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