate questions. I raised concerns.
And for that, I was sidelined, silenced, eventually pushed out.
Not because I lied—but because I noticed.
Not because I was wrong—but because I made someone uncomfortable.
I lost a job. I lost a career. I lost a marriage.

Not because of what I did wrong—
but because others refused to consider they might not be right.

When the powerful resist correction, it’s a red flag. But when they go a step further and block others from even speaking—that’s when it becomes moral collapse. It’s when the wall starts to lean. And eventually, fall.

Leaders—true leaders—should want correction.
They should be asking for it, welcoming it, modeling it.
Because no one is above the plumb line.
Not politicians. Not professors. Not pastors. Not you. Not me.

And when the critics come, don’t be surprised that they don’t look like you. Don’t be shocked when the truth is spoken by someone less educated, less “refined,” less credentialed.

That’s the pattern. That’s the point.

God loves humility.
And He hates it when humility is shut out of the room.

So let the plumb line drop.
Let it speak. Let it straighten what’s leaning.
And let those who stand—really stand—be those who have welcomed correction, not silenced it.

But That Means YOU

But That Means YOU

Convince, Rebuke, Encourage

Convince, Rebuke, Encourage

I solemnly urge you: proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching.
— 2 Timothy 4:2

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These words from Paul to Timothy cut deep into modern discomfort. Convince? Rebuke? Encourage? That’s not exactly “You be you.” It’s not the path of least resistance. In fact, in today’s world, we treat the very idea of rebuke like it’s a moral failure.

But Paul says otherwise.

He tells Timothy: Speak the truth—whether people are ready or not. Persist. Teach with patience. And yes, rebuke. Not to shame, but to awaken. To challenge the silence. To unfreeze what fear has made immobile.

I’ve spent years working to bring music, joy, and meaningful gatherings to my local community. I organize small-venue music shows through a nonprofit I love—sometimes ticketed, often free, always for the good of the community.

And yet, I’ve been silenced.

Not by censors or critics, but by polite, passive discouragement. People close to me—friends, even family—make it subtly clear: Don’t talk about it too much. People might not like concerts. Don’t promote so hard. It makes things awkward.

But here’s the thing:

These are people who do go to concerts.
Who listen to music.
Who enjoy the arts.

So what is it really?

Maybe it’s just the awkwardness of supporting someone you actually know.
Maybe it’s the strange cultural fear of celebrating a friend’s vision.
Maybe it’s that old phrase made real: “A prophet is without honor in his own country.”

But their silence hurts. And over time, it has made me hesitant. I’ve grown self-conscious about my calling. I’ve started promoting my own joy with embarrassment. Even I’ve begun to sound unconvincing.

And that’s heartbreaking.

Paul says: Don’t let that happen.
Don’t let the awkwardness of others muzzle the clarity of your mission.
If they can’t celebrate your passion, share it anyway. If they quietly withdraw, invite them anyway. And if you must—rebuke them.

Not harshly. Not cruelly. But truthfully.

Because when you stop expressing what matters to you—when you let others’ discomfort become your silence—you begin to fracture your own voice. You step onto a path of internal frustration that eventually becomes isolation.

Paul is right.

Convince.
Rebuke.
Encourage.
With patience. With love. But with persistence.

And if sharing the Gospel feels overwhelming—start here.
Practice using your voice for the things that bring you joy.
Practice saying “This matters to me” and letting it land without apology.
You are building your evangelism muscles.

Let them grow strong.

Thou Shalt Not Mock

 Thou Shalt Not Mock

My enemies mock me to my face; All day long they mock me.

— From Psalm 42

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Mocking doesn’t just hurt feelings. It shuts down ideas. It cripples courage. It silences the one voice that might have held the missing answer.

As I work through the long road of healing from two traumas I kept buried for decades, I’ve come to believe that mockery may be one of the most evil forces in human culture. And yet, we rarely name it. We rarely confront it. In fact, we laugh along with it.

Why isn’t there a commandment against mocking? There should be. Sure, Scripture condemns it—the word “raca” from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount is essentially a mocking insult, and He warns sternly against it. “They laughed him to scorn” is a repeated line throughout Scripture, usually directed at those brave enough to speak truth alone, against a crowd.

And that’s the thing. Mocking is a crowd sport. It’s rarely done one-on-one, and never in the context of real conversation. It’s designed not to debate, but to humiliate. It doesn’t spark dialogue—it shuts it down.

And in our time, mockery has become a cultural art form. We build careers on snark. We reward cruelty with followers. We click, repost, and meme the people we should be listening to. A person opens their heart with a vulnerable idea, and a thousand voices pile on to laugh them off the stage.

I've felt that sting. I’ve avoided singing solos in public—not because I couldn’t sing, but because I feared the mockery. I passed on running for office—not because I lacked ideas, but because I dreaded the ridicule. I delayed therapy—not because I didn’t need it, but because I didn’t want to be "that guy."

And now I’m 64, finally realizing how much joy, growth, and healing I’ve deferred… because of mockery. Not violence. Not censorship. Just laughter with a sneer.

We talk a lot about harm these days—about microaggressions, about language, about safety. But if you want to trace real harm, look at the mocking voices that never get checked.

The ones that make kids afraid to ask questions.

The ones that silence good men and women before they ever step up.

The ones that block breakthroughs—because “that idea is just dumb.”

But maybe the dumb idea was the brilliant one. Maybe the person you just laughed off had something to say. Maybe Stephen Covey was right: the culture of mockery had to go. And then he died. And it got worse.

What’s the worst thing David’s enemies did to him? It wasn’t the ambush. It wasn’t the exile. It wasn’t the price on his head.

It was the mocking.

“All day long they mock me.”

That’s the line that made it into the Psalm.

If you want to make the world better—shut down mockery. Call it out. Refuse to laugh at it. Stop treating the bigmouths like heroes.

Because every time we reward mockery, we lose a little more courage, a little more joy, and maybe—just maybe—the next big idea that would have saved someone’s life.

We Have Not Come Very Far

We  Have Not Come Very Far

Then Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, ‘So may the gods do to me, and more also, if I do not make your life like the life of one of them by this time tomorrow.’ Then he was afraid; he got up and fled for his life...

— From 1 Kings 19

Like Sheep Among Wolves

 Like Sheep Among Wolves

“I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves.”
— From Matthew 10

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There’s a lot of talk these days about being on the “right side.”
The right side of democracy. The right side of science. The right side of history.
Even the right hashtags, pronouns, causes, or candidates.

And maybe some of it matters. But a lot of it—if we’re honest—is just noise. A scramble to appear righteous, or at least relevant. We’ve created a culture of posturing, branding, and signaling, even when no one’s asking. We want to be noticed. Approved. Safe.

But Jesus says something very different to His followers.

He says: “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves.”

Not influencers. Not strategists. Not soldiers or CEOs.
Sheep. Among wolves.

That’s not a message that gets you followers—or hired. It won’t win a campaign. It won’t pad your 401(k). And yet, it’s one of the clearest pictures Jesus gives of what it means to follow Him. You're not going to be the favorite. You're not going to win every argument. You’re going to be vulnerable. Exposed. Honest.

When I finished my B.A., I thought I had a good plan—an MBA at a Christian university, no less. It felt like the right side of everything: practical, spiritual, respectable. But when my dad asked what I really wanted to do, I said, “Maybe Marketing. Maybe Sales.” He paused. Gently, he said, “Sales can be hard for a Christian. People stretch the truth. Wine and dine. Say things that aren’t really so.”

He was right.

I found it hard to play the game. I couldn’t recommend a product I didn’t believe in. I hated the performative dinners and false charm. But what shook me more was discovering how deep the compromise ran—not just in business, but in churches, in politics, even in schools. Even in myself.

No profession, no institution, no person is entirely clean.
We bend. We look away. We protect what we’ve built. We call it “good enough.”

So yes, we really are sheep among wolves. And the wolves aren’t just out there. Sometimes they’re in the mirror.

But here’s the strange grace of it all:

It’s because the world is so full of wolves that we must be sheep.
Gentle. Steady. Joyful.
Not naïve, but not hard-hearted either.

If we can walk through this culture—this economy, this noise, this maze—with kindness and clarity and a refusal to wound others just to win, then maybe we become the rare kind of person Jesus was talking about. Someone whose integrity doesn’t need to shout. Someone who lives with a strange peace.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who reminds the wolves what light looks like.

They’re Just Drunk

They're Just Drunk

We Will Come and Make Our Home

 

Sunday, May 25, 2025

"We Will Come and Make Our Home"

“If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.”
— Acts 16:15

“Let the nations be glad and sing for joy,
for you judge the peoples with equity
and guide all the nations upon earth.”
— Psalm 67:4

“But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it.”
— Revelation 22:3

“Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them,
and we will come to them and make our home with them.”
— John 14:23

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When I was a child, having company was as normal as the sunrise.

People—family, friends, neighbors—would drop in without calling. If they needed a place to sleep, we made room. Nobody asked for permission, because it didn’t need asking. And it went both ways. I spent nights in cousins' homes, on couches, in basements, in guest rooms made ready by love. The table was always stretchable. The welcome was never questioned.

That’s how I learned what home meant.

And now these verses from the Lectionary come together to remind me: that’s what God wants too.

When Lydia said, “Come stay at my home,” it wasn’t just an offer—it was a sign that her heart had made space for others, the same way God had made space for her.

Jesus says that when we love Him and keep His word, He and the Father will come and make their home with us. That line hits me hard today. God doesn’t just want to visit. He wants to live with us. Permanently. In our presence. With all of us under one roof.

Revelation points to a future where this promise is fully visible: a city where God lives among His people. No temple needed, because the Lamb is the light. No barriers, because love holds the gate open. No scarcity, because all belong.

But Psalm 67 whispers the part we sometimes overlook: equity.
That home, that table, that throne—it’s not just for the ones who look like us, vote like us, worship like us. It’s for every nation. It’s for the ones we've misunderstood. The ones we’ve judged. The ones we’ve failed to invite.

Equity means this: we all get the same welcome.
And we all learn to see each other not as projects, not as threats, but as perfectly beautiful—because Christ is in them.

I’ll admit, we have a long way to go. I do. The Church does. Society surely does. But I’m learning to measure holiness not by who has the right answers, but by who makes room. Who says, “Come stay at my home.” Who lives like eternity has already started.

Because maybe it has.

The Church Needs the Rest of the Church

The Church Needs the Rest of the Church

Start With the Word

Start with the Word

“Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it...”
— Jonah 1:2

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,
O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.”
— Psalm 19:14

“I pray that you may have the power to comprehend...”
— Ephesians 3:18

“If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples;
and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”
— John 8:31-32

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My walk of faith has unfolded in phases, each with its own beginning. The middle years of my life—especially the 1980s—were marked by a strong, outward commitment to Christ. I attended camps, wrote for Christian publications, and kept close to church life. I longed to be a bold disciple.

But I tried too hard to straddle two worlds.

In college and early adulthood, especially in the corporate world, I projected a pious front: I avoided alcohol (mostly), watched my language (in select company), and practiced strict abstinence. But underneath, I was masking a deeper struggle—using the trappings of faith to shield a fragile core. I had few close friendships, and often “ghosted” friends and dating partners, convincing myself I was standing on principle rather than grappling with fear.

I wasn't much of an evangelist, truth be told. I didn’t persuade others by word or deed. Looking back, I see that my journey was less about "leading others" and more about surviving my own internal storms.

Every true faith journey begins with crisis. Mine came in the spring of 1980. I’m telling that story in a separate project called Forty-Five Winters—a personal account of trauma, faith, and healing, four and a half decades in the making.

By that summer, at a point of deep fear and vulnerability, God met me. Not through thunder or spectacle, but through His Word—simple, piercing, alive. Scripture found me, carried by the voices of men and women placed in my path. Old writings, sacred texts, and ancient wisdom took root.

And that’s the thread tying today’s readings together:

Start with the Word.

That summer lit a fire in me—not just for common interpretations of Scripture, but for the wide landscape of insight it can offer. I began to see that we all bring a distinct lens to God’s unchanging truth. His Word doesn’t shift, but our view of it does. That realization made me curious. It made me open. It taught me to listen to those the Church often excludes. It broke down barriers. And in breaking, it showed me wonder.

It also brought isolation—but that’s a different story.

The point is this:

Start with the Word.

Then let it shape your world.