Excuses, excuses, excuses

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There’s a Lion Outside!

Proverbs 22:13 paints a delightfully ridiculous picture: “The sluggard says, ‘There is a lion outside! I shall be killed in the streets!’”

You can almost see him. Curtains drawn, blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes wide with theatrical terror. A lion. In the streets. Of an ancient Near Eastern town. It’s the biblical equivalent of “I can’t go to work today—there’s a rogue tiger in the parking lot and also my left sock feels weird.”

Solomon (or whoever compiled this bit of inspired wisdom) isn’t primarily concerned with zoology. He’s shining a gentle but pointed light on the human heart’s remarkable talent for manufacturing excuses. The sluggard isn’t merely lazy; he’s a master storyteller. Danger becomes the perfect alibi for staying put. Fear, once invited in, grows larger than any actual lion.

From a Christian perspective, this little verse sits inside the larger biblical call to diligence and trust. Work is not a curse to be dodged; it’s part of the good design God spoke over creation before the Fall. Colossians 3:23 urges us to work “heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.” Proverbs repeatedly contrasts the sluggard with the diligent person whose path is made straight. Laziness isn’t just inefficient—it quietly rejects the stewardship God has given us over time, gifts, and opportunities. And the “lion” excuse reveals something deeper: when fear or comfort becomes louder than faith, we start negotiating with God about the size of the obstacles He’s supposedly allowed outside our door.

The humor is kind, though. Scripture doesn’t mock the weak; it lovingly exposes the self-deception we all practice. Most of us aren’t literal couch-bound sluggards. We’re more sophisticated. Our lions wear modern disguises:

  • “I can’t start that project until conditions are perfect.”
  • “I’ll pray about it… indefinitely.”
  • “Someone else is better equipped; I’ll just stay in my lane (which happens to be the recliner).”
  • “What if I fail and everyone sees the lion eat me?”

We chuckle because the excuses are so transparent—yet we recognize our own voices in them.

Practical Application

Here’s where the rubber (or the sandal) meets the road. The next time you feel that familiar reluctance rising, try this simple three-step response rooted in the gospel rather than grit:

  1. Name the lion out loud. Write down or speak the excuse exactly as it presents itself. “I’m afraid this conversation will go poorly.” “I don’t feel like cleaning because it never stays clean.” Naming it robs it of vague power and reveals whether it’s a real threat or a paper tiger.
  2. Bring it into the light of Christ’s sufficiency. Pray something short and honest: “Lord, You already know the size of this lion. You also know my tendency to exaggerate it. Give me the faith to take the next small step, trusting that You go with me.” Remember that the same God who shut the mouths of lions for Daniel is not surprised by your inbox, your messy kitchen, or your hard conversation.
  3. Take one concrete, imperfect action within the next hour. Send the email. Wash the first three dishes. Open the Bible app even if you only read five verses. The goal isn’t heroic productivity; it’s refusing to let the imaginary lion keep the door locked. Often the “streets” turn out to be far safer—and more grace-filled—than the sluggard imagined.

Over time these small acts of obedience train the heart. The Spirit uses them to replace the habit of excuse-making with the habit of trust. And occasionally, when you look back, you’ll laugh at how large the lion seemed and how faithful God proved to be once you stepped outside.

So the next time you hear yourself declaring that some fierce beast is prowling just beyond the threshold, smile, quote Proverbs 22:13 under your breath, and remember: the Lion of Judah has already walked those streets. You’re safer with Him than you are behind any closed door. Now—shall we open it together?

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 1:19-21

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The Shining Lamp

My Dear Friends in Christ,

I hope this morning finds you resting in the grace of our Lord Jesus, even amid whatever shadows may linger in your days. I’ve been sitting with 2 Peter 1:19–21 these past mornings, and the Spirit has stirred such warmth in my heart that I felt compelled to share a simple devotion with you—nothing elaborate, just the steady light of this passage held up close so we might both see more clearly.

So, grab your cup of Hibiscus Tea or Cafe Du Monde’s Coffee and Chickory Blend, or whatever works for you today, and join with me as we study this passage.

Peter writes:

“And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts, knowing this first of all, that no prophecy of Scripture comes from someone’s own interpretation. For no prophecy was ever produced by the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.”

Do you feel the tenderness in these lines? Peter has just spoken of the majestic glory he witnessed on the holy mountain—Jesus transfigured, the Father’s voice affirming the beloved Son. Yet even that breathtaking vision, he says, is not the final word. There is something “more fully confirmed”: the prophetic Scriptures themselves. The written Word stands as a surer foundation than even the most dazzling personal experience. What a gentle rebuke to our restless hearts that so often chase after new signs while neglecting the lamp already placed in our hands!

Notice how Peter paints the scene. We live, for now, in a dark place—this world still shadowed by sin, sorrow, and uncertainty. But God has not left us groping. He has given us a lamp: the prophetic Word, reliable, clear, and sufficient. We are invited not merely to glance at it, but to “pay attention” to it—to lean in, to let its light fall across the path of our daily choices, our fears, our hopes. And we do this “until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.” What a beautiful promise! The same Jesus who is the bright Morning Star (Revelation 22:16) will one day rise fully within us, flooding every inner chamber with His uncreated light. Until that glorious day, the Scriptures keep watch over us like a faithful lamp through the long night.

Then comes the heart of the matter, the truth Peter says we must know “first of all.” No prophecy of Scripture ever sprang from a prophet’s private imagination or human will. These men were not inventing; they were being carried—borne along—by the Holy Spirit, as a ship is carried by a strong and steady wind. The origin is God Himself. The words are His. Therefore, they carry His authority, His purity, His power to pierce and to heal. This is why we can trust them with our whole lives. They are not the shifting opinions of ancient writers; they are the living breath of the living God, still speaking, still illuminating, still transforming those who listen.

So, dear one, I urge you today: take up this lamp again. Let its light fall on the particular darkness you face—whether it is anxiety about the future, weariness in waiting, or the quiet ache of unanswered questions. The Spirit who carried the prophets still carries this Word into your heart. He will not leave you in the shadows. And as you attend to it, you will find the Morning Star already beginning to rise within you, preparing you for the full dawn that is surely coming.

As you linger with these verses, may I gently invite you to reflect on a few personal questions?

  • Where in your life right now does the path feel especially dark, and how might the Lord be inviting you to hold the lamp of His Word a little closer?
  • Have there been seasons when personal experiences or feelings seemed more vivid than the steady confirmation of Scripture? How does Peter’s reminder encourage you to trust the prophetic Word more deeply today?
  • In what quiet way is the Holy Spirit asking you to be “carried along” by His truth this week—perhaps in a decision, a relationship, or a place of waiting?
  • How does the promise that the Morning Star will rise in your heart awaken fresh hope as you look toward the coming dawn?

May the God who spoke through the prophets speak tenderly to you this very hour. You are held, you are guided, and you are deeply loved.

With warm affection in Christ,
Your fellow sheep

As a Door Turns on Its Hinges… and Why Your Bed Is Not a Holiness Zone

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There’s a verse in Proverbs that always makes me smile—and then quietly rearrange my morning routine. Proverbs 26:14 says:

“As a door turns on its hinges, so a sluggard turns on his bed.”

Picture it with me. A door. It swings open. It swings shut. It creaks. It groans. It makes a lot of dramatic noise… and yet it never actually goes anywhere. It lives its entire wooden life in the same three-foot radius, forever pivoting but never progressing.

Solomon looks at that door, looks at the person still buried under three layers of blankets at 10:47 a.m., and says, “Yep. Same energy.”

The humor is gentle, but the jab is real. The sluggard isn’t villainous. He’s not plotting evil. He’s just… revolving. Turning left. Turning right. Adjusting the pillow. Checking the clock. Negotiating with himself about “just five more minutes” that somehow turn into fifty. All motion, zero mileage.

From a Christian perspective, this hits differently. God is not anti-rest. He invented the Sabbath. Jesus Himself took naps in boats during storms (a power move, if we’re honest). Rest is holy. But sluggishness—that endless, directionless turning—is something else entirely. It’s the quiet refusal to step through the open door God has already set before us.

Scripture is full of the opposite call: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord” (Colossians 3:23). The ant in Proverbs 6 doesn’t need a motivational podcast; she just gets up and gathers. Diligence isn’t about hustle culture or grinding yourself into dust. It’s about faithfulness. It’s about recognizing that the body God gave you, the time He entrusted to you, and the people He’s placed around you are not meant to be endlessly rotated upon like a creaky hinge.

The sluggard’s bed becomes a tiny kingdom of inertia. And inertia, left alone, has a way of slowly convincing us that staying put is safer, wiser, even more spiritual than moving. (“I’m just waiting on the Lord… from under this duvet.”)

Practical Application: Becoming a Door That Actually Opens

Here’s the good news: hinges can be oiled. Patterns can change. And the same God who designed doors also delights in helping His children walk through them.

Try this simple, grace-filled practice for the next seven days:

  1. Name your hinge. What is the specific “bed” you keep turning on? Is it the snooze button? Scrolling instead of starting the day with Scripture? Putting off the hard conversation, the workout, the email, the prayer time? Write it down. Specificity is the enemy of vagueness, and vagueness is the sluggard’s best friend.
  2. Set a “hinge-breaking” alarm. Choose one realistic morning or evening moment. When the alarm goes off, you get one pivot—sit up, feet on the floor, and say out loud (yes, out loud, even if your roommate looks at you strangely): “Lord, I’m getting up to walk through the door You’ve opened today.” Then do the next smallest possible action. Not the whole marathon. Just the first step.
  3. Invite accountability with humor. Text a trusted Christian friend: “If you see me still horizontal after 7:30, feel free to send me a picture of a door with the caption ‘Stop being this.’” Laughter disarms shame. Shame keeps us under the covers. Grace gets us moving.
  4. End the day with gratitude, not guilt. Before bed, thank God for one thing you did move toward. Even if it was tiny. Progress, not perfection, is the Christian metric. The door that opens once is already more useful than the one that only swings.

Friend, your bed is a gift for rest—not a permanent residence. The door of today is already swinging open. Somewhere beyond it is work that matters, people who need you, joy that waits, and a Savior who is not annoyed by your slow starts. He’s simply ready, with infinite patience and a quiet smile, to walk with you once your feet hit the floor.

So go ahead. Turn one more time if you must. Then stand up. The hinges were never meant to be your whole story.

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 1:16-18

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Eyewitness To Glory

Beloved brothers and sisters in Christ,

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, who calls us into the light of His glory.

I write to you today with a full heart, freshly stirred by the words of the Apostle Peter in 2 Peter 1:16–18. Let me share them with you once more, that we might linger together over their beauty and power as we sip our morning beverage:

“For we did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we were eyewitnesses of his majesty. For when he received honor and glory from God the Father, and the voice was borne to him by the Majestic Glory, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased,’ we ourselves heard this very voice borne from heaven, for we were with him on the holy mountain.”

Peter is writing to dear believers who were under pressure. False teachers were whispering that the promise of Christ’s return was nothing more than a clever story—a myth invented to keep people in line. Into that atmosphere of doubt, the aging apostle does not argue with clever philosophy. He simply opens his heart and points back to a day he could never forget.

He takes us to the holy mountain—most likely the slopes of Hermon—where, for a brief and dazzling moment, the veil was pulled back. Jesus, the One they had walked with, talked with, and broken bread with, was transfigured before their eyes. His face shone like the sun. His clothes became radiant with a glory that belonged to heaven itself. And then the voice—the Majestic Glory Himself—spoke from the cloud: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

Peter is careful with his words. He does not say, “We heard about this.” He says, “We were eyewitnesses of his majesty… we ourselves heard this very voice.” The Greek word he uses for “eyewitnesses” is the same root from which we get our word “theater.” It carries the sense of being admitted into a spectacle of overwhelming grandeur. Peter, James, and John were not spectators at a distance; they were granted a front-row seat to the unveiled glory of the Son of God.

Notice what this moment revealed. It was not merely a private encouragement for Jesus on His way to the cross. It was a preview of “the power and coming” of our Lord. The Transfiguration was a down payment on the Second Coming. The glory that flashed for a moment on that mountain will one day fill the whole earth when Christ returns. Peter is telling us: the future is not uncertain. We have already seen a glimpse of it. The One who will come in power is the same One whose majesty we beheld, whose Father we heard affirming Him with infinite delight.

This is why the gospel is no cleverly devised myth. It rests on historical, eyewitness testimony. Three ordinary fishermen stood on real ground, under a real sky, and saw the glory of the eternal Son. And because they saw it, we can trust it. Because they heard the Father’s voice, we can rest in the Father’s pleasure resting upon His Son—and, by grace, upon all who are in Him.

My dear friends, in a world that constantly questions the reliability of Scripture and the reality of Christ’s return, Peter’s testimony is a warm fire for the soul. We are not following fables. We are following the testimony of those who saw and heard. And the same Jesus who shone on that mountain still shines today—through His Word, by His Spirit, and in the quiet places where He makes Himself known to the hungry heart.

As you carry these verses with you this week, I invite you to sit with a few questions before the Lord:

  1. Where in my life am I tempted to treat the promises of Christ’s power and coming as distant or uncertain? How does Peter’s eyewitness testimony speak to that temptation?
  2. When have I, even in a small way, been given a glimpse of Christ’s majesty—perhaps in worship, in creation, in a moment of answered prayer, or in the quiet assurance of His presence? How can I treasure that memory more deliberately?
  3. The Father’s voice declared delight in His Son. Do I live as one in whom the Father is also well pleased because I am united to Christ? What would change in my daily walk if I more deeply believed that?
  4. How might the certainty of Christ’s future glory free me to live with greater courage, hope, and love in the ordinary responsibilities of this week?

May the Majestic Glory who spoke on the holy mountain speak again to your heart through these words. May you walk in the settled confidence that the gospel is no myth, but the living truth of the One who was, and is, and is to come.

With deep affection in our shared Savior,
Your brother and fellow servant in the gospel

When the Manger Gets Messy

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There’s a verse in Proverbs that has always made me smile, mostly because it feels like it was written by someone who has actually cleaned a barn. Proverbs 14:4 says, “Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean, but abundant crops come by the strength of the ox” (ESV).

In other words: if you want a spotless, Instagram-ready stable, just get rid of the ox. Problem solved. Of course, you’ll also have an empty field, an empty pantry, and a whole lot of time to polish that shiny, useless manger. God, in His kindness, seems perfectly comfortable with a little manure in the middle of His plans.

The clean stall is tidy, quiet, and completely unproductive. The messy one smells, requires constant work, and somehow feeds the whole household. This is not just ancient farming advice. It’s a gentle (and slightly humorous) reminder that fruitful Christian living almost never looks neat. The Holy Spirit does not specialize in sterile environments. He specializes in strength that shows up with a side of chaos.

Think about it. Jesus could have chosen twelve polished religious professionals with perfect attendance records. Instead He picked fishermen who argued, a tax collector who made everyone nervous, and a zealot who probably kept a knife under his cloak “just in case.” The early church was not a quiet, well-organized Bible study. It was noisy, occasionally messy, and full of people who still needed to grow up. Yet from that imperfect, ox-filled community came the harvest that changed the world.

So what does this look like when we actually try to live it? In family life it means the house that is truly raising children in the Lord will rarely look like a showroom. There will be sticky fingerprints on the windows, mismatched socks under the couch, and conversations that start with “I can’t believe you just said that.”

The clean, quiet home with no children (or with children who are never allowed to make a mess) may look peaceful, but it will not produce the same long-term fruit. The strength of the “oxen” in your living room is worth the crumbs.

In church life it means we stop demanding that every ministry run like a Swiss watch. The small group that actually grows people will have awkward silences, someone who talks too long, and the occasional theological rabbit trail that leaves the leader silently praying for the rapture. A perfectly programmed, risk-free ministry may keep the building clean, but it rarely multiplies disciples. Abundant crops require the strength (and the mess) of real people doing real life together.

At work or in our neighborhoods it means we stop waiting for ideal conditions before we serve. The coworker who is difficult, the neighbor whose yard looks like a science experiment, the friend who always needs help at the worst possible time—these are often the very “oxen” God intends to use. Saying yes to them will complicate your schedule and occasionally stain your reputation for efficiency. Yet the harvest of influence, kindness, and quiet gospel witness usually grows right there in the middle of the inconvenience.

Even in our personal walk with Christ the principle holds. A life that never risks failure, never confesses weakness, and never lets other people see the unfinished places will stay impressively tidy—and spiritually barren. The believer who keeps bringing the real, unedited self to Jesus discovers that grace does its best work in the stalls that still need cleaning.

So here’s the invitation, offered with a grin and a nudge: stop envying the empty manger. The clean stall is safe, but it is also silent. The messy one is where the strength is. And the God who once filled a feeding trough with the presence of His Son still seems to prefer working where things are a little less than perfect.

Go ahead. Let the oxen in. The harvest is worth the mess.

The Good Morning Curse

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There’s a special kind of courage it takes to greet someone first thing in the morning. Some of us bounce out of bed ready to conquer the day, already humming hymns and planning world peace before the coffee has finished brewing. Others of us… well, we emerge more like startled groundhogs, blinking at the light and wondering who turned the volume of life up to eleven.

Proverbs 27:14 has a word for both groups:

“Whoever blesses his neighbor with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing.” (ESV)

Solomon, under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, is not anti-blessing. He’s anti-badly-timed blessing. A cheerful “The Lord bless you!” delivered at full volume while your neighbor is still trying to remember what planet they’re on doesn’t feel like grace—it feels like an ambush. What was meant as kindness registers as annoyance. The blessing is counted as a curse.

This little proverb is pure relational wisdom. God cares about more than our good intentions; He cares about how those intentions land on the people around us. Love, after all, is not just about what we mean—it’s also about what the other person experiences. Jesus summed it up when He said we are to love our neighbor as ourselves (Mark 12:31). Most of us would rather not be startled out of half-sleep by a booming greeting and a slap on the back. So why would we do that to someone else?

Here’s where the humor sneaks in. Picture the scene: It’s 6:15 a.m. You’re still wearing last night’s socks. Your brain is buffering. Suddenly the front door swings open and your overly enthusiastic Christian friend bursts in singing “This Is the Day the Lord Has Made” at full volume while waving a fresh-baked casserole. Blessing? Technically yes. Timing? Spectacularly no. Solomon would probably chuckle and say, “Congratulations—you just turned a good morning into a mild form of persecution.”

Practical Applications Right in the Middle of Ordinary Life

1. Read the room (or the bedhead). Before you launch into a hearty greeting, take a two-second inventory. Is your spouse still clinging to the pillow like a life raft? Is your teenager communicating only in grunts? Is your coworker staring blankly at the coffee pot as if it holds the secrets of the universe? In those moments, a soft “Morning” or even a quiet smile may be the more loving choice. Loudness is not required for kindness.

2. Adjust the volume and the hour. If you’re a natural morning person (God bless your energetic soul), practice the spiritual discipline of restraint. Save the full-throttle encouragement for after the first cup of coffee has done its sanctifying work. A whispered blessing at 7 a.m. often carries more weight than a shouted one at 6.

3. Digital age edition: think before you text. The modern equivalent of the early-morning shout is the 5:45 a.m. group-text full of Bible verses and exclamation points. Your heart may be pure, but your neighbor’s phone may still be on the nightstand next to a sleeping spouse. Schedule the message for a more civilized hour or simply wait. Wisdom sometimes looks like pressing “send later.”

4. Family and church life. Parents, the same principle applies at the breakfast table. A gentle wake-up is usually more effective than a trumpet blast of “Rise and shine for Jesus!” Roomates, small-group leaders, and pastors—pay attention to the energy levels in the room. Encouragement that feels forced or poorly timed can actually discourage the very people you’re trying to build up.

5. Examine your own heart. Sometimes our early-morning enthusiasm is less about blessing others and more about announcing that we’ve already had our quiet time and are spiritually ahead of the curve. Proverbs gently exposes that temptation. True blessing seeks the good of the other person, not the applause of our own spiritual résumé.

In the end, Proverbs 27:14 is an invitation to grow in thoughtful love. The same God who designed sunrises also designed different body clocks and different personalities. He invites us to match our good intentions with good timing so that our words actually feel like the gift we meant them to be.

So tomorrow morning, by all means bless your neighbor. Just maybe wait until their eyes are open and their coffee is poured. Otherwise, your cheerful “Good morning!” might be the very thing that makes them pray for evening to come a little sooner.

And that, dear friends, would be a blessing counted as a curse—something none of us wants on our spiritual scorecard.

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 1:12-15

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Remembering and Reminding

Dear friend in Christ,

I write to you today with a heart full of quiet joy and sober tenderness, for the words of the apostle Peter in his second letter, chapter 1, verses 12 through 15, have been lingering with me like a gentle hand upon the shoulder. Let me share them with you as they stand:

“Therefore I intend always to remind you of these qualities, though you know them and are established in the truth that you have. I think it right, as long as I am in this body, to stir you up by way of reminder, since I know that the putting off of my body will be soon, as our Lord Jesus Christ made clear to me. And I will make every effort so that after my departure you may be able at any time to recall these things.”

These lines were penned in the mid-to-late 60s of the first century, almost certainly from Rome itself, in the shadowed final years of Emperor Nero’s reign. The great fire of AD 64 had already left the city in ashes, and Nero—desperate to deflect blame—had turned with vicious cruelty upon the followers of Jesus. Believers were being arrested, tortured, and executed in public spectacles.

It was into this climate of gathering storm that Peter, the once-impulsive fisherman now seasoned shepherd of the scattered church, sat down to write. Tradition and the internal evidence of the letter place him there in the imperial capital, fully aware that his own martyrdom was drawing near. Years earlier, beside the Sea of Galilee, the risen Lord had told him plainly that when he was old he would stretch out his hands and be led where he did not wish to go—a clear prophecy of the cross that awaited him (John 21:18–19). Now that word was coming to pass. Within a short time Peter would be crucified, tradition says upside-down at his own request, outside the walls of Rome.

Yet instead of turning inward in self-pity or fear, he turns outward in love. He knows his readers—Jewish and Gentile believers scattered across Asia Minor—are already established in the truth; they know the gospel, they have tasted the divine nature, they are walking in faith, virtue, knowledge, self-control, steadfastness, godliness, brotherly affection, and love. Still, he insists on reminding them. Why? Because truth, however firmly planted, needs the soft rain of repetition if it is to keep bearing fruit amid the changing seasons of persecution and daily pressure.

Notice the warmth in his resolve: “I think it right… to stir you up by way of reminder.” The Greek word he chooses carries the sense of awakening someone who is already awake, of gently rousing a soul so that what is known becomes freshly alive. He is not scolding; he is shepherding. And he does this not merely for the days that remain to him beneath Nero’s shadow, but with an eye to the years after he is gone. “I will make every effort so that after my departure you may be able at any time to recall these things.” His departure—his exodus, the same word used of Christ’s own departure in glory—will not silence the truth. He labors so that memory itself becomes a faithful companion long after the apostle’s voice is still and his body has been laid in a Roman grave.

What a tender picture of Christian maturity this is. Peter does not cling to his own importance; he pours himself out so that the church may continue to stand. He knows that the greatest gift he can leave is not a monument to himself, but a people who remember Jesus—His power, His promises, His call to grow in godliness. The body is temporary; the truth is eternal. And love, real love, spends itself making sure that truth is not forgotten, even when the one who speaks it is taken away by the sword of an emperor.

So, my dear one, I write these lines to you in the same spirit. We too live in fragile tents. We too have been given precious and very great promises. And we too are called to keep one another awake to the grace that has already taken root in us. May we, like Peter in those final Roman days, stir one another up—not with novelty, but with the old, living truth—until the day we put off these bodies and see the Lord face to face.

With affection in the One who never forgets us,
A fellow pilgrim

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. What truths of the gospel do I already “know” and yet most need to be gently reminded of in this season of my life?
  2. How might the awareness of my own temporary body change the way I invest in the spiritual memory of those I love?
  3. In what practical ways can I “stir up” a brother or sister this week—not with new information, but by lovingly recalling the old, life-giving truths we already share?
  4. If the Lord were to make clear that my departure is near, what would I most want those who remain to be able to recall about Christ and His call upon their lives?

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 1:10-11

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Making Your Calling Sure

“Therefore, brothers, be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election, for if you practice these qualities you will never fall. For in this way there will be richly provided for you an entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

My dear friends,

As we continue to work our way through 2 Peter’s wonderful letter, let us draw close to the Lord as we sip on our cup of steaming caffeine of choice. Remember, these words are written to you because your Heavenly Father deeply loves you and wants what is best for your life.

Peter writes these words near the end of his life, with the tenderness of a shepherd who knows his flock and the urgency of a man who has walked with Jesus. He has just listed the beautiful chain of Christian virtues—faith, virtue, knowledge, self-control, steadfastness, godliness, brotherly affection, and love—and now he turns to us with a warm, pastoral “therefore.”

Notice the heart of his exhortation: “be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election.” Our calling and election are not fragile things we manufacture by effort. They are the gracious, sovereign work of God who chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world and called us effectually by His Spirit. Yet Peter does not leave us passive. He invites us into a holy diligence—not the anxious striving of those who fear they might lose what God has given, but the joyful, steady work of those who want to see more clearly what God has already done.

How do we confirm it? By practicing “these qualities.” The virtues are not a ladder we climb to earn God’s favor; they are the fruit that grows when we remain in the Vine. As we cultivate them—day by day, imperfectly yet sincerely—our assurance deepens. We begin to recognize the family resemblance. The forgetfulness and nearsightedness Peter warned about in the previous verse start to clear. We remember that we have been purified from our former sins, and we walk with greater confidence.

The promise that follows is precious: “if you practice these qualities you will never fall.” This is not a cold guarantee of sinless perfection, but a warm assurance that the path of growing Christlikeness is a safe path. The one who keeps adding these graces will not stumble into the kind of spiritual collapse that leaves a person barren and unfruitful. God Himself upholds the diligent heart.

And then comes the beautiful horizon: “in this way there will be richly provided for you an entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” Not a bare admission, like someone barely slipping through the gate. A rich entrance—an abundant, lavish welcome into the presence of the King. The same Lord who called and elected us will one day open wide the doors of His eternal kingdom and receive us with joy. The diligence of this life becomes the very means by which our entrance is made abundant.

So take heart, dear believer. Your growth in grace is not a burden laid upon you; it is the Spirit’s gentle work through you. Keep practicing these qualities. Keep confirming what God has already secured. And look forward with longing to that rich entrance, when faith will give way to sight and every imperfect step of obedience will be swallowed up in the everlasting welcome of Jesus.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. Which of the qualities listed in 2 Peter 1:5–7 feels most alive in my life right now, and which one is the Spirit gently inviting me to cultivate more intentionally?
  2. When have I experienced a deeper sense of assurance about my calling and election through the simple, faithful practice of these virtues?
  3. How does the promise of a “richly provided” entrance into Christ’s eternal kingdom change the way I view the ordinary disciplines and struggles of following Jesus today?
  4. In what specific area of my life am I tempted to grow careless or near-sighted, and what one small step of diligence can I take this week to walk more securely?

A Sheep Saunters Into 2 Peter 1:5-9

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Make Every Effort

Dear one,

Come sit with me for a moment and let these precious words of Scripture wrap around your heart like a soft blanket:

“For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But whoever does not have them is nearsighted and blind, forgetting that they have been cleansed from their past sins.” (2 Peter 1:5–9, NIV)

Peter, that weathered fisherman who once walked on water and later wept bitter tears, writes these lines with such fatherly tenderness. He has just reminded us that our heavenly Father has already poured out everything we need—His own divine power, His precious and very great promises—so that we may share in His nature and leave the world’s corruption behind (1:3–4). And then, with a gentle smile in his voice, he says, “For this very reason…”

Because God has already done so much for you… because His love has already claimed you… now lean in and grow.

Notice how kind the invitation is. “Make every effort.” It is not the harsh command of a taskmaster, but the loving encouragement of a Father who delights to see His child stretch and flourish. You are not starting from emptiness. Faith is already yours—the beautiful gift that brought you home. The Greek word carries the sense of bringing all our energy to the task, the way a runner leans into the final stretch. Yet this effort rests on what God has already supplied. We do not manufacture these qualities out of thin air; we add them, or more precisely, we supplement our faith the way a skilled builder carefully lays course upon course of stone. Now, step by step, the Spirit invites you to build upon it:

We begin with faith—the foundational trust in Christ that has already saved us. Add to your faith the quiet beauty of goodness (or moral excellence/virtue)—the practical outworking of a heart set free; that simple, steady excellence that makes a life lovely.
Then let knowledge deepen, not as cold facts, but as the warm, growing friendship of knowing Jesus more intimately.
Wrap that knowledge in self-control, the gentle strength that keeps your heart steady. It is the Spirit-empowered ability to master our impulses rather than be mastered by them.
Let perseverance take root—the quiet courage that keeps walking even when the path feels long.
From there, let godliness bloom, a life that begins to smell more and more like the Father’s presence.
Then open your arms in mutual affection, the tender care that makes the family of God feel like home.
And crowning it all, let love overflow—the same self-giving love that held you at the cross.

Isn’t that beautiful? Each quality is a gift the Spirit plants and waters as you simply cooperate with Him. Knowledge without self-control becomes arrogance; perseverance without godliness becomes grim stoicism; mutual affection without love remains merely clubby. But when these virtues grow “in increasing measure,” something wonderful happens: your knowledge of Jesus stops being merely mental and becomes living, fruitful, radiant. You begin to walk in the very life He died to give you. We stop being spiritual spectators and begin to live as people whose lives actually display the beauty of the One we claim to know.

But Peter’s heart also aches for the one who drifts. He gently warns that neglecting this growth is like becoming near-sighted—so focused on the immediate that we forget the magnificent cleansing Jesus has already given us. We forget how completely we have been washed. And in that forgetfulness, the fire of love grows dim. Yet even this warning is spoken with compassion, like a friend placing a hand on your shoulder and whispering, “Remember, dear one. Remember what He has done for you.”

Beloved, this is not a ladder we climb to earn God’s favor. It is the natural, Spirit-enabled response of a heart that has already been overwhelmed by grace. The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is at work in us, gently and steadily forming Christlike character. We simply cooperate—day by day, choice by choice, prayer by prayer—trusting that the One who began the good work will carry it on to completion.

So take heart. You are not left to manufacture holiness alone. You have been given everything you need. Lean into the effort with glad dependence, and watch the quiet miracle of growth unfold.

So take a deep breath, beloved. You are not alone in this. The same power that raised Jesus is already at work inside you, patiently forming His likeness day by day. You don’t have to strive in your own strength. Just open your hands, keep walking with Him, and watch how gently He grows these beautiful things in the soil of your heart.

He delights in you. He is for you. And He is making all things new—starting right here, right now, in the quiet places of your life.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. As you read this tender chain of virtues, which one feels like a gentle invitation from the Spirit to your heart today? Can you sense the Father smiling as He offers to grow it in you?
  2. When have you felt the ache of “forgetting” how completely Jesus has cleansed you? How might simply remembering His mercy today warm your heart and stir fresh desire to grow?
  3. Look back over the past season—where do you already see little shoots of these qualities springing up? Pause and thank Him for every quiet evidence of His faithful work in you.
  4. What small, loving step of “making every effort” might feel like a joyful response to His grace this week—perhaps a conversation, a habit of prayer, or an act of kindness?
  5. How does it change the atmosphere of your heart to know that the One who calls you to grow is the same One who has already given you everything you need—and who delights to walk every step with you?

It’s No Good (Until You Buy It)

/ taethne / Leave a comment

There’s a little scene in Proverbs 20:14 that feels like it was written after the author spent an afternoon at the local livestock market. The verse goes like this:

“‘It’s no good, it’s no good!’ says the buyer— then he goes away and boasts about his purchase.”

Picture it. A man is standing in front of a seller, shaking his head solemnly. “This ox looks a bit off. The coat’s dull. Probably won’t last the winter. I’ll give you half of what you’re asking… maybe less.” He negotiates like the fate of the kingdom depends on it. Then, the moment the deal is sealed and he’s walking home, he turns to his friends with a grin the size of a barn door: “You should see what I just got! Absolute steal. Best ox in the valley!”

We’ve all been that guy (or girl). Whether it’s haggling over a used sofa on Facebook Marketplace, muttering about the price of avocados at the grocery store, or dramatically sighing at the car salesman while secretly calculating how cool we’ll look in that new ride—human nature hasn’t changed much in three thousand years.

The Heart Behind the Haggle

From a Christian perspective, this little proverb isn’t primarily about shopping techniques. It’s about the condition of the heart. Solomon is gently (and humorously) exposing the gap between what we say when we want something and what we say once we have it. The buyer isn’t just negotiating; he’s performing. He’s willing to speak poorly of something—and by extension, of the person selling it—in order to gain an advantage. Then, once the advantage is secured, the truth comes out in a boast.

Jesus later taught that “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Matthew 12:34). The problem in Proverbs 20:14 isn’t bargaining itself. Fair negotiation can be wise stewardship. The problem is the dishonesty that so easily slips in—the willingness to diminish someone else’s goods (or reputation) for personal gain, only to celebrate the same goods the moment they belong to us.

God cares about integrity in the marketplace because He cares about truth in every corner of life. Whether we’re buying a house, selling a used phone, or simply talking about the quality of a coworker’s idea in a meeting, the same principle applies: our words should match reality, not just our self-interest.

A Warm (and Slightly Embarrassing) Application

Here’s the practical part. The next time you’re about to make a purchase—or negotiate anything, really—try this simple two-step check:

Before you speak, ask: “Would I still say this about the item (or the person) if the deal were already done?” If the answer is no, you’re probably drifting into the “It’s no good, it’s no good!” territory.

After the deal, notice your words. If you find yourself suddenly raving about the amazing bargain you just scored, pause and thank God for the provision… then consider whether your earlier complaints were entirely honest. A quiet, private correction of the heart is often enough. (You don’t have to go back and confess to the seller that the couch was actually perfect. But you might want to stop telling the story as if you heroically rescued it from the brink of disaster.)

I once caught myself doing the exact Proverbs 20:14 routine over a slightly rusty set of tools at a yard sale. I pointed out every small flaw to the owner (as if he wasn’t aware) in order to get the price dropped. Walking out, I was so proud of the deal I had scored. The Holy Spirit, who has an excellent sense of timing, simply whispered, “Really?” Sometimes conviction comes with a smile.

God isn’t against good deals. He’s against the little lies we tell ourselves and others to get them. The good news is that the same Savior who cleaned out the temple also cleans out our motives—one slightly humorous, slightly humbling transaction at a time.

So, go ahead and shop wisely. Negotiate fairly. Celebrate God’s provision gratefully. Just try not to bad-mouth the ox until it’s safely in your barn.