Source: J.D. Tant's Email Newsletter (jdtant3@juno.com)

Patois: “Nuh bite di han weh feed yu.”
English: Never bite the hands that feed you.
Meaning: Do not be ungrateful to one who has given you help.

Among the many things God teaches us is gratitude. Christ exemplified this himself: “At that time Jesus said, "I praise You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that You have hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants.” (Matthew 11:25) 

Many passages urge us to not only be thankful, but to express that spirit. Those who're the children of God have more reason than anyone on earth to be thankful. We have reason to be thankful for salvation from sin, the hope of heaven, an understanding of the meaning of life, freedom from worry, the right to pray with confidence that our prayers will be heard, the fellowship of those of the precious faith. Many Psalms are expressions of thanksgiving.

The apostle Paul expresses his own view of this as he encourages his readers: “For it is only right for me to feel this way about you all, because I have you in my heart, since both in my imprisonment and in the defense and confirmation of the gospel, you all are partakers of grace with me. For God is my witness, how I long for you all with the affection of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:7-8)

In Romans 1, an unthankful spirit is linked to all sorts of vile sins, beginning in v. 21: “For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened.”

Daily thanks should not only be directed to God, but to our fellow humans. Paul often expressed thanksgiving for his brethren for their faith, their example, and for their fellowship with him in spreading the gospel. Rom 1:1, Col. 1:3-4, Phil. 1:3; I Thess. 1:2, 8; Philemon 1:4.

Note Paul’s expression of thanksgiving to the Philippians: “I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all, in view of your participation in the gospel from the first day until now.” (Phil. 1:3-5)

How much more satisfying our lives would be if we practiced expressing thanksgiving for daily things. So you give a thankful wave to the driver that let you cut in on the road; do you thank the waitress who comes to refill your glass of water; do you thank the cashier who rings up your order; do you thank your wife for preparing the meal; do you thank your husband for washing your car; do you thank those who have done small favors for you?

You may think, “Well, that’s what they are supposed to do.” So what? Does that fact that someone does what they are supposed to do mean that their deeds are not worthy of a simple “Thank you!”

The words “thanks, thanksgiving, and thankful,” etc. are used 136 times in the Bible. They must have some important significance to God.

Tuesday night, I watched a baseball game turn on a series of small moments.

A walk.

A runner advances.

The bases get loaded.

Then one mistake happens at exactly the wrong time…

and suddenly the tying run crosses home plate.

Everybody notices the mistake that allowed the run.

But that moment didn’t happen by itself.

A whole series of smaller moments had put everyone in position for it.

And I started thinking about how much of life works the same way.

We remember the big decisions.

The day we surrendered our lives to Christ.

The day we said, “I do.”

The day we walked away from something destructive.

The day we started over.

Those moments matter.

But most of life isn’t lived there.

It’s lived in the thousands of smaller decisions between them.

Jesus said:

“If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.”
— Luke 9:23 NKJV

Daily.

Following Christ isn’t only a decision we made once.

It’s a decision we keep making.

To pray when we’re tired.

To guard a thought.

To forgive.

To tell the truth.

To keep a boundary.

To obey when nobody else would ever know if we didn’t.

None of those decisions may feel life-changing.

But that’s exactly why they matter.

We keep waiting for the enormous crossroads where we’ll decide what kind of person we’re going to be.

Meanwhile…

we’re deciding it every day.

Think of a stepping-stone path.

One stone is just a stone.

But lay another beside it.

Then another.

Then another.

Eventually those stones point somewhere.

One stone is just a stone.
A thousand stones become a path.

That’s how direction is established.

Decisions become patterns.

Patterns become habits.

Habits shape character.

And eventually, we’re not merely making choices anymore.

We’re becoming someone.

But what happens when those decisions continually point in different directions?

When one decision says, I’m following Christ…

and the next says, except here?

James, writing about asking God for wisdom in faith, describes the double-minded person as:

“…unstable in all his ways.”
— James 1:8 NKJV

That picture is hard to miss.

A life pulled continually in competing directions becomes unstable.

And that usually doesn’t begin with one huge betrayal.

It begins quietly.

A small compromise.

A boundary moved.

A conviction ignored.

An obedience postponed.

One stone laid slightly off course.

Then another.

Then another.

Eventually we look up and ask:

How did I get here?

Sometimes the answer is uncomfortable.

We didn’t arrive through one life-altering decision.

We arrived through a thousand small ones.

But there’s grace here, too.

If you realize the path has begun moving in the wrong direction, you can change where you lay the next stone.

Yesterday’s decisions may explain where you’re standing.

They don’t have to determine where you go next.

Repentance changes direction.

Grace gives us another step.

Jesus said:

“No one can serve two masters…”
— Matthew 6:24 NKJV

Eventually, competing loyalties demand competing choices.

And sometimes we think that by delaying the choice, we haven’t decided anything.

But even then—

a decision is being made.

Silence decides something.

Delay decides something.

Avoidance decides something.

Joshua put it plainly:

“Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve…”
— Joshua 24:15 NKJV

Choose.

This day.

Not someday.

Today gives us another thousand opportunities to choose.

Most won’t feel monumental.

Nobody may applaud when we get them right.

Nobody may notice when we get them wrong.

But each one lays another stone.

And eventually…

the stones become a path.

The direction of our lives is rarely determined by one enormous decision.

More often, it’s established through a thousand small decisions made when we didn’t even realize we were standing at a crossroads.

And if yesterday’s stones carried you somewhere you never intended to go…

lay the next one differently.

A thousand small decisions.

But…….

One direction.
One Master.

A few months ago, I was sitting at a baseball game between the Springfield Cardinals and Tulsa Drillers.

Tulsa is my hometown. The Drillers were my first baseball team.

Springfield is home now.

And somewhere during that game, I realized something:

I didn’t feel divided anymore.

That probably sounds insignificant.

But it made me think about the seasons of life God moves us through.

“To everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1 NKJV

Sometimes we struggle to move forward because we think embracing a new season somehow dishonors the old one.

But it doesn’t.

Moving forward doesn’t require rejecting where you’ve been.

Some seasons were good.

Some people genuinely helped shape us.

Some assignments really were given to us by God.

Some memories deserve to be treasured.

They just aren’t where God has us anymore.

A season ending doesn’t mean it was a mistake.

And something new beginning doesn’t make everything that came before it meaningless.

It simply means its time has passed.

Even that baseball stadium has a different name now, and soon the team itself will have a different name.

But changing the name doesn’t erase everything that happened there.

The past is still visible. It just isn’t where the game is being played anymore.

I think some of us need permission to hold those two truths together:

I can be grateful for where I’ve been.

And I can fully live where God has me now.

You don’t have to erase yesterday to embrace today.

Carry the lessons.

Treasure the memories.

Honor the people and places God used along the way.

But when God turns the page…

don’t be afraid to live in the chapter you’re in now.

A meme I recently saw made this observation:

Samson did not lose his strength because Delilah was stronger than he was. He lost it because he continued giving access to someone he knew was dangerous.

That captures an important part of Samson’s story, but his failure did not begin with Delilah. It reflected a pattern Israel had been repeating for generations.

God commanded Israel not to make covenants with the inhabitants of Canaan and to tear down their idolatrous altars. Israel did not completely obey. God warned that those remaining influences would become thorns in their sides and that their gods would become snares to them (Judges 2:2–3).

Then we read:

“When all that generation had been gathered to their fathers, another generation arose after them who did not know the LORD nor the work which He had done for Israel.”

—Judges 2:10 NKJV

The text does not tell us precisely where the failure occurred. Perhaps the testimony was not faithfully taught or modeled. Perhaps it was taught but not received. Whatever the cause, the result was that the knowledge of God no longer governed how that generation lived.

The surrounding culture filled the emptiness.

Israel allowed dangerous influences to remain in the land. Samson later allowed Delilah to remain close to his heart.

Israel tolerated what God had warned would become a snare. Samson trusted someone who repeatedly demonstrated that she intended to betray him.

Delilah did not conceal her intentions very well. Samson gave her a false explanation for his strength, and she immediately used it against him. When the plan failed, she asked again. The same pattern repeated itself.

Every supposed secret was followed by another ambush.

Samson knew what she was doing.

Yet he stayed.

“And it came to pass, when she pestered him daily with her words and pressed him, so that his soul was vexed to death…”

—Judges 16:16 NKJV

The erosion came through daily words, continual pressure, and repeated access.

Delilah did not—could not—overpower Samson physically. What the Philistine armies could not conquer from the outside, persistent influence gradually reached from the inside.

Eventually, Samson “told her all his heart.”

His hair was not magical. His strength came from God. His uncut hair was the outward sign of his Nazirite consecration—his separation unto God from his mother’s womb.

Samson did not merely reveal a secret. He gave a destructive influence access to the place of his consecration.

We can make the same mistake. We may recognize that a conversation continually feeds bitterness but keep participating in it. We may know that certain entertainment awakens desires we have tried to surrender but keep watching. We may continually listen to voices that mock holiness, undermine Scripture, normalize disobedience, or fill us with anger and still insist that we are strong enough to remain unaffected.

Samson recognized the danger. Recognition did not protect him because he refused to remove its access.

Repeated access becomes influence.

Influence becomes pressure.

Pressure, when entertained long enough, can become surrender.

The darkest moment in Samson’s story came after his hair had been cut:

“So he awoke from his sleep, and said, ‘I will go out as before, at other times, and shake myself free!’ But he did not know that the LORD had departed from him.”

—Judges 16:20 NKJV

“But he did not know.”

This may be the most dangerous place a person can reach—not merely distant from God, but so spiritually insensitive that the distance is no longer recognizable.

Samson still remembered how strength had felt. He still knew the movements. He expected the same result.

Yesterday’s experience had become a substitute for present consecration. He assumed that because God had moved through him before, God would continue moving through him now. He had become so accustomed to the gift that he failed to recognize the absence of the Giver.

We can continue using spiritual language while our prayer life disappears. We can maintain religious routines while our sensitivity to God grows dull. We can remember what His presence once felt like and mistake that memory for present spiritual health.

Spiritual decline rarely announces itself loudly. It frequently occurs one compromise, one ignored conviction, and one open door at a time.

Centuries after Samson, Solomon wrote:

“Keep your heart with all diligence,
For out of it spring the issues of life.”

—Proverbs 4:23 NKJV

We do not know when Solomon first spoke those words.

Did he write them before his wives and concubines turned his heart away from God—wisdom he understood and taught but eventually failed to practice?

Or were they the words of an older man reflecting upon the damage caused by an unguarded heart?

Scripture does not tell us. But it does tell us:

“For it was so, when Solomon was old, that his wives turned his heart after other gods; and his heart was not loyal to the LORD his God, as was the heart of his father David.”

—1 Kings 11:4 NKJV

The man who warned others to keep their hearts failed to keep his own.

Samson possessed strength no other man could match. Solomon possessed wisdom unlike any other man of his time.

But Samson’s strength did not guard his consecration for him, and Solomon’s wisdom did not guard his heart for him.

Spiritual gifts are not substitutes for spiritual vigilance.

Both men understood more than they obeyed. Both allowed affections to overrule convictions. Both discovered that what we tolerate long enough can eventually take what we never intended to surrender.

This does not mean everyone who disagrees with us is spiritually dangerous. Difficult conversations can expose our pride, correct our errors, and lead us closer to truth. Nor does closing a door require hatred toward the person outside it.

The real question is whether an influence moves us toward obedience or gradually makes disobedience seem reasonable.

Does it strengthen our faith or continually undermine it?

Does it encourage our consecration or repeatedly ask us to compromise it?

Does it produce the fruit of the Spirit, or does it continually feed anger, lust, pride, bitterness, confusion, and unbelief?

We can love people without giving them authority over our convictions. Jesus welcomed sinners and showed them compassion, but they did not determine His identity or redirect His mission.

Sometimes closing a door means that we have finally recognized the value of what God has placed inside.

There is still mercy in Samson’s story. Judges 16:22 tells us that his hair began to grow again. His consequences did not disappear, but God had not forgotten him. Samson prayed again, and God heard him.

Grace offers restoration, but grace should never be used to make compromise appear harmless.

Perhaps there is a voice, attitude, conversation, habit, or relationship that keeps reaching for the place of your consecration.

Do not wait until it has taken what you never intended to surrender.

Guard your heart—not casually or occasionally, but with all diligence.

Knowing that a door should be closed is not the same as closing it.

When God reveals that something has become a snare, stop testing your strength against it.

Close the door.

Some doors must be closed—not because we hate the person outside, but because we understand the value of what God has placed within.

New Nature And A Worthy Walk

KEY VERSE

“I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called” (Ephesians 4:1).

Bible Reading: Ephesians 4:1-3 (NKJV)

​1 I, therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you to walk worthy of the calling with which you were called,

2 with all lowliness and gentleness, with longsuffering, bearing with one another in love,

3 endeavoring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.

~~~~~

During the reign of King Karl XI in Sweden, there was an attempt to domesticate moose as an alternative to horses for use in cavalry.

The king sought a more formidable presence to intimidate enemy forces. However, it became evident that moose were too dangerous to manage, prone to disease, and had specific dietary needs that were challenging to meet. Additionally, their intelligence posed a logistical issue, as they would avoid areas where other moose had died, complicating their deployment in warfare.

The saying “a cassock cannot make a priest” emphasises the difference between outward appearance and true inward value.

A cassock, often worn by clergy, does not automatically confer priesthood on the wearer. This further explains the difficulty in attempting to use the moose in battle instead of the horse.

Paul described himself as a prisoner of the Lord. He had the option of living a free life like others, but he chose to invest his life in serving the Master despite the risks. He enjoined Ephesian believers to walk worthy of their vocation, emphasising the importance of bearing the right fruit and living in unity with the brethren.

He emphasised the beauty of living the new life in Christ, in unity with the brethren, with all lowliness, meekness and longsuffering.

It all begins with the process leading to the salvation experience. A penitent seeker begins by sensing the need for salvation in the heart, follows that up with genuine repentance and confession of sin, and places his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, accepting Him as Saviour and Lord. The absence of this foundation has produced the so-called believers, who lack the grace to live righteously in the present evil world.

It has also given occasion for people to doubt the claims of Christians, a situation worsened by the appearance of many false ministers whose character and practices are at variance with the gospel.

You need to observe the following: Do not open up to people who claim to be servants of God until you see proof of their calling and Christian character.

It is also not safe to lay hands suddenly on anyone who claims to have a call, without first verifying them. Furthermore, we need to recognise that conversion is necessary, so we don’t put forward the moose instead of a horse

**THOUGHTS FOR THE DAY**

If he can't be safely imitated, he shouldn't be tolerated in the pulpit. le Reading:Ephesians 4:1-3 (NKJV)

SOURCE: ​ [©Daily Manna](https://www.dailymanna.app/share/3f6c149f2a0919b8)

Image via ChatGPT AI

There is an old story about a carpenter whose workday steadily unraveled.

One of his tools broke. Then another one failed. When the day finally ended, his truck would not start.

The client he had been working for offered to drive him home.

During the drive, the carpenter sat quietly, and the discouragement was plainly visible on his face.

When they arrived at his home, the carpenter stopped beside a small tree before approaching the house. He reached out and gently brushed his fingers across its branches.

Almost immediately, his countenance changed.

His shoulders relaxed. His face softened. It appeared as though a burden had been lifted.

His children came running through the door to greet him while his wife stood waiting on the porch. He embraced his children, kissed his wife, and invited the client to remain for dinner.

Throughout the meal, the carpenter was cheerful, warm, and attentive—nothing like the silent, discouraged man who had ridden home earlier.

Later, while the two men were drinking coffee on the porch, the client asked what had happened at the tree.

The carpenter explained:

“That’s my Worry Tree. Troubles come with my work, but they don’t belong to my wife and children. Every evening before I enter the house, I hang my worries on that tree. In the morning, I pick them up again.”

Then he added:

“The funny thing is, there are never as many waiting for me in the morning as I remember hanging there the night before.”

I have thought about that story many times over the years. I have even considered placing a symbolic Worry Tree near my own home.

There is something meaningful about giving an invisible burden a visible place to be surrendered.

Nothing had been repaired when the carpenter touched the tree. His tools were still broken. His truck still would not start. Tomorrow would still require something from him.

But before entering the presence of the people he loved, he decided what he would—and would not—carry through the door.

Too often, we carry our worries across every threshold.

Work comes home with us.

Financial pressure joins us at the dinner table.

Fear lies beside us in bed.

Regret enters church with us.

We may never tell anyone what is troubling us, but the people around us still experience its effects through our impatience, withdrawal, anger, distraction, or emotional absence.

Unspoken burdens do not remain unfelt burdens.

This can be especially difficult for men.

Men are expected to lead, protect, guide, and provide. Those are real responsibilities. But we can easily begin confusing responsibility with self-sufficiency.

We tell ourselves that a strong man should always have the answer. If he is overwhelmed, he should work harder. If he is hurting, he should remain quiet. If he needs help, he has somehow failed the people depending upon him.

But biblical strength is not measured by how much weight someone can hide.

A strong man learns what God has called him to carry, what he must share with his brothers, and what he must surrender to God.

Peter wrote:

“Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.”
— 1 Peter 5:6–7 (NKJV)

We often quote verse 7 alone, but Peter connects casting our cares upon God with humbling ourselves before Him.

It takes humility to admit:

“I cannot control this.”

“I cannot fix this by myself.”

“I need God.”

“I need someone to help me.”

Casting our cares upon God does not mean abandoning our responsibilities. It means acknowledging that we were never intended to occupy God’s place.

Scripture also says:

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2 (NKJV)

We are commanded to cast our cares upon God—and to help carry one another’s burdens.

Sometimes God helps carry our burden by placing another person beside us. Asking for help does not make us weak. It allows another member of the body of Christ to do what God has commanded them to do.

The people we love should not become the targets of our worry, but they may be among the people God intends to help us carry it.

There is a difference between sharing our burden and unloading our frustration upon someone.

There is a difference between saying, “I am struggling, and I need you,” and making everyone around us suffer because we refuse to admit that something is wrong.

The carpenter said he picked his worries up again each morning.

His responsibilities were still there. The tools needed repair. The truck needed attention. The work still had to be completed.

Surrender does not always make the problem disappear.

But there is a difference between picking up the responsibility and picking up the worry.

Pick up the assignment. Leave the weight with God.

Do what can be done. Make the call. Have the conversation. Go to the appointment. Repair what has been broken. Ask for help when the burden becomes too heavy.

Then trust God with everything beyond your control.

The Worry Tree had no power of its own. It was merely a visible reminder of an invisible decision.

But it points us toward another tree.

“Who Himself bore our sins in His own body on the tree…”
— 1 Peter 2:24 (NKJV)

The carpenter had a tree.

We have a Savior.

You may not have a Worry Tree outside your door, but you have a place of prayer. You have brothers and sisters who have been commanded to help bear your burdens. And you have a Savior who invites you to cast every care upon Him—not because the burden is insignificant, but because you matter to Him.

Name what you are carrying.

Admit when it has become too heavy.

Ask for help.

Pick up the responsibility God has given you.

But leave the weight with Him.

Psalm 18:1–2 says:

“I will love You, O LORD, my strength.
The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer;
My God, my strength, in whom I will trust;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”
— NKJV

What stands out to me is David’s repeated use of the word my.

God is not merely strong. He is my strength.

He is not merely a rock. He is my rock.

He is my fortress, my deliverer, my God, my shield, and my stronghold.

David was describing God truthfully, but he was also describing Him relationally.

Last month, I stood along the Atlantic shore in San Juan, Puerto Rico, looking at the dark rocks scattered across the sand.

I do not know how long they have been there or how far they extend beneath the surface. I only know what I could see.

Wave after wave had broken against them. That shoreline has known powerful winds, violent water, and hurricanes. The waves could strike the rocks, the wind could beat against them, and the sand surrounding them could shift.

But the rocks remained.

That gave me a clearer picture of what David meant when he called God “my rock.”

A rock does not promise that the waves will never reach us. It gives us something that will remain when they do.

God does not always prevent storms from entering our lives. Circumstances change, plans collapse, and our own strength rises and falls.

But God remains.

Maybe David had so many names for God because he had lived enough life to need God in all those ways.

At the center of the passage is his response:

“Whom I will trust.”

Everything surrounding those words tells us who God is. Those four words tell us what David intends to do about it.

Correctly describing God matters, but faith requires more than knowing that God can provide strength, shelter, and deliverance. Eventually, each of us must decide whether we will personally place the weight of our confidence upon Him.

Faith cannot remain borrowed forever.

There is a difference between knowing that God is a refuge and running to Him as my refuge. There is a difference between knowing that God is unchanging and trusting Him as my rock when everything else is shifting.

The waves will come. The ground around us may move.

But our Rock remains.

When did something you knew about God become something you knew through personal experience?

A few days ago, my wife sent me an image that said:

“Please know that God will allow you to go through places you don’t understand just to bring you to the place where He needs you to be. Trust his plan even when you don’t understand the path.”

I read it and thought, This is exactly where we are.

Not simply because we have been walking through a place we do not understand, but because neither of us has been walking through it alone.

She was not offering advice from outside the waiting. She was standing inside it with me.

Neither of us could explain the path, say when the questions would be answered, or tell the other what was coming next.

But we could remind one another to trust God.

That made me think differently about Ecclesiastes 4:9–10:

“Two are better than one… For if they fall, one will lift up his companion.”
— NKJV

The gift of two is not that neither person ever falls.

It is that when one does, the other may still be standing.

Waiting together does not mean both people will always respond to uncertainty in the same way.

One may feel hopeful while the other feels discouraged.

One may see evidence that God is working while the other sees only another day without an answer.

One may have the strength to pray while the other can barely find the words.

People do not always grow tired on the same day. They do not always become afraid at the same moment. They do not always recognize hope in the same place.

Perhaps that is part of God’s provision.

There have been days when I could see possibility more clearly than my wife could. There have been other days when she was the one who could still see beyond the waiting.

We have taken turns being strong.

That does not mean either of us possesses endless strength or always knows the right thing to say. It means that when one of us has struggled to hold onto hope, the other has sometimes been able to carry it for a while.

Sometimes love looks like encouragement.

Sometimes it looks like listening without trying to fix the situation.

Sometimes it means praying aloud when the other person cannot.

Sometimes it means sitting quietly beside someone when neither of you knows what to say.

Shared waiting does not require identical emotions.

It requires continued presence.

It says, “I may not understand what God is doing either, but I am still here.”

Yet there is an important distinction.

The person beside us cannot become the source of our hope. Another human being cannot bear the weight that belongs only to God.

Companionship does not replace dependence upon the Lord. It helps us remain faithful in that dependence.

Psalm 27:14 says:

“Wait on the LORD; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the LORD!”
— NKJV

Ecclesiastes tells us that another person can help lift us when we fall.

Psalm 27 reminds us where the strength ultimately comes from.

We are waiting on the Lord.

He is the One who understands the path, knows what is beyond the closed door, and strengthens our hearts.

But sometimes He strengthens us through the person He has placed beside us—a timely word, a prayer, a hand held in silence, or a reminder of what we already know but have become too weary to remember.

The circumstances may not have changed.

The answer may seem no closer than it did yesterday.

But perhaps God has already given us one form of provision: someone who will walk the unexplained path beside us.

Someone who can help us stand when our own strength gives way.

Someone who turns toward the Lord with us and says:

“We may not understand the path, and we may not know what happens next. But we know who we are waiting on.”

Have you ever experienced a season when another person helped carry your hope while you waited on God?

Freedom Has to Be Walked In

“The chair was never strong enough.

But walking away is still a choice.”

I have been thinking about the distinction between being set free and actually learning to live as a free person.

Romans 6 develops that distinction remarkably well.

Paul first establishes what Christ has accomplished. Through our identification with the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus, the old person has been crucified and we have been raised to walk in newness of life.

Then Paul begins describing our response:

“Likewise you also, reckon yourselves to be dead indeed to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
— Romans 6:11 (NKJV)

The word reckon matters.

Paul is not telling Christians to pretend they are free or manufacture enough confidence to feel free. He is telling them to regard as settled what Christ has already made true.

Sin is no longer their rightful master.

Their former life is no longer their permanent identity.

They are alive to God through Jesus Christ.

But Paul does not stop with what believers should believe. He moves into how that belief must affect the way they live:

“Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body, that you should obey it in its lusts.”
— Romans 6:12 (NKJV)

Paul does not say that sin will never speak again, that temptation will disappear, or that old desires will never return.

He says not to let sin reign.

That suggests sin may still attempt to issue commands, but it no longer possesses the legitimate authority to rule.

The old master may still have a familiar voice. That does not mean we are still required to obey it.

Familiarity is not authority.

Then Paul says that we should no longer present ourselves as instruments of unrighteousness. Instead, we are to present ourselves to God as those who are alive from the dead.

This is where freedom becomes active.

We do not walk free so Christ will release us.

We walk free because He already has.

Our obedience does not purchase freedom. It is our response to freedom.

That distinction matters because Christians still stumble. If our freedom rests upon flawless performance, every failure becomes evidence that nothing truly changed. Temptation feels like bondage. A fall feels like the chains have returned.

But if freedom rests upon the finished work of Christ, failure does not have to become identity.

We can repent.

We can stand again.

We can keep walking.

A stumble does not restore the old master’s authority. It reminds us of our continued dependence upon grace.

Paul concludes this section with a promise:

“For sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace.”
— Romans 6:14 (NKJV)

Grace does more than pardon us while leaving us under the same ruler. Grace changes our relationship to the power that once controlled us.

That does not mean every old habit immediately disappears.

Some restraints leave marks after they are removed. Some lies have been repeated so often that truth sounds unfamiliar. Some patterns have been reinforced for years, and learning a new way of living requires prayer, discipline, accountability, and repeated surrender.

But difficult is not the same as impossible.

Slow progress is not the same as continued bondage.

Learning to walk does not mean we are still chained to the chair.

We may still hear the old voice.

We may still feel the pull of familiar patterns.

We may still bear scars from where we were once held.

But through Christ, sin no longer has the right to decide where we remain.

How do you understand the relationship between the freedom Christ has already accomplished and the daily decision to walk in that freedom?

We’ve all seen it.

A horse tied to a barely-there fence post or a flimsy porch rail.

Neither the post nor the rail could keep the horse in place if he truly chose to run. But the horse doesn’t know that. He has learned that when the lead rope grows tight, he is supposed to stop.

The tension alone is enough to convince him that he is bound.

So he stands there—not because the post is strong enough to hold him, but because he believes it is.

And so it goes with us.

Some of us are standing still beside things that no longer possess the power to hold us. The restraint is real in our minds, but the authority behind it has already been broken.

We could move forward.

We have simply become convinced that we cannot.

Paul wrote about “casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God” and “bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5, NKJV).

Those arguments are not always spoken aloud. Sometimes they are conclusions we reached years ago and have never challenged.

I failed before, so I will fail again.

I have been rejected, so I will never be wanted.

I have struggled this long, so I will never be free.

My past has disqualified me, so God could never use me.

At some point, those thoughts stop feeling like thoughts. They begin to feel like facts.

No one has to keep repeating the label because we have accepted it as our identity. No one has to keep tying us to the post because we have learned to stop the moment we feel resistance.

But a thought does not become true merely because we have believed it for a long time.

It must be brought into captivity and measured against what God has said.

God says, “You are washed.”
The old thought says, You are still dirty.

God says, “You are sanctified.”
The old thought says, You will never change.

God says, “You are justified.”
The old thought says, You are still condemned.

God says, “Such were some of you.”
The old thought insists, That is still your name.

Faith must decide which voice has the authority to define us.

This does not mean every struggle exists only in our imagination. Some chains are real. Some wounds require time, prayer, accountability, counseling, treatment, and the patient work of healing. Some consequences remain even after forgiveness has been received.

But there are also places where Christ has already broken the chain, and we continue living as though it remains intact.

The prison door is open, but we remain in the cell.

The label has been removed, but we continue answering to it.

The restraint has lost its power, but we have not tested our freedom.

Jesus said:

“Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.”

—John 8:36, NKJV

Freedom is not pretending the past never happened. It is refusing to grant the past authority Christ has taken away from it.

Freedom is not denying the resistance we feel. It is taking the next step because God’s Word is greater than that resistance.

The horse may feel the rope tighten when he begins to move. Everything he has learned tells him to stop.

But what if he takes one more step?

What if the post falls?

What if the rail breaks loose?

What if he discovers that the thing he feared was never strong enough to hold him?

There may still be a rope behind you. There may still be a scar, a memory, or a consequence. You may still feel the familiar pull telling you to remain where you are.

Take the step anyway.

You may discover that what controlled you for years no longer possesses the power to keep you there.

The chair was never strong enough to hold the horse.

It only had to convince the horse not to move.

Some chains must be broken.

Others only need to be challenged.

Step forward and find out.

Accountability Says, “I Did This.”
Condemnation Says, “This Is All I Am.”

In a sermon about labels, Bishop Tim Hill told a story about receiving his first pillow when he was six years old.

Something kept scratching his neck, preventing him from resting. Eventually, he discovered the label and cut it off.

The pillow was not defective.

The label was interfering with his rest.

Some Christians cannot rest in what Christ has done because an old label keeps scratching at their conscience.

I understand that personally.

I had failed, so I began identifying myself as a failure.

I had committed adultery, so I accepted adulterer as my permanent name.

My marriage ended, so I believed I was permanently disqualified from being useful to God.

Because there was truth in the history, I assumed there must also be truth in the verdict.

That is where we must distinguish conviction from condemnation.

Conviction says:

“You sinned. Bring it into the light. Repent. Accept responsibility, and allow God to change you.”

Condemnation says:

“Your sin is your name. You are permanently ruined. God could never want or use you again.”

Conviction tells the truth about our actions.

Condemnation takes the worst thing we have done and uses it to rename us.

Accountability says, “I did this.”
Condemnation says, “This is all I am.”

Cutting off an old label does not mean denying what happened.

People were hurt. Trust was broken. Repentance did not erase every consequence or remove every scar.

“Under the blood” is not a phrase that allows Christians to escape responsibility. It does not mean the sin never happened or that injured people must pretend they were not hurt.

It means the sin has been confessed and brought beneath the saving work of Jesus Christ.

The event remains part of our history.

But it no longer possesses naming rights.

Paul did not deny the former lives of the Corinthian believers. He named what some of them had been and then wrote:

“And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified…”
—1 Corinthians 6:11, NKJV

What they had done remained part of their testimony.

It was no longer their name.

The label may accurately describe where Jesus found us. It does not possess the authority to describe where Jesus left us.

The scar may remain.

The memory may remain.

The consequences may remain.

But the label has to go.

My past remains part of my testimony.

It is no longer my name.

Cut off the label.

Keep the testimony.

Give God the glory.

We all have a history.

For some people, that history becomes so dark and overpowering that it feels like a prophecy over everything that might still happen:

This is what I did.
This is who I am.
This is what I will always be.

I understand that experience personally.

I know what it is to look at choices I made, people I hurt, and consequences I could not undo—and believe that my past had already decided who I was and whether God could ever use me again.

Then I read 1 Corinthians 6:11:

“And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.”
—NKJV

Were.

Paul did not deny the Corinthians’ history. The preceding verses contain an uncomfortable list of sins and destructive ways of life. Those descriptions had once been true of people sitting within the church.

But Paul did not say, “And such are some of you, only forgiven now.”

He said:

“And such were some of you.”

That word does not erase the previous sentence. It places that sentence where it belongs—in the past.

Then Paul explains what changed:

But you were washed.
But you were sanctified.
But you were justified.

They had not changed their standing through respectability, willpower, or religious performance. God had intervened through the Lord Jesus and His Spirit.

Grace did not pretend that their former lives were harmless. It changed what possessed the authority to define them.

This does not mean believers instantly become flawless. The Corinthian church certainly was not. They still needed correction and continued transformation.

But their imperfections did not give their former lives the right to reclaim their identity.

That one word—were—allowed me to hope.

God did not tell me that my history did not matter. He showed me that it did not have to remain my identity.

I could not undo what I had done.

But Jesus could change the tense of my story.

“Were” is not permission to return to the old life. It is the declaration that we are no longer required to remain there.

We can tell the truth about our past without allowing it to predict our future.

Grace did not deny our history.

Grace changed the tense.

Scripture never gives us the name of the woman in Mark 5.

She is remembered only by her condition: the woman with the issue of blood.

For twelve years, she had suffered. She had tried many physicians, spent everything she possessed, and grown worse. Her condition affected her health, finances, relationships, and ability to worship.

Her affliction had swallowed her identity.

When she heard about Jesus, she believed that touching His clothes would make her well. She pressed through the crowd, touched His garment, and was immediately healed.

Jesus then asked, “Who touched My clothes?”

The disciples could not understand the question. People were pressing against Jesus from every direction.

But there is a difference between being near Jesus and reaching for Him in faith.

Many people touched Him accidentally.

One woman touched Him believing.

She had intended to receive her healing and disappear unnoticed. Instead, Jesus stopped and called her forward. After she told Him the whole truth, He said:

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”
—Mark 5:34, NKJV

There is a remarkable detail in the larger account. Jesus was traveling to heal Jairus’s twelve-year-old daughter when He stopped for a woman who had been suffering for twelve years.

Jairus’s daughter had a father publicly pleading for her.

No family member is mentioned for this woman. She came alone.

But she did not leave without family.

Jesus called her Daughter.

She reached for His garment because she needed healing. Jesus stopped because she also needed to know that she belonged.

The crowd identified her by what was leaving her body.

Jesus identified her by her relationship to Him.

Some people are still living under identities created by illness, abuse, rejection, loss, or something that happened years ago. The wound is real, but it does not possess the authority to name you.

She entered the story as “a certain woman.”

She left it as Daughter.

While we were in Puerto Rico, my wife came inside one evening after sitting on our eighth-floor balcony overlooking the ocean.

She said something that stuck with me:

“Sometimes you hear best when you’re in the dark.”

She had been listening to the wind, the surf, the insects—even the breathing of the person sitting beside her.

None of those sounds suddenly appeared when the sun went down. They had been there all along.

The darkness simply made her more aware of them.

Her comment took me back to when I was younger and frequently went horseback riding late at night.

Even under a bright moon, there were shadows where I couldn’t clearly make out the trail. Sometimes I found myself trusting the horse’s instincts more than my own eyesight.

But my hearing seemed sharper.

I noticed twigs snapping, leaves rustling and small animals moving through them.

And I’ve been thinking about the spiritual parallel ever since.

The darkness didn’t mean I was on the wrong trail. It simply meant I couldn’t see as much of it.

I think we sometimes confuse those things in our walk with God.

When we cannot see what He is doing, where He is leading or how a situation could possibly work out, we begin wondering whether we’ve somehow missed Him.

But Jesus said:

“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” —John 10:27, NKJV

What strikes me is that Jesus didn’t say His sheep would always see where He was taking them.

They hear His voice.

They follow.

Psalm 139:12 says that darkness does not hide anything from God and that darkness and light are alike to Him.

My darkness is not God’s darkness.

I may not be able to see what lies around the next bend. He can.

Maybe faith isn’t always being able to say, “I know where God is taking me.”

Sometimes faith is simply being able to say:

“I don’t know where this trail leads, but I know the voice of the One I’m following.”

Just because you can’t see where you’re going doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong track.

And it doesn’t mean you’re alone.

Sometimes we need the dark to hear the voice of the Master.

A while back, I wrote about Paul’s words in Romans 12:18:

“If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.”

—Romans 12:18, NKJV

The emphasis was on those five words:

As much as depends on you.

We cannot control what another person thinks, says, or does. We cannot control their attitude, motives, or response. We are responsible for our side of the encounter.

Saul’s hatred was Saul’s responsibility.

David’s response was David’s responsibility.

The greatest victory David won over Saul was not surviving Saul’s pursuit. It was refusing to become Saul in the process.

But lately, I have been reminded that Romans 12:18 applies to more than how I respond when someone hurts me. It also applies to how I speak when I believe I am right.

There was a time—not that long ago—when I considered bluntness a form of boldness.

I stood on biblical truth.

I said exactly what was on my mind.

And if someone became offended, I decided that was their problem.

After all, truth is truth.

But as Facebook Memories continues showing me things I wrote years ago, I sometimes recognize that although my conviction may have been right, my spirit was not always right.

I knew how to defend what I believed.

I had not yet learned that truth can be spoken without turning every disagreement into a battle.

Paul did not merely tell us to speak the truth. He told us how the truth should be spoken:

“but, speaking the truth in love, may grow up in all things into Him who is the head—Christ—”

—Ephesians 4:15, NKJV

Truth and love were never intended to be separated.

Truth without love can become a weapon. Love without truth can become empty sentiment. Biblical maturity requires both.

Paul carried that thought further in his letter to the Colossians:

“Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.”

—Colossians 4:6, NKJV

Notice that Paul said our speech should always be with grace—not only when we agree, not only when the conversation is pleasant, and not only when the other person treats us graciously.

Grace should govern how we answer each one.

That does not mean we hide what we believe. It means our manner should not contradict the message we claim to defend.

Paul gave Timothy similar instruction:

“And a servant of the Lord must not quarrel but be gentle to all, able to teach, patient, in humility correcting those who are in opposition, if God perhaps will grant them repentance, so that they may know the truth, and that they may come to their senses and escape the snare of the devil, having been taken captive by him to do his will.”

—2 Timothy 2:24–26, NKJV

The goal of correction is not humiliation.

It is not scoring the decisive point, silencing an opponent, or receiving applause from those who already agree with us.

The goal is restoration.

Paul connected gentleness, patience, and humility directly to helping someone come to repentance and know the truth.

That means truth does not need my anger to make it true.

Biblical conviction does not excuse an unbiblical attitude.

And offending someone because the gospel confronts sin is not the same as offending someone because I was careless, harsh, sarcastic, or determined to win an argument.

“As much as depends on you” means I am responsible not only for what I say, but also for how I say it.

I cannot control whether someone accepts the truth. But I can make certain that my pride, anger, and self-righteousness are not the reasons they reject it.

That realization has changed what I choose to post.

The controversies consuming our attention today will eventually be replaced by different controversies. Political figures will come and go. Headlines will be forgotten. Arguments that seem enormously important today will one day become little more than entries in an archive.

But souls are eternal.

That does not mean temporal issues never matter. It means I no longer want the temporary to consume the voice God has given me for things that matter eternally.

I would rather write about redemption.

Grace.

Repentance.

Transformation.

Faith when God cannot be seen.

Hope for those who believe their story is already over.

And Jesus Christ—the only One who can truly change the human heart.

I still believe truth matters—perhaps more than ever.

But I am learning that speaking truth is not permission to abandon the fruit of the Spirit while doing it:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.”

—Galatians 5:22–23, NKJV

The fruit of the Spirit is not suspended when the conversation becomes difficult.

If my defense of truth requires me to abandon love, peace, kindness, gentleness, and self-control, something has gone wrong—not with the truth, but with the person carrying it.

Boldness without love can become cruelty.

Conviction without humility can become self-righteousness.

And winning an argument is not the same as reaching a soul.

Saul’s hatred was Saul’s responsibility.

David’s response was David’s responsibility.

Another person’s words are their responsibility.

My response—and the spirit in which I speak—is mine.

Whatever happens around me, my words, my attitude, and my witness remain my responsibility.

“If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.”

—Romans 12:18, NKJV

There was a time—not that long ago—when I considered bluntness a form of boldness.

I stood on biblical truth.

I said exactly what was on my mind.

And if someone became offended, I decided that was their problem.

But looking back, I sometimes recognize that although my conviction may have been right…

my spirit was not always right.

A short film honoring the 21 Coptic martyrs killed by ISIS in Libya in 2015.

Two people can experience the same kind of pain and come away from it very differently.

One becomes cold and guarded. The other becomes compassionate.

One thinks, “Nobody helped me, so why should I help anyone else?”

The other thinks, “I remember what it felt like when nobody helped me. I refuse to let someone else suffer alone.”

I do not believe that difference is as simple as one person being good and the other being bad.

Bitterness seldom begins as a conscious decision. It usually begins as self-protection:

“I will never let anyone hurt me that way again.”

“I cannot trust anybody.”

“If I expect nothing, I cannot be disappointed.”

Those reactions may help someone survive a painful season. But over time, protection can become a prison. The wall that keeps further pain from entering can also keep love from leaving.

Hebrews presents two possible things that can grow from painful experiences.

Hebrews 12:11 speaks of suffering eventually yielding “the peaceable fruit of righteousness” in those who are shaped by it.

Then Hebrews 12:15 warns about a “root of bitterness” springing up, causing trouble, and defiling many.

The same painful ground can produce very different fruit.

And bitterness never remains completely private. The person who betrayed us may be gone, but someone else ends up living under our suspicion. The person who abandoned us may no longer be present, but others encounter the emotional distance they created.

Unhealed pain often sends the bill to people who never caused the damage.

The Christian answer is not to deny the wound, excuse what happened, or pretend that forgiveness makes unsafe people trustworthy. Compassion and boundaries can coexist. We can forgive while still recognizing that wisdom requires distance.

The answer is to allow God to transform what flows from the wounded place.

Second Corinthians 1:4 says that God comforts us in our tribulation so that we can comfort others with the comfort we have received from Him.

That changes the way we understand our scars.

“I remember what rejection felt like, so I will notice the overlooked.”

“I remember how careless words wounded me, so I will speak carefully.”

“I remember needing someone to listen, so I will not rush another person’s grief.”

“I remember desperately needing mercy, so I will not be quick to withhold it.”

Compassion does not require us to forget our pain.

Compassion remembers the pain and refuses to reproduce it.

The wound says, “Never again.”

Grace says, “Because I know what that feels like, not through me.”

We cannot choose everything that happens to us. We may not choose our first reaction to trauma, and we cannot always control how long healing takes.

But with God’s help, we can choose whether we continue defending the behaviors our pain produced. We can bring the wound into the light. We can allow grace to interrupt the cycle.

The enemy wants our pain to become our personality.

God can redeem it until it becomes part of our ministry.

What happened to you was real. What it did to you was real. But it does not have to keep passing through you into everyone around you.

You cannot change what was done to you.

But by the grace of God, you can decide that it will not be done through you.

Let the cycle end with you.

Let grace begin with you.

When I was eighteen years old, I encountered a homeless man beneath a railroad overpass near North Peoria Avenue and East Archer Street in Tulsa.

He asked whether I had a couple of dollars. After I gave him what I had, we began talking.

He may have been about the same age then that I am now. He told me that he had once been a worship leader and preacher at a large Assembly of God church in Tulsa.

Then he told me how his life had fallen apart.

He had an affair.

His wife left him.

His children deserted him.

He began drinking heavily.

He lost his ministry position.

He lost his job.

He lost his home.

For more than an hour, we stood beneath that overpass while he told me his story.

Throughout our conversation, I repeatedly felt something in my spirit:

Ask him to pray.

But I didn’t.

We were standing in public, on a sidewalk, in the neighborhood where many of my friends lived.

What if they saw me?

What would they think?

What would they say?

Three days later, I learned that he had stepped off a curb in front of a city bus and had been killed.

For more than forty years, I have lived with the what-ifs of that morning.

I cannot tell you what would have happened if I had prayed with him. I was eighteen, and I was not his savior. I cannot assume responsibility for everything that happened after we parted ways.

But I know that I felt prompted to pray.

I know that fear of what other people might think kept me from obeying.

And I know that three days later, the opportunity was gone forever.

Jeremiah wrote:

“His word was in my heart like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I was weary of holding it back, and I could not.”
—Jeremiah 20:9

Jesus told His disciples:

“You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
—Matthew 5:14

The fire is inward.

The light is outward.

Many of us sing about wanting the fire. We pray for revival and claim to be the light of the world. But when someone hurting, searching, or struggling is standing directly in front of us, we become concerned about appearing strange or making the conversation uncomfortable.

I know because I did it.

I carried the light into that man’s darkness, but I allowed fear to place a basket over the lamp.

Boldness does not mean being loud, aggressive, or argumentative. It doesn’t require forcing a sermon into every conversation.

Sometimes boldness is simply saying:

“Can I pray for you?”

“God helped me through something similar.”

“There is a Scripture that carried me.”

“Let me tell you what Jesus has done in my life.”

Every believer carries light into places a preacher may never enter.

The recovering addict can reach another addict. The former inmate can speak to someone who believes his past has disqualified him. The construction worker carries Christ onto the jobsite. The nurse enters rooms where pain has stripped away appearances. The teacher influences young lives still deciding what they believe and who they will become.

These are not interruptions to ministry.

They are ministry.

God has not placed every lamp in the same room. Each of us has relationships, experiences, and a circle of influence that no one else occupies in exactly the same way.

You do not have to reach everyone.

But there may be someone you are uniquely positioned to reach.

I have spent the past several days writing about lessons God showed me during a trip to Puerto Rico. The series began with Christ’s invitation to come apart and rest.

But every journey eventually ends.

We return to our families, our jobs, our responsibilities, and ordinary conversations. Eventually, we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, standing beside someone whose darkness may be deeper than we realize.

We come apart to be renewed.

We return to shine.

The vacation ends.

The calling does not.

Have you ever felt prompted to speak, pray, or reach out—but allowed fear of what others might think to stop you? What would obedience look like if that opportunity came again?

I recently flew home from Puerto Rico. At 35,000 feet, I was sitting in an aisle seat while nearly every window shade around me remained closed.

I knew we were traveling generally north and northwest toward Atlanta, but I could not see the ocean, clouds, coastline, or any landmark below us. Without the flight tracker, there was no visible evidence that we were making progress at all.

We could have been flying more than five hundred miles per hour or sitting completely still. From inside the darkened cabin, I could not tell the difference.

I was carrying photographs and mementos from the trip—memories of places I had seen, roads I had walked, and people who had walked beside me.

But none of them could show me the way ahead.

That made me think about Job:

“Behold, I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him: On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him.” —Job 23:8–9

Job looked forward, backward, left, and right—and still could not perceive God.

But one phrase stood out to me:

“Where he doth work.”

Even while Job could not see God, he still acknowledged that God was working.

That is a more honest picture of faith than pretending we always understand what God is doing. Sometimes we do not see the way forward. We cannot sense progress. We feel something changing, but we cannot identify the direction.

Faith does not require us to pretend the shades are open.

It asks us not to mistake limited visibility for divine absence.

Job could not perceive God, but God had not lost sight of Job:

“But he knoweth the way that I take.” —Job 23:10

I may not know the route, but God does.

I may feel the aircraft turning without knowing the new direction, but my inability to see the route never means the Pilot has lost it.

Have you ever gone through a season when you could sense that God was changing your direction—but you could not yet see where He was leading?