A Sheep Meanders Through Malachi 2:1-9

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When the Messenger Forgets the Message

Hello my dear friends,

Grab a cup of coffee or tea and settle in with me for a few minutes. I want us to sit with a passage that is both severe and strangely kind. It is the kind of word that finds us when we have grown a little casual with holy things—when our words about God have become easier than our walk with God. Here is the text:

“And now, O priests, this commandment is for you. If you will not listen, if you will not take it to heart to give honor to my name, says the LORD of hosts, then I will send the curse upon you and I will curse your blessings. Indeed, I have already cursed them, because you do not lay it to heart. Behold, I will rebuke your offspring, and spread dung on your faces, the dung of your offerings, and you shall be taken away with it. So shall you know that I have sent this command to you, that my covenant with Levi may stand, says the LORD of hosts.“My covenant with him was one of life and peace, and I gave them to him. It was a covenant of fear, and he feared me. He stood in awe of my name. True instruction was in his mouth, and no wrong was found on his lips. He walked with me in peace and uprightness, and he turned many from iniquity. For the lips of a priest should guard knowledge, and people should seek instruction from his mouth, for he is the messenger of the LORD of hosts. But you have turned aside from the way. You have caused many to stumble by your instruction. You have corrupted the covenant of Levi, says the LORD of hosts, and so I make you despised and abased before all the people, inasmuch as you do not keep my ways but show partiality in your instruction.” —Malachi 2:1–9

Can you hear the ache behind the warning? The Lord of hosts is not looking for a new program. He is looking for a heart that still trembles at His name.

This word is spoken first to the priests. They were the ones who stood closest to the altar and closest to the people. Their lips were meant to guard knowledge. Ordinary men and women were supposed to come to them and hear the law of the Lord without spin, without favoritism, without the quiet shrug that says, “It doesn’t really matter.” Instead, they had turned aside. They still wore the garments. They still spoke the words. But the instruction that came out of their mouths made people stumble. They showed partiality. The rich, the convenient, the comfortable version of the law was easier to preach than the whole truth. And God says the result is already visible: their blessings have begun to sour. What should have been life-giving has become thin.

The image that follows is almost too much. The dung of the sacrificed animals—the unclean remainder that was meant to be carried outside the camp—would be smeared on their faces, and they would be hauled away with it. It is a picture of public shame. The very offerings they treated as cheap would mark them as unclean. God is not being crude for the sake of shock. He is showing them that when worship becomes a performance, the performer is eventually exposed by the thing he handled carelessly.

And then, right in the middle of the rebuke, the Lord pauses and remembers. “My covenant with him was one of life and peace.” He takes them back to Levi—to the early, bright picture of a priest who feared the Lord, stood in awe of His name, spoke what was true, walked with God in peace and uprightness, and actually turned people away from sin. That is what a messenger looks like. Not a celebrity. Not a technician of religion. A person whose mouth and life agree, because he has first stood in awe.

Friend, this lands closer than we sometimes admit. In Christ we have been made a royal priesthood. Every believer carries some measure of this calling. Parents teach. Friends counsel. Small-group leaders open the Word. Pastors and teachers stand in a stricter place still. James reminds us that those who teach will be judged with greater strictness. The question is not whether we have a platform. The question is whether we take it to heart to honor His name.

We know the temptation. We can keep the doors open and the language holy while our hearts grow tired. We can soften a hard text because we do not want to lose someone. We can show partiality—favoring the version of truth that keeps the peace in the room rather than the version that keeps peace with God. We can speak of grace as if it were permission to be careless. And slowly, without meaning to, we cause others to stumble.

But look at the purpose clause tucked inside the warning: “that my covenant with Levi may stand.” God is not eager to discard His servants. He is jealous to preserve the covenant. The severity is a kind of mercy. He would rather confront us than let us keep blessing people with words He has already begun to curse.

And here the gospel shines through the old text. We have a better Priest than Levi. Jesus is the Messenger of the Lord of hosts who never turned aside from the way. True instruction was always in His mouth. No wrong was found on His lips. He walked with the Father in perfect peace and uprightness. He did not cause anyone to stumble by watering down the truth; He spoke it and then bore the curse that our partiality and our weariness deserved. The refuse of our failed offerings was, in a sense, laid on Him. He was taken outside the camp so that we could be brought near.

Because of Him, the covenant stands. Because of Him, failed messengers can become messengers again—not by polishing their performance, but by taking His honor to heart once more. The fear that Levi knew is not terror. It is the glad awe of people who have been loved at cost.So we come back, not as professionals trying to get the tone right, but as fellow sheep who still need the Shepherd’s voice. We ask Him to put truth back on our lips and integrity back in our walk. We ask Him to make us the kind of people others can safely seek when they need to hear from the Lord.

I’m grateful we could sit with these words together. May the Father who asked for honor meet you with the mercy already purchased at the cross, and may your heart grow glad again to speak and to live what costs something—because He first gave everything.

Your fellow sheep.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. Where in your life—home, church, work, or quiet conversations—has God given you even a small measure of the priestly calling to speak His truth? How carefully are you guarding that trust right now?
  2. Is there a place where you have grown weary of “taking it to heart,” where honoring His name has started to feel like extra work rather than worship? What would it look like to bring that weariness to Him instead of hiding it behind religious language?
  3. Have you noticed any “partiality” in the way you handle Scripture—softening a word for some people, staying silent for others, or preferring the comfortable half of the truth? What would faithful, humble instruction look like in that same setting?
  4. How does seeing Jesus as the true Messenger and perfect Priest change the way you receive this warning? Does it leave you condemned, or does it leave you newly free to repent and begin again?

A Sheep Meanders Through Malachi 1:10-14

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A Duty or A Gift?

Hello my dear friends,

Grab a cup of coffee or tea and settle in with me for a few minutes. I want to sit with a passage that is both tender and piercing. It is the kind of word that finds us when we have grown a little tired of the holy things.Here is the text:

“Oh that there were one among you who would shut the doors, that you might not kindle fire on my altar in vain! I have no pleasure in you, says the Lord of hosts, and I will not accept an offering from your hand. For from the rising of the sun to its setting my name will be great among the nations, and in every place incense will be offered to my name, and a pure offering. For my name will be great among the nations, says the Lord of hosts. But you profane it when you say that the Lord’s table is polluted, and its fruit, that is, its food may be despised. But you say, ‘What a weariness this is,’ and you snort at it, says the Lord of hosts. You bring what has been taken by violence or is lame or sick, and this you bring as your offering! Shall I accept that from your hand? says the Lord. Cursed be the cheat who has a male in his flock, and vows it, and yet sacrifices to the Lord what is blemished. For I am a great King, says the Lord of hosts, and my name will be feared among the nations.” —Malachi 1:10–14

Can you hear the ache in God’s voice? He is not shouting. He is weary of being treated as an afterthought by the very people who know His name best.

The priests were still showing up. The fires were still lit. The doors of the temple were still open. From the street it looked like worship was happening. But God says He would rather someone lock the doors and let the fire go out than keep watching this empty performance. I have no pleasure in you. Those are hard words. They are also honest ones.

The people had begun to treat the Lord’s table as something ordinary, even a little dirty. They sniffed at the whole thing. What a weariness this is. You can almost see the shrug. Then they brought what cost them almost nothing—the injured animal, the sick one, the one they would never have offered a human official. Some even made a vow. They promised God a healthy male from the flock. When the day came, they quietly swapped it for a blemished one and hoped no one would notice. God calls that person a cheat.

And then, right in the middle of the rebuke, the horizon opens.

From the rising of the sun to its setting my name will be great among the nations… in every place incense will be offered to my name, and a pure offering.

God is not dependent on half-hearted priests. His name will be honored. A pure offering will be made. We who live on this side of the cross know what that offering is. Jesus is the unblemished Lamb we could never bring. He offered Himself once, completely, gladly. Because of Him, worship is no longer confined to one altar in one city. In every place people now lift prayers like incense and offer their lives as living sacrifices. The ruins of our cheap worship do not have the last word.

Still, the question remains for us.We do not bring lambs anymore. We bring our mornings, our attention, our money, our promises, our Sunday presence. And sometimes we bring the leftovers. We give God the tired hour, the distracted prayer, the gift that does not pinch. We say we will follow and then we substitute something smaller. We can even start to feel that gathering with God’s people is a weariness.

Friend, He is a great King. He is also a Father who would rather the doors be shut than watch His children go through the motions with cold hearts. The good news is that Jesus has already brought the perfect offering. We do not have to clean ourselves up first. We can come honestly, confess the cheap places, and begin again—not to earn His smile, but because we already have it in Christ.

A few questions to sit with as you finish your coffee:

  • Where in my life have I begun to treat time with God as a duty rather than a gift?
  • What would it look like this week to offer Him something that actually costs me—time, attention, generosity, or simple honesty?
  • If God would rather the doors be shut than have empty worship, what small “door” in my own habits might need to close so that what remains is real?

He is a great King. And He still delights to make His name great through ordinary people who simply bring Him their whole hearts.

Your fellow sheep

A Sheep Meanders Through Malachi 1:6-9

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Where Is the Honor Due Me?

Hello my dear friends,

Grab a cup of coffee or tea and settle in with me for a few minutes. I want us to sit together with a passage that can feel a little sharp at first—but if we listen closely, it sounds less like a scolding and more like a Father’s wounded tenderness. Here is the text:

“A son honors his father, and a servant his master. If then I am a father, where is my honor? And if I am a master, where is my fear? says the LORD of hosts to you, O priests, who despise my name. But you say, ‘How have we despised your name?’ By offering polluted food upon my altar. But you say, ‘How have we polluted you?’ By saying that the LORD’s table may be despised. When you offer blind animals in sacrifice, is that not evil? And when you offer those that are lame or sick, is that not evil? Present that to your governor; will he accept you or show you favor? says the LORD of hosts. And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you? says the LORD of hosts.”

The temple was standing again. The priests were still wearing the right garments and saying the right words. They still called God Father and Master. And yet the Lord of hosts looks at what they actually place on His table and asks, almost quietly, “Where is my honor?”You can hear the surprise in their reply: “How have we despised your name?” They were not shouting blasphemy. They were simply bringing what cost them least—the blind animal, the lame one, the sick one that no governor would ever accept as a gift. What they would never dare present to an earthly official they assumed the living God would smile over. Little by little the Lord’s table had become, in their hearts, contemptible. Not hated, exactly. Just… not worth the best.

Friend, does that land a little close? Because we still do this, don’t we? We keep the language of sonship and lordship. We still show up. And yet we can slide into offering God the leftover hour, the leftover attention, the leftover honesty, the leftover generosity—the parts of our lives we would never hand to someone whose favor we actually wanted. Weariness does that. So does the quiet suspicion that God will understand, that He is easier to please than the people whose opinions still sting.

The Lord’s question about the governor is almost kind in its sharpness. He is not trying to crush them. He is trying to wake them. If even a human official would refuse such a gift, how can we treat the Holy One as less worthy of honor? Verse 9 then turns the irony all the way around: go ahead, they are told, entreat His favor—but with gifts like these, will He receive you? They wanted grace while withholding honor. They wanted the Father’s face while treating His table as an afterthought.

And here is where the gospel comes near and steadies us. We do not stand before this text empty-handed, hoping to find a better lamb. Jesus is the unblemished Offering. He did not bring the Father a leftover life. He offered Himself wholly—without defect, without calculation, without holding anything back. At the cross the honor due the Father was perfectly given, and the favor we could never earn was freely opened to us. The ruins of our cheap worship do not have the last word. The Son who honored the Father in our place now invites us to the table not as bargainers, but as beloved children.

So the old question still searches us, but it no longer has to terrify us. Where is my honor? is the voice of a Father who has already given His best, now calling us to stop insulting His kindness with what we ourselves would never offer a governor. Honor is not first a feeling. It is the glad, costly decision to bring Him what is first and finest because He has already brought us Himself.

Personal Reflection Questions

  • Where in your ordinary week have you been quietly offering God what you would never present to someone whose approval still matters to you?
  • When you call Him Father and Lord, what would “honor” actually look like in one small, concrete place—your time, your words, your giving, your attention?
  • How does remembering that Jesus offered the unblemished life change the way you hear God’s searching question, “Will he show favor to any of you?”
  • Is there a weariness or cynicism that has made the Lord’s table feel small or optional? What would it look like to bring that weariness to Him instead of hiding behind a lesser gift?
  • What would it mean this week to treat His presence as worthy of your first and finest, not because you are trying to earn His face, but because His face has already been turned toward you in Christ?

I’m grateful we could sit with these words together. May the Father who asked for honor meet you with the mercy already purchased at the cross, and may your heart grow glad again to bring Him what costs something—because He first gave everything.

Your fellow sheep

A Sheep Meanders Through Malachi

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I Have Loved You

Hello my dear friends,

Grab a cup of coffee or tea and settle in with me for a few minutes. I want us to sit together with the opening words of Malachi—words that feel like a gentle hand on the shoulder when our hearts are tired and questioning. Here’s the text: The oracle of the word of the Lord to Israel by Malachi.


“I have loved you,” says the Lord. But you say, “How have you loved us?” “Is not Esau Jacob’s brother?” declares the Lord. “Yet I have loved Jacob but Esau I have hated. I have laid waste his hill country and left his heritage to jackals of the desert.” If Edom says, “We are shattered but we will rebuild the ruins,” the Lord of hosts says, “They may build, but I will tear down, and they will be called ‘the wicked country,’ and ‘the people with whom the Lord is angry forever.’” Your own eyes shall see this, and you shall say, “Great is the Lord beyond the border of Israel!”

Malachi begins with a burdened word—an oracle—and the very first thing the Lord wants His people to hear is simply this: “I have loved you.” Not a past tense that has faded. Not a future promise dangling out of reach. Just the steady, present declaration of covenant love. Yet their reply is so honest it almost hurts: “How have you loved us?”

You can hear the weariness in it. They had come home from exile. The temple stood again. But life still felt thin. Harvests disappointed. Neighbors still threatened. The grand promises seemed slow in arriving. So they looked around at their ordinary, unfinished days and quietly wondered if the love had cooled.

The Lord’s answer doesn’t start with a list of recent blessings. He takes them further back—to something older and freer. “Is not Esau Jacob’s brother?” Of course he was. Twins. Equal by birth. Yet God set His affection on Jacob and passed over Esau.

This isn’t cold favoritism; it is the free, electing love that has always marked the way of grace. And the evidence was still visible in their day: Edom’s hills lay in ruins while Israel, small and imperfect, remained the people of God’s promise. Even when Edom vowed to rebuild, the Lord said He would tear it down again. Israel would watch with their own eyes and confess, “Great is the Lord—even beyond the border of Israel!”

His love was never limited by their borders or their feelings. It was bigger, older, and more faithful than their circumstances. Friend, does that land softly for you the way it does for me? Because we still ask the same question, don’t we? When the days feel ordinary or hard, when the evidence of kindness seems thin, our hearts can whisper, “How have You loved me?” And the Father still answers by pointing us further back—and further forward—to the cross.

There the free electing love of God found its fullest voice. Jesus, the true and better Jacob, the Chosen One, took the judgment we deserved so that we might stand secure, loved, and kept. The ruins of our old life of sin lie in the dust, while we are held by a love that does not depend on our performance or our present comfort. So while we wait, while we wonder, we don’t have to drift. We can lean into the peace Christ has already purchased and let the ancient declaration steady us again: “I have loved you.”

Personal Reflection Questions

  • Where in your life right now do you find yourself quietly asking the Lord, “How have You loved me?”
  • Can you recall a time when remembering His past faithfulness—either in Scripture or in your own story—helped quiet a present doubt?
  • How does seeing God’s love as free and electing, rather than something we earn, change the way you rest in Him today?
  • What would it look like this week for you to join Israel’s eventual confession: “Great is the Lord—even beyond the border of my current circumstances”?

I’m grateful we could sit with these words together. May His unchanging love meet you right where you are, and may your heart stay soft and steady until the day we see Him face to face.

Your fellow sheep

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 3:11-14

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Grow In Grace

Hey friends,

We have worked our way through 2 Peter and now come to the end of the study. I hope you have enjoyed this time together as much as I have. Come sit with me for a few minutes and let’s open 2 Peter 3:14-18 together. There’s something so tender and steadying about these closing words from Peter. He’s writing to people who are waiting—waiting for Jesus to return, waiting for the new heavens and new earth he just described. And instead of leaving them anxious or distracted, he wraps his arms around them with this warm, practical encouragement.

Here’s the passage (I’m using the ESV, but the heart of it shines in any good translation):

Therefore, beloved, since you are waiting for these, be diligent to be found by him without spot or blemish, and at peace. And count the patience of our Lord as salvation, just as our beloved brother Paul also wrote to you according to the wisdom given him, as he does in all his letters when he speaks in them of these matters. There are some things in them that are hard to understand, which the ignorant and unstable twist to their own destruction, as they do the other Scriptures. You therefore, beloved, knowing this beforehand, take care that you are not carried away with the error of lawless people and lose your own stability. But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. To him be the glory both now and to the day of eternity. Amen.

Peter starts with that soft “beloved.” He’s not barking orders; he’s speaking to people he loves. Because we’re waiting for Jesus’ return and the complete renewal of all things, he says, “Be diligent.” That word carries the idea of making every effort, of leaning in with care. He wants us to be found by Jesus “without spot or blemish, and at peace.” Spotless doesn’t mean perfect in our own strength—it means living in the cleansing and covering of Christ’s finished work, keeping short accounts with God, and walking in the peace that comes from knowing we’re already accepted. It’s the quiet confidence of a child who knows Dad is coming home and wants the house to feel like home when he walks through the door.

Then Peter does something beautiful: he reframes God’s patience. The delay in Jesus’ return isn’t indifference or forgetfulness—it’s mercy. “Count the patience of our Lord as salvation.” Every extra day is another opportunity for people to turn to Him, including us. And almost casually, he points to Paul—calling him “our beloved brother”—and affirms that Paul’s letters are Scripture too. Some of those letters are hard to understand (aren’t they, though?), and people twist them. Peter doesn’t hide the difficulty; he simply warns us not to join the twisting. The goal isn’t to master every theological puzzle but to stay anchored so we don’t get swept away by error and lose the stability we’ve been given.

The last verse is pure invitation: “But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” Notice the “but.” Instead of just guarding against something negative, we’re invited into something wonderfully positive—ongoing growth. Grace is the soil; knowledge of Jesus is the sunshine and water. We don’t graduate from needing either. And then Peter can’t help himself—he ends with a little explosion of praise: “To him be the glory both now and to the day of eternity.” Even the waiting itself becomes worship.

So here’s the heart of it, friend: while we wait, we don’t drift. We lean into the peace Christ has already purchased, we treasure God’s patience as gift, we stay alert to anything that would pull us off course, and we keep growing—simply, steadily—in knowing and enjoying Jesus more.

A few questions to sit with:

  1. Where in your life right now do you sense the Lord inviting you to “be diligent” so you can be found at peace with Him?
  2. How might viewing God’s patience as salvation change the way you pray for someone who still doesn’t know Jesus—or even the way you treat your own slow places of growth?
  3. What’s one simple way you could intentionally grow in the grace and knowledge of Jesus this week (a slower reading of a Gospel, a conversation with a friend about Him, a quiet walk where you just talk to Him)?

I’m grateful we could walk through this together. May His grace keep meeting you right where you are, and may your heart stay soft and steady until the day we see Him face to face.

Your fellow sheep

A Fly In The Ointment

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There’s a verse in Ecclesiastes that has always made me smile—and then immediately check my own life for lingering insects. Ecclesiastes 10:1 says, “Dead flies make the perfumer’s ointment give off a stench; so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor.”

Picture it: you’ve spent good money on a fine bottle of perfume. You’ve chosen the notes carefully—maybe a little cedar, a hint of myrrh, something that says “dignified yet approachable.” You open it, dab it on, and… there’s a tiny, dried-up fly floating near the top. Suddenly the whole thing smells like a neglected kitchen rather than a royal court. One small corpse, and the fragrance is finished.

Solomon knew exactly what he was doing with that image. Wisdom and honor are the expensive perfume. A little folly is the dead fly. And the sad truth is that the fly almost always wins the olfactory contest.

The Humor in the Horror

Let’s be honest—this is both funny and terrifying.

Funny, because we’ve all watched it happen to someone else. The respected elder who loses his temper in the church parking lot. The gifted teacher whose one thoughtless social-media rant becomes the only thing people remember. The kind neighbor whose single moment of gossip sticks to her reputation like that fly stuck to the perfume.

Terrifying, because the same principle applies to us. You can live wisely for years—serving, studying, praying, showing up—and then one impulsive decision, one unguarded word, one “just this once” compromise, and suddenly the aroma changes. People don’t usually inventory your lifetime of good choices. They notice the stink.

I once heard a pastor joke that Ecclesiastes 10:1 is God’s gentle way of saying, “Congratulations on your carefully curated life. Please don’t put a dead fly in it.” Slightly humorous? Yes. Slightly painful? Also yes.

Why the Fly Wins

From a Christian perspective, this isn’t just ancient Near Eastern wisdom literature with a punchline. It’s a sober reminder of how fragile human honor really is—and how seriously God takes even “small” folly. Scripture never treats sin as harmless just because it’s little. A little leaven leavens the whole lump. A little folly outweighs a lot of wisdom. The Teacher isn’t being dramatic; he’s being realistic about the human heart and the watching world.

Yet here’s where the gospel steps in with warmth. The same Bible that warns us about dead flies also tells us about a Savior who doesn’t throw out the perfume bottle when He finds one. Jesus is the ultimate wise man who never had a single fly in His ointment. His life was pure fragrance—pleasing to the Father in every way. And on the cross He took the full stench of our folly upon Himself so that we could be made clean.

That means when we do find a dead fly floating in our lives (and we will), we don’t have to pretend the perfume still smells fine. We can confess it, receive forgiveness, and ask the Spirit to help us live more carefully. Grace doesn’t cancel the principle in Ecclesiastes; it gives us the power and the hope to keep walking in wisdom after the stink has been dealt with.

Living Fly-Free (as Much as Possible)

So how do we apply this without becoming paranoid or legalistic?

Guard the small places. The tongue, the screen, the private conversation, the late-night decision—these are the usual entry points for flies.

Remember that reputation is a stewardship, not an idol. We don’t live for the praise of people, but we also don’t casually trash the influence God has given us.

Keep short accounts with God. A daily habit of confession and repentance is like regularly checking the perfume bottle before the fly has time to settle in.

Laugh a little at yourself. The image is absurd on purpose. Taking ourselves too seriously is often the first step toward the kind of pride that invites folly.

Ecclesiastes is honest about life “under the sun.” Things break. Flies die in expensive places. Wisdom can be outweighed. But the book also ends by pointing us beyond the sun—to the fear of the Lord, which is the beginning of wisdom that no dead fly can ultimately destroy. So, the next time you catch yourself about to do something foolish, picture that little insect drifting into the bottle. Smile, if you can. Then choose the wiser path. And if the fly has already arrived, bring the whole mess to Jesus. He’s in the business of making all things new—including perfume that once smelled terrible.

After all, the same God who inspired Solomon’s sharp observation is the God who delights in restoring the fragrance of a life that belongs to Him.

When Honesty Feels Like A Kiss

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Let’s be honest for a second—most of us would rather get a free coffee than an honest answer. Coffee is predictable. Honesty? That’s the emotional equivalent of someone leaning in for a peck on the lips when you were only expecting a polite nod across the room.

Yet here comes Proverbs 24:26, dropping one of the most unexpectedly romantic lines in all of Scripture:

“An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips.” (NIV)

Yes, you read that right. The ancient wisdom writers just compared truth-telling to a kiss. Not a handshake. Not a polite email. A kiss. The kind that makes your stomach flip and your face warm and suddenly you’re wondering if you brushed your teeth this morning.

From a Christian perspective, this little proverb is pure gold. God isn’t a fan of half-truths, spin, or the classic “I’m fine” when you’re clearly one email away from a meltdown. The God who is Truth itself (John 14:6) delights when His people speak with the same straightforward kindness that marks His own character. An honest answer isn’t just “being real.” It’s a tiny act of love that says, “You matter enough for me to tell you the truth—gently, clearly, and without the sugar-coating that eventually melts and makes a sticky mess.”

Of course, honesty without love is just meanness wearing a halo. That’s why the proverb links it to a kiss. A kiss can be tender, affirming, even a little vulnerable. It draws people closer instead of pushing them away. In the same way, Christian honesty isn’t the verbal equivalent of a public flogging. It’s truth spoken with the warmth of someone who actually wants the best for the other person—because that’s exactly how Jesus treated people. He never flinched from hard truths, yet people kept following Him because they felt seen and loved, not lectured.

I’ll admit, this is where the humor sneaks in for me. We live in a world that has perfected the art of the non-answer. “We’ll circle back.” “Let’s take this offline.” “That’s an interesting perspective.” Meanwhile, God is over here saying, “Just kiss them with the truth already.” It’s almost funny how counter-cultural a plain, kind, honest sentence has become. In a culture drowning in carefully curated Instagram captions and corporate jargon, a simple “Here’s what I actually think” can feel as intimate and surprising as a first-date kiss in the middle of a board meeting.

And that, friends, is the quiet beauty of Proverbs 24:26. Honesty, when offered in love, doesn’t distance us. It draws us nearer—to each other and to the God who never hides behind vague spiritual platitudes.

Personal Applications

Practice the “honest kiss” this week. The next time someone asks how you’re really doing, skip the automatic “fine” and offer one true sentence. It might feel awkward at first—like leaning in for a kiss when you’re not sure if the other person is ready—but it builds genuine connection.

Check your motives before you speak. Ask yourself: Am I about to deliver this truth to help, or just to be right? If it’s the latter, pause and pray for a softer tone. Truth without kindness is a slap, not a kiss.

Receive honesty with grace. When someone gives you a straight answer, resist the urge to get defensive. Receive it the way you’d receive a sincere kiss—thankful, a little vulnerable, and open to what God might be showing you through it.

Start small at home or work. Try answering a simple question with more clarity than usual: “Yes, I can help, but not until Thursday,” or “That idea has potential, but here’s the concern I see.” Watch how trust grows when people know they can count on your words.

Thank God for His honest answers. Spend a quiet moment remembering a time Scripture or a Spirit-prompted thought told you a hard but loving truth. Gratitude turns honesty from something we fear into something we cherish.

So go ahead—offer an honest answer today. It might just be the kindest, most Christ-like “kiss” someone receives all week.

A Sheep Saunters Through 2 Peter 3:10-13

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A Thief In The Night

Hello my dear friends,

Grab a cup of coffee and settle in with me for a few minutes. I want to sit with you in a passage that has both unsettled and steadied me more times than I can count—and this time I want us to listen a little more carefully to what Peter is actually saying.

Here’s the text:

“But the day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.
Since everything will be destroyed in this way, what kind of people ought you to be? You ought to live holy and godly lives as you look forward to the day of God and speed its coming. That day will bring about the destruction of the heavens by fire, and the elements will melt in the heat.
But in keeping with his promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells.”
(2 Peter 3:10-13, NIV)

Peter has just been dealing with scoffers who shrug and say, “Nothing ever changes. Where is this ‘coming’ Jesus promised?” (vv. 3-4). His first answer is God’s patient delay—He is not slow but merciful, giving time for repentance (vv. 8-9). Then, in these verses, he turns from the delay to the certainty and the character of that coming Day.

“The day of the Lord will come like a thief.”

Peter is echoing Jesus’ own words and Paul’s. The image stresses unexpectedness. No one gets to schedule it or brace for it on their own terms.What follows is a vivid picture of cosmic unmaking: the heavens disappear with a sudden roaring rush (rhoizēdon—like the whistle of a collapsing structure or a roaring fire), the basic elements of the universe (stoicheia) are dissolved by fire, and the earth with everything done in it is “laid bare.” Some manuscripts say “burned up,” but the stronger reading is that everything is exposed, brought into the open for divine scrutiny. Peter is using the rich Old Testament language of the Day of the Lord to tell us the present order of things is temporary scaffolding, not permanent furniture.

Then comes the question that lands like a gentle hand on the shoulder:

“Since everything will be destroyed in this way, what kind of people ought you to be?”

It’s not a guilt trip. It’s an invitation. The Greek is emphatic—potapous, “what sort of quality of people.” The answer is concrete: live holy and godly lives—a whole pattern of conduct and devotion. And we do this while “looking forward to” the day of God and “speeding” or “hastening” its coming. That second verb doesn’t mean we can force God’s hand. In the thought-world Peter shared, the repentance and righteous living of God’s people were seen as somehow participating in the purposes for which God delays—the gathering of the repentant. Our holiness leans into the very future God has promised.

And then—oh, the mercy of that little word “but.”

“But in keeping with his promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells.”

The fire is not the end of the story. It is the purifying of the story. Peter reaches back to Isaiah’s great promise (65:17; 66:22) of a creation made new in quality (kainos), not merely new in time. And the defining feature of that renewed world? Righteousness will no longer be a visitor or a struggle—it will make its permanent home there. Everything will finally fit the way it was always meant to.This is not escapism. It’s the deepest form of hope. Because we know the ending is good, we can live with courage and tenderness right in the middle of the story.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. When you honestly look at your daily priorities, habits, and anxieties, which ones treat the present world as if it will last forever? Which ones already lean toward the new creation?
  2. Peter links the coming exposure of “everything done” in the earth directly to the call for holy living. How does that future openness affect the way you evaluate hidden motives, private habits, or public ambitions right now?
  3. What might it look like, in concrete terms, for you to “hasten” the day of God through holy and godly living? Where do you sense the Spirit inviting a specific change that aligns your life more closely with the righteousness that will one day dwell fully?
  4. The new heaven and new earth are described as a place “where righteousness dwells.” Sit with that image for a moment. What particular form of brokenness or injustice in your own life or in the world around you makes you long most deeply for that day?

Take your time with these. There’s no rush. The same God who will one day unmake and remake the cosmos is already at work, by His Spirit, reshaping us into people who fit the world that is coming. And His promise is still good. He will bring His people to Himself, and we will experience His deep love forever.

Let these words encourage you not to fear the future

Your fellow sheep

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 3:8-9

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Promises, Promises

Hey friend,

Come on in—grab that mug of coffee or tea, (or both, I won’t judge), and settle into your favorite chair across. The morning light is soft, the house is quiet, and I’ve been thinking about a passage that feels like it was written for the exact kind of waiting season so many of us find ourselves in. Let’s open 2 Peter 3:8-9 together and just talk it through, the way friends do when there’s no rush and nowhere else we need to be.

2 Peter 3:8-9 (NIV) “But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”

Have you ever sat with a promise that feels like it’s taking forever? Maybe you’ve prayed the same prayer for years, watched the calendar turn, and wondered quietly, “God… are You even listening?” Peter’s readers were feeling something very similar. Scoffers were mocking them: “Where is this ‘coming’ He promised? Everything’s just going on as it always has.” The delay was starting to look like forgetfulness—or worse, failure.

Into that ache Peter leans in with the gentlest, firmest word: “Dear friends… do not forget this one thing.” He reminds them (and us) that the God we wait for does not experience time the way we do. A thousand years can feel like a single day to Him, and a single day can hold the weight of a millennium. This isn’t poetic exaggeration; it’s a loving correction of our limited perspective. We measure God’s faithfulness by the ticking of our clocks. He measures it by the unfolding of His heart.

Then comes the heart of the passage—the reason for the “delay.”

“The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you…”

That little phrase “with you” is so personal. The patience of God is not an abstract attribute floating somewhere in the heavens. It is directed toward you. Toward the person reading these words right now. Toward the one still wrestling, still wandering, still not quite ready.

Why this long patience? Because God is not willing that any should perish. His heart burns with a holy longing that everyone—every single person—would turn and find life. The delay is not indifference. It is mercy with the door still open.

Isn’t that staggering? The same God who spoke galaxies into existence slows His own schedule so that one more heart might soften, one more life might turn, one more prodigal might come home. The “slowness” we sometimes resent is actually the kindness of a Father who refuses to close the door while there is still time for repentance.

So the next time the waiting feels heavy, remember: you are not being overlooked. You are being given room. The God who holds eternity is using time itself as an invitation—an invitation still extended to you, and through you, to others. His patience is not weakness.
It is love that refuses to give up.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. Where in your life right now does God’s timing feel “slow”? How might viewing that delay as personal patience change the way you wait?
  2. Peter says the Lord is patient “with you.” What does it mean for you, specifically, that God’s patience has your name on it?
  3. Is there someone in your life for whom you’ve almost given up praying? How does this passage invite you to keep the door of hope open a little longer?
  4. In what quiet way might God be inviting you toward deeper repentance or fuller trust in this season of waiting?

Take a few unhurried moments with these questions. Let the patience of God settle over you like a warm blanket. He is not late. He is lovingly on time—for you.

A Short Prayer

Father, thank You that Your timing is never late and never cold. Thank You for the patient love that still holds the door open for me and for the people I care about. Help me trust Your heart when the waiting feels long. Soften any place in me that needs to turn toward You again, and keep me gentle and hopeful while we wait together. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Mischievous Faces

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There’s a particular look some people get when they’re up to no good. You know the one. The slight narrowing of the eyes, the half-smile that never quite reaches the cheeks, the lips pressed together like they’re holding in a secret that would make a saint blush. Proverbs 16:30 captures it with unnerving precision: “Whoever winks his eyes plans dishonest things; he who purses his lips brings evil to pass” (ESV).

Solomon, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, isn’t giving us a lesson in facial yoga. He’s warning us that the body often broadcasts what the heart is already cooking up. A wink can be playful among friends, but in this context it’s the ancient equivalent of a coded text message: “Phase one of the scheme is a go.”

Pursing the lips isn’t just concentrating; it’s the quiet determination of someone who has already decided the ends justify the means. The evil is as good as done once the heart has settled on it.

From a Christian viewpoint, this verse lands with both a gentle warning and a surprising comfort. The warning is obvious: sin rarely starts with a dramatic evil laugh and a cape. It starts with a small, private calculation—how to get ahead without getting caught, how to settle a score without looking vengeful, how to stretch the truth just enough that it still technically fits under the “honesty” tent. Our faces, our tone, even our carefully curated social media presence can become the non-verbal equivalent of that wink. And God sees it all. “Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight” (Hebrews 4:13). He doesn’t need a body-language expert; He reads the heart before the eyes ever narrow.

The comfort is even better. Jesus never needed to wink or purse His lips in scheming. He was the opposite of the crafty plotter—transparent, truthful, and completely free of hidden agendas. When Nathanael approached Him, Jesus said, “Here truly is an Israelite in whom there is no deceit” (John 1:47). That kind of integrity is the new-heart reality Christ purchases for us. The gospel doesn’t just tell us to stop plotting; it gives us a new capacity to live openly before God and others because our standing is secure in Him, not in our cleverness.

A little humor helps the medicine go down. We’ve all been the person in a meeting who suddenly develops a mysterious fascination with the ceiling tiles the moment an awkward topic arises. Or the sibling who “accidentally” leaves the last cookie for someone else while carefully not making eye contact. Most of us aren’t masterminds of global conspiracy; we’re just ordinary people whose faces occasionally leak the less-than-noble plans forming in the back office of our minds. Solomon is essentially saying, “Your face is telling on you, and God already knew anyway.”

A Couple of Practical Applications

First, practice a quick heart-and-face check before you speak or act. When you feel that familiar urge to shade the truth, withhold a key detail, or deliver a “harmless” dig, pause and notice what your body is doing. Are your eyes narrowing? Lips tightening? That’s often the Holy Spirit’s early-warning system. Instead of pressing forward, turn the moment into a silent prayer: “Lord, clean this up before it becomes words or actions.” Over time, that habit replaces the scheming reflex with a more open, trusting posture. Integrity starts in the private moments when only you and God are watching your facial muscles.

Second, cultivate discernment without becoming cynical. Proverbs 16:30 doesn’t command us to suspect every wink; it simply reminds us that not everyone operates with pure motives. In relationships, workplaces, or online spaces, pay attention to patterns of subtle signaling mixed with inconsistent fruit. At the same time, refuse to mirror the behavior. Respond with the transparency Jesus modeled—clear speech, straightforward motives, and a willingness to be known. When we live that way, we become harder to manipulate and easier for others to trust. We also create space for genuine community instead of the exhausting game of reading between the lines.

In the end, Proverbs 16:30 is less about policing facial expressions and more about inviting us into a freer way of living. The person who no longer needs to plot has nothing to hide. And the God who sees the wink before it happens is the same God who, through Christ, offers to rewrite the story written on our faces—from calculated mischief to open-hearted joy. That’s a transformation worth smiling about, eyes wide open.