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.