That might sound cold or rigid at first glance. At least, that’s what I thought when I saw this post. Maybe that’s because I grew up in a world that taught me that love means acceptance, support, and warm feelings. “Obedience” feels like the opposite of all that: rules, pressure, and expectations.
Still, that short equation, Love=obedience, wouldn’t leave me alone. I kept coming back to it in prayer. Why was it lingering in the back of my mind?
So, I went to Scripture to try and understand it and I started seeing it everywhere:
John 14:15—“If you love Me, keep My commandments.”
John 15:10—“If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.”
1 John 5:2—“By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey His commandments.”
2 John 1:6—“This is love: that we walk in obedience to His commands.”
Time after time, obedience and love, bound together. And that’s just in the New Testament.
But what do I do with that?
If being honest, sometimes I feel like Paul, when “I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.”(Romans 7:15)
As James rightly pointed out in Chapter 4 of his epistle, my passions are at war within me, and I don’t always succeed in the moment at overcoming temptations.
I fall short. Constantly.
And when I hold that up next to the verses above, I start to ask questions I don’t know how to answer.
If love equals obedience, then what does that say about my love for God? Can I still say I love Him when I keep falling short?”
Why does obedience feel so hard, even when I want to obey?
And what do I do with the guilt that creeps in when I know what’s right and still fail to follow through?
Final Thought:
I want to love God more deeply, and I want that love to show up in how I live. But I am painfully aware of this gap between my desire to obey and my ability to follow-through.
That’s why I asked Dr. Shay Barrington if she would be willing to write a companion piece on the topic. What she wrote helped me stop spiraling and start hoping again.
If you’ve felt the same tension, if this idea unsettles something in you too, I hope you’ll read her reflection next.
Lately, I’ve been sitting with an uncomfortable truth: the man I show to the world doesn’t always match the man I am when no one’s watching. In some intentional moments, I still choose distraction over devotion, comfort over courage, and myself over God.
I’ve been a believer long enough to know what I should do, but as I sat in church this past Sunday, Pastor John’s words cut through my excuses:
“It’s not what you do on stage, it’s the work put in off-stage.”
That’s when Proverbs 14 began to speak, pressing me to ask the question I can’t shake:
What am I truly cultivating in the unseen corners of my life?
Proverbs 14:1—“The wisest of women builds her house, but folly with her own hands tears it down.”
This verse opens the chapter like a quiet warning. It doesn’t describe a woman destroying her house out of malice—just folly.
For me, folly can be as simple as letting things slide—ignoring that tug in my spirit, choosing what’s easy, letting my appetites lead—the slow undoing of wisdom by things that feel small at the time.
I’ve offered much to God—my heart, beliefs, words—but I keep a few rooms locked. Not dramatic sins, but personal ones—habits I turn to when I’m tired, anxious, or just seeking comfort. These temporary escapes make long-term obedience harder, and the longer I hold onto them, the tougher surrender becomes.
Proverbs 14:14—“The backslider in heart will be filled with the fruit of his ways, and a good man will be filled with the fruit of his ways.”
It’s not about whether you’re having a bad week—it’s deeper. It’s about trajectory. What direction am I facing when no one’s watching? What habits have taken root? What fruit is quietly growing in the hidden soil of my private life?
Even as someone newer in faith, I’m already seeing how easy it is to slip into spiritual compromise—not a rejection of God, but a toleration of things I know He’s asking me to lay down.
Our daily rhythms expose more truth than our declarations. And some of my habits—especially when I’m alone—don’t reflect the man I want to become. I’ve noticed that when I’m overwhelmed, I tend to choose short-term relief over long-term wholeness.
I say I want to live like Christ. And I do. But then I look at my patterns and realize how often I’m living for myself. That contradiction is hard to face. Because I don’t want to fake this.
My kids are watching. My church family sees parts of me. But God sees everything—especially the parts I’ve tried to excuse. The small justifications. The indulgences I haven’t really tried to kill.
That’s what makes this feel urgent: I’m not just raising children—I’m forming people who are learning how to live, how to wrestle, how to grow. At my children’s school, where civic virtue is taught alongside rigorous academics, they are learning that actions build habits, and habits build character.
That isn’t just a motto—it’s a spiritual blueprint.
And, through my children, the question presses back on me: What kind of character am I modeling through my routines, even the ones I think no one sees?
And yet, I also hear the Spirit whisper: You’re not alone in this.
Paul knew this same tug-of-war:
Romans 7:19—“For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.”
I love God. I really do. I want to please Him. And yet, I keep returning to things I know I should lay down. That is evidence of how much I still need Him.
If roots nourish and routines shape, then reach is the fruit.
Proverbs 14:28—“In a multitude of people is the glory of a king, but without people a prince is ruined.”
This verse reminds me that none of this is private. My spiritual health, or lack of it, ripples into others’ lives—especially those closest to me. What I dread most is being a hypocritical Christian, living in a way that could negatively affect others and reinforce their misconceptions about Jesus’ followers, especially when I long to reflect His love authentically.
What kind of man am I becoming in the unseen places? What kind of father, husband, friend, or witness will grow out of that?
I can’t just aim to appear Christlike. I want the real thing. I want to be transformed, not merely convincing.
Final Thought:
We live in an age of curation—where we control what others see. It’s easy to build a version of ourselves that looks “wise” from the outside. But Proverbs 14 invites us into something deeper: not performative holiness, but inward reality.
Character that’s formed in the quiet.
The good news? This chapter doesn’t just confront—it invites. It calls me to examine the soil of my life—my roots, routines, and reach—not with shame, but with hope.
Maybe that’s what spiritual maturity begins with: not victory, but honesty. Not pretending to be whole, but letting Jesus into the parts of me that still resist healing.
I’m beginning to see conviction as mercy, letting discomfort draw me closer—a sign God is still speaking, still shaping, still refusing to let me settle.
When the Spirit stirs, even in the quiet places I’d rather ignore, it’s grace breaking in. A grace that isn’t content to leave me unchanged, but patiently and persistently draws me toward the likeness of Christ.
I’ve always been an ideas guy. As a kid, my friends and I would play a game where one person would think up an imaginary product and another would make up a jingle for it.
Throughout my life, I’ve accumulated a mental warehouse of possibilities: inventions, novelty improvements on existing things, a notebook with a novel trilogy outlined in it.
Business plans too—the taco food truck, the board game sharing library/delivery service, a homemade board game I’ve been sitting on for over 20 years.
My wife and I call it the “Beckenberger Think Trust”—a mashup of our old names, Beck and Leyenberger, from before we became Leyenbeck. It’s a joke, but it’s real. That’s where my ideas go to die. I dream them up, convince myself they’d work, then “throw them in the trust,” never to be thought of or heard from again.
I’m not quite sure whether it’s laziness or fear that stops me. What if I start out and fail? Was it a bad idea? Or did I just fail at achieving it? Maybe it’s better to just not try. That’s how it seems to go.
I almost skipped writing about Proverbs 12 for this blog. As I scanned through the verses, I couldn’t find the thread—the angle I wanted to take in my writing. I was searching for it. I’m developing a standard for my writing, and I thought to myself, If I’m not feeling it, maybe I should just skip it.
Then it hit me with unexpected clarity: not starting is the thread. My hesitation to write this reflection was the same hesitation that has kept me stuck in inaction for years.
In that moment of recognition, Proverbs 12 suddenly felt like it was written with me in mind. It was as though the verses were exposing my tendency to hide, to stay comfortable, to avoid taking the first step.
Proverbs 12:1—“Whoever loves discipline loves knowledge, but he who hates reproof is stupid.”
This verse is saying that loving discipline means embracing the discomfort of growth, yet my instinct is to retreat.
Not beginning feels safe, but it’s really avoidance. I’m like a turtle tucked into my shell, convinced I’m protecting myself. But God keeps tapping on my shell—inviting me to step out, to try, to grow. Yet, I ignore Him.
If I never try, I never fail. If I never fail, I never need correction.
But that’s exactly where I’ve missed the point.
Wisdom doesn’t grow in hiding. It grows in discipline—through the work itself, the mistakes, the refining process. When I refuse to take action, I’m not just avoiding failure; I’m avoiding the very knowledge God wants to teach me through the journey.
What might God be trying to teach me through the process of bringing one of my ideas to life?
Perhaps patience when things move slowly.
Maybe humility when my brilliant concept needs revision.
Or trust when circumstances don’t align with my timeline.
Proverbs 12:5—“The thoughts of the righteous are just; the counsels of the wicked are deceitful.”
I have wise friends, people of faith I trust, but I don’t often ask them for advice. Inviting someone into my problem suddenly brings in the possibility of accountability, pressure to actually have to follow through with my idea.
And what if they tell me my ideas aren’t good? What if they say I need to change something I don’t want to change? It’s easier to stay in my head, contenting myself with the thought that it’s a good idea. But Proverbs reminds me: wisdom isn’t self-made.
This hesitation to begin doesn’t just live in my creative projects—it permeates my faith journey in ways that matter more deeply.
Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than in my approach to pro-life apologetics. I feel deeply convicted about the sanctity of unborn life and often think about how I might contribute to this cause.
In quiet moments, I imagine having thoughtful conversations where I could articulate the value of life from both biblical and scientific perspectives. But even these initial thoughts remain just that—thoughts.
I haven’t even taken the first step. The conviction stays private, the potential conversations never happen. I tell myself the topic is too divisive, that I need more knowledge, that others are better equipped.
Proverbs 12:15—“The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.”
My reluctance to even seek counsel about how to begin this work keeps me in a cycle of inaction. By never consulting those already engaged in pro-life ministry, I miss the wisdom that could help me find my place in this important work—a place that aligns with both my convictions and my capabilities.
Proverbs 12:11—“Whoever works his land will have plenty of bread, but he who follows worthless pursuits lacks sense.”
Sitting on ideas is my worthless pursuit. Not chasing them doesn’t save me; it starves me.
Work—not wishful thinking—produces results.
The “Beckenberger Think Trust” might be clever wordplay, but it’s also a comfortable excuse.
I’ve spent years thinking myself into circles, talking myself into and out of things. But wisdom isn’t just about thinking—it’s about listening and then acting.
It’s a lesson I’m still learning, but one that proved true even as I worked through this very reflection.
In fact, writing this very entry was a step of discipline. I nearly skipped it, stuck in a loop with an earlier draft that I couldn’t make work.
But instead of giving up, I sought advice—from Phil, from my wife—and their insight helped me find a new way forward. If I had stayed in my own head, I wouldn’t have written this at all.
Final Thought:
Proverbs 12 isn’t saying I have to have it all figured out—but it does encourage beginning. Doing. Trusting God’s wisdom and leaning on His people.
It’s teaching me that keeping my ideas as just ideas, avoiding action, just holds me back. Whether it’s launching creative projects or speaking up for the unborn, faithful action honors God more than perfect intentions never pursued.
But changing that habit of inaction after years of being that way isn’t going to be as easy as merely recognizing it and saying I’ll change—I know it’s going to take effort and time.
Moving forward, I hope I would quit overthinking so much, trust God in the process, and actually take steps.
Growth happens when I act, not when I do nothing. I’ve got to step up, seek counsel, trust God, and embrace the journey, one step at a time.
If the first half of Colossians 3 exposes my struggle with external validation, the second half of Colossians 3 reveals a deeper, internal battle: authenticity.In my last post, I reflected on how easily I let Facebook likes define my worth. But as I sat with verses 12-17 this week, I realized Paul’s words speak to something deeper than the superficial struggle over likes.
This isn’t only about stepping away from worldly validation; it’s about stepping into something new—clothing myself in compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience—qualities that shouldn’t just sit on the surface but sink into who I am.
It’s about putting on Christ.
And as I’ve been reflecting on that, one particular struggle has been stirring in me—one I am hesitant to share.
Comedy.
I’ve loved stand-up comedy for as long as I can remember. There’s something brilliant about the way comedians can take the raw, often uncomfortable realities of life and make us laugh.
Specifically, though, there is this one show I watch regularly called Kill Tony. For those who are unfamiliar, Kill Tony is a live comedy podcast hosted by Tony Hinchcliffe and Brian Redban. The format involves a live show where they pull random comics’ names out of a bucket for the chance to perform a one-minute set, then be critiqued and interviewed by Tony alongside big-name guests.
It’s a chaotic, anything-can-happen environment—raw, unfiltered creativity spilling out as these comics have to be sharp and punchy. The show has launched the careers of unknowns, affording opportunities they’d likely never get otherwise.
In a world where political correctness has impacted the comedic landscape, Kill Tony leans into this rough, unfiltered edge that’s messy and risky—and yeah, sometimes dicey. You never know what kind of show it’s going to be—from train wrecks to brilliance. It illustrates the artistry of stand-up, revealing how fast thinking, improvisation, and risk define the craft.
Shows like Kill Tony—which are irreverent, biting, racy, and boundary-pushing—still make me laugh, and I’m not uncomfortable with that.
But here’s the struggle: I’m wondering if I should feel uncomfortable with it.
I don’t think I should have to give it up, but something in me keeps questioning whether that’s true—or whether I’m justifying something I don’t want to change about myself, because Kill Tony is this wild, messy joy I cling to, and letting it go feels like losing a piece of me.
Colossians 3:12—“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.”
That identity—being chosen, set apart—should shape everything. Not just how I love others, but what I let shape my mind and heart. It’s a call to wear these traits like armor, not just admire them—compassion that feels, humility that bends, patience that waits. Does my laughter match that?
Colossians 3:15—“And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful.”
I’ve questioned whether I’ve felt that peace slipping when I indulge in humor that sometimes tears down rather than builds up. The laughs might come, but is there also a subtle dulling of my sensitivity toward what is good and true—until I’ve tuned out what matters? Peace ruling in my heart is what is supposed to keep me anchored.
Colossians 3:16—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.”
That tension is hard because I don’t want to give it up, but I also want to be authentic and do my best to align my heart with God. But I know this: It’s not about changing myself to be right with God. It’s about abiding in Jesus and being changed from the inside out.
This is exactly the struggle—the tension between living fully for God and still enjoying the things that have shaped me, the things I love, the things that bring me joy.
I’m not looking for loopholes; I’m looking for truth. If I didn’t care, if I just shrugged and said, “Whatever, I’ll do what I want,” that would be a bigger issue.
But I do care.
What degree of strictness should I follow?
Because, yeah, Paul would probably have a stricter view. He talks about setting our minds on things above (Colossians 3:2), avoiding corrupting influences (Ephesians 5:3-4), and filling ourselves with what is true, noble, right, pure (Philippians 4:8).
So, on the surface, it might seem like the answer is cut it all out.
But I don’t think the question is just what should I cut out, but rather what is forming me?
What is shaping my heart, my thoughts, my desires?
Maybe instead of asking, how strict should I be, the better question is:
What is this doing to my soul?
Does it strengthen or weaken my ability to show love, patience, humility?
Does it influence my speech, my thoughts, my priorities in ways I don’t realize?
Comedy has been a part of my life, part of how I see and process the world. Giving up these things I love completely would feel like losing a part of myself. But at the same time, I don’t want to be the guy clinging to something that keeps me from growing into the person God is shaping me to be.
I think that’s where the real struggle lies. How do I hold onto the things that have shaped me without letting them own me?
I don’t think it’s about quitting Kill Tony cold turkey but rather being conscious of how it affects me. Because ultimately, I want my heart to stay tuned to Jesus.
Final Thought:
Yes, that’s what I want. For my mind and heart to be filled with His truth so fully that even my entertainment choices reflect Him. I don’t want to be desensitized to what grieves God or let something trivial weaken my sensitivity to Him, because if I do, I could drown out the voice I’m trying to hear.
I want to laugh and keep enjoying comedy, but not if it numbs my conscience or slowly shapes me into someone I don’t want to be.
I will keep praying on it, wrestling with what stays and what goes, chasing a joy that doesn’t fade. I know that holiness isn’t about following a list of rules—it’s about being transformed.
But in the end, I don’t want anything—not a show, not a joke—to have more of a hold on me than Christ does.
When I posted my first After Pew blog entry on Facebook, my heart raced as notifications lit up my phone—ten likes, then twenty, a comment from a friend saying, ‘Thanks for taking the time to share that.’
I was thrilled. It felt like people were connecting with what God put on my heart.
But the next post had diminishing returns. Half the reactions, if that. I found myself refreshing the page for an hour, as if that would make more likes appear, only to feel the silence settle in, heavier than the excitement I’d started with.
There’s something intoxicating about that little notification bubble. Psychologists agree that social media taps into our primal need for belonging. But the high never lasts.
One post soared, the next flopped. And just like that, I found myself second-guessing everything—was I posting too much? At the wrong times? Had I worn out my welcome? It was a rollercoaster the world designed, not God.
Galatians 1:10—“For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ.”
That pull toward numbers is exactly why I had to stop posting my blog on Facebook. Now, I just write, let it go out into the world, and leave the rest up to God. I want to write for His glory, not for likes. I trust that He’ll use my words in ways I may never see.
That’s the reminder I needed: to focus on Christ, not the numbers.
Paul gets this pull. In Colossians, after declaring Christ’s sufficiency, he shifts in chapter 3 to how we should live it out:
Colossians 3:1-2—“If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.”
Set my mind on things above. For me, that means asking myself ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ throughout my day. I didn’t take part the first time around, but I remember how the phrase and the bracelets took hold of the zeitgeist in the ’90s. It’s a question worth reviving, not as a catchphrase, but as a real guide for aligning our hearts with God’s will.”
Setting my mind on things above also means filling my space with what lasts: Scripture and prayer. As I’ve been taught: praying is my time to talk to God and reading the Bible is my time for Him to talk to me.
This morning, instead of reaching for my phone I reached for my pocket Bible and read James Chapter 4: ‘Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.’ No metrics, just truth.
As I was loading the dishwasher, I hummed to myself ‘Here I Am to Worship’, doing as Colossians 3:16 says, ‘singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.’
Even silence works: ten minutes with no screen, just breathing, asking God to renew me. These aren’t fixes; they’re rhythms. They remind me my blog isn’t my life—Christ is.
I imagine Paul writing Colossians from prison, yet free in Christ. If he could let go of earthly approval under that pressure, then I can strive to do the same.
Colossians 3:5—“Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry.”
Chasing validation was idolatry—putting numbers above God. They weren’t just bad habits to manage; they are remnants of a life I no longer live. When I place something above God, I sin.
Paul reminds us to actively reject these things and replace them with love for Christ.
Pastor John’s weekly reflection was an excellent reminder: what I dwell in shapes me. When we steep ourselves in Christ—His purpose, His peace—feelings like frustration or self-doubt lose their bite.
Final Thought:
I don’t need a notification bubble to tell me I’m enough if I let the word of Christ dwell within me richly. Numbers rise and fall, but His truth stands unshaken.
Starting my day off with a Psalm rather than my phone renews me. Filling my mind with Scripture instead of screens anchors me in something eternal.
The world is loud, and it’s easy to drift—one scroll, one refresh, one fleeting dopamine hit at a time. But what if I tuned out the noise?
What’s one way I could turn it down today?
By setting my mind on things above. By choosing worship over worry. By chasing Christ, not approval.
When I was first exploring Christianity,I thought that following God was about seeking truth and trying to live in a way that earned His approvaI. I wasn’t trying to be perfect; I knew that wasn’t possible. But I thought that if I searched hard enough and did the right things, I could find God and make myself right with Him. It wasn’t until I began to truly understand the gospel that things started to fall into place.
Jesus didn’t save me because I figured out the right buttons to push or because I was making better choices—He saved me knowing I would still mess up. He went to the cross not just for the world, but for me, and His forgiveness wasn’t something I had to earn. I simply had to believe and to accept the gift He was offering me.
In my searching and brokenness, Jesus found me and offered what I was truly longing for: redemption, a relationship, and purpose. And from that place of grace, I’m learning what it means to live a life that serves and honors Him.
That is the beauty of 1 Kings 8. Solomon stood before the altar and prayed one of the longest prayers recorded in Scripture (1 Kings 8:22-53). As he dedicated the temple, deeply aware of who God is, he asked God to hear the prayers of His people when they sinned, when they suffered, when they turned back to Him in repentance.
Not if, but when.
1 Kings 8:35-36—”When heaven is shut up and there is no rain because they have sinned against You, if they pray toward this place and acknowledge Your name and turn from their sin, when You afflict them, then hear in heaven and forgive the sin of Your servants.”
Solomon knew the human heart would stray. And yet, he asked God to dwell among them anyway. That’s a great example for us.
Solomon’s prayer reminds us that God never expected perfection—only humility and a willingness to invite Him to dwell with us. He begins with worship, declaring God’s faithfulness to His covenant and His promises to David. God had been true to His word, and Solomon knew He would continue to be. He wasn’t just asking for help or offering thanks—he was recognizing God’s rightful place at the center of everything.
I talk to God often—offering gratitude, asking for help, lifting up prayers for others. But how often do I invite Him into my life beyond that? Do I think to welcome Him into my thoughts as I go about my day? Into my decisions, big and small? Into my moments of boredom, frustration, or joy—not just with words, but with an openness to His presence?
1 Kings 8:27—“But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain You, how much less this house that I have built!”
Solomon acknowledges that no temple could ever contain the fullness of God, yet he pleads with God to hear the prayers of His people—whether they are standing in the temple or far from it. God’s mercy is not confined to a place but flows from His heart.
Solomon anticipates the reality of sin and pleads for God’s forgiveness and restoration when His people humble themselves and repent.
Solomon acknowledges human weakness, saying, “There is no one who does not sin” (8:46), and asks God to show mercy when His people turn back to Him, even from a place of exile and discipline.
1 Kings 8:39-40 – “For You, You alone, know the hearts of all the children of mankind, that they may fear You all the days that they live in the land that You gave to our fathers.”
Final Thought:
This is what I took away from 1 Kings 8. Solomon didn’t stand before God on the basis of what he had built, but on who God is. And that’s exactly what I’ve come to understand in my own walk with Christ.
My confidence before God isn’t found in what I’ve done—or what I’ll ever do—but in what Christ has already done for me on the cross
Solomon’s prayer shows us that God was never expecting perfect people. He was looking for humble hearts willing to turn back to Him in repentance.
God hears. God forgives. God dwells with us.
May we rest in this truth: we are heard, we are forgiven, we are welcomed—not because we are perfect, but because He is merciful.
Ever play The Game? You know, that weird anti-memory thing where the rule is: if you think about The Game, you lose? I hadn’t thought about it in a while—until this afternoon. Probably because I caught myself doing the same thing with Jesus.
I was folding laundry, not thinking about Him at all, and then it hit me: “Wait, I wasn’t thinking about Jesus.” Boom. I lost The Game.
Only, this is not a game—it’s my walk with Him.
It’s weird how that works. The Game’s whole trick is you’re fine until you remember it, and then you lose.
And today, I realized that’s how it goes with God sometimes. I’ll be cruising through my day—driving, writing, more driving—and then it hits me. I haven’t invited Him into it. Maybe I’m too caught up in the id—all those little wants and worries pulling me sideways.
I just… forget.
And the second I notice, it’s like losing The Game all over again. Except instead of a silly “dang it,” it’s a quiet, “Hey, where’d you[Jesus] go in my head?”
The idea to try and always be thinking of Jesus came to me as I was reciting 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 to myself.
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18—“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”
This is like a mantra to me. I say these verses all the time because they’re such a concise prescription of what a Christian ought to do. When we who want to be good Christians ask ourselves, “What can we do?” Paul says, “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances.”
Man, that’s a tall order. Pray without ceasing?
Like, every second?
It sounds like we’re supposed to be muttering prayers non-stop. But as I’ve been studying Colossians 3, 1 Kings 8, and Proverbs, I’ve seen a recurring theme.
Colossians 3:16-17—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
1 Kings 8:27 “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, how much less this house that I have built!”
Proverbs 8:17 “I love those who love me, and those who seek me find me.”
It’s about inviting God into our life and keeping Him in the mix—having a constant awareness. Like breathing. You don’t think about every breath, but it’s always there. So that’s a goal I’ve set for myself.
It’s not easy. The other morning, I began to stress when I noticed how many medical appointments had racked up on my calendar, and my mind was spiraling.
No rejoicing. No thanks. Definitely no Jesus.
Then I caught it—like remembering The Game—and thought, “Okay, I’ve lost this round.” But here’s the twist: losing’s not the end. When I realize I’ve drifted, it’s a chance to invite Him back in.
I stop, take a breath, and say, “Hey, Jesus, come back into this.” Like Paul’s saying: start rejoicing now. Pray right here. Give thanks even when your mortality nudges its way into your thoughts.
Final Thought:
I’m not there yet—nowhere close. Sometimes I’m rooted in Him, like Colossians keeps telling me to be. And other times, it takes that “oh shoot, I lost” moment to pull me back. Maybe that’s what Paul meant—living so tuned to God that drifting feels like losing, and coming back feels like home.
It’s a weird little parallel, this Game thing, but at least it got me thinking:
How often do I let Him slip out of focus?
And how quick can I turn it around when I do?
But I think that’s the point. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s persistence.
Keeping Jesus in the game—not The Game, but my game, my life. Every time I catch myself forgetting, it’s a win. Because I’m remembering to bring Him in again.
I spent the better part of my childhood becoming an expert in deception. Not the clever kind, mind you, more like the desperate, “I’m caught, but if I stick to my story, I can still get away with it” kind. My strategy was to maintain innocence at all costs.
Even when the facts were stacked against me.
Even when I was caught red-handed.
I was too young to see myself from my parents’ perspective. I thought I was protecting myself, but actually, I was unravelling any trust I had built with my parents.
My mom would often tell me the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf when I was a kid. She was trying to impress upon me a message.
There was finally the time when the lesson came knocking. I actually hadn’t done the thing I was being accused of and I begged my mom to believe me. I wanted her to take my side against my dad, a strict disciplinarian. But I could see it in her eyes… She wanted to believe me. But she couldn’t.
Because by that point, I’d lied too many times. I’d burned through their trust. And when I finally needed her belief, it wasn’t there.
It took me a long time — and a lot of broken trust — to finally understand that honesty isn’t just about being a “good person.” I learned that truth is the only thing sturdy enough to build trust on. And trust isn’t something you can fake.
Proverbs 11:3—“The integrity of the upright guides them, but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity.”
Once you lose it, you feel it. The doubt in their eyes. The awkward conversations. And man, rebuilding that can be slow, painful and humbling.
Those painful lessons I learned as a kid are like barren soil I left behind. But somehow, God is planting something green and alive in that very ground — through my kids.
I see them making choices I never had the courage to make at their age—standing up for friends, owning their mistakes with humility, choosing honesty when it would be easier to hide.
Their school values character as much as academics, and teachers have told us how their integrity quietly impacts those around them. It’s small, but it’s exactly what Proverbs 11:11 describes—’Through the blessing of the upright, a city is exalted.
Proverbs 11:10-11—“When the righteous prosper, the city rejoices; when the wicked perish, there are shouts of joy. Through the blessing of the upright a city is exalted, but by the mouth of the wicked it is destroyed.”
Little acts of truth make their world better, and not just their own corner of it.
Proverbs 11 keeps going. It doesn’t promise that the righteous will always prosper immediately or that the wicked won’t have some measure of success. But it does promise that integrity guides us.
And over time, righteousness will be rewarded in God’s timing. It’s a different kind of wealth — one that lasts far beyond this life. God’s economy operates differently than ours. When we give freely—whether that’s honesty, generosity, or grace—we don’t end up with less. In the divine mathematics of Proverbs, giving of yourself and your resources multiplies rather than subtracts.
Proverbs 11:24-25—“One gives freely, yet grows all the richer; another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want. Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.”
There’s a fullness that comes from living this way, a satisfaction that outweighs the temporary comfort of self-protection.
Final Thought:
Deception hoards safety but leaves you empty; truth gives freely and builds a life.
Proverbs 11 reminds us that choosing truth — even when it’s awkward or costly — is never wasted. It’s not about getting it right every time, but about trusting that God is growing something real and lasting through each honest step. That’s the fruit of integrity: trust as a foundation that outlives us all.
What About You?
When was the last time telling the truth cost you something — but you did it anyway?
Who in your life lives with real integrity that makes you want to be better?
Where’s God pushing you right now to quit covering tracks and sow some truth?
I grew up in a faith tradition that encouraged exploring many different spiritual paths, almost like a buffet where you pick and choose what resonates with you. The idea was that truth could be found in many places, leaving it up to each person to assemble a faith that felt right to them.
While many religions may have wisdom and some truths, I eventually came to realize that if I was the one deciding what truth was, then I wasn’t submitting to something greater than myself—I was, in a way, making myself the ultimate authority.
I wasn’t worshipping God; I was worshipping my own ability to define Him.
Unlearning this wasn’t easy. After all, I had spent most of my life believing that spirituality was about finding my own path.
The early church in Colossae struggled with the same temptation. Paul warned them in Colossians 2:16-23 not to be led astray by teachings that added to or distorted Christ’s sufficiency.
As I reflect on those verses, I see my old way of thinking, the mindset Christ led me out of.
Paul was pushing back against false teachers who insisted that Christ alone wasn’t enough. They were saying believers needed something extra—old traditions, new mystical experiences, or extreme self-denial—to be truly righteous. But Paul calls these things shadows.
Colossians 2:17 — “These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ.”
While many religions may have wisdom and some truths, they are ultimately glimpses, not the source—only Christ is the fullness of truth. A shadow only has meaning because of the substance that casts it. The old laws and regulations weren’t bad, but they weren’t the point—they were signposts pointing to Jesus.
And now that Jesus has come, why live as though He isn’t enough?
This struggle isn’t just ancient history. It creeps in when I start performing for God instead of resting in Him—when I believe following the ‘right’ rules or having the ‘right’ spiritual experiences somehow makes me more saved. I tend to feel like I need to earn God’s approval, as if His grace isn’t freely given.
Colossians 2:20-21 —“If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to regulations—’Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch’? “
The Colossians were being pressured to observe extra rules—special diets, festivals, mystical experiences—because false teachers made them believe faith in Christ wasn’t enough. Today, the temptation might look different, but the heart issue is the same. Why do I try to add requirements, thinking they make me more worthy in His eyes?
Paul doesn’t just refute legalism; he dismantles the deeper issue—our belief that outward rules can fix the sinfulness of the human heart.
These false teachers were like spiritual multi-level marketing (MLM) recruiters, selling the idea that a “higher level” of faith could be achieved through special practices, secret knowledge, or extreme discipline. They promised access to something deeper, something exclusive—making ordinary believers feel like they were missing out unless they bought into the system.
But just like most MLMs, the real winners were the ones at the top—the false teachers—while everyone else was left spiritually drained, constantly striving but never truly satisfied. The ‘product’ they were selling wasn’t real transformation; it was an exhausting cycle of effort with no true reward.
Colossians 2:23 — “These have indeed an appearance of wisdom in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh.”
The truth is, rules can’t change the heart. Avoiding certain foods won’t stop sin. Harsh treatment of the body won’t kill pride, lust, or greed. Only Christ can change us from the inside out. Chasing after religious rules for salvation is no different than chasing an MLM promise—it looks like progress, but it never delivers.
Final Thought:
Pastor John put it simply in his sermon:
Jesus + Nothing = Everything.
It’s not just a catchy equation—it’s the heart of the gospel. I don’t need to chase shadows when the fullness of Christ is already mine. Where am I still clinging to extra requirements instead of resting in Christ alone?
The Colossians were told that faith in Christ wasn’t sufficient—that they needed extra rules, mystical experiences, or extreme self-denial to be truly righteous. But Paul makes it clear: Christ alone is enough.
That’s exactly what Jesus + Nothing = Everything means.
You don’t need old religious laws.
You don’t need mystical experiences.
You don’t need extreme self-discipline.
You just need Jesus.
How About You?
What’s the ‘extra’ you’re tempted to add to Jesus?
I have always been the kind of person who hates secrets and surprises. I want to know what people know, to have all the information laid out in front of me. But over time, I’ve had to learn that just knowing something doesn’t mean I understand it, and having all the facts doesn’t mean I have the wisdom to use them well.
That’s what Proverbs 10 highlights—not just a tension between knowing and not knowing, but between living wisely and merely collecting information.
James 1:5—“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”
When we ask for wisdom, He teaches us how to pay attention. And when we start paying attention, we see the difference.
Proverbs 10 draws a sharp contrast between two ways of life: wisdom and righteousness versus foolishness and recklessness. It reminds us that wisdom is not just about what we know but about how we live. Knowledge alone cannot guarantee righteousness, just as owning a compass does not mean a traveler will follow the right path.
Righteousness: Choosing to Walk in Wisdom
Proverbs 10:1-5 emphasizes that righteousness is not accidental. It is an active pursuit, something we practice daily in obedience to God. Scripture calls us to live rightly on purpose, not just to avoid wrongdoing but to actively seek what is good.
This takes me back to the very thing Pastor John said that started my whole journey of this blog, After Pew: Purity is not just about avoidance; purity is your undivided devotion to God.
Solomon’s downfall shows what happens when devotion to God becomes divided. Even unrivaled wisdom crumbles when devotion splits—his heart was tugged away by foreign gods and divided loyalties. He had wisdom, but without a pure and undivided heart, he failed to live it out.
1 Kings 11:11—“So the Lord said to Solomon, ‘Since this is your attitude and you have not kept my covenant and my decrees, which I commanded you, I will most certainly tear the kingdom away from you and give it to one of your subordinates.’”
Solomon was given wisdom beyond measure, yet his own choices led to his kingdom’s downfall. His story warns us that wisdom unpracticed is wisdom wasted. Knowledge of God’s ways is not enough—we must live them out.
This difference between knowing and living out wisdom isn’t just seen in kings—it happens in everyday life too.
I’ve seen the difference between knowledge and wisdom play out in my own home. When my kids were younger, they would repeat things they had heard from me—things that, in principle, I agreed with.
But the moment I heard those words coming from them, it made me cringe. Not because what they said was wrong, but because I knew they didn’t yet understand the full weight of those opinions. They hadn’t considered the other side, the opposing perspective, or the nuance behind what they were saying.
Hearing those words come from someone without that understanding—whether my kids or anyone else—made me realize how easily truth can sound harsh, dismissive, or even hurtful when spoken without wisdom.
Even when I agreed with them, I had to help them temper their words and see things more fully. Knowledge had given them an opinion, but they still had yet to learn the wisdom that would show them how to use it well.
The Weight of Our Words
Proverbs 10:11—“The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life, but the mouth of the wicked conceals violence.”
Proverbs 10 repeatedly mentions the mouth, lips, and tongue, highlighting that our words carry real weight. They can build up or destroy, bring life or ruin. I once saw a friend’s casual remark—meant as a joke—unravel another friend’s confidence for weeks.
Words, even small ones, wield unseen power. A single sentence can strengthen a person’s resolve or plant the seed of their downfall.
Proverbs 10 underscores why wisdom matters: wisdom listens, prepares for the future, follows instruction, seeks understanding, and ultimately leads to life. Applying wisdom isn’t always easy. Sometimes, you’re tested.
James 1:2-3—“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”
Trials have a way of revealing whether we are just collecting knowledge or truly living out wisdom. It’s one thing to know what is right, but another to hold to it when things get difficult. Trials test not just our endurance, but the depth of our wisdom. And through those trials, wisdom takes root.
Final Thought:
At the core of wisdom is not just knowing what is right, but committing to living it out, even when it’s difficult. It’s about weighing our words, thinking not just about what we can do but about focusing on what we should do, and making daily choices that build something lasting. Proverbs 10 challenges us to take wisdom seriously, to weigh our words carefully, and to live with purpose.
Righteousness—and true wisdom—starts with Christ, who transforms us from foolish wanderers into children of the King. That’s the heart of Proverbs 10: wisdom rooted in Christ, lived out daily.
How About You?
Who models godly wisdom in your life?
What’s the best piece of wisdom someone has ever given you?
When have you seen knowledge mistaken for wisdom in real life?
There’s something deeply revealing about how we allocate our time and resources. As I’ve sat with chapters 5 through 7 from 1 Kings, I’ve been moved by a sobering numerical contrast I noticed—seven years to build God’s temple, thirteen years for Solomon’s personal palace. This detail isn’t merely architectural history; it’s a mirror held up to our own lives.
1 Kings 6:38—“So it was that Solomon was seven years in building it” (referring to the temple).
1 Kings 7:1—”But Solomon was building his own house thirteen years, and he finished all his house” (referring to the palace.)
One thing that strikes me about 1 Kings 5-7 is how subtly Solomon’s focus drifted. Every cedar beam, every carved cherubim, every detail mattered; his devotion was genuine—the temple specifications were followed meticulously, the materials were the finest available, the craftsmanship exquisite. Yet the temple received seven years, the palace thirteen, revealing a gradual drift in what captivated his heart. Personal ambition began to outpace spiritual dedication, a quiet shift unnoticed at first.
I’ve experienced this same pattern in my spiritual journey. My days aren’t divided between constructing temples and palaces, but between spiritual nourishment and worldly distractions. What begins as a quick scripture reading can easily dissolve into hours of scrolling on X and a moment of intended sermon study turns into a YouTube video rabbit hole. My “temple time” shrinks while my “palace time” expands, and I’ve found that it’s not a dramatic fall but a subtle drift—one that’s easy to overlook. As Jesus said:
Matthew 6:21—”For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
My screen time has become a revealing metric of where my treasure—and thus my heart—truly lies.
That subtle drift became undeniable when I checked my screen time last month. What began as a simple curiosity became a spiritual wake-up call when I saw the numbers: 60 minutes in my Scripture memorization and Bible apps versus 2+ hours on YouTube, Facebook, and other apps. My temple-to-palace ratio was severely imbalanced.
But in that imbalance, I find unexpected openings. The beauty of my situation – driving for Uber as a secondary income – is that it creates unique pockets of time. These moments between rides could become either “temple-building time” or “palace-building time.” Not in the literal sense, of course, but in how they either connect me to my deeper purpose or simply pass in distraction.
Practical Temple-Building in Digital Age
What might intentional “temple-building” look like in the spaces between responsibilities?
What if I could more intentionally create playlists—not just for entertainment, but to nourish my soul during those in-between moments?
Or take those moments of waiting—whether in traffic, at a store, or between tasks—and use them to immerse myself more consistently in God’s word?
A brief Bible passage during a lull could anchor me in His presence. A quick prayer—driving the kids or pausing mid-task—could refocus my heart with a single word.
How often do I rush through my day without taking a second to pause and notice the gifts around me? The gratitude is there, but even just one more 30 seconds to thank God—for His presence, loved ones, or quiet—could shift me.
Scriptural Reflection: The Quiet Work of Temple-Building
1 Kings 6:7—“When the house was built, it was with stone prepared at the quarry, so that neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron was heard in the house while it was being built.”
There was a quiet, deliberate nature to the work, a reflection of intentionality that invites me to consider how I build my spiritual “temple.” The spiritual work of transformation often isn’t loud or dramatic—it happens in the quiet, purposeful moments, like those between rides or in small pauses throughout the day.
1 Kings 6:12-13—”If you follow my decrees, carry out my regulations, and keep all my commands and obey them, I will fulfill through you the promise I gave to David your father. And I will live among the Israelites and will not abandon my people Israel.”
This reminds me that when we commit to spiritual disciplines, God’s presence fills those moments and continues to build our temple from the inside out. It’s not always the grand gestures that build a life of faith but the small, faithful actions over time.
Questions for My Journey
As I reflect on these chapters through the lens of my specific situation, I’m holding these questions:
What if those moments before opening a streaming app became invitations to brief spiritual connection?
How might I create “temple spaces” within my driving routine?
What would a healthy “seven-to-thirteen ratio” look like in my daily rhythms?
Final Thought:
I must confess that I’ve often dismissed my own digital distractions as “harmless downtime.” Yet Solomon’s story reminds me that patterns of attention eventually shape the temple of our hearts. Every time I find myself scrolling, every podcast episode I watch, every playlist I listen to contributes to who I’m becoming.
In this season, I’m learning that spiritual formation isn’t just about grand commitments but about reclaiming those small moments that so easily slip away. The temple was built, not in dramatic gestures, but in the small, faithful choices made each day.
How About You?
Where might God be inviting you to shift your attention today?
In the spaces between life’s busyness, what kind of ‘temple building’ might be possible for you?
What small, intentional choices might you make today?
Life is a miracle, plain and simple. From the moment a child is conceived, an extraordinary process begins—a unique set of DNA is created, a tiny heart starts beating, a distinct set of fingerprints forms, and a one-of-a-kind person takes shape. It’s a process that fills me with awe every time I think about it.
Scientifically, at the moment of conception, a new human life begins—genetically distinct, with a heartbeat and DNA unlike any other. It’s not a matter of debate; it’s a biological truth. And yet, in our world today, abortion is often seen as just another choice, a way to solve a problem.
The values I once embraced as a Unitarian Universalist have shaped my beliefs on many issues, but as my faith deepened, I came to see abortion as more than just a choice—it became about protecting life at all stages, a perspective I now hold as a Christian.
My belief in the value of all of God’s creations shapes my views on the sanctity of life and compels me to advocate for the vulnerable, including those yet to be born.
I know this is a sensitive topic, and I want to approach it with the compassion and openness that Unitarian Universalism encourages—not as judgment, but as a heartfelt plea grounded in the values that once guided me.
Unitarian Universalist’s First Principle — We believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person.
The inherent worth and dignity of every person. This is the bedrock of the faith. For awhile, growing up, it was the only one I could recite to people who asked what we, as UU’s, believed. It is a reminder that every human being has value, no matter who they are or where they come from.
Back then, I saw the unborn as just potential. Now, I see that tiny, growing life inside a mother’s womb as a human with potential—a future child, a future adult, a future friend, artist, teacher, or dreamer. It’s not just a clump of cells; it’s a life with worth I once overlooked.
When abortion ends that life, I wonder how I ever thought dignity could be set aside. That’s not the First Principle I know now—it calls me to see the worth in every person, even to those who haven’t taken their first breath yet.
I know what some might say: a woman’s right to choose is about her autonomy, her body, her future. I empathize with women facing unplanned pregnancies, but justice and compassion, as UU values, urge us to support both mother and child, not end a life.
We don’t allow parents to neglect or harm their born children because they are inconvenient or difficult to care for. Why does that principle shift before birth?
If a newborn requires constant care, financial resources, and emotional investment, we don’t say their life is optional based on the burden they bring. That same child, just weeks earlier in the womb, is no less human, no less valuable. The need for support doesn’t justify ending a life—it calls us to step up and help.
Unitarian Universalist’s Second Principle — “We believe in justice, equity, and compassion in human relations.”
As a young UU, I thought compassion favored choice. Now, I see it must extend to the most vulnerable—the unborn, another life in this equation who has no voice, no way to speak up for themselves.
They’re entirely dependent on us to affirm their right to exist. Compassion, to my old self, was just for the mother; now, I see it’s for both lives.
To me, intentionally ending that life is never justified, no matter the circumstances. Maybe instead of abortion, we can dream of a world where mothers and children are fully supported—through healthcare, childcare, education, and community. That’s the kind of justice I’m called to build.
Unitarian Universalist’s Seventh Principle — “We believe in respect for the interdependent web of all existence, of which we are a part.”
As a UU, I was taught how everything is connected, how we’re all part of something bigger. I cared about protecting the environment, ecosystems, and endangered species—all as part of the interdependent web of existence.
But what about human life in its earliest moments? Now, I see that life woven into the web. If we grieve when a species goes extinct or when a tree is cut down unnecessarily, how much more should we pause when considering the loss of a human life?
Abortion, to my old self, felt like a neutral act; now, I see abortion as more than the ending of one life, but snipping away an entire thread of the human family—a child who could have lit up our shared future. That loss stings when I think of all that potential unbloomed.
I want to be real here: I’m not here to point fingers or pile on guilt. Life is messy, and the reasons someone might consider abortion are often gut-wrenching.
I’m sure I have friends and family members who have wrestled with unplanned pregnancies, even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time—the fear, the doubt, the overwhelming weight of it all. But I’ve also witnessed the incredible joy that comes when a child is given a chance.
I think of stories I’ve heard—of women who chose to keep their children, despite the initial fear and uncertainty, and later realized how much that choice changed their lives in the most unexpected ways. These stories remind me that there’s always another way, a path that values both the mother and the child.
This isn’t about politics for me. It’s about life—precious, irreplaceable life. It’s about seeing every person, born or unborn, as part of our shared humanity.
The principles I learned as a Unitarian Universalist call us to cherish that, to protect it, and to shape a world where every life is celebrated.
Psalm 139:13-14 — “For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”
Final Thought:
Each life, from its very first moment, is intricately and purposefully created. Abortion, in my heart, doesn’t fit into that vision. Instead, let’s hold hands and create alternatives—ensuring mothers have the support they need, empowering families, and treasuring the miracle of life in all its forms.
That’s my plea, not from a place of judgment, but from a deep love for the values I once held and the lives we’re here to nurture.
How About You?
How do we honor both a woman’s autonomy and the life she carries?
What would it take to make every pregnancy a supported one?
Can our compassion embrace both the born and the unborn?
If you or someone you know is facing an unplanned pregnancy or seeking support, these organizations offer compassionate care and real solutions—you’re not alone.
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Pregnancy Support & Alternatives to Abortion
Option Line (optionline.org) – 24/7 chat and hotline connecting women to local pregnancy centers.
Standing With You (standingwithyou.org) – Helps pregnant and parenting students find resources.
Heartbeat International (heartbeatinternational.org) – Network of pregnancy help organizations worldwide.
Embrace Grace (embracegrace.com) – Church-based support for single moms choosing life.
Adoption & Parenting Support
BraveLove (bravelove.org) – Promotes adoption as a loving option.
Bethany Christian Services (bethany.org) – Adoption and family support services.
National Safe Haven Alliance (nationalsafehavenalliance.org) – Information on safe haven laws for mothers in crisis.
Holistic Family & Community Care
Human Coalition (humancoalition.org) – Pro-woman, pro-child support services.
Let Them Live (letthemlive.org) – Financial assistance for women considering abortion due to hardship.
I’m still in Colossians, working through it little by little, leaning on sermon videos from Pastor John. My process has a steady rhythm—reading, listening, reflecting. Tonight, I’m studying in the quiet upstairs of my church, while the joyful chaos of AWANA and youth group rises up around me. My kids are elsewhere in the building, immersed in their own time of learning and fellowship, while I sit here with my Bible open, seeking to be rooted and built up in Christ myself.
In Chapter 2, Paul describes his mission as a “great struggle,” a deep labor for believers he’s never even met. He strives for them to be encouraged and united in love, shielded from deception. He’s keenly aware of how subtly people can drift toward teachings that promise much but deliver little apart from Christ.
The church in Colossae—and nearby Laodicea—had to be vigilant. Laodicea was a wealthy, self-sufficient city. That kind of comfort carried the risk of making faith feel like a surface-level label rather than a foundation. I see that same danger today. It’s only been a year since my baptism and I’m still passionate about building my relationship with Jesus, but I can see how easy it could be to settle into routine and let spiritual complacency take hold.
I’ve observed many Christians in my day who attend church on Sundays, yet it seems more out of habit than a true reflection of their faith. And more people still seem to wear Christianity like a fashion accessory, with no roots at all.
But, how am I living out my faith beyond Sunday mornings? Is my walk with Jesus deepening, or am I allowing complacency to creep in?
Colossians 2:6-7 —“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”
Paul is pointing out that just as we received Christ by faith, we must also continue to live by faith. It’s not a one-time decision—it’s a daily walk.
Colossians 2:8 – “See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.”
Paul warns against the deception of human tradition and empty philosophies. And today, there are so many ’empty philosophies’ being worshipped: Moral Relativism, Self-Worship and Secular Humanism, New Age Spirituality, Postmodernism, Consumerism. In a world of competing voices and shifting ideologies, how can we ensure that we, and future generations, are rooted in Christ’s truth? How can we guard ourselves and others from these philosophies that threaten to lead us away from the sufficiency of Christ?
Colossians 2:9-10 —“For in Him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily, and you have been filled in Him, who is the head of all rule and authority.”
Christ is not just a teacher or example—He is fully God, offering us the fullness of life. This fullness is marked by a transformation of the heart, symbolized through baptism, where we die with Christ and rise to new life. Am I living with the conviction that Christ is enough? Or am I seeking fulfillment in material possessions and the approval of others? Is my life showing evidence of new life in Christ, or are old habits still influencing my actions?
Final Thoughts:
In reflecting on Colossians 2, I’m reminded that living in Christ isn’t something that happens on autopilot. It’s a call to actively stand firm in the truth. I need to keep growing, keep myself rooted in the fullness of Christ, especially with all the distractions around me. Faith isn’t static—it’s a living, growing relationship that transforms every part of our lives.
How About You?
How do you keep your faith active beyond Sundays?
Ever feel complacent in faith? What pulls you back?
I try to keep a balanced diet in my Bible reading—Old Testament, Gospels, and Epistles. Right now, my wife and I are studying 1 Kings with our good friends. They are the same friends who first invited us to church and helped lead us to Christ. We’ve been doing weekly Bible study with them for a few years now. It is one of the most important parts of our faith journey.
As we’ve been reading 1 Kings, it’s gotten me thinking about transitions—how the old fades, the new struggles to take hold, and everything feels uncertain. That’s 1 Kings in a nutshell.
David is dying, frail and unable to keep warm. Adonijah is already celebrating, assuming the throne is his. Solomon, young and unproven, suddenly finds himself securing his rule with difficult decisions and a kingdom to steady. Then God appears to him in a dream, offering anything he desires. He could have asked for wealth or vengeance—but he chose wisdom.
1 Kings 3:9 —“Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, that I may discern between good and evil, for who is able to govern this your great people?”
I’m over here with my coffee, thinking about my own life. No crown, just the weight of leading a family—loving my wife well, raising my kids, and trying to walk wisely in the everyday.
Solomon’s choice challenges me—seek wisdom first. He is stepping into leadership as Israel enters a new era—one marked by weighty decisions and the challenge of ruling well. Solomon’s request for wisdom doesn’t just shape his reign—it reveals the kind of king he hopes to be.
I don’t have a kingdom to rule. But I do have responsibilities—my marriage, my kids, my work, and the way I show up for others. And in all of it, I feel the pull to rely on my own instincts, to make decisions based on what seems best in the moment. But Solomon reminds me to ask first. To stop and seek wisdom before anything else. I need to remember that.
Wisdom, after all, isn’t just knowing the right thing—it’s living it.
Proverbs 4:7 — “The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom, and whatever you get, get insight.”
Solomon’s reign begins with that pursuit, and it ripples outward. His wisdom isn’t just for himself; it brings justice, as seen in the case of the two women fighting over a baby. It establishes order, structure, and peace to the kingdom. And it makes me wonder: am I seeking wisdom in a way that blesses others, not just myself?
1 Kings 4:25 — “And Judah and Israel lived in safety, from Dan even to Beersheba, every man under his vine and under his fig tree, all the days of Solomon.”
In plain English it’s saying that during Solomon’s rule, the people of Judah and Israel lived securely and without fear. From the northernmost city (Dan) to the southernmost city (Beersheba), everyone had their own land, food, and stability. Each person could rest under their own vine and fig tree, a symbol of peace and prosperity. It paints a picture of a nation at rest—no war, no oppression, just a time of blessing and stability.
Final Thought:
That’s the kind of life I want to cultivate—not just for myself, but for those around me. A life rooted in wisdom, in peace, in trust that God gives what’s needed when I seek Him first.
How About You?
Where in your life are you craving the peace of that vine and fig tree?
What’s one step you could take to seek God’s wisdom first?
When I was a kid, my father was always trying to impart wisdom to me. He’d tell me not to do something or other because reasons—but for some reason, that was never enough for me. If it was something I wanted to do, I had to try it anyway. Almost without fail, I’d end up learning the lesson he was trying to teach me—just the hard way.
Looking back, I don’t know why I was like that—maybe I thought my experience would be different. Maybe I just didn’t trust my father’s perspective enough to take his word for it. Either way, I learned a lot of lessons the painful way. I wish I had been wiser.
Now, as a father myself, I see this dynamic from the other side, and I count myself blessed that my children seem more willing to listen, to learn without having to suffer through the lesson firsthand. Watching them make better choices than I did has made me realize something—wisdom isn’t just about knowledge. It’s about trusting the right voice before you’ve seen the consequences for yourself.
Proverbs 9 presents this choice this way: two voices call out, two feasts are prepared—one leads to life, the other to ruin. The question isn’t whether we’ll listen—it’s who we will listen to.
Wisdom isn’t passive—she builds her house, prepares a feast, and sends out an invitation:
Proverbs 9:4-6 —“Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!” To him who lacks sense she says, “Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Leave your simple ways, and live, and walk in the way of insight.”
Wisdom actively seeks out those willing to learn, and her feast—warm bread, rich wine—does more than inform; it nourishes. True wisdom satisfies the soul and leads to a life in step with God’s will.
Proverbs 9:16-17 — “Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!” And to him who lacks sense she says, “Stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.”
Folly mimics wisdom’s call but lounges in her doorway, waiting. Her pull—natural, easy, cloaked as good—lures us down a well-traveled road, one that feels safe simply because so many take it. Her feast is an illusion, and those who accept it don’t realize where it leads—what looks sweet at first hides a bitter truth. As Matthew warns, wisdom’s way is narrow, but the path to destruction is wide, and many follow it.
Proverbs 9 doesn’t offer a middle ground—we are either pursuing wisdom or drifting toward folly. The question is, which voice are we following?
A key theme in this chapter is how people respond to correction—both wisdom and folly call out, but our response to them shows the state of our heart. Some resist wisdom, refusing correction, while others accept it and grow.
Proverbs 9:8 — “Do not reprove a scoffer, or he will hate you; reprove a wise man, and he will love you.”
How we handle reproof reveals a lot about our character—a wise person welcomes correction because they value growth, while a fool rejects it because they value comfort.
Proverbs 9:18 —“But he does not know that the dead are there, that her guests are in the depths of Sheol.”
That last verse is chilling—those who feast at folly’s table believe they’ve chosen pleasure, when in reality, they are walking the slow road to ruin.
Final Thought:
I think back to my younger self—so sure I knew best, so unwilling to take wisdom at its word. My father tried to steer me away from mistakes, but I had to see for myself. Looking back, I wish I had trusted him more.
Isn’t that how we often treat God’s wisdom? We hear His call, but we hesitate, thinking maybe our way will work out differently. Maybe the warnings aren’t for us. Maybe we can take just a little from folly’s table without suffering the cost. But Proverbs 9 reminds us that every path has a destination, whether we see it or not.
Wisdom isn’t about knowing everything—it’s about trusting the One who does. God doesn’t call us to walk in His ways to restrict us, but to save us from the pain He already sees ahead. The narrow path isn’t always easy, but it is good. The question remains: will we trust His voice, or will we insist on learning the hard way?
How About You?
When did you last ignore wisdom and taste folly’s “bitter truth”?
When has God’s call felt hard to trust—why?
What tempts you down folly’s road—how will you pick wisdom?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how God holds things together—not just in the grand, cosmic sense, but in the details of life. If you had told me years ago that Amy and I—both raised Unitarian Universalist—would not only come to Christ, but do so together, I would’ve laughed. The odds of one of us finding faith were slim, much less both of us. And yet, here we are. God was weaving something all along.
I have been seeing that same thread in other ways. I recently reconnected with one of my best friends from high school—someone I hadn’t spoken to in almost 25 years. He’s a pastor now, and I felt a nudge to reach out, to share my story. What I didn’t know was that he needed that conversation just as much as I did. He told me, “I really believe that God brought us back into relationship at just the perfect time for me. Thank you for following His prompts and finding me.”
I had almost brushed off the idea of reaching out, but looking back, I can see that small prompting was God’s way of drawing both of us into something bigger. I wonder—how many other times has He nudged me toward something I ignored? And what if I had started paying closer attention?
God’s plan is the best plan. We don’t always see how the pieces fit together, but He does. And that’s exactly what Paul is getting at in Colossians—how Christ is not just the reason for creation, but the one holding it all together.
At the heart of Colossians 1:15-29 is a truth that’s easy to affirm but harder to let sink in: Christ is everything. Not just a good teacher, not just a moral guide, not just a piece of the puzzle—He is the center, the foundation, the beginning, and the end. Everything exists because of Him and for Him. And yet, I have spent so much of my life living as if He were just a footnote in my own story.
Colossians 1:15 —“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.”
It seemed to me that people believed that Jesus was just a bridge to God, but Paul outright tells us—He is God. Not a reflection, not a representative, but God Himself, stepping into our world to show us who He is. The weight of that should be overwhelming. The very One who spoke the stars into place is the same One who walked dusty roads, looked people in the eye, and willingly took on the cross.
When I first started really reading this passage, the phrase that hit me hardest was: “in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). I don’t know about you, but life often feels more fragile than I’d like to admit. I feel the strain of responsibilities, the weight of expectations, the fear of failure. But what if the thing holding my life together isn’t my effort? What if it’s not my plans or my ability to figure it all out? What if it’s Him?
That gives me a new perspective. If Christ is holding all things together, then even in the chaos and the unknown, I am not slipping through the cracks. He is sustaining me, just as He sustains the entire universe.
Colossians 1:21-22 —“And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, He has now reconciled in His body of flesh by His death,in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before Him.”
This isn’t just an abstract theological concept—this is personal. I was once alienated from God. Not just distant, but actively opposed to Him, even if I didn’t realize it. My sin wasn’t just “bad behavior”; it was evidence of a heart that wanted to live life on its own terms.
I remember a time when I justified everything—my pride, my selfishness, even my so-called spirituality. You see, I believed in the interconnectedness of the universe—not as the work of a personal God, but as the natural order of things. I saw the universe as a vast, interwoven web, where everything affected everything else. But I didn’t believe in God. Not really. Not in a way that required anything of me. It all made sense to me. I told myself I was just doing my best.
But looking back, I see how often I ignored Him, how often I pushed Him to the margins. And yet, He pursued me. He didn’t wait for me to unlearn everything first. Even as I wrestled with doubts and long-held assumptions, He was already reaching for me.
I didn’t find Him—He found me. And He didn’t just bring me to belief; He brought me into something secure, something lasting. But faith isn’t something that just happens once and it’s done. Faith is something I’m called to continue in, to hold onto. Paul’s words make me pause—‘reconciled… to present you holy and blameless’ isn’t a pat on the back; it’s a shove to keep going. Am I staying grounded in the faith, holding to what I know is true about Christ?
That kind of faith—the kind that bleeds when it’s squeezed—isn’t always easy. Paul knew that firsthand. Paul doesn’t just teach these things—he lives them. He talks about his own sufferings, rejoicing in them for the sake of the church. That mindset doesn’t come naturally. I don’t love suffering. I don’t welcome hardship. But Paul saw it as participation in Christ’s mission. He is showing us that the gospel isn’t just something we receive; it’s something we give our lives to, even when it costs us.
I’ve had conversations that left me feeling misunderstood, attacked, even mocked. And yet, when I step back, I realize—this is part of it. The gospel isn’t meant to keep me comfortable—it’s meant to shape me.
Colossians 1:27 —“To them God chose to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.”
That’s the core of it all. Christ isn’t just reigning from afar—He is in us. The hope we have isn’t wishful thinking; it’s a certainty, rooted in Him.
Final Thought:
Before I jump into my plans, I will take a moment to say, “Lord, this day is Yours. My time, my decisions, my conversations—I want them to reflect You.”
It’s simple, but it reorients my heart. Instead of striving to control everything, I will remind myself that He holds it all together, not me. And that’s the crux—if Christ is supreme, if He holds all things together, if He is in me—then my life should reflect that. My choices, my relationships, my struggles, my purpose—they all have to align with the reality of who He is.
That’s the challenge. But it’s also the hope. He is the One doing the work. I just need to keep walking in it.
How About You?
How can you live out the truth of “Christ in you” this week?
What areas of your life are you still trying to be in control instead of trusting Him?
We like to think we make rational choices. That we see things clearly, know when to stop, and stay in control. But some of life’s biggest regrets don’t start with an obvious mistake, but with a small compromise. A glance. A thought. A rationalization. A slow drift toward the edge. And sometimes, we walk straight into disaster, convinced everything is fine.
Proverbs 6:27—“Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned?”
We tell ourselves, It’s just a little thing. I’m in control. I know what I’m doing. But some choices carry a cost we don’t see until it’s too late.
How often does a “small thing” become something much bigger? A step in the wrong direction is still a step. Many small steps are barely noticeable at first. They can lead us somewhere we never intended to go. These steps shape our lives in ways we never expected.
Wisdom isn’t just knowing right from wrong. It’s recognizing where a path leads before you take it. It’s the difference between seeing danger and thinking, That won’t happen to me. Instead, wisdom involves stepping back and choosing a different way.
Proverbs 7 warns of someone drawn in by temptation. They believe they’re in control but realize too late that they were walking toward destruction. The warning isn’t about fear, it’s about reality. The choices we make shape what captures our hearts, and what captures our hearts determines where we end up.
Final Thought:
Many of life’s regrets start with tiny compromises: excuses, justifications, blurred boundaries. But those moments shape us. They shape what we desire, what we chase after, and ultimately, where we find ourselves.
The best safeguard against bad choices isn’t just willpower, it’s treasuring something greater. It’s choosing what actually leads to life instead of what only looks like life. It’s not just about avoiding destruction.
It’s about pursuing something better.
How About You?
What’s capturing your heart?
What small compromises are you allowing?
Are you just running from disaster, or are you running toward something worth pursuing?
