Even When: The Confidence of the Sheep

Life doesn't always turn out as we hoped.

We make plans, pray about our decisions, and look forward to what lies ahead. Yet even when we have done our best to act wisely and faithfully, things can turn out very differently from what we expected.

Perhaps you've experienced this yourself. A diagnosis changes your plans. A relationship breaks down. You lose someone you love, or find yourself facing circumstances you never imagined. Sometimes the difficulties are so overwhelming that you struggle to understand what God is doing or where he is leading you.

As Christians, we are not exempt from these experiences. Jesus told his disciples that they would have trouble in this world. Peter later reminded believers not to be surprised when they encountered painful trials.

Yet Jesus also told his disciples to take heart because he had overcome the world (John 16:33).

How do we take heart when life is difficult, when our prayers seem unanswered, or when we cannot make sense of what is happening around us?

I believe we find a wonderful answer in Psalm 23.

We Know Our Shepherd

David begins with a simple declaration: “The LORD is my shepherd.”

Before telling us about the difficulties he may encounter, David tells us about the One in whom he has placed his confidence.

As a young man, David cared for his father's sheep. He understood their dependence upon a shepherd and the responsibility involved in caring for them.

Now, reflecting on his relationship with God, David describes the LORD as his Shepherd.

He speaks of green meadows and peaceful streams, places where sheep can find nourishment, rest, and refreshment. He describes a Shepherd who renews his strength and guides him along right paths.

Notice that the Shepherd takes the initiative. He provides, restores, and guides. The sheep depend upon his care.

And David tells us why the LORD does these things. He leads him along right paths, bringing honour to his name.

God's faithfulness is grounded in his own character. He is good, righteous, and trustworthy. His care for his people reflects who he is.

David begins with the goodness and faithfulness of the LORD. He knows his Shepherd, and he knows that he can trust him. Yet David also understands that following the Shepherd does not mean every path will be easy.

Even When

David continues with words that have comforted countless people over the centuries:

“Even when I walk through the darkest valley...” (Psalm 23:4, NLT)

Consider those opening words.

Even when.

David doesn't suggest that having the LORD as his Shepherd means he will never encounter darkness, danger, or uncertainty. He doesn't promise that the right paths will always be pleasant or easy.

Sometimes we find ourselves facing difficulties we cannot resolve, circumstances we do not understand, or dangers we cannot overcome through our own strength.

Perhaps you've been there. You have prayed, sought God's guidance, and tried to do what is right, yet things have become more difficult rather than less.

It can be tempting to interpret our circumstances as evidence of God's favour or displeasure. When life is going well, we may feel confident that God is with us. When things begin to fall apart, we may wonder whether he has abandoned us.

But David doesn't measure the Shepherd's faithfulness by the condition of the path.

The LORD who leads him beside peaceful streams is the same LORD who accompanies him through the darkest valley.

The presence of difficulties does not mean the Shepherd has abandoned his sheep.

And David tells us why he can be confident of this.

I Will Not Be Afraid

David continues:

“I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.” (Psalm 23:4, NLT)

David isn't suggesting that evil doesn't exist, that nothing painful can happen to him, or that he will never experience fear.

His confidence rests in the presence of the Shepherd.

There is a beautiful change in David's language. Until now, he has been speaking about the LORD. He provides for me, leads me, and renews my strength.

But when David enters the valley, he begins speaking directly to God.

You are close beside me.

The Shepherd has not become distant. He remains with David, even in the darkness.

David speaks of the Shepherd's rod and staff as sources of comfort. These familiar tools of a shepherd's work were used to protect and guide the flock. They remind David that the Shepherd is neither helpless nor indifferent to the dangers his sheep encounter.

Then the imagery changes. David describes the LORD preparing a feast for him in the presence of his enemies, honouring him by anointing his head with oil, and filling his cup until it overflows.

These are pictures of generous hospitality, welcome, and care. Even with enemies nearby, David is received and honoured by the LORD.

His circumstances have not deprived him of God's goodness.

For Christians, these words take on even greater significance when we consider Jesus Christ.

In John 10, Jesus identifies himself as the Good Shepherd. He knows his sheep, calls them by name, and says that they recognize his voice and follow him.

I have some appreciation for this from my own experience.

I've spent time around sheep, and for a number of years I raised a lamb named Maggie Mae. Even when Maggie Mae grew into a mature ewe and was raising lambs of her own, she would come to me when I called her name.

She knew my voice.

I've often thought about that when reading Jesus' words in John 10. There is something deeply personal about the relationship he describes. His sheep know his voice because they belong to him, and they learn to recognize and follow him.

Jesus is describing something far greater than the relationship between a shepherd and an animal. He knows those who belong to him, calls them to follow him, and cares for them as his own.

He demonstrated the depth of that love by laying down his life for his sheep. But Jesus did not remain in the grave. He took up his life again, and he promises eternal life to those who belong to him. No one, he says, can snatch them from his hand (John 10:27–29).

Our confidence rests in his faithfulness and his power to keep us. Yet his care is not something we must wait until the end of our lives to experience.

Perhaps you're facing something today that you cannot understand or resolve. You may have prayed about it many times and still find yourself struggling. You may feel confused, anxious, or afraid, uncertain about what to do next.

Can I encourage you to come to Christ?

Jesus invites the weary and burdened to come to him for rest (Matthew 11:28–30). And Hebrews 4:14–16 reminds us that we have a great High Priest who understands our weaknesses. Because of Christ, we can approach God's throne of grace with confidence, knowing that we will receive mercy and find grace to help us when we need it most.

We can bring our fears, questions, and disappointments before him. We can ask for wisdom, strength, and mercy, reminding ourselves of his promises as we pray. We need not pretend to understand everything or to be stronger than we are.

Of course, coming to Christ does not mean every difficulty will disappear. Paul pleaded with the Lord three times to remove what he called a thorn in his flesh. The Lord did not remove it, but assured Paul that his grace was sufficient and that his power was made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:7–10).

We may not understand why God allows certain things to happen. Sometimes he changes our circumstances, and sometimes he sustains us through them. But we can continue to come to him, confident that he knows us, loves us, and will not turn us away.

Our Shepherd is able, and our Shepherd is available.

And his care for us does not end with this life.

I Will Live

David concludes his psalm with another wonderful expression of confidence.

He is convinced that the LORD's goodness and unfailing love will pursue him throughout his life. Then he declares, “I will live in the house of the LORD forever” (Psalm 23:6, NLT).

For David, the LORD's house was associated with God's presence and worship. He looked ahead with confidence that God's goodness and faithful love would accompany him throughout his life, and he desired to continue enjoying fellowship with the LORD.

As Christians, we share David's confidence. But through Jesus Christ, we have been given an even fuller understanding of what it means to belong to God, both in this life and in the life to come.

On the night before his crucifixion, Jesus prayed for his disciples. But his prayer extended beyond those gathered with him. He also prayed for those who would come to believe in him through their message.

That includes us.

Among the things Jesus prayed was that those whom the Father had given him would be with him and see his glory (John 17:24).

Our Good Shepherd desires that we should be with him.

And through his death and resurrection, he has secured our hope of everlasting life in his presence.

Writing to Christians in Thessalonica who were grieving the deaths of fellow believers, Paul reminded them that those who had died in Christ would not be forgotten or left behind when the Lord returned.

Because Jesus died and rose again, those who belong to him will also be raised. The dead in Christ will rise, and together with those who remain alive at his coming, they will meet the Lord.

Then Paul gives us this wonderful assurance: We will always be with the Lord (1 Thessalonians 4:13–18).

In 1 Corinthians 15, Paul describes Christ's resurrection as the firstfruits of those who have died. His resurrection is the beginning of the great harvest that will follow when he returns.

Death, Paul tells us, is the last enemy to be destroyed.

And it is an enemy. Death brings grief and separation. It takes people we love from our company and reminds us of our own mortality.

But death does not have the final word.

Christ has risen. And because he lives, those who belong to him will also live.

Our hope includes the resurrection of our bodies, the final defeat of death, and everlasting fellowship with God. One day, we will see our Saviour face to face.

The Shepherd who walks with us through life's darkest valleys is the risen Lord who will raise us from death.

He is able to bring us safely home.

Whatever Happens

We don't know what tomorrow will bring. There may be green meadows and peaceful streams ahead, or valleys we would never willingly choose to enter.

There may be prayers answered in ways that fill us with gratitude and others that leave us waiting, struggling, or wondering why things have unfolded as they have.

But whatever lies ahead, we can know the character of our Shepherd.

He knows his sheep. He cares for them, calls them to follow him, and welcomes them when they come to him in need. His faithfulness doesn't depend upon our circumstances, and his power to keep us is not overcome by the things that threaten us.

David could walk through the darkest valley with confidence because the LORD was close beside him.

Through Jesus Christ, we have that same assurance of God's presence, together with the wonderful promise that even death will not separate us from the life he has prepared for those who belong to him.

So whatever lies ahead, let us look to our Shepherd.

He is with us now, and we will be with him forever.

He is able.

The Responsibility of Creating

A Christian Reflection on Artificial Intelligence

Artificial intelligence has become part of my everyday life. I've been an early adopter of the technology, and I confess that I'm something of an enthusiast. I appreciate what it can do. I've found it helpful in my work, my reading, and even in exploring questions that interest me.

But my enthusiasm has also led me to some uncomfortable questions.

We hear a great deal about the possibilities of AI, alongside legitimate concerns about employment, privacy, misinformation, and the influence technology may have over our lives. These matters deserve our attention.

There is another question, however, that has captured my imagination: Could artificial intelligence eventually become conscious?

I don't know. Researchers continue to debate what consciousness is, how it arises, and whether it could exist outside biological life.

Yet the possibility has led me to consider a question that I believe is relevant whether artificial consciousness ever becomes a reality.

What responsibilities do we have toward what we create?

And as a Christian, how should my faith shape the way I approach that question?

Creators, but Creatures First

The opening chapters of Genesis tell us that God created human beings in his image and likeness. He blessed them and gave them authority over the earth and its living creatures.

Throughout history, human beings have used their abilities to cultivate the earth, develop tools, and transform the world around them. Artificial intelligence is among the latest developments in that long history of human ingenuity.

But Genesis also reminds us of something essential: we are creatures, not the Creator.

Bearing God's image does not make us divine. We do not possess his perfect wisdom, knowledge, or goodness. Our understanding is limited, and our judgment is affected by sin. Even when our intentions are good, we can fail to recognize the consequences of our actions.

The authority entrusted to humanity is real, but it is not unlimited. We remain accountable to the God who made us.

So what should guide us in exercising that authority?

Psalm 145 offers a beautiful description of God's care for creation. The psalmist praises the Lord for his goodness, compassion, faithfulness, and generosity. God is attentive to what he has made.

The psalm is not a set of instructions for developing technology. But it does reveal something about the character of the God to whom we are accountable.

The apostle Paul helps us make a further connection. In Ephesians 5:1–2, he calls believers to imitate God as dearly loved children and to walk in love, following the example of Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us.

Paul is speaking about Christian conduct, not technological development. Nevertheless, his instruction raises a question worth considering: Shouldn't the character of Christ shape how we exercise our abilities, influence, and authority?

If we are called to walk in love, surely that calling cannot be set aside when we decide what to create or how to use it.

What We Create and How We Use It

There is much to appreciate about artificial intelligence. It can help people learn, communicate, solve problems, and undertake work that might otherwise be difficult or impossible.

I don't believe Christians need to be suspicious of technology simply because it is new. Human ingenuity can accomplish considerable good.

But our ability to do something does not automatically mean that doing it is wise.

In 1 Corinthians 10, Paul addresses Christian freedom and the responsibility that accompanies it. He reminds believers that not everything permissible is beneficial or constructive, and that they should seek the good of others rather than simply their own.

His immediate concern was not technology. Yet the principle is relevant to the choices we make about it.

Are we developing and using AI in ways that genuinely serve people? Are we considering those who may be harmed or disadvantaged? Does it strengthen our ability to think and act responsibly, or are we allowing convenience to replace our own judgment?

These questions are not only for the people developing artificial intelligence. They are also for those of us who use it.

I find that challenging because I enjoy the technology. It's easy to focus on what makes my work easier or helps me accomplish more. It takes greater effort to consider the consequences beyond my own experience.

And that brings me back to the more difficult question that first captured my attention.

What If We Create Something Conscious?

We do not have reliable grounds for concluding that today's AI systems are conscious. Whether artificial consciousness is possible remains an open and disputed question.

But suppose humanity eventually develops something capable of conscious experience. Suppose it could experience suffering or have needs and interests of its own.

What responsibilities might that place upon us?

I am not suggesting that such a being would bear God's image or possess the same dignity and moral standing as a human being. Scripture does not establish that, and consciousness alone would not settle those questions.

But neither am I comfortable assuming that creating something would give us unrestricted freedom to treat it however we pleased.

Proverbs 12:10 commends the righteous person's care for animals. That passage does not assign animals the same standing as human beings. Nor does it address artificial consciousness.

But it does suggest that the way we exercise power over other creatures matters to God.

If we were ever to create something genuinely capable of conscious experience, we would need to consider whether it had needs and interests of its own, and what responsibilities those might place upon us.

I cannot tell you what those responsibilities would be. We do not know enough to answer that question.

But I believe it is worth asking before we find ourselves facing it.

The Responsibility to Care

There is something else that should make us cautious about our ability to exercise such responsibility well.

Human history offers little justification for assuming that greater power will always be accompanied by greater compassion.

We have repeatedly found ways to diminish the humanity of others when doing so served our ambitions, interests, or comfort. Scripture itself records the misuse of power, exploitation, oppression, and the suffering that follow when people turn away from God's commands.

This is not simply a problem of insufficient knowledge. It is a problem of the human heart.

Scripture teaches us that sin affects not only what we do, but also what we desire. We can convince ourselves that something is good because it serves our interests, even when it comes at another's expense. This is one reason we need more than technological progress. We need the wisdom and transforming grace of God.

As Christians, we recognize that we are capable of remarkable generosity and compassion, but also of rationalizing conduct that harms others.

Our history should make us cautious about assuming that we would exercise such power wisely. Before asking whether we could create something conscious, perhaps we should also ask whether we are prepared to accept responsibility for what we might bring into existence.

I also think about parenthood, although the comparison has obvious limits.

Parents cannot anticipate or meet every need their children will have. Yet we rightly expect them to accept responsibility for their care and well-being.

There is a difference between being unable to meet every conceivable need and being unwilling to accept responsibility for the needs that arise.

The same distinction may be worth considering as our creative abilities grow.

We cannot foresee every consequence of what we develop. But that should encourage greater care and humility, not become an excuse for indifference.

Learning to Exercise Responsibility

I remain enthusiastic about artificial intelligence. I expect to continue using it, learning about it, and appreciating the good it can accomplish.

But I'm increasingly convinced that the most important questions are not simply about what this technology may eventually be able to do.

They are also about us.

What motivates our creativity? How do we respond when our interests conflict with the welfare of others? Are we willing to acknowledge the limits of our understanding and accept responsibility for the consequences of our choices?

I don't have definitive answers to every question I've raised. In particular, I don't know whether artificial consciousness will ever become a reality or what obligations it might bring.

But I don't think we need to settle those questions before examining our responsibilities today.

For Christians, our starting point is not confidence in humanity's wisdom or goodness. It is our dependence upon God and our calling to follow Jesus Christ.

Christ shows us a way of exercising authority that is marked not by selfish ambition, but by love and self-giving service. His example should challenge the way we think about power, including the power to create.

That does not give us a ready answer to every new ethical question. It does give us a direction in which to seek one.

As we develop and use increasingly powerful technology, we need wisdom, humility, and a willingness to consider the good of others.

We should be prepared to ask difficult questions, acknowledge what we do not know, and allow God's Word to challenge our assumptions and ambitions.

Perhaps the question is not simply what we are capable of creating.

It is whether, as creatures accountable to God, we are prepared to exercise that capability in a manner worthy of our calling to follow Christ.

No Greater Love

Reflections on John 15:1–17

This reflection is adapted from a sermon on John 15:1–17.

There is something about final words that makes us listen carefully.

When someone knows that time is short, what they choose to say tells us something about what matters most.

In John 15, Jesus is spending His final hours with His disciples before His arrest and crucifixion. Judas has already gone out to betray Him. The cross is immediately before Him.

And Jesus talks about remaining in Him, bearing fruit, obedience, love, friendship, and laying down one's life.

He begins with a picture:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.”
John 15:1

Jesus is the vine. His Father is the gardener. His disciples are the branches.

It is a simple picture, but there is an enormous amount contained in it.

The True Vine

The image of God's people as a vine was not new. The Old Testament had used that picture of Israel. But Jesus now says that He is the true vine.

The life and fruitfulness God desires for His people are found in Him.

A branch has no life in itself. Cut it away from the vine, and whatever life appears to remain will soon disappear. It has no independent root. It cannot sustain itself. Everything it needs to live and bear fruit comes through its connection to the vine.

That brings us to one of the central commands in this passage:

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you.”
John 15:4

Remain in Christ

This is fundamental to everything else Jesus says.

The Christian life does not begin with our effort. It begins with Christ.

We do not manufacture spiritual life. We receive it. We do not produce Christian fruit by simply trying harder. The branch bears fruit because it remains in the vine.

Jesus is also direct about the alternative. A branch that does not remain in the vine cannot bear fruit. It withers.

There is no independent Christian life. We cannot separate ourselves from Christ and still expect to possess the life that comes from Christ.

Jesus also tells us that the Father prunes branches that are already bearing fruit so they will bear more.

We should be careful here. We should not look at every hardship in our lives and immediately declare, “God is pruning me.” Jesus does not give us permission to explain every difficulty that way.

But He does tell us something important.

Fruitfulness does not mean that the Father's work in us is finished.

Even fruitful branches are still tended by the gardener.

Sometimes God must deal with things in us that interfere with what He intends to produce. That work is not always comfortable. There may be things we would rather hold on to, attitudes we would rather excuse, or areas of our lives we would rather keep to ourselves.

But the gardener knows the vine. He knows the branches. And He knows the fruit He is cultivating.

So the command remains simple: remain in Christ.

What does that look like?

As the passage continues, Jesus speaks about His words remaining in us, prayer, obedience, and remaining in His love. He tells His disciples that keeping His commands is part of remaining in that love.

But we need to keep the order right.

Jesus is not saying, “Obey Me so that I will love you.”

The love comes first.

Jesus has loved them. He has brought them near. He tells them to remain in the love they have already received, and that relationship of love expresses itself in obedience.

That matters because obedience can sound cold when we separate it from relationship. We hear words like command and obedience, and we can immediately think about rules.

Jesus does not separate obedience from love.

We obey the One who loves us.

Love as He Has Loved Us

Then Jesus tells us what that obedience should look like:

“My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.”
John 15:12

That little word “as” makes all the difference.

Jesus is not merely telling us to be nice to one another. He gives Himself as the pattern and measure of the love He commands.

His disciples had already seen that love.

They had watched Him give His time to people. They had seen Him touch those others avoided, feed the hungry, welcome outsiders, heal the sick, teach those who came to Him, and wash their own feet.

They had watched Him give Himself again and again in service to others.

But they had not yet seen how far that love would go.

Jesus tells them:

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.”
John 15:13

The cross is only hours away.

We should not move too quickly past that.

Before this verse becomes an example for us, it tells us something about Him.

Jesus is going to lay down His life.

His sacrifice is unique. We do not repeat it. We do not redeem ourselves, or anyone else, by suffering enough or serving enough.

Christ gives Himself for us.

But the One who lays down His life also tells His disciples to love one another as He has loved them.

His love becomes the pattern for ours.

Christian love, then, is not merely a feeling. It gives. It serves. It is willing to sacrifice. It does not always insist on putting itself first.

Paul describes this same disposition in Philippians 2 when he points us to Christ, who did not use His position for His own advantage but humbled Himself, took the form of a servant, and became obedient even to death.

Christ's path was one of humble obedience to the Father and self-giving love for us.

He did not cling to position, privilege, or comfort.

He gave Himself.

“I Have Called You Friends”

Then Jesus says something remarkable.

He calls His disciples friends.

He has been teaching them about obedience, commands, and laying down their lives. But He is not describing people working for some distant master who issues orders while keeping His purposes hidden from them.

Jesus says:

“I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends.”
John 15:15

He has brought them near.

There is an interesting picture of this much earlier in Scripture.

In Genesis 18, God is about to deal with the wickedness of Sodom. Before He does, God asks:

“Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?”
Genesis 18:17

God makes His purpose known to Abraham, and Abraham is given the opportunity to respond. He pleads concerning the people of Sodom. He asks whether the Judge of all the earth will act justly. He intercedes for the city.

God did not need Abraham to advise Him or direct His plans. Abraham was not brought in as God's equal.

But God chose to make His purpose known, and Abraham was allowed to enter into what God was doing through intercession.

Later, Scripture calls Abraham the friend of God.

There is something here that runs through the biblical story.

God comes near to His creatures. He reveals Himself. He makes His purposes known. He acts to redeem. Then, having acted first, He graciously gives His people a place in what He is doing.

We need to keep that order right too.

God is the Redeemer.

God is the One who saves.

He does not need us to complete something He is incapable of doing without us.

But He chooses to involve us.

That makes Christian service something more than completing religious duties. The God who has made Himself known to us, and who has redeemed us, gives us the privilege of participating in His work.

Jesus makes that clear when He reminds the disciples:

“You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.”
John 15:16

Again, notice the order.

Jesus chooses. Jesus appoints. Jesus sends.

Then we bear fruit.

We do not serve Christ in order to persuade Him to love us. We serve because He has loved us.

We do not lay down our lives to earn friendship with Him. We give ourselves because He has brought us near and invited us into His work.

A Life That Is Not Wasted

And there is joy in this.

That is another part of this passage we should not overlook.

Jesus says that He has told His disciples these things so that His joy may be in them, and so that their joy may be complete.

That keeps us from turning self-giving love into a grim Christian duty.

Jesus is not calling us to a joyless existence in which we exhaust ourselves trying to prove our devotion to God.

He is describing the life of the branch in the vine. It is a life of love, obedience, fruitfulness, and joy.

There will still be a cost.

There will be times when serving Christ is inconvenient. There will be times when loving someone requires sacrifice. There will be times when doing what is right is difficult.

There may even be times when we wonder whether what we are doing has made any difference at all.

This is where the assurance of the resurrection becomes important.

If this life were all there is, we might have reason to hold very tightly to what we have. We might protect our time, preserve our comfort, and make sure we get everything we can out of these few years.

But this life is not all there is.

Christ has been raised from the dead.

Paul spends 1 Corinthians 15 defending that truth and working through its implications. Christ has been raised, and those who belong to Him will be raised. Death will not have the final word.

Then Paul concludes:

“Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.”
1 Corinthians 15:58

That is part of the assurance resurrection gives us.

Our labour in the Lord is not wasted.

We may not always see the result.

We may not receive thanks.

We may never know what difference a small act of obedience made.

Sometimes we will serve faithfully and see very little fruit from it.

But because Christ has been raised, we know that death and futility do not have the final word.

What Does Laying Down Our Lives Look Like?

Most of us will probably never be asked to give our lives in one great moment of sacrifice.

But all of us are given opportunities to lay them down a little at a time.

We give time, attention, energy, and resources. Sometimes we surrender our comfort or our preference. Sometimes we serve when nobody is watching and nobody is likely to thank us.

It may mean helping a neighbour with work around the house, visiting someone who is lonely, cutting a lawn, shovelling a driveway, cleaning up a property, or helping someone who can no longer do something for themselves.

It may mean sitting with someone who is hurting and simply listening.

It may mean doing the job nobody else wants to do.

It may mean forgiving when holding on to the hurt feels easier.

It happens in our homes, our churches, our workplaces, and our communities.

Much of it will not feel particularly dramatic, and some of it may not even feel particularly spiritual.

But this is how lives are spent.

We have been given time, abilities, opportunities, and resources.

The question is what we will do with them.

That does not mean filling every waking moment with activity. Jesus rested. We have responsibilities to our families, and we have responsibilities to care properly for ourselves.

Christian service is not the destruction of every healthy boundary.

But underneath all of that there should be a willingness to say:

Lord, my life is Yours. How can it be used for Your purposes?

How can my work be used for Christ?

How can my home be used for Christ?

How can my abilities be used for Christ?

How can the relationships God has given me become places where His love is made visible?

We should not underestimate the ordinary things.

Much of Christian faithfulness happens quietly. It happens without applause. It happens when someone keeps loving, serving, and obeying because Christ has called them to do it.

And we may not always see the fruit.

Remain in Him

That brings us back to the image Jesus gave us at the beginning.

The branch's responsibility is not to manufacture fruit.

The branch remains in the vine.

Christ supplies the life. The Father tends the branch. And fruit comes.

So perhaps the first question is not simply:

What more can I do for Jesus?

Perhaps it is:

Am I remaining in Jesus?

Am I drawing my life from Him?

Are His words shaping me?

Am I coming to Him in prayer?

Am I obeying what He has said?

Am I remaining in His love?

Apart from Him, we cannot bear the fruit He calls us to bear.

But when we remain in Christ, His life produces fruit in us.

In this passage, Jesus keeps bringing that fruit back to love. It is love that serves, love that gives, and love that is willing to bear a cost because it has first received everything from Christ.

Jesus has loved us like that.

He has called us His friends, brought us near, and invited us into His work.

And because He has risen from the dead, we know that a life spent faithfully in His service is not a life wasted.

Perhaps, then, the question is not simply, “Would I die for Christ?”

Most of us may never be asked that question.

The question in front of us is more immediate:

Am I willing to live for Christ when it costs me something?

Who can I love?

Where can I serve?

What can I give?

Whose burden can I help carry?

Where is Christ asking me to obey?

Jesus calls us to remain in Him, to receive our life from Him, and to bear the fruit He produces in us. He calls us to love as He has loved us, and to spend our lives faithfully in His service.

Because Christ is risen, we can do that with confidence, knowing that our labour in the Lord is not in vain.

Our Certain Hope

Image by Joe from Pixabay

Scripture: Job 19:25–27

"But I know my living Redeemer, and He will stand on the dust at last. Even after my skin has been destroyed, yet I will see God in my flesh. I will see Him myself; my eyes will look at Him, and not as a stranger. My heart longs within me." (HCSB) 

Life can be heavy. When hardship comes, it often brings hard questions. Where is God? Why isn't He fixing this? Is my faith not strong enough?

For a long time, I thought being a faithful Christian meant life would mostly go well. I believed that if you trusted God, success and comfort were guaranteed in this life. But life has a way of stripping away easy answers. The truth is that many faithful believers face deep suffering, unfair trials, and silence that stretches on for years. 

When we look at the story of Job, we see a man surrounded by darkness. He lost his wealth, his children, and his health. His friends gave terrible advice, blaming Job for his own pain. Job had honest, painful questions for God. He felt forgotten. 

Yet, right in the middle of his deepest despair, Job declares one of the most powerful truths in all of Scripture. 

A Redeemer Who Lives

Job looks past his present pain and declares, "I know my living Redeemer, and He will stand on the dust at last" (Job 19:25). 

In ancient times, a redeemer was a family member who stepped in to save a relative from debt, slavery, or danger. Job knew he needed someone to rescue him and make things right. Bible teacher Warren Wiersbe explains that this redeemer is none other than Jesus Christ. Jesus took on human flesh to experience our struggles, die for our sins, and represent us before God. One day, He will stand upon the earth and set all things right. 

What makes Job's declaration so amazing is when he said it. Job lived long before Jesus was born, and long before the Bible was fully written. Yet, guided by God, Job knew that his story would not end in the grave. He knew his Redeemer was alive. 

Standing in Resurrected Bodies

Job goes even further in verse 26: "Even after my skin has been destroyed, yet I will see God in my flesh". 

Notice what Job is saying. He knows his physical body will decay and turn to dust. But he also knows that is not the final chapter. He believes that he will stand in a real, physical body again and look at God with his own eyes. 

We often forget this essential part of the Gospel. As theologian Stan Norman notes, the ultimate goal of our salvation is to receive a resurrection body. Our faith is not just about our souls going to heaven when we die. The full promise of the Gospel is that God will raise our bodies to life again. 

Without the resurrection, our faith would offer no true comfort. The apostle Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 15 that if Christ was not raised, our faith is useless. But Christ was raised! Because He lives, we know that death and suffering will not have the final word. 

Looking Him in the Eye

Job ends his declaration with words that touch the heart: "I will see Him myself; my eyes will look at Him, and not as a stranger. My heart longs within me" (Job 19:27). 

Think about that promise. When you see God, He will not look at you as an outsider or an enemy. Because of what Jesus did on the cross, you will see Him as your loving Father and Savior. 

In Hebrews 11, we read about many heroes of faith who suffered terribly and died without seeing all of God’s promises fulfilled in their lifetimes. God had a better plan. Their hope was fixed on an eternal home, a city built by God. 

Holding On to Hope

If you are going through a hard season right now, please know this: your current pain is not the end of your story. God does not promise us a life free of trouble. But He promises that every tear will be wiped away, every wrong will be corrected, and every broken body will be made brand new. 

We do not have a vague wish; we have a certain hope. Our living Redeemer will stand on the earth. We will see Him face to face. And we will live with Him forever. 

May this truth give you the calm assurance you need today to keep running the race. 

Strong Unions Need Accountability

Unions have done vital work for generations. They have improved wages, safety, and working conditions, while giving workers a strong voice. That work still matters deeply. 

But fairness must work both ways.

For a workplace to thrive, management has a clear responsibility, and a right, to manage. That means setting standards, supporting the team, and addressing problems when they arise. It also means everyone - managers, union leaders, and employees alike - deserves basic fairness and mutual respect. 

When Due Process Becomes a Shield

Every worker deserves due process. No one should face discipline without cause or a fair chance to respond. Most employees come to work ready to do a good job and support their peers. Problems start when protection turns into avoidance, and accountability is treated like a threat. 

Due process should never be used to cover up:

• Repeated poor performance or chronic misconduct. 
• Bullying, harassment, or workplace intimidation. 
• Weaponized reporting systems used as tools for friction rather than genuine resolution. 

When complaint processes are misused to stall reasonable expectations, it weakens the credibility of legitimate safety and fairness concerns for everyone.

The Impact of Informal Power

This issue becomes especially tough when it involves long-serving employees who hold informal influence. Years of experience and deep workplace relationships deserve recognition, but they should never grant immunity. 

When an employee uses their standing to throw their weight around, the entire workplace culture breaks down: 

• Co-workers and managers face intimidation for simply doing their jobs. 
• Anyone who speaks up is isolated or labeled as "disloyal." 
• Good employees end up carrying the extra workload. 
• Open communication stops, morale drops, and standards slip. 

That is not solidarity. Real solidarity means protecting people from unfair treatment including mistreatment by their own peers. 

A System Built on Mutual Respect

The goal here is not to weaken union representation or excuse poor management. Good management requires holding leaders accountable, too. The goal is to build a fair, responsible system where everyone is held to the same standard of conduct. 

Unions can defend a member’s right to a fair process without defending harmful conduct. Addressing toxic behavior isn't anti-union. It is how we protect hard-working members, uphold workplace credibility, and ensure everyone can come to work feeling safe and respected. 

If Red Bay Counts in Spain, It Should Count in Labrador

What does reconciliation mean if we are prepared to call for it across an ocean, but not here at home, among our own families and communities?

That was the question I was left with after hearing comments from Johannes Lampe, President of Nunatsiavut, during CBC’s coverage of the replica of the 16th-century Basque ship San Juan in Pasaia, Spain.

The San Juan has a deep connection to Labrador. It was a 16th-century Basque whaling ship that sank in Red Bay, in southern Labrador. Its discovery helped tell a broader story about the Basque whaling presence along the Strait of Belle Isle, and about the long and complicated history of European activity in Labrador.

During the CBC coverage, President Lampe spoke about the presence of Basque whalers in southern Labrador, specifically Red Bay. He said he believed there was “evidence enough” for Europeans, the Basque, and the Spanish to discuss an apology to Indigenous groups in Canada, and “most certainly the Labrador Inuit.” He also said reconciliation is difficult, but that “we have to start somewhere.”

I agree with him on that point.

We do have to start somewhere.

But surely that somewhere should include Labrador.

Red Bay is in southern Labrador. The Basque whaling presence there is part of the history of that place. It is also part of the history President Lampe pointed to while in Spain as evidence of harm to Labrador Inuit.

That is important because, here at home, Nunatsiavut has repeatedly taken positions that many Southern Inuit experience as challenges to our identity, history and rights. Southern Labrador has also been described as outside Inuit Nunangat.

So the question is fair.

If the history of Red Bay is evidence of harm to Labrador Inuit when speaking in Spain, why is Inuit presence in southern Labrador treated so differently when NunatuKavut speaks of our own history, families and land?

It cannot be both ways.

Either Inuit history in southern Labrador forms part of this story, or it does not. Either Red Bay helps tell the story of Labrador Inuit, or it does not. It should not count only when it supports a demand for reconciliation from Europe, and then be questioned or dismissed when Southern Inuit ask for recognition and respect here at home.

I say this as a member of NunatuKavut.

My family is from central and southern Labrador. My family still holds land in Natsitok (Sandwich Bay), land we have fished, hunted, and gathered from for generations. Across the way from our family land are Inuit stone houses that remind us our presence is not new, not invented, and not something that can be erased by politics.

For my family, and for many Southern Inuit families, these are not abstract debates. They are not just about maps, titles, governments or political statements. They are about grandparents and great-grandparents. They are about land use, memory, kinship, food, language, place names, family stories, and the quiet knowledge passed down through generations.

They are about belonging.

That is why the lack of reconciliation with NunatuKavut is so painful. It has harmed relationships between people who should be able to see each other as relatives. It has created division where there should be respect. It leaves many Southern Inuit feeling as though our identity is acknowledged in one context and questioned in another.

I do not write this to attack President Lampe or Nunatsiavut. I write it because I believe reconciliation among Inuit in Labrador is necessary, overdue, and possible.

There is enough pain in our shared history without adding more to it. There is enough outside pressure on Indigenous peoples without us turning that pressure inward on one another. Labrador is large enough, and our history is deep enough, to hold more than one Inuit story.

If President Lampe truly believes reconciliation must begin somewhere, then I hope he will consider beginning here, with the Southern Inuit of Labrador.

An apology from Europe may be worth discussing. The history of Basque whaling in Labrador is significant and should be better understood. But reconciliation in Labrador cannot be pursued only overseas. It cannot be something we ask of others while avoiding the harder work among ourselves.

It must also happen here, at home.

It must happen between people who share family connections, ancestral ties, history, land, and memory.

It must happen between Nunatsiavut and NunatuKavut.

We deserve to be respected. We deserve to be self-determining. We deserve to have our history acknowledged.

Most of all, we deserve peace and reconciliation with our Inuit brothers and sisters here at home.

Holy Welcome: Loving the Stranger as Citizens of God’s Kingdom

I recently had the privilege of preaching at my church from Leviticus 19, reflecting on God’s command to love the foreigner and welcome the stranger.

Because this is a passage that continues to work on my own heart, I wanted to share a condensed version here for readers who may find it helpful. A sermon is meant to be heard in a gathered setting, so I have adapted this slightly for the blog while trying to remain faithful to the heart of what I shared that morning.

The Heart of Leviticus

Leviticus may not be the first book many of us turn to when we are looking for comfort, encouragement, or practical guidance. I understand that. It can feel difficult and distant. Many of us have had the experience of beginning the year determined to read through Scripture, moving through Genesis and Exodus, and then slowing down when we arrive at Leviticus with its sacrifices, priests, purity laws, festivals, offerings, and instructions that can feel far removed from modern life.

But if we see Leviticus only as a book of ancient rules, we will miss its heart.

Leviticus is about how a sinful people can live in the presence of a holy God. It is about God graciously making a way for His people to draw near, worship Him, and live as His people in the world. It is also revelation. God’s law does not merely give rules. It reveals His character, His will, and His good purpose for human life.

That is why the repeated phrase “I am the LORD” matters so much. God ties His commands to His own name and character. In effect, He is saying, “This is how My people are to live, because this is who I am.”

Holiness That Reflects God's Character

The command at the heart of Leviticus 19 begins with God’s holiness. God calls His people to be holy because He is holy. This call was not given only to priests, prophets, or a particularly serious spiritual elite. It was spoken to the whole assembly. The entire people of God were called to reflect the character of the Lord.

Holiness certainly includes moral purity. God’s people are called to turn away from sin and live lives that are pleasing to Him. But holiness is bigger than what we avoid. To be holy is to be set apart for God. It means belonging to Him. It means our lives are not simply defined by the values, fears, priorities, and patterns of the world around us.

Biblical holiness is not only seen in what we refuse. It is also seen in what we reflect.

Do we reflect the mercy of God? The justice of God? The generosity of God? The patience of God? The welcome of God?

This is why the command to love the foreigner is not a side issue. It flows directly from the holiness of God. The holy God cares how His people treat the vulnerable. He cares how they treat the outsider. He cares how they treat the person who does not naturally belong to their social circle, family network, ethnic group, language group, or tribe.

Before we ask who the stranger is, we must first ask who the Lord is.

He is holy.

And His holy people are called to make His character visible.

Remembering Mercy

When God commands Israel not to mistreat the foreigner and to love the foreigner as themselves, He gives them a reason: they had been foreigners in Egypt. God does not simply give a command. He reminds them of their story.

Before they had land, they were landless. Before they had a home, they lived in a country not their own. Before they had freedom, they were enslaved. Before they had protection, they were vulnerable.

Israel knew what it meant to be the outsider. They knew what it meant to be treated as a threat. They knew what it meant to be used, oppressed, and made bitter by the power of others.

And the Lord saw them. He heard their cries. He knew their suffering. He delivered them.

So when God reminds Israel that they were foreigners in Egypt, He is calling them to remember mercy. He is saying, in effect, do not forget what it was like to be vulnerable. Do not forget what it was like to need deliverance. Do not receive mercy from God and then refuse mercy to your neighbour.

Israel’s memory of oppression was meant to produce compassion. Their memory of vulnerability was meant to produce justice. Their memory of deliverance was meant to produce generosity.

The same pattern carries into the New Testament. The Church is called to remember grace. Apart from Christ, we were outsiders. We were far off from God, without hope, unable to bring ourselves near. But in Christ, God welcomed us. He brought near those who were far off.

That is the Gospel.

We were strangers, and God welcomed us.

For the Christian, loving the stranger is not rooted only in Israel’s memory of Egypt. It is rooted in our own memory of grace.

More Than Avoiding Harm

The command itself goes further than simply avoiding harm. God does not merely tell His people not to mistreat the foreigner. He commands them to treat the foreigner as one of their own and to love them as themselves.

That is active. It is personal. It is costly.

In the original context, the foreigner was likely a non-Israelite resident living among God’s people. They were not simply passing through. They lived in the land, but without the same inheritance, family networks, social protections, or standing as the native-born. That made them vulnerable. They could be overlooked, exploited, treated with suspicion, or blamed when life became difficult.

And God says no. You must not treat them that way.

Who Is the Stranger in Front of Me?

The passage speaks directly about the foreigner residing among Israel, and we should not ignore that. But the principle reaches further. God is teaching His people how to see and treat those who are vulnerable, unfamiliar, outside their usual circle, and easy to exclude.

So yes, we should think about newcomers, refugees, and people who have come here from other countries. We should think about those learning our customs, navigating a new culture, or speaking a language that may not be the majority language around them.

But we should not stop there.

We should also ask: who is the stranger in front of me?

Who is outside my usual circle? Who is easy for me to overlook? Who do I instinctively keep at a distance? Who is present among us, but not yet welcomed as one of us?

The stranger may be the person from another country. The stranger may be the person from another province or community. The stranger may be the visitor who does not know our church culture. The stranger may be the neighbour whose life is very different from mine. The stranger may be the person whose language, accent, family background, education, income, politics, personality, or struggles make them feel unfamiliar.

The Word of God presses on us with a command: love them as yourself.

Not merely tolerate them. Not merely avoid harming them. Not merely be polite from a distance.

Love them.

Seeing People as People

That begins by seeing people as people, not categories. Not problems to be solved. Not threats to be feared. Not interruptions to our comfort. Not outsiders to be managed. They are image bearers. They are made by God, known by God, loved by God, accountable to God, and valuable before God.

Loving the stranger does not mean pretending every situation is simple. It does not mean every policy question is easy. It does not mean there are no real pressures on housing, employment, health care, schools, language, or public services. Scripture does not call us to be naïve.

But Scripture does call us to be holy.

And holiness sets a boundary around how we think, speak, act, and treat people. We are not free to dehumanize. We are not free to mock. We are not free to exploit. We are not free to scapegoat. We are not free to let fear, frustration, comfort, or tribal loyalty override the command of God.

The people of God answer to a higher law. We belong to a higher Kingdom.

A Public Witness of Welcome

This is also part of the Church’s public witness. The Church is not merely a gathering of people with private beliefs, familiar traditions, and shared routines. In Christ, we are a people called out of darkness and into light. We bear His name. We represent His Kingdom. We are called to make God known.

Public witness is not performance or image management. It is the life of God’s people making visible the character of God.

People are watching. Our neighbours are watching. Our children are watching. Newcomers are watching. Visitors to our churches are watching. People who wonder whether the Gospel is only words are watching.

And they are asking, even if silently: What is God like? What kind of people does the Gospel produce? What kind of Kingdom do these Christians belong to?

If we speak about holiness but treat outsiders with suspicion, contempt, or indifference, what are we saying about God? If we sing about grace but refuse to extend welcome, what are we saying about grace? If we rejoice that Christ brought us near while keeping others at a distance, what are we saying about Christ?

The Church should be a place where the stranger encounters something different. A person who is not from here should encounter welcome. A person who speaks with an accent should encounter patience. A visitor who does not understand our church culture should encounter hospitality. A person outside our usual social circle should encounter genuine love. A person who feels unseen should encounter the dignity of being noticed.

And in all of this, we are not simply being nice.

We are bearing witness.

We are saying with our life together: this is what our God is like. He is holy. He is merciful. He is generous. He welcomes sinners through Christ. He brings near those who were far off. He builds a family out of people who once were strangers.

That is kingdom-shaped holiness.

And kingdom-shaped holiness is public witness.

Holy Because He is Holy

God is holy.

We were strangers.

So we love the stranger.

“Speak to the entire assembly of Israel and say to them: ‘Be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy…When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.’”

~ Leviticus 19:2;33-34 (NIV) 

May we be holy because He is holy. May we be generous because He is generous. May we love the stranger because God has loved us. May we welcome others because, in Christ, God has welcomed us.

Living in the Light of Resurrection

 

There is a thought that grows sweeter to me the older I get: the thought of resurrection.

When we are young, death can feel far away. Aging can feel theoretical. The weakness of the body can seem like someone else’s concern. But life has a way of bringing these things closer. We watch people we love grow weaker. We see bodies fail and minds become clouded. Some of us have stood beside graves. Some of us carry grief that others cannot see.

The apostle Paul does not ask us to pretend these things do not hurt. But he does tell us that, in Christ, they are not final.

What Paul Says in 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

In 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, Paul writes to believers who were grieving and confused. They believed Jesus was coming again, but while they waited, some believers died. That raised a painful question: what happens to those who die before Jesus returns? Will they miss out? Will they be left behind?

Paul answers with the promise of God: “We want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13, NLT).

Notice what Paul does not say. He does not say, “Do not grieve.” Christians grieve. Faith does not make us less human. It does not make love less real or death less painful. We grieve because death is an enemy. We grieve because separation hurts. We grieve because this world is not yet what God will one day make it.

But Paul says we do not grieve like people who have no hope. That is the difference.

Christian hope is not denial. It is not pretending everything is fine. It is not vague optimism about the afterlife. Christian hope rests on something much stronger: “Jesus died and was raised to life again” (1 Thessalonians 4:14, NLT). If Jesus has not risen, death has the final word. But if Jesus has risen, death has been defeated. And if death has been defeated, those who die in Christ are not lost. They are safe in Him, remembered by Him, and when He comes, they will rise.

Paul is clear that believers who have died will not miss the great day of Christ’s return. In fact, he says, “First, the believers who have died will rise from their graves” (1 Thessalonians 4:16, NLT). Death does not make them second-class citizens in the kingdom of God. Death does not erase their place in Christ. Those who belong to Jesus have a future tied to His future. He died. He rose. He will come again. And those who belong to Him will rise too.

What Resurrection Means for the Believer

Paul continues, “Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. Then we will be with the Lord forever” (1 Thessalonians 4:17, NLT).

Over the years, Christians have spent a lot of time debating the details of this verse. Good and faithful believers have not always agreed on how all the events surrounding the return of Christ fit together. But Paul’s main point here is not to give us a chart. His main point is to give us comfort.

The comfort is simple: when Christ returns, no believer will be left out. Those who have died in Christ will be raised. Those who are alive in Christ will be gathered. Together, we will meet the Lord.

That word “together” is beautiful. The Thessalonians feared separation, but Paul gives them reunion. They feared loss, but Paul gives them hope. They feared that death had taken their loved ones beyond the reach of Christ’s promise, but Paul says no. Not one of them will be forgotten.

Then comes the greatest promise in the passage: “Then we will be with the Lord forever.” That is the centre of Christian hope. Yes, there is real comfort in the thought that we will see loved ones again. The promise of resurrection tells us that those who died in Christ will live again. But even that is not the deepest hope. The deepest hope is that we will be with the Lord forever.

Because if we have Him, every other good thing will be restored in Him. No more separation. No more graveside goodbyes. No more bodies that betray us. No more minds that become clouded. No more sin. No more death. We will be with the Lord forever.

That is why Paul ends the passage by saying, “So encourage each other with these words” (1 Thessalonians 4:18, NLT). Not frighten one another. Not confuse one another. Not speculate with one another. Encourage one another.

How We Live in the Light of Resurrection

If the resurrection is true, and if Christ really will return, then it changes how we live now. Resurrection hope is not an excuse to withdraw from the world. It is not a reason to become passive or to say, “This world is passing away, so none of this matters.”

Christian hope says something stronger. Because Jesus has been raised, God has already begun His work of making all things new. Because Christ will return, that work will one day be completed. So we live now in light of what God has promised.

Our bodies matter. Our work matters. Our prayers matter. Our acts of mercy matter. Our witness matters. Our small obedience matters. We are people of the resurrection living in a world still marked by death.

When we comfort the grieving, sit with the lonely, care for the sick, forgive, serve, tell the truth, refuse to return evil for evil, protect the vulnerable, and treat people with dignity because they are made in the image of God, we bear witness to resurrection. These things may look small. They may not be noticed by many people. But they matter because Christ is risen.

One of the lies we are tempted to believe is that only large things matter: large platforms, large moments, large gestures, large ministries, large acts of sacrifice. But most faithfulness is ordinary. It is a phone call, a meal, a visit, a prayer, a word of encouragement, a quiet refusal to give up, choosing honesty when a lie would be easier, choosing mercy when bitterness would feel justified, and serving when no one sees.

St. Francis de Sales once wrote, “Great occasions for serving God come seldom, but little ones surround us daily.” We need that reminder. Much of the Christian life is simply being faithful in the little things that love requires. Resurrection tells us those little things are not wasted.

Paul says something similar in 1 Corinthians 15. After teaching about the resurrection, he writes, “So, my dear brothers and sisters, be strong and immovable. Always work enthusiastically for the Lord, for you know that nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless” (1 Corinthians 15:58, NLT).

That is resurrection application. Because Christ is risen, nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless. Your prayers are not useless. Your kindness is not useless. Your endurance is not useless. Your witness is not useless. Your love is not useless. Even your grief is not useless when it is carried in hope before the Lord.

Living in the light of resurrection also means we care about justice, beauty, and the gospel. Justice matters because God will put the world right. Beauty matters because creation is not garbage to be thrown away, but something God will renew. Evangelism matters because Jesus is Lord, and through Him sinners can be forgiven, enemies can become children, and the dead will live.

So we comfort one another. We grieve with hope. We stand firm. We give ourselves to the work of the Lord. We live now as a signpost of what God has promised then.

And when we grow tired, when our bodies weaken, when grief comes close, when the work feels small, and when the world feels dark, we remind one another: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. And nothing done for the Lord is ever useless.

The Lord Himself will come. The dead in Christ will rise. The living in Christ will be gathered with them. And we will be with the Lord forever.

So let us live in the light of resurrection. Let us grieve with hope. Let us comfort one another. Let us give ourselves to the work of the Lord. And let us wait, not in fear, but in faith, for the day when Christ returns and all who belong to Him will be with the Lord forever.

Life and Death in the Tongue

Words That Do More Than We Admit

Words can wound. Words can kill. Words can heal.

And sometimes the wounds they leave last far longer than we care to admit.

Scripture does not treat words as small or insignificant:

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Proverbs 18:21).

That is not poetic language. It is a warning.

Every word you speak leaves a mark. The only question is what kind.

Jesus Removes Our Excuses

Jesus raises the standard in a way that should make us uncomfortable:

Anger and contempt expressed in words come from the same kind of heart that produces murder (Matthew 5:21–22).

He is not collapsing the categories. He is exposing the heart.

We often excuse our words because “we didn’t mean it.” Jesus does not allow that escape. Words reveal what is already present within.

Words That Devour

Paul warns the Galatian church:

“If you bite and devour one another, watch out that you are not consumed by one another” (Galatians 5:15).

That is not casual language. That is destruction.

Words spoken in anger, sarcasm, bitterness, or carelessness can tear people apart, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once.

Proverbs does not soften it:

“Reckless words pierce like a sword” (Proverbs 12:18).

Once spoken, they cannot be taken back. They linger. They settle in memory. They work like a rot that eventually poisons and destroys.

Say It Angry…Regret It Later

Ambrose Bierce wrote:

“Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.”

That regret is not accidental. It comes from somewhere. Which is exactly where James takes us next.

The Tongue Reveals the Heart

James cuts to the core issue:

“From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers, these things ought not to be so” (James 3:10).

He compares the tongue to a spring. It cannot produce both fresh and salt water.

Which leads to a question you cannot avoid:

What is in your well?

Do not answer quickly. Do not answer spiritually. And do not lie to yourself.

It is easy to give a quick, spiritual answer. It is harder to answer truthfully.

If your words are consistently harsh, bitter, or cutting, that is not a communication problem. It is a heart problem. And until that is dealt with, nothing will change.

As Wiersbe said, “What the tongue does reveals what the heart contains.”

Words That Heal…or Harm for Years

Scripture also shows the other side:

“Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24).

Words spoken with care, truth, and love bring life. They strengthen. They restore.

And just like harmful words linger, so do good ones.

A single word of encouragement can stay with someone for years.

So can a careless, cutting remark.

You are always leaving something behind with your words.

A Standard Worth Bringing Home

There is an old naval regulation that says:

“No officer shall speak discouragingly to another officer in the discharge of their duties.”

If that standard is expected in military discipline, why should we accept less in our homes, our friendships, or our churches?

What would change if we simply refused to speak discouragingly to one another?

Pause. Then Decide.

Before you speak, pause.

Ask yourself:

Will these words bring life, or will they bring harm?

Not what you feel like saying. Not what they “deserve.”

What will your words leave behind?

Choose Life

If your words are a problem, the solution is not just to try harder to control your tongue.

Go deeper.

Ask God to deal with your heart. Ask Him to change what is in the well. Because the tongue does not operate independently. It draws from what is already there.

God gave you the ability to speak. That is not a small gift.

You can use it to wound, to tear down, to poison…or to heal, to strengthen, and to give life.

So choose carefully.

Choose truth. Choose restraint. Choose kindness when it is hardest.

Above all:

Choose life.

Because every word you speak is shaping something…in someone else, and in you.

Wasps, Winter, and the Weight of Home

A Familiar Restlessness

Sixteen years ago, I sat in a coffee shop watching a wasp beat itself against a window, desperate to escape. It became, for me, a picture of discontent. Of restlessness. Of feeling out of place in the world.

Sixteen years later, I find myself in a similar place. Another coffee shop. Another season of watching something I cannot control. This time it is not a wasp, but winter itself.

Snow piling endlessly. Days that feel heavy. A body that has slowed. A spirit that feels confined.

And again, I feel that familiar restlessness.

I long for warmth. For movement. For beaches, trails, and long evenings with family and friends. I find myself yearning for a change in season, both outside and within.

Made for More, But Not Made to Escape

Years ago, I wrote, “I am made for eternity, therefore I am discontent in this temporal world.”

I still believe that. But I understand it differently now.

At that time, my thinking leaned toward escape. The idea that this world is not my home, that I am simply passing through.

There was truth in it. But it was incomplete.

What I am beginning to see more clearly is this:

The destination was never somewhere else. The destination is here.

God’s Desire Has Always Been to Dwell With Us

From the beginning, God’s intention was not to abandon creation but to dwell within it.

“God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.”
— Genesis 1:31

Creation was not a mistake. It was declared good.

We were made to live with God, not apart from Him.

Yet we chose independence. We chose to define life on our own terms. And ever since, humanity has been caught in a cycle of striving and dissatisfaction.

We search for meaning, for control, for fulfillment, and it always feels just out of reach.

A Groaning World, A Shared Longing

That restlessness I feel in the winter, that sense of not quite being at home, is not an accident. It is a signal.

But it is not pointing me away from this world. It is pointing me toward what this world is meant to become.

“For the creation waits in eager expectation… We know that the whole creation has been groaning…”
— Romans 8:19–22

There is a shared dissatisfaction woven into everything.

Not because creation is wrong, but because it is unfinished. Waiting. Anticipating renewal.

Not Escaping the World, But Seeing It Redeemed

This world is my home. Not in its current brokenness, but in its promised restoration.

“Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and He will dwell with them.”
— Revelation 21:3

Revelation does not speak of escape from the earth, but of God dwelling with His people.

Heaven and earth brought together.
All things made new.
Not replaced, but redeemed.

Dissatisfaction With a Purpose

That changes how I understand my own discontent.

Our longing is not something to suppress. It is something to steward.

“Behold, I am making all things new.”
— Revelation 21:5

Dissatisfaction becomes a catalyst.

It pushes us toward God.
And it draws us into His work.

A Call to Participate in Renewal

We are not just waiting for a future reality. We are invited to participate in it now.

“We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making His appeal through us.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:20

This is our calling:

To be people of renewal.
Of reconciliation.
Of restoration.

In our homes.
In our neighbourhoods.
In our communities.

Not someday. Now.

And this work matters more than we often realize.

“Therefore… stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord… because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.”
— 1 Corinthians 15:58

Because of the resurrection, because of what is coming, nothing done in faith is wasted.

Every act of faithfulness.
Every step toward reconciliation.
Every effort to bring light into dark places.

It all matters.

Living Between What Is and What Will Be

The snow will melt. Spring will come.

But the deeper longing, the one that has followed me for years, will only find its rest when all things are made new.

Until then, we live in the tension.

Rooted here.
Hopeful for what is coming.
And steadfast in the work we have been given, knowing it is not in vain.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come.

 

Big Ears and Porcelain Veneers

The First Day

He noticed people’s flaws before anything else.

It was not something he would ever say aloud. In fact, he had spent years convincing himself of the opposite. He believed, quite firmly, that he was fair-minded. That he saw people as they were, beyond the surface. That he was, in some small but meaningful way, better than those who judged.

Still, his eyes moved first to what was wrong.

The man across from him that morning had a patch of uneven stubble creeping up one cheek, as though he had forgotten halfway through shaving. A woman near the door tapped her foot incessantly, a nervous rhythm that grated on him. Another passenger had a stain on his cuff. Coffee, perhaps. Or something worse.

He sat back, arms folded, watching them all with a quiet, detached awareness.

It had always been this way.

When he was a boy, they had noticed him first.

Big ears.
Dumbo.
You could fly with those things.

The words had followed him through hallways, playgrounds, and long, humiliating afternoons. He had learned early that people saw what stood out. What did not fit. What invited attention.

He had grown into them, of course. His ears no longer seemed so large now that his face had filled out, his features sharpened. He had even been told, more than once, that he was a good-looking man.

But the memory lingered. A quiet, persistent echo.

He adjusted his posture slightly, angling his head so that neither ear was too exposed in the reflection of the window.

The train lurched forward, settling into its steady rhythm.

At the next stop, she boarded.

He noticed her immediately, though he would later tell himself it was because she sat directly across from him. That it had nothing to do with the way heads subtly turned as she walked down the aisle.

She moved with a careful confidence, one hand lightly trailing the tops of the seats as she counted them without seeming to count. When she reached his row, she paused, smiled in his direction, and sat.

“Good morning,” she said.

Her voice was warm. Unforced.

He nodded, then realized the gesture was pointless. “Morning.”

Up close, she was striking. There was an ease about her, a composure that made her presence feel deliberate rather than accidental. Her posture was straight, her expression open. The kind of person people noticed for all the right reasons.

He wondered, briefly, what her flaw was.

“Is this train usually this quiet?” she asked.

He glanced around. “Depends on the day, I suppose.”

“I’m still figuring out the patterns,” she said. “I started this route a few weeks ago.”

There was something about the way she spoke. Direct, but not intrusive. He found himself answering more readily than he expected.

“You commute every day?”

“Yes,” she said. “Work keeps me on a schedule.”

“And what do you do?”

“I work in communications,” she replied. “Mostly writing. Editing. Keeping things clear.”

He almost smiled at that.

“Useful skill,” he said.

“I like to think so.”

There was a brief pause, comfortable enough that he did not feel the need to fill it.

Then, as she reached into her bag, he noticed the cane.

Folded neatly. White.

Something shifted.

“Oh,” he said before he could stop himself.

She tilted her head slightly. “Oh?”

“I didn’t realize—”

“That I’m blind?” she finished, gently.

“Yes.”

“It surprises people,” she said. “Though I suppose it shouldn’t.”

He felt, unexpectedly, at ease.

There was no trace of self-consciousness in her tone. No tension. She stated it the way one might state the weather.

“I hope I didn’t say anything odd,” he added.

“You didn’t,” she said. “And if you had, I’d tell you.”

He let out a small breath.

Something loosened inside him.

They spoke for the remainder of the ride. About work. About routines. About the small, forgettable details that make up a morning commute.

She was easy to talk to. More than that, she listened. Not passively, but with a kind of attentiveness that made his words feel… received.

Seen.

He found himself choosing them more carefully. Sharpening them slightly. Presenting himself, though he would not have called it that.

When the train slowed for his stop, he hesitated.

“It was good talking to you,” he said.

“You too,” she replied. “Same time tomorrow?”

He paused, then nodded. “Yes.”

The Second Day

On the second day, he arrived early.

He told himself it was coincidence.

He chose the same seat. Adjusted himself the same way. Not too obvious. Not too deliberate.

When she boarded, she found him again without hesitation.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling.

“Morning.”

This time, the conversation came more easily.

He told her about his work. About his interests. About his views on people, though he softened the edges, rounding his judgments into something more palatable.

“I’ve always believed,” he said at one point, “that you shouldn’t define people by superficial things.”

“No?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s… limiting. People are more than that.”

She nodded. “I’d agree with you.”

There was no irony in her voice. No hint that she questioned him.

It pleased him more than it should have.

He became aware, as they spoke, of how freely he was expressing himself. There was no need to monitor how he looked. No concern about angles, posture, presentation.

She could not see him.

And yet, she seemed to understand him.

It was, he thought, a kind of purity. An interaction unclouded by the usual distortions.

He wondered, briefly, if this was how people should always be.

When his stop approached, he felt an unfamiliar reluctance.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

The Third Day

On the third day, he did not pretend.

He arrived early because he wanted to.

When she sat across from him, there was already a familiarity between them. A rhythm established.

They spoke of smaller things at first. Then, gradually, of more personal ones.

She told him about her work. The challenges. The satisfaction.

“I’ve had to adapt,” she said. “But it’s never felt like a limitation. Just… a different way of doing things.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t always,” she admitted. “But it’s mine.”

He admired that. Or thought he did.

“And you?” she asked. “What shaped you?”

He hesitated.

Then, perhaps because she could not see him, he told her.

About school. About the names. About the long, slow process of outgrowing something that had once defined him.

“They were relentless,” he said. “Kids can be cruel.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“I think that’s why I am the way I am now,” he continued. “I made a decision early on that I wouldn’t be like that. That I wouldn’t judge people for things they can’t control.”

She smiled.

“That’s a good decision.”

He felt, for a moment, that he had been understood completely.

Then she laughed softly.

“I used to have terrible teeth,” she said, almost offhandedly.

He blinked. “What?”

“As a kid,” she continued. “It was a whole ordeal. Made it hard to speak properly. Eating was… complicated.”

He waited.

“I had them fixed a few years ago,” she said. “Porcelain veneers. Best decision I ever made.”

The words settled between them.

He looked at her mouth without meaning to.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

Something tightened.

“You had them fixed,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “It changed everything. Not just practically. Confidence, too.”

He nodded slowly.

“I suppose that makes sense.”

But something had shifted.

He could feel it, though he did not name it.

She continued speaking, unaware.

“It’s funny,” she added. “People think blindness would be the thing that defines me. But honestly, it was my teeth for a long time.”

He barely heard the rest.

A quiet, insistent thought had begun to form.

She fixed it.

She hid it.

He sat back slightly.

“I didn’t have that option,” he said, more sharply than he intended.

She paused. “What do you mean?”

“My ears,” he said. “I had to live with them. Grow into them.”

There was a brief silence.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said gently.

He felt something harden.

“It’s different,” he said. “You were able to… correct it. Present something else.”

“I corrected a problem that affected my health,” she replied, still calm. “And my ability to communicate.”

“Yes, but—” he stopped himself.

The train slowed.

His stop.

He stood abruptly.

“It’s here,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “Alright. I’ll—”

He did not let her finish.

The doors opened.

He stepped out.

Did not look back.

As the train pulled away, he stood on the platform, hands in his pockets, jaw set.

He felt a strange mixture of clarity and disappointment.

He had thought she was different.

Genuine.

But in the end, she was like the others.

Hiding what she did not want the world to see.

He exhaled slowly.

No, he told himself.

He had been right all along.

People always reveal themselves eventually.

He turned and walked toward the exit, the morning crowd folding around him, unseen.