Keep Seeking Him

The Lord passed in front of Moses, calling out, "Yahweh! The Lord! The God of compassion and mercy! I am slow to anger and filled with unfailing love and faithfulness. I lavish unfailing love to a thousand generations. I forgive iniquity, rebellion, and sin." (Exodus 34:6–7, NLT)

Have you ever read something in the Bible that didn’t sit right? A friend of mine recently did. He’s sincerely seeking the Lord and told me he’s reading through the entire Bible for the first time. As we talked, I watched his face grow serious. He was reading the Word to be inspired—but instead, he ran into something that unsettled him—something that made him flinch.

“Why would God command the Israelites to destroy entire cities when they entered the Promised Land?” he asked. “Honestly, it feels... harsh.”

Maybe you’ve felt that too. You come across something in Scripture—or in life—that doesn’t line up with the God you thought you knew. And in those moments, it’s easy to define God by what you don’t understand. But that’s exactly when you need to keep seeking—and remember what He says about Himself.

When God introduced Himself to Moses, He didn’t lead with a title or a resume. He revealed His very nature: “The God of compassion and mercy! I am slow to anger and filled with unfailing love and faithfulness.”

This wasn’t a passing comment. It was a defining declaration. He is mercy, love, and faithfulness. And that thread runs through the whole story of Scripture—proclaimed by the prophets, embodied in Jesus, and poured out on the cross.

The destruction of sin has never been arbitrary. It’s holy, just, necessary... and bloody. The same God who commanded judgment in Canaan bore that judgment on a cross at Calvary. He didn’t overlook evil—He confronted it, and then took it upon Himself.

The cross stands outside of time, and from it, God’s mercy flows forward into the future and backward into the past—even into the stories we still struggle to understand. His methods may vary—and sometimes confuse us—but His mission of love and mercy never changes.

Just ask Elijah.

In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah was exhausted and afraid, hiding in a cave. Then God said, “Go out and stand on the mountain, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

Elijah braced himself. He knew the stories—the ways God had shown up before: in a whirlwind, an earthquake, and in the burning bush. So he waited. The wind howled, the earth shook, and the fire blazed.

But God was in none of it.

Then came a whisper. God hadn’t changed. He showed up in a way Elijah didn’t expect—not with spectacle, but with stillness. No matter the context, God’s character is the same. He’s still mercy, love, and compassion—and He’s still speaking and showing up in unexpected ways—even in hard things like a cruel Roman cross.

So if something in Scripture—or in life—makes you pause… or flinch… don’t walk away. Don’t define God by what you don’t yet understand. Trust what you can’t yet see. Remember who He says He is—compassionate, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in love.

And keep seeking Him.

Dabbling or Diving

This is my endlessly recurrent temptation: to go down to that Sea (I think St John of the Cross called God a sea), and there neither dive nor swim nor float, but only dabble and splash, careful not to get out of my depth and holding on to the lifeline which connects me with my things temporal. — C.S. Lewis

What Lewis confesses here isn’t just hesitation—it’s a lack of trust. A spiritual tug-of-war. And it’s where most of us live. We want God, but we resist losing control. We feel the pull of the eternal, but the comfort of the familiar keeps us in the shallows.

I can relate.

I still remember swimming lessons and the thick rope that stretched across the pool, dividing the shallow end from the deep. I clung to that rope for dear life. One side was safe—I could stand, splash, and stay in control. But the deep end? It was mystery. Risky, wide, and wild… and it scared me.

We’re all tempted to play it safe—to cling to the rope of comfort, to hold tightly to the safety lines of routine, relationships, and a rational version of faith. These lifelines give us a sense of control. But they also keep us tethered to the shore—away from the unknown, away from risk, and away from going too deep with God.

But here’s the thing: God didn’t send His Son to die so we could merely dabble.

In John 21, after the cross, the resurrection, and Peter’s denial, we find the disciples in a boat—back to what’s familiar. They return to fishing—something they can control, something that doesn’t require faith. But their nets are empty—and so are their hearts. Peter is stuck in the shallows of his guilt, shame, and failure—clinging to the strands of a former life.

Then, from the shore, a voice calls: “Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

They don’t recognize Him at first. But when the miraculous catch happens, John whispers, “It's the Lord.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. He throws on his outer garment and jumps. He’s not testing the waters. He’s all in—plunging into the grace, restoration, and life Jesus offers. Peter went from dabbling to diving. And so must we.

Jesus said, “I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of.” (John 10:10, MSG)

Jesus didn’t come and die so we could splash around in the shallows, clinging to the lifeline of what’s familiar. He calls us into the depths of His love, where control ends and faith begins.

He calls us to surrender—to let go and lose the life we think we need—so He can give us the life we were truly made for.

Jesus is calling. Let go of the rope. Dive in.

It Went So Fast

This moment contains all moments. — C.S. Lewis

“I can’t believe I’m graduating in just a few days. It went so fast.”

This is the season when those words echo through hallways, campuses, and classrooms. High schoolers say it as they pack up their lockers. College students say it as they finish that last final.

It went so fast?… Really?

Scores of exams, practices, papers, and projects. Years of growing pains, late nights, hard conversations, and last-minute laundry. Every day full—sometimes too full—and yet now, on the edge of what’s next, it all feels like a blur.

This is the strange tension of life—long seasons feel short once they’re behind us. Moments that once seemed endless now feel like they slipped by in a breath.

We all graduate—from stages, seasons, and versions of ourselves. A toddler becomes a teen. A young couple becomes a family. A home once brimming with laughter and life is now quiet. One day you’re in it, and the next you’re looking back saying, “It went so fast.”

Fast? After all those long nights, hard days, awkward moments, and tearful prayers? Yes—because when it’s over, it all feels like a breath.

The psalmist captures it this way:

“Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath.” (Psalm 39:5, ESV)

A breath is fleeting and often unnoticed—until it’s gone. Try holding yours and you’ll quickly realize that every single one matters.

That’s how life is. Moments rush past, ordinary days pile up, and then suddenly they’re behind us—transformed into memory, nostalgia, and the ache of “the good old days.”

Andy from The Office put it well:

“I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

Even Moses, looking back on 120 years filled with calling, adventure, wandering, and walking with God, confessed:

“The years… quickly pass, and we fly away.” (Psalm 90:10, NIV)

And then he prays:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12, NIV)

To “number our days” isn’t to count them—it’s to live them. To stop long enough to see that today is a gift. To love the people around us. To be awake to the presence and goodness of God in our lives.

Days and breaths are too numerous to count, but both are so important. Don’t waste them or wish them away. Number them aright—not by counting them, but by making them count.

For you can be sure that the day, the event, the challenge, the goal, the dream—and even the four-year college experience—will be over and done with before you know it. And you’ll find yourself saying:

“I can’t believe I’m graduating in just a few days. It went so fast.”

Are You Dead or Alive?

“The path of life leads upward for the wise; they leave the grave behind." (Proverbs 15:24, NLT)

There are 31 chapters in Proverbs, one for every day of the month, and for over 25 years, I’ve read a chapter a day. They never get old. The timeless words of wisdom speak, guide, convict, and challenge me to live an abundant life. And yet—what strikes me is how often Proverbs talks about death.

The death Proverbs alludes to isn’t just what follows our last breath—it’s a death we live in, fully functioning yet far from truly alive. Throughout its chapters, Proverbs contrasts wisdom and folly: wisdom leads to life, while folly leads to death. Beneath this contrast lies the piercing question: 

Are you dead or alive?

This question isn’t about our final heartbeat—it’s about the choices we make every day. Proverbs 8:36 says, “All who hate me love death.” The “me” refers to the wisdom of God. To reject wisdom is to walk away from the path of life.

King Solomon, the author of Proverbs, traveled this path. Though gifted with immense wisdom, he allowed folly to take root in his life. In his later years, he grew complacent, disobeying God’s commands—most notably by marrying multiple foreign wives, which led both him and Israel into idol worship. His choices unraveled his life—for generations—and set the stage for Israel’s division and decline. By turning from wisdom, Solomon led the people into spiritual death.

We don’t drift into this living death—we choose it. Not in one dramatic moment, but through small acts of apathy, pride, self-centeredness, compromise, and resistance. Over time, life deteriorates—not because God caused it, but because we’ve traded His wisdom for death.

But here’s the hope: We can truly live!

Ephesians 2:5 says, “…even when we were dead in our trespasses, [God] made us alive together with Christ.” Jesus—the very wisdom of God—is the way, the truth, and the path to abundant life. He offers us a resurrected, whole new life—now and forevermore.

So, the question remains: Are you dead or alive? 

We make a choice every day. 

Choose Wisdom. Choose Life. Choose Jesus.

Enough

Jesus made a whip from some ropes and chased them all out of the Temple. (John 2:15, NLT)

Every year, April 15th rolls around—Tax Day. And every year, I hold my breath, wondering if I did the math right, hoping maybe this time I’ll get a return. But somehow, I always end up owing more. I’m never quite sure why. The rules keep changing... or maybe it’s just me. Either way, it’s always the same: whatever I’ve done—it’s never quite enough.

That feeling—never quite enough—isn't new. God's people knew it well. They experienced it every year during Passover.

Passover was a celebration of remembrance—when the blood of a lamb over the doorframe of your home meant rescue, deliverance, and salvation. It was a night when judgment passed over. It was a shadow of something greater to come.

For centuries after that first Exodus, people streamed into Jerusalem and gathered in the Temple courts to observe Passover and honor God with a sacrifice. They came from distant towns and surrounding villages, bearing offerings—hoping to pay their dues for mercy and forgiveness.

But there were rules. First, they had to exchange their money at an unfair rate and then buy a lamb, a dove, or two pigeons for an outrageous price. They paid extravagantly for something that was never enough. Year after year. Sacrifice after sacrifice. Blood upon blood. It was a vicious and empty cycle.

And then Jesus came.

He walked into the Temple and saw what God’s house had become—a business, a machine, a place where grace was sold at a markup. He saw the injustice, the swindling, the shell of religion that burdened the people but never freed them—and He had seen enough.

With a whip of cords, He overturned tables, sent coins flying, and drove out the merchants who had turned His Father’s house into a den of thieves. He didn’t just flip tables that day—He flipped the whole system—the way humanity understood access to God. The doves took flight, the cattle fled, the sheep scattered... and grace came running.

When the dust settled, there were no sacrifices left in the building.

None, except One.

The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world stood alone in the Temple courts, steady and unshaken—like a tree on a hill.

It was a glimpse of what was coming. Because days later, on a hill called Calvary, Jesus paid the ultimate, extravagant price—once and for all—for the religious, the swindlers, the broken, the lost... and for you and me. On the cross, He shed His blood and spoke words that shattered every system, silenced every sacrifice, and sealed our salvation forever:

“It is finished.” (John 19:30, NIV)

No more striving. No more endless atonement. Nothing between us and the love of God.

Jesus… is enough.

The G.O.A.T.

“The Son of God came to destroy the works of the devil.” (1 John 3:8, NLT)

In every dorm room debate, group text thread, or sports documentary, the question always comes up: Who’s the G.O.A.T.?—the Greatest of All Time.

Is it Jordan or LeBron? Brady or Montana? Serena or Steffi? Messi or Ronaldo? The arguments rage on, stats are compared, highlight reels analyzed. Everyone has their pick. But there’s one G.O.A.T. whose greatness surpasses trophies, titles, or talent. His arena wasn’t a court or field—it was a cross. His victory wasn’t won with a ball or a racket, but with the weight of our sin upon His shoulders.

In Leviticus 16, God gave Moses instructions for the Day of Atonement—a day when Israel’s sins were symbolically dealt with through two goats. One was sacrificed. The other, the scapegoat, was brought before the priest, who would lay his hands on its head and confess over it the sins of the people. Then the goat was led far away into the wilderness, carrying all the guilt, shame, and sin of the people out of the camp…never to return.

It’s a haunting picture—and a holy one.

Thousands of years later, we see Jesus—the true scapegoat—bearing not just symbolic sins, but the real, soul-staining filth of humanity. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5:21, "God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (NIV). Jesus didn’t just carry our sins away—He became sin for us.

And He didn’t stop there.

He doesn’t just remove our guilt—He destroys its power. “Having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross” (Colossians 2:15, NIV).

The Enemy, through sin, had us locked in shame. But Jesus took all that sludge—our guilt, our fear, our unworthiness—and hauled it upon Himself, back to hell where it belongs. The fiery darts of the wicked one hold no power over us because Jesus, our scapegoat, has removed them—as far as the East is from the West.

So, who’s the real G.O.A.T.?

Not the one with rings or records, but the One with the scars.
Not the one who entertains crowds, but the One who redeems them.
Jesus is the greatest of all time—not just because of what He did, but because of who He is—the Risen One.

And now, because of Him, we stand forgiven, free… victorious!

Happy Easter

Worth It

"Is anything worth more than your soul?” (Matthew 16:26, NLT)

Have you ever wandered through a yard sale and felt that quiet tension between buyer and seller? The seller lays out their timeworn pieces, each priced high, carrying not just a dollar amount, but history and an emotional attachment. Every item has a story—a reminder of its usefulness and the memory of its original cost.

The buyer doesn’t see or appreciate any of that. They’re only looking for a deal. When they make a lowball offer, it stings. The seller rejects it outright. And the buyer just shrugs, turns away, and says, "It’s not worth it."

Worth it.

It’s more than just a phrase—it's the filter we use to measure almost everything in life. What’s worth your time, your money, your energy? What's worth...you?

The worth of anything is measured by what someone is willing to give in exchange for it. Did you know that in God’s economy, your soul—your very self—is of inestimable worth? So valuable, in fact, that He gave the life of His one and only Son in exchange for you.

But here’s the twist: in the marketplace of life, we are the ones who decide what our soul is worth. We choose what we’re willing to trade it for—approval, status, pleasure, influence, security, success, control. The world doesn’t value people the way God does. It has its own ideas of worth, constantly pressuring us to sell out for the next shiny thing. Society measures value by usefulness, beauty, and influence—but God looks at the heart.

Scripture warns us not to fall for the Esau syndrome—trading away God’s lifelong gift in order to satisfy a short-term appetite (Hebrews 12:16–17, MSG). Esau sold his birthright for a bowl of stew. He walked away with a full stomach—but an empty soul.

Your soul is not a discount item. It’s not something to trade for fleeting pleasures or worldly applause. You are the apple of God's eye—His beloved, fearfully and wonderfully made. And while the enemy is happy for you to sell your soul—whether for millions or for a moment—God calls you to hold out for the higher price, the one that reflects your true, immeasurable worth.

King David once asked, “What are mere mortals that you should think about them?" (Psalm 8:4, NLT). Centuries later, the Apostle Paul gave the answer: “But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners" (Romans 5:8, NLT). That’s your value.

So be vigilant. Guard your eyes, your ears, your heart, and your mind. Every moment of every day, you’re deciding what your soul is worth. Don’t let the world write that price tag—because Jesus already did.

And He says, “You’re worth it.”

The Tree … It’s Already There

“He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree…” (1 Peter 2:24, ESV)

Before I ever knew Jesus as my Savior, I knew a song about Zacchaeus and a sycamore tree. As a kid, my grandma occasionally took me to church. The children gathered in the damp church basement and I remember flannel graph stories on the felt board, cookies and punch, and songs with motions that we sang at the top of our lungs. One of those songs went like this:

Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he.
He climbed up in a sycamore tree for the Lord he wanted to see…

Back then, it was just a fun song—but now I see it meant so much more.

In Luke 19 we find that Zacchaeus wasn’t just a “wee little man.” He was a man who was lost. A tax collector who was hated and despised. He was a Jew in bed with Rome, and his sin wasn’t hidden—it was public, notorious, and shameful. Yet there he was, climbing up a tree, wanting to see Jesus. He was a man deeply in need of a grace that he didn’t even know existed.

The tree itself was ordinary—just a tree along the dusty road. But when Zacchaeus climbed it, something changed. That tree became a holy place—an unexpected avenue where Jesus would stop, look up, and call him by name.

According to theologians, that tree served as “prevenient grace” in Zacchaeus’s life. In simple terms, it means “going before.” It’s the kindness of God that reaches for us before we reach for Him. It’s God wooing us unto Himself. It’s that nudge—the tug in your heart to look to Jesus. It’s more faithful than a praying grandmother. More beautiful than a song you remember from childhood. It’s love—pure and persistent. It’s Jesus walking the road you didn’t know you’d be on, calling your name before you even thought to look up.

Zacchaeus wanted to see Jesus. But the truth is, Jesus was already looking for him. That sycamore tree was the bridge that brought him face to face with the Savior. There is another tree that stands in the path of all of us—the tree upon which Christ was crucified. And just like the tree Zacchaeus climbed, the cross goes before us, serving as a bridge to new life. The cross of Christ is where our sins are forgiven. It is the means by which we are saved.

I am Zacchaeus—and so are you. Jesus is always going before us, wooing us unto Himself. He can take anything—an old church basement, a loving grandmother, even a silly song—and use it for good in our lives. He is already looking, already loving, and already preparing the way for you and for me.

And the tree?… It’s already there.

Tomorrow Never Comes

“Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts…”

(Hebrews 3:15, NIV)

The other day, I visited a good friend of mine, a wise and godly man who is 91 years old and confined to his bed. I visit him weekly, offering whatever encouragement I can, but it's always me who walks away feeling blessed.

During our time together, I reminded him that today is a unique gift from God, saying, "Today is the only Monday, March 31, 2025, that has ever existed in time and eternity." He paused and replied, "Wow, I guess that’s right."

I went on to say, "Yesterday is gone, and tomorrow is uncertain. Today is all we have—it’s a gift.” My friend smiled knowingly and said, "You know, tomorrow never comes." Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he asked, "Did I ever tell you about the bar in New York?"

I hadn’t heard the story, so he shared what I thought was a memory from his younger days. He told me about a bar in New York with a sign on the wall that read, “Free Beer Tomorrow”—where one guy kept coming back every day for his free beer, and the bartender would always say, “Nope, read the sign.”

As I chuckled at the old joke, my friend smiled and repeated, "Tomorrow never comes."

And that isn't a joke—it’s the truth.

The Enemy deceives us with the illusion of a tomorrow that never comes. He whispers, "There will be time later to get things right. Tomorrow, you’ll make that change. Tomorrow, you’ll turn to God." But the truth is, tomorrow never arrives. We have “plans” and put things off, thinking, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” But then we look back months, even years later, and realize all we have is a bunch of empty yesterdays.

Scripture pleads with us: "Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts." Not tomorrow—today. When we hear God's voice—whether it's a gentle nudge to forgive, a prompting to step into something new, or a call to repentance—and we delay, saying, “not yet,” we begin to close off the tenderness and trust that a “yes” to God requires. Over time, that repeated “not yet” becomes a hard-hearted “no” without us even realizing it.

God’s invitation to “today”  isn’t for when life settles down or when we feel more ready—it’s for now. God is speaking to us in this moment, calling us to surrender, to reconcile, to create, to live fully in Him.

Lean into Jesus. Act now, because… tomorrow never comes.

Thorns and Nails

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. (Isaiah 40:31, KJV)

The other day, I was talking with a friend who had recently undergone a serious heart procedure. Her doctors were monitoring her for three months to determine whether the treatment had been successful.  She told me the waiting was the hardest part—every little flutter or twinge sent a wave of concern through her. She looked at me and said, “I’m on pins and needles.”

There are moments in life when we wait—when the days stretch on endlessly and uncertainty grips our hearts. We wait for a diagnosis, a job offer—an answer. And in that waiting, we often feel like we’re on pins and needles, fraught with anxiety, held captive by the tension of the unknown.

But it doesn’t have to be like this. Isaiah 40:31 describes a different kind of waiting: “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength…”

In the Bible, the Hebrew word for “wait” conveys the image of interwoven strands—like cords twisted and bound together to form something strong and unbreakable. It’s a waiting where our souls are entwined with the Lord’s heart rather than tangled in the worry and fear of the world. It’s an active, expectant waiting that draws us closer to God’s presence and strengthens us with His promises.

Jesus is at the very center of this different kind of waiting. He took on thorns and nails so that you and I wouldn't have to endure pins and needles. He carries us—and the weight of our fears and burdens—so that we might live in peace, no longer captives to anxiety.

Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

(John 14:27, NIV)

He invites us to “wait” upon Him. In Jesus, we soar like eagles, run with strength, and walk without fainting. We are empowered to endure, persevere, and trust, as He is our portion. We trade our pins and needles for His peace—a peace that sustains us in the moment and carries us into the unknown. 

It’s a peace found in waiting—a waiting He secured for us through thorns and nails.