David had decided to bring the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem. It was a good decision. The Ark represented God’s presence, God’s covenant, God’s blessing. It belonged in the capital city. It belonged at the center of the nation’s worship. So David gathered thirty thousand men. He prepared a celebration. He was doing something that on the outside seemed righteous. But he did it the wrong way.

“They set the ark of God on a new cart and brought it from the house of Abinadab which was on the hill; and Uzzah and Ahio, the sons of Abinadab, were driving the new cart. So they brought it with the ark of God from the house of Abinadab, which was on the hill; and Ahio was walking before the ark. Meanwhile, David and all the house of Israel were celebrating before the Lord with all kinds of instruments made of fir wood, and with lyres, harps, tambourines, sistrums, and cymbals. When they came to the threshing floor of Nacon, Uzzah reached out toward the ark of God and took hold of it, for the oxen nearly upset it. And the anger of the Lord burned against Uzzah, and God struck him down there for his irreverence; and he died there by the ark of God.” (2 Samuel 3:6-8 NASB)

Here’s what we need to see: Uzzah didn’t create this problem. David did. God had given explicit instructions about how the Ark was to be transported. In Numbers 4:15, the law was clear:

“When Aaron and his sons have finished covering the holy objects and all the holy vessels, when the camp is about to set out, then the sons of Kohath shall come to carry them, so that they do not touch the holy objects and die.” (NASB)

The Ark was to be carried on poles by the priests. Not on a cart. Not by common people. By the Levites, specifically the sons of Kohath, using poles inserted through the rings on the Ark’s sides. David knew this law. It was written. It was known. It was God’s command. But David chose a different way. He put the Ark on a cart—the same way the Philistines had transported it years earlier. And because David disobeyed, Uzzah died. This is uncomfortable. This is the part of Scripture we’d rather skip. We want to talk about David’s good intentions. We want to talk about how Uzzah was just trying to help. We want to soften the story. But Scripture doesn’t soften it. And neither should we. David’s disobedience killed an innocent man. Uzzah wasn’t rebelling against God. Uzzah wasn’t defying the law. Uzzah was simply responding to what his king had ordered. His king—who should have known better, who should have obeyed better—had put him in a position where his natural instinct to help became fatal. And here’s what makes this even more serious: David’s disobedience didn’t just affect Uzzah. It affected the entire nation. The celebration stopped. The joy evaporated. The people who had come to witness the Ark being brought to Jerusalem witnessed instead the sudden death of a beloved man trying to steady it. David’s disobedience became a stumbling block to an entire nation.

This is the principle we need to understand: your disobedience doesn’t just affect you. It creates conditions that harm others. Think about how this works in real life. A father decides he doesn’t need to control his temper at home. He tells himself it’s just how he is. He’s a passionate man. He gets angry. He yells. His family learns to walk on eggshells around him. They learn that love is conditional upon his mood. They learn that anger is how you handle frustration. The father’s disobedience to God’s command to “be slow to anger” (James 1:19) becomes a stumbling block to his children and wife. His lack of self-control teaches them a lie about what it means to follow Jesus. Or consider a woman who decides she doesn’t need to honor and obey her husband in all things.  Her defiance teaches her children and the young women of the Church that personal desire and “fairness’ is more important than obeying the Lord by obeying and honoring her husband.  This disobedience has the power to warp an entire new generation of young women and their understanding of a God honoring marriage. Or think about a young man who decides that sexual purity isn’t really that important. He tells himself that what he does in private doesn’t hurt anyone. But his younger brother and his friends are watching. Whether it is his intention or not, his actions teach that lust is acceptable.  And his disobedience becomes a stumbling block to the faith of others in his life. When you choose to disobey God—even in small ways, even in private ways—you create an atmosphere of compromise. You teach those around you that God’s commands are optional. You teach them that convenience matters more than obedience. You teach them that your desires matter more than God’s design. And sometimes, like with Uzzah, the consequences are immediate and devastating.

Here’s what David eventually understood. After Uzzah’s death, David was angry at God. He said, “How can the ark of the Lord come to me?” (2 Samuel 6:9). He was afraid. He didn’t understand why God had struck Uzzah down. But eventually, David repented. He realized that Uzzah’s death was because of his sin. And when he moved the Ark again—this time the right way, with the Levites carrying it on poles—something different happened. The celebration was restored. The blessing flowed. The nation experienced the presence of God. David’s obedience became a cleansing force. His right action had a righteous effect on those around him.

This is the principle: your obedience has power. Your disobedience has power. Both ripple outward.

When you choose to obey God—even when it’s inconvenient, even when it costs you something—you create an atmosphere of blessing around you. Your children see a parent who keeps their word. Your employees see a leader with integrity. Your friends see someone who values truth more than pleasure. Just as your disobedience becomes a stumbling block, your obedience becomes a stepping stone.

So I’m asking you this week: Where are you disobeying God? Not where are you struggling? Not where are you tempted? But where are you choosing to disobey? No excuses. Where have you decided that God’s command doesn’t apply to you? Where have you rationalized your way out of obedience? Maybe it’s in your marriage. God says to love your spouse sacrificially (Ephesians 5:25). But you’ve decided that your comfort matters more. You’ve decided that your needs come first. And your spouse is learning from your disobedience that love is conditional. Your disobedience is a stumbling block to them. Maybe it’s in your parenting. God says to train your children in the way they should go (Proverbs 22:6). But you’ve decided that consistency is too hard. You’ve decided that letting them do what they want is easier than discipline and setting boundaries. And your children are learning from your disobedience that there are no real consequences, that authority is arbitrary, that obedience doesn’t matter. Your disobedience is a stumbling block to them. Maybe it’s in your work. God says to work heartily, as working for the Lord (Colossians 3:23). But you’ve decided that doing the minimum is good enough. You’ve decided that cutting corners is acceptable. And your coworkers are learning from your disobedience that excellence doesn’t matter, that shortcuts are fine, that God’s standards don’t apply in the workplace. Your disobedience is a stumbling block to them. Maybe it’s in your finances. God says to give generously both to your Church and to others (2 Corinthians 9:7, 1 Corinthians 16:2, Malachi 3:8). But you’ve decided that you need to protect yourself first. You’ve decided that you can’t afford to be generous. And those around you are learning from your disobedience that fear matters more than faith, that security comes from money not from God, that generosity is a luxury only the wealthy can afford. Your disobedience is a stumbling block to them.

But here’s the encouraging part: obedience works the same way in reverse. When you choose to obey God—when you choose to love your spouse sacrificially even when you’re tired—your spouse learns what real love looks like. Your obedience becomes a stepping stone to their faith. When you choose to obey God—when you set firm, loving boundaries with your children even when it’s harder than letting them do what they want—your children learn that authority is trustworthy, that limits are loving, that obedience matters. Your obedience becomes a stepping stone to their faith. When you choose to obey God—when you work with excellence even when no one is watching, even when you could get away with less—your coworkers learn that integrity matters, that God’s standards apply everywhere, that excellence is a form of worship. Your obedience becomes a stepping stone to their faith. When you choose to obey God—when you give generously even when you’re afraid, even when you don’t know how you’ll make ends meet—those around you learn that faith matters more than fear, that God provides, that generosity is possible because God is trustworthy. Your obedience becomes a stepping stone to their faith. Your choices matter. Not just for you. For everyone around you. David eventually understood this. After moving the Ark the right way, after obeying God’s clear command, he danced before the Lord with all his might. And the nation celebrated with him. His obedience created an atmosphere of blessing. That can be your story too. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you never struggle with obedience. But because you’ve decided that God’s commands matter more than your convenience. You’ve decided that the people around you matter more than your comfort. You’ve decided to obey. And in that obedience, you become a blessing—not just to yourself, but to everyone whose life you touch.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

 Psalm 119:30

“I have chosen the faithful way; I have placed Your ordinances before me.”

The psalmist is making a simple but profound statement: I have deliberately positioned God’s law in front of my eyes. I have made a choice about what I will look at. And that choice determines the path I will walk. He says, “I have placed Your ordinances before me”—as if they’re something he’s positioning in his line of sight, something he’s deliberately keeping in view. Because what you look at, you will follow. It’s that simple. It’s that profound. A man driving down the highway knows this instinctively. If he looks at the guardrail, or turns his head to look behind him, his car begins to drift. I’m sure we’ve all done it. Our eyes determine our direction. Where our gaze goes, our vehicle follows. It’s the same with your soul. Where your eyes are fixed, your heart will follow. What you look at, you will pursue. What captures your attention will capture your allegiance.

But notice something else in the psalmist’s words: “I have chosen the faithful way.” This is a choice. Not something that happened to him once and then was done. Not a single decision made years ago that now runs on autopilot. But a choice—active, deliberate, present tense. The psalmist is saying: Every day, I choose. Every day, I place God’s ordinances before my eyes. Every day, I redirect my gaze toward His faithfulness. This is the part we often miss. Sometimes we think that becoming a Christian is like getting on a train—you board once, and then the train carries you to your destination. But that’s not how it works. Following God is more like driving a car. You have to keep your hands on the wheel. You have to keep your eyes on the road. You have to make constant, small adjustments to stay on course. The world is constantly trying to redirect your gaze. Your flesh is constantly whispering, “Look here. Look at this. This will satisfy you.” The enemy is constantly dangling distractions in front of your eyes, hoping you’ll fix your gaze on them instead of on God. And so the psalmist’s choice—to place God’s ordinances before him—is not a one-time event. It’s a daily discipline. It’s a moment-by-moment decision to keep your eyes fixed on God’s truth instead of allowing them to wander.

Think about what happens when you stop looking at God’s ordinances. When you stop deliberately positioning His truth in front of your eyes. When you let your gaze wander. At first, it seems harmless. You’re just looking away for a moment. You’re just entertaining a thought. You’re just considering a possibility. You’re just scrolling through something you shouldn’t be scrolling through. You’re just listening to a voice that contradicts God’s truth. You’re just allowing yourself to imagine a scenario that violates God’s law. But your eyes determine your direction. And the moment your gaze shifts, your heart begins to shift with it. A man who stops looking at God’s truth about marriage and starts looking at images of lust finds his marriage deteriorating. A woman who stops looking at God’s truth about contentment and starts looking at what others have finds herself consumed with envy. A person who stops looking at God’s truth about forgiveness and starts looking at their grievance finds themselves drowning in bitterness. The problem isn’t that they suddenly sinned. The problem is that they allowed their eyes to stray. They stopped deliberately positioning God’s ordinances before them. And once the eyes stray, the feet follow.

So what does it look like to place God’s ordinances before you? What does it mean to actively choose the faithful way, day after day? It means starting your morning by reading Scripture. Not rushing through it. Not checking a box. But actually stopping and letting God’s truth sink into your mind before the world has a chance to fill it with noise. It means pausing during your day—when you’re tempted, when you’re confused, when you’re struggling—when your mind begins to wander and asking yourself: What does God’s truth say about this? What is the faithful way? It means surrounding yourself with reminders. Some people write Scripture on their mirrors. Some people set verses as their phone backgrounds. Some people listen to Christian music or podcasts during their commute. Some people call or text a friend. The method doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re deliberately, actively, constantly positioning God’s truth in front of your eyes. It also means choosing your companions carefully. Because the people you spend time with will shape where your eyes go. If you’re constantly around people who mock God’s ordinances, your eyes will naturally begin to stray. But if you’re around people who are also committed to keeping their eyes fixed on God’s truth, you’ll be strengthened in that commitment. It means saying no to things that pull your gaze away. Sometimes that means turning off the television. Sometimes it means unfollowing social media accounts that make you discontent. Sometimes it means avoiding conversations that tempt you toward gossip or slander. Sometimes it means leaving a situation entirely because you know your eyes will stray if you stay. These aren’t restrictions. These are protections. These are the guardrails that keep you on the road.

Here’s what the psalmist discovered: when you keep your eyes fixed on God’s ordinances, you stay on the faithful way. And the faithful way is the way of freedom. When your eyes are fixed on God’s truth about your worth, you’re free from the need to prove yourself or earn validation from others. When your eyes are fixed on God’s truth about His provision, you’re free from anxiety about the future. When your eyes are fixed on God’s truth about forgiveness, you’re free from the burden of unforgiveness. When your eyes are fixed on God’s truth about love, you’re free from the prison of selfishness. But it all hinges on where you’re looking. It all depends on whether you’re actively, daily, deliberately placing God’s ordinances before your eyes.

So I’m asking you this week: Where are your eyes fixed? What are you looking at? What are you allowing to capture your attention? What ordinances of God have you stopped deliberately positioning in front of your eyes? Maybe it’s God’s truth about purity, and you’ve allowed your eyes to wander toward lustful content. Maybe it’s God’s truth about honesty, and you’ve stopped looking at that and started looking at the lies the world tells about success. Maybe it’s God’s truth about generosity, and you’ve allowed your eyes to fix on your own comfort instead. Whatever it is, the psalmist’s invitation is still open: “I have chosen the faithful way; I have placed Your ordinances before me.” You can choose it too! Not someday. But today. Right now. Choose to place God’s ordinances before your eyes. Choose to look at His truth instead of the world’s lies. Choose to keep your gaze fixed on the faithful way. Because where your eyes go, your heart will follow. And where your heart follows, your life will go. Choose wisely. Choose daily. Choose faithfulness to God.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

1 Timothy 1:12–14

 “I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me trustworthy, appointing me to his service. Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief. The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.”

A young man reached out to me this week because he was worried that he was being too emotional about his faith in Jesus Christ. His question was simple, “Whenever I think about what Jesus has done for me I get emotional, sometimes I even tear up. Is it wrong for me to be overwhelmed with emotion when I consider God’s mercy and grace?”  He was worried that his emotion was a sign of weakness, or that he was leading with his emotion instead of his head. “Is this normal?” he asked me. I told him the truth: “Not only is it normal. I believe it is the only appropriate response when we deeply consider God’s unfathomable gift of grace.” Because what he was experiencing wasn’t emotion running wild. What he was experiencing was true worship. This young man was tasting what Paul tasted when he wrote those words to Timothy. Read those words carefully. Paul isn’t being eloquent. He’s not crafting a theological treatise. He’s being raw. He’s being honest about who he was and what he deserved. And yet, in Christ, he received God’s grace and mercy instead. Undeserved. Unearned. Poured out abundantly on someone who deserved the opposite. Here’s what creates that overwhelming gratitude: contrast. The gap between what you deserve and what you receive. Think about it. If someone gives you a simple gift, you say thank you politely. It’s pleasant. It’s appropriate. But it doesn’t break you. But if someone gives you something you absolutely don’t deserve—if they save your life when you were trying to destroy theirs, if they forgive you when you don’t even ask, if they give you mercy when they have every right to give you judgment—that breaks something open in you. That creates a gratitude that transcends explanation. Paul understood this. He knew exactly who he was. He knew exactly what he deserved. He had been a murderer. He had been an enemy of God. He had stood opposed to everything Jesus represented. And in that opposition, he had earned death. He had earned judgment. He had earned the wrath of God. But instead, he received grace poured out abundantly. That contrast—between what he deserved and what he received—that’s what created his overwhelming gratitude. That’s what moved him. 

But here’s something important: the world operates with a different kind of gratitude. The world says: “Be grateful for the good things that happen to you. Be thankful for your blessings. Appreciate what you have.” And that’s not bad. But it’s not gospel gratitude. A man gets a promotion at work and feels grateful. He worked hard. He earned it. He deserves it. So he’s grateful. But a man who deserved to be fired for his failures instead receives a raise and is kept on the team. A man who deserved to be cast out instead receives restoration. A man who deserved death instead receives life. That creates a different kind of gratitude. That creates a gratitude that breaks him. The world’s gratitude is polite. Gospel gratitude is overwhelming. The world’s gratitude is intellectual. Gospel gratitude is wordless. The world’s gratitude says, “Thank you for this nice thing.” Gospel gratitude says nothing at all. It just weeps. It just worships. It just stands speechless before the magnitude of undeserved mercy. This is what that young man was experiencing. He wasn’t having an emotional breakdown. He was worshipping. He was encountering the reality of grace so profoundly that his mind couldn’t process it. His words couldn’t contain it. His body was the only thing that could respond—with tears, with trembling. The sheer weight of God’s grace was too much to hold in. That’s not abnormal. That’s the most normal response a human being can have when they truly grasp what Jesus did. Think about what grace actually is. Grace is God looking at you—at your sin, your rebellion, your wickedness—and instead of giving you what you deserve, He gives you what you don’t deserve. He gives you forgiveness. He gives you restoration. He gives you a place in His family. He gives you eternal life. And not just gives it. Pours it out abundantly. Paul uses that phrase deliberately. Not “grace was given.” But “grace was poured out abundantly.” Like an overflowing cup. Like a river that can’t be contained. Like someone so determined to show you mercy that they’re not satisfied with just enough—they give you more than you could ever need or ask for. When you truly grasp that, when you really see the contrast between what you deserve and what you’ve received, gratitude doesn’t become a nice sentiment. Gratitude becomes worship. It becomes the fundamental posture of your soul before God. This is the pattern you see throughout Scripture. When people truly encounter grace—when they understand that they deserved judgment but received mercy instead—they don’t become eloquent. They become wordless. The woman who anoints Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume, weeping as she does it: she doesn’t explain herself. She can’t. The grace is too big. The mercy is too overwhelming. She just weeps and worships. Peter, when he experiences Jesus power and grace: “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” He’s not being eloquent. He’s being broken by the contrast between his wickedness and Jesus’ holiness, his unworthiness and Jesus’ grace. The Psalmist, over and over: “I will praise you, Lord, with all my heart… How great you are, Lord! There are no words to describe your greatness.” No words to describe. That’s gospel gratitude. That’s what happens when you truly grasp grace.

So I want to ask you something this week. Have you experienced that kind of gratitude? Have you allowed yourself to feel the overwhelming emotion that comes when you truly grasp what Jesus has done for you? Or have you become comfortable with grace? Have you begun to take it for granted? Have you moved grace from the center of your faith to the periphery, something you believe intellectually but don’t feel in your bones? Because if you have, I want to invite you to something. I want to invite you to stop and really consider what Paul considered. Really look at who you were. Really acknowledge what you deserved. Really understand that you merited judgment, that you earned death, that you had no claim on God’s mercy. And then—really grasp—that instead of judgment, you received mercy. Instead of death, you received life. Instead of rejection, you received adoption into God’s family. Instead of God’s wrath, you received God’s love poured out abundantly. Let that contrast break you. Let that reality overwhelm you. Let your gratitude move beyond politeness and into worship. Let yourself weep if you need to. Let yourself tremble. Let yourself stand speechless before the magnitude of what Jesus has done. Because that’s not weakness. That’s not emotionalism run amok. That’s worship. That’s gospel gratitude. That’s the beginning of understanding what it means to be saved by grace.

Father, open our eyes this week. Help us to see ourselves as we actually are—sinful, rebellious, deserving of judgment. And help us to see what we’ve received instead—mercy, forgiveness, grace poured out abundantly. Let the contrast break us. Let our gratitude become worship. And let us never become so comfortable with grace that we forget how incredible it is. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

 Luke 9:62

“Jesus said to him, ‘No one, after putting his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.'” (Luke 9:62, NASB)

In Jesus’ day, everyone understood farming. Plowing a field was hard, exhausting work. You grabbed the plow handle, and you kept your eyes fixed on a point ahead of you—a tree, a rock, a distant landmark. You focused on that point and kept moving forward. Because if you looked back, if you got distracted, if you wavered, the plow would veer off course. The furrow would become crooked. The work would be ruined. A farmer who was distracted wasn’t fit for farming. He couldn’t do the job. However, Jesus isn’t talking about farming. He’s talking about discipleship. He’s talking about following Him. He’s talking about Gospel work. He’s talking about the Christian life. And He’s saying this: if you’re going to follow Me, you have to keep your hand on the plow. You have to keep moving forward. You can’t keep looking back at what you’ve left behind. You can’t keep wondering if you made the right choice. You can’t keep questioning whether this is worth it. You can’t keep being distracted by the things this world has to offer. Because the moment you take your eyes off the Him, the moment you start looking back with regret or doubt, you lose your way. The furrow becomes crooked. Your life becomes a mess.

Now, Jesus isn’t saying you should never reflect on the past. He’s not saying you should never learn from your mistakes. What He’s saying is that you can’t long for your past life. You can’t be so consumed with regret, fear, doubt or “what if” that you lose focus on the present task. Looking back means questioning your commitment. It means thinking, “Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have chosen a different path. Maybe this isn’t worth the cost”. Looking back means allowing discouragement to convince you that you should quit. Looking back means letting the difficulty of the present moment make you forget why you started in the first place. And Jesus says: if that’s where your heart is, you’re not fit for the kingdom. Because you can’t serve God with a divided heart. You can’t follow Jesus while constantly wondering if you should be following someone or something else.

But I want to acknowledge something: maybe you’re reading this and you’re genuinely exhausted, discouraged, or struggling to find the energy to push forward. Maybe you’ve been serving the Lord for decades, maybe just a few years.  Either way we all go through times where our commitment to the Lord and service to Him becomes difficult work.  I wish it was easy all the time!  But we all know that part of the human condition is that we are prone to weakness. And maybe in that time of weakness you’re wondering if it’s worth it. This is the reality of living in a fallen world where hard work is required and rest is scarce. But here’s the thing: Jesus isn’t calling you to keep your hand on the plow because He’s cruel. He’s not asking you to push through when plowing the path ahead becomes hard and filled with stones because He enjoys watching you suffer. He’s calling you to keep your hand on the plow because that’s where blessing is found. The farmer doesn’t plow the field because plowing is fun. The farmer plows because the plowing leads to a harvest. The exhaustion of the work is temporary. The fruit of the work is eternal. And that’s true in your life too. The exhaustion, indifference or discouragement that you’re feeling right now is temporary. But the fruit of your faithfulness, the fruit of your obedience, the fruit of your refusal to quit—that’s eternal.

Here’s what happens when you keep your hand on the plow. When you refuse to look back. When you keep your eyes fixed on the goal ahead. First, you discover that the Lord’s strength is perfected in Your weakness.  You rely more on the Lord than you do on yourself.  You seek the strength that only comes from the Holy Spirit.  And you will find it.  And in this moment you hear Jesus reminding you, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Second, you discover that the work itself becomes meaningful. When you stop questioning whether you should be doing it and just commit to doing it well, something shifts. The work that felt like drudgery becomes purposeful. The exhaustion that felt like burden becomes sacrifice. And sacrifice, when offered to God, becomes worship. Third, you discover that the goal ahead becomes clearer. When you stop looking back and keep your eyes fixed forward, the destination comes into focus. You remember why you started. You remember what you’re working toward. You remember that this exhaustion is temporary, but the fruit is eternal.

But let’s be honest about what happens to people who do look back. Who do question their commitment. Who do wonder if they should have chosen a different path. They become unstable. They become unreliable. They become people who start things but don’t finish them. They become people who commit but then withdraw when the cost gets too high. Not only are they unfit for the kingdom—they become miserable. Because they’re caught between two worlds. They’re trying to follow Jesus, but they’re also trying to hold onto the life they left behind. They’re trying to move forward, but they’re constantly looking back. And that divided heart creates internal chaos. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve watched people start this Christian life with enthusiasm, and then halfway through—when the work gets hard, when the sacrifice becomes real—they look back. They think about the “easier” life they could have had. They wonder if they made a mistake. And suddenly, they’re not all in anymore. They’re half-hearted. They’re distracted.

So here’s what I want you to do this week. When exhaustion hits—and it will—when you’re tempted to look back and become distracted, I want you to do something simple; fix your eyes on the goal ahead. Not on the difficulty of the present moment. But on the goal. On the harvest, on the reward of heaven, on the joy of fellowship with God. On the fruit of your faithfulness. Remember why you started. Remember what you’re working toward. Remember that this exhaustion is temporary, but the fruit is eternal. And then keep your hand on the plow. Because you’re fit for the kingdom. And the kingdom needs your faithfulness.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

 Romans 13:8

“Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law.” (Romans 13:8, NIV)

In Romans 13 Paul is writing about something that we all understand very well. Money. Paul’s instruction is simple; pay your taxes, pay what you owe, always settle your accounts. In short, clear your debts. Get square with people. But in the middle of this lesson on biblical stewardship he stops and says something life changing: Pay off everything you owe…except one debt. There’s one debt you will never pay off. The debt of love. This isn’t poetic language. This is the most practical instruction you could receive about how to live a life that doesn’t corrode and rot from the inside out. Here’s what most of us do in relationships: we keep a ledger. We’re not always conscious of it, but it’s there. I did this for you. You didn’t do that for me. I gave you grace. You gave me criticism. I showed up. You were absent. And over time, that ledger becomes a weight on the soul. The imbalance grows. The resentment builds. And eventually, bitterness takes root.

This happens in marriages. A spouse serves faithfully for years, and the other spouse takes it for granted. The serving spouse begins to think, I’ve given so much. When is it my turn to receive? And when that reciprocation doesn’t come, disappointment hardens into bitterness. It happens in friendships. You show up for someone through their crisis. You listen to their problems. You offer counsel and support. And then when you’re struggling, that friend is nowhere to be found. The imbalance stings. The hurt deepens. It happens in church. A pastor pours out his life—counseling the hurting, praying for the sick, preparing sermons, visiting the lonely. And then criticism comes. Gossip spreads. People who were supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ turn on him. The weight of that betrayal can crush a soul. It happens in families. Parents sacrifice for their children for decades. And sometimes those children grow up and never acknowledge the cost. They never understand what was given up. The parent waits for gratitude that may never come. And here’s where most people break: they stop giving. They say, “I’ve given enough. Now it’s their turn.” They pull back. They protect themselves. They harden their hearts. And in doing so, they become bitter.

But Paul offers a different way. Not only is there a debt that you can never pay off, it is a debt that we actually owe to others.  A debt that should always remain outstanding. The debt of love. Think about what love actually is. Love is not transactional. Love is not conditional. Love is not keeping score. Love is what God does. God doesn’t love you because you’ve earned it. God doesn’t love you because you’re lovable. God loves you while you’re still a sinner. God loves you before you ever loved Him back. God loves you with a love that cost Him everything—the life of His own Son—and He asks for nothing in return except that you receive it. That’s the love Paul is talking about. That’s the love you’re called to live. When you understand that you’ve been loved like that—infinitely, sacrificially, unconditionally—you can’t help but recognize that you will never be able to repay that love to God. You can’t give Him anything He doesn’t already have. You can’t do anything that would make Him love you more or less. That debt is eternal. It’s un-payable. And that’s exactly as it should be.

And because you can’t repay that debt to God, you extend it to others. You give love that you don’t expect to get back. You show grace that may never be reciprocated. You offer forgiveness that might be thrown back in your face. You serve people who may never acknowledge your service. Why? Because you’re no longer keeping a ledger. You’re no longer waiting for your investment to pay dividends. You’re simply responding to the love you’ve already received from God by passing it on. This is what Paul means by the “continuing debt.” It’s not a debt that diminishes over time. It’s a debt that grows. The more you love, the more you realize how much more love is needed. The more you give, the more you see how much more you have to give. The more you forgive, the more you understand how much forgiveness we all need.

It’s a beautiful, endless cycle of grace.

I made a very important decision many years ago.  One that has kept me faithful in ministry despite all manner of mistreatment: I have decided that I will always give more than I receive in every relationship.  And because of that, I have been protected from bitterness and resentment. Think about it. If I go into a relationship expecting reciprocation—expecting that if I love someone, they’ll love me back; if I serve them, they’ll serve me; if I show them grace, they’ll show me grace—then I’m vulnerable. The moment they fail to reciprocate, I’m disappointed. The moment they betray me, I’m devastated. The moment they gossip about me after I’ve poured my life into them, I’m crushed. But if I go into a relationship knowing that I’m going to give more love, more grace, more forgiveness than I’ll ever receive in return, then I’m free. I’m not waiting for them to come through. I’m not dependent on their response. I’m simply loving them the way God loves me. Does it hurt when someone mistreats you? Of course. Does it sting when someone you’ve served turns on you? Absolutely. But it doesn’t destroy you and it doesn’t cause you to turn on them. Because you’re not building your emotional survival on their reciprocation. You’re building it on the love of God that you’ve already received and that you’re freely giving away.

This is not weakness. This is not naiveté. This is not allowing people to walk all over you. This is spiritual maturity. This is understanding that your peace doesn’t depend on people treating you fairly. Your peace depends on you treating people with love, regardless of how they treat you. A true disciple is known by this. Not by how much they receive. Not by how well they’re treated. But by how well they love. By how they forgive. By how they keep giving even when they’re not getting back.

But I need to tell you the hard truth: loving like this is costly.

When you decide to give more love than you receive, you will be taken advantage of. Someone will use your kindness. Someone will mistake your grace for weakness. Someone will gossip about you despite your faithfulness. Someone will hurt you despite your love. That’s not a maybe. That’s a certainty. Because we live in a fallen world, and there are people who don’t know how to receive love without exploiting it. There are people who will see your generosity and take it for granted. There are people who will interpret your forgiveness as permission to keep sinning. And when that happens, you have a choice. You can harden your heart and stop giving. You can pull back and protect yourself. You can keep score and demand reciprocation. You can become bitter. Or you can remember the cross. You can remember that Jesus loved people who didn’t love Him back. You can remember that Jesus forgave people who didn’t ask for forgiveness. You can remember that Jesus gave everything for people who would reject Him, deny Him, and crucify Him.

And you can choose to love anyway.

This is the hard truth of the gospel. It’s not comfortable. It’s not safe. It’s not what the world teaches you. The world teaches you to protect yourself. The world teaches you to keep score. The world teaches you to demand reciprocation. But Jesus teaches you to love. To forgive. To give. To serve. To lay down your life for others. And the only way to do that without becoming bitter is to understand that you’re not doing it to get something back. You’re doing it because you’ve already received everything. You’ve already been loved more than you could ever deserve. And now you’re simply passing it on.

So I’m asking you this week: Are you keeping a ledger? Are you waiting for reciprocation? Are you protecting yourself by pulling back your love? If you are, I want to invite you to something different. I want to invite you to the freedom of the endless debt. I want to invite you to stop counting and start giving. I want to invite you to love people more than they deserve, to forgive people more than they ask, to serve people more than they acknowledge. It will cost you. It will hurt sometimes. But it will also set you free. Free from bitterness. Free from resentment. Free from the exhausting work of keeping score. Free to love the way God loves you. That’s the debt that never gets paid off. And thank God for that. Because the day you finish paying it is the day you stop growing in grace.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

Psalm 19:1

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”

Stop for a moment. Step outside. Look up. What do you see? Clouds moving across a blue expanse. Stars scattered across darkness. The sun breaking through after rain. The moon rising over the horizon. These aren’t accidents. They aren’t random. They are declarations. They are proclamations. They are worship happening all around you, whether you notice it or not. And here’s what the Psalmist (David) wants you to understand: when you notice these things when you truly see them—you are worshiping. 

We’ve reduced worship to a single hour on Sunday morning. We gather in a building. We sing songs. We lift our hands. We call it “worship time.” And yes, that matters. Corporate worship is real and important. But if that’s the only time you worship, you’ve missed the point of true worship entirely. True worship is what happens when you step outside on a crisp autumn morning and watch the sun paint the sky orange and gold. It’s what happens when you hold your newborn child and feel the weight of that tiny life in your arms. It’s what happens when you’re driving down the highway and notice the way light filters through the trees. It’s what happens when you pause—really pause—and remember that all of this, all of it, is the work of God’s hands. This is worship. Not because you’re singing. Not because you’re in a sanctuary. But because you’re beholding the work of God and your heart is responding with awe. The psalmist says the heavens declare God’s glory. Not occasionally. Constantly. Every sunrise is a declaration. Every storm is a proclamation.  Every drop of morning dew a reminder. Every clear night sky full of stars is a testimony to the power and wisdom of God. The creation never stops worshiping. The question is: are you joining in? This is where your faith becomes practical. Worship isn’t something that happens to you in a church building. Worship is something you do when you train yourself to see God’s handiwork everywhere.  Think about your day. You woke up this morning. Your heart beat without your asking it to. Your lungs filled with air. Your mind became conscious. That’s the work of God’s hands. Do you pause and acknowledge that? Or do you rush into your day without a second thought? You ate breakfast. Food grew from soil and seed and rain and sun—all orchestrated by God’s providence. Do you thank Him? Do you marvel at the complexity of it? Or do you simply consume it? You looked at a loved one’s face. The intricacy of human features, the miracle of sight, the gift of relationship—all of it comes from God. Do you worship in that moment? Do you let your heart be gripped by gratitude for that person’s existence? This is what everyday remembrance looks like. It’s not complicated. It’s simply the practice of stopping—even for a moment—and acknowledging that what you’re seeing, what you’re experiencing, what you’re beholding is the work of God’s hands. And in that acknowledgment, you worship.

But there is an even greater acknowledgment and climax to our worship. Yes, the heavens declare God’s glory. Yes, creation proclaims His power. Yes, everyday remembrance of His mighty works is worship. But the greatest work of God’s hands is not the creation of the universe. It’s not the design of the human body. It’s not the miracle of life itself. The greatest work of God’s hands is the cross of Jesus Christ. Think about what happened there. God—the One whose power created galaxies—emptied Himself and became human. The One who sustains all things with His word allowed Himself to be arrested, beaten, mocked, and crucified. The One who deserves all worship poured out His life as a ransom for sinners. For you. For your sin. For your rebellion. For your turning away from Him. This is the work of God’s hands that demands your deepest, most profound worship. When you consider the cross, you’re not just contemplating an act of power. You’re contemplating an act of love. You’re beholding the moment when God said, in effect, “I love you so much that I will die in your place. I will bear your judgment. I will take your shame. I will pay your debt. All so that you can be reconciled to Me.” That’s not just a miracle. That’s redemption. That’s grace. That’s the gospel. And if everyday remembrance of God’s mighty works is worship, then contemplation of the cross—the deepest, most costly work of God’s hands—is worship in its truest and most transformative form.  The heavens are constantly proclaiming the works of God’s hands and praising Him for it.  Look around you, even at this very moment you are beholding the handiwork of God.  Let’s all make an effort to join the song of worship that creation sings everyday!

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

Scripture opens our eyes to a paradox that the world cannot fathom: the way up is down. Jesus made this shockingly clear when He said, “Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:4). Not the most accomplished. Not the most educated or eloquent or successful. The most humble. Humility is not a virtue among virtues; it is the posture from which every other virtue grows.

Consider why. Spiritual growth requires change—real, costly change. But change demands that we first admit we are wrong, broken, insufficient. A proud heart cannot do this. It defends itself, justifies itself, protects itself, and makes excuses for itself. It says, “I have it mostly figured out. My way is working fine.” And in that self-protection, it locks the door against transformation. The proud person cannot receive correction, cannot learn from failure, cannot be shaped by suffering. He is closed.

Humility opens the door. When you kneel before God and say—truly say—”I am weak, I am wrong, I cannot save myself, I cannot sanctify myself,” something breaks open in your soul. You stop trying to earn God’s favor and start receiving it. You stop defending your reputation and start caring about your character. You stop performing for an audience and start listening to the Spirit. This is why Jesus taught humility, and why all great men of the faith understood humility as the beginning of all wisdom. Augustine wrote of it. Spurgeon implored it unceasingly. Wesley preached it relentlessly.

Here’s what this looks like in real life: A man comes to church angry at his wife. He sits through the sermon on forgiveness and feels the Spirit’s conviction. Pride says, “But you don’t understand what she did. You don’t know how unreasonable she is.” Humility says, “I am a sinner in need of grace, just as she is. I have hurt people too. I need to repent.” In that moment of humility, he becomes capable of reconciliation. Without it, he remains locked in his grievance.

Or consider a woman who has served faithfully for years, and suddenly someone else receives recognition she expected. Pride rises: “After all I’ve done, this is how I’m treated?” Humility whispers: “My service was never meant to earn praise. It was meant to serve Christ. His approval is enough.” And in that surrender, she finds peace her accomplishments could never give her.

The scriptures teach that spiritual renewal—real, deep, transformative renewal—begins when we stop trying to defend ourselves and start admitting we are indefensible.  When we confess not just our sins but our bankruptcy. When we come to God not as a customer presenting a complaint but as a beggar presenting an empty hand. This is the narrow gate through which all genuine growth passes.

So ask yourself: Where am I defending myself instead of examining myself? Where am I protecting my image instead of pursuing my transformation? What would change if I stopped trying to prove I’m right and started asking God to make me righteous? That question, pursued with honest humility, is where renewal begins.

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

 Listen to what Moses tells Israel in Deuteronomy 10:12–13: “And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in obedience to him, to love him, to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and to observe the Lord’s commands and decrees that I am giving you today for your own good?”

Notice the phrase at the end: for your own good. Not “for God’s benefit.” Not “because God is arbitrary and demands submission.” But “for your own good.” This reframes obedience entirely. God’s commands are not chains. They’re not restrictions imposed by a distant tyrant. They’re instructions from a Father who loves you and knows what will actually make you flourish.

Think about a parent teaching a child not to run into the street. The child experiences this as a restriction. “Why can’t I go where I want?” The parent’s answer isn’t “Because I enjoy controlling you.” It’s “Because I love you, and I know what will kill you.” The command protects. The command is an act of love.

This is what Israel needed to hear—and what we need to hear. We live in a culture that frames obedience to God as oppressive, as if following His commands means surrendering your freedom and joy. But Scripture teaches the opposite. Psalm 119:45 says, “I will walk about in freedom, for I have sought out your precepts.” Freedom comes through obedience, not despite it. The person who follows God’s commands about sexuality, generosity, honesty, and rest is not a slave. He’s free—free from shame, free from the destruction that sin brings, free to experience the life God designed him to enjoy.

Consider the command to rest on the Sabbath. Our culture sees rest as laziness, as something you earn after you’ve proven yourself productive enough. So we work ourselves to exhaustion, sacrifice our families, damage our health—all in pursuit of more. And God says, “Stop. Rest. You are not defined by your productivity. You are defined by your identity as My beloved child.” That command isn’t a burden. It’s a gift. It’s God saying, “I love you too much to let you destroy yourself.”

Or consider the commands about forgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive those who wrong us, to let go of bitterness, to seek reconciliation. Our flesh screams that this is unfair, that we deserve to hold a grudge, that forgiveness lets the other person off the hook. But God knows what bitterness does to a human soul. He knows how unforgiveness eats you alive from the inside. His command to forgive is not punishment. It’s rescue. It’s Him saying, “I love you too much to let you poison yourself with hatred.”

God’s law is good. Not arbitrary. Not oppressive. Good. The Westminster Catechism asks, “What is the chief end of man?” and answers, “To glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” Notice those two things together: glorify and enjoy. They’re not in tension. When you obey God, you glorify Him and you experience the joy and blessing He designed you to experience.

So when you’re tempted to see God’s commands as burdensome—when obedience feels like sacrifice—pause. Ask yourself: What is God actually protecting me from? What is He inviting me into? Often you’ll discover that the command you’re resisting is the very thing that would heal you, free you, restore you. God’s commands are not chains. They’re the blueprints for a human life lived as it was meant to be lived.

That’s the heart of Deuteronomy 10:12–13. Not “Obey because God demands it,” but “Obey because God loves you, and His way is the way of life.”

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John   

Genesis 2:15

15 Then the Lord God took the man and put him into the garden of Eden to cultivate it and keep it. 

We live in a culture that increasingly devalues the importance and Godliness of hard work.  We are always looking for the easy way, the quick way, and for many, a way out of doing even the most basic work necessary to provide daily sustenance and shelter.   Unfortunately, welfare entitlement has crept into the lives of millions resulting in the poisonous mentality of the sluggard.  It is much easier to lay in bed, than it is to get to work!  Even those who do work often find themselves grumbling and complaining and only finding misery in their employment.  Today we must be reminded of a very important truth…God created man for the purpose of work.  To work with joy, purpose and out of obedience to His design for mankind.  After God created Adam and placed him in the Garden of Eden, His very first directive to Adam was to cultivate and keep the garden.  Very simply, to work.  This directive was given before the warning to not eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, before God created woman, and before man’s fall into sin.  Which brings us to a very important reality, work is not a result of sin, laziness is!  Before the fall, man desired to obey God in daily work, after the fall man desired to disobey God in daily laziness.  Laziness and a life devoid of work feeds the flesh, while daily productivity feeds the Spirit. In short, daily work is not an option, but a wonderful privileged and obedience to God filled with many blessings.  The blessing of work is in the work itself and no other blessing is needed.  Work provides wages to feed ourselves and our families, it provides shelter and all other necessities of life.  Beyond this, it teaches us discipline, resilience and a spiritual readiness to go to work wherever we are needed.  A good work ethic allows us to be a blessing to others and to be faithful in giving to God’s Church.  All of these things are real, tangible blessings built right into work.  And while work has built-in blessings, laziness has built-in curses.  The sluggard struggles to pay for even the most basic of human needs such as food, shelter, clothing and provision for their families in any way.  The sluggard is never a blessing to others but rather a drain on others and upon the Church.  And above all, they lack the basic spiritual discipline and readiness needed to be useful in the hands of God.  Excluding those who have reached an age where work is no longer a physical possibility, work is not an option, it is one of the most basic requirements of a healthy life both physically and spiritually.  Therefore, be encouraged in your work this day!  It may seem mundane, menial and even at times a struggle, but the Lord has given us clear instruction and a wonderful blessing in the work of our hands.  Mothers, your work is tedious and trying at times, but the reward of raising children, keeping a home, and providing the care needed for your family to thrive is of primary importance to your children and husband.  Fathers, your work provides more than just the funds necessary to provide the basics of life, it teaches resilience, obedience, discipline and honors the Lord by protecting and nurturing your families!  Even for those who are single, work provides all of the same blessings and meaning that is required for a productive and meaningful life in Christ.  We may be called to different types of work, but it is all for the same purpose.  It is God’s way of providing all that we need to thrive physically and spiritually while we are here on earth!  There is coming a day when we will work for the Lord in eternity and there won’t be the terrible laziness of our flesh to get in the way!  But until then, let’s lay down our own fleshly desires and put our hands to the plow both in our daily work and our Kingdom work…they are more related to each other than we may think!

Yours in Christ, 

Pastor John