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