A Sheep Meanders Through Malachi 2:10-12

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We Belong to the Same Father

My dear fellow sheep,

Join with me in our study in Malachi today. Grab your tea or coffee and sit for a minute or two and let God’s Word wash over you. Let’s look at the passage:

Do we not all have one Father? Did not one God create us? Why do we profane the covenant of our ancestors by being unfaithful to one another?
Judah has been unfaithful. A detestable thing has been committed in Israel and in Jerusalem: Judah has desecrated the sanctuary the Lord loves by marrying women who worship a foreign god.
As for the man who does this, whoever he may be, may the Lord remove him from the tents of Jacob—even though he brings an offering to the Lord Almighty.

Can you hear the ache in those first two questions? Malachi doesn’t start with a lecture. He starts like a father sitting down with his children after a hard week and saying, “Wait… don’t we belong to the same Dad? Didn’t the same God make us?” It’s tender and a little heartbroken at the same time.

Judah had come home from exile. The temple was standing again. Offerings were being brought. From the outside it looked like covenant life was back on track. But something precious had gone quiet in their hearts. They had started treating one another as if they were strangers instead of family. And Malachi says that kind of unfaithfulness doesn’t stay small. It reaches all the way up and profanes “the covenant of our ancestors.” When we break faith with the people God has given us, we are not just being difficult. We are treating the family He made as if it doesn’t matter.

Then he names the particular wound. “Judah has been unfaithful.” That word stings because it is the language of betrayal—of walking away from a promise you were supposed to keep. The specific form it took was men marrying women who still worshiped other gods. This wasn’t about ethnicity. Scripture itself celebrates women like Ruth who came into the people of God by faith. The problem was spiritual loyalty. These wives remained “daughters of a foreign god.” They brought another lord into the house, and slowly the home stopped being a place where the Lord’s name was loved without rival.

Malachi says this desecrated “the sanctuary the Lord loves.” Whether he means the temple, the holy people themselves, or the holy gift of marriage, the feeling is the same: something God treasures has been handled carelessly. A man could still show up with an offering in his hands and, at the same time, welcome another god into his most intimate life. God will not let us split worship from the rest of who we are. That is why the warning is so strong: even religious activity cannot cover a divided heart.

This still speaks to us, doesn’t it? We have one Father too. Through Jesus we have been brought into the same family. The church is not a group of people who happen to like similar music or similar sermons. We are people created and redeemed by the same God. So when we grow cold toward one another, when we withhold grace, when we quietly choose alliances that pull our hearts away from Christ, we are doing more than making a private decision. We are forgetting whose we are.

The old warning about being unequally yoked is not meant to make us fearful or superior. It is meant to protect something beautiful. Marriage is supposed to be a living picture of Christ’s faithful love for His church. When a believer joins life to someone whose deepest love is elsewhere, the home itself becomes a contested space. Compromise almost never arrives as a dramatic announcement. It arrives as a series of small accommodations, a slow getting used to another loyalty sitting at the table.

And yet—this is not a passage that only scolds. The same God who names the unfaithfulness is the Father who made us and still claims us. In Jesus we meet the Bridegroom who does not discard His unfaithful people. He gives Himself for them. He makes a holy people out of those who have treated holy things as common. Our welcome before God does not rest on how well we have kept the family tidy. It rests on the faithful love of Christ.

So Malachi is not saying, “Try harder to be a better family.” He is saying something warmer and deeper: Remember who your Father is. Remember that you belong. Then live like people who have been loved that much.The sanctuary the Lord loves is still His people. He has not stopped loving it. That is why He still speaks to us this way—honestly, closely, like family.

Personal Reflection Questions:

  1. Where have you been tempted lately to treat someone in the family of God as optional instead of given? What might it look like to honor “one Father” there this week?
  2. Are there places in your life where you still “bring an offering,” but another loyalty has quietly taken a seat at the table? What would it feel like to talk honestly with the Lord about that?
  3. If you are married or hoping to be, how does this passage invite you to care for the spiritual atmosphere of a home? If you are single, how might it shape the way you pray for the marriages around you?
  4. Does the severity in these verses feel heavy—or does it actually reveal how fiercely God loves His people? How does knowing Jesus as the faithful Bridegroom change the way you hear both the warning and the welcome?

Remember dear ones, God loves you deeply. He always has and always will.

Don’t Wink At Trouble

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Proverbs 10:10 has the energy of a parent watching you across the dinner table after you “accidentally” start something. In the NIV it reads:

“Whoever winks maliciously causes grief, and a chattering fool comes to ruin.”

Some translations keep the second half as the fool who talks himself into a ditch. Others, following a different ancient reading, say a bold, honest rebuke actually makes peace. Either way, Solomon is not impressed with our secret signals or our unfiltered monologues.

The wink in this verse is not the friendly “you’ve got this” wink. It is the sideways glance that says, Did you hear that? Watch this. We both know what I mean. It is the ancient version of the group-chat reaction, the raised eyebrow in a meeting, the “just between us” look that turns another person into the punchline. It feels clever in the moment. It feels like belonging. It usually leaves someone else carrying the ache.

That is the first half of the warning: hidden malice is not harmless. It may look small. It is not small to the person it lands on.

Then comes the chattering fool. If the wink is too little communication, this is way too much. This is the person who cannot leave a quiet room alone. They explain, defend, decorate, and keep talking until the truth has left the building and taken the dignity with it. The wink hides the scheme. The babbling mouth announces the scheme, plus three extra theories, a personal grievance, and an unhelpful story from 2014.

Solomon’s point is almost funny in its fairness: you can wreck a room by saying too little with your eyes, or by saying far too much with your mouth. The sly person hurts others. The noisy fool often takes themselves down with them. Neither one is the hero of the story.

The better way is less cinematic and more adult. Say the true thing without the secret code. If something is wrong, name it kindly and out loud instead of recruiting an audience with your eyelids. If you do not know, stop talking before the sentence becomes a monument to your uncertainty. Peace rarely comes from a wink. It more often comes from a clear sentence spoken without a smirk.

This proverb is not asking you to become blunt and joyless. It is asking you to stop treating other people like a private joke.

A few questions to sit with

When I “just joke,” is anyone actually laughing besides me? Is there a person I communicate about more than I communicate with? What would change if I replaced one sly look this week with one honest, gentle sentence? Where do I talk too much because I am nervous, proud, or trying to control the room? Who has been on the receiving end of my winks, and do I owe them a clearer word?

A wink can feel like power. Loose words can feel like personality. Proverbs 10:10 shrugs at both and says, That is how grief gets into the house. Better to look people in the eye, speak plainly, and leave the secret signals for people who do not mind the cleanup.

When the Delivery Guy is “On His Way”… Forever

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There’s a special kind of agony that only the patient can fully appreciate. It’s the moment you send someone on an errand—simple, clear, time-sensitive—and then watch the hours melt away while nothing happens. Your coffee grows cold. Your hope grows thinner. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice begins to whisper, “I could have done this myself three days ago.”

Or you get a notice that a package is “out for delivery” and 2 days and 13 hours later you have still not seen said package.

Solomon, that ancient king who apparently had his own share of unreliable messengers, put the feeling into one of the most vivid pictures in the whole book of Proverbs:

“Like vinegar to the teeth and smoke to the eyes, so is the sluggard to those who send him.” (Proverbs 10:26)

Vinegar to the teeth. Not the pleasant kind you drizzle on salad. The sharp, set-your-molars-on-edge kind that makes you wonder if your enamel is filing a formal complaint. Smoke to the eyes. The sort that drifts from a campfire the wrong way and leaves you blinking, tearing up, and muttering things you’re glad the children can’t hear. That, says the wise man, is exactly what a lazy person feels like to the people depending on him.

It’s not cruel. It’s just honest. And, if we’re willing to admit it, it’s also a little funny—because most of us have been on both sides of that verse.

We’ve all been the one waiting. The group project partner who “forgot” the deadline. The coworker whose “I’ll get right on that” somehow translates into three weeks of radio silence. The friend who volunteers to bring the dessert and then shows up empty-handed with a charming shrug and the words, “I just got so busy.” Vinegar. Smoke. Teeth and eyes in full rebellion.

But we’ve also, if we’re honest, been the sluggard. The one who hit snooze one too many times. The one who opened the laptop to “just check one email” and emerged three hours later having rearranged every digital file from 2017. The one who promised to pray for someone and then forgot until the next time we saw them and felt that sudden, awkward jolt of conscience. (Yes, even prayer can become vinegar if we treat it like an optional side dish.)

From a Christian perspective, this proverb isn’t merely workplace advice or a clever ancient meme. It’s a window into the heart of a God who values faithfulness. Scripture never treats diligence as a way to earn God’s love—grace is free, after all—but it does treat diligence as a grateful response to that love. The same Jesus who finished the work the Father gave Him (John 17:4) also invites us to work “heartily, as for the Lord and not for men” (Colossians 3:23). Laziness isn’t just inconvenient to other people; it quietly steals the joy of partnering with God in the ordinary tasks of the day.

Yet here’s the warm part, the part that keeps the humor from turning sharp: God is remarkably patient with sluggards. Peter denied Jesus three times and still got breakfast on the beach. Jonah ran the opposite direction and still got a second chance (and a very persistent fish). The parable of the talents doesn’t end with the lazy servant being written out of the story forever; it ends with a sober warning and an open invitation to do better next time.

So if Proverbs 10:26 stings a little today—if you recognize the taste of vinegar in your own track record—take heart. The same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is quite capable of raising a sleepy work ethic. Start small. Answer the one email you’ve been avoiding. Show up five minutes early. Keep the tiny promise you made. Faithfulness grows the same way a mustard seed does: quietly, stubbornly, and often while no one is watching.

And the next time someone sends you on an errand, remember the teeth and the eyes of the people waiting. Be the opposite of vinegar. Be the cool glass of water instead. Be the clear air after the smoke clears. In a world full of delayed deliveries and half-kept promises, a reliable Christian is a quiet miracle—and occasionally, a very welcome punchline to the old proverb.

After all, if Solomon could laugh about it (and I’m pretty sure he did), we can too. Just maybe not while the coffee’s still getting cold.

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.