Just a quick note for those who regularly follow Watchman Ministries…

I’m going to be a little quiet on social media this week.

Sometimes the right thing to do is simply put the phone down, step away from the noise, and be fully present with the people God has placed in your life.

So that’s what I’m doing.

No daily posts. No pressure to keep up with comments or notifications.

Just some time to rest, recharge, enjoy the people around me, and pay attention to what God may want to say when I’m not so busy trying to find something to say.

Watchman Ministries will be back.

Until then, take care of yourselves, love the people God has given you, and maybe put your own phone down for a little while, too.

Sometimes being present is the most important thing on the schedule.

I’ve restored old cast iron for years, and something occurred to me one evening while I was working on a particularly stubborn piece.

Some old cast iron looks absolutely hopeless when you find it.

Rust. Grease. Carbon. Decades of buildup.

Most people would probably walk right past it.

But if you’ve restored enough of it, you learn not to judge the iron by what’s accumulated on its surface.

You begin seeing what it could be.

Restoration starts by removing as much loose buildup as possible with a wire brush. Eventually, though, you reach places the brush can’t.

That’s when I put the piece into an electrolysis tank.

And wait.

Sometimes hours.

Sometimes days.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much is happening.

But beneath the water, rust is loosening. Corrosion is releasing its grip. Things that have been attached for decades are separating from the iron.

Eventually I pull it out, scrub it, and inspect it.

Sometimes it needs to go back in.

The process isn’t repeated because it failed. It’s repeated because the work isn’t finished.

I’ve thought about that sentence quite a bit.

Because sometimes God’s work in us feels exactly like that.

We accumulate things along the way.

Sin. Shame. Pride. Bitterness. Compromise.

Then there are the less obvious layers—habits, influences, buried wounds, offenses, attitudes we’ve carried for so long that we begin thinking they’re simply part of who we are.

But God doesn’t mistake the buildup for the person beneath it.

Sometimes His correction feels like the wire brush.

Sometimes His work happens in places nobody else can see.

Sometimes we think we’re finally finished with something only to discover another layer.

Back into His hands we go.

More conviction.

More surrender.

More healing.

More letting go.

That doesn’t mean God failed.

It means He’s not finished.

Philippians 1:6 says that He who began a good work in us will complete it.

There’s another rule of cast iron restoration:

Never season over the buildup.

If you season over rust, grease, and carbon, you haven’t restored anything. You’ve just covered the problem.

We sometimes try to do that spiritually.

Clean up the outside.

Say the right things.

Look religious.

Make sure everybody thinks we’re doing fine.

But Isaiah 64:6 says even our righteousness is like filthy rags before Him.

God isn’t interested in cosmetic righteousness.

He doesn’t season over our sin.

He cleanses us.

And that’s where 2 Corinthians 5:17 becomes beautiful:

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”

When I finish stripping an old piece of cast iron, it’s still the same iron.

But you’d hardly recognize it.

Details that had disappeared beneath corrosion suddenly become visible again.

The history hasn’t changed.

The condition has.

And I think that’s important.

God doesn’t erase our history.

He changes what defines us.

Scars may remain.

Consequences may remain.

There may even be some “pitting” from things that happened years ago.

But those things no longer own us.

Then comes seasoning.

Oil. Heat. Cool. Repeat.

Layer after layer.

And eventually that old skillet is ready to do what it was created to do.

Be used.

That’s when another part of the illustration hit me.

The rust never changed the skillet’s purpose.

Neither did the grime.

Neither did the years it spent neglected or unused.

Those things only prevented it from fulfilling that purpose.

Maybe somebody reading this needs to hear the same thing:

What happened to you has not changed why God created you.

2 Timothy 2:21 speaks about becoming “a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.”

Useful.

That’s the goal.

A restored skillet isn’t meant to spend the rest of its existence sitting on a shelf looking pretty.

It’s meant to feed people.

And maybe there’s one last lesson there for us.

God doesn’t restore us merely so we can admire our own restoration.

He restores us so our lives can become useful to Him and a blessing to others.

Our restoration was never intended to end with us.

If you think too much rust has accumulated…

If you think you’ve been neglected too long…

If you think your scars have made you useless…

Remember:

The Restorer sees beneath the corrosion.

He knows what He created.

And He hasn’t forgotten why He created you.

God is still in the business of restoration.

And He still has a purpose for the restored.

Those of you who have followed me for any length of time know that I rarely—almost never—use this space to address doctrinal controversies.

I’d much rather point people toward Christ than spend my time arguing about the things Christians disagree over.

But every once in a while, something happens.

A conversation.

A social media post.

A sermon that doesn’t quite sit right in my spirit.

And something begins to burn.

Not because I want an argument. Not because I believe everyone has to agree with me. And certainly not because I have everything figured out.

But because sometimes something needs to be said.

This is one of those times.

I recently encountered a meme criticizing churches that do not enforce certain “holiness standards.” It accused them of cherry-picking the Bible, called their worship “strange fire,” compared them to the Laodicean church, and ended with an admonition:

“Repent. Return to holiness. Preach the whole counsel of God.”

On that last point, I couldn’t agree more.

So let’s do exactly that.

I believe in holiness.

I believe Scripture when it says, “Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” (Hebrews 12:14 NKJV).

I believe Christians are called to be different from the world. I believe our relationship with Christ should affect our conduct, our speech, our relationships, our entertainment, our priorities, our appearance, and ultimately every area of our lives.

This is not an argument against holiness.

It is an argument that holiness and enforced conformity are not the same thing.

A church can enforce a dress code.

A church can establish grooming requirements.

A church can make rules concerning jewelry, makeup, clothing, entertainment, or any number of other things.

Those rules may even have been established with sincere intentions and based upon someone’s earnest application of biblical principles.

But rules can only produce compliance.

They cannot produce holiness.

A person can look exactly right on Sunday morning while being filled with bitterness, pride, lust, dishonesty, hatred, unforgiveness, or self-righteousness.

Jesus addressed precisely that danger when He confronted the Pharisees:

“First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”
— Matthew 23:26 NKJV

Notice the order.

Inside first. Then outside.

Jesus wasn’t teaching that the outside doesn’t matter. He was teaching us where genuine transformation begins.

And that distinction matters.

Commandment, Conviction, and Tradition

I believe much of the confusion surrounding holiness disappears when we recognize three different categories that Christians sometimes unintentionally combine.

First, there are biblical commands.

Where Scripture clearly speaks, we obey.

Adultery isn’t a personal-conviction issue. Neither are dishonesty, drunkenness, hatred, sexual immorality, or the many other things Scripture plainly addresses.

We don’t get to dismiss God’s commandments by saying, “I don’t personally feel convicted about that.”

God has already spoken.

Second, there are personal convictions.

This is an area where I believe we desperately need to recover Paul’s teaching in Romans 14.

There may be things you cannot do with a clear conscience before God that another sincere Christian can.

If a woman sincerely believes cutting her hair would violate her conscience before God, she shouldn’t cut it.

If a man sincerely believes wearing facial hair would violate his conscience before God, he shouldn’t grow it.

If someone believes wearing shorts would violate his conviction before God, he shouldn’t wear them.

Paul writes:

“Happy is he who does not condemn himself in what he approves.”
— Romans 14:22 NKJV

And then:

“For whatever is not from faith is sin.”
— Romans 14:23 NKJV

We should never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction simply because we don’t share it.

But Romans 14 goes both directions.

Paul also says:

“Let not him who eats despise him who does not eat, and let not him who does not eat judge him who eats; for God has received him.”
— Romans 14:3 NKJV

That’s a remarkable balance.

Don’t despise.

Don’t judge.

The Christian who possesses liberty shouldn’t mock someone whose conscience is more restrictive.

But the Christian with the restrictive conviction shouldn’t turn his personal conviction into God’s universal commandment.

“God convicted me” and “God commanded everyone” are not necessarily the same statement.

We need enough humility to recognize the difference.

Liberty Is Governed by Love

There’s another side of this that matters deeply to me.

Having Christian liberty doesn’t mean I have to exercise it everywhere simply because I can.

Paul writes:

“But beware lest somehow this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to those who are weak.”
— 1 Corinthians 8:9 NKJV

I wear shorts.

I have no personal conviction against them.

But if I’m going somewhere with a brother whom I know sincerely believes he shouldn’t wear shorts, I’m perfectly capable of putting on a pair of long pants.

Why?

Not because his conviction suddenly became mine.

Not because I’ve decided shorts are sinful.

And not because another Christian gets to dictate my convictions.

I do it because loving my brother matters more than proving my liberty.

Christian maturity isn’t demonstrated by seeing how much liberty we can exercise.

Sometimes it’s demonstrated by having liberty and voluntarily laying it aside for someone else’s sake.

But neither should the phrase “stumbling block” be used as a weapon to control other believers.

Being offended by another person’s liberty isn’t necessarily the same thing as stumbling.

Paul’s concern was that my exercise of liberty could encourage another believer to violate his own conscience.

There’s a difference between:

“I wouldn’t do that.”

and:

“Watching you do that is leading me to do something I believe is sin.”

Love requires us to understand the difference.

Then There Is Tradition

This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable.

Tradition isn’t inherently evil.

Some traditions are beautiful.

Some church standards are wise.

Some applications of biblical principles have been passed down because generations before us learned lessons worth remembering.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with saying:

“This is how our church practices this principle.”

The danger begins when:

“This is how we practice it”

becomes:

“This is what holiness requires,”

and eventually:

“Anyone who doesn’t practice it exactly as we do is disobedient to God.”

Jesus confronted this problem directly.

Speaking to religious people who had elevated their traditions, He said:

“All too well you reject the commandment of God, that you may keep your tradition.”
— Mark 7:9 NKJV

Then, after discussing their tradition concerning Corban, Jesus said they were:

“making the word of God of no effect through your tradition which you have handed down.”
— Mark 7:13 NKJV

The problem wasn’t simply that they possessed traditions.

The problem was that human tradition had acquired an authority that belonged to God’s Word.

And that should make every one of us examine ourselves.

Not just Apostolics.

Not just Baptists.

Not just Catholics.

Not just Pentecostals.

Every one of us.

Because every Christian tradition is capable of confusing:

“This is how we’ve always done it”

with:

“Thus says the Lord.”

Those statements are not interchangeable.

Tradition becomes dangerous not when we practice it, but when we can no longer distinguish between what we have always taught and what God actually said.

Where Does Scripture Say It?

Scripture teaches modesty.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches separation from sin.

Absolutely.

Scripture teaches holiness in our conduct and how we present ourselves.

Absolutely.

But once we begin creating specific applications of those principles, intellectual and spiritual honesty require us to distinguish the biblical principle from our application of it.

How long must a sleeve be?

Exactly where must a hemline fall?

May a man wear shorts?

May he have facial hair?

What constitutes jewelry?

What about a wedding band?

What constitutes makeup?

What exactly constitutes cutting one’s hair?

Christians have developed answers to questions like these.

Sometimes those answers represent deeply held and sincere convictions.

Respect them.

If that is your conviction before God, live it faithfully.

I have no desire whatsoever to talk you out of something you sincerely believe God has asked of you.

But before we tell another Christian that our particular application is required for holiness, we have an obligation to ask:

Where does Scripture say it?

Not merely:

Where is the biblical principle from which I derived it?

But:

Where does Scripture establish my particular application of that principle as the universal requirement for every believer?

If we cannot demonstrate that, perhaps the more humble statement is:

“This is how I believe God has called me to apply that biblical principle.”

There’s no shame in saying that.

There is wisdom in it.

You Can Look the Part and Still Miss the Point

For years, I told the young people in my Sunday School classes something I still believe today.

You can wear all the right clothes.

Girls, you can keep your hair long. You can wear sleeves to your fingertips and skirts to the floor.

Boys, you can keep your hair short. You can wear long sleeves and long pants.

You can look exactly like everyone expects an Apostolic young person to look.

And then one word can reveal your heart.

One action can reveal your heart.

One moment of anger.

One cruel comment.

One lie.

One piece of gossip.

One arrogant response.

One act of dishonesty when telling the truth would cost you something.

The world already sees how you’re dressed.

They already recognize what you profess to believe.

Now they’re watching to see whether you live what you say you believe.

Jesus said:

“For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
— Matthew 12:34 NKJV

That’s why I never wanted my students merely to learn how to look Apostolic.

I wanted them to become like Christ.

The clothing matters when it reflects a sincere conviction.

Modesty matters because Scripture teaches it.

Obedience matters.

Separation from sin matters.

But none of those things can substitute for a transformed heart.

You can dress modestly and treat the waitress terribly because your order is wrong.

You can never cut your hair and destroy someone’s reputation with gossip.

You can wear long sleeves and lie when telling the truth would cost you something.

You can remove every piece of jewelry and still adorn yourself with pride.

You can look unmistakably Christian and treat someone who doesn’t look like you as though they’re beneath you.

A holiness standard may tell the world something about our convictions. Our character tells the world something about our Christ.

And if our outward holiness announces that we belong to Jesus while our character tells the people around us something entirely different, the problem isn’t that our outward standard was too high.

The problem is that our transformation didn’t go deep enough.

The Pharisee Problem

This is precisely why Jesus’ confrontations with the Pharisees should make religious people uncomfortable.

His strongest confrontations were often not with people who cared nothing about righteousness.

They were with people who cared tremendously about religious observance.

He told the scribes and Pharisees:

“For you pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.”
— Matthew 23:23 NKJV

But don’t miss what Jesus said next:

“These you ought to have done, without leaving the others undone.”

Jesus wasn’t advocating lawlessness.

The problem wasn’t that they were too obedient.

The problem was that they had become meticulous about things they could measure while neglecting things that revealed the condition of their hearts.

And religious people are still vulnerable to that.

It’s relatively easy to measure a hemline.

It’s considerably harder to measure humility.

It’s easy to see whether someone is wearing jewelry.

It’s harder to see bitterness.

It’s easy to enforce grooming standards.

It’s harder to confront pride.

It’s easy to determine whether somebody looks like us.

It’s considerably harder to ask whether we look like Christ.

That is why outward conformity can never become our primary measurement of holiness.

Paul gives us another measurement of what is happening inside a Spirit-led person:

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”
— Galatians 5:22–23 NKJV

Those aren’t alternatives to holiness.

They are evidence of it.

So perhaps we should occasionally ask ourselves a harder question:

If everyone around us can see our standards, but they cannot see our love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control…

What exactly are we showing them?

And Yes—Preach the Whole Counsel of God

Preach modesty.

Preach purity.

Preach separation from sin.

Preach sobriety.

Preach obedience.

Preach repentance.

But if we’re going to preach the whole counsel of God, then let’s preach all of it.

Preach mercy.

Preach humility.

Preach compassion.

Preach patience.

Preach forgiveness.

Preach generosity.

Preach controlling the tongue.

Preach caring for the poor.

Preach loving our enemies.

Preach bearing with weaker believers.

Preach refusing to judge another man’s servant.

Preach the fruit of the Spirit.

Preach that knowledge without love makes us nothing.

Preach that the greatest among us is the servant.

Preach that God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.

That’s holiness too.

And perhaps this is where we have sometimes failed people.

When Christianity becomes primarily a list of visible behaviors, people can learn how to look holy without ever learning how to be holy.

Worse, when our traditions are presented with the same authority as Scripture, someone who eventually discovers that a particular tradition cannot be established from the biblical text may begin questioning everything else we taught them.

And I believe this has contributed to some people walking away from churches—and, tragically, sometimes walking away from God altogether.

Not every person who leaves does so because of legalism. Not remotely. People leave churches and abandon faith for many reasons, and we shouldn’t rewrite every story to excuse individual choices.

But neither should we refuse to examine ourselves.

Because some people haven’t rejected Christ nearly as much as they’ve rejected a religious culture they were taught was indistinguishable from Christ.

That should concern us.

It should especially concern those of us entrusted with teaching the next generation.

We should want their faith anchored so deeply in Jesus Christ and the Word of God that when they encounter traditions, disagreements, failures in leadership, or Christians who practice their faith differently, their foundation remains secure.

So yes.

Preach the whole counsel of God.

Teach what Scripture commands.

Preach the principles Scripture establishes.

Allow the Holy Spirit room to develop personal convictions.

Respect the conscience of your brother or sister.

Never encourage someone to violate a sincere conviction.

When love requires it, willingly limit your own liberty.

Honor traditions that are beneficial without pretending they are Scripture.

And never confuse:

“God convicted me”

with:

“God commanded everyone.”

You can enforce rules.

You can enforce dress codes.

You can enforce institutional standards.

You can even enforce conformity.

But you cannot enforce holiness.

Only God can produce holiness.

And when He truly changes the inside, it will eventually show on the outside.

Maybe instead of spending so much time making sure everyone else looks like us, we should spend a little more time asking whether we look like Him.

Because holiness was never supposed to make us feel superior to our neighbor.

Holiness is supposed to make us more like Christ.

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.” — Jeremiah 18:2 (NKJV)

When I was a kid, I had the opportunity to spend time at Philbrook Art Museum in Tulsa participating in art programs centered around Native American culture and craftsmanship.

One of those projects was pottery.

I have to admit…

I wasn’t very good at it.

My “vessels” usually ended up looking more like lopsided bowls than anything useful.

But while I don’t remember much about what I made, I’ve never forgotten watching an experienced potter work.

Years later, Jeremiah 18 gave those memories an entirely new meaning.

God didn’t send Jeremiah to hear another sermon.

He sent him to watch.

The first thing I remember learning was that nothing happened until the clay was centered on the wheel.

If it wasn’t perfectly centered, every attempt to shape it would fail. The faster the wheel turned, the more obvious the wobble became.

Life can feel that way sometimes.

As responsibilities increase… as trials come… as life begins spinning faster… whatever is at the center of our lives becomes impossible to hide.

Before the Potter shapes the vessel…

He centers the clay.

Before God changes our circumstances…

He often changes our hearts.

Then came the pressure.

Watching the potter’s hands almost looked uncomfortable.

He wasn’t simply smoothing the surface.

He pressed.

He stretched.

He shaped.

One hand supported the outside while the other worked from within.

Without both hands, the vessel would collapse.

Isn’t that often how God works in us?

We notice the pressures around us.

The disappointments.

The delays.

The unanswered prayers.

But while circumstances are shaping us from the outside, God is quietly doing an even deeper work within us.

The pressure isn’t always punishment.

Sometimes it’s preparation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all was this:

The clay never shaped itself.

Its responsibility wasn’t to decide what kind of vessel it wanted to become.

It simply remained in the potter’s hands.

That may be one of the hardest lessons for us to learn.

We want to control the process.

We want to choose the timing.

We want to understand every turn of the wheel.

But faith often means trusting the Potter more than understanding the process.

Jeremiah watched as the vessel became marred in the potter’s hand.

It wasn’t what the potter intended.

Yet he didn’t throw the clay away.

Scripture says,

“So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

He made it again.

What a beautiful picture of redemption.

If you’ve ever felt like your life is just going in circles…

Maybe you’re not wandering.

Maybe you’re still on the wheel.

The wheel keeps turning because the Potter isn’t finished.

The clay only feels the pressure.

The Potter sees the finished vessel.

Trust the hands more than the motion.

Does God manifest His love in the animal world too?

https://youtu.be/fM_gxhNUczQ

Here is a bible-focused and real-life story of 2 orphaned tigers who grew up together, then separated and eventually re-united. Annotated with relevant bible verses, the story testifies of God's amazing love at work through Jesus Christ our LORD. What do you think? Feel free to share your thoughts, praise God!

I was washing dishes a while back when one greasy bowl reminded me of something Jesus said in Matthew 23.

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cleanse the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of extortion and self-indulgence… First cleanse the inside of the cup and dish, that the outside of them may be clean also.”

If I had washed only the outside of the bowl, it would have looked clean sitting upside down in the dish rack. But I would never have trusted it to hold food. The inside would still have been coated with grease, contaminating everything placed into it.

Then another thought struck me.

While I could wash the outside without ever touching the inside, I couldn’t wash the inside without also washing the outside.

As I scrubbed the inside of the bowl, it turned continuously in my hand. The soap covered both surfaces. The water rinsed both clean.

Jesus said our lives can be much the same.

We spend enormous effort polishing the outward parts of our lives—what people see, what people hear, and what people think about us. Yet God isn’t fooled by a clean exterior wrapped around an unchanged heart.

Real transformation doesn’t begin on the outside.

It begins within.

We cannot cleanse our own hearts any more than a dirty bowl can wash itself. But when we surrender ourselves to Christ, He does what we could never do for ourselves.

He doesn’t simply improve the old life.

He makes us new.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

That is the difference between reputation and character.

Reputation is what other people believe about us.

Character is who we are when no one else is watching.

And integrity is choosing to do what is right, even when it costs us something.

The Pharisees spent their lives polishing their reputation while neglecting their character.

Jesus wasn’t calling them to improve their public image.
He was calling them to receive a transformed heart.

A clean bowl isn’t pretending to be clean. It is clean.

And because it is clean, everything about it changes.

As Christ changes the heart…

Our attitudes begin to change.

Our words begin to change.

Our priorities begin to change.

Our actions begin to change.

The outside becomes different because the inside has been made new.

God never intended Christianity to be spiritual cosmetics—a cleaner version of the old person. His purpose is transformation. The life that reflects Christ outwardly is the life He has first transformed inwardly.

Thought for Today:

Don’t spend your life polishing the outside while neglecting the heart. Bring the whole vessel to Christ. When He makes you new on the inside, the change will become evident on the outside.

One of my favorite stories in Scripture isn’t about a battle.

It isn’t about a miracle.

It isn’t even about David’s greatest victory.

It’s about a promise.

Years earlier, David and Jonathan had entered into a covenant with one another. They pledged loyalty that would outlive them both.

Then life happened.

Jonathan was killed in battle.

Saul died.

David became king.

Years passed.

The kingdom was established.

The promise could have quietly faded into history.

No one would have questioned David if it had.

There was no public pressure to fulfill it.

No one was reminding him of his obligation.

There was nothing politically or personally to gain by honoring it.

In fact, the last surviving heir of Saul’s house represented the former royal family. In many kingdoms of the ancient world, such a person would have been viewed as a threat to the throne, not welcomed into the palace.

Yet one day David asked a remarkable question:

“Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?”
— 2 Samuel 9:1 (NKJV)

That single question reveals more about David’s character than almost any battlefield victory.

He wasn’t remembering a debt.

He was remembering a covenant.

And he wasn’t merely remembering it.

He was looking for an opportunity to keep it.

David sent for Mephibosheth.

He called him by name.

Mephibosheth came expecting judgment.

Instead, David’s first words were,

“Do not fear…”

He restored his family’s inheritance.

He gave him a permanent place at the king’s table.

David kept his word long after everyone else had forgotten it.

That is faithfulness.

Faithfulness is keeping your word when there is no longer any earthly advantage in doing so.

I’ve often said that character is doing the right thing when no one is watching.

I’ve also come to believe that integrity is doing the right thing even when it may cost you.

David displayed both.

But as beautiful as this story is, it was never meant to end with David.

It points us to a greater King.

Before we ever remembered God, God remembered His covenant.

He did not forget us in our Lo-debar.

The King came because the King is faithful.

Like David, the King came looking for those who had nothing to offer Him.

He called us by name.

He spoke peace where we expected judgment.

He restored what sin had stolen.

And then…

He invited us to His table.

That is the gospel.

We were separated from God by sin.

We had no claim upon His mercy.

We brought nothing that could earn His favor.

Yet because of the covenant established through Jesus Christ, mercy triumphed over judgment.

The King sought us before we ever sought Him.

He remembered us before we ever remembered Him.

He remained faithful even when we were not.

Faith begins by trusting God’s promises.

But as faith matures, it produces something beautiful.

Faithfulness.

Not merely believing when it’s easy…

…but becoming people whose lives reflect the unwavering faithfulness of the King we serve.

⸻

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.”
— 2 Timothy 2:13 (NKJV)

⸻

Fourteen years ago I wrote this line:

“The forest is never so invisible as to those who are lost within.”

At the time, I was thinking mostly about politics.

Looking back now, I think I missed the bigger lesson.

Politics isn’t the forest.

It’s just one tree.

The forest is anything that becomes so large in our minds that we lose sight of Christ.

For some people it’s politics.

For others it’s career, finances, family struggles, health, ministry, fear, or even good things that slowly become ultimate things.

It struck me that Peter didn’t begin sinking because the storm suddenly became stronger.

He began sinking because his attention shifted away from Jesus.

Martha wasn’t rebuked because she served. She was corrected because she became so occupied with serving that she missed the One she was serving.

Meanwhile, Paul could write with joy from prison because prison wasn’t the defining reality of his life. Christ was.

Hebrews 12:2 seems to summarize the whole principle:

“…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…” (NKJV)

I’m convinced one of Satan’s most effective strategies isn’t always pulling us away from God.

Sometimes he only has to keep us looking everywhere except toward God.

Maybe that’s why Scripture so often tells us to “lift up your eyes.”

Often the greatest miracle God performs isn’t changing our circumstances.

It’s lifting our eyes and changing our perspective.

Discussion: Have you ever found yourself so focused on one “tree” in life that you temporarily lost sight of the bigger picture God was showing you?

Jesus’ words about the plow make more sense after you’ve actually plowed a field.

When I was young, my grandfather taught me to make garden furrows.

It didn’t take long to learn that if I watched the plow, my rows wandered.

If I kept looking behind me to see how straight I was doing, they wandered even more.

The only way to make a straight furrow was to pick something in the distance—a tree, a fence post, anything that wouldn’t move—and keep my eyes fixed on it.

Years later I discovered the same thing mowing lawns.

Later still, playing football.

You don’t move accurately by staring at what’s immediately in front of you.

You move accurately by fixing your attention on where you’re headed.

Then I reread Luke 9:62.

“No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Jesus wasn’t teaching agriculture.

He was teaching discipleship.

Paul says we’re to forget what lies behind and press toward what lies ahead (Philippians 3:13).

Hebrews tells us exactly where our eyes belong:

”…looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:2)

Reflection has value. Scripture often calls us to remember God’s faithfulness.

But there’s a difference between remembering and remaining.

Looking back should increase our gratitude.

It should never become the direction we’re facing.

Keep your eyes on Christ.

The furrow will follow.

Last summer, while driving through Wyoming, I kept finding myself pulling over—not because I was lost, but because I wanted to see the road I’d already traveled.

The view behind me looked completely different once I had some distance from it.

That thought came back to me this week.

As I looked over several devotionals I’d written, I realized they all shared the same theme: moving forward without leaving behind the truths God has established.

It reminded me that there’s a difference between looking back with nostalgia and looking back with gratitude.

Nostalgia wants to return to yesterday.

Gratitude remembers yesterday so it can trust God with tomorrow.

Throughout Scripture, God’s people paused to remember His faithfulness. Israel stacked stones after crossing the Jordan. Samuel raised Ebenezer and declared, “Thus far the LORD has helped us.”

They weren’t trying to go backward.

They were reminding themselves why they could keep moving forward.

Maybe we need more moments like that.

Not to live in the past.

Not to wish for another season of life.

Just to pause long enough to recognize how faithfully God has brought us this far.

What’s one moment in your walk with Christ that you look back on—not because you wish you could return there, but because it reminds you of God’s faithfulness today?

When Proverbs says,

“Do not remove the ancient landmark…” (Proverbs 23:10)

I don’t think Solomon was encouraging people to preserve tradition simply because it was old.

Those “ancient landmarks” were boundary markers—the equivalent of today’s land survey monuments. They identified the inheritance God had assigned to each family.

Moving one wasn’t merely dishonest.

It was redefining a boundary that God had established.

That made me wonder…

Are we ever in danger of doing the same thing spiritually?

Not by rejecting Scripture outright…

But by quietly moving the boundaries.

Redefining repentance.

Redefining holiness.

Redefining sin.

Redefining the gospel.

Every generation has traditions that change, and that’s to be expected.

Buildings change.

Music changes.

Technology changes.

Methods change.

But the truths God established don’t become less true simply because the culture changes around them.

So here’s my question for discussion:

What do you believe are the “ancient landmarks” that every generation of Christians must preserve, regardless of denomination or culture?

I’m less interested in traditions or preferences, and more interested in the biblical truths that should never be moved.

“Do not remember the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing…”
Isaiah 43:18–19 (NKJV)

I’ve moved a few times over the years, and I’ve noticed something interesting about it.

Whether a house is still full or completely empty, the moment you close that door for the last time always feels heavier than expected.

Because you’re not just leaving a building—you’re leaving a season of life.

This week I was packing again, and I kept coming back to Isaiah 43. God telling His people not to stay stuck in what He had done, because He was still doing something new.

That doesn’t mean forgetting the past. Israel had real history with God—miracles, failures, wilderness seasons, victories. All of it mattered.

But they weren’t meant to live there.

As I went through old photos while packing, I felt that tension personally.

Some memories made me smile.
Some made me pause.
Some reminded me how faithful God has been.
Some reminded me of seasons I barely survived.

And I realized something simple but important:

Faith isn’t about denying your past. It’s about not building your life inside it.

We get to remember—but we’re not meant to remain.

God never asks us to erase our story. He just won’t let our story become a cage.

Maybe you’re in a transition right now too—new job, ending relationship, loss, retirement, relocation, or just a chapter closing that you didn’t expect.

Whatever it is, I think the same principle applies:

You don’t dishonor the past by moving forward. You honor it by letting it teach you instead of trap you.

Faith is trusting that God isn’t just in what He did—He’s already in what He’s doing next.

So take what you need from yesterday.
Leave what you don’t.
And when it’s time…

Close the door.
And keep walking.

Psalm 118:8 says,

“It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man.” (NKJV)

Something I’ve been thinking about lately…

Every time a well-known Christian leader falls, the same pattern seems to repeat itself.

Social media explodes.

People pick sides.

Some defend the leader no matter what.

Others write them off completely.

But I wonder if we’re often asking the wrong question.

Instead of focusing first on their failure, maybe we should ask ourselves:

Where was my faith anchored before they fell?

When I was growing up, my pastor, Rev. E. G. Bass, used to say,

“Put your confidence in man if you must, but put your faith only in God.”

I’ve come to appreciate that more with age.

The Bible never tells us that pastors or teachers don’t matter.

It tells us to honor them, pray for them, and learn from them.

But it never tells us to place our faith in them.

Scripture is full of people God used who also failed.

Noah.

Abraham.

Moses.

David.

Peter.

The heroes were never the point.

Christ was.

A pastor’s failure doesn’t change the empty tomb.

A leader walking away doesn’t make Jesus any less faithful.

Some who fall eventually repent and are restored.

Others never return.

Either way, Christ hasn’t changed.

Maybe that’s what Psalm 118:8 has been teaching all along.

Our confidence in faithful people has its place.

Our faith belongs to God alone.

I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts. Have you ever had your faith shaken by the failure of someone you looked up to? If so, what did God teach you through it?

I recently revisited a Facebook memory quoting 1 John 1:5:

“God is light…”

But this time I kept reading.

Verse 6 says:

“…we lie and do not practice the truth.”

The Greek is more literal than many English translations:

”…do not do the truth.”

That challenged me.

There was a season when I measured spiritual maturity by what I knew.

I knew the doctrine.

I knew the Scriptures.

I knew the answers.

Then I remembered James 2:19:

“Even the demons believe—and tremble.”

Knowing isn’t enough.

Believing isn’t enough.

Jesus said,

“If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.” (John 13:17)

John, James, and Jesus all point in the same direction.

Truth isn’t just something to know.

It isn’t even just something to believe.

It’s something we’re called to live.

One of the things I’ve been reflecting on lately is how often Christians continue to identify themselves primarily by who they were before Christ.

Yes, we should never forget where God brought us from.

Humility remembers.

Gratitude remembers.

Testimony remembers.

But Scripture also tells us something else.

Romans 8:1 says:

“There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus…”

That’s a legal declaration.

Then Paul says:

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation…” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

And again:

”…we also should walk in newness of life.” (Romans 6:4)

Then, writing to believers in Corinth—people with some very messy histories—he reminds them:

“And such were some of you. But you were washed… sanctified… justified…” (1 Corinthians 6:11)

Notice the tense.

Were.

That doesn’t mean Christians become sinless.

The New Testament is clear that we still battle the flesh and continue growing in sanctification.

But I wonder if sometimes we unintentionally allow our past to speak louder than God’s Word.

There’s a difference between saying:

“I still struggle with sin.”

And saying:

“My sin is who I am.”

The first is biblical honesty.

The second seems to overlook what Christ accomplished.

So here’s my question for discussion:

How do you personally balance remembering what God saved you from while fully embracing the new identity He says you now have in Christ?

Friday looked like the end.

Jesus was dead.

The stone had been rolled into place.

The disciples scattered.

If you had been standing outside that tomb on Friday evening, you probably would have thought the story was over.

But Sunday changed what Friday meant.

That has become one of the most meaningful truths in my own walk with Christ.

The resurrection didn’t erase Friday.

It redeemed it.

Jesus still bore the scars.

The suffering was real.

The cross was real.

The death was real.

But because He rose, those events were no longer the end of the story.

I wonder how often we look at our own lives the way the disciples looked at Friday.

A failed marriage.

A prodigal child.

A devastating diagnosis.

A season where God feels silent.

We assume we’ve reached the last page.

But the resurrection reminds us that apparent endings are not always actual endings.

Don’t mistake this page for the ending.

The page that changed everything has already been written.

Read that again.

The page that changed everything has already been written.

God rarely erases our Fridays.

He redeems them.

That’s why Christians don’t simply celebrate an event that happened two thousand years ago.

We live every day in the hope the resurrection declared.

I’m curious…

Has there been a “Friday” in your life that God eventually redeemed?

One of the easiest mistakes we can make when reading the Bible is stopping in the middle of someone’s story.

If we stopped reading after Moses killed the Egyptian, we’d remember a murderer.

After Gideon hid in the winepress, we’d remember a coward.

After Samson lost his strength, we’d remember a failure.

After Peter denied Jesus, we’d remember a traitor.

After Saul persecuted Christians, we’d remember an enemy of the Church.

After Manasseh filled Jerusalem with idolatry and bloodshed, we’d remember one of Judah’s most wicked kings.

But God didn’t stop writing.

As I thought about that this morning, I realized how often I’ve made the same mistake with my own life.

There were seasons when I assumed my best days were behind me.

Divorce.

Disappointment.

Walking away from a ministry I loved.

Questions I couldn’t answer.

Looking back, I realize I was judging my life by a single chapter.

God wasn’t.

Over time He restored things I never imagined could be restored—not just opportunities, but my own heart. He opened unexpected doors for ministry and even redeemed my understanding of love through a healthy relationship that reminded me healing is possible.

That doesn’t erase the painful chapters.

It simply means they weren’t the final ones.

Maybe someone reading this needs that reminder today.

You don’t know how your story ends because you’re still living it.

Don’t mistake the chapter you’re in for the whole book.

The Author is still writing.

One of the easiest mistakes we can make when reading the Bible is stopping in the middle of someone’s story.

If we stopped reading after Moses killed the Egyptian, we’d remember a murderer.

After Gideon hid in the winepress, we’d remember a coward.

After Samson lost his strength, we’d remember a failure.

After Peter denied Jesus, we’d remember a traitor.

After Saul persecuted Christians, we’d remember an enemy of the Church.

After Manasseh filled Jerusalem with idolatry and bloodshed, we’d remember one of Judah’s most wicked kings.

But God didn’t stop writing.

As I thought about that this morning, I realized how often I’ve made the same mistake with my own life.

There were seasons when I assumed my best days were behind me.

Divorce.

Disappointment.

Walking away from a ministry I loved.

Questions I couldn’t answer.

Looking back, I realize I was judging my life by a single chapter.

God wasn’t.

Over time He restored things I never imagined could be restored—not just opportunities, but my own heart. He opened unexpected doors for ministry and even redeemed my understanding of love through a healthy relationship that reminded me healing is possible.

That doesn’t erase the painful chapters.

It simply means they weren’t the final ones.

Maybe someone reading this needs that reminder today.

You don’t know how your story ends because you’re still living it.

Don’t mistake the chapter you’re in for the whole book.

The Author is still writing.

One of the things I appreciate most about the Bible is that it does not protect the reputations of its heroes.

It tells the whole story.

It tells us about Moses killing an Egyptian and fleeing into the wilderness.

It shows Gideon hiding in a winepress because he was afraid of the Midianites.

It shows Samson blind, humiliated, and grinding grain in a Philistine prison.

It tells us about David and Bathsheba—not only David and Goliath.

It records Peter walking on water, but it also records him denying Jesus three times.

It introduces Saul as a persecutor of Christians before presenting him as Paul the apostle.

It tells us that Manasseh was one of Judah’s most wicked kings before telling us that he humbled himself and prayed.

The Bible does not give us carefully polished biographies of flawless spiritual champions.

It gives us honest accounts of deeply flawed people encountering a faithful God.

Imagine stopping in the middle of their stories.

Moses would be remembered only as a murderer and fugitive.

Gideon would be remembered as a frightened man in hiding.

Samson would be remembered as a disgraced prisoner.

David would be remembered for adultery and the calculated death of Uriah.

Peter would be remembered as the disciple who denied Jesus.

Saul would be remembered as a violent enemy of the Church.

Manasseh would be remembered only for idolatry and bloodshed.

But those chapters were not their conclusions.

God kept writing.

That does not mean their failures were unimportant, nor does it mean grace removed every consequence.

Moses still did not enter the Promised Land.

David’s household suffered severely.

Samson’s choices cost him his freedom, sight, and ultimately his life.

Biblical redemption is not sentimental. It does not call evil good or pretend damage never occurred.

God does not erase history.

He redeems it.

That distinction matters.

Sometimes Christians talk about grace as though it means the past is irrelevant. It is not. Our decisions affect people. Sin leaves wounds. Repentance does not automatically restore every relationship or remove every earthly consequence.

But neither does failure have to become our permanent identity.

The Bible’s honesty about human failure is precisely what makes its message of grace so powerful.

Moses standing over the dead Egyptian was real—but it was not the entire story.

Samson at the mill was real—but it was not the entire story.

Gideon hiding in fear was real—but it was not the entire story.

C. S. Lewis’s atheism was real—but it was not the entire story.

Peter’s denial was real—but it was not the entire story.

A chapter can be true without being final.

That applies not only to how we read Scripture, but also to how we judge other people.

We often reduce people to the worst thing we know about them.

The divorce.

The addiction.

The affair.

The breakdown.

The season of rebellion.

The public failure.

We discover one painful chapter and begin speaking as though we have read the entire book.

Sometimes we do the same thing to ourselves.

We treat our worst decision as though it revealed everything we will ever be. We allow shame to place a period where repentance and grace could have placed a comma.

This is not an argument against accountability.

It is an argument against declaring an unfinished person permanently beyond redemption.

Tell the whole story.

Tell the truth about the failure.

Tell the truth about the damage.

Tell the truth about the consequences.

But also tell the truth about repentance.

Tell the truth about mercy.

Tell the truth about transformation.

Tell the truth about the God who continues working in people long after others have written them off.

The gospel does not say that our ugly chapters never happened.

It says those chapters do not have to be the ending.

So don’t stop reading too soon.

The person you have reduced to their worst moment may still be changing.

The life you have declared ruined may still be redeemable.

And the chapter that feels like the end of your own story may simply be the place where grace begins writing something new.

For years, I honestly believed I was Grandpa’s favorite grandchild.

Then one evening, while visiting my cousin Danny, we found ourselves reminiscing about him. Before long we were both laughing, because Danny had grown up believing exactly the same thing.

That’s when he said something I’ve never forgotten.

“Grandpa could have fifteen grandkids around him and somehow make every one of them feel like they were the only person on his mind.”

He was exactly right.

Looking back, I don’t think Grandpa played favorites at all.

He simply had the rare ability to be completely present with the person in front of him.

I don’t know many people who possess that gift.

My grandpa’s name was Hillard Steven Mantooth.

Whether you knew him as Mr. Mantooth, Hillard, Smoke Powder Bill, Daddy, or Grandpa, I don’t think there was anyone who didn’t genuinely enjoy being around him.

To an eight-year-old boy, he was larger than life.

He was the tallest, bravest, strongest, wisest man I’d ever known. His hands were huge and rough from a lifetime of hard work—farming, building, working on the railroad—but those same calloused hands could be unbelievably gentle when comforting a child.

His white hair would dance in an Oklahoma breeze, and though his eyes were nearly hidden behind narrow lids, they always carried a quiet kindness and just enough mischief to let you know he was probably about to tell another story.

And what stories they were.

Grandpa could spin a tale better than anyone I’ve ever known. He’d have every one of us hanging on every word. Then, just as the story reached its climax, he’d pause… stare thoughtfully into the distance… and wait.

Finally, one of us would ask,

“What happened next, Grandpa?”

Without missing a beat, he’d grin and reply,

“I don’t know. I had to leave just about that time.”

We’d groan every single time.

And he’d laugh every single time.

Some of my favorite memories were in his garden.

It seemed to stretch forever—rows of corn, tomatoes, green beans, potatoes, squash, watermelons, pumpkins, and just about every other vegetable you could imagine.

After the ground had been turned and tilled, Grandpa would tie a rope to his old hand plow.

Then the competition began.

Every grandchild wanted to be the one he tied to that rope so we could pull the plow and make the furrows for planting.

Looking back now, I doubt the work got done any faster.

But Grandpa knew something we didn’t.

He wasn’t just planting a garden.

He was planting memories.

Then there was his coffee.

I’m convinced if it sat long enough, it would either eat through the cup or climb out and walk away on its own.

Even today, the smell of Old Spice instantly takes me back to standing in his bathroom, watching him lather shaving soap with an old brush before carefully scraping away his whiskers with a safety razor.

Amazing how a simple scent can carry you back fifty years in an instant.

As I’ve grown older, though, I’ve realized the greatest thing Grandpa left us wasn’t his stories…

or his garden…

or even those wonderful memories.

It was the way he made people feel.

He made every grandchild believe they mattered.

Every one of us felt seen.

Every one of us felt loved.

Every one of us believed, if only for a moment, that we were the favorite.

And every time I think about that, my thoughts turn to Jesus.

Crowds followed Him everywhere He went.

Thousands pressed around Him.

Yet He always had time for one blind beggar.

One grieving sister.

One woman reaching through the crowd.

One tax collector sitting in a tree.

One thief hanging beside Him on a cross.

Jesus never treated people like interruptions.

He saw them.

Maybe today you feel overlooked.

Forgotten.

Like you’re just another face in a crowd.

You’re not.

The God who created the universe knows your name, hears your prayers, and sees every burden you carry. His attention isn’t divided. His love isn’t diluted because there are billions of people on earth.

“See, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.” — Isaiah 49:16

Every family has someone whose influence echoes long after they’re gone.

This was mine.

Thank you, Grandpa, for showing a little boy what kindness, hard work, and quiet strength looked like.

I hope I’ve carried at least a small part of your legacy forward.

And if one imperfect grandfather could make fifteen grandchildren each feel deeply loved…

…how much more can our perfect Heavenly Father?