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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.

As Holy Week begins, we stand at the threshold of a sacred journey, one that invites us to reflect on Jesus Christ’s life, death, and resurrection—and how His sacrifice calls us to live. The story of this week, starting with Monday of Holy Week, challenges us to examine our persistence, our fears, and the fruit we bear in our lives, all in the light of Christ’s transformative love.

Consider the power of persistence, vividly displayed in Rory McIlroy’s emotional victory at the Masters. Overcoming a double bogey, a water hazard, and a missed putt, McIlroy sank a birdie on the playoff hole to win, collapsing in tears of relief. To his daughter, Poppy, he offered timeless wisdom: “Never give up on your dreams. Never, ever give up.” Similarly, Tom Cruise, known for defying death in his films, shared his approach to fear with co-star Hailey Atwell: “If you are scared of something, just keep looking at it… it will often give you information about what to do to overcome it.” Both men illustrate human resilience—grit in the face of obstacles and courage in the face of fear.

Yet, what happens when our dreams elude us, or our fears overwhelm our ability to act? The world around us offers sobering reminders of challenges beyond human control. A Russian missile strike in Sumy, Ukraine, killed dozens during Palm Sunday celebrations. A nightclub roof collapse in the Dominican Republic claimed over 200 lives. Threats like bird flu and mpox loom as potential pandemics. Staring at these tragedies, as Cruise suggests, doesn’t always reveal a solution. Persistence alone cannot conquer every fear or fulfill every dream.

Enter Monday of Holy Week, where Jesus encounters a fig tree that prompts a profound lesson. As Mark 11:12–14 recounts, Jesus, hungry and seeing a leafy fig tree, found no fruit—only leaves, despite it not being the season for ripe figs. Matthew notes the tree withered instantly when Jesus cursed it (Matthew 21:19). Why such a severe response? In Israel, fig trees in spring bear paggim—small, edible green knobs—before summer figs ripen. A leafy tree should have had these, but this one was barren, a symbol of fruitlessness.

The prophets often compared faithless Israel to such barren trees (Jeremiah 29:17; Isaiah 34:4). Jesus used this moment to teach: God’s people are judged by their fruit. Like the fig tree, we are called to produce spiritual fruit—love, faith, and service—regardless of the season. But how? Many of us wrestle with fears of fruitlessness, wondering if we’re wasting the life God gave us. McIlroy’s advice to “never give up” feels hollow if we’re unsure of our purpose. Cruise’s call to face fears doesn’t clarify what fruit God expects.

Jesus provides the answer. Three days after cursing the fig tree, He declared, “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). Abiding in Christ—resting in communion with Him—is the key to a fruitful life. His first followers lived this truth. Devoted to prayer and filled with the Spirit, they preached, healed, and spread the gospel from Jerusalem to Rome, Ethiopia to India (Acts 1:14; 2:4, 42–47). Because they abided in Jesus, their fruit transformed the world.

This Holy Week, we’re invited to ask: Are we abiding in Christ? Missionary Hudson Taylor likened it to a branch resting in the vine, not striving for sunshine or rain but trusting the vine to provide. In a world of rules and striving—where even Aristotle’s “golden mean” of virtue feels imprecise—Jesus offers a relationship, not a formula. Aristotle saw virtue as a balance between extremes, like courage between cowardice and recklessness. Yet, human perception alone struggles to find that balance. Only love, rooted in Christ, solves the puzzle.

Living in light of Christ’s sacrifice means seeing life as a metaphor for spiritual truth. A mother changing diapers can be a labor of love or drudgery, depending on her heart’s connection to God. Jesus, the presence of God, becomes our metaphor through the Holy Spirit, shaping us to bear fruit in every act. We don’t enforce rules or stone others for failing; we abide in Him, letting His love guide us.

As we journey through Holy Week, let’s intentionally rest in Jesus. His sacrifice on the cross—foreshadowed by the withered fig tree—calls us to die to self and live for Him. Unlike McIlroy’s hard-won victory or Cruise’s daring stunts, our fruitfulness doesn’t depend on our effort alone. By abiding in Christ, we bear fruit that endures, transforming our lives and the world, just as His love has done for centuries. This is the golden mean of faith: not a rule, but a relationship with the God who makes us fruitful

The English poet Ralph Hodgson once wrote, “Some things have to be believed to be seen.” Centuries earlier, St. Augustine offered a similar reflection: “Faith is to believe what we do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what we believe.” These two statements, though separated by time and context, weave together a truth about human experience: belief often precedes perception, unlocking realities that remain hidden to the skeptical eye. When we consider the virtues of faith, hope, and love, this idea takes on even greater depth. These qualities—celebrated in scripture and literature alike—act as lenses through which we encounter the invisible, transforming the way we see the world and one another. For me, this truth has played out vividly in my own life, particularly in my marriage to my wife, Mary, the family we’ve built together, and in the creative whirlwind of my workplace at Southern Methodist University (SMU).

Faith: The Foundation of Sight

The one of the main bad guys in the movie “Mission Impossible Fall Out” uses the line “hope is not a strategy” and is then immediately told “you must be new here,” since hope is the main ingredient in even attempting a mission that is deemed… “Impossible.” At its core, faith is an act of trust in what lies beyond the tangible. Augustine’s words capture this beautifully, framing faith as a deliberate choice to embrace the unseen, with the promise of revelation as its reward. In the Bible, Hebrews 11:1 echoes this sentiment: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” This verse underscores faith as a bridge between the present and the possible, a conviction that what we cannot yet grasp is nonetheless real. Consider the story of Abraham, who left his homeland on God’s promise of a future he couldn’t see. His faith didn’t just sustain him—it opened his eyes to a destiny that became visible only through obedience.

When I met Mary at Oral Roberts University and we married 35 years ago, I didn’t have evidence that we’d have a long, happy, fruitful marriage—just a belief rooted in faith. I couldn’t see the decades ahead, the laughter, the challenges, or the milestones. But I trusted in something greater, a conviction that our union was part of a larger purpose. That faith, like Hodgson’s poetic insight, was the first step. It wasn’t based on guarantees but on a willingness to believe before seeing. And over time, the reward emerged: a life together that has proven the truth of what I first trusted…and hoped for.

At SMU, I see this same principle unfold daily. Complex dance performances, intricate symphonies, and elaborate plays begin as ideas and hopes in the minds of choreographers, composers, and directors. Long before the performers step onto the stage, before the instruments are tuned or the lighting is set, someone believes in the vision. That faith—trust in an unseen outcome—drives the planning, rehearsals, rewrites, and refinements until the curtain rises, and what was once intangible becomes a breathtaking reality.

Hope: The Vision of What Could Be

If faith is the foundation, hope is the forward gaze. It’s the expectation that what we believe in will come to light, without it, we don’t start anything in life. Hodgson’s notion that “some things have to be believed to be seen” aligns with hope’s role in sustaining us through uncertainty, abstract thought of any kind is impossible without hope and belief. Hope doesn’t demand immediate proof; it thrives in the tension between now and not-yet. The Bible captures this in Romans 8:24-25: “For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Here, hope is an active waiting, a refusal to let the absence of evidence dim our vision.

This hope carried Mary and me through the early years of marriage and into parenthood. When our three children were still in the womb—unseen, their faces and futures unknown—I believed before they were born that I would love them deeply. That hope wasn’t just wishful thinking; it was a confident expectation that they’d bring joy and purpose to our lives. Today, two of them are college graduates with careers, living out their own paths, while our youngest, a surprise baby girl, is finishing high school. What began as an unseen possibility has become a visible reality, a testament to hope’s quiet power. As Emily Dickinson described it, hope is “the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—And sings the tune without the words—And never stops—at all.”

In my work at SMU, hope is the thread that ties together months of preparation for a single performance. A symphony’s score, a dancer’s choreography, or a play’s script starts as a fragile dream. Musicians miss notes, actors flub lines, and dancers stumble—yet hope persists. It’s the belief that countless unseen hours will culminate in a moment of harmony or grace, a performance that moves an audience. And when it does, that hope is rewarded with something tangible: applause, tears, or a shared gasp of awe.

Love: The Revelation of Connection

Love, perhaps the most transformative of the trio, brings faith and hope into relationship. Augustine’s reward of faith—seeing what we believe—finds its fullest expression in love, which reveals the worth of others and the divine. The Bible’s famous declaration in 1 Corinthians 13:13 ties these virtues together: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Why the greatest? Because love makes visible what faith trusts and hope anticipates. It’s the lens that turns strangers into neighbors, enemies into friends, and the abstract into the intimate. Love also the “greatest” because if you are a Christian, it is the only one that endures in the next life of eternity because there and then, hope is not needed, and faith is obsolete because all will be made known and all will be seen.

My love for Mary and our children is the heartbeat of this journey. When I stood at the altar with Mary, I believed in a love I couldn’t yet fully see—a lifelong partnership that would grow through trials and triumphs. That belief blossomed into a reality I now witness daily: a marriage that’s weathered five decades of life, including my career in city government and at SMU. With our children, love took root before I even held them. I couldn’t see their personalities or accomplishments while they were still forming, but I loved them in faith. Now, watching our eldest build a career, our middle child launch into the world post-graduation, and our youngest prepare for her next chapter, I see the reward of that love—a family bound by something deeper than sight alone could reveal. As Victor Hugo put it, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

At SMU, love is the unseen force behind every production. It’s the director’s care for their actors, the conductor’s devotion to their musicians, the crew’s commitment to every detail—lines, lighting, and all. What starts as an idea in one mind becomes a collective act of love, a shared belief that transforms into a performance. When the stage lights dim and the audience rises, it’s love that has made the invisible visible, connecting creators and spectators in a fleeting, beautiful moment.

The Harmony of the Three

Faith, hope, and love don’t operate in isolation—they amplify one another. Faith plants the seed, hope nurtures it, and love brings it to bloom. Augustine’s theology and Hodgson’s poetry both suggest that this synergy reshapes our perception. The unseen—whether God’s presence, a better future, or the goodness in others—becomes visible through their combined power. As 1 John 4:12 states, “No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” Love completes the cycle, making the invisible God tangible through human connection.

For me, this harmony has been a lived experience. Believing in a future with Mary before I had proof, hoping for children I couldn’t yet see, and loving them into the people they’ve become—these are the threads of a life shaped by faith, hope, and love. At SMU, I witness this same dance daily: an idea believed in the mind—be it a symphony, a play, or a ballet—moves through hope-filled effort and love-driven collaboration to become a reality on stage. Instruments are tuned, lines are memorized, and movements are perfected, all because someone first believed it could be so.

In a world that often demands proof before belief, these virtues challenge us to reverse the order. Hodgson and Augustine remind us that some truths—perhaps the deepest ones—require us to believe first, to trust in faith, to hold onto hope, and to act in love. The reward? A vision of life richer than what the eye alone can behold. As the poet Rumi once said, “Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” It’s in that field—where faith, hope, and love converge—that we finally see what we’ve believed all along, whether in a marriage, a family, or a stage lit by the dreams of many.

Here we are just about a week away from Good Friday and Easter in April 2025, the modern world hums all around us. Our lives seem to be measured in data points—steps tracked, emails ignored, sins tallied—yet beneath this mechanical rhythm lies a deeper story, THE story, one of brokenness and redemption that echoes through the ages. This season invites us to pause and consider: What does it mean to be human in a world that often feels less than human? The answer lies in the cross and the empty tomb, where the enormity of our sin, the courage to confront our shame, the renewal of our spirits, and the reclamation of our humanity converge in Christ’s love.

Imagine, for a moment, the weight of every sin ever committed.

He died for every sin you have ever committed. The same is true for me, and for every one of the 117 billion people who have ever lived (117 billion is the estimate of all of human life that has ever existed).

Let’s assume that each person commits an average of ten sins a day. For some, that would be a bad day; for others, it would be a good day. Then let’s estimate the average life span across human history at around thirty-five years (it was thirty-two in 1900, lower in the centuries before but much higher in the century since). Let’s further assume that the typical person commits their first sin around the age of five, leaving thirty years of active sinning.
Now let’s do the math:
• 10 x 365 days a year = 3,650 sins per person per year.
• 30 years per person = 109,500 sins per person per lifetime.
• Multiplying this by 117 billion people in history = 12,811,500,000,000,000 sins.

I have no idea whether this math is accurate or not, but the point is, it somewhat illustrates the enormity of the sin burden Jesus bore at Calvary for us.

12,811,500,000,000,000 is a number so vast it defies comprehension. Yet this is actually an incomplete and conservative idea of the burden Jesus bore on the cross, he also died for future sins. As the Apostle Paul writes, “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21). On Good Friday, we recall not just a historical event but an act of infinite love, one that absorbed every failure—past, present, and future—culminating in Jesus’ anguished cry: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). The holy Father turned away from the sinless Son, now laden with our guilt, revealing a sacrifice no finite mind can fully grasp. In a culture that quantifies everything yet understands so little, this truth anchors us: no sin, and no amount of sin, is beyond redemption.

Yet sin’s shadow lingers in modern life, often as shame—a silent wound that thrives in secrecy. We hide behind digital screens, curating perfect personas while wrestling with doubts, addictions, or past wounds. The Gospel of Luke offers a counterpoint: a woman, suffering for twelve years, steps trembling into the light, touches Jesus, and hears, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace” (Luke 8:47-48). Her story is ours. Today, Jesus calls us to speak our shame to Him—not to be condemned, but to be healed. Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said, “The Christian needs another Christian who speaks God’s Word to him… He needs his brother as a bearer and proclaimer of the divine word of salvation.” As Easter approaches, we’re reminded that the church is not a showcase for the flawless but a hospital for the broken, where vulnerability meets grace. The resurrection promises that our wounds, once exposed, become testimonies of restoration.

This healing sparks a deeper renewal, a shedding of the “old man” for the “new.” Toby Keith’s song “Don’t Let the Old Man In,” inspired by Clint Eastwood’s defiance of age when they played golf together, takes on spiritual weight through Paul’s words: “We know that our old man was crucified with him so that the body of sin would no longer dominate us” (Romans 6:6). In a world that idolizes youth yet resigns us to decay—physical or moral—Christ’s victory on the cross and resurrection empowers us to reject the old nature. The “new man,” is alive through the Holy Spirit, and frees us from sin’s grip, not to perfection, but direction, and to growth. C.S. Lewis wrote, “We are not merely imperfect creatures who must be improved: we are rebels who must lay down our arms.” We are in a spiritual war, Easter Sunday is our declaration of surrender and rebirth, a call to live fully as God’s renewed creation, even as the years or temptations press in.

Modern life continually threatens this renewal with another more subtle danger: the mechanization of our humanity. Our inboxes overflow with robotic platitudes— “disrupting the salad industry,” “impactful changemakers”—mirroring AI’s rise and our own descent into rote existence. Psalm 115 warns of idol-worshippers: “Those that make them are becoming like them,” a present-tense prophecy for a world that equates sentience with code. Augustine observed, “Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains… but they themselves are God’s greatest work.” When we reduce life to inputs and outputs, we risk becoming the lifeless idols we craft, as I wrote yesterday, C.S. Lewis calls it “men without chests.” Good Friday and Easter should cause us to interrupt this slide, pulling us back to the flesh-and-blood reality of Christ’s sacrifice and triumph. No algorithm can replace the Savior who wept, bled, and rose.

As we approach Good Friday 2025, we confront and attempt to understand the weight of the sin, shame , and pain Christ carried. On Easter, we also need to realize that we rise with Christ, renewed and fully human. “Behold, I make all things new” (Revelation 21:5), He declares—a promise not just for eternity, but for today. In a world of brokenness and machines, the cross and empty tomb remind us who we are: sinners redeemed, shame-bearers healed, rebels made new, and humans beloved by a God whose ways, as Isaiah 55:9 proclaims, soar higher than our own. This is the meaning of Easter, interrupting modern dead and hopeless life with undying hope.