Lights & Truth

The War Within

February 13th, 2026

There is a difference between struggling with sin and surrendering to it. Many of us confuse the two.

In Romans 7, Paul writes with striking honesty. “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (Romans 7:15). At first glance, it can sound like he is claiming he has no control. But that is not what he is doing. He is revealing the tension of the human condition. Even after redemption, we are not immune to missteps.

Paul makes something clear: the conflict itself is evidence of life. “For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind” (Romans 7:22–23). The war does not mean he is lost. It means he is aware. There is a difference.

When we act according to the flesh—when our decisions are driven only by preserving or advancing the self—we feel the fracture. No lasting good comes from selfish intent alone. We may build narratives to justify our choices, even convincing ourselves they serve others, but justification does not change the outcome. It only quiets the conscience for a moment.

To sin is, in many ways, to rob the future self or community of freedom. We make short-term agreements without considering who will bear the cost later. Scripture tells us plainly, “Whatever one sows, that will he also reap” (Galatians 6:7). This is not condemnation. It is order. The future often pays debts created in the present.

When we pray, “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matthew 6:12), we often think only of those who have wronged us. But there is another layer here. We do not only become indebted to others—we become indebted to the life we were meant to live. Our present choices can burden our own future with weight that was never meant to be carried.

To forgive your debtor includes forgiving the person you were yesterday.

Not excusing the sin.
Not pretending it did not cost something.
But refusing to keep collecting from yourself what Christ has already covered.

If God has forgiven the debt, why do we insist on charging interest?

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1).

Forgiving yourself is not self-justification. It is agreement with grace. It is acknowledging the mistake, turning from it, and choosing not to identify with it. Paul does not end Romans 7 in despair. He cries out, “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” and immediately answers, “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:24–25). The conflict remains real, but so does deliverance.

As you conclude this week, reflect on the missteps you may have made. Do not dwell in shame. Grace is not permission to continue in poor choices; it is power to make better ones. Even when you feel unworthy of the right path, it remains available.

When circumstances are not ideal, pause. Use God—not your emotions—as your reference point. And then choose again.
Enough For Today

February 11th, 2026

It is natural for us to interpret hardship as something happening to us rather than something unfolding through us. Yet Scripture repeatedly shows that what feels like scarcity can become the setting for revelation.

In 1 Kings 17, the prophet Elijah is sent by God to announce a coming drought. The land would dry up, and famine would follow. Elijah himself would not be exempt from the hardship. At first, God sustains him by a brook, where ravens bring him bread and meat. But even that provision runs dry when the brook itself dries up (1 Kings 17:7). Elijah is not given abundance—he is given only what is necessary for survival.

When that supply ends, God sends Elijah to Zarephath, where a widow is gathering sticks outside the city gate. Elijah asks her for water and bread. She responds honestly. She has only a handful of flour and a little oil. She is preparing a final meal for herself and her son before they expect to die (1 Kings 17:12). The situation could not appear more hopeless.

Elijah makes an unusual request. He asks her to make him a small cake first, and then prepare food for herself and her son. He does not dismiss her fear. Instead, he attaches a promise to his request: “The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the Lord sends rain on the land” (1 Kings 17:14).

The widow chooses obedience in the face of uncertainty. She gives from what appears to be her last portion. And just as Elijah declared, the flour does not run out and the oil does not fail. There is enough for each day.

Later, her son becomes ill and stops breathing. In her grief, she assumes judgment. She cries out to Elijah, asking if his presence has come to expose her sin (1 Kings 17:18). It is a familiar reaction—to assume that suffering must be punishment. Elijah does not accuse her. He carries the boy, prays, and asks God to restore his life. The Lord hears Elijah’s prayer, and the child lives again (1 Kings 17:22). What began in drought ends in restoration.

This story reveals something important. Hardship is not always a personal indictment. We live in a fallen world where droughts—literal and spiritual—occur. Our first instinct is often to assign blame, either to ourselves or to others. Yet not every circumstance is the result of a specific perpetrator. Sometimes it is the result of condition rather than intent.

This perspective is difficult, especially for those who value justice. But Scripture consistently reminds us that the world continues in motion whether we understand it or not. Elijah did not stop the drought. The widow did not cause it. Yet both were invited into a moment that required trust.

Newton’s law states that an object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon by an external force. In a similar way, the world continues along its path. But God is not absent from that motion. Discernment becomes the key—not whether we should act, but when. The widow faced a choice between self-preservation and surrender. She chose surrender. Not passively, but actively. She participated in what she could not fully comprehend.

This does not mean that every outcome will feel pleasant or easy. It means that even in scarcity, provision can be present. God did not eliminate the drought immediately. He sustained them within it.

As you reflect today, consider the areas of your life that feel dry. Resist the urge to immediately assign blame. Ask instead what may be forming in the middle of the discomfort. Hardship is often a season, not a sentence. The jar did not overflow—it simply did not run empty.

For all things that have a beginning must end. This is the law of creation.

Practice patience in your discomfort. You may be closer to renewal than you realize. What feels like depletion may simply be preparation for rain.
Strength in Weakness

February 9th, 2026

There are moments in life when clarity does not come through relief, but through endurance. This is a difficult truth to accept, especially in a world that constantly tells us strength looks like control and weakness should be avoided at all costs.

In the New Testament, Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 12 about a profound spiritual experience in which he was caught up beyond himself. He speaks carefully about it, almost reluctantly, because the experience itself is not the point. What matters is what followed. Alongside this revelation, Paul was given a “thorn in the flesh,” a persistent affliction that kept him grounded. He prayed repeatedly for it to be removed. Instead of relief, Paul received a response from Christ: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

This moment reshaped Paul’s understanding of hardship. His suffering was not evidence of abandonment, nor was it something to be escaped at all costs. It became the place where strength was formed. Paul goes on to say that he learned to boast in his weaknesses—not because weakness is desirable, but because it is the space where Christ’s power is most clearly revealed. By the time he closes the letter, Paul urges the Corinthians to strengthen one another, reminding them that human weakness is part of the condition we all share. It is not meant to define us. Christ, not our limitations, is meant to be our reference point (2 Corinthians 13:4–5).

In our daily lives, it is easy to give unnecessary weight to things that ultimately do not matter. While affliction affects us all, we are not meant to grant it authority over our lives. This is why Scripture continually points us toward patience. Hardship is often misunderstood as a test meant to prove our faith to God, but God does not need proof. More often, hardship reveals whether we are ready to receive what we are asking for. When prayers go unanswered in the way we expect, it is not always denial—it is preparation.

Transformation does not occur through release, but through pressure. This is uncomfortable, yet it is consistent with God’s design. “Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Romans 5:3–4). Ease may benefit the individual, but it does little to shape the whole. Refinement requires resistance.

Scripture is not merely a moral code meant to regulate behavior. Laws can guide actions, but they cannot complete the soul. Paul reminds us that we were not created simply to obey the law, but to fulfill it (Romans 8:3–4). This fulfillment does not come through performance alone. Participation is required. “The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life” (2 Corinthians 3:6). Most of us sense an internal longing to become whole. When that longing goes unmet, we often attempt to fill it with things that feel familiar or validating. These substitutions may offer temporary relief, but they do not lead to completion. We end up perfecting performance while avoiding participation.

As you begin your week, take time to notice the places in your life that cause distress. Without trying to diagnose or justify the pain, ask yourself what led you there. This is not a call to assign blame, but to bring awareness. This affliction, too, is temporary. For all things that have a beginning must end. This is the law of creation. Weakness does not have the final word. Strength is not absent from it—it is formed within it. Instead of reacting in haste, pause. Take inventory of where you are, and let Christ—not the moment—be the reference point that shapes your next step.
Beyond Appearances

February 6th, 2026

What determines a person’s direction is the intent of their heart. It is easy to believe that we are bound by fate—locked into a path we cannot escape—but Scripture tells a very different story. Direction is not something imposed upon us; it is something revealed.

In 1 Samuel 16, God speaks to the prophet Samuel and tells him that King Saul will no longer reign. Saul had not lost the throne because he lacked strength or ability, but because his heart no longer aligned with obedience. God sends Samuel to Jesse’s house to anoint the next king. One by one, Jesse’s sons are presented, beginning with the strongest and most impressive. Samuel immediately assumes the first must be God’s choice. But God corrects him, saying, “Do not consider his appearance or his height… People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

After every son present is passed over, Samuel asks if there are any others. Jesse tells him that the youngest is still in the fields tending the sheep. When David is brought in, God immediately makes it clear—this is the one. David was young, unimpressive by worldly standards, and lived a quiet life as a shepherd, yet God’s plan for him was already in motion.

Soon after, Saul becomes tormented by an evil spirit. Knowing that music would soothe his troubled mind, Saul calls for David to play the harp. Through this small and seemingly insignificant moment, Saul finds favor with David (1 Samuel 16:21–23). What appears ordinary becomes a catalyst—one that quietly connects two lives and sets future events into motion.

Oftentimes, we believe we must appear great in order to be great. This belief traps us in a cycle of seeking approval through performance. We place immense pressure on ourselves to achieve, and when that approval does not come, we begin to feel unworthy of good altogether. Burnout follows. In the New Testament, Jesus performs miracles both publicly and privately. What is striking is that none of these acts are done to gain approval. They are done in obedience to purpose. Jesus even withdraws from crowds when praise grows loud (Matthew 14:23), reminding us that affirmation is not the same as alignment.

This is why it is important to understand the difference between noise and signals. Noise often comes disguised as praise, recognition, or external validation. Signals, however, are quieter. They require discernment. When we allow feelings alone to determine whether we act, we risk mistaking noise for direction. God created us with the desire to do great things, but He alone defines what greatness truly is. “Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails” (Proverbs 19:21).

Appearances can deceive us into chasing dreams that were never meant for us. This is a truth many understand and exploit for gain, particularly in a world driven by image and comparison. But accumulation does not complete the soul—it delays it. What looks like success can quietly pull us further from purpose.

As this week comes to a close, take time to reflect on where you are in life and what defines your sense of happiness. If dissatisfaction is present, ask yourself whether you are measuring your life against God’s plan or someone else’s dream. There is tremendous talent in the world, but lack of talent does not mean lack of purpose. Scripture shows us repeatedly that God often works through the humble. “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a person who fears the Lord is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).

As you move forward, think about the work you do quietly—the places where you receive no applause but feel a sense of meaning. Evaluate it. Pray over it. And seek your joy not in recognition, but in alignment with what God is forming through you.
The Fall of the Mighty

February 4th, 2026

There are moments when justice seems to present itself without our effort. In those moments, we learn whether we truly seek righteousness—or simply vindication.

During a battle between the Philistines and the tribe of Judah, Israel suffered devastating losses. King Saul was mortally wounded, and in order to avoid capture, he asked his armor-bearer to take his life. Jonathan, Saul’s son and David’s closest friend, also died in the battle. The army of Israel fled, and the kingdom collapsed in a single day (2 Samuel 1:1–4).

A messenger came to David carrying the news. Saul was dead. Jonathan was dead. The throne was now open.

David’s response is striking.

Instead of celebrating, David grieved. He and his men wept, fasted, and humbled themselves. Saul had pursued David relentlessly. He had attempted to kill him, displace him, and erase him. By every human standard, Saul could have been considered David’s enemy. Yet David refused to rejoice in his downfall. No one in David’s camp spoke ill of Saul. Instead, David honored him and mourned him publicly, saying, “How the mighty have fallen” (2 Samuel 1:19). David chose remembrance over revenge.

Scripture explicitly warns us against celebrating moments like this. “Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles” (Proverbs 24:17). David’s grief was not weakness—it was obedience. He understood something that is easy to forget: justice does not belong to us. “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19).

Too often in our lives, we feel compelled to decide for ourselves what righteousness looks like—even when we are not called to do so. It allows us to construct an identity that feels strong, certain, and justified. We lean into a sense of justice not always to restore what is broken, but to elevate ourselves. In doing so, we often adopt a posture of division.

Because we lack confidence in our own ability to effect change, we lend our allegiance to sides rather than principles. We align ourselves with those we perceive as marginalized and assume that opposition must therefore be destroyed. Life quickly becomes “us” versus “them.” While this can sound noble on the surface, what often follows is not restoration but resentment.

Instead of seeking healing or forward movement for the disenfranchised, we quietly hope for the downfall of those we oppose. When misfortune strikes them, we feel justified in celebrating. In that moment, we strip them of their humanity and reduce them to obstacles. We forget that every person is an agent with a history, with complexity, and with the capacity for both harm and good.

Scripture calls us to something higher. We are told to pray for those who misuse us (Matthew 5:44). This does not excuse wrongdoing. It protects the heart from becoming consumed by it. When we celebrate the undoing of others, we are not witnessing the victory of righteousness—we are witnessing the success of division. “Whoever is glad at calamity will not go unpunished” (Proverbs 17:5), not because God defends evil, but because delight in destruction reshapes us into something we were never meant to be.

David models the posture we are called into. He did not deny Saul’s failures, but he refused to let Saul’s end become the foundation of his joy. When Saul fell, David grieved what was lost rather than savoring what was gained. This is integrity.

As you continue through your week, take time to reflect. Is there someone you have quietly wished harm upon? If that wish were granted, what would truly be gained? Who else would be affected? When we ask honestly, the question becomes unavoidable: does my temporary satisfaction outweigh the cost of another’s loss?

Consider where you have placed your allegiance and why. Examine whether your desire is for restoration or destruction. We are called to seek good—not only in ourselves, but in others as well. When justice comes, let it come without celebration. When failure occurs, let mercy speak louder than memory.
Chosen Not Taken

February 2nd, 2026

There are moments in life when we are given the power to act—and those moments reveal more about us than any victory ever could. How we respond when we are justified, threatened, or wronged often determines who we are becoming long before we ever arrive where we are meant to be.

Before David became king, his life was in constant danger at the hands of the reigning king, Saul. God revealed Saul’s intentions to David, and David fled into hiding (1 Samuel 19:10–12). Over time, Saul learned of David’s whereabouts and gathered men with the sole intention of eliminating him in order to preserve his throne.

At one point, Saul and his men entered a cave—unaware that David and his followers were hiding inside. David was given the perfect opportunity. His men urged him to strike, believing this was the moment God had delivered his enemy into his hands (1 Samuel 24:4). But instead of acting, David paused. Instead of seeing an enemy, he saw Saul as God’s anointed—and as a friend he once loved. David had the power to take a life, but he chose restraint.

David spared Saul, cutting only the corner of his robe as proof of what could have been done. After Saul left the cave, David revealed himself and explained everything that had taken place. He placed himself fully at Saul’s mercy, trusting God rather than seizing control (1 Samuel 24:10–12). Saul’s heart was softened. He wept, confessed his wrongdoing, and acknowledged that David would one day be king (1 Samuel 24:16–20). Though events did not unfold immediately as either man hoped, God’s will ultimately prevailed.

This story highlights how drastically our circumstances can differ from the posture God is forming within us. In a previous reflection, David was confronted by Nathan with a story about injustice, and David demanded judgment. In that moment, David was king, empowered, and confident in his authority. Yet here—when David is the victim of injustice—he chooses mercy instead of retaliation.

Something deeper is taking place.

When David sought justice in Nathan’s story, he was operating from power and control. That same posture had allowed him to hide his own sin when he took his servant’s wife and arranged for Uriah’s death (2 Samuel 11). Yet here, when David is powerless, hunted, and stripped of status, he practices grace. This contrast exposes an important truth: power does not always produce righteousness, but vulnerability often produces integrity.

This moment helps us see the difference between atonement and repentance—two words often treated as the same but fundamentally different. Atonement attempts to compensate without transformation. Repentance requires humility, acknowledgment, and change. When we build our identities apart from God, we instinctively protect them at all costs. When we misstep, instead of owning it, we try to balance it out with good deeds or external acts. We fill our cups with things that do not belong, then pour them out and call it charity. This is not what God asks of us.

David was at one of the most vulnerable points of his life. He had lost his position, his safety, and much of what he once loved. Though others followed him, their loyalty could not heal what was empty within him. Instead of allowing praise or opportunity to fill that void, David remained empty and allowed God to replenish him. Scripture tells us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

As we discussed previously, hardship is not outside of God’s design. It is often the very tool used to shape us into who we are meant to become. Through this event, David not only demonstrated to Saul that he was the rightful successor, but he also developed the internal integrity required to be a good leader. “Do not avenge yourselves… for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, says the Lord’” (Romans 12:19).

It is often easier to see injustice in the world than to confront it within ourselves. This is why we can give endlessly and still feel unresolved. We are not meant to dwell on our sins, but we are called to acknowledge them, release them, and move forward. We often believe we know how situations will end, but we can never fully predict another’s response. What we can do is remain honest and undefended, refusing to cling to what does not belong to us.

As you begin your week, take time to reflect. Ask yourself why you feel a strong sense of justice in certain areas of your life. Is there something unaddressed within you? Are there places where you are choosing power when humility and grace are being asked of you? Consider where you are now, and whether it aligns with where God may be leading you.

Choose today to reflect—and more importantly, choose to move forward.
Your Story

January 30th, 2026

There are moments when truth cannot be delivered directly. If it were, we would defend ourselves before we ever understood it. This is why, in the second book of Samuel, God sends the prophet Nathan to King David not with accusation, but with a story.

Nathan tells David of a rich man who, when a traveler came to him, chose not to take from his many sheep but instead stole the only lamb of a poor man. This lamb was not merely livestock — it was family. David, hearing this, was filled with righteous anger and declared that such a man deserved judgment. It is then that Nathan delivers the words that stop David in place: “You are the man” (2 Samuel 12:7).

The story was never about someone else. It was about David.

David had taken Bathsheba, the wife of his most loyal servant, Uriah. When she became pregnant, David attempted to cover his sin by orchestrating Uriah’s death. What David condemned in the story was already alive in him. When confronted, David did not argue. He did not justify himself. He confessed: “I have sinned against the Lord” (2 Samuel 12:13).

David was forgiven — but forgiveness did not erase consequence. Nathan tells him the child born of this union would die. David fasted, prayed, and humbled himself, hoping God might relent. But the child was taken. And then something unexpected happens. Once the child dies, David rises, washes himself, eats, and worships. His servants are confused. They expected despair to deepen, not end. But David understood something they did not: what was not rightfully his could not be kept.

There is a lesson here that is difficult but necessary. We live in a world where the goal should be to do what is right, yet we often only recognize wrong when it appears outside of us. God will sometimes allow external messages — even atrocities — to reveal internal truths. Jesus speaks to this when He warns us about seeing the speck in another’s eye while ignoring the plank in our own (Matthew 7:3–5). What angers us most in others often reflects something unresolved within ourselves.

This does not mean we are evil. It means we are capable. And there is a difference.

The enemy’s trap is not just sin, but identity. When we believe we are inferior or unworthy, we stop exercising the power we have been given. David’s response after loss shows maturity. He does not collapse into vanity or self-pity. He accepts what cannot be undone and moves forward. Scripture tells us that after this, David and Bathsheba conceive again, and God gives them a son — Solomon — whom the Lord loved (2 Samuel 12:24). From David’s greatest failure came one of the wisest figures in history.

Even in our darkest moments, we can still be used in ways we cannot yet imagine. This life is not always about preserving the self. We are here for a finite time, and stewardship matters more than image. When we cling to vanity — the need to maintain what once was — we rob the future of opportunity. That cost is always paid. Either we pay it later, or those we love inherit it.

There is nothing in this world to regain. Life only moves forward. Essence flows where it will. “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past” (Isaiah 43:18). As you finish this week, take inventory of what you’ve been holding onto. Ask yourself if it is still what you believe it to be. We are called to give in order to keep the flow alive. When we stop the flow to others, we also stop it to ourselves.

There will always be more. Maintain faith. Accept correction. And strive to do your best.
Selah

January 28th, 2026

King David did not wait for peace before he gave thanks. He sang in caves, he wrote in exile, and he praised God in seasons that made no sense to praise from. The Psalms were not written from a life insulated from pain, but from one deeply acquainted with it. When we read them, we don’t find a collection of happy thoughts—we find the full range of the human experience laid bare. And yet, in every season, David returns to gratitude. “I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth” (Psalm 34:1).

This is the discipline we are invited into. But before we can practice it, we must stop taking suffering personally.

Too often we interpret hardship as something God is doing to us, rather than something we are moving through. God desires relationship, not control. Relationship allows for interaction, response, and formation; control removes all of those things. Scripture tells us that the world itself is fractured and groaning under the weight of human choice (Romans 8:22). Circumstances arise from individual actions, collective systems, and fallen structures—not because God is orchestrating harm, but because He allows freedom.

What this reveals is something uncomfortable but true: we do not control outcomes. We never have. What we do control is how we perceive what happens to us, and therefore how we are shaped by it. David does not deny his suffering, but he refuses to let it define him. “Why are you cast down, O my soul? Hope in God” (Psalm 42:11). Gratitude becomes an act of alignment, not denial.

When we choose gratitude in the midst of difficulty, we are not excusing the circumstance—we are refusing to let it rule us. Thanksgiving is not passive; it is an act of resistance. It declares that while external forces may have temporary power, they do not have ultimate authority over who we become. Scripture affirms this posture clearly: “Give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). Not because all circumstances are good—but because gratitude keeps us free.

A clear example of this can be seen throughout American history during slavery. This does not justify the suffering, nor does it excuse the atrocities committed. But it does reveal something undeniable about the human spirit. In the midst of oppression, people were spiritually formed. Gratitude did not make the system righteous—but it preserved identity. When they were mistreated, they sang hymns. When they labored, they praised. When freedom came, they celebrated. Suffering did not become good—but it became formative. This is what Scripture means when it says, “Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character” (Romans 5:3–4).

The world continues to change, and there will always be things that do not resonate with our spirit. But we are not meant to dwell in what disturbs us. Darkness exists, but fixation on darkness does not produce light. David understood this. Again and again in the Psalms, he pauses, reflects, and reorients his heart. “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him” (Psalm 37:7).

This is not a call to minimize hardship. It is a call to refuse stagnation. Dwelling in darkness will not suddenly make us see the light—but gratitude trains our eyes to recognize it when it appears. As you move through your week, pause and reflect on where gratitude is being asked of you. Sit with it. Carry it with you. Let it remind you that what you are experiencing now is not the end of the story, and that formation is still taking place.
Watching The Celebration

January 26th, 2026

There is a story in the book of 2 Samuel and 1 Chronicles where King David organizes the families of Israel, assigning each household a specific responsibility. One family in particular, the Levites, were set apart to care for the Ark of God, because they chose a strict and intentional path in obedience to Him (1 Chronicles 15:2). This was not a position of status—it was a position of responsibility.

After the Ark was brought to Jerusalem, David held a celebration before the Lord. The entire city rejoiced. David himself joined the celebration, laying aside his royal image and dancing freely before God with all his might (2 Samuel 6:14). This was not a performance for the people—it was an offering of joy.

Yet not everyone joined.

Michal, the daughter of Saul, watched from a window. Instead of entering the celebration, she observed it from a distance. Scripture tells us plainly that “she despised him in her heart” (2 Samuel 6:16). She could have stepped outside. She could have joined the people. But instead, she remained a spectator—and her heart hardened.

Many of us are called, but few of us answer. This does not mean we are incapable of good; it often means we prefer what is familiar over what is unfolding. We draw conclusions too early. Rather than participating in a moment as it is, we predict its ending and then subconsciously act to bring about the outcome we expect—even when that outcome works against us.

This is the difference between performing life and participating in it.

When we refuse to open ourselves to the possibility that something good can still happen, we move through life with minimal intention. And while success may still occur from time to time, we convince ourselves it came solely from our own effort. The danger in this thinking is that we stop growing. We repeat the same patterns, expecting different results, without ever examining what needs to change.

On the other side of this mindset is an equally destructive belief—that we are incapable of good altogether. When mistakes accumulate, doubt begins to take root. We start to believe we are undeserving of anything greater. This too is a false assumption. Just as doing good does not make us flawless, making mistakes does not make us evil. Scripture reminds us that identity is not determined by isolated failure, but by orientation of the heart (Romans 8:1).

When we accept the identity of the enemy, the only thing we will actively and passively produce is chaos. But transformation begins when we learn to see ourselves as agents of good who misstep, rather than evil people who occasionally do good. “Be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

God does not judge us by performance alone, but by the condition of our hearts. “Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). This does not excuse poor action—it invites deeper examination. A heart focused solely on preserving the self will eventually use others as a means to an end. And when that same heart sees someone else experiencing joy or success it believes it deserves, envy takes root.

Michal’s story ends tragically. After confronting David with contempt, Scripture tells us she bore no children for the rest of her life (2 Samuel 6:23). Whether this was judgment, consequence, or symbolism, the message is clear: a heart that refuses joy becomes barren.

As you move into your week, take an honest look at your life and environment. Even if things are not unfolding according to plan, can you find a reason to celebrate? We are not meant to be the source of joy at all times. We are finite beings—we do not create energy; we receive it. Sometimes God uses us as a source of joy for others, and sometimes He invites us to receive joy through them.

This week, find someone worth celebrating. Step out from the window. Enter the moment. And give thanks for the joy that was never meant to be observed from a distance.
Recognizing Opportunity

January 23rd, 2026

Nothing is stopping us from striving to do the best that we can. There is something within each of us that pushes us toward what is good, but far too often we choose not to act on it. Many times we hide behind the lack of an opportunity as a justification for our inaction. This alone will often create regret, even if nothing outwardly “bad” occurred.

Even if you are not always doing good, it does not mean that you are inherently bad. I believe people are fundamentally oriented toward good, but we misstep when we lose our sense of purpose. When purpose becomes unclear, action becomes difficult. That is why we must always strive to do good—not only for the betterment of the world around us, but for the transformation of what is happening internally. Scripture reminds us that we are being formed, not finished, “For it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13).

Most of us treat opportunity as if it is a selective force that chooses only the worthy. That could not be further from the truth. Opportunity is always present; we simply fail to recognize it. Any given moment is an opportunity to bring good. Yet we often become so consumed with the self that we forget others are also having a human experience alongside us. We reason that since many things feel wrong in our lives, we must protect whatever small good we have. But this often results in a shell of what was once good. When we choose not to give good, we place ourselves in danger of losing goodness altogether. Jesus warned that what we cling to out of fear can be the very thing that withers when it is not shared (Matthew 25:28–29).

In Scripture, Jesus was asked about offerings, and He told the crowd that the woman who gave two small coins—everything she had—gave more than the rich man who gave from his excess. “This poor widow has put in more than all the others, for they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on” (Luke 21:3–4). The symbolism here is that she gave what was not disposable. She gave from the core of herself.

The energy of charity is what I often describe as a feminine energy—not in a diminished or inferior sense, but in the sense of nurture, generosity, and presence. Femininity is often discussed as something lesser, but communities cannot survive on productivity alone. Constant completion without giving produces exhaustion, not life. It is in the nature of the masculine to complete, but it is in the nature of the feminine to give. Without both, we build structures that cannot be lived in.

The tithes and offerings we give are not meant to be restricted to a building or an institution. Scripture calls the people of God the body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12:27). When you give meaningfully to others, you are participating in that body and fulfilling a purpose in your own life. If you are experiencing hardship right now, consider the last time you gave from a place that felt costly. Charity is not meant to be transactional, but Jesus is clear that generosity does not go unnoticed: “Give, and it will be given to you” (Luke 6:38).

We live in a river of life. If we attempt to dam it for selfish gain, we stagnate. But if we allow it to flow through us, we remain connected to something living and dynamic. As you move into your weekend, consider the ways you can give. It might be something you’ve held onto dearly. It might be time, attention, forgiveness, or material support. Sometimes the very thing that brings us the most joy is the thing we are called to release in order to experience it fully.

How will you give today?