humbleness

Foolish and Famished

/ taethne

At an after church gathering at Pizza Hut (back when they still had sit down restaurants) I was pleasantly shocked to find out someone had anonymously paid for our meal. All the waitress would say is that it was an old gentleman seated across the dining room from us.

I remembered him. Old, ratty jeans, flannel shirt. Dirty ball cap on his lap. Drove an equally old and dusty pickup. Someone later told me he was one of the largest and most successful farmers in the county. He had lots of money, but money didn’t have him.

Apparently, he liked to pay for meals for people who looked like they were having fun and he did it without fuss or fanfare. Thinking of him reminds me of a verse Solomon wrote.

Proverbs 12:9 “Better to be lowly and have a servant than to play the great man and lack bread.” (ESV)

Or, in slightly more modern English: It’s better to be a humble nobody who can still afford to eat (and maybe even hire a little help) than to strut around pretending you’re somebody important while your stomach is growling loud enough to be heard in the next county.

Solomon, in his usual no-nonsense style, is basically saying: Stop auditioning for a role you can’t afford. The guy who quietly works hard, lives within his means, and doesn’t need a parade every time he walks into a room is better off—materially and spiritually—than the one who’s busy polishing his LinkedIn profile while secretly wondering how he’s going to pay the electric bill.

I smile every time I read this verse because it feels so… current. We live in the golden age of carefully curated images. People post pictures of avocado toast that cost more than some people’s weekly grocery budget, captioned with something profound about “manifesting abundance,” while the bank account is currently manifesting overdraft fees. We name-drop, we status-drop, we filter our lives until they look like a highlight reel directed by someone who’s never had to choose between gas and groceries.

And yet the ancient wisdom still stands: better the quiet life with actual provision than the loud life with empty cupboards.

From a Christian perspective, this little proverb is more than practical financial advice. It’s a gentle (and slightly cheeky) reminder of the kingdom values Jesus kept teaching. Our Lord didn’t exactly model the “fake it till you make it” lifestyle. He had nowhere to lay His head. He borrowed a donkey, a room, and a tomb. The Creator of the universe washed feet and ate with tax collectors. If anyone had the résumé to “play the great man,” it was Him—and He chose the opposite.

In Christ, our true standing isn’t measured by how many people think we’re impressive. It’s measured by the fact that the Father already calls us beloved. We don’t have to hustle for significance. We already have it, freely given. That frees us to live honestly. To drive the car that actually fits the budget. To wear the clothes that don’t require a second job to maintain. To admit, without shame, “Yeah, we’re not fancy—but dinner’s on the table, the kids are fed, and we’re grateful.”

There’s a quiet joy in that kind of life. It’s the joy of not having to keep up appearances. It’s the freedom of knowing that God’s provision is enough, even if Instagram algorithms aren’t impressed. And occasionally, it’s the humor of realizing that the person who spent last month’s rent on a designer bag is now borrowing your Wi-Fi password because the bill didn’t get paid.

So here’s the warm invitation from Proverbs 12:9: You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to inflate your importance or hide your ordinary days. Better to be the lowly one who works with contentment and has bread on the table than the self-important one who’s secretly running on fumes.

The Father who feeds the sparrows and clothes the lilies is not impressed by our performance. He’s delighted by our trust. And in a world that keeps shouting “Look at me!” there’s something deeply restful—and yes, even a little funny—about quietly answering, “Actually, I’m just grateful to have lunch.”

May we be the kind of people who can laugh at our own occasional pretensions, choose humility without bitterness, and enjoy the simple miracle of a full plate and a quiet heart.

After all, in the kingdom of God, the nobodies who know they’re loved turn out to be the somebodies after all.

Honey Overload

/ taethne

You know that moment when you’re standing in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and the honey jar is calling your name like a long-lost friend? One little drizzle on toast is pure joy. Two is still delightful. But by the third or fourth heaping spoonful, your stomach starts sending urgent cease-and-desist letters, and suddenly that golden sweetness feels more like a sticky regret.

Solomon, in all his wisdom, spotted this exact problem centuries ago and decided to turn it into a life lesson.

Proverbs 25:27 puts it plainly: “It is not good to eat much honey, nor is it glorious to seek one’s own glory.” (ESV)

I love how the Bible does this—takes something as ordinary as overdoing the honey and flips it into a mirror for the soul. Honey is good. God made it good. In moderation, it’s a gift. But pile it on, and it turns on you. The same goes for chasing our own applause.

We live in a world that basically hands out megaphones and says, “Promote yourself! Build your brand! Make sure everyone knows how awesome you are!” Social media is like a never-ending potluck where everyone’s bringing their best dish and waiting for the compliments. And if we’re honest, even in church circles we can catch ourselves quietly hoping someone notices our quiet service… or our not-so-quiet service. “Oh, you saw me stay late to set up chairs? Well, I mean… someone had to.” (Cue the humblebrag.)

Solomon’s point is simple and slightly hilarious: hunting for your own glory is about as attractive as watching someone mainline a jar of honey. It doesn’t look glorious. It looks a little desperate. True glory, the kind that actually sticks around, isn’t something you can force-feed yourself. It comes from somewhere else.

From a Christian perspective, this verse lands right at the heart of the gospel. Jesus never had to chase the spotlight. He washed feet. He hung out with the overlooked. He rode into Jerusalem on a borrowed donkey instead of a warhorse with a personal PR team. And when the crowds wanted to make Him king on their terms, He slipped away. Philippians 2 tells us He “humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” And then—only then—God highly exalted Him.

There’s a beautiful freedom in that. When we stop frantically searching for our own glory, we can actually enjoy the good gifts God gives us (yes, including the occasional spoonful of honey) without turning them into a performance. We can serve without keeping score. We can celebrate others without feeling like their success steals from ours. And when real honor does come our way—because sometimes it does—we can receive it with open hands and quickly pass the credit upward.

So next time you’re tempted to polish your own halo a little too brightly, or when the honey jar is looking especially inviting, remember Solomon’s warm, slightly sticky warning. Too much of even a good thing can leave you feeling queasy. Better to leave the glory-hunting to the One who already has all of it… and who delights in sharing the sweetest parts of life with us, one humble spoonful at a time.

After all, the best kind of sweetness isn’t the kind we force. It’s the kind that overflows when we’re simply content to be His.

A Sheep Strolls Through 1 Peter 5:5-11

/ taethne

Clothed in Humility (and Maybe a Little Grace)

Dear fellow believers,

We are coming near the end of our strolling together through 1 Peter. As we wind down this study, think about sharing what you have learned with someone else. Print out the devotions, email them, start a small group or use with your family. Make a morning Bible coffee club (tea drinkers welcome). As you still yourself before God today, let that percolate through your mind like Breakfast Blend.

Picture the scene: the apostle Peter—once the impetuous fisherman who swore he’d never deny Jesus and then did it three times before breakfast—is writing to scattered, suffering believers. He’s older now, wiser, and still a little rough around the edges. And in these verses he hands us some of the most practical, grace-soaked advice in the New Testament.

Likewise, you who are younger, be subject to the elders. Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.” Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world. And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. To him be the dominion forever and ever. Amen.
(1 Peter 5:5–11, ESV)

Peter begins with a wardrobe change. “Clothe yourselves… with humility.” The Greek word for “clothe” here is the same one used for tying on a servant’s apron. Peter, of all people, would remember the night Jesus wrapped a towel around His waist and washed dusty feet—including the feet of the man who would soon deny Him. Humility isn’t a feeling; it’s something you put on, like work clothes. And notice: all of you. Young and old, leaders and followers. Pride is the great equalizer—it makes fools of us all.

God, Peter reminds us (quoting Proverbs 3:34), “opposes the proud.” The verb is strong: He sets Himself in battle array against them. But to the humble? He gives grace. Not just a polite nod, but generous, overflowing, “here’s more than you asked for” grace.

Then comes the invitation that still startles me: “Humble yourselves… under the mighty hand of God.” Not under the thumb of circumstances, or the opinions of others, or even your own carefully curated self-image. Under His hand—the same hand that shaped galaxies and still has room to hold your ordinary Tuesday. And the promise? “At the proper time he may exalt you.” Not on your timetable (thankfully). God’s “proper time” is never late, even when it feels like it.

While you’re down there under that mighty hand, Peter says, do something practical: “casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.” The word for “casting” is the same one used when the disciples threw their coats on the colt for Jesus to ride into Jerusalem. Fling them. Don’t carefully deposit your worries like fragile museum pieces. Chuck them onto the One who already knows the weight. And the reason isn’t “because anxiety is unspiritual.” It’s simpler and better: He cares for you. Not in a vague, cosmic-force sort of way. Personally. Specifically. The God who numbers the hairs on your head (even the ones you’re losing to stress) actually cares.

But humility and trust don’t mean naïveté. “Be sober-minded; be watchful.” Your adversary the devil “prowls around like a roaring lion.” Not a cute kitten with attitude. A roaring lion. Peter isn’t being dramatic; he’s being realistic. The enemy’s strategy is often loud intimidation—fear, accusation, division, the late-night spiral that starts with “What if…” and ends with you wide awake at 3 a.m.

The good news? You don’t have to out-roar him. You resist him “firm in your faith,” remembering you’re not the only one in the fight. The same sufferings are being experienced by the brotherhood “throughout the world.” You’re part of a global family under pressure—and that shared solidarity is itself a gift.

Finally, the promise that makes the whole passage sing: “After you have suffered a little while…” (Peter’s “little while” is wonderfully elastic from heaven’s perspective) “…the God of all grace… will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.” Four strong verbs. God doesn’t just patch you up and send you on your way. He personally puts you back together, sets your feet on solid ground, and makes you sturdy. And then the doxology that settles everything: “To him be the dominion forever and ever. Amen.”

So today, my dear friends, put on the apron of humility. Fling your anxieties—yes, even the ones that feel too small or too embarrassing—onto the God who cares. Keep your eyes open for the roaring lion, but don’t give him more airtime than he deserves. And rest in the quiet confidence that the God of all grace is not finished with you. He’s restoring, confirming, strengthening, and establishing. One ordinary, grace-filled day at a time.

Lord Jesus, You who tied the towel and washed our feet, clothe us afresh with Your humility. Teach us to cast every anxious thought onto You, and keep us watchful yet unafraid. After whatever “little while” we face, finish Your good work in us—for Your glory and our lasting joy. Amen.

Personal Reflection Questions

  1. Where in my life am I still wearing the “I’ve got this under control” outfit instead of the humility apron—and what would it look like to take it off today?
  2. What specific anxiety have I been lugging around like an overstuffed suitcase that God is gently waiting for me to fling onto Him?
  3. When the roaring lion of fear, accusation, or comparison shows up this week, how can I resist him firm in faith—maybe by texting a fellow traveler in the “brotherhood” or simply whispering, “Not today”?
  4. Looking back on a past “little while” of suffering, where can I already see the God of all grace beginning to restore, confirm, strengthen, or establish me?