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I cannot choose to fall asleep, I cannot just shutdown like C-3PO in the very first Star Wars movie does. The best I can do is choose to put myself in a posture and rhythm that welcomes sleep. “I lie down in bed, on my left side, with my knees drawn up; I close my eyes and breath slowly, putting my plans out of my mind. But the power of my will and conscience stops there, I want to go to sleep, and I’ve chosen to climb into bed—but in another sense sleep is not something under my control or at my beckoned call. I call up the visitation of sleep by imitating the breathing and posture of the sleeper…There is a moment when sleep comes, settling on this imitation of itself which I have been offering to it, and I succeed in what I am trying to be. Sleep is a gift to be received, not a decision to be made. However, it is a gift that requires a posture of reception—a kind of active welcome. What if being filled with the Spirit had the same dynamic? What if Christian practices are what Craig Dykstra calls “habitations of the Spirit” precisely because they posture us to be filled and sanctified? What if we need to first adopt a bodily posture in order to become what we are trying to be?

In the dim glow of a sanctuary, where candlelight dances like a sacred pulse, we position ourselves to receive the Holy Spirit, our bodies poised in worship. This act of surrender mirrors what Maurice Merleau-Ponty calls “catching sleep,” where the body—sinking into the cradle of a soft bed, eyelids heavy as twilight, breath slowing like a tide—yields to the pull of dreams. In religious practice, I think we may also “catch” the Holy Spirit through the physicality of our postures and, profoundly, through the tangible elements of the Last Supper—bread and wine—whose textures and tastes anchor us in divine communion.

Picture the Last Supper: a table strewn with coarse, crusty bread, its earthy scent rising like a prayer, and a clay cup of wine, dark and shimmering, catching the flicker of oil lamps. Jesus, breaking the loaf with calloused hands, offers it to his disciples, their fingers brushing crumbs, their lips tasting the wine’s tart warmth. These elements are not mere symbols; they are the body’s intimate encounter with the sacred, as vital as the postures of worship—kneeling with a bowed head, arms raised like branches to the heavens, or sitting in stillness, spine straight as a pillar of faith. Merleau-Ponty’s lived body comes alive here: the act of eating and drinking in communion is a tactile, sensory dialogue with the divine, grounding the spirit in flesh.

When we partake in the Eucharist, we echo this scene. The bread, rough against the tongue, crumbles like the weight of our humanity; the wine, sharp and warm, flows like grace through the throat. These sensations—chewing, swallowing, savoring—mirror the surrender of “catching sleep,” where the body yields to a rhythm beyond conscious control. In worship, as we kneel on worn pews, the scent of incense curling like sacred breath, or stand with hands outstretched, trembling as if touching eternity, we prepare to “catch” the Holy Spirit. The bread and wine become conduits, their physicality dissolving the boundary between self and divine, like mist rising from a dawn-soaked valley.

In this embodied feast, the Spirit descends—not as an abstract force but as a presence felt in the grit of bread, the sting of wine, the ache of knees on stone. Our bodies, like those of the disciples, become vessels of grace, as natural as slipping into dreams. So, when you take the bread and sip the wine, feel their weight, their taste, their truth. Your body is not just present but alive in this sacred act, “catching the Holy Spirit” like a leaf catches the wind, woven into the divine tapestry of the Last Supper’s eternal meal.

My wife and I saw the latest film in the Mission: Impossible franchise in a special early screening over a week ago, it came out this memorial weekend. Mission: Impossible—The Final Reckoning was very entertaining, a wild ride, and is filled with incredible (even terrifying) stunts that as we know, he has always done himself. It also has astounding cinematography. Tom Cruise succeeds once again in his iconic role. As a “summer blockbuster,” the movie deserves its accolades. What seems an “Impossible Mission” is carried out.

However, I am thinking today about a scene near the end of the film that captures the essence of the franchise’s message. Don’t worry, I won’t give away the plot by quoting these lines:

Like it or not, we are masters of our fate. Nothing is written. And our cause, however righteous, pales in comparison to the impact of our effect. Any hope for a better future comes from willing that future into being. A future reflecting the measure of good within ourselves.

And all that is good inside us is measured by the good we do for others. We all share the same fate—the same future. The sum of our infinite choices. One such future is built on kindness, trust, and mutual understanding, should we choose to accept it. Driving without question towards a light we cannot see. Not just for those we hold close but for those we’ll never meet.

As anyone who has not been living under a rock for the last 50yrs would know, Tom Cruise is Scientologist. Scientology, founded by L. Ron Hubbard, is a belief system that emphasizes the potential of the individual as a spiritual being (a “thetan”) with inherent abilities to achieve self-actualization and influence reality through intention and action. Key concepts include personal responsibility for one’s condition, the pursuit of spiritual freedom, and the idea that individuals can shape their destinies by overcoming negative influences (engrams) and achieving higher states of awareness.

As with many public figures in entertainment, sports, and politics; what they personally believe rarely effects how much enjoyment I get from their craft. I can, and sometimes will force myself, to remove the personal belief systems from the craft or performance of their duties. I have grown up with Tom Cruise, he is the same age as me, and I have gone to his movies and enjoyed them from “Endless Love and Taps” in 1981 to this last “Mission Impossible” here now in 2025. That is over 4 decades! I will continue to go to his movies, and most probably enjoy them in the future as well. I must point out, the quote strongly reflects Scientology’s core tenets: individual agency, the power to shape reality through intention, and the importance of actions for collective survival. It portrays Ethan Hunt (and without much stretching, by extension, Tom Cruise) as a quasi-messianic figure who embodies the unlimited potential of a thetan, striving to save the world through sheer will and ethical action. This aligns pretty much line-for-line with Scientology’s view of humans as capable of godlike agency, unbound by external determinism.

In contrast, biblical theology subordinate’s human agency to God’s sovereignty. While it acknowledges free will and the importance of good deeds, it emphasizes that human efforts are meaningful only within the context of God’s grace and plan. How God’s plan works within our free will is logically incoherent and unexplainable and has been for 4000yrs of Judaism and Christianity. However, a God that is totally explainable by a human, would not be a God, and I believe Him and trust him.

The quote’s rejection of a “written” fate and its focus on human-driven futures clash with the Bible’s assertion of divine providence and eternal judgment, and…God’s plan. However, both frameworks share a concern for altruistic action and collective well-being, though Scientology grounds this in human potential, while the Bible roots it in God’s omnipotent power, divine love, and redemption.

The quote encapsulates Scientology’s optimistic view of human potential and self-determinism, resonating with Tom Cruise’s public image as a relentless, self-made action hero. It aligns with Scientology’s teachings on creating one’s destiny and contributing to humanity’s survival. Conversely, biblical theology challenges the quote’s human-centric focus, emphasizing God’s sovereignty, the necessity of faith, and the ultimate accountability to divine will. The juxtaposition reveals a fundamental tension: Scientology exalts the individual’s power to shape reality, while the Bible exalts God’s authority, with human actions serving as a response to divine grace. This contrast highlights the philosophical divide between Scientology’s self-reliant humanism and the Bible’s theocentric worldview.

But this is Memorial Day weekend. And in this quote, we also find the essence of America’s highest ethos: character is measured by service to others. This ethos is worthy of reflection on this solemn day.

On Memorial Day, our nation rightly remembers and honors the more than 1.1 million Americans who have died in military service to our nation. Each gave what Abraham Lincoln called “the last full measure of devotion” to our country.

If you know someone who died in war or their grieving family and friends, this day is deeply personal for you. If you do not, it is about our fallen heroes across our history and the cause for which they sacrificed their lives. Another good reason to enjoy the new Mission Impossible.

However, what is that cause?

The British writer G. K. Chesterton noted: “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” I can testify that this was the case for my relatives, who fought the Japanese in World War II, and who fought the Germans in World War I.

To my knowledge, none knew any Japanese or German soldiers personally. While Pearl Harbor had grieved my father, the deaths of 2,400 Americans he did not know on an island he had never visited were not personal for him either. Germany’s submarine warfare, which led America into World War I, had no effect on my grandfather as he worked in his job in NYC.

My relatives chose to risk their lives in service to their country, not because they hated the enemy, but because they loved America. They fought for freedom for their loved ones and for the democracy that ensured their freedom.

However, Chesterton’s statement applies not just to the cause “behind” our military heroes but to the heroes at their sides as well. Through bonds forged in the fires of conflict, many become what Stephen Ambrose called a “band of brothers” which was made into the incredible movie “Saving Private Ryan” and the series “Band of Brothers.”

And so, more than a million Americans died for the cause of freedom—in the words of the movie script, “not just for those we hold close but for those we’ll never meet.”

The psalmist declared, “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lᴏʀᴅ” (Psalm 33:12). Then he explained:

The king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a false hope for salvation, and by its great might it cannot rescue. Behold, the eye of the Lᴏʀᴅ is on those who fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love, that he may deliver their soul from death (vv. 16–19).

Here we find the biblical counter to the Mission Impossible declaration that “we are masters of our fate” and its claim that “any hope for a better future comes from willing that future into being.”

Consider America’s founding declaration that “all men are created equal.” We have enshrined this principle in our laws and defended it with our blood, but for all our efforts, we fall short of its ideals in practice. This is because humans are fallen creatures who cannot change their future simply by “willing that future into being.”

Rather, we need the “steadfast love” of a God who alone can deliver our “soul from death” and remake us into our best selves (2 Corinthians 5:17). We need the forgiveness for sin he alone can give (1 John 2:12), this is the character his Spirit alone can impart (Galatians 5:22–23), the selfless love for others his love for us inspires and empowers (John 13:34–35).

Our military heroes died for—the cause of freedom for those we “hold close” and “those we’ll never meet.” To do this, they payed the ultimate price, “the last full measure” to share the highest freedom—the spiritual freedom found in the liberating grace of Christ (Romans 6:6–18)— we should try to emulate this through our words, witness, and service.

Let’s measure success by the degree to which we extend the eternal “light we cannot see” to those we can.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. famously noted, “If a man hasn’t found something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.”

The question then is this…What would I die for? what would you die for? Will you be “fit to live” today?

“They who for their country die shall fill an honored grave, for glory lights the soldier’s tomb, and beauty weeps the brave.” —Joseph Rodman Drake

Over the past couple of mornings, as I sipped my coffee and dove into my daily readings, I have been hit by three profound truths that God brought together for me. The grandeur of the cosmos, the peculiarity of human creation, and the intimate, indwelling presence of the God who crafted it all. I will try to unpack and then bring together these thoughts using some of what I have been reading. Sometimes God imbeds his messages in remarkably different things, in fact, I believe he is speaking to us through everything we see and hear. We just are so self absorbed that we rarely take the time to stop and think, “where is he in this.” In this case, I will attempt to show that God is spanning the eerie “uncanny valley” of near-human creations, the mind-boggling scale of the universe, and the biblical promise of Christ’s Spirit within us—and these all point to one resounding truth: God’s creative power is as vast as the stars and as particular as the curve of your smile. And in that, we find both our uniqueness and our connection to the divine.
Let’s start with the “uncanny valley,” a strange psychological phenomenon where things like robots or computer-generated characters look almost human but end up creeping us out. This phenomenon is described as, the closer Google or anyone else gets to mimicking a human—say, with a lifelike doll or a 3D-animated face—the more we recoil when it’s not quite right. It’s like our souls know there’s something sacred, something inimitable, about being human. No algorithm, no matter how clever, can capture the spark God breathed into us. The uncanny valley reminds us that humanity isn’t just a blueprint of flesh and bone—it’s a divine signature, a one-of-a-kind masterpiece that no tech can replicate. You, yes you, are a singular creation, woven with intention by a God who doesn’t do cookie-cutter.
Now, zoom out—way out. Brian Cox is a brilliant physicist with a knack for making the universe feel both awe-inspiring and humbling, he laid out some staggering facts about the cosmos. Picture this: a million Earths could fit inside our Sun, which is, frankly, a puny star in the grand scheme. It would take a passenger jet 1 year to fly around our sun, nonstop! Our Milky Way galaxy? It is home to 200 to 400 billion suns and stretches 100,000 light years across. (For perspective, a single light year is 5.88 trillion miles—wrap your head around that.) The Andromeda galaxy, our closest neighbor, is 2.5 million light years away, and the James Webb Space Telescope catches light that’s been traveling for over 13 billion years. The universe might even be infinite, Cox says, a scale so vast it’s beyond comprehension. When we ponder our place in this cosmic sprawl, it’s easy to feel like a speck, insignificant in the face of such immensity.
But here’s where it gets beautiful—beyond beautiful, even. The God who spun those billions of stars, who set the boundaries of an infinite universe, doesn’t just rule from a distant throne. He is personal. He is here. The Bible tells us that Jesus, through whom “all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible” (Colossians 1:16), didn’t just make the galaxies and call it a day. He became one of us—a fetus in a womb, a baby in a manger—and now lives in us through His Spirit (staggering). You and I, frail as we are, are “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4). The Creator of a universe so big it makes our minds reel has chosen to dwell in you. Let that sink in. The One who holds the cosmos together (Colossians 1:17) is the same One who strengthens you to face your fears, your doubts, your everyday battles.
This truth flips the script on our smallness. We are tiny in the grand scale of things, but we are not insignificant. God’s sovereignty over the universe—His ability to craft a trillion stars and still know every “hair on your head and every hop of a little bird”—means He is big enough to handle anything you’re facing. And His creative power, the same force that sculpted nebulae and galaxies, is at work in you, making you uniquely you. No one else has your laugh, your quirks, your story. The “uncanny valley” shows us that even the best human imitations fall short because they lack God’s divine touch. You, though? You are authentic, a living canvas of His artistry.
What does this mean for us today? It means we can face our fears with courage, knowing the God of the universe is with us. As Isaiah 41:10 declares, “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God.” It means we can live with liberty, not bondage, as Hudson Taylor so beautifully put it, finding “a restful sense of sufficiency in Another.” And it means we can embrace our uniqueness, knowing that the same God who made the stars made us to shine in our own way, reflecting His beauty and creativity.
Next time you feel small under the weight of the cosmos or find yourself in “the uncanny valley” by the world’s attempts to mimic God’s handiwork, remember this: You are a singular creation, indwelt by the Spirit of the One who spoke the universe into being. That’s not just beautiful—it is miraculous. So go out today, trust in His strength, and let your unique light shine. After all, the God who made a million Earths fit in the Sun made you to be gloriously, wonderfully, incomparably you.

In an era overflowing with information and indulgence, Generation Z is confronting a profound sense of emptiness. The internet grants access to nearly all human knowledge, yet many young people feel adrift, chasing self-centered pursuits that echo the futile search for meaning described in the Book of Ecclesiastes. I have included a picture of a painting by Mark Rothko that sold for $37.8 million the other day, and as I looked at it and thought about one of the main reasons for this existential field of art I thought about the selfishness of it. Our current cultural vacuousness, is also mirrored in the narcissistic allure of existentialist art by Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, and Francis Bacon, and really reflects a society obsessed with self-definition and self focus. These artists’ abstract or chaotic works invite viewers to project personal meaning onto what often feels like “nothing,” and that of course is the point of it, this art is embodying the existentialist mantra that individuals create their own purpose, from themselves and for themselves. In the nothingness of these paintings, we project ourselves as the meaning. Yet, as Ecclesiastes warns, such pursuits are “vanity” without God. A growing number of Gen Zers are rejecting this hollow path, turning to the Bible and a Christ-like life of giving and loving others, as illustrated by certain mother’s transformative journey from bitterness to forgiveness that I will also connect to this idea.

But first—Augustine’s insight that evil is a corruption of good resonates deeply in our self-focused age. Like Anakin Skywalker’s descent into Darth Vader, the potential for greatness can twist into darkness when it strays from its intended path. Words for “wrong” across languages—deviance, perversity, corruption—evoke something good gone astray. Our culture often distorts reality to suit personal desires, as Isaiah warned: “Woe to those who call good evil and evil good” (Isaiah 5:20). Shakespeare’s Macbeth, unable to cleanse his guilt, wished to stain the world to match his shame, a metaphor for a society reshaping morality to fit individual egos. Augustine, quoting Jesus, notes that evil flows from a heart turned inward (Matthew 15:19). The path out of this isolation is to reject the self-centered shroud and embrace a life of love and connection, as God designed.

This struggle with brokenness and the journey to redemption is profoundly and always deeply personal, as seen in the story of a mother shaped by a painful past. Born to Russian and Swedish refugee parents who fled hardship, she grew up in a world of scarcity and suspicion. Their trauma fostered a deep distrust of others, which she internalized and passed on to her son, teaching him to see ulterior motives in all “outsiders.” Her bitterness, rooted in her parents’ struggles and her own hurts, made her love fierce but guarded, often expressed through skepticism of others rather than warmth. Her son, influenced by this worldview, struggled with the same skepticism.

As her health declined, her son prayed for her to find peace. During a 2016 visit, she unexpectedly asked, “How can you be sure you’re going to heaven?” Stunned, he shared what she already new and had actually taught him many years ago, the gospel, knowing she had trusted Christ but regretted not living it fully. Her next question— “What if you trusted Christ but haven’t lived it?”—revealed her longing for a life aligned with God’s purpose. He explained that she remained God’s child but had likely missed the joy and blessings of walking closely with other brothers and sisters in Christ. Though he hesitated to confront her deep-seated bitterness, God was already working.

In her final days, she asked to see a picture of his family, and though she had lost the ability to speak at this time, she expressed love openly by lovingly hugging the picture, and apologized to her son with her eyes for any hurt caused—a breakthrough in a family relationship where love was rarely voiced. Most remarkably, when her granddaughter asked about a woman she had not really know, the son replied, “Oh honey, I wish you had known her, she loved you so much. This act of reconciliation and forgiveness, released decades of pain from her parents’ hardships and others’ betrayals, embodied Ephesians 4:32: “Be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.” By living her final days loving and giving as Christ did, she passed unencumbered into God’s presence, showing that true meaning comes from serving others, not clinging to self hurt.

The Book of Ecclesiastes captures the futility of seeking meaning in the self, a theme mirrored in the works of existentialist artists like Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, and Francis Bacon. In Ecclesiastes, the Teacher declares, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2), reflecting on the emptiness of pursuing wealth, pleasure, and self-defined purpose apart from God. He laments that “all was vanity and a chasing after wind” (Ecclesiastes 2:11), as his efforts to find meaning through wisdom, indulgence, and achievement left him unfulfilled. This echoes the narcissistic allure of existentialist art. Rothko’s abstract paintings, like the one sold for $37.8 million, invite viewers to project their emotions onto a seemingly empty canvas. Pollock’s chaotic drip paintings, such as No. 5, 1948, reflect a frenetic search for meaning through self-expression. Bacon’s distorted figures, like those in Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, confront the anguish of the human condition, forcing viewers to grapple with their own despair. These works, celebrated for their ambiguity, turn “nothing” into something by centering the viewer’s ego, aligning with Jean-Paul Sartre’s claim that “man is nothing other than what he makes of himself.”

Yet, Ecclesiastes reveals the hollowness of this approach. The Teacher concludes that true meaning comes from fearing God and keeping His commandments (Ecclesiastes 12:13), not from chasing self-defined purpose. Today’s culture of social media, personal branding, and curated identities amplifies this “vanity,” leaving many in Gen Z feeling like untethered astronauts, battling chronic stress and isolation. Happiness research confirms that true flourishing comes from relationships, not self-absorption. Warren Buffett, living in his modest 1958 Omaha home and valuing his marriage above all, embodies this truth. Gen Z is responding, opting out of the rat race, prioritizing family over career, and seeking community in smaller towns.

While existentialist art and Ecclesiastes’ early chapters reflect the bleakness of a self-centered world, the Bible offers a vibrant alternative. Unlike the ambiguous voids of Rothko, Pollock, or Bacon, Scripture paints a clear picture of meaning through metaphors of light, redemption, and sacrifice and the end of all things culminating in eternity with God, the God who loves more than we can understand. It calls us to live as Christ did—giving ourselves for others. Jesus’ life of service, culminating in His sacrifice on the cross, shows that true purpose lies in loving and serving those around us. As Dwight L. Moody said, “The Bible was not given for our information but for our transformation.” This transformation requires confessing sin, drawing near to God, and living as “the light of the world” (Matthew 5:14).

What is so exciting, is…Gen Z is embracing this path. Unbelievable in a few short years ago, Newsweek and Vox report a rise in religiosity, with revivals on college campuses and more young people reading the Bible. The counter culture professors that emerged from the 60’s and 70’s are aging out. Even in secular Silicon Valley, spiritual awakenings are emerging. Abby Laub, from Asbury University’s 2023 revival, notes that Gen Z is “desperate for something other than what the world is giving them” which turns out to be simple a self absorbing of the brokenness of a culture marked by sexual liberation, pornography, and fractured families has exposed the lie of self-defined meaning. In contrast, Christianity offers a life of giving—forgiving as Christ forgave, loving as He loved, and serving as He served.

Existentialist art, with its focus on the self, underscores the futility of a narcissistic cultural lifestyle, where “nothing” is celebrated as something by centering the individual self. Ecclesiastes warns that such pursuits are “vanity,” a chasing after wind. The mother’s journey from bitterness to forgiveness and love reveals a better way—living for others, as Christ did. Her transformation, releasing the pain of her refugee parents’ legacy and her own distrust, shows that meaning comes from giving, not grasping. The Bible, unlike the vague canvases of existentialist art, paints a vivid picture of hope, calling us to embody Christ’s selflessness.

As Christians, we must lead by example, living out Ephesians 5:18’s call to holistic holiness and shining as lights in a dark world. The darker the room, the more compelling our light becomes. A church sign’s message rings true: “If Jesus did it for me, He’ll do it for you.” By living for others, we offer Gen Z—and all who seek meaning—a path out of the vanity of narcissism and into the abundant life Christ promises, fulfilling the Teacher’s wisdom to “fear God and keep his commandments” (Ecclesiastes 12:13).

Dear friends, if you know me, you know I’m a guy who loves Jesus, appreciates a good meal, and finds joy in the daily grind. Today’s devotion hit me deeply, and I want to share it with you—especially my Christian brothers and sisters who, like me, are striving to hear the voice of our Good Shepherd (John 10:27). To my non-Christian friends, you may not follow the same Shepherd, and that’s okay—you’re not adversaries but a precious mission field we’re called to love through our lives and example. I’m not here to judge or divide, but to reflect on God’s truth with humility, hoping it resonates with us all.

I’ll be honest: I get hungry well before dinner. By 3 p.m., my stomach’s rumbling, and I’m tempted to grab a quick snack to tide me over. The problem? That snack often dulls my appetite for the wholesome meal I really need. As Christians, we face a similar spiritual challenge. Certain habits, places, or even people can dim our hunger for God’s truth. They’re like spiritual junk food—tempting but leaving us less eager for our Shepherd’s voice. As C.S. Lewis wisely said, “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us.”

Yet, there are those whose faith inspires us. They don’t flaunt their godliness; they live it quietly, pointing us toward Jesus. Their example stirs our desire to follow Him more closely. That’s what Paul meant in Philippians 1:9: “I pray that your love will overflow more and more, and that you will keep on growing in knowledge and understanding” (NLT). For us sheep, there’s no standing still. No matter how much we love, we can love more. No matter how much we pray, we can pray deeper. No matter how much we know, there’s always more to learn about our Shepherd’s call.

Jesus put it this way: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled” (Matthew 5:6 NIV). That hunger drives us toward Christlikeness. Settling for “good enough” is risky for us Christians. As Jesus taught, “Unless you… become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 18:3 NLT). He’s calling us to a childlike faith—always growing, always listening. Augustine captured it beautifully: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.”

Caroline Myss’s words from today’s devotion struck a chord: “Choose to get up every single day and bless your day. And you say I have no idea what’s going to be in my day but it is blessed, why? Because I am alive. And don’t base your gratitude for your life on what you have but just because you are. And then hold in your heart this: This day of my life will never come again. I will never see the people I am looking at again. I will never see this sunrise again and I will never see that sunset. I will never see the person having breakfast with me again. Just this way. You know, nothing in my life like this will ever come again. That alone, that choice alone should take out of your heart every bitter taste there is. That it should shape the life around you with such grace and such beauty. That will make you only want to see the present with great gratitude.” This perspective fills me with awe, urging me to live intentionally as Christ’s sheep. Who’s in your circle? Are they helping you hear the Shepherd’s voice or drowning it out with the world’s noise?

Today’s News: What Affects Us All, and What’s Just Passing By

Let’s take a moment to look at today’s news, which, as always, falls into categories—some stories impact everyone, while others are more distant. Here’s a closer look at three headlines from today, May 12, 2025:

1.     US and China Agree to Slash Tariffs Temporarily: After tense talks in Geneva, the US and China have agreed to a 90-day reduction in tariffs, with the US dropping its levy on Chinese imports from 145% to 30%, and China reducing its tariff on US goods from 125% to 10%. This follows a trade war that disrupted nearly $600 billion in bilateral trade, rattled markets, and raised fears of a global recession. The deal aims to ease supply chain disruptions and curb inflation, with stocks surging worldwide on the news.

2.     Soviet Spacecraft Kosmos 482 Crashes into Indian Ocean: After 53 years in orbit, the failed Soviet Venus probe Kosmos 482 crashed into the Indian Ocean west of Jakarta on May 10, 2025, at 2:24 a.m. EDT. Launched in 1972, the spacecraft was stranded in Earth’s orbit due to a rocket malfunction. Designed to withstand Venus’s harsh atmosphere, it likely survived reentry intact but caused no reported damage or injuries. Experts note the low risk of such events, with oceans covering 71% of Earth’s surface.

3.     Supercomputer Predicts Life on Earth Ends in a Billion Years: A supercomputer model has forecast that life on Earth will cease around the year 1,000,002,021 due to increasing solar radiation and atmospheric changes. This prediction, based on climate and astrophysical simulations, suggests Earth’s biosphere will collapse long before the sun becomes a red giant. Unless you’re planning to be around in a billion years, this is more of a scientific curiosity than an immediate concern.

What Affects Us All, and What Doesn’t

These stories illustrate two types of news: those that touch everyone and those that only matter to a few. The tariff deal between the US and China is a big one—it affects us all. Trade between these economic giants drives global markets, impacting prices for everything from electronics to groceries. Lower tariffs could ease inflation, stabilize supply chains, and boost jobs, but the temporary nature of the deal means uncertainty lingers. As Christians, we’re called to pray for wisdom for our leaders (1 Timothy 2:1-2) and to steward our resources well, trusting God’s provision in economic ups and downs.

The Kosmos 482 crash, on the other hand, is a non-event for most of us. It landed harmlessly in the Indian Ocean, far from anyone’s home. Unless you’re a space enthusiast or live near the crash site (which no one does), it’s a footnote. Similarly, the supercomputer’s billion-year prediction is fascinating but irrelevant to our daily lives. It’s a reminder of Earth’s temporality, but as Christians, we know our hope is in eternity, not this world’s distant future (John 16:33).

There’s a third category, though, that we Christians must not overlook: the moral state of our world. Isaiah 5:20 warns, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.” When society blurs God’s truth, the consequences—like broken families, cultural division, or spiritual apathy—affect everyone, not just those who stray. Yet 2 Peter 3:9 reveals God’s heart: He’s “not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance.” That’s why we’re called to live as lights, showing the way to our Shepherd through our actions.

Our Call as Sheep of the Good Shepherd

So, my Christian friends, let’s respond as faithful sheep. First, follow our Shepherd closely. Romans 13:14 urges us to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh.” Second, share His truth with gentleness. Jeremiah 23:29 says God’s word is “like a fire… and like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces.” We don’t change hearts; His Spirit does through His truth. Third, point others to Jesus, not ourselves. As John the Baptist said, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30).

To my non-Christian friends, I see your passion for justice and compassion—those reflect the Creator’s design. We Christians are called to live in a way that shows you the love and truth of our Good Shepherd, not to push or argue. As George Müller said, “When the day of recompense comes, our only regret will be that we have done so little for him, not that we have done too much.”

Let’s stay hungry for God’s truth, thirst for His righteousness, and keep following our Shepherd’s voice. That’s the path we were made for.

With gratitude and hope,

Cliff the door opener, and table/chair setter upper.

“For I fully expect and hope that I will never be ashamed, but that I will continue to be bold for Christ, as I have been in the past. And I trust that my life will bring honor to Christ, whether I live or die. For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better.”
—Philippians 1:20–21 NLT

Each of us has something that drives us, a purpose that shapes our days and defines our choices. What is it that you live for? If you were to complete the statement, “For to me, living means living for _______,” what would you say? For Cliff to live is to have professional success, for Cliff to live is to have fun and party, for Cliff to live is to have wealth, for Cliff to live is to get recognition, for Cliff to live is to have as many relationships and “likes” as possible, for Cliff to live is to have personal fulfillment, for Cliff to live is to learn as much as possible, for Cliff to live is to make a difference in the world. I’m not saying any of those are what I live for, maybe they are, maybe not. Whatever it is, we all have something that anchors our lives, something we pour our energy into. Some are very commendable, some…not so much, that’s up to you and your conscience, circle of friends, and acquaintances to figure out.

In the word of God, (remember that thing we as christians are supposed to read and believe) and for the apostle Paul, the answer was unequivocal: “For to me, living means living for Christ.” This wasn’t a passing sentiment or a religious platitude—it was the heartbeat of his existence. Every decision, every sacrifice, every moment of courage stemmed from his devotion to Christ. But Paul went further, adding, “and dying is even better.” That’s a bold claim, in fact it seems almost insane, one that only makes sense when you understand the hope at the core of his faith. Because Jesus rose from the dead, Paul could face life and death with unshakable confidence, declaring, “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55 NLT).

The Search for Purpose

In a world that constantly pulls us in different directions, the question of purpose is more pressing than ever. We are constantly bombarded with messages telling us to chase wealth, status, or personal happiness. Society often measures a person’s worth by achievements— career, bank account, or influence. Yet, as many discover, these pursuits often leave us wanting. They promise fulfillment but deliver only fleeting satisfaction.

I have quoted this a lot lately, but I like it from C.S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity: “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” Lewis reminds us that our deepest longings—those desires for meaning, connection, and permanence—point beyond the temporary. They point to God. When we live for anything less than Christ, we’re settling for a shadow of the life we were created for.

Paul’s purpose wasn’t rooted in the fleeting rewards of this world. He lived for Christ, and that gave his life a clarity and resilience that nothing else could. Living for Christ meant proclaiming the gospel, loving others sacrificially, and trusting God’s plan even in the face of suffering. It meant finding joy in beatings and prisons, peace in persecution, and hope in the face of death. For Paul, Christ wasn’t just a part of his life—He was the center.

What does it mean to live for Christ today, as a mature man navigating the complexities of modern life? I can tell what it is not, It’s not about grand gestures or religious performance. It is about a quiet, steadfast commitment to let Christ shape every aspect of your life—your work, your relationships, your choices. It is about integrity when no one is watching, compassion when it is inconvenient, and courage when the world pressures you to conform.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who lived out his faith under the shadow of Nazi oppression, wrote in The Cost of Discipleship: “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” That is a vividly strong statement, not one you would hear in many modern American churches. Bonhoeffer was not speaking of physical death (but of dying to self—surrendering pride, ambition, and the need for control. Living for Christ means letting go of the world’s metrics of success and embracing Gods. For me or you it may mean leading your family with humility, serving your community with generosity, and standing firm in your convictions even when it’s unpopular.

Practically, this might look like:

• Prioritizing prayer and Scripture. Make time to seek God daily, not as a ritual but as a lifeline. Let His Word guide your decisions and steady your heart.
• Serving others selflessly. Whether it’s mentoring a younger colleague, volunteering in your church, or simply listening to a friend in need, and not just Christian friends. We should live out Christ’s love in tangible ways.
• Embracing stewardship. Use your resources—time, money, talents—to honor God, recognizing that everything you have is His, not yours…you were bought with a price when you became a Christian.
• Living with eternity in view. Make choices that reflect the reality of heaven, knowing that this life is not the end.

Paul’s declaration that “dying is even better” is not morbid—but it is liberating. For those who live for Christ, death is not a defeat but a doorway. Jesus’ resurrection shattered the power of death, securing an eternal future for those who trust in Him. As Paul wrote, “For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better” because death ushers us into the presence of the One we have lived for.

Augustine of Hippo, reflecting on the human condition, wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” Augustine understood that our ultimate home is with God. This life, with all its joys and struggles, is temporary. For the Christian, death is the moment when restlessness gives way to rest, when faith becomes sight.

This hope should transform how we live. When looked at with the proper perspective, it frees us from the fear of loss, the pressure to “have it all,” and the anxiety of an uncertain future. It gives us the courage to live boldly for Christ, knowing that whether we live or die, our life is secure in Him.

So, what do you live for? If you’re honest, what fills the blank in “For to me, living means living for _______”? Is it Christ, or is it something else that’s taken His place? If it’s not Christ, consider what’s holding you back. The things of this world—success, comfort, recognition—are not bad in themselves, but they were never meant to be your purpose. They can’t bear the weight of your soul.

Living for Christ isn’t always easy, but it’s the only life that delivers what it promises. It’s a life of purpose that outlasts this world; a life anchored in the One who defeated death. As Søren Kierkegaard put it, “The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do; the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die.” For Paul, that truth was Christ. What about you Cliff? What about you Reader?

Psalm 22 is known as one of the three Shepherd Psalms (Read: Following the Good, Great, and Chief Shepherd, Psalms 22, 23, and 24). This psalm is also prophetic because it gives a “picture” of the cross from the perspective of our Good Shepherd, the Lord Jesus Christ. In great detail, this psalm describes the suffering and death of our Lord Jesus that would take place 1,000 years after the psalm was penned by David.

On the cross, Jesus quoted Psalm 22 when He cried out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? (Mat 27:46, Mark 15:34; Read: Was Jesus Forsaken by His Father?). And for those standing at the foot of the cross, His words should have evoked the words of this psalm in their minds. Had they remembered David’s words, they could have seen and understood what was happening before their eyes. And they could have remembered the promise of hope in this psalm’s closing words.
A Remez in Psalm 22?

In Jewish hermeneutics (interpretation of Scripture), a remez is a hidden message or a deeper meaning. It’s said to be a “treasure” that is found below the surface of, or behind, the words. (See the list below of many remezes in the Bible.)

There’s an interesting remez in Psalm 22:6. This psalm is prophetic of the cross of Jesus. And in verse six, it says, “But I am a worm, and no man…” Jesus was certainly a man on the cross. So what did the psalmist mean when he wrote, “But I am a worm?”
The Worm in Psalm 22:6

The common Hebrew word for “worm” is “rimmah,” and it is defined as a maggot or a worm. However, in Psalm 22:6, the word for “worm” is “towla”’ or “tola’ath”.

Psa 22:6 But I am a worm [towla or tola’ath], and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people.
The Hebrew word “towla” or “”tola’ath”is used 43 times in the Old Testament — mostly as a color but sometimes in reference to man (eg. Job 25:6, Isa 31:14, 66:24).

Strong’s Dictionary defines this word as “a maggot (as voracious); the crimson-grub but used only (in this connection) of the color from it, and cloths dyed therewith:–crimson, scarlet, worm.”

So the word “tola’ath” or “towla” in Psalm 22:6 denotes not only a worm but also identifies it as a crimson or scarlet worm common to the Middle East and predominantly in Israel. It should be noted that the colors crimson and scarlet are very deep, blackish-red, which is the color of blood. And in this crimson worm, we find a hidden meaning of biblical significance.

The Life Cycle of the Crimson Worm
The Crimson Worm (scientific name: coccus ilicis or kermes ilicis) looks more like a grub than a worm. In the lifecycle of this worm is where the remez is found. And it points to the work of Jesus on the cross.
When the female crimson worm is ready to lay her eggs, which happens only once in her life, she climbs up a tree or fence and attaches herself to it. With her body attached to the wooden tree, a hard crimson shell forms. It is a shell so hard and so secured to the wood that it can only be removed by tearing apart the body, which would kill the worm.

The female worm lays her eggs under her body, under the protective shell. When the larvae hatch, they remain under the mother’s protective shell so the baby worms can feed on the living body of the mother worm for three days. After three days, the mother worm dies, and her body excretes a crimson or scarlet dye that stains the wood to which she is attached and her baby worms. The baby worms remain crimson-colored for their entire lives. Thereby, they are identified as crimson worms.

On day four, the tail of the mother worm pulls up into her head, forming a heart-shaped body that is no longer crimson but has turned into a snow-white wax that looks like a patch of wool on the tree or fence. It then begins to flake off and drop to the ground looking like snow.
Isa 1:18 Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet [shaniy – root word of tola’ath], they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson [tola’ath], they shall be as wool.

The Body of the Tola’ath
In biblical times, the red dye excreted from the Crimson Worm was used in the High Priest’s robe and probably for red dye used on ram’s skins to create the covering of the Tabernacle in the wilderness (Ex 26:1, 28:5). Uses of this red dye continue today. While still red and attached to the tree, the worm’s body and shell are scraped off and used to make what is called “Royal Red Dye.” The waxy material is used to make high-quality shellac, used in the Middle East as a wood preserver. And the remains of the Crimson Worm are also used in medicines that help regulate the human heart.

What Does Psalm 22 Mean: “I am a Worm”
Was Jesus a “Crimson Worm” on the cross? In typology, yes!
Psa 22:6 But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people.

Isa 1:18 … though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
Just as the mother worm attaches herself to the wood of a tree or fence, Jesus put himself on a wooden cross, a type of “tree.” And Jesus willingly allowed the nails to be driven into His hands (1 John 3:16). However, it wasn’t the nails that held Him on the cross. It was His desire to fulfill the purpose and plan of God the Father to redeem man from sin (Gal 1:4).

Just as the mother worm attaching herself to a tree is part of God’s design for the worm’s lifecycle, so also, it was God’s plan, His design, to send His Son to be attached to a tree, a wooden cross, to die (2 Tim 1:9, 1 Pet 1:20).
Just as the mother worm, when crushed, excretes a crimson, scarlet dye that both covers the baby worms and stains, or marks, them, Jesus was also bruised, or crushed, for our iniquities (Isa 53:5). His scourgings, and the nails that were driven into his hands and feet, brought forth His crimson, scarlet blood that both washes away our sins (Rev 1:5) and marks us as His own (Eph 2:13).

Finally, just as the baby worm is dependent on the mother worm for the crimson dye to give it life and to mark it, a repentant sinner must depend on the blood of Jesus for the forgiveness of sins, to receive new life, and to be marked as His own (Acts 4:12, 1 Pet 1:18-19).

A Little Red Worm
In expounding on Psalm 22:6 (“But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people”), Charles Spurgeon wrote:
“There is a little red worm which seems to be nothing else but blood when it is crushed. It seems all gone except a blood-stain. And the Savior, in the deep humiliation of His spirit, compares Himself to that little red worm. How true it is that ‘He made Himself of no reputation’ for our sakes! He emptied Himself of all His Glory, and if there is any glory natural to manhood, He emptied Himself even of that! Not only the glories of His Godhead, but also the honors of His Manhood He laid aside that it might be seen that ‘though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor.’”

Jesus became poor. And in typology, having the sins of the world upon Himself, Jesus became like a worm, like a lowly crimson worm, hanging on a tree. (Job 25:6 and Isa 41:14 reveal the typology of sinful man as a worm.)
Nature Declares the Glory of God

Look around and see all the whispers of Jesus. From the beauty of God’s creation — the sun, the moon, the stars, the land, the seas, the animals, and especially mankind — everything testifies of our amazing God. In the spring, we see new life emerging, and in the summer, we feel the sun’s warmth. In the fall, the colors of God’s “paintbrush” are vivid, and in the winter, the world rests in a blanket of white. All this is the lifecycle of nature. And all is a gift from God.

“Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be [white] as wool.” Isaiah 1:18

When I walk into a room crowded with people, I can immediately recognize my wife. No matter what she is wearing or how she styles her hair, I can still pick her out instantly. I could do it if all I could see was the shadow of her silhouette walking across the room. After 35 years of closeness to her, I know the feel of her touch; I know what it’s like to be in her presence; I know the rhythm and sound of her breath, much less her voice. I also know what makes her happy and sad. But how do I describe those things to you? If I’m trying to tell you or anyone who doesn’t know her how to pick her out of a crowded room, I can’t rely on the intimate details I cherish—I’d have to resort to physical characteristics, because that’s all you can see. Yet, those are not the most important or beautiful ways I know her.

In a similar way, our knowledge of Jesus Christ is meant to be deeply personal and relational, not merely a collection of external facts or rituals. Jesus said to Thomas in John 14:6, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (ESV). This profound declaration invites us into a living relationship with Him, not a checklist of rules or deeds. Yet, many of us approach knowing God with a desire for a set of instructions to follow or tasks to perform. Instead, what Jesus offers us is Himself—a relationship that transforms us from the inside out. As the Psalmist writes in Psalm 34:8, “Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.” This is an invitation to experience God personally, to know Him as intimately as we know a loved one.

Which would better describe your knowledge of Jesus: Do you know Him in the superficial “height and color of hair” sense—facts about His life, teachings, or historical context? Or is it a personal, experiential knowledge? Do you know what it’s like to cling to Him in pain, disappointment, and confusion, to feel Him moving in your life—comforting, assuring, convicting, and guiding you? John 17:3 defines eternal life itself as this intimate knowledge: “Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.” Theologian Augustine of Hippo reflects this truth in his Confessions, writing, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” Augustine reminds us that our souls find their true home only in a personal relationship with God, where we encounter His love and presence.

This kind of intimate knowledge of God is precisely what many miss in the Christian life, leaving their spiritual walk dry and cold. There are countless seminary students, pastors, and “professional Christians” who possess vast knowledge about God—doctrines, Greek and Hebrew terms, church history—but lack a deep, personal knowledge of Him. This spiritual disconnect manifests in their lives: minimal private prayer, passionless or mechanical worship, anxiety about the future, and a reliance on the validation of others. They may hold PhDs, but they remain infants in the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). Christian philosopher Søren Kierkegaard warns against this, stating, “To know God truly is to relate to Him as a person, not to dissect Him as an idea. The Christian life is not about mastering concepts but about surrendering to a living relationship.”

The apostle Paul exemplifies this relational knowledge in Philippians 3:8, where he declares, “I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.” Paul’s passion was not for intellectual mastery but for an ever-deepening communion with Christ. Similarly, Thomas à Kempis in The Imitation of Christ urges, “Let it be our chief study to meditate on the life of Jesus Christ, for in knowing Him we find true peace and eternal joy.” This personal knowledge of Jesus is cultivated through time spent in His presence—through prayer, Scripture meditation, worship, and obedience.

Like the way I know my wife or any close friend or family member, intimacy with Jesus does not happen all at once with a wave of warm fuzzies or by memorizing facts about Him. That is the artificial and superficial way. It takes time, patience, and consistent choices to trust Jesus and emulate Him in both the big and small moments of life. Brother Lawrence, in The Practice of the Presence of God, offers practical wisdom: “We must simply accustom ourselves to seek God in all things, and we shall find Him always with us.” By inviting Jesus into every aspect of our lives—our joys, sorrows, decisions, and struggles—we grow in our ability to recognize His voice and feel His guidance.

As we walk with Christ over time, we begin to look back and see His hand of faithfulness woven through our lives. Psalm 23:4 assures us, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” This promise reminds us that Jesus is not a distant figure but a constant companion who walks with us through every trial. Theologian C.S. Lewis captures the beauty of this journey in Letters to Malcolm: “We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito.” When we cultivate a relationship with Jesus, we learn to discern His presence, even in the ordinary moments, and we find that He has been guiding us all along.

Let us, then, pursue this intimate knowledge of Christ with all our hearts. Let us move beyond knowing about Him to truly knowing Him—His voice, His comfort, His correction, His love. For in this relationship, we find the abundant life He promised: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).

Cliff sat on the edge of the hospital bed, fiddling with the ties of one of those paper-thin gowns that never quite cover the, ahem, essentials. But today, he wasn’t sweating the wardrobe malfunction. Today was a fresh start—the day everything changed.

After months of chemo, scans, and nights spent staring at the ceiling, today was surgery day. The day the cancer would be history. The surgeon, Dr. Harlan, strolled in with the swagger of a man who’d just aced a golf swing. Clipboard in hand, he radiated good news.

“Cliff,” he said, flashing a grin, “the surgery went great!”

Cliff let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “So… the cancer’s all gone?”

“Well…” Dr. Harlan paused, scratching his chin. “We took out a good chunk. About half.”

Cliff blinked. “Half?”

“Yup,” Dr. Harlan said, nodding like he’d just announced a BOGO deal. “We figured that was enough to make a difference. The rest? Eh, it’s not that bad. You can live with it.”

Cliff’s jaw dropped. “But Doctor, the plan was to remove all of it. You said you’d go after every last cell!”

Dr. Harlan shrugged. “Yeah, but once we got in there, taking it all out seemed like… a lot of work.”

Cliff stared, dumbfounded. “So, you left the disease inside me… on purpose?”

“Pretty much,” the doctor said with a wink. “It’s just easier that way.” And with that, Dr. Harlan sauntered out, probably to grab a coffee.

Now, before you start Googling “worst doctors in history,” let’s be clear: thank God, that at least for now, this is a fictional tale. No sane surgeon would leave half a tumor behind and call it a day. But here’s the kicker—sometimes we do exactly that in our spiritual lives. We let things linger that hinder our commitment to Christ, like a bad habit we’re too cozy with or a distraction we’ve nicknamed “self-care.”

C.S. Lewis, once put it this way: “We are not merely imperfect creatures who must be improved: we are rebels who must lay down our arms.” (from Mere Christianity). Ouch, Clive, calling us out like that! But he’s right. Those “hidden sins” or modern-day idols? They’re not just quirks—they’re rebels staging a coup in our hearts.

So, what are these idols? They’re not golden calves or stone statues (unless you’ve got a weird backyard decor thing going on). They’re the distractions, habits, or priorities that sneakily take God’s rightful place. Maybe it’s a toxic relationship that drags you away from holiness. Maybe it’s an addiction to doom-scrolling political X posts, binge-watching shows, or chasing likes for that perfectly filtered selfie. Or perhaps it’s pride, bitterness, or fear you’ve been hauling around like an overstuffed suitcase.

The Bible’s pretty clear about this, as Col. Jessup from the movie “A Few Good Men” says to Tom Cruise’s character “is that Crystal Clear” and it is. In Matthew 5:29-30, Jesus gets downright dramatic: “If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away… If your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off.” Yikes, Jesus, no chill! He’s not saying to literally start chopping, but He is dead serious about removing anything that pulls us from God. Half-measures will not cut it—pun intended.

Augustine of Hippo, the theologian who went from a total party animal to saint, knew a thing or two about clinging to sin. He famously prayed, “Lord, make me chaste—but not yet!” (Confessions). Sound familiar? We say, “I’ll deal with this habit tomorrow,” or “I’ll forgive that person… eventually.” But God’s not asking us to manage our sin like it’s a quirky roommate. He wants it gone.

But there is good news: God’s not standing there with a clipboard, shaking His head like a disappointed coach. His grace is bigger than our mess. As 1 John 1:9 promises, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” That’s not just a pat on the back—that’s a full-on spiritual detox! When I fail, Jesus still says, “Cliff, I love you.”

So, what’s the game plan? Listen closely: What’s pulling you from wholehearted devotion to Christ? Is it a social media app that has gotten you in a chokehold? A grudge you are nursing like a pet cactus? A habit you have lived with a long time, and excused as “not that bad”? Whatever it is, do not negotiate with it. Delete the app. Block the number. Confess the sin. Grab a trusted friend and say, “Help me stay accountable, because I’m done playing spiritual Whac-A-Mole.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the theologian who stood firm against the evil of Nazi Germany, and paid with hi life said, “The call of Jesus Christ means either we take up our cross or we deny Him” (The Cost of Discipleship). That sounds intense, but it’s also freeing. Cutting out what holds us back is not a punishment—it’s a path to joy, to a life where Christ is the center, not competing with our baggage.

Don’t wait for a “better time” to act. As Psalm 32:5 says, “Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity… and you forgave the guilt of my sin.” God’s ready to forgive and restore—today. So, take the step. Make the call. Pray the prayer. And lean into the grace that’s bigger than any sin you’re carrying.

You’ve got this. And God’s got you.

I’m not on it. Again. Today’s no different. They’ve got their “artists,” “icons,” “leaders,” and “titans,” but apparently, I don’t fit the bill. Worse, I barely recognize half the names on there—except for the ones in the photo I tossed in. And no, I don’t know any of them personally.

But here’s what’s actually worth talking about: Easter weekend is coming, and all my kids are headed home. If reincarnation were a thing, I’d sign up to be my wife’s kid in a heartbeat. Mary’s already in full prep mode—real food, Peeps, games, the works. She’s not just feeding them or keeping them busy; she’s crafting the kind of weekend that leaves them grinning ear to ear. That’s parenting done right. We don’t just want our kids to scrape by; we want them thriving, soaking up the best life has to offer. If I made my own “most influential” list, they’d be at the top. Their joy is my joy.

So why do I struggle to believe God wants that same kind of flourishing for me? Why do I second-guess whether I can expect His best?

It’s not Him—it’s me. I know myself too well. I know God knows me even better, and let’s be real: I don’t deserve His blessings on my own merits. Sure, I get that God is love (1 John 4:8), so He loves me because of who He is, not who I am. Logically, that love means He wants me to have the basics. But asking for more? Expecting His best? That feels like a stretch for a holy God who sees every corner of my messy heart.

Then there’s my gut-level rejection of the “health-and-wealth” gospel that’s everywhere these days. You know the one—preachers promising that enough faith guarantees a fat bank account and perfect health. I can’t buy it. I think of Jesus on the cross, the apostles martyred for their faith, the man born blind who didn’t even know who healed him yet got his sight. I think of the millions of Christians—more in the 20th century than the 19 before it—who died for their faith. I think of friends in Cuba suffering for Christ, or believers in communist or Muslim countries facing brutal persecution. If they’re enduring that, what right do I have to expect a cushy life, let alone to “flourish” in this broken world?

And yet, the Bible keeps saying God wants to bless us. Paul’s crystal clear: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 1:3). John prays, “Beloved, I pray that all may go well with you and that you may be in good health, as it goes well with your soul” (3 John 2). We’re told God can “do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think” (Ephesians 3:20). Look at Joseph of Arimathea, a Jesus follower rich enough to loan out his tomb, or Nicodemus, dropping 75 pounds of pricey spices for Jesus’ burial. Or the women who bankrolled Jesus’ ministry “out of their means” (Luke 8:3).

Money’s not the problem—the Bible never calls it evil. It’s the love of money that’s “a root of all kinds of evils” (1 Timothy 6:10). Big difference. And the rich? They’re told to “do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share” (v. 18).

Here’s one way to square the tension between persecution and prosperity: sometimes, suffering is the path to blessing. Jesus said it himself: “Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you…on my account” (Matthew 5:11). It doesn’t feel like a blessing when you’re in it—ask Paul, beaten and jailed in Philippi (Acts 16:23). But Jesus follows up: “Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven” (Matthew 5:12). That’s why Paul and Silas were singing hymns at midnight in their cell (Acts 16:25).

I’ve got missionary friends in places I can’t name for their safety. One told me to stop praying for less persecution in their country. I was floored. He said, “Persecution’s purifying us, making us who God wants us to be.” Then he added he’s praying for more persecution in the U.S. for the same reason. Wild.

So yeah, God can want our best and let us walk through pain. If suffering leads to eternal reward or shapes us for His purpose, it’s worth it. Another angle? Prosperity’s often a tool to bless those who are suffering. I’ve heard missionaries in Dallas say, “God blessed America so America’s Christians can bless the world.” In the Old Testament, the Jews were meant to be conduits of God’s blessing, not hoarders of it (Genesis 12:3). They messed up when they acted like they were better than everyone else. We can’t fall into that trap. If God prospers us, it’s not because we’re special—it’s because He loves us like a Father and wants to bless others through us.

Success isn’t what you’ve got; it’s what you give. Holy Week screams that truth. God sent His Son to die for us—to bear our sin, pay our debt, and rise from our grave. If you were the only sinner on earth, Jesus would’ve done it all just for you. He’d do it again. As Billy Graham put it, the cross shows how ugly our sin is—but it also shows God’s insane love for us.

Next time you doubt God wants your best, go back to the cross. That’s where the answer lives.