TEN YEARS GONE - Holy, Set Apart

     What I Believed About Holiness Before I Understood Grief

(Originally published November 27, 2015 | lightly edited)

Ten years ago, I was still close enough to loss to speak with urgency.

Fresh grief sharpens moral language. It doesn’t always soften it — but it does make it honest.

---

“But as for cowards, the faithless, the corrupt, murderers, the sexually immoral, idolaters, and all liars, their place will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”
— Revelation 21:8

The closing chapters of Scripture do not argue. They summarize. They do not negotiate. They describe what belongs in eternity — and what cannot survive it.

What has always struck me is that the dividing line is not intelligence, doctrine, or even religious fluency. It is holiness — not as moral exhibitionism, but as a life set apart from self-destruction.

Cowardice is not holy.
Unfaithfulness fractures trust.
Dirty-mindedness corrodes the inner life.
Lies eventually isolate the liar.

These are not arbitrary rules. They are descriptions of what leads to tears.

Revelation places the wiping away of tears right alongside the call to holiness — and that pairing is no accident. So much of our suffering is delayed consequence. We grasp for comfort now and grieve later. We break bonds and are surprised by the pain. We tell ourselves a lie and wonder why the world feels unreal.

Holiness, joy, and peace are not opposites. They are aligned.

Ten years ago, I wrote with conviction because I believed — and still believe — that God’s warnings are acts of mercy. They are not meant to shame us, but to spare us from becoming people who can no longer receive joy.

Time has not made that conviction smaller.
It has made it more compassionate.

Ten Years Gone: Letting the Bible Speak

Letting the Bible Speak

First Published Friday, November 27, 2015

Handing It On

Why showing up second completes the circle of grace

---

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?

---

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.”

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

📖 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. 🌿